CHAPTER SIX

The ball was at its height. Two orchestras, one at either end of the huge hall, alternately struck up a succession of dances; eighty ladies, members of the organizing committee, were unwearied in their efforts to keep the guests amused; fairy lights, garlands, curious and delectable sweetmeats, a myriad fanciful preparations abounded to enchant the charitably hearted crowd. And yet a certain North German rigidity kept the dancers from abandoning themselves to the revels which perhaps lacked freshness and originality to a society already surfeited with the pleasures the metropolis had to offer. Still, two thousand persons had paid entrance money, and the treasurer reckoned on a return of no less than forty thousand marks.

Eleven o'clock struck, and the multitude was urged to withdraw to the farther end of the hall. A noisy march blared out, and the guests found themselves faced by serried ranks of chairs. On consulting their programmes, the younger dancers sighed when they realized that they would now have to face half an hour of edification. "Living pictures to orchestral accompaniment in the style of the epoch," they read.

"Why are the names of the participants not given? That is really the only point of interest in the whole show. Do you happen to know who they are?"

"I'm going along to have a look," said Sidney.

He felt uneasy, and nevertheless he was determined, unobserved by his sister, to gaze his fill at her. Diana was to him like a much-loved statue. When he knew her to be among admirers, his selfish regard for her demanded that she behave coldly towards all other men. His affection made the thought of her as the object and the victim of masculine desire intolerable. Did not the same blood flow in her veins as in his? He might wish that she had a woman as friend. But his wish must for ever remain unfulfilled, for Diana was not the kind of woman to make friends among her own sex. Women fought shy of her, and Olivia was the only one for whom Diana could feel affection.

"So you are here after all," a strident voice was saying to Olivia in welcome. "My dear, why didn't you give us the pleasure of adding your name to our list of distinguished patrons?"

The speaker was Baroness Mühlwerth, who now took a chair just behind Olivia.

"I am still leading a very retired life," answered the countess simply.

"Yes, yes, of course," the baroness rejoined fluently and heedlessly. "But on occasions such as this, intelligent people always manage to put in an appearance, although as a rule they can find little pleasure in sharing the amusements of the thoughtless many. Ideas invariably triumph in the end!"

Prince Eduard had just run up against Scherer, and would like to have got clear again. But the newspaper magnate was unwilling to let him go. The older man pressed the younger to share his box, and at that moment the lights were lowered.

A beautiful girl stepped forward on the platform and endeavoured to gain a hearing for a little speech which the restless merrymakers rendered inaudible. She was to have spoken a kind of prologue outlining the benefits woman had brought to mankind. Her futile efforts were applauded, and, instantly, the orchestra began to play the priests' stately march from _The Magic Flute_. The curtain went up, and Semiramis, the most remote in the annals of notable women, was disclosed, sitting stiffly on her throne, clad in gold, a regal figure indeed, flanked by Assyrian lions. Four girl slaves crouched nearby, while a grandee of the empire knelt offering a salver. The whole tableau was obviously meant to symbolize the subjugation of half Asia.

"Who is the severe looking lady?" asked Scherer, glancing over his shoulder at the prince. "You are on the committee, so you must know."

"A certain Frau Meister or Meiler, who has been influenced by Deussen's treatise on cuneiform writing, and therefore insists that Semiramis did not wear a veil. She was willing, however, to retire if the other members of the committee felt that such an opinion was erroneous."

Scherer smiled, while the remainder of the audience clapped its appreciation. The curtain was raised once more on the unveiled Semiramis, whose heart throbbed responsive to these plaudits, and to the pleasure of being the target for two thousand pairs of eyes.

"Has one long to wait between tableaux?" asked Scherer.

"I am not on the tableaux committee, and have no responsibility in the matter. Through private channels of information I've managed to get a lot of fun out of the affair. Ah, the band has struck up Schumann's _Hebrew Melodies_; that means that Holofernes is about to receive his quietus from the woman's movement!"

