A brilliant spring was reigning in Monte Carlo. Not the pale, cold,
Russian spring, when in May the first shy snowdrops barely manage to
force their white heads through the ground; nor yet the Roman spring,
that Gzhatski called “modest,” but the real, passionate, southern
precursor of summer. April was not yet over, but the weather was hot
as at midsummer. The blue sea sparkled dazzlingly under the unbearably
strong rays of the sun, flowers hung like thick carpets over walls and
terraces, gorgeous roses climbed over the trellises and fences of the
gardens. And no one was there to admire all this splendour—for the season
was over, the hotels and shops were closed, the shutters of the villas
were up, and Monte Carlo resembled the kingdom of the “Sleeping Beauty.”
All the life that was still there was concentrated in the neighbourhood
of the gaming rooms, and it was here that Irene and Gzhatski spent their
days, walking in the lovely Casino gardens, or sitting on the fairy-like
terrace overlooking the sea.
They had intended to be married immediately on their arrival in Monte
Carlo, but, as is always the case with Russians, it had turned out
that the ceremony could only take place on the production of countless
official papers that had to be sent for to Russia. In the meantime, they
had settled in a large hotel close to the Casino—the only hotel open all
the year round—and happy in each other’s society, they revelled in the
glories of the golden springtime that fashionable Riviera visitors had so
foolishly abandoned.
Monte Carlo produced a very curious impression on Irene. In Rome she
had seen, side by side with palaces, splendid carriages, and dazzling
luxury, the most heart-rending poverty and beggary—a contrast to be met
with in all large cities. Here, on the contrary, there was nothing of the
kind. It seemed as if every inhabitant of this sunlit fairyland lived
and existed merely for his own pleasure. The very waiters at the Café de
Paris hummed and danced to the sound of the Hungarian orchestra as they
served visitors with refreshments. The Arab pedlars, selling Eastern
shawls, wandered through the gardens in their white _burnous_ and their
smart red boots, apparently more intent upon boasting of the beauty of
their wares than upon selling them. The only busy people in the whole
place seemed to be the croupiers, and when, at given hours, groups of
them came out of the Casino to be replaced by new relays, they reminded
one of workmen leaving a factory after an exhausting day’s work.
The remaining inhabitants did nothing from morning till night but
walk about in elegant summer clothes, feed pigeons, drink tea to the
accompaniment of music, play with their absurd little dogs, or gamble in
the Casino.
Irene was much interested in this, to her, novel type of public, and
was particularly astonished at the sight of so many middle-aged, even
old, women, with dyed hair, made-up faces, girlish dresses and hats,
tripping gracefully along, and smiling coquettishly at their funny little
old-men admirers. The latter, even if somewhat shaky on their legs, also
wore light, fashionable clothes, and flowers in their buttonholes. At
first they made Irene laugh, but soon, with the inconsistency of nearly
all weak characters, she began to wonder whether it was not much wiser
to cling to one’s youth than to be old at thirty, as was her own case.
The conviction that this was indeed so came upon her suddenly, and she
immediately rushed off to Nice, and ordered a whole mountain of elegant
dresses, hats, false curls, etc. Having previously considered it a sin to
spend an extra penny on clothes, Irene now went from shop to shop, never
even attempting to bargain, and throwing money about with almost feverish
prodigality in her desire to possess herself without delay of all that
was most elegant and luxurious in the way of frocks and frills.
Gzhatski observed her in amazed silence, and smilingly watched the
transformation of yesterday’s nun, with her flat hair and her eternal
black dress, into a coloured fashion-plate. Being, in his heart, far more
pleased than otherwise that his future wife should be well dressed and
elegant, he did not protest. What disquieted him much more, indeed, was
a passion that Irene suddenly developed for gambling. Gzhatski, having
himself once advised her to cultivate some passion, if only artificially,
just that it might attach her more firmly to earth, very ruefully
contemplated the development of this passion now that it had shown itself
without any effort on Irene’s part! Sergei Grigorievitch, indeed, was one
of those men who, in the woman they have chosen, admit only one possible
passion: that of love for themselves!
