Nine months had passed since Erika's arrival in Berlin. She had
travelled much with her grandmother, passing the time in Schlangenbad,
Gastein, and the Riviera. As soon as she had become further acquainted
with her, Countess Anna had relinquished all thoughts of sending her
grand-daughter to a boarding-school. "What could you gain from a
boarding-school?" she said. "H'm! Have your corners rubbed off? In my
opinion that would be matter of regret. And as for your education,
there's too much already in that head of yours for a girl of your age;
but that we can't alter, and must make allowance for." And she tapped
Erika on the cheek, and looked at her with eyes beaming with pride.
Erika had come to be the centre of her existence, her idol, the most
entertaining toy she had ever possessed, the most precious jewel she
had ever worn. Moreover, she was the late-awakened poetry of her life,
the transfigured resurrection of her own youth. That was all very
natural: she was not the first grand-mother in the world who had
thought her grand-daughter a phenomenon; and it would have mattered
little in any wise if she had not thought it necessary to impress her
grand-daughter with the high opinion she entertained of her. Everything
that she could do to turn the young girl's head she did, all out of
pure inconsequence and love of talking, because never in her life had
she been able to keep anything to herself. For in fact she was as
unwise as she was clever: her cleverness was an article of luxury,
something with which she entertained herself and others, with which she
theoretically arranged the most complex combination of circumstances,
but which never helped her over the simplest disturbance of her daily
life. She was thoroughly unpractical, and was aware of it, without
understanding why it was so. Since she could not alter it,--indeed, she
never tried to,--she evaded every difficult problem of existence, with
the Epicurean love of ease which was her only enduring rule of conduct.
Her affection for Erika was now part of her egotism. She was never
weary of exulting in the girl's beauty and brilliant qualities; she
felt every annoyance experienced by her grand-daughter as a personal
pang, every triumph as homage paid to herself; but she never thought of
the responsibility she had assumed towards this lovely blossom
unfolding in such luxuriance. She was convinced that Erika's life would
develop of itself just as her own had done, and in this conviction she
felt not the slightest compunction in spoiling the girl from morning
until night, and in absolutely forcing her to consider herself the
centre of the universe.
With almost equal impatience grandmother and grand-daughter awaited the
moment when Erika should enchant the world of Berlin society.
And now it was the beginning of February, and the first
Wednesday-afternoon reception of Countess Anna Lenzdorff after her
return from Italy. She, whose social indolence had long been
proverbial, had sent out numerous cards, many of them to people who had
long since supposed themselves forgotten by her. All this, too, without
any idea of as yet introducing her grand-daughter to society, but
simply that people "might have a glimpse of her."
As a result of the Countess Anna's suddenly developed amiability
towards Berlin society, this reception was largely attended. Erika
presided at the tea-table in a toilette of studied simplicity and with
a regal self-consciousness due to the enthusiasm which her grandmother
displayed for her various charms, but which the girl had the good taste
to conceal beneath an attractive air of modesty. She did not rattle her
teacups awkwardly, she upset no cream, she never pressed a guest to
take what had once been declined; in short, she committed none of the
blunders so frequently the consequence of shyness in young novices; and
she was, as her grandmother expressed it, simply "wonderful." Full
forty times the old lady had presented "my grand-daughter," with the
same proud intonation, observing narrowly the impression produced upon
each guest,--an impression almost sure to be one of pleased surprise;
whereupon Countess Lenzdorff--the same Countess Lenzdorff who had been
always ready to ridicule, and to ridicule nothing more unsparingly than
the mutual admiration characteristic of German families--would begin,
in a loud whisper of which not one word escaped Erika's ears, to
enumerate her grandchild's unusual attractions: "What do you think of
this child who has dropped from the skies into my house to brighten my
old age? 'Tis my usual luck, is it not? A charming creature; and what a
carriage! Just observe her profile,--now, when she turns her head,--and
the line of the cheek and throat. And to think that I was actually
reluctant to receive the child! Oh, I treated her shamefully; but I am
atoning to her for the past. I spoil her a little; but how can I help
it? I thought it would be such a bore to have a young girl in the
house, but, on the contrary, she makes me young again. No need to stoop
to her intellectually: she is interested in everything. At first I was
going to send her to school. H'm! there is more in that golden head of
hers than behind the blue spectacles of all the school-mistresses in
Germany. And that is not what interests me most: she has a certain
frank honesty of nature that enchants me. Oh, she certainly is
remarkable."
