ELAINE YOUGHAL sat at lunch in the Speise Saal of one of Vienna’s
costlier hotels. The double-headed eagle, with its “K.u.K.” legend,
everywhere met the eye and announced the imperial favour in which the
establishment basked. Some several square yards of yellow bunting,
charged with the image of another double-headed eagle, floating from the
highest flag-staff above the building, betrayed to the initiated the fact
that a Russian Grand Duke was concealed somewhere on the premises.
Unannounced by heraldic symbolism but unconcealable by reason of nature’s
own blazonry, were several citizens and citizenesses of the great
republic of the Western world. One or two Cobdenite members of the
British Parliament engaged in the useful task of proving that the cost of
living in Vienna was on an exorbitant scale, flitted with restrained
importance through a land whose fatness they had come to spy out; every
fancied over-charge in their bills was welcome as providing another nail
in the coffin of their fiscal opponents. It is the glory of democracies
that they may be misled but never driven. Here and there, like brave
deeds in a dust-patterned world, flashed and glittered the sumptuous
uniforms of representatives of the Austrian military caste. Also in
evidence, at discreet intervals, were stray units of the Semetic tribe
that nineteen centuries of European neglect had been unable to mislay.
Elaine sitting with Courtenay at an elaborately appointed luncheon table,
gay with high goblets of Bohemian glassware, was mistress of three
discoveries. First, to her disappointment, that if you frequent the more
expensive hotels of Europe you must be prepared to find, in whatever
country you may chance to be staying, a depressing international likeness
between them all. Secondly, to her relief, that one is not expected to
be sentimentally amorous during a modern honeymoon. Thirdly, rather to
her dismay, that Courtenay Youghal did not necessarily expect her to be
markedly affectionate in private. Someone had described him, after their
marriage, as one of Nature’s bachelors, and she began to see how aptly
the description fitted him.
“Will those Germans on our left never stop talking?” she asked, as an
undying flow of Teutonic small talk rattled and jangled across the
intervening stretch of carpet. “Not one of those three women has ceased
talking for an instant since we’ve been sitting here.”
“They will presently, if only for a moment,” said Courtenay; “when the
dish you have ordered comes in there will be a deathly silence at the
next table. No German can see a _plat_ brought in for someone else
without being possessed with a great fear that it represents a more
toothsome morsel or a better money’s worth than what he has ordered for
himself.”
The exuberant Teutonic chatter was balanced on the other side of the room
by an even more penetrating conversation unflaggingly maintained by a
party of Americans, who were sitting in judgment on the cuisine of the
country they were passing through, and finding few extenuating
circumstances.
“What Mr. Lonkins wants is a real _deep_ cherry pie,” announced a lady in
a tone of dramatic and honest conviction.
“Why, yes, that is so,” corroborated a gentleman who was apparently the
Mr. Lonkins in question; “a real _deep_ cherry pie.”
“We had the same trouble way back in Paris,” proclaimed another lady;
“little Jerome and the girls don’t want to eat any more _crème
renversée_. I’d give anything if they could get some real cherry pie.”
“Real _deep_ cherry pie,” assented Mr. Lonkins.
“Way down in Ohio we used to have peach pie that was real good,” said
Mrs. Lonkins, turning on a tap of reminiscence that presently flowed to a
cascade. The subject of pies seemed to lend itself to indefinite
expansion.
“Do those people think of nothing but their food?” asked Elaine, as the
virtues of roasted mutton suddenly came to the fore and received emphatic
recognition, even the absent and youthful Jerome being quoted in its
favour.
“On the contrary,” said Courtenay, “they are a widely-travelled set, and
the man has had a notably interesting career. It is a form of
home-sickness with them to discuss and lament the cookery and foods that
they’ve never had the leisure to stay at home and digest. The Wandering
Jew probably babbled unremittingly about some breakfast dish that took so
long to prepare that he had never time to eat it.”
A waiter deposited a dish of Wiener Nierenbraten in front of Elaine. At
the same moment a magic hush fell upon the three German ladies at the
adjoining table, and the flicker of a great fear passed across their
eyes. Then they burst forth again into tumultuous chatter. Courtenay
had proved a reliable prophet.
Almost at the same moment as the luncheon-dish appeared on the scene, two
ladies arrived at a neighbouring table, and bowed with dignified
cordiality to Elaine and Courtenay. They were two of the more worldly
and travelled of Elaine’s extensive stock of aunts, and they happened to
be making a short stay at the same hotel as the young couple. They were
far too correct and rationally minded to intrude themselves on their
niece, but it was significant of Elaine’s altered view as to the sanctity
of honeymoon life that she secretly rather welcomed the presence of her
two relatives in the hotel, and had found time and occasion to give them
more of her society than she would have considered necessary or desirable
a few weeks ago. The younger of the two she rather liked, in a
restrained fashion, as one likes an unpretentious watering-place or a
restaurant that does not try to give one a musical education in addition
to one’s dinner. One felt instinctively about her that she would never
wear rather more valuable diamonds than any other woman in the room, and
would never be the only person to be saved in a steamboat disaster or
hotel fire. As a child she might have been perfectly well able to recite
“On Linden when the sun was low,” but one felt certain that nothing ever
induced her to do so. The elder aunt, Mrs. Goldbrook, did not share her
sister’s character as a human rest-cure; most people found her rather
disturbing, chiefly, perhaps, from her habit of asking unimportant
questions with enormous solemnity. Her manner of enquiring after a
trifling ailment gave one the impression that she was more concerned with
the fortunes of the malady than with oneself, and when one got rid of a
cold one felt that she almost expected to be given its postal address.
