XIII.
"We really must invite her," says, in a mournful tone, Countess Mimi Dey, a large stately woman, with a too high forehead, a feature which has the proud advantage of being a family inheritance in the Sempaly family, an aristocratic, small, turn-up nose, a benevolent smile, and a near-sighted glance.
The Countess is the best woman in the world, of proverbial good nature and unfeigned condescension in association with music-teachers, governesses, companions, maids, tutors and officials, and such poor devils who are paid and supported by the aristocracy, and politely courtesy to them; but she is unapproachably stiff to the upper middle classes, those persons who demand a place in society.
She belongs to that exclusive coterie which considers itself the sole patented extract of humanity, and looks upon all the rest of the world as only a common herd, a mob which, under certain circumstances, permits itself to pay its servants better, and to give more to charitable aims than princely houses, a mob which speaks French, wears Swedish gloves, and lives in palaces. She has a vague idea that it speaks incorrect French, that under the gloves coarse hands are concealed, that the palaces are always furnished with the taste of first-class waiting-rooms, but knows nothing definite about it, does not know "these people" at all, does not see them, although they are everywhere--they do not exist for her.
They tell an amusing anecdote of her: that once at the opera on a Patti evening, her cousin Pistasch Kamenz entered her box, and asked her, "Is any one in the theatre to-night?" She, after she had glanced around the crowded building, answered mournfully, "Not a soul!"
What particularly amuses the Countess is that, as she hears, this great class of bourgeoise, "which one does not know," is, on its side, divided by various differences in education and condition into classes which do not "know" each other.
"I really must invite her," she repeats, mournfully.
She leans back in a deep arm-chair in a large drawing-room with brown wainscoting and numerous family portraits, and smokes a cigarette.
"Pardon me that I really cannot so deeply pity you as you seem to expect," replies Scirocco Sempaly, who, now on leave, occupies a second armchair opposite his sister.
"Hm! I do not care about the positive fact; last week I dined with my bailiff's wife, but--it is a matter of principle."
"Cent a'as," says, with indifferent gravity, an old acquaintance of ours, Eugene von Rhoeden, who sits by an open window before a mediæval inlaid table and plays bézique with the above-mentioned cousin of the hostess, Count Pistasch Kamenz.
"Cent d'as," he says, apparently wholly absorbed in his cards, and moves an ivory counter.
A mild gentle rain is falling, the perfume of half-drowned roses and fresh foliage floats into the room. In one corner sits the only daughter of the widowed hostess, Countess Elli, a dark little girl in a white muslin frock, and near her, in a black silk gown, the governess.
The obligatory half hour which Elli must spend in the drawing-room so as to become accustomed to society, is over. Elli is rejoiced, sixteen-year-old girl that she is. She takes no particular pleasure in the society of grown people, who can no longer pet her as a child, and who must not yet treat her as a young lady.
A rustle of silk and muslin, a shy "Bon soir!" and Mademoiselle retreats with her charge.
Scirocco rises to open the door for the governess, makes her a deep bow as she disappears. Rhoeden also rises, only Pistasch indolently remains seated.
"Pistasch, you might trouble yourself to say good evening to Mademoiselle," says the Countess half jokingly.
"Pardon," replies Pistasch, "pure absent-mindedness, Mimi, and then she is so homely."
"That simplifies matters ten-fold," replies Scirocco, hastily. "One can never be too polite to homely governesses--it is only the pretty ones that are troublesome."
"I do not understand that," says Pistasch, and marks double bézique.
"One never knows how one can be attentive enough to them so as not to vex them, and yet reserved enough not to impress them," says Scirocco, dryly.
"Hm! You have very virtuous principles, Rudi; for some time you have moved wholly in the icy regions of lofty feelings of duty, where the tender flowers of the affections never bloom," laughs Pistasch. "I admire you, upon my word, but--hm--I do not trace the slightest desire to follow you into this rare atmosphere," and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He considered his cousin's conscientiousness either feigned or morbid. How could one be conscientious with women? Conscientious in regard to debts of honor, that is something quite different, that is self-understood; but regarding governesses--bah!
"Count Pistasch Kamenz is a charming man." So at least say all the ladies and also all the men who have not yet come in conflict with him. He has the handsomest blond cinque-cento face, speaks the Viennese jargon with the most aristocratic accent, and possesses the most enviable talents. He rides like Renz, dances like Frappart, and more than that, in private theatricals he is like Blasel, Matras and Knaak in one person. In all Austria, no man has a greater talent for representing Polish Jews, poverty-stricken Czechs, drunken valets, provincials of all kinds. But his greatest triumph is the "Vienna shoemaker's boy." What accuracy of costume and grimaces! The ladies say he has a pug nose when he plays the shoemaker's boy, and a way of sticking out his tongue--ah!
