“Illoustrissima, senhora,” he said, bowing and twiddling his thumbs, “forgive me for disturbing you. I am Dona Maria’s father confessor.”
“I am told,” exclaimed Irene tragically, “that Don Manoel is on the point of death.”
“Calm yourself, senhora, he is still alive but very weak, poor fellow. He has not spoken since yesterday, even to his favourite parakeet, and that’s a bad sign...”
“Believe me, I am greatly distressed at what has happened, but indeed how could I have foreseen such a thing?”
At her request the monk sat down near her, and gazing at her with a look of mingled compassion and admiration said:
“When a woman is as beautiful as you are, senhora, we must fear for the misguided passions of men,” adding with a smile, “I am afraid you were much too kindly to his Excellency. He told me the story of a certain promenade in the Paseo Publico in explanation of the unhappy state in which I found him.”
“Still harking upon that promenade!” cried Irene. “But I assure you...”
“Come, come, senhora,” said the monk, with a wink, smiling satirically and sanctimoniously. “I know a certain statue of Goncalves Dias which looked down upon a thing or two...”
“The statue looked down upon nothing.”
“I am not questioning you, my daughter. Bless me, had you indulged in a little flirtation...”
“And even had I done so, is that any reason why I should be crushed by this dreadful story which has set the whole town against me, resulted in my being received at the Municipal Theatre as though I were unknown or a beginner, spoilt my mission in South America on behalf of art and beauty, is calculated to make me look absurd in the eyes of Europe, and will end by killing me too? For after all what can be said against me? That I have remained an honest woman. That is my crime. And to think that it was the wife of this unhappy fool who brought me absolution for the sin she wished me to commit!... To think that her confessor — in other words you — advised her to take this step and the Bishop of Rio signed the document!...”
“Allow me to interrupt you, my daughter,” said the monk, as calm as Irene was excited, “that document was spurious.”
“Why, that makes it all the worse,” gasped Irene, who had not expected this blow. “What you tell me now is too awful.”
“There is one thing more awful still, senhora,” said the monk with priestly gravity, “and that is to make use of the exquisite beauty with which the Almighty in his munificence has clothed your immortal soul, to harass a poor, helpless and defenceless man, to force him to submit to your every caprice, to obtain from him those kindnesses, attentions, submissions, little favours and courtesies of which women are as proud as they are of a victory which costs them nothing. Their virtue is intact, and what does it matter if they leave behind them someone who is in torture? You mentioned Dona Maria a moment ago. The unhappy lady came to ask you for something which would have killed her if you had granted it. She knew it. Yet she came all the same. No!... I did not counsel her to take this step, but when she asked me if I blamed her, I told her simply, astonished by the immensity of her sacrifice: ‘Go and may God be with you!’ And you, senhora, to whom the theatre must have imparted some knowledge of the heroic side of life, you failed to understand. You looked upon it as grotesque. She was wonderful!”
“You talk like my maid,” returned Irene, quivering in every limb in her effort to escape the ascendancy of the priest’s astute and subtle language. “I mean that you are at one with her in trying to crush me, only it is not Dona Maria whom she considers wonderful, but her husband.... I therefore ask you the same question as I put to her, to which, however, she did not reply. Must I yield to Don Manoel in order to save his life?”
The monk shook his head sadly.
“That is no longer the question. The poor man is in too low a state. That’s why I had no objection to come here and tell you, senhora, that you can visit the bedside of his Excellency without incurring any risk. The food which he refuses to take from anyone else, he will accept at your hands. Would it be asking you too much, in truth, to offer the poor man the bowl of beef tea which will restore him to life?”
“Why did you not say so at once?” exclaimed Irene, rising from her seat and throwing a cloak over her shoulders. “Only you must not leave me.”
“I promise you that, senhora.”
CHAPTER V
“I WOULD FAIN BE FREE”
“... I OWN that I would fain be free from the enchantments of your witchery.”
IT was with these two lines from the “Misanthrope,” accompanied by a sad, disillusioned, and submissive smile that Don Manoel de Carangola welcomed Irene at his bedside. He did not reject the sustenance which she offered him, but consented to take up his life anew.
His eyes shone with a light at once so mournful and grateful that Irene was carried away, and reproached herself with not sooner effecting this act of charity. She no longer saw before her a hothead, a prey to the nightmare of his senses, but a sane being who realized the extent of his temporary madness and was in no danger of a further lapse. Meekly he summoned up his newly-found strength to kiss, in the most becoming manner, the tip of her fingers so that she exclaimed joyfully:
“At last, grand master, you are yourself again, and such as I always hope to see you.”
Her words, in truth, were uttered from a natural though somewhat hasty impulse, if the precarious condition of de Carangola be borne in mind. Thus he dropped her beautiful hand with an extreme weariness which would have softened the hardest heart. Unfortunately, Irene could see in all this but the end of her troubles, and she looked round, in order to rejoice with him, for the monk who had promised not to leave her. She was surprised to observe that he was no longer in the room, nevertheless, bursts of song which penetrated the walls soon enlightened her. The holy man was mingling his droning voice with the shrill sopranos of Leonora, Virginia, Angelina, Isabella, Flora and Rosalia in a hymn of praise. They hurled forth their “Holy Mary” with a zest as delirious in its gladness as they had previously been delirious in their despair. And as if this concert was not enough, a sound louder and more piercing than the others screamed in Irene’s ears, a voice which seemed to pertain rather to the lower regions than to paradise.
