Every year, towards the end of August, Baron Franz Leskjewitsch, the family scarecrow and Crœsus, was wont to appear at his estate, Vorhabshen, near Zirkow, to learn the condition of the harvest, to spend a few days in hunting, and to abuse everything and everybody before, at the end of a couple of weeks, vanishing as suddenly as he had appeared.
On these occasions he avoided his brother Paul with evident determination. If any of the family were at Komaritz, he invited them to dinner once or twice, at such times taking pains to make himself particularly offensive to Heda, whom he could not endure.
He had never spent any length of time at Vorhabshen since the family quarrel, and in consequence the dwelling-house, or castle, upon which, miser that he was, he never would spend a penny for repairs, had come to be tumble-down and sordid in appearance, both inside and out. It was a huge structure, with numerous windows, in which many of the sashes were sprung and some destitute of panes, never having been reglazed since the last hail-storm had worked ruin among them.
Among the family portraits, which hung in a dark, oak-wainscoted gallery, the pigeons built their nests.
Like many another Bohemian castle, the mansion at Vorhabshen was built close to the farm-yard, and its front faced an immense, light-brown manure-heap.
The inmates of this unpicturesque ruin--whose duty it was to keep it ready for its master's brief visits--were, first, the housekeeper, Lotta Papoushek; then the Baron's court-fool, the former brewer Studnecka, who at times imagined himself the prophet Elisha, and at other times a great musical genius; then the superintendent, with his underlings; and finally, any young man who might be tempted to come hither to study modern agriculture, and whose studies were generally confined to allowing himself to be pampered by the housekeeper Lotta, who had all the admiration of her class for courteous young people.
Frau Lotta had been in the Baron's service for more than forty years. Her large face was red, dotted with brown warts, and her features were hard and masculine. Although she certainly was far from attractive in appearance, there was a report that she had once been handsome, and that Baron Franz, when he received the news of his son's marriage with Marie Duval, had exclaimed, "I'll marry my housekeeper! I'll marry Lotta!" How this would have aided to re-establish the family prestige it is difficult to say, and it is doubtful whether the speech was made; but twenty years afterwards Lotta used to tell of it, and of how she had replied, "That would be too nonsensical, Herr Baron!" Notwithstanding her peculiarities and her overweening self-conceit, she was a thoroughly good creature, and devoted heart and soul to the Leskjewitsch family. Her absolute honesty induced the Baron to make her authority at Vorhabshen paramount, to the annoyance of the superintendent and his men.
It was a clear afternoon,--the 1st of September; the steam thresher was at work in the farm-yard, and its dreary puffing and groaning were audible in Lotta's small sitting-room, on the ground-floor of the mansion, where she was refreshing herself with a cup of coffee, having invited the student of agriculture--a young Herr von Kraschinsky--to share her nectar.
She had been regaling him with choice bits of family history, as he lay back comfortably in an arm-chair, looking very drowsy, when, after a pause, she remarked, as if in soliloquy, "I should like to know where the master is; I have had no answer to the long letter I sent to him at Franzburg."
"Oh, you correspond with the Baron, do you?" murmured the student, too lazy to articulate distinctly.
"Of course I do. You must not forget that my position in the Leskjewitsch family is higher than that of a servant. I was once governess to our poor, dear Baron Fritz; and I have always been devoted to them."
In fact, Lotta had been Fritz's nurse; and it was true that she had always been much valued, having been treated with great consideration on account of her absolute fidelity and her tolerably correct German.
"Yes," she went on, careless as to her companion's attention, "I wrote to the Baron about the wheat and the young calves, and I told him of Baron Harry's betrothal. I am curious to know what he will say to it. For my part, it is not at all to my taste."
"But then you are so frightfully aristocratic," said her guest.
Lotta smiled; nothing pleased her more than to be rallied upon her aristocratic tendencies, although she made haste to disclaim them. "Oh, no; I am by no means so feudal"--a favourite word of hers, learned from a circulating library to which she subscribed--"as you think. I never shall forget how I tried to bring about a reconciliation between Baron Fritz and his father; but the master was furious, called the widow and her little child, after poor Fritz's death, 'French baggage,' and threatened me with dismissal if I ever spoke of them. What could I do? I could not go near the little girl when Baron Paul brought her to Zirkow; but I have watched her from a distance, and have rejoiced to see her grow lovelier every year, and the very image of her father. And when all the country around declared that Baron Harry was in love with her, I was glad; but our master was furious, although the young things were then mere children, and declared that not one penny of his money should his nephew have if he married the child of that shop-girl. I suppose Baron Harry has taken all this into consideration." The old woman's face grew stern as she folded her arms on her flat chest and declared again, "I am curious to know what the master will think of this betrothal."
