The Torrents of Spring
excited face, such immense, large, magnificent eyes—it was such a
beautiful creature he saw, that his heart stood still within him, he
pressed his lips to the delicate tress of hair, that had fallen on his
bosom, and could only murmur, “O Gemma!”
“What was that? Lightning?” she asked, her eyes wandering afar, while
she did not take her bare arms from his shoulder.
“Gemma!” repeated Sanin.
She sighed, looked around behind her into the room, and with a rapid
movement pulling the now faded rose out of her bodice, she threw it to
Sanin.
“I wanted to give you this flower.”
He recognised the rose, which he had won back the day before….
But already the window had slammed-to, and through the dark pane
nothing could be seen, no trace of white.
Sanin went home without his hat…. He did not even notice that he had
lost it.
XXI
It was quite morning when he fell asleep. And no wonder! In the blast
of that instantaneous summer hurricane, he had almost as
instantaneously felt, not that Gemma was lovely, not that he liked
her—that he had known before … but that he almost … loved her! As
suddenly as that blast of wind, had love pounced down upon him. And
then this senseless duel! He began to be tormented by mournful
forebodings. And even suppose they didn’t kill him…. What could come of
his love for this girl, another man’s betrothed? Even supposing this
“other man” was no danger, that Gemma herself would care for him, or
even cared for him already … What would come of it? How ask what! Such
a lovely creature!…
He walked about the room, sat down to the table, took a sheet of paper,
traced a few lines on it, and at once blotted them out…. He recalled
Gemma’s wonderful figure in the dark window, in the starlight, set all
a-fluttering by the warm hurricane; he remembered her marble arms, like
the arms of the Olympian goddesses, felt their living weight on his
shoulders…. Then he took the rose she had thrown him, and it seemed to
him that its half-withered petals exhaled a fragrance of her, more
delicate than the ordinary scent of the rose.
“And would they kill him straight away or maim him?”
He did not go to bed, and fell asleep in his clothes on the sofa.
Some one slapped him on the shoulder…. He opened his eyes, and saw
Pantaleone.
“He sleeps like Alexander of Macedon on the eve of the battle of
Babylon!” cried the old man.
“What o’clock is it?” inquired Sanin.
“A quarter to seven; it’s a two hours’ drive to Hanau, and we must be
the first on the field. Russians are always beforehand with their
enemies! I have engaged the best carriage in Frankfort!”
Sanin began washing. “And where are the pistols?”
“That _ferroflucto Tedesco_ will bring the pistols. He’ll bring a
doctor too.”
Pantaleone was obviously putting a good face on it as he had done the
day before; but when he was seated in the carriage with Sanin, when the
coachman had cracked his whip and the horses had started off at a
gallop, a sudden change came over the old singer and friend of Paduan
dragoons. He began to be confused and positively faint-hearted.
Something seemed to have given way in him, like a badly built wall.
“What are we doing, my God, _Santissima Madonna!_” he cried in an
unexpectedly high pipe, and he clutched at his head. “What am I about,
old fool, madman, _frenetico_?”
Sanin wondered and laughed, and putting his arm lightly round
Pantaleone’s waist, he reminded him of the French proverb: “_Le vin est
tiré—il faut le boire_.”
“Yes, yes,” answered the old man, “we will drain the cup together to
the dregs—but still I’m a madman! I’m a madman! All was going on so
quietly, so well … and all of a sudden: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!”
“Like the _tutti_ in the orchestra,” observed Sanin with a forced
smile. “But it’s not your fault.”
“I know it’s not. I should think not indeed! And yet … such insolent
conduct! _Diavolo, diavolo_!” repeated Pantaleone, sighing and shaking
his topknot.
The carriage still rolled on and on.
It was an exquisite morning. The streets of Frankfort, which were just
beginning to show signs of life, looked so clean and snug; the windows
of the houses glittered in flashes like tinfoil; and as soon as the
carriage had driven beyond the city walls, from overhead, from a blue
but not yet glaring sky, the larks’ loud trills showered down in
floods. Suddenly at a turn in the road, a familiar figure came from
behind a tall poplar, took a few steps forward and stood still. Sanin
looked more closely…. Heavens! it was Emil!
“But does he know anything about it?” he demanded of Pantaleone.
“I tell you I’m a madman,” the poor Italian wailed despairingly, almost
in a shriek. “The wretched boy gave me no peace all night, and this
morning at last I revealed all to him!”
“So much for your _segredezza_!” thought Sanin. The carriage had got up
to Emil. Sanin told the coachman to stop the horses, and called the
“wretched boy” up to him. Emil approached with hesitating steps, pale
as he had been on the day he fainted. He could scarcely stand.
“What are you doing here?” Sanin asked him sternly. “Why aren’t you at
home?”
“Let … let me come with you,” faltered Emil in a trembling voice, and
he clasped his hands. His teeth were chattering as in a fever. “I won’t
get in your way—only take me.”
“If you feel the very slightest affection or respect for me,” said
Sanin, “you will go at once home or to Herr Klüber’s shop, and you
won’t say one word to any one, and will wait for my return!”
“Your return,” moaned Emil—and his voice quivered and broke, “but if
you’re—”
“Emil!” Sanin interrupted—and he pointed to the coachman, “do control
yourself! Emil, please, go home! Listen to me, my dear! You say you
love me. Well, I beg you!” He held out his hand to him. Emil bent
forward, sobbed, pressed it to his lips, and darting away from the
road, ran back towards Frankfort across country.
“A noble heart too,” muttered Pantaleone; but Sanin glanced severely at
him…. The old man shrank into the corner of the carriage. He was
conscious of his fault; and moreover, he felt more and more bewildered
every instant; could it really be he who was acting as second, who had
got horses, and had made all arrangements, and had left his peaceful
abode at six o’clock? Besides, his legs were stiff and aching.
Sanin thought it as well to cheer him up, and he chanced on the very
thing, he hit on the right word.
“Where is your old spirit, Signor Cippatola? Where is _il antico
valor_?”
Signor Cippatola drew himself up and scowled “_Il antico valor_?” he
boomed in a bass voice. “_Non è ancora spento_ (it’s not all lost yet),
_il antico valor!_”
He put himself in a dignified attitude, began talking of his career, of
the opera, of the great tenor Garcia—and arrived at Hanau a hero.
After all, if you think of it, nothing is stronger in the world … and
weaker—than a word!
XXII
The copse in which the duel was to take place was a quarter of a mile
from Hanau. Sanin and Pantaleone arrived there first, as the latter had
predicted; they gave orders for the carriage to remain outside the
wood, and they plunged into the shade of the rather thick and
close-growing trees. They had to wait about an hour.
The time of waiting did not seem particularly disagreeable to Sanin; he
walked up and down the path, listened to the birds singing, watched the
dragonflies in their flight, and like the majority of Russians in
similar circumstances, tried not to think. He only once dropped into
reflection; he came across a young lime-tree, broken down, in all
probability by the squall of the previous night. It was unmistakably
dying … all the leaves on it were dead. “What is it? an omen?” was the
thought that flashed across his mind; but he promptly began whistling,
leaped over the very tree, and paced up and down the path. As for
Pantaleone, he was grumbling, abusing the Germans, sighing and moaning,
rubbing first his back and then his knees. He even yawned from
agitation, which gave a very comic expression to his tiny shrivelled-up
face. Sanin could scarcely help laughing when he looked at him.
They heard, at last, the rolling of wheels along the soft road. “It’s
they!” said Pantaleone, and he was on the alert and drew himself up,
not without a momentary nervous shiver, which he made haste, however,
to cover with the ejaculation “B-r-r!” and the remark that the morning
was rather fresh. A heavy dew drenched the grass and leaves, but the
sultry heat penetrated even into the wood.
Both the officers quickly made their appearance under its arched
avenues; they were accompanied by a little thick-set man, with a
phlegmatic, almost sleepy, expression of face—the army doctor. He
carried in one hand an earthenware pitcher of water—to be ready for any
emergency; a satchel with surgical instruments and bandages hung on his
left shoulder. It was obvious that he was thoroughly used to such
excursions; they constituted one of the sources of his income; each
duel yielded him eight gold crowns—four from each of the combatants.
Herr von Richter carried a case of pistols, Herr von Dönhof—probably
considering it the thing—was swinging in his hand a little cane.
“Pantaleone!” Sanin whispered to the old man; “if … if I’m
killed—anything may happen—take out of my side pocket a paper—there’s a
flower wrapped up in it—and give the paper to Signorina Gemma. Do you
hear? You promise?”
The old man looked dejectedly at him, and nodded his head
affirmatively…. But God knows whether he understood what Sanin was
asking him to do.
The combatants and the seconds exchanged the customary bows; the doctor
alone did not move as much as an eyelash; he sat down yawning on the
grass, as much as to say, “I’m not here for expressions of chivalrous
courtesy.” Herr von Richter proposed to Herr “Tshibadola” that he
should select the place; Herr “Tshibadola” responded, moving his tongue
with difficulty—“the wall” within him had completely given way again.
“You act, my dear sir; I will watch….”
And Herr von Richter proceeded to act. He picked out in the wood close
by a very pretty clearing all studded with flowers; he measured out the
steps, and marked the two extreme points with sticks, which he cut and
pointed. He took the pistols out of the case, and squatting on his
heels, he rammed in the bullets; in short, he fussed about and exerted
himself to the utmost, continually mopping his perspiring brow with a
white handkerchief. Pantaleone, who accompanied him, was more like a
man frozen. During all these preparations, the two principals stood at
a little distance, looking like two schoolboys who have been punished,
and are sulky with their tutors.
The decisive moment arrived…. “Each took his pistol….”
But at this point Herr von Richter observed to Pantaleone that it was
his duty, as the senior second, according to the rules of the duel, to
address a final word of advice and exhortation to be reconciled to the
combatants, before uttering the fatal “one! two! three!”; that although
this exhortation had no effect of any sort and was, as a rule, nothing
but an empty formality, still, by the performance of this formality,
Herr Cippatola would be rid of a certain share of responsibility; that,
properly speaking, such an admonition formed the direct duty of the
so-called “impartial witness” (_unpartheiischer Zeuge_) but since they
had no such person present, he, Herr von Richter, would readily yield
this privilege to his honoured colleague. Pantaleone, who had already
succeeded in obliterating himself behind a bush, so as not to see the
offending officer at all, at first made out nothing at all of Herr von
Richter’s speech, especially, as it had been delivered through the
nose, but all of a sudden he started, stepped hurriedly forward, and