At the beginning of the year 1819 the picture-dealers requested Ginevra
to give them something beside copies; for competition had so increased
that they could no longer sell her work to advantage. Madame Porta then
perceived the mistake she had made in not exercising her talent
for “genre” painting, which might, by this time, have brought her
reputation. She now attempted portrait-painting. But here she was forced
to compete against a crowd of artists in greater need of money than
herself. However, as Luigi and Ginevra had laid by a few savings, they
were not, as yet, uneasy about the future.
Toward the end of the winter of that year Luigi worked without
intermission. He, too, was struggling against competitors. The payment
for writing had so decreased that he found it impossible to employ
assistance; he was forced, therefore, to work a much longer time himself
to obtain the same emolument. His wife had finished several pictures
which were not without merit; but the dealers were scarcely buying those
of artists with reputations; consequently, her paintings had little
chance. Ginevra offered them for almost nothing, but without success.
The situation of the household now began to be alarming. The souls
of the husband and wife floated on the ocean of their happiness,
love overwhelmed them with its treasures, while poverty rose, like a
skeleton, amid their harvest of joy. Yet, all the while, they hid from
each other their secret anxiety. When Ginevra felt like weeping as she
watched Luigi’s worn and suffering face, she redoubled her caresses; and
Luigi, keeping his dark forebodings in the depths of his soul, expressed
to his Ginevra the tenderest love. They sought a compensation for their
troubles in exalting their feelings; and their words, their joys, their
caresses became suffused, as it were, with a species of frenzy. They
feared the future. What feeling can be compared in strength with that of
a passion which may cease on the morrow, killed by death or want?
When they talked together of their poverty each felt the necessity
of deceiving the other, and they fastened with mutual ardor on the
slightest hope.
One night Ginevra woke and missed Luigi from her side. She rose in
terror. A faint light shining on the opposite wall of the little
court-yard revealed to her that her husband was working in his study at
night. Luigi was now in the habit of waiting till his wife was asleep,
and then going up to his garret to write. Four o’clock struck. Ginevra
lay down again, and pretended to sleep. Presently Luigi returned,
overcome with fatigue and drowsiness. Ginevra looked sadly on the
beautiful, worn face, where toil and care were already drawing lines of
wrinkles.
“It is for me he spends his nights in writing,” she said to herself,
weeping.
A thought dried her tears. She would imitate Luigi. That same day she
went to a print-shop, and, by help of a letter of recommendation she had
obtained from Elie Magus, one of her picture-dealers, she obtained an
order for the coloring of lithographs. During the day she painted her
pictures and attended to the cares of the household; then, when night
came, she colored the engravings. This loving couple entered their
nuptial bed only to deceive each other; both feigned sleep, and left
it,--Luigi, as soon as he thought his wife was sleeping, Ginevra as soon
as he had gone.
One night Luigi, burning with a sort of fever, induced by a toil under
which his strength was beginning to give way, opened the casement of
his garret to breathe the morning air, and shake off, for a moment, the
burden of his care. Happening to glance downward, he saw the reflection
of Ginevra’s lamp on the opposite wall, and the poor fellow guessed
the truth. He went down, stepping softly, and surprised his wife in her
studio, coloring engravings.
“Oh, Ginevra!” he cried.
She gave a convulsive bound in her chair, and blushed.
“Could I sleep while you were wearing yourself out with toil?” she said.
“But to me alone belongs the right to work in this way,” he answered.
“Could I be idle,” she asked, her eyes filling with tears, “when I know
that every mouthful we eat costs a drop of your blood? I should die if
I could not add my efforts to yours. All should be in common between us:
pains and pleasures, both.”
“She is cold!” cried Luigi, in despair. “Wrap your shawl closer round
you, my own Ginevra; the night is damp and chilly.”
They went to the window, the young wife leaning on the breast of her
beloved, who held her round the waist, and, together, in deep silence,
they gazed upward at the sky, which the dawn was slowly brightening.
