She was eagerly endeavoring to persuade the count and countess, that they could do nothing wiser than to make up their minds to accompany her to Italy, and described so drolly the pleasures of a journey with hundreds of adventures, attacks by banditti, miserable inns in which there would be no accommodations for so large a company, and finally a solemn audience with the Holy Father, in which she would assert that among Protestants, kissing the slipper[[9]] was the husband's business, that even Toinette joined in the laugh she excited, though she remained firm in her refusal. Traveling did not agree with her nerves, she said quietly. Her husband had eagerly agreed with the princess and spoken more enthusiastically than was his habit, of former journeys through the countries of the South. When he heard his wife decline so positively a deep shadow darkened his brow; he turned suddenly pale, twisted his moustache, and became perfectly silent.
"You ought not to give your final answer yet, Countess," said the Russian guest, as he passed the fat fingers of his well kept hand through his long beard. A certain nervous twitching of the brow was perceptible as he spoke, while his little eyes completely disappeared in the broad face, and the huge bald head bore an unpleasant resemblance to a skull. "Princess Sascha has shown you the romantic side of the plan. Now look at it also from the classical, artistic point. It would be a ridiculous affectation for me not to confess with frankness that you couldn't have a better cicerone in the museums and churches, villas and ruins, than my humble self, or, as the Italians say, il povero Signor me. This is my sixth visit to Italy. To be sure, I can't show you many things that delighted me on my first five journeys, for the simple reason that I've taken them to my own home. Que voulez-vous? We're considered Northern barbarians, always in search of booty. A man must not be better than his reputation. But some things still remain which are worth seeing, and as for your nerves, Countess--perhaps there's but one effectual remedy for sufferings such as yours: the magnetic fluid of art. I offer myself as your artistic physician-in ordinary, and will guarantee a cure."
"And who tells you. Prince Batároff, that I've not already tried this remedy in Germany, and without success?"
"In Germany? Art in Germany? Unless you're speaking of music, which is one domain of the German nature, or gymnastics--"
"I always supposed the Dresden gallery, which we studied for a fortnight on our wedding tour, possessed some works of art for which Italy might envy us, and the museums of Berlin, Vienna, Munich--"
"Don't mention those wretched forcing houses, in which I always feel suffocated by the artificial heat with which, with scientific zeal, the worthy Germans endeavor to correct their natural want of artistic perception! My nerves, thank God, are as strong as I wish yours were, but I really believe they would fail till I should be attacked by hysteria, if I were compelled to spend two hours a day for a fortnight in one of your national museums. Once, when on the cost of Finland, I entered a hut--it was during one of those storms when the meanest roof is welcome--and found the fisherman's family gathered round a box they had just saved from a stranded ship. It contained some great lady's jewels and dresses, which had suffered little damage, and now, seen in the hands and by the light of the dim oil lamp of these worthy half-idiots, were about as much out of place as are the Titians, Rubens, Correggios, and Raphaels in your dear German cities, watched by pedants, gaped at by snobs, and only separated by a thin roof from the grey dull sky, which they suit as well as the Brussels laces in that stranded chest suited the smoky atmosphere of a Finnish fisherman's hut."
"You're mounted on your hobby again," said Toinette's brother, with a subtle smile. "And you'll right; he who wishes to understand artists, must go to the land of artists. But you forget one thing; if art is not indigenous in our colder zone--ought we to abandon the hope that by long and affectionate care it will at last become acclimated? Who knows what we lack? That we do not, in our need, tamely submit with folded arms, is no reproach to us, and when I look at German artists--"
"German artists? I implore you, my dear Prince, in the names of the great masters, not to give these wretched bunglers so proud a name! But no, I wrong them. They're no bunglers, but rather very skillful mechanics or artisans, who have learned all the rules of their trade, and feel a pride in their guild. German artists! I know them. There was one, the most ridiculous bungler in the world, a certain König, whom his colleagues called the zaunkönig, because he exhibited old hedges or fences adorned with a few weeds, as landscapes. I made a wager with a connoisseur and enthusiast, our worthy Baron L., that this poor devil, who, in the wrath of God, was condemned to daub in colors, would joyfully renounce 'art,' if any one would buy his poor talent, I mean give him enough to live upon, on condition that he would no longer paint."
"And did you win?"
"No, I lost, my dear fellow, and it served me right; I ought to have known these German dreamers and idealists better. Just think, Countess, the man discovered that an experiment was being tried upon him, his 'artist' pride awoke, and he acted as if life would not be worth the having if he could not daily daub at his wooden landscapes; he wrote me an impertinent note, throwing my favors at my feet--the title of court painter, salary, future support, and even the whole sum he had already received. I lost my bet, but Germany regained an artist, and with him one fool the more."