"You have slept badly, mouse; look at your poor eyes. You worry me, you pale person."
With these words Erwin greets his wife the next morning at breakfast, kisses her lightly on the forehead, then reads his letters, swallows a cup of coffee in great haste, greets Miss Sidney, who enters with her little pupil, absently though pleasantly, lets himself, still pleasantly but somewhat passively, be embraced by his little daughter, puts his letters in his pocket and hurries away, but turns at the door and cries: "Do not expect me to lunch, Elsa; I have a great deal to do in Radewitz."
Now he has gone, Elsa's eyes have grown sad. For a few minutes after Miss Sidney has led Litzi away Elsa remains at the deserted breakfast table and crumbling a roll, murmurs, "He has forgotten."
To-day is their wedding-day, a day which Erwin has always made much of, which has always been a day of sweetest recollections. She had remained in her room this morning longer than usual, because she had hoped that he would seek her. In vain! Then she, poor Elsa, had expected a little surprise at the breakfast table--in vain!
So now she sits there and hopes that perhaps he will return.
Yes, he returns--his steps rapidly approach, her heart beats fast, the door opens, Erwin bursts in with hat on his head, and cries: "Elsa, don't forget to send the White Duchess to Traunberg. I have not time to give the order," and disappears.
"He has forgotten--decidedly forgotten!" cries Elsa, "for the first time!" Then she leaves the breakfast room.
Time passes slowly and sadly for her. "It is a trifle not worth speaking about," she tells herself again and again. "I should have reminded him," but then she feels herself grow hot.
"He did not forget Linda's horse," she murmurs bitterly, and adds still more bitterly: "He is bored. Every diversion is welcome to him. Poor Erwin!"
The day passes--the dinner hour draws near, several minutes before five Erwin at length returns. Heated and irritable he seeks her in her room. "How vexed I have been!" he cries as he enters.
She smiles, a little excitement overcomes her. But soon it turns out that he has not been vexed at his forgetfulness--oh, no!--only at the cheating and roguery of his sugar factory director.
"It serves you right," remarks Elsa, coldly. She cannot deny herself the satisfaction of making some sharp remark to him. "When he introduced himself to you, you told me 'the man is repulsive to me!' and when he came back again you engaged him. You always do so. At the first glance you judge men according to your instincts, and very justly; at the second glance you judge them by the universal statutes of lofty philanthropy, and always falsely. I know no one for whom it is more unpleasant to believe ill of his neighbor than you."
"God be praised and thanked that the counterbalance of a desperately distrustful wife is given me, then," cried Erwin, somewhat irritably. Then a pair of large eyes meet his gloomily. "My distrust is a disease, and you know the cause," says she, earnestly.
The shrill dinner-bell at this point interrupts the conversation.
After dinner--Miss Sidney has gone into the garden with Litzi to play grace hoops--the husband and wife sit vexedly silent in the drawing-room, when a servant presents a letter to Erwin from Traunberg. Elsa has at once perceived that it is in Linda's, not in Felix's handwriting. Erwin has opened it, apparently indifferently, then suddenly the blood rushes to his cheeks, almost violently he throws the letter away, kneels before Elsa and takes both her hands in his. "How could I forget the 27th? Elsa, are you very angry with me?" he cries.
It would be hard to remain angry with him, if he had not been reminded of his duty by just Linda. But this vexes Elsa so much that she answers his warm glance and pleasant smile only with a cool "Why should I be angry?" as indifferently and calmly as if the 27th no more concerned her than the date of the battle of Leipzig.
"Had you forgotten, also?" he asks, wounded.
"Forgotten?--what?" asks she, dully.
"That to-day is my lucky day--the loveliest day of all the year for me? Oh, Elsa! Has it become indifferent to you?"
His voice goes deep to her heart, but she is ashamed to be so moved by his first warm words--is ashamed to show him how his forgetfulness has pained her. In proud fear of having shown too much feeling, she hardens her heart, and with the peculiar histrionic talent which is at the disposal of most women in critical moments, and which they love to display, so as to thereby ruin the happiness of their life, she says calmly, pleasantly, half laughingly: "Ah, indeed!--I should tease you for your lack of memory!"
"Elsa!" confused and surprised he looks in her eyes. "Do you not remember how we have always valued the day; do you not remember the first year? You had forgotten it, then?--and when I put the ring on your finger--perhaps you do not wear it any longer?"
"Oh, yes;" and Elsa looks down at the large diamond which sparkles like a dewdrop or a tear near her wedding-ring.
"Well, you were ashamed, then, not to have thought of me," he continued, "and then--then you repeated to me, half crying, half laughing, very tenderly a little childish wish: 'Had I an empire I would lay it at thy feet, alas, I can offer you nothing but a kiss,' do you not remember, Elsa?"
But Elsa only replies coldly, almost mockingly: "It is very long ago--hm! What does Linda write to you besides that to-day is the 27th?"
"I have not read all of her letter, read it yourself if you wish," and with that he hands his wife the letter.
Elsa at first struggles with herself, but then she reads it, and half aloud:
Dear Erwin:--It is really too charming in you to so kindly gratify my thoughtless wish. Many, many thanks for the beautiful White Duchess.Felix just tells me that to-day is the 27th, a day on which you will have no pleasure in playing lawn-tennis with me. You might perhaps force yourself to come so as not to vex me, solitary as I am now. Therefore I release you from your promise. Kiss Elsa for me, and, with most cordial greetings,Sincerely yours,Linda Lanzberg.