Probably her manner was merely the defensive outwork of an innate
shyness, but she was not a woman who commanded confidences.
“A telephone call for Courtenay,” commented the younger of the two women
as Youghal hurriedly flashed through the room; “the telephone system
seems to enter very largely into that young man’s life.”
“The telephone has robbed matrimony of most of its sting,” said the
elder; “so much more discreet than pen and ink communications which get
read by the wrong people.”
Elaine’s aunts were conscientiously worldly; they were the natural
outcome of a stock that had been conscientiously straight-laced for many
generations.
Elaine had progressed to the pancake stage before Courtenay returned.
“Sorry to be away so long,” he said, “but I’ve arranged something rather
nice for to-night. There’s rather a jolly masquerade ball on. I’ve
’phoned about getting a costume for you and it’s alright. It will suit
you beautifully, and I’ve got my harlequin dress with me. Madame
Kelnicort, excellent soul, is going to chaperone you, and she’ll take you
back any time you like; I’m quite unreliable when I get into fancy dress.
I shall probably keep going till some unearthly hour of the morning.”
A masquerade ball in a strange city hardly represented Elaine’s idea of
enjoyment. Carefully to disguise one’s identity in a neighbourhood where
one was entirely unknown seemed to her rather meaningless. With
Courtenay, of course, it was different; he seemed to have friends and
acquaintances everywhere. However, the matter had progressed to a point
which would have made a refusal to go seem rather ungracious. Elaine
finished her pancake and began to take a polite interest in her costume.
“What is your character?” asked Madame Kelnicort that evening, as they
uncloaked, preparatory to entering the already crowded ball-room.
“I believe I’m supposed to represent Marjolaine de Montfort, whoever she
may have been,” said Elaine. “Courtenay declares he only wanted to marry
me because I’m his ideal of her.”
“But what a mistake to go as a character you know nothing about. To
enjoy a masquerade ball you ought to throw away your own self and be the
character you represent. Now Courtenay has been Harlequin since half-way
through dinner; I could see it dancing in his eyes. At about six o’clock
to-morrow morning he will fall asleep and wake up a member of the British
House of Parliament on his honeymoon, but to-night he is unrestrainedly
Harlequin.”
Elaine stood in the ball-room surrounded by a laughing jostling throng of
pierrots, jockeys, Dresden-china shepherdesses, Roumanian peasant-girls
and all the lively make-believe creatures that form the ingredients of a
fancy-dress ball. As she stood watching them she experienced a growing
feeling of annoyance, chiefly with herself. She was assisting, as the
French say, at one of the gayest scenes of Europe’s gayest capital, and
she was conscious of being absolutely unaffected by the gaiety around
her. The costumes were certainly interesting to look at, and the music
good to listen to, and to that extent she was amused, but the _abandon_
of the scene made no appeal to her. It was like watching a game of which
you did not know the rules, and in the issue of which you were not
interested. Elaine began to wonder what was the earliest moment at which
she could drag Madame Kelnicort away from the revel without being guilty
of sheer cruelty. Then Courtenay wriggled out of the crush and came
towards her, a joyous laughing Courtenay, looking younger and handsomer
than she had ever seen him. She could scarcely recognise in him to-night
the rising young debater who made embarrassing onslaughts on the
Government’s foreign policy before a crowded House of Commons. He
claimed her for the dance that was just starting, and steered her
dexterously into the heart of the waltzing crowd.
“You look more like Marjolaine than I should have thought a mortal woman
of these days could look,” he declared, “only Marjolaine did smile
sometimes. You have rather the air of wondering if you’d left out enough
tea for the servants’ breakfast. Don’t mind my teasing; I love you to
look like that, and besides, it makes a splendid foil to my Harlequin—my
selfishness coming to the fore again, you see. But you really are to go
home the moment you’re bored; the excellent Kelnicort gets heaps of
dances throughout the winter, so don’t mind sacrificing her.”
A little later in the evening Elaine found herself standing out a dance
with a grave young gentleman from the Russian Embassy.
“Monsieur Courtenay enjoys himself, doesn’t he?” he observed, as the
youthful-looking harlequin flashed past them, looking like some restless
gorgeous-hued dragonfly; “why is it that the good God has given your
countrymen the boon of eternal youth? Some of your countrywomen, too,
but all of the men.”