The second tableau showed a man asleep upon a renaissance sofa, completely unaware that a tall, dark-haired Jewess was about to slay him with his own sword. The group had been fashioned after Caravaggio's picture, and won lively applause.

"Quite authentic, eh?" the baroness was saying to Olivia, while intending her neighbours to hear as well. "She's Goldmann's daughter, you know, the councillor to the Board of Trade. Religious prejudice would be out of place under the circumstances."

"Hasn't Goldmann himself any?"

The baroness laughed up at the questioner and answered softly:

"As a matter of fact, Dr. Franklin, the young lady's father did enter a protest. He suggested that his daughter be allowed to represent Maria Theresa rather than Judith."

When the 'cellos began to play the opening strains of the Aria in A-major from Gluck's _Iphigenia_, the young girls in the audience instinctively drew closer together while the men nodded their approval. Every one appeared now to be at ease as the curtain rose on a heavily-draped woman representing the Greek heroine, endeavouring with a kindly gesture to heal her retreating brother. But some of the audience did not fail to note the absence of the Furies to the left of the scene.

"Capital," exclaimed Scherer. "I suppose the Eumenides were too naked...."

"That goes without saying," answered the prince absently, and for a moment Scherer failed to catch the import of the prince's mischievous insinuation.

This tableau proved a great favourite, and the curtain was raised repeatedly. All agreed that it was the best thus far shown.

"Atalanta next," some one said.

"I'm not sure..."

"The huntress, is it not?"

"Quite right; the Caledonian boar! Meleager."

This time the music was less familiar, and sounded strangely in the ears of these merrymakers. Ah, yes, of course, Debussy's _L'après-midi d'un jaune_. Diana had selected the piece, and had herself arranged the tableau. The band played for some little while before the curtain was raised, and then, for a moment, the audience was nonplussed.

Hitherto the tableaux had depicted groups in postures of activity. Now, on a greatly diminished stage, before a red curtain, a solitary figure emerged in relief. The young woman was seen in profile, resting her weight on the left foot, while her right hand fondled a great hound. Both woman and hound stood absolutely motionless.

Diana had modelled herself upon the Louvre statue of the huntress, a copy of which was on the writing-table in her flat. She had a golden fillet circling her brow, and a short, full chiton of the same colour covering her from breast to knee. The draperies were so arranged as to give the effect of being blown against her body by the wind and carried backward so as to expose part of the left thigh. Her sandals, the girdle fastened high under the breast, the quiver on her back, all were of the same shade of gold, which harmonized exquisitely with the red curtain, the grey dog, and the fine bronze of her skin. The beast at her side did not stir, and his gentle breathing only served to enhance the beautiful effect of this living statue, coming as it did so rhythmically from between his teeth and setting the muscles over the ribs quivering and vibrating.

The curtain remained up longer for this tableau than for its predecessors, while the band continued to play the beautiful, strange music. When at last it was lowered, the applause, at first hesitant, became vociferous. But the curtain was not raised a second time, only the strains of Debussy's magical music continued until the end. The assembly was eager to see the tableau once more and was not a little vexed when its applause was ignored. Many, in their excitement, had risen in their places. Now they resumed their seats and waited for the music to stop. "Who can the lady be?" was on everyone's lips. Few could answer the question for Diana's name and antecedents were very little known in Berlin society circles. A few of the older ladies were at first inclined to protest against the breach of the conventions, judging the tableau to have exceeded the limits of propriety. But such objections were speedily quelled, for no one in this domain of pseudo-emancipation had any wish to appear old-fashioned and reactionary. Some of the older men whispered to one another that the young lady had undoubtedly been scantily clad. The younger girls blushed under the scrutiny of their admirers, who seemed to be making unfavourable comparisons.

Olivia, completely taken off her guard, had risen as she recognized Diana and softly spoke her name. But a lady in the next row, pointing to the programme, had corrected the countess, saying: "Atalanta is what's printed here." The baroness, who was relishing the sensational atmosphere of the whole scene, began to laugh, whereat Olivia was put out of countenance. Her eyes fluttered from left to right, and her pleasure in the scene was spoilt.

