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OUR OWN SET
A NOVEL
BY
OSSIP SCHUBIN
From the German by CLARA BELL
REVISED AND CORRECTED IN THE UNITED STATES
NEW YORK
WILLIAM S. GOTTSBERGER, PUBLISHER
11 MURRAY STREET
1884
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884
by William S. Gottsberger
in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington
THIS TRANSLATION WAS MADE EXPRESSLY FOR THE PUBLISHER
Press of
William S. Gottsberger
New York
OUR OWN SET
PART I.
THE CARNIVAL.
CHAPTER I.
At Rome in 1870. Roman society was already divided into "_Le Monde
noir_" and "_Le Monde blanc_" which as yet gave no sign of amalgamation
into a "_Monde gris_." His Holiness the Pope had entrenched himself in
the Vatican behind his prestige of martyrdom; and the King already held
his court at the Quirinal.
Among the distinguished Austrians who were spending the winter in Rome
were the Otto Ilsenberghs. Otto Ilsenbergh, one of the leading members
of the Austrian feudal aristocracy, was in Rome professedly for his
health, but in reality solely in order to avail himself of the
resources of the Vatican library in compiling that work on the History
of Miracle which he has lately given to the world under a quaint
pseudonym. He and his wife with a troup of red-haired Ilsenberghs, big
and little, inhabited a straggling, historical palazzo on the Corso,
with a glacial stone staircase and vast drawing-rooms which looked more
fit for the meetings of conspirators than for innocent tea-drinkings
and dances.
The countess was "at home" every evening when there was no better
amusement to be had. She was by birth a princess Auerstein, of the
Auerstein-Zolling branch, in which--as we all know--the women are
remarkable for their white eyebrows and their strict morality. The
Ilsenbergh _salon_ was much frequented; the prevailing tone was by no
means formal; smoking was allowed in the drawing-room--nay the countess
herself smoked: to be precise she smoked _regalias_.
It was in the beginning of December; a wet evening and the heavy drops
splashed against the window panes. Count Ilsenbergh was sitting in an
immense reception-room decorated with frescoes, at a _buhl_ table,
evidently constructed for no more arduous duties than the evolution of
love letters. He was absorbed in the concoction of an article for "Our
Times." A paper of strictly aristocratic-conservative tendencies,
patronized by himself, taken in by his fellow-aristocrats, but read by
absolutely no one--excepting the liberal newspaper writers when in
search of reactionary perversities. Count Ilsenbergh was in great
trouble; the Austrian Ministry had crowned their distinguished
achievements by one even more distinguished--for the fourth time within
three years a new era was announced, and in defiance of prejudice a
spick-and-span liberal ministry was being composed, destined no doubt
to establish the prosperity of the Austrian people on a permanent
basis--and beyond a doubt to cause a fresh importation of
"Excellencies" into the fashionable _salons_ of the Ringstrasse at
Vienna. Count Ilsenbergh was prophesying the end of all things.
The countess was sitting at her ease on a sofa close to the fire-place,
with its Renaissance chimaeras of white marble. The handsomest editions
of the works of Ampere and Mommsen lay on the tables, but she held on
her lap a ragged volume of a novel from a circulating library. She was
a tall, fair woman with a high color and apricot-colored hair, a
languid figure, slender extremities and insignificant features; she
spoke French and German alike with a strong Viennese accent, dressed
unfashionably, and moved awkwardly; still, no one who knew what was
what, could fail to see that she was a lady and an aristocrat. At all
court functions she was an imposing figure, she never stumbled over her
train and wore the family diamonds with stately indifference.
The portiere was lifted and General von Klinger was announced. General
von Klinger was an old Austrian soldier whose good fortune it had been
to have an opportunity of distinguishing himself with his cavalry at
Sadowa, after which, righteously wroth at the national disaster, he had
laid down his sword and retired with his General's rank to devote
himself wholly to painting. Even as a soldier he had enjoyed a
reputation as a genius and had covered himself with glory by the way in
which he could sketch, with his gold-cased pencil on the back of an old
letter or a visiting-card, a galloping horse and a jockey bending over
its mane; a work of art especially admired for the rapidity with which
it was executed. Since then he had studied art in Paris, had three
times had his pictures refused at the _salon_ and had succeeded in
persuading himself that this was a distinction--in which he found a
parallel in Rousseau, Delacroix and fifty fellow-victims who had been
obliged to submit to a similar rebuff. Then he had come to Rome, an
unappreciated genius, and had established himself in a magnificent
studio in the Piazza Navona, which he threw open to the public every
day from three till five and which became a popular rendezvous for the
fashionable world. They laughed at the old soldier's artistic
pretensions, but they could not laugh at him. He was in every sense of
the word a gentleman. Like many an old bachelor who cherishes the
memory of an unsuccessful love affair in early life, he covered a
sentimental vein by a biting tongue--a pessimist idealist perhaps
describes him. He was handsome and upright, with a stiffly starched
shirt collar and romantic dark eyes--a thorough old soldier and a
favorite with all the fine ladies of Roman society.