Clouds of a grayish hue were moving rapidly; the East was growing
luminous.
“See!” said Ginevra. “It is an omen. We shall be happy.”
“Yes, in heaven,” replied Luigi, with a bitter smile. “Oh, Ginevra! you
who deserved all the treasures upon earth--”
“I have your heart,” she said, in tones of joy.
“Ah! I complain no more!” he answered, straining her tightly to him, and
covering with kisses the delicate face, which was losing the freshness
of youth, though its expression was still so soft, so tender that he
could not look at it and not be comforted.
“What silence!” said Ginevra, presently. “Dear friend, I take great
pleasure in sitting up. The majesty of Night is so contagious, it awes,
it inspires. There is I know not what great power in the thought: all
sleep, I wake.”
“Oh, my Ginevra,” he cried, “it is not to-night alone I feel how
delicately moulded is your soul. But see, the dawn is shining,--come and
sleep.”
“Yes,” replied Ginevra, “if I do not sleep alone. I suffered too much
that night I first discovered that you were waking while I slept.”
The courage with which these two young people fought with misery
received for a while its due reward; but an event which usually crowns
the happiness of a household to them proved fatal. Ginevra had a son,
who was, to use the popular expression, “as beautiful as the day.”
The sense of motherhood doubled the strength of the young wife. Luigi
borrowed money to meet the expenses of Ginevra’s confinement. At first
she did not feel the fresh burden of their situation; and the pair gave
themselves wholly up to the joy of possessing a child. It was their last
happiness.
Like two swimmers uniting their efforts to breast a current, these two
Corsican souls struggled courageously; but sometimes they gave way to
an apathy which resembled the sleep that precedes death. Soon they were
obliged to sell their jewels. Poverty appeared to them suddenly,--not
hideous, but plainly clothed, almost easy to endure; its voice had
nothing terrifying; with it came neither spectres, nor despair, nor
rags; but it made them lose the memory and the habits of comfort; it
dried the springs of pride. Then, before they knew it, came want,--want
in all its horror, indifferent to its rags, treading underfoot all human
sentiments.
Seven or eight months after the birth of the little Bartolomeo, it would
have been hard to see in the mother who suckled her sickly babe the
original of the beautiful portrait, the sole remaining ornament of the
squalid home. Without fire through a hard winter, the graceful outlines
of Ginevra’s figure were slowly destroyed; her cheeks grew white as
porcelain, and her eyes dulled as though the springs of life were drying
up within her. Watching her shrunken, discolored child, she felt no
suffering but for that young misery; and Luigi had no courage to smile
upon his son.
“I have wandered over Paris,” he said, one day. “I know no one; can I
ask help of strangers? Vergniaud, my old sergeant, is concerned in a
conspiracy, and they have put him in prison; besides, he has already
lent me all he could spare. As for our landlord, it is over a year since
he asked me for any rent.”
“But we are not in want,” replied Ginevra, gently, affecting calmness.
“Every hour brings some new difficulty,” continued Luigi, in a tone of
terror.
Another day Luigi took Ginevra’s pictures, her portrait, and the few
articles of furniture which they could still exist without, and sold
them for a miserable sum, which prolonged the agony of the hapless
household for a time. During these days of wretchedness Ginevra showed
the sublimity of her nature and the extent of her resignation.
Stoically she bore the strokes of misery; her strong soul held her up
against all woes; she worked with unfaltering hand beside her dying son,
performed her household duties with marvellous activity, and sufficed
for all. She was even happy, still, when she saw on Luigi’s lips a smile
of surprise at the cleanliness she produced in the one poor room where
they had taken refuge.
“Dear, I kept this bit of bread for you,” she said, one evening, when he
returned, worn-out.
“And you?”
“I? I have dined, dear Luigi; I want nothing more.”
And the tender look on her beseeching face urged him more than her words
to take the food of which she had deprived herself.
