She had a great wish to see the Pope, and one day mentioned this desire to Père Etienne. To her astonishment, however, he answered coldly that this would be too great an honour for her, and that he was not yet sufficiently convinced of the sincerity of her faith to consider such an honour justifiable.
“But,” murmured Irene timidly, “I am surely not asking for anything so extraordinary? His Holiness receives hundreds of Englishwomen and Americans every week.”
“Yes!” exclaimed the old man indignantly, “and this is indeed a great abuse. Theseforeigners manage to get received, through sheer curiosity, and in order to be able to say to their friends at home: ‘We have been to Rome, and we have seen both the Pope and an aristocratic Italian fox-hunt. Both were very interesting.’ Don’t you see that for us—for true believers—this is an insufferable insult?”
Irene felt confused and embarrassed. When, however, a short time later some friends offered her a ticket for one of the great papal functions, she could not resist the temptation, and, saying nothing to Père Etienne, accepted, and decided to go to the Vatican.
Excited anticipation kept Irene awake during the whole night previous to the great occasion. She rose with the dawn, and laid ready her black dress and black lace veil, the traditional costume of all pilgrims received by the Pope.
The ceremony was to take place at eleven o’clock, but at ten Irene drove up to the Vatican, hoping to be one of the first to arrive. Alas! an extended line of carriages had already long been blocking the way to the Portone di Bronzo, and, advancing slowly one by one, setting down ladies in black lace and gentlemen in dress clothes. Like Irene, they had all counted on arriving first, and all contemplated, with undisguised astonishment, the dense crowd slowly making its way up the stairs. The predominating impression among this crowd was far less one of religiousemotion than of excited curiosity. There were many Americans and Germans, who had come to see a rare sight, in order to boast about it later on in their own countries. The eyes of these tourists sparkled with delight as they gazed at the papal guards, who, in their mediæval costumes and their peculiar hats, looked as if they had just stepped out of pictures, as indeed did also the papal lackeys, in cherry-coloured brocade, with silk stockings and buckled shoes.
Irene loved the Vatican. This mediæval fortress, with its numberless houses, towers, courtyards, cemeteries, and gardens appealed strongly to her imagination. She loved, perhaps most of all, the splendid halls with their frescoes and their beautiful antique statues. This, she thought, wastrueluxury, in comparison with which the luxury of modern palaces, with their commonplace silk-panelled walls and their carpets and pictures, grew pale and seemed almost vulgar. In the magnificent halls of the Vatican the walls and ceilings were covered with frescoes by Raphael and Michael Angelo,and the ornaments consisted of antique porphyry sarcophagi, ancient mosaics, such as have never been equalled in more modern times, and colossal marble vases and fonts, excavated from ancient baths and shrines. Modern art has been able to add nothing to all these priceless treasures.
And now Irene was gazing with rapture at the frescoed walls of the immense Sala Clementina, into which, little by little, the extraordinarily mixed assemblage, whose like one can hardly meet anywhere, was making its way. There were foreigners shivering in furs; aristocratic Roman ladies in elegant black dresses, long white gloves, and family pearls; prelates; cardinals; nuns in white starched headdresses; Capucins in sandals, and with ropes round their waists; little girls in white dresses and lace veils, with curls framing their flushed, excited faces; officers of the papal guard; dominicans in white cloth cassocks; attachés of the various foreign embassies in gold embroidered uniforms—all this formed one heterogeneous, palpitating mass of humanity. The variety of the crowdpleased and interested Irene. It struck her that all this was just as it should be in the Palace of the Roman Pontiff, the only sovereign who acknowledged neither rank nor position nor class distinctions, and who did not surround himself with a Chinese wall, guarded by a handful of privileged people, in no way more deserving than their fellows. “It is in most countries these privileged classes,” thought Irene, “who by energetically pushing to a safe distance from the precincts of the throne all who really work for the good of their country, always manage artificially to create enemies for their King.” The Pope believed in a very different policy. He was accessible to everybody, without distinction of nationality, faith, or social position, and he was ready to receive and to bless everyone alike. Perhaps, indeed, it may be owing to this wise policy that no attempt has ever been made on his life, in spite of the fact that the Vatican employs neither spies nor secret guards. Such a Court, thought Irene, should have existed under Constantine the Great or Louis IX.
The ceremony of presenting consecrated candles to the Pope (dei ceri benedetti) was to take place in the neighbouring Sala del Trono. At one end of this lofty, narrow, frescoed hall stood, under a baldaquin, the golden throne of the Pope; at the other end, a great crucifix supported by an angel. On either side of the central passage, kept clear by the Swiss guards, were long benches, on which were already seated various pilgrims, all trying to get as near as possible to the throne. The best places had already long been taken by clergy of all nationalities, with enormous opera-glasses and firm intentions to miss not the smallest detail of the interesting spectacle. Subdued excitement reigned supreme in the half-darkened hall, with its drawn red blinds and its sparse, electric lights. There was a hushed murmur of low-toned conversation—everyone spoke in a whisper, except, of course, the Americans, who exchanged silly little remarks and impressions in unceremonious, strident tones. A Frenchman, with a small pointed beard was, in a loud voice, relating to someone somethingabout an inn in Naples, where one could get excellent wine and macaroni. With the impudence of a dull-minded Atheist, he smacked his lips over various details, keenly enjoying the paradox contained in the mere fact of discussing such things at the Vatican.
Here and there in the crowd, however, could also be seen the rapturous faces of youthful priests and young girls. Full of religious exaltation, trembling with emotion, they kept their shining eyes fixed on the door before which stood the papal guards.
At last there was a wave of movement. The crowd rose, made as though it would fall on its knees, but thought better of the intention, and remained standing. Surrounded by his Court, His Holiness, in white raiment and a little white cap, passed to the throne, and, throwing a quick glance over the assemblage, took his place.
