Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  Noémi, in fact, is growing more and more ill-tempered. The other day she slapped Chloë, my gardener, violently, ‘Chloë, who has such white teeth and such black eyes. She beat her because she brought in the fruit too late, and so my dessert was behindhand.

  After all, Noémi has some good points, but she is deucedly irascible and fierce.

  One thing that astonishes me is the fact that these girls are completely insensible to the beauties of nature.

  Thanks to the Greek I learned at college, I am able to understand and speak modern Greek passably well, and I have often tried to awaken in these girls some poetic sentiment. All was in vain; nothing was ever more barbaric or uncultivated than their minds.

  With the exception of some Greek national songs, they know nothing at all. —

  They can neither read nor write. Their rivalries, their jealousies, their calumnies, and a few exaggerated tales of Turkish cruelty, furnish the subjects of their usual conversation.

  In other ways they are the best of girls. I remember a scene, which shows marvellously well the characters of my three favourites.

  I was mounting a Syrian horse I had purchased, for the first time. He became excited, reared, and fell on me. Noémi flew at the horse, caught him by the bridle, and beat him with a whip. Daphné ran to help me up. Anathasia never moved, but burst into tears and then fainted away.

  Some time ago I tried to awaken the souls of these poor girls to some remembrances of their Fatherland, — a sentiment that is so strong in half-civilised natures.

  It was not without some hesitation that I made the attempt. I felt a certain remorse at the idea of awakening sad recollections.

  Poor girls! They lived in slavery, and their melancholy thoughts must often turn with regret to the land of their youth. Poor caged swallows! they only awaited an opportunity of flying home to their nests.

  I feared it would be cruel to raise false hopes in their breasts; still, I assembled my household, and told them that I was going to leave the island, and send them all back to their respective homes.

  I must declare, and with a certain amount of satisfaction, that they immediately broke into lamentations that would have done honour to the funeral of Achilles, or the dirge of some illustrious Albanian chieftain.

  Daphné wrapped her head in her veil, and sat silent and motionless on the ground, like an antique statue of grief. Noémi manifested her rage by beating one of the black dwarfs, while the fair Anathasia, falling on her knees, took my hand and kissed it; then raising her beautiful tearful eyes to mine, said, in her soft Ionian tongue:

  “Oh, master! master! When you have gone, what will become of your poor Grecian girls?”

  “But your aged fathers! Your poor old mothers! Your brave brothers and your handsome lovers!” I exclaimed. “Do you never think of them, forgetful creatures that you are?”

  Feeling sure that such magical words would have an effect, I drew my cloak around me with a majestic air.

  But the crying and sobbing only grew the louder, and they all cried out, in what I thought a threatening way:

  “We will never leave the roof of the good Frank; we are happy at Khios; we will stay at Khios with the good Frank.”

  Though I was their “good Frank,” I could not help having but a poor idea of their patriotism; the preference they gave me over their native soil and its accessories was certainly flattering.

  I resolved to make another attempt, and told them that I would give each of them two thousand piastres and their clothes, and let them go wherever they wished, for I meant to leave the island.

  The screams and curses that were the result of my innocent proposition so alarmed me, that for a moment I feared I should share the fate of Orpheus.

  Letting go of her dwarf, Noémi sprang, towards me like a tigress, seized my yellak, for I wore the Albanian costume, and said to me, her eyes blazing with anger:

  “If you try to go away, and leave us here, we will set the palace on fire, and, holding you in our arms, we will all be burned together.”

  The majority of the rebels seemed to be delighted with such an idea, for they screamed out louder than ever:

  “Yes, yes, let us take the good Frank in our arms, and all perish with him in the flames of his palace.”

  I observed a trait that was worthy of La Bruyère. The gentle Anathasia was one of the most ferocious of the incendiary party.

  Although this threatened mode of death was worthy of Sardanapalus, I preferred to live as I was, and being now quite convinced that I was adored by my household, I told them that I renounced my projects of departure.

