that magnificent street which is proudly called the _Ætnean Road_, and
which passes through Catania in a straight line, from the water's edge
to the foot of Ætna; as if, to quote a traveller, "the people who had
erected their superb palaces along that road had intended to afford the
angry volcano a way befitting its majesty."
At critical moments, when the time is too short, when the hours seem
rather to gallop than to walk, when human forces are at odds with the
impossible in some feverish toil, very few men are endowed with
sufficient strength of will to retain the hope of triumphing at last. At
such moments it is simply a matter of quadrupling one's own faculties
and performing a miracle. Most of the workmen were utterly discouraged
and proposed to abandon that temporary structure and to conceal the
opening with flowers and pictures; in short, to inflict upon the
organizers of the fête the unpleasant surprise of a departure from
their plans. Pier-Angelo revived the courage of those who seemed
well-disposed, and set to work. Michel performed prodigies in the way of
assisting them; and in ten minutes, the task which it was said would
take two hours was completed as if by magic.
"Michel," then said the old man, wiping his head, which was bald to the
base of the skull, "I am satisfied with you, and I see that you are a
good workman; which, in my eyes, is an indispensable qualification for
any man who wishes to become a great artist. Everyone cannot work fast,
and most of those who make haste do bad work. We must not despise them
for that. In the ordinary course of affairs all work requires coolness,
calculation, orderly management, foresight, in short, common sense--yes,
even in loading a cart with stones, there are a thousand ways of going
about it and only one right way. One man will take too many on his
shovel, another not enough; one lifts his arm too high and throws the
stones over the cart, another doesn't lift it high enough and throws
them among the wheels. Have you never compared one thing with another
and reflected, as you watched the simple work of the fields? Have you
seen men digging? In that, as in everything else, there is one good
workman to twenty bunglers. And who can say that the man who does as
much work with the spade as four others, without tiring himself out and
without losing a second, is not a superior man, who would do more
difficult things admirably? Tell me, what do you think about it? For my
part, I have always had that thought in my mind, and by watching the
girls picking strawberries on the mountain, I can pick out the one who
will best manage her house and bring up her children someday. Do you
think I am talking nonsense? Answer me."
"I think that you are right, father," Michel replied, with a smile; "to
work quickly and well, one must combine presence of mind with an ardent
will; he must have fever in his blood and a clear head. He must be able
to think and act simultaneously. No, that power certainly is not given
to everyone; and it is a painful thing to see so many feeble and
incompetent organizations in proportion to the small number of placid
and powerful ones. Alas! I am alarmed for myself, notwithstanding the
praise you have just given me, for I rarely feel in that powerful and
productive humor, and if I was in that humor just now, I owe it to your
example."
"No, no, Michel, no example is of any use to the impotent. Poor
creatures! they do what they can, and that is an excellent reason why
those who are stronger and more capable should make it their duty to
relieve them. Do you not feel glad and proud to have done it?"
"You are right, father! you can find the noble and praiseworthy aspect
of my instincts better than I can myself. Ah! Pier-Angelo, you do not
know how to read, and you have had me taught a thousand things that you
do not know. And yet you are the light of my mind, and, at every step I
take, I feel that you are helping to open a blind man's eyes."
"That is well said!" cried honest Pier-Angelo, with artless joy. "I wish
that could be written down. It reminded me of when the actors recite
noble sentences on the stage. Let us see, how did you say it? repeat it
for me. You called me by my name, as if I were not here, and you were
thinking aloud of your old friend. Oh! I love fine words, that I do!
_Pier-Angelo, you do not know how to write_--you began so. And then you
compared yourself to a blind man whose light I was--I, a poor ignorant
fellow, whose heart sees clear for you, Michel, none the less. I wish I
could write poetry in pure Tuscan; but I only know how to improvise in
my Sicilian dialect, in which, provided you rhyme in _i_ and _u_ you can
always succeed in producing something that resembles poetry. If I could
I would write a beautiful ballad about the love and modesty of a son who
attributes to his old simpleton of a father all that he discovers about
himself; a ballad! there is nothing in the world more perfect than a
good ballad. I know a great many of them, but there are very few with
which I am perfectly satisfied. I would like to be able to supply
something that is lacking in them all. That reminds me that I shall have
to sing to-night at supper. Hum! after swallowing such a lot of dust!
but there will be plenty of good wine for the workmen to drink. Don't
you mean to come? Evidently you don't like to drink with everybody.