Along the central passage, between the benches, a procession of priests advanced, two and two, holding in their hands long painted tapers, covered with funny littlefringed extinguishers. They approached the throne, handed the tapers to attendants, fell on their knees, and kissed the Pope’s ring. On the beautiful face of the Pontiff shone a radiant smile. He said a few words to each one, sometimes whispered in their ears, and often laughed. This was not the face of a mighty sovereign, but only that of a good, kind old man, who had long ago learnt that all sorrows, all dreams, all hopes, are soon over, and that life is short, and does not contain anything specially good or attractive. He was deeply sorry for all those expectant pilgrims, exciting themselves about nothing at all, awaiting Heaven knows what, and needlessly tiring themselves out; and all he could do was to help them with a kind word, a warm glance, and with the love that illumined his beautiful features. It seemed to Irene that, for the first time in centuries, a truly Christian pastor reigned in Rome, and one who in spirit resembled the first Christian apostles, the builders of the Church. What a striking contrast between this Pope and his surrounding Court! They, too, were all smilingat the pilgrims; but what hypocrisy, what falseness and flattery, breathed in those smiles! Their crafty faces were cold and indifferent. For them, this ceremony was only one of the countless comedies in which they had constantly to play parts. Two of these papal courtiers, both still young and handsome, were obviously posing before the aristocratic Roman ladies, among whom they probably had admiring friends.
The ceremony lasted a long time. The tapers, in the hands of the priests, moved along in endless procession. Everyone was tired and hot, all faces were flushed. The courtiers around the throne left off smiling, and made no attempt to hide their fatigue. Only the Pope alone smiled as warmly and caressingly as before upon each man who knelt before him. For him, this was no ceremony, this was a human service, which he rendered joyfully.
At last, the final tapers were presented. His Holiness rose, blessed the bowing crowd, and left the hall. There was a general rush for the door. Close to Irene, a young Frenchgirl was heatedly disputing some point with her mother.
“Mais, il t’a donné sa bénédiction, ma chère,” persuaded the mother. “He has blessed us all. What more do you want?”
But the girl was not consoled, and only looked sadly at the door, behind which the Pope had disappeared.
Irene understood: she, too, felt sad at the thought that she would never again see that beautiful Christian smile.
The same evening, Irene announced to Père Etienne that all her doubts were at an end, and that she had decided to take the Veil. She would now only ask him to find her a suitable convent.
“There are many orders of nuns in Rome,” answered the Father, reflectively, “each with a particular aim and purpose. There are sisters who nurse the sick, and others who educate children. It seems to me that the order most suited in your case is that of the Sœurs Mauves. They lead very secluded lives, pray a great deal, and keep watch, night and day, over the Holy Sacrament. You can see them every day at Vespers in their Church of Santa Petronilla in the Via Gallia.”
Trembling with emotion, Irene turned her steps towards this convent, half afraid of herown first impression. When she entered, the church was almost empty. A few stray old men and old women were dreaming on chairs, waiting for the service. Like most modern Roman churches, Santa Petronilla was ablaze with gilding and profusely decorated with pictures. On either side, up above, were galleries of quite theatrical appearance, painted mauve and white, the colours of the convent. A transparent, high, carved partition divided the church into two parts: the one nearest the entrance for the public, the other, nearest the altar, for the nuns. At present, all was dark and empty, only one feeble taper was burning on the altar.
Irene took a seat in the first row, quite close to the partition, and prepared to contemplate her future surroundings. It was a long time before the silence was broken by the slow, dull sound of the church bells. The altar was suddenly brightly illuminated, and a procession of nuns appeared through the door. They entered in couples, knelt for a moment, one couple at a time, before the altar, and then slowly, gracefully,with soundless footsteps, made their way to their places. They were dressed in white robes with long trains, and wide mauve borders. White veils hid their faces, and fell at the back in graceful folds over their trains. These veils were so thick, that it was impossible to distinguish the ages of their wearers. With soft white hands, the nuns clasped the golden crosses on their breasts, as they slowly sank into their places, threw back their veils, and, directing their gaze to the altar, remained immovable in the most graceful of poses. Somewhere in the distance an organ began to play, and an invisible choir sang a prayer, or, rather, a beautiful Italian operatic air.
Something long forgotten stirred restlessly in Irene’s heart. “But these are my vestal virgins!” she thought, with a thrill of emotion—those beloved vestal virgins that had always so deeply appealed to her imagination, and whose disappearance she had so often regretted. It seemed to her that no reforms and no amount of progress could ever give back to women the high position occupied in ancient Rome by the handmaidens of thegoddess Vesta. Everyone had bowed before them; with a movement of the hand they had the power to pardon prisoners condemned to death; they were present at all ceremonies, games, and performances, and formed the principal ornament of the Courts of the Roman Emperors. And here, suddenly, Irene had found them again, less mighty and less dazzling, perhaps, but more mysterious instead, and more poetical.
The service continued, and the church gradually filled with people: elegant ladies, dirty workmen, little old men and little old women, even small children brought there by religious nurses. They all joined in the hymns, and sang with the nuns. There was something strange and touching in the mingling of all those hoarse, old, untrained voices with the soft music of the choir, descending, like the song of angels, from the mauve gallery. Many of the worshippers were weeping bitterly, on their knees. From time to time the singing stopped, and one of the nuns, opening a prayer-book, read a prayer, in a soft, melodious voice. Irene watched herfuture companions with great emotion. They seemed so dignified, so refined, so completelycomme il faut; life among them, indeed, promised to be charming. Nothing in their habits and manners could ever jar on her or shock her. She remembered, with a shudder, the Russian nuns who wander from village to village, collecting money for the building of churches, lifting their dirty dresses high, and showing their equally dirty, red, rough, thick peasant legs.
