The Emigrant
9781465622921
211 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
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 glided across the blue autumnal sky, lingered caressingly on the magnificent southern pines and palms, rested on the statues gleaming white among the verdure, and always returned to the 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 wielded 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 hovering 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 Christians, of Renaissance painters, of nineteenth-century Italians, who died nobly in the struggle for Italy’s freedom and unity. All these phantoms 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 soothing. Wandering in museums, among ruins, through 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 entirely 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 benefit to our people. How is one to explain this curious circumstance? Does it arise from some peculiarity in the Russian temperament, or from the general disorder and purposelessness of our way of living? The French, in the similar case of “La Belle 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 intentionally, but simply as a consequence of our Russian laziness and the absence of organized and formulated ideas in the bringing up of our children.
