The Torrents of Spring
immobility it could be seen that she was suffering inwardly. Only Emil
obviously wanted to speak to Sanin, wanted to question him; he had seen
Sanin go up to the officers, he had seen him give them something
white—a scrap of paper, a note, or a card…. The poor boy’s heart was
beating, his cheeks burned, he was ready to throw himself on Sanin’s
neck, ready to cry, or to go with him at once to crush all those
accursed officers into dust and ashes! He controlled himself, however,
and did no more than watch intently every movement of his noble Russian
friend.
The coachman had at last harnessed the horses; the whole party seated
themselves in the carriage. Emil climbed on to the box, after
Tartaglia; he was more comfortable there, and had not Klüber, whom he
could hardly bear the sight of, sitting opposite to him.
The whole way home Herr Klüber discoursed … and he discoursed alone; no
one, absolutely no one, opposed him, nor did any one agree with him. He
especially insisted on the point that they had been wrong in not
following his advice when he suggested dining in a shut-up
summer-house. There no unpleasantness could have occurred! Then he
expressed a few decided and even liberal sentiments on the unpardonable
way in which the government favoured the military, neglected their
discipline, and did not sufficiently consider the civilian element in
society (_das bürgerliche Element in der Societät_!), and foretold that
in time this cause would give rise to discontent, which might well pass
into revolution, of which (here he dropped a sympathetic though severe
sigh) France had given them a sorrowful example! He added, however,
that he personally had the greatest respect for authority, and never …
no, never!… could be a revolutionist—but he could not but express his …
disapprobation at the sight of such licence! Then he made a few general
observations on morality and immorality, good-breeding, and the sense
of dignity.
During all these lucubrations, Gemma, who even while they were walking
before dinner had not seemed quite pleased with Herr Klüber, and had
therefore held rather aloof from Sanin, and had been, as it were,
embarrassed by his presence—Gemma was unmistakably ashamed of her
betrothed! Towards the end of the drive she was positively wretched,
and though, as before, she did not address a word to Sanin, she
suddenly flung an imploring glance at him…. He, for his part, felt much
more sorry for her than indignant with Herr Klüber; he was even
secretly, half-consciously, delighted at what had happened in the
course of that day, even though he had every reason to expect a
challenge next morning.
This miserable _partie de plaisir_ came to an end at last. As he helped
Gemma out of the carriage at the confectionery shop, Sanin without a
word put into her hand the rose he had recovered. She flushed crimson,
pressed his hand, and instantly hid the rose. He did not want to go
into the house, though the evening was only just beginning. She did not
even invite him. Moreover Pantaleone, who came out on the steps,
announced that Frau Lenore was asleep. Emil took a shy good-bye of
Sanin; he felt as it were in awe of him; he greatly admired him. Klüber
saw Sanin to his lodging, and took leave of him stiffly. The
well-regulated German, for all his self-confidence, felt awkward. And
indeed every one felt awkward.
But in Sanin this feeling of awkwardness soon passed off. It was
replaced by a vague, but pleasant, even triumphant feeling. He walked
up and down his room, whistling, and not caring to think about
anything, and was very well pleased with himself.
XVII
“I will wait for the officer’s visit till ten o’clock,” he reflected
next morning, as he dressed, “and then let him come and look for me!”
But Germans rise early: it had not yet struck nine when the waiter
informed Sanin that the Herr Seconde Lieutenant von Richter wished to
see him. Sanin made haste to put on his coat, and told him to ask him
up. Herr Richter turned out, contrary to Sanin’s expectation, to be a
very young man, almost a boy. He tried to give an expression of dignity
to his beardless face, but did not succeed at all: he could not even
conceal his embarrassment, and as he sat down on a chair, he tripped
over his sword, and almost fell. Stammering and hesitating, he
announced to Sanin in bad French that he had come with a message from
his friend, Baron von Dönhof; that this message was to demand from Herr
von Sanin an apology for the insulting expressions used by him on the
previous day; and in case of refusal on the part of Herr von Sanin,
Baron von Dönhof would ask for satisfaction. Sanin replied that he did
not mean to apologise, but was ready to give him satisfaction. Then
Herr von Richter, still with the same hesitation, asked with whom, at
what time and place, should he arrange the necessary preliminaries.
Sanin answered that he might come to him in two hours’ time, and that
meanwhile, he, Sanin, would try and find a second. (“Who the devil is
there I can have for a second?” he was thinking to himself meantime.)
Herr von Richter got up and began to take leave … but at the doorway he
stopped, as though stung by a prick of conscience, and turning to Sanin
observed that his friend, Baron von Dönhof, could not but recognise …
that he had been … to a certain extent, to blame himself in the
incident of the previous day, and would, therefore, be satisfied with
slight apologies (“_des exghizes léchères_.”) To this Sanin replied
that he did not intend to make any apology whatever, either slight or
considerable, since he did not consider himself to blame. “In that
case,” answered Herr von Richter, blushing more than ever, “you will
have to exchange friendly shots—_des goups de bisdolet à l’amiaple_!”
“I don’t understand that at all,” observed Sanin; “are we to fire in
the air or what?”
“Oh, not exactly that,” stammered the sub-lieutenant, utterly
disconcerted, “but I supposed since it is an affair between men of
honour … I will talk to your second,” he broke off, and went away.
