THERESE DE ROHRITZ.
Winter--such winter as Paris is familiar with--has set in, to make
itself at home. The gardeners have stripped the squares and public
gardens of their last flowers; the trees and the grass and the bare
sod are powdered with snow. When one says 'as white' or 'as pure' as
snow, one must never think of Paris snow, for it is brown, black,
gray,--everything except white; and, as if ashamed of its characterless
existence, it creeps as soon as possible into the earth.
Full six weeks have passed since the Meinecks took up their abode in
'The Three Negroes.' In order to increase their means, the Baroness has
generously determined to write newspaper articles, although she has a
supreme contempt for all journalistic effort, and she has also
completed two shorter essays, for which the Berlin 'Tribune' paid her
twenty-five marks.
With a view to making her descriptions of the world's capital vividly
real, she pursues her study of Paris with all the thoroughness that
characterizes her study of history. She has visited the Morgue, as well
as Valentino's, note-book in hand, but escorted by an old carpenter,
who once mended a trunk for her and won her heart by his sensible way
of talking politics. She paid him five francs for his companionship,
and maintains that he was far less tiresome at Valentino's than a fine
gentleman. She has devised a most interesting visit shortly to be paid
to the Parisian sewers. Meanwhile, in order to make herself perfectly
familiar with the life of the streets, she spends three hours daily,
two in the forenoon and one in the afternoon, upon the top of various
omnibuses.
And Stella,--how does she pass her time? Four times a week she takes a
singing-lesson,--two private lessons, and two in della Seggiola's
'class,' besides which she practises daily for about two hours at home.
She is at liberty to spend the rest of her time in any mode of
self-culture that pleases her. She can go, if she is so inclined, to
the Rue Richelieu with her mother, or visit the Louvre alone, can
attend to little matters at home, or read learned works and write
extracts from them in the book bound in antique leather which her
mother gave her upon her birthday.
What wealth of various and interesting occupations and pleasures for a
girl of twenty-one! It is quite inconceivable, but nevertheless it is
true, that in spite of them she feels lonely and unhappy,--grows daily
more nervous and restless, and, without being able to define exactly
the cause of her sadness, more melancholy. Her energetic mother, to
whom such a vague discontent is absolutely inconceivable, reproaches
her with a want of earnestness in her studies and induces a physician
to prescribe iron for her.
What is there that iron is not expected to cure?
To-day Stella is again alone at home; her mother has gone out after
lunch to take her bird's-eye view of Paris from the top of an omnibus.
She has graciously offered to take Stella with her, but Stella thanks
her and declines; she detests riding in omnibuses, on the top she grows
dizzy, and inside she becomes ill.
"Well, I suppose the only thing that would really please you would be
to drive in a barouche-and-pair in the Bois," her mother remarks.
"Unfortunately, that I cannot afford." With which she hurries away.
Stella's throat aches; she often has a throat-ache,--the specific
throat-ache of a poor child of mortality who has learned to sing with
seven different professors, and whose voice has been treated at
different times as a soprano, a mezzo-soprano, and a deep contralto.
She has been obliged to stop practising in consequence, to-day, and has
taken up a volume of Gibbon, but is too _distraite_ to comprehend what
she reads. It really is strange how slight an interest she takes in the
decline of the Roman Empire.
"And if I should not succeed upon the stage, if my voice should not
turn out well," she constantly asks herself, "what then? what then?"
Why, for a moment--oh, how her cheeks hum as she recalls her
delusion!--she absolutely allowed herself to imagine that---- How
bitterly she has learned to sneer at her fantastic dreams!
"Has Edmund Rohritz's wife not yet been to see you?" Leskjewitsch had
asked her mother in a letter shortly before. "You do not know her, but
I begged Edgar awhile ago to send her to you,--she would be so
advantageous an acquaintance for Stella."
"She would indeed," the poor child thinks; "but not even his old
friend's request has induced him to do me a kindness."
Her sad, weary glance wanders absently over the various lithographs
that adorn the walls, portraits of famous singers, Tamberlik, Rubini,
Mario, all with the signature of those celebrities. Apparently the
hotel must formerly have enjoyed an extensive artistic patronage.
She takes up Gibbon once more, and does her best to become absorbed in
the destinies of the tribunes of the people. In vain.
"Good heavens!" she exclaims, irritably, "who could read a serious book
in all this noise? And 'The Negroes' was recommended to us as a quiet
hotel!"
The Deputy from the south of France is pacing the room above her to and
fro, now repeating in a murmur and anon declaiming with grotesque
pathos to the empty air the speech which he is learning by heart.
In the room next to him an amateur performer is piping 'The Last Rose
of Summer' on a very hoarse flute,--an English bagman, who is suffering
from an inflammation of the eyes, wherefore we must not grudge him his
musical distractions. He is piping 'The Last Rose' for the eighteenth
time; Stella has counted.
