Count Stefan, a cousin of Countess Theudelinde, was a great help to her soirées, for he was a well-informed and cultivated young man, able to talk on all subjects, and especially on the poetry of the world. As for the Countess Angela, she was a classic beauty; her grandfather was a political celebrity—a great man, who had a surrounding of all kinds, bad and good. It was therefore quite in keeping, according to the usages of society, that when an unfortunate outsider was presented to Countess Angela, he should, after the third word or so, make mention of her illustrious grandfather, Prince Theobald of Bondavara, and inquire after his health. After this question, however, the Countess Angela never addressed the stranger another word. She allowed him to speak, if he so wished, and to retire in some confusion. Even the most dried-up specimen of university learning felt aggrieved. His heart could not resist the first glance of those heavenly eyes, so sweet and friendly, now so cold and haughty. And yet what had he done? The poor man will probably never know; he is not in the inner circle.
Countess Angela was indeed a perfect ideal beauty; this cannot be too often repeated. A pure, noble face, with classical, well-proportioned features, nose and lips finely cut, long, straight eyebrows and lashes, which veiled the eyes of a goddess. When these eyes glowed, or when they were half-closed under their downy lids, they looked black, but when they laughed at you, you would swear they were blue. Her hair was rich, of that most lovely of all shades, chestnut brown; her whole countenance betrayed that she knew herself to be charming, that she was aware that she was the centre, at all times, of admiration, and that such knowledge pleased her well. And why not? A woman must be very silly not to be aware that beauty is a gift and a power.
But what was the reason of her cold looks at the mention of her grandfather's name? Just what one might expect from a woman with her face. All the world—that is, her world—knew that she and her grandfather, Prince Theobald of Bondavara, were at daggers drawn. The wily old politician had given his only and beautiful granddaughter to a German, Prince Sondersheim. She was to consolidate some political matter, only she didn't see it in that light, and refused to ratify the bargain, not caring for Sondersheim; and, for the matter of that, neither did he care for her. But, then, it didn't mean so much to him. Angela had her ideal of married life, however, and so she quarrelled with her grandfather because he pooh-poohed her ideals and called them romantic folly. Upon this she vowed she would never speak to him again, and he, being angry, told her to leave his house, which she did at once, and came to her Aunt Theudelinde, who had just set up at Pesth, and was glad to have so bright and beautiful a niece. Since then she had refused all communication with her grandfather. This was the reason that she would not even hear his name mentioned; and it never was, except by ignorant outsiders, or "know-nothings," as the Yankees call them.
The Abbé Samuel had wit enough to see that the Soirées Amalgamantes were not the success they should be. Conversation did not suffice; amalgamation was at a standstill. The young girls sat in one room, the married women in another; the men herded together, looking glum, but not so bored as the women. Then the abbé, considering what ought to be done, had a happy idea. He introduced dramatic representations, dramatic readings, concerts, which were a decided success. Soon conversation became lively, strangers got to know one another; when they rehearsed together duets and little pieces their stiffness wore off. The women seemed different in morning dress, free from the restraints of the grand toilette; they grew quite friendly, and later on they found a subject upon which they discoursed quite at their ease. It must be confessed, however, that after midnight, when the readings, the concert, or the representation was over, and the outsiders had gone home to their beds, society began to enjoy itself. The young people danced, the old played whist or tarok, and they stayed till daybreak. They would have done the same had the scientists, the poets, the artists remained; they didn't want them to leave, but, naturally, these people felt themselves out of it, and, besides, they could not sit up all night like the others, so they went home very properly; they knew their place.
The Abbé Samuel understood how to manage matters. Whenever the countess was to have a particularly good evening he took care it should get talked about, and the names of the performers, their parentage and history, together with any interesting circumstance, true or false, should be subjects of conversation for days before. In this way he sent about Ivan Behrend's name with a great many details as to his interesting life in the mines, his extraordinary cleverness, and the wonderful lecture he was going to give at the countess's next soirée.
The abbé knew his world, and how to whet its curiosity by exaggerated reports.
"Is it true that, for one experiment only, he burned a brilliant belonging to Countess Theudelinde which was worth eight hundred gulden?"
"The stone weighed four carats, and was worth fifteen hundred pounds."
"We must give him a good reception. See, here he comes, escorted by Abbé Samuel!"
The gentleman who had just spoken, and who was the Countess Angela's cousin, was Count Edmund, a handsome young man of about twenty-two years of age. He hastened to meet Ivan and the abbé as they entered the door, and introduced himself as nephew to the lady of the house. He took Ivan by the arm in the most friendly manner, and led him to Count Stefan, uncle to the countess. The count was a man of intelligence and reading; he assured Ivan there were those in the room who were much interested to hear his lecture. After this he was presented by his new friend to several distinguished-looking persons with decorations, who all pressed his hand, and spoke in the most friendly manner. The beginning of the evening was the most agreeable portion. The abbé and Ivan finally made their way into the next room, where the ladies were assembled, and here they found the Countess Theudelinde, who received them, and especially Ivan, most graciously. The young man, Count Edmund, again took possession of him, and, laughing and talking, led him up to the Countess Angela, to whom he was introduced with a great flourish. Before this lovely vision Ivan bowed, feeling somewhat stunned, yet not shy or awkward.