On the 15th of October, 19—, at four o’clock in the afternoon, in the garden of the Monte Pincio in Rome, sat a girl, no longer in the first flush of youth, Irene Mstinskaia. She held a book in her hand, having come to the park with the object of reading in the fresh air; but, as had always been the case since her arrival in Rome, she could not concentrate her thoughts on the English novel open before her. Her glance glided1 across the blue autumnal sky, lingered caressingly2 on the magnificent southern pines and palms, rested on the statues gleaming white among the verdure, and always returned to the[2] Eternal City, as it lay spread out before her, at the feet of the Pincio.
Irene had travelled much and seen much, but no town had yet produced so deep an impression on her. She tried in vain to define this power that Rome wielded3 over her, and, finding no explanation, she invented one of her own: “Who knows,” thought Irene dreamily, “perhaps people never really quite die, but remain for ever hovering4 in spirit round those places where they have most forcibly lived and suffered. It may be that Rome is full of the ghosts of ancient Romans, of early Christians5, of Renaissance7 painters, of nineteenth-century Italians, who died nobly in the struggle for Italy’s freedom and unity8. All these phantoms9 are unable to tear themselves away from their beloved Eternal City. They are the rulers of Rome to-day, as much as in their own time, and we, foreigners, fall under their influence and cannot dissociate our thoughts from them.”
On the whole, the influence of Rome was not only overwhelming—it was also soothing10. Wandering in museums, among ruins, through[3] churches and catacombs, Irene felt, day by day, stealing into her soul a profound, indescribable sense of peace, such as that which unconsciously comes over one as one enters a convent. And it was just for this holy stillness and peace that her tired soul was thirsting.
Let not the reader think, however, that my heroine had passed through the storm of some great misfortune, or the suffering of some severe illness. On the contrary, her life and circumstances were such, that many a short-sighted and superficial observer envied her exceedingly.
At the death of her parents, Irene had remained entirely12 free, with plenty of money, a good name, and a good position in society. She enjoyed excellent health, in spite of the fact that she had been born and had passed all her life in Petrograd; she was clever and well educated. What more, one asks oneself, could anyone desire of the Fates?
But, somehow, it is an unfortunate fact in dear Russia, that even the most precious gifts of the gods seem never to be of any[4] benefit to our people. How is one to explain this curious circumstance? Does it arise from some peculiarity13 in the Russian temperament14, or from the general disorder15 and purposelessness of our way of living? The French, in the similar case of “La Belle16 au Bois Dormant,” have laid all the blame at the door of the wicked fairy who was offended at not being invited to the christening. I think I shall not go far wrong if I say that in Russia the part of the wicked fairy is played by the parents of the infant themselves. Oh, of course not intentionally17, but simply as a consequence of our Russian laziness and the absence of organized and formulated18 ideas in the bringing up of our children.
Irene Mstinskaia lost her mother early and was brought up by her father, a scientist who spent all his life in his laboratory, disliked society, and received nobody but an occasional friend, as jealously devoted19 to science as himself. He adored his little Irene, petted and spoiled her; but, like most Russian parents, took very little interest in her spiritual development. The child grew up,[5] lonely, silent, pensive20. Books took, in her young life, the place of companions and childish games. She read a great deal without guidance or discrimination, and gained all her ideas on life, all her faith, all her ideals and aims and aspirations21 from books. Books stood between her and reality, and hid from her those deep truths that can never be learnt from even the greatest literary production, but can only be understood after long years of untiring observation and experience. It was in books also that Irene found her ideal of the man she could love. Her hero was an exceedingly complicated character. He united in himself the stoicism of an ancient Roman, the romanticism of a medi?val knight22, the gallantry of a powdered marquis, and the dignified23 chivalry24 of the hero of an English novel.
Do not laugh, reader! Irene was not stupid; she was only young and inexperienced, knew little or nothing of life, and sincerely believed in her fantastic dream hero. Most pathetic of all was the fact that she set about looking for him among the relations and[6] friends of her late mother, who had belonged by birth to the higher government circles—i.e., the most unromantic circles of Russian society. The proximity25 of the court, the glitter of wealth and social position, transforms almost every young Petrograd official into a mere26 hunter after honours, money, decorations, caring for nothing but his career and the chance of some brilliant appointment. The distance that separates Petrograd from the rest of Russia destroys in these young people what should be the fundamental idea at the root of all conscientious27 government service—the good of the country. Their service becomes simply a ladder by which they can mount upwards29 towards the making of a career, and any means seems justifiable30 to attain31 this end. Already in childhood these young people are familiar with conversations about promotions32 and honours, and their souls early imbibe33 the poison that makes worldlings and cynics. Their wives also cannot influence them for good, since they, too, in the majority of cases grow up in the same official circles, and see[7] nothing blameworthy in career-hunting. On the contrary, they intrigue35 and help and encourage their husbands in the rush for advantageous36 appointments.