Outside in the farm-yard the steam thresher continued its monotonous task; the superintendent, a young man, something of a coxcomb, stood apart from the puffing monster, a volume of Lenau in his hand, learning by heart a poem which he intended to recite at the next meeting of the "Concordia Association," in X----. The court-fool, Studnecka, was seated at his harmonium, composing.
Suddenly a clumsy post-chaise rattled into the courtyard. The superintendent started, and thrust his Lenau into his pocket. Lotta smoothed her gray hair, and went to meet the arrival. She knew that "the master" had come. It was his habit to appear thus unexpectedly, when it was impossible to be prepared for him. His masculine employees disliked this fashion extremely. Lotta was not at all disturbed by it.
Studnecka was the last to notice that something unusual was going on. When he did so, he left the harmonium and went to the window.
In the midst of a group of servants and farm-hands stood an old man in a long green coat and a shiny, tall hat. The court-fool observed something strange in his master's appearance. Suddenly he fairly gasped.
"The world is coming to an end!" he exclaimed. "Wonders will never cease,--the Herr Baron has a new hat!"
Lotta, too, noticed the master's new hat, but that was not the only change she observed in him. The expression of his face was not so stern as usual. Instead of sneering at the coxcombical superintendent, he smiled at his approach; his complexion was far less sallow than it had been; and, above all, he allowed the superintendent to pay the driver of the post-chaise without an inquiry as to the fare.
After nodding right and left, he asked Lotta if his room were ready.
"Of course," the housekeeper replied, and at once conducted him to a spacious and exquisitely clean and neat apartment, rather scantily furnished with spindle-legged chairs and brass-mounted cabinets dating from the time of the First Empire. Not a speck of dust was to be seen anywhere. The Baron ordered coffee, and dismissed Lotta.
When she had gone he looked about him keenly, as if in search of somewhat, from the arm-chair into which he had thrown himself. Not finding what he sought, he arose and went into the adjoining room. Yes, there it was!
On the wall hung two portraits, in broad, tasteless gilt frames. One represented a fair, handsome woman, with bare shoulders and long, soft curls; the other a dark-browed man, in the red, gold-embroidered uniform of a court chamberlain. He smiled bitterly as he looked at this picture. "Done with!" he muttered, and turned his back upon the portraits; with those words he banished the memory of his past. A strange sensation possessed him: an anticipation of his future,--the future of a man of seventy-three! He walked about the room uncertainly, searching for something. A dark flush mounted to his cheek; he loosened his collar. At last he turned the key in the door, as if fearful of being surprised in some misdeed, and then went to his writing-table, a large and rather complicated piece of furniture, its numerous drawers decorated with brass ornaments. From one of the most secret of these he took a small portfolio containing about a dozen photographs. All represented the same person, but at various stages of existence, from earliest infancy to boyhood and manhood.
"Fritz!" murmured the old man, hoarsely; "Fritz!"
Yes, always Fritz. The father looked them through, lingering over each one with the same longing, hungry look with which we would fain call to life the images of our dead. There was Fritz with his first gun, Fritz in his school-uniform, and, at last, Fritz as a young diplomat, photographed in Paris, with a mountain view in the background.
This picture trembled in the old hands. How he had admired it! how proud he had been of his handsome son! and then----
There was a knock at the door. Buried in the past, he had not heard the bustle of preparation in the next room, and now he thrust away the pictures to take his seat at his well-furnished table, where Lotta was waiting to serve him.
"Sit down, sit down," the Baron said, with unwonted geniality, "and tell me of what is going on here."
Lotta seated herself bolt upright at a respectful distance from her master.
"Well?" began the Baron, pouring out the coffee for himself.
"I wrote all the news to the Herr Baron; nothing else has happened, except that the English sow which the Herr Baron bought at the fair littered last night,--twelve as nice fat little pigs as ever were seen."
