XIII
Frau Wahnschaffe had decided to arrange a spring festival. It was to illustrate all the splendour which was, on such occasions, traditional in the house of Wahnschaffe. Councils were held in which the major-domo, the housekeeper, the mistress’ companion and the countess took part. Frau Wahnschaffe presided at the sessions with the severity of a judge. The countess was interested principally in the question of food and drink.
“My own darling,” she said to Letitia, “seventy-five lobsters have been ordered, and two hundred bottles of champagne brought up from the cellar. I am completely overwhelmed. I haven’t been so overwhelmed since my wedding.”
Letitia stood there in her slenderness and smiled. The words of the countess were music to her. She wanted to lend wings to the days that still separated her from the festival. She trembled whenever a cloud floated across the sky.
Often she scarcely knew how to muffle the jubilation in her own heart. How wonderful, she thought, that one feels what one feels and that things really are as they are. No poet’s verse, no painter’s vision could vie with the power of her imagination, which made all happenings pure gold and was impenetrable to the shadow of disappointment. Her life was rich—a pure gift of fate.
She merged into one the boundaries of dream and reality. She made up her mind to dream as other people determine to take a walk, and the dim and lawless character of her dream world seemed utterly natural.
One day she spoke of a book that she had read. “It is beautiful beyond belief.” She described the people, the scene, and the moving fortunes of the book with such intensity and enthusiasm that all who heard her were anxious to find the book. But she knew neither its title nor the name of the author. They asked her: “Where is the book? Where did you get it? When did you read it?” “Yesterday,” she replied. “It must be somewhere about.” She hesitated. She was begged to find it. And while she seemed to be reflecting helplessly, Judith said to her: “Perhaps you only dreamed it all.” She cast down her eyes and crossed her arms over her bosom with an inimitable gesture and answered with a sense of guilt: “Yes, it seems to me that I did merely dream it all.”
Christian asked Crammon: “Do you think that’s mere affectation?”
“Not that,” answered Crammon, “and yet a bit of feminine trickery. God has provided this sex with many dazzling weapons wherewith to overthrow us.”