Luigi kissed her, with one of those kisses of despair that were given
in 1793 between friends as they mounted the scaffold. In such supreme
moments two beings see each other, heart to heart. The hapless Luigi,
comprehending suddenly that his wife was starving, was seized with the
fever which consumed her. He shuddered, and went out, pretending that
some business called him; for he would rather have drunk the deadliest
poison than escape death by eating that last morsel of bread that was
left in his home.
He wandered wildly about Paris; amid the gorgeous equipages, in the
bosom of that flaunting luxury that displays itself everywhere;
he hurried past the windows of the money-changers where gold was
glittering; and at last he resolved to sell himself to be a substitute
for military service, hoping that this sacrifice would save Ginevra, and
that her father, during his absence, would take her home.
He went to one of those agents who manage these transactions, and felt a
sort of happiness in recognizing an old officer of the Imperial guard.
“It is two days since I have eaten anything,” he said to him in a slow,
weak voice. “My wife is dying of hunger, and has never uttered one word
of complaint; she will die smiling, I think. For God’s sake, comrade,”
he added, bitterly, “buy me in advance; I am robust; I am no longer in
the service, and I--”
The officer gave Luigi a sum on account of that which he promised to
procure for him. The wretched man laughed convulsively as he grasped the
gold, and ran with all his might, breathless, to his home, crying out at
times:--
“Ginevra! Oh, my Ginevra!”
It was almost night when he reached his wretched room. He entered very
softly, fearing to cause too strong an emotion to his wife, whom he
had left so weak. The last rays of the sun, entering through the garret
window, were fading from Ginevra’s face as she sat sleeping in her
chair, and holding her child upon her breast.
“Wake, my dear one,” he said, not observing the infant, which shone, at
that moment, with supernatural light.
Hearing that voice, the poor mother opened her eyes, met Luigi’s
look, and smiled; but Luigi himself gave a cry of horror; he scarcely
recognized his wife, now half mad. With a gesture of savage energy he
showed her the gold. Ginevra began to laugh mechanically; but suddenly
she cried, in a dreadful voice:--
“The child, Luigi, he is cold!”
She looked at her son and swooned. The little Bartolomeo was dead. Luigi
took his wife in his arms, without removing the child, which she clasped
with inconceivable force; and after laying her on the bed he went out to
seek help.
“Oh! my God!” he said, as he met his landlord on the stairs. “I have
gold, gold, and my child has died of hunger, and his mother is dying,
too! Help me!”
He returned like one distraught to his wife, leaving the worthy mason,
and also the neighbors who heard him to gather a few things for the
needs of so terrible a want, hitherto unknown, for the two Corsicans had
carefully hidden it from a feeling of pride.
Luigi had cast his gold upon the floor and was kneeling by the bed on
which lay his wife.
“Father! take care of my son, who bears your name,” she was saying in
her delirium.
“Oh, my angel! be calm,” said Luigi, kissing her; “our good days are
coming back to us.”
“My Luigi,” she said, looking at him with extraordinary attention,
“listen to me. I feel that I am dying. My death is natural; I suffered
too much; besides, a happiness so great as mine has to be paid for.
Yes, my Luigi, be comforted. I have been so happy that if I were to live
again I would again accept our fate. I am a bad mother; I regret you
more than I regret my child--My child!” she added, in a hollow voice.
Two tears escaped her dying eyes, and suddenly she pressed the little
body she had no power to warm.
“Give my hair to my father, in memory of his Ginevra,” she said. “Tell
him I have never blamed him.”
Her head fell upon her husband’s arm.
“No, you cannot die!” cried Luigi. “The doctor is coming. We have
food. Your father will take you home. Prosperity is here. Stay with us,
angel!”
But the faithful heart, so full of love, was growing cold. Ginevra
turned her eyes instinctively to him she loved, though she was conscious
of nought else. Confused images passed before her mind, now losing
memory of earth. She knew that Luigi was there, for she clasped his
icy hand tightly, and more tightly still, as though she strove to save
herself from some precipice down which she feared to fall.
“Dear,” she said, at last, “you are cold; I will warm you.”
She tried to put his hand upon her heart, but died.
Two doctors, a priest, and several neighbors came into the room,
bringing all that was necessary to save the poor couple and calm their
despair. These strangers made some noise in entering; but after they had
entered, an awful silence filled the room.
While that scene was taking place, Bartolomeo and his wife were sitting
in their antique chairs, each at a corner of the vast fireplace, where a
glowing fire scarcely warmed the great spaces of their salon. The clock
told midnight.
For some time past the old couple had lost the ability to sleep. At the
present moment they sat there silent, like two persons in their dotage,
gazing about them at things they did not see. Their deserted salon, so
filled with memories to them, was feebly lighted by a single lamp which
seemed expiring. Without the sparkling of the flame upon the hearth,
they might soon have been in total darkness.
A friend had just left them; and the chair on which he had been sitting,
remained where he left it, between the two Corsicans. Piombo was casting
glances at that chair,--glances full of thoughts, crowding one upon
another like remorse,--for the empty chair was Ginevra’s. Elisa Piombo
watched the expressions that now began to cross her husband’s pallid
face. Though long accustomed to divine his feelings from the changeful
agitations of his face, they seemed to-night so threatening, and anon
so melancholy that she felt she could no longer read a soul that was now
incomprehensible, even to her.
Would Bartolomeo yield, at last, to the memories awakened by that chair?
Had he been shocked to see a stranger in that chair, used for the
first time since his daughter left him? Had the hour of his mercy
struck,--that hour she had vainly prayed and waited for till now?
These reflections shook the mother’s heart successively. For an instant
her husband’s countenance became so terrible that she trembled at having
used this simple means to bring about a mention of Ginevra’s name. The
night was wintry; the north wind drove the snowflakes so sharply
against the blinds that the old couple fancied that they heard a gentle
rustling. Ginevra’s mother dropped her head to hide her tears. Suddenly
a sigh burst from the old man’s breast; his wife looked at him; he
seemed to her crushed. Then she risked speaking--for the second time in
three long years--of his daughter.
“Ginevra may be cold,” she said, softly.
Piombo quivered.
“She may be hungry,” she continued.
The old man dropped a tear.
“Perhaps she has a child and cannot suckle it; her milk is dried up!”
said the mother, in accents of despair.
“Let her come! let her come to me!” cried Piombo. “Oh! my precious
child, thou hast conquered me.”
The mother rose as if to fetch her daughter. At that instant the door
opened noisily, and a man, whose face no longer bore the semblance of
humanity, stood suddenly before them.
“Dead! Our two families were doomed to exterminate each other. Here is
all that remains of her,” he said, laying Ginevra’s long black hair upon
the table.
The old people shook and quivered as if a stroke of lightning had
blasted them.
Luigi no longer stood before them.
“He has spared me a shot, for he is dead,” said Bartolomeo, slowly,
gazing on the ground at his feet.
ADDENDUM
The following personages appear in other stories of the Human Comedy.
Bidault (known as Gigonnet)
The Government Clerks
Gobseck
Cesar Birotteau
The Firm of Nucingen
A Daughter of Eve
Bonaparte, Napoleon
The Gondreville Mystery
Colonel Chabert
Domestic Peace
The Seamy Side of History
A Woman of Thirty
Bonaparte, Lucien
The Gondreville Mystery
Camusot de Marville, Madame
Cesar Birotteau
Jealousies of a Country Town
Scenes from a Courtesan’s Life
Cousin Pons
Magus, Elie
A Marriage Settlement
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Pierre Grassou
Cousin Pons
Murat, Joachim, Prince
The Gondreville Mystery
Colonel Chabert
Domestic Peace
The Country Doctor
Rapp
The Gondreville Mystery
Roguin
Cesar Birotteau
Eugenie Grandet
A Bachelor’s Establishment
Pierrette
Thirion
Cesar Birotteau
Jealousies of a Country Town
Tiphaine, Madame
Pierrette
Vergniaud, Louis
Colonel Chabert