Frau Wahnschaffe was on one of her rare outings. She was driving in her
electric car toward Schwanheim, when she caught sight of a group of
young men at the entrance to the polo-grounds. Among them was one who
reminded her strongly of Christian. His slenderness and noble grace of
gesture gave her so strong an illusion of Christian’s presence that
she bade her chauffeur halt, and requested her companion to walk to the
gate and inquire after the young man’s identity.
The companion obeyed, and Frau Wahnschaffe, still watching the group,
waited very quietly. The companion had no difficulty in getting the
information, and reported that the young man was an Englishman named
Anthony Potter.
“Ah, yes, yes.” That was all Frau Wahnschaffe said, and her interest
was extinguished.
That very evening a special delivery letter was brought her. She
recognized Christian’s handwriting, and everything danced before her
eyes. The first thing she was able to see was the name of a small,
third-rate Frankfort hotel. Gradually her sight grew steadier, and she
read the letter: “Dear Mother: I beg you to grant me an interview in
the course of the forenoon to-morrow. It is too late for me to come to
you to-day; I have travelled all day and am tired. If I do not hear
from you to the contrary, I shall be with you at ten o’clock. I am
confident that you will be so good as to see me alone.”
Her only thought was: “At last!” And she said the words out loud to
herself: “At last!”
She looked at her watch. It was ten o’clock. That meant twelve hours.
How was she to pass those twelve hours? All her long life seemed
shorter to her than this coming space of time.
She went downstairs through the dark and empty rooms, through the
marble hall with its great columns, through the gigantic, mirrored
dining-hall, in which the last, faint light of the long summer
evening was dying. She went into the park, and heard the plaint of a
nightingale. Stars glittered, a fountain plashed, and distant music met
her ear. She returned, and found that only fifty minutes had passed. An
expression of rage contorted her cold and rigid face. She considered
whether she should drive to the city to that shabby little hostelry.
She dismissed that plan at once. He was asleep; he was weary with
travel. But why is he in such a place, she asked herself, in a humble
house, among strange and lowly people?
She sat down in an armchair, and entered upon her bitter duel with the
slothfulness of time, from eleven to midnight, from midnight to the
first grey glint of dawn, from that first glint to the early flush of
the young morning, thence to full sunrise, and on to the appointed hour.