"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."
XXXVII.
All was prepared for a cordial, festive reception in the Hôtel de l'Europe, the same hotel in which Lensky had lived thirty years before, and in which everything had changed, as all Rome.
Natascha had on an embroidered white dress in honor of his arrival. Mascha declared that she recognized him; at any rate, she displayed the utmost friendliness. When he took her in his arms she passed her tiny hands caressingly over his rough, wrinkled cheeks, and the old man rejoiced in the fresh young bud, and could not kiss her enough.
But the family reunion was not so happy and cheerful as Mascha had dreamed. A weight lay on all. Lensky, who formerly had never felt the slightest fatigue from travelling, was to-day so weary that his hands trembled. He left the choicest morsels untouched on his plate, and drank more wine than formerly. He scarcely spoke, often for long moments brooded absent-mindedly, while his deathly pale face took on an intense listening and longing expression which was as weird as mysterious to his children.
When he roused himself, he turned his attention almost exclusively to his son. Incessantly his eyes sought Nikolai's. The young man showed the elder every possible attention, but he could not talk with him.
Meanwhile Mascha did not cease to try to enliven the oppressive mood, whose cause she did not suspect, by all kinds of communications. She told of her Cousin Anna, who had finally married--an American parvenu, whom she treated very badly, and who was very proud of her. He had built her a house in the Champs Elysées, after her personal liking. The house was very large and very handsome. It had room for everything, only not for Anna's mother. Old Madame Jeliagin, who as long as her daughter was unmarried would have spent her last cent to live according to their rank, now begged from one relative to another. "She was with us in Venice for six weeks this winter," said Mascha, "and you will scarcely believe me, I know you are prejudiced against aunt, but I was very happy with her. She is so simple now, and so pitifully modest. She no longer paints, and she ties her cap-strings under her chin. She always jumps up if one wants anything, and waited on my husband as on a Sultan. He was always very good to her, and she admired him immensely. With me and the children she was of such an old-fashioned, clinging tenderness that it warmed my heart. She has still a very strong family feeling, and told me much of my dear mother. Strange, with so many people their good peculiarities only come to light when they are too old to embitter life with vanity." Mascha smiled. It did Lensky good to see, for the first time in so many years, this healthy, happy expression on her face. Meanwhile she continued:
"Still, I have news of some one who will perhaps interest you more than Aunt Barbe. Whom did I meet to-day on the Corso? Sonia, with her father. You perhaps know that he has recently been made inspector--I do not know the title exactly, protector perhaps--of the Choreographic Institute in St. Petersburg. He is still the same, fire and flame for culture and beautiful women. Sonia may have much to endure. She bears it all patiently, as she bears everything. Do you know that she has grown much prettier in these five years, Nikolai?"
Nikolai only murmured distractedly: "So, really?" and crumbled his bread.