CHAPTER IX. MADAME JAROVISKY’S BALL.
It was a mystery to the Karapolos how Madame Jarovisky had discovered the existence of Andromache. It was customary for her to invite the glorious and elegant warrior, with whom she had formed pleasing relations at the Palace entertainments. Besides, Hadji Adam, the King’s aide-de-camp and the very particular friend of Captain Miltiades, generally stipulated that his heroic comrade should have the right of entrance into all the distinguished houses of Athens. But even Hadji Adam knew nothing about his family, and how did it come that the Desposine Andromache Karapolos received a card of invitation for Madame Jarovisky’s great ball given in honour of an English Cabinet Minister? Julia the elder was not invited, nor was little Themistocles, the bank clerk. Another remarkable circumstance was the lateness of the invitation. It came on the eve of the ball. Andromache’s mother and Julia were strongly of opinion that no notice should be taken of an attention conveyed with such strange discourtesy. They did not know Madame Jarovisky, and no chaperon had been invited to accompany the younger Miss Karapolos. But Andromache was wild with desire to go. She had often glanced in marvelling admiration at the Jarovisky palace of marble and statues and colonnades, though she was virtuous enough to lower her eyes before the undraped statues of the terrace which she regarded as scandalous. And now that the chance of entering its bronzed gates and seeing the glories of its interior was presented to her, she was passionately resolved to go. Miltiades was fond of Andromache, and was easily persuaded into seconding her resolution. The head of the house is chaperon enough for any girl, he explained to his weak mother, and it was probably through Mademoiselle Natzelhuber that Madame Jarovisky had learned of Andromache’s existence, which accounted for the lateness of the invitation.
So it was decided that Andromache should go. The excitement put Maria into a good humour, and she was heard to sing, while starching and ironing white petticoats, the Captain’s evening shirt and lace bodices. A little dressmaker was hired for the day, who at breakfast sat opposite the warlike Miltiades, and blushed when Themistocles filled her glass with wine. Everyone laughed and spoke together at table, except the dressmaker and Themistocles, who regarded it as a personal slight that he had not been included in the invitation, and this insult added to the thought of the forbidden paradise in the next street, more than ever convinced him that there was nothing for him but to emigrate to England. After breakfast, instead of showing himself upon Constitution Square, he retired into his own room, and his violin dismally expressed his dissatisfaction in asthmatic strains supposed to be Schubert’s.
Then what running about for the women, what screaming of reiterated explanations, hysterical adjurations, differences of opinion as to the looping of a flounce, the draping of a fold, the selection of a ribbon or a flower! Maria was, of course, president of the house-parliament; though her vision was frequently impeded by the tangled locks of hair she found it so difficult to keep out of her black eyes. But the warmest discussion has its end, and all longed-for hours eventually arrive. When Themistocles arrived for dinner, he found he was the only person insufficiently nourished upon the day’s excitement. Theodore ministered to his wants, while all the women were in the girls’ chamber robing Andromache.
Very pretty she looked when dressed in cream muslin striped with silk,—an exquisitely soft and dainty texture made at the Ergasterion of Athens—trimmed with bows of crimson ribbon and charming Greek lace. Her costume was inexpensive, and looked home-made, but its very guilelessness was an effective setting to her extreme youth and simplicity. A Greek girl, whatever her deficiencies, is never awkward or vulgar, and the only suggestion Miltiades could offer in the way of improvement, when he examined her critically, was the brushing off of some of the powder which marred the fine olive of her face. Miltiades himself was resplendent in his full-dress uniform, his grande tenue. More than ever did he resemble the mythical slaughterer of those five thousand wretched Turks; and such smiling and satisfied glory as his was calculated to depress and fill with alarm the breast of the Sultan himself.
Andromache was muffled in a woollen shawl, and taking the arm of her gallant escort, they went out into the cold blue air. They walked gingerly down the slanting and unpaved street, dreading to splash their evening shoes in the running streams over which they were obliged to jump every time a fresh street broke theirs horizontally. When they reached the even pavement of University Street, behind Hansen’s lovely marble Academy, outlined sharply against the pure dark sky above the perfumed patch of foliage and flowers between it and the University, their footsteps rang out with a loud echo, Andromache’s high heels tapping the stones aggressively. Already a line of carriages was drawn up outside the Jarovisky’s palace. It was the largest ball given at Athens for years. Every one who was not in mourning was there, and most people who were.
Dr. and Madame Jarovisky received their guests at the head of the chill and magnificent hall. When Miltiades appeared, Dr. Jarovisky shook his hand most cordially and asked after his wife and children, shook hands with Andromache, and remarked that he never saw her looking so well, and was delighted to renew his acquaintance with her. Miltiades telegraphed her a glance of warning against any expression of surprise, and explained to her afterwards that Dr. Jarovisky never remembered any of his guests. Madame Jarovisky feebly expressed the pleasure it gave her to see Miss Andromache Karapolos, and hoped she would enjoy herself.
