Diana

BOOK TWO

CHAPTER ONE

As Andreas's carriage drew up before the embassy, his ears were greeted with the strains of Chopin's music pouring down to him through the open window, and while he waited in the marble vestibule his whole being seemed to be bathed in the sounds. Could it be that these minor cadences, simultaneously so bitter and so sweet, gave him a foretaste of the reception he might expect? He was ushered into a darkened room, fitfully lighted by tiny rays of the southern sun penetrating through the Venetian blinds. The alternation of heat and cold, of dazzling radiance and veiled obscurity, plunged his senses into uncertain depths. He felt uneasy as he watched the gold-clad kavass noiselessly retreating into the shadows with his card. At once elated and oppressed, he was conscious of his heart-beats.

"Fate seems to brood over this palace," he mused. "Am I to be drawn into its labyrinthine ways? That oriental moves noiselessly up the stair. I can hear him knock at the door, can see the statesman looking at the message which is to introduce a stranger into his house. My name is unknown to him; nor do I know him. But in a neighbouring room is a woman playing, sending forth to a stranger sounds that convey a warning, and seem to tell him that he is more akin to the music than to the statesman's papers..."

He took a few steps towards the side whence the music came, hoping to hear better. He recognized the piece. It was the Ballade in G minor, and as he listened to the constantly recurring lilt which brought to his mind the leaping and subsiding movement of a fountain, he thought:

"The countess plays like a man. I play it more delicately."

The door was thrown open, and the silent domestic signed to him to follow. They mounted the stairs, and he was led to the room whence the music came. At that moment the final note was played, the servant opened the door, and Andreas moved forward into a twilit chamber. A tall, slender man in a light summer suit rose from the music-stool to welcome him.

"You have just come from Vienna," said the count, so quickly that Andreas scarcely had time to recover from his surprise. "I am very grateful to my old friend for sending you to me. What is he doing now? Rarely do I get a chance of seeing, or hearing about, old acquaintances. Ah, how one longs for the freedom of youth! Then one could travel, one had no responsibilities... I gather from my friend's letter that you are here to look around a bit, to take your bearings... If only the later gains could make up for our lost youth! ... Do you smoke? A cigarette?"

Andreas, from the depths of a huge arm-chair, took a cigarette from the box his host was offering with the quick, jerky movements of a restless boy. Then the count went over to the window, and, with an impatient gesture of the foot, pushed the shutters open. His figure was silhouetted against a dazzling background of scintillating water, the broad span of water above which the palace had been built. Andreas came to his side, and gazed over the landscape. From no other spot could so magnificent a view of the town and surrounding country be obtained. Yet it was his host and not the panorama that held Andreas's attention. The count's right arm was outstretched as he pointed to certain details, while with his left hand he shaded his eyes from the midday glare.

Gregor, Count of Münsterberg, was not the man whose talented Don-Juan type Andreas had seen in portraits taken long ago. Indeed, the count had not allowed any pictures of himself to be published for many a year, and he would certainly not have placed himself in this pitiless light if he had known Andreas of old. For Gregor's hair was grey—those golden locks which had bewitched so many women ten or twenty years back as he sat drawing sweet music from the piano, or casting a look behind as he rode by. The face whose laughter had once beguiled, was now furrowed; the cheeks were sunken, the blue, seductive eyes gazed forth from deep hollows, the mocking lips, slightly open and moist as with much kissing, lay clean shaven over a chin that still had something of its former sauciness but which was no longer round.

As soon as the ambassador felt himself observed, he withdrew from the window, closed the shutters, and motioned his guest to an easy-chair. He himself made for the music-stool once more, puffing at his cigarette as he went. His hands moved to and fro above the keys as if they itched to be playing.

"Am I disturbing you, Your Excellency?" asked Andreas.

"Not in the least, Doctor."

"Oh, please, I never use the title."

"Good. And I will beg you, in return, not to call me 'Your Excellency.' Now, tell me in what way may I be of service to you?"

"In nothing specific, Count. I have come here to get in touch with persons and things, so that ultimately—perhaps—I might be attached to some provincial consulate—or—"

"Have you studied law?"

"No. I am a poet."

Andreas made the statement with such childlike simplicity that he left no margin for astonishment. The count, whose passionate nature made him delight in the unusual, swung himself round on the music-stool as he laughingly declared:

"So you want to make Plato's ideas of the State a reality, eh?"

The name of the great philosopher gave Andreas back his self-confidence, which the abrupt movement of the count had somewhat shaken. He therefore replied vivaciously:

"Action! said Demosthenes."

"Action, yes. I said that too when I felt my talent and inclination drawing me to take up music as my profession, while other feelings were impelling me to devote my life to other issues. Do you imagine there are no regrets?..."

"Who has never had things to regret?"

Andreas spoke very softly. The count became attentive. Such words coming from so young a man left him wondering. He looked more keenly at his visitor, while he thought:

"Should he be pitied or envied because experience has touched him so early in life?"

Slowly he left the piano and walked over to where Andreas sat. His words fell upon the poet's ears like dark drops from a deep, quiet spring.

"If only reality corresponded to our formulas! Action? I would answer your rhetoric with: 'First of all, patience!' Thirty years of patient work during which your black locks will slowly turn to grey, as mine have turned which once were golden. Then, when you have got to the top of the ladder—are you free at last to do what you have always yearned to be doing? Are you then a master, and can you, with the freedom of an artist, put your sign manual upon the clay of a world that now bewitches you? It would have been so splendid to compose a whole series of operas—to have evolved a new form of undying melody, far outstripping the wonders Wagner achieved, a huge symbolical trilogy in three spheres—working undisturbed—in one's chosen medium—undisturbed... Do you really mean to give up writing poetry, to crush the dreams that are now surging in your brain, to renounce the drama now shaping itself within you, in order that you may become consul in, let us say, Kilimanjaro?"

