CHAPTER IX.
THE EVE OF AN INSURRECTION.
After his absence of several years, Jacob was surprised at the aspect which Poland presented. An extravagant and foolish hope and excitement prevailed everywhere. The most improbable rumours were accepted without question. All hearts rejoiced, and for the second time all hands were outstretched toward that France, which was, however, transformed into a sort of machine, obeying the capricious will of one man. Wonders were announced from Russia. The Muscovites were preparing an outbreak, and from this terrible uprising would come a reconciliation with Poland.
The tolerance of the government, a feigned and calculated tolerance, passed for weakness and impotence. Russia, it was said, had changed; she had weakened, and was no longer capable of repressing a patriotic rebellion. She was afraid, and the fear was believed on account of easy concessions, which were really made in order to precipitate the revolutionary movement. All this was to the secret satisfaction of the Czar and his ministers, who directed a course of action full of ambuscades and of deceit.
The propaganda of Hertzen, Bakounine, Ogaref, Golovine, Dolgorouky,--legatees of the ideas of the Decabristes,--had not been entirely unsuccessful in the cause of true Russia, the ancient Moscovie. They had worked on the youth of the universities, they had penetrated the army and the navy, they had sprung up even in the garrets and in the country. The government had been obliged to capitulate before them. They were so strong at present, that it was hoped by the precipitation of the Polish insurrection to divert the public attention from the greater danger which threatened St. Petersburg and Moscow. Thus the poor Poles were unconsciously led on to their own destruction. It was permitted to the Katkof and to the Aksakof to turn insidiously the aspirations for liberty into a current of national hatred.
In the last repression of Poland, the Russia of Alexander II. was more barbarous, more pitiless, than the Russia of Catharine and of Nicholas. As for Europe, which was formerly agitated at the sight of these crushed people, she regarded with cold indifference the hanging of Mouravief, and the wholesale exile of the people who strewed the route from the Vistula to the Lena with corpses. Such is the sympathy of Europe in this mercenary age, when self-interest is too highly esteemed to be endangered by taking the side of the oppressed.
At times Jacob refused to believe his eyes and ears, men seemed so different from what he had imagined them. Their language and their deportment were no longer the same. His first visit in Warsaw was paid to his former guardian. He found him absent, and it was rumoured, engaged in important enterprises. On returning from his house he met Henri Segel, for whom his aversion had augmented since, on the route from Genoa to Spezzia, he had encountered him in company with the danseuse Gigante. He recoiled and blushed on hearing the joyous voice of Mathilde's husband.
"Really, this is a surprise," said Henri. "You are more astonished to see me here than in Italy? Well, we live in changeable times. Mathilde did not like Italy, and was determined to return to la cara patria. I consented to come, for urgent business made it necessary for me to do so. How delighted I am to see you again, Monsieur Jacob! I am on my way home, and willingly or by force you must come with me. I am anxious to show you my new residence. It is a lovely house; a jewel, comfortable, elegant, and in good taste. Come and help me amuse Mathilde. Always sad and weary, she communicates to me her sadness. She is an incomprehensible woman; in fact, all women are incomprehensible. My wife wants for nothing. She has only to ask in order to obtain silks, jewels,--everything that would make most women happy. But she is always discontented; an unhappy disposition! Come, let us go!"
"Truly I have not much time. I have only just arrived, and I have business to attend to."
"Your business will keep. Mathilde will be delighted to see you. You will be doing her a special favour. Come, then, I pray you!"
Jacob felt that he ought to refuse, but the temptation was too great. To see her again! Duty forbade it, his heart demanded it, and his heart led him.
Henri took his arm as if to prevent his escape, and conducted him to his home.
"Look well at Warsaw," said he gayly. "What changes everywhere!"
"It is true," said Jacob. "These transformations I feel, but I cannot explain them."
"Enormous changes! The general exaltation is complete! The hand is on the trigger. A revolution is imminent."
"May God preserve us from it!" said Jacob.
"It is inevitable, or else I am a fool. I can smell powder; but, in any case, it cannot hurt us. Naturally, there will be many victims, and it behooves us to manœuvre not to be caught in the wheels of this machine, which rolls and crushes. We have everything to gain, whatever be the result, whichever be the conqueror."
"I avow that I do not comprehend you."
"From either side we shall obtain civil equality. That is certain. Afterward we shall not be ruined, even if we throw millions into the abyss. Our capital is not seizable like that of the landed nobles, whose estates can be so easily confiscated, but our wealth is portable; gold and jewels chiefly comprise it. We shall save our fortunes, and there lies our strength. The Muscovites will prevail in the end; the odious class of proud Polish nobles will disappear, and we shall be the aristocrats to whom the country will belong."
"The truth of your calculation may be proved, perhaps; its cruelty is unsurpassed. With what indifference you discount the misfortunes of those who form the basis of your argument!" said Jacob.
"What else can I do? Can I prevent this uprising? Ought we not to profit by circumstances? Believe me, the Jews hold to-day in their hand the future of Poland. Yesterday despised, soon we shall be the masters! Look at the nobility! What is it? A band without strength, who guard their pride of birth, their arrogance, their corruptions, their eccentricities, and foolish indifference; they have all the faults of their ancestors, and none of their virtues. It is a caste surely fated to die. Such a caste cannot exist now-a-days. And if society still demands a sort of modified aristocracy, who will replace the nobles? Who but we?"
"You know that I am a Jew, heart and soul," said Jacob; "but I pity Poland if your prophecy is accomplished."
"And why?"
"Because we are not ready for the rôle you lay out for us. We have not deserved, by our conduct, to be the arbiters of this country. And to tell the whole truth, our community is more corrupt than the nobles; it is already worm-eaten."
"Not so bad as they, though."
