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Torrents of Spring

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<h3>XVIII</h3> 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 will go into the next room, and you can make arrangements with him. Believe me I shall never forget your kindness, and I thank you from my heart.” “Honour before everything!” answered Pantaleone, and he sank into an arm-chair, without waiting for Sanin to ask him to sit down. “If that ferroflucto spitchebubbio,” he said, passing from French into Italian, “if that counter-jumper Klüberio could not appreciate his obvious duty or was afraid, so much the worse for him!… A cheap soul, and that’s all about it!… As for the conditions of the duel, I am your second, and your interests are sacred to me!… When I lived in Padua there was a regiment of the white dragoons stationed there, and I was very intimate with many of the officers!… I was quite familiar with their whole code. And I used often to converse on these subjects with your principe Tarbuski too…. Is this second to come soon?” “I am expecting him every minute—and here he comes,” added Sanin, looking into the street. Pantaleone got up, looked at his watch, straightened his topknot of hair, and hurriedly stuffed into his shoe an end of tape which was sticking out below his trouser-leg, and the young sub-lieutenant came in, as red and embarrassed as ever. Sanin presented the seconds to each other. “M. Richter, sous-lieutenant, M. Cippatola, artiste!” The sub-lieutenant was slightly disconcerted by the old man’s appearance … Oh, what would he have said had any one whispered to him at that instant that the “artist” presented to him was also employed in the culinary art! But Pantaleone assumed an air as though taking part in the preliminaries of duels was for him the most everyday affair: probably he was assisted at this juncture by the recollections of his theatrical career, and he played the part of second simply as a part. Both he and the sub-lieutenant were silent for a little. “Well? Let us come to business!” Pantaleone spoke first, playing with his cornelian seal. “By all means,” responded the sub-lieutenant, “but … the presence of one of the principals …” “I will leave you at once, gentlemen,” cried Sanin, and with a bow he went away into the bedroom and closed the door after him. He flung himself on the bed and began thinking of Gemma … but the conversation of the seconds reached him through the shut door. It was conducted in the French language; both maltreated it mercilessly, each after his own fashion. Pantaleone again alluded to the dragoons in Padua, and Principe Tarbuski; the sub-lieutenant to “exghizes léchères” and “goups de bistolet à l’amiaple.” But the old man would not even hear of any exghizes! To Sanin’s horror, he suddenly proceeded to talk of a certain young lady, an innocent maiden, whose little finger was worth more than all the officers in the world … (oune zeune damigella innoucenta, qu’a elle sola dans soun péti doa vale piu que tout le zouffissié del mondo!), and repeated several times with heat: “It’s shameful! it’s shameful!” (E ouna onta, ouna onta!) The sub-lieutenant at first made him no reply, but presently an angry quiver could be heard in the young man’s voice, and he observed that he had not come there to listen to sermonising. “At your age it is always a good thing to hear the truth!” cried Pantaleone. The debate between the seconds several times became stormy; it lasted over an hour, and was concluded at last on the following conditions: “Baron von Dönhof and M. de Sanin to meet the next day at ten o’clock in a small wood near Hanau, at the distance of twenty paces; each to have the right to fire twice at a signal given by the seconds, the pistols to be single-triggered and not rifle-barrelled.” Herr von Richter withdrew, and Pantaleone solemnly opened the bedroom door, and after communicating the result of their deliberations, cried again: “Bravo Russo! Bravo giovanotto! You will be victor!” A few minutes later they both set off to the Rosellis’ shop. Sanin, as a preliminary measure, had exacted a promise from Pantaleone to keep the affair of the duel a most profound secret. In reply, the old man had merely held up his finger, and half closing his eyes, whispered twice over, Segredezza! He was obviously in good spirits, and even walked with a freer step. All these unusual incidents, unpleasant though they might be, carried him vividly back to the time when he himself both received and gave challenges—only, it is true, on the stage. Baritones, as we all know, have a great deal of strutting and fuming to do in their parts. <h3>XIX</h3> 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. <h3>XX</h3> 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. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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