Perhaps you are right. They say that you are proud; but, on the other
hand, you are sober and dignified. You must do what suits you. After
all, it's of no use for you to talk, you will never be a simple mechanic
like me, whatever you may do. You help me at my work now, and that is
well done. But once our little debts are paid, you will return to Rome,
for I propose that you shall continue the noble studies that attract you
so."
"Ah! father, every word you say goes to my heart. Our little debts! it
was I who contracted them, not only for useful studies, but for foolish
diversions and insane, childish vanities. And when I think that each
year I pass at Rome costs you the whole avails of your toil!"
"Even so! for whom should I earn money, if not for my son?"
"But you rob yourself!"
"Of nothing at all. I find friendship and confidence wherever I am
employed; and except a little good wine, which is an old man's milk, and
which is neither scarce nor dear in our blessed climate, thank God! I
need nothing. What does a man of my age require? Must I think of the
future? Your sister is industrious; she will find a good husband. Is not
my present lot what my lot will be to my last hour? There is nothing new
for me to learn which I can put to any use. Why should I hoard money? to
hoard it for your maturer years would be absurd; it would simply be
depriving your youth of the means of developing and making sure of the
future."
"Alas! it is the thought of your future that terrifies me, father! An
old man's future is loss of strength, infirmity, neglect, destitution!
And suppose all your sacrifices were wasted! Suppose I should prove to
be devoid of virtue, intelligence, courage, talent! Suppose I should not
succeed in making my fortune, in finding a good husband for my sister,
and in assuring your comfort and security in your old age!"
"Nonsense! nonsense! it is insulting Providence to doubt yourself when
you are conscious of being disposed to do what is right. Besides, let us
put everything in the worst light, and you will see that nothing is
lost. I will assume that you are simply an ordinary artist; you will
still earn your living, and as you do not lack wit, you will know how to
be contented with such pleasures as are within your reach. You will do
like me, who, although I have never been rich, have never considered
myself poor, because my wants have never exceeded my resources. That is
a philosophy with which you are not familiar as yet, because you are at
the age of expansive desires and expansive hopes; but it will come to
you if your plans fail. Mind you, I do not admit that they can fail.
That is why I do not preach moderation to you now. Power is still
better. The man who aims true at the ring with his lance is drunk with
joy. He carries off the prize, and congratulates himself on having had
the courage to compete. But he who has broken several lances with no
result goes away saying: 'My luck is bad; I will not try again.' And he
too is pleased that he has profited by experience and has had the
courage to read himself a salutary lesson. But the evening breeze dries
the perspiration on my old forehead a little too quickly; I am going to
the pantry to eat and drink. As there is nothing more for you to do
here, you may as well get our tools together and go home."
"And when will you come home, father?"
"Ah! Michel, I don't know when or how! it will depend on how much I
enjoy the supper. You know that I am very sober, generally speaking, and
drink only to quench my thirst; but if they lead me on to laugh and
sing, and chatter, I get excited and have paroxysms of merriment and
poetic enthusiasm which carry me off to the moon; and then it's of no
use to talk to me about going to bed. Don't be anxious about me. I shall
not fall down in a corner, I am not a beastly sot; my drunkenness is
that of brilliant minds, on the contrary, and I never act more
reasonably than when I am a little mad; that is to say, I shall be at
work again here at daylight to-morrow, to assist in undoing all we have
done this week, and I shall be less tired than if I had passed the night
in my bed."
"You must despise me for being unable to find in wine the superhuman
strength that it gives you!"
"You have never cared to try!" cried the old man; and he added
instantly: "and you have done well! because at your age it is an
unnecessary stimulant. Ah! when I was young the lightest glance from a
woman would have given me more strength than the whole of the princess's
cellar would give me at this moment! Well, good-night, my boy."