Sanin dropped into a chair directly he had gone, and stared at the
floor. “What does it all mean? How is it my life has taken such a turn
all of a sudden? All the past, all the future has suddenly vanished,
gone,—and all that’s left is that I am going to fight some one about
something in Frankfort.” He recalled a crazy aunt of his who used to
dance and sing:
“O my lieutenant!
My little cucumber!
My little love!
Dance with me, my little dove!”
And he laughed and hummed as she used to: “O my lieutenant! Dance with
me, little dove!” “But I must act, though, I mustn’t waste time,” he
cried aloud—jumped up and saw Pantaleone facing him with a note in his
hand.
“I knocked several times, but you did not answer; I thought you weren’t
at home,” said the old man, as he gave him the note. “From Signorina
Gemma.”
Sanin took the note, mechanically, as they say, tore it open, and read
it. Gemma wrote to him that she was very anxious—about he knew what—and
would be very glad to see him at once.
“The Signorina is anxious,” began Pantaleone, who obviously knew what
was in the note, “she told me to see what you are doing and to bring
you to her.”
Sanin glanced at the old Italian, and pondered. A sudden idea flashed
upon his brain. For the first instant it struck him as too absurd to be
possible.
“After all … why not?” he asked himself.
“M. Pantaleone!” he said aloud.
The old man started, tucked his chin into his cravat and stared at
Sanin.
“Do you know,” pursued Sanin, “what happened yesterday?”
Pantaleone chewed his lips and shook his immense top-knot of hair.
“Yes.”
(Emil had told him all about it directly he got home.)
“Oh, you know! Well, an officer has just this minute left me. That
scoundrel challenges me to a duel. I have accepted his challenge. But I
have no second. Will _you_ be my second?”
Pantaleone started and raised his eyebrows so high that they were lost
under his overhanging hair.
“You are absolutely obliged to fight?” he said at last in Italian; till
that instant he had made use of French.
“Absolutely. I can’t do otherwise—it would mean disgracing myself for
ever.”
“H’m. If I don’t consent to be your second you will find some one
else.”
“Yes … undoubtedly.”
Pantaleone looked down. “But allow me to ask you, Signor de Tsanin,
will not your duel throw a slur on the reputation of a certain lady?”
“I don’t suppose so; but in any case, there’s no help for it.”
“H’m!” Pantaleone retired altogether into his cravat. “Hey, but that
_ferroflucto Klüberio_—what’s he about?” he cried all of a sudden,
looking up again.
“He? Nothing.”
“_Che_!” Pantaleone shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “I have, in
any case, to thank you,” he articulated at last in an unsteady voice
“that even in my present humble condition you recognise that I am a
gentleman—_un galant’uomo_! In that way you have shown yourself to be a
real _galant’uomo_. But I must consider your proposal.”
“There’s no time to lose, dear Signor Ci … cippa …”
“Tola,” the old man chimed in. “I ask only for one hour for
reflection…. The daughter of my benefactor is involved in this…. And,
therefore, I ought, I am bound, to reflect!… In an hour, in
three-quarters of an hour, you shall know my decision.”
“Very well; I will wait.”
“And now … what answer am I to give to Signorina Gemma?”
Sanin took a sheet of paper, wrote on it, “Set your mind at rest, dear
friend; in three hours’ time I will come to you, and everything shall
be explained. I thank you from my heart for your sympathy,” and handed
this sheet to Pantaleone.
He put it carefully into his side-pocket, and once more repeating “In
an hour!” made towards the door; but turning sharply back, ran up to
Sanin, seized his hand, and pressing it to his shirt-front, cried, with
his eyes to the ceiling: “Noble youth! Great heart! (_Nobil giovanotto!
Gran cuore!_) permit a weak old man (_a un vecchiotto!_) to press your
valorous right hand (_la vostra valorosa destra!_)” Then he skipped
back a pace or two, threw up both hands, and went away.
Sanin looked after him … took up the newspaper and tried to read. But
his eyes wandered in vain over the lines: he understood nothing.
XVIII
An hour later the waiter came in again to Sanin, and handed him an old,
soiled visiting-card, on which were the following words: “Pantaleone
Cippatola of Varese, court singer (_cantante di camera_) to his Royal
Highness the Duke of Modena”; and behind the waiter in walked
Pantaleone himself. He had changed his clothes from top to toe. He had
on a black frock coat, reddish with long wear, and a white piqué
waistcoat, upon which a pinchbeck chain meandered playfully; a heavy
cornelian seal hung low down on to his narrow black trousers. In his
right hand he carried a black beaver hat, in his left two stout chamois
gloves; he had tied his cravat in a taller and broader bow than ever,
and had stuck into his starched shirt-front a pin with a stone, a
so-called “cat’s eye.” On his forefinger was displayed a ring,
consisting of two clasped hands with a burning heart between them. A
smell of garments long laid by, a smell of camphor and of musk hung
about the whole person of the old man; the anxious solemnity of his
deportment must have struck the most casual spectator! Sanin rose to
meet him.
“I am your second,” Pantaleone announced in French, and he bowed
bending his whole body forward, and turning out his toes like a dancer.
“I have come for instructions. Do you want to fight to the death?”
“Why to the death, my dear Signor Cippatola? I will not for any
consideration take back my words—but I am not a bloodthirsty person!…
But come, wait a little, my opponent’s second will be here directly. I