  My modesty forbids me saying with what effusion, what transports of joy, my decision was welcomed by those good girls.

  The whole twelve of them took hold of each other’s hands, and formed a circle. Noémi, as the antique theorist, improvised these simple words, which her companions repeated to the air of their national hymn, “The Swallows.”

  “At Khios we remain,

  Dance, sisters, dance,

  At Khios we remain,

  We stay with the good Frank.

  “He never beats us, he treats us well,

  Dance, sisters, dance,

  We will always have beautiful fezzes,

  Beautiful embroidered yellaks,

  Beautiful silk sashes.

  “We will eat tender roasted kids,

  Fat partridges and quails,

  Honey from Hymettus, wine from Scyros.

  Dance, sisters, dance,

  The good Frank lets us stay.

  “Dance, sisters, dance,

  We till the soil no more,

  No more we mend the roads,

  Dance, sisters, dance.

  “We will bathe beneath the sycamores,

  We will not work at all,

  Only pluck fruit and flowers for him,

  The good Frank who keeps us.”

  If I had been blinded by any conceit, I should have had my self-respect somewhat wounded on learning that the roast kid, fat partridges, Scyros wine, beautiful clothes, and idleness, were prominent features in the intense affection these simple creatures bore me.

  But, fortunately, I am wiser than that, and can see through their devotion. Formerly I had some doubts as to my powers of attraction, but now, how can I help believing in the charm with which I was invested if it can attach these slaves to me so devotedly?

  My charms are easily understood, they are the fat partridges, the roasted kids, the golden belts, and embroidered yellaks.

  Oh, happy future! As long as there are any embroiderers and silk weavers in the Isle of Khios, I will be sure of admiration.

  I, who until now could never believe in disinterested affection, am obliged to have blind faith in the love I inspire.

  It is surely easy to believe these truthful creatures, when they tell me that they love to be elegantly clothed, well fed, and not beaten. I cannot accuse them of duplicity when they say that they like to do nothing harder than pick fruit and flowers, or bathe in the marble pool, in the shade of the plane-trees.

  In order to create doubt in my mind, they would have to tell me that they preferred to give up an indolent life for one of hardship, to abandon the sensual life they live here, and return to their household avocations.

  Have they ever told me that it would be a joy to them to go back to their homes, and till the soil, or mend the roads? — manly occupations that the women of Albania perform admirably.

  No, they have energetically declared their willingness to be burnt alive with me in my palace, at the first proposal I made them to give up silk for homespun, the far-niente of idleness for hard work, a life of pleasure for household duties.

  They have innocently expressed their preference for remaining with the good Frank, and I believe them. When we consider their reasons for staying here, how can we doubt their truth?

  This time selfish motives are so apparent, that I shall have no occasion to torment myself with doubts.

  But what
do I hear? It is a salute from a ship, the sound of a cannon!

  What does it mean?

  CHAPTER IX.

  RECOGNITION.

  THERE IS NOTHING very remarkable about the incident I am about to relate, but I am very curious and excited.

  A Russian frigate has just come in from Constantinople; fearing bad weather, she has put into Khios, instead of going on to Smyrna, or the Oulach Islands.

  That frigate fired a cannon-shot for a pilot, and that was the salute I heard this morning.

  Who is that lady who, in spite of the high wind, came on shore as soon as the vessel was anchored? The sight of that simple little blue bonnet, the cashmere shawl drawn snugly over the shoulders, that little foot so well shod, that little hand so well gloved, has operated a retrograde movement in regard to my ideas of beauty.

  From the antique Greek I have passed to the Parisian type. I would now give all the Noémis, the Anathasias, and the Daphnés in the world, with all their fezzes, their yellaks, and embroidered belts, to be able to offer my arm to that pretty stranger; for she is pretty, I could see that much from the trellis of my kiosk. She is tall and slender, and has beautiful blue eyes, which is something very charming in a fair-skinned brunette.

