And Amra made her arrangements. She consulted with various ladies and gentlemen, she personally rented Herr Wendelin’s large hall, she formed a kind of committee of people who had been asked or had volunteered to take part in the merry proceedings which were to embellish the party. This committee was composed wholly of gentlemen, with the exception of the wife of Herr Hildebrandt, an actor at the Theatre Royal; she was a singer. There were, in addition, Herr Hildebrandt himself, a certain barrister Witznagel, a young painter, and Herr Alfred Läutner, not to forget a number of students who had been introduced by the barrister and were to execute nigger dances.
A week after Amra had made up her mind, this committee had assembled for purposes of deliberation in the Kaiserstrasse—to be quite exact, in Amra’s drawing-room, a small, warm, and well-fitted room—which was furnished with a thick carpet, a sofa with many cushions, a fan-palm, English armchairs of leather, and a mahogany table with curved legs, on which lay a plush tablecloth and several deluxe books. There was also a fireplace, in which a small fire still glowed; on the black marble mantelpiece stood several plates with dainty little sandwiches, glasses, and two carafes of sherry.
Amra, with one foot lightly poised upon the other, leaned back on the cushions of the sofa, which was overshadowed by the fan-palm, and was as fair as a night in June. She wore a blouse of light and very thin silk, but her skirt was of a heavy, dark material, embroidered with large flowers. Now and then she brushed back a curl of chestnut hair from her narrow forehead.—Frau Hildebrandt, the singer, also sat upon the sofa beside her; she had red hair and was in riding-costume. Opposite the two ladies the gentlemen had seated themselves in a crowded half-circle—in the midst of them the counsellor-at-law, who had found only a very low leather armchair and seemed unutterably unhappy; now and then he drew a deep breath and swallowed, as though he were fighting against an encroaching nausea.—Herr Alfred Läutner, in tennis rig, had resigned all claims to a chair and stood leaning elegantly and good-humouredly against the mantelpiece, for he had declared that he could not sit quietly so long.
Herr Hildebrandt spoke with an agreeable voice about English songs. He was an extremely respectable and worthy man, dressed in black, with a massive Caesarean head and a certain aplomb in his carriage—a court actor of culture, solid knowledge, and refined taste. He was fond of condemning Ibsen, Zola, and Tolstoy in earnest conversations, for he held that all of them were bent upon the same sinister purpose; today, however, he was engaged condescendingly in the trifling matter under discussion.
“May I ask whether the ladies and gentlemen know that delightful song, ‘That’s Maria’?” he asked. “It is a bit piquant, but of most uncommon effectiveness. And then there is that famous—” and he proposed a few additional songs, upon which they finally agreed, and which Frau Hildebrandt consented to sing.—The young painter, a gentleman with extremely sloping shoulders and a blond Vandyke beard, was to parody a magician, while Herr Hildebrandt intended to portray famous men—in short, everything evolved in the most favourable manner, and the program seemed to be already complete, when Barrister Witznagel, who owned most courteous movements and many duelling-scars, suddenly opened the discussion again.
“All very fine, ladies and gentlemen, everything promises to be really entertaining. However, I feel I must touch upon one point. It seems to me that something is still lacking, and indeed the chief feature, the star turn, the clou, the climax—something most special, something startling, a comic turn which will cap the fun—in short, I make the suggestion, I have no definite idea; but according to my feelings—”
“That is really so!” Herr Läutner let his tenor voice be heard from the direction of the fireplace. “Witznagel is right. A main turn, a closing feature, would be most desirable. Let’s consider!” And while he adjusted his red belt with a swift twist or two, he looked inquiringly about him. The expression of his face was really most affable.
“Of course,” said Herr Hildebrandt, “if one does not care to let the famous men be the climax—”
All agreed with the young barrister. It would be most desirable to have a specially comic leading turn. Even the counsellor-at-law nodded and said softly: “Quite right—something predominantly gay—” All began to ponder over the problem.
And it was at the close of this pause in the conversation, which lasted about a minute and which was interrupted only by short exclamations attendant upon deliberation, that the remarkable thing occurred. Amra sat leaning back among the cushions of the sofa, and was gnawing nimbly and eagerly as a mouse at the pointed nail of her little finger, while her face betrayed a most extraordinary expression. A smile played about her lips, an absent and almost delirious smile, which revealed a painful as well as cruel lust, and her eyes, which were wide open and shining, wandered slowly towards the mantelpiece, where they remained for a moment fixed upon those of the young musician. Then with a sudden flounce she flung the upper part of her body to one side, towards her husband, the counsellor-at-law, and, both hands in her lap, stared him in the face with a look that seemed to clutch and draw him, while her face grew visibly paler. She spoke in a full, slow voice: “Christian, I propose that at the close you appear as a chanteuse in a baby-dress of red silk and dance something for us.”
The effect of these few words was enormous. Only the young painter strove to laugh good-humouredly. Herr Hildebrandt, with a face as cold as stone, picked invisible fluff from
