Their little room looked out on to the lagoon, which stretches from the Riva del Schiavoni to the Giudecca. Almost facing their hotel rose the slender tower of S. George; high against the sky on the right shone the golden ball of the Customs House; and, decked like a bride, stood the loveliest of the churches, the Redentore of Palladio; on the left were the black masts and rigging of ships, the funnels of steamers; a half-furled sail hung in one place like a great wing, and the flags scarcely stirred. Insarov sat down at the window, but Elena did not let him admire the view for long; he seemed suddenly feverish, he was overcome by consuming weakness. She put him to bed, and, waiting till he had fallen asleep, she returned to the window. Oh, how still and kindly was the night, what dovelike softness breathed in the deep-blue air! Every suffering, every sorrow surely must be soothed to slumber under that clear sky, under that pure, holy light! 'O God,' thought Elena, 'why must there be death, why is there separation, and disease and tears? or else, why this beauty, this sweet feeling of hope, this soothing sense of an abiding refuge, an unchanging support, an everlasting protection? What is the meaning of this smiling, blessing sky; this happy, sleeping earth? Can it be that all that is only in us, and that outside us is eternal cold and silence? Can it be that we are alone... alone... and there, on all sides, in all those unattainable depths and abysses—nothing is akin to us; all, all is strange and apart from us? Why, then, have we this desire for, this delight in prayer?' (Morir si giovane was echoing in her heart.)... 'Is it impossible, then, to propitiate, to avert, to save... O God! is it impossible to believe in miracle?' She dropped her head on to her clasped hands. 'Enough,' she whispered. 'Indeed enough! I have been happy not for moments only, not for hours, not for whole days even, but for whole weeks together. And what right had I to happiness?' She felt terror at the thought of her happiness. 'What, if that cannot be?' she thought. 'What, if it is not granted for nothing? Why, it has been heaven... and we are mortals, poor sinful mortals.... Morir si giovane. Oh, dark omen, away! It's not only for me his life is needed!
'But what, if it is a punishment,' she thought again; 'what, if we must now pay the penalty of our guilt in full? My conscience was silent, it is silent now, but is that a proof of innocence? O God, can we be so guilty! Canst Thou who hast created this night, this sky, wish to punish us for having loved each other? If it be so, if he has sinned, if I have sinned,' she added with involuntary force, 'grant that he, O God, grant that we both, may die at least a noble, glorious death—there, on the plains of his country, not here in this dark room.
'And the grief of my poor, lonely mother?' she asked herself, and was bewildered, and could find no answer to her question. Elena did not know that every man's happiness is built on the unhappiness of another, that even his advantage, his comfort, like a statue needs a pedestal, the disadvantage, the discomfort of others.
'Renditch!' muttered Insarov in his sleep.
Elena went up to him on tiptoe, bent over him, and wiped the perspiration from his face. He tossed a little on his pillow, and was still again.
She went back again to the window, and again her thoughts took possession of her. She began to argue with herself, to assure herself that there was no reason to be afraid. She even began to feel ashamed of her weakness. 'Is there any danger? isn't he better?' she murmured. 'Why, if we had not been at the theatre to-day, all this would never have entered my head.'
At that instant she saw high above the water a white sea-gull; some fisherman had scared it, it seemed, for it flew noiselessly with uncertain course, as though seeking a spot where it could alight. 'Come, if it flies here,' thought Elena, 'it will be a good omen.' ... The sea-gull flew round in a circle, folded its wings, and, as though it had been shot, dropped with a plaintive cry in the distance behind a dark ship. Elena shuddered; then she was ashamed of having shuddered, and, without undressing, she lay down on the bed beside Insarov, who was breathing quickly and heavily.
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 awfuclass="underline" 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.'