They separated, both with the feeling of having said a great deal that
was needless. On the whole, however, Irene was almost pleased that she
had succeeded, for once in her life, in expressing to a Russian man the
profound contempt that he and all his like awakened in her. As often
happens in such cases, her indignation had poured itself out on the wrong
person. Sergei Gzhatski had nothing whatever in common with Irene’s
despised and hated Petrograd career-hunters. His life indeed had arranged
itself in its own fashion. He was born in Petrograd, but having, at the
age of three, been taken to the far-off province of S⸺, he had remained
there until his eighteenth year. His mother had suffered a paralytic
stroke after the birth of her second child, and had therefore been
ordered to live in the country, which she did until her death. Deeply
hurt by the fact that her husband had been unwilling to sacrifice to
her illness his brilliant position in Petrograd, she had turned away
from him, and lavished all her love upon her child. By her desire little
Sergei had been educated at home, first by governesses and later by
tutors. His mother wielded an immense influence over him. She was clever,
intuitive, sensitive, and religious, and she brought up her son in a
way that is more than rare in Petrograd families, where parents are too
occupied with the distractions of the Metropolis to pay much attention
to their children. Sergei adored his invalid mother, and her illness
filled his heart with profound pity. He never indeed forgave his father
for being so indifferent to her, and felt but little love or sympathy
for the latter. On the death of his mother, Sergei was sent to college,
where, thanks to an excellent grounding, he worked splendidly. He did
not, however, like Petrograd, and having finished his course, he decided,
in spite of his father’s advice and persuasion to the contrary, to
return to the S⸺ estate, which his mother had left him. He loved country
life, managed his estate well, and greatly increased the prosperity of
his farms and crops. He occupied himself also with social activities, and
was first chosen Marshal of the Nobility of the district, and then of the
whole province. He was greatly loved and respected, being a man of the
old school, honourable and conscientious, and as full of consideration
for the interests of all the noble families in the neighbourhood as for
his own well-being and prosperity.
His dream was a happy hearth and home and a large family, and yet he
never married. Perhaps the reason of this might have been found in the
pure and sacred image of his mother, with which he unconsciously compared
all other women to their detriment; also a little in the fact that he
was inclined to be proud and suspicious. He rarely went to Petrograd,
and the provincial young ladies whom he met in S⸺ were far too frankly
in ecstasies before his wealth and brilliant position. Gzhatski was
never happy abroad, and now deeply regretted that, after an attack of
inflammation of the lungs caught during an autumn hunt, his doctors had
persuaded him to pass the rest of the winter in Italy.
In spite of the mutual impertinences they had exchanged at their first
meeting, Irene had not displeased Gzhatski, and, seeing her a few days
later on the Corso, he approached her with a friendly greeting. Irene
was so touched by this absence of rancour, that, wishing to destroy the
unpleasant impression of their previous conversation, she invited him
to come and see her. Two days later Gzhatski availed himself of her
invitation, and, in the good old provincial Russian fashion, stayed
three hours! He told Irene all about his estate and about the other S⸺
landowners, and expressed his horror at the indecent haste with which
many of them, frightened by the recent “revolution,” had sold their
ancestral estates and moved to Petrograd.
“I say nothing,” he remarked, “of the fact that their children will be
penniless, since they will very quickly lose their newly acquired money
in all sorts of doubtful speculations; our landowners are proverbially
credulous and unbusinesslike! But the principal trouble is that these
ruined children will, in addition, have lost the ties which bound them
to our soil—and it is my firm belief that one can only be a true patriot
if one has lived from childhood on one’s own land and among one’s own
people, and has stored in one’s heart all the charming recollections
and associations of an early youth spent in one’s ancestral country
home. Even now, when after a long absence I approach my little station,
my heart beats, and I recognize with joy, almost with tenderness, the
station officials, my coachman, my _troika_.[1] It is all near and dear
to me; the woods, the fields, the peasants who greet me smilingly, and
who have known and loved me all my life. How much that is sacred breathes
in memories of childhood, and how sad life must be when they are absent!
I think, for instance, that if you, Irene Pavlovna, had in your heart
the remembrance of some modest little village church where you prayed
as a child, you would never have dreamt of betraying the faith of your
childhood; you would never even have formulated your vague, cosmopolitan
belief in Christ, a belief that certainly cannot give you happiness.”
From that day they became friends. Irene enjoyed the society of Gzhatski,
who was always gay, interesting, and sincere. However dear Italy
had grown to her, however deeply she respected Père Etienne, it was
delightful to talk to a Russian, a man of her own race, her own social
circle, and her own education and traditions. She never suspected that
she, on her side, represented for Gzhatski a sort of anchor of salvation.
Poor Gzhatski had been unbearably lonely in Rome. Active, energetic, busy
as he had always been, the enforced idleness of this new existence was
insufferable to him. The Roman museums and monuments did not touch his
heart. He had not enough imagination to people them with shadows of the
past, as did Irene. He tried to study Rome with a Baedeker’s guide-book
in his hand, but soon abandoned the task, and came to the conclusion that
all the churches and ruins and galleries were exactly alike.
