THE RESULT OF THE BARON’S ADVICE.
It was the eve of Madame Jarovisky’s ball, and nearly a week had
elapsed since Rudolph Ehrenstein had permitted himself the painful
pleasure of a visit to Mademoiselle Natzelhuber. He was young and
impressionable enough for a week to work a rapid change in him under
novel circumstances. He mixed freely in the distinguished diplomatic
circles of Athens, had been with the Mowbray Thomases to Tatoi, played
cricket with Vincent, whose English-French was a source of piquant
amusement to him, his own being irreproachable, played tennis and drank
tea with the rowdy American girls his aunt disapproved of, and was
accompanied by Miss Eméraude Veritassi when he charmed a small audience
with Raff’s _Cavatina_. The Baron von Hohenfels expressed himself
delighted with his nephew’s success, praised his air of distinction and
reserve, wished him a little less shy, however, and implored him to
cultivate the virtues of tobacco.
“It gives a man a certain tone to be able to appreciate a good cigar,”
he explained, airily. “You are improving undoubtedly. Your behaviour
with Mademoiselle Veritassi last night was quite pretty and gallant. I
may mention, Rudolph, that neither your aunt nor I have any objection
to Eméraude Veritassi. Her style is good, and her French--well, should
you think of diplomacy by and bye, you would have no reason to be
ashamed of it. She is about the only Greek girl I know who looks as if
she had been brought up in Paris. Yes, by all means cultivate her, if
you are disposed that way, though perhaps it would be wiser to choose
your wife at home.”
Rudolph blushed and smiled pleasantly.
“Is it not rather premature to talk of marriage for me, uncle?” he
asked, quizzically.
“Quite so. Still, it is possible for a fellow at your age to get
disagreeably entangled, and a respectable marriage, you know, is always
preferable to that. Amuse yourself, by all means; I would not restrict
you in that line. You must be a man of the world, and gallantry is the
very finest education. As I said before, in the regular way, there is
no objection to Mademoiselle Veritassi, but for all irregular purposes,
stick to the married women, my dear boy. Become a favourite with
them, and study an attitude of delicate audacity, a kind of playful
_rouerie_.”
All this was Hebrew to Rudolph, but he took care not to press his uncle
for an explanation. Instead, he went upstairs, and donned attire less
ostentatious and theatrical than the forest coat and long boots. In a
faultless suit of navy-blue he was seen an hour later upon the Patissia
Road walking towards the Platea Omonia, and a brisk pace brought him to
Photini’s door. It was opened by Polyxena, as rough and untidy as ever,
who jerked her thumb towards the stairs, and growled:--
“You’ll find her upstairs.”
Rudolph’s heart beat apprehensively as he slowly mounted and knocked
outside Photini’s door, which he opened gingerly after a loud “come in.”
“Oh, it is you!” the Natzelhuber exclaimed, more graciously than usual.
“I thought it was that fool come for her lesson. Sit down, and let me
look at you.”
Rudolph obeyed and smiled enigmatically, as he steadily met her lambent
gaze.
“What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?” she demanded,
imperiously.
“Nothing in particular,” said Rudolph.
“Humph! Your face does not show that.”
“May I ask what it shows to your glance of investigation?”
“You are growing impertinent and fatuous. Have you been studying the
excellent style of our friend Agiropoulos?”
Rudolph drew himself up proudly. He, a high bred Austrian, to be
compared with a vulgar Greek merchant! He drew his aristocratic brows
into an angry frown, and raised an irreproachable hand to his fair
moustache:
“I cannot think that anything in me could remind you of Monsieur
Agiropoulos.”
Photini came over, and stood in front of him with folded arms, calmly
surveying him; then she leant forward, and placed her hands on his
shoulders, laughing.
“They have doubtless been telling you what a fine fellow you are, and,
my dear child, they have been telling you a most infernal lie.”
Rudolph burst out laughing, and took her two hands into his, which he
held in a gentle clasp.
“Mademoiselle, you are a very extraordinary woman. Some people might
say you are rude. I hardly think the word applies to you. I don’t know
what you are.”
“Mad,” said Photini, drawing him to her and kissing him.
Rudolph went red and white, and started back as if he had been shot.
No woman, except his mother, had ever kissed him, and the experience
coming to him thus, suddenly and unsought, filled him with an
inexplicable anger and pain. Without a word Photini walked straight to
the piano, and the silence waved into the unfathomable loveliness of
Chopin’s “Barcarolle.”
It was a perfect apology. It must be confessed, this woman so dreadful
of speech was delicately cognisant of the language of the soul. Had
she been playing for a lover, she could not have done better. But she
was scarcely conscious of love for Rudolph. Her thirty-five years of
wretched hilarity and miserable sadness had left her heart untouched
until now, but she was too proud to acknowledge even to herself the
steadily growing interest and yearning awakened in her by the innocent
eyes of a lad, and while she played she resolutely kept her face
averted from Rudolph’s. So she saw nothing of the varying emotions that
swept across it as the notes at her magic touch rose and fell. First
his eyes closed, then opened and rested upon her profile eagerly; a
feverish red burnt in his cheeks, and his breath came hurriedly. A
sense of ecstasy oppressed him, and he drew near her as if impelled by
a force independent of his control. She looked up, and saw that his
eyes were wet, and he burst out:--
“Oh, it is dreadful, I can’t bear it, but I love you!”
