Complete works of henryk.., p.715
Complete Works of Henryk Sienkiewicz, page 715
And there, in presence of that night, of that infinity of the sea, of the stars, of all nature, of its calmness, its simplicity, its immensity, he was seized by a feeling of the gigantic falsehood of the relations between men. False seemed to him his love for Pani Elzen; false her relation to him, to her children, to other men, to society; false the life on that bright shore; false their present and false their future. “I am encircled, as if by a net,” thought he; “and I know not how to tear myself out of it.” And indeed that was true. For if all life is a falsehood, what is to be done in face of that fact? Return to nature? Begin some sort of life half savage, half peasant? Break with people and become a reformer right away? Svirski felt too old for this, and too sceptical. For such a course one needs to have the dogmatism of Kresovich, and to feel evil as a spur to battle and reform, not as a mere impression which may grow faint to-morrow! But another thought came to Svirski’s mind as a recompense. The man who does not feel in himself power to reform the world, may flee from it, for a time, at least, and draw breath. For instance, he could go to Marseilles the next day, and a couple of days later somewhere else, out on the open ocean, hundreds of miles from the shore, from sickly life, from lies and deceptions. In this way all would be settled immediately, or rather cut off as if with a knife.
And in one moment he was seized by such a desire to turn that idea into action that he gave command to return to Nice.
“The wild beast, which feels itself in a net,” thought he, “tries first of all to get out. That is its first right — and just that is in accord with nature, hence it is moral. The net around me is not Pani Elzen alone, but all things taken together. I feel perfectly that in marrying her I shall marry a life of lies. That might happen even without her fault, and through the necessity of things — from such a complication one is always free to escape.”
And now he pictured other scenes to himself, — scenes which he might see in his flight: broad deserts with water and with sand, unknown lands and people, the sincerity and truth of their primitive life, and finally the variety of events, and all the difference between days to come and the present.
“I ought to have done this long since,” said he to himself.
Then a thought entered his mind which could come only to an artist, that if he should leave his betrothed suddenly and go to Paris, for example, the act would belong to “vile literature;” but should he shoot off beyond the equator, to the land where pepper grows, the fact of leaving her would be diminished in view of the distance, the affair would make another impression, would appear more original, and, for that very reason, in better taste.
“But I,” thought he, “will go devilish far!”
Meanwhile from a distance Nice rose before him in the form of a bundle of lights. In the middle of that bundle was the building called “Jetée Promenade,” which gleamed in the form of a gigantic lighthouse. As the boat, urged by a strong breeze, approached the harbor, every one of those lights changed, as it were, into a pillar of fire, which quivered on the moving water near the shore. The sight of these gleams sobered Svirski.
“The city! — and life!” thought he.
And at once his former plans began to fall apart like dream-visions born of night and emptiness. That which a moment earlier he thought justifiable, necessary, and easy of accomplishment, seemed a whim devoid of the essence of reality, and in part dishonest. “With life, whatever it be, one must reckon. Whoso has lived under its laws the years that I have, must feel responsible to it. It is no great thing to say to one’s self: I used them as long as they were pleasant, but the moment they were painful I went back to nature.”
Then he fell to thinking more connectedly, not of general theories, but of Pani Elzen.
“By what right could I leave her? If her life has been artificial and false, if her past is not clear, I, who knew that, might have refrained from proposing. At present I could have the right to break with her only in case I discovered in her evil which she concealed, or if she committed some fault touching me. But she has committed no fault of that sort. She has been honest and sincere with me. Besides, there is something in her which attracts me; if not, I should not have proposed. At moments I feel that I love her; and because doubt comes at times on me, must she be the sufferer? My flight would in every case be an injustice to the woman, and who knows that it would not be a blow.”
He understood now, that to think of flight and permit it are, for a decent man, two opposite poles. He could only think of it. He could appear before the eyes of Pani Elzen more easily, and ask her to return his word to him; but to flee from danger was a thing directly opposed to his personal nature and the character of his stock, which was thoroughly civilized. Besides, at the very thought of doing injustice to a woman, the heart quivered in him; and Pani Elzen grew nearer and dearer to him.
They had sailed almost into the harbor; and a moment later the boat arrived. Svirski paid, and taking a seat in a carriage, gave directions to drive to his studio. On the street, amid the glare of lamps, the noise and the movement, he was carried away again by a yearning for that quiet, that endless spread of water, that calmness, that boundless truth of God, from which he had parted a moment before. At last, when he was near the studio, the following idea came to his head: “It is a marvellous thing that I, who feared women so much, and was so distrustful of them, have in the end of ends chosen one capable of rousing more fear than all the others.”
There was in that a certain fatality, as it were; and Svirski would have found beyond doubt in that concourse of things material for meditation during a whole evening, had it not been that as he entered the servant gave him two letters. In one, was an invitation to the ball of the following day on board the “Formidable,” the other was from Pani Lageat, the owner of the house.
