Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 15

And, after all, average good manners are only the dress-suit for average men: they rarely sit well upon a genius. I care very little for them: a little _nave_ awkwardness does not displease me at all; on the contrary, to be quite to my mind an artist must always have something of the bear about him: I take no interest whatever in those trim dandies, 'gentlemen artists,' who think more of the polish of their boots than of their art."

"Nor do I," sighed Frau von Geroldstein.

"H'm! your discourse is always very instructive," the 'wicked fairy'

declared, "but it does not help me in my trouble." She sighed tragically and arose. As she did so, her fur boa slipped from her shoulders to the ground. Erika picked it up and handed it to her. The 'wicked fairy' stared at the young girl through her eye-gla.s.s, surprise slowly dawning in her distorted features. "You are the grand-daughter from Bohemia?" she asked, still with her eye-gla.s.s at her eyes.

"Yes, Frau Countess."

"Ah, excuse me: I have been taking you all this time for my dear Anna's companion. Now I remember she died last year: I sent some flowers to her funeral. Poor thing! she was desperately tiresome, but an excellent girl; you must remember her, my dear Goswyn. You used to call her the Duke of Wellington, because she was a little deaf and used to go on talking without hearing what was said to her. How could I make such a mistake! But I am very near-sighted, and very absent-minded." She put her finger beneath Erika's chin and smiled an indescribable smile. "And you are very pretty, my dear. What is your name?"

"Erika."

"Erika!--Heather Blossom! And you come from Bohemia. How poetic!--how poetic! She is positively charming, this grand-daughter of yours, Anna!

Do you not think so, Goswyn?"

Sydow flushed crimson, frowned, and was silent.

"I must go: I seem to be saying the wrong thing," Countess Brock ran on; then, looking towards the window, "Good heavens!" she exclaimed, "it is pouring! Pray let them call a droschky."

"Erika, ring the bell," said Countess Lenzdorff.

Before Erika could obey, Frau von Geroldstein extended a detaining arm.

"But, my dear Countess Erika, why send for a droschky, when my carriage is waiting below, and it will give me the greatest pleasure to drive Countess Brock home?--Surely you will permit me?"--this last addressed to the 'wicked fairy.'

"I really cannot. I know you far too slightly to impose such a burden upon you," Countess Brock replied, crossly.

"Why call it a burden? it is a pleasure," the other insisted.

"There is no pleasure in driving with me: I am forced to have all the windows closed," said the Countess.

Meanwhile, Erika stood uncertain whether or not to ring the bell, when suddenly affairs took a turn most favourable for Frau von Geroldstein.

Herr Reichert was announced, and without another word Countess Brock vanished with Frau von Geroldstein, in whose coupe she was driven home.

She had private reasons for this hurried retreat. Reichert, a special favourite of Anna Lenzdorff's, an animal painter with a lion face and an inexhaustible fund of anecdote, was among the '_remords_' of the 'wicked fairy.' She called her '_remords_' the a.s.semblage of men of talent of whom she had made use only to throw them aside remorselessly afterwards.

The animal painter's visit was a brief one, and none of the Countess Lenzdorff's guests remained save Sydow, who stayed in obedience to the Countess's whispered invitation.

"There! now I have had enough," she exclaimed, as the door closed behind her beloved animal painter. "Stay and dine, Goswyn: we dine early--at six--tonight, and then you can go with us to the Academy.

Joachim is to play, and I have a spare ticket for you."

CHAPTER VII.

It is later by four-and-twenty hours. Countess Lenzdorff, with her grand-daughter, has just returned from a drive in a close carriage,--a drive interrupted by a couple of calls, and by a little shopping in the interest of the young girl's wardrobe.

She is now sitting near the fire, a teacup in her hand, and saying, "You cannot go out very much this season, especially since you are not to be presented until next winter, but you can divert yourself with a few small entertainments. It was well to order your gown from Petrus in time: people must open their eyes when they see you first."

Meanwhile, Erika has taken off her seal-skin jacket, and is sitting beside her grandmother, thinking of the gown that has been ordered for her to-day,--a white cachemire, so simple,--oh, so simple! "n.o.body must think of your dress when they see you," her grandmother had said: nevertheless it was a triumph of art, this gown.

"Everything about you must be perfect in style upon your first appearance in the world," her grandmother now says. "People must find nothing to criticise about you at first: afterwards we may, perhaps, allow ourselves a little eccentricity. I have a couple of gowns in my head for you which Marianne can arrange admirably, but just at first we must show that you can dress like everybody else,--with a slight difference. You must produce a certain effect. Give me another cup of tea, my child."

Erika hands her the cup. The old lady, pats her arm caressingly.

"Petrus is quite proud to a.s.sist at your debut: at first I thought of sending to Paris for a dress for you," she adds, and then there is a silence.

The old lady has lain back in her arm-chair and fallen asleep. She never lies down to take a nap in the daytime, but she often dozes in her chair at this hour.

