To sum it up in a phrase that is no less imperfect: Ulrich felt a “spiritual vacuity” in which one could lose oneself so completely as to awaken an inclination toward unbridled fancies. He had in his pocket his father’s peculiar telegram, which was imprinted on his memory. “Take note herewith of my recent demise” was the message conveyed to him on the old man’s behalf—or was it not, rather, a direct communication? For such it appeared to be, given the signature underneath: “Your father.” His Excellency the High Privy Councilor was not given to levity at serious moments. The eccentric construction of the message, therefore, was devilishly logical, for it was he himself who was notifying his son when, in expectation of his end, he wrote or dictated those words, thereby declaring the resulting document valid as of the instant after he had drawn his last breath; indeed there was probably no way to state the facts more correctly, and yet this operation, in which the present sought to dominate a future it would no longer be able to experience, exuded an eerie sepulchral whiff of ragefully moldering willpower.

This mode of behavior, which Ulrich for some reason associated with the almost meticulously off-balance taste of small towns, made him think, not without some misgiving, of his sister, who had married in the provinces and whom he was supposed to meet in a few minutes. His thoughts had already turned to her during the trip, for he knew little about her. From time to time obligatory announcements of family events had reached him through his father’s letters; for example, “Your sister, Agathe, has married,” followed by additional information, as Ulrich had not been able to come home for the wedding. Then, about a year later, he had received notice of the young husband’s death; and three years after that, if he was not mistaken, word came that “Your sister, Agathe, I am pleased to say, has decided to marry again.” At this second wedding, five years ago, Ulrich had been present and had seen his sister for several days; but all he remembered was a ceaselessly whirling giant Ferris wheel of white lace, tulle, and linen. And he remembered the groom, whom he hadn’t liked. Agathe must have been twenty-two years old then, and he twenty-seven, for he had just received his doctorate; therefore she must be twenty-seven now. But he had not seen her since that time, nor had he exchanged letters with her. He only remembered that later his father had often written: “Lamentably, all does not seem to be going as well in your sister’s marriage as it might, though her husband is an upstanding man.” Or, once, “Your sister’s husband’s latest successes have given me much pleasure.” Such, more or less, were his father’s remarks, to which, regrettably, Ulrich had never paid any attention; but once, as he now remembered quite clearly, there had been, in connection with a disapproving comment on his sister’s childlessness, an expression of hope that she was nevertheless contented in her marriage, even though her character would not allow her to admit it. “I wonder what she looks like now,” he thought. It had been one of the peculiarities of the old gentleman, who showed such solicitude in keeping them informed about each other, that he had sent them away from home at a tender age, right after their mother’s death, to be educated in separate schools. Ulrich, who tended to misbehave, was often not allowed to go home on holidays, so that since their childhood, when they had loved each other very much, he had hardly seen his sister again, with the exception of one long visit when she was ten.