[1]A sledge with three horses abreast.—Ed.[2]A famous character in a novel by Goncharoff, the type of a talented failure.
[1]A sledge with three horses abreast.—Ed.
[1]A sledge with three horses abreast.—Ed.
[2]A famous character in a novel by Goncharoff, the type of a talented failure.
[2]A famous character in a novel by Goncharoff, the type of a talented failure.
Père Etienne, feeling that the struggle with Gzhatski was getting beyond his strength, began to look round for help, and, as a first step, advised Irene to hear some of the sermons that are preached on certain days at most of the principal Roman churches. On the following Sunday, she made her way to San Luigi dei Francesi, a church famous for the eloquence of its preachers. The sermon was to be preached at four o’clock, before Vespers. The organ was playing softly as Irene entered the splendid edifice, with its magnificent marble pillars and bronze decoration. Italian preachers in Rome usually speak from a broad covered rostrum, lined with red cloth, in which frame the preacher, unable to restrain his excitement, strides backwards and forwards, and gesticulateswildly, alternately throwing himself into a chair, and rising again. These broad rostrums are of very ancient origin; their prototype is still to be found among the ruins of the Forum, where they served, in bygone days of the Republic, as platforms from which the populace was addressed.
French preachers do not gesticulate. They mount a little winding stairway, to a round narrow pulpit, with an umbrella-like baldaquin, in which their little figures white-robed, and with black pelerines, look like Chinese dolls. While the Italian priest, in his passionate ardour, smites his chest and thunders at the congregation, his French brother pronounces a calm, well-thought out speech, whose aim is to astonish by its brilliant wit and its fine subtlety.
On this occasion, the sermon was on the subject of the cult of early Christian martyrs. It was, indeed, rather an historical lecture than a sermon. The preacher made a perfectly expressed and masterly exposition of various facts hitherto unknown to Irene, about the catacombs; the high honour inwhich the tombs of the first Christian martyrs were held, and the respect shown even to false martyrs,i.e., to deceased Christians, given out by their ambitious relatives as saints who had died for the Faith. These falsifications had, according to the preacher, assumed such enormous proportions, that it had been found necessary, in about the second century, to organize a special commission with the purpose of looking into the matter.
“Et comme un faux gentilhomme est exclu de l’armorial,” added the preacher, a little irrelevantly, “ainsi ces faux martyrs furent bannis du martyrologe.”
Irene listened with interest, but wondered a little how this scientific, historical, slightly satirical lecture could touch or help the souls of the listeners. In half an hour it was over, and Irene rose to go, when suddenly the altar was brightly illuminated, the organ began to play, and from the gallery floated the dulcet tones of the beautiful angel-voiced choir. Irene had never heard such passionate romantic singing, except atthe opera. It awakened no religious inspiration in her; on the contrary, closing her eyes in complete enjoyment, caressed by the softness of those delicious waves of sound, she saw before her her once-idolized singer Battestini, in the title rôle of Rubinstein’s “Demon.” The unhappy “exiled spirit” was wandering in the desert, solitary, forsaken, heartbroken, hopelessly in love!
“All the sorrow, all the suffering of life,” he sobbed passionately from the gallery, “is caused by solitude. Live together in couples! Love, caress, and comfort one another! And above all things, lose no time! Enjoy the delights of love, while you can!”
The sound of dull, stifled sobbing fell on Irene’s ear. It emanated from a grey-haired old man beside her, who had fallen on his knees and buried his face in his hands.
“He weeps because it is too late for him to love,” concluded Irene, as she glanced pityingly at the bent figure of the old man.
The service ended; the great doors opened, and the warm, golden, Roman evening rushed into the church. Irene turnedher steps homewards, enjoying the blue sky, and the gay good-natured Sunday crowd that filled the streets. Somewhere in the distance a military band was playing, the air was full of laughter and merriment. Pretty children, in their best frocks, and with little bare legs, were frolicking about to the evident delight of their parents, who watched them with tender caressing smiles.
“How glorious, how beautiful life is!” thought Irene, still under the impression of the singing. But having traversed two streets and turned into the Piazza Venezia, she suddenly stopped short, horror-struck.
“But they did not sing about earthly loveat all!” she exclaimed to herself in complete confusion. “How could such thoughts ever be awakened by their prayers? How did it happen? How came I to fall into such an error?”
Irene was both amazed and ashamed, and decided to say nothing to Père Etienne about her impressions of the service. This, however, was not as easy as it seemed. The wily priest cross-examined her severely, andof course, Irene ended by admitting everything. Père Etienne frowned. He knew all about this tragic “Demon,” singing so passionately in the desert—he had met him twice in the corridor, on the way to Irene’s room!
“You are far too impressionable,” he observed severely, “and music evidently irritates your nerves. You will do better to attend the lectures of Monsignor Berra, in the convent of the Ursulines.”
Irene agreed, and, on the appointed day, knocked at the small door of the convent in the Via Flavia. The sister who answered her knock glanced at the pass ticket in Irene’s hand, and led her through a quadrangle with slim Gothic columns. Irene was astonished at the silence. Only a few steps away was the crowded, noisy street—yet here reigned the stillness of the grave. She raised the leather curtain with which the doors of churches in Rome are always covered during the winter, and found herself in a cold, damp, but very elegant chapel, filled with ladies, young girls, and children.Men were not admitted here—only two abbots were modestly hiding themselves in a corner.
The nuns, true to their traditions, did not show themselves at all, but from somewhere on high came the sound of the organ, while the fresh young voices of the convent school children sang the prayers.
“Well,” thought Irene with a smile, “at least this singing will not lead me into temptation!”
After a short service, Monsignor Berra, a handsome, clever old man, entered the pulpit. Expressing himself in that most elegant French that was once spoken at the French Court, but that is now forgotten by all except, perhaps, the clergy, he began a lecture on Esther.
Irene listened with pleasure to the subtle, clever, witty phrases of the priest, punctuated by long quotations from Racine, whose name, however, Berra did not mention, speaking of him only as “the most Christian of all poets.” But as the lecture continued, it seemed to grow strangely familiar to Irene, and suddenlyshe remembered what association it awakened in her mind. A few days previously, Lady Muriel had taken her to the Palazzo of the N⸺ Embassy, to see its famous, beautiful tapestries. One of the rooms was lined entirely with scenes from the story of Esther, embroidered after seventeenth-century designs. The figures, indeed, represented neither Persians nor Jews, but simply French Marquises and Viscounts, who had temporarily doffed their powdered wigs, and had amused themselves by dressing up in Persian disguises.
