Several slender tawny greyhounds came bounding toward them and completed the illusion that they were entering a banqueting hall of the rococo times. The room was spacious and lofty, of an oblong shape, with rounded corners adorned in the richest style of the last century with gilded stucco-work and huge pier glasses which reflected the light of the candles in the large glass chandelier and the glittering silver on the table. At the other end of the apartment a glass door opened upon a balcony, and this, like the two windows on each side, afforded a view of the park, whose majestic trees towered above the long clipped hedges and arbors. Nothing recalled the present century except an elegant piano, at which a young man sat who failed to hear the entrance of the master of the house and his guest, amid the noise made by his dashing passages.

The others, who appeared to have been waiting some time, instantly turned toward the door, and one after another was greeted by the count and introduced to Edwin. Suddenly the musician paused, started up and with great cordiality, hurried toward the count. He was a handsome young man, in whom, despite his civilian's dress, the cavalry officer was recognizable at the first glance, and whom the count introduced as his cousin, Count Gaston. He seemed to feel perfectly at home, and even at the table, where with amicable familiarity he drew Edwin down by his side, almost wholly supported the conversation, which as usual turned upon women, horses, and hunting.

When the champagne, which was not spared, began to heat the brains and loosen the tongues of even the quieter members of the company, the young gentleman turned to his neighbor, who had hitherto been a silent listener, and said in a low tone:

"There! I've done my share by dint of friction, in putting some enthusiasm into these wooden images and now the champagne must keep it up. I hope, my dear sir, you don't suppose I enjoy this insipid gabble. But what would you have? See how my cousin, the count, sits at his own table with a face like the statue of the Commandant. If I don't victimize myself and talk nonsense, the supper will be as tiresome and silent as a funeral feast. So I must introduce subjects that amuse the gentlemen, even though they may be terribly out of taste. But now let's renew our acquaintance. Of course you don't remember our meeting a few years ago in Berlin, at the rooms of one of my intimate friends, young Baron L., to whom you were acting as private tutor, while he was preparing to pass his examination for one of the higher government offices. He's now Secretary of Legation at Constantinople, and I hope does honor to your teaching. I am still what I was then, a man who learns nothing in any school, except that of life. There must be such odd sticks! But I can tell you, I no longer sit quite at the bottom of the class in my school; for instance, I have long since left behind the tasks at which our worthy companions are perspiring. You've been introduced to them all after the ridiculous fashion of murmuring a name. Allow me to make, you better acquainted with individuals. My left hand neighbor, who is addressed as Herr Colonel, is, as you've doubtless already supposed from his prominent cheek bones and peculiar accent, of Slavonian descent; a Pole of the good old race of Oginsky, who, as he says, having been compelled through a disagreement with the Russian authorities, to enter the Austrian service, was promoted in the Italian war to the rank of colonel; then, as he says, honorably discharged in consequence of a wound in the foot. He has already stayed several months with my cousin, as, so he says, a civil office has been offered him in France, and he's only obliged to wait for his Polish papers before becoming a naturalized citizen of that country. As he's an excellent judge of horses, a tolerably good huntsman, and an adept in all games of chance, my cousin has no reason to doubt the existence of these papers, and I of course still less. His next neighbor, the elegant gentleman of uncertain age, uncertain glance, and very certain doubtful movements of the fingers, which suggest great skill in tricks with cards, is, to speak frankly, what we call in plain prose, a blackleg, a Parisian acquaintance of my cousin, whom he invited here and can't shake off again, much as I've urged him to do so. But he seems to have his reasons for handling this Chevalier de Marsan--the only person here with whom I never exchange a syllable--with gloved hands, while I would show him the door without ceremony. My dear doctor, there are more doubtful personages between heaven and earth than are dreamed of in your philosophy. A real antidote to this corrosive sublimate pill, which I am daily compelled to swallow, is the stout gentleman on the other side of my cousin, a plebeian owner of an ancient estate, who married the daughter of an immensely rich banker; his wife never appears among us, probably because he's ashamed of her manners, which are not exactly suited to a drawing room; but nevertheless, as you see, he's an excellent man, an admirable landlord, a great huntsman, and a lover of old wine and old stories, in short, the most appreciative of auditors for my witticisms. You've heard how he can laugh. I once made a bet that I could make him laugh till he rolled under the table, merely by telling stories of great eaters, and to be sure, at the end of an hour, he lay gasping on the floor; we were actually afraid of a fit of apoplexy. Beside this harmless mortal and directly opposite you, sit two no less worthy specimens of the creatures of God, who, however, can hardly be very proud of these, his images. Did you ever see two people so exactly alike? They look as if they'd just stepped out of Pletsch, don't they? The same short, fair hair, the same low brows, small noses, close cropped brushes on the upper lip, and solemn faces when everyone else is roaring with laughter, which proves them very dull of comprehension. When they stand up, you'll see that both are very tall men. Moreover, these same brothers, ThaddÄus and MatthÄus von der Wende are noblemen of a most ancient family. It's seldom that twins have so much fraternel affection. Each is perfectly satisfied with half the usual portion of common sense, and carefully guards against becoming wiser than the other. We call them the Siamese twins, although they're not united by means of any corporal bond, and of course there can be no question of an intellectual one. However, they're rich and well bred and never annoy anyone. Next comes a short, rather high shouldered gentleman about fifty, with a white tie and crafty, humble smile, who says little, eats a great deal, and hears everything. Don't get his ill will, he's a piece of old family furniture, and was the physician, confidant, etc., of the late countess; he is called Dr. Basler, and I'd as readily trust my person to his physic, as my reputation to his tongue. Beside him sits the steward, who'll join the hunting party to-morrow and always drinks with us the night before, and the silent gentleman on your other side is my cousin's private secretary, an honest, clever soul, but afflicted with an unfortunate hobby. He's trying to find the secret of perpetual motion. There, now! you know the people assembled within this ancient house--even to the crown jewel," he added with a sigh, "which unfortunately disdains to shine except on gala days."

