Felix Lanzberg's Expiation Part 13

"Now, was not that a good idea of mine, is it not pretty here?" he asks, gayly and proudly, as if he had made the wood, surveying all its beauties.

"Lovely," whispers she, but her voice sounds sad.

At her feet the ground is blue with forget-me-nots; under the wild rose-bushes already lie many white petals. A sob and a sigh pa.s.s through the gloomy trees as if spring mourned that the first roses were dead. All is grave and solemn, the air spiced with the odor of withered generations of leaves, with the perfume of fading or still blooming flowers.

Erwin teasingly waits for Elsa to speak to him--he waits in vain. With head thrown back and earnest eyes she wanders near him, and does not rest her little hands tenderly on his arm as usual.

What is the matter with her? That she can be jealous does not occur to him.

They have almost crossed the forest; the meadow which separates it from Steinbach park shines between the spa.r.s.e trees, then Erwin discovers a striking trace of game; he bends down to observe it more closely. "A roebuck," he murmurs. "Strange--in this region."

"Is there no other way across?" asks Elsa, who has meanwhile crawled close to the edge of the meadow, and casting a somewhat anxious glance over the knee-high, dewy gra.s.s.

"No, wait a moment," he replies, still absorbed in contemplating the strange trace.

"It will cost me a pair of shoes," she murmurs somewhat vexedly, raises her gown, and resolutely prepares for a very cold foot-bath.

"Elsa, what are you doing?" cries he, perceiving her intention, and, leaving his hunter's problem, he hurries quickly up to her. "With your genius for taking cold."

Before she has time to answer he has taken her in his arms and carries her through the dew. He has wholly forgotten Linda Lanzberg, and also that he had been vexed with his poor nervous wife's unjust, childish antipathy for Linda. He looks down tenderly upon the dear head, which rests with half-closed eyes on his shoulder.

"How light you are," he remarks softly and anxiously; "you do not weigh much more than Litzi now, my mouse."

Elsa does not answer, but her slender arms twine round his neck, and as his lips seek her pale face, he feels that she is crying.

"What is the matter, my darling?" he asks.

"I do not know myself," she murmurs with a slight shiver. "I am afraid."

XIII.

"We really must invite her," says, in a mournful tone, Countess Mimi Dey, a large stately woman, with a too high forehead, a feature which has the proud advantage of being a family inheritance in the Sempaly family, an aristocratic, small, turn-up nose, a benevolent smile, and a near-sighted glance.

The Countess is the best woman in the world, of proverbial good nature and unfeigned condescension in a.s.sociation with music-teachers, governesses, companions, maids, tutors and officials, and such poor devils who are paid and supported by the aristocracy, and politely courtesy to them; but she is unapproachably stiff to the upper middle cla.s.ses, those persons who demand a place in society.

She belongs to that exclusive coterie which considers itself the sole patented extract of humanity, and looks upon all the rest of the world as only a common herd, a mob which, under certain circ.u.mstances, permits itself to pay its servants better, and to give more to charitable aims than princely houses, a mob which speaks French, wears Swedish gloves, and lives in palaces. She has a vague idea that it speaks incorrect French, that under the gloves coa.r.s.e hands are concealed, that the palaces are always furnished with the taste of first-cla.s.s waiting-rooms, but knows nothing definite about it, does not know "these people" at all, does not see them, although they are everywhere--they do not exist for her.

They tell an amusing anecdote of her: that once at the opera on a Patti evening, her cousin Pistasch Kamenz entered her box, and asked her, "Is any one in the theatre to-night?" She, after she had glanced around the crowded building, answered mournfully, "Not a soul!"

What particularly amuses the Countess is that, as she hears, this great cla.s.s of _bourgeoise_, "which one does not know," is, on its side, divided by various differences in education and condition into cla.s.ses which do not "know" each other.

"I really must invite her," she repeats, mournfully.

She leans back in a deep arm-chair in a large drawing-room with brown wainscoting and numerous family portraits, and smokes a cigarette.

"Pardon me that I really cannot so deeply pity you as you seem to expect," replies Scirocco Sempaly, who, now on leave, occupies a second armchair opposite his sister.

"Hm! I do not care about the positive fact; last week I dined with my bailiff's wife, but--it is a matter of principle."

"_Cent a'as_," says, with indifferent gravity, an old acquaintance of ours, Eugene von Rhoeden, who sits by an open window before a mediaeval inlaid table and plays bezique with the above-mentioned cousin of the hostess, Count Pistasch Kamenz.

"_Cent d'as_," he says, apparently wholly absorbed in his cards, and moves an ivory counter.

