"Where could it have been? Where on earth have I seen that pert toss
of the head before? And those love-locks? And those firm hands,
long and tapering? How do I know that they are strong? Was it at
the tennis tournament in Baden? But she would have been a mere baby
when I was playing there. Or at Cannes?"
The baron racked his brains trying to remember. At last, next day as
he sat in his study reading a dispatch concerning unrest in the
Soudan, memory suddenly flooded his mind.
"By God--it is--! St. Petersburg! Of course! St. Petersburg! That
very wrist! My instinct is as trusty as a machine. I felt uneasy
the moment she stepped into the room. Hm. All the same, I can't
exactly tell Gertrude..."
He laughed, half malignantly and half lasciviously.
"I say, my dear Linnartz," said the ambassador as he came in quickly,
a cigarette between his lips and a dispatch in his hand. "Just read
this."
He leaned over the baron's shoulder as the latter sat reading the
document.
"Well, what do you think of it?"
"First of all, since it does not come from headquarters, it hardly..."
"Headquarters," interrupted the count, pacing up and down. "At
headquarters they are as usual sleeping the sleep of the unjust.
When my friend Rochow codes me that he believes Le Chat is to be sent
here, and his surmise harmonizes with our own local information--what
on earth do headquarters matter one way or the other?"
"Your Excellency must decide..."
"Now you're offended again, my worthy Baron. For my part, I'm going
to search out proof of that which I have long suspected, and which my
advisers have never wished to believe."
He flung himself into the depths of an easy-chair next the
writing-table, made rings with his tobacco smoke, drummed with his
fingers on the edge of the glass top, and then said, speaking through
his teeth:
"If only we were not all of us in such bad odour over there. Every
dragoman may be looked upon as a spy. What have you to say, my dear
Linnartz?"
"I've always been against these crooked methods, although I am quite
willing to acknowledge that at times..."
"We must--find--new--people--to..." The ambassador spoke very
slowly, like a beast of prey preparing for a spring. He passed his
acquaintances in review, and suddenly the image of Andreas rose
before his mental vision.
"If only he were one of our compatriots..."
The count rose, took a turn round the room, seeking for a way of
approach.
"Perhaps after all there is no truth in the surmise..."
He made as if to go, stopped as he reached the door, turned abruptly,
and asked in a completely changed tone of voice: "Tell me, how did
you like our young poet the other day?"
"Very intelligent young man. But I am always suspicious of people
who are backward in their profession. Anyway he has no knowledge of
law."
"What matter? The lack relates only to the very beginning of things,
where a man is a slave of documents. It would be a poor sort of poet
whose intuitions would not be of more use to him than having passed
some dry-as-dust examination, when the matter at issue is the
management of men!"
"I don't know what kind of a poet the young man may be ... but I
personally am inclined to be cautious in my dealings ... with
everyone..."
The count felt that the last words implied a suspicion against Diana,
too, whom chance had brought to his house at the same time as the
poet, and concerning whom the baroness had whispered her disapproval
in his ear. He knew Linnartz of old, and was accustomed to find in
him the enemy of his friends, of his own inclinations, and, whenever
possible, of his policy. The innuendo did not, therefore, cut very
deep, and he said rather distantly:
"Yes, it's true, she's a charming little woman, this Fräulein de
Wassilko!"
Linnartz was quick to seize the opportunity thus afforded. He rose,
fixed his monocle, and approached his chief with the utmost formality.
"I feel it my duty to inform you, Count, that I have already had
occasion to observe the lady..."
"How?" asked the other, taken aback.
"Three or four years ago when I was attaché in St. Petersburg. I had
rooms in the Grand Hotel at the time, as a single man. I met the
lady--several times--in the company of some wealthy young Poles; they
supped together, very décolletée, very lively, somewhat prolonged
festivities...."
"Well, and what then?"
"Nothing that I can prove. But I thought that in the interests of
the country I should be remiss in my duty if I failed to draw Your
Excellency's attention..."
"Thanks, my dear Baron, many thanks," said the count with a frosty
smile as he left the room.
Once back in his own study he gave vent to his feelings.
"Je m'en fiche," he exclaimed. "This wretched Linnartz is for ever
there, talking like a decree from the ministry itself. 'I feel it my
duty... in the interests of the country ... décolletée... wealthy
young Poles...' Well, and what if she did?"
He had seen Diana once since the luncheon party. But a feeling of
unrest, which in no way resembled the ardent desire of a virile
nature, had daily urged him to seek a meeting with this woman. Her
personality and her name intrigued him, lured him to probe the depths
which he had glimpsed in those few seconds of their first encounter.
"Fine weather for a sail," he had thought when, early one morning, he
glanced from the heights where he lived down upon the great spread of
waters. "Diana would look well in a sweater as she sat at the helm.
I am sure that with such eyes and such hands she must be a splendid
navigator."
Or, again, as he took a stroll in the park after breakfast, he would
murmur:
"In the forenoon I'd have her dressed in flowing drapery, à la
grecque, so that her raiment, caught by the breeze, would cling to
her boyish limbs, and, as she stood with her back to the sun, her
whole outline would be visible through the diaphanous material."
Or, of an evening, he would step forth on to the balcony where dinner
was served, and would imagine her leaning against the balustrade,
illuminated by the lights from within the drawing-room, silhouetted
against the night sky.
With a reserve which pleased him mightily while it made him all the
more impatient to see her, she had refused all invitations, and once
only had come to play tennis in the afternoon. Even then, she had
been no more than a quarter of an hour on the court. For the
countess, who did not play, was on the watch for her coming and kept
an eye on the lawn from behind the sun-blinds of her apartment.
