Sempaly was not merely affecting the democrat to annoy his cousin
the countess; he firmly believed himself to be a liberal because he
laughed at conservatism, and regarded the nobility as a time-honored
structure--a relic of the past, like the pyramids, only not quite so
perdurable. But in spite of his theoretical respect for the rights of
man and his satirical contempt for the claims of privilege, Sempaly was
really less tolerant than his cousin of "the dark ages." Ilsenbergh,
with all his feudal crotchets, was an aristocrat only from a sense of
fitness while Sempaly was an aristocrat by instinct; Ilsenbergh's pride
of rank was an affair of party and dignity, Sempaly's was a matter of
superfine nerves.
A few days after this conversation Sempaly met the general and told him
that the new secretary had arrived, adding with a smile: "I do not
think he will do!"
"Why not?" asked the general.
"He speaks very bad French and he knows nothing about _bric-a-brac_,"
replied Sempaly with perfect gravity. "I introduced him yesterday to
Madame de Gandry and he had hardly turned his back when she asked
me--she is the daughter of a leather-seller at Lille, you know--'is he
a man of family?'--and would you believe it, I could not tell her. That
is the sort of thing I never know." Then he added with a singular
smile: "His name is Cecil--Cecil Maria. Cecil Maria Sterzl! It sounds
well do not you think?"
Cecil Maria! It was a ridiculous name and ill-suited the man. His
father had been an officer of dragoons who had retired early to
become a country gentleman--the dearest dream of the retired officer;
his mother was a faded Fraeulein von ---- who had all her linen--not
merely for her trousseau but all she ever purchased--marked with
_her_ coronet, who stuck up a flag on the turret of their little
country house with _her_ arms, and insisted on being addressed as
baroness--which she never had been--by all her acquaintance. When,
within a year of her marriage, she became the mother of a fine boy it
was a burning question what his name should be.
"Cecil Maria," lisped the lady.
"Nonsense! The boy shall be called Anthony after his grandfather," said
his father, and the mother burst into tears. What man can resist the
tears of the mother of his first-born? The child was christened Cecil.
His father died at the early age of forty; his youngest child, a little
girl whom he worshipped, was dangerously ill of scarlet fever and he
fell a victim to his devotion to her. Cecil was at that time a pretty
but rather delicate boy, with an intense contempt for the French
language which his sister's governess tried to instil into him, and a
pronounced preference for the society of the stable-lads and peasant
boys; the baroness was always complaining that he was dirty and did not
care to keep his hands white. The guardianship of the orphans devolved
on General Sterzl, their father's elder brother, who honestly did his
best for them, managing their little fortune with care, and
conscientiously directing their education. After a brief but keen
inspection of the clever spoilt boy, of his silly mother, and of his
cringing tutor, he shrugged his shoulders over this country gentleman's
life and placed the lad in the _Theresianum_, a college which in the
estimation of every Austrian officer is the first educational
establishment in the world--provided, that is to say, that he himself
was not brought up there.
During the first six months Cecil was boundlessly miserable. All his
life long till now he had been accustomed to be first; and it was hard
suddenly to find himself last. Although his abilities were superior his
neglected education placed him far below most of his companions, and
besides this he was, as it happened, the only boy not of noble birth in
this fashionable college, with the exception of a young Tyrolese whose
descent was illegitimate, though he nevertheless was always boasting of
his family. Then his companions laughed at his provincial accent, at
his want of strength and at his queer name. We have all in our turn had
to submit to this rough jesting. He could not for a long time get
accustomed to it, and during the first half-year he incessantly plagued
his mother and guardian to release him from what he called a prison;
but they remained deaf to his entreaties. The visible outcome, when
Cecil went home for the summer holidays, was a very subdued frame of
mind, and nicely kept, long white nails. The next term began with his
giving a sound thrashing to the odious Tyrolese who bored the whole
school with his endless bragging and airs. This made him immensely
popular; then he began to work in earnest; his masters praised his
industry--and his complaints ceased. Had the subtle poison of
pretentious vanity which infected the whole college crept into his
veins? Had he begun to find a charm in hearing Mass read on Sundays and
Highdays by a Bishop? To be waited on by servants in livery, to learn
to dance from the same teacher who gave lessons at court, and to call
the titled youth of the empire '_du_'? It is difficult to say. He
seemed perfectly indifferent to all these privileges and assumed no
airs or affectations.--His pride was of a fiercer temper.
