"And you?"
"And I? Do not ask indiscreet questions, Eugene!"
"But this question interests me so much," he excuses himself.
"Tell me, Lin, if Lanzberg had not come between us--yes, if I only,
most unfortunately, had not been born a Grau," he continues sighing,
"could I have cherished a little, very little hope?"
"It is quite possible," says she, shrugging her shoulders, and
coquetting with him over her shoulder. "But it is better so for us
both."
"For you, certainly," says he, "but I shall feel quite peculiarly
to-day when I see you with your bridal wreath, Lin! You will drive
people mad with your beauty. You are the most beautiful person whom I
have ever met in my life. Where the devil did you get your look of high
breeding?"
Eugene Rhoeden, with his gay boldness and graceful impudence, his
unconscionable aplomb, and his denial from principle of all personal
dignity, is what is called in the Vienna slang a _gamin_.
Gamin as he is, no one knows how to bewitch Linda's small nature, how
to feed her excessive vanity with such delicate bits as Eugene von
Rhoeden. He understands her, she understands him; they are fairly made
for each other, and for one moment, one very brief moment, Linda thinks
almost with repugnance of the black raven in the red field which greets
her from the Lanzberg coat-of-arms. "Eugene!" murmurs she. "Ah!" With
that she suddenly turns to an elderly maid, who comes out from among
the bushes.
"Are you looking for me, Fanny?"
"Yes, miss."
"I am probably to try my train for the twenty-ninth time. Ah, Eugene!
There is something tiresome about a wedding-day!" then she breaks a red
chrysanthemum as she passes, throws it to him, and vanishes.
About seven hours later the wedding takes place in the castle chapel,
adorned with greenhouse flowers. The blossoms tremble as if they were
cold or afraid. Their sweet, exhilarating fragrance mingles with the
odor of wax candles, and that of perfumery and cosmetics, which is
always noticeable in select assemblies. The wind creeps curiously
through the window cracks, creeps up to the altar, makes the flames of
the candles flicker, and blows cold upon the bare shoulders of the
bride and bridesmaids.
The bride, loaded with the richest jewels, resembles a proud narcissus
in the morning dew. Elsa is deathly pale, even her lips are colorless.
Erwin displays the inexpressive gravity which the occasion demands of a
well-bred man. Mrs. von Harfink looks continually at the decorations,
and starts when a white rose falls from the wall. Mr. von Harfink looks
as if his collar were too tight for him. Eugene von Rhoeden, his
bridesmaid's wrap on his arm, a sceptical smile on his lips, his hand
at his mustache, his glance resting now on his uncle, now on the
priest, now on the bride, stands there, the image of a little society
philosopher of the nineteenth century, who laughs at all vanity and
cannot himself give up his own. Raimund looks like a radical who is
paying an immense tribute to prejudice, and tries to look more
distinguished than his brother-in-law.
And Felix? Felix is as if paralyzed. The moment is here; his feverish
longing nears its aim--happiness.
Then the ivy taps on the window, the wind seizes him with ice-cold
hands. Felix shudders and glances at his bride. How beautiful she is,
and--how proud. Proud? Felix Lanzberg's bride proud? It is
impossible--it cannot be. A suspicion which, however he may deny it to
his conscience, has occurred to him again and again during their whole
engagement, strikes him for the last time and becomes certain that
Linda's mother has deceived him; Linda knows nothing!
Then the priest demands his "Yes!" He hesitates; hesitates so long that
Linda looks at him in surprise; two large, greenish eyes shine at him
through the filmy, white bridal veil. "Yes!" says he firmly and
shortly.
A long dinner follows, a long, complicated dinner, which no one enjoys
except Papa Harfink, who studies the menu with the tenderest pleasure,
and with a small pencil marks the numbers for love of which he thinks
to extend considerably his elastic appetite.
He sits between Elsa and the wife of his nephew, the Freiherr, the
elder Rhoeden, and, as he gulps down his _potage a la reine_, tells
both ladies of his new Achenbach, which cost him 4,000 gulden, which
does not seem at all dear to him; as, besides a great deal of sunset,
there are thirty-four figures in the picture--he has counted them--and
in the background something else, he does not know whether it is a
buffalo or ruins. "They almost persuaded me to buy a Daubigny, a
Frenchman, I think--a green sauce--what a sauce! I said no, thank you.
I like spinach and eggs, I said; but spinach and cows--but--and such
cows! without tails or horns--regular daubs of colors. These Frenchmen
are tricky. Really, people are cheated by them." Thus concludes Papa
Harfink, the art critic.
Elsa only half listens to him. Her eyes wander wearily over the table
with its stiff floral decorations and its heavy silverware, "real
silver, and not plate," assures Papa Harfink.
