Monsignor Lefrène’s sparkling epigrams were repeated all over Rome, and cost him, according to rumour, the Cardinal’s hat. Not that the witty Monsignor was very anxious for this honour. Truly talented people always value God’s gift to them above all earthly honours, and a successful epigram gives as much personal satisfaction to a wit, as a successful novel to a writer. Both, indeed, are on the same level. It is, however, undoubted that popular malice, animosity, and failure to understand or recognize their genius, can deeply wound a talented nature; and it is strange that these carping tongues often distinguish themselves, in their own immediate circles, by delicacy and charity.
Monsignor Lefrène occupied the second floor of one of Rome’s most splendid palaces. The magnificent antique ceilings and walls, the beautiful furniture, the wealth of sunlight that filled this luxurious abode, seemed more suited to the tastes of a scientist philosopher than to those of a priest. In a line with the reception-rooms was a covered terrace, full of tropical plants, among which strayed a number of tame pigeons. Irene loved pigeons, and stepped out on the terrace to observe them more closely. It was here that Monsignor Lefrène found her, and greeted her with his always humorous smile, and a quick glance from his keen, intelligent eyes.
“I am admiring your birds, Monsignor,” said Irene as they shook hands.
“Are you?” he answered. “But have you seen my Tiber? Look how beautiful it is through this window.” And the Monsignor pointed to the yellow muddy waters that always filled Irene with disgust, when comparing it with the clear, blue rivers of Russia.
The conversation turned to the Orthodoxy,and Lefrène showed himself to be like most Catholic priests, closely acquainted with Russian Church matters. In addition, he had many friends among the higher Russian clergy. Irene purposely began to speak of the suggested Orthodox Church Council, which she had discussed also with Cardinal R⸺. Monsignor looked displeased.
“But why do you want a council?” he asked.
“Why?” exclaimed Irene. “One of our great writers has said that the Orthodox Church has been paralyzed since the days of Peter the Great. With the election of a patriarch, she may perhaps recover, and pronounce some new word.”
Lefrène shook his head.
“Oh! La nouvelle vérité ne sortira jamais de l’église,” he remarked with conviction.
Irene was amazed.
“I don’t understand,” she stammered questioningly.
Monsignor smiled. “Comment voulez vous qu’un prêtre émette une idée nouvelle,” he said, “quand la coupole de Saint Pierre pèse sur des épaules?”
“Yes, but we Russians have no ‘Saint Peter’s,’” observed Irene quietly.
“Eh bien, vous avez la coupole de Moscou! Dans chaque religion, toujours une coupole quelconque pesera sur le prêtre et lui fermera la bouche”—and a deep sadness trembled in poor Lefrène’s voice.
“But even if so,” said Irene, “the council might improve the education of our clergy, and teach them to cultivate warmer relations with their flocks.” And in her turn she could not restrain the note of personal sorrow and regret that echoed in her words.
“Oh, I have heard all those complaints before, especially from your late philosopher, Vladimir Solovyof,” replied Monsignor. “He once related me a very characteristic legend in this connection,” and, with his subtle smile, Lefrène repeated the legend of Saint Nicholas, supposed to be of Russian origin.
Saint Nicholas, accompanied by the Reverend Cassian, once came down from heaven, on a visit to earth. On the great highway they met a poor peasant, the wheelsof whose cart had become embedded in the mud of the roadside, and he was vainly exerting himself almost beyond his strength to extricate them.
“Let us help him,” said the charitable Saint Nicholas.
“No, that is impossible,” replied the Reverend Cassian scornfully. “We should soil our white robes.”
But Saint Nicholas paid no attention to him, and set to work to help the peasant. Both horse and cart were soon standing safely in the dry roadway, but several splashes of mud had stained the snowy whiteness of the Saint’s raiment.
When God heard of this occurrence, He ordered that from thenceforward the memory of Saint Nicholas was to be honoured twice a year, but that of the Rev. Cassian only once in four years. (The festival of Saint Cassian falls on the 29th of February!)
“Vladimir Solovyof,” added Monsignor Lefrène, “told me this legend in that half-mocking tone which is nearly always assumed by Frenchmen when speaking ofle bon Dieu,but which, in Russian, is quite inadmissible.” He explained the legend as follows: Saint Nicholas represents the Catholic Church, always warmly attached and interested in its followers and never afraid of touching dirt when there is a chance of saving a sinner. Cassian, on the other hand, is the Orthodox Church, cold and haughty, indifferent to her people, and only anxious to retain her outer immaculacy.
Irene was greatly drawn to Monsignor Lefrène and with her usual impulsiveness, feeling a profound confidence in him, she made him a confession of her own personal credo, that same credo that Père Etienne had once waved away with a smile. Lefrène listened with his customary half-satirical smile, and answered quietly:
“Your faith has nothing whatever in common with Christianity. If anything it is Biblical, of the Old Testament. We Christians abandoned all such ideas nineteen centuries ago.”
Irene blushed. “It is as if they had talked it over between them,” she thought. “PèreEtienne said my faith suited the Samoyedes, and this man says it is of the Old Testament.”
“True Christians,” explained Lefrène, noticing Irene’s perplexity, “never expect rewards or justice in this world, because they realize that such results are only possible beyond the grave. To pagans and Old Testament Jews, the idea of a future life had not presented itself—hence, in the book of Job, for instance, Job, having patiently borne all his sufferings, expects God, in justice, to cure him of his leprosy, give him new wealth, new children, a new wife. No, for that matter, he kept his old, former wife, and this very circumstance makes me think that Job was not nearly as happy as the Bible would have us believe.”
