CHAPTER XXV.

THE CONFESSION.

Baron Leskjewitsch was in an admirable humour. He brightened up the entire household. The Countess Zriny, to be sure, lamented to Frulein Laut his tireless loquacity, but perhaps that was because his loquacity displayed itself princ.i.p.ally in the utterance of anti-Catholic views.

At breakfast, on the first morning after his arrival, he cut the old canoness to the heart. When he rallied her upon the indigestible nature of her favourite delicacy, raspberry jam with whipped cream, she replied that she could eat it with perfect impunity, since she always mixed a teaspoonful of eau de Lourdes with the jam before adding the cream.

Whereupon the Baron called this preservative "Catholic quackery," and was annoyed that she made no reply to his attack. Like a former emperor of Russia, he longed for opposition. He did what he could to rouse Countess Zriny's. After a while he a.s.serted that she was a heathen.

Catholicism in its modern form, with its picturesque ritual and its superst.i.tious worship of the saints, was nothing more than cowled Paganism.

The Countess, to whom this rather antiquated wisdom was new, shuddered with horror, and regarded the Baron as antichrist, but nevertheless held her peace.

Then he played his last trump. He informed her that he regarded the Darwinian theory as much less irreligious than her, Countess Zriny's, paltry conception of the Deity. Then the Countess arose and left the room, to write immediately to her father confessor, expressing her anxieties with regard to her cousin's soul, and asking the priest to say a ma.s.s for his conversion.

"Poor Kathi! have I frightened her away? I didn't mean to do that,"

said the Baron, looking after her.

No, he had not meant to do it; he had merely desired to arouse opposition.

"A splendid subject for an essay," he exclaimed, after a pause,--"'the Darwinian theory and the Catholic ritual set forth by a man of true piety.' I really must publish a pamphlet with that t.i.tle. It may bring me into collision with the government, but that would not be very distressing."

Privately the Baron wished for nothing more earnestly than to be brought into collision with the government, to be concerned in some combination threatening the existence of the monarchy. But just as some women, in spite of every endeavour, never succeed in compromising themselves, so Karl Leskjewitsch had never yet succeeded in seriously embroiling himself with the government. No one took him in earnest; even when he made the most incendiary speeches, they were regarded as but the amusing babble of a political dilettante.

He eagerly availed himself of any occasion to utter his paradoxes, and at this first breakfast he was so eloquent that gradually all at the table followed the example of Countess Zriny, in leaving it, except his eldest son.

He lighted a cigar, and invited Harry to go into the garden with him.

Harry, who had been longing for a word with his father in private, acceded readily to his proposal.

The sun shone brightly, the flowers in the beds sparkled like diamonds.

The old ruin stood brown and clear against the sky, the bees hummed, and Frulein Laut was practising something of Brahms's. Of course she had seated herself at the piano as soon as the dining-room was deserted.

Harry walked beside his father, with bent head, vainly seeking for words in which to explain his unfortunate case. His father held his head very erect, kicked the pebbles from his path with dignity, talked very fast, and asked his son twenty questions, without waiting for an answer to one of them.

"Have you been spending all your leave here? Does it not bore you? Why did you not take an interesting trip? Life here must be rather tiresome; Heda never added much to the general hilarity, and as for poor Kathi, do you think her entertaining? She's little more than a _mouton l'eau bnite_. And then that sausage-chopper," with a glance in the direction whence proceeded a host of interesting dissonances.

"Surely you must have found your stay here a very heavy affair. Kathi Zriny is harmless, but that Laut--ugh!--a terrible creature! Look at her hair; it looks like hay. I should like to understand the aim of creation in producing such an article; we have no use for it." He paused,--perhaps for breath.

"Father," Harry began, meekly.

"Well?"

"I should like to tell you something."

"Tell me, then, but without any preface. I detest prefaces; I never read them; in fact, a book is usually spoiled for me if I find it has a preface. What is a preface written for? Either to explain the book that follows it, or to excuse it. And why read a book that needs explanation or excuses? I told Franz Weyser, the famous orator, in the Reichsrath the other day, that----"

"Father," Harry began again, in a tone of entreaty, aware that he should have some difficulty in obtaining a hearing for his confession.

"What an infernally sentimental air you have! Aha! I begin to see. You have evidently fallen in love with Zdena. It is not to be wondered at; she's a charming creature--pretty as a picture--looks amazingly like Charlotte Buff, of Goethe memory; all that is needed is to have her hair dressed high and powdered. What can I say? In your place I should have been no wiser. Moreover, if you choose to marry poverty for love, 'tis your own affair. You must remember that Franz will undoubtedly stop your allowance. You cannot expect much from Paul; and as for myself, I can do nothing for you except give you my blessing. You know how matters stand with me; and I must think of your sister, who never can marry without a dowry. I cannot entirely deprive myself of means: a politician must preserve his independence, for, as I lately said to Fritz Bhm, in the Reichsrath----"

In vain had Harry tried to edge in a word. With a bitter smile he recalled a pa.s.sage in a Vienna humorous paper which, under the heading of "A disaster prevented," set forth the peril from drowning from which the entire government had been saved by the presence of mind of the president of the Reichsrath, Herr Doctor Smolka, who had contrived just in the nick of time to put a stop to a torrent of words from Baron Karl Leskjewitsch.

Suddenly the Baron stumbled over a stone, which fortunately caused him to pause.

"It has nothing to do with Zdena!" Harry exclaimed, seizing his opportunity.

"Not? Then----"

"I have become betrothed," Harry almost shouted, for fear of not making his father hear.

"And what do you want of me?"

"You must help me to break the engagement," his son cried, in despair.

At these words Karl Leskjewitsch, who with all his confusion of ideas had managed to retain a strong sense of humour, made a grimace, and pushed back the straw hat which he wore, and which had made the ascent of Mount Vesuvius with him and had a hole in the crown, so that it nearly fell off his head.

"Ah, indeed! First of all I should like to know to whom you are betrothed,--the result, of course, of garrison life in some small town?

I always maintain that for a cavalry officer----"

Harry felt the liveliest desire to summon the aid of Doctor Smolka to stem the tide of his father's eloquence, but, since this could not be, he loudly interrupted him: "I am betrothed to Paula Harfink!"

"Harfink!" exclaimed the Baron. "The Harfinks of K----?"

"Yes; they are at Dobrotschau this summer," Harry explained.

"So she is your betrothed,--the Baroness Paula? She is handsome; a little too stout, but that is a matter of taste. And you want to marry her?"

"No, no, I do not want to marry her!" Harry exclaimed, in dismay.

"Oh, indeed! you do not want to marry her?" murmured the Baron. "And why not?"

"Because--because I do not love her."

"Why did you betroth yourself to her?"

Harry briefly explained the affair to his father.

The Baron looked grave. "And what do you want me to do?" he asked, after a long, oppressive silence.

"Help me out, father. Put your veto upon this connection."

"What will my veto avail? You are of age, and can do as you choose,"

said the Baron, shaking his head.

"Yes, legally," Harry rejoined, impatiently, "but I never should dream of marrying against your will."

Karl Leskjewitsch found this a.s.surance of filial submission on his son's part very amusing. He looked askance at the young fellow, and, suppressing a smile, extended his hand after a pompous theatric fashion and exclaimed, "I thank you for those words. They rejoice my paternal heart." Then, after swinging his son's hand up and down like a pump-handle, he dropped it and said, dryly, "Unfortunately, I have not the slightest objection to your betrothal to the Harfink girl. What pretext shall I make use of?"

"Well,"--Harry blushed,--"you might say you cannot consent to the _msalliance_."