There the Countess Lenzdorff was right,--Erika was remarkable,--but she
was wrong in parading the child before her acquaintances: first because
it bored her acquaintances,--when are we ever entertained by listening
to the praises of somebody whom we hardly know?--and again because her
exaggerated laudation of her grandchild excited the antagonism of her
listeners. On this first reception-day she laid the foundation of the
unpopularity from which Erika was to suffer long afterwards.
The afternoon was nearing its close; the lamps were lit; three
or four ladies only, all in black,--the court was in mourning at the
time,--were still sitting in the cosiest corner of the drawing-room.
Close by the hearth sat a tiny old lady, Frau von Norbin, _nee_
Princess Nimbsch, with a delicately chiselled face framed in
silver-gray curls, a face the colour of a faded rose-leaf, and with a
thin clear voice that sounded like an antique musical clock and seemed
to come from far away. She was about ten years older than Countess
Anna, but had been one of her most intimate friends from childhood,
belonging also to an old Courland family, which had given the Vienna
Congress a good deal of trouble. She had known Talleyrand in her youth,
and had corresponded with Chateaubriand. Countess Lenzdorff had a
water-colour sketch of her as a young girl with a wreath of vine-leaves
on her head, her hair hanging about her shoulders in Bacchante fashion,
and with very bare arms holding aloft a tambourine. The rococo
sentiment of the faded sketch contrasted strangely with the old lady's
dignified decrepitude and poetically softened charm.
Opposite her, and evidently very desirous to stand well with her, sat a
certain Frau von Geroldstein, wife of a wealthy merchant who had
purchased a patent of nobility in one of the petty German states,
without, as he learned too late, acquiring any court privileges for his
wife. Indignant at the pettiness of the German sovereign in duodecimo,
he had established himself in Berlin, where his wife hoped to find a
suitable stage for her social efforts. She had been there three years
without finding any aristocratic coigne of vantage for her pretensions;
in despair she had fallen back upon celebrities, artists, professors,
politicians (even democrats), to lend a certain splendour to her
_salon_. After at last finding her aristocratic vantage-ground at a
watering-place in the shape of a General's widow, with debts, and a
daughter of forty whom she alleged to be twenty-four, she annoyed her
old acquaintances extremely. It was the business of her life to extort
forgiveness from society for having once invited Eugene Richter to her
house. Society never forgives, but it sometimes forgets if it be
convenient to do so. It began to find it convenient to forget all sorts
of things about Frau von Geroldstein, not only her political
acquaintances, but also that her husband had made his fortune by
furnishing army-supplies of doubtful quality.
Frau von Geroldstein was so available, and was besides so ready to make
any concessions required of her. She threw Eugene Richter overboard,
and developed a touching enthusiasm for the court chaplain Dryander.
She bombarded society with invitations to dinners which were excellent,
and at which one was sure to meet no undesirable individuals. She paid
endless visits, and possessed in fullest measure the article most
indispensable to the career of social aspirants,--a very thick skin.
She was about twenty-five years old, and was gifted by nature with a
very small waist, which she pinched in to the stifling-point, and with
a face which would have been pretty had it not given the impression, as
did everything else about her, of artificiality. Of course her court
mourning was trimmed with three times as much crape as that of any
other lady present; and today she had made it her special business to
win the favour of little Frau von Norbin. She had offered her three
things already,--her riding-horse for Frau von Norbin's daughter, her
lawn-tennis ground (she had a wonderful garden behind her house, which
no one used), and her opera-box; but Frau von Norbin's manner was still
coldly reserved. At last Frau von Geroldstein discovered from a remark
of Countess Lenzdorff's that the old lady's principal interest lay in a
children's hospital of which she was the chief patroness. Frau von
Geroldstein instantly declared that the improvement of the health of
the children of the poor was positively all that she cared for in life:
when might she visit the hospital? Countess Lenzdorff smiled somewhat
maliciously when Frau von Norbin, caught at last by this benevolent
birdlime, plunged into a conversation with Frau von Geroldstein upon
the most practical mode of nursing children.
Meanwhile, Countess Lenzdorff turned for amusement to a young maid of
honour, a charming person, whose delicate sense of humour had been
uninjured by the debilitating atmosphere of the court, and who was now
detailing the latest misfortunes of a certain Countess Ida von Brock.