The same evening, telling Gzhatski about her visit to Lefrène, Irene mentioned the shade of displeasure that had crossed the face of the Monsignor, and similarly, a few days previously, that of Cardinal R⸺, at the mention of the suggested Orthodox Council.
“I am not at all surprised,” replied Gzhatski. “The Catholics know very well that a bodywithout a head must, sooner or latter, decay and fall to pieces. They foresee the moment when Russia, to save her religion, will have to choose a head for her Church, and they hope to be able, at that moment, to persuade her to accept the Pope as this head. The election of a Patriarch would be a great blow to their designs, and would indefinitely postpone all idea of a union between the two churches. I saypostponebecause all Catholics are completely convinced that ultimately this union must come to pass.”
“That is exactly what I cannot understand,” exclaimed Irene. “The longer I live in Rome, the more I come to the conclusion that the two churches have really never been separated. No one but theologians is interested in dogmas. Ordinary mortals, orthodox and Catholic alike, believe in the same legends and superstitions, the same saints and martyrs, the same prayers, the same gospel, the same services. It is even astonishing that two churches, having so long ago severed all connection with each other, should have remained so astonishingly similar. Russian pilgrims,who go to Bari to pray at the shrine of Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles, proceed from there to the shrines of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome, where they feel perfectly at home. What is the use of worrying about the re-union of two churches that actually have never been disunited at all?”
“You forget the political standpoint,” said Gzhatski. “Russia is growing daily and hourly, and with each year her might increases. Some day, in the not too far-distant future, her support may be of enormous importance to the Pope. What with the spread of Atheism and Freemasonry, there is nothing to ensure that the Vatican will not one fine day suddenly be turned into a National museum, and some out-of-the-way monastery in the Apennines be offered to the Pope as a residence! The Catholic nations of Europe would, in such a case, probably limit themselves, as they did on the occasion of the taking of Rome, to the sending of deputations and expressions of sympathy. It is at that moment that the Pope, like King Lear, will turn away from his proudelder daughters Regan and Goneril, on whom he has lavished so much love and care, and will remember the far-away Cordelia, whom, though she has received nothing from him, he has never ceased to regard as his daughter. There is no doubt that the Vatican has some hopes in connection with the Northern Cordelia, and—who knows?—perhaps even these hopes are not quite without foundation. In any case, a persecuted and friendless Pope would certainly appeal far more strongly to the sympathies of the Russian people than the present magnificent and triumphant Pontiff!”
The Catholic and the Orthodox Easter fell that year on the same date. It was already Passion Week, and for some days Irene saw nothing of Gzhatski. He was preparing for Easter Communion, and went every day to the Russian Church. Irene, on her side, was anxious not to miss even the least of the Catholic services and ceremonies. A spell of cold, windy weather had broken in upon the sunny springtime, and, perhaps on this account, perhaps also through the fatigue of constant long standing in church (there are no chairs in the great Roman cathedrals), Irene’s nerves were in an unbearable state of tension and restlessness. With a great effort, she turned her steps, on the Thursday evening, towards St. Peter’s, where the annual ceremony of the washing of the altar was to take place.
The immense church was filled from end to end with a dense, closely-packed crowd, the service being, however, audible only to the comparatively few who stood near the altar. For that matter, there really was not any service at all. A Cardinal sat on the central throne, and grouped around him on wooden seats and stools were the numerous grades and members of the Vatican State Clergy. They were singing in low, dull, monotonous tones, and their endless, wail-like, doleful chant produced a most disagreeable impression on the nerves. The tired, enervated crowd pressed against the wooden barriers that enclosed a free passage for the procession. Everyone felt hot and tired and hungry, and faint from the close, stuffy atmosphere. Cross Englishwomen were quarrelling with neighbouring Italian women, and pushing them unceremoniously. In perfectly audible tones they repeatedly remarked the impoliteness of people in Rome, especially at St. Peter’s on that particular occasion. Scarcely anybody was praying, the majority of those present havingcome simply to witness an interesting spectacle. Pretty young American girls were there with their sweethearts, and were undisguisedly amusing themselves, chattering and laughing and coquetting. At last, after three hours of responses and lamentations and misereres, the long-awaited procession appeared. In front came young attendants in lace aprons, and behind them fat old priests, looking like old women, with their smooth, round faces, their ample mauve robes, and their mauve-lined, grey, squirrel capes. Each one carried in his hand a rod with a sponge attached to it. Last of all, also carrying an enormous sponge, came a Cardinal in a red robe with a long train carried by an attendant.
The procession mounted the altar steps, and, all coverings and ornaments having been previously removed, began to wash the altar. A scent of wine spread through the church. Having concluded this ceremony, the procession passed slowly and solemnly round the altar to the accompaniment of a shower of rattles, sounded todenote the dismay and perturbation of all Nature—the thunder and earthquake that followed Christ’s death.
Irene followed everything with great attention. A strange, new feeling of contempt seemed to tremble in her soul. At home, in her own country, she had always come away from the Passion Week services deeply touched, and in great emotion. And now, all these unaccustomed ceremonies and costumes and rites, the strange language, the extraordinary pagan ritual, suddenly shocked her. Maybe she was overtired from three hours’ standing in the crowd, and, therefore, more than usually critical—but true it is that she contemplated almost with loathing the whole scene before her, even the marble columns and the colossal statues of the great Roman Cathedral.
“And they call this Christianity!” she thought bitterly. “What an irony! This is sheer paganism, and these are the same ancient Romans, still worshipping the same old gods as before. They have never understood Christ’s teaching, and they have buriedit under marble shrines and pagan ceremonies.
