‘I'm sure you don't like dancing any more than I do.’
He answered, ‘No, I do not. Let us rather go and sit out there in the cool, if you do not mind. I think we have seen one another before.’
‘Oh yes,’ she answered; ‘it was at the Madeleine; you picked up my prayer-book. You at least go to church. Oh, I am so utterly tired of this eternal round of balls and parties. Cannot they leave me in peace? I wonder that you should like this sort of thing.’
‘But,’ answered the Marquis, ‘I don't like this sort of thing at all. I was obliged to accept this invitation;’ then blushing and stammering, ‘Of course, mademoiselle, I did not mean—.’ Just at this moment the Duc de Morlaix came to claim his partner, and so saved him from the difficulty ‘of things one would rather have left unsaid.’
The long and short of it was that the Marquis de Laval soon became an intimate of the house. The Baron was constantly inviting him to dinner, and the Baron took every opportunity of leaving them alone together, under the impression that he had taken a fancy to her, and she to him, and that she might thus make a brilliant match.
In a way, certainly they had taken a fancy to one another. They had many tastes in common: it was a relief to her, after the many smirking admirers, to find a man who treated her as an intellectual sympathetic being. And he had perhaps very much the same feeling with regard to her. After a time they became confidential. One day she said to him, ‘You know my resolution is the same as yours. You have freedom and I have not. I intend to enter a religious order, and what am I to do? Certainly my parents keep me as closely confined as I should be in the most enclosed order, and they go on insisting on my being married to one of these wretched creatures with stick-up collars, and an inane face, whom I loathe the sight of. You know you are the only man who has ever been at least a friend to me: and my mother does not like me to have girl friends, and indeed if I had any I do not think I should like them. Their ideal of life appears to be that which is my repulsion. So what am I to do? It is really to you only, who might understand me, that I can appeal for advice.’
‘Well,’ he answered slowly, ‘there is only one possible escape from the difficulty. You will be somewhat surprised to hear what I propose. But if you think about it, you will find it is not so startling after all. Namely, that you and I should go through a nominal form of marriage, and live together as brother and sister for a little while; then you would be free to do as you liked. And we would then part and go to our separate convents.’
She trembled a little, and said, ‘But supposing you should come to love some other woman, and I were to go into a convent, I should be an everlasting drag upon you.’
He answered, ‘I thought you knew me well enough not to suppose that. Besides, I think, according to the laws of our Church, if I may speak plainly, a marriage without consummation is considered null and void. But there's no need to trouble about that. You seem to doubt my vocation.’
She took his hand, and said, ‘I was only afraid for your sake; if you really mean what you say—well, 'tis the will of God.’
The delight of the Baron, on hearing his daughter was engaged, was immense: and when the Marquis de Laval came to him to make arrangements, he was amiably prepared to behave very generously towards his only child. Great was his surprise when De Laval refused to accept any dowry whatsoever. After a great deal of pressing he said—
‘Well, if you insist upon it, you can provide her with her trousseau. And though both of us would rather be married as privately as possible, if you wish to have a train of bridesmaids and a High Mass with full orchestra, you are at liberty to pay for it. But after she is my wife I will not touch a penny of her money. I have, Dieu merci!, quite enough to support us both.’
So they were married in grand state, and this was of course reported as fashionable intelligence in all the papers. They first of all went to his château near Nantes in Brittany, where Laval's mother was rather astonished at their occupying separate rooms. Indeed, the only occasion he entered his wife's room was when they said the breviary together, in preparation for their monastic life. Then they went travelling about Italy. In a quiet way they amused themselves very much, and found they had still more points in common than they had thought before. And making no acquaintances, they found themselves mutually a necessity to one another. They became literally brother and sister, except, as is unprecedented in brothers and sisters, they never quarrelled once.
One day, a year after their marriage, they came back to his house in Paris. They decided to take the final step. He suggested, half in jest, half in earnest, that she should put on the habit of the Franciscan tertiaries, to see what she would look like as a nun; which she did. He looked at her, tears gathering in his eyes.
‘O Seraphine!’ he said, ‘I shall miss you very much.’
Suddenly she threw her arms round him and kissed him, for the first time, passionately.
‘No, dear,’ she cried; ‘I cannot leave you. I cannot live without you!’
Just then there was a loud knock and ring at the door. She went down to the door in her nun's dress. A wretched girl was running along the street; then she stumbled over something on the doorstep. It cried piteously; she took it up: it was a child of about one year old, wrapt up in squalid rags: it put out its arms towards her: when she took it in her arms it ceased to cry. She took it up, and without a word laid it upon her husband's lap. The child stretched out its soft clinging arms towards Célestin, and turned his forget-me-not-like eyes upon him; it remained quite quiet. She went out of the room noiselessly. After a time she came back, arrayed in her bridal dress. She sat down beside him, and put the child between them. Then they sat there for a long time, hand in hand, in utter silence.
