SOIRÉES AMALGAMANTES
One winter's morning Ivan Behrend, to his great astonishment, received
a notice from the president of the Hungarian Academy of Arts and
Science. This notice set forth that the members of the physical,
scientific, and mathematical department had in the last general
assembly chosen him as an honorary member of the before-mentioned
departments; and before being elected member of the academy itself he
should, in conformity to the established custom, read before the
assembly his first address. Ivan was petrified with amazement. How had
such an honor come to him? He who had never written a scientific paper
in any periodical; who had no connections or friend in the academical
assembly, who was not a magnate, or had played no part in political
life. He was puzzled; he could not conceive who had brought forward
his name. Could it have been, he thought, that in some way his
chemical researches had reached their ears? In which case, as he told
himself, every director of a mine, every manager of a factory, would
be considered a philosopher and made member of the Academy, for every
one of them possessed as much knowledge as he did. There was no use in
thinking about it; the honor had come to him, and should be accepted.
Ivan thought it best not to look the gift-horse in the mouth; he
therefore wrote to the secretary, expressing his gratitude for the
unlooked-for honor conferred upon him, and stating that towards the
end of the year he would present himself in Pesth, and read before the
illustrious assembly his inaugural address. Then he considered the
subject of this address long and carefully, and spent much of his time
over its elaboration. It was an account of microscopical crustations,
the study of which he had followed closely during the boring of an
artesian well, and which during ten years he had perfectly mastered.
It took him until late in the autumn to complete his essay on the
subject.
In many places, where such scientific research is valued at its proper
merit, his paper would have been appreciated, and would have even
caused a sensation; but we are bound in honesty to confess that it did
not do so in Pesth, and that during the sixty minutes allowed by the
canon law of all institutions for such lectures, the microscopical
crustations produced an amount of yawning unprecedented, even among
academicians.
After the reading of the lecture was over the very first person to
greet the neophyte and offer his congratulations was the Abbé Samuel,
and then a light burst suddenly upon Ivan. He now saw who it was who
had discovered his talents, and who had been his patron. It was
something of a fall to his vanity; he had thought--well, it didn't
matter, the abbé was doubtless as learned as any one in the assembly,
and his thanks were due to him. Small attentions, it is said,
consolidate friendship.
Ivan decided to spend some days in Pesth; he had business to do.
During the week several papers noticed his academical address; the
most merciful was one which announced he had given an interesting
lecture upon the "Volcanic Origin of the Stalactites." Ivan's only
consolation was that in his own country no one read _The Referate_,
and that abroad no one understood it, as it was written in Hungarian.
He was wrong, however; some one did read it--but of this again. One
day, as Ivan was making his preparations for his homeward journey, he
received from the Countess Theudelinde Bondavara a card of invitation
for a _soirée_, which would take place three evenings later.
"Aha!" thought Ivan, "another thank-offering. It is well that it did
not come sooner."
He sat down to his writing-table and answered the invitation in the
most courteous manner, regretting his inability to avail himself of it
in consequence of his immediate departure from Pesth. He was in the
act of sealing the letter when the door opened and the Abbé Samuel was
announced. Ivan expressed his great pleasure at receiving so
distinguished a visitor.
"I could not let you leave Pesth without coming," answered the abbé,
in his most friendly manner. "My visit was due, not only because I am
much indebted for your kind assistance at Bondavara, but also because
I felt it a necessity to tell you what an honor I count it to know
such a distinguished scholar as you have proved yourself to be."
Ivan felt inclined to say that he was neither distinguished nor a
scholar; he remained, however, silent.
"I trust," continued the abbé, seating himself upon the sofa, "that
you intend to make a long stay in Pesth?"
"I am leaving to-morrow," returned Ivan, dryly.
"Oh, impossible! We cannot lose you so soon. I imagine you have a card
for the Countess Theudelinde's next _soirée_?"
"I regret that I am prevented from accepting her agreeable invitation;
I have pressing business which necessitates my return."
The abbé laughed. "Confess honestly," he said, "that if you had no
other reason to return home, you would run away from an entertainment
which would bore you infinitely."
"Well, then, if you will have the truth, I do confess that a _soirée_
is to me something of a penance."
"These _soirées_, however, are on a different footing from those
_réunions_ which, I agree with you, are more pain than pleasure, and
where a stranger feels himself 'out of it,' as the saying goes.
Countess Theudelinde aims at having a _salon_, and succeeds admirably.
She receives all the best people. I don't mean by that generic word
only the upper ten, but the best in the true sense, the best that
Pesth affords in art, in literature, in science; the aristocracy of
birth, talent, and beauty."
Ivan shook his head incredulously. "And how does such a mixed
gathering answer?"
The abbé did not reply at once; he scratched his nose thoughtfully.
