and spend a happy hour chatting with his adored friend.  He cherished in his heart, both separately and combined, all the beautiful emotions of love—­that of a father and an uncle, a teacher and an admirer.  Effi was affected by all these attentions and wrote to Hohen-Cremmen about them so often that her mother began to tease her about her “love for the alchymist.”  But this well-meant teasing failed of its purpose; it was almost painful to her, in fact, because it made her conscious, even though but dimly, of what was really lacking in her married life, viz., outspoken admiration, helpful suggestions, and little attentions.

Innstetten was kind and good, but he was not a lover.  He felt that he loved Effi; hence his clear conscience did not require him to make any special effort to show it.  It had almost become a rule with him to retire from his wife’s room to his own when Frederick brought the lamp.  “I have a difficult matter yet to attend to.”  With that he went.  To be sure, the portiere was left thrown back, so that Effi could hear the turning of the pages of the document or the scratching of his pen, but that was all.  Then Rollo would often come and lie down before her upon the fireplace rug, as much as to say:  “Must just look after you again; nobody else does.”  Then she would stoop down and say softly:  “Yes, Rollo, we are alone.”  At nine Innstetten would come back for tea, usually with the newspaper in his hand, and would talk about the Prince, who was having so much annoyance again, especially because of that Eugen Richter, whose conduct and language beggared all description.  Then he would read over the list of appointments made and orders conferred, to the most of which he objected.  Finally he would talk about the election and how fortunate it was to preside over a district in which there was still some feeling of respect.  When he had finished with this he asked Effi to play something, either from Lohengrin or the Walkuere, for he was a Wagner enthusiast.  What had won him over to this composer nobody quite knew.  Some said, his nerves, for matter-of-fact as he seemed, he was in reality nervous.  Others ascribed it to Wagner’s position on the Jewish question.  Probably both sides were right.  At ten Innstetten relaxed and indulged in a few well-meant, but rather tired caresses, which Effi accepted, without genuinely returning them.

Thus passed the winter.  April came and Effi was glad when the garden behind the court began to show green.

She could hardly wait for summer to come with its walks along the beach and its guests at the baths. * * * The months had been so monotonous that she once wrote:  “Can you imagine, mama, that I have almost become reconciled to our ghost?  Of course, that terrible night, when Geert was away at the Prince’s house, I should not like to live through again, no, certainly not; but this being always alone, with nothing whatever happening, is hard, too, and when I wake up in the night I occasionally listen to see if I can hear the shoes, shuffling up above, and when all is quiet I am almost disappointed and say to myself:  If only it would come back, but not too bad and not too close!”