XXXIV

Insarov waked late with a dull pain in his head, and a feeling, as he expressed it, of disgusting weakness all over. He got up however.

'Renditch has not come?' was his first question.

'Not yet,' answered Elena, and she handed him the latest number of the Osservatore Triestino, in which there was much upon the war, the Slav Provinces, and the Principalities. Insarov began reading it; she busied herself in getting some coffee ready for him. Some one knocked at the door.

'Renditch,' both thought at once, but a voice said in Russian, 'May I come in?' Elena and Insarov looked at each other in astonishment; and without waiting for an answer, an elegantly dressed young man entered the room, with a small sharp-featured face, and bright little eyes. He was beaming all over, as though he had just won a fortune or heard a most delightful piece of news.

Insarov got up from his seat

'You don't recognise me,' began the stranger, going up to him with an easy air, and bowing politely to Elena, 'Lupoyarov, do you remember, we met at Moscow at the E----'s.'

'Yes, at the E----'s,' replied Insarov.

'To be sure, to be sure! I beg you to present me to your wife. Madam, I have always had the profoundest respect for Dmitri Vassilyevitch' (he corrected himself)--'for Nikanor Vassilyevitch, and am very happy to have the pleasure at last of making your acquaintance. Fancy,' he continued, turning to Insarov, 'I only heard yesterday evening that you were here. I am staying at this hotel too. What a city! Venice is poetry--that's the only word for it! But one thing's really awful: the cursed Austrians meeting one at every turn! ah, these Austrians! By the way, have you heard, there's been a decisive battle on the Danube: three hundred Turkish officers killed, Silistria taken; Servia has declared its independence. You, as a patriot, ought to be in transports, oughtn't you? Even my Slavonic blood's positively on fire! I advise you to be more careful, though; I'm convinced there's a watch kept on you. The spies here are something awful! A suspicious-looking man came up to me yesterday and asked: "Are you a Russian?" I told him I was a Dane. But you seem unwell, dear Nikanor Vassilyevitch. You ought to see a doctor; madam, you ought to make your husband see a doctor. Yesterday I ran through the palaces and churches, as though I were crazy. I suppose you've been in the palace of the Doges? What magnificence everywhere! Especially that great hall and Marino Faliero's place: there's an inscription: decapitati pro criminibus. I've been in the famous prisons too; that threw me into indignation, you may fancy. I've always, you remember perhaps, taken an interest in social questions, and taken sides against aristocracy--well, that's where I should like to send the champions of aristocracy--to those dungeons. How well Byron said: I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs; though he was an aristocrat too. I was always for progress--the younger generation are all for progress. And what do you say to the Anglo-French business? We shall see whether they can do much, Boustrapa and Palmerston. You know Palmerston has been made Prime Minister. No, say what you like, the Russian fist is not to be despised. He's awfully deep that Boustrapa! If you like I will lend you Les Chatiments de Victor Hugo--it's marvellous--L'avenir, le gendarme de Dieu--rather boldly written, but what force in it, what force! That was a fine saying, too, of Prince Vyazemsky's: "Europe repeats: Bash-Kadik-Lar keeping an eye on Sinope." I adore poetry. I have Proudhon's last work, too--I have everything. I don't know how you feel, but I'm glad of the war; only as I'm not required at home, I'm going from here to Florence, and to Rome. France I can't go to--so I'm thinking of Spain--the women there, I'm told, are marvellous! only such poverty, and so many insects. I would be off to California--we Russians are ready to do anything--but I promised an editor to study the question of the commerce of the Mediterranean in detail. You will say that's an uninteresting, special subject, but that's just what we need, specialists; we have philosophised enough, now we need the practical, the practical. But you are very unwell, Nikanor Vassilyevitch, I am tiring you, perhaps, but still I must stay a little longer.'

And for a long time Lupoyarov still babbled on in the same way, and, as he went away, he promised to come again.

Worn out by the unexpected visit, Insarov lay down on the sofa. 'So this,' he said, mournfully looking at Elena, 'is your younger generation! There are plenty who show off, and give themselves airs, while at heart they are as empty chatterboxes as that worthy.'

