My glance stops yonder on the wall where a series of fresco pictures has been painted.
The forms of an age that was drunk with beauty look down on me in their victorious calm. They are steeped in the glow of a southern heaven. The rigid splendour of the marble walls is contrasted with the magnificent flow of long garments.
It is a Roman supper. Rose-crowned men lean upon Indian cushions, holding golden beakers in their right hands. Women in yielding nakedness cower at their feet. Through the open door streams in a Bacchic procession with fauns and panthers, the drunken Pan in its midst. Brown-skinned slaves with leopard skins about their loins make mad music. Among them is one who at once makes me forget the tumult. She leans her firm, naked body surreptitiously against the pillar. Her form is contracted with weariness. Thoughtlessly and with tired lips she blows the tibia which her nerveless hands threaten to drop. Her cheeks are yellow and fallen in, her eyes are glassy, but upon her forehead are seen the folds of lordship and about her mouth wreaths a stony smile of irony. Who is she? Whence does she come? I ask myself. But I feel a dull thud against my shoulder. My bosom friend has fallen asleep and is using me as a pillow.
"Look here, you!" I call out to him, for I have for the moment forgotten his name. "Go home and go to bed."
He starts up and gazes at me with swimming eyes.
"Do you mean me?" he stutters. "That's a good joke." And next moment he begins to snore.
I hide him as well as possible with my broad back and bend down over the glittering samovar before me. The fragrant steam prickles my nose.
It is time that the little woman turn up if I am to amuse her guests.
I think of the brown-skinned woman yonder in the painting.
I open my eyes. Merciful heaven! What is that?