Effi
walked over to the window of her room and looked out at the grove,
whose trees were covered with glistening snow. She was completely
absorbed in the picture and took no notice of what was going on behind
her in the room. When she turned around she observed that Frederick
had quietly put the coffee tray on the table before the sofa and set a
place for her. "Why, yes, supper. I must sit down, I suppose." But she
could not make herself eat. So she got up from the table and reread
the letter she had written to her mother. If she had had a feeling of
loneliness before, it was doubly intense now. What would she not have
given if the two sandy-haired Jahnkes had just stepped in, or even
Hulda? The latter, to be sure, was always so sentimental and as a
usual thing occupied solely with her own triumphs. But doubtful and
insecure as these triumphs were, nevertheless Effi would be very happy
to be told about them at this moment. Finally she opened the grand
piano to play some music, but she could not play. "No, this will make
me hopelessly melancholy; I will read, rather." She looked for a book,
and the first to fall into her hands was a thick red tourist's
handbook, an old edition, perhaps from the days when Innstetten was a
lieutenant. "Yes, I will read in this book; there is nothing more
quieting than books like this. Only the maps should always be avoided.
But I shall guard against this source of sand in the eyes, which I
hate."
She opened the book at random at page 153.
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