Part 14

“She should know her place, and not forget herself,” growled Gzhatski. “But don’t let us speak of it any more. To-morrow morning I shall complain to the manager of the hotel, and if he really insists on turning his place into a bad house we shall have to find rooms elsewhere.”

In the evening they went, as usual, to the gambling-rooms. There were very few people, and it was easy to get seats at the tables. Irene sat down beside the croupier, who smiled amiably as to a familiar, frequent visitor. She began to play eagerly, but luck did not come her way that evening, and she soon lost all she had with her. Raising her eyes to Gzhatski, who always made a point on these occasions of standing opposite her and looking at her reproachfully and disapprovingly, she saw, standing next to him, the daring lady of the recent incident in Nice. She had changed her attire, and wore a magnificent black evening dress, a mauve cloak, and an enormous hat with feathers. Diamonds trembled in her ears, and a row of priceless pearls encircled her neck. In the evening the paint on her face was less noticeable, and she was really so handsome that Irene gazed at her in undisguised admiration.

Gzhatski, though he was standing next to the woman who had so recently infuriated him, did not see her, his attention being riveted on a very original gambler, who was sitting at the end of the table. This was a wrinkled little old man, with a face as yellow as parchment. Before him, on the table, lay a pile of gold, which he was staking to right and to left, without any sort of system, apparently simply putting the coins in the spaces most easily accessible to his rheumatic hands. Strangely enough he nearly always won, and other players began to put their stakes on his numbers.

Feeling Irene’s glance upon him, Gzhatski smiled at her tenderly; but noticing that she was actually looking not at him, but at someone beside him, he turned his head, and his eyes met those of the unknown beauty. Gzhatski flushed, frowned, and turned away from the table. Irene rose, and they both left the gaming-room, and descended into the gardens. Having taken a few steps towards the hotel, Gzhatski suddenly stopped short and exclaimed:

“What a pity to go and shut ourselves up in that horrid hotel. It is only eleven o’clock. Let us go and have supper somewhere.”

Irene looked at Gzhatski in astonishment. Only the previous day he had been loud in his praises of the hotel, of its comfort and its beautiful views, and its proximity to the park. Why did he suddenly find it horrid? However, having accustomed herself never to contradict him, Irene made no objection, and they turned to the Café de Paris.

The sound of fashionable valses and familiar operatic melodies floated across the still air from the brilliantly illuminated covered terrace. Quite a number of people sat at the little round tables, the usual heterogeneous Monte Carlo crowd. There were correct Englishmen in smoking-jackets; there were Germans who had missed their last train back to Menton, and were having supper in company with their fat wives, the latter dressed in hideous canary-coloured blouses, their hats all askew. There were also pretty and theatrically “done-up” young ladies in full evening dress, coming in with an air of boredom, throwing off their wraps with studied negligence, and indifferently perusing the menu. These were professional gamblers, of whom the French say, “qu’elles ne sont pas fixées,” and their young faces bore the stamp of that surfeit of luxury and laziness that had long ago robbed their lives of all interest and charm.

In the middle of the terrace a queer company was drawing universal attention to itself. The men had dirty hands and wore shabby coats, glaring ties, and dusty boots. The women were red-haired, vulgar, and noisy. Their table was littered with the most choice and expensive dishes, to which they helped themselves greedily without order or system, even forbidding the waiters to change their plates. The other visitors threw them astonished glances, the waiters winked knowingly at each other, and the elegant French group sitting near Irene simply gasped in horrified wonder.

“Vous verrez qu’ils se moucheront dans leur serviette, et embrasseront les femmes au dessert,” said a middle-aged Frenchman, scrutinizing the offenders severely.

“Ma foi, j’ai envie de téléphoner au commissaire de police,” answered another; “they have probably murdered and robbed somebody on the highway, and have come here to enjoy themselves on the spoils!”

“Not a bit,” sighed a third enviously. “They have simply had luck at the tables; it is always that kind that wins!”

