I met him again at a reception, and was having a most charming conversation with him about Goethe, whom he was dissecting in his keen way, when in came Mr. and Mrs. N. I knew at once that there was an end of our delightful talk, for though Mrs. N. has a most fascinating and high-bred husband herself, and is, moreover, extremely jealous of him, she is never content unless the most agreeable man in the room is devoted to her, also. Sure enough, she came straight toward us, and took occasion to whisper some senseless thing in my ear. Of course Mr. P. had to offer her his seat. She was, however, not quite bare-faced enough to take it, but she had succeeded in breaking the tête-à-tête and in distracting his attention. Soon after another gentleman came up to speak to me, Mr. P. bowed, and for the rest of the evening he was pinned to Mrs. N.'s side. Such are the satisfactions of parties! Either one does not meet any one worth talking to, or the conversation is sure to be interrupted. It takes these women of the world, like Mrs. N., to get the plums out of the pudding.
However, seeing him dance gave me almost as much pleasure as talking with him. He has this air of having danced millions of Germans, and is grace and elegance incarnate. Just at the end of the party, he asked me for a turn, and we took three long ones. I never enjoyed dancing so much. He manages to annihilate his legs entirely, and his arm, though strong, is so light that you feel yourself borne along like a bubble, and are only conscious that you are sustained and guided. He inspired me so that I danced really well, but when he complimented me, I basely refrained from letting him know it was all owing to him! By a funny coincidence he is the son of that elegant Mrs. P. who was on the steamer with me, and his father is very prominent in politics. I remember perfectly the pride with which Mrs. P. spoke to me of this son, and how slightly interested I was. He accompanied her to the steamer, and in fact the first time I saw her was when Mr. T., who was standing by me on the deck, said, "That was a mother's kiss," as she rapturously embraced him on taking leave. I didn't notice Mr. P. at all, though he says he remembers me perfectly standing there. He is going, or has gone, to Russia, and from there he will rejoin his family in Paris. That is the worst of being abroad. Charming people pass over your path like comets and disappear never to be seen again.
By the way, I now feel equal to anything in the shape of a German dance. Perhaps that may seem to you a trifling statement; but little do you know on the subject if it does. If you've ever read "Fitz Boodle's Confessions," you will remember that he represents the German dancing as a thing fearful and wonderful to the inexperienced, and how the match between him and Dorothea was broken off by his falling with her during the waltz, and rolling over and over. Here everybody dances, old and young, and you'll see fat old married ladies waddle off with their gray and spindle-shanked husbands. Declining doesn't help you in the least, and you are liable to be whisked off without notice by some old fellow who revolves with you like lightning on the tips of his toes, his coat-tails flying at an angle of considerably more than forty-five degrees. Reversing is unknown, and consequently you see the room go spinning round with you.
I always thought, though, that if one could take their steps, it might be pretty good fun. So, after a pause of three years, I finally concluded this winter to go to some German balls and try it again. The first one I attended was an artists' ball. There was first a little concert (at which I played), then a supper at ten o'clock, and then the dancing began. The dancing cards were handed round at supper, and my various acquaintances came up to ask me for different dances. The first one asked me for the Polonaise. "Delighted!" said I;—not that I had the remotest idea what a "polonaise" was, but I was determined not to flinch. The second engaged me for the "Quadrille à la Cour," and the third for the "Rheinlaender," etc., etc. I assented to everything with outward alacrity, but with some inward trepidation, for I thought it rather a bold stroke to get up at a large ball and attempt to dance a string of things I had never heard of! However, I was in luck. The Polonaise turned out to be merely walking, but in different figures, and this, before the conclusion of it, makes you continually change partners until you have promenaded and spoken with every one of the opposite sex in the room. This is to get the whole party acquainted. When you finally get back to your own partner, it breaks up with a waltz, and so ends.
My partner was a young artist, half painter, half musician, and a very intelligent and in fact charming talker. Like most artists, his dress was rather at sixes and sevens. He had on a swallow-tailed coat, but it did not fit him, so I conclude it was borrowed or hired for the occasion. It was so wide, and so long, that when I saw him dancing with some one else, I thought I must have made a laughable figure with him, for he was small into the bargain. However, he had that sunny, happy-go-lucky way about him that all artists have when they're in good humour, and he was a capital dancer. When I came back to him at the end of the Polonaise I started off with a mental "Now for it," for the waltz was the thing I was most afraid of; but to my surprise, I got on most beautifully. Emboldened by success, I went on recklessly. "Rheinlaender" turned out to be the schottisch, and "Quadrille à la Cour" the lancers, so I was all right. They had to be danced in the German sense of the word, of course, but with courage it is possible to do it. Since this ball I have been to two others, and am now pronounced by the gentlemen to be a finished dancer. I don't know how I learned, but it seemed to come to me with a sudden inspiration.
CHAPTER XVI.
A German Professor. Sherwood. The Baroness von S.
Von Bülow. A German Party. Joachim.
The Baroness at Home.
BERLIN, February 25, 1873.
At Mr. P.'s we had a charming dinner the other day, which was as sociable as possible, though we sat thirteen at table. Think what an oversight! I believe though, that I was the only one who perceived it. I sat next to a German professor, who is said to speak sixty-four languages! He had a little compact head, which looked as if it were stuffed and crammed to the utmost. I reflected a long time which of his sixty-four languages I should start him on, but finally concluded that as I spoke English with tolerable fluency we would confine ourselves to that! He was perfectly delightful to talk to, as all these German savans are, and I got a lot of new ideas from him. He had been writing a pamphlet on the subject of love, as considered in various ancient and modern languages, and in it he proves that the passion of love used to be quite a different thing from what it is now. All this ideality of sentiment is entirely modern.
My friend Miss B. is playing exquisitely now, and Sherwood is going ahead like a young giant. To-day Kullak said that Sherwood played Beethoven's E flat major concerto (the hardest of all Beethoven's concertos) with a perfection that he had rarely heard equalled. So much for being a genius, for he is still under twenty, and has only been abroad a year or two. But he studied with our best American master, William Mason, and played like an artist before he came. But, then, Sherwood has one enormous advantage that no master on earth can bestow, and that is, perfect confidence in himself. There's nothing like having faith in yourself, and I believe that is the kind of faith that "moves mountains."