"Well!what are these grimaces for?Do you mean to make us wait until to-morrow for your benediction?"The Count pronounced these words in the rude tone of a corporal ordering recruits to march in double-quick time.Father Alexis made a bound as if he had received a sharp blow from a whip across his back,and in his agitation and haste to reach his stool,he struck violently against the corner of a carved sideboard;this terrible shock drew from him a cry of pain,but did not arrest his speed,and rubbing his hip,he threw himself into his place and,without giving himself time to recover breath,he mumbled in a nasal tone and in an unintelligible voice,a grace which he soon finished,and everybody having made the sign of the cross,dinner was served.
"What a strange role religion plays here,"thought Gilbert to himself as he carried his spoon to his lips."They would on no account dine until it had blessed the soup,and at the same time they banish it to the end of the table as a leper whose impure contact they fear."During the first part of the repast,Gilbert's attention was concentrated on Father Alexis.This priestly face excited his curiosity.At first sight it seemed impressed with a certain majesty,which was heightened by the black folds of his robe,and the gold crucifix which hung upon his breast.Father Alexis had a high,open forehead;his large,strongly aquiline nose gave a manly character to his face;his black eyes,finely set,were surmounted by well-curved eyebrows,and his long grizzly beard harmonized very well with his bronzed cheeks furrowed by venerable wrinkles.Seen in repose,this face had a character of austere and imposing beauty.And if you had looked at Father Alexis in his sleep,you would have taken him for a holy anchorite recently come out of the desert,or better still,for a Saint John contemplating with closed eyes upon the height of his Patmos rock,the sublime visions of the Apocalypse;but as soon as the face of the good priest became animated,the charm was broken.It was but an expressive mask,flexible,at times grotesque,where were predicted the fugitive and shallow impressions of a soul gentle,innocent,and easy,but not imaginative or exalted.It was then that the monk and the anchorite suddenly disappeared,and there remained but a child sixty years old,whose countenance,by turns uneasy or smiling,expressed nothing but puerile pre-occupations,or still more puerile content.This transformation was so rapid that it seemed almost like a juggler's trick.You sought St.John,but found him no more,and you were tempted to cry out,"Oh,Father Alexis,what has become of you?The soul now looking out of your face is not yours."This Father Alexis was an excellent man;but unfortunately,he had too decided a taste for the pleasures of the table.He could also be accused of having a strong ingredient of vanity in his character;but his self-love was so ingenuous,that the most severe judge could but pardon it.Father Alexis had succeeded in persuading himself that he was a great artist,and this conviction constituted his happiness.This much at least could be said of him,that he managed his brush and pencil with remarkable dexterity,and could execute four or five square feet of fresco painting in a few hours.The doctrines of Mount Athos,which place he had visited in his youth,had no more secrets for him;Byzantine aesthetics had passed into his flesh and bones;he knew by heart the famous "Guide to Painting,"drawn up by the monk Denys and his pupil Cyril of Scio.In short,he was thoroughly acquainted with all the receipts by means of which works of genius are produced,and thus,with the aid of compasses,he painted from inspiration,those good and holy men who strikingly resembled certain figures on gold backgrounds in the convents of Lavra and Iveron.But one thing brought mortification and chagrin to Father Alexis,--Count Kostia Petrovitch refused to believe in his genius!
But on the other hand,he was a little consoled by the fact that the good Ivan professed unreserved admiration for his works;so he loved to talk of painting and high art with this pious worshiper of his talents.
