{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_57986/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_57986","id":"gutenberg_57986","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57986","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Novels","Category: Russian Literature","Man-woman relationships -- Fiction","Religion -- Fiction","Russians -- Italy -- Fiction","Women -- Fiction"],"text":"Produced by ellinora and the Online Distributed Proofreading\nTeam at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from\nimages generously made available by The Internet\nArchive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE EMIGRANT\n\n\n\n\n                              THE EMIGRANT\n\n                                   BY\n                          L. F. DOSTOIEFFSKAYA\n\n                              TRANSLATED BY\n                             VERA MARGOLIES\n\n                         WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY\n                             STEPHEN GRAHAM\n\n                                NEW YORK\n                               BRENTANO\u2019S\n                                  1916\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\n\u201cTHE EMIGRANT\u201d (_Emigranta_), by L. F. Dostoieffskaya, a daughter\nof Dostoieffsky the novelist, was published in 1913, and obtained\nconsiderable success in Russia. It is a study of the life of a Russian\ngirl (or should we say woman? for she is not young) in Italy. It is\na deeply interesting study of contemporary types. In truth, only two\nRussians take part in the story, the hero and heroine, Prince Gzhatsky\nand Irene. But the long struggle which is portrayed is a Russian struggle.\n\nThese Russians, however, are not the Russians of Dostoieffsky\u2019s time.\nThey are clearly of to-day.\n\n    Pride in Russia, and in Russia\u2019s might and wealth and brilliant\n    future, was one of Irene\u2019s greatest joys. The Russian people\n    seemed to her to be a race of chivalrous knights, ever ready\n    to fight for truth and Christianity, and to defend the weak\n    and the persecuted. When the Japanese War broke out, she asked\n    herself, with the sincerest astonishment, how such pitiful\n    monkeys ever could have declared war on such indomitable\n    knights. She even pitied the Japanese for having fallen victims\n    to such madness! Her despair and suffering at the news of our\n    first failures is therefore easy to imagine. None of Irene\u2019s\n    near relations were at the war, but each of our losses,\n    nevertheless, found its echo in her heart, like a personal\n    misfortune. Overwhelmed with grief, she attached no importance\n    either to the Russian revolution, or to the reforms that\n    followed. Like all passionate idealists when their ideal is\n    shattered, Irene rushed to the other extreme\u2014that of a profound\n    contempt for Russia.\n\nAnd it is in contempt of Russia that the heroine finds consolation in\nItaly, and is even ready to throw over the Orthodox Church to which she\nbelongs and enter a convent of _s\u0153urs mauves_.\n\nThe chief interest in the book is the conflict between the influence of\na certain P\u00e8re Etienne and the influence of a compatriot of handsome\nlooks and robust mind, Prince Gzhatsky. Irene is in a _pension_ \u201cteeming\nwith old maids.\u201d She is herself forty and unmarried. She is apparently\nwithout near of kin, and is lonely beyond words, but also selfish and\nextremely condemnatory in her outlook. But she is vivacious, spontaneous,\nengaging, and always asking pertinent questions.\n\nThe high demands she made of her ideal hero, the man she might marry,\ngive one the idea that there is a certain amount of autobiography in this\nvolume, for no doubt ideals ranged high in the home of Dostoieffsky. It\nis strange, however, that the question of selfishness and unselfishness\ndoes not arise in this enthralling study of an unsatisfied soul.\nDostoieffsky himself was never tired of a certain Gospel sentence, the\nthought of which might have given calm to Irene: \u201cExcept a corn of wheat\nfall into the ground and die it abideth alone; but if it die it bringeth\nforth much fruit.\u201d The whole book, however, has a haunting suggestion of\nDostoieffsky\u2014the ghost of the father is somewhere about.\n\nThis poor Russian woman has, however, lost herself in going to Rome. One\nsees how much happier she would have been if she had remained at home.\nIt is common in Russians to go into ecstasy about Italy when they see it\nfirst.\n\n\u201cIn Italy, amidst the brilliance and magnificence of Nature, in the\nmagnificent chaos of cities buzzing with automobiles, humming with\nfactories, you feel at least that Man is not losing himself; you feel he\nis the master, the centre. But in Moscow \u2026\u201d wrote Gorky, another unhappy\nexile; and it is a characteristic expression. The exile admires the West,\nbut he must return to Russia.\n\nA word should be said as to the discussion of the relative merits or\ndemerits of the Roman Catholic and Orthodox Churches. It is not very\ncompetently handled by the authoress, but there is at least one most\neffective comment on ecclesiasticism as such:\n\n\u201cIn your place I would go a little further still,\u201d exclaimed Irene\u2019s\ninner soul with malicious sarcasm. \u201cI would destroy every New Testament\nin the world, except one\u2014and that one I would put in a golden,\njewel-studded box, and would bury it deep in the earth, forbidding its\ndisinterment on pain of death. Over it, I would build a splendid golden\nshrine, and in this shrine I would celebrate night and day magnificent\nservices with gorgeous processions. That would be entirely in accordance\nwith the spirit of your Christianity.\u201d\n\nAnd she yearns for a Christianity freed from the prison walls of churches\nand forms.\n\nIrene, however, thinks that if the Orthodox Russian Church elected a\nPatriarch it might recover its ancient power, and utter a \u201cnew word.\u201d\nAnd there once more we see vaguely the ghost of Dostoieffsky. The\ngreat Russian, however, would not have spoken so kindly of the Roman\nChurch (which he regarded as a sort of political conspiracy against\nChristianity).\n\n                                                          STEPHEN GRAHAM.\n\nLONDON, _April, 1916_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE EMIGRANT\n\n\n\n\nI\n\n\n    Il n\u2019y a qu\u2019un h\u00e9roisme au monde: c\u2019est de voir le monde tel qu\u2019il\n    est\u2014et de l\u2019aimer.\u2014ROMAIN ROLLAND.\n\nOn the 15th of October, 19\u2014, at four o\u2019clock in the afternoon, in the\ngarden of the Monte Pincio in Rome, sat a girl, no longer in the first\nflush of youth, Irene Mstinskaia. She held a book in her hand, having\ncome to the park with the object of reading in the fresh air; but, as had\nalways been the case since her arrival in Rome, she could not concentrate\nher thoughts on the English novel open before her. Her glance glided\nacross the blue autumnal sky, lingered caressingly on the magnificent\nsouthern pines and palms, rested on the statues gleaming white among the\nverdure, and always returned to the Eternal City, as it lay spread out\nbefore her, at the feet of the Pincio.\n\nIrene had travelled much and seen much, but no town had yet produced so\ndeep an impression on her. She tried in vain to define this power that\nRome wielded over her, and, finding no explanation, she invented one\nof her own: \u201cWho knows,\u201d thought Irene dreamily, \u201cperhaps people never\nreally quite die, but remain for ever hovering in spirit round those\nplaces where they have most forcibly lived and suffered. It may be that\nRome is full of the ghosts of ancient Romans, of early Christians, of\nRenaissance painters, of nineteenth-century Italians, who died nobly in\nthe struggle for Italy\u2019s freedom and unity. All these phantoms are unable\nto tear themselves away from their beloved Eternal City. They are the\nrulers of Rome to-day, as much as in their own time, and we, foreigners,\nfall under their influence and cannot dissociate our thoughts from them.\u201d\n\nOn the whole, the influence of Rome was not only overwhelming\u2014it was\nalso soothing. Wandering in museums, among ruins, through churches and\ncatacombs, Irene felt, day by day, stealing into her soul a profound,\nindescribable sense of peace, such as that which unconsciously comes over\none as one enters a convent. And it was just for this holy stillness and\npeace that her tired soul was thirsting.\n\nLet not the reader think, however, that my heroine had passed through the\nstorm of some great misfortune, or the suffering of some severe illness.\nOn the contrary, her life and circumstances were such, that many a\nshort-sighted and superficial observer envied her exceedingly.\n\nAt the death of her parents, Irene had remained entirely free, with\nplenty of money, a good name, and a good position in society. She enjoyed\nexcellent health, in spite of the fact that she had been born and had\npassed all her life in Petrograd; she was clever and well educated. What\nmore, one asks oneself, could anyone desire of the Fates?\n\nBut, somehow, it is an unfortunate fact in dear Russia, that even the\nmost precious gifts of the gods seem never to be of any benefit to our\npeople. How is one to explain this curious circumstance? Does it arise\nfrom some peculiarity in the Russian temperament, or from the general\ndisorder and purposelessness of our way of living? The French, in the\nsimilar case of \u201cLa Belle au Bois Dormant,\u201d have laid all the blame at\nthe door of the wicked fairy who was offended at not being invited to the\nchristening. I think I shall not go far wrong if I say that in Russia\nthe part of the wicked fairy is played by the parents of the infant\nthemselves. Oh, of course not intentionally, but simply as a consequence\nof our Russian laziness and the absence of organized and formulated ideas\nin the bringing up of our children.\n\nIrene Mstinskaia lost her mother early and was brought up by her father,\na scientist who spent all his life in his laboratory, disliked society,\nand received nobody but an occasional friend, as jealously devoted to\nscience as himself. He adored his little Irene, petted and spoiled\nher; but, like most Russian parents, took very little interest in her\nspiritual development. The child grew up, lonely, silent, pensive. Books\ntook, in her young life, the place of companions and childish games. She\nread a great deal without guidance or discrimination, and gained all her\nideas on life, all her faith, all her ideals and aims and aspirations\nfrom books. Books stood between her and reality, and hid from her those\ndeep truths that can never be learnt from even the greatest literary\nproduction, but can only be understood after long years of untiring\nobservation and experience. It was in books also that Irene found her\nideal of the man she could love. Her hero was an exceedingly complicated\ncharacter. He united in himself the stoicism of an ancient Roman, the\nromanticism of a medi\u00e6val knight, the gallantry of a powdered marquis,\nand the dignified chivalry of the hero of an English novel.\n\nDo not laugh, reader! Irene was not stupid; she was only young and\ninexperienced, knew little or nothing of life, and sincerely believed\nin her fantastic dream hero. Most pathetic of all was the fact that\nshe set about looking for him among the relations and friends of\nher late mother, who had belonged by birth to the higher government\ncircles\u2014_i.e._, the most unromantic circles of Russian society. The\nproximity of the court, the glitter of wealth and social position,\ntransforms almost every young Petrograd official into a mere hunter\nafter honours, money, decorations, caring for nothing but his career and\nthe chance of some brilliant appointment. The distance that separates\nPetrograd from the rest of Russia destroys in these young people\nwhat should be the fundamental idea at the root of all conscientious\ngovernment service\u2014the good of the country. Their service becomes simply\na ladder by which they can mount upwards towards the making of a career,\nand any means seems justifiable to attain this end. Already in childhood\nthese young people are familiar with conversations about promotions and\nhonours, and their souls early imbibe the poison that makes worldlings\nand cynics. Their wives also cannot influence them for good, since they,\ntoo, in the majority of cases grow up in the same official circles,\nand see nothing blameworthy in career-hunting. On the contrary,\nthey intrigue and help and encourage their husbands in the rush for\nadvantageous appointments.\n\nTo a fresh young soul, such as Irene\u2019s the cynicism of \u201cofficialdom\u2019s\u201d\nconversations and ideals could not but stand out in all its true\nugliness, causing her to turn away, sick with disillusionment and\ndisgust. She regarded this whole spirit of self-advancement-at-any-price\nwith the profoundest contempt, and considered it low and vulgar\nand worthy only of menials. Her father, holding his noble birth in\nhigh honour, had instilled into his daughter the assurance that her\naristocratic antecedents placed her on a level with all the de Rohans\nand de Montmorencys in the world. She regarded decorations and titles\nand social honours with contempt, and could not understand how anybody\ncould attach importance to such toys. Her means were sufficient to ensure\nlifelong freedom from care; luxury, however, did not attract her, for\nIrene was an idealist, who looked upon love, pure, sanctified love, as\nthe greatest happiness life could offer.\n\nHad she been English or American, this lonely girl would not have been\ncontent with her limited circle of acquaintances, and would have gone in\nsearch of her hero through the length and breadth not only of Russia, but\nof all Europe.\n\nIrene, however, was Russian, and therefore placid and unenterprising!\nSo she not only did not travel, but had not the energy, even at home in\nPetrograd, to look round and make sure that her hero was not concealed\nsomewhere in the social circles of the capital. She profoundly despised\nthe pitiful types she met in society, and though sick at heart,\nwaited patiently and untiringly for the one man before whom she was\ndestined some day to bow her head. Her own individual faith was largely\nresponsible for this patient, confident expectation. Already in her early\nchildhood, Irene had worked out for herself her own personal credo, in\nthe place of which, without understanding it in the least, most people\nunthinkingly accept the religion officially adopted by the State. Her\nfaith, of course, rested upon a Christian basis\u2014but her Christianity was\nof the kind that shapes itself according to the varying idiosyncrasies of\nevery individual believer\u2019s soul and mind.\n\nIrene firmly believed that in spite of the perpetual struggle between\ngood and evil, good is incomparably the stronger of the two, and must\nalways triumph. Therefore, people desirous of attaining happiness,\nmust as a first step be just and honourable, and never offend nor hurt\nanyone. Then, and then only, can God send them peace and success in all\ntheir undertakings, and then only can they be happy without the smallest\nstruggle or effort to attain this natural happiness. Irene believed\nin this so firmly and deeply, that it always amazed her to see people\nwinning success and worldly goods by means of intrigue and dishonesty.\n\n\u201cThe madmen!\u201d\u2014she thought to herself\u2014\u201chow can they not realize that they\nare building up their well-being on sand, and that each dishonest action\nmay turn out to be the one rotten beam through which the whole edifice\nwill fall to pieces?\u201d\n\nIrene often endeavoured to explain her theory to other people, and\nwas always astonished at their lack of trust in God\u2019s help, and their\nincomparably greater faith in their own \u201csmartness\u201d and roguery. How\ndid these blind mules manage not to see what was, to her, clear as day?\nAnd Irene profoundly regretted that she was not endowed with oratorical\ngifts, by means of which she might have helped to save these people from\nneedlessly wasting and misdirecting their energies.\n\nThe silent, dreamy girl carefully observed the lives of her\nacquaintances, and every time that any of them achieved some success,\nor suffered some misfortune, she tried to account for this circumstance\nby one or other of their preceding actions. I am afraid that in her\neagerness to prove, even to herself, the justice of her theory, she often\ndeceived herself, and dragged in irrelevant facts. She was sincerely\nhappy at the sight of virtue rewarded, and, though naturally anything\nbut cruel or revengeful, she nevertheless rejoiced triumphantly when\nwickedness was laid low! It is true that occasionally, under the\ninfluence of scientific books, which, as the years passed, held an\never-increasing attraction for Irene, she said to herself that people\nwere wicked owing to the particular construction of their skulls or\nspinal cords, and were as innocent of their own vice as the tiger is\ninnocent of his carnivorous nature. In the same way, it followed that it\nwas not only natural and easy for good people to be good, but that it\nwould be exceedingly difficult for them to act dishonestly, or in any way\ncontrary to their natures. There was, indeed, according to this theory,\nno such thing as the eternal struggle between good and evil\u2014there were\nonly on the one side healthy and therefore honest natures, and on the\nother, morally diseased and, therefore, cruel or vicious ones. But when\nIrene began to meditate on these ideas, there arose in her poor head\nsuch a confused chaos of tangled thoughts, that she hastily banished\nall scientific propositions, and returned to her old faith, in which\neverything was clear and simple.\n\nIrene worked carefully and untiringly at herself and her own moral and\nmental development. She not only did not admit of any dishonourable\naction, but severely admonished and persecuted herself for every bad\nthought, every shade of feeling, that tended towards envy or revenge.\nAnd so, as always happens when one works long and obstinately for the\nachievement of a certain result, Irene really succeeded in raising her\nown honour and integrity to a point beyond reproach. The loftier grew her\nown ideal, however, the more difficult she found it to reconcile herself\nto the weaknesses of others. Day by day, her requirements in connection\nwith her unknown hero increased, and day by day he became always more\ndifficult to find. She submitted every man who crossed her path to so\nsevere an examination that not one passed through it successfully. The\nyoung married women of her acquaintance, noticing how wistfully she\nlooked at their children, advised her to marry, even without love, only\nto become a mother and thus attain the one real aim, the one true\nhappiness that life can give to a woman. Irene listened to their advice\nwith amazement. According to her ideas, a woman had no right to bring a\nnew life into the world unless she had found a man who could pass on to\nthe child only the highest and most irreproachable moral qualities. Such\nan idea is, of course, fundamentally good and logical\u2014but, unfortunately,\nit is also somewhat difficult to carry out! Nature is so fantastic and\ncapricious, that sometimes a child may bear no likeness whatever to its\nideal parents, but may bear a striking and very unwelcome resemblance to\nsome long-forgotten black sheep great-grandfather! On the whole, indeed,\nresignation, and faith in God\u2019s mercy, are the most suitable frames of\nmind in this connection; but these are frames of mind that one could\nhardly expect from Irene! Idealists who passionately believe in their\nideals, hypnotize themselves and become the slaves of their own thoughts.\n\nAt thirty, in order to avoid any future moral torment at the appearance\nof a grey hair or a decayed tooth, Irene decided that she was an old\nwoman, and that there was no longer any occasion to think about love. She\nbegan to dress always in black, and assumed with men the air of an old\nmaiden aunt. Her dream now was only of friendship, and she longed for the\nwarmth of a friendly hearth.\n\nHer women friends, however, did not believe in her sincerity, did not\nconsider her as old as she imagined herself to be, and were afraid\nfor their husbands. Year by year, Irene felt herself to be always\nincreasingly lonely and isolated, and then, suddenly, came the Japanese\nWar.\n\nPride in Russia, and in Russia\u2019s might and wealth and brilliant\nfuture, was one of Irene\u2019s greatest joys. The Russian people seemed\nto her to be a race of chivalrous knights, ever ready to fight for\ntruth and Christianity, and to defend the weak and the persecuted.\nWhen the Japanese War broke out, she asked herself, with the sincerest\nastonishment, how such pitiful monkeys ever could have declared war\non such indomitable knights. She even pitied the Japanese for having\nfallen victims to such madness! Her despair and suffering at the news\nof our first failures is therefore easy to imagine. None of Irene\u2019s near\nrelations were at the war, but each of our losses, nevertheless, found\nits echo in her heart, like a personal misfortune. Overwhelmed with\ngrief, she attached no importance either to the Russian revolution, or\nto the reforms that followed. Like all passionate idealists when their\nideal is shattered, Irene rushed to the other extreme\u2014that of a profound\ncontempt for Russia.\n\nEverything became cold and indifferent to her in her homeland. She no\nlonger believed in anybody; she trusted neither the masses nor the\neducated classes. They were all cowards, they were all narrow, lazy, and\nignorant. She began to go abroad more frequently. There, in contrast,\neverything pleased her immensely. She admired the German peasants for\ntheir love of work, the Swiss for their orderliness, the French for their\nwit. In old days, after having passed three months abroad, she had always\ngrown homesick, and on reaching the Russian frontier, had felt inclined\nto embrace the very railway porters for their good-humoured Slavonic\nfaces! Now, she returned home with regret, found fault with Russian\narrangements, and looked with disgust at the endless, monotonous fields,\nat the dull, slumbering type of life and nature that slipped placidly\nalong outside the windows of the sleepy train.\n\nHer contempt for Russia was encouraged by the countless critical and\nscathing articles that appeared in the newspapers as a result of the\nnewly granted freedom of the Press. According to these articles all\nRussia\u2019s resources had been used up by drink and by robbery, and the\nwhole country was in a state of ruin and primitive savagery. They did\nnot attempt to explain why, all this being so, Russia had not, long\nago, died of starvation and famine, why our government stock stood\nhigher than before the war, and why Europe set as much value as ever on\nRussian opinion. But Irene, like most women, did not measure the rights\nand wrongs of the newspaper accusations. They were in tune with her\npessimistic mood, and she no longer believed in Russia, just as she no\nlonger believed in her own happiness.\n\nThe most cruel pain of all, however, was that occasioned by a gradually\nawakening doubt about the justice of her own beliefs. It seemed to\nher that, logically, it was time God rewarded her in some way for her\nscrupulous honesty, and she suffered at the absence of this reward. In\nobserving the lives of others, Irene could persuade herself that if they\nhad no outward success, they enjoyed the greater blessing of inner peace\nand happiness. It was difficult, however, to deceive her own self in\nthis matter; for, indeed, poor Irene not only had no happiness, but the\nboon of inner peace had not even been granted to her. Her soul had been\nwounded, torn, immersed in darkness and despair, from which there seemed\nno escape. And yet there, before her very eyes, wicked and dishonourable\npeople triumphed and rejoiced. How was this to be explained? Could her\ncredo have been a mistake, could she have been struggling and wandering\nall her life along the wrong path? Such an admission would have been,\nfor Irene, equal to suicide\u2014for she could never have reconciled herself\nto a world in which only wickedness and deceit triumph.\n\nLife in Russia grew at last so unbearable that she decided to emigrate.\nHer first idea was to go and live in England, with which country she was\nacquainted through the medium of her beloved English novels. By chance,\nhowever, Zola\u2019s \u201cRome,\u201d with its magnificent descriptions of Roman life,\nfell into her hands, and she suddenly felt drawn towards Italy. It is for\nthis reason that we find her, on this warm autumn day, sitting in the\ngarden of the Monte Pincio.\n\n\n\n\nII\n\n\nIrene\u2019s first impression on arriving in Rome was one of disappointment.\nHer imagination was impregnated with visions of the Roman Forum, of proud\nRomans in togas, of fighting gladiators, of the splendour of the Emperors\nand the dazzling luxury of the papal court. What wonder, then, if she\nalmost resented the many-storied houses, the shops, the tramways, and the\nprosaic crowd in its ugly, contemporary attire?\n\nHer disappointment, however, was only transitory, and in spite of her\ndepressed and gloomy state of mind, the magic charm of Rome soon won\nthe day over her low spirits. It is always, indeed, difficult for a\nnortherner to resist the sparkling and effervescent sense of gaiety which\nawakens in his heart under the rays of the southern sun.\n\nAt first, only the medi\u00e6val portion of the town absorbed and attracted\nIrene. She spent days in wandering through labyrinths of narrow, dirty,\nunpaved streets, where people, horses, donkeys, tramways, and bicycles\nmoved along, an apparently inextricable mass, in the uneven roadway. She\nfelt sad and sick at heart at sight of the miserable dwellings\u2014rather\nhovels than houses\u2014in which, till the present day, the poor of Rome\nfind shelter. What a contrast between these wretched abodes and the\nmagnificence of the neighbouring Palazzos, with their splendid courtyards\nand marble colonnades enclosing little gardens overgrown with palms and\norange-trees! Even the luxury of the Palazzos, however, depressed Irene.\nHer mind wandered back to the Middle Ages, and it seemed to her that\nshe had found the key to all the cruelty and injustice of those dark,\nbygone days. How could kindness and honour and mercy flourish in such\ngloomy palaces, in such dismal narrow alleys where God\u2019s sunlight never\npenetrated? No wonder, indeed, if humanity, having at last thrown off\nthe medi\u00e6val r\u00e9gime, hastened, immediately after the French Revolution,\nto escape from these labyrinths of dark and crooked alleys, and invented\na new type of towns, whose streets were broad and flooded with sunshine.\n\nThe only bright spots that relieved, to Irene, the gloom of medi\u00e6val\nRome, were the Piazzas, with their gorgeous fountains. Here was the best\nplace for observing the Roman crowd, a crowd always interesting and\ncharacteristic, even though robbed, in these days, of its picturesque\nnational costume.\n\nThere is a woman, hatless and coatless, in spite of the cold winter\u2019s\nday, sitting by the fountain with a child in her arms, drawing water and\nfinishing her _bambino\u2019s_ toilet in the open air. Opposite her, on the\ndoorstep of someone\u2019s house, a young carpenter is resting, having left\nthe new table he was carrying to a customer in the middle of the road, in\neveryone\u2019s way. The slight frown on his pink, dirty face distinctly says:\n\u201cGone are the good old times! Where are the bandits that used to hide\namong the ruins of the Campagna, and receive with open arms fellows like\nme, who love a gay, careless life, and have no mission for hard work?\u201d\n\nHis brothers in spirit, healthy, happy, lazy, young scamps, are\nloitering about the Piazza, with boxes of cheap mosaic trinkets, smiling\ncaressingly at passing Englishwomen, and saucily offering them their\ngoods: \u201cDes mosa\u00efques, madame? Tr\u00e8s jolies et pas ch\u00e8res!\u201d There is a\npassing _vetturino_ (cabman) raising his finger, and gazing fixedly at\nthe _forestiere_ (foreigner), implying with look and gesture an obliging\nreadiness to drive him to the end of the earth. Leaning against a column,\nthere stands the plague of contemporary Rome: a middle-aged guide, with\nthe face of a benevolent old father who has had no luck in life. He is\nmuffled up in a brightly coloured scarf, and with a massive walking-stick\nin his hand, he lingers beside a historical monument and awaits his\nvictim, the next unsuspecting and simple passing tourist. He stares\ngloomily at a crowd of shrieking street urchins, who have just emerged\nfrom a neighbouring alley. They are supposed to be selling newspapers,\nbut actually they are eternally fighting, rolling in the dust, throwing\nabout and soiling the newly printed journals. They are dispersed and\ndriven away with a stick by a tall, bent old man, picturesquely draped\nin an enormous grey cloth cloak with a fur collar. This garment the old\nman has dragged as a remembrance from the shoulders of a late faithful\nlodger, recently deceased at an extreme old age. The inconsolable\nlandlord is going to a _festa_, one of those solemn Masses, with a\nCardinal officiating, which are celebrated almost every day in one or\nother of Rome\u2019s innumerable churches. Behind his indescribably dirty\near, that has never been washed since his birth, he has tucked a red\ncarnation, as a sign of respect to the saint whose memory he is going to\nhonour.\n\nSuddenly, a group of wandering musicians show themselves on the Piazza.\nOne plays the violin, another blows a trumpet, while a third, in a\nbroken top-hat and a rusty overcoat, sings _canzonettas_, and dances.\nImmediately, a crowd collects. At all the open windows appear signoras\nwith black eyes and raven tresses, pushing away with their hands the\nrags hung out to dry. They are all laughing and screaming and chattering,\nthey are all happy. This is still the same pleasure-loving ancient-Roman\ncrowd, living more in the street than at home, and revelling in anything\nin the nature of a pageant. Arrange a gladiator\u2019s fight to-morrow in the\nColosseum, and they will all rush to the spot, and applaud the victor as\npassionately as ever did their ancestors.\n\nSometimes these Piazzas are the scenes of antiquarian markets. Light\nwooden booths are erected for the sale of old cassocks and other priestly\nvestments, pieces of material, embroideries, lace, old brooches,\nbracelets, fans, candlesticks in the shape of antique lamps, books\nprinted on faded yellow parchment, pictures, and statuettes. All this is\nbought up fast and feverishly by Englishwomen and Americans, whom the\nwily Romans deceive in the most ungodly manner.\n\nOn one such occasion, Irene, to her cost, asked the price of a piece\nof lace. The vendor, having asked a hundred lire, followed her twice\nround the Piazza, lowering his price at each step, and setting out in\ndetail all the tragic circumstances that were forcing him to part with\nsuch a treasure. He had received the lace as a present from the Marquise\nAbrakadabra-Abrakadabrini. This highly aristocratic name was undoubtedly\nfamiliar to the signora? His \u201cmamma\u201d had been the wet-nurse of the young\nMarchesina, so that he, Beppo, was her foster-brother. He had hoped to\nmend his fortunes for life by selling this priceless lace, but poverty\n(he spoke with great pathos, tragically smiting his chest)\u2014poverty,\nsignora, was obliging him to act hurriedly, and to abandon his last hope.\nAt least, he had the one consolation of knowing that this family treasure\nwas falling into the hands of such a sympathetic signora\u2014\u201c_Look out!_\u201d he\nscreamed suddenly, clutching hold of the shafts of a cab that threatened\nto run them over. He was only too happy to have been able to render the\nsignora two services: first, that of saving her life, since, but for his\nintervention, the _vetturino_ would undoubtedly have run over her; and\nsecond, that of selling her, for a song, a priceless piece of lace, in\nwhich the signora would look as beautiful as a queen.\n\nWhen he had dropped his price from a hundred lire to twenty, Irene, only\ntoo anxious to be rid of her irksome follower, paid him, and hurried\naway with her purchase, for which she had not only lost all interest,\nbut which she by that time positively detested. On her return home, she\nshowed it to the landlord of her _pension_. He shook his head pityingly,\ntwirled his finger in front of his nose, smacked his lips, and announced\nthat \u201cla pauvre signorina a \u00e9t\u00e9 vol\u00e9e comme dans un bois.\u201d\n\nIrene began to think that old, medi\u00e6val Rome had bewitched her. On many\noccasions, she started out with the intention of visiting some museum or\npicture gallery, but always it was as if some magic power was drawing\nher towards those dingy streets, with their stench and their dirt, and\ntheir smell of cookery, where the poor of Rome were preparing their\nunceremonious dinners out-of-doors. Perhaps, indeed, she may have felt\nthat there was something in common between those gloomy localities and\nher own joyless life.\n\nShe was greatly attracted by one grim-looking palace, situated at a\nparticularly dingy, dirty spot, in the neighbourhood of the Ghetto.\nA terrible deed had once been perpetrated in this palace. Its owner,\nthat famous Cenci, so noted for his depravity, had fallen in love with\nBeatrice, the daughter of his first marriage, and persecuted her with\nhis shameful desires. The whole family rose against the mad old villain,\nand, under the influence of her brothers and her step-mother, Beatrice\npoisoned her father. The crime was discovered, Beatrice was imprisoned,\nmade a full confession, and was executed.\n\nHaving heard by chance that a famous portrait of Beatrice Cenci, the work\nof Guido Reni, is preserved at the Palazzo Barberini, Irene went to see\nit. She expected to see a queenly, tragic beauty, and found, instead, a\nsimple girl, almost a child, in the very springtime of life\u2014an innocent\nyoung soul to whom love and passion can as yet have had no meaning. The\nartist has represented her in prison, dressed in the white prisoners\u2019\nattire. Her little face is worn and drawn through sleepless nights, her\nbeautiful eyes are red with tears, her little childish lips are swollen,\njust as all children\u2019s lips are swollen when they cry. The whole touching\nlittle face seemed to say quite clearly: \u201cYes\u2014I am a criminal! Everyone\ntells me that I must pay for my crime with my life; that I must leave\nthe lovely world that I love so much, leave the sunshine and the birds\nand the flowers, and go away into a cold tomb. What can I do? I have no\nstrength to protest! But you, who will live instead of me, do not curse\npoor Beatrice! Love her! Pity her!\u201d\n\nIrene\u2019s eyes filled with tears as she looked at this martyred child, and\nshe hid her face under her veil to hide her emotion. Other visitors to\nthe Palazzo Barberini were also weeping and trying to conceal their tears.\n\n\u201cYou are revenged, little Beatrice!\u201d thought Irene. \u201cThousands are\nweeping at your sad fate, and are cursing your tyrants.\u201d\n\nIrene soon became known in her _pension_ as the tourist who had been\nliving in Rome for three months and had not seen the Forum. All the\nEnglishwomen in the house, deeply shocked at this omission, persuaded,\nimplored, and at last forcibly dragged her there. From that moment,\nthe charms of the medi\u00e6val city vanished for her, and she lost herself\nentirely in the antique world.\n\nThe weather was warm and sunny. The colossal walls of ruined ancient\npalaces and shrines, that must surely have been built for giants, stood\nout in relief against the blue sky. The silence was intense, the Roman\nseason had not yet begun. Unknown crowds of English travellers had not\nyet descended from the Swiss mountains, nor sailed across the waters\nfrom Egypt. Irene felt quite at home among the ruins. She wandered for\ndays among the ruins of the Forum and the Palatine, trying to imagine\nthe life of the past, when the sun shone down not on the crumbling\nstones before her but on a world of glistening marble and pagan luxury;\nwhen the immense sculptured gods, sheltered at present in the galleries\nof the Vatican, rose on their pedestals high above the heads of the\ngorgeous crowd with its classic draperies and its garlands of flowers,\nworshipping, offering sacrifices, burning incense. What a beautiful, gay,\ntriumphant picture! Why did it all end? What could have driven these\npeople away from their beloved green hills, down to the unhealthy banks\nof the Tiber and those dirty, dark alleys? And why are people now in\ntheir turn moving away from these alleys and returning to the hills and\nthe sunshine, and a new, healthier life?\n\nFor the first time the thought occurred to Irene that the world, like\neach individual human being, must gradually pass through all the\ndifferent periods of life. First, the early years, with their faltering\nsteps and their uncertain memory. Then, at about five years old, the\nbeginning of gay, happy, early childhood, white raiment, crowns and\ngarlands and flowers, dance and song and laughter and summer-time. Dolls\nare indispensable at this age\u2014modelled of clay, hewn out of stone,\ncarved in wood, at first very primitive and clumsy like those of the\nEgyptians, then always more and more lifelike, and finally perfected by\nthe Greeks. And like a child who, having made itself a rag doll, takes it\nseriously and endows it with all sorts of qualities, so the Greeks and\nRomans place the gods they have made on pedestals, and call them Jupiter\nthe terrible, Venus the passionate, Amor the little rogue, Minerva the\nwise, etc.\n\nThey dance around their gods with the careless gaiety of childhood; they\nlove gorgeous processions, banquets, chariot-racing, and gladiators\u2019\nfights for life or death, upon which they look with laughter, since pity\nis to them, as to all children, a thing unknown.\n\nBut time passes, and the child grows older. New ideas and requirements\nawaken in him; games and gaiety lose their interest. He grows pensive,\npale, and thin, and he feels the need of suffering and tears. Irene\nremembered how, at the age of seven, she had suddenly experienced a\ngreat desire to fast during all the seven weeks of Lent. Pale, fragile\nchild as she had been, such privation had weakened her terribly; but\nincredible as it may seem, with a strength gleaned Heaven knows from\nwhere, she had actually held out to the end! She remembered also certain\nreligious pilgrimages in the small provincial town, near which she had\nsometimes passed the summer with her father. Many a time in the torrid\nheat of a sultry July day had she walked for four or five hours through\nclouds of dust, along a rough, uneven road, in a procession behind an\nikon, returning home half dead with fatigue, but unable to sleep, through\nsheer religious exaltation. Her thoughts, too, wandered back to the\nneighbouring convent, whither she had often gone to pray, and where,\nhaving attended vespers, she had sometimes stood through the whole night\nin prayer, soaring on the wings of a religious ecstasy, and feeling no\nfatigue. Her young soul had needed these raptures, fasts, and prayers.\nIt had needed also the food of legends, and the more wonderful, the more\nsupernatural these legends the dearer had they grown to her imagination.\nHer mind had acknowledged no logic, and had needed none.\n\nDid not the same thing happen to the world in the Middle Ages, that\nperiod of Humanity\u2019s later childhood? Christianity, or rather its\nrites and ceremonies (since its real meaning was unattainable to\nthese children), was accepted with enthusiasm, because these rites\nand ceremonies exactly answered the requirements of the age: ecstasy,\nmartyrdom, torture rapturously borne, na\u00efve and lovely legends. Humanity\nwould have no more of dolls and toys, and wrathfully destroyed the\nstatues of the gods. Later on, in more recent times, those same people\ntenderly and lovingly collected the broken fragments of the statues and\npreserved them in their museums as cherished remembrances of childhood.\nIt is thus that a grown-up man will pay a large sum for a broken doll, or\nfor a faded coloured print that amused him in his early days.\n\nJust as modelling is the heritage of babyhood, so painting is the delight\nof childhood. First come na\u00efve little drawings, like the work of the\nPrimitives, in which the figures of saints of high religious rank are\nmade twice as large as those of their inferiors, or like the pictures of\nPerugino and his school, in which the infant Christ is depicted wearing a\ncoral ornament similar to those put round the necks of Italian children\nto save them from the evil eye!\n\nDay by day, art develops and grows more perfect, reaching its apotheosis\nalmost simultaneously in all the countries of Europe. Yet in all their\nmagnificence and perfection, something na\u00efve and childlike remains even\nin the works of the great masters. They draw pictures from the life of\nChrist, for instance, with background and accessories of the Middle Ages.\nThey represent some Pope in all his Catholic vestments and with his papal\ntiara kneeling humbly before the Virgin, with the Child in her arms. They\nare not in the least disturbed by the thought that if a Roman Pope exists\nat all, it is only because this Christ Child grew up, and because His\nApostles founded the Church. Their childish mind does not occupy itself\nwith such contradictions, and Michael Angelo gives to the world his\nfamous Pi\u00e8ta, a magnificent marble group, in which the Virgin Mother is\nyounger than her Son.\n\nThe defenceless child, unable to revenge himself on his tyrants and\ntormentors, loves to console himself with dreams of how the Divine\nPower\u2014God and His angels, the Archangel Michael with a sword in his\nhand\u2014will descend from heaven to help him. The wicked will be burnt in\nhell, and he, the offended and insulted one, will receive his reward in\nParadise. Had he not this dream and this consolation, life would indeed\nbe too heavy a burden.