"We really must invite her," says, in a mournful tone, Countess Mimi
Dey, a large stately woman, with a too high forehead, a feature which
has the proud advantage of being a family inheritance in the Sempaly
family, an aristocratic, small, turn-up nose, a benevolent smile, and a
near-sighted glance.
The Countess is the best woman in the world, of proverbial good nature
and unfeigned condescension in association with music-teachers,
governesses, companions, maids, tutors and officials, and such poor
devils who are paid and supported by the aristocracy, and politely
courtesy to them; but she is unapproachably stiff to the upper middle
classes, those persons who demand a place in society.
She belongs to that exclusive coterie which considers itself the sole
patented extract of humanity, and looks upon all the rest of the world
as only a common herd, a mob which, under certain circumstances,
permits itself to pay its servants better, and to give more to
charitable aims than princely houses, a mob which speaks French, wears
Swedish gloves, and lives in palaces. She has a vague idea that it
speaks incorrect French, that under the gloves coarse hands are
concealed, that the palaces are always furnished with the taste of
first-class waiting-rooms, but knows nothing definite about it, does
not know "these people" at all, does not see them, although they are
everywhere--they do not exist for her.
They tell an amusing anecdote of her: that once at the opera on a Patti
evening, her cousin Pistasch Kamenz entered her box, and asked her, "Is
any one in the theatre to-night?" She, after she had glanced around the
crowded building, answered mournfully, "Not a soul!"
What particularly amuses the Countess is that, as she hears, this great
class of _bourgeoise_, "which one does not know," is, on its side,
divided by various differences in education and condition into classes
which do not "know" each other.
"I really must invite her," she repeats, mournfully.
She leans back in a deep arm-chair in a large drawing-room with brown
wainscoting and numerous family portraits, and smokes a cigarette.
"Pardon me that I really cannot so deeply pity you as you seem to
expect," replies Scirocco Sempaly, who, now on leave, occupies a second
armchair opposite his sister.
"Hm! I do not care about the positive fact; last week I dined with my
bailiff's wife, but--it is a matter of principle."
"_Cent a'as_," says, with indifferent gravity, an old acquaintance of
ours, Eugene von Rhoeden, who sits by an open window before a mediaeval
inlaid table and plays bezique with the above-mentioned cousin of the
hostess, Count Pistasch Kamenz.
"_Cent d'as_," he says, apparently wholly absorbed in his cards, and
moves an ivory counter.
A mild gentle rain is falling, the perfume of half-drowned roses and
fresh foliage floats into the room. In one corner sits the only
daughter of the widowed hostess, Countess Elli, a dark little girl in a
white muslin frock, and near her, in a black silk gown, the governess.
The obligatory half hour which Elli must spend in the drawing-room so
as to become accustomed to society, is over. Elli is rejoiced,
sixteen-year-old girl that she is. She takes no particular pleasure in
the society of grown people, who can no longer pet her as a child, and
who must not yet treat her as a young lady.
A rustle of silk and muslin, a shy "_Bon soir!_" and Mademoiselle
retreats with her charge.
Scirocco rises to open the door for the governess, makes her a deep bow
as she disappears. Rhoeden also rises, only Pistasch indolently remains
seated.
"Pistasch, you might trouble yourself to say good evening to
Mademoiselle," says the Countess half jokingly.
"Pardon," replies Pistasch, "pure absent-mindedness, Mimi, and then she
is so homely."
"That simplifies matters ten-fold," replies Scirocco, hastily. "One can
never be too polite to homely governesses--it is only the pretty ones
that are troublesome."
"I do not understand that," says Pistasch, and marks double bezique.
"One never knows how one can be attentive enough to them so as not to
vex them, and yet reserved enough not to impress them," says Scirocco,
dryly.
"Hm! You have very virtuous principles, Rudi; for some time you have
moved wholly in the icy regions of lofty feelings of duty, where the
tender flowers of the affections never bloom," laughs Pistasch. "I
admire you, upon my word, but--hm--I do not trace the slightest desire
to follow you into this rare atmosphere," and he rubbed his hands with
satisfaction. He considered his cousin's conscientiousness either
feigned or morbid. How could one be conscientious with women?
Conscientious in regard to debts of honor, that is something quite
different, that is self-understood; but regarding governesses--bah!
"Count Pistasch Kamenz is a charming man." So at least say all the
ladies and also all the men who have not yet come in conflict with him.