This Countess Brock was a notorious figure in Berlin society. She was
usually called the twelfth fairy, since she was frequently omitted in
the invitations to some social 'high mass' (the word was of Countess
Lenzdorff's invention) and was then sure to appear uninvited and to do
all kinds of mischief by her malicious gossip. Every winter she looked
out for fresh lions for her menagerie, as her _salon_ was called in
familiar conversation,--for artists sufficiently well bred to consort
with men of fashion, and for men of fashion sufficiently intelligent to
appreciate artists. Since, thanks to her numberless eccentricities and
indiscretions, she had quarrelled with all sorts of people, she was
always obliged to entreat a few influential friends to procure for her
her anthropological curiosities. Some time ago she had applied to
Countess Lenzdorff to provide her with 'twelve witty Counts,'--an order
which Countess Lenzdorff had declined to fill, upon the plea that the
supply was just then exhausted.
During the previous winter the glory of her _salon_ had been a
hypnotizer, a young American for whom the Countess Ida had been wildly
enthusiastic.
Mr. Van Tromp was his name; he had a dome-like forehead, and he cost
nothing; he was quite ready to sacrifice his time without pay for the
pleasure of mingling in good society,--a pleasure more highly prized by
an American, as is well known, than by any European aspirant. At the
close of the season the Countess's footman had unfortunately put
aqua-fortis in the chambermaid's tea, and, as the Countess ascribed the
crime to the influence of Van Tromp, she straightway relinquished her
hypnotic pastime, the more willingly as most of her other guests
considered it a rather dangerous game.
Van Tromp was informed of this when he next visited the Countess. He
acquiesced in her decision, and amiably and unselfishly hoped that
without any further exercise of his peculiar talent she would allow him
to visit her 'as a friend.' Countess Brock, however, wrote him a note
thanking him for his great kindness, but at the same time insisting
that she could not possibly allow him to waste his time at her house;
the people frequenting it were in fact quite too insignificant to
associate with so great a man as himself.
This mode of turning out of doors people whom she could no longer make
use of she called treating them with delicacy and tact. What Mr. Van
Tromp thought of it is not known: he revenged himself, however, by
writing a book upon Berlin society, which, as it was full of scandalous
stories and appeared anonymously, lived through twenty-five editions.
With a view of making her Thursday evenings attractive this year,
Countess Brock had determined to have some one of her favourite modern
dramas read aloud at each of them, and had engaged the services of a
handsome young actor with a broad chest and a strong voice as reader.
The readings had begun the previous week with a German translation of
Dumas' "_Femme de Claude_."
The young maid of honour had been present, and she declared it "comical
beyond description."
There were several young girls among the audience, and scarcely had the
handsome young actor with the powerful voice reached the middle of the
second act when there was a rustling in the assembly, caused by a
mother's conducting her daughter from the room. This went on all
through the evening. Whilst the reader pursued his way with enthusiasm,
each scene frightened away some two or three delicate-minded
individuals, until the hostess found herself left almost entirely alone
with the handsome young actor and a few gentlemen. "I persisted in
remaining," the maid of honour continued, amid the laughter of her
audience, "but I assure you----"
At this moment the servant announced "Frau Countess Brock," and there
entered a woman of medium height, in a large high-shouldered seal-skin
coat, for which departure from the prescribed court mourning a long
crape veil atoned, a wonder of a veil, draped picturesquely over a Mary
Stuart bonnet and hanging down over a slightly-bent back. Her grizzled
hair was arranged above her forehead in curls, and her face, which must
once have been handsome, was disfigured by affected contortions,
sometimes grotesque, sometimes malicious, often both together.
Countess Lenzdorff immediately presented her niece to the new-comer,
but the 'wicked fairy' paid no heed, and Erika made her a graceful
courtesy which she did not see. She gave additional proof of
near-sightedness by almost sitting down upon Frau von Norbin, and by
mistaking Frau von Geroldstein for a distinguished authoress aged
seventy.
Frau von Norbin smiled good-naturedly, and Frau von Geroldstein
declared the blunder delicious. Privately she was furious, not at being
mistaken for an aged woman, but at being supposed to be an authoress.
However, she could endure it, since she had arranged a visit with Frau
von Norbin to the children's hospital for the next afternoon. That was
a triumph, at all events.
"H'm! h'm! what were you all laughing at when I came in?" asked the
'wicked fairy,' taking a seat beside Countess Lenzdorff.
Upon which a rather embarrassed silence ensued, and she went on with a
sigh: "At my disaster, of course. Yes, yes, I know, Clara,"--this to
the maid of honour,--"you will tell the _desastre_ to all Berlin. It
was terrible!--Oh, thanks, no,"--this with a polite grin to Erika, who
offered her a cup of tea. "That frightful actor!" she wailed, raising
her black-gloved hands, palms outward,--a gesture peculiarly her own
and used to express the climax of despair. "I have already denounced
him to our principal managers: he never will get any position in a
Berlin theatre. Think of his insolence in reading my guests out of my
drawing-room and showing me up as a lover of questionable literature."