“When I look at Esther,” the witty daughter of the Ambassador had remarked to Irene, pointing to the tapestry, “I always wonder how long she practised and rehearsed fainting, before carrying it out so gracefully!”
Listening to Berra, Irene had quite this same impression of an “imitation” Esther! Described by him, the primitive, passionate Jewess became an affected lady of the Court of Louis XV., one of those numerous favourites who knew well how to use their coquetry in order to manage, to their perfectsatisfaction, their own little affairs and those of all their relatives and friends!
Towards the end of the lecture, the preacher abandoned his tone of levity, and grew serious. In connection with Esther’s fervent prayer, he remarked that if our prayers remain unanswered to-day, it is only because they are so cold and proud.
“Imagine, Mesdames,” he said, “a beggar who would approach you in the street, asking for alms, in a cold, proud voice, as though he were demanding his due! Would you not be justly incensed? Would you not turn away and rather bestow your bounty upon one who asks it humbly and in tears? Pray then also to God like humble supplicants, trusting in His mercy and goodness.”
Irene returned home, much impressed by these words. “Yes,” she thought—she was undoubtedly to be counted among the proud beggars! She knew her own virtues, and she considered she had a right to demand a reward from God. How would it be if she were to change the nature of her prayers? And, under the impulse of a new hope, shefell on her knees, weeping, sobbing, praying: “Lord! I am but a humble supplicant! I resign all my rights and privileges! I ask only for mercy! Send me happiness—and if that is impossible, then give me at least rest, that spiritual rest for which my soul hungers!”
Irene prayed passionately, and with bitter tears—but all the time, reason was whispering in answer: “What are you asking? you know that you are praying for the impossible. Happiness for you can take only one form, that of love, love, love, that love of which you have been dreaming all your life! But think a little—how is that possible at your age? Love is nature’s method of continuing our race. That is why young girls are gifted with such attractions for young men. At your age, to have children is impossible—that is why beauty has been taken from you, and men pass you by with indifference. You ask for spiritual rest, but that is only attainable by people who have fulfilled the duties imposed on them by nature. You were born to be a wife and a mother—Where is your husband? Where are yourchildren? Where is your family? God created the world on a foundation of logical laws, and, however passionately you may pray, He cannot change these laws.”
Irene arose in despair. Oh! that accursed helpless logic, that kills all prayer and destroys all hope!
Time passed, and Irene’s nervousness increased day by day. Sermons, church services, her disputes with Gzhatski, all this alike irritated and enervated her. Père Etienne observed the poor woman with real pity, but could devise no means of comforting or helping her. Happening on one occasion to mention a famous convent at Assisi, which he thought Irene might some day do well to visit with the object of retreat and prayer, she caught at the idea. On the following day, strictly forbidding the porter at thepensionto disclose her new address toanyone, and without saying good-bye to Gzhatski, she left Rome.
On her arrival at Assisi, Irene immediately felt a little calmer than she had done in Rome. She had often noticed that when staying in mountainous districts her nerves grew quieter, and she felt, for the time being, less depressed. She loved the scent of the fresh mountain air, and it seemed to her, under its influence, as though, after all, life might still have in store for her many happy hours. An old doctor who had once treated her in Paris had called her in fun “la femme des montagnes”—perhaps, indeed, she should have lived always at high altitudes.
Assisi, in addition, was a delightful place. From the hills among which the little town with its famous monastery nestled, there was a glorious view over an immense plain, dotted with houses, churches, gardens, and villages.In the distance rose the peaks of the Apennines.
The impression of this view was rendered all the more enchanting by that wonderful colouring, so well known to all who have visited Umbria or Tuscany in the spring. The mountains were nearly always wreathed in an azure mist; the shadows were deep blue, little white cloudlets floated in the turquoise sky; the valley was green under its carpet of velvet grass, powdered already with daisies; the fruit-trees in the orchards were covered with a wealth of pink and white blossom. Such landscapes can be seen only in the pictures of the Italian old masters, for they alone, of all painters, have possessed the gift of reproducing all the softness and harmony of their native colouring.
Assisi has, to this day, preserved its character of a mediæval Borgo, and has probably changed but little since the days of St. Francis. An old ruined fortress crowns the higher of a group of hills, and from this point run in all directions narrow, ill-paved little streets, illuminated at night, as in old times, by feeblelanterns hanging on wires stretched across the roadway. Nobody seems to live in the monotonous, grey stone houses with eternally closed shutters; nobody ever seems to walk in the deserted streets and dark alleys. Only an occasional donkey tied to a wall stands meditatively in the middle of the road, and from time to time moves his long ears as a sign of life. Now and then there float across the air from some cellar the beat of a carpenter’s hammer, and the subdued tones of his voice, singing about the “faithless Fiametta.” Life seems to have stopped at the twelfth century, since when everything has lain still in an enchanted sleep. Even the numerous tourists do not succeed in awakening the slumbering town. The inhabitants are mostly monks and nuns, with a scattering of Polish Catholics, and English old maids, who come to kneel at the shrine of St. Francis.
Irene set herself zealously to visit all the holy places. First, she descended into the valley, to the Church of Santa Maria dei Angeli. It had once stood in the heart ofa dreaming forest, where, in the fourth century, some monks had built a tiny chapel, round which, partly in cells, partly in caves, the brotherhood had settled. In this primitive little settlement, St. Francis lived and prayed and died. Later on his remains were removed and buried in the new and magnificent fortress-like Franciscan Monastery, whose white walls and towers now shine dazzlingly in the sun. The old forest has long since disappeared, and the touching little chapel is almost lost in the centre of the magnificent temple built around it. Monks show visitors round the monastery, pointing out the cell in which St. Francis died, the grotto in which he slept, and the little garden where grew the roses without thorns, that God had sent him as a special grace.
Irene went also to do homage to the body of St. Clara, who, influenced by the teaching of St. Francis, left the world, her family and friends, retired into a convent, and founded the Order of the Clarissians. St. Clara, too, passed her life in the modest little convent of St. Damian, and it was only after her deaththat her body was transferred to the gorgeous Church of the New Convent, where, in a niche, enclosed in a glass coffin, it rests in nun’s attire, and with a capuchin drawn over the blackened features.
