"Cuckoo," hummed Erwin absently to himself as he drove back with his wife to Steinbach through the capricious, flickering evening shadows.
A filmy confusion of pink and white, a tumbled knot of pale brown hair, two large, cold eyes, mysterious greenish riddles in a flattering, open child-face, a seductive, rococo figure which leaned over the stone balustrade of the terrace, and threw gay kisses after the departing carriage, this is the last impression which Erwin takes away with him from Traunberg, in the landau in which he now sits beside his pale wife.
"She has changed greatly for the better. It is a pity that she has such bad manners," he breaks the silence after a while.
"Do you really think that she has such bad manners?" replies Elsa, without looking at him.
"There can scarcely be any doubt as to that," says he. "Some people may certainly think that it is becoming to her. Nevertheless I should wish that she gave them up. You must undertake her neglected education, child!"
"Oh, I will leave that to you," she replies, coldly, almost irritably. "Linda is not a person who will learn anything from women."
"Do not be harsh," he whispers, reproachfully, perhaps with a trace of impatience.
The gloomy Traunberg lindens are far behind them, only show as a dark spot on the horizon. The carriage rolls on between gigantic poplars; the sun has set and the shadows have vanished with it. Over the earth is that dull gray light which might be called dead light. The new moon floats in the heavens, small and white, like a tiny cloud; pale yellow and reddish tints are on the horizon, above the violet distant mountains. At the left, only separated by a blooming clover-field, is the forest.
"Elsa, do you feel strong enough to walk home through the woods?" whispers Erwin to his wife, coaxingly, and as she nods assent he stops the carriage, and they take a path through the clover to the shady woods.
"Now, was not that a good idea of mine, is it not pretty here?" he asks, gayly and proudly, as if he had made the wood, surveying all its beauties.
"Lovely," whispers she, but her voice sounds sad.
At her feet the ground is blue with forget-me-nots; under the wild rose-bushes already lie many white petals. A sob and a sigh pass through the gloomy trees as if spring mourned that the first roses were dead. All is grave and solemn, the air spiced with the odor of withered generations of leaves, with the perfume of fading or still blooming flowers.
Erwin teasingly waits for Elsa to speak to him--he waits in vain. With head thrown back and earnest eyes she wanders near him, and does not rest her little hands tenderly on his arm as usual.
What is the matter with her? That she can be jealous does not occur to him.
They have almost crossed the forest; the meadow which separates it from Steinbach park shines between the sparse trees, then Erwin discovers a striking trace of game; he bends down to observe it more closely. "A roebuck," he murmurs. "Strange--in this region."
"Is there no other way across?" asks Elsa, who has meanwhile crawled close to the edge of the meadow, and casting a somewhat anxious glance over the knee-high, dewy grass.
"No, wait a moment," he replies, still absorbed in contemplating the strange trace.
"It will cost me a pair of shoes," she murmurs somewhat vexedly, raises her gown, and resolutely prepares for a very cold foot-bath.
"Elsa, what are you doing?" cries he, perceiving her intention, and, leaving his hunter's problem, he hurries quickly up to her. "With your genius for taking cold."
Before she has time to answer he has taken her in his arms and carries her through the dew. He has wholly forgotten Linda Lanzberg, and also that he had been vexed with his poor nervous wife's unjust, childish antipathy for Linda. He looks down tenderly upon the dear head, which rests with half-closed eyes on his shoulder.
"How light you are," he remarks softly and anxiously; "you do not weigh much more than Litzi now, my mouse."
Elsa does not answer, but her slender arms twine round his neck, and as his lips seek her pale face, he feels that she is crying.
"What is the matter, my darling?" he asks.
"I do not know myself," she murmurs with a slight shiver. "I am afraid."
"We really must invite her," says, in a mournful tone, Countess Mimi Dey, a large stately woman, with a too high forehead, a feature which has the proud advantage of being a family inheritance in the Sempaly family, an aristocratic, small, turn-up nose, a benevolent smile, and a near-sighted glance.
The Countess is the best woman in the world, of proverbial good nature and unfeigned condescension in association with music-teachers, governesses, companions, maids, tutors and officials, and such poor devils who are paid and supported by the aristocracy, and politely courtesy to them; but she is unapproachably stiff to the upper middle classes, those persons who demand a place in society.
She belongs to that exclusive coterie which considers itself the sole patented extract of humanity, and looks upon all the rest of the world as only a common herd, a mob which, under certain circumstances, permits itself to pay its servants better, and to give more to charitable aims than princely houses, a mob which speaks French, wears Swedish gloves, and lives in palaces. She has a vague idea that it speaks incorrect French, that under the gloves coarse hands are concealed, that the palaces are always furnished with the taste of first-class waiting-rooms, but knows nothing definite about it, does not know "these people" at all, does not see them, although they are everywhere--they do not exist for her.