"Our malady is different from theirs, but it is as dangerous."
"Oh, no! Because we know how to acquire and preserve this wealth, while the nobles do not know anything of business, nor how to manage their vast estates economically. The strength of money, the strength of capital, is the only real power in this century."
"An opportunity, as you have remarked," said Jacob, "is presented to the Jews of Poland to play an important rôle; as important as the one they already hold in Germany. Will they understand their advantageous position? Will they be worthy of it? Two questions to which God alone can reply."
Segel burst out laughing.
"You are a pious Jew," cried he. "In everything you mix the idea of God. These old superstitions are completely worn out."
"And that is precisely what afflicts me. We have torn our belief to tatters, but under them is gold."
"What use of speaking of the débris of a past which will never return? There is my house; it cost more than a half million. I will do the honours, and we will go afterward to find Mathilde."
He looked at his watch.
"Saperlotte! I am expected at the Bourse in half an hour; but I have still time to stay a few moments with you; then you can await me with Mathilde. I will despatch my business at a gallop."
The mansion was spacious and elegant, but with a vulgar display of wealth. No taste, refinement, or sentiment for art. It was built on one of those plans which serve at the same time for private houses or hotels. Superb mirrors with gilded frames, furniture covered with velvet hangings of great price, wonderful inlaid floors, rare bronzes, crystal chandeliers, porcelain from China and Japan, costly bric-à-brac, and a general tone of vulgar display; such was the dwelling, where, in the least details, one could see that the proprietor had everywhere sought to dazzle his guests, and confound taste with costliness.
During the inspection he several times spoke thus:--
"This bibelot cost me a hundred ducats; this vase is worth a thousand roubles."
The ostentatious mansion was worthy of a dethroned king or of a prince in partibus. The general air of the house, nevertheless, was that of solitude and ennui. The rooms seemed uninhabited. In spite of their proportions, there was something wanting. Nothing seemed homelike or cheerful.
Segel even conducted Jacob to the pretentious kitchen, provided with a constant flow of running water. There was a tank filled with fish, and many other inventions more or less ingenious.
As soon as his host had left him to go and inform his wife, Jacob threw himself on a couch; he was overpowered with fatigue and disgusted with all this show, and pitied Mathilde more than ever.
Madame Segel soon entered slowly; she was very pale, and was almost unable to walk alone. She saluted her friend with a sweet smile tinged with melancholy. In her sunken eyes burned a strange fire.
"Welcome home from Italy, monsieur," said she, holding out her hand. "I longed to return home; but what matters it, here or there, it is all the same."
"No doubt life, regarded in all its gravity, is full of sadness everywhere," said Jacob.
"Why the devil do you regard it thus?" cried Henri, offering Jacob a little glass of brandy. "I almost forgot the Bourse. I have hardly time to swallow anything. Dear Mathilde, be good enough to keep our guest until my return. I confide him to you; do not let him escape. I will be absent only a quarter of an hour."
He rang.
"Are the horses ready?" asked he of the servant.
"Yes, monsieur."
"That is good. Au revoir. Without further excuse I leave you with my wife," said he, kissing his wife's hand. "If you are at loss for conversation, she can play the piano or sing something. You will find the daily papers on the table. Very poor reading, I assure you, but, for want of something better"--
When he had gone they remained silent for some time, not daring to look at each other. At last Mathilde sighed, and held out her hand to him, murmuring:--
"Jacob, we are old and good friends, and nothing more, are we not?"
"Madame," replied he respectfully, "time has not changed me, and the confidence you have in me will not be betrayed."
"When we seek to keep apart," said Mathilde, "fate reunites us. It is a temptation. Let us remain worthy of ourselves and worthy of our past, so pure. I cannot understand Henri. Ordinarily he is so jealous. He does not like to leave me alone with men. And to-day he has acted so differently. Is it confidence or indifference? I will ask him."
"What matters it? Tell me how you are, and why you left Italy so soon?"
"Because there is suffering everywhere, death everywhere. Since my marriage I am stricken at the heart. I must suffer, here or there. I am always suffering."
"And your health?"
"The soul alone is ill. But speak of yourself."
"I--I have neither the time nor the right to suffer. Man lives not by sentiment, but by action. It is this which renders us at the same time more miserable and more happy. In the struggle for existence, when we receive a wound, we have no right to think of it, and we must continue the combat. Even you, madame, why not seek a remedy for your sorrow?--an occupation, some aim in life."
"Occupations, my dear Jacob, are very limited for a woman without children. Without them, what object in life has a woman? Do you think that to sew and embroider can tranquillize a soul?"
"Reading, music, and poetry are inexhaustible sources of enjoyment. Believe me, madame, days well employed are not followed by satiety, regret, nor remorse. Those who have not the creative genius can assimilate immortal creations. It is a voluptuous life that draws away from the cares of existence."
"Alas! to follow your advice it had been necessary to be initiated to this manner of living, and to be accustomed to it."
"You can form the habit."
"I have already, thank Heaven, an occupation in music. It soothes me, absorbs me, and passes the time. But music occupies only a little corner in my heart, and cannot fill it entirely."
"Reading, then."
"Reading unveils to us too much the secrets of life. I speak of romances, the drama, and poetry."
"In that case seek, and you will find, some more serious occupation."
"I will try. But enough of this. Speak to me, Jacob, of yourself. For what have you returned? What are you going to do?"
"I return, heart and soul full of ideas, and more an Israelite than ever. I bring back projects of reform, of labour, and of sacrifice for my people. My views are almost presumptuous. I dream of being a Bar Maïmonides. There is so much to do for our poor race."
"Do you believe it? Do you think that you can unite these scattered people?"
"Yes; provided that my strength holds out. The task will be difficult, arduous, and redoubtable."