To a fresh young soul, such as Irene’s the cynicism of “officialdom’s” conversations and ideals could not but stand out in all its true ugliness, causing her to turn away, sick with disillusionment and disgust. She regarded this whole spirit of self-advancement-at-any-price with the profoundest contempt, and considered it low and vulgar and worthy34 only of menials. Her father, holding his noble birth in high honour, had instilled37 into his daughter the assurance that her aristocratic antecedents placed her on a level with all the de Rohans and de Montmorencys in the world. She regarded decorations and titles and social honours with contempt, and could not understand how anybody could attach importance to such toys. Her means were sufficient to ensure lifelong freedom from care; luxury, however, did not attract her, for Irene was an idealist, who looked upon love, pure, sanctified love, as the greatest happiness life could offer.
[8]
Had she been English or American, this lonely girl would not have been content with her limited circle of acquaintances, and would have gone in search of her hero through the length and breadth not only of Russia, but of all Europe.
Irene, however, was Russian, and therefore placid38 and unenterprising! So she not only did not travel, but had not the energy, even at home in Petrograd, to look round and make sure that her hero was not concealed39 somewhere in the social circles of the capital. She profoundly despised the pitiful types she met in society, and though sick at heart, waited patiently and untiringly for the one man before whom she was destined40 some day to bow her head. Her own individual faith was largely responsible for this patient, confident expectation. Already in her early childhood, Irene had worked out for herself her own personal credo, in the place of which, without understanding it in the least, most people unthinkingly accept the religion officially adopted by the State. Her faith, of course, rested upon a Christian6 basis—but[9] her Christianity was of the kind that shapes itself according to the varying idiosyncrasies of every individual believer’s soul and mind.
Irene firmly believed that in spite of the perpetual struggle between good and evil, good is incomparably the stronger of the two, and must always triumph. Therefore, people desirous of attaining41 happiness, must as a first step be just and honourable42, and never offend nor hurt anyone. Then, and then only, can God send them peace and success in all their undertakings43, and then only can they be happy without the smallest struggle or effort to attain this natural happiness. Irene believed in this so firmly and deeply, that it always amazed her to see people winning success and worldly goods by means of intrigue and dishonesty.
“The madmen!”—she thought to herself—“how can they not realize that they are building up their well-being44 on sand, and that each dishonest action may turn out to be the one rotten beam through which the whole edifice45 will fall to pieces?”
[10]
Irene often endeavoured to explain her theory to other people, and was always astonished at their lack of trust in God’s help, and their incomparably greater faith in their own “smartness” and roguery. How did these blind mules46 manage not to see what was, to her, clear as day? And Irene profoundly regretted that she was not endowed with oratorical47 gifts, by means of which she might have helped to save these people from needlessly wasting and misdirecting their energies.
The silent, dreamy girl carefully observed the lives of her acquaintances, and every time that any of them achieved some success, or suffered some misfortune, she tried to account for this circumstance by one or other of their preceding actions. I am afraid that in her eagerness to prove, even to herself, the justice of her theory, she often deceived herself, and dragged in irrelevant48 facts. She was sincerely happy at the sight of virtue49 rewarded, and, though naturally anything but cruel or revengeful, she nevertheless rejoiced triumphantly50 when wickedness[11] was laid low! It is true that occasionally, under the influence of scientific books, which, as the years passed, held an ever-increasing attraction for Irene, she said to herself that people were wicked owing to the particular construction of their skulls51 or spinal52 cords, and were as innocent of their own vice28 as the tiger is innocent of his carnivorous nature. In the same way, it followed that it was not only natural and easy for good people to be good, but that it would be exceedingly difficult for them to act dishonestly, or in any way contrary to their natures. There was, indeed, according to this theory, no such thing as the eternal struggle between good and evil—there were only on the one side healthy and therefore honest natures, and on the other, morally diseased and, therefore, cruel or vicious ones. But when Irene began to meditate53 on these ideas, there arose in her poor head such a confused chaos54 of tangled55 thoughts, that she hastily banished56 all scientific propositions, and returned to her old faith, in which everything was clear and simple.
