Complete weird tales of.., p.965
Complete Weird Tales of Robert W Chambers, page 965
“Do you mean me?”
“Haven’t you practically just thanked God you are not like other men?”
“What have I done to deserve this, Thusis? I’m trying to be patient — —”
“You don’t need to be. Heaven deliver me from a patient man!”
Then I blew up: “You listen to me, you little idiot,” I said in a low, enraged tone; “I’m in love with you and you can’t help it whatever you choose to do about it. You came here as a servant and I fell in love with you as a servant. You are probably something else — God knows what — and I’m more in love than ever with God-knows-what! I don’t care what you are, servant, bourgeoise, actress, princess, or demi-mondaine — —”
“What!”
“I tell you I wouldn’t care. I love you. I want to marry you — —”
“Marry me if I were — a demi — —”
“Yes!” I said violently; “yes! yes! yes! It’s too late to have whatever you are make any difference to me. I’m an O’Ryan and I love only once.”
“Do you suppose I’m flattered by what you’ve just shouted at me? You’d marry me — or you’d do the same for a demi — —”
“Confound it!” I exclaimed, “it’s you, whatever you are! Can’t you understand — —”
“Certainly I can. All men are men first, last, all the time. That Serbian married Draga; any man will do as much for any drab if he can’t have her otherwise. I’ve seen enough of men, I tell you. Royal, noble, landed gentry, bourgeoisie, peasantry — all are men first, last, all the time; and all are exactly alike!”
She clenched her hand and confronted me with scornful eyes:
“And why any honest woman should ever fall in love with one of them is one of those ignoble mysteries which I have never cared to fathom!”
Her contempt and my own fury almost paralyzed me.
I said, finally, in a very quiet voice, not my own:
“Very well, Thusis, expect nothing more of me than you expect of any man — including those royal gentlemen out yonder. And I’ll not disappoint you.”
I stepped nearer, forcing a smile:
“You’ve succeeded in slaying any consideration I entertained for your sex. You’ve enlightened me. In future I’ll take them as I find them, easily, lightly, good-humoredly, with gaiety, with gratitude to the old time gods when they send a pretty one my way.”
And I smiled at Thusis who looked darkly back at me with the faintest hint of uncertainty in her eyes.
“It is wonderful,” said I, “how a word or two from a woman sometimes clears up the most serious situations. Your revelations concerning my sex in general have opened my eyes. I take your word for it that man is always man, as you explain so convincingly, and that he is, first, last, and all the time, merely a jackass endowed with speech.”
I emptied my coffee cup and set it upon the tray which she held in her left hand.
“I had,” said I, “something else to tell you — and which had nothing whatever to do with love. But, on second thoughts, I am so certain that a self-sufficient girl like yourself is amply able to look out for herself, that I shall not bother to say what I had intended saying.”
Her gray eyes became intently fixed on mine while her color came and went under the sting of irony.
But I made up my mind to let matters take their course. If she tried to body-snatch this Greek and Bulgarian carrion, let her! If Smith interfered, let him! What was it to me after all? I was becoming fed up on love and feminine caprice — on kings and queens and shocking manners, — on intrigue and treachery and counter plot.
Suddenly, as I stood there, a wave of disgust swept over me. I was sick of Switzerland; sick of the ridiculous property which was causing me all this trouble and discomfort; sick of the grotesque whim of Fate which had yanked me out of an orderly, unaccented life and a peaceful profession in Manhattan and had slammed me down here in the midst of love and Alps and kings!
“I’ll chuck the estate and go home!” I exclaimed. “I’ll go now, to-night!” And then I remembered the accursed avalanche.
She was watching me intently, curiously, and I noticed she had lost some of her colour.
“Do you suppose,” said I, “that there is any way of climbing over that mass of snow? — any way of my getting out of this valley to-night?”
“Would you go if you could?” she asked in a rather colorless voice.
“Yes, I would,” said I savagely. “I’ve had enough.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry that I’ve had enough?” I sneered.
“Sorry you cannot leave the valley to-night,” she said quietly.
“Then it is not possible?”
“I’m afraid not.... If it were, I also would leave this valley to-night.”
“With a bagful of kings,” I added.
“Yes,” she said simply.
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t,” said I with unworthy satisfaction in my knowledge of Smith’s mission. “And let me tell you a thing or two, Thusis. You seem to resemble, more or less, a very naughty little girl, spoiled but precocious, who has run away from school and is raising the devil out of bounds, throwing stones and ringing door-bells and defying policemen with derisive tongue. Pretty soon you’ll be caught and led home and soundly spanked. And,” I added fervently, “I’d like to be in the vicinity of that wood-shed when discipline begins.”
My laughter was fairly genuine. I lighted a cigarette and, gazing at this girl who had so outrageously maligned me, felt so much better that a macabre sort of gaiety verging upon frivolity invaded me.
“All women,” said I, “are women, first, last, and all the time.”
Thusis flushed.
“I am wondering,” said I airily, “whether the rôle of Adonis might suit me.”
“What!” she exclaimed.