\n\nBut the child grows up, and reaches adolescence. He stands on the\nthreshold of life, and the school-bench is left behind him. School has\ntaught him but little\u2014a few facts and some elementary information. But\nhe has learnt to reason logically, and to examine the solid foundations\non which the world rests. He begins to apply his logic to everything,\nand when he approaches religion, doubt trembles in his soul. The absurd\nimprobability of the legends of the Middle Ages disgusts him, and at the\nsame time he is obsessed by the fear of remaining without a religion, a\nfear which has been inculcated into his mind by his entire upbringing.\nCalm and cold-blooded people think it all out, and become confirmed\nAtheists. Not so, however, those others with fervent, burning souls!\nPoor Tolstoy, in the wrath of his old age, destroys and insults the\nvery elements on which he has founded and formed his life, and, having\ninsulted them, goes to church as before, prays humbly among beggars,\nthrows himself into a monastery, and dies of despair on the highway.\n\nHow many such martyrs are there in our days! With tears and sobs they\nfall on their knees, stretch forth their hands to Heaven, and cry from\nthe depths of their souls: \u201cGod! show me some miracle that I may again\nbelieve in Thee! It is only through Thy wonders and miracles worked in\nthe early days of Christianity that people turned to Thee and believed.\nWhy were these early Christians dearer to Thee than I? I love thee; it\nis hard for me to tear myself away from Thee! A miracle, a miracle, I\nbeseech Thee! I will then believe _anything_, even what is against all\nreason and logic\u2014only come to my help I implore Thee! Give me a sign or a\nmiracle!\u201d\n\nBut there are no more miracles, and death and despair enter like iron\ninto the soul of the sufferer.\n\n\n\n\nIII\n\n\nLike most Roman _pensions_, that in which Irene was staying was teeming\nwith old maids of all nationalities. There must be some mysterious wind\nthat blows them from all corners of the earth to the Eternal City. They\ngo there in the hope of finding peace and spiritual rest, and their hope\nis almost always justified. What wonder indeed? For Rome is not a town;\nit is a picturesque cemetery, glorified by a golden sunset. On active,\nlife-loving people it produces a gloomy impression; but to those who\nlet life slip past them this cemetery is dear and precious. In other\ntowns these lifeless people feel strange and out of place; the storm and\nstress, the feverish rush of life in a modern city shocks and angers\nthem. In Rome one cannot think either of the present or the future.\nOne\u2019s thoughts linger in the past, and one is interested only in those\nwho have long ago crumbled into dust in their graves.\n\nIrene did not like old maids. She saw in these \u201cbrides of Christ\u201d\nsomething incomplete, something eternally expectant. She avoided their\nsociety, and associated preferably with married women, calling herself\njokingly an \u201cold bachelor,\u201d an appellation that struck her as less\ndisagreeable than the more usual one, which she refused to admit.\n\nHowever, having unavoidably come into contact with most of her fellow\nvisitors at the _pension_, she discovered that the maiden ladies of Rome\nwere unlike their sisters elsewhere. They had peculiarly bright, gay,\nsometimes even radiant faces. Irene also noticed that between four and\nfive o\u2019clock in the afternoon some of them daily began to show signs of\nagitation. They blushed, made attempts at personal elegance, smartened up\ntheir modest black dresses by the addition of a lace collar or a bunch\nof fresh violets, solicitously saw to the arrangements of their little\ntea-tables, and constantly threw impatient glances at the door. The\nanxiously expected guests always turned out to be severe and majestic\nCatholic priests, before whom the ladies were tremulously shy. Irene\nassumed that the latter were probably newly converted Catholics, and her\nsupposition was confirmed by a charming middle-aged English lady of an\nimpoverished but famous old family, to whom Irene felt greatly drawn.\nLady Muriel related that she had, the previous year, during a stay with\nrelations in Ireland, made the acquaintance of a Catholic priest, \u201ca most\nremarkable man,\u201d and that now she was happy to say she had been converted\nto the Catholic faith.\n\n\u201cI had thought,\u201d she murmured, \u201cthat life was over for me, but now I see\nthat it is only just beginning, and that happiness is before me. The\nCatholic faith is so warm, so tender, so consoling!\u201d\n\nAfter this, Irene observed the Fathers and their spiritual daughters\nwith redoubled interest. She was particularly attracted to an old French\nDominican, called P\u00e8re Etienne. His mother had been an Italian, and he\nhad inherited from her the Roman type. \u201cThe face of a proud patrician,\u201d\nthought Irene to herself. Like all Romans, P\u00e8re Etienne was severe\nand forbidding, but when he laughed, which happened often, and always\nunexpectedly, his face became astonishingly kind and sympathetic, and\nalmost childlike.\n\nLady Muriel introduced him to Irene, and from her very first conversation\nwith him Irene felt such a sympathy for P\u00e8re Etienne, that, to her\nown astonishment, she poured out to him the whole story of her life,\nwith all its doubts and fears and disappointments. The priest listened\nattentively, but evidently with disapproval, and when, in answer, he\nlaughed a little at her faith\u2014not the orthodox faith, of course, but her\nown personal ideas\u2014Irene felt like a silly little girl who has received a\nscolding.\n\n\u201cYou have invented this faith yourself,\u201d he said. \u201cIt has nothing in\ncommon with Christianity. You Russians are all revolutionaries. Your\npriests do not teach you the principal thing, the love and fear of God\nand of His divine wisdom and might. Your attitude towards God is quite\nunceremonious. You make conditions and contracts with Him as if He were\na simple mortal. You have not advanced far beyond the ideas of your\nfellow-countrymen the Samoyedes, who first make sacrifices to their\nwooden gods and then beat them if they do not grant their prayers. When\nyou Russians think you are passing from Orthodoxy to Catholicism, you are\nactually passing from paganism to Christianity.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd where did you get the notion,\u201d he asked on another occasion, \u201cthat\nChrist promised His followers happiness in this life? On the contrary,\nChrist said repeatedly, \u2018_My kingdom is not of this world._\u2019 And, indeed,\nhow could He reign here, among the pitiful creatures who people this\nearth, worms that strive only for empty, worldly pleasures, and cannot\nraise their eyes to the stars? Were He to appear anew among them, with\nHis mild humility and saintliness, would the vulgar mind understand Him?\nNo; our present-day Christians would laugh Him to scorn, and though they\nwould not, perhaps, lead Him to Golgotha, they would certainly turn away\nwith a mocking smile. The kingdom of Christ is indeed beyond the grave,\nin another and more perfect world, to be attained only by purified souls\nwho, already during their lifetime, have renounced earthly joys, and, by\nmeans of meditation, fasting, and prayer, have conquered the body, and\ntheir lower natures. Great joy and happiness awaits them in Heaven, and\nit is thither, my daughter, that your hopes must be directed. It is in\nthe Kingdom of the Future that you must expect justice, and not in this\nvain world, from which but few will succeed in saving their souls.\u201d\n\nThe priest spoke with enthusiasm. His face shone with the light of\ninspiration. It was as though his eyes already saw the bliss of Christ\u2019s\nkingdom and those Heavenly joys of which he was so firmly convinced.\n\nHis words made a great impression on Irene. Until that time, she had\nnever thought much about the future life. \u201cWhy trouble oneself,\u201d her\ncommon sense had argued, \u201cabout something that no one has ever seen? What\nmust be, will be, and premature curiosity is useless.\u201d\n\nNow, however, hearing these burning words of P\u00e8re Etienne, she\ninvoluntarily thought to herself: \u201cIs it possible that he really\nbelieves what he says?\u201d And at the same time, she felt that the inspired\nenthusiasm of the kind old priest was beginning to influence her. Like\nmost people of our day, Irene was interested in hypnotism, and it had not\ninfrequently, in moments of despair, occurred to her to apply for help to\nsome famous hypnotist. She had been restrained only through fear of the\nconsequences that might accrue from putting herself under the power of\na perfect stranger. Supposing, having cured her of her gloomy state of\nmind, he should turn her into a criminal, and make her steal or murder?\n\nNow, however, looking into the noble face of the old priest, Irene\nunderstood and felt that he could lead her along the right path. Oh! if\nhe could succeed in giving her back her former faith! He had convinced\nother poor girls. And what happiness shone from their pale faces!\n\nIrene caught at P\u00e8re Etienne as a drowning man at a straw. It is thus\nthat a man suffering from an incurable disease flies to some quack or\nself-styled magician, gazes excitedly at mysterious herbs, and is already\nhalf assured that in them, and only in them, lies salvation. As for P\u00e8re\nEtienne, the kind-hearted old man enthusiastically and zealously threw\nhimself into the work of saving Irene\u2019s soul, and arranging her life.\n\n\u201cYou are deeply mistaken,\u201d he assured her, \u201cwhen you think that you have\nlost time uselessly, and have lived your life in vain. On the contrary,\nyou have achieved much. You have passed through all your troubles with a\npure heart. You have not made compromises with your conscience. You have\nlooked on sadly while goodness and justice suffered, and sin was loaded\nwith honours; but the idea has never occurred to you\u2014as it does, alas! to\nmany\u2014that if sin is so successful, why not join its followers? You have\nresisted the temptation of such a thought. Your soul was dearer to you\nthan the glitter of worldly success. You struggled with wicked thoughts,\nand emerged victoriously from the struggle. This is a great happiness,\nmy daughter. Thank God for giving you a strong will and a pure heart.\nIt is a sign that you are one of His chosen ones. But you must not stop\nhalf-way. Throw off that spirit of despair! Forget all earthly cares!\nDraw yourself apart from the world and its ways, and consecrate yourself\nto God. It is necessary for you, without losing more time, to enter a\nconvent.\u201d\n\n\u201cA convent?\u201d exclaimed Irene.\n\n\u201cYes, a convent. You need silence and rest. With your nature, life will\nalways perturb and dismay you. You do not understand that the triumph\nof the wicked is temporary, and that they are all on the eve of their\nundoing. You are unable to realize this. It is necessary for you to cut\nyourself off once and for all from every contact with them, to withdraw\nyourself into silence, and to occupy yourself with prayer and the reading\nof sacred books. You are proud to call yourself a Christian, but do you\nintimately know the Holy Writ? Have you often in your life read the\nGospel? Be sincere\u2014confess!\u201d\n\nIrene was obliged to confess, with a blush, that she had never once\nread it through in its entirety, and had contented herself with what\nreligious instruction she had received at school, and with the extracts\nfrom the Gospel that she had heard read out at church.\n\n\u201cThere! That\u2019s just it. I had foreseen that,\u201d exclaimed the priest. \u201cAnd\nyet it is only on reading and studying the Gospel that many things become\nclear. Read it, and a divine peace will steal into your heart. This great\nHoly Book will take, for you, the place of all others. Day by day, your\nformer despair will be replaced by hope, and your soul will be filled\nwith joy and rapture. You have suffered agonies of doubt, and you well\nknow how unbearable they are. Now you stand on the threshold of that\nincomparable bliss that only true faith can give. Et Dieu viendra causer\navec vous, ma fille. Vous serez une de ses \u00e9lues, et Il vous honorera\nde Sa Parole. Remember the elect in the Bible, who were found worthy of\nintercourse with God, but who nevertheless remained human.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how can I?\u201d said Irene reflectively \u201cLeave the world? Leave all\nhuman ties and associations for ever? But that is terrible!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat has that world, what have those human ties given you? Can you call\nto mind a single hour, a single moment of real happiness, even the shadow\nof happiness?\u201d\n\nIrene had to admit the absence even of that shadow.\n\n\u201cThere! You see it yourself. You are afraid of a convent; but, do you\nknow? you have been a nun for a long time.\u201d\n\nIrene opened her eyes wide.\n\n\u201cYes; it is so. Look round at your own life. You live virtuously, you\nhardly associate with men at all. Balls and theatres have long ceased\nto interest you. You dress in dark colours, and you yourself told me\nonly recently that you eat very little meat, but prefer living mostly\non vegetable diets. You have no specially near and dear relations, and\nfeel a contempt even for your country. What, then, can attach you to the\nworld?\u201d\n\n\u201cReally\u2014I don\u2019t know. Liberty, independence\u2e3a\u201d\n\n\u201cYes; but in a convent, also, you will retain the liberty to think, to\nread, to enjoy and love nature\u2014and your requirements do not go beyond\nthis. If, for instance, you were in love, and were dreaming of someone,\nthis would be a great obstacle to convent life, and I should, in such a\ncase, be the first to dissuade you from it. But I believe such is not the\ncase?\u201d\n\nAnd P\u00e8re Etienne gazed scrutinizingly into her face.\n\n\u201cOh! you can set your heart at rest about that,\u201d laughed Irene. \u201cMen\nnever played a great part in my life, and lately I have left off paying\nany attention to them at all. Besides, I really don\u2019t think I have any\ntemperament.\u201d\n\n\u201cPerhaps you may be greatly mistaken!\u201d The exclamation fell from the\nlips of P\u00e8re Etienne accidentally. He was evidently provoked at his own\ncareless words, and hastened to add that he had little acquaintance with\nNorthern natures.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d he continued, \u201cif man\u2019s love does not attract you, that is\nevidently a special grace of God, and it shows His particular mercy to\nyou. Now is the time to flee to a convent, while yet no human influence\ncan disturb your peace. A late love would be a great misfortune for\nyou. To be happy in the married state, one must enter it in early\nyouth, before the character of the girl is completely formed. Only on\nthese conditions does the young wife submit to all the requirements of\nmarried life, and grow gradually accustomed to them. She understands\nthe character of her husband, adjusts herself to it, and so finds her\nhappiness. You, having passed all your youth on coldly polite terms with\nmen, have estranged yourself too much from them. You know nothing about\ntheir characters, and neither they nor you could ever give happiness,\none to the other. There would only be mutual misunderstanding and great\nsuffering. Pray that this cup may be for ever removed from you.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I assure you, the question does not interest me in the least.\nAbsence of faith troubles me infinitely more. How can I enter a convent,\nwhen I do not, perhaps, believe what is most important of all?\u201d\n\nP\u00e8re Etienne smiled indulgently.\n\n\u201cFaith,\u201d he answered, \u201clike everything else in the world, is not given to\nus all at once, but only after long and patient effort. Carry out your\nmonastic duties, go to church and pray at the given times, read sacred\nbooks, and, little by little, faith will penetrate into your heart.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, allow me! How is this? Do you advise me to pray at first\nmechanically, almost without believing?\u201d asked Irene incredulously. \u201cBut\nthat would be hypocrisy, a mockery of religion!\u201d\n\n\u201cDo not children begin by praying mechanically? This does not prevent\ntheir praying consciously and sincerely later on. It will be so with you\nalso. Do not let this dismay you.\u201d\n\nP\u00e8re Etienne did not hurry her to decide; but the thought of taking the\nveil had sown its seed in Irene\u2019s heart.\n\n\u201cYes,\u201d she thought. \u201cP\u00e8re Etienne is right. After a certain age, it is\nbest for unmarried women to bury themselves in convents. In the world,\neverything only irritates and tortures their souls: little children,\nwith their adorable little faces, happy lovers, gazing tenderly into\neach other\u2019s eyes, passionate music singing of love, all this happy,\nearthly life, in which they have no place. In a convent, on the other\nhand, far from worldly books, papers, news, rumours, their nerves are\ngradually quieted, and a regular life and untroubled sleep cures their\ntortured souls.\u201d\n\nA little earlier, the idea of being converted to the Roman faith would\nhave frightened Irene; but, having lived a few months in Rome, she had\ngrown to love the Catholic church and clergy. From the first days of\nher arrival, she had been interested in the students of the various\ntheological colleges and seminaries, whom, in their picturesque costumes,\nsome scarlet, some mauve, some black with coloured belts, one meets in\nRome at every step. Irene loved to observe their intelligent faces, and\ntheir attentive, scrutinizing glances.\n\nIt seemed strange to her, at first, to see these future priests on the\nPincio at the fashionable hour, contemplating elegant ladies in splendid\ncarriages, or to meet them at teas and dinners in the fashionable hotels.\nBut, on thinking this over, she came to the conclusion that this, to\nher, new and unaccustomed Catholic system of educating the priesthood was\nperfectly rational. In order to wield an influence over the great social\nworld, it is indispensable to know its thoughts and ideals, and to share\nits manners, its bringing up, and its education.\n\nIn their free time the students see Rome, visit museums and\npicture-galleries, learn to distinguish one school of art from another,\nand to decipher the inscriptions and hieroglyphics on ancient sarcophagi.\nThe theological colleges belong to various countries, and among the\nstudents\u2014Englishmen, Germans, Frenchmen and Poles\u2014are many people of good\nsociety, and sons of famous aristocratic families.\n\nIrene reflected with some bitterness that only in Russia is the\nguardianship of religion left in the hands of grasping peasants. The\nvery name of a seminarist is connected, in Russia, with the idea of\ncoarseness. The education, the mental development of the priesthood is\non the lowest level, and social life is entirely unknown to them. A\nyouth who has barely finished his course at the seminary, is hurriedly\nordained, and rushed off to some village in the depths of the country,\nwhere the sheep of his fold, rough, wild peasants, teach their young\npastor to drink. Should he have the luck to be sent to a large town, his\nknowledge of life and of social ways and customs is so small that he can\ndo no good whatever to his parishioners. On the contrary, he irritates\nthem by clumsy tactlessness when hearing confessions, by wild sermons,\nand an unceremonious attitude towards the holiest things. He turns\nhis church into a shop, where he sells ikons, candles, calendars, and\ncountless other trifles, from which he tries to make as good an income\nas he can. Sick at heart, Irene remembered how priests at home, while\nholding out the cross to be kissed by worshippers before leaving church,\ncontinued mumbling a special service they were supposed to be celebrating\nafter Mass in honour of some saint, standing the while with their backs\nto the ikon of the said saint, and hardly troubling to give the responses\nto the co-officiating deacon. She remembered also a scene witnessed at\na service before a miracle-working ikon, in a provincial monastery,\nwhere the drunken priest and the equally drunken deacon had quarrelled\nand abused each other in the intervals between the prayers. Unhappily,\nindeed, such and similar occasions were none too rare, and they rankled\nin Irene\u2019s mind, wounding her heart and shaking the foundations of her\nrespect for Orthodoxy. Just before her departure from Russia, she had\nhappened to be present at a little improvised religious meeting arranged\nat the house of a friend for a small group of schoolgirls of the higher\nsocial circles. They all arrived looking very excited and inspired, and\ntheir little youthful faces wore serious and attentive expressions. How\nmuch holiness and goodness could at such a moment have been sown in those\ninnocent young souls by an enlightened pastor! And how did the Russian\npriest, invited to speak to these children, use the occasion? The\nserious, solemn old veteran mounted the platform and spoke for a whole\nhour about the advisability of eating during Lent, only the particular\nkind of butter prescribed for such periods, and the sinfulness of eating\nthe ordinary kind!\n\nIrene had watched the faces of the listening girls, and had seen\nreflected on them surprise, uncertainty, and at last flushes of\nindignation. They had come for a piece of bread, and had been given a\nstone.\n\nNothing of this kind was to be seen in Roman churches. The priests\nofficiated with reverence at the altars, assisted by their little\nacolytes, while the r\u00f4le of the deacon and the sub-deacons and the choir\nwas carried out by the congregation itself. Seated on chairs, with\nprayer-books in their hands, the people followed the service, gave the\nresponses, and sang the prayers. Sermons were preached by gifted and\neloquent preachers, usually in the evening, quite apart from any service,\nand these sermons always drew large and eager crowds of listeners.\n\nIn Russia, Irene had gained the impression that the Catholic Church\nwas nothing so much as dry and scholastic, stifling all individual\nthought, and destroying all culture. In Rome, this erroneous idea was\nsoon dissipated, and she realized that Catholicism had, on the contrary,\nthrough all the centuries of its existence, faithfully served the cause\nof progress. The Roman Popes had all been connoisseurs of art. They had\nsurrounded themselves with great painters and sculptors, had given them\norders, and had encouraged them in every possible way. They had collected\nand religiously preserved old books and manuscripts, had organized\nextensive excavations and researches, and had decorated the halls of the\nVatican and the Lateran with the antique statues they had discovered.\n\nCatholic schools and colleges had educated numbers of highly talented\npeople. Even that famous negator of Christianity, Renan, was also a\npupil of one of these institutions. The Catholic system of education\ndoes not stifle the intelligence\u2014on the contrary, it gives freedom and\nencouragement to the youthful imagination. Until now, in spite of every\nkind of persecution, monks and nuns are looked upon in Western Europe as\nthe best and most capable educators of the young. They put their whole\nsouls into their work, and receive in return the love and respect of\ntheir pupils.\n\nIrene thought of her own spiritual isolation, her loneliness and despair,\nduring the old days at home in Petrograd. She had had nowhere to go, no\none to whom to apply for comfort and advice, and each and everyone of her\nacquaintances had been as lonely and spiritually friendless as herself.\nIn Russia, she had considered the accepted cold relations between the\nfaithful and their spiritual fathers as perfectly natural; now, she had\nseen and appreciated the value of very different conditions.\n\nP\u00e8re Etienne was an old man, and suffered severely from asthma, so that\nto reach Irene\u2019s room on the second floor was no small matter, and left\nhim out of breath for some time after his arrival there. In spite of\nthis, however, he considered it his duty to go and see her every day, to\ncomfort her, to dissipate her doubts, and to renew her courage. It was\nher soul that was precious to him, and he exerted all his powers to save\nthis soul, and to lead it into the right channel.\n\nAll this astonished Irene. She had seen in her father\u2019s house how learned\nmen, almost all, as a rule ended by being Atheists and by regarding all\nreligions as childish sentimentalities.\n\nHow could these Catholic priests with their extensive education and\nintellectuality believe in na\u00efve Christian legends? She had imagined that\nthe Catholic Church had long ago abandoned these legends, but that having\nin its cleverness realized what centuries are needed for the transforming\nof an old religion into a new one, had allowed them to remain unrefuted,\nand to continue answering, as they did most satisfactorily, the spiritual\nnecessities of millions of people. There are, of course, naturally\nvirtuous souls who will always remain honest and true, and will always\nhate sin, to whatever religious opinions or negations they may adhere.\nBut are there many such? The majority of the human race is still so\nuncultured that religion is the only means of keeping them more or less\non the right path\u2014religion, the fear of hell, and the hope of heaven!\nAnd so, thought Irene, the Catholic Church had decided, for the time\nbeing, to pretend to believe everything; and, for the happiness of the\npeople, for the sake of law and order and culture, to resign not a single\nlegend, nor a single dogma. And Irene, with all her heart, justified and\napplauded this magnificent deception!\n\nShe had a great wish to see the Pope, and one day mentioned this desire\nto P\u00e8re Etienne. To her astonishment, however, he answered coldly that\nthis would be too great an honour for her, and that he was not yet\nsufficiently convinced of the sincerity of her faith to consider such an\nhonour justifiable.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d murmured Irene timidly, \u201cI am surely not asking for anything\nso extraordinary? His Holiness receives hundreds of Englishwomen and\nAmericans every week.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes!\u201d exclaimed the old man indignantly, \u201cand this is indeed a great\nabuse. These foreigners manage to get received, through sheer curiosity,\nand in order to be able to say to their friends at home: \u2018We have been\nto Rome, and we have seen both the Pope and an aristocratic Italian\nfox-hunt. Both were very interesting.\u2019 Don\u2019t you see that for us\u2014for true\nbelievers\u2014this is an insufferable insult?\u201d\n\nIrene felt confused and embarrassed. When, however, a short time later\nsome friends offered her a ticket for one of the great papal functions,\nshe could not resist the temptation, and, saying nothing to P\u00e8re Etienne,\naccepted, and decided to go to the Vatican.\n\n\n\n\nIV\n\n\nExcited anticipation kept Irene awake during the whole night previous\nto the great occasion. She rose with the dawn, and laid ready her black\ndress and black lace veil, the traditional costume of all pilgrims\nreceived by the Pope.\n\nThe ceremony was to take place at eleven o\u2019clock, but at ten Irene drove\nup to the Vatican, hoping to be one of the first to arrive. Alas! an\nextended line of carriages had already long been blocking the way to\nthe Portone di Bronzo, and, advancing slowly one by one, setting down\nladies in black lace and gentlemen in dress clothes. Like Irene, they had\nall counted on arriving first, and all contemplated, with undisguised\nastonishment, the dense crowd slowly making its way up the stairs. The\npredominating impression among this crowd was far less one of religious\nemotion than of excited curiosity. There were many Americans and Germans,\nwho had come to see a rare sight, in order to boast about it later on in\ntheir own countries. The eyes of these tourists sparkled with delight as\nthey gazed at the papal guards, who, in their medi\u00e6val costumes and their\npeculiar hats, looked as if they had just stepped out of pictures, as\nindeed did also the papal lackeys, in cherry-coloured brocade, with silk\nstockings and buckled shoes.\n\nIrene loved the Vatican. This medi\u00e6val fortress, with its numberless\nhouses, towers, courtyards, cemeteries, and gardens appealed strongly\nto her imagination. She loved, perhaps most of all, the splendid halls\nwith their frescoes and their beautiful antique statues. This, she\nthought, was _true_ luxury, in comparison with which the luxury of modern\npalaces, with their commonplace silk-panelled walls and their carpets and\npictures, grew pale and seemed almost vulgar. In the magnificent halls of\nthe Vatican the walls and ceilings were covered with frescoes by Raphael\nand Michael Angelo, and the ornaments consisted of antique porphyry\nsarcophagi, ancient mosaics, such as have never been equalled in more\nmodern times, and colossal marble vases and fonts, excavated from ancient\nbaths and shrines. Modern art has been able to add nothing to all these\npriceless treasures.\n\nAnd now Irene was gazing with rapture at the frescoed walls of\nthe immense Sala Clementina, into which, little by little, the\nextraordinarily mixed assemblage, whose like one can hardly meet\nanywhere, was making its way. There were foreigners shivering in\nfurs; aristocratic Roman ladies in elegant black dresses, long white\ngloves, and family pearls; prelates; cardinals; nuns in white starched\nheaddresses; Capucins in sandals, and with ropes round their waists;\nlittle girls in white dresses and lace veils, with curls framing their\nflushed, excited faces; officers of the papal guard; dominicans in\nwhite cloth cassocks; attach\u00e9s of the various foreign embassies in gold\nembroidered uniforms\u2014all this formed one heterogeneous, palpitating mass\nof humanity. The variety of the crowd pleased and interested Irene.\nIt struck her that all this was just as it should be in the Palace of\nthe Roman Pontiff, the only sovereign who acknowledged neither rank nor\nposition nor class distinctions, and who did not surround himself with a\nChinese wall, guarded by a handful of privileged people, in no way more\ndeserving than their fellows. \u201cIt is in most countries these privileged\nclasses,\u201d thought Irene, \u201cwho by energetically pushing to a safe distance\nfrom the precincts of the throne all who really work for the good of\ntheir country, always manage artificially to create enemies for their\nKing.\u201d The Pope believed in a very different policy. He was accessible to\neverybody, without distinction of nationality, faith, or social position,\nand he was ready to receive and to bless everyone alike. Perhaps, indeed,\nit may be owing to this wise policy that no attempt has ever been made\non his life, in spite of the fact that the Vatican employs neither spies\nnor secret guards. Such a Court, thought Irene, should have existed under\nConstantine the Great or Louis IX.\n\nThe ceremony of presenting consecrated candles to the Pope (_dei ceri\nbenedetti_) was to take place in the neighbouring Sala del Trono. At\none end of this lofty, narrow, frescoed hall stood, under a baldaquin,\nthe golden throne of the Pope; at the other end, a great crucifix\nsupported by an angel. On either side of the central passage, kept\nclear by the Swiss guards, were long benches, on which were already\nseated various pilgrims, all trying to get as near as possible to the\nthrone. The best places had already long been taken by clergy of all\nnationalities, with enormous opera-glasses and firm intentions to\nmiss not the smallest detail of the interesting spectacle. Subdued\nexcitement reigned supreme in the half-darkened hall, with its drawn red\nblinds and its sparse, electric lights. There was a hushed murmur of\nlow-toned conversation\u2014everyone spoke in a whisper, except, of course,\nthe Americans, who exchanged silly little remarks and impressions in\nunceremonious, strident tones. A Frenchman, with a small pointed beard\nwas, in a loud voice, relating to someone something about an inn in\nNaples, where one could get excellent wine and macaroni. With the\nimpudence of a dull-minded Atheist, he smacked his lips over various\ndetails, keenly enjoying the paradox contained in the mere fact of\ndiscussing such things at the Vatican.\n\nHere and there in the crowd, however, could also be seen the rapturous\nfaces of youthful priests and young girls. Full of religious exaltation,\ntrembling with emotion, they kept their shining eyes fixed on the door\nbefore which stood the papal guards.\n\nAt last there was a wave of movement. The crowd rose, made as though\nit would fall on its knees, but thought better of the intention, and\nremained standing. Surrounded by his Court, His Holiness, in white\nraiment and a little white cap, passed to the throne, and, throwing a\nquick glance over the assemblage, took his place.\n\nAlong the central passage, between the benches, a procession of priests\nadvanced, two and two, holding in their hands long painted tapers,\ncovered with funny little fringed extinguishers. They approached the\nthrone, handed the tapers to attendants, fell on their knees, and kissed\nthe Pope\u2019s ring. On the beautiful face of the Pontiff shone a radiant\nsmile. He said a few words to each one, sometimes whispered in their\nears, and often laughed. This was not the face of a mighty sovereign,\nbut only that of a good, kind old man, who had long ago learnt that all\nsorrows, all dreams, all hopes, are soon over, and that life is short,\nand does not contain anything specially good or attractive. He was deeply\nsorry for all those expectant pilgrims, exciting themselves about nothing\nat all, awaiting Heaven knows what, and needlessly tiring themselves out;\nand all he could do was to help them with a kind word, a warm glance,\nand with the love that illumined his beautiful features. It seemed to\nIrene that, for the first time in centuries, a truly Christian pastor\nreigned in Rome, and one who in spirit resembled the first Christian\napostles, the builders of the Church. What a striking contrast between\nthis Pope and his surrounding Court! They, too, were all smiling at the\npilgrims; but what hypocrisy, what falseness and flattery, breathed in\nthose smiles! Their crafty faces were cold and indifferent. For them,\nthis ceremony was only one of the countless comedies in which they had\nconstantly to play parts. Two of these papal courtiers, both still young\nand handsome, were obviously posing before the aristocratic Roman ladies,\namong whom they probably had admiring friends.\n\nThe ceremony lasted a long time. The tapers, in the hands of the priests,\nmoved along in endless procession. Everyone was tired and hot, all faces\nwere flushed. The courtiers around the throne left off smiling, and\nmade no attempt to hide their fatigue. Only the Pope alone smiled as\nwarmly and caressingly as before upon each man who knelt before him. For\nhim, this was no ceremony, this was a human service, which he rendered\njoyfully.\n\nAt last, the final tapers were presented. His Holiness rose, blessed the\nbowing crowd, and left the hall. There was a general rush for the door.\nClose to Irene, a young French girl was heatedly disputing some point\nwith her mother.\n\n\u201cMais, il t\u2019a donn\u00e9 sa b\u00e9n\u00e9diction, ma ch\u00e8re,\u201d persuaded the mother. \u201cHe\nhas blessed us all. What more do you want?\u201d\n\nBut the girl was not consoled, and only looked sadly at the door, behind\nwhich the Pope had disappeared.\n\nIrene understood: she, too, felt sad at the thought that she would never\nagain see that beautiful Christian smile.\n\n\n\n\nV\n\n\nThe same evening, Irene announced to P\u00e8re Etienne that all her doubts\nwere at an end, and that she had decided to take the Veil. She would now\nonly ask him to find her a suitable convent.\n\n\u201cThere are many orders of nuns in Rome,\u201d answered the Father,\nreflectively, \u201ceach with a particular aim and purpose. There are sisters\nwho nurse the sick, and others who educate children. It seems to me that\nthe order most suited in your case is that of the S\u0153urs Mauves. They lead\nvery secluded lives, pray a great deal, and keep watch, night and day,\nover the Holy Sacrament. You can see them every day at Vespers in their\nChurch of Santa Petronilla in the Via Gallia.\u201d\n\nTrembling with emotion, Irene turned her steps towards this convent,\nhalf afraid of her own first impression. When she entered, the church\nwas almost empty. A few stray old men and old women were dreaming on\nchairs, waiting for the service. Like most modern Roman churches, Santa\nPetronilla was ablaze with gilding and profusely decorated with pictures.\nOn either side, up above, were galleries of quite theatrical appearance,\npainted mauve and white, the colours of the convent. A transparent, high,\ncarved partition divided the church into two parts: the one nearest the\nentrance for the public, the other, nearest the altar, for the nuns. At\npresent, all was dark and empty, only one feeble taper was burning on the\naltar.\n\nIrene took a seat in the first row, quite close to the partition, and\nprepared to contemplate her future surroundings. It was a long time\nbefore the silence was broken by the slow, dull sound of the church\nbells. The altar was suddenly brightly illuminated, and a procession\nof nuns appeared through the door. They entered in couples, knelt for\na moment, one couple at a time, before the altar, and then slowly,\ngracefully, with soundless footsteps, made their way to their places.\nThey were dressed in white robes with long trains, and wide mauve\nborders. White veils hid their faces, and fell at the back in graceful\nfolds over their trains. These veils were so thick, that it was\nimpossible to distinguish the ages of their wearers. With soft white\nhands, the nuns clasped the golden crosses on their breasts, as they\nslowly sank into their places, threw back their veils, and, directing\ntheir gaze to the altar, remained immovable in the most graceful of\nposes. Somewhere in the distance an organ began to play, and an invisible\nchoir sang a prayer, or, rather, a beautiful Italian operatic air.\n\nSomething long forgotten stirred restlessly in Irene\u2019s heart. \u201cBut these\nare my vestal virgins!\u201d she thought, with a thrill of emotion\u2014those\nbeloved vestal virgins that had always so deeply appealed to her\nimagination, and whose disappearance she had so often regretted. It\nseemed to her that no reforms and no amount of progress could ever\ngive back to women the high position occupied in ancient Rome by the\nhandmaidens of the goddess Vesta. Everyone had bowed before them; with\na movement of the hand they had the power to pardon prisoners condemned\nto death; they were present at all ceremonies, games, and performances,\nand formed the principal ornament of the Courts of the Roman Emperors.\nAnd here, suddenly, Irene had found them again, less mighty and less\ndazzling, perhaps, but more mysterious instead, and more poetical.\n\nThe service continued, and the church gradually filled with people:\nelegant ladies, dirty workmen, little old men and little old women, even\nsmall children brought there by religious nurses. They all joined in the\nhymns, and sang with the nuns. There was something strange and touching\nin the mingling of all those hoarse, old, untrained voices with the soft\nmusic of the choir, descending, like the song of angels, from the mauve\ngallery. Many of the worshippers were weeping bitterly, on their knees.\nFrom time to time the singing stopped, and one of the nuns, opening a\nprayer-book, read a prayer, in a soft, melodious voice. Irene watched\nher future companions with great emotion. They seemed so dignified, so\nrefined, so completely _comme il faut_; life among them, indeed, promised\nto be charming. Nothing in their habits and manners could ever jar on her\nor shock her. She remembered, with a shudder, the Russian nuns who wander\nfrom village to village, collecting money for the building of churches,\nlifting their dirty dresses high, and showing their equally dirty, red,\nrough, thick peasant legs.\n\nThe service came to an end. Slowly, gracefully, the white dignified\nfigures of the S\u0153urs Mauves floated away and disappeared. In their\nplaces appeared several fat, active little nuns, in short black robes,\nwith enormous mauve bows and little white veils. They extinguished the\ncandles, running from one candlestick to another, never forgetting their\nreverend genuflexion when passing the altar.\n\n\u201cServing-women,\u201d thought Irene, and the thought pleased her that she\nwould not, even in the convent, cease to be a lady accustomed to the\nservices of a maid. For a moment she was ashamed of the thought, but\nimmediately justified herself: \u201cOf course all idea of dirty work is\nimpossible in those long snowy robes, those white slippers, and floating,\nshimmering veils!\u201d\n\nIt was a still, warm evening, and the stars were beginning to show\nthemselves in the dark blue sky when Irene left the church. There was\npeace in her soul as she breathed in the balmy Southern air. \u201cThank God!\u201d\nshe said to herself. \u201cAt last I have found my vocation. What matter\nif I do not sufficiently believe? The principal thing is to sing, to\nread prayers, and to touch the hearts of all those unhappy, suffering\npeople, who come to pray with the nuns, believing in their purity and\nsaintliness.\u201d\n\nAlmost all unmarried women of a certain age suffer secret torments\nfrom the fact that they have actually no place in society. Irene was\nno exception to this rule, and she was happy at the thought that now,\nat last, she might be of some use in the service of humanity. To have\na special uniform\u2014an idea always dear to the Russian heart\u2014was also a\ngreat attraction. In imagination she tried on the picturesque dress of\nthose modern vestal virgins, making up her mind to be graceful, to float\nabout like a white spirit, to sing, and to read prayers melodiously.