THE FANES' BALL.
Yes, the Fanes' ball is a splendid ball, one of the most beautiful
balls of the season, and fulfils every one's expectations. Not one of
the artistic effects that puzzle newspaper-reporters and delight the
public is lacking,--neither fountains of eau-de-cologne, nor tables of
flowers upon which blocks of ice gleam from among nodding ferns, nor
mirrors and chandeliers hung with wreaths of roses, nor the legendary
grape-vine with colossal grapes. The crown of all, however, is the
conservatory, in which, among orange-trees and magnolias in full bloom,
gleam mandarin-trees full of bright golden fruit. There are lovely,
secluded nooks in this Paradise, where has been conjured up in the
unfriendly Northern winter all the luxuriance of Southern vegetation.
Large mirrors here and there prevent what might else be the monotony of
the scene.
The company is rather mixed. It almost produces the impression of the
appearance at a first-class theatre of a troop of provincial actors,
with here and there a couple of stars,--stars who scarcely condescend
to play their parts. Most of the guests do not recognize the host; and
those who suspect his presence in the serious little man in a huge
white tie and with a bald head, whom they took at first for the master
of ceremonies, avoid him. His entire occupation consists in gliding
about with an unhappy face in the darkest corners, now and then timidly
requesting some one of the guests to look at his last Meissonier. When
the guest complies with the request and accompanies him to view the
Meissonier, Mr. Fane always replies to the praise accorded to the
picture in the same words: "I paid three hundred thousand francs for
it. Do you think Meissoniers will increase in value?"
The hostess is more imposing in appearance than her bald-headed spouse.
Her gown comes from Felix, and is trimmed with sunflowers as big as
dinner-plates,--which has a comical effect. Therese Rohritz shakes her
head, and whispers to a friend, "How that good Mrs. Fane must have
offended Felix, to induce him to take such a cruel revenge!" But except
for her gown, and the fact that she cannot finish a single sentence
without introducing the name of some duke or duchess, there is nothing
particularly ridiculous about her.
Yet, criticise the entertainment and its authors as you may, one and
all must confess that rarely has there been such an opportunity to
admire so great a number of beautiful women, and that the most
beautiful of all, the queen of the evening, is the Princess Oblonsky.
Anywhere else it would excite surprise to find her among so many women
of unblemished reputation; but it is no greater wonder to meet her here
than at a public ball. Anywhere else people would probably stand aloof
from her; here they approach her curiously, as they would some theatric
star whom they might meet at a picnic in an inn ball-room.
Perhaps her beauty would not be so completely victorious over that of
her sister women were she not the only guest who has bestowed great
pains on her toilette. All the other feminine guests who make any
pretensions to distinction seem to have entered into an agreement to be
as shabby as possible. As it would be hopeless to attempt to rival the
Fane millions, they choose at least to prove that they despise them.
One of the shabbiest and most rumpled among many dowdy gowns is that
worn by Therese Rohritz, who, pretty woman as she is, looks down with
evident satisfaction upon her faded crepe de Chine draperies,
remarking, with a laugh, that she had almost danced it off last summer
at the balls at the casino at Trouville.
Her husband is not quite pleased with such evident neglect of her dress
on his wife's part, nor does he at all admire Therese's careless way of
looking about her through her eye-glass and laughing and criticising.
He must always be too good an Austrian to be reconciled to what is
called _chic_ in Paris. There is the same difference between his
Austrian arrogance and Parisian arrogance that there is between pride
and impertinence. He thinks it all right to hold aloof from a parvenu,
to avoid his house and his acquaintance; but to go to the house of the
parvenu, to be entertained in his apartments, to eat his ices and drink
his champagne, to pluck the flowers from his walls, and in return to
ignore himself and to ridicule his entertainment, he does not think
right. But whenever he expresses his sentiments upon this point to his
wife, Therese answers him, half in German, half in French, "You are
quite right; but what would you have? 'tis the fashion."
