Every day the poor man wandered about sadly and aimlessly, finding fault with everything, hating everything, and abusing the strange Southern town that held him prisoner! Everything irritated him, even the climate, with its eternally warm, balmy breezes, even the dry Southern vegetation. Often, when sitting in the gardens of the Villa Borghese, he shut his eyes, and pictured to himself a Russian winter, the snow on the fields gleaming under the blue sky, the red sun, the little waves of smoke rising from a cottage chimney, the crunch of footsteps on the frozen ground, the frosty, invigorating air…! And then he opened his eyes, and looked resentfully at the broad Roman pines and the dusty grass and shrubs.
“What is this extraordinary time of the year?” grumbled Gzhatski capriciously. “It is not autumn, because there are no yellow leaves; it is not winter, because it is not cold; it is not summer, because it is not hot; and it is not spring, because there is nothing vivifying or rejuvenating in the air. No—this is a sort of fifth season, Roman, stupid, and senseless!”
He watched the passing crowd with animosity. They all seemed to him to be dressed in their Sunday best! There go two young Italian brunettes, in fashionable tight skirts, with wide fur scarves on their shoulders, showing, under their short dresses, dainty feet, shod as for a ball in elegant open shoes over open-work silk stockings. Here is a baby being taken for a walk, in a little white piqué summer coat, a hat to match, and a huge collar of white goat-fur! And behind comes something quite wild—two little boys and a girl in sailor suits, without coats, and with bare legs and necks—yet the little girl carries an enormous muff, and the boys have sealskin caps!
“I suppose they have heard that people wear furs in the winter, but they don’t know exactly how, so they have made guys of themselves!” muttered Gzhatski crossly.
His loneliness was even greater than his despair. He had already decided to risk his health and return to Russia, when his meeting with Irene turned his thoughts into another channel. He had no difficulty in assuring himself that she was the victim of Jesuit priests, that the poor girl was being wickedly deceived, and that it was his duty as a compatriot to come to her aid and save her. With all the accumulated energy of all those idle weeks, he threw himself into the struggle with Père Etienne, and in spite of Irene’s wish to bring her two friends together, Gzhatski curtly refused to make the acquaintance of the “Catholic rogue.” He was very annoyed to see how obstinately Irene defended her friendship with the priest, and used all his eloquence to disillusion her on the subject of convent life.
“And what is the meaning of that insufferable manner,” he cried irritably, “in which all priests make a prisoner of Christ, and announce to the world that He can only be found in their churches? They lie! I don’t deny that in the early days of Christianity, monasteries and convents really represented Christian oases in a pagan desert. But that time has long since passed. Christ has long ago left the monasteries, and dwells among us, in our science, our literature, our law. We may quarrel as much as we please, we may accuse each other of treachery, but in spite of everything, we are all going along the path of Christian progress. Every time we liberate slaves in America or serfs in Russia, every time we abolish torture or corporal punishment, we are proclaiming liberty and brotherhood, we are serving Christ, and Christ is among us. Let them say, if they will, that the foundations of Christianity are shaking, that Christianity is at its last ebb, and must make way for a new religion. It is absurd even to listen to these wild speeches. Christianity is eternal, if only because Christ did not invent anything strange or new or incomprehensible, but expressed clearly and simply truths which every human being feels dimly in his soul. It is not Christianity that will disappear, but its old and worn-out forms. Christianity is slowly and surely passing from the realms of legend and romance into real daily life, where it will take root more and more firmly, until it reigns supreme on earth. As to your convents, they are nothing but empty hives that the working-bees have long ago abandoned, while the monks are drones who have remained behind to linger lazily in the old place until they die. Is it possible that you, with your heart and your intelligence, can wish to end your life among these unnecessary, useless, sleeping drones?”
Irene listened in dismay. Both Gzhatski and Père Etienne spoke so eloquently and with such conviction. Which of them was in the right?
“And what a wild idea!” exclaimed Gzhatski furiously, “to become a nun! Do you really think there are not enough nuns in Rome without you? Why, the whole town is teeming with convents that give one no peace with their everlasting bells. How many sick women and weak children are there in Rome, who need rest and sleep? And yet those imbeciles start their pandemonium at five o’clock every morning. You see, they have to save their precious souls. We in Russia, with our modest monks and nuns, can hardly grasp the extent of the impudence of these Southern religious orders, and the fury to which they can drive people. I perfectly understand why they were expelled from France, and I only profoundly regret that they have not yet been expelled from Italy. Just look what they have done with Rome. It is no longer a city, it is one huge cemetery. I can’t listen to that eternal dull sound of bells. It always seems to me that they are burying me alive, and celebrating masses for the peace of my sinful soul. I always feel inclined to cry out: ‘You lie! I am alive! And I am going to live a long time yet, and do many useful things.’”
In his enthusiasm, Gzhatski sometimes took recourse to means of which he himself would at another time have disapproved. Thus, on one occasion, he began, with a malicious smile and in some excitement, almost before he had shaken hands: