Rome! Rome! The word had always had a particular ring for him. The most
beautiful happiness of his life he had found in Rome--he had buried it
in Rome.
If his great, weary soul, dreading the future, had, after the fashion
of weary souls, sought in the past a place of rest, it always stopped
at the point where Natalie had entered his life. His thoughts did not
willingly wander further back.
His childhood and early youth had been a time of harsh renunciation,
amidst rough, immoral surroundings. The impression of immodest jokes,
impure habits, petty distrust, ambiguous sneers, hard work, unaesthetic
education, was inseparable from this period of his life. He was so much
the more horrified thereat as he knew that the influence of these
repulsive details had secretly penetrated through his every pore, that
the soil in which he had grown up had forever soiled the roots of his
being. He detested the slightest remembrance of his early youth.
All that was beautiful and noble and good in his life had begun with
Natalie, in Rome. A strange, urgent longing drove him there. He was
convinced that he would there experience something extraordinary, a
last brilliant point in his existence, an immense victory and--the
ghostly alluring which had formerly only pursued him at long intervals
of time now vibrated about him ever oftener, no longer tormenting as
formerly, but sweet, mysteriously promising, quite calming. It was now
quite near.
Rome! Rome! He said the word often to himself, softly, slowly, as one
utters the name of a beloved one. Ever more foolish became the
expectations which he centred upon his stay in Rome.
He would grow young again--the dead would arise for him in Rome. His
heart beat loudly when the train stopped and the conductor cried out in
the clear April air, "Roma--Roma!"
It was in the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly. They had both come
to the station, Mascha and Nikolai--Mascha full of happy, tender
expectation; Nikolai not without a certain embarrassment. Even now,
after nearly five years, it had cost him a certain effort to resolve
upon meeting his father. But scarcely had his glance fallen upon Lensky
when he forgot all that had separated him from him. When he noticed the
slow anxiety with which the old man came up to him, without venturing
to stretch out the arms, with which he made frequent twitching,
helpless motions, to him, his heart bled for him, and not troubling
himself about the tourists and loungers on the platform, he hurried up
to his father and embraced him. Lensky laughed convulsively, somewhat
childishly, as old men laugh in order not to weep; then he walked
through the station between his two children.
Walking heavily, with the forcedly erect carriage of a man who tries to
conceal his increasing infirmity, he strode through the crowd. As
formerly when he casually showed himself in a public place, he stared
straight before him to avoid the curious looks which used to follow
him. But to-day no one looked after him. Only a street-boy pointed out
his long hair to another, and laughed at it.
A brilliant blue April sky arched itself over the city. At first Lensky
merely exchanged a few remarks with his children and inquired heartily
of their affairs. Gradually he grew more silent, ever more silent.
Mascha alone maintained the conversation. But Lensky did not hear what
she said. His nearsighted eyes wandered uneasily over everything they
passed. At times he bent far forward, and then suddenly, as if
disappointed, turned away his head.
"What are you seeking, father?" asked Nikolai.
"Rome--I find it no more," murmured Lensky.
"Yes, it has changed very much since eight years ago, since mamma's
death."
"I did not see it eight years ago," replied Lensky, roughly. "The Rome
that I seek dates much further back."
"The Rome in which you were betrothed to our little mother," whispered
Mascha, softly.
He nodded shortly, repellently. All at once his sad face cleared.
"There I still see old acquaintances," he cried, and pointed to two
antique columns which, strangely enough, were built into a small house,
one of whose tiny windows looked out over their time-blackened
magnificence.
"That is just as at that time," cried the old man, animatedly, "even to
the particulars of white curtains and red flowers. I remember how your
mother once could not laugh enough at the contrast between these
freshly washed curtains and the gloomy Roman splendor. Heavens, how she
laughed! You can none of you laugh as she. I must show you the house in
the Via Giulia, where she lived at that time."
"That has long disappeared," said Colia. "Even eight years ago it no
longer existed."
"How do you know that?" burst out Lensky, quite harshly.
"Because she--because mamma sought it then and did not find it."
"Ah! she also sought it," murmured Lensky, and fell into a brooding
silence. After a while he raised his head.
"Why did they tear it down?" cried he, angrily. "They had no right to
tear it down. It was no trivial, ordinary house, but an old palace, a
wonderful old palace, a bit of history. Do not these clowns know that
there are relics on which one dare not lay a hand? It brings misfortune
to desecrate sanctuaries."
Once more his eyes wander over his surroundings. "No; there is nothing
more left of my Rome," said he, after a pause. Then slowly raising his
eyes, he adds: "Nothing but the eternal blue heavens above us."