Herr Friedemann looked down on his plate and produced some kind of answer, whereupon he was obliged to reply to a question of the headmaster’s wife, whether he loved Beethoven. At this moment, however, the Lieutenant-Colonel, who sat at the upper end of the table, caught his wife’s eye, tapped on his glass, and said: “Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest that we take our coffee in the other rooms; and then the garden tonight must be not at all bad, and if anyone wishes to draw a breath of fresh air there, I am with him.”
In the silence which ensued Lieutenant von Deidesheim tactfully made a witty remark, so that everybody rose amid merry laughter. Herr Friedemann was one of the last to leave the room with his lady; he led her through the Old German room, in which the men were beginning to smoke, into the half-dark and comfortable living-room, and left her.
He was dressed with great care; his coat was faultless, his shirt immaculately white; and his small and well-shaped feet were covered by patent-leather shoes. Now and then one could see that he wore red silk socks.
He looked out into the corridor and saw that larger groups were already going down the steps into the garden. But he sat down with his cigar and his coffee near the door of the Old German room, in which several gentlemen stood chatting together, and looked into the living-room.
Immediately to the right of the door a group sat about a small table, the centre of which was the student, who spoke with enthusiasm. He had made the assertion that more than one parallel to a straight line could be drawn through a point; Frau Hagenström, the wife of the attorney-at-law, had exclaimed: “That’s impossible!” and now it was strikingly manifest that all pretended to have understood it.
But in the back of the room, on the ottoman, close to the low, red-shaded lamp, sat Gerda von Rinnlingen in conversation with young Fräulein Stephens. She sat leaning back a little on the yellow silk cushions, one foot placed over the other, and slowly smoked a cigarette, exhaling the smoke through the nose and thrusting forward her under lip. Fräulein Stephens sat upright and as though carved from wood and made her replies, smiling anxiously.
No one paid any attention to little Herr Friedemann, and no one observed that his big eyes were unremittingly directed upon Frau von Rinnlingen. He sat in a relaxed position and regarded her. There was nothing like passion in his look, and hardly any pain; something dull and dead lay in it, a heavy, powerless, and will-less surrender.
Ten minutes or so went by in this way; then Frau von Rinnlingen rose suddenly, and without looking at him, as though she had secretly observed him during the entire time, she went up to him and remained standing before him. He stood up, lifted his eyes to her, and heard the words: “Should you care to accompany me into the garden, Herr Friedemann?”
He replied: “With pleasure, gnädige Frau.”
“You haven’t yet seen our garden?” she asked, as they stood on the steps. “It is pretty large. I hope that there won’t be too many people there yet; I should like to draw a bit of fresh air. I got a headache during the dinner; possibly this claret was too strong for me.—Here, we must go out through this door.” It was a glass door, which opened from the anteroom on a small, cool lobby; then a few steps led to the open air.
In the wonderful, warm, star-bright night, fragrance streamed from every flowerbed. The garden lay in full moonlight, and the guests walked up and down the white luminous gravel-paths, chatting and smoking. A group had assembled about the fountain, where the old, beloved physician amid general laughter was setting paper boats afloat.
Frau von Rinnlingen passed by with a slight inclination of her head, and pointed to the distance, where the pretty and fragrant flower-garden darkened to the denseness of a park.
“We will go down the central path,” she said. Two low, broad obelisks stood at the entrance.
Behind there, at the end of the straight avenue of chestnuts, they saw the river gleaming blank and green in the moonlight. Everything about was dark and cool. Here and there a side path branched off, which no doubt also curved towards the river. For a long time no sound was heard.
“Close to the water,” she said, “is a pretty place, where I have often sat. There we can chat for a moment.—Just see, now and again a star glitters through the leafage.”
He did not answer, but looked at the green, shimmering surface which they were nearing. One could see the opposite bank, the park about the ramparts. As they left the avenue and stepped out on the lawn which inclined towards the river, Frau von Rinnlingen remarked: “Here is our place, a little to the right; see, it’s unoccupied.”
The bench on which they sat down stood close to the park, six steps to the side of the avenue. It was warmer here than between the broad trees. The crickets chirped in the grass, which close to the water passed into thin reeds. The moon-bright river reflected a mild light.
Both were silent for a while and looked at the water. Then, completely shaken, he heard the very voice he had heard a week before; this soft, deliberate, and tender tone moved him again.
“Since when have you had your affliction, Herr Friedemann?” she asked. “Were you born with it?”
He swallowed hard, for his throat was as if he were strangling. Then he replied, softly and politely: “No,
