Part 53 (2/2)

”What a splendid poignard!” said the Prince, who had no taste for books; and he immediately walked up to the chimney-piece. Beckendorff followed him, and taking down the admired weapon from its resting-place, proceeded to lecture on its virtues, its antiquity, and its beauty.

Vivian seized this opportunity of taking a rapid glance at the contents of the library. He antic.i.p.ated interleaved copies of Machiavel, Vattel, and Montesquieu; and the lightest works that he expected to meet with were the lying memoirs of some intriguing cardinal or the deluding apology of an exiled minister. To his surprise, he found that, without an exception, the collection consisted of poetry and romance. Somewhat surprised, Vivian looked with a curious eye on the unlettered backs of a row of mighty folios on a corner shelf. ”These,” he thought, ”at least must be royal ordinances, and collected state papers.” The sense of propriety struggled for a moment with the pa.s.sion of curiosity; but nothing is more difficult for the man who loves books than to refrain from examining a volume which he fancies may be unknown to him. From the jewelled dagger Beckendorff had now got to an enamelled breast-plate. Two to one he should not be observed; and so, with a desperate pull, Vivian extracted a volume; it was a herbal! He tried another; it was a collection of dried insects!

”And now,” said Mr. Beckendorff, ”I will show you my drawing-room.”

He opened a door at the farther end of the library, and introduced them to a room of a different character. The sun, which was s.h.i.+ning brightly, lent additional brilliancy to the rainbow-tinted birds of paradise, the crimson maccaws, and the green parroquets that glistened on the Indian paper, which covered not only the walls, but also the ceiling of the room. Over the fireplace a black frame, projecting from the wall, and mournfully contrasting with the general brilliant appearance of the apartment, inclosed a picture of a beautiful female; and bending over its frame, and indeed partly shadowing the countenance, was the withered branch of a tree. A harpsichord and several cases of musical instruments were placed in different parts of the room; and suspended by broad black ribbons from the wall, on each side of the picture, were a guitar and a tambourine. On a sofa of unusual size lay a Cremona; and as Mr.

Beckendorff pa.s.sed the instrument he threw by its side the bow, which he had hitherto carried in his hand.

”We may as well now take something,” said Mr. Beckendorff, when his guests had sufficiently admired the room; ”my pictures are in my dining-room; let us go there.”

So saying, and armed this time not only with his bow but also with his violin, he retraced his steps through the library, and crossing a small pa.s.sage which divided the house into two compartments, he opened the door into his dining-room. The moment they entered the room their ears were saluted, and indeed their senses ravished, by what appeared to be a concert of a thousand birds; yet none of the winged choristers were to be seen, and not even a single cage was visible. The room, which was simply furnished, appeared at first rather gloomy; for, though lighted by three windows, the silk blinds were all drawn.

”And now,” said Mr. Beckendorff, raising the first blind, ”you shall see my pictures. At what do you estimate this Breughel?”

The window, which was of stained green gla.s.s, gave to the landscape an effect similar to that generally produced by the artist mentioned. The Prince, who was already puzzled by finding one who at the same time was both his host and his enemy so different a character from what he had conceived, and who, being by temper superst.i.tious, considered that this preliminary false opinion of his was rather a bad omen, did not express any great admiration of the gallery of Mr. Beckendorff; but Vivian, who had no ambitious hopes or fears to affect his temper, and who was amused by the character with whom he had become so unexpectedly acquainted, good-naturedly humoured the fantasies of the Minister, and said that he preferred his picture to any Breughel he had ever seen.

”I see you have a fine taste,” said Mr. Beckendorff, with a serious air, but in a courteous tone; ”you shall see my Claude!”

The rich yellow tint of the second window gave to the fanciful garden all that was requisite to make it look Italian.

”Have you ever been in Italy, sir?” asked Beckendorff.

”I have not.”

”You have, Mr. von Philipson?”

”Never south of Germany,” answered the Prince, who was hungry, and eyed with a rapacious glance the capital luncheon which he saw prepared for him.

”Well, then, when either of you go, you will, of course, not miss the Lago Maggiore. Gaze on Isola Bella at sunset, and you will not view so fair a scene as this! And now, Mr. von Philipson,” said Beckendorff, ”do me the favour of giving me your opinion of this Honthorst?”

His Highness would rather have given his opinion of the dish of game which still smoked upon the table, but which he was mournfully convinced would not smoke long. ”But,” thought he, ”this is the last!” and so he admired the effect produced by the flaming panes, to which Beckendorff swore that no piece ever painted by Gerard Honthorst, for brilliancy of colouring and boldness of outline, could be compared. ”Besides,”

continued Beckendorff, ”mine are all animated pictures. See that cypress, waving from the breeze which is now stirring, and look! look at this crimson peac.o.c.k! look! Mr. von Philipson.”

”I am looking, Mr. von--I beg pardon, Mr. Beckendorff,” said the Prince, with great dignity, making this slight mistake in the name, either from being unused to converse with such low people as had not the nominal mark of n.o.bility, or to vent his spleen at being so unnecessarily kept from the refreshment which he so much required.

”Mr. von Philipson,” said Beckendorff, suddenly turning round, ”all my fruits and all my vegetables are from my own garden. Let us sit down and help ourselves.”

The only substantial food at table was a great dish of game. The vegetables and the fruits were numerous and superb; and there really appeared to be a fair prospect of the Prince of Little Lilliput making as good a luncheon as if the whole had been conducted under the auspices of Master Rodolph himself, had it not been for the melody of the unseen vocalists, which, probably excited by the sounds of the knives and plates, too evidently increased every moment. But this inconvenience was soon removed by Mr. Beckendorff rising and giving three loud knocks on the door opposite to the one by which they had entered. Immediate silence ensued.

”Clara will change your plate, Mr. von Philipson,” said Beckendorff.

Vivian eagerly looked up, not with the slightest idea that the entrance of Clara would prove that the mysterious picture in the drawing-room was a portrait, but, it must be confessed, with a little curiosity to view the first specimen of the s.e.x who lived under the roof of Mr.

Beckendorff. Clara was a hale old woman, with rather an acid expression of countenance, prim in her appearance, and evidently precise in her manners. She placed a bottle and two wine-gla.s.ses with long, thin stems on the table; and having removed the game and changed the plates, she disappeared.

”Pray what wine is this, Mr. Beckendorff?” eagerly asked the Prince.

”I really don't know. I never drink wine.”

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