It was night when we arrived at the house in Königstrasse. I expected to find all quiet there, my uncle in bed as was his custom, and Martha giving her last touches with the feather brush.

But I had not taken into account the Professor’s impatience. I found him shouting⁠—and working himself up amidst a crowd of porters and messengers who were all depositing various loads in the passage. Our old servant was at her wits’ end.

“Come, Axel, come, you miserable wretch,” my uncle cried from as far off as he could see me. “Your boxes are not packed, and my papers are not arranged; where’s the key of my carpet bag? And what have you done with my gaiters?”

I stood thunderstruck. My voice failed. Scarcely could my lips utter the words:

“Are we really going?”