God's Journey

1

The house was very big, and very old, and very lonely. In some parts of Europe, it would have been called a castle, for it stood foursquare with walls two yards thick, and there was a strong tower at one corner. But, here, a hundred miles from Kazan, it was just the House of the Barin.

Little Dascha was never very frightened. The loneliness of the land came natural to her. Nobody knew who she was, but people said that there must be Tatar blood in her because her face was very Mongolian, even as a baby, and her hair was fox colour. Probably it would get darker when she got older.

No, she was never frightened, brave little six year old, not even of Pavel Petrovich Goluchinov in his worst fits of melancholy rage; she had an all-powerful protectress in the pale woman who ruled the house, Maria Ivanovna. For the Barin was a bit of an adventurer. There were periods in his past that would not bear investigation. And his wife was the daughter of a general, a Prince of the Empire, a man who stood very well indeed with the Tsar.

The Barin beat everybody else, not only in the house, but for twenty miles around. One does not resist a man whose father-in-law is a general. And, besides, God had afflicted him. He was never quite like the other people. He was more human and sane when he was drunk than at other times, thought the peasants.

But, drunk or sober, he never lifted his hand against the thin, pale, fragile woman whom he had married. And he never opposed her.

She had never had any children, and little Dascha had been adopted to fill the empty place. On that one occasion, indeed, the Barin had registered one last, ineffectual protest. He wanted to know why, if she must have a child in the house, she could not take a boy.

However, there was a good deal of boy in the queer little Tatar girl. She was a wild, scapegrace child, always in mischief. But when thwarted or annoyed, she would retire into herself almost like some Chinese monk might do, sitting motionless in a corner, forgetful of everything but the trouble of the moment.

Maria Ivanovna herself thought there was something unnatural in such fits, and tried to break the child of the habit; but, will for will, little Dascha was the stronger of the pair.

It was a long time, indeed, before her foster-mother could find out what was the meaning of her sulkiness. But once, in an outburst of frankness, the girl said:

"Somebody does harm to me. I say nothing. I tell God. You wait. You will see that good does not come of that."

"Well, baby," said the Barinya, "why does it take you so long to tell God?"

"Oh," said Dascha, "God lives a long way off. I am sometimes very tired before I get to him. But I never give up."

It was a very strange and solitary family that lived in the big house, in the lonely land. The Barinya saw no friends at all, except that now and then some of her relations would come from Moscow or St Petersburg to visit her.

Their estate was an enormous one. It was thirty miles to the next house of any landed proprietor.

Pavel Petrovich had no friends at all of his own rank. Strange stories were told of how he had left the army, and stories even more sinister as to how he had managed to marry into so exalted a family.

He was a short, strongly built man, with a bullet head nearly bald, a ling pair of fierce moustaches, and a clean shaved chin. His nose was short and blunt; his eyes, small, beady and malevolent. All his notion of human society was drinking bouts in the Pivnaya with the peasants of the village. His mistress was the lowest and dirtiest of all the serfs.

He had managed after long and careful manœuvres to get her into the house as an occasional helper in the scullery.

The poor lady knew nothing of this, and would not have cared. She had resigned herself to her life of utter loneliness. Like so many Russians of the most strictly religious type, she felt acutely the need of self-torture. She accepted her long imprisonment, for one could hardly speak of it as anything else, as the punishment for real or imaginary errors of her earlier life.

The Barin might have tolerated any other kind of woman. The cold rigidity of his wife was an abhorrence to him. Indeed, Maria Ivanovna had no softer feelings in her life at all. Her religion was as arid as the Steppes. Her only weak spot was little Dascha, whom she cherished with a love that was really more religious than it was human. Indeed, she had reason to release her grip on life, for she was slowly, very slowly, dying of consumption.

It is impossible to imagine a greater contrast that that between the two women.

Nadia, the maid, was a stout, muscular wench, violent, drunken and degraded, but enormously vital. A fanciful man might have thought of her as a demon sprung from the very soil itself. She was fierce and surly. She had probably not five hundred words in her whole vocabulary, and her ideas were gross almost to bestiality. She was entirely destitute of any moral sense. But beyond this mask lay a brain, which, under other conditions, might have fitted a statesman. You would have got no hint of it, save in the smouldering fire of her wolfish eyes. And even in them, you would probably have read nothing but savage and predatory instinct.

