by Thomas Mann
She stopped.
Klaus Heinrich sat upright and braced up in his wicker chair opposite her and looked at her. Before leaving his rectilineal room, he had dressed himself with his valet Neumann’s help with all possible care, as his life in the public eye required. His parting ran from over his left eye, straight up to the crown of his head, without a hair sticking up, and his hair was brushed up into a crest off the right side of his forehead. There he sat in his undress uniform, whose high collar and close fit helped him to maintain a composed attitude, the silver epaulettes of a major on his narrow shoulders, leaning slightly but not comfortably forward, collected, calm, with one foot slightly advanced, and with his right hand above his left on his sword-hilt. His young face looked slightly weary from the unreality, the loneliness, strictness, and difficulty of his life; he sat looking at the Countess with a friendly, clear, but composed expression in his eyes.
She stopped. Disenchantment and disgust showed themselves in her features, and, while something like hate towards Klaus Heinrich flamed up in her tired grey eyes, she blushed in the strangest of ways, for one half of her face turned red, the other white. Dropping her eyelids she answered: “I have been living with the Spoelmanns for three years, Royal Highness.”
Percival darted forward. Dancing, springing, and wagging his tail he trotted towards his mistress—for Imma Spoelmann had come in—raised himself in a dignified way on his hind legs and laid his fore paws in greeting on her breast. His jaws were wide open, and his red tongue hung out between his ivory-white teeth. He looked like a heraldic supporter as he stood there before her.
She wore a wonderful dress of brick-red silk with loose hanging sleeves, and the breast covered with heavy gold embroidery. A big egg-shaped jewel on a pearl necklace lay on her bare neck, the skin of which was the colour of smoked meerschaum. Her blue-black hair was parted on one side and coiled, though a few smooth wisps tended to fall on her forehead. Holding Percival’s head in her two narrow, ringless little hands, she looked into his face, saying, “Well, well, my friend. What a welcome! We are glad to see each other—we hated being parted, didn’t we? Now go back and lie down.” And she put his paws off the gold embroidery on her breast, and set him on his four paws again.
“Oh, Prince,” she said. “Welcome to Delphinenort. You hate breaking your promise, I can see. I’m coming to sit next you. They’ll tell us when tea is ready.… It’s against all the rules, I know, for me to have kept you waiting. But my father sent for me—and besides you had somebody to entertain you.” Her bright eyes passed from Klaus Heinrich to the Countess and back in a rather hesitating way.
“That’s quite true,” he said. And then he asked how Mr. Spoelmann was, and received a fairly reassuring answer. Mr. Spoelmann would have the pleasure of making Klaus Heinrich’s acquaintance at tea-time, he begged to be excused till then.… What a lovely pair of horses Klaus Heinrich had in his brougham I And then they talked about their horses, about Klaus Heinrich’s good-tempered brown Florian from the Hollerbrunn stud, about Miss Spoelmann’s Arabian cream, the mare Fatma which had been given to Mr. Spoelmann by an oriental prince, about her fast Hungarian chestnuts, which she drove four-in-hand.
“Do you know the country round?” asked Klaus Heinrich. “Have you hunted with the Royal pack? Have you been to the ‘Pheasantry’? There are lots of lovely excursions.”
No, Miss Spoelmann was not at all clever in finding out new roads, and the Countess—well, her whole nature was unenterprising, so they always chose the same road, in the Town Gardens, for their ride. It was boring, perhaps, but Miss Spoelmann was not on the whole so blasé as to need constant change and adventures. Then he said that they must go together some time to a meet of the hounds or to the “Pheasantry,” whereupon she pursed her lips and said that that was an idea which might be discussed some time in the future. Then the major-domo came in and gravely announced that tea was ready.
They went through the tapestry hall with the marble fireplace, conducted by the strutting butler, accompanied by the dancing Percy, and followed by Countess Löwenjoul.
“Has the Countess been letting her tongue run away with her?” asked Imma en route, without any particular lowering of her voice.