They tell an amusing anecdote of her: that once at the opera on a Patti evening, her cousin Pistasch Kamenz entered her box, and asked her, "Is any one in the theatre to-night?" She, after she had glanced around the crowded building, answered mournfully, "Not a soul!"
What particularly amuses the Countess is that, as she hears, this great class ofbourgeoise, "which one does not know," is, on its side, divided by various differences in education and condition into classes which do not "know" each other.
"I really must invite her," she repeats, mournfully.
She leans back in a deep arm-chair in a large drawing-room with brown wainscoting and numerous family portraits, and smokes a cigarette.
"Pardon me that I really cannot so deeply pity you as you seem to expect," replies Scirocco Sempaly, who, now on leave, occupies a second armchair opposite his sister.
"Hm! I do not care about the positive fact; last week I dined with my bailiff's wife, but--it is a matter of principle."
"Cent a'as," says, with indifferent gravity, an old acquaintance of ours, Eugene von Rhoeden, who sits by an open window before a mediæval inlaid table and plays bézique with the above-mentioned cousin of the hostess, Count Pistasch Kamenz.
"Cent d'as," he says, apparently wholly absorbed in his cards, and moves an ivory counter.
A mild gentle rain is falling, the perfume of half-drowned roses and fresh foliage floats into the room. In one corner sits the only daughter of the widowed hostess, Countess Elli, a dark little girl in a white muslin frock, and near her, in a black silk gown, the governess.
The obligatory half hour which Elli must spend in the drawing-room so as to become accustomed to society, is over. Elli is rejoiced, sixteen-year-old girl that she is. She takes no particular pleasure in the society of grown people, who can no longer pet her as a child, and who must not yet treat her as a young lady.
A rustle of silk and muslin, a shy "Bon soir!" and Mademoiselle retreats with her charge.
Scirocco rises to open the door for the governess, makes her a deep bow as she disappears. Rhoeden also rises, only Pistasch indolently remains seated.
"Pistasch, you might trouble yourself to say good evening to Mademoiselle," says the Countess half jokingly.
"Pardon," replies Pistasch, "pure absent-mindedness, Mimi, and then she is so homely."
"That simplifies matters ten-fold," replies Scirocco, hastily. "One can never be too polite to homely governesses--it is only the pretty ones that are troublesome."
"I do not understand that," says Pistasch, and marks double bézique.
"One never knows how one can be attentive enough to them so as not to vex them, and yet reserved enough not to impress them," says Scirocco, dryly.
"Hm! You have very virtuous principles, Rudi; for some time you have moved wholly in the icy regions of lofty feelings of duty, where the tender flowers of the affections never bloom," laughs Pistasch. "I admire you, upon my word, but--hm--I do not trace the slightest desire to follow you into this rare atmosphere," and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He considered his cousin's conscientiousness either feigned or morbid. How could one be conscientious with women? Conscientious in regard to debts of honor, that is something quite different, that is self-understood; but regarding governesses--bah!
"Count Pistasch Kamenz is a charming man." So at least say all the ladies and also all the men who have not yet come in conflict with him. He has the handsomest blond cinque-cento face, speaks the Viennese jargon with the most aristocratic accent, and possesses the most enviable talents. He rides like Renz, dances like Frappart, and more than that, in private theatricals he is like Blasel, Matras and Knaak in one person. In all Austria, no man has a greater talent for representing Polish Jews, poverty-stricken Czechs, drunken valets, provincials of all kinds. But his greatest triumph is the "Vienna shoemaker's boy." What accuracy of costume and grimaces! The ladies say he has a pug nose when he plays the shoemaker's boy, and a way of sticking out his tongue--ah!
He has played for benevolent objects a hundred times, and in Vienna is a universally known and boundlessly popular individual, because he is intimate with actresses, occasionally from a freak rides in an omnibus, or another time is seen in the standing place of the opera house (for a half act), because one sometimes meets him in sausage houses, because in rainy weather he walks with an umbrella and upturned trousers, because once even--the gods and a pretty girl alone know why--he travelled from Salzburg to Vienna second class.
The public see in him a pleasant, affable man without pride, and feel drawn to him like a brother. Poor public! I would not advise you to stretch out your hardened hand to him, for between ourselves Count Pistasch is one of the most arrogant of Austrian cavaliers.
The actors with whom he one evening drinks friendship, and the next greets with "Hm!--ah--You, Mr.---- what do you call him," can tell this. One of them once challenged him. This was a great joke to the Count; he laughed until he cried, could not control himself, and finally settled it thus: "You are a fine fellow, am very sorry, etc., deserve an order for personal bravery--ah--if I can be of any service to you," etc.