One time there was much in vogue a peculiarly sweet-toned kind of violin, or rather, to be accurate, something between a viola and a violoncello. Now they are no longer made. This is the history of the last one that was ever made, I think. This somewhat singular story might in some way explain why they are made no longer. But though I am a poetess, and consequently inclined to believe in the unlikely, this I do not suppose was the history of Viol d’Amors in general. I may add, by way of prefix, that its peculiar sweetness of tone was produced by the duplicated reverberation of strings below, with yet another reverberation within the sounding-board. But to my story.
I was once in Freiburg—Freiburg in Baden, I mean. I went one Sunday to High Mass at the Cathedral. Beethoven's glorious Mass in C was magnificently rendered by a string quartette. I was specially impressed by the first violin, a dignified, middle-aged man, with a singularly handsome face, reminding one of the portraits of Leonardo da Vinci. He was dressed in a mediæval-looking black robe; and he played with an inspiration such as I have seldom, if ever, heard. There was likewise a most beautiful boy's treble. Boys’ voices, lovely in their ‘timbre’ as nothing else, are generally somewhat wanting in their expression. This one united the most exquisite ‘timbre’ with the most complete possible expression. I was going to stay in Freiburg some time, as I knew people there. The first violinist had aroused my curiosity. I learnt that he was an Italian, a Florentine, of the ancient noble family of da Ripoli. But he was now a maker of musical instruments, not very well off—who nevertheless played at the Cathedral for love, not money; also that the beautiful treble was his youngest son, and he was a widower with five children. As he interested me, I sought to procure an introduction, which I succeeded in getting without difficulty.
He lived in one of those beautiful old houses which linger still in towns like Freiburg. He seemed somewhat surprised that an Englishwoman should go out of her way to visit him. Fortunately I was familiar with Italian, being myself an Italian on the mother's side, and was at that time on my way to Italy. He received me with much affability. I was ushered into a long Gothic room, done in black oak: there was a very beautiful Gothic window, which was open. It was spring-time, and the most delightful weather. There was a strong scent of May about the room
, emanating from a hawthorn-tree immediately opposite the window, which had the extraordinary peculiarity of bearing red and white blossoms at the same time. The room was full of all sorts of odds and ends of things—caskets, vessels, embroideries—all exquisitely artistic. He told me these were executed by a son and daughter of his. We began to interest one another, and had a long talk. As we were talking, in walked a tall, grave-looking young man. He was of the pure Etruscan type—dark, and indeed somewhat sombre.
With a perturbed air, not noticing me, he suddenly made this singular remark, ‘Saturn is in conjunction with the moon: I fear that ill may betide Guido.’
‘This is my son Andrea,’ his father explained, ‘my eldest son; he goes in much for astronomy, and indeed also for astrology, in which you probably do not believe.’
At that moment in walked another young man. This was the second son, Giovanni. He was also dark, like his brother, and tall, but had a very pleasing smile. He reminded me rather of the portrait of Andrea del Sarto. It was he who manufactured—to use the word in its proper sense—these beautiful objects which were lying about the table. After him came in two sisters: the elder, whose name was Anastasia, was a tall, stately girl, with dark hair and grey eyes, but pale face: very much like the type we are familiar with from the pictures of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The younger sister was quite different: she was fair, but fair in the Italian manner: that glorious, ivory-white complexion so different from the pink and white of the North. Her hair was of that glorious red-gold colour which we see in Titian's pictures, but her eyes were dark. Her name was Liperata. It appears Anastasia was the eldest of the family, then came Andrea and Giovanni, then Liperata, and lastly, Guido, whom I had not seen as yet.
I omitted to mention, though it does not seem here of any significance at all, that Anastasia wore a blue gown of somewhat stiff mediæval cut, but very graceful all the same. I learnt afterwards it was both designed and made by herself.
Presently there entered the room a boy of about fourteen. This was Guido. He was fairer than his brothers, though also somewhat of the Etruscan type, and was not so tall for his age. He looked singularly fragile and delicate. His complexion was more delicate than a rose-petal: he had those long, supple, sensitive hands which indicate the born musician. His somewhat long hair, of a shade of brown, had a shadow of gold on it, as if it had been golden once. But in his strange-coloured eyes, which were grey-blue, streaked with yellow bars, there was a far-off look, like a light not of this world, shining on a slowly-rippling river of music. He went straight to the window, also not noticing there was a stranger in the room, and said, ‘Ah, how beautiful the May-tree is! I shall only see it bloom once more.’ He seemed indeed to be looking through the blooming hawthorn at that pale planet Saturn, which then was, for it, singularly large and brilliant. Andrea shuddered, but Giovanni bent down and kissed him, and said, ‘What, Guido, another fit of melancholia?’
As you may imagine, I was interested in this singular family, and soon our acquaintance ripened into intimacy. It was to Anastasia that I was specially drawn, and she to me. Anastasia inherited the musical tastes of her father, and was herself no mean executant on the violin.
Andrea was not only occupied with astronomy and astrology, but even with alchemy and such like things, and occult sciences generally.
The whole family was very superstitious. They seemed to take astrology and magic as matters of course. But Andrea was by far the most superstitious of them all. It was Giovanni who was the bread-winner of the family, together with his special sister, Liperata, who assisted him in his work, and herself did the most charming embroideries. The only thing was that their materials were too costly, and required a large outlay to be made before they could sell anything.