Klaus Heinrich started and looked at the floor. “But she can hear us!” he said softly.
“No, she doesn’t hear us,” answered Imma. “I can read her face. When she holds her head crooked like that and blinks her eyes it means that she is wandering and deep in her thoughts. Did she let her tongue run away with her?”
“For a minute or two,” said Klaus Heinrich. “I got the impression that the Countess ‘let herself go’ every now and then.”
“She has had a lot of trouble.” And Imma looked at him with the same big searching dark eyes with which she had scanned him in the Dorothea Hospital. “I’ll tell you all about it another time. It’s a long story.”
“Yes,” he said. “Some other time. Next time. On our ride perhaps.”
“On our ride?”
“Yes, on our ride to the meet, or to the ‘Pheasantry.’ ”
“Oh, I forgot your preciseness, Prince, in the matter of appointments. Very well, on our ride. We go down here.”
They found themselves at the back of the Schloss. Carpeted steps led from a gallery hung with big pictures, down into the white-and-gold garden room, behind the glass door of which lay the terrace. Everything—the big crystal lustres, which hung from the centre of the high, white-festooned ceiling, the regularly arranged arm-chairs with gilt frames and fancy upholstering, the heavy white silk curtains, the elaborate clock and the vases and gilt lamps on the white marble chimneypiece in front of the tall looking-glass, the massive, lion-footed gilt candelabra which towered on either side of the entrance—everything reminded Klaus Heinrich of the Old Schloss, of the Representation Chamber, in which he had played his part from his youth up; only that the candles here were shams, with yellow electric bulbs instead of wicks, and that everything of the Spoelmanns’ was new and smart in Schloss Delphinenort. A swan’s-down footman was putting the last touch to the tea-table in a corner of the room; Klaus Heinrich noticed the electric kettle about which he had read in the Courier.
“Has Mr. Spoelmann been told?” asked the daughter of the house.… The butler bowed. “Then there’s nothing,” she said quickly and half mockingly, “to prevent us from taking our places and beginning without him. Come, Countess! I advise you, Prince, to unbuckle your sword, unless there are reasons unknown to me for your not doing so.…”
“Thanks,” said Klaus Heinrich, “no, there is no reason why I shouldn’t.” And he was angry with himself for not being smart enough to think of a more adroit answer.
The footman took his sword, and carried it off. They took their seats at the tea-table with the help of the butler, who held the backs and pushed the chairs under them. Then he retired to the top of the steps, where he remained in an elegant attitude.
“I must tell you, Prince,” said Miss Spoelmann, pouring the water into the pot, “that my father won’t drink any tea which I have not made with my own hands. He distrusts all tea which is handed round ready-made in cups. That is barred with us. You’ll have to put up with it.”
“Oh, I like it much better like this,” said Klaus Heinrich, “it’s much more comfortable and free-and-easy at a family tea like this.…” He broke off, and wondered why as he spoke these words a side-glance of hatred lighted on him from the eyes of Countess Löwenjoul. “And your course of study?” he asked. “May I ask about it? It’s mathematics, I know. Don’t you find it too much? Isn’t it terribly brain-racking?”
“Absolutely not,” she said. “It’s just splendid; it’s like playing in the breezes, so to speak, or rather out of the breezes, in a dust-free atmosphere. It’s as cool there as in the Adirondacks.”
“The what?”
“The Adirondacks. That’s geography, Prince. Mountains over in the States, with lovely snowfields. We have a country cottage there, where we
go in May. In summer we used to go to the sea-side.”
“At any rate,” he said, “I can testify to your zeal in your studies. You do not like being prevented from arriving punctually at your lectures. I haven’t yet asked you whether you reached that one the other day up to time.”
“The other day?”
“Yes, a week or two ago, After the contretemps with the change of guard.”
“Dear, dear, Prince, now you are beginning that too. That story seems to have reached from hut to palace. Had I known what a bother was going to come of it, I would rather have gone three times round the whole Schlossplatz. It even got into the newspapers, I’m told. And now of course the whole town thinks I am a regular fiend for temper and rudeness. But I am the most peaceful creature in the world, and only don’t like being ordered about. Am I a fiend, Countess? I demand a truthful answer.”