Andreas, who had been much with artists and very little with realists, was not as surprised at such a speech coming from an ambassador within the walls of an embassy as he might otherwise have been. He answered composedly:

"A step up the ladder of patience, Count!"

The elder man roused himself from his gloomy recollections, resumed his alert manner, and said briskly:

"Very well, let us suppose that at some future date you enter as master into the house of my colleague over the way. Who are you then?"

"I don't know exactly... If you mean to imply that here, in this house, you yourself, Count... Great schemes have matured under this roof, far-reaching treaties have been signed at that table, maybe the most amazing alliances have been conceived in this very room. And do you mean to say that all these things have brought no satisfaction to the man responsible for their creation, that they are not sufficient compensation for the sacrifice of a musical career? Forgive me, a stranger, speaking so freely..."

He had risen as if to master his emotion, for he felt the rhapsodic spirit rising within him, and did not wish to be carried away by his own words, especially in this house. But to the master of the house the young man at this moment was particularly attractive, as they walked up and down together and Andreas looked at him, his eyes aglow.

"Go on, go on! You bring youth back into this room."

He blew the smoke from between his lips, flicked the ash from the cigarette, strolled over to a map that was hanging from the wall, and said, speaking indistinctly and with assumed indifference:

"Satisfaction? An excellent word! Occasionally it is—even—quite—interesting."

He stuck his hands deep into his pockets, balanced himself on the toes of his brown leather shoes, gazed absently at the map, and hummed quietly to himself as if he felt he had achieved some mysterious and subtle victory. Then he was silent for a while, bit his lips, and looked with concentrated attention at one particular spot on the map as if he wanted to wrench a town or a province away from the glazed surface of the print. A minute passed. Suddenly he turned to his visitor and asked in cold, formal tones:

"Can I help you in any way? Give you an introduction?"

"Many thanks. Our own..."

"I hope to see you again before you leave, Dr. Seeland."

"With pleasure, Your Excellency."

An hour later, the ambassador sat at table with his wife and his eight-year-old son. While they lunched he told them of his interview with a young poet who was set on taking up a diplomatic career.fx

"Otherwise he seems a most interesting young fellow. The pity of it! There'll be one poet the less, and if he does not shake off his present enthusiasms, there will not be one statesman the more!"

"Who is he?"

"Let me see... Ah, here's his card."

He read the name.

"Andreas Seeland has written some delightful sonnets. I should like to know him."

"Invite him to lunch."

"Lunch is not a good meal at which to make a poet's acquaintance," laughed the countess.

"Well, ask him to tea."

She turned to the butler, gave him Andreas's card, and said:

"Get some one to telephone to the Grand Hotel as soon as possible to ask this gentleman if he can come to tea with me this afternoon at five."

"Today?" queried the ambassador, looking at her dubiously, as if perplexed by his wife's strange caprice.

"Why not?" she counter-queried coldly.

"May I come too, Mamma?" pleaded the child.

"Why do you want to come, I'd like to know?"

"There are always such lovely sandwiches at your tea-parties!"

Andreas had heard various reports concerning the Countess of Münsterberg. It was rumoured that she was a Dalmatian princess, emancipated, but not amorous; that she wantonly defied the fashions in dress; that she disseminated scandalous stories about her own life in order to revenge herself for her husband's dalliance with the fair sex. All these stereotyped items of society gossip had left Andreas cold. Nor had his curiosity been sufficiently aroused to make him seek an early interview with the lady. Besides, he had been influenced by the almost universal detraction, and fancied her no more than a society dame wishing to make herself conspicuous by eccentricities. The unfavourable impression was redoubled when he received her sudden and informal invitation. With a nameless dread and misgiving in his heart, he climbed the stairs and was shown into her boudoir. He stood bowing on the threshold as the kavass noiselessly closed the door.

The room was wide and lofty, illuminated with the mellow light of the afternoon sun. Blue was the prevailing colour, but the furnishings were in no particular style. Over against one of the windows he saw a massive table and some cumbersome easy chairs. Away in the farther corner, as it might be on the opposite bank of a wide river, he guessed there must be a commodious divan, for he saw the outline of a reclining feminine form. A vast expanse of blue carpet, thrown rug-fashion on the floor, separated him from this woman, a huge sea through whose waters he must swim if he wished to reach her shore. Slowly, stepping cautiously, he ventured forward. His eyes were riveted on to that far-off strand where—was it a shoal?—the half reclining, voluminous shape of the woman awaited him. The rock on which she lay shone like gold; her flowing raiment was blue; and, like a golden wave, her hair was massed upon her head, shimmering amid the encompassing ocean of blue which lapped around her resting place. He paused for a moment on reaching the middle of the carpet. The whole thing must be a dream-canvas by Veronese. But those were two living eyes which gazed so fixedly at him, patiently awaiting his approach. As if swimming against a strong current, he advanced step by step towards the distant shore. She raised herself on her arm, and he saw that she held a book in her hand, a book of verses, judging by the wide margin. Her eyes were intent upon him, unfathomable in their earnestness. So immobile was she that he could study the details of her face as he drew near, could see the passionate curve of the lips.

These lips now fell softly apart, and a clear contralto voice exclaimed:

"Poeta!"

He tried to smile his thanks, but when he opened his mouth to speak, his expression remained serious and he could utter one word only:

"Principessa!"

CHAPTER TWO

At half-past twelve next day a carriage drew up before the embassy. Diana stepped down. She had arrived the previous evening, a week later than Andreas, and neither suspected the other's presence in the town. A sorrel horse was pawing the gravel at the foot of the steps leading up to the front door, tossing his head as the groom held the bridle-rein. Diana moved forward up the steps, and at that moment a little boy came running from the house, closely followed by three men of uncertain age. The men bowed to Diana in passing, while one of them called to the child:

"It's no use, Clemens, Papa is already coming down!"

