Short Fiction

with slow steps in the long galleries between the masterpieces of line and colour. The atmosphere of these places was full of the heartless serenity of perfection. The other people in them looked to him very small, distinct and⁠—no matter how numerous⁠—exceedingly lonely, like men and women lost in a strange world. Their irresolute footsteps rang, sharp but ineffectual, in the significant silence of glorious memories. Stephen wandered about. His powerful and clumsy frame clad in black attracted attention, eluded it by its restlessness. He flitted in the doorways, crossed the narrow end of long perspectives, was seen, thrown in abandoned postures, on circular couches, only to get up again and pace forward stiffly with fixed and unseeing eyes. The whispers of amused remarks did not disturb him⁠—were not heard by him. The first appeal of death vivifies the past, evokes a great clearness of distinct memories out of the crash of destroyed hopes. Stephen remembered, could see, the pathetic faces of the dead who⁠—he imagined⁠—had died with his name on their lips. The armour of his art, the armour polished, impenetrable, unstained and harder than steel, seemed to be stripped off him by a mighty hand, to fall with an ominous clatter at his feet. Defenceless, he was pierced by the venomous sharpness of remorse. He had abandoned those two loving hearts for the promise of unattainable things, for alluring lies, for beautiful illusions. He wanted to shout at immortal achievements: “You have no heart.” To his lofty aspirations he said: “You have no conscience”⁠—To Beauty: “Thou art a lie!” To Inspiration: “Go! Depart with the last word unspoken⁠—for I have no more sacrifices to offer.” In the haste of his regrets he dispersed with frenzied renunciation the band of charming phantoms that had for so many years surrounded his life⁠—and remained alone, humbled and appalled by the reality of his loss.

This state of agonizing self-reproach did not last long⁠—no longer than with other men. Stephen’s brother wrote him letters where filial sorrow was mingled with judicious concern about their affairs. That young man was cheery, practical and brotherly. He had taken over the business. He was also modern and irreverent. He spoke with strange levity of the Governor of the Province saying that the fellow had priest’s eyes⁠—that see everything⁠—and a wolf’s maw⁠—that would swallow everything. “But”⁠—he added⁠—“I have the wherewithal to stuff his maw and have obtained the lease of government mills. We shall make a good thing of it. And next year I go to the Caucasus⁠—provisioning the troops⁠—when we shall dwell in a town, Brother, in a big town! You come and live with us. You shall paint those Tcherkesses and the Georgian women, and make money by it⁠—if you like. There’s a fellow here⁠—went to Turkestan; painted those savages there on small bits of canvas, and even paper⁠—and everybody in Petersburg is running to see. It’s true! I have seen myself people fight at the doors. There’s many mad folks in our country. Why shouldn’t you get some of their roubles? But there is plenty of money already. Half of it is yours. I understand affairs. Come and live with us. My wife asks after you often and your nephew is beginning to run about. There’s no country in the world like our country. Come!”

III

Stephen, letter in hand, looked across space and time at the land of his birth. From afar it loomed up immense, mysterious⁠—and mute. He was afraid of it. He was afraid of the silent dawn of life, he who sought amongst the most perfect expressions of matured thought the word that would fling open the doors of beyond. Not there! Not there!⁠ ⁠… He wrote to his brother: “I cannot return. You would not understand if I tried to explain. But, believe me, to return now they are dead would be worse than suicide which is the unpardonable crime. I want to know⁠ ⁠… don’t ask what⁠—what some others knew and died without telling. Till I know I cannot come back. I think I dare to hope that when the word is spoken, I shall understand. Do not wonder at what I say. It is useless. You are right. There is no country like our country and no people like us⁠—peasants. We are God’s children. Little children yet. If we were like the men are around me now I could not speak to you as I am speaking. We are Brothers. We are different, but we love without understanding one another⁠—and we trust. Do not be angry. If there is money tell me how much there is for me for I must arrange my life. I could also earn it⁠—but then I would have to give up my hope. Many men had to do it. It wouldn’t matter⁠—but still I am anxious to know. Cherish our land⁠—preserve in your heart the simplicity God’s mercy has put there⁠—think of me often.”

The brother returned a puzzled but a resigned answer. Into business matters he went thoroughly with great clearness and Stephen found himself almost rich or, at any rate, in very comfortable circumstances. He had recovered somewhat from the terrible shock of his loss. The black violence of grief faded after a time into a cold greyness: the pale and unwilling dawn of another short day of uncertain respites. In that ashy light in which at that time he lived Stephen saw his phantom companions return, beckon, smile, point onwards with shadowy arms; and he heard the ghostly whisper of alluring words shaped by their beautiful and unreal lips. He must go! He had paid an enormous price for the privilege of a hopeless strife! Was it hopeless?⁠ ⁠… As he lay on a couch, with half-closed eyes, in the silence of his studio, the shadows of the evening closed round him. The day was attuning itself slowly to the sorrowful note of his heart. He got up, walked irresolutely about. The big room was under the roof which, over a