Of the men, the last generation are broad-shouldered, red-faced; a
sparse beard curls around their full cheeks, a sharp glance, on the
lookout for profit, shoots from their small eyes. The past generation
breathe loudly, pick their teeth continually, wear too tight rings on
too fat fingers, and without exception, a thick gold chain with a
diamond medallion over their stomachs.
The present generation are sickly, dissipated, and have something of
the jockey and something of the valet who copies his master.
The pride of the whole family is centred in Eugene von Rhoeden, the
blond good-for-nothing, who has as many debts as a cavalier, who was
educated in the Theresanium, and once had a quarrel with a watchman.
Of the women, some are pretty, none are pleasing; they have all good
dressmakers; none are well dressed.
The usually pale face of a "certain Baron Lanzberg" begins to flush
feverishly; without eating a mouthful he hastily swallows one glass of
wine after another.
"Try this delicious salmon; permit me to help you," the charming host
turns to Elsa. She makes a desperate attempt to do justice to the
salmon. "Strange," remarks Von Harfink, "my mother used to say that
when she was young salmon was cheaper than beef, now it is very dear."
Elsa has laid down her fork in despair. "I am behind the times," says
she. "I still am frightened by a telegram, and always feel nervous at a
wedding." She smiles sadly, and two charming dimples appear in her
cheeks.
Papa Harfink continues to urge her to eat. "You must taste this salmi,
Baroness," he entreats. "Monsieur Galatin, my cook, would be unhappy if
he learned that every one had not eaten some of his salmi. _Pate a la
Kotschubey_, he calls it. Only to-day, this Galatin said to me: '_Ah,
Monsieur le Chevalier_, when I think how often Prince Kotschubey got
his stomach out of order with my salmi. The physicians said he died of
gastrosis, ah! he died of my salmi.'"
"You have a dangerous cook," says Elsa.
"But I understand this Kotschubey, do you know," continues Papa
Harfink. "Since I have had this cook, I really have to go to Marienbad
twice every year. And besides, he is a splendid fellow, talks politics
like a deputy. He formerly served only with the highest nobility. I
took him with the castle from Count Sylvani. A peculiar fellow--this
Galatin; will not stay away from the swans and the park. A poetic
creature; do you know, Baroness, he reads Victor Hugo and the
Medisations of Lamartine."
"Ah really, the Medisations of Lamartine," says Elsa, smiling. Susanna
Harfink rushes to the assistance of her distressed husband. "Ha! ha!
ha!" says she, with her shrill laugh. "My husband always calls
meditations medisations--very malicious, do you not think so, but a
good joke."
Papa Harfink, sadly conscious that it always means a curtain lecture
when his wife before people laughs so energetically at one of his
"jokes," of which he feels innocent, with much grace and melancholia
licks his knife on both sides.
His wife looks as if she were weary of pulling the lion-skin again and
again over the long ears.
The moment has arrived when he is to speak his toast. He rises
hesitatingly, the glass trembles in his hand. Fear and champagne have
made him lose the last recollection of the few words prepared by his
wife.
"This is a great day for me--a day of pride and pain--no, that is not
it!" thoughtfully raising his hand to his upper lip. "I hope that my
brother-in-law, no, my son-in-law--Su--su--sanna!" he murmurs,
helplessly. His cheeks seem to inflate, his eyes grow smaller and more
shining, he has set down his glass, and twists his napkin like a
conscientious washerwoman. Susanna rises, she is fairly Roman. "As my
husband, overcome with emotion, cannot speak," she begins. "I will say,
this is for----" for a moment she hesitates, then for the first time in
her life, she resolutely denies her husband, emancipates herself from
the "us" with which for long years she has protected him, and says:
"This is for me a day of pain and of joy. I lose a daughter, gain a
son; may my children always find the highest happiness in each other,
and a safe retreat in their parental home."
"He is getting a dreadful mother-in-law, this Lanzberg," whispers
Eugene Rhoeden to his neighbor, a gay, more than audacious brunette.
"Something between a Roman matron and a quarrelsome landlady from a
bachelor boarding-house."
The tasteful Raimund contributes a toast to the fusion of nobleman and
citizen. The older Rhoeden hopes that his beautiful cousin will lend a
new charm to the noble name of Lanzberg.
Much similar follows.
Eugene, for whom this rosary of _parvenu_ platitudes becomes too long,
murmurs: "Shall we not soon have paid sufficient thanks for the honor
of being allied with Baron Lanzberg?"
This mocking remark was only meant for his neighbor, its bitterness was
only meant for the fawning of the Harfinks.
But Felix heard it; ashy pale, with glowing eyes, half rising from
his chair, he stares at the impertinent young man. The latter says
good-naturedly and thoughtlessly: "Yes, Lanzberg, I will jeer at
myself. _Parole d'honneur_, I am a little ashamed to be quite so
delighted at receiving an honest man into the family!"
Thereupon the "certain Baron Lanzberg" lowers his eyes to the
table-cloth, and remains silent.