"Who will be your disciples? The believers remain attached to their foolish superstitions. They will repulse you as a new kind of heretic. The unbelievers and the indifferent will listen to you as to a mad poet, and will ridicule you."
"The prophets have often been repulsed by the crowd, who have even at times stoned them to death. But each one of them has left in history traces of his passage, and the grain that they have sown has germinated."
"Then you will have the courage of a martyr? You deceive yourself, however, if you think that you will be riddled with stones in public places where you preach. You will, instead, have jokes thrown at you; you will be called a fool, and covered with ridicule. That will be a shabby martyrdom, absurd and insulting. The stoning would be preferable. Sarcasm is a mighty weapon."
"When a man is absorbed, inspired, and exalted, full of the truth that is within him, he does not see the pygmies in the crowd. It is the crowd, the mass only, that he sees. When so many of our people dream of nothing but money getting, no matter how, it is absolutely necessary that some one should take an interest in the moral elevation of souls, and devote himself entirely to this holy mission."
"How happy should I be to be your pupil! but I fear I am not capable of understanding such science, such wisdom. At times it seems as if I can foresee the future, but, really, I am very ignorant. Write out your thoughts and I will read them. I will learn them by heart, and I will spread them among those of my own sex who are deprived of the consolation of faith in God. Unfortunately, if you are a Barak, I am not a Deborah."
Jacob was about to reply when the door opened, giving entrance to Mathilde's father and husband, accompanied by Mann and Simon.
Henri had informed them of Jacob's arrival, and they were all invited to dinner. The acceptance on the part of an important person, like Mann, was extraordinary, for he usually made some excuse, and declined all ordinary invitations.
Jacob's former guardian ran to him with open arms, and cried:--
"Welcome! I embrace you, and wish you much happiness, Rabbi Jacob."
Mann cried at the same time:--
"I am rejoiced to hold your hand after so long an absence."
"How do you return to us, Akiba or atheist?" asked the jovial Simon.
"Neither one nor the other. I am the same as ever, only a little more alarmed as to the future."
"Then it was not worth while to leave Poland," replied Simon, "and you arrived just in time to assist in a revolution."
"It is no laughing matter," said Henri.
"I am not joking," said Simon. "I am organizing, myself, a regiment of Jewish gamins, that I shall lead to combat seated in a sedan chair. In place of a gun I will have my umbrella."
"Such pleasantry is ill-timed," replied Mathilde's father. "We are on the eve of grave events."
"It is every day more apparent. Alas!"
"Your 'alas,' Father Simon, shows that you condemn these revolutionary tendencies."
"How can I approve them?"
"It is useless to oppose public opinion," remarked Mann; "these fools will not listen to reason. When reason speaks they are deaf as a post. The best thing we can do is to look out for ourselves."
"The safest thing," added Simon, "is to conceal ourselves during the combat."
"Certainly. Why should we mix in it?" said Mann approvingly.
"To speak seriously," said Jacob, "there is, perhaps, another line of conduct to follow."
"The catastrophe is not yet certain," observed Henri, "for there are among them many reasonable men."
Mann rose from his seat and cried:--
"The catastrophe is certain. It cannot be otherwise with a clique of proud and degenerated men guided by their passions and not by reason."
"Dear Monsieur Mann, and what of us?" asked Simon. "Are we neither degenerate nor proud? Speak!"
"We are not to be compared with those men. We are worth much more."
"That is true. They are blind, we are only lame. The Jews are peaceable men, suited only for business. When there is disorder in the streets they close their shops."
"My faith! they are sensible to do so."
"Thus said my late papa," murmured Simon. "It is a sacred duty to follow his advice."
"You are always joking."
"And you, the day when you joke I will abstain from it. If no one throws a note of gayety into the conversation, they would say that Heine carried all the Jewish spirit into his tomb. It is a service I render you all. Mann, you do not know the efforts that you cost me."
The grave Israelite, wounded in his self-love, walked up and down the room, puffing and grumbling.
"And how does the country seem to you, dear Jacob?" asked Mathilde's father.
"Very much changed. How things have changed for us!"
"Why do you say us?" asked Simon. "The half, at least, of our people do not take part in this with us."
"The question is much discussed by the press."
"But, in general, public opinion favours us."
"Yes, in appearance," replied Mann. "The Poles affect to be liberal, but, at heart, they remain feudal aristocrats, incorrigible, and puffed up with pride."
"Listen," interrupted Simon, "to a word of advice. Do not speak of men 'puffed up with pride.' It is inconsistent on your part."
The great man looked at Simon, and said scornfully:--
"You are only an old fault-finder."
"Fault-finder, if you will, but look at yourself in the glass before you reproach others with being proud. Are you more approachable, more cordial, more charitable, than L. P. K., or many other nobles? They have their heraldry, you your millions. Two different causes, but both alike result in pride."
"Hold your peace, you are insufferable," cried the rich man.
Then he murmured between his teeth, "What an impudent fellow!"
Henri and his father-in-law laughed heartily at his wrath.
"Dear brother in Israel," continued Simon calmly, "each time that the nobles have a bad odour smell yourself. You will discover the same odour. You are at heart an aristocrat, but you lack the title."
"Enough! Enough!" cried Mann.
"No! It is not enough. I must get rid of my bile. If I do not I shall stifle, and that would be sad for me at first, for you afterward, if you wish to pay my debts. We were speaking of pride. Very well. If we have not crests surmounted with coronets, nor three hundred years of nobility"--
"Enough, I say! Enough!"
"Certainly, if you insist." And at last Simon consented to be silent.
Mann sulked awhile, then said to Jacob:--
"What news do you bring from Jerusalem? What is the condition of the Jews there? How do they live?"