"'Tis beyond endurance!" the girl exclaims, closing her Gibbon. "Ah,
heavens, how dreary life is!" she groans. "I wish I were dead!"
Just then there comes a ring at the door. Stella opens it. A tall,
smooth-shaven lackey stands in the corridor and hands her a card:
"_La Baronne Edmond de Rohritz, nee Princesse Capito_."
"Madame la Baronne wishes to know if the Frau Baroness is receiving?"
the man asks, vanishing when Stella assents.
"He probably takes me for a waiting-maid," Stella thinks, childishly,
not without some petty annoyance that she was forced to open the door
herself for the servant, and she hurries into the salon, to put away a
piece of mending which is by no means ornamental. Scarcely has she done
so when a light foot-fall comes tripping up the stairs. There is
another ring, and again Stella opens the door. A lady enters, slender,
very pale, with delicately-cut features, and large, black, rather
restless eyes, which she slightly closes as she looks at Stella, and
then pleasantly holds out her hand:
"Mademoiselle Meineck, _n'est-ce pas?_"
Not for one moment is she in doubt whether this tall girl in a plain
stuff dress be a soubrette or not.
"My brother-in-law Rohritz wrote me some time ago telling me to call
upon your mother and yourself and to ask if I could be of any service
to you. I have promised myself the pleasure of doing so every day
since; my very critical brother's letter inspired me with eager
curiosity; but one never has time for anything in Paris,--nothing
pleasant, that is. Well, here I am at last. Is your mother at home?"
"My mother has gone out, but will shortly return; she would greatly
regret missing you, madame. If you could be content with my society for
a while----" Stella rejoins.
"I should be delighted to have a little talk with you," the lady
assures her; "but do you suppose I have time to stay? What an idea in
Paris! I had to fairly steal a quarter of an hour of time already
appropriated to come to see you. We must postpone our talk. I trust
I shall see a great deal of you; I am always at leisure in the
evening,--that is, when I do not have to go to bed from sheer fatigue!
And how have you passed the time since you came to Paris?"
Madame de Rohritz has installed herself in an arm-chair by the
fireplace, has put up her veil and thrown back her furs from her
shoulders.
A delicate fragrance exhales from her robes; all Parisian women use
perfumes, but how refined, how exquisite, is this fragrance compared
with the overpowering odour of _Peau, d'Espagne_ which surrounds the
Princess Oblonsky!
Therese Rohritz does not possess her brother's beauty, but everything
about her is graceful and attractive,--her veiled glance,--a glance
which can be half impertinent sometimes, but which rests upon Stella
with evident liking,--her beaming and yet slightly weary smile,--yes,
even her hurried articulation and her high-pitched but soft and
melodious voice.
"How have you passed the time since you came to Paris?" she asks again.
"We live very quietly," Stella stammers. "Mamma is studying that she
may finish her book, and of course has no time to go out with me."
"Yes, yes, I know; my brother-in-law told me," Madame de Rohritz
replies. "And you----"
"I? I take singing-lessons four times a week."
"My brother-in-law wrote me that you intend to go upon the stage."
Madame de Rohritz laughs. "If I were a Frenchwoman I should be
horrified at the idea, but I am half an Austrian. I know those whims: a
cousin of mine, a Russian, Natalie Lipinski----"
"Natalie Lipinski! Ah!" Stella exclaims; "my fellow-student. We take
lessons together twice a week in Signor della Seggiola's class."
"Indeed! Well, she is thinking of going upon the stage,--and with a
fortune of ten million roubles. In Austria and Russia such ideas will
take possession of the brains of the best-born and best-bred girls;
_cela ne tire pas a consequence!_ I never oppose Natalie, but I mean to
have her married before she knows what she is about. And what shall I
do with you, my fair one with the golden locks? Do you know I like you
exceedingly? _Le coup de foudre en plein_,--love at first sight."
The clock on the chimney-piece--a clock apparently dating from the days
when 'L'Africaine' was the rage, for the face is adorned with a
manchineel-tree in miniature and a barbaric maiden in a head-dress of
feathers dying beneath it--strikes three.
The lady starts up, takes out her watch, and compares it with the
clock.
"Positively three o'clock, and my poor little boy is waiting for me in
the carriage! I was to take him to his solfeggio class at three. Adieu,
adieu; my compliments to your mother, and _au revoir, n'est-ce pas?_"
She turns once again in the door-way, and, taking both Stella's hands,
says, "You will come to dine with us once this week with your mother
quite _en famille_ the first time, that we may learn to know one
another. I will excuse a formal call: you can pay that later: it is
silly to lose time with formalities when one is _simpatica_. Adieu,
adieu. What beautiful eyes you have! _Je me sauve!_"
The lively young madame kisses Stella's forehead, and then goes--or
rather flies--away.
Stella's heart beats fast and loud.
"After all, he sent her: he has not quite forgotten me."