"Just one little minute," pleaded the lad, placing his foot in the groom's hand and leaping into the saddle, while his three friends gathered round protesting.

Diana meanwhile handed the servant her card and a letter of introduction to the ambassador. The man shook his head:

"I'm sorry, Madam, but His Excellency is out riding."

She turned to go, and as she did so an Italian greyhound brushed against her, springing down the steps. From the door came a sound of spurs clinking; a tall shadow fell across her path. She looked up to find herself confronted by a man in riding breeches, a crop in his left hand, while his right was brought to the salute. A nod from her in acknowledgment, unusually free and debonair, took him so much aback that he forgot to drop his hand after the greeting. The dog stood shivering at his side, eager and expectant. Would the man speak, apologize for not receiving her? His lips opened; she liked his looks; smiled at him. He, too, smiled; but at that moment the boy called up to him:

"Papa! I'm going to ride away, and leave you!"

The elder man turned abruptly, made a sign to the child, saluted Diana once again, and, elastic as the greyhound at his side, ran down the steps to join the group round the horse.

Diana got into the carriage, the four men and the boy bowed farewell, the coachman whipped up the horses, and she was gone.

The ambassador watched the dust cloud rising behind the vehicle, then slowly dropped his eyes to the card and the envelope the servant had given him. He read: Diana de Wassilko, Hotel Savoy. The letter was an introduction from Scherer. He twisted the card between his fingers, vexed that the meeting had not been better managed on his part. His eyes travelled to the group round the horse; the greyhound whined with impatience at his side. Suddenly he saw the boy slip in the saddle, while the men teasingly pulled him by his little legs.

"Clemens! Come, I won't have it. Off you get!" And, stepping up swiftly, he lifted the child down. His voice was so harsh that his son looked up at him inquiringly. The three men, too, were embarrassed, as they watched the count swing himself into the saddle and ride away, preceded by the dog. With a sulky pout, Clemens gazed after his father's retreating figure. Then the party turned, and strolled up the hill. They were silent for a while, each thinking the same thought. At last the eldest murmured: "The chief's in a bad temper again. I wonder what's up?"

Baron Linnartz, the speaker, was a man of forty or more, secretary to the Legation. His bald head was sunk between exaggeratedly broad shoulders, and his moustache, which he carefully trained into an upward curve, did not conceal his shapeless lips, which twisted nervously from time to time.

"Probably the sequel of a lonely night!" exclaimed the military attaché.

The baron made a pretence of being shocked at such barefaced cynicism.

"My dear Eckersberg, what a suggestion!"

"Well, Linnartz, if you know of any better amusement in this vale of tears, out with it. If not, at least let us talk of our rake's dreams since we have been effectually marooned in this land of odalisques!"

"You forget that I am a married man, my dear Count!"

"Sorry, Baron."

The youngest attaché, who had hitherto held his peace, now put in a word hoping to dispel the slight tension which had arisen between his two companions. He had been nicknamed "the tall prince." A man with artistic tastes and a pretty wit, he was a universal favourite, though he himself suffered from a chronic state of tedium as he moved from one drawing-room to another on his long crane's legs.

"Honi soit qui mal y pense, Gentlemen! Our worthy chief was obviously put out because the young lady drove off so quickly. Didn't you notice? Wasn't she charming in her white dress, with the love-locks dancing under her lace veil? And he lost his opportunity, because he had decided on a ride. Poor old Gregory the Seventh! You ought to be sorry for him."

"You are always making excuses for him," protested the baron. "He has no business to behave like that, to be so offhand with us. One who is ill-tempered and capricious with his intimates is the same when dealing with political situations. The State..."

"Oh Lord, the State!"

"Yes, the State, if Your Highness will allow me to explain. Respect for the leading officers of a State should not have to depend on impressions created by the female of the species. One who has the State's interests at heart should not, indeed, allow himself to be influenced by impressions of any kind. I stick to what I have said ever since they sent me here two years ago: he may be a very gifted man, a man with fine ideas; but a man who has time to play Schubert all the morning is not fit for an official post."

"Chopin, my dear Baron," amended the prince, hoping to turn his companion's thoughts away from this perennial grievance.

The other cleared his throat for a further attack, but the prince leaned across him and, speaking to Eckersberg, inquired:

"Did you, too, notice nothing?"

"A thoroughbred! Must be of aristocratic birth. Probably she'll be invited to lunch and trotted out to show her points as usual! Have you seen the countess this morning?"

"She put off my wife yesterday—they'd been going to have tea together. Said she had a visitor. I fancy it was a young man who has just come here from Vienna."

"Vienna? He must be the young poet, then," interjected the prince.

"Poet?" repeated the count. "So that's the kind of people they are sending down here now! What extraordinary things Austria does export, to be sure!"

Half an hour later Diana was about to sit down to lunch when the waiter brought her a card.

"Is the gentleman here?"

"His Excellency is waiting in the hall."

"Give me time to get back to my room, then show him up, please."

Diana deftly put a little order into her sitting room, thinking meanwhile: "He's been quick about it!" On the way back from the embassy she had recapitulated the scene which had promised so well but which the chance word of a child had suddenly brought to a close. She tried to interpret the omen. Did it mean that the child was to keep them apart? But she had no designs on this man! All she had to do was to study him, to find out what influence he exercised, who were his opponents, and so forth. That is what she had come down here to accomplish after two days and two nights travelling in the train. As for him personally...

There was a knock at the door. The ambassador entered. He was still in riding breeches, but the dog and the crop had been left below. Stepping lightly as a youth, he came towards her with outstretched hand.

"Please forgive me for coming like this, but I did not wish to delay bringing my apologies. The servants have a general order... I was just off for my morning ride.... Yes, I know it is the hottest part of the day, and you may well shake your head disapprovingly that I should be so inconsiderate to my horse, in June, midday... And with such bad roads... I had to pay a call in the suburbs... Do you ride?"

