A SIMPLE HISTORY OF LOVE.
Ivas, abandoned, seated himself alone on a bench, his head bowed. The
sight of the men and women around him who had leisure to occupy
themselves with sentiments of love, and their conversation, made a sad
impression.
Hunger, misery, political passions, consumed him. He thought of his
country and its future. He sought a remedy for his unhappiness and the
sorrows of his countrymen. What mattered to him the sweet words of
women, their tender glances, their whispered promises; women for him
did not exist before the vision of his misery and his despair. An
inexpressible sadness tortured him. Was he not going to risk his life
in order to breathe his native air?
His melancholy thoughts were rocked by the sea breeze when some one
clapped him on the shoulder. It was Jacob.
"Let us return," said he with vivacity.
"I am at your service, but first let me tell you that we are invited to
take tea with the Italian lady at her hotel."
"No! I will not go! I need solitude. Have you accepted?"
"Certainly, for I do not enjoy being alone with my thoughts. And I
believe, dear friend of forty-eight hours, that it will do you good to
go also. We have not known each other long, but permit me to suggest
that there are things that one had better bury in the bottom of the
heart. Come, Coloni is very curious. If we do not go she is capable of
coming after us. That would be worse still."
"It is true that we are recommended to cure old wounds by distraction.
Come, then, we will forget ourselves in a foolish and gay society."
"You speak of old wounds. Then this lady"--
"Do not speak of her. Are there not other persons, other faces and
names, which awaken old memories? You had better speak of man rather
than of woman. This one is an unfortunate who slowly works out her
destiny."
"Let us go, then!"
"Let us go! I will be gay in spite of"--
"Of what?"
"In spite of mournful remembrances."
They turned and walked rapidly along the dark streets which conducted
them to the shore. Here were built two hotels. In the morning this part
of the city was very busy on account of the bourse, but all was silent
and deserted at this hour of the evening.
They entered the Hotel de France.
On the first floor Lucie reigned in a little _salon_, fresh and
elegant. Here they found all the rest of the company. Seated in the
balcony, the Russian smoked in silence. It was easy to be seen that
this impromptu tea was not pleasing to him, for he shut himself up in
complete reserve without joining in the conversation.
The Tsigane, installed comfortably on the sofa, looked around him with
supreme indifference. The Dane paid special attention to his hostess,
and the Italians were in gay spirits. When the door opened and Jacob
appeared, Madame Coloni went hastily to meet him.
"_Grazie tante! Grazie tante!_" cried she. "You are so kind to have
come. It is a sacrifice for which I thank you."
"How can it be called a sacrifice to pass the evening in your charming
society, and to have the pleasure of looking at you," said Jacob.
"Unworthy flatterer!" replied she, striking him softly on his hand. "No
more compliments. You mock me! Seat yourself, sir, and tell me quickly
who is our singer. Who is this beautiful lady with accents so sad that
on hearing her we have tears in our eyes? Why was she so agitated on
seeing you? Why did you grow so pale?"
Jacob had great control over himself. He laughed so naturally that he
deceived his fair questioner, who began to lose the hope of hearing a
romantic history.
"You have truly a vivid imagination!" said he. "You have already
composed a sad song. You have invested me with the sufferings of the
hero of your romance; but I am no hero, I assure you. The lady is a
countrywoman of mine and a co-religionist. She and her husband are Jews
and live in Warsaw. Our acquaintance is then very natural. Behold the
truth in simple prose."
The Italian tapped her foot impatiently. "This truth seems a little
false," said she. "I observed you closely when you first met her."
Jacob made an effort to smile.
"The real truth is that I might well have been grieved and astonished,
for I know the sad history of this woman."
"Ah! there is, then, as I thought, a sad story?"
"Yes, but I did not figure in it."
Lucie looked at him fixedly, but he returned her glance without
emotion.
"Oh! pray, monsieur," demanded she in a caressing voice, "relate to me
this story. I am dying to hear it."
"I warn you, madame, that it is not remarkable, and as it is the story
of a Jewess it will be less interesting to you than to me. I am afraid
I shall weary you. I am a bad story-teller, long and tiresome."
"You take a long time to tell a story! So much the better, we have
plenty of time to listen. But do not torment me. Begin."