Dear Erwin:--It is really too charming in you to so kindly gratify my thoughtless wish. Many, many thanks for the beautiful White Duchess.
Felix just tells me that to-day is the 27th, a day on which you will have no pleasure in playing lawn-tennis with me. You might perhaps force yourself to come so as not to vex me, solitary as I am now. Therefore I release you from your promise. Kiss Elsa for me, and, with most cordial greetings,Sincerely yours,Linda Lanzberg.
"How well she writes," says Elsa, who is sorry that she can find nothing to complain of in the letter, and with the firm resolve not to let her jealousy be perceived in the slightest, she continues: "I should be sorry if our foolish lovers' traditions should prevent you from amusing yourself a little, my poor Erwin." She had taken up some fancy work and seemed to ponder over a difficulty in it. "Pray go over to Traunberg and invite Linda to dinner Sunday."
Erwin gazes angrily before him. "You send me away, Elsa--you--to-day--on our wedding-day?" says he then, slowly.
She laughs lightly and threads a fresh needle. "Ah! do not be childish, Erwin," cries she. "It is not suited to our age now."
He pulls the bell rope violently. "Elsa," he whispers once more before the servant enters, but with such intolerable cordiality she says, "Well, Erwin?" that he turns away his head and calls to the servant, who just then appears, "Tell Franz to saddle my horse."
A small room with large windows opening on the park, innumerable flowers in vases of different forms standing about the room, a perfume as intoxicating and painfully sweet as poison which gives one death in a last rapture; on the walls, hung with silver-worked rococo damask, a few rare pictures, only five or six; two Greuze heads with red-kissed lips and tear-reddened eyes, eyes which look up to heaven because earth has deceived them; then a Corot, a spring landscape, where dishevelled nymphs dance a wild round with dry leaves which winter has left; a Watteau, in which women, in the bouffant paniers of the time of the regents, with bared bosoms and hair drawn high up on their heads, touch glasses of champagne with gallant cavaliers, a picture in which everything smiles, and which yet makes one deeply mournful; a picture in which men and women, especially women, seem to have no heart, no soul, no enjoyment on earth, no belief in heaven; but in deepestennuifloat about like butterflies, tormented by the curse of the consciousness that their life lasts only from sunrise to sunset; a Rembrandt, a negress, brutally healthy, bestially stupid, with dull glance, broad, hungry lips, huge, homely, and wholly satisfied with herself and creation; about the room soft, inviting furniture; no dazzling light, pale reddish reflections; draperies in Roman style, artistic knick-knacks and soft rugs--this is what Erwin finds as, pushing aside the drawn portières, he enters Linda's boudoir without announcement.
Amid these surroundings she sits at an upright piano, and softly and dreamily sings an Italian love-song.
Erwin comes close up to the piano. "Ah!" cries she, springing up. It would be impossible not to see what unusual pleasure his visit gives her. Her eyes shine, and a faint blush passes over her cheeks. "Erwin, did you not receive my letter?" she cries almost shyly, and gives him a soft hand which trembles and grows warm in his.
"Certainly," he replies. "It was very nice in you to consider our foo----" in spite of all the bitterness which for the moment he feels toward Elsa, he cannot use the byword foolish, and rather says--"little traditions. I only came for a moment, I----" he hesitates. "Elsa hopes that you will do us the pleasure of dining with us Sunday."
"Sunday?" repeats Linda, letting her fingers wander absently in dreamy preluding over the keys.
"Have you planned anything else?" asked Erwin, who had meanwhile taken a very comfortable chair.
"What should I have planned?" asked she, shrugging her pretty shoulders. "No, no, I will come gladly. You are very good to me, Erwin, and I am inexpressibly thankful to you."
A strangely exaggerated feeling was in her accent, in her moist glance, and the quick gesture with which she stretched out both hands to him.
"Where is Felix?" he asked, turning the conversation.
"Felix is, I believe, over in Lanzberg," she answered. "He has 'something to attend to.' He always has 'something to attend to' when I expect people," she added, bitterly. "It makes my position so uncommonly easy, Erwin! Can you account for his behavior? Would you, if you had once resolved to choose a wife of unequal birth, afterward be so passionately ashamed of her as Felix is?"
"How can you talk so foolishly, Linda?" Erwin interrupted the young wife, uneasily.
"Foolishly!" Linda shook her head with discouragement. "If you only saw him! Lately he made a scene before I could be permitted to accept the Deys' invitation; then, at the last moment, he had a headache, and expressed the wish that I should join Elsa and go without him."
"Strange idea to hang this monster in your pretty rococo nest!" cried Erwin, growing more and more embarrassed, and abruptly changing the conversation from Felix to the Rembrandt negress.
"The monster pleases me, I like contrasts--but to return to Felix----"
"You expect Pistasch and Sempaly, do you not?"
"They wished to come this evening--alas--I could renounce their society; to-day I should like greatly to confide in you, Erwin. You are the only person who is sorry for me."
There was a pause in the conversation of the two. Without, a murmur like a sigh of love sounds through the trees, and a few withered rose-leaves are blown into the room. Erwin's glance rests dreamily upon the young woman. She pleases him in somewhat the same manner as the Greuze head on the wall; no, differently--there is always something dead about a picture. A picture is either a recollection preserved in colors or a dream, and has the charm of a recollection, of a dream; while Linda has the charm of a foreboding, of a riddle, and above all things, the charm of life, of full young life.