“Don’t trouble,” murmured Don Manoel. “It’s Cherimbave, my favourite parakeet.” And he introduced her to the bird.
Only then Irene began to ask herself whether she were not to blame for disturbing the peace of this child-like mind by incautiously parading before him the charms which nature, together with art, had so lavishly bestowed on her. In her humiliation she forced herself, as a penance, to listen without boredom to the interminable babble of this man seemingly in the seventh heaven when anyone displayed an interest in his birds. He rang the bell and a man servant laid him in a lounge-chair with wheels, and took him into a large garden where he had built a number of wire palaces for his little friends. They greeted him with a deafening serenade of sound.
“Don’t imagine,” he said, as they went up to the cages, “that they are expressing their delight at seeing me. On the contrary they are reproaching me for neglecting them. If I wish to retain the friendship of each one of them I must never deceive them. My public work makes less demand upon me than the watchful care which my little friends exact.... I have to devote constant attention to them if I am to maintain health and peace in the little family, for harmony does not always reign.... Here are five wrens kept separate because they fight when they are together. Household quarrels among birds often lead to crime! On one occasion I heard a cry of pain followed by a song of delight. The cock bird had killed his mate, and he did not fail to proclaim the fact by a noisy demonstration of victory.”
So saying Don Manoel looked up, his kindly eyes bedewed with tears.
Touched more than she cared to show, Irene felt an impulse to press the grand master’s hand, but the recollection of the Paseo Publico arrested her in time, and a silence fell. As th
e chair glided over the gravel path the vibrating note of the humming birds came from all parts and followed the procession. Don Manoel sighed once more and said:
“I have every kind of bird. More often than not my little friends are models of virtue. Look at these little fellows who are devoted to each other. When one of them dies its mate droops until it too joins it in the grave.”
“In the grave?” said Irene. “Have you got a cemetery?”
“Do you think I would throw them in the dustbin?” returned Don Manoel. “Observe this bathing place which I have laid out for them. See all these little vessels standing in a row. In the morning they come here one after another and immerse themselves, without making a mistake, each in his own tub. They are full of little courtesies one to the other, cleansing themselves, billing and cooing the while. They also have a bath at night. I attend personally to their feeding, and I have discovered a mixture which they are immensely fond of. It is made up of boiled beef chopped very fine, the yellow of new laid eggs, a quarter part of crushed millet, an eighth part of hempseed, the whole pounded in a mortar, and moistened only with millet water....
“When they are out of sorts I take special care of them, and persons suffering from gout might find some solace in this fact: I have an old starling to whom I give a foot-bath every night made from the flower of marsh-mallow and elder bush boiled for several minutes. Then I send him to sleep by mesmerizing him. It’s very simple. I also practice homoeopathy. I recommend belladonna as a certain cure for epilepsy. In the matter of surgery, I leave it to them. I have a parakeet with a top knot like the flower of a scabious who showed great friendship for one of those little fellows, commonplace but full of life, whom you call hedge sparrows. The sparrow had a growth on the throat which gave him pain while eating. The parakeet filed this growth with his beak twice a day, an operation which the sparrow gladly suffered until he was cured.”
With his little friends around him and the lovely Irene at his side, Don Manoel was visibly recovering his strength. It was with feverish enthusiasm that he ended by bursting forth as though he himself were a bird:
“What are you, after all, you men? From the point of view of sight, hearing, taste and smell I have the advantage of you. My brain and cerebellum, divided into two half spheres, are identical with yours. My stomach possessing powerful muscles is more perfect. I have remained true to the laws of nature, and in that respect, too, I am your superior. No tricks in my home and no hypocrisies! My sorrows are rare and my woes few. Work away as you please day and night while I sing in the sunlight of mother earth! Prolong as you please for a few hours your wretched lives with your cuppings, cauteries, mustard plasters, leeches, calomel, ipecacuanha!... Strive to flee as you please from your servitude by rising to the light which disowns you and drives you back crushed! My own wings keep pace with any of your aeroplanes or your steam engines!”
After this lyrical outburst he paused. Irene would have liked to leave him. Suddenly he said in a serious voice:
“As far as you and I are concerned, Irene, we have wings which are swifter than those of a bird. They are the wings of thought uplifted by the divine influence of love.”
Irene left him abruptly on this last word.
She did not return next day. The day after that the monk came to her again. Father Ignacio — such was his name — told her that after seeming quite sensible the day before and taking a fair amount of nourishment in expectation of her visit, Don Manoel now refused to eat anything unless Irene herself gave it to him.
She grew wroth, blazing out against the awful tyranny of it, but on Ignacio telling her that only a little patience was needed to avoid trouble before her departure, she went with him to Don Manoel’s house.