The only person at the ball who is honestly ashamed of her modest
toilette is Stella, and this perhaps because the first object that
her eyes encountered when she appeared with the Lipinskis, a little
after eleven, was the Oblonsky in all her brilliant beauty and
faultless elegance. By her side, her white feather fan on his knee,
sits---- Edgar von Rohritz. Stella's heart stands still; ah, yes, now
she knows why she has lost her bracelet. All the tender, child-like
dreams that stole smiling upon her soul at sight of his flowers die at
once, and Stasy's words at the Cologne railway-station resound in her
ears: "Yes, it is ridiculous to think of rivalling the Princess: when
she appears we ordinary women cease to exist."
"Yes, it is ridiculous to think of rivalling the Princess," Stella
repeats to herself, "particularly for such a stupid, awkward,
insignificant thing as I am."
She cannot take her eyes off the beautiful woman. How she smiles upon
him, bestowing her attention upon him alone, while a crowd of Parisian
dandies throng about her, waiting for an opportunity to claim a word.
There is no doubt in Stella's mind that he is reconciled with Sophie
Oblonsky.
A man will forgive a very beautiful woman everything, even the evil
which he has heard of her, nay, he may find a mysterious charm in her
transgressions, if she takes pains to win his favour with intelligence,
prudence, and the necessary degree of reserve. This piece of wisdom
Stella has gained from the French romances of which she has read
extracts out of pure ennui as they appear daily in 'Figaro' and the
'Gaulois.'
That a man must find it difficult to shake off an old friend who
approaches him with imploring humility, that he cannot well refuse when
she requests him to bring her an ice, and that should she hand him her
fan he cannot possibly lay it down on a table with a proudly forbidding
air and then take his leave with a formal bow,--all this Stella never
takes into consideration; and this is why she is so wretchedly unhappy
as she seats herself beside Natalie Lipinski on a plush ottoman, near a
table of flowers.
A young Russian, a friend of the Lipinskis, begs Natalie for a waltz,
and she takes his arm and goes into the adjoining dancing-room. Stella
is left alone, beside old Madame Lipinski, who is just getting ready to
relate something extremely entertaining about the Emperor Nicholas,
when Rohritz suddenly perceives Stella. With a smiling remark he hands
the white feather fan to a gentleman standing beside him, and hastens
towards the young girl, paying his respects, of course, first to the
elder lady, and then to her. If he has reckoned upon her old-time
child-like, confiding smile, he is disappointed. She answers him
stiffly, and thanks him for his flowers without cordiality. "How pale
she looks!" he says to himself. "What can be the matter with her? Can
she have cried her eyes out because she must dance the cotillon
to-night with me instead of with Zino Capito?"
"'Tis very hard that poor Capito should be disabled just at this time,"
he remarks.
"Yes, because the burden of dancing the cotillon with me devolves upon
you," Stella replies, betraying, for the first time since he has known
her, a degree of sensitiveness that is almost ridiculous. "I am, of
course, perfectly ready to release you from the obligation."
"That would be a readiness to rob me of a pleasure to which I had
looked forward eagerly," he replies, gravely.
"You had looked forward to it?--really?" Stella asks, with genuine
surprise in her eyes. "Really?" And she looks down with a shake of the
head at her poor white dress, at her entire toilette, in which nothing
is absolutely modern save the long gloves that reach to her shoulders.
It is rather remarkable that these gloves are the only thing about her
with which Edgar Rohritz finds fault.
"What charming dimples that Swedish kid must hide!" he says to himself.
A seat beside Stella hitherto occupied by an Englishwoman with very
sharp red elbows is vacated. Edgar takes possession of it.
"Yes, I had looked forward to it," he says, "although I do not dance,
and you will consequently be obliged to talk with me through the
cotillon."
A pause ensues. She looks down; involuntarily he does the same. His
eyes rest upon her foot that peeps out beneath the hem of her
ball-dress. He recalls how once, on a meadow beneath a spreading oak,
kneeling before her he had held that foot in his hands. What a
charming, soft, warm little foot it was! She suddenly perceives that he
is looking at it; she withdraws it hastily, and with a half-wayward,
half-distressed air pulls her skirt farther over her knee. Of course he
does not smile, but he wants to. And he could reproach this girl for
accidentally in the outline of her features recalling a woman who from
all that he could discover concerning her was more to be pitied than
blamed. It was odious, cruel; more than that, it was stupid!
