CHAPTER IV.
AQUA SOLA.
As he finished his sentence, Jacob perceived that it was growing late. He remembered the rendezvous at Aqua Sola.
"I feel," said he, "that you are bored. Excuse me, kind listener. It is the only mode of recital that I understand. I cannot be brief, but must digress. To render my story intelligible, it is necessary to infuse life and colour."
"No excuse is necessary," replied Ivas. "I am in no hurry to know the end; let us go slowly."
"Yes, we will finish it later on; but now it is time to go to Aqua Sola."
The evening had brought with it a little freshness. Many had already left old Genoa for the new part of the city. The streets called Nuova, Nuovissima, Balbi, and Aqua Sola were full of people. The men were dressed more or less in costume, and the women were enveloped in floating white veils which only partly concealed their graceful figures.
The companions walked through the dark, narrow streets until they arrived at the hill, which is the only point of verdure in that city of marble.
"I am very curious," said Ivas, "to know if we shall find many of our late companions at the rendezvous."
"Well, we shall see presently," said Jacob. "A day is long, and human nature changeable." They soon came to the steps which led to the promenade, in whose centre murmured a fountain, near which a fine band sent forth its inspiring strains. The crowd was compact: a Genoese crowd composed of soldiers, workmen, and priests, of sunburnt women, and tourists, among whom were many English. Aqua Sola is not much frequented by the aristocracy, who shut themselves up in their palaces or villas, nor by the bourgeoisie, who have their gardens at Nervi. One, therefore, meets at Aqua Sola two classes only,--the tourists or the regular habitués.
Jacob and Ivas strolled slowly along the principal walk, talking of the country and of the future of humanity. They had not yet noticed the arrival of the phlegmatic German, who had been distinguished for his silence at the Albergo della Grotto; but he soon approached them, and smilingly said: "I am very happy to meet you again, messieurs, and to be able to inquire for our invalid of yesterday. At the same time, I will excuse myself for not remaining long in your society. I have a chance to hire a veturino at half-price to Pisa. I shall have for a companion the privy councillor, Zuckerbeer. We leave to-day."
"What a pity!" cried Jacob in German, not wishing to inflict the French language on his interlocutor, and desiring also to escape torture himself from the execrable pronunciation of the compatriot of Goethe.
"What a pity! We should have had such a pleasant time together this evening."
On hearing his native language, the German beamed on him and smiled; but, in spite of the temptation to remain, he sacrificed pleasure to duty. Order and economy were his two predominant virtues, and the society of the privy councillor would be a consolation.
"The Councillor von Zuckerbeer," said he, "counts on me. I have given him my word; I am, therefore, absolutely obliged to go."
Jacob no longer urged him. He saluted, and said farewell, in the valley of Jehoshaphat. The German said adieu to his acquaintance of the day before without much regret. At the bottom of his heart he feared that the Pole was a dangerous revolutionist, a republican conspirator, an admirer of Garibaldi and Mazzini. If so, he was wise to renounce in time such a compromising acquaintance.
He had hardly disappeared when the Tsigane presented himself; smiling as ever, he fanned himself with his handkerchief; his waistcoat was unbuttoned, but the heated temperature seemed, nevertheless, very agreeable to him. He was in good spirits, and his expression was as joyful as was possible to one with such features.
"Well," cried he, "how do you like Genoa? For my part I find too much noise, too many asses bearing casks, and too few men by comparison, and the air is full of bad smells. It has the colour of the Orient, but the Orient is lacking. I will concede to you that Genoa possesses the perfumes of Constantinople. Oh! my poor olfactory nerves! What torture! Were we presented to each other yesterday? I have a bad memory, but you already know that I am a Tsigane, and, perhaps, my race will inspire you with aversion."
"You are wrong there," said Jacob, "for I have no aversion to any race."
"My name is Stamlo Gako," said the Tsigane. "My father was at the head of his tribe. But I have abandoned the collective wandering life for solitary vagabondage. I am thus, as you see, alone in the world. I would have been still using the same old pans and kettles had it not been for my beautiful bass voice, which gained me a place at the theatre. I saved some money, and invested it for the first time in the lottery. I won a large sum of money. Some of this I scattered in extravagance, but I kept enough to place me above want for the rest of my life. It is agreeable to me to live in idleness. I go or I stay, as I choose, but my forehead is marked indelibly. No one sympathizes with me, and I am indifferent to the world. A stupid life, if you will; but I would not change it for any other, for I am attached to it. I have no duties; that is to say, I am freed from everything,--from all belief, all hope, and all occupation. I weary myself comfortably, and my idleness is well ordered. In winter I go north; one suffers less there from the colds, on account of the houses being well warmed. I live in hotels, I eat well, I make passing acquaintances, I frequent the theatres, and in summer I go to Italy and sometimes return to my people in Hungary. There are yet there some individuals of my race and of my blood, but fortunately I have not a single near relative to persecute me. Hungary is for me a sort of home. I have learned to read, and a book with well-turned phrases serves me admirably to kill time, but in general I consider literature as useless. The best books contain more folly than reasonable thoughts. All human wisdom can be written on the palm of the hand."
"I am without country, like you," said Jacob, who had perceived that the Tsigane had drunk a little too much, "but I look on life differently. I have an aim, for I have brothers among men. You, who are better-informed than other Tsiganes, you can do much for your people if you will. It would be a grand thing for you to become a reformer and benefactor to your people."
"What would you do with the Tsiganes?" replied Gako showing his white teeth. "We are only a handful of living beings that God or the devil has thrown on the earth. What would you do with a cursed race without ambition or place? At least, do not ask me to conduct them to the Ganges, whence it is said they originally came. 'You shall perish!' such is the sentence against us. And we are perishing slowly. We shall disappear in time. Look at our women! At Moscow, singers and dancers, fortune-tellers and jades, always among the ragamuffins and beggars. In what language shall I speak to them of the future? Do the brutes understand anything? Like fruit that falls from the tree, we are a decayed people without root."