"In misery. They ask our aid to help them emigrate to foreign lands. They await the signal of regeneration from us. We ought to listen to their appeal."
"You wish, then, to direct the world?"
"I have not that pretension. Akiba, however, was only a shepherd before he became a sage. I might, perhaps, follow his example."
"It is the contrary with which you are threatened, if you do not change your conduct," cried Simon. "From a sage you will become a shepherd."
His guardian laughed good-naturedly, and said:--
"Simon predicts the future well. Instead of reforming humanity, apply yourself to business, and leave God, in his wisdom, to direct the world according to his own plans."
"Can we not become the instruments of God? Ought we not to try and accomplish his designs? I have no wish to amass wealth. I am sufficiently rich."
"If your whim is to be a second Akiba," replied Simon, "I doubt if you will succeed. From the ashes of Akiba have sprung up Börne and Heine. The precepts of Heine in a book are fine; in flesh and blood, inconvenient."
"I do not like Heine," said Jacob.
They all exclaimed against this sacrilegious prejudice.
"Why do you dislike him? He represented in his day the true contemporaneous spirit of the Jews with the Kladderadatch."
"I do not like him, because his spirit is a spirit of destruction, debauchery of thought, debauchery of language, irony, scepticism, and abasement of human nature. All these are scattered among the pearls and diamonds. It is no less corruption though the author be remarkable for talent and genius. It is from this very corruption that we should free ourselves, for it is a presage of death; it is the death-rattle."
"Then," finished Simon, "Judæorum finis."
"Yes. Finis Judæorum et Judaïsmi finis. The people of Israel resemble a man who, having preserved intact a treasure during a journey of a thousand leagues through forests full of brigands, lost it in a puddle at the door of his house. This treasure is our faith, and it is in danger."
"Dear Jacob, why do we always speak of religion and morality? You really believe, then, that they exist somewhere?"
"If they are dead, we should employ means to resuscitate them."
"Decidedly he is mad," muttered Mann to himself. Then he added in a loud voice:--
"I should be proud of such an honour, but I am unworthy."
"'And I," said Simon, "I advise you to devote your energies to a task less likely to prove disappointing. For example, seek in the Talmud the things forbidden to a Jewish stomach. Maïmonides has counted twenty-four. With a little perseverance you can get it up to thirty. What a glorious discovery that would be!"
"What matters the number of dishes," said Jacob. "Yet the prohibition has produced good results, because it has set a limit to gormandizing."
"If you only knew, dear friend," said Simon, "what a savour there is in a sausage! A wealthy proprietor of Volhynie, although originally an Israelite, ate them to satiety, and afterward said: 'I stuff myself with sausages, for I eat them for myself and for my ancestors, who never tasted them during many generations.'"
"Truly," cried Henri, "the conversation takes an agreeable turn, thanks to sausages."
Mann, wearied with the lamentations of Jacob and the jests of Simon, started a new subject.
"Has any one here," asked he, "been at the house of Count A. Z. lately?"
The count was a person whose popularity increased daily, though it might be fleeting.
"I," responded the indefatigable Simon.
"And you were received?"
"Why not?"
"Very well. What did he say?"
"Always the same sobriety of words. His theory, like that of all the nobles, is that the Jews ought to work to obtain their rights,--like apprentices, in order to pass their companions and masters."
"He is right, up to a certain point," said Jacob.
"How is that?" asked Mann angrily. "Have we not, we who were born on the same soil, received from nature the same rights as these men? In what are nobles our superiors? Have we not gained our rights of equality by humiliations endured during ages?"
"Nature," replied Jacob, "has created us all equal. I do not deny that; but on the side of rights there are duties. If we do not share all the burden we shall not merit all the rights."
"But we could not escape the expense, that I know; and, with their usual haughtiness, the nobles do not welcome us to the Agricultural Society."
"Until the present day," said Jacob, "we have not had a single title to aspire to it. Yet I admit that the nobles are wrong to be so exclusive."
"Certainly. It is wrong for them to act thus; and, tell me, what is the object of the societies the nobles are organizing? It is to deprive us of our commerce."
"Perhaps that would be rendering us a great service, for with this single occupation we are losing prestige. It would, perhaps, be for the best if we were obliged to seek our means of existence elsewhere. Why should we always remain traders? Besides, thanks to our experience and ability, we have not much to fear from their competition, for they know nothing about business."
"But they will monopolize commerce. Their societies are directed against us. Their Agricultural Society is a conspiracy, a plot against the Jews. Everywhere we meet evidences of their hatred."
"And I do not think that on our side there is very much good-will either."
"And why should we like them?" interrupted Henri. "Though they are very polite, and sometimes even familiar, they exclude us from their intimacy and never accord us their friendship."
"We do the same."
"But with us it is different," replied Mann. "We have an excuse, for they have never ceased to render themselves odious."
"Then," concluded Simon, "we have a right to detest them, and their duty is to return love for hatred. Eh! If we slap them on one cheek, they must offer us the other! Besides, the Christian religion teaches that, does it not?"
Simon looked as serious as an owl as he spoke thus, but Mann continued, without smiling:--
"These nobles are fools! Their confidence is extravagant. They believe in the promises of Napoleon III.; they count on England, on Italy, on Hungary and Sweden, and even on Turkey. They await a revolution in Germany,--a revolution of potatoes, no doubt! They also hope much from troubles that are to arise in the interior of Russia. And from all this will infallibly come out the resurrection of Poland! What blindness!"
"In the meanwhile," observed Mathilde's father, "we are in a very disagreeable position. It is equally foolish for us to be on either side. Russia will prevail, that is certain; but during the combat the Poles can crush us and do us much evil, perhaps send us out of the country.
"You are mistaken," cried Henri.
"Yes," agreed Simon. "One has only to sit on two chairs to be sure that if one fails he can sit on the other."
"Naturally."
"One thing is clear to me," said Jacob. "It is, that we ought to side with Poland and share her fate, however disastrous the consequences may be. Self-sacrifice should be our watchword, and no matter what happens, our efforts will not have been in vain."
"In this," said Mann, "Jacob is not altogether wrong. In the proud days of the Polish republic many noble families were so divided that part of their members were for the king, and others against him. These took part in the insurrection; those sustained the government. They had a foot in each camp, and, whatever the result, the one saved the other. It is a good example to follow. It is necessary to keep the middle path: these are the ideas that should be scattered among our people."
"No, no!" cried Jacob. "Not the middle path! We must share the fate of Poland, without reservation."
Mann struck him on the shoulder and said:--
"You are very young."
"Yes, yes, he is young," repeated Simon, "and he ought to listen to the advice of those who have had some experience. It is for old fellows to tell young ones what to do."
Just then a lackey in livery and white gloves announced at the door that dinner was served. Mathilde, who had absented herself, appeared and took her father's arm, and Mann eagerly rose and hastened toward them.
It would be useless to dwell on the elegance of the table and the gastronomic perfection of the repast.
Henri ordinarily contented himself, in spite of his wealth, with a bit of bread and a glass of brandy. But when his vanity was affected nothing was too costly. He was full of apologies, pretending that this was an impromptu repast, and that he was afraid they would not find enough to eat. It was really a dinner for diplomats, and the menu was on rose-colored paper bordered with silver.
Mann affected a nonchalant air, so that his lack of education might not be noticed. He tied a napkin around his neck and ate in silence. The conversation turned on the gossip of the day.
Suddenly Mann addressed himself to Jacob in Polish, and said:--
"Although you are an orthodox Jew, you have infringed one of the most important laws of your religion."
"Oh, let us drop Judaism," said the master of the house, in French. "Avoid this subject before the servants."
"But what sin have I committed?" asked Jacob.
"A sin so great that you do not deserve to be called a man in the sight of the Lord."
"What is it, then?"
"How old are you?" said Mann.
"Twenty and over."
"Very well. Since the age of eighteen years you have been in sin, for you have not married, and that is the first duty of every Israelite. If you do not hasten to do so, Dumah will catch you one of these days, and throw you into the depths of hell!"
"I do not deny that youthful marriage is a duty," replied Jacob, "but I believe that our law tolerates some exceptions. As for myself, I have not the least wish to marry."
"How thoughtful Mann is!" cried Simon; "he wishes to put a halter around your neck, because misery loves company."
Jacob replied simply:--
"I cannot marry without love."
As he said these words he threw an involuntary glance toward Mathilde, who grew pale and looked down.
"What a rogue!" continued Simon, with a forced gravity. "To wish to put the sugar of love on the bitter dish of marriage, is to seek hypocrisy where one ought to expect duty and care only."
"Father Simon, we are so accustomed to your jests that your last remark can pass for one. It contains, however, many truths. Yet I venture to ask you if it is not permitted to aspire here below to a little joy and happiness? And true love can procure that."
"No; not in practical life. Romance has perverted your imagination."
"It is, then, forbidden to hope for a little poetry in this prosaic life?"
"Poetry! The Jew ought not to speak of it. Calculation should be our business. Two and two make five, because to admit that two and two make four implies a loss of interest. But to return to your marriage."
"Rather let us drop the subject."
"Very well," said Mann. "I assure you I will bore you about it until you decide. Unfortunately I have no more unmarried daughters. But I can recommend to you a charming young woman with a portion of a hundred thousand roubles."
"A hundred thousand roubles!" cried Simon. "You had better take her, Jacob."
"Thanks for your interest in me," said Jacob coldly, when Mathilde spoke in her turn.
"My uncle and cousin are right," said she, fixing her large, black eyes on him. "You ought to marry."
"What!" cried he sadly. "You also? You are in the plot?"
"Yes; because I desire to see you tranquil and happy."
"Singular receipt," murmured Simon.
"We had better leave the subject of marriage to the managing mammas. After all, we are meddling with something that does not concern us, and some day Jacob will be claiming damages and interest for having marriage put into his head," laughed Henri.
They arose from the table, and all the men save Jacob grouped themselves together.
"What do you think of him?" asked his former guardian of Mann.
"He is a remarkable man. He could be very useful to us if it were not for his religious whims. They are very well for the ignorant, but useless for enlightened men."
"Yes," replied Simon; "religion for you is cabbage soup for the poor. You prefer turtle soup."
"This mania will pass," added Segel; "the principal causes are his youthful enthusiasm, his poetic and devout spirit. Let us persuade him to engage in some useful and lucrative business; it is the best way to keep him from proclaiming himself Jew so often."
New visitors arrived; Mathilde was at the piano, and Jacob listened, all absorbed.
CHAPTER X.
THE PURSUIT OF A HUSBAND.
A short distance from the mansion of Segel, separated only by their gardens, was a pretty little stone villa covered with ivy and other climbing vines. The low windows opened on a veranda, and sculptured ornaments of wood and stone gave it an attractive appearance, although it was a little deteriorated by the dampness, and there was about it a general air of neglect.
The proprietor of this villa was a man who could not live in it on account of the expense he had incurred in building it. His puerile fancy had ruined him, and he was reduced to living in a garret. The plaything was let during the summer, and during the rest of the year it remained empty.
This dwelling lacked a master who would love it and care for it; such was the air of neglect it had taken on.
For several months it had been occupied by Madame Wtorkowska and her daughter. This lady was the widow of a speculator who had been unfortunate in business, and had died in debt. His wife had succeeded in concealing from the creditors some portions of the estate. She lived on this with a certain elegance, and aspired to move in the best society. She went sometimes to Ems, to Spa, or to Paris, and hoped everything from her only daughter, whom she considered a marvel.
