Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by google books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=f_kMAQAAIAAJ&dq
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. Alternate spelling of author's name: Jozef Ignacy Kraszewski.
THE JEW
TRANSLATED FROM THE POLISH OF
JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI
BY
LINDA DA KOWALEWSKA
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1890
By DODD, MEAD & COMPANY.
* * *
_All rights reserved_
PRESS OF
Rockwell and Churchill
BOSTON
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I.--Sestri-Ponente.
II.--Judaism and Poland.
III.--Education of Jacob.
IV.--Aqua Sola.
V.--A Simple History of Love.
VI.--From Genoa to Pisa.
VII.--Voyage on Foot.
VIII.--The Sabbath.
IX.--The Eve of an Insurrection.
X.--The Pursuit of a Husband.
XI.--A Political Meeting.
XII.--A Siren.
XIII.--Akiba.
XIV.--Alea Jacta Est.
XV.--A Perilous Interview.
XVI.--The Jews in Council.
XVII.--Reunion of the Nobles.
XVIII.--The Country Wills It.
XIX.--A Father's Grief.
XX.--Muse Cultivates the Russians.
XXI.--Lia.
XXII.--The Old Mother.
XXIII.--Russian Politics.
XXIV.--The Seducer.
XXV.--Between Two Fires.
XXVI.--The Reconciliation.
XXVII.--Jacob in Flight.
XXVIII.--Love of Country.
XXIX.--The Gordian Knot.
XXX.--The Insurgents.
Epilogue.
CHAPTER I.
SESTRI-PONENTE.
On a warm afternoon in the autumn of 1860 the best, or rather the only,
inn of Sestri-Ponente was full of people. Firpo, the host of the
Albergo e Trattoria della Grotta, was little accustomed to such a
crowd, except on Sundays and fete-days. As this was only a simple
Thursday, his sunburnt cheeks reflected a smile of satisfaction.
Sestri-Ponente is situated an hour's distance from Genoa, on the
sea-shore "_in vincinanza del mare_" and on the grand route from Savona
to Nice. Sestri, beside dock-yards for the construction of small
merchant-vessels, which is its chief source of wealth, possesses also a
fine beach where it is possible to bathe in safety. It has this one
superiority over Genoa "_la superba_" which lacks sea-bathing. Genoa
has all else; even her trees seem dwarfed near her stately edifices;
she has a magnificent harbour, and if one is determined to bathe in the
sea he can hire a boat to take him some distance from the quay, where
the water is not full of all sorts of _debris_. Once in clear water a
rope is tied around his waist, and he can seat himself on the steps
fixed to the back of the boat. If he slip, the honest boatman draws him
out of the sea, by the rope, at the end of which he looks like a new
species of fish suspended on a hook. Those who dislike this method are
at liberty to bathe in the saltwater of the port or in the marble
bath-houses of the Piazza Sarzana; but to bathe where the beach is more
or less rocky one must abandon Genoa for the fashionable Livourne, the
charming Spezia, or the modest Sestri. The wealthier classes congregate
at the former resorts. Sestri is patronized more by quiet people who
wish to economize, who prefer a peaceful life to the distractions of
the gay world, and the fresh sea-breeze to the feverish gayety and
gossip of a crowded watering-place. The scenery is somewhat sombre, but
not altogether deprived of the picturesque; in grave and classic lines,
like that of Poussin, are delineated vineyards, groves, gardens, and
luxurious villas, to-day used chiefly as country-seats for the
Italians. Here and there the spires of little churches and of convents
rise to heaven and complete the panorama. The steep banks extend on one
side as far as Genoa, on the other to Savona, and are then lost in the
immensity of the sea, a mighty space of blue and green.
From a distance the Albergo della Grotta makes a good appearance. This
pretty little palace was formerly the villa of a rich noble, and was
never intended to be an inn. Its approaches are lined with laurels,
pomegranates, and orange-trees, and it is reached by a steep path with
steps cut in the solid rock. Everywhere traces appear of the fastidious
taste of some former owner, and in the midst of all this beauty,
without regard for the neighbouring nobility, is a prosaic inn. This
shows that the conditions of life are changing everywhere. It is not
only in Italy that one meets edifices which do not respond to the
exactions and the needs of actual society. How many palaces are changed
into breweries, how many villas transformed into inns, how many
beautiful private gardens have become plantations! The opulent
_parvenus_, only, have preserved some remains of the noble dwellings of
the extinct or ruined nobility. The great lords have built for the
bankers. The shell still remains, but the mollusk has departed.
