Chapter 2

But it was not Gemma’s voice—it was herself Sanin was admiring. He was sitting a little behind and on one side of her, and kept thinking to himself that no palm-tree, even in the poems of Benediktov—the poet in fashion in those days—could rival the slender grace of her figure. When, at the most emotional passages, she raised her eyes upwards—it seemed to him no heaven could fail to open at such a look! Even the old man, Pantaleone, who with his shoulder propped against the doorpost, and his chin and mouth tucked into his capacious cravat, was listening solemnly with the air of a connoisseur—even he was admiring the girl’s lovely face and marvelling at it, though one would have thought he must have been used to it! When she had finished the duet with her daughter, Frau Lenore observed that Emilio had a fine voice, like a silver bell, but that now he was at the age when the voice changes—he did, in fact, talk in a sort of bass constantly falling into falsetto—and that he was therefore forbidden to sing; but that Pantaleone now really might try his skill of old days in honour of their guest! Pantaleone promptly put on a displeased air, frowned, ruffled up his hair, and declared that he had given it all up long ago, though he could certainly in his youth hold his own, and indeed had belonged to that great period, when there were real classical singers, not to be compared to the squeaking performers of to-day! and a real school of singing; that he, Pantaleone Cippatola of Varese, had once been brought a laurel wreath from Modena, and that on that occasion some white doves had positively been let fly in the theatre; that among others a Russian prince Tarbusky—“_il principe Tarbusski_”—with whom he had been on the most friendly terms, had after supper persistently invited him to Russia, promising him mountains of gold, mountains!… but that he had been unwilling to leave Italy, the land of Dante—_il paese del Dante!_ Afterward, to be sure, there came … unfortunate circumstances, he had himself been imprudent…. At this point the old man broke off, sighed deeply twice, looked dejected, and began again talking of the classical period of singing, of the celebrated tenor Garcia, for whom he cherished a devout, unbounded veneration. “He was a man!” he exclaimed. “Never had the great Garcia (_il gran Garcia_) demeaned himself by singing falsetto like the paltry tenors of to-day—_tenoracci_; always from the chest, from the chest, _voce di petto, si!_” and the old man aimed a vigorous blow with his little shrivelled fist at his own shirt-front! “And what an actor! A volcano, _signori miei_, a volcano, _un Vesuvio_! I had the honour and the happiness of singing with him in the _opera dell’ illustrissimo maestro_ Rossini—in Otello! Garcia was Otello,—I was Iago—and when he rendered the phrase”:—here Pantaleone threw himself into an attitude and began singing in a hoarse and shaky, but still moving voice:

“L’i … ra daver … so daver … so il fato lo più no … no … no … non temerò!”

The theatre was all a-quiver, _signori miei_! though I too did not fall short, I too after him.

“L’i ra daver … so daver … so il fato Temèr più non davro!”

And all of a sudden, he crashed like lightning, like a tiger: _Morro!… ma vendicato …_ Again when he was singing … when he was singing that celebrated air from “_Matrimonio segreto_,” _Pria che spunti_ … then he, _il gran Garcia_, after the words, “_I cavalli di galoppo_”—at the words, “_Senza posa cacciera_,”—listen, how stupendous, _come è stupendo_! At that point he made …” The old man began a sort of extraordinary flourish, and at the tenth note broke down, cleared his throat, and with a wave of his arm turned away, muttering, “Why do you torment me?” Gemma jumped up at once and clapping loudly and shouting, bravo!… bravo!… she ran to the poor old super-annuated Iago and with both hands patted him affectionately on the shoulders. Only Emil laughed ruthlessly. _Cet âge est sans pitié_—that age knows no mercy—Lafontaine has said already.

