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Sunrise, a novel by William Black |
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Chapter 17. Calabressa |
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_ CHAPTER XVII. CALABRESSA When Calabressa called at the house in Curzon Street he was at once admitted; Natalie recognizing the name as that of one of her father's old friends. Calabressa had got himself up very smartly, to produce an impression on the little Natalushka whom he expected to see. His military-looking coat was tightly buttoned; he had burnished up the gold braid of his cap; and as he now ascended the stairs he gathered the ends of his mustache out of his yellow-white beard and curled them round and round his fingers and pulled them out straight. He had already assumed a pleasant smile. But when he entered the shaded drawing-room, and beheld this figure before him, all the dancing-master's manner instantly fled from him. He seemed thunderstruck; he shrunk back a little; his cap fell to the floor; he could not utter a word. "Excuse me--excuse me, mademoiselle," he gasped out at length, in his odd French. "Ah, it is like a ghost--like other years come back--" He stared at her. "I am very pleased to see you, sir," said she to him, gently, in Italian. "Her voice also--her voice also!" he exclaimed, almost to himself, in the same tongue. "Signorina, you will forgive me--but--when one sees an old friend--you are so like--ah, so like--" "You are speaking of my mother?" the girl said, with her eyes cast down. "I have been told that I was like her. You knew her, signore?" Calabressa pulled himself together somewhat. He picked up his cap; he assumed a more business-like air. "Oh yes, signorina, I knew her," he said, with an apparent carelessness, but he was regarding her all the same. "Yes, I knew her well. We were friends long before she married. What, are you surprised that I am so old? Do you know that I can remember you when you were a very little thing--at Dunkirk it was--and what a valiant young lady you were, and you would go to fight the Russians all by yourself! And you--you do not remember your mother?" "I cannot tell," she said, sadly. "They say it is impossible, and yet I seem to remember one who loved me, and my grief when I asked for her and found she would never come back--or else that is only my recollection of what I was told by others. But what of that? I know where she is now: she is my constant companion. I know she loved me; I know she is always regarding me; I talk to her, so that I am never quite alone; at night I pray to her, as if she were a saint--" She turned aside somewhat; her eyes were full of tears. Calabressa said quickly, "Ah, signorina, why recall what is so sad? It is so useless. _Allons donc!_ shall I tell you of my surprise when I saw you first? A ghost--that is nothing! It is true, your father warned me. He said, 'The little Natalushka is a woman now.' But how could one believe it?" She had recovered her composure; she begged him to be seated. "_Bien!_ One forgets. Then my old mother--my dear young lady, even I, old as I am, have a mother--what does she do but draw a prize in the Austro-Hungarian lottery--a huge prize--enough to demoralize one for life--five thousand florins. More remarkable still, the money is paid. Not so remarkable, my good mother declares she will give half of it to an undutiful son, who has never done very well with money in this world. We come to the _denouement_ quickly. 'What,' said I, 'shall I do with my new-found liberty and my new-found money? To the devil with banks! I will be off and away to the land of fogs to see my little friend Natalushka, and ask her what she thinks of the Russians now.' And the result? My little daughter, you have given me such a fright that I can feel my hands still trembling." "I am very sorry," said she, with a smile. This gay manner of his had driven away her sad memories. It seemed quite natural to her that he should address her as "My little daughter." "But where are the fogs? It is a paradise that I have reached--the air clear and soft, the gardens beautiful. This morning I said to myself, 'I will go early. Perhaps the little Natalushka will be going out for a walk; perhaps we will go together.' No, signorina," said he, with a mock-heroic bow, "it was not with the intention of buying you toys. But was I not right? Do I not perceive by your costume that you were about to go out?" "That is nothing, signore," said she. "It would be very strange if I could not give up my morning walk for an old friend of my father's." "_An contraire_, you shall not give up your walk," said he, with great courtesy. "We will go together; and then you will tell me about your father." She accepted this invitation without the slightest scruple. It did not occur to her--as it would naturally have occurred, to most English girls--that she would rather not go walking in Hyde Park with a person who looked remarkably like the leader of a German band. But Calabressa had known her mother. "Ah, signore," said she, when they had got into the outer air, "I shall be so grateful to you if you will tell me about my mother. My father will not speak of her; I dare not awaken his grief again; he must have suffered much. You will tell me about her." "My little daughter, your father is wise. Why awaken old sorrows? You must not spoil your eyes with more crying." And then he went on to speak of all sorts of things, in his rapid, interjectional fashion--of his escape from prison mostly--until he perceived that she was rather silent and sad. "Come then," said he, "we will sit down on this seat. Give me your hand." She placed her hand in his without hesitation; and he patted it gently, and said how like it was to the hand of her mother. "You are a little taller than