"Of course!"

"I hope you've brought your saddle with you; there's nothing to be got here to suit a lady..."

"I don't use a side saddle. I ride astride, like a man."

There was a momentary silence between them. The words instantly conjured her up in his imagination as she had stood on the steps at the embassy; they flooded the whole picture with erotic significance, and set his heart to a quicker beat. At the same time the memory of her name flashed through his mind as he said:

"Perhaps it may suit you to..."

"With pleasure, if the countess can come too..."

She merely brought the countess into the conversation because she considered that the rôle she was destined to play demanded a scrupulous adherence to social conventions. But the count had been quick to read her true character, and was no more to be taken in than a dog one tried to entice on to a false scent.

"The countess? Oh, she's all right. She doesn't ride any more, since she was thrown... Besides, as you see, I am no longer young..."

He bent his head before her with all the subtle coquetry of a man used to woman's admiration. Her smile did not escape his notice, for he exclaimed:

"There, now you are mocking my grey hairs!"

"Does Your Excellency wish for veneration?"

"Ah, that title I am doomed to hear reeks of gout!"

He moved away from her towards the window.

Diana's mirth took to flight on the instant. She saw the finely shaped lips twitch ever so slightly, and guessed all the pain that lurked behind the pleasantry. It seemed to her suddenly as if she had grown old, had leaped the decades that divided her from this man, and that she and he were of equal age. So great were her powers of imagination that she was able to transfer her change of outlook to her physical appearance. The count turned round intending to make some trivial comment on the town, but the amazing change in her face stopped the words before they left his lips. He hesitated a moment, and then with a boyish smile he asked:

"Have you no word of comfort for a poor grey-haired man?"

She was not in the humour to continue in this vein, and whispered softly to herself:

"Grey-haired... What are years? ... Are we not here today and gone tomorrow?..."

"You mean...?"

"Don't you remember Hamlet's words to Horatio?"

"For the moment..."

She looked him squarely in the eyes, and said with meaning emphasis, as if shooting two arrows one after the other from the same bow:

"Hic et ubique? Then, we'll shift our ground."

"Hic et ubique! Did Hamlet say that too?"

"Who else, indeed?"

"That's our motto... It's the motto on the Münsterberg coat-of-arms."

"Strange coincidence," she said looking earnestly at him.

He returned her scrutiny, his expression slowly changing as he did so. Then:

"Hic et ubique! Are those words true?"

"What is truth?" said Diana quietly. "Truth is a word only the free in spirit can pronounce, Count."

"Are you so fearless?"

Without stirring from her place, she looked at him gravely and did not answer.

"And are you so proud?"

Again she made no reply. She waited. At last, unable to bear her scrutiny any longer, he rose from his chair and stood twisting his cap in his fingers like an awkward boy.

"Forgive me," he said. "Perhaps such questions are not becoming in a lady's drawing-room..."

"We are in a hotel," she replied airily. "Yesterday the room may have been a forger's den!"

"Do you think so badly of this town?" he laughingly inquired.

"No, not of the town, only of mankind in general."

He let his lips linger on her hand at parting.

"When may I hope to see you again, and where?" he asked.

Abruptly she was a girl again as she merrily replied:

"Hic et ubique, Count of Münsterberg!"

He rode slowly home, deep in thought. Abdul, the greyhound, sought to catch his eye, whining, barking softly, hoping for a run. But his master continued to keep the horse at a walking pace.

"Corpo di Baccho," exclaimed the count at last. "Here's a strange creature crossing my path! She stood on the steps and smiled down at me—just like a cheeky little duchess of seventeen. She gets into a carriage like a grande dame of thirty. Then she talks boldly, frankly, eloquently,—a reincarnation of Byron at nineteen or twenty! Extraordinary. What am I to do? She's too tender a thing for me to tamper with. And yet she's not tender, not in the least. She is made of metal throughout, throat, breast... How splendidly her name suits her. Why am I so squeamish, then? Is she too young? Am I really grey? Passé? ... Come up, Cavalier! Abdul!"

He set spurs to his horse, and the beast sprang forward to a gallop. Snorting, sweating, the three careered up the hill. At the top was a little hollow. Gregor, plucked from his impassivity by the excitement of the ride, now spurred his mount anew, and they flew over the ditch—much to the astonishment of some passers-by who had never seen him ride so furiously before. At break-neck speed, he continued along the alley. In the distance he espied a carriage. The flutter of light dresses told him that the occupants were women. Again he pressed forward, determined to overtake them.

"Youth, youth is driving ahead of me... Youth! I must catch up ... or ... we are passé... Come on, Abdul! Now then, Cavalier! Abdul!"

Like a conqueror reaching his goal, intoxicated and yet exhausted, he passed by the carriage at such speed that the horses shied.

CHAPTER THREE

"You are mistaken," said the tall prince pointing to a special bar on the score. "Weingartner always ignores this repeat, and goes straight on to the next movement. Nor is it certain whether Beethoven himself meant that for repeat marks. I have had the original manuscript in my hand, and just at that point is a blot of ink!"

"Still," put in Andreas, "if one compares this with similar effects in other compositions, don't you think we might conclude that...?"

"Of course," interposed the countess. "In the next world I shall always have this part repeated."

The three speakers were standing in the embrasure of the window. Gathered round the fireplace at the other end of the small rococo room, were the count, Baron Linnartz, and the baroness. The shrill laughter of the lady could be heard from time to time. It rang false now, as it always did when she was put out and had no suitable answer ready. Her eyes were full of enmity as she glanced across at the countess.

"You have made up your mind, then, to be a man at your next reincarnation?"

The prince spoke pointedly and looked down at her with an expression which emphasized the physical difficulty of such a transformation. The big woman instinctively pulled up the neck of her gown so that the soft green silk came into contact with the gems that shone on her full round bosom.