You would have supposed that her ambitions were bounded by the satisfaction of the moment. But, in reality, she had, perhaps hardly formulated in consciousness, a lust of power which knew neither bounds nor scruples.

In any other country, a woman with such ideas would have hastened to grasp at the obvious purifications which lead to power. She would have tried to wash, to dress herself attractively, to acquire some education.

In the country of Catherine the Great, such methods are not necessary. You will remember how John the Pannonian, the blacksmith's bastard, destroyed the Infant Protus and grasped the sceptre in his great gnarled fist without any more ado about it.

So, all that Nadia could see of the whole planet was the big, square house, and she wanted that for her own.

All she could see of humanity was the master of the house, whom she had in her grasp, and the mistress of the house, who prevented her from making use of her victory.

Between the thought of murder and the deed, however, lay an abyss. There was the certainty of vengeance; and there was the dread of the supernatural. But here came to her aid the inexorable patience of the Russian peasant. She had a quality which would have saved Napoleon if he had possessed it. She knew how to wait. She did not even take any steps to gain a firmer grasp, to establish her footing in the household more securely. The Barin was her slave. Of what use would it be to do anything whatever when she had that vantage?

As it so often turns out in life, if one is honestly resigned to wait, one does not have to wait so long after all.

Before she had been in the house a year, the Barinya found her sickness leap suddenly forward. A week's tussle with the Grim Old Man, and she was gone.

It was on the day of the funeral itself that a long heralded storm broke out in the house. The Barinya had wished to be buried with her jewelled cross, crude emeralds and amethysts bubbling from rough hammered gold. When the time came to close the coffin, the cross was nowhere to be found.

Everyone in the house was rather drunk, and a great hullabaloo was aroused. A person of any intelligence would have known who had taken it. The village pope was a notorious thief, and it was not the first time that the spiritual amenities of his presence had had to be paid for by material disadvantages.

But the room where the dead woman lay was filled with beings half crazy with emotion, and nothing was to be heard but accusations and recriminations mingled with passionate protestations and appeals to the Deity to bear witness to what was going on.

There was one person who had not the normal activity of the brain, that superficial quality of swift reaction without reflection, whose evidence is talk. This was a brain that apprehended situations in some deep stratum of the soul, and the result of whose subtle, secret operations is to make decisions which really decide things.

When the hubbub chanced for a moment to be lulled, Nadia, who had been watching the scene silently out of the corners of her sombre eyes, came heavily across the floor towards the master of the house. Her very motion might have suggested some inexorable engine of destruction. She lurched clumsily like a tank, slow, stupid, and yet deadly.

She made most humble reverence to Pavel Petrovich and said, "I saw Dascha with it."

The words were quite enough. It let everybody out.

The pope immediately said, "So that was the glittering thing I noticed in her hand a little while ago."

And soon other witnesses came forward, including one who had actually seen the child take it from the breast of the dead woman.

The next thing was to find Dascha. The child was playing in a little coppice which fringed the sluggish stream that wound around the great tower of the house.

She denied all knowledge of the cross. When she heard the nature of the accusation, she shut her little mouth firmly, and sat down where she was.

The Barin grew very angry. His wife was dead. There was no one to restrain him. His sullen hatred for the child, pent up for years, broke loose. He shook her and slapped her, punctuating his actions with curses.

The child took no more notice of him than id she had been carved of wood. The moment he stopped, there she was once more sitting like an idol, and nothing but the quick beating of her little heart testified to her emotion.

At last the pope, possibly stricken by some touch of remorse, began to protest.

Pavel Petrovich turned on him with a savage oath, took him immediately by the shoulders, spun him around, and dismissed him with a vigourous kick.

But the others also took Dascha's part. She was so sweet, so playful, so natural, so witty in her childish way, that everybody loved her; that is, when he or she happened to think of it.

But the Barin beat them all off like a huntsman driving the hounds from a dead fox, and, having picked her up by the nape of her neck, flung her across his shoulder, Crying out, "Foundling she is, now let somebody else find her!" he strode to the stable, leapt on his favourite horse, and rode away across the Steppes with her.

It was a day before he returned. No one ever knew what he had done with Dascha, except Nadia, to whom he confessed that he had given a sum of money to some merchants, who were travelling towards Nizhni Novgorod, to take her with them.