The principal ornament of our villa was that which its name indicates,
a grotto constructed with great skill, recalling the time when the
Roman Caesars established oyster-parks on their roofs and forced nature
into every extravagance. This grotto formed a vast _salon_ occupying an
entire wing of the house, and, thanks to the _bizarre_ ornamentation of
stalactites, had every appearance of a natural cavern. The walls were
of gypsum of all colours. A labyrinth lighted from above led to a
fish-pond and a fountain, from which the water flowed slowly, its
musical plashing being a genuine refreshment on a hot summer's day.
On entering this subterranean place for the first time one experienced
a sense of melancholy, but gradually the eye became accustomed to the
twilight and the illusion disappeared, and was followed by a delicious
feeling of refreshment and enthusiasm.
To-day this grotto serves for the dining-room of the inn. Tables are
set in the middle and in the dark corners, and on the rocks surrounding
the fish-pond is placed a table where at times the workmen employed in
the neighbouring forges eat, drink, and sleep. When they cede this
place, it is only to tourists or to English families.
Here all classes fraternize over their wine and macaroni. The host
serves with the same zeal the lords or the drivers. Who knows that he
does not prefer the latter, for the lords seldom return, while the
post-drivers, like an intermittent fever, come back every other day.
The cuisine of this inn was no better nor worse than any other Italian
cookery. The wine was agreeable enough to a palate that was not too
_blase_, and a grateful freshness made the grotto a delightful retreat
during the day, for no brawling crowd or discordant music ever
disturbed the place. Over the skylight the pomegranate and orange trees
intermingle their branches, and when all was still could be heard the
murmuring of the sea, a fine view of which might be had from the flat
roof of the grotto.
Sestri is a village which is animated only at times by travellers, and
to which the railway gives but a fugitive vitality. Few people stop
here, for before them near at hand appears the vision of Genoa, and
each one hastens to reach "la Superba." Only the visitors of the Villa
Palaviccini, which is near, meet at Sestri with the occasional tourists
who do not dislike the _brodi_ of Signor Firpo.
The inn, as we have said, was, for a sultry afternoon, unusually full
of people. Two diligences painted blue, as well as other vehicles, had
arrived from Genoa and Nice. The host naturally conducted his guests to
the grotto, which he loved to show off as a wonder. The tables were
soon taken by the travellers, who, once comfortably seated, began to
examine each other with a certain distrust.
Near one of the tables was seated a young man of medium size. At the
first glance one would judge from his expressive face and regular
features that he was an Italian; but examining him more closely certain
characteristics of the Oriental type would be discovered. Sorrow or
labour had prematurely furrowed his high forehead, and the energy of
his glance denoted a strong character. He appeared like one who had
conquered himself after long internal combats.
His was a sympathetic face and drew men to him. His costume, not
extremely elegant, yet comfortable and in good taste, attested, if not
a great fortune, at least a fair competency. Before him were spread the
remains of a frugal repast of fruit, wine, and cheese.
A short distance from him was a group of three persons, one of whom was
a woman. She was a clear brunette with red lips, and had passed her
first youth, but was still very attractive, almost beautiful, and
the natural gayety of her manner was augmented by a charming air of
good-will toward all. She appeared to be the idol of the two men seated
near her. One of fine physique, dark complexion, and quiet manners was
evidently her husband, or else a very intimate friend. The other
cavalier was blonde, slender, and timid as a young girl, blushing on
every occasion. The trio ate slowly, and seemed to try to shake off the
melancholy impression produced by the singular dining-room.
On the other side a man sat smoking, with a bottle of wine before him.
Under his long black disordered hair he knitted his brows. Although
still young he bore the traces of a dissipated life. His bronzed
complexion, his thick lips, his low, square forehead which made him
resemble the sphinx, indicated that he was the descendant of a
non-European race. He looked like a carving in basalt, but in basalt
worn by the storms of passion, to-day extinct but formerly tumultuous.