\n\nFrom that day, Irene never missed a single evening service in the Via\nGallia. The nuns were inaccessible to outsiders, and no stranger was ever\nadmitted to the convent\u2014an additional fact to play upon Irene\u2019s fancy.\nThe convent stood on a hill. Luxurious palms and fragrant Roman pines\nleaned over its high garden walls, and Irene saw, in imagination, the\nsmall, interior courtyard, with its covered verandah, its slim, carved\ncolumns, its murmuring fountain, its Southern foliage and flowers. She\npictured to herself the early morning; she heard the measured tones of\nthe melodious convent bells calling the sisters to prayer; then she\nthought of the evening, of a golden Roman sunset, a purple sky, faint,\nglistening stars, and the _Ave Maria_.\u2026\n\nHow beautiful, how poetical, seemed her future life, with its prayers,\nits meditations, its rapturous exaltation, its Gospel-readings, its\nsoft singing, its incense! An enchanted existence in a Southern clime, a\nsweet, mystical dream, and then\u2014death, followed by a probable awakening\nto some new and glorious life!\n\nThe news of Irene\u2019s decision created a great sensation in her _pension_.\nAlthough nothing was definitely settled between herself and P\u00e8re Etienne,\neveryone else knew which order she had chosen, and on which day she was\nto be received. Some even went so far as to name the dressmaker who\nwas making her convent robes. They all constantly stared at Irene, and\npointed her out to their visitors.\n\nOne afternoon, she happened to accompany P\u00e8re Etienne to the hall-door,\nat the hour when the complicated business of afternoon tea was in\nprogress. Small bamboo tables were scattered about between Chinese\nscreens and immense palms, and at one of these tables, some distance\naway from the door, sat a good-natured, pleasant little Russian old\nlady, giving tea to a fellow-countryman, a tall, handsome, energetic,\nyoung-looking Russian of about forty, with an occasional grey thread in\nhis thick, dark hair. The old lady, with a whispered remark, pointed\nIrene out to her visitor. He looked round with some curiosity, and then\nmuttered, with a frown:\n\n\u201cWhat is this stupid, new fashion? Our women seem unable to look at a\nRoman priest without renouncing Orthodoxy!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nVI\n\n\nA magnificent January moonlight night had wrapped the world in its\nsilence. Rome was nestling in the warm, pale blue air; there were\nfantastic shapes and shadows everywhere; the magic of the darkness\nhad wiped out all contrasts between ruins and modern buildings, and\neverything alike, churches, houses, streets, seemed unreal and enchanted.\n\nMost beautiful of all, however, was the Colosseum, towards which Irene\nturned her steps that night. Like all foreigners, she had considered it\nher duty to see this famous ruin by moonlight, and had on a previous\noccasion visited it for this purpose, in company with several of the\ntourists staying at her _pension_. Their commonplace expressions of\ndelight, however, had entirely spoilt the impression for her, and this\ntime, tempted by the clear moonlight, she decided to go alone, and enjoy\nthe unique beauty of the Colosseum in solitude.\n\nFate was kind to Irene. The enormous circus was entirely deserted but\nfor the almost invisible shadows of a few distant tourists, and the\noutline of a tall man standing at the entrance, wrapt in admiration of\nthe grandiose spectacle. Irene had just seated herself on a stone, when\nsuddenly out of the shadows, as though from nowhere, sprang the figure of\nan old guide, declaiming pathetically, and addressing himself to Irene:\n\n\u201cVoici ce fameux Colis\u00e9e, ce cirque \u00e9patant, o\u00f9 les malheureux chr\u00e9tiens\u2e3a\u201d\n\nIrene was so annoyed, that she cried out, and even shook her umbrella at\nhim. The guide cut short his eloquence, and turned away grumbling. Irene\nsuddenly felt ashamed. She followed the poor old man and offered him\nmoney, but the proud Roman refused. Cursing Irene and all her relations\nand friends, and expressing the wish that her first-born might be burnt\nin hell, he withdrew with dignity.\n\nIrene turned round. The tall Russian had been watching the scene with\ninterest. They looked at each other, and both involuntarily laughed.\n\n\u201cWhat a good thing you drove away that old parrot!\u201d said the stranger.\n\u201cThese guides simply spoil Italy for foreigners. I am sure tourists would\nwillingly pay a tax for their benefit, only to be rid of them, and to\nbe allowed to admire Italy\u2019s treasures in peace. I am always positively\nwild with rage when they begin to declaim, and to offer me elementary\ninformation that we all acquired years ago at school!\u201d\n\nIrene listened sympathetically, and suddenly realized with astonishment\nthat the stranger was addressing her in Russian. How could he have found\nout that she was Russian!\n\nThe speaker noticed her surprise, and smiled.\n\n\u201cI had the pleasure of seeing you in your _pension_,\u201d he explained, \u201cI\nwent there to see Anna Sergeievna Boutourina.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! Do you know Anna Sergeievna? Isn\u2019t she a charming old lady?\u201d\n\n\u201cVery charming. I have known her since my childhood; I used to go and\nstay with her as a little boy. Allow me to introduce myself: Sergei\nGzhatski, Marshal of the Nobility in the province of S\u2e3a.\u201d\n\nThey began to speak of S\u2e3a, and discovered mutual acquaintances. But their\nconversation soon came to a stop. The magic beauty of the night threw its\nenchantment over them. They mounted the steps of the amphitheatre, sat\ndown on the steps, and remained silent, in admiration of the glorious\nscene. Pale blue clouds were floating above them, from time to time\nveiling the moon. The high walls, with their immense openings, stood out\nlike enormous lace patterns against the clear sky. Through the gaps in\nthe blocks of stone peeped cypresses and Roman pines; high on the third\nfloor, alternately appearing and disappearing, shone a moving light,\na torch, in the hands of a guide, leading a crowd of English tourists\nthrough all the corridors and tiers of the Colosseum. Irene gazed fixedly\nat this wavering light, and suddenly her thoughts wandered back to\nancient times, to the early years of Christianity.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe warm moon shone in those days, just as now, she dreamed; the little\nclouds floated across the same sky; the cypresses looked in at the same\nwindows. The torches gleamed like this one, only there were many of\nthem, and they moved not through the tiers and balconies, but in the\narena, rising and falling, in the hands of Romans clad in togas and\ntunics. This afternoon the games beloved of Romans had taken place, and\nmany Christians had been thrown to the wild beasts. The festive crowd\nof onlookers had left the circus, chattering gaily and animatedly,\nand hurried homeward to merry suppers. The wild beasts, having eaten\nsumptuously, are now sleeping in their cages. The night has fallen\npeacefully on Rome, and with the darkness there has appeared in the arena\na silent assemblage; the friends and relations of to-day\u2019s martyred\nChristians. For large sums of money they have bought, from the keepers\nof the Colosseum, the right to take away the bodies of the victims.\nStifling their sobs, silently, like shadows of mourning, they pass from\none corpse to another, bending down, searching by the light of their\ntorches for the remains of some dear one. Having found what they sought,\nthey fall, with a dull cry, to the ground, and gaze with horror at the\nstiffened features. There, beside a torn white tunic, some long black\ntresses, and two soft, girlish hands, sits an old woman, richly but\ntastelessly dressed, and with blunt, plebeian features. She is swaying\nhopelessly from side to side, and, in a pitiful, wailing voice, is\ntelling her sorrow to an old man, who listens sympathetically.\n\n\u201cShe was our only one! Our one beloved treasure! Many children were born\nto us before her, but it was not Jupiter\u2019s will that they should grow up.\nThey were all poor little mites, born thin and puny, and with big heads.\nThey lived for about two years, tottered round the yard on their poor,\nweak little legs, and then died. Lydia was the last. At her birth she was\nso thin and fragile that we never hoped she would grow up. Besides, I was\nalready turned forty, and my old man was getting on for sixty; what sort\nof children can one expect to have at that time of life! But, somehow,\nthe gods took pity on our lonely old age. Lydia began to improve and get\nstrong. Ye gods! How we loved her and caressed her and spoiled her! Her\nfather simply worshipped her, and strictly forbade me ever to punish her.\nFor that matter there was never any reason to punish her, she was quiet\nand thoughtful, and always alone in a corner, away from other children.\nEven when nearly grown up, she never wanted girl friends. \u2018I want no\none but you,\u2019 she would say, embracing us lovingly. She always sat at\nhome, and could not be induced to join in any gaieties. She had only one\npassion\u2014the Vestal Virgins. Often and often she went to gaze at them and\nadmire them, weeping bitter tears because she was not one of them, and\ncarrying flowers to the shrine of the goddess Vesta. We greatly feared,\nmy old man and I, that she would never consent to marry. We longed to\nsee our grand-children, and besides, we wanted an heir to carry on the\nbusiness. My old man is the best jeweller in Rome. All the great people\ngive us orders, and our things are highly valued. My husband found a\nsuitable son-in-law, also in the jeweller\u2019s business\u2014but we did not dare\nto tell Lydia. She was so proud, and would never look at men. And oh!\nhow beautiful she was! Pale, like marble, with her thin little face, her\nlarge, grey eyes, and her heavy dark tresses. All the young men were in\nlove with her, but she would have nothing to say to any of them. Then,\nall of a sudden, those accursed Jews appeared. They used to live quietly\non the other side of the Tiber, until one day when they all seemed to\nhave become possessed. Over they came, swarms of them, telling some story\nof a new God of theirs, born somewhere in Palestine, and asking everyone\nto believe in Him. Dirty, miserable wretches, disgusting in their filthy\nrags, gesticulating, excited, really quite absurd. Beggars, you know,\nbut with the pretensions of Emperors. Of course, old people only laughed\nat them. As if anyone would dream of changing his religion in his old\nage! But the young people began to be interested, and to go to the Jews\u2019\nmeetings. Those miserable wretches spoke so passionately\u2014just as if they\nreally had seen a great new God! Lydia went once too, and came home\nall of a tremble with emotion. At first we were pleased, because her\npassion for the Vestal Virgins seemed to have cooled. But our joy was\nshort-lived. She began to disappear for days and nights at a time, always\npraying with her Jews, and calling herself a Christian. My old man and I\ngrew alarmed, and then, suddenly, began the persecution of Christians. At\nfirst we, of course, thought that only those good-for-nothing Jews would\nbe persecuted, and we were very pleased, because we hated them. But the\nnews spread that there was an order to catch all other Christians too.\nWe lived in terror, expecting trouble every day. We did all we could to\nkeep Lydia at home, but there, she would not even listen to us. \u2018We pray\ntogether,\u2019 was all she said, \u2018and we will die together.\u2019 One day, a month\nago, she went to a secret meeting, and never returned. We learned that\nshe was in prison, we bribed the gaolers, and managed to see her. She\nwas in a feverish state of rapture and exultation. \u2018Be happy for me,\u2019\nshe said; \u2018I shall see Christ, and be with Him for ever.\u2019 With bitter\ntears, we implored her to renounce this madness. Her old father and I,\nwe fell on our knees before her\u2014nothing helped! It was not only once\nthat we went to her, nor twice, nor three times. What a fortune we spent\non bribes! Though that, indeed, matters little. What do we want with\nriches now that we have no one to whom to leave them? One day, about a\nfortnight ago, we went to her. She was pale and faint, and in tears. She\ntook us into a corner, away from the other prisoners, threw them furtive,\nfrightened glances, and whispered: \u2018We are condemned to death. They are\ngoing to throw us to the wild beasts in the circus. It is terrible\u2014oh! it\nis terrible!\u2019 She was shivering and sobbing. \u2018I cannot sleep at night\u2014I\nalways see a tiger, falling on me and tearing me to pieces. Save me!\nSave me! I will agree to anything now! But don\u2019t tell the others, or\nthey will despise me and laugh at me.\u2019 In wild haste we rushed off to\nour best client, the Senator Claudius Massimus. All day we sat in his\natrium, waiting to be received. At last, in the evening, the Senator\ncomes to us, hears us, and answers: \u2018Very well, my good old people, I\nwill do what I can for you. Let your daughter only make a sacrifice to\nthe gods, and publicly curse her past folly.\u2019 Hardly feeling our feet\nunder us for joy and thankfulness, we rushed with our news to Lydia.\nBut oh! misery! misery! In the meantime their chief priest had been to\nthe prison, the wicked, accursed old villain! I don\u2019t know what he told\nthem, but Lydia came out to us, beaming with happiness. \u2018I no longer\nneed anything,\u2019 she said, embracing us. \u2018Thank you for your solicitude\non my behalf, but however great your love may be for me, you cannot\ngive me the joys that are prepared for me in Heaven.\u2019 We implored her,\nbesought her all in vain. Lydia only laughed, and kissed us. We staggered\nhome, and the same night my old man had a paralytic stroke. From that\nmoment I have not been able to leave him. To-day we have been together\nin silence, without moving from dawn till sunset. Do you know, do you\nunderstand, you merciless, pitiless daughter, all that we have suffered?\nHad you the right to buy for yourself eternal salvation at such a price?\nOh! wicked, cruel, beloved one! When the sun had set, my old man gave me\nmoney, and said: \u2018Go and bring me all they have left us of Lydia.\u2019 So I\nhave come, and have found her tattered tunic, and her scalp and hair, and\nher lovely hands, with the bracelets her father put on them when she was\nfifteen. Oh, ye gods, ye gods! Is it for this that we have brought her\nup and watched over her, and cared for her, that she should be a fairer\nsacrifice for the accursed Jews? Talk of mercy and love, and then take\naway from anguished parents their only joy, the light and mainstay of\ntheir old age! May they be accursed and thrice accursed, these demented,\nperverted villains, these murderers of our children!\u201d And the old woman\nfell forward with a cry, on the tresses of the hapless Lydia.\n\nNot far away from her sat a proud young beauty, in a luxurious\ngold-embroidered tunic, her eyes fixed on the head of a young handsome\nRoman. Large, slow teardrops followed each other down her face, but\nshe did not notice them nor attempt to brush them away. She only threw\nherself, at intervals, on the bleeding corpse, embraced it with her soft\narms, and passionately kissed the cold lips and the golden moustache.\n\n\u201cWhat have you done? What have you done? My adored, cruel husband! How\ncould you leave me, forget my love, forget our happiness together? Were\nwe all, your relations, your friends, your nearest and dearest, of so\nlittle import to you, that you could abandon us for the sake of a mad\ndream? How could you, a clever, well-bred noble Roman, fall under the\ninfluence of low, filthy slaves? They are all frantic about some wild\nidea, some frenzied vision, and _you_\u2014_you_ could believe them, and share\ntheir madness!\n\n\u201cOh! What shall I do with my life without you? You took me, a young,\ncareless, innocent child, you taught me the happiness of love, and now\nyou have pitilessly abandoned me! I pass whole days and nights in the\nremembrance of your caresses, I stretch out my hands, I grope for you\nin the dark, and I shall never find you again! Oh! How terrible, how\nincredible is this thought. Thousands, millions of people are born every\nday, but never again will the world see your like!\n\n\u201cWho is it that has dared, that has taken on himself the right to destroy\nthat most splendid work of nature\u2014man? You tried to console me with the\nassurance that your soul would live for ever; but of what use is your\nsoul to me? I love your body, your eyes, your features. When I meet, in\nthe street, someone who but slightly resembles you, I blush, and the\nblood rushes to my heart. Your irresistible smile, your charming laugh,\nmaddened me with happiness! And now\u2014all is over. You will never smile\nagain, you will never look at me with your beloved blue eyes. To-morrow\nworms will begin to eat this flesh that is dearer to me than all else on\nearth, and I am powerless to prevent this outrage. Oh, ye gods! How have\nI sinned, that I should have deserved to suffer so madly?\n\n\u201cRather than this, why were you not untrue to me\u2014why did you not go away,\nand love another? Terrible as this would have been, I should at least\nhave known that you lived, that my eyes could look upon you. Secretly, in\nthe darkness of the night, I could have come to gaze upon you, and this\nwould have given me life.\n\n\u201cOh! Why do we not know the future? Why does fate give us no warning? How\nmuch time I lost in idle gossiping with girl friends, in needless outings\nand amusements, while I might have spent this time in talking with you,\nin gazing at you, in enjoying your caresses!\n\n\u201cThe moon will appear in the sky, the nightingales will sing, but you\nwill not hear them. The sun will rise, but its rays will not penetrate\ninto your cold tomb. Life at best is but short, and now you yourself, of\nyour own free will, have deprived yourself prematurely of its joys.\n\n\u201cOh! This terrible, meaningless life! I am cold, I shiver, I cannot live\nin the world without you! All is pale, all is dark and tarnished around\nme. Nothing interests me, nothing pleases me. Alone! Alone! From now\nonwards, alone on this accursed earth.\u201d\n\nAnd the unhappy one repeatedly kissed the dead body, passionately\nembraced it, beating her head upon the sand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIrene clearly heard the groans, curses, and cries that re-echoed in the\nancient circus. Tears fell from her eyes. She forgot where she was, and\nstarted when Gzhatski, having also for some time kept his eyes fixed on\nthe arena, broke the silence by a sudden remark.\n\n\u201cMay I ask you an indiscreet question?\u201d he asked, turning sharply round,\nand facing his companion. \u201cIs it really true that you have decided to be\na traitor to your faith, and become a Roman Catholic?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy a traitor?\u201d retorted Irene, a little angrily. \u201cOrthodox Russians and\nCatholics believe alike in the Gospel, and that is the principal thing.\nAs to dogmas, they were all invented by the perverted intelligence of\ncrafty Byzantian Greeks, who did not understand the Gospel in the least,\nand dragged it down to their own level by eternal quibbling about words.\nAlready, in my childhood, I studied with disgust the history of the\n\u0152cumenical Councils, and found nothing intelligent in them, except the\ndecision of the seventh one, that there should be no more. Evidently all\nthe theologians had become so entangled in their own disputes that they\nhad grown desperate, and had at last realized that the more they talk the\nfurther they get from the truth.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut if you despise dogmas, and believe only in the Gospel, then why need\nyou give up Orthodoxy?\u201d\n\n\u201cI am leaving Orthodoxy because, among the Catholic clergy, I have found\na man who is a true believer, who guides me, and helps me to unravel my\nown doubts, and to see the true meaning of life.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn other words, like so many Russian ladies, you have fallen into the\nhands of a clever Jesuit.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn other words, like so many Russian men, you have gathered your\ninformation about Jesuits in the novel \u2018The Eternal Jew.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201cI have never read that novel. I only see very clearly that your dear\nPater wants money for some convent, and therefore wants to shut you up in\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot in the least. P\u00e8re Etienne thinks that I shall be happier in a\nconvent than in the world. He has no objection to an Orthodox convent.\nHe only told me, a few days ago, that he always speaks of Catholic ones,\nbecause he knows nothing about Russian convent life.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why, then, do you not go into some Russian convent?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause I know them too well. A Russian convent is a collection of\nvulgar, chattering, idle, lower-class women. The convent itself is a\nvulgar absurdity, since it is neither directed nor controlled by anybody.\nAnd, indeed, who is to control it? Not the officials of the Synod, I\nsuppose?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, but is not all that true also of Roman Catholic convents?\u201d\n\n\u201cNo. Every Catholic convent has not only its own head, but also higher\ncontrol and direction. The discipline is quite different. Every Italian\nconvent has one definite aim and object: to give its inmates the\npossibility of saving their souls in peace and silence, and everything is\ndone for the attainment of this object.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, even if we admit that this is true\u2014by what right do you turn your\nback on all that life imposes on you, and think of nobody and nothing but\nthe saving of your own soul?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy what right!\u201d exclaimed Irene in amazement. \u201cWhat a strange question!\u201d\n\n\u201cAllow me. The Gospel, which you apparently respect, teaches us that we\nare all brothers, that we must help each other and live for each other.\nWhom will you help, whom will you save, if you hide yourself in a convent\nand think of nothing but your own soul?\u201d\n\n\u201cHad I taken the veil when I was twenty, there might perhaps have been\nsome reason in your reproaches. But I am now forty. I have lived through\na long life, and have convinced myself that I can be of no use to my\nfellows. My views on life are so personal to me that no one will ever\nunderstand me. I have always suffered through the vulgarity and roughness\nof other people, and as time passes I despise mankind more and more. In\nseparating myself from human companionship, I may, little by little,\nforget what people are like, and so may perhaps learn to love them a\nlittle.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it possible that among all your friends and acquaintances, you have\nnever met one man who might be worthy of your attention or your love?\u201d\n\nIrene smiled bitterly.\n\n\u201cRussian men have not reached the period of development at which they\ncould understand good women. They are still in the harem period, and they\nneed only rough, vulgar, immoral females.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see you can make nice compliments. But if you have such a poor opinion\nof our higher circles, what about the masses? What about our honest,\nsimple-minded, warm-hearted, noble-souled people? Is it possible that\nthey awaken no sympathy in you, that you have never felt the wish to help\nthem, to educate them?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t speak to me of those pitiful cowards!\u201d exclaimed Irene\ncontemptuously. \u201cThey are incapable of anything better than losing the\nwar, and disgracing Russia in the eyes of the whole world.\u201d\n\n\u201cI see you hold somewhat original views. Hundreds and thousands of\nsoldiers have become hopeless cripples for the rest of their lives, in\norder to keep the enemy from our Russian soil, and in order to ensure\nfor idle people like you the secure and safe enjoyment of their leisure\nand their capital. And in return you travel in strange lands, and\ninsult our modest heroes. Allow me to congratulate you\u2014such sentiments\nunquestionably do you honour.\u201d\n\nIrene blushed, but maintained a scornful silence. Several minutes passed.\nThe English party, with its guide and torches, drew near. Gzhatski rose,\nbowed dryly to Irene, and joined the tourists.\n\n\n\n\nVII\n\n\nThey separated, both with the feeling of having said a great deal that\nwas needless. On the whole, however, Irene was almost pleased that she\nhad succeeded, for once in her life, in expressing to a Russian man the\nprofound contempt that he and all his like awakened in her. As often\nhappens in such cases, her indignation had poured itself out on the wrong\nperson. Sergei Gzhatski had nothing whatever in common with Irene\u2019s\ndespised and hated Petrograd career-hunters. His life indeed had arranged\nitself in its own fashion. He was born in Petrograd, but having, at the\nage of three, been taken to the far-off province of S\u2e3a, he had remained\nthere until his eighteenth year. His mother had suffered a paralytic\nstroke after the birth of her second child, and had therefore been\nordered to live in the country, which she did until her death. Deeply\nhurt by the fact that her husband had been unwilling to sacrifice to\nher illness his brilliant position in Petrograd, she had turned away\nfrom him, and lavished all her love upon her child. By her desire little\nSergei had been educated at home, first by governesses and later by\ntutors. His mother wielded an immense influence over him. She was clever,\nintuitive, sensitive, and religious, and she brought up her son in a\nway that is more than rare in Petrograd families, where parents are too\noccupied with the distractions of the Metropolis to pay much attention\nto their children. Sergei adored his invalid mother, and her illness\nfilled his heart with profound pity. He never indeed forgave his father\nfor being so indifferent to her, and felt but little love or sympathy\nfor the latter. On the death of his mother, Sergei was sent to college,\nwhere, thanks to an excellent grounding, he worked splendidly. He did\nnot, however, like Petrograd, and having finished his course, he decided,\nin spite of his father\u2019s advice and persuasion to the contrary, to\nreturn to the S\u2e3a estate, which his mother had left him. He loved country\nlife, managed his estate well, and greatly increased the prosperity of\nhis farms and crops. He occupied himself also with social activities, and\nwas first chosen Marshal of the Nobility of the district, and then of the\nwhole province. He was greatly loved and respected, being a man of the\nold school, honourable and conscientious, and as full of consideration\nfor the interests of all the noble families in the neighbourhood as for\nhis own well-being and prosperity.\n\nHis dream was a happy hearth and home and a large family, and yet he\nnever married. Perhaps the reason of this might have been found in the\npure and sacred image of his mother, with which he unconsciously compared\nall other women to their detriment; also a little in the fact that he\nwas inclined to be proud and suspicious. He rarely went to Petrograd,\nand the provincial young ladies whom he met in S\u2e3a were far too frankly\nin ecstasies before his wealth and brilliant position. Gzhatski was\nnever happy abroad, and now deeply regretted that, after an attack of\ninflammation of the lungs caught during an autumn hunt, his doctors had\npersuaded him to pass the rest of the winter in Italy.\n\nIn spite of the mutual impertinences they had exchanged at their first\nmeeting, Irene had not displeased Gzhatski, and, seeing her a few days\nlater on the Corso, he approached her with a friendly greeting. Irene\nwas so touched by this absence of rancour, that, wishing to destroy the\nunpleasant impression of their previous conversation, she invited him\nto come and see her. Two days later Gzhatski availed himself of her\ninvitation, and, in the good old provincial Russian fashion, stayed\nthree hours! He told Irene all about his estate and about the other S\u2e3a\nlandowners, and expressed his horror at the indecent haste with which\nmany of them, frightened by the recent \u201crevolution,\u201d had sold their\nancestral estates and moved to Petrograd.\n\n\u201cI say nothing,\u201d he remarked, \u201cof the fact that their children will be\npenniless, since they will very quickly lose their newly acquired money\nin all sorts of doubtful speculations; our landowners are proverbially\ncredulous and unbusinesslike! But the principal trouble is that these\nruined children will, in addition, have lost the ties which bound them\nto our soil\u2014and it is my firm belief that one can only be a true patriot\nif one has lived from childhood on one\u2019s own land and among one\u2019s own\npeople, and has stored in one\u2019s heart all the charming recollections\nand associations of an early youth spent in one\u2019s ancestral country\nhome. Even now, when after a long absence I approach my little station,\nmy heart beats, and I recognize with joy, almost with tenderness, the\nstation officials, my coachman, my _troika_.[1] It is all near and dear\nto me; the woods, the fields, the peasants who greet me smilingly, and\nwho have known and loved me all my life. How much that is sacred breathes\nin memories of childhood, and how sad life must be when they are absent!\nI think, for instance, that if you, Irene Pavlovna, had in your heart\nthe remembrance of some modest little village church where you prayed\nas a child, you would never have dreamt of betraying the faith of your\nchildhood; you would never even have formulated your vague, cosmopolitan\nbelief in Christ, a belief that certainly cannot give you happiness.\u201d\n\nFrom that day they became friends. Irene enjoyed the society of Gzhatski,\nwho was always gay, interesting, and sincere. However dear Italy\nhad grown to her, however deeply she respected P\u00e8re Etienne, it was\ndelightful to talk to a Russian, a man of her own race, her own social\ncircle, and her own education and traditions. She never suspected that\nshe, on her side, represented for Gzhatski a sort of anchor of salvation.\n\nPoor Gzhatski had been unbearably lonely in Rome. Active, energetic, busy\nas he had always been, the enforced idleness of this new existence was\ninsufferable to him. The Roman museums and monuments did not touch his\nheart. He had not enough imagination to people them with shadows of the\npast, as did Irene. He tried to study Rome with a Baedeker\u2019s guide-book\nin his hand, but soon abandoned the task, and came to the conclusion that\nall the churches and ruins and galleries were exactly alike.\n\n\u201cWhen you have seen one, you have seen them all,\u201d he remarked frankly to\nhis acquaintances.\n\nGzhatski had begun to take an interest in Italian fox-hunting, but\nhappened the very first time he joined a hunt to be caught in a downpour\nof rain, and developed such a severe chill that his alarmed doctor\nforbade him any future expeditions of the kind, on pain of death from\ngalloping consumption!\n\nEvery day the poor man wandered about sadly and aimlessly, finding fault\nwith everything, hating everything, and abusing the strange Southern town\nthat held him prisoner! Everything irritated him, even the climate, with\nits eternally warm, balmy breezes, even the dry Southern vegetation.\nOften, when sitting in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, he shut his\neyes, and pictured to himself a Russian winter, the snow on the fields\ngleaming under the blue sky, the red sun, the little waves of smoke\nrising from a cottage chimney, the crunch of footsteps on the frozen\nground, the frosty, invigorating air\u2026! And then he opened his eyes, and\nlooked resentfully at the broad Roman pines and the dusty grass and\nshrubs.\n\n\u201cWhat is this extraordinary time of the year?\u201d grumbled Gzhatski\ncapriciously. \u201cIt is not autumn, because there are no yellow leaves;\nit is not winter, because it is not cold; it is not summer, because it\nis not hot; and it is not spring, because there is nothing vivifying\nor rejuvenating in the air. No\u2014this is a sort of fifth season, Roman,\nstupid, and senseless!\u201d\n\nHe watched the passing crowd with animosity. They all seemed to him to\nbe dressed in their Sunday best! There go two young Italian brunettes,\nin fashionable tight skirts, with wide fur scarves on their shoulders,\nshowing, under their short dresses, dainty feet, shod as for a ball in\nelegant open shoes over open-work silk stockings. Here is a baby being\ntaken for a walk, in a little white piqu\u00e9 summer coat, a hat to match,\nand a huge collar of white goat-fur! And behind comes something quite\nwild\u2014two little boys and a girl in sailor suits, without coats, and with\nbare legs and necks\u2014yet the little girl carries an enormous muff, and the\nboys have sealskin caps!\n\n\u201cI suppose they have heard that people wear furs in the winter, but they\ndon\u2019t know exactly how, so they have made guys of themselves!\u201d muttered\nGzhatski crossly.\n\nHis loneliness was even greater than his despair. He had already decided\nto risk his health and return to Russia, when his meeting with Irene\nturned his thoughts into another channel. He had no difficulty in\nassuring himself that she was the victim of Jesuit priests, that the\npoor girl was being wickedly deceived, and that it was his duty as a\ncompatriot to come to her aid and save her. With all the accumulated\nenergy of all those idle weeks, he threw himself into the struggle with\nP\u00e8re Etienne, and in spite of Irene\u2019s wish to bring her two friends\ntogether, Gzhatski curtly refused to make the acquaintance of the\n\u201cCatholic rogue.\u201d He was very annoyed to see how obstinately Irene\ndefended her friendship with the priest, and used all his eloquence to\ndisillusion her on the subject of convent life.\n\n\u201cAnd what is the meaning of that insufferable manner,\u201d he cried\nirritably, \u201cin which all priests make a prisoner of Christ, and announce\nto the world that He can only be found in their churches? They lie!\nI don\u2019t deny that in the early days of Christianity, monasteries and\nconvents really represented Christian oases in a pagan desert. But that\ntime has long since passed. Christ has long ago left the monasteries, and\ndwells among us, in our science, our literature, our law. We may quarrel\nas much as we please, we may accuse each other of treachery, but in spite\nof everything, we are all going along the path of Christian progress.\nEvery time we liberate slaves in America or serfs in Russia, every time\nwe abolish torture or corporal punishment, we are proclaiming liberty\nand brotherhood, we are serving Christ, and Christ is among us. Let them\nsay, if they will, that the foundations of Christianity are shaking, that\nChristianity is at its last ebb, and must make way for a new religion.\nIt is absurd even to listen to these wild speeches. Christianity is\neternal, if only because Christ did not invent anything strange or new\nor incomprehensible, but expressed clearly and simply truths which every\nhuman being feels dimly in his soul. It is not Christianity that will\ndisappear, but its old and worn-out forms. Christianity is slowly and\nsurely passing from the realms of legend and romance into real daily\nlife, where it will take root more and more firmly, until it reigns\nsupreme on earth. As to your convents, they are nothing but empty hives\nthat the working-bees have long ago abandoned, while the monks are drones\nwho have remained behind to linger lazily in the old place until they\ndie. Is it possible that you, with your heart and your intelligence, can\nwish to end your life among these unnecessary, useless, sleeping drones?\u201d\n\nIrene listened in dismay. Both Gzhatski and P\u00e8re Etienne spoke so\neloquently and with such conviction. Which of them was in the right?\n\n\u201cAnd what a wild idea!\u201d exclaimed Gzhatski furiously, \u201cto become a nun!\nDo you really think there are not enough nuns in Rome without you? Why,\nthe whole town is teeming with convents that give one no peace with\ntheir everlasting bells. How many sick women and weak children are there\nin Rome, who need rest and sleep? And yet those imbeciles start their\npandemonium at five o\u2019clock every morning. You see, they have to save\ntheir precious souls. We in Russia, with our modest monks and nuns, can\nhardly grasp the extent of the impudence of these Southern religious\norders, and the fury to which they can drive people. I perfectly\nunderstand why they were expelled from France, and I only profoundly\nregret that they have not yet been expelled from Italy. Just look\nwhat they have done with Rome. It is no longer a city, it is one huge\ncemetery. I can\u2019t listen to that eternal dull sound of bells. It always\nseems to me that they are burying me alive, and celebrating masses for\nthe peace of my sinful soul. I always feel inclined to cry out: \u2018You lie!\nI am alive! And I am going to live a long time yet, and do many useful\nthings.\u2019\u201d\n\nIn his enthusiasm, Gzhatski sometimes took recourse to means of which he\nhimself would at another time have disapproved. Thus, on one occasion, he\nbegan, with a malicious smile and in some excitement, almost before he\nhad shaken hands:\n\n\u201cYou always go to the Via Gallio. But do you know by what nickname your\nS\u0153urs Mauves are known in Roman Society?\u201d\n\n\u201cNickname?\u201d questioned Irene. \u201cI did not know nuns could have nicknames.\u201d\n\n\u201cThey are called \u2018Les Hetairas du bon Dieu,\u2019\u201d said Gzhatski, lowering his\nvoice.\n\nIrene was angry.\n\n\u201cAre you not ashamed of yourself?\u201d she exclaimed indignantly. \u201cYou call\nyourself a gentleman, and you find it possible to insult these saintly\nwomen, who deserve the profoundest respect. I quite believe that the\nyoung people of the present day are capable of inventing this or any\nother obscenity. In their eyes, all women are low and worthless, and they\ncannot imagine or understand anything good or noble. But _you_\u2014_you_!\nThat you should repeat such things!\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, well, I beg your pardon,\u201d said the confused and apologetic\nGzhatski. \u201cI did not mean to offend you. I only wanted to tell you how\npainful to me is the thought that you, my countrywoman, will also be\nknown by this shameful title.\u201d\n\nBut the offended Irene would not listen to his apologies. Immediately\nafter Gzhatski\u2019s departure (a somewhat hasty departure on this occasion),\nshe went off to the convent. She hurried along, with the feeling one\nhas when one rushes to friends who have just suffered some trouble or\nmisfortune. Although Irene had never seen the face of a single one of\nthe sisters, nor had spoken to any of them, she had gradually, through\nthese daily hours of common prayer, come to regard them as her personal\nfriends. She was therefore anxious, on this occasion, to prove by her\npresence her resentment of the insult offered to them by idle, vulgar\ngossips.\n\nEvensong was almost at an end when Irene entered the church. There were\nvery few people, the choir was singing an exultant hymn, the nuns were\nfrozen into a sort of beatific ecstasy. Irene gazed at them long and\nseriously, and suddenly realized that no insult could possibly reach\nthem, that it was beyond the power of anyone to offend them. They were\nabove all earthly troubles; nothing earthly had any value for them,\nall their hopes and dreams were concentrated in the next world. Thus,\nan emigrant, during his first days on board ship, thinks restlessly of\nthe home he has left behind him, but when weeks have slipped away, his\ninterest in the past grows fainter, and he thinks and dreams only of what\nhe will find in the new land.\n\nP\u00e8re Etienne noticed Irene\u2019s restlessness, but although he was well aware\nof her friendship with Gzhatski, never mentioned the Russian\u2019s name.\nThe clever, self-controlled priest neither opposed nor contradicted\nGzhatski\u2019s views on Roman Catholicism, views which made themselves\nclearly felt in all Irene\u2019s words and arguments. He only more eloquently\nthan ever advocated the convent. Under his influence, Irene saw before\nher a happy, peaceful old age, illuminated by constant sunshine, in the\nlap of luxurious Southern nature. And then came Gzhatski to destroy\nthis dream; for, listening to his words, as eloquent as any of P\u00e8re\nEtienne\u2019s, she grew vaguely ashamed of having abandoned her home and her\ncountry, that dear Russia, of which Gzhatski spoke with such love and\nenthusiasm. He tried hard, indeed, to point out to Irene all the charm\nand goodness of the Russian people, and bitterly reproached her for\nhaving so light-mindedly hardened her heart and turned away from them.\n\n\u201cYou have invented for yourself all sorts of fantastic heroes,\u201d he said.\nAnd you are unreasonably cross because you do not meet them in real\nlife. Be reasonable, Irene Pavlovna! Human beings are simply animals.\nIt is not so very long since they lived in caves and dressed in skins.\nThey have not been lazy. They have worked zealously at themselves, and\nhave attained much. It is not their fault if it needs another thousand\ncenturies to perfect them, to entirely overthrow the animal, and to\nattain the spiritual ideal that God has placed before them. If you\npersonally have already attained all this, that is your special good\nluck; but, pardon me, I doubt it exceedingly. Your life is not at an\nend yet, and the savage beast may yet awaken in you quite unexpectedly.