IV

Despite the cold of an autumn night, scarcely had Helene entered her

room than she opened her window and inhaled deep breaths of the damp

frosty air which poured into her chamber. She was afraid of the coming

night. She felt that she would not sleep and be sleepless till the

morning. She took a strong dose of a composing draught, but her nerves

were too much disturbed to feel the effect of it.

Just then Olia ran into her room. "How cold it is here," she said.

"For my part I am stifling and feel the want of air," said Helene,

attempting to smile.

"Take care; you will make yourself ill."

"What does that matter," answered Helene with indifference.

"Stop, Olia, see what the general's wife has sent you."

"I am glad to have it," said the novice joyfully, "although they say it

is a sin; I do not hear with that ear." Smiling she opened the packet.

"Bonbons and sweetmeats--hurrah!"

"Take them all away; I do not like sweets; and now, my child, go down

and go to sleep; I want to be alone; I have not prayed to-day."

Helene closed the door and entered her tiny bedroom, a great space in

which was occupied by a screen with sacred pictures. The whitewashed

walls were bare, and so was the floor. The general's wife had sent her a

carpet, but Helene had at once given it to the church. In one corner

was a narrow bed, on a little table a Gospel richly bound, the _Life of

Jesus Christ_ by Ferrara, and some devotional books. Under the table was

a box containing all her property, old letters and portraits. This she

called her "cemetery." She lit the wax candles before the sacred images

and amid the surrounding darkness, the gold frames, and bright haloes

cast their reflections on the austere faces of the saints who could

scarcely be distinguished against their black background. Helene

remembered the nights of prayer which her mother and grandmother had

passed, prostrate at the foot of these same icons, and her sad heart was

penetrated by a warm feeling of devotion. When she left her home these

relics were the only things she had taken with her as they constituted a

link with her past; they afforded her a refuge from her sad thoughts.

But to-day, how could she get rid of them? She was incapable of praying;

her lips murmured the familiar words, her hands made the sign of the

cross, but there was no peace nor humility in her heart. She knelt down

and closed her eyes, but prayer did not come. In spite of years and of

distance, familiar faces surrounded her, and loved voices whispered in

her ear, "How pale you are!" "Why did you leave us to go so far?"

As though she feared insulting the sanctity of the icons she put out the

candles and went into the next room. She tried to tire herself out by

walking up and down her cell, but in vain; the vision followed her. She

did not struggle any more; like a swimmer at the end of his strength,

she yielded to the rising waves which were carrying her far away to the

land of memories.

The five years of struggles through which she had passed, those years of

prayers and struggles, all disappeared; she no longer saw her black

garments; even the walls of her cell had fallen; a whole world lay open

before her. Yes, it was the past which transported her to its magic

circle; she saw her youth again. Her sister Nina, with gentle trusting

eyes, came to her and embraced her with her tender arms in order to tell

her in broken tones a young girl's secrets. There was five years'

difference between the two sisters; the younger one was eighteen. She,

the elder, seemed somewhat too serious for her age; that perhaps was

owing to the influence of her mother, to her continual visits to

convents, and to that atmosphere of incense, prayer and meditation which

had surrounded her from her earliest infancy. The younger sister grew up

quite different; she was a butterfly who needed the sun, blue sky and

flower-beds; her laughter rang clear, contagious and musical. Helene

herself who had received the nickname "the nun," yielded to the charm of

this child-like gaiety. What she loved best in the world was to sit at

her window in the evening, listening to her sister telling her in her

gentle voice her great joys and her little sorrows. Why then one day had

she suddenly risen and pushed her away? Why had some words of her

favourite made her treat harshly, were it only for a moment, this dear

little bird who came to seek protection with her? What had the child

said that its memory should still burn in her heart to-day?

