"And what shall we do to-morrow?" Sempaly would ask Zinka almost every
evening when he met her, fresh and smiling, at some party; he had made
it his task to help her to find her lost Rome and devoted himself to it
with praiseworthy diligence.
The disappointment that she had experienced in her expedition under the
guidance of the _botta_ driver to the ruins of the capital of the
Caesars is a common enough phenomenon; it comes over almost everyone
who sets out with his fancy crammed with the mystical cobwebs that
recent literature has spun round the name of Rome, to see for the first
time that dense mass of splendor and rubbish among the bare modern
houses. And the disappointment is greatest in those who come from a
long stay in Venice or Verona. Rome has none of the seductive charm of
those North Italian cities. Its architecture is sombre and heavy, and
the prevailing hues in winter are a sober grey and a dull bluish-green,
more suggestive of a subtly toned tempera picture than of a glowing oil
painting. It is vain to look for the sheen of the shimmering lagoons or
the fantastic outline of the campaniles against the sky of Venice; for
the half-ruined frescoes, or amber sunshine of Verona.
"After the cities of North Italy Rome has the effect of a severe choral
by Handel after a nocturne by Chopin. The first impression is
crushing," said Sempaly to Zinka; "but one wearies of the nocturne, and
never of the choral."
To which Zinka replied: "But the choral is so drowned by trivial
hurdy-gurdy tunes that I find it very difficult to follow." To which he
laughed and said: "We will speak of that again in a fortnight."
By the end of the fortnight Zinka had thrown two _soldi_ into the
Fountain of Trevi to make sure that she should some day see Rome again,
and in fanaticism for Rome she outdid even the fanatical General von
Klinger. Sempaly had contributed mainly to her conversion. Nothing
could be more amusing or more interesting than to explore every nook of
the city of ruins under his escort. He was constantly remembering this
or that wonderful thing that he must positively show to Zinka. An
artistic bas-relief that had been built to some queer orange-colored
house above a tobacconist's, or a heathen divinity which had had wings
attached to its shoulders to qualify it for admission as an angel into
a Christian church. He rode out with her into the Campagna, and pointed
out all the most picturesque parts of the Trastevere, and he could find
a ridiculous suggestion even in the most reverend things. The halls of
the Vatican in which the liberal minded Vicars of Christ have granted a
refuge to the pensioners of antiquity, he called the Poor-house of the
gods; and always spoke of St. Peter's, which is commonly known as _la
Parocchia dei Forestieri_, as the Papal Grand Hotel. There was not a
fountain, a fragment of sculpture, or a picturesque heap of ruins of
which he could not relate some history, comic or pathetic, or he
invented one; but he never produced the impression that he was giving a
lecture. He had in fact a particularly unpretending way of telling an
appropriate and not too lengthy anecdote; he never handed it round on a
waiter, as it were, for examination, but let it drop quietly out of his
pocket. His knowledge of art was but shallow, but his feeling for it,
like all his instincts, was amazingly keen. His information on all
subjects was miscellaneous and slender, not an article of his
intellectual wardrobe--as Charles Lamb has it--was whole; but he draped
himself in the rags with audacious grace and made no attempt to hide
the holes.
Truyn and his little daughter often joined them in these expeditions,
and sometimes Cecil, but only when his mother did not choose to go out,
and his demeanor on these occasions--'peripatetic aesthetics' he called
their walks--was highly characteristic. He would walk by the side of
his sister and Sempaly, or a few steps behind them, sunk in silence but
always sharply observant. From time to time he would correct their
cicerone in his dates, which Sempaly took with sublime indifference and
for which--taking off his hat--he invariably thanked him with princely
courtesy. Sterzl only sympathized with the classical style of the
Renaissance; the real antiques which Zinka raved about he smiled at as
caricatures; Guido on the other hand--for whom Sempaly had a weakness,
as a Chopin among painters--Sterzl detested. He declared that the
Beatrice Cenci had a cold wet bandage on her head, and that the picture
was nothing more than a study apparently made from an idiot in a
mad-house. When Zinka talked of her favorite antiques or other works in
the mystical and sentimental slang of the clique, he laughed at her,
but quite good-naturedly. He scorned all extravagance and raptures as
cant and affectation. Still he was merciful to his sister, and when she
turned from a Francia with tears in her eyes, or turned pale as she
quoted Shelley, or spoke of Leonardo's Medusa in Florence, he did no
more than shrug his shoulders and say: "Zinka, you are crazy," or
gently pull her by the ear. Everything in Zinka was right, even her
want of sound common sense.