2

Pavel Petrovich was not long in discovering that he had exchanged King Log for King Stork. Nadia closed upon him as if it were a mountain that fell upon a man and buried him.

In a week, she was the absolute mistress of the household; but, having achieved her ambitions, she did not enlarge her horizon. She had got all she wanted, or ever could want, for the simple reason that she knew of nothing else; and she proceeded to enjoy it to the utmost. She turned the house into a pigsty. The servants had no duties any more, save to get drunk. Orgies of the most outrageous character were the rule of the house. She would invite wandering bands of Gypsies to camp in the great hall. The furniture was broken up for firewood, and the glassware used for missiles.

She was supremely happy. There was not a cloud on the horizon. She was not one of those women who ruin a man, for she did not know what diamonds were. The Barin's income was more than sufficient for all the debauchery and drink that heart could wish.

He, too, was happy in his hoggish way. He became absolutely slovenly in his dress, and only changed his linen when the whim took him. He let his beard grow long.

The household readily settled down into the new routine. Month after month passed by with scarce an incident beyond the putting out of somebody's eye, or something of the sort, always in a perfectly friendly manner, so that the trifle was forgotten and forgiven as soon as the blood stopped flowing.

There was no doctor in the village. The diseases of the people were attended to at intervals by travelling quacks, who competed with the old 'wise women' who prepared medicines of simples. But if a doctor had chanced to pay a visit to the old big house, he might have warned its master that his course of life was not conducive to longevity.

There is a peculiar action of alcohol which is true with regard to certain temperaments and constitutions. A man becomes as it were preserved in spirit. He never seems to be ill. It is almost as if time passed him by. But, now and again, an accident may break down this mummification of the devotee of Bacchus.

One winter's night, twelve years after the death of his wife, Pavel Petrovich made a wager with a travelling salesman. It was a race across the river which bounded the edge of the village. It was filled with broken ice, heaped up in hummocks at the curve. Black pools of water glimmered darkly between them.

The whole crowd, clutching bottles of vodka, staggered out of the great house down to the stream. The race began. But before he had got half way, Pavel Petrovich slipped on a steep hummock and found himself in the river.

Men from the village, drawn by the drunken shouts of the crowd, had gathered to watch the race; while the revellers laughed and cheered, they brought ropes and pulled out the drowning drunkard.

It was a ling time before he came back to life. The chill came near to be his bane. But (luckily for his life) there was a woman in the village who had been a nurse in the Crimean War and understood such conditions. She installed herself in the big house and watched the sick man day and night, while Nadia, perpetually drunk, only came in from time to time to curse him for being sick. It was her way of expressing her love. What she wanted, what she really cared for, was a man to join her in her amusements. And while she had no scruples about fidelity, Pavel Petrovich was the lord of the district, and it was her pride that she had him under her thumb.

There were times in that long illness when the nurse almost despaired, and Nadia understood in her dark soul that his death would be the end of her empire. She said to herself that she ought to have married him long before, and that she must do it now. But the vodka with which she had saturated herself for so many years stepped between idea and execution.

It was Pavel Petrovich who broached the subject. His sickness had washed all gross desires from him. He began to live again in the memories of early boyhood. His religious training knocked at the door of his dull conscience. He began to think, in a quite conventional, bourgeois way, of 'making reparations to the woman whom he had wronged.'

A severe sickness is very trying to one's sense of humour.

He spoke of the matter to his nurse, and she, good old soul, thought it her clear duty to confirm him in his idea. The upshot was that one day when he seemed sinking, she sent for the pope; and, dragging Nadia from her carousals with some Gypsies who were passing through, had them safely married.

It is possible that the sick man was really affected in his subconsciousness by the superstitious idea of reparation, for from the moment of his marriage he had began rapidly to mend. Ten days later he was up and about.

But he was a man essentially changed. His eye caught the dirt and disorder of the house, which had never once been cleaned in twelve years. He began to remember how different it had been while Maria Ivanovna lived. An ineffable weariness and disgust swept through him. And, yet, such is the force of habit, no sooner had he found Nadia lying drunk in the kitchen, than he called for a bottle of spirits.

But drink is a very curious thing. It requires two parties to the transaction. The Pavel Petrovich who was drinking now was not the Pavel Petrovich who had drunk before.

