apart. He nodded carelessly to the wife of the distinguished Geheimrath,
heedless of the significance of the act, then coloured with annoyance as
he turned to meet a glance of keen inquiry in the eyes of Margarethe
Styr. Those eyes deliberately travelled from his to the siren in green
tulle and water-lilies, and encountered a look of haughty defiance.
Another dignitary offering his arm, she moved away, but gave Ordham a
little nod and smile which seemed to say, “Later—_nicht wahr_?”
As he turned he could not avoid seeing that Frau von Wass was still
strangely alone, and felt that he could do no less than offer his
services. She was quite at the end of the room, and she had time to
observe that he came on a leaden foot. Once more hatred flamed and
almost routed the octopus of her love. She had leapt to the not
unwarranted conclusion that there was an understanding between Ordham
and the great singer whom no man pretended to know informally. The
hand-shake and smile, the challenging glance at herself, caused the
depths of the desperate woman to swarm with fighting devils, rushing on
their armours and polishing their blades. She swore under her breath
that she would ruin him if she could not have him, and her momentary
hatred gave her a poise which, in her ferment, she might otherwise have
been unable to command. She smiled brightly when he finally stood before
her.
“Bring me an ice and a cup of coffee,” she said, in the pretty woman’s
careless tone of command, which he had thought so charming a few weeks
ago. He left her with alacrity; then, as he never could find anything,
it was quite fifteen minutes before he returned, followed by two
servants bearing a small table and a delicate but abundant supper.
“Always the grand seigneur!” she said lightly. “Even one or two
_Hoheits_ are waiting on the ladies, and as for several of my husband’s
portly old confrères—Well! the less one expects of you the better.”
She took a chair that gave her the advantage of sitting with her back to
the room, and Ordham wondered if she meant to treat him to a scene, then
reassured himself with the memory of her formal renunciation. And her
present manner was light and agreeable, that of the gay young woman of
the world.
“See how bored those poor dears are!” She indicated the segregated
royalties. “Whatever else has been my unhappy fate, I can at least be
thankful that I was not born a _Hoheit_. Do you know that all the queer
people of my acquaintance I have met at one or other of the royal
palaces? No wonder royalties grasp at the few liberties permitted them,
and snatch at any straw that relieves their ennui.”
“You met me at court,” said Ordham, for want of something better.
“Oh, not at court. You forget I cannot go to court. We met at a rout at
the Red Palace. Have you forgotten?”
“Of course not. Only these distinctions are beyond me. When do you break
all our hearts by leaving Munich?”
“Fritz puts me off! But I shall get him away almost as soon as I
planned. It is time!” The last sentence was delivered as from the mouth
of a toy cannon, and he jumped.
“What is it?”
“Do you not see that I am ostracized? Did you not notice that I was
driven to seat myself apart—like a pariah?”
“Well, you are here”—he answered vaguely. “It is not so easy—”
“You forget that Fritz is one of the Nachmeister’s oldest and closest
friends—a prehistoric lover, no doubt. No matter how much she may hate
me, she will never insult him. But when he dies—”
“Oh, well, you do not like Munich and would live elsewhere in any case.”
Ordham’s supper was turning to gall. Why would this woman always talk
about herself?
“But the present? And if I should not be able to persuade Fritz to go,
after all? Like all old men he is full of whims. It will be a
martyrdom—I may as well tell you the cause. I learned it to-day. All
your friends and admirers of my own dear sex have suddenly discovered
that you see more of me than of any one else and have formed the one
conclusion that can tickle the Munich palate. They have made up their
minds that as yet you are not seriously in love with me, however, and
have determined to get me out of the way before I have worked your
ruin.”
“Ruin?”
“Yes—It seems that I have a reputation! You would neglect your studies,
miss your examinations, wreck your chances of a wealthy marriage—heaven
knows what not! So they have made up their minds to put a stop to it.”
“Made up their minds—” An odd light was kindling in Ordham’s eyes,
which no longer looked juvenile, or even absent.