"Indeed! very interesting. But what was in the letter? Since I never received it, it must be lying at Franzburg."
"Oh, all sorts of things,--about the short-horn calves, and the weight of the hay, and Baron Harry's betrothal; but of course the Herr Baron knew of that."
The Baron set down his cup so hastily that it came near being broken. "Not a word!" he exclaimed, doing his best to conceal the delight which would mirror itself in his face. Harry betrothed? To whom but to the golden-haired enchantress he had met in the forest, Fritz's daughter Zdena? To be sure, he had threatened to disinherit the boy if he married her, but the fellow had been quite right to set the threat at naught. The old man chuckled at the fright he would give them, and then---- Meanwhile, he tried to look indifferent.
"Indeed? And so the boy is betrothed?" he drawled. "All very fine--without asking any one's advice, hey? Of course your old heart is dancing at the thought of it, Lotta. Oh, I know you through and through."
"I don't see any reason for rejoicing at the young master's betrothal," Lotta replied, crossly, thrusting out her chin defiantly.
The old man scanned her keenly. Something in the expression of her face troubled him.
"Who is the girl?" he asked, bluntly.
"The younger of the two Harfink fräuleins; the other married Count Treurenberg."
"Harfink, do you say? Impossible!" The Baron could not believe his ears.
"So I thought too, but I was mistaken. It is officially announced. Baron Karl has been to see the mother, and there is shortly to be a betrothal festival, to which all the great people in the country round are to be invited."
"But what is the stupid boy thinking about? What do people say of him?" thundered the Baron.
"Why, what should they say? They say our young Baron had interested motives, that he is in debt----"
The Baron started up in a fury. "In debt? A fine reason!" he shouted. "Am I not here?"
Whereupon Lotta looked at him very significantly. "As if every one did not know what those get who come to the Herr Baron for money," she murmured.
The old man's face flushed purple. "Leave the room!" he cried, pointing to the door.
Lotta arose, pushed back her chair to the wall, and walked out of the room with much dignity. She was accustomed to such conduct on her master's part: it had to be borne with. And she knew, besides, that her words had produced an impression, that he would not be angry with her long.
When the door had closed after her, the old man seated himself at his writing-table, determined to write to Harry, putting his veto upon the marriage of his nephew with the "Harfink girl;" but after the first few lines he dropped the pen.
"What affair is it of mine?" he murmured. "If he had yielded to a foolish impulse like my Fritz,"--he passed his hand over his eyes,--"why, then I might have seen things differently, and not as I did twenty years ago. But if, with love for another girl in his heart, he chooses to sell himself for money, he simply does not exist for me. Let him take the consequences. My money was not enough for him, or perhaps he was afraid he should have to wait too long for it. Well, now he can learn what it is to be married without a penny to a rich girl whom he does not love."
He pulled the bell furiously. The young gamekeeper who always filled the position of valet to the Baron upon these spasmodic visits to Vorhabshen entered.
"Harness the drag, Martin, so that I can catch the train."
That very evening he returned to Franzburg, where he sent for his lawyer to help him make a new will.
Yes, affairs had reached a terribly grave point, an Harry now fully appreciated. He felt like a man under sentence of death whose appeal for mercy has been rejected. The day for his execution was appointed; he had given his promise, and must keep it.
The day after his father's visit to Dobrotschau the young man presented himself there, and informed the ladies that pressing business obliged him to return to Vienna; but Paula, who was perfectly aware of the duration of his leave, routed from the field every reason which he gave for the necessity for his presence in Vienna. A betrothal festival had been arranged for a day early in September; he could not possibly be absent. And Paula, the robust, whose nerves were of iron, wept and made a scene; and Harry stayed, and conscientiously paid at least three visits a week at Dobrotschau. He was changed almost past recognition: he had grown very thin, his voice had a hard, metallic sound, and his eyes had the restless brilliancy of some wild creature in a trap. He ate scarcely anything, and his hands burned with fever. His betrothed, whose passion was still on the increase, overwhelmed him with tender attentions, which he no longer strove to discourage, but which he accepted with the resignation of despair.