He has never been outside of Austria, possesses the vaguest ideas of history. The French Revolution is a kind of accidental calamity for him, something between the earthquakes of Lisbon and the pest in Florence. He is a strict Catholic from aristocratic tradition, has very good manners when he wishes, speaks French well, and we can assure our readers, that just as he is, without a suspicion of the "principles of '89," he would be received with open arms in the most republicansalonsof Paris, and would be admired by the ladies for his "pureté de race" and "grand air."
Now we need only add that he naturally was not christened Pistasch--that this is a humorous nickname which was given him as a boy, by reason of his idealistic "greenness," but which now, when this greenness has long withered, is preserved for the sake of contrast.
"Well, have you decided upon the day when you will invite the Lanzberg?" asks Scirocco of his sister, who, after long pondering, gold pencil in hand over a little velvet-bound book in which she enters her social obligations, now closes it.
"It is very hard," complains the Countess.
"When did this unfortunate Madame Lanzberg call upon you? Oh, yes. Wednesday. Have you returned her call yet?"
"No; I must show her from the first that I am in no hurry to associate with her," says the Countess.
"Hm!" says Scirocco, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. "Do you not think, Mimi, that as quite a near relation of Lanzberg it would be the thing for you to smooth the way a little for his wife? It would be an act of Christian charity."
"The matter is very complicated, Rudi," replied Mimi Dey. "I was always very sorry for Felix--you know I decidedly took his part. I have nothing against his wife; her manner is indeed deplorable, but on the whole, if some little poverty-stricken Sempaly or Dey had married her, I should have been the last to withdraw my protection from her. In Felix's unfortunate circumstances, he has proved by his marriage that he no longer belongs to his caste; he has abdicated,voilà."
Rhoeden and Pistasch have finished their game of bézique, and now devote themselves to the building of interesting card-houses. They spice this intelligent occupation by considerable wagers, which he shall win whose card-house remains standing the longest. Up to now Rhoeden has had the advantage. But the Countess's words seem to have excited him a very little--his card-houses no longer stand.
Scirocco bites his lips, every finger quivers--how can he counsel his sister to silence or at least consideration? In vain he turns his back to Rhoeden, so as to make an impression upon her by energetic scowling. Soon he notices, like many subtle diplomats, that he has naïvely exposed himself to the enemy. His energetic play of expression beams at him from a mirror in which the attentively watching Rhoeden could certainly solve the interesting riddle--but it wholly escapes his short-sighted sister.
"As she, nevertheless, must be invited, it would perhaps be better to fix the day," cries Scirocco, somewhat impatiently.
"It cannot be this week," answers the Countess, counting over the days. "Thursday, Friday and Saturday are the days of the fair for the flooded people in Marienbad; Sunday, the ladies of the committee dine at the M----'s, Monday there are private theatricals at the M----'s, Thursday, the L----'s dine with me----"
"Well, invite them for Thursday," cries Scirocco. "She is really very nice, sings chansonettes like Judic; she will amuse you greatly."
"Do you think so?" cries the Countess. "Before Felix was married, L---- would hardly bow to him, how will it be now? No, Wednesday. Wednesday will be the best, but still I cannot exactly invite heren famille."
"Hardly," says Scirocco, dryly.
"And whom can I ask to meet her? One has an antipathy to Felix, others to her----" the Countess laughs lightly and kindles a fresh cigarette. "One must be so careful--it would be very disagreeable for me if toward evening some one should accidentally come over from Marienbad, and should meet her here."
"Have a warning fastened over the door as when one has small-pox in the house," laughs Pistasch.
"Invite the Garzins," proposes Scirocco.
"Yes, that is something, but a strange element is still desirable," remarks the Countess. "What do you say to the Klette?"
Scirocco frowns. "I do not understand how respectable people can tolerate this poisonous old gossiping viper under their roofs," he answers, angrily.
"Neither do I," replies Mimi Dey, obligingly, "but still every one does."
"I make you another proposition, Mimi," cries Pistasch: "Invite old Harfink by telegram; I think he will come by special train."
The Countess smiled. "I should certainly do it," remarks she, "but I believe the Lanzberg would look upon it as a mortal insult. Besides, when did you make his acquaintance?"
"I met him once on the train, and thereupon he invited me to dinner," explains Pistasch.
"And you accepted?" asks the Countess, raising her eyebrows.
"Why of course--I thought I should amuse myself as well as at the Carl Theatre. Yes--that was what I fancied. What a disappointment! The dinner was not bad, perfectly correct, alas! The wife spoke of nothing but the evils of the social question. I did not know where to look, and the husband spoke of nothing but the evils of his stomach. Except for that, they were both very charming, on my word. Paid me compliments to my face with asans gêne. Bah! I was never very kindly disposed to Felix, but I pity him on account of this match. For my part I should rather marry into a Hottentot family than such people."
