Bella donna

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bella Donna, by Robert Hichens This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Bella Donna A Novel Author: Robert Hichens Release Date: February 7, 2006 [EBook #17698] Language: English *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BELLA DONNA *** Produced by Sjaani, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net BELLA DONNA FIFTH EDITION Bella Donna A NOVEL By ROBERT HICHENS Author of "The Call of The Blood," "The Fruitful Vine," "A Spirit in Prison." A L BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1908 By J B LIPPINCOTT COMPANY Published October, 1908 BELLA DONNA I Doctor Meyer Isaacson had got on as only a modern Jew whose home is London can get on, with a rapidity that was alarming He seemed to have arrived as a bullet arrives in a body He was not in the heart of success, and lo! he was in the heart of success And no one had marked his journey Suddenly every one was speaking of him—was talking of the cures he had made, was advising every one else to go to him For some mysterious reason his name—a name not easily to be forgotten once it had been heard—began to pervade the conversations that were held in the smart drawing-rooms of London Women who were well, but had not seen him, abruptly became sufficiently unwell to need a consultation "Where does he live? In Harley Street, I suppose?" was a constant question But he did not live in Harley Street He was not the man to lose himself in an avenue of brass plates of fellow practitioners "Cleveland Square, St James's," was the startling reply; and his house was detached, if you please, and marvellously furnished The winged legend flew that he was rich, and that he had gone into practice as a doctor merely because he was intellectually interested in disease His gift for diagnosis was so remarkable that he was morally forced to exercise it And he had a greedy passion for studying humanity And who has such opportunities for the study of humanity as the doctor and the priest? Patients who had been to him spoke enthusiastically of his observant eyes His personality always made a great impression "There's no one just like him," was a frequent comment upon Doctor Meyer Isaacson And that phrase is a high compliment upon the lips of London, the city of parrots and of monkeys His age was debated, and so was his origin Most people thought he was "about forty"; a very safe age, young enough to allow of almost unlimited expectation, old enough to make results achieved not quite unnatural, though possibly startling Yes, he must be "about forty." And his origin? "Meyer" suggested Germany As to "Isaacson," it allowed the ardent imagination free play over denationalized Israel Someone said that he "looked as if he came from the East," to which a cynic made answer, "The East End." There was, perhaps, a hint of both in the Doctor of Cleveland Square Certain it is that in the course of a walk down Brick Lane, or the adjacent thoroughfares, one will encounter men of his type; men of middle height, of slight build, with thick, close-growing hair strongly curling, boldly curving lips, large nostrils, prominent cheek-bones, dark eyes almost fiercely shining; men who are startlingly un-English Doctor Meyer Isaacson was like these men Yet he possessed something which set him apart from them He looked intensely vital—almost unnaturally vital—when he was surrounded by English people, but he did not look fierce and hungry One could conceive of him doing something bizarre, but one could not conceive of him doing anything low There was sometimes a light in his eyes which suggested a moral distinction rarely to be found in those who dwell in and about Brick Lane His slight, nervous hands, dark in colour, recalled the hands of high-bred Egyptians Like so many of his nation, he was by nature artistic An instinctive love of what was best in the creations of man ran in his veins with his blood He cared for beautiful things, and he knew what things were beautiful and what were not The second-rate never made any appeal to him The first-rate found in him a welcoming enthusiast He never wearied of looking at fine pictures, at noble statues, at bronzes, at old jewelled glass, at delicate carvings, at perfect jewels He was genuinely moved by great architecture And to music he was almost fanatically devoted, as are many Jews It has been said of the Jew that he is nearly always possessed of a streak of femininity, not effeminacy In Doctor Meyer Isaacson this streak certainly existed His intuitions were feminine in their quickness, his sympathies and his antipathies almost feminine in their ardour He understood women instinctively, as generally only other women understand them Often he knew, without knowing why he knew Such knowledge of women is, perhaps fortunately, rare in men Where most men stumble in the dark, Doctor Meyer Isaacson walked in the light He was unmarried Bachelorhood is considered by many to detract from a doctor's value and to stand in the way of his career Doctor Meyer Isaacson