Then a carriage approaches. "Pistasch and Sempaly," cries Erwin, looking out of the window and seizing his hat. "On Sunday, eh, Linda?" says he in a tone of farewell.
"Now you run away from me just like Felix," cries she, pouting. "Please stay; it is so unpleasant for me to receive young people without a protector."
And he stays.
"You have come late; we have scarcely three-quarters of an hour of daylight left."
With these words, spoken in a very indifferent tone, Linda receives the young men. "Shall we set about it at once?" she continues.
The lawn-tennis court is in a broad flat meadow in the park. The ground is not yet dry from yesterday's rain, still the players are unwearied, Erwin, after a short time, as animated as the others. He competes vigorously with Pistasch, whose skill he soon surpasses, and enjoys the society of the two agreeable and to-day good-tempered young men, who are both old acquaintances of his.
Pistasch in old times he has pulled by the ear, paid his youthful debts, and on holidays taken him away from the Theresanium; with Scirocco, who is but little younger than Erwin himself, he has taken an Oriental trip, they were both overturned in the same drag, both raved over the same dancer, etc.
Merry reminiscences pass between the players almost as quickly as the tennis balls, and Linda encourages all these reminiscences most charmingly; her smile lends a new spice to the play and the conversation.
Erwin is of a much too lovable nature, is far too much occupied with the happiness of others and too little with his own, to think of what might have been if he had not, for love of Elsa, renounced the world.
He possesses a decided disinclination for the "if," always looks straight before him, never behind him. It does not even occur to him to-day, when he is vexed with Elsa, to complain of the serious monotony of his life, to philosophize, but he feels well, likes to amuse himself again, laughs frequently, and is not unsusceptible to the evident wish to please him which Linda shows. No objection can be found to her behavior to-day--it is animated without being loud, cordial without being coquettish.
The three-quarters of an hour are over, the daylight has become first pale, then gray, the balls have flown aimlessly, like plump night birds through the air; they have laughed, ridiculed the opposite side for their faults, finally lost several balls, and come to the conclusion that for the present nothing more can be done.
The players have now assembled for a light supper in the somewhat gloomy dining-room, from whose walls a few old portraits, gentlemen with huge wigs and large flowered brocade vests, ladies with wasp waists and immoderately high powdered coiffures, look down upon them. The light of the lamps is reflected in the crystal decanters, in which red and white wine sparkles; the flowers, a mixture of transparent ribbon-grass and wild roses, move softly in their vases in the middle of the table, trembling in the night air which streams in through the open windows. Beautiful fruit shines fresh and inviting, in silver dishes, and Linda presides, somewhat flushed, cordial and wonderfully pretty. No annoying servants disturb the pleasant little repast.
Pistasch behaves like the perfect gentleman which he is when he does not consider it his duty to be a perfect boor, or does not take pleasure in representing a perfect street Arab. He entertains the little circle by gay anecdotes, is attentive without impertinence to the hostess.
Scirocco, more serious in manner, nevertheless laughs at his cousin's jokes, and often interposes a witty little remark.
Erwin is as gay as the two others, but from time to time, however, his conscience reminds him that this is not the place for him, and that it is time for him to return home. "But can I leave my young sister-in-law alone with the two men?" he calms his inconvenient conscience. "Impossible!" He must wait for Felix to return.
That Kamenz and Sempaly, well-bred as both are, and with no cause for importunity, would both leave as soon as he should start, he does not tell himself.
Then a carriage rolls up to the castle. Linda rises to go to the window. "Felix!" she cries in her clear, childish voice. No answer follows. Her eyes become gloomy, she listens, evidently listens to see whether he will go to his room without appearing to his guests. Then a dragging, stumbling step is heard in the corridor. "Felix!" cries Linda, excitedly and imperiously.
The door opens, Felix enters, he stumbles into the dining-room, his face is red and swollen, his eyes have a watery look, his knees bend at every step, and a repulsive flabbiness is betrayed in his whole form.
"You have guests?" he says, thickly.
"Sit down, you are not well," cries Erwin, seizing the staggering man by the arm, and forcing him into a chair.
"No--but--the----" begins Felix, and breaks off, not able to finish the sentence.
A pause ensues. The little company seem paralyzed with alarm and disgust. Then Sempaly rises. "We thank you for a very pleasant evening, Baroness," he turns politely to Linda, and he and his cousin withdraw.
Linda is as white as the table-cloth. "Come, Felix, lie down," says Erwin to his brother-in-law, whose condition he does not wish to expose to the impertinent curiosity of servile lackeys.
"A cigar," murmurs Felix, excusing himself like all drunkards.
"Come;" Erwin urges him more sharply. Felix is about to make some reply, when he discovers his wife, turns his head away, and trembling throughout his entire frame, lets himself be taken to his room without resistance.
When Erwin returns to the dining-room to bid farewell to Linda, he finds her still deathly pale, with gloomy eyes, sitting in the same place.
"Linda, you are wrong to take this so seriously," says he, softly and consolingly; "it is really often an accident, a glass of poor wine----"
At his first kind word she has burst into tears. "It is not the first time," she replies, with difficulty restraining her tears. "Ah! if it--if it was only because the wine went to his head or--but no--a year ago he was the most temperate man in the world--it began in London. It cannot all be my fault. What is the matter with him? My God! What is concealed from me?"