“It is a cabal. I only learned of it by the merest chance—rather, to be
exact, through the consideration of one faithful friend. They have
agreed to cut me, drop me, mortify me so that I shall no longer have the
courage to go anywhere. Meanwhile they will shower you with invitations
that you may not have an instant’s time to seek me. When you no longer
meet me, even see me, of course you will forget my existence, after the
fashion of volatile youth. Even the men that once liked me are in the
plot, for they have guessed for a long time that I was interested in no
one but you; and men are pettier than women.”
She told this preposterous story with so much concentrated passion, such
bitterness and venom of accent, that almost any man would have believed
her. And Ordham was young and full of the vanity of youth. His eyes were
blazing, his jaw line looked even longer than usual. She was quite aware
that he mistook his natural (and British) resentment at coercion of any
sort for righteous wrath, also, that by this time he knew something of
the petty cabals and intrigues of European court society; whose smiling
distaste for truth in any form, he had once remarked to her, made even
his diplomatic soul feel blunt and Anglo-Saxon.
“They have persuaded themselves that they think only of your welfare,
that extraordinary future they all predict for you. But they know what
their real motive is! It is their opportunity to cast me out, a pleasure
too long deferred. And out, I suppose, I must go.”
“Well, I will go with you.” This came through his teeth. “How dare
they?”
Her eyes dilated, but she dropped her lashes. She was not so carried
away by her victory as to lose sight of its contributing cause. To ask
him now if he loved her, to pin him down, might be fatal.
“Dare? They have taken you up to such an extent that they look upon
themselves as the natural arbiters of your destiny. They are devoted to
you. They have made you the fashion. Not tamely will they sit by and
watch their work undone. If you want the whole truth,” she ran on with
her amazing fertility, “they even wish to make you one of them. They
have decided upon the Brobdingnagian daughter of the rich Herr von
Schmidt, whose beer is justly famous. She is to be presented privately
to the Queen-mother, and then she will be formally on the market. She
looks as if she had beer in her very veins, and her ankles are as thick
as my waist. But what does that signify? She is the only child of an
ennobled Schmidt and will inherit millions. They will succeed! They will
succeed! They are so clever—and you—you are so indolent—you would
accept any one determined to marry you. It is your destiny to be
managed, and when these friends fling garlands about your neck and gold
dust into your eyes, you will murmur: ‘What a bore, but why not? My
family expect something of the sort. What matter a yellow skin and thick
ankles?’ While I—I—” She pounded the table in her mounting passion, no
longer entirely simulated. “I shall be an outcast. Once out, they will
never let me in again. Fritz, stupid as he is, will notice, inquire; he
will treat me as badly as the rest. I shall have the whole world against
me. I have always had the whole world against me. Those words will be
found flaming in my heart when I am dead. Even if I left Munich, these
people would hound me. It is my destiny. I can never escape it—never!
never! You cannot understand; you, who were born at the top, who would
compel deference for that alone if you committed the seven deadly sins,
if you wore rags in Australia—while I—I, the daughter of a small
merchant,—even if I had married a duke, the world would never let me
forget that I was born bourgeois. And a mere ritter, like Fritz—”
“Oh, please, please compose yourself! Let us go into another room.”
Ordham was cold with terror. A scene threatened him, with all Munich as
audience. She had stirred his anger, his dramatic sense, his pity; but
for the moment he had no thought of her. She controlled herself so
quickly and completely, however, that he was moved to admiration.
“Forgive me,” she said quietly, wishing that she had worn black velvet
instead of this frivolous Lorelei costume, but contriving to look
dignified in spite of her flushed cheeks and suffused eyes. “How could I
forget myself? But I was carried away by the thought of that abominable
cabal—remember that I only heard of it this afternoon. I wonder if they
will succeed?”
“Of course not.”
She stared at him, fascinated, as she had done on the day of their
reconciliation. Again his brain seemed to cast its shadow of maturity
over his face. This singular effect, combined with his youthful bloom
and indolent strength, entranced the blasée woman choking with the dregs
of life. With a last effort she controlled herself again. He had had as
much as he could stand for one evening; better she go home and mature
her plans. She rose and drew herself up, looking far more the great lady
than many of the homely shapeless women whose pedigrees ran back into
the Holy Roman Empire. “I shall go now,” she said. “Will you tell a
lackey to call my carriage?”