\nI, of course, perfectly understand your dislike of the Petrograd\ncareer-hunters. I do not greatly admire them myself. Nevertheless, I\nstill assert that ambition, especially in Russia, is more a virtue than a\nvice. We Slavs are so listless and lazy, that without ambition we become,\nat the very best, Oblomoffs,[2] and at the worst, primitive beasts. You\ndon\u2019t know the kind of types one meets in our far away provinces.\n\n\u201cYou are very proud of the fact that you care nothing for wealth or rank.\nBut do you know, Irene Pavlovna, that this is only another sign of a\nmorbid, diseased nature? I always have the feeling that your ancestors\nmust have lived too forcibly, too passionately\u2014they have left you the\nlegacy of an exhausted organism, and you no longer have the strength\nto love or care for anything. In your place, I should try to cultivate\nartificially some passion that would attach you more firmly to Mother\nEarth!\u201d\n\n[1] A sledge with three horses abreast.\u2014ED.\n\n[2] A famous character in a novel by Goncharoff, the type of a talented\nfailure.\n\n\n\n\nVIII\n\n\nP\u00e8re Etienne, feeling that the struggle with Gzhatski was getting beyond\nhis strength, began to look round for help, and, as a first step, advised\nIrene to hear some of the sermons that are preached on certain days at\nmost of the principal Roman churches. On the following Sunday, she made\nher way to San Luigi dei Francesi, a church famous for the eloquence of\nits preachers. The sermon was to be preached at four o\u2019clock, before\nVespers. The organ was playing softly as Irene entered the splendid\nedifice, with its magnificent marble pillars and bronze decoration.\nItalian preachers in Rome usually speak from a broad covered rostrum,\nlined with red cloth, in which frame the preacher, unable to restrain his\nexcitement, strides backwards and forwards, and gesticulates wildly,\nalternately throwing himself into a chair, and rising again. These broad\nrostrums are of very ancient origin; their prototype is still to be found\namong the ruins of the Forum, where they served, in bygone days of the\nRepublic, as platforms from which the populace was addressed.\n\nFrench preachers do not gesticulate. They mount a little winding\nstairway, to a round narrow pulpit, with an umbrella-like baldaquin, in\nwhich their little figures white-robed, and with black pelerines, look\nlike Chinese dolls. While the Italian priest, in his passionate ardour,\nsmites his chest and thunders at the congregation, his French brother\npronounces a calm, well-thought out speech, whose aim is to astonish by\nits brilliant wit and its fine subtlety.\n\nOn this occasion, the sermon was on the subject of the cult of early\nChristian martyrs. It was, indeed, rather an historical lecture than a\nsermon. The preacher made a perfectly expressed and masterly exposition\nof various facts hitherto unknown to Irene, about the catacombs; the high\nhonour in which the tombs of the first Christian martyrs were held, and\nthe respect shown even to false martyrs, _i.e._, to deceased Christians,\ngiven out by their ambitious relatives as saints who had died for the\nFaith. These falsifications had, according to the preacher, assumed such\nenormous proportions, that it had been found necessary, in about the\nsecond century, to organize a special commission with the purpose of\nlooking into the matter.\n\n\u201cEt comme un faux gentilhomme est exclu de l\u2019armorial,\u201d added the\npreacher, a little irrelevantly, \u201cainsi ces faux martyrs furent bannis du\nmartyrologe.\u201d\n\nIrene listened with interest, but wondered a little how this scientific,\nhistorical, slightly satirical lecture could touch or help the souls of\nthe listeners. In half an hour it was over, and Irene rose to go, when\nsuddenly the altar was brightly illuminated, the organ began to play, and\nfrom the gallery floated the dulcet tones of the beautiful angel-voiced\nchoir. Irene had never heard such passionate romantic singing, except at\nthe opera. It awakened no religious inspiration in her; on the contrary,\nclosing her eyes in complete enjoyment, caressed by the softness of\nthose delicious waves of sound, she saw before her her once-idolized\nsinger Battestini, in the title r\u00f4le of Rubinstein\u2019s \u201cDemon.\u201d The\nunhappy \u201cexiled spirit\u201d was wandering in the desert, solitary, forsaken,\nheartbroken, hopelessly in love!\n\n\u201cAll the sorrow, all the suffering of life,\u201d he sobbed passionately from\nthe gallery, \u201cis caused by solitude. Live together in couples! Love,\ncaress, and comfort one another! And above all things, lose no time!\nEnjoy the delights of love, while you can!\u201d\n\nThe sound of dull, stifled sobbing fell on Irene\u2019s ear. It emanated from\na grey-haired old man beside her, who had fallen on his knees and buried\nhis face in his hands.\n\n\u201cHe weeps because it is too late for him to love,\u201d concluded Irene, as\nshe glanced pityingly at the bent figure of the old man.\n\nThe service ended; the great doors opened, and the warm, golden, Roman\nevening rushed into the church. Irene turned her steps homewards,\nenjoying the blue sky, and the gay good-natured Sunday crowd that filled\nthe streets. Somewhere in the distance a military band was playing, the\nair was full of laughter and merriment. Pretty children, in their best\nfrocks, and with little bare legs, were frolicking about to the evident\ndelight of their parents, who watched them with tender caressing smiles.\n\n\u201cHow glorious, how beautiful life is!\u201d thought Irene, still under the\nimpression of the singing. But having traversed two streets and turned\ninto the Piazza Venezia, she suddenly stopped short, horror-struck.\n\n\u201cBut they did not sing about earthly love _at all_!\u201d she exclaimed to\nherself in complete confusion. \u201cHow could such thoughts ever be awakened\nby their prayers? How did it happen? How came I to fall into such an\nerror?\u201d\n\nIrene was both amazed and ashamed, and decided to say nothing to P\u00e8re\nEtienne about her impressions of the service. This, however, was not as\neasy as it seemed. The wily priest cross-examined her severely, and\nof course, Irene ended by admitting everything. P\u00e8re Etienne frowned.\nHe knew all about this tragic \u201cDemon,\u201d singing so passionately in the\ndesert\u2014he had met him twice in the corridor, on the way to Irene\u2019s room!\n\n\u201cYou are far too impressionable,\u201d he observed severely, \u201cand music\nevidently irritates your nerves. You will do better to attend the\nlectures of Monsignor Berra, in the convent of the Ursulines.\u201d\n\nIrene agreed, and, on the appointed day, knocked at the small door of the\nconvent in the Via Flavia. The sister who answered her knock glanced at\nthe pass ticket in Irene\u2019s hand, and led her through a quadrangle with\nslim Gothic columns. Irene was astonished at the silence. Only a few\nsteps away was the crowded, noisy street\u2014yet here reigned the stillness\nof the grave. She raised the leather curtain with which the doors of\nchurches in Rome are always covered during the winter, and found herself\nin a cold, damp, but very elegant chapel, filled with ladies, young\ngirls, and children. Men were not admitted here\u2014only two abbots were\nmodestly hiding themselves in a corner.\n\nThe nuns, true to their traditions, did not show themselves at all, but\nfrom somewhere on high came the sound of the organ, while the fresh young\nvoices of the convent school children sang the prayers.\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d thought Irene with a smile, \u201cat least this singing will not lead\nme into temptation!\u201d\n\nAfter a short service, Monsignor Berra, a handsome, clever old man,\nentered the pulpit. Expressing himself in that most elegant French that\nwas once spoken at the French Court, but that is now forgotten by all\nexcept, perhaps, the clergy, he began a lecture on Esther.\n\nIrene listened with pleasure to the subtle, clever, witty phrases of the\npriest, punctuated by long quotations from Racine, whose name, however,\nBerra did not mention, speaking of him only as \u201cthe most Christian of\nall poets.\u201d But as the lecture continued, it seemed to grow strangely\nfamiliar to Irene, and suddenly she remembered what association it\nawakened in her mind. A few days previously, Lady Muriel had taken her to\nthe Palazzo of the N\u2e3a Embassy, to see its famous, beautiful tapestries.\nOne of the rooms was lined entirely with scenes from the story of Esther,\nembroidered after seventeenth-century designs. The figures, indeed,\nrepresented neither Persians nor Jews, but simply French Marquises and\nViscounts, who had temporarily doffed their powdered wigs, and had amused\nthemselves by dressing up in Persian disguises.\n\n\u201cWhen I look at Esther,\u201d the witty daughter of the Ambassador had\nremarked to Irene, pointing to the tapestry, \u201cI always wonder how\nlong she practised and rehearsed fainting, before carrying it out so\ngracefully!\u201d\n\nListening to Berra, Irene had quite this same impression of an\n\u201cimitation\u201d Esther! Described by him, the primitive, passionate Jewess\nbecame an affected lady of the Court of Louis XV., one of those numerous\nfavourites who knew well how to use their coquetry in order to manage, to\ntheir perfect satisfaction, their own little affairs and those of all\ntheir relatives and friends!\n\nTowards the end of the lecture, the preacher abandoned his tone of\nlevity, and grew serious. In connection with Esther\u2019s fervent prayer, he\nremarked that if our prayers remain unanswered to-day, it is only because\nthey are so cold and proud.\n\n\u201cImagine, Mesdames,\u201d he said, \u201ca beggar who would approach you in the\nstreet, asking for alms, in a cold, proud voice, as though he were\ndemanding his due! Would you not be justly incensed? Would you not turn\naway and rather bestow your bounty upon one who asks it humbly and in\ntears? Pray then also to God like humble supplicants, trusting in His\nmercy and goodness.\u201d\n\nIrene returned home, much impressed by these words. \u201cYes,\u201d she\nthought\u2014she was undoubtedly to be counted among the proud beggars! She\nknew her own virtues, and she considered she had a right to demand a\nreward from God. How would it be if she were to change the nature of her\nprayers? And, under the impulse of a new hope, she fell on her knees,\nweeping, sobbing, praying: \u201cLord! I am but a humble supplicant! I resign\nall my rights and privileges! I ask only for mercy! Send me happiness\u2014and\nif that is impossible, then give me at least rest, that spiritual rest\nfor which my soul hungers!\u201d\n\nIrene prayed passionately, and with bitter tears\u2014but all the time, reason\nwas whispering in answer: \u201cWhat are you asking? you know that you are\npraying for the impossible. Happiness for you can take only one form,\nthat of love, love, love, that love of which you have been dreaming all\nyour life! But think a little\u2014how is that possible at your age? Love\nis nature\u2019s method of continuing our race. That is why young girls are\ngifted with such attractions for young men. At your age, to have children\nis impossible\u2014that is why beauty has been taken from you, and men pass\nyou by with indifference. You ask for spiritual rest, but that is only\nattainable by people who have fulfilled the duties imposed on them by\nnature. You were born to be a wife and a mother\u2014Where is your husband?\nWhere are your children? Where is your family? God created the world on\na foundation of logical laws, and, however passionately you may pray, He\ncannot change these laws.\u201d\n\nIrene arose in despair. Oh! that accursed helpless logic, that kills all\nprayer and destroys all hope!\n\nTime passed, and Irene\u2019s nervousness increased day by day. Sermons,\nchurch services, her disputes with Gzhatski, all this alike irritated\nand enervated her. P\u00e8re Etienne observed the poor woman with real pity,\nbut could devise no means of comforting or helping her. Happening on one\noccasion to mention a famous convent at Assisi, which he thought Irene\nmight some day do well to visit with the object of retreat and prayer,\nshe caught at the idea. On the following day, strictly forbidding the\nporter at the _pension_ to disclose her new address to _anyone_, and\nwithout saying good-bye to Gzhatski, she left Rome.\n\n\n\n\nIX\n\n\nOn her arrival at Assisi, Irene immediately felt a little calmer than she\nhad done in Rome. She had often noticed that when staying in mountainous\ndistricts her nerves grew quieter, and she felt, for the time being, less\ndepressed. She loved the scent of the fresh mountain air, and it seemed\nto her, under its influence, as though, after all, life might still have\nin store for her many happy hours. An old doctor who had once treated her\nin Paris had called her in fun \u201cla femme des montagnes\u201d\u2014perhaps, indeed,\nshe should have lived always at high altitudes.\n\nAssisi, in addition, was a delightful place. From the hills among which\nthe little town with its famous monastery nestled, there was a glorious\nview over an immense plain, dotted with houses, churches, gardens, and\nvillages. In the distance rose the peaks of the Apennines.\n\nThe impression of this view was rendered all the more enchanting by that\nwonderful colouring, so well known to all who have visited Umbria or\nTuscany in the spring. The mountains were nearly always wreathed in an\nazure mist; the shadows were deep blue, little white cloudlets floated in\nthe turquoise sky; the valley was green under its carpet of velvet grass,\npowdered already with daisies; the fruit-trees in the orchards were\ncovered with a wealth of pink and white blossom. Such landscapes can be\nseen only in the pictures of the Italian old masters, for they alone, of\nall painters, have possessed the gift of reproducing all the softness and\nharmony of their native colouring.\n\nAssisi has, to this day, preserved its character of a medi\u00e6val Borgo,\nand has probably changed but little since the days of St. Francis. An\nold ruined fortress crowns the higher of a group of hills, and from this\npoint run in all directions narrow, ill-paved little streets, illuminated\nat night, as in old times, by feeble lanterns hanging on wires stretched\nacross the roadway. Nobody seems to live in the monotonous, grey stone\nhouses with eternally closed shutters; nobody ever seems to walk in the\ndeserted streets and dark alleys. Only an occasional donkey tied to a\nwall stands meditatively in the middle of the road, and from time to\ntime moves his long ears as a sign of life. Now and then there float\nacross the air from some cellar the beat of a carpenter\u2019s hammer, and\nthe subdued tones of his voice, singing about the \u201cfaithless Fiametta.\u201d\nLife seems to have stopped at the twelfth century, since when everything\nhas lain still in an enchanted sleep. Even the numerous tourists do not\nsucceed in awakening the slumbering town. The inhabitants are mostly\nmonks and nuns, with a scattering of Polish Catholics, and English old\nmaids, who come to kneel at the shrine of St. Francis.\n\nIrene set herself zealously to visit all the holy places. First, she\ndescended into the valley, to the Church of Santa Maria dei Angeli. It\nhad once stood in the heart of a dreaming forest, where, in the fourth\ncentury, some monks had built a tiny chapel, round which, partly in\ncells, partly in caves, the brotherhood had settled. In this primitive\nlittle settlement, St. Francis lived and prayed and died. Later on his\nremains were removed and buried in the new and magnificent fortress-like\nFranciscan Monastery, whose white walls and towers now shine dazzlingly\nin the sun. The old forest has long since disappeared, and the touching\nlittle chapel is almost lost in the centre of the magnificent temple\nbuilt around it. Monks show visitors round the monastery, pointing out\nthe cell in which St. Francis died, the grotto in which he slept, and the\nlittle garden where grew the roses without thorns, that God had sent him\nas a special grace.\n\nIrene went also to do homage to the body of St. Clara, who, influenced\nby the teaching of St. Francis, left the world, her family and friends,\nretired into a convent, and founded the Order of the Clarissians. St.\nClara, too, passed her life in the modest little convent of St. Damian,\nand it was only after her death that her body was transferred to the\ngorgeous Church of the New Convent, where, in a niche, enclosed in a\nglass coffin, it rests in nun\u2019s attire, and with a capuchin drawn over\nthe blackened features.\n\nMost of all, however, Irene enjoyed her excursion to Carceri, the distant\nhermitage in a mountain cave, where St. Francis had often prayed and\nfasted. She ordered a carriage a day in advance, and, at the appointed\nhour, Giuseppe, a handsome young Umbrian, drove up to the door of the\nhotel, raised his hat, and smiled caressingly to the waiting Irene. They\ntraversed the entire town at a walking pace, on account of the steep,\nnarrow streets, and this slow drive was a sort of triumphal progress for\nyoung Giuseppe. He seemed to be on a friendly footing with the whole\nplace; every man they met on their way turned and walked for a while\nbeside the carriage, his hand on the shaft, and conversing animatedly\nwith Giuseppe. They all emphatically persuaded him to come, at some\nparticular time and for some particular reason, to the Piazza Nuova, and\nhe repeatedly swore by all the saints to keep the appointment.\n\nAt last they passed through the old fortress gates, and Giuseppe drove\nup to a small house, from the window of which peeped a pretty, sunburnt,\nsmiling little face. Giuseppe jumped from his box, and leaving Irene at\nthe mercy of the scorching Italian sun, disappeared into the house. Time\npassed; the young horse, peacefully regaling itself on fresh grass, was\ncertainly in no hurry to proceed, and Giuseppe stayed away so long that\nIrene grew seriously angry. At last he appeared wreathed in smiles, and\nannounced that the bullocks would be brought round in a moment.\n\n\u201cThe bullocks!\u201d exclaimed Irene; \u201cbut why do we want bullocks?\u201d\n\n\u201cHow should we do without them?\u201d he retorted. \u201cWe are going into the\nmountains. A horse cannot make that journey alone. We must have two\nbullocks.\u201d\n\nIrene waited with some curiosity. In about ten minutes a middle-aged\nwoman, probably the mother of the pretty sunburnt girl, appeared,\nleading by a rope two enormous, splendid, grey bullocks, with immense\nhorns. They were evidently perfectly tame, and the woman, placing them\nin front of the horse, tied them to the carriage. Giuseppe helped solely\nwith advice, exchanging playful glances the while with the pretty\ndaughter, who was hopping about near him on one foot, the other foot,\nevidently wounded, being tied up with a white rag.\n\nAfter much delay the procession started. The road was indeed appalling! A\nnarrow, steep, stony mountain path, over which no man in his senses would\never dream of driving a carriage. But what will not an Italian do when\nthere is a chance of earning a few _lire_?\n\nIn front, leading the bullocks, walked the woman with a shawl pushed well\ndown over her forehead. She looked sufficiently modest and respectful,\nand was also sufficiently careless and untidy, to remind one of a Russian\npeasant woman. The thin useless little ropes she had brought broke every\nminute, the ends falling and getting entangled in the animals\u2019 feet.\nGiuseppe was furious, constantly jumped off the box, and bitterly\nreproached the poor woman.\n\nAt last the bullocks were unharnessed, the relieved horse trotted gaily\nalong a wider and much smoother road, and Irene thought that her troubles\nwere over. Alas, however! At a turn of the way appeared a peasant waiting\nwith two other bullocks (white ones this time), and the same story began\nall over again. The road grew always worse and more dangerous, and Irene\nhardly knew whether to be more frightened or delighted with the wonderful\nview that greeted her gaze. Assisi, with its stone walls and towers,\nlay spread out before her like a fairy-fortress, with a background of\nblue hills, and surrounded by a frame of grey-green olive-trees and\ndark cypresses. In the foreground, like carpets flung down at random,\ngleamed brilliant patches of emerald grass\u2014the whole picture, indeed, was\nso fresh, so lovely, so poetical, that it might have been torn from a\nmasterpiece by Botticelli.\n\nAt last the bullocks turned into a cavern-like opening among the rocks,\nfrom which issued a whiff of cold air. They had reached the entrance\nto the monastery, and Irene alighted and followed the path between two\nstone walls. A deathlike silence surrounded her. The sun caressed the as\nyet leafless old trees, birds sang, the path grew always narrower, and\nat last the old gates barred the way. Irene rang the bell. A decrepit\nold door-keeper, walking with difficulty, led her into a tiny courtyard\nwith a stone well in its centre, and passed her on to a young Franciscan,\njust on the point of acting as guide to an Englishwoman who had come from\nAssisi on foot.\n\nThe tiny retreat was arranged partly in natural grottos and partly in\nlittle cave-cells, hewn out of the rocks. The little staircases and doors\nwere so narrow and low that one could nowhere stand upright. Here, in\nthe twelfth century, lived, at times, St. Francis, and la sua compagnia;\nthen, later on, St. Bernard of Siena, and many other saints. The poetic\nstillness of the place, and its sacred associations, had attracted them,\nand they had jealously guarded the few small relics of St. Francis that\nhad been left there\u2014a tiny narrow pillow, a little box for the Holy\nSacrament, and a cross.\n\nThe young Franciscan explained to the two visitors the arrangement and\ndisposition of the settlement. He showed them the sort of things that are\nalways shown in all monasteries; an old, faded sacred image, that was\nsuperstitiously supposed to have on one occasion spoken to some nun, and\na miraculous crucifix, carved from some specially sacred wood. Lowering\nhis voice, the monk added that an influential cardinal had once taken\nthis crucifix away to his splendid chapel in Rome, but that during the\nvery first night after its arrival there it had disappeared, and returned\nmiraculously to its old place. He showed them also the precipice into\nwhich St. Francis had flung the devil who had come to tempt him (the\nlatter had been smashed to pieces on the stones below, and had never\nagain returned to the settlement), and the mountain-stream, whose noisy\nrush had disturbed the saint\u2019s meditations, and whose voice he had\nsilenced for ever.\n\nIrene was specially touched by the little platform in the heart of the\nforest, from which, according to tradition, St. Francis had preached\nsermons to the birds. How beautiful, how poetic was this legend!\nHaving withdrawn himself from human companionship, far away from men\nwho in their pride imagine themselves to be superior beings, specially\ncreated, made of special clay, St. Francis had humbled himself before\nGod\u2019s greatness, and had understood that birds were his dear, innocent\nbrothers. He longed to share with them the rapture that filled his soul,\nand the birds, understanding this rapture, joyfully sang and twittered\nin answer. Man was not made for solitude\u2014and the hermit, having isolated\nhimself in the desert, found the way to salvation in the friendship of\ntame birds and beasts.\u2026\n\nHaving once seen all the sights of Assisi, Irene seldom ventured out of\ndoors. She spent most of her time on the little terrace of the hotel,\nadmiring the view that was spread out before her, and growing, day by\nday, more attached to it. What a wealth, indeed, of variety and beauty\nwas to be found there! At seven o\u2019clock each morning she opened her\nwindow and let in the fresh, fragrant air. The whole valley then seemed\nto be asleep, wrapped in a dewy mist. At mid-day, however, all was\nsmiling and basking in floods of brilliant sunlight, and towards five\nin the afternoon the sun, like a great ball of fire, disappeared in the\nWest, the sky grew pale, and light-blue shadows gradually began to draw\ntheir veils across the plain. Even lovelier still was the night, when\nbright stars trembled like diamonds in the dark sky, and the young moon\nshone as far away, as coldly, and as indifferently as she shines in\nthe North and in the mountains. The whole great valley was dotted with\nlittle lights; the neighbouring town of Perugia made a sudden splash\nof brightness, and the white roads wound about mysteriously among the\ndark fields. The silence was indescribable; not a sound was to be heard,\nexcept, from time to time, the distant barking of a dog, or the throb of\na far-off, passing train.\n\nIrene began to feel the vague weariness of springtime. She had\nexperienced so much of late, and had received so many new impressions,\nthat her mind needed rest. She did not want to think about anything. Her\nthoughts moved lazily; she was placidly happy on the little terrace, with\nits palms and its flowers; she had no wish to go anywhere, she wanted\nonly to repose in her comfortable wicker sofa-chair, and delight in\nnature.\n\nShe often thought of Gzhatski, but always unwillingly, even with\ndispleasure.\n\n\u201cWhy did I ever meet that man?\u201d she thought resentfully. \u201cUntil he came,\neverything went well!\u201d But for him, she would already have taken the\nveil, and would probably have found happiness. Why had she ever paid\nattention to the words of a mere passer-by, who had occupied himself with\nher affairs simply because he had nothing else to do? Very soon he would\nreturn to his Russia, where he had so many interests and so many friends,\nand would never even remember Irene. Perhaps it would be better to stay\nat Assisi until after he had left Rome.\n\nHaving arrived at this decision, Irene wrote to P\u00e8re Etienne, telling\nhim that the mountain air was agreeing with her splendidly, and that\nshe would not return to Rome till Easter. She posted her letter, and\nfeeling pleased and relieved, went for a stroll in the balmy evening\nair. What was her astonishment and annoyance when, on her return, she\nfound Gzhatski in the entrance-hall of the hotel, eagerly questioning the\nproprietor about something. Her face expressed such frank displeasure,\nthat Gzhatski felt provoked.\n\n\u201cWhat an unexpected meeting!\u201d he said as naturally as possible,\npretending, somewhat unsuccessfully, to be much astonished. \u201cI was told\nyou had taken the veil in one of the Roman convents.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot yet,\u201d smiled Irene, \u201cbut it is as a preparation for that event that\nI am recuperating here in the mountain air.\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, the air is lovely,\u201d agreed Gzhatski, hurriedly. \u201cAnd the views are\nbeautiful. I hardly expected to find all this in the Apennines.\u201d\n\nIrene took it upon herself to show Gzhatski all the sights of Assisi.\nSergei Grigorievitch praised everything, was delighted with all he saw,\nwas respectful to the monks who acted as guides in the churches and\nmonasteries, and bought a whole collection of various Catholic souvenirs.\n\n\u201cCan you guess what I have found to amuse me in Rome?\u201d he asked Irene one\nday at dinner. \u201cI go to the churches and listen to the Catechism lessons.\nI assure you it is most interesting. On one side of the church sits a\nnun, surrounded by little girls, and on the other, a monk, with a class\nof little boys, to whom he addresses questions, in turn. If you could\nonly see what lovely little faces they have! These same Italians, that\nare so horrid when they grow up, are, at the age of eight or ten, exactly\nlike Raphael\u2019s cherubs. Of course, they don\u2019t understand anything yet\nabout the Catechism. What is the use of a catechism when the little legs\nof the pupils run all by themselves, so that there is no stopping them?\nThe greater part of the lesson consists, for the \u2018Pater,\u2019 in persuading\nhis listeners to sit still, not to swing on their chairs, not to jump\nup, not to run about the church, and not to fight.\n\n\u201cIt is amusing, too, to listen to their conversations with their teacher.\nI remember once, for instance, he asked one such little Cupid the\nnumber of the Sacraments, or something like that. The answer had to be\n_five_. The young rascal thought for a moment, then smiled roguishly,\nspread out all the five fingers of his right hand, and, silently, with a\ntriumphant air, held them to the Pater\u2019s nose. Do you imagine the priest\nwas offended at this lack of respect? Not in the least! He is an Italian\nhimself, and teaches his Catechism more by means of gestures than words.\nOh! what amusing people! When I look at those children, I feel a great\nheartache because I have not a little sonlet like that of my own!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut why do you not get married, if you so much want to have children?\u201d\n\n\u201cGet married? That is not so easy. I will tell you a conversation I\nonce had on the subject with my small nephew Seryozha. He is my godson,\nand will probably be my heir. We are enormous friends. When I go to\nstay in the country with his mother, my cousin, Seryozha never leaves\nme for a moment, and if only you could hear our conversations! He has\nthe straightforward, logical, fearless intelligence of most small boys\nof his age. And so, on one occasion, he announced to me that as soon as\never he grows up, he will get married, just because he wants to have\nlittle children, whom he likes. \u2018There is only one trouble,\u2019 he added,\nvery seriously, \u2018I shall have to live all the time with my wife; there is\nno escape.\u2019 He said it so well, that I gave him a hearty kiss. You see,\nalthough I am forty, and Seryozha is only eight, he explained to me quite\nclearly why I do not marry.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe poor wife!\u201d laughed Irene.\n\nOn the following day, Gzhatski left Assisi. Just as he was getting into\nthe cab to go to the station, he suddenly turned to Irene, who was there\nto say good-bye, and exclaimed:\n\n\u201cBy the way, I had quite forgotten. I brought you a present from Rome.\nPlease accept it,\u201d and he took a book from his pocket, and handed it to\nher.\n\n\u201cWhat is it?\u201d stammered Irene vaguely.\n\n\u201cIt is a Life of St. Amulfia. Like you, she found that her vocation\nwas to enter a convent. I thought that, as a future nun, it might be\ninteresting and useful to you to know something of her convent life.\u201d\n\nIrene accepted this gift somewhat mistrustfully. It seemed suspicious,\nespecially as Gzhatski obstinately avoided meeting her glance, while an\nill-concealed smile trembled on his lips.\n\nIrene went back to her favourite terrace, and for a long time watched the\ncab going down the hill, raising a cloud of dust. A suspicion arose in\nher heart, that Gzhatski had come to Assisi exclusively with the purpose\nof giving her this book, and she began to read it with great interest.\n\n\n\n\nX\n\n\nSaint Amulfia lived in the seventeenth century. Her parents were French\n_petits bourgeois_, uneducated, poor, almost peasants. From her earliest\nchildhood, she was greatly attracted by convent life, and always nursed\nthe dream of one day becoming a nun. Her relations tried to dissuade her\nfrom this project, and wished her to marry. Amulfia, however, found all\nmen repulsive, and the very thought of marriage filled her with horror\nand disgust. For a long time, lacking the dower without which no one is\naccepted in Catholic convents, she was unable to join the order she had\nchosen. At last, however, after the death of her parents, their small\ncapital being divided among the children, she took her portion to the\nconvent, and was received as a novice.\n\nFrom the very first days of her entry, she astonished all the nuns by her\nhumility, and the fervency of her prayers. At night, in her cell, she\nchastised herself with ropes, ran needles into her fingers, and covered\nherself with wounds. As always happens when the organism is weakened by\ntorture and privation and a constant state of nervous exaltation, she\nbegan to see visions. Christ appeared to her, and she spoke with Him, as\nwith her heavenly bridegroom, who claimed her as exclusively His own,\nand forbade her to continue even her friendly relations with a good and\nkind young nun for whom she had felt a special sympathy on entering\nthe convent. \u201cSi elle ne se retirait pas des cr\u00e9atures,\u201d threatened\nthe Heavenly Bridegroom, \u201cIl saurait se retirer d\u2019elle,\u201d and the saint\nobeyed, and turned away from her friend.\n\nThese visions were known to the whole convent, but did not astonish\nanybody. The other nuns also held converse with God, and sometimes on the\nmost trifling subjects. For instance, there was one who greatly disliked\ncheese which, for this very reason, her superior had once ordered her\nto eat, as a penance. So she went to church, threw herself on her knees\nbefore the Crucifix, and prayed for five hours, with tears and sobs, for\nstrength to eat her little piece of cheese. At last, she heard a voice,\nordering her to arise, and make yet one more effort. She obeyed, and the\nmiracle was accomplished: although with shudders of disgust, she yet\nsucceeded in swallowing the cheese.\n\nNot only God, however, but also Satan played a great part in the lives\nof the nuns. On one occasion, for instance, an absent-minded novice\nfell down the stairs, but managed not to hurt herself. She told of her\nexperience in the following words: \u201cSatan pushed me at the top, but a\nguardian angel was waiting at the bottom, and caught me in his arms.\u201d\n\nThere was only one nun in the convent who saw no visions. This was Sister\nJeanne, the matron of the hospital, a busy, active, energetic woman,\ndevoted to the sick who were brought to the hospital from the village.\nSaint Amulfia\u2019s biographer spoke of this sister with great severity.\n\u201cShe so completely exhausted her charity in favour of the sick whom she\ntended,\u201d he said, \u201cthat she had none left for the sisters who were her\nsubordinates in this work.\u201d\n\nHaving received Saint Amulfia as assistant nurse, Sister Jeanne\nconstantly scolded her for her clumsy carelessness. Saint Amulfia,\nindeed, had spent so great a part of her time in conversation either\nwith God or with Satan, and had grown so absent-minded, that she was\ncompletely incapable of giving a patient a spoonful of medicine, or a cup\nof beef-tea, without spilling them all over the bed!\n\nAt last, from a novice, Saint Amulfia became a full-blown nun, and from\nthis time onward called Christ her \u201cCelestial Husband.\u201d The visions\ncontinued, and the conversations became so grotesque that Irene, on\nreading them, sometimes quite involuntarily burst into peals of laughter.\nShe always, however, immediately and reproachfully stopped herself,\nthinking in horror:\n\n\u201cHow dare I? What am I doing? She was a _Saint_!\u201d\n\nWith every page, however, Irene\u2019s perplexity grew. What if there\nwere similar saints among the S\u0153urs Mauve? What if (God forbid!) she\nherself should become a saint? Irene tried to console herself with the\nthought that all this had taken place in the seventeenth century, in\ndays of ignorance and mental darkness\u2014on the other hand, however, she\nremembered that that had been the century of Corneille, Moli\u00e8re, Racine,\nthe brilliant Madame de S\u00e9vign\u00e9, the golden age, indeed, of French\nliterature. Beyond this, the entire arrangement of life in a Catholic\nConvent was new to her, and surprised her exceedingly. She had imagined\na refuge for women who had been disappointed in life, and who longed for\na quiet harbour where they would be sheltered from the storms of the\nworld, and where, safely anchored at last, they could end their days\nin holiness and prayer. She had imagined the relations of the nuns to\neach other, as polite and friendly, much like those of well-bred people\nstaying in the same hotel, and meeting each other every day at dinner. In\nreality there appeared to be a severe r\u00e9gime, by which she, Irene, would\nbe obliged to submit in every way to the will of her Superior, who might\nbe a trivial-minded, common person, capable of forcing her subordinates\nto spend their time in performing such \u201csacrifices\u201d or \u201cgreat deeds\u201d\nas eating something they did not like, or occupying themselves with\nsomething useless that could not interest them.\n\nIrene shuddered at her own carelessness. Having made no enquiries\nwhatever, she had painted for herself an imaginary romantic picture, and\nhad been on the point of sacrificing in its favour the personal liberty\nshe had always enjoyed. What, if on closer acquaintance, the happiness\nof that unknown, much-dreamt-of convent life proved to be an illusion?\nWhat if she should afterwards wish to escape from it, and it were too\nlate, no return being possible? There came back to Irene\u2019s recollection\nlong-forgotten stories of unloved wives or unwanted daughters, who had\nbeen hidden away in Catholic convents, and whom no one had afterwards\nsucceeded in saving or even tracing. For that matter, thought Irene,\nthere was not even, in her case, anyone who would trouble about trying to\ntrace her\u2014so terribly alone was she in the world! For the first time in\nher life, she shuddered with sheer fright, and, together with this sudden\nfear, the thought of Gzhatski as her protector flashed through her mind.\n\n\u201cYes, _there_ is a man who will not let any harm come to me!\u201d she\nthought. \u201cHe is of the kind that would find and save his friends, if they\nwere at the end of the earth, or at the bottom of the sea!\u201d\n\nIrene threw down the book that had so disturbed her peace of mind, but\nher restlessness, nevertheless, grew. Assisi lost its charm for her, and\na sudden spell of bad weather offering itself as an excuse, she hurried\nher departure, and returned to Rome.\n\n\n\n\nXI\n\n\nAs soon as she arrived in Rome, Irene sent for Gzhatski.\n\n\u201cAre you not ashamed of yourself?\u201d she asked him reproachfully, \u201cfor\nhaving given me such a horrible book? What was your object? Of what\nbenefit could such a book be to anybody?\u201d\n\n\u201cI only wanted to open your eyes to convent life,\u201d he answered, \u201cyou\nseemed to know nothing but its outer, or decorative side, so I thought I\nwould show you what is hidden under that charming exterior.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut Saint Amulfia lived in the seventeenth century! Surely everything\nhas changed since then?\u201d protested Irene weakly.\n\n\u201cNot in convents!\u201d replied Gzhatski with emphasis. \u201cNothing can ever\nchange where the very fundamental conditions are abnormal. Human\nbeings were created to live in the world, to work together, to be happy\ntogether, and thankfully to accept and enjoy all that life can give. Only\nin complying with these conditions can they retain their moral and mental\nequilibrium. The moment they leave the world and become possessed by some\nmonomania, such as the saving of their own souls, they are unbalanced,\nand there soon follow all the hallucinations, visions, temptations of\nthe devil, and what not, so common in convents. Convents are now being\nclosed in France, not, as is popularly supposed, through the influence\nof Freemasons, but by science and enlightenment, two forces that always\nhold high their torch in France, and always have the last word. No one\ndoubts that in their time convents were of great use to humanity. With\nthe exception of the comparatively rare cases in which inexperienced\nsouls were forcibly or artificially lured into taking the veil and so\nruining their healthy, normal natures, most of the people who became nuns\nwere such as felt the renunciation of normal life to be their vocation,\nin other words, entirely unbalanced characters. Convents, therefore,\nrendered an enormous service to society by imprisoning within their walls\nerotic and hysterical women, and all sorts of maniacs, whose presence in\nthe world might have been highly detrimental to their fellows. Whenever\nsome sort of power fell accidentally into their hands, they managed to do\nharm even after having renounced life. One need only take the one great\ninstance of the Spanish Inquisition, and of all the subtle refinement\nof torture in which, during its sway, the cruel voluptuousness of these\ndiseased natures found its outlet.\n\n\u201cScience tells us that rest and silence and a regular life, free from all\ndisquieting influences, work wonders for sufferers from nervous diseases.\nIn monasteries and convents, such patients were not only kept, but they\nalso underwent cures, for in addition to everything else, these religious\ninstitutions were generally situated amid the loveliest and healthiest\nnatural surroundings, and almost all the modern German and Swiss\nsanatoria and \u2018Rest or Air Cure\u2019 Establishments have been built on or\nnear the ruins of some ancient monastery or convent. The founders of the\nlatter well knew with what kind of subjects they would have to deal, and\nwhat exactly these subjects needed. I repeat: Monasteries and convents\nhave in the past rendered humanity a great service, by taking the place\nof asylums and sanatoria for mental and nervous sufferers. Now that\ninstitutions for the cure or care of such sufferers abound everywhere,\nconvents have become useless, and are being suppressed.