"Was the drama one of his selection?" asked Countess Lenzdorff.
"No; I chose it myself. But, good heavens! the piece was of no
importance. The mode of delivery was everything. All he had to do was
to skip lightly over the questionable parts; instead of which he fairly
roared them in the faces of my guests."
"Evidently he liked them best," the maid of honour said, with a laugh.
"Of course," the 'wicked fairy' went on, indignantly; "these people
have neither tact nor sense of decency. Well, I have forbidden the man
my house for the future."
"Like Mr. Van Tromp," Countess Lenzdorff interposed.
"Oh, I am too easily imposed upon," Countess Brock sighed. "The worst
of it is that I have nothing now in prospect for my Thursdays."
"I saw in the newspaper that a couple of almehs on their way from Paris
to Petersburg are to appear at Kroll's," Countess Lenzdorff observed,
maliciously: "you might hire them for an evening."
"That would be against the law," remarked Frau von Geroldstein, who
knew about everything and had no sense of humour. Countess Brock, who
had declared that nothing should ever induce her to receive 'the
Archduchess,' as she called Frau von Geroldstein, pretended not to
hear; Frau von Norbin begged to be told what an _almeh_ was. Countess
Lenzdorff laughed, and was just enlightening her in a low tone, out of
regard for her grand-daughter, as to this Oriental specialty, when Herr
von Sydow was announced.
"Goswyn!" exclaimed Countess Anna, evidently delighted. "It is good of
you to come at last, but not good to have let us wait so long for you."
"I came as soon as I heard of your return," Sydow replied.
"And, as usual, you come as late as possible," his old friend remarked,
in an access of absence of mind, "in hopes of finding me alone."
"I call that a skilful method of turning people out of doors,"
exclaimed Frau von Norbin, laughing, and in spite of her hostess's
protestations she arose and took her leave, accompanied by the young
maid of honour.
Whilst Erika, with the modest grace which she had learned so quickly,
conducted the two ladies to the vestibule, where only two or three
remained of the crowd of footmen that had occupied it early in the
afternoon, Goswyn's eyes rested on the wall, where, to his great
surprise, hung the same Boecklin that had been removed upon his former
visit in view of the expected arrival of the Countess's grand-daughter.
"So you sent the young Countess to boarding-school?" he remarked.
"What?" exclaimed the Countess, indignant at such an idea. "You must
see that I am far too old to forego the pleasure of having the child
with me." Then, observing that the young man's eyes were directed
towards her favourite picture, she suddenly remembered the conversation
she had had with him in the spring. "Oh, yes; you are thinking of how
hard it seemed to me to receive the child. It makes me laugh to recall
it. As for the picture, there was no need to hide it from her: she knew
the entire Vatican by heart when she came to me, from photographs. She
looks at everything, and sees beyond it! I am longing to have you know
her: did you not notice her? though this February twilight, to be sure,
is very dim. She has just escorted Hedwig Norton from the room."
"Was that your grand-daughter?" Sydow asked, in surprise. "I thought it
was your niece Odette."
"Where were your eyes?" Countess Lenzdorff asked, in an aggrieved tone.
"Odette is pretty enough, but a grisette,--a mere grisette,--in
comparison with Erika. Erika is a head taller; and then, my dear, _un
port de reine_,--_absolument, un port de reine_. Ah, here she
comes.--Erika, Herr von Sydow wishes to be presented to you: you know
who he is,--a great favourite of mine, and the nicest young fellow in
all Berlin."
Erika inclined her head graciously, and, whilst the young man
blushed at the old lady's exaggerated praise, said, with perfect
self-possession, "Of course my grandmother has enlightened you as to my
perfections. I think we may both be quite content, Herr von Sydow."
He bowed low and took the offered chair beside his hostess. He
knew that Countess Lenzdorff expected him to say something to her
grand-daughter, but he could not; he was mute with astonishment. It was
true that the Countess had written him shortly after the young girl's
arrival that she was charming, but he had regarded this asseveration as
a piece of remorse on her part, knowing that remorse will incline
people to exaggerate, especially kind-hearted, selfish people, for whom
the memory of injustice done by them is among the greatest annoyances
of life.
