INTIMACY
A good fire blazed on the hearth, whilst without the snow was falling
and the wind was bitterly cold. Pierre Raimond was seated on one side of
the fireplace, and Arnold on the other. Since the prince had fallen in
love, his features had resumed an appearance of strength and health,
although his countenance was still somewhat pale.
A serious discussion had arisen between Pierre Raimond and Arnold; for
to complete the charm of their intimacy, they differed in their
particular views on certain artistical questions, and amongst others in
their estimation of Michael Angelo.
Arnold, whilst he rendered justice and homage due to the immense genius
of the old sculptor of marble, felt no sympathy in his productions,
although he fully understood the admiration they inspired. Arnold's
delicate and pure taste, which was enamoured of beauty in art, took
fright at the sombre and terrible style of the bold Buonarotti, and
infinitely preferred the divine grace of Raphael.
Pierre Raimond defended his _old sculptor_ with energy, and was,
moreover, as passionately smitten by the proud independence of Michael
Angelo's character as by the gigantic powers of his talent.
"Your tender Raphael led the enervating life of a courtier," said the
old man to Arnold, "whilst the rude creator of _Moses_ and the Sistine
chapel had a republican soul, and he was right to menace, as he did
menace, Pope Julio with throwing him off his scaffolding if he failed in
respect to him."
M. de Hansfeld could not refrain from a smile at Pierre Raimond's
enthusiasm, and replied,--
"I do not deny the somewhat savage energy of Michael Angelo; he had,
unfortunately, a disposition morose, haughty, taciturn, sombre,
disdainful, and difficult to be satisfied."
"Unfortunately! what do you mean by the word unfortunately?"
"I mean that it was unfortunate for the sincere admirers of this man to
be unable to form with him agreeable and close intimacies."
"So much the better. Do you take him for a Raphael, for a poor creature
like your hero? For," added the engraver, with an accent of disdain,
"there never was a living man in the world whose disposition was more
easy, more insinuating, more amiable, than your Raphael."
"Well, at least, you confess his good qualities."
"Qualities! why, it is because of such _qualities_ so odious that I
detest him as a man, though I venerate him as an artist."
"And I, my dear M. Raimond, for the precisely same reason, in
consequence of the defects of the diabolical disposition of Michael
Angelo that I have such an antipathy to the man, although I bow devoutly
before his genius."
"Your admiration is not natural, it is forced--exaggerated!" exclaimed
the engraver.
"What!" said Arnold, amazed; "you detest Raphael for his qualities, yet
when I do not like Michael Angelo in consequence of his defects, you
accuse me of exaggeration!"
"Certainly: no man is great--no man is Michael Angelo, but in
consequence of certain conditions. I admire in the lion his wild and
savage instincts,--he is only a lion on condition of being wild and
savage; and he cannot have the _virtues of a sheep_ like your Raphael."
"But, at least, allow me to admire in Raphael these _sheeplike_ virtues,
which are, if you will, the consequence of his nature, his talent."
"Assuredly admire, if you can find any thing worthy of admiration in
such a character. As for me, physically speaking, I cannot for an
instant place the insipid face of the beautiful, celestial Raphael, all
bedecked as he is with velvet and embroidery, in the scale with the
masculine physiognomy of my old Buonarotti, sombre, fierce, tanned by
the sun, and attired in an old blouse, half hidden by his sculptor's
leathern apron! Come, come, do you suppose that these two natures can be
compared for an instant? Ah, ah, ah! what a pleasant contrast! On the
one hand I see the divine Raphael----"
"The divine Raphael would have bent his knee, and respectfully kissed
the powerful hand of old Michael Angelo, his master and grandsire in the
art," said Arnold mildly, and extending his hand to Pierre Raimond.
"You are right," replied the latter, responding warmly to this evidence
of cordiality on the part of M. de Hansfeld; "I am an old ass, and as
much excited as I was at twenty!"
Bertha came in at this moment. It would be difficult to paint the
delightful expression of her countenance when she saw her father and
Arnold thus clasping hands: her eyes were filled with joyful tears.
"Come to my rescue, my dear child," said Pierre Raimond; "I am beaten.
My silly grey beard is obliged to bow itself before this venerable
light-brown moustache. He remains as calm as reason itself, whilst I am
as much excited as if I were on the wing."
"And what was the subject of this grave discussion?" inquired Bertha,
smiling and looking alternately at Arnold and her father.
"Michael Angelo," said Pierre Raimond.
"Raphael," said Arnold.
"What, M. Arnold! you cannot yield to my father?"
"I should like to see him yield, indeed, without discussion! I am not
desirous that he should yield, but that he should be convinced."
"As to that, M. Raimond, I have my doubts. Conviction does not flash
across me; and Raphael----"
"But Michael Angelo----"
"Come, come--to make you both agree I will play you the air from
_Fidelio_, of which M. Arnold is so fond, and of which he has made you
as fond as himself, father."
"Confess, _Don Raphael_," said the old man to Arnold, laughing as he
spoke, "that she has more sense than we have."
"Decidedly, _Signor Michael Angelo_; and Madame Bertha knows very well,
that when we listen to her we have no inclination to talk."
"Oh, M. Arnold, I am not the dupe of your flatteries."
"To try him, my dear, begin the overture to _Fidelio_. You know it is my
favourite piece ever since our friend has made me comprehend its
beauties."