“When you have seen one, you have seen them all,” he remarked frankly to
his acquaintances.
Gzhatski had begun to take an interest in Italian fox-hunting, but
happened the very first time he joined a hunt to be caught in a downpour
of rain, and developed such a severe chill that his alarmed doctor
forbade him any future expeditions of the kind, on pain of death from
galloping consumption!
Every day the poor man wandered about sadly and aimlessly, finding fault
with everything, hating everything, and abusing the strange Southern town
that held him prisoner! Everything irritated him, even the climate, with
its eternally warm, balmy breezes, even the dry Southern vegetation.
Often, when sitting in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, he shut his
eyes, and pictured to himself a Russian winter, the snow on the fields
gleaming under the blue sky, the red sun, the little waves of smoke
rising from a cottage chimney, the crunch of footsteps on the frozen
ground, the frosty, invigorating air…! And then he opened his eyes, and
looked resentfully at the broad Roman pines and the dusty grass and
shrubs.
“What is this extraordinary time of the year?” grumbled Gzhatski
capriciously. “It is not autumn, because there are no yellow leaves;
it is not winter, because it is not cold; it is not summer, because it
is not hot; and it is not spring, because there is nothing vivifying
or rejuvenating in the air. No—this is a sort of fifth season, Roman,
stupid, and senseless!”
He watched the passing crowd with animosity. They all seemed to him to
be dressed in their Sunday best! There go two young Italian brunettes,
in fashionable tight skirts, with wide fur scarves on their shoulders,
showing, under their short dresses, dainty feet, shod as for a ball in
elegant open shoes over open-work silk stockings. Here is a baby being
taken for a walk, in a little white piqué summer coat, a hat to match,
and a huge collar of white goat-fur! And behind comes something quite
wild—two little boys and a girl in sailor suits, without coats, and with
bare legs and necks—yet the little girl carries an enormous muff, and the
boys have sealskin caps!
“I suppose they have heard that people wear furs in the winter, but they
don’t know exactly how, so they have made guys of themselves!” muttered
Gzhatski crossly.
His loneliness was even greater than his despair. He had already decided
to risk his health and return to Russia, when his meeting with Irene
turned his thoughts into another channel. He had no difficulty in
assuring himself that she was the victim of Jesuit priests, that the
poor girl was being wickedly deceived, and that it was his duty as a
compatriot to come to her aid and save her. With all the accumulated
energy of all those idle weeks, he threw himself into the struggle with
Père Etienne, and in spite of Irene’s wish to bring her two friends
together, Gzhatski curtly refused to make the acquaintance of the
“Catholic rogue.” He was very annoyed to see how obstinately Irene
defended her friendship with the priest, and used all his eloquence to
disillusion her on the subject of convent life.
“And what is the meaning of that insufferable manner,” he cried
irritably, “in which all priests make a prisoner of Christ, and announce
to the world that He can only be found in their churches? They lie!
I don’t deny that in the early days of Christianity, monasteries and
convents really represented Christian oases in a pagan desert. But that
time has long since passed. Christ has long ago left the monasteries, and
dwells among us, in our science, our literature, our law. We may quarrel
as much as we please, we may accuse each other of treachery, but in spite
of everything, we are all going along the path of Christian progress.
Every time we liberate slaves in America or serfs in Russia, every time
we abolish torture or corporal punishment, we are proclaiming liberty
and brotherhood, we are serving Christ, and Christ is among us. Let them
say, if they will, that the foundations of Christianity are shaking, that
Christianity is at its last ebb, and must make way for a new religion.
It is absurd even to listen to these wild speeches. Christianity is
eternal, if only because Christ did not invent anything strange or new
or incomprehensible, but expressed clearly and simply truths which every
human being feels dimly in his soul. It is not Christianity that will
disappear, but its old and worn-out forms. Christianity is slowly and
surely passing from the realms of legend and romance into real daily
life, where it will take root more and more firmly, until it reigns
supreme on earth. As to your convents, they are nothing but empty hives
that the working-bees have long ago abandoned, while the monks are drones
who have remained behind to linger lazily in the old place until they
die. Is it possible that you, with your heart and your intelligence, can
wish to end your life among these unnecessary, useless, sleeping drones?”
Irene listened in dismay. Both Gzhatski and Père Etienne spoke so
eloquently and with such conviction. Which of them was in the right?
“And what a wild idea!” exclaimed Gzhatski furiously, “to become a nun!
Do you really think there are not enough nuns in Rome without you? Why,
the whole town is teeming with convents that give one no peace with
their everlasting bells. How many sick women and weak children are there
in Rome, who need rest and sleep? And yet those imbeciles start their
pandemonium at five o’clock every morning. You see, they have to save
their precious souls. We in Russia, with our modest monks and nuns, can
hardly grasp the extent of the impudence of these Southern religious
orders, and the fury to which they can drive people. I perfectly
understand why they were expelled from France, and I only profoundly
regret that they have not yet been expelled from Italy. Just look
what they have done with Rome. It is no longer a city, it is one huge
cemetery. I can’t listen to that eternal dull sound of bells. It always
seems to me that they are burying me alive, and celebrating masses for
the peace of my sinful soul. I always feel inclined to cry out: ‘You lie!
