Emil, who had continued to stand with his face to the window, even
after Sanin’s invitation to him to sit down, turned round directly his
future kinsman had gone out, and with a childish pout and blush, asked
Sanin if he might remain a little while with him. “I am much better
to-day,” he added, “but the doctor has forbidden me to do any work.”
“Stay by all means! You won’t be in the least in my way,” Sanin cried
at once. Like every true Russian he was glad to clutch at any excuse
that saved him from the necessity of doing anything himself.
Emil thanked him, and in a very short time he was completely at home
with him and with his room; he looked at all his things, asked him
about almost every one of them, where he had bought it, and what was
its value. He helped him to shave, observing that it was a mistake not
to let his moustache grow; and finally told him a number of details
about his mother, his sister, Pantaleone, the poodle Tartaglia, and all
their daily life. Every semblance of timidity vanished in Emil; he
suddenly felt extraordinarily attracted to Sanin—not at all because he
had saved his life the day before, but because he was such a nice
person! He lost no time in confiding all his secrets to Sanin. He
expatiated with special warmth on the fact that his mother was set on
making him a shopkeeper, while he _knew_, knew for certain, that he was
born an artist, a musician, a singer; that Pantaleone even encouraged
him, but that Herr Klüber supported mamma, over whom he had great
influence; that the very idea of his being a shopkeeper really
originated with Herr Klüber, who considered that nothing in the world
could compare with trade! To measure out cloth—and cheat the public,
extorting from it “_Narren—oder Russen Preise_” (fools’—or Russian
prices)—that was his ideal![1]
[1] In former days—and very likely it is not different now—when, from
May onwards, a great number of Russians visited Frankfort, prices rose
in all the shops, and were called “Russians’,” or, alas! “fools’
prices.”
“Come! now you must come and see us!” he cried, directly Sanin had
finished his toilet and written his letter to Berlin.
“It’s early yet,” observed Sanin.
“That’s no matter,” replied Emil caressingly. “Come along! We’ll go to
the post—and from there to our place. Gemma will be so glad to see you!
You must have lunch with us…. You might say a word to mamma about me,
my career….”
“Very well, let’s go,” said Sanin, and they set off.
X
Gemma certainly was delighted to see him, and Frau Lenore gave him a
very friendly welcome; he had obviously made a good impression on both
of them the evening before. Emil ran to see to getting lunch ready,
after a preliminary whisper, “don’t forget!” in Sanin’s ear.
“I won’t forget,” responded Sanin.
Frau Lenore was not quite well; she had a sick headache, and,
half-lying down in an easy chair, she tried to keep perfectly still.
Gemma wore a full yellow blouse, with a black leather belt round the
waist; she too seemed exhausted, and was rather pale; there were dark
rings round her eyes, but their lustre was not the less for it; it
added something of charm and mystery to the classical lines of her
face. Sanin was especially struck that day by the exquisite beauty of
her hands; when she smoothed and put back her dark, glossy tresses he
could not take his eyes off her long supple fingers, held slightly
apart from one another like the hand of Raphael’s Fornarina.
It was very hot out-of-doors; after lunch Sanin was about to take
leave, but they told him that on such a day the best thing was to stay
where one was, and he agreed; he stayed. In the back room where he was
sitting with the ladies of the household, coolness reigned supreme; the
windows looked out upon a little garden overgrown with acacias.
Multitudes of bees, wasps, and humming beetles kept up a steady, eager
buzz in their thick branches, which were studded with golden blossoms;
through the half-drawn curtains and the lowered blinds this
never-ceasing hum made its way into the room, telling of the sultry
heat in the air outside, and making the cool of the closed and snug
abode seem the sweeter.
Sanin talked a great deal, as on the day before, but not of Russia, nor
of Russian life. Being anxious to please his young friend, who had been
sent off to Herr Klüber’s immediately after lunch, to acquire a
knowledge of book-keeping, he turned the conversation on the
comparative advantages and disadvantages of art and commerce. He was
not surprised at Frau Lenore’s standing up for commerce—he had expected
that; but Gemma too shared her opinion.
