The Torrents of Spring
Then the going home to his own country, the poisoned, the devastated
life, the petty interests and petty cares, bitter and fruitless regret,
and as bitter and fruitless apathy, a punishment not apparent, but of
every minute, continuous, like some trivial but incurable disease, the
payment farthing by farthing of the debt, which can never be settled….
The cup was full enough.
How had the garnet cross given Sanin by Gemma existed till now, why had
he not sent it back, how had it happened that he had never come across
it till that day? A long, long while he sat deep in thought, and taught
as he was by the experience of so many years, he still could not
comprehend how he could have deserted Gemma, so tenderly and
passionately loved, for a woman he did not love at all…. Next day he
surprised all his friends and acquaintances by announcing that he was
going abroad.
The surprise was general in society. Sanin was leaving Petersburg, in
the middle of the winter, after having only just taken and furnished a
capital flat, and having even secured seats for all the performances of
the Italian Opera, in which Madame Patti … Patti, herself, herself, was
to take part! His friends and acquaintances wondered; but it is not
human nature as a rule to be interested long in other people’s affairs,
and when Sanin set off for abroad, none came to the railway station to
see him off but a French tailor, and he only in the hope of securing an
unpaid account “_pour un saute-en-barque en velours noir tout à fait
chic_.”
XLIV
Sanin told his friends he was going abroad, but he did not say where
exactly: the reader will readily conjecture that he made straight for
Frankfort. Thanks to the general extension of railways, on the fourth
day after leaving Petersburg he was there. He had not visited the place
since 1840. The hotel, the White Swan, was standing in its old place
and still flourishing, though no longer regarded as first class. The
_Zeile_, the principal street of Frankfort was little changed, but
there was not only no trace of Signora Roselli’s house, the very street
in which it stood had disappeared. Sanin wandered like a man in a dream
about the places once so familiar, and recognised nothing; the old
buildings had vanished; they were replaced by new streets of huge
continuous houses and fine villas; even the public garden, where that
last interview with Gemma had taken place, had so grown up and altered
that Sanin wondered if it really were the same garden. What was he to
do? How and where could he get information? Thirty years, no little
thing! had passed since those days. No one to whom he applied had even
heard of the name Roselli; the hotel-keeper advised him to have
recourse to the public library, there, he told him, he would find all
the old newspapers, but what good he would get from that, the
hotel-keeper owned he didn’t see. Sanin in despair made inquiries about
Herr Klüber. That name the hotel-keeper knew well, but there too no
success awaited him. The elegant shop-manager, after making much noise
in the world and rising to the position of a capitalist, had
speculated, was made bankrupt, and died in prison…. This piece of news
did not, however, occasion Sanin the slightest regret. He was beginning
to feel that his journey had been rather precipitate…. But, behold, one
day, as he was turning over a Frankfort directory, he came on the name:
Von Dönhof, retired major. He promptly took a carriage and drove to the
address, though why was this Von Dönhof certain to be that Dönhof, and
why even was the right Dönhof likely to be able to tell him any news of
the Roselli family? No matter, a drowning man catches at straws.
Sanin found the retired major von Dönhof at home, and in the
grey-haired gentleman who received him he recognised at once his
adversary of bygone days. Dönhof knew him too, and was positively
delighted to see him; he recalled to him his young days, the escapades
of his youth. Sanin heard from him that the Roselli family had long,
long ago emigrated to America, to New York; that Gemma had married a
merchant; that he, Dönhof, had an acquaintance also a merchant, who
would probably know her husband’s address, as he did a great deal of
business with America. Sanin begged Dönhof to consult this friend, and,
to his delight, Dönhof brought him the address of Gemma’s husband, Mr.
Jeremy Slocum, New York, Broadway, No. 501. Only this address dated
from the year 1863.
“Let us hope,” cried Dönhof, “that our Frankfort belle is still alive
and has not left New York! By the way,” he added, dropping his voice,
“what about that Russian lady, who was staying, do you remember, about
that time at Wiesbaden—Madame von Bo … von Bolozov, is she still
living?”
“No,” answered Sanin, “she died long ago.” Dönhof looked up, but
observing that Sanin had turned away and was frowning, he did not say
another word, but took his leave.
That same day Sanin sent a letter to Madame Gemma Slocum, at New York.
In the letter he told her he was writing to her from Frankfort, where
he had come solely with the object of finding traces of her, that he
was very well aware that he was absolutely without a right to expect
that she would answer his appeal; that he had not deserved her
forgiveness, and could only hope that among happy surroundings she had
long ago forgotten his existence. He added that he had made up his mind
to recall himself to her memory in consequence of a chance circumstance
which had too vividly brought back to him the images of the past; he
described his life, solitary, childless, joyless; he implored her to
understand the grounds that had induced him to address her, not to let
him carry to the grave the bitter sense of his own wrongdoing, expiated
long since by suffering, but never forgiven, and to make him happy with
even the briefest news of her life in the new world to which she had
gone away. “In writing one word to me,” so Sanin ended his letter, “you
will be doing a good action worthy of your noble soul, and I shall
thank you to my last breath. I am stopping here at the _White Swan_ (he
underlined those words) and shall wait, wait till spring, for your
answer.”