The rooms were crowded, but in spite of heavy perfumes and laughter and light, they were freezingly cold, built as they were of marble, with porphyry pillars and mosaic floors. Andromache shivered a little, and looked anxiously around while her brother twirled his moustache, and beamed a fatuous smile upon the groups he swiftly scanned.
“See, Miltiades, there is Hadji Adam flirting with Madame von Hohenfels. How handsome he is! and how distinguished she.”
“Madame von Hohenfels is what the French call grande dame. I was introduced to her nephew yesterday. He is a very pretty fellow. I daresay he is somewhere about.”
They entered another room, and here Andromache’s quick glance singled out a noticeable group of laughing and chattering young persons. Mademoiselle Eméraude Veritassi, beautifully arrayed in costly glory from Worth, was its centre, and round her hovered or buzzed like bees, Miss Mary and Master John Perpignani, Agiropoulos, the Greek poet, the young ladies of the American Legation, Ehrenstein and Vincent Mowbray Thomas. At that moment Rudolph happened to look round and met the March-violet eyes, bewitching in the eloquent delight of recognition. She blushed prettily, and an answering blush asserted sympathy on his boyish face. He broke away from the gay crowd, and saluted Captain Karapolos with insinuating cordiality.
If there is a thing the Greek has, at all hours, and in all places, at the disposal of his fellow-man, it is his hand. He shakes hands at every possible pretext, or he embraces. How he would express himself if that method of greeting were suddenly suppressed by act of Parliament, it is not for me to say, but I imagine he would pay a fine rather than forego the habit. Miltiades, after a jaunty military salute, of which he was equally profuse, held out a white-gloved hand, and then stood with the other gracefully reposing on his hip to discourse to Rudolph in unintelligible French.
“Vous êtes bien, Monsieur,” he began cheerfully.
“Mais oui,” responded Rudolph, smiling at Andromache to whom he bowed deferentially. “Est-ce que vous voudriez bien me presenter à Mademoiselle votre sœur?”
“Monsieur Rudolph Ehrenstein; Andromache—ma sœur,” said Karapolos, with a flourish, and then discovered that he had come to an end of his French. He smiled largely, and his teeth and handsome eyes, so like his sister’s, did duty for speech.
And while he was ogling Miss Mary Perpignani, to whose satisfactory dowry he aspired, audacious Rudolph had asked and obtained Andromache’s first quadrille, and furthermore secured her for the cotillon, which, of course, Miltiades would conduct according to custom.
“Vous me ferez l’honneur, Monsieur, de me confier Mademoiselle votre sœur?” Rudolph asked.
“Certainement,” assented Karapolos, delighted at the unexpected remembrance of a new word. “Je—je, comment—tell him, Andromache, I want to dance myself,” he burst out in Greek.
Andromache translated his wish, and as she spoke, with an expression of shy and charming deprecation, dark and light blue eyes held each other in fascinated gaze. Rudolph’s heart, as fresh and innocent as hers, began to comport itself in a very irregular fashion, and his frame thrilled under a sense of exquisite emotion. Her French was a little halting, and he was obliged to choose the easiest words for her, but how pleasant it was to hear her speak? The dancers were taking their places for the first quadrille, and Rudolph offered Andromache his arm. He reddened with pleasure when he looked down and saw her little hand in a white silk glove on his coat sleeve. From that moment he thought silk much prettier than Suède or kid. There was something birdlike and irresponsible in the awakening passion of these two young creatures. Neither dreamed of struggling against it or of consequences, but simply fluttered towards each other with lovely glances of sympathy and candid admiration.
The Baroness von Hohenfels, talking to the Right Honourable Samuel Warren, M. P., raised her gold face à main to scrutinise the dancers casually, and saw her nephew with his dowdy and much too pretty partner. She frowned a little, noting how completely absorbed he was and on what an intimate footing the young pair already appeared to be, and looked round in search of Mademoiselle Veritassi, whom she saw dancing with the amiable Agiropoulos. She beckoned imperiously to her husband, who obediently left the side of the English Minister’s wife, and courteously begged to be enlightened as to the cause of her signal.
“Who is that girl Rudolph is dancing with?”
“You surely don’t expect to find me posted up in the names and parentage of all the young ladies of Athens?” laughed the easy baron, looking round.
“Have you eyes in your head? Can’t you see that they are flirting?” protested the baroness.
“He certainly is greatly taken up with her. I fear, my dear, instead of being the muff I believed him, your nephew is an inveterate flirt. But I’ll inquire about her.”