[12]
Irene worked carefully and untiringly at herself and her own moral and mental development. She not only did not admit of any dishonourable action, but severely57 admonished58 and persecuted59 herself for every bad thought, every shade of feeling, that tended towards envy or revenge. And so, as always happens when one works long and obstinately60 for the achievement of a certain result, Irene really succeeded in raising her own honour and integrity to a point beyond reproach. The loftier grew her own ideal, however, the more difficult she found it to reconcile herself to the weaknesses of others. Day by day, her requirements in connection with her unknown hero increased, and day by day he became always more difficult to find. She submitted every man who crossed her path to so severe an examination that not one passed through it successfully. The young married women of her acquaintance, noticing how wistfully she looked at their children, advised her to marry, even without love, only to become a mother and thus attain the one real aim, the[13] one true happiness that life can give to a woman. Irene listened to their advice with amazement61. According to her ideas, a woman had no right to bring a new life into the world unless she had found a man who could pass on to the child only the highest and most irreproachable62 moral qualities. Such an idea is, of course, fundamentally good and logical—but, unfortunately, it is also somewhat difficult to carry out! Nature is so fantastic and capricious, that sometimes a child may bear no likeness63 whatever to its ideal parents, but may bear a striking and very unwelcome resemblance to some long-forgotten black sheep great-grandfather! On the whole, indeed, resignation, and faith in God’s mercy, are the most suitable frames of mind in this connection; but these are frames of mind that one could hardly expect from Irene! Idealists who passionately64 believe in their ideals, hypnotize themselves and become the slaves of their own thoughts.
At thirty, in order to avoid any future moral torment66 at the appearance of a grey hair or a decayed tooth, Irene decided67 that[14] she was an old woman, and that there was no longer any occasion to think about love. She began to dress always in black, and assumed with men the air of an old maiden68 aunt. Her dream now was only of friendship, and she longed for the warmth of a friendly hearth69.
Her women friends, however, did not believe in her sincerity70, did not consider her as old as she imagined herself to be, and were afraid for their husbands. Year by year, Irene felt herself to be always increasingly lonely and isolated71, and then, suddenly, came the Japanese War.
Pride in Russia, and in Russia’s might and wealth and brilliant future, was one of Irene’s greatest joys. The Russian people seemed to her to be a race of chivalrous72 knights73, ever ready to fight for truth and Christianity, and to defend the weak and the persecuted. When the Japanese War broke out, she asked herself, with the sincerest astonishment74, how such pitiful monkeys ever could have declared war on such indomitable knights. She even pitied the Japanese for having fallen victims[15] to such madness! Her despair and suffering at the news of our first failures is therefore easy to imagine. None of Irene’s near relations were at the war, but each of our losses, nevertheless, found its echo in her heart, like a personal misfortune. Overwhelmed with grief, she attached no importance either to the Russian revolution, or to the reforms that followed. Like all passionate65 idealists when their ideal is shattered, Irene rushed to the other extreme—that of a profound contempt for Russia.
Everything became cold and indifferent to her in her homeland. She no longer believed in anybody; she trusted neither the masses nor the educated classes. They were all cowards, they were all narrow, lazy, and ignorant. She began to go abroad more frequently. There, in contrast, everything pleased her immensely. She admired the German peasants for their love of work, the Swiss for their orderliness, the French for their wit. In old days, after having passed three months abroad, she had always grown homesick, and on reaching the Russian frontier, had felt inclined to embrace[16] the very railway porters for their good-humoured Slavonic faces! Now, she returned home with regret, found fault with Russian arrangements, and looked with disgust at the endless, monotonous75 fields, at the dull, slumbering76 type of life and nature that slipped placidly77 along outside the windows of the sleepy train.
Her contempt for Russia was encouraged by the countless78 critical and scathing79 articles that appeared in the newspapers as a result of the newly granted freedom of the Press. According to these articles all Russia’s resources had been used up by drink and by robbery, and the whole country was in a state of ruin and primitive80 savagery81. They did not attempt to explain why, all this being so, Russia had not, long ago, died of starvation and famine, why our government stock stood higher than before the war, and why Europe set as much value as ever on Russian opinion. But Irene, like most women, did not measure the rights and wrongs of the newspaper accusations82. They were in tune11 with her pessimistic mood, and she no longer[17] believed in Russia, just as she no longer believed in her own happiness.
