The servant announced a caller. Frau Eleonore left the piano and turned on the electric lights. A second visitor followed the first, and then a third, and, before long, a little circle was gathered around Franka. Dr. Fixstern had brought to her a number of distinguished personages, just as she had wished—people who either had written successful books, or had played leading parts in parliament, or had delivered popular courses of lectures at the university, or who were famous as artists. There were also a few ministers of state and foreign diplomats. In short, Franka had good reason to expect that the conversation in her drawing-room would be most lively and interesting: discussions of learned topics, alternating with witty anecdotes and edifying observations. Yet she was gradually led to discover that the conversational capacity of society does not reach such a high level. Occasionally, indeed, stirring talk may occur in a salon, but only about as frequently as oases in a desert; the average conversation consists of sand and simooms, for even choice spirits sink down to the banal ground of ordinary topics, especially when in a larger circle of merely casual acquaintances: the weather, the latest theatrical gossip, the sensational news sprung in the morning papers, mingled with still tamer questions and comments on health, projects of travel, and the like. And then it is impossible to form a circle of nothing but prominent people. There will always be an intermixture of cordially futile Nobodies. One cannot post on the front door the notice: “Admittance only for Somebodies!”
Now this afternoon the talk began to take a very interesting direction.
A distinguished dramatic author was telling about certain foreign colleagues whom he had met during a summer journey, and he was relating in his cleverest way characteristic anecdotes about their peculiarities. But first he was to describe the individuality of the most original of the present day—Bernard Shaw. He was interrupted by the arrival of new callers: Miss Albertine von Beck and the Baroness Rinski.
Not very agreeably surprised, Franka went to meet the new guests.
“You, dear Aunt Albertine?”
“I came to Vienna for a few days, and so of course I came to see you, and I am bringing with me a friend who is very desirous of making your acquaintance.”
The Baroness Rinski was a little elderly lady of unprepossessing appearance. Her name was not unknown to Franka; she had frequently seen it in the social columns of the papers among the personages who stand at the head of various charitable organizations.
“I begged my friend to bring me to you, my dear Miss Garlett, as I place great hopes on your aid.”
“If I had known that you were entertaining so many this afternoon,” said Albertine, “we should have come at another hour. I also have a message from Aunt Adele. But you do not look particularly well,” she added in her most benevolent tone of voice.
“Please, come with me, aunt, and you also, Baroness,—here we can talk undisturbed”; and she led the two ladies to the remotest end of the salon. This seemed preferable to introducing the two ladies into the circle of the others; they could continue listening to the revelations concerning Bernard Shaw while she sacrificed herself to her new visitors. She certainly felt that she was a martyr as she sat down with the two and tried to be gracious.