By Eva Hoffman
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Additional info for Appassionata
When did it change … She isn’t sure when she began to feel Peter’s presence in his study not as an anchor to which her mind turned for quick reassurance, but as a sort of chafing. He listened to a lot of baroque music as he read, and even that began to irritate her, out of all reason. All those endless tonal permutations, as background. At some point, his very calm made her restless. Not fair, she knows, not fair. When did she stop wanting an antidote to the restlessness, and start wanting to pursue the restlessness itself?
She steps into her dress, brushes her hair. Long mirror, in which she contemplates herself impartially. It works well, the glistening green of the silk flowing down along her body, the sharp diagonal of the low V-neck echoing the slant of her cheekbones. She wonders briefly what she looks like to them, from out there, under the lights, then flicks the question away superstitiously. If she for a moment considers herself as an object up there onstage, all is lost. If for a moment she tries to court the audience’s attention or admiration, all is lost.
He asks. There may be a shade of annoyance in the question. ” she asks. “Oh, you know, the usual. ” She hears him take a sip of coffee, mentally supplies the little round table placed next to his easy chair at just the right height, the legal periodicals strewn about on the floor. “One of my students asked whether I thought the principle of contracts is universal,” he tells her. ” she asks. ” He sighs, humorously. “In principle, yes. ” “I do,” she says, stretching on the bed more comfortably.