Part 5

Emil ran out to meet Sanin—he had been watching for his arrival over an hour—and hurriedly whispered into his ear that his mother knew nothing of the disagreeable incident of the day before, that he must not even hint of it to her, and that he was being sent to Klüber’s shop again!… but that he wouldn’t go there, but would hide somewhere! Communicating all this information in a few seconds, he suddenly fell on Sanin’s shoulder, kissed him impulsively, and rushed away down the street. Gemma met Sanin in the shop; tried to say something and could not. Her lips were trembling a little, while her eyes were half-closed and turned away. He made haste to soothe her by the assurance that the whole affair had ended … in utter nonsense.

“Has no one been to see you to-day?” she asked.

“A person did come to me and we had an explanation, and we … we came to the most satisfactory conclusion.”

Gemma went back behind the counter.

“She does not believe me!” he thought … he went into the next room, however, and there found Frau Lenore.

Her sick headache had passed off, but she was in a depressed state of mind. She gave him a smile of welcome, but warned him at the same time that he would be dull with her to-day, as she was not in a mood to entertain him. He sat down beside her, and noticed that her eyelids were red and swollen.

“What is wrong, Frau Lenore? You’ve never been crying, surely?”

“Oh!” she whispered, nodding her head towards the room where her daughter was. “Don’t speak of it … aloud.”

“But what have you been crying for?”

“Ah, M’sieu Sanin, I don’t know myself what for!”

“No one has hurt your feelings?”

“Oh no!… I felt very low all of a sudden. I thought of Giovanni Battista … of my youth … Then how quickly it had all passed away. I have grown old, my friend, and I can’t reconcile myself to that anyhow. I feel I’m just the same as I was … but old age—it’s here! it is here!” Tears came into Frau Lenore’s eyes. “You look at me, I see, and wonder…. But you will get old too, my friend, and will find out how bitter it is!”

Sanin tried to comfort her, spoke of her children, in whom her own youth lived again, even attempted to scoff at her a little, declaring that she was fishing for compliments … but she quite seriously begged him to leave off, and for the first time he realised that for such a sorrow, the despondency of old age, there is no comfort or cure; one has to wait till it passes off of itself. He proposed a game of tresette, and he could have thought of nothing better. She agreed at once and seemed to get more cheerful.

Sanin played with her until dinner-time and after dinner Pantaleone too took a hand in the game. Never had his topknot hung so low over his forehead, never had his chin retreated so far into his cravat! Every movement was accompanied by such intense solemnity that as one looked at him the thought involuntarily arose, “What secret is that man guarding with such determination?” But _segredezza! segredezza!_

During the whole of that day he tried in every possible way to show the profoundest respect for Sanin; at table, passing by the ladies, he solemnly and sedately handed the dishes first to him; when they were at cards he intentionally gave him the game; he announced, apropos of nothing at all, that the Russians were the most great-hearted, brave, and resolute people in the world!

“Ah, you old flatterer!” Sanin thought to himself.

And he was not so much surprised at Signora Roselli’s unexpected state of mind, as at the way her daughter behaved to him. It was not that she avoided him … on the contrary she sat continually a little distance from him, listened to what he said, and looked at him; but she absolutely declined to get into conversation with him, and directly he began talking to her, she softly rose from her place, and went out for some instants. Then she came in again, and again seated herself in some corner, and sat without stirring, seeming meditative and perplexed … perplexed above all. Frau Lenore herself noticed at last, that she was not as usual, and asked her twice what was the matter.

“Nothing,” answered Gemma; “you know I am sometimes like this.”

“That is true,” her mother assented.

So passed all that long day, neither gaily nor drearily—neither cheerfully nor sadly. Had Gemma been different—Sanin … who knows?… might not perhaps have been able to resist the temptation for a little display—or he might simply have succumbed to melancholy at the possibility of a separation for ever…. But as he did not once succeed in getting a word with Gemma, he was obliged to confine himself to striking minor chords on the piano for a quarter of an hour before evening coffee.

Emil came home late, and to avoid questions about Herr Klüber, beat a hasty retreat. The time came for Sanin too to retire.

He began saying good-bye to Gemma. He recollected for some reason Lensky’s parting from Olga in _Oniegin_. He pressed her hand warmly, and tried to get a look at her face, but she turned a little away and released her fingers.