He has the handsomest blond cinque-cento face, speaks the Viennese
jargon with the most aristocratic accent, and possesses the most
enviable talents. He rides like Renz, dances like Frappart, and more
than that, in private theatricals he is like Blasel, Matras and Knaak
in one person. In all Austria, no man has a greater talent for
representing Polish Jews, poverty-stricken Czechs, drunken valets,
provincials of all kinds. But his greatest triumph is the "Vienna
shoemaker's boy." What accuracy of costume and grimaces! The ladies say
he has a pug nose when he plays the shoemaker's boy, and a way of
sticking out his tongue--ah!
He has played for benevolent objects a hundred times, and in Vienna is
a universally known and boundlessly popular individual, because he is
intimate with actresses, occasionally from a freak rides in an omnibus,
or another time is seen in the standing place of the opera house (for a
half act), because one sometimes meets him in sausage houses, because
in rainy weather he walks with an umbrella and upturned trousers,
because once even--the gods and a pretty girl alone know why--he
travelled from Salzburg to Vienna second class.
The public see in him a pleasant, affable man without pride, and feel
drawn to him like a brother. Poor public! I would not advise you to
stretch out your hardened hand to him, for between ourselves Count
Pistasch is one of the most arrogant of Austrian cavaliers.
The actors with whom he one evening drinks friendship, and the next
greets with "Hm!--ah--You, Mr.---- what do you call him," can tell
this. One of them once challenged him. This was a great joke to the
Count; he laughed until he cried, could not control himself, and
finally settled it thus: "You are a fine fellow, am very sorry, etc.,
deserve an order for personal bravery--ah--if I can be of any service
to you," etc.
He has never been outside of Austria, possesses the vaguest ideas of
history. The French Revolution is a kind of accidental calamity for
him, something between the earthquakes of Lisbon and the pest in
Florence. He is a strict Catholic from aristocratic tradition, has very
good manners when he wishes, speaks French well, and we can assure our
readers, that just as he is, without a suspicion of the "principles of
'89," he would be received with open arms in the most republican
_salons_ of Paris, and would be admired by the ladies for his "_purete
de race_" and "_grand air_."
Now we need only add that he naturally was not christened
Pistasch--that this is a humorous nickname which was given him as a
boy, by reason of his idealistic "greenness," but which now, when this
greenness has long withered, is preserved for the sake of contrast.
"Well, have you decided upon the day when you will invite the
Lanzberg?" asks Scirocco of his sister, who, after long pondering, gold
pencil in hand over a little velvet-bound book in which she enters her
social obligations, now closes it.
"It is very hard," complains the Countess.
"When did this unfortunate Madame Lanzberg call upon you? Oh, yes.
Wednesday. Have you returned her call yet?"
"No; I must show her from the first that I am in no hurry to associate
with her," says the Countess.
"Hm!" says Scirocco, his hands in his pockets, his eyes fixed upon the
ceiling. "Do you not think, Mimi, that as quite a near relation of
Lanzberg it would be the thing for you to smooth the way a little for
his wife? It would be an act of Christian charity."
"The matter is very complicated, Rudi," replied Mimi Dey. "I was always
very sorry for Felix--you know I decidedly took his part. I have
nothing against his wife; her manner is indeed deplorable, but on the
whole, if some little poverty-stricken Sempaly or Dey had married her,
I should have been the last to withdraw my protection from her. In
Felix's unfortunate circumstances, he has proved by his marriage that
he no longer belongs to his caste; he has abdicated, _voila_."
Rhoeden and Pistasch have finished their game of bezique, and now
devote themselves to the building of interesting card-houses. They
spice this intelligent occupation by considerable wagers, which he
shall win whose card-house remains standing the longest. Up to now
Rhoeden has had the advantage. But the Countess's words seem to have
excited him a very little--his card-houses no longer stand.
Scirocco bites his lips, every finger quivers--how can he counsel his
sister to silence or at least consideration? In vain he turns his back
to Rhoeden, so as to make an impression upon her by energetic scowling.
Soon he notices, like many subtle diplomats, that he has naively
exposed himself to the enemy. His energetic play of expression beams at
him from a mirror in which the attentively watching Rhoeden could
certainly solve the interesting riddle--but it wholly escapes his
short-sighted sister.
"As she, nevertheless, must be invited, it would perhaps be better to
fix the day," cries Scirocco, somewhat impatiently.
"It cannot be this week," answers the Countess, counting over the days.
"Thursday, Friday and Saturday are the days of the fair for the flooded
people in Marienbad; Sunday, the ladies of the committee dine at the
M----'s, Monday there are private theatricals at the M----'s, Thursday,
the L----'s dine with me----"
"Well, invite them for Thursday," cries Scirocco. "She is really very
nice, sings chansonettes like Judic; she will amuse you greatly."
"Do you think so?" cries the Countess. "Before Felix was married,
L---- would hardly bow to him, how will it be now? No, Wednesday.