I do not believe that during this speech Eugene Rhoeden felt exactly upon roses.
There areparvenuswho listen in society to such speeches with self-satisfied indifference; yes, even laugh at them, and applying the English proverb, "Present company always excepted," to their own case, fancy themselves unreferred to. But Rhoeden does not belong to these enviable ones.
He smiles slightly to himself, and after the conversation had continued for some time in a similar manner he begins:
"There was once a French poet named Voltaire, and once when he went to London the street boys laughed at him, and sang mocking songs about Frenchmen. Then the poet turned round and said: 'You good people, is it not hard enough not to have been born among you? Really, you should pity us, not despise us!'"
After this little anecdote a universal silence followed, then Scirocco cried, "Bravo, Rhoeden!"
The good-natured Countess Dey blushed and said:
"We had entirely forgotten that you are related to these people," which sounds like abetise, but is balm for Eugene's vanity. Pistasch, however, puts on an irritated expression, and cries with his colossal impertinence, "I pity you uncommonly!"
Half an hour later the Countess is conferring in her dressing-room with her maid concerning her costume for to-morrow, and Pistasch has seated himself in a bad temper at the piano, where with his handsome, unpractised hands he thumps out the march from Norma, the only achievement of a ten years' study of music.
Scirocco and Rhoeden stand below on the rain-wet terrace. "Your cigar bores me," cries Scirocco, "throw it away and fill your lungs with pure air," and he draws a deep breath so as to enjoy the fragrance of the summer evening after the rain.
Eugene does as he is invited, and then asks, "Do you not admire my compliance?"
"You are a good fellow; one can get along with you," answers Scirocco in his abrupt manner.
"Thanks for the acknowledgment," says Rhoeden, not without bitterness. "Sometimes I ask myself whether it would not be better and more sensible for me to pack my trunk."
"Don't see the necessity," growls Scirocco.
"I am really not sure," says Rhoeden; "for between ourselves it is pleasanter to hear Pistasch make fun of my uncle than to hear my uncle rave over Pistasch when the latter has accidentally met him and said: 'Ah! good day, Mr.---- what is your name--Mr. Harfink?'"
"Curious world!" murmurs Scirocco, smiling to himself.
Rhoeden, seeing him in a particularly good temper, makes use of the opportunity to ask him:
"Say, what is the story about Lanzberg?"
Scirocco is silent for a while; looks apparently absently before him, and then suddenly cries brusquely, "What did you ask?"
"Whether you think we will have fine weather to-morrow," replies Rhoeden.
Scirocco glances at him peculiarly with a half smile, behind which the words "Clever dog" may be read.
That evening Eugene writes in the diary in which, instead of sentimental impressions, he notes down all freshly-acquired worldly wisdom:
"Never ask society, except concerning things which you already know."
Klette was invited after all, or rather invited herself. At the fair in Marienbad she met Mimi Dey, and upon the latter remarking carelessly: "How are you, Caroline; when are we to see you in Iwanow?" assured her generously, "I am at your service as soon as you send the horses for me. I have been intending to spend a few days with you."
And she stays a few days; the first of these, the eventful Wednesday, has already dawned, is in fact nearly over.
Klette and the Countess are chatting in the drawing-room. The three gentlemen are firing at sparrows in the park, quite a bloodless occupation, which the sparrows seem to consider a good joke, and they laugh at the shooting with their ironical black eyes. They flutter about like will-o'-the-wisps. In vain does Pistasch, who seems particularly bent upon this sport, approach softly the trees where they crouch--krrm--and they are gone.
For probably the tenth time Pistasch has cried, "The infamous sparrows are cleverer than I," has at last fixed his eye upon a comfortable old grandfather sparrow, who sleepily philosophizes on the thick branch of a nut-tree, but before he has aimed he hears from the open windows of the drawing-room loud laughter, the gay ripple of the Countess, and the deep, rough ha! ha! ha! of Klette.
"How amused the ladies seem to be," he says, turning to his companions, forgetting the sparrow patriarch.
"I do not understand how any one can laugh at that Cantharis," grumbles Scirocco.
"Oh, she is surely relating something piquant about us," says Pistasch. "It is incredible how greatly interested the ladies are in our doings, that is to say, in our evil doings."
Now the shadows have become much longer. Klette has withdrawn to don a wonderful cap of yellow lace and red ribbons, and the men have returned from their bloodless hunt, to exchange their gay shirts and light summer suits for solemn black and dazzling white.
"Rudi," cries the Countess, as she hears a light and yet somewhat dragging step--Scirocco limps a little--passing her dressing-room door.
"Have you any commission, Mimi?" asks Scirocco, with his good-natured obligingness, as he enters the room. The Countess has dismissed her maid, is already in dinner toilet, suppressed laughter sparkles in her bright brown eyes, the corners of her mouth twitch merrily. "No!" she replies to his question. "What commission should I have for you!--Ah! You came from the greenhouse?" pointing to a couple of flowers in his hand.
