_ Chapter 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 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.' _