On the Eve: Chapter 34

Chapter 34

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 awful:
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.'

And for a long time Lupoyarov still babbled on in the same way, and,
as he went away, he promised to come again.

Worn out by the unexpected visit, Insarov lay down on the sofa. 'So
this,' he said, mournfully looking at Elena, 'is your younger
generation! There are plenty who show off, and give themselves airs,
while at heart they are as empty chatterboxes as that worthy.'

Elena made no reply to her husband; at that instant she was far more
concerned at Insarov's weakness than at the character of the whole
younger generation in Russia. She sat down near him, and took up some
work. He closed his eyes, and lay without moving, white and thin.
Elena glanced at his sharp profile, at his emaciated hands, and felt a
sudden pang of terror.

'Dmitri,' she began.

He started. 'Eh? Has Renditch come?'

'Not yet--but what do you think--you are in a fever, you are really
not quite well, shouldn't we send for a doctor?'

'That wretched gossip has frightened you. There's no necessity. I will
rest a little, and it will pass off. After dinner we will go out
again--somewhere.'

Two hours passed. Insarov still lay on the sofa, but he could not
sleep, though he did not open his eyes. Elena did not leave his side;
she had dropped her work upon her knee, and did not stir.

'Why don't you go to sleep?' she asked at last.

'Wait a little.' He took her hand, and placed it under his head.
'There--that is nice. Wake me at once directly Renditch comes. If he
says the ship is ready, we will start at once. We ought to pack
everything.'

'Packing won't take long,' answered Elena.

'That fellow babbled something about a battle, about Servia,' said
Insarov, after a short interval. 'I suppose he made it all up. But we
must, we must start. We can't lose time. Be ready.'

He fell asleep, and everything was still in the room.

Elena let her head rest against the back of her chair, and gazed a
long while out of the window. The weather had changed for the worse;
the wind had risen. Great white clouds were scudding over the sky, a
slender mast was swaying in the distance, a long streamer, with a red
cross on it, kept fluttering, falling, and fluttering again. The
pendulum of the old-fashioned clock ticked drearily, with a kind of
melancholy whirr. Elena shut her eyes. She had slept badly all night;
gradually she, too, fell asleep.

She had a strange dream. She thought sha was floating in a boat on the
Tsaritsino lake with some unknown people. They did not speak, but sat
motionless, no one was rowing; the boat was moving by itself. Elena
was not afraid, but she felt dreary; she wanted to know who were these
people, and why she was with them? She looked and the lake grew
broader, the banks vanished--now it was not a lake but a stormy sea:
immense blue silent waves rocked the boat majestically; something
menacing, roaring was rising from the depths; her unknown companions
jumped up, shrieking, wringing their hands . . . Elena recognised
their faces; her father was among them. But a kind of white whirlwind
came flying over the waves--everything was turning round, everything
was confounded together.

Elena looked about her; as before, all around was white; but it was
snow, snow, boundless plains of snow. And she was not now in a boat,
but travelling, as she had come from Moscow, in a sledge; she was not
alone; by her side was sitting a little creature muffled in an old
cloak; Elena looked closely; it was Katya, her poor little friend.
Elena was seized with terror. 'Why, isn't she dead?' she thought.

'Katya, where are we going together?' Katya did not answer, and
nestled herself closer in her little cloak; she was freezing. Elena
too was cold; she looked along the road into the distance; far away a
town could be seen through the fine drifting snow. High white towers
with silvery cupolas . . . 'Katya, Katya, is it Moscow? No,' thought
Elena, 'it is Solovetsky Monastery; it's full of little narrow
cells like a beehive; it's stifling, cramping there--and Dmitri's
shut up there. I must rescue him.' . . . Suddenly a grey, yawning
abyss opened before her. The sledge was falling, Katya was laughing.
'Elena, Elena!' came a voice from the abyss.

'Elena!' sounded distinctly in her ears. She raised her head quickly,
turned round, and was stupefied: Insarov, white as snow, the snow of
her dream, had half risen from the sofa, and was staring at her with
large, bright, dreadful eyes. His hair hung in disorder on his
forehead and his lips parted strangely. Horror, mingled with an
anguish of tenderness, was expressed on his suddenly transfigured
face.

'Elena!' he articulated, 'I am dying.'

She fell with a scream on her knees, and clung to his breast.

'It's all over,' repeated Insarov: 'I'm dying . . . Good-bye, my poor
girl! good-bye, my country!' and he fell backwards on to the sofa.

Elena rushed out of the room, began calling for help; a waiter ran
for a doctor. Elena clung to Insarov.

At that instant in the doorway appeared a broad-shouldered, sunburnt
man, in a stout frieze coat and a low oil-skin hat. He stood still in
bewilderment.

'Renditch!' cried Elena, 'it's you! Look, for God's sake, he's ill!
What's wrong? Good God! He went out yesterday, he was talking to
me just now.'

Renditch said nothing and only moved on one side. There slipped
quickly past him a little figure in a wig and spectacles; it was a
doctor living in the same hotel. He went up to Insarov.

'Signora,' he said, after the lapse of a few minutes, 'the foreign
gentleman is dead--_il Signore forestiere e morte_--of aneurism in
combination with disease of the lungs.'

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