The baron went back to Mrs. Mowbray Thomas, and the popular poet passing, the baroness touched his arm with her fan, and smiled him an arch invitation.
“M. Michaelopoulos,” she asked, taking his arm, “you know everybody in Athens, don’t you?”
The poet modestly deprecated any such pretension.
“Well, at least you can tell me who that exceedingly attractive young lady is my nephew is dancing with.”
The poet glanced down the room and singled out the couple.
It was impossible for the dullest observer to mistake the language of eyes that constantly dwelt on each other, and the foolish alacrity with which their hands met and clasped in the decorous dance.
“To my eternal desolation, Madame la Baronne, I must admit my ignorance. The young lady is, as you observe, charming—a little provincial, perhaps, clearly not of our world, but charming, very charming. I entreat you, Madame, to note the naïveté and candour of her—how shall we name it? entrainement? the first pressure of the dangerous influence upon tranquil maidenly pulses.”
“Confine yourself to prose, my friend, for the moment, and if you obey me, discover for me her parentage, position, etc.”
“Madame has to command, and I fly to obey her. I conjecture Monsieur Ehrenstein’s latest flame to be a little impossible Athenian, living the Gods know where and how.”
“Latest?” cried the baroness, with a look of displeased inquiry.
“Ah! it is to see that Madame’s great mind soars in the empyrean of diplomatic considerations or upon ground more ethereal still. Her delicate ears do not catch an echo of the vulgar gossip upon which grosser ears are fed.”
“I have requested you, M. Michaelopoulos, to discourse to me in prose. What is the vulgar gossip you refer to?”
The poet looked chill, and said, with brutal directness:
“My faith! Madame, your interesting nephew is thought to be the lover of that dainty morsel of womanhood, the Natzelhuber.”
Madame von Hohenfels frowned, and then laughed.
“You forget, Rudolph is noble.”
“I have not remarked that nobility is specially fastidious in such matters. Women! Well, that is frankly a department in which there is no accounting for tastes, and good blood shows as pretty an eccentricity as any other.”
The English statesman was approaching, and the poet walked away with an expression of countenance clearly indicating an intention to remember the baroness’s snub. The dance was over, and in the pause which ensued, Madame Jarovisky, mindful of Rudolph’s information that Andromache was a very promising pupil of Mademoiselle Natzelhuber, politely requested her to favour the company with a specimen of her powers.
“Your mistress has not yet arrived,” she added by way of encouragement, “and you can take advantage of her absence.”
Rudolph warmly seconded Madame Jarovisky, and thus flatteringly besought, Andromache suffered herself to be led by the young Austrian to the grand piano. At first she was terribly nervous, and the notes faltered and shook unsteadily beneath her fingers, but discovering that small attention was really paid to her, and drinking in courage and nerve from Rudolph’s pleasant glances of admiration, she gradually acquired a firmer touch, and played fairly well, with brilliancy and just expression, a dance of Rubinstein’s. She was more than half-way through her performance, when a whisper ran through the rooms:—“The Natzelhuber!”
The Cabinet Minister immediately adjusted his eyeglass, and held his sharp, heaven-aspiring nose in a beatific pose that denoted an expectation of diversion. Madame von Hohenfels smiled blandly, well pleased that somebody else should have the onerous charge and torture of entertaining the great woman. Photini was marshalled fussily up the room by anxious little Dr. Jarovisky, himself a blaze of medals and decorations, while his wife advanced with an air of pathetic deprecation and prayer, as if by such feeble weapons the thunder of this female Jove might best be averted. Phontini did not meet her hand, but just glanced at her in calm disdain, and nodded a serene, impersonal and inclusive gaze around, walked to a distant mantelpiece and placidly took her stand there.
“Who is that playing?” she asked of Dr. Jarovisky.
“Really, Mademoiselle, I—I—but wait, I will ask my wife,” the doctor hastened to say, and in his hurry to satisfy the inexorable artist, stumbled over a half dozen chairs and guests before he reached his perturbed wife.
“Calliope, she wants to know who is playing?”
“A pupil of hers—Andromache Karapolos,” said Calliope.
Dr. Jarovisky stumbled back in the same awkward and nervous fashion, and said, excitedly:
“You will be charmed, I am sure, Mademoiselle, to learn that the young lady who is delighting us all is a pupil of yours.”
“A pupil of mine, sir?” interrogated Photini, imperiously.
“Mais, oui, ja, ja, Ναἱ,” cried Dr. Jarovisky, in his fright exploding into a multiplicity of tongues. “A Desposine Andromache Karapolos,” and he smiled pleadingly.
“Oh, indeed,” said Photini, with that desperate calm of hers that invariably preluded a thunderstorm.
