CHAPTER XVIII. RUDOLPH AND ANDROMACHE.
New Year’s Eve at Athens by the Greek calendar. The long street of Hermes was an execrable confusion of the mingled sounds of loud chatter, laughter, jostling and popguns. Everybody was buying monster bouquets for presentation on the morrow. Sensitive nerves were laid prostrate in shivering ache by the din of squib and rattle, and the intolerable and unceasing explosions, and the raw colours were an offence to the eye. But the unfastidious Greeks were drunk with excitement and pleasure. They proudly carried the purchased bouquets with which the New Year’s greetings were to be exchanged, ate sweets, laughed hilariously, and took their jostling very good-naturedly. All the booths erected on either side of the street were covered with flowers, and men went about bearing aloft long poles to which bouquets for sale were affixed,—and these wands wore a curious triumphal aspect. Oh, the dolorous strangeness and multiplied effects of an Oriental town in holiday attire! Its clamorous and enervating gaieties, and its exasperating want of tone! Think of it with a strong sun beating down upon it, with not a touch of shadow or repose to soothe the pained eyes, with incessant speech clanging and clattering through the air, and every delicate sense affronted!
Foreigners and natives were abroad to view and drink at this local fount of joy. One group we recognise. Rudolph Ehrenstein elbows his way through the crowd and turns protectively every moment to his delighted and staring companion, Andromache with the March-violet eyes, whom we last saw with shamed and drooping head flee Madame Jarovisky’s ball-room. How well, and young, and prettily infatuated the pair look! And there is the glorious Miltiades behind them, bearing on his arm his portly and panting mother. Was there ever conqueror so irresistible? ever hero more gallantly conscious of his heroism? The spectator thought of those hapless five thousand Turks, and shuddered; heard the ostentatious rattle of his spurs, and that terrible weapon of destruction hanging from his side in the eloquence of war; looked at the scarlet plumes nodding above his noble brow, measured the awful imposingness of his tall slim form in the sombre simplicity of the Artillery Uniform and his long military boots, and rejoiced that Providence is good enough to limit the number of such heroes, else would surely be exterminated the horde of non-heroic.
This slaughterer of Turks was now content to be regarded as an amiable slaughterer of women. Twirling his fierce moustache, with a casual eye upon the young couple in front, he was looking round eagerly in search of his latest victim, Miss Mary Perpignani, while his mother breathed shortly on his arm, and kept muttering, “Poh! Poh! Poh! what a crush!” while she vigorously fanned and rubbed her sallow face with her handkerchief.
Above the foolish pair in front, Love’s star shone with a very gentle fulgence. Just a sense of delicious trouble, unmarred by any passionate impulses, stirred Rudolph. There was a delicate fragrance of homage in his shy and boyish fancy. It was a happiness, exquisite in its completeness and unexactingness, to be with Andromache, to listen to her voice and look quickly, with the tell-tale blood of fervour in his face, into her pretty eyes, his own shining and candid and content. Was there ever a sweeter, more innocent idyll? and the pity was that these two should not be allowed to run smoothly and trustingly into the shade of forest depths and live the life of nature, with no knowledge of the shabby compromises of civilisation and the more turbulent emotions of the heart.
He called her Mademoiselle Andromache, and with a look of shyest prayer had prevailed on her to call him sometimes Monsieur Rudolph. But the Monsieur and Mademoiselle tripped by with alarming facility; the tongue dwelt and faltered and whipped scarlet colour into each susceptible cheek upon the Andromache and Rudolph. Flattering, foolish, happy creatures! If pulses never beat less innocently, and senses never stirred more rapturously, the period of loverhood would indeed be a spot of Arcadia upon the rough road of life.
“Does all this not make your head and eyes ache, Mademoiselle Andromache?” he asked.
“No,” said the Greek maid, untroubled by nerves, and smiled in healthy admiration. “Are not the bouquets pretty?”
“If you think them pretty, they must be pretty,” said Rudolph, striving loyally to see their beauty. “I am glad you like flowers.”
“Why?” asked Andromache, meeting his eyes consciously.
“Because there are such quantities of flowers about my home in Austria. It is a lovely place, Mademoiselle Andromache. Imagine a great forest, so silent and shadowy. Oh, if you could see it in the moonlight! The trees drop silver, and fairies seem to play among the branches. I wish I could show it to you, take you to see the haunted well, and show you my mother’s favourite walk. You would have loved my mother, dear Mademoiselle Andromache. She was so good, so sweet, so gracious. Oh, it was a bitter loss to me. I cannot accustom myself to it. Sometimes I wake up at night and fancy I hear her enter my room, and feel her soft kiss on my forehead—and it is dreary to know that it is only fancy.”