A new light dawns upon Erwin's mind; Linda's lack of tact is excused; a boundless pity overcomes him.
At a violent motion of her pretty head her hair has become loosened and now hangs in silken splendor over her shoulders.
"Calm yourself, fasten up your hair, be prudent, my poor little sister-in-law!" says Erwin. Softly and involuntarily, as one would do to a child, he strokes the hair back from her temples.
She tries to fasten it up, but suddenly she lets her arms sink, and looking directly at Erwin out of moist but not disfigured eyes, she whispers, "I cannot reach so high, and do not wish to be seen thus by my maid--it would be strange."
"Can I help you?"
She nods. Simply, but without undue haste or uneasiness, he twists the beautiful hair, fastens it firmly as one who is accustomed to perform such services. She keeps her head covered, breathes regularly, deeply, audibly--accidentally he touches her little glowing ear, then she starts. A clock strikes. "Half past ten!" cries Erwin, startled. "Good night, Baroness; poor Elsa will not know how to explain my absence," and he rushes out.
"Your horse must be saddled," says Linda, but he does not return--a few minutes later she hears him galloping rapidly away. "When he thinks of his wife he always calls me Baroness," she murmurs to herself with a peculiar smile.
An hour later Erwin knocks at his wife's door. "Who is it?" an indifferent, sleepy voice asks from within.
"I."
"Ah, you, Erwin!" Elsa unlocks the door, and comes out in the corridor, where only a single lamp breaks the darkness.
"Have you anything particular to ask me?" says she, and her feverish sparkling eyes contradict the indifferent voice.
"Nothing," he whispers, softly. "I merely could not resolve to retire without having bid you good night; I felt that you must be still awake. Do you insist upon receiving me in the corridor?" he asks, smilingly, as she has closed the door behind her.
"The baby is asleep," replies Elsa, coldly, rubbing her eyes with ostentation.
"My voice will not wake her," he says, softly, taking Elsa's hand. "Elsa, my dear pouting Elsa, forgive me," he whispers. "I had no right to be angry and run away, merely because you were intolerable. It has been a horrid day, let it at least have a good ending!"
He sees how she trembles, how she blushes, and tenderly he takes her thin little face between both hands. Then, then she changes color, her eyes open in wild horror, and she starts back from him with a gesture of decided aversion, but quickly collecting herself, and forcing herself to smile, she gives him her hand and says, "Good night!"
How she has pained him! Is her love dead? He cannot understand her manner. How could he? He does not notice that on his hands, in his clothes has remained the peculiar perfume which a gallant diplomat had brought Linda from Constantinople.
"One cannot please people," sighs Pistasch, several days after the lawn-tennis party, while, cigar between his teeth, a hat adorned with a cock's plume on the back of his head, his smoking jacket open over his broad chest, he tries to solve a difficult problem in billiards. "One cannot please people."
"Hm! I think this sentence belonged to Solomon'srépertoireof phrases," grumbles Sempaly, who, stretched out in a deep arm-chair, is looking over an oldRevue des Deux Mondes.
"Solomon! Solomon!" says Pistasch, clutching his soft golden hair. "Was not that the Jew in the Leopoldstadt, whose money rate was so cheap, only three per cent,per mese?"
Count Kamenz considers it "chic" to have forgotten his Bible history.
"Do not make yourself out stupider than you are," Scirocco admonishes him. "We can be quite satisfied without that."
"Thanks, you see one can never please people," repeats Pistasch, shrugging his shoulders in droll despair. "After the sacrificial meal, Mimi rejoices me with a remark upon my stiffness to the Lanzberg. I show the latter much-calumniated beauty some slight attention and accept an invitation to lawn-tennis at her house. Mimi reproaches me concerning my morals. In order to satisfy her demands I yesterday paid court to a sixteen-year-old dove; she reproaches me for my inconsequence, says with feeling, 'One does not trifle with love!'--there, it sounds as if it were a bit from a play." Pistasch turns to Sempaly.
"Yes, it is the title of a play in which at the end some one is stabbed," says Scirocco, looking up from his reading.
"Thank you, Rudi; one can always learn from you," assures Pistasch.
"You are the first who has discovered that--I pity you," replies Sempaly, sarcastically.
"Surely not because I am weak in history and literature," says Pistasch, phlegmatically. "Bah! if one of us only knows who he is, he knows what he needs."
"Yes, everything else would only confuse him," says Scirocco, seriously.
"Precisely," answers Pistasch, coolly. He now sits on the corner of the billiard table, both hands in his pockets, in the large room with its faded leather furniture. "But confess that your sister maltreats me, after I have tried so hard to please her."
"Too hard, perhaps," says Scirocco, and looks gloomily at his cousin. Is the latter the only one who does not perceive that the Countess would prefer to preserve him in a cage, secure from the attacks of audacious women and mothers? "'Ce sont toujour les concessions qui ont perdu les grands hommes,' Philippe Egalité remarked on his way to execution," he continues, and takes his cousin's ostentatiousnaïvetéfor what it is really worth.
"That might be called forcing history," cries Rhoeden, entering at this moment, and hearing the last phrase.
"Who was Philippe Egalité?" asks Pistasch, with unembarrassed--yes, boasted ignorance.
