A STORY FOR SMOKERS.

The L. drawing-room is not large, but it is uncommonly pleasant. The tastefully furnished apartment, heated by a tall white porcelain stove, is very comfortable. A pretty hanging lamp of antique form diffuses a subdued light, which is far more adapted to promote innocent chat than a strong, brilliant illumination.

Eight or ten of us formed a merry party in this drawing-room, as we leaned comfortably back in the velvet armchairs, while tea, in Chinese cups, sent forth its fragrance before us. The round table consisted principally of ladies, and the time was just after the first fashionable balls, yet our conversation did not turn upon the carnival and its pleasures. It is almost incredible that a tea party in the carnival season could occupy itself with so abstract a question, but we were actually discussing which would probably be the stronger, love or patriotism? Since there was not a single blue-stocking in the group, it is still perfectly incomprehensible how we could have reached this serious subject; but the fact is that, without perceiving how the topic came on the carpet, we suddenly found ourselves in the midst of the most animated interchange of thought.

Opinions were greatly divided. Some ascribed larger powers and more mighty influence over the human mind to patriotism, others to love.

“Oh,” murmured a slender girl with fair hair and pale blue eyes, the happy bride of a fortnight, “I am firmly convinced that love is a stronger feeling than patriotism, nay, that no other can equal it in might. How many more human beings love has inspired to heroic deeds, nay, to self-sacrifice, than patriotism!” While thus declaiming in a sentimental tone, she cast at her husband, who was sitting by her side, a tender, languishing glance, which was probably intended to be an eloquent commentary on her words.

The enviable bridegroom did not entirely agree with the being of his choice, but thought that in youth love, in mature years, on the contrary, patriotism would exert the greater power.

“As for me,” quoth the doctor, a somewhat pedantic man, who, even at tea parties, can neither think nor speak except according to Aristotelian categories, “I think that here national and race characteristics have the strongest influence. The cold Northerner can be roused to more intense enthusiasm by the abstract idea of the native land than the hot-blooded Southron, who would be fired more speedily by a creature of flesh and blood. The German stock of the Swiss Alemanni could produce a Winkelried, but the Indian who, for love of the invalid daughter of the Spanish governor, betrayed the secret of the chinchona tree, known only to the native, and thereby broke the power of the fever, which was on the point of ridding America of the foreign oppressor, was a Southerner, and more accessible to the suggestions of love than to those of patriotism. A Swede or an Englishman may be able to sacrifice more for his native land than for the woman whom he loves, but I doubt if this is true of a Spaniard or an Italian.”

The most noticeable woman in our circle was Frau von G. She was a somewhat stout but remarkably well-preserved person, whose forty years would scarcely be noticed even by an eye which did not look through the glasses of gallantry. Shining black hair framed a face of noble mould; sparkling black eyes, a classically moulded nose, a delicately curved upper lip, slightly shaded by an almost imperceptible velvety down, and a full, firm, round chin, combined with a delicate brunette complexion to produce a countenance whose Southern type was unmistakable. Had not her appearance and manner betrayed it, her accent would have revealed that she was a foreigner.

Frau von G. had listened silently and attentively, but the doctor’s last remark called a smile to her lips, and induced her to mingle in the conversation.

“I cannot fully assent to what you have just said of the Spaniards and Italians, Doctor,” she remarked. “If you will allow me, I’ll relate a little episode from my own life which will prove that, under certain circumstances, patriotism can influence even an Italian more powerfully than love.”

The interest with which every face turned toward the fair speaker contained the most flattering invitation to tell her story.

“You know that I am a native of Milan, and did not leave my birthplace until ten years ago, when my husband’s business summoned him here. I was a girl of eighteen when the insurrection in Lombardy was quelled. Marshal Radetzky entered Milan at the head of a victorious army, the ‘sword of Italy’ was broken, and every patriot, with bleeding heart, was forced to renounce the hopes which he had seen on the verge of realization. Oh, you who have not experienced those days can have no idea of their sorrow and discouragement. The state of siege, to which city and country were condemned, exerted a disturbing influence upon every detail of our daily lives. We avoided the Scala, for there we beheld the hateful spectacle of two soldiers, standing with their guns in the proscenium at the right and left of the stage, and constantly reminding us of the humiliation and misfortune of our native land; we omitted our usual walks on the Corso, for there we were continually insulted by Austrian officers. Every family was restricted to its own circle. We lived within our own four walls, and you can scarcely imagine how much weariness and melancholy this means to us Italians.

“During this terrible period I made the acquaintance of Albert v. G., who afterwards became my husband. He was my brother’s classmate at college, and afterward, like him, became an engineer. Albert was handsome and agreeable, and his visits were doubly welcome in that dull, wearisome time. That I was not indifferent to him, I soon discovered. At first he came with my brother, and left the house with him. Later he came alone, but soon went away if he was not at home. Finally, he became our daily guest, and as my parents, too, did not object to his visits, he remained longer and longer with me, and at last entertained me for hours with his clever, pleasant chat.

“We were very well acquainted and already on familiar terms, when one day—he had been sitting all the morning reading aloud to me—he suddenly asked permission to light a cigar.

“ ‘What,’ I exclaimed, almost terrified, ‘are you a smoker, Albert?’