The service came to an end. Slowly, gracefully, the white dignified figures of the Sœurs Mauves floated away and disappeared. In their places appeared several fat, active little nuns, in short black robes, with enormous mauve bows and little white veils. They extinguished the candles, running from one candlestick to another, never forgetting their reverend genuflexion when passing the altar.
“Serving-women,” thought Irene, and the thought pleased her that she would not, even in the convent, cease to be a lady accustomed to the services of a maid. For amoment she was ashamed of the thought, but immediately justified herself: “Of course all idea of dirty work is impossible in those long snowy robes, those white slippers, and floating, shimmering veils!”
It was a still, warm evening, and the stars were beginning to show themselves in the dark blue sky when Irene left the church. There was peace in her soul as she breathed in the balmy Southern air. “Thank God!” she said to herself. “At last I have found my vocation. What matter if I do not sufficiently believe? The principal thing is to sing, to read prayers, and to touch the hearts of all those unhappy, suffering people, who come to pray with the nuns, believing in their purity and saintliness.”
Almost all unmarried women of a certain age suffer secret torments from the fact that they have actually no place in society. Irene was no exception to this rule, and she was happy at the thought that now, at last, she might be of some use in the service of humanity. To have a special uniform—an idea always dear to the Russian heart—wasalso a great attraction. In imagination she tried on the picturesque dress of those modern vestal virgins, making up her mind to be graceful, to float about like a white spirit, to sing, and to read prayers melodiously.
From that day, Irene never missed a single evening service in the Via Gallia. The nuns were inaccessible to outsiders, and no stranger was ever admitted to the convent—an additional fact to play upon Irene’s fancy. The convent stood on a hill. Luxurious palms and fragrant Roman pines leaned over its high garden walls, and Irene saw, in imagination, the small, interior courtyard, with its covered verandah, its slim, carved columns, its murmuring fountain, its Southern foliage and flowers. She pictured to herself the early morning; she heard the measured tones of the melodious convent bells calling the sisters to prayer; then she thought of the evening, of a golden Roman sunset, a purple sky, faint, glistening stars, and theAve Maria.…
How beautiful, how poetical, seemed her future life, with its prayers, its meditations,its rapturous exaltation, its Gospel-readings, its soft singing, its incense! An enchanted existence in a Southern clime, a sweet, mystical dream, and then—death, followed by a probable awakening to some new and glorious life!
The news of Irene’s decision created a great sensation in herpension. Although nothing was definitely settled between herself and Père Etienne, everyone else knew which order she had chosen, and on which day she was to be received. Some even went so far as to name the dressmaker who was making her convent robes. They all constantly stared at Irene, and pointed her out to their visitors.
One afternoon, she happened to accompany Père Etienne to the hall-door, at the hour when the complicated business of afternoon tea was in progress. Small bamboo tables were scattered about between Chinese screens and immense palms, and at one of these tables, some distance away from the door, sat a good-natured, pleasant little Russian old lady, giving tea to a fellow-countryman,a tall, handsome, energetic, young-looking Russian of about forty, with an occasional grey thread in his thick, dark hair. The old lady, with a whispered remark, pointed Irene out to her visitor. He looked round with some curiosity, and then muttered, with a frown:
“What is this stupid, new fashion? Our women seem unable to look at a Roman priest without renouncing Orthodoxy!”
A magnificent January moonlight night had wrapped the world in its silence. Rome was nestling in the warm, pale blue air; there were fantastic shapes and shadows everywhere; the magic of the darkness had wiped out all contrasts between ruins and modern buildings, and everything alike, churches, houses, streets, seemed unreal and enchanted.
Most beautiful of all, however, was the Colosseum, towards which Irene turned her steps that night. Like all foreigners, she had considered it her duty to see this famous ruin by moonlight, and had on a previous occasion visited it for this purpose, in company with several of the tourists staying at herpension. Their commonplace expressions of delight, however, had entirely spoilt the impression for her, and this time, temptedby the clear moonlight, she decided to go alone, and enjoy the unique beauty of the Colosseum in solitude.
Fate was kind to Irene. The enormous circus was entirely deserted but for the almost invisible shadows of a few distant tourists, and the outline of a tall man standing at the entrance, wrapt in admiration of the grandiose spectacle. Irene had just seated herself on a stone, when suddenly out of the shadows, as though from nowhere, sprang the figure of an old guide, declaiming pathetically, and addressing himself to Irene:
“Voici ce fameux Colisée, ce cirque épatant, où les malheureux chrétiens⸺”
Irene was so annoyed, that she cried out, and even shook her umbrella at him. The guide cut short his eloquence, and turned away grumbling. Irene suddenly felt ashamed. She followed the poor old man and offered him money, but the proud Roman refused. Cursing Irene and all her relations and friends, and expressing the wish that her first-born might be burnt in hell, he withdrew with dignity.
Irene turned round. The tall Russian had been watching the scene with interest. They looked at each other, and both involuntarily laughed.
“What a good thing you drove away that old parrot!” said the stranger. “These guides simply spoil Italy for foreigners. I am sure tourists would willingly pay a tax for their benefit, only to be rid of them, and to be allowed to admire Italy’s treasures in peace. I am always positively wild with rage when they begin to declaim, and to offer me elementary information that we all acquired years ago at school!”
Irene listened sympathetically, and suddenly realized with astonishment that the stranger was addressing her in Russian. How could he have found out that she was Russian!
The speaker noticed her surprise, and smiled.
“I had the pleasure of seeing you in yourpension,” he explained, “I went there to see Anna Sergeievna Boutourina.”
“Oh! Do you know Anna Sergeievna? Isn’t she a charming old lady?”
“Very charming. I have known her since my childhood; I used to go and stay with her as a little boy. Allow me to introduce myself: Sergei Gzhatski, Marshal of the Nobility in the province of S⸺.”