"Look,my son,"he would say to him,extending the thumb,index and middle fingers of his right hand,"thou seest these three fingers:
I have only to say a word to them,and from them go forth Saint Georges,Saint Michaels,Saint Nicholases,patriarchs of the old covenant,and apostles of the new,the good Lord himself and all his dear family!"And then he would give him his hand to kiss,which duty the good serf performed with humble veneration.However,if Count Kostia had the barbarous taste to treat the illuminated works of Father Alexis as daubs,he was not cruel enough to prevent him from cultivating his dearly-loved art.He had even lately granted this disciple of the great Panselinos,the founder of the Byzantine school,an unexpected favor,for which the good father promised himself to be eternally grateful.One of the wings of the Castle of Geierfels enclosed a pretty and sufficiently spacious chapel,which the Count had appropriated to the services of the Greek Church,and one fine day,yielding to the repeated solicitations of Father Alexis,he had authorized him to cover the walls and dome with "daubs"after his own fashion.The priest commenced the work immediately.This great enterprise absorbed at least half of his thoughts;he worked many hours every day,and at night he saw in dreams great patriarchs in gold and azure,hanging over him and saying:
"Dear Alexis,we commend ourselves to thy good care;let thy genius perpetuate our glory through the Universe."The conversation at length turned upon subjects which the Count amused himself by debating every day with his secretary.They spoke of the Lower Empire,which M.Leminof regarded as the most prosperous and most glorious age of humanity.He had little fancy for Pericles,Caesar,Augustus,and Napoleon,and considered that the art of reigning had been understood by Justinian and Alexis Comnenus alone.And when Gilbert protested warmly in the name of human dignity against this theory:
"Stop just there!"said the Count;"no big words,no declamation,but listen to me!These pheasants are good.See how Father Alexis is regaling himself upon them.To whom do they owe this flavor which is so enchanting him?To the high wisdom of my cook,who gave them time to become tender.He has served them to us just at the right moment.A few days sooner they would have been too tough;a few days later would have been risking too much,and we should have had the worms in them.My dear sir,societies are very much like game.Their supreme moment is when they are on the point of decomposition.In their youth they have a barbarous toughness.
But a certain degree of corruption,on the contrary,imperils their existence.Very well!Byzantium possessed the art of making minds gamey and arresting decomposition at that point.Unfortunately she carried the secret to the grave with her."A profound silence reigned in the great hall,uninterrupted except by the rhythmic sound of the good father's jaws.Stephane leaned his elbows on the table;his attitude expressive of dreamy melancholy;his head inclined and leaning against the palm of his right hand;his black tunic without any collar exposing a neck of perfect whiteness;his long silky hair falling softly upon his shoulders;the pure and delicate contour of his handsome face;his sensitive mouth,the corners curving slightly upwards,all reminded Gilbert of the portrait of Raphael painted by himself,all,except the expression,which was very different.
A profound melancholy filled Gilbert's heart.Nothing about him commanded his sympathies,nothing promised any companionship for his soul;at his left the stern face of a drowsy tyrant,made more sinister by sleep;opposite him a young misanthrope,for the moment lost in clouds;at his right an old epicure who consoled himself for everything by eating figs;above his head the dragons of the Apocalypse.And then this great vaulted hall was cold,sepulchral;he felt as though he were breathing the air of a cellar;the recesses and the corners of the room were obscured by black shadows;the dark wainscotings which covered the walls had a lugubrious aspect;outside were heard ominous noises.A gale of wind had risen and uttered long bellowings like a wounded bull,to which the grating of weathercocks and the dismal cry of the owls responded.
When Gilbert had re-entered his own room he opened the window that he might better hear the majestic roll of the river.At the same moment a voice,carried by the wind from the great square tower,cried to him:
"Monsieur,the grand vizier,don't forget to burn plenty of candles to the devil!this is the advice which your most faithful subject gives you in return for the profound lessons of wisdom with which you favored his inexperience to-day!"It was thus Gilbert learned Stephane was his neighbor.
"It is consoling,"thought he,"to know that he can't possibly come in here without wings.And,"added he,closing his window,"whatever happens,I did well to write to Mme.Lerins yesterday--to-day I am not so well satisfied."
VII
This is what Gilbert wrote in his journal six weeks after his arrival at Geierfels:
A son who has towards his father the sentiments of a slave toward his master;a father who habitually shows towards his son a dislike bordering on hatred--such are the sad subjects for study that Ihave found here.At first I wished to persuade myself that M.
Leminof was simply a cold hard character,a skeptic by disposition,a blase grandee,who believed it a duty to himself to openly testify his scorn for all the humbug of sentiment.He is nothing of the kind.The Count's mind is diseased,his soul tormented,his heart eaten by a secret ulcer and he avenges its sufferings by making others suffer.Yes,the misanthrope seeks vengeance for some deadly affront which has been put upon him by man or by fate;his irony breathes anger and hatred;it conceals deep resentment which breaks out occasionally in his voice,in his look and in his unexpected and violent acts;for he is not always master of himself.At certain times the varnish of cold politeness and icy sportiveness with which he ordinarily conceals his passions,scales off suddenly and falls into dust,and his soul appears in its nakedness.During the first weeks of my residence here he controlled himself in my presence,now I have the honor of possessing his confidence,and he no longer deems it necessary to hide his face from me,nor does he try any longer to deceive me.