  The gentleman whose arm she leans on is middle-aged, and has a fine, intelligent face.

  Who can these strangers be?

  KHIOS, October, 18 — .

  What a strange meeting! Events are so strange that it is well worth while to continue my journal.

  Yesterday I sent my old Cypriote to find a Calabrian, who fills the position of port-warden, and attends to the Marquis Justiniani’s business, and ask him who were the travellers on the frigate.

  That ship is commanded by the Duke of Fersen, exambassador of Russia to the Sublime Porte; he is on his way to Toulon, with the princess, his wife, and several distinguished persons. It was Madame de Fersen that I saw yesterday on the landing.

  This morning, about one o’clock, I was lazily stretched on my divan, smoking my Turkish pipe, whose bowl Noémi held, while Anathasia was burning some perfumes in a silver pan, when the curtains of my apartments were suddenly thrust aside, and Daphné entered triumphantly, leading a party of strangers, among whom were M. and Madame de Fersen.

  I could have strangled Daphné, for I was furious to be caught in my Oriental costume.

  My hair and beard had grown quite long, and my neck was bare. I wore the long, white skirt of the Albanians, a cherry-coloured jacket embroidered with orange silk, red morocco gaiters, embroidered with silver, and an orange-coloured sash.

  It was probably very picturesque, but it seemed terribly ridiculous, and so like a masquerade, that I grew red with shame, as a young lady might do if she were caught playing with a doll. (The comparison is silly, but it expresses how I felt.)

  Hoping to be mistaken for a real Albanian, I remained very serious, to complete the deception.

  The prince, accompanied by his Greek interpreter, stepped forward and excused himself for his indiscretion, asking me to pardon his wife’s curiosity, but that she had found the palace so beautiful, and the gardens so enchanting, that she asked permission to visit them, while the ship waited for a favourable wind.

  I replied by a low bow, putting my left hand on my breast, and my right hand on my forehead, as the Albanians do; then I bowed my head to the princess, without getting up from the divan.

  I was about to say a few polite words to the interpreter, when I heard a shrill voice, and at the same time I saw, — whom do you suppose? — Du Pluvier!

  I was stunned.

  It was he, as ridiculous as ever, decked out in gold chains and an embroidered waistcoat, noisy, talkative, and never still for a moment. The little man was redder and fatter than ever. He was evidently a member of the French legation at Constantinople, for he wore a blue coat with buttons bearing the king’s initials.

  That infernal bore held one of my dwarfs by the ear, and, showing him to Madame de Fersen, said, “Here, madame, is one of the monsters of the Middle Ages.”

  Then, on a sign from the prince that the master of the house was present, Du Pluvier turned around, and looked at me.

  I trembled, for I knew that he recognised me.

  It would be impossible to depict Du Pluvier’s astonishment; his eyes rolled in his head, he stretched forward his arms, and, stepping towards me, cried out:

  “What! are you here, my dear Arthur? You! disguised as a Mamamouchi! This is a strange meeting! Why, I have not seen you since the first representation of ‘The Comte d’Ory’ at the Opéra. You were there with Madame de Pënâfiel.”

  The prince, his wife, the interpreter, and some Russian officers who accompanied the ambassador, all of whom understood French perfectly well, were quite as much surprised as Du Pluvier. Madame de Fersen looked at me curiously, but could not refrain from smiling.

  I bit my lips, cursing my costume, Daphné, and, above all, Du Pluvier, whom I wished the devil might take. He kept on with his protestations of friendship, while all eyes were fixed on us.

  I had either to stick to my rôle of Albanian, and let Du Pluvier pass for’ a fool, or to admit my foolish disguisement.

  I bravely chose the latter course.

  I rose, and went respectfully to bow to Madame de Fersen, and beg her pardon for having for an instant deceived her. I frankly admitted that, caught in the act of playing the Oriental, I had preferred to be taken for an Albanian, than for a silly Frenchman.