\n\n\u201cIn Russia, they still exist, and will long continue to exist and be\nneeded, because they provide for our peasantry that change and relaxation\nwhich the upper classes find in their travels abroad. A certain amount\nof change is essential to all human beings, but most particularly to\ninhabitants of the gloomy North, with its cold cheerless climate. The\nEnglish, for instance, have long ago realized that it is necessary for\nthe maintenance of their health and strength to travel at least once a\nyear. Whither would our Russian peasant and his hapless \u2018old woman\u2019\nbetake themselves, if there existed no monastery where one can go for a\n\u2018prayer week\u2019? For them, convents represent the new places, new people,\nnew impressions, which are so necessary for jaded nerves, and which have\nsuch a reviving influence on body and soul. Our monasteries are perfectly\naware of this, and willingly receive, feed, and maintain pilgrim\nvisitors. The most hospitable of all is, perhaps, the Valamski Monastery,\nand our silly Petrograd does not even suspect how much of its moral and\nmental good health it owes to this institution. While various charitable\nsocieties are only just beginning to organize picnics and excursions,\nthe Valamski Brothers have long had their own private steamers, which,\nmodestly and without any advertisement or flourish of trumpets, bring\nvisitors to Valam, at a fare cheap enough to be within the means of the\nmost limited purse. Once there, all travellers are received alike by the\nmonks, with kindness and courtesy, are regaled with simple, wholesome\nfood, and provided with distractions in the shape of rowing and sailing.\nHow many delightful impressions have been brought back from these\nexcursions by the poor of Petrograd, during those glorious summer months,\nwhen all nature rejoices! But for the Valamski Monastery, many a puny\nPetrograd slum child would never have known how beautiful God\u2019s world is.\nAll honour to the modest brotherhood of Valam! These are true Christians,\nsince they share with others God\u2019s most glorious gift to man\u2014nature!\n\n\u201cRussian monasteries also render a service to the people by their\nbeautiful singing. The desire for music is not, as many people wrongly\nsuppose, the privilege of the cultured circles. There are indeed many\nclever and well-educated people who do not care about music at all, while\nthere are ignorant peasants who delight in it. You have only to go to\nthe big Cathedral of the Alexander-Nevsky Lavra, at Christmas or Easter.\nAt no concert will you see such beaming, happy faces. The people will\nstand for two or three hours, forgetting everything in the world but the\ndelight of the soft dulcet tones of the choir.\n\n\u201cIn all poor countries, where general culture is not very advanced,\nmonasteries give to the masses the silence, poetry and music, for which\ntheir souls unconsciously yearn. As soon, however, as a people grows\nprosperous, educates itself and finds its own distractions, the need for\nconvents or monasteries disappears. Simple-minded folk imagine that the\nsuppression of the religious orders means the decay of Christianity\u2014but\nthey forget that monasteries existed in India and in China, long\nbefore the birth of Christ. Christianity did not invent them, but the\nmonasteries of the time gradually adopted the new faith. Actually, all\nsuch institutions are quite contrary to Christian ideals, for Christ\u2019s\nteaching, above all else, enjoins activity. Much more in conformity with\nthe Gospel are the modern religious working associations, with their\nhospitals, schools, and refuges, which are springing up everywhere now\nin place of the old convents. Their introduction into modern life is\nperfectly comprehensible. In addition to the nervous wrecks, there\nwere also some healthy people who used to enter convents; people,\nindeed, whose superior spiritual health, so to speak, prompted them to\nconsider the happiness of others, before their own. Such monks and nuns\nas these were not content to do nothing but fast and pray, but invented\noccupations for themselves. Some founded schools and colleges, others\nnursed the sick, others again became missionaries in foreign lands. They\nwore the prescribed attire of their orders, but in all other respects\nthey lived in the world as before, loving and helping their neighbours,\nand sharing the interests and joys and sorrows of their fellow-creatures.\nIt is this healthy class of monastics, that is now, after the suppression\nof the old institutions, hastening to found new ones, more in keeping\nwith the needs of our times. Such charitable associations have sprung up\nin large numbers also in Russia\u2014God speed them! But institutions of that\nkind will never attract people like you, Irene Pavlovna!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not?\u201d\n\n\u201cBecause you are _ill_, and your illness makes the old convents, with\ntheir mysticism and their mysteries and their sleeping existence\nsomewhere between earth and heaven, far more attractive to you.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what is this disease?\u201d asked Irene, with a mistrustful smile.\n\n\u201cThe disease from which you are suffering is disgust for all activity\nand contempt for all mankind. This disease usually attacks the children\nor grand-children of writers, scientists, artists, sometimes also of\nState officials, the kind that have spent all their lives in pouring over\nState archives or other papers. Their mental overwork, at the expense\nof physical strength, leaves indelible traces, and has to be paid for\nby their children, who always have morbid desires for some fantastic\nexistence invented by their own imaginations, and find real life dull\nand colourless. As soon as they are over the borders of childhood, they\nbegin, like ancient Israel, to dispute and struggle with God. They refuse\nto accept the humanity He has created, with all its faults and failings;\nthey invent their own fanciful heroes, and demand of God that He should\ngive these imaginary creatures life. It is principally women in whom this\nmorbid contempt for human nature manifests itself. The girl, indeed, is\nrare who does not, on getting married, attempt to remodel her husband\naccording to her own ideas. She tries to turn a passionate worldling\ninto a monk, prepares to metamorphose a pensive lover of solitude into a\nbrilliant society dandy, or forces a pleasure-loving social lion into the\nnarrow circle of her domestic interests. And the poor deluded creature\nnever for a moment doubts the success of her efforts. \u2018I shall only have\nto be insistent, and to give him no peace,\u2019 she thinks, \u2018and all will be\nas I wish.\u2019\n\n\u201cSome women, indeed, shatter their happiness in this way, and to the end\nof their lives never realize their mistake. Of course, this ridiculous\nfeature of their characters proves the profound depths of ignorance\nin which women are still groping, in spite of their superficial, if\nsometimes apparently brilliant, intellectual attainments. Were their\nmental development less shallow, they would understand that God cannot\nfor their pleasure entirely remodel a completed creation. This seems,\nindeed, a very simple fact, but it is surprising how few women can grasp\nit. Most of my morbid types try to escape from the prose of life by means\nof operas, novels, dreams, and in this way they only broaden the gulf\nthat separates them from their more reasonable fellow-creatures. They\nfeel that happiness is their birthright, and they torment themselves\nbecause they cannot attain it. Time passes, and brings disillusionment,\nsince the world refuses to conform itself to vain fancies. And then\nbegins the quarrel with God.\n\n\u201c\u2018Send me a man after my own heart,\u2019 cry the poor deluded ones to the\nAlmighty, often with bitter tears. \u2018Then I shall be happy, will believe\nin Thy might, and will bless and praise Thy name. I despise the low,\nsinful people by whom I am surrounded, and I suffer through this very\nfact. I long to bow my head before some nobler being, some man who has\nonly virtues, and to whom I could all my life look up in adoration.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhat answer can God give to such prayers, however sincere and agonized\nthey may be? They remain ungranted, and little by little they turn into\nmurmurs, discontent, and finally, unbelief.\n\n\u201c\u2018Were there a God,\u2019 think these unfortunates, with a burning sense of\ninjustice, \u2018He would pay attention to my sufferings. Once He remains\nsilent, this proves that He does not exist.\u2019\n\n\u201cThe only result is a wrecked life, void of happiness, and without\nbenefit to anybody.\n\n\u201cSuch diseased characters ought to be treated and cured in childhood.\nTheir interest in life should be artificially educated. Novels and\noperas should be strictly forbidden. They should be taught history and\nmedical science, and they should be made to work in hospitals, in order\nto overcome that unnatural disgust for mere physical life, which is one\nof their chief characteristics. They should be trained to observe their\nsurroundings, even to express in writing their impressions of people\nwith whom they come in contact, and to make logical deductions on the\nsubject of the probable futures of these people. In a word, to attach\nthese sick creatures to earth, one must convince them that there exists\nnothing so interesting as humanity. Only when observation and interest in\ntheir fellow-creatures becomes a habit, will they understand the object\nof life. Instead of contempt, their hearts will be filled with profound\npity. It is themselves, indeed, that one cannot at present regard without\npity, these hapless sufferers from a deep-seated moral disease. Rancour,\ngreed, envy, voluptuousness, cruelty, these are all spiritual ailments,\nneeding special doctors and special medicines.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut\u2014\u201d stammered Irene, \u201cthese are sins, and not diseases. You are\npreaching some entirely new theory.\u201d\n\n\u201cNo; it only seems new to you, but it is actually as old as the hills.\nShakespeare already described, in Othello, the symptoms of the disease\nof jealousy, and in Hamlet, again, he showed us a soul paralyzed by\nexcessive self-analysis. Read the monologue of Pouschkin\u2019s \u2018Avaricious\nKnight,\u2019 and you will agree that this is the monologue of a madman.\nCompare him with Moli\u00e8re\u2019s \u2018Miser,\u2019 and you will notice that both the\nwriters have emphasized the characteristic feature of all misers: hatred\nof their children. Ask any doctor, and he will tell you that mental\npatients, in almost every case, lose the capacity to love or take an\ninterest in their relations and friends, sometimes, indeed, manifesting a\nviolent animosity towards them.\n\n\u201cIt is not, indeed, only Shakespeare, or Pushkin, or Moli\u00e8re, it is all\nthe science and literature of centuries, that has prepared the way for\nthis (as you call it) \u2018new theory.\u2019 In our hearts, we have already long\nago accepted it; we are only hesitating to proclaim it loudly, because\nit destroys all our laws and all our religions, and the whole working of\nour worn-out social machinery. We are not yet rid of the ideals of the\nMiddle Ages; we cannot tear ourselves away from the hell that we picture\nto ourselves as clearly as did Dante, nor from the heaven that, in our\nimagination, is quite as dull and colourless as that of the immortal\nFlorentine. But time passes, and we have reached the last days of the\nMiddle Ages. The New Era will begin when people will at last dare to\nproclaim loudly that there are no saints and sinners, but only the sick\nand the healthy. A healthy man can find heaven on earth, while a diseased\nnature lives in a worse hell than any that can be invented by the most\nglowing imagination. Only when we realize this, shall we understand the\nGospel. Until now, during all these nineteen centuries, we have not\nunderstood it at all, but have preserved it, feeling instinctively that\nwe shall need it in time. Christ\u2019s love for \u2018sinners\u2019 will become clear\nto us, and we ourselves shall be filled with profound pity for these\nsufferers. Even to-day, no one dreams of hating the insane, or being\nincensed against them, or punishing them. Gradually we shall begin to\nregard in the same light all malicious, immoral, envious natures, pitying\nthem boundlessly for being afflicted with such cruel diseases. The\nteaching of Christ, hitherto but half understood, will become clear and\nsimple.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut, allow me!\u201d\u2014interrupted Irene. \u201cHow about murderers? Will you\nexpect us to pity them, too, and shed tears over their moral sufferings?\u201d\n\n\u201cUndoubtedly. Murderers suffer from the most terrible of all moral\ndiseases, and therefore deserve quite particular attention. I don\u2019t\nknow whether you have ever troubled to read accounts of the executions\nof criminals. I have often done so with great interest. In France, as\nsoon as a man is condemned to death, he is fallen upon by a whole army\nof reporters, who repeat the minutest details to the public: what the\nprisoner ate, how much he drank, how he slept, and what he said. This\nwild chase after a sensational line sometimes unconsciously brings to\nlight important facts. Recently, for instance, I read an account of the\nguillotining in a provincial town of a man who had killed his father.\nHe had, in cold blood, cut the old man\u2019s throat, in order to come more\nquickly into his little inheritance. He was, of course, very soon\ncaught\u2014these diseased creatures always are. In prison he astonished\neverybody by a complete indifference to his murdered father, as well\nas to his own fate. His sentence startled him for a moment, but, a\nminute later, he simply and confidently told his gaolers that he hoped\nto keep up his courage and his spirits to the last moment if, before\nmounting the scaffold, they could give him some black coffee and some\nwhite wine. This desire to make a show of courage before the public is\nthe outcome of a very primitive human impulse. The lower a man\u2019s mental\ndevelopment, the more he gives for his neighbour\u2019s praise. Natures with\nloftier aspirations set a smaller value on public opinion, being, indeed,\nsometimes quite indifferent to it.\n\n\u201cThe prisoner\u2019s wish is granted, and having swallowed his wine and his\ncoffee he leaves the prison with a firm step, accompanied by a priest,\nwho does not for a moment leave his side. On mounting the scaffold the\nmurderer turns to the assembled crowd and makes a speech, in which he\ndeclares his complete repentance and bequeaths his ill-gotten inheritance\nto charities. These are of course all phrases instilled into him by the\npriest for the edification of the public. The prisoner repeats them like\na parrot, still for the sake of public opinion. In his heart he does not\nrepent in the least, otherwise he could not have previously shown the\nsupreme indifference to his dead father that had so enraged his gaolers.\n\n\u201cAt last the comedy is over. The murderer, pleased with his pose of\npiety, turns round and sees the guillotine knife. Immediately, the\nsavage brute in him awakens. He fights, struggles, scratches, bites\nand screams\u2014he sells his life dearly. Four other savage brutes throw\nthemselves on him and drag him to the knife. The crowd glumly watches the\nnauseating scene, and gradually disperses.\n\n\u201c\u2018The public,\u2019 writes the simple-minded reporter, \u2018was present at the\ntriumph of justice, but instead of joy, the prevalent impression was one\nof having witnessed something incomplete and unsatisfactory.\u2019\n\n\u201cWhat wonder, indeed! Whatever laws you may invent, whatever religions\nyou may propagate, human instinct always was, is, and will be, more\nreliable than them all. Instinct pointed out to that crowd that a\nmistake had been made. No one knew where the mistake lay, but its\ndisturbing presence made itself clearly felt.\n\n\u201cIt is the same instinct that sometimes makes people act, in spite of\nthemselves, apparently against their convictions. I remember once being\ntaken to see a new prison, built according to the very latest ideas and\nprinciples. The criminals had not yet been transferred into their new\nquarters. The founder led me with pride through the enormous, lofty,\nlight, excellently ventilated wards, showed me the perfect sanitary\narrangements, the wash-stands, the hygienic beds, the luxurious baths,\nand the kitchen with all the latest and most modern improvements.\nThe government had evidently built, for criminals, this magnificent\nsanatorium as a reward for the crimes they had committed. Leaving our\nhonest little peasant to starve and freeze as he will, the powers that\nbe had used the money extorted from him in taxes to provide robbers\nand thieves and murderers with comfortable free lodgings, including\nlight, warmth, excellent food and clothing! In answer to my perplexed\nquestion, the prison inspector explained to me that the prisoner is\npunished by being deprived of his liberty. What an explanation! Liberty\nis dear to people who know how to profit by it. Of what use is it to\nthose miserable wretches who look upon vodka and cheap tobacco as life\u2019s\ngreatest treasures? They can get both in prison, to say nothing of the\ngayest and most congenial society! Such prisons are a mockery of justice,\nand a perversion of common sense. All this and much more could be said\nto the Government\u2014but the fault-finder would be wrong. The whole kernel\nof the matter lies in the fact that though we still refuse to accept\nthe new teaching, though we regard it with contempt and hold it up to\nderision, we nevertheless instinctively already build, not prisons,\nbut\u2014_sanatoria_. As usual, instinct is more far-seeing than reason or\nthe law. The time is not far off when prison inspectors (who have been\ntransferred by chance into these new sanatoria, together with all the\nremaining out-of-date paraphernalia of the old institutions) will be\nreplaced by doctors. Then, and only then, will begin the real recovery\nand redemption of society, never to be attained by the na\u00efve isolation of\nacute cases of disease, or the destruction of sick people as if they were\nmad dogs.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut how can such cures be possible? These are surely mere dreams!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy mere dreams? Much has already been done\u2014but medicine is\nunfortunately still in its infancy. The future will undoubtedly bring to\nlight great discoveries\u2014means and possibilities must only be provided for\nexperiments. Such experiments, indeed, are already receiving attention\neverywhere. Only a few days ago, for instance, I read in the papers\nthat an Italian professor, director of a gyn\u00e6cological institution, had\nannounced at a congress that, according to the results of his researches,\nall female criminals suffered from various severe forms of women\u2019s\ndiseases. He suggested that instead of imprisonment they should undergo\ncures in gyn\u00e6cological hospitals. Can you imagine anything more wildly\nstupid than sentencing a woman to death, or shutting her up for life in a\nprison, only because she needs to undergo a surgical operation? Perhaps\none can imagine just one thing that is still more uncivilized\u2014the idea\nthat she will burn for ever in hell, because at the birth of her children\nshe was attended by a clumsy or ignorant midwife!\n\n\u201cAnd how many such cases do we meet at every step! I remember one\nof my aunts once told me how she had, in her youth, suffered from\nover-sensitiveness. She always imagined that everyone was laughing at\nher, that no one loved her, that she had constant reason to feel offended\nand insulted. She suffered dreadfully and began to grow positively\nmisanthropical, hating and mistrusting everybody. Happily, chance sent\nher a clever doctor, who took her in hand, and put her nerves in order.\nSimultaneously with this improvement, her hysterical sensitiveness\ndisappeared, and now, as soon as she suspects that she is going to have\nan attack of \u2018being offended,\u2019 she sends to the chemist for some bromide,\nand all is well!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou are joking, Sergei Grigorievitch!\u201d\n\n\u201cNot in the least. We could all be of great help to doctors if we would\nonly observe ourselves more closely. Just as people at present, when\nthey feel indisposed, carefully note all the symptoms of their illness,\nand, in order to decide on a suitable cure, try to determine which of\ntheir organs is attacked, even so, some day, people will carefully note\ntheir spiritual ailments, and will treat envy, hatred, and malice just\nas they now treat their liver and kidneys! You are laughing, Irene\nPavlovna. But indeed many a new view that seemed strange at first has,\nafter fifty or a hundred years, become generally accepted and positively\ncommonplace. We have, for the time being, forgotten the ancient precept\n_Know thyself_; if we took it to heart, we could often be our own\ndoctors, for indeed we each have within ourselves an enormous power of\nself-treatment. Our Christian confessions\u2014the so-called _examens de\nconscience_ of the Catholics\u2014are nothing but minute observations of\nourselves. In former times people took communion, and therefore went to\nconfession, every Sunday. They were obliged, once a week, critically to\nexamine all their actions, and to decide which of them had been sinful\n(_i.e._, not normal). Beyond this they had to talk these actions over\nwith their spiritual advisers, men chosen for this purpose because they\nwere considered worthy of respect and confidence (_i.e._, because they\nwere normal and healthy). Unfortunately, however, it always happens that\ncustoms initiated by master minds for the lasting benefit of humanity,\ninvariably, after a time, fall into the hands of incapable mediocrities,\nwho do not understand the true meaning and object of the ideas in\nquestion, and transform them into mechanical poses, from which all\nsincere natures must turn away.\n\n\u201cA careful observation of ourselves would immensely simplify life, and\nwould make many things much clearer to us. You, for instance, Irene\nPavlovna, are sincerely convinced that the only reason why you never\nmarried is the fact that you did not meet a man who was worthy of you.\nActually there was quite another reason. You simply felt a physical\ndisgust at thought of the realisms of marriage\u2014the living with a man\nas his wife, the bearing of children, the feeding and nursing of these\nchildren. This prose sickened you, and as soon as someone was pleasing\nor sympathetic to you, you hastened to find or invent reasons for not\nmarrying him. You looked for faults in him, exaggerated them, invented\nthem, and did all you could to assure yourself that he was unworthy of\nyou.\n\n\u201cIn addition, marriage would really have meant too sudden a change for\nyou\u2014since, as is the case with all invalids, even the smallest change\nis a great trial for your nerves. Every trifling decision costs you\nmany nightmares, and is accompanied by palpitation of the heart, tears,\nand nervous exhaustion. People like you bear every discomfort in their\nhouse rather than move into another one, and submit to the tyranny of\ntheir servants because they have not the energy to look for new ones.\nIt is curious that such characters arrive, with the greatest ease and\npromptitude, at theoretical and abstract decisions. For instance, to take\na furnished house in the country and move into it for the summer is\nfrightfully difficult, but to emigrate is very easy. One only has to read\na charming description of Rome, and\u2014good-bye, Russia! I don\u2019t want you\nany more! I am going to Italy, and shall become an Italian!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat nonsense you are talking, Sergei Grigorievitch! This is all bluff,\nand you are simply trying to be brilliant! I assure you I have dreamt of\nmarriage all my life. If you only knew what touching scenes of family\nlife I have pictured to myself! This was always my greatest delight!\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! I quite believe that! We know how to dream beautifully! And in our\ndreams we are always extraordinarily active! We cross oceans, found\ncolonies, introduce ideal governments, and die as Kings or at least\nPresidents of Republics! In actual life, however, we groan, we are\nmiserable, and we greatly resent being obliged to bother about going to\nthe Bank, in order to receive the interest of the capital acquired for us\nby our more energetic ancestors.\u201d\n\n\u201cAll this is untrue, and a mockery!\u201d\n\n\u201cWould you like me to prove the truth of my words by an example?\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you like.\u201d\n\n\u201cVery well. Do you consider me a career-hunter?\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course not. What an idea!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd, in your opinion, I am an honest man worthy of respect?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly.\u201d\n\n\u201cIn that case, what would you say if I asked you to be my wife?\u201d\n\n\u201cSergei Grigorievitch! What are you thinking about? I am much too old to\nmarry!\u201d\n\n\u201cThere! I have caught you at once! As soon as the word \u2018marriage\u2019 is\nmentioned, you immediately find an excuse.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what I say is true! If you want to marry, you must choose a young\ngirl who can have children.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how do you know that you will have no children? Are you so well\nacquainted with the decrees of the celestial chancery? Be sincere and\nsay that the thought of marriage disgusts you. That will be nearer the\ntruth.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXII\n\n\nThis conversation greatly perturbed Irene. She tried to assure\nherself that it was all nonsense; but, somehow, truth seemed to look\nreproachfully at her through Gzhatski\u2019s words. Many disquieting\nremembrances came to her mind, and for the first time in her life she\nmade an effort to see herself as others saw her. Life had certainly,\ntill now, never required of her any particular activity or decision.\nEverything had always arranged itself without trouble. She had lived for\nyears in the flat in which her father had died, and to which she was so\naccustomed. Her maids had served her mechanically, and whenever one had\nleft, friends or neighbours had immediately recommended another to take\nher place, so that Irene had hardly noticed the change. When she had\ngiven parties, she had ordered the supper at a restaurant, the French\nmanager of which had known exactly what would please her guests.\n\n\u201cRapportez vous en \u00e0 moi, Mademoiselle,\u201d he had usually remarked with\nconfidence; \u201cet vos invit\u00e9s n\u2019auront pas lieu de se plaindre.\u201d\n\nIn the same way, her French dressmaker had known exactly what she should\nwear, and Irene had relied entirely on the Frenchwoman\u2019s good taste. In\naddition, she had really never had time to think out her own dresses,\nfor, each time she had ordered one, her thoughts had rushed off to the\ntrousseau she would some day provide for her future daughter; and the\ncolour and fabric and fashion of all those future dresses, hats, and furs\nhad engrossed her, for the time being, so completely that there had not\nbeen a moment left for her own immediate attire!\n\nThe greatest amount of energy Irene had ever expended had been in\nconnection with her travels abroad\u2014though, indeed, here also everything\nseemed to arrange itself without her guidance. On arriving in a strange\ntown, she had never been allowed even to wonder for a moment where she\nshould stay. Having hardly set foot on the railway arrival platform, an\nenergetic porter had invariably seized all her belongings, passed them on\nto some still more energetic commissionaire, and before she had had time\nto rub her eyes, she had been packed into an omnibus, and was comfortably\ndriving off to some hotel. She had often reflected that there were indeed\nnumberless kind-hearted people in the world. How many of them troubled\nthemselves to see that she was well dressed, well fed, well housed, etc.!\nThe money that she gave in exchange for these services seemed to her\na very small matter indeed in comparison to the enormous efforts they\ninvolved.\n\nAt one time, she had greatly occupied herself with this thought. Sitting\ncomfortably in her box at the theatre, she had wondered whether it was\nright that the actors should play, sing, and dance for her amusement;\nthat cab-drivers should freeze for hours outside the theatre doors, on\nthe chance of driving her home; that the night porter of her house should\nget out of bed to let her in\u2014all this for trifling sums of money that\nshe could never even miss, and that she had received from her father.\nWas it not an impossible arrangement of society, by which so many people\nworked for one idler? The question had greatly disturbed Irene\u2019s peace\nof mind; but just at that time she had been asked to join a society\nfor providing poor young mothers with layettes for their babies. The\nobject of this society was pleasing to Irene, and all her disturbing\nthoughts had lost themselves in an enormous ardour for knitting babies\u2019\ncounterpanes. There is scarcely another manual occupation that needs\nas little attention as knitting. One can knit a whole counterpane so\nmechanically that one has hardly noticed how it happened. And so, Irene\nhad knitted and knitted during all the long winter evenings, while her\nthoughts had rushed from one fancy to another. She had reorganized the\nRussian army and fleet; she had thought out schools of a new type, from\nwhich issued the most remarkable, active, energetic people; she had\nrebuilt Petrograd; she had planned new railways and laid out a new\nnetwork of canals, uniting all Russia\u2019s inland seas.\n\nAnd all the time, the counterpanes had grown and grown, till at last\nIrene had been able proudly to present an enormous number of completed\nones to the society. She had been happy in the thought that if the\nworkmen of Petrograd provided her with all the necessaries of life, she\nin return provided their children with counterpanes. In this way, justice\nand an even balance had been restored.\n\nIt is true that the society had also imposed on its members the duty of\nvisiting the mothers. This duty, however, Irene had point blank refused\nto take upon herself. It was preposterous, she had thought. What would\nhappen if she were by chance to arrive somewhere at a moment when a\nchild was being born? She would hear the mother\u2019s groans and see the\nred, wrinkled infant. She did not even know very exactly how it all\nhappens, and she had shuddered at the very idea of witnessing anything\nso nauseating. In general, she had always felt a natural disgust for\neverything physical, and had never brought herself to glance without a\nshudder at the simplest anatomical design. In the case in point, indeed,\nshe had preferred to knit ten extra counterpanes rather than see one of\nthe babies for whom they were destined.\n\nShe now remembered also how she had always loved to escape from real\nlife into the enchanted realms of novels and poems. People in books were\nalways so charming, and all their thoughts and actions so comprehensible.\nThey all invariably had a clear, well-defined object in life, and\nstrove through a few hundred engrossing pages to attain this object.\nThey were all noble and generous, and their lives were bright and\nbeautiful. What interesting and delightful moments Irene had passed in\ntheir society! They had made her laugh and cry and suffer and rejoice,\nand had entertained her with the brilliancy of their wit. How dull and\ncolourless real people had appeared beside these heroes and heroines of\nfiction. Real people never seemed to know for what purpose they existed,\nnor what to do with their lives; their characters were nearly always\nillogical and uninteresting; they were married stupidly and aimlessly,\nand generally to the wrong people; they just as aimlessly bore children,\nand did nothing but reproach them for having exactly the same faults as\nthemselves; if, however, one of the children who had caused them nothing\nbut torments and trouble died, they made a terrific fuss, wrung their\nhands in despair, and cursed God. How could Irene respect such people?\nAh! if she had met in real life a Prince Andrey, from \u201cPeace and War,\u201d\nhow passionately she would have loved him! And what an intimate friend\nshe would have made of Pushkin\u2019s Tatiana! How they would have understood\neach other! How much they would have had in common! Irene had often\nassured her friends in fun that no man in the world appealed to her as\nmuch as Sherlock Holmes.\n\nThinking over all this, Irene suddenly, with a shock, realized that\nGzhatski was perfectly right, that she had really never lived, but had\nonly slumbered and dreamt, and had in this way let her youth slip by.\nHaving now understood her own illness, was there still time for a\ncure, for a return to normal life? Could she renounce her contempt for\nhumanity? Could she try to love human nature, in spite of its defects?\nCould she live in the world, sharing its joys and sorrows? Or was it too\nlate? Was not P\u00e8re Etienne, perhaps, persuading her to take the veil just\nfor that self-same reason? Did not the clever priest, perhaps, regard\nher simply as a nervous patient, and was he not possibly trying by every\npossible ruse to lure her into a convent as one lures lunatics into an\nasylum? The thought was painful.\n\nGzhatski, in the meantime, having proposed to Irene in jest, knowing\nperfectly well that she would refuse, had suddenly, once the proposal was\nmade and rejected, begun to think seriously about marrying her. He had\nfor some years past quite given up his old dreams of marriage, but having\nduring the autumn previous to his Italian journey spent two lonely months\nin the country, away from all his friends, alone with an old devoted but\nbadly trained servant, Gzhatski had often meditated with some sadness\non the failure of his cherished plans, and on the lonely old age that\nawaited him. Irene\u2019s innocence and simple-mindedness appealed to him, and\nemphatically as he assured her that indifference to wealth and position\nwas a symptom of disease, this particular symptom was, nevertheless, in\nher case, pleasing to him. Her moral purity reminded him of his mother,\nthough, indeed, one could hardly imagine two more diverse characters:\nthe one deeply and passionately religious, the other embittered and\nindifferent even to her shattered ideals.\n\nTaking advantage of the impression produced on Irene\u2019s mind by the \u201cLife\nof Saint Amulfia,\u201d and her resultant disillusionment on the subject\nof convents, Gzhatski persuaded her to venture a little out of her\nseclusion, and to see something of Roman society. The season was in full\nswing. Crowds of English and American tourists were besieging the hotels,\nand were being pitilessly fleeced. The Costanzi theatre engaged one\nfamous singer after another, and great society hostesses vied with each\nother in the brilliancy of their receptions. Armies of peasant women and\ntheir children, in picturesque national costumes, wandered down from the\nAlbanian hills to sell flowers to the _forestieri_ (foreigners). Old Rome\nseemed to have grown young again, and basked gaily in the golden spring\nsunshine.\n\nGzhatski took Irene to the Horse Show, organized by the fashionable\n\u201cFox-hunters\u2019 Club.\u201d Fox-hunting, the recreation of the most aristocratic\nRoman circles, is a feature of the winter season. The perfect roads\ntraversing the Campagna, the splendid views, the fresh air, the\ninvigorating canter across the plain, a little harmless flirtation with\nthe most elegant of equestriennes, all this is dear to the heart of the\nfashionable Roman. As to the foxes, they suffer but little at the hands\nof their aristocratic hunters!\n\n\u201cThe fox is an old Roman,\u201d the more sincere sportsmen often frankly\nadmit\u2014\u201che knows every inch of the Campagna, much better than we do, and\nrarely lets himself be caught.\u201d\n\nIn answer to any question about the hunt, Roman \u201cHigh Life\u201d almost\ninvariably asserts that the day was superb. \u201cAt the start, a fox was\nraised, but managed to evade the hunters, and finally escaped.\u201d\n\nEvil tongues, indeed, assert that these foxes are mechanical, and are\nwound up and started before every hunt! But then\u2014what strange rumours\nwill not evil tongues invent! The sportsmen are never discouraged, and it\nis under their auspices that the annual Horse Show is organized.\n\nOn arriving at the Tor di Fiorenza, Irene was greeted by a scene as\npicturesque as it was new and unfamiliar to her. The races were held in\na valley between low hills, the obstacles being scattered not only over\nthe level ground, but also on the grassy slopes. The course, indeed, was\na bewilderingly winding one, up-hill and down-hill, the last and most\ndifficult barrier being placed at a considerable height, followed by a\nsteep incline down to the winning-post.\n\nSome of the jockeys were flung over this last barrier, head forwards!\nTheir riderless horses, taking the leap by themselves, quietly turned\naside and began to regale themselves on the fresh grass, while the\nsoldiers on guard picked up what was left of the unconscious sportsmen!\n\nThere were no seats of any kind provided for the public. The fashionable\nonlookers stood about on the grass, or sat on folding stools they had\nbrought with them; others even, when overtired, seated themselves on\nthe damp ground. Sometimes, the public pressed so close to the barriers\nthat they were actually in the way, and one of the judges on horseback\napproached, courteously requesting the crowd to stand back. Children,\nbrought there for some unknown reason, arranged little races and\ncompetitions of their own, and skipped merrily up and down the hills,\nto the delight of their parents. The Roman is a tender father, and is\nnot ashamed of his tenderness. For that matter, the Romans present were\nprobably in the minority, every possible nationality being represented\nin the assemblage. The manner, attire, and general appearance of all\ncosmopolitan aristocrats being similar, one could only distinguish the\nvarious nationalities of those present by the accent with which they\nspoke French, the language almost universally adopted in Roman society.\nIrene studied the animated picture before her with great interest. The\nweather was lovely. The recent rains had covered the whole valley with\na carpet of new, green grass, from which peeped, here and there, a shy,\nlittle early field-flower. The air was fragrant with the scent of spring,\nand the pink and white bloom of the cherry-trees contrasted strangely\nwith the solemn darkness of the Roman pines. The gay, elegant crowd\nlaughed and chatted around Irene, and her glance wandered, with a curious\nsense of strangeness, from one face to another. These handsome, well\ndressed men, these dainty, fashionable ladies, probably making the Horse\nShow an excuse for some rendezvous, seemed to her to belong to some other\nworld, and to have indeed nothing whatever in common with the ex-nun, as\nshe, with some bitterness, called herself.\n\n\n\n\nXIII\n\n\nLittle by little, however, Irene let herself be drawn into the whirl\nof Italian social life. Italian society is one of the most interesting\nand delightful societies in the world. It is indeed impossible not to\nlove these charming, sympathetic, gay, splendidly accomplished and witty\nSoutherners. What a difference between their sparkling and brilliant\nreceptions, and the dull, heavy entertainments of Petrograd! Nowhere in\nRome did Irene meet those gloomy, silent figures that wander forlornly\nabout Petrograd drawing-rooms, only waiting for supper. They do not exist\nin Italy, neither does the supper. At the most brilliant receptions,\nthere is never more than one table for light refreshments, tea, ices,\nwines, lemonade. Most of the guests, however, never even approach this\ntable, but prefer, on returning home, to drink a glass of cold water,\nof the purity of which Romans are prouder than of the Colosseum or the\nForum. They go to receptions, not for the sake of eating and drinking,\nbut rather for laughter and flirtation and brilliant conversation. At\nalmost every social gathering there is music and recitation. Everybody\nrecites: poets, poetesses, and ordinary mortals. The Italian language,\nespecially as spoken in Rome, is so musical that the recitations give\npleasure even to foreigners who do not understand their meaning. There\nis great variety in this fashionable art. An old poet rises, requests\nthat most of the lights may be extinguished, takes an effective attitude,\nand begins, with theatrical intensity, to raise and to lower his voice,\nrather, indeed, to sing than to speak. He is listened to with attention,\nbut the younger generation smiles: \u201cThe old school,\u201d it whispers\ndisdainfully.\n\nHe is followed by a young representative of modern ideas, a North Italian\npoetess, on a visit to Rome. She is dressed in decadent green draperies\n(that suit her perfectly, by the way!), and to the accompaniment of\nangular, decadent gestures, she begins to recite her lines, simply, and\nin a natural voice. The simplicity is studied, to the point of becoming\nalmost a mannerism. The young people, however, are delighted, especially\nthe men, who gaze with undisguised pleasure at the beautiful poetess.\n\nBut suddenly there steps into the centre of the room a young girl\namateur, the daughter of a Roman prefect. She recites some verses by\nd\u2019Annunzio. This is neither the old nor the new school, but simply a\nburning young Italian soul, and the charming, unaffected sincerity of her\nart is rewarded by storms of applause.\n\nTo singing or piano-playing Italians listen with even still greater\nattention. No one talks, but each listener seems lost in rapture. No one\nwho can perform hesitates or affectedly waits to be asked half a dozen\ntimes; on the contrary, everyone is burning to show off his talent. They\nenjoy their own performances, and, inspired by the almost religious\nattention of their hearers, sing more gloriously than would ever be\npossible in the chilly North.