Part 9

“Not in the least. We could all be of great help to doctors if we would only observe ourselves more closely. Just as people at present, when they feel indisposed, carefully note all the symptoms of their illness, and, in order to decide on a suitable cure, try to determine which of their organs is attacked, even so, some day, people will carefully note their spiritual ailments, and will treat envy, hatred, and malice just as they now treat their liver and kidneys! You are laughing, Irene Pavlovna. But indeed many a new view that seemed strange at first has, after fifty or a hundred years, become generally accepted and positively commonplace. We have, for the time being, forgotten the ancient precept _Know thyself_; if we took it to heart, we could often be our own doctors, for indeed we each have within ourselves an enormous power of self-treatment. Our Christian confessions—the so-called _examens de conscience_ of the Catholics—are nothing but minute observations of ourselves. In former times people took communion, and therefore went to confession, every Sunday. They were obliged, once a week, critically to examine all their actions, and to decide which of them had been sinful (_i.e._, not normal). Beyond this they had to talk these actions over with their spiritual advisers, men chosen for this purpose because they were considered worthy of respect and confidence (_i.e._, because they were normal and healthy). Unfortunately, however, it always happens that customs initiated by master minds for the lasting benefit of humanity, invariably, after a time, fall into the hands of incapable mediocrities, who do not understand the true meaning and object of the ideas in question, and transform them into mechanical poses, from which all sincere natures must turn away.

“A careful observation of ourselves would immensely simplify life, and would make many things much clearer to us. You, for instance, Irene Pavlovna, are sincerely convinced that the only reason why you never married is the fact that you did not meet a man who was worthy of you. Actually there was quite another reason. You simply felt a physical disgust at thought of the realisms of marriage—the living with a man as his wife, the bearing of children, the feeding and nursing of these children. This prose sickened you, and as soon as someone was pleasing or sympathetic to you, you hastened to find or invent reasons for not marrying him. You looked for faults in him, exaggerated them, invented them, and did all you could to assure yourself that he was unworthy of you.

“In addition, marriage would really have meant too sudden a change for you—since, as is the case with all invalids, even the smallest change is a great trial for your nerves. Every trifling decision costs you many nightmares, and is accompanied by palpitation of the heart, tears, and nervous exhaustion. People like you bear every discomfort in their house rather than move into another one, and submit to the tyranny of their servants because they have not the energy to look for new ones. It is curious that such characters arrive, with the greatest ease and promptitude, at theoretical and abstract decisions. For instance, to take a furnished house in the country and move into it for the summer is frightfully difficult, but to emigrate is very easy. One only has to read a charming description of Rome, and—good-bye, Russia! I don’t want you any more! I am going to Italy, and shall become an Italian!”

“What nonsense you are talking, Sergei Grigorievitch! This is all bluff, and you are simply trying to be brilliant! I assure you I have dreamt of marriage all my life. If you only knew what touching scenes of family life I have pictured to myself! This was always my greatest delight!”

“Oh! I quite believe that! We know how to dream beautifully! And in our dreams we are always extraordinarily active! We cross oceans, found colonies, introduce ideal governments, and die as Kings or at least Presidents of Republics! In actual life, however, we groan, we are miserable, and we greatly resent being obliged to bother about going to the Bank, in order to receive the interest of the capital acquired for us by our more energetic ancestors.”

“All this is untrue, and a mockery!”

“Would you like me to prove the truth of my words by an example?”

“If you like.”

“Very well. Do you consider me a career-hunter?”

“Of course not. What an idea!”

“And, in your opinion, I am an honest man worthy of respect?”

“Certainly.”

“In that case, what would you say if I asked you to be my wife?”

“Sergei Grigorievitch! What are you thinking about? I am much too old to marry!”

“There! I have caught you at once! As soon as the word ‘marriage’ is mentioned, you immediately find an excuse.”

“But what I say is true! If you want to marry, you must choose a young girl who can have children.”

“And how do you know that you will have no children? Are you so well acquainted with the decrees of the celestial chancery? Be sincere and say that the thought of marriage disgusts you. That will be nearer the truth.”

XII

This conversation greatly perturbed Irene. She tried to assure herself that it was all nonsense; but, somehow, truth seemed to look reproachfully at her through Gzhatski’s words. Many disquieting remembrances came to her mind, and for the first time in her life she made an effort to see herself as others saw her. Life had certainly, till now, never required of her any particular activity or decision. Everything had always arranged itself without trouble. She had lived for years in the flat in which her father had died, and to which she was so accustomed. Her maids had served her mechanically, and whenever one had left, friends or neighbours had immediately recommended another to take her place, so that Irene had hardly noticed the change. When she had given parties, she had ordered the supper at a restaurant, the French manager of which had known exactly what would please her guests.