Nina, with blushing and tears, had confessed to her that for two years

she had been in love. When she uttered the name of the man she loved

Helene had pushed her away so abruptly that the poor little thing had

fallen against a piece of furniture. The "nun" remembered her mad fit of

anger; without being touched by her sister's sobs, she shut herself in

her room, refusing to open the door each time that Nina came and knocked

at it.

On the morrow her anger had cooled and been succeeded by a sad

tenderness, a profound remorse for her harshness. She went to her

sister's room and found her asleep without having undressed, her cheeks

still showing the traces of tears. She bent over her to embrace her.

Nina flung her arms around her, whispering in her ear, with tears of joy

this time:

"I knew that you would not long be vexed with me; there was no reason

why you should be, I am no longer a child; I am eighteen; I could not

hide it from you any longer."

"But he--how does he feel towards you?" interrupted Helene.

As she put this fateful question, she pressed her hand to her heart as

though she feared it would betray her by its beating.

"I think ... he also loves me; he is so attentive, so affectionate in

his manner."

Helene did not ask any more; she forced herself to smile, and till the

hour of her departure, she was constantly with her sister; at the bottom

of her heart she wished her to be happy, but in this same heart an icy

despair was daily growing more intense.

"He has been affectionate and attentive to me also," she said to

herself. Had she not seen his gaze constantly following her? Did not the

very tone of his voice change when he spoke to her? She had deceived

herself then! And indeed how could she, the taciturn "nun," hope to

rival her graceful little sister? She had been blind, and worse than

that--ridiculous. He loved Nina, and naturally had more smiles for her

elder sister than for others.

Shortly after her sister's avowal, Helene went to pay a visit to some

relatives, where she remained several days, considering what she should

do. One moment she believed that he hesitated between her and Nina. But

Nina had been entrusted to her care by her dying mother; could she ever

come between her and her happiness? Never! Should she bring tears to

those clear eyes? Should she ruin by her egotism "her child's" future?

_He_ might hesitate, but she must not! Only what should she do?

She had not to reflect long. Her mother had taught her to forget herself

and accustomed her to the thought of self-sacrifice. Happiness bought at

the cost of another's suffering could not be endurable, she said to

herself. Even if he did not yet love Nina, she would entrust her to his

care, at the moment of her departure, and love would soon follow. Her

sister would not miss her; those who are in love do not need a third

person. Her life, as far as she was concerned, was finished; she would

never love again; natures like hers neither change nor forget. As for

being present to witness the spectacle of this youthful happiness, that

was beyond her power. Perhaps in course of time, when everything had

settled down, she might return. At present she must go where they could

not discover her, or even if they did so, not be able to bring her back

into the world.

It was then that she recollected the peace that she thought she had seen

pervading the convents which she had visited with her mother, and that

devotional atmosphere which soothes those whom life has cheated. She

recalled to memory the face of Sister Melanie, of whom it was said that

she had lived through all the trials that can come upon a woman. How

serene her face was and how grand and noble that once passionate heart!

After her absence, Helene, returning one evening to her house, found her

sister and him in the garden. A nightingale was singing, and the flowers

were exhaling their scents. She thought she saw on the faces of the two

young people an expression of happiness. The next day she told her

sister that she was leaving for Petrograd, and that their aunt would

stay with her during her absence. She took leave of both for "a certain

time" as she said, and ignored his melancholy air when she entrusted her

little girl to his care. She wrote seldom from Petrograd; Nina's letters

showed signs of ennui; Helene explained it to herself by the fact that

the younger one had never been without her before. Later on, she left

for a foreign country, and it was from thence that she announced to her

family the unexpected news of her entering the convent; she was happy,

she said, and wished them the same happiness; she would only write

seldom, and perhaps would never return to Russia.

She did return, however, chose at random a small provincial town,

entered a convent there as a novice, and disappeared from the world. She

never knew if her family had looked for her; it was as though a curtain

had dropped between her and her former life.

