At midnight she appeared, as she had consented to do, in the palace of
Prince Fyodor Szilaghin.
So soon as she was seen, a respectful murmur and then a silence
surrounded her. Bearers of the most ancient names were assembled,
the most beautiful women of society and of the court, and the
representatives of foreign powers. Several gentlemen had already formed
a group about her, when Fyodor Szilaghin approached, kissed her hand
reverently, and drew her skilfully from the group.
She passed through several rooms at his side. He did his best to
fascinate her and succeeded in holding her attention.
There was not a touch of banality about him. His gestures and words
were calculated to produce a desired effect with the utmost coolness
and subtlety. When he spoke he lowered his eyes a little. The ease and
fullness of speech that is characteristic of all Russians had something
iridescent in his case. An arrogant and almost cynical consciousness
of the fact that he was handsome, witty, aloof, mysterious, and much
desired never left him. His eyebrows had been touched with kohl, his
lips with rouge. The dull blackness of his hair threw into striking
relief the transparent pallor of his beardless face.
“I find it most remarkable, Madame,” he said in a voice of unfathomable
falseness, “that your art has not to us Slavs the oversophistication
that is characteristic of most Western artists. It is identical with
nature. It would be instructive to know the paths by which, from so
different a direction, you reached the very laws and forms on which
our national dances as well as our modern orchestral innovations are
based. Undoubtedly you are acquainted with both.”
“I am,” Eva answered, “and what I have seen is most uncommon. It has
power and character and enthusiasm.”
“Enthusiasm and perhaps something more--wild ecstasy,” said the prince,
with a significant smile. “Without that there is no great creation in
the world. Do you not believe that Christ shared such ecstasy? As for
me, I cannot be satisfied with the commonly accepted figure of a gentle
and gently harmonious Christ.”
“It is a new point of view. It is worth thinking about,” Eva said with
kindly tolerance.
“However that may be,” Szilaghin went on, “among us all things are
still in the process of becoming--the dance as well as religion. I
do not hesitate to name these two in one breath. They are related as
a red rose is to a white. When I say that we are still becoming, I
mean that we have yet discovered no limits either of good or evil. A
Russian is capable of committing the most cruel murder, and of shedding
tears, within the next hour, at the sound of a melancholy song. He is
capable of all wildness, excess, and horror, but also of magnanimity
and self-abnegation. No transformation is swifter or more terrible
than his, from hate to love, love to hate, happiness to despair,
faithfulness to treachery, fear to temerity. If you trust him and yield
yourself to him, you will find him pliant, high-souled, and infinitely
tender. Disappoint and maltreat him--he will plunge into darkness
and be lost in the darkness. He can give, give, give, without end or
reflection, to the point of fanatical selflessness. Not until he is
hurled to the uttermost depths of hopelessness, does the beast in him
awaken and crash into destruction all that is about him.” The prince
suddenly stood still. “Is it indiscreet to ask, Madame, where you will
pass the month of May? I am told you intend to go to the sea-shore.” He
had said these words in a changed tone, and regarded Eva expectantly.
The question came to her like an attack from ambush.
Insensibly they had left the rooms destined for the guests and passed
into the extensive conservatories. Labyrinthine paths, threading
innumerable flowers and shrubs, led in all directions. A dim light
reigned, and where they stood in a somewhat theatrical isolation,
thousands of ghostly orchids exhaled a breathless fragrance.
Skilfully and equivocally chosen as they were, the sense and purport of
Szilaghin’s words were very clear to Eva. Yet she was tempted to oppose
her own flexibility to his eel-like smoothness of mind, despite the
hidden threat of the situation. She assumed a smile, as impenetrable as
Szilaghin’s forehead and large pupils, and answered: “Yes; I am going
to Heyst. I must rest. Life in this land of hidden madmen has wearied
me. It is too bad that I must be deprived, dear Prince, of a mentor and
sage like yourself.”
Suddenly Szilaghin dropped on one knee, and said softly: “My master
and friend beseeches you through me for the favour of being near
you wherever you may elect to go. He insists on no exact time, but
awaits your summons. I know neither the degree nor the cause of your
hesitation, dear lady, but what pledge do you demand, what surety,
for the sincerity of a feeling that avoids no test and stops at no
sacrifice?”
“Please rise, prince,” Eva commanded him. She stepped back a pace and
stretched out her arms in a delicate gesture of unwilling intimacy.
“You are a spendthrift of yourself at this moment. Please rise.”