"Then maybe I shall at last fall in love with you, Prince, for you will undoubtedly be a woman!"

Andreas, who had never heard a lady speak with so much boldness, looked at the countess dubiously, and pressed his lips tightly together. The prince, standing slightly in Andreas's rear, was fully aware that both were trembling.

"Possibly you are right," said he in a tone that was a mixture of boredom and reflectiveness. Though he was fond of teasing her, he felt a platonic sympathy for the eccentric being. "I shall hope to be a woman fiddler in the orchestra of which you are to be the conductor."

"I shall only have men in my orchestra," answered the countess resolutely. "You shall be my first 'cellist," she added turning to Andreas, without in any way relaxing the intense seriousness of her expression.

"And what will the count play?" asked the prince maliciously.

"Piccolo!"

The two men laughed; and now the countess joined in their mirth for she wished to conceal the fact that this, also, was spoken in earnest.

"Good morning, Count Eckersberg," she exclaimed as the military attaché stood bowing at the door.

"May I share the joke?" he inquired, advancing towards the group in the window.

"Which one? Ours?" cried the count from his corner by the fireplace. He hoped Eckersberg might join his group, for the Linnartz conversation was anything but entertaining.

"Embarras de richesse," said Eckersberg in conventional tones, trying to bring the two groups together.

"Shall we go in to lunch, Gregor?"

"I'm expecting another lady."

"Who is she?" came from the two angles at once.

"Surprise à la fourchette!"

"May I know?" asked the baron stepping up to the countess's side.

"A stranger. I cannot even remember her name. She came with a letter of introduction to the ambassador. He asked her to luncheon."

"Introduced by Scherer, comes from Berlin," said the ambassador, as if to allay any doubts that might have arisen, for he was alive to the fact that strange things were laid to his charge. "You will find her quite charming."

"Can it be the young person with the love-locks?" inquired the military attaché.

"Ecco!" was the brief answer.

Andreas had not missed a syllable of this lively exchange. At the words "love-locks" his pulses began to throb. The thought of Diana rushed through his brain. He drew nearer the countess, for she alone of all those present in the room inspired him with confidence.

"Who is the lady?" he whispered.

He was conscious of his heart-beats as the countess, turning to her husband, asked:

"Gregor, what is our guest's name?"

The door was thrown open as she spoke, and her interest was transferred from the count to the new arrival. Andreas had followed her first glance, and hung upon the count's lips whence he expected the answer to the riddle. Now, however, his interest too was centred on the door which seemed to him to fly open as if by magic, for from where he stood he could not see the servant who ushered the guest into the room. The tension he experienced at this moment was so extreme that he felt anything might happen.

Diana appeared in the doorway.

A sudden quiet fell upon the company. She had so recently been the subject of their conversation that they felt caught in the act, self-conscious. Diana, as usual, paused a moment on the threshold before shaking hands with the ambassador, who had stepped forward to welcome her. The baron and his wife, ever suspicious of anything the chief was responsible for, looked at Diana sceptically; the officer's inspection savoured of curiosity; the prince's, of delicate mockery. The countess, whose lonely heart was wearied with the hundreds of masks she had been forced to gaze on in this very room, and yet whose hopes revived with every fresh apparition, saw the young woman in profile shaking hands with the host. Taken aback by the boyish silhouette, and at once recognizing all this little figure contained of pride and courage, the countess turned towards Andreas as if to seek confirmation of her first impression. But the stranger was being led towards her by the count, and the hostess, remembering her rôle, took a step forward in greeting. At that moment Diana came to a dead stop. The countess, not knowing what had happened, followed suit. Thus the women faced one another like two foes who had met unexpectedly. Diana had recognized Andreas; at the same moment she also saw the golden-haired woman, with the dark-haired youth standing immediately behind her; one picture, a draught to quaff in one gulp.

Before the other guests became aware that anything was amiss, the women had pulled themselves together and were already shaking hands. The prince, alone, inscribed upon the tablets of his memory the three looks that had been exchanged. The count was introducing her.

"Herr Seeland—Fräulein de Wassilko."

Diana slowly bowed her head; Andreas bent forward from the waist.

"You take the countess in," whispered the prince to Andreas, for it was customary among them to make a newly appointed attaché play the son of the family.

CHAPTER FOUR

Andreas to Nikolai.

"... I am dreaming again. I never can dream when I am actively happy. Then my nights follow one another in unchanging succession. The hand, which a moment before had been caressing the beloved, seems to go to sleep of its own accord; while my head, close to hers, is still linked to it by some few strands of hair. Then my capacities for dreaming seem to be lulled as if, in the arms of love, they were gathering new inspiration for the solitary days which were bound to follow.

"For the moment I am not alone, but I am not fully in possession of my joy; therefore I am dreaming once again.

"Last night I was on our island. Day was beginning to dawn. The boatman could hardly see the landing-stage, so dark lay the shadow from the oleander tree. I went slowly up the hill towards the white house. The door was open, but Othello was not there to greet me. As in summer time, cushions were strewn on the terrace, and some rugs lay there just as Diana might have left them. A book had slipped to the ground. My weary feet went slowly up the steps. The door leading into our bedroom was open; on a low table, a candle was guttering into its socket. I stepped noiselessly up to the curtain which sheltered the bed, and through whose folds I could hear the regular breathing of the sleeper. I pulled the curtain back, and there lay—Olivia, naked, before my eyes. Othello (can you understand, my Nikolai?), Othello will not enter dreams into which Diana does not come, and where Olivia breathes and has her being. Othello is faithful. I fear I am not! Is Diana?

"For she is here, in this out-of-the-way part of Europe. Don't be too astonished!