Sanin tried to soothe the aged singer and began talking to him in Italian—(he had picked up a smattering during his last tour there)—began talking of “_paese del Dante, dove il si suona_.” This phrase, together with “_Lasciate ogni speranza_,” made up the whole stock of poetic Italian of the young tourist; but Pantaleone was not won over by his blandishments. Tucking his chin deeper than ever into his cravat and sullenly rolling his eyes, he was once more like a bird, an angry one too,—a crow or a kite. Then Emil, with a faint momentary blush, such as one so often sees in spoilt children, addressing his sister, said if she wanted to entertain their guest, she could do nothing better than read him one of those little comedies of Malz, that she read so nicely. Gemma laughed, slapped her brother on the arm, exclaimed that he “always had such ideas!” She went promptly, however, to her room, and returning thence with a small book in her hand, seated herself at the table before the lamp, looked round, lifted one finger as much as to say, “hush!”—a typically Italian gesture—and began reading.

VII

Malz was a writer flourishing at Frankfort about 1830, whose short comedies, written in a light vein in the local dialect, hit off local Frankfort types with bright and amusing, though not deep, humour. It turned out that Gemma really did read excellently—quite like an actress in fact. She indicated each personage, and sustained the character capitally, making full use of the talent of mimicry she had inherited with her Italian blood; she had no mercy on her soft voice or her lovely face, and when she had to represent some old crone in her dotage, or a stupid burgomaster, she made the drollest grimaces, screwing up her eyes, wrinkling up her nose, lisping, squeaking…. She did not herself laugh during the reading; but when her audience (with the exception of Pantaleone: he had walked off in indignation so soon as the conversation turned _o quel ferroflucto Tedesco_) interrupted her by an outburst of unanimous laughter, she dropped the book on her knee, and laughed musically too, her head thrown back, and her black hair dancing in little ringlets on her neck and her shaking shoulders. When the laughter ceased, she picked up the book at once, and again resuming a suitable expression, began the reading seriously. Sanin could not get over his admiration; he was particularly astonished at the marvellous way in which a face so ideally beautiful assumed suddenly a comic, sometimes almost a vulgar expression. Gemma was less successful in the parts of young girls—of so-called “_jeunes premières_”; in the love-scenes in particular she failed; she was conscious of this herself, and for that reason gave them a faint shade of irony as though she did not quite believe in all these rapturous vows and elevated sentiments, of which the author, however, was himself rather sparing—so far as he could be.

Sanin did not notice how the evening was flying by, and only recollected the journey before him when the clock struck ten. He leaped up from his seat as though he had been stung.

“What is the matter?” inquired Frau Lenore.

“Why, I had to start for Berlin to-night, and I have taken a place in the diligence!”

“And when does the diligence start?”

“At half-past ten!”

“Well, then, you won’t catch it now,” observed Gemma; “you must stay … and I will go on reading.”

“Have you paid the whole fare or only given a deposit?” Frau Lenore queried.

“The whole fare!” Sanin said dolefully with a gloomy face.

Gemma looked at him, half closed her eyes, and laughed, while her mother scolded her:

“The young gentleman has paid away his money for nothing, and you laugh!”

“Never mind,” answered Gemma; “it won’t ruin him, and we will try and amuse him. Will you have some lemonade?”

Sanin drank a glass of lemonade, Gemma took up Malz once more; and all went merrily again.

The clock struck twelve. Sanin rose to take leave.

“You must stay some days now in Frankfort,” said Gemma: “why should you hurry away? It would be no nicer in any other town.” She paused. “It wouldn’t, really,” she added with a smile. Sanin made no reply, and reflected that considering the emptiness of his purse, he would have no choice about remaining in Frankfort till he got an answer from a friend in Berlin, to whom he proposed writing for money.

“Yes, do stay,” urged Frau Lenore too. “We will introduce you to Mr. Karl Klüber, who is engaged to Gemma. He could not come to-day, as he was very busy at his shop … you must have seen the biggest draper’s and silk mercer’s shop in the _Zeile_. Well, he is the manager there. But he will be delighted to call on you himself.”

Sanin—heaven knows why—was slightly disconcerted by this piece of information. “He’s a lucky fellow, that fiancé!” flashed across his mind. He looked at Gemma, and fancied he detected an ironical look in her eyes. He began saying good-bye.

“Till to-morrow? Till to-morrow, isn’t it?” queried Frau Lenore.

“Till to-morrow!” Gemma declared in a tone not of interrogation, but of affirmation, as though it could not be otherwise.

“Till to-morrow!” echoed Sanin.

Emil, Pantaleone, and the poodle Tartaglia accompanied him to the corner of the street. Pantaleone could not refrain from expressing his displeasure at Gemma’s reading.

“She ought to be ashamed! She mouths and whines, _una caricatura_! She ought to represent Merope or Clytemnaestra—something grand, tragic—and she apes some wretched German woman! I can do that … _merz, kerz, smerz_,” he went on in a hoarse voice poking his face forward, and brandishing his fingers. Tartaglia began barking at him, while Emil burst out laughing. The old man turned sharply back.

Sanin went back to the White Swan (he had left his things there in the public hall) in a rather confused frame of mind. All the talk he had had in French, German, and Italian was ringing in his ears.

“Engaged!” he whispered as he lay in bed, in the modest apartment assigned to him. “And what a beauty! But what did I stay for?”

Next day he sent a letter to his friend in Berlin.

VIII

He had not finished dressing, when a waiter announced the arrival of two gentlemen. One of them turned out to be Emil; the other, a good-looking and well-grown young man, with a handsome face, was Herr Karl Klüber, the betrothed of the lovely Gemma.

One may safely assume that at that time in all Frankfort, there was not in a single shop a manager as civil, as decorous, as dignified, and as affable as Herr Klüber. The irreproachable perfection of his get-up was on a level with the dignity of his deportment, with the elegance—a little affected and stiff, it is true, in the English style (he had spent two years in England)—but still fascinating, elegance of his manners! It was clear from the first glance that this handsome, rather severe, excellently brought-up and superbly washed young man was accustomed to obey his superior and to command his inferior, and that behind the counter of his shop he must infallibly inspire respect even in his customers! Of his supernatural honesty there could never be a particle of doubt: one had but to look at his stiffly starched collars! And his voice, it appeared, was just what one would expect; deep, and of a self-confident richness, but not too loud, with positively a certain caressing note in its timbre. Such a voice was peculiarly fitted to give orders to assistants under his control: “Show the crimson Lyons velvet!” or, “Hand the lady a chair!”

Herr Klüber began with introducing himself; as he did so, he bowed with such loftiness, moved his legs with such an agreeable air, and drew his heels together with such polished courtesy that no one could fail to feel, “that man has both linen and moral principles of the first quality!” The finish of his bare right hand—(the left, in a suède glove, held a hat shining like a looking-glass, with the right glove placed within it)—the finish of the right hand, proffered modestly but resolutely to Sanin, surpassed all belief; each finger-nail was a perfection in its own way! Then he proceeded to explain in the choicest German that he was anxious to express his respect and his indebtedness to the foreign gentleman who had performed so signal a service to his future kinsman, the brother of his betrothed; as he spoke, he waved his left hand with the hat in it in the direction of Emil, who seemed bashful and turning away to the window, put his finger in his mouth. Herr Klüber added that he should esteem himself happy should he be able in return to do anything for the foreign gentleman. Sanin, with some difficulty, replied, also in German, that he was delighted … that the service was not worth speaking of … and he begged his guests to sit down. Herr Klüber thanked him, and lifting his coat-tails, sat down on a chair; but he perched there so lightly and with such a transitory air that no one could fail to realise, “this man is sitting down from politeness, and will fly up again in an instant.” And he did in fact fly up again quickly, and advancing with two discreet little dance-steps, he announced that to his regret he was unable to stay any longer, as he had to hasten to his shop—business before everything! but as the next day was Sunday, he had, with the consent of Frau Lenore and Fräulein Gemma, arranged a holiday excursion to Soden, to which he had the honour of inviting the foreign gentleman, and he cherished the hope that he would not refuse to grace the party with his presence. Sanin did not refuse so to grace it; and Herr Klüber repeating once more his complimentary sentiments, took leave, his pea-green trousers making a spot of cheerful colour, and his brand-new boots squeaking cheerfully as he moved.

IX

Emil, who had continued to stand with his face to the window, even after Sanin’s invitation to him to sit down, turned round directly his future kinsman had gone out, and with a childish pout and blush, asked Sanin if he might remain a little while with him. “I am much better to-day,” he added, “but the doctor has forbidden me to do any work.”

“Stay by all means! You won’t be in the least in my way,” Sanin cried at once. Like every true Russian he was glad to clutch at any excuse that saved him from the necessity of doing anything himself.

Emil thanked him, and in a very short time he was completely at home with him and with his room; he looked at all his things, asked him about almost every one of them, where he had bought it, and what was its value. He helped him to shave, observing that it was a mistake not to let his moustache grow; and finally told him a number of details about his mother, his sister, Pantaleone, the poodle Tartaglia, and all their daily life. Every semblance of timidity vanished in Emil; he suddenly felt extraordinarily attracted to Sanin—not at all because he had saved his life the day before, but because he was such a nice person! He lost no time in confiding all his secrets to Sanin. He expatiated with special warmth on the fact that his mother was set on making him a shopkeeper, while he _knew_, knew for certain, that he was born an artist, a musician, a singer; that Pantaleone even encouraged him, but that Herr Klüber supported mamma, over whom he had great influence; that the very idea of his being a shopkeeper really originated with Herr Klüber, who considered that nothing in the world could compare with trade! To measure out cloth—and cheat the public, extorting from it “_Narren—oder Russen Preise_” (fools’—or Russian prices)—that was his ideal![1]

[1] In former days—and very likely it is not different now—when, from May onwards, a great number of Russians visited Frankfort, prices rose in all the shops, and were called “Russians’,” or, alas! “fools’ prices.”

“Come! now you must come and see us!” he cried, directly Sanin had finished his toilet and written his letter to Berlin.

“It’s early yet,” observed Sanin.

“That’s no matter,” replied Emil caressingly. “Come along! We’ll go to the post—and from there to our place. Gemma will be so glad to see you! You must have lunch with us…. You might say a word to mamma about me, my career….”

“Very well, let’s go,” said Sanin, and they set off.

X

Gemma certainly was delighted to see him, and Frau Lenore gave him a very friendly welcome; he had obviously made a good impression on both of them the evening before. Emil ran to see to getting lunch ready, after a preliminary whisper, “don’t forget!” in Sanin’s ear.

“I won’t forget,” responded Sanin.

Frau Lenore was not quite well; she had a sick headache, and, half-lying down in an easy chair, she tried to keep perfectly still. Gemma wore a full yellow blouse, with a black leather belt round the waist; she too seemed exhausted, and was rather pale; there were dark rings round her eyes, but their lustre was not the less for it; it added something of charm and mystery to the classical lines of her face. Sanin was especially struck that day by the exquisite beauty of her hands; when she smoothed and put back her dark, glossy tresses he could not take his eyes off her long supple fingers, held slightly apart from one another like the hand of Raphael’s Fornarina.

It was very hot out-of-doors; after lunch Sanin was about to take leave, but they told him that on such a day the best thing was to stay where one was, and he agreed; he stayed. In the back room where he was sitting with the ladies of the household, coolness reigned supreme; the windows looked out upon a little garden overgrown with acacias. Multitudes of bees, wasps, and humming beetles kept up a steady, eager buzz in their thick branches, which were studded with golden blossoms; through the half-drawn curtains and the lowered blinds this never-ceasing hum made its way into the room, telling of the sultry heat in the air outside, and making the cool of the closed and snug abode seem the sweeter.

Sanin talked a great deal, as on the day before, but not of Russia, nor of Russian life. Being anxious to please his young friend, who had been sent off to Herr Klüber’s immediately after lunch, to acquire a knowledge of book-keeping, he turned the conversation on the comparative advantages and disadvantages of art and commerce. He was not surprised at Frau Lenore’s standing up for commerce—he had expected that; but Gemma too shared her opinion.

