FIVE-O'CLOCK TEA.
However recklessly a woman may have trifled with her reputation in her
youth, tossing it about as a thing of naught, there is sure to come a
time in the progress of years when the first wrinkle appears, and
instantly a careful search is made for the lost article. Then she needs
a friend who shall smooth it out and polish it up and return it to
her,--a friend who believes in its inherent spotlessness and will do
her best to convince others of the same.
This office Stasy has undertaken to perform for the Princess Oblonsky.
And what is to be her reward for her efforts? Delicious food, exquisite
lodgings and service in apartments fairy-like in their appointments,
numerous presents, and altogether very considerate treatment, with the
exception of a few outbreaks of temper, unavoidable with such women as
the Princess.
From all which it may be clearly perceived that the position of the
Oblonsky is far from being as good as it was upon her husband's death,
three years ago, or she would scarcely covet at so high a price the
support of such a person as Anastasia.
She certainly has been most unfortunate,--poor Princess Sophie. When,
three years ago, she returned from Petersburg a widow and possessed of
a colossal fortune, she hoped to obliterate all memories of former
irregularities by a marriage with Prince Zino Capito. But Zino did not
second her views. Two months after the death of the Prince he scarcely
spoke to her.
It was during the following winter that Sophie Oblonsky committed the
serious 'imprudence' by which she lost forever her social position. At
the roulette-table in San Carlo she made the acquaintance of a young
Hungarian who was presented to her as a Comte de Bethenyi. He was
young, ardent, wore picturesque fur collars and jackets which well
became his handsome gypsy face, flung his money about everywhere, and
played the piano. Sophie Oblonsky was always sensitive to music. The
picturesque Hungarian inspired her with an interest such as none but a
disappointed woman of forty can experience. In dread of compromising
herself, she consented to marry him, and they were betrothed, whereupon
suddenly various Esterhazys and Zichys of her acquaintance appeared at
San Carlo, and in the casino of the place met the Princess upon her
lover's arm, bowed to her, and honoured her companion with a very odd
stare. After they had passed, Sophie heard them laugh.
In an hour all Monaco knew that the Princess Oblonsky had betrothed
herself to a fencing-master from Klausenburg, who shortly before had
won a prize of ten thousand marks in the Saxon lottery. That same
evening Caspar Bethenyi risked his last thousand francs on number
twenty-nine,--perhaps because the twenty-ninth of January was his
birthday,--and lost. The following night he put a bullet through his
brains.
The correspondent of 'Figaro' wrote an amusing article upon the
episode, and the Princess Oblonsky was henceforth impossible: she had
made herself ridiculous.
The world found the affair extremely comical,--so comical that there
was a strong admixture of contempt even in the compassion accorded to
the poor fencing-master, who had signed his name simply Caspar Bethenyi
in the strangers' book, and who, it was afterwards discovered, had
accepted rather unwillingly the rank bestowed upon him by waiters and
journalists.
Since this had occurred, two years before, the Oblonsky had tried in
vain to regain a footing in society. Considerable surprise was
expressed that when thus exiled from the 'world' of western Europe she
did not retire to Petersburg; but she probably had her own reasons for
not doing so.
Another woman in her place, with her immense means, might have let go
all she had lost and lived gaily from day to day. But she was naturally
slow, and with the luxurious tendencies of her temperament were mingled
sentimentality and a certain liability to sporadic attacks of a sense
of propriety. She grasped at everything that could make her at one with
the world.
She had set her heart upon a respectable marriage, becoming her rank.
In the far distance Edgar von Rohritz hovered before her as the St.
George who was destined to slay for her the dragon of prejudice.
Certain people, especially women, understand how to touch up their
reminiscences with the same artistic skill that a photographer expends
upon his pictures, so that very little remains of the fact as it was
originally projected upon the memory.
Sophie Oblonsky erased, in this touching up of her reminiscences,
everything that she disliked. She talked so much of her virtue that she
finally came to believe in it.
Meanwhile, she behaved with perfect propriety and was fearfully bored.
It is five o'clock, and the heavy curtains before the windows of her
drawing-room are already drawn close. The lamps shed a mild, agreeable
light. A lackey has just brought in the tea. Upon a pretty Japanese
stand, beside the silver samovar, sparkle the glass decanters of
cordial and all the modern accompaniments of afternoon tea.
It is the Princess's reception-day.
That she entirely ignores in her intercourse with Stasy her own loss of
position, that she ascribes her seclusion solely to a voluntary
retirement from a hollow world which disgusts her, there is as little
need of saying as that Stasy, without a word from the Princess to
induce her to do so, feels herself under obligations to introduce
Sophie to a new social circle.
This 'circle' consists as yet but of a few wealthy Americans, just
arrived in Paris, and of--artists.
The Princess has a special liking for artists; they are, she maintains,
so much fresher, so much quicker and pleasanter as companions, than her
equals in rank, of whose wearisome shallowness she has many a story to
tell. And her special favourite among these is the pianist Fuhrwesen.
Why, good heavens, the only occupation which really interests the
Princess at this time is the search for some private irregularity in
the lives of women of extreme apparent respectability; and in these
investigations the pianist is always ready to assist her.