Most of all, however, Irene enjoyed her excursion to Carceri, the distant hermitage in a mountain cave, where St. Francis had often prayed and fasted. She ordered a carriage a day in advance, and, at the appointed hour, Giuseppe, a handsome young Umbrian, drove up to the door of the hotel, raised his hat, and smiled caressingly to the waiting Irene. They traversed the entire town at a walking pace, on account of the steep, narrow streets, and this slow drive was a sort of triumphal progress for young Giuseppe. He seemed to be on a friendly footing with the whole place; every man they met on their way turned and walked for a while beside the carriage, his hand on the shaft, and conversing animatedly with Giuseppe. They all emphatically persuaded him to come, at some particular time and for some particular reason, to the PiazzaNuova, and he repeatedly swore by all the saints to keep the appointment.
At last they passed through the old fortress gates, and Giuseppe drove up to a small house, from the window of which peeped a pretty, sunburnt, smiling little face. Giuseppe jumped from his box, and leaving Irene at the mercy of the scorching Italian sun, disappeared into the house. Time passed; the young horse, peacefully regaling itself on fresh grass, was certainly in no hurry to proceed, and Giuseppe stayed away so long that Irene grew seriously angry. At last he appeared wreathed in smiles, and announced that the bullocks would be brought round in a moment.
“The bullocks!” exclaimed Irene; “but why do we want bullocks?”
“How should we do without them?” he retorted. “We are going into the mountains. A horse cannot make that journey alone. We must have two bullocks.”
Irene waited with some curiosity. In about ten minutes a middle-aged woman, probably the mother of the pretty sunburntgirl, appeared, leading by a rope two enormous, splendid, grey bullocks, with immense horns. They were evidently perfectly tame, and the woman, placing them in front of the horse, tied them to the carriage. Giuseppe helped solely with advice, exchanging playful glances the while with the pretty daughter, who was hopping about near him on one foot, the other foot, evidently wounded, being tied up with a white rag.
After much delay the procession started. The road was indeed appalling! A narrow, steep, stony mountain path, over which no man in his senses would ever dream of driving a carriage. But what will not an Italian do when there is a chance of earning a fewlire?
In front, leading the bullocks, walked the woman with a shawl pushed well down over her forehead. She looked sufficiently modest and respectful, and was also sufficiently careless and untidy, to remind one of a Russian peasant woman. The thin useless little ropes she had brought broke every minute, the ends falling and getting entangled in the animals’ feet. Giuseppe was furious,constantly jumped off the box, and bitterly reproached the poor woman.
At last the bullocks were unharnessed, the relieved horse trotted gaily along a wider and much smoother road, and Irene thought that her troubles were over. Alas, however! At a turn of the way appeared a peasant waiting with two other bullocks (white ones this time), and the same story began all over again. The road grew always worse and more dangerous, and Irene hardly knew whether to be more frightened or delighted with the wonderful view that greeted her gaze. Assisi, with its stone walls and towers, lay spread out before her like a fairy-fortress, with a background of blue hills, and surrounded by a frame of grey-green olive-trees and dark cypresses. In the foreground, like carpets flung down at random, gleamed brilliant patches of emerald grass—the whole picture, indeed, was so fresh, so lovely, so poetical, that it might have been torn from a masterpiece by Botticelli.
At last the bullocks turned into a cavern-like opening among the rocks, from whichissued a whiff of cold air. They had reached the entrance to the monastery, and Irene alighted and followed the path between two stone walls. A deathlike silence surrounded her. The sun caressed the as yet leafless old trees, birds sang, the path grew always narrower, and at last the old gates barred the way. Irene rang the bell. A decrepit old door-keeper, walking with difficulty, led her into a tiny courtyard with a stone well in its centre, and passed her on to a young Franciscan, just on the point of acting as guide to an Englishwoman who had come from Assisi on foot.
The tiny retreat was arranged partly in natural grottos and partly in little cave-cells, hewn out of the rocks. The little staircases and doors were so narrow and low that one could nowhere stand upright. Here, in the twelfth century, lived, at times, St. Francis, and la sua compagnia; then, later on, St. Bernard of Siena, and many other saints. The poetic stillness of the place, and its sacred associations, had attracted them, and they had jealously guarded the few smallrelics of St. Francis that had been left there—a tiny narrow pillow, a little box for the Holy Sacrament, and a cross.
The young Franciscan explained to the two visitors the arrangement and disposition of the settlement. He showed them the sort of things that are always shown in all monasteries; an old, faded sacred image, that was superstitiously supposed to have on one occasion spoken to some nun, and a miraculous crucifix, carved from some specially sacred wood. Lowering his voice, the monk added that an influential cardinal had once taken this crucifix away to his splendid chapel in Rome, but that during the very first night after its arrival there it had disappeared, and returned miraculously to its old place. He showed them also the precipice into which St. Francis had flung the devil who had come to tempt him (the latter had been smashed to pieces on the stones below, and had never again returned to the settlement), and the mountain-stream, whose noisy rush had disturbed the saint’s meditations, and whose voice he had silenced for ever.
Irene was specially touched by the little platform in the heart of the forest, from which, according to tradition, St. Francis had preached sermons to the birds. How beautiful, how poetic was this legend! Having withdrawn himself from human companionship, far away from men who in their pride imagine themselves to be superior beings, specially created, made of special clay, St. Francis had humbled himself before God’s greatness, and had understood that birds were his dear, innocent brothers. He longed to share with them the rapture that filled his soul, and the birds, understanding this rapture, joyfully sang and twittered in answer. Man was not made for solitude—and the hermit, having isolated himself in the desert, found the way to salvation in the friendship of tame birds and beasts.…
Having once seen all the sights of Assisi, Irene seldom ventured out of doors. She spent most of her time on the little terrace of the hotel, admiring the view that was spread out before her, and growing, day by day, more attached to it. What a wealth,indeed, of variety and beauty was to be found there! At seven o’clock each morning she opened her window and let in the fresh, fragrant air. The whole valley then seemed to be asleep, wrapped in a dewy mist. At mid-day, however, all was smiling and basking in floods of brilliant sunlight, and towards five in the afternoon the sun, like a great ball of fire, disappeared in the West, the sky grew pale, and light-blue shadows gradually began to draw their veils across the plain. Even lovelier still was the night, when bright stars trembled like diamonds in the dark sky, and the young moon shone as far away, as coldly, and as indifferently as she shines in the North and in the mountains. The whole great valley was dotted with little lights; the neighbouring town of Perugia made a sudden splash of brightness, and the white roads wound about mysteriously among the dark fields. The silence was indescribable; not a sound was to be heard, except, from time to time, the distant barking of a dog, or the throb of a far-off, passing train.