“Rapportez vous en à moi, Mademoiselle,” he had usually remarked with confidence; “et vos invités n’auront pas lieu de se plaindre.”

In the same way, her French dressmaker had known exactly what she should wear, and Irene had relied entirely on the Frenchwoman’s good taste. In addition, she had really never had time to think out her own dresses, for, each time she had ordered one, her thoughts had rushed off to the trousseau she would some day provide for her future daughter; and the colour and fabric and fashion of all those future dresses, hats, and furs had engrossed her, for the time being, so completely that there had not been a moment left for her own immediate attire!

The greatest amount of energy Irene had ever expended had been in connection with her travels abroad—though, indeed, here also everything seemed to arrange itself without her guidance. On arriving in a strange town, she had never been allowed even to wonder for a moment where she should stay. Having hardly set foot on the railway arrival platform, an energetic porter had invariably seized all her belongings, passed them on to some still more energetic commissionaire, and before she had had time to rub her eyes, she had been packed into an omnibus, and was comfortably driving off to some hotel. She had often reflected that there were indeed numberless kind-hearted people in the world. How many of them troubled themselves to see that she was well dressed, well fed, well housed, etc.! The money that she gave in exchange for these services seemed to her a very small matter indeed in comparison to the enormous efforts they involved.

At one time, she had greatly occupied herself with this thought. Sitting comfortably in her box at the theatre, she had wondered whether it was right that the actors should play, sing, and dance for her amusement; that cab-drivers should freeze for hours outside the theatre doors, on the chance of driving her home; that the night porter of her house should get out of bed to let her in—all this for trifling sums of money that she could never even miss, and that she had received from her father. Was it not an impossible arrangement of society, by which so many people worked for one idler? The question had greatly disturbed Irene’s peace of mind; but just at that time she had been asked to join a society for providing poor young mothers with layettes for their babies. The object of this society was pleasing to Irene, and all her disturbing thoughts had lost themselves in an enormous ardour for knitting babies’ counterpanes. There is scarcely another manual occupation that needs as little attention as knitting. One can knit a whole counterpane so mechanically that one has hardly noticed how it happened. And so, Irene had knitted and knitted during all the long winter evenings, while her thoughts had rushed from one fancy to another. She had reorganized the Russian army and fleet; she had thought out schools of a new type, from which issued the most remarkable, active, energetic people; she had rebuilt Petrograd; she had planned new railways and laid out a new network of canals, uniting all Russia’s inland seas.

And all the time, the counterpanes had grown and grown, till at last Irene had been able proudly to present an enormous number of completed ones to the society. She had been happy in the thought that if the workmen of Petrograd provided her with all the necessaries of life, she in return provided their children with counterpanes. In this way, justice and an even balance had been restored.

It is true that the society had also imposed on its members the duty of visiting the mothers. This duty, however, Irene had point blank refused to take upon herself. It was preposterous, she had thought. What would happen if she were by chance to arrive somewhere at a moment when a child was being born? She would hear the mother’s groans and see the red, wrinkled infant. She did not even know very exactly how it all happens, and she had shuddered at the very idea of witnessing anything so nauseating. In general, she had always felt a natural disgust for everything physical, and had never brought herself to glance without a shudder at the simplest anatomical design. In the case in point, indeed, she had preferred to knit ten extra counterpanes rather than see one of the babies for whom they were destined.

She now remembered also how she had always loved to escape from real life into the enchanted realms of novels and poems. People in books were always so charming, and all their thoughts and actions so comprehensible. They all invariably had a clear, well-defined object in life, and strove through a few hundred engrossing pages to attain this object. They were all noble and generous, and their lives were bright and beautiful. What interesting and delightful moments Irene had passed in their society! They had made her laugh and cry and suffer and rejoice, and had entertained her with the brilliancy of their wit. How dull and colourless real people had appeared beside these heroes and heroines of fiction. Real people never seemed to know for what purpose they existed, nor what to do with their lives; their characters were nearly always illogical and uninteresting; they were married stupidly and aimlessly, and generally to the wrong people; they just as aimlessly bore children, and did nothing but reproach them for having exactly the same faults as themselves; if, however, one of the children who had caused them nothing but torments and trouble died, they made a terrific fuss, wrung their hands in despair, and cursed God. How could Irene respect such people? Ah! if she had met in real life a Prince Andrey, from “Peace and War,” how passionately she would have loved him! And what an intimate friend she would have made of Pushkin’s Tatiana! How they would have understood each other! How much they would have had in common! Irene had often assured her friends in fun that no man in the world appealed to her as much as Sherlock Holmes.

