Its persistence made me raise my head then doubt myself. It broke my luck. That was our first encounter. A Saturday in September, towards four in the afternoon, the day still light but cool and fresh, Homburg so pretty, so dull, swallows in the eaves of the houses, grapevines on the walls. Little to do but stroll the main street and glance in shop windows at gifts for the rich to give to the rich: ribbons, perfumes, baubles. Only the long, red, stuccoed building in the middle of the street enticed: the Kursaal, the town’s social hub. Madame von Langen, my second cousin, accompanied me there. Through the great door another far door opened to a garden, beyond the garden was a park, beyond the park the Taunus mountains wooded with fir, birch, beech and oak. It was a vista that promised escape from the tight little town and my own despair; a vista that suggested good fortune. A vista that deceived. * In the gilded rococo gaming room naked nymphs cavorted on the ceilings, the players – old, powdered and engrossed – multiplied in the walled mirrors.
