The Torrents of Spring
Her nose was rather large, but handsome, aquiline-shaped; her upper lip
was shaded by a light down; but then the colour of her face, smooth,
uniform, like ivory or very pale milky amber, the wavering shimmer of
her hair, like that of the Judith of Allorio in the Palazzo-Pitti; and
above all, her eyes, dark-grey, with a black ring round the pupils,
splendid, triumphant eyes, even now, when terror and distress dimmed
their lustre…. Sanin could not help recalling the marvellous country he
had just come from…. But even in Italy he had never met anything like
her! The girl drew slow, uneven breaths; she seemed between each breath
to be waiting to see whether her brother would not begin to breathe.
Sanin went on rubbing him, but he did not only watch the girl. The
original figure of Pantaleone drew his attention too. The old man was
quite exhausted and panting; at every movement of the brush he hopped
up and down and groaned noisily, while his immense tufts of hair,
soaked with perspiration, flapped heavily from side to side, like the
roots of some strong plant, torn up by the water.
“You’d better, at least, take off his boots,” Sanin was just saying to
him.
The poodle, probably excited by the unusualness of all the proceedings,
suddenly sank on to its front paws and began barking.
“_Tartaglia—canaglia_!” the old man hissed at it. But at that instant
the girl’s face was transformed. Her eyebrows rose, her eyes grew
wider, and shone with joy.
Sanin looked round … A flush had over-spread the lad’s face; his
eyelids stirred … his nostrils twitched. He drew in a breath through
his still clenched teeth, sighed….
“Emil!” cried the girl … “Emilio mio!”
Slowly the big black eyes opened. They still had a dazed look, but
already smiled faintly; the same faint smile hovered on his pale lips.
Then he moved the arm that hung down, and laid it on his chest.
“Emilio!” repeated the girl, and she got up. The expression on her face
was so tense and vivid, that it seemed that in an instant either she
would burst into tears or break into laughter.
“Emil! what is it? Emil!” was heard outside, and a neatly-dressed lady
with silvery grey hair and a dark face came with rapid steps into the
room.
A middle-aged man followed her; the head of a maid-servant was visible
over their shoulders.
The girl ran to meet them.
“He is saved, mother, he is alive!” she cried, impulsively embracing
the lady who had just entered.
“But what is it?” she repeated. “I come back … and all of a sudden I
meet the doctor and Luise …”
The girl proceeded to explain what had happened, while the doctor went
up to the invalid who was coming more and more to himself, and was
still smiling: he seemed to be beginning to feel shy at the commotion
he had caused.
“You’ve been using friction with brushes, I see,” said the doctor to
Sanin and Pantaleone, “and you did very well…. A very good idea … and
now let us see what further measures …”
He felt the youth’s pulse. “H’m! show me your tongue!”
The lady bent anxiously over him. He smiled still more ingenuously,
raised his eyes to her, and blushed a little.
It struck Sanin that he was no longer wanted; he went into the shop.
But before he had time to touch the handle of the street-door, the girl
was once more before him; she stopped him.
“You are going,” she began, looking warmly into his face; “I will not
keep you, but you must be sure to come to see us this evening: we are
so indebted to you—you, perhaps, saved my brother’s life, we want to
thank you—mother wants to. You must tell us who you are, you must
rejoice with us …”
“But I am leaving for Berlin to-day,” Sanin faltered out.
“You will have time though,” the girl rejoined eagerly. “Come to us in
an hour’s time to drink a cup of chocolate with us. You promise? I must
go back to him! You will come?”
What could Sanin do?
“I will come,” he replied.
The beautiful girl pressed his hand, fluttered away, and he found
himself in the street.
IV
When Sanin, an hour and a half later, returned to the Rosellis’ shop he
was received there like one of the family. Emilio was sitting on the
same sofa, on which he had been rubbed; the doctor had prescribed him
medicine and recommended “great discretion in avoiding strong emotions”
as being a subject of nervous temperament with a tendency to weakness
of the heart. He had previously been liable to fainting-fits; but never
had he lost consciousness so completely and for so long. However, the
doctor declared that all danger was over. Emil, as was only suitable
for an invalid, was dressed in a comfortable dressing-gown; his mother
wound a blue woollen wrap round his neck; but he had a cheerful, almost
a festive air; indeed everything had a festive air. Before the sofa, on
a round table, covered with a clean cloth, towered a huge china
coffee-pot, filled with fragrant chocolate, and encircled by cups,
decanters of liqueur, biscuits and rolls, and even flowers; six slender
wax candles were burning in two old-fashioned silver chandeliers; on
one side of the sofa, a comfortable lounge-chair offered its soft
embraces, and in this chair they made Sanin sit. All the inhabitants of
the confectioner’s shop, with whom he had made acquaintance that day,
were present, not excluding the poodle, Tartaglia, and the cat; they
all seemed happy beyond expression; the poodle positively sneezed with
delight, only the cat was coy and blinked sleepily as before. They made
Sanin tell them who he was, where he came from, and what was his name;
when he said he was a Russian, both the ladies were a little surprised,
uttered ejaculations of wonder, and declared with one voice that he
spoke German splendidly; but if he preferred to speak French, he might
make use of that language, as they both understood it and spoke it
well. Sanin at once availed himself of this suggestion. “Sanin! Sanin!”
