A CHANGE AT ERLACH COURT.
"There is something rotten in the state of Denmark," Edgar von Rohritz
says to himself, looking out of his window at Erlach Court upon the
snow-covered garden below.
Six days ago he arrived at the castle to spend Christmas, as had been
agreed upon. The Christmas festivities are at an end. The children from
the three villages upon whom Katrine had showered gifts have all, as
well as Freddy, become accustomed to their new possessions, but the
giant Christmas-tree, robbed, it is true, of its sugarplums, still
stands with its candle-stumps and gilt ornaments in the corridor, and
from the brown frames of the engravings in the dining-room a few
evergreen boughs are still hanging, remnants of the Christmas
decorations.
Rohritz has enjoyed celebrating the lovely festival in the
country,--everything was bright and gay; but there is a change of
atmosphere at Erlach Court; the social charm for which it used to be
renowned is lacking.
Edgar's reception both by husband and by wife was most cordial: the
captain is gay, talkative,--almost gayer and more talkative than in
summer; but there is a cloud on Katrine's brow.
Instead of the frank but thoroughly good-humoured tone in which she was
wont to deride the captain's exaggerated outbreaks, she now passes them
by in silence. She never quarrels with him, she is decidedly displeased
with him, and--what surprises Rohritz more than all else--the captain
seems to care very little for her displeasure.
To-day Rohritz asked Katrine if it was quite decided that the captain
was to leave the army and retire once for all to the country. Whereupon
Katrine's fine eyes sparkle angrily, and with a slight quiver of her
delicate nostril she replies, "So it seems. He will not listen to any
suggestion of resuming the hard duties of the service, but has
accustomed himself entirely to the lazy life of a landed proprietor."
And when Rohritz remains silent, she exclaims, angrily, "I know what
you are thinking: that I gave him no choice save to resign his career
or his domestic life,--which is no choice at all with men of his stamp,
whose love of domesticity is very pronounced, and who have no ambition!
But when I acted so I thought he would lead a country life, without
deteriorating; I thought he would occupy himself,--would devote his
energies to politics, to Slavonic agricultural interests----"
"Indeed?" Rohritz asks. "Did you really expect that of Les?"
"Yes," Katrine exclaims, "I did expect that of Jack; and I had a right
to expect it, for he lacks neither energy nor sense."
"He was always considered one of the keenest and most gifted officers
in the army," says Rohritz.
"And with justice," Katrine confirms his words. "You have no idea of
the energy with which he devoted himself to the service. Were you ever
in Hungary?"
"Yes, madame, I served as captain for two years in W----."
"Then you are familiar with the fearful heat of the Hungarian summers.
To order dinner and to sit upright at table exhausted my capacity;
whilst he, although he rose at four that he might get through
riding-school before the terrible heat of the day, scarcely ever lay
down for half an hour. He continually had something to arrange, to
decide, to command; he occupied himself with the individual concerns of
every soldier in his squadron; he never took a moment's rest from
morning until night; while now--now he does nothing, nothing but
sleigh, mend a toy for the boy now and then, and read silly novels."
Rohritz is spared the necessity of replying, for at this moment the
quiet drawing-room where this conversation is going on is invaded by
the sharp clear tinkle of large sleigh-bells. Katrine turns her head
hastily and walks to the window.
"So soon again!" she exclaims, as a fair, stout, pretty woman, wrapped
in furs, allows herself, with much loud talking, to be helped out of
the sleigh by the captain. Whilst Katrine, with a very gloomy face,
takes her seat in an arm-chair to await the stranger's appearance,
Rohritz withdraws, under the pretext of an obligation to answer
immediately an important letter.
But he writes no letter; he does not even sit down at his writing-desk,
but stands at his window looking out at the snow. In town he had
quite forgotten how pure and white snow originally is. He gazes
at it as at some curiosity which he is beholding for the first time.
On the rose-beds, the bushes, the old linden,--everywhere it lies
thick,--thick!
Here and there some branch thrusts forth a black point from the white
covering, and the trunks of the trees are all divided in halves, a
black half and a white one.
He reflects upon the domestic drama about to be enacted close at hand.
He is sorry for Katrine, although he lays at her door the blame for all
the annoyances of which she has spoken to him, petty, provoking
annoyances, which under certain circumstances may be the forerunners of
actual misfortune.
"One more who has thrust aside happiness," he murmurs, bitterly, adding
on the instant, "If we could only recognize our happiness at the right
time! If it could only say to us, 'Here I am, clasp me close!' But the
truest, finest happiness is never self-asserting: it walks beside us
mute and modest, warming and rejoicing our hearts, while we know not
whence come the warmth and the delight."
* * * * *
As the stout blonde whom Leskjewitsch helped out of the sleigh not only
remains to lunch, but also takes afternoon tea and dinner at Erlach
Court, Rohritz has abundant opportunity to observe her. That, like all
sirens who disturb domestic serenity, she should be inferior in every
respect to the wife whose peace of mind she threatens, was to have
been expected; but that she should be so immeasurably inferior to
Katrine,--for that Rohritz was not prepared.
Anywhere else save in the country, and moreover in a world-forgotten
corner of Ukrania, where the foxes bid one another good-night, and
human beings are consequently easier to be induced than in civilized
countries to bid one another good-day in spite of stupid social
prejudices, any intercourse between this lady and the family at Erlach
Court would have been impossible.
The daughter of a lucifer-match manufacturer in P----, with a moderate
degree of education and a strong passion for hunting, three years ago
she had married the son of a riding-teacher, a certain Herr Ruprecht,
who had been first a cavalry-officer, then a circus manager in America,
and finally a newspaper-man in Vienna. After these various experiences
with her promising husband, they had shortly before taken up their
abode in a villa not far from Erlach Court, on the opposite bank of the
Save. As the husband spent most of his time with a pretty actress, the
young wife passed her days in dreary solitude. The country-people
called her the grass-widow.
"I need not assure you that I am not in the least jealous," Katrine
remarks to Rohritz in the drawing-room, while the grass-widow with
Freddy and the captain is playing billiards in the library, "but I
frankly confess that I find the pleasure which Jack takes in the
society of that common creature--that fat goose--incomprehensible. It
irritates me. Moreover, she is ugly!"
Rohritz receives this outburst of Katrine's precisely as he receives
all her outbursts,--in thoughtful, courteous silence. Frau Ruprecht
certainly is common and silly; ugly she is not. She has a dazzling
complexion, a magnificent bust, and a regular profile, although with
lips that are too thick, a double chin, and light eyelashes. She speaks
in a common, Viennese dialect, has never read a sensible book in her
life, uses perfumes in excess, and has no taste whatever in dress.
But she drives like a Viennese hackman, she rides like a jockey, and
her knowledge of sporting-matters would do honour to a professional
trainer. She allows Leskjewitsch the utmost freedom of speech, and is
ready to laugh at his worst jokes.
She disgusts Edgar Rohritz quite as much as she disgusts Katrine;
nevertheless he understands what there is about her to attract
Leskjewitsch.