"Yes. I wished to give the gardener some directions in regard to the flowers for your guests. I remember that Elsa cannot bear gardenias, and Linda--hm--the Lanzberg raves over stephanotis."
"You really might have omitted the bouquets today," says Mimi, vexedly. "My greenhouses without this--thanks to the fair and those stupid theatricals--are pretty well stripped."
"Elsa has never dined here without finding her favorite flowers beside her plate," remarked Scirocco, calmly. "I can neither pass over Linda, nor will I punish Elsa for the misfortune of having a Miss Harfink for sister-in-law. Why are you laughing so, Mimi, what seems so amusing to you?"
"My own simplicity," cries the Countess. "I was so very stupid."
"Mimi, I do not understand you in the least," says he in astonishment.
"Oh, I took your protection of this pretty Lanzberg for unselfish philanthropy!" The Countess interrupts herself to laugh.
"Unselfish philanthropy! Say rather ordinary justice," cries he, becoming somewhat violent. "What are you thinking of? What are you driving at?"
"Your discretion is admirable! You understand no hints."
"Ah, indeed!" cried Scirocco, pale with rage. "Ah, indeed! and the Cantharis told you that--that was what you were laughing over so immoderately?"
"But Rudi, never mind. I do not take it amiss in you," cries the Countess good-naturedly, restraining her levity.
"But I take it amiss in myself to have given rise by my thoughtless inconsiderateness to such infamous inventions!" cried Scirocco, "for, once for all, Mimi, Mrs. Lanzberg is horribly calumniated by such."
"There are cases where perjury is permissible," says the Countess, indifferently. "Do not trouble yourself, I will never speak of the matter."
Then Scirocco steps close up to his sister. "Mimi!" cries he, hoarsely, "do you know that I am wounded, seriously wounded by your suspicion? Pray consider the meanness which you ascribe to me! I have worked for Felix's rehabilitation so as to be able to carry on a convenient love affair with his wife, on the risk that the world, bad as it is, discredited as he is, should say that he voluntarily paid this price for my assistance. His wife was indifferent to me, but even if she had charmed me I would have avoided her like the plague rather than throw another shadow on Felix's compromised existence. Poor Felix! And I imagined that I had been of some use to him."
Impossible not to believe in his honest excitement. "Pardon, Rudi," whispers the Countess, "I had not thought."
"Never mind that, Mimi," he murmured, "besides it is better that I know what people say. I can at least act accordingly--to-day. This venomous serpent will surely watch my every glance. However, I must hurry--à tantôt, Mimi!"
With that he rushed out, had only just time to change his clothes when he heard a carriage approach.
"Poor Felix!" he murmured thoughtfully and sadly, "I can do nothing more for you; they have tied my hands."
Thus the last shadow of pleasure which Linda might have had at the dinner has vanished.
The Lanzbergs arrived a few minutes before the Garzins. Scirocco received them at the foot of the terrace, offered Linda his arm, with somewhat formal politeness, and escorted her to his sister in the drawing-room, not in the cosey, brown wainscoted one, but in a ceremonious chamber hung with Gobelins. The Countess rose at her entrance and took two steps to meet her, then introduced her to those present with her usual absent-mindedness, naturally to Rhoeden also, at which Linda began to laugh; but as no one joined in her merriment, her pretty, attractive face suited itself to the universal gravity.
Poor Linda, she so petted, so spoiled, to-day sees not a welcoming face, even among the men.
The Countess exchanges polite commonplaces with her, while she addresses remarks to Klette in between. The chair near the sofa on which Linda sits remains empty. Pistasch, whose humorous talents are to-day wholly imperceptible, presents the appearance of a distinguished statue, and exchanges a few words with Eugene, while Scirocco with unnatural liveliness has entered into a conversation with Felix.
At last the Garzins appear--every one thaws. The Countess does not walk, no, she runs to meet Elsa, kisses her on both cheeks, scolds Garzin for permitting his wife to look so pale, accidentally steps on Linda's train, turns round and says, "Ah, pardon me, Baroness!" a perfectly polite little phrase which makes Linda feel as if cold water had been thrown over her.
The dinner is announced. Scirocco takes Linda in with the same strange formality which she perceives in him to-day for the first time. At the table a charming surprise does indeed await her--a bouquet of stephanotis and gardenias.
"Oh, Scirocco!" cries she, perhaps a very little too loudly, "that is too lovely! It reminds me of Rome," she adds softly.
