Father-in-law and
son-in-law were walking up and down along the gravel path by the plane
trees. Von Briest was talking about the difficulties of a district
councillor's position, saying that he had been offered one at various
times, but had always declined. "The ability to have my own way in all
matters has always been the thing that was most to my liking, at least
more--I beg your pardon, Innstetten--than always having to look up to
some one else. For in the latter case one is always obliged to bear in
mind and pay heed to exalted and most exalted superiors. That is no
life for me. Here I live along in such liberty and rejoice at every
green leaf and the wild grape-vine that grows over those windows
yonder."
He spoke further in this vein, indulging in all sorts of
anti-bureaucratic remarks, and excusing himself from time to time with
a blunt "I beg your pardon, Innstetten," which he interjected in a
variety of ways. The Baron mechanically nodded assent, but in reality
paid little attention to what was said. He turned his gaze again and
again, as though spellbound, to the wild grape-vine twining about the
window, of which Briest had just spoken, and as his thoughts were thus
engaged, it seemed to him as though he saw again the girls' sandy
heads among the vines and heard the saucy call, "Come, Effi."
He did not believe in omens and the like; on the contrary, he was far
from entertaining superstitious ideas. Nevertheless he could not rid
his mind of the two words, and while Briest's peroration rambled on
and on he had the constant feeling that the little incident was
something more than mere chance.
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