"Then change your nationality."
"Petrify myself! never! We will be Tsiganes as long as it pleases God. In the night of the ages," added Gako in a mysterious voice, "there was a terrible crime which we expiate, some fratricide of which we cannot wash our hands. I possess all that can make man happy on this earth, yet I shall never be happy. I have counted the number of days that I have to live. I will submit to my destiny."
Just then the two Italians arrived--Alberto Primate and Luca Barbaro.
They had a contented and satisfied look. They breathed their native air voluptuously, trod the soil of Italy, and viewed with joy the tri-colored flag floating in the breeze.
Luca Barbaro carried a sketch-book in his hand, Primate, a roll of music.
"Greeting, brothers," said the first. "How is your health? This delicious temperature ought to completely cure you. What do you think of good old Genoa?"
"She reminds us somewhat of the Middle Ages," replied Jacob.
"Does she not speak to you of the future?" asked one of the Italians. "Do you not then feel that delicious breath of springtime which promises to all nations a garland of flowers?"
"Utopist!" interrupted the Israelite sadly. "The springtime comes not at the same time for all lands. Men are brothers in words, but not in deeds. Each one is ready to become a fratricide in self-defence. Little by little humanity will perhaps come out of the shadows of servitude, of charlatanism and egotism, which stifle all generous tendencies in order to satisfy the thirst for gold and grandeur."
"Do not blaspheme!" cried Luca. "I believe in humanity. It is possible that there is a handful of vile reactionists and a band of miserable charlatans, but in general men are the sons of God. By music, painting, literature, and devotion, souls will open, all hearts will be purified, intelligence will develop, virtue will spread abroad, and soon a luminous springtime will brighten the world."
"Amen!" cried Primate; "amen! But I have a question to ask you. We have come here to rest, have we not?"
"Yes! Yes! Certainly!"
"Very well; for once let us leave the subjects of philosophy and politics. Leave all that to the reactionists. Let us amuse ourselves with art and with life."
Luca kissed his compatriot's forehead. "Poverino! he is wearied by me, for I have given him no rest. He bears in his heart three things only: woman, love, and music."
Just then the group was augmented by the Dane.
"Plague take it!" said he; "if I had known that la belle dame would not be here, I would not have tired myself out to join you. I had a great desire to go to the theatre; primitive and barbarous as it is, I might have passed an agreeable evening there. I have been drawn to Aqua Sola by the remembrance of two lovely eyes, a little faded, perhaps, but full of expression. If she had been coming she would be here by this time. I have been deceived."
"You have yet time to go to the theatre," said the Tsigane indifferently, as he lit his cigar.
"Very true! But if, by chance, she should come. She, the unknown. She? Who is she?"
"A retired artiste singing only occasionally, as she has told us herself," replied the Tsigane; "a priestess of Thalia. I doubt if she is a Vestal. Hum!"
"Widow," added Luca.
"A widow! The title is appropriate. But she is escorted by two admirers," said the Dane: "a Russian and a Pole. Who are they? Are they rich or poor? How long has she known them? Chi lo sa?"
"Chi lo sa?" repeated Primate.
And Barbara added: "We know that the Russian is a refugee. If, in leaving his country, he has brought his purse with him he is a dangerous rival, for the Russians are said to be fabulously rich. It is said that each noble receives from the Czar his share of the gold mines of the Ural Mountains. But if in saving his head he has not saved his purse, and if he has no private resources, he becomes much less vulnerable. As for the young Galician, he has his youth, which is a capital. But you, messieurs, as Poles, can better judge of the worth of your compatriot."
"The Galician nobles," said Ivas, "ordinarily bear the title, more or less authentic, of Count. Many of them have been rich, but since 1848 they frequently give themselves an appearance of riches. I do not believe that the young man is a dangerous rival."
"Behold her! Behold her!" cried the Dane suddenly, perceiving the brunette at the end of the street, looking more attractive to-day than yesterday. "What do I see? She is alone with the Russian! A bad sign! The Galician was evidently in the way. The plot thickens! Yesterday when there were two gallants there was room for a third; but when there is only one it is difficult for another to get a foothold."
"He is very wise in the art of loving," remarked the Tsigane.
The charming Lucie Coloni approached. She was, in reality, in the full height of her beauty, and she had had time to augment her many attractions by the toilet. Her eyes were humid without having wept, and a sweet smile played on her lips. The Russian accompanied her, appearing melancholy in contrast with her gayety. She went up to Ivas, and held out a little hand, elegantly gloved, asking with much solicitude, "Va bene?"
"Thanks, madame. No trace of yesterday's illness. The scar which remains on my temple will be for me an indelible souvenir of your goodness."
"Flatterer!" replied she, shrugging her shoulders.
The Russian affected an exaggerated politeness to show his ease of manner.
"We are not complete," said he.
"One is lacking," replied Jacob. "We shall see him no more. It is the German. He has found a cheap way of going to Pisa with a privy councillor, and he has profited by it. One does not travel every day with dignitaries, lately granted a von who knows for what secret service? This von, fresh and new, comes out of the bandbox with the perfume of a half-blown rose. But you also, madame, you have lost one of your companions."
"Yes, the count. He was obliged to leave this afternoon for Spezia."
"Yesterday he did not speak of this project," said the Dane.
The Russian seemed to be looking at the sea, a little of which was visible from where they stood. The lady bit her lips to avoid laughing, fanned herself negligently, and said:--
"I really do not know what has taken him. He was perhaps frightened by his compatriots. It is for you, messieurs, to clear this mystery."
"What country is this Galicia? The youth assured me that he was neither Polish nor Austrian, but a Galician."
Ivas and Jacob exchanged a smile, without replying.
"We will not wear mourning for him!" cried Ivas.
"I regret him, however," replied Lucie. "He would have become a very agreeable man, but as yet he resembles those Italian nuts shut up in a bitter shell."
