Our Own Set. Ossip Schubin
unfashionably, and moved awkwardly; still, no one who knew what was what, could fail to see that she was a lady and an aristocrat. At all court functions she was an imposing figure, she never stumbled over her train and wore the family diamonds with stately indifference.
The portière was lifted and General von Klinger was announced. General von Klinger was an old Austrian soldier whose good fortune it had been to have an opportunity of distinguishing himself with his cavalry at Sadowa, after which, righteously wroth at the national disaster, he had laid down his sword and retired with his General's rank to devote himself wholly to painting. Even as a soldier he had enjoyed a reputation as a genius and had covered himself with glory by the way in which he could sketch, with his gold-cased pencil on the back of an old letter or a visiting-card, a galloping horse and a jockey bending over its mane; a work of art especially admired for the rapidity with which it was executed. Since then he had studied art in Paris, had three times had his pictures refused at the salon and had succeeded in persuading himself that this was a distinction--in which he found a parallel in Rousseau, Delacroix and fifty fellow-victims who had been obliged to submit to a similar rebuff. Then he had come to Rome, an unappreciated genius, and had established himself in a magnificent studio in the Piazza Navona, which he threw open to the public every day from three till five and which became a popular rendezvous for the fashionable world. They laughed at the old soldier's artistic pretensions, but they could not laugh at him. He was in every sense of the word a gentleman. Like many an old bachelor who cherishes the memory of an unsuccessful love affair in early life, he covered a sentimental vein by a biting tongue--a pessimist idealist perhaps describes him. He was handsome and upright, with a stiffly starched shirt collar and romantic dark eyes--a thorough old soldier and a favorite with all the fine ladies of Roman society.
"It is very nice of you to have thought of us," said the countess greeting him heartily; "it is dreadful weather too--come and warm yourself."
The count looked up from his writing: "How are you General?" he said, and then went on with his article, adding: "Such an old friend as you are will allow me to go on with my work; only a few lines--half a dozen words. These are grave times, when every man must hold his own in the ranks!"--and the forlorn hope of the feudal cause dipped his pen in the ink with a sigh.
The general begged him not to disturb himself, the countess said a few words about some musical soirée, and presently her husband ended his page with an emphatic flourish, exclaiming: "That will give them something to think about!" and came to join them by the fire.
A carriage was heard to draw up in the street.
"That may be Truyn, he arrived yesterday," observed the countess, and Count Truyn was in fact announced.
Erich Truyn was at that time a man of rather more than thirty with hair prematurely gray and a glance of frosty indifference. People said he had been iced, for he always looked as though he had been frozen to the marrow in sublime superiority; his frigid exterior had won him a reputation for excessive pride, and totally belied the man. He was an uncommonly kind and noble-hearted soul, and what passed for pride was merely the shrinking of a sensitive nature which had now and again exposed itself to ridicule, perhaps by some outburst of high-flown idealism, and which now sought only to hide its sanctuary from the desecration of the multitude.
"Ah! Truyn, at last, and how are you?" cried the countess with sincere pleasure.
"Much as ever," replied Truyn.
"And where is your wife?" asked Ilsenbergh.
"I do not know."
"Is she still at Nice?"
"I do not know." And as he spoke his expression was colder and more set than before.
"Are you to be long in Rome?" said the countess, anxious to divert the conversation into a more pleasing channel.
"As long as my little companion likes and it suits her," answered Truyn. His 'little companion' always meant his only child, a girl of about twelve.
"You must bring Gabrielle to see me very soon," said the lady. "My Mimi and Lintschi are of the same age."
"I will bring her as soon as possible; unluckily she is so very shy she cannot bear strangers. But she has quite lost her heart to the general and to our cousin Sempaly."
"What, Nicki!" exclaimed the countess. "Do you mean that he has the patience to devote himself to children?"
"He has a peculiar talent for it. He dined with us to-day."
"He is an unaccountable creature!" sighed the countess. "He hardly ever comes near us."
At this moment a quick step was heard outside and Count Sempaly was announced.
"Lupus in Fabula!" remarked Ilsenbergh.
The new-comer was a young man of eight or nine and twenty, not tall, but powerfully though slightly built; his remarkably handsome, well-cut features and clear brown complexion were beautified by a most engaging smile, and by fine blue eyes with dark lashes and shaded lids. Under cover of that smile he could say the most audacious things, and whether the glance of those eyes were a lightning flash or a sunbeam no one had ever been quite certain. He gallantly kissed the tips of the countess's fingers, nodded to the men with a sort of brusque heartiness, and then seated himself on a cushion at the lady's feet.
"Well, it is a mercy to be allowed to see you at last; you really do not come often enough, Nicki; and in society I hardly ever meet you," complained the countess in a tone of kindly reproof. "Why do you so seldom appear in the respectable world?"
"Because he is better amused in the other world!" said Ilsenbergh with a giggle in an undertone.
But a reproachful glance from his wife warned him to be sober.
"I simply have not the time for it," said Sempaly half laughing. "I have too much to do."
"Too much to do!" said Truyn with his quiet irony. … "In diplomacy?--What is the latest news?"
"A remarkable article in the 'Temps' on the great washing-basin question," replied Sempaly with mock gravity.
"The washing-basin question!" repeated the others puzzled.
"Yes," continued Sempaly. "The state of affairs is this: When, not long since, the young duke of B---- was required to serve under the conscription, his feelings were deeply hurt by the fact that he had not only to live in barracks, but to wash at the pump like a common soldier. This so outraged his mamma that she went to the Minister of War to petition that her son might have a separate washing-basin; but after serious discussion her application was refused. It was decided that this separate washing-basin would be a breach of the Immortal Principles of '89."
"It is hardly credible!" observed Truyn; Ilsenbergh shrugged his shoulders and the countess innocently asked:
"What are the immortal principles of '89?"
"A sort of ideal convention between the aristocracy and the canaille," said Sempaly coolly. "Or if you prefer it, the first steps towards the abdication of privilege at the feet of the higher humanity," he added with a smile.
The countess was no wiser than before, Sempaly laughed maliciously as he fanned himself with a Japanese screen, and Ilsenbergh said: "Then you are a democrat, Sempaly?"
"From a bird's-eye point of view," added Truyn drily; he had not much faith in his cousin's liberalism.
"I am always a democrat when I have just been reading 'The Dark Ages,'" said Sempaly--'The Dark Ages' was the name he chose to give to Ilsenbergh's newspaper.--"Besides, joking apart, I am really a liberal, though I own I am uneasy at the growing power of the radicals. By the bye, I had nearly forgotten to give you two items of news that will delight you Fritzi,"--addressing the countess. "The reds have won all the Paris elections, and at Madrid they have been shooting at the king."
"Horrible!" exclaimed the countess, and she shuddered, "we shall see the Commune again before long."
"'93," said Truyn, with his tone of dry irony.
"We