The baroness had at last found a lodging, almost to her mind: a small
palazzo in a side street, off the Corso, "furnished in atrocious taste,
but otherwise very nice." The palazetto was in fact a gem in its way,
with a simple and elegant stone front and a court surrounded by a
colonnade with red camellia shrubs and a fountain in the midst. There
were several much injured antique statues too, one of which was a
famous and very beautiful Amazon at whose feet a rose-bush bloomed
profusely. This Amazon struck Zinka as remarkably picturesque and she
sketched her from every point of view without ever reading the warning
in her sad face. Alas! Zinka had gazed at the sun and it had blinded
her.
But how could Cecil allow this daily-growing intimacy between Sempaly
and his sister? Sempaly's elder brother, Prince Sempaly, had been
married ten years and was childless, so the attache, as heir
presumptive, was in duty bound to make a brilliant marriage. Did not
Sterzl know this? Yes, he knew it, but he did not trouble his head
about it. He was under no illusion as to the singularity, not to say
the improbability of Sempaly marrying a girl of inferior birth; he had
no desire that it should be otherwise. He was no democrat; on the
contrary, his was a particularly conservative and old world nature,
equally remote from cringing or from envy. That Sempaly should marry
any other girl not his equal in rank would have struck him as
altogether wrong, but Zinka--Zinka was different. He worshipped her as
only a strong elder brother call worship a much younger weaker sister
and there was no social elevation of which he deemed her unworthy. And
when he saw Sempaly smile down so tenderly and at the same time so
respectfully on his 'butterfly,' as he called her, he was rejoiced at
her good fortune and never for an instant doubted it Zinka was not
sentimental. For a long time there was no tinge of any feeling stronger
than good fellowship in her intercourse with Sempaly; her talk was all
fun, her glance saucy and wilful. By degrees, however, a change came
over her; her whole manner softened, there was a gentle dreaminess even
in her caprice and when she smiled it was often with tears in her eyes.
Sempaly was not regular in his visits to the palazetto; sometimes for
two or three days he failed to appear, then he would call very
early--at noon perhaps, join the family unceremoniously at their
breakfast, go out driving with the ladies, accept an invitation to stay
to dinner, and if Zinka was looking pale or out of spirits, he would
pay her fifty kind little attentions to conjure a smile to her lips.
Occasionally he would fall into the melancholy vein and talk of his
loveless youth, and let her pity him for it. He would tell her about
his elder brother, praising his many noble qualities, and then add with
a shrug: "Yes, he is a splendid fellow, but ... he has ideas!" When
Zinka asked what sort of ideas, Sempaly sighed: "I hope you may some
day know him and then you can judge for yourself."
But this was in a low tone and he seemed to regret having said it. Then
he would frequently allude to this or that picture in his brother's
house at Vienna, or to some curious family relic, and say how much he
should like some day to show it to Zinka. His favorite theme, however,
was Erzburg, the old castle which for numberless generations had been
the family summer-retreat of the Sempalys and of which he was
passionately fond. Excepting as regards this estate he was singularly
free from all false or family pride; he declared that his brother's
Vienna palace was an unhealthy barrack, scouted at the Sempaly breed of
horses, laughed at the Sempaly nose, and praised the traditional
Sempaly tokay more in irony than in good faith--but then he came round
to Erzburg again and simply raved about it Not about the oriental
luxury with which part of the castle was fitted up--not in the best
taste--of that he never spoke; indeed, he said more about its
deficiencies than its perfections, but in a tone of such loving excuse!
He talked of the large bare rooms where, for years, he had watched for
the apparition of the white lady, half longing, half dreading to see
her; of the doleful groaning of the weather-cock of the _rococo_
statues in the grounds, and of the gloomy pools with their low sad
murmur, and their carpet of white waterlilies. The statues were bad,
the pools unhealthy he admitted, and yet, as he said it, his usually
mocking glance was soft and almost devout Once, when Zinka had grown
quite dismal over his reminiscences, he took her hand and pressed it
tenderly to his lips: "You must see Erzburg some day," he murmured.
His behavior to her was that of a man who is perfectly clear as to his
own intentions but who for some reason is not immediately free to sue
for the hand of a girl whom in his heart of hearts he already regards
as his own. What did he mean by all this? What was he thinking of? I
believe absolutely nothing. He went with the tide. There are many men
like him, selfish, luxurious natures who swim with the stream of life
and never attempt to steer; they have for the most part happy tempers,
they are content with any harbor so long as they reach it without
effort or damage, and if in their passive course they run down any one
else they exclaim with their usual amiable politeness: "Oh! I beg your
pardon!" and are quite satisfied that the mishap was due to fate and
not to any fault of theirs.