"A man who, in order to make himself loved by the masses, voted for the death of his cousin, the king, made himself riding trousers of theancien régime, and was beheaded by the masses by way of thanks."
"Ah! my historical knowledge is extensively widened--but if I only knew to whom to make love!"
"Il y avait une fois un séducteur qui cherchait de l'ouvrage," remarks Eugene.
"Je crois Men qu'il cherchait!" yawns Pistasch. "Really, it is not only on Mimi's and morality's account that I do not dare try it with the Lanzberg--but she is so magnificently prudish! Now I do not object to a little prudishness, that is piquant, but quite so much! Recently she, for really nothing at all----"
"Ah, really, for nothing at all?" repeats Scirocco, looking sharply at his cousin.
"Well, not exactly for nothing at all," the latter admits, grumblingly, "but on my word, for a very slight cause, she gave me a dissertation upon her dignity, and that she felt bound to keep the honorable name which she bears spotless."
"She is quite right," declares Sempaly, sharply.
Pistasch laughs rudely. "Well, Rudi, between ourselves, it is nevertheless a little droll to think so much of this name, to boast of its spotlessness--hm!"
Rhoeden displays the indifference of a man who knows that the conversation is upon delicate subjects, and retires to a window recess, where he unfolds a letter. A servant enters and reports that "The Countess begs the Baron to come to the music-room," whereupon Rhoeden vanishes.
Scarcely has the door closed behind him when Scirocco bursts out violently: "You are a muttonhead, Pistasch; the little banker is a hundred times cleverer than you."
"He needs it," says Pistasch, coolly.
"Can you not be silent before him?" Scirocco attacks him.
"No," replies Pistasch, lazily; "I have never accustomed myself to keeping secrets; respectable people have no secrets. Besides, Lanzberg begins to be fairly unbearable, his manner has become so unsteady, so nervous; he no longer finishes a single sentence correctly, has not an opinion of his own, and crouches like a whipped dog. He makes me nervous."
"Are you of stone, have you no heart?" cries Scirocco.
"I am under no obligations to Lanzberg," grumbles Pistasch, very defiantly. "I----"
"Yes, you would be ashamed to protect him a little," says Scirocco, cuttingly. "Recently when L---- remarked to you that you seemed to associate with Lanzberg a great deal, you replied, 'Yes, he has a pretty wife!' Really, Pistasch, at that moment, in my eyes, you stood morally lower than poor Felix."
"Really," Pistasch imitates his cousin's tragic tone, "I think I have blundered into an educational institution! Lectures and nothing but lectures! First you, then Mimi. How you can permit yourself to compare me with a man like a 'certain Lanzberg.'"
"Do not talk yourself into useless heat, my dear fellow," says Scirocco, laying his hand on his shoulder. "At present I feel just as inclined to fight a duel with you as I should to cut my own brother's throat. Consider a little and you will come to the conclusion that you are in the wrong."
Scirocco leaves the billiard-room. For a while Pistasch pushes the ivory balls over the green table with furious zeal, then he throws himself irritably into an arm-chair.
Yes, he feels plainly that he is in the wrong, but he cannot resolve to change his behavior to Felix. He might at least avoid him, but just now, because and in defiance of Linda's prudishness, he does not wish to. His prejudice against Linda was nothing but arrogant affectation, but his antipathy to Felix is sincere; it almost resembles that aversion which many egoistic men feel for one mortally ill.
Rhoeden spends an hour in teaching the Countess--a totally unmusical woman who does not know a note, has no feeling for rhythm, but possesses a good voice and a great desire to shine in that direction--twelve bars of a new Italian romance of Tosti.
He goes his little way, pursues his little aim, and will attain it. Only two years ago young aristocrats invited him exclusively to stag parties, hunts, etc.; then Count F---- wrote a little operetta for a society tenor. The tenor, a young diplomat, after the first rehearsal of the operetta was transferred to Constantinople--universal consternation. They had about resolved to surrender the operetta, which was to be performed for a charitable object, to a professional when Pistasch proposed his old Theresanium comrade, Eugene. Eugene, with his unusually beautiful voice, sang the little rôle charmingly; all were delighted with his singing, his graceful acting. At one stroke he became the fashion.
His passion for Linda, Eugene had long buried under his worldly egoism; he was glad that he had been prevented from the foolishness of a marriage with her. He planned quite a different match, made use of his opportunities, and meanwhile was in no hurry. He knew very well on what footing he stood with society, knew that they wished to fasten upon him Countess Fifi R----, who was red-haired and somewhat hump-backed, or even Countess Clarisse, who was scrofulous and had been much gossiped about, knew it and laughed at it. He was still young and could wait.
Social vanity was his religion, the world his god, to whom, however, he did not pay such passionate, credulous homage as Linda, for example, but always with an ironical smile on his lips.
After he had gone through the romance with the Countess for perhaps a hundred times, had finally taught her text, melody, and even a sentimental mordent, and is now dismissed from duty, Eugene looks into the billiard-room again before he goes to his own room, and finds Pistasch, between thick clouds of smoke, occupied with a tschibouk.
"Do I disturb you?" he asks, gayly.
"Oh, heavens, no! I have long been weary of my own society," sighs Pistasch with feeling.
"I have an amusing bit of news for you, Pistasch," continues Rhoeden, approaching him. "My uncle Harfink"--Eugene always speaks of his relations in a mocking tone, somewhat as one kind of cripples speak of their humps--"my uncle Harfink--you remember his first wife, whom you knew, is dead--well, he has married again!"