she was," said he; "a little--not much. Ah, how beautiful she was! She had many sweethearts." He was silent for a minute or two. "Some of them richer, some of them of nobler birth than your father; and one of them her own cousin, whom all her family wanted her to marry. But you know, little daughter, your father is a very determined man--" "But she loved him the best?" said the girl, quickly. "Ah, no doubt, no doubt," said Calabressa. "He is very kind to you, is he not?" "Oh yes. Who could be kinder? But about my mother, signore?" Calabressa seemed somewhat embarrassed. "To say the truth, little daughter, how am I to tell you? I scarcely ever saw her after she married. Before then, you must imagine yourself as you are to think of her picture: and she was very much beloved--and very fond of horses. Is not that enough to tell? Ah, yes, another thing: she was very brave when there was any danger; and you know all the family were strong patriots; and one or two got into sad trouble. When her father--that is your grandfather, little daughter--when he failed to escape into Turkey after the assassination--" Here Calabressa stopped, and then gave a slight wave of his hand. "These are matters not interesting to you. But when her father had to seek a hiding-place she went with him in despite of everybody. I do not suppose he would be alive now but for her devotion." "Is my mother's father alive?" the girl said, with eyes wide open. "I believe so; but the less said about it the better, little daughter." "Why has my father never told me?" she asked, with the same almost incredulous stare. "Have I not hinted? The less said the better. There are some things no government will amnesty. Your grandfather was a good patriot, little daughter." Thereafter for some minutes silence. Slight as was the information Calabressa had given her, it was of intensest interest to her. There was much for her to think over. Her mother, whom she had been accustomed to regard as a beautiful saint, placed far above the common ways of earth, was suddenly presented to her in a new light. She thought of her young, handsome, surrounded with lovers, proud-spirited and patriotic--a devoted daughter, a brave woman. "You also loved her?" she said to Calabressa. The man started. She had spoken quite innocently--almost absently: she was thinking that he, too, must have loved the brave young Hungarian girl as all the world loved her. "I?" said Calabressa. "Oh yes, I was a friend of hers for many years. I taught her Italian; she corrected my Magyar. Once her horse ran way; I was walking, and saw her coming; there was a wagon and oxen, and I shouted to the man; he drew the oxen right across the road, and barred the way. Ah, how angry she used to be--she pretended to be--when they told her I had saved her life! She was a bold rider." Presently Calabressa said, with a lighter air, "Come, let us talk of something else--of you, _par exemple_. How do you like the English? You have many sweethearts among them, of course." "No, signore, I have no sweethearts," said Natalie, without any trace of embarrassment. "What! Is is possible? When I saw your father in Venice, and he told me the little Natalushka had grown to be a woman. I said to him, 'Then she will marry an Englishman.'" "And what did he say?" the girl asked, with a startled look on her face. "Oh, little, very little. If there was no possibility, why should he say much?" "I have no sweethearts," said Natalie, simply; "but I have a friend--who wishes to be more than a friend. And it is now, when I have to answer him, it is now that I know what a sad thing it is to have no mother." The pathetic vibration that Brand had noticed was in her voice; her eyes were downcast, her hands clasped. For a second or two Calabressa was silent. "I am not idly curious, my little daughter," he said at length, and very gently; "but if you knew how long your mother and I were friends, you would understand the interest I feel in you, and why I came all this way to see the little Natalushka. So, one question, dear little one. Does your father approve?" "Ah, how can I tell?" He took her hand, and his face was grave. "Listen now," said he; "I am going to give you advice. If your mother could speak to you, this is what she would say: Whatever happens--whatever happens--do not thwart your father's wishes." She wished to withdraw her hand, but he still held it. "I do not understand you," she said. "Papa's wishes will always be for my happiness; why should I think of thwarting them?" "Why, indeed? And again, why? It is my advice to you, my little daughter, whether you think your father's wishes are for your happiness or not--because, you know, sometimes fathers and daughters have different ideas--do not go against his will." The hot blood mounted to Natalie's forehead--for the first time during this interview. "Are you predicting strife, signore? I owe obedience to my father, I know it; but I am not a child. I am a woman, and have my own wishes. My papa would not think of thwarting them." "Natalushka, you must not be angry with me." "I am not angry, signore; but you must not suppose that I am quite a child." "Pardieu, non!" said Calabressa. "I expected to find Natalushka; I find Natalie--ah, Heaven! that is the wonder and the sadness of it to me! I think I am talking to your mother: these are her hands. I listen to her voice: it seems twenty years ago. And you have a proud spirit, as she had: again I say--do not thwart your father's wishes, Natalie--rather, Natalushka!" He spoke with such an obvious kindness and earnestness that she could not feel offended. "And if you want any one to help you at any time, my little daughter--for who knows the ways of the world, and what may happen?