"The day after the one I last wrote to you about, the day I made the principessa's acquaintance, I was invited to lunch at the embassy, and was standing behind Olivia when, all of a sudden, in came Diana. I cannot honestly say that I was surprised. 'Dream, come back to me,' I had whispered every night during all those weeks when, in my loneliness, I longed for a sight of her. So when she appeared thus before me it was as if in response to my expectations. She herself was taken aback by our meeting, for she grew pale. When we took our places at table, and as the meal progressed, my heart went out to her, and every word I said seemed to be inspired by her. She was dressed in white, and the bronze of her skin shone through the raiment and gleamed forth among the pale company like the horns among the violins in that piece of Schumann's—you remember it.

"Othello had sensed her presence before I did. He had run hither and thither restlessly as we were out walking the previous evening. He was searching for a trail that I knew nothing of. She may have passed by in a carriage, and only my dog and not my heart had been aware of her proximity. Am I being put to a test? How would it have been had I not seen Olivia, and had run across Diana while taking a stroll? Would everything have been as it was in the spring? I ask myself whether the extreme of love which Olivia's lips seem to promise, will, if I ever get so far, sow the field of my life with as lavish a hand as Diana's when she yielded hesitatingly to my passionate embrace. I see, I feel, what awaits me. Everything, in the world of reality, my friend, we are doomed to know beforehand. You may well ask why I have set my foot on the hard and toilsome road leading to this new experience. How, I answer, can a man control his fate in such matters?

"A creature resembling a young moon has driven me forth into the noonday glare, I know not why. There I am faced with the great sun who, in his turn... Will he drive me back into the dusk whence I have so recently emerged? I'm sorry to be writing so mad a letter. The nights are to blame, so hot, and the sirocco blowing....

"I enclose a new poem—To Olivia.

"ANDREAS."

Diana to Scherer.

"... My very first experiences here confirm your hopes. I've called on the minister. The visit was fairly successful, partly because I did not go with an introduction from the embassy, and partly because a certain Egyptian, sent to me by the manager, smoothed the way for me. Furthermore, the process of interpreting facilitated our negotiations. Where else in Europe are we given so much time for reflection, where else can we study the effect of our actions upon our antagonists so admirably as here? He did not believe a word I said when I informed him that I wished later on to make a few excavations and wanted to use the new permanent way to get to the ruins which lie on either side of the track. I gathered all this by the solemn fashion in which he nodded his head and promised me everything I asked. He is not more narrow-minded than many of our own folk, but he is extremely false. He speaks reservedly about the count, which inclines me to believe that some sympathy exists between them. The railroad people are of course uncongenial to him, when he does not positively loathe them; and he is comforted by the thought that I personally seem to have little to do with them. His secretary speaks French, and I paid him a score of compliments afterwards. Nor did I miss an opportunity to have a dig at his master. I shall certainly need the man's help in the future. The main thing is to discover what the French have promised, and especially how much they have offered him if he will consent to act against Münsterberg. I have tipped the bearer of this letter as handsomely as if the missive were destined for a ruling monarch....

"Your manager is splendid. But he will have to get over the mistrust he naturally feels towards me on account of your very flattering recommendation. At present he sees in me nothing other than a kind of supervisor! His house is not sufficiently comfortable to receive guests, so I was invited to dine at the hotel. We ate what was provided by the menu of the day, and drank a sweet fizz very much the worse for wear, from which I gather he is of a thrifty disposition. His wife has the beautiful eyes, the slow movements, the cloying sweetness, the perfidy, and the ceaseless longing for love, typical of the Levantine woman. He manages to keep her in hand for the present. While we were at dinner, for instance, she ogled an English naval officer at a neighbouring table, and her husband literally crushed the look under foot before my very eyes. You know that since his marriage he is still received at the embassy, but only once a year now, at the annual levee when there are some three hundred guests present.

"For the rest, I shall have to be concise. I enclose the notes I made immediately after my several visits to the manager, the minister and the bank director (who seems ill-disposed towards me).

"As for the ambassador, I can't say much as yet, for we are only in the initial stages of our acquaintanceship. Still, I like the man. Seen him twice, en petit comité, no politics. I cannot believe that you really care for him. He speaks of you with a kind of cool warmth.

"His enemy, the baron, is likewise my foe; so is the baroness. Eckersberg is innocuous, but his thoughts run in a somewhat bawdy vein. The tall prince may be a friend. I am doing my best to be pleasant to the secretary who sees after the dispatching of my correspondence, for as Count M. says, we are all at his mercy. He is a domestic tyrant, but tamable.

"Since, in spite of my arts and wiles, I foresee that he will read my letters, and since I may seldom have a chance of sending you a letter, as on this occasion, by a trusty hand, we had better agree upon a code: Greyhound = Count Münsterberg, the German ambassador; Terrier = Count Eckersberg, the military attaché; Policedog = Baron Linnartz, secretary to the Legation; Sheepdog = Prince Eduard, youngest attaché; Drayhound = the aforesaid secretary; Great Dane = Manager; Bulldog = Minister. Further zoological data to follow.

"Best wishes.

"DIANA."

The major to Diana.

"Your card with address only and view of the town hardly seems to court an acknowledgment. Nevertheless it does not actually forbid me to answer. So I shall profit by the fact and send you a few lines, especially as today is the anniversary of a date that will for ever be inscribed in my heart.

"Unfortunately such times as those of three years ago are not to be recaptured. Were it not for my work (I shall ever have you to thank for helping me to get it) I could hardly believe that I am the same man.

"Talk here runs mainly upon that corner of the world where you happen to be. Nobody has any confidence in the present peaceful situation; calm before a storm. I have seen Herr Scherer lately, two meetings quite close together. He is amazingly inquisitive, always plying me with questions, looks at me searchingly, and so on. I wonder if he suspects me of something. If anyone has a right to suspicion surely it is I rather than he!