Since then five long sad years had passed. She hoped she had secured the

happiness of those she loved, but she had not gained that sweet

quietude, that healing forgetfulness which she had expected. On the

contrary, her sadness increased with the lapse of time; memory became

more active; through the most of her tears she no longer even saw the

great ideal which was to safeguard her from herself. One single thought

possessed her: she would never be able to return again to those she

loved so well.

Sometimes, as she lay on her bed, her lean arms crossed over her breast,

she said to herself, that one day she would be so stretched in her

coffin, but then her sufferings would be ended, and death did not alarm

her; she smiled at him as a prisoner smiles at the radiant hour of

deliverance. But that hour came very slowly.

It was still dark when the bells rang for matins. Helene dressed herself

quickly and went out. From all sides black figures were gliding in the

shadow towards the lighted portal of the church. Some saluted her,

others did not notice her. Silence reigned everywhere.

She went to efface herself in her favourite corner, in the shadow where

she loved to stand, leaning her head against the cold wall. She did not

succeed in attaining to forgetfulness; on the contrary her memories

oppressed her, though she tried to lose herself in the contemplation of

the gentle Virgin who seemed to regard her with pity. It would have been

a relief if at least she could have shared her sorrow with some sister

soul, but Sister Seraphine was the only one who passed and re-passed

her, grumbling to herself as she went.

"Why do you stand there, like a statue? Make at any rate on your

forehead the penitent's sign of the cross! They are a real sorrow, these

young ones! You all have your eyes fixed on the holy pictures, but your

hearts are elsewhere. Think of it, Sister Helene! At the hour of death

you will be glad to pray, but then your hand will not have the power to

make the sign of the holy cross." And the old woman disappeared behind

the columns.

Helene went back to her room. It was still dark, and the gloom had

invaded her soul also. Why was it that she was suffering to-day more

than usual? Was it a presentiment which oppressed her heart? What was

going to happen?

V

Six o'clock had just struck. The grey light of morning broke into the

cell in which Helene walked up and down with a nervous step, casting

from time to time a sad glance out of the window; she felt that to-day

neither sleep nor calm would come to her. Olia, woken by the sound of

her footsteps, had come several times to her door; but Helene had always

sent her away, begging her not to be anxious about her.

There was nothing in her past with which she had to reproach herself.

She had given all that she had. Why then did the consciousness of having

acted rightly not bring her the peace for which she longed? Then,

catching herself murmuring, she began to pray, but the prayer did not

come from her heart. Her exhaustion caused her to feel giddy; she even

rejoiced in this, seeing in it a sign of the torpor for which she

craved. Passing into her inner room, she lay down on her bed, with her

eyes closed, but sleep did not come. Dawn broadened into day, and the

austere countenances of the icons seemed to be bent fixedly on poor

Helene as she lay, deprived of strength. She made a movement and her

hand touched the old newspapers in which the preserves sent by the

general's wife had been wrapped. Hardly knowing what she did, she

unfolded one of them, and glanced at it carelessly; the paper glided

with a light rustle behind her bed; a vague desire to know what was

going on in the world seized her; she took another sheet; her eye fell

on the not very edifying details of a divorce case; she turned the page

and found there, by a strange chance, a correspondent's letter from her

native town of which she had heard nothing for so long. She saw that the

date of this letter was that of the year in which she had left her

country.

Scarcely had she glanced through some lines than her blood turned to ice

in her veins and a chill pierced her heart. She uttered such a groan

that Olia awoke with a start. As though she could not trust her eyes,

poor Helene read the article a second time. Yes, they were there, those

cursed lines! a thing more horrible than murder. She had not yet taken

in the awfulness of it. A fit of frenzy seized her brain. She seized the

newspaper and brandished it at the sacred pictures, saying, "There!

There!"