He finished his education by learning eastern languages, passed
brilliantly, and, still aided by his uncle, went in for diplomacy. He
was sent to an Asiatic capital which was just then undergoing a
visitation of cholera and revolution; there again he distinguished
himself and was decorated with the order of the Iron Crown.
One thing was soon very evident to every one in Rome: The new secretary
was not a man whose character could be summed up in an epigram. There
was nothing commonplace or pretty in the man. Externally he was tall
and broad shouldered, with a well set carriage that gave him the air of
a soldier in _mufti_; his hair was brown and close-cropped and his
features sharply cut. In manner he was awkward but perfectly well-bred,
unpretentious and simple. The ambassador's verdict on the new secretary
was very different from Sempaly's. "He is my best worker," said his
excellency: "A wonderful worker, and a long head--extraordinarily
capable; but not pliant enough--not pliant enough...."
Nor was it only with his superiors that he found favor; the younger
officials with whom he came in contact were soon on the best terms with
him. He had one peculiarity, very rare in men who take life so
seriously as he did: He never quibbled. The embassy at Rome at that
time swarmed to such an extent with handsome, fashionable idlers that
the Palazzo di Venezia was like a superior school for fine ladies with
moustaches--as Sempaly aptly said. Sterzl looked on at their feeble
doings with indulgent good humor; it was impossible to hope for any
definite views or action from these young gentlemen; it would have been
as wise to try to make butterflies do the work of ants. He himself was
always ready to make good their neglect and gave them every liberty for
their amusements. He wished to work, to make his mark--that was his
business; to fritter away life and enjoy themselves was theirs. Thus
they agreed to admiration.
But though his subalterns were soon his devoted allies, society at
large was still disposed to offer him a cold shoulder. His predecessor
in office had never pretended to do anything noteworthy as a
diplomatist, but he had been an admirable waltzer, and--which was even
more important--he had not disdained that social diversion;
consequently he had been a favorite with the ladies of Rome who loudly
bewailed his departure and were not cordial to his successor. Sterzl
took no pains to fill his place; he had no trace of that obsequious
politeness and superficial amiability which make a man popular in
general society. His blunt conscientiousness and quite pedantic
frankness of speech were displeasing on first acquaintance. In a
drawing-room he commonly stood silently observant, or, if he spoke, he
said exactly what he thought and expected the same sincerity from
others. He could never be brought to understand that the flattery and
subterfuge usual in company were merely a degenerate form of love for
your neighbor; that the uncompromising truthfulness that he required
must result in universal warfare; that the limit-line between sincerity
and rudeness, between deference and hypocrisy, have never been rigidly
defined; that the naked truth is as much out of place in a drawing-room
as a man in his shirt-sleeves; and that, considering the defects and
deformities of our souls, we cannot be too thankful that custom
prohibits their being displayed without a decent amount of clothing.
Merciful Heaven! what should we see if they were laid bare?
No, we cannot live without lying. A man who is used to society demands
that it should tell lies, it is his right, and a courtesy to which he
has every claim. When a man finds that society no longer thinks him
worth lying to his part is played out and he had better vanish from the
scene. In short, Sterzl had no sort of success with women; they dubbed
him by the nickname of '_le Paysan du Danube_.' Men respected him; they
only regretted that he had so many extravagant notions, particularly a
morbid touchiness as to matters of honor; however, that is a fault
which men do not seriously disapprove of. To Sterzl himself it was a
matter of entire indifference what was said of him by people who were
not his personal friends. For a friend he would go through fire and
water, but he would often neglect even to bow to an acquaintance in the
street as he walked on, straight to his destination, his head full of
grand schemes. He was fully determined to make his mark: to do--perhaps
to become--something great ... but....