Thinking over all this, Irene suddenly, with a shock, realized that Gzhatski was perfectly right, that she had really never lived, but had only slumbered and dreamt, and had in this way let her youth slip by. Having now understood her own illness, was there still time for a cure, for a return to normal life? Could she renounce her contempt for humanity? Could she try to love human nature, in spite of its defects? Could she live in the world, sharing its joys and sorrows? Or was it too late? Was not Père Etienne, perhaps, persuading her to take the veil just for that self-same reason? Did not the clever priest, perhaps, regard her simply as a nervous patient, and was he not possibly trying by every possible ruse to lure her into a convent as one lures lunatics into an asylum? The thought was painful.

Gzhatski, in the meantime, having proposed to Irene in jest, knowing perfectly well that she would refuse, had suddenly, once the proposal was made and rejected, begun to think seriously about marrying her. He had for some years past quite given up his old dreams of marriage, but having during the autumn previous to his Italian journey spent two lonely months in the country, away from all his friends, alone with an old devoted but badly trained servant, Gzhatski had often meditated with some sadness on the failure of his cherished plans, and on the lonely old age that awaited him. Irene’s innocence and simple-mindedness appealed to him, and emphatically as he assured her that indifference to wealth and position was a symptom of disease, this particular symptom was, nevertheless, in her case, pleasing to him. Her moral purity reminded him of his mother, though, indeed, one could hardly imagine two more diverse characters: the one deeply and passionately religious, the other embittered and indifferent even to her shattered ideals.

Taking advantage of the impression produced on Irene’s mind by the “Life of Saint Amulfia,” and her resultant disillusionment on the subject of convents, Gzhatski persuaded her to venture a little out of her seclusion, and to see something of Roman society. The season was in full swing. Crowds of English and American tourists were besieging the hotels, and were being pitilessly fleeced. The Costanzi theatre engaged one famous singer after another, and great society hostesses vied with each other in the brilliancy of their receptions. Armies of peasant women and their children, in picturesque national costumes, wandered down from the Albanian hills to sell flowers to the _forestieri_ (foreigners). Old Rome seemed to have grown young again, and basked gaily in the golden spring sunshine.

Gzhatski took Irene to the Horse Show, organized by the fashionable “Fox-hunters’ Club.” Fox-hunting, the recreation of the most aristocratic Roman circles, is a feature of the winter season. The perfect roads traversing the Campagna, the splendid views, the fresh air, the invigorating canter across the plain, a little harmless flirtation with the most elegant of equestriennes, all this is dear to the heart of the fashionable Roman. As to the foxes, they suffer but little at the hands of their aristocratic hunters!

“The fox is an old Roman,” the more sincere sportsmen often frankly admit—“he knows every inch of the Campagna, much better than we do, and rarely lets himself be caught.”

In answer to any question about the hunt, Roman “High Life” almost invariably asserts that the day was superb. “At the start, a fox was raised, but managed to evade the hunters, and finally escaped.”

Evil tongues, indeed, assert that these foxes are mechanical, and are wound up and started before every hunt! But then—what strange rumours will not evil tongues invent! The sportsmen are never discouraged, and it is under their auspices that the annual Horse Show is organized.

On arriving at the Tor di Fiorenza, Irene was greeted by a scene as picturesque as it was new and unfamiliar to her. The races were held in a valley between low hills, the obstacles being scattered not only over the level ground, but also on the grassy slopes. The course, indeed, was a bewilderingly winding one, up-hill and down-hill, the last and most difficult barrier being placed at a considerable height, followed by a steep incline down to the winning-post.

Some of the jockeys were flung over this last barrier, head forwards! Their riderless horses, taking the leap by themselves, quietly turned aside and began to regale themselves on the fresh grass, while the soldiers on guard picked up what was left of the unconscious sportsmen!

There were no seats of any kind provided for the public. The fashionable onlookers stood about on the grass, or sat on folding stools they had brought with them; others even, when overtired, seated themselves on the damp ground. Sometimes, the public pressed so close to the barriers that they were actually in the way, and one of the judges on horseback approached, courteously requesting the crowd to stand back. Children, brought there for some unknown reason, arranged little races and competitions of their own, and skipped merrily up and down the hills, to the delight of their parents. The Roman is a tender father, and is not ashamed of his tenderness. For that matter, the Romans present were probably in the minority, every possible nationality being represented in the assemblage. The manner, attire, and general appearance of all cosmopolitan aristocrats being similar, one could only distinguish the various nationalities of those present by the accent with which they spoke French, the language almost universally adopted in Roman society. Irene studied the animated picture before her with great interest. The weather was lovely. The recent rains had covered the whole valley with a carpet of new, green grass, from which peeped, here and there, a shy, little early field-flower. The air was fragrant with the scent of spring, and the pink and white bloom of the cherry-trees contrasted strangely with the solemn darkness of the Roman pines. The gay, elegant crowd laughed and chatted around Irene, and her glance wandered, with a curious sense of strangeness, from one face to another. These handsome, well dressed men, these dainty, fashionable ladies, probably making the Horse Show an excuse for some rendezvous, seemed to her to belong to some other world, and to have indeed nothing whatever in common with the ex-nun, as she, with some bitterness, called herself.