They began to speak of S⸺, and discovered mutual acquaintances. But their conversation soon came to a stop. The magic beauty of the night threw its enchantment over them. They mounted the steps of the amphitheatre, sat down on the steps, and remained silent, in admiration of the glorious scene. Pale blue clouds were floating above them, from time to time veiling the moon. The high walls, with their immense openings, stood out like enormous lace patterns against the clear sky. Through the gaps in the blocks of stone peeped cypresses and Roman pines; high on the third floor, alternately appearing and disappearing, shone a moving light, a torch, in the hands of a guide, leading a crowd of English tourists through all the corridors and tiers of the Colosseum. Irene gazed fixedly at this wavering light, and suddenly her thoughts wanderedback to ancient times, to the early years of Christianity.
The warm moon shone in those days, just as now, she dreamed; the little clouds floated across the same sky; the cypresses looked in at the same windows. The torches gleamed like this one, only there were many of them, and they moved not through the tiers and balconies, but in the arena, rising and falling, in the hands of Romans clad in togas and tunics. This afternoon the games beloved of Romans had taken place, and many Christians had been thrown to the wild beasts. The festive crowd of onlookers had left the circus, chattering gaily and animatedly, and hurried homeward to merry suppers. The wild beasts, having eaten sumptuously, are now sleeping in their cages. The night has fallen peacefully on Rome, and with the darkness there has appeared in the arena a silent assemblage; the friends and relations of to-day’s martyred Christians. For large sums of money they have bought, from the keepers of the Colosseum, the right to take away the bodies of the victims.Stifling their sobs, silently, like shadows of mourning, they pass from one corpse to another, bending down, searching by the light of their torches for the remains of some dear one. Having found what they sought, they fall, with a dull cry, to the ground, and gaze with horror at the stiffened features. There, beside a torn white tunic, some long black tresses, and two soft, girlish hands, sits an old woman, richly but tastelessly dressed, and with blunt, plebeian features. She is swaying hopelessly from side to side, and, in a pitiful, wailing voice, is telling her sorrow to an old man, who listens sympathetically.
“She was our only one! Our one beloved treasure! Many children were born to us before her, but it was not Jupiter’s will that they should grow up. They were all poor little mites, born thin and puny, and with big heads. They lived for about two years, tottered round the yard on their poor, weak little legs, and then died. Lydia was the last. At her birth she was so thin and fragile that we never hoped she would grow up. Besides, I was already turned forty, and myold man was getting on for sixty; what sort of children can one expect to have at that time of life! But, somehow, the gods took pity on our lonely old age. Lydia began to improve and get strong. Ye gods! How we loved her and caressed her and spoiled her! Her father simply worshipped her, and strictly forbade me ever to punish her. For that matter there was never any reason to punish her, she was quiet and thoughtful, and always alone in a corner, away from other children. Even when nearly grown up, she never wanted girl friends. ‘I want no one but you,’ she would say, embracing us lovingly. She always sat at home, and could not be induced to join in any gaieties. She had only one passion—the Vestal Virgins. Often and often she went to gaze at them and admire them, weeping bitter tears because she was not one of them, and carrying flowers to the shrine of the goddess Vesta. We greatly feared, my old man and I, that she would never consent to marry. We longed to see our grand-children, and besides, we wanted an heir to carry on thebusiness. My old man is the best jeweller in Rome. All the great people give us orders, and our things are highly valued. My husband found a suitable son-in-law, also in the jeweller’s business—but we did not dare to tell Lydia. She was so proud, and would never look at men. And oh! how beautiful she was! Pale, like marble, with her thin little face, her large, grey eyes, and her heavy dark tresses. All the young men were in love with her, but she would have nothing to say to any of them. Then, all of a sudden, those accursed Jews appeared. They used to live quietly on the other side of the Tiber, until one day when they all seemed to have become possessed. Over they came, swarms of them, telling some story of a new God of theirs, born somewhere in Palestine, and asking everyone to believe in Him. Dirty, miserable wretches, disgusting in their filthy rags, gesticulating, excited, really quite absurd. Beggars, you know, but with the pretensions of Emperors. Of course, old people only laughed at them. As if anyone would dream of changing his religion inhis old age! But the young people began to be interested, and to go to the Jews’ meetings. Those miserable wretches spoke so passionately—just as if they really had seen a great new God! Lydia went once too, and came home all of a tremble with emotion. At first we were pleased, because her passion for the Vestal Virgins seemed to have cooled. But our joy was short-lived. She began to disappear for days and nights at a time, always praying with her Jews, and calling herself a Christian. My old man and I grew alarmed, and then, suddenly, began the persecution of Christians. At first we, of course, thought that only those good-for-nothing Jews would be persecuted, and we were very pleased, because we hated them. But the news spread that there was an order to catch all other Christians too. We lived in terror, expecting trouble every day. We did all we could to keep Lydia at home, but there, she would not even listen to us. ‘We pray together,’ was all she said, ‘and we will die together.’ One day, a month ago, she went to a secret meeting, and never returned. Welearned that she was in prison, we bribed the gaolers, and managed to see her. She was in a feverish state of rapture and exultation. ‘Be happy for me,’ she said; ‘I shall see Christ, and be with Him for ever.’ With bitter tears, we implored her to renounce this madness. Her old father and I, we fell on our knees before her—nothing helped! It was not only once that we went to her, nor twice, nor three times. What a fortune we spent on bribes! Though that, indeed, matters little. What do we want with riches now that we have no one to whom to leave them? One day, about a fortnight ago, we went to her. She was pale and faint, and in tears. She took us into a corner, away from the other prisoners, threw them furtive, frightened glances, and whispered: ‘We are condemned to death. They are going to throw us to the wild beasts in the circus. It is terrible—oh! it is terrible!’ She was shivering and sobbing. ‘I cannot sleep at night—I always see a tiger, falling on me and tearing me to pieces. Save me! Save me! I will agree to anything now! But don’t tellthe others, or they will despise me and laugh at me.’ In wild haste we rushed off to our best client, the Senator Claudius Massimus. All day we sat in his atrium, waiting to be received. At last, in the evening, the Senator comes to us, hears us, and answers: ‘Very well, my good old people, I will do what I can for you. Let your daughter only make a sacrifice to the gods, and publicly curse her past folly.’ Hardly feeling our feet under us for joy and thankfulness, we rushed with our news to Lydia. But oh! misery! misery! In the meantime their chief priest had been to the prison, the wicked, accursed old villain! I don’t know what he told them, but Lydia came out to us, beaming with happiness. ‘I no longer need anything,’ she said, embracing us. ‘Thank you for your solicitude on my behalf, but however great your love may be for me, you cannot give me the joys that are prepared for me in Heaven.’ We implored her, besought her all in vain. Lydia only laughed, and kissed us. We staggered home, and the same night my old man had a paralytic stroke. From that momentI have not been able to leave him. To-day we have been together in silence, without moving from dawn till sunset. Do you know, do you understand, you merciless, pitiless daughter, all that we have suffered? Had you the right to buy for yourself eternal salvation at such a price? Oh! wicked, cruel, beloved one! When the sun had set, my old man gave me money, and said: ‘Go and bring me all they have left us of Lydia.’ So I have come, and have found her tattered tunic, and her scalp and hair, and her lovely hands, with the bracelets her father put on them when she was fifteen. Oh, ye gods, ye gods! Is it for this that we have brought her up and watched over her, and cared for her, that she should be a fairer sacrifice for the accursed Jews? Talk of mercy and love, and then take away from anguished parents their only joy, the light and mainstay of their old age! May they be accursed and thrice accursed, these demented, perverted villains, these murderers of our children!” And the old woman fell forward with a cry, on the tresses of the hapless Lydia.
Not far away from her sat a proud young beauty, in a luxurious gold-embroidered tunic, her eyes fixed on the head of a young handsome Roman. Large, slow teardrops followed each other down her face, but she did not notice them nor attempt to brush them away. She only threw herself, at intervals, on the bleeding corpse, embraced it with her soft arms, and passionately kissed the cold lips and the golden moustache.
“What have you done? What have you done? My adored, cruel husband! How could you leave me, forget my love, forget our happiness together? Were we all, your relations, your friends, your nearest and dearest, of so little import to you, that you could abandon us for the sake of a mad dream? How could you, a clever, well-bred noble Roman, fall under the influence of low, filthy slaves? They are all frantic about some wild idea, some frenzied vision, andyou—youcould believe them, and share their madness!
“Oh! What shall I do with my life without you? You took me, a young, careless,innocent child, you taught me the happiness of love, and now you have pitilessly abandoned me! I pass whole days and nights in the remembrance of your caresses, I stretch out my hands, I grope for you in the dark, and I shall never find you again! Oh! How terrible, how incredible is this thought. Thousands, millions of people are born every day, but never again will the world see your like!
“Who is it that has dared, that has taken on himself the right to destroy that most splendid work of nature—man? You tried to console me with the assurance that your soul would live for ever; but of what use is your soul to me? I love your body, your eyes, your features. When I meet, in the street, someone who but slightly resembles you, I blush, and the blood rushes to my heart. Your irresistible smile, your charming laugh, maddened me with happiness! And now—all is over. You will never smile again, you will never look at me with your beloved blue eyes. To-morrow worms will begin to eat this flesh that is dearer to me than all else on earth, and I am powerless to prevent this outrage. Oh, yegods! How have I sinned, that I should have deserved to suffer so madly?
“Rather than this, why were you not untrue to me—why did you not go away, and love another? Terrible as this would have been, I should at least have known that you lived, that my eyes could look upon you. Secretly, in the darkness of the night, I could have come to gaze upon you, and this would have given me life.
“Oh! Why do we not know the future? Why does fate give us no warning? How much time I lost in idle gossiping with girl friends, in needless outings and amusements, while I might have spent this time in talking with you, in gazing at you, in enjoying your caresses!
“The moon will appear in the sky, the nightingales will sing, but you will not hear them. The sun will rise, but its rays will not penetrate into your cold tomb. Life at best is but short, and now you yourself, of your own free will, have deprived yourself prematurely of its joys.
“Oh! This terrible, meaningless life! Iam cold, I shiver, I cannot live in the world without you! All is pale, all is dark and tarnished around me. Nothing interests me, nothing pleases me. Alone! Alone! From now onwards, alone on this accursed earth.”
And the unhappy one repeatedly kissed the dead body, passionately embraced it, beating her head upon the sand.
Irene clearly heard the groans, curses, and cries that re-echoed in the ancient circus. Tears fell from her eyes. She forgot where she was, and started when Gzhatski, having also for some time kept his eyes fixed on the arena, broke the silence by a sudden remark.
“May I ask you an indiscreet question?” he asked, turning sharply round, and facing his companion. “Is it really true that you have decided to be a traitor to your faith, and become a Roman Catholic?”
“Why a traitor?” retorted Irene, a little angrily. “Orthodox Russians and Catholics believe alike in the Gospel, and that is the principal thing. As to dogmas, they were all invented by the perverted intelligence ofcrafty Byzantian Greeks, who did not understand the Gospel in the least, and dragged it down to their own level by eternal quibbling about words. Already, in my childhood, I studied with disgust the history of the Œcumenical Councils, and found nothing intelligent in them, except the decision of the seventh one, that there should be no more. Evidently all the theologians had become so entangled in their own disputes that they had grown desperate, and had at last realized that the more they talk the further they get from the truth.”
“But if you despise dogmas, and believe only in the Gospel, then why need you give up Orthodoxy?”
“I am leaving Orthodoxy because, among the Catholic clergy, I have found a man who is a true believer, who guides me, and helps me to unravel my own doubts, and to see the true meaning of life.”
