It happened that on the occasion when the Jatinskys first went to one of these parties Tulpin the Russian genius whose great work had served as the introduction to the Ilsenbergh tableaux, was elaborating a new opera to a French libretto on a national Russian story. He was, of course, one of those Russians who combine a passionate devotion to the national Slav cause with a fervent wish to be mistaken for born Parisians wherever they appear. The piano groaned under his hands, while sundry favorite phrases from Orphée aux Enfers and other well-known works were heard above the rolling sea of tremolos. From time to time the performer threw in a word to elucidate the situation: "The czar speaks...." "The bojar speaks...." "The peasant speaks...." "The sighing of the wind in the Caucasus...." "The foaming of the torrent...." While Mr. Ellis, who believed implicitly in the opera, was heard murmuring: "Splendid! ... magnificent! The opera must be worked out--it must not remain unperformed!"
"Worked out!" sighed Tulpin with melancholy irony. "That is no concern of mine. We--we have the ideas, the working out we leave to--to--to others, in short. You must remember that I cannot read a note of music--literally, not a note," he repeated with intense and visible satisfaction, and he flung off a few stumbling arpeggios, while Mr. Ellis cried: "Astonishing!" and compared him with Mendelssohn, which Tulpin, who believed only in the music of the future, took very much amiss. A Grand Prix de Musique, from the French academy of arts at the Villa Medici, who had been waiting more than an hour to perform his "Arab symphony," muttered to himself: "Good heavens! leave music to us, and let us be thankful that we are not great folks!"
At last Lady Julia took pity on her guests and invited them to go to take tea; every one was only too glad to accept, and in a few minutes the music room was almost empty. Madame Tulpin, out of devotion, the Grand Prix out of spite, and Mr. Ellis out of duty were all that remained within hearing. In the adjoining room every one had burst into conversation over their tea; still, a certain gloom prevailed. Melancholy seemed to have fallen upon the party like an epidemic, and the subject that was most eagerly discussed was the easiest mode of suicide.
Tulpin rattled and thumped on; suddenly he stopped--the Jatinskys had come in, and their advent was such a godsend that even the genius abandoned the piano in their honor. They all three were smiling in the most friendly--it might almost be said the most reassuring manner; for Countess Ilsenbergh had not failed to impress upon them the very mixed character of Roman society, and, feeling their own superiority, they were able to cover their self-consciousness with the most engaging amiability. The two younger ladies were surrounded--besieged--and the strange thing was that the women paid them even greater homage than the men. Everything about them was admired: their small feet, their finely-cut profiles, their incredibly slender waists, the color of their hair, the artistic simplicity of their dresses--and bets were laid as to whether these were the production of Fanet or of Worth. But now there was the little commotion in the next room that is caused by the arrival of some very popular person. Zinka, without her mother, under her brother's escort only, came in and gave her slim hand with an affectionate greeting to the lady of the house.
"You are an incorrigible truant, you always come too late;" said Lady Julia in loving reproach.
"Like repentance and the police," said Zinka merrily; and then Lady Julia introduced her to Countess Jatinska.
"But you must help me with the tea; you know I always reckon on you for that," Lady Julia went on. "Give your charming countrywomen some, will you?"
Polyxena and Nini were sitting a yard or two off, surrounded by all the young men of Rome; Zinka was going towards them with her winning grace of manner when Sempaly happened to come up, and found himself so unexpectedly face to face with her that he had no alternative but to shake hands, and he could not avoid saying a few words. Of course--like any other man in his place--he made precisely the most unlucky speech he could possibly have hit upon:
"We have not met for some time."
She looked him in the face but of half-shut eyes, with her head slightly thrown back, and replied, with very becoming defiance: