'How old are you?' she asked suddenly.
'Twenty-two.'
'Really? I'm twenty-two too. A nice age. Add both together and you'restill far off old age. It's hot, though. Am I very red, eh?'
'Like a poppy!'
Maria Nikolaevna rubbed her face with her handkerchief. 'We've onlyto get to the forest and there it will be cool. Such an old forest islike an old friend. Have you any friends?'
Sanin thought a little. 'Yes ... only few. No real ones.'
'I have; real ones--but not old ones. This is a friend too--a horse.How carefully it carries one! Ah, but it's splendid here! Is itpossible I am going to Paris the day after to-morrow?'
'Yes ... is it possible?' Sanin chimed in.
'And you to Frankfort?'
'I am certainly going to Frankfort.'
'Well, what of it? Good luck go with you! Anyway, to-day's ours ...ours ... ours!'
* * * * *
The horses reached the forest's edge and pushed on into the forest.The broad soft shade of the forest wrapt them round on all sides.
'Oh, but this is paradise!' cried Maria Nikolaevna. 'Further, deeperinto the shade, Sanin!'
The horses moved slowly on, 'deeper into the shade,' slightly swayingand snorting. The path, by which they had come in, suddenly turnedoff and plunged into a rather narrow gorge. The smell of heather andbracken, of the resin of the pines, and the decaying leaves of lastyear, seemed to hang, close and drowsy, about it. Through the cleftsof the big brown rocks came strong currents of fresh air. On bothsides of the path rose round hillocks covered with green moss.
'Stop!' cried Maria Nikolaevna, 'I want to sit down and rest on thisvelvet. Help me to get off.'
Sanin leaped off his horse and ran up to her. She leaned on both hisshoulders, sprang instantly to the ground, and seated herself on oneof the mossy mounds. He stood before her, holding both the horses'bridles in his hand.
She lifted her eyes to him.... 'Sanin, are you able to forget?'
Sanin recollected what had happened yesterday ... in the carriage.'What is that--a question ... or a reproach?'
'I have never in my life reproached any one for anything. Do youbelieve in magic?'
'What?'
'In magic?--you know what is sung of in our ballads--our Russianpeasant ballads?'
'Ah! That's what you're speaking of,' Sanin said slowly.
'Yes, that's it. I believe in it ... and you will believe in it.'
'Magic is sorcery ...' Sanin repeated, 'Anything in the world ispossible. I used not to believe in it--but I do now. I don't knowmyself.'
Maria Nikolaevna thought a moment and looked about her. 'I fancy thisplace seems familiar to me. Look, Sanin, behind that bushy oak--isthere a red wooden cross, or not?'
Sanin moved a few steps to one side. 'Yes, there is.' Maria Nikolaevnasmiled. 'Ah, that's good! I know where we are. We haven't got lost asyet. What's that tapping? A wood-cutter?'
Sanin looked into the thicket. 'Yes ... there's a man there choppingup dry branches.'
'I must put my hair to rights,' said Maria Nikolaevna. 'Else he'll seeme and be shocked.' She took off her hat and began plaiting up herlong hair, silently and seriously. Sanin stood facing her ... All thelines of her graceful limbs could be clearly seen through the darkfolds of her habit, dotted here and there with tufts of moss.
One of the horses suddenly shook itself behind Sanin's back; hehimself started and trembled from head to foot. Everything was inconfusion within him, his nerves were strung up like harpstrings. Hemight well say he did not know himself.... He really was bewitched.His whole being was filled full of one thing ... one idea, one desire.Maria Nikolaevna turned a keen look upon him.
'Come, now everything's as it should be,' she observed, putting on herhat. 'Won't you sit down? Here! No, wait a minute ... don't sit down!What's that?'
Over the tree-tops, over the air of the forest, rolled a dullrumbling.
'Can it be thunder?'
'I think it really is thunder,' answered Sanin.
'Oh, this is a treat, a real treat! That was the only thing wanting!'The dull rumble was heard a second time, rose, and fell in a crash.'Bravo! Bis! Do you remember I spoke of the _AEneid_ yesterday? Theytoo were overtaken by a storm in the forest, you know. We must be off,though.' She rose swiftly to her feet. 'Bring me my horse.... Give meyour hand. There, so. I'm not heavy.'
She hopped like a bird into the saddle. Sanin too mounted his horse.
'Are you going home?' he asked in an unsteady voice.