“In other words, like so many Russian ladies, you have fallen into the hands of a clever Jesuit.”
“In other words, like so many Russianmen, you have gathered your information about Jesuits in the novel ‘The Eternal Jew.’”
“I have never read that novel. I only see very clearly that your dear Pater wants money for some convent, and therefore wants to shut you up in it.”
“Not in the least. Père Etienne thinks that I shall be happier in a convent than in the world. He has no objection to an Orthodox convent. He only told me, a few days ago, that he always speaks of Catholic ones, because he knows nothing about Russian convent life.”
“But why, then, do you not go into some Russian convent?”
“Because I know them too well. A Russian convent is a collection of vulgar, chattering, idle, lower-class women. The convent itself is a vulgar absurdity, since it is neither directed nor controlled by anybody. And, indeed, who is to control it? Not the officials of the Synod, I suppose?”
“Yes, but is not all that true also of Roman Catholic convents?”
“No. Every Catholic convent has not only its own head, but also higher control and direction. The discipline is quite different. Every Italian convent has one definite aim and object: to give its inmates the possibility of saving their souls in peace and silence, and everything is done for the attainment of this object.”
“Well, even if we admit that this is true—by what right do you turn your back on all that life imposes on you, and think of nobody and nothing but the saving of your own soul?”
“By what right!” exclaimed Irene in amazement. “What a strange question!”
“Allow me. The Gospel, which you apparently respect, teaches us that we are all brothers, that we must help each other and live for each other. Whom will you help, whom will you save, if you hide yourself in a convent and think of nothing but your own soul?”
“Had I taken the veil when I was twenty, there might perhaps have been some reason in your reproaches. But I am now forty. I have lived through a long life, and haveconvinced myself that I can be of no use to my fellows. My views on life are so personal to me that no one will ever understand me. I have always suffered through the vulgarity and roughness of other people, and as time passes I despise mankind more and more. In separating myself from human companionship, I may, little by little, forget what people are like, and so may perhaps learn to love them a little.”
“Is it possible that among all your friends and acquaintances, you have never met one man who might be worthy of your attention or your love?”
Irene smiled bitterly.
“Russian men have not reached the period of development at which they could understand good women. They are still in the harem period, and they need only rough, vulgar, immoral females.”
“I see you can make nice compliments. But if you have such a poor opinion of our higher circles, what about the masses? What about our honest, simple-minded, warm-hearted, noble-souled people? Is it possiblethat they awaken no sympathy in you, that you have never felt the wish to help them, to educate them?”
“Don’t speak to me of those pitiful cowards!” exclaimed Irene contemptuously. “They are incapable of anything better than losing the war, and disgracing Russia in the eyes of the whole world.”
“I see you hold somewhat original views. Hundreds and thousands of soldiers have become hopeless cripples for the rest of their lives, in order to keep the enemy from our Russian soil, and in order to ensure for idle people like you the secure and safe enjoyment of their leisure and their capital. And in return you travel in strange lands, and insult our modest heroes. Allow me to congratulate you—such sentiments unquestionably do you honour.”
Irene blushed, but maintained a scornful silence. Several minutes passed. The English party, with its guide and torches, drew near. Gzhatski rose, bowed dryly to Irene, and joined the tourists.
They separated, both with the feeling of having said a great deal that was needless. On the whole, however, Irene was almost pleased that she had succeeded, for once in her life, in expressing to a Russian man the profound contempt that he and all his like awakened in her. As often happens in such cases, her indignation had poured itself out on the wrong person. Sergei Gzhatski had nothing whatever in common with Irene’s despised and hated Petrograd career-hunters. His life indeed had arranged itself in its own fashion. He was born in Petrograd, but having, at the age of three, been taken to the far-off province of S⸺, he had remained there until his eighteenth year. His mother had suffered a paralytic stroke after the birth of her second child,and had therefore been ordered to live in the country, which she did until her death. Deeply hurt by the fact that her husband had been unwilling to sacrifice to her illness his brilliant position in Petrograd, she had turned away from him, and lavished all her love upon her child. By her desire little Sergei had been educated at home, first by governesses and later by tutors. His mother wielded an immense influence over him. She was clever, intuitive, sensitive, and religious, and she brought up her son in a way that is more than rare in Petrograd families, where parents are too occupied with the distractions of the Metropolis to pay much attention to their children. Sergei adored his invalid mother, and her illness filled his heart with profound pity. He never indeed forgave his father for being so indifferent to her, and felt but little love or sympathy for the latter. On the death of his mother, Sergei was sent to college, where, thanks to an excellent grounding, he worked splendidly. He did not, however, like Petrograd, and having finished his course, he decided, inspite of his father’s advice and persuasion to the contrary, to return to the S⸺ estate, which his mother had left him. He loved country life, managed his estate well, and greatly increased the prosperity of his farms and crops. He occupied himself also with social activities, and was first chosen Marshal of the Nobility of the district, and then of the whole province. He was greatly loved and respected, being a man of the old school, honourable and conscientious, and as full of consideration for the interests of all the noble families in the neighbourhood as for his own well-being and prosperity.
His dream was a happy hearth and home and a large family, and yet he never married. Perhaps the reason of this might have been found in the pure and sacred image of his mother, with which he unconsciously compared all other women to their detriment; also a little in the fact that he was inclined to be proud and suspicious. He rarely went to Petrograd, and the provincial young ladies whom he met in S⸺ were far too frankly in ecstasies before his wealth and brilliantposition. Gzhatski was never happy abroad, and now deeply regretted that, after an attack of inflammation of the lungs caught during an autumn hunt, his doctors had persuaded him to pass the rest of the winter in Italy.