He could not reconcile his memory of the distressed, pale, shy girl
whom he had seen for an instant with this extremely beautiful and
self-possessed young lady who seemed expressly devised to act as a
cordial for her grandmother's Epicurean selfishness. He did not know
why, but he was half vexed that Erika was so beautiful: the previous
tender compassion with which she had inspired him seemed ridiculous.
The words for which he sought in vain with which to begin a
conversation she soon found. "It is strange that you should not have
recognized me here in my grandmother's drawing-room, where you might
have expected me to be," she said, gaily. "I should have known you in
Africa."
"Where have you seen each other before?" the Countess asked, curiously.
"On the stairs, on the evening of my arrival," Erika explained.
"Evidently you do not recall it, Herr von Sydow: I ought not to have
confessed how perfectly I remember."
"Oh, I remember it very well," said Sydow, and then he paused suddenly
with a faint smile, a smile peculiarly his own, and behind which some
sensitive souls suspected a degree of malice, but which actually
concealed only a certain agitation and embarrassment, a momentary
non-comprehension of the situation. He was not very clever, except in
moments of great danger, when he developed unusual presence of mind.
"After all, 'tis no wonder that you made more impression upon me than I
did upon you," Erika went on, easily and simply. "In the first place,
you were the first Prussian officer I had ever met; I had never seen
anything in Austria so tall and broad: your epaulettes inspired me with
a degree of awe. And then you bowed so respectfully. You can't imagine
how much good it did me. I was half dead with terror: you looked as if
you pitied me."
"I did pity you, Countess," he confessed, frankly. The tone of her
voice, which had first won over her grandmother, was sweet in his ears.
Moreover, she seemed very much of a child, now that she was talking.
The impression of self-possession which she had at first given him was
quite obliterated.
"You knew that my grandmother was not glad to have me?" she asked.
"Yes, I told him so, and he scolded me for it," Countess Lenzdorff
declared, with a nod.
"But, my dear Countess!" Sydow remonstrated.
"Oh, I always speak the truth," the Countess exclaimed,--"always, that
is, if possible, and sometimes even oftener: it is the only virtue upon
which I pride myself. And you were right, Goswyn. But do you know how
you look now? As if you were ashamed of your pity. Aha! I have hit the
nail upon the head, and a very sensitive nail, too. It is human nature.
There is one extravagance which even the most magnanimous never forgive
themselves,--wasted compassion. In fact, you must perceive that the
child has no need of the article."
Goswyn was silent. If at first the Countess had hit the nail upon the
head, he was by no means convinced of the truth of her last remark.
Something in the old Countess's manner to her grand-daughter went
against the grain with him: once while she was talking to him, and
Erika, sitting beside her, nestled close to her with the innocent grace
of a young creature to whom a little tenderness is as necessary as is
sunshine to the opening flower, the grandmother suddenly, with a
significant glance at Sydow, put her finger beneath the girl's chin and
turned her face so that he might observe the particularly lovely
outline of her cheek.
Meanwhile, Countess Brock was defending herself with much ill humour
and many grimaces from the exaggerated amiability of the 'Archduchess,'
which found vent especially in the offer of a specific for the cure of
neuralgia, from which the 'wicked fairy' suffered constantly, and which
partly explained the peculiar twitching of her features. Extricating
herself at last with much bluntness from the snare thus spread to
entrap her favour, Countess Brock turned to the young officer, who,
strange to relate, was her nephew. Strange to relate; for there
certainly could be no greater contrast than that of his characteristic
grave simplicity with her restless affectation.
"My dear Goswyn!" she said, in a honeyed tone, taking a chair beside
him.
"Well, aunt?"
"You scarcely spoke to me when you came in," she continued,
reproachfully, in the same sweet tone.
"You seemed very much occupied."
"Occupied? yes, occupied indeed. For the last quarter of an hour I have
been struggling like a fly in a trap. You come just at the right
moment, dear boy." And she tapped his epaulette with a caressing
forefinger.
"Ah? Do you wish me to audit your accounts?" he asked, dryly: he had
but slight sympathy with her.
"God forbid!" exclaimed the 'wicked fairy,' raising her black-gloved
hands with her characteristic gesture. "Nothing so prosaic as that this
time. It was about----"
"About your Thursdays," her nephew interrupted her.
"Rightly guessed, dear boy. I want a new star; and you can help me a
little. Do you know G----?"
"The pianist?"
"Yes."
"I have practised with him once or twice." Goswyn played the violin in
moments of leisure, a weakness to which he did not like to hear
allusions made.
"There! I thought so. You must bring him to me."