“If one’s an artist, and especially a singer,” she declared with a vigorous downward sweep of her hand, “one’s got to be first-rate! Second-rate’s worse than nothing; and who can tell if one will arrive at being first-rate?” Pantaleone, who took part too in the conversation—(as an old servant and an old man he had the privilege of sitting down in the presence of the ladies of the house; Italians are not, as a rule, strict in matters of etiquette)—Pantaleone, as a matter of course, stood like a rock for art. To tell the truth, his arguments were somewhat feeble; he kept expatiating for the most part on the necessity, before all things, of possessing “_un certo estro d’inspirazione_”—a certain force of inspiration! Frau Lenore remarked to him that he had, to be sure, possessed such an “_estro_”—and yet … “I had enemies,” Pantaleone observed gloomily. “And how do you know that Emil will not have enemies, even if this “_estro_” is found in him?” “Very well, make a tradesman of him, then,” retorted Pantaleone in vexation; “but Giovan’ Battista would never have done it, though he was a confectioner himself!” “Giovan’ Battista, my husband, was a reasonable man, and even though he was in his youth led away …” But the old man would hear nothing more, and walked away, repeating reproachfully, “Ah! Giovan’ Battista!…” Gemma exclaimed that if Emil felt like a patriot, and wanted to devote all his powers to the liberation of Italy, then, of course, for such a high and holy cause he might sacrifice the security of the future—but not for the theatre! Thereupon Frau Lenore became much agitated, and began to implore her daughter to refrain at least from turning her brother’s head, and to content herself with being such a desperate republican herself! Frau Lenore groaned as she uttered these words, and began complaining of her head, which was “ready to split.” (Frau Lenore, in deference to their guest, talked to her daughter in French.)

Gemma began at once to wait upon her; she moistened her forehead with eau-de-Cologne, gently blew on it, gently kissed her cheek, made her lay her head on a pillow, forbade her to speak, and kissed her again. Then, turning to Sanin, she began telling him in a half-joking, half-tender tone what a splendid mother she had, and what a beauty she had been. “‘Had been,’ did I say? she is charming now! Look, look, what eyes!”

Gemma instantly pulled a white handkerchief out of her pocket, covered her mother’s face with it, and slowly drawing it downwards, gradually uncovered Frau Lenore’s forehead, eyebrows, and eyes; she waited a moment and asked her to open them. Her mother obeyed; Gemma cried out in ecstasy (Frau Lenore’s eyes really were very beautiful), and rapidly sliding the handkerchief over the lower, less regular part of the face, fell to kissing her again. Frau Lenore laughed, and turning a little away, with a pretence of violence, pushed her daughter away. She too pretended to struggle with her mother, and lavished caresses on her—not like a cat, in the French manner, but with that special Italian grace in which is always felt the presence of power.

At last Frau Lenore declared she was tired out … Then Gemma at once advised her to have a little nap, where she was, in her chair, “and I and the Russian gentleman—‘_avec le monsieur russe_’—will be as quiet, as quiet … as little mice … ‘_comme des petites souris_.’” Frau Lenore smiled at her in reply, closed her eyes, and after a few sighs began to doze. Gemma quickly dropped down on a bench beside her and did not stir again, only from time to time she put a finger of one hand to her lips—with the other hand she was holding up a pillow behind her mother’s head—and said softly, “sh-sh!” with a sidelong look at Sanin, if he permitted himself the smallest movement. In the end he too sank into a kind of dream, and sat motionless as though spell-bound, while all his faculties were absorbed in admiring the picture presented him by the half-dark room, here and there spotted with patches of light crimson, where fresh, luxuriant roses stood in the old-fashioned green glasses, and the sleeping woman with demurely folded hands and kind, weary face, framed in the snowy whiteness of the pillow, and the young, keenly-alert and also kind, clever, pure, and unspeakably beautiful creature with such black, deep, overshadowed, yet shining eyes…. What was it? A dream? a fairy tale? And how came _he_ to be in it?

XI