A mild gentle rain is falling, the perfume of half-drowned roses and fresh foliage floats into the room. In one corner sits the only daughter of the widowed hostess, Countess Elli, a dark little girl in a white muslin frock, and near her, in a black silk gown, the governess.

The obligatory half hour which Elli must spend in the drawing-room so as to become accustomed to society, is over. Elli is rejoiced, sixteen-year-old girl that she is. She takes no particular pleasure in the society of grown people, who can no longer pet her as a child, and who must not yet treat her as a young lady.

A rustle of silk and muslin, a shy "_Bon soir!_" and Mademoiselle retreats with her charge.

Scirocco rises to open the door for the governess, makes her a deep bow as she disappears. Rhoeden also rises, only Pistasch indolently remains seated.

"Pistasch, you might trouble yourself to say good evening to Mademoiselle," says the Countess half jokingly.

"Pardon," replies Pistasch, "pure absent-mindedness, Mimi, and then she is so homely."

"That simplifies matters ten-fold," replies Scirocco, hastily. "One can never be too polite to homely governesses--it is only the pretty ones that are troublesome."

"I do not understand that," says Pistasch, and marks double bezique.

"One never knows how one can be attentive enough to them so as not to vex them, and yet reserved enough not to impress them," says Scirocco, dryly.

"Hm! You have very virtuous principles, Rudi; for some time you have moved wholly in the icy regions of lofty feelings of duty, where the tender flowers of the affections never bloom," laughs Pistasch. "I admire you, upon my word, but--hm--I do not trace the slightest desire to follow you into this rare atmosphere," and he rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He considered his cousin's conscientiousness either feigned or morbid. How could one be conscientious with women?

Conscientious in regard to debts of honor, that is something quite different, that is self-understood; but regarding governesses--bah!

"Count Pistasch Kamenz is a charming man." So at least say all the ladies and also all the men who have not yet come in conflict with him.

He has the handsomest blond cinque-cento face, speaks the Viennese jargon with the most aristocratic accent, and possesses the most enviable talents. He rides like Renz, dances like Frappart, and more than that, in private theatricals he is like Blasel, Matras and Knaak in one person. In all Austria, no man has a greater talent for representing Polish Jews, poverty-stricken Czechs, drunken valets, provincials of all kinds. But his greatest triumph is the "Vienna shoemaker's boy." What accuracy of costume and grimaces! The ladies say he has a pug nose when he plays the shoemaker's boy, and a way of sticking out his tongue--ah!

He has played for benevolent objects a hundred times, and in Vienna is a universally known and boundlessly popular individual, because he is intimate with actresses, occasionally from a freak rides in an omnibus, or another time is seen in the standing place of the opera house (for a half act), because one sometimes meets him in sausage houses, because in rainy weather he walks with an umbrella and upturned trousers, because once even--the G.o.ds and a pretty girl alone know why--he travelled from Salzburg to Vienna second cla.s.s.

The public see in him a pleasant, affable man without pride, and feel drawn to him like a brother. Poor public! I would not advise you to stretch out your hardened hand to him, for between ourselves Count Pistasch is one of the most arrogant of Austrian cavaliers.

The actors with whom he one evening drinks friendship, and the next greets with "Hm!--ah--You, Mr.---- what do you call him," can tell this. One of them once challenged him. This was a great joke to the Count; he laughed until he cried, could not control himself, and finally settled it thus: "You are a fine fellow, am very sorry, etc., deserve an order for personal bravery--ah--if I can be of any service to you," etc.

He has never been outside of Austria, possesses the vaguest ideas of history. The French Revolution is a kind of accidental calamity for him, something between the earthquakes of Lisbon and the pest in Florence. He is a strict Catholic from aristocratic tradition, has very good manners when he wishes, speaks French well, and we can a.s.sure our readers, that just as he is, without a suspicion of the "principles of '89," he would be received with open arms in the most republican _salons_ of Paris, and would be admired by the ladies for his "_purete de race_" and "_grand air_."

Now we need only add that he naturally was not christened Pistasch--that this is a humorous nickname which was given him as a boy, by reason of his idealistic "greenness," but which now, when this greenness has long withered, is preserved for the sake of contrast.

"Well, have you decided upon the day when you will invite the Lanzberg?" asks Scirocco of his sister, who, after long pondering, gold pencil in hand over a little velvet-bound book in which she enters her social obligations, now closes it.

"It is very hard," complains the Countess.

"When did this unfortunate Madame Lanzberg call upon you? Oh, yes.

Wednesday. Have you returned her call yet?"