The restaurant in the meantime was becoming very crowded. Two badly dressed, middle-aged Englishwomen, with flabby cheeks and triple chins, but wearing a King’s ransom in diamonds and furs, were looking round for a table. These noble ladies had seen and experienced so much in their lives that they were no longer capable of taking an interest in anything except two enormous dogs, which, in spite of prohibitions, they had brought with them. The dogs tore at their leashes, wriggled out of their collars, and poked their noses into people’s plates. The visitors protested, but in vain. All the waiters seemed to know the dogs, petted them, and called them by their names, while the head-waiter led the English ladies to a reserved table, and, bowing obsequiously, waited for their order. The musicians, in their red and gold coats, played with redoubled gusto. Their violins sang and wept and danced. Some of the public applauded; others called up one or another of the players, and gave him money. Alas! these artists who could extract such sublime tones from their instruments were only too glad to accept even trifling tips! Close to Gzhatski sat, deep in meditation, with his elbows on the table, a handsome young German. He had come very early, and had ordered a choice supper for two. The champagne had long been standing ready on ice; red roses were scattered over the snowy tablecloth. Time passed, and still _she_ came not! The poor young German was excited, jumped up every minute and looked towards the door, from time to time rushed out to the porch, and repeatedly questioned the long-suffering head-waiter.

“Mais, monsieur le Baron, j’ai déjà eu l’honneur de vous dire,” replied the latter wearily. “‘Viendrai si je puis,’ tel est le message, pris au téléphone.”

Neighbouring visitors were observing the poor young man with some amusement, and the waiters were smiling. The champagne had been twice taken away and brought back again, the crowd was thinning, the musicians were playing their final number, when at last a cab drove up to the door. The enamoured swain rushed forward ecstatically, to meet a fragile, dainty, blue-eyed Gretchen, who entered shyly, dressed all in white, and wreathed in blushes and smiles. This was not the German but the French type of Gretchen, a type that rarely goes as far as the complete _faux pas_, but delights in the temptations and risks of love-making and philandering. Feeling that resistance is their chief charm, these Dresden china temptresses never hurry to surrender.

“Is that all he was waiting for, poor boy?” said Gzhatski, with a pitying smile. “Hardly worth while. She has not a farthingsworth of temperament.”

The “poor boy,” however, was in the seventh heaven. He filled the lady’s glass, helped her to everything, ate nothing himself, gazed at his Gretchen, and sighed deeply. He would have been ridiculous had not the divine spark of sincere passion illumined his innocent, frank young face. With his elbows on the table, he appeared to be ardently persuading the young lady of something, and suddenly, in a low voice, began to recite.

“He is not a German for nothing!” laughed Gzhatski. “Let us escape; or else we shall have to listen to the whole of Goethe.”

But Sergei Grigorievitch was mistaken. The young man was reciting, in excellent French, the famous “Déclaration” of Richepin:

“L’amour que je sens, l’amour qui me cuit, Ce n’est pas l’amour chaste et platonique, Sorbet à la neige, avec un biscuit, C’est l’amour de chair, c’est un plat tonique.

“C’est l’amour brûlant comme me feu grégeois C’est l’amour féroce et l’amour solide, Surtout ce n’est pas l’amour des bourgeois, Amour de bourgeois, amour d’invalide.

“Ce n’est pas non plus l’amour de roman, Faux, prétentieux avec une glose De si, de pourquoi, de mais, de comment, C’est l’amour tout simple, et pas autre chose.

“C’est l’amour puissant, c’est l’amour vermeil. Je serai le flot, tu seras la dune, Tu seras la terre, et moi le soleil, Et cela vaut mieux que leur clair de lune.”

Gretchen pretended to be frightened, but Irene glanced mutely at Gzhatski, and they both thought “It is true!” The wine, the supper, the music, had affected them; they spoke little, looked at each other mysteriously, and, all unconsciously, sighed as deeply as the young German.