One was reminded on regarding him of those lakes which, agitated in the
morning, are calm under the soft breeze of evening.
Farther off lounged two Italians, easily recognized by the carelessness
of their attitude in spite of the presence of a lady. Their nationality
was furthermore betrayed by their olive complexions and long black hair
falling over their shoulders. The younger wore a mustache _a la Victor
Emmanuel_, which gave him a military air. The second and stouter man
was an artist. They both had that air of content worn by men who are at
home and breathe their native air.
Separated from them by an empty table a pale, blonde young man seemed
to seek solitude. This was a son of Germany. Despite his phlegmatic
manner and apparent indifference one could divine nevertheless that he
had experienced some misfortune.
Clad poorly and with a certain negligence, forgetting his bread and
cheese he looked dreamily at the grotto and his neighbours, absorbed
entirely in awaiting the morrow, yet as though he dreaded it.
All the company was silent and a little sleepy. From time to time could
be heard voices at the table where the only woman of the party was
seated; at times the clinking of glasses and of bottles; then the
silence became more profound.
Suddenly a stranger entered by a little back-door. All eyes were turned
toward him. There was something in the sudden appearance of this man
that was startling. He was very pale and thin. His garments, gray with
dust, proved that he had travelled long on foot. Fatigue had marked his
visage, and imprinted on his features that melancholy beauty which
interests at first sight all men truly worthy of that name. His eyes
were sunken, but their expression was soft as the glance of a woman,
and attested almost superhuman, sufferings. His haversack, his staff,
and his miserable appearance showed that he travelled on foot rather
from necessity than from preference.
He sought timidly with his eyes an obscure corner; then, seeing that
almost all the tables were occupied, he moved slowly to a seat near the
German; but scarcely had he taken off his straw hat and wiped the sweat
from his brow, than his figure contracted under frightful suffering. He
seized the table convulsively to steady himself, but his strength gave
way and he fell unconscious to the ground. In the fall he overturned
his chair, and it was a miracle that he did not cut his head on the
stalactites of the grotto. He remained stretched at full length, pale
as a corpse, and retaining on his features that expression of calm
which death gives. All the travellers, led by the lady,--we must do
them that justice,--rushed to his assistance. It was the lady who
showed most presence of mind, and she proved a veritable sister of
charity. In every woman there is a mother and a sister. She seized a
carafe, and wetting a napkin applied it to the temples of the unknown,
who sighing deeply opened his eyes, and soon came to himself. At first
he seemed ashamed of his accident. He leaned on his elbow, his eyes
timidly lowered, and stammered some unintelligible words of thanks.
Short as was the time of this little scene the landlord had already
heard of it. He hastened, speechless from fear of the formalities which
would follow a sudden death in his inn, and he had already decided to
beg the invalid to go and die elsewhere, when he was reassured by
seeing the stranger again conscious.
This first thought of Signer Firpo was characteristic of our age,
which, in place of giving the hand to the unfortunate, repulses him,
and does not recognize in the poor the right to be ill. The first
sentiment experienced to-day when men meet is that of suspicion or
distrust. Indifference has replaced the ideal. Society has turned its
back on the unfortunate, and its motto is egotism.
The innkeeper felt a little ashamed when he saw the solicitude of all
his patrons for the unfortunate man. Nevertheless, he had no idea of
harbouring during the night a traveller who fainted so easily and who
had no baggage. Genoa is not far off. There are hospitals there,
thought he. I must see that he leaves as soon as possible.
What would have been the exasperation of the honest Firpo if he had
known that hunger was the cause of the fainting?
For the present he did not announce his charitable intention on account
of his guests who gathered around the new-comer. A common feeling of
compassion and charity drew these strangers to each other. They
fraternized like old friends, conversing now in French, now in Italian,
in order to understand each other.
The woman sought with her delicate hands the wound on the young man's
head, whence flowed the blood which stained his temples. The men talked
in low voices about the accident, and with a forced smile the stranger
muttered feebly:--
"It is nothing! Pardon and thanks! But the heat--fatigue--" "Or rather
hunger," added the spectators, looking at the poor fellow whose sunken
cheeks showed that they were right.