Bertha began to play this piece with _love_; the presence of Arnold
seemed to give a new power to her talent.
At the end of a few minutes M. de Hansfeld appeared completely absorbed
in deep and painful meditation; although he had often heard Bertha play
this music, the sad feelings its recollections excited bad never been
more painfully aroused.
[Illustration 13: "Bertha, who from time to time looked at
Arnold, exclaimed, 'M. Arnold, what ails you? oh! how pale
you are!'"]
Bertha, who from time to time looked at Arnold, was alarmed at his
increasing paleness, and exclaimed, "Monsieur Arnold, what ails you? Oh!
how pale you are!"
"Your hand is icy cold, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, who was sitting
beside M. de Hansfeld.
"It is nothing--nothing!" he replied; "but I am so ridiculously weak.
There are certain airs which are really _dates_ to me, and many of the
melodies of _Fidelio_ are closely connected with past sorrows."
"Yet I have played this piece before to you," said Bertha, leaving the
piano, and seating herself beside her father.
"You have, indeed, and I had the greatest pleasure in listening to your
brilliant execution. But to-day--I know not how it is--oh, forgive me,
forgive me, that I cannot subdue my emotion!" and De Hansfeld hid his
face in his hands.
Bertha and the old man looked sorrowfully at each other, participating
in the grief of their friend, although they did not comprehend it.
After some moments' silence Arnold raised his head. It is impossible to
depict the bitter sadness of his pale and mild countenance. A tear came
into Bertha's eye, and with a charming ingenuousness she took her
father's hand to wipe it.
"You suffer," said the old man to Arnold. "Why is not our friendship of
an older date, for then you might alleviate your troubles by revealing
them?"
"I have often thought of this, but shame has prevented me," said Arnold,
in a dejected tone.
"Shame!" exclaimed Raimond with surprise.
"Do not misunderstand the word, my friend," said Arnold. "Thank God, I
have done nothing at which I need blush! I am only ashamed of my
weakness--ashamed of being so sensitive of recollections, which ought to
be equally despised and forgotten."
"Fear nothing: we understand--we pity you. My poor girl has often wept
here, too, over recollections which, like yours, ought to be equally
despised and forgotten. Come, Arnold," said the engraver, "if I desire
your confidence, it is because we also may, on our side, have some sad
avowals to make to you."
"You, too! you have been unhappy?" said Arnold.
"Very unhappy," replied the old man; "but, thank God, those bad days
are, I trust, passed! It seems to me that you have brought us happiness;
not only have you saved my life, but you have also made that life
pleasant to me, as, indeed, for a very long time I have not met with any
one whose mind and taste so assimilated with my own. I do not know what
may be the influence of your lucky star, but since we have known you, my
poor Bertha herself is less sad, her domestic sorrows seem diminished;
in fact, you have been to us the happy augury of a quiet, tranquil
existence."
"Oh, what you say, my dear father, is quite true," said Bertha. "Ah,
Monsieur Arnold, if you knew how much he loves you; and when I am alone
with him he speaks of you in such terms!"
"That is quite true," said the old man: "if you could hear us you would
be sure that you have no friends more sincere. Bertha is so grateful to
you for having saved my life, that after me she loves you better than
any one in the world!"
"Oh yes, poor dear father!" said Bertha, embracing the old man.
M. de Hansfeld listened to Pierre Raimond with profound veneration. This
frank and honest language was as new as flattering to him. Must he not
have inspired a perfect confidence in Pierre Raimond, if he did not
hesitate from speaking thus to him even in his daughter's presence?
Bertha herself, so far from seeming confused or embarrassed, seemed to
confirm what her father said, her brow beaming brightly with candour and
sincerity.
M. de Hansfeld blushed at his own dissimulation in presence of such
noble frankness, and was on the point of telling Pierre Raimond his real
name, but he dreaded the indignation which this tardy avowal might,
perhaps, excite in the old engraver's mind, knowing as he did his
anti-aristocratic prejudices. He thus, therefore, hit upon a kind of
_mezzo termine_ in the half confidence he made to Bertha and her father.
After a few moments' silence he said to Pierre Raimond,--
"You are right, my friend--you have set me an example of confidence. I
will imitate you. Perhaps I may inspire you with some interest by
certain similarities between my position and that of your daughter; for
you have told me that her marriage is not a happy one, and it is to my
own marriage that I owe my bitterest grief."
"You married, and so young?" said Raimond with astonishment.
"These two years."
"And your wife?" inquired Bertha.
"She is in Germany," replied M. de Hansfeld, after a moment's
hesitation.
"And some passages in the overture to _Fidelio_ that Bertha played have
no doubt recalled painful recollections?"
"Alas, yes! When I first knew her whom I married, I was at the height of
my first admiration for this opera of Beethoven. I have always had the
habit of attaching my thoughts of the moment to certain passages in the
music I love--thoughts which for me became, I may say, the words of the
airs I love most. Well, then, the opera of _Fidelio_ always reminds me
of the phases of my ill-starred love."
"Ah, now I can understand your emotion!" said Bertha, shaking her head
mournfully.
"Let me assure you, my friend," said Pierre Raimond, cordially, "that
you will never speak to hearts more fully sympathising."
M. de Hansfeld then related what follows of his marriage with Paula
Monti; which was true in all points, except the substitution of the name
of Arnold Schneider for that of Hansfeld.