did not find this so Although he was not a nerve specialist, his waiting-room was always full of patients If he had been married, it could not have been fuller Indeed, he often thought it would have been less full Suddenly he became the fashion, and he went on being the fashion He had no special peculiarity of manner He did not attract the world of women by elaborate brutalities, or charm it by silly suavities He seemed always very natural, intelligent, alive, and thoroughly interested in the person with whom he was That he was a man of the world was certain He was seen often at concerts, at the opera, at dinners, at receptions, occasionally even at a great ball Early in the morning he rode in the Park Once a week he gave a dinner in Cleveland Square And people liked to go to his house They knew they would not be bored and not be poisoned there Men appreciated him as well as women, despite the reminiscence of Brick Lane discoverable in him His directness, his cleverness, and his apparent good-will soon overcame any dawning instinct summoned up in John Bull by his exotic appearance Only the unyielding Jew-hater hated him And so the lines of the life of Doctor Meyer Isaacson seemed laid in pleasant places And not a few thought him one of the fortunate of this world One morning of June the doctor was returning to Cleveland Square from his early ride in the Park He was alone The lively bay horse he rode—an animal that seemed almost as full of nervous vitality as he was—had had a good gallop by the Serpentine, and now trotted gently towards Buckingham Palace, snuffing in the languid air through its sensitive nostrils The day was going to be hot This fact inclined the Doctor to idleness, made him suddenly realise the bondage of work In a few minutes he would be in Cleveland Square; and then, after a bath, a cup of coffee, a swift glance through the Times and the Daily Mail, there would start the procession that until evening would be passing steadily through his consulting-room He sighed, and pulled in his horse to a walk To-day he was reluctant to encounter that procession And yet each day it brought interest into his life, this procession of his patients Generally he was a keen man He had no need to feign an ardour that he really felt He had a passion for investigation, and his profession enabled him to gratify it Very modern, as a rule, were those who came to him, one by one, admitted each in turn by his Jewish man-servant; complex, caught fast in the net of civilized life He liked to sit alone with them in his quiet chamber, to seek out the hidden links which united the physical to the mental man in each, to watch the pull of soul on body, of body on soul But to-day he recoiled from work Deep down in his nature, hidden generally beneath his strong activity, there was something that longed to sit in the sunshine and dream away the hours, leaving all fates serenely, or perhaps indifferently, between the hands of God "I will take a holiday some day," he said to himself, "a long holiday I will go far away from here, to the land where I am really at home, where I am in my own place." As he thought this, he looked up, and his eyes rested upon the brown faỗade of the King's Palace, upon the gilded railings that separated it from the public way, upon the sentries who were on guard, fresh-faced, alert, staring upon London with their calmly British eyes "In my own place," he repeated to himself And now his lips and his eyes were smiling And he saw the great drama of London as something that a schoolboy could understand at a glance Was it really idleness he longed for? He did not know why, but abruptly his desire had changed And he found himself wishing for events, tragic, tremendous, horrible even—anything, if they were unusual, were such as to set the man who was involved in them apart from his fellows The foreign element in him woke up, called, perhaps, from repose by the unusually languid air, and London seemed meaningless to him, a city where a man of his type could neither dream, nor act, with all the languor, or all the energy, that was within him And he imagined, as sometimes clever children do, a distant country where all romances unwind their shining coils, where he would find the incentive which he needed to call all his secret powers—the powers whose exercise would make his life complete—into supreme activity He gripped his horse with his knees It understood his desire It broke into a canter He passed in front of the garden of Stafford House, turned to the left past St James's Palace and Marlborough House, and was soon at his own door "Please bring up the book with my coffee in twenty minutes, Henry," he said to his servant, as he went in In half an hour he was seated in an arm-chair in an upstairs sitting-room, sipping his coffee The papers lay folded at his elbow Upon his knee, open, lay the book in which were written down the names of the patients with whom he had made appointments that day He looked at them, seeking for one that promised interest The first patient was a man who would come in on