"Out of the uttermost end of things
On the side of life that is seamier,
There lies a land, so its poet sings,
Whose people call it Bohemia.
"It is not old, it is not new,
It is not false, it is not true,
And they will not answer for what they do,
Far away in Bohemia."
"Love in Bohemia," DOLF WYLLARDE.
"I think," Arithelli said with deliberation, "that all your friends are
very fatiguing. They have such bad tempers, and do nothing but argue."
"They live for the serious things of life," retorted Emile. "Not to
play the fool."
"Thanks! Is this one of the serious things of life, do you suppose?"
She stuck the large needle with which she had been awkwardly cobbling a
tear in her skirt, into the seat of a chair.
"What are you doing that for?" demanded Emile.
"Oh, pardon, I forgot." She extracted the needle. "I don't think I'm
unwomanly but I'm not a good sewer. Emile! don't you think we might
have some music? I really am beginning to sing '_Le Rêve_' quite well."
Her education in Anarchy had commenced with the teaching of
revolutionary songs. Emile, who was himself music-mad, had discovered
her to be possessed of a rough contralto voice of a curious mature
quality. It would have been an absurd voice for ballads in a
drawing-room, but it suited fiery declamations in praise of _La
Liberté_!
They were sitting in Emile's room now, for they made use of each
other's lodgings alternately, and there was a battered and rather
out-of-tune piano. Sometimes, after the evening performance, there
would be a gathering of the conspirators, all more or less morose,
unshaven and untidy; and while Emile played for her, Arithelli would
stand in the middle of the room, her green eyes blazing out of her pale
face, her arms folded, singing with a fervour which surprised even her
teacher, the lovely impassioned "_Rêve du prisonnier_" of Rubinstein.
She was always pleased with her own performances, and not in the least
troubled with shyness. Also she was invariably eager to practise. She
shook down her skirt, went across to the piano and began to pick out
the notes.
"_S'il faut, ah, prends ma vie.
Mais rends-moi la liberté!_"
Emile was sewing on buttons. Though he did not look in the least
domesticated, he was far more dexterous at such work than the
long-fingered Arithelli. In fact it was only at his suggestion that
she ever mended anything at all.
"Do you ever by chance realise what you are singing about?" he demanded.
"Of course I do. I'm a red hot Socialist. I've read Tolstoi's books
and lots of others. I got in an awful scrape over political things
just the little time I was in Paris. It was when the Dreyfus case was
on. Madame Bertrand was terrified at the way I aired my opinions. You
see politics are so different abroad to what they are in England."
Emile agreed. The girl was developing even more than he had hoped.
"Ah! This is the first time I've ever heard about your political
opinions."
"You've never asked me before. One doesn't know everything about a
person at once."
Again Emile agreed. Then he said abruptly, "Well, if you have all
these ideas you'd better join the Cause."
"I'd love to! Shall I have to go to meetings with Sobrenski and all
the rest of them?"
"Probably. But you'll not be expected to talk. You may be told to do
some writing or carry messages."
"Is that all?" She seemed rather disappointed. Emile felt for a
moment almost inclined to develop scruples. She evidently regarded
Anarchy at large as a species of particularly exciting diversion.
"Who are the other women mixed up with it?" she asked.
"There are no other women. You should feel honoured that we are having
you."
Emile stood up, having completed his renovating operations. "You want
to sing, eh?" Arithelli assented eagerly. "You will work?" Emile
demanded.
"Yes!" Her eyes had become suddenly like green jewels, and she looked
almost animated. She was more interested in Emile's music than in any
other part of him. His wild Russian ballads sung with his strange
clipped accent and fiery emphasis, fascinated her. She was content to
listen for an indefinite period of time, her long body in a restful
attitude, her feet crossed, her hands in her lap, as absolutely
immovable as one who is hypnotised.
Emile, for his part, was equally interested in her exploits in
vocalism, which he found as extraordinary and unexpected as everything
else about her. Her singing voice was so curiously unlike her speaking
voice that it might have belonged to another person. It had tremendous
possibilities and a large range, but it was hoarse and harsh, and yet
full of an uncanny attraction. In such a voice a sorceress of old
might have crooned her incantations. Where did this girl get her soul,
her passion, he wondered; she who was only just beginning life.
He flung over an untidy pile of music, and dragged out the
magnificently devilish "_Enchantement_" of Massenet. "Try this," he
said abruptly. "It's _your_ kind of song."
For half-an-hour he exhorted, bullied and instructed, losing both his
composure and his temper. Arithelli lost neither. "I don't understand
music," she observed calmly. "But show me what to do and I'll do it.
