the novels of ivan turgenev knock, knock, knock and other stories translated from the russian by constance garnett * * * * * contents: knock, knock, knock the inn lieutenant yergunov's story the dog the watch * * * * * knock, knock, knock a study i we all settled down in a circle and our good friend alexandr vassilyevitch ridel (his surname was german but he was russian to the marrow of his bones) began as follows: i am going to tell you a story, friends, of something that happened to me in the 'thirties ... forty years ago as you see. i will be brief--and don't you interrupt me. i was living at the time in petersburg and had only just left the university. my brother was a lieutenant in the horse-guard artillery. his battery was stationed at krasnoe selo--it was summer time. my brother lodged not at krasnoe selo itself but in one of the neighbouring villages; i stayed with him more than once and made the acquaintance of all his comrades. he was living in a fairly decent cottage, together with another officer of his battery, whose name was ilya stepanitch tyeglev. i became particularly friendly with him. marlinsky is out of date now--no one reads him--and even his name is jeered at; but in the 'thirties his fame was above everyone's--and in the opinion of the young people of the day pushkin could not hold candle to him. he not only enjoyed the reputation of being the foremost russian writer; but--something much more difficult and more rarely met with--he did to some extent leave his mark on his generation. one came across heroes _à la_ marlinsky everywhere, especially in the provinces and especially among infantry and artillery men; they talked and corresponded in his language; behaved with gloomy reserve in society--"with tempest in the soul and flame in the blood" like lieutenant byelosov in the "_frigate hope_." women's hearts were "devoured" by them. the adjective applied to them in those days was "fatal." the type, as we all know, survived for many years, to the days of petchorin. [footnote: the leading character in lermontov's _a hero of our time_.--_translator's note_.] all sorts of elements were mingled in that type. byronism, romanticism, reminiscences of the french revolution, of the dekabrists--and the worship of napoleon; faith in destiny, in one's star, in strength of will; pose and fine phrases--and a miserable sense of the emptiness of life; uneasy pangs of petty vanity--and genuine strength and daring; generous impulses--and defective education, ignorance; aristocratic airs--and delight in trivial foppery.... but enough of these general reflections. i promised to tell you the story. ii lieutenant tyeglev belonged precisely to the class of those "fatal" individuals, though he did not possess the exterior commonly associated with them; he was not, for instance, in the least like lermontov's "fatalist." he was a man of medium height, fairly solid and round-shouldered, with fair, almost white eyebrows and eyelashes; he had a round, fresh, rosy-cheeked face, a turn-up nose, a low forehead with the hair growing thick over the temples, and full, well-shaped, always immobile lips: he never laughed, never even smiled. only when he was tired and out of heart he showed his square teeth, white as sugar. the same artificial immobility was imprinted on all his features: had it not been for that, they would have had a good-natured expression. his small green eyes with yellow lashes were the only thing not quite ordinary in his face: his right eye was very slightly higher than his left and the left eyelid drooped a little, which made his eyes look different, strange and drowsy. tyeglev's countenance, which was not, however, without a certain attractiveness, almost always wore an expression of discontent mingled with perplexity, as though he were chasing within himself a gloomy thought which he was never able to catch. at the same time he did not give one the impression of being stuck up: he might rather have been taken for an aggrieved than a haughty man. he spoke very little, hesitatingly, in a husky voice, with unnecessary repetitions. unlike most "fatalists," he did not use particularly elaborate expressions in speaking and only had recourse to them in writing; his handwriting was quite like a child's. his superiors regarded him as an officer of no great merit--not particularly capable and not over-zealous. the brigadier-general, a man of german extraction, used to say of him: "he has punctuality but not precision." with the soldiers, too, tyeglev had the character of being neither one thing nor the other. he lived modestly, in accordance with his means. he had been left an orphan at nine years old: his father and mother were drowned when they were being ferried across the oka in the spring floods. he had been educated at a private school, where he had the reputation of being one of the slowest and quietest of the boys, and at his own earnest desire and through the good offices of a cousin who was a man of influence, he obtained a commission in the horse-guards artillery; and, though with some difficulty, passed his examination first as an ensign and then as a second lieutenant. his relations with other officers were somewhat strained. he was not liked, was rarely visited--and he hardly went to see anyone. he felt the presence of strangers a constraint; he instantly became awkward and unnatural ... he had no instinct for comradeship and was not on really intimate terms with anyone. but he was respected, and respected not for his character nor for his intelligence and education--but because the stamp which distinguishes "fatal" people was discerned in him. no one of his fellow officers expected that tyeglev would make a career or distinguish himself in any way; but that tyeglev might do something extraordinary or that tyeglev might become a napoleon was not considered impossible. for that is a matter of a man's "star"--and he was regarded as a "man of destiny," just as there are "men of sighs" and "of tears." iii two incidents that marked the first steps in his career did a great deal to strengthen his "fatal" reputation. on the very first day after receiving his commission--about the middle of march--he was walking with other newly promoted officers in full dress uniform along the embankment. the spring had come early that year, the neva was melting; the bigger blocks of ice had gone but the whole river was choked up with a dense mass of thawing icicles. the young men were talking and laughing ... suddenly one of them stopped: he saw a little dog some twenty paces from the bank on the slowly moving surface of the river. perched on a projecting piece of ice it was whining and trembling all over. "it will be drowned," said the officer through his teeth. the dog was slowly being carried past one of the sloping gangways that led down to the river. all at once tyeglev without saying a word ran down this gangway and over the thin ice, sinking in and leaping out again, reached the dog, seized it by the scruff of the neck and getting safely back to the bank, put it down on the pavement. the danger to which tyeglev had exposed himself was so great, his action was so unexpected, that his companions were dumbfoundered--and only spoke all at once, when he had called a cab to drive home: his uniform was wet all over. in response to their exclamations, tyeglev replied coolly that there was no escaping one's destiny--and told the cabman to drive on. "you might at least take the dog with you as a souvenir," cried one of the officers. but tyeglev merely waved his hand, and his comrades looked at each other in silent amazement. the second incident occurred a few days later, at a card party at the battery commander's. tyeglev sat in the corner and took no part in the play. "oh, if only i had a grandmother to tell me beforehand what cards will win, as in pushkin's _queen of spades_," cried a lieutenant whose losses had nearly reached three thousand. tyeglev approached the table in silence, took up a pack, cut it, and saying "the six of diamonds," turned the pack up: the six of diamonds was the bottom card. "the ace of clubs!" he said and cut again: the bottom card turned out to be the ace of clubs. "the king of diamonds!" he said for the third time in an angry whisper through his clenched teeth--and he was right the third time, too ... and he suddenly turned crimson. he probably had not expected it himself. "a capital trick! do it again," observed the commanding officer of the battery. "i don't go in for tricks," tyeglev answered drily and walked into the other room. how it happened that he guessed the card right, i can't pretend to explain: but i saw it with my own eyes. many of the players present tried to do the same--and not one of them succeeded: one or two did guess _one_ card but never two in succession. and tyeglev had guessed three! this incident strengthened still further his reputation as a mysterious, fatal character. it has often occurred to me since that if he had not succeeded in the trick with the cards, there is no knowing what turn it would have taken and how he would have looked at himself; but this unexpected success clinched the matter. iv it may well be understood that tyeglev clutched at this reputation. it gave him a special significance, a special colour ... "_cela le posait_," as the french express it--and with his limited intelligence, scanty education and immense vanity, such a reputation just suited him. it was difficult to acquire it but to keep it up cost nothing: he had only to remain silent and hold himself aloof. but it was not owing to this reputation that i made friends with tyeglev and, i may say, grew fond of him. i liked him in the first place because i was rather an unsociable creature myself--and saw in him one of my own sort, and secondly, because he was a very good-natured fellow and in reality, very simple-hearted. he aroused in me a feeling of something like compassion; it seemed to me that apart from his affected "fatality," he really was weighed down by a tragic fate which he did not himself suspect. i need hardly say i did not express this feeling to him: could anything be more insulting to a "fatal" hero than to be an object of pity? and tyeglev, on his side, was well-disposed to me; with me he felt at ease, with me he used to talk--in my presence he ventured to leave the strange pedestal on which he had been placed either by his own efforts or by chance. agonisingly, morbidly vain as he was, yet he was probably aware in the depths of his soul that there was nothing to justify his vanity, and that others might perhaps look down on him ... but i, a boy of nineteen, put no constraint on him; the dread of saying something stupid, inappropriate, did not oppress his ever-apprehensive heart in my presence. he sometimes even chattered freely; and well it was for him that no one heard his chatter except me! his reputation would not have lasted long. he not only knew very little, but read hardly anything and confined himself to picking up stories and anecdotes of a certain kind. he believed in presentiments, predictions, omens, meetings, lucky and unlucky days, in the persecution and benevolence of destiny, in the mysterious significance of life, in fact. he even believed in certain "climacteric" years which someone had mentioned in his presence and the meaning of which he did not himself very well understand. "fatal" men of the true stamp ought not to betray such beliefs: they ought to inspire them in others.... but i was the only one who knew tyeglev on that side. v one day--i remember it was st. elijah's day, july 20th--i came to stay with my brother and did not find him at home: he had been ordered off for a whole week somewhere. i did not want to go back to petersburg; i sauntered about the neighbouring marshes, killed a brace of snipe and spent the evening with tyeglev under the shelter of an empty barn where he had, as he expressed it, set up his summer residence. we had a little conversation but for the most part drank tea, smoked pipes and talked sometimes to our host, a russianised finn or to the pedlar who used to hang about the battery selling "fi-ine oranges and lemons," a charming and lively person who in addition to other talents could play the guitar and used to tell us of the unhappy love which he cherished in his young days for the daughter of a policeman. now that he was older, this don juan in a gay cotton shirt had no experience of unsuccessful love affairs. before the doors of our barn stretched a wide plain gradually sloping away in the distance; a little river gleamed here and there in the winding hollows; low growing woods could be seen further on the horizon. night was coming on and we were left alone. as night fell a fine damp mist descended upon the earth, and, growing thicker and thicker, passed into a dense fog. the moon rose up into the sky; the fog was soaked through and through and, as it were, shimmering with golden light. everything was strangely shifting, veiled and confused; the faraway looked near, the near looked far away, what was big looked small and what was small looked big ... everything became dim and full of light. we seemed to be in fairyland, in a world of whitish-golden mist, deep stillness, delicate sleep.... and how mysteriously, like sparks of silver, the stars filtered through the mist! we were both silent. the fantastic beauty of the night worked upon us: it put us into the mood for the fantastic. vi tyeglev was the first to speak and talked with his usual hesitating incompleted sentences and repetitions about presentiments ... about ghosts. on exactly such a night, according to him, one of his friends, a student who had just taken the place of tutor to two orphans and was sleeping with them in a lodge in the garden, saw a woman's figure bending over their beds and next day recognised the figure in a portrait of the mother of the orphans which he had not previously noticed. then tyeglev told me that his parents had heard for several days before their death the sound of rushing water; that his grandfather had been saved from death in the battle of borodino through suddenly stooping down to pick up a simple grey pebble at the very instant when a volley of grape-shot flew over his head and broke his long black plume. tyeglev even promised to show me the very pebble which had saved his grandfather and which he had mounted into a medallion. then he talked of the lofty destination of every man and of his own in particular and added that he still believed in it and that if he ever had any doubts on that subject he would know how to be rid of them and of his life, as life would then lose all significance for him. "you imagine perhaps," he brought out, glancing askance at me, "that i shouldn't have the spirit to do it? you don't know me ... i have a will of iron." "well said," i thought to myself. tyeglev pondered, heaved a deep sigh and dropping his chibouk out of his hand, informed me that that day was a very important one for him. "this is the prophet elijah's day--my name day.... it is ... it is always for me a difficult time." i made no answer and only looked at him as he sat facing me, bent, round-shouldered, and clumsy, with his drowsy, lustreless eyes fixed on the ground. "an old beggar woman" (tyeglev never let a single beggar pass without giving alms) "told me to-day," he went on, "that she would pray for my soul.... isn't that strange?" "why does the man want to be always bothering about himself!" i thought again. i must add, however, that of late i had begun noticing an unusual expression of anxiety and uneasiness on tyeglev's face, and it was not a "fatal" melancholy: something really was fretting and worrying him. on this occasion, too, i was struck by the dejected expression of his face. were not those very doubts of which he had spoken to me beginning to assail him? tyeglev's comrades had told me that not long before he had sent to the authorities a project for some reforms in the artillery department and that the project had been returned to him "with a comment," that is, a reprimand. knowing his character, i had no doubt that such contemptuous treatment by his superior officers had deeply mortified him. but the change that i fancied i saw in tyeglev was more like sadness and there was a more personal note about it. "it's getting damp, though," he brought out at last and he shrugged his shoulders. "let us go into the hut--and it's bed-time, too." he had the habit of shrugging his shoulders and turning his head from side to side, putting his right hand to his throat as he did so, as though his cravat were constricting it. tyeglev's character was expressed, so at least it seemed to me, in this uneasy and nervous movement. he, too, felt constricted in the world. we went back into the hut, and both lay down on benches, he in the corner facing the door and i on the opposite side. vii tyeglev was for a long time turning from side to side on his bench and i could not get to sleep, either. whether his stories had excited my nerves or the strange night had fevered my blood--anyway, i could not go to sleep. all inclination for sleep disappeared at last and i lay with my eyes open and thought, thought intensely, goodness knows of what; of most senseless trifles--as always happens when one is sleepless. turning from side to side i stretched out my hands.... my finger hit one of the beams of the wall. it emitted a faint but resounding, and as it were, prolonged note.... i must have struck a hollow place. i tapped again ... this time on purpose. the same sound was repeated. i knocked again.... all at once tyeglev raised his head. "ridel!" he said, "do you hear? someone is knocking under the window." i pretended to be asleep. the fancy suddenly took me to play a trick at the expense of my "fatal" friend. i could not sleep, anyway. he let his head sink on the pillow. i waited for a little and again knocked three times in succession. tyeglev sat up again and listened. i tapped again. i was lying facing him but he could not see my hand.... i put it behind me under the bedclothes. "ridel!" cried tyeglev. i did not answer. "ridel!" he repeated loudly. "ridel!" "eh? what is it?" i said as though just waking up. "don't you hear, someone keeps knocking under the window, wants to come in, i suppose." "some passer-by," i muttered. "then we must let him in or find out who it is." but i made no answer, pretending to be asleep. several minutes passed.... i tapped again. tyeglev sat up at once and listened. "knock ... knock ... knock! knock ... knock ... knock!" through my half-closed eyelids in the whitish light of the night i could distinctly see every movement he made. he turned his face first to the window then to the door. it certainly was difficult to make out where the sound came from: it seemed to float round the room, to glide along the walls. i had accidentally hit upon a kind of sounding board. "ridel!" cried tyeglev at last, "ridel! ridel!" "why, what is it?" i asked, yawning. "do you mean to say you don't hear anything? there is someone knocking." "well, what if there is?" i answered and again pretended to be asleep and even snored. tyeglev subsided. "knock ... knock ... knock!" "who is there?" tyeglev shouted. "come in!" no one answered, of course. "knock ... knock ... knock!" tyeglev jumped out of bed, opened the window and thrusting out his head, cried wildly, "who is there? who is knocking?" then he opened the door and repeated his question. a horse neighed in the distance--that was all. he went back towards his bed. "knock ... knock ... knock!" tyeglev instantly turned round and sat down. "knock ... knock ... knock!" he rapidly put on his boots, threw his overcoat over his shoulders and unhooking his sword from the wall, went out of the hut. i heard him walk round it twice, asking all the time, "who is there? who goes there? who is knocking?" then he was suddenly silent, stood still outside near the corner where i was lying and without uttering another word, came back into the hut and lay down without taking off his boots and overcoat. "knock ... knock ... knock!" i began again. "knock ... knock ... knock!" but tyeglev did not stir, did not ask who was knocking, and merely propped his head on his hand. seeing that this no longer acted, after an interval i pretended to wake up and, looking at tyeglev, assumed an air of astonishment. "have you been out?" i asked. "yes," he answered unconcernedly. "did you still hear the knocking?" "yes." "and you met no one?" "no." "and did the knocking stop?" "i don't know. i don't care now." "now? why now?" tyeglev did not answer. i felt a little ashamed and a little vexed with him. i could not bring myself to acknowledge my prank, however. "do you know what?" i began, "i am convinced that it was all your imagination." tyeglev frowned. "ah, you think so!" "you say you heard a knocking?" "it was not only knocking i heard." "why, what else?" tyeglev bent forward and bit his lips. he was evidently hesitating. "i was called!" he brought out at last in a low voice and turned away his face. "you were called? who called you?" "someone...." tyeglev still looked away. "a woman whom i had hitherto only believed to be dead ... but now i know it for certain." "i swear, ilya stepanitch," i cried, "this is all your imagination!" "imagination?" he repeated. "would you like to hear it for yourself?" "yes." "then come outside." viii i hurriedly dressed and went out of the hut with tyeglev. on the side opposite to it there were no houses, nothing but a low hurdle fence broken down in places, beyond which there was a rather sharp slope down to the plain. everything was still shrouded in mist and one could scarcely see anything twenty paces away. tyeglev and i went up to the hurdle and stood still. "here," he said and bowed his head. "stand still, keep quiet and listen!" like him i strained my ears, and i heard nothing except the ordinary, extremely faint but universal murmur, the breathing of the night. looking at each other in silence from time to time we stood motionless for several minutes and were just on the point of going on. "ilyusha ..." i fancied i heard a whisper from behind the hurdle. i glanced at tyeglev but he seemed to have heard nothing--and still held his head bowed. "ilyusha ... ah, ilyusha," sounded more distinctly than before--so distinctly that one could tell that the words were uttered by a woman. we both started and stared at each other. "well?" tyeglev asked me in a whisper. "you won't doubt it now, will you?" "wait a minute," i answered as quietly. "it proves nothing. we must look whether there isn't anyone. some practical joker...." i jumped over the fence--and went in the direction from which, as far as i could judge, the voice came. i felt the earth soft and crumbling under my feet; long ridges stretched before me vanishing into the mist. i was in the kitchen garden. but nothing was stirring around me or before me. everything seemed spellbound in the numbness of sleep. i went a few steps further. "who is there?" i cried as wildly as tyeglev had. "prrr-r-r!" a startled corn-crake flew up almost under my feet and flew away as straight as a bullet. involuntarily i started.... what foolishness! i looked back. tyeglev was in sight at the spot where i left him. i went towards him. "you will call in vain," he said. "that voice has come to us--to me--from far away." he passed his hand over his face and with slow steps crossed the road towards the hut. but i did not want to give in so quickly and went back into the kitchen garden. that someone really had three times called "ilyusha" i could not doubt; that there was something plaintive and mysterious in the call, i was forced to own to myself.... but who knows, perhaps all this only appeared to be unaccountable and in reality could be explained as simply as the knocking which had agitated tyeglev so much. i walked along beside the fence, stopping from time to time and looking about me. close to the fence, at no great distance from our hut, there stood an old leafy willow tree; it stood out, a big dark patch, against the whiteness of the mist all round, that dim whiteness which perplexes and deadens the sight more than darkness itself. all at once it seemed to me that something alive, fairly big, stirred on the ground near the willow. exclaiming "stop! who is there?" i rushed forward. i heard scurrying footsteps, like a hare's; a crouching figure whisked by me, whether man or woman i could not tell.... i tried to clutch at it but did not succeed; i stumbled, fell down and stung my face against a nettle. as i was getting up, leaning on the ground, i felt something rough under my hand: it was a chased brass comb on a cord, such as peasants wear on their belt. further search led to nothing--and i went back to the hut with the comb in my hand, and my cheeks tingling. ix i found tyeglev sitting on the bench. a candle was burning on the table before him and he was writing something in a little album which he always had with him. seeing me, he quickly put the album in his pocket and began filling his pipe. "look here, my friend," i began, "what a trophy i have brought back from my expedition!" i showed him the comb and told him what had happened to me near the willow. "i must have startled a thief," i added. "you heard a horse was stolen from our neighbour yesterday?" tyeglev smiled frigidly and lighted his pipe. i sat down beside him. "and do you still believe, ilya stepanitch," i said, "that the voice we heard came from those unknown realms...." he stopped me with a peremptory gesture. "ridel," he began, "i am in no mood for jesting, and so i beg you not to jest." he certainly was in no mood for jesting. his face was changed. it looked paler, longer and more expressive. his strange, "different" eyes kept shifting from one object to another. "i never thought," he began again, "that i should reveal to another ... another man what you are about to hear and what ought to have died ... yes, died, hidden in my breast; but it seems it is to be--and indeed i have no choice. it is destiny! listen." and he told me a long story. i have mentioned already that he was a poor hand at telling stories, but it was not only his lack of skill in describing events that had happened to him that impressed me that night; the very sound of his voice, his glances, the movements which he made with his fingers and his hands--everything about him, indeed, seemed unnatural, unnecessary, false, in fact. i was very young and inexperienced in those days and did not know that the habit of high-flown language and falsity of intonation and manner may become so ingrained in a man that he is incapable of shaking it off: it is a sort of curse. later in life i came across a lady who described to me the effect on her of her son's death, of her "boundless" grief, of her fears for her reason, in such exaggerated language, with such theatrical gestures, such melodramatic movements of her head and rolling of her eyes, that i thought to myself, "how false and affected that lady is! she did not love her son at all!" and a week afterwards i heard that the poor woman had really gone out of her mind. since then i have become much more careful in my judgments and have had far less confidence in my own impressions. x the story which tyeglev told me was, briefly, as follows. he had living in petersburg, besides his influential uncle, an aunt, not influential but wealthy. as she had no children of her own she had adopted a little girl, an orphan, of the working class, given her a liberal education and treated her like a daughter. she was called masha. tyeglev saw her almost every day. it ended in their falling in love with one another and masha's giving herself to him. this was discovered. tyeglev's aunt was fearfully incensed, she turned the luckless girl out of her house in disgrace, and moved to moscow where she adopted a young lady of noble birth and made her her heiress. on her return to her own relations, poor and drunken people, masha's lot was a bitter one. tyeglev had promised to marry her and did not keep his promise. at his last interview with her, he was forced to speak out: she wanted to know the truth and wrung it out of him. "well," she said, "if i am not to be your wife, i know what there is left for me to do." more than a fortnight had passed since that last interview. "i never for a moment deceived myself as to the meaning of her last words," added tyeglev. "i am certain that she has put an end to her life and ... and that it was _her_ voice, that it was _she_ calling me ... to follow her there ... i _recognised_ her voice.... well, there is but one end to it." "but why didn't you marry her, ilya stepanitch?" i asked. "you ceased to love her?" "no; i still love her passionately." at this point i stared at tyeglev. i remembered another friend of mine, a very intelligent man, who had a very plain wife, neither intelligent nor rich and was very unhappy in his marriage. when someone in my presence asked him why he had married and suggested that it was probably for love, he answered, "not for love at all. it simply happened." and in this case tyeglev loved a girl passionately and did not marry her. was it for the same reason, then? "why don't you marry her, then?" i asked again. tyeglev's strange, drowsy eyes strayed over the table. "there is ... no answering that ... in a few words," he began, hesitating. "there were reasons.... and besides, she was ... a working-class girl. and then there is my uncle.... i was obliged to consider him, too." "your uncle?" i cried. "but what the devil do you want with your uncle whom you never see except at the new year when you go to congratulate him? are you reckoning on his money? but he has got a dozen children of his own!" i spoke with heat.... tyeglev winced and flushed ... flushed unevenly, in patches. "don't lecture me, if you please," he said dully. "i don't justify myself, however. i have ruined her life and now i must pay the penalty...." his head sank and he was silent. i found nothing to say, either. xi so we sat for a quarter of an hour. he looked away--i looked at him--and i noticed that the hair stood up and curled above his forehead in a peculiar way, which, so i have heard from an army doctor who had had a great many wounded pass through his hands, is always a symptom of intense overheating of the brain.... the thought struck me again that fate really had laid a heavy hand on this man and that his comrades were right in seeing something "fatal" in him. and yet inwardly i blamed him. "a working-class girl!" i thought, "a fine sort of aristocrat you are yourself!" "perhaps you blame me, ridel," tyeglev began suddenly, as though guessing what i was thinking. "i am very ... unhappy myself. but what to do? what to do?" he leaned his chin on his hand and began biting the broad flat nails of his short, red fingers, hard as iron. "what i think, ilya stepanitch, is that you ought first to make certain whether your suppositions are correct.... perhaps your lady love is alive and well." ("shall i tell him the real explanation of the taps?" flashed through my mind. "no--later.") "she has not written to me since we have been in camp," observed tyeglev. "that proves nothing, ilya stepanitch." tyeglev waved me off. "no! she is certainly not in this world. she called me." he suddenly turned to the window. "someone is knocking again!" i could not help laughing. "no, excuse me, ilya stepanitch! this time it is your nerves. you see, it is getting light. in ten minutes the sun will be up--it is past three o'clock--and ghosts have no power in the day." tyeglev cast a gloomy glance at me and muttering through his teeth "good-bye," lay down on the bench and turned his back on me. i lay down, too, and before i fell asleep i remember i wondered why tyeglev was always hinting at ... suicide. what nonsense! what humbug! of his own free will he had refused to marry her, had cast her off ... and now he wanted to kill himself! there was no sense in it! he could not resist posing! with these thoughts i fell into a sound sleep and when i opened my eyes the sun was already high in the sky--and tyeglev was not in the hut. he had, so his servant said, gone to the town. xii i spent a very dull and wearisome day. tyeglev did not return to dinner nor to supper; i did not expect my brother. towards evening a thick fog came on again, thicker even than the day before. i went to bed rather early. i was awakened by a knocking under the window. it was _my_ turn to be startled! the knock was repeated and so insistently distinct that one could have no doubt of its reality. i got up, opened the window and saw tyeglev. wrapped in his great-coat, with his cap pulled over his eyes, he stood motionless. "ilya stepanitch!" i cried, "is that you? i gave up expecting you. come in. is the door locked?" tyeglev shook his head. "i do not intend to come in," he pronounced in a hollow tone. "i only want to ask you to give this letter to the commanding officer to-morrow." he gave me a big envelope sealed with five seals. i was astonished--however, i took the envelope mechanically. tyeglev at once walked away into the middle of the road. "stop! stop!" i began. "where are you going? have you only just come? and what is the letter?" "do you promise to deliver it?" said tyeglev, and moved away a few steps further. the fog blurred the outlines of his figure. "do you promise?" "i promise ... but first--" tyeglev moved still further away and became a long dark blur. "good-bye," i heard his voice. "farewell, ridel, don't remember evil against me.... and don't forget semyon...." and the blur itself vanished. this was too much. "oh, the damned _poseur_," i thought. "you must always be straining after effect!" i felt uneasy, however; an involuntary fear clutched at my heart. i flung on my great-coat and ran out into the road. xiii yes; but where was i to go? the fog enveloped me on all sides. for five or six steps all round it was a little transparent--but further away it stood up like a wall, thick and white like cotton wool. i turned to the right along the village street; our house was the last but one in the village and beyond it came waste land overgrown here and there with bushes; beyond the waste land, a quarter of a mile from the village, there was a birch copse through which flowed the same little stream that lower down encircled our village. the moon stood, a pale blur in the sky--but its light was not, as on the evening before, strong enough to penetrate the smoky density of the fog and hung, a broad opaque canopy, overhead. i made my way out on to the open ground and listened.... not a sound from any direction, except the calling of the marsh birds. "tyeglev!" i cried. "ilya stepanitch!! tyeglev!!" my voice died away near me without an answer; it seemed as though the fog would not let it go further. "tyeglev!" i repeated. no one answered. i went forward at random. twice i struck against a fence, once i nearly fell into a ditch, and almost stumbled against a peasant's horse lying on the ground. "tyeglev! tyeglev!" i cried. all at once, almost behind me, i heard a low voice, "well, here i am. what do you want of me?" i turned round quickly. before me stood tyeglev with his hands hanging at his sides and with no cap on his head. his face was pale; but his eyes looked animated and bigger than usual. his breathing came in deep, prolonged gasps through his parted lips. "thank god!" i cried in an outburst of joy, and i gripped him by both hands. "thank god! i was beginning to despair of finding you. aren't you ashamed of frightening me like this? upon my word, ilya stepanitch!" "what do you want of me?" repeated tyeglev. "i want ... i want you, in the first place, to come back home with me. and secondly, i want, i insist, i insist as a friend, that you explain to me at once the meaning of your actions--and of this letter to the colonel. can something unexpected have happened to you in petersburg?" "i found in petersburg exactly what i expected," answered tyeglev, without moving from the spot. "that is ... you mean to say ... your friend ... this masha...." "she has taken her life," tyeglev answered hurriedly and as it were angrily. "she was buried the day before yesterday. she did not even leave a note for me. she poisoned herself." tyeglev hurriedly uttered these terrible words and still stood motionless as a stone. i clasped my hands. "is it possible? how dreadful! your presentiment has come true.... that is awful!" i stopped in confusion. slowly and with a sort of triumph tyeglev folded his arms. "but why are we standing here?" i began. "let us go home." "let us," said tyeglev. "but how can we find the way in this fog?" "there is a light in our windows, and we will make for it. come along." "you go ahead," answered tyeglev. "i will follow you." we set off. we walked for five minutes and our beacon light still did not appear; at last it gleamed before us in two red points. tyeglev stepped evenly behind me. i was desperately anxious to get home as quickly as possible and to learn from him all the details of his unhappy expedition to petersburg. before we reached the hut, impressed by what he had said, i confessed to him in an access of remorse and a sort of superstitious fear, that the mysterious knocking of the previous evening had been my doing ... and what a tragic turn my jest had taken! tyeglev confined himself to observing that i had nothing to do with it--that something else had guided my hand--and this only showed how little i knew him. his voice, strangely calm and even, sounded close to my ear. "but you do not know me," he added. "i saw you smile yesterday when i spoke of the strength of my will. you will come to know me--and you will remember my words." the first hut of the village sprang out of the fog before us like some dark monster ... then the second, our hut, emerged--and my setter dog began barking, probably scenting me. i knocked at the window. "semyon!" i shouted to tyeglev's servant, "hey, semyon! make haste and open the gate for us." the gate creaked and opened; semyon crossed the threshold. "ilya stepanitch, come in," i said, and i looked round. but no ilya stepanitch was with me. tyeglev had vanished as though he had sunk into the earth. i went into the hut feeling dazed. xiv vexation with tyeglev and with myself succeeded the amazement with which i was overcome at first. "your master is mad!" i blurted out to semyon, "raving mad! he galloped off to petersburg, then came back and is running about all over the place! i did get hold of him and brought him right up to the gate--and here he has given me the slip again! to go out of doors on a night like this! he has chosen a nice time for a walk!" "and why did i let go of his hand?" i reproached myself. semyon looked at me in silence, as though intending to say something--but after the fashion of servants in those days he simply shifted from one foot to the other and said nothing. "what time did he set off for town?" i asked sternly. "at six o'clock in the morning." "and how was he--did he seem anxious, depressed?" semyon looked down. "our master is a deep one," he began. "who can make him out? he told me to get out his new uniform when he was going out to town--and then he curled himself." "curled himself?" "curled his hair. i got the curling tongs ready for him." that, i confess, i had not expected. "do you know a young lady," i asked semyon, "a friend of ilya stepanitch's. her name is masha." "to be sure i know marya anempodistovna! a nice young lady." "is your master in love with this marya ... et cetera?" semyon heaved a sigh. "that young lady is ilya stepanitch's undoing. for he is desperately in love with her--and can't bring himself to marry her--and sorry to give her up, too. it's all his honour's faintheartedness. he is very fond of her." "what is she like then, pretty?" i inquired. semyon assumed a grave air. "she is the sort that the gentry like." "and you?" "she is not the right sort for us at all." "how so?" "very thin in the body." "if she died," i began, "do you think ilya stepanitch would not survive her?" semyon heaved a sigh again. "i can't venture to say that--there's no knowing with gentlemen ... but our master is a deep one." i took up from the table the big, rather thick letter that tyeglev had given me and turned it over in my hands.... the address to "his honour the commanding officer of the battery, colonel so and so" (the name, patronymic, and surname) was clearly and distinctly written. the word _urgent_, twice underlined, was written in the top left-hand corner of the envelope. "listen, semyon," i began. "i feel uneasy about your master. i fancy he has some mischief in his mind. we must find him." "yes, sir," answered semyon. "it is true there is such a fog that one cannot see a couple of yards ahead; but all the same we must do our best. we will each take a lantern and light a candle in each window--in case of need." "yes, sir," repeated semyon. he lighted the lanterns and the candles and we set off. xv i can't describe how we wandered and lost our way! the lanterns were of no help to us; they did not in the least dissipate the white, almost luminous mist which surrounded us. several times semyon and i lost each other, in spite of the fact that we kept calling to each other and hallooing and at frequent intervals shouted--i: "tyeglev! ilya stepanitch!" and semyon: "mr. tyeglev! your honour!" the fog so bewildered us that we wandered about as though in a dream; soon we were both hoarse; the fog penetrated right into one's chest. we succeeded somehow by help of the candles in the windows in reaching the hut again. our combined action had been of no use--we merely handicapped each other--and so we made up our minds not to trouble ourselves about getting separated but to go each our own way. he went to the left, i to the right and i soon ceased to hear his voice. the fog seemed to have found its way into my brain and i wandered like one dazed, simply shouting from time to time, "tyeglev! tyeglev!" "here!" i heard suddenly in answer. holy saints, how relieved i was! how i rushed in the direction from which the voice came.... a human figure loomed dark before me.... i made for it. at last! but instead of tyeglev i saw another officer of the same battery, whose name was tyelepnev. "was it you answered me?" i asked him. "was it you calling me?" he asked in his turn. "no; i was calling tyeglev." "tyeglev? why, i met him a minute ago. what a fool of a night! one can't find the way home." "you saw tyeglev? which way did he go?" "that way, i fancy," said the officer, waving his hand in the air. "but one can't be sure of anything now. do you know, for instance, where the village is? the only hope is the dogs barking. it is a fool of a night! let me light a cigarette ... it will seem like a light on the way." the officer was, so i fancied, a little exhilarated. "did tyeglev say anything to you?" i asked. "to be sure he did! i said to him, 'good evening, brother,' and he said, 'good-bye.' 