Читать книгу A Little Garrison - Fritz Oswald Bilse - Страница 6

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Standing in the centre of her parlor, a spacious and cosy one, Frau Clara König let her eyes glide over the arrangements made for the reception of her guests.

For this was her regular soirée musicale, when she saw assembled about her, one evening each week, those of her more intimate friends who dallied habitually with Euterpe, loveliest of the Muses. To-night, however, her invitations had not been so restricted, for she had asked some other families to come, largely for the laudable purpose of admiring the musical achievements of the “artists.”

Here she placed a chair in its proper place; there she smoothed with tapering fingers one or the other of the tidies, products of her own skilful needle, which, in every hue and size, adorned the furniture. She tested the various lamps; opened and shut piano and parlor organ to convince herself of the absence of dust; and finally minutely inspected sundry vases, deftly manipulating their lovely contents, so that each flower and each enfolding leaf stood out to greatest advantage. This was one of her specialties. At none of her parties, even in mid-winter, was there a lack of tastefully grouped nosegays and bits of green on mantel and corner brackets.

Frau Clara was a woman of about thirty, with a well-proportioned figure and a rather pretty, rosy face. Her lively blue eyes and a wealth of well-groomed hair combined to give her a look of pleasant youthfulness.

These last touches done, she seated herself on a low stool, for her thoughts pronounced it all good.

And now the heavy drapery was thrust aside, and her husband appeared—a tall man with a black moustache. He, too, came to attend to his share of the preparations. He lit up the chandelier. Usually he gauged the number of gas jets lit by the number of guests expected, one for each. But inasmuch as there were only five jets and about a dozen guests to come, he indulged in the luxury of igniting them all. He did this with various groans at the latest outrageous gas bill, and next inspected the stoves. Then he also sank down into a seat.

Albrecht König was captain in the cavalry regiment quartered in the town. His squadron was always in apple-pie order, for he devoted to it his entire energy during waking hours. Brief intervals of leisure he filled by glancing at the Deutsche Zeitung, studying the money-market reports, toiling in the large garden behind the house, which he always kept in almost as good order as his squadron, and superintending his hennery, the useful output of which he sold to his wife at more than current prices.[1] And if there was nothing else to do, he had scientific skirmishes with his nine-year-old, attended wine-tests,[2] or practised on the piano, an instrument which he played almost as well as might have been wished by his friends.

A noise in the hall told of the arrival of the first guest. A heavy, dragging step and a snorting breath told them who it was. The door opened, and Agricultural Counsellor von Konradi made his appearance. A rather fleshy sort of man, with glasses on his aristocratic nose, over the tops of which his eyes sought the lady of the house. His hair was dyed a fine dark shade, and envy proclaimed that this was done on account of the fair sex; for he was unmarried. His two ideals in life, however, were a good dinner and several bottles of even a better wine to go with it. Since he realized both of these ideals in the captain’s house, he was fond of going there. As to the rest, he was held to be a gentleman.

While he was at the critical point in a story embodying his profound grief at the arrival from his estate of a pheasant in a scandalously unripe condition, the door opened again and admitted the spouse of Captain Kahle.

Of a dainty, petite figure, and with a face that seemed to belong to a gamin, she presented on the whole a graceful enough ensemble. But there were two drawbacks—her rather large mouth was wreathed in a stereotyped smile, and when she opened it it gave utterance to a voice of somewhat unpleasant, strident timbre.

Three youngish men followed on her heels. The first of them was Lieutenant Pommer, who was somewhat of a general favorite because of his unaffected, frank demeanor. Occasionally it became a trifle rough or rude; but you always knew where you had him. With special ardor he saluted Frau Kahle, and it looked almost droll to watch the contrast between him, a burly, corpulent fellow, and this tiny, fragile figure that resembled a Dresden china shepherdess.

The second one was Lieutenant Müller. Those who did not know him could have guessed from his stiff, self-contained mien that he must be the regimental adjutant. Housewives dreaded him, for his appetite was Gargantuan. With stoic defiance of all warning glances he was in the habit of demolishing thrice the quantity of the daintiest eatables apportioned to each guest. After everybody else had put down his fork, his invariable way was to help himself once more liberally, saying it was his favorite dish.