“Adonis,” I repeated. “He was that poor fish of an amateur who played opposite Aphrodite. And got the hook. But the rôle is all right and it’s a no-character part if you play it straight.... I’m wondering—” And I smiled at my own thoughts and blew three rings of smoke up at the sun-lit grape leaves overhead.
Suddenly Thusis unclosed her soft, fresh lips, which seemed a trifle tremulous:
“That woman,” she said breathlessly, “is notorious in Vienna! And if you are — sufficiently abandoned — to d-degrade yourself by — an affair — with her — —”
“But what do you care, Thusis?”
Her face flamed. “I care — that!” she said, snapping her white fingers. And turned swiftly on her heel.
XVI. THE COUNTESS
I WAS VERY unhappy. I was not only madly in love with Thusis but also mad enough to spank her. And I sat down in the arbor once more a prey to mixed emotions.
The two silent little birds had gone to bed. Soft mauve shadows lay across the scrubby foreland; snow peaks assumed the hue of pink pearls; a wavering light played through the valley so that the world seemed to quiver in primrose tints.
Then, through the pale yellow glory, a girl came drifting as though part of the delicate beauty of it all, — her frail, primrose evening gown and scarf scarcely outlined — scarcely detached from the golden clarity about her. It was as though she were lost in the monotone of living light the only accent the dusky symmetry of her head.
I had not realized that the Countess Manntrapp was so pretty.
I was not sure that she had discovered me at all until she turned her head en passant and sent me one of those vague smiles calculated to stir the dead bones of saints.
“I suppose,” she said, “you only look lonely, but really you are not.”
I was lonely and sore at heart. Possibly she read in my forced smile something of my state of mind, for she paused leisurely by the arbor and glanced about her at the grape leaves.
“Evidently,” she said, “this spot is sacred to Bacchus. But I was not looking for gods or half-gods.... Do you prefer your own company, Mr. O’Ryan?”
“No, I don’t,” said I. So she entered the arbor and seated herself. There was only that one seat. With strictest economy it could accommodate two; but I had not thought of attempting it until she carelessly suggested it.
“How heavenly still it is,” she murmured, an absent expression in her dark eyes. “Are you fond of stillness and solitude?”
“Not very,” said I. “Are you, Countess?”
She said, dreamily, that she was, but her side glance belied her. Never did the goddess of mischief look at me out of two human eyes as audaciously as she was doing now. And it was so transparent a challenge, so utterly without disguise, that we both laughed.
I don’t know why I laughed unless the soreness in mind and heart had provoked their natural reaction. A listless endurance of suffering is the first symptom of indifference — that blessed anodyne with which instinct inoculates unhappy hearts when the bitterness which was sorrow wears away and leaves only dull resignation.
“At dinner,” she said, “I made up my mind that you are an interesting man. I am wondering.”
“I came to a similar conclusion concerning you,” said I. “But I’m no longer wondering how near right I am.”
“Such a pretty compliment! Also it dissipates any doubts regarding you.”
“Did you have any, Countess?”
“Well, you know what I asked you at dinner. You understood? You read lips, don’t you?”
“I read yours.”
“I wasn’t sure. You gave me no answer.”
We laughed lightly. “What answer can a mortal make when Aphrodite commands?” said I.
“Then you are willing to play Adonis?”
“Quite as willing — as was that young gentleman.”
“That isn’t kind of you, Mr. O’Ryan. He wasn’t very willing, was he?”
“Not very. But possibly he had a premonition of the tragic consequences,” said I, laughing. “One doesn’t frivol with a goddess with impunity.”
“Are you afraid?”
She turned in the narrow seat. She was altogether too near, but I couldn’t help it. And I was much disturbed to find our fingers had become very lightly intertwined.
She was smiling when I kissed her. But after I had done it her smile faded, and the gay confidence in her expression altered.
I had never expected to see in her eyes any hint of confusion, but it was there, and a sort of shamed surprise, too — odd emotions for a hardened coquette with the reputation she enjoyed.
“You proceed too rapidly,” she said, the bright but subtly changed smile still stamped on her lips. “There seems to be no finesse about Americans — no leisurely technique that masters the intricacies of the ante-climax. Did you not know that hesitation is an art; that the only perfect happiness is in suspense?”
“Didn’t you want to be kissed?” I asked bluntly. “I had perhaps surmised that it might not be a disagreeable sensation. Was it?”
She seemed to have recovered her careless audacity, and now she laughed.
“At all events,” she said, “I shall not repeat the experiment ... this evening.” She laid one soft hand in mine with a gay little smile: “Let us enjoy our new friendship serenely and without undue emotion,” she said. “And let me tell you how you have made me laugh at what you said to those absurd Prussians!”
We both laughed, but I was now on my guard with this girl who had come here in such company.
“No Prussian ever born ever knew how to make a friend,” she said. “To-day they have the whole world against them — even your country — —”
“I am Chilean,” said I pleasantly.
“Are you really?”
“I think you and your friends are quite sure of that,” said I drily.
“Suppose,” she said in a lower voice, “I tell you that they are not my friends?”
I smiled.
“You wouldn’t believe me?” she asked.
“What I believe and do not believe, dear Countess, should not disturb you in the slightest.”
