"A Modern Donna Elvira!" This sarcastic nickname originated at the time
when the charming Privy Councellor Dey, whose wife we are acquainted
with, was still alive. Count Dey was a red-haired gnome, who was
continually mistaken for his own tutor which, as the facetious Pistasch
maintained with conviction to this day, was very annoying to the tutor.
Besides, Count Dey was eighteen years older than his wife, who, if not
beautiful, was still uncommonly attractive, and still the poor woman
embittered her young life with the most painful jealousy, followed her
husband about distrustfully, accompanied him on the briefest visits of
inspection to his estates, shivering and heroic, shared with him the
cold inconveniences of his grouse hunt in the Tyrol. The world
maliciously delighted in the industry with which she defended her
rights, and also in the fact that, in spite of her astonishing and
extensive precautions, she was continually deceived by her red-haired
spouse.
Mimi Dey now served as a warning example for Elsa. She, Elsa, had not
the slightest wish to undertake the role of the "modern Donna Elvira,"
and expose herself to universal mockery. Therefore she concealed her
jealousy from Erwin with Spartan self-control, and smiled with the most
charming loftiness, while the poisonous mistrust tore her bosom as
pitilessly as the young fox tore the brave little Lacedaemonian.
When, the day after the lawn-tennis party, Erwin remorsefully sought
the cause of her changed manner in his own behavior, and after he had
tried to drive away her displeasure by a thousand loving attentions,
put his arm around her and whispered to her softly: "Elsa, confess why
you were so angry with me yesterday--only because I stayed away so
long?" Frightened that he had so nearly touched upon her secret, she
displayed the most arrogant indifference.
"You surely do not think that I am vexed if you amuse yourself with
Linda a little?" she replied, with an irritating smile. "I am glad that
you have found a little amusement, my poor Erwin," she continued.
He looked at her in some surprise. "Yes, but then I do not
understand----" he murmured. "What is the real matter with you?--does
anything worry you?---tell me--two can bear it more easily."
"No, no, I have nothing to tell," she replied, hastily. "Nothing at
all--I am tired, not very well."
"Yes, that you decidedly are not," he admitted, and anxiously
scrutinized her thin cheeks and the dark shadows under her eyes. "We
must consult a physician."
"We consulted him four weeks ago," she answered, "and he advised me to
drink Louisen-Quelle, and I drink Louisen-Quelle." She folded her hands
resignedly over her breast, with an expression as if to say how little
faith she had in Louisen-Quelle, and how indifferent her health was to
her.
"Perhaps a trip to the sea-shore would do you good," proposed Erwin.
"Could you go away now?" she asked, apparently calmly, but with her
heart full of distrust.
"Now? Hardly! But you could take Miss Sidney and Litzi with you, or, as
far as I am concerned, both children."
"With the necessary servants that would cost a good deal," replies
Elsa, discouragingly.
"Well, we are not quite such beggars that we need think of that when it
is a question of your health," he cries, almost angry. "We have saved
long enough and can now spend something. Decide upon Cowes; perhaps I
can join you there later."
For a while she gazes silently and gloomily before her, then a slight
shudder runs over her.
"Elsa! You seriously alarm me!" cries Erwin: "something must be done!"
"Yes, certainly; I will go to Cowes," she decides, as if it was a
decision to let herself be bound upon the wheel, then she turns her
head to look at an approaching carriage. "Oh, Linda," she cries, and
her voice betrays absolutely nothing, not even antipathy to her
sister-in-law, and Erwin begs, "Be a little good to her--for Felix's
sake. She needs women friends and has none but you."
These naive words may give the impression that Erwin is very obtuse.
But he certainly was not, only his knowledge of human nature was always
bounded by a great good-will, his keen sight blinded by good-nature.
He possessed a true passion for making every one who came near him
happy, and also the impractical habit of never thinking evil of his
fellow-men, except when he absolutely could not otherwise.
Therefore he saw to-day in Linda's visit nothing but a praiseworthy
wish of coming nearer to Elsa.
Linda wore a very simple gown, which was very becoming to her; she had
brought a work-basket, and sewed almost the whole time of her visit
upon a little collar for Gery which had a very exemplary appearance.
She made the most modest and tender attempts to be friends with Elsa,
and without the slightest touch of familiarity, took a tone of
comradeship towards Erwin which pleased him greatly--perhaps so much
the more as a charming, childlike smile accompanied this tone, and the
merriest little stories.
When evening had already become night, and Felix had still not
appeared, as Linda seemed to have expected, to fetch her, and she
confessed that she was afraid to return alone with her groom only, in
the low pony carriage, Erwin good-naturedly escorted her on horseback
to Traunberg.
This was really unwelcome to him, but Elsa suspected the contrary, and
as he had not the common habit of afterwards complaining of his
obligingness, she remained of the same opinion. She herself had behaved
perfectly charmingly to Linda. No one could have suspected that
jealousy could smile so! No one--but Linda.
And how she triumphed! how flattered vanity quivered in her every
fibre, and how the drive home with Erwin amused her!
She drove herself, and really she did not overdrive the ponies.
Around them was the sultry, gloomy charm of the summer night.
