NOTE: The play Sylvia und Sybille is based on parts 4: IV, 4: V, 4: VII, 4: IX.
Fritz got the order to fetch rolls and punchbowl. The business was exhausting. Finally, Frau Inge was replaced for some time. She sat down on the box between the flowers. There was no chair. This is why she pulled Lela onto her lap with a grasp as a matter of course.
"Come here, rest."
Lela was overcome by a bubbling bliss. She did not dare to move. In order not to fall, she had to put her arm around the strange woman. She felt the warm neck and the soft hair against her hand. She felt Frau Inge's breast. At that moment everything sank: the flowers, the bazaar, Fritz-everything's a sea. That was the twilight hour. Twilight hour with Mother. Lela closed her eyes and breathed the scent that came from the strange woman. The noises came from the street, she felt, and in a moment the evening bells would ring from the cathedral, and the powder garden lay grey, and . . . Eva, yes, Eva surely had such hair also. She suddenly knew that very well and maybe she had had such arms too-her hands gripped like this . . . Unconsciously, Lela laid her head down wearily on Frau Inge's shoulder. In front of her was the neckline; she would have liked to give it a kiss, but she didn't dare. Against her will, she began to tremble. Frau Inge looked around at her and grabbed Lela's hair by her left hand. For a second she put her head against Lela's and said quietly,
"Silly, you're still a baby. Is it true that you can skate so beautifully?"
Lela tried to compose herself, but in order to talk she had to get off her lap and stand, so that it could be seen that she was not a baby.
Fritz stood at the champagne stand and poured down a glass quickly. Then he went on to the artists' dressing room. Withered flowers lay on the table. His violin was next to them. Carefully, he opened the case. First he plucked the strings a little, as if checking to see if they had suddenly stopped making sound. Then he took the white silk scarf that his mother had given him, put it under his chin and placed the violin on it. Quietly, for himself alone and for no one else, he drew the bow. He stood there very calmly, his hand more sure than ever. But something was pressing, and he tried to throw it out of his throat with a movement of his head, but it remained and forced and squeezed and tugged at him. His back teeth ground against one another. Don't, don't give in. Play, play, play . . .
Note: Somebody is very jealous, HAHA.