They left the restaurant, overcome with tenderness, pressing close to each other, and softly humming the passionate, recently-heard melodies that still echoed in their ears. The night was dark and warm and sultry. They had not far to go. Their hotel gleamed white, silent, and ghostly, between the trees. The door leading into the garden was ajar, and a streak of light fell across the path. As they approached they saw that not everyone had yet retired for the night. The dark beauty of the afternoon’s incident was standing motionless on the veranda, leaning her elbow on the balustrade, as though waiting for someone. She had taken off her enormous hat, and had thrown a black lace shawl over her hair. Between her teeth she held a red rose. Gzhatski passed without looking at her, and her glance followed him with a sarcastic smile.

“She looks like Carmen,” said Irene. “Carmen in the first act, when she is tempting Don José.”

Sergei Grigorievitch quite unexpectedly flared up. “Carmen!” he exclaimed in a white rage. “Carmen! Can you think of any more poetical comparisons? She is not Carmen, but simply a ⸺!”

“Sergei Grigorievitch!” gasped Irene.

“Well? You think that is not a drawing-room expression? Very well—I take it back, and I beg your pardon—but it expresses my idea excellently. However, don’t let us continue the conversation; it is time to go to bed. Here we are at your door. I wish you a good night!”

XXI

Gzhatski’s good wish, however, was not destined to be fulfilled. Was it the music or the black coffee that was to blame? It is difficult to say. But however it may be, Irene found it impossible to go to sleep. She tried drinking sugared water, applied cold compresses to her head, turned from side to side, got up and paced the room, opened the window—all in vain, for sleep obstinately refused to answer her call. At last, towards four o’clock in the morning, she threw on her dressing-gown, sat down on the sofa with a book, and hoped to fall asleep with the dawn, as frequently happened to her after a wakeful night.

Even the book, however, failed to interest her—her excited brain refusing to follow the tangled thread of the sugary English novel. Leaving the heroine to drink a twentieth cup of tea on the lawn in company with the hero, who had just won a set of tennis, Irene threw down the book and lost herself in her own thoughts. Russia, her departure from Petrograd, her first impressions of Rome, Père Etienne, her meeting with Gzhatski—all this and many other confused recollections passed through her mind.

“How unexpectedly everything has arranged itself,” she thought, with a quiet smile. “How foolish we all are when we make plans, and arrange and fuss and worry, and seriously imagine we can direct our own destinies! God does everything in His own way, and always for the best, since our needs and our characters are far better known to Him than to ourselves. There was I, for instance, imagining that I had nothing more to live for, and, suddenly, God sent me so incomparable a lover, so immense a happiness. In my fairest dreams, I had never seen so ideal a husband—so handsome, so clever, so good, so noble. What a contrast, indeed, between him and the worthless Petrograd officials, with their vulgar ambitions, their greed for money, and their mean and petty spites and jealousies! My noble Sergei! You are like the sun, in comparison to those worms!

“And he has such high ideals!” continued Irene dreamily to herself. “How severely he judged that unhappy woman! A little too severely perhaps, but that only proves how seriously he looks upon love. Oh! my dear one, my dear one!

“All the priests were wrong when they found my faith pagan. I knew I was right! God wanted to try me with long and dark years of despair and suffering, but finding that I was not embittered, and that I had remained, in spite of everything, honest and good, He has sent me this wonderful happiness as a reward. My faith was the right one, my God has triumphed!”

Irene rejoiced and exulted, and life had never seemed so glorious to her before. Suddenly she felt that this was the happiest moment of her existence, and that nothing still happier could or would ever be. She rose, opened the door leading to the balcony, and stepped out. It was still dark, but one could already distinguish the trees, and there were grey streaks in the sky.

“Soon the sun will rise,” thought Irene. “How lovely the view must be from the Casino Terrace!”

The idea of seeing the sun rise attracted her. “I have lived all this time, and have never once seen it,” she said to herself. “How surprised Sergei will be when I tell him my impressions!”

Irene dressed hurriedly, and, having thrown a cloak over her dress and a scarf over her hair, stepped softly out into the corridor. All was quiet, and a grey streak of light was filtering through the glass door leading into the garden. Like a ghost, Irene slipped along the passage, when, suddenly, the slight movement of a door on the right attracted her attention. The door gradually opened, softly, slowly, carefully. Something guilty and horrible seemed suggested by this carefulness. Irene stopped still in the shadow of a large cupboard, her eyes riveted on the moving door.

