Felix Lanzberg's Expiation Part 8

"And I? Do not ask indiscreet questions, Eugene!"

"But this question interests me so much," he excuses himself.

"Tell me, Lin, if Lanzberg had not come between us--yes, if I only, most unfortunately, had not been born a Grau," he continues sighing, "could I have cherished a little, very little hope?"

"It is quite possible," says she, shrugging her shoulders, and coquetting with him over her shoulder. "But it is better so for us both."

"For you, certainly," says he, "but I shall feel quite peculiarly to-day when I see you with your bridal wreath, Lin! You will drive people mad with your beauty. You are the most beautiful person whom I have ever met in my life. Where the devil did you get your look of high breeding?"

Eugene Rhoeden, with his gay boldness and graceful impudence, his unconscionable aplomb, and his denial from principle of all personal dignity, is what is called in the Vienna slang a _gamin_.

Gamin as he is, no one knows how to bewitch Linda's small nature, how to feed her excessive vanity with such delicate bits as Eugene von Rhoeden. He understands her, she understands him; they are fairly made for each other, and for one moment, one very brief moment, Linda thinks almost with repugnance of the black raven in the red field which greets her from the Lanzberg coat-of-arms. "Eugene!" murmurs she. "Ah!" With that she suddenly turns to an elderly maid, who comes out from among the bushes.

"Are you looking for me, f.a.n.n.y?"

"Yes, miss."

"I am probably to try my train for the twenty-ninth time. Ah, Eugene!

There is something tiresome about a wedding-day!" then she breaks a red chrysanthemum as she pa.s.ses, throws it to him, and vanishes.

About seven hours later the wedding takes place in the castle chapel, adorned with greenhouse flowers. The blossoms tremble as if they were cold or afraid. Their sweet, exhilarating fragrance mingles with the odor of wax candles, and that of perfumery and cosmetics, which is always noticeable in select a.s.semblies. The wind creeps curiously through the window cracks, creeps up to the altar, makes the flames of the candles flicker, and blows cold upon the bare shoulders of the bride and bridesmaids.

The bride, loaded with the richest jewels, resembles a proud narcissus in the morning dew. Elsa is deathly pale, even her lips are colorless.

Erwin displays the inexpressive gravity which the occasion demands of a well-bred man. Mrs. von Harfink looks continually at the decorations, and starts when a white rose falls from the wall. Mr. von Harfink looks as if his collar were too tight for him. Eugene von Rhoeden, his bridesmaid's wrap on his arm, a sceptical smile on his lips, his hand at his mustache, his glance resting now on his uncle, now on the priest, now on the bride, stands there, the image of a little society philosopher of the nineteenth century, who laughs at all vanity and cannot himself give up his own. Raimund looks like a radical who is paying an immense tribute to prejudice, and tries to look more distinguished than his brother-in-law.

And Felix? Felix is as if paralyzed. The moment is here; his feverish longing nears its aim--happiness.

Then the ivy taps on the window, the wind seizes him with ice-cold hands. Felix shudders and glances at his bride. How beautiful she is, and--how proud. Proud? Felix Lanzberg's bride proud? It is impossible--it cannot be. A suspicion which, however he may deny it to his conscience, has occurred to him again and again during their whole engagement, strikes him for the last time and becomes certain that Linda's mother has deceived him; Linda knows nothing!

Then the priest demands his "Yes!" He hesitates; hesitates so long that Linda looks at him in surprise; two large, greenish eyes shine at him through the filmy, white bridal veil. "Yes!" says he firmly and shortly.

A long dinner follows, a long, complicated dinner, which no one enjoys except Papa Harfink, who studies the menu with the tenderest pleasure, and with a small pencil marks the numbers for love of which he thinks to extend considerably his elastic appet.i.te.

He sits between Elsa and the wife of his nephew, the Freiherr, the elder Rhoeden, and, as he gulps down his _potage a la reine_, tells both ladies of his new Achenbach, which cost him 4,000 gulden, which does not seem at all dear to him; as, besides a great deal of sunset, there are thirty-four figures in the picture--he has counted them--and in the background something else, he does not know whether it is a buffalo or ruins. "They almost persuaded me to buy a Daubigny, a Frenchman, I think--a green sauce--what a sauce! I said no, thank you.

I like spinach and eggs, I said; but spinach and cows--but--and such cows! without tails or horns--regular daubs of colors. These Frenchmen are tricky. Really, people are cheated by them." Thus concludes Papa Harfink, the art critic.

Elsa only half listens to him. Her eyes wander wearily over the table with its stiff floral decorations and its heavy silverware, "real silver, and not plate," a.s.sures Papa Harfink.

Of the men, the last generation are broad-shouldered, red-faced; a spa.r.s.e beard curls around their full cheeks, a sharp glance, on the lookout for profit, shoots from their small eyes. The past generation breathe loudly, pick their teeth continually, wear too tight rings on too fat fingers, and without exception, a thick gold chain with a diamond medallion over their stomachs.

The present generation are sickly, dissipated, and have something of the jockey and something of the valet who copies his master.

The pride of the whole family is centred in Eugene von Rhoeden, the blond good-for-nothing, who has as many debts as a cavalier, who was educated in the Theresanium, and once had a quarrel with a watchman.

Of the women, some are pretty, none are pleasing; they have all good dressmakers; none are well dressed.

