The Torrents of Spring eBook

he did not much care for, visited the house of Goethe, of whose works he had, however, only read Werter, and that in the French translation.  He walked along the bank of the Maine, and was bored as a well-conducted tourist should be; at last at six o’clock in the evening, tired, and with dusty boots, he found himself in one of the least remarkable streets in Frankfort.  That street he was fated not to forget long, long after.  On one of its few houses he saw a signboard:  ’Giovanni Roselli, Italian confectionery,’ was announced upon it.  Sanin went into it to get a glass of lemonade; but in the shop, where, behind the modest counter, on the shelves of a stained cupboard, recalling a chemist’s shop, stood a few bottles with gold labels, and as many glass jars of biscuits, chocolate cakes, and sweetmeats—­in this room, there was not a soul; only a grey cat blinked and purred, sharpening its claws on a tall wicker chair near the window and a bright patch of colour was made in the evening sunlight, by a big ball of red wool lying on the floor beside a carved wooden basket turned upside down.  A confused noise was audible in the next room.  Sanin stood a moment, and making the bell on the door ring its loudest, he called, raising his voice, ‘Is there no one here?’ At that instant the door from an inner room was thrown open, and Sanin was struck dumb with amazement.

II

A young girl of nineteen ran impetuously into the shop, her dark curls hanging in disorder on her bare shoulders, her bare arms stretched out in front of her.  Seeing Sanin, she rushed up to him at once, seized him by the hand, and pulled him after her, saying in a breathless voice, ‘Quick, quick, here, save him!’ Not through disinclination to obey, but simply from excess of amazement, Sanin did not at once follow the girl.  He stood, as it were, rooted to the spot; he had never in his life seen such a beautiful creature.  She turned towards him, and with such despair in her voice, in her eyes, in the gesture of her clenched hand, which was lifted with a spasmodic movement to her pale cheek, she articulated, ‘Come, come!’ that he at once darted after her to the open door.

In the room, into which he ran behind the girl, on an old-fashioned horse-hair sofa, lay a boy of fourteen, white all over—­white, with a yellowish tinge like wax or old marble—­he was strikingly like the girl, obviously her brother.  His eyes were closed, a patch of shadow fell from his thick black hair on a forehead like stone, and delicate, motionless eyebrows; between the blue lips could be seen clenched teeth.  He seemed not to be breathing; one arm hung down to the floor, the other he had tossed above his head.  The boy was dressed, and his clothes were closely buttoned; a tight cravat was twisted round his neck.

The girl rushed up to him with a wail of distress.  ’He is dead, he is dead!’ she cried; ’he was sitting here just now, talking to me—­and all of a sudden he fell down and became rigid....  My God! can nothing be done to help him?  And mamma not here!  Pantaleone, Pantaleone, the doctor!’ she went on suddenly in Italian.  ’Have you been for the doctor?’