Elena made no reply to her husband; at that instant she was far more concerned at Insarov's weakness than at the character of the whole younger generation in Russia. She sat down near him, and took up some work. He closed his eyes, and lay without moving, white and thin. Elena glanced at his sharp profile, at his emaciated hands, and felt a sudden pang of terror.

'Dmitri,' she began.

He started. 'Eh? Has Renditch come?'

'Not yet--but what do you think--you are in a fever, you are really not quite well, shouldn't we send for a doctor?'

'That wretched gossip has frightened you. There's no necessity. I will rest a little, and it will pass off. After dinner we will go out again--somewhere.'

Two hours passed. Insarov still lay on the sofa, but he could not sleep, though he did not open his eyes. Elena did not leave his side; she had dropped her work upon her knee, and did not stir.

'Why don't you go to sleep?' she asked at last.

'Wait a little.' He took her hand, and placed it under his head. 'There--that is nice. Wake me at once directly Renditch comes. If he says the ship is ready, we will start at once. We ought to pack everything.'

'Packing won't take long,' answered Elena.

'That fellow babbled something about a battle, about Servia,' said Insarov, after a short interval. 'I suppose he made it all up. But we must, we must start. We can't lose time. Be ready.'

He fell asleep, and everything was still in the room.

Elena let her head rest against the back of her chair, and gazed a long while out of the window. The weather had changed for the worse; the wind had risen. Great white clouds were scudding over the sky, a slender mast was swaying in the distance, a long streamer, with a red cross on it, kept fluttering, falling, and fluttering again. The pendulum of the old-fashioned clock ticked drearily, with a kind of melancholy whirr. Elena shut her eyes. She had slept badly all night; gradually she, too, fell asleep.

She had a strange dream. She thought sha was floating in a boat on the Tsaritsino lake with some unknown people. They did not speak, but sat motionless, no one was rowing; the boat was moving by itself. Elena was not afraid, but she felt dreary; she wanted to know who were these people, and why she was with them? She looked and the lake grew broader, the banks vanished--now it was not a lake but a stormy sea: immense blue silent waves rocked the boat majestically; something menacing, roaring was rising from the depths; her unknown companions jumped up, shrieking, wringing their hands . . . Elena recognised their faces; her father was among them. But a kind of white whirlwind came flying over the waves--everything was turning round, everything was confounded together.

Elena looked about her; as before, all around was white; but it was snow, snow, boundless plains of snow. And she was not now in a boat, but travelling, as she had come from Moscow, in a sledge; she was not alone; by her side was sitting a little creature muffled in an old cloak; Elena looked closely; it was Katya, her poor little friend. Elena was seized with terror. 'Why, isn't she dead?' she thought.

'Katya, where are we going together?' Katya did not answer, and nestled herself closer in her little cloak; she was freezing. Elena too was cold; she looked along the road into the distance; far away a town could be seen through the fine drifting snow. High white towers with silvery cupolas . . . 'Katya, Katya, is it Moscow? No,' thought Elena, 'it is Solovetsky Monastery; it's full of little narrow cells like a beehive; it's stifling, cramping there--and Dmitri's shut up there. I must rescue him.' . . . Suddenly a grey, yawning abyss opened before her. The sledge was falling, Katya was laughing. 'Elena, Elena!' came a voice from the abyss.

'Elena!' sounded distinctly in her ears. She raised her head quickly, turned round, and was stupefied: Insarov, white as snow, the snow of her dream, had half risen from the sofa, and was staring at her with large, bright, dreadful eyes. His hair hung in disorder on his forehead and his lips parted strangely. Horror, mingled with an anguish of tenderness, was expressed on his suddenly transfigured face.

'Elena!' he articulated, 'I am dying.'

She fell with a scream on her knees, and clung to his breast.

'It's all over,' repeated Insarov: 'I'm dying . . . Good-bye, my poor girl! good-bye, my country!' and he fell backwards on to the sofa.

Elena rushed out of the room, began calling for help; a waiter ran for a doctor. Elena clung to Insarov.