XX

It was bright starlight when he came out on the steps. What multitudes of stars, big and little, yellow, red, blue and white were scattered over the sky! They seemed all flashing, swarming, twinkling unceasingly. There was no moon in the sky, but without it every object could be clearly discerned in the half-clear, shadowless twilight. Sanin walked down the street to the end … He did not want to go home at once; he felt a desire to wander about a little in the fresh air. He turned back and had hardly got on a level with the house, where was the Rosellis’ shop, when one of the windows looking out on the street, suddenly creaked and opened; in its square of blackness—there was no light in the room—appeared a woman’s figure, and he heard his name—“Monsieur Dimitri!”

He rushed at once up to the window … Gemma! She was leaning with her elbows on the window-sill, bending forward.

“Monsieur Dimitri,” she began in a cautious voice, “I have been wanting all day long to give you something … but I could not make up my mind to; and just now, seeing you, quite unexpectedly again, I thought that it seems it is fated” …

Gemma was forced to stop at this word. She could not go on; something extraordinary happened at that instant.

All of a sudden, in the midst of the profound stillness, over the perfectly unclouded sky, there blew such a violent blast of wind, that the very earth seemed shaking underfoot, the delicate starlight seemed quivering and trembling, the air went round in a whirlwind. The wind, not cold, but hot, almost sultry, smote against the trees, the roof of the house, its walls, and the street; it instantaneously snatched off Sanin’s hat, crumpled up and tangled Gemma’s curls. Sanin’s head was on a level with the window-sill; he could not help clinging close to it, and Gemma clutched hold of his shoulders with both hands, and pressed her bosom against his head. The roar, the din, and the rattle lasted about a minute…. Like a flock of huge birds the revelling whirlwind darted revelling away. A profound stillness reigned once more.

Sanin raised his head and saw above him such an exquisite, scared, 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 convulsively thumping at his chest, in a hoarse voice wailed out in his mixed jargon: “_A la la la … Che bestialita! Deux zeun ommes comme ça que si battono—perchè? Che diavolo? Andata a casa!_”

“I will not consent to a reconciliation,” Sanin intervened hurriedly.

“And I too will not,” his opponent repeated after him.

“Well, then shout one, two, three!” von Richter said, addressing the distracted Pantaleone. The latter promptly ducked behind the bush again, and from there, all huddled together, his eyes screwed up, and his head turned away, he shouted at the top of his voice: “_Una … due … tre!_”

The first shot was Sanin’s, and he missed. His bullet went ping against a tree. Baron von Dönhof shot directly after him—intentionally, to one side, into the air.

A constrained silence followed…. No one moved. Pantaleone uttered a faint moan.

“Is it your wish to go on?” said Dönhof.

“Why did you shoot in the air?” inquired Sanin.

“That’s nothing to do with you.”

“Will you shoot in the air the second time?” Sanin asked again.

“Possibly: I don’t know.”

“Excuse me, excuse me, gentlemen …” began von Richter; “duellists have not the right to talk together. That’s out of order.”

“I decline my shot,” said Sanin, and he threw his pistol on the ground.

“And I too do not intend to go on with the duel,” cried Dönhof, and he too threw his pistol on the ground. “And more than that, I am prepared to own that I was in the wrong—the day before yesterday.”

He moved uneasily, and hesitatingly held out his hand. Sanin went rapidly up to him and shook it. Both the young men looked at each other with a smile, and both their faces flushed crimson.

“_Bravi! bravi!_” Pantaleone roared suddenly as if he had gone mad, and clapping his hands, he rushed like a whirlwind from behind the bush; while the doctor, who had been sitting on one side on a felled tree, promptly rose, poured the water out of the jug and walked off with a lazy, rolling step out of the wood.

“Honour is satisfied, and the duel is over!” von Richter announced.

“_Fuori!_” Pantaleone boomed once more, through old associations.

When he had exchanged bows with the officers, and taken his seat in the carriage, Sanin certainly felt all over him, if not a sense of pleasure, at least a certain lightness of heart, as after an operation is over; but there was another feeling astir within him too, a feeling akin to shame…. The duel, in which he had just played his part, struck him as something false, a got-up formality, a common officers’ and students’ farce. He recalled the phlegmatic doctor, he recalled how he had grinned, that is, wrinkled up his nose when he saw him coming out of the wood almost arm-in-arm with Baron Dönhof. And afterwards when Pantaleone had paid him the four crowns due to him … Ah! there was something nasty about it!

Yes, Sanin was a little conscience-smitten and ashamed … though, on the other hand, what was there for him to have done? Could he have left the young officer’s insolence unrebuked? could he have behaved like Herr Klüber? He had stood up for Gemma, he had championed her … that was so; and yet, there was an uneasy pang in his heart, and he was conscience-smitten, and even ashamed.