Home > Authors Index > William Black > Sunrise > This page
Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
||
Chapter 19. At The Culturverein |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XIX. AT THE CULTURVEREIN On calm reflection, Calabressa gave himself the benefit of his own approval; and, on the whole, was rather proud of his diplomacy. He had revealed enough, and not too much; he had given the headstrong Englishman prudent warnings and judicious counsel; he had done what he could for the future of the little Natalushka, who was the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi. But there was something more. He went up-stairs. "My dear little one," he said, in his queer French, "behold me--I come alone. Your English friend sends a thousand apologies--he has to return to his guests: is it an English custom to leave guests in such a manner? Ah, Madame Potecki, there is a time in one's life when one does strange things, is there not? When a farewell before strangers is hateful--impossible; when you rather go away silently than come before strangers and shake hands, and all the rest. What, wicked little one, you look alarmed! Is it a secret, then? Does not madame guess anything?" "I entreat you, Signor Calabressa, not to speak in riddles," said Natalie, hastily. "See, here is a telegram from papa. He will be back in London on Monday next week. You can stay to see him, can you not?"' "Mademoiselle, do you not understand that I am not my own master for two moments in succession? For this present moment I am; the next I may be under orders. But if my freedom, my holiday, lasts--yes, I shall be glad to see your father, and I will wait. In the mean time, I must use up my present moment. Can you give me the address of Vincent Beratinsky?" She wrote it down for him; it was a number in Oxford Street. "Now I will add my excuses to those of the tall Englishman," said he, rising. "Good-night, madame. Good-night, mademoiselle--truly, it is a folly to call you the little Natalushka, who are taller than your beautiful mother. But it was the little Natalushka I was thinking about for many a year. Good-night, wicked little one, with your secrets!" He kissed her hand, bowed once more to the little Polish lady, and left. When, after considerable difficulty--for he was exceedingly near-sighted--he made out the number in Oxford Street, he found another caller just leaving. This stranger glanced at him, and instantly said, in a low voice, "The night is dark, brother." Calabressa started; but the other gave one or two signs that reassured him. "I knew you were in London, signore, and I recognized you; we have your photograph in Lisle Street. My name is Reitzei--" "Ah!" Calabressa exclaimed, with a new interest, as he looked at the pallid-faced young man. "And if you wish to see Beratinsky, I will take you to him. I find he is at the Culturverein: I was going there myself." So Calabressa suffered himself to be led away. At this time the Culturverein used to meet in a large hall in a narrow lane off Oxford Street. It was an association of persons, mostly Germans, connected in some way or other with art, music, or letters--a merry-hearted, free-and-easy little band of people, who met every evening to laugh and talk and joke and generally forget the world and all its cares. The evening usually began with Bavarian beer, sonatas, and comic lectures; then Rhine wines began to appear, and of course these brought with them songs of love, and friendship, and patriotism; occasionally, when the older and wiser folk had gone, sweet champagne and a wild frolic prevailed until daylight came to drive the revellers out. Beratinsky belonged to the Verein by reason of his having at one time betaken himself to water-color drawing, in order to keep himself alive. When Calabressa entered the large, long hall, the walls of which were plentifully hung with sketches in color and cartoons in black and white, the _fertig_!--_los_! period had not arrived. On the contrary, the meeting was exceedingly demure, almost dull; for a German music professor, seated at the piano on the platform, was playing one of his own compositions, which, however beautiful, was of considerable length; and his audience had relapsed into half-hushed conversation over their light cigars and tall glasses of Bairisch. Beratinsky had to come along to the entrance-hall to enter the names of his visitors in a book. He was a little man, somewhat corpulent, with bushy black eyebrows, intensely black eyes, and black closely-cropped beard. The head was rather handsome; the figure not. "Ah, Calabressa, you have come alive again!" he said, speaking in pretty fair Italian. "We heard you were in London. What is it?" The last phrase was uttered in a low voice, though there was no by-stander. But Calabressa, with a lofty gesture, replied, "My friend, we are not always on commissions. Sometimes we have a little liberty--a little money--a notion in our head. And if one cannot exactly travel _en prince_, _n'importe!