"Wish him much happiness," replies Pistasch, who does not see why that should interest him particularly.
"He has married, and none other than the famous Juanita," says Rhoeden, with the calmness of a virtuoso who is sure of his effect.
Pistasch drops his pipe, springs up from his armchair. "Harfink--married--Juanita, the----" he interrupts himself.
"Yes," says Rhoeden, calmly, "the same Juanita who in her day ruined poor Lanzberg."
"Hm! So you know the story?" asks Pistasch, breathing freely in the consciousness that now all discretion is unnecessary.
"It will go no further through me," Rhoeden assures him solemnly. "But is not that delightful? My uncle writes me that he has married the aforesaid celebrity, and as his digestion is still not as good as it might be, they have gone to Marienbad for their wedding trip. He begs me to reconcile his daughter to his step, and to find out what kind of a reception his wife may expect in Traunberg. Piquant, eh? Very piquant!"
A shrill bell announces lunch.
"Rudi! Mimi!" cries Pistasch, rushing into the dining-room, where both these, together with Elli and Mademoiselle, are assembled, "old Harfink has married the Juanita, and has gone to Marienbad for his wedding trip. Is not that magnificent, is not that famous?"
"A Modern Donna Elvira!" This sarcastic nickname originated at the time when the charming Privy Councellor Dey, whose wife we are acquainted with, was still alive. Count Dey was a red-haired gnome, who was continually mistaken for his own tutor which, as the facetious Pistasch maintained with conviction to this day, was very annoying to the tutor. Besides, Count Dey was eighteen years older than his wife, who, if not beautiful, was still uncommonly attractive, and still the poor woman embittered her young life with the most painful jealousy, followed her husband about distrustfully, accompanied him on the briefest visits of inspection to his estates, shivering and heroic, shared with him the cold inconveniences of his grouse hunt in the Tyrol. The world maliciously delighted in the industry with which she defended her rights, and also in the fact that, in spite of her astonishing and extensive precautions, she was continually deceived by her red-haired spouse.
Mimi Dey now served as a warning example for Elsa. She, Elsa, had not the slightest wish to undertake the rôle of the "modern Donna Elvira," and expose herself to universal mockery. Therefore she concealed her jealousy from Erwin with Spartan self-control, and smiled with the most charming loftiness, while the poisonous mistrust tore her bosom as pitilessly as the young fox tore the brave little Lacedæmonian.
When, the day after the lawn-tennis party, Erwin remorsefully sought the cause of her changed manner in his own behavior, and after he had tried to drive away her displeasure by a thousand loving attentions, put his arm around her and whispered to her softly: "Elsa, confess why you were so angry with me yesterday--only because I stayed away so long?" Frightened that he had so nearly touched upon her secret, she displayed the most arrogant indifference.
"You surely do not think that I am vexed if you amuse yourself with Linda a little?" she replied, with an irritating smile. "I am glad that you have found a little amusement, my poor Erwin," she continued.
He looked at her in some surprise. "Yes, but then I do not understand----" he murmured. "What is the real matter with you?--does anything worry you?---tell me--two can bear it more easily."
"No, no, I have nothing to tell," she replied, hastily. "Nothing at all--I am tired, not very well."
"Yes, that you decidedly are not," he admitted, and anxiously scrutinized her thin cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes. "We must consult a physician."
"We consulted him four weeks ago," she answered, "and he advised me to drink Louisen-Quelle, and I drink Louisen-Quelle." She folded her hands resignedly over her breast, with an expression as if to say how little faith she had in Louisen-Quelle, and how indifferent her health was to her.
"Perhaps a trip to the sea-shore would do you good," proposed Erwin.
"Could you go away now?" she asked, apparently calmly, but with her heart full of distrust.
"Now? Hardly! But you could take Miss Sidney and Litzi with you, or, as far as I am concerned, both children."
"With the necessary servants that would cost a good deal," replies Elsa, discouragingly.
"Well, we are not quite such beggars that we need think of that when it is a question of your health," he cries, almost angry. "We have saved long enough and can now spend something. Decide upon Cowes; perhaps I can join you there later."
For a while she gazes silently and gloomily before her, then a slight shudder runs over her.
"Elsa! You seriously alarm me!" cries Erwin: "something must be done!"
"Yes, certainly; I will go to Cowes," she decides, as if it was a decision to let herself be bound upon the wheel, then she turns her head to look at an approaching carriage. "Oh, Linda," she cries, and her voice betrays absolutely nothing, not even antipathy to her sister-in-law, and Erwin begs, "Be a little good to her--for Felix's sake. She needs women friends and has none but you."
These naïve words may give the impression that Erwin is very obtuse. But he certainly was not, only his knowledge of human nature was always bounded by a great good-will, his keen sight blinded by good-nature. He possessed a true passion for making every one who came near him happy, and also the impractical habit of never thinking evil of his fellow-men, except when he absolutely could not otherwise.
Therefore he saw to-day in Linda's visit nothing but a praiseworthy wish of coming nearer to Elsa.
Linda wore a very simple gown, which was very becoming to her; she had brought a work-basket, and sewed almost the whole time of her visit upon a little collar for Gery which had a very exemplary appearance. She made the most modest and tender attempts to be friends with Elsa, and without the slightest touch of familiarity, took a tone of comradeship towards Erwin which pleased him greatly--perhaps so much the more as a charming, childlike smile accompanied this tone, and the merriest little stories.