  She received my excuses with charming grace, which was, however, a little sarcastic, when she expressed her astonishment at finding a man of the world under the garb of an Oriental.

  It is useless to say that Madame de Fersen speaks French like a Russian, that is to say, perfectly.

  CHAPTER X.

  COMPARISONS.

  KHIOS, October, 18 — .

  I HAVE again adopted the European costume, which I had so indolently cast aside, and have been on board of the Alexina, to pay a visit to M. and Madame de Fersen.

  Madame de Fersen is not so young as I at first thought her to be. She must be about thirty or thirty-three.

  Her hair is very black, her eyes very blue, her complexion is fair, and her hands and feet are beautiful. She has an expressive face, and seems witty, though not malicious. What appears to be her predominant trait, is to discuss, understandingly, European politics.

  I cannot say how far her pretensions on this subject are justified, for I am quite ignorant of all these questions. I stated this fact to Madame de Fersen, who laughed at me, and evidently did not believe a word that I said.

  M. de Fersen is a very intelligent, agreeable, and cultivated man. By way of relaxation, and as a change from his diplomatic duties, he has given himself up to the study of light French literature, which taste he shares with the dean of European diplomats, Prince Mettemich.

  I was astonished at M. de Fersen’s memory, when he quoted, with the fidelity of a catalogue, the titles of long-forgotten vaudevilles, and recited passages from them; for he also delighted in acting comedy.

  Unfortunately, I am as little versed in vaudevilles as in politics, and could therefore not fully appreciate M. de Fersen’s learning in this specialty.

  The prince only expressed one wish: it was to get to Paris as soon as possible, in order to see the great actors of the minor theatres, who were at once his heroes and his rivals.

  M. and Madame de Fersen are exceptionally well bred, and seem to have been born to fill the high position they hold in society.

  To much native dignity, they unite that charming affability and cordiality that are often found in distinguished members of the Russian aristocracy; for in such done can we now find the sprightly elegance of the Ancien Régime.

  I went on board the frigate to-day, and spent a delightful evening.

  There were only five of us: Madame de Fersen and her husband, the captain of the Alexina, a distinguished young officer, Du Pluvier, and I.

  Du Pluvier had been attach
é to the French legation in Constantinople, but had soon become tired of his duties there, and had asked to be recalled. He had profited by the visit of the Russian frigate to return to Toulon.

  It is so long since I have seen anything of society, that my visit had all the attraction of novelty.

  I made quite a study of Madame de Fersen, who sketched for me several portraits, among them that of the British minister at Constantinople, with a wit and power of description quite remarkable.

  I have never met the honourable Sir — , but his portrait is now for ever imprinted on my memory.

  I have always supposed that nothing could be more insupportable than a woman who liked to talk politics. I have almost changed my mind since listening to Madame de Fersen.

  There is nothing vague or nebulous about her way of talking; she sometimes explains events of serious importance by the human passions that give rise to them, and by showing what private interests they conflict with; thus going from effect to cause, from the infinitely great to the infinitely small, she reaches very piquant and unexpected conclusions.

  Her theories suit me so well that I undoubtedly look on them with great partiality; however, I think that I am safe in claiming for Madame de Fersen a distinguished position among eminently clever women.

  The prince having been entrusted with numerous missions to the different European powers, his wife had naturally been intimately acquainted with the most distinguished persons of each nation; nothing could be more amusing than her conversation, as she passed in review these well-known personages, and told the wittiest things about them.

  Her dress was beautiful, and I was quite sure it was French, for such toilets can only come from Paris.

  It was with real delight that I noticed the long tresses of her black hair, half hidden under a blonde lace barbe, in which she had fastened a spray of geranium blossoms. She wore a robe of white India muslin, adorably fresh and delicate, and her little feet were encased in black satin slippers.