The Torrents of Spring
side begged the ladies to sing something; they too did not wait to be
pressed. Frau Lenore sat down to the piano and sang with Gemma some
duets and “stornelle.” The mother had once had a fine contralto; the
daughter’s voice was not strong, but was pleasing.
VI
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