“No, you’re an angel,” said Countess Löwenjoul.
“H’m—angel, that’s too much, that’s too far the other way, Countess.…”
“No,” said Klaus Heinrich, “no, not too far. I entirely believe the Countess.…”
“I’m much honoured. But how did your Highness hear about the adventure? Through the newspapers?”
“I was an eye-witness of it,” said Klaus Heinrich.
“An eye-witness?”
“Yes. I happened to be standing at the window of the officers’ mess, and saw the whole thing from beginning to end.”
Miss Spoelmann blushed. There was no doubt about it, the pale skin of her face deepened in colour.
“Well, Prince,” she said, “I assume that you had nothing better to do at the moment.”
“Better?” he cried. “But it was a splendid sight. I give you my word that never in my life …”
Percival, who was lying with his forepaws crossed, by Miss Spoelmann, raised his head with a look of tense expectancy and beat the carpet with his tail, At the same moment the butler began to run, as fast as his ponderous frame would let him, down the steps to the lofty side-door over against the tea-table, and swiftly pulled aside the whole silk portiere, sticking his double chin the while into the air with a majestic expression. Samuel Spoelmann, the millionaire, walked in.
He was a man of neat build with a strange face. He was clean shaven, with red cheeks and a prominent nose, his little eyes were of a metallic blue-black, like those of little children and animals, and had an absent and peevish look. The upper part of his head was bald, but behind and on his temples Mr. Spoelmann had a quantity of grey hair, dressed in a fashion not often seen among us. He wore it neither short nor long, but brushed up, sticking out, though cropped on the nape and round his ears. His mouth was small and finely chiselled. Dressed in a black frock-coat with a velvet waistcoat on which lay a long, thin, old-fashioned watch-chain, and soft slippers on his feet, he advanced quickly to the tea-table with a cross and pre-occupied expression on his face; but his face cleared up, it regained composure and tenderness when he caught sight of his daughter. Imma had gone to meet him.
“Greeting, most excellent father,” she said, and throwing her brown little arms, in their loose brick-coloured hanging sleeves, round his neck, she kissed him on the bald spot which he offered her as he inclined his head.
“Of course you knew,” she continued, “that Prince Klaus Heinrich was coming to tea with us to-day?”
“No; I’m delighted, delighted,” said Mr. Spoelmann no less readily and in a grating voice. “Please don’t move!” he said at once. And while he shook hands (Mr. Spoelmann’s hand was thin and half-covered by his unstarched white cuff) with the Prince, who was standing modestly by the table, he nodded repeatedly to one side or the other. That was his way of greeting Klaus Heinrich. He was an alien, an invalid, and a man apart as regards wealth. He was forgiven and nothing further was expected of him—Klaus Heinrich recognized the fact, and took pains to recover his self-control.
“You are at home here in a sense,” added Mr. Spoelmann, cutting the conversation short, and a passing gleam of malice played round his clean-shaven mouth. Then he gave the others an example by sitting down. It was the chair between Imma and Klaus Heinrich, opposite the Countess and the veranda door, which the butler pushed under him.
As Mr. Spoelmann showed no intention of apologizing for his unpunctuality, Klaus Heinrich said: “I am sorry to hear that you are unwell this morning, Mr. Spoelmann. I hope you are better.”
“Thanks, better, not but all right,” answered Mr. Spoelmann crossly. “How many spoonfuls did you put in?” he asked his daughter. He was alluding to the tea.
She had filled his cup, and she handed it to him.
“Four,” said she. “One for each person. Nobody shall say that I stint my grey-haired father.”
“What’s that?” answered Mr. Spoelmann. “I’m not grey-haired. You ought to have your tongue clipped.” And he took from a silver box a kind of rusk which seemed to be his own special dainty, broke it and dipped it peevishly in the golden tea, which he, like his daughter, drank without milk or sugar.