The last of the trio was Lieutenant Kolberg, an amazingly pale young man with moustaches à la Kaiser. He led a life against which moralists might have urged arguments, and there had been various scandals connected with his past.

While the other guests were waited for, a few groups were being formed. Lieutenant Kolberg approached Frau Kahle and measured her from top to toe with approval. The adjutant made a clever attempt to find out from the hostess what particular dishes were in store for him. Having ascertained this, he at once swore they were his special delectation. Herr von Konradi was chatting with Captain König about a wine-testing trip into the Moselle district which they were jointly planning in order to replenish their respective cellars.

Another lady entered, one whose corpulency and unskilfully powdered face and arms made an unpleasing contrast with a badly fitting robe of black and yellow. She ran up to Frau Clara and squeezed her hand in her wobbly fingers, expressing joy at the invitation. To the gentlemen who sidled up to her one after the other she extended that same chubby hand with a fatuous smile, but holding it so high that they could not do otherwise than touch it with their lips.

This was Frau Captain Stark, the latest spouse in the regiment, though probably past the demi-century line.

Her lord, likewise of rotund shape, came after her. He wore a black Vandyke beard, and his special forte was a carefully trained and extremely long nail on the little finger. It was said that this nail demanded a goodly portion of his leisure hours. His voice told its own story of bonhommie and unctuous Rhine wine.

Behind this couple hove in sight the figure of the commander. Everybody stepped aside with a show of deference, and all around he was saluted with deep bows, while he slowly stepped up to Captain König and his lady. The bowlegs and the robust body were not relieved by a face of finer mould, and thus it was that Colonel von Kronau scarcely corresponded with the popular conception of a dashing cavalry officer. Most striking about him was a tear that permanently glistened in the corner of his eye. This tear he always allowed to grow to a certain size, when he would, by a dexterous motion born of long practice, propel it from its resting-place over at his vis-à-vis, either at the latter’s feet or in his face, as the case might be. It largely depended on the size of the tear and the rank of his vis-à-vis.

The lady who accompanied him and who had the face and manners of a governess was his better half. She had squeezed herself on this occasion into a dowdy dress of pearl-gray silk, with a purple collar of velvet.

Almost simultaneously the remainder of the invited personages filed in. There was First Lieutenant Borgert. His shifting eyes seldom looked squarely at any one whom he deigned to address. He was fleshy, but his movements were nevertheless elastic and suave. Behind him stood First Lieutenant Leimann, under-sized and prematurely bent, with a neck several sizes too short for him and a suspicion of deformity between the shoulders. A pear-shaped head protruded from between them, fitfully lit up by a pair of pig’s eyes, which either restlessly shot glances or else were so completely buried under their lids as to become invisible. A monocle hung down his bosom from a broad ribbon, but he never used it, for fear of becoming ridiculous.

These two gentlemen dwelt together in the same house, each occupying a floor, and were inseparables. Though perennially short of cash, they saw no reason to deny themselves the luxuries of this mundane sphere. On the contrary, they lived like heirs to great fortunes.

“Pardon me, my gracious lady,”[3] remarked Leimann to the hostess, “but my wife could not come immediately, having her old complaint—nervous headache, you know!” In saying this he made a face as though he didn’t himself believe what he was saying. “But she will doubtless come a bit later.”

“Sorry to hear it,” Frau Clara sweetly answered, “but I hope she will soon feel well enough to appear.”

After little Lieutenant Bleibtreu, a special friend of the house and the only subaltern in Captain König’s squadron, had in his turn saluted everybody, the servant announced that the meal was served. The diners, in couples, ranged strictly according to rank, passed in. The dining-room looked cheerful, and the table had been arranged with Frau Clara’s customary taste.

Everybody having been served, conversation started slowly. “The weather has turned so fine of late that we can commence playing tennis,” remarked Frau Colonel von Kronau.

