"Hm! You have very virtuous principles, Rudi; for some time you have moved wholly in the icy regions of lofty feelings of duty, where the tender flowers of the affections never bloom," laughs Pistasch. "I admire you, upon my word, but--hm--I do not trace the slightest desire to follow you into this rare atmosphere," and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He considered his cousin's conscientiousness either feigned or morbid. How could one be conscientious with women? Conscientious in regard to debts of honor, that is something quite different, that is self-understood; but regarding governesses--bah!
"Count Pistasch Kamenz is a charming man." So at least say all the ladies and also all the men who have not yet come in conflict with him. He has the handsomest blond cinque-cento face, speaks the Viennese jargon with the most aristocratic accent, and possesses the most enviable talents. He rides like Renz, dances like Frappart, and more than that, in private theatricals he is like Blasel, Matras and Knaak in one person. In all Austria, no man has a greater talent for representing Polish Jews, poverty-stricken Czechs, drunken valets, provincials of all kinds. But his greatest triumph is the "Vienna shoemaker's boy." What accuracy of costume and grimaces! The ladies say he has a pug nose when he plays the shoemaker's boy, and a way of sticking out his tongue--ah!
He has played for benevolent objects a hundred times, and in Vienna is a universally known and boundlessly popular individual, because he is intimate with actresses, occasionally from a freak rides in an omnibus, or another time is seen in the standing place of the opera house (for a half act), because one sometimes meets him in sausage houses, because in rainy weather he walks with an umbrella and upturned trousers, because once even--the gods and a pretty girl alone know why--he travelled from Salzburg to Vienna second class.
The public see in him a pleasant, affable man without pride, and feel drawn to him like a brother. Poor public! I would not advise you to stretch out your hardened hand to him, for between ourselves Count Pistasch is one of the most arrogant of Austrian cavaliers.
The actors with whom he one evening drinks friendship, and the next greets with "Hm!--ah--You, Mr.---- what do you call him," can tell this. One of them once challenged him. This was a great joke to the Count; he laughed until he cried, could not control himself, and finally settled it thus: "You are a fine fellow, am very sorry, etc., deserve an order for personal bravery--ah--if I can be of any service to you," etc.
He has never been outside of Austria, possesses the vaguest ideas of history. The French Revolution is a kind of accidental calamity for him, something between the earthquakes of Lisbon and the pest in Florence. He is a strict Catholic from aristocratic tradition, has very good manners when he wishes, speaks French well, and we can assure our readers, that just as he is, without a suspicion of the "principles of '89," he would be received with open arms in the most republican salons of Paris, and would be admired by the ladies for his "pureté de race" and "grand air."
Now we need only add that he naturally was not christened Pistasch--that this is a humorous nickname which was given him as a boy, by reason of his idealistic "greenness," but which now, when this greenness has long withered, is preserved for the sake of contrast.
"Well, have you decided upon the day when you will invite the Lanzberg?" asks Scirocco of his sister, who, after long pondering, gold pencil in hand over a little velvet-bound book in which she enters her social obligations, now closes it.
"It is very hard," complains the Countess.
"When did this unfortunate Madame Lanzberg call upon you? Oh, yes. Wednesday. Have you returned her call yet?"