Mademoiselle Emma was really charming. She was twenty-two years old and owned to twenty, but no one had yet offered her his name and fortune. Although the mother was persuaded that a king or a prince of the blood would have been fortunate to possess such a treasure, the simple gentlemen found that this pearl was exacting, and had luxurious tastes a little too costly for men of moderate fortunes.
That was why, in her despair, Madame Wtorkowska, née Weinberg, went back to her Israelite friends, among whom she hoped to find a rich merchant who would marry her daughter.
Emma was very beautiful, of that ideal type taken by the painters for Rachel or Rebecca. She was a dark-eyed blonde, with a snowy complexion, features which were like sculptured marble, large, black eyes full of a mysterious fascination, and rosy lips whose charming smiles displayed teeth of pearl. Nature had made her an actress, and her mother had developed in her the art of simulating all emotions and playing all rôles.
This mother knew excellently how to appear a literary woman, without having read much. She gave herself out as an accomplished musician, though she hardly knew the notes. She posed as a lady of high degree, although she had seen the best society only en négligé at the baths and in some salons of doubtful distinction, and she masked her poverty under a deceitful elegance and an appearance of wealth.
Emma, of which the Polish is Emusia, called herself, for short, Musia, which she further transformed into the French, Muse, which gave her a stamp of originality, and expressed by a name her diverse talents and her dazzling accomplishments. At an early age she learned to play the piano, and initiated herself in light and easy literature. Provided that the book was written in French, in an elegant style, her mother asked no more; as for the morals they inculcated she was utterly indifferent. "This is not suitable. That can harm you. You must guard yourself well from this or from that." These were the rules of conduct that Madame Wtorkowska gave to her daughter, who soon became accomplished in all her refinements: the art of dissimulation, habitual and unblushing falsehood, elegant and perfumed deceit. She had a great natural talent for music. At six years she passed for a little prodigy, at twelve she played in public, and at eighteen she was proclaimed Chopin's most clever interpreter. She had so enchanted Liszt at Ems, to believe her mother, that he would have married her then and there had it not been for the double obstacles of the princess ... and his priesthood. Muse, the better to attract attention, had adopted a very beautiful, although somewhat eccentric, toilet. Her mother lost no occasion to show her beautiful daughter at the theatre, at charity concerts, at the industrial exhibitions, and at the art galleries. She also added the publicity of the press, by procuring, from time to time, a flattering mention of the beauty and talents of Muse in the Courrier de Varsovie.
In spite of all, she had no luck so far; all the artifices of coquetry had not obtained a proposal of marriage worthy of being taken into consideration. Two aspirants only had presented themselves in a legitimate and honourable manner: a youth of eighteen years all fire and flame, and an old man foolishly in love. As neither of them had any money they were quickly refused.
At the baths of Spa or Ems a count also had offered himself, but this noble had ruined himself by a dissipated life, and, as he could not return to Warsaw on account of his debts, lived "by his wits."
In a moment of discouragement Muse thought of becoming an actress. "With my beautiful voice and charms of person," said she, "success is certain, and I shall soon be rolling in gold." But this idea was extremely distasteful to her mother, whose ambition was for a solid establishment, and not for the precarious life of the theatre. She wept, and implored her daughter not to think of it, and assured her that their pecuniary resources were sufficient to keep them in luxury for another year. Much might be accomplished during a twelvemonth. They were sure to secure a rich husband by that time. Why not wait before leaving the social sphere to which they were accustomed? The scenic career would always remain open.
The same day that Jacob dined at the Segels Madame Wtorkowska returned from the city to her villa in radiant humour, and found her daughter at the window reading one of Féval's novels. She contemplated her a moment with admiration.
"How lovely you are to-day," said she; "more beautiful than ever! That is right; your beauty is your capital. I have a magnificent project. We must succeed. Conquer or die is our motto!"
"What has happened now?" asked Muse, throwing down her book and giving a side glance in the mirror.
"I have just learned that Jacob, your old acquaintance, has returned to Warsaw. He will be your husband. I have a presentiment of it. A natural presentiment never deceives. You know the proverb: 'That which a woman wishes'"--
"'The devil wishes,'" replied the girl laughing. "You are in great spirits, but you need not waste your wit on me."
"I have already said that twice in public with great success."
The mother kissed her forehead, and said in French:--
"You are sublime! But listen to me: you must proceed cautiously with this Jacob; you must be prudent, calculating, dignified, and full of tact."
"Never fear," replied the daughter, "I remember him perfectly. I know his peculiarities, and shall not make a false move."
"Be careful when you are near him not to be too gay, too witty, too brilliant. Be grave, modest, and poetical; quote much ideal poetry to him; such are the strategetic manœuvres which will serve you."
"Do you know, mamma, I have been told that he has been already in love?"
"And with whom?"
"With Mathilde, or she with him; it is the same thing. I do not know whether this love still exists or has vanished."
"Several years have passed since then. She has had time to fade, to grow ugly; and, furthermore, she is married, so that she is no obstacle for us. His love for her proves that he is capable of passion. So much the better. Now-a-days, men have become veritable icebergs. They resist an enchantress like you, and let themselves be devoured by the demimonde"--
"Yes, they do not think of marriage. It is the spirit of the age."
"Jacob, of whom I have heard much from people who know him well, is a serious young man, sentimental, pious, and even fanatic. When you are with him, you must seem to bear the burden of the sufferings of two thousand years; you must sigh, and pretend to be full of tender and elegiac poetry."
"Dear mamma, do I need these lessons?" said Muse, a little piqued.