They all laughed.
"Aqua Sola! How sweet the words sound!" continued she, walking at the head of the procession. "But how little it is, shabby, and even tiresome. What trees, what drops of water, a disagreeable crowd, plenty of dust, and only in the distance a glimpse of the sea! Povera Geneva!"
"And yet," observed the Muscovite, "what marvels were promised us."
The cosmopolite Dane profited by an opportunity to place himself beside the lady. This was too significant, and she gave him a haughty look which he did not perceive. This look seemed to say: "No use. No hope for you!"
Lucie occupied herself more with Ivas than the rest of the company. In a sweet voice she asked: "You go to Poland?"
"Yes, madame," replied he smiling.
"I am very superstitious," said she; "and as I also go to Poland, I consider it a good omen to have made the acquaintance of a Pole on my way."
"Poland, madame, is to-day an abstraction. There is no Poland, and yet there are several: Russian Poland, the Kingdom of Poland raised up by the Congress of Vienna, Prussian Poland, and Austrian Poland."
"I really do not know to which Poland I am going. Tell me, where is Warsaw?"
"It is, in a way, my native city. One of the ancient capitals of Poland, and the last; to-day the capital of that ideal Poland which is yet to be established."
"I lose myself in all this geography! Do you also go to Warsaw?"
"Yes, madame. But I do not know whether I shall arrive there, and whether, on arriving, I shall not be sent much farther toward the Asiatic steppes."
"You are very unfortunate, you Poles."
"Our misfortunes pass all conception. But do not let us speak of it. How is it, madame, that you go to Warsaw?"
"From curiosity only," replied she, lowering her eyes. "It is possible also that I may sing in some theatre."
"Oh! You are sure to be admirably received. Colonel Nauke is very fond of Italian music, and as soon as he knows"--
"You will introduce me to him?"
"I, madame, it is impossible! I shall be obliged to conceal myself. To be seen would be for me death or exile."
"If I could at least meet you there!"
Ivas sadly shook his head. The Dane, very attentive to the conversation, concluded that she intended to leave the Russian, who, of course, as he was a refugee, could not return to the land of the Czars.
This idea did honour to his acquaintance with political geography, of which nearly all European journalists are absolutely ignorant.
"And you go alone?" asked he.
"No, not alone. But, monsieur, you annoy me with your questions. Really I do not know yet what I shall do, and I do not like to speak of the future. That will be accomplished in one way or another. Chi lo sa?"
"I am ready to follow you to the end of the world!" cried her cosmopolite adorer enthusiastically.
"You are jesting, monsieur, and I do not like jests of this kind. In any case, I do not count on you as a companion."
"What a pity that she is so savage!" said her admirer to himself.
The Russian listened passively, without mingling in the conversation.
"I am very curious to visit Poland and Russia," said Lucie Coloni. "They say that the Poles and Russians understand and love music, that they are enthusiastic dilettanti."
"There have been such instances in Poland," said Jacob. "In regard to Russia I know nothing. But monsieur can tell us that in his country they love art less than the artistes. In Poland there is now room only for a single sentiment. The future has but one aim. Do the witches of Shakespeare watch at the dark cross-roads, or will the angels lend their aid? God alone knows. From Warta to the frozen sea the earth is in travail, hearts beat with violence, the battle is preparing, there will be something frightful which will shake the very foundations of the earth. What song, sweet though it be, can be heard by ears which await a signal which will sound like a thunderclap?"
"Perhaps," said Lucie, "I shall have the happiness of singing your song of triumph."
"Or a death hymn," added Jacob sadly.
"Or rather a song intermezzo which makes one forget the tragedy of life," replied la Coloni. "I grant to you that this Europe, cold, dull, dead, worn out, blasé, has for me the effect of a withered bouquet picked up out of the dust. It has no longer a spark of vitality."
"Behold a sally that astonishes me, coming from you," cried the Dane. "Europe when she was young was frolicsome; maturity has arrived, but has not taken away all her charms. To-day children are born reasonable. The young man of nineteen has a drunkard's pride to drain the enormous cup to the bottom. More barriers on life's grand highway! More toll-money! Go where you will, paths open before you. More proscriptions, more laws, more prejudices, binding us. Fresh surprises! Everything is possible."
"And nothing is worth much; nothing is good," added Lucie.
"Madame," cried the Italian musician, "before continuing your invective, deign to hear me."
"Very willingly, monsieur."
"Will you then be seated? My companion and I are children of two parts of Italy which have not yet united with their common mother. We seek a little relaxation after a long servitude. Very well. We cannot take a step without being persecuted by politics, political economy, or philosophy. Have pity on us, and speak of other things."
"Spoiled child of Italy," said the Dane, "your prayer cannot be granted. Our age takes her nourishment where it is found. It is useless to try to hinder me."
"Cannot we discuss music?"
"Music! She has followed the general route, and the music of the future, with her prophet, Wagner, is political music."
"Granted. And the other arts?"
"They cannot be separated from philosophy and history."
"Then let us speak of frivolities, of the times, of the weather, of the city we are visiting; remember I am young, and an artist."
"There are no more young hearts," said Jacob.
"What remains then for those who thirst for life?"
"Nothing," replied the Dane quickly, in a serious tone; "only to drink."
"And afterward?"
"Afterward? That depends on the temperament; to sleep or"--
During this conversation, the evening breeze brought from a neighbouring house the sound of sweet music, now gay, now sad. They all listened. It was not Italian music. A young and sympathetic voice sang, accompanied by the piano. The song was of profound sadness, rendered with good expression and method.
The Italian instantly recognized an inspiration of Mendelssohn. He took off his hat, and listened with an expression of pleasure. He took a few steps, and, with a sign, demanded silence.
In contrast to the light songs of Italy, full of harmony, this song was full of grave majesty. For the Italian who had not heard much German music it was a revelation.