"Permit me, madame, to collect my thoughts for a moment."
"If," said the Dane, "the story is as long as monsieur promises us, and
there is in the story a sentimental woman encumbered with a beast of a
husband and a noble lover, I will excuse myself from listening. I can
guess it all in advance."
"I also," said the Tsigane. "It is always the same thing."
"Where can true love be found to-day?" cried the Dane.
Lucie protested against this atrocious blasphemy, but the Tsigane
replied imperturbably:--
"You will grant that the times of chivalrous love have vanished. Only
the turtle-doves are innocent enough to sigh still. Formerly, as we are
told, humanity passed through a long epoch of exalted love. Today men
have almost abandoned these ways. A hundred years from now they will
laugh at such love-stories and wonder how it could have been. I speak
of such loves as those of Leander and Hero, not that of Calypso for
young and handsome warriors, nor of the love of Nero for Poppea. That
kind of love lasts because it is natural. But love which is torture,
which suffers for some ideal beauty, it is an old, stereotyped plate,
out of fashion. Show me to-day some one who loves in this way or who
would be disposed to make serious sacrifices for love. The young girls
marry because the husband suits the father and mother. The men marry
for settlements, or for charms more or less fascinating. They do not
marry at all for love,--that fantasy has gone out of fashion."
"Why," said Lucie indignantly, "you cannot maintain such ridiculous
assertions."
"I can prove them by facts. Look around you. Everywhere caprice,
passion, love of excitement, etc., but true love nowhere."
Lucie sighed.
"Is this progress or decadence?" asked she.
"I know not. It is sad for you beautiful women to descend from the
pedestal on which you were elevated, but how can you refuse the
evidence of things?"
"Is it so evident?"
"Alas! I do not wish to impose my opinion on you, but reflect
seriously. Where can you find as formerly two souls created for each
other?"
"What you say," interrupted Jacob, "is true up to a certain point. But
I hope the world has only temporarily renounced this poetry. If all
ideality should disappear it would be a sad thing. I will add a
commentary to your remarks, Monsieur Gako. Men do not love themselves
as much as they used. That is why existence is in some sort lessened,
and the number of suicides from weariness of life is daily augmented."
Madame Coloni clapped her hands and reminded Jacob of his promise to
relate a history.
The Tsigane yawned. The Russian lighted a fresh cigarette, the Dane
went out, and when it was silent the Jew commenced in a low voice:--
"In all the legislation of the world the most badly understood and the
most badly judged is perhaps that of Moses. It belongs to me to defend
it in my character of Jew. Our law is the fundamental base of yours. Do
not forget that Jesus said that he came not to destroy the law, but to
complete it.
"It is generally supposed that the Hebrew women were debased to the
level of slaves. Nothing of the kind. Customs were sometimes swerved
from the law, influenced as they were by the barbarity of the times,
but it is not the law which abases woman.
"In the Jewish language she is called _Ischa_, the feminine of _Isch_,
which means 'man.' This name alone indicates the perfect equality of
the sexes. Deuteronomy xxi. 10-15 commends us to respect even the
captives. Polygamy, exceptionally practised by the kings, is forbidden
in a formal manner. The Bible reveals to us in more than one page the
disastrous effects of this immoral custom. On a level with man, _Isch_,
woman, _Ischa_, it is true, was not priest, but she was permitted to
bear the offerings to the altar. No legislation of antiquity or even of
later epochs can show us woman better treated or more respected than
with the Jews. The mothers of the Maccabees and of Judith prove the
importance of that role.
"A young girl of twelve years, _Ketannah_, could be promised in
marriage by her father, but, above that age, become _Nairah_, she could
marry to please herself.
"Pagan and barbarous usages, nevertheless, penetrated even among us at
the epoch of the Kings. The sexes were more strictly separated.
Sometimes, for example, the Jews cloistered the women in a harem, or,
if they were poor, compelled them to do manual labour. There rests this
stain against us, contrary to the true spirit of the Mosaic law.
"Pardon this digression, too grave, perhaps, for a love idyl between a
man and woman. But you will see later on that it was necessary."
"I believe that your story will contain at least two men," said Lucie
lightly.
"It suffices me to put only one in strong relief, although two or three
men will find a place in this history, this idyl, or, if you prefer,
this drama. Without them there could be no drama."