"No, my child; but a mother's heart is always full of fears. A better match would be difficult to find. Use every means to captivate him; meet him as if by chance, and invite him here. He loves music. We will give two or three entertainments where we will have Kontski and Doprzynski, and you and those two singers will make an adorable trio. Then will come the supper, when you will be irresistible from the charms of your toilet."
Muse shrugged her shoulders.
"O mamma," said she, "leave it all to me! I know well how to play my cards."
"Listen once more," said Madame Wtorkowska, drawing near her daughter, blushing and a little embarrassed. "We will play our part well. Jacob is a man of honour, sensitive and conscientious. With him, but with him alone, dear Emusia, one can resort to extreme measures to force him into the last intrenchments and bind him to us. He is young, passionate. It would be very easy to awaken in him--you understand me? I would not advise you to go so far with another, but with him it is different."
"Of course I understand you; why not? I am no longer a child," replied Muse, with an offended air. "The means are heroic, but might succeed with a perfectly honest man like Jacob. There was real genius in that idea, mamma."
The mother blushed at this praise, for the idea appeared brazen even to herself, coming from a mother who should have instructed and guided her daughter.
"Our desperate situation only has made me suggest such a thing."
"Why speak of despair? Have we not the theatre as a last resort?"
"To see you an actress; that would be a great sorrow for me."
"And Malibran, and Pasta, and Schroeder, and Grisi, and Sontag, and many others. La Sontag, did she not become a countess and ambassadress?"
"I don't care for that. I do not wish to see you on the stage. I would prefer"--
"Do not fear, mamma."
"I have already apian," replied Madame Wtorkowska calmly. "Jacob dines at the Segels to-day. You are a friend of Mathilde's. She lives near here; dress yourself quickly and go to see her. You can feign ignorance of the circumstances. I will not accompany you, a servant alone will follow. We must take advantage of each favourable moment. To arrive at dessert or at coffee will be best. After a repast men are in good humour; you will produce a lively impression on Jacob. Modestly dressed and not expecting to see company, you must blush, draw back, and wish to retire. They will beg you to remain. You will remain. What follows I leave to you."
Muse rose quickly, like a soldier whom the clarion calls to battle, and embraced her mother, who kissed her and said:--
"One more word of advice. Do not put on any powder, your complexion does not need it, and he might think you had lost your freshness; and how will you dress?"
"In black lace, modestly, poetically. You can depend on me."
A half-hour after, while Muse was at her toilet, Madame Wtorkowska's eagle eyes at the window saw carried from Segel's kitchen into the dining-room a sumptuous roast, then ices; she ran to her daughter and cried:--
"Now is the time. Hasten, I beseech you!"
Muse was all ready. She might have served for a painter's model to represent a contemporaneous elegy; her usually mobile features were changed completely. By a profound study before the mirror she had given them an expression of sweet melancholy. She was enchanting; with an infinite art she concealed art, and seemed natural, and no one would have imagined she was playing a false rôle.
Women attract and conquer men sometimes by gayety of spirit, and sometimes by a mystical reserve; nothing awakens ardour in a man more than an enigma to solve. When he has arrived at the last page of that book called woman, it is necessary that she be a marvellous masterpiece for him to commence the reading with the same interest as before.
Muse was a living sphinx with such an attractive and finished beauty that it would have been difficult for the most clever observer to discover the least defect in her person, either physically or morally.
She wore a black lace dress, light and négligée; for ornaments, a coral bracelet and brooch; nothing more save a white handkerchief and a flower in her hand. To her mother, even, she appeared in a light so new as to draw from her enthusiastic exclamations:--
"Oh, my Ophelia! You are charming!"
Muse smiled proudly, kissed her mother, and with a calm and composed mien left the house as if to keep an engagement, and not to engage in a struggle where her object was to capture a man's heart. Her heart had never yet spoken; it surprised her that men in general were so little susceptible to passionate love, and that she herself had never felt this emotion. Her feelings were in her head, and if at times her brain had been inflamed, this flame had never descended to the heart. Love, as she dreamed of it, presented itself to her imagination covered with silk and diamonds in a superb salon, amid a royal court.
Did her heart beat on the way? Her black dress could alone tell us, but her face did not reveal a single sign of inquietude. The chronological reckoning of Madame Wtorkowska had been so exact, that Muse arrived just at the moment when they were taking coffee, and, as the piano was opposite the door, Mathilde saw her enter and then draw back as if to go. She arose at once and ran to her, and drew her into the room. Jacob was near her, but she passed him without recognition.
"But this is Monsieur Jacob, an old acquaintance of yours," said Mathilde.
"Ah, really! He has returned from his travels, then. How he has changed! I should never have recognized him. I am charmed to see him again."
The first step was of great importance. She appeared at first to be altogether indifferent; she played her first lines admirably. As for Jacob, he felt no emotion whatever. There exist in some men certain instincts which warn them, if they are not under the empire of a brutal passion, to avoid danger. Beautiful as she was, Muse did not attract him. Her beauty was for him like that of a statue or a lovely picture, no more.
She had more success with the group of men who were drinking coffee. They all praised her beauty. Henri alone dared not openly express his admiration, for fear of being heard by his wife.
"Delicious girl!" said Mann. "A dainty enough morsel for a king!"
"A morsel for a king!" added Simon; "but one must have golden teeth to chew it."
Mathilde's father, a great admirer of women, remarked in a low voice:--
"My word for it, she is well worth a thousand ducats!"
"Oh, much more!" cried Mann.
"Wait, gentlemen," added Simon; "put off the sale until after the marriage."
"How clever those women are," said Mann. "Madame Wtorkowska is not worth a sou, and look how they dress, how they live."
"I suspect the object of this visit," whispered Simon. "It is a chase organized against Jacob. I pity him if he falls into their hands."