“Certainly,” chimed in her husband, masticating vigorously. “I shall call a meeting of the club next week, and then nothing will stand in the way.”

“Charming!” enthusiastically fluted Frau Stark. “I love it passionately, and you, of course, will all join in? You, my dear Frau Kahle, were one of the most zealous members last season. And how is it with you, Frau König?”

“I’ll have to forego the pleasure,” she replied, “for it does not agree with me.”

“And your husband?”

“I don’t know how to play,” the captain said; “but I like to watch graceful ladies at it.”

Frau Stark bit her lips and shot an angry glance at the captain. “What did he mean by ‘graceful ladies,’ anyway?” she thought. That was meant for her, no doubt. And she remembered unpleasant comment made because she with her fifty years had started riding a patient old mare belonging to her husband’s squadron. One of the sergeants was giving her lessons.

“Some civilians, I believe, will join,” broke in the colonel. “I will have a list circulating.”

Everybody knew this was buncombe, the colonel being extremely unpopular in civilian circles, and they smiled incredulously.

“I will join you,” said Herr von Konradi, “provided the heat is not excessive. Next week, however, I have no leisure. I must sow my peas, or it will be too late.”

“Yes,” put in König, “or they will not thrive.”

“What? Not thrive? Peas will always turn out well if properly attended to,” said the colonel’s wife, with a touch of asperity.

“I fear I must contradict you, my gracious lady,” retorted the captain. “Last year’s did not turn out well anywhere.”

“They must be sowed at moonlight, and not a word be spoken, then they will do finely, every time,” said the Frau Colonel, eagerly. “But don’t imagine that I am superstitious. I am simply stating a fact.”

It was a bold thing to do, for whatever the colonel’s wife said must not be gainsaid, yet Lieutenant Bleibtreu could not help it. He laughingly said: “Sowing, therefore, bacon in between while the sun is shining, we’ll have one of my favorite dishes ready made.”

The colonel’s lady merely transfixed him with an envenomed stare. After a dramatic interval she resumed: “But, come to think of it, I myself won’t have leisure next week. My goose-liver pâtés are not yet finished.”

“You prepare them yourself?” asked the agricultural counsellor with deep interest.

“Of course. I do up six potfuls every year. The colonel dotes on this kind of stuff.”

“And where do you procure your truffles, may I ask? I am myself looking for a trustworthy person.”

“Truffles? Nonsense, it tastes every bit as good without them—that is all imagination.”

“Oh, but you must excuse me, my gracious lady; truffles are the very soul of a goose-liver pâté. Without them it is insipid—‘Hamlet’ with Hamlet left out.”

“ ‘Hamlet’?” rejoined the lady with the governess face. “We were talking of truffles.”

Herr von Konradi shrugged his shoulders. Nobody else said a word. Just then Frau First Lieutenant Leimann entered. She looked as fresh and bright as the morning star.

“A thousand pardons, Frau König,” she smiled, “but I had to finish some important letters.” And she sat down in the place reserved for her.

“We heard you were suffering from headache,” was the general remark.

“Headache? Yes, I forgot—I did have it. But that is such an old story with me that I scarcely think of mentioning it any more.”

She was a handsome young woman, and the fact was made more apparent by the really tasteful gown she wore.

During all this time the adjutant had not said a word. He attended strictly to the business that had brought him here. His voracity attracted no attention, because everybody was used to it. Off and on he merely emitted a species of grunt in token of approval or dissent of what had been said. He was still eating when the hostess finally gave the signal to rise. Then everybody wished everybody else a “blessed digestion,”[4] and made for the adjoining rooms, where the ladies were served with coffee and the men with cordials, beer, and cigars.

Informal chatting was indulged in. The colonel, after briefly despatching a trifling matter connected with the service, for which purpose he retained Müller, who was fairly oozing with good cheer, retired to a quiet corner with Frau Stark. Since their conversation was carried on in whispers, First Lieutenant Borgert, despite strenuous efforts to overhear, could only catch a phrase or a single word from time to time.