She is already so nervous that she would like to burst into tears at the pretty attention. Her eyes sparkle, and a fleeting blush crimsons her cheeks. Scirocco is sorry for her. "I am glad that you appreciate my good memory," says he, bending slightly towards her. Then he notices how suddenly no less than three pairs of eyes watch him closely, those of Klette, Pistasch, and Rhoeden; he feels that Linda's excited manner is most suited to strengthen this distrustful trio in their suspicion, and immediately turns to Elsa.
"I could not conjure up any white elder, unfortunately, Snowdrop," says he, shaking his handsome head vexedly.
"Even with the assistance of all the seasons, you could hardly have found anything more beautiful than these white roses," she replies.
She sits at Scirocco's left.
Linda cannot eat, and finds no opportunity to speak, and relate the gay little stories which are her specialty. Pistasch, who sits at her right, contents himself by from time to time dutifully making some remark to her concerning the weather, the country, and such perfectly neutral subjects, excluding all intimate conversation, and Scirocco, her old friend, on whose homage she had relied so surely, to-day has nothing but etiquette for her. She listens to his conversation with Elsa. Elsa and he were playmates together. She calls him by his given name, he calls her Snowdrop, which pretty nick-name he had discovered for her years before. Both laugh lightly over old reminiscences which they share, and ask each other about old, half-forgotten friends. Pleasant confidence on her part, smiling courtesy on his, marks their manner to each other.
Linda feels more and more depressed.
Felix, more gloomy and embarrassed than usual, scarcely raises his eyes from his plate. Except Scirocco, who absolutely cannot help her, nor dares, only one notices and pities her misery--Erwin.
"What has become of your wild gypsy, Snowdrop?" asks Scirocco, among other things.
"My wild gypsy has become a very tame gypsy, who lets my little daughter ride her very good-naturedly," replies Elsa.
"Ah, Litzi rides already; then I must accompany her some day soon," says Scirocco.
"Do not break her heart. She likes you better than any one else now," says Elsa.
"That is quite mutual," he assures her. "I hope you will bring Litzi up for me."
"Since we have been at Traunberg I have not yet been able to find a suitable saddle-horse." Linda turns to Scirocco.
"If you are not a grandfather before Litzi thinks of marriage," Elsa laughingly answers his last remark. "Do you know that you are beginning to grow gray?"
Whereupon be, turning to his right, says: "You will find the country very pleasant for riding, Baroness--many meadows," and to the left: "You always were accustomed to discover the mote in my eye, Snowdrop!"
"Why did you never mention your wish to me, Linda?" asks Erwin across the table. "I can place a horse at your disposal which might suit you."
"Riding is a very pleasant pastime--will be a great resource for you, Baroness," remarks Pistasch.
"Ah! Do you think that I will need many resources in Traunberg?" asks Linda, bitterly.
"Well, life in the country is always monotonous," he says politely but somewhat hesitatingly.
"Thesepâtisare excellent, Mika," now says the bass voice of Klette, at his right. She has known him all his life, has dandled him on her knees when he wore short dresses, still calls him by his Christian name, and is one of the few people who remember that he was really baptised Michael.
He gives a servant a sign. "Shall I help you?" he asks with droll gallantry.
"I have nothing against it--two, please," she replies.
"How is Marienbad looking? Any new beauties?" he asks.
"Don't be so lazy, and come over and see for yourself," says she with her mouth very full.
"I was there Saturday at the fair. Ruined myself buying cigar-cases. I place six at your disposal, Caroline. But on my word, it is astonishing what trash they had at the fair."
"You distinguished yourself," cries the hostess, laughingly.
"Yes, unfortunately I took a Ring Street beauty for the F---- from the Carl Theatre, and asked her how much a kiss cost. Her ladyship entered into the joke, and answered that she only sold cuffs, and as I persisted--pour la bonne cause, she replied in perfectly good French, 'La bonne cause s'en effaroucherait,' then I grew urgent. 'Count Kamenz!' cried a warning voice near me. I look up, and behold beside me, the picture of offended dignity, the husband."
"And how did you get out of the scrape? What did you say?" asks Klette.
"I?--What could I say?--'Ah, pardon'--and decamped!"
"Cool! Very!" remarks Rhoeden, who has been reconciled to Pistasch again, laughing.
"I only wondered that he knew my name so well," says Pistasch, meditatively, with feigned simplicity. "I do not know to this day what his name is. His wife was a magnificent creature, on my word--what a pity!"
"I think she was sadder at the interruption than you," says Rhoeden.
"Possibly," replies Pistasch, calmly.
The trivial little story has seemed diverting enough to all present except Linda. Is that the way in which young people of society speak of pretty women out of their sphere, to whom they pay attentions? she asks herself.
Now the dinner is over. They have left the drawing-room to wander through the park. There are thunder-clouds in the sky, the air is close and breathless, sultry, but at times a sharp gust of wind rises. The birds fly close to the ground, as if the black sky frightened them, and the flowers smell strangely sweet.