“In your place I would go a little further still,” exclaimed Irene’s inner soul with malicious sarcasm. “I would destroy every New Testament in the world, except one—and that one I would put in a golden, jewel-studded box, and would bury it deep in the earth, forbidding its disinterment on pain of death. Over it, I would build a splendid golden shrine, and in this shrine I would celebrate night and day magnificent services with gorgeous processions. That would be entirely in accordance with the spirit of your Christianity.
“But you have not the temerity to go so far. You vaguely feel that some day the world will arise in fury against you, will destroy your temples, tear into shreds your splendid robes, and leave, alone and triumphant, only the Gospel, the one Christian teaching humanity needs. And then, there will come together ‘two or three in His Name,’ to read His Book and to pray—and ‘He will be among them.’”
Thus, angrily, yet dreaming, Irene’s thoughts flew. Just in front of her stood an Italian middle-class couple. The young husband held a three-year-old girl by the hand while the pretty mother pressed to her heart a white bundle, evidently a sleeping infant. The noise of the rattles must have disturbed its slumbers, for suddenly the bundle stirred, a tiny hand stretched itself forth in search of the mother’s breast, and a low wail made itself heard. The mother immediately sat down at the foot of a marble column, and began to feed the child. For some reason, the idea occurred to Irene that in all that pagan crowd in a pagan temple the only representatives of Christianity were that simple mother and child.
“There is the great miracle!” she thought rapturously. “New life, coming no one knows from where! Why are you all quarrelling about whether certain miracles were or were not performed nineteen centuries ago in Palestine? Why must you be certain of those particular miracles, before you can believe in God? To-day, at thisvery moment, you are surrounded by miracles. Birth, death, sunrise, springtime, winter—are not all these miracles? You have forgotten them because you see them every day. In your silly self-conceit, you assure yourselves that all this is perfectly natural, and that science has long ago explained it all—but you forget that your science has onlynotedthe existence of these miracles, and that their secret belongs as much as ever to the Almighty Ruler of the Universe in whom you find it so difficult to believe.”
Irene left the Cathedral in great moral perturbation. So great was her excitement that she forgot to take a cab, and walked all the long way home, in the face of a cutting east wind that she did not even notice. Large tears ran down her face, she talked to herself, gesticulated, and drew the attention of all passers-by. The pagan soul that had passed Christianity by was sobbing and storming within her. For one moment, under the influence of the very ceremonies she was execrating, she had understood how priceless was the treasure she had lost. Lifemight have been beautiful and full of harmony, whereas, on the path she had chosen, there was nothing but constant, needless, helpless suffering. Someone should have taught her Christianity! Her soul had been confided to someone’s care, and that someone had not fulfilled his sacred duty!
And Irene, in her despair, cursed all lazy and idle slaves, for a voice in her soul told her that her fate was sealed, and that it was too late to try and change it.
The following morning Irene awoke feeling depressed and miserable. She was afraid to remain alone with her own thoughts, and wrote to Gzhatski, asking him to come and take her for a drive on the Appian Way. It was Good Friday, and Gzhatski was just on the point of leaving his hotel to go to the Russian Church, when Irene’s letter was handed to him. He guessed from the tone of her words that something unusual was the matter with his friend, and, without hesitating, he immediately drove off to fetch her. Asking no questions, and pretending not to notice her tear-stained eyes and trembling lips, he sat quietly beside her, as the cab rolled past the Colosseum and the Baths of Caracalla, to the Porta San Sebastiano. It was a grey, dull morning. The yellow, thick,Roman dust had been laid by the recent rain, the wind had fallen, and not a leaf stirred on the trees. On either side of the Via Appia Antica rose high stone walls, obstructing the view over the Campagna. At last, however, they passed the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and drove out into the open country. Before them stretched the narrow ancient road, in places still paved with flat stones, in the ancient fashion. This road, straight as an arrow, stretches all the way to Albano, making no zig-zags even when climbing up-hill. It is a road that could only have been made by children, or by ancient Romans! On either side of the way stand monuments of the most varied forms, round, cone-shaped, pyramidal, and other varieties, difficult to name or describe. Some of them still boast bas-reliefs and inscriptions, and here and there fallen statues, armless or headless, peep out between the bushes. Occasionally, too, some stray monument is surrounded by a frame of tall cypresses and Roman pines, but in general, there is not much greenery, except the tall, fresh grass, full of mauve and yellowfield-flowers, and scarlet poppies. In the far distance are the blue Albanian hills, and on the left the graceful ruins of the Aqueducts stand out in charming relief against the sky.
Irene gazed in silence at the lovely picture. It was long since she had ventured beyond the stone walls of the city, and now, at sight of Nature in this fresh spring dress, a new, strange, unconquerable desire for happiness suddenly took possession of her soul.
“It is inhuman to be always miserable and in tears, and to eternally curse one’s own existence,” she thought; “everyone has a right to at least occasional gleams of happiness. Who has dared to condemn me to constant despair? I claim my share of joy! I claim it! I demand it! I desire it!”
Irene repeated the words passionately to herself, and it seemed to her that Fate must send her happiness, if only because she desired it so ardently.
“I cannot wait any longer!” she seemed to be inwardly exclaiming to somebody. “I must have happiness immediately—to-day!Yes, to-day, to-day—I do not believe in to-morrow!”
Gzhatski, too, was silent, and apparently lost in his own thoughts, as he sat back in the carriage, smiling softly to himself.
“How lovely!” he suddenly exclaimed, turning to Irene. “Don’t you think the Campagna reminds one of the country in Russia? The same limitless space, the same meadows, even the same modest spring, not at all southern and luxurious. I hardly think Nature at my place in the S⸺ province can be much more than a month behind this.”