Dressed with great taste but with severe simplicity, holding a small
Japanese hand-screen between her face and the glow from the fire, the
Princess is leaning back in a low chair near the hearth, complaining of
headache, and hoping that there will not be as many people here to-day
as on her last reception-day.
A quarter of an hour--yes, half an hour--passes, and no one appears.
Stasy is hungry; the _foie gras_ sandwiches are very tempting, but to
partake of one would be a tacit admission that there is no hope of a
visitor, and she must not be the first to confess the fact.
"Poor Boissy!"--this is a painter whom the Oblonsky has taken under her
protection,--"poor Boissy! probably he cannot summon up the courage to
come; he is ashamed of his wife. Ah, he really cannot dream how
considerate I am for artists' wives. It is a theory of mine that it is
our duty, as ladies, to educate artists' wives for their husbands. I
know it is not usual to receive them; but that seems to me very petty,
and I hate all pettiness."
Another quarter of an hour passes. Stasy is faint with hunger.
"One of the Fanes must be ill," she observes, "or they would certainly
be here. I must find out what----" But Sophie interrupts her
impatiently.
"Pour me out a cup of tea," she orders her.
The tea is cold and bitter from waiting so long for guests who do not
arrive. Sophie finds it detestable, and reproaches Stasy therefor.
Stasy consoles herself for her friend's capricious injustice by taking
two glasses of cordial, three sandwiches, and half a dozen little
cakes.
Meanwhile, Sophie observes, with a yawn, "I cannot tell you how glad I
am that no one came. People bore me so. I revel in my solitude. And to
think that I must shortly resign it! I must call upon our ambassadress
shortly."
In spite of her wonderful degree of _aplomb_, Anastasia at this point
of the conversation is silent and looks rather confused.
"You saw her in the Bois lately," the Oblonsky continues, in a somewhat
irritated tone.
"Yes; you pointed her out to me."
"Well, you must have noticed how stiffly she bowed. No wonder. She must
have known how long I have been in Paris without calling upon her."
"I have always told you that you carry to excess your passion for
solitude," Stasy chirps. "It is easy to go too far in such a
preference."
"Ah, the world is odious to me," Sophie declares.
The bell outside is heard to ring at this moment.
"Insufferable!" Sonja exclaims. "I trust no one is coming to disturb us
now!" And, glancing at the mirror over the chimney-piece, she adjusts
her _jabot_ and a curl above her forehead.
The lackey flings wide the folding doors and announces, "Mademoiselle
Urwese,"--the French abbreviation, apparently, for Fuhrwesen; for, even
more copper-coloured than usual, in consequence of the biting north
wind outside, with her hair blowing about her eyes, a kind of
reddish-yellow turban upon her head, and wearing her tassel-bedecked
water-proof, the pianist enters.
"How nice of you! This is really charming, my dear Fuhrwesen!" exclaims
Sophie, hastily concealing her disappointment. "This is my day, but I
closed my doors for all strangers,--absolutely for all," the
imaginative Princess asseverates; then, pausing suddenly, she glances
uneasily at Stasy. But Stasy has long since learned to let such
rhapsodies pass her by without so much as the quiver of an eyelash: her
face is motionless, and the Oblonsky goes on fluently: "You were the
only one whom Baptiste had orders to admit. Take off your wraps: you
will stay and dine, of course, dear, will you not?"
"With your kind permission," Fraeulein Fuhrwesen says, submissively,
kissing the Oblonsky's hand.
"And now sit here by the fire and warm yourself. Anastasia,"--this is
drawled over her shoulder,--"pour out a glass of cordial for her.--You
can have nothing more, my dear; I cannot permit you to spoil your
appetite. We are going to have an extremely fine dinner."
"Your Highness is really too kind," says the pianist. "Ah, how
intensely becoming that green gown is to you! Did you hear Prince
Olary's description of you?--'The Venus of Milo, dressed by Worth.' Was
it not capital?" And the pianist gazes at the Oblonsky with
enthusiastic admiration.
"Yes, yes, you are in love with me, my dear: 'tis an old story," the
Princess says, with a laugh. "But now tell us something new: you always
have a budget of news. Any fresh scandal in the Faubourg?"
"Let me think," Fraeulein Fuhrwesen says, reflectively. "What news have
I heard? _A propos_--yes, I remember; but it will shock your Highness
terribly. I really had no idea of such depravity in girls of what is
called the best standing."
"Oh, tell us, tell us!" the Princess urges her.
"I must first be sure that I shall not wound Fraeulein Anastasia," the
pianist remarks, discreetly. "Are you not in some way related, or a
very near friend, to the little Meineck, Fraeulein von Gurlichingen?"
"Not at all," Anastasia assures her. "I spent a couple of weeks in the
same house with her last summer, but I had very little to say to her. I
never liked her."
"Meineck? Meineck?" says the Oblonsky, with lifted eyebrows. "Is not
she the young person who you told me fell so desperately in love with
Rohritz?"
Anastasia nods.