'Home indeed!' she answered deliberately and picked up the reins.'Follow me,' she commanded almost roughly. She came out on to the roadand passing the red cross, rode down into a hollow, clambered up againto a cross road, turned to the right and again up the mountainside....She obviously knew where the path led, and the path led farther andfarther into the heart of the forest. She said nothing and did notlook round; she moved imperiously in front and humbly and submissivelyhe followed without a spark of will in his sinking heart. Rain beganto fall in spots. She quickened her horse's pace, and he did notlinger behind her. At last through the dark green of the young firsunder an overhanging grey rock, a tumbledown little hut peeped out athim, with a low door in its wattle wall.... Maria Nikolaevna madeher mare push through the fir bushes, leaped off her, and appearingsuddenly at the entrance to the hut, turned to Sanin, and whispered'AEneas.'
* * * * *
Four hours later, Maria Nikolaevna and Sanin, accompanied by thegroom, who was nodding in the saddle, returned to Wiesbaden, to thehotel. Polozov met his wife with the letter to the overseer in hishand. After staring rather intently at her, he showed signs of somedispleasure on his face, and even muttered, 'You don't mean to sayyou've won your bet?'
Maria Nikolaevna simply shrugged her shoulders.
* * * * *
The same day, two hours later, Sanin was standing in his own roombefore her, like one distraught, ruined....
'Where are you going, dear?' she asked him. 'To Paris, or toFrankfort?'
'I am going where you will be, and will be with you till you drive meaway,' he answered with despair and pressed close to him the handsof his sovereign. She freed her hands, laid them on his head, andclutched at his hair with her fingers. She slowly turned over andtwisted the unresisting hair, drew herself up, her lips curled withtriumph, while her eyes, wide and clear, almost white, expressednothing but the ruthlessness and glutted joy of conquest. The hawk, asit clutches a captured bird, has eyes like that.
XLIII
This was what Dimitri Sanin remembered when in the stillness of hisroom turning over his old papers he found among them a garnet cross.The events we have described rose clearly and consecutively before hismental vision.... But when he reached the moment when he addressedthat humiliating prayer to Madame Polozov, when he grovelled at herfeet, when his slavery began, he averted his gaze from the images hehad evoked, he tried to recall no more. And not that his memory failedhim, oh no! he knew only too well what followed upon that moment, buthe was stifled by shame, even now, so many years after; he dreadedthat feeling of self-contempt, which he knew for certain wouldoverwhelm him, and like a torrent, flood all other feelings if he didnot bid his memory be still. But try as he would to turn away fromthese memories, he could not stifle them entirely. He remembered thescoundrelly, tearful, lying, pitiful letter he had sent to Gemma, thatnever received an answer.... See her again, go back to her, after suchfalsehood, such treachery, no! no! he could not, so much conscienceand honesty was left in him. Moreover, he had lost every trace ofconfidence in himself, every atom of self-respect; he dared not relyon himself for anything. Sanin recollected too how he had lateron--oh, ignominy!--sent the Polozovs' footman to Frankfort for histhings, what cowardly terror he had felt, how he had had one thoughtonly, to get away as soon as might be to Paris--to Paris; how inobedience to Maria Nikolaevna, he had humoured and tried to pleaseIppolit
Sidoritch and been amiable to Doenhof, on whose finger henoticed just such an iron ring as Maria Nikolaevna had given him!!!Then followed memories still worse, more ignominious ... the waiterhands him a visiting card, and on it is the name, 'PantaleoneCippatola, court singer to His Highness the Duke of Modena!' He hidesfrom the old man, but cannot escape meeting him in the corridor, anda face of exasperation rises before him under an upstanding topknotof grey hair; the old eyes blaze like red-hot coals, and he hearsmenacing cries and curses: '_Maledizione!_' hears even the terriblewords: '_Codardo! Infame traditore!_' Sanin closes his eyes, shakeshis head, turns away again and again, but still he sees himselfsitting in a travelling carriage on the narrow front seat ... In thecomfortable places facing the horses sit Maria Nikolaevna and IppolitSidoritch, the four horses trotting all together fly along the pavedroads of Wiesbaden to Paris! to Paris! Ippolit Sidoritch is eating apear which Sanin has peeled for him, while Maria Nikolaevna watcheshim and smiles at him, her bondslave, that smile he knows already, thesmile of the proprietor, the slave-owner.... But, good God, out thereat the corner of the street not far from the city walls, wasn't itPantaleone again, and who with him? Can it be Emilio? Yes, it washe, the enthusiastic devoted boy! Not long since his young face hadbeen full of reverence before his hero, his ideal, but now his palehandsome face, so handsome that Maria Nikolaevna noticed him and pokedher head out of the carriage window, that noble face is glowing withanger and contempt; his eyes, so like _her_ eyes! are fastened uponSanin, and the tightly compressed lips part to revile him....