The ladies would never have expected that a Russian surname could be so
easy to pronounce. His Christian name—“Dimitri”—they liked very much
too. The elder lady observed that in her youth she had heard a fine
opera—“Demetrio e Polibio”—but that “Dimitri” was much nicer than
“Demetrio.” In this way Sanin talked for about an hour. The ladies on
their side initiated him into all the details of their own life. The
talking was mostly done by the mother, the lady with grey hair. Sanin
learnt from her that her name was Leonora Roselli; that she had lost
her husband, Giovanni Battista Roselli, who had settled in Frankfort as
a confectioner twenty-five years ago; that Giovanni Battista had come
from Vicenza and had been a most excellent, though fiery and irascible
man, and a republican withal! At those words Signora Roselli pointed to
his portrait, painted in oil-colours, and hanging over the sofa. It
must be presumed that the painter, “also a republican!” as Signora
Roselli observed with a sigh, had not fully succeeded in catching a
likeness, for in his portrait the late Giovanni Battista appeared as a
morose and gloomy brigand, after the style of Rinaldo Rinaldini!
Signora Roselli herself had come from “the ancient and splendid city of
Parma where there is the wonderful cupola, painted by the immortal
Correggio!” But from her long residence in Germany she had become
almost completely Germanised. Then she added, mournfully shaking her
head, that all she had left was _this_ daughter and _this_ son
(pointing to each in turn with her finger); that the daughter’s name
was Gemma, and the son’s Emilio; that they were both very good and
obedient children—especially Emilio … (“Me not obedient!” her daughter
put in at that point. “Oh, you’re a republican, too!” answered her
mother). That the business, of course, was not what it had been in the
days of her husband, who had a great gift for the confectionery line …
(“_Un grand uomo_!” Pantaleone confirmed with a severe air); but that
still, thank God, they managed to get along!
V
Gemma listened to her mother, and at one minute laughed, then sighed,
then patted her on the shoulder, and shook her finger at her, and then
looked at Sanin; at last, she got up, embraced her mother and kissed
her in the hollow of her neck, which made the latter laugh extremely
and shriek a little. Pantaleone too was presented to Sanin. It appeared
he had once been an opera singer, a baritone, but had long ago given up
the theatre, and occupied in the Roselli family a position between that
of a family friend and a servant. In spite of his prolonged residence
in Germany, he had learnt very little German, and only knew how to
swear in it, mercilessly distorting even the terms of abuse.
“_Ferroflucto spitchebubbio_” was his favourite epithet for almost
every German. He spoke Italian with a perfect accent—for was he not by
birth from Sinigali, where may be heard “_lingua toscana in bocca
romana_”! Emilio, obviously, played the invalid and indulged himself in
the pleasant sensations of one who has only just escaped a danger or is
returning to health after illness; it was evident, too, that the family
spoiled him. He thanked Sanin bashfully, but devoted himself chiefly to
the biscuits and sweetmeats. Sanin was compelled to drink two large
cups of excellent chocolate, and to eat a considerable number of
biscuits; no sooner had he swallowed one than Gemma offered him
another—and to refuse was impossible! He soon felt at home: the time
flew by with incredible swiftness. He had to tell them a great
deal—about Russia in general, the Russian climate, Russian society, the
Russian peasant—and especially about the Cossacks; about the war of
1812, about Peter the Great, about the Kremlin, and the Russian songs
and bells. Both ladies had a very faint conception of our vast and
remote fatherland; Signora Roselli, or as she was more often called,
Frau Lenore, positively dumfoundered Sanin with the question, whether
there was still existing at Petersburg the celebrated house of ice,
built last century, about which she had lately read a very curious
article in one of her husband’s books, “_Bettezze delle arti_.” And in
reply to Sanin’s exclamation, “Do you really suppose that there is
never any summer in Russia?” Frau Lenore replied that till then she had
always pictured Russia like this—eternal snow, every one going about in
furs, and all military men, but the greatest hospitality, and all the
peasants very submissive! Sanin tried to impart to her and her daughter
some more exact information. When the conversation touched on Russian
music, they begged him at once to sing some Russian air and showed him
a diminutive piano with black keys instead of white and white instead
of black. He obeyed without making much ado and accompanying himself
with two fingers of the right hand and three of the left (the first,
second, and little finger) he sang in a thin nasal tenor, first “The
Sarafan,” then “Along a Paved Street.” The ladies praised his voice and
the music, but were more struck with the softness and sonorousness of
the Russian language and asked for a translation of the text. Sanin
complied with their wishes—but as the words of “The Sarafan,” and still
more of “Along a Paved Street’ (_sur une rue pavée une jeune fille
allait à l’eau_ was how he rendered the sense of the original) were not
calculated to inspire his listeners with an exalted idea of Russian
poetry, he first recited, then translated, and then sang Pushkin’s, “I
remember a marvellous moment,” set to music by Glinka, whose minor bars
he did not render quite faithfully. Then the ladies went into
ecstasies. Frau Lenore positively discovered in Russian a wonderful
likeness to the Italian. Even the names Pushkin (she pronounced it
Pussekin) and Glinka sounded somewhat familiar to her. Sanin on his