“I am not tired with work, but tired of life,” said he.
“What absurd notions you have!” she exclaimed with some annoyance. “Have you not had a good genius to keep an eye on you?” she said, offering him the sweetmeats, and watching him with pleasure as he ate them all. “You see, I thought of you when dining with my cousin.”
“I know,” said he, with a look at Lisbeth that was at once affectionate and plaintive, “but for you I should long since have ceased to live. But, my dear lady, artists require relaxation——”
“Ah! there we come to the point!” cried she, interrupting him, her hands on her hips, and her flashing eyes fixed on him. “You want to go wasting your health in the vile resorts of Paris, like so many artisans, who end by dying in the workhouse. No, no, make a fortune, and then, when you have money in the funds, you may amuse yourself, child; then you will have enough to pay for the doctor and for your pleasure, libertine that you are.”
Wenceslas Steinbock, on receiving this broadside, with an accompaniment of looks that pierced him like a magnetic flame, bent his head. The most malignant slanderer on seeing this scene would at once have understood that the hints thrown out by the Oliviers were false. Everything in this couple, their tone, manner, and way of looking at each other, proved the purity of their private live. The old maid showed the affection of rough but very genuine maternal feeling; the young man submitted, as a respectful son yields to the tyranny of a mother. The strange alliance seemed to be the outcome of a strong will acting constantly on a weak character, on the fluid nature peculiar to the Slavs, which, while it does not hinder them from showing heroic courage in battle, gives them an amazing incoherency of conduct, a moral softness of which physiologists ought to try to detect the causes, since physiologists are to political life what entomologists are to agriculture.
“But if I die before I am rich?” said Wenceslas dolefully.
“Die!” cried she. “Oh, I will not let you die. I have life enough for both, and I would have my blood injected into your veins if necessary.”
Tears rose to Steinbock’s eyes as he heard her vehement and artless speech.
“Do not be unhappy, my little Wenceslas,” said Lisbeth with feeling. “My cousin Hortense thought your seal quite pretty, I am sure; and I will manage to sell your bronze group, you will see; you will have paid me off, you will be able to do as you please, you will soon be free. Come, smile a little!”
“I can never repay you, mademoiselle,” said the exile.
“And why not?” asked the peasant woman, taking the Livonian’s part against herself.
“Because you not only fed me, lodged me, cared for me in my poverty, but you also gave me strength. You have made me what I am; you have often been stern, you have made me very unhappy——”
“I?” said the old maid. “Are you going to pour out all your nonsense once more about poetry and the arts, and to crack your fingers and stretch your arms while you spout about the ideal, and beauty, and all your northern madness?—Beauty is not to compare with solid pudding—and what am I!—You have ideas in your brain? What is the use of them? I too have ideas. What is the good of all the fine things you may have in your soul if you can make no use of them? Those who have ideas do not get so far as those who have none, if they don’t know which way to go.
“Instead of thinking over your ideas you must work.—Now, what have you done while I was out?”
“What did your pretty cousin say?”
“Who told you she was pretty?” asked Lisbeth sharply, in a tone hollow with tiger-like jealousy.
“Why, you did.”
“That was only to see your face. Do you want to go trotting after petticoats? You who are so fond of women, well, make them in bronze. Let us see a cast of your desires, for you will have to do without the ladies for some little time yet, and certainly without my cousin, my good fellow. She is not game for your bag; that young lady wants a man with sixty thousand francs a year—and has found him!
“Why, your bed is not made!” she exclaimed, looking into the adjoining room. “Poor dear boy, I quite forgot you!”
The sturdy woman pulled off her gloves, her cape and bonnet, and remade the artist’s little camp bed as briskly as any housemaid. This mixture of abruptness, of roughness even, with real kindness, perhaps accounts for the ascendency Lisbeth had acquired over the man whom she regarded as her personal property. Is not our attachment to life based on its alternations of good and evil?
If the Livonian had happened to meet Madame Marneffe instead of Lisbeth Fischer, he would have found a protectress whose complaisance must have led him into some boggy or discreditable path, where he would have been lost. He would certainly never have worked, nor the artist have been hatched out. Thus, while he deplored the old maid’s grasping avarice, his reason bid him prefer her iron hand to the life of idleness and peril led by many of his fellow-countrymen.
This was the incident that had given rise to the coalition of female energy and masculine feebleness—a contrast in union said not to be uncommon in Poland.
In 1833 Mademoiselle Fischer, who sometimes worked into the night when business was good, at about one o’clock one morning perceived a strong smell of carbonic acid gas, and heard the groans of a dying man. The fumes and the gasping came from a garret over the two rooms forming her dwelling, and she supposed that a young man who had but lately come to lodge in this attic—which had been vacant for three years—was committing suicide. She ran upstairs, broke in the door by a push with her peasant strength, and found the lodger writhing on a camp-bed in the convulsions of death. She extinguished the brazier; the door was open, the air rushed in, and the exile was saved. Then, when Lisbeth had put him to bed like a patient, and he was asleep, she could detect the motives of his suicide in the destitution of the rooms, where there was nothing whatever but a wretched table, the camp-bed, and two chairs.
On the table lay a document, which she read:
“I am Count Wenceslas Steinbock, born at Prelia, in Livonia.
“No one is to be accused of my death; my reasons for killing
myself are, in the words of Kosciusko, Finis Polonioe! “The grand-nephew of a valiant General under Charles XII. could not beg. My weakly constitution forbids my taking military service, and I yesterday saw the last of the hundred thalers which I had brought with me from Dresden to Paris. I have left twenty-five francs in the drawer of this table to pay the rent I owe to the landlord. “My parents being dead, my death will affect nobody. I desire that my countrymen will not blame the French Government. I have never registered myself as a refugee, and I have asked for nothing; I have met none of my fellow-exiles; no one in Paris knows of my existence. “I am dying in Christian beliefs. May God forgive the last of the Steinbocks!
“WENCESLAS.”
Mademoiselle Fischer, deeply touched by the dying man’s honesty, opened the drawer and found the five five-franc pieces to pay his rent.
“Poor young man!” cried she. “And with no one in the world to care about him!”
She went downstairs to fetch her work, and sat stitching in the garret, watching over the Livonian gentleman.
When he awoke his astonishment may be imagined on finding a woman sitting by his bed; it was like the prolongation of a dream. As she sat there, covering aiguillettes with gold thread, the old maid had resolved to take charge of the poor youth whom she admired as he lay sleeping.
As soon as the young Count was fully awake, Lisbeth talked to give him courage, and questioned him to find out how he might make a living. Wenceslas, after telling his story, added that he owed his position to his acknowledged talent