He went with her into the courtyard, and as he bade her good-night, she
said softly: “You will come to-morrow?”
“Of course.”
“I shall expect you.”
He returned hastily to the house in the hope of a word with Margarethe
Styr. But she had gone; and he took his own leave immediately, almost
scowling at his many good friends, and wondering if any young man had
ever been thrown into such perturbation before.
IX
EXCELLENZ, THE POTTER
The next morning he was rejoiced by the news that Fräulein Lutz was
confined to the house by a severe _katarrh_, and he remained in bed
until twelve, meditating upon the position in which he found himself. He
had slept well—nothing had ever kept him awake—and he discovered that
refreshed by sleep and coffee, to say nothing of the brilliant sunlight
streaming over his bed, he hated his friends less than he had supposed
the night before. He would be managed by nobody, but women were born
matchmakers; it was not an unamiable vice; why should he resent their
efforts in his behalf? He had not the least apprehension of being
married against his will, and the painful picture of Fräulein von
Schmidt no longer maddened him. Last night he had felt almost trapped,
so communicable had been the excitement of that poor little woman.
He endeavoured to analyze his feeling for Frau von Wass. (He had never
called her Hélène even in his thoughts.) Could it be that he was really
fond of her? Certainly his soul had risen in arms last night as she
poured out her wrongs, passionately dwelt upon her isolation. “With all
the world against her.” It was a phrase to affect any man with a rag of
feeling in him.
Unconsciously he shook his head. He was not in love with her. On that
point at least he was quite clear. But he was uneasily sensible that
events might rush too rapidly for his guidance. Were she ostracized on
his account, cast out, perhaps, by an infuriated husband, there was no
folly that he might not be induced to commit, particularly when his
family combined in opposition. Although he had no suspicion of the plot
hatching by Frau von Wass, a new light rose in his mind and played about
the dangers of inspiring such a woman with a desperate passion. It is
true that she had announced her complete recovery, but her eyes had
betrayed her last night; moreover, he could not doubt that she had made
a deliberate appeal to his pity, his tenderness, his humanity. Could it
be that she wanted to elope with him? He broke into a cold perspiration.
A moment later he was out of bed and writing her a note protesting that
he was too ill to call on her that afternoon; he was really in a
pitiable condition and must break all his engagements. Would she forgive
him and let him call the instant he was presentable? Perhaps she would
honour him at a little dinner he intended to give during the following
week at one of the restaurants? Which did she prefer? And would Friday
suit her? He would speak to Princess Nachmeister as soon as he could get
out.
The Wass disposed of for at least three days, he shoved the memory of
her into one of those wonderful water-tight compartments of his brain,
and, returning to the pleasant places, met Margarethe Styr. Whether he
wanted to know any woman again well he was not sure, but his experience
of this isolated creature on the strange night of their meeting gave him
hope that she had outlived the vanities and follies of her sex. He
wondered that a woman to whom the fiery furnace of life had left no
precipitation but mind could retain so much of feminine charm. Or was it
but the magnetism of a strong brain, with the sauce piquante of fine
manners? It would be worth while to discover. No beauty, so far, had
appealed to his senses as odd and complex personalities did to his cool
analytical brain. And how delightful even the occasional companionship
of such a woman might be! Yes, he would know her if he could.
He did not care to call and run the risk of being turned from her door,
but after the deliberate compliment she had paid him he felt at liberty
to write and crave admittance. He was very guarded in expressing
himself, for he had all a young man’s sensitive fear of being laughed at
by a woman so much older in years and in life; the enterprises of blasée
women of the world, and mothers with marriageable daughters, while they
had augumented a self-confidence as inevitable as his grammar, had not
disposed of his natural modesty.
He sent the note by a messenger, but no reply came until the following
morning. It was very brief.
“DEAR MR. ORDHAM: I have hesitated a long time—but it is better
not. Friends are not for me. I shall not even go into society
again for a long while. Think of me as a stage creature only.
