He did not listen long, for there could be, he thought, no better moment in which to enter the room unnoticed than just when every one was occupied in listening to the music; he softly opened the door and entered.
His first glance fell upon the performer, whose back was towards him, his second upon a tall mirror opposite that reflected her face and figure. Involuntarily he stood still.
He had heard that Bertha von Massenburg was beautiful, and Herr von Sastrow's letter had confirmed the report, but the image reflected in the mirror amazed him by its wondrous, transporting beauty,--beauty consisting not only in faultless regularity of feature, but much more in the strange loveliness of expression, in the gentle smile of the delicately-chiselled mouth, in the dark, fiery eyes that sparkled beneath long lashes, in the grace which informed every motion of the full yet slender figure. A piano-player is seldom graceful in the exercise of her art, but with Bertha von Massenburg even the rapid movement of hands and fingers as they flew over the keys seemed natural and beautiful; therein lay one charm of her playing, and yet, masterly as it was, it lacked something,--it lacked depth of feeling. Was it really lacking? or was there no opportunity for its revelation in a brilliant drawing-room piece of music, which was calculated to display merely the execution and skill of the performer?
Egon remained standing near the door, after bowing to Herr and Frau von Osternau, and exchanging glances in the mirror with Lieschen, who stood with her back to him, turning over the leaves for her cousin. At last the piece was concluded; the performer arose, and was greeted with enthusiastic applause from the Lieutenant, who advanced from the recess of a window. Herr von Osternau also expressed his admiration of the performance. "Brilliant indeed," he said. "You are an artist, not a dilettante. You will have all the more pleasure in making the acquaintance of another artist in our Fritz's tutor, Herr Pigglewitch, whom I beg leave to present to you."
The smile which Egon's assumed name when first heard was sure to provoke hovered upon Bertha's lips as she turned to the tutor, looking at him with evident interest and curiosity. Her glance took in his entire figure, his movements, his bow upon being presented, in short, she observed him so closely as almost to embarrass him, as she said, easily, "My kind uncle pays a very high compliment to my indifferent performance in ranking me with you, Herr Pigglewitch,"--the smile deepened on the charming mouth. "I have heard that you are a true artist, and had I known that you were standing behind me I might have hesitated to continue my performance and subject myself to your criticism."
She had seen Egon in the mirror upon his first entrance, and he knew that this was so, for their glances had met. "I hate falsehood!" Lieschen had said. Why was Bertha untrue? Where was her inducement to be so? Had untruth become to her a second nature, as to so many women of the world of society? Egon suddenly felt himself transported to the old life which he knew so well,--Herr von Osternau's pleasant room changed to a brilliant ball-room, and before him stood one of the ball-room puppets whom he so hated and despised, particularly when they tried to make themselves attractive by flattering him.
Involuntarily he stood more erect. The disdainful smile which Lieschen had so disliked, and which she had not seen of late, appeared on his lips as he replied, "Is it possible that you fear criticism, Fräulein? A mastery of technique is the ideal of our modern art. You are certainly aware that the sternest critic would not withhold his recognition of the brilliancy of your execution, but must pronounce you a virtuoso indeed."
"A virtuoso? My kind uncle called me an artist, and I was proud that he did so."
"Who makes such subtile distinctions nowadays? The virtuoso is the only true artist. He alone represents the true modern ideal; he is never led astray by the genius, now so out of fashion, of wearisome classical music."
Her eyes flashed. "You think you can interpret this genius, or you would not pass such a criticism upon modern art," Bertha replied, sharply. "Pray take my place at the piano. He who pronounces such sentences must justify them by his own performance."