In spite of the mutual impertinences they had exchanged at their first meeting, Irene had not displeased Gzhatski, and, seeing her a few days later on the Corso, he approached her with a friendly greeting. Irene was so touched by this absence of rancour, that, wishing to destroy the unpleasant impression of their previous conversation, she invited him to come and see her. Two days later Gzhatski availed himself of her invitation, and, in the good old provincial Russian fashion, stayed three hours! He told Irene all about his estate and about the other S⸺ landowners, and expressed his horror at the indecent haste with which many of them, frightened by the recent “revolution,” had sold their ancestral estates and moved to Petrograd.
“I say nothing,” he remarked, “of the fact that their children will be penniless,since they will very quickly lose their newly acquired money in all sorts of doubtful speculations; our landowners are proverbially credulous and unbusinesslike! But the principal trouble is that these ruined children will, in addition, have lost the ties which bound them to our soil—and it is my firm belief that one can only be a true patriot if one has lived from childhood on one’s own land and among one’s own people, and has stored in one’s heart all the charming recollections and associations of an early youth spent in one’s ancestral country home. Even now, when after a long absence I approach my little station, my heart beats, and I recognize with joy, almost with tenderness, the station officials, my coachman, mytroika.[1]It is all near and dear to me; the woods, the fields, the peasants who greet me smilingly, and who have known and loved me all my life. How much that is sacred breathes in memories of childhood, and how sad life must be when they are absent! I think, for instance, that if you, Irene Pavlovna, had in your heartthe remembrance of some modest little village church where you prayed as a child, you would never have dreamt of betraying the faith of your childhood; you would never even have formulated your vague, cosmopolitan belief in Christ, a belief that certainly cannot give you happiness.”
From that day they became friends. Irene enjoyed the society of Gzhatski, who was always gay, interesting, and sincere. However dear Italy had grown to her, however deeply she respected Père Etienne, it was delightful to talk to a Russian, a man of her own race, her own social circle, and her own education and traditions. She never suspected that she, on her side, represented for Gzhatski a sort of anchor of salvation.
Poor Gzhatski had been unbearably lonely in Rome. Active, energetic, busy as he had always been, the enforced idleness of this new existence was insufferable to him. The Roman museums and monuments did not touch his heart. He had not enough imagination to people them with shadows of the past, as did Irene. He tried to study Rome with aBaedeker’s guide-book in his hand, but soon abandoned the task, and came to the conclusion that all the churches and ruins and galleries were exactly alike.
“When you have seen one, you have seen them all,” he remarked frankly to his acquaintances.
Gzhatski had begun to take an interest in Italian fox-hunting, but happened the very first time he joined a hunt to be caught in a downpour of rain, and developed such a severe chill that his alarmed doctor forbade him any future expeditions of the kind, on pain of death from galloping consumption!
Every day the poor man wandered about sadly and aimlessly, finding fault with everything, hating everything, and abusing the strange Southern town that held him prisoner! Everything irritated him, even the climate, with its eternally warm, balmy breezes, even the dry Southern vegetation. Often, when sitting in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, he shut his eyes, and pictured to himself a Russian winter, the snow on the fields gleaming under the blue sky,the red sun, the little waves of smoke rising from a cottage chimney, the crunch of footsteps on the frozen ground, the frosty, invigorating air…! And then he opened his eyes, and looked resentfully at the broad Roman pines and the dusty grass and shrubs.
“What is this extraordinary time of the year?” grumbled Gzhatski capriciously. “It is not autumn, because there are no yellow leaves; it is not winter, because it is not cold; it is not summer, because it is not hot; and it is not spring, because there is nothing vivifying or rejuvenating in the air. No—this is a sort of fifth season, Roman, stupid, and senseless!”
He watched the passing crowd with animosity. They all seemed to him to be dressed in their Sunday best! There go two young Italian brunettes, in fashionable tight skirts, with wide fur scarves on their shoulders, showing, under their short dresses, dainty feet, shod as for a ball in elegant open shoes over open-work silk stockings. Here is a baby being taken for a walk, in a little white piqué summer coat, a hat to match,and a huge collar of white goat-fur! And behind comes something quite wild—two little boys and a girl in sailor suits, without coats, and with bare legs and necks—yet the little girl carries an enormous muff, and the boys have sealskin caps!
“I suppose they have heard that people wear furs in the winter, but they don’t know exactly how, so they have made guys of themselves!” muttered Gzhatski crossly.
His loneliness was even greater than his despair. He had already decided to risk his health and return to Russia, when his meeting with Irene turned his thoughts into another channel. He had no difficulty in assuring himself that she was the victim of Jesuit priests, that the poor girl was being wickedly deceived, and that it was his duty as a compatriot to come to her aid and save her. With all the accumulated energy of all those idle weeks, he threw himself into the struggle with Père Etienne, and in spite of Irene’s wish to bring her two friends together, Gzhatski curtly refused to make the acquaintance of the “Catholic rogue.” Hewas very annoyed to see how obstinately Irene defended her friendship with the priest, and used all his eloquence to disillusion her on the subject of convent life.
“And what is the meaning of that insufferable manner,” he cried irritably, “in which all priests make a prisoner of Christ, and announce to the world that He can only be found in their churches? They lie! I don’t deny that in the early days of Christianity, monasteries and convents really represented Christian oases in a pagan desert. But that time has long since passed. Christ has long ago left the monasteries, and dwells among us, in our science, our literature, our law. We may quarrel as much as we please, we may accuse each other of treachery, but in spite of everything, we are all going along the path of Christian progress. Every time we liberate slaves in America or serfs in Russia, every time we abolish torture or corporal punishment, we are proclaiming liberty and brotherhood, we are serving Christ, and Christ is among us. Let them say, if they will, that the foundations of Christianity are shaking, that Christianity is at its last ebb, and mustmake way for a new religion. It is absurd even to listen to these wild speeches. Christianity is eternal, if only because Christ did not invent anything strange or new or incomprehensible, but expressed clearly and simply truths which every human being feels dimly in his soul. It is not Christianity that will disappear, but its old and worn-out forms. Christianity is slowly and surely passing from the realms of legend and romance into real daily life, where it will take root more and more firmly, until it reigns supreme on earth. As to your convents, they are nothing but empty hives that the working-bees have long ago abandoned, while the monks are drones who have remained behind to linger lazily in the old place until they die. Is it possible that you, with your heart and your intelligence, can wish to end your life among these unnecessary, useless, sleeping drones?”