He has played for benevolent objects a hundred times, and in Vienna is a universally known and boundlessly popular individual, because he is intimate with actresses, occasionally from a freak rides in an omnibus, or another time is seen in the standing place of the opera house (for a half act), because one sometimes meets him in sausage houses, because in rainy weather he walks with an umbrella and upturned trousers, because once even--the gods and a pretty girl alone know why--he travelled from Salzburg to Vienna second class.
The public see in him a pleasant, affable man without pride, and feel drawn to him like a brother. Poor public! I would not advise you to stretch out your hardened hand to him, for between ourselves Count Pistasch is one of the most arrogant of Austrian cavaliers.
The actors with whom he one evening drinks friendship, and the next greets with "Hm!--ah--You, Mr.---- what do you call him," can tell this. One of them once challenged him. This was a great joke to the Count; he laughed until he cried, could not control himself, and finally settled it thus: "You are a fine fellow, am very sorry, etc., deserve an order for personal bravery--ah--if I can be of any service to you," etc.
He has never been outside of Austria, possesses the vaguest ideas of history. The French Revolution is a kind of accidental calamity for him, something between the earthquakes of Lisbon and the pest in Florence. He is a strict Catholic from aristocratic tradition, has very good manners when he wishes, speaks French well, and we can assure our readers, that just as he is, without a suspicion of the "principles of '89," he would be received with open arms in the most republican salons of Paris, and would be admired by the ladies for his "pureté de race" and "grand air."
Now we need only add that he naturally was not christened Pistasch--that this is a humorous nickname which was given him as a boy, by reason of his idealistic "greenness," but which now, when this greenness has long withered, is preserved for the sake of contrast.
"Well, have you decided upon the day when you will invite the Lanzberg?" asks Scirocco of his sister, who, after long pondering, gold pencil in hand over a little velvet-bound book in which she enters her social obligations, now closes it.
"It is very hard," complains the Countess.
"When did this unfortunate Madame Lanzberg call upon you? Oh, yes. Wednesday. Have you returned her call yet?"
"No; I must show her from the first that I am in no hurry to associate with her," says the Countess.
"Hm!" says Scirocco, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed upon the ceiling. "Do you not think, Mimi, that as quite a near relation of Lanzberg it would be the thing for you to smooth the way a little for his wife? It would be an act of Christian charity."
"The matter is very complicated, Rudi," replied Mimi Dey. "I was always very sorry for Felix--you know I decidedly took his part. I have nothing against his wife; her manner is indeed deplorable, but on the whole, if some little poverty-stricken Sempaly or Dey had married her, I should have been the last to withdraw my protection from her. In Felix's unfortunate circumstances, he has proved by his marriage that he no longer belongs to his caste; he has abdicated, voilà."
Rhoeden and Pistasch have finished their game of bézique, and now devote themselves to the building of interesting card-houses. They spice this intelligent occupation by considerable wagers, which he shall win whose card-house remains standing the longest. Up to now Rhoeden has had the advantage. But the Countess's words seem to have excited him a very little--his card-houses no longer stand.
Scirocco bites his lips, every finger quivers--how can he counsel his sister to silence or at least consideration? In vain he turns his back to Rhoeden, so as to make an impression upon her by energetic scowling. Soon he notices, like many subtle diplomats, that he has naïvely exposed himself to the enemy. His energetic play of expression beams at him from a mirror in which the attentively watching Rhoeden could certainly solve the interesting riddle--but it wholly escapes his short-sighted sister.
"As she, nevertheless, must be invited, it would perhaps be better to fix the day," cries Scirocco, somewhat impatiently.
"It cannot be this week," answers the Countess, counting over the days. "Thursday, Friday and Saturday are the days of the fair for the flooded people in Marienbad; Sunday, the ladies of the committee dine at the M----'s, Monday there are private theatricals at the M----'s, Thursday, the L----'s dine with me----"
"Well, invite them for Thursday," cries Scirocco. "She is really very nice, sings chansonettes like Judic; she will amuse you greatly."
"Do you think so?" cries the Countess. "Before Felix was married, L---- would hardly bow to him, how will it be now? No, Wednesday. Wednesday will be the best, but still I cannot exactly invite her en famille."