'how good-bye? why good-bye.' 'i mean to shoot myself directly with a pistol.' he is a queer fish!" my heart stood still. "you say he told you ..." "he is a queer fish!" repeated the officer, and sauntered off. i hardly had time to recover from what the officer had told me, when my own name, shouted several times as it seemed with effort, caught my ear. i recognised semyon's voice. i called back ... he came to me. xvi "well?" i asked him. "have you found ilya stepanitch?" "yes, sir." "where?" "here, not far away." "how ... have you found him? is he alive?" "to be sure. i have been talking to him." (a load was lifted from my heart.) "his honour was sitting in his great-coat under a birch tree ... and he was all right. i put it to him, 'won't you come home, ilya stepanitch; alexandr vassilitch is very much worried about you.' and he said to me, 'what does he want to worry for! i want to be in the fresh air. my head aches. go home,' he said, 'and i will come later.'" "and you left him?" i cried, clasping my hands. "what else could i do? he told me to go ... how could i stay?" all my fears came back to me at once. "take me to him this minute--do you hear? this minute! o semyon, semyon, i did not expect this of you! you say he is not far off?" "he is quite close, here, where the copse begins--he is sitting there. it is not more than five yards from the river bank. i found him as i came alongside the river." "well, take me to him, take me to him." semyon set off ahead of me. "this way, sir.... we have only to get down to the river and it is close there." but instead of getting down to the river we got into a hollow and found ourselves before an empty shed. "hey, stop!" semyon cried suddenly. "i must have come too far to the right.... we must go that way, more to the left...." we turned to the left--and found ourselves among such high, rank weeds that we could scarcely get out.... i could not remember such a tangled growth of weeds anywhere near our village. and then all at once a marsh was squelching under our feet, and we saw little round moss-covered hillocks which i had never noticed before either.... we turned back--a small hill was sharply before us and on the top of it stood a shanty--and in it someone was snoring. semyon and i shouted several times into the shanty; something stirred at the further end of it, the straw rustled--and a hoarse voice shouted, "i am on guard." we turned back again ... fields and fields, endless fields.... i felt ready to cry.... i remembered the words of the fool in _king lear_: "this night will turn us all to fools or madmen." "where are we to go?" i said in despair to semyon. "the devil must have led us astray, sir," answered the distracted servant. "it's not natural ... there's mischief at the bottom of it!" i would have checked him but at that instant my ear caught a sound, distinct but not loud, that engrossed my whole attention. there was a faint "pop" as though someone had drawn a stiff cork from a narrow bottle-neck. the sound came from somewhere not far off. why the sound seemed to me strange and peculiar i could not say, but at once i went towards it. semyon followed me. within a few minutes something tall and broad loomed in the fog. "the copse! here is the copse!" semyon cried, delighted. "yes, here ... and there is the master sitting under the birch-tree.... there he is, sitting where i left him. that's he, surely enough!" i looked intently. a man really was sitting with his back towards us, awkwardly huddled up under the birch-tree. i hurriedly approached and recognised tyeglev's great-coat, recognised his figure, his head bowed on his breast. "tyeglev!" i cried ... but he did not answer. "tyeglev!" i repeated, and laid my hand on his shoulder. then he suddenly lurched forward, quickly and obediently, as though he were waiting for my touch, and fell onto the grass. semyon and i raised him at once and turned him face upwards. it was not pale, but was lifeless and motionless; his clenched teeth gleamed white--and his eyes, motionless, too, and wide open, kept their habitual, drowsy and "different" look. "good god!" semyon said suddenly and showed me his hand stained crimson with blood.... the blood was coming from under tyeglev's great-coat, from the left side of his chest. he had shot himself from a small, single-barreled pistol which was lying beside him. the faint pop i had heard was the sound made by the fatal shot. xvii tyeglev's suicide did not surprise his comrades very much. i have told you already that, according to their ideas, as a "fatal" man he was bound to do something extraordinary, though perhaps they had not expected that from him. in the letter to the colonel he asked him, in the first place, to have the name of ilya tyeglev removed from the list of officers, as he had died by his own act, adding that in his cash-box there would be found more than sufficient money to pay his debts,--and, secondly, to forward to the important personage at that time commanding the whole corps of guards, an unsealed letter which was in the same envelope. this second letter, of course, we all read; some of us took a copy of it. tyeglev had evidently taken pains over the composition of this letter. "you know, your excellency" (so i remember the letter began), "you are so stern and severe over the slightest negligence in uniform when a pale, trembling officer presents himself before you; and here am i now going to meet our universal, righteous, incorruptible judge, the supreme being, the being of infinitely greater consequence even than your excellency, and i am going to meet him in undress, in my great-coat, and even without a cravat round my neck." oh, what a painful and unpleasant impression that phrase made upon me, with every word, every letter of it, carefully written in the dead man's childish handwriting! was it worth while, i asked myself, to invent such rubbish at such a moment? but tyeglev had evidently been pleased with the phrase: he had made use in it of the accumulation of epithets and amplifications _à la_ marlinsky, at that time in fashion. further on he had alluded to destiny, to persecution, to his vocation which had remained unfulfilled, to a mystery which he would bear with him to the grave, to people who had not cared to understand him; he had even quoted lines from some poet who had said of the crowd that it wore life "like a dog-collar" and clung to vice "like a burdock"--and it was not free from mistakes in spelling. to tell the truth, this last letter of poor tyeglev was somewhat vulgar; and i can fancy the contemptuous surprise of the great personage to whom it was addressed--i can imagine the tone in which he would pronounce "a worthless officer! ill weeds are cleared out of the field!" only at the very end of the letter there was a sincere note from tyeglev's heart. "ah, your excellency," he concluded his epistle, "i am an orphan, i had no one to love me as a child--and all held aloof from me ... and i myself destroyed the only heart that gave itself to me!" semyon found in the pocket of tyeglev's great-coat a little album from which his master was never separated. but almost all the pages had been torn out; only one was left on which there was the following calculation: napoleon was born ilya tyeglev was born on august 15th, 1769. on january 7th, 1811. 1769 1811 15 7 8* 1+ ---- ---- total 1792 total 1819 * august--the 8th month + january--the 1st month of the year. of the year. 1 1 7 8 9 1 2 9 -- -- total 19! total 19! napoleon died on may ilya tyeglev died on 5th, 1825. april 21st, 1834. 1825 1834 5 21 5* 7+ ---- ---- total 1835 total 1862 * may--the 5th month + july--the 7th month of the year. of the year. 1 1 8 8 3 6 5 23 - - total 17! total 17! poor fellow! was not this perhaps why he became an artillery officer? as a suicide he was buried outside the cemetery--and he was immediately forgotten. xviii the day after tyeglev's burial (i was still in the village waiting for my brother) semyon came into the hut and announced that ilya wanted to see me. "what ilya?" i asked. "our pedlar." i told semyon to call him. he made his appearance. he expressed some regret at the death of the lieutenant; wondered what could have possessed him.... "was he in debt to you?" i asked. "no, sir. he always paid punctually for everything he had. but i tell you what," here the pedlar grinned, "you have got something of mine." "what is it?" "why, that," he pointed to the brass comb lying on the little toilet table. "a thing of little value," the fellow went on, "but as it was a present ..." all at once i raised my head. something dawned upon me. "your name is ilya?" "yes, sir." "was it you, then, i saw under the willow tree the other night?" the pedlar winked, and grinned more broadly than ever. "yes, sir." "and it was _your_ name that was called?" "yes, sir," the pedlar repeated with playful modesty. "there is a young girl here," he went on in a high falsetto, "who, owing to the great strictness of her parents----" "very good, very good," i interrupted him, handed him the comb and dismissed him. "so that was the 'ilyusha,'" i thought, and i sank into philosophic reflections which i will not, however, intrude upon you as i don't want to prevent anyone from believing in fate, predestination and such like. when i was back in petersburg i made inquiries about masha. i even discovered the doctor who had treated her. to my amazement i heard from him that she had died not through poisoning but of cholera! i told him what i had heard from tyeglev. "eh! eh!" cried the doctor all at once. "is that tyeglev an artillery officer, a man of middle height and with a stoop, speaks with a lisp?" "yes." "well, i thought so. that gentleman came to me--i had never seen him before--and began insisting that the girl had poisoned herself. 'it was cholera,' i told him. 'poison,' he said. 'it was cholera, i tell you,' i said. 'no, it was poison,' he declared. i saw that the fellow was a sort of lunatic, with a broad base to his head--a sign of obstinacy, he would not give over easily.... well, it doesn't matter, i thought, the patient is dead.... 'very well,' i said, 'she poisoned herself if you prefer it.' he thanked me, even shook hands with me--and departed." i told the doctor how the officer had shot himself the same day. the doctor did not turn a hair--and only observed that there were all sorts of queer fellows in the world. "there are indeed," i assented. yes, someone has said truly of suicides: until they carry out their design, no one believes them; and when they do, no one regrets them. baden, 1870. * * * * * the inn on the high road to b., at an equal distance from the two towns through which it runs, there stood not long ago a roomy inn, very well known to the drivers of troikas, peasants with trains of waggons, merchants, clerks, pedlars and the numerous travellers of all sorts who journey upon our roads at all times of the year. everyone used to call at the inn; only perhaps a landowner's coach, drawn by six home-bred horses, would roll majestically by, which did not prevent either the coachman or the groom on the footboard from looking with peculiar feeling and attention at the little porch so familiar to them; or some poor devil in a wretched little cart and with three five-kopeck pieces in the bag in his bosom would urge on his weary nag when he reached the prosperous inn, and would hasten on to some night's lodging in the hamlets that lie by the high road in a peasant's hut, where he would find nothing but bread and hay, but, on the other hand, would not have to pay an extra kopeck. apart from its favourable situation, the inn with which our story deals had many attractions: excellent water in two deep wells with creaking wheels and iron buckets on a chain; a spacious yard with a tiled roof on posts; abundant stores of oats in the cellar; a warm outer room with a very huge russian stove with long horizontal flues attached that looked like titanic shoulders, and lastly two fairly clean rooms with the walls covered with reddish lilac paper somewhat frayed at the lower edge with a painted wooden sofa, chairs to match and two pots of geraniums in the windows, which were, however, never cleaned--and were dingy with the dust of years. the inn had other advantages: the blacksmith's was close by, the mill was just at hand; and, lastly, one could get a good meal in it, thanks to the cook, a fat and red-faced peasant woman, who prepared rich and appetizing dishes and dealt out provisions without stint; the nearest tavern was reckoned not half a mile away; the host kept snuff which though mixed with wood-ash, was extremely pungent and pleasantly irritated the nose; in fact there were many reasons why visitors of all sorts were never lacking in that inn. it was liked by those who used it--and that is the chief thing; without which nothing, of course, would succeed and it was liked principally as it was said in the district, because the host himself was very fortunate and successful in all his undertakings, though he did not much deserve his good fortune; but it seems if a man is lucky, he is lucky. the innkeeper was a man of the working class called naum ivanov. he was a man of middle height with broad, stooping shoulders; he had a big round head and curly hair already grey, though he did not look more than forty; a full and fresh face, a low but white and smooth forehead and little bright blue eyes, out of which he looked in a very queer way from under his brows and yet with an insolent expression, a combination not often met with. he always held his head down and seemed to turn it with difficulty, perhaps because his neck was very short. he walked at a trot and did not swing his arms, but slowly moved them with his fists clenched as he walked. when he smiled, and he smiled often without laughing, as it were smiling to himself, his thick lips parted unpleasantly and displayed a row of close-set, brilliant teeth. he spoke jerkily and with a surly note in his voice. he shaved his beard, but dressed in russian style. his costume consisted of a long, always threadbare, full coat, full breeches and shoes on his bare feet. he was often away from home on business and he had a great deal of business--he was a horse-dealer, he rented land, had a market garden, bought up orchards and traded in various ways--but his absences never lasted long; like a kite, to which he had considerable resemblance, especially in the expression of his eyes, he used to return to his nest. he knew how to keep that nest in order. he was everywhere, he listened to everything and gave orders, served out stores, sent things out and made up his accounts himself, and never knocked off a farthing from anyone's account, but never asked more than his due. the visitors did not talk to him, and, indeed, he did not care to waste words. "i want your money and you want my victuals," he used to say, as it were, jerking out each word: "we have not met for a christening; the traveller has eaten, has fed his beasts, no need to sit on. if he is tired, let him sleep without chattering." the labourers he kept were healthy grown-up men, but docile and well broken in; they were very much afraid of him. he never touched intoxicating liquor and he used to give his men ten kopecks for vodka on the great holidays; they did not dare to drink on other days. people like naum quickly get rich ... but to the magnificent position in which he found himself--and he was believed to be worth forty or fifty thousand roubles--naum ivanov had not arrived by the strait path.... the inn had existed on the same spot on the high road twenty years before the time from which we date the beginning of our story. it is true that it had not then the dark red shingle roof which made naum ivanov's inn look like a gentleman's house; it was inferior in construction and had thatched roofs in the courtyard, and a humble fence instead of a wall of logs; nor had it been distinguished by the triangular greek pediment on carved posts; but all the same it had been a capital inn--roomy, solid and warm--and travellers were glad to frequent it. the innkeeper at that time was not naum ivanov, but a certain akim semyonitch, a serf belonging to a neighbouring lady, lizaveta prohorovna kuntse, the widow of a staff officer. this akim was a shrewd trading peasant who, having left home in his youth with two wretched nags to work as a carrier, had returned a year later with three decent horses and had spent almost all the rest of his life on the high roads; he used to go to kazan and odessa, to orenburg and to warsaw and abroad to leipsic and used in the end to travel with two teams, each of three stout, sturdy stallions, harnessed to two huge carts. whether it was that he was sick of his life of homeless wandering, whether it was that he wanted to rear a family (his wife had died in one of his absences and what children she had borne him were dead also), anyway, he made up his mind at last to abandon his old calling and to open an inn. with the permission of his mistress, he settled on the high road, bought in her name about an acre and a half of land and built an inn upon it. the undertaking prospered. he had more than enough money to furnish and stock it. the experience he had gained in the course of his years of travelling from one end of russia to another was of great advantage to him; he knew how to please his visitors, especially his former mates, the drivers of troikas, many of whom he knew personally and whose good-will is particularly valued by innkeepers, as they need so much food for themselves and their powerful beasts. akim's inn became celebrated for hundreds of miles round. people were even readier to stay with him than with his successor, naum, though akim could not be compared with naum as a manager. under akim everything was in the old-fashioned style, snug, but not over clean; and his oats were apt to be light, or musty; the cooking, too, was somewhat indifferent: dishes were sometimes put on the table which would better have been left in the oven and it was not that he was stingy with the provisions, but just that the cook had not looked after them. on the other hand, he was ready to knock off something from the price and did not refuse to trust a man's word for payment--he was a good man and a genial host. in talking, in entertaining, he was lavish, too; he would sometimes chatter away over the samovar till his listeners pricked up their ears, especially when he began telling them about petersburg, about the circassian steppes, or even about foreign parts; and he liked getting a little drunk with a good companion, but not disgracefully so, more for the sake of company, as his guests used to say of him. he was a great favourite with merchants and with all people of what is called the old school, who do not set off for a journey without tightening up their belts and never go into a room without making the sign of the cross, and never enter into conversation with a man without first wishing him good health. even akim's appearance disposed people in his favour: he was tall, rather thin, but graceful even at his advanced years; he had a long face, with fine-looking regular features, a high and open brow, a straight and delicate nose and a small mouth. his brown and prominent eyes positively shone with friendly gentleness, his soft, scanty hair curled in little rings about his neck; he had very little left on the top of his head. akim's voice was very pleasant, though weak; in his youth he had been a good singer, but continual travelling in the open air in the winter had affected his chest. but he talked very smoothly and sweetly. when he laughed wrinkles like rays that were very charming came round his eyes:--such wrinkles are only to be seen in kind-hearted people. akim's movements were for the most part deliberate and not without a certain confidence and dignified courtesy befitting a man of experience who had seen a great deal in his day. in fact, akim--or akim semyonitch as he was called even in his mistress's house, to which he often went and invariably on sundays after mass--would have been excellent in all respects--if he had not had one weakness which has been the ruin of many men on earth, and was in the end the ruin of him, too--a weakness for the fair sex. akim's susceptibility was extreme, his heart could never resist a woman's glance: he melted before it like the first snow of autumn in the sun ... and dearly he had to pay for his excessive sensibility. for the first year after he had set up on the high road akim was so busy with building his yard, stocking the place, and all the business inseparable from moving into a new house that he had absolutely no time to think of women and if any sinful thought came into his mind he immediately drove it away by reading various devotional works for which he cherished a profound respect (he had learned to read when first he left home), singing the psalms in a low voice or some other pious occupation. besides, he was then in his forty-sixth year and at that time of life every passion grows perceptibly calmer and cooler and the time for marrying was past. akim himself began to think that, as he expressed it, this foolishness was over and done with ... but evidently there is no escaping one's fate. akim's former mistress, lizaveta prohorovna kuntse, the widow of an officer of german extraction, was herself a native of mittau, where she had spent the first years of her childhood and where she had numerous poor relations, about whom she concerned herself very little, especially after a casual visit from one of her brothers, an infantry officer of the line. on the day after his arrival he had made a great disturbance and almost beaten the lady of the house, calling her "du lumpenmamselle," though only the evening before he had called her in broken russian: "sister and benefactor." lizaveta prohorovna lived almost permanently on her pretty estate which had been won by the labours of her husband who had been an architect. she managed it herself and managed it very well. lizaveta prohorovna never let slip the slightest advantage; she turned everything into profit for herself; and this, as well as her extraordinary capacity for making a farthing do the work of a halfpenny, betrayed her german origin; in everything else she had become very russian. she kept a considerable number of house serfs, especially many maids, who earned their salt, however: from morning to night their backs were bent over their work. she liked driving out in her carriage with grooms in livery on the footboard. she liked listening to gossip and scandal and was a clever scandal-monger herself; she liked to lavish favours upon someone, then suddenly crush him with her displeasure, in fact, lizaveta prohorovna behaved exactly like a lady. akim was in her good graces; he paid her punctually every year a very considerable sum in lieu of service; she talked graciously to him and even, in jest, invited him as a guest ... but it was precisely in his mistress's house that trouble was in store for akim. among lizaveta prohorovna's maidservants was an orphan girl of twenty called dunyasha. she was good-looking, graceful and neat-handed; though her features were irregular, they were pleasing; her fresh complexion, her thick flaxen hair, her lively grey eyes, her little round nose, her rosy lips and above all her half-mocking, half-provocative expression--were all rather charming in their way. at the same time, in spite of her forlorn position, she was strict, almost haughty in her deportment. she came of a long line of house serfs. her father, arefy, had been a butler for thirty years, while her grandfather, stepan had been valet to a prince and officer of the guards long since dead. she dressed neatly and was vain over her hands, which were certainly very beautiful. dunyasha made a show of great disdain for all her admirers; she listened to their compliments with a self-complacent little smile and if she answered them at all it was usually some exclamation such as: "yes! likely! as though i should! what next!" these exclamations were always on her lips. dunyasha had spent about three years being trained in moscow where she had picked up the peculiar airs and graces which distinguish maidservants who have been in moscow or petersburg. she was spoken of as a girl of self-respect (high praise on the lips of house serfs) who, though she had seen something of life, had not let herself down. she was rather clever with her needle, too, yet with all this lizaveta prohorovna was not very warmly disposed toward her, thanks to the headmaid, kirillovna, a sly and intriguing woman, no longer young. kirillovna exercised great influence over her mistress and very skilfully succeeded in getting rid of all rivals. with this dunyasha akim must needs fall in love! and he fell in love as he had never fallen in love before. he saw her first at church: she had only just come back from moscow.... afterwards, he met her several times in his mistress's house; finally he spent a whole evening with her at the steward's, where he had been invited to tea in company with other highly respected persons. the house serfs did not disdain him, though he was not of their class and wore a beard; he was a man of education, could read and write and, what was more, had money; and he did not dress like a peasant but wore a long full coat of black cloth, high boots of calf leather and a kerchief on his neck. it is true that some of the house serfs did say among themselves that: "one can see that he is not one of us," but to his face they almost flattered him. on that evening at the steward's dunyasha made a complete conquest of akim's susceptible heart, though she said not a single word in answer to his ingratiating speeches and only looked sideways at him from time to time as though wondering why that peasant was there. all that only added fuel to the flames. he went home, pondered and pondered and made up his mind to win her hand.... she had somehow "bewitched" him. but how can i describe the wrath and indignation of dunyasha when five days later kirillovna with a friendly air invited her into her room and told her that akim (and evidently he knew how to set to work) that bearded peasant akim, to sit by whose side she considered almost an indignity, was courting her. dunyasha first flushed crimson, then she gave a forced laugh, then she burst into tears; but kirillovna made her attack so artfully, made the girl feel her own position in the house so clearly, so tactfully hinted at the presentable appearance, the wealth and blind devotion of akim and finally mentioned so significantly the wishes of their mistress that dunyasha went out of the room with a look of hesitation on her face and meeting akim only gazed intently into his face and did not turn away. the indescribably lavish presents of the love-sick man dissipated her last doubts. lizaveta prohorovna, to whom akim in his joy took a hundred peaches on a large silver dish, gave her consent to the marriage, and the marriage took place. akim spared no expense--and the bride, who on the eve of her wedding at her farewell party to her girl friends sat looking a figure of misery, and who cried all the next morning while kirillovna was dressing her for the wedding, was soon comforted.... her mistress gave her her own shawl to wear in the church and akim presented her the same day with one like it, almost superior. and so akim was married, and took his young bride home.... they began their life together.... dunyasha turned out to be a poor housewife, a poor helpmate to her husband. she took no interest in anything, was melancholy and depressed unless some officer sitting by the big samovar noticed her and paid her compliments; she was often absent, sometimes in the town shopping, sometimes at the mistress's house, which was only three miles from the inn. there she felt at home, there she was surrounded by her own people; the girls envied her finery. kirillovna regaled her with tea; lizaveta prohorovna herself talked to her. but even these visits did not pass without some bitter experiences for dunyasha.... as an innkeeper's wife, for instance, she could not wear a hat and was obliged to tie up her head in a kerchief, "like a merchant's lady," said sly kirillovna, "like a working woman," thought dunyasha to herself. more than once akim recalled the words of his only relation, an uncle who had lived in solitude without a family for years: "well, akimushka, my lad," he had said, meeting him in the street, "i hear you are getting married." "why, yes, what of it?" "ech, akim, akim. you are above us peasants now, there's no denying that; but you are not on her level either." "in what way not on her level?" "why, in that way, for instance," his uncle had answered, pointing to akim's beard, which he had begun to clip in order to please his betrothed, though he had refused to shave it completely.... akim looked down; while the old man turned away, wrapped his tattered sheepskin about him and walked away, shaking his head. yes, more than once akim sank into thought, cleared his throat and sighed.... but his love for his pretty wife was no less; he was proud of her, especially when he compared her not merely with peasant women, or with his first wife, to whom he had been married at sixteen, but with other serf girls; "look what a fine bird we have caught," he thought to himself.... her slightest caress gave him immense pleasure. "maybe," he thought, "she will get used to it; maybe she will get into the way of it." meanwhile her behaviour was irreproachable and no one could say anything against her. several years passed like this. dunyasha really did end by growing used to her way of life. akim's love for her and confidence in her only increased as he grew older; her girl friends, who had been married not to peasants, were suffering cruel hardships, either from poverty or from having fallen into bad hands.... akim went on getting richer and richer. everything succeeded with him--he was always lucky; only one thing was a grief: god had not given him children. dunyasha was by now over five and twenty; everyone addressed her as avdotya arefyevna. she never became a real housewife, however--but she grew fond of her house, looked after the stores and superintended the woman who worked in the house. it is true that she did all this only after a fashion; she did not keep up a high standard of cleanliness and order; on the other hand, her portrait painted in oils and ordered by herself from a local artist, the son of the parish deacon, hung on the wall of the chief room beside that of akim. she was depicted in a white dress with a yellow shawl with six strings of big pearls round her neck, long earrings, and a ring on every finger. the portrait was recognisable though the artist had painted her excessively stout and rosy--and had made her eyes not grey but black and even slightly squinting.... akim's was a complete failure, the portrait had come out dark--_à la_ rembrandt--so that sometimes a visitor would go up to it, look at it and merely give an inarticulate murmur. avdotya had taken to being rather careless in her dress; she would fling a big shawl over her shoulders, while the dress under it was put on anyhow: she was overcome by laziness, that sighing apathetic drowsy laziness to which the russian is only too liable, especially when his livelihood is secure.... with all that, the fortunes of akim and his wife prospered exceedingly; they lived in harmony and had the reputation of an exemplary pair. but just as a squirrel will wash its face at the very instant when the sportsman is aiming at it, man has no presentiment of his troubles, till all of a sudden the ground gives way under him like ice. one autumn evening a merchant in the drapery line put up at akim's inn. he was journeying by various cross-country roads from moscow to harkov with two loaded tilt carts; he was one of those travelling traders whose arrival is sometimes awaited with such impatience by country gentlemen and still more by their wives and daughters. this travelling merchant, an elderly man, had with him two companions, or, speaking more correctly, two workmen, one thin, pale and hunchbacked, the other a fine, handsome young fellow of twenty. they asked for supper, then sat down to tea; the merchant invited the innkeeper and his wife to take a cup with him, they did not refuse. a conversation quickly sprang up between the two old men (akim was fifty-six); the merchant inquired about the gentry of the neighbourhood and no one could give him more useful information about them than akim; the hunchbacked workman spent his time looking after the carts and finally went off to bed; it fell to avdotya to talk to the other one.... she sat by him and said little, rather listening to what he told her, but it was evident that his talk pleased her; her face grew more animated, the colour came into her cheeks and she laughed readily and often. the young workman sat almost motionless with his curly head bent over the table; he spoke quietly, without haste and without raising his voice; but his eyes, not large but saucily bright and blue, were rivetted on avdotya; at first she turned away from them, then she, too, began looking him in the face. the young fellow's face was fresh and smooth as a crimean apple; he often smiled and tapped with his white fingers on his chin covered with soft dark down. he spoke like a merchant, but very freely and with a sort of careless self-confidence and went on looking at her with the same intent, impudent stare.... all at once he moved a little closer to her and without the slightest change of countenance said to her: "avdotya arefyevna, there's no one like you in the world; i am ready to die for you." avdotya laughed aloud. "what is it?" asked akim. "why, he keeps saying such funny things," she said, without any particular embarrassment. the old merchant grinned. "ha, ha, yes, my naum is such a funny fellow, don't listen to him." "oh! really! as though i should," she answered, and shook her head. "ha, ha, of course not," observed the old man. "but, however," he went on in a singsong voice, "we will take our leave; we are thoroughly satisfied, it is time for bed, ..." and he got up. "we are well satisfied, too," akim brought out and he got up, "for your entertainment, that is, but we wish you a good night. avdotyushka, come along." avdotya got up as it were unwillingly. naum, too, got up after her ... the party broke up. the innkeeper and his wife went off to the little lobby partitioned off, which served them as a bedroom. akim was snoring immediately. it was a long time before avdotya could get to sleep.... at first she lay still, turning her face to the wall, then she began tossing from side to side on the hot feather bed, throwing off and pulling up the quilt alternately ... then she sank into a light doze. suddenly she heard from the yard a loud masculine voice: it was singing a song of which it was impossible to distinguish the words, prolonging each note, though not with a melancholy effect. avdotya opened her eyes, propped herself on her elbows and listened.... the song went on.... it rang out musically in the autumn air. akim raised his head. "who's that singing?" he asked. "i don't know," she answered. "he sings well," he added, after a brief pause. "very well. what a strong voice. i used to sing in my day," he went on. "and i sang well, too, but my voice has gone. that's a fine voice. it must be that young fellow singing, naum is his name, isn't it?" and he turned over on the other side, gave a sigh and fell asleep again. it was a long time before the voice was still ... avdotya listened and listened; all at once it seemed to break off, rang out boldly once more and slowly died away.... avdotya crossed herself and laid her head on the pillow.... half an hour passed.... she sat up and softly got out of bed. "where are you going, wife?" akim asked in his sleep. she stopped. "to see to the little lamp," she said, "i can't get to sleep." "you should say a prayer," akim mumbled, falling asleep. avdotya went up to the lamp before the ikon, began trimming it and accidentally put it out; she went back and lay down. everything was still. early next morning the merchant set off again on his journey with his companions. avdotya was asleep. akim went half a mile with them: he had to call at the mill. when he got home he found his wife dressed and not alone. naum, the young man who had been there the night before, was with her. they were standing by the table in the window talking. when avdotya saw akim, she went out of the room without a word, and naum said that he had come for his master's gloves which the latter, he said, had left behind on the bench; and he, too, went away. we will now tell the reader what he has probably guessed already: avdotya had fallen passionately in love with naum. it is hard to say how it could have happened so quickly, especially as she had hitherto been irreproachable in her behaviour in spite of many opportunities and temptations to deceive her husband. later on, when her intrigue with naum became known, many people in the neighbourhood declared that he had on the very first evening put a magic potion that was a love spell in her tea (the efficacy of such spells is still firmly believed in among us), and that this could be clearly seen from the appearance of avdotya who, so they said, soon after began to pine away and look depressed. however that may have been, naum began to be frequently seen in akim's yard. at first he came again with the same merchant and three months later arrived alone, with wares of his own; then the report spread that he had settled in one of the neighbouring district towns, and from that time forward not a week passed without his appearing on the high road with his strong, painted cart drawn by two sleek horses which he drove himself. there was no particular friendship between akim and him, nor was there any hostility noticed between them; akim did not take much notice of him and only thought of him as a sharp young fellow who was rapidly making his way in the world. he did not suspect avdotya's real feelings and went on believing in her as before. two years passed like this. one summer day it happened that lizaveta prohorovna--who had somehow suddenly grown yellow and wrinkled during those two years in spite of all sorts of unguents, rouge and powder--about two o'clock in the afternoon went out with her lap dog and her folding parasol for a stroll before dinner in her neat little german garden. with a faint rustle of her starched petticoats, she walked with tiny steps along the sandy path between two rows of erect, stiffly tied-up dahlias, when she was suddenly overtaken by our old acquaintance kirillovna, who announced respectfully that a merchant desired to speak to her on important business. kirillovna was still high in her mistress's favour (in reality it was she who managed madame kuntse's estate) and she had some time before obtained permission to wear a white cap, which gave still more acerbity to the sharp features of her swarthy face. "a merchant?" said her mistress; "what does he want?" "i don't know what he wants," answered kirillovna in an insinuating voice, "only i think he wants to buy something from you." lizaveta prohorovna went back into the drawing-room, sat down in her usual seat--an armchair with a canopy over it, upon which a climbing plant twined gracefully--and gave orders that the merchant should be summoned. naum appeared, bowed, and stood still by the door. "i hear that you want to buy something of me," said lizaveta prohorovna, and thought to herself, "what a handsome man this merchant is." "just so, madam." "what is it?" "would you be willing to sell your inn?" "what inn?" "why, the one on the high road not far from here." "but that inn is not mine, it is akim's." "not yours? why, it stands on your land." "yes, the land is mine ... bought in my name; but the inn is his." "to be sure. but wouldn't you be willing to sell it to me?" "how could i sell it to you?" "well, i would give you a good price for it." lizaveta prohorovna was silent for a space. "it is really very queer what you are saying," she said. "and what would you give?" she added. "i don't ask that for myself but for akim." "for all the buildings and the appurtenances, together with the land that goes with it, of course, i would give two thousand roubles." "two thousand roubles! that is not enough," replied lizaveta prohorovna. "it's a good price." "but have you spoken to akim?" "what should i speak to him for? the inn is yours, so here i am talking to you about it." "but i have told you.... it really is astonishing that you don't understand me." "not understand, madam? but i do understand." lizaveta prohorovna looked at naum and naum looked at lizaveta prohorovna. "well, then," he began, "what do you propose?" "i propose ..." lizaveta prohorovna moved in her chair. "in the first place i tell you that two thousand is too little and in the second ..." "i'll add another hundred, then." lizaveta prohorovna got up. "i see that you are talking quite off the point. i have told you already that i cannot sell that inn--am not going to sell it. i cannot ... that is, i will not." naum smiled and said nothing for a space. "well, as you please, madam," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "i beg to take leave." he bowed and took hold of the door handle. lizaveta prohorovna turned round to him. "you need not go away yet, however," she said, with hardly perceptible agitation. she rang the bell and kirillovna came in from the study. "kirillovna, tell them to give this gentleman some tea. i will see you again," she added, with a slight inclination of her head. naum bowed again and went out with kirillovna. lizaveta prohorovna walked up and down the room once or twice and rang the bell again. this time a page appeared. she told him to fetch kirillovna. a few moments later kirillovna came in with a faint creak of her new goatskin shoes. "have you heard," lizaveta prohorovna began with a forced laugh, "what this merchant has been proposing to me? he is a queer fellow, really!" "no, i haven't heard. what is it, madam?" and kirillovna faintly screwed up her black kalmuck eyes. "he wants to buy akim's inn." "well, why not?" "but how could he? what about akim? i gave it to akim." "upon my word, madam, what are you saying? isn't the inn yours? don't we all belong to you? and isn't all our property yours, our mistress's?" "good gracious, kirillovna, what are you saying?" lizaveta prohorovna pulled out a batiste handkerchief and nervously blew her nose. "akim bought the inn with his own money." "his own money? but where did he get the money? wasn't it through your kindness? he has had the use of the land all this time as it is. it was all through your gracious permission. and do you suppose, madam, that he would have no money left? why, he is richer than you are, upon my word, he is!" "that's all true, of course, but still i can't do it.... how could i sell the inn?" "and why not sell it," kirillovna went on, "since a purchaser has luckily turned up? may i ask, madam, how much he offers you?" "more than two thousand roubles," said lizaveta prohorovna softly. "he will give more, madam, if he offers two thousand straight off. and you will arrange things with akim afterwards; take a little off his yearly duty or something. he will be thankful, too." "of course, i must remit part of his duty. but no, kirillovna, how can i sell it?" and lizaveta prohorovna walked up and down the room. "no, that's out of the question, that won't do ... no, please don't speak of it again ... or i shall be angry." but in spite of her agitated mistress's warning, kirillovna did continue speaking of it and half an hour later she went back to naum, whom she had left in the butler's pantry at the samovar. "what have you to tell me, good madam?" said naum, jauntily turning his tea-cup wrong side upwards in the saucer. "what i have to tell you is that you are to go in to the mistress; she wants you." "certainly," said naum, and he got up and followed kirillovna into the drawing-room. the door closed behind them.... when the door opened again and naum walked out backwards, bowing, the matter was settled: akim's inn belonged to him. he had bought it for 2800 paper roubles. it was arranged that the legal formalities should take place as quickly as possible and that till then the matter should not be made public. lizaveta prohorovna received a deposit of a hundred roubles and two hundred went to kirillovna for her assistance. "it has not cost me much," thought naum as he got into his coat, "it was a lucky chance." while the transaction we have described was going forward in the mistress's house, akim was sitting at home alone on the bench by the window, stroking his beard with a discontented expression. we have said already that he did not suspect his wife's feeling for naum, although kind friends had more than once hinted to him that it was time he opened his eyes; it is true that he had noticed himself that of late his wife had become rather difficult, but we all know that the female sex is capricious and changeable. even when it really did strike him that things were not going well in his house, he merely dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand; he did not like the idea of a squabble; his good nature had not lessened with years and indolence was asserting itself, too. but on that day he was very much out of humour; the day before he had overheard quite by chance in the street a conversation between their servant and a neighbouring peasant woman. the peasant woman asked the servant why she had not come to see her on the holiday the day before. "i was expecting you," she said. "i did set off," replied the servant, "but as ill-luck would have it, i ran into the mistress ... botheration take her." "ran into her?" repeated the peasant woman in a sing-song voice and she leaned her cheek on her hand. "and where did you run into her, my good girl?" "beyond the priest's hemp-patch. she must have gone to the hemp-patch to meet her naum, but i could not see them in the dusk, owing to the moon, maybe, i don't know; i simply dashed into them." "dashed into them?" the other woman repeated. "well, and was she standing with him, my good girl?" "yes, she was. he was standing there and so was she. she saw me and said, 'where are you running to? go home.' so i went home." "you went home?" the peasant woman was silent. "well, good-bye, fetinyushka," she brought out at last, and trudged off. this conversation had an unpleasant effect on akim. his love for avdotya had cooled, but still he did not like what the servant had said. and she had told the truth: avdotya really had gone out that evening to meet naum, who had been waiting for her in the patch of dense shade thrown on the road by the high motionless hemp. the dew bathed every stalk of it from top to bottom; the strong, almost overpowering fragrance hung all about it. a huge crimson moon had just risen in the dingy, blackish mist. naum heard the hurried footsteps of avdotya a long way off and went to meet her. she came up to him, pale with running; the moon lighted up her face. "well, have you brought it?" he asked. "brought it--yes, i have," she answered in an uncertain voice. "but, naum ivanitch----" "give it me, since you have brought it," he interrupted her, and held out his hand. she took a parcel from under her shawl. naum took it at once and thrust it in his bosom. "naum ivanitch," avdotya said slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on him, "oh, naum ivanitch, you will bring my soul to ruin." it was at that instant that the servant came up to them. and so akim was sitting on the bench discontentedly stroking his beard. avdotya kept coming into the room and going out again. he simply followed her with his eyes. at last she came into the room and after taking a jerkin from the lobby was just crossing the threshold, when he could not restrain himself and said, as though speaking to himself: "i wonder," he began, "why it is women are always in a fuss? it's no good expecting them to sit still. that's not in their line. but running out morning or evening, that's what they like. yes." avdotya listened to her husband's words without changing her position; only at the word "evening," she moved her head slightly and seemed to ponder. "once you begin talking, semyonitch," she commented at last with vexation, "there is no stopping you." and with a wave of her hand she went away and slammed the door. avdotya certainly did not appreciate akim's eloquence and often in the evenings when he indulged in conversation with travellers or fell to telling stories she stealthily yawned or went out of the room. akim looked at the closed door. "once you begin talking," he repeated in an undertone.... "the fact is, i have not talked enough to you. and who is it? a peasant like any one of us, and what's more...." and he got up, thought a little and tapped the back of his head with his fist. several days passed in a rather strange way. akim kept looking at his wife as though he were preparing to say something to her, and she, for her part, looked at him suspiciously; meanwhile, they both preserved a strained silence. this silence, however, was broken from time to time by some peevish remark from akim in regard to some oversight in the housekeeping or in regard to women in general. for the most part avdotya did not answer one word. but in spite of akim's good-natured weakness, it certainly would have come to a decisive explanation between him and avdotya, if it had not been for an event which rendered any explanation useless. one morning akim and wife were just beginning lunch (owing to the summer work in the fields there were no travellers at the inn) when suddenly a cart rattled briskly along the road and pulled up sharply at the front door. akim peeped out of window, frowned and looked down: naum got deliberately out of the cart. avdotya had not seen him, but when she heard his voice in the entry the spoon trembled in her hand. he told the labourers to put up the horse in the yard. at last the door opened and he walked into the room. "good-day," he said, and took off his cap. "good-day," akim repeated through his teeth. "where has god brought you from?" "i was in the neighbourhood," replied naum, and he sat down on the bench. "i have come from your lady." "from the lady," said akim, not getting up from his seat. "on business, eh?" "yes, on business. my respects to you, avdotya arefyevona." "good morning, naum ivanitch," she answered. all were silent. "what have you got, broth, is it?" began naum. "yes, broth," replied akim and all at once he turned pale, "but not for you." naum glanced at akim with surprise. "not for me?" "not for you, and that's all about it." akim's eyes glittered and he brought his fist on the table. "there is nothing in my house for you, do you hear?" "what's this, semyonitch, what is the matter with you?" "there's nothing the matter with me, but i am sick of you, naum ivanitch, that's what it is." the old man got up, trembling all over. "you poke yourself in here too often, i tell you." naum, too, got up. "you've gone clean off your head, old man," he said with a jeer. "avdotya arefyevna, what's wrong with him?" "i tell you," shouted akim in a cracked voice, "go away, do you hear? ... you have nothing to do with avdotya arefyevna ... i tell you, do you hear, get out!" "what's that you are saying to me?" naum asked significantly. "go out of the house, that's what i am telling to you. here's god and here's the door ... do you understand? or there will be trouble." naum took a step forward. "good gracious, don't fight, my dears," faltered avdotya, who till then had sat motionless at the table. naum glanced at her. "don't be uneasy, avdotya arefyevna, why should we fight? fie, brother, what a hullabaloo you are making!" he went on, addressing akim. "yes, really. you are a hasty one! has anyone ever heard of turning anyone out of his house, especially the owner of it?" naum added with slow deliberateness. "out of his house?" muttered akim. "what owner?" "me, if you like." and naum screwed up his eyes and showed his white teeth in a grin. "you? why, it's my house, isn't it?" "what a slow-witted fellow you are! i tell you it's mine." akim gazed at him open-eyed. "what crazy stuff is it you are talking? one would think you had gone silly," he said at last. "how the devil can it be yours?" "what's the good of talking to you?" cried naum impatiently. "do you see this bit of paper?" he went on, pulling out of his pocket a sheet of stamped paper, folded in four, "do you see? this is the deed of sale, do you understand, the deed of sale of your land and your house; i have bought them from the lady, from lizaveta prohorovna; the deed was drawn up at the town yesterday; so i am master here, not you. pack your belongings today," he added, putting the document back in his pocket, "and don't let me see a sign of you here to-morrow, do you hear?" akim stood as though struck by a thunderbolt. "robber," he moaned at last, "robber.... heigh, fedka, mitka, wife, wife, seize him, seize him--hold him." he lost his head completely. "mind now, old man," said naum menacingly, "mind what you are about, don't play the fool...." "beat him, wife, beat him!" akim kept repeating in a tearful voice, trying helplessly and in vain to get up. "murderer, robber.... she is not enough for you, you want to take my house, too, and everything.... but no, stop a bit ... that can't be.... i'll go myself, i'll speak myself ... how ... why should she sell it? wait a bit, wait a bit." and he dashed out bareheaded. "where are you off to, akim ivanitch?" said the servant fetinya, running into him in the doorway. "to our mistress! let me pass! to our mistress!" wailed akim, and seeing naum's cart which had not yet been taken into the yard, he jumped into it, snatched the reins and lashing the horse with all his might set off at full speed to his mistress's house. "my lady, lizaveta prohorovna," he kept repeating to himself all the way, "how have i lost your favour? i should have thought i had done my best!" and meantime he kept lashing and lashing the horse. those who met him moved out of his way and gazed after him. in a quarter of an hour akim had reached lizaveta prohorovna's house, had galloped up to the front door, jumped out of the cart and dashed straight into the entry. "what do you want?" muttered the frightened footman who was sleeping sweetly on the hall bench. "the mistress, i want to see the mistress," said akim loudly. the footman was amazed. "has anything happened?" he began. "nothing has happened, but i want to see the mistress." "what, what," said the footman, more and more astonished, and he slowly drew himself up. akim pulled himself up.... he felt as though cold water had been poured on him. "announce to the mistress, please, pyotr yevgrafitch," he said with a low bow, "that akim asks leave to see her." "very good ... i'll go ... i'll tell her ... but you must be drunk, wait a bit," grumbled the footman, and he went off. akim looked down and seemed confused.... his determination had evaporated as soon as he went into the hall. lizaveta prohorovna was confused, too, when she was informed that akim had come. she immediately summoned kirillovna to her boudoir. "i can't see him," she began hurriedly, as soon as the latter appeared. "i absolutely cannot. what am i to say to him? i told you he would be sure to come and complain," she added in annoyance and agitation. "i told you." "but why should you see him?" kirillovna answered calmly, "there is no need to. why should you be worried! no, indeed!" "what is to be done then?" "if you will permit me, i will speak to him." lizaveta prohorovna raised her head. "please do, kirillovna. talk to him. you tell him ... that i found it necessary ... but that i will compensate him ... say what you think best. please, kirillovna." "don't you worry yourself, madam," answered kirillovna, and she went out, her shoes creaking. a quarter of an hour had not elapsed when their creaking was heard again and kirillovna walked into the boudoir with the same unruffled expression on her face and the same sly shrewdness in her eyes. "well?" asked her mistress, "how is akim?" "he is all right, madam. he says that it must all be as you graciously please; that if only you have good health and prosperity he can get along very well." "and he did not complain?" "no, madam. why should he complain?" "what did he come for, then?" lizaveta prohorovna asked in some surprise. "he came to ask whether you would excuse his yearly payment for next year, that is, until he has been compensated." "of course, of course," lizaveta prohorovna caught her up eagerly. "of course, with pleasure. and tell him, in fact, that i will make it up to him. thank you, kirillovna. i see he is a good-hearted man. stay," she added, "give him this from me," and she took a three-rouble note out of her work-table drawer, "here, take this, give it to him." "certainly, madam," answered kirillovna, and going calmly back to her room she locked the note in an iron-cased box which stood at the head of her bed; she kept in it all her spare cash, and there was a considerable amount of it. kirillovna had reassured her mistress by her report but the conversation between herself and akim had not been quite what she represented. she had sent for him to the maid's room. at first he had not come, declaring that he did not want to see kirillovna but lizaveta prohorovna herself; he had, however, at last obeyed and gone by the back door to see kirillovna. he found her alone. he stopped at once on getting into the room and leaned against the wall by the door; he would have spoken but he could not. kirillovna looked at him intently. "you want to see the mistress, akim semyonitch?" she began. he simply nodded. "it's impossible, akim semyonitch. and what's the use? what's done can't be undone, and you will only worry the mistress. she can't see you now, akim semyonitch." "she cannot," he repeated and paused. "well, then," he brought out at last, "so then my house is lost?" "listen, akim semyonitch. i know you have always been a sensible man. such is the mistress's will and there is no changing it. you can't alter that. whatever you and i might say about it would make no difference, would it?" akim put his arm behind his back. "you'd better think," kirillovna went on, "shouldn't you ask the mistress to let you off your yearly payment or something?" "so my house is lost?" repeated akim in the same voice. "akim semyonitch, i tell you, it's no use. you know that better than i do." "yes. anyway, you might tell me what the house went for?" "i don't know, akim semyonitch, i can't tell you.... but why are you standing?" she added. "sit down." "i'd rather stand, i am a peasant. i thank you humbly." "you a peasant, akim semyonitch? you are as good as a merchant, let alone a house-serf! what do you mean? don't distress yourself for nothing. won't you have some tea?" "no, thank you, i don't want it. so you have got hold of my house between you," he added, moving away from the wall. "thank you for that. i wish you good-bye, my lady." and he turned and went out. kirillovna straightened her apron and went to her mistress. "so i am a merchant, it seems," akim said to himself, standing before the gate in hesitation. "a nice merchant!" he waved his hand and laughed bitterly. "well, i suppose i had better go home." and entirely forgetting naum's horse with which he had come, he trudged along the road to the inn. before he had gone the first mile he suddenly heard the rattle of a cart beside him. "akim, akim semyonitch," someone called to him. he raised his eyes and saw a friend of his, the parish clerk, yefrem, nicknamed the mole, a little, bent man with a sharp nose and dim-sighted eyes. he was sitting on a bundle of straw in a wretched little cart, and leaning forward against the box. "are you going home?" he asked akim. akim stopped "yes." "shall i give you a lift?" "please do." yefrem moved to one side and akim climbed into the cart. yefrem, who seemed to be somewhat exhilarated, began lashing at his wretched little horse with the ends of his cord reins; it set off at a weary trot continually tossing its unbridled head. they drove for nearly a mile without saying one word to each other. akim sat with his head bent while yefrem muttered to himself, alternately urging on and holding back his horse. "where have you been without your cap, semyonitch?" he asked akim suddenly and, without waiting for an answer, went on, "you've left it at some tavern, that's what you've done. you are a drinking man; i know you and i like you for it, that you are a drinker; you are not a murderer, not a rowdy, not one to make trouble; you are a good manager, but you are a drinker and such a drinker, you ought to have been pulled up for it long ago, yes, indeed; for it's, a nasty habit.... hurrah!" he shouted suddenly at the top of his voice, "hurrah! hurrah!" "stop! stop!" a woman's voice sounded close by, "stop!" akim looked round. a woman so pale and dishevelled that at first he did not recognise her, was running across the field towards the cart. "stop! stop!" she moaned again, gasping for breath and waving her arms. akim started: it was his wife. he snatched up the reins. "what's the good of stopping?" muttered yefrem. "stopping for a woman? gee-up!" but akim pulled the horse up sharply. at that instant avdotya ran up to the road and flung herself down with her face straight in the dust. "akim semyonitch," she wailed, "he has turned me out, too!" akim looked at her and did not stir; he only gripped the reins tighter. "hurrah!" yefrem shouted again. "so he has turned you out?" said akim. "he has turned me out, akim semyonitch, dear," avdotya answered, sobbing. "he has turned me out. the house is mine, he said, so you can go." "capital! that's a fine thing ... capital," observed yefrem. "so i suppose you thought to stay on?" akim brought out bitterly, still sitting in the cart. "how could i! but, akim semyonitch," went on avdotya, who had raised her head but let it sink to the earth again, "you don't know, i ... kill me, akim semyonitch, kill me here on the spot." "why should i kill you, arefyevna?" said akim dejectedly, "you've been your own ruin. what's the use?" "but do you know what, akim semyonitch, the money ... your money ... your money's gone.... wretched sinner as i am, i took it from under the floor, i gave it all to him, to that villain naum.... why did you tell me where you hid your money, wretched sinner as i am? ... it's with your money he has bought the house, the villain." sobs choked her voice. akim clutched his head with both hands. "what!" he cried at last, "all the money, too ... the money and the house, and you did it.... ah! you took it from under the floor, you took it.... i'll kill you, you snake in the grass!" and he leapt out of the cart. "semyonitch, semyonitch, don't beat her, don't fight," faltered yefrem, on whom this unexpected adventure began to have a sobering effect. "no, akim semyonitch, kill me, wretched sinner as i am; beat me, don't heed him," cried avdotya, writhing convulsively at akim's feet. he stood a moment, looked at her, moved a few steps away and sat down on the grass beside the road. a brief silence followed. avdotya turned her head in his direction. "semyonitch! hey, semyonitch," began yefrem, sitting up in the cart, "give over ... you know ... you won't make things any better. tfoo, what a business," he went on as though to himself. "what a damnable woman.... go to him," he added, bending down over the side of the cart to avdotya, "you see, he's half crazy." avdotya got up, went nearer to akim and again fell at his feet. "akim semyonitch!" she began, in a faint voice. akim got up and went back to the cart. she caught at the skirt of his coat. "get away!" he shouted savagely, and pushed her off. "where are you going?" yefrem asked, seeing that he was getting in beside him again. "you were going to take me to my home," said akim, "but take me to yours ... you see, i have no home now. they have bought mine." "very well, come to me. and what about her?" akim made no answer. "and me? me?" avdotya repeated with tears, "are you leaving me all alone? where am i to go?" "you can go to him," answered akim, without turning round, "the man you have given my money to.... drive on, yefrem!" yefrem lashed the horse, the cart rolled off, avdotya set up a wail.... yefrem lived three-quarters of a mile from akim's inn in a little house close to the priest's, near the solitary church with five cupolas which had been recently built by the heirs of a rich merchant in accordance with the latter's will. yefrem said nothing to akim all the way; he merely shook his head from time to time and uttered such ejaculations as "dear, dear!" and "upon my soul!" akim sat without moving, turned a little away from yefrem. at last they arrived. yefrem was the first to get out of the cart. a little girl of six in a smock tied low round the waist ran out to meet him and shouted, "daddy! daddy!" "and where is your mother?" asked yefrem. "she is asleep in the shed." "well, let her sleep. akim semyonitch, won't you get out, sir, and come indoors?" (it must be noted that yefrem addressed him familiarly only when he was drunk. more important persons than yefrem spoke to akim with formal politeness.) akim went into the sacristan's hut. "here, sit on the bench," said yefrem. "run away, you little rascals," he cried to three other children who suddenly came out of different corners of the room together with two lean cats covered with wood ashes. "get along! sh-sh! come this way, akim semyonitch, this way!" he went on, making his guest sit down, "and won't you take something?" "i tell you what, yefrem," akim articulated at last, "could i have some vodka?" yefrem pricked up his ears. "vodka? you can. i've none in the house, but i will run this minute to father fyodor's. he always has it.... i'll be back in no time." and he snatched up his cap with earflaps. "bring plenty, i'll pay for it," akim shouted after him. "i've still money enough for that." "i'll be back in no time," yefrem repeated again as he went out of the door. he certainly did return very quickly with two bottles under his arm, of which one was already uncorked, put them on the table, brought two little green glasses, part of a loaf and some salt. "now this is what i like," he kept repeating, as he sat down opposite akim. "why grieve?" he poured out a glass for akim and another for himself and began talking freely. avdotya's conduct had perplexed him. "it's a strange business, really," he said, "how did it happen? he must have bewitched her, i suppose? it shows how strictly one must look after a wife! you want to keep a firm hand over her. all the same it wouldn't be amiss for you to go home; i expect you have got a lot of belongings there still." yefrem added much more to the same effect; he did not like to be silent when he was drinking. this is what was happening an hour later in yefrem's house. akim, who had not answered a word to the questions and observations of his talkative host but had merely gone on drinking glass after glass, was sleeping on the stove, crimson in the face, a heavy, oppressive sleep; the children were looking at him in wonder, and yefrem ... yefrem, alas, was asleep, too, but in a cold little lumber room in which he had been locked by his wife, a woman of very masculine and powerful physique. he had gone to her in the shed and begun threatening her or telling her some tale, but had expressed himself so unintelligibly and incoherently that she instantly saw what was the matter, took him by the collar and deposited him in a suitable place. he slept in the lumber room, however, very soundly and even serenely. such is the effect of habit. * * * * * kirillovna had not quite accurately repeated to lizaveta prohorovna her conversation with akim ... the same may be said of avdotya. naum had not turned her out, though she had told akim that he had; he had no right to turn her out. he was bound to give the former owners time to pack up. an explanation of quite a different character took place between him and avdotya. when akim had rushed out crying that he would go to the mistress, avdotya had turned to naum, stared at him open-eyed and clasped her hands. "good heavens!" she cried, "naum ivanitch, what does this mean? you've bought our inn?" "well, what of it?" he replied. "i have." avdotya was silent for a while; then she suddenly started. "so that is what you wanted the money for?" "you are quite right there. hullo, i believe your husband has gone off with my horse," he added, hearing the rumble of the wheels. "he is a smart fellow!" "but it's robbery!" wailed avdotya. "why, it's our money, my husband's money and the inn is ours...." "no, avdotya arefyevna," naum interrupted her, "the inn was not yours. what's the use of saying that? the inn was on your mistress's land, so it was hers. the money was yours, certainly; but you were, so to say, so kind as to present it to me; and i am grateful to you and will even give it back to you on occasion--if occasion arises; but you wouldn't expect me to remain a beggar, would you?" naum said all this very calmly and even with a slight smile. "holy saints!" cried avdotya, "it's beyond everything! beyond everything! how can i look my husband in the face after this? you villain," she added, looking with hatred at naum's fresh young face. "i've ruined my soul for you, i've become a thief for your sake, why, you've turned us into the street, you villain! there's nothing left for me but to hang myself, villain, deceiver! you've ruined me, you monster!" and she broke into violent sobbing. "don't excite yourself, avdotya arefyevna," said naum. "i'll tell you one thing: charity begins at home, and that's what the pike is in the sea for, to keep the carp from going to sleep." "where are we to go now. what's to become of us?" avdotya faltered, weeping. "that i can't say." "but i'll cut your throat, you villain, i'll cut your throat." "no, you won't do that, avdotya arefyevna; what's the use of talking like that? but i see i had better leave you for a time, for you are very much upset.... i'll say good-bye, but i shall be back to-morrow for certain. but you must allow me to send my workmen here today," he added, while avdotya went on repeating through her tears that she would cut his throat and her own. "oh, and here they are," he observed, looking out of the window. "or, god forbid, some mischief might happen.... it will be safer so. will you be so kind as to put your belongings together to-day and they'll keep guard here and help you, if you like. i'll say goodbye." he bowed, went out and beckoned the workmen to him. avdotya sank on the bench, then bent over the table, wringing her hands, then suddenly leapt up and ran after her husband.... we have described their meeting. when akim drove away from her with yefrem, leaving her alone in the field, for a long time she remained where she was, weeping. when she had wept away all her tears she went in the direction of her mistress's house. it was very bitter for her to go into the house, still more bitter to go into the maids' room. all the maids flew to meet her with sympathy and consideration. seeing them, avdotya could not restrain her tears; they simply spurted from her red and swollen eyes. she sank, helpless, on the first chair that offered itself. someone ran to fetch kirillovna. kirillovna came, was very friendly to her, but kept her from seeing the mistress just as she had akim. avdotya herself did not insist on seeing lizaveta prohorovna; she had come to her old home simply because she had nowhere else to go. kirillovna ordered the samovar to be brought in. for a long while avdotya refused to take tea, but yielded at last to the entreaties and persuasion of all the maids and after the first cup drank another four. when kirillovna saw that her guest was a little calmer and only shuddered and gave a faint sob from time to time, she asked her where they meant to move to and what they thought of doing with their things. avdotya began crying again at this question, and protesting that she wanted nothing but to die; but kirillovna as a woman with a head on her shoulders, checked her at once and advised her without wasting time to set to work that very day to move their things to the hut in the village which had been akim's and in which his uncle (the old man who had tried to dissuade him from his marriage) was now living; she told her that with their mistress's permission men and horses should be sent to help them in packing and moving. "and as for you, my love," added kirillovna, twisting her cat-like lips into a wry smile, "there will always be a place for you with us and we shall be delighted if you stay with us till you are settled in a house of your own again. the great thing is not to lose heart. the lord has given, the lord has taken away and will give again. lizaveta prohorovna, of course, had to sell your inn for reasons of her own but she will not forget you and will make up to you for it; she told me to tell akim semyonitch so. where is he now?" avdotya answered that when he met her he had been very unkind to her and had driven off to yefrem's. "oh, to that fellow's!" kirillovna replied significantly. "of course, i understand that it's hard for him now. i daresay you won't find him to-day; what's to be done? i must make arrangements. malashka," she added, turning to one of the maids, "ask nikanop ilyitch to come here: we will talk it over with him." nikanop ilyitch, a feeble-looking man who was bailiff or something of the sort, made his appearance at once, listened with servility to all that kirillovna said to him, said, "it shall be done," went out and gave orders. avdotya was given three waggons and three peasants; a fourth who said that he was "more competent than they were," volunteered to join them and she went with them to the inn where she found her own labourers and the servant fetinya in a state of great confusion and alarm. naum's newly hired labourers, three very stalwart young men, had come in the morning and had not left the place since. they were keeping very zealous guard, as naum had said they would--so zealous that the iron tyres of a new cart were suddenly found to be missing. it was a bitter, bitter task for poor avdotya to pack. in spite of the help of the "competent" man, who turned out, however, only capable of walking about with a stick in his hand, looking at the others and spitting on the ground, she was not able to get it finished that day and stayed the night at the inn, begging fetinya to spend the night in her room. but she only fell into a feverish doze towards morning and the tears trickled down her cheeks even in her sleep. meanwhile yefrem woke up earlier than usual in his lumber room and began knocking and asking to be let out. at first his wife was unwilling to release him and told him through the door that he had not yet slept long enough; but he aroused her curiosity by promising to tell her of the extraordinary thing that had happened to akim; she unbolted the door. yefrem told her what he knew and ended by asking "is he awake yet, or not?" "the lord only knows," answered his wife. "go and look yourself; he hasn't got down from the stove yet. how drunk you both were yesterday! you should look at your face--you don't look like yourself. you are as black as a sweep and your hair is full of hay!" "that doesn't matter," answered yefrem, and, passing his hand over his head, he went into the room. akim was no longer asleep; he was sitting on the stove with his legs hanging down; he, too, looked strange and unkempt. his face showed the effects the more as he was not used to drinking much. "well, how have you slept, akim semyonitch?" yefrem began. akim looked at him with lustreless eyes. "well, brother yefrem," he said huskily, "could we have some again?" yefrem took a swift glance at akim.... he felt a slight tremor at that moment; it was a tremor such as is felt by a sportsman when he hears the yap of his dog at the edge of the wood from which he had fancied all the game had been driven. "what, more?" he asked at last. "yes, more." "my wife will see," thought yefrem, "she won't let me out, most likely. "all right," he pronounced aloud, "have a little patience." he went out and, thanks to skilfully taken precautions, succeeded in bringing in unseen a big bottle under his coat. akim took the bottle. but yefrem did not sit down with him as he had the day before--he was afraid of his wife--and informing akim that he would go and have a look at what was going on at the inn and would see that his belongings were being packed and not stolen--at once set off, riding his little horse which he had neglected to feed--but judging from the bulging front of his coat he had not forgotten his own needs. soon after he had gone, akim was on the stove again, sleeping like the dead.... he did not wake up, or at least gave no sign of waking when yefrem returned four hours later and began shaking him and trying to rouse him and muttering over him some very muddled phrases such as that "everything was moved and gone, and the ikons have been taken out and driven away and that everything was over, and that everyone was looking for him but that he, yefrem, had given orders and not allowed them, ..." and so on. but his mutterings did not last long. his wife carried him off to the lumber room again and, very indignant both with her husband and with the visitor, owing to whom her husband had been drinking, lay down herself in the room on the shelf under the ceiling.... but when she woke up early, as her habit was, and glanced at the stove, akim was not there. the second cock had not crowed and the night was still so dark that the sky hardly showed grey overhead and at the horizon melted into the darkness when akim walked out of the gate of the sacristan's house. his face was pale but he looked keenly around him and his step was not that of a drunken man.... he walked in the direction of his former dwelling, the inn, which had now completely passed into the possession of its new owner--naum. naum, too, was awake when akim stole out of yefrem's house. he was not asleep; he was lying on a bench with his sheepskin coat under him. it was not that his conscience was troubling him--no! he had with amazing coolness been present all day at the packing and moving of all akim's possessions and had more than once addressed avdotya, who was so downcast that she did not even reproach him ... his conscience was at rest but he was disturbed by various conjectures and calculations. he did not know whether he would be lucky in his new career; he had never before kept an inn, nor had a home of his own at all; he could not sleep. "the thing has begun well," he thought, "how will it go on?" ... towards evening, after seeing off the last cart with akim's belongings (avdotya walked behind it, weeping), he looked all over the yard, the cellars, sheds, and barns, clambered up into the loft, more than once instructed his labourers to keep a very, very sharp look-out and when he was left alone after supper could not go to sleep. it so happened that day that no visitor stayed at the inn for the night; this was a great relief to him. "i must certainly buy a dog from the miller to-morrow, as fierce a one as i can get; they've taken theirs away," he said to himself, as he tossed from side to side, and all at once he raised his head quickly ... he fancied that someone had passed by the window ... he listened ... there was nothing. only a cricket from time to time gave a cautious churr, and a mouse was scratching somewhere; he could hear his own breathing. everything was still in the empty room dimly lighted by the little glass lamp which he had managed to hang up and light before the ikon in the corner.... he let his head sink; again he thought he heard the gate creak ... then a faint snapping sound from the fence.... he could not refrain from jumping up; he opened the door of the room and in a low voice called, "fyodor! fyodor!" no one answered.... he went out into the passage and almost fell over fyodor, who was lying on the floor. the man stirred in his sleep with a faint grunt; naum roused him. "what's there? what do you want?" fyodor began. "what are you bawling for, hold your tongue!" naum articulated in a whisper. "how you sleep, you damned fellows! have you heard nothing?" "nothing," answered the man.... "what is it?" "where are the others sleeping?" "where they were told to sleep.... why, is there anything ..." "hold your tongue--come with me." naum stealthily opened the door and went out into the yard. it was very dark outside.... the roofed-in parts and the posts could only be distinguished because they were a still deeper black in the midst of the black darkness. "shouldn't we light a lantern?" said fyodor in a low voice. but naum waved his hand and held his breath.... at first he could hear nothing but those nocturnal sounds which can almost always be heard in an inhabited place: a horse was munching oats, a pig grunted faintly in its sleep, a man was snoring somewhere; but all at once his ear detected a suspicious sound coming from the very end of the yard, near the fence. someone seemed to be stirring there, and breathing or blowing. naum looked over his shoulder towards fyodor and cautiously descending the steps went towards the sound.... once or twice he stopped, listened and stole on further.... suddenly he started.... ten paces from him, in the thick darkness there came the flash of a bright light: it was a glowing ember and close to it there was visible for an instant the front part of a face with lips thrust out.... quickly and silently, like a cat at a mouse, naum darted to the fire.... hurriedly rising up from the ground a long body rushed to meet him and, nearly knocking him off his feet, almost eluded his grasp; but naum hung on to it with all his strength. "fyodor! andrey! petrushka!