The mysterious chords, coming from an unknown window, from an invisible mouth, had a fascinating charm and a melodious sadness, which made a lively impression. The woman's voice came from a house near the Academy of Medicine, and was carried to our hearers by the indiscreet breeze.
"It is fine," said the Dane, "but it is somewhat like the music of the future."
"Be silent, then, monsieur," said Lucie severely. "It is wonderful."
At that moment the song gradually grew fainter, and finally died away. The accompaniment ceased also with a few majestic chords.
They all drew near the house whence came the melody, and in the general preoccupation no one observed that Jacob grew pale, and seemed to recognize the voice. He pressed his hand against his side as if in pain. His emotion was almost terrifying, and his features had changed so as to be hardly recognizable.
Ivas perceived his friend's emotion.
"What is the matter?" asked he anxiously. "Has the music impressed you thus?"
The Jew, distrait and silent, thanked him for his solicitude, and motioned for him to be silent.
"Listen; perhaps she will sing again," said Lucie.
They were silent, but in vain.
After long waiting the door opened, and there came out of the house a young and elegant woman accompanied by a distinguished-looking man, whose features were of the Oriental type.
They attracted at once the attention of the promenaders. The woman was about twenty years old; her features were delicate. She was a pale brunette, with black eyes full of languor, and she bore on her face an expression so noble and so sad that one thought she was an angel of death. Her calmness apparently covered some bitter chagrin and a profound melancholy. Her dress was sombre and bore out the grave character of her features, maintaining without heightening her beauty.
Her companion, in spite of his elegant appearance and gentlemanlike bearing, had, on close inspection, something pretentious about him. He played with too much affectation the rôle of fine gentleman to be real. In every line of his face could be seen pride and vanity, without human sentiment. His mobile eyes, his sensual lips, his strong physique, betokened exuberant passions.
Everything about him disclosed instincts, but not heart. In spite of his politeness, this man, cold, distingué at first, inspired a certain terror. One easily divined that in his heart there was no pity, and that he had made of his egotism a systematic rule of conduct from which nothing could make him deviate. A beggar meeting him alone would never dare to ask alms. He would hazard it only before witnesses. In spite of his courteous manner toward the lady, who was evidently his wife, there appeared to be a sort of weariness and constraint between them. He seemed to drag her along with him like a victim. Without looking around her, she walked (if I may say so) automatically, while her husband did not even try to conceal his indifference.
Our group knew immediately that this was the mysterious singer. Jacob, absorbed in himself, did not perceive that he was in their path; his haggard eyes were fixed on the woman, who had not yet noticed him. The husband did not see Jacob either, until he was near him. Then he frowned and bit his lips; but this expression was followed by a forced smile and a polite bow. The woman mechanically raised her head, recoiled, and gave a cry of surprise. Her voice recalled Jacob to himself. He took off his hat and bowed, standing aside to let them pass.
"What an astonishing meeting!" said the stranger, giving his hand without cordiality.
The woman had become calm, and added, with a sad smile, in a trembling voice: "It is true; the meeting is unexpected!"
"Very unexpected, and very happy for me," replied Jacob with emotion. "After a long absence, I am about to return to Poland. I desired to visit a part of Italy which has been so extolled. Chance has kept me in Genoa with other travellers. Your divine voice fixed us under your windows, for there is not another like it in the world."
The husband listened with indifference to this compliment. The wife blushed, and did not reply.
"But what are you doing at Genoa?" said Jacob.
"We go here and there," replied the husband. "Dr. Lebrun has prescribed a warm climate for Mathilde, for she has an obstinate little cough. That is why we are here in this bracing atmosphere."
"And how do you like Italy?"
"She impresses me," said the woman, "as a mirage of that Orient which I have never seen, and for which I long and dream as for one's native land. Italy is very beautiful!"
During this conversation the Jew noticed that he was the object of his companions' curiosity. He hesitated to make his adieux, and separate himself from them. The husband, always polite, relieved him from this embarrassment.
"Will you not come with us?" asked he, politely.
"Willingly, but permit me to take leave of my companions."
He called Ivas and charged him to make his excuses to the company, at the same time begging him to wait for him; then went away with his acquaintances.
"Ah!" cried the Italian on learning from Ivas that he had been requested to wait for his friend, "I also am willing to wait a long time to find out who this lady is. I am anxious to hear this marvellous singer again. Where are you staying?" said she to the Pole.
"At the Hotel Féder."
"That is fortunate. You are very near me. I am at the Hotel de France. Wait for your companion, and bring him to me, willingly or by force, to drink tea. I will not fix the hour, for so active is my curiosity about this woman that I cannot sleep until I have seen you."
She turned to the rest of the company. "Messieurs," said she, "will you also accept my invitation?"
They all bowed their acceptance, and Lucie took the Russian's arm, with whom she departed, chatting vivaciously.
Ivas remained with the Italians. The Dane and the Tsigane went away together.
"I perceive," said Lucie to her cavalier, "that this unexpected meeting betokens a mysterious romance. Did you see how he looked at her? Did you hear the cry she gave? The husband and the lover, that is certain. How I wish I knew their history! Will he consent to tell us? Provided he comes, I know well how to lead him on."
"Why should their story interest us?"
"Because it will be more curious than the books you read. I love reality better than fiction."
CHAPTER V.
A SIMPLE HISTORY OF LOVE.
Ivas, abandoned, seated himself alone on a bench, his head bowed. The sight of the men and women around him who had leisure to occupy themselves with sentiments of love, and their conversation, made a sad impression.
Hunger, misery, political passions, consumed him. He thought of his country and its future. He sought a remedy for his unhappiness and the sorrows of his countrymen. What mattered to him the sweet words of women, their tender glances, their whispered promises; women for him did not exist before the vision of his misery and his despair. An inexpressible sadness tortured him. Was he not going to risk his life in order to breathe his native air?
His melancholy thoughts were rocked by the sea breeze when some one clapped him on the shoulder. It was Jacob.