It was anything but easy to dissuade Irene from gambling. She revelled in
the sensations of those feverish minutes passed at the tables, falling
into the depths of despair at the loss of fifty francs, and soaring
into an absolute frenzy of delight at the gain of forty! On leaving the
gambling rooms, Irene took deep breaths of the fresh sea air, her eyes
shone, and it seemed to her that the sea and the hills and the flowers
had never been so beautiful before. It was this that displeased Gzhatski.
He might have reconciled himself to the idea of her gambling had she
regretted her losses, but he could not forgive her that feverish delight,
that moral ecstacy and satisfaction that she gleaned from this new craze.
Sometimes he succeeded in luring her away from the temptations of the
tables by arranging excursions in the neighbourhood. Like most Slavs,
indeed like most sons of a young race, Gzhatski could not grow old, and
at forty, he often laughed and played pranks like a schoolboy. He had the
capacity, indeed, of infecting everyone around him with his gaiety, even
cab-drivers, boatmen, and waiters! To each and all of them he knew how to
say the right word, or make the right joke, at the right moment. He was
descended indeed from a noble old race of landowners, who had always been
ready to till their own soil, side by side with their peasants, seeing
in the latter, not machines, but interesting and deserving human beings.
To Irene, such simple relations with the lower classes seemed strangely
new and original. In the usual Petrograd fashion, she had hardly ever
exchanged a word with her servants, and barely knew them by sight. At
hotels at which she had stayed for two months she had nearly always, on
leaving, been obliged, before giving a tip, to ask the manager which
waiter had served her all the time, she herself being quite unable to
distinguish him from the others.
In every way, indeed, Gzhatski proved a most interesting travelling
companion. Men always bring gaiety and animation into the lives of
lonely women, even when they are neither lovers nor husbands, but
simply distant relations. This is so, because women who have no social
activities to distract their thoughts are inclined to look upon life as
something tragic and fatal, against which it is useless to struggle. Men,
on the other hand, who, if only indirectly, make our laws and govern
our countries, do not attach much importance to life, often indeed
regarding it from the humorous standpoint. It is popularly supposed that
men are more conservative than women, and that they care more about
traditions and old customs. Actually, however, the laws and customs they
passionately defend are invariably useful at the moment, and when the
need for them passes, men are the first to abandon them. Women, on the
contrary, cling desperately to traditions, especially inconvenient and
troublesome ones, and if ever they decide to defy even some unimportant
social law, they do it tragically, as though flinging themselves into an
abyss.
“There! I have cut off my hair, and I smoke,” thinks a newly-converted
Nihilist. “The thing is done—there is no turning back. Whatever I may
do now, nothing can win me back my old position, and the respect of my
fellows. And so—vogue le galère!”
How many perfectly modest women having once let their hairdressers
persuade them to dye their hair auburn, immediately assume the manners
and conversational style of “cocottes!”
The southern spring, the music, the excitement of gambling, the constant
society of a charming man, all this did not fail to make its due
impression on Irene, with the result that she fell, day by day, more and
more deeply in love with Gzhatski. In her past dreams of love she had
always seen herself hotly disputing with her lover, proclaiming her views
and theories like a prophetess, and bringing him round unreservedly to
her opinions on all matters. To her own astonishment, however, she now
no longer cared in the least about any of her old theories and ideas,
and was ready to give them all up without a sigh, to please Gzhatski.
She had long ago left off being particular about _what_ he said to her,
her attention being entirely riveted on the way he said it, on his every
movement, smile, or change of expression. Alone in her room in the
evening she sat up late, and could not sleep at night, for thinking of
his elegant figure, the gleam of his even white teeth, the picturesque
manner in which he smoked his cigarette, etc. The blood rushed to her
head, her heart beat loudly, she breathed quickly. Père Etienne had been
right in suspecting that an ardent temperament lay concealed under her
cold exterior. It is probable, indeed, that Irene was one of the many
“chaste sensualists” who abound in society. It is strange that these
unconsciously voluptuous natures, suffering as they do very extremely
through the virtuous life imposed on them by circumstances, always
attribute their sufferings to some lofty ethical reason, such as loss
of faith in God, disappointment in their friends, misunderstood ideals,
etc., and would in every case be deeply offended should anyone dare to
suggest to them a very simple and prosaic cure for their “noble sorrow.”
They usually guard their virtue very jealously, vaguely feeling that if
once passion gains the upper hand over them, they will be her slaves for
life.