Long-drawn sighs and sweetly monotonous murmurs passed through the
trees, the short grass trembled as if caressed by invisible hands. From
time to time a glow-worm shot through the gray air like a falling star.
"How beautiful!" said Linda to herself.
"Yes, charming!" Erwin admitted, and secretly looked at his watch.
In spite of the fact that he galloped home at a very sharp pace, it was
midnight before he arrived there, which confirmed Elsa's strange idea.
Almost every evening after tea Erwin was accustomed to read aloud to
his wife, and this had originated in their honeymoon, when Erwin, very
young, very much in love, still shyly coquetted with his little
talents.
He read well, and liked to read, and Elsa had until now always looked
forward to the confidential chat, the happy fact of being alone
together, which was a part of the reading hour, and both did not know
which they really preferred: the wild, stormy winter evenings, in which
Elsa sat as near the fireplace as possible, and contrary to his
sensible prohibition, held one foot at a time over the glowing coals,
until he stopped reading, and crouching on a stool, took the little
feet from their light house slippers, and rubbed them warm between his
hands; or the mild, fragrant summer evenings, when Elsa, gazing through
the window at the sky, often interrupted the bitter earnestness of St.
Simon, or the graceful bitterness of Voltaire, and with childish joy
signalled a shooting star, and as Erwin laughingly asked her whether
she had availed herself of the opportunity to wish something very
beautiful, softly, with lips close to his ear, whispered, "Oh, yes,
that it may always be so."
Usually he read serious books aloud, but sometimes he brought the old
Musset which had accompanied him on his wedding journey, and then they
vied with each other in gay recollections of their honeymoon, and
laughed when they came to verses the meaning of which had been dark to
her, and had made her ask the most remarkable questions. They
contradicted each other animatedly as to who had the most faithful
memory for every foolish, tender jest, and Elsa, whose remembrance
exceeded his, faintly whispered softly, "Do you see I have not let a
single joy be lost out of my life. I have laid-them all away for my old
days."
The day after Linda's visit, Elsa made no move to leave the
drawing-room when Erwin asked her softly, "How about our Mahon?" (they
were just then reading this knightly pedant's English history), but
replied discouragingly, "I am going to retire early this evening," and
engaged Miss Sidney in a conversation upon English philanthropy.
Erwin smoked a cigarette, glanced over a paper, finally, looking out of
the window, remarked that it was a beautiful moonlight night and he was
going shooting, kissed Elsa's forehead, bowed to Miss Sidney, and was
about to leave the room when from Elsa's lips came anxiously:
"But----!"
"Do you want anything?"
"Are you going to take any one with you?"
"Why?" asked he, and raised his eyebrows; then suddenly laughing aloud
he added, "Would you perhaps like to accompany me, mouse? The night is
mild, I will find you an easy path; we need not go far."
She hesitated, only for a moment she hesitated. She had formerly often
gone with him; he had bought her a small rifle, and with anxious
carefulness taught her to shoot, and as long as her health was good
enough they had often hunted gayly together like good comrades. Why
must just now Mimi Dey and the grouse hunt in the Tyrol come to her
mind?
"Thank you, I dare not venture out in the dew;" thus politely, but
without a trace of warmth she refused his good-natured offer, and he
shrugged his shoulders slightly and vanished.
English philanthropy suddenly lost all interest for Elsa. She took
leave of Miss Sidney quite absently, and went to her room which, since
baby's existence, she had shared with the delicate little creature. She
passed two tormenting hours; she was tortured by the most nonsensical
fancies; she thought only of poachers and assassins; she did not close
her eyes until she heard Erwin's step creep thoughtfully, softly past
her door, but at least she had not been like Mimi Dey.
Sempaly and Pistasch had accepted the invitation to dine in Steinbach
on the Sunday for which Linda was invited. Elsa had been able to secure
no ladies. Never had Linda been more beautiful than on this Sunday. She
wore a dazzling toilet; "from Worth," she replied, in explanation to
some polite remark which Elsa had made upon her dress. "From Worth, but
I had to change it entirely. I cannot bear Worth any longer; he is too
American. And how do you like my gown, Erwin?" she turned to him.
"Linda, you surely are not trying to make me think that you care
anything about the taste of such a rusty hayseed as I am!" cried he,
laughingly.
"Ah, you know very well that you are the only one, yes, the only one on
God's earth from whom I will accept fault-finding," answered Linda, and
putting her arm around Elsa's neck, she whispered in the latter's ear,
"Your husband has bewitched me, Elsa. If I did not wish you the best of
everything, I really could envy you him."
Oh, the serpent! She feels very well that Elsa shivers in her arms, and
she is happy.
During the dinner Elsa suffered fearful torments. Monosyllabic she sat
between Scirocco, who, more quiet and melancholy than usual, did not
help her to talk, and Pistasch who, gazing at Linda, forgot to talk.
Linda, on the contrary, chatted unweariedly, entertained the whole
table with her odd little stories, and knew how to absorb Erwin so
deeply by her artfully naive flatteries and carefully veiled coquetries
that he, the most polite man in the world, scarcely found time to
address a few pleasant phrases to the Englishwoman who, for the sake of
symmetry, sat at his left.