Irene listened in dismay. Both Gzhatski and Père Etienne spoke so eloquently and with such conviction. Which of them was in the right?
“And what a wild idea!” exclaimed Gzhatski furiously, “to become a nun! Do you reallythink there are not enough nuns in Rome without you? Why, the whole town is teeming with convents that give one no peace with their everlasting bells. How many sick women and weak children are there in Rome, who need rest and sleep? And yet those imbeciles start their pandemonium at five o’clock every morning. You see, they have to save their precious souls. We in Russia, with our modest monks and nuns, can hardly grasp the extent of the impudence of these Southern religious orders, and the fury to which they can drive people. I perfectly understand why they were expelled from France, and I only profoundly regret that they have not yet been expelled from Italy. Just look what they have done with Rome. It is no longer a city, it is one huge cemetery. I can’t listen to that eternal dull sound of bells. It always seems to me that they are burying me alive, and celebrating masses for the peace of my sinful soul. I always feel inclined to cry out: ‘You lie! I am alive! And I am going to live a long time yet, and do many useful things.’”
In his enthusiasm, Gzhatski sometimes took recourse to means of which he himself would at another time have disapproved. Thus, on one occasion, he began, with a malicious smile and in some excitement, almost before he had shaken hands:
“You always go to the Via Gallio. But do you know by what nickname your Sœurs Mauves are known in Roman Society?”
“Nickname?” questioned Irene. “I did not know nuns could have nicknames.”
“They are called ‘Les Hetairas du bon Dieu,’” said Gzhatski, lowering his voice.
Irene was angry.
“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” she exclaimed indignantly. “You call yourself a gentleman, and you find it possible to insult these saintly women, who deserve the profoundest respect. I quite believe that the young people of the present day are capable of inventing this or any other obscenity. In their eyes, all women are low and worthless, and they cannot imagine or understand anything good or noble. Butyou—you! That you should repeat such things!”
“Well, well, I beg your pardon,” said the confused and apologetic Gzhatski. “I did not mean to offend you. I only wanted to tell you how painful to me is the thought that you, my countrywoman, will also be known by this shameful title.”
But the offended Irene would not listen to his apologies. Immediately after Gzhatski’s departure (a somewhat hasty departure on this occasion), she went off to the convent. She hurried along, with the feeling one has when one rushes to friends who have just suffered some trouble or misfortune. Although Irene had never seen the face of a single one of the sisters, nor had spoken to any of them, she had gradually, through these daily hours of common prayer, come to regard them as her personal friends. She was therefore anxious, on this occasion, to prove by her presence her resentment of the insult offered to them by idle, vulgar gossips.
Evensong was almost at an end when Irene entered the church. There were very few people, the choir was singing an exultant hymn, the nuns were frozen into a sort of beatific ecstasy. Irene gazed at them longand seriously, and suddenly realized that no insult could possibly reach them, that it was beyond the power of anyone to offend them. They were above all earthly troubles; nothing earthly had any value for them, all their hopes and dreams were concentrated in the next world. Thus, an emigrant, during his first days on board ship, thinks restlessly of the home he has left behind him, but when weeks have slipped away, his interest in the past grows fainter, and he thinks and dreams only of what he will find in the new land.
Père Etienne noticed Irene’s restlessness, but although he was well aware of her friendship with Gzhatski, never mentioned the Russian’s name. The clever, self-controlled priest neither opposed nor contradicted Gzhatski’s views on Roman Catholicism, views which made themselves clearly felt in all Irene’s words and arguments. He only more eloquently than ever advocated the convent. Under his influence, Irene saw before her a happy, peaceful old age, illuminated by constant sunshine, in the lap of luxurious Southern nature. And then came Gzhatski to destroy this dream; for, listening to hiswords, as eloquent as any of Père Etienne’s, she grew vaguely ashamed of having abandoned her home and her country, that dear Russia, of which Gzhatski spoke with such love and enthusiasm. He tried hard, indeed, to point out to Irene all the charm and goodness of the Russian people, and bitterly reproached her for having so light-mindedly hardened her heart and turned away from them.
“You have invented for yourself all sorts of fantastic heroes,” he said. And you are unreasonably cross because you do not meet them in real life. Be reasonable, Irene Pavlovna! Human beings are simply animals. It is not so very long since they lived in caves and dressed in skins. They have not been lazy. They have worked zealously at themselves, and have attained much. It is not their fault if it needs another thousand centuries to perfect them, to entirely overthrow the animal, and to attain the spiritual ideal that God has placed before them. If you personally have already attained all this, that is your special good luck; but, pardon me, I doubt it exceedingly. Your life is notat an end yet, and the savage beast may yet awaken in you quite unexpectedly. I, of course, perfectly understand your dislike of the Petrograd career-hunters. I do not greatly admire them myself. Nevertheless, I still assert that ambition, especially in Russia, is more a virtue than a vice. We Slavs are so listless and lazy, that without ambition we become, at the very best, Oblomoffs,[2]and at the worst, primitive beasts. You don’t know the kind of types one meets in our far away provinces.
“You are very proud of the fact that you care nothing for wealth or rank. But do you know, Irene Pavlovna, that this is only another sign of a morbid, diseased nature? I always have the feeling that your ancestors must have lived too forcibly, too passionately—they have left you the legacy of an exhausted organism, and you no longer have the strength to love or care for anything. In your place, I should try to cultivate artificially some passion that would attach you more firmly to Mother Earth!”