In vain has Linda sent inviting glances at Scirocco; he clings to Elsa as a sinner might cling to a saint through whose protection he hoped to gain admission to Paradise.
Rhoeden who, whether from policy or convenience, plays the rôle of an injured man and is very reserved, polite and attentive as he is, has undertaken to be the young Elli's partner at lawn-tennis, by which game he can meet her in the park.
Erwin has good-naturedly joined his pretty sister-in-law; chatting gayly, he tries to drive away her bitter mood. There is something in the shape of his eyes which makes them look sentimental, one might almost say loving. His temperament is such that he can be with no one, especially no woman, without trying to make her existence agreeable.
Elsa who, walking with Scirocco, meets her husband, Linda on his arm, remembers neither the one thing nor the other; the smile with which, with head slightly lowered, he listens to her chat, the glance which he rests on her, are in Elsa's eyes half crimes. After a few superficial words the two couples separate again. Erwin as he goes turns round and calls to Scirocco, "See that you do not take my wife into a draught, Sempaly. She is strangely imprudent."
"What admirable thoughtfulness," says Elsa, half aloud, and draws down the corners of her mouth so deeply that Scirocco, as an old friend, permits himself to remark laughingly, "I did not know that you could look so gloomy, Snowdrop!" whereupon Elsa blushes.
Linda and Erwin join the lawn-tennis players. Linda has studied this modern pastime thoroughly in England, and likes to play; besides that, she knows very well that nothing is more becoming to her slender yet voluptuous figure than the quick litheness required in lawn-tennis. Her voice reaches Elsa from a distance, gay, shrill, then the soft half-laughing voice of Erwin.
"You look so tired, Snowdrop," says Sempaly, sympathetically, "will you not rest a little?" With that he points to a bench in a niche of thick elder-bushes.
"Yes, I am tired," says Elsa, dully, and sits down.
"Tired after a two-hour drive and a little stroll through the park, Snowdrop," remarks Scirocco, anxiously. "I do not recognize you any more. You used to endure so much. Do you know that your health makes me anxious?"
"Nonsense! My health interests you about as much as that of the Emperor of Brazil. If you receive notice of my death some day you will shrug your shoulders and sigh sympathetically, 'Poor Garzin!'"
"You are intolerable, Snowdrop," says Scirocco, laughing. "Besides, the wind is rising and you are beginning to shiver. Let us go to the house."
"No, I like it here," she cries with a pretty childishness. "I should like to see the sun set from here, and am curious as to whether the Flora there"--pointing to a statue--"will become flushed pink. Prove your friendship and get me a wrap."
He goes away, but remains longer than the nearness of the castle seems to justify. Elsa does not notice his long absence. She prefers to be alone in this spot. The bench reminds her of old times, and is therefore dear to her. Whether the Flora becomes pink or not is perfectly indifferent to her--she does not look outward, she gazes inward. She thinks of the day when she sat there with Erwin, her betrothed. (Count Dey was still alive then.) She remembers--oh, something foolish--the little beetle which had fallen in her hair and which Erwin had brushed away with light hand; his caressing touch; how he looked lovingly at the beetle because it had touched his love's hair; how, instead of throwing the insect away, he had carried it with him when they left the bench, and had placed it carefully in the heart of the most beautiful rose which they passed.
How he loved her then! How passionately and at the same time how tenderly! "Ah! those were such lovely times," she sighs with the old song.
The voices of the lawn-tennis players are still heard. How can they play in such a gale? Suddenly she hears her name spoken near by.
"How this poor Mrs. Garzin has gone off!" cries the Klette's bass voice. "I scarcely recognized her."
"She looks badly," replies Count Pistasch's distinguished husky voice.
"She has grown old, fearfully old; she looks as if she were forty," asserts the Klette.
"Ah, bah! She looks rather like a consumptive pensioner," replies Pistasch. "What can be the matter with her? I hope no trouble is worrying her."
"Don't you think that this good Garzin is a little too fond of his pretty sister-in-law?"
"Nonsense, Caroline!" says Pistasch, reprovingly. "You are always imagining something. Recently you asked me whether poor Rudi----"
"Well, that is evidently over;" the Klette heaves a sigh of disappointment; "but she must coquet, poor Mrs. Lanzberg, to amuse herself, there is not much else for her to do; and say yourself--I do not assert that the good Garzin has already knelt to her, but would it not be natural? It would really serve this arrogant Elsa right. To force Garzin, a man of such a gay, sociable nature, to absolute solitude; to take away from him his career, his occupation, in short, everything."
Elsa springs up; she listens breathlessly. What does she care that it is ill-bred to listen? But the voices die away. Pistasch and the Klette turn into another path without noticing the white form in the dark elder niche.
Scirocco at length comes back.
