The servant opened the door and he entered. He found himself in a rather large, half-dark room; the shades of the windows were drawn. To the right stood a grand piano, and in the centre, about the round table, were grouped armchairs upholstered in brown silk. Over the sofa, on the wall to the left, hung a landscape in a heavy gold frame. The wallpaper, too, was dark. Palms stood in a bay-window in the background.
A minute went by; then Frau von Rinnlingen drew aside the portieres to the right and came towards him soundlessly on the thick brown carpet. She wore a very simple red-and-black-checked dress. A shaft of sunlight fell into the room from the bay-window, and in this the motes danced. It caught her heavy reddish hair so that for a moment it gleamed like gold. She kept her remarkable eyes directed on him searchingly, and as usual thrust out her under lip.
“Gnädige Frau,” began Herr Friedemann, and looked up at her, for he reached only to her breast, “I too should like to pay you my respects. When you honoured my sisters with your call, I was, unfortunately, absent and—greatly regretted this—”
He really had nothing more to say, but she stood and looked at him remorselessly, as though she wished to force him to speak further. His blood rushed suddenly to his head. “She wishes to torture and mock me!” he thought, “and she sees through me! How her eyes quiver!”
Finally, in a very clear and very light voice, she said: “It is very kind of you to come. I too regretted not meeting you the other day. Will you please take a seat?”
She sat down close to him, laid her arms upon the armrests of the chair, and leaned back. He sat bent forward and held his hat between his knees.
She went on: “Do you know that your sisters were here a quarter of an hour ago? They told me you were ill.”
“That is true,” replied Herr Friedemann, “I didn’t feel well this morning. I didn’t think I should be able to go out. I beg you to excuse my being late.”
“You don’t appear in good health even now,” she said very quietly, and looked him full in the face. “You are pale and your eyes are inflamed. Isn’t your health generally good?”
“Oh—” stammered Herr Friedemann, “I am, in general, quite satisfied.”
“I too am ill a good deal,” she continued, without turning her eyes from him; “but nobody notices it. I am nervous and subject to the most remarkable conditions.”
She ceased, inclined her chin upon her breast, and looked at him expectantly with upraised eyes. But he did not answer. He sat still and kept his eyes fixed upon her with a wide and thoughtful gaze. How strangely she spoke and how her light, uncontrolled voice moved him! His heart had grown quieter; it was as if he dreamed.
Frau von Rinnlingen began anew: “I am surely not mistaken—but didn’t you leave the theatre yesterday before the close of the performance?”
“Yes, gnädige Frau.”
“I was sorry for that. You were a most reverent neighbour, even though the performance was not good, or only relatively good. You love music? Do you play the piano?”
“I play the violin a little,” said Herr Friedemann. “That is to say—it is almost none at all—”
“You play the violin?” she asked; then she looked abstractedly past him, and considered. Suddenly she said: “Why, we might play together now and then. I can accompany a bit. I should be glad to find someone here—Would you come?”
“I should be glad to be of service to you,” he replied, still as in a dream. A pause ensued. Then suddenly the expression of her face changed. He saw how it became distorted with a scarcely perceptible expression of pitiless mockery, how her eyes were again turned upon him, steadfastly and searchingly, as twice before, with that strange, mysterious quivering. His face grew fiery red; and without knowing where he should turn, completely flustered and beside himself, he let his head sink between his shoulders and looked down at the carpet, utterly lost. Like a short shudder that impotent, sweet, poignant fury went through him.
As he raised his eyes again with a desperate resolve, she refrained from looking at him, but directed her eyes over his head towards the door. Laboriously he brought forth a few words: “And are you at least in some way content with your sojourn in our city?”
“Oh,” said Frau von Rinnlingen indifferently, “certainly. Why should I not be content? Of course I feel a bit narrowed here, a bit watched, but—Moreover,” she went on rapidly, “before I forget it—we expect to have a few people here within the next few days, a small, informal company. We could make a bit of music, chat a bit—Then there is a very pretty garden behind the house; it extends down to the stream. In short, you and your ladies will, of course, receive an invitation, but I should like to ask you at once; will you give us the pleasure?”
Herr Friedemann had scarcely uttered his thanks and his acceptance when the door-handle was pressed down with energy and the Lieutenant-Colonel entered. Both rose, and while Frau von Rinnlingen introduced the gentlemen to each other, her husband bowed to Herr Friedemann and to her with equal courtesy. His brown face was quite suffused with warmth.
While drawing off his gloves, he said something to Herr Friedemann in his strong and incisive voice and Herr Friedemann looked up at him with his large, expressionless eyes and half expected to be kindly patted on the shoulder. Then with heels drawn together and the upper part of his body slightly bent forward the Lieutenant-Colonel turned to his wife and said, with perceptibly softened voice: “Have you asked Herr Friedemann for the pleasure of his company at our little reception,