"Or simply a monodrama depending on one man."
"You have all seen this woman whose voice has so charmed us. She is the
most unfortunate of women, because she is obliged to submit to a
situation that is revolting to her.
"Her father, a rich Jew, belongs, or rather belonged, to those of his
race who, owing to a European education, have sunk into a destructive
scepticism, and regard as an imposture all religions, including his
own. Entering early into active life, he attributed the success of his
career partly to luck, but above all to his own intelligence and
energy. Outside of these three forces, there was for him nothing else
here below but a poetical Utopia for the amusement of simpletons.
"The mother of Mathilde was a devout Israelite, but she died young, and
her child was left to the care of so-called Christians, who taught her
their own unbelief in the ideal, and left her to form her mind for good
or evil by reading without discernment. They taught her that there was
neither virtue nor vice, but skill or stupidity, calculation or
improvidence, decency or unseemliness. So that when the maiden entered
society she looked on men as mere ciphers or figures, as they appear in
one of the tables of Pythagoras. Such a society seemed unattractive to
a youthful imagination which had an instinctive longing for the
perfumes of life, and found only dead and withered flowers.
"At an early age she was deprived of these illusions. She was told that
men were wicked, heartless, and deceivers. It would not do to believe
in their protestations; she must view them with contempt and aversion.
It was a good thing to be honest, to spare one's self the trouble of
embarrassment, and honesty is often the best policy. On this theory
crime was only an awkwardness, and virtue without intrinsic worth
unless it brought assured profits.
"As Mathilde might marry an Israelite, a Mussulman, or a Christian, she
had access to the literature of all religious beliefs. She read the
Bible, but her father ridiculed the most sacred passages. This critical
raillery and the numerous books perused by her left her mind nothing
but unbelief.
"Add to this the practical education which endeavoured prematurely to
tear from her all heart, as one pulls an aching tooth to prevent
further suffering, and you can form some idea of what they had done to
this poor child.
"Mathilde entered this existence like an insensible statue, without
taste for life. She foresaw that she would not be happy, for she well
knew that there could be no happiness for noble souls. Her sentiments
did not accord with the line of conduct that had been drawn for her.
Her aspirations were pure, but she was taught that self-interest should
be the only motive of all her aspirations, and that any other course
was a morbid weakness, and would lead to ruin. Although she was
ignorant of many things that had been concealed from her, she divined
them, and each day she rebelled against this desperate reality. Her
widowed father lived on, following his own whims without regard to
moral law, and without belief in virtue. Coveting all that was
accessible to him, he led a selfish life, and, although he was careful
to observe the proprieties in his house, his practices were visible to
the eyes of his young daughter, who was convinced that true affection
had no place in the hearts of men. Her generous nature revolted sadly
against this paternal materialism. Any other woman under the influence
of such an example, in such an immoral atmosphere, would have been
corrupted. Mathilde felt only a profound melancholy. Nature and study
became her consolers. Art spoke to her of the great sentiments toward
which she had wished to raise herself, but had been prevented.
"There is perhaps no torture more intense than a struggle like this
between noble instincts and the animalism of the world. Mathilde in her
fourteenth year was already as sad, as wearied, as she is to-day of
this existence without future and without hope. Before her appeared the
certainty of an advantageous marriage which would render her life a
success in a worldly sense. Nothing more! Her father, with his wealth,
was sure to find a young husband of good position, possessed of riches
equal to his own. It was not to be supposed that he would seek for
other qualities, and it was certain that he would not suffer from his
daughter, whom he loved after his own fashion, the least remonstrance
in regard to his choice.
"While the girl was growing up in this poisonous moral atmosphere, in
the midst of every luxury, a young man came to the house."
"I have waited for him a long time with impatience," cried Lucie
Coloni. "Behold, at last he is here!"