His voice shook and his clear eyes clouded. Andromache involuntarily pressed his arm in sympathy, and when he looked down upon her he saw responsive tears tremble on her lashes.
“Dear Andromache,” he said, in a whisper, “you make me feel less lonely. Ah, how my mother would have loved you!”
And then these shy young persons, desperately afraid of each other and of themselves, rushed eagerly on to impersonal ground.
At the Byzantine church of Camcarea, which quaintly obstructs Hermes Street, they were jostled out of sight of their escort, upon which Kyria Karapolos was thrown into a state of voluble alarm.
“Where are they, Miltiades? Panaghia mou! Andromache alone with that young man! Come, Miltiades! I shall have a fit if they have gone far.”
“It is all right, mamma,” laughed Andromache, behind them. “We were pushed off the pavement, and had to let some people pass.”
And then she glanced roguishly at Rudolph, and another rivet in the chain of intimacy was added by a sense of peril and crime shared between them.
“Very well, Andromache. You will stay with me now, and Miltiades will bring back Monsieur Ehrenstein to drink coffee with us later.”
The impenitent ruffian, who had endangered her daughter’s reputation, took his dismissal gaily enough; bowed low and smiled delightfully upon both ladies as he took the arm of the stately and stalwart Miltiades, and stood for them to pass:
“Je crois c’est assez,” said Miltiades, with a comprehensive glance up and down the noisy street, which had the bad taste not to show the piquant face of Miss Mary Perpignani.
Rudolph, to whom the Captain’s limited vocabulary in French was a source of perpetual amusement, intimated his concurrence with this opinion, whereupon they ruthlessly beat their way down to Constitution Square.
“Voulez-vous un café et cigarette?” asked the Captain, touching the back of a chair, and the droll anxiety he displayed in uttering this simple demand sent Rudolph into an explosion of appreciative mirth.
“Non, non, chez-vous, j’aime mieux,” said Rudolph, indistinctly, between gasps of laughter.
Miltiades frowned, and held his head high with a proud, hurt air. His French might be imperfect and his enunciation laborious, but he was not the less for that a hero. By the grave of Hercules! was he to be flouted and mocked by a young jackanapes from Austria?
“Mais, mon ami, il ne faut pas se fâcher,” cried Rudolph, full of remorse and apprehension. “Ah, si vous saviez tout,” he added, and forced Miltiades to stop and shake hands with him.
But how to unbosom oneself to a desired brother-in-law without a common tongue? His Greek was even more limited than the other’s French, and of German the gallant Captain’s knowledge was restricted to the convivial “Trinken Sie Wein,” and “Hoch.” But despite the difficulties in the way of conversation, the young men were delighted to be together.
Miltiades chattered Greek, and looked eager inquiry at Rudolph who nodded significantly, and was as voluble and communicative in French.
What they said neither knew, but a gleam of intelligence broke the not unpleasant darkness occasionally for Miltiades, in such pregnant words as “votre sœur,” “j’aime,” and “épouser.”
“He wants to marry Andromache,” thought Miltiades, drawing himself up, and looking very grave and responsible. “It would be a splendid match for her, but his uncle will never consent to it. However, I’ll give conditional consent.”
“Vous,—épouser ma sœur, Andromache?” he said slowly, as he faced Rudolph with the heaviest air of guardian.
“Justement, Monsieur. Je le désire de tout mon cœur,” cried Rudolph, flaming suddenly.
“Ah,” said Miltiades, pausing, and holding the suitor poised on the wing of awful suspense. “Votre oncle?”
Here Rudolph broke out into vehement protestations regarding which not one word did Miltiades understand. They turned up one of the openings off Stadion Street that led direct to the Lycabettus, and here they met little Themistocles, as fresh and dapper and dainty as if he were ready for exhibition on a toy counter.
Miltiades collared him forcibly, and explained the extremity of his need. Charmed by the possession of this sole superiority over the warrior, which his fluent French gave him, little Themistocles lifted his hat, and twirling his cane with an air of graceful ease, placed his services as interpreter at the disposal of Monsieur Ehrenstein.
