On the Eve: Chapter 33

Chapter 33

It was a bright April day. On the broad lagoon which separates Venice
from the narrow strip of accumulated sea sand, called the Lido, a
gondola was gliding--swaying rhythmically at every push made by the
gondolier as he leaned on the big pole. Under its low awning, on soft
leather cushions, were sitting Elena and Insarov.

Elena's features had not changed much since the day of her departure
from Moscow, but their expression was different; it was more
thoughtful and more severe, and her eyes had a bolder look. Her whole
figure had grown finer and more mature, and the hair seemed to lie in
greater thickness and luxuriance along her white brow and her fresh
cheeks. Only about her lips, when she was not smiling, a scarcely
perceptible line showed the presence of a hidden constant anxiety. In
Insarov's face, on the contrary, the expression had remained the same,
but his features had undergone a cruel change. He had grown thin, old,
pale and bent; he was constantly coughing a short dry cough, and his
sunken eyes shone with a strange brilliance. On the way from Russia,
Insarov had lain ill for almost two months at Vienna, and only at the
end of March had he been able to come with his wife to Venice; from
there he was hoping to make his way through Zara to Servia, to
Bulgaria; the other roads were closed. The war was now at its height
about the Danube; England and France had declared war on Russia, all
the Slavonic countries were roused and were preparing for an uprising.

The gondola put in to the inner shore of the Lido. Elena and Insarov
walked along the narrow sandy road planted with sickly trees (every
year they plant them and every year they die) to the outer shore of
the Lido, to the sea.

They walked along the beach. The Adriatic rolled its muddy-blue waves
before them; they raced into the shore, foaming and hissing, and drew
back again, leaving fine shells and fragments of seaweed on the beach.

'What a desolate place!' observed Elena 'I'm afraid it's too cold
for you here, but I guess why you wanted to come here.'

'Cold!' rejoined Insarov with a rapid and bitter smile, 'I shall be a
fine soldier, if I'm to be afraid of the cold. I came here ... I will
tell you why. I look across that sea, and I feel as though here, I am
nearer my country. It is there, you know,' he added, stretching out
his hand to the East, 'the wind blows from there.'

'Will not this wind bring the ship you are expecting?' said Elena.
'See, there is a white sail, is not that it?'

Insarov gazed seaward into the distance to where Elena was pointing.

'Renditch promised to arrange everything for us within a week,' he
said, 'we can rely on him, I think. . . . Did you hear, Elena,' he
added with sudden animation, 'they say the poor Dalmatian fishermen
have sacrificed their dredging weights--you know the leads they weigh
their nets with for letting them down to the bottom--to make bullets!
They have no money, they only just live by fishing; but they have
joyfully given up their last property, and now are starving. What a
nation!'

'_Aufgepasst_!' shouted a haughty voice behind them. The heavy thud of
horse's hoofs was heard, and an Austrian officer in a short grey tunic
and a green cap galloped past them--they had scarcely time to get out
of the way.

Insarov looked darkly after him.

'He was not to blame,' said Elena, 'you know, they have no other place
where they can ride.'

'He was not to blame,' answered Insarov 'but he made my blood boil
with his shout, his moustaches, his cap, his whole appearance. Let us
go back.'

'Yes, let us go back, Dmitri. It's really cold here. You did not take
care of yourself after your Moscow illness, and you had to pay for
that at Vienna. Now you must be more cautious.'

Insarov did not answer, but the same bitter smile passed over his
lips.

'If you like,' Elena went on, 'we will go along to the Canal Grande.
We have not seen Venice properly, you know, all the while we have been
here. And in the evening we are going to the theatre; I have two
tickets for the stalls. They say there's a new opera being given. If
you like, we will give up to-day to one another; we will forget
politics and war and everything, we will forget everything but that we
are alive, breathing, thinking together; that we are one for
ever--would you like that?'

'If you would like it, Elena,' answered Insarov, 'it follows that I
should like it too.'

'I knew that,' observed Elena with a smile, 'come, let us go.'

They went back to the gondola, took their seats, told the gondolier to
take them without hurry along the Canal Grande.