"Hardly," says Scirocco, dryly.
"And whom can I ask to meet her? One has an antipathy to Felix, others to her----" the Countess laughs lightly and kindles a fresh cigarette. "One must be so careful--it would be very disagreeable for me if toward evening some one should accidentally come over from Marienbad, and should meet her here."
"Have a warning fastened over the door as when one has small-pox in the house," laughs Pistasch.
"Invite the Garzins," proposes Scirocco.
"Yes, that is something, but a strange element is still desirable," remarks the Countess. "What do you say to the Klette?"
Scirocco frowns. "I do not understand how respectable people can tolerate this poisonous old gossiping viper under their roofs," he answers, angrily.
"Neither do I," replies Mimi Dey, obligingly, "but still every one does."
"I make you another proposition, Mimi," cries Pistasch: "Invite old Harfink by telegram; I think he will come by special train."
The Countess smiled. "I should certainly do it," remarks she, "but I believe the Lanzberg would look upon it as a mortal insult. Besides, when did you make his acquaintance?"
"I met him once on the train, and thereupon he invited me to dinner," explains Pistasch.
"And you accepted?" asks the Countess, raising her eyebrows.
"Why of course--I thought I should amuse myself as well as at the Carl Theatre. Yes--that was what I fancied. What a disappointment! The dinner was not bad, perfectly correct, alas! The wife spoke of nothing but the evils of the social question. I did not know where to look, and the husband spoke of nothing but the evils of his stomach. Except for that, they were both very charming, on my word. Paid me compliments to my face with a sans gêne. Bah! I was never very kindly disposed to Felix, but I pity him on account of this match. For my part I should rather marry into a Hottentot family than such people."
I do not believe that during this speech Eugene Rhoeden felt exactly upon roses.
There are parvenus who listen in society to such speeches with self-satisfied indifference; yes, even laugh at them, and applying the English proverb, "Present company always excepted," to their own case, fancy themselves unreferred to. But Rhoeden does not belong to these enviable ones.
He smiles slightly to himself, and after the conversation had continued for some time in a similar manner he begins:
"There was once a French poet named Voltaire, and once when he went to London the street boys laughed at him, and sang mocking songs about Frenchmen. Then the poet turned round and said: 'You good people, is it not hard enough not to have been born among you? Really, you should pity us, not despise us!'"
After this little anecdote a universal silence followed, then Scirocco cried, "Bravo, Rhoeden!"
The good-natured Countess Dey blushed and said:
"We had entirely forgotten that you are related to these people," which sounds like a betise, but is balm for Eugene's vanity. Pistasch, however, puts on an irritated expression, and cries with his colossal impertinence, "I pity you uncommonly!"
Half an hour later the Countess is conferring in her dressing-room with her maid concerning her costume for to-morrow, and Pistasch has seated himself in a bad temper at the piano, where with his handsome, unpractised hands he thumps out the march from Norma, the only achievement of a ten years' study of music.
Scirocco and Rhoeden stand below on the rain-wet terrace. "Your cigar bores me," cries Scirocco, "throw it away and fill your lungs with pure air," and he draws a deep breath so as to enjoy the fragrance of the summer evening after the rain.
Eugene does as he is invited, and then asks, "Do you not admire my compliance?"
"You are a good fellow; one can get along with you," answers Scirocco in his abrupt manner.
"Thanks for the acknowledgment," says Rhoeden, not without bitterness. "Sometimes I ask myself whether it would not be better and more sensible for me to pack my trunk."
"Don't see the necessity," growls Scirocco.
"I am really not sure," says Rhoeden; "for between ourselves it is pleasanter to hear Pistasch make fun of my uncle than to hear my uncle rave over Pistasch when the latter has accidentally met him and said: 'Ah! good day, Mr.---- what is your name--Mr. Harfink?'"
"Curious world!" murmurs Scirocco, smiling to himself.
Rhoeden, seeing him in a particularly good temper, makes use of the opportunity to ask him:
"Say, what is the story about Lanzberg?"
Scirocco is silent for a while; looks apparently absently before him, and then suddenly cries brusquely, "What did you ask?"
"Whether you think we will have fine weather to-morrow," replies Rhoeden.
Scirocco glances at him peculiarly with a half smile, behind which the words "Clever dog" may be read.
That evening Eugene writes in the diary in which, instead of sentimental impressions, he notes down all freshly-acquired worldly wisdom:
"Never ask society, except concerning things which you already know."