The most cruel pain of all, however, was that occasioned by a gradually awakening83 doubt about the justice of her own beliefs. It seemed to her that, logically, it was time God rewarded her in some way for her scrupulous84 honesty, and she suffered at the absence of this reward. In observing the lives of others, Irene could persuade herself that if they had no outward success, they enjoyed the greater blessing85 of inner peace and happiness. It was difficult, however, to deceive her own self in this matter; for, indeed, poor Irene not only had no happiness, but the boon86 of inner peace had not even been granted to her. Her soul had been wounded, torn, immersed in darkness and despair, from which there seemed no escape. And yet there, before her very eyes, wicked and dishonourable people triumphed and rejoiced. How was this to be explained? Could her credo have been a mistake, could she have been struggling and wandering all her life along the wrong path? Such an[18] admission would have been, for Irene, equal to suicide—for she could never have reconciled herself to a world in which only wickedness and deceit triumph.
Life in Russia grew at last so unbearable87 that she decided to emigrate. Her first idea was to go and live in England, with which country she was acquainted through the medium of her beloved English novels. By chance, however, Zola’s “Rome,” with its magnificent descriptions of Roman life, fell into her hands, and she suddenly felt drawn88 towards Italy. It is for this reason that we find her, on this warm autumn day, sitting in the garden of the Monte Pincio.
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1
glided
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| v.滑动( glide的过去式和过去分词 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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caressingly
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| 爱抚地，亲切地 | |
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wielded
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| 手持着使用（武器、工具等）( wield的过去式和过去分词 )； 具有； 运用（权力）； 施加（影响） | |
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hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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belle
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| n.靓女 | |
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intentionally
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| ad.故意地，有意地 | |
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formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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aspirations
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| 强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 )； 志向； 发送气音； 发 h 音 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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proximity
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| n.接近，邻近 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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upwards
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| adv.向上，在更高处...以上 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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promotions
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| 促进( promotion的名词复数 )； 提升； 推广； 宣传 | |
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imbibe
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| v.喝，饮；吸入，吸收 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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intrigue
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| vt.激起兴趣，迷住；vi.耍阴谋；n.阴谋，密谋 | |
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advantageous
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| adj.有利的；有帮助的 | |
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instilled
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| v.逐渐使某人获得（某种可取的品质），逐步灌输( instill的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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attaining
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的现在分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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well-being
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| n.安康，安乐，幸福 | |
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edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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mules
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| 骡( mule的名词复数 )； 拖鞋； 顽固的人； 越境运毒者 | |
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oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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chaos
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| n.混乱，无秩序 | |
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tangled
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| adj. 纠缠的，紊乱的 动词tangle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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56
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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admonished
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| v.劝告( admonish的过去式和过去分词 )；训诫；（温和地）责备；轻责 | |
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persecuted
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| （尤指宗教或政治信仰的）迫害(~sb. for sth.)( persecute的过去式和过去分词 )； 烦扰，困扰或骚扰某人 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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likeness
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| n.相像，相似（之处） | |
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64
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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65
passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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66
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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67
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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68
maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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69
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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70
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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71
isolated
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| adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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72
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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73
knights
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| 骑士； （中古时代的）武士( knight的名词复数 )； 骑士； 爵士； （国际象棋中）马 | |
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74
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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75
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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76
slumbering
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的现在分词形式） | |
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77
placidly
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| adv.平稳地，平静地 | |
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78
countless
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| adj.无数的，多得不计其数的 | |
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79
scathing
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| adj.（言词、文章）严厉的，尖刻的；不留情的adv.严厉地，尖刻地v.伤害，损害（尤指使之枯萎）( scathe的现在分词) | |
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80
primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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81
savagery
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| n.野性 | |
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82
accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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83
awakening
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| n.觉醒，醒悟 adj.觉醒中的；唤醒的 | |
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84
scrupulous
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| adj.审慎的，小心翼翼的，完全的，纯粹的 | |
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85
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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86
boon
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| n.恩赐，恩物，恩惠 | |
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87
unbearable
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| adj.不能容忍的；忍受不住的 | |
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88
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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