"Until they get to know one another, it is perhaps somewhat stiff. But
with intellectual people this stiffness must soon disappear, and each
one will do something to keep the ball rolling. You have an excellent
delivery; I noticed it the night of your lecture. You could easily
find a subject on which to lecture which would interest your listeners
by its novelty, surprise them by its profundity, and amuse them by its
variety; their intellect and their imagination would be equally
engaged."
It was Ivan's turn to laugh, which he did loudly. "My excellent sir,
such a subject is unknown to me. I confess my ignorance; neither in
print nor in manuscript have I met with it."
The clergyman joined in the laugh.
At this moment a servant brought Ivan a despatch, which claimed
instant attention, so that the receipt might be given to the messenger
who waited for it. Ivan begged his guest to excuse him if he opened
this urgent document. The abbé, with a wave of his hand, requested him
not to mind his presence.
As Ivan read the letter a remarkable change passed over his face; he
grew suddenly pale, his eyebrows contracted, then a sudden rush of
color came into his cheeks. He held the letter before him, read it
several times, while his eyes had a wild stare, as if he had seen a
ghost. Then all at once he fell to laughing. He thrust the letter into
his pocket, and returned to the subject he had been discussing.
"Yes, yes," he said, "I shall go to Countess Theudelinde's _soirée_,
and I shall give a lecture before her guests such as they have never
heard the equal; that I promise you. Science and poetry, imagination
and learning mixed together, with dates and genealogy, so that the
_savants_ present will not know what to think; I shall give a lecture
which will make every geologist a prince, and every princess a
geologist. Do you follow me?"
"Perfectly," returned the other; not, indeed, that he saw what Ivan
meant, but that he wished to encourage him. "That will be the very
thing--first-rate!"
"What do you say to illustrations by means of an electric-magnetic
machine, eh?"
"A capital idea, and amusing. My dear friend, you will have a
_succès_."
"May I ask you to convey to the countess my acceptance of her
invitation? I shall require a large apparatus."
"I can assure you in advance that the countess will be charmed at your
kind offer. As for the apparatus and arrangement, leave that to her,
she will be overjoyed when she hears that she is to expect you."
The abbé then took his leave, fully contented with his visit. Ivan
again read his letter, and again sat staring into space, as if a ghost
had appeared to him.
People said the Countess Theudelinde's _Soirées Amalgamantes_ would
certainly make history. The mixture was excellent: grandees jostled
elbows with poets; academicians with prelates; musicians, painters,
sculptors, actors, critics, professors, physicians, editors,
sportsmen, and politicians of all shades gathered under one roof. It
was a bold experiment, a brilliant society _in thesi_. Neither was
there wanting the element of female attraction; all that Pesth held of
beauty, charm, and grace lent its aid to the scheme of amalgamation.
Count Stefan, a cousin of Countess Theudelinde, was a great help to
her _soirées_, for he was a well-informed and cultivated young man,
able to talk on all subjects, and especially on the poetry of the
world. As for the Countess Angela, she was a classic beauty; her
grandfather was a political celebrity--a great man, who had a
surrounding of all kinds, bad and good. It was therefore quite in
keeping, according to the usages of society, that when an unfortunate
outsider was presented to Countess Angela, he should, after the third
word or so, make mention of her illustrious grandfather, Prince
Theobald of Bondavara, and inquire after his health. After this
question, however, the Countess Angela never addressed the stranger
another word. She allowed him to speak, if he so wished, and to retire
in some confusion. Even the most dried-up specimen of university
learning felt aggrieved. His heart could not resist the first glance
of those heavenly eyes, so sweet and friendly, now so cold and
haughty. And yet what had he done? The poor man will probably never
know; he is not in the inner circle.
Countess Angela was indeed a perfect ideal beauty; this cannot be too
often repeated. A pure, noble face, with classical, well-proportioned
features, nose and lips finely cut, long, straight eyebrows and
lashes, which veiled the eyes of a goddess. When these eyes glowed, or
when they were half-closed under their downy lids, they looked black,
but when they laughed at you, you would swear they were blue. Her hair
was rich, of that most lovely of all shades, chestnut brown; her whole
countenance betrayed that she knew herself to be charming, that she
was aware that she was the centre, at all times, of admiration, and
that such knowledge pleased her well. And why not? A woman must be
very silly not to be aware that beauty is a gift and a power.
But what was the reason of her cold looks at the mention of her
grandfather's name? Just what one might expect from a woman with her
face. All the world--that is, her world--knew that she and her
grandfather, Prince Theobald of Bondavara, were at daggers drawn. The
wily old politician had given his only and beautiful granddaughter to
a German, Prince Sondersheim. She was to consolidate some political
matter, only she didn't see it in that light, and refused to ratify
the bargain, not caring for Sondersheim; and, for the matter of that,
neither did he care for her. But, then, it didn't mean so much to him.