And Pantaleone stretches out his hand and points Sanin out toTartaglia standing near, and Tartaglia barks at Sanin, and the verybark of the faithful dog sounds like an unbearable reproach....Hideous!
And then, the life in Paris, and all the humiliations, all theloathsome tortures of the slave, who dare not be jealous or complain,and who is cast aside at last, like a worn-out garment....
Then the going home to his own country, the poisoned, the devastatedlife, the petty interests and petty cares, bitter and fruitlessregret, and as bitter and fruitless apathy, a punishment not apparent,but of every minute, continuous, like some trivial but incurabledisease, the payment farthing by farthing of the debt, which can neverbe settled....
The cup was full enough.
* * * * *
How had the garnet cross given Sanin by Gemma existed till now, whyhad he not sent it back, how had it happened that he had never comeacross it till that day? A long, long while he sat deep in thought,and taught as he was by the experience of so many years, he stillcould not comprehend how he could have deserted Gemma, so tenderly andpassionately loved, for a woman he did not love at all.... Next day hesurprised all his friends and acquaintances by announcing that he wasgoing abroad.
The surprise was general in society. Sanin was leaving Petersburg, inthe middle of the winter, after having only just taken and furnished acapital flat, and having even secured seats for all the performancesof the Italian Opera, in which Madame Patti ... Patti, herself,herself, was to take part! His friends and acquaintances wondered;but it is not human nature as a rule to be interested long in otherpeople's affairs, and when Sanin set off for abroad, none came to therailway station to see him off but a French tailor, and he only inthe hope of securing an unpaid account '_pour un saute-en-barque envelours noir tout a fait chic_.'
XLIV
Sanin told his friends he was going abroad, but he did not say whereexactly: the reader will readily conjecture that he made straight forFrankfort. Thanks to the general extension of railways, on the fourthday after leaving Petersburg he was there. He had not visited theplace since 1840. The hotel, the White Swan, was standing in its oldplace and still flourishing, though no longer regarded as first class.The _Zeile_, the principal street of Frankfort was little changed,but there was not only no trace of Signora Roselli's house, the verystreet in which it stood had disappeared. Sanin wandered like a man ina dream about the places once so familiar, and recognised nothing; theold buildings had vanished; they were replaced by new streets of hugecontinuous houses and fine villas; even the public garden, where thatlast interview with Gemma had taken place, had so grown up and alteredthat Sanin wondered if it really were the same garden. What was he todo? How and where could he get information? Thirty years, no littlething! had passed since those days. No one to whom he applied hadeven heard of the name Roselli; the hotel-keeper advised him to haverecourse to the public library, there, he told him, he would findall the old newspapers, but what good he would get from that, thehotel-keeper owned he didn't see. Sanin in despair made inquiriesabout Herr Klueber. That name the hotel-keeper knew well, but there toono success awaited him. The elegant shop-manager, after making muchnoise in the world and rising to the position of a capitalist, hadspeculated, was made bankrupt, and died in prison.... This piece ofnews did not, however, occasion Sanin the slightest regret. He wasbeginning to feel that his journey had been rather precipitate....But, behold, one day, as he was turning over a Frankfort directory,he came on the name: Von Doenhof, retired major. He promptly took acarriage and drove to the address, though why was this Von Doenhofcertain to be that Doenhof, and why even was the right Doenhof likelyto be able to tell him any news of the Roselli family? No matter, adrowning man catches at straws.
Sanin found the retired major von Doenhof at home, and in thegrey-haired gentleman who received him he recognised at once hisadversary of bygone days. Doenhof knew him too, and was positivelydelighted to see him; he recalled to him his young days, the escapadesof his youth. Sanin heard from him that the Roselli family had long,long ago emigrated to America, to New York; that Gemma had married amerchant; that he, Doenhof, had an acquaintance also a merchant, whowould probably know her husband's address, as he did a great deal ofbusiness with America. Sanin begged Doenhof to consult this friend,and, to his delight, Doenhof brought him the address of Gemma'shusband, Mr. Jeremy Slocum, New York, Broadway, No. 501. Only thisaddress dated from the year 1863.