"Are you speaking of the countess? I knew her several years ago, before her marriage."

"And have not seen her since? Then you'll not recognize her. I confess that upon first sight she made a great impression upon me. I was prejudiced against the marriage, which I thought was a rash step on the part of my dear cousin, after the style of his former liaisons. Unequal marriages always have their difficulties, although of course I'm sufficiently enlightened not to believe in 'blue blood.' But we see every day, how uncomfortable it is for people of position to receive into their circle a worthy little goose who feels 'honored' to live under the shadow of a pedigree centuries old, or a pretentious heiress, or any of the ordinary people whom it's all very well to love, but who are too good or too bad to marry. It's easiest to get along with actresses, opera singers--or for aught I care, ballet dancers. They at least possess style, savoir faire, self-possession, and know us well enough not to think us wholly unlike other human beings. But a ballet master's daughter from a little provincial town--I didn't hear of the princely paternity until afterwards--I confess I was furious. I love this family seat, and have enjoyed spending a few months of every year here, away from the gayety of the capital. Now, I thought, I should be compelled to see a roturiÈre do the honors. But after the first interview my feelings were entirely changed. Whoever her mother may have been, she at least didn't belie the father's blood. And yet--at that time she was but in the bud compared to the centifolia into which she has since expanded. Pardon me if I threaten to become poetical. Between ourselves--or even not between ourselves, since it's public talk--my unfortunate passion for my beautiful cousin, which is as hopeless as if I were in love with the Venus of Milo, has had so great an influence upon the development of my character, that I can truly say I'm no more like the man you met at little Baron L's., than an Ionic column is like a hedge pole."

"Your poetic fervor, Herr Count, has at least the merit of a certain impressiveness of style. But in what consists, if I may ask--"

"You're making sport of me, my honored sir. I still seem to you a frivolous nobleman, a child of the world, with whom a grave man of your stamp can at the utmost only chat away an hour at table. But learn to know me better. This lady first opened my eyes to the fact that the real charm of life consists in something forever unattainable, a yearning that is ever unfulfilled. Are you familiar with Richard Wagner's music? What I've just said of life he has striven to suggest in art. For in what does the secret of melody consist? Take Mozart, GlÜck, the Italian composers--there everything is complete, every piece has its beginning, its middle and its end, exactly like ordinary love affairs. We are allured, we enjoy, and we grow weary--voilÀ tout, and if the music or the girl is beautiful, after a time we're again allured--a new aria, a new ecstacy--and so on indefinitely till the world tires us and our hair grows grey. This is the usual course of life and art. But now think of a hopeless passion, such as I've felt for years. I feel the same that I hear when I listen to Tristram and Yseult--eternal longing, yearning and sighing, never repose and satisfaction, a mere analysis of dissonances, and withal a tumult of ecstacy in all the instruments, in which at last, as in a dream of love, sight and hearing disappear and we're fairly beside ourselves with restless longing, infinite melody, and voluptuous exhaustion. This is the secret of the success this great man has obtained--emotion increased to the utter exhaustion of all strength and constantly subduing the poor, coarse senses--appetite continually excited without being satisfied in the usual way--a sort of pathetic cancan, a musical hasheesh intoxication. And even in the choice of the text, the moral qualities of the characters, what consummate art is shown in the avoidance of everything palpable, simple, and true to nature; everything of which the ordinary human mind can form some distinct conception! Take Don Giovanni--there you know exactly where you are. From the peasant to the nobleman, from the light minded peasant girl to the noble lady--the characters are perfectly natural, people with flesh and bones, and red blood in their veins. I know them as well as if I'd lived in the same house with them. The characters of Wagner's music, on the contrary--why you might see the same opera ten times and be no whit wiser about these swan knights, gods, and flying Dutchmen, than at the first representation. I call this boundless characterization, and it supplements the boundless melody. And to enjoy such an endless master-piece, and in the meantime to brood over an endless passion, the one as hopeless and alluring as the other--"