The usually pale face of a "certain Baron Lanzberg" begins to flush feverishly; without eating a mouthful he hastily swallows one gla.s.s of wine after another.

"Try this delicious salmon; permit me to help you," the charming host turns to Elsa. She makes a desperate attempt to do justice to the salmon. "Strange," remarks Von Harfink, "my mother used to say that when she was young salmon was cheaper than beef, now it is very dear."

Elsa has laid down her fork in despair. "I am behind the times," says she. "I still am frightened by a telegram, and always feel nervous at a wedding." She smiles sadly, and two charming dimples appear in her cheeks.

Papa Harfink continues to urge her to eat. "You must taste this salmi, Baroness," he entreats. "Monsieur Galatin, my cook, would be unhappy if he learned that every one had not eaten some of his salmi. _Pate a la Kotschubey_, he calls it. Only to-day, this Galatin said to me: '_Ah, Monsieur le Chevalier_, when I think how often Prince Kotschubey got his stomach out of order with my salmi. The physicians said he died of gastrosis, ah! he died of my salmi.'"

"You have a dangerous cook," says Elsa.

"But I understand this Kotschubey, do you know," continues Papa Harfink. "Since I have had this cook, I really have to go to Marienbad twice every year. And besides, he is a splendid fellow, talks politics like a deputy. He formerly served only with the highest n.o.bility. I took him with the castle from Count Sylvani. A peculiar fellow--this Galatin; will not stay away from the swans and the park. A poetic creature; do you know, Baroness, he reads Victor Hugo and the Medisations of Lamartine."

"Ah really, the Medisations of Lamartine," says Elsa, smiling. Susanna Harfink rushes to the a.s.sistance of her distressed husband. "Ha! ha!

ha!" says she, with her shrill laugh. "My husband always calls meditations medisations--very malicious, do you not think so, but a good joke."

Papa Harfink, sadly conscious that it always means a curtain lecture when his wife before people laughs so energetically at one of his "jokes," of which he feels innocent, with much grace and melancholia licks his knife on both sides.

His wife looks as if she were weary of pulling the lion-skin again and again over the long ears.

The moment has arrived when he is to speak his toast. He rises hesitatingly, the gla.s.s trembles in his hand. Fear and champagne have made him lose the last recollection of the few words prepared by his wife.

"This is a great day for me--a day of pride and pain--no, that is not it!" thoughtfully raising his hand to his upper lip. "I hope that my brother-in-law, no, my son-in-law--Su--su--sanna!" he murmurs, helplessly. His cheeks seem to inflate, his eyes grow smaller and more shining, he has set down his gla.s.s, and twists his napkin like a conscientious washerwoman. Susanna rises, she is fairly Roman. "As my husband, overcome with emotion, cannot speak," she begins. "I will say, this is for----" for a moment she hesitates, then for the first time in her life, she resolutely denies her husband, emanc.i.p.ates herself from the "us" with which for long years she has protected him, and says: "This is for me a day of pain and of joy. I lose a daughter, gain a son; may my children always find the highest happiness in each other, and a safe retreat in their parental home."

"He is getting a dreadful mother-in-law, this Lanzberg," whispers Eugene Rhoeden to his neighbor, a gay, more than audacious brunette.

"Something between a Roman matron and a quarrelsome landlady from a bachelor boarding-house."

The tasteful Raimund contributes a toast to the fusion of n.o.bleman and citizen. The older Rhoeden hopes that his beautiful cousin will lend a new charm to the n.o.ble name of Lanzberg.

Much similar follows.

Eugene, for whom this rosary of _parvenu_ plat.i.tudes becomes too long, murmurs: "Shall we not soon have paid sufficient thanks for the honor of being allied with Baron Lanzberg?"

This mocking remark was only meant for his neighbor, its bitterness was only meant for the fawning of the Harfinks.

But Felix heard it; ashy pale, with glowing eyes, half rising from his chair, he stares at the impertinent young man. The latter says good-naturedly and thoughtlessly: "Yes, Lanzberg, I will jeer at myself. _Parole d'honneur_, I am a little ashamed to be quite so delighted at receiving an honest man into the family!"

Thereupon the "certain Baron Lanzberg" lowers his eyes to the table-cloth, and remains silent.

VIII.

Three years have pa.s.sed since Linda left her father's house, and was no longer condemned to be called Harfink--three years and seven months.

The trees have only recently lost their snowy blossoms; all are wrapped in soft young green, the whole earth seems bathed in new hope. It is a day in which death and misfortune seem like ghost stories, invented by old women--no one believes them. The birds twitter joyously, and without all is fragrance, sunshine and flowers. Fragrance and sunshine fill the room where Elsa sits, her youngest child in her lap.

Elsa looks youthful and girlish, quite as much so as at the time when we first made her acquaintance. The same heavy brown hair, as if sprinkled with gold, cl.u.s.ters at her temples, and her eyes still shine with the old dreamy light of happiness, but her cheeks are thinner, her figure frail and thin.

The existence of the little creature in her lap has deprived her of so much health. She has not yet recovered since baby's birth, and has not had time to think of her health, for baby was a sickly child, and great skill was required to bind the little soul, which seemed so anxious to fly back to heaven, to this earth. Day and night, in spite of her own delicateness, Elsa has nursed and cared for the child, holding her tender mother-hand protectingly before the little light which every breath of air threatened to extinguish.

Erwin, who usually had such influence with her, this time could not induce her to spare her weakened strength.