"By the way, I have to thank his rival in the political field—if the question of gratitude arises at all in the matter, which I doubt—for a very interesting possibility. Last Tuesday, the minister came over to me after being deep in talk with N. We were all at the club. He said he had heard that I was interested in politics. Was I good at languages, and so forth. I was guarded in my replies, for I was not sure what he was driving at. In the end he asked whether I'd like a post abroad....

"What would you say if one fine morning I appeared on the scene of your mysterious operations, and greeted you with: 'Good-morning, most honoured of friends?'—Have no fear, I'm effectively stuck here at my post, and when I'm 78 I'll be relegated to the pensioners' almshouse—if any such thing still exists after another eighty years of peace.

"Your faithful servant,

"F. v. M."

CHAPTER FIVE

"Where could it have been? Where on earth have I seen that pert toss of the head before? And those love-locks? And those firm hands, long and tapering? How do I know that they are strong? Was it at the tennis tournament in Baden? But she would have been a mere baby when I was playing there. Or at Cannes?"

The baron racked his brains trying to remember. At last, next day as he sat in his study reading a dispatch concerning unrest in the Soudan, memory suddenly flooded his mind.

"By God—it is—! St. Petersburg! Of course! St. Petersburg! That very wrist! My instinct is as trusty as a machine. I felt uneasy the moment she stepped into the room. Hm. All the same, I can't exactly tell Gertrude..."

He laughed, half malignantly and half lasciviously.

"I say, my dear Linnartz," said the ambassador as he came in quickly, a cigarette between his lips and a dispatch in his hand. "Just read this."

He leaned over the baron's shoulder as the latter sat reading the document.

"Well, what do you think of it?"

"First of all, since it does not come from headquarters, it hardly..."

"Headquarters," interrupted the count, pacing up and down. "At headquarters they are as usual sleeping the sleep of the unjust. When my friend Rochow codes me that he believes Le Chat is to be sent here, and his surmise harmonizes with our own local information—what on earth do headquarters matter one way or the other?"

"Your Excellency must decide..."

"Now you're offended again, my worthy Baron. For my part, I'm going to search out proof of that which I have long suspected, and which my advisers have never wished to believe."

He flung himself into the depths of an easy-chair next the writing-table, made rings with his tobacco smoke, drummed with his fingers on the edge of the glass top, and then said, speaking through his teeth:

"If only we were not all of us in such bad odour over there. Every dragoman may be looked upon as a spy. What have you to say, my dear Linnartz?"

"I've always been against these crooked methods, although I am quite willing to acknowledge that at times..."

"We must—find—new—people—to..." The ambassador spoke very slowly, like a beast of prey preparing for a spring. He passed his acquaintances in review, and suddenly the image of Andreas rose before his mental vision.

"If only he were one of our compatriots..."

The count rose, took a turn round the room, seeking for a way of approach.

"Perhaps after all there is no truth in the surmise..."

He made as if to go, stopped as he reached the door, turned abruptly, and asked in a completely changed tone of voice: "Tell me, how did you like our young poet the other day?"

"Very intelligent young man. But I am always suspicious of people who are backward in their profession. Anyway he has no knowledge of law."

"What matter? The lack relates only to the very beginning of things, where a man is a slave of documents. It would be a poor sort of poet whose intuitions would not be of more use to him than having passed some dry-as-dust examination, when the matter at issue is the management of men!"

"I don't know what kind of a poet the young man may be ... but I personally am inclined to be cautious in my dealings ... with everyone..."

The count felt that the last words implied a suspicion against Diana, too, whom chance had brought to his house at the same time as the poet, and concerning whom the baroness had whispered her disapproval in his ear. He knew Linnartz of old, and was accustomed to find in him the enemy of his friends, of his own inclinations, and, whenever possible, of his policy. The innuendo did not, therefore, cut very deep, and he said rather distantly:

"Yes, it's true, she's a charming little woman, this Fräulein de Wassilko!"

Linnartz was quick to seize the opportunity thus afforded. He rose, fixed his monocle, and approached his chief with the utmost formality.

"I feel it my duty to inform you, Count, that I have already had occasion to observe the lady..."

"How?" asked the other, taken aback.

"Three or four years ago when I was attaché in St. Petersburg. I had rooms in the Grand Hotel at the time, as a single man. I met the lady—several times—in the company of some wealthy young Poles; they supped together, very décolletée, very lively, somewhat prolonged festivities...."

"Well, and what then?"

"Nothing that I can prove. But I thought that in the interests of the country I should be remiss in my duty if I failed to draw Your Excellency's attention..."

"Thanks, my dear Baron, many thanks," said the count with a frosty smile as he left the room.

Once back in his own study he gave vent to his feelings.

"Je m'en fiche," he exclaimed. "This wretched Linnartz is for ever there, talking like a decree from the ministry itself. 'I feel it my duty... in the interests of the country ... décolletée... wealthy young Poles...' Well, and what if she did?"

He had seen Diana once since the luncheon party. But a feeling of unrest, which in no way resembled the ardent desire of a virile nature, had daily urged him to seek a meeting with this woman. Her personality and her name intrigued him, lured him to probe the depths which he had glimpsed in those few seconds of their first encounter.

"Fine weather for a sail," he had thought when, early one morning, he glanced from the heights where he lived down upon the great spread of waters. "Diana would look well in a sweater as she sat at the helm. I am sure that with such eyes and such hands she must be a splendid navigator."

Or, again, as he took a stroll in the park after breakfast, he would murmur:

"In the forenoon I'd have her dressed in flowing drapery, à la grecque, so that her raiment, caught by the breeze, would cling to her boyish limbs, and, as she stood with her back to the sun, her whole outline would be visible through the diaphanous material."

Or, of an evening, he would step forth on to the balcony where dinner was served, and would imagine her leaning against the balustrade, illuminated by the lights from within the drawing-room, silhouetted against the night sky.

