Countess Erika's Apprenticeship Part 40

He did, as you know, do me a service in Bayreuth which I could not have expected of any one else. Granted. But he has never forgiven me for being betrothed for six or eight weeks to Lord Langley. Good heavens!

it was a mistake of mine, a stupidity, the result of vanity and ambition on my part. But it was nothing more; and yet it was enough to cause--to cause Herr von Sydow to banish me from grace forever. This is your wonderful Goswyn. It is a matter of perfect indifference to me: I take not the slightest interest in him, thank G.o.d! If I had been interested in him I might have fretted myself nearly to death; but, as it is, I am merely vexed that I should have overrated him,--that is all."

Her grandmother listened in amazement. She had never before seen Erika so excited, had never imagined that her voice was capable of such intonations. At times it was the voice of a stubborn, angry child, and anon that of a proud, pa.s.sionate woman.

"Why, Erika!" she exclaimed when the girl paused, "this is all nonsense,--cleverly-invented nonsense, the worst of all kinds. There is not one word of truth in it. I know that he adores you just as he always did."

"You have a lively imagination," Erika said, sarcastically. "It is remarkable that Goswyn has had nothing to say about his adoration all this time."

"My dear child," replied her grandmother, "that is quite another thing.

In certain respects Goswyn is petty: I have always told you so. His poverty and your wealth have always been of too much consequence in his eyes. It is a folly which may have cost him the happiness of his life.

Say what you will, I am convinced that his poverty alone has prevented him from renewing his suit."

"Indeed!" said Erika, tossing her head disdainfully. "Well, his poverty is at an end!"

"Oh, Erika, with your wonderful sensibility you ought to understand that a man like Goswyn cannot bring himself all in a moment to profit by his brother's death,--a death, too, so terrible in its attendant circ.u.mstances."

Erika was silent for a minute; her lips quivered; then she said, in a low tone, "True, grandmother; it would be odious of him to renew his suit instantly; but, you see, if such a misfortune as has befallen him had happened to me, I should long to carry my pain to those who were nearest my heart. You are ready to return to Berlin for his sake. If all that you fancy were true, he would have come to Venice: he could easily have obtained a leave. And now we have done with this subject once for all. Fortunately, I do not care for him in the least,--not in the least. I tell you all this only that you may not request me to ride posthaste with you to Berlin, that the world there, already so predisposed in my favour, may say, 'She is running after Goswyn von Sydow, now that he has inherited the family estates.'"

The grandmother laid her hands on Erika's shoulders, then drew the proud young head towards her, and kissed her on the forehead. At that moment Ludecke, the indispensable, entered and presented a visiting-card.

"Paul von Lozoncyi," Countess Lenzdorff read from the card, and then dropped it upon the salver again. "Are you in the mood to receive strangers?"

"Yes. Why not?" asked Erika.

Shortly afterwards Lozoncyi entered Erika's pretty little boudoir, now illuminated by a couple of shaded lamps.

Erika received him most amiably. The old Countess, on the other hand, was at first rather formal in her manner towards him. She was not accustomed to have young men delay so long in taking advantage of an invitation extended by herself to visit her. But before Lozoncyi had been five minutes in the room her displeasure melted like snow in sunshine.

Without the slightest attempt to excuse his dilatoriness, the artist was at pains to impress his hostesses with his delight in having at last found the way to them. "How charming!" he said, looking around the room and rubbing his slender hands, after his characteristic fashion.

"One never would dream that this was a hotel."

"This is my grand-daughter's sanctum," said the old Countess. "My own reception-room is several shades barer."

"Indeed? Ah, I know it does not become me, the first time I am permitted to enjoy this privilege, to stare about at your treasures like the private agent of some dealer in antiquities, but we artists delight in the pride of the eye. It is remarkable how well you have suited the frame to the picture. Look, your Excellency."

He drew the old lady's attention to the picture formed at that moment by her grand-daughter, who was sitting in a negligent att.i.tude in a high-backed antique chair, the gilt leather covering of which made a charming background for her auburn hair.

"It is enchanting, the white figure against the golden gleam of the leather, and with that vase of jonquils beside it. If one could only perpetuate it!" He sighed.

