Chapter V

The Countess of Schleinitz, wife of the minister of the royal house of Prussia, at whose house we met, was an extremely gracious little person, very small and delicate, even fragile. She spoke French like a Parisian, a French sparkling with wit and drollery, and in her glance there was a gleam of passion. One could have said:--

"Le Caprice a taillé son petit nez charmant...."

A little snub nose tip-tilted with an elegant impertinence. The charm of her smile was trebled by the dimples it made in her cheeks.

They did not fail to introduce me to a great number of people, whose names, few of them easy to remember, have escaped me. I recall that of Lenbach, the already illustrious painter, and I remember the beautiful head of Edward Schuré, with its inspired and slightly "absent" air.

The appearance of Franz Liszt astonished me.

I was evidently out of the running, I was ignorant of everything: why that long black cassock? Was he a priest? With that smooth-shaven face, had he also a tonsure in the locks that fell long and straight to his shoulders? But what eyes, like a lion, what burning glances under the shaggy eyebrows! What overmastering irony in the curves of the large mouth with its thin lips! In the whole attitude what majesty, tempered with benevolence.

The entrance of Liszt caused an extreme excitement in the assemblage, and I became more and more surprised. Could it be that he was a saint? They showed such an extraordinary veneration for him, especially the women. They hurried toward him, and almost kneeling, kissed his hands, raising looks of ecstasy to his face.

But my attention was suddenly drawn to a woman who had arrived at the same moment--surely this must be she, the mysterious beauty who came from the north, in a whirlwind of snow, and herself whiter than the snow. The lady with eyes like Parma violets, whom the poets have sung with such longing, the Countess of Kalergis, now Countess Muchanoff. _La Symphonie en blanc majeur_ herself in fact! As yet she was standing with her back to me, at the other side of the grand piano. People were crowding about her as she took their outstretched hands. She was tall, a muslin scarf covered her shoulders, her pale blond hair curled at the nape of her neck. I repeated under my breath some words from the well-known poem which she had inspired my father to write, so long ago:--

"Conviant la vue enivrée
De sa boréale fraîcheur
A des régals de chair nacrée,
A des débauches de blancheur.

Son sein, neige moulée en globe,
Contre les camélias blancs
Et le blanc satin de sa robe
Soutient des combats insolents.

Dans ces grandes batailles blanches,
Satins et fleurs ont le dessous,
Et, sans demander leurs revanches,
Jaunissent comme des jaloux.
* * * * * * * *
De quel mica de neige vierge,
De quelle moelle de roseau,
De quelle hostie et de quel cierge
A-t-on fait le blanc de sa peau?..."

Alfred de Musset was also a fervent admirer of this white idol, and later, Heinrich Heine paraphrased, in honour of her whom he called, "The Cathedral of the God Love," the verses of Théophile Gautier:

"Auprès d'elle la neige de l'Himalaya
Paraît grise comme la cendre;
Le lis que sa main saisit, aussitôt, par le contraste
Ou par jalousie, devient couleur de rouille..."

I really dreaded the moment when she would turn, and, as she made a movement to do so, I closed my eyes, to keep for a little longer the illusion of the past.

Almost at once I hear the rustling of silk close beside me; a clear musical voice addresses me, sweetly modulated, with a slight Russian accent. The Countess Muchanoff seats herself beside me and presses my hand, as she assures me that there is no need for an introduction, for she has recognised me without hearing my name, and that having the same admirations, the same ardent beliefs, we must belong to the same ideal family and should love even before we know each other.

She seems a very great lady, very sure of herself, intelligent, and filled with a passionate love of art. I look for the white camellias near the snow of her breast--very marble-like, in truth, but with the help, perhaps, of pearl white and a touch of rice powder. Her face is regular, pale under the fair hair so cleverly arranged. Although they believe her to be too superior to linger over any artifices of coquetry, she undoubtedly seeks to retain and to prolong a beauty so celebrated, but she depends still more upon the graces of her mind, which time does not affect, upon her intellectual culture and her musical talent.

With a coaxing familiarity she makes a strong effort to win me, to inspire me with confidence, but I am haunted by the idea that she is prejudiced against Cosima, that she has betrayed her friendship, and I find it an effort to respond to her friendly advances, or to abandon my reserve.

