The Torrents Of Spring

XLIII
This was what Dimitri Sanin remembered when in the stillness of his
room turning over his old papers he found among them a garnet cross.
The events we have described rose clearly and consecutively before his
mental vision… . But when he reached the moment when he addressed
that humiliating prayer to Madame Polozov, when he grovelled at her
feet, when his slavery began, he averted his gaze from the images he had
evoked, he tried to recall no more. And not that his memory failed him,
oh no! he knew only too well what followed upon that moment, but he
was stifled by shame, even now, so many years after; he dreaded that
feeling of self-contempt, which he knew for certain would overwhelm
him, and like a torrent, flood all other feelings if he did not bid his
memory be still. But try as he would to turn away from these memories,
he could not stifle them entirely. He remembered the scoundrelly, tearful,
lying, pitiful letter he had sent to Gemma, that never received an answer…
. See her again, go back to her, after such falsehood, such treachery,
no! no! he could not, so much conscience and honesty was left in
him. Moreover, he had lost every trace of confidence in himself, every
atom of self-respect; he dared not rely on himself for anything. Sanin recollected
too how he had later on – oh, ignominy! – sent the Polozovs’
footman to Frankfort for his things, what cowardly terror he had felt,
how he had had one thought only, to get away as soon as might be to
Paris – to Paris; how in obedience to Maria Nikolaevna, he had humoured
and tried to please Ippolit Sidoritch and been amiable to Dönhof,
on whose finger he noticed just such an iron ring as Maria
Nikolaevna had given him!!! Then followed memories still worse, more
ignominious … the waiter hands him a visiting card, and on it is the
name, ‘Pantaleone Cippatola, court singer to His Highness the Duke of
Modena!’ He hides from the old man, but cannot escape meeting him in
the corridor, and a face of exasperation rises before him under an upstanding
topknot of grey hair; the old eyes blaze like red-hot coals, and
he hears menacing cries and curses: ‘Maledizione!’ hears even the terrible
words: ‘Codardo! Infame traditore!’ Sanin closes his eyes, shakes his head,
turns away again and again, but still he sees himself sitting in a travelling
carriage on the narrow front seat … In the comfortable places facing
the horses sit Maria Nikolaevna and Ippolit Sidoritch, the four horses
trotting all together fly along the paved roads of Wiesbaden to Paris! to
Paris! Ippolit Sidoritch is eating a pear which Sanin has peeled for him,
while Maria Nikolaevna watches him and smiles at him, her bondslave,
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