"It is very nice of you to have thought of us," said the countess
greeting him heartily; "it is dreadful weather too--come and warm
yourself."
The count looked up from his writing: "How are you General?" he said,
and then went on with his article, adding: "Such an old friend as you
are will allow me to go on with my work; only a few lines--half a dozen
words. These are grave times, when every man must hold his own in the
ranks!"--and the forlorn hope of the feudal cause dipped his pen in the
ink with a sigh.
The general begged him not to disturb himself, the countess said a few
words about some musical soiree, and presently her husband ended his
page with an emphatic flourish, exclaiming: "That will give them
something to think about!" and came to join them by the fire.
A carriage was heard to draw up in the street.
"That may be Truyn, he arrived yesterday," observed the countess, and
Count Truyn was in fact announced.
Erich Truyn was at that time a man of rather more than thirty with hair
prematurely gray and a glance of frosty indifference. People said he
had been iced, for he always looked as though he had been frozen to the
marrow in sublime superiority; his frigid exterior had won him a
reputation for excessive pride, and totally belied the man. He was an
uncommonly kind and noble-hearted soul, and what passed for pride was
merely the shrinking of a sensitive nature which had now and again
exposed itself to ridicule, perhaps by some outburst of high-flown
idealism, and which now sought only to hide its sanctuary from the
desecration of the multitude.
"Ah! Truyn, at last, and how are you?" cried the countess with sincere
pleasure.
"Much as ever," replied Truyn.
"And where is your wife?" asked Ilsenbergh.
"I do not know."
"Is she still at Nice?"
"I do not know." And as he spoke his expression was colder and more set
than before.
"Are you to be long in Rome?" said the countess, anxious to divert the
conversation into a more pleasing channel.
"As long as my little companion likes and it suits her," answered
Truyn. His 'little companion' always meant his only child, a girl of
about twelve.
"You must bring Gabrielle to see me very soon," said the lady. "My Mimi
and Lintschi are of the same age."
"I will bring her as soon as possible; unluckily she is so very shy she
cannot bear strangers. But she has quite lost her heart to the general
and to our cousin Sempaly."
"What, Nicki!" exclaimed the countess. "Do you mean that he has the
patience to devote himself to children?"
"He has a peculiar talent for it. He dined with us to-day."
"He is an unaccountable creature!" sighed the countess. "He hardly ever
comes near us."
At this moment a quick step was heard outside and Count Sempaly was
announced.
"_Lupus in Fabula!_" remarked Ilsenbergh.
The new-comer was a young man of eight or nine and twenty, not tall,
but powerfully though slightly built; his remarkably handsome, well-cut
features and clear brown complexion were beautified by a most engaging
smile, and by fine blue eyes with dark lashes and shaded lids. Under
cover of that smile he could say the most audacious things, and whether
the glance of those eyes were a lightning flash or a sunbeam no one had
ever been quite certain. He gallantly kissed the tips of the countess's
fingers, nodded to the men with a sort of brusque heartiness, and then
seated himself on a cushion at the lady's feet.
"Well, it is a mercy to be allowed to see you at last; you really do
not come often enough, Nicki; and in society I hardly ever meet you,"
complained the countess in a tone of kindly reproof. "Why do you so
seldom appear in the respectable world?"
"Because he is better amused in the other world!" said Ilsenbergh with
a giggle in an undertone.
But a reproachful glance from his wife warned him to be sober.
"I simply have not the time for it," said Sempaly half laughing. "I
have too much to do."
"Too much to do!" said Truyn with his quiet irony.... "In
diplomacy?--What is the latest news?"
"A remarkable article in the '_Temps_' on the great washing-basin
question," replied Sempaly with mock gravity.
"The washing-basin question!" repeated the others puzzled.
"Yes," continued Sempaly. "The state of affairs is this: When, not long
since, the young duke of B---- was required to serve under the
conscription, his feelings were deeply hurt by the fact that he had not
only to live in barracks, but to wash at the pump like a common
soldier. This so outraged his mamma that she went to the Minister of
War to petition that her son might have a separate washing-basin; but
after serious discussion her application was refused. It was decided
that this separate washing-basin would be a breach of the Immortal
Principles of '89."
"It is hardly credible!" observed Truyn; Ilsenbergh shrugged his
shoulders and the countess innocently asked:
"What are the immortal principles of '89?"
"A sort of ideal convention between the aristocracy and the canaille,"
said Sempaly coolly. "Or if you prefer it, the first steps towards the
abdication of privilege at the feet of the higher humanity," he added
with a smile.