"Do not ask me to describe his character," said Jacob. "The heroes of
true romances like this all resemble each other in general. They have
external fascinations, all the virtues, all the grand and noble
qualities, an affectionate heart and an exalted head, and so forth. But
my hero, nevertheless, differs a little from the ordinary. He had some
distinctive traits; he had been poor, and was little accustomed to
_salons_. He had drawn all the forces of his success and energy from
the school of humility; he was modest, peaceable, and little expansive,
like all those to whom a premature sadness has proved that to ask
sympathy provokes only raillery in this world. The father of Mathilde
was a distant relative of this young man, and had taken him to his
house to finish his education, having recognized in him a certain
capacity. He intended to push his fortunes owing to a noble sentiment
of relationship which remained in his heart, and was almost the only
trace of old Judaism. He also felt some pride in protecting a young man
who promised to do himself honour in the world. This promise was only
partly fulfilled, for too precocious talents do not always produce the
fruits that are expected of them.
"The young man, who had finished his studies and was preparing himself
for business, lived in the house of his protector, who intended to send
him to foreign parts to oversee his business. You may give to my hero
any name you wish."
"Call him Jacob," said Ivas.
"No, no! let us call him Janus, the Polish equivalent for Jonas. I do
not know, madame, if it is hardly worth while to relate the rest to
you, for it is easy to divine. Two orphaned souls, aspiring to the
poetry of life, could not meet without loving. Mathilde found in him a
nobleness which responded to her ideal of a man's character, and he
recognized in her his ideal of melancholy beauty.
"In his protector's house it was necessary to be on guard, lest he
should suspect an inclination which would cause them to be separated,
and should chase Janus from his Paradise. The young people well
understood that they must feign indifference for fear of such a
catastrophe. A few words exchanged in a room full of people, on the
street, or near the piano, some furtive glances,--behold the relations
of the young man with Mathilde!
"The father had not the least idea that this unfortunate youth could
dare to throw his eyes on an inheritance worthy of a Rothschild. If
such a thought had by chance entered his head, he would have put it
away as a thing impossible.
"The English governess, mature but romantic still, was very fond of
these Platonic friendships, and had herself even such a weakness for
the young man that she hoped to fascinate him by the multiplicity of
her talents. She put no restraint upon her pupil, and she even took it
upon herself to assist them. His host, seeing the man[oe]uvres of Miss
Burnet, for he had for these things much perspicuity, laughed in his
sleeve, thinking it quite natural for Janus thus to commence his virile
career, and never dreaming that it was his daughter to whom the youth
aspired."
Jacob paused, as if short of breath, and Lucie gave him some sherbet.
There was a moment of silence, then he resumed his narrative in a
weaker voice:--
"Recall, each one of you, kind listeners, your youth and the earliest
flower of the springtime of your first love. Consider that angel of
candour, chained unhappily to the earth, this most prosaic earth, while
her wings unfold and open to carry her to heaven. The youth adored her
as a divinity, and she saw in him a celestial messenger sent to her
from the ethereal world. That is the romance which they held in their
hearts, and which they would not manifest visibly. Two words sufficed
to make them happy for a long time. A look, when they met during the
day, gave them new strength to live.
"The word 'love' was never mentioned between them. The same chaste
sentiment beat in unison in their hearts without inflaming their brains
or their senses. For them silence even was a poem of happiness; the
smile, a joy divine; and a flower was an avowal.
"These felicities, which appeared afterward like child's play, and
which reason turned to raillery, passed unperceived.
"Neither Mathilde's father nor her governess had the least suspicion of
anything serious. The father even thought that, at times, his daughter
was too timid and too cold toward Janus, and Miss Burnet reproached her
for the same thing. The want of theory or of practice, I know not
which, deceived her, and she supposed that it was to herself that Janus
aspired.
"Alas! this dream of the heart, this love without hope, vanished like a
dream at the gate of Paradise. One morning, or rather one afternoon,
the father ordered his daughter, with a very indifferent air, to dress
herself with much care, as he expected a visitor. A short time before
dinner there entered a young man, distinguished, well-bred, a perfect
man of the world, and whom the father presented under the name of Henri
Segel.
"There are presentiments! This black-eyed Antinoues, with a perpetual
smile on his lips, with an amiability so spiritual and so courteous,
frightened the girl. She felt for him a violent repulsion, a strange
sentiment which is explained by psychology only; she detested him,
although she had nothing with which to reproach him.
"He loved music, and was himself a good musician, and he was said to be
enormously rich.
