VI

When Gilbert got back to the castle, M. Leminof was walking on the

terrace. He perceived his secretary at some distance, and made

signs to him to come and join him. They made several turns on the

parapet, and while walking, Gilbert studied Stephane's father with

still greater attention than he had done before. He was now most

forcibly struck by his eyes, of a slightly turbid gray, whose

glances, vague, unsteady, indiscernible, became at moments cold and

dull as lead. Never had M. Leminof been so amiable to his

secretary; he spoke to him playfully, and looked at him with an

expression of charming good nature. They had conversed for a

quarter of an hour when the sound of a bell gave notice that dinner

was served. Count Kostia conducted Gilbert to the dining-room. It

was an immense vaulted apartment, wainscoted in black oak, and

lighted by three small ogive windows, looking out upon the terrace.

The arches of the ceiling were covered with old apocalyptic

paintings, which time had molded and scaled off. In the center

could be seen the Lamb with seven horns seated on his throne; and

round about him the four-and-twenty elders clothed in white. On

the lower parts of the pendentive the paintings were so much

damaged that the subjects were hardly recognizable. Here and there

could be seen wings of angels, trumpets, arms which had lost their

hands, busts from which the head had disappeared, crowns, stars,

horses' manes, and dragons' tails. These gloomy relics sometimes

formed combinations that were mysterious and ominous. It was a

strange decoration for a dining-hall.

At this hour of the day, the three arched windows gave but a dull

and scanty light; and more was supplied by three bronze lamps,

suspended from the ceiling by iron chains; even their brilliant

flames were hardly sufficient to light up the depths of this

cavernous hall. Below the three lamps was spread a long table,

where twenty guests might easily find room; at one of the rounded

ends of this table, three covers and three morocco chairs had been

arranged in a semi-circle; at the other end, a solitary cover was

placed before a simple wooden stool. The Count seated himself and

motioned Gilbert to place himself at his right; then unfolding his

napkin, he said harshly to the great German valet de chambre:

"Why are not my son and Father Alexis here yet? Go and find them."

Some moments after, the door opened, and Stephane appeared. He

crossed the hall, his eyes downcast, and bending over the long thin

hand which his father presented to him without looking at him, he

touched it slightly with his lips. This mark of filial deference

must have cost him much, for he was seized with that nervous

trembling to which he was subject when moved by strong emotions.

Gilbert could not help saying to himself:

"My child, the seraphim and apostles are well revenged for the

humiliation you inflicted upon them."

It seemed as if the young man divined Gilbert's thoughts, for as he

raised his head, he launched a ferocious glance at him; then

seating himself at his father's left, he remained as motionless as

a statue, his eyes fixed upon his plate. Meantime he whom they

called Father Alexis did not make his appearance, and the Count,

becoming impatient, threw his napkin brusquely upon the table, and

rose to go after him; but at this same moment the door opened, and

Gilbert saw a bearded face which wore an expression of anxiety and

terror. Much heated and out of breath, the priest threw a

scrutinizing glance upon his lord and master, and from the Count

turned his eyes towards the empty stool, and looked as if he would

have given his little finger to be able to reach even that

uncomfortable seat without being seen.

"Father Alexis, you forget yourself in your eternal daubs!"

exclaimed M. Leminof, reseating himself. "You know that I dislike

to wait. I profess, it is true, a passionate admiration for the

burlesque masterpieces with which you are decorating the walls of

my chapel; but I cannot suffer them to annoy me, and I beg you not

to sacrifice again the respect you owe me to your foolish passion

for those coarse paintings; if you do, I shall some fine morning

bury your sublime daubings under a triple coat of whitewash."

This reprimand, pronounced in a thundering tone, produced the most

unhappy effect upon Father Alexis. His first movement was to raise

his eyes and arms toward the arched ceiling where, as if calling

the four-and-twenty elders to witness, he exclaimed:

"You hear! The profane dare call them daubs, those incomparable

frescoes which will carry down the name of Father Alexis to the

latest posterity!"