She rose, and followed by her shaken host, walked slowly down the room with the face of a sphinx. When she came near the piano, Rudolph looked up, saw her, bowed and smiled in anxious conciliation. She neither returned his bow nor his smile, but came behind Andromache, and deliberately dealt that inoffensive maiden a sound box on the ear.
“May I ask who gave you leave to murder Rubinstein for the benefit of a lot of idiots worse than yourself?” she cried.
Pressing her palm to the outraged cheek, now crimson from the blow, Andromache turned round with a face held between indignation and shocked fear. Her tongue refused to give voice to the piteous words that rushed to it, and tears of wounded pride and shame drowned the March violets.
“C’est trop fort, Mademoiselle,” Rudolph exclaimed, with a flame of masterful passion in his eyes.
“Vraiment?” retorted Photini, coolly. “Occupez-vous de vos affaires, Monsieur, et laissez les miennes,” and the utter vileness of her accent seriously imperilled the dignity of her speech and deportment. “As for you,” she continued in Greek, turning to Andromache, “you will be so good as to leave Rubinstein, Ehrenstein and every other ’stein alone, and content yourself with scales and exercises for the next year.”
In spite of her cruel and inadmissible behaviour, it was impossible not to feel some sympathy with the just anger of a severe and conscientious artist, though one naturally wished it had sought a less explosive outlet; and it was equally impossible not to recognise that such severity, in more measured and human form, is very salutary for the inefficient and abnormally rash young amateur. But of course all direct sympathy was for the moment concentrated on poor Andromache. Rudolph followed her, looking like a quarrelsome knight, as he stood guard over insulted girlhood, until her brother rushed forward to carry her home; and swore to himself, with petulant emphasis, that never again would he address a word of civility to the woman he mentally apostrophised as a monster and a fiend.
“Ne pleurez pas, Mademoiselle,” he cried, feverishly. “C’est qui doit avoir honte. Pour vous, vous devez la mepriser. Dieu sait si vous en avez le droit.”
“Laissez-moi, Monsieur. Je ne puis rien dire,” said Andromache in a choking voice, and seeing Miltiades coming towards her with a furious stride and the kind of look he must have worn when he sent those five thousand Turks to Paradise, she rushed to him and gathered her fingers round his arm convulsively. But a warrior and hero like Miltiades could not expect to appreciate the dignity of a pacific departure. With his sister upon his arm he walked to the spot where Photini was seated, listening to the bantering expostulations of Agiropoulos leaning over the back of her chair. She looked impassively at the angry face of the captain, then at the shamed and drooping head of Andromache, but said nothing.
“Mademoiselle Photini Natzelhuber,” said Miltiades, with a curt bow, “I have the honour to announce to you that my sister will in future discontinue her music lessons.”
“And what difference do you think that will make to me?” retorted Photini. “It will be her loss.”
“If you were a man I should know how to deal with you. But as you are only a woman, I can but despise you.”
“If it gives you any satisfaction, I am happy to have afforded you the occasion.”
With this little passage of arms, in which Miltiades may be said to have come off second best, the Captain and his sister retreated, proudly stopping to receive the apologies of Madame and Dr. Jarovisky, and left the field to the enemy.
“A very curious scene indeed,” remarked the Right Honourable Samuel Warren, M. P., to Mrs. Mowbray Thomas. “It is most refreshing to obtain these picturesque glimpses of foreign manners.”
“They’ll have to drop asking that woman into society,” said the English Ambassador. “She is downright dangerous. I never heard of such a thing in my life—striking a pretty, inoffensive girl in a drawing-room.”
“We are perhaps a little insular and restricted, and our drawing-room life is insufficiently supplied with excitement and surprise,” rejoined the Cabinet Minister.
It was some time before the guests fell into the ordinary social groove. Whether they danced, or chatted, or walked about, they managed to keep a careful and apprehensive eye upon the artist who had so unexpectedly upset the universal equilibrium. But Photini tranquilly ate the ice Agiropoulos brought her, indifferent to the general gaze fixed thus upon her, called for a glass of cognac, and then, with a look of bland defiance at Rudolph, who stood leaning sulkily against the wall, announced her intention of playing once only, and then taking her departure. Rudolph neither heeded the purport of her movement nor the direct challenge of her amber glance. His thoughts were away with Andromache, telling him that she was prettier and sweeter than any one in these crowded rooms, wondering if she were crying, and resolving to meet her brother somewhere the next day and to obtain permission to call on her. Photini he simply loathed.
But ah! good heavens, what a horrible test of his hatred! There was that tantalising witch actually playing at him the fatal irresistible “Mélodiés Hongroises.” He closed his eyes, not to be tempted to look at her with softened emotion; steeled his heart against her that it should not melt upon such sound; but he did not shut his ears. And when their eyes met perforce, there was no longer anger in his, and there was triumph in hers.