THE DINNER.
Taken altogether, Fainacky may be but a very ordinary pattern of a man,
but as a _maitre de plaisir_ in the arrangement of a _fete_ he is
unrivalled. A more exquisite table than that around which the twenty
people are assembled who form the rehearsing party for Harry's
betrothal festival it would be difficult to imagine. The only criticism
that can be made is that the guests are rather far apart; but who could
have foreseen that at the last moment four people would be lacking? The
Paul Leskjewitsches, with their niece, sent regrets, and Olga, just
before dinner, was obliged to retire with a severe headache, to which
she succumbed in spite of her aunt's exhortations to her "not to mind
it." Lato is present; he is indifferent as to where his hours drag
past. He is determined to prevent Olga's being made the subject of
discussion, and his social training, with the numbness sure to ensue
upon great mental agitation, stands him in stead; he plays his part
faultlessly. Now and then the consciousness of his hopeless misery
flashes upon him, then it fades again; he forgets all save the present
moment, and he scans everything about him with keen observation, as if
he had no part or parcel in it, but were looking at it all as at
another world.
Yes, the table is charmingly decorated; anything more tasteful or more
correct in every respect could not be imagined; but the people gathered
about this sparkling board, never before has he seen them so clearly or
judged them so severely.
His contempt is specially excited by his social equals. Fritz
Mayenfeld, "the numismatician," does not long occupy his attention. In
spite of his rank, he has always manifested thoroughly plebeian
instincts; his greed of gain is notorious; and he looks, and is,
entirely at home in the Harfink domestic atmosphere. The descent of the
other aristocrats present, however,--of Kilary, of the short-haired
Countess, and of the affected Count Fermor,--is tolerably evident in
their faces, and they all seem determined to assert their aristocratic
prestige in the same manner,--by impertinence.
Lato is conscious of a horror of his own caste as he studies these
degenerate members of it. He turns his attention to the three guests
from Komaritz,--the Countess Zriny, Hedwig, and Harry. The old
canoness, who is seated on his right, provokes his smile. The superb
condescension with which, for love of her nephew, she treats "these
people;" the formal courtesy with which she erects an insurmountable
barrier between them and herself; the morsels of liberalism which she
scatters here and there in her conversation for their comfort and
delectation,--all are worthy of the most enthusiastic praise.
Poor old woman! How important she is in her own eyes! Her gown is the
ugliest and shabbiest there (the one the sporting Countess wears was
given her by Selina), but six strings of wonderful pearls which she
wears around her neck make her all right. Hedwig,--well, she is a
little more affected than usual; she is flirting with little Baron
Koenigsfeld, who took her in to dinner, playing him off against her
neighbour on the other side, Count Fermor. And Harry,--with profound
sympathy and intense compassion Lato's eyes rest upon his friend.
Simple, without pretension or affectation, very courteous without
condescension, a little formal, perhaps, withal,--as the most natural
of men must be where he feels himself a stranger,--with that in his
face and bearing that distinguishes him above every one present, he is
the only specimen of his own caste there with whom Lato feels
satisfied.
"They may abuse us as they please," he thinks to himself,--"nay, I even
join them in abusing,--but if one of us gives his word he stands to
it." And then he questions whether in any other rank could be found
such an example of noble and manly beauty, or of such quixotic,
self-annihilating, chivalrous honour. "Good heavens! why not?" he makes
reply to himself. "So far as moral worth is concerned, assuredly; only
in form it would probably be less refined."
Lato has had much experience of life. He has laid aside all the
prejudices of his class, but the subtile caste-instinct still
abides with him. He asks himself whether his family--the Harfink
family--notice the difference between Harry and the other aristocrats
present; whether the Harfinks will not be finally disgusted by the
impertinence of these coxcombs; whether they do not feel the offensive
condescension of the Countess Zriny. It would seem not. The Harfinks,
mother and daughters, are quite satisfied with what is accorded them;
they are overflowing with gratified vanity, and are enjoying the
success of the festival. Even Selina is pleased; Olga's absence
seems to have soothed her. She informs Lato, by all kinds of amiable
devices,--hints which she lets fall in conversation, glances which she
casts towards him,--that she is sorry for the scene of the morning, and
is ready to acquiesce. She tells her neighbour at dinner, Baron Kilary,
that to-day is the anniversary of her betrothal.
Lato becomes more and more strongly impressed by the conviction that
her severe attack of jealousy has aroused within her something of her
old sentiment for him. The thought disgusts him profoundly; he feels
for her a positive aversion.
His attention is chiefly bestowed upon Harry. How the poor fellow
suffers! writhing beneath the ostentatious anxiety of his betrothed,
who exhausts herself in sympathetic inquiries as to his pallor,
ascribing it to every cause save the true one.
"What will become of him if he does not succeed in ridding himself of
this intolerable burden?" Lato asks himself. An inexpressible dread
assails him. "A candidate for suicide," he thinks, and for a moment he
feels dizzy and ill.
But why should Harry die, when his life might be adjusted by one word
firmly uttered? He might be saved, and then what a sunny bright future
would be his! If one could but help him!
The dinner is half over; punch is being served. The tall windows of the
dining-hall are wide open, the breeze has died away for the time, the
night is quiet, the outlook upon the park enchanting. Coloured lamps,
shaped like fantastic flowers, illumine the shrubbery, whence comes
soft music.
All the anguish which had been stilled for the moment stirs within
Lato's breast at sound of the sweet insinuating tones. They arouse
within him an insane thirst for happiness. If it were but possible to
obtain a divorce! Caressingly, dreamily, the notes of "Southern Roses"
float in from the park.
"Ah! how that reminds me of my betrothal!" says Selina, moving her fan
to and fro in time with the music. Involuntarily Lato glances at her.