Gradually calm was again established. Some one advised the invalid to
take a little wine, and the woman brought him her own glass after
having filled it. He raised it to his lips, thanking her timidly.
"Will you come and sit with us, monsieur?" said she drawing near him;
"after a little rest this weakness will pass away." Then she added:--
"These accidents are sometimes succeeded by another, and it will be
prudent to be near us. We can watch over you. And if the question is
not indiscreet, will you tell us whence you came and where you are
going?"
"I go to Genoa, madame," replied the unknown.
"And you come from a distance?"
"Quite a distance, from France. I have travelled on foot, and am very
weary."
There was a short silence. But the woman was curious and continued the
role of interrogator.
"Then you are not a Frenchman?"
"No, madame."
"I knew it by your accent."
The other travellers approached the table where the stranger was
seated, and the conversation became general. They talked of their
travels, and during this time the invalid became stronger. His extreme
paleness diminished as the blood circulated more rapidly in his veins.
The woman fixed on him a maternal gaze.
"You are truly unpardonable," continued she. "Being subject to
fainting, you ought not to have undertaken such a long journey alone
and in such heat. Although Italy is safe in the vicinity of Naples, and
has lost her legendary brigands, who no longer exist except in
romances, you might have been assassinated or at least robbed in some
lonely place on the route that you have taken."
The young man smiled sadly, hung his head, and replied in a low voice,
"It would have been impossible, madame, to have followed your excellent
advice. I had not the means to do so."
"Poor boy," murmured his fair questioner, "this is frightful!"
"I am an exile," continued he raising his head. "I am a Pole. I left my
country on account of some college pranks for which I would have been
sent to Siberia, with my future ruined. I hoped to find a warm welcome
from compassionate nations. I sought it in Germany, in England, and in
France. Everywhere beautiful words concealed a cold indifference. At
last I thought of Italy. It has a people whose destiny not long ago
somewhat resembled ours. Outlaws, they also sought from the world a
little aid and sympathy. Alas!" He interrupted this involuntary
confession, which had produced different impressions on his hearers.
He had at first somewhat chilled the company, who, however, soon
submitted to a more generous sentiment, and felt themselves captivated
by his frankness.
"We are, then, in a measure compatriots," said in Polish the blonde
young man seated near the beautiful lady. "I am a little Polish, but
Galician." The "but" sounded coldly on the ears of the outlaw, who
nevertheless saluted him, and took in silence his outstretched hand.
The dark man with majestic features arose in his turn.
"I, also," declared he in a slightly ironical tone, "have the honour to
present myself as in a measure your compatriot. I am Polish, but a
Jew."
The Galician turned quickly toward the last speaker, who was warmly
shaking the hand of the exile.
"In this general recognition," added the lady's second cavalier,
"permit me also to consider myself as somewhat your countryman. We are
brother Slavs, for I am a Russian, but outlawed. Give me, then, your
hand."
"Outlaw or vagabond, it is all the same," said the man with the bronzed
skin. "Permit me, then, as a brother in exile and vagabondage, as a
pariah, to fraternize with you. I am a Tsigane, but a rich Tsigane, and
that is a rare thing. It is the only reason why I am not rubbing down
horses, and why I do not rob hen-roosts. Yes, messieurs, I belong to
that condemned race who in the Middle Ages were driven out at the
bayonet's point, and who are to-day under the supervision of the
police. The only exception made is for our sisters under twenty years
who have white teeth, a sweet voice, and _la beaute du diable_. To
reassure you, I repeat, messieurs, that I am very rich; that, surely,
is a corrective for the worst reputation. I am not, however, a Tsigane
king. I am only an idler by profession." He laughed sardonically,
watching the effect of his words, then continued: "I bear on my face
the indelible witness of my origin. No magic water can whiten my skin.
No cosmetic can conceal my race."
"Listen, messieurs," interposed the lady with vivacity, "if banishment
and a nomadic life are the standard of your good-will, you can admit me
to your society. My father was Italian, of that Italy which was not yet
a country, but a 'simple geographical expression,' to quote Metternich.