As he spoke, Pier-Angelo started up the wooden staircase he had helped
to put in place, for he and his son had been talking in the garden,
where he had thrown himself on the turf to recover his breath. Michel
detained him, and, instead of leaving him, said with inexplicable
emotion:
"Father, are you entitled to remain at the ball after the invited guests
have arrived?"
"Why, surely," replied Pier-Angelo, surprised by the young man's manner.
"Several of us were selected from each branch of trade, about a hundred
men in all, to see that nothing goes wrong during the festivity. In the
midst of so much commotion, a board may give way, or a piece of canvas
get loose and take fire from the candles; a thousand accidents always
have to be guarded against, and a certain number of tried arms always
kept in readiness to repair them. We may have nothing to do; and in that
case we shall pass the night merrily at table; but, whatever happens, we
are at hand. Moreover, we have the right to go everywhere, in order to
have an eye upon everything and to prevent fire, confusion, the bad
smell from the candles that go out, the fall of a picture, a chandelier,
a vase, heaven knows what! We are always wanted, and we make a circuit
of the rooms, turn and turn about, if for nothing more than to prevent
pickpockets from creeping in."
"And you are paid to do this servant's work?"
"We are paid if we choose. To those who do it purely from good-will the
princess always makes some acceptable present, and for old friends like
me she always has a pleasant word and some delicate little attention.
And then, even if it brought me in nothing, isn't it my duty to place my
foresight, my activity, and my loyalty at the service of a woman whom I
esteem as much as I esteem her? I have no need of her assistance as yet;
but I have seen how she helps those who get into difficulty, and I know
that she would dress my wounds with her own hands if I were wounded."
"Yes, yes, I know all about that," rejoined Michel, gloomily;
"benevolence, charity, pity, alms-giving!"
"Come, come! Master Pier-Angelo," said a valet, who passed them at that
moment, "it is time to change your clothes. Take off your apron, the
guests are arriving; go to the dressing-room, or to the buffet first, if
you like."
"True," said Pier-Angelo, "we are a little untidy to rub elbows with
such beautiful gowns. Farewell, Michel, I am going to beautify myself.
Go home and rest."
Michel glanced at his own clothes, which were soiled and torn in a
thousand places. His pride returned; he slowly descended the steps
leading to the main ball-room and walked across it, amid the resplendent
groups which were beginning to appear. A young man who entered as Michel
was going out jostled him roughly. Michel was on the point of flying
into a rage; but he restrained himself when he saw that the young man in
question was as distraught as he.
He was a youth of some twenty-five years, of small stature and with a
most attractive face. And yet, both in his face and bearing there was
something peculiar which attracted Michel's attention, although he could
not explain to his own satisfaction why he should take an interest in
the stranger. It is certain, however, that there must have been
something unusual about him, for the door-keeper to whom he had handed
his card of admission glanced several times from him to the card and
from the card to him, as if he wished to make sure that it was all
right. He had not taken three steps into the room when other people
turned their eyes upon him as if by virtue of a contagious impulse, and
Michel, still standing by the door, heard a lady say to the gentleman
who escorted her:
"Who is that man? I do not know him."
"Nor do I," was the reply; "but what do you expect? In a company so
numerous as this is likely to be, do you fancy that you will not meet
many strange faces?"
"Of course, I expect to," replied the lady, "and we shall see, in this
ball for which anyone can buy a ticket, a mixture that will amuse us. To
begin with, I am amused by this person who has just come in, and has
stopped short under the first chandelier, as if he were looking for his
road through this huge room. Just look at him! it is very curious; he's
a handsome fellow!"
"Really, you are very much engrossed by that youth," said her escort,
who, whether lover or husband, knew Sicilian womankind by heart. And so,
instead of looking at the man to whom his attention was directed, he
looked behind, to see whether, while his attention was attracted in one
direction, someone on the other side did not hand her a note or exchange
a meaning glance with her. But, whether because she was really virtuous,
or by mere chance, she was sincere at that moment and looked at no one
but the stranger.