Liszt in his turn approaches me; he speaks of my father, whom he knew; he has seen me as a child and remembers me, although I have no memory of him. I find that he has the very suave manners of a priest--but how can he be a priest, and why are all these women so taken with him? Just now they are greatly perturbed at seeing him occupied with one who has made no advances, and so they cluster about him again, begging him to play something, teasing him to sit down at the piano. This he refuses to do and repulses them rather rudely, declaring that it is Madame Muchanoff who ought to play, that he himself has too much pleasure in listening to her to seat himself at the piano when she is present.

The Countess rises, nonchalant and disdainful, she draws off her gloves slowly, and her smile says plainly enough that she devotes herself only to spare Liszt a drudgery, and that she is amused, to the point of derision, at the jealous rage of all those who will be forced to applaud her.

"L'ivoire, où ses mains ont des ailes,
Et, comme des papillons blancs,
Sur la pointe des notes frêles
Suspendent leurs baisers tremblants..."

These lines mingle, in my mind, with the phrases of the nocturne that the Countess plays. She is certainly talented; but it seems to me that her playing lacks restraint, that she exaggerates and plays with too much abandonment.

After she had stopped playing Liszt offered me his arm to conduct me to the refreshment table, in the face of the envious and uncomprehending glances of the greater number of the women. He allowed every one else to pass before us, with the idea, no doubt, of withdrawing with me a little to one side. In fact, as soon as we were alone, he said to me in a low voice:--

"You have seen Cosima?"

I had none of that sentiment which the high personality of Liszt evoked among his intimates. I was absolutely ignorant of the beauty of his compositions, which I was to admire so much in the future, and of the incomparable loftiness of his character. I considered him only as a very celebrated pianist. So I was not in the least intimidated, and, believing him to be hostile to the best interests of his daughter, it was with a decided vehemence that I replied to him:--

"I beg of you, do not say anything against your daughter to me. I am her partisan to such an extent that I cannot admit any blame. In the face of a personality so superhuman as Richard Wagner's, the prejudices and even the laws of men cannot prevail. Who would not feel the fascination and submit joyfully to the supremacy of such a genius? In Cosima's place, you would do as she does, and it is your duty as a father not to put any obstacle in the way of the realization of the great event to which she has the right to look forward."

Liszt grasped me warmly by the arm.

"I am entirely of your opinion, but I may not express it," said he in a still lower voice. "The habit which I wear imposes certain opinions which I cannot openly deny. I know the temptations of the heart too well to judge severely: conventions force me to be silent, but within myself, I desire more than anyone else for a legal solution of this painful affair. I can do nothing to hasten it; as to retarding it in any way whatever, I have never had such a thought."

Greatly surprised and relieved I cried out, impulsively--

"Will you authorise me to write that to Cosima?"

"Certainly," he replied. "I wished to ask you to do so. Assure her that there is no need of a rupture between us, that my heart is with her, but that she ought to comprehend my reserve, and to show, before the world, a certain consideration with respect to me, until the new order of things is established."

"I will write this very evening. If you could know what relief and what happiness this news will give them."

"I am very glad of that. You see how I have seized the first opportunity that has offered to make known to my daughter, secretly, my innermost thought. I have sought for such an opportunity without finding it. In whom could I confide? Envy and hypocrisy find a place in all human hearts. Very few have your frankness and your beautiful, unrestrained enthusiasm.... But let us go in. I believe that we are watched, and that people are already surprised by our long conversation."

In fact many anxious and irritated looks were directed toward us, and, if the eyes of the women clustered there, had been daggers, I should never have passed the threshold of the dining-room alive.

During the refreshment hour Villiers de l'Isle-Adam talked with the Countess Muchanoff, who appeared to be struck with amazement. He had pinned upon his evening coat the decoration of the Knights of Malta, a little cross set with white enamel, and he explained to her that he was Grand Master of that order, which had been bestowed upon one of his ancestors in 1520. France not recognizing the knighthood of Malta, he could only wear the insignia when abroad. Then, at least, he could wear them conscientiously.

Villiers then proceeded to recount the complicated and confused history of his incontestable claims to the throne of Greece, by reason of this Grand-mastership. He had even, once upon a time, presented his claim as a candidate for the royal succession, and had had a memorable campaign in the effort to maintain it.

From heraldic fantasies and aristocratic vanities, Villiers passed, happily, to the more reasonable pride of the poet: he narrated his reading at Wagner's house and his glorious success, and, when they separated, he had promised the Countess Muchanoff to give, at the _Hôtel des Quatre Saisons_, on any evening which she should be pleased to name, a second reading of _La Révolte_.