'Let us hope,' cried Doenhof, 'that our Frankfort belle is still aliveand has not left New York! By the way,' he added, dropping his voice,'what about that Russian lady, who was staying, do you remember, aboutthat time at Wiesbaden--Madame von Bo ... von Bolozov, is she stillliving?'
'No,' answered Sanin, 'she died long ago.' Doenhof looked up, butobserving that Sanin had turned away and was frowning, he did not sayanother word, but took his leave.
* * * * *
That same day Sanin sent a letter to Madame Gemma Slocum, at New York.In the letter he told her he was writing to her from Frankfort, wherehe had come solely with the object of finding traces of her, thathe was very well aware that he was absolutely without a right toexpect that she would answer his appeal; that he had not deserved herforgiveness, and could only hope that among happy surroundings she hadlong ago forgotten his existence. He added that he had made up hismind to recall himself to her memory in consequence of a chancecircumstance which had too vividly brought back to him the imagesof the past; he described his life, solitary, childless, joyless;he implored her to understand the grounds that had induced him toaddress her, not to let him carry to the grave the bitter sense of hisown wrongdoing, expiated long since by suffering, but never forgiven,and to make him happy with even the briefest news of her life in thenew world to which she had gone away. 'In writing one word to me,'so Sanin ended his letter, 'you will be doing a good action worthyof your noble soul, and I shall thank you to my last breath. I amstopping here at the _White Swan_ (he underlined those words) andshall wait, wait till spring, for your answer.'
He despatched this letter, and proceeded to wait. For six whole weekshe lived in the hotel, scarcely leaving his room, and resolutelyseeing no one. No one could write to him from Russia nor fromanywhere; and that just suited his mood; if a letter came addressed tohim he would know at once that it was the one he was waiting for.He read from morning till evening, and not journals, but seriousbooks--historical works.
These prolonged studies, this stillness, thishidden life, like a snail in its shell, suited his spiritual conditionto perfection and for this, if nothing more, thanks to Gemma! But wasshe alive? Would she answer?
At last a letter came, with an American postmark, from New York,addressed to him. The handwriting of the address on the envelope wasEnglish.... He did not recognise it, and there was a pang at hisheart. He could not at once bring himself to break open the envelope.He glanced at the signature--Gemma! The tears positively gushed fromhis eyes: the mere fact that she signed her name, without a surname,was a pledge to him of reconciliation, of forgiveness! He unfolded thethin sheet of blue notepaper: a photograph slipped out. He made hasteto pick it up--and was struck dumb with amazement: Gemma, Gemmaliving, young as he had known her thirty years ago! The same eyes,the same lips, the same form of the whole face! On the back of thephotograph was written, 'My daughter Mariana.' The whole letter wasvery kind and simple. Gemma thanked Sanin for not having hesitated towrite to her, for having confidence in her; she did not conceal fromhim that she had passed some painful moments after his disappearance,but she added at once that for all that she considered--and had alwaysconsidered--her meeting him as a happy thing, seeing that it was thatmeeting which had prevented her from becoming the wife of Mr. Klueber,and in that way, though indirectly, had led to her marriage with herhusband, with whom she had now lived twenty-eight years, in perfecthappiness, comfort, and prosperity; their house was known to everyone in New York. Gemma informed Sanin that she was the mother of fivechildren, four sons and one daughter, a girl of eighteen, engagedto be married, and her photograph she enclosed as she was generallyconsidered very like her mother. The sorrowful news Gemma kept for theend of the letter. Frau Lenore had died in New York, where she hadfollowed her daughter and son-in-law, but she had lived long enough torejoice in her children's happiness and to nurse her grandchildren.Pantaleone, too, had meant to come out to America, but he had died onthe very eve of leaving Frankfort. 'Emilio, our beloved, incomparableEmilio, died a glorious death for the freedom of his country inSicily, where he was one of the "Thousand" under the leadership of thegreat Garibaldi; we all bitterly lamented the loss of our pricelessbrother, but, even in the midst of our tears, we were proud ofhim--and shall always be proud of him--and hold his memory sacred!His lofty, disinterested soul was worthy of a martyr's crown!' ThenGemma expressed her regret that Sanin's life had apparently beenso unsuccessful, wished him before everything peace and a tranquilspirit, and said that she would be very glad to see him again, thoughshe realised how unlikely such a meeting was....