At last it stood half-way open, and yesterday’s Carmen-like beauty appeared on the threshold. She wore a lace dressing-gown, and her long, wavy hair hung in heavy coils down her back. The beauty glanced to right and to left along the passage, then turned round with a whispered word, and out of the room issued—Gzhatski! He, too, whispered something, and they both laughed softly. Stepping carefully on tiptoe over the carpet, Sergei Grigorievitch stole towards the staircase, and disappeared round its bend. The beauty closed her door.…

Poor Irene’s knees shook, and all but gave way under her. Leaning against the wall, with hardly strength enough to drag one foot before the other, she staggered back to her room, and fell, almost lifeless, on the sofa.

The sun had long since risen and was forcing its way in through the shutters. The birds had long been singing, noise and movement were in the air, everywhere people were laughing and talking, but Irene still lay prone and motionless. Thoughts were rushing wildly through her head, but she could not disentangle them. Slowly, gradually, she began to realize the full force of the terrific blow that had fallen on her.

“So that is what you are like,” she murmured childishly. “And I had believed in you so completely, and had placed you so high.…”

For a moment the voice of reason tried to pacify her. “But this is nothing more than a man’s adventure, a prank, a caprice after a gay supper,” it whispered seriously. But Irene paid no attention. “If it were only the supper,” she argued, “why did not Sergei come to _her_, to his bride? What cared she for marriage ceremonies? Did she not, before God, belong to Gzhatski soul and body? But no, he had not come to her. He considered her old and ugly and repulsive!”

This thought filled Irene with such an agony of despair that she slipped from the sofa to the carpet, rolled about and knocked her head against the floor, striving by this means to deaden her unbearable pain. “You are old, you are ridiculous, you are hideous, in spite of your fashionable dresses!” she exclaimed wildly to herself, and, rising from the carpet, she tottered towards the looking-glass, and gazed disgustedly at her own tear-stained, tortured, suddenly aged and disfigured reflection.

“So this is the part that has been allotted to you in Sergei’s life!” she hissed. “You are the ideal, the image of his mother, the statue of purity that stands on a pedestal surrounded by respect and homage! I am sick to death of this eternal respect! I want _love_—one month, one day, one hour of _love_! But no—love belongs only to such as Carmen; never will it fall to my lot! Oh! if this is so, if this is so, I do not want to live!”

A bitter resentment against God took possession of Irene’s soul. “What is the object of this mockery?” she groaned. “Thou knowest that if I had entered a convent I should have been an exemplary nun. Of what use was it to distract me from my purpose, and send me a hope of happiness, only to shatter it cruelly with a derisive laugh? As if I had not suffered enough without this! All my life has been nothing but suffering, nothing but pain. But to Thee, this seemed insufficient—there was still this last refinement of torture to apply! But who art Thou in the end, thou mighty torturer of men’s souls? Thou art no God, no just and generous Being, such as He whom my imagination had created. No—Thou art a vampire, sucking the blood of men’s hearts! But I will be even with Thee yet. I will prove myself the stronger of the two. I will kill myself, and so deprive Thee of the joy of torturing me.”

“Pull yourself together,” whispered reason. “Look at life more soberly. Your Sergei is not perhaps as depraved as it would seem. There was nothing to prevent his passing all his life in the company of beautiful Carmens, and yet you know how he has been struggling all the winter to win _you_. That was because he felt that only you could give him happiness. Cannot you, in return, struggle a little for _him_? Will you not try with the strength of your love to keep alight in him the divine spark that burns in every human soul? You are pure and virtuous, and therefore stronger than all the Carmens in the world. Victory belongs to you, and not to them!”

“No, no, no!” answered Irene. “I cannot, and will not—for I do not love him any more. He is repulsive to me. I loved a strong, honest, ideal man. What do I want with this pitiful wretch, who has not enough strength of mind to follow the dictates of his own conscience? Could I ever forget the look of that contemptible, cowardly figure, stealing guiltily along the passage after an iniquitous interview with his loathsome associate! His bright image in my heart is shattered for ever, never again can I look at him in the old way.”