“I thought we were friends.”
“Do you really think so?”
“I hope so. I wish it — if you do. And friendship does not fear confidences.”
“Neutrals have no confidences to make. My country is not at war.”
“Is not your heart enlisted?” she asked, smilingly.
“Is yours?”
“Yes, it is! See how my friendship refuses no confidence when you ask? I do not hesitate.”
“On which side,” said I, warily, “is your heart enlisted?”
“Shall I tell you?”
“If you care to.”
She sat looking at me intently, her soft hand in mine. Then, with a pretty gesture, she placed the other hand over it, and her shoulder came into contact with mine.
“I am Russian,” she said. “Is that not an answer?”
“So is Puppsky,” I remarked.
For a second an odd expression came over her face and it turned quite white. Then she laughed.
“I’ll tell you something,” she said. “I have a girl friend. I love her dearly. I have a country. I love it still more dearly. The girl I love is Adelaide, Grand Duchess of Luxemburg. Prussia has practically annexed it. The country I love is Russia. Prussia holds it.... Do you still doubt me?”
“Good Lord,” thought I, “how this girl can lie!” But I said: “Tell me about Luxemburg, Countess. Is it true that Prince Ruprecht of Bavaria means to marry the seventeen-year-old sister of the Grand Duchess Adelaide?”
“Yes,” she said. And I distinctly heard her teeth snap.
“What sort of man is Ruprecht?” I inquired, to steer the conversation toward easier ground.
“Ruprecht! Did you ever see him?”
“No.”
“Well, he has the manners of the barn-yard and the distinction of a scullion! Picture to yourself a man of fifty-seven with a head as square as a battered bullet and the bodily grace of a new-born camel. He is the stupidest, coarsest, commonest vulgarian in Europe.
“Why, the man is ridiculous! He once set all Munich laughing by appearing in the English Garden on skates wearing his spurs and saber. And all his military suite had to do likewise. Picture the result — and Ruprecht scarcely knew how to stand on the ice! Why their swords got between their legs and their spurs did the rest, and the entire lake resounded with the incessant crash of falling warriors.”
She threw back her head and laughed; and I laughed too.
“Such a brute,” she said. “His first wife, daughter of that kindly and philanthropic oculist, Karl Theodore of Tegernsee, died of his neglect and ill treatment. And now, at fifty-seven, he rolls his hog’s eyes in his freckled face and smirks at a seventeen-year-old child — God help her!”
I gazed in amazement at the Countess Manntrapp. This was acting with a vengeance. Such perfection, such flawless interpretation of the rôle she was playing for my benefit, I had never dreamed possible. No emotion could appear more genuine, no sincerity more perfectly mimicked. Here was an actress without equal in my entire experience.
Suddenly I caught her eye, and turned very red.
“You don’t believe me,” she said calmly, and dropped her head.
There was a painful silence between us. Presently she looked up at me, flushed, curious, amused:
“You take me for a Hun, don’t you?”
“If you are not pro-German,” said I, much embarrassed, “what are you doing with those people?”
“Watching them. And you don’t believe that, either?”
“I’m sorry, Countess.”
“Why do you doubt me?”
“Because only a pro-German would confide to a stranger that she is not one. Were you really in the Allied service you’d keep your own council. Secret agents don’t betray themselves to strangers. You have no means of knowing where my sympathies lie. How do you know I am not pro-German?”
“By your letters.”
“My letters?”
“I opened several,” she said naïvely.
“Where!”
“In Berne.”
“You stole my letters?”
“Yes, I had to.”
“How did you do it?”
“The postman is in my pay.”
“That,” said I angrily, “is a most outrageous confession, Countess.”
“But I had to know what your politics are,” she explained gently. “Besides, if I had not stolen all your letters the Swiss authorities would have opened them and found out that you are pro-Ally in sentiment. And then you would not have been permitted to come here and live in this house. And all these people would not have come here either. And I should have had nobody to help me while keeping these people under surveillance.”
“You count on me to help you?” I demanded, too astonished to remain angry.
“May I not?” she asked sweetly.
“So that’s the reason,” said I, “that you let me kiss you.”
“I must be honest, it is.”
With every atom of conceit knocked out of me, wincing, chagrined, I found nothing to say to this pretty woman who sat so close beside me and looked at me with a half smile hovering on her lips and out of sweet, dark eyes that seemed utterly honest — God help her.
“It is only your vanity that is smarting a little,” she said, smiling, “not your heart. I haven’t touched that at all.”
“How do you know?” I retorted.
“Because you are in love with somebody else, Mr. O’Ryan.”
“With whom?” I demanded defiantly.
“I don’t know. But you are in love. A woman can tell.”
“I am not in love,” said I with angry emphasis, recollecting the treatment meted out to me by Thusis. “I’m not in love with anybody.” I caught her doubting but interested eyes fixed intently on me— “unless,” I added recklessly, “I’m in love with you.”
“But you’re not.”
We looked at each other curiously, almost searchingly, not inclined to laugh yet ready, perhaps, for further mischief. Why not preoccupy my mind with this amusing and pretty woman, and slay in my heart all regard for Thusis?