It is singular,I thought myself entirely master of my glances,but in spite of myself,they betrayed too much curiosity on one occasion.The other day while I was working with him in his study,he suddenly became dreamy and absent,his brow was like a thundercloud;he neither saw nor heard me.When he came out of his reverie his eyes met mine fixed upon his face,and he saw that Iwas observing him too attentively.
"Come now,"said he brusquely,"you remember our stipulations;we are two egotists who have made a bargain with each other.Egotists are not curious;the only thing which interests them in the mind of a fellow-creature,is in the domain of utility."And then fearing that he had offended me,he continued in a softer tone:
"I am the least interesting soul in the world to know.My nerves are very sensitive,and let me say to you once for all,that this is the secret of all the disorders which you may observe in my poor machine.""No,Count Kostia,this is not your secret!"I was tempted to answer."It is not your nerves which torment you.I would wager that in despite of your cynicism and skepticism,you have once believed in something,or in some one who has broken faith with you,"but I was careful not to let him suspect my conjectures.Ibelieve he would have devoured me.The anger of this man is terrible,and he does not always spare me the sight of it.
Yesterday especially,he was transported beyond himself,to such an extent that I blushed for him.Stephane had gone to ride with Ivan.The dinner-bell rang and they had not returned.The Count himself went to the entrance of the court to wait for them.His lips were pale,his voice harsh and grating,veiled by a hoarseness which always comes with his gusts of passion.When the delinquents appeared at the end of the path,he ran to them,and measured Stephane from head to foot with a glance so menacing that the child trembled in every limb;but his anger exploded itself entirely upon Ivan.The poor jailer had,however,good excuses to offer:
Stephane's horse had stumbled and cut his knee,and they had been obliged to slacken their pace.The Count appeared to hear nothing.
He signed to Ivan to dismount;which having done,he seized him by the collar,tore from him his whip and beat him like a dog.The unhappy serf allowed himself to be whipped without uttering a cry,without making a movement.The idea of flight or self-defense never occurred to him.Riveted to the spot,his eyes closed,he was the living image of slavery resigned to the last outrages.
Indeed I believe that during this punishment I suffered more than he.My throat was parched,my blood boiled in my veins.My first impulse was to throw myself upon the Count,but I restrained myself;such a violent interference would but have aggravated the fate of Ivan.I clasped my hands and with a stifled voice cried:
"Mercy!mercy!"The Count did not hear me.Then I threw myself between the executioner and his victim.Stupefied,with arm raised and immovable,the Count stared at me with flaming eyes;little by little he became calm,and his face resumed its ordinary expression.
"Let it pass for this time,"said he at last,in a hollow voice;"but in future meddle no more in my affairs!"Then dropping the whip to the ground,he strode away.Ivan raised his eyes to me full of tears,his glance expressed at once tenderness,gratitude,and admiration.He seized my hands and covered them with kisses,after which he passed his handkerchief over his face,streaming with perspiration,foam,and blood,and taking the two horses by the bridles,quietly led them to the stable.I found the Count at the table;he had recovered his good humor;he discharged several arrows of playful sarcasm at my "heresies"in matters of history.It was not without effort that Ianswered him,for at this moment he inspired me with an aversion that I could hardly conceal.But I felt bound to recognize the victory which he had gained over himself in abridging Ivan's punishment.After dinner he sent for the serf,who appeared with his forehead and hands furrowed with bloody scars.His lips bore their habitual smile,which was always a mystery to me.His master ordered him to take off his vest,turn down his shirt,and kneel before him;then drawing from his pocket a vial full of some ointment whose virtues he lauded highly,he dressed the wounds of the moujik with his own hands.This operation finished,he said to him:
"That will amount to nothing,my son.Go and sin no more."Upon which the serf raised himself and left the room,smiling throughout.Ivan's smile is an exotic plant which I am not acquainted with,and which only grows in Slavonic soil,a strange smile,--real prodigy of baseness or heroism.Which is it?I am sure I cannot tell.
In spite of my trouble,I had been able to observe Stephane at the beginning of the punishment.At the first blow,a flash of triumphant joy passed over his face;but when the blood started he became horribly pale,and pressed one of his hands to his throat as if to arrest a cry of horror,and with the other he covered his eyes to shut out the sight;then not being able to contain himself,he hurried away.God be praised!compassion had triumphed in his heart over the joy of seeing his jailer chastised.There is in this young soul,embittered as it is by long sufferings,a fund of generosity and goodness;but will it not in time lose the last vestiges of its native qualities?Three years hence will Stephane cover his eyes to avoid the sight of an enemy's punishment?Within three years will not the habit of suffering have stifled pity in his breast?To-morrow,to-morrow perhaps,will not his heart have uttered its last cry!