No one who has not seen Venice in April knows all the unutterable
fascinations of that magic town. The softness and mildness of spring
harmonise with Venice, just as the glaring sun of summer suits the
magnificence of Genoa, and as the gold and purple of autumn suits the
grand antiquity of Rome. The beauty of Venice, like the spring,
touches the soul and moves it to desire; it frets and tortures the
inexperienced heart like the promise of a coming bliss, mysterious but
not elusive. Everything in it is bright, and everything is wrapt in a
drowsy, tangible mist, as it were, of the hush of love; everything in
it is so silent, and everything in it is kindly; everything in it is
feminine, from its name upwards. It has well been given the name of
'the fair city.' Its masses of palaces and churches stand out light
and wonderful like the graceful dream of a young god; there is
something magical, something strange and bewitching in the
greenish-grey light and silken shimmer of the silent water of the
canals, in the noiseless gliding of the gondolas, in the absence of
the coarse din of a town, the coarse rattling, and crashing, and
uproar. 'Venice is dead, Venice is deserted,' her citizens will tell
you, but perhaps this last charm--the charm of decay--was not
vouchsafed her in the very heyday of the flower and majesty of her
beauty. He who has not seen her, knows her not; neither Canaletto nor
Guardi (to say nothing of later painters) has been able to convey the
silvery tenderness of the atmosphere, the horizon so close, yet so
elusive, the divine harmony of exquisite lines and melting colours.
One who has outlived his life, who has been crushed by it, should not
visit Venice; she will be cruel to him as the memory of unfulfilled
dreams of early days; but sweet to one whose strength is at its full,
who is conscious of happiness; let him bring his bliss under her
enchanted skies; and however bright it may be, Venice will make it
more golden with her unfading splendour.

The gondola in which Insarov and Elena were sitting passed _Riva dei
Schiavoni_, the palace of the Doges, and Piazzetta, and entered the
Grand Canal. On both sides stretched marble palaces; they seemed to
float softly by, scarcely letting the eye seize or absorb their
beauty. Elena felt herself deeply happy; in the perfect blue of her
heavens there was only one dark cloud--and it was in the far distance;
Insarov was much better that day. They glided as far as the acute
angle of the Rialto and turned back. Elena was afraid of the chill of
the churches for Insarov; but she remembered the academy delle Belle
Arti, and told the gondolier to go towards it. They quickly walked
through all the rooms of that little museum. Being neither
connoisseurs nor dilettantes, they did not stop before every picture;
they put no constraint on themselves; a spirit of light-hearted
gaiety came over them. Everything seemed suddenly very entertaining.
(Children know this feeling very well.) To the great scandal of three
English visitors, Elena laughed till she cried over the St Mark of
Tintoretto, skipping down from the sky like a frog into the water, to
deliver the tortured slave; Insarov in his turn fell into raptures
over the back and legs of the sturdy man in the green cloak, who
stands in the foreground of Titian's Ascension and holds his arms
outstretched after the Madonna; but the Madonna--a splendid, powerful
woman, calmly and majestically making her way towards the bosom of God
the Father--impressed both Insarov and Elena; they liked, too, the
austere and reverent painting of the elder Cima da Conegliano. As they
were leaving the academy, they took another look at the Englishmen
behind them--with their long rabbit-like teeth and drooping
whiskers--and laughed; they glanced at their gondolier with his
abbreviated jacket and short breeches--and laughed; they caught sight
of a woman selling old clothes with a knob of grey hair on the very
top of her head--and laughed more than ever; they looked into one
another's face--and went off into peals of laughter, and directly they
had sat down in the gondola, they clasped each other's hand in a
close, close grip. They reached their hotel, ran into their room, and
ordered dinner to be brought in. Their gaiety did not desert them at
dinner. They pressed each other to eat, drank to the health of their
friends in Moscow, clapped their hands at the waiter for a delicious
dish of fish, and kept asking him for live _frutti di mare_; the
waiter shrugged his shoulders and scraped with his feet, but when he
had left them, he shook his head and once even muttered with a sigh,
_poveretti_! (poor things!) After dinner they set off for the theatre.

They were giving an opera of Verdi's, which though, honestly speaking,
rather vulgar, has already succeeded in making the round of all the
European theatres, an opera, well-known among Russians, _La Traviata_.
The season in Venice was over, and none of the singers rose above the
level of mediocrity; every one shouted to the best of their abilities.
The part of Violetta was performed by an artist, of no renown, and
judging by the cool reception given her by the public, not a
favourite, but she was not destitute of talent. She was a young, and
not very pretty, black-eyed girl with an unequal and already
overstrained voice. Her dress was ill-chosen and naively gaudy; her
hair was hidden in a red net, her dress of faded blue satin was too
tight for her, and thick Swedish gloves reached up to her sharp
elbows. Indeed, how could she, the daughter of some Bergamese
shepherd, know how Parisian _dames aux camelias_ dress! And she did
not understand how to move on the stage; but there was much truth and
artless simplicity in her acting, and she sang with that passion of
expression and rhythm which is only vouchsafed to Italians. Elena and
Insarov were sitting alone together in a dark box close to the stage;
the mirthful mood which had come upon them in the academy _delle Belle
Arti_ had not yet passed off. When the father of the unhappy young man
who had fallen into the snares of the enchantress came on to the stage
in a yellow frock-coat and a dishevelled white wig, opened his mouth
awry, and losing his presence of mind before he had begun, only
brought out a faint bass _tremolo_, they almost burst into laughter.
. . . But Violetta's acting impressed them.