"Let us return," said he with vivacity.
"I am at your service, but first let me tell you that we are invited to take tea with the Italian lady at her hotel."
"No! I will not go! I need solitude. Have you accepted?"
"Certainly, for I do not enjoy being alone with my thoughts. And I believe, dear friend of forty-eight hours, that it will do you good to go also. We have not known each other long, but permit me to suggest that there are things that one had better bury in the bottom of the heart. Come, Coloni is very curious. If we do not go she is capable of coming after us. That would be worse still."
"It is true that we are recommended to cure old wounds by distraction. Come, then, we will forget ourselves in a foolish and gay society."
"You speak of old wounds. Then this lady"--
"Do not speak of her. Are there not other persons, other faces and names, which awaken old memories? You had better speak of man rather than of woman. This one is an unfortunate who slowly works out her destiny."
"Let us go, then!"
"Let us go! I will be gay in spite of"--
"Of what?"
"In spite of mournful remembrances."
They turned and walked rapidly along the dark streets which conducted them to the shore. Here were built two hotels. In the morning this part of the city was very busy on account of the bourse, but all was silent and deserted at this hour of the evening.
They entered the Hotel de France.
On the first floor Lucie reigned in a little salon, fresh and elegant. Here they found all the rest of the company. Seated in the balcony, the Russian smoked in silence. It was easy to be seen that this impromptu tea was not pleasing to him, for he shut himself up in complete reserve without joining in the conversation.
The Tsigane, installed comfortably on the sofa, looked around him with supreme indifference. The Dane paid special attention to his hostess, and the Italians were in gay spirits. When the door opened and Jacob appeared, Madame Coloni went hastily to meet him.
"Grazie tante! Grazie tante!" cried she. "You are so kind to have come. It is a sacrifice for which I thank you."
"How can it be called a sacrifice to pass the evening in your charming society, and to have the pleasure of looking at you," said Jacob.
"Unworthy flatterer!" replied she, striking him softly on his hand. "No more compliments. You mock me! Seat yourself, sir, and tell me quickly who is our singer. Who is this beautiful lady with accents so sad that on hearing her we have tears in our eyes? Why was she so agitated on seeing you? Why did you grow so pale?"
Jacob had great control over himself. He laughed so naturally that he deceived his fair questioner, who began to lose the hope of hearing a romantic history.
"You have truly a vivid imagination!" said he. "You have already composed a sad song. You have invested me with the sufferings of the hero of your romance; but I am no hero, I assure you. The lady is a countrywoman of mine and a co-religionist. She and her husband are Jews and live in Warsaw. Our acquaintance is then very natural. Behold the truth in simple prose."
The Italian tapped her foot impatiently. "This truth seems a little false," said she. "I observed you closely when you first met her."
Jacob made an effort to smile.
"The real truth is that I might well have been grieved and astonished, for I know the sad history of this woman."
"Ah! there is, then, as I thought, a sad story?"
"Yes, but I did not figure in it."
Lucie looked at him fixedly, but he returned her glance without emotion.
"Oh! pray, monsieur," demanded she in a caressing voice, "relate to me this story. I am dying to hear it."
"I warn you, madame, that it is not remarkable, and as it is the story of a Jewess it will be less interesting to you than to me. I am afraid I shall weary you. I am a bad story-teller, long and tiresome."
"You take a long time to tell a story! So much the better, we have plenty of time to listen. But do not torment me. Begin."
"Permit me, madame, to collect my thoughts for a moment."
"If," said the Dane, "the story is as long as monsieur promises us, and there is in the story a sentimental woman encumbered with a beast of a husband and a noble lover, I will excuse myself from listening. I can guess it all in advance."
"I also," said the Tsigane. "It is always the same thing."
"Where can true love be found to-day?" cried the Dane.
Lucie protested against this atrocious blasphemy, but the Tsigane replied imperturbably:--
"You will grant that the times of chivalrous love have vanished. Only the turtle-doves are innocent enough to sigh still. Formerly, as we are told, humanity passed through a long epoch of exalted love. Today men have almost abandoned these ways. A hundred years from now they will laugh at such love-stories and wonder how it could have been. I speak of such loves as those of Leander and Hero, not that of Calypso for young and handsome warriors, nor of the love of Nero for Poppea. That kind of love lasts because it is natural. But love which is torture, which suffers for some ideal beauty, it is an old, stereotyped plate, out of fashion. Show me to-day some one who loves in this way or who would be disposed to make serious sacrifices for love. The young girls marry because the husband suits the father and mother. The men marry for settlements, or for charms more or less fascinating. They do not marry at all for love,--that fantasy has gone out of fashion."
"Why," said Lucie indignantly, "you cannot maintain such ridiculous assertions."
"I can prove them by facts. Look around you. Everywhere caprice, passion, love of excitement, etc., but true love nowhere."
Lucie sighed.
"Is this progress or decadence?" asked she.
"I know not. It is sad for you beautiful women to descend from the pedestal on which you were elevated, but how can you refuse the evidence of things?"
"Is it so evident?"
"Alas! I do not wish to impose my opinion on you, but reflect seriously. Where can you find as formerly two souls created for each other?"
"What you say," interrupted Jacob, "is true up to a certain point. But I hope the world has only temporarily renounced this poetry. If all ideality should disappear it would be a sad thing. I will add a commentary to your remarks, Monsieur Gako. Men do not love themselves as much as they used. That is why existence is in some sort lessened, and the number of suicides from weariness of life is daily augmented."
Madame Coloni clapped her hands and reminded Jacob of his promise to relate a history.
The Tsigane yawned. The Russian lighted a fresh cigarette, the Dane went out, and when it was silent the Jew commenced in a low voice:--
"In all the legislation of the world the most badly understood and the most badly judged is perhaps that of Moses. It belongs to me to defend it in my character of Jew. Our law is the fundamental base of yours. Do not forget that Jesus said that he came not to destroy the law, but to complete it.