Elaine could think of many of her countrymen who were not and never could
have been youthful, but as far as Courtenay was concerned she recognised
the fitness of the remark. And the recognition carried with it a sense
of depression. Would he always remain youthful and keen on gaiety and
revelling while she grew staid and retiring? She had thrust the lively
intractable Comus out of her mind, as by his perverseness he had thrust
himself out of her heart, and she had chosen the brilliant young man of
affairs as her husband. He had honestly let her see the selfish side of
his character while he was courting her, but she had been prepared to
make due sacrifices to the selfishness of a public man who had his career
to consider above all other things. Would she also have to make
sacrifices to the harlequin spirit which was now revealing itself as an
undercurrent in his nature? When one has inured oneself to the idea of a
particular form of victimisation it is disconcerting to be confronted
with another. Many a man who would patiently undergo martyrdom for
religion’s sake would be furiously unwilling to be a martyr to neuralgia.
“I think that is why you English love animals so much,” pursued the young
diplomat; “you are such splendid animals yourselves. You are lively
because you want to be lively, not because people are looking on at you.
Monsieur Courtenay is certainly an animal. I mean it as a high
compliment.”
“Am I an animal?” asked Elaine.
“I was going to say you are an angel,” said the Russian, in some
embarrassment, “but I do not think that would do; angels and animals
would never get on together. To get on with animals you must have a
sense of humour, and I don’t suppose angels have any sense of humour; you
see it would be no use to them as they never hear any jokes.”
“Perhaps,” said Elaine, with a tinge of bitterness in her voice, “perhaps
I am a vegetable.”
“I think you most remind me of a picture,” said the Russian.
It was not the first time Elaine had heard the simile.
“I know,” she said, “the Narrow Gallery at the Louvre; attributed to
Leonardo da Vinci.”
Evidently the impression she made on people was solely one of externals.
Was that how Courtenay regarded her? Was that to be her function and
place in life, a painted background, a decorative setting to other
people’s triumphs and tragedies? Somehow to-night she had the feeling
that a general might have who brought imposing forces into the field and
could do nothing with them. She possessed youth and good looks,
considerable wealth, and had just made what would be thought by most
people a very satisfactory marriage. And already she seemed to be
standing aside as an onlooker where she had expected herself to be taking
a leading part.
“Does this sort of thing appeal to you?” she asked the young Russian,
nodding towards the gay scrimmage of masqueraders and rather prepared to
hear an amused negative.
“But yes, of course,” he answered; “costume balls, fancy fairs, café
chantant, casino, anything that is not real life appeals to us Russians.
Real life with us is the sort of thing that Maxim Gorki deals in. It
interests us immensely, but we like to get away from it sometimes.”
Madame Kelnicort came up with another prospective partner, and Elaine
delivered her ukase: one more dance and then back to the hotel. Without
any special regret she made her retreat from the revel which Courtenay
was enjoying under the impression that it was life and the young Russian
under the firm conviction that it was not.
Elaine breakfasted at her aunts’ table the next morning at much her usual
hour. Courtenay was sleeping the sleep of a happy tired animal. He had
given instructions to be called at eleven o’clock, from which time onward
the _Neue Freie Presse_, the _Zeit_, and his toilet would occupy his
attention till he appeared at the luncheon table. There were not many
people breakfasting when Elaine arrived on the scene, but the room seemed
to be fuller than it really was by reason of a penetrating voice that was
engaged in recounting how far the standard of Viennese breakfast fare
fell below the expectations and desires of little Jerome and the girls.
“If ever little Jerome becomes President of the United States,” said
Elaine, “I shall be able to contribute quite an informing article on his
gastronomic likes and dislikes to the papers.”
The aunts were discreetly inquisitive as to the previous evening’s
entertainment.
“If Elaine would flirt mildly with somebody it would be such a good
thing,” said Mrs. Goldbrook; “it would remind Courtenay that he’s not the
only attractive young man in the world.”
Elaine, however, did not gratify their hopes; she referred to the ball
with the detachment she would have shown in describing a drawing-room
show of cottage industries. It was not difficult to discern in her
description of the affair the confession that she had been slightly
bored. From Courtenay, later in the day, the aunts received a much
livelier impression of the festivities, from which it was abundantly
clear that he at any rate had managed to amuse himself. Neither did it
appear that his good opinion of his own attractions had suffered any
serious shock. He was distinctly in a very good temper.
“The secret of enjoying a honeymoon,” said Mrs. Goldbrook afterwards to
her sister, “is not to attempt too much.”
“You mean—?”
“Courtenay is content to try and keep one person amused and happy, and he
thoroughly succeeds.”
“I certainly don’t think Elaine is going to be very happy,” said her
sister, “but at least Courtenay saved her from making the greatest
mistake she could have made—marrying that young Bassington.”
“He has also,” said Mrs. Goldbrook, “helped her to make the next biggest
mistake of her life—marrying Courtenay Youghal.”