She found him querulous and in the sulks, and had to beg and pray before he would take from her hands the beef tea which two days before he had accepted with gratitude.
“Understand,” he said, “if we cannot have even a union of souls I would rather die now.”
“A union of souls!” exclaimed Irene. “Nothing would please me better. If you will promise me that when you use the word ‘love’ you mean simply intellectual communion between us in our discussions of the great problems which excite humanity, if you realize, moreover, that it is only by means of ideas, traditions and conventions that we can attain the ideal beauty which is love personified — then I am entirely with you in a union of souls.”
“Then be entirely with me, Irene.”
Don Manoel meant what he said. A union of souls was all that he needed now that he was free from human desires. Unfortunately for Irene’s peace of mind, the somewhat prolonged starvation to which the grand master had forced himself after first weakening him, was the starting point of a state of health which had not been so robust for some time. Don Manoel became thinner and looked ten years younger in consequence. His muscles, free from superfluous tissue, assumed a flexibility which gave him the bearing of a young man. He greatly changed. He was careful of his personal appearance and ordered a number of new ties. Irene was struck by the change in him and not a little alarmed. Therefore she maintained an attitude of the strictest reserve. She had received a severe lesson; and determined henceforward to act with extreme discretion. Alas, once a flirt, always a flirt!
CHAPTER VI
THE UNION OF SOULS
IRENE RENEWED THE triumphs of her first performances at Rio. She was received on every side with expressions of popular admiration which on occasion embarrassed her. Everywhere people crowded round her. When her car passed through the Avenida Centrale unknown admirers in their dashing turn-outs raised their hats to her. She was treated like a queen. So far so good. But when she made a purchase in the Rua do Ouvidor, the leading and busiest shopping centre, she could not fail to be somewhat annoyed by the headlong haste with which the shopkeepers and their wives appeared on their doorsteps with ingratiating smiles in order to catch a passing glimpse of her.
Whatever shop she entered a great crowd followed. When she came out she was cheered, as she was cheered in Paris when she emerged from the stage door, but in the warmth of their attentions she detected the expression of a peculiar feeling not intended solely for the great actress, nor even for one of the most beautiful and elegantly dressed women in the world; and this feeling, though she could not explain why, was not wholly agreeable to her.
It was, in particular, when she was accompanied in these excursions by Don Manoel, with whom she still continued her union of souls, that she was conscious of this nameless apprehension. Don Manoel took her to see the wonders of the outlying districts. He conducted her to somewhat secluded localities by preference, but they were invariably seen by certain idlers who persisted in bowing to them and keeping them under observation. Women in particular caused her uneasiness by their looks, into which they seemed to throw a kindly encouragement. Doubtless they were grateful to her for showing so much patience with this worthy man, this honour to his town, whose company every day could scarcely be entertaining.
She counted the time that remained to her. Only two more days. The vessel which was to take her to Montevideo lay in the roadstead which never seemed so attractive to her as now that she was so soon to leave it. And yet it was a unique opportunity as she looked round this gulf crowned with palaces to admire the genius of the man who had transformed a pest hole into one of the most beautiful and healthy cities in the world. Why did she show such impatience to be gone!
It was, alas, because the union of souls was becoming daily more difficult. On one occasion Don Manoel took her to Carioca Square and induced her to drink, from a silver goblet which he carried with him, a draught of the cool and clear water from the ancient spring.
“Now you are caught,” he exclaimed slyly, “for there is a legend attached to this water. Whoever quenches his thirst at the Carioca spring will for ever feel a longing to return to Rio. It is a philtre from which there is no escape.”
So saying he pressed her hand in a manner which by no mean
s pleased her. She did not treat the legend seriously. But next day at her request they went by the funicular railway to Corcovado. At first the journey was delightful. At Peneiras they sipped orangeade. A magnificent landscape lay before their eyes, and when they reached the crest she stood as though transfixed with admiration. From the rocky prow, marking the end of Corcovado, the entire gulf was revealed and the city lay beneath them, white, coquettish, undulating, languorous.
A number of travellers set down by the funicular gazed from a respectful distance at the actress’s enthusiasm, which they had no wish to disturb. In truth, though there was enthusiasm, there was no surprise. That very morning she had read a description of the wonderful scene and committed it to memory.
It was a favourable moment. She drew herself up, and in a sort of delirium as though unable to contain the emotion which stirred her, began:
“I don’t know whether to let my astonished eyes dwell on the graceful Nitcheroy reclining against the range of the Orgues mountains, or the barren, wild, menacing Sugar Loaf; the innumerable islands whose emerald gleams give life to the azure bay, the flower-bedecked gardens, or the immense, mysterious forests whose dark green masses crown the Tiguca.”
“France for ever!” cried a voice behind her.
She looked round and bowed her thanks. The handful of visitors discreetly applauded, and Don Manoel said in an undertone admiringly:
“What a splendid ambassador you would make!”
She did not reply. She sat down on a boulder, her elbows on her knees, her beautiful head resting in the cup of her hands. She had made her choice among the wonders enumerated with such exultation, and she riveted the forest not only with her eyes but with her mind.
Collected Works of Gaston Leroux Page 437