"It is generally supposed that the Hebrew women were debased to the level of slaves. Nothing of the kind. Customs were sometimes swerved from the law, influenced as they were by the barbarity of the times, but it is not the law which abases woman.
"In the Jewish language she is called Ischa, the feminine of Isch, which means 'man.' This name alone indicates the perfect equality of the sexes. Deuteronomy xxi. 10-15 commends us to respect even the captives. Polygamy, exceptionally practised by the kings, is forbidden in a formal manner. The Bible reveals to us in more than one page the disastrous effects of this immoral custom. On a level with man, Isch, woman, Ischa, it is true, was not priest, but she was permitted to bear the offerings to the altar. No legislation of antiquity or even of later epochs can show us woman better treated or more respected than with the Jews. The mothers of the Maccabees and of Judith prove the importance of that rôle.
"A young girl of twelve years, Ketannah, could be promised in marriage by her father, but, above that age, become Nairah, she could marry to please herself.
"Pagan and barbarous usages, nevertheless, penetrated even among us at the epoch of the Kings. The sexes were more strictly separated. Sometimes, for example, the Jews cloistered the women in a harem, or, if they were poor, compelled them to do manual labour. There rests this stain against us, contrary to the true spirit of the Mosaic law.
"Pardon this digression, too grave, perhaps, for a love idyl between a man and woman. But you will see later on that it was necessary."
"I believe that your story will contain at least two men," said Lucie lightly.
"It suffices me to put only one in strong relief, although two or three men will find a place in this history, this idyl, or, if you prefer, this drama. Without them there could be no drama."
"Or simply a monodrama depending on one man."
"You have all seen this woman whose voice has so charmed us. She is the most unfortunate of women, because she is obliged to submit to a situation that is revolting to her.
"Her father, a rich Jew, belongs, or rather belonged, to those of his race who, owing to a European education, have sunk into a destructive scepticism, and regard as an imposture all religions, including his own. Entering early into active life, he attributed the success of his career partly to luck, but above all to his own intelligence and energy. Outside of these three forces, there was for him nothing else here below but a poetical Utopia for the amusement of simpletons.
"The mother of Mathilde was a devout Israelite, but she died young, and her child was left to the care of so-called Christians, who taught her their own unbelief in the ideal, and left her to form her mind for good or evil by reading without discernment. They taught her that there was neither virtue nor vice, but skill or stupidity, calculation or improvidence, decency or unseemliness. So that when the maiden entered society she looked on men as mere ciphers or figures, as they appear in one of the tables of Pythagoras. Such a society seemed unattractive to a youthful imagination which had an instinctive longing for the perfumes of life, and found only dead and withered flowers.
"At an early age she was deprived of these illusions. She was told that men were wicked, heartless, and deceivers. It would not do to believe in their protestations; she must view them with contempt and aversion. It was a good thing to be honest, to spare one's self the trouble of embarrassment, and honesty is often the best policy. On this theory crime was only an awkwardness, and virtue without intrinsic worth unless it brought assured profits.
"As Mathilde might marry an Israelite, a Mussulman, or a Christian, she had access to the literature of all religious beliefs. She read the Bible, but her father ridiculed the most sacred passages. This critical raillery and the numerous books perused by her left her mind nothing but unbelief.
"Add to this the practical education which endeavoured prematurely to tear from her all heart, as one pulls an aching tooth to prevent further suffering, and you can form some idea of what they had done to this poor child.
"Mathilde entered this existence like an insensible statue, without taste for life. She foresaw that she would not be happy, for she well knew that there could be no happiness for noble souls. Her sentiments did not accord with the line of conduct that had been drawn for her. Her aspirations were pure, but she was taught that self-interest should be the only motive of all her aspirations, and that any other course was a morbid weakness, and would lead to ruin. Although she was ignorant of many things that had been concealed from her, she divined them, and each day she rebelled against this desperate reality. Her widowed father lived on, following his own whims without regard to moral law, and without belief in virtue. Coveting all that was accessible to him, he led a selfish life, and, although he was careful to observe the proprieties in his house, his practices were visible to the eyes of his young daughter, who was convinced that true affection had no place in the hearts of men. Her generous nature revolted sadly against this paternal materialism. Any other woman under the influence of such an example, in such an immoral atmosphere, would have been corrupted. Mathilde felt only a profound melancholy. Nature and study became her consolers. Art spoke to her of the great sentiments toward which she had wished to raise herself, but had been prevented.
"There is perhaps no torture more intense than a struggle like this between noble instincts and the animalism of the world. Mathilde in her fourteenth year was already as sad, as wearied, as she is to-day of this existence without future and without hope. Before her appeared the certainty of an advantageous marriage which would render her life a success in a worldly sense. Nothing more! Her father, with his wealth, was sure to find a young husband of good position, possessed of riches equal to his own. It was not to be supposed that he would seek for other qualities, and it was certain that he would not suffer from his daughter, whom he loved after his own fashion, the least remonstrance in regard to his choice.
"While the girl was growing up in this poisonous moral atmosphere, in the midst of every luxury, a young man came to the house."
"I have waited for him a long time with impatience," cried Lucie Coloni. "Behold, at last he is here!"
"Do not ask me to describe his character," said Jacob. "The heroes of true romances like this all resemble each other in general. They have external fascinations, all the virtues, all the grand and noble qualities, an affectionate heart and an exalted head, and so forth. But my hero, nevertheless, differs a little from the ordinary. He had some distinctive traits; he had been poor, and was little accustomed to salons. He had drawn all the forces of his success and energy from the school of humility; he was modest, peaceable, and little expansive, like all those to whom a premature sadness has proved that to ask sympathy provokes only raillery in this world. The father of Mathilde was a distant relative of this young man, and had taken him to his house to finish his education, having recognized in him a certain capacity. He intended to push his fortunes owing to a noble sentiment of relationship which remained in his heart, and was almost the only trace of old Judaism. He also felt some pride in protecting a young man who promised to do himself honour in the world. This promise was only partly fulfilled, for too precocious talents do not always produce the fruits that are expected of them.