While they were talking, Muse drew near the piano and looked at the music before Mathilde. It was a composition of Schumann's, and as Jacob was near her she asked him:--
"Do you remember our promenades with Mathilde? Are you as serious as ever?"
"Always the same, mademoiselle, with the difference, perhaps, that age has augmented my failing."
During this conversation Mathilde felt her heart beat violently. Father Simon made from afar some warning gestures, and finished by approaching the piano. Muse greeted him coldly as an enemy, but just then some one asked her to play something.
"With pleasure," said she; "I love music, and I never refuse to play. Above all, I love Schumann the best."
She executed one of those fantastic reveries where grief gushes out in poignant notes like drops of blood.
She played admirably and with much expression. An actress even in music, she expressed ravishingly the sentiments which she could not feel.
She was warmly applauded. Mathilde, who was herself an excellent musician, found new food for thought in this manner of interpreting a composition that she loved. Jacob praised, but coldly. Father Simon took him by the arm and drew him aside.
"Do you know Muse?" asked he.
"Yes, I used to see her often."
"Do you know the mother?"
"Very little."
"Then learn that they are two very dangerous women. The daughter, reared in luxury, without being worth a sou, seeks a rich husband. Take care of yourself. They will catch you, if possible. They are setting their cap for you already."
"Why, I have only just arrived!"
"The mothers of these days have, such a scent that they smell from afar the marriageable young men. Take care of yourself. This Muse is enchantingly beautiful and versed in all deceit."
"Very beautiful women do not please me."
"She can make herself anything you wish, for she can divine your thoughts."
Seated by the mistress of the house, Muse turned her head. She immediately understood that Simon was acting the part of Mentor to the young Telemachus, and called to him familiarly:--
"I have a favour to ask of you, Monsieur Simon, and I feel that I am very fortunate to meet you here."
"A favour! Of me?"
"Yes, monsieur, on the part of my mother. She dotes on your witty repartees and wishes to see you sometimes in her salon, if you will so honour us."
She had counted on gaining Father Simon over by her seductive flattery, but the old rogue only bowed courteously, smiled maliciously, and withdrew hastily to the other side of the room. He went up to Jacob and whispered:--
"She has been trying to burn me with incense right under my very nose. What a siren! To avoid her snares, stuff your ears with cotton, shut your eyes, and save yourself."
"For me," said Jacob, "there are neither sirens nor witches."
"There have been, however, many more than those in the Odyssey."
Muse knew better than to show too much interest in the man she was seeking to ensnare. She had Mathilde ask him to tell them something of his travels. Thanks to this diplomatic stratagem, Jacob joined them, and engaged in a lively conversation.
She saw that he was absorbed in Mathilde, and felt that he did not listen to her. Finding further efforts useless she arose to take leave. With a cold and polite tone she said to the young man only, that she would be happy to see him at her home, as if it was out of compliment to her friend.
"Man of ice," thought she, "in vain you seek to escape me. I shall subdue you. You will belong to me. Then we will square our account."
She left the room modestly, almost timidly, Madame Segel conducting her to the door. When she returned she said to Jacob:--
"Well, how did you like her?"
"She is wonderfully beautiful, but there is also something disagreeable about her."
Some of them protested.
"She is the least natural woman I have ever met," said Jacob. "My ideal is a true and sincere woman."
Mathilde fell into a revery. During this time Henri had escorted Muse to the street. It was easily seen by his sparkling eyes that this pearl pleased him. On her part Mademoiselle Muse found Segel to her taste also, but she could not compromise herself with a married man while she sought a husband. Otherwise these two souls were sympathetic, and seemed created for each other. Henri's last glance was so ardent, that it almost compensated Muse for Jacob's coldness.
Her mother impatiently awaited the result of this first attack.
"You have seen him?" asked she.
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Preludes, as you have often said yourself, dear mamma, are always tiresome. I played for him one of Schumann's fantasies as I never played it before; I felt inspired; I showed myself at the same time bewitching and indifferent. I threw him furtive glances, neither too ardent nor too cold. By slow and insidious steps, by proceeding with much caution I can put him off his guard and take him captive. I am sure of him, I think."
"Then you do not think it will be an easy matter?"
"No, probably not. He has something else on his mind."
"And can you not by your magic art draw from him that which is rooted in his heart?"
"I will try, but it is a difficult part to play."
"I am chagrined to see you doubtful of success so soon."
"Oh, if I absolutely will it, I can succeed! But I shall be obliged to compromise myself. Not in the way you suggested this morning, however. It will suffice to expose myself in the eyes of the world. For the rest, that which Count Alfred said of the chase applies perfectly to my situation. It is not necessary to make any plans in advance to draw on the game. The plan will develop when the time comes. But I have some news for you. Henri is desperately in love with me."
"What Henri?"
"Our neighbour, Segel."
"What, has he dared?"
"If you could have seen him squeeze my hand; if you could have heard him sigh when he escorted me to the street! Oh, it was droll!"
"Unfortunately, he is married."
"Yes, but Mathilde has a bad cough. They say that her lungs are affected. She is not yet twenty-five years old; at that age phthisis is fatal. But may God preserve her!"
"You are truly a genius! Your foresight is admirable. If we could keep him in reserve it would not be bad; however, I prefer Jacob. Men of Henri's calibre never become seriously in love. Their sentiment is not love, it is passion. Every year they change their mistress. It is the theatre that furnishes them."
"Bah! That is the custom now-a-days!"
"Believe me, you had better hold Jacob. There is something horrible about counting on a death."
"I will do all I can to satisfy you. I am very sorry for poor Mathilde, yet one can see death in her eyes."
"Do not think of her, then; think rather of Jacob."
"We will see. As for me, I like Henri better."
The mother frowned and said no more.