His bridges were burned behind him; he saw no escape; he must accept what life had in store for him. Now and then he made a pathetic attempt to blot out of his soul the pale image of the charming girl which never left him. He even made every effort to love his betrothed, to penetrate her inward consciousness, to learn to know and value her; but he brought home from every such psychological exploring trip a positive aversion, so rude and coarse, so bereft of all delicacy, were her modes of thought and feeling. He pleased her; his quixotic courtesy, his unpractical view of life, she took delight in; but her vanity alone was interested, not her heart,--that is, she valued it all as "gentlemanly accomplishment," as something aristocratic, like his seat on horseback, or the chiselling of his profile. She was an utter stranger to the best and truest part of him. And as her passion increased, what had been with him at first an impatient aversion changed to absolute loathing, something so terrible that at times he took up his revolver to put an end to it all. Such cowardice, however, was foreign to his principles; and then he was only twenty-four years old, and life might have been so fair if---- Even now at rare intervals a faint hope would arise within him, but what gave birth to it he could not tell.
Meanwhile, the days passed, and the betrothalfêtewas near at hand. Fainacky, who had installed himself asmaître de plaisir, an office which no one seemed inclined to dispute with him, was indefatigable in his labours, and displayed great inventive faculty. Every hour he developed some fresh idea: now it was a new garden path to be illuminated by coloured lamps, now a clump of shrubbery behind which the band of an infantry regiment in garrison in the neighbourhood was to be concealed.
"Music is the most poetic of all the arts, so long as one is spared the sight of the musician," he explained to Frau von Harfink, in view of this last arrangement. "The first condition of success for afêteis a concealed orchestra."
He himself composed two stirring pieces of music--a Paula galop and a Selina quadrille--to enrich the entertainment. The decoration of the garden-room was carried out by a Viennese upholsterer under his special supervision. He filled up the cards of invitation, ordered the wine for the supper, and sketched the shapes for the plaques of flowers on the table. The menus, however, constituted his masterpiece. Civilized humanity had never seen anything like them. Beside each plate there was to lie a parchment roll tied with a golden cord, from, which depended a seal stamped with the Harfink coat of arms. These gorgeous things were Fainacky'schef-d'œuvre. All his other devices--such as the torch dance at midnight, with congratulatory addresses from the Harfink retainers, the fireworks which were to reveal the intertwined initials of the betrothed pair shooting to the skies in characters of flame--were mere by-play. Yet, in spite of all his exertions in this line, the Pole found time to spy upon everybody, to draw his own conclusions, and to attend to his own interests.
By chance it occurred to him to devote some observation to Olga Dangeri, whom hitherto he had scarcely noticed. He found her a subject well worth further attention, and it soon became a habit of his to pursue her with his bold glance, of course when unobserved by the fair Countess Selina, with whom he continued to carry on his flirtation. Whenever, unseen and unheard, he could persecute Olga with his insolent admiration and exaggerated compliments, he did so. Consequently she did her best to avoid him. He was quite satisfied with this result, ascribing it to the agitation caused by his homage. "Poor girl!" he thought; "she does not comprehend the awakening within her of the tender passion!"
In fact, a change was perceptible in Olga. She was languid, not easily roused to exertion; her lips and cheeks burned frequently, and she was more taciturn than ever. Her beauty was invested with an even greater charm. Upon his first arrival in Dobrotschau, the Pole had suspected a mutual inclination between Treurenberg and the beautiful "player's daughter," but, since he had seen nothing to confirm his ugly suspicion, he had ceased to entertain it. Every symptom of an awakening attachment which he could observe in Olga, Ladislas Fainacky interpreted in his own favour.
September has fairly begun. The harvest is gathered in, and the wind is blowing over the stubble,--a dry, oppressive wind, calling up clouds which float across the sky in fantastic masses every morning and vanish at noon without a trace. All nature manifests languor and thirst; the dry ground shows large cracks here and there, and vegetation is losing its last tinge of green.
Nowhere in all the country around are the effects of the drought more apparent than at Dobrotschau, where the soil is very poor. Not even in the park is there any freshness of verdure. The fountains refuse to play; the sward looks like a shabby, worn carpet; the leaves are withering on the trees.
Everything is longing for a storm, and yet all feel that relief, when it comes, will bring uproar with it; something must go to ruin and be shattered in the change. The great life of nature, spellbound and withheld in this sultry languor, will awake with some convulsion, angrily demanding a victim. It is inevitable; and one must take comfort in the thought that all else will flourish, refreshed and strengthened. Anything would be preferable to this wasting and withering, this perpetual hissing wind.
