Читать книгу The Jew - Józef Ignacy Kraszewski - Страница 10

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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."