“Not until you assure me that I shall be the bearer of good news. Your
decision is a grave one. Clouds are gathering and awaiting a wind that
may disperse them. Processions are on the roads praying to avert an
evil fate. I am but a single, but a chance messenger. May I rise now?”
Eva folded her arms across her bosom, and retreated to the very wall of
hanging flowers. She became aware of the mighty and naked seriousness
of fate. “Rise,” she said, with lowered head, and twice did fire and
pallor alternate on her cheeks.
Szilaghin arose and smiled, swiftly breathing. Again, in silent
reverence, he carried her hand to his lips. Then he led her, subtly
chatting as before, back among the other guests.
It was twelve hours after this that Christian received the telegram
which called him to Berlin.
X
Edgar Lorm played to crowded houses in Munich. His popularity was such
that he had to prolong his stay.
It pleased Crammon enormously and puffed him up. He walked about as
though he were the sole nurse of all this glory.
One day he was at a tea given by a literary lady. In a corner arose
laughter that was obviously directed at him. He was amused when he
discovered that the whispering group gathered there believed firmly
that he was copying Lorm’s impersonation of the Misanthrope.
Felix Imhof writhed in laughter when he heard the story. “There’s
something very attractive in the notion to people who don’t really know
you,” he said to Crammon. “It’s far more likely that it’s the other way
around, and that Lorm created his impersonation by copying you.”
This interpretation was very flattering. Crammon smiled in appreciation
of it. Unconsciously he deepened the lines of misanthropy in his chubby
ecclesiastical face. When Lorm had his picture taken as Alceste,
Crammon took up his stand behind the camera, and gazed steadily at the
ripe statuesqueness of the actor’s appearance.
It was his intention to learn. The rôle which had been assigned him
in the play of the actor’s life--the play that lasted from nine
o’clock every morning until eleven at night--began to arouse his
dissatisfaction. He desired it to be less episodic. It seemed to him
that Lorm, the director of this particular play, should be persuaded
to change the cast. He told Lorm so quite frankly. For the actor was
no longer to him, as in the days of his youth, the crown and glory of
human existence and the vessel of noblest emotions, but a means to an
end. Nowadays one was forced to learn of Lorm, to conceal one’s true
feelings impenetrably, to gather all one’s energy for the moment of
one’s cue, to be thrifty of one’s self, bravely to wear a credible
mask, and thus to assure each situation of a happy ending.
So Crammon said: “I’ve always had rather pleasant relations with my
partners. I can truly say that I’m an obliging colleague and have
always stolen away into the background when it was their turn to have
their monologues or great scenes in the centre of the stage. But two of
them, the young lover and the heroine, have undoubtedly abused my good
nature. They’ve gradually shoved me out of the play entirely. To their
own hurt, too. The action promised to be splendid. Since I’ve been
shoved into the wings, it threatens to be lost in the sand. It annoys
me.”
Edgar Lorm smiled. “It seems to me rather that the playwright is at
fault than those two,” he answered. “And no doubt it’s a mistake in
construction. No experienced man of the theatre would dispense with a
character like yourself.”
“Prosit,” said Crammon, and lifted his glass. They were sitting late in
the Ratskeller.
“One must await developments,” Lorm continued. The whole charade
amused him immensely. “In the works of good authors you sometimes
find unexpected turns of the action. You mustn’t scold till the final
curtain.”
Crammon murmured morosely. “It’s taking a long time. Some day soon I’m
going to mount the stage and find out in which act we are. I may make
an extempore insertion.”
“For what particular line have you been engaged anyhow?” Lorm
inquired. “Man of the world, character parts, or heavy father?”
Crammon shrugged his shoulders. The two men looked seriously at each
other. A pleasant mood gleamed about the actor’s narrow lips. “How long
is it since we’ve seen each other, old boy?” he said, and threw his
arm affectionately over Crammon’s shoulder. “It must be years. Until
recently I had a secretary who, whenever a letter came from you, would
lay it on my pillow at night. He meant that action to express something
like this: Look, Lorm, people aren’t the filthy scamps you always call
them. Well, he was an idealist who had been brought up on chicory,
potatoes, and herring. You find that sort once in a while. As for you,
my dear Crammon, you’ve put on flesh. You’re comfortable and compact in
that nice tight skin of yours. I’m still lean and feed on my own blood.”
“My fat is only a stage property,” said Crammon sadly. “The inner me is
untouched.”