I am alive! And I am going to live a long time yet, and do many useful
things.’”
In his enthusiasm, Gzhatski sometimes took recourse to means of which he
himself would at another time have disapproved. Thus, on one occasion, he
began, with a malicious smile and in some excitement, almost before he
had shaken hands:
“You always go to the Via Gallio. But do you know by what nickname your
Sœurs Mauves are known in Roman Society?”
“Nickname?” questioned Irene. “I did not know nuns could have nicknames.”
“They are called ‘Les Hetairas du bon Dieu,’” said Gzhatski, lowering his
voice.
Irene was angry.
“Are you not ashamed of yourself?” she exclaimed indignantly. “You call
yourself a gentleman, and you find it possible to insult these saintly
women, who deserve the profoundest respect. I quite believe that the
young people of the present day are capable of inventing this or any
other obscenity. In their eyes, all women are low and worthless, and they
cannot imagine or understand anything good or noble. But _you_—_you_!
That you should repeat such things!”
“Well, well, I beg your pardon,” said the confused and apologetic
Gzhatski. “I did not mean to offend you. I only wanted to tell you how
painful to me is the thought that you, my countrywoman, will also be
known by this shameful title.”
But the offended Irene would not listen to his apologies. Immediately
after Gzhatski’s departure (a somewhat hasty departure on this occasion),
she went off to the convent. She hurried along, with the feeling one
has when one rushes to friends who have just suffered some trouble or
misfortune. Although Irene had never seen the face of a single one of
the sisters, nor had spoken to any of them, she had gradually, through
these daily hours of common prayer, come to regard them as her personal
friends. She was therefore anxious, on this occasion, to prove by her
presence her resentment of the insult offered to them by idle, vulgar
gossips.
Evensong was almost at an end when Irene entered the church. There were
very few people, the choir was singing an exultant hymn, the nuns were
frozen into a sort of beatific ecstasy. Irene gazed at them long and
seriously, and suddenly realized that no insult could possibly reach
them, that it was beyond the power of anyone to offend them. They were
above all earthly troubles; nothing earthly had any value for them,
all their hopes and dreams were concentrated in the next world. Thus,
an emigrant, during his first days on board ship, thinks restlessly of
the home he has left behind him, but when weeks have slipped away, his
interest in the past grows fainter, and he thinks and dreams only of what
he will find in the new land.
Père Etienne noticed Irene’s restlessness, but although he was well aware
of her friendship with Gzhatski, never mentioned the Russian’s name.
The clever, self-controlled priest neither opposed nor contradicted
Gzhatski’s views on Roman Catholicism, views which made themselves
clearly felt in all Irene’s words and arguments. He only more eloquently
than ever advocated the convent. Under his influence, Irene saw before
her a happy, peaceful old age, illuminated by constant sunshine, in the
lap of luxurious Southern nature. And then came Gzhatski to destroy
this dream; for, listening to his words, as eloquent as any of Père
Etienne’s, she grew vaguely ashamed of having abandoned her home and her
country, that dear Russia, of which Gzhatski spoke with such love and
enthusiasm. He tried hard, indeed, to point out to Irene all the charm
and goodness of the Russian people, and bitterly reproached her for
having so light-mindedly hardened her heart and turned away from them.
“You have invented for yourself all sorts of fantastic heroes,” he said.
And you are unreasonably cross because you do not meet them in real
life. Be reasonable, Irene Pavlovna! Human beings are simply animals.
It is not so very long since they lived in caves and dressed in skins.
They have not been lazy. They have worked zealously at themselves, and
have attained much. It is not their fault if it needs another thousand
centuries to perfect them, to entirely overthrow the animal, and to
attain the spiritual ideal that God has placed before them. If you
personally have already attained all this, that is your special good
luck; but, pardon me, I doubt it exceedingly. Your life is not at an
end yet, and the savage beast may yet awaken in you quite unexpectedly.
I, of course, perfectly understand your dislike of the Petrograd
career-hunters. I do not greatly admire them myself. Nevertheless, I
still assert that ambition, especially in Russia, is more a virtue than a
vice. We Slavs are so listless and lazy, that without ambition we become,
at the very best, Oblomoffs,[2] and at the worst, primitive beasts. You
don’t know the kind of types one meets in our far away provinces.
“You are very proud of the fact that you care nothing for wealth or rank.
But do you know, Irene Pavlovna, that this is only another sign of a
morbid, diseased nature? I always have the feeling that your ancestors
must have lived too forcibly, too passionately—they have left you the
legacy of an exhausted organism, and you no longer have the strength
to love or care for anything. In your place, I should try to cultivate
artificially some passion that would attach you more firmly to Mother
Earth!”
[1] A sledge with three horses abreast.—ED.
[2] A famous character in a novel by Goncharoff, the type of a talented
failure.