Michel did not go away, and yet he had ceased to think of the reckless
youth who had jostled him; he had espied, at the end of the ball-room, a
white dress and a coronet of diamonds which twinkled like pale stars. He
had seen the princess only an instant, and there were many other women
at the ball in white dresses, many other diadems of precious stones.
However, he was not mistaken as to her identity, and he could not take
his eyes from her.
The lady and gentleman who had noticed the arrival of the unknown young
man walked away, and Michel heard other voices at his side.
"I have seen that face somewhere, I don't know where," said a lady.
A pale, lovely young woman, who was walking with the last speaker,
exclaimed, in a tone which aroused Michel from his reverie:
"Ah! great God! what a resemblance!"
"Why! what is the matter, my dear?"
"Nothing; a memory, a resemblance; but it is not the same----"
"What are you talking about, pray?"
"I will tell you later. First of all, look at that man."
"That short young man? I certainly don't know him."
"Nor do I; but he bears a most appalling resemblance to a man who----"
Michel heard no more; the beautiful young woman had lowered her voice as
she walked on.
Who could that man be who had just come in, and who already produced
such a marked sensation? Michel looked at him and saw that he was
retracing his steps as if he intended to go out; but he halted in front
of him and said in a voice as soft as a woman's: "My friend, will you be
kind enough to tell me which of all the ladies who are already here is
Princess Agatha de Palmarosa?"
"I have no idea," replied Michel, impelled by an instinctive feeling of
distrust and jealousy.
"Then you do not know her?" queried the stranger.
"No, signor," replied Michel, dryly.
The stranger entered the ball-room and plunged into the crowd, which was
rapidly increasing. Michel looked after him and observed something
peculiar in his carriage. Although he was dressed in the height of
fashion, and with an elaborateness which bordered on bad taste, he
seemed ill at ease in his clothes, like a man who had never before worn
a black coat and close-fitting breeches. And yet there was in his manner
a something haughty and distinguished which did not denote the petty
bourgeois in his Sunday garb.
As Michel turned to go away at last, he saw that the halberdier who was
guarding the door was equally engrossed by the stranger's appearance.
"I don't know," he was saying to Barbagallo, the majordomo, who had just
accosted him, apparently to question him; "I know a peasant who looks
like him, but it isn't the man."
A third retainer came up and said:
"That must be the Greek prince who arrived yesterday, or one of his
escort."
"Or else some follower of the Egyptian envoy," said the halberdier.
"Or else," added Barbagallo, "some Levantine merchant. When those people
leave off their native costume and dress in the European style, you
can't recognize them. Did he buy his ticket at the door? You mustn't
allow anybody to do that."
"He had his ticket in his hand; I saw him present it all open, and the
door-keeper said: 'Her Highness's signature.'"
Michel had not listened to this discussion; he was already well on his
way to Catania.
He returned to his humble abode and sat down on his bed; but he forgot
to lie down. As he threw back his hair, the weight of which made his
forehead hot, he saw a small flower fall. It was a white cyclamen
blossom. How had it broken off and clung to his hair? There was no
reason for much surprise or uneasiness. The place where he had worked
and hustled about, gone hither and thither a thousand times, was so
thickly strewn with flowers of all sorts.
But Michel did not remember that. He simply remembered the enormous
bouquet of cyclamen which the Princess of Palmarosa carried when he had
stooped tremblingly and kissed her hand. He put the flower to his lips;
it exhaled an intoxicating odor. He took his head in both hands. It
seemed to him that he was going mad.
IX
MILA
The mental disturbance which our young painter experienced at that
moment was due to two causes, one an absurd sort of jealousy, which had
taken possession of him like an attack of fever, with respect to
Princess Agatha; the other, a feeling of disquiet, because he had failed
to obtain that noble person's approval of his paintings. Of course it
was not mere love of gain, the desire to be paid more or less
handsomely, which worked upon him thus. So long as he had been engrossed
by the fever of production, he had given very little thought to the
subject of the signora's personal opinion; he had thought only of
succeeding, of satisfying himself; then, having almost succeeded in his
own eyes, and having not as yet seen his mysterious patroness, he had
wondered, with more hope than alarm, whether he should find enough
enlightened judges in that province to establish his reputation upon an
undertaking of that sort. In short, he had had so much to do up to the
last moment that he had not had time to analyze his anxiety.