Irene began to feel the vague weariness ofspringtime. She had experienced so much of late, and had received so many new impressions, that her mind needed rest. She did not want to think about anything. Her thoughts moved lazily; she was placidly happy on the little terrace, with its palms and its flowers; she had no wish to go anywhere, she wanted only to repose in her comfortable wicker sofa-chair, and delight in nature.
She often thought of Gzhatski, but always unwillingly, even with displeasure.
“Why did I ever meet that man?” she thought resentfully. “Until he came, everything went well!” But for him, she would already have taken the veil, and would probably have found happiness. Why had she ever paid attention to the words of a mere passer-by, who had occupied himself with her affairs simply because he had nothing else to do? Very soon he would return to his Russia, where he had so many interests and so many friends, and would never even remember Irene. Perhaps it would be better to stay at Assisi until after he had left Rome.
Having arrived at this decision, Irene wrote to Père Etienne, telling him that the mountain air was agreeing with her splendidly, and that she would not return to Rome till Easter. She posted her letter, and feeling pleased and relieved, went for a stroll in the balmy evening air. What was her astonishment and annoyance when, on her return, she found Gzhatski in the entrance-hall of the hotel, eagerly questioning the proprietor about something. Her face expressed such frank displeasure, that Gzhatski felt provoked.
“What an unexpected meeting!” he said as naturally as possible, pretending, somewhat unsuccessfully, to be much astonished. “I was told you had taken the veil in one of the Roman convents.”
“Not yet,” smiled Irene, “but it is as a preparation for that event that I am recuperating here in the mountain air.”
“Yes, the air is lovely,” agreed Gzhatski, hurriedly. “And the views are beautiful. I hardly expected to find all this in the Apennines.”
Irene took it upon herself to show Gzhatskiall the sights of Assisi. Sergei Grigorievitch praised everything, was delighted with all he saw, was respectful to the monks who acted as guides in the churches and monasteries, and bought a whole collection of various Catholic souvenirs.
“Can you guess what I have found to amuse me in Rome?” he asked Irene one day at dinner. “I go to the churches and listen to the Catechism lessons. I assure you it is most interesting. On one side of the church sits a nun, surrounded by little girls, and on the other, a monk, with a class of little boys, to whom he addresses questions, in turn. If you could only see what lovely little faces they have! These same Italians, that are so horrid when they grow up, are, at the age of eight or ten, exactly like Raphael’s cherubs. Of course, they don’t understand anything yet about the Catechism. What is the use of a catechism when the little legs of the pupils run all by themselves, so that there is no stopping them? The greater part of the lesson consists, for the ‘Pater,’ in persuading his listeners to sit still, not to swing on theirchairs, not to jump up, not to run about the church, and not to fight.
“It is amusing, too, to listen to their conversations with their teacher. I remember once, for instance, he asked one such little Cupid the number of the Sacraments, or something like that. The answer had to befive. The young rascal thought for a moment, then smiled roguishly, spread out all the five fingers of his right hand, and, silently, with a triumphant air, held them to the Pater’s nose. Do you imagine the priest was offended at this lack of respect? Not in the least! He is an Italian himself, and teaches his Catechism more by means of gestures than words. Oh! what amusing people! When I look at those children, I feel a great heartache because I have not a little sonlet like that of my own!”
“But why do you not get married, if you so much want to have children?”
“Get married? That is not so easy. I will tell you a conversation I once had on the subject with my small nephew Seryozha. He is my godson, and will probably be my heir.We are enormous friends. When I go to stay in the country with his mother, my cousin, Seryozha never leaves me for a moment, and if only you could hear our conversations! He has the straightforward, logical, fearless intelligence of most small boys of his age. And so, on one occasion, he announced to me that as soon as ever he grows up, he will get married, just because he wants to have little children, whom he likes. ‘There is only one trouble,’ he added, very seriously, ‘I shall have to live all the time with my wife; there is no escape.’ He said it so well, that I gave him a hearty kiss. You see, although I am forty, and Seryozha is only eight, he explained to me quite clearly why I do not marry.”
“The poor wife!” laughed Irene.
On the following day, Gzhatski left Assisi. Just as he was getting into the cab to go to the station, he suddenly turned to Irene, who was there to say good-bye, and exclaimed:
“By the way, I had quite forgotten. I brought you a present from Rome. Please accept it,” and he took a book from his pocket, and handed it to her.
“What is it?” stammered Irene vaguely.
“It is a Life of St. Amulfia. Like you, she found that her vocation was to enter a convent. I thought that, as a future nun, it might be interesting and useful to you to know something of her convent life.”
Irene accepted this gift somewhat mistrustfully. It seemed suspicious, especially as Gzhatski obstinately avoided meeting her glance, while an ill-concealed smile trembled on his lips.
Irene went back to her favourite terrace, and for a long time watched the cab going down the hill, raising a cloud of dust. A suspicion arose in her heart, that Gzhatski had come to Assisi exclusively with the purpose of giving her this book, and she began to read it with great interest.
Saint Amulfia lived in the seventeenth century. Her parents were Frenchpetits bourgeois, uneducated, poor, almost peasants. From her earliest childhood, she was greatly attracted by convent life, and always nursed the dream of one day becoming a nun. Her relations tried to dissuade her from this project, and wished her to marry. Amulfia, however, found all men repulsive, and the very thought of marriage filled her with horror and disgust. For a long time, lacking the dower without which no one is accepted in Catholic convents, she was unable to join the order she had chosen. At last, however, after the death of her parents, their small capital being divided among the children, she took her portion to the convent, and was received as a novice.
From the very first days of her entry, she astonished all the nuns by her humility, and the fervency of her prayers. At night, in her cell, she chastised herself with ropes, ran needles into her fingers, and covered herself with wounds. As always happens when the organism is weakened by torture and privation and a constant state of nervous exaltation, she began to see visions. Christ appeared to her, and she spoke with Him, as with her heavenly bridegroom, who claimed her as exclusively His own, and forbade her to continue even her friendly relations with a good and kind young nun for whom she had felt a special sympathy on entering the convent. “Si elle ne se retirait pas des créatures,” threatened the Heavenly Bridegroom, “Il saurait se retirer d’elle,” and the saint obeyed, and turned away from her friend.
These visions were known to the whole convent, but did not astonish anybody. The other nuns also held converse with God, and sometimes on the most trifling subjects. For instance, there was one who greatly disliked cheese which, for this very reason, hersuperior had once ordered her to eat, as a penance. So she went to church, threw herself on her knees before the Crucifix, and prayed for five hours, with tears and sobs, for strength to eat her little piece of cheese. At last, she heard a voice, ordering her to arise, and make yet one more effort. She obeyed, and the miracle was accomplished: although with shudders of disgust, she yet succeeded in swallowing the cheese.