_ we have our little excursion. And if one has one's sweetheart to see? Do you know, friend Beratinsky, that I have been dining with Natalie--the little Natalushka, as, she used to be called?" Beratinsky glanced quickly at him with the black, piercing eyes. "Ah, the beautiful child! the beautiful child!" Calabressa exclaimed, as if he was addressing some one not present. "The mouth sweet, pathetic, like that in Titian's Assumption: you have seen the picture in the Venice Academy? But she is darker than Titian's Virgin; she is of the black, handsome Magyar breed, like her mother. You never saw her mother, Beratinsky?" "No," said the other, rather surlily. "Come, sit down and have a cigar." "A cigarette--a cigarette and a little cognac, if you please," said Calabressa, when the three companions had gone along to the middle of the hall and taken their seats. "Ah, it was such a surprise to me: the sight of her grown to be a woman, and the perfect, beautiful image of her mother--the very voice too--I could have thought it was a dream." "Did you come here to talk of nothing but Lind's daughter?" said Beratinsky, with scant courtesy. "Precisely," remarked Calabressa, in absolute good-humor. "But before that a word." He glanced round this assemblage of foreign-looking persons, no doubt guessing at the various nationalities indicated by physique and complexion--Prussian, Pole, Rhinelander, Swiss, and what not. If the company, in English eyes, might have looked Bohemian--that is to say, unconventional in manner and costume--the Bohemianism, at all events, was of a well-to-do, cheerful, good-humored character. There was a good deal of talking besides the music. "These gentlemen," said Calabressa, in a low voice, "are they friends--are they with us?" "Only one or two," said Beratinsky. "You do not come here to proselytize, then?" "One must amuse one's self sometimes," said the little, fat, black-haired Pole, somewhat gruffly. "Then one must take care what one says!" "I presume that is generally the case, friend Calabressa." But Calabressa was not offended. He was interested in what was going on. "Par exemple," he said, in his airy way, "que vient faire la le drole?" The music had come to an end, and the spectacled professor had retired amidst a thunder of applause. His successor, who had attracted Calabressa's attention, was a gentleman who had mounted on a high easel an immense portfolio of cartoons roughly executed in crayon; and as he exhibited them one by one, he pointed out their characteristics with a long stick, after the manner of a showman. His demeanor was serious; his face was grave; his tone was simple and business-like. But as he unfolded these rude drawings, Calabressa, who understood but little German, was more and more astonished to find the guttural laughter around him increase and increase until the whole place resounded with roars, while some of the old Herren held their sides in pain, as the tears of the gigantic mirth streamed down their cheeks. Those who were able hammered loud applause on the table before them; others rolled in their chairs; many could only lie back and send their merriment up to the reverberating roof in shrill shrieks and yells. "In the name of Heaven, what is it all about?" said Calabressa. "Have the people gone mad?" "Illustrations of German proverbs," said Beratinsky, who, despite his surly manner, was himself forced to smile. Well, Calabressa had indeed come here to talk about Lind's daughter; but it was impossible, amidst this wild surging to and fro of Olympian laughter. At last, however, the showman came to an end of his cartoons, and solemnly made his bow, and amidst tumultuous cheering resumed his place among his companions. There was a pause, given over to chatter and joking, and Calabressa quickly embraced this opportunity. "You are a friend of the little Natalushka--of the beautiful Natalie, I should say, perhaps?" "Lind's daughter does not choose to have many friends," said Beratinsky, curtly. This was not promising; and, indeed, the corpulent little Pole showed great disinclination to talk about the young lady who had so laid hold of Calabressa's heart. But Calabressa was not to be denied, when it was the welfare of the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi that was concerned. "Yes, yes, friend Beratinsky, of course she is very much alone. It is rather a sad thing for a young girl to be so much alone." "And if she chooses to be alone?" said Beratinsky, with a sharpness that resembled the snarl of a terrier. Perhaps it was to get rid of the topic that Beratinsky here joined in a clamorous call for "Nageli! Nageli!" Presently a fresh-colored young Switzer, laughing and blushing tremendously, went up to the platform and took his seat at the piano, and struck a few noisy chords. It was a Tyrolese song he sung, with a jodel refrain of his own invention: "Hat einer ein Schatzerl,