He despatched this letter, and proceeded to wait. For six whole weeks
he lived in the hotel, scarcely leaving his room, and resolutely seeing
no one. No one could write to him from Russia nor from anywhere; and
that just suited his mood; if a letter came addressed to him he would
know at once that it was the one he was waiting for. He read from
morning till evening, and not journals, but serious books—historical
works. These prolonged studies, this stillness, this hidden life, like
a snail in its shell, suited his spiritual condition to perfection; and
for this, if nothing more, thanks to Gemma! But was she alive? Would
she answer?
At last a letter came, with an American postmark, from New York,
addressed to him. The handwriting of the address on the envelope was
English…. He did not recognise it, and there was a pang at his heart.
He could not at once bring himself to break open the envelope. He
glanced at the signature—Gemma! The tears positively gushed from his
eyes: the mere fact that she signed her name, without a surname, was a
pledge to him of reconciliation, of forgiveness! He unfolded the thin
sheet of blue notepaper: a photograph slipped out. He made haste to
pick it up—and was struck dumb with amazement: Gemma, Gemma living,
young as he had known her thirty years ago! The same eyes, the same
lips, the same form of the whole face! On the back of the photograph
was written, “My daughter Mariana.” The whole letter was very kind and
simple. Gemma thanked Sanin for not having hesitated to write to her,
for having confidence in her; she did not conceal from him that she had
passed some painful moments after his disappearance, but she added at
once that for all that she considered—and had always considered—her
meeting him as a happy thing, seeing that it was that meeting which had
prevented her from becoming the wife of Mr. Klüber, and in that way,
though indirectly, had led to her marriage with her husband, with whom
she had now lived twenty-eight years, in perfect happiness, comfort,
and prosperity; their house was known to every one in New York. Gemma
informed Sanin that she was the mother of five children, four sons and
one daughter, a girl of eighteen, engaged to be married, and her
photograph she enclosed as she was generally considered very like her
mother. The sorrowful news Gemma kept for the end of the letter. Frau
Lenore had died in New York, where she had followed her daughter and
son-in-law, but she had lived long enough to rejoice in her children’s
happiness and to nurse her grandchildren. Pantaleone, too, had meant to
come out to America, but he had died on the very eve of leaving
Frankfort. “Emilio, our beloved, incomparable Emilio, died a glorious
death for the freedom of his country in Sicily, where he was one of the
‘Thousand’ under the leadership of the great Garibaldi; we all bitterly
lamented the loss of our priceless brother, but, even in the midst of
our tears, we were proud of him—and shall always be proud of him—and
hold his memory sacred! His lofty, disinterested soul was worthy of a
martyr’s crown!” Then Gemma expressed her regret that Sanin’s life had
apparently been so unsuccessful, wished him before everything peace and
a tranquil spirit, and said that she would be very glad to see him
again, though she realised how unlikely such a meeting was….
We will not attempt to describe the feelings Sanin experienced as he
read this letter. For such feelings there is no satisfactory
expression; they are too deep and too strong and too vague for any
word. Only music could reproduce them.
Sanin answered at once; and as a wedding gift to the young girl, sent
to “Mariana Slocum, from an unknown friend,” a garnet cross, set in a
magnificent pearl necklace. This present, costly as it was, did not
ruin him; during the thirty years that had elapsed since his first
visit to Frankfort, he had succeeded in accumulating a considerable
fortune. Early in May he went back to Petersburg, but hardly for long.
It is rumoured that he is selling all his lands and preparing to go to
America.
FIRST LOVE
The party had long ago broken up. The clock struck half-past twelve.
There was left in the room only the master of the house and Sergei
Nikolaevitch and Vladimir Petrovitch.
The master of the house rang and ordered the remains of the supper to
be cleared away. “And so it’s settled,” he observed, sitting back
farther in his easy-chair and lighting a cigar; “each of us is to tell
the story of his first love. It’s your turn, Sergei Nikolaevitch.”
Sergei Nikolaevitch, a round little man with a plump,
light-complexioned face, gazed first at the master of the house, then
raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I had no first love,” he said at last;
“I began with the second.”
“How was that?”
“It’s very simple. I was eighteen when I had my first flirtation with a
charming young lady, but I courted her just as though it were nothing
new to me; just as I courted others later on. To speak accurately, the
first and last time I was in love was with my nurse when I was six
years old; but that’s in the remote past. The details of our relations
have slipped out of my memory, and even if I remembered them, whom
could they interest?”
“Then how’s it to be?” began the master of the house. “There was
nothing much of interest about my first love either; I never fell in
love with any one till I met Anna Nikolaevna, now my wife,—and
everything went as smoothly as possible with us; our parents arranged
the match, we were very soon in love with each other, and got married