Previously, his nature had been merely gross, and vodka had accentuated that quality in him. Now, he was purified of bestiality by that close call from death, and the obedient alcohol now accentuated that quality just as it had done the former.

He got drunk, all right, but instead of his losing himself in a fantasia whose theme was animal satisfaction, it gave him clarity of vision, like that of a drowning man who can comprehend in an instant the whole vista of life.

He became melancholy, for that was part of his original nature; but it was not the fierce and irritable melancholia which had characterised that type of mood during his first wife's lifetime. It was a pure, a mystic melancholia, and the chorus was, "What a rotten thing life is. And, anyhow, what a mess you've ,made of it."

And when that thought took clear shape in his mind, his eyes fell upon his wife. In twelve years, she had grown old and fat. She was incredibly dirty. Her hair was matted with mud. Her clothes were filthy beyond words, torn and stained. It did not seem as if she put them on. One might have said that they had grown on her, like moss upon a rotten oak stump.

And then again, came the fierce counterattack of habit. She was the woman who gratified every vile and perverted habit that he had ever had. To use his own language, she was the woman whom he loved.

As if in answer to this thought, she came out of her drunken stupor. There were several other people in the kitchen, but they never stirred. It was certain that they would not stir for many an hour yet.

Nadia came to her husband, staggering over the flags of the kitchen. She caught him fiercely in her fat arms, and smothered him with drunken kisses. The tumult in his soul increased almost to the point of ecstasy. All the sensual side of his nature, developed through years of indulgence, roused an almost incoherent passion in him. The perceptive faculties in him, rendered exquisitely acute by the emaciation of his sickness and rooted deep in the soil of his earliest training, cried bitterly, "That thing is your wife!"

He thrilled with horror and disgust. Then rose the other wave, insurgent and insistent; and, alternating, these two violences drove him to the edge of insanity.

A moment came when he could no longer distinguish between them, and it was at that moment that his wife reeled, and dragged him to the ground.

As chance would have it, there was a rusty carving knife lying upon the floor within reach of his hand; and even as he swooned beneath her kisses, he reached out for it and drove it slowly into her throat.

Pavel Petrovich did not know what he had done for a little while. When he came to himself, the other people in the room were still asleep. He, on the other hand, was more awake than he had ever been in his whole life. His brain had never been very active, but at this moment it was supernaturally acute. He understood perfectly well that he had done murder. He understood perfectly well that he was free from any possibility of suspicion. Furious brawls had been too common in that house. More than once a man or woman had been wounded nigh unto death. No one would suspect a convalescing invalid of the crime. He had no motive that anyone could imagine. Any one of the dozen people in that kitchen might have done it. When they woke up, it would be their business to look after it.

All he had to do was to take a stroll in the village, and chat pleasantly with the people whom he might find there. He was sure he could do it. He did not feel the slightest tremor, either of remorse or fear.

The lovely sun of spring shone beyond the walls of the old big house. He went quietly upstairs, put on his coat and hat, and went out of the house humming a tune.

3

When Pavel Petrovich came to the village, he found a warm welcome from everybody whom he met. The mind of the Russian is admirably simple and well-ordered. He never mistakes accidents for essentials. A Tsar might be a very terrible person. He might be stamped with every crime. He might be guilty of every oppression. But he is the Little Father, Temporal and Spiritual Head of the Empire, which is the civilised world. And as a father he is to be loved and revered, as the representative of God on earth.

Similarly, the landowner might have been rather a wicked oppressor, and the serfs might be ready to burn down the roof over his head and roast him in the embers; but he never ceases to be the Dear Baron, Vice Regent of the Tsar, one ray of that Tsar's sunshine. The peasants must love him with the love not only of a child for a father, but that of a mother for a child. 'He has been near to death, and God has preserved him to us, and this is the happiest day in our lives.'

And then—there is the mood of reaction against such feelings. It is hard for those who do not know Russia to understand such psychology.

The result of it was that, spiritually exalted with the fine weather and the love of his villagers, Pavel Petrovich suddenly found himself in a world of simple, childlike happiness. He experienced the relief of one whose sins have been washed away, and wished such a state to endure for ever.

It was only when he became hungry that he thought of returning to his house. But the thought of that house was another spiritual awakening. It was not a real house at all to him. It was a nightmare from which he awakened. But, again, his physical being aroused in him the impulse to return to that house, and this was a thing which he understood that he could never do.

He visualised the twenty years he had spent there with absolute lucidity. He could never go there again.

But there was nothing to distress him in that fact; the situation was quite simple. He would go to his friend, Stephen Pavlovich, the merchant, and draw on him for funds. He would go to spend the spring in the Crimea. It was perfectly natural that one recovering from pneumonia should take just that step.

People in Russia do not scrutinise closely the behaviours of individuals. Every one is allowed to do things in his own way.

There was no reason why he should start from his house with a large number of trunks amid the flourish of trumpets.

So he went to his friend's house and borrowed ten thousand rubles. He engaged a carriage, and set out on his travels, a free man.

The fresh air and the swift motion exhilarated him more than ever. He felt that by his act he had cut himself off completely from his past. He knew perfectly well that he stood in no danger whatever.

The evening had fallen when he came to the market town of the district. He put up at the hotel, deliciously languid after his long drive, so that his soul sighed itself softly away into a spiritual siesta. He dined well, and enjoyed his food like a hunter, drinking heartily with no sting of the passion for drink. A small bottle of light champagne was all that he touched. And when his head sank on the pillow, he slept instantly, dreamlessly, like a tired child.

In the morning, he woke early. He could not think where he was. He could not remember any of the events which had led up to his being in this strange place.

One may suppose that there are few people to whom this experience has not happened at one time or another. It is always a little embarrassing to people of weak mentality, perhaps even a little terrifying. To Pavel Petrovich, enfeebled by his long sickness, and no doubt subconsciously affected by the remembrance of what he had passed through, the situation was one of horror. An impalpable idea, senseless and formless, obsessed him.

It presented itself to him at last in a shape which he had never previously envisaged. He said to himself, 'Now I know who I am, and where I am, and how I came to be here. I am a murderer running away.'

That had been the true reason for his flight, though that aspect had never previously presented itself to his subconscious. He was a murderer, running away, though he had not known it till that moment.

But the idea, once presented to him in such a form, took complete possession of him. He immediately began to think of the things which would naturally occur to anyone in such a situation. He did not think of the truth, that there was no chance whatever of anyone suspecting him. He simply thought, 'How shall I escape notice?'

Thus, first of all, it occurred to him that he must change his appearance. So he dressed quietly and quickly, went downstairs and ordered his breakfast. He walked down the street until he came to a barber's.

The proprietor had not yet arrived at that early hour in the morning. The only person in the shop was an assistant, a boy, some eighteen years old, with a mass of chestnut hair, a bright, quick smile, and eyes large, lustrous and intense.

Pavel Petrovich took a swift fancy to him. He exchanged greetings far more cordial than his wont, and asked for a clean shave. It would be easy to make some laughing excuse at the hotel for the change in his appearance. A convalescent going to some fashionable resort in the Crimea does not need a big, black beard. He began to try his excuses on the young barber, who acquiesced in a flow of pleasant conversation.

"This is the time to go to the Crimea," said the boy, "the spring wind blows cold from Tartary. You see, Gospodin, how my hand trembles, although the sun is up and shining brightly.

"Yes, this is spring weather. I have waited a long while through a dreary winter.

"Your hair is a little thin on the top, sir, can't I sell you this elixir, which is made by the cleverest chemist from Paris itself?

"No, sir, you need not be afraid if my hand trembles. I have been shaving people for several years, and I have never had an accident."

"No, my boy, I would trust you with anything," laughed the man in the chair, "I have half a mind to ask you to be my valet. What do you say to leaving this dull little town, and sunning yourself among the fine ladies on the Plage?"

"The offer is tempting" said the boy, "but I am on a journey, and I am very near its end. It has taken me a long while to get to this town, which is not far from the place that I have always wanted to go to.

"Strange as it may seem to you, I think there is a God who speeds travellers even when they least expect it."

"I hope He will speed me," replied Pavel Petrovich.

"I have no doubt of that," cried the young barber.

"It seems almost a pity for you to lose that beautiful beard. I admired your appearance so much when you came into the shop. You look quite different now. Of course, I do not mean to say that I do not admire you as you are. Though, perhaps, a man never looks his best with a lot of lather on his face."

Pavel Petrovich laughed cheerfully.