“You must manage it,” he heard her say.

“Let us hope that the annual inspection will turn out well,” replied the colonel. “Last time our direct superiors were finding fault with your husband. It began in the stables, and I heard some talk about it.”

“Never mind all that, Colonel, my husband must be promoted to be major. I tell you plainly, if you drop him I shall—”

“Have no fears, my most gracious lady. I have given him a very brilliant report, though he doesn’t deserve it, as you know. But I shall do my best.”

“And you owe me your best, Colonel, as you very well know, for without me you would be to-day—”

Captain König came up.

“Will the Herr Colonel not accompany us next week on a wine-testing trip up the Moselle? Agricultural Counsellor von Konradi will make one of the party. Some exquisite growths are to be sold.”

“Certainly, my dear König. You know that I always join in such expeditions. And with you in particular I like to go, for your dinner has shown me once more that you own a faultless ‘wine tongue.’ ”

“Very flattering, Colonel. But I see you are still cigarless; everything is laid out in my room.”

The colonel stepped into the next room. Frau Kahle was flirting with Lieutenant Pommer in one corner, while several young men were doing that with the pretty hostess in the other corner. Just then First Lieutenant Leimann entered from the dining-room, and behind him his spouse, making a wry face. Her mien became sunny, however, when First Lieutenant Borgert stepped up to her and inquired with solicitude as to the cause of grief.

“Oh! The usual thing,” she snapped. “My husband has scolded me. You know his ungentlemanly ways. Always rude and offensive.”

“What was the trouble this time?”

“Merely the fact that I had excused my lateness at table by pleading unfinished letters, while he had urged a headache. I am tired of his eternal fault-finding.”

“That is valid reason for a divorce, my bewitching lady,” smiled Borgert. “Look for another husband if you are tired of the present one.”

She peered into his face inquiringly. “You don’t imagine how serious I am.”

“Ah, if that’s the case, my dear lady, there is no time like the present for planning a change. How, for instance, would I do for a substitute? Now, honor bright?” and he playfully fondled her plump little hand.

She took this just as smilingly. “Before I answer,” she said, coquettishly lowering her eyelids, “I must know what you have to offer me.”

“Let us sit down then and discuss this most alluring topic in its various bearings,” laughingly remarked he; and he led her to a divan, where they sat down side by side.

“Now, then, pay close attention, please,” continued he. “I offer you an elegant home, a neat turnout, a tolerably groomed nag, a villa on Lake Zurich, and a host of serving genii.”

“And who is to pay for it all?”

“Pay?” His wonderment was great. “Pay for it? Why, what is the use of doing that? It has become unfashionable, and besides, so much good money is frittered away by paying. I never pay, and yet I manage to live pretty comfortably.”

“All very well, but there is my husband to think of besides,” joked the pretty woman.

“Of course you still have him; but meanwhile you might try and accustom yourself to me—as his successor, you know.”

Frau Leimann nodded cheerfully and then buried her empty little head in her hand, dreamily scanning the carpet. The others had left the two in sole possession of the room. The eyes of the officer sought hers, and there was a peculiar expression in them when they met.

“Why do you look at me that way?” said she. “You make me almost fear you.”

“Afraid of your most dutiful slave?” whispered he, and his breath fanned her cheek. “Ah, no. But do not forget our conversation, loveliest of women. Things spoken in jest often come true in the end.” She looked up and smiled as if enchanted at the idea. Then she rose, and when he grasped one of her hands she made no effort to wrest it away. He imprinted a long-drawn kiss on it. She shivered and then rapidly glided into the adjoining room, where the jumble of sounds produced by tuning a variety of musical instruments was now heard. The strident notes of violins, the rumbling boom of a cello, and the broken chords of a piano were confusedly mingling, and the male guests were slowly dropping in or taking up a position, a half-smoked Havana or cigarette between the lips, just outside the door, so as to combine two sources of enjoyment. Borgert had remained behind in the next room, and was now studying intently a letter the contents of which plunged him in a painful reverie. At last he put back the letter in his breast pocket, audibly cursing its sender, and then joined the group nearest him.