"Three days after, the father said quietly to his daughter, without
asking her opinion, that Henri Segel was her betrothed. In announcing
this he said that she was to be congratulated on having pleased
Monsieur Segel, and that he had fallen desperately in love with her.
All this was in a tone which did not permit the slightest
contradiction. The thing was settled; she had nothing to say about it.
"The marriage seemed to him so suitable that all hesitation or
opposition would have appeared an unpardonable childishness. She ought
to consider herself a very lucky girl.
"Mathilde did not reply, but she grew frightfully pale. She was
congratulated on all sides, while she suffered in her heart. Her sad
glance seemed to say to Jacob"--
"Pardon me," cried Ivas, "but you called him Janus."
Jacob blushed, drank a glass of water, wiped his brow, and seemed
unable to continue his story.
"You are right," said he at last. "I was mistaken."
"Continue, monsieur,--continue, I beg of you," cried Lucie.
"It was," said the Jew, "a pleasant evening in springtime. The perfume
of flowers was spread abroad, and on the leaves glistened drops of dew.
Mathilde and Miss Burnet walked in the garden. Seated on a bench, Janus
held a book which he did not read. The Englishwoman saw him and
directed their steps toward him. Happily, or perhaps unfortunately,
just then there came a friend of Miss Burnet. Chance willed that the
lovers were left alone together. They were both glad and frightened at
this unexpected circumstance. They walked together for some time in
silence, trembling and hardly breathing. The two Englishwomen had a
thousand secrets to relate, and left them alone a long time. The
governess had even whispered to her pupil on leaving, 'Go as far as you
please.'
"They strolled along in silence. She gathered flowers, among the leaves
of which her tears mingled with the dew-drops. He, pensive, looked at
her and man-like held back the tears that rose to his eyes. Suddenly
Mathilde stopped. She raised her head proudly, as if she had gained a
victory over herself. She put her hand to her side, and threw on her
kinsman a strange look in which she gave herself to him for eternity.
"'Very soon,' murmured she, 'we must separate. You know what awaits me.
It will be sweet for me to recall this evening's walk. And you, will
you remember?'
"She spoke to him for the first time in a sad and solemn voice. Her
expressive words went to Janus' heart, and he thought he should go mad.
His heart beat violently, his hands were clenched on his breast.
"'Forget you, Mathilde!' cried he. 'Forget the happiness I have tasted
with you! Oh, no, never! Never! I swear to you that I will never marry
another woman, for I have loved you, and I love you still, as one loves
but once in life. Why need I tell you all my love when you know it
already!'
"'I have believed it, and I still believe it, but life is long and
memory unfaithful. For you men, it is said that love is a pastime, for
us it is existence. I have loved you, and I will never cease to love
you!'
"Stifled sobs interrupted her words.
"'Love could never be a plaything to me,' said Janus. 'In my eyes it is
the most sacred thing in life. It is the marriage of two souls for
eternity.'
"'I believe it,' cried Mathilde, 'and that is why I love you. I feel
that you are honest and sincere; you know what awaits me. They have
sold me to a man for whom I have an invincible aversion. But I will not
suffer long, for I shall soon die. May your soul be the tomb where my
memory will not perish! My father will raise for me a monument, my
husband will give me a fine funeral, but my grave before long will be
covered with weeds; may a memory of me remain, at least, in your
heart!'
"The Englishwomen were so absorbed in their conversation that they
prolonged their farewells for some time.
"'To-day,' continued Mathilde, 'I have seen you so sad that I have
wished, under pretence of saying adieu, to give you some words of
consolation. Who knows if we shall ever meet alone again; let me then
repeat that I love you; that I love and will love you until death.'
"'Mathilde,' cried he, rebelling against their destiny, 'if you have
confidence in me, leave this house. Behold two arms which can procure
you bread. Your father will forgive us, and you will be mine forever.'
"'No!' she answered firmly, after an instant of reflection; 'I love you
like a child, but I can reason like a mature woman. I do not believe in
a future; for me the future is a lure. I should bring you, perhaps,
some moments of happiness, but afterward I should be a cause of
weariness and remorse. You have no right to show yourself so ungrateful
to your protector, who has done much for you. Who knows whether you
would not be disappointed in me. I am already fading, having been
poisoned from my cradle. My unbelief awakens. I hear a mocking laugh
vibrate in my ears, even when tears are in my eyes. No, no! a hundred
times no! It will be better for you to love the dead, for who knows if
living, you would love me long.'