Presently they alighted, and climbed up a little grassy slope to admire the view, the loveliness of which was enhanced by the wonderful silence in which all Nature seemed wrapt. No sound was heard, except the occasional shy note of a bird, and the low baa-ing of distant sheep.
On the way back they stopped to have tea at the Castello dei Cesari, an original and charming little restaurant, arranged in an ancient tower. They sat near the window of the large hall, with its wooden ceiling,brick floor, antique wooden chandeliers, and enormous antique vases full of flowers.
The magnificent view embraced the Palatine Hill, with its gigantic ruins, and towards evening the setting sun threw the magic of its golden glory alike over the ruins and the lilacs and fruit-trees that bloomed among them.
Was it the springtime, or a likeness between the Campagna and his home that had touched Gzhatski? He suddenly began to speak of his mother, of that holy of holies in his soul that he always kept so jealously to himself. Leaning his elbows on the table, he spoke to Irene of his childhood, his home, his most cherished recollections, and his life with the beloved, sainted guardian of his early days.
“How she loved me! How proud she was of me! With what tenderness she looked at me! She brought me up with nothing but love. When governesses or tutors made some complaint about me, she called me to her, repeated their words, and said: ‘I cannot believe it possible that you should have done such a thing. There must be somemisunderstanding. Explain it to me.’ And I was afraid to be naughty, because it was awful to give her pain and to meet her sad, reproachful glance. I was still quite little, but I already realized that life had not brought her much happiness. Besides, the circumstances were such that I naturally reasoned and reflected much more than most children of my age. My father used to come once or twice a year; my mother was always bedridden. The whole household was accustomed to apply to me for orders, and I very early assumed the responsibilities of the master of the house. I remember even that when I was barely twelve, I began to take up a protecting attitude towards my mother! She was more amused than displeased, and told me that she greatly valued such a strong and energetic protector.”
Gzhatski stopped for a moment, and his face assumed a hard expression that Irene had never seen there before.
“She died suddenly,” he continued, lowering his voice. “Three hours before her death, I came to show myself to her in a newriding-suit that had just arrived from Petrograd. She asked to be raised on her cushions that she might see me better, and she looked at me delightedly. I thought myself magnificent, posed, glanced at myself in the glass, and played with my elegant riding-whip. What a child I was at seventeen! I smile to think of it. The new suit was the reason of my taking a longer ride than usual that day, and the groom who was sent to find me could not catch me up. I returned gaily, trotted up to the entrance, jumped from my horse, and then suddenly saw the tear-stained face of our old butler.
“‘Her Excellency is dying,’ he whispered.
“As though in a fog, I passed into my mother’s room, and started back in fright, seeing her lying on the floor. There is a superstition prevalent in our province to the effect that it is bad to die in bed, and that, at the approach of the agony, the dying must be laid on the floor—i.e., as near as possible to the ground. I have no idea whether my mother really knew of this superstition, but her old and trusted maid afterwards told methat she had suddenly expressed a wish to be laid on the floor. The wish had been complied with, the maids hurriedly arranging rugs and cushions for the purpose.
“The agony had already begun when I fell on my knees beside my mother. Twice she spoke my name, but she no longer recognized me. She muttered something, stirring restlessly on her pillow. I bent over her, and caught the words:
“‘Life—life—how cruel it is! Nothing but tears and sorrow and despair! Not a moment of happiness! Not a moment of joy.…’
“I shuddered at these words. So these were my mother’s hidden thoughts! The whisper grew still lower, and then ceased.… We all waited and listened, and suddenly we knew that she had ceased to be. Someone burst into tears. They lifted her from the floor, and her thin, wasted body took a strange attitude, as it lay heavily and awkwardly in the arms of the maids. At that moment I realized that she was no longer a being, but athing; and, with a cry of horror, I fled. Ishut myself up in my room, and sobbed all the evening, as much with grief at having lost her as with the sharp pain her last words had caused me.
“‘She had assured me that I was her life and her joy,’ I thought, ‘and yet for how little had I counted in her existence.’
“During all our life together, during all those years that had been so dear to me, she had only suffered and hidden her pain from me! ‘Never a moment of happiness!’ Those last words rang in my ears with cruel and horrible insistence.
“It was already night when I ventured out of my room. The whole household was sleeping; only the deacon was reading the psalms for the dead, in a melancholy voice, beside my mother’s body. She lay there, all in white, surrounded with flowers. I approached on tiptoe, and stood still, gazing at her; she looked so small, so thin, so frail, like an old child. A feeling of boundless pity took possession of my soul. ‘How, oh how had she deserved so sad a destiny?’ I asked myself hopelessly. ‘Whathad she done? How had she offended God?’
“And I pressed close to her and kissed her, and felt that I had never understood how much she loved me. Only a love that knew no limits could have given her the strength to hide her pain so completely. She had not wanted to sadden my childhood; she had realized that a child could only grow up and develop well and normally when surrounded by love and happiness. How many mothers have I met since who have failed to realize this, and who have ruined the futures of their children by letting them share, at a tender age, tears and sorrows beyond their years!
“I remained beside my mother till dawn; and during that night, it was as if some voice had told me that I should never again have a true friend. The prophecy has indeed been fulfilled; I know the entire province, but I have not a friend. Sometimes, too, I have flattered myself with the hope that I had found a true woman with whom I would like to share my life; but always, as I came withinreach of the prize, it melted away, having been but a dream. Fate always seemed to say to me: ‘You have had your fair share of woman’s love, and have no right for more.’
