The drawing-room was delicious that May afternoon--the next after the
musicale at Landgrave's. Henry was indolently disposed, and on a broad
divan, heaped with Persian pillows, he stretched his big limbs like a
guardsman in a Ouida novel. The dark woman near watched him closely, and
as he seemed inclined to silence she did not force the conversation.
"Shall we drive, Venus?" he nonchalantly asked. "Just as you please. We
may meet your saint with the insipid eyes in the park." "Good heavens!"
he testily answered, "why do you forever drag in that girl's name? She's
nothing to me." Mrs. Holda went to the window and he lazily noticed her
perfect figure, her raven hair and black eyes. She was a stunner after
all, and didn't look a day over twenty-eight. How did she manage to
preserve the illusion of youth? She turned to him, and he saw the
contour of a face Oriental, with eyes that allured and a mouth that
invited. A desirable but dangerous woman, and he fell to thinking of the
other, of her air of girlhood, her innocence of poise, her calm of
breeding that nothing disturbed. Like a good pose in the saddle, nothing
could ever unseat the equanimity of Elizabeth. Mrs. Holda grew
distasteful for the moment and her voice sounded metallic.
"When you cease your perverse mooning, Harry Tannhäuser, when you make
up your mind once and for all which woman you intend to choose, when you
decide between Elizabeth Landgrave and Venus Holda, I shall be most
happy. As it is now I am"--Just then two cards were handed her by a
footman, and after looking at them she laughed a mellow laugh.
Tannhäuser sat up and asked her the news.
"I laugh because the situation is so funny," she said; "here are your
two friends come to visit you and perhaps attempt your rescue from the
Venusberg. Oh! for a Wagner now! What appropriate music he could set to
this situation." She gave him the cards, and to his consternation he
read the names of Elizabeth Landgrave and Wolfram Eschenbach. He started
up in savage humor and was for going to the reception room. Quite calmly
Mrs. Holda bade him stay where he was.
"They did not ask for you, Harry, dear; stay here and be a good boy, and
I'll tell you all about it when they've gone." Her laughter was
resilient as she descended the staircase, but to the young man it seemed
sinister. He felt that hope had abandoned him when he entered the Berg
Street house, and now Elizabeth's presence, instead of relieving his
dull remorse, increased it. She was under the same roof with him, yet he
could not go to her....
Tannhäuser paced the parquetry almost hidden by Bokhara rugs, trying to
forget the girl. Stopping before an elaborate ebony and gold lectern, he
found a volume in vellum, opened and in it he read: "Livre des grandes
Merveilles d'amour, escript en Latin et en françoys par Maistre Antoine
Gaget 1530." "Has love its marvels?" pondered the disquieted young man.
Turning over the title-page he came upon these words in sweet old
English:
"Then lamented he weeping: Alas, most unhappy and accursed sinner that I
am, in that I shall never see the clemency and mercy of my God. Now will
I go forth and hide myself within Mount Horsel, imploring my sweet lady
Venus for favor and loving mercy, for willingly would I be forever
condemned to hell for her love. Here endeth all my deeds of arms and my
sweet singing. Alas, that my lady's face and her eyes were too
beautiful, and that in an unfortunate moment I saw them. Then went he
forth sighing and returned to her, and dwelt sadly in the presence of
his lady, filled with a surpassing love. And afterwards it came to pass
that one day the pope saw many red and white flowers and leaf-buds
spring forth from his bastions, and all without bloomed anew. So that he
feared greatly, and being much moved thereby was filled with great pity
for the chevalier who had gone forth hopeless like unto a man forever
damned and miserable. And straightway sent he numberless messengers to
him to bring him back, saying that he should receive grace and
absolution from God, for this his great sin of love. But never more was
he seen; for the poor chevalier dwelt forever near unto Venus, that most
high and mighty Goddess, in the bosom of the amorous mountain." ...
Mrs. Holda was delightful as she welcomed her visitors. "The
drawing-room was not empty," she said; "a friend, an old friend, a bit
of a bore, you know;" and they must just stay downstairs, it was more
cozy, more intimate. Elizabeth, whose face was quite rosy from walking,
studied the woman with the Egyptian profile and glorious hair, and
wondered if she ever told the truth. Wolfram alone seemed uneasy. He
could not get into the swing of conversation; he was in his watchful
mood. He looked at the portières as if every moment he expected some one
to appear. The musicale was discussed and Miss Landgrave's singing
praised. Wolfram rather awkwardly attempted to introduce Tannhäuser's
name, but was snubbed by Elizabeth.
"Now, my dear Mrs. Holda, I've come to tell you some news; promise me, I
beg of you, promise me not to divulge it. We are engaged, Wolfram and I,
and you being such an old friend I came to you first." The girl's pure
face was the picture of nubile candor, and her eyes met fairly the shock
of the other's quick glance.
"How lovely, how perfectly lovely it all is, and how I appreciate your
confidence," sang Mrs. Holda, in purring accents. "How glad Henry
Tannhäuser will be to hear that his two best friends are to be married.
I must tell--tell him this afternoon."
"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, lightly, "but your promise, have you forgotten
it?" The other laughed in her face.
"We go to Rome, to make what dear Mrs. Minne calls the pilgrimage,"
declared the girl unflinchingly.
"Then I hope the Wagner miracle will take place again," mockingly
answered Mrs. Holda, and after a few more sentences the visitors went
away. Venus burst into her drawing-room holding her sides, almost
choking. "Harry, Harry, Harry Tannhäuser, I shall die. They're engaged
to be married. They came to tell me, to tell me, knowing that you were
upstairs. Oh, that deceitful virgin with her sly airs! I understood her.
She fancied that she would put me out of countenance. She and that sheep
of a brewer's son, Eschenbach. They're engaged, I tell you, and going to
Rome on their wedding trip--their pilgrimage she called it. Oh, these
affected Wagnerites! You had better go, too, Mr. Tannhäuser; perhaps the
miracle might be renewed and your staff of faith grow green with the
leaves of repentance. Oh, Harry, what a lark it all is!"
He sat on the couch and stared at her as she rolled about on a divan,
gripped by malicious laughter.... Engaged! Elizabeth Landgrave engaged
to be married! And a few hours ago she told him she loved him, could
never love another--and now! What had happened in such a brief time to
make her change her mind? Engaged to Wolfram Eschenbach, dear, old
stupid Wolfram, who had loved her with a dog's love for years, even when
she flouted him. Wolfram, his best friend, slow Wolfram, with his
poetizing, his fondness for German singing societies, his songs to
evening stars; Eschenbach, the brewer's son, to cut him out, cut out
brilliant Harry Tannhäuser! It was incredible, it was monstrous!... He
slowly went to the window. The street was empty, and only his desperate
thoughts made noise as they clattered through his hollow head. Her voice
roused him. "You can take the pitcher too often to the well, Harry dear,
and you drove once too often to Berg Street. Elizabeth, sensible girl,
instead of dying, takes the best man she could possibly find; a better
man than you, Harry, and she couldn't resist letting me know it. So,
silly old boy, better give up your Wartburg ambitions, your pilgrimage
to Rome, and stay here in the Venusberg. I know I'm old, but, after all,
am I not your Venus?" In the soft light of an early evening in May the
face of Mrs. Holda seemed impossibly charming....