his way to the city Then followed the names of three women, then the name of a boy He was coming with his mother, a lady of an anxious mind The Doctor had a sheaf of letters from her And so the morning's task was over He turned a page and came to the afternoon "Two o'clock, Mrs Lesueur; two-thirty, Miss Mendish; three, the Dean of Greystone; three-thirty, Lady Carle; four, Madame de Lys; four-thirty, Mrs Harringby; five, Sir Henry Grebe; five-thirty, Mrs Chepstow." The last name was that of the last patient Doctor Meyer Isaacson's day's work was over at six, or was supposed to be over Often, however, he gave a patient more than the fixed half-hour, and so prolonged his labours But no one was admitted to his house for consultation after the patient whose name was against the time of five-thirty And so Mrs Chepstow would be the last patient he would see that day He sat for a moment with the book open on his knee, looking at her name It was a name very well known to him, very well known to the English-speaking world in general Mrs Chepstow was a great beauty in decline Her day of glory had been fairly long, but now it seemed to be over She was past forty She said she was thirtyeight, but she was over forty Goodness, some say, keeps women fresh Mrs Chepstow had tried a great many means of keeping fresh, but she had omitted that The step between æstheticism and asceticism was one which she had never taken, though she had taken many steps, some of them, unfortunately, false ones She had been a well-born girl, the daughter of aristocratic but impecunious and extravagant parents Her father, Everard Page, a son of Lord Cheam, had been very much at home in the Bankruptcy Court Her mother, too, was reckless about money, saying, whenever it was mentioned, "Money is given us to spend, not to hoard." So little did she hoard it, that eventually her husband published a notice in the principal papers, stating that he would not be responsible for her debts It was a very long time since he had been responsible for his own Still, there was a certain dignity in the announcement, as of an honest man frankly declaring his position Mrs Chepstow's life was very possibly influenced by her parents' pecuniary troubles When she was young she learnt to be frightened of poverty She had known what it was to be "sold up" twice before she was twenty; and this probably led her to prefer the alternative of being sold At any rate, when she was in her twenty-first year, sold she was to Mr Wodehouse Chepstow, a rich brewer, to whom she had not even taken a fancy; and as Mrs Chepstow she He laid it on the table "I found this in your room when I went for the cloak," he said, "full of Eastern things for the face." His eyes were a question "I bought it in Cairo yesterday." He laid it down "In spite of that letter—Isaacson said—he did come that night, and he overheard us talking on the balcony, and heard me say how I wished he were in Egypt." He stopped again His own narrative seemed to be waking up something in his mind "Why didn't you tell me then that you knew he was in Egypt?" he asked She merely raised her eyebrows Within her now the recklessness was increasing With it was blent a strange and powerful sensation of fatalism "Was it because you hated Isaacson so much?" "That was it." "But then—but then, when he was with me, you said that you had brought him You said that in the temple you had begged him to come I remember that quite well." "Do you?" she said And fate seemed to her to be moving her lips, to be forming for her each word she said "Yes Why was that? Why did you say that?" "Don't remember!" "You don't—?" He got up slowly out of his chair "But the—the strangest thing Isaacson said was this." He put one hand on the back of the chair, and leaned down a little towards her "He said that at last he forced you to let him attend me as a doctor by—by threatening you." "Oh!" "By threatening, if you would not, to call in the police authorities." She said nothing All he was saying flowed past her like running water No more than running water did it mean to her Apparently she had fought and struggled too long, and the revenge of nature upon her was this terrible indifference following upon so much of terror, of strife, of enforced and desperate patience "Ruby!" "Ruby!" "Well?" She looked at him "What is it?" "You don't say anything!" "Why should I? What do you want me to say?" "Want! I—but—" He bent down "You—you don't think—you aren't thinking that I—?" "Well?" "I've told you this to prove my complete trust in you I've only told you so that there may be nothing between us, no shadow; as even such a thing, hidden, might be." "Ah!" "And if there are things I don't understand, I know—they are such trifles in comparison—I know you'll explain Won't you?" "Not to-night I can't explain things to-night." "No You're tired out To-morrow—to-morrow!" "Ah!" she said again He leant right down to her, and took both her hands "Come upstairs with me! Come!" She stood up "Come! I'll prove to you—I'll prove to you—" There was a sort of desperation of crude