Mine's a queer voice, isn't it? A regular croak."
"You've got a voice; yes, that's true, but you don't know how to
produce it, and you've no technique. You want plenty of scales."
"Wouldn't that take all the rough off, and make it just like anyone's
voice?"
Emile stared angrily at the exponent of such heresy, and was about to
annihilate her with sarcasm, when he suddenly changed his mind. After
all, she was right. It was what she called "the rough" that helped to
make her voice unlike the voices of most women.
"Is that your idea? A good excuse for being lazy! If you don't sing
scales then you must work hard at songs."
"Yes, I know." She put her hands behind her back and leant against the
piano. "There was a man in Paris, a friend of the manager. He heard
me sing once. He knew I wanted to take up a profession, and he offered
to train me for nothing, and bring me out on the stage. I was to sing
those queer, dramatic, half-monotone songs in which one almost _speaks_
the words. He meant to write them specially for me, and I was to wear
an oriental costume. He said that every other voice would sound _fâde_
after mine."
Emile glanced at her sharply, but her tone and manner was both
absolutely void of conceit. "Well, why didn't you accept his offer?"
"I don't know. I suppose because it was fated I should come here. He
wanted me to make my _début_ at the _cafés chantants_, but I didn't
like the idea somehow. He said my voice was only fit for the stage,
and would sound horrible in a room."
Emile twisted his moustache upwards, and his eyebrows climbed in the
same direction. "So! Do you think then that your life at the
Hippodrome is going to be more what you English call respectable, than
the _cafés chantants_?"
"There are the horses here. If I don't like anything else I can always
like them."
Emile decided that the man in Paris had been apt in his judgment of
this fantastic voice. Clever of him also to have noticed that she was
Oriental. The setting of her green eyes was of the East. And horses
were the only things she cared about--so far. Like most people whose
lives are a complicated tangle of plots, Emile was not particularly
interested in animals. His life, thoughts and environment were morbid,
and the dumb creation too normal and healthy to appeal greatly to him.
He discovered that his pupil was able to play in much the same
inconsistent fashion that she sang. With a beautiful touch, full of
temperament and expression, she possessed a profound ignorance of the
rudiments of music. She could not read the notes, she said, but she
could copy anything he played if she heard it two or three times.
Emile found her astonishingly intelligent as well as amiable, and
though the music lessons were not conducted on scientific principles,
they produced good results.
He would give her plenty of music with which to occupy herself till the
time came when she would be fully occupied in serving the Cause. As he
had said, there were no other female conspirators in their circle.
Sobrenski, the red-haired leader, detested women, and thought them all
fools, who generally added the sin of treachery to their foolishness.
Emile himself had taken no interest in any woman since he had lived in
Barcelona. He too had found them treacherous. Since he had lost his
little childish goddess, Marie Roumanoff, he had had no desire to play
the role of lover. If he wanted companionship he preferred men, for as
companions women bored him.
But Arithelli was not a woman--yet. She appeared able to keep own
counsel, to do as she was told, and to judge by the way she rode, her
courage would be capable of standing a severe test. Also it had
occurred to him that she possessed the art of being a good comrade. It
would amuse him to watch her develop. At present she was full of
illusions about the charm of life in general. Everything for her
showed rose-tinged. Well, it was not his business to dispel illusions.
At present it was all "_Le Rêve_," but after the dream would come
awakening. He took care to leave her very little alone during the
first few days, and arranged her time according to his own ideas, and
escorted her backwards and forwards from her rehearsals at the
Hippodrome.
When she was free he took her for long walks up the hills where they
could look down upon the gorgeous city, which, as far as natural
loveliness went, might have been compared to Paradise rather than to
the Hell to which he invariably likened it.
The beautiful harbour, the dry air, the sunlight and splashes of vivid
colour--everything was intoxicating to her. She said very little, but
Emile felt that she missed nothing, and lacked nothing in appreciation.
For himself the place must be always hateful, for he was in exile.
What was the golden sunlight to him when he longed for the snows and
frozen wastes of Russia, that sombre country so like the hearts of
those by whom it is peopled.
One day he took her for an excursion to Montserrat, three hours'
journey from Barcelona. They left the train at Monistrol, and started
to walk through the vineyards and pine woods towards the famous
mountain that towers up to heaven in grey rugged terraces of rock. All
round, for miles, were undulating waves of green, here and there the
brown towers of some ancient castle, or the buildings of a farmstead;
and below on the plain the glitter of the winding river. They climbed
to the wooded slopes of Olese, where they sat down to rest. Arithelli
threw herself on the short, dry grass, with her arms under her head,
and drew a long breath of pleasure and relief.