When evening had already become night, and Felix had still not appeared, as Linda seemed to have expected, to fetch her, and she confessed that she was afraid to return alone with her groom only, in the low pony carriage, Erwin good-naturedly escorted her on horseback to Traunberg.
This was really unwelcome to him, but Elsa suspected the contrary, and as he had not the common habit of afterwards complaining of his obligingness, she remained of the same opinion. She herself had behaved perfectly charmingly to Linda. No one could have suspected that jealousy could smile so! No one--but Linda.
And how she triumphed! how flattered vanity quivered in her every fibre, and how the drive home with Erwin amused her!
She drove herself, and really she did not overdrive the ponies.
Around them was the sultry, gloomy charm of the summer night. Long-drawn sighs and sweetly monotonous murmurs passed through the trees, the short grass trembled as if caressed by invisible hands. From time to time a glow-worm shot through the gray air like a falling star.
"How beautiful!" said Linda to herself.
"Yes, charming!" Erwin admitted, and secretly looked at his watch.
In spite of the fact that he galloped home at a very sharp pace, it was midnight before he arrived there, which confirmed Elsa's strange idea.
Almost every evening after tea Erwin was accustomed to read aloud to his wife, and this had originated in their honeymoon, when Erwin, very young, very much in love, still shyly coquetted with his little talents.
He read well, and liked to read, and Elsa had until now always looked forward to the confidential chat, the happy fact of being alone together, which was a part of the reading hour, and both did not know which they really preferred: the wild, stormy winter evenings, in which Elsa sat as near the fireplace as possible, and contrary to his sensible prohibition, held one foot at a time over the glowing coals, until he stopped reading, and crouching on a stool, took the little feet from their light house slippers, and rubbed them warm between his hands; or the mild, fragrant summer evenings, when Elsa, gazing through the window at the sky, often interrupted the bitter earnestness of St. Simon, or the graceful bitterness of Voltaire, and with childish joy signalled a shooting star, and as Erwin laughingly asked her whether she had availed herself of the opportunity to wish something very beautiful, softly, with lips close to his ear, whispered, "Oh, yes, that it may always be so."
Usually he read serious books aloud, but sometimes he brought the old Musset which had accompanied him on his wedding journey, and then they vied with each other in gay recollections of their honeymoon, and laughed when they came to verses the meaning of which had been dark to her, and had made her ask the most remarkable questions. They contradicted each other animatedly as to who had the most faithful memory for every foolish, tender jest, and Elsa, whose remembrance exceeded his, faintly whispered softly, "Do you see I have not let a single joy be lost out of my life. I have laid-them all away for my old days."
The day after Linda's visit, Elsa made no move to leave the drawing-room when Erwin asked her softly, "How about our Mahon?" (they were just then reading this knightly pedant's English history), but replied discouragingly, "I am going to retire early this evening," and engaged Miss Sidney in a conversation upon English philanthropy.
Erwin smoked a cigarette, glanced over a paper, finally, looking out of the window, remarked that it was a beautiful moonlight night and he was going shooting, kissed Elsa's forehead, bowed to Miss Sidney, and was about to leave the room when from Elsa's lips came anxiously:
"But----!"
"Do you want anything?"
"Are you going to take any one with you?"
"Why?" asked he, and raised his eyebrows; then suddenly laughing aloud he added, "Would you perhaps like to accompany me, mouse? The night is mild, I will find you an easy path; we need not go far."
She hesitated, only for a moment she hesitated. She had formerly often gone with him; he had bought her a small rifle, and with anxious carefulness taught her to shoot, and as long as her health was good enough they had often hunted gayly together like good comrades. Why must just now Mimi Dey and the grouse hunt in the Tyrol come to her mind?
"Thank you, I dare not venture out in the dew;" thus politely, but without a trace of warmth she refused his good-natured offer, and he shrugged his shoulders slightly and vanished.
English philanthropy suddenly lost all interest for Elsa. She took leave of Miss Sidney quite absently, and went to her room which, since baby's existence, she had shared with the delicate little creature. She passed two tormenting hours; she was tortured by the most nonsensical fancies; she thought only of poachers and assassins; she did not close her eyes until she heard Erwin's step creep thoughtfully, softly past her door, but at least she had not been like Mimi Dey.
Sempaly and Pistasch had accepted the invitation to dine in Steinbach on the Sunday for which Linda was invited. Elsa had been able to secure no ladies. Never had Linda been more beautiful than on this Sunday. She wore a dazzling toilet; "from Worth," she replied, in explanation to some polite remark which Elsa had made upon her dress. "From Worth, but I had to change it entirely. I cannot bear Worth any longer; he is too American. And how do you like my gown, Erwin?" she turned to him.
"Linda, you surely are not trying to make me think that you care anything about the taste of such a rusty hayseed as I am!" cried he, laughingly.
"Ah, you know very well that you are the only one, yes, the only one on God's earth from whom I will accept fault-finding," answered Linda, and putting her arm around Elsa's neck, she whispered in the latter's ear, "Your husband has bewitched me, Elsa. If I did not wish you the best of everything, I really could envy you him."
Oh, the serpent! She feels very well that Elsa shivers in her arms, and she is happy.