Since you have no tender words for him,Count Kostia,would that Icould close his ears to the desolating lessons that you give him!
Do you not see that the life he leads is enough to teach him to hate men and life,without the necessity of your interference?He knows nothing of humanity,but what he sees through the bars of his prison;and imagines that there is nothing in the world but capricious tyrants and trembling,degraded slaves.Why thus kill in his heart every germ of enthusiasm,of hope,of manly and generous faith?
But may not Stephane be a vicious child,whose perverse instincts a justly provoked father seeks to curb by a pitiless discipline?No,a thousand times no!It is false,it is impossible;it is only necessary to look at him to be satisfied of this.His face is often hard,cold,scornful;but it never expresses a low thought,a pollution of soul,or a precocious corruption of mind.In his quiet moods there is upon his brow a stamp of infantile purity.Iwas wrong in supposing that his soul had lost its youth.
Alas!with what cruel harshness they dispute the little pleasures which remain to him.In spite of his jests over the periwinkles,he has a taste for flowers,and had obtained from the gardener the concession of a little plot of ground to cultivate according to his fancy.The Count,it appears,had ratified this favor;but this unheard-of condescension proved to be but a refinement of cruelty.
For some time,every evening after dinner,Stephane passed an hour in his little parterre;he plucked out the weeds,planted,watered,and watched with a paternal eye the growth of his favorites.
Yesterday,an hour after the sanguinary castigation,while his father was dressing Ivan's wounds,he had gone out on tiptoe.Some minutes after,as I was walking upon the terrace,I saw him occupied.with absorbing gravity,in this great work of watering.
I was but a few paces from him,when the gardener approached,pickax in hand,and,without a word,struck it violently into the middle of a tuft of verbenas which grew at one end of the plot of ground.Stephane raised himself briskly,and,believing him stupid,threw himself upon him,crying out:
"Wretch,what are you doing there?"
"I am doing what his excellency ordered me to,"answered the gardener.
At this moment the Count strolled toward us,his hands in his pockets,humming an aria,and an expression of amiable good humor on his face.Stephane extended his arms towards him,but one of those looks which always petrifies him kept him silent and motionless in the middle of the pathway.He watched with wild eyes the fatal pickax ravage by degrees his beloved garden.In vain he tried to disguise his despair;his legs trembled and his heart throbbed violently.He fixed his large eyes upon his dear,devastated treasures;two great tears escaped them and rolled slowly down his cheeks.But when the instrument of destruction approached a magnificent carnation,the finest ornament of his garden,his heart failed him,he uttered a piercing cry,and raising his hands to Heaven,ran away sobbing.The Count looked after him as he fled,and an atrocious smile passed over his lips!
Ah!if this father does not hate his son,I know not what hatred is,nor how it depicts itself upon a human face.Meantime I threw myself between the carnation and the pickax,as an hour before between the knout and Ivan.Stephane's despair had rent my heart;I wished at any cost to preserve this flower which was so dear to him.The face of Kostia Petrovitch took all hope from me.It seemed to say:
"You still indulge in sentiment;this is a little too much of it.""This plant is beautiful,"I said to him;"why destroy it?""Ah!you love flowers,my dear Gilbert;"answered he,with an air of diabolical malice."I am truly glad of it!"And turning to the gardener,he added:
"You will carefully take up all these flowers and place them in pots--they shall decorate Monsieur's room.I am delighted to have it in my power to do him this little favor."Thus speaking,he rubbed his hands gleefully,and turning his back upon me,commenced humming his tune again.He was evidently satisfied with his day's work.
And now Stephane's flowers are here under my eyes,they have become my property.Oh!if he knew it!I do not doubt that M.Leminof wishes his son to hate me;and his wish is gratified.Overwhelmed with respect and attentions,petted,praised,extolled,treated as a favorite and grand vizier,how can I be otherwise than an object of scorn and aversion to this young man?But could he read my heart!what would he read there,after all?An impotent pity from which his pride would revolt.I can do nothing for him;I could not mitigate his misfortunes or pour balm into his wounds.
Go,then,Gilbert,occupy yourself with the Byzantines!Remember your contract,Gilbert!The master of this house has made you promise not to meddle in his affairs.Translate Greek,my friend,and,in your leisure moments,amuse yourself with your puppets.