Not only God, however, but also Satan played a great part in the lives of the nuns. On one occasion, for instance, an absent-minded novice fell down the stairs, but managed not to hurt herself. She told of her experience in the following words: “Satan pushed me at the top, but a guardian angel was waiting at the bottom, and caught me in his arms.”
There was only one nun in the convent who saw no visions. This was Sister Jeanne, the matron of the hospital, a busy, active, energetic woman, devoted to the sick who were brought to the hospital from the village. Saint Amulfia’s biographer spoke of thissister with great severity. “She so completely exhausted her charity in favour of the sick whom she tended,” he said, “that she had none left for the sisters who were her subordinates in this work.”
Having received Saint Amulfia as assistant nurse, Sister Jeanne constantly scolded her for her clumsy carelessness. Saint Amulfia, indeed, had spent so great a part of her time in conversation either with God or with Satan, and had grown so absent-minded, that she was completely incapable of giving a patient a spoonful of medicine, or a cup of beef-tea, without spilling them all over the bed!
At last, from a novice, Saint Amulfia became a full-blown nun, and from this time onward called Christ her “Celestial Husband.” The visions continued, and the conversations became so grotesque that Irene, on reading them, sometimes quite involuntarily burst into peals of laughter. She always, however, immediately and reproachfully stopped herself, thinking in horror:
“How dare I? What am I doing? She was aSaint!”
With every page, however, Irene’s perplexity grew. What if there were similar saints among the Sœurs Mauve? What if (God forbid!) she herself should become a saint? Irene tried to console herself with the thought that all this had taken place in the seventeenth century, in days of ignorance and mental darkness—on the other hand, however, she remembered that that had been the century of Corneille, Molière, Racine, the brilliant Madame de Sévigné, the golden age, indeed, of French literature. Beyond this, the entire arrangement of life in a Catholic Convent was new to her, and surprised her exceedingly. She had imagined a refuge for women who had been disappointed in life, and who longed for a quiet harbour where they would be sheltered from the storms of the world, and where, safely anchored at last, they could end their days in holiness and prayer. She had imagined the relations of the nuns to each other, as polite and friendly, much like those of well-bred people staying in the same hotel, and meeting each other every day at dinner. In realitythere appeared to be a severe régime, by which she, Irene, would be obliged to submit in every way to the will of her Superior, who might be a trivial-minded, common person, capable of forcing her subordinates to spend their time in performing such “sacrifices” or “great deeds” as eating something they did not like, or occupying themselves with something useless that could not interest them.
Irene shuddered at her own carelessness. Having made no enquiries whatever, she had painted for herself an imaginary romantic picture, and had been on the point of sacrificing in its favour the personal liberty she had always enjoyed. What, if on closer acquaintance, the happiness of that unknown, much-dreamt-of convent life proved to be an illusion? What if she should afterwards wish to escape from it, and it were too late, no return being possible? There came back to Irene’s recollection long-forgotten stories of unloved wives or unwanted daughters, who had been hidden away in Catholic convents, and whom no one had afterwards succeeded in saving or eventracing. For that matter, thought Irene, there was not even, in her case, anyone who would trouble about trying to trace her—so terribly alone was she in the world! For the first time in her life, she shuddered with sheer fright, and, together with this sudden fear, the thought of Gzhatski as her protector flashed through her mind.
“Yes,thereis a man who will not let any harm come to me!” she thought. “He is of the kind that would find and save his friends, if they were at the end of the earth, or at the bottom of the sea!”
Irene threw down the book that had so disturbed her peace of mind, but her restlessness, nevertheless, grew. Assisi lost its charm for her, and a sudden spell of bad weather offering itself as an excuse, she hurried her departure, and returned to Rome.
As soon as she arrived in Rome, Irene sent for Gzhatski.
“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” she asked him reproachfully, “for having given me such a horrible book? What was your object? Of what benefit could such a book be to anybody?”
“I only wanted to open your eyes to convent life,” he answered, “you seemed to know nothing but its outer, or decorative side, so I thought I would show you what is hidden under that charming exterior.”
“But Saint Amulfia lived in the seventeenth century! Surely everything has changed since then?” protested Irene weakly.
“Not in convents!” replied Gzhatski with emphasis. “Nothing can ever change where the very fundamental conditions are abnormal.Human beings were created to live in the world, to work together, to be happy together, and thankfully to accept and enjoy all that life can give. Only in complying with these conditions can they retain their moral and mental equilibrium. The moment they leave the world and become possessed by some monomania, such as the saving of their own souls, they are unbalanced, and there soon follow all the hallucinations, visions, temptations of the devil, and what not, so common in convents. Convents are now being closed in France, not, as is popularly supposed, through the influence of Freemasons, but by science and enlightenment, two forces that always hold high their torch in France, and always have the last word. No one doubts that in their time convents were of great use to humanity. With the exception of the comparatively rare cases in which inexperienced souls were forcibly or artificially lured into taking the veil and so ruining their healthy, normal natures, most of the people who became nuns were such as felt the renunciation of normal life to betheir vocation, in other words, entirely unbalanced characters. Convents, therefore, rendered an enormous service to society by imprisoning within their walls erotic and hysterical women, and all sorts of maniacs, whose presence in the world might have been highly detrimental to their fellows. Whenever some sort of power fell accidentally into their hands, they managed to do harm even after having renounced life. One need only take the one great instance of the Spanish Inquisition, and of all the subtle refinement of torture in which, during its sway, the cruel voluptuousness of these diseased natures found its outlet.
“Science tells us that rest and silence and a regular life, free from all disquieting influences, work wonders for sufferers from nervous diseases. In monasteries and convents, such patients were not only kept, but they also underwent cures, for in addition to everything else, these religious institutions were generally situated amid the loveliest and healthiest natural surroundings, and almost all the modern German and Swiss sanatoria and‘Rest or Air Cure’ Establishments have been built on or near the ruins of some ancient monastery or convent. The founders of the latter well knew with what kind of subjects they would have to deal, and what exactly these subjects needed. I repeat: Monasteries and convents have in the past rendered humanity a great service, by taking the place of asylums and sanatoria for mental and nervous sufferers. Now that institutions for the cure or care of such sufferers abound everywhere, convents have become useless, and are being suppressed.