Klaus Heinrich began over again: “I am much excited at the prospect of seeing your collection, Mr. Spoelmann.”
“All right,” answered Mr. Spoelmann. “So you want to see my glass? Are you an amateur? A collector perhaps?”
“No,” said Klaus Heinrich, “my love for glass has not extended to my becoming a collector.”
“No time?” asked Mr. Spoelmann. “Do your military duties take so much time?”
Klaus Heinrich answered: “I’m no longer on the active list, Mr. Spoelmann. I am à la suite of my regiment. I wear the uniform, that’s all.”
“I see, make believe,” said Mr. Spoelmann harshly. “What do you do all day, then?”
Klaus Heinrich had stopped drinking tea, had pushed his things away in the course of the conversation which demanded his undivided attention. He sat upright and defended himself, feeling the while that Imma Spoelmann’s big, black, searching eyes were resting on him.
“I have duties at Court, with the ceremonies and big occasions. I have also to represent the State in a military capacity, at the swearing-in of recruits and the presentation of colours. Then I have to hold levées as deputy for my brother, the Grand Duke. And then there are little journeys on duty to the provincial centres for unveilings and dedications and other public solemnities.”
“I see,” said Mr. Spoelmann, “Ceremonies, solemnities, food for spectators. No, that sort of thing’s beyond me. I tell you once for all, that I wouldn’t give a farthing for your calling. That’s my standpoint, sir.”
“I entirely understand,” said Klaus Heinrich. He sat up stiffly in his uniform and smiled uneasily.
“Of course it needs practice like everything else,” Mr. Spoelmann went on in a little less bitter tone of voice—“practice and training, I can see. For myself I shall never as long as I live cease feeling angry when I am obliged to play the prodigy.”
“I only hope,” said Klaus Heinrich, “that our people are not wanting in respect …”
“Thanks, not so bad,” answered Mr. Spoelmann. “The people are at least friendly here; one doesn’t see murder written in their eyes.”
“I hope, Mr. Spoelmann,” and Klaus Heinrich felt more at his ease, now that the conversation had turned, and the questioning lay with him, “that, notwithstanding the unusual circumstances, you continue to enjoy your stay amongst us.”
“Thanks,” said Mr. Spoelmann, “I’m quite comfortable, and the water is the only thing which really does do me some good.”
“You did not find it a wrench to leave America?”
Klaus Heinrich felt a look, a quick, suspicious, shy look, which he could not interpret.
“No,” said Mr. Spoelmann, sharply and crossly. That was all his answer to the question whether he felt it a wrench to leave America.
A pause ensued. Countess Löwenjoul held her smooth little head inclined to one side, and smiled a distant Madonna-like smile. Miss Spoelmann watched Klaus Heinrich fix
edly with her big black eyes, as if testing the effect of her father’s extraordinary boorishness on the guest,—indeed, Klaus Heinrich felt that she was waiting with resignation and sympathy for him to get up and take his departure for good and all. He met her eyes, and remained. Mr. Spoelmann, for his part, drew out a gold case and took out a fat cigarette, which, when lighted, diffused a delicious fragrance.
“Smoke?” he asked.… And as Klaus Heinrich found that there was no objection, he helped himself, after Mr. Spoelmann, out of the proffered case.
They then discussed various topics before proceeding to an inspection of the glass—chiefly Klaus Heinrich and Miss Spoelmann, for the Countess’s thoughts were wandering, and Mr. Spoelmann only interpolated a cross remark now and then: the local theatre, the huge ship in which the Spoelmanns had crossed to Europe. No, they had not used their yacht for the purpose. Its primary object was to take Mr. Spoelmann to sea in the evening in the heat of summer, when he was tied to his business and Imma and the Countess were in Newport; he used to pass the night on deck. She was now lying at Venice. But they had crossed in a huge steamer, a floating hotel with concert rooms and gymnasia. “She had five storeys,” said Miss Spoelmann.
