He sits between Elsa and the wife of his nephew, the Freiherr, the elder Rhoeden, and, as he gulps down his potage à la reine, tells both ladies of his new Achenbach, which cost him 4,000 gulden, which does not seem at all dear to him; as, besides a great deal of sunset, there are thirty-four figures in the picture--he has counted them--and in the background something else, he does not know whether it is a buffalo or ruins. "They almost persuaded me to buy a Daubigny, a Frenchman, I think--a green sauce--what a sauce! I said no, thank you. I like spinach and eggs, I said; but spinach and cows--but--and such cows! without tails or horns--regular daubs of colors. These Frenchmen are tricky. Really, people are cheated by them." Thus concludes Papa Harfink, the art critic.
Elsa only half listens to him. Her eyes wander wearily over the table with its stiff floral decorations and its heavy silverware, "real silver, and not plate," assures Papa Harfink.
Of the men, the last generation are broad-shouldered, red-faced; a sparse beard curls around their full cheeks, a sharp glance, on the lookout for profit, shoots from their small eyes. The past generation breathe loudly, pick their teeth continually, wear too tight rings on too fat fingers, and without exception, a thick gold chain with a diamond medallion over their stomachs.
The present generation are sickly, dissipated, and have something of the jockey and something of the valet who copies his master.
The pride of the whole family is centred in Eugene von Rhoeden, the blond good-for-nothing, who has as many debts as a cavalier, who was educated in the Theresanium, and once had a quarrel with a watchman.
Of the women, some are pretty, none are pleasing; they have all good dressmakers; none are well dressed.
The usually pale face of a "certain Baron Lanzberg" begins to flush feverishly; without eating a mouthful he hastily swallows one glass of wine after another.
"Try this delicious salmon; permit me to help you," the charming host turns to Elsa. She makes a desperate attempt to do justice to the salmon. "Strange," remarks Von Harfink, "my mother used to say that when she was young salmon was cheaper than beef, now it is very dear."
Elsa has laid down her fork in despair. "I am behind the times," says she. "I still am frightened by a telegram, and always feel nervous at a wedding." She smiles sadly, and two charming dimples appear in her cheeks.
Papa Harfink continues to urge her to eat. "You must taste this salmi, Baroness," he entreats. "Monsieur Galatin, my cook, would be unhappy if he learned that every one had not eaten some of his salmi. Pâte à la Kotschubey, he calls it. Only to-day, this Galatin said to me: 'Ah, Monsieur le Chevalier, when I think how often Prince Kotschubey got his stomach out of order with my salmi. The physicians said he died of gastrosis, ah! he died of my salmi.'"