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wish ever to meet the wife “from a simple background.” Whenever Herr Nechwal would be leaving, the baron would always say to him, “My very best to Frau Nechwal, whom I do not know!” And Herr Nechwal promised to give her the message and assured the baron that his wife would be delighted.
    “And how are your children?” asked Herr von Trotta, who could never remember whether they were sons or daughters.
    “The eldest boy is doing well at school,” said the kapellmeister.
    “So he’ll be a musician too?” asked Herr von Trotta und Sipolje with a smidgen of condescension.
    “No,” replied Herr Nechwal, “another year and he’ll be entering military school.”
    “Ah, an officer!” said the district captain. “That’s good. Infantry?”
    Herr Nechwal smiled. “Of course! He’s capable. Maybe someday he’ll join the general staff.”
    “Certainly, certainly!” said the district captain. “Such things have happened.”
    A week later, he had forgotten everything. One did not recall the bandmaster’s children.
    Herr Nechwal drank two demitasses, no more, no less. With regret he stubbed out the final third of the cigar. He had to go; one did not leave with a smoking cigar.
    “It was especially wonderful today. My very best to Frau Nechwal. Unfortunately I have not yet had the pleasure!” said Herr von Trotta und Sipolje.
    Carl Joseph clicked his heels. He accompanied the kapellmeister down to the first landing. Then he returned to the study. Presenting himself to his father, he said, “I’m taking a walk, Papá!”
    “Fine, fine! Have a relaxing time!” said Herr von Trotta and waved his hand.
    Carl Joseph left. He meant to saunter slowly; he wanted to amble, prove to his feet that they were on vacation. But he “shaped up,” as the army term goes, when he encountered the first soldier. He began to march. He reached the town limits, the big yellow tax office broiling leisurely in the sun. The sweet fragrance of the fields came surging toward him, the throbbing song of the larks. To the west, the blue horizon was cut off by gray-blue hills; the first peasant huts emerged with shingled or thatched roofs; the clucking of poultry thrust like fanfares into the summery hush. The countryside was sleeping, wrapped in day and brightness.
    Behind the railroad embankment lay the constabulary headquarters, commanded by a sergeant. Carl Joseph knew him, Sergeant Slama. He decided to knock. He entered the broiling veranda, knocked, rang the bell; no one answered. A window opened. Frau Slama leaned over the geraniums and called, “Who’s there?” Catching sight of little Trotta, she said, “Coming!” She opened the front door; the interior smelled cool and a bit fragrant. Frau Slama had dabbed a drop of scent on her dressing gown.
    Carl Joseph thought of the Viennese nightclubs. He said, “The sergeant isn’t here, ma’am?”
    “He’s on duty, Herr von Trotta,” the wife replied. “Do come in!”
    Now Carl Joseph sat in the Slama parlor. It was a low, reddish room, very cool; this was like sitting in an icebox. The high backs of the upholstered chairs were stained brown and richly carved into leafy vines that hurt the back. Frau Slama brought in some cool lemonade; she sipped it daintily, her pinkie cockedand one leg crossing the other. She sat next to Carl Joseph, turning toward him and jiggling one foot, which was trapped in a red velvet slipper, naked, without a stocking. Carl Joseph eyed the foot, then the lemonade. He did not look at Frau Slama’s face. His cap lay on his knees. He kept them stiff. He sat upright in front of the lemonade as if drinking it were an official obligation.
    “You haven’t been here in a long time, Herr von Trotta,” said the sergeant’s wife. “You’ve really grown! Are you past fourteen?”
    “Yes, ma’am, long ago.” He thought of leaving the house as fast as possible. He would have to bolt down the lemonade, bow nicely, tell her to give his best to her