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In April, the same year, 1890, she went to
Russia. She had hopes of being made an
ordinary Academician in St Petersburg, which
would have been the most profitable
appointment she could ever wish to obtain, with a high
salary and no obligations except to spend two
months every year in St Petersburg. At the
same time it was the greatest scientific
distinction which could be conferred in Russia. It
would have released her from her obligations in
Stockholm, and given her the chance of carrying
out her old wish: to make Paris her permanent
residence. She used to say to me while we were
there: ‘If we cannot have the best thing life can
give, a happy love, at any rate life is bearable
if it offers us the next best thing, surroundings
which are congenial to our mind. But to have
neither is unbearable.’
I knew nothing of her plans till the beginning
of June, when we met quite unexpectedly in
Berlin, where my husband and I were staying
on our way to Sweden, and where Sonia had
arrived from St Petersburg the same day. This
time I found her in the gayest humour. People
who did not know her would have thought her
perfectly happy, but I knew better; it was her
way of hiding the wounds of her heart. She had
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