XXXVI.
Rome! Rome! The word had always had a particular ring for him. The most beautiful happiness of his life he had found in Rome--he had buried it in Rome.
If his great, weary soul, dreading the future, had, after the fashion of weary souls, sought in the past a place of rest, it always stopped at the point where Natalie had entered his life. His thoughts did not willingly wander further back.
His childhood and early youth had been a time of harsh renunciation, amidst rough, immoral surroundings. The impression of immodest jokes, impure habits, petty distrust, ambiguous sneers, hard work, unæsthetic education, was inseparable from this period of his life. He was so much the more horrified thereat as he knew that the influence of these repulsive details had secretly penetrated through his every pore, that the soil in which he had grown up had forever soiled the roots of his being. He detested the slightest remembrance of his early youth.
All that was beautiful and noble and good in his life had begun with Natalie, in Rome. A strange, urgent longing drove him there. He was convinced that he would there experience something extraordinary, a last brilliant point in his existence, an immense victory and--the ghostly alluring which had formerly only pursued him at long intervals of time now vibrated about him ever oftener, no longer tormenting as formerly, but sweet, mysteriously promising, quite calming. It was now quite near.
Rome! Rome! He said the word often to himself, softly, slowly, as one utters the name of a beloved one. Ever more foolish became the expectations which he centred upon his stay in Rome.
He would grow young again--the dead would arise for him in Rome. His heart beat loudly when the train stopped and the conductor cried out in the clear April air, "Roma--Roma!"
It was in the afternoon, and the sun shone brightly. They had both come to the station, Mascha and Nikolai--Mascha full of happy, tender expectation; Nikolai not without a certain embarrassment. Even now, after nearly five years, it had cost him a certain effort to resolve upon meeting his father. But scarcely had his glance fallen upon Lensky when he forgot all that had separated him from him. When he noticed the slow anxiety with which the old man came up to him, without venturing to stretch out the arms, with which he made frequent twitching, helpless motions, to him, his heart bled for him, and not troubling himself about the tourists and loungers on the platform, he hurried up to his father and embraced him. Lensky laughed convulsively, somewhat childishly, as old men laugh in order not to weep; then he walked through the station between his two children.
Walking heavily, with the forcedly erect carriage of a man who tries to conceal his increasing infirmity, he strode through the crowd. As formerly when he casually showed himself in a public place, he stared straight before him to avoid the curious looks which used to follow him. But to-day no one looked after him. Only a street-boy pointed out his long hair to another, and laughed at it.
A brilliant blue April sky arched itself over the city. At first Lensky merely exchanged a few remarks with his children and inquired heartily of their affairs. Gradually he grew more silent, ever more silent. Mascha alone maintained the conversation. But Lensky did not hear what she said. His nearsighted eyes wandered uneasily over everything they passed. At times he bent far forward, and then suddenly, as if disappointed, turned away his head.
"What are you seeking, father?" asked Nikolai.
"Rome--I find it no more," murmured Lensky.
"Yes, it has changed very much since eight years ago, since mamma's death."
"I did not see it eight years ago," replied Lensky, roughly. "The Rome that I seek dates much further back."
"The Rome in which you were betrothed to our little mother," whispered Mascha, softly.
He nodded shortly, repellently. All at once his sad face cleared.
"There I still see old acquaintances," he cried, and pointed to two antique columns which, strangely enough, were built into a small house, one of whose tiny windows looked out over their time-blackened magnificence.
"That is just as at that time," cried the old man, animatedly, "even to the particulars of white curtains and red flowers. I remember how your mother once could not laugh enough at the contrast between these freshly washed curtains and the gloomy Roman splendor. Heavens, how she laughed! You can none of you laugh as she. I must show you the house in the Via Giulia, where she lived at that time."
"That has long disappeared," said Colia. "Even eight years ago it no longer existed."
"How do you know that?" burst out Lensky, quite harshly.
"Because she--because mamma sought it then and did not find it."
"Ah! she also sought it," murmured Lensky, and fell into a brooding silence. After a while he raised his head.
"Why did they tear it down?" cried he, angrily. "They had no right to tear it down. It was no trivial, ordinary house, but an old palace, a wonderful old palace, a bit of history. Do not these clowns know that there are relics on which one dare not lay a hand? It brings misfortune to desecrate sanctuaries."
Once more his eyes wander over his surroundings. "No; there is nothing more left of my Rome," said he, after a pause. Then slowly raising his eyes, he adds: "Nothing but the eternal blue heavens above us."