His things arrived, a suitcase and a large crate. When mother and daughter had pushed the crate up against the window and had placed the suitcase on a luggage rack, they withdrew to their parlor, which lay to the left of the vestibule. It was very tidy and not at all shabby. A rose-patterned carpet lay in front of the high-backed sofa, and on either side of the cheval glass with the crack down the middle stood a stand holding a flowerpot—one held a red geranium and the other, a white one. A large bouquet of dried flowers stood on a mahogany cabinet, and next to the cabinet was a set of hanging shelves with scalloped beadwork. The white stove gleamed; its brass door shone even brighter; and between the stove and the door, on the long wall opposite the high-backed couch, stood a chaise longue that had been recently acquired at an auction of a junior envoy's goods. This piece was now the most impressive object in the apartment. Next to it stood a very small table, on top of which was a pendulum clock with an oddly loud tick.

Mathilde stood before the mirror to smooth the part in her hair somewhat, for her hair was very thin and tended to fall into sections. Mother Möhring sat down on the sofa, ramrod straight, and looked at the picture on the opposite wall. In it an Italian street musician sat on his rock, played his bagpipes, and gazed fatuously and happily out at the world. Mathilde saw in the mirror how her mother sat there so stiffly and upright. Without turning around, she asked her, “Why are you sitting on that hard sofa again, where you can't lean on anything? Why do we even have the chaise longue if not for sitting?”

“Well, certainly not for sitting!”

“Of course for sitting! Of course, and it didn't even cost that much. You think you’ll ruin it and make a big dent in it where you sit. I saved up for it and was happy when I could get it for you.”

“Yes, yes, Thilde, you mean well.”

“And you’ve got a bad back and are always complaining, but you won't even lie down on it.