SUBMISSION.
Yes, affairs had reached a terribly grave point, an Harry now fully
appreciated. He felt like a man under sentence of death whose appeal
for mercy has been rejected. The day for his execution was appointed;
he had given his promise, and must keep it.
The day after his father's visit to Dobrotschau the young man presented
himself there, and informed the ladies that pressing business obliged
him to return to Vienna; but Paula, who was perfectly aware of the
duration of his leave, routed from the field every reason which he gave
for the necessity for his presence in Vienna. A betrothal festival had
been arranged for a day early in September; he could not possibly be
absent. And Paula, the robust, whose nerves were of iron, wept and made
a scene; and Harry stayed, and conscientiously paid at least three
visits a week at Dobrotschau. He was changed almost past recognition:
he had grown very thin, his voice had a hard, metallic sound, and his
eyes had the restless brilliancy of some wild creature in a trap. He
ate scarcely anything, and his hands burned with fever. His betrothed,
whose passion was still on the increase, overwhelmed him with tender
attentions, which he no longer strove to discourage, but which he
accepted with the resignation of despair.
His bridges were burned behind him; he saw no escape; he must accept
what life had in store for him. Now and then he made a pathetic attempt
to blot out of his soul the pale image of the charming girl which never
left him. He even made every effort to love his betrothed, to penetrate
her inward consciousness, to learn to know and value her; but he
brought home from every such psychological exploring trip a positive
aversion, so rude and coarse, so bereft of all delicacy, were her modes
of thought and feeling. He pleased her; his quixotic courtesy, his
unpractical view of life, she took delight in; but her vanity alone was
interested, not her heart,--that is, she valued it all as "gentlemanly
accomplishment," as something aristocratic, like his seat on horseback,
or the chiselling of his profile. She was an utter stranger to the best
and truest part of him. And as her passion increased, what had been
with him at first an impatient aversion changed to absolute loathing,
something so terrible that at times he took up his revolver to put an
end to it all. Such cowardice, however, was foreign to his principles;
and then he was only twenty-four years old, and life might have been so
fair if---- Even now at rare intervals a faint hope would arise within
him, but what gave birth to it he could not tell.
Meanwhile, the days passed, and the betrothal _fete_ was near at hand.
Fainacky, who had installed himself as _maitre de plaisir_, an office
which no one seemed inclined to dispute with him, was indefatigable in
his labours, and displayed great inventive faculty. Every hour he
developed some fresh idea: now it was a new garden path to be
illuminated by coloured lamps, now a clump of shrubbery behind which
the band of an infantry regiment in garrison in the neighbourhood was
to be concealed.
"Music is the most poetic of all the arts, so long as one is spared the
sight of the musician," he explained to Frau von Harfink, in view of
this last arrangement. "The first condition of success for a _fete_ is
a concealed orchestra."
He himself composed two stirring pieces of music--a Paula galop and a
Selina quadrille--to enrich the entertainment. The decoration of the
garden-room was carried out by a Viennese upholsterer under his special
supervision. He filled up the cards of invitation, ordered the wine for
the supper, and sketched the shapes for the plaques of flowers on the
table. The menus, however, constituted his masterpiece. Civilized
humanity had never seen anything like them. Beside each plate there was
to lie a parchment roll tied with a golden cord, from, which depended a
seal stamped with the Harfink coat of arms. These gorgeous things were
Fainacky's _chef-d'[oe]uvre_. All his other devices--such as the torch
dance at midnight, with congratulatory addresses from the Harfink
retainers, the fireworks which were to reveal the intertwined
initials of the betrothed pair shooting to the skies in characters of
flame--were mere by-play. Yet, in spite of all his exertions in this
line, the Pole found time to spy upon everybody, to draw his own
conclusions, and to attend to his own interests.
By chance it occurred to him to devote some observation to Olga
Dangeri, whom hitherto he had scarcely noticed. He found her a subject
well worth further attention, and it soon became a habit of his to
pursue her with his bold glance, of course when unobserved by the fair
Countess Selina, with whom he continued to carry on his flirtation.
Whenever, unseen and unheard, he could persecute Olga with his insolent
admiration and exaggerated compliments, he did so. Consequently she did
her best to avoid him. He was quite satisfied with this result,
ascribing it to the agitation caused by his homage. "Poor girl!" he
thought; "she does not comprehend the awakening within her of the
tender passion!"
In fact, a change was perceptible in Olga. She was languid, not easily
roused to exertion; her lips and cheeks burned frequently, and she was
more taciturn than ever. Her beauty was invested with an even greater
charm. Upon his first arrival in Dobrotschau, the Pole had suspected a
mutual inclination between Treurenberg and the beautiful "player's
daughter," but, since he had seen nothing to confirm his ugly
suspicion, he had ceased to entertain it. Every symptom of an awakening
attachment which he could observe in Olga, Ladislas Fainacky
interpreted in his own favour.