The conversation, which also threatened to become "boundless," was here interrupted by the master of the house, who rose, bowed to his guests, and with a courteous wave of the hand invited them to follow him into the little drawing room adjoining the dining hall. Here there were several card tables, a magnificent silver bowl containing punch, several open boxes of cigars, and other paraphernalia for smoking. While the count, with the Polish colonel and French chevalier, were preparing to begin a game of hazard, in which no one else seemed disposed to join, the fat landed proprietor became absorbed in a conversation on agriculture with the steward, now and then asking the silent secretary for his opinion, which the latter always gave with the same grave bend of the head, often refilling his glass from the silver bowl. The inseparable brothers ThaddÄus and MatthÄus had stationed themselves behind the card players and gravely watched the alternations of luck. Count Gaston had returned to the dining hall and seated himself at the piano, evidently in the hope that his neighbor at table would follow and allow him to give a musical commentary on his knowledge of art and life. But Edwin was compelled to forego this instructive pleasure; for the little man with the high shoulders and clever old face, whom Gaston had introduced as the family physician, approached him and asked in his low courteous voice, if he was not the son of one of his college classmates who had suddenly abandoned the profession of law to marry a very beautiful wife. He had been struck by the resemblance before he heard the name. When Edwin answered in the affirmative, the little man became very confidential, and after inquiring very particularly about his old friend, acquainted the son with his own circumstances.

When a student of theology, somewhat advanced in life, he had entered the household to assist in educating the young count, who was then about six years old. The countess, already a widow, had taken a fancy to the clever man, who was better versed in every other department than that of theology--a fancy, which in spite of the tutor's insignificant appearance, seemed to have ripened into a still warmer feeling. Not a syllable on the part of the discreet speaker, only a peculiar glance from his piercing eyes conveyed this inference. As his prospect of advancement in his real profession became poorer and poorer, an old predilection for physical science obtained a stronger hold upon his mind; the idea of going to Berlin occurred to him, and he studied anatomy there for several years, absorbed all sorts of surgical knowledge, and at last, as the countess would not consent to dispense with his services any longer, returned to the castle with the title of doctor somewhat doubtfully obtained, but a most undoubted salary as physician-in-ordinary, as his former pupil had left home some time before to complete his education by foreign travel.

He had understood the art of maintaining his position, even after the death of his patroness; he had sustained it principally it appeared, by a marriage with the countess' by no means youthful waiting maid and confidante. He spoke of this union with a lofty and sarcastic smile, that like many other things in the clever man, greatly disgusted Edwin. The gentleman seemed to perceive the impression his confidential communications were making on his hearer. "My dear Herr Doctor," said he, "you're still a young man, and have always been independent. You can scarcely imagine how the habit of accommodating one's self to others, and not being over rigorous, will in time degrade a man who originally is by no means a scoundrel. Ah me! when I think of the days when, with your dead father, I still worked toward our so-called ideals! Yet he died a bookkeeper, and I've written prescriptions in which I felt no faith. The longer one lives, the more plainly one perceives that there are very few mortals so happy as never to be placed in a false position, and that since it's a man's duty to preserve his life, there's but a single weakness that dishonors him: to believe what is false to be true. A pastor who assumes the duties of his parish a disbeliever in revealed religion, and gradually allows the voice of reason to grow weaker and ends by accepting the tenets of the faith he preaches, or a physician who begins the practice of his profession by disbelief in his own powers and ends by using his salves and plasters with a look of grave importance not wholly assumed--they falsify themselves and are utterly contemptible. But he, who in a world that is only too willing to be cheated, does not befool honest individuals, but swindles men in the gross, and meantime is ready at any moment, like the Roman augur, to laugh in unison with other clever men, seems to me to play his part as a weak mortal very tolerably. There was a famous Berlin doctor here yesterday, Herr Marquard, who's perhaps known to you by reputation. He performs on a large scale, what I practice here on a small one, and the fact of his being more learned is rather troublesome to him than otherwise, since each individual case gives him scores of things to reflect upon. But he's a clever man, and after the first fifteen minutes we no longer tried to impose upon each other. The gentleman was no more successful with the young countess than I, but she didn't make him feel her contempt so keenly as she did my insignificant self. Well, as you see, my back is naturally more bent than my colleague's. I can take more on my high shoulders."

He laughed softly, but seemed surprised when Edwin's only reply to his extreme outspokeness was a curt: "Every one is entitled to his own opinions!" During the doctor's cautiously whispered speech, our friend had glanced from one member of the company to the other and said to himself: "These are the people with whose companionship she has been obliged to be satisfied for four long years!" The thought aroused within him an unspeakable sense of oppression, sorrow, and indignation. He took advantage of a pause in the card playing, to approach the count, and pleading that he was fatigued by his pedestrian tour, to take leave of him for the night. The count looked at him absently a moment, as if he were some stranger whose face he could not instantly recall, then pressed his hand with marked cordiality and apologized for having enjoyed so little of his society that evening. He hoped to make up for the loss on the morrow. Then he motioned the butler to show the guest to his room, and returned to his game, in which fortune, to judge from the piles of gold before his companions, turned her back on him as usual.