"You will embarra.s.s the child," the grandmother admonished him, although in her heart she was delighted. "Instead of turning the Countess Erika's head, tell us why you have been so long finding your way hither."

He raised his eyes, looked her full in the face, and then dropped them again, as he said, in a low tone, "Rather ask me why I have come at all."

"No, I ask you expressly why you did not come before," the old lady persisted, laughing.

"Why?" He hesitated a moment, and then replied, calmly, "Because I have no wish to be the last among the Countess Erika's adorers to drag her triumphal car. Now you know. Such plain questions provoke plain answers." He looked at the old lady as he spoke, to see if he had gone too far. No, he was one of those favoured individuals to whom thrice as much is forgiven as to other men. Something in the intonation of his gentle, cordial voice, his frank yet melancholy glance, and especially his smile, his charming insinuating smile, instantly prepossessed people in his favour. It was the same smile with which as a lad of seventeen he had beguiled little Erika's tender heart, the merry, careless smile which he must have inherited from an amiable, light-hearted mother.

The old lady only laughed at his confession, and then asked, mockingly, "And now you are content to be the very last, etc., etc.?"

He shook his head: "Now it has occurred to me that perhaps I can offer the Countess Erika a small pleasure which none other among her adorers can give her, and I come to ask if she will give me leave to do so."

Erika was silent. Countess Lenzdorff said, "Herr von Lozoncyi, you speak in riddles."

Lozoncyi turned from one to the other of the ladies with a look calculated to go directly to their hearts, and then, addressing the younger one, said, "You perhaps remember that I am in your debt, Countess Erika?"

"Yes; I once lent you five guilders."

"Five guilders," he repeated. "It seems a trifle; but then it was much for me. Without those five guilders I should probably never have been able to reach my aunt Illona in Munich, and I might have starved in a ditch. You see that I owe you much; and in consideration of this fact I have come to ask if you will allow me to paint your portrait."

Erika gazed at him blankly.

"For five guilders?" exclaimed the old Countess, with comical emphasis.

Every one knew how difficult it was to persuade Lozoncyi to paint a portrait, and what a fabulous price he asked when induced to do so.

"I entreat you not to refuse me, Countess Erika," he begged, with clasped hands.

"I advise you to accept the offer," said her grandmother: "it will hardly be made a second time."

"You shall not be subjected to the slightest inconvenience," he went on to Erika, "except that of being bored for a few hours. I know that you do not, as a rule, like my pictures, and therefore I promise you that I will burn this one if it does not please you, even though I should consider it a masterpiece. But should I succeed in pleasing you, the picture may serve to remind you sometimes of a poor fellow who----"

The sentence was cut short by the entrance of several visitors, and much talk and laughter ensued.

Lozoncyi stayed until all the rest had gone.

"When shall I have the first sitting?" he asked.

"Whenever you please," Erika made reply.

"To-morrow?"

"To-morrow? No; to-morrow will not do; but the day after to-morrow, in the forenoon, if you like."

His eyes sparkled. "About eleven?"

She a.s.sented.

"There goes another man whose head you have turned, Erika," remarked the old Countess, as the door closed behind the artist. She laughed as she said it. Good heavens! what did it matter?

At the appointed time Ludecke carried down to the gondola the portmanteau containing the gown in which Lozoncyi had seen Erika at Frau von Neerwinden's, and in which he had wished to immortalize her.

The two ladies were not accompanied even by a maid, Erika declaring that she needed no help in arranging her toilette for the portrait.

The sky was cloudless, the air warm but not oppressive. The gondoliers rowed merrily and quickly.

Lozoncyi's studio was back of the Rialto, on one of the narrower water-ways to the left of the Grand Ca.n.a.l. In about a quarter of an hour the gondola stopped before a light-green door with an iron lion's head in the centre of it. One of the gondoliers knocked with the ring depending from the lion's mouth.

Lozoncyi himself opened the door. He wore a faded linen blouse, and appeared greatly elated. "To the very last moment I was afraid of an excuse, and here you are, only a quarter of an hour late!" he cried, in a tone of cordial welcome; then, taking the portmanteau from the attendant gondolier, he called loudly, "Lucrezia! Lucrezia!" "You must excuse me, ladies," he said: "my house does not boast electric bells."