For though the musical instruments the father produced were super-excellent of their kind, and fetched large prices, he took so much care about his work that he was sometimes years in producing one violin. He was then absorbed in one idea, in producing a Viol d’Amor, an instrument which he said was the most beautiful in all the world, and which had unjustly fallen into disuse. And his Viol d’Amor was to excel all others that had ever been made. He had left Florence, he said, because he could not stand this great Republic (for though of one of the most ancient noble families, he was an ardent Republican) being converted into the capital of a tenth-rate monarchy. ‘They will be taking Rome next,’ he said. And he did not know that what he was saying was soon to come true.
They were not well off, certainly, but it was Anastasia who managed the household and cared for everyone. And she was the most excellent of manageresses. And so their life was very simple, but nevertheless was elegant and refined.
I very often enjoyed their simple, truly Italian hospitality, recompensing them by purchasing some specimens of Giovanni's excellent workmanship and a violin from the old Signor da Ripoli, which I have still, and would not part with for the world. Though, alas! I myself cannot play upon it. To cut a long story short, I had to go on with my journey, but I did not wholly lose sight of them, so to speak, and I corresponded frequently with Anastasia.
One day, just about a year afterwards, I received the following letter from Anastasia:—
‘DEAR CECELIA,—A great calamity has fallen upon us. It is so out of the common that you would hardly believe it. Of course you know how my father is devoted to his Viol d’Amor. You also know that we are all rather superstitious, but none to the same degree as Andrea. It appears that one day Andrea was poring into some old book, which was in that mongrel tongue, half Latin and half Italian, before the days of Dante, when he came across a passage (you know, I know nothing about the manufacture of musical instruments; but it appears that leather thongs are necessary to procure the complete vibration of the Viol d’Amor). In this passage it said that preternatural sweetness of tone could be procured if the thongs were made of the skin of those who loved the maker most.—[I had heard of this superstition before: I think there is some story in connection with Paganini of a similar nature, but nevertheless quite different. For as the legend goes about Paganini, the strings of a violin were made of the entrails of a person, which necessitated their murder; but here it would appear from the rest of the letter it did not do so, and was a freewill offering.]—Andrea conceived the fantastic idea of cutting off part of his own skin and having it tanned unbeknown to our father, telling him he had got it from the Clinic, because he had heard human leather was the best. To effect this he had to invoke the assistance of Giovanni, who, as you know, is so skilful with all instruments, and is also, as perhaps you do not know, a most skilful surgeon.
‘Giovanni, not to be outdone by his brother, performed the same operation on himself. They were obliged to confide in me, and, as you know, I am very good as a nurse, and clever at bandages and such like. So I managed, with a little bandaging, and nursing, and sewing up the scars, to get them quite well again in a very short time. Of course no word of this was ever said to Liperata or Guido. And now comes the dreadful part of my story. How Guido could have divined anything I cannot understand. The only explanation I can offer is this. He is a very studious boy, and very fond of poring into the old books in Andrea's library. He might have seen the same passage, and with his extraordinary quick intuition have guessed. Anyhow he appears to have gone to some quack Jew doctor, and had a portion of his skin cut off in the same manner, and brought the skin to his brothers to be dealt with in the same way, which it was. The operation had been performed badly, and, as you know, the child is very delicate, and it has had the most disastrous results. He is hopelessly ill, and we do not know what to do. Of course we cannot tell our father. It is equally impossible to tell a doctor. Fortunately our father does not believe in doctors and trusts in us. It is a good thing all three of us know something of medical science: I think things are getting a little better. He rallied a little yesterday, and asked to be taken from his bed to the sofa in the long room. At his own request he was placed just opposite the May-tree, with the window
open. This seemed to revive him. He became, comparatively speaking, quite animated, especially when a slight wind blew some of the red and white blossoms on to his coverlet. Giovanni and I have some hope, but Andrea has not. Liperata of course does not understand what it all means. Nor does our father, who is intensely anxious about Guido, whom he loves best of us all.—
Ever affectionately,
‘ANASTASIA.’
‘P.S.—Good news at last! the Viol d’Amor is completed. Father came down and played it to us. Oh! what a divine tone it has! Guido first burst into tears, and then seemed to grow quite well again for some time afterwards. Father left the Viol d’Amor with me, that I should play to Guido whenever he wished it. Yes, there is hope after all, whatever Andrea may say.’
Not long afterwards I received another letter from Anastasia in deep mourning. It ran thus:—
‘The worst has happened. Last Friday, after having been for several days considerably better, Guido seemed almost himself again. I was alone with him in the long room. (One thinks of trivialities in great grief; I was wearing that same blue dress I had on when I first saw you.) There was a wind, also rain, which pattered against the window-pane, and the wind blew the blossoms of the May-tree like red-white snow to the ground. This seemed to depress Guido. He begged me to sing to him, and accompany myself on the Viol d’Amor. “It is so sweet of tone,” he said, with a sweet, sad smile. “I am rather tired, though I do not feel much pain now. I shall not see the hawthorn bloom again.”
Of Kings and Things Page 5