“This very winter again, it at one time seemed to me, Irene Pavlovna, that I had found in you a true friend; but I am afraid you are too much occupied with your own salvation to sacrifice any time or thought to friendship. And yet if anything in the world can save you, it is not a convent and not Catholicism, but simply an active interest in your fellow-creatures. When experience and observation have taught us love and charity, we are saved, and life is no longer terrible. Fate may be as cruel as she pleases; but if we have warmth and love in our hearts, we shall never be alone, never in despair, and shall never think of self-destruction, if only out of pity for all our suffering brothers, whom, as long as we live, we have always the chance of helping.
“If only you could rid yourself of the idea that you are too old for marriage! For what precisely is it that you think yourself too old?For kisses? It is extraordinary that women never seem to see anything beyond the mere physical side of marriage! Look at it from a higher, purer, more Christian standpoint! Believe me, what men need most is sympathy, friendship, understanding, and the generous, noble love that can forgive us our faults and our shortcomings. I have contemplated your state of mind from every standpoint, and sometimes I wonder whether the sickness of my own soul is not even more dangerous and incurable than yours. I only cannot myself see it so plainly, or rather I do not attach to it the importance it deserves.…”
Irene became engaged to Gzhatski, and he persuaded her to leave Rome as quickly as possible, and go to the Riviera, whither his doctors were sending him, in fear of Roman springtime malaria. To tell the truth, Gzhatski was far less afraid of malaria than of Père Etienne, the strength of whose influence over Irene he greatly exaggerated. Natures like Irene’s never remain long under the same influence. They are swayed by sudden enthusiasms and equally suddendisappointments. Blown to right and to left by every passing breeze, they fling themselves into one friendship and then another, searching for happiness everywhere, and finding it nowhere. The hour of Catholicism in the person of Père Etienne had struck and passed, and there had dawned the new dream of salvation through love.
Irene agreed to go with Gzhatski to Monte Carlo. The day and hour of departure were already fixed; but she still had not the courage to inform Père Etienne of her new plans. She tried several times to write to him, but always ended by tearing her lengthy explanations in despair. At last, on the very morning of the great day, an hour before her departure, she sent him a note, informing him of her unexpected decision to leave immediately for the Riviera, and promising to write at greater length from there.
Irene had proposed to meet Gzhatski at the station; but he had obstinately insisted on coming to fetch her, and she had been obliged to give in. Her acquaintances at thepensionsaid good-bye to her very coldly;they could not forgive her for her treachery to the cause of their beloved Catholicism. Some of them regarded her with contempt, others with envy.
Gzhatski’s cab stood at the door, and Irene was already seated in it, impatiently longing to start. The servants were tying on the luggage, Gzhatski was standing on the pavement, smoking and giving occasional directions, and at the windows of thepensioninterested faces could be seen peeping through the curtains. At this moment Père Etienne, puffing and panting in hot haste, appeared round the corner. The kind old man had just received Irene’s note, and had come to say good-bye, and to bless her before her departure. Catching sight of Gzhatski he stopped still for a moment, completely dumbfounded, while Gzhatski smiled in undisguised triumph. The old man was angry. His face assumed a cold and proud expression, and taking no notice whatever of Irene he turned to the entrance of thepension. Having, however, already reached the door, he suddenly, in spite ofhimself, looked round. Irene was gazing at him with such a confused, guilty air, that Père Etienne’s severity involuntarily relaxed, and he bowed sadly. “Poor girl!” his kind, sympathetic old face seemed to say—“you have thrown away your last chance of happiness!”
A brilliant spring was reigning in Monte Carlo. Not the pale, cold, Russian spring, when in May the first shy snowdrops barely manage to force their white heads through the ground; nor yet the Roman spring, that Gzhatski called “modest,” but the real, passionate, southern precursor of summer. April was not yet over, but the weather was hot as at midsummer. The blue sea sparkled dazzlingly under the unbearably strong rays of the sun, flowers hung like thick carpets over walls and terraces, gorgeous roses climbed over the trellises and fences of the gardens. And no one was there to admire all this splendour—for the season was over, the hotels and shops were closed, the shutters of the villas were up, and Monte Carlo resembled the kingdom of the “SleepingBeauty.” All the life that was still there was concentrated in the neighbourhood of the gaming rooms, and it was here that Irene and Gzhatski spent their days, walking in the lovely Casino gardens, or sitting on the fairy-like terrace overlooking the sea.
They had intended to be married immediately on their arrival in Monte Carlo, but, as is always the case with Russians, it had turned out that the ceremony could only take place on the production of countless official papers that had to be sent for to Russia. In the meantime, they had settled in a large hotel close to the Casino—the only hotel open all the year round—and happy in each other’s society, they revelled in the glories of the golden springtime that fashionable Riviera visitors had so foolishly abandoned.
Monte Carlo produced a very curious impression on Irene. In Rome she had seen, side by side with palaces, splendid carriages, and dazzling luxury, the most heart-rending poverty and beggary—a contrast to be met with in all large cities. Here, on the contrary, there was nothing of the kind. It seemedas if every inhabitant of this sunlit fairyland lived and existed merely for his own pleasure. The very waiters at the Café de Paris hummed and danced to the sound of the Hungarian orchestra as they served visitors with refreshments. The Arab pedlars, selling Eastern shawls, wandered through the gardens in their whiteburnousand their smart red boots, apparently more intent upon boasting of the beauty of their wares than upon selling them. The only busy people in the whole place seemed to be the croupiers, and when, at given hours, groups of them came out of the Casino to be replaced by new relays, they reminded one of workmen leaving a factory after an exhausting day’s work.
The remaining inhabitants did nothing from morning till night but walk about in elegant summer clothes, feed pigeons, drink tea to the accompaniment of music, play with their absurd little dogs, or gamble in the Casino.