Leaning towards her, and speaking more softly than before, he says,
gravely, "And I hope that during the cotillon you will confide to me,
as an old friend, why you look so sad to-night."
Any other girl would have understood that these words from a man of
Edgar's great reserve of character were to pave the way for a
declaration.
Stella understands nothing of the kind.
"Why I am so sad?" she replies, simply. "Because----"
At this moment Natalie approaches on the arm of a blonde young man.
"Count Kasin wishes to be presented to you, Stella," she says.
The young man bows, and begs for a dance. Stella goes off upon his arm,
not because she has any desire to dance, but because it would be
disgraceful for a young girl to sit through an entire ball.
"Who is that young lady?" asks an Englishman of Edgar's acquaintance.
"She is an Austrian,--Baroness Stella Meineck."
"Strange how like she is to that famous Greuze in the Louvre,--'_La
Cruche cassee_'! She is charming."
The words were uttered without any thought of evil, but nevertheless
Edgar feels for a moment as if he would like to throttle the Hon. Mr.
Harris.
And why is he suddenly reminded of the girl whom he had seen this
afternoon in the twilight hurrying along the street to vanish in the
house where Zino has his apartments? How very like she was to Stella!
* * * * *
An hour has passed. Stella has walked through two quadrilles, has
walked and polked with various partners, as well as she could,--that
is, conscientiously and badly, just as she learned from a
dancing-master eight years before, and, try as she may, she is
conscious that she never shall take any real pleasure in this hopping
and jumping about. Now, when the rest are just beginning fairly to
enjoy the ball, she is tired,--quite tired. With her last partner, a
good-humoured, gentlemanly young Austrian diplomatist, she has become
so dizzy that in the midst of the dance she has begged to be taken back
to Madame Lipinski. But Madame Lipinski has left her place; some one
says she has gone to the conservatory; and thither Stella and her
partner betake themselves.
They do not find Madame Lipinski, but Stella feels decidedly better.
The green, fragrant twilight of the conservatory has a soothing effect
upon her nerves. The air is cool, compared with that of the ball-room;
the roughened surface of the mosaic floor affords a pleasant change
after the slippery smoothness of the dancing-room. Stella sinks wearily
into an inviting low chair.
"Are balls always so terribly fatiguing?" she asks her companion, with
her usual frankness.
He bows.
"I did not mean to be rude," she hastily explains, "but you must
confess that it is much pleasanter to talk comfortably here than to
whirl about in there," pointing with her fan in the direction of the
dancing-room.
The attache, quite propitiated, takes his place upon a low seat beside
her, and prepares for a sentimental flirtation. To his great surprise,
Stella seems to have as little enthusiasm for flirting as for dancing.
"A charming spot!" he begins. "The fragrance of these orange-blossoms
reminds me of Nice. You have been at Nice, Baroness?"
"I have been everywhere, from Madrid to Constantinople," Stella sighs;
"and I wish I were at home. My head aches so!"--passing her hand
wearily across her brow.
"Shall I get you an ice, or a glass of lemonade?" he asks,
good-naturedly.
"I should be much obliged to you," Stella replies.
"Hm! it does not look as if she were very anxious for a _tete-a-tete_
with me," he thinks, as he leaves her.
