He sat down at the writing-desk by the open window and stared straight before him at a large, yellow rose, which someone had put there for him in a glass of water. He took it and breathed in its fragrance with closed eyes; but then with a weary and disconsolate gesture he pushed it aside. No, no, that was over! What was such fragrance to him now? What were all those things to him which up to the present had meant his “happiness”?
He turned aside and looked out at the quiet street. Now and again footsteps resounded and echoed past. The stars stood overhead and twinkled. How deathly tired and weak he had grown! His head seemed so empty and his despair began to dissolve into a great, gentle melancholy. A few lines of poetry swept through his memory, the music of Lohengrin rang again in his ears, once again he saw Frau von Rinnlingen’s figure before him, her white arm upon the red velvet, and then he fell into a heavy, deep, feverish sleep.
He was often close to waking, but he feared this and each time sank anew into unconsciousness. Then, after it had grown quite light, he opened his eyes and looked about him with large, sorrowful eyes. All things stood clear to his soul; it seemed as though his suffering had not been interrupted at all by sleep. His head felt dull and his eyes burned; but after he had washed himself and wet his forehead with eau de cologne, he felt better and sat down again quietly in his chair by the window, which had remained open. It was still very early in the morning, about five o’clock. Now and again a baker’s boy went by; otherwise not a soul was to be seen. All the jalousies opposite were still down. But the birds were twittering and the sky was luminous and blue. It was a beautiful Sunday morning.
A feeling of comfort and confidence overcame little Herr Friedemann. Of what was he afraid? Were not all things as usual? Granted that he had had a bad attack yesterday; well, that was to be the end of it! It was not too late yet, he could still escape perdition! He must avoid every occasion that might renew the attack; he felt that he was strong enough for this. He felt that he had the strength to overcome it and to smother it wholly in his breast.
When the clock struck half past seven, Friederike entered and set the coffee-tray on the round table which stood in front of the leather sofa at the back of the room.
“Good morning, Johannes,” said she, “here is your breakfast.”
“Thanks,” said Herr Friedemann. And then: “Dear Friederike, I’m sorry that you will have to pay that call alone. I don’t feel quite well enough to be able to go with you. I have slept badly, have a headache—in short, I must ask you—”
Friederike replied: “That is too bad. You can’t entirely refrain from paying this call. But you really do look ill. Shall I lend you my menthol pencil?”
“Thanks,” said Herr Friedemann. “It will pass.” And Friederike went out.
Standing at the table, he drank his coffee slowly and ate a small croissant. He was satisfied with himself and proud of his determination. When he was done, he took a cigar and sat down once more at the window. Breakfast had done him good and he felt happy and full of hope. He took up a book, read, smoked, and with blinking eyes looked out into the sunlight.
The street had now grown lively; a rattling of wagons, talk, and the tinkling of a horsecar sounded in his ears; but the twittering of birds was to be heard over all, and a warm, soft air was wafted from the gleaming blue sky.
At ten o’clock he heard the sisters crossing the hall, heard the entrance door creak, and saw the three ladies pass in front of the window, without paying any attention to it. An hour went by; he felt happier and happier.
A kind of excessive courage began to inspire him. What wonderful air, and how the birds twittered! How would it be if he took a short walk?—And then, suddenly, without any connecting idea, arose the sweet yet terrifying thought: “What if I went to her?”—And then, after he had suppressed by means of an actual muscular exertion all that arose in him of anxious warning, he added with a serene determination: “I’ll go to her!”
And he donned his black Sunday suit, took his silk hat and cane, and walked quickly, and breathing hurriedly, through the entire town to the southern suburbs. Without looking at a single person, at every step he raised and lowered his head earnestly, utterly rapt in a state of forgetfulness and exaltation, until he stood in the chestnut avenue in front of the red villa at the entrance of which the name “Lieutenant-Colonel von Rinnlingen” was to be read.
Here a trembling overcame him, and his heart beat hard and convulsively against his breast. But he entered the vestibule and rang the bell inside. The die was now cast and there was no going back. “Let all things take their course,” he thought. Everything within him was now as still as death.
The door sprang open; the footman came towards him across the anteroom, took his card, and hastened up the stairs, on which lay a red carpet. Herr Friedemann stared at this immovably until the servant came back and said the “gnädige Frau” begged him to come up.
Upstairs, close to the door of the drawing-room, where he left his cane, he cast a glance into the mirror. His face was pale, and above his reddened eyes his hair