Irene was much interested in this, to her, novel type of public, and was particularly astonished at the sight of so many middle-aged,even old, women, with dyed hair, made-up faces, girlish dresses and hats, tripping gracefully along, and smiling coquettishly at their funny little old-men admirers. The latter, even if somewhat shaky on their legs, also wore light, fashionable clothes, and flowers in their buttonholes. At first they made Irene laugh, but soon, with the inconsistency of nearly all weak characters, she began to wonder whether it was not much wiser to cling to one’s youth than to be old at thirty, as was her own case. The conviction that this was indeed so came upon her suddenly, and she immediately rushed off to Nice, and ordered a whole mountain of elegant dresses, hats, false curls, etc. Having previously considered it a sin to spend an extra penny on clothes, Irene now went from shop to shop, never even attempting to bargain, and throwing money about with almost feverish prodigality in her desire to possess herself without delay of all that was most elegant and luxurious in the way of frocks and frills.
Gzhatski observed her in amazed silence,and smilingly watched the transformation of yesterday’s nun, with her flat hair and her eternal black dress, into a coloured fashion-plate. Being, in his heart, far more pleased than otherwise that his future wife should be well dressed and elegant, he did not protest. What disquieted him much more, indeed, was a passion that Irene suddenly developed for gambling. Gzhatski, having himself once advised her to cultivate some passion, if only artificially, just that it might attach her more firmly to earth, very ruefully contemplated the development of this passion now that it had shown itself without any effort on Irene’s part! Sergei Grigorievitch, indeed, was one of those men who, in the woman they have chosen, admit only one possible passion: that of love for themselves!
It was anything but easy to dissuade Irene from gambling. She revelled in the sensations of those feverish minutes passed at the tables, falling into the depths of despair at the loss of fifty francs, and soaring into an absolute frenzy of delight at the gain of forty! On leaving the gambling rooms,Irene took deep breaths of the fresh sea air, her eyes shone, and it seemed to her that the sea and the hills and the flowers had never been so beautiful before. It was this that displeased Gzhatski. He might have reconciled himself to the idea of her gambling had she regretted her losses, but he could not forgive her that feverish delight, that moral ecstacy and satisfaction that she gleaned from this new craze.
Sometimes he succeeded in luring her away from the temptations of the tables by arranging excursions in the neighbourhood. Like most Slavs, indeed like most sons of a young race, Gzhatski could not grow old, and at forty, he often laughed and played pranks like a schoolboy. He had the capacity, indeed, of infecting everyone around him with his gaiety, even cab-drivers, boatmen, and waiters! To each and all of them he knew how to say the right word, or make the right joke, at the right moment. He was descended indeed from a noble old race of landowners, who had always been ready to till their own soil, side by side with their peasants, seeingin the latter, not machines, but interesting and deserving human beings.
To Irene, such simple relations with the lower classes seemed strangely new and original. In the usual Petrograd fashion, she had hardly ever exchanged a word with her servants, and barely knew them by sight. At hotels at which she had stayed for two months she had nearly always, on leaving, been obliged, before giving a tip, to ask the manager which waiter had served her all the time, she herself being quite unable to distinguish him from the others.
In every way, indeed, Gzhatski proved a most interesting travelling companion. Men always bring gaiety and animation into the lives of lonely women, even when they are neither lovers nor husbands, but simply distant relations. This is so, because women who have no social activities to distract their thoughts are inclined to look upon life as something tragic and fatal, against which it is useless to struggle. Men, on the other hand, who, if only indirectly, make our laws and govern our countries, do not attach muchimportance to life, often indeed regarding it from the humorous standpoint. It is popularly supposed that men are more conservative than women, and that they care more about traditions and old customs. Actually, however, the laws and customs they passionately defend are invariably useful at the moment, and when the need for them passes, men are the first to abandon them. Women, on the contrary, cling desperately to traditions, especially inconvenient and troublesome ones, and if ever they decide to defy even some unimportant social law, they do it tragically, as though flinging themselves into an abyss.
“There! I have cut off my hair, and I smoke,” thinks a newly-converted Nihilist. “The thing is done—there is no turning back. Whatever I may do now, nothing can win me back my old position, and the respect of my fellows. And so—vogue le galère!”
How many perfectly modest women having once let their hairdressers persuade them to dye their hair auburn, immediately assume themanners and conversational style of “cocottes!”
The southern spring, the music, the excitement of gambling, the constant society of a charming man, all this did not fail to make its due impression on Irene, with the result that she fell, day by day, more and more deeply in love with Gzhatski. In her past dreams of love she had always seen herself hotly disputing with her lover, proclaiming her views and theories like a prophetess, and bringing him round unreservedly to her opinions on all matters. To her own astonishment, however, she now no longer cared in the least about any of her old theories and ideas, and was ready to give them all up without a sigh, to please Gzhatski. She had long ago left off being particular aboutwhathe said to her, her attention being entirely riveted on the way he said it, on his every movement, smile, or change of expression. Alone in her room in the evening she sat up late, and could not sleep at night, for thinking of his elegant figure, the gleam of his even white teeth, the picturesque manner in which he smoked hiscigarette, etc. The blood rushed to her head, her heart beat loudly, she breathed quickly. Père Etienne had been right in suspecting that an ardent temperament lay concealed under her cold exterior. It is probable, indeed, that Irene was one of the many “chaste sensualists” who abound in society. It is strange that these unconsciously voluptuous natures, suffering as they do very extremely through the virtuous life imposed on them by circumstances, always attribute their sufferings to some lofty ethical reason, such as loss of faith in God, disappointment in their friends, misunderstood ideals, etc., and would in every case be deeply offended should anyone dare to suggest to them a very simple and prosaic cure for their “noble sorrow.” They usually guard their virtue very jealously, vaguely feeling that if once passion gains the upper hand over them, they will be her slaves for life.