At the parlor organ Captain König was seated, while his wife had taken charge of the piano accompaniment. Herr von Konradi and First Lieutenant Leimann stood ready with their violins, while Lieutenant Bleibtreu, the violoncello pressed between the knees, occupied the rear. The auditors, at least the majority of them, were comfortably ensconced in chairs or sofas, near the mantelpiece, and around a table on which a small battery of beer mugs, steins, and tankards was solidly planted.

They began to play: a trio by Reinhardt. It sounded well, for the performers had practised their respective parts thoroughly. But there were some disturbing factors, as is always the case with amateurs. The unwieldy agricultural counsellor rose on his creaking boots with every note he drew, and frequently snorted in his zeal. Leimann, too, was one of those one must not look at while performing, for his queer-shaped head had sunk between his shoulders and his bowed back presented a rather unæsthetic picture. The cellist, whose fingers were rather thick, occasionally grasped the wrong string, but tried to make up for this by bringing out the next tones with doubled vigor. The trio was followed by violin solos, and lastly by a Liszt rhapsody, played by the Königs with warm feeling and sufficient technique.

For finale the small audience overwhelmed the players with praise, and some more or less correct remarks were made about the different compositions.

“Oh, my dear Lieutenant Bleibtreu,” cried Frau Stark, “I must resume my cello practice with you. It is such a soulful instrument, and I used to play it with tolerable proficiency in my younger days.”

Bleibtreu made a grimace, and Captain König whispered to him that the elderly lady was unable to distinguish one note from another.

Borgert had looked on nonchalantly from the door during the concert. Once in a while he glanced sharply at Frau Leimann, who was cosily reclining in an arm-chair, her eyes half closed, a prey to thoughts.

The players had now taken seats at the large table, and the conversation turned to trivial affairs of the day, the Frau Colonel assuming the lion’s share of it, for she was decidedly talkative. Thus another hour passed; and when the clock on the mantel marked half-past ten, Colonel von Kronau gave his better half a look of understanding, and the latter slightly nodded in reply, and rose, saying to the lady of the house, with a smile:

“Dear Frau König, it was charming of you to prepare such an enchanting evening for us. But it is time for us to be going. Many thanks!”

The hostess made some polite objections; but when she saw that the Starks too, and the agricultural counsellor began to take formal leave, she desisted from any further attempts to retain her guests, not dissatisfied, on the whole, that but a small circle remained. For with them it was not necessary to weigh words as carefully as in the presence of the colonel. It frequently happened that he, the day after a social gathering, took occasion to reprove his captains and lieutenants for a careless turn of phrase or for something which he construed as a lack of respect shown to him or his wife.

Those five gone, the others moved their chairs closer together around the table, and some fresh, foaming nectar was served. Borgert started the talk.

“Did you notice how this Stark woman again had a whispered confab with the colonel?” he said. “Such manners I think they ought to leave at home, for there they are not very particular. Just fancy, the other day I was witness when Stark threw a slipper at his wife, and she on her part had received me in a horribly soiled and frowzy morning gown.”

“I saw worse than that,” interrupted Leimann. “Last week they had in my presence one of their frequent matrimonial disagreements, and the fat one, her husband, clinched the matter by shouting at her: ‘Hold your tongue, woman!’ A nice, lovable couple, those two!”

“Anyway, it seems as if she lorded it over him pretty effectually,” broke in the adjutant. “Day before yesterday Stark had had his fill at the White Swan, and when he became a trifle noisy and quarrelsome his wife arrived on the scene and behaved simply disgracefully. Finally she tucked him under her arm and took him home amidst the shouts and laughter of the other guests. I don’t think their meeting at home can have been an angelic one.”

“That sort of thing happens every little while,” remarked Pommer; “at least at the Casino[5] she appears whenever he does not depart punctually at mealtime, and calls him hard names before the very orderlies.”

“Well, she is keeping a sharp eye on him just now,” said Captain König, good-humoredly, “for he wants to get his promotion as major, or, rather, it is her ambition to become Frau Major.”