"Talking of accidents," said the boy, "It seems so extraordinary to me that suicides have no more sense. They try to cut through the thick muscles of the neck, or to pierce through the bony structure of the larynx; as a surgical fact, it requires the greatest determination as well as considerable muscular strength to reach any vital artery in this direction. But, on the other hand, the jugular vein lies very near the surface, and I sometimes think that beards were intended as a sort of protection to this part from some cutting or piercing instrument."

The boy's words, innocent as they were, filled Pavel Petrovich with a clammy terror. Was it not in that vein that he had stabbed his wife?

The boy noticed the change in his eyes.

"I hope that you will let me sell you some of our special cream to use after shaving," he said, as though purposely ignoring the sweat which had broken out on the forehead of his customer.

"Thank you," said Pavel Petrovich, "perhaps it will be as well for me to take a pot with me." But he spoke through his clenched teeth in cold desperation.

The boy wiped his customer's forehead with a napkin.

"I fear you have been ill, sir," he said, "and are not quite recovered."

"Why, yes," said Pavel Petrovich, "I told you I had been ill when first I came into the shop."

"Ah," said the boy, "I do not think you know what illness is. I have a sickness of the soul.

"Shall I go over it twice, sir?"

"Yes, I want to be shaved close."

"I will shave very close," said the boy, "but I will be careful not to cut you."

Is it possible that the boy did not notice the fearful state of agitation in which his customer now was? It appeared like a coma. His eyes were turned up so that the whites showed horribly. Perhaps he did not know very clearly the nature of his fear. Perhaps he had not the power to analyse the complex of emotion which was agonising him. But, the boy noticed, no doubt, he noticed well, and he sought to console Goluchinov by endeavouring to awake his sympathy.

"However sick you may have been, sir, I can assure you that, young as I am, it is nothing to what I myself have suffered.

"When I was a child, I was accused wrongfully of a theft. I was thrown out of the house where I had been brought up, and handed over like a parcel to some men who were travelling in the country on their affairs."

Goluchinov's head swam. Extraordinary that this boy's story should recall his own behaviour towards little Dascha, long years ago! It seemed as if every word was playing with the skill of a Chinese torturer upon his nerves.

"Yes, sir, this is my story," continued the young barber.

"A little to the right, if you please sir.

"I have never forgotten the injury that was done to me. I took a solemn oath that I would avenge it.

"Still a little more to the right, if you please, sir.

"I am going to surprise you, sir, perhaps. But, after all, the thing is common in Russia. I am really a girl. But, that I might pursue more easily the plan of my vengeance, I have worn boy's clothes, I lived a boy's life, learnt a boy's trade. And, little by little, I worked my way until I am now within a day's journey of the place where I mean to take my vengeance.

"I beg your pardon, sir. The head a trifle farther back, if you please.

I should have said, I had meant to take my vengeance there. But, as I said before, to one who travels earnestly, it sometimes happens that God comes to meet him on the way. This world is full of strange events. Is it not, sir?

"I think you would find your hair better if you had it regularly singed. It is allowing the hair to grow too long and uneven that makes it possible for the germs to live, which cause baldness. Singeing sterilises perfectly the ends of the hair."

Pavel Petrovich gasped an affirmative. He did not know anything any more, but fear struck to the roots of his soul in a cold delirium of anguish.

"Yes, sir," the girl went on, "even if God does not come half way to meet one, he certainly always comes a little way. I thought myself a day's journey from the author of my misery, and curiously enough he is in this chair, Pavel Petrovich Goluchinov!

"A little bay rum, sir?"

The murderer did not answer. The girl's hand, light as it was, weighed on his head as if it had been the monument of his sins, and the razor was still at his throat.

"No bay rum, sir? A little powder, perhaps? We have exactly the shade of powder you require, Barin. Could I not sell you a stick of alum, in case at any time you should cut yourself shaving, and find it necessary to stop the bleeding? One cannot really be too careful with that jugular vein. Hardly a touch from the point or the heel of this razor, and it would be all over. No surgeon could do anything if you should happen to meet with such an accident, Pavel Petrovich Goluchinov."

Little Dascha folded her razor, and hastened to powder her customer's chin.

"There, that is better. That certainly looks fine. Twenty kopecks, if you please, and pray do not forget to remember the barber."

But he did not hear those words: God had come to meet little Dascha on her journey.

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