He emigrated voluntarily to England. My mother was of an old Irish
family. My husband, Russian; and if that be not enough, my grandmother
was Greek."
A little man suddenly advanced from the midst of the circle brandishing
an enormous parasol. He was dressed with great care, and wore a pair of
spectacles, with shoulder-straps crossed on his breast from which hung
on one side a lorgnette and on the other a game-bag.
"Bravo! bravissimo!" cried he, taking a part in the conversation.
"Pardon me for interrupting you, madame, but I desire to participate in
this general introduction, and I flatter myself that I have rights
which give me the priority. I am a Dane by birth. My mother was Scotch
or English, my grandmother an Italian. I have long lived in France, and
I believe that I am even naturalized. I hope, then, to have the right
to dine in a company from all the world. What think you, my friends?"
There was a general laugh, and he was admitted with frank and joyous
cordiality.
"I solicit the same honour," said the German with a heavy air; "I,
also, am an exile." With these words he bowed and seated himself.
"The question of country," said the Dane, "is today a simple question
of money. With a full purse one is everywhere received, everywhere
naturalized; with gold one has everywhere the right of citizenship. No
money; no country! No money; move on! The only real outlaw, the true
pariah, is he who has nothing. With money one can buy as many countries
as he desires. That is why I do not feel the want of one."
With these words he shrugged his shoulders and was silent, and one of
the Italians arose.
"My friend and I," said he, "do not wish to be excluded from this
charming circle, and we have both a title to be received among you. In
the first place, we are artists, who are always nomads in body and
spirit. And though we are Italians, one is a Roman, the other Venetian.
And we can tender the hand to the Pole, for we are brothers in
poverty."
"No! no!" cried the Pole. "You are not like us, despoiled of all. You
know whither to fly from persecution. All Italy is open to you. You
have a country, a king, and a government. We have only police, spies,
executioners, and persecutors. We are always menaced with Siberia or
death. Europe does not recognize even our right to exist."
These words, vibrating with despair, threw into the conversation the
dramatic note. All the men in this motley society--Italians, Poles,
Jew, Dane, and Tsigane--gathered around the little tables, and even
those who were least inclined to make new acquaintances could not
resist the general impulse. The ice had been broken by the fainting and
the confession of the Pole.
We very often hesitate to make new acquaintances when travelling. The
motive is usually a selfish one. Each encounter costs us some words of
politeness, some courteous concessions, if our ideas are not in accord
with those of our new friend. And all these concessions are a total
loss, because before long we part at the next station. It is an expense
that one can easily avoid. It is much pleasanter to be silent and to
stretch one's legs without caring for a neighbour who will be gone in a
few moments.
For once the guests of Sestri-Ponente forgot all considerations of
personal comfort. The woman had communicated to all the sentiment of
charity which had seized her.
Everything is contagious in this world, even virtue. A half-century
ago, when there was less travelling, men were much more accessible to
each other. To-day there passes before our eyes such a procession of
specimens of human kind, from the prince without a crown to the
_proletaire_ without a shirt, that one reflects that caution is
necessary.
Man has become cosmopolitan, and he avoids sympathetic persons for fear
he may become attached to them.
The landlord, concealed behind the door, felt reassured on seeing him
whom he thought dying, under the protection of the whole company. This
protection relieved him from obligations, the very thought of which was
terrifying.
As a good action reacts on those who are the cause of it, the lady was
radiant. She chatted with the Venetian and the Roman, interrogated the
Pole, argued with the Dane, said some words to the Tsigane, even smiled
at the phlegmatic German, and so charmed the whole company that each
one commenced to dread the hour of departure. The conversation
continued gayly as it had begun.
"I am not altogether a cosmopolite," said the lady; "man needs a
country, and he who has none has one joy the less in his heart, one
love the less in his life, and in his thoughts a hope and a consolation
the less. Rather than want a country one ought to choose and create one
to love, for it is necessary for a young man to have an ideal love if
he has not a real one. However, love of one's country does not imply
hatred of others. It is a beautiful thing this human brotherhood."