“In Russia, they still exist, and will long continue to exist and be needed, because they provide for our peasantry that change and relaxation which the upper classes find in their travels abroad. A certain amount of change is essential to all human beings, but most particularly to inhabitants of the gloomy North, with its cold cheerless climate. The English, for instance, have long ago realized that it is necessary for the maintenance of their health and strength to travel at least once a year. Whither would our Russianpeasant and his hapless ‘old woman’ betake themselves, if there existed no monastery where one can go for a ‘prayer week’? For them, convents represent the new places, new people, new impressions, which are so necessary for jaded nerves, and which have such a reviving influence on body and soul. Our monasteries are perfectly aware of this, and willingly receive, feed, and maintain pilgrim visitors. The most hospitable of all is, perhaps, the Valamski Monastery, and our silly Petrograd does not even suspect how much of its moral and mental good health it owes to this institution. While various charitable societies are only just beginning to organize picnics and excursions, the Valamski Brothers have long had their own private steamers, which, modestly and without any advertisement or flourish of trumpets, bring visitors to Valam, at a fare cheap enough to be within the means of the most limited purse. Once there, all travellers are received alike by the monks, with kindness and courtesy, are regaled with simple, wholesome food, and provided with distractionsin the shape of rowing and sailing. How many delightful impressions have been brought back from these excursions by the poor of Petrograd, during those glorious summer months, when all nature rejoices! But for the Valamski Monastery, many a puny Petrograd slum child would never have known how beautiful God’s world is. All honour to the modest brotherhood of Valam! These are true Christians, since they share with others God’s most glorious gift to man—nature!
“Russian monasteries also render a service to the people by their beautiful singing. The desire for music is not, as many people wrongly suppose, the privilege of the cultured circles. There are indeed many clever and well-educated people who do not care about music at all, while there are ignorant peasants who delight in it. You have only to go to the big Cathedral of the Alexander-Nevsky Lavra, at Christmas or Easter. At no concert will you see such beaming, happy faces. The people will stand for two or three hours, forgetting everything in theworld but the delight of the soft dulcet tones of the choir.
“In all poor countries, where general culture is not very advanced, monasteries give to the masses the silence, poetry and music, for which their souls unconsciously yearn. As soon, however, as a people grows prosperous, educates itself and finds its own distractions, the need for convents or monasteries disappears. Simple-minded folk imagine that the suppression of the religious orders means the decay of Christianity—but they forget that monasteries existed in India and in China, long before the birth of Christ. Christianity did not invent them, but the monasteries of the time gradually adopted the new faith. Actually, all such institutions are quite contrary to Christian ideals, for Christ’s teaching, above all else, enjoins activity. Much more in conformity with the Gospel are the modern religious working associations, with their hospitals, schools, and refuges, which are springing up everywhere now in place of the old convents. Their introduction into modern life is perfectly comprehensible. In additionto the nervous wrecks, there were also some healthy people who used to enter convents; people, indeed, whose superior spiritual health, so to speak, prompted them to consider the happiness of others, before their own. Such monks and nuns as these were not content to do nothing but fast and pray, but invented occupations for themselves. Some founded schools and colleges, others nursed the sick, others again became missionaries in foreign lands. They wore the prescribed attire of their orders, but in all other respects they lived in the world as before, loving and helping their neighbours, and sharing the interests and joys and sorrows of their fellow-creatures. It is this healthy class of monastics, that is now, after the suppression of the old institutions, hastening to found new ones, more in keeping with the needs of our times. Such charitable associations have sprung up in large numbers also in Russia—God speed them! But institutions of that kind will never attract people like you, Irene Pavlovna!”
“Why not?”
“Because you areill, and your illness makes the old convents, with their mysticism and their mysteries and their sleeping existence somewhere between earth and heaven, far more attractive to you.”
“But what is this disease?” asked Irene, with a mistrustful smile.
“The disease from which you are suffering is disgust for all activity and contempt for all mankind. This disease usually attacks the children or grand-children of writers, scientists, artists, sometimes also of State officials, the kind that have spent all their lives in pouring over State archives or other papers. Their mental overwork, at the expense of physical strength, leaves indelible traces, and has to be paid for by their children, who always have morbid desires for some fantastic existence invented by their own imaginations, and find real life dull and colourless. As soon as they are over the borders of childhood, they begin, like ancient Israel, to dispute and struggle with God. They refuse to accept the humanity He has created, with all its faults and failings; they invent their own fancifulheroes, and demand of God that He should give these imaginary creatures life. It is principally women in whom this morbid contempt for human nature manifests itself. The girl, indeed, is rare who does not, on getting married, attempt to remodel her husband according to her own ideas. She tries to turn a passionate worldling into a monk, prepares to metamorphose a pensive lover of solitude into a brilliant society dandy, or forces a pleasure-loving social lion into the narrow circle of her domestic interests. And the poor deluded creature never for a moment doubts the success of her efforts. ‘I shall only have to be insistent, and to give him no peace,’ she thinks, ‘and all will be as I wish.’
“Some women, indeed, shatter their happiness in this way, and to the end of their lives never realize their mistake. Of course, this ridiculous feature of their characters proves the profound depths of ignorance in which women are still groping, in spite of their superficial, if sometimes apparently brilliant, intellectual attainments. Were their mental development less shallow, they would understandthat God cannot for their pleasure entirely remodel a completed creation. This seems, indeed, a very simple fact, but it is surprising how few women can grasp it. Most of my morbid types try to escape from the prose of life by means of operas, novels, dreams, and in this way they only broaden the gulf that separates them from their more reasonable fellow-creatures. They feel that happiness is their birthright, and they torment themselves because they cannot attain it. Time passes, and brings disillusionment, since the world refuses to conform itself to vain fancies. And then begins the quarrel with God.
“‘Send me a man after my own heart,’ cry the poor deluded ones to the Almighty, often with bitter tears. ‘Then I shall be happy, will believe in Thy might, and will bless and praise Thy name. I despise the low, sinful people by whom I am surrounded, and I suffer through this very fact. I long to bow my head before some nobler being, some man who has only virtues, and to whom I could all my life look up in adoration.’
“What answer can God give to such prayers, however sincere and agonized they may be? They remain ungranted, and little by little they turn into murmurs, discontent, and finally, unbelief.
“‘Were there a God,’ think these unfortunates, with a burning sense of injustice, ‘He would pay attention to my sufferings. Once He remains silent, this proves that He does not exist.’
“The only result is a wrecked life, void of happiness, and without benefit to anybody.