Thus was cleared the fog of doubt and perplexity. The Jovelike brow of Miltiades smoothed, and the light of approval beamed softly in his dark blue eyes. Little Themistocles minced, and smiled affectedly, and shrugged his shoulders to an incredible extent, until the inferior glory of the Parisian dandy was totally eclipsed. And Rudolph, now that the fatal leap was taken, was full of vague apprehension and nervous tremors. Was he quite so sure as he assumed to be that he had the right to dispose of himself thus? But Andromache was so pretty and tender, and he so greatly loved her!
The enchanted brothers, for once partners in feeling and idea, hurried him up the steep, unpaved streets, laughing boisterously as they jumped the flowing streamlets that intersect them, and when they reached the glass door of the beloved’s home, Miltiades rapped sharply against the pane.
“Maria, tell my mother to join us in the salon,” he said.
“Kyria, you are wanted in the salon,” shouted Maria from the passage, shaking her hair out of her eyes the better to stare at Rudolph. “I’m thinking it is Andromache he wants, and not the old lady,” she muttered.
Kyria Karapolos came puffing excitedly from the dining-room at the end of the passage, followed by Julia, who wore her sulkiest air.
“You are not wanted, Julia,” cried Miltiades, striding into the salon, his sword and spurs making a fearful clatter along the floor.
“You are not wanted, Julia,” echoed Themistocles, vindictively, eager to air his own special spite under the cover of Miltiades’ command.
Miltiades frowned and glowered upon him. He resented the liberty of spurious authority in his presence, and a repetition of thunder irritated him. But Rudolph’s presence checked his anger, and when the suitor, the reigning sovereigns and their humble interpreter were seated, there were perfect serenity and dignity in his bearing.
“Monsieur Rudolph Ehrenstein wants to marry Andromache,” he said, opening the proceedings.
“Panaghia mou!” cried Kyria Karapolos, with a look of unutterable astonishment at an announcement hourly expected.
“He says his uncle will not object, and cannot practically interfere,” Miltiades explained.
“And that he is rich enough to dispense with a dowry,” added Themistocles, thereby bringing upon himself a lightning-flame of contempt from the hero of Greece.
“Panaghia mou! But I am rejoiced. My dear Monsieur Ehrenstein, you are charming. I am happy to give you Andromache. Oh, but this is a blessed moment for me!” and with that she rose, and emphatically embraced poor Rudolph, whom the ordeal rendered giddy and awkward. This was the signal for general demonstrations of affection. Miltiades shook hands, and kissed the cheeks of his future brother-in-law, and little Themistocles did likewise.
“Order coffee and liqueur, mother,” said Miltiades.
“You are very amiable,” Rudolph said, gratefully, disturbed by the trouble of the moment. “I am sure it will be my pride and happiness to deserve your good-will in the future.”
Kyria Karapolos returned with Andromache, and announced that the refreshments of jubilation would shortly appear.
“Andromache, behold your husband,” exclaimed Miltiades, with a slightly theatrical flourish.
Whereupon little Themistocles sighed profoundly, and retreated to his own chamber to vex the sunset with strains of his asthmatic violin, to muse upon his misery and think of the young lady in the next street. With a significant nod, Captain Miltiades marched away to imaginary glory, and Kyria Karapolos, in a kindly impulse, found a pretext for a short absence in the necessity for Julia’s presence.
How frightened and shy two confiding young people can be when first confronted with the horrors of a tête-à-tête.
Andromache was ready to sink with shame, and Rudolph’s heart was in his boots. He looked at her with piteous entreaty, but her lashes rested upon her cheek.
“Andromache, you are not afraid of me, you do not like me less because—because——” and there was something extremely like fear in his own voice and in the tender imploring of his eyes.
“Oh, no, but I do not know what to say,” whispered Andromache, still studying the Smyrna rug at her feet.
“Look at me, Andromache, and say—say something kind.”
She lifted her eyes, and they were filled with passionate admiration:
“Say that—that you love me.”
“I love you,” she said, with adorable simplicity.
“Oh, Andromache,” he cried, suffocated with a sudden thrill, and advanced nearer with outstretched hand.
But she retreated in visible dread.
“May I not have your hand, Andromache?”
She gave it, still shrinking, with averted face.
“Won’t you call me Rudolph, dear Andromache?”
“Rudolph,” she whispered, and their eyes met lovingly.
Emboldened by his success, he raised her hand to his lips.
“What a pretty hand, Andromache! You are so pretty, dear one. I love you,” he murmured gently, and steps were heard outside.