"The young lady apparently possesses an inflammable heart," Fraeulein
Fuhrwesen remarks, contemptuously: "it already throbs for another,--for
Prince Lorenzino Capito."
The Princess becomes absorbed in contemplation of her nails; Anastasia
observes, "That would seem to be rather an aimless enthusiasm. Pray how
did you learn anything about this affair?"
Fraeulein Fuhrwesen draws a deep breath: "You know I play the
accompaniments at della Seggiola's class. Stella Meineck has
attended it for two months. The company is rather mixed, especially
so far as the men are concerned. Who do you suppose made his appearance
to join the class the day before yesterday? It really is too
ridiculous,--pretending to want to learn to sing! Prince Lorenzo
Capito."
"You don't say so!" Stasy ejaculates.
"Yes, Prince Capito," the narrator repeats. "He stares past all the
others, takes a seat beside little Meineck, and talks with her during
the entire lesson. What do you think of that, ladies?"
Stasy sighs, and the Oblonsky says,--
"_C'est bien extraordinaire!_ I certainly should not have thought that
so insignificant a person could have inspired Capito with the slightest
interest."
"I know Prince Capito," the visitor goes on: "I met him in Vienna at
the Countess Thierstein's. His reputation, so far as women are
concerned, is disgraceful. Any girl is good enough to help him while
away an hour or two."
"Yes, he is a terrible creature," the Princess sighs. "I really had no
idea of it. He used to be a good deal at our house while my husband was
alive. Of course he never presumed with me."
"_Cela va sans dire_," exclaims Stasy.
"Of course, you know me: to friendly intercourse--yes, I do not pretend
to more reserve than I possess--even to a slight flirtation with an
interesting man--I have no objection; but anything beyond that
absolutely passes my comprehension."
"The little Meineck, however," Fraeulein Fuhrwesen continues, with a
malicious smile, "does not appear to be so strict in her ideas. I
distinctly heard her during the singing-lesson arranging a rendezvous
in the Louvre with the Prince."
"A rendezvous?" Sophie repeats, with horror. "That is indeed---- And do
you know whether Capito kept the appointment?"
"Certainly. I made sure of it," continues her informant. "The morning
after the singing-class I had a lesson to give near the Louvre, and
after it was over I had a little time to spare. I am perfectly familiar
with the museum, as I often go there to visit an acquaintance of mine.
I never look at the pictures any more, they tire me to death, but the
Louvre is always a nice place to get warm. So I mounted the staircase,
and lingered for a while beside the register in the Salle La Caze,
exchanging a word or two with an Englishman who is copying a Ribera.
Suddenly the man turned, as every man turns to look after a pretty
girl. I turned also, and whom should I see but Mademoiselle Stella,
with her yellow hair and her sealskin jacket! Please tell me, ladies,
how a person so miserably poor as she is--I know all about the
Meinecks' pecuniary circumstances, coming as I do from Zalow--can buy a
sealskin jacket, and a beautiful one? Why, one has to save for three
years to get a respectable water-proof."
"Probably it was given to her," the Princess says, with a shrug. "But
go on."
"She went directly through the room, without looking at the pictures,
precisely like some one who had come simply to meet some one else. I
went up to her, and, though I cannot endure the haughty creature, I
spoke to her: 'Ah, Baronne, how are you?' She replied curtly, looking
past me to the right and left, and finally, observing that she could
not stay, for she had promised to meet some one,--oh, a lady, of
course!--walked quickly away. My time was up. I looked after her, and
was leaving, when whom should I encounter in the Galerie d'Apollon but
Prince Capito! I suppose any one who knows of his devotion to art can
readily imagine why he should be in the Louvre! What do you say to such
conduct?"
"Absolutely depraved!" exclaims the Princess.
"We all know whither these 'innocent meetings' in the picture-galleries
lead," the Fuhrwesen continues. "The next thing she will pay him a
visit in his lodgings."
"Oh, my dear!" the Oblonsky laughs affectedly.
"Bah! I live opposite the Prince in the Rue d'Anjou; I should not be at
all surprised if I were to see that young lady walk into No. ---- some
fine day."
"If you do you must come and tell us instantly!" exclaims the Princess,
taking her visitor's hand. "Oh, how cold you are! Is it possible you
are not warm yet? Indeed, you are not sufficiently clothed----"
"My cloak is a little thin, but I cannot help that. Your Highness will
readily understand that I am not able to buy a sealskin jacket."
"You---- Anastasia, be kind enough to tell Justine to bring down my two
winter cloaks."
Anastasia obligingly brings the cloaks herself, and the Princess
requests Fraeulein Fuhrwesen to try them on. Although the little pianist
is shorter by almost a head and shoulders than the majestic Princess,
and consequently the garments trail behind her like coronation-robes,
the Oblonsky assures her that they fit her as though they had been made
for her, and immediately bestows upon her one of the two, a magnificent
wrap of dark-green velvet, trimmed with fur.
The pianist kisses both hands of the donor, and kneels before her;
the Princess says, laughing, "Don't be absurd, my dear. You see that
giving--making others happy--is a passion with me. Stasy has one of my
cloaks, you have another, I keep the simplest for myself. I have always
lived for others only."