The Fiery Angel by Valery Bruisov Read Free Book Online Page A

you will spend it in the Tower of London”—whither the unhappy astrologer was at once taken. I also told her of a certain youth, to whom a gypsy exactly appointed the day and hour of his death, and who by design therefore ran through all his ample fortune by about that very time, and then, seeing that he was ruined and death yet tarried, ended his life by a thrust of his sword. And I related too of one to whom a seer explained that he would die of a white horse, and who thenceforward began to avoid all horses, even chestnut, pied and black, but perished by an inn sign with the picture of a white horse falling upon him in the street.
    By these and similar stories I sought to enliven the spirits of Renata, though the wild prophecy of the witch pressed upon my soul too like a fallen rock. But as Renata did not show in any way that she was listening to, or even noticing my words, I gradually became silent also. We rode in silence, straight towards the blue of the eastern edge of the sky. The horse, tired by its load, stepped wearily, and I, tired too from the miles I had walked, studied carefully the image of Renata, dissecting it, like a connoisseur studying the heads of marble figures.
    It was then for the first time that I saw plainly the features of Renata’s face, with which later my glances became so familiar, and I realised that she was in no way beautiful. Her nostrils were too thin, and the line of her chin to her ears swept almost slant, while her ears themselves, in which glittered golden earrings, were placed unevenly and too high; the eyes were cut not quite straight and the eyelashes too long. Everything in her face was irregular, but there was in it a charm, distilled, perhaps, by some magic means, or with the aid of some Cleopatrian mystery. Judging from the face, I would almost have thought Renata Italian, but she spoke our language like a mother-tongue, and with all the peculiarities of the Meissen dialect.
    After an arduous ride, and after crossing the Rhine, we reached Düsseldorf, the capital of Berg, a city that has grown rapidly in the last few years owing to the enterprise of its Duke, and that even now can rank with the most handsome towns of Germany. In the city I found a good hostelry under the sign “ Im Lewen ,” and for a fair price obtained two of the best rooms, for I wanted Renata to receive both that luxury of surrounding that was her due and all the possible comforts of a journey. But Renata seemed to me not to notice my efforts, and one might well have thought that, amidst the polished furniture, the tiled fireplaces and the mirrors, she perceived no difference from the bare, uneven benches of the country inn.
    The host, taking us for rich people, invited us to dine at his table, or, as the French say, at the table d’ hôte , and he served us very diligently, especially praising some chicken fried in almond milk, and the good Rhinewine from Bacharach. But Renata, though present in body at our table, was far away in thought, and she hardly touched the dishes and took no part in conversation, though I made various efforts to blow the breath of life into her. I related of those wonders of the New World that I happened to have witnessed, of the steps in the temples of the Maya flanked by giant, hewn masks, of immeasurable cacti, in the trunks of which can stand a horse and rider, of the perilous hunt of the grey bear and the spotted ounce, and of my lone adventures, not forgetting to embellish my tales with quotations now from the opinions of a contemporary writer, now from the verses of a poet of antiquity. The host and his wife listened mouths agape, but Renata, suddenly, breaking into the middle of my speech, rose from the table and said:
    “Are you not weary yourself, Rupprecht, of chattering of such trifles! Farewell.”
    And without adding another word she turned and left, though this was rather impolite, as I think now. But at the time I only felt confusion, and fear lest she might