It was a close, misty day. The hills and the sea were shrouded in a silvery veil, the air was sultry, not a leaf stirred in the trees.
Directly after lunch Gzhatski had accompanied Irene to Nice, where she was to try on her “forty-third dress, and her seventy-fourth hat,” as he gaily remarked. At five o’clock, tired after a busy afternoon’s shopping, they went to the Jetée-Promenade, for tea.
The season being at its very last ebb, the orchestra was playing in the large hall for the sole benefit of two old women, who slept peacefully in the stalls, and the luxurious empty rooms reminded one of the Sahara Desert on a sultry summer day. The solitary waiter, overjoyed to see two visitors,hastened to offer them the best table beside the window, where they could enjoy an uninterrupted view over the magnificent Quai des Anglais, with its gorgeous hotels, its palm-trees, and its gay public that seemed suddenly to have dropped from the clouds. The waves were splashing lazily on the shore, numerous half-nude children were paddling in the clear blue water, and a faint, fresh sea-breeze came in at the open window, surrounding Gzhatski and Irene with its caresses.
The sudden sound of noisy footsteps reverberating through the empty rooms caused them both to turn round. The intruder was a tall, handsome “brunette,” in a white costume and an enormous hat, elegantly poised on a luxurious mass of hair. A Southern beauty, this, in the full bloom of her charms, the paint on her face serving more as a signpost than an ornament, for she would undoubtedly have been more attractive without it. Carrying herself with the imperious ease of a woman accustomed to attract universal attention, she sank carelessly into a wicker armchair, crossed her legs, and without so much asglancing at the waiter, ordered a whisky and soda.
“So that is the kind of divinity that grows on the trees here,” said Gzhatski, scrutinizing the newcomer attentively. “And I had already decided that Nice was as empty as an Arabian desert.”
“She does not live in Nice,” answered Irene. “She is staying at our hotel in Monte Carlo.”
“How do you know?” said Gzhatski in surprise.
“I happened to be on the balcony last night when the hotel omnibus brought her from the station. I remember noticing the size of her hat-box—now it does not surprise me any more!”
Gzhatski frowned. “I should never have thought a respectable hotel like ours would admit such ‘ladies,’” he muttered crossly.
“Well, well—it does not concern us,” said Irene, amused at his annoyance.
“Indeed it does,” exclaimed Gzhatski. “Nobody could like the idea of such a creature as that living under the same roof and comingconstantly under the eyes of his bride—of the woman who is dearer to him and whom he places higher than all else on earth.”
“Dear, dear! What old-fashioned prejudices!” smiled Irene. “I assure you the lady will not demoralize me. On the contrary, I pity her profoundly for having to lead such a frightful life. How do I know? Perhaps if my parents had not left me a fortune I might have been reduced to adopting the same profession!”
“Irene!” cried Gzhatski excitedly, “never dare to say such a thing again! The insult of the suggestion is insufferable. You would have starved rather than lead a life of shame. As if I did not know you! All the pity that is wasted on fallen women is a foolish and unjustifiable pity. There is so much work to be done in the world that everyone who really tries can earn an honest living. These worthless creatures never want to work at all—they care for nothing but a lazy, comfortable, luxurious life.”
Gzhatski had become flushed and excited. The unknown beauty turned round andlistened with interest to this “quarrel” in a strange language. The waiter put before her a bottle of soda-water and a small glass of whisky, and went away. She swallowed the whisky in one draught, and took out an elegant gold cigarette case. Holding a cigarette between her teeth she scanned the table for matches. Finding none, she rose, and, as calmly as if approaching an acquaintance, crossed over to Gzhatski and asked him for a light.
Gzhatski looked as black as thunder.
Most ungraciously, he handed the matches to the unknown one, and paying no attention whatever to her “merci monsieur”—pronounced with the sweetest of smiles—he hastened to take Irene away from the Casino.
“The devil!” ejaculated Gzhatski furiously, as they emerged on to the promenade. “It is positively incredible, what they have been allowed to come to, here on the Riviera. The impudence of the hussy! The shamelessness! She sees that I am with a respectable lady, and she dares!” His indignation almost suffocated him.
“Well, well!” said Irene quietly, “why should you expect knowledge of the world and its ways from these unfortunates? Perhaps only yesterday she was washing linen in a laundry; where should she have learnt manners?”
“She should know her place, and not forget herself,” growled Gzhatski. “But don’t let us speak of it any more. To-morrow morning I shall complain to the manager of the hotel, and if he really insists on turning his place into a bad house we shall have to find rooms elsewhere.”
In the evening they went, as usual, to the gambling-rooms. There were very few people, and it was easy to get seats at the tables. Irene sat down beside the croupier, who smiled amiably as to a familiar, frequent visitor. She began to play eagerly, but luck did not come her way that evening, and she soon lost all she had with her. Raising her eyes to Gzhatski, who always made a point on these occasions of standing opposite her and looking at her reproachfully and disapprovingly, she saw, standing next to him, thedaring lady of the recent incident in Nice. She had changed her attire, and wore a magnificent black evening dress, a mauve cloak, and an enormous hat with feathers. Diamonds trembled in her ears, and a row of priceless pearls encircled her neck. In the evening the paint on her face was less noticeable, and she was really so handsome that Irene gazed at her in undisguised admiration.