During the dinner Elsa suffered fearful torments. Monosyllabic she sat between Scirocco, who, more quiet and melancholy than usual, did not help her to talk, and Pistasch who, gazing at Linda, forgot to talk. Linda, on the contrary, chatted unweariedly, entertained the whole table with her odd little stories, and knew how to absorb Erwin so deeply by her artfully naïve flatteries and carefully veiled coquetries that he, the most polite man in the world, scarcely found time to address a few pleasant phrases to the Englishwoman who, for the sake of symmetry, sat at his left.
After dinner Linda sang. Erwin accompanied her, and Pistasch lost his tongue with enthusiasm, except for the three words, "Superb! magnificent! delicious!" which he burst forth with again and again, gasping for breath.
Elsa, who took no interest in French chansonnettes, and Sempaly, who did not care to hear them rendered by respectable women, or those who at least should be so, stood together in a window recess half chatting, half silent, like people who know and understand each other well. But suddenly Scirocco was silent, his glance wandered to Felix, who sat in the darkest corner of the drawing-room, and in order to give himself countenance, stroked Erwin's great hunting-dog. A little rattle of glasses had attracted Sempaly's notice. He went up to Felix, and after he had spoken a few words to him returned with him to Elsa. Elsa was frightened at sight of her brother. His cheeks were flushed to his forehead, the features swollen, the eyes shining as in one who has a severe fever.
When everything had become quiet again in Steinbach, and Elsa was alone with Erwin in the drawing-room, she went to the table from which Sempaly had brought Felix away, and discovered there thecorpus delictiin the shape of a half-emptied flask of Chartreuse.
"Ah!" cried she shuddering, and turned to Erwin. "Do you know the latest?--Felix drinks!"
Erwin lowered his head. "Drinks--drinks!" he murmured with embarrassment but excusingly. "You must not call it that exactly; it is not yet so bad!"
"You--you seem to have known it," cried Elsa, staring at him. He looked away.
Elsa paces twice through the room, her arms crossed on her breast. Her short, unequal breaths can be heard. Then she stops before Erwin; the blood has rushed to her cheeks, and causes there two uneven red spots under her eyes. Her hatred for Linda suddenly bursts forth. "Oh, this repulsive, ordinary, tactless person! How deeply she has dragged him down!" she says, with set teeth.
Erwin, to whom the cause of this unlovely and immoderate anger is wholly inexplicable, is displeasedly silent. This irritates Elsa still more, and in an even more unpleasant tone she continues, "Well, do you, perhaps, doubt that she and only she has ruined Felix by her incredible lack of tact?"
For the first time since Erwin has known his wife he lost patience with her, and shrugging his shoulders, replied, "I find it hard to expect tact from a person who does not suspect the complicated difficulties of her position."
"Erwin!--Erwin!--you--you surely do not believe that Felix would have married Linda without telling her of his circumstances?" She was now quite pale again, she trembled, her voice sounded weak and hoarse. He was terribly sorry for her, at this moment he would have given everything to be silent. He took refuge in vague phrases. "A mere suspicion--I spoke without thinking."
But Elsa shook her head; an indescribable pain curved her lips. "No, Erwin," cried she, "you may not be the demi-god whom for nine years I have worshiped in you, but you are not capable of saying anything so degrading about my brother upon a mere suspicion. From whom do you know that?"
She stood before him, drawn up to her full height, and looked him in the eyes with an expression which one could not lie to.
"I judge so from questions which she has asked me," he stammers, and immediately adds, hastily, "Certainly Felix would not purposely have concealed the affair from her; he may have told her mother----"
"That is all the same," interrupts Elsa. "His action remains unanswerable, for the first as well as the second time. Erwin, you poor man, into what a family have you married! Why would you have me? I did not wish it--I knew that it would be for no good." She is almost beside herself.
"No good! Think of the nine years which we leave behind us," he replies, gently.
"Think of the twenty, thirty years which we have before us," cries she. "The sacrifice which you made for me was too great."
"I know of no sacrifice," he replies, warmly. "It is pure childishness which makes you bring that up again. Once for all, Elsa, I would not exchange a life at your side for the most brilliant career--to which, besides, I could scarcely have been called." With these words he goes up to her, and lays his hand gently under her chin to raise her face to his, but she breaks loose from him.
"I thank you," says she, with hateful mockery. She thought of the thousand pretty speeches and charming attentions with which he had satisfied Linda's greedy vanity to-day. She was sick with suppressed jealousy. The bright light which Erwin's communication threw upon Linda's whole manner, and which so excused Linda, and on the other hand, so lowered Felix, mingled a new pain in all her morbid feelings. She literally no longer knew what she said, her voice became more and more cutting: "I thank you," she repeated. "You are very polite, you have a particular talent for politeness, you are the most charming man I know, but--but, I am sorry you had your way at that time."
"Sorry, Elsa? For God's sake take that back," cried he. The pain which she had caused him was too deep for him to consider how much of her words were to be ascribed to true conviction, and what to her over-excited nerves.
She shook her head obstinately. "Yes, I am sorry," she continued in her insensate speech. "At that time you could not live without me"--she spoke very bitterly--"yes, you would have been unhappy without me--a month, perhaps a year--who knows?--but then you would have consoled yourself, and it would have been better for you and for me. Good night!" and with head held high, with rigid face and trembling limbs she tottered out of the room.