She informed him of her departure in a couple of days for Marseilles, and at the same time told him that she had found a model who ought to satisfy his most extravagant taste, and who would come the next morning.
CHAPTER VI.
THE promised miracle came on the following morning at nine. Svirski was dressed and waiting with impatience and nervousness; happily his fears proved unfounded. The first glance satisfied him. The model was tall, slender, very graceful; she had a small head, a delicate face, a beautiful structure of forehead, long eyelashes, and great freshness of complexion. But, beyond all, Svirski was charmed by this, that she had “her own” style of face, and in her expression there was something girl-like. “She has noble movements,” thought he; “and if she is formed as she seems, then ‘Eureka!’ I will engage her for a long time, and take her with me.”
He was struck also by her timidity and a look, as it were, of fright. He knew, it is true, that models sometimes feign timidity. He admitted, however, that this one did not.
“What is thy name, my child?” asked he.
“Maria Cervi.”
“Art thou from Nice?”
“From Nice.”
“Hast ever been a model?”
“No, sir.”
“Trained models know what is needed; with new ones there is trouble. Thou hast never been a model in thy life?”
“No, sir.”
“How didst thou get the wish to be a model?”
She hesitated, and blushed somewhat.
“Pani Lageat told me that I should be able to earn something.”
“True, but evidently thou art afraid. What dost thou fear? I will not eat thee! How much dost thou ask for a sitting?”
“Pani Lageat told me that you would pay five francs.”
“Pani Lageat was mistaken. I pay ten.”
Joy gleamed in the girl’s face, and her cheeks grew still redder.
“When must I begin?” asked she, with a somewhat trembling voice.
“To-day, immediately,” answered Svirski, pointing to the picture already begun. “There is the screen; go behind, undress to the waist only. Thou wilt sit for the head, the bosom, and a part of the stomach.”
She turned to him an astonished face; her hands dropped slowly along her dress.
“How is that, sir?” asked she, looking at him with terrified eyes.
“My child,” answered the artist, a little impatiently, “I understand that it may be difficult the first time. But either thou art a model, or thou art not. I need the head, the bosom, and a part of the stomach; I need these absolutely; dost thou understand? And be sure, at the same time, that there is nothing bad in me; but, first of all, think it over — and quickly; for, if thou art not willing, I shall look for another.”
He spoke as a man somewhat vexed; for in his mind the point was that just she should be the model, and that he should not have to look for another. Meanwhile silence came. The model grew pale very evidently; still, after a while, she went behind the screen.
Svirski fell to pushing the easel toward the window, with a noise, thinking, meanwhile, —
“She will gain the habit, and in a week will laugh at her scruples.”
Next, he arranged the sofa on which the model was to lie, took his brush, and began to grow impatient.
“Well, how is it? Art thou ready?”
Silence.
“Well, make up thy mind. What jokes are these?”
Just then from behind the screen came a trembling, imploring voice, with the prayer, —
“I have thought it over, sir. In our house there is poverty; but still — I — cannot! If you would be kind and take the head — for three francs, or even for two — if you would have the kindness.”
And these words came with sobbing. Svirski turned toward the screen, dropped his brush, and opened his mouth. Unparalleled astonishment seized him, for the model was speaking in his own native tongue.
“Is the lady a Pole?” asked he at last, forgetting that a moment before he had said thou to her.
“Yes, sir. That is, my father was an Italian, but my grandfather is a Pole.”
A moment of silence ensued. Svirski recovered, and said, —
“Arrange your dress; I will take only your head.”
But evidently she had not begun to undress, for she came from behind the screen at once, confused, full of fear yet, and with traces of tears on her cheeks.
“I thank you,” said she. “You are — I beg your pardon; but—”
“Be at rest,” said Svirski. “Here is the chair; have no fear. You will pose for your head; I had no wish to offend you. You see that picture. I wanted a model for this figure here. But since it is so painful to you, the question is changed, especially as you are a Pole.”
Tears began to flow over her cheeks again; but she looked at him through her blue eyes with gratitude; he found a bottle of wine, poured out half a glass, and, giving it to her, said, —
“Drink this. I have biscuits here somewhere, but deuce knows where they are. I ask you to drink. There, it is all right. Your hand trembles; but there is no danger here — I beg you to be calm.”
And saying this he looked at her with the sympathy of his honest eyes, and said after a while, —
“Poor child!”
Then he stepped aside, and put the easel in its old place, saying while he did so, —
“There is no posing to-day. You are too much excited. To-morrow, we will begin work early; to-day, we will talk a little. Who could guess that Maria Cervi was a Pole! Your grandfather is a Pole then, is he not? Is he alive?”