"I could not find either your things or Mimi's maid all this time," he excuses himself for his long delay. "I hope this belongs to you," offering her a white crêpe shawl.
She takes it, but immediately starts back with a violent gesture. "That belongs to my sister-in-law," she cries; "my things are never so strongly perfumed. Only smell it, how strange!"
"Yes, truly," says he, holding the shawl to his face; "that is a harem perfume which some one brought her from Constantinople. But what is the matter, Snowdrop?"
"I feel the storm approach," she murmurs, tonelessly. "Let us go to the house."
They go. The swallows fly yet lower, the clouds hang heavier, almost touch the black tree-tops. There is a whistling and hissing in the leaves.
Elsa hears nothing. With dragging, and yet overhasty, steps she walks near Sempaly. "Who knows whether he would even say 'poor Garzin' if I should die?" she thinks to herself.
The lawn-tennis party, which Pistasch and the Klette have now also joined, growing more and more animated, has lasted until the first drops of rain have driven them away.
Somewhat dishevelled and heated, her morbid self-consciousness healed by the admiration which Pistasch, escaped from his cousin's control, had unreservedly displayed for her, Linda enters the drawing-room where the Countess, Felix, Elsa and Scirocco are assembled.
"How did your lawn-tennis come on?" asks Scirocco, as the Countess, vexed at Linda's triumphant look, does not condescend to address her.
"Oh, excellently," cries Linda. "Count Kamenz and my brother-in-law display the greatest talent for this noble occupation."
"To whom do you give the palm?" cries Kamenz.
"I cannot decide that to-day," says she with as much gravity as if she were deciding upon the fortiethfauteuilof the Paris Academy. "One judges talent not from what it first offers, but according to its subsequent development."
This pedantic phrase from her fresh lips is so irresistibly droll that Pistasch and Erwin laugh heartily, and even Scirocco cannot suppress a slight smile.
"We have come to the conclusion that the ground here is not favorable," continues Linda, turning to Scirocco, "and the gentlemen are coming over to Traunberg to-morrow to practise. Will you be one of the party, Count Sempaly?"
"If you will permit me, I will have the pleasure, Baroness," he replies with a bow.
"You are as full of phrases as an old copy-setter to-day," cries she, shrugs her shoulders, laughs lightly, and sinks into the arm-chair which Pistasch pushes forward for her.
Pistasch seats himself opposite her. His light laugh as he leans forward, her satisfied leaning back, the continuous conversation wholly incomprehensible to the others, indicated a dawning flirtation. What did it matter to Pistasch whether Linda's father's name was Harfink or Schmuckbuckling? A man never troubles himself about such a thing when he is paying court to a pretty woman.
Poor Mimi! for years she has treated Pistasch as her exclusive property, she grows nervous, glances discontentedly in the direction of the two.
"Rudi, will you order the carriage?" asks Felix, uneasily.
Scirocco stretches out his hand to the bell, but asks politely, "Will you not wait until the rain has ceased?"
"I have no desire to get wet in our open carriage," interposes Linda.
"I could place a close carriage at your disposal," remarks the nervous Countess, irritated even more by Pistasch's manner than by Linda's victorious expression, and adds constrainedly, "However, I really see no reason for haste."
Hardly can permission to remain be given in a colder tone. But Linda replies with astonishing aplomb, "Neither do I," and has a sweet, naïve smile for the Countess, and for Pistasch, on the contrary, a comical, expressive glance which delights him. He finds it quite in order that she should refresh herself with a little impertinence. "She is piquant as an actress," he thinks.
Then the door opens; unannounced, like very old friends, a lady and gentleman enter. She, small, fat, lively, cries out, hurrying up to the Countess, "We flee to thee, Mimi, the rain has surprised us. Ah, you have guests--how are you, Elsa? do I really see you at last?"
He, tall, thin, with a Velasquez nose, Don Quixote manner, and arrogant eyes, looking out through glasses, has meanwhile chivalrously kissed the hand of the Countess. Now he looks round, recognizes Erwin, greets him heartily, comes up to Felix, starts slightly, goes past him to Rhoeden, as if he had never seen Felix in his life before.
Felix stands motionless, ashy, rigid, with bluish lips and half-closed eyes. Scirocco has lived through many unpleasant moments, but never a more painful one. Still he rapidly collects himself, takes the new guest by both shoulders and turns him toward Felix.
"That is Lanzberg. Did you not recognize him, Max?" he cries.
After that nothing remains for Count L---- but to murmur in apology, so as not to insult the guests of the house in which he is, "I am so near-sighted," and to stretch out two arrogant fingers to Felix.
"Order the carriage, Rudi," begs Felix, very hoarsely.
Linda, who has not noticed the little scene, gives Pistasch a glance at the interruption of theirtête-à-tête, which flatters his vanity.