To-day it seems finally lulled to rest, for the barometer is falling, and livid blue clouds are piling up on the horizon, as distinct in outline as a range of mountains, and so darkly menacing that in old times men would have regarded them with terror. Now every one says, "At last! at last!"
But they mount no higher; the air is more sultry, and not a cooling drop falls.
In the shadiest part of the park there is a pond, bordered with rushes and surrounded by a scanty growth of underbrush, in the midst of which stand the black, skeleton trunks of several dead trees. During the winters preceding the coming to Dobrotschau of the Baroness Harfink, and shortly after the purchase of the estate, some of the most ancient of the trees--trees as old as the family whose downfall necessitated the sale of Dobrotschau--had died. Their lifeless trunks still pointed to the skies, tall and grim, as if in mute protest against the new ownership of the soil.
The pond, once a shining expanse of clear water, is almost dried up, and a net-work of water-plants covers its surface. Now, when the rosebuds are falling from their stems without opening, this marshy spot is gay with many-coloured blossoms.
At the edge of the pond lies an old boat, and in it Olga is sitting, dressed in white, with a red rose in her belt, one of the few roses which the drought has spared. She is gazing dreamily, with half-shut eyes, upon the shallow water which here and there mirrors the skies. An open book lies in her lap, Turgenieff's "A First Love," but she has read only a few pages of it. Her attitude expresses languor, and from time to time she shivers slightly.
"Why is Lato so changed to me? why does he avoid me? what have I done to displease him?" These are the thoughts that occupy her mind as she sits there, with her hands clasped in her lap, gazing down into the brown swamp, not observing that Fainacky, attracted by the light colour of her dress among the trees, has followed her to the pond and has been watching her for some time from a short distance.
"She loves," he says to himself, as he notices the dreamy expression of the girl's face; and his vanity adds, "She loves me!"
He tries, by gazing fixedly at her, to force her to look up at him, but he is unsuccessful, and then has recourse to another expedient. In his thin, reedy tenor voice he begins to warble "Salve dimora casta e pura" from Gounod's "Faust."
Then she looks round at him, but her face certainly does not express pleasure. She arises, leaves the skiff, and, passing her obtrusive admirer without a word, tries to turn into the shortest path leading to the castle. He walks beside her, however, and begins in a low voice: "Fräulein Olga, I have something to say to you."
"Tome?"
"Yes, I want to explain myself, to correct some false impressions of yours, to lay bare my heart before you."
He pauses after uttering this sentence, and she also stands still, her annoyance causing a choking sensation in her throat. She would fain let him know that she is not in the least interested in having his heart laid bare before her, but how can she do this without seeming cross or angry?
"You have hitherto entirely misunderstood me," he assures her. "Oh, Olga, why can you not lay aside your distrust of me?"
"Distrust?" she repeats, almost mechanically; "I am not aware of any distrust."
"Do not deny it," he persists, clasping his hands affectedly; "do not deny it. Your distrust of me is profound. It wounds me, it pains me, and--it pains you also!"
Olga can hardly believe her ears. She stares at him without speaking, in utter dismay, almost fearing that he has suddenly lost his wits.
"You must hear me," he continues, with theatric effect. "Your distrust must cease, the distrust which has hitherto prevented you from perceiving how genuine is the admiration I feel for you. Oh, you must see how I admire you!"
Here Olga loses patience, and, with extremehauteur, replies, "I have perceived your very disagreeable habit of staring at me, and of persecuting me with what I suppose you mean for compliments when you think no one is observing you."
"It was out of regard for you."
"Excuse my inability to understand you," she rejoins, still more haughtily. "I cannot appreciate regard of that description." And with head proudly erect she passes him and walks towards the castle.
For a moment he gazes after her, as if spellbound. How beautiful she is, framed in by the dark trees that arch above the pathway! "She loves! she suffers!" he murmurs. His fancy suddenly takes fire; this is no fleeting inclination, no!--he adores her!
With a bound he overtakes her. "Olga! you must not leave me thus, adorable girl that you are! I love you, Olga, love you devotedly!" He falls at her feet. "Take all that I have, my name, my life, my station,--a crown should be yours, were it mine!"