“If one’s an artist, and especially a singer,” she declared with a
vigorous downward sweep of her hand, “one’s got to be first-rate!
Second-rate’s worse than nothing; and who can tell if one will arrive
at being first-rate?” Pantaleone, who took part too in the
conversation—(as an old servant and an old man he had the privilege of
sitting down in the presence of the ladies of the house; Italians are
not, as a rule, strict in matters of etiquette)—Pantaleone, as a matter
of course, stood like a rock for art. To tell the truth, his arguments
were somewhat feeble; he kept expatiating for the most part on the
necessity, before all things, of possessing “_un certo estro
d’inspirazione_”—a certain force of inspiration! Frau Lenore remarked
to him that he had, to be sure, possessed such an “_estro_”—and yet …
“I had enemies,” Pantaleone observed gloomily. “And how do you know
that Emil will not have enemies, even if this “_estro_” is found in
him?” “Very well, make a tradesman of him, then,” retorted Pantaleone
in vexation; “but Giovan’ Battista would never have done it, though he
was a confectioner himself!” “Giovan’ Battista, my husband, was a
reasonable man, and even though he was in his youth led away …” But the
old man would hear nothing more, and walked away, repeating
reproachfully, “Ah! Giovan’ Battista!…” Gemma exclaimed that if Emil
felt like a patriot, and wanted to devote all his powers to the
liberation of Italy, then, of course, for such a high and holy cause he
might sacrifice the security of the future—but not for the theatre!
Thereupon Frau Lenore became much agitated, and began to implore her
daughter to refrain at least from turning her brother’s head, and to
content herself with being such a desperate republican herself! Frau
Lenore groaned as she uttered these words, and began complaining of her
head, which was “ready to split.” (Frau Lenore, in deference to their
guest, talked to her daughter in French.)
Gemma began at once to wait upon her; she moistened her forehead with
eau-de-Cologne, gently blew on it, gently kissed her cheek, made her
lay her head on a pillow, forbade her to speak, and kissed her again.
Then, turning to Sanin, she began telling him in a half-joking,
half-tender tone what a splendid mother she had, and what a beauty she
had been. “‘Had been,’ did I say? she is charming now! Look, look, what
eyes!”
Gemma instantly pulled a white handkerchief out of her pocket, covered
her mother’s face with it, and slowly drawing it downwards, gradually
uncovered Frau Lenore’s forehead, eyebrows, and eyes; she waited a
moment and asked her to open them. Her mother obeyed; Gemma cried out
in ecstasy (Frau Lenore’s eyes really were very beautiful), and rapidly
sliding the handkerchief over the lower, less regular part of the face,
fell to kissing her again. Frau Lenore laughed, and turning a little
away, with a pretence of violence, pushed her daughter away. She too
pretended to struggle with her mother, and lavished caresses on her—not
like a cat, in the French manner, but with that special Italian grace
in which is always felt the presence of power.
At last Frau Lenore declared she was tired out … Then Gemma at once
advised her to have a little nap, where she was, in her chair, “and I
and the Russian gentleman—‘_avec le monsieur russe_’—will be as quiet,
as quiet … as little mice … ‘_comme des petites souris_.’” Frau Lenore
smiled at her in reply, closed her eyes, and after a few sighs began to
doze. Gemma quickly dropped down on a bench beside her and did not stir
again, only from time to time she put a finger of one hand to her
lips—with the other hand she was holding up a pillow behind her
mother’s head—and said softly, “sh-sh!” with a sidelong look at Sanin,
if he permitted himself the smallest movement. In the end he too sank
into a kind of dream, and sat motionless as though spell-bound, while
all his faculties were absorbed in admiring the picture presented him
by the half-dark room, here and there spotted with patches of light
crimson, where fresh, luxuriant roses stood in the old-fashioned green
glasses, and the sleeping woman with demurely folded hands and kind,
weary face, framed in the snowy whiteness of the pillow, and the young,
keenly-alert and also kind, clever, pure, and unspeakably beautiful
creature with such black, deep, overshadowed, yet shining eyes…. What
was it? A dream? a fairy tale? And how came _he_ to be in it?