\n\nArt, indeed, and the worship of beauty, is the only religion of the\nRomans. \u201cArt for art\u2019s sake,\u201d they declare, as they laugh at modern\nrealistic literature.\n\n\u201cEvery time we attempt to represent some inward struggle,\u201d complained\na famous Italian lady novelist to Irene, \u201cthe critics hold us up to\nridicule, and say we are imitating Russian writers!\u201d\n\nTo tell a Roman writer that his work is pervaded by a Christian spirit is\nto offend him deeply. He has only one ideal: his verses or his prose must\nas nearly as possible resemble antique art. The true Roman has a profound\ncontempt for Christianity, a religion, in his eyes, suited only to slaves\nand low menials, and not to nobler natures. The Roman is a pagan, and is\nproud of the fact. Nineteen centuries have passed unnoticeably for him.\nThe Eternal City, with its antique ruins, and its ancient associations,\nholds him enchained. In Northern Italy new ideas, new tendencies, may\nbe possible\u2014but Rome will remain pagan for ever. Perhaps, indeed, this\nmay explain the strong impression Rome produces on many foreigners.\nThere are, in the world, many pagans, on whom life in Christian lands\nweighs heavily. They have to take part in conversations about love, about\nunselfishness, about kindness to one\u2019s neighbours, etc., and, being\nhonourable characters, this enforced hypocrisy causes them much mental\ntorment. In Rome, where everyone is frankly pagan, and not in the least\nashamed of the fact, they feel like fishes in water, and often settle\nthere for the rest of their lives.\n\nMost humorous of all is the fact that all this pagan world lives in the\nshadow of the Papal throne. In the eyes of Romans, however, the Pope has\nnever been the High-Priest of Christ on earth. He is simply the Pontifex\nMaximus, and does not even wish anyone to regard him in any other light.\nRomans, indeed, make a point of disillusioning every religiously inclined\nforeigner they come across by laughing at him and holding his pious\nideas up to ridicule. If he returns in a reverent mood from a visit\nto the tomb of St. Peter, they hasten to inform him that, according\nto historical evidence, the Apostle Peter had never been in Rome, and\nthat his place of burial is unknown. As to the Apostle Paul and other\nChristian martyrs, their bones were exhumed and their ashes thrown to the\nwinds at the time of the Barbarian invasion.\n\nRomans make jokes about their miraculous images, laugh at miracles,\nrelate indecent stories about cardinals, priests, and monks, and present\ncaricatures of them on the stage. No wonder, indeed, that many pious\npilgrims have lost their faith in Rome.\n\nAmong the many completely pagan superstitions that are still extant in\nRoman society, the most notoriously absurd is that in connection with\nso-called _Jetatori_. Irene had heard of this superstition while yet in\nRussia, but had thought that it was in vogue solely among the ignorant\nlower classes of Naples. What then was her astonishment on coming across\nit in the most enlightened circles of Roman society! If a Roman passes\nan acquaintance in the street without noticing him and bowing, or if\nhe fails to invite him to one of his parties, the offended one revenges\nhimself by announcing the other to be a _Jetator_. Thereupon, society,\nimmediately, as one man, turns its back on the latter! If by some chance,\nand in the face of public opinion, some specially fearless soul invites\na _Jetator_ to a reception, no one dreams of speaking to him, it is\nconsidered dangerous even to look at him, and heaven forbid, indeed, that\none should be obliged to sit next to him! No one even mentions him, as\nthe very sound of his name is supposed to bring misfortune. Only great\nwealth and high rank can save any Roman from falling under this ban.\nSaddest of all, however, is the fact that the wife and children and all\nthe relations of the _Jetator_ share his evil influence, and, therefore,\nhis hard fate. Irene once happened to meet, at a luncheon party, the\naccidentally invited wife of a _Jetator_. Two ladies, who had been\nobliged to sit next to the evil one, were taken seriously ill on the same\nday, one with her customary liver complaint, and the other with a severe\ncold, having gone out too soon after an attack of influenza! Both cases\nwere, of course, attributed to the unfortunate woman, to whom, after this\noccurrence, every door in Rome was closed with redoubled vigilance.\n\nIrene was astonished to find that this superstition was shared also by\nthe majority of the foreigners in Rome, who seemed to become infected\nby it on their arrival, and were cured only on their departure from the\nEternal City. Such a peculiarity can only be explained by the almost\nunbearable force of the impression that Rome makes on most strangers. In\nall the rest of our contemporary great cities, we live in the twentieth\ncentury. On arriving in Rome, we are suddenly plunged into the very\nheart of antiquity, then rushed, without a moment\u2019s warning, into the\nMiddle Ages, with their Vatican, their churches, their convents, and\ntheir palaces, or flung into the whirlpool of the most brilliant and\nfashionable modernity. All these elements are bound up together, and one\npasses from one to the other in a day. The human mind is incapable of\nsuch an immense effort, becomes unbalanced, and is ready to accept and\nbelieve the wildest nonsense.\n\nAnother pagan feature in the Roman character is the extraordinary\nattachment of all Romans to their native city. The first question that is\nput to every stranger on his arrival is: \u201cDo you like Rome?\u201d and woe to\nthe simple-minded foreigner who answers in the negative! The dark eyes of\nthe incredulous Roman sparkle with indignation and astonishment, which\ngradually give place to a pitying contempt for the ignorant simpleton!\nIn vain the latter tries to atone for his mistake by remarking that he\ndoes not dislike Venice or Florence. This does not touch or interest\nthe Romans at all. In spite of a superficial union, Italy consists, as\nmuch as ever, of a number of separate states. Admiration of Venice or\nNaples can only offend a Roman. The stranger tries hard to explain that\nit is impossible to admire a town that is entirely lacking in harmony,\nand in which the modern buildings erected by the government nearly give\none convulsions, such an eyesore is their dazzling whiteness on the\nbackground of the yellow, ancient city. He repeats in vain that being\naccustomed, at home, to broad, well-lighted avenues, he cannot but\nregard with disgust the narrow, dark alleys of the ancient quarters of\nRome, while, being used to clear air and constantly watered streets, he\nis still more profoundly disgusted at the clouds of that particularly\nobjectionable yellow dust that rise with every gust of wind blowing over\nRome.\n\nThe Roman listens gloomily to the stranger, but is not convinced. He is\nnot consoled by the admission that his city is very original, and that\nevery educated man ought to see it. He requires and expects love and\nadmiration for his \u201cCara Roma,\u201d the adored fair one, for whom he would\nwillingly die. Irene envied the Romans this fervour and the love of home\nwhich forced all inhabitants, before temporarily leaving the city, to\ndrink of the water of the famous Fontana Trevi, and throw a coin into\nthe fountain\u2014superstitiously assuring themselves by this means that they\nwould safely return. No other nation in the world has invented such a\npoetic superstition as this.\n\nBeing a pagan, it follows that the Roman is the most loving of fathers\nand the most dutiful of sons. As he knows nothing about Christianity or\nlove and charity towards his neighbour in the broad sense, he laughs at\nsuch ideas as absurdities, and gives all the love of his heart to his own\nfamily. On public holidays, fathers are everywhere to be seen leading by\nthe hand tiny children in their Sunday frocks, treating them to chocolate\nand cakes at the fashionable confectioners, and talking caressingly with\nthem. Or else one meets young married couples, accompanied by nurses who,\nwith airs of vast importance, carry on cushions three-weeks-old infants,\nconcealed under clouds of lace. Babies are not hidden away in back rooms,\nas in other countries. From the moment of their birth, children have\ntheir rights and privileges, and, in the arms of their nurses, receive\nvisitors!\n\nBut although Romans love and respect their little ones, they never become\nthe slaves of the children. On the contrary, it is the parents who are\nadored and deeply respected, the children seeing in them the principal\nrepresentatives of their race. There are in Rome countless aged\nfathers and mothers who live in palaces and drive about in magnificent\nmotor-cars, while their children struggle to make both ends meet, going\nabout on foot and living in small flats. No one would ever dream of\ndepriving his parents of anything for his own benefit, or for the sake of\nhis children, as, alas! so often happens in Russia. This love of one\u2019s\nrace and one\u2019s family is the foundation stone of Latin civilization. In\nthe northern countries that have received their civilization through\nChristianity this love is not nearly so pronounced. Christianity does\nnot encourage family interests, but, on the contrary, demands that all\nmen should be brothers. Romans have succeeded in remaining deaf to these\ndemands, and have kept their ancient Latin character. This is most\nnoticeable in the Roman museums, where the types represented by the\nantique statues bear the most striking resemblance to modern Romans.\n\nThe Roman has remained true to the pagan passion for luxury and\nmagnificence. Nowhere in the world can one see so many private carriages\nas in Rome. No self-respecting Roman goes about on foot. He must have a\ncarriage to drive through the Corso, and, at the fashionable hour, on\nthe Pincio. He does not care about the elegance of his horses or their\nharness, but his carriage must have red and yellow wheels, and his grooms\nmust have smart liveries. In their deep-seated victorias fashionable\nRoman beauties lean back lazily under their enormous ostrich-plumed hats,\ntheir knees covered, not, as elsewhere, by a common traditional plaid\ntravelling rug, but by a magnificent bear-skin or tiger-skin, the paws\nhanging down over the wheels.\n\nThe prices at the Costanzi Theatre are colossal. A box costs as much\nas \u00a36; yet the opera is always crowded, and not only this, but the men\nappear in evening dress, and the ladies in low neck and diamonds! This\nsouthern cult of elegance and luxury, indeed, is in evidence everywhere.\nRoman women never wear everyday clothes. They always seem to be in fancy\ndress, appearing in fantastic bright scarlet, yellow, or green costumes,\nwith golden caps and golden serpents. They all wear numerous necklaces,\ncombs, buckles, brooches, mostly imitations of the antique, for which\nRoman jewellers are famous. This style of dress would be absurd in the\nNorth, but it suits the Roman beauties to perfection.\n\nIn spite of its paganism, however, Roman society nevertheless belongs to\nand is closely linked with the great family of social Europe from which\nRussia is hopelessly separated by centuries of culture. Irene was charmed\nto notice, for instance, how much universal sympathy and attention were\nlavished, in Roman social circles, on a foreign authoress, who was\nstudying Roman life with a view to making it the subject of her next\nwork. Everyone tried to help her; closed doors were opened for her, and\nmeetings with interesting people were willingly arranged. Nobody troubled\nto find out whether she was talented or not, or whether her work would be\ntranslated into Italian. She had expressed a desire to work, and that was\nquite enough.\n\nIn the same way they helped an American, known in Europe as the Book\nKing, to form his library. This American was a very representative\nexample of a curious modern type produced, so far, only by the New World.\nNobody knew where he had lived and what he had done in his youth. He had\nbeen born, so to say, at forty years of age, when, having made a fortune,\nhe crossed the ocean, appeared in Paris, and announced his desire to\nform a library composed entirely of the works of contemporary writers,\neach volume to be autographed by the author, who must add a few words\nto explain what special idea he had intended to express in the work in\nquestion. The enterprising Yankee was profoundly ignorant, had never\nread anything at all, and had never heard of names known to all the\nworld. Also he was as tactless as the majority of his compatriots; but,\nwith true American insistence, he applied to everybody, pestered people\npitilessly, and really ended by getting together a very interesting\ncollection of books. It was his express desire that this collection\nshould be sent to America, and should never again leave American soil;\nand yet, so great is Italian generosity, on the collector\u2019s arrival in\nRome everyone helped him by making out lists of Italian writers and by\nintroducing him to literary people.\n\nInvoluntarily, while observing all these facts, Irene\u2019s thoughts\nstrayed back to her own country, where, alas! things were arranged very\ndifferently. With the exception of a very limited circle of people\neducated in the European fashion, all the rest of Russian society is\nnothing but a crowd of ignorant, lazy, uncivilized bears, who spend all\ntheir lives lying half-asleep in their dens, and sucking their paws. Woe,\nindeed, to him who may occasionally attempt to wish for something better\nthan this beloved, national, loutish existence, or who may perhaps by\nchance not only have an idea, but also a vague desire to work at it! What\na howl of displeasure and derision makes itself heard in all the dens!\n\u201cWhat!\u201d wail the bears, \u201crenounce our idleness, and our laziness, and\nour true Russian eternal nagging and grumbling? How dares he! Murder!\nTreason! Cry him down! Kill him!\u201d\n\nAll the rest of Europe has long been intelligent enough to understand\nthat even the most microscopic effort, when added to other efforts,\nproduces a total of labour that must be of use to all the world. Alas!\nIt will be a very long time before the dull, stupid Russian bears are\nbrought to understand even something so simple as this!\n\nIrene was particularly attracted by Italian women. These charming\ncreatures have neither nerves nor caprices. They are kind and amiable,\nthey make friends easily, and they are ready to be of assistance to\nevery foreigner they come across. Never once did Irene see, at Roman\ngatherings, anything resembling the anxious, world-worn expressions of\nthe young girls who fill Petrograd drawing-rooms.\n\n\u201cShall I ever meet my fate? Shall I have many children? Shall I be\nhappy?\u201d say their pale, sad, restless faces. Italian girls are bright\nand gay and happy. They delight in the sunshine, the flowers, and the\nspringtime of their own lives. They have no need to fear the future, for\nthey know that to Italian men love is as necessary as air. They will\nnever, indeed, have to deal with miserable Petrograd worldlings, who may\ntry as they will to squeeze a drop of tenderness out of their icy hearts,\nbut will always die without having succeeded!\n\nIrene was quite astonished at herself for finding Italian society so\nattractive. She, a stranger, speaking another language, holding another\nfaith, felt quite at home in its circles. She looked back with a shudder\nat the old days in Petrograd, and at the bitter sense of resentment\nand irritation with which she had invariably returned home from all\nsocial gatherings. Here, Irene delighted in those exquisite sensual\nentertainments, with their music, their singing, their recitations. On\nleaving them, she loved to take deep breaths of the balmy night air,\nfeeling that soft sense of luxury that a tired wanderer experiences on\ngetting into a warm, fragrant bath. \u201cHow am I to explain all this?\u201d\nwondered Irene.\n\nAlas! Like most of us, Irene did not know herself. It never occurred\nto her that since her earliest childhood she had never been anything\nbut a pagan. Whereas, however, Roman paganism was hereditary and the\nresult of centuries of voluntary enslavement to antique culture and its\nideals, Irene\u2019s paganism was simply a morbid disease. Like sufferers\nfrom progressive paralysis, who gradually sink into a state of primitive\nbestiality, so a diseased soul not only cannot develop, but cannot even\nmaintain itself on a level with its contemporaries, and invariably slips\nback to the ideals of a past civilization.\n\n\n\n\nXIV\n\n\nOf all the Roman houses in which Irene visited, she most liked that\nof Count Primoli, who, during the season, entertained the whole of\ncosmopolitan Rome in his luxurious villa. Count Primoli was only half\nan Italian. Through his mother, a Princess Bonaparte, he was French,\nof which fact he was very proud. He was a delightful mixture of French\nwit and Italian gaiety and hospitality. Absolutely everyone went to his\nWednesdays and Saturdays! The diplomatic world, famous Italian writers,\nFrench painters and journalists, celebrated singers, Indian princes,\nAmerican millionaires, Russians, Swedes, and Englishmen. Romans of the\nhigher circles visited him with pleasure, even though they disapproved of\nhis cosmopolitanism. Count Primoli was undismayed by this disapproval,\nfor he well knew what a service he was rendering to society.\n\nGloomy dullards never see anything in receptions and other social\ngatherings but frivolous distractions, necessary, perhaps, to youth, but\npositively reprehensible when indulged in by older people. In truth,\nhowever, balls and parties of every description are indispensable to all\nhuman beings and to the maintenance of their moral and mental health.\nA man who leads a solitary confined existence loses his equilibrium.\nHe ceases to see things in their just perspective, exaggerates and\nmisunderstands everything, looks at life tragically, and makes mountains\nout of mole-hills.\n\nAs soon as he leaves off isolating himself, comes in contact with other\npeople, exchanges ideas with them, laughs and talks a little, his mental\nbalance is restored, and the mountains become mole-hills again. Also,\nthe more various are the people he meets, the more his mind broadens and\ndevelops. People who exclusively frequent their own immediate circles, be\nthey aristocratic or otherwise, invariably grow dull and stupid. That\nis why the hospitable host who receives very mixed gatherings renders a\ngreat service to society\u2014though society itself is short-sighted enough\nnot to recognize this service.\n\nTo receive on a large scale is not as easy as people think. It by no\nmeans suffices to be rich and to issue invitations broadcast. The\nprincipal thing is to know how to receive one\u2019s guests, an accomplishment\nattainable only on the two following conditions: Aristocratic extraction\nand love of humanity. At least three or four generations of well-born\nand wealthy people accustomed to social surroundings are needed for\nthe production of a good host. Everyone who has been in the house of a\n_nouveau riche_ knows that he felt, on that occasion, as though he were\nin a restaurant. The hosts did not know how to greet their visitors, nor\nhow to introduce or unite them, so the latter ate and drank, and having\nwitnessed what entertainment was provided for them, left, sometimes\neven forgetting to say good-bye to the hosts. A love of humanity is as\nindispensable to a good host as blue blood, and Count Primoli may be\nsaid to have been richly endowed with both these qualifications. He was\na true \u201cGrand Seigneur,\u201d and knew how to make his guests feel at home.\nHe sincerely loved them all, and wished to give them pleasure. There\nwere some vulgar people who made fun of his charming cordiality. Had he\nforgotten to invite them, or had he treated them with lofty disdain, they\nwould immediately have begun to respect him. Nice people, however, valued\nhis kind heart, and took no notice of the silly anecdotes that rumour\nspread about him.\n\nLike all ideal hosts, Count Primoli loved his beautiful villa, and never\ntired of improving it.\n\n\u201cJe veux que ma maison ne ressemble \u00e0 nulle autre,\u201d he said to his\nfriends.\n\nThis was not easy to attain, since, in our day, it is hardly possible\nto invent anything really new or original. Thanks to railways,\nsteamships, newspapers, and journals, life grows every day more level and\ncommonplace. Almost all the world lives, eats, and dresses alike. The\nwomen of Greenland know the latest fashions as well as their Parisian\nsisters. The cannibals of Central Asia, imitating English lords, put on\nsmoking-suits when they sit down to eat their roasted neighbours. The\naristocratic drawing-rooms of Pekin are furnished like those of Madrid.\nDinners, balls, receptions, are alike everywhere, and people travel from\none end of the earth to the other noticing hardly any difference.\n\nCount Primoli, however, managed to attain his object, and his receptions,\nonce witnessed, were not easily forgotten.\n\nAlready, on driving up to the entrance of his villa, one felt a sense\nof gaiety and pleasure. The small covered courtyard was carpeted for\nthe occasion and was decorated with flowers and the Bonaparte arms. A\nmajestic outdoor servant, theatrically attired, received the carriages as\nthey drove up. In the square hall, on each side of the door, stood rows\nof footmen, in long gold-embroidered satin tail-coats, knee breeches,\nwhite silk stockings, and buckled shoes, an original, old, and now\nextinct French fashion of dressing house-servants.\n\nThe costumes of these footmen, indeed, were so splendid, that many people\nwere sure they must be original ancient liveries of the Bonaparte family,\nand ought to be in glass cases in a museum. Perhaps this was true; but\nit is nevertheless a fact that the liveries were much more effective and\nmuch more clearly remembered on the shoulders of footmen than they would\nhave been had they been hidden in a museum. The guests, on arrival, felt\nthat they had left their humdrum daily existence outside the door, and\nthat they had entered the enchanted realms of fairyland. Like children\nwho expect a Christmas-tree and surprises, they crossed the hall, with\nits wonderful arm-chairs of velvet and cloth of gold, and its enormous\nsofa, covered with fur rugs and decorated with masks from Greek tragedy.\nThen up the staircase, over the balustrade of which were thrown priceless\nbrocades of all shades and colours, the walls being hung with Chinese\nembroideries and fans of peacock-feathers.\n\nUpstairs, the elegant drawing-rooms, with their pink curtains and\ngilt furniture, were wonderful and interesting museums of Napoleonic\nsouvenirs. Count Primoli honoured the memory of his famous great-uncle,\nNapoleon I., and carefully preserved all Napoleonic relics. There were\nmasks and miniatures of the great Emperor, and other ancient family\ntreasures, jewelled combs, fans, lace, snuff-boxes, letters, seals, and\nsilhouettes. In a prominent place stood a large glass case, brilliantly\nilluminated, containing two dresses: one of green velvet, embroidered\nwith gold, from the wardrobe of the Empress Josephine, and the other of\nlace over a pink foundation, the priceless robe of Marie Louise. At the\nside lay fans and satin slippers, to match the dresses. On the walls of\nthe room were shelves, and on them signed photographs of the present-day\nmembers of the Bonaparte family.\n\nAnother remarkable and charming peculiarity of the villa was the wealth\nof flowers with which it was always decorated. Magnificent azaleas of all\nshades stood about everywhere, garlands of lilac were suspended from\none chandelier to the other, and other garlands of hyacinths, roses, and\nviolets, surrounded the glass cases, wound themselves round the shelves,\nand framed the looking-glasses.\n\n\u201cQuella fantasmorgia dei fiore!\u201d laughed Roman Princesses and Countesses,\nas they entered. It is strange that Roman women, who are surrounded by\nflowers that grow in the open air all the year round, do not really care\nfor them, and only decorate their rooms with them because it is the\nfashion, and because it pleases foreigners. Count Primoli, however, was a\ngreat lover of flowers, and so completely filled his villa with them that\none grew faint with the sweetness of their overpowering fragrance. The\nair, indeed, was full of something romantic and reminiscent\u2014one thought\nof old Italy and the Renaissance.\n\n\u201cQuand je vais chez le Comte Primoli,\u201d said a foreign lady once,\n\u201cj\u2019ai toujours envie de parler en vers, et de demander un sorbet aux\ndomestiques\u201d\u2014and there were many who shared this impression.\n\nThe crowd at these receptions was always composed of the most varied\ncosmopolitan elements. There was the Chinese Ambassador, who, having\nbut yesterday cut off his \u201cpigtail,\u201d had thrown off his flowered robe,\nand wore European dress clothes with the ease and _chic_ of a London\nclubman. There was the American Ambassador, whose quiet dignity stood out\nin relief against the noisy vulgarity of his numerous compatriots. There\nwere members of all the Embassies with their wives, the latter attired,\naccording to the custom of luxurious Rome, in beautiful Paris dresses,\nlow-necked, and even in some cases set off by wonderful diamond ornaments\nor tiaras. All Western women consider themselves queens, and by no means\nobject to sometimes wearing crowns, as a sign of their high rank.\n\nLoveliest of all, however, was the Russian singer L\u2e3a, recently arrived in\nRome to fulfil an engagement at the Costanzi theatre. Perfectly dressed,\nand wearing wonderful pearls, she was modest, dignified, and charming.\nThe arrival of the famous French painter, Carolus Duran, was greeted\nby exclamations from all sides: \u201cComment allez-vous, cher ma\u00eetre? Quel\nbonheur de vous voir!\u201d But, as was to be expected from a painter, the\ngreat Frenchman was immediately attracted by the beautiful singer; and\nthe latter, having previously announced that she never sang in private\nhouses, offered, on learning that the charming and universally beloved\nold man had never heard her, to make an exception for his benefit. The\npainter was so sympathetic and irresistible, that no one was surprised at\nher wish to sing to him. He was, indeed, the personification of all that\nis best in France: industrious democracy, firm principles, and profound\nbelief in God and in the triumph of right and justice.\n\nAn excellent tenor and an experienced accompanist, never very far away\nin Rome, were immediately forthcoming. They disappeared for a moment\nwith Madame L\u2e3a, and then returned to the principal drawing-room, into\nwhich all the visitors crowded to admire and enjoy what was sure to be an\nexquisite performance.\n\nThe artists sang excerpts from \u201cTraviata\u201d and \u201cTosca,\u201d and, as her last\nnumber, Madame L\u2e3a gave some Russian melodies.\n\nThe applause was rapturous. With remarkable warmth and kindness, many of\nthe listeners congratulated not only L\u2e3a herself, but also all the other\nRussians who happened to be present. For the first time in her life,\nIrene realized that it was possible to be proud of someone else\u2019s success.\n\n\u201cThese foreigners,\u201d observed the Bulgarian Minister to Irene, in perfect\nRussian, \u201calways imagine that we Slavs live on tallow candles. It is good\nto be able to show them what our songs are like, and our singers and our\nnational Slavonic genius.\u201d\n\nWhile listening to L\u2e3a, Irene had observed the public, and had noticed\nmany envious glances levelled at the singer. \u201cWhy should she have\neverything?\u201d they seemed to say\u2014\u201cbeauty, talent, splendid dresses, and\njewels!\u201d\n\nIrene would have liked to console them with the answer that every singer,\nevery actress, indeed every great talent is endowed by fate not only\nwith wealth and success, but also with a profound capacity for suffering.\nNo one can sing well, play well, or write well, without living through\nmoments of the deepest pain and anguish. Every real talent has known\ntimes of torturing depression when the heart in its agony has cried out\nto God: \u201cWhy hast Thou forsaken me? What have I done that I should suffer\nso?\u201d\n\nAnd then, at the very darkest moment, suddenly, the veil is torn from\ntheir eyes! Truth, with her flaming torch, stands before them, and they\nunderstand that God sends them suffering to strengthen and ennoble their\ntalent, that it may touch men\u2019s hearts and show to tired wanderers on\nearth glimpses of heaven.\n\nHaving once grasped this fact, men and women of talent humbly bow\ntheir heads before God\u2019s will. Uncomplainingly and nobly they bear the\ninsatiable yearning that tears their souls, accepting success with\nindifference, since they know that their own personal fame is but a\nsecondary matter, and plays but a minor part in their mission on earth.\n\nIrene felt that there comes a moment in the life not only of every\nartist, writer, or musician, but also in that of every thinking human\nbeing, when nature asks him her great question: \u201cCanst thou relinquish\npersonal interests and help me in my work for humanity?\u201d On his answer\ndepends his soul\u2019s serenity, the peace of his old age, and his faith in\nGod and the justice of God\u2019s ways. For should he indeed refuse, should\nhe harden his heart against his brothers, a despair so boundless will\ntake possession of his soul that there will be no escape or loophole\nbut\u2014suicide.\n\nIrene wondered, with a shudder, what her own answer to the fateful\nquestion would be.\n\n\n\n\nXV\n\n\n\u201cLet us go to the Palazzo M\u2e3a,\u201d suggested Gzhatski to Irene one bright,\nsunny morning towards the middle of March. \u201cThey have a very interesting\nfamily festival there to-day, and except in Rome you will nowhere see\nanything similar.\u201d\n\nSo they drove to the old quarter of Rome, where most of the palaces of\nthe Roman aristocracy are to be found.\n\nThe exterior of the Palazzo M\u2e3a was in no sense strikingly beautiful.\nIt was built in something like a semi-circle, which fact seemed in old\ntimes, when the street was narrow, perfectly natural. Now, however, the\nCorso being straight and broad, the effect is peculiar. At some time\nin the Middle Ages, Saint Philip of Neri had worked a miracle in this\npalace, having brought back to life a dead child of the M\u2e3a family.\n\nSaint Philip had entered the room a moment after little Paolo M\u2e3a had\nbreathed his last, and had found the parents sobbing with grief and\ndespair over the body of their beloved boy. Touched by their sorrow,\nthe Saint had commanded the departed one to arise, upon which Paolo had\nimmediately come back to life. \u201cWhy have you brought me back to earth?\u201d\nhe had asked his parents, in tones of reproach. \u201cI was so happy _there_!\u201d\nStruck by these words, the parents had prayed Saint Philip to let Paolo\ndie again, and the Saint, with a wave of his hand, had released the\ninnocent young soul, that it might fly back to a happier world.\n\nThis miracle had been performed on a 16th of March, and, to the present\nday, the top floor of the palazzo, with the chapel in which the remains\nof Saint Philip repose, is thrown open every year on that date to the\npeople of Rome. In an unbroken stream the neighbouring poor with their\nlittle children, monks and nuns, as well as the inevitable tourists,\nascend and descend the splendid staircase. The entrance to the palace is\ndecorated for the occasion with flags and brightly-coloured draperies. In\nthe doorway stands a servant in gold-embroidered uniform, the courtyard\nis crowded, and heads peep from all the little windows of the third floor.\n\nThe rooms leading to the chapel are low, with wood-panelled ceilings,\nnarrow windows, and furniture of the Middle Ages. The chapel itself is\nbrilliantly illuminated. Women, one after another, fall on their knees\nand pray fervently. This is a children\u2019s festival, particularly dear to\nmothers. Monks and nuns repeat the legend in detail to the assembled\ncrowd, the Roman poor listening reverently and with emotion, the tourists\nlooking on with mocking smiles.\n\nOn the same day, in the great reception rooms below, the princely M\u2e3a\nfamily receives its friends, from four to seven. The family is of ancient\nand historic lineage, tracing its origin back to pre-Christian Rome.\nLike all the rest of the Roman aristocracy the princes are religious\nCatholics, firm in their allegiance to the Vatican.\n\nIrene\u2019s gaze wandered in mute admiration round the enormous\nentrance-hall, with its magnificent painted ceiling, its antique statues,\nand the crimson baldaquin at one of its walls. Only the most ancient\nfamilies in Rome possess such a baldaquin. Under it stands the chair\nreserved in old days for the use of the Pope, who frequently honoured\nnoble Romans with his visits. Across the balustrade surrounding this\nthrone, footmen, in most wonderful blue and cerise liveries, were laying\nthe wraps of arriving visitors, to whom at the same time a house-steward\nin black dress clothes and a heavy chain was handing a visitors\u2019 book\nfor signature. Beyond the hall could be seen long enfilades of rooms,\nwith magnificent tapestries, pictures, statues, and many other ancient\ntreasures of art not to be met with elsewhere. Irene particularly noticed\na jewel-case in the shape of a girl\u2019s figure carved in wood, and coloured.\n\nThe guests were assembled in the principal drawing-room, an immense room\nwith a painted wooden ceiling of the fifteenth century. The walls were\nhung with crimson brocade, and covered with pictures by old masters. The\nporti\u00e8res were of heavy crimson velvet, the furniture was massive and\ngilt. In the middle of the room, over the red felt with which the floor\nwas covered, lay two large white bear-skins, the only compatriots Irene\nmet at this reception.\n\nThe whole M\u2e3a family was present, grandfather, grandmother, and grandson\n(a handsome boy of fifteen, dressed in the uniform of one of the Roman\ncolleges)\u2014even an eight-months-old infant in a film of white lace,\npresiding majestically on the knees of his nurse, an Albanian peasant\nwoman, attired in her picturesque national costume. The tiny prince\nseemed to be enjoying himself more than anyone else, energetically and\nwith gurgles of delight pulling the moustache of every man and tearing\noff the veil of every lady who bent over him! It was charming to see the\nindescribable tenderness with which the whole family regarded this latest\nrepresentative of their ancient race!\n\nIn general, the festival was patriarchal and aristocratic to the highest\ndegree\u2014aristocratic in the true fashion of ancient times, when the\nnobles, really loving the people, befriended them and opened their doors\nto them on all festive occasions. It was so in all countries, and that\nwholly un-Christian and senseless gulf which now separates one class from\nanother only came into being with the formation of the middle class,\nuncertain of itself, having no ground under its feet, dragging hopelessly\nafter the aristocracy, and kicking back with hatred and repulsion the\nlower classes from which it had so recently risen.\n\nAt one end of the drawing-room stood a tea table, and, according to a\ncharming Roman custom, tea, chocolate, and ices were offered to the\nvisitors. Italians can drink hot chocolate and eat ices almost at the\nsame time, without dying!\n\nIrene sat down in a corner, and watched the scene before her with\ndelighted interest. She thought of how, in Petrograd, anything connected\nwith Catherine the Great or Alexander I. was considered ancient.\nSuch antiquity might, here, in this Roman Palace, be looked upon as\npositively modern! For the first time, Irene realized the youth of her\nown country. The proud girl, considering herself on an equality with\nthe greatest Russian families, felt a little humiliated at the thought\nthat the ancestors of her princely hosts once walked about the Forum in\ntogas, took part in the government of ancient Rome and in the creation\nof a great art and a great literature, and gave their laws to the whole\ncivilized world. She tried to picture to herself the Russia of that time:\na wilderness peopled by savage hordes in skins of wild beasts, nomad\ntribes, wandering through forests and swamps and deserts.\u2026\n\nHer dreams were interrupted by the old Prince, who, noticing that she was\nalone, and prompted by his antique and aristocratic sense of hospitality,\napproached to entertain her. Irene broached the subject of the legend,\nand na\u00efvely added that she supposed the chapel and adjoining rooms were\nonly opened for this one day every year.\n\n\u201cNo, indeed,\u201d answered the Prince with a smile\u2014\u201cthe rooms are in\nconstant use, and our Chaplain holds daily services in the chapel.\u201d\n\nIrene felt confused, and at the same time a curious feeling of envy came\nover her.\n\n\u201cHow happy these people are,\u201d she thought, to have lived for so many\ncenturies in the same town, in the same house, surrounded by legends and\ntraditions and the shadows of their ancestors! All this is real\u2014they\nare not masquerading in strange costumes and beliefs and customs, like\nemigrants of all nationalities, who spend their lives in travelling\nNorth, South, East and West, in search of new sensations and impressions.\nThere came to Irene\u2019s mind the thought of one of her friends, a girl\nwith a mania for having herself photographed in the national costume of\nevery country she visited. An entire little shelf in Irene\u2019s Petrograd\ndrawing-room was covered with frames from which smiled the young girl\u2019s\nround, laughing, purely Slavonic little face, here under the fez of a\nCrimean Tartar maid, there under a Spanish mantilla, elsewhere in the\nguise of a Neapolitan fisher-girl. Had not Irene\u2019s own wish to enter\na convent also been nothing much more than a desire to dress up in a\npicturesque costume?\n\nThese thoughts reminded her of P\u00e8re Etienne, and on returning to her\n_pension_, Irene wrote and asked him to come and see her. She had seen\nvery little of him lately. P\u00e8re Etienne felt that something had happened\nto change Irene\u2019s ideas during her stay at Assisi\u2014but, however much he\nquestioned her, he couldn\u2019t discover what that something had been. Seeing\nthat she had drifted into social life, he regretfully left off paying her\nhis daily visits. Like all true pastors, he always attached himself to\nhis spiritual children, and was sincerely grieved when the circumstances\nof life separated him from them. The warm-hearted old man now consoled\nhimself with the thought that he had been mistaken in taking convent life\nto be Irene\u2019s vocation, and that she would be happier if she married her\ncompatriot. In his heart, however, there still lingered an intuition\nthat would not let him believe in matrimonial happiness for her. No one\nunderstands human nature better than a clever priest, who hears countless\nconfessions and looks into the deepest recesses of the countless souls\nthat are laid bare before him.\n\nOn receiving Irene\u2019s invitation, he went to her immediately, and they\nspent a charming evening together. The convent in the Via Gallia was not\neven mentioned. They spoke of Saint Philip of Neri, of his life and his\npupils, of miracles and prayer.\n\nThe following day Irene awoke in a pious mood, and put off Gzhatski,\nwho had arranged to take her to some local function. Gzhatski, clever\nstrategist that he was, guessed what had happened, and hastened to create\na diversion. He disappeared for a time, made mysterious arrangements,\nand kept mysterious appointments, and after three days, arrived suddenly\nto inform Irene that Cardinal R\u2e3a would receive her in audience at seven\no\u2019clock that evening.\n\n\u201cReceive me!\u201d exclaimed Irene in surprise. \u201cBut why should I go to him?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy not make the acquaintance of a Cardinal, once he is kind enough\nto wish to receive you?\u201d answered Gzhatski. \u201cYou have decided to join\nthe Catholic Church, and you ought to know more of its priesthood. P\u00e8re\nEtienne alone is insufficient\u2014there are plenty of other enlightened and\nclever men among the Roman priests\u2014they are by no means all furious\nfanatics!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXVI\n\n\nIrene had to agree, and punctually at seven o\u2019clock she presented herself\nat the Cardinal\u2019s house. Her conscience reproached her a little for\ntroubling a man so occupied with important affairs, but she had heard\nso much about this famous Cardinal that curiosity won the day over her\nscruples.\n\nCardinal R\u2e3a was one of the most distinguished members of the Papal\nCourt. He was nicknamed \u201cle Pape manqu\u00e9,\u201d because at the last election\nhe had received the greatest number of votes. His pronounced French\nsympathies, however, had, in the eyes of the other Catholic countries,\nstood in his way, with the result that, in answer to his election, the\nAustro-Hungarian Ambassador had announced the \u201cveto\u201d of the Austrian\nEmperor. The amazed Cardinals, though they had long forgotten this\nancient privilege of the Austrian crown, were obliged to submit, and the\nnext candidate was elected Pope. It is a characteristic fact that Pius X.\nwas so annoyed at his election that, on becoming Pope against his will,\nhis first action was to annul for ever the Austrian right of \u201cveto.\u201d\n\nRemembering this episode, Irene involuntarily felt a great respect for\nthe man who had had the courage of his opinions and sympathies to the\nextent of paying for them by losing the Papacy. Such honesty seemed\nhardly in keeping with the traditional spirit of intrigue and deceit with\nwhich the Papal court was supposed to be permeated, and which Irene had\nso frequently heard discussed in Russia.