Madame Krasinska was in a very bad humour. The old Chanoiness, her
late husband's aunt, noticed it; her guests noticed it; her maid noticed
it: and she noticed it herself. For, of all human beings, Madame
Krasinska--Netta, as smart folk familiarly called her--was the least
subject to bad humour. She was as uniformly cheerful as birds are
supposed to be, and she certainly had none of the causes for anxiety or
sorrow which even the most proverbial bird must occasionally have. She
had always had money, health, good looks; and people had always told
her--in New York, in London, in Paris, Rome, and St. Petersburg--from
her very earliest childhood, that her one business in life was to amuse
herself. The old gentleman whom she had simply and cheerfully accepted
as a husband, because he had given her quantities of bonbons, and was
going to give her quantities of diamonds, had been kind, and had been
kindest of all in dying of sudden bronchitis when away for a month,
leaving his young widow with an affectionately indifferent recollection
of him, no remorse of any kind, and a great deal of money, not to speak
of the excellent Chanoiness, who constituted an invaluable chaperon.
And, since his happy demise, no cloud had disturbed the cheerful life
or feelings of Madame Krasinska. Other women, she knew, had innumerable
subjects of wretchedness; or if they had none, they were wretched from
the want of them. Some had children who made them unhappy, others were
unhappy for lack of children, and similarly as to lovers; but she had
never had a child and never had a lover, and never experienced the
smallest desire for either. Other women suffered from sleeplessness, or
from sleepiness, and took morphia or abstained from morphia with equal
inconvenience; other women also grew weary of amusement. But Madame
Krasinska always slept beautifully, and always stayed awake cheerfully;
and Madame Krasinska was never tired of amusing herself. Perhaps it was
all this which culminated in the fact that Madame Krasinska had never in
all her life envied or disliked anybody; and that no one, apparently,
had ever envied or disliked her. She did not wish to outshine or
supplant any one; she did not want to be richer, younger, more
beautiful, or more adored than they. She only wanted to amuse herself,
and she succeeded in so doing.
This particular day--the day after Madame Fosca's ball--Madame Krasinska
was not amusing herself. She was not at all tired: she never was;
besides, she had remained in bed till mid-day: neither was she unwell,
for that also she never was; nor had anyone done the slightest thing
to vex her. But there it was. She was not amusing herself at all. She
could not tell why; and she could not tell why, also, she was vaguely
miserable. When the first batch of afternoon callers had taken leave,
and the following batches had been sent away from the door, she threw
down her volume of Gyp, and walked to the window. It was raining: a
thin, continuous spring drizzle. Only a few cabs, with wet, shining
backs, an occasional lumbering omnibus or cart, passed by with wheezing,
straining, downcast horses. In one or two shops a light was appearing,
looking tiny, blear, and absurd in the gray afternoon. Madame Krasinska
looked out for a few minutes; then, suddenly turning round, she brushed
past the big palms and azaleas, and rang the bell.
"Order the brougham at once," she said.
She could by no means have explained what earthly reason had impelled
her to go out. When the footman had inquired for orders she felt at
a loss: certainly she did not want to go to see anyone, nor to buy
anything, nor to inquire about anything.
What _did_ she want? Madame Krasinska was not in the habit of driving
out in the rain for her pleasure; still less to drive out without
knowing whither. What did she want? She sat muffled in her furs, looking
out on the wet, grey streets as the brougham rolled aimlessly along. She
wanted--she wanted--she couldn't tell what. But she wanted it very much.
That much she knew very well--she wanted. The rain, the wet streets, the
muddy crossings--oh, how dismal they were! and still she wished to go
on.
Instinctively, her polite coachman made for the politer streets, for the
polite Lung' Arno. The river quay was deserted, and a warm, wet wind
swept lazily along its muddy flags. Madame Krasinska let down the glass.
How dreary! The foundry, on the other side, let fly a few red sparks
from its tall chimney into the grey sky; the water droned over the weir;
a lamp-lighter hurried along.
Madame Krasinska pulled the check-string.
"I want to walk," she said.
The polite footman followed behind along the messy flags, muddy and full
of pools; the brougham followed behind him. Madame Krasinska was not at
all in the habit of walking on the embankment, still less walking in the
rain.
After some minutes she got in again, and bade the carriage drive home.
When she got into the lit streets she again pulled the check-string and
ordered the brougham to proceed at a foot's pace. At a certain spot she
remembered something, and bade the coachman draw up before a shop. It
was the big chemist's.
"What does the Signora Contessa command?" and the footman raised his hat
over his ear. Somehow she had forgotten. "Oh," she answered, "wait a
minute. Now I remember, it's the next shop, the florist's. Tell them to
send fresh azaleas to-morrow and fetch away the old ones."
Now the azaleas had been changed only that morning. But the polite
footman obeyed. And Madame Krasinska remained for a minute, nestled in
her fur rug, looking on to the wet, yellow, lit pavement, and into the
big chemist's window. There were the red, heart-shaped chest protectors,
the frictioning gloves, the bath towels, all hanging in their place.
Then boxes of eau-de-Cologne, lots of bottles of all sizes, and boxes,
large and small, and variosities of indescribable nature and use, and
the great glass jars, yellow, blue, green, and ruby red, with a spark
from the gas lamp behind in their heart. She stared at it all, very
intently, and without a notion about any of these objects. Only she knew
that the glass jars were uncommonly bright, and that each had a ruby, or
topaz, or emerald of gigantic size, in its heart. The footman returned.
"Drive home," ordered Madame Krasinska. As her maid was taking her out
of her dress, a thought--the first since so long--flashed across her
mind, at the sight of certain skirts, and an uncouth cardboard mask,
lying in a corner of her dressing-room. How odd that she had not seen
the Sora Lena that evening.... She used always to be walking in the lit
streets at that hour.