passion in his manner He tried to draw her towards the house She resisted him "Ruby!" "I'm not coming." He stopped "Ruby!" he said again, but with a different voice "I'm not coming!" His hands grew cold on hers He let her hands go They dropped to her sides "So you didn't believe what Isaacson told you?" she said Her only thought was, "I'll make him give me my liberty! I'll make him give me my liberty, so that Baroudi must keep me!" "What?" he said "You didn't believe what Isaacson told you?" she repeated "Believe it! I turned him out!" "You fool!" she said She moved a step nearer to him "You fool!" she repeated "It's true!" She snatched up the gilded box from the table He tore it out of her hands "Who—who—?" he whispered, with lips that had gone white "Mahmoud Baroudi," she said The box fell from his hands to the terrace, scattering the aids to her beauty, which he had always hated She turned, pulled her cloak closely round her, and hurried to the bank of the Nile "Ibrahim! Ibrahim!" "My lady!" He came, striding up the bank "Take my hand! Help me! Quickly!" She almost threw herself down the bank "Where is the boat—ah!" She stumbled as she got into it, and nearly fell "Push off!" She sat straight up on the hard, narrow bench, and stared at the lights on the Loulia "There's a girl on board," she said, in a minute "Yes, my lady, one girl Whether Mahmoud Baroudi likin' we comin' I dunno." "Ibrahim!" "My lady!" "Directly I go on board the Loulia, you are to go Take the boat straight back to Luxor." "I leavin' you?" He looked relieved "Yes I'll—I'll come back in Baroudi's felucca." "I quite well stayin', waitin' till you ready." "No, no I don't wish that Promise me you will take the boat away at once." "All what you want you must have," he murmured "How loudly the sailors are singing!" she said Now they were drawing near to the Loulia Mrs Armine, with fierce eyes, gazed at the lighted cabin windows, at the upper deck, at the balcony in the stern where so often she had sat with Nigel She was on fire with eagerness; she was the prey of an excitement that made her forget all her bodily fatigue, forget everything except that at last she was close to Baroudi Already her husband had ceased to exist for her He was gone for ever with the past Not only the river but a great gulf, never to be bridged, divided them "Baroudi! Baroudi! Baroudi!" She could belong to Baroudi openly at last In this moment she even forgot herself, forgot to think of her appearance Within her there was a woman who could genuinely feel And that woman asserted herself now The boat touched the Loulia's side A Nubian appeared The singing on board abruptly ceased Mrs Armine quickly stood up in the boat "Go to Luxor, Ibrahim! Go at once!" "I goin' quick, my lady." She sprang on board and stood to see him go Only when the boat had diminished upon the dark water did she turn round She was face to face with Hamza "Hamza!" she said, startled His almond-shaped eyes regarded her, and she thought a menace was in them Even in the midst of her fiery excitement she felt a touch of something that was cold as fear is cold "Yes," he said "I must see Mahmoud Baroudi." He did not move His expression did not change The Nubians, squatting in a circle on the deck a little way off, looked at her calmly, almost as animals look at something they have very often seen "Where is he?" she said "Where is he?" And abruptly she went down the steps, under the golden letters, and into the first saloon It was lit up, but no one was there She hurried on down the passage, pulled aside the orange-coloured curtain, and came into the room of the faskeeyeh On the divan, dressed in native costume, with the turban and djelab, Baroudi was sitting on his haunches with his legs tucked under him, smoking hashish and gazing at the gilded ball as it rose and fell on the water A little way off, supported by many cushions, an Eastern girl was lying She looked very young, perhaps sixteen or seventeen But her face was painted, her eyes were bordered with kohl, and the nails of her fingers and of her bare toes were tinted with the henna She wore the shintiyan, and a tob, or kind of shirt of coloured and spangled gauze On her pale brown arms there were quantities of narrow bracelets She, too, was smoking a little pipe with a mouthpiece of coral Mrs Armine stood still in the doorway She looked at the girl, and now, immediately, she thought of her own appearance, with something like terror "Baroudi!" she said "Baroudi!" He stared at her face When she saw that, with trembling fingers she unfastened her cloak and let it fall on the floor "Baroudi!" she repeated But Baroudi still stared at her face With one hand he held the long stem of his pipe, but he had stopped smoking At once she felt despair But she came on into the middle of the saloon "Send her away!" she said "Send her away!" She spoke in French And he answered in French: "Why?" "I've left my husband I've left the villa I can never go back." "Why not?" he said, still gazing at her face He threw back his head, and his great throat showed among the