Angela had her ideal of married life, however, and so she quarrelled
with her grandfather because he pooh-poohed her ideals and called them
romantic folly. Upon this she vowed she would never speak to him
again, and he, being angry, told her to leave his house, which she did
at once, and came to her Aunt Theudelinde, who had just set up at
Pesth, and was glad to have so bright and beautiful a niece. Since
then she had refused all communication with her grandfather. This was
the reason that she would not even hear his name mentioned; and it
never was, except by ignorant outsiders, or "know-nothings," as the
Yankees call them.
The Abbé Samuel had wit enough to see that the _Soirées Amalgamantes_
were not the success they should be. Conversation did not suffice;
amalgamation was at a standstill. The young girls sat in one room, the
married women in another; the men herded together, looking glum, but
not so bored as the women. Then the abbé, considering what ought to be
done, had a happy idea. He introduced dramatic representations,
dramatic readings, concerts, which were a decided success. Soon
conversation became lively, strangers got to know one another; when
they rehearsed together duets and little pieces their stiffness wore
off. The women seemed different in morning dress, free from the
restraints of the grand toilette; they grew quite friendly, and later
on they found a subject upon which they discoursed quite at their
ease. It must be confessed, however, that after midnight, when the
readings, the concert, or the representation was over, and the
outsiders had gone home to their beds, society began to enjoy itself.
The young people danced, the old played whist or tarok, and they
stayed till daybreak. They would have done the same had the
scientists, the poets, the artists remained; they didn't want them to
leave, but, naturally, these people felt themselves out of it, and,
besides, they could not sit up all night like the others, so they went
home very properly; they knew their place.
The Abbé Samuel understood how to manage matters. Whenever the
countess was to have a particularly good evening he took care it
should get talked about, and the names of the performers, their
parentage and history, together with any interesting circumstance,
true or false, should be subjects of conversation for days before. In
this way he sent about Ivan Behrend's name with a great many details
as to his interesting life in the mines, his extraordinary cleverness,
and the wonderful lecture he was going to give at the countess's next
_soirée_.
The abbé knew his world, and how to whet its curiosity by exaggerated
reports.
"Is it true that, for one experiment only, he burned a brilliant
belonging to Countess Theudelinde which was worth eight hundred
gulden?"
"The stone weighed four carats, and was worth fifteen hundred pounds."
"We must give him a good reception. See, here he comes, escorted by
Abbé Samuel!"
The gentleman who had just spoken, and who was the Countess Angela's
cousin, was Count Edmund, a handsome young man of about twenty-two
years of age. He hastened to meet Ivan and the abbé as they entered
the door, and introduced himself as nephew to the lady of the house.
He took Ivan by the arm in the most friendly manner, and led him to
Count Stefan, uncle to the countess. The count was a man of
intelligence and reading; he assured Ivan there were those in the room
who were much interested to hear his lecture. After this he was
presented by his new friend to several distinguished-looking persons
with decorations, who all pressed his hand, and spoke in the most
friendly manner. The beginning of the evening was the most agreeable
portion. The abbé and Ivan finally made their way into the next room,
where the ladies were assembled, and here they found the Countess
Theudelinde, who received them, and especially Ivan, most graciously.
The young man, Count Edmund, again took possession of him, and,
laughing and talking, led him up to the Countess Angela, to whom he
was introduced with a great flourish. Before this lovely vision Ivan
bowed, feeling somewhat stunned, yet not shy or awkward.
"You come very seldom to Pesth," said the young countess, with a
reassuring smile.
"It is some time since I have been here; but I understand this is your
first visit, countess. You have never lived in Pesth?"
Angela's face assumed its cold expression; she felt sure he was going
to inquire for Prince Theobald.
"I do not see," she said, in a sarcastic voice, "what it is to any one
whether I have ever been in Pesth."
"It is not an uncommon accident," returned Ivan, quietly, "that a man
visits a place where he has never been before; but when many people
meet in the same spot, it looks as if there was something more than
accident in such a gathering; and in this instance, where so many
brilliant personages are brought together, it seems as if Providence
had more to do with it than mere chance."
At these words Angela's face cleared. "Then you believe in Providence?
you acknowledge there is such a thing as Divine ordinance?"
"Undoubtedly, I do believe."
"Then we shall be friends." She turned away as she spoke, and Ivan
took this movement as a signal to retire.
After a quarter of an hour's further waiting, Edmund came to tell him
that everything was in readiness in the lecture-room, and the company
had already gathered there in considerable numbers. Ivan, therefore,
ascended the stage, which had been erected at the farther end of the
large room, and, holding his papers in his hand, addressed his
audience. He had a pleasant voice, his manner of address was perfectly
unaffected, composed, and taking. From the first moment he held the
attention of the audience--his subject was _Magnetism_.