Eleven years later, in the middle of May, Gesa came back to Brussels
after a long absence. Alphonse de Sterny had known how to make
practical use of the enthusiasm in Brussels society. Gesa had been sent
on a government pension and supported, moreover, by the favor of
several eminent persons, to study under one of the most famous
violinists of the time, then settled in Paris.
He had studied a little, dissipated a great deal, then studied again;
had been much admired, much envied; had learned to empty his champagne
glass, and to distinguish in women between a coquette and one who will
repel an impertinence. He had made his first professional tour, with a
famous Italian staccato singer, and a still more famous Moravian
impressario, had earned many laurels, had finally quarreled at Nice
with the violincellist of the troupe on the singer's account, had
challenged the cellist, and insulted the manager. The latter was a
reasonable being, however, who did not stand on trifles of that sort,
and two months later in Paris, when he was engaging a company for his
American tour he made Gesa a brilliant offer. But the young violinist
was rich in the possession of a few thousand francs that remained to
him from his last enterprise, and he curtly declined the great
Marinsky's proposal, saying "the career of a soloist bored him, he
wished to devote himself to composition." He was twenty-four years old.
At that age many musicians have produced their greatest works. He had
published nothing as yet, except a "Reverie" that appeared nearly seven
years before, with a handsome vignette of the young composer on the
title page, in all the pomp of a dilettante production, was bought by
the whole Faubourg St. Germaine, and by hardly any one else. Since that
time he had scribbled a great deal, but had finished nothing,--and yet
he felt so rich! He had only not willed it as yet. He needed quiet for
composing. But quiet in Paris is an article of luxury that none but
very great gentlemen can compel. Brussels rose in his memory, Brussels
with her Gothic churches and crooked streets, her zealous Catholicism,
her luxuriant vegetation and stagnant life. A sort of homesickness
overcame him,--he started for Brussels.
It was the middle of May; May is beautiful in Brussels. No long war,
only gay skirmishes between sun and rain clear the air. Undulating
golden vapors weave a dreamy halo, like the atmosphere of old legends,
over the perspective of ancient streets that lose themselves in the far
distance; they shimmer like luminous shadows around the Gothic lace
work of St. Gudule, and spread their blonde veil over the green pomp of
the park. There is something quite mysterious in this hazy light, this
mist of dissolved sunbeams, this metallic vibrating and shimmering that
illumines sober, grey old Brussels in the springtime, like a saint's
nimbus. The statues in the park have lost their winter cowls of straw;
through the trees, whose feathery foliage gives out a pleasant pungent
spring odor, glide the sunbeams, outline the edge of a gnarled black
bough with a streak of silver, paint broad spots of light on a mighty
bole, slip gaily into the moist grass and play hide-and-seek among the
transparent leaf-shadows. Around the house of the Prince of Orange
luxuriant blooming lilac bushes toss their white and pale purple
plumes; before the Koenigsgarten dreamily waves a sea of violet
rhododendrons; and heavy with fragrance, warmly enervating, a scarcely
perceptible breath of wind stirs the air, the Sirocco of the North.
Gesa went with vigorous strides from the Gare du Midi, across the
Boulevard, to the Rue Ravestein. Everything interested him, everything
seemed like home. He stood still, looked about him, smiled, went a
little further, and again stood still, in his foolish absent fashion.
Now he turned off from the Montagne de la Cour--before his eyes
stretched the Rue Ravestein. A strange nameless feeling overcame him, a
feeling of agitation and anxiety. He could have turned and fled, yet he
drew nearer and nearer. Soft golden haze wove itself over everything.
The strange little alley, with its architecture of the Middle Ages, and
its crucifix leaning against the black church wall, looked like an old
picture painted on a gold background.
"Is Monsieur Delileo at home?" asked Gesa at the door of the well-known
dwelling. The unaccustomed Flemish words fell haltingly from his lips.
The maid, who was busied (unexampled waste of time!) in cleaning the
threshold, looked up at him somewhat astonished, and nodded. His heart
beat as he entered the vestibule, and hastily cleared the old wooden
stairs that groaned under the storming of his impatient young feet. He
knocked at the door but received no answer, and he entered the chamber,
which still contained the old green carpet. It was much cleaner than
when he and Delileo had lived there together; even a little coquettish
in its arrangement. A strange narcotic, dreamy odor streamed to meet
him. Under the portrait of the Gualtieri, in the crumbling delft
pitcher, stood a large bouquet of tempting iris-hued poppies,--those
bewitching, beautiful, enormous flowers that are known by the name of
"_pavots de Nice_."
The door of this first room was open; on the outer wall of the farther
chamber was a glass enclosed balcony. There at a little round table,
opposite one another, sat Delileo--and his daughter! Gesa started, and
looked at the maiden dumb with admiration. Nowhere except in Italy had
he seen features with at once such regular and such peculiarly rounded
lines. The girl's little head rested upon a pair of strong classic
shoulders, her colorless face was lighted by a pair of mysterious, dark
eyes, and scarlet lips. Delileo's daughter, notwithstanding she
scarcely counted seventeen years, had nothing of the angular grace that
belongs to Northern maidens: her whole being breathed an enchanting,
luxuriant ripeness.
While Gesa stood there, lost in this unexpected vision, Delileo looked
up, winked as if dazzled, stretched out his head, the young musician
smiled and stepped forward.
"Gesa! Thou!" and in the next moment the "droevige Herr" held his
foster son in his arms. The two shed some pleasant tears, then Delileo
pushed the young man away from him, the better to see him, then he
embraced him again. "And will you stay with us for a little while?" he
asked, and his voice trembled.
"As long as you will let me, father," replied Gesa. "I want to work in
quiet near you; that is, I know that here is no place for me, but I
will lodge in your neighborhood. But"--he looked around at the young
girl, "make me acquainted with my sister!"
"Ah! right! Well, Annette, this is Gesa von Zuylen, of whom I have so
often told you. Tell him he is welcome, and you, Gesa, give her a kiss,
as a brother should!"
The evening meal was over, the long grey May twilight had extinguished
all the golden shimmer. Only one slender red ray fell from a street
lamp along the alley, and a second glistened in the colored glass of
the church window.
Gesa sat comfortably leaning back in the softest armchair the
establishment afforded, and explained to the attentive Gaston his
numerous plans for composition.
Annette was silent: her large eyes shone in the twilight.
Gesa talked and talked and the "droevige Herr" only interrupted him
from time to time to cry "cela sera superbe!"
Rhythmically scanned, mystically blended, the far-off sounds of the
city penetrated to the Rue Ravestein like a monotonous slumber song.
The dreamy relaxing smell of the poppies grew stronger with the
incoming night, and from time to time there was the rustle of a leaf
that detached itself and fell dying onto the cold marble of the
gueridon.