"Very well said," agreed the Dane, who, in order to put in his word,
had left his macaroni. "But unfortunately, madame, this fraternity
belongs only to fabulous and Utopian days, like the English republics
and the patriarchal monarchies. It is a dream, like the imaginary
cottages of lovers with idyllic roots and herbs for food, and the clear
water of the rushing brook for drink; it is an idle dream, like any
other nonsense that men have invented in this age of beefsteaks, of
business, of bank-notes, and comfort. It is thousands of years since
men coined the word 'fraternity.' Eh! madame, ask the Muscovite to love
the Pole, and the English to love the French; demand, then, of the
German to renounce his disposition to assimilate all the neighbouring
provinces and to demand their ground for the cultivation of his
potatoes; ask him then to cease singing the praises of his
mother-country wherever he may be."
"Oh! oh!" said the peaceable German shaking his head. "Behold already a
satire on the most inoffensive of men." Then he resumed between his
teeth, "Oh! Schiller!"
"I have had the pleasure of reading all his works," replied the Dane,
returning to his macaroni, "in a translation. He has written many
beautiful things. But beautiful verses do not characterize a people, my
dear German. I call you very dear, because I love exceedingly men in
general, although I hate a few in particular. Well, very dear son of
blonde Germany, I tell you, without remembrance of your monopoly of
Schleswig and of Holstein, two principalities to which I do not
belong,--I tell you frankly, Schiller, Goethe, Kant, Herder, and
Lessing are not Germans."
"How is that?"
"Listen, peaceable son of industrious Germany; do not fly in a passion.
I know you, that is why I maintain that neither Schiller nor the others
belong to you."
"To whom do they belong, then?" demanded the German, striking his knife
on the table.
"They are geniuses like Shakespeare. They belong to the whole world,
and not to His Majesty the King of Prussia. They are not as well known
in the country that has produced them as in other lands."
"That is perfectly true," added the young Pole. "I feel that I
understand Schiller better than most Germans, who go into ecstasies
over his genius, and raise statues on all the street corners, and throw
a flat contradiction over the poet's ideal by shutting themselves up in
a narrow and egotistical nationality."
"Enough, young enthusiast!" interrupted the Dane. "You are twenty-one
or"--
"Twenty-two," said the Pole.
"I will not permit you to discuss the subject of egotism yet. Wait a
few years, until you become an egotist yourself. '_Nemo sapiens nisi
patiens_.' I admit, however, that you have comprehended my meaning very
well, and that you have argued fairly."
A general laugh seized the whole company.
"With your permission," added the Dane, taking up his lorgnette, which
he had placed on the table, "this threatens to become a rather long
international conference. It is necessary that I should reinforce the
inner man to sustain the discussion. Macaroni is very 'filling,' but
does not nourish overmuch. I shall send for something more substantial.
Decidedly, these Italians for many generations of stomachs have
cultivated an exaggerated taste for macaroni."
"Do not trouble yourself about us!" replied the lady smiling.
"Monsieur Pole," continued the loquacious Dane, "do not be offended if
I invite you brusquely to dine with me. It is simple egotism. When I
eat alone I am not hungry. To see any one eat gives me an appetite, and
I divine in you a Polish stomach."
The young man blushed deeply and murmured, "But--but"--
"No _buts_. It is a service which you can render me. Eat like a wolf; I
will enjoy looking at you in coveting your appetite."
With these words he sighed with regret and knocked on the table. A
waiter in his shirt-sleeves came running in. Each one ordered his
dinner. The conversation flagged, and the German, gloomy and indignant,
went and seated himself in a corner.
"Monsieur is provoked," said the Dane to him; "but monsieur is wrong. I
esteem your nation very highly, and I render justice to all its general
qualities. The Germans abound everywhere, like the trichina; and like
it, the hardier they are the more surely they provoke the death of
those who have received them. It is a credit to the people, though it
be an offence in the trichina. If you dislike my opinion read Heine,
who justifies me in all points."
The German made a gesture of contempt.
"Heine, a Jew!" said he in a low voice.
The Dane alone heard him, and leaning towards his companion added, in
an undertone, "I fear you will soon be obliged to seek your future
where Heine saw it." Then lower still he pronounced this word, a title
in one of Heine's works,--"Hammonia!"