Wednesday will be the best, but still I cannot exactly invite her _en
famille_."
"Hardly," says Scirocco, dryly.
"And whom can I ask to meet her? One has an antipathy to Felix, others
to her----" the Countess laughs lightly and kindles a fresh cigarette.
"One must be so careful--it would be very disagreeable for me if toward
evening some one should accidentally come over from Marienbad, and
should meet her here."
"Have a warning fastened over the door as when one has small-pox in the
house," laughs Pistasch.
"Invite the Garzins," proposes Scirocco.
"Yes, that is something, but a strange element is still desirable,"
remarks the Countess. "What do you say to the Klette?"
Scirocco frowns. "I do not understand how respectable people can
tolerate this poisonous old gossiping viper under their roofs," he
answers, angrily.
"Neither do I," replies Mimi Dey, obligingly, "but still every one
does."
"I make you another proposition, Mimi," cries Pistasch: "Invite old
Harfink by telegram; I think he will come by special train."
The Countess smiled. "I should certainly do it," remarks she, "but I
believe the Lanzberg would look upon it as a mortal insult. Besides,
when did you make his acquaintance?"
"I met him once on the train, and thereupon he invited me to dinner,"
explains Pistasch.
"And you accepted?" asks the Countess, raising her eyebrows.
"Why of course--I thought I should amuse myself as well as at the Carl
Theatre. Yes--that was what I fancied. What a disappointment! The
dinner was not bad, perfectly correct, alas! The wife spoke of nothing
but the evils of the social question. I did not know where to look, and
the husband spoke of nothing but the evils of his stomach. Except for
that, they were both very charming, on my word. Paid me compliments to
my face with a _sans gene_. Bah! I was never very kindly disposed to
Felix, but I pity him on account of this match. For my part I should
rather marry into a Hottentot family than such people."
I do not believe that during this speech Eugene Rhoeden felt exactly
upon roses.
There are _parvenus_ who listen in society to such speeches with
self-satisfied indifference; yes, even laugh at them, and applying the
English proverb, "Present company always excepted," to their own case,
fancy themselves unreferred to. But Rhoeden does not belong to these
enviable ones.
He smiles slightly to himself, and after the conversation had continued
for some time in a similar manner he begins:
"There was once a French poet named Voltaire, and once when he went to
London the street boys laughed at him, and sang mocking songs about
Frenchmen. Then the poet turned round and said: 'You good people, is it
not hard enough not to have been born among you? Really, you should
pity us, not despise us!'"
After this little anecdote a universal silence followed, then Scirocco
cried, "Bravo, Rhoeden!"
The good-natured Countess Dey blushed and said:
"We had entirely forgotten that you are related to these people," which
sounds like a _betise_, but is balm for Eugene's vanity. Pistasch,
however, puts on an irritated expression, and cries with his colossal
impertinence, "I pity you uncommonly!"
Half an hour later the Countess is conferring in her dressing-room with
her maid concerning her costume for to-morrow, and Pistasch has seated
himself in a bad temper at the piano, where with his handsome,
unpractised hands he thumps out the march from Norma, the only
achievement of a ten years' study of music.
Scirocco and Rhoeden stand below on the rain-wet terrace. "Your cigar
bores me," cries Scirocco, "throw it away and fill your lungs with pure
air," and he draws a deep breath so as to enjoy the fragrance of the
summer evening after the rain.
Eugene does as he is invited, and then asks, "Do you not admire my
compliance?"
"You are a good fellow; one can get along with you," answers Scirocco
in his abrupt manner.
"Thanks for the acknowledgment," says Rhoeden, not without bitterness.
"Sometimes I ask myself whether it would not be better and more
sensible for me to pack my trunk."
"Don't see the necessity," growls Scirocco.
"I am really not sure," says Rhoeden; "for between ourselves it is
pleasanter to hear Pistasch make fun of my uncle than to hear my uncle
rave over Pistasch when the latter has accidentally met him and said:
'Ah! good day, Mr.---- what is your name--Mr. Harfink?'"
"Curious world!" murmurs Scirocco, smiling to himself.
Rhoeden, seeing him in a particularly good temper, makes use of the
opportunity to ask him:
"Say, what is the story about Lanzberg?"
Scirocco is silent for a while; looks apparently absently before him,
and then suddenly cries brusquely, "What did you ask?"
"Whether you think we will have fine weather to-morrow," replies
Rhoeden.
Scirocco glances at him peculiarly with a half smile, behind which the
words "Clever dog" may be read.
That evening Eugene writes in the diary in which, instead of
sentimental impressions, he notes down all freshly-acquired worldly
wisdom:
"Never ask society, except concerning things which you already know."