"I love all this; it makes me feel so free."
Emile sat with his back against a huge plane tree, and rolled
cigarettes, watching her under his heavy eyebrows. She looked in her
proper place here, he thought. There was something wild and
animal-like about the grace of her attitude.
"So you're out of a convent?" he said, hurling out the remark with his
usual abruptness. "_Tiens_! It's absurd!"
"But it's true. Convent schools are cheap, you see, that's why we were
sent there. No, I'm not a Catholic. Most of the girls made their
abjurations, but I never did. They told lies there, and they spied. I
hated that. The nuns spied on the children of Mary, and the children
of Mary spied on the ones who were not the children of Mary, and--" she
stopped.
Emile told her to continue. "I should like to hear more about
your--your religious experiences," he said. "Besides, it will do you
more good to talk than to go to sleep."
Arithelli complied at once, with unruffled good nature. "Oh, of course
I'll tell you if you like," she said amiably. "I stopped because I
thought you would probably be bored, _ennuyé_, you know."
She described the nuns mumbling their prayers, and punctuating them
with irate commands to the children; the many and various rules, the
_Mére Supérieure_, the food, the clothes, the eccentricities of
_Monsieur le Directeur_. She had the rare and unwomanlike art of witty
description, though it assorted badly with her tragic face and
unsmiling eyes. As she talked her voice rippled and broke into
suppressed laughter.
"It was all rather dull, _n'est-ce-pas_?" said Emile, who felt more
amusement than he had any intention of showing. "You'll find the Cause
more exciting."
Before any practical steps were taken to make her a member of the band
it was necessary to stimulate her enthusiasm, her imagination. He knew
that for all her outward calmness she had no lack of fire. The coldest
countries sometimes produced the most raging volcanoes.
"It's the only thing you care about--isn't it--the Cause?" she said.
"Tell me more about it. As I'm going in for it I ought to understand.
Of course I like anything that's 'agin the Government.' All the Irish
have always been rebels and patriots. We've helped your country too."
Emile did not require a second invitation to induce him to expound his
views. "I suppose you think we throw bombs about by way of a little
distraction?" he asked sarcastically. "What have we suffered before we
took to throwing bombs? Before I came here I saw men and women, old
and young together, shot down in the streets of St. Petersburg.
Because they rioted? No! Because they wished to offer a protest
against the brutalities of the Government officials. Are our petitions
ever read, our entreaties ever answered? There were other things too,
but they didn't generally get into the newspapers. Women stripped in
barrack rooms,--and that in winter,--the Russian winter,--and beaten by
common soldiers. Not women of the streets and slums, but women of the
higher classes. Mock trials held with closed doors, the crime,--to
have incurred the displeasure of someone in favour at the Court,--the
end,--Siberia! A student is known to be quiet, a great reader and
interested in the condition of the serfs. He is watched, arrested, and
on the false evidence of the police ends his days in the mines.
Entreaties, reason, appeal! Have we not tried them? Now we have only
one weapon left--retaliation. Sometimes we are able to avenge our
martyrs. The two fiends who guarded Marie Spiridonova were shot by the
members of her Society. She was only a girl too--about the same age as
you. We Anarchists do not serenade women and make them compliments,
but we think it an honour to kiss the hand of such as Marie
Spiridonova. She was tortured, starved, outraged, and came through
worse than death to be transported to a convict settlement. Now she is
in the Malzoff Prison. She will never see the world again, but it may
be years before the life is ground out of her by labour and privations.
Her case will soon be forgotten, except by a few, and thousands of
other women have gone the same road. The details of the tragedy may be
a little different, the thing itself is the same. One day I shall go
back to my own country. In the meantime I carry on the campaign here.
"It's a losing cause. But if we lose we pay. We don't ask for mercy!"
* * * * * *
They sat together that evening at a _café_ on the Rambla, the strolling
place of the Spanish beauties, who promenaded there in an endless
stream, with waving fans and rustling draperies, carnations and roses
burning in dark, elaborately dressed hair. Tziganes made wild, witch
music. At the _cafés_ people laughed and drank.
Suddenly Arithelli leant across the little table, raising her glass.
"To the Cause!" she whispered under her breath.
For an instant the two pairs of eyes flamed into each other; then those
of the man, hard and steel-grey, softened into something like
admiration. Their glasses clinked softly together. "To the Cause!" he
repeated. "_Mon Camarade_!"