"Meine Herren! You know our good friend Nageli is going to leave us; perhaps we shall not see him again for many years. I challenge you to drink this toast: 'Nageli, and his quick return!' I say to him what some of the shopkeepers in our Father-land say to their customers, 'Kommen Sie bald wieder!'" Here there was a great shouting of "Nageli! Nageli!" until one started the chorus, which was immediately and sonorously sung by the whole assemblage, "Hoch soll er leben! Another pause, chiefly devoted to the ordering of Hochheimer and the lighting of fresh cigars. The souls of the sons of the Father-land were beginning to warm. "Friend Beratinsky," said the anxious-hearted albino, "perhaps you know that many years ago I knew the mother of Natalie Lind; she was a neighbor--a companion--of mine: and I am interested in the little one. A young girl sometimes has need of friends. Now, you are in a position--" "Friend Calabressa, you may save your breath," said the other, coldly. "The young lady might have had my friendship if she had chosen. She did not choose. I suppose she is old enough--and proud enough--to choose her own friends. Yes, yes, friend Calabressa, I have heard. But we will say nothing more: now listen to this comical fellow." Calabressa was not thinking of the young Englishman who now sat down at the piano; a strange suspicion was beginning to fill his mind. Was it possible, he began inwardly to ask, that Vincent Beratinsky had himself aspired to marry the beautiful Hungarian girl? This good-looking young English fellow, with a gravity equal to that of the sham showman, explained to his audience that he was composing an operetta, of which he would give them a few passages. He was a skilful pianist. He explained, as his fingers ran up and down the keys, that the scene was in Ratcliffe Highway. A tavern: a hornpipe. Jack ashore. Unseemly squabbles: here there were harsh discords and shrill screams. Drunkenness: the music getting very helpless. Then the daylight comes--the chirping of sparrows--Jack wanders out--the breath of the morning stirs his memories--he thinks of other days. Then comes in Jack's song, which neither Calabressa nor any one else present could say was meant to be comic, or pathetic, or a demoniac mixture of both. The accompaniment which the handsome young English fellow played was at once rhythmical, and low and sad, like the wash of waves: "Oh, the days were long, "When Jane and I went courtin', "But Jane she married the sodger-chap; This second professor of gravity was abundantly cheered too when he rose from the piano; for the music was quaint and original with a sort of unholy, grotesque pathos running through it. Calabressa resumed: "My good Beratinsky, what is it that you have heard?" "No matter. Natalie Lind has no need of your good offices, Calabressa. She can make friends for herself, and quickly enough, too." Calabressa's eyes were not keen, but his ears were; he detected easily the personal rancor in the man's tone. "You are speaking of some one: the Englishman?" Beratinsky burst out laughing. "Listen, Reitzei! Even my good friend Calabressa perceives. He, too, has encountered the Englishman. Oh yes, we must all give way to him, else he will stamp on our toes with his thick English boots. You, Reitzei: how long is he to allow you to retain your office?" "Better for him if he does not interfere with me," said the younger man. "I was always against the English being allowed to become officers. They are too arrogant; they want everything under their direction. Take their money, but keep them outside: that would have been my rule." "And this Englishman," said Beratinsky, with a smile, though there was the light of malice in his eye, "this Englishman is not content with wanting to have the mastery of poor devils like you and me; he also wishes to marry the beautiful Natalie--the beautiful Natalie, who has hitherto been as proud as the Princess Brunhilda. Now, now, friend Calabressa, do not protest. Every one has ears, has eyes. And when papa Lind comes home--when he finds that this Englishman has been making a fool of him, and professing great zeal when he was only trying to steal away the daughter--what then, friend Calabressa?" "A girl must marry," said Calabressa. "I thought she was too proud to think of such things," said the other, scornfully. "However, I entreat you to say no more. What concern have I with Natalie Lind? I tell you, let her make more new friends." Calabressa sat silent, his heart as heavy as lead. He had come with some notion that he would secure one other--powerful, and in all of Lind's secrets--on whom Natalie could rely, should any emergency occur in which she needed help. But these jealous and envious taunts, these malignant prophecies, only too clearly showed him in what relation Vincent Beratinsky stood with regard to the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi and the Englishman, her lover. Calabressa sat silent. When some one began to play the zither, he was thinking not of the Culturverein in London, but of the dark pine woods above the Erlau, and of the house there, and of Natalie Berezolyi as she played in the evening. He would ask Natalushka if she, too, played the zither. _ |
||