Besides the flowers, that afternoon Rudi had brought with him a gilt cameo. Hans liked to think Frau Pietzine and Frau Levin were more impressed with it than Sophie, for whom it was destined. During the first hour of debate, Rudi would make an effort to take part, interposing brief or at any rate agreeable comments. After that his contributions would gradually diminish amid discreet yawns, which Rudi ably camouflaged thanks to his snuffbox, turning his boredom into an expression of contemplation. The only thing he kept up all evening (and this hurt Hans more than anything else) were the admiring glances he directed at his fiancée, so distinct from the rather regal manner with which he contemplated the other guests. Each time Rudi made an affectionate gesture towards her, Hans looked for a space in the bustle of the room, from which he could watch Sophie in the round mirror on the far wall. And although he would invariably discover her eyes smiling back at him, he saw none of the irony he had hoped for in them. In the confusion of Hans’s emotions, on Fridays Sophie was two different women. One was the delightful accomplice with whom he exchanged furtive whispers. The other, duplicated in the mirror, the perfect hostess, the mistress of her secrets who not only accepted Rudi’s attentions but returned them. This behaviour, which Hans found so contradictory, was the only honourable way Sophie had of being coherent — Hans was her friend, perhaps her closest friend now, and she was not prepared to renounce this connection between them, this frisson which so thrilled her, and to which, of course! she had and would continue to have every right, whatever her civil status; yet Rudi was to be her husband — as of October she would be living with him, and she was loath to make him jealous or to foolishly ignore the important commitment they had made. Not to mention her poor father, who had for so many years put the happiness of others before his own, and whom she had no intention of mortifying by showing Rudi less affection than circumstance demanded.
Aside from this, did she love Rudi? Had she grown accustomed to loving him? Well, perhaps. Not completely. Was she naive enough to believe all women were madly in love when they married? When it came down to it, wasn’t marriage a social convention, an amalgam of family interests? In which case, what obligation did she have to feel, or convince herself she felt, a consuming passion? In the same way pleasure and love could clearly exist separately, despite what her priggish friends believed, could love and marriage coincide or not depending on each case? Would she live like every other silly young woman waiting for a ridiculous Prince Charming to come along? Precisely because marriage was an artificial institution, was it not hypocritical to imagine that every wedding should take place in the throes of a mutual passion? Rudi loved her, and this to her seemed a good place to start if he were to respect her wishes and not ride roughshod over her, as had happened to so many of her friends. As for her, well, she loved him in part, but in part she did not, not yet. But time, according to popular wisdom, could heal all. And if Rudi went on treating her with the same consideration, naturally he would end up winning all her wifely respect. Which, in view of everything, was a good start!
But much of this reasoning escaped Hans, who, in his anguish, could only conceive simple questions — if she doesn’t truly love him then why the devil is she marrying him? And if she does, then why do I feel she feels something else? As for her fiancé, how did he behave? That was the most uncomfortable part — notwithstanding his natural arrogance, his hunched shoulders and the unbearable squeaking of his patent-leather pumps, Rudi was surprisingly courteous to him. Surprisingly? Perhaps this was an exaggeration. Rudi, who was no philosopher, was no fool either — he was aware Sophie had forged a friendship with Hans that went beyond the civilities of the salon. And, knowing his fiancée’s rebellious spirit, he realised it was far more dangerous to question that friendship or to show his dislike for Hans than to be polite towards him. Rudi was perfectly aware that, provided he played his cards right, he had and always would have the upper hand over any opponent — after all, he was a Wilderhaus.
Don’t talk to me about von Weber, Professor Mietter said, banging a teaspoon against his cup, von Weber is nothing compared to Beethoven! Ahem, insisted Herr Levin, I am not suggesting he is, Professor, but surely you must agree opera was never Beethoven’s forte. A single movement of his — may God rest his soul! — is worth more than all the librettos, scores, stage sets, even the entire orchestra of your von Weber’s operas put together! Beethoven’s music has the ability to soothe men’s souls. Do you know why? Because Beethoven knew how to suffer. If the listener has also suffered, he feels a bond with Beethoven’s music. Alternatively, if he is happy then listening to it makes him feel relieved. Rudi, my dear, what do you think? asked Sophie, keen for her fiancé to give his musical opinion. What do I think about Beethoven? Rudi faltered. No, replied Sophie, about von Weber. I see, Rudi prevaricated. Well, I won’t be the one to deny his merits. Von Weber is not bad, not bad, of course. Hans tried to catch Sophie’s eye in the mirror, but she avoided him and ordered Elsa to bring more canapés. Rudi made an effort, adding: Mozart is the one I like. Do you know his opera The Magic Flute? (Vaguely, Hans hastened to agree, with sly courtesy.) Well, I saw it performed recently and, well, it is, it has, without doubt it is a most original work, don’t you agree Sophie darling? Although I haven’t much time, I find going to the opera exceedingly agreeable (how could he even think of saying exceedingly? thought Hans), indeed, my father and I have two annual season tickets for the Berlin Opera House. Also, and I mention this in case any of you are interested, I have a box at L’Opéra, une vraie merveille! Don’t you think we ought to go, beloved? What? declared Frau Pietzine, her eyes lighting up. A box at L’Opéra, and you say it so casually? Madame, Rudi replied, tugging his lapels, one word from you and I shall place a carriage at your disposal. Ahem, if I may be so bold as to ask, said Herr Levin, the price of the season ticket is? … Ah, replied Rudi, let me think, I never remember these things, I don’t believe it is very expensive, provided one uses it! (Rudi concluded with a guffaw that caused Sophie to turn to Elsa once more to tell her that the jellies were watery. How could Petra have put so much water in the jelly!) L’Opéra, yes, the professor murmured, realising he hadn’t spoken for some minutes. Herr Mietter, said Rudi, if you ever want a box at L’Opéra, I have friends who could offer you one for little more than a florin. You are very kind, Herr Wilderhaus, replied the professor, however, on my occasional trips to Paris I usually go to L’Opéra already. Do you really? Rudi smiled, somewhat put out. How interesting, a magnificent building, is it not? Indeed, Herr Wilderhaus, the professor said, and as you so rightly say, it isn’t easy to find seats in a box. It so happens an old friend of mine, an exiled Argentinian general, lives there and gets me tickets. He is a rather sad man, he doesn’t seem like an army officer, his only aim in life is to educate his daughter. (Very commendable, very commendable, Herr Gottlieb applauded). Argentinian? said Álvaro, I have always wanted to travel to the Río de la Plata, has anyone ever been there? Hans was about to nod, but thought better of it and remained silent. Whatever for? asked Rudi, it is so far away! Indeed, said Professor Mietter, these Argentinians are very restless, they are everywhere at the moment. They have a penchant for Europe and seem to speak several languages. They talk incessantly about their own country, but never stay there.