She is now thoroughly startled and dismayed. "Impossible! I cannot!" she murmurs, and tries to leave him.
But with all the obstinacy of a vain fool he detains her. "Oh, do not force those beauteous lips to utter cruel words that belie your true self. I have watched you,--you love! Olga, my star, my queen, tell me you love me!"
He seizes the girl's hands, and covers them with kisses; but with disgust in every feature she snatches them from him, just as Lato appears in the pathway.
Fainacky rises; the eyes of the two men meet. Treurenberg's express angry contempt; in those of the Pole there is intense hatred, as, biting his lip in his disappointment, he turns and walks away.
"What is the matter? What is it?" Treurenberg asks, solicitously.
"Nothing, nothing," Olga replies; "nothing at which I ought to take offence." Then, after a short pause, she adds, "On the contrary, he did me the honour to offer to make me Countess Fainacky. The idea, it is true, seemed to occur to him rather tardily, after conducting himself impertinently."
Lato twirls his moustache nervously, and murmurs, in a dull, constrained voice, "Well, and could you not bring yourself to consent?"
"Lato!" the girl exclaims, indignantly.
The bitter expression on Lato's face makes him look quite unlike himself as he says, "A girl who sets out to marry must not be too nice, you see!"
His head is turned away from her; silence reigns around; the sultry quiet lies like a spell upon everything.
He hears a half-suppressed ejaculation, the rustle of a robe, short, quick steps, and, looking round, sees her tall figure walking rapidly away from him, offended pride and wounded feeling expressed in its every motion. He ought to let her go, but he cannot, and he hurries after her; almost before she is aware of his presence, he lightly touches her on the arm.
"Olga, my poor Olga, I did not mean this!" he exclaims, gently. "Be reasonable, my child; I did not mean to wound you, but to give you a common-sense view of the affair."
She looks away from him, and suddenly bursts into irrepressible sobs.
"You poor child! Hush, I pray you! I cannot bear this! Have I really grieved you--I--why, 'tis ridiculous--I, who would have my hand cut off to serve you? Come, be calm." And he draws her down upon a rustic bench and takes a seat beside her.
Her chest heaves as does that of a child who, although the cause of its grief has been removed, cannot stop crying at once. He takes her hand in his and strokes it gently.
A delightful sensation of content, even of happiness, steals upon him, but mingling with it comes a tormenting unrest, the dawning consciousness that he is entering upon a crooked path, that he is in danger of doing a wrong, and yet he goes on holding the girl's hand in his and gazing into her eyes.
"Why are you not always kind to me?" she asks him simply.
He is confused, and drops her hand.
"For a whole week past you have seemed scarcely to see me," she says, reproachfully. "Have you been vexed with me? Did I do anything to displease you?"
"I have had so much to worry me," he murmurs.
"Poor Lato! I thought so. If you only knew how my heart aches for you! Can you not tell me some of your troubles? They are so much easier to bear when shared with another."
And before he can reply she takes his hand in both of hers, and presses it against her cheek.
Just at that moment he sees the Pole, who has paused in departing and turned towards the pair; the man's sallow face, seen in the distance above Olga's dark head, seems to wear a singularly malevolent expression.
As soon, however, as he becomes aware that Treurenberg has perceived him, he vanishes again.
Lato's confusion increases; he rises, saying, "And now be good, Olga; go home and bathe your eyes, that no one may see that you have been crying."
"Oh, no one will take any notice, and there is plenty of time before dinner. Take a walk with me in the park; it is not so warm as it was."
"I cannot, my child; I have a letter to write."
"As you please;" and she adds, in an undertone, "You are changed towards me."
Before he can reply, she is gone.
The path along which she has disappeared is flecked with crimson,--the petals of the rose that she had worn in her girdle.
Lato feels as if rudely awakened from unconsciousness. He walks unsteadily, and covers his eyes with his hand as if dazzled by even the tempered light of the afternoon. The terrible bliss for which he longs, of which he is afraid, seems so near that he has but to reach out his hand and grasp it. He stamps his foot in horror of himself. What! a pure young girl! his wife's relative! The very thought is impossible! He is tormented by the feverish fancies of overwrought nerves. He shakes himself as if to be rid of a burden, then turns and walks rapidly along a path leading in an opposite direction from where the scattered rose-leaves are lying on the ground.