But in the heart of the poor priest terror soon succeeded to

indignation. He dropped his arms, and bending down, sunk his head

between his shoulders, and tried to make himself as small as

possible; much as a frightened turtle draws himself into his shell,

and fears that even there he is taking up too much room.

"Well! what are these grimaces for? Do you mean to make us wait

until to-morrow for your benediction?"

The Count pronounced these words in the rude tone of a corporal

ordering recruits to march in double-quick time. Father Alexis

made a bound as if he had received a sharp blow from a whip across

his back, and in his agitation and haste to reach his stool, he

struck violently against the corner of a carved sideboard; this

terrible shock drew from him a cry of pain, but did not arrest his

speed, and rubbing his hip, he threw himself into his place and,

without giving himself time to recover breath, he mumbled in a

nasal tone and in an unintelligible voice, a grace which he soon

finished, and everybody having made the sign of the cross, dinner

was served.

"What a strange role religion plays here," thought Gilbert to

himself as he carried his spoon to his lips. "They would on no

account dine until it had blessed the soup, and at the same time

they banish it to the end of the table as a leper whose impure

contact they fear."

During the first part of the repast, Gilbert's attention was

concentrated on Father Alexis. This priestly face excited his

curiosity. At first sight it seemed impressed with a certain

majesty, which was heightened by the black folds of his robe, and

the gold crucifix which hung upon his breast. Father Alexis had a

high, open forehead; his large, strongly aquiline nose gave a manly

character to his face; his black eyes, finely set, were surmounted

by well-curved eyebrows, and his long grizzly beard harmonized very

well with his bronzed cheeks furrowed by venerable wrinkles. Seen

in repose, this face had a character of austere and imposing

beauty. And if you had looked at Father Alexis in his sleep, you

would have taken him for a holy anchorite recently come out of the

desert, or better still, for a Saint John contemplating with closed

eyes upon the height of his Patmos rock, the sublime visions of the

Apocalypse; but as soon as the face of the good priest became

animated, the charm was broken. It was but an expressive mask,

flexible, at times grotesque, where were predicted the fugitive and

shallow impressions of a soul gentle, innocent, and easy, but not

imaginative or exalted. It was then that the monk and the

anchorite suddenly disappeared, and there remained but a child

sixty years old, whose countenance, by turns uneasy or smiling,

expressed nothing but puerile pre-occupations, or still more

puerile content. This transformation was so rapid that it seemed

almost like a juggler's trick. You sought St. John, but found him

no more, and you were tempted to cry out, "Oh, Father Alexis, what

has become of you? The soul now looking out of your face is not

yours." This Father Alexis was an excellent man; but

unfortunately, he had too decided a taste for the pleasures of the

table. He could also be accused of having a strong ingredient of

vanity in his character; but his self-love was so ingenuous, that

the most severe judge could but pardon it. Father Alexis had

succeeded in persuading himself that he was a great artist, and

this conviction constituted his happiness. This much at least

could be said of him, that he managed his brush and pencil with

remarkable dexterity, and could execute four or five square feet of

fresco painting in a few hours. The doctrines of Mount Athos,

which place he had visited in his youth, had no more secrets for

him; Byzantine aesthetics had passed into his flesh and bones; he

knew by heart the famous "Guide to Painting," drawn up by the monk

Denys and his pupil Cyril of Scio. In short, he was thoroughly

acquainted with all the receipts by means of which works of genius

are produced, and thus, with the aid of compasses, he painted from

inspiration, those good and holy men who strikingly resembled

certain figures on gold backgrounds in the convents of Lavra and

Iveron. But one thing brought mortification and chagrin to Father

Alexis,--Count Kostia Petrovitch refused to believe in his genius!

But on the other hand, he was a little consoled by the fact that

the good Ivan professed unreserved admiration for his works; so he

loved to talk of painting and high art with this pious worshiper of

his talents.

"Look, my son," he would say to him, extending the thumb, index and

middle fingers of his right hand, "thou seest these three fingers:

I have only to say a word to them, and from them go forth Saint

Georges, Saint Michaels, Saint Nicholases, patriarchs of the old

covenant, and apostles of the new, the good Lord himself and all

his dear family!"

