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, 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 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! 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, 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 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 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 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, but she no longer recognized me. She muttered something, stirring restlessly on her pillow. I bent over her, and caught the words:

“‘Life—life—how cruel it is! Nothing but tears and sorrow and despair! Not a moment of happiness! Not a moment of joy.…’

“I shuddered at these words. So these were my mother’s hidden thoughts! The whisper grew still lower, and then ceased.… We all waited and listened, and suddenly we knew that she had ceased to be. Someone burst into tears. They lifted her from the floor, and her thin, wasted body took a strange attitude, as it lay heavily and awkwardly in the arms of the maids. At that moment I realized that she was no longer a being, but a thing; and, with a cry of horror, I fled. I shut myself up in my room, and sobbed all the evening, as much with grief at having lost her as with the sharp pain her last words had caused me.

“‘She had assured me that I was her life and her joy,’ I thought, ‘and yet for how little had I counted in her existence.’

“During all our life together, during all those years that had been so dear to me, she had only suffered and hidden her pain from me! ‘Never a moment of happiness!’ Those last words rang in my ears with cruel and horrible insistence.

“It was already night when I ventured out of my room. The whole household was sleeping; only the deacon was reading the psalms for the dead, in a melancholy voice, beside my mother’s body. She lay there, all in white, surrounded with flowers. I approached on tiptoe, and stood still, gazing at her; she looked so small, so thin, so frail, like an old child. A feeling of boundless pity took possession of my soul. ‘How, oh how had she deserved so sad a destiny?’ I asked myself hopelessly. ‘What had she done? How had she offended God?’

“And I pressed close to her and kissed her, and felt that I had never understood how much she loved me. Only a love that knew no limits could have given her the strength to hide her pain so completely. She had not wanted to sadden my childhood; she had realized that a child could only grow up and develop well and normally when surrounded by love and happiness. How many mothers have I met since who have failed to realize this, and who have ruined the futures of their children by letting them share, at a tender age, tears and sorrows beyond their years!

“I remained beside my mother till dawn; and during that night, it was as if some voice had told me that I should never again have a true friend. The prophecy has indeed been fulfilled; I know the entire province, but I have not a friend. Sometimes, too, I have flattered myself with the hope that I had found a true woman with whom I would like to share my life; but always, as I came within reach of the prize, it melted away, having been but a dream. Fate always seemed to say to me: ‘You have had your fair share of woman’s love, and have no right for more.’

“This very winter again, it at one time seemed to me, Irene Pavlovna, that I had found in you a true friend; but I am afraid you are too much occupied with your own salvation to sacrifice any time or thought to friendship. And yet if anything in the world can save you, it is not a convent and not Catholicism, but simply an active interest in your fellow-creatures. When experience and observation have taught us love and charity, we are saved, and life is no longer terrible. Fate may be as cruel as she pleases; but if we have warmth and love in our hearts, we shall never be alone, never in despair, and shall never think of self-destruction, if only out of pity for all our suffering brothers, whom, as long as we live, we have always the chance of helping.

“If only you could rid yourself of the idea that you are too old for marriage! For what precisely is it that you think yourself too old? For kisses? It is extraordinary that women never seem to see anything beyond the mere physical side of marriage! Look at it from a higher, purer, more Christian standpoint! Believe me, what men need most is sympathy, friendship, understanding, and the generous, noble love that can forgive us our faults and our shortcomings. I have contemplated your state of mind from every standpoint, and sometimes I wonder whether the sickness of my own soul is not even more dangerous and incurable than yours. I only cannot myself see it so plainly, or rather I do not attach to it the importance it deserves.…”

Irene became engaged to Gzhatski, and he persuaded her to leave Rome as quickly as possible, and go to the Riviera, whither his doctors were sending him, in fear of Roman springtime malaria. To tell the truth, Gzhatski was far less afraid of malaria than of PÈre Etienne, the strength of whose influence over Irene he greatly exaggerated. Natures like Irene’s never remain long under the same influence. They are swayed by sudden enthusiasms and equally sudden disappointments. Blown to right and to left by every passing breeze, they fling themselves into one friendship and then another, searching for happiness everywhere, and finding it nowhere. The hour of Catholicism in the person of PÈre Etienne had struck and passed, and there had dawned the new dream of salvation through love.

Irene agreed to go with Gzhatski to Monte Carlo. The day and hour of departure were already fixed; but she still had not the courage to inform PÈre Etienne of her new plans. She tried several times to write to him, but always ended by tearing her lengthy explanations in despair. At last, on the very morning of the great day, an hour before her departure, she sent him a note, informing him of her unexpected decision to leave immediately for the Riviera, and promising to write at greater length from there.

Irene had proposed to meet Gzhatski at the station; but he had obstinately insisted on coming to fetch her, and she had been obliged to give in. Her acquaintances at the pension said good-bye to her very coldly; they could not forgive her for her treachery to the cause of their beloved Catholicism. Some of them regarded her with contempt, others with envy.

Gzhatski’s cab stood at the door, and Irene was already seated in it, impatiently longing to start. The servants were tying on the luggage, Gzhatski was standing on the pavement, smoking and giving occasional directions, and at the windows of the pension interested faces could be seen peeping through the curtains. At this moment PÈre Etienne, puffing and panting in hot haste, appeared round the corner. The kind old man had just received Irene’s note, and had come to say good-bye, and to bless her before her departure. Catching sight of Gzhatski he stopped still for a moment, completely dumbfounded, while Gzhatski smiled in undisguised triumph. The old man was angry. His face assumed a cold and proud expression, and taking no notice whatever of Irene he turned to the entrance of the pension. Having, however, already reached the door, he suddenly, in spite of himself, looked round. Irene was gazing at him with such a confused, guilty air, that PÈre Etienne’s severity involuntarily relaxed, and he bowed sadly. “Poor girl!” his kind, sympathetic old face seemed to say—“you have thrown away your last chance of happiness!”