"The young man, who had finished his studies and was preparing himself for business, lived in the house of his protector, who intended to send him to foreign parts to oversee his business. You may give to my hero any name you wish."
"Call him Jacob," said Ivas.
"No, no! let us call him Janus, the Polish equivalent for Jonas. I do not know, madame, if it is hardly worth while to relate the rest to you, for it is easy to divine. Two orphaned souls, aspiring to the poetry of life, could not meet without loving. Mathilde found in him a nobleness which responded to her ideal of a man's character, and he recognized in her his ideal of melancholy beauty.
"In his protector's house it was necessary to be on guard, lest he should suspect an inclination which would cause them to be separated, and should chase Janus from his Paradise. The young people well understood that they must feign indifference for fear of such a catastrophe. A few words exchanged in a room full of people, on the street, or near the piano, some furtive glances,--behold the relations of the young man with Mathilde!
"The father had not the least idea that this unfortunate youth could dare to throw his eyes on an inheritance worthy of a Rothschild. If such a thought had by chance entered his head, he would have put it away as a thing impossible.
"The English governess, mature but romantic still, was very fond of these Platonic friendships, and had herself even such a weakness for the young man that she hoped to fascinate him by the multiplicity of her talents. She put no restraint upon her pupil, and she even took it upon herself to assist them. His host, seeing the manœuvres of Miss Burnet, for he had for these things much perspicuity, laughed in his sleeve, thinking it quite natural for Janus thus to commence his virile career, and never dreaming that it was his daughter to whom the youth aspired."
Jacob paused, as if short of breath, and Lucie gave him some sherbet. There was a moment of silence, then he resumed his narrative in a weaker voice:--
"Recall, each one of you, kind listeners, your youth and the earliest flower of the springtime of your first love. Consider that angel of candour, chained unhappily to the earth, this most prosaic earth, while her wings unfold and open to carry her to heaven. The youth adored her as a divinity, and she saw in him a celestial messenger sent to her from the ethereal world. That is the romance which they held in their hearts, and which they would not manifest visibly. Two words sufficed to make them happy for a long time. A look, when they met during the day, gave them new strength to live.
"The word 'love' was never mentioned between them. The same chaste sentiment beat in unison in their hearts without inflaming their brains or their senses. For them silence even was a poem of happiness; the smile, a joy divine; and a flower was an avowal.
"These felicities, which appeared afterward like child's play, and which reason turned to raillery, passed unperceived.
"Neither Mathilde's father nor her governess had the least suspicion of anything serious. The father even thought that, at times, his daughter was too timid and too cold toward Janus, and Miss Burnet reproached her for the same thing. The want of theory or of practice, I know not which, deceived her, and she supposed that it was to herself that Janus aspired.
"Alas! this dream of the heart, this love without hope, vanished like a dream at the gate of Paradise. One morning, or rather one afternoon, the father ordered his daughter, with a very indifferent air, to dress herself with much care, as he expected a visitor. A short time before dinner there entered a young man, distinguished, well-bred, a perfect man of the world, and whom the father presented under the name of Henri Segel.
"There are presentiments! This black-eyed Antinoüs, with a perpetual smile on his lips, with an amiability so spiritual and so courteous, frightened the girl. She felt for him a violent repulsion, a strange sentiment which is explained by psychology only; she detested him, although she had nothing with which to reproach him.
"He loved music, and was himself a good musician, and he was said to be enormously rich.
"Three days after, the father said quietly to his daughter, without asking her opinion, that Henri Segel was her betrothed. In announcing this he said that she was to be congratulated on having pleased Monsieur Segel, and that he had fallen desperately in love with her. All this was in a tone which did not permit the slightest contradiction. The thing was settled; she had nothing to say about it.
"The marriage seemed to him so suitable that all hesitation or opposition would have appeared an unpardonable childishness. She ought to consider herself a very lucky girl.
"Mathilde did not reply, but she grew frightfully pale. She was congratulated on all sides, while she suffered in her heart. Her sad glance seemed to say to Jacob"--
"Pardon me," cried Ivas, "but you called him Janus."
Jacob blushed, drank a glass of water, wiped his brow, and seemed unable to continue his story.
"You are right," said he at last. "I was mistaken."
"Continue, monsieur,--continue, I beg of you," cried Lucie.
"It was," said the Jew, "a pleasant evening in springtime. The perfume of flowers was spread abroad, and on the leaves glistened drops of dew. Mathilde and Miss Burnet walked in the garden. Seated on a bench, Janus held a book which he did not read. The Englishwoman saw him and directed their steps toward him. Happily, or perhaps unfortunately, just then there came a friend of Miss Burnet. Chance willed that the lovers were left alone together. They were both glad and frightened at this unexpected circumstance. They walked together for some time in silence, trembling and hardly breathing. The two Englishwomen had a thousand secrets to relate, and left them alone a long time. The governess had even whispered to her pupil on leaving, 'Go as far as you please.'
"They strolled along in silence. She gathered flowers, among the leaves of which her tears mingled with the dew-drops. He, pensive, looked at her and man-like held back the tears that rose to his eyes. Suddenly Mathilde stopped. She raised her head proudly, as if she had gained a victory over herself. She put her hand to her side, and threw on her kinsman a strange look in which she gave herself to him for eternity.
"'Very soon,' murmured she, 'we must separate. You know what awaits me. It will be sweet for me to recall this evening's walk. And you, will you remember?'
"She spoke to him for the first time in a sad and solemn voice. Her expressive words went to Janus' heart, and he thought he should go mad. His heart beat violently, his hands were clenched on his breast.