Twilight sets in,--sets in unusually soon and quickly to-night, for the winter which had seemed to have bidden farewell to Berlin has returned with cruel intensity. The rain which on the previous day had forced Countess Brock into Frau von Geroldstein's arms and coupe has to-day turned to snow: it is lying a foot deep in the gardens in front of the grand houses in Bellevue Street, and is falling so fast that it has no chance to grow black: it lies on the trees in the Thiergarten, each twig bearing its own special weight, and down one side of each trunk is a broad bluish-white stripe; it lies on the roofs, on the palings of the little city gardens, yes, even on the telegraph-wires which stretch in countless lines against the purplish-gray sky above the white city.

For a while Erika gazes out at the noiselessly-falling flakes: the snow still gleams white through the twilight.

The girl has ceased to think of her gown: her thoughts have carried her far back,--back to Luzano. That last winter there,--how cold and long it had been!--snow, snow everywhere; nothing to be seen but a vast field of snow beneath a gloomy sky, the poor little village, the frozen brook, the river, the trees, all buried beneath it. The roads were obliterated; there was some difficulty in procuring the necessaries of existence. The cold was so great that fuel cost "a fortune," as her step-father expressed it. Erika was allowed none for the school-room, where she was wont to sit, nor for the former drawing-room, where was her piano. The greater part of the day she was forced to spend in the room, blackened with tobacco-smoke, where Strachinsky had his meals, played patience, and dozed on the sofa over his novels. What an atmosphere! The room was never aired, and reeked of stale cigar-smoke, coal gas, and the odour of ill-cooked food. Once Erika had privately broken a windowpane to admit some fresh air. But what good had it done?

Since there was no glazier to be had immediately, the hole in the window had been stuffed up with rags and straw.

Yet the worst of that last winter had been the constant a.s.sociation with Strachinsky.

One day, in desperation, she had hurried out of doors as if driven by fiends, and had gone deep into the forest. Around her reigned dead silence. There was nothing but snow everywhere: she could not have got through it but that she wore high boots. Here and there the black bough of a dead fir would protrude against the sky. No life was to be seen,--not even a bird. The only sounds that at intervals broke the silence were the creak of some bough bending beneath its weight of snow, and the dull thud of its burden falling on the snow beneath.

As she was returning to her home she was overcome by a sudden weakness and a sense of utter discouragement.

Why endure this torture any longer? Who could tell when it would end, this intense disgust, this gnawing degrading misery, suffering without dignity,--a martyrdom without faith, without hope?

And there, just at the edge of the forest, close to the meadow that spread before her like a huge winding-sheet, she lay down in the snow, to put an end to it: the cold would soon bring her release, she thought. How long she lay there she could not have told,--the drowsiness which she had heard was the precursor of the end had begun to steal over her,--when on the low horizon bounding the plain she saw the full moon rise, huge, misty, blood-red. The outlying firs of the forest cast broad dark shadows upon the snow, and upon her rigid form.

The snow began to sparkle; the world suddenly grew beautiful. She seemed to feel a grasp upon her shoulder, and a voice called to her, "Stand up: life is not yet finished for you: who knows what the future may have in store?"

Hope, curiosity, perhaps only the inextinguishable love of life that belongs to youth and health, appealed to her. She rose to her feet and forced her stiffened limbs to carry her home.

Good heavens! it was hardly a year since! and now! She looks away from the large windows, behind the panes of which there is now only a bluish-white shimmer to be discerned, and gazes around the room. How cosey and comfortable it is! In the darkening daylight the outlines of objects show like a half-obliterated drawing. The subjects of the pictures on the walls cannot be discerned, but their gilt frames gleam through the all-embracing veil of twilight. There is a ruddy light on the hearth, partially hidden from the girl's eyes by the figure of the old Countess in her arm-chair; the air is pure and cool, and there is a faint agreeable odour of burning wood. From beneath the windows comes the noise of rolling wheels, deadened by the snow, and there is now and then a faint crackle from the logs in the chimney, now falling into embers.

Erika revels in a sense of comfort, as only those can who have known the reverse in early life. Suddenly she is possessed by a vague distress, an oppressive melancholy,--the memory of her mother who had voluntarily left all this pleasant easy-going life--for what? Her nerves quiver.

Meanwhile, Ludecke brings in two lamps, which in consequence of their large coloured shades fail to illumine the corners of the room, and hardly do more than "teach light to counterfeit a gloom." That grave dignitary was still occupied in their arrangement, when he turned his head and paused, listening to an animated colloquy in two voices just outside the portiere which separated the Countess's boudoir from the reception-rooms. Evidently Friedrich, Ludecke's young adjutant, who was not yet thoroughly drilled, was endeavouring to protect his mistress from a determined intruder.

"If you please, Frau Countess, her Excellency is not at home," he said for the third time, whereupon an irritated feminine voice made reply,--

"I know that the Countess is at home; and if she is not, I will wait for her."

"The fairy," said Countess Lenzdorff, awaking. "Poor Friedrich! he is doing what he can, but there is nothing for it but to put the best face upon the matter." And, rising, she advanced to meet Countess Brock, who came through the portiere with a very angry face.

"That wretch!" she exclaimed. "I believe he was about to use personal violence to detain me!" And she sank exhausted into an arm-chair.

"Since I ordered him to deny me to every one, he only did his duty, although he may have failed in the manner of its performance," Countess Lenzdorff replied.

"But he ought to have known that I was an exception," the fairy rejoined, still angrily.