The following morning Irene awoke feeling depressed and miserable. She was afraid to remain alone with her own thoughts, and wrote to Gzhatski, asking him to come and take her for a drive on the Appian Way. It was Good Friday, and Gzhatski was just on the point of leaving his hotel to go to the Russian Church, when Irene’s letter was handed to him. He guessed from the tone of her words that something unusual was the matter with his friend, and, without hesitating, he immediately drove off to fetch her. Asking no questions, and pretending not to notice her tear-stained eyes and trembling lips, he sat quietly beside her, as the cab rolled past the Colosseum and the Baths of Caracalla, to the Porta San Sebastiano. It was a grey, dull morning. The yellow, thick,[267] Roman dust had been laid by the recent rain, the wind had fallen, and not a leaf stirred on the trees. On either side of the Via Appia Antica rose high stone walls, obstructing the view over the Campagna. At last, however, they passed the tomb of Cecilia Metella, and drove out into the open country. Before them stretched the narrow ancient road, in places still paved with flat stones, in the ancient fashion. This road, straight as an arrow, stretches all the way to Albano, making no zig-zags even when climbing up-hill. It is a road that could only have been made by children, or by ancient Romans! On either side of the way stand monuments of the most varied forms, round, cone-shaped, pyramidal, and other varieties, difficult to name or describe. Some of them still boast bas-reliefs and inscriptions, and here and there fallen statues, armless or headless, peep out between the bushes. Occasionally, too, some stray monument is surrounded by a frame of tall cypresses and Roman pines, but in general, there is not much greenery, except the tall, fresh grass, full of mauve and yellow[268] field-flowers, and scarlet poppies. In the far distance are the blue Albanian hills, and on the left the graceful ruins of the Aqueducts stand out in charming relief against the sky.
Irene gazed in silence at the lovely picture. It was long since she had ventured beyond the stone walls of the city, and now, at sight of Nature in this fresh spring dress, a new, strange, unconquerable desire for happiness suddenly took possession of her soul.
“It is inhuman to be always miserable and in tears, and to eternally curse one’s own existence,” she thought; “everyone has a right to at least occasional gleams of happiness. Who has dared to condemn me to constant despair? I claim my share of joy! I claim it! I demand it! I desire it!”
Irene repeated the words passionately to herself, and it seemed to her that Fate must send her happiness, if only because she desired it so ardently.
“I cannot wait any longer!” she seemed to be inwardly exclaiming to somebody. “I must have happiness immediately—to-day![269] Yes, to-day, to-day—I do not believe in to-morrow!”
Gzhatski, too, was silent, and apparently lost in his own thoughts, as he sat back in the carriage, smiling softly to himself.
“How lovely!” he suddenly exclaimed, turning to Irene. “Don’t you think the Campagna reminds one of the country in Russia? The same limitless space, the same meadows, even the same modest spring, not at all southern and luxurious. I hardly think Nature at my place in the S? province can be much more than a month behind this.”
Presently they alighted, and climbed up a little grassy slope to admire the view, the loveliness of which was enhanced by the wonderful silence in which all Nature seemed wrapt. No sound was heard, except the occasional shy note of a bird, and the low baa-ing of distant sheep.
On the way back they stopped to have tea at the Castello dei Cesari, an original and charming little restaurant, arranged in an ancient tower. They sat near the window of the large hall, with its wooden ceiling,[270] brick floor, antique wooden chandeliers, and enormous antique vases full of flowers.
The magnificent view embraced the Palatine Hill, with its gigantic ruins, and towards evening the setting sun threw the magic of its golden glory alike over the ruins and the lilacs and fruit-trees that bloomed among them.
Was it the springtime, or a likeness between the Campagna and his home that had touched Gzhatski? He suddenly began to speak of his mother, of that holy of holies in his soul that he always kept so jealously to himself. Leaning his elbows on the table, he spoke to Irene of his childhood, his home, his most cherished recollections, and his life with the beloved, sainted guardian of his early days.
“How she loved me! How proud she was of me! With what tenderness she looked at me! She brought me up with nothing but love. When governesses or tutors made some complaint about me, she called me to her, repeated their words, and said: ‘I cannot believe it possible that you should have done such a thing. There must be some[271] misunderstanding. Explain it to me.’ And I was afraid to be naughty, because it was awful to give her pain and to meet her sad, reproachful glance. I was still quite little, but I already realized that life had not brought her much happiness. Besides, the circumstances were such that I naturally reasoned and reflected much more than most children of my age. My father used to come once or twice a year; my mother was always bedridden. The whole household was accustomed to apply to me for orders, and I very early assumed the responsibilities of the master of the house. I remember even that when I was barely twelve, I began to take up a protecting attitude towards my mother! She was more amused than displeased, and told me that she greatly valued such a strong and energetic protector.”
Gzhatski stopped for a moment, and his face assumed a hard expression that Irene had never seen there before.
“She died suddenly,” he continued, lowering his voice. “Three hours before her death, I came to show myself to her in a new[272] riding-suit that had just arrived from Petrograd. She asked to be raised on her cushions that she might see me better, and she looked at me delightedly. I thought myself magnificent, posed, glanced at myself in the glass, and played with my elegant riding-whip. What a child I was at seventeen! I smile to think of it. The new suit was the reason of my taking a longer ride than usual that day, and the groom who was sent to find me could not catch me up. I returned gaily, trotted up to the entrance, jumped from my horse, and then suddenly saw the tear-stained face of our old butler.
“‘Her Excellency is dying,’ he whispered.
“As though in a fog, I passed into my mother’s room, and started back in fright, seeing her lying on the floor. There is a superstition prevalent in our province to the effect that it is bad to die in bed, and that, at the approach of the agony, the dying must be laid on the floor—i.e., as near as possible to the ground. I have no idea whether my mother really knew of this superstition, but her old and trusted maid afterwards told me[273] that she had suddenly expressed a wish to be laid on the floor. The wish had been complied with, the maids hurriedly arranging rugs and cushions for the purpose.
“The agony had already begun when I fell on my knees beside my mother. Twice she spoke my name, b............