After dinner Linda sang. Erwin accompanied her, and Pistasch lost his
tongue with enthusiasm, except for the three words, "Superb!
magnificent! delicious!" which he burst forth with again and again,
gasping for breath.
Elsa, who took no interest in French chansonnettes, and Sempaly, who
did not care to hear them rendered by respectable women, or those who
at least should be so, stood together in a window recess half chatting,
half silent, like people who know and understand each other well. But
suddenly Scirocco was silent, his glance wandered to Felix, who sat in
the darkest corner of the drawing-room, and in order to give himself
countenance, stroked Erwin's great hunting-dog. A little rattle of
glasses had attracted Sempaly's notice. He went up to Felix, and after
he had spoken a few words to him returned with him to Elsa. Elsa was
frightened at sight of her brother. His cheeks were flushed to his
forehead, the features swollen, the eyes shining as in one who has a
severe fever.
When everything had become quiet again in Steinbach, and Elsa was alone
with Erwin in the drawing-room, she went to the table from which
Sempaly had brought Felix away, and discovered there the _corpus
delicti_ in the shape of a half-emptied flask of Chartreuse.
"Ah!" cried she shuddering, and turned to Erwin. "Do you know the
latest?--Felix drinks!"
Erwin lowered his head. "Drinks--drinks!" he murmured with
embarrassment but excusingly. "You must not call it that exactly; it is
not yet so bad!"
"You--you seem to have known it," cried Elsa, staring at him. He looked
away.
Elsa paces twice through the room, her arms crossed on her breast. Her
short, unequal breaths can be heard. Then she stops before Erwin; the
blood has rushed to her cheeks, and causes there two uneven red spots
under her eyes. Her hatred for Linda suddenly bursts forth. "Oh, this
repulsive, ordinary, tactless person! How deeply she has dragged him
down!" she says, with set teeth.
Erwin, to whom the cause of this unlovely and immoderate anger is
wholly inexplicable, is displeasedly silent. This irritates Elsa still
more, and in an even more unpleasant tone she continues, "Well, do you,
perhaps, doubt that she and only she has ruined Felix by her incredible
lack of tact?"
For the first time since Erwin has known his wife he lost patience with
her, and shrugging his shoulders, replied, "I find it hard to expect
tact from a person who does not suspect the complicated difficulties of
her position."
"Erwin!--Erwin!--you--you surely do not believe that Felix would have
married Linda without telling her of his circumstances?" She was now
quite pale again, she trembled, her voice sounded weak and hoarse. He
was terribly sorry for her, at this moment he would have given
everything to be silent. He took refuge in vague phrases. "A mere
suspicion--I spoke without thinking."
But Elsa shook her head; an indescribable pain curved her lips. "No,
Erwin," cried she, "you may not be the demi-god whom for nine years I
have worshiped in you, but you are not capable of saying anything so
degrading about my brother upon a mere suspicion. From whom do you know
that?"
She stood before him, drawn up to her full height, and looked him in
the eyes with an expression which one could not lie to.
"I judge so from questions which she has asked me," he stammers, and
immediately adds, hastily, "Certainly Felix would not purposely have
concealed the affair from her; he may have told her mother----"
"That is all the same," interrupts Elsa. "His action remains
unanswerable, for the first as well as the second time. Erwin, you poor
man, into what a family have you married! Why would you have me? I did
not wish it--I knew that it would be for no good." She is almost beside
herself.
"No good! Think of the nine years which we leave behind us," he
replies, gently.
"Think of the twenty, thirty years which we have before us," cries she.
"The sacrifice which you made for me was too great."
"I know of no sacrifice," he replies, warmly. "It is pure childishness
which makes you bring that up again. Once for all, Elsa, I would not
exchange a life at your side for the most brilliant career--to which,
besides, I could scarcely have been called." With these words he goes
up to her, and lays his hand gently under her chin to raise her face to
his, but she breaks loose from him.
"I thank you," says she, with hateful mockery. She thought of the
thousand pretty speeches and charming attentions with which he had
satisfied Linda's greedy vanity to-day. She was sick with suppressed
jealousy. The bright light which Erwin's communication threw upon
Linda's whole manner, and which so excused Linda, and on the other
hand, so lowered Felix, mingled a new pain in all her morbid feelings.
She literally no longer knew what she said, her voice became more and
more cutting: "I thank you," she repeated. "You are very polite, you
have a particular talent for politeness, you are the most charming man
I know, but--but, I am sorry you had your way at that time."
"Sorry, Elsa? For God's sake take that back," cried he. The pain
which she had caused him was too deep for him to consider how much of
her words were to be ascribed to true conviction, and what to her
over-excited nerves.
She shook her head obstinately. "Yes, I am sorry," she continued in her
insensate speech. "At that time you could not live without me"--she
spoke very bitterly--"yes, you would have been unhappy without me--a
month, perhaps a year--who knows?--but then you would have consoled
yourself, and it would have been better for you and for me. Good
night!" and with head held high, with rigid face and trembling limbs
she tottered out of the room.