At that instant in the doorway appeared a broad-shouldered, sunburnt man, in a stout frieze coat and a low oil-skin hat. He stood still in bewilderment.

'Renditch!' cried Elena, 'it's you! Look, for God's sake, he's ill! What's wrong? Good God! He went out yesterday, he was talking to me just now.'

Renditch said nothing and only moved on one side. There slipped quickly past him a little figure in a wig and spectacles; it was a doctor living in the same hotel. He went up to Insarov.

'Signora,' he said, after the lapse of a few minutes, 'the foreign gentleman is dead--il Signore forestiere e morte--of aneurism in combination with disease of the lungs.'

XXXV

The next day, in the same room, Renditch was standing at the window; before him, wrapped in a shawl, sat Elena. In the next room, Insarov lay in his coffin. Elena's face was both scared and lifeless; two lines could be seen on her forehead between her eyebrows; they gave a strained expression to her fixed eyes. In the window lay an open letter from Anna Vassilyevna. She begged her daughter to come to Moscow if only for a month, complained of her loneliness, and of Nikolai Artemyevitch, sent greetings to Insarov, inquired after his health, and begged him to spare his wife.

Renditch was a Dalmatian, a sailor, with whom Insarov had become acquainted during his wanderings in his own country, and whom he had sought out in Venice. He was a dry, gruff man, full of daring and devoted to the Slavonic cause. He despised the Turks and hated the Austrians.

'How long must you remain at Venice?' Elena asked him in Italian. And her voice was as lifeless as her face.

'One day for freighting and not to rouse suspicions, and then straight to Zara. I shall have sad news for our countrymen. They have long been expecting him; they rested their hopes on him.'

'They rested their hopes on him,' Elena repeated mechanically.

'When will you bury him?' asked Renditch.

Elena not at once replied, 'To-morrow.'

'To-morrow? I will stop; I should like to throw a handful of earth into his grave. And you will want help. But it would have been better for him to lie in Slavonic earth.'

Elena looked at Renditch.

'Captain,' she said, 'take me and him and carry us across to the other side of the sea, away from here. Isn't that possible?'

Renditch considered: 'Possible certainly, but difficult. We shall have to come into collision with the damned authorities here. But supposing we arrange all that and bury him there, how am I to bring you back?'

'You need not bring me back.'

'What? where will you stop?'

'I shall find some place for myself; only take us, take me.'

Renditch scratched the back of his head.

'You know best; but it's all very difficult. I will, I will try; and you expect me here in two hours' time.'

He went away. Elena passed into the next room, leaned against the wall, and for a long time stood there as though turned to stone. Then she dropped on her knees, but she could not pray. There was no reproach in her heart; she did not dare to question God's will, to ask why He had not spared, pitied, saved, why He had punished her beyond her guilt, if she were guilty. Each of us is guilty by the fact that he lives; and there is no one so great a thinker, so great a benefactor of mankind that he might hope to have a right to live for the service he has done. . . . Still Elena could not pray; she was a stone.

The same night a broad-bottomed boat put off from the hotel where the Insarovs lived. In the boat sat Elena with Renditch and beside them stood a long box covered with a black cloth. They rowed for about an hour, and at last reached a small two-masted ship, which was riding at anchor at the very entrance of the harbour. Elena and Renditch got into the ship; the sailors carried in the box. At midnight a storm had arisen, but early in the morning the ship had passed out of the Lido. During the day the storm raged with fearful violence, and experienced seamen in Lloyd's offices shook their heads and prophesied no good. The Adriatic Sea between Venice, Trieste, and the Dalmatian coast is particularly dangerous.