\n\nThe Cardinal lived in a small detached house, within the precincts of the\nVatican, and Irene was struck, by no means for the first time, by the\nresemblance between these Vatican houses and courtyards, and the inner\ncourts and arch-priest\u2019s dwellings of Russian monasteries. There was in\nboth the same sense of chill and isolation and lifelessness. Even the\nwaiting-room into which a slow old servant led Irene was exactly like\nthe room of a Russian monastic priest. The same clumsy wooden furniture\nupholstered in red velvet, the same religious pictures. The only things\nthat were missing were the typical and inevitable strip of canvas that\nruns like a pathway right across the floors of all our Russian priestly\nhouses, and the extraordinary variety of worsted cushions, with their\nwonderful patterns of fantastic animals and flowers, embroidered for our\npriests by pious Russian parishioners.\n\nA young secretary twice passed through the waiting-room, throwing, each\ntime, a quick but scrutinizing glance at Irene. Finally, unable to\nrestrain himself any longer, he approached her, with a charming smile:\n\n\u201cVoudriez vous me dire, Mademoiselle,\u201d he inquired, \u201cle motif pour lequel\nvous d\u00e9sirez voir Son Eminence?\u201d\n\nIrene did not know how to answer. She really could not say that she had\ncome simply to pacify a troublesome friend!\n\n\u201cJ\u2019ai entendu parler de la sympathie que Son Eminence \u00e9prouve pour les\nRusses,\u201d she stammered vaguely.\n\n\u201cOh oui! Oh oui!\u201d said the secretary, nodding his head. \u201cLes sympathies\nde Son Eminence pour la Russie sont bien connues. Cependant,\nMademoiselle, il me semble que vous devez avoir une raison plus \u2026 plus \u2026\u201d\n\nThe secretary was evidently at a loss to find the right word. Noticing\nthat he was regarding her enormous muff with interest, Irene remembered\nthat an attempt to assassinate a highly-placed personage, had recently\nbeen made in Rome.\n\n\u201cI understand your anxiety,\u201d she remarked. \u201cThere are visitors who arrive\nwith a bomb in their muffs!\u201d With these words, as though accidentally,\nshe made a movement with her muff, bringing it close to the secretary\u2019s\neyes. He glanced sharply into it, and was evidently appeased.\n\n\u201cOh! certes, Son Eminence sera tr\u00e8s satisfaite de vous voir,\nMademoiselle,\u201d he said. \u201cVeuillez attendre quelques instants au salon;\nSon Eminence ne tardera pas \u00e0 rentrer.\u201d\n\nThe waiting-room, in the meantime, was filling with people. An old\nMonsignor entered, and Irene bowed to him. To her surprise, however,\nhe not only did not reply, but never even glanced in her direction.\nAnother priest entered, and again the same thing happened. Then came\nthree Capuchin monks who made obvious efforts to look at anything but\nIrene, and sat down at the furthest possible point from her. The proud,\nsensitive woman felt deeply offended and annoyed.\n\n\u201cDo they take me for a leper?\u201d she thought angrily, \u201cor am I so hideous\nthat it disgusts them to look at me?\u201d Suddenly, however, a humorous\nidea flashed through her mind. Irene had so long ago left off thinking\nof herself as in any sense an attractive woman, that the sudden idea of\nbeing regarded by anyone in the light of a possible temptation, caused\nher, quite unexpectedly, to burst into a loud peal of laughter. The monks\nfrowned, and Irene hastened to hide her laughing face in the muff that\nhad so alarmed the young secretary.\n\nAt this moment there burst into the room, noisily, and talking in\nstrident tones, two lean and yellow English old maids with scant greyish\nhair, and enormous fashionable hats. Chattering fast and animatedly, they\nsat down exactly opposite the Capuchins, and robbed these victims of the\nonly blank wall at which they could safely gaze without jeopardizing the\nsalvation of their souls.\n\nWhat were the poor monks to do? The devil evidently had awful designs\non them that evening, and terrible temptation peered at them from every\ncorner of the Cardinal\u2019s waiting-room. As though by order, they all\nlowered their eyelids, and remained, as though turned into stone, with\ntheir gaze riveted on the floor.\n\nThe door opened, and Irene was asked to pass into the Cardinal\u2019s presence.\n\nA dimly illuminated ante-room led into the drawing-room. Here, the\nfurniture was a little more comfortable, and there were pictures and\nflowers. The cardinal stood at his writing-table, not in his red robes,\nas Irene had expected, but in black with narrow red edgings. A somewhat\nworn red cardinal\u2019s cap lay on the table. The great priest looked at\nIrene in silence, and with a questioning expression. She approached,\nkissed the ring on his left hand, and thanked him for the honour he\nwas conferring on her by receiving her. He smiled, and the man of the\nworld awoke in him. Asking Irene to sit down on a small sofa, he began\nto question her about Russia, his words revealing a great knowledge of\nRussian Church matters. He seemed specially interested in a certain small\ngroup of Russian priests, who had recently been sent by the Synod to do\npenance in far-distant monasteries.\n\n\u201cMais enfin, que veulent-ils? Que demandent-ils? Quel est le but de leur\nr\u00e9volte?\u201d asked the Cardinal.\n\n\u201cI think,\u201d answered Irene simply, \u201cthat they wanted to convoke a council,\nwith the object of reinstating the Patriarchy.\u201d\n\nThe Cardinal frowned, and a shadow passed over his face. \u201cTotally\nunnecessary,\u201d he muttered somewhat hurriedly. \u201cTotally unnecessary.\u201d And\nhe changed the subject, asking Irene what she had seen in Rome, and how\nshe liked the Catacombs.\n\n\u201cI like the Russian catacombs much better,\u201d she answered.\n\n\u201cYes\u2014I know\u2014you mean the Kieff ones. But they date only from the ninth\ncentury. Remember,\u201d exclaimed the Cardinal rapturously, \u201cthat here, in\nRome, the earliest Christian martyrs are buried.\u201d\n\nIrene asked where the remains of the Apostle Andrew were preserved.\n\n\u201cAndrew?\u201d repeated the Cardinal, stopping to think a moment. \u201cYes\u2014the\nhead is in the shrine of St. Peter\u2019s, and the rest of the remains are\ndistributed among various churches.\u201d\n\n\u201cI ask this,\u201d explained Irene, in answer to the Cardinal\u2019s questioning\nglance, \u201cbecause the Apostle Andrew is particularly dear to Russians,\nhaving been the first to teach us Christianity.\u201d\n\n\u201cOf course\u2014I know! Andrew, the brother of Saint Peter,\u201d said the Cardinal\nwith a subtle smile, as though wishing to underline the fact that Rome\nand Russia had received Christianity from two brothers. \u201cWell, and what\nchurches have you seen in Rome?\u201d\n\nIrene mentioned several of the most famous.\n\n\u201cHave you been to the church of Saint Cecilia?\u201d asked the Cardinal a\nlittle uncertainly. \u201cNo?\u201d\u2014he was clearly disappointed. \u201cYou should\ngo there without fail. It is my church\u2014it has some very interesting\nsubterranean passages.\u201d\n\nA tender smile suddenly illuminated the stern features of this old and\nserious man. Irene afterwards ascertained that Cardinal R\u2e3a had spent\nhis whole fortune on the restoration and preservation of the church of\nSaint Cecilia. She went to see this church on the following day. The\nancient shrine gleamed with cleanliness and freshness. Small electric\nlamps burned before the marble statue of Saint Cecilia, and flowers\nstood before each of her images. Irene visited the underground sepulchre\nthat holds the remains of the Saint, and was charmed with the elegant\nnew chapel, its small, slim columns, and its exquisite mosaics in the\nByzantine style. Thus might one decorate and beautify the tomb of a\nbeloved daughter. On entering this chapel Irene understood the true\ncharacter of Cardinal R\u2e3a, and knew that his stern exterior concealed a\ntender, loving heart, which, in the absence of personal family ties, had\nardently attached itself to a poetical shadow, to someone\u2019s pure and\nlovely image, to someone\u2019s spotless and sacred memory.\n\nGzhatski was much pleased with the impression produced upon Irene by\nCardinal R\u2e3a, and announced that she must now make the acquaintance of\nMonsignor Lefr\u00e8ne, of whom all Rome was talking.\n\nMonsignor Lefr\u00e8ne, a clever and highly intellectual Frenchman, had\nwritten a history of the Christian Church. The book had been published,\nsold, and widely read, when suddenly the Jesuit Fathers, who always\nplay the part of defenders of Catholic purity, announced that Lefr\u00e8ne\u2019s\nhistory was dangerous to the faithful.\n\n\u201cIt contains nothing contrary to Catholic dogmas,\u201d they wrote, \u201cbut its\nwhole tone and tendency is offensive, and likely to do much harm.\u201d\n\nThe book was put on the Index, and the author had to do penance.\nNeedless to say, this excess of zeal on the part of the Jesuit Fathers\ndid much more harm than could ever have been done by poor Monsignor\nLefr\u00e8ne. Few people, indeed, took the trouble to read the condemned\nbook; but everyone talked about it, and the idea became prevalent that\nLefr\u00e8ne held the same views as those for which the Orthodox Church had\nexcommunicated Tolstoi, which probability proved that heresies had\nstolen into the fold of Rome. Believers spoke of Lefr\u00e8ne with horror,\nand demanded that he should be expelled from the priesthood. Atheists,\non the contrary, rubbed their hands in triumph. And all this storm in a\nteacup had been raised by nothing more serious than Monsignor Lefr\u00e8ne\u2019s\nsense of humour. Minds such as his, indeed, are comparatively rare, and\nare of true and deep value to society. A witty, well-aimed pleasantry\nmay often point out to us very clearly the absurdity or grotesqueness of\nsome pet idea or enthusiasm, and by so doing may bring us sharply back\nto reason. Thousands of people owe their abandonment of some baneful\ncaprice to a chance word of ridicule; yet it is a strange fact that a\nsatirical mind always renders its owner unpopular. The public may perhaps\nsometimes forgive a satirical writer of short stories, but a satirical\npriest\u2014never! People will not understand that when Nature endows her\nchildren with talent, she cannot foresee what uniform they will wear\nlater on.\n\nMonsignor Lefr\u00e8ne\u2019s sparkling epigrams were repeated all over Rome, and\ncost him, according to rumour, the Cardinal\u2019s hat. Not that the witty\nMonsignor was very anxious for this honour. Truly talented people always\nvalue God\u2019s gift to them above all earthly honours, and a successful\nepigram gives as much personal satisfaction to a wit, as a successful\nnovel to a writer. Both, indeed, are on the same level. It is, however,\nundoubted that popular malice, animosity, and failure to understand or\nrecognize their genius, can deeply wound a talented nature; and it is\nstrange that these carping tongues often distinguish themselves, in their\nown immediate circles, by delicacy and charity.\n\nMonsignor Lefr\u00e8ne occupied the second floor of one of Rome\u2019s most\nsplendid palaces. The magnificent antique ceilings and walls, the\nbeautiful furniture, the wealth of sunlight that filled this luxurious\nabode, seemed more suited to the tastes of a scientist philosopher than\nto those of a priest. In a line with the reception-rooms was a covered\nterrace, full of tropical plants, among which strayed a number of tame\npigeons. Irene loved pigeons, and stepped out on the terrace to observe\nthem more closely. It was here that Monsignor Lefr\u00e8ne found her, and\ngreeted her with his always humorous smile, and a quick glance from his\nkeen, intelligent eyes.\n\n\u201cI am admiring your birds, Monsignor,\u201d said Irene as they shook hands.\n\n\u201cAre you?\u201d he answered. \u201cBut have you seen my Tiber? Look how beautiful\nit is through this window.\u201d And the Monsignor pointed to the yellow muddy\nwaters that always filled Irene with disgust, when comparing it with the\nclear, blue rivers of Russia.\n\nThe conversation turned to the Orthodoxy, and Lefr\u00e8ne showed himself to\nbe like most Catholic priests, closely acquainted with Russian Church\nmatters. In addition, he had many friends among the higher Russian\nclergy. Irene purposely began to speak of the suggested Orthodox Church\nCouncil, which she had discussed also with Cardinal R\u2e3a. Monsignor looked\ndispleased.\n\n\u201cBut why do you want a council?\u201d he asked.\n\n\u201cWhy?\u201d exclaimed Irene. \u201cOne of our great writers has said that the\nOrthodox Church has been paralyzed since the days of Peter the Great.\nWith the election of a patriarch, she may perhaps recover, and pronounce\nsome new word.\u201d\n\nLefr\u00e8ne shook his head.\n\n\u201cOh! La nouvelle v\u00e9rit\u00e9 ne sortira jamais de l\u2019\u00e9glise,\u201d he remarked with\nconviction.\n\nIrene was amazed.\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t understand,\u201d she stammered questioningly.\n\nMonsignor smiled. \u201cComment voulez vous qu\u2019un pr\u00eatre \u00e9mette une id\u00e9e\nnouvelle,\u201d he said, \u201cquand la coupole de Saint Pierre p\u00e8se sur des\n\u00e9paules?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, but we Russians have no \u2018Saint Peter\u2019s,\u2019\u201d observed Irene quietly.\n\n\u201cEh bien, vous avez la coupole de Moscou! Dans chaque religion, toujours\nune coupole quelconque pesera sur le pr\u00eatre et lui fermera la bouche\u201d\u2014and\na deep sadness trembled in poor Lefr\u00e8ne\u2019s voice.\n\n\u201cBut even if so,\u201d said Irene, \u201cthe council might improve the education\nof our clergy, and teach them to cultivate warmer relations with their\nflocks.\u201d And in her turn she could not restrain the note of personal\nsorrow and regret that echoed in her words.\n\n\u201cOh, I have heard all those complaints before, especially from your late\nphilosopher, Vladimir Solovyof,\u201d replied Monsignor. \u201cHe once related me\na very characteristic legend in this connection,\u201d and, with his subtle\nsmile, Lefr\u00e8ne repeated the legend of Saint Nicholas, supposed to be of\nRussian origin.\n\nSaint Nicholas, accompanied by the Reverend Cassian, once came down\nfrom heaven, on a visit to earth. On the great highway they met a poor\npeasant, the wheels of whose cart had become embedded in the mud of the\nroadside, and he was vainly exerting himself almost beyond his strength\nto extricate them.\n\n\u201cLet us help him,\u201d said the charitable Saint Nicholas.\n\n\u201cNo, that is impossible,\u201d replied the Reverend Cassian scornfully. \u201cWe\nshould soil our white robes.\u201d\n\nBut Saint Nicholas paid no attention to him, and set to work to help\nthe peasant. Both horse and cart were soon standing safely in the dry\nroadway, but several splashes of mud had stained the snowy whiteness of\nthe Saint\u2019s raiment.\n\nWhen God heard of this occurrence, He ordered that from thenceforward the\nmemory of Saint Nicholas was to be honoured twice a year, but that of\nthe Rev. Cassian only once in four years. (The festival of Saint Cassian\nfalls on the 29th of February!)\n\n\u201cVladimir Solovyof,\u201d added Monsignor Lefr\u00e8ne, \u201ctold me this legend in\nthat half-mocking tone which is nearly always assumed by Frenchmen\nwhen speaking of _le bon Dieu_, but which, in Russian, is quite\ninadmissible.\u201d He explained the legend as follows: Saint Nicholas\nrepresents the Catholic Church, always warmly attached and interested in\nits followers and never afraid of touching dirt when there is a chance of\nsaving a sinner. Cassian, on the other hand, is the Orthodox Church, cold\nand haughty, indifferent to her people, and only anxious to retain her\nouter immaculacy.\n\nIrene was greatly drawn to Monsignor Lefr\u00e8ne and with her usual\nimpulsiveness, feeling a profound confidence in him, she made him a\nconfession of her own personal credo, that same credo that P\u00e8re Etienne\nhad once waved away with a smile. Lefr\u00e8ne listened with his customary\nhalf-satirical smile, and answered quietly:\n\n\u201cYour faith has nothing whatever in common with Christianity. If anything\nit is Biblical, of the Old Testament. We Christians abandoned all such\nideas nineteen centuries ago.\u201d\n\nIrene blushed. \u201cIt is as if they had talked it over between them,\u201d she\nthought. \u201cP\u00e8re Etienne said my faith suited the Samoyedes, and this man\nsays it is of the Old Testament.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue Christians,\u201d explained Lefr\u00e8ne, noticing Irene\u2019s perplexity,\n\u201cnever expect rewards or justice in this world, because they realize\nthat such results are only possible beyond the grave. To pagans and Old\nTestament Jews, the idea of a future life had not presented itself\u2014hence,\nin the book of Job, for instance, Job, having patiently borne all his\nsufferings, expects God, in justice, to cure him of his leprosy, give him\nnew wealth, new children, a new wife. No, for that matter, he kept his\nold, former wife, and this very circumstance makes me think that Job was\nnot nearly as happy as the Bible would have us believe.\u201d\n\nThe same evening, telling Gzhatski about her visit to Lefr\u00e8ne, Irene\nmentioned the shade of displeasure that had crossed the face of the\nMonsignor, and similarly, a few days previously, that of Cardinal R\u2e3a, at\nthe mention of the suggested Orthodox Council.\n\n\u201cI am not at all surprised,\u201d replied Gzhatski. \u201cThe Catholics know very\nwell that a body without a head must, sooner or latter, decay and fall\nto pieces. They foresee the moment when Russia, to save her religion,\nwill have to choose a head for her Church, and they hope to be able,\nat that moment, to persuade her to accept the Pope as this head. The\nelection of a Patriarch would be a great blow to their designs, and would\nindefinitely postpone all idea of a union between the two churches. I say\n_postpone_ because all Catholics are completely convinced that ultimately\nthis union must come to pass.\u201d\n\n\u201cThat is exactly what I cannot understand,\u201d exclaimed Irene. \u201cThe longer\nI live in Rome, the more I come to the conclusion that the two churches\nhave really never been separated. No one but theologians is interested\nin dogmas. Ordinary mortals, orthodox and Catholic alike, believe in the\nsame legends and superstitions, the same saints and martyrs, the same\nprayers, the same gospel, the same services. It is even astonishing that\ntwo churches, having so long ago severed all connection with each other,\nshould have remained so astonishingly similar. Russian pilgrims, who go\nto Bari to pray at the shrine of Saint Nicholas, the worker of miracles,\nproceed from there to the shrines of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Rome,\nwhere they feel perfectly at home. What is the use of worrying about the\nre-union of two churches that actually have never been disunited at all?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou forget the political standpoint,\u201d said Gzhatski. \u201cRussia is growing\ndaily and hourly, and with each year her might increases. Some day, in\nthe not too far-distant future, her support may be of enormous importance\nto the Pope. What with the spread of Atheism and Freemasonry, there is\nnothing to ensure that the Vatican will not one fine day suddenly be\nturned into a National museum, and some out-of-the-way monastery in the\nApennines be offered to the Pope as a residence! The Catholic nations of\nEurope would, in such a case, probably limit themselves, as they did on\nthe occasion of the taking of Rome, to the sending of deputations and\nexpressions of sympathy. It is at that moment that the Pope, like King\nLear, will turn away from his proud elder daughters Regan and Goneril,\non whom he has lavished so much love and care, and will remember the\nfar-away Cordelia, whom, though she has received nothing from him, he\nhas never ceased to regard as his daughter. There is no doubt that the\nVatican has some hopes in connection with the Northern Cordelia, and\u2014who\nknows?\u2014perhaps even these hopes are not quite without foundation. In\nany case, a persecuted and friendless Pope would certainly appeal far\nmore strongly to the sympathies of the Russian people than the present\nmagnificent and triumphant Pontiff!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXVII\n\n\nThe Catholic and the Orthodox Easter fell that year on the same date.\nIt was already Passion Week, and for some days Irene saw nothing of\nGzhatski. He was preparing for Easter Communion, and went every day to\nthe Russian Church. Irene, on her side, was anxious not to miss even the\nleast of the Catholic services and ceremonies. A spell of cold, windy\nweather had broken in upon the sunny springtime, and, perhaps on this\naccount, perhaps also through the fatigue of constant long standing in\nchurch (there are no chairs in the great Roman cathedrals), Irene\u2019s\nnerves were in an unbearable state of tension and restlessness. With a\ngreat effort, she turned her steps, on the Thursday evening, towards St.\nPeter\u2019s, where the annual ceremony of the washing of the altar was to\ntake place.\n\nThe immense church was filled from end to end with a dense,\nclosely-packed crowd, the service being, however, audible only to the\ncomparatively few who stood near the altar. For that matter, there really\nwas not any service at all. A Cardinal sat on the central throne, and\ngrouped around him on wooden seats and stools were the numerous grades\nand members of the Vatican State Clergy. They were singing in low, dull,\nmonotonous tones, and their endless, wail-like, doleful chant produced\na most disagreeable impression on the nerves. The tired, enervated\ncrowd pressed against the wooden barriers that enclosed a free passage\nfor the procession. Everyone felt hot and tired and hungry, and faint\nfrom the close, stuffy atmosphere. Cross Englishwomen were quarrelling\nwith neighbouring Italian women, and pushing them unceremoniously. In\nperfectly audible tones they repeatedly remarked the impoliteness of\npeople in Rome, especially at St. Peter\u2019s on that particular occasion.\nScarcely anybody was praying, the majority of those present having\ncome simply to witness an interesting spectacle. Pretty young American\ngirls were there with their sweethearts, and were undisguisedly amusing\nthemselves, chattering and laughing and coquetting. At last, after three\nhours of responses and lamentations and misereres, the long-awaited\nprocession appeared. In front came young attendants in lace aprons, and\nbehind them fat old priests, looking like old women, with their smooth,\nround faces, their ample mauve robes, and their mauve-lined, grey,\nsquirrel capes. Each one carried in his hand a rod with a sponge attached\nto it. Last of all, also carrying an enormous sponge, came a Cardinal in\na red robe with a long train carried by an attendant.\n\nThe procession mounted the altar steps, and, all coverings and ornaments\nhaving been previously removed, began to wash the altar. A scent of wine\nspread through the church. Having concluded this ceremony, the procession\npassed slowly and solemnly round the altar to the accompaniment of a\nshower of rattles, sounded to denote the dismay and perturbation of all\nNature\u2014the thunder and earthquake that followed Christ\u2019s death.\n\nIrene followed everything with great attention. A strange, new feeling of\ncontempt seemed to tremble in her soul. At home, in her own country, she\nhad always come away from the Passion Week services deeply touched, and\nin great emotion. And now, all these unaccustomed ceremonies and costumes\nand rites, the strange language, the extraordinary pagan ritual, suddenly\nshocked her. Maybe she was overtired from three hours\u2019 standing in the\ncrowd, and, therefore, more than usually critical\u2014but true it is that she\ncontemplated almost with loathing the whole scene before her, even the\nmarble columns and the colossal statues of the great Roman Cathedral.\n\n\u201cAnd they call this Christianity!\u201d she thought bitterly. \u201cWhat an irony!\nThis is sheer paganism, and these are the same ancient Romans, still\nworshipping the same old gods as before. They have never understood\nChrist\u2019s teaching, and they have buried it under marble shrines and\npagan ceremonies.\n\n\u201cIn your place I would go a little further still,\u201d exclaimed Irene\u2019s\ninner soul with malicious sarcasm. \u201cI would destroy every New Testament\nin the world, except one\u2014and that one I would put in a golden,\njewel-studded box, and would bury it deep in the earth, forbidding its\ndisinterment on pain of death. Over it, I would build a splendid golden\nshrine, and in this shrine I would celebrate night and day magnificent\nservices with gorgeous processions. That would be entirely in accordance\nwith the spirit of your Christianity.\n\n\u201cBut you have not the temerity to go so far. You vaguely feel that some\nday the world will arise in fury against you, will destroy your temples,\ntear into shreds your splendid robes, and leave, alone and triumphant,\nonly the Gospel, the one Christian teaching humanity needs. And then,\nthere will come together \u2018two or three in His Name,\u2019 to read His Book and\nto pray\u2014and \u2018He will be among them.\u2019\u201d\n\nThus, angrily, yet dreaming, Irene\u2019s thoughts flew. Just in front of\nher stood an Italian middle-class couple. The young husband held a\nthree-year-old girl by the hand while the pretty mother pressed to\nher heart a white bundle, evidently a sleeping infant. The noise of\nthe rattles must have disturbed its slumbers, for suddenly the bundle\nstirred, a tiny hand stretched itself forth in search of the mother\u2019s\nbreast, and a low wail made itself heard. The mother immediately sat\ndown at the foot of a marble column, and began to feed the child. For\nsome reason, the idea occurred to Irene that in all that pagan crowd in\na pagan temple the only representatives of Christianity were that simple\nmother and child.\n\n\u201cThere is the great miracle!\u201d she thought rapturously. \u201cNew life, coming\nno one knows from where! Why are you all quarrelling about whether\ncertain miracles were or were not performed nineteen centuries ago in\nPalestine? Why must you be certain of those particular miracles, before\nyou can believe in God? To-day, at this very moment, you are surrounded\nby miracles. Birth, death, sunrise, springtime, winter\u2014are not all these\nmiracles? You have forgotten them because you see them every day. In your\nsilly self-conceit, you assure yourselves that all this is perfectly\nnatural, and that science has long ago explained it all\u2014but you forget\nthat your science has only _noted_ the existence of these miracles, and\nthat their secret belongs as much as ever to the Almighty Ruler of the\nUniverse in whom you find it so difficult to believe.\u201d\n\nIrene left the Cathedral in great moral perturbation. So great was her\nexcitement that she forgot to take a cab, and walked all the long way\nhome, in the face of a cutting east wind that she did not even notice.\nLarge tears ran down her face, she talked to herself, gesticulated, and\ndrew the attention of all passers-by. The pagan soul that had passed\nChristianity by was sobbing and storming within her. For one moment,\nunder the influence of the very ceremonies she was execrating, she had\nunderstood how priceless was the treasure she had lost. Life might have\nbeen beautiful and full of harmony, whereas, on the path she had chosen,\nthere was nothing but constant, needless, helpless suffering. Someone\nshould have taught her Christianity! Her soul had been confided to\nsomeone\u2019s care, and that someone had not fulfilled his sacred duty!\n\nAnd Irene, in her despair, cursed all lazy and idle slaves, for a voice\nin her soul told her that her fate was sealed, and that it was too late\nto try and change it.\n\n\n\n\nXVIII\n\n\nThe following morning Irene awoke feeling depressed and miserable. She\nwas afraid to remain alone with her own thoughts, and wrote to Gzhatski,\nasking him to come and take her for a drive on the Appian Way. It was\nGood Friday, and Gzhatski was just on the point of leaving his hotel\nto go to the Russian Church, when Irene\u2019s letter was handed to him.\nHe guessed from the tone of her words that something unusual was the\nmatter with his friend, and, without hesitating, he immediately drove\noff to fetch her. Asking no questions, and pretending not to notice her\ntear-stained eyes and trembling lips, he sat quietly beside her, as\nthe cab rolled past the Colosseum and the Baths of Caracalla, to the\nPorta San Sebastiano. It was a grey, dull morning. The yellow, thick,\nRoman dust had been laid by the recent rain, the wind had fallen, and\nnot a leaf stirred on the trees. On either side of the Via Appia Antica\nrose high stone walls, obstructing the view over the Campagna. At last,\nhowever, they passed the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and drove out into\nthe open country. Before them stretched the narrow ancient road, in\nplaces still paved with flat stones, in the ancient fashion. This road,\nstraight as an arrow, stretches all the way to Albano, making no zig-zags\neven when climbing up-hill. It is a road that could only have been made\nby children, or by ancient Romans! On either side of the way stand\nmonuments of the most varied forms, round, cone-shaped, pyramidal, and\nother varieties, difficult to name or describe. Some of them still boast\nbas-reliefs and inscriptions, and here and there fallen statues, armless\nor headless, peep out between the bushes. Occasionally, too, some stray\nmonument is surrounded by a frame of tall cypresses and Roman pines, but\nin general, there is not much greenery, except the tall, fresh grass,\nfull of mauve and yellow field-flowers, and scarlet poppies. In the far\ndistance are the blue Albanian hills, and on the left the graceful ruins\nof the Aqueducts stand out in charming relief against the sky.\n\nIrene gazed in silence at the lovely picture. It was long since she had\nventured beyond the stone walls of the city, and now, at sight of Nature\nin this fresh spring dress, a new, strange, unconquerable desire for\nhappiness suddenly took possession of her soul.\n\n\u201cIt is inhuman to be always miserable and in tears, and to eternally\ncurse one\u2019s own existence,\u201d she thought; \u201ceveryone has a right to at\nleast occasional gleams of happiness. Who has dared to condemn me to\nconstant despair? I claim my share of joy! I claim it! I demand it! I\ndesire it!\u201d\n\nIrene repeated the words passionately to herself, and it seemed to her\nthat Fate must send her happiness, if only because she desired it so\nardently.\n\n\u201cI cannot wait any longer!\u201d she seemed to be inwardly exclaiming to\nsomebody. \u201cI must have happiness immediately\u2014to-day! Yes, to-day,\nto-day\u2014I do not believe in to-morrow!\u201d\n\nGzhatski, too, was silent, and apparently lost in his own thoughts, as he\nsat back in the carriage, smiling softly to himself.\n\n\u201cHow lovely!\u201d he suddenly exclaimed, turning to Irene. \u201cDon\u2019t you think\nthe Campagna reminds one of the country in Russia? The same limitless\nspace, the same meadows, even the same modest spring, not at all southern\nand luxurious. I hardly think Nature at my place in the S\u2e3a province can\nbe much more than a month behind this.\u201d\n\nPresently they alighted, and climbed up a little grassy slope to admire\nthe view, the loveliness of which was enhanced by the wonderful silence\nin which all Nature seemed wrapt. No sound was heard, except the\noccasional shy note of a bird, and the low baa-ing of distant sheep.\n\nOn the way back they stopped to have tea at the Castello dei Cesari, an\noriginal and charming little restaurant, arranged in an ancient tower.\nThey sat near the window of the large hall, with its wooden ceiling,\nbrick floor, antique wooden chandeliers, and enormous antique vases full\nof flowers.\n\nThe magnificent view embraced the Palatine Hill, with its gigantic ruins,\nand towards evening the setting sun threw the magic of its golden glory\nalike over the ruins and the lilacs and fruit-trees that bloomed among\nthem.\n\nWas it the springtime, or a likeness between the Campagna and his home\nthat had touched Gzhatski? He suddenly began to speak of his mother,\nof that holy of holies in his soul that he always kept so jealously\nto himself. Leaning his elbows on the table, he spoke to Irene of his\nchildhood, his home, his most cherished recollections, and his life with\nthe beloved, sainted guardian of his early days.\n\n\u201cHow she loved me! How proud she was of me! With what tenderness she\nlooked at me! She brought me up with nothing but love. When governesses\nor tutors made some complaint about me, she called me to her, repeated\ntheir words, and said: \u2018I cannot believe it possible that you should have\ndone such a thing. There must be some misunderstanding. Explain it to\nme.\u2019 And I was afraid to be naughty, because it was awful to give her\npain and to meet her sad, reproachful glance. I was still quite little,\nbut I already realized that life had not brought her much happiness.\nBesides, the circumstances were such that I naturally reasoned and\nreflected much more than most children of my age. My father used to come\nonce or twice a year; my mother was always bedridden. The whole household\nwas accustomed to apply to me for orders, and I very early assumed the\nresponsibilities of the master of the house. I remember even that when I\nwas barely twelve, I began to take up a protecting attitude towards my\nmother! She was more amused than displeased, and told me that she greatly\nvalued such a strong and energetic protector.\u201d\n\nGzhatski stopped for a moment, and his face assumed a hard expression\nthat Irene had never seen there before.\n\n\u201cShe died suddenly,\u201d he continued, lowering his voice. \u201cThree hours\nbefore her death, I came to show myself to her in a new riding-suit that\nhad just arrived from Petrograd. She asked to be raised on her cushions\nthat she might see me better, and she looked at me delightedly. I thought\nmyself magnificent, posed, glanced at myself in the glass, and played\nwith my elegant riding-whip. What a child I was at seventeen! I smile to\nthink of it. The new suit was the reason of my taking a longer ride than\nusual that day, and the groom who was sent to find me could not catch me\nup. I returned gaily, trotted up to the entrance, jumped from my horse,\nand then suddenly saw the tear-stained face of our old butler.\n\n\u201c\u2018Her Excellency is dying,\u2019 he whispered.\n\n\u201cAs though in a fog, I passed into my mother\u2019s room, and started back in\nfright, seeing her lying on the floor. There is a superstition prevalent\nin our province to the effect that it is bad to die in bed, and that, at\nthe approach of the agony, the dying must be laid on the floor\u2014_i.e._, as\nnear as possible to the ground. I have no idea whether my mother really\nknew of this superstition, but her old and trusted maid afterwards told\nme that she had suddenly expressed a wish to be laid on the floor. The\nwish had been complied with, the maids hurriedly arranging rugs and\ncushions for the purpose.\n\n\u201cThe agony had already begun when I fell on my knees beside my mother.\nTwice she spoke my name, but she no longer recognized me. She muttered\nsomething, stirring restlessly on her pillow. I bent over her, and caught\nthe words:\n\n\u201c\u2018Life\u2014life\u2014how cruel it is! Nothing but tears and sorrow and despair!\nNot a moment of happiness! Not a moment of joy.\u2026\u2019\n\n\u201cI shuddered at these words. So these were my mother\u2019s hidden thoughts!\nThe whisper grew still lower, and then ceased.\u2026 We all waited and\nlistened, and suddenly we knew that she had ceased to be. Someone burst\ninto tears. They lifted her from the floor, and her thin, wasted body\ntook a strange attitude, as it lay heavily and awkwardly in the arms of\nthe maids. At that moment I realized that she was no longer a being, but\na _thing_; and, with a cry of horror, I fled. I shut myself up in my\nroom, and sobbed all the evening, as much with grief at having lost her\nas with the sharp pain her last words had caused me.\n\n\u201c\u2018She had assured me that I was her life and her joy,\u2019 I thought, \u2018and\nyet for how little had I counted in her existence.\u2019\n\n\u201cDuring all our life together, during all those years that had been so\ndear to me, she had only suffered and hidden her pain from me! \u2018Never a\nmoment of happiness!\u2019 Those last words rang in my ears with cruel and\nhorrible insistence.\n\n\u201cIt was already night when I ventured out of my room. The whole household\nwas sleeping; only the deacon was reading the psalms for the dead, in a\nmelancholy voice, beside my mother\u2019s body. She lay there, all in white,\nsurrounded with flowers. I approached on tiptoe, and stood still, gazing\nat her; she looked so small, so thin, so frail, like an old child. A\nfeeling of boundless pity took possession of my soul. \u2018How, oh how had\nshe deserved so sad a destiny?\u2019 I asked myself hopelessly. \u2018What had she\ndone? How had she offended God?\u2019\n\n\u201cAnd I pressed close to her and kissed her, and felt that I had never\nunderstood how much she loved me. Only a love that knew no limits could\nhave given her the strength to hide her pain so completely. She had\nnot wanted to sadden my childhood; she had realized that a child could\nonly grow up and develop well and normally when surrounded by love and\nhappiness. How many mothers have I met since who have failed to realize\nthis, and who have ruined the futures of their children by letting them\nshare, at a tender age, tears and sorrows beyond their years!\n\n\u201cI remained beside my mother till dawn; and during that night, it was as\nif some voice had told me that I should never again have a true friend.\nThe prophecy has indeed been fulfilled; I know the entire province, but I\nhave not a friend. Sometimes, too, I have flattered myself with the hope\nthat I had found a true woman with whom I would like to share my life;\nbut always, as I came within reach of the prize, it melted away, having\nbeen but a dream. Fate always seemed to say to me: \u2018You have had your\nfair share of woman\u2019s love, and have no right for more.\u2019\n\n\u201cThis very winter again, it at one time seemed to me, Irene Pavlovna,\nthat I had found in you a true friend; but I am afraid you are too much\noccupied with your own salvation to sacrifice any time or thought to\nfriendship. And yet if anything in the world can save you, it is not\na convent and not Catholicism, but simply an active interest in your\nfellow-creatures. When experience and observation have taught us love\nand charity, we are saved, and life is no longer terrible. Fate may be\nas cruel as she pleases; but if we have warmth and love in our hearts,\nwe shall never be alone, never in despair, and shall never think of\nself-destruction, if only out of pity for all our suffering brothers,\nwhom, as long as we live, we have always the chance of helping.\n\n\u201cIf only you could rid yourself of the idea that you are too old for\nmarriage! For what precisely is it that you think yourself too old? For\nkisses? It is extraordinary that women never seem to see anything beyond\nthe mere physical side of marriage! Look at it from a higher, purer,\nmore Christian standpoint! Believe me, what men need most is sympathy,\nfriendship, understanding, and the generous, noble love that can forgive\nus our faults and our shortcomings. I have contemplated your state of\nmind from every standpoint, and sometimes I wonder whether the sickness\nof my own soul is not even more dangerous and incurable than yours. I\nonly cannot myself see it so plainly, or rather I do not attach to it the\nimportance it deserves.\u2026\u201d\n\nIrene became engaged to Gzhatski, and he persuaded her to leave Rome as\nquickly as possible, and go to the Riviera, whither his doctors were\nsending him, in fear of Roman springtime malaria. To tell the truth,\nGzhatski was far less afraid of malaria than of P\u00e8re Etienne, the\nstrength of whose influence over Irene he greatly exaggerated. Natures\nlike Irene\u2019s never remain long under the same influence. They are swayed\nby sudden enthusiasms and equally sudden disappointments. Blown to\nright and to left by every passing breeze, they fling themselves into\none friendship and then another, searching for happiness everywhere, and\nfinding it nowhere. The hour of Catholicism in the person of P\u00e8re Etienne\nhad struck and passed, and there had dawned the new dream of salvation\nthrough love.\n\nIrene agreed to go with Gzhatski to Monte Carlo. The day and hour of\ndeparture were already fixed; but she still had not the courage to inform\nP\u00e8re Etienne of her new plans. She tried several times to write to him,\nbut always ended by tearing her lengthy explanations in despair. At last,\non the very morning of the great day, an hour before her departure,\nshe sent him a note, informing him of her unexpected decision to leave\nimmediately for the Riviera, and promising to write at greater length\nfrom there.\n\nIrene had proposed to meet Gzhatski at the station; but he had\nobstinately insisted on coming to fetch her, and she had been obliged\nto give in. Her acquaintances at the _pension_ said good-bye to her\nvery coldly; they could not forgive her for her treachery to the cause\nof their beloved Catholicism. Some of them regarded her with contempt,\nothers with envy.\n\nGzhatski\u2019s cab stood at the door, and Irene was already seated in it,\nimpatiently longing to start. The servants were tying on the luggage,\nGzhatski was standing on the pavement, smoking and giving occasional\ndirections, and at the windows of the _pension_ interested faces could be\nseen peeping through the curtains. At this moment P\u00e8re Etienne, puffing\nand panting in hot haste, appeared round the corner. The kind old man\nhad just received Irene\u2019s note, and had come to say good-bye, and to\nbless her before her departure. Catching sight of Gzhatski he stopped\nstill for a moment, completely dumbfounded, while Gzhatski smiled in\nundisguised triumph. The old man was angry. His face assumed a cold\nand proud expression, and taking no notice whatever of Irene he turned\nto the entrance of the _pension_. Having, however, already reached the\ndoor, he suddenly, in spite of himself, looked round. Irene was gazing\nat him with such a confused, guilty air, that P\u00e8re Etienne\u2019s severity\ninvoluntarily relaxed, and he bowed sadly. \u201cPoor girl!