Before she could make answer to this unflattering and anguished
declaration, the door opened, and Andromache Karapolos stood upon the
threshold. Rudolph moved hastily back, and met her glance of pleased
surprise with one of almost passionate gratitude. The spell and its
compelling influences had ceased with Photini’s last note, and now he
was only dreading the consequences of his insane avowal, and patiently
awaited the inevitable scene.
But for the first time in her life, Photini showed an amiable front to
an intruder. She looked gently at Andromache, turned with a commanding
gesture to Rudolph, and stood for the girl to take her place at the
piano. Though wishing to escape, Rudolph felt that the words he had
just uttered laid him under a new obligation of obedience, and he went
and stood at the window, with his forehead pressed dejectedly against
the pane, looking down on the bright street, while he speculated
drearily on what was going to happen to him.
Andromache’s slim brown fingers ran swiftly up and down the piano
several times before a word was uttered. Photini watched them
attentively, and then said, very graciously:
“That is much better. But your thumb is still too exposed, and you sway
your body too much. You are not supposed to play from the waist. You
must give another week to scales, and then we’ll see about exercises.”
Andromache rose, and said her brother was waiting downstairs for
her. Rudolph looked round at the sound of her voice, and thought her
prettier than before.
“Why, Mademoiselle Veritassi would seem plain beside her,” he said to
himself, but his fastidious eyes, running over her dress found it
common and ill-cut.
The March-violet eyes rested a moment on his, and were lovely indeed by
charm of dewy freshness and girlish timidity. Andromache blushed to the
roots of her hair, and the blush was reflected on the young man’s face.
In her nervous tremour she dropped one of her gloves, which he hastened
to pick up, and when he handed it to her, they exchanged another glance
of mutual admiration, and blushed again more eloquently than before.
This short pantomime of two susceptible young creatures was unheeded by
Photini, who was tranquilly lighting a cigarette, and when Andromache
with a low inclusive bow and a soft “Καλἡ μἑγχ σας,” departed, Rudolph
stood in silence at the window to catch a glimpse of her down the
street. He saw her cross in the direction of the Academy with a tall
military man, in whose black uniform and crimson velvet collar, he
recognized an artillery officer. For some foolish undefined reason he
rejoiced in this evidence of respectability in her brother.
“My dear child,” Photini began, when they were alone, “you made a
fool of yourself a moment ago. It is possible folly is your normal
condition,--I believe it is so with men of your stamp, but there
are degrees, and you passed the limitations when you made a very
uncomplimentary and absurd declaration to me just now.”
She paused to continue smoking. Rudolph breathed a sigh of relief to
find he was not taken seriously, and felt himself a cad for that very
reason. What right has a man to trifle with such emotions, and then
rejoice that he is not taken seriously? Such inconsequence is surely
unworthy a gentleman. He stared at her humbly and imploringly.
“See the advantages of smoking! One can hold one’s tongue,” Photini
went on, serenely. “And now, please remember that I am an ugly woman
of thirty-five, and you a handsome boy of twenty-one. I am old in evil
knowledge, you still in the shade of innocence, a very pleasing shade
as long as young men can be got to remain in it. You are an aristocrat,
and I am a woman of the people. You perceive, Ehrenstein, that we have
nothing in common, and now, go about your business. I have had more
than enough of you.”
“Photini,” he protested, touched by her brusque magnanimity, “I have
perhaps failed as a gentleman, but it is true, I can’t help loving you,
though I admit that nothing but sorrow can come of such love.”
“No, you don’t love me, you love my music. In heaven’s name, don’t make
a fool of yourself,” she roared.
“But don’t you want me to come again, Photini?”
“No, I don’t. Why should I?”
“Is it possible to care for me a little?” he asked, sulkily.
“You silly jackanapes! Why do you imagine I care for you?”
“Because you kissed me,” Rudolph jerked out boldly.
“And what if I did? There, I’ll kiss you again, and swear I don’t care
a rap for you,” she cried, half-laughing, and gathering his head into
her hands, she kissed his lips repeatedly. “Now be off, and don’t let
me see you come whimpering or stamping about this neighbourhood again.”
She pushed him firmly out of the room, and ferociously slammed the door
after him. When she was alone, she flung up her arms spasmodically, and
cried:--
“Ouf! the fool! I’ve saved him, and I believe he is grateful to me.
Poor Photini! You ugly, forsaken old soul, to love a yellow-headed
boy at your time of life, with nothing in the world to recommend him,
not even his stupid yellow head.” With that she poured herself out a
generous glass of brandy, and drank it off at a draught.
Poor Photini!
That afternoon Ehrenstein met the Greek poet in Stadion Street, and
they turned and walked together towards Constitution Square, where they
sat down at one of the numerous tables outside the Cafés and drank
black coffee. Captain Miltiades passed, looking more military and more
fierce than ever, twirling a ferocious moustache and roving a killing
dark blue eye in search of feminine victims. He stopped to exchange a
few words with the Greek poet, and was introduced to Rudolph.
“Has he not a very pretty sister who is taking lessons from
Mademoiselle Natzelhuber?” Rudolph asked, afterwards.
“Who? Karapolos? I never heard of a sister. I always thought he was an
antique orphan. No one knows where he lives. He is the most abominable
fraud in Athens,--a kind of military clown, but a brave soldier for all
that, in spite of his _blagues_.”