“You must know that at that time I had a great aversion to men who smoked. I could not praise my brother enough for not having acquired the unpleasant habit, and declared a hundred times that I would rather endure anything than to kiss a man who sullied his lips with the disagreeable weed.

“Until then I had not known that Albert was a smoker, for, of course, there was no smoking in my drawing-room, and I had no opportunity to discover his vice elsewhere.

“The vehemence of my question confused him.

“ ‘Yes, I smoke,’ he answered hesitatingly, ‘but what is there extraordinary about that?’

“ ‘True,’ I cried, ‘unfortunately there is nothing extraordinary about it, but I will tell you this that I will never marry a man who takes a cigar into his mouth. I cannot endure such a person, he is utterly detestable in my eyes.’

“Albert looked at me in surprise, but said nothing and merely slipped the cigar he had already taken out back into his pocket. Then he remained with me a short time in a depressed, silent mood, and soon took his leave.

“The next day he came again and tried to assume a cheerful, unembarrassed manner. Without any introduction he seized the first opportunity to turn the conversation upon smoking, and said jestingly that yesterday he had been fairly frightened out of his wits, probably I did not mean what I said so seriously, he hoped I should become accustomed to his habit, etc. But I understood no jesting on this subject, and again, with the utmost earnestness, protested that I could not endure a man who smoked and never would accustom myself to the habit. On the contrary, I expected that a man who loved me would make the sacrifice of renouncing the unpleasant vice.

“My avowal threw Albert into a state of melancholy, which would now seem to me very comical, but then grieved me to the heart. He was very sorrowful, and left me with the air of a most miserable man. From that time his cheerfulness deserted him, he sighed constantly in the most heartrending manner, and his eyes always had a sorrowful expression. This mood lasted about a week and caused me much suffering, but I could not and would not change it; Albert must give up smoking, or we would separate.

“One day my brother came to me, and took me to task for my folly. Albert was stealing about like a shadow, and no longer dared to visit me; I ought not to torment him any longer with my foolish obstinacy, but, in Heaven’s name, let him have his cigar; he had already made the attempt to give up smoking, but the habit was stronger than his will, and he would really fall sick from it. Here I could no longer refrain from interrupting him bitterly: ‘So I am to have a husband who is not strong enough to give up a ridiculous habit? If he loves me he must do it for my sake; now I really insist upon it, for I shall see in it a test of his love.’

“My brother scolded and raged, but all was useless, and I clung to my resolve. I should weary you if I were to tell you all the details of this quarrel, whose memory has a peculiar charm for me. Suffice it to say that at last Albert came to me, and, with tears in his eyes, begged me not to be cruel any longer, and, as usually happens, I wept, too, and said: ‘Very well, I will show you that my love is stronger than yours. You would not give up your habit for my sake, I will try, for yours, to conquer my repugnance.’

“Shortly after we were married Alfred smoked as before. In spite of his cigars I felt very, very happy with him, and had entirely forgotten the sorrowful weeks of sulking, when I was reminded of it in a very peculiar way.

“We had been wedded about six months when I noticed, one evening, that Albert did not light a cigar after supper, as usual. I secretly wondered, but thought it mere accident. The next day there was the same abstinence, which I remarked, and which engaged my attention completely. When, on the third evening, it was repeated, I was extremely curious and much excited. ‘What,’ I thought, ‘is Albert voluntarily making the sacrifice for the wife which he would not yield to the entreaties of the betrothed bride?’ My heart exulted over this proof of love, and I considered myself—don’t laugh—the happiest of mortals. I set about a careful inspection and made the most delightful discoveries. The cigar box on Albert’s desk was empty; his beautiful amber mouthpiece, which he usually had with him, lay on some papers as a paper-weight—there was no doubt of it, Albert had given up smoking.

“I could no longer help expressing my joy. ‘Albert,’ I said one evening, ‘you are an angel, you not only relinquish smoking for my sake, but you are too delicate to say a single word about it, or to betray, by the slightest sign, what a painful effort it costs you.’ While speaking, I embraced and kissed him with genuine enthusiasm.

“But, to my great astonishment, this outburst of tenderness embarrassed him. He escaped from my arms and lowered his eyes before my questioning gaze. After a sorrowful pause, he said at last, in a hesitating, uncertain voice: ‘My sweet, little wife, I might play the part of being generous and self-sacrificing, but I think it is more manly to confess the truth. So learn that I have not given up my cigar for your sake, but—for that of my native land! You know that the tobacco monopoly has been introduced by the Austrian government; we have now agreed that every patriot will give up smoking, in order, so far as lies in his power, to lessen the receipts of the treasury. This may seem to you trivial, but we must deal the foe needle-pricks, if we cannot attack him with the sword.’

“To tell you the truth, I sulked for several days; but at last I considered the matter, and resolved to show that an Italian woman can be no less patriotic than an Italian man. I forgave my husband, and even praised him for his resolution, which I could not help thinking heroic. ‘The idea that you love anything better than you do me,’ I said to him, ‘becomes endurable only by remembering that this something is—our native land.’

“So you see,” added Frau von G., as she concluded her story, turning to the doctor with a smile, “that, even in an Italian, patriotism is more powerful than love, and the hot-blooded Italian sacrificed to the abstract idea of his native land the cigar which he had not been willing to give up for the sake of a creature of flesh and blood.”