Gzhatski, though he was standing next to the woman who had so recently infuriated him, did not see her, his attention being riveted on a very original gambler, who was sitting at the end of the table. This was a wrinkled little old man, with a face as yellow as parchment. Before him, on the table, lay a pile of gold, which he was staking to right and to left, without any sort of system, apparently simply putting the coins in the spaces most easily accessible to his rheumatic hands. Strangely enough he nearly always won, and other players began to put their stakes on his numbers.
Feeling Irene’s glance upon him, Gzhatski smiled at her tenderly; but noticing that shewas actually looking not at him, but at someone beside him, he turned his head, and his eyes met those of the unknown beauty. Gzhatski flushed, frowned, and turned away from the table. Irene rose, and they both left the gaming-room, and descended into the gardens. Having taken a few steps towards the hotel, Gzhatski suddenly stopped short and exclaimed:
“What a pity to go and shut ourselves up in that horrid hotel. It is only eleven o’clock. Let us go and have supper somewhere.”
Irene looked at Gzhatski in astonishment. Only the previous day he had been loud in his praises of the hotel, of its comfort and its beautiful views, and its proximity to the park. Why did he suddenly find it horrid? However, having accustomed herself never to contradict him, Irene made no objection, and they turned to the Café de Paris.
The sound of fashionable valses and familiar operatic melodies floated across the still air from the brilliantly illuminated covered terrace. Quite a number of people sat at the little round tables, the usual heterogeneousMonte Carlo crowd. There were correct Englishmen in smoking-jackets; there were Germans who had missed their last train back to Menton, and were having supper in company with their fat wives, the latter dressed in hideous canary-coloured blouses, their hats all askew. There were also pretty and theatrically “done-up” young ladies in full evening dress, coming in with an air of boredom, throwing off their wraps with studied negligence, and indifferently perusing the menu. These were professional gamblers, of whom the French say, “qu’elles ne sont pas fixées,” and their young faces bore the stamp of that surfeit of luxury and laziness that had long ago robbed their lives of all interest and charm.
In the middle of the terrace a queer company was drawing universal attention to itself. The men had dirty hands and wore shabby coats, glaring ties, and dusty boots. The women were red-haired, vulgar, and noisy. Their table was littered with the most choice and expensive dishes, to which they helped themselves greedily withoutorder or system, even forbidding the waiters to change their plates. The other visitors threw them astonished glances, the waiters winked knowingly at each other, and the elegant French group sitting near Irene simply gasped in horrified wonder.
“Vous verrez qu’ils se moucheront dans leur serviette, et embrasseront les femmes au dessert,” said a middle-aged Frenchman, scrutinizing the offenders severely.
“Ma foi, j’ai envie de téléphoner au commissaire de police,” answered another; “they have probably murdered and robbed somebody on the highway, and have come here to enjoy themselves on the spoils!”
“Not a bit,” sighed a third enviously. “They have simply had luck at the tables; it is always that kind that wins!”
The restaurant in the meantime was becoming very crowded. Two badly dressed, middle-aged Englishwomen, with flabby cheeks and triple chins, but wearing a King’s ransom in diamonds and furs, were looking round for a table. These noble ladies had seen and experienced so much in their livesthat they were no longer capable of taking an interest in anything except two enormous dogs, which, in spite of prohibitions, they had brought with them. The dogs tore at their leashes, wriggled out of their collars, and poked their noses into people’s plates. The visitors protested, but in vain. All the waiters seemed to know the dogs, petted them, and called them by their names, while the head-waiter led the English ladies to a reserved table, and, bowing obsequiously, waited for their order. The musicians, in their red and gold coats, played with redoubled gusto. Their violins sang and wept and danced. Some of the public applauded; others called up one or another of the players, and gave him money. Alas! these artists who could extract such sublime tones from their instruments were only too glad to accept even trifling tips! Close to Gzhatski sat, deep in meditation, with his elbows on the table, a handsome young German. He had come very early, and had ordered a choice supper for two. The champagne had long been standing ready on ice; red roses were scatteredover the snowy tablecloth. Time passed, and stillshecame not! The poor young German was excited, jumped up every minute and looked towards the door, from time to time rushed out to the porch, and repeatedly questioned the long-suffering head-waiter.
“Mais, monsieur le Baron, j’ai déjà eu l’honneur de vous dire,” replied the latter wearily. “‘Viendrai si je puis,’ tel est le message, pris au téléphone.”
Neighbouring visitors were observing the poor young man with some amusement, and the waiters were smiling. The champagne had been twice taken away and brought back again, the crowd was thinning, the musicians were playing their final number, when at last a cab drove up to the door. The enamoured swain rushed forward ecstatically, to meet a fragile, dainty, blue-eyed Gretchen, who entered shyly, dressed all in white, and wreathed in blushes and smiles. This was not the German but the French type of Gretchen, a type that rarely goes as far as the completefaux pas, but delights in the temptations and risks of love-making and philandering.Feeling that resistance is their chief charm, these Dresden china temptresses never hurry to surrender.
“Is that all he was waiting for, poor boy?” said Gzhatski, with a pitying smile. “Hardly worth while. She has not a farthingsworth of temperament.”
The “poor boy,” however, was in the seventh heaven. He filled the lady’s glass, helped her to everything, ate nothing himself, gazed at his Gretchen, and sighed deeply. He would have been ridiculous had not the divine spark of sincere passion illumined his innocent, frank young face. With his elbows on the table, he appeared to be ardently persuading the young lady of something, and suddenly, in a low voice, began to recite.
“He is not a German for nothing!” laughed Gzhatski. “Let us escape; or else we shall have to listen to the whole of Goethe.”
But Sergei Grigorievitch was mistaken. The young man was reciting, in excellent French, the famous “Déclaration” of Richepin: