Part 17 (1/2)

”What is the subject under discussion?” he asks. Dressed in the extreme of fas.h.i.+on, in a light, summer suit, a coloured s.h.i.+rt with a very high collar, a thin, dark-blue cravat with polka-dots, and the inevitable Scotch cap, with fluttering ribbons at the back of the neck, he would seem much more at home, so far as his exterior is concerned, on the sh.o.r.e at Trouville, or in a magnificent park of ancient oaks with a feudal castle in the background, than amidst the modest Zirkow surroundings. He suspects this himself, and, in order not to produce a crus.h.i.+ng effect where he is, he is always trying to display the liveliest interest in all the petty details of life at Zirkow. ”What is the subject under discussion?” he asks, with an amiable smile.

”Oh, the Harfink.”

”Still?” says Wenkendorf, lifting his eyebrows ironically. ”The young lady's ears must burn. She seems to me to have been tolerably well discussed during the last three days.”

”I merely observed that you were all fire and flame for her while she was here,” Frau Rosamunda persists, ”and that consequently I do not understand why you now criticise her so severely.”

”The impression produced upon men by that kind of woman is always more dazzling than when it is lasting,” says the major.

”H'm!--she certainly is a very beautiful person, but--h'm!--not a lady,” remarks Wenkendorf; and his clear, full voice expresses the annoyance which it is sure to do whenever conversation touches upon the mushroom growth of modern _parvenues_. ”Who are these Harfinks, after all?”

”People who have made their own way to the front,” growls the major.

”How?”

”By good luck, industry, and a.s.surance,” replies the major. ”Old Harfink used to go regularly to his work every morning, with his pickaxe on his shoulder; he slowly made his way upward, working in the iron-mines about here; then he married a wealthy baker's daughter, and gradually absorbed all the business of the district. He was very popular. I can remember the time when every one called him 'Peter.'

Next he was addressed as 'Sir,' and it came to be the fas.h.i.+on to offer him your hand, but before giving you his he used to wipe it on his coat-tail. He was comical, but a very honest fellow, a plain man who never tried to move out of his proper sphere. I think we never grudged him his wealth, because it suited him so ill, and because he did not know what to do with it.” And the major reflectively pours a little rum into his third cup of tea.

”I do not object to that kind of _parvenu_,” says Wenkendorf. ”The type is an original one. But there is nothing to my mind more ridiculous than the goldfish sp.a.w.ned in a muddy pond suddenly fancying themselves unable to swim in anything save eau de cologne. H'm, h'm! And that plain, honest fellow was, you tell me, the father of the lovely Paula?”

”G.o.d forbid!” exclaims the major, bursting into a laugh at the mere thought.

”You have a tiresome way of beginning far back in every story you tell, Paul,” Frau Rosamunda complains. ”You begin all your pedigrees with Adam and Eve.”

”And you have a detestable habit of interrupting me,” her husband rejoins, angrily. ”If you had not interrupted me I should have finished long ago.”

”Oh, yes, we all know that. But first you would have given us a description of old Harfink's boots!” Frau Rosamunda persists.

”They really were very remarkable boots,” the major declares, solemnly.

”They always looked as if, instead of feet, they had a peck of onions inside them.”

”I told you so. Now comes the description of his cap,” sighs Frau Rosamunda.

”And the lovely Paula's origin retreats still further into obscurity,”

Wenkendorf says, with well-bred resignation.

”She is old Harfink's great-grand-daughter,” says Zdena, joining for the first time in the conversation.

”Old Harfink had two sons,” continues the major, who hates to have the end of his stories told prematurely; ”two sons who developed social ambition, and both married cultivated wives,--wives who looked down upon them, and with whom they could not agree. If I do not mistake, there was a sister, too. Tell me, Rosel, was there not a sister who married an Italian?”

”I do not know,” replies Frau Rosamunda. ”The intricacies of the Harfink genealogy never inspired me with the faintest interest.”

The major bites his lip.

”One thing more,” says Wenkendorf. ”How have you managed to avoid an acquaintance with the Harfinks for so long, if the family has belonged to the country here for several generations?”