After a short colloquy the two men evidently came to an amicable
understanding, for they shook hands.
The _menu_ for the principal meal at the Albergo della Grotto was as
follows: First a thick brodo, a soup that alone with Italians
supersedes their beloved macaroni. Then a dish of fried fish and one of
stewed meat; that, to say the least, was a little suspicious, for it
had come from Genoa in the heat of the day, and was certainly somewhat
fatigued by the journey. Afterward a roast, then cheese and fruit.
The Dane grumbled, and said that the cooking was unworthy of the least
of scullions; but the travellers were hungry, and they excused many
shortcomings.
The Pole had overcome his embarrassment and ate with evident enjoyment,
although he feared that his new friends would divine his long fast. His
companion was not hungry, for he had eaten at Cogoletto. The
unfortunate young man considered this meal a Godsend, for he was saving
his last sou to return home. Having lost confidence in "human
fraternity," he relied only on his own strength and economy.
"Am I permitted to ask where you are going?" said the lady, looking
around the tables.
"As for me," said the one whom she had succoured, "I go, or rather
return, to Poland. It is two years since I left it, and I return
impelled by suffering and hope. Aged by my trials, I have left on the
way all my illusions."
"I also return to Poland," added the Jew. "I consider it my country.
Permit me to call it thus, for I love it, and that gives me the right."
The two men pressed each other's hands like brothers, whilst the
Galician seemed to be looking for something under the table, and
feigned not to hear them.
"I," said the Tsigane, "believe that I will go to Hungary. I say
_believe_, for it is not yet decided; it is only probable. I have
relations established there. They have left the tents of their tribe
for more substantial dwellings. I wish to see them once more and to
salute them in our ancient language. But for me every place is the
same. I am never in haste; I have money, and wander where I will. My
country is any spot that suits me, for there does not exist for us a
country in the sense in which you use it. We have forgotten our land
since we left it, and if we should return, she would not recognize her
children. We should be like Epimenides when he returned and found that
no one knew him."
"Well," said the Dane to the Pole brusquely, "you have made a wonderful
journey, and in the most agreeable way. Necessity is often a blessing
in disguise. How often have I wished to be obliged to go on foot, but,
unfortunately, there has never been any urgent reason for doing so, and
I have always listened to the voice of sloth."
"You wish for everything," said the Jew; "but at the same time you lack
the will to obtain the object of your desires."
"That is true. But that which I long for most is youth!" replied the
Dane.
"The route is truly charming enough to make one forget hunger and
heat," said the Pole. "Walking along the shores of the blue sea, it
seemed to me that the world was finished in emeralds and opals and
sapphires. It was like Paradise,--an ideal land. What a poem is the
ocean!"
"The ocean is not at all poetical," said the Dane; "it only seems so in
your youthful enthusiasm. To me the sea speaks only of oysters and
fish."
The lady smiled at this prosaic remark, and softly quoted,--
"_O primavera! gioventu de l'anno!_
_O gioventu! primavera della vita!_"
"I intend to visit Italy, and I am going to Genoa," remarked the German
laconically.
"I, also," added the Dane.
"We go anywhere," replied the Roman and the Venetian.
"As for me," declared the Muscovite, "I am obliged to wander, because I
cannot return to '_la sainte Russie_' until"--
"Until the tempest explodes there," finished the Dane. "Was not that
what you intended to say?" added he.
The Moscovite made an affirmative gesture.
"As for me, I shall prolong my voyage," murmured the Galician. "I wish
to see Italy thoroughly."
"Then we are all bound for Genoa," resumed the lady; "this Genoa '_la
superba_,' that we can already catch a glimpse of here, and which I am
anxious to reach."
"Madame, do not complain of the length of the route," observed the Jew.
"The true happiness of life is in knowing where one aims to be, and
then going slowly toward it. Genoa the beautiful is more beautiful at a
distance than when near. The journey from here is ravishing."
"I know something of it, for I have come on foot from Marseilles," said
the Pole.
One of the Italians launched out into enthusiastic praise of Italy "_la
bella_."
