Moreover, he was much older than he looked—nearly fifty—and far from sound. His life had been a long, hard struggle.
He had for his wife, slave, and pupil a fierce, jealous kind of affection that was a source of endless torment to him; for indelibly graven in her heart, which he wished to occupy alone, was the never-fading image of the little English painter, and of this she made no secret.
Gecko no longer cared for the master. All Gecko’s doglike devotion was concentrated on the slave and pupil, whom he worshipped with a fierce but pure and unselfish passion. The only living soul that Svengali could trust was the old Jewess who lived with them—his relative—but even she had come to love the pupil as much as the master.
On the occasion of this rehearsal at Drury Lane he (Svengali) was co
