Part 31

"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 fixedly 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.

"Counting from below?" asked Klaus Heinrich. And she answered at once:

"Of course. Six, counting from above."

He got muddled and lost his bearings and it was a long time before he realized that she was making fun of him. Then he tried to explain himself and to make his simple question clear, explaining that he meant to ask whether she included the under-water holds, the cellars so to speak, in the five--in short, to prove that he was not lacking in common sense, and at last he joined heartily in the merriment which was the result of his efforts. As for the Court Theatre, Miss Spoelmann gave it as her opinion, with a pout and a wag of the head, that the actress who played the ingénue should be strongly recommended to go through the cure at Marienbad, coupled with a course of lessons in dancing and deportment, while the hero should be warned that a voice as resonant as his should be used most sparingly, even in private life.... All the same, Miss Spoelmann expressed her warm admiration for the theatre in question.

Klaus Heinrich laughed and wondered, a little oppressed by so much smartness. How well she spoke, how pointed and incisive were her words! They discussed the operas also and the plays which had been produced during the winter, and Imma Spoelmann contradicted Klaus Heinrich's judgments, contradicted him in every case, just as if she thought that not to contradict would show a mean spirit; the superior wit of her tongue left him dazed, and the great black eyes in her pearl-white face glittered from sheer joy in her dialectic skill, while Mr. Spoelmann leaned back in his chair, holding the fat cigarette between his lips and blinking through its smoke, and gazed at his daughter with fond satisfaction.

More than once Klaus Heinrich showed in his face the look of pained bewilderment which he had noticed on a previous occasion on the face of the good sister, and yet he felt convinced that it was not Imma Spoelmann's intention to wound his feelings, that she did not consider him humbled because he was not successful in standing up to her, that she rather let his poor answers pass, as if she considered that he had no need of a sharp wit to defend him--it was only she who had. But how was that, and why? He thought involuntarily of Ueberbein at many of her sallies, of the nimble-tongued blusterer Ueberbein, who was a natural misfortune, and had grown up in conditions which he described as favourable. A youth of misery, loneliness, and misfortune, shut out from the blessings of fortune--such a man knew no luxury, no comfort, he saw himself clearly and cruelly thrown on his own resources, which assuredly gave him an advantage over those who "knew not necessity."

But Imma Spoelmann sat there in her red-gold dress at the table, reclining indolently, with the mocking look of a spoiled child; there she sat in confident ease, while her tongue ran on sharply and freely, as befitted an atmosphere of refinement and lively wit. But why did she give it play? Klaus Heinrich pondered the question, the while they discussed Atlantic steamers and plays. He sat bolt upright at the table, in a dignified and uncomfortable attitude, while he concealed his left hand, and more than once he felt a sidelong glance of hatred from the eyes of Countess Löwenjoul.

A servant came in and handed Mr. Spoelmann a telegram on a silver salver. Mr. Spoelmann tore it open crossly, glanced through it, blinking and with the remains of his cigarette in the corner of his mouth, and threw it back on the salver, with the curt order: "Mr. Phlebs." Thereupon he lighted a new cigarette.

Miss Spoelmann said: "In spite of distinct medical orders, that's the fifth cigarette you've had to-day. Let me tell you that the unbridled passion with which you abandon yourself to the vice little beseems your grey hairs."

Mr. Spoelmann obviously tried to laugh, and as obviously failed; the acid tone of his daughter's words was not to his liking, and he flushed up.

"Silence!" he snarled. "You think you can say anything in fun, but please spare me your saucy jokes, chatterbox!"