The savage beast that Gzhatski had once mentioned to Irene had awakened in her, and growled and roared, its appetite roused and unsatisfied!…

“I will drown myself—throw myself from the rocks above the Monaco gardens!” she thought. But the idea of going out into the sunshine and facing the triumphant glory of Southern nature, caused her to frown nervously.

“They are all happy out there,” she muttered angrily. “Very well, they can be as happy as they like. It is all the same to me. I must do away with myself here, in this dark room.”

Her glance swept the walls in search of a nail, and returned to the table, arrested by a glass of pinkish water.

On arriving at Monte Carlo Irene had developed, on account of the strong sea air, a slight rash on her face. Having just at that time been very particular about her appearance, she had applied to a doctor, who had given her a lotion composed of a solution of sublimate, with the warning that it was a strong poison, for external application only. Irene had prepared the solution each evening, in readiness for use the following morning, and a glassful of it was now standing temptingly on her table. She approached. In her imagination she saw frightful tortures and frantic pains.

“Nonsense, nonsense,” she whispered to herself encouragingly. “Are you such a coward? What are a few hours of physical pain compared to the unbearable mental sufferings which, with your tiresome good health, might last another forty years! And however cruel your sufferings have been till now, at least you had some faith in God, in His miracles and His power. What would life be like now, when even this last straw of comfort has been taken from you?”

Irene shuddered. Struggling with the animal instinct of “Life at all costs,” she alternately stretched out her hand towards the glass, and withdrew it again. Suddenly a strange thought came into her mind.

“Could it be that Nature, foreseeing the possibility of her having children by Gzhatski, and finding it necessary to protect these future children from inheriting her moral disease, from suffering, from leading useless, miserable lives and spreading darkness and despair along their path, had purposely sent her out to see the sun rise that morning, and was now hurrying her to drink the glass of poison?”

A strong feeling of resentment accompanied this thought.

“But why such tender solicitude for these unborn creatures?” thought the unfortunate girl, “and such cold, cruel indifference to me and my sufferings?”

And she felt inclined to upset the glass, throw away the tempting poison, and live on, just to spite Nature.…

There was a knock at the door.

“Irene Pavlovna, are you still asleep?” Gzhatski’s gay voice resounded in the passage. “Do get up and come out! It is a glorious morning, just like the one Fett[3] sings about. Do you remember?

“‘I have brought to thee a greeting From this rosy summer morn; Come! the golden hours are fleeting.…’”

The blood rushed to Irene’s head.

“He is gay and happy!” she thought. “In whose arms has he gleaned this joy?”

And such an insufferable sense of insult and of irony conveyed itself to her mind through Gzhatski’s light-hearted greeting, that with a sudden impulse she seized the glass and swallowed the poison in one draught.

The door opened, and Gzhatski entered.

“Oh! you are quite ready!” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t you answer? There I stood, like a Spanish hidalgo, declaiming at your door! What is the matter? Why do you look so tragic?”

Irene looked at him in silence, and crossed her arms on her chest.

“I saw you come out from that room at dawn,” she said, in a low whisper and with, trembling lips.

“You saw?…” And Gzhatski blushed deeply. “Well, then. Of course you now think I am a scoundrel. I am not going to try and justify myself. I ask you only one thing—do not, for Heaven’s sake, lower yourself in my eyes by being jealous of that disgusting creature. If only you could understand what an abyss separates you from her! To me she is not a woman. She is—a glass of whisky that I must drink sometimes, a cigarette that one has the need of smoking at certain moments.… Forgive me—I have no right to tell you these things. But it is incredible that you girls can pass through life without understanding them. What am I to say, how am I to prove to you that that miserable worm simply does not exist for me? If it can please you, let us go immediately to the North Cape or to Central Africa. She will not follow us there! What is the matter? Oh! what is it? What is it?”

Irene had fallen to the ground with a cry, and was writhing on the carpet. Gzhatski fell on his knees beside her and caught her up in his arms.

“Irene! Irene! My darling! My dearest one! Tell me. What is it? Don’t frighten me so!”