XIII

Little by little, however, Irene let herself be drawn into the whirl of Italian social life. Italian society is one of the most interesting and delightful societies in the world. It is indeed impossible not to love these charming, sympathetic, gay, splendidly accomplished and witty Southerners. What a difference between their sparkling and brilliant receptions, and the dull, heavy entertainments of Petrograd! Nowhere in Rome did Irene meet those gloomy, silent figures that wander forlornly about Petrograd drawing-rooms, only waiting for supper. They do not exist in Italy, neither does the supper. At the most brilliant receptions, there is never more than one table for light refreshments, tea, ices, wines, lemonade. Most of the guests, however, never even approach this table, but prefer, on returning home, to drink a glass of cold water, of the purity of which Romans are prouder than of the Colosseum or the Forum. They go to receptions, not for the sake of eating and drinking, but rather for laughter and flirtation and brilliant conversation. At almost every social gathering there is music and recitation. Everybody recites: poets, poetesses, and ordinary mortals. The Italian language, especially as spoken in Rome, is so musical that the recitations give pleasure even to foreigners who do not understand their meaning. There is great variety in this fashionable art. An old poet rises, requests that most of the lights may be extinguished, takes an effective attitude, and begins, with theatrical intensity, to raise and to lower his voice, rather, indeed, to sing than to speak. He is listened to with attention, but the younger generation smiles: “The old school,” it whispers disdainfully.

He is followed by a young representative of modern ideas, a North Italian poetess, on a visit to Rome. She is dressed in decadent green draperies (that suit her perfectly, by the way!), and to the accompaniment of angular, decadent gestures, she begins to recite her lines, simply, and in a natural voice. The simplicity is studied, to the point of becoming almost a mannerism. The young people, however, are delighted, especially the men, who gaze with undisguised pleasure at the beautiful poetess.

But suddenly there steps into the centre of the room a young girl amateur, the daughter of a Roman prefect. She recites some verses by d’Annunzio. This is neither the old nor the new school, but simply a burning young Italian soul, and the charming, unaffected sincerity of her art is rewarded by storms of applause.

To singing or piano-playing Italians listen with even still greater attention. No one talks, but each listener seems lost in rapture. No one who can perform hesitates or affectedly waits to be asked half a dozen times; on the contrary, everyone is burning to show off his talent. They enjoy their own performances, and, inspired by the almost religious attention of their hearers, sing more gloriously than would ever be possible in the chilly North.

Art, indeed, and the worship of beauty, is the only religion of the Romans. “Art for art’s sake,” they declare, as they laugh at modern realistic literature.

“Every time we attempt to represent some inward struggle,” complained a famous Italian lady novelist to Irene, “the critics hold us up to ridicule, and say we are imitating Russian writers!”

To tell a Roman writer that his work is pervaded by a Christian spirit is to offend him deeply. He has only one ideal: his verses or his prose must as nearly as possible resemble antique art. The true Roman has a profound contempt for Christianity, a religion, in his eyes, suited only to slaves and low menials, and not to nobler natures. The Roman is a pagan, and is proud of the fact. Nineteen centuries have passed unnoticeably for him. The Eternal City, with its antique ruins, and its ancient associations, holds him enchained. In Northern Italy new ideas, new tendencies, may be possible—but Rome will remain pagan for ever. Perhaps, indeed, this may explain the strong impression Rome produces on many foreigners. There are, in the world, many pagans, on whom life in Christian lands weighs heavily. They have to take part in conversations about love, about unselfishness, about kindness to one’s neighbours, etc., and, being honourable characters, this enforced hypocrisy causes them much mental torment. In Rome, where everyone is frankly pagan, and not in the least ashamed of the fact, they feel like fishes in water, and often settle there for the rest of their lives.

Most humorous of all is the fact that all this pagan world lives in the shadow of the Papal throne. In the eyes of Romans, however, the Pope has never been the High-Priest of Christ on earth. He is simply the Pontifex Maximus, and does not even wish anyone to regard him in any other light. Romans, indeed, make a point of disillusioning every religiously inclined foreigner they come across by laughing at him and holding his pious ideas up to ridicule. If he returns in a reverent mood from a visit to the tomb of St. Peter, they hasten to inform him that, according to historical evidence, the Apostle Peter had never been in Rome, and that his place of burial is unknown. As to the Apostle Paul and other Christian martyrs, their bones were exhumed and their ashes thrown to the winds at the time of the Barbarian invasion.