'They hardly clap that poor girl at all,' said Elena, 'but I like her
a thousand times better than some conceited second-rate celebrity who
would grimace and attitudinise all the while for effect. This girl
seems as though it were all in earnest; look, she pays no attention to
the public.'

Insarov bent over the edge of the box, and looked attentively at
Violetta.

'Yes,' he commented, 'she is in earnest; she's on the brink of the
grave herself.'

Elena was mute.

The third act began. The curtain rose--Elena shuddered at the sight
of the bed, the drawn curtains, the glass of medicine, the shaded
lamps. She recalled the near past. 'What of the future? What of the
present?' flashed across her mind. As though in response to her
thought, the artist's mimic cough on the stage was answered in the box
by the hoarse, terribly real cough of Insarov. Elena stole a glance at
him, and at once gave her features a calm and untroubled expression;
Insarov understood her, and he began himself to smile, and softly to
hum the tune of the song.

But he was soon quiet. Violetta's acting became steadily better, and
freer. She had thrown aside everything subsidiary, everything
superfluous, and _found herself_; a rare, a lofty delight for an
artist! She had suddenly crossed the limit, which it is impossible to
define, beyond which is the abiding place of beauty. The audience was
thrilled and astonished. The plain girl with the broken voice began to
get a hold on it, to master it. And the singer's voice even did not
sound broken now; it had gained mellowness and strength. Alfredo made
his entrance; Violetta's cry of happiness almost raised that storm in
the audience known as _fanatisme_, beside which all the applause of
our northern audiences is nothing. A brief interval passed--and again
the audience were in transports. The duet began, the best thing in the
opera, in which the composer has succeeded in expressing all the
pathos of the senseless waste of youth, the final struggle of
despairing, helpless love. Caught up and carried along by the general
sympathy, with tears of artistic delight and real suffering in her
eyes, the singer let herself be borne along on the wave of passion
within her; her face was transfigured, and in the presence of the
threatening signs of fast approaching death, the words: '_Lascia mi
vivero--morir si giovane_' (let me live--to die so young!) burst from
her in such a tempest of prayer rising to heaven, that the whole
theatre shook with frenzied applause and shouts of delight.

Elena felt cold all over. Softly her hand sought Insarov's, found it,
and clasped it tightly. He responded to its pressure; but she did not
look at him, nor he at her. Very different was the clasp of hands
with which they had greeted each other in the gondola a few hours
before.

Again they glided along the Canal Grande towards their hotel. Night
had set in now, a clear, soft night. The same palaces met them, but
they seemed different. Those that were lighted up by the moon shone
with pale gold, and in this pale light all details of ornaments and
lines of windows and balconies seemed lost; they stood out more
clearly in the buildings that were wrapped in a light veil of unbroken
shadow. The gondolas, with their little red lamps, seemed to flit past
more noiselessly and swiftly than ever; their steel beaks flashed
mysteriously, mysteriously their oars rose and fell over the ripples
stirred by little silvery fish; here and there was heard the brief,
subdued call of a gondolier (they never sing now); scarcely another
sound was to be heard. The hotel where Insarov and Elena were staying
was on the _Riva dei Schiavoni_; before they reached it they left the
gondola, and walked several times round the Square of St. Mark, under
the arches, where numbers of holiday makers were gathered before the
tiny cafes. There is a special sweetness in wandering alone with one
you love, in a strange city among strangers; everything seems
beautiful and full of meaning, you feel peace and goodwill to all men,
you wish all the same happiness that fills your heart. But Elena could
not now give herself up without a care to the sense of her happiness;
her heart could not regain its calm after the emotions that had so
lately shaken it; and Insarov, as he walked by the palace of the
Doges, pointed without speaking to the mouths of the Austrian cannons,
peeping out from the lower arches, and pulled his hat down over his
eyes. By now he felt tired, and, with a last glance at the church of
St. Mark, at its cupola, where on the bluish lead bright patches of
phosphorescent light shone in the rays of the moon, they turned slowly
homewards.

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.

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