“Such diseased characters ought to be treated and cured in childhood. Their interest in life should be artificially educated. Novels and operas should be strictly forbidden. They should be taught history and medical science, and they should be made to work in hospitals, in order to overcome that unnatural disgust for mere physical life, which is one of their chief characteristics. They should be trained to observe their surroundings, even to express in writing their impressions of people with whom they come in contact, and to make logical deductions onthe subject of the probable futures of these people. In a word, to attach these sick creatures to earth, one must convince them that there exists nothing so interesting as humanity. Only when observation and interest in their fellow-creatures becomes a habit, will they understand the object of life. Instead of contempt, their hearts will be filled with profound pity. It is themselves, indeed, that one cannot at present regard without pity, these hapless sufferers from a deep-seated moral disease. Rancour, greed, envy, voluptuousness, cruelty, these are all spiritual ailments, needing special doctors and special medicines.”
“But—” stammered Irene, “these are sins, and not diseases. You are preaching some entirely new theory.”
“No; it only seems new to you, but it is actually as old as the hills. Shakespeare already described, in Othello, the symptoms of the disease of jealousy, and in Hamlet, again, he showed us a soul paralyzed by excessive self-analysis. Read the monologue of Pouschkin’s ‘Avaricious Knight,’ and you will agree that this is the monologue of a madman. Comparehim with Molière’s ‘Miser,’ and you will notice that both the writers have emphasized the characteristic feature of all misers: hatred of their children. Ask any doctor, and he will tell you that mental patients, in almost every case, lose the capacity to love or take an interest in their relations and friends, sometimes, indeed, manifesting a violent animosity towards them.
“It is not, indeed, only Shakespeare, or Pushkin, or Molière, it is all the science and literature of centuries, that has prepared the way for this (as you call it) ‘new theory.’ In our hearts, we have already long ago accepted it; we are only hesitating to proclaim it loudly, because it destroys all our laws and all our religions, and the whole working of our worn-out social machinery. We are not yet rid of the ideals of the Middle Ages; we cannot tear ourselves away from the hell that we picture to ourselves as clearly as did Dante, nor from the heaven that, in our imagination, is quite as dull and colourless as that of the immortal Florentine. But time passes, and we have reached the last days of theMiddle Ages. The New Era will begin when people will at last dare to proclaim loudly that there are no saints and sinners, but only the sick and the healthy. A healthy man can find heaven on earth, while a diseased nature lives in a worse hell than any that can be invented by the most glowing imagination. Only when we realize this, shall we understand the Gospel. Until now, during all these nineteen centuries, we have not understood it at all, but have preserved it, feeling instinctively that we shall need it in time. Christ’s love for ‘sinners’ will become clear to us, and we ourselves shall be filled with profound pity for these sufferers. Even to-day, no one dreams of hating the insane, or being incensed against them, or punishing them. Gradually we shall begin to regard in the same light all malicious, immoral, envious natures, pitying them boundlessly for being afflicted with such cruel diseases. The teaching of Christ, hitherto but half understood, will become clear and simple.”
“But, allow me!”—interrupted Irene. “How about murderers? Will you expectus to pity them, too, and shed tears over their moral sufferings?”
“Undoubtedly. Murderers suffer from the most terrible of all moral diseases, and therefore deserve quite particular attention. I don’t know whether you have ever troubled to read accounts of the executions of criminals. I have often done so with great interest. In France, as soon as a man is condemned to death, he is fallen upon by a whole army of reporters, who repeat the minutest details to the public: what the prisoner ate, how much he drank, how he slept, and what he said. This wild chase after a sensational line sometimes unconsciously brings to light important facts. Recently, for instance, I read an account of the guillotining in a provincial town of a man who had killed his father. He had, in cold blood, cut the old man’s throat, in order to come more quickly into his little inheritance. He was, of course, very soon caught—these diseased creatures always are. In prison he astonished everybody by a complete indifference to his murdered father, aswell as to his own fate. His sentence startled him for a moment, but, a minute later, he simply and confidently told his gaolers that he hoped to keep up his courage and his spirits to the last moment if, before mounting the scaffold, they could give him some black coffee and some white wine. This desire to make a show of courage before the public is the outcome of a very primitive human impulse. The lower a man’s mental development, the more he gives for his neighbour’s praise. Natures with loftier aspirations set a smaller value on public opinion, being, indeed, sometimes quite indifferent to it.
“The prisoner’s wish is granted, and having swallowed his wine and his coffee he leaves the prison with a firm step, accompanied by a priest, who does not for a moment leave his side. On mounting the scaffold the murderer turns to the assembled crowd and makes a speech, in which he declares his complete repentance and bequeaths his ill-gotten inheritance to charities. These are of course all phrases instilled into him by the priest for the edification of the public. Theprisoner repeats them like a parrot, still for the sake of public opinion. In his heart he does not repent in the least, otherwise he could not have previously shown the supreme indifference to his dead father that had so enraged his gaolers.
“At last the comedy is over. The murderer, pleased with his pose of piety, turns round and sees the guillotine knife. Immediately, the savage brute in him awakens. He fights, struggles, scratches, bites and screams—he sells his life dearly. Four other savage brutes throw themselves on him and drag him to the knife. The crowd glumly watches the nauseating scene, and gradually disperses.
“‘The public,’ writes the simple-minded reporter, ‘was present at the triumph of justice, but instead of joy, the prevalent impression was one of having witnessed something incomplete and unsatisfactory.’
“What wonder, indeed! Whatever laws you may invent, whatever religions you may propagate, human instinct always was, is, and will be, more reliable than them all. Instinctpointed out to that crowd that a mistake had been made. No one knew where the mistake lay, but its disturbing presence made itself clearly felt.
