to accomplish it.)
That it is his essay, moreover, can be seen from the very fact that it was printed within two days. Usually it takes six weeks at the very least before a piece that is
accepted is printed. But here speed was necessary, of course, so that he would not be able to interfere. That’s why two days were enough.
Besides, the newspaper essay is called “The Child as Creator.” That clearly refers to him, and besides, it is sarcasm. By “child” they really mean him, because he used
to be regarded as a “child,” as “dumb” (he really was so only during his military service, he served a year and a half), and they now mean to say with this title that he, a
child, had accomplished something as good as this essay, that he had therefore proved himself as a creator, but at the same time remained dumb and a child in that he let
himself be cheated like this. The child who is referred to in the original essay is a cousin from the country who is at present living with his mother.
But the plagiarism is proved especially convincingly by a circumstance which he hit upon only after a considerable amount of deliberation: “The Child as Creator” is on
the first page of the magazine section, but on the third there is a little story by a certain “Feldstein” woman. The name is obviously a pseudonym. Now one needn’t read
all of this story, a glance at the first few lines is enough to show one immediately that this is an unashamed imitation of Lagerlöf. The whole story makes it even
clearer. What does this mean? This means that this Feldstein or whatever her name is, is the Durège woman’s tool, that she read the Gutsgeschichte, brought by him
to the Durège woman, at her house, that in writing this story she made use of what she had read, and that therefore both women are exploiting him, one on the first page
of the magazine section, the other on the third page. Naturally anyone can read and imitate Lagerlöf on his own initiative, but in this cast, after all, his influence is too
apparent. (He keeps waving the page back and forth.)
Monday noon, right after the bank closed, he naturally went to see Mrs. Durège. She opens her door only a crack, she is very nervous: “But, Mr. Reichmann, why have
you come at noon? My husband is asleep. I can’t let you in now”—“Mrs. Durège you must let me in by all means. It’s about an important matter.” She sees I am in
earnest and lets me come in. Her husband, of course, was definitely not at home. In the next room I see my manuscript on the table and this immediately starts me
winking. “Mrs. Durège, what have you done with my manuscript. Without my consent you gave it to the Tagblatt. How much did they pay you?” She trembles, she
knows nothing, has no idea how it could have got into the paper. “J’accuse, Mrs. Durège,” I said, half jokingly, but still in such a way that she sees what I really mean,
and I keep repeating this “J’accuse, Mrs. Durège” all the time I am there so that she can take note of it, and when I go I even say it several times at the door. Indeed,
I understand her nervousness well. If I make it public or sue her, her position would really be impossible, she would have to leave the Women’s Progress, etc.
From her house I go straight to the office of the Tagblatt and have the editor, Löw, fetched. He comes out quite pale, naturally, is hardly able to walk. Nevertheless I
do not want to begin with my business at once and I want to test him first too. So I ask him: “Mr. Löw, are you a Zionist?” (For I know he used to be a Zionist.) “No,”
he says. I know enough, he must be acting a part in front of me. Now I ask about the essay. Once more incoherent talk. He knows nothing, has nothing to do with the
magazine section, will, if I wish, get the editor who is in charge of it. “Mr. Wittmann, come here,” he calls, and is happy that he can leave. Wittmann comes, also very