"She dismissed him with a sigh, and withdrew from him as if she feared
that she might be persuaded.
"After a little, she returned to Janus, who was lost in bitter
thoughts. He had remained where she had left him, with bowed head and
clasped hands.
"'What do you think of my future husband?' asked she.
"'I detest him.'
"'Is it because he is to be my husband?'
"'No. He produced this impression at first sight.'
"'And why?'
"'I know not. He is odious to me, although I know nothing against him.
He is rich, fashionable, very amiable. And with all that I cannot like
him.'
"'I even fear,' added Mathilde, 'that he has nothing human in him. He
is a being which appears to me to be utterly without heart, a sort of
automaton fabricated by the nineteenth century. With all his knowledge,
I am sure that he does not know how to weep, nor suffer, nor to have
pity or compassion on the sorrows of others. If he gives alms, it is
for ostentation or calculation; but he will not grieve for an
unfortunate; he will never sympathize with him nor mingle his tears
with his. Our epoch of iron has fashioned men worthy of herself. She
has made them of iron, and the blood that courses in their veins is no
longer pure, but has grown rusty.'
"'Perhaps you are a little too severe,' said Janus. 'However, it is the
same impression that I have formed of him. But love and a wife often
transform a man.'
"'A man, yes, but not an automaton. His very look freezes me. This
sweet smile, this perpetual gayety which cannot be natural, irritates
me. He is always the same,--a being of marble. My God! have pity on
me!'
"In saying these words she drew from her hand a ring and put it on one
of his fingers.
"'I bought this expressly for you. Preserve it in memory of her whom
you have loved. It is black; it is a mourning ring, the only kind
appropriate to our unhappy love. After to-day any conversation between
us will be impossible, so farewell, and forget me not.'
"She left him and joined her governess.
"These were the first and last words of love that passed between them.
They saw each other every day, but as strangers. They bowed to each
other, but neither of them ever sought another interview. Hereafter
only shadows and silence would surround their passion.
"Mathilde accepted, without a word, the husband that her father had
chosen for her. The marriage was celebrated with great ostentation. The
victim walked to the altar robed in satin and lace and covered with
diamonds.
"Her father was radiant with the joy of having so well established his
daughter. Every one knew that he had given her a million for a wedding
dowry, and that still another was promised, and that the husband
possessed several himself, with expectations besides. All the mothers,
all the fathers, and all the marriageable young girls envied Mathilde's
luck. Behold, in all its simplicity, the end of my story!
"Two years have passed, and you have met this husband and wife. He is
always calm and happy, she, sad. The only thing that ever troubles him
is when he fails to receive in good time the reports of the bourse of
Paris or London. To amuse him she sings, as you have heard, the music
of Mendelssohn. Truly, it was hardly worth while to listen to my story.
It is a romance which happens every day, and which has been related a
thousand times before."
"And Janus?" asked the lady.
"Janus wears always the ring of his only beloved. He bears his sorrow,
for in one hour he drained the dregs of despair. To-day he is only a
body without soul."
"The story is heart-rending above all expression," said Lucie, "and I
admit that I expected something more dramatic. The victim has all my
sympathy. As for the lover, I am not anxious about him. This 'body
without soul' will soon be consoled."
"I doubt it," replied Jacob. "Consolation comes only to those who wish
to console themselves. Janus is resigned to a perpetual mourning of the
heart."
"No one would believe," remarked Madame Coloni, "that this story was of
our day; its character is so simple and so elegiac."
Jacob rose; the hour was late, and all the company prepared to retire.
The Russian, who had remained silent all the evening, was the only one
who did not hasten to depart.
"Then, if not in Genoa, we shall meet again in Warsaw," said Lucie to
Ivas and Jacob.
"You are surely going there, madame?"
"It appears that it is decided," replied she, looking at her companion.
"The hour of departure only is not yet fixed. You will, perhaps, be
kind enough to come to see me."
Ivas and Jacob returned to the Hotel Feder.
"I believe," said Ivas, "that I will not hear the rest of your
biography this evening. You are already too fatigued with your
remembrances. Good-night!"