As he passes on with eyes downcast, he almost runs against the Pole. The glances of the two men meet; involuntarily Lato averts his from Fainacky's face, and as he does so he is conscious of a slight embarrassment, which the other takes a malicious delight in noticing.
"Aha!" he begins; "your long interview with the fair Olga seems to have had a less agreeable effect upon your mood than I had anticipated."
Such a remark would usually have called forth from Lato a sharp rejoinder; to-day he would fain choose his words, to excuse himself, as it were.
"She was much agitated," he murmurs. "I had some trouble in soothing her. She--she is nervous and sensitive; her position in my mother-in-law's household is not a very pleasant one."
"Well, you certainly do your best to improve it," Fainacky says, hypocritically.
"And you to make it impossible!" Lato exclaims, angrily.
"Did the fair Olga complain of me, then?" drawls the other.
"There was no need that she should," Treurenberg goes on to say. "Do you suppose that I need anything more than eyes in my head to see how you follow her about and stare at her?"
Fainacky gives him a lowering look, and then laughs softly.
"Well, yes, I confess, I have paid her some attention; she pleases me. Yes, yes, I do not deny my sensibility to female charms. I never played the saint!"
"Indeed! At least you seem to have made an effort to-day to justify your importunity," Treurenberg rejoins, filled with contempt for the simpering specimen of humanity before him. "You have offered her your hand."
Scarcely have the words left his lips when Treurenberg is conscious that he has committed a folly in thus irritating the man.
Fainacky turns pale to the lips, and his expression is one of intense malice.
"It is true," he says, "that I so far forgot myself for a moment as to offer your youthfulprotégeémy hand. Good heavens! I am not the first man of rank who, in a moment of enthusiasm and to soothe the irritated nerves of a shy beauty, has offered to marry a girl of low extraction. The obstacle, however, which bars my way to her heart appears to be of so serious a nature that I shall make no attempt to remove it."
He utters the words with a provoking smile and most malicious emphasis.
"To what obstacle do you refer?" Lato exclaims, in increasing anger.
"Can you seriously ask me that question?" the Pole murmurs, in a low voice like the hiss of a serpent.
Transported with anger, Treurenberg lifts his hand; the Pole scans him quietly.
"If you wish for a duel, there is no need to resort to so drastic a measure to provoke it. But do you seriously think it would be well for the fair fame of your--your lovelyprotégeéthat you should fight for her?" And, turning on his heel, Fainacky walks towards the castle.
Lato stands as if rooted to the spot, his gaze riveted on the ground.
Dinner is over, and the gilt chandelier in the garden-room, where coffee is usually served, is lighted. Selina is sitting at the piano accompanying Fainacky, who is singing. Paula is in her own rooms with her mother, inspecting the latest additions to her trousseau, just arrived from Vienna. Lato has remained in the garden-room, where he endures with heroic courage the sound of Fainacky's voice as he whines forth his sentimental French songs, accentuating them in the most touching places with dramatic gestures and much maltreatment of his pocket-handkerchief. After each song he compliments Selina upon her playing. Her touch reminds him of Madame Essipoff. Selina, whose digestion is perfect so far as flattery is concerned, swallows all his compliments and looks at him as if she wished for more.
On the wide gravel path, before the glass doors of the room, Olga is pacing to and fro. The broad light from door and window reveals clearly the upper portion of her figure. Her head is slightly bent, her hands are clasped easily before her. There is a peculiar gliding grace in all her movements. With all Treurenberg's efforts to become interested in the newspaper which he holds, he cannot grasp the meaning of a single sentence. The letters flicker before his eyes like a crowd of crawling insects. Weary of such fruitless exertion, he lifts his eyes, to encounter Olga's gazing at him with a look of tenderest sympathy. He starts, and makes a fresh effort to absorb himself in the paper, but before he is aware of it she has come in from the garden and has taken her seat on a low chair beside him.
"Is anything the matter with you?" she asks.
"What could be the matter with me?" he rejoins, evasively.
"I thought you might have a headache, you look so pale," she says, with a matronly air.
"Olga, I would seriously advise you to devote yourself to the study of medicine, you are so quick to observe symptoms of illness in those about you."
She returns his sarcasm with a playful little tap upon his arm.