Three weeks after Elena's departure from Vienna, Anna Vassilyevna received the following letter in Moscow:--

'My DEAR PARENTS.--I am saying goodbye to you for ever. You will never see me again. Dmitri died yesterday. Everything is over for me. To-day I am setting off with his body to Zara. I will bury him, and what will become of me, I don't know. But now I have no country but Dmitri's country. There, they are preparing for revolution, they are getting ready for war. I will join the Sisters of Mercy; I will tend the sick and the wounded. I don't know what will become of me, but even after Dmitri's death, I will be faithful to his memory, to the work of his whole life. I have learnt Bulgarian and Servian. Very likely, I shall not have strength to live through it all for long--so much the better. I have been brought to the edge of the precipice and I must fall over. Fate did not bring us together for nothing; who knows?--perhaps I killed him; now it is his turn to draw me after him. I sought happiness, and I shall find--perhaps death. It seems it was to be thus: it seems it was a sin. . . . But death covers all and reconciles all; does it not? Forgive me all the suffering I have caused you; it was not under my control. But how could I return to Russia; What have I to do in Russia?

'Accept my last kisses and blessings, and do not condemn me.

R.'

* * *

Nearly five years have passed since then, and no further news of Elena has come. All letters and inquiries were fruitless; in vain did Nikolai Artemyevitch himself make a journey to Venice and to Zara after peace was concluded. In Venice he learnt what is already known to the reader, but in Zara no one could give him any positive information about Renditch and the ship he had taken. There were dark rumours that some years back, after a great storm, the sea had thrown up on shore a coffin in which had been found a man's body . . . But according to other more trustworthy accounts this coffin had not been thrown up by the sea at all, but had been carried over and buried near the shore by a foreign lady, coming from Venice; some added that they had seen this lady afterwards in Herzegovina, with the forces which were there assembled; they even described her dress, black from head to foot However it was, all trace of Elena had disappeared beyond recovery for ever; and no one knows whether she is still living, whether she is hidden away somewhere, or whether the petty drama of life is over--the little ferment of her existence is at an end; and she has found death in her turn. It happens at times that a man wakes up and asks himself with involuntary horror, 'Can I be already thirty . . . forty . . . fifty? How is it life has passed so soon? How is it death has moved up so close?' Death is like a fisher who catches fish in his net and leaves them for a while in the water; the fish is still swimming but the net is round him, and the fisher will draw him up--when he thinks fit.

* * *

What became of the other characters of our story?

Anna Vassilyevna is still living; she has aged very much since the blow that has fallen on her; is less complaining, but far more wretched. Nikolai Artemyevitch, too, has grown older and greyer, and has parted from Augustina Christianovna. ... He has taken now to abusing everything foreign. His housekeeper, a handsome woman of thirty, a Russian, wears silk dresses and gold rings and bracelets. Kurnatovsky, like every man of ardent temperament and dark complexion, a devoted admirer of pretty blondes, married Zoya; she is in complete subjection to him and has even given up thinking in German. Bersenyev is in Heidelberg; he has been sent abroad at the expense of government; he has visited Berlin and Paris and is not wasting his time; he has become a thoroughly efficient professor. The attention of the learned public has been caught by his two articles: 'On some peculiarities of ancient law as regards judicial sentences,' and 'On the significance of cities in civilisation.' It is only a pity that both articles are written in rather a heavy style, disfigured by foreign words. Shubin is in Rome; he is completely given up to his art and is reckoned one of the most remarkable and promising of young sculptors. Severe tourists consider that he has not sufficiently studied the antique, that he has 'no style,' and reckon him one of the French school; he has had a great many orders from the English and Americans. Of late, there has been much talk about a Bacchante of his; the Russian Count Boboshkin, the well-known millionaire, thought of buying it for one thousand scudi, but decided in preference to give three thousand to another sculptor, French pur sang, for a group entitled, 'A youthful shepherdess dying for love in the bosom of the Genius of Spring.' Shubin writes from time to time to Uvar Ivanovitch, who alone has remained quite unaltered in all respects. 'Do you remember,' he wrote to him lately, 'what you said to me that night, when poor Elena's marriage was made known, when I was sitting on your bed talking to you? Do you remember I asked you, "Will there ever be men among us?" and you answered "There will be." O primeval force! And now from here in "my poetic distance," I will ask you again: "What do you say, Uvar Ivanovitch, will there be?"'

Uvar Ivanovitch flourished his fingers and fixed his enigmatical stare into the far distance.

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