The countess was no wiser than before, Sempaly laughed maliciously as
he fanned himself with a Japanese screen, and Ilsenbergh said: "Then
you are a democrat, Sempaly?"
"From a bird's-eye point of view," added Truyn drily; he had not much
faith in his cousin's liberalism.
"I am always a democrat when I have just been reading 'The Dark Ages,'"
said Sempaly--'The Dark Ages' was the name he chose to give to
Ilsenbergh's newspaper.--"Besides, joking apart, I am really a liberal,
though I own I am uneasy at the growing power of the radicals. By the
bye, I had nearly forgotten to give you two items of news that will
delight you Fritzi,"--addressing the countess. "The reds have won all
the Paris elections, and at Madrid they have been shooting at the
king."
"Horrible!" exclaimed the countess, and she shuddered, "we shall see
the Commune again before long."
"'93," said Truyn, with his tone of dry irony.
"We really ought to draw a cordon round the Austrian throne to protect
it against the pestilential flood of democracy," said Sempaly very
gravely. "Ilsenbergh you must petition the upper house."
"Your jokes are very much out of place," said the countess, "the matter
is serious."
"Oh, no! not for us," said Truyn. "Our people are too long suffering."
"They are sound at the core," interrupted Ilsenbergh with dramatic
emphasis.
"They do not yet know the meaning of liberty," said Sempaly laughing,
"and to them equality is a mere abstraction--a metaphysical delicacy."
"They are thoroughly good and loyal!" exclaimed Ilsenbergh, "and they
know...."
"Oh!" cried Sempaly, "they know very little and that is your safeguard.
When once their eyes are opened your life will cease to be secure. If I
had been a bricklayer I should certainly have been a socialist," and he
crossed his arms and looked defiantly at his audience.
"A socialist!" cried Ilsenbergh indignantly. "You!--never. No, you
could not have been a socialist; your religious feelings would have
preserved you from such wickedness!"
"Hm!" replied Sempaly suspiciously, and Truyn said with a twist of his
lips:
"As a bricklayer Sempaly might not have been so religious; he might
have found some difficulty in worshipping a God who had treated him so
scurvily."
"Hush, Truyn!" exclaimed Sempaly, somewhat anxiously to his cousin.
"You know I dislike all such discussions."
"True. I remember you wear Catholic blinkers and are always nervous
about your beliefs; and you would not like to feel any doubt as to the
unlimited prolongation of your comfortable little existence," said
Truyn in a tone of grave and languid banter. For Sempaly was not
burthened with religion, though, like many folks to whom life is easy,
he clung desperately to a hope in a future life, for which reason he
affected 'Catholic blinkers' and would not have opened a page of
Strauss for the world.
"The sword is at our breast!" sighed the countess still sunk in dark
forebodings. "This new ministry!..." And she shook her head.
"It will do no harm beyond producing a few dreary articles in the
papers and inundating us with new Acts which the crown will not trouble
itself about for a moment," observed Sempaly.
"The Austrian mob are gnashing their teeth already!" said the lady.
"Nonsense! The Austrian mob is a very good dog at bottom; it will not
bite till you forbid it to lick your hands," said her cousin calmly.
"I should dislike one as much as the other," said the countess, looking
complacently at her slender white fingers.
"But tell us, Nicki," asked Ilsenbergh, "has not the change of ministry
put a stop to your chances of promotion?" Sempaly was in fact an
apprentice in the Roman branch of the great Austrian political
incubator.
"Of course," replied Sempaly. "I had hoped to be sent to London as
secretary; but one of our secretaries here is to go to England, and the
democrats are sending us one of their own proteges in his place. My
chief told me so this morning."
"Oh! who is our new secretary?" asked the countess much interested. "If
he is a protege of those creatures he must be a terrible specimen."
"He is one Sterzl--and highly recommended; he comes from Teheran where
he has distinguished himself greatly," said Sempaly.
"Sterzl!" repeated Ilsenbergh scornfully.
"Sterzl!" cried the lady in disgust. "It is to be hoped he has no
wife,--that would crown all."
"On that point I can reassure you," said the general; "Sterzl is
unmarried."
"You know him?" murmured the countess slightly abashed.
"He is the son of one of my dearest friends--a fellow-officer," replied
the general, "and if he has grown up as he promised he must be a man of
talent and character--his abilities were brilliant."
"That is something at any rate," Ilsenbergh condescended to say.
"Yes, so it strikes me," added Sempaly; "we require one man who knows
what work means."
"I was promised that my nephew should have the appointment," muttered
the countess. "It is disgusting!"
"Utterly!" said Sempaly with a whimsical intonation. "A foreign element
is always intrusive; we are much more comfortable among ourselves."
Tea was now brought in on a Japanese table and the secretary and his
inferior birth were for the time forgotten.