When he was quite alone, he found that he was strangely disturbed by the
knowledge that people were passing judgment on his work, and that he
could not be there. What prevented him? No orders related to his humble
position in society, but a poignant false shame, which he did not feel
the strength to overcome.
And yet Michel was not cowardly, either as a man or as an artist.
Despite his youth he had already reflected deeply concerning his future
prospects, and he had already reviewed concisely enough the list of
successes and reverses connected with his destiny. Feeling that he was
seized with faint-heartedness at the outset, he was surprised, and tried
to fight against himself. But the more he questioned himself, the more
fully he recognized his weakness, but would not avow its cause.
Therefore we will give the reader that information.
At the bottom of this depression and alarm there lay a feeling of
uncertainty as to the opinion the princess had formed concerning him.
Pier-Angelo had told him that morning that during Sunday her highness
had inspected the ball-room; but that, as he was not present, he did not
know what she had said. Master Barbagallo, being in ill-humor because of
the numerous vexations attendant upon the fête, had spoken very coldly
to him on the subject, but had not said that the princess seemed
dissatisfied or that she criticised anything. Whereupon honest
Pier-Angelo had added, with his usual confidence: "Never fear, she knows
what is what. It is impossible that she should not be satisfied beyond
what she expected." Michel had surrendered to that confidence without
paying much heed to the question whether it was justified. He had said
to himself that, even if the princess were not a connoisseur, there
would soon be enough connoisseurs about her to guide her judgment.
Moreover, he was afraid of everybody now because he was afraid of the
princess. She had looked at him in a way that had completely upset him;
but she had said nothing to him; not a word of praise or encouragement
had accompanied that glance, which was more than kind, it is true, but
for that very reason incomprehensible. And suppose he had been mistaken
touching the expression of her face! suppose that, when she thus fixed
her lovely, joy-laden eyes upon him, she was thinking of some entirely
different person--her lover, perhaps, for she must have a lover,
whatever Magnani might say!
At the bare idea Michel felt faint and sick; he fancied that he saw the
princess leaning on the arm of the fortunate mortal for whose sake she
pretended to entertain no thought of marriage. They were glancing
absently at the young painter's work, and smiling as they looked into
each other's eyes, as if to say:
"What does it matter to us? nothing is beautiful, nothing exists for us,
except ourselves."
Weary of suffering so entirely without reason, Michel thought to conquer
and tranquillize himself by adopting a superb resolution.
"I will go to bed," he said to himself, "and sleep like a prince, like a
hero, while people are criticising me, disputing and perhaps getting
excited about me in yonder palace. To-morrow morning, father will come
and wake me, and tell me whether I have won the laurel wreath or have
been hissed. What does it matter to me, after all?"
It mattered so little to him, in very truth, that, instead of
undressing, he dressed to go to the ball. In a most extraordinary fit of
abstraction, he arranged his beautiful hair, which would have been a bit
too long for a strictly fashionable patrician, but which formed a
beautiful frame for his intelligent and impassioned face. He removed
with the greatest care all traces of toil; he donned his finest linen
and his best clothes; and when he had glanced at his little mirror, he
decided, and with good reason, that no guest at the princess's ball
would present a more distinguished figure than he.
Having thus prepared for bed, he left the house, and when he had taken
ten steps out of doors, he discovered that an inexplicable preoccupation
was leading him in the direction of the Palmarosa palace. Indignant with
himself, he returned, took off his coat, tossed it on the bed, opened
his window and sat beside it, torn between the heroic determination to
retire and the irresistible temptation to go and witness the fête.
The countless lights of the palace twinkled before his eyes, the notes
of the orchestra reached his ears through the echoing night. Carriages
were rolling in all directions; no one was asleep in the city or the
outlying country. Indeed, it was not nine o'clock, and Michel felt
little inclined to sleep. He closed his window and started to take up a
book; but the cyclamen, which he had tossed upon the table in an
outburst of anger against himself, was the only object within his reach.