And then he would give him his hand to kiss, which duty the good

serf performed with humble veneration. However, if Count Kostia

had the barbarous taste to treat the illuminated works of Father

Alexis as daubs, he was not cruel enough to prevent him from

cultivating his dearly-loved art. He had even lately granted this

disciple of the great Panselinos, the founder of the Byzantine

school, an unexpected favor, for which the good father promised

himself to be eternally grateful. One of the wings of the Castle

of Geierfels enclosed a pretty and sufficiently spacious chapel,

which the Count had appropriated to the services of the Greek

Church, and one fine day, yielding to the repeated solicitations of

Father Alexis, he had authorized him to cover the walls and dome

with "daubs" after his own fashion. The priest commenced the work

immediately. This great enterprise absorbed at least half of his

thoughts; he worked many hours every day, and at night he saw in

dreams great patriarchs in gold and azure, hanging over him and

saying:

"Dear Alexis, we commend ourselves to thy good care; let thy genius

perpetuate our glory through the Universe."

The conversation at length turned upon subjects which the Count

amused himself by debating every day with his secretary. They

spoke of the Lower Empire, which M. Leminof regarded as the most

prosperous and most glorious age of humanity. He had little fancy

for Pericles, Caesar, Augustus, and Napoleon, and considered that

the art of reigning had been understood by Justinian and Alexis

Comnenus alone. And when Gilbert protested warmly in the name of

human dignity against this theory:

"Stop just there!" said the Count; "no big words, no declamation,

but listen to me! These pheasants are good. See how Father Alexis

is regaling himself upon them. To whom do they owe this flavor

which is so enchanting him? To the high wisdom of my cook, who

gave them time to become tender. He has served them to us just at

the right moment. A few days sooner they would have been too

tough; a few days later would have been risking too much, and we

should have had the worms in them. My dear sir, societies are very

much like game. Their supreme moment is when they are on the point

of decomposition. In their youth they have a barbarous toughness.

But a certain degree of corruption, on the contrary, imperils their

existence. Very well! Byzantium possessed the art of making minds

gamey and arresting decomposition at that point. Unfortunately she

carried the secret to the grave with her."

A profound silence reigned in the great hall, uninterrupted except

by the rhythmic sound of the good father's jaws. Stephane leaned

his elbows on the table; his attitude expressive of dreamy

melancholy; his head inclined and leaning against the palm of his

right hand; his black tunic without any collar exposing a neck of

perfect whiteness; his long silky hair falling softly upon his

shoulders; the pure and delicate contour of his handsome face; his

sensitive mouth, the corners curving slightly upwards, all reminded

Gilbert of the portrait of Raphael painted by himself, all, except

the expression, which was very different.

A profound melancholy filled Gilbert's heart. Nothing about him

commanded his sympathies, nothing promised any companionship for

his soul; at his left the stern face of a drowsy tyrant, made more

sinister by sleep; opposite him a young misanthrope, for the moment

lost in clouds; at his right an old epicure who consoled himself

for everything by eating figs; above his head the dragons of the

Apocalypse. And then this great vaulted hall was cold, sepulchral;

he felt as though he were breathing the air of a cellar; the

recesses and the corners of the room were obscured by black

shadows; the dark wainscotings which covered the walls had a

lugubrious aspect; outside were heard ominous noises. A gale of

wind had risen and uttered long bellowings like a wounded bull, to

which the grating of weathercocks and the dismal cry of the owls

responded.

When Gilbert had re-entered his own room he opened the window that

he might better hear the majestic roll of the river. At the same

moment a voice, carried by the wind from the great square tower,

cried to him:

"Monsieur, the grand vizier, don't forget to burn plenty of candles

to the devil! this is the advice which your most faithful subject

gives you in return for the profound lessons of wisdom with which

you favored his inexperience to-day!"

It was thus Gilbert learned Stephane was his neighbor.

"It is consoling," thought he, "to know that he can't possibly come

in here without wings. And," added he, closing his window,

"whatever happens, I did well to write to Mme. Lerins yesterday--

to-day I am not so well satisfied."