"'Forget you, Mathilde!' cried he. 'Forget the happiness I have tasted with you! Oh, no, never! Never! I swear to you that I will never marry another woman, for I have loved you, and I love you still, as one loves but once in life. Why need I tell you all my love when you know it already!'
"'I have believed it, and I still believe it, but life is long and memory unfaithful. For you men, it is said that love is a pastime, for us it is existence. I have loved you, and I will never cease to love you!'
"Stifled sobs interrupted her words.
"'Love could never be a plaything to me,' said Janus. 'In my eyes it is the most sacred thing in life. It is the marriage of two souls for eternity.'
"'I believe it,' cried Mathilde, 'and that is why I love you. I feel that you are honest and sincere; you know what awaits me. They have sold me to a man for whom I have an invincible aversion. But I will not suffer long, for I shall soon die. May your soul be the tomb where my memory will not perish! My father will raise for me a monument, my husband will give me a fine funeral, but my grave before long will be covered with weeds; may a memory of me remain, at least, in your heart!'
"The Englishwomen were so absorbed in their conversation that they prolonged their farewells for some time.
"'To-day,' continued Mathilde, 'I have seen you so sad that I have wished, under pretence of saying adieu, to give you some words of consolation. Who knows if we shall ever meet alone again; let me then repeat that I love you; that I love and will love you until death.'
"'Mathilde,' cried he, rebelling against their destiny, 'if you have confidence in me, leave this house. Behold two arms which can procure you bread. Your father will forgive us, and you will be mine forever.'
"'No!' she answered firmly, after an instant of reflection; 'I love you like a child, but I can reason like a mature woman. I do not believe in a future; for me the future is a lure. I should bring you, perhaps, some moments of happiness, but afterward I should be a cause of weariness and remorse. You have no right to show yourself so ungrateful to your protector, who has done much for you. Who knows whether you would not be disappointed in me. I am already fading, having been poisoned from my cradle. My unbelief awakens. I hear a mocking laugh vibrate in my ears, even when tears are in my eyes. No, no! a hundred times no! It will be better for you to love the dead, for who knows if living, you would love me long.'
"She dismissed him with a sigh, and withdrew from him as if she feared that she might be persuaded.
"After a little, she returned to Janus, who was lost in bitter thoughts. He had remained where she had left him, with bowed head and clasped hands.
"'What do you think of my future husband?' asked she.
"'I detest him.'
"'Is it because he is to be my husband?'
"'No. He produced this impression at first sight.'
"'And why?'
"'I know not. He is odious to me, although I know nothing against him. He is rich, fashionable, very amiable. And with all that I cannot like him.'
"'I even fear,' added Mathilde, 'that he has nothing human in him. He is a being which appears to me to be utterly without heart, a sort of automaton fabricated by the nineteenth century. With all his knowledge, I am sure that he does not know how to weep, nor suffer, nor to have pity or compassion on the sorrows of others. If he gives alms, it is for ostentation or calculation; but he will not grieve for an unfortunate; he will never sympathize with him nor mingle his tears with his. Our epoch of iron has fashioned men worthy of herself. She has made them of iron, and the blood that courses in their veins is no longer pure, but has grown rusty.'
"'Perhaps you are a little too severe,' said Janus. 'However, it is the same impression that I have formed of him. But love and a wife often transform a man.'
"'A man, yes, but not an automaton. His very look freezes me. This sweet smile, this perpetual gayety which cannot be natural, irritates me. He is always the same,--a being of marble. My God! have pity on me!'
"In saying these words she drew from her hand a ring and put it on one of his fingers.
"'I bought this expressly for you. Preserve it in memory of her whom you have loved. It is black; it is a mourning ring, the only kind appropriate to our unhappy love. After to-day any conversation between us will be impossible, so farewell, and forget me not.'
"She left him and joined her governess.
"These were the first and last words of love that passed between them. They saw each other every day, but as strangers. They bowed to each other, but neither of them ever sought another interview. Hereafter only shadows and silence would surround their passion.
"Mathilde accepted, without a word, the husband that her father had chosen for her. The marriage was celebrated with great ostentation. The victim walked to the altar robed in satin and lace and covered with diamonds.
"Her father was radiant with the joy of having so well established his daughter. Every one knew that he had given her a million for a wedding dowry, and that still another was promised, and that the husband possessed several himself, with expectations besides. All the mothers, all the fathers, and all the marriageable young girls envied Mathilde's luck. Behold, in all its simplicity, the end of my story!
"Two years have passed, and you have met this husband and wife. He is always calm and happy, she, sad. The only thing that ever troubles him is when he fails to receive in good time the reports of the bourse of Paris or London. To amuse him she sings, as you have heard, the music of Mendelssohn. Truly, it was hardly worth while to listen to my story. It is a romance which happens every day, and which has been related a thousand times before."
"And Janus?" asked the lady.
"Janus wears always the ring of his only beloved. He bears his sorrow, for in one hour he drained the dregs of despair. To-day he is only a body without soul."
"The story is heart-rending above all expression," said Lucie, "and I admit that I expected something more dramatic. The victim has all my sympathy. As for the lover, I am not anxious about him. This 'body without soul' will soon be consoled."
"I doubt it," replied Jacob. "Consolation comes only to those who wish to console themselves. Janus is resigned to a perpetual mourning of the heart."
"No one would believe," remarked Madame Coloni, "that this story was of our day; its character is so simple and so elegiac."
Jacob rose; the hour was late, and all the company prepared to retire. The Russian, who had remained silent all the evening, was the only one who did not hasten to depart.
"Then, if not in Genoa, we shall meet again in Warsaw," said Lucie to Ivas and Jacob.
"You are surely going there, madame?"
"It appears that it is decided," replied she, looking at her companion. "The hour of departure only is not yet fixed. You will, perhaps, be kind enough to come to see me."
Ivas and Jacob returned to the Hotel Féder.
"I believe," said Ivas, "that I will not hear the rest of your biography this evening. You are already too fatigued with your remembrances. Good-night!"