And after all, I am nothing else.
“MARGARETHE TANN.”
This put Ordham into such a villanous humour that he went out and
lunched alone.
“Does she think that I want to make love to her?” He addressed the
dinner (alas! not luncheon), which was very bad. “Little she knows! And
whoever would be the wiser if I called out there occasionally? Or is she
merely trying to _intriguer_ me? Is it that inflexible principle of sex
which will not let a man go in peace, but must hold him in the toils
even while denying him the little he asks? Or does she fear to step down
from her pedestal? Well, I’ll think no more about her. I hate them all.”
He returned to the Legation in time for coffee, and to help Mr.
Trowbridge entertain several pretty women that had lunched there. Later
he called at the Nachmeister Palast, sure of not meeting Frau von Wass;
she, with many another, never entered the gates save when bidden to a
function. Several old ladies were taking tea with Excellenz, and they
increased our hero’s ill humour by their maternal petting, for he was
almost as tired of being mothered as of being made love to.
Nachmeister’s sole charm was her entire indifference to his health and
his emotions.
When the women had gone, she invited him into her famous porcelain
boudoir, where the walls were made up of innumerable panels painted by a
disciple of Watteau, the windows and chairs covered with fading
brocades; and exhibited a photograph of Mabel Cutting that had arrived
in the morning mail. Of the note enclosed by the young beauty’s mamma,
the wise old diplomatist said nothing.
“Is she not lovely?”
Ordham scowled at the picture. “All American girls look alike. I saw
them by wholesale in Paris.”
“I do not pretend to vie with such experience, but, myself, I never saw
anything so lovely as Mabel. Leaning on that railing, she looks like The
Blessed Damozel. But it should be painted. Of course it gives no idea of
her exquisite colouring—pink and white and gold and brown. And such
soft pathetic eyes!” The Nachmeister looked almost sad.
“Those fluffy American beauties are passée at twenty-five. I like women
to be handsome at forty—as our women are,” he hastened to add.
“Of course, mon enfant. At your age the woman of forty, or a little
less, nicht? is part of Life’s curriculum. So is the unhappy wife who
wants sympathy—and all the rest of them. Fortunately there are the
Mabel Cuttings to marry.”
“Is she being trotted out for my inspection?”
“What if she were? Do you fancy that you can ever do better? Youth,
beauty, gentle blood, millions—and you merely look bored? I have no
patience with you.”
“I am in no hurry to marry.”
“But one day you must—is it not so? I can speak plainly, for I am an
old woman of the world that has grown fond of you, and there is no
mystery about you whatever. Inheritance to the titles and estates of
your family is by no means assured, at best is remote. You are entering
one of the most expensive of careers and your habits are extravagant.
Your income is small and your brother miserly. So do not be the baby you
sometimes look and are not, and give Mabel Cutting a definite place in
your calculations.”
“What has she in her own right?”
“Eight or ten millions—dollars, of course. Forty million marks! Ach
Gott! I have known Adela Cutting for twenty years. There is no doubt
whatever that her husband’s fortune was one of the largest in America;
and I remember perfectly the account of his death and will. There were
no other heirs.”
“What of this plot to marry me to the daughter of Herr von Schmidt?”
“What?” The Nachmeister’s astonishment was manifestly genuine.
“I heard—well, it is not worth talking about.”
“I should think not. Marie Schmidt! You! Her silly mother has never put
stays on her and she will have a Munich waist in three years. And her
complexion, her manners—but it does not matter. I happen to know that
she is to marry her cousin, Heinrich Krauss. Schmidt means to keep the
money in the family. Who could have started such a report?”
“Oh, one hardly knows where one hears such things.”
“Another time come to me at once with any little rumours that put you
out of temper, and I will tell you if they are correct or not. There are
no secrets in Munich from me. I may keep them, but I know them.”
“May I borrow this photograph?” Ordham looked as innocent as Moses in
the bulrushes.
“You may have it—and the original, no doubt, if you are clever enough.
But to tell you the truth, I do not know whether she retains her
interest in you or not. It was evident enough when she was here; but
maids as well as men are fickle.”
