Our Own Set. Ossip Schubin
the first six months Cecil was boundlessly miserable. All his life long till now he had been accustomed to be first; and it was hard suddenly to find himself last. Although his abilities were superior his neglected education placed him far below most of his companions, and besides this he was, as it happened, the only boy not of noble birth in this fashionable college, with the exception of a young Tyrolese whose descent was illegitimate, though he nevertheless was always boasting of his family. Then his companions laughed at his provincial accent, at his want of strength and at his queer name. We have all in our turn had to submit to this rough jesting. He could not for a long time get accustomed to it, and during the first half-year he incessantly plagued his mother and guardian to release him from what he called a prison; but they remained deaf to his entreaties. The visible outcome, when Cecil went home for the summer holidays, was a very subdued frame of mind, and nicely kept, long white nails. The next term began with his giving a sound thrashing to the odious Tyrolese who bored the whole school with his endless bragging and airs. This made him immensely popular; then he began to work in earnest; his masters praised his industry--and his complaints ceased. Had the subtle poison of pretentious vanity which infected the whole college crept into his veins? Had he begun to find a charm in hearing Mass read on Sundays and Highdays by a Bishop? To be waited on by servants in livery, to learn to dance from the same teacher who gave lessons at court, and to call the titled youth of the empire 'du'? It is difficult to say. He seemed perfectly indifferent to all these privileges and assumed no airs or affectations.--His pride was of a fiercer temper.
He finished his education by learning eastern languages, passed brilliantly, and, still aided by his uncle, went in for diplomacy. He was sent to an Asiatic capital which was just then undergoing a visitation of cholera and revolution; there again he distinguished himself and was decorated with the order of the Iron Crown.
One thing was soon very evident to every one in Rome: The new secretary was not a man whose character could be summed up in an epigram. There was nothing commonplace or pretty in the man. Externally he was tall and broad shouldered, with a well set carriage that gave him the air of a soldier in mufti; his hair was brown and close-cropped and his features sharply cut. In manner he was awkward but perfectly well-bred, unpretentious and simple. The ambassador's verdict on the new secretary was very different from Sempaly's. "He is my best worker," said his excellency: "A wonderful worker, and a long head--extraordinarily capable; but not pliant enough--not pliant enough. … "
Nor was it only with his superiors that he found favor; the younger officials with whom he came in contact were soon on the best terms with him. He had one peculiarity, very rare in men who take life so seriously as he did: He never quibbled. The embassy at Rome at that time swarmed to such an extent with handsome, fashionable idlers that the Palazzo di Venezia was like a superior school for fine ladies with moustaches--as Sempaly aptly said. Sterzl looked on at their feeble doings with indulgent good humor; it was impossible to hope for any definite views or action from these young gentlemen; it would have been as wise to try to make butterflies do the work of ants. He himself was always ready to make good their neglect and gave them every liberty for their amusements. He wished to work, to make his mark--that was his business; to fritter away life and enjoy themselves was theirs. Thus they agreed to admiration.
But though his subalterns were soon his devoted allies, society at large was still disposed to offer him a cold shoulder. His predecessor in office had never pretended to do anything noteworthy as a diplomatist, but he had been an admirable waltzer, and--which was even more important--he had not disdained that social diversion; consequently he had been a favorite with the ladies of Rome who loudly bewailed his departure and were not cordial to his successor. Sterzl took no pains to fill his place; he had no trace of that obsequious politeness and superficial amiability which make a man popular in general society. His blunt conscientiousness and quite pedantic frankness of speech were displeasing on first acquaintance. In a drawing-room he commonly stood silently observant, or, if he spoke, he said exactly what he thought and expected the same sincerity from others. He could never be brought to understand that the flattery and subterfuge usual in company were merely a degenerate form of love for your neighbor; that the uncompromising truthfulness that he required must result in universal warfare; that the limit-line between sincerity and rudeness, between deference and hypocrisy, have never been rigidly defined; that the naked truth is as much out of place in a drawing-room as a man in his shirt-sleeves; and that, considering the defects and deformities of our souls, we cannot be too thankful that custom prohibits their being displayed without a decent amount of clothing. Merciful Heaven! what should we see if they were laid bare?
No, we cannot live without lying. A man who is used to society demands that it should tell lies, it is his right, and a courtesy to which he has every claim. When a man finds that society no longer thinks him worth lying to his part is played out and he had better vanish from the scene. In short, Sterzl had no sort of success with women; they dubbed him by the nickname of 'le Paysan du Danube.' Men respected him; they only regretted that he had so many extravagant notions, particularly a morbid touchiness as to matters of honor; however, that is a fault which men do not seriously disapprove of. To Sterzl himself it was a matter of entire indifference what was said of him by people who were not his personal friends. For a friend he would go through fire and water, but he would often neglect even to bow to an acquaintance in the street as he walked on, straight to his destination, his head full of grand schemes. He was fully determined to make his mark: to do--perhaps to become--something great … but. …
CHAPTER III.
Princess Vulpini, who had not escaped the fashionable complaint--the Morbus Schliemaniensis, had found a treasure no further off than in an old-clothes shop in the Via Aracoeli, where she had bought two wonderful shields from designs, she was assured, of Benvenuto Cellini's and a fragment of tapestry said to have been designed by Raphael, and she had invited a few intimate friends--Truyn, Sempaly, von Klinger, and Count Siegburg, an Austrian attaché, to give their opinion as to the genuineness of her find. She was Truyn's sister and a few years younger than he; she had met Prince Vulpini at Vichy when spending a season there with her invalid father and soon afterwards had married him, and now for twelve years she had lived in Rome, loving it well, though she never ceased railing at it for sundry inconveniences, was always singing the praises of Vienna and would have all her shopping done for her "at home" because she was convinced that nothing was to be had in Rome but photographs, antiques and wax-matches.
The company had just finished a lively dinner, throughout which they had unanimously abused the new Italian Ministry; but with the arrival of the coffee and cigarettes they turned to the consideration of the princess's antiquities which she had spread out on the floor for inspection. The gentlemen threw themselves on all-fours to examine the arras and the shields, and pronounced their verdict with conscientious frankness. No one, it seemed, was thoroughly convinced of the authenticity of the treasures but the Countess Marie Schalingen, a lady who had been for some few weeks in Rome as the princess's guest; all the others had doubts. The most vigorous sceptic of them all was Count Siegburg, who, to be sure, was the one who knew least of such matters, but who nevertheless spoke of "electrotype casts and modern imitations" with supreme decisiveness.
Wips, or more correctly Wiprecht Siegburg, was the spoilt child of the Austrian circle; I doubt whether he could have invented gunpowder, have discovered America, or have proved that the earth goes round, but for work-a-day company he was certainly pleasanter than Schwarz, Columbus or Galileo. He had been attached to the embassy with no hope of his finding a career, but simply to get him away from Vienna, where his debts had at last become inconveniently heavy. His widowed mother, after much meditation, had hit upon this admirable plan for checking her son in his extravagance.
"You make me quite nervous, Siegburg," said the princess at length, "though I know that you have not the faintest glimmering of knowledge on the subject."
"Perhaps you are right," he answered coolly. "At any rate, I have lost confidence lately in my critical instincts. I always used to think that the genuineness of antiquities was in proportion