What she had read was as follows:

"A tragedy has just disturbed our quiet provincial town. Two young girls

of good society fell in love with the same young man; one was

twenty-five, the other nineteen. There was an explanation between the

two sisters: the elder did not wish to stand in the way of the happiness

of the younger; she went away for good, telling her friends that she

intended to enter a convent, and would never return. This is where the

affair took a dramatic turn. The young man loved the girl who had gone

away; he only waited for her return to declare himself. When he heard of

the step she had taken, he applied to the authorities to be exchanged

into another regiment, and went off without informing any one. This

morning the younger of the two sisters was found dead in her room,

killed by a pistol-shot. On the table was a short note:

"'DEAR SISTER,--

"'Where are you? Forgive me! I could not, I ought not, I dared not

live any longer.

"'NINA.'"

"No! It is impossible! It is false! I am delirious!" exclaimed poor

Helene, crushing the paper in her clenched hand. She went near the

window in order to read again the fatal lines. They were indeed there;

they did not disappear! Nothing took their place. They turned from black

to red; they blazed like fire; they burned her heart!

"DEAR SISTER,--

"Where are you? Forgive me! I could not, I ought not, I dared not

live any longer.

"NINA."

Helene seized her black head-dress and bursting into wild laughter

rushed towards the door. She herself had fastened it, but she imagined

that some one was holding it from without, and shook it, sobbing and

laughing at the same time. Then without hesitation she turned the key,

went out, passed Olia who, pale as a sheet, gazed at her without

comprehension and ran down the stairs uttering unintelligible sounds.

A moment after she was hammering at the closed door of the church and

uttering maledictions to the great alarm of Sister Seraphine, who ran to

tell the abbess, making the sign of the cross and crying, "Saints

preserve us! It was not for nothing that the wind last night blew so

fiercely against the windows. It is a real sin of these young ones."

At the sound of Helene's wild cries the other nuns, frightened and

half-dressed, left their cells and ran in the raw cold of the morning to

help their unhappy sister.

Alas! she had misunderstood!

[Illustration]

_THE LUCK OF IVAN THE FORGETFUL_

[Illustration: "A strange sight brought her to a standstill."]

_THE LUCK OF IVAN THE FORGETFUL_

I

The old convict spent the whole day walking up and down the prison

courtyard, wearing a gloomy expression and sunk in deep meditation like

a man trying to recollect something which he had long forgotten. He was

entered on the roll of prisoners as Ivan the Forgetful, but his

fellow-prisoners nicknamed him "Ivan the Runaway," because of his

numerous attempts to escape. No one spoke to him, for all knew that

nothing could be got from him but words of abuse and gloomy looks. On

this particular day Ivan the Runaway was in a specially bad humour.

The spring had arrived in the previous night, and the mounds of snow at

the corners of the grey towers, which in winter were so hard that the

prisoners could amuse themselves by climbing on them, were now as full

of holes as a sponge and discharged dirty-looking rivulets into the

pools near them.

The sky was so warm and bright, and the wind blew so softly that a

strange giddiness seized the old man, and the thick walls with the

iron-barred windows seemed to him more hateful than ever. He was taken

back to his cell; the key turned creaking in the door; he felt as though

something in his heart were turned round with it, and his expression

became more gloomy and morose than ever; he looked at the door like a

hunted wolf. Ah, if he could only grip the warder's throat!--one squeeze

would finish the business! The convict went to the window, and laid his

hot face against the cold rusty iron bars. He could not gaze long enough

at the deep blue sky behind them, and dreamt of dark forests, wide

fields and majestic rivers rolling freely along. Just then a little

cloud rose and hung motionless in space; rosy lights passed over it and

its edges glowed like fiery gold. "The sun is setting," thought the

prisoner, and lingered by the window till the little wandering cloud

turned pale and was lost in the darkness, and the first star began to

tremble in the sky. Ivan the Runaway went to sleep, but in dreams he

heard the tops of the pines whispering, and the fir-cones dropping on

the soft soil of the forest; he heard invisible wings beating and the

stream fretting against the gnarled roots which barred its way to

liberty.