“Yes; but he has not walked for the last two years.”
“What is his name?”
“Orysevich,” answered she, speaking somewhat with a foreign accent.
“I know that name. Has he been long in this country?”
“Grandfather has been sixty-five years out of Poland. First, he was in the Italian army, and then in the bank of Nice.”
“How old is he?”
“Nearly ninety.”
“Your father’s name was Cervi?”
“Yes. My father was from Nice; but he served also in the Italian army.”
“Then he is dead?”
“Five years.”
“And your mother is alive?”
“She is. We live together in Old Nice.”
“Very well. But now one more question. Does your mother know that you want to become a model?”
To this the girl answered in a hesitating voice, “No, mamma does not know. Pani Lageat told me that in this way I could earn five francs a day; and as there is poverty in our house, — very great poverty, — I had no other way.”
Svirski took in the girl from head to foot with quick glance, and understood that he was listening to truth. Everything testified to poverty, — her hat, her dress, which was so worn, or rather consumed by age, that every thread in it was visible, her gloves, darned and faded.
“Go home now,” said he, “and tell your mother that there is an artist named Svirski who wishes you to sit to him as a model for the head. Say also that this artist will come, at recommendation of Pani Lageat, to ask you to sit with your mother in his studio, for which he offers you ten francs a day.”
Panna Cervi began to thank him, without knowing how to find speech, weeping and confusing her words, with a voice full both of tears and delight. He saw what was happening within her, and said, —
“Very well. I shall come in an hour. You seem to me a very honest girl. Have confidence in me. I am something of a bear, but I understand more things than one. We shall arrange this affair, and the trouble will pass. Ah! yes, one point more. I do not wish to give you money at once, for you would have to explain the matter; but in an hour I will bring all that is needed on account. I too had troubles formerly, and know what prompt aid means. You have nothing to give thanks for, a trifle! Till we meet again — in an hour.”
So, after he had asked again for her address, he conducted the girl to the steps; and, when an hour had passed, he took his seat in a carriage and gave directions to drive to Old Nice.
All that had happened seemed to him so peculiar that he could think of nothing else. He felt too the delight which every honest man feels when he has acted as he ought, and when he may become a providence to some person.
“If that is not an honest and a good girl,” thought he of Panna Cervi, “I am the dullest mule in Liguria.”
But he did not admit that anything similar could happen. On the contrary, he felt that he had struck a very honest woman’s soul, and at the same time he was delighted that that soul was enclosed in such a young and beautiful body.
The carriage stopped at last in front of an old and battered house near the harbor. The woman at the gate pointed contemptuously enough to Pani Cervi’s apartments.
“Poverty indeed!” thought the artist, as he went up the sloping steps. After a while he knocked at the door.
“Come in!” answered a voice.
Svirski entered. A woman about forty years of age received him; she was dressed in black; a brunette, sad, thin, evidently broken by life: but she had nothing common about her. At her side stood Panna Maria.
“I know all, and I thank you from my soul and heart!” said Pani Cervi; “may God reward and bless you.”
Thus speaking, she caught his hand and bent her head as if to kiss it; but he withdrew the hand quickly; anxious to drive away ceremony at the earliest, and break the ice of first acquaintance, he turned to Panna Maria, and, shaking his finger at her, said, with the freedom of an old acquaintance, —
“Ah, this little girl has let out the secret!”
Panna Maria smiled at him in answer, a little sadly, a little perplexed. She seemed to him fair, more beautiful than in the studio. He noticed also that she had around her neck a narrow, lily-colored ribbon which she had not worn before; and this touched him still more as a proof that evidently she did not consider him an old grandfather, since she had dressed for him. Then Pani Cervi said, —
“Yes, Maria told everything. God watched over her, and over us, so that she met such a man as you.”
“Panna Maria told me of the difficult circumstances in which you are living,” answered Svirski; “but, believe me, that even in those circumstances it is happiness to have such a daughter.”
“Yes,” said Pani Cervi, calmly.
“Meanwhile I owe gratitude to you; for I was looking, and looking in vain, till at last a head fell from heaven to me. Now I am sure of my picture. I must only make sure that my model does not run away!”
Meanwhile, he drew out three hundred francs and forced Pani Cervi to take them, assuring her that he would make a great profit, for he would receive much money, thanks to Panna Maria; and then he declared that he would like to make the acquaintance of the “grandfather,” for he had always had a weakness for old soldiers.
Hearing this, Panna Maria ran to the adjoining chamber; soon the noise of a wheeled chair was heard, and the grandfather was rolled into the room. Evidently the old man had been prepared to receive the guest, for he was in uniform, with all his orders acquired in Italy. Svirski saw before him an old man whose face had grown small and wrinkled; his moustaches and hair were white as milk; his blue eyes opened widely, and looked something like the eyes of an infant.
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