It does not do to say this to Patsy. But Patsy, happily, understands very little German; so that I was able to indulge my vice for operettes with her uncurbed. Patsy’s thoughts were all on the Meeresgrund. As we intended to leave Vienna the day after that, it may without fantasy be supposed that some of her less well-behaved thoughts left the bottom of the sea for a certain skating rink, where she had learned the guiding value of blue eyes and black hair. But outwardly everything was concentrated on the Redoute.
I am not a spiteful person, but I was inclined to gloat when the momentous night arrived, and Patsy, in her shimmering costume, confronted our good Countess. American youth settled its score, I think. For the good lady—herself marvellous in lobster pink and a white wig—flew to Patsy, kissed her on both cheeks, and cried: “Aber! It is of an enchantment, a loveliness of fairies, wunderbar!”
And, if I do say it who had no part in the creation, she was right. Patsy stood before us as a fisher girl, her filmy golden nets caught over her shoulders and round the waist with glistening crabs and little brilliant lizards. In contrast with the other women present and their elaborate headgear, the witch had let down her rippling auburn curls to fall in simple glory to her waist. Her cheeks were softly flushed, and her big yellow-brown eyes were shining as she asked demurely, “Do you like me, Uncle Peter?”
I was not too dazzled to forget it was not I actually being asked. But as Captain Max maintained absolute silence—that most ominous of answers!—I replied with nice restraint that I found her charming. And we entered the ball.
It was a vast hall surrounded by shallow galleries, and at the far end a platform arranged in the style of a royal drawing-room. In the ballroom itself great ropes of seaweed and ruddy coral hung pendant down the blue-green walls; mammoth shells of palest pink held the mermaids’ chaperones; a fairy ship twinkled one entire side of the hall with favors and fancies awaiting the dance of the sirens; while at every nook and corner lustrous crinkled pearls gleamed forth light.
The glassy floor pool in the midst of all this fantasy was crowded with Neptunes and nereids, water sprites, lovely white chiffon gulls, and Loreleis with their combs of gold. But they were very modern Loreleis, who kept their hair up in correct ondulation, and whose fascinations proved less irresistible than those of one little red-locked fisher girl. Like everybody else, she was masked, and flitted about the giant circle of the promenade with a tall Captain of the Guards in brilliant full-dress uniform. The Metternich Redoute is the one event of Carnival at which only the women appear in fancy dress. The officers and civilians, in sober garb, form a phalanx in the center of the room, whence they watch the gorgeous procession of promeneuses. For until the Court arrives everyone walks about and admires everyone else, while one of the two royal bands plays constantly. Laughing masked ladies, unknown to one another, exchange gay greetings; compliments are bestowed and received in German, French, English, Spanish, Italian and Hungarian; while the familiar “du” is the rule of the evening.
All at once something electric passes over the chattering assembly. From a splendid shifting mass it divides into two solid lines, leaving a broad open space down the centre. The sprightly old hostess is in her place, the bands burst into the stirring chords of the national hymn—and the Court enters!
First the old Emperor with his two gentlemen of the Household: erect, fiercely handsome in his blue-gray uniform of the Hapsburgs glittering with orders. The young lieutenants who have spent the afternoon ridiculing his war policy, at sight of the well-known, grizzled head, forget their grievances and salute with a fervour. The old man, haughtily unconscious, passes on. Next comes the young Heir Apparent, with Archduchess Maria Annunziata—the Emperor’s niece and the first lady of the land—who wears Maria Theresa’s emeralds and a magnificent tiara overshadowing those of the ladies who follow her. But each of them, too, is ablaze with jewels, while for sheer beauty and distinction a more remarkable retinue of women could not be found.
There is the ruddy fairness of the German, the wild grace of the Slav, the rich olive and great dark eyes of the Hungarian, the chestnut hair and black brows of Lombardy: every type as it passes is sworn the loveliest—and then forsworn when the next comes by. The court ladies have confined their fantasy to the coiffure, and some of these headdresses are marvels of ingenuity and elegance. Wigs are much favoured; white and high, and crowned with ships of jewels, or monster pearls, or nets of diamonds interwoven with every sort of precious stone. The archdukes and high officers, in their mere uniforms, for once are insignificant in the trail of this effulgence of their women; and Patsy did not even see her Prince Salvator till all of them were seated on the platform and the ball was formally begun.
Twelve young girls and men of the nobility open the dance with a quadrille, prescribed according to court etiquette, and marked by a quaint stateliness. The girls are dressed alike in simple frocks of white and silver, while the young men are in more or less elaborate uniform. After the quadrille, dancing is general, but the crowd is too great for it to be any pleasure at first. Not till after the Court has gone is there really room to move about in. Meanwhile, favoured personages are led to the Master of Ceremonies, and by him presented to Royalty on its dais.