“Why, there can be no idea of that,” interjected Borgert, with a great show of righteous indignation. “If this totally incapable idiot becomes major I ought to be made at least a general. Though it is queer that the colonel is evidently moving heaven and earth in his behalf.”

“Good reason why,” retorted Leimann, calmly.

“How so?”

“Don’t you know the story? And yet it is in everybody’s mouth.”

“Then tell us, please, because we know not a word of it, and I scent something fiendishly interesting!” And Borgert rubbed his hands in anticipation.

“Why, last year the colonel had, with his usual want of tact, insulted a civilian—a gentleman, you know. The latter sent him a challenge. Our good colonel began to feel queer, for while he is constantly doing heroic things with his mouth, he is by no means fond of risking his skin. So after some talk with her, this Stark woman went to see the gentleman in question as peacemaker. She told him that the colonel was really innocent in the whole matter, and that she herself had been the cause of the trouble, having spread a false report under an erroneous impression. She managed to tell her yarn with so much plausibility as entirely to deceive and bamboozle the other party, who thereupon withdrew his challenge with expressions of his profound regret. So, you see, she saved the colonel’s life, for the civilian is known as a dead shot. Since then she has the colonel completely in her power, and no matter what she tells him to do, he executes her orders like a docile poodle dog—a fact which we all see illustrated every day.”

“Well, that explains the whole mystery, of course,” delightedly shouted Borgert. “Don’t you know any more such stories? For it is really high time to call a halt. He has manners like a ploughboy’s, and she like a washerwoman’s. I’ll collect a few more tales of the sort. It is simply shameful that one must submit to the dictation of this woman.”

“There are rumors that she had peculiar relations with a well-known nobleman in her younger days; but I know nothing positive, mind you.”

“Where in the world did you hear that now?”

“My military servant told me. He happens to hail from the neighborhood she comes from.”

During this delectable interchange of gossip the wife of First Lieutenant Leimann had listened with gleaming eyes and heightened color; it seemed wonderfully interesting to her. Captain König, on the other hand, sucked his cigar thoughtfully, and his wife toyed with the embroidered border of the table-cover.

“Why so lost in thought, my gracious lady?” Borgert said.

“I was merely wondering what stories you gentlemen might hatch against us,” she said with some dignity.

He was about pathetically to disclaim any such fell designs, when it was noticed that Frau Kahle had risen to bid farewell, and with her Lieutenant Pommer, whose escort home she had accepted, her husband being off on a short official trip.

They were barely gone, when Borgert remarked:

“I think we ought to subscribe for this poor Kahle woman, just enough to enable her to buy a new dress. I don’t think she has anything to wear besides this faded, worn-out rag of hers. I am sick of seeing it.”

“But you ought to see her at home,” interjected Müller, in a minor key of disdain. “There she looks worse than a slovenly servant girl. And she doesn’t seem to find time to patch up her dirty gown, while her boy, the only child she has, runs about the streets like a cobbler’s apprentice from the lower town. One thing, though, that urchin does know—he can lie like Satan.”

“Inherited from his mother, of course,” remarked Borgert, when a cold and reproachful look out of Frau Clara’s eyes made him stop in the middle of his sentence. There was an embarrassed silence for a minute, and when the talk was resumed it no longer furnished such “interesting” material. Captain König’s yawning became more pronounced, and Leimann was leaning back in his chair, dozing, with mouth half open. His wife, too, showed unmistakable signs of ennui, now that the scandal she loved no longer poured forth. Her features, a moment ago smooth and animated, now looked worn and aged, losing all their charm. Müller was still digesting audibly, and hence it seemed the proper moment for adjourning.

Amid unanimous assurances that “this has been the most enjoyable evening this season,” the leave-taking was finally effected, and the captain accompanied his last guests down the stairs, and returned after shooting the strong bolt at the house door.

As he turned off the gas in the drawing-room, he said to Frau Clara: “Quite interesting, this evening! These are two gentlemen we shall have to be on our guard against.”