--if your father is sent away, and you are alone, and you want some one to do something for you, then this is what you will say to yourself: 'There is that old fool Calabressa, who has nothing in the world to do but smoke cigarettes and twirl his mustache--I will send for Calabressa.' And this I promise, little one, that Calabressa will very soon be at your feet." "I thank you signore." "It is true, I may be away on duty, as your father might be; but I have friends at head-quarters; I have done some service. And if I were to say, 'Calabressa wishes to be relieved from duty; it is the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi who demands his presence,' I know the answer: 'Calabressa will proceed at once to obey the commands of the daughter of Natalie Berezolyi.'" "But who--" "No, my little daughter, you must not ask that. I will tell you only that they are all-powerful; that they will protect you--with Calabressa as their agent; and before I leave this city I will give you my address, or rather I will give you an address where you will find some one who will guide you to me. May Heaven grant that there be no need. Why should harm come to one who is so beautiful and so gentle?" "My mother--was she happy?" she said quickly. "Little daughter," said he, sharply, and he threw away her hand, "if you ask me any more questions about your mother you will make my heart bleed. Do you not understand so simple a thing as that, you who claim to be a woman? You have been stabbing me. Come, come: _allons!_--let us talk of something else--of your friend who wishes to be more than a friend--you wicked little one, who have no sweetheart! And what are those fools of English about? What? But tell me--is he one of us?" "Oh yes, signore," said she; and instead of showing any shamefacedness, she turned toward him and regarded him with the fearless, soft dark eyes. "How could you think otherwise? And he is so brave and noble: he is not afraid of sacrificing those things that the English put such store by--" "English?" said Calabressa. "Yes," said Natalie; and now she looked down. "And what does your heart say?" She spoke very gently in reply. "Signor, I have not answered him yet; you cannot expect me to answer you." "A la bonne heure! Little traitress, to say she has no sweethearts! Happy Englishman! What, then, do I distress you? It is not so simple! It is an embarrassment, this proposal that he has made to you! But I will not trouble you further with my questions, little daughter: how can an old jail-bird like myself understand a young linnet-thing that has always been flying and fluttering about in happiness and the free air? Enfin, let us go! I perceive your little maid is tired of standing and staring; perhaps it is time for you to go back." She rose, and the three of them slowly proceeded along the gravelled path. "Your father does not return until next week: must I wait a whole week in this desert of a town before seeing you again, petite?" "Oh no," said Natalie, smiling; "that is not necessary. If my papa were here now he would certainly ask you to dine with us to-night; may I do so in his place? You will not find much amusement; but Madame Potecki--you knew her husband, perhaps?" "Potecki the Pole, who was killed?" "Yes. She will play a little music for you. But there are so many amusements in London, perhaps you would rather not spend your evening with two poor solitary creatures like us." "My little daughter, to hear you speak, that is all I want; it takes twenty years away from my life; I do not know whether to laugh or to cry. But _courage_! we will put a good face on our little griefs. This evening--this evening I will pretend to myself something--I am going to live my old life over again--for an hour; I will blow a horn as soon as I have crossed the Erlau, and they will hear it up at the big house among the pines, where the lights are shining through the dark, and they will send a servant down to open the gates; and you will appear at the hall-door, and say, 'Signor Calabressa, why do you make such a noise to awaken the dogs?' And I will say, 'Dear Miss Berezolyi, the pine-woods are frightfully dark; may I not scare away the ghosts?" "It was my mother who received you," the girl said, in a low voice. "It was Natalie then; to-night it will be Natalushka." He spoke lightly, so as not to make these reminiscences too serious. But the conjunction of the two names seemed suddenly to startle the girl. She stopped, and looked him in the face. "It was you, then," she said, "who sent me the locket?" "What locket?" he said, with surprise. "The locket the lady dropped into my lap--'_From Natalie to Natalushka_.'" "I declare to you, little daughter, I never heard of it." The girl looked bewildered. "Ah, how stupid I am!" she exclaimed. "I could not understand. But if they always called her Natalie, and me Natalushka--" She paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. "Signor Calabressa, what does it mean?" she said, almost wildly. "If one sends me a locket--'_From Natalie to Natalushka_'--was it my mother's? Did she intend it for me? Did she leave it for me with some one, long ago? How could it come into the hands of a stranger?" Calabressa himself seemed rather bewildered--almost alarmed. "My little daughter, you have no doubt guessed right," he said, soothingly. "Your mother may have meant it for you--and--and perhaps it was lost--and just recovered--" "Signor Calabressa," said she--and he could have fancied it was her mother who was speaking in that low, earnest, almost sad voice--"you said you would do me an act of friendship if I asked you. I cannot ask my father; he seems too grieved to speak of my mother at any time; but do you think you could find out who the lady was who brought that locket to me? That would be kind of you, if you could do that." _ |
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