Ordham enthroned the photograph on his writing table. He even began a
letter to Mrs. Cutting. But he could think of no excuse that would cover
his long negligence, and after dreaming over his pen for a while he put
it aside until a more fertile moment. But fate pursued its even way and
drove Mabel Cutting far from his mind.
X
THE BIRTH OF AN ARTIST
The following night he was paddling on the Isar when he became aware
that he approached the house of Margarethe Styr. It stood on a branch of
the river that separated the Englischergarten from Schwabing, an old
village now incorporated in the city of Munich. From the back projected
a tower whose foundation was not in the garden, but in the bed of the
stream. Her grounds were surrounded by a high wall, and on the day he
had left his card he had seen nothing of the house but its baroque
façade; but more than one of his friends, when driving him in the park,
had pointed out the tower and commented upon the lonely dwelling of the
Styr. There was a story that Ludwig I had built this villa for a
beautiful woman of Siena, intending to visit her by way of the Isar,
which flowed not far from the palace walls. The lady, however, could not
make up her mind to brave the rigours of the North, and it had become
the property of a romantic young couple, whose grandchildren had sold it
to the present King when the whim seized him to present a dwelling to
the Styr.
Ordham did not rest on his oars, but used them more slowly perhaps as he
raised his face, hoping for a glimpse of the great artist whom he still
permitted himself to admire even if no longer consumed by a desire to
know her. Just as the boat slipped past the tower such a shriek of
horror rang from the lowest of its rooms, that Ordham, without
hesitating a second, reached the shore with a stroke and swung himself
through a window in the opposite curve. He expected to find Countess
Tann struggling in the arms of a burglar, and was astonished to see her
standing alone in the middle of the room, staring down through the
window to which he had raised his eyes as the boat rounded the corner.
He did not enter noiselessly, but it was fully a moment before she
turned. Then she drew a spasmodic breath of relief.
“Of course—you! But when I saw that white face down in the water—your
face down there did look so white—I thought it was—”
Although the room was nearly dark he could see that she made an effort
to recover her natural poise, and she added: “Thank you for coming to my
rescue. Of course you thought I was being murdered?”
“Or Kundry!” He was recovering from his own fright.
“Oh, don’t jest! I have had a terrible shock. You have no idea what your
face down there brought back. I thought it was the ghost of a young man
who once gave his life for me; and yet there is no reason why he should
haunt me. I begged him to go.”
His complete silence expressed his right to hear the story, and in a
moment it was evident that she would tell it. Her head was bent, her
brows drawn, giving her eyes the expression of tragedy most familiar to
him. The shock, no doubt, had set her sense of drama in action. He
wondered if it were ever far from the surface of the artist that lived
for his art, as this woman did.
“I will tell you,” she said at length. “Why not? You have come into my
life in odd ways. As oddly you compel me to talk. I even wrote you long
letters—and tore them up. I have told you that I was on the stage in
America. I always had small parts, but I had some influence,
nevertheless. Over there it is called ‘pull’—but you never use slang,
do you? I scarcely ever went ‘on the road,’ as another phrase goes. But
one summer, after I had been cultivating my voice for about three years
with the old Wagnerian devotee I had discovered in New York, I
quarrelled with a man I had come to hate, and, it being impossible that
he should leave New York, I made up my mind to join a travelling company
that would demand my services for months to come. It was not the salary
of an actress that I needed in order to put the continent between us,
but the protection of the company. Women in that great free country, to
be admitted to hotels, or at least to remain in them, must be
accompanied by some member of their family, by some man who at least
pretends to be their husband, must be known (favourably known), must be
shabbily respectable, or must have a raison d’être. An actress
travelling with a company has always the right to live, no matter if she
can do nothing but dust the furniture. So I went barnstorming, and,
accustomed to luxury as I had grown, I was very uncomfortable,
disgusted; no doubt, had I been less hardy, I should have fallen ill. If
the adventure I am about to relate had not happened, I might not have—I
might have returned to New York in a very different fashion. My voice
might not have been enough. I cannot tell.