Fainacky turns and looks at them, a fiendish light in his green eyes, in the midst of his most effective rendering of Massenet's "Nuits d'Espagne."
"If you want to talk, I think you might go out in the garden, instead of disturbing us here," Selina calls out, sharply.
Lato instantly turns to his newspaper, and when he looks up from it again, Olga has vanished. He rises and goes to the open door. The sultry magic of the September night broods over the garden outside. The moon is not yet visible,--it rises late,--but countless stars twinkle in the blue-black heavens, shedding a pale silvery lustre upon the dark earth. Olga is nowhere to be seen; but there---- He takes a step or two forward; she is walking quickly. He pauses, looks after her until she disappears entirely among the shrubbery, and then he goes back to the garden-room.
It is Selina's turn to sing now, and she has chosen a grand aria from "Lucrezia Borgia." She is a pupil of Frau Marchesi's, and she has a fine voice,--that is to say, a voice of unusual compass and power, which might perhaps have made a reputation on the stage, but which is far from agreeable in a drawing room. It is like the blowing of trumpets in the same space.
His wife's singing is the one thing in the world which Lato absolutely cannot tolerate, and never has tolerated. Passing directly through the room, he disappears through a door opposite the one leading into the garden.
Even in the earliest years of their married life Selina always took amiss her husband's insensibility to her musical performances, and now, when she avers his indifference to her in every other respect to be a great convenience, her sensitiveness as an artist is unchanged.
Breaking off in the midst of her song, she calls after him, "Is that a protest?"
He does not hear her.
"Continuez done, ma cousine, I implore you," the Pole murmurs.
With redoubled energy, accompanying herself, Countess Selina sings on, only dropping her hands from the keys when she has executed a break-neck cadenza by way of final flourish. Fainacky, meanwhile, gracefully leaning against the instrument, listens ecstatically, with closed eyes.
"Selina, you are an angel!" he exclaims, when she has finished. "Were I in Treurenberg's place you should sing to me from morning until night."
"My husband takes no pleasure in my singing; at the first sound of my voice he leaves the room, as you have just seen. He has no more taste for music than my poodle."
"Extraordinary!" the Pole says, indignantly. And then, after a little pause, he adds, musingly, "I never should have thought it. The day I arrived here, you remember, I came quite unexpectedly; and, looking for some one to announce me, I strayed into this very room----" He hesitates.
"Well?--go on."
"Well, Nina, or Olga--what is yourprotégeé'sname?" He snaps his fingers impatiently.
"Olga! Well, what of her?"
"Nothing, nothing, only she was sitting at the piano strumming away at something, and Lato was listening as devoutly as if she----"
But Selina has risen hastily and is walking towards the door into the garden with short impatient steps, as if in need of the fresh air. Her face is flushed, and she plucks nervously at the lace about her throat.
"What have I done? Have I vexed you?" the Pole whines, clasping his hands.
"Oh, no, you have nothing to do with it!" the Countess sharply rejoins. "I cannot understand Lato's want of taste in making so much fuss about that slip of a girl."
"You ought to try to marry her off," sighs the Pole.
"Try I try!" the Countess replies, mockingly. "There is nothing to be done with that obstinate thing."
"Of course it must be difficult; her low extraction, her lack of fortune,----"
"Lack of fortune?" Selina exclaims.
"I thought Olga was entirely dependent upon your mother's generosity," Fainacky says, eagerly.
"Not at all. My father saved a very fair sum for Olga from the remains of her mother's property. She has the entire control of a fortune of three or four hundred thousand guilders,--quite enough to make her a desirable match; but the girl seems to have taken it into her head that no one save a prince of the blood is good enough for her!" And the Countess actually stamps her foot.
"Do you really imagine that it is Olga's ambition alone that prevents her from contracting a sensible marriage?" Fainacky drawls, with evident significance.
"What else should it be?" Selina says, imperiously. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing, nothing; she seems to me rather exaggerated,--overstrained. Let us try this duet of Boito's."
"I do not wish to sing any more," she replies, and leaves the room.
He gazes after her, lost in thought for a moment, then snaps his fingers.
"Four hundred thousand guilders--by Jove!"
Whereupon he takes his seat at the piano, and improvises until far into the night upon the familiar air, "In Ostrolenka's meads."