He has gone: she is alone among the fragrant flowers and the
larged-leaved plants. Softened, but distinctly audible, the sound of
hopping and gliding feet reaches her ears, while, now sadly caressing
and anon merrily careless, the strains of a Strauss waltz float on the
air. For a while she sits quite wearily, with half-closed eyes,
thinking of nothing save "I hope the attache will stay away a long
time!" Mingling softly and tenderly with the music she hears the dreamy
murmur of a miniature fountain. Why is she suddenly reminded of the
melancholy rush of the Save, of the little canoe by the edge of the
black water? Suddenly she hears voices in her vicinity, and, raising
her eyes to a tall, broad mirror opposite, she beholds, framed
in by the gold-embroidered hangings of a heavy portiere, a striking
picture,--the Princess Oblonsky and Edgar. They are in a little boudoir
separated from the conservatory by an open door. Without stirring,
Stella watches the pair in the treacherous mirror. Edgar sits in a low
arm-chair, his elbow on his knee, his head propped on his hand, and the
Princess is opposite him. How wonderfully beautiful she is!--beautiful
although she is just brushing away a tear.
"It always makes me so ugly to cry!" Stella thinks, not without
bitterness.
The Princess's gloves and fan lie beside her; her arms are bare. With
an expression of intense melancholy, an expression not only apparent in
her face and in the listless droop of her arms, but also seeming to be
shared by every fold of her dress, she leans back among the soft-hued,
rose-coloured and gray satin cushions of a small lounge.
"Strange, that we should have met at last!--at last!" she sighs. Stella
cannot distinguish his reply, but she distinctly hears the Princess
say, "Do you remember that waltz? How often its notes have floated
towards us upon the breath of the roses in the long afternoons at
Baden! How long a time has passed since then! How long----"
A black mist rises before Stella's eyes. She puts up her hands to
her ears, and, thrilling from head to foot, springs up and hurries
away,--anywhere, anywhere,--only away from this spot,--far away!
* * * * *
At the other end of the conservatory she is doing her best to regain
her composure and to keep back the tears, when suddenly she hears a
light manly tread near her and the clinking of glasses.
"Ah! 'tis Binsky: he has found me," Stella thinks, most unjustly
provoked with the good-humoured attache.
"I really believe, Baroness, you are playing hide-and-seek with me,"
the young diplomatist addresses her in a tone of mild reproof.
There is nothing for it but to turn round. Beside the attache, in all
the majestic gravity of his kind, stands a lackey with a salver, from
which she takes a glass of lemonade.
After the servant has withdrawn, Count Binsky says, with a laugh, "I
have been looking for you, Baroness, in every corner of the
conservatory. I must confess to having made interesting discoveries
during my wanderings. Look here,"--and he shows her a white
ostrich-feather fan with yellow tortoise-shell sticks broken in
two,"--I found this relic in the pretty little boudoir near the place
where I left you. Now, did you ever see anything so mutely eloquent as
this broken fan?--the tragic culmination of a highly dramatic scene! I
should like to know what lady had the desperate energy to reduce this
exquisite trifle to such a state."
"Perhaps there is a monogram on the fan," says Stella, her pale face
suddenly becoming animated. "Look and see."
"To be sure. I did not think of that," the young man replies, examining
the fan. "'S. O.' beneath a coronet."
"Sophie Oblonsky," says Stella.
"Of course,--the Oblonsky." The attache is seized with a fit of
merriment on the instant. "The Oblonsky,--the woman who had an affair
with Rohritz long ago. She seemed to me this evening to have a strong
desire to throw her chains about him afresh, but"--with a significant
glance at the fan--"Rohritz evidently had no inclination to gratify
her. Hm! she must have been in a bad humour,--the worthy Princess!" The
attache laughs softly to himself, then suddenly assumes a grave,
composed air, remembering that he is with a young girl, before whom
such things as he has alluded to should be forbidden subjects and his
merriment suppressed. He glances at Stella. No need to worry himself;
she does not look in the least horrified: her white teeth just show
between her red lips, merry dimples play about the corners of her
mouth, and her eyes sparkle like black stars.
She really does not understand how five minutes ago she could have
wished the poor attache at the North Pole. She now thinks him extremely
amusing and amiable. She feels so well, too,--so very well. Is it
possible that there may be no evil omen for her in the loss of her
bracelet? Nevertheless, try as she may to hope that it may be averted,
a shiver of anxiety thrills her at the recollection of her lost amulet.
"If the ball were only over!" she thinks.