With a reserve which pleased him mightily while it made him all the more impatient to see her, she had refused all invitations, and once only had come to play tennis in the afternoon. Even then, she had been no more than a quarter of an hour on the court. For the countess, who did not play, was on the watch for her coming and kept an eye on the lawn from behind the sun-blinds of her apartment. Twice she had been to the window in vain. After each rebuff she had returned to her occupation at the great table which was heaped with Venetian beads of every shade and hue. These she amused herself with by letting them roll idly through her fingers. On looking down a third time into the garden she spied Diana. The countess rang. As soon as her maid appeared she sent word begging her guest to come up as she was not feeling very well.

Diana responded at once to the invitation. The blue room was darker, cooler, more mysterious this day than it had been at Andreas's first visit, and as Diana entered she saw the big woman with her heavy coils of golden hair and her long, dark blue, loosely hanging robes, coming forward in welcome. The countess, however, saw a very young girl, whose legs emerged firm and slim from below the short white linen skirt, while from under the brim of her white felt hat the chestnut hair escaped in delicate tendrils as if it longed to realize that perfect freedom which indeed breathed from the whole personality of the visitor.

"Forgive me," said the countess, "I am not really ill. But I do not care for the company of the ladies I have to meet in my garden below, so I never go down now."

Diana had stepped up to the table where the beads were displayed. She contemplated them but did not touch them.

"Do you like them?" asked the countess.

"Many a chain could be made from them. Strings of beads in one colour or in many different colours."

"True enough. I'd never thought of that."

"What do you do with them?"

"I—oh I just rummage among them," answered Olivia softly, somewhat nonplussed. Her thoughts ran:

"This young creature is striving after proportion and harmony while engaged in restless adventures. What of myself? I gather reckless dreams to my heart while my life goes smoothly along in untroubled ways."

She offered her guest a tall, inlaid bowl of iced fruits. Then she withdrew into the shadows, and seated herself on a low couch where she seemed rather to recline than to sit. The two women sat silently opposite one another, while from below came the calls of the tennis players. After a long pause, the countess said languidly:

"You are sunburnt. As you take the cool fruit in through your lips you remind me of a young Arab I once saw in the bazaar at Damascus. His hot, bronzed skin was reflected in the cool waters of the river that has created the oasis on which the town stands."

"How beautifully you speak," said Diana as if to ward off the comparison.

"When I'm in ordinary social gatherings I am dumb. I hate being in a large company. Do you not feel the same kind of dislike?"

"Oh, no! I often feel a sort of stream flowing through people when they talk together—a stream that gives them life and motion, that has the beauty of a unified work of art."

"You are lucky in being able to choose your own companions. I am not free."

She flashed a hostile glance towards the window through which the voices from the garden reached her from time to time.

"And yet," said Diana, "I find people in your circle, here as everywhere, who hide more than their chatter reveals."

"Why hide? Why dissemble?" The countess's rich alto trembled as she spoke. "Life is short, the possibility of choosing a friend comes so rarely, opportunities are so few and far between. Why then should the cumbersome veils of formality be superadded to prevent men from knowing their fellow men? Artists are freer! Without caring a snap of the fingers for traditions which might restrict their movements, they grasp and take all that pleases them. They grab the mad adventure of life itself by the hair and never pause to inquire whether they are rumpling those glorious locks... There, now you're laughing!"

"What comes after the mere grabbing?" asked Diana. "A man is just a man and is not to be distinguished from his fellow mortals if he merely grasps and takes what he likes."

"You are very young—Diana. May I call you by your name? We are alone. The years that lie ahead of you are measureless, you think the forces within you are inexhaustible, and the feeling of undying youth makes you lavish in your use of time and space. You, with your—let us say—four-and-twenty years have seen many more countries and come into contact with many more men than I have during the thirty-five years of my life. Why is it so? Because you are free. Because your father never constrained you to live according to the dictates of a small and exclusive caste, because no husband was perpetually warning you to be careful lest your conduct might jeopardize his position, because no one was for ever noting every step you took. Can you deny this? Are you not free?"

She lay on her low couch, cowering as it were, her great knees drawn up and outlined through her draperies. Now she lifted her gold-crowned head towards the slim white apparition beside her. Diana slowly rose to her feet.

"Yes, I am free," she exclaimed, with a joyous ring. She turned towards the window, holding her arms straight out before her as if bearing a gift. She did not look at the questioner, but, her eyes fixed in a vacant stare, she seemed to be following the movements of a vision. A pause ensued. Then she slowly dropped her arms, and said gloomily: "Only experience can show how hard a thing freedom is."

"I am not afraid of it," came in sonorous tones from where the countess lay. "I used to ride wild horses until I had broken them in—why should I dread freedom?"

Diana was suddenly aware of a feeling of hostility towards this woman who seemed to grudge her her freedom. A dull sense of resentment moved her to ask:

"And now? You said 'used.'"

The countess sat up, and gripped her hair which began to tumble about her shoulders.

"I had a fall."

As if enraged by the recollection, she flung open one of the shutters and was suddenly flooded with the full light of day. Her great arms were raised to the glory of her hair which rippled in golden plenty down her back; her deep bosom rose and fell in mourning and longing. Diana regretted having asked the question. She stepped up to Olivia and said shyly:

"You are beautiful."

The countess's gloomy eyes gazed down at her, seeming to drink in the younger woman's fiery spirit as she stood there in her short white frock, her skin burned by sun and wind, silent, waiting. Then, in a softer tone Olivia said:

"No, Diana, it is you who are beautiful."

Gregor came in as she finished speaking. The women drew apart. He begged Diana to stay, but she excused herself, pleading a previous engagement. He was taken aback by the chilly manner of her farewell, and looked down from the window as she drove away.

He paced up and down wondering what could have been the gist of this short interview. When, later, he questioned Olivia as to what she thought of Diana, the countess replied laconically:

"I like her."