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from my chair I perceived her in a box； looking extremely pretty。
Adelina Patti was singing； and after the rising of the curtain I was
occupied with the stage； but on looking round when it fell for the
entr'acte； I saw that the authoress of 〃Cleopatra〃 had been joined by
her young admirer。 He was sitting a little behind her； leaning
forward； looking over her shoulder and listening； while she； slowly
moving her fan to and fro and letting her eye wander over the house；
was apparently talking of this person and that。 No doubt she was
saying sharp things； but Pickering was not laughing； his eyes were
following her covert indications； his mouth was half open； as it
always was when he was interested； he looked intensely serious。 I
was glad that； having her back to him； she was unable to see how he
looked。 It seemed the proper moment to present myself and make her
my bow； but just as I was about to leave my place a gentleman； whom
in a moment I perceived to be an old acquaintance； came to occupy the
next chair。 Recognition and mutual greetings followed； and I was
forced to postpone my visit to Madame Blumenthal。 I was not sorry；
for it very soon occurred to me that Niedermeyer would be just the
man to give me a fair prose version of Pickering's lyric tributes to
his friend。 He was an Austrian by birth； and had formerly lived
about Europe a great deal in a series of small diplomatic posts。
England especially he had often visited； and he spoke the language
almost without accent。 I had once spent three rainy days with him in
the house of an English friend in the country。 He was a sharp
observer； and a good deal of a gossip； he knew a little something
about every one； and about some people everything。 His knowledge on
social matters generally had the quality of all German science； it
was copious； minute； exhaustive。
〃Do tell me；〃 I said； as we stood looking round the house； 〃who and
what is the lady in white； with the young man sitting behind her。〃
〃Who？〃 he answered； dropping his glass。 〃Madame Blumenthal！ What！
It would take long to say。 Be introduced； it's easily done； you will
find her charming。 Then； after a week； you will tell me what she
is。〃
〃Perhaps I should not。 My friend there has known her a week； and I
don't think he is yet able to give a coherent account of her。〃
He raised his glass again； and after looking a while； 〃I am afraid
your friend is a littlewhat do you call it？a little 'soft。' Poor
fellow！ he's not the first。 I have never known this lady that she
has not had some eligible youth hovering about in some such attitude
as that； undergoing the softening process。 She looks wonderfully
well； from here。 It's extraordinary how those women last！〃
〃You don't mean； I take it； when you talk about 'those women；' that
Madame Blumenthal is not embalmed； for duration； in a certain
infusion of respectability？〃
〃Yes and no。 The atmosphere that surrounds her is entirely of her
own making。 There is no reason in her antecedents that people should
drop their voice when they speak of her。 But some women are never at
their ease till they have given some damnable twist or other to their
position before the world。 The attitude of upright virtue is
unbecoming； like sitting too straight in a fauteuil。 Don't ask me
for opinions； however； content yourself with a few facts and with an
anecdote。 Madame Blumenthal is Prussian； and very well born。 I
remember her mother； an old Westphalian Grafin； with principles
marshalled out like Frederick the Great's grenadiers。 She was poor；
however； and her principles were an insufficient dowry for Anastasia；
who was married very young to a vicious Jew； twice her own age。 He
was supposed to have money； but I am afraid he had less than was
nominated in the bond； or else that his pretty young wife spent it
very fast。 She has been a widow these six or eight years； and has
lived； I imagine； in rather a hand…to…mouth fashion。 I suppose she
is some six or eight and thirty years of age。 In winter one hears of
her in Berlin； giving little suppers to the artistic rabble there； in
summer one often sees her across the green table at Ems and
Wiesbaden。 She's very clever； and her cleverness has spoiled her。 A
year after her marriage she published a novel； with her views on
matrimony； in the George Sand mannerbeating the drum to Madame
Sand's trumpet。 No doubt she was very unhappy； Blumenthal was an old
beast。 Since then she has published a lot of literaturenovels and
poems and pamphlets on every conceivable theme； from the conversion
of Lola Montez to the Hegelian philosophy。 Her talk is much better
than her writing。 Her conjugophobiaI can't call it by any other
namemade people think lightly of her at a time when her rebellion
against marriage was probably only theoretic。 She had a taste for
spinning fine phrases； she drove her shuttle； and when she came to
the end of her yarn she found that society had turned its back。 She
tossed her head； declared that at last she could breathe the sacred
air of freedom； and formally announced that she had embraced an
'intellectual' life。 This meant unlimited camaraderie with
scribblers and daubers； Hegelian philosophers and Hungarian pianists。
But she has been admired also by a great many really clever men；
there was a time； in fact； when she turned a head as well set on its
shoulders as this one！〃 And Niedermeyer tapped his forehead。 〃She
has a great charm； and； literally； I know no harm of her。 Yet for
all that； I am not going to speak to her； I am not going near her
box。 I am going to leave her to say； if she does me the honour to
observe the omission； that I too have gone over to the Philistines。
It's not that； it is that there is something sinister about the
woman。 I am too old for it to frighten me； but I am good…natured
enough for it to pain me。 Her quarrel with society has brought her
no happiness； and her outward charm is only the mask of a dangerous
discontent。 Her imagination is lodged where her heart should be！ So
long as you amuse it； well and good； she's radiant。 But the moment
you let it flag； she is capable of dropping you without a pang。 If
you land on your feet you are so much the wiser； simply； but there
have been two or three； I believe； who have almost broken their necks
in the fall。〃
〃You are reversing your promise；〃 I said； 〃and giving me an opinion；
but not an anecdote。〃
〃This is my anecdote。 A year ago a friend of mine made her
acquaintance in Berlin； and though he was no longer a young man； and
had never been what is called a susceptible one； he took a great
fancy to Madame Blumenthal。 He's a major in the Prussian artillery
grizzled； grave； a trifle severe； a man every way firm in the faith
of his fathers。 It's a proof of Anastasia's charm that such a man
should have got into the habit of going to see her every day of his
life。 But the major was in love； or next door to it！ Every day that
he called he found her scribbling away at a little ormolu table on a
lot of half…sheets of note…paper。 She used to bid him sit down and
hold his tongue for a quarter of an hour； till she had finished her
chapter； she was writing a novel； and it was promised to a publisher。
Clorinda； she confided to him； was the name of the injured heroine。
The major； I imagine； had never read a work of fiction in his life；
but he knew by hearsay that Madame Blumenthal's literature； when put
forth in pink covers； was subversive of several respectable
institutions。 Besides； he didn't believe in women knowing how to
write at all； and it irritated him to see this inky goddess
correcting proof…sheets under his noseirritated him the more that；
as I say； he was in love with her and that he ventured to believe she
had a kindness for his years and his honours。 And yet she was not
such a woman as he could easily ask to marry him。 The result of all
this was that he fell into the way of railing at her intellectual
pursuits and saying he should like to run his sword through her pile
of papers。 A woman was clever enough when she could guess her
husband's wishes； and learned enough when she could read him the
newspapers。 At last； one day； Madame Blumenthal flung down her pen
and announced in triumph that she had finished her novel。 Clorinda
had expired in the arms ofsome one else than her husband。 The
major； by way of congratulating her； declared that her novel was
immoral rubbish； and that her love of vicious paradoxes was only a
peculiarly depraved form of coquetry。 He added； however； that he
loved her in spite of her follies； and that if she would formally
abjure them he would as formally offer her his hand。 They say that
women like to be snubbed by military men。 I don't know； I'm sure； I
don't know how much pleasure； on this occasion； was mingled with
Anastasia's wrath。 But her wrath was very quiet； and the major
ass