Beyond that,closed eyes and sealed mouth;that must be your motto.
But do you say,"I shall become a wretch in seeing this child suffer"?Well!if your useless pity proves too much of a burden,six months hence you can break your bonds,resume your liberty,and with three hundred crowns in your pocket,you can undertake that journey to Italy,--object of your secret dreams and most ardent longing.Happy man!arming yourself with the white staff of the pilgrim,you will shake the dust of Geierfels from your feet,and go far away to forget,before the facades of Venetian palaces,the dark mysteries of the old Gothic castle and its wicked occupants.
VIII
As Gilbert rapidly traced these last lines,the dinner-bell sounded.He descended in haste to the grand hall.They were already at the table.
"Tell me,if you please,"said Count Kostia,addressing him gayly,"what you think of our new comrade?"Gilbert then noticed a fifth guest,whose face was not absolutely unknown to him.This newly invited individual was seated at the right of Father Alexis,who seemed to relish his society but little,and was no less a personage than Solon,the favorite of the master,one of those apes which are vulgarly called "monkeys in mourning,"with black hair,but with face,hands,and feet of a reddish brown.
"You will not be vexed with me for inviting Solon to dine with us?"continued M.Leminof."The poor beast has been hypochondriacal for several days,and I am glad to procure this little distraction for him.I hope it will dissipate it.I cannot bear melancholy faces;hypochondria is the fate of fools who have no mental resources."He pronounced these last words half turning towards Stephane.The young man's face was more gloomy than ever.His eyes were swollen,and dark circles surrounded them.The indignation with which the brutal remark of his father filled him,gave him strength to recover from his dejection.He resolutely set about eating his soup,which he had not touched before,and feeling that Gilbert's eyes were fixed upon him,he raised his head quickly and darted upon him a withering glance.Gilbert thought he divined that he called him to account for his carnation,and could not help blushing,--so true is it that innocence does not suffice to secure one a clear conscience.
"Frankly,now,"resumed the Count,lowering his voice,"don't you see some resemblance between the two persons who adorn the lower end of this table?""The resemblance does not strike me,"answered Gilbert coldly.
"Ah!mon Dieu,I do not mean to say that they are identical in all points.I readily grant that Father Alexis uses his thumbs better;I admit,too,that he has a grain or two more of phosphorus in his brain,for you know the savants of to-day,at their own risk and peril,have discovered that the human mind is nothing but a phosphoric tinder-box.""It is these same savants,"said Gilbert,"who consider genius a nervous disorder.Much good may it do them.They are not my men.""You treat science lightly;but answer my question seriously:do you not discover certain analogies between these two personages in black clothes and red faces?""My opinion,"interrupted Gilbert impatiently,"is that Solon is very ugly,and that Father Alexis is very handsome.""Your answer embarrasses me,"retorted the Count,"and I don't know whether I ought to thank you for the compliment you pay my priest,or be angry at the hard things you say of my monkey.One thing is certain,"added he,"that my monkey and my priest,--I'm wrong,--my priest and my monkey,resemble each other in one respect:they have both a passionate appetite for truffles.You will soon see."They were just serving fowl with truffles.Solon devoured his portion in the twinkling of an eye,and as he was prone to coveting the property of others,he fixed his eyes,full of affectionate longing,on his neighbor's plate.Active,adroit,and watching his opportunity,he seized the moment when the priest was carrying his glass to his lips;to extend his paw,seize a truffle,and swallow it,was the work of but half a second.Beside himself with indignation,the holy man turned quickly and looked at the robber with flashing eyes.The monkey was but little affected by his anger,and to celebrate the happy success of his roguery,he capered and frisked in a ridiculous and frantic way,clinging with his forepaws to the back of his chair.The good father shook his head sadly,moved his plate further off,and returned to his eating,not,however,without watching the movements of the enemy from the corner of his eye.In vain he kept guard;in spite of his precautions,--a new attack,a new larceny--and fresh caperings of joy by the monkey.Father Alexis at last lost patience,and the monkey received a vigorous blow full in the muzzle,which drew from him a sharp shriek;but at the same instant the priest felt two rows of teeth bury themselves in his left cheek.He could hardly repress a cry,and gave up the game,leaving Solon to gorge himself to his beard in the spoils,while he busied himself in stanching his wound,from which the blood gushed freely.
The Count affected to be ignorant of all that passed;but there was a merry sparkle in his eyes which testified that not a detail of this tragic comedy had escaped his notice.