Franklin, who had been let into the secret, looked on as connoisseur. He had advised Diana to take up a somewhat firmer position than the one adopted in the original statue. But she had laughed, having made up her mind to measure her strength with the marble model in every detail. Now his feelings were divided for he half wished that his fears might prove to be well grounded, while at the same time he hoped she might come out of the ordeal triumphant all along the line. He was thus almost too agitated to enjoy the tableau to the full. Further, his heart was troubled by another image which he had glimpsed a moment before the curtain rose on Diana. His eyes had encountered those of Olivia.

As soon as Debussy's strange music beat upon his ears, Scherer had become keenly attentive. He asked the prince how it was that such a modern composition had found its way into this place. Receiving no answer, he turned round, and found the prince's place vacant. He was greatly surprised when he recognized Diana in the person of Atalanta; indeed, he was so taken aback that he was incapable of savouring unreservedly a sight he had many times yearned to have before his eyes. Still, he greatly relished the artistic perfection of the grouping and execution; she looked so maidenly, so strong, so free, that the artist in him was satisfied. He laid his opera glass aside, and glanced round the hall. In a box opposite he saw Sidney, standing, wrapped in a fur coat, and in an attitude so similar to the one Diana had assumed that the relationship between the two was even more obvious than usual. As Sidney took up his opera hat and left the box, Scherer, for the first time, felt his heart go out to that young man in genuine sympathy. He wanted to join him, to be with him. How could he know what feelings were troubling the young man's heart?

Scherer rose and was preparing to leave his box when a voice from the neighbouring box, speaking in broken German, inquired:

"Do you know the name of the young lady who stood as the huntress just now?"

"Haven't the ghost of an idea, Doctor," answered another voice with a strong Berlinese accent.

Like a flash of lightning Scherer's acute memory recalled a scene: a strike-meeting that he and Diana had attended together, incognito, as an adventure. There had been the usual talk of wages and oppression, and then a square-headed young Slav, a peasant from the Caucasus, had arisen and talked with passionate idealism about brotherhood, in a speech that had gone quite over the heads of the city workers in the meeting. A fair-haired young Russian, blue-eyed, wearing a close-fitting jacket of dark cloth--what could he be doing in a society affair such as this? The Russian stood motionless, staring at the curtain as if it were not there and he was still contemplating the tableau of the goddess and her dog. Scherer recognized the man who was with the Russian as one of the parliamentary deputies of the German Social Democratic Party. The two men nodded to one another.

"You have guests in your box?" inquired Scherer.

"The box is not mine, nor have I any guests," said the deputy as if to excuse his presence at a society function. "I merely wished my Russian friend to have a little relaxation after a heavy day at accounts. Allow me----Doctor Sergievitch, Herr Scherer," whereupon Scherer felt his hand gripped by a huge peasant fist.

"I heard you speak not so very long ago," said Scherer with greater directness than was his wont.

"Ah? Do you often go to our meetings?" asked the Russian, with a slight emphasis on the "you."

"Yes, but in other clothes," laughed Scherer, for Sergievitch seemed to base his doubts rather on the dress of the interlocutor than on anything else.

"How do you like the tableaux?" Scherer went on to ask politely.

"One only was to my liking," answered the Russian curtly.

Prince Eduard was the only member of the audience who had known beforehand what he was to expect. And now he had seen Diana as he had always hoped to see her; stepping boldly forward on splendidly muscular legs, slim of haunch, her broad chest veiled by diaphanous draperies, her bronzed arms bare, one hand reaching for the arrows in the quiver slung over her back. His gaze travelled up to her face which he had seen but yesterday so close and so aloof, in quietude or in animation, severe, sweet and tender, or fiery, and he felt he could never take his eyes off this personification of youth. Yet the ruthless curtain fell, and severed him from the vision.