folds of muslin that swept down to his mighty chest "He knows!" "Knows! Who has told him?" "I have!" As he looked at her, she grew quite cold, as if she had been plunged into icy water "You have told him about me?" he said "Not all about you! But he knows that—that I made him ill, that I wished him to die I told him, because I wanted to get away I had to get away—and be with you " The bracelets on the arms of the Eastern girl jingled as she moved behind Mrs Armine "Send her away! Send her away!" Mrs Armine repeated "Hamza!" Baroudi called, but not loudly Hamza came in at the door Baroudi spoke to him quickly in Arabic A torrent of words that sounded angry, as Arabic words do to those from the Western world, rushed out of his throat What did they mean? Mrs Armine did not know But she did know that her fate was in them Hamza said nothing, only made her a sign to follow him But she stood still "Baroudi!" she said "Go with Hamza," he said, in French And she went, without another word, past the girl, and out of the room Hamza, with a sign, told her to go in front of him She went slowly down the passage, into the first saloon There she hesitated, looked back Hamza signed to her to go on She passed under the Loulia's motto—for the last time On the sailors' deck she paused The small felucca of the Loulia was alongside Hamza took her by the arm Although his hand was small and delicate, it seemed to her then a thing of iron that could not be resisted She got into the boat Where was she going to be taken? It occurred to her now that perhaps Baroudi had some plan, that he did not choose to keep her on board, that he had a house at Luxor, or— The Villa Nuit d'Or! Was Hamza going to take her there in the night? Hamza sat down, took the oars, pushed off Yes, he was rowing up stream against the tide! A wild hope sprang up in her The Loulia diminished Always Hamza was rowing against the tide, but she noticed that the felucca was drifting out into the middle of the Nile The current was very strong They were making little or no headway She longed to seize an oar, to help the boat up stream Now the eastern bank of the river grew more distinct, looming out of the darkness It seemed to be approaching them, coming stealthily nearer and nearer She saw the lights in the Villa Androud "Hamza!" she murmured "Hamza!" He rowed on, without much force, almost languidly Never could they go up against the tide if he did not pull more strongly Why had they not two of the Nubians with them? The lights of the villa vanished They were hidden by the high and shelving bank "Hamza!" she cried out "Hamza!" There was a slight shock The felucca had touched bottom Hamza, with a sort of precision characteristic of him, stepped quietly ashore and signed to her to come She knew she would not go And, instantly, she went Directly she stood upon the sand, near the tangle of low bushes, Hamza pushed off the felucca, springing into it as he did so, and rowed away on the dark water "Hamza!" she called "Hamza! Hamza!" she shrieked The boat went on steadily, quickly, and disappeared Nearly an hour later there appeared at the edge of the garden of the Villa Androud a woman walking unsteadily, with a sort of frantic slowness She made her way across the garden and drew near to the terrace, beyond which light shone out from the drawing-room through the tall window space Close to the terrace she stood still, and she looked into the room She saw Nigel sitting crouched upon a sofa, with his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands He was alone, and was sitting quite still She stood for some time staring in at him Then at last, as if making up her mind to something, she moved, and slowly she stepped upon the terrace Just as she did this, the door of the drawing-room opened and Ibrahim came in, looking breathless and scared Behind him came Meyer Isaacson The woman stood still on the terrace Ibrahim remained by the door Nigel never moved Meyer Isaacson came quickly forward into the room as if he were going to Nigel But when he was in the middle of the room, something seemed to startle him He stopped abruptly, looked questioningly towards the window, then came out to the terrace On the threshold he stopped again He had seen the woman He looked for a moment at her, and she at him Then he came forward, put out his hands quickly, unlatched the wooden shutters, which were set back against the house wall, and pulled them inward towards him They met with a clang, blotting out the room from the woman's eyes Then she waited no longer She made her way to the gate of the garden, passed out to the deserted track beyond, and disappeared into the darkness, going blindly towards the distant hills that keep the Arabian desert THE END End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bella Donna, by Robert Hichens *** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BELLA DONNA *** ***** This file should be named 17698-h.htm or 17698-h.zip ***** This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: 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