She wears a red gown, _decoletee_ as of old. Her shoulders have
grown stouter, her features sharper, but she is hardly changed
otherwise; many would pronounce her handsomer than she had been on that
other sultry September evening when it had first occurred to him that
he--loved her--no, when he lied to himself--because it seemed so easy.
He falls into a revery, from which he is aroused by the poet Angelico
Orchys, who rises, glass in hand, and in fluent verse proposes the
health of the betrothed couple. Glasses are clinked, and scarcely are
all seated again when Fainacky toasts the married pair who are
celebrating to-day the sixth anniversary of their betrothal. Every one
rises; Selina holds her glass out to Lato with a languishing glance
from her half-closed eyes as she smiles at him over the brim.
He shudders. And he has dared to hope for a divorce!
The clinking of glasses has ceased; again all are seated; a fresh
course of viands is in progress; there is a pause in the conversation,
while the music wails and sighs outside, Fainacky from his place at
table making all sorts of mysterious signs to the leader.
Treurenberg's misery has become so intense within the last few minutes
that he can scarcely endure it without some outward sign of it, when
suddenly a thought occurs to him, a little, gloomy thought, that slowly
increases like a thunder-cloud. His breath comes quick, the cold
perspiration breaks out upon his forehead, his heart beats strong and
fast.
"Is anything the matter, Lato?" Selina asks, across the table; "you
have grown so pale. Do you feel the draught?"
He does not answer. His heart has ceased to beat wildly; a soothing
calm, a sense of relief, takes possession of him; he seems to have
discovered the solution of a huge, tormenting riddle.
Presently the wine begins to take effect, and conversation drowns the
tones of the music. Culinary triumphs have been discussed, there has
been some political talk, anti-Semitic opinions, in very bad taste,
have been expressed, and now, in spite of the presence of several young
girls, various scandals are alluded to.
"Have any of you heard the latest developments in the
Reinsfeld-Gladnjik case?" Kilary asks.
Treurenberg listens.
The sporting Countess replies: "No: for two years I have seen nothing
of Ada Reinsfeld--since the--well, since she left her husband; one
really had to give her up. I am very lenient in such affairs, but one
has no choice where the scandal is a matter of such publicity."
"I entirely agree with you, my dear Countess," says the Baroness
Harfink. "So long as due respect is paid to external forms, the private
weaknesses of my neighbours are no concern of mine; but external forms
must be observed."
"My cousin's course throughout that business was that of a crazy
woman," says "the numismatician," with his mouth full. "She was
mistress of the best-ordered house in Graez. Reinsfeld's cook was----!
never in my life did I taste such salmi of partridges--except on this
occasion," he adds, with an inclination towards his hostess. The next
moment he motions to a servant to fill his glass, and forgets all about
his cousin Ada.
"Poor Ada! She was very charming, but she became interested in all
sorts of free-thinking books, and they turned her head," says the
Countess Zriny. "In my opinion a woman who reads Strauss and Renan is
lost."
"The remarks of the company are excessively interesting to me," Kilary
now strikes in, with an impertinent intonation in his nasal voice, "but
I beg to be allowed to speak, since what I have to tell is quite
sensational. You know that Countess Ada has tried in vain to induce her
noble husband to consent to a divorce. Meanwhile, Gladnjik's condition
culminated in galloping consumption, and two days ago he died."
"And she?" several voices asked at once.
"She?--she took poison!"
For a moment there is a bush in the brilliantly-lighted room, the soft
sighing of the music in the shrubbery is again audible. Through the
open windows is wafted in the beguiling charm of an Hungarian dance by
Brahms.
There is a change of sentiment in the assemblage: the harshness with
which but now all had judged the Countess Ada gives place to
compassionate sympathy.
Countess Zriny presses her lace-trimmed handkerchief to her eyes. "Poor
Ada!" she murmurs; "I can see her now; a more charming young girl there
never was. Why did they force her to marry that old Reinsfeld?"
"He had so excellent a cook," sneers Kilary, with a glance at "the
numismatician," from whose armour of excellent appetite the dart falls
harmless.
"Forced!" Paula interposes eagerly, in her deep, guttural tones. "As if
nowaday's any one with a spark of character could be forced to marry!"
Harry twirls his moustache and looks down at his plate.
"I am the last to defend a departure from duty," the old canoness goes
on, "but in this case the blame really falls partly upon Ada's family.
They forced her to marry; they subjected her to moral force."
"That is true," even Kilary, heartless cynic as he is, admits. "They
forced her, although they knew that she and Niki Gladnjik were attached
to each other. Moreover, I must confess that, in spite of the admirable
qualities which distinguish Reinsfeld,--as, for example, his excellent
cook,--it must have been very difficult for a delicate-minded, refined
young creature to live with the disgusting old satyr--my expressions
are classically correct."
"Niki took her marriage sorely to heart," sighed the sporting Countess.
"They say he ruined his health by the dissipation into which he plunged
to find forgetfulness. In that direction Ada certainly was much to
blame; she was carried away by compassion."
Meanwhile, Fainacky has made another sign for the music. The dreamy
half-notes die away, and the loud tones of a popular march echo through
the night.
All rise from table.
Treurenberg's brain spins, as with the Countess Zriny on his arm he
walks into the garden-room, where the guests are to admire the
decorations and to drink their coffee.
"The fair Olga is not seriously ill?" he hears Kilary say to Selina.
"Oh, not at all," Selina replies. "You need not fear anything
infectious. Olga is rather overstrained and exaggerated; you cannot
imagine what a burden papa left us in the care of her. But we have
settled it to-day with mamma: she must leave the house,--at least for a
time. My aunt Emilie is to take her to Italy. It will be a great relief
to us all."