"Pray excuse me," the young man said, decidedly. "I will have nothing
to do with introducing any artist to you. I know too well what will
ensue. You will squeeze him like a lemon, and then show him the door on
the pretence that he outrages your aesthetic sense,--that his manners
are not to your taste. You should inform yourself on that point before
making use of him. We all know that artists are not always well bred."
"Too true!" sighed Frau von Geroldstein, edging her chair nearer to the
speaker.
"All artists are ill-mannered," Countess Lenzdorff maintained, with her
good-humoured insolence.
"Even the greatest?" asked Erika, shyly. She was thinking of the young
painter whom she had met by the monster of a bridge, and she could not
decide whether to resent her grandmother's arrogance or to be ashamed
of the childish admiration in which she had indulged all these years
for the handsome vagabond of whom she had never heard since.
As Frau von Geroldstein was gently sighing, "Ah, yes, even the
greatest," Countess Anna interposed with a laugh, "They are the worst
of all. Artistic mediocrities acquire a certain drawing-room polish far
sooner than do the great geniuses who live in a world of their own.
And, after all, average good manners are only the dress-suit for
average men: they rarely sit well upon a genius. I care very little for
them: a little _naive_ awkwardness does not displease me at all; on the
contrary, to be quite to my mind an artist must always have something
of the bear about him: I take no interest whatever in those trim
dandies, 'gentlemen artists,' who think more of the polish of their
boots than of their art."
"Nor do I," sighed Frau von Geroldstein.
"H'm! your discourse is always very instructive," the 'wicked fairy'
declared, "but it does not help me in my trouble." She sighed
tragically and arose. As she did so, her fur boa slipped from her
shoulders to the ground. Erika picked it up and handed it to her. The
'wicked fairy' stared at the young girl through her eye-glass, surprise
slowly dawning in her distorted features. "You are the grand-daughter
from Bohemia?" she asked, still with her eye-glass at her eyes.
"Yes, Frau Countess."
"Ah, excuse me: I have been taking you all this time for my dear Anna's
companion. Now I remember she died last year: I sent some flowers to
her funeral. Poor thing! she was desperately tiresome, but an excellent
girl; you must remember her, my dear Goswyn. You used to call her the
Duke of Wellington, because she was a little deaf and used to go on
talking without hearing what was said to her. How could I make such a
mistake! But I am very near-sighted, and very absent-minded." She put
her finger beneath Erika's chin and smiled an indescribable smile. "And
you are very pretty, my dear. What is your name?"
"Erika."
"Erika!--Heather Blossom! And you come from Bohemia. How poetic!--how
poetic! She is positively charming, this grand-daughter of yours, Anna!
Do you not think so, Goswyn?"
Sydow flushed crimson, frowned, and was silent.
"I must go: I seem to be saying the wrong thing," Countess Brock ran
on; then, looking towards the window, "Good heavens!" she exclaimed,
"it is pouring! Pray let them call a droschky."
"Erika, ring the bell," said Countess Lenzdorff.
Before Erika could obey, Frau von Geroldstein extended a detaining arm.
"But, my dear Countess Erika, why send for a droschky, when my carriage
is waiting below, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to drive
Countess Brock home?--Surely you will permit me?"--this last addressed
to the 'wicked fairy.'
"I really cannot. I know you far too slightly to impose such a burden
upon you," Countess Brock replied, crossly.
"Why call it a burden? it is a pleasure," the other insisted.
"There is no pleasure in driving with me: I am forced to have all the
windows closed," said the Countess.
Meanwhile, Erika stood uncertain whether or not to ring the bell, when
suddenly affairs took a turn most favourable for Frau von Geroldstein.
Herr Reichert was announced, and without another word Countess Brock
vanished with Frau von Geroldstein, in whose coupe she was driven home.
She had private reasons for this hurried retreat. Reichert, a special
favourite of Anna Lenzdorff's, an animal painter with a lion face and
an inexhaustible fund of anecdote, was among the '_remords_' of the
'wicked fairy.' She called her '_remords_' the assemblage of men of
talent of whom she had made use only to throw them aside remorselessly
afterwards.
The animal painter's visit was a brief one, and none of the Countess
Lenzdorff's guests remained save Sydow, who stayed in obedience to the
Countess's whispered invitation.
"There! now I have had enough," she exclaimed, as the door closed
behind her beloved animal painter. "Stay and dine, Goswyn: we dine
early--at six--tonight, and then you can go with us to the Academy.
Joachim is to play, and I have a spare ticket for you."