"I am not surprised to find love of country even among the Esquimaux,
but I cannot comprehend an Italian that does not love Italy. Where else
can be found so beautiful a country? At your feet eloquent ruins of
past ages, overhead a sky of unequalled beauty, and everywhere wonders,
with a climate which restores life to the dying. Italy reigns queen of
the world; they have plucked the diadem from her brow, but she still
continues calm and majestic. Barbarians have chained her beautiful
hands, but she will soon rise again and shake off her fetters. Tell me,
do you know a more beautiful land?"
"I know one," replied the Pole mournfully. "A gray sky envelops it; its
soil is stained with blood. The cemeteries alone speak of the past, and
through these burial-grounds pass often despairing groups of chained
men. It has no sapphire sea,--nothing but the cold, icy wind. But it is
the altar of innumerable sacrifices,--it is my country."
The Italians nodded their heads, and the Tsigane smiled ironically.
"What matters it to a man," cried he, "whether he be here or there!
Life is short, and death will soon oblige him to return to the darkness
whence he came. Let us not become attached to anything or anybody. It
is not worth the trouble."
"What an error!" interrupted the lady; "it is by the heart that one
lives. All else is the bitter peel of the fruit."
"In that case one must become accustomed to the peel," said the Tsigane
shrugging his shoulders.
A servant came to announce to the lady's cavaliers that their carriage
was ready, and he believed it his duty to add that the diligence was
also waiting at the door to take the other travellers to Genoa. This
interruption had the effect of a cold douche on the company, and a
cloud passed over their countenances.
"Thus," said the lady sighing, "we must separate. Destiny pushes us on
again like the galley slaves who wish to stop on the way, and are
relentlessly forced onward by their keepers. God alone knows if we
shall ever meet again!"
"No, we cannot tell," rejoined the Dane, adjusting his lorgnette; "but
we shall certainly meet again the types which we resemble. As for
myself, I am convinced that I have seen you all already somewhere, and
that I shall meet you again, but perhaps under a form less attractive."
This odd idea did not please the lady, who was no doubt offended at the
thought of being considered an ordinary woman.
"As for me, monsieur," said she haughtily, "this is the first time in
my life that ever I saw you, and I tell you that"--
"That you do not desire to see me again?"
"That is not exactly what I was going to say. However, your belief in
types and not in individuals shocks me, I acknowledge. For what man has
then a perfect ideal?"
"Men are but men, be certain of that, madame. I affirm more: to believe
in a variety of men is dangerous; there are only certain types many
times repeated. We often think to find a new man, an unknown; but we
soon recognize an old acquaintance who, between you and me, does not
amount to much."
"In the abstract you are right, monsieur," said she, glancing at the
Russian, who smiled, and at the Galician, who appeared not to listen.
"But," added she quickly, "we will not grieve about it. _En route_ and
_Au revoir!_"
"_Au revoir!_ but where?"
"At Genoa."
"At what place?"
"At Aqua Sola," said one of the Italians; "there is good music there,
and there we may easily find each other."
Every one arose and saluted the lady, who held out her hand to the
young Pole and wished him better health.
The rest of the company prepared to leave, wishing each other a
pleasant journey. The Dane took the diligence and the Tsigane an
omnibus. The Italians went on foot. The German found it economical to
glide into the vehicle of the _proprietaire_, in the midst of tomatoes
and fruits.
"We will go together," said the Jew to the Pole. "I do not wish to part
with you. I have a carriage, and if you will not come willingly I shall
employ force."
"But I have no right to trouble you."
"On the contrary, you will do me a service. Solitude fatigues me, and
your company will distract my thoughts. It is a genuine favour that you
will grant me. Come, no more doubts. Give me your hand, brother, and
think no more about it."
From the threshold of the inn the landlord saw the departure of the
invalid with great satisfaction. And his joy was augmented by the fact
that all had paid well, and that his first care now was to prepare a
second dinner.
"What good luck," said he to himself, "that that young stranger should
have fallen into the hands of those people. If it had not been so he
might perhaps have committed suicide here, and I should have been
obliged to bury him at my own expense, for he did not appear to have a
heavy haversack, and I do not believe he had a sou. May God deliver me
from any more such tourists! Yes, I have had a lucky escape."