Twice she had been to the window in vain. After each rebuff she had
returned to her occupation at the great table which was heaped with
Venetian beads of every shade and hue. These she amused herself with
by letting them roll idly through her fingers. On looking down a
third time into the garden she spied Diana. The countess rang. As
soon as her maid appeared she sent word begging her guest to come up
as she was not feeling very well.
Diana responded at once to the invitation. The blue room was darker,
cooler, more mysterious this day than it had been at Andreas's first
visit, and as Diana entered she saw the big woman with her heavy
coils of golden hair and her long, dark blue, loosely hanging robes,
coming forward in welcome. The countess, however, saw a very young
girl, whose legs emerged firm and slim from below the short white
linen skirt, while from under the brim of her white felt hat the
chestnut hair escaped in delicate tendrils as if it longed to realize
that perfect freedom which indeed breathed from the whole personality
of the visitor.
"Forgive me," said the countess, "I am not really ill. But I do not
care for the company of the ladies I have to meet in my garden below,
so I never go down now."
Diana had stepped up to the table where the beads were displayed.
She contemplated them but did not touch them.
"Do you like them?" asked the countess.
"Many a chain could be made from them. Strings of beads in one
colour or in many different colours."
"True enough. I'd never thought of that."
"What do you do with them?"
"I--oh I just rummage among them," answered Olivia softly, somewhat
nonplussed. Her thoughts ran:
"This young creature is striving after proportion and harmony while
engaged in restless adventures. What of myself? I gather reckless
dreams to my heart while my life goes smoothly along in untroubled
ways."
She offered her guest a tall, inlaid bowl of iced fruits. Then she
withdrew into the shadows, and seated herself on a low couch where
she seemed rather to recline than to sit. The two women sat silently
opposite one another, while from below came the calls of the tennis
players. After a long pause, the countess said languidly:
"You are sunburnt. As you take the cool fruit in through your lips
you remind me of a young Arab I once saw in the bazaar at Damascus.
His hot, bronzed skin was reflected in the cool waters of the river
that has created the oasis on which the town stands."
"How beautifully you speak," said Diana as if to ward off the
comparison.
"When I'm in ordinary social gatherings I am dumb. I hate being in a
large company. Do you not feel the same kind of dislike?"
"Oh, no! I often feel a sort of stream flowing through people when
they talk together--a stream that gives them life and motion, that
has the beauty of a unified work of art."
"You are lucky in being able to choose your own companions. I am not
free."
She flashed a hostile glance towards the window through which the
voices from the garden reached her from time to time.
"And yet," said Diana, "I find people in your circle, here as
everywhere, who hide more than their chatter reveals."
"Why hide? Why dissemble?" The countess's rich alto trembled as she
spoke. "Life is short, the possibility of choosing a friend comes so
rarely, opportunities are so few and far between. Why then should
the cumbersome veils of formality be superadded to prevent men from
knowing their fellow men? Artists are freer! Without caring a snap
of the fingers for traditions which might restrict their movements,
they grasp and take all that pleases them. They grab the mad
adventure of life itself by the hair and never pause to inquire
whether they are rumpling those glorious locks... There, now you're
laughing!"
"What comes after the mere grabbing?" asked Diana. "A man is just a
man and is not to be distinguished from his fellow mortals if he
merely grasps and takes what he likes."
"You are very young--Diana. May I call you by your name? We are
alone. The years that lie ahead of you are measureless, you think
the forces within you are inexhaustible, and the feeling of undying
youth makes you lavish in your use of time and space. You, with
your--let us say--four-and-twenty years have seen many more countries
and come into contact with many more men than I have during the
thirty-five years of my life. Why is it so? Because you are free.
Because your father never constrained you to live according to the
dictates of a small and exclusive caste, because no husband was
perpetually warning you to be careful lest your conduct might
jeopardize his position, because no one was for ever noting every
step you took. Can you deny this? Are you not free?"
She lay on her low couch, cowering as it were, her great knees drawn
up and outlined through her draperies. Now she lifted her
gold-crowned head towards the slim white apparition beside her.
Diana slowly rose to her feet.
"Yes, I am free," she exclaimed, with a joyous ring. She turned
towards the window, holding her arms straight out before her as if
bearing a gift. She did not look at the questioner, but, her eyes
fixed in a vacant stare, she seemed to be following the movements of
a vision. A pause ensued. Then she slowly dropped her arms, and
said gloomily: "Only experience can show how hard a thing freedom is."
"I am not afraid of it," came in sonorous tones from where the
countess lay. "I used to ride wild horses until I had broken them
in--why should I dread freedom?"
Diana was suddenly aware of a feeling of hostility towards this woman
who seemed to grudge her her freedom. A dull sense of resentment
moved her to ask:
"And now? You said 'used.'"
The countess sat up, and gripped her hair which began to tumble about
her shoulders.
"I had a fall."
As if enraged by the recollection, she flung open one of the shutters
and was suddenly flooded with the full light of day. Her great arms
were raised to the glory of her hair which rippled in golden plenty
down her back; her deep bosom rose and fell in mourning and longing.
Diana regretted having asked the question. She stepped up to Olivia
and said shyly:
"You are beautiful."
The countess's gloomy eyes gazed down at her, seeming to drink in the
younger woman's fiery spirit as she stood there in her short white
frock, her skin burned by sun and wind, silent, waiting. Then, in a
softer tone Olivia said:
"No, Diana, it is you who are beautiful."
Gregor came in as she finished speaking. The women drew apart. He
begged Diana to stay, but she excused herself, pleading a previous
engagement. He was taken aback by the chilly manner of her farewell,
and looked down from the window as she drove away.
He paced up and down wondering what could have been the gist of this
short interview. When, later, he questioned Olivia as to what she
thought of Diana, the countess replied laconically:
"I like her."