“It is the same instinct that sometimes makes people act, in spite of themselves, apparently against their convictions. I remember once being taken to see a new prison, built according to the very latest ideas and principles. The criminals had not yet been transferred into their new quarters. The founder led me with pride through the enormous, lofty, light, excellently ventilated wards, showed me the perfect sanitary arrangements, the wash-stands, the hygienic beds, the luxurious baths, and the kitchen with all the latest and most modern improvements. The government had evidently built, for criminals, this magnificent sanatorium as a reward for the crimes they had committed. Leaving our honest little peasant to starve and freeze as he will, the powers that be had used the money extorted from him in taxes to provide robbers and thieves and murderers with comfortable free lodgings, includinglight, warmth, excellent food and clothing! In answer to my perplexed question, the prison inspector explained to me that the prisoner is punished by being deprived of his liberty. What an explanation! Liberty is dear to people who know how to profit by it. Of what use is it to those miserable wretches who look upon vodka and cheap tobacco as life’s greatest treasures? They can get both in prison, to say nothing of the gayest and most congenial society! Such prisons are a mockery of justice, and a perversion of common sense. All this and much more could be said to the Government—but the fault-finder would be wrong. The whole kernel of the matter lies in the fact that though we still refuse to accept the new teaching, though we regard it with contempt and hold it up to derision, we nevertheless instinctively already build, not prisons, but—sanatoria. As usual, instinct is more far-seeing than reason or the law. The time is not far off when prison inspectors (who have been transferred by chance into these new sanatoria, together with all theremaining out-of-date paraphernalia of the old institutions) will be replaced by doctors. Then, and only then, will begin the real recovery and redemption of society, never to be attained by the naïve isolation of acute cases of disease, or the destruction of sick people as if they were mad dogs.”
“But how can such cures be possible? These are surely mere dreams!”
“Why mere dreams? Much has already been done—but medicine is unfortunately still in its infancy. The future will undoubtedly bring to light great discoveries—means and possibilities must only be provided for experiments. Such experiments, indeed, are already receiving attention everywhere. Only a few days ago, for instance, I read in the papers that an Italian professor, director of a gynæcological institution, had announced at a congress that, according to the results of his researches, all female criminals suffered from various severe forms of women’s diseases. He suggested that instead of imprisonment they should undergo cures in gynæcological hospitals. Can you imagineanything more wildly stupid than sentencing a woman to death, or shutting her up for life in a prison, only because she needs to undergo a surgical operation? Perhaps one can imagine just one thing that is still more uncivilized—the idea that she will burn for ever in hell, because at the birth of her children she was attended by a clumsy or ignorant midwife!
“And how many such cases do we meet at every step! I remember one of my aunts once told me how she had, in her youth, suffered from over-sensitiveness. She always imagined that everyone was laughing at her, that no one loved her, that she had constant reason to feel offended and insulted. She suffered dreadfully and began to grow positively misanthropical, hating and mistrusting everybody. Happily, chance sent her a clever doctor, who took her in hand, and put her nerves in order. Simultaneously with this improvement, her hysterical sensitiveness disappeared, and now, as soon as she suspects that she is going to have an attack of ‘being offended,’ she sends to the chemist for some bromide, and all is well!”
“You are joking, Sergei Grigorievitch!”
“Not in the least. We could all be of great help to doctors if we would only observe ourselves more closely. Just as people at present, when they feel indisposed, carefully note all the symptoms of their illness, and, in order to decide on a suitable cure, try to determine which of their organs is attacked, even so, some day, people will carefully note their spiritual ailments, and will treat envy, hatred, and malice just as they now treat their liver and kidneys! You are laughing, Irene Pavlovna. But indeed many a new view that seemed strange at first has, after fifty or a hundred years, become generally accepted and positively commonplace. We have, for the time being, forgotten the ancient preceptKnow thyself; if we took it to heart, we could often be our own doctors, for indeed we each have within ourselves an enormous power of self-treatment. Our Christian confessions—the so-calledexamens de conscienceof the Catholics—are nothing but minute observations of ourselves. In former times people took communion, and therefore went to confession,every Sunday. They were obliged, once a week, critically to examine all their actions, and to decide which of them had been sinful (i.e., not normal). Beyond this they had to talk these actions over with their spiritual advisers, men chosen for this purpose because they were considered worthy of respect and confidence (i.e., because they were normal and healthy). Unfortunately, however, it always happens that customs initiated by master minds for the lasting benefit of humanity, invariably, after a time, fall into the hands of incapable mediocrities, who do not understand the true meaning and object of the ideas in question, and transform them into mechanical poses, from which all sincere natures must turn away.
“A careful observation of ourselves would immensely simplify life, and would make many things much clearer to us. You, for instance, Irene Pavlovna, are sincerely convinced that the only reason why you never married is the fact that you did not meet a man who was worthy of you. Actually there was quite another reason. You simply felt a physicaldisgust at thought of the realisms of marriage—the living with a man as his wife, the bearing of children, the feeding and nursing of these children. This prose sickened you, and as soon as someone was pleasing or sympathetic to you, you hastened to find or invent reasons for not marrying him. You looked for faults in him, exaggerated them, invented them, and did all you could to assure yourself that he was unworthy of you.
“In addition, marriage would really have meant too sudden a change for you—since, as is the case with all invalids, even the smallest change is a great trial for your nerves. Every trifling decision costs you many nightmares, and is accompanied by palpitation of the heart, tears, and nervous exhaustion. People like you bear every discomfort in their house rather than move into another one, and submit to the tyranny of their servants because they have not the energy to look for new ones. It is curious that such characters arrive, with the greatest ease and promptitude, at theoretical and abstract decisions. For instance, to take a furnished housein the country and move into it for the summer is frightfully difficult, but to emigrate is very easy. One only has to read a charming description of Rome, and—good-bye, Russia! I don’t want you any more! I am going to Italy, and shall become an Italian!”
“What nonsense you are talking, Sergei Grigorievitch! This is all bluff, and you are simply trying to be brilliant! I assure you I have dreamt of marriage all my life. If you only knew what touching scenes of family life I have pictured to myself! This was always my greatest delight!”
“Oh! I quite believe that! We know how to dream beautifully! And in our dreams we are always extraordinarily active! We cross oceans, found colonies, introduce ideal governments, and die as Kings or at least Presidents of Republics! In actual life, however, we groan, we are miserable, and we greatly resent being obliged to bother about going to the Bank, in order to receive the interest of the capital acquired for us by our more energetic ancestors.”
“All this is untrue, and a mockery!”
“Would you like me to prove the truth of my words by an example?”
“If you like.”
“Very well. Do you consider me a career-hunter?”
“Of course not. What an idea!”
“And, in your opinion, I am an honest man worthy of respect?”
“Certainly.”
“In that case, what would you say if I asked you to be my wife?”
“Sergei Grigorievitch! What are you thinking about? I am much too old to marry!”
“There! I have caught you at once! As soon as the word ‘marriage’ is mentioned, you immediately find an excuse.”
“But what I say is true! If you want to marry, you must choose a young girl who can have children.”
“And how do you know that you will have no children? Are you so well acquainted with the decrees of the celestial chancery? Be sincere and say that the thought of marriage disgusts you. That will be nearer the truth.”