\u201d his kind,\nsympathetic old face seemed to say\u2014\u201cyou have thrown away your last chance\nof happiness!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXIX\n\n\nA brilliant spring was reigning in Monte Carlo. Not the pale, cold,\nRussian spring, when in May the first shy snowdrops barely manage to\nforce their white heads through the ground; nor yet the Roman spring,\nthat Gzhatski called \u201cmodest,\u201d but the real, passionate, southern\nprecursor of summer. April was not yet over, but the weather was hot\nas at midsummer. The blue sea sparkled dazzlingly under the unbearably\nstrong rays of the sun, flowers hung like thick carpets over walls and\nterraces, gorgeous roses climbed over the trellises and fences of the\ngardens. And no one was there to admire all this splendour\u2014for the season\nwas over, the hotels and shops were closed, the shutters of the villas\nwere up, and Monte Carlo resembled the kingdom of the \u201cSleeping Beauty.\u201d\nAll the life that was still there was concentrated in the neighbourhood\nof the gaming rooms, and it was here that Irene and Gzhatski spent their\ndays, walking in the lovely Casino gardens, or sitting on the fairy-like\nterrace overlooking the sea.\n\nThey had intended to be married immediately on their arrival in Monte\nCarlo, but, as is always the case with Russians, it had turned out\nthat the ceremony could only take place on the production of countless\nofficial papers that had to be sent for to Russia. In the meantime, they\nhad settled in a large hotel close to the Casino\u2014the only hotel open all\nthe year round\u2014and happy in each other\u2019s society, they revelled in the\nglories of the golden springtime that fashionable Riviera visitors had so\nfoolishly abandoned.\n\nMonte Carlo produced a very curious impression on Irene. In Rome she\nhad seen, side by side with palaces, splendid carriages, and dazzling\nluxury, the most heart-rending poverty and beggary\u2014a contrast to be met\nwith in all large cities. Here, on the contrary, there was nothing of the\nkind. It seemed as if every inhabitant of this sunlit fairyland lived\nand existed merely for his own pleasure. The very waiters at the Caf\u00e9 de\nParis hummed and danced to the sound of the Hungarian orchestra as they\nserved visitors with refreshments. The Arab pedlars, selling Eastern\nshawls, wandered through the gardens in their white _burnous_ and their\nsmart red boots, apparently more intent upon boasting of the beauty of\ntheir wares than upon selling them. The only busy people in the whole\nplace seemed to be the croupiers, and when, at given hours, groups of\nthem came out of the Casino to be replaced by new relays, they reminded\none of workmen leaving a factory after an exhausting day\u2019s work.\n\nThe remaining inhabitants did nothing from morning till night but\nwalk about in elegant summer clothes, feed pigeons, drink tea to the\naccompaniment of music, play with their absurd little dogs, or gamble in\nthe Casino.\n\nIrene was much interested in this, to her, novel type of public, and\nwas particularly astonished at the sight of so many middle-aged, even\nold, women, with dyed hair, made-up faces, girlish dresses and hats,\ntripping gracefully along, and smiling coquettishly at their funny little\nold-men admirers. The latter, even if somewhat shaky on their legs, also\nwore light, fashionable clothes, and flowers in their buttonholes. At\nfirst they made Irene laugh, but soon, with the inconsistency of nearly\nall weak characters, she began to wonder whether it was not much wiser\nto cling to one\u2019s youth than to be old at thirty, as was her own case.\nThe conviction that this was indeed so came upon her suddenly, and she\nimmediately rushed off to Nice, and ordered a whole mountain of elegant\ndresses, hats, false curls, etc. Having previously considered it a sin to\nspend an extra penny on clothes, Irene now went from shop to shop, never\neven attempting to bargain, and throwing money about with almost feverish\nprodigality in her desire to possess herself without delay of all that\nwas most elegant and luxurious in the way of frocks and frills.\n\nGzhatski observed her in amazed silence, and smilingly watched the\ntransformation of yesterday\u2019s nun, with her flat hair and her eternal\nblack dress, into a coloured fashion-plate. Being, in his heart, far more\npleased than otherwise that his future wife should be well dressed and\nelegant, he did not protest. What disquieted him much more, indeed, was\na passion that Irene suddenly developed for gambling. Gzhatski, having\nhimself once advised her to cultivate some passion, if only artificially,\njust that it might attach her more firmly to earth, very ruefully\ncontemplated the development of this passion now that it had shown itself\nwithout any effort on Irene\u2019s part! Sergei Grigorievitch, indeed, was one\nof those men who, in the woman they have chosen, admit only one possible\npassion: that of love for themselves!\n\nIt was anything but easy to dissuade Irene from gambling. She revelled in\nthe sensations of those feverish minutes passed at the tables, falling\ninto the depths of despair at the loss of fifty francs, and soaring\ninto an absolute frenzy of delight at the gain of forty! On leaving the\ngambling rooms, Irene took deep breaths of the fresh sea air, her eyes\nshone, and it seemed to her that the sea and the hills and the flowers\nhad never been so beautiful before. It was this that displeased Gzhatski.\nHe might have reconciled himself to the idea of her gambling had she\nregretted her losses, but he could not forgive her that feverish delight,\nthat moral ecstacy and satisfaction that she gleaned from this new craze.\n\nSometimes he succeeded in luring her away from the temptations of the\ntables by arranging excursions in the neighbourhood. Like most Slavs,\nindeed like most sons of a young race, Gzhatski could not grow old, and\nat forty, he often laughed and played pranks like a schoolboy. He had the\ncapacity, indeed, of infecting everyone around him with his gaiety, even\ncab-drivers, boatmen, and waiters! To each and all of them he knew how to\nsay the right word, or make the right joke, at the right moment. He was\ndescended indeed from a noble old race of landowners, who had always been\nready to till their own soil, side by side with their peasants, seeing\nin the latter, not machines, but interesting and deserving human beings.\n\nTo Irene, such simple relations with the lower classes seemed strangely\nnew and original. In the usual Petrograd fashion, she had hardly ever\nexchanged a word with her servants, and barely knew them by sight. At\nhotels at which she had stayed for two months she had nearly always, on\nleaving, been obliged, before giving a tip, to ask the manager which\nwaiter had served her all the time, she herself being quite unable to\ndistinguish him from the others.\n\nIn every way, indeed, Gzhatski proved a most interesting travelling\ncompanion. Men always bring gaiety and animation into the lives of\nlonely women, even when they are neither lovers nor husbands, but\nsimply distant relations. This is so, because women who have no social\nactivities to distract their thoughts are inclined to look upon life as\nsomething tragic and fatal, against which it is useless to struggle. Men,\non the other hand, who, if only indirectly, make our laws and govern\nour countries, do not attach much importance to life, often indeed\nregarding it from the humorous standpoint. It is popularly supposed that\nmen are more conservative than women, and that they care more about\ntraditions and old customs. Actually, however, the laws and customs they\npassionately defend are invariably useful at the moment, and when the\nneed for them passes, men are the first to abandon them. Women, on the\ncontrary, cling desperately to traditions, especially inconvenient and\ntroublesome ones, and if ever they decide to defy even some unimportant\nsocial law, they do it tragically, as though flinging themselves into an\nabyss.\n\n\u201cThere! I have cut off my hair, and I smoke,\u201d thinks a newly-converted\nNihilist. \u201cThe thing is done\u2014there is no turning back. Whatever I may\ndo now, nothing can win me back my old position, and the respect of my\nfellows. And so\u2014vogue le gal\u00e8re!\u201d\n\nHow many perfectly modest women having once let their hairdressers\npersuade them to dye their hair auburn, immediately assume the manners\nand conversational style of \u201ccocottes!\u201d\n\nThe southern spring, the music, the excitement of gambling, the constant\nsociety of a charming man, all this did not fail to make its due\nimpression on Irene, with the result that she fell, day by day, more and\nmore deeply in love with Gzhatski. In her past dreams of love she had\nalways seen herself hotly disputing with her lover, proclaiming her views\nand theories like a prophetess, and bringing him round unreservedly to\nher opinions on all matters. To her own astonishment, however, she now\nno longer cared in the least about any of her old theories and ideas,\nand was ready to give them all up without a sigh, to please Gzhatski.\nShe had long ago left off being particular about _what_ he said to her,\nher attention being entirely riveted on the way he said it, on his every\nmovement, smile, or change of expression. Alone in her room in the\nevening she sat up late, and could not sleep at night, for thinking of\nhis elegant figure, the gleam of his even white teeth, the picturesque\nmanner in which he smoked his cigarette, etc. The blood rushed to her\nhead, her heart beat loudly, she breathed quickly. P\u00e8re Etienne had been\nright in suspecting that an ardent temperament lay concealed under her\ncold exterior. It is probable, indeed, that Irene was one of the many\n\u201cchaste sensualists\u201d who abound in society. It is strange that these\nunconsciously voluptuous natures, suffering as they do very extremely\nthrough the virtuous life imposed on them by circumstances, always\nattribute their sufferings to some lofty ethical reason, such as loss\nof faith in God, disappointment in their friends, misunderstood ideals,\netc., and would in every case be deeply offended should anyone dare to\nsuggest to them a very simple and prosaic cure for their \u201cnoble sorrow.\u201d\nThey usually guard their virtue very jealously, vaguely feeling that if\nonce passion gains the upper hand over them, they will be her slaves for\nlife.\n\n\n\n\nXX\n\n\nIt was a close, misty day. The hills and the sea were shrouded in a\nsilvery veil, the air was sultry, not a leaf stirred in the trees.\n\nDirectly after lunch Gzhatski had accompanied Irene to Nice, where she\nwas to try on her \u201cforty-third dress, and her seventy-fourth hat,\u201d as he\ngaily remarked. At five o\u2019clock, tired after a busy afternoon\u2019s shopping,\nthey went to the Jet\u00e9e-Promenade, for tea.\n\nThe season being at its very last ebb, the orchestra was playing in the\nlarge hall for the sole benefit of two old women, who slept peacefully\nin the stalls, and the luxurious empty rooms reminded one of the Sahara\nDesert on a sultry summer day. The solitary waiter, overjoyed to see\ntwo visitors, hastened to offer them the best table beside the window,\nwhere they could enjoy an uninterrupted view over the magnificent Quai\ndes Anglais, with its gorgeous hotels, its palm-trees, and its gay public\nthat seemed suddenly to have dropped from the clouds. The waves were\nsplashing lazily on the shore, numerous half-nude children were paddling\nin the clear blue water, and a faint, fresh sea-breeze came in at the\nopen window, surrounding Gzhatski and Irene with its caresses.\n\nThe sudden sound of noisy footsteps reverberating through the empty\nrooms caused them both to turn round. The intruder was a tall, handsome\n\u201cbrunette,\u201d in a white costume and an enormous hat, elegantly poised on\na luxurious mass of hair. A Southern beauty, this, in the full bloom of\nher charms, the paint on her face serving more as a signpost than an\nornament, for she would undoubtedly have been more attractive without\nit. Carrying herself with the imperious ease of a woman accustomed to\nattract universal attention, she sank carelessly into a wicker armchair,\ncrossed her legs, and without so much as glancing at the waiter, ordered\na whisky and soda.\n\n\u201cSo that is the kind of divinity that grows on the trees here,\u201d said\nGzhatski, scrutinizing the newcomer attentively. \u201cAnd I had already\ndecided that Nice was as empty as an Arabian desert.\u201d\n\n\u201cShe does not live in Nice,\u201d answered Irene. \u201cShe is staying at our hotel\nin Monte Carlo.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow do you know?\u201d said Gzhatski in surprise.\n\n\u201cI happened to be on the balcony last night when the hotel omnibus\nbrought her from the station. I remember noticing the size of her\nhat-box\u2014now it does not surprise me any more!\u201d\n\nGzhatski frowned. \u201cI should never have thought a respectable hotel like\nours would admit such \u2018ladies,\u2019\u201d he muttered crossly.\n\n\u201cWell, well\u2014it does not concern us,\u201d said Irene, amused at his annoyance.\n\n\u201cIndeed it does,\u201d exclaimed Gzhatski. \u201cNobody could like the idea of such\na creature as that living under the same roof and coming constantly\nunder the eyes of his bride\u2014of the woman who is dearer to him and whom he\nplaces higher than all else on earth.\u201d\n\n\u201cDear, dear! What old-fashioned prejudices!\u201d smiled Irene. \u201cI assure you\nthe lady will not demoralize me. On the contrary, I pity her profoundly\nfor having to lead such a frightful life. How do I know? Perhaps if my\nparents had not left me a fortune I might have been reduced to adopting\nthe same profession!\u201d\n\n\u201cIrene!\u201d cried Gzhatski excitedly, \u201cnever dare to say such a thing again!\nThe insult of the suggestion is insufferable. You would have starved\nrather than lead a life of shame. As if I did not know you! All the pity\nthat is wasted on fallen women is a foolish and unjustifiable pity. There\nis so much work to be done in the world that everyone who really tries\ncan earn an honest living. These worthless creatures never want to work\nat all\u2014they care for nothing but a lazy, comfortable, luxurious life.\u201d\n\nGzhatski had become flushed and excited. The unknown beauty turned round\nand listened with interest to this \u201cquarrel\u201d in a strange language. The\nwaiter put before her a bottle of soda-water and a small glass of whisky,\nand went away. She swallowed the whisky in one draught, and took out an\nelegant gold cigarette case. Holding a cigarette between her teeth she\nscanned the table for matches. Finding none, she rose, and, as calmly as\nif approaching an acquaintance, crossed over to Gzhatski and asked him\nfor a light.\n\nGzhatski looked as black as thunder.\n\nMost ungraciously, he handed the matches to the unknown one, and paying\nno attention whatever to her \u201cmerci monsieur\u201d\u2014pronounced with the\nsweetest of smiles\u2014he hastened to take Irene away from the Casino.\n\n\u201cThe devil!\u201d ejaculated Gzhatski furiously, as they emerged on to the\npromenade. \u201cIt is positively incredible, what they have been allowed\nto come to, here on the Riviera. The impudence of the hussy! The\nshamelessness! She sees that I am with a respectable lady, and she\ndares!\u201d His indignation almost suffocated him.\n\n\u201cWell, well!\u201d said Irene quietly, \u201cwhy should you expect knowledge of the\nworld and its ways from these unfortunates? Perhaps only yesterday she\nwas washing linen in a laundry; where should she have learnt manners?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe should know her place, and not forget herself,\u201d growled Gzhatski.\n\u201cBut don\u2019t let us speak of it any more. To-morrow morning I shall\ncomplain to the manager of the hotel, and if he really insists on turning\nhis place into a bad house we shall have to find rooms elsewhere.\u201d\n\nIn the evening they went, as usual, to the gambling-rooms. There were\nvery few people, and it was easy to get seats at the tables. Irene sat\ndown beside the croupier, who smiled amiably as to a familiar, frequent\nvisitor. She began to play eagerly, but luck did not come her way that\nevening, and she soon lost all she had with her. Raising her eyes to\nGzhatski, who always made a point on these occasions of standing opposite\nher and looking at her reproachfully and disapprovingly, she saw,\nstanding next to him, the daring lady of the recent incident in Nice.\nShe had changed her attire, and wore a magnificent black evening dress, a\nmauve cloak, and an enormous hat with feathers. Diamonds trembled in her\nears, and a row of priceless pearls encircled her neck. In the evening\nthe paint on her face was less noticeable, and she was really so handsome\nthat Irene gazed at her in undisguised admiration.\n\nGzhatski, though he was standing next to the woman who had so recently\ninfuriated him, did not see her, his attention being riveted on a very\noriginal gambler, who was sitting at the end of the table. This was a\nwrinkled little old man, with a face as yellow as parchment. Before him,\non the table, lay a pile of gold, which he was staking to right and to\nleft, without any sort of system, apparently simply putting the coins\nin the spaces most easily accessible to his rheumatic hands. Strangely\nenough he nearly always won, and other players began to put their stakes\non his numbers.\n\nFeeling Irene\u2019s glance upon him, Gzhatski smiled at her tenderly; but\nnoticing that she was actually looking not at him, but at someone beside\nhim, he turned his head, and his eyes met those of the unknown beauty.\nGzhatski flushed, frowned, and turned away from the table. Irene rose,\nand they both left the gaming-room, and descended into the gardens.\nHaving taken a few steps towards the hotel, Gzhatski suddenly stopped\nshort and exclaimed:\n\n\u201cWhat a pity to go and shut ourselves up in that horrid hotel. It is only\neleven o\u2019clock. Let us go and have supper somewhere.\u201d\n\nIrene looked at Gzhatski in astonishment. Only the previous day he had\nbeen loud in his praises of the hotel, of its comfort and its beautiful\nviews, and its proximity to the park. Why did he suddenly find it horrid?\nHowever, having accustomed herself never to contradict him, Irene made no\nobjection, and they turned to the Caf\u00e9 de Paris.\n\nThe sound of fashionable valses and familiar operatic melodies floated\nacross the still air from the brilliantly illuminated covered terrace.\nQuite a number of people sat at the little round tables, the usual\nheterogeneous Monte Carlo crowd. There were correct Englishmen in\nsmoking-jackets; there were Germans who had missed their last train back\nto Menton, and were having supper in company with their fat wives, the\nlatter dressed in hideous canary-coloured blouses, their hats all askew.\nThere were also pretty and theatrically \u201cdone-up\u201d young ladies in full\nevening dress, coming in with an air of boredom, throwing off their wraps\nwith studied negligence, and indifferently perusing the menu. These were\nprofessional gamblers, of whom the French say, \u201cqu\u2019elles ne sont pas\nfix\u00e9es,\u201d and their young faces bore the stamp of that surfeit of luxury\nand laziness that had long ago robbed their lives of all interest and\ncharm.\n\nIn the middle of the terrace a queer company was drawing universal\nattention to itself. The men had dirty hands and wore shabby coats,\nglaring ties, and dusty boots. The women were red-haired, vulgar, and\nnoisy. Their table was littered with the most choice and expensive\ndishes, to which they helped themselves greedily without order or\nsystem, even forbidding the waiters to change their plates. The other\nvisitors threw them astonished glances, the waiters winked knowingly at\neach other, and the elegant French group sitting near Irene simply gasped\nin horrified wonder.\n\n\u201cVous verrez qu\u2019ils se moucheront dans leur serviette, et embrasseront\nles femmes au dessert,\u201d said a middle-aged Frenchman, scrutinizing the\noffenders severely.\n\n\u201cMa foi, j\u2019ai envie de t\u00e9l\u00e9phoner au commissaire de police,\u201d answered\nanother; \u201cthey have probably murdered and robbed somebody on the highway,\nand have come here to enjoy themselves on the spoils!\u201d\n\n\u201cNot a bit,\u201d sighed a third enviously. \u201cThey have simply had luck at the\ntables; it is always that kind that wins!\u201d\n\nThe restaurant in the meantime was becoming very crowded. Two badly\ndressed, middle-aged Englishwomen, with flabby cheeks and triple chins,\nbut wearing a King\u2019s ransom in diamonds and furs, were looking round\nfor a table. These noble ladies had seen and experienced so much in\ntheir lives that they were no longer capable of taking an interest in\nanything except two enormous dogs, which, in spite of prohibitions, they\nhad brought with them. The dogs tore at their leashes, wriggled out of\ntheir collars, and poked their noses into people\u2019s plates. The visitors\nprotested, but in vain. All the waiters seemed to know the dogs, petted\nthem, and called them by their names, while the head-waiter led the\nEnglish ladies to a reserved table, and, bowing obsequiously, waited for\ntheir order. The musicians, in their red and gold coats, played with\nredoubled gusto. Their violins sang and wept and danced. Some of the\npublic applauded; others called up one or another of the players, and\ngave him money. Alas! these artists who could extract such sublime tones\nfrom their instruments were only too glad to accept even trifling tips!\nClose to Gzhatski sat, deep in meditation, with his elbows on the table,\na handsome young German. He had come very early, and had ordered a choice\nsupper for two. The champagne had long been standing ready on ice; red\nroses were scattered over the snowy tablecloth. Time passed, and still\n_she_ came not! The poor young German was excited, jumped up every minute\nand looked towards the door, from time to time rushed out to the porch,\nand repeatedly questioned the long-suffering head-waiter.\n\n\u201cMais, monsieur le Baron, j\u2019ai d\u00e9j\u00e0 eu l\u2019honneur de vous dire,\u201d replied\nthe latter wearily. \u201c\u2018Viendrai si je puis,\u2019 tel est le message, pris au\nt\u00e9l\u00e9phone.\u201d\n\nNeighbouring visitors were observing the poor young man with some\namusement, and the waiters were smiling. The champagne had been twice\ntaken away and brought back again, the crowd was thinning, the musicians\nwere playing their final number, when at last a cab drove up to the door.\nThe enamoured swain rushed forward ecstatically, to meet a fragile,\ndainty, blue-eyed Gretchen, who entered shyly, dressed all in white,\nand wreathed in blushes and smiles. This was not the German but the\nFrench type of Gretchen, a type that rarely goes as far as the complete\n_faux pas_, but delights in the temptations and risks of love-making\nand philandering. Feeling that resistance is their chief charm, these\nDresden china temptresses never hurry to surrender.\n\n\u201cIs that all he was waiting for, poor boy?\u201d said Gzhatski, with a pitying\nsmile. \u201cHardly worth while. She has not a farthingsworth of temperament.\u201d\n\nThe \u201cpoor boy,\u201d however, was in the seventh heaven. He filled the lady\u2019s\nglass, helped her to everything, ate nothing himself, gazed at his\nGretchen, and sighed deeply. He would have been ridiculous had not the\ndivine spark of sincere passion illumined his innocent, frank young face.\nWith his elbows on the table, he appeared to be ardently persuading the\nyoung lady of something, and suddenly, in a low voice, began to recite.\n\n\u201cHe is not a German for nothing!\u201d laughed Gzhatski. \u201cLet us escape; or\nelse we shall have to listen to the whole of Goethe.\u201d\n\nBut Sergei Grigorievitch was mistaken. The young man was reciting, in\nexcellent French, the famous \u201cD\u00e9claration\u201d of Richepin:\n\n    \u201cL\u2019amour que je sens, l\u2019amour qui me cuit,\n    Ce n\u2019est pas l\u2019amour chaste et platonique,\n    Sorbet \u00e0 la neige, avec un biscuit,\n    C\u2019est l\u2019amour de chair, c\u2019est un plat tonique.\n\n    \u201cC\u2019est l\u2019amour br\u00fblant comme me feu gr\u00e9geois\n    C\u2019est l\u2019amour f\u00e9roce et l\u2019amour solide,\n    Surtout ce n\u2019est pas l\u2019amour des bourgeois,\n    Amour de bourgeois, amour d\u2019invalide.\n\n    \u201cCe n\u2019est pas non plus l\u2019amour de roman,\n    Faux, pr\u00e9tentieux avec une glose\n    De si, de pourquoi, de mais, de comment,\n    C\u2019est l\u2019amour tout simple, et pas autre chose.\n\n    \u201cC\u2019est l\u2019amour puissant, c\u2019est l\u2019amour vermeil.\n    Je serai le flot, tu seras la dune,\n    Tu seras la terre, et moi le soleil,\n    Et cela vaut mieux que leur clair de lune.\u201d\n\nGretchen pretended to be frightened, but Irene glanced mutely at\nGzhatski, and they both thought \u201cIt is true!\u201d The wine, the supper,\nthe music, had affected them; they spoke little, looked at each other\nmysteriously, and, all unconsciously, sighed as deeply as the young\nGerman.\n\nThey left the restaurant, overcome with tenderness, pressing close to\neach other, and softly humming the passionate, recently-heard melodies\nthat still echoed in their ears. The night was dark and warm and sultry.\nThey had not far to go. Their hotel gleamed white, silent, and ghostly,\nbetween the trees. The door leading into the garden was ajar, and a\nstreak of light fell across the path. As they approached they saw that\nnot everyone had yet retired for the night. The dark beauty of the\nafternoon\u2019s incident was standing motionless on the veranda, leaning her\nelbow on the balustrade, as though waiting for someone. She had taken\noff her enormous hat, and had thrown a black lace shawl over her hair.\nBetween her teeth she held a red rose. Gzhatski passed without looking at\nher, and her glance followed him with a sarcastic smile.\n\n\u201cShe looks like Carmen,\u201d said Irene. \u201cCarmen in the first act, when she\nis tempting Don Jos\u00e9.\u201d\n\nSergei Grigorievitch quite unexpectedly flared up. \u201cCarmen!\u201d he exclaimed\nin a white rage. \u201cCarmen! Can you think of any more poetical comparisons?\nShe is not Carmen, but simply a \u2e3a!\u201d\n\n\u201cSergei Grigorievitch!\u201d gasped Irene.\n\n\u201cWell? You think that is not a drawing-room expression? Very well\u2014I take\nit back, and I beg your pardon\u2014but it expresses my idea excellently.\nHowever, don\u2019t let us continue the conversation; it is time to go to bed.\nHere we are at your door. I wish you a good night!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nXXI\n\n\nGzhatski\u2019s good wish, however, was not destined to be fulfilled. Was it\nthe music or the black coffee that was to blame? It is difficult to say.\nBut however it may be, Irene found it impossible to go to sleep. She\ntried drinking sugared water, applied cold compresses to her head, turned\nfrom side to side, got up and paced the room, opened the window\u2014all in\nvain, for sleep obstinately refused to answer her call. At last, towards\nfour o\u2019clock in the morning, she threw on her dressing-gown, sat down\non the sofa with a book, and hoped to fall asleep with the dawn, as\nfrequently happened to her after a wakeful night.\n\nEven the book, however, failed to interest her\u2014her excited brain refusing\nto follow the tangled thread of the sugary English novel. Leaving\nthe heroine to drink a twentieth cup of tea on the lawn in company\nwith the hero, who had just won a set of tennis, Irene threw down the\nbook and lost herself in her own thoughts. Russia, her departure from\nPetrograd, her first impressions of Rome, P\u00e8re Etienne, her meeting with\nGzhatski\u2014all this and many other confused recollections passed through\nher mind.\n\n\u201cHow unexpectedly everything has arranged itself,\u201d she thought, with a\nquiet smile. \u201cHow foolish we all are when we make plans, and arrange and\nfuss and worry, and seriously imagine we can direct our own destinies!\nGod does everything in His own way, and always for the best, since our\nneeds and our characters are far better known to Him than to ourselves.\nThere was I, for instance, imagining that I had nothing more to live\nfor, and, suddenly, God sent me so incomparable a lover, so immense a\nhappiness. In my fairest dreams, I had never seen so ideal a husband\u2014so\nhandsome, so clever, so good, so noble. What a contrast, indeed, between\nhim and the worthless Petrograd officials, with their vulgar ambitions,\ntheir greed for money, and their mean and petty spites and jealousies! My\nnoble Sergei! You are like the sun, in comparison to those worms!\n\n\u201cAnd he has such high ideals!\u201d continued Irene dreamily to herself. \u201cHow\nseverely he judged that unhappy woman! A little too severely perhaps, but\nthat only proves how seriously he looks upon love. Oh! my dear one, my\ndear one!\n\n\u201cAll the priests were wrong when they found my faith pagan. I knew I\nwas right! God wanted to try me with long and dark years of despair\nand suffering, but finding that I was not embittered, and that I had\nremained, in spite of everything, honest and good, He has sent me this\nwonderful happiness as a reward. My faith was the right one, my God has\ntriumphed!\u201d\n\nIrene rejoiced and exulted, and life had never seemed so glorious to\nher before. Suddenly she felt that this was the happiest moment of her\nexistence, and that nothing still happier could or would ever be. She\nrose, opened the door leading to the balcony, and stepped out. It was\nstill dark, but one could already distinguish the trees, and there were\ngrey streaks in the sky.\n\n\u201cSoon the sun will rise,\u201d thought Irene. \u201cHow lovely the view must be\nfrom the Casino Terrace!\u201d\n\nThe idea of seeing the sun rise attracted her. \u201cI have lived all this\ntime, and have never once seen it,\u201d she said to herself. \u201cHow surprised\nSergei will be when I tell him my impressions!\u201d\n\nIrene dressed hurriedly, and, having thrown a cloak over her dress and\na scarf over her hair, stepped softly out into the corridor. All was\nquiet, and a grey streak of light was filtering through the glass door\nleading into the garden. Like a ghost, Irene slipped along the passage,\nwhen, suddenly, the slight movement of a door on the right attracted\nher attention. The door gradually opened, softly, slowly, carefully.\nSomething guilty and horrible seemed suggested by this carefulness. Irene\nstopped still in the shadow of a large cupboard, her eyes riveted on the\nmoving door.\n\nAt last it stood half-way open, and yesterday\u2019s Carmen-like beauty\nappeared on the threshold. She wore a lace dressing-gown, and her long,\nwavy hair hung in heavy coils down her back. The beauty glanced to right\nand to left along the passage, then turned round with a whispered word,\nand out of the room issued\u2014Gzhatski! He, too, whispered something, and\nthey both laughed softly. Stepping carefully on tiptoe over the carpet,\nSergei Grigorievitch stole towards the staircase, and disappeared round\nits bend. The beauty closed her door.\u2026\n\nPoor Irene\u2019s knees shook, and all but gave way under her. Leaning against\nthe wall, with hardly strength enough to drag one foot before the other,\nshe staggered back to her room, and fell, almost lifeless, on the sofa.\n\nThe sun had long since risen and was forcing its way in through the\nshutters. The birds had long been singing, noise and movement were in the\nair, everywhere people were laughing and talking, but Irene still lay\nprone and motionless. Thoughts were rushing wildly through her head, but\nshe could not disentangle them. Slowly, gradually, she began to realize\nthe full force of the terrific blow that had fallen on her.\n\n\u201cSo that is what you are like,\u201d she murmured childishly. \u201cAnd I had\nbelieved in you so completely, and had placed you so high.\u2026\u201d\n\nFor a moment the voice of reason tried to pacify her. \u201cBut this is\nnothing more than a man\u2019s adventure, a prank, a caprice after a gay\nsupper,\u201d it whispered seriously. But Irene paid no attention. \u201cIf it were\nonly the supper,\u201d she argued, \u201cwhy did not Sergei come to _her_, to his\nbride? What cared she for marriage ceremonies? Did she not, before God,\nbelong to Gzhatski soul and body? But no, he had not come to her. He\nconsidered her old and ugly and repulsive!\u201d\n\nThis thought filled Irene with such an agony of despair that she slipped\nfrom the sofa to the carpet, rolled about and knocked her head against\nthe floor, striving by this means to deaden her unbearable pain. \u201cYou are\nold, you are ridiculous, you are hideous, in spite of your fashionable\ndresses!\u201d she exclaimed wildly to herself, and, rising from the carpet,\nshe tottered towards the looking-glass, and gazed disgustedly at her own\ntear-stained, tortured, suddenly aged and disfigured reflection.\n\n\u201cSo this is the part that has been allotted to you in Sergei\u2019s life!\u201d she\nhissed. \u201cYou are the ideal, the image of his mother, the statue of purity\nthat stands on a pedestal surrounded by respect and homage! I am sick to\ndeath of this eternal respect! I want _love_\u2014one month, one day, one hour\nof _love_! But no\u2014love belongs only to such as Carmen; never will it fall\nto my lot! Oh! if this is so, if this is so, I do not want to live!\u201d\n\nA bitter resentment against God took possession of Irene\u2019s soul. \u201cWhat\nis the object of this mockery?\u201d she groaned. \u201cThou knowest that if I had\nentered a convent I should have been an exemplary nun. Of what use was\nit to distract me from my purpose, and send me a hope of happiness, only\nto shatter it cruelly with a derisive laugh? As if I had not suffered\nenough without this! All my life has been nothing but suffering, nothing\nbut pain. But to Thee, this seemed insufficient\u2014there was still this\nlast refinement of torture to apply! But who art Thou in the end, thou\nmighty torturer of men\u2019s souls? Thou art no God, no just and generous\nBeing, such as He whom my imagination had created. No\u2014Thou art a vampire,\nsucking the blood of men\u2019s hearts! But I will be even with Thee yet. I\nwill prove myself the stronger of the two. I will kill myself, and so\ndeprive Thee of the joy of torturing me.\u201d\n\n\u201cPull yourself together,\u201d whispered reason. \u201cLook at life more soberly.\nYour Sergei is not perhaps as depraved as it would seem. There was\nnothing to prevent his passing all his life in the company of beautiful\nCarmens, and yet you know how he has been struggling all the winter\nto win _you_. That was because he felt that only you could give him\nhappiness. Cannot you, in return, struggle a little for _him_? Will you\nnot try with the strength of your love to keep alight in him the divine\nspark that burns in every human soul? You are pure and virtuous, and\ntherefore stronger than all the Carmens in the world. Victory belongs to\nyou, and not to them!\u201d\n\n\u201cNo, no, no!\u201d answered Irene. \u201cI cannot, and will not\u2014for I do not love\nhim any more. He is repulsive to me. I loved a strong, honest, ideal man.\nWhat do I want with this pitiful wretch, who has not enough strength of\nmind to follow the dictates of his own conscience? Could I ever forget\nthe look of that contemptible, cowardly figure, stealing guiltily along\nthe passage after an iniquitous interview with his loathsome associate!\nHis bright image in my heart is shattered for ever, never again can I\nlook at him in the old way.\u201d\n\nThe savage beast that Gzhatski had once mentioned to Irene had awakened\nin her, and growled and roared, its appetite roused and unsatisfied!\u2026\n\n\u201cI will drown myself\u2014throw myself from the rocks above the Monaco\ngardens!\u201d she thought. But the idea of going out into the sunshine and\nfacing the triumphant glory of Southern nature, caused her to frown\nnervously.\n\n\u201cThey are all happy out there,\u201d she muttered angrily. \u201cVery well, they\ncan be as happy as they like. It is all the same to me. I must do away\nwith myself here, in this dark room.\u201d\n\nHer glance swept the walls in search of a nail, and returned to the\ntable, arrested by a glass of pinkish water.\n\nOn arriving at Monte Carlo Irene had developed, on account of the strong\nsea air, a slight rash on her face. Having just at that time been very\nparticular about her appearance, she had applied to a doctor, who had\ngiven her a lotion composed of a solution of sublimate, with the warning\nthat it was a strong poison, for external application only. Irene had\nprepared the solution each evening, in readiness for use the following\nmorning, and a glassful of it was now standing temptingly on her table.\nShe approached. In her imagination she saw frightful tortures and frantic\npains.\n\n\u201cNonsense, nonsense,\u201d she whispered to herself encouragingly. \u201cAre you\nsuch a coward? What are a few hours of physical pain compared to the\nunbearable mental sufferings which, with your tiresome good health, might\nlast another forty years! And however cruel your sufferings have been\ntill now, at least you had some faith in God, in His miracles and His\npower. What would life be like now, when even this last straw of comfort\nhas been taken from you?\u201d\n\nIrene shuddered. Struggling with the animal instinct of \u201cLife at all\ncosts,\u201d she alternately stretched out her hand towards the glass, and\nwithdrew it again. Suddenly a strange thought came into her mind.\n\n\u201cCould it be that Nature, foreseeing the possibility of her having\nchildren by Gzhatski, and finding it necessary to protect these future\nchildren from inheriting her moral disease, from suffering, from leading\nuseless, miserable lives and spreading darkness and despair along their\npath, had purposely sent her out to see the sun rise that morning, and\nwas now hurrying her to drink the glass of poison?\u201d\n\nA strong feeling of resentment accompanied this thought.\n\n\u201cBut why such tender solicitude for these unborn creatures?\u201d thought\nthe unfortunate girl, \u201cand such cold, cruel indifference to me and my\nsufferings?\u201d\n\nAnd she felt inclined to upset the glass, throw away the tempting poison,\nand live on, just to spite Nature.\u2026\n\nThere was a knock at the door.\n\n\u201cIrene Pavlovna, are you still asleep?\u201d Gzhatski\u2019s gay voice resounded in\nthe passage. \u201cDo get up and come out! It is a glorious morning, just like\nthe one Fett[3] sings about. Do you remember?\n\n    \u201c\u2018I have brought to thee a greeting\n    From this rosy summer morn;\n    Come! the golden hours are fleeting.\u2026\u2019\u201d\n\nThe blood rushed to Irene\u2019s head.\n\n\u201cHe is gay and happy!\u201d she thought. \u201cIn whose arms has he gleaned this\njoy?\u201d\n\nAnd such an insufferable sense of insult and of irony conveyed itself to\nher mind through Gzhatski\u2019s light-hearted greeting, that with a sudden\nimpulse she seized the glass and swallowed the poison in one draught.\n\nThe door opened, and Gzhatski entered.\n\n\u201cOh! you are quite ready!\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you answer? There\nI stood, like a Spanish hidalgo, declaiming at your door! What is the\nmatter? Why do you look so tragic?\u201d\n\nIrene looked at him in silence, and crossed her arms on her chest.\n\n\u201cI saw you come out from that room at dawn,\u201d she said, in a low whisper\nand with, trembling lips.\n\n\u201cYou saw?\u2026\u201d And Gzhatski blushed deeply. \u201cWell, then. Of course you\nnow think I am a scoundrel. I am not going to try and justify myself.\nI ask you only one thing\u2014do not, for Heaven\u2019s sake, lower yourself in\nmy eyes by being jealous of that disgusting creature. If only you could\nunderstand what an abyss separates you from her! To me she is not a\nwoman. She is\u2014a glass of whisky that I must drink sometimes, a cigarette\nthat one has the need of smoking at certain moments.\u2026 Forgive me\u2014I have\nno right to tell you these things. But it is incredible that you girls\ncan pass through life without understanding them. What am I to say, how\nam I to prove to you that that miserable worm simply does not exist for\nme? If it can please you, let us go immediately to the North Cape or to\nCentral Africa. She will not follow us there! What is the matter? Oh!\nwhat is it? What is it?\u201d\n\nIrene had fallen to the ground with a cry, and was writhing on the\ncarpet. Gzhatski fell on his knees beside her and caught her up in his\narms.\n\n\u201cIrene! Irene! My darling! My dearest one! Tell me. What is it? Don\u2019t\nfrighten me so!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am lost!\u201d whispered Irene in terror, clinging spasmodically to\nGzhatski, and only just then realizing to the full what she had done to\nherself. \u201cI am dying; I have poisoned myself with sublimate!\u201d\n\n\u201cPoisoned yourself! How? Purposely? Because of that accursed Frenchwoman?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes!\u201d whispered Irene shamefacedly.\n\nGzhatski gazed at her for a moment in horror.\n\n\u201cOh! madness! madness!\u201d he cried helplessly.\n\nThen, regaining his presence of mind, he tore himself from her embrace,\nand rushed to the door.\n\n\u201cA doctor! A doctor!\u201d His voice rang wildly through the corridor.\n\n\u201cToo late\u2014too late!\u201d muttered Irene. And the agony set in.\n\n[3] A famous Russian poet.\n\n\nBILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND","title":"The Emigrant","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":55476}