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "make haste! here! here! i've caught a thief trying to set fire to the place...." the man whom he had caught fought and struggled violently ... but naum did not let him go. fyodor at once ran to his assistance. "a lantern! make haste, a lantern! run for a lantern, wake the others!" naum shouted to him. "i can manage him alone for a time--i am sitting on him.... make haste! and bring a belt to tie his hands." fyodor ran into the house.... the man whom naum was holding suddenly left off struggling. "so it seems wife and money and home are not enough for you, you want to ruin me, too," he said in a choking voice. naum recognised akim's voice. "so that's you, my friend," he brought out; "very good, you wait a bit." "let me go," said akim, "aren't you satisfied?" "i'll show you before the judge to-morrow whether i am satisfied," and naum tightened his grip of akim. the labourers ran up with two lanterns and cords. "tie his arms," naum ordered sharply. the men caught hold of akim, stood him up and twisted his arms behind his back.... one of them began abusing him, but recognising the former owner of the inn lapsed into silence and only exchanged glances with the others. "do you see, do you see!" naum kept repeating, meanwhile throwing the light of the lantern on the ground, "there are hot embers in the pot; look, there's a regular log alight here! we must find out where he got this pot ... here, he has broken up twigs, too," and naum carefully stamped out the fire with his foot. "search him, fyodor," he added, "see if he hasn't got something else on him." fyodor rummaged akim's pockets and felt him all over while the old man stood motionless, with his head drooping on his breast as though he were dead. "here's a knife," said fyodor, taking an old kitchen knife out of the front of akim's coat. "aha, my fine gentleman, so that's what you were after," cried naum. "lads, you are witnesses ... here he wanted to murder me and set fire to the house.... lock him up for the night in the cellar, he can't get out of that.... i'll keep watch all night myself and to-morrow as soon as it is light we will take him to the police captain ... and you are witnesses, do you hear!" akim was thrust into the cellar and the door was slammed.... naum set two men to watch it and did not go to bed himself. meanwhile, yefrem's wife having convinced herself that her uninvited guest had gone, set about her cooking though it was hardly daylight.... it was a holiday. she squatted down before the stove to get a hot ember and saw that someone had scraped out the hot ashes before her; then she wanted her knife and searched for it in vain; then of her four cooking pots one was missing. yefrem's wife had the reputation of being a woman with brains, and justly so. she stood and pondered, then went to the lumber room, to her husband. it was not easy to wake him--and still more difficult to explain to him why he was being awakened.... to all that she said to him yefrem made the same answer. "he's gone away--well, god bless him.... what business is it of mine? he's taken our knife and our pot--well, god bless him, what has it to do with me?" at last, however, he got up and after listening attentively to his wife came to the conclusion that it was a bad business, that something must be done. "yes," his wife repeated, "it is a bad business; maybe he will be doing mischief in his despair.... i saw last night that he was not asleep but was just lying on the stove; it would be as well for you to go and see, yefrem alexandritch." "i tell you what, ulyana fyodorovna," yefrem began, "i'll go myself to the inn now, and you be so kind, mother, as to give me just a drop to sober me." ulyana hesitated. "well," she decided at last, "i'll give you the vodka, yefrem alexandritch; but mind now, none of your pranks." "don't you worry, ulyana fyodorovna." and fortifying himself with a glass, yefrem made his way to the inn. it was only just getting light when he rode up to the inn but, already a cart and a horse were standing at the gate and one of naum's labourers was sitting on the box holding the reins. "where are you off to?" asked yefrem. "to the town," the man answered reluctantly. "what for?" the man simply shrugged his shoulders and did not answer. yefrem jumped off his horse and went into the house. in the entry he came upon naum, fully dressed and with his cap on. "i congratulate the new owner on his new abode," said yefrem, who knew him. "where are you off to so early?" "yes, you have something to congratulate me on," naum answered grimly. "on the very first day the house has almost been burnt down." yefrem started. "how so?" "oh, a kind soul turned up who tried to set fire to it. luckily i caught him in the act; now i am taking him to the town." "was it akim, i wonder?" yefrem asked slowly. "how did you know? akim. he came at night with a burning log in a pot and got into the yard and was setting fire to it ... all my men are witnesses. would you like to see him? it's time for us to take him, by the way." "my good naum ivanitch," yefrem began, "let him go, don't ruin the old man altogether. don't take that sin upon your soul, naum ivanitch. only think--the man was in despair--he didn't know what he was doing." "give over that nonsense," naum cut him short. "what! am i likely to let him go! why, he'd set fire to the house to-morrow if i did." "he wouldn't, naum ivanitch, believe me. believe me you will be easier yourself for it--you know there will be questions asked, a trial--you can see that for yourself." "well, what if there is a trial? i have no reason to be afraid of it." "my good naum ivanitch, one must be afraid of a trial." "oh, that's enough. i see you are drunk already, and to-day a saint's day, too!" yefrem all at once, quite unexpectedly, burst into tears. "i am drunk but i am speaking the truth," he muttered. "and for the sake of the holiday you ought to forgive him." "well, come along, you sniveller." and naum went out on to the steps. "forgive him, for avdotya arefyevna's sake," said yefrem following him on to the steps. naum went to the cellar and flung the door wide open. with timid curiosity yefrem craned his neck from behind naum and with difficulty made out the figure of akim in the corner of the cellar. the once well-to-do innkeeper, respected all over the neighbourhood, was sitting on straw with his hands tied behind him like a criminal. hearing a noise he raised his head.... it seemed as though he had grown fearfully thin in those last few days, especially during the previous night--his sunken eyes could hardly be seen under his high, waxen-yellow forehead, his parched lips looked dark ... his whole face was changed and wore a strange expression--savage and frightened. "get up and come along," said naum. akim got up and stepped over the threshold. "akim semyonitch!" yefrem wailed, "you've brought ruin on yourself, my dear!" akim glanced at him without speaking. "if i had known why you asked for vodka i would not have given it to you, i really would not. i believe i would have drunk it all myself! eh, naum ivanitch," he added clutching at naum's arm, "have mercy upon him, let him go!" "what next!" naum replied with a grin. "well, come along," he added addressing akim again. "what are you waiting for?" "naum ivanitch," akim began. "what is it?" "naum ivanitch," akim repeated, "listen: i am to blame; i wanted to settle my accounts with you myself; but god must be the judge between us. you have taken everything from me, you know yourself, everything i had. now you can ruin me, only i tell you this: if you let me go now, then--so be it--take possession of everything! i agree and wish you all success. i promise you as before god, if you let me go you will not regret it. god be with you." akim shut his eyes and ceased speaking. "a likely story!" retorted naum, "as though one could believe you!" "but, by god, you can," said yefrem, "you really can. i'd stake my life on akim semyonitch's good faith--i really would." "nonsense," cried naum. "come along." akim looked at him. "as you think best, naum ivanitch. it's for you to decide. but you are laying a great burden on your soul. well, if you are in such a hurry, let us start." naum in his turn looked keenly at akim. "after all," he thought to himself, "hadn't i better let him go? or people will never have done pestering me about him. avdotya will give me no peace." while naum was reflecting, no one uttered a word. the labourer in the cart who could see it all through the gate did nothing but toss his head and flick the horse's sides with the reins. the two other labourers stood on the steps and they too were silent. "well, listen, old man," naum began, "when i let you go and tell these fellows" (he motioned with his head towards the labourers) "not to talk, shall we be quits--do you understand me--quits ... eh?" "i tell you, you can have it all." "you won't consider me in your debt?" "you won't be in my debt, i shall not be in yours." naum was silent again. "and will you swear it?" "yes, as god is holy," answered akim. "well, i know i shall regret it," said naum, "but there, come what may! give me your hands." akim turned his back to him; naum began untying him. "now, mind, old man," he added as he pulled the cord off his wrists, "remember, i have spared you, mind that!" "naum ivanitch, my dear," faltered yefrem, "the lord will have mercy upon you!" akim freed his chilled and swollen hands and was moving towards the gate. naum suddenly "showed the jew" as the saying is--he must have regretted that he had let akim off. "you've sworn now, mind!" he shouted after him. akim turned, and looking round the yard, said mournfully, "possess it all, so be it forever! ... good-bye." and he went slowly out into the road accompanied by yefrem. naum ordered the horse to be unharnessed and with a wave of his hand went back into the house. "where are you off to, akim semyonitch? aren't you coming back to me?" cried yefrem, seeing that akim was hurrying to the right out of the high road. "no, yefremushka, thank you," answered akim. "i am going to see what my wife is doing." "you can see afterwards.... but now we ought to celebrate the occasion." "no, thank you, yefrem.... i've had enough. good-bye." and akim walked off without looking round. "well! 'i've had enough'!" the puzzled sacristan pronounced. "and i pledged my word for him! well, i never expected this," he added, with vexation, "after i had pledged my word for him, too!" he remembered that he had not thought to take his knife and his pot and went back to the inn.... naum ordered his things to be given to him but never even thought of offering him a drink. he returned home thoroughly annoyed and thoroughly sober. "well?" his wife inquired, "found?" "found what?" answered yefrem, "to be sure i've found it: here is your pot." "akim?" asked his wife with especial emphasis. yefrem nodded his head. "yes. but he is a nice one! i pledged my word for him; if it had not been for me he'd be lying in prison, and he never offered me a drop! ulyana fyodorovna, you at least might show me consideration and give me a glass!" but ulyana fyodorovna did not show him consideration and drove him out of her sight. meanwhile, akim was walking with slow steps along the road to lizaveta prohorovna's house. he could not yet fully grasp his position; he was trembling all over like a man who had just escaped from a certain death. he seemed unable to believe in his freedom. in dull bewilderment he gazed at the fields, at the sky, at the larks quivering in the warm air. from the time he had woken up on the previous morning at yefrem's he had not slept, though he had lain on the stove without moving; at first he had wanted to drown in vodka the insufferable pain of humiliation, the misery of frenzied and impotent anger ... but the vodka had not been able to stupefy him completely; his anger became overpowering and he began to think how to punish the man who had wronged him.... he thought of no one but naum; the idea of lizaveta prohorovna never entered his head and on avdotya he mentally turned his back. by the evening his thirst for revenge had grown to a frenzy, and the good-natured and weak man waited with feverish impatience for the approach of night and ran, like a wolf to its prey, to destroy his old home.... but then he had been caught ... locked up.... the night had followed. what had he not thought over during that cruel night! it is difficult to put into words all that a man passes through at such moments, all the tortures that he endures; more difficult because those tortures are dumb and inarticulate in the man himself.... towards morning, before naum and yefrem had come to the door, akim had begun to feel as it were more at ease. everything is lost, he thought, everything is scattered and gone ... and he dismissed it all. if he had been naturally bad-hearted he might at that moment have become a criminal; but evil was not natural to akim. under the shock of undeserved and unexpected misfortune, in the delirium of despair he had brought himself to crime; it had shaken him to the depths of his being and, failing, had left in him nothing but intense weariness.... feeling his guilt in his mind he mentally tore himself from all things earthly and began praying, bitterly but fervently. at first he prayed in a whisper, then perhaps by accident he uttered a loud "oh, god!" and tears gushed from his eyes.... for a long time he wept and at last grew quieter.... his thoughts would probably have changed if he had had to pay the penalty of his attempted crime ... but now he had suddenly been set free ... and he was walking to see his wife, feeling only half alive, utterly crushed but calm. lizaveta prohorovna's house stood about a mile from her village to the left of the cross road along which akim was walking. he was about to stop at the turning that led to his mistress's house ... but he walked on instead. he decided first to go to what had been his hut, where his uncle lived. akim's small and somewhat dilapidated hut was almost at the end of the village; akin walked through the whole street without meeting a soul. all the people were at church. only one sick old woman raised a little window to look after him and a little girl who had run out with an empty pail to the well gaped at him, and she too looked after him. the first person he met was the uncle he was looking for. the old man had been sitting all the morning on the ledge under his window taking pinches of snuff and warming himself in the sun; he was not very well, so he had not gone to church; he was just setting off to visit another old man, a neighbour who was also ailing, when he suddenly saw akim.... he stopped, let him come up to him and glancing into his face, said: "good-day, akimushka!" "good-day," answered akim, and passing the old man went in at the gate. in the yard were standing his horses, his cow, his cart; his poultry, too, were there.... he went into the hut without a word. the old man followed him. akim sat down on the bench and leaned his fists on it. the old man standing at the door looked at him compassionately. "and where is my wife?" asked akim. "at the mistress's house," the old man answered quickly. "she is there. they put your cattle here and what boxes there were, and she has gone there. shall i go for her?" akim was silent for a time. "yes, do," he said at last. "oh, uncle, uncle," he brought out with a sigh while the old man was taking his hat from a nail, "do you remember what you said to me the day before my wedding?" "it's all god's will, akimushka." "do you remember you said to me that i was above you peasants, and now you see what times have come.... i'm stripped bare myself." "there's no guarding oneself from evil folk," answered the old man, "if only someone such as a master, for instance, or someone in authority, could give him a good lesson, the shameless fellow--but as it is, he has nothing to be afraid of. he is a wolf and he behaves like one." and the old man put on his cap and went off. avdotya had just come back from church when she was told that her husband's uncle was asking for her. till then she had rarely seen him; he did not come to see them at the inn and had the reputation of being queer altogether: he was passionately fond of snuff and was usually silent. she went out to him. "what do you want, petrovitch? has anything happened?" "nothing has happened, avdotya arefyevna; your husband is asking for you." "has he come back?" "yes." "where is he, then?" "he is in the village, sitting in his hut." avdotya was frightened. "well, petrovitch," she inquired, looking straight into his face, "is he angry?" "he does not seem so." avdotya looked down. "well, let us go," she said. she put on a shawl and they set off together. they walked in silence to the village. when they began to get close to the hut, avdotya was so overcome with terror that her knees began to tremble. "good petrovitch," she said, "go in first.... tell him that i have come." the old man went into the hut and found akim lost in thought, sitting just as he had left him. "well?" said akim raising his head, "hasn't she come?" "yes," answered the old man, "she is at the gate...." "well, send her in here." the old man went out, beckoned to avdotya, said to her, "go in," and sat down again on the ledge. avdotya in trepidation opened the door, crossed the threshold and stood still. akim looked at her. "well, arefyevna," he began, "what are we going to do now?" "i am guilty," she faltered. "ech arefyevna, we are all sinners. what's the good of talking about it!" "it's he, the villain, has ruined us both," said avdotya in a cringing voice, and tears flowed down her face. "you must not leave it like that, akim semyonitch, you must get the money back. don't think of me. i am ready to take my oath that i only lent him the money. lizaveta prohorovna could sell our inn if she liked, but why should he rob us.... get your money back." "there's no claiming the money back from him," akim replied grimly, "we have settled our accounts." avdotya was amazed. "how is that?" "why, like this. do you know," akim went on and his eyes gleamed, "do you know where i spent the night? you don't know? in naum's cellar, with my arms and legs tied like a sheep--that's where i spent the night. i tried to set fire to the place, but he caught me--naum did; he is too sharp! and to-day he meant to take me to the town but he let me off; so i can't claim the money from him.... 'when did i borrow money from you?' he would say. am i to say to him, 'my wife took it from under the floor and brought it to you'? 'your wife is telling lies,' he will say. hasn't there been scandal enough for you, arefyevna? you'd better say nothing, i tell you, say nothing." "i am guilty, semyonitch, i am guilty," avdotya, terrified, whispered again. "that's not what matters," said akim, after a pause. "what are we going to do? we have no home or no money." "we shall manage somehow, akim semyonitch. we'll ask lizaveta prohorovna, she will help us, kiriliovna has promised me." "no, arefyenva, you and your kirillovna had better ask her together; you are berries off the same bush. i tell you what: you stay here and good luck to you; i shall not stay here. it's a good thing we have no children, and i shall be all right, i dare say, alone. there's always enough for one." "what will you do, semyonitch? take up driving again?" akim laughed bitterly. "i should be a fine driver, no mistake! you have pitched on the right man for it! no, arefyenva, that's a job not like getting married, for instance; an old man is no good for the job. i don't want to stay here, just because i don't want them to point the finger at me--do you understand? i am going to pray for my sins, arefyevna, that's what i am going to do." "what sins have you, semyonitch?" avdotya pronounced timidly. "of them i know best myself, wife." "but are you leaving me all alone, semyonitch? how can i live without a husband?" "leaving you alone? oh, arefyevna, how you do talk, really! much you need a husband like me, and old, too, and ruined as well! why, you got on without me in the past, you can get on in the future. what property is left us, you can take; i don't want it." "as you like, semyonitch," avdotya replied mournfully. "you know best." "that's better. only don't you suppose that i am angry with you, arefyevna. no, what's the good of being angry when ... i ought to have been wiser before. i've been to blame. i am punished." (akim sighed.) "as you make your bed so you must lie on it. i am old, it's time to think of my soul. the lord himself has brought me to understanding. like an old fool i wanted to live for my own pleasure with a young wife.... no, the old man had better pray and beat his head against the earth and endure in patience and fast.... and now go along, my dear. i am very weary, i'll sleep a little." and akim with a groan stretched himself on the bench. avdotya wanted to say something, stood a moment, looked at him, turned away and went out. "well, he didn't beat you then?" asked petrovitch sitting bent up on the ledge when she was level with him. avdotya passed by him without speaking. "so he didn't beat her," the old man said to himself; he smiled, ruffled up his beard and took a pinch of snuff. * * * * * akim carried out his intention. he hurriedly arranged his affairs and a few days after the conversation we have described went, dressed ready for his journey, to say goodbye to his wife who had settled for a time in a little lodge in the mistress's garden. his farewell did not take long. kirillovna, who happened to be present, advised akim to see his mistress; he did so, lizaveta prohorovna received him with some confusion but graciously let him kiss her hand and asked him where he meant to go. he answered he was going first to kiev and after that where it would please the lord. she commended his decision and dismissed him. from that time he rarely appeared at home, though he never forgot to bring his mistress some holy bread.... but wherever russian pilgrims gather his thin and aged but always dignified and handsome face could be seen: at the relics of st. sergey; on the shores of the white sea, at the optin hermitage, and at the far-away valaam; he went everywhere. this year he has passed by you in the ranks of the innumerable people who go in procession behind the ikon of the mother of god to the korennaya; last year you found him sitting with a wallet on his shoulders with other pilgrims on the steps of nikolay, the wonder-worker, at mtsensk ... he comes to moscow almost every spring. from land to land he has wandered with his quiet, unhurried, but never-resting step--they say he has been even to jerusalem. he seems perfectly calm and happy and those who have chanced to converse with him have said much of his piety and humility. meanwhile, naum's fortunes prospered exceedingly. he set to work with energy and good sense and got on, as the saying is, by leaps and bounds. everyone in the neighbourhood knew by what means he had acquired the inn, they knew too that avdotya had given him her husband's money; nobody liked naum because of his cold, harsh disposition.... with censure they told the story of him that once when akim himself had asked alms under his window he answered that god would give, and had given him nothing; but everyone agreed that there never had been a luckier man; his corn came better than other people's, his bees swarmed more frequently; even his hens laid more eggs; his cattle were never ill, his horses did not go lame.... it was a long time before avdotya could bear to hear his name (she had accepted lizaveta prohorovna's invitation and had reentered her service as head sewing-maid), but in the end her aversion was somewhat softened; it was said that she had been driven by poverty to appeal to him and he had given her a hundred roubles.... she must not be too severely judged: poverty breaks any will and the sudden and violent change in her life had greatly aged and humbled her: it was hard to believe how quickly she lost her looks, how completely she let herself go and lost heart.... how did it all end? the reader will ask. why, like this: naum, after having kept the inn successfully for about fifteen years, sold it advantageously to another townsman. he would never have parted from the inn if it had not been for the following, apparently insignificant, circumstance: for two mornings in succession his dog, sitting before the windows, had kept up a prolonged and doleful howl. he went out into the road the second time, looked attentively at the howling dog, shook his head, went up to town and the same day agreed on the price with a man who had been for a long time anxious to purchase it. a week later he had moved to a distance--out of the province; the new owner settled in and that very evening the inn was burnt to ashes; not a single outbuilding was left and naum's successor was left a beggar. the reader can easily imagine the rumours that this fire gave rise to in the neighbourhood.... evidently he carried his "luck" away with him, everyone repeated. of naum it is said that he has gone into the corn trade and has made a great fortune. but will it last long? stronger pillars have fallen and evil deeds end badly sooner or later. there is not much to say about lizaveta prohorovna. she is still living and, as is often the case with people of her sort, is not much changed, she has not even grown much older--she only seems to have dried up a little; on the other hand, her stinginess has greatly increased though it is difficult to say for whose benefit she is saving as she has no children and no attachments. in conversation she often speaks of akim and declares that since she has understood his good qualities she has begun to feel great respect for the russian peasant. kirillovna bought her freedom for a considerable sum and married for love a fair-haired young waiter who leads her a dreadful life; avdotya lives as before among the maids in lizaveta prohorovna's house, but has sunk to a rather lower position; she is very poorly, almost dirtily dressed, and there is no trace left in her of the townbred airs and graces of a fashionable maid or of the habits of a prosperous innkeeper's wife.... no one takes any notice of her and she herself is glad to be unnoticed; old petrovitch is dead and akim is still wandering, a pilgrim, and god only knows how much longer his pilgrimage will last! 1852. * * * * * lieutenant yergunov's story i that evening kuzma vassilyevitch yergunov told us his story again. he used to repeat it punctually once a month and we heard it every time with fresh satisfaction though we knew it almost by heart, in all its details. those details overgrew, if one may so express it, the original trunk of the story itself as fungi grow over the stump of a tree. knowing only too well the character of our companion, we did not trouble to fill in his gaps and incomplete statements. but now kuzma vassilyevitch is dead and there will be no one to tell his story and so we venture to bring it before the notice of the public. ii it happened forty years ago when kuzma vassilyevitch was young. he said of himself that he was at that time a handsome fellow and a dandy with a complexion of milk and roses, red lips, curly hair, and eyes like a falcon's. we took his word for it, though we saw nothing of that sort in him; in our eyes kuzma vassilyevitch was a man of very ordinary exterior, with a simple and sleepy-looking face and a heavy, clumsy figure. but what of that? there is no beauty the years will not mar! the traces of dandyism were more clearly preserved in kuzma vassilyevitch. he still in his old age wore narrow trousers with straps, laced in his corpulent figure, cropped the back of his head, curled his hair over his forehead and dyed his moustache with persian dye, which had, however, a tint rather of purple, and even of green, than of black. with all that kuzma vassilyevitch was a very worthy gentleman, though at preference he did like to "steal a peep," that is, look over his neighbour's cards; but this he did not so much from greed as carefulness, for he did not like wasting his money. enough of these parentheses, however; let us come to the story itself. iii it happened in the spring at nikolaev, at that time a new town, to which kuzma vassilyevitch had been sent on a government commission. (he was a lieutenant in the navy.) he had, as a trustworthy and prudent officer, been charged by the authorities with the task of looking after the construction of ship-yards and from time to time received considerable sums of money, which for security he invariably carried in a leather belt on his person. kuzma vassilyevitch certainly was distinguished by his prudence and, in spite of his youth, his behaviour was exemplary; he studiously avoided every impropriety of conduct, did not touch cards, did not drink and, even fought shy of society so that of his comrades, the quiet ones called him "a regular girl" and the rowdy ones called him a muff and a noodle. kuzma vassilyevitch had only one failing, he had a tender heart for the fair sex; but even in that direction he succeeded in restraining his impulses and did not allow himself to indulge in any "foolishness." he got up and went to bed early, was conscientious in performing his duties and his only recreation consisted in rather long evening walks about the outskirts of nikolaev. he did not read as he thought it would send the blood to his head; every spring he used to drink a special decoction because he was afraid of being too full-blooded. putting on his uniform and carefully brushing himself kuzma vassilyevitch strolled with a sedate step alongside the fences of orchards, often stopped, admired the beauties of nature, gathered flowers as souvenirs and found a certain pleasure in doing so; but he felt acute pleasure only when he happened to meet "a charmer," that is, some pretty little workgirl with a shawl flung over her shoulders, with a parcel in her ungloved hand and a gay kerchief on her head. being as he himself expressed it of a susceptible but modest temperament kuzma vassilyevitch did not address the "charmer," but smiled ingratiatingly at her and looked long and attentively after her.... then he would heave a deep sigh, go home with the same sedate step, sit down at the window and dream for half an hour, carefully smoking strong tobacco out of a meerschaum pipe with an amber mouthpiece given him by his godfather, a police superintendent of german origin. so the days passed neither gaily nor drearily. iv well, one day, as he was returning home along an empty side-street at dusk kuzma vassilyevitch heard behind him hurried footsteps and incoherent words mingled with sobs. he looked round and saw a girl about twenty with an extremely pleasing but distressed and tear-stained face. she seemed to have been overtaken by some great and unexpected grief. she was running and stumbling as she ran, talking to herself, exclaiming, gesticulating; her fair hair was in disorder and her shawl (the burnous and the mantle were unknown in those days) had slipped off her shoulders and was kept on by one pin. the girl was dressed like a young lady, not like a workgirl. kuzma vassilyevitch stepped aside; his feeling of compassion overpowered his fear of doing something foolish and, when she caught him up, he politely touched the peak of his shako, and asked her the cause of her tears. "for," he added, and he laid his hand on his cutlass, "i, as an officer, may be able to help you." the girl stopped and apparently for the first moment did not clearly understand what he wanted of her; but at once, as though glad of the opportunity of expressing herself, began speaking in slightly imperfect russian. "oh, dear, mr. officer," she began and tears rained down her charming cheeks, "it is beyond everything! it's awful, it is beyond words! we have been robbed, the cook has carried off everything, everything, everything, the dinner service, the lock-up box and our clothes.... yes, even our clothes, and stockings and linen, yes ... and aunt's reticule. there was a twenty-five-rouble note and two appliqué spoons in it ... and her pelisse, too, and everything.... and i told all that to the police officer and the police officer said, 'go away, i don't believe you, i don't believe you. i won't listen to you. you are the same sort yourselves.' i said, 'why, but the pelisse ...' and he, 'i won't listen to you, i won't listen to you.' it was so insulting, mr. officer! 'go away,' he said, 'get along,' but where am i to go?" the girl sobbed convulsively, almost wailing, and utterly distracted leaned against kuzma vassilyevitch's sleeve.... he was overcome with confusion in his turn and stood rooted to the spot, only repeating from time to time, "there, there!" while he gazed at the delicate nape of the dishevelled damsel's neck, as it shook from her sobs. "will you let me see you home?" he said at last, lightly touching her shoulder with his forefinger, "here in the street, you understand, it is quite impossible. you can explain your trouble to me and of course i will make every effort ... as an officer." the girl raised her head and seemed for the first time to see the young man who might be said to be holding her in his arms. she was disconcerted, turned away, and still sobbing moved a little aside. kuzma vassilyevitch repeated his suggestion. the girl looked at him askance through her hair which had fallen over her face and was wet with tears. (at this point kuzma vassilyevitch always assured us that this glance pierced through him "like an awl," and even attempted once to reproduce this marvellous glance for our benefit) and laying her hand within the crooked arm of the obliging lieutenant, set off with him for her lodging. v kuzma vassilyevitch had had very little to do with ladies and so was at a loss how to begin the conversation, but his companion chattered away very fluently, continually drying her eyes and shedding fresh tears. within a few minutes kuzma vassilyevitch had learnt that her name was emilie karlovna, that she came from riga and that she had come to nikolaev to stay with her aunt who was from riga, too, that her papa too had been in the army but had died from "his chest," that her aunt had a russian cook, a very good and inexpensive cook but she had not a passport and that this cook had that very day robbed them and run away. she had had to go to the police--_in die polizei_.... but here the memories of the police superintendent, of the insult she had received from him, surged up again ... and sobs broke out afresh. kuzma vassilyevitch was once more at a loss what to say to comfort her. but the girl, whose impressions seemed to come and go very rapidly, stopped suddenly and holding out her hand, said calmly: "and this is where we live!" vi it was a wretched little house that looked as though it had sunk into the ground, with four little windows looking into the street. the dark green of geraniums blocked them up within; a candle was burning in one of them; night was already coming on. a wooden fence with a hardly visible gate stretched from the house and was almost of the same height. the girl went up to the gate and finding it locked knocked on it impatiently with the iron ring of the padlock. heavy footsteps were audible behind the fence as though someone in slippers trodden down at heel were carelessly shuffling towards the gate, and a husky female voice asked some question in german which kuzma vassilyevitch did not understand: like a regular sailor he knew no language but russian. the girl answered in german, too; the gate opened a very little, admitted the girl and then was slammed almost in the face of kuzma vassilyevitch who had time, however, to make out in the summer twilight the outline of a stout, elderly woman in a red dress with a dimly burning lantern in her hand. struck with amazement kuzma vassilyevitch remained for some time motionless in the street; but at the thought that he, a naval officer (kuzma vassilyevitch had a very high opinion of his rank) had been so discourteously treated, he was moved to indignation and turning on his heel he went homewards. he had not gone ten paces when the gate opened again and the girl, who had had time to whisper to the old woman, appeared in the gateway and called out aloud: "where are you going, mr. officer! please come in." kuzma vassilyevitch hesitated a little; he turned back, however. vii this new acquaintance, whom we will call emilie, led him through a dark, damp little lobby into a fairly large but low-pitched and untidy room with a huge cupboard against the further wall and a sofa covered with american leather; above the doors and between the windows hung three portraits in oils with the paint peeling off, two representing bishops in clerical caps and one a turk in a turban; cardboard boxes were lying about in the corners; there were chairs of different sorts and a crooked legged card table on which a man's cap was lying beside an unfinished glass of kvass. kuzma vassilyevitch was followed into the room by the old woman in the red dress, whom he had noticed at the gate, and who turned out to be a very unprepossessing jewess with sullen pig-like eyes and a grey moustache over her puffy upper lip. emilie indicated her to kuzma vassilyevitch and said: "this is my aunt, madame fritsche." kuzma vassilyevitch was a little surprised but thought it his duty to introduce himself. madame fritsche looked at him from under her brows, made no response, but asked her niece in russian whether she would like some tea. "ah, yes, tea!" answered emilie. "you will have some tea, won't you, mr. officer? yes, auntie, give us some tea! but why are you standing, mr. officer? sit down! oh, how ceremonious you are! let me take off my fichu." when emilie talked she continually turned her head from one side to another and jerked her shoulders; birds make similar movements when they sit on a bare branch with sunshine all round them. kuzma vassilyevitch sank into a chair and assuming a becoming air of dignity, that is, leaning on his cutlass and fixing his eyes on the floor, he began to speak about the theft. but emilie at once interrupted him. "don't trouble yourself, it's all right. auntie has just told me that the principal things have been found." (madame fritsche mumbled something to herself and went out of the room.) "and there was no need to go to the police at all; but i can't control myself because i am so ... you don't understand german? ... so quick, _immer so rasch!_ but i think no more about it ... _aber auch gar nicht!_" kuzma vassilyevitch looked at emilie. her face indeed showed no trace of care now. everything was smiling in that pretty little face: the eyes, fringed with almost white lashes, and the lips and the cheeks and the chin and the dimples in the chin, and even the tip of her turned-up nose. she went up to the little looking glass beside the cupboard and, screwing up her eyes and humming through her teeth, began tidying her hair. kuzma vassilyevitch followed her movements intently.... he found her very charming. viii "you must excuse me," she began again, turning from side to side before the looking glass, "for having so ... brought you home with me. perhaps you dislike it?" "oh, not at all!" "as i have told you already, i am so quick. i act first and think afterwards, though sometimes i don't think at all.... what is your name, mr. officer? may i ask you?" she added going up to him and folding her arms. "my name is kuzma vassilyevitch yergunov." "yergu.... oh, it's not a nice name! i mean it's difficult for me. i shall call you mr. florestan. at riga we had a mr. florestan. he sold capital _gros-de-naples_ in his shop and was a handsome man, as good-looking as you. but how broad-shouldered you are! a regular sturdy russian! i like the russians.... i am a russian myself ... my papa was an officer. but my hands are whiter than yours!" she raised them above her head, waved them several times in the air, so as to drive the blood from them, and at once dropped them. "do you see? i wash them with greek scented soap.... sniff! oh, but don't kiss them.... i did not do it for that.... where are you serving?" "in the fleet, in the nineteenth black sea company." "oh, you are a sailor! well, do you get a good salary?" "no ... not very." "you must be very brave. one can see it at once from your eyes. what thick eyebrows you've got! they say you ought to grease them with lard overnight to make them grow. but why have you no moustache?" "it's against the regulations." "oh, that's not right! what's that you've got, a dagger?" "it's a cutlass; a cutlass, so to say, is the sailor's weapon." "ah, a cutlass! is it sharp? may i look?" with an effort, biting her lip and screwing up her eyes, she drew the blade out of the scabbard and put it to her nose. "oh, how blunt! i can kill you with it in a minute!" she waved it at kuzma vassilyevitch. he pretended to be frightened and laughed. she laughed too. "_ihr habt pardon_, you are pardoned," she pronounced, throwing herself into a majestic attitude. "there, take your weapon! and how old are you?" she asked suddenly. "twenty-five." "and i am nineteen! how funny that is! ach!" and emilie went off into such a ringing laugh that she threw herself back in her chair. kuzma vassilyevitch did not get up from his chair and looked still more intently at her rosy face which was quivering with laughter and he felt more and more attracted by her. all at once emilie was silent and humming through her teeth, as her habit was, went back to the looking glass. "can you sing, mr. florestan?" "no, i have never been taught." "do you play on the guitar? not that either? i can. i have a guitar set with _perlenmutter_ but the strings are broken. i must buy some new ones. you will give me the money, won't you, mr. officer? i'll sing you a lovely german song." she heaved a sigh and shut her eyes. "ah, such a lovely one! but you can dance? not that, either? _unmöglich_! i'll teach you. the _schottische_ and the _valse-cosaque_. tra-la-la, tra-la-la," emilie pirouetted once or twice. "look at my shoes! from warsaw. oh, we will have some dancing, mr. florestan! but what are you going to call me?" kuzma vassilyevitch grinned and blushed to his ears. "i shall call you: lovely emilie!" "no, no! you must call me: _mein schätzchen, mein zuckerpüppchen_! repeat it after me." "with the greatest pleasure, but i am afraid i shall find it difficult...." "never mind, never mind. say: _mein_." "me-in." "_zucker_." "tsook-ker." "_püppchen! püppchen! püppchen!_" "poop ... poop.... that i can't manage. it doesn't sound nice." "no! you must ... you must! do you know what it means? that's the very nicest word for a young lady in german. i'll explain it to you afterwards. but here is auntie bringing us the samovar. bravo! bravo! auntie, i will have cream with my tea.... is there any cream?" "_so schweige doch_," answered the aunt. ix kuzma vassilyevitch stayed at madame fritsche's till midnight. he had not spent such a pleasant evening since his arrival at nikolaev. it is true that it occurred to him that it was not seemly for an officer and a gentleman to be associating with such persons as this native of riga and her auntie, but emilie was so pretty, babbled so amusingly and bestowed such friendly looks upon him, that he dismissed his rank and family and made up his mind for once to enjoy himself. only one circumstance disturbed him and left an impression that was not quite agreeable. when his conversation with emilie and madame fritsche was in full swing, the door from the lobby opened a crack and a man's hand in a dark cuff with three tiny silver buttons on it was stealthily thrust in and stealthily laid a big bundle on the chair near the door. both ladies instantly darted to the chair and began examining the bundle. "but these are the wrong spoons!" cried emilie, but her aunt nudged her with her elbow and carried away the bundle without tying up the ends. it seemed to kuzma vassilyevitch that one end was spattered with something red, like blood. "what is it?" he asked emilie. "is it some more stolen things returned to you?" "yes," answered emilie, as it were, reluctantly. "some more." "was it your servant found them?" emilie frowned. "what servant? we haven't any servant." "some other man, then?" "no men come to see us." "but excuse me, excuse me.... i saw the cuff of a man's coat or jacket. and, besides, this cap...." "men never, never come to see us," emilie repeated emphatically. "what did you see? you saw nothing! and that cap is mine." "how is that?" "why, just that. i wear it for dressing up.... yes, it is mine, _und punctum_." "who brought you the bundle, then?" emilie made no answer and, pouting, followed madame fritsche out of the room. ten minutes later she came back alone, without her aunt and when kuzma vassilyevitch tried to question her again, she gazed at his forehead, said that it was disgraceful for a gentleman to be so inquisitive (as she said this, her face changed a little, as it were, darkened), and taking a pack of old cards from the card table drawer, asked him to tell fortunes for her and the king of hearts. kuzma vassilyevitch laughed, took the cards, and all evil thoughts immediately slipped out of his mind. but they came back to him that very day. when he had got out of the gate into the street, had said good-bye to emilie, shouted to her for the last time, _"adieu, zuckerpüppchen!"_ a short man darted by him and turning for a minute in his direction (it was past midnight but the moon was shining rather brightly), displayed a lean gipsy face with thick black eyebrows and moustache, black eyes and a hooked nose. the man at once rushed round the corner and it struck kuzma vassilyevitch that he recognised--not his face, for he had never seen it before--but the cuff of his sleeve. three silver buttons gleamed distinctly in the moonlight. there was a stir of uneasy perplexity in the soul of the prudent lieutenant; when he got home he did not light as usual his meerschaum pipe. though, indeed, his sudden acquaintance with charming emilie and the agreeable hours spent in her company would alone have induced his agitation. x whatever kuzma vassilyevitch's apprehensions may have been, they were quickly dissipated and left no trace. he took to visiting the two ladies from riga frequently. the susceptible lieutenant was soon on friendly terms with emilie. at first he was ashamed of the acquaintance and concealed his visits; later on he got over being ashamed and no longer concealed his visits; it ended by his being more eager to spend his time with his new friends than with anyone and greatly preferring their society to the cheerless solitude of his own four walls. madame fritsche herself no longer made the same unpleasant impression upon him, though she still treated him morosely and ungraciously. persons in straitened circumstances like madame fritsche particularly appreciate a liberal expenditure in their visitors, and kuzma vassilyevitch was a little stingy and his presents for the most part took the shape of raisins, walnuts, cakes.... only once he let himself go and presented emilie with a light pink fichu of real french material, and that very day she had burnt a hole in his gift with a candle. he began to upbraid her; she fixed the fichu to the cat's tail; he was angry; she laughed in his face. kuzma vassilyevitch was forced at last to admit to himself that he had not only failed to win the respect of the ladies from riga, but had even failed to gain their confidence: he was never admitted at once, without preliminary scrutinising; he was often kept waiting; sometimes he was sent away without the slightest ceremony and when they wanted to conceal something from him they would converse in german in his presence. emilie gave him no account of her doings and replied to his questions in an offhand way as though she had not heard them; and, worst of all, some of the rooms in madame fritsche's house, which was a fairly large one, though it looked like a hovel from the street, were never opened to him. for all that, kuzma vassilyevitch did not give up his visits; on the contrary, he paid them more and more frequently: he was seeing living people, anyway. his vanity was gratified by emilie's continuing to call him florestan, considering him exceptionally handsome and declaring that he had eyes like a bird of paradise, "_wie die augen eines paradiesvogels!_" xi one day in the very height of summer, kuzma vassilyevitch, who had spent the whole morning in the sun with contractors and workmen, dragged himself tired and exhausted to the little gate that had become so familiar to him. he knocked and was admitted. he shambled into the so-called drawing-room and immediately lay down on the sofa. emilie went up to him and mopped his wet brow with a handkerchief. "how tired he is, poor pet! how hot he is!" she said commiseratingly. "good gracious! you might at least unbutton your collar. my goodness, how your throat is pulsing!" "i am done up, my dear," groaned kuzma vassilyevitch. "i've been on my feet all the morning, in the baking sun. it's awful! i meant to go home. but there those vipers, the contractors, would find me! while here with you it is cool.... i believe i could have a nap." "well, why not? go to sleep, my little chick; no one will disturb you here." ... "but i am really ashamed." "what next! why ashamed? go to sleep. and i'll sing you ... what do you call it? ... i'll sing you to bye-bye, _'schlaf, mein kindchen, schlafe!'_" she began singing. "i should like a drink of water first." "here is a glass of water for you. fresh as crystal! wait, i'll put a pillow under your head.... and here is this to keep the flies off." she covered his face with a handkerchief. "thank you, my little cupid.... i'll just have a tiny doze ... that's all." kuzma vassilyevitch closed his eyes and fell asleep immediately. "_schlaf, mein kindchen, schlafe_," sang emilie, swaying from side to side and softly laughing at her song and her movements. "what a big baby i have got!" she thought. "a boy!" xii an hour and a half later the lieutenant awoke. he fancied in his sleep that someone touched him, bent over him, breathed over him. he fumbled, and pulled off the kerchief. emilie was on her knees close beside him; the expression of her face struck him as queer. she jumped up at once, walked away to the window and put something away in her pocket. kuzma vassilyevitch stretched. "i've had a good long snooze, it seems!" he observed, yawning. "come here, _meine züsse fräulein_!" emilie went up to him. he sat up quickly, thrust his hand into her pocket and took out a small pair of scissors. "_ach, herr je_!" emilie could not help exclaiming. "it's ... it's a pair of scissors?" muttered kuzma vassilyevitch. "why, of course. what did you think it was ... a pistol? oh, how funny you look! you're as rumpled as a pillow and your hair is all standing up at the back.... and he doesn't laugh.... oh, oh! and his eyes are puffy.... oh!" emilie went off into a giggle. "come, that's enough," muttered kuzma vassilyevitch, and he got up from the sofa. "that's enough giggling about nothing. if you can't think of anything more sensible, i'll go home.... i'll go home," he repeated, seeing that she was still laughing. emilie subsided. "come, stay; i won't.... only you must brush your hair." "no, never mind.... don't trouble. i'd better go," said kuzma vassilyevitch, and he took up his cap. emilie pouted. "fie, how cross he is! a regular russian! all russians are cross. now he is going. fie! yesterday he promised me five roubles and today he gives me nothing and goes away." "i haven't any money on me," kuzma vassilyevitch muttered grumpily in the doorway. "good-bye." emilie looked after him and shook her finger. "no money! do you hear, do you hear what he says? oh, what deceivers these russians are! but wait a bit, you pug.... auntie, come here, i have something to tell you." that evening as kuzma vassilyevitch was undressing to go to bed, he noticed that the upper edge of his leather belt had come unsewn for about three inches. like a careful man he at once procured a needle and thread, waxed the thread and stitched up the hole himself. he paid, however, no attention to this apparently trivial circumstance. xiii the whole of the next day kuzma vassilyevitch devoted to his official duties; he did not leave the house even after dinner and right into the night was scribbling and copying out his report to his superior officer, mercilessly disregarding the rules of spelling, always putting an exclamation mark after the word _but_ and a semi-colon after _however_. next morning a barefoot jewish boy in a tattered gown brought him a letter from emilie--the first letter that kuzma vassilyevitch had received from her. "mein allerliebstep florestan," she wrote to him, "can you really so cross with your zuckerpüppchen be that you came not yesterday? please be not cross if you wish not your merry emilie to weep very bitterly and come, be sure, at 5 o'clock to-day." (the figure 5 was surrounded with two wreaths.) "i will be very, very glad. your amiable emilie." kuzma vassilyevitch was inwardly surprised at the accomplishments of his charmer, gave the jew boy a copper coin and told him to say, "very well, i will come." xiv kuzma vassilyevitch kept his word: five o'clock had not struck when he was standing before madame fritsche's gate. but to his surprise he did not find emilie at home; he was met by the lady of the house herself who--wonder of wonders!--dropping a preliminary curtsey, informed him that emilie had been obliged by unforeseen circumstances to go out but she would soon be back and begged him to wait. madame fritsche had on a neat white cap; she smiled, spoke in an ingratiating voice and evidently tried to give an affable expression to her morose countenance, which was, however, none the more prepossessing for that, but on the contrary acquired a positively sinister aspect. "sit down, sit down, sir," she said, putting an easy chair for him, "and we will offer you some refreshment if you will permit it." madame fritsche made another curtsey, went out of the room and returned shortly afterwards with a cup of chocolate on a small iron tray. the chocolate turned out to be of dubious quality; kuzma vassilyevitch drank the whole cup with relish, however, though he was at a loss to explain why madame fritsche was suddenly so affable and what it all meant. for all that emilie did not come back and he was beginning to lose patience and feel bored when all at once he heard through the wall the sounds of a guitar. first there was the sound of one chord, then a second and a third and a fourth--the sound continually growing louder and fuller. kuzma vassilyevitch was surprised: emilie certainly had a guitar but it only had three strings: he had not yet bought her any new ones; besides, emilie was not at home. who could it be? again a chord was struck and so loudly that it seemed as though it were in the room.... kuzma vassilyevitch turned round and almost cried out in a fright. before him, in a low doorway which he had not till then noticed--a big cupboard screened it--stood a strange figure ... neither a child nor a grown-up girl. she was wearing a white dress with a bright-coloured pattern on it and red shoes with high heels; her thick black hair, held together by a gold fillet, fell like a cloak from her little head over her slender body. her big eyes shone with sombre brilliance under the soft mass of hair; her bare, dark-skinned arms were loaded with bracelets and her hands covered with rings, held a guitar. her face was scarcely visible, it looked so small and dark; all that was seen was the crimson of her lips and the outline of a straight and narrow nose. kuzma vassilyevitch stood for some time petrified and stared at the strange creature without blinking; and she, too, gazed at him without stirring an eyelid. at last he recovered himself and moved with small steps towards her. the dark face began gradually smiling. there was a sudden gleam of white teeth, the little head was raised, and lightly flinging back the curls, displayed itself in all its startling and delicate beauty. "what little imp is this?" thought kuzma vassilyevitch, and, advancing still closer, he brought out in a low voice: "hey, little image! who are you?" "come here, come here," the "little image" responded in a rather husky voice, with a halting un-russian intonation and incorrect accent, and she stepped back two paces. kuzma vassilyevitch followed her through the doorway and found himself in a tiny room without windows, the walls and floor of which were covered with thick camel's-hair rugs. he was overwhelmed by a strong smell of musk. two yellow wax candles were burning on a round table in front of a low sofa. in the corner stood a bedstead under a muslin canopy with silk stripes and a long amber rosary with a red tassle at the end hung by the pillow. "but excuse me, who are you?" repeated kuzma vassilyevitch. "sister ... sister of emilie." "you are her sister? and you live here?" "yes ... yes." kuzma vassilyevitch wanted to touch "the image." she drew back. "how is it she has never spoken of you?" "could not ... could not." "you are in concealment then ... in hiding?" "yes." "are there reasons?" "reasons ... reasons." "hm!" again kuzma vassilyevitch would have touched the figure, again she stepped back. "so that's why i never saw you. i must own i never suspected your existence. and the old lady, madame fritsche, is your aunt, too?" "yes ... aunt." "hm! you don't seem to understand russian very well. what's your name, allow me to ask?" "colibri." "what?" "colibri." "colibri! that's an out-of-the-way name! there are insects like that in africa, if i remember right?" xv colibri gave a short, queer laugh ... like a clink of glass in her throat. she shook her head, looked round, laid her guitar on the table and going quickly to the door, abruptly shut it. she moved briskly and nimbly with a rapid, hardly audible sound like a lizard; at the back her hair fell below her knees. "why have you shut the door?" asked kuzma vassilyevitch. colibri put her fingers to her lips. "emilie ... not want ... not want her." kuzma vassilyevitch grinned. "i say, you are not jealous, are you?" colibri raised her eyebrows. "what?" "jealous ... angry," kuzma vassilyevitch explained. "oh, yes!" "really! much obliged.... i say, how old are you?" "seventen." "seventeen, you mean?" "yes." kuzma vassilyevitch scrutinised his fantastic companion closely. "what a beautiful creature you are!" he said, emphatically. "marvellous! really marvellous! what hair! what eyes! and your eyebrows ... ough!" colibri laughed again and again looked round with her magnificent eyes. "yes, i am a beauty! sit down, and i'll sit down ... beside." "by all means! but say what you like, you are a strange sister for emilie! you are not in the least like her." "yes, i am sister ... cousin. here ... take ... a flower. a nice flower. it smells." she took out of her girdle a sprig of white lilac, sniffed it, bit off a petal and gave him the whole sprig. "will you have jam? nice jam ... from constantinople ... sorbet?" colibri took from the small chest of drawers a gilt jar wrapped in a piece of crimson silk with steel spangles on it, a silver spoon, a cut glass decanter and a tumbler like it. "eat some sorbet, sir; it is fine. i will sing to you.... will you?" she took up the guitar. "you sing, then?" asked kuzma vassilyevitch, putting a spoonful of really excellent sorbet into his mouth. "oh, yes!" she flung back her mane of hair, put her head on one side and struck several chords, looking carefully at the tips of her fingers and at the top of the guitar ... then suddenly began singing in a voice unexpectedly strong and agreeable, but guttural and to the ears of kuzma vassilyevitch rather savage. "oh, you pretty kitten," he thought. she sang a mournful song, utterly un-russian and in a language quite unknown to kuzma vassilyevitch. he used to declare that the sounds "kha, gha" kept recurring in it and at the end she repeated a long drawn-out "sintamar" or "sintsimar," or something of the sort, leaned her head on her hand, heaved a sigh and let the guitar drop on her knee. "good?" she asked, "want more?" "i should be delighted," answered kuzma vassilyevitch. "but why do you look like that, as though you were grieving? you'd better have some sorbet." "no ... you. and i will again.... it will be more merry." she sang another song, that sounded like a dance, in the same unknown language. again kuzma vassilyevitch distinguished the same guttural sounds. her swarthy fingers fairly raced over the strings, "like little spiders," and she ended up this time with a jaunty shout of "ganda" or "gassa," and with flashing eyes banged on the table with her little fist. xvi kuzma vassilyevitch sat as though he were in a dream. his head was going round. it was all so unexpected.... and the scent, the singing ... the candles in the daytime ... the sorbet flavoured with vanilla. and colibri kept coming closer to him, too; her hair shone and rustled, and there was a glow of warmth from her--and that melancholy face.... "a russalka!" thought kuzma vassilyevitch. he felt somewhat awkward. "tell me, my pretty, what put it into your head to invite me to-day?" "you are young, pretty ... such i like." "so that's it! but what will emilie say? she wrote me a letter: she is sure to be back directly." "you not tell her ... nothing! trouble! she will kill!" kuzma vassilyevitch laughed. "as though she were so fierce!" colibri gravely shook her head several times. "and to madame fritsche, too, nothing. no, no, no!" she tapped herself lightly on the forehead. "do you understand, officer?" kuzma vassilyevitch frowned. "it's a secret, then?" "yes ... yes." "very well.... i won't say a word. only you ought to give me a kiss for that." "no, afterwards ... when you are gone." "that's a fine idea!" kuzma vassilyevitch was bending down to her but she slowly drew herself back and stood stiffly erect like a snake startled in the grass. kuzma vassilyevitch stared at her. "well!" he said at last, "you are a spiteful thing! all right, then." colibri pondered and turned to the lieutenant.... all at once there was the muffled sound of tapping repeated three times at even intervals somewhere in the house. colibri laughed, almost snorted. "to-day--no, to-morrow--yes. come to-morrow." "at what time?" "seven ... in the evening." "and what about emilie?" "emilie ... no; will not be here." "you think so? very well. only, to-morrow you will tell me?" "what?" (colibri's face assumed a childish expression every time she asked a question.) "why you have been hiding away from me all this time?" "yes ... yes; everything shall be to-morrow; the end shall be." "mind now! and i'll bring you a present." "no ... no need." "why not? i see you like fine clothes." "no need. this ... this ... this ..." she pointed to her dress, her rings, her bracelets, and everything about her, "it is all my own. not a present. i do not take." "as you like. and now must i go?" "oh, yes." kuzma vassilyevitch got up. colibri got up, too. "good-bye, pretty little doll! and when will you give me a kiss?" colibri suddenly gave a little jump and swiftly flinging both arms round his neck, gave him not precisely a kiss but a peck at his lips. he tried in his turn to kiss her but she instantly darted back and stood behind the sofa. "to-morrow at seven o'clock, then?" he said with some confusion. she nodded and taking a tress of her long hair with her two fingers, bit it with her sharp teeth. kuzma vassilyevitch kissed his hand to her, went out and shut the door after him. he heard colibri run up to it at once.... the key clicked in the lock. xvii there was no one in madame fritsche's drawing-room. kuzma vassilyevitch made his way to the passage at once. he did not want to meet emilie. madame fritsche met him on the steps. "ah, you are going, mr. lieutenant?" she said, with the same affected and sinister smile. "you won't wait for emilie?" kuzma vassilyevitch put on his cap. "i haven't time to wait any longer, madam. i may not come to-morrow, either. please tell her so." "very good, i'll tell her. but i hope you haven't been dull, mr. lieutenant?" "no, i have not been dull." "i thought not. good-bye." "good-bye." kuzma vassilyevitch returned home and stretching himself on his bed sank into meditation. he was unutterably perplexed. "what marvel is this?" he cried more than once. and why did emilie write to him? she had made an appointment and not come! he took out her letter, turned it over in his hands, sniffed it: it smelt of tobacco and in one place he noticed a correction. but what could he deduce from that? and was it possible that madame fritsche knew nothing about it? and _she_.... who was she? yes, who was she? the fascinating colibri, that "pretty doll," that "little image," was always before him and he looked forward with impatience to the following evening, though secretly he was almost afraid of this "pretty doll" and "little image." xviii next day kuzma vassilyevitch went shopping before dinner, and, after persistent haggling, bought a tiny gold cross on a little velvet ribbon. "though she declares," he thought, "that she never takes presents, we all know what such sayings mean; and if she really is so disinterested, emilie won't be so squeamish." so argued this don juan of nikolaev, who had probably never heard of the original don juan and knew nothing about him. at six o'clock in the evening kuzma vassilyevitch shaved carefully and sending for a hairdresser he knew, told him to pomade and curl his topknot, which the latter did with peculiar zeal, not sparing the government note paper for curlpapers; then kuzma vassilyevitch put on a smart new uniform, took into his right hand a pair of new wash-leather gloves, and, sprinkling himself with lavender water, set off. kuzma vassilyevitch took a great deal more trouble over his personal appearance on this occasion than when he went to see his "zuckerpüppchen", not because he liked colibri better than emilie but in the "pretty little doll" there was something enigmatic, something which stirred even the sluggish imagination of the young lieutenant. xix madame fritsche greeted him as she had done the day before and as though she had conspired with him in a plan of deception, informed him again that emilie had gone out for a short time and asked him to wait. kuzma vassilyevitch nodded in token of assent and sat down on a chair. madame fritsche smiled again, that is, showed her yellow tusks and withdrew without offering him any chocolate. kuzma vassilyevitch instantly fixed his eyes on the mysterious door. it remained closed. he coughed loudly once or twice so as to make known his presence.... the door did not stir. he held his breath, strained his ears.... he heard not the faintest sound or rustle; everything was still as death. kuzma vassilyevitch got up, approached the door on tiptoe and, fumbling in vain with his fingers, pressed his knee against it. it was no use. then he bent down and once or twice articulated in a loud whisper, "colibri! colibri! little doll!" no one responded. kuzma vassilyevitch drew himself up, straightened his uniform--and, after standing still a little while, walked with more resolute steps to the window and began drumming on the pane. he began to feel vexed, indignant; his dignity as an officer began to assert itself. "what nonsense is this?" he thought at last; "whom do they take me for? if they go on like this, i'll knock with my fists. she will be forced to answer! the old woman will hear.... what of it? that's not my fault." he turned swiftly on his heel ... the door stood half open. xx kuzma vassilyevitch immediately hastened into the secret room again on tiptoe. colibri was lying on the sofa in a white dress with a broad red sash. covering the lower part of her face with a handkerchief, she was laughing, a noiseless but genuine laugh. she had done up her hair, this time plaiting it into two long, thick plaits intertwined with red ribbon; the same slippers adorned her tiny, crossed feet but the feet themselves were bare and looking at them one might fancy that she had on dark, silky stockings. the sofa stood in a different position, nearer the wall; and on the table he saw on a chinese tray a bright-coloured, round-bellied coffee pot beside a cut glass sugar bowl and two blue china cups. the guitar was lying there, too, and blue-grey smoke rose in a thin coil from a big, aromatic candle. kuzma vassilyevitch went up to the sofa and bent over colibri, but before he had time to utter a word she held out her hand and, still laughing in her handkerchief, put her little, rough fingers into his hair and instantly ruffled the well-arranged curls on the top of his head. "what next?" exclaimed kuzma vassilyevitch, not altogether pleased by such unceremoniousness. "oh, you naughty girl!" colibri took the handkerchief from her face. "not nice so; better now." she moved away to the further end of the sofa and drew her feet up under her. "sit down ... there." kuzma vassilyevitch sat down on the spot indicated. "why do you move away?" he said, after a brief silence. "surely you are not afraid of me?" colibri curled herself up and looked at him sideways. "i am not afraid ... no." "you must not be shy with me," kuzma vassilyevitch said in an admonishing tone. "do you remember your promise yesterday to give me a kiss?" colibri put her arms round her knees, laid her head on them and looked at him again. "i remember." "i should hope so. and you must keep your word." "yes ... i must." "in that case," kuzma vassilyevitch was beginning, and he moved nearer. colibri freed her plaits which she was holding tight with her knees and with one of them gave him a flick on his hand. "not so fast, sir!" kuzma vassilyevitch was embarrassed. "what eyes she has, the rogue!" he muttered, as though to himself. "but," he went on, raising his voice, "why did you call me ... if that is how it is?" colibri craned her neck like a bird ... she listened. kuzma vassilyevitch was alarmed. "emilie?" he asked. "no." "someone else?" colibri shrugged her shoulder. "do you hear something?" "nothing." with a birdlike movement, again colibri drew back her little oval-shaped head with its pretty parting and the short growth of tiny curls on the nape of her neck where her plaits began, and again curled herself up into a ball. "nothing." "nothing! then now i'll ..." kuzma vassilyevitch craned forward towards colibri but at once pulled back his hand. there was a drop of blood on his finger. "what foolishness is this!" he cried, shaking his finger. "your everlasting pins! and the devil of a pin it is!" he added, looking at the long, golden pin which colibri slowly thrust into her sash. "it's a regular dagger, it's a sting.... yes, yes, it's your sting, and you are a wasp, that's what you are, a wasp, do you hear?" apparently colibri was much pleased at kuzma vasselyevitch's comparison; she went off into a thin laugh and repeated several times over: "yes, i will sting ... i will sting." kuzma vassilyevitch looked at her and thought: "she is laughing but her face is melancholy. "look what i am going to show you," he said aloud. "_tso?_" "why do you say _tso?_ are you a pole?" "_nee_." "now you say _nee!_ but there, it's no matter." kuzma vassilyevitch got out his present and waved it in the air. "look at it.... isn't it nice?" colibri raised her eyes indifferently. "ah! a cross! we don't wear." "what? you don't wear a cross? are you a jewess then, or what?" "we don't wear," repeated colibri, and, suddenly starting, looked back over her shoulder. "would you like me to sing?" she asked hurriedly. kuzma vassilyevitch put the cross in the pocket of his uniform and he, too, looked round. "what is it?" he muttered. "a mouse ... a mouse," colibri said hurriedly, and suddenly to kuzma vassilyevitch's complete surprise, flung her smooth, supple arms round his neck and a rapid kiss burned his cheek ... as though a red-hot ember had been pressed against it. he pressed colibri in his arms but she slipped away like a snake--her waist was hardly thicker than the body of a snake--and leapt to her feet. "wait," she whispered, "you must have some coffee first." "nonsense! coffee, indeed! afterwards." "no, now. now hot, after cold." she took hold of the coffee pot by the handle and, lifting it high, began pouring out two cups. the coffee fell in a thin, as it were, twirling stream; colibri leaned her head on her shoulder and watched it fall. "there, put in the sugar ... drink ... and i'll drink." kuzma vassilyevitch put a lump of sugar in the cup and drank it off at one draught. the coffee struck him as very strong and bitter. colibri looked at him, smiling, and faintly dilated her nostrils over the edge of her cup. she slowly put it down on the table. "why don't you drink it?" asked kuzma vassilyevitch. "not all, now." kuzma vassilyevitch got excited. "do sit down beside me, at least." "in a minute." she bent her head and, still keeping her eyes fixed on kuzma vassilyevitch, picked up the guitar. "only i will sing first." "yes, yes, only sit down." "and i will dance. shall i?" "you dance? well, i should like to see that. but can't that be afterwards?" "no, now.... but i love you very much." "you love? mind now ... dance away, then, you queer creature." xxi colibri stood on the further side of the table and running her fingers several times over the strings of the guitar and to the surprise of kuzma vassilyevitch, who was expecting a lively, merry song, began singing a slow, monotonous air, accompanying each separate sound, which seemed as though it were wrung out of her by force, with a rhythmical swaying of her body to right and left. she did not smile, and indeed knitted her brows, her delicate, high, rounded eyebrows, between which a dark blue mark, probably burnt in with gunpowder, stood out sharply, looking like some letter of an oriental alphabet. she almost closed her eyes but their pupils glimmered dimly under the drooping lids, fastened as before on kuzma vassilyevitch. and he, too, could not look away from those marvellous, menacing eyes, from that dark-skinned face that gradually began to glow, from the half-closed and motionless lips, from the two black snakes rhythmically moving on both sides of her graceful head. colibri went on swaying without moving from the spot and only her feet were working; she kept lightly shifting them, lifting first the toe and then the heel. once she rotated rapidly and uttered a piercing shriek, waving the guitar high in the air.... then the same monotonous movement accompanied by the same monotonous singing, began again. kuzma vassilyevitch sat meanwhile very quietly on the sofa and went on looking at colibri; he felt something strange and unusual in himself: he was conscious of great lightness and freedom, too great lightness, in fact; he seemed, as it were, unconscious of his body, as though he were floating and at the same time shudders ran down him, a sort of agreeable weakness crept over his legs, and his lips and eyelids tingled with drowsiness. he had no desire now, no thought of anything ... only he was wonderfully at ease, as though someone were lulling him, "singing him to bye-bye," as emilie had expressed it, and he whispered to himself, "little doll!" at times the face of the "little doll" grew misty. "why is that?" kuzma vassilyevitch wondered. "from the smoke," he reassured himself. "there is such a blue smoke here." and again someone was lulling him and even whispering in his ear something so sweet ... only for some reason it was always unfinished. but then all of a sudden in the little doll's face the eyes opened till they were immense, incredibly big, like the arches of a bridge.... the guitar dropped, and striking against the floor, clanged somewhere at the other end of the earth.... some very near and dear friend of kuzma vassilyevitch's embraced him firmly and tenderly from behind and set his cravat straight. kuzma vassilyevitch saw just before his own face the hooked nose, the thick moustache and the piercing eyes of the stranger with the three buttons on his cuff ... and although the eyes were in the place of the moustache and the nose itself seemed upside down, kuzma vassilyevitch was not in the least surprised, but, on the contrary, thought that this was how it ought to be; he was even on the point of saying to the nose, "hullo, brother grigory," but he changed his mind and preferred ... preferred to set off with colibri to constantinople at once for their forthcoming wedding, as she was a turk and the tsar promoted him to be an actual turk. xxii and opportunely a little boat appeared: he lifted his foot to get into it and though through clumsiness he stumbled and hurt himself rather badly, so that for some time he did not know where anything was, yet he managed it and getting into the boat, floated on the big river, which, as the river of time, flows to constantinople in the map on the walls of the nikolaevsky high school. with great satisfaction he floated down the river and watched a number of red ducks which continually met him; they would not let him come near them, however, and, diving, changed into round, pink spots. and colibri was going with him, too, but to escape the sultry heat she hid, under the boat and from time to time knocked on the bottom of it.... and here at last was constantinople. the houses, as houses should, looked like tyrolese hats; and the turks had all big, sedate faces; only it did not do to look at them too long: they began wriggling, making faces and at last melted away altogether like thawing snow. and here was the palace in which he would live with colibri.... and how well everything was arranged in it! walls with generals' gold lace on it, everywhere epaulettes, people blowing trumpets in the corners and one could float into the drawing-room in the boat. of course, there was a portrait of mahomet.... only colibri kept running ahead through the rooms and her plaits trailed after her on the floor and she would not turn round, and she kept growing smaller and smaller.... and now it was not colibri but a boy in a jacket and he was the boy's tutor and he had to climb after the boy into a telescope, and the telescope got narrower and narrower, till at last he could not move ... neither backwards nor forwards, and something fell on his back ... there was earth in his mouth. xxiii kuzma vassilyevitch opened his eyes. it was daylight and everything was still ... there was a smell of vinegar and mint. above him and at his sides there was something white; he looked more intently: it was the canopy of a bed. he wanted to raise his head ... he could not; his hand ... he could not do that, either. what was the meaning of it? he dropped his eyes.... a long body lay stretched before him and over it a yellow blanket with a brown edge. the body proved to be his, kuzma vassilyevitch's. he tried to cry out ... no sound came. he tried again, did his very utmost ... there was the sound of a feeble moan quavering under his nose. he heard heavy footsteps and a sinewy hand parted the bed curtains. a grey-headed pensioner in a patched military overcoat stood gazing at him.... and he gazed at the pensioner. a big tin mug was put to kuzma vassilyevitch's lips. he greedily drank some cold water. his tongue was loosened. "where am i?" the pensioner glanced at him once more, went away and came back with another man in a dark uniform. "where am i?" repeated kuzma vassilyevitch. "well, he will live now," said the man in the dark uniform. "you are in the hospital," he added aloud, "but you must go to sleep. it is bad for you to talk." kuzma vassilyevitch began to feel surprised, but sank into forgetfulness again.... next morning the doctor appeared. kuzma vassilyevitch came to himself. the doctor congratulated him on his recovery and ordered the bandages round his head to be changed. "what? my head? why, am i ..." "you mustn't talk, you mustn't excite yourself," the doctor interrupted. "lie still and thank the almighty. where are the compresses, poplyovkin?" "but where is the money ... the government money ..." "there! he is lightheaded again. some more ice, poplyovkin." xxiv another week passed. kuzma vassilyevitch was so much better that the doctors found it possible to tell him what had happened to him. this is what he learned. at seven o'clock in the evening on the 16th of june he had visited the house of madame fritsche for the last time and on the 17th of june at dinner time, that is, nearly twenty-four hours later, a shepherd had found him in a ravine near the herson high road, a mile and a half from nikolaev, with a broken head and crimson bruises on his neck. his uniform and waistcoat had been unbuttoned, all his pockets turned inside out, his cap and cutlass were not to be found, nor his leather money belt. from the trampled grass, from the broad track upon the grass and the clay, it could be inferred that the luckless lieutenant had been dragged to the bottom of the ravine and only there had been gashed on his head, not with an axe but with a sabre--probably his own cutlass: there were no traces of blood on his track from the high road while there was a perfect pool of blood round his head. there could be no doubt that his assailants had first drugged him, then tried to strangle him and, taking him out of the town by night, had dragged him to the ravine and there given him the final blow. it was only thanks to his truly iron constitution that kuzma vassilyevitch had not died. he had returned to consciousness on july 22nd, that is, five weeks later. xxv kuzma vassilyevitch immediately informed the authorities of the misfortune that had happened to him; he stated all the circumstances of the case verbally and in writing and gave the address of madame fritsche. the police raided the house but they found no one there; the birds had flown. they got hold of the owner of the house. but they could not get much sense out of the latter, a very old and deaf workman. he lived in a different part of the town and all he knew was that four months before he had let his house to a jewess with a passport, whose name was schmul or schmulke, which he had immediately registered at the police station. she had been joined by another woman, so he stated, who also had a passport, but what was their calling did not know; and whether they had other people living with them had not heard and did not know; the lad whom he used to keep as porter or watchman in the house had gone away to odessa or petersburg, and the new porter had only lately come, on the 1st of july. inquiries were made at the police station and in the neighbourhood; it appeared that madame schmulke, together with her companion, whose real name was frederika bengel, had left nikolaev about the 20th of june, but where they had gone was unknown. the mysterious man with a gipsy face and three buttons on his cuff and the dark-skinned foreign girl with an immense mass of hair, no one had seen. as soon as kuzma vassilyevitch was discharged from the hospital, he visited the house that had been so fateful for him. in the little room where he had talked to colibri and where there was still a smell of musk, there was a second secret door; the sofa had been moved in front of it on his second visit and through it no doubt the murderer had come and seized him from behind. kuzma vassilyevitch lodged a formal complaint; proceedings were taken. several numbered reports and instructions were dispatched in various directions; the appropriate acknowledgments and replies followed in due course.... there the incident closed. the suspicious characters had disappeared completely and with them the stolen government money had vanished, too, one thousand, nine hundred and seventeen roubles and some kopecks, in paper and gold. not an inconsiderable sum in those days! kuzma vassilyevitch was paying back instalments for ten years, when, fortunately for him, an act of clemency from the throne cancelled the debt. xxvi he was himself at first firmly convinced that emilie, his treacherous zuckerpüppchen, was to blame for all his trouble and had originated the plot. he remembered how on the last day he had seen her he had incautiously dropped asleep on the sofa and how when he woke he had found her on her knees beside him and how confused she had been, and how he had found a hole in his belt that evening--a hole evidently made by her scissors. "she saw the money," thought kuzma vassilyevitch, "she told the old hag and those other two devils, she entrapped me by writing me that letter ... and so they cleaned me out. but who could have expected it of her!" he pictured the pretty, good-natured face of emilie, her clear eyes.... "women! women!" he repeated, gnashing his teeth, "brood of crocodiles!" but when he had finally left the hospital and gone home, he learned one circumstance which perplexed and nonplussed him. on the very day when he was brought half dead to the town, a girl whose description corresponded exactly to that of emilie had rushed to his lodging with tear-stained face and dishevelled hair and inquiring about him from his orderly, had dashed off like mad to the hospital. at the hospital she had been told that kuzma vassilyevitch would certainly die and she had at once disappeared, wringing her hands with a look of despair on her face. it was evident that she had not foreseen, had not expected the murder. or perhaps she had herself been deceived and had not received her promised share? had she been overwhelmed by sudden remorse? and yet she had left nikolaev afterwards with that loathsome old woman who had certainly known all about it. kuzma vassilyevitch was lost in conjecture and bored his orderly a good deal by making him continually describe over and over again the appearance of the girl and repeat her words. xxvii a year and a half later kuzma vassilyevitch received a letter in german from emilie, _alias_ frederika bengel, which he promptly had translated for him and showed us more than once in later days. it was full of mistakes in spelling and exclamation marks; the postmark on the envelope was breslau. here is the translation, as correct as may be, of the letter: "my precious, unforgettable and incomparable florestan! mr. lieutenant yergenhof! "how often i felt impelled to write to you! and i have always unfortunately put it off, though the thought that you may regard me as having had a hand in that awful crime has always been the most appalling thought to me! oh, dear mr. lieutenant! believe me, the day when i learnt that you were alive and well, was the happiest day of my life! but i do not mean to justify myself altogether! i will not tell a lie! i was the first to discover your habit of carrying your money round your waist! (though indeed in our part of the world all the butchers and meat salesmen do the same!) and i was so incautious as to let drop a word about it! i even said in joke that it wouldn't be bad to take a little of your money! but the old wretch (mr. florestan! she was _not_ my aunt) plotted with that godless monster luigi and his accomplice! i swear by my mother's tomb, i don't know to this day who those people were! i only know that his name was luigi and that they both came from bucharest and were certainly great criminals and were hiding from the police and had money and precious things! luigi was a dreadful individual (_ein schröckliches subject_), to kill a fellow-man (_einen mitmenschen_) meant nothing at all to him! he spoke every language--and it was _he_ who that time got our things back from the cook! don't ask how! he was capable of anything, he was an awful man! he assured the old woman that he would only drug you a little and then take you out of town and put you down somewhere and would say that he knew nothing about it but that it was your fault--that you had taken too much wine somewhere! but even then the wretch had it in his mind that it would be better to kill you so that there would be no one to tell the tale! he wrote you that letter, signed with my name and the old woman got me away by craft! i suspected nothing and i was awfully afraid of luigi! he used to say to me, 'i'll cut your throat, i'll cut your throat like a chicken's!' and he used to twitch his moustache so horribly as he said it! and they dragged me into a bad company, too.... i am very much ashamed, mr. lieutenant! and even now i shed bitter tears at these memories! ... it seems to me ... ah! i was not born for such doings.... but there is no help for it; and this is how it all happened! afterwards i was horribly frightened and could not help going away, for if the police had found us, what would have happened to us then? that accursed luigi fled at once as soon as he heard that you were alive. but i soon parted from them all and though now i am often without a crust of bread, my heart is at peace! you will ask me perhaps why i came to nikolaev? but i can give you no answer! i have sworn! i will finish by asking of you a favour, a very, very important one: whenever you remember your little friend emilie, do not think of her as a black-hearted criminal! the eternal god sees my heart. i have a bad morality (_ich habe eine schlechte moralität_) and i am feather-headed, but i am not a criminal. and i shall always love and remember you, my incomparable florestan, and shall always wish you everything good on this earthly globe (_auf diesem erdenrund!_). i don't know whether my letter will reach you, but if it does, write me a few lines that i may see you have received it. thereby you will make very happy your ever-devoted emilie. "p. s. write to f. e. poste restante, breslau, silesia. "p. s. s. i have written to you in german; i could not express my feelings otherwise; but you write to me in russian." xxviii "well, did you answer her?" we asked kuzma vassilyevitch. "i meant to, i meant to many times. but how was i to write? i don't know german ... and in russian, who would have translated it? and so i did not write." and always as he finished his story, kuzma vassilyevitch sighed, shook his head and said, "that's what it is to be young!" and if among his audience was some new person who was hearing the famous story for the first time, he would take his hand, lay it on his skull and make him feel the scar of the wound.... it really was a fearful wound and the scar reached from one ear to the other. 1867. * * * * * the dog "but if one admits the possibility of the supernatural, the possibility of its participation in real life, then allow me to ask what becomes of common sense?" anton stepanitch pronounced and he folded his arms over his stomach. anton stepanitch had the grade of a civil councillor, served in some incomprehensible department and, speaking emphatically and stiffly in a bass voice, enjoyed universal respect. he had not long before, in the words of those who envied him, "had the stanislav stuck on to him." "that's perfectly true," observed skvorevitch. "no one will dispute that," added kinarevitch. "i am of the same opinion," the master of the house, finoplentov, chimed in from the corner in falsetto. "well, i must confess, i cannot agree, for something supernatural has happened to me myself," said a bald, corpulent middle-aged gentleman of medium height, who had till then sat silent behind the stove. the eyes of all in the room turned to him with curiosity and surprise, and there was a silence. the man was a kaluga landowner of small means who had lately come to petersburg. he had once served in the hussars, had lost money at cards, had resigned his commission and had settled in the country. the recent economic reforms had reduced his income and he had come to the capital to look out for a suitable berth. he had no qualifications and no connections, but he confidently relied on the friendship of an old comrade who had suddenly, for no visible reason, become a person of importance, and whom he had once helped in thrashing a card sharper. moreover, he reckoned on his luck--and it did not fail him: a few days after his arrival in town he received the post of superintendent of government warehouses, a profitable and even honourable position, which did not call for conspicuous abilities: the warehouses themselves had only a hypothetical existence and indeed it was not very precisely known with what they were to be filled--but they had been invented with a view to government economy. anton stepanitch was the first to break the silence. "what, my dear sir," he began, "do you seriously maintain that something supernatural has happened to you? i mean to say, something inconsistent with the laws of nature?" "i do maintain it," replied the gentleman addressed as "my dear sir," whose name was porfiry kapitonitch. "inconsistent with the laws of nature!" anton stepanitch repeated angrily; apparently he liked the phrase. "just so ... yes; it was precisely what you say." "that's amazing! what do you think of it, gentlemen?" anton stepanitch tried to give his features an ironical expression, but without effect--or to speak more accurately, merely with the effect of suggesting that the dignified civil councillor had detected an unpleasant smell. "might we trouble you, dear sir," he went on, addressing the kaluga landowner, "to give us the details of so interesting an incident?" "certainly, why not?" answered the landowner and, moving in a free-and-easy way to the middle of the room, he spoke as follows: "i have, gentlemen, as you are probably aware, or perhaps are not aware, a small estate in the kozelsky district. in old days i used to get something out of it, though now, of course, i have nothing to look forward to but unpleasantness. but enough of politics. well, in that district i have a little place: the usual kitchen garden, a little pond with carp in it, farm buildings of a sort and a little lodge for my own sinful person ... i am a bachelor. well, one day--some six years ago--i came home rather late; i had had a game of cards at a neighbour's and i was--i beg you to note--the least little bit elevated, as they say; i undressed, got into bed and put out the candle. and only fancy, gentlemen: as soon as i put out the candle there was something moving under my bed! i wondered whether it was a rat; no, it was not a rat: it moved about, scratched on the floor and scratched itself.... at last it flapped its ears! "there was no mistake about it; it was a dog. but where could a dog have come from? i did not keep one; could some stray dog have run in, i wondered. i called my servant; filka was his name. he came in with a candle. "'how's this,' i said, 'filka, my lad? is that how you look after things? a dog has got under my bed?' 'what dog?' said he. 'how do i know,' said i, 'that's your business--to save your master from disturbance.' my filka bent down, and began moving the candle under the bed. 'but there's no dog here,' said he. i bent down, too; there certainly was no dog there. what a queer thing!--i glanced at filka and he was smiling. 'you stupid,' i said to him, 'why are you grinning. when you opened the door the dog must have whisked out into the passage. and you, gaping idiot, saw nothing because you are always asleep. you don't suppose i am drunk, do you?' he would have answered, but i sent him out, curled up and that night heard nothing more. "but the next night--only fancy--the thing was repeated. as soon as i blew out the candle, he scratched himself and flapped his ears again. again i called filka; again he looked under the bed--again there was nothing! i sent him away, blew out the candle--and, damn it all, the dog was there again and it was a dog right enough: one could hear it breathing, biting its coat, looking for fleas.... it was so distinct--'filka,' i said, 'come here without the candle!' he came in. 'well, now,' i said, 'do you hear?' 'yes,' he said. i could not see him, but i felt that the fellow was scared. 'what do you make of it?' said i. 'what do you bid me make of it, porfiry kapitonitch? it's sorcery!' 'you are a foolish fellow,' i said, 'hold your tongue with your sorcery....' and our voices quavered like a bird's and we were trembling in the dark as though we were in a fever. i lighted a candle, no dog, no sound, only us two, as white as chalk. so i kept a candle burning till morning and i assure you, gentlemen, you may believe me or you may not, but from that night for six weeks the same thing was repeated. in the end i actually got used to it and began putting out the candle, because i couldn't get to sleep in the light. 'let him fidget,' i thought, 'he doesn't do me any harm.'" "well, i see you are not one of the chicken-hearted brigade," anton stepanitch interrupted in a half-contemptuous, half-condescending tone! "one can see the hussar at once!" "i shouldn't be afraid of you in any case," porfiry kapitonitch observed, and for an instant he really did look like a hussar. "but listen to the rest. a neighbour came to see me, the very one with whom i used to play cards. he dined with me on what luck provided and dropped some fifty roubles for his visit; night came on, it was time for him to be off. but i had my own idea. 'stay the night with me,' i said, 'vassily vassilitch; tomorrow, please god, you will win it back.' vassily vassilitch considered and stayed. i had a bed put up for him in my room.... well, we went to bed, smoked, chatted--about the fair sex for the most part, as is only suitable in bachelor company--we laughed, of course; i saw vassily vassilitch put out his candle and turn his back towards me: as much as to say: 'good night.' i waited a little, then i, too, put out my candle. and, only fancy, i had hardly time to wonder what sort of trick would be played this time, when the sweet creature was moving again. and moving was not all; it came out from under the bed, walked across the room, tapped on the floor with its paws, shook its ears and all of a sudden pushed against the very chair that was close by vassily vassilitch's bed. 'porfiry kapitonitch,' said the latter, and in such an unconcerned voice, you know, 'i did not know you had a dog. what sort is it, a setter?' 'i haven't a dog,' i said, 'and never have had one!' 'you haven't? why, what's this?' 'what's _this_?' said i, 'why, light the candle and then you will see for yourself.' 'isn't it a dog?' 'no.' vassily vassilitch turned over in bed. 'but you are joking, dash it all.' 'no, i am not joking.' i heard him go strike, strike, with a match, while the creature persisted in scratching its ribs. the light flared up ... and, hey presto! not a trace remained! vassily vassilitch looked at me and i looked at him. 'what trick is this?' he said. 'it's a trick,' i said, 'that, if you were to set socrates himself on one side and frederick the great on the other, even they could not make it out.' and then i told him all about it. didn't my vassily vassilitch jump out of bed! as though he had been scalded! he couldn't get into his boots. 'horses,' he cried, 'horses!' i began trying to persuade him, but it was no use! he positively gasped! 'i won't stay,' he said, 'not a minute! you must be a man under a curse! horses.' however, i prevailed upon him. only his bed was dragged into another room and nightlights were lighted everywhere. at our tea in the morning he had regained his equanimity; he began to give me advice. 'you should try being away from home for a few days, porfiry kapitonitch,' he said, 'perhaps this abomination would leave you.' and i must tell you: my neighbour was a man of immense intellect. he managed his mother-in-law wonderfully: he fastened an i. o. u. upon her; he must have chosen a sentimental moment! she became as soft as silk, she gave him an authorisation for the management of all her estate--what more would you have? you know it is something to get the better of one's mother-in-law. eh! you can judge for yourselves. however, he took leave of me in some displeasure; i'd stripped him of a hundred roubles again. he actually abused me. 'you are ungrateful.' he said, 'you have no feeling'; but how was i to blame? well, be that as it may, i considered his advice. that very day i drove off to the town and put up at an inn, kept by an old man i knew, a dissenter. he was a worthy old fellow, though a little morose from living in solitude, all his family were dead. but he disliked tobacco and had the greatest loathing for dogs; i believe he would have been torn to pieces rather than consent to let a dog into his room. 'for how can one?' he would say, 'the queen of heaven herself is graciously pleased to be on my wall there, and is an unclean dog to put his infidel nose there?' of course, it was lack of education! however, to my thinking, whatever wisdom a man has he had better stick to that." "i see you are a great philosopher," anton stepanitch interrupted a second time with the same sarcastic smile. this time porfiry kapitonitch actually frowned. "how much i know of philosophy i cannot tell," he observed, tugging grimly at his moustache, "but i would be glad to give you a lesson in it." we all simply stared at anton stepanitch. every one of us expected a haughty reply, or at least a glance like a flash of lightning.... but the civil councillor turned his contemptuous smile into one of indifference, then yawned, swung his foot and--that was all! "well, i stayed at that old fellow's," porfiry kapitonitch went on. "he gave me a little room, not one of the best, as we were old friends; his own was close by, the other side of the partition--and that was just what i wanted. the tortures i faced that night! a little room, a regular oven, stuffiness, flies, and such sticky ones; in the corner an extraordinarily big shrine with ancient ikons, with dingy setting in relief on them. it fairly reeked of oil and some other stuff, too; there were two featherbeds on the beds. if you moved the pillow a black beetle would run from under it.... i had drunk an incredible quantity of tea, feeling so dreary--it was simply dreadful! i got into bed; there was no possibility of sleeping--and, the other side of the partition, my host was sighing, clearing his throat, repeating his prayers. however, he subsided at last. i heard him begin to snore, but only faintly, in the old-fashioned polite way. i had put my candle out long ago, but the little lamp was burning before the ikons.... that prevented it, i suppose. so i got up softly with bare feet, climbed up to the lamp, and blew it out.... nothing happened. 'oho!' i thought, 'so it doesn't come off in other people's houses.' "but i had no sooner got into bed than there was a commotion again. he was scraping on the floor and scratching himself and shaking his ears ... the usual thing, in fact. very good! i lay still and waited to see what would happen. i heard the old man wake up. 'sir,' he said, 'hey, sir.' 'what is it?' 'did you put out the lamp?' but without waiting for my answer, he burst out all at once. 'what's that? what's that, a dog? a dog! ah, you vile heretic!' 'wait a bit, old man, before you scold,' i said. 'you had better come here yourself. things are happening,' i said, 'that may well make you wonder.' the old man stirred behind the partition and came in to me, with a candle, a very, very thin one, made of yellow wax; i was surprised when i looked at him! he looked bristling all over, with hairy ears and eyes as fierce as a weasel's; he had on a white woollen night cap, a beard to his waist, white; too, and a waistcoat with copper buttons on it over his shirt and fur boots on his feet and he smelt of juniper. in this attire he approached the ikons, crossed himself three times with his two fingers crossed, lighted the lamp, crossed himself again and, turning to me, just grunted: 'explain!' and thereupon, without delay, i told him all that had happened. the old man listened to my account and did not drop one word, simply shook his head. then he sat down on my bed and still said nothing. he scratched his chest, the back of his head and so on and said nothing. 'well,' i said, 'fedul ivanitch, what do you think? is it some devil's sorcery or what?' the old man looked at me. 'what an idea! devil's sorcery! a tobacco-smoker like you might well have that at home, but not here. only think what holiness there is here! sorcery, indeed!' 'and if it is not sorcery, what is it, then?' the old man was silent again; again he scratched himself and said at last, but in a muffled voice, for his moustache was all over his mouth: 'you go to the town of belyov. there is no one who can help you but one man. and that man lives in belyov. he is one of our people. if he is willing to help you, you are lucky; if he is not, nothing can be done.' 'and how am i to find this man?' i said. 'i can direct you about that,' he answered; 'but how can it be sorcery? it is an apparition, or rather an indication; but you cannot comprehend it, it is beyond your understanding. lie down to sleep now with the blessing of our lord christ; i will burn incense and in the morning we will converse. morning, you know, brings wisdom.' "well, we did converse in the morning, only i was almost stifled by that incense. and this was the counsel the old man gave me: that when i reached belyov i should go into the market place and ask in the second shop on the right for one prohoritch, and when i had found prohoritch, put into his hand a writing and the writing consisted of a scrap of paper, on which stood the following words: 'in the name of the father, the son and the holy ghost. amen. to sergey prohorovitch pervushin. trust this man. feduly ivanitch.' and below, 'send the cabbages, for god's sake.' "i thanked the old man and without further discussion ordered my carriage and drove to belyov. for i reflected, that though i suffered no harm from my nocturnal visitor, yet it was uncanny and in fact not quite the thing for a nobleman and an officer--what do you think?" "and did you really go to belyov?" murmured finoplentov. "straight to belyov. i went into the market place and asked at the second shop on the right for prohoritch. 'is there such a person?' i asked. 'yes,' they told me. 'and where does he live?' 'by the oka, beyond the market gardens.' 'in whose house?' 'in his own.' i went to the oka, found his house, though it was really not a house but simply a hovel. i saw a man wearing a blue patched coat and a ragged cap, well ... he looked like a working-man, he was standing with his back to me, digging among his cabbages. i went up to him. 'are you so and so?' i said. he turned round and, i tell you the truth, i have never seen such piercing eyes in my life. yet the whole face was shrunk up like a little fist with a little wedge-shaped beard and sunken lips. he was an old man. 'i am so and so,' he said. 'what are you _needing_?' 'why, this is what i am _needing_,' i said, and put the writing in his hand. he looked at me intently and said: 'come indoors, i can't read without spectacles.' "well, i went with him into his hut--and a hut it certainly was: poor, bare, crooked; only just holding together. on the wall there was an ikon of old workmanship as black as a coal; only the whites of the eyes gleamed in the faces. he took some round spectacles in iron frames out of a little table, put them on his nose, read the writing and looked at me again through the spectacles. 'you have need of me?' 'i certainly have,' i answered. 'well,' said he, 'if you have, tell it and we will listen.' and, only fancy, he sat down and took a checked handkerchief out of his pocket, and spread it out on his knee, and the handkerchief was full of holes, and he looked at me with as much dignity as though he were a senator or a minister, and he did not ask me to sit down. and what was still stranger, i felt all at once awe-stricken, so awe-stricken ... my soul sank into my heels. he pierced me through with his eyes and that's the fact! i pulled myself together, however, and told him all my story. he was silent for a space, shrank into himself, chewed his lips and then questioned me just like a senator again, majestically, without haste. 'what is your name?' he asked. 'your age? what were your parents? are you single or married?' then again he munched his lips, frowned, held up his finger and spoke: 'bow down to the holy ikon, to the honourable saints zossima and savvaty of solovki.' i bowed down to the earth and did not get up in a hurry; i felt such awe for the man and such submission that i believe that whatever he had told me to do i should have done it on the spot! ... i see you are grinning, gentlemen, but i was in no laughing mood then, i assure you. 'get up, sir,' said he at last. 'i can help you. this is not sent you as a chastisement, but as a warning; it is for your protection; someone is praying for your welfare. go to the market now and buy a young dog and keep it by you day and night. your visions will leave you and, moreover, that dog will be of use to you.' "i felt as though light dawned upon me, all at once; how those words delighted me. i bowed down to prohoritch and would have gone away, when i bethought me that i could not go away without rewarding him. i got a three rouble note out of my pocket. but he thrust my hand away and said, 'give it to our chapel, or to the poor; the service i have done you is not to be paid for.' i bowed down to him again almost to the ground, and set off straight for the market! and only fancy: as soon as i drew near the shops, lo and behold, a man in a frieze overcoat comes sauntering towards me carrying under his arm a two months' old setter puppy with a reddish brown coat, white lips and white forepaws. 'stay,' i said to the man in the overcoat, 'what will you sell it for?' 'for two roubles.' take three!' the man looked at me in amazement, thought the gentleman had gone out of his wits, but i flung the notes in his face, took the pup under my arm and made for my carriage! the coachman quickly had the horses harnessed and that evening i reached home. the puppy sat inside my coat all the way and did not stir; and i kept calling him, 'little trésor! little trésor!' i gave him food and drink at once. i had some straw brought in, settled him and whisked into bed! i blew out the candle: it was dark. 'well, now begin,' said i. there was silence. 'begin,' said i, 'you so and so!'... not a sound, as though to mock me. well, i began to feel so set up that i fell to calling it all sorts of names. but still there was not a sound! i could only hear the puppy panting! filka,' i cried, 'filka! come here, you stupid!' he came in. 'do you hear the dog?' 'no, sir,' said he, 'i hear nothing,' and he laughed. 'and you won't hear it ever again,' said i. 'here's half a rouble for vodka!' 'let me kiss your hand,' said the foolish fellow, and he stooped down to me in the darkness.... it was a great relief, i must tell you." "and was that how it all ended?" asked anton stepanitch, this time without irony. "the apparitions ended certainly and i was not disturbed in any way, but wait a bit, the whole business was not over yet. my trésor grew, he turned into a fine fellow. he was heavy, with flopping ears and overhanging lip and a thick tail; a regular sporting dog. and he was extremely attached to me, too. the shooting in our district is poor, however, as i had set up a dog, i got a gun, too. i took to sauntering round the neighbourhood with my trésor: sometimes one would hit a hare (and didn't he go after that hare, upon my soul), sometimes a quail, or a duck. but the great thing was that trésor was never a step away from me. where i went, he went; i even took him to the bath with me, i did really! one lady actually tried to get me turned out of her drawing-room on account of trésor, but i made such an uproar! the windows i broke! well, one day ... it was in summer ... and i must tell you there was a drought at the time such as nobody remembered. the air was full of smoke or haze. there was a smell of burning, the sun was like a molten bullet, and as for the dust there was no getting it out of one's nose and throat. people walked with their mouths wide open like crows. i got weary of sitting at home in complete deshabille, with shutters closed; and luckily the heat was beginning to abate a little.... so i went off, gentlemen, to see a lady, a neighbour of mine. she lived about three-quarters of a mile away--and she certainly was a benevolent lady. she was still young and blooming and of most prepossessing appearance; but she was of rather uncertain temper. though that is no harm in the fair sex; it even gives me pleasure.... well, i reached her door, and i did feel that i had had a hot time of it getting there! well, i thought, nimfodora semyonovna will regale me now with bilberry water and other cooling drinks--and i had already taken hold of the doorhandle when all at once there was the tramping of feet and shrieking, and shouting of boys from round the corner of a hut in the courtyard.... i looked round. good heavens! a huge reddish beast was rushing straight towards me; at the first glance i did not recognise it as a dog: its jaws were open, its eyes were bloodshot, its coat was bristling.... i had not time to take breath before the monster bounded up the steps, stood upon its hind legs and made straight for my chest--it was a position! i was numb with terror and could not lift my arms. i was completely stupefied.... i could see nothing but the terrible white tusks just before my nose, the red tongue all covered with white foam. but at the same instant, another dark body was whisking before me like a ball--it was my darling trésor defending me; and he hung like a leech on the brute's throat! the creature wheezed, grated its teeth and staggered back. i instantly flung open the door and got into the hall.... i stood hardly knowing what i was doing with my whole weight on the door, and heard a desperate battle going on outside. i began shouting and calling for help; everyone in the house was terribly upset. nimfodora semyonovna ran out with her hair down, the voices in the yard grew louder--and all at once i heard: 'hold the gate, hold it, fasten it!' i opened the door--just a crack, and looked out: the monster was no longer on the steps, the servants were rushing about the yard in confusion waving their hands and picking up bits of wood from the ground; they were quite crazy. 'to the village, it has run off to the village,' shrieked a peasant woman in a cap of extraordinary size poking her head out of a dormer window. i went out of the house. "'where is my trésor?' i asked and at once i saw my saviour. he was coming from the gate limping, covered with wounds and with blood.... 'what's the meaning of it?' i asked the servants who were dashing about the yard as though possessed. 'a mad dog!' they answered, 'the count's; it's been hanging about here since yesterday.' "we had a neighbour, a count, who bred very fierce foreign dogs. my knees shook; i rushed to a looking-glass and looked to see whether i had been bitten. no, thank god, there was nothing to be seen; only my countenance naturally looked green; while nimfodora semyonovna was lying on the sofa and cackling like a hen. well, that one could quite understand, in the first place nerves, in the second sensibility. she came to herself at last, though, and asked me whether i were alive. i answered that i was and that trésor had saved me. 'ah,' she said, 'what a noble creature! and so the mad dog has strangled him?' 'no,' i said, 'it has not strangled him, but has wounded him seriously.' 'oh,' she said, 'in that case he must be shot this minute!' 'oh, no,' i said, 'i won't agree to that. i shall try to cure him....' at that moment trésor began scratching at the door. i was about to go and open it for him. 'oh,' she said, 'what are you doing, why, it will bite us all.' 'upon my word,' i said, 'the poison does not act so quickly.' 'oh, how can you?' she said. 'why, you have taken leave of your senses!' 'nimfotchka,' i said, 'calm yourself, be reasonable....' but she suddenly cried, 'go away at once with your horrid dog.' 'i will go away,' said i. 'at once,' she said, 'this second! get along with you,' she said, 'you villain, and never dare to let me set eyes on you again. you may go mad yourself!' 'very good,' said i, 'only let me have a carriage for i am afraid to go home on foot now.' 'give him the carriage, the coach, the chaise, what he likes, only let him be gone quickly. oh, what eyes! oh, what eyes he has!' and with those words she whisked out of the room and gave a maid who met her a slap in the face--and i heard her in hysterics again. "and you may not believe me, gentlemen, but that very day i broke off all acquaintance with nimfodora semyonovna; on mature consideration of everything, i am bound to add that for that circumstance, too, i shall owe a debt of gratitude to my friend trésor to the hour of my death. "well, i had the carriage brought round, put my trésor in and drove home. when i got home i looked him over and washed his wounds, and thought i would take him next day as soon as it was light to the wise man in the yefremovsky district. and this wise man was an old peasant, a wonderful man: he would whisper over some water--and some people made out that he dropped some snake spittle into it--would give it as a draught, and the trouble would be gone completely. i thought, by the way, i would be bled myself at yefremovo: it's a good thing as a precaution against fright, only not from the arm, of course, but from the falcon." "what place is that, the falcon?" mr. finoplentov asked with demure curiosity. "why, don't you know? it is here on the fist near the thumb, the spot on which one shakes the snuff from one's horn, just here. it's the best place for letting blood. for only consider, the blood from the arm comes from the vein, but here it is of no consequence. the doctors don't know that and don't understand it, how should they, the idle drones, the wretched germans? it's the blacksmiths who go in for it. and aren't they skilful! they get a chisel, give it a tap with a hammer and it's done! ... well, while i was thinking it over, it got quite dark, it was time for bed. i went to bed and trésor, of course, was close by me. but whether it was from the fight, from the stuffiness, from the fleas or from my thoughts, i could not get to sleep, do what i would! i can't describe the depression that came over me; i sipped water, opened the window and played the 'kamarinsky' with italian variations on the guitar.... no good! i felt i must get out of the room--and that was all about it! i made up my mind at last: i took my pillow, my quilt and my sheet and made my way across the garden to the hayloft; and settled myself there. and how pleasant i felt in there, gentlemen: it was a still, still night, only from time to time a breath of air like a woman's hand caressed one's cheek; it was so fresh; the hay smelt as sweet as tea; among the apple trees' the grasshoppers were chirping; then all at once came the cry of the quail--and one felt that he, too, the rogue, was happy, sitting in the dew with his little lady.... and the sky was magnificent.... the stars were glowing, or a cloud would float by, white as cotton wool, scarcely moving...." at this point in the story skvorevitch sneezed; kinarevitch sneezed, too--he never failed in anything to follow his colleague's example. anton stepanitch looked approvingly at both of them. "well," porfiry kapitonitch went on, "well, so i lay there and again could not go to sleep. i fell to musing, and what i thought of most was the strangeness of it all: how correctly prohoritch had explained it as a warning and i wondered why it was to me such marvels had happened.... i marvelled--particularly because i could make nothing of it--and trésor kept whining, as he twisted round in the hay; his wounds hurt him. and i will tell you what else prevented me from sleeping--you won't believe it--the moon. it was just facing me, so big and round and yellow and flat, and it seemed to me that it was staring at me, it really did. and so insolently, so persistently.... i put out my tongue at it at last, i really did. what are you so inquisitive about? i thought. i turned away from it and it seemed to be creeping into my ear and shining on the back of my head, so that i felt caught in it as in rain; i opened my eyes and every blade of grass, every paltry being in the hay, the most flimsy spider's web--all were standing out as though they were chiselled! as though asking to be looked at! there was no help for it: i leaned my head on my hand and began gazing. and i couldn't help it: would you believe it: my eyes bulged out like a hare's; they opened so wide--as though they did not know what sleep was! it seemed as though i would devour it all with my eyes. the doors of the barn were wide open; i could see for four miles into the open country, distinctly and yet not, as it always is on a moonlight night. i gazed and gazed without blinking.... and all at once it seemed as though something were moving, far, far away ... like a faint glimmer in the distance. a little time passed: again the shadow stirred--now a little nearer; then again nearer still. 'what can it be?' i wondered, 'a hare, no,' i thought, 'it is bigger than a hare and its action is not the same.' i looked, and again the shadow came in sight, and was moving across the grazing meadow (the meadow looked whitish in the moonlight) like a big blur; it was clear that it was a wild animal, a fox or a wolf. my heart seemed to stand still ... though one might wonder why i was frightened. all sorts of wild creatures run about the fields at night. but curiosity was even stronger than fear. i sat up, i opened my eyes wide and i turned cold all over. i felt frozen, as though i had been thrust into the ice, up to my ears, and why? the lord only knows! and i saw the shadow growing and growing, so it was running straight towards the barn. and i began to realise that it certainly was a wild beast, big, with a huge head.... he flew like a whirlwind, like a bullet.... holy saints! what was it? he stopped all at once, as though he scented something.... why it was ... the same mad dog! it was ... it was! heavens! and i could not stir, i could not cry out.... it darted to the doors, with glittering eyes, howled and dashed through the hay straight at me! "out of the hay like a lion leapt my trésor, here he was. they hung on to each other's jaws and rolled on the ground. what happened then i don't remember; all i remember is that i flew headlong between them into the garden, and home and into my bedroom and almost crept under the bed--why not make a clean breast of it? and what leaps, what bounds i took in the garden! the _prémiere danseuse_ dancing before the emperor napoleon on his nameday couldn't have kept pace with me. however, when i had recovered myself a little, i roused the whole household; i ordered them all to arm themselves, i myself took a sword and a revolver (i bought that revolver, i must own, soon after the emancipation, you know, in case anything should happen, but it turned out the man who sold it was such a rogue--it would be sure to miss fire twice out of every three shots). well, i took all this and so we went, a regular horde of us with stakes and lanterns, to the barn. we approached and called--there was not a sound; at last we went into the barn.... and what did we see? my poor trésor lay dead with his throat torn open, and of the other, the damned brute, not a trace to be seen! "and then, gentlemen, i howled like a calf and i am not ashamed to say so; i stooped down to the friend who had saved my life twice over and kissed his head, again and again. and i stayed in that position until my old housekeeper, praskovya (she, too, had run in at the uproar), brought me to my senses. 'how can you, porfiry kapitonitch,' she said, 'distress yourself so about a dog? and you will catch cold, too, god forbid.' (i was very lightly clad.) 'and if this dog has lost his life in saving you, it may be taken as a great blessing vouchsafed him!' "though i did not agree with praskovya, i went home. and next day a soldier of the garrison shot the mad dog. and it must have been its destined end: it was the first time in his life that the soldier had fired a gun, though he had a medal for service in 1812. so this was the supernatural incident that happened to me." the speaker ceased and began filling his pipe. we all looked at each other in amazement. "well, perhaps, you have led a very virtuous life," mr. finoplentov began, "so in recompense ..." but he broke off at that word, for he saw porfiry kapitonitch's cheeks grow round and flushed while his eyes screwed up--he was on the point of breaking into a guffaw. "but if one admits the possibility of the supernatural, the possibility of its participation in everyday life, so to say," anton stepanitch began again, "then allow me to ask, what becomes of common sense?" none of us found anything to say in reply and we remained in perplexity as before. 1866. * * * * * the watch an old man's story i i will tell you my adventures with a watch. it is a curious story. it happened at the very beginning of this century, in 1801. i had just reached my sixteenth year. i was living at ryazan in a little wooden house not far from the bank of the river oka with my father, my aunt and my cousin; my mother i do not remember; she died three years after her marriage; my father had no other children. his name was porfiry petrovitch. he was a quiet man, sickly and unattractive in appearance; he was employed in some sort of legal and--other--business. in old days such were called attorneys, sharpers, nettle-seeds; he called himself a lawyer. our domestic life was presided over by his sister, my aunt, an old maiden lady of fifty; my father, too, had passed his fourth decade. my aunt was very pious, or, to speak bluntly, she was a canting hypocrite and a chattering magpie, who poked her nose into everything; and, indeed, she had not a kind heart like my father. we were not badly off, but had nothing to spare. my father had a brother called yegor; but he had been sent to siberia in the year 1797 for some "seditious acts and jacobin tendencies" (those were the words of the accusation). yegor's son david, my cousin, was left on my father's hands and lived with us. he was only one year older than i; but i respected him and obeyed him as though he were quite grown up. he was a sensible fellow with character; in appearance, thick-set and broad-shouldered with a square face covered with freckles, with red hair, small grey eyes, thick lips, a short nose, and short fingers--a sturdy lad, in fact--and strong for his age! my aunt could not endure him; my father was positively afraid of him ... or perhaps he felt himself to blame towards him. there was a rumour that, if my father had not given his brother away, david's father would not have been sent to siberia. we were both at the high school and in the same class and both fairly high up in it; i was, indeed, a little better at my lessons than david. i had a good memory but boys--as we all know!--do not think much of such superiority, and david remained my leader. ii my name--you know--is alexey. i was born on the seventh of march and my name-day is the seventeenth. in accordance with the old-fashioned custom, i was given the name of the saint whose festival fell on the tenth day after my birth. my godfather was a certain anastasy anastasyevitch putchkov, or more exactly nastasey nastasyeitch, for that was what everyone called him. he was a terribly shifty, pettifogging knave and bribe-taker--a thoroughly bad man; he had been turned out of the provincial treasury and had had to stand his trial on more than one occasion; he was often of use to my father.... they used to "do business" together. in appearance he was a round, podgy figure; and his face was like a fox's with a nose like an owl's. his eyes were brown, bright, also like a fox's, and he was always moving them, those eyes, to right and to left, and he twitched his nose, too, as though he were sniffing the air. he wore shoes without heels, and wore powder every day, which was looked upon as very exceptional in the provinces. he used to declare that he could not go without powder as he had to associate with generals and their ladies. well, my name-day had come. nastasey nastasyeitch came to the house and said: "i have never made you a present up to now, godson, but to make up for that, look what a fine thing i have brought you to-day." and he took out of his pocket a silver watch, a regular turnip, with a rose tree engraved on the face and a brass chain. i was overwhelmed with delight, while my aunt, pelageya petrovna, shouted at the top of her voice: "kiss his hand, kiss his hand, dirty brat!" i proceeded to kiss my godfather's hand, while my aunt went piping on: "oh, nastasey nastasyeitch! why do you spoil him like this? how can he take care of a watch? he will be sure to drop it, break it, or spoil it." my father walked in, looked at the watch, thanked nastasey nastasyeitch--somewhat carelessly, and invited him to his study. and i heard my father say, as though to himself: "if you think to get off _with that_, my man...." but i could not stay still. i put on the watch and rushed headlong to show my present to david. iii david took the watch, opened it and examined it attentively. he had great mechanical ability; he liked having to do with iron, copper, and metals of all sorts; he had provided himself with various instruments, and it was nothing for him to mend or even to make a screw, a key or anything of that kind. david turned the watch about in his hands and muttering through his teeth (he was not talkative as a rule): "oh ... poor ..." added, "where did you get it?" i told him that my godfather had given it me. david turned his little grey eyes upon me: "nastasey?" "yes, nastasey nastasyeitch." david laid the watch on the table and walked away without a word. "do you like it?" i asked. "well, it isn't that.... but if i were you, i would not take any sort of present from nastasey." "why?" "because he is a contemptible person; and you ought not to be under an obligation to a contemptible person. and to say thank you to him, too. i suppose you kissed his hand?" "yes, aunt made me." david grinned--a peculiar grin--to himself. that was his way. he never laughed aloud; he considered laughter a sign of feebleness. david's words, his silent grin, wounded me deeply. "so he inwardly despises me," i thought. "so i, too, am contemptible in his eyes. he would never have stooped to this himself! he would not have accepted presents from nastasey. but what am i to do now?" give back the watch? impossible! i did try to talk to david, to ask his advice. he told me that he never gave advice to anyone and that i had better do as i thought best. as i thought best!! i remember i did not sleep all night afterwards: i was in agonies of indecision. i was sorry to lose the watch--i had laid it on the little table beside my bed; its ticking was so pleasant and amusing ... but to feel that david despised me (yes, it was useless to deceive myself, he did despise me) ... that seemed to me unbearable. towards morning a determination had taken shape in me ... i wept, it is true--but i fell asleep upon it, and as soon as i woke up, i dressed in haste and ran out into the street. i had made up my mind to give my watch to the first poor person i met. iv i had not run far from home when i hit upon what i was looking for. i came across a barelegged boy of ten, a ragged urchin, who was often hanging about near our house. i dashed up to him at once and, without giving him or myself time to recover, offered him my watch. the boy stared at me round-eyed, put one hand before his mouth, as though he were afraid of being scalded--and held out the other. "take it, take it," i muttered, "it's mine, i give it you, you can sell it, and buy yourself ... something you want.... good-bye." i thrust the watch into his hand--and went home at a gallop. stopping for a moment at the door of our common bedroom to recover my breath, i went up to david who had just finished dressing and was combing his hair. "do you know what, david?" i said in as unconcerned a tone as i could, "i have given away nastasey's watch." david looked at me and passed the brush over his temples. "yes," i added in the same businesslike voice, "i have given it away. there is a very poor boy, a beggar, you know, so i have given it to him." david put down the brush on the washing-stand. "he can buy something useful," i went on, "with the money he can get for it. anyway, he will get something for it." i paused. "well," david said at last, "that's a good thing," and he went off to the schoolroom. i followed him. "and if they ask you what you have done with it?" he said, turning to me. "i shall tell them i've lost it," i answered carelessly. no more was said about the watch between us that day; but i had the feeling that david not only approved of what i had done but ... was to some extent surprised by it. he really was! v two days more passed. it happened that no one in the house thought of the watch. my father was taken up with a very serious unpleasantness with one of his clients; he had no attention to spare for me or my watch. i, on the other hand, thought of it without ceasing! even the approval ... the presumed approval of david did not quite comfort me. he did not show it in any special way: the only thing he said, and that casually, was that he hadn't expected such recklessness of me. certainly i was a loser by my sacrifice: it was not counter-balanced by the gratification afforded me by my vanity. and what is more, as ill-luck would have it, another schoolfellow of ours, the son of the town doctor, must needs turn up and begin boasting of a new watch, a present from his grandmother, and not even a silver, but a pinch-back one.... i could not bear it, at last, and, without a word to anyone, slipped out of the house and proceeded to hunt for the beggar boy to whom i had given my watch. i soon found him; he was playing knucklebones in the churchyard with some other boys. i called him aside--and, breathless and stammering, told him that my family were angry with me for having given away the watch--and that if he would consent to give it back to me i would gladly pay him for it.... to be ready for any emergency, i had brought with me an old-fashioned rouble of the reign of elizabeth, which represented the whole of my fortune. "but i haven't got it, your watch," answered the boy in an angry and tearful voice; "my father saw it and took it away from me; and he was for thrashing me, too. 'you must have stolen it from somewhere,' he said. 'what fool is going to make you a present of a watch?'" "and who is your father?" "my father? trofimitch." "but what is he? what's his trade?" "he is an old soldier, a sergeant. and he has no trade at all. he mends old shoes, he re-soles them. that's all his trade. that's what he lives by." "where do you live? take me to him." "to be sure i will. you tell my father that you gave me the watch. for he keeps pitching into me, and calling me a thief! and my mother, too. 'who is it you are taking after,' she says, 'to be a thief?'" i set off with the boy to his home. they lived in a smoky hut in the back-yard of a factory, which had long ago been burnt down and not rebuilt. we found both trofimitch and his wife at home. the discharged sergeant was a tall old man, erect and sinewy, with yellowish grey whiskers, an unshaven chin and a perfect network of wrinkles on his cheeks and forehead. his wife looked older than he. her red eyes, which looked buried in her unhealthily puffy face, kept blinking dejectedly. some sort of dark rags hung about them by way of clothes. i explained to trofimitch what i wanted and why i had come. he listened to me in silence without once winking or moving from me his stupid and strained--typically soldierly--eyes. "whims and fancies!" he brought out at last in a husky, toothless bass. "is that the way gentlemen behave? and if petka really did not steal the watch--then i'll give him one for that! to teach him not to play the fool with little gentlemen! and if he did steal it, then i would give it to him in a very different style, whack, whack, whack! with the flat of a sword; in horseguard's fashion! no need to think twice about it! what's the meaning of it? eh? go for them with sabres! here's a nice business! tfoo!" this last interjection trofimitch pronounced in a falsetto. he was obviously perplexed. "if you are willing to restore the watch to me," i explained to him--i did not dare to address him familiarly in spite of his being a soldier--"i will with pleasure pay you this rouble here. the watch is not worth more, i imagine." "well!" growled trofimitch, still amazed and, from old habit, devouring me with his eyes as though i were his superior officer. "it's a queer business, eh? well, there it is, no understanding it. ulyana, hold your tongue!" he snapped out at his wife who was opening her mouth. "here's the watch," he added, opening the table drawer; "if it really is yours, take it by all means; but what's the rouble for? eh?" "take the rouble, trofimitch, you senseless man," wailed his wife. "you have gone crazy in your old age! we have not a half-rouble between us, and then you stand on your dignity! it was no good their cutting off your pigtail, you are a regular old woman just the same! how can you go on like that--when you know nothing about it? ... take the money, if you have a fancy to give back the watch!" "ulyana, hold your tongue, you dirty slut!" trofimitch repeated. "whoever heard of such a thing, talking away? eh? the husband is the head; and yet she talks! petka, don't budge, i'll kill you.... here's the watch!" trofimitch held out the watch to me, but did not let go of it. he pondered, looked down, then fixed the same intent, stupid stare upon me. then all at once bawled at the top of his voice: "where is it? where's your rouble?" "here it is, here it is," i responded hurriedly and i snatched the coin out of my pocket. but he did not take it, he still stared at me. i laid the rouble on the table. he suddenly brushed it into the drawer, thrust the watch into my hand and wheeling to the left with a loud stamp, he hissed at his wife and his son: "get along, you low wretches!" ulyana muttered something, but i had already dashed out into the yard and into the street. thrusting the watch to the very bottom of my pocket and clutching it tightly in my hand, i hurried home. vi i had regained the possession of my watch but it afforded me no satisfaction whatever. i did not venture to wear it, it was above all necessary to conceal from david what i had done. what would he think of me, of my lack of will? i could not even lock up the luckless watch in a drawer: we had all our drawers in common. i had to hide it, sometimes on the top of the cupboard, sometimes under my mattress, sometimes behind the stove.... and yet i did not succeed in hoodwinking david. one day i took the watch from under a plank in the floor of our room and proceeded to rub the silver case with an old chamois leather glove. david had gone off somewhere in the town; i did not at all expect him to be back quickly.... suddenly he was in the doorway. i was so overcome that i almost dropped the watch, and, utterly disconcerted, my face painfully flushing crimson, i fell to fumbling about my waistcoat with it, unable to find my pocket. david looked at me and, as usual, smiled without speaking. "what's the matter?" he brought out at last. "you imagined i didn't know you had your watch again? i saw it the very day you brought it back." "i assure you," i began, almost on the point of tears.... david shrugged his shoulders. "the watch is yours, you are free to do what you like with it." saying these cruel words, he went out. i was overwhelmed with despair. this time there could be no doubt! david certainly despised me. i could not leave it so. "i will show him," i thought, clenching my teeth, and at once with a firm step i went into the passage, found our page-boy, yushka, and presented him with the watch! yushka would have refused it, but i declared that if he did not take the watch from me i would smash it that very minute, trample it under foot, break it to bits and throw it in the cesspool! he thought a moment, giggled, and took the watch. i went back to our room and seeing david reading there, i told him what i had done. david did not take his eyes off the page and, again shrugging his shoulder and smiling to himself, repeated that the watch was mine and that i was free to do what i liked with it. but it seemed to me that he already despised me a little less. i was fully persuaded that i should never again expose myself to the reproach of weakness of character, for the watch, the disgusting present from my disgusting godfather, had suddenly grown so distasteful to me that i was quite incapable of understanding how i could have regretted it, how i could have begged for it back from the wretched trofimitch, who had, moreover, the right to think that he had treated me with generosity. several days passed.... i remember that on one of them the great news reached our town that the emperor paul was dead and his son alexandr, of whose graciousness and humanity there were such favourable rumours, had ascended the throne. this news excited david intensely: the possibility of seeing--of shortly seeing--his father occurred to him at once. my father was delighted, too. "they will bring back all the exiles from siberia now and i expect brother yegor will not be forgotten," he kept repeating, rubbing his hands, coughing and, at the same time, seeming rather nervous. david and i at once gave up working and going to the high school; we did not even go for walks but sat in a corner counting and reckoning in how many months, in how many weeks, in how many days "brother yegor" ought to come back and where to write to him and how to go to meet him and in what way we should begin to live afterwards. "brother yegor" was an architect: david and i decided that he ought to settle in moscow and there build big schools for poor people and we would go to be his assistants. the watch, of course, we had completely forgotten; besides, david had new cares.... of them i will speak later, but the watch was destined to remind us of its existence again. vii one morning we had only just finished lunch--i was sitting alone by the window thinking of my uncle's release--outside there was the steam and glitter of an april thaw--when all at once my aunt, pelageya petrovna, walked into the room. she was at all times restless and fidgetty, she spoke in a shrill voice and was always waving her arms about; on this occasion she simply pounced on me. "go along, go to your father at once, sir!" she snapped out. "what pranks have you been up to, you shameless boy! you will catch it, both of you. nastasey nastasyeitch has shown up all your tricks! go along, your father wants you.... go along this very minute." understanding nothing, i followed my aunt, and, as i crossed the threshold of the drawing-room, i saw my father, striding up and down and ruffling up his hair, yushka in tears by the door and, sitting on a chair in the corner, my godfather, nastasey nastasyeitch, with an expression of peculiar malignancy in his distended nostrils and in his fiery, slanting eyes. my father swooped down upon me as soon as i walked in. "did you give your watch to yushka? tell me!" i glanced at yushka. "tell me," repeated my father, stamping. "yes," i answered, and immediately received a stinging slap in the face, which afforded my aunt great satisfaction. i heard her gulp, as though she had swallowed some hot tea. from me my father ran to yushka. "and you, you rascal, ought not to have dared to accept such a present," he said, pulling him by the hair: "and you sold it, too, you good-for-nothing boy!" yushka, as i learned later had, in the simplicity of his heart, taken my watch to a neighbouring watchmaker's. the watchmaker had displayed it in his shop-window; nastasey nastasyeitch had seen it, as he passed by, bought it and brought it along with him. however, my ordeal and yushka's did not last long: my father gasped for breath, and coughed till he choked; indeed, it was not in his character to be angry long. "brother, porfiry petrovitch," observed my aunt, as soon as she noticed not without regret that my father's anger had, so to speak, flickered out, "don't you worry yourself further: it's not worth dirtying your hands over. i tell you what i suggest: with the consent of our honoured friend, nastasey nastasyeitch, in consideration of the base ingratitude of your son--i will take charge of the watch; and since he has shown by his conduct that he is not worthy to wear it and does not even understand its value, i will present it in your name to a person who will be very sensible of your kindness." "whom do you mean?" asked my father. "to hrisanf lukitch," my aunt articulated, with slight hesitation. "to hrisashka?" asked my father, and with a wave of his hand, he added: "it's all one to me. you can throw it in the stove, if you like." he buttoned up his open vest and went out, writhing from his coughing. "and you, my good friend, do you agree?" said my aunt, addressing nastasey nastasyeitch. "i am quite agreeable," responded the latter. during the whole proceedings he had not stirred and only snorting stealthily and stealthily rubbing the ends of his fingers, had fixed his foxy eyes by turns on me, on my father, and on yushka. we afforded him real gratification! my aunt's suggestion revolted me to the depths of my soul. it was not that i regretted the watch; but the person to whom she proposed to present it was absolutely hateful to me. this hrisanf lukitch (his surname was trankvillitatin), a stalwart, robust, lanky divinity student, was in the habit of coming to our house--goodness knows what for!--to help the _children_ with their lessons, my aunt asserted; but he could not help us with our lessons because he had never learnt anything himself and was as stupid as a horse. he was rather like a horse altogether: he thudded with his feet as though they had been hoofs, did not laugh but neighed, opening his jaws till you could see right down his throat--and he had a long face, a hooked nose and big, flat jaw-bones; he wore a shaggy frieze, full-skirted coat, and smelt of raw meat. my aunt idolised him and called him a good-looking man, a cavalier and even a grenadier. he had a habit of tapping children on the forehead with the nails of his long fingers, hard as stones (he used to do it to me when i was younger), and as he tapped he would chuckle and say with surprise: "how your head resounds, it must be empty." and this lout was to possess my watch!--no, indeed, i determined in my own mind as i ran out of the drawing-room and flung myself on my bed, while my cheek glowed crimson from the slap i had received and my heart, too, was aglow with the bitterness of the insult and the thirst for revenge--no, indeed! i would not allow that cursed hrisashka to jeer at me.... he would put on the watch, let the chain hang over his stomach, would neigh with delight; no, indeed! "quite so, but how was it to be done, how to prevent it?" i determined to steal the watch from my aunt. viii luckily trankvillitatin was away from the town at the time: he could not come to us before the next day; i must take advantage of the night! my aunt did not lock her bedroom door and, indeed, none of the keys in the house would turn in the locks; but where would she put the watch, where would she hide it? she kept it in her pocket till the evening and even took it out and looked at it more than once; but at night--where would it be at night?--well, that was just my work to find out, i thought, shaking my fists. i was burning with boldness and terror and joy at the thought of the approaching crime. i was continually nodding to myself; i knitted my brows. i whispered: "wait a bit!" i threatened someone, i was wicked, i was dangerous ... and i avoided david!--no one, not even he, must have the slightest suspicion of what i meant to do.... i would act alone and alone i would answer for it! slowly the day lagged by, then the evening, at last the night came. i did nothing; i even tried not to move: one thought was stuck in my head like a nail. at dinner my father, who was, as i have said, naturally gentle, and who was a little ashamed of his harshness--boys of sixteen are not slapped in the face--tried to be affectionate to me; but i rejected his overtures, not from slowness to forgive, as he imagined at the time, but simply that i was afraid of my feelings getting the better of me; i wanted to preserve untouched all the heat of my vengeance, all the hardness of unalterable determination. i went to bed very early; but of course i did not sleep and did not even shut my eyes, but on the contrary opened them wide, though i did pull the quilt over my head. i did not consider beforehand how to act. i had no plan of any kind; i only waited till everything should be quiet in the house. i only took one step: i did not remove my stockings. my aunt's room was on the second floor. one had to pass through the dining-room and the hall, go up the stairs, pass along a little passage and there ... on the right was the door! i must not on any account take with me a candle or a lantern; in the corner of my aunt's room a little lamp was always burning before the ikon shrine; i knew that. so i should be able to see. i still lay with staring eyes and my mouth open and parched; the blood was throbbing in my temples, in my ears, in my throat, in my back, all over me! i waited ... but it seemed as though some demon were mocking me; time passed and passed but still silence did not reign. ix never, i thought, had david been so late getting to sleep.... david, the silent david, even began talking to me! never had they gone on so long banging, talking, walking about the house! and what could they be talking about? i wondered; as though they had not had the whole day to talk in! sounds outside persisted, too; first a dog barked on a shrill, obstinate note; then a drunken peasant was making an uproar somewhere and would not be pacified; then gates kept creaking; then a wretched cart on racketty wheels kept passing and passing and seeming as though it would never pass! however, these sounds did not worry me: on the contrary, i was glad of them; they seemed to distract my attention. but now at last it seemed as though all were tranquil. only the pendulum of our old clock ticked gravely and drowsily in the dining-room and there was an even drawn-out sound like the hard breathing of people asleep. i was on the point of getting up, then again something rustled ... then suddenly sighed, something soft fell down ... and a whisper glided along the walls. or was there nothing of the sort--and was it only imagination mocking me? at last all was still. it was the very heart, the very dead of night. the time had come! chill with anticipation, i threw off the bedclothes, let my feet down to the floor, stood up ... one step; a second.... i stole along, my feet, heavy as though they did not belong to me, trod feebly and uncertainly. stay! what was that sound? someone sawing, somewhere, or scraping ... or sighing? i listened ... i felt my cheeks twitching and cold watery tears came into my eyes. nothing! ... i stole on again. it was dark but i knew the way. all at once i stumbled against a chair.... what a bang and how it hurt! it hit me just on my leg.... i stood stock still. well, did that wake them? ah! here goes! suddenly i felt bold and even spiteful. on! on! now the dining-room was crossed, then the door was groped for and opened at one swing. the cursed hinge squeaked, bother it! then i went up the stairs, one! two! one! two! a step creaked under my foot; i looked at it spitefully, just as though i could see it. then i stretched for the handle of another door. this one made not the slightest sound! it flew open so easily, as though to say, "pray walk in." ... and now i was in the corridor! in the corridor there was a little window high up under the ceiling, a faint light filtered in through the dark panes. and in that glimmer of light i could see our little errand girl lying on the floor on a mat, both arms behind her tousled head; she was sound asleep, breathing rapidly and the fatal door was just behind her head. i stepped across the mat, across the girl ... who opened that door? ... i don't know, but there i was in my aunt's room. there was the little lamp in one corner and the bed in the other and my aunt in her cap and night jacket on the bed with her face towards me. she was asleep, she did not stir, i could not even hear her breathing. the flame of the little lamp softly flickered, stirred by the draught of fresh air, and shadows stirred all over the room, even over the motionless wax-like yellow face of my aunt.... and there was the watch! it was hanging on a little embroidered cushion on the wall behind the bed. what luck, only think of it! nothing to delay me! but whose steps were those, soft and rapid behind my back? oh! no! it was my heart beating! ... i moved my legs forward.... good god! something round and rather large pushed against me below my knee, once and again! i was ready to scream, i was ready to drop with horror.... a striped cat, our own cat, was standing before me arching his back and wagging his tail. then he leapt on the bed--softly and heavily--turned round and sat without purring, exactly like a judge; he sat and looked at me with his golden pupils. "puss, puss," i whispered, hardly audibly. i bent across my aunt, i had already snatched the watch. she suddenly sat up and opened her eyelids wide.... heavenly father, what next? ... but her eyelids quivered and closed and with a faint murmur her head sank on the pillow. a minute later i was back again in my own room, in my own bed and the watch was in my hands.... more lightly than a feather i flew back! i was a fine fellow, i was a thief, i was a hero, i was gasping with delight, i was hot, i was gleeful--i wanted to wake david at once to tell him all about it--and, incredible as it sounds, i fell asleep and slept like the dead! at last i opened my eyes.... it was light in the room, the sun had risen. luckily no one was awake yet. i jumped up as though i had been scalded, woke david and told him all about it. he listened, smiled. "do you know what?" he said to me at last, "let's bury the silly watch in the earth, so that it may never be seen again." i thought his idea best of all. in a few minutes we were both dressed; we ran out into the orchard behind our house and under an old apple tree in a deep hole, hurriedly scooped out in the soft, springy earth with david's big knife, my godfather's hated present was hidden forever, so that it never got into the hands of the disgusting trankvillitatin after all! we stamped down the hole, strewed rubbish over it and, proud and happy, unnoticed by anyone, went home again, got into our beds and slept another hour or two--and such a light and blissful sleep! x you can imagine the uproar there was that morning, as soon as my aunt woke up and missed the watch! her piercing shriek is ringing in my ears to this day. "help! robbed! robbed!" she squealed, and alarmed the whole household. she was furious, while david and i only smiled to ourselves and sweet was our smile to us. "everyone, everyone must be well thrashed!" bawled my aunt. "the watch has been stolen from under my head, from under my pillow!" we were prepared for anything, we expected trouble.... but contrary to our expectations we did not get into trouble at all. my father certainly did fume dreadfully at first, he even talked of the police; but i suppose he was bored with the enquiry of the day before and suddenly, to my aunt's indescribable amazement, he flew out not against us but against her. "you sicken me worse than a bitter radish, pelageya petrovna," he shouted, "with your watch. i don't want to hear any more about it! it can't be lost by magic, you say, but what's it to do with me? it may be magic for all i care! stolen from you? well, good luck to it then! what will nastasey nastasyeitch say? damnation take him, your nastasyeitch! i get nothing but annoyances and unpleasantness from him! don't dare to worry me again! do you hear?" my father slammed the door and went off to his own room. david and i did not at first understand the allusion in his last words; but afterwards we found out that my father was just then violently indignant with my godfather, who had done him out of a profitable job. so my aunt was left looking a fool. she almost burst with vexation, but there was no help for it. she had to confine herself to repeating in a sharp whisper, twisting her mouth in my direction whenever she passed me, "thief, thief, robber, scoundrel." my aunt's reproaches were a source of real enjoyment to me. it was very agreeable, too, as i crossed the flower-garden, to let my eye with assumed indifference glide over the very spot where the watch lay at rest under the apple-tree; and if david were close at hand to exchange a meaning grimace with him.... my aunt tried setting trankvillitatin upon me; but i appealed to david. he told the stalwart divinity student bluntly that he would rip up his belly with a knife if he did not leave me alone.... trankvillitatin was frightened; though, according to my aunt, he was a grenadier and a cavalier he was not remarkable for valour. so passed five weeks.... but do you imagine that the story of the watch ended there? no, it did not; only to continue my story i must introduce a new character; and to introduce that new character i must go back a little. xi my father had for many years been on very friendly, even intimate terms with a retired government clerk called latkin, a lame little man in poor circumstances with queer, timid manners, one of those creatures of whom it is commonly said that they are crushed by god himself. like my father and nastasey, he was engaged in the humbler class of legal work and acted as legal adviser and agent. but possessing neither a presentable appearance nor the gift of words and having little confidence in himself, he did not venture to act independently but attached himself to my father. his handwriting was "regular beadwork," he knew the law thoroughly and had mastered all the intricacies of the jargon of petitions and legal documents. he had managed various cases with my father and had shared with him gains and losses and it seemed as though nothing could shake their friendship, and yet it broke down in one day and forever. my father quarrelled with his colleague for good. if latkin had snatched a profitable job from my father, after the fashion of nastasey, who replaced him later on, my father would have been no more indignant with him than with nastasey, probably less. but latkin, under the influence of an unexplained, incomprehensible feeling, envy, greed--or perhaps even a momentary fit of honesty--"gave away" my father, betrayed him to their common client, a wealthy young merchant, opening this careless young man's eyes to a certain--well, piece of sharp practice, destined to bring my father considerable profit. it was not the money loss, however great--no--but the betrayal that wounded and infuriated my father; he could not forgive treachery. "so he sets himself up for a saint!" he repeated, trembling all over with anger, his teeth chattering as though he were in a fever. i happened to be in the room and was a witness of this ugly scene. "good. amen, from today. it's all over between us. there's the ikon and there's the door! neither you in my house nor i in yours. you are too honest for us. how can we keep company with you? but may you have no house nor home!" it was in vain that latkin entreated my father and bowed down before him; it was in vain that he tried to explain to him what filled his own soul with painful perplexity. "you know it was with no sort of profit to myself, porfiry petrovitch," he faltered: "why, i cut my own throat!" my father remained implacable. latkin never set foot in our house again. fate itself seemed determined to carry out my father's last cruel words. soon after the rupture (which took place two years before the beginning of my story), latkin's wife, who had, it is true, been ill for a long time, died; his second daughter, a child three years old, became deaf and dumb in one day from terror; a swarm of bees had settled on her head; latkin himself had an apoplectic stroke and sank into extreme and hopeless poverty. how he struggled on, what he lived upon--it is hard to imagine. he lived in a dilapidated hovel at no great distance from our house. his elder daughter raissa lived with him and kept house, so far as that was possible. this raissa is the character whom i must now introduce into our story. xii when her father was on friendly terms with mine, we used to see her continually. she would sit with us for hours at a time, either sewing, or spinning with her delicate, rapid, clever fingers. she was a well-made, rather thin girl, with intelligent brown eyes and a long, white, oval face. she talked little but sensibly in a soft, musical voice, barely opening her mouth and not showing her teeth. when she laughed--which happened rarely and never lasted long--they were all suddenly displayed, big and white as almonds. i remember her gait, too, light, elastic, with a little skip at each step. it always seemed to me that she was going down a flight of steps, even when she was walking on level ground. she held herself erect with her arms folded tightly over her bosom. and whatever she was doing, whatever she undertook, if she were only threading a needle or ironing a petticoat--the effect was always beautiful and somehow--you may not believe it--touching. her christian name was raissa, but we used to call her black-lip: she had on her upper lip a birthmark; a little dark-bluish spot, as though she had been eating blackberries; but that did not spoil her: on the contrary. she was just a year older than david. i cherished for her a feeling akin to respect, but we were not great friends. but between her and david a friendship had sprung up, a strange, unchildlike but good friendship. they somehow suited each other. sometimes they did not exchange a word for hours together, but both felt that they were happy and happy because they were together. i had never met a girl like her, really. there was something attentive and resolute about her, something honest and mournful and charming. i never heard her say anything very intelligent, but i never heard her say anything commonplace, and i have never seen more intelligent eyes. after the rupture between her family and mine i saw her less frequently: my father sternly forbade my visiting the latkins, and she did not appear in our house again. but i met her in the street, in church and black-lip always aroused in me the same feeling--respect and even some wonder, rather than pity. she bore her misfortunes very well indeed. "the girl is flint," even coarse-witted, trankvillitatin said about her once, but really she ought to have been pitied: her face acquired a careworn, exhausted expression, her eyes were hollow and sunken, a burden beyond her strength lay on her young shoulders. david saw her much oftener than i did; he used to go to their house. my father gave him up in despair: he knew that david would not obey him, anyway. and from time to time raissa would appear at the hurdle fence of our garden which looked into a lane and there have an interview with david; she did not come for the sake of conversation, but told him of some new difficulty or trouble and asked his advice. the paralysis that had attacked latkin was of a rather peculiar kind. his arms and legs had grown feeble, but he had not lost the use of them, and his brain indeed worked perfectly; but his speech was muddled and instead of one word he would pronounce another: one had to guess what it was he wanted to say.... "tchoo--tchoo--tchoo," he would stammer with an effort--he began every sentence with "tchoo--tchoo--tchoo, some scissors, some scissors," ... and the word scissors meant bread.... my father, he hated with all the strength left him--he attributed all his misfortunes to my father's curse and called him alternately the butcher and the diamond-merchant. "tchoo, tchoo, don't you dare to go to the butcher's, vassilyevna." this was what he called his daughter though his own name was martinyan. every day he became more exacting; his needs increased.... and how were those needs to be satisfied? where could the money be found? sorrow soon makes one old: but it was horrible to hear some words on the lips of a girl of seventeen. xiii i remember i happened to be present at a conversation with david over the fence, on the very day of her mother's death. "mother died this morning at daybreak," she said, first looking round with her dark expressive eyes and then fixing them on the ground. "cook undertook to get a coffin cheap but she's not to be trusted; she may spend the money on drink, even. you might come and look after her, davidushka, she's afraid of you." "i will come," answered david. "i will see to it. and how's your father?" "he cries; he says: 'you must spoil me, too.' spoil must mean bury. now he has gone to sleep." raissa suddenly gave a deep sigh. "oh, davidushka, davidushka!" she passed her half-clenched fist over her forehead and her eyebrows, and the action was so bitter ... and as sincere and beautiful as all her actions. "you must take care of yourself, though," david observed; "you haven't slept at all, i expect.... and what's the use of crying? it doesn't help trouble." "i have no time for crying," answered raissa. "that's a luxury for the rich, crying," observed david. raissa was going, but she turned back. "the yellow shawl's being sold, you know; part of mother's dowry. they are giving us twelve roubles; i think that is not much." "it certainly is not much." "we shouldn't sell it," raissa said after a brief pause, "but you see we must have money for the funeral." "of course you must. only you mustn't spend money at random. those priests are awful! but i say, wait a minute. i'll come. are you going? i'll be with you soon. goodbye, darling." "good-bye, davidushka, darling." "mind now, don't cry!" "as though i should cry! it's either cooking the dinner or crying. one or the other." "what! does she cook the dinner?" i said to david, as soon as raissa was out of hearing, "does she do the cooking herself?" "why, you heard that the cook has gone to buy a coffin." "she cooks the dinner," i thought, "and her hands are always so clean and her clothes so neat.... i should like to see her there at work in the kitchen.... she is an extraordinary girl!" i remember another conversation at the fence. that time raissa brought with her her little deaf and dumb sister. she was a pretty child with immense, astonished-looking eyes and a perfect mass of dull, black hair on her little, head (raissa's hair, too, was black and hers, too, was without lustre). latkin had by then been struck down by paralysis. "i really don't know what to do," raissa began. "the doctor has written a prescription. we must go to the chemist's; and our peasant (latkin had still one serf) has brought us wood from the village and a goose. and the porter has taken it away, 'you are in debt to me,' he said." "taken the goose?" asked david. "no, not the goose. he says it is an old one; it is no good for anything; he says that is why our peasant brought it us, but he is taking the wood." "but he has no right to," exclaimed david. "he has no right to, but he has taken it. i went up to the garret, there we have got a very, very old trunk. i began rummaging in it and what do you think i found? look!" she took from under her kerchief a rather large field glass in a copper setting, covered with morocco, yellow with age. david, as a connoisseur of all sorts of instruments, seized upon it at once. "it's english," he pronounced, putting it first to one eye and then to the other. "a marine glass." "and the glasses are perfect," raissa went on. "i showed it to father; he said, 'take it and pawn it to the diamond-merchant'! what do you think, would they give us anything for it? what do we want a telescope for? to look at ourselves in the looking-glass and see what beauties we are? but we haven't a looking-glass, unluckily." and raissa suddenly laughed aloud. her sister, of course, could not hear her. but most likely she felt the shaking of her body: she clung to raissa's hand and her little face worked with a look of terror as she raised her big eyes to her sister and burst into tears. "that's how she always is," said raissa, "she doesn't like one to laugh. "come, i won't, lyubotchka, i won't," she added, nimbly squatting on her heels beside the child and passing her fingers through her hair. the laughter vanished from raissa's face and her lips, the corners of which twisted upwards in a particularly charming way, became motionless again. the child was pacified. raissa got up. "so you will do what you can, about the glass i mean, davidushka. but i do regret the wood, and the goose, too, however old it may be." "they would certainly give you ten roubles," said david, turning the telescope in all directions. "i will buy it of you, what could be better? and here, meanwhile, are fifteen kopecks for the chemist's.... is that enough?" "i'll borrow that from you," whispered raissa, taking the fifteen kopecks from him. "what next? perhaps you would like to pay interest? but you see i have a pledge here, a very fine thing.... first-rate people, the english." "they say we are going to war with them." "no," answered david, "we are fighting the french now." "well, you know best. take care of it, then. good-bye, friends." xiv here is another conversation that took place beside the same fence. raissa seemed more worried than usual. "five kopecks for a cabbage, and a tiny little one, too," she said, propping her chin on her hand. "isn't it dear? and i haven't had the money for my sewing yet." "who owes it you?" asked david. "why, the merchant's wife who lives beyond the rampart." "the fat woman who goes about in a green blouse?" "yes, yes." "i say, she is fat! she can hardly breathe for fat. she positively steams in church, and doesn't pay her debts!" "she will pay, only when? and do you know, davidushka, i have fresh troubles. father has taken it into his head to tell me his dreams--you know he cannot say what he means: if he wants to say one word, it comes out another. about food or any everyday thing we have got used to it and understand; but it is not easy to understand the dreams even of healthy people, and with him, it's awful! 'i am very happy,' he says; 'i was walking about all among white birds to-day; and the lord god gave me a nosegay and in the nosegay was andryusha with a little knife,' he calls our lyubotchka, andryusha; 'now we shall both be quite well,' he says. 'we need only one stroke with the little knife, like this!' and he points to his throat. i don't understand him, but i say, 'all right, dear, all right,' but he gets angry and tries to explain what he means. he even bursts into tears." "but you should have said something to him," i put in; "you should have made up some lie." "i can't tell lies," answered raissa, and even flung up her hands. and indeed she could not tell lies. "there is no need to tell lies," observed david, "but there is no need to kill yourself, either. no one will say thank you for it, you know." raissa looked at him intently. "i wanted to ask you something, davidushka; how ought i to spell 'while'?" "what sort of 'while'?" "why, for instance: i hope you will live a long _while_." "spell: w-i-l-e." "no," i put in, "w-h-i-l-e." "well, it does not matter. spell it with an h, then! what does matter is, that you should live a long while." "i should like to write correctly," observed raissa, and she flushed a little. when she flushed she was amazingly pretty at once. "it may be of use.... how father wrote in his day ... wonderfully! he taught me. well, now he can hardly make out the letters." "you only live, that's all i want," david repeated, dropping his voice and not taking his eyes off her. raissa glanced quickly at him and flushed still more. "you live and as for spelling, spell as you like.... oh, the devil, the witch is coming!" (david called my aunt the witch.) "what ill-luck has brought her this way? you must go, darling." raissa glanced at david once more and ran away. david talked to me of raissa and her family very rarely and unwillingly, especially from the time when he began to expect his father's return. he thought of nothing but him and how we should live together afterwards. he had a vivid memory of him and used to describe him to me with particular pleasure. "he is big and strong; he can lift three hundred-weight with one hand.... when he shouted: 'where's the lad?' he could be heard all over the house. he's so jolly and kind ... and a brave man! nobody can intimidate him. we lived so happily together before we were ruined. they say he has gone quite grey, and in old days his hair was as red as mine. he was a strong man." david would never admit that we might remain in ryazan. "you will go away," i observed, "but i shall stay." "nonsense, we shall take you with us." "and how about my father?" "you will cast off your father. you will be ruined if you don't." "how so?" david made me no answer but merely knitted his white brows. "so when we go away with father," he began again, "he will get a good situation and i shall marry." "well, that won't be just directly," i said. "no, why not? i shall marry soon." "you?" "yes, i; why not?" "you haven't fixed on your wife, i suppose." "of course, i have." "who is she?" david laughed. "what a senseless fellow you are, really? raissa, of course." "raissa!" i repeated in amazement; "you are joking!" "i am not given to joking, and don't like it." "why, she is a year older than you are." "what of it? but let's drop the subject." "let me ask one question," i said. "does she know that you mean to marry her?" "most likely." "but haven't you declared your feelings?" "what is there to declare? when the time comes i shall tell her. come, that's enough." david got up and went out of the room. when i was alone, i pondered ... and pondered ... and came to the conclusion that david would act like a sensible and practical man; and indeed i felt flattered at the thought of being the friend of such a practical man! and raissa in her everlasting black woollen dress suddenly seemed to me charming and worthy of the most devoted love. xv david's father still did not come and did not even send a letter. it had long been summer and june was drawing to its end. we were wearing ourselves out in suspense. meanwhile there began to be rumours that latkin had suddenly become much worse, and that his family were likely to die of hunger or else the house would fall in and crush them all under the roof. david's face even looked changed and he became so ill-tempered and surly that there was no going near him. he began to be more often absent from home, too. i did not meet raissa at all. from time to time, i caught a glimpse of her in the distance, rapidly crossing the street with her beautiful, light step, straight as an arrow, with her arms crossed, with her dark, clever eyes under her long brows, with an anxious expression on her pale, sweet face--that was all. my aunt with the help of her trankvillitatin pitched into me as before, and as before reproachfully whispered in my ear: "you are a thief, sir, a thief!" but i took no notice of her; and my father was very busy, and occupied with his writing and driving all over the place and did not want to hear anything. one day, passing by the familiar apple-tree, more from habit than anything i cast a furtive glance in the direction of the little spot i knew so well, and it suddenly struck me that there was a change in the surface of the soil that concealed our treasure ... as though there were a little protuberance where there had been a hollow, and the bits of rubbish were disarranged. "what does that mean?" i wondered. "can someone have guessed our secret and dug up the watch?" i had to make certain with my own eyes. i felt, of course, the most complete indifference in regard to the watch that lay rusting in the bosom of the earth; but was not prepared to let anyone else make use of it! and so next day i got up before dawn again and arming myself with a knife went into the orchard, sought out the marked spot under the apple-tree, began digging--and after digging a hole a yard deep was forced to the conviction that the watch was gone, that someone had got hold of it, taken it away, stolen it! but who could have dug it up except david? who else knew where it was? i filled in the hole and went back to the house. i felt deeply injured. "supposing," i thought, "that david needs the watch to save his future wife or her father from dying of starvation.... say what you like, the watch was worth something.... why did he not come to me and say: 'brother' (in david's place i should have certainly begun by saying brother), 'brother, i need money; you have none, i know, but let me make use of that watch which we buried together under the old apple-tree? it is of no use to anyone and i shall be so grateful to you, brother!' with what joy i should have consented. but to act secretly, treacherously, not to trust his friend.... no! no passion, no necessity would justify that!" i repeat, i felt horribly injured. i began by a display of coldness and sulking.... but david was not one of the sort to notice this and be upset by it. i began dropping hints. but david appeared not to understand my hints in the least! i said before him how base in my eyes was the man who having a friend and understanding all that was meant by that sacred sentiment "friendship," was yet so devoid of generosity as to have recourse to deception; as though it were possible to conceal anything. as i uttered these last words i laughed scornfully. but david did not turn a hair. at last i asked him straight out: "what did he think, had our watch gone for some time after being buried in the earth or had it stopped at once?" he answered me: "the devil only knows! what a thing to wonder about!" i did not know what to think! david evidently had something on his mind ... but not the abduction of the watch. an unexpected incident showed me his innocence. xvi one day i came home by a side lane which i usually avoided as the house in which my enemy trankvillitatin lodged was in it; but on this occasion fate itself led me that way. passing the open window of an eating-house, i suddenly heard the voice of our servant, vassily, a young man of free and easy manners, "a lazy fellow and a scamp," as my father called him, but also a great conqueror of female hearts which he charmed by his wit, his dancing and his playing on the tambourine. "and what do you suppose they've been up to?" said vassily, whom i could not see but heard distinctly; he was, most likely, sitting close by, near the window with a companion over the steaming tea--and as often happens with people in a closed room, spoke in a loud voice without suspecting that anyone passing in the street could hear every word: "they buried it in the ground!" "nonsense!" muttered another voice. "i tell you they did, our young gentlemen are extraordinary! especially that davidka, he's a regular aesop! i got up at daybreak and went to the window.... i looked out and, what do you think! our two little dears were coming along the orchard bringing that same watch and they dug a hole under the apple-tree and there they buried it, as though it had been a baby! and they smoothed the earth over afterwards, upon my soul they did, the young rakes!" "ah! plague take them," vassily's companion commented. "too well off, i suppose. well, did you dig up the watch?" "to be sure i did. i have got it now. only it won't do to show it for a time. there's been no end of a fuss over it. davidka stole it that very night from under our old lady's back." "oh--oh!" "i tell you, he did. he's a desperate fellow. so it won't do to show it. but when the officers come down i shall sell it or stake it at cards." i didn't stay to hear more: i rushed headlong home and straight to david. "brother!" i began, "brother, forgive me! i have wronged you! i suspected you! i blamed you! you see how agitated i am! forgive me!" "what's the matter with you?" asked david. "explain!" "i suspected that you had dug up our watch under the apple-tree." "the watch again! why, isn't it there?" "it's not there; i thought you had taken it, to help your friends. and it was all vassily." i repeated to david all that i had overheard under the window of the eating-house. but how to describe my amazement! i had, of course, expected david to be indignant, but i had not for a moment anticipated the effect it produced on him! i had hardly finished my story when he flew into an indescribable fury! david, who had always taken up a scornful attitude to the whole "vulgar," as he called it, business of the watch; david, who had more than once declared that it wasn't worth a rotten egg, jumped up from his seat, got hot all over, ground his teeth and clenched his fists. "we can't let this pass!" he said at last; "how dare he take someone else's property? wait a bit, i'll show him. i won't let thieves off so easily!" i confess i don't understand to this day what can have so infuriated david. whether he had been irritated before and vassily's action had simply poured oil on the flames, or whether my suspicions had wounded him, i cannot say, but i had never seen him in such excitement. i stood before him with my mouth open merely wondering how it was that his breathing was so hard and laboured. "what do you intend to do?" i asked at last. "you shall see after dinner, when your father lies down. i'll find this scoffer, i'll talk to him." "well," thought i, "i should not care to be in that scoffer's shoes! what will happen? merciful heavens?" xvii. this is what did happen: as soon as that drowsy, stifling stillness prevailed, which to this day lies like a feather bed on the russian household and the russian people in the middle of the day after dinner is eaten, david went to the servants' rooms (i followed on his heels with a sinking heart) and called vassily out. the latter was at first unwilling to come, but ended by obeying and following us into the garden. david stood close in front of him. vassily was a whole head taller. "vassily terentyev," my comrade began in a firm voice, "six weeks ago you took from under this very apple-tree the watch we hid there. you had no right to do so; it does not belong to you. give it back at once!" vassily was taken aback, but at once recovered himself. "what watch? what are you talking about? god bless you! i have no watch!" "i know what i am saying and don't tell lies. you've got the watch, give it back." "i've not got your watch." "then how was it that in the eating-house, you ..." i began, but david stopped me. "vassily terentyev!" he pronounced in a hollow, threatening voice, "we know for a fact that you have the watch. you are told honourably to give it back and if you don't ..." vassily sniggered insolently. "then what will you do with me then? eh?" "what will we do? we will both fight with you till you beat us or we beat you." vassily laughed. "fight? that's not for a gentleman! to fight with a servant!" david suddenly caught hold of vassily's waistcoat. "but we are not going to fight you with our fists," he articulated, grinding his teeth. "understand that! i'll give you a knife and take one myself.... and then we shall see who does for which? alexey!" he began commanding me, "run for my big knife, you know the one with the bone handle--it's lying on the table and the other's in my pocket." vassily positively collapsed. david stood holding him by the waistcoat. "mercy on us! ... mercy on us, david yegoritch!" he muttered; tears actually came into his eyes. "what do you mean, what are you saying? let me go." "i won't let you go. and we shall have no mercy on you! if you get away from us today, we shall begin again to-morrow. alyoshka, where's the knife?" "david yegoritch," wailed vassily, "don't commit murder.... what are you doing! the watch ... i certainly ... i was joking. i'll give it to you this minute. what a thing, to be sure! first you are going to slit hrisanf lukitch's belly, then mine. let me go, david yegoritch.... kindly take the watch. only don't tell your papa." david let go his hold of vassily's waistcoat. i looked into his face: certainly not only vassily might have been frightened by it. it looked so weary ... and cold ... and angry.... vassily dashed into the house and promptly returned with the watch in his hand. he gave it to david without a word and only on going back into the house exclaimed aloud in the doorway: "tfoo! here's a go." he still looked panic-stricken. david tossed his head and walked into our room. again i followed on his heels. "a suvorov! he's a regular suvorov!" i thought to myself. in those days, in 1801, suvorov was our great national hero. xviii david shut the door after him, put the watch on the table, folded his arms and--oh, wonder!--laughed. looking at him i laughed, too. "what a wonderful performance!" he began. "we can't get rid of this watch anyway. it's bewitched, really. and why was i so furious about it?" "yes, why?" i repeated. "you ought to have let vassily keep it...." "well, no," interposed david. "that's nonsense. but what are we to do with it?" "yes! what?" we both stared at the watch and pondered. adorned with a chain of pale blue beads (the luckless vassily in his haste had not removed this chain which belonged to him) it was calmly doing its work: ticking somewhat irregularly, it is true, and slowly moving its copper minute hand. "shall we bury it again? or put it in the stove," i suggested at last. "or, i tell you what: shouldn't we take it to latkin?" "no," answered david. "that's not the thing. i know what: they have set up a committee at the governor's office and are collecting subscriptions for the benefit of the people of kasimov. the town has been burnt to ashes with all its churches. and i am told they take anything, not only bread and money, but all sorts of things. shall we send the watch there?" "yes! yes!" i answered. "a splendid idea. but i thought that since your friends are in want...." "no, no; to the committee; the latkins will manage without it. to the committee." "well, if it is to be the committee, let it be. only, i imagine, we must write something to the governor." david glanced at me. "do you think so?" "yes, of course; there is no need to write much. but just a few words." "for instance?" "for instance ... begin like this: 'being' ... or better: 'moved by' ..." "'moved by' ... very good." "then we must say: 'herewith our mite' ..." "'mite' ... that's good, too. well, take your pen, sit down and write, fire away!" "first i must make a rough copy," i observed. "all right, a rough copy, only write, write.... and meanwhile i will clean it with some whitening." i took a sheet of paper, mended a pen, but before i had time to write at the top of the sheet "to his excellency, the illustrious prince" (our governer was at that time prince x), i stopped, struck by the extraordinary uproar ... which had suddenly arisen in the house. david noticed the hubbub, too, and he, too, stopped, holding the watch in his left hand and a rag with whitening in his right. we looked at each other. what was that shrill cry. it was my aunt shrieking ... and that? it was my father's voice, hoarse with anger. "the watch! the watch!" bawled someone, surely trankvillitatin. we heard the thud of feet, the creak of the floor, a regular rabble running ... moving straight upon us. i was numb with terror and david was as white as chalk, but he looked proud as an eagle. "vassily, the scoundrel, has betrayed us," he whispered through his teeth. the door was flung wide open, and my father in his dressing gown and without his cravat, my aunt in her dressing jacket, trankvillitatin, vassily, yushka, another boy, and the cook, agapit--all burst into the room. "scoundrels!" shouted my father, gasping for breath.... "at last we have found you out!" and seeing the watch in david's hands: "give it here!" yelled my father, "give me the watch!" but david, without uttering a word, dashed to the open window and leapt out of it into the yard and then off into the street. accustomed to imitate my paragon in everything, i jumped out, too, and ran after david.... "catch them! hold them!" we heard a medley of frantic shouts behind us. but we were already racing along the street bareheaded, david in advance and i a few paces behind him, and behind us the clatter and uproar of pursuit. xix many years have passed since the date of these events; i have reflected over them more than once--and to this day i can no more understand the cause of the fury that took possession of my father (who had so lately been so sick of the watch that he had forbidden it to be mentioned in his hearing) than i can david's rage at its having been stolen by vassily! one is tempted to imagine that there was some mysterious power connected with it. vassily had not betrayed us as david assumed--he was not capable of it: he had been too much scared--it was simply that one of our maids had seen the watch in his hands and had promptly informed our aunt. the fat was in the fire! and so we darted down the street, keeping to the very middle of it. the passers-by who met us stopped or stepped aside in amazement. i remember a retired major craned out of the window of his flat--and, crimson in the face, his bulky person almost overbalancing, hallooed furiously. shouts of "stop! hold them" still resounded behind us. david ran flourishing the watch over his head and from time to time leaping into the air; i jumped, too, whenever he did. "where?" i shouted to david, seeing that he was turning into a side street--and i turned after him. "to the oka!" he shouted. "to throw it into the water, into the river. to the devil!" "stop! stop!" they shouted behind. but we were already flying along the side street, already a whiff of cool air was meeting us--and the river lay before us, and the steep muddy descent to it, and the wooden bridge with a train of waggons stretching across it, and a garrison soldier with a pike beside the flagstaff; soldiers used to carry pikes in those days. david reached the bridge and darted by the soldier who tried to give him a blow on the legs with his pike and hit a passing calf. david instantly leaped on to the parapet; he uttered a joyful exclamation.... something white, something blue gleamed in the air and shot into the water--it was the silver watch with vassily's blue bead chain flying into the water.... but then something incredible happened. after the watch david's feet flew upwards--and head foremost, with his hands thrust out before him and the lapels of his jacket fluttering, he described an arc in the air (as frightened frogs jump on hot days from a high bank into a pond) and instantly vanished behind the parapet of the bridge ... and then flop! and a tremendous splash below. what happened to me i am utterly unable to describe. i was some steps from david when he leapt off the parapet ... but i don't even remember whether i cried out; i don't think that i was even frightened: i was stunned, stupefied. i could not stir hand or foot. people were running and hustling round me; some of them seemed to be people i knew. i had a sudden glimpse of trofimitch, the soldier with the pike dashed off somewhere, the horses and the waggons passed by quickly, tossing up their noses covered with string. then everything was green before my eyes and someone gave me a violent shove on my head and all down my back ... i fell fainting. i remember that i came to myself afterwards and seeing that no one was paying any attention to me went up to the parapet but not on the side that david had jumped. it seemed terrible to me to approach it, and as i began gazing into the dark blue muddy swollen river, i remember that i noticed a boat moored to the bridge not far from the bank, and several people in the boat, and one of these, who was drenched all over and sparkling in the sun, bending over the edge of the boat was pulling something out of the water, something not very big, oblong, a dark thing which at first i took to be a portmanteau or a basket; but when i looked more intently i saw that the thing was--david. then in violent excitement i shouted at the top of my voice and ran towards the boat, pushing my way through the people, but when i had run down to it i was overcome with timidity and began looking about me. among the people who were crowding about it i recognised trankvillitatin, the cook agapit with a boot in his hand, yushka, vassily ... the wet and shining man held david's body under the arms, drew him out of the boat and laid him on his back on the mud of the bank. both david's hands were raised to the level of his face as though he were trying to hide himself from strange eyes; he did not stir but lay as though standing at attention, with his heels together and his stomach out. his face was greenish--his eyes were staring and water was dripping from his hair. the wet man who had pulled him out, a factory hand, judging by his clothes, began describing how he had done it, shivering with cold and continually throwing back his hair from his forehead as he talked. he told his story in a very proper and painstaking way. "what do i see, friends? this young lad go flying from the bridge.... well! ... i ran down at once the way of the current for i knew he had fallen into mid-stream and it would carry him under the bridge and there ... talk of the devil! ... i looked: something like a fur cap was floating and it was his head. well, quick as thought, i was in the water and caught hold of him.... it didn't need much cleverness for that!" two or three words of approval were audible in the crowd. "you ought to have something to warm you now. come along and we will have a drink," said someone. but at this point all at once somebody pushed forward abruptly: it was vassily. "what are you doing, good christians?" he cried, tearfully. "we must bring him to by rolling him; it's our young gentleman!" "roll him, roll him," shouted the crowd, which was continually growing. "hang him up by the feet! it's the best way!" "lay him with his stomach on the barrel and roll him backwards and forwards.... take him, lads." "don't dare to touch him," put in the soldier with the pike. "he must be taken to the police station." "low brute," trofimitch's bass voice rang out. "but he is alive," i shouted at the top of my voice and almost with horror. i had put my face near to his. "so that is what the drowned look like," i thought, with a sinking heart.... and all at once i saw david's lips stir and a little water oozed from them.... at once i was pushed back and dragged away; everyone rushed up to him. "roll him, roll him," voices clamoured. "no, no, stay," shouted vassily. "take him home.... take him home!" "take him home," trankvillitatin himself chimed in. "we will bring him to. we can see better there," vassily went on.... (i have liked him from that day.) "lads, haven't you a sack? if not we must take him by his head and his feet...." "stay! here's a sack! lay him on it! catch hold! start! that's fine. as though he were driving in a chaise." a few minutes later david, borne in triumph on the sack, crossed the threshold of our house again. xx he was undressed and put to bed. he began to give signs of life while in the street, moaned, moved his hands.... indoors he came to himself completely. but as soon as all anxiety for his life was over and there was no reason to worry about him, indignation got the upper hand again: everyone shunned him, as though he were a leper. "may god chastise him! may god chastise him!" my aunt shrieked, to be heard all over the house. "get rid of him, somehow, porfiry petrovitch, or he will do some mischief beyond all bearing." "upon my word, he is a viper; he is possessed with a devil," trankvillitatin chimed in. "the wickedness, the wickedness!" cackled my aunt, going close to the door of our room so that david might be sure to hear her. "first of all he stole the watch and then flung it into the water ... as though to say, no one should get it...." everyone, everyone was indignant. "david," i asked him as soon as we were left alone, "what did you do it for?" "so you are after that, too," he answered in a voice that was still weak; his lips were blue and he looked as though he were swollen all over. "what did i do?" "but what did you jump into the water for?" "jump! i lost my balance on the parapet, that was all. if i had known how to swim i should have jumped on purpose. i shall certainly learn. but the watch now--ah...." but at that moment my father walked with a majestic step into our room. "you, my fine fellow," he said, addressing me, "i shall certainly whip, you need have no doubt about that, though you are too big to lie on the bench now." then he went up to the bed on which david was lying. "in siberia," he began in an impressive and dignified tone, "in siberia, sir, in penal servitude, in the mines, there are people living and dying who are less guilty, less criminal than you. are you a suicide or simply a thief or altogether a fool? be so kind as to tell me just that!" "i am not a suicide and i am not a thief," answered david, "but the truth's the truth: there are good men in siberia, better than you or i ... who should know that, if not you?" my father gave a subdued gasp, drew back a step, looked intently at david, spat on the floor and, slowly crossing himself, walked away. "don't you like that?" david called after him and put his tongue out. then he tried to get up but could not. "i must have hurt myself somehow," he said, gasping and frowning. "i remember the water dashed me against a post." "did you see raissa?" he added suddenly. "no. i did not.... stay, stay, stay! now i remember, wasn't it she standing on the bank by the bridge? ... yes ... yes ... a dark dress ... a yellow kerchief on her head, yes it must have been raissa." "well, and afterwards.... did you see her?" "afterwards ... i don't know, i had no thought to spare for her.... you jumped in ..." david was suddenly roused. "alyosha, darling, go to her at once, tell her i am all right, that there's nothing the matter with me. tomorrow i shall be with them. go as quickly as you can, brother, for my sake!" david held out both hands to me.... his red hair, by now dry, stuck up in amusing tufts.... but the softened expression of his face seemed the more genuine for that. i took my cap and went out of the house, trying to avoid meeting my father and reminding him of his promise. xxi "yes, indeed," i reflected as i walked towards the latkins', "how was it that i did not notice raissa? what became of her? she must have seen...." and all at once i remembered that the very moment of david's fall, a terrible piercing shriek had rung in my ears. "was not that raissa? but how was it i did not see her afterwards?" before the little house in which latkin lodged there stretched a waste-ground overgrown with nettles and surrounded by a broken hurdle. i had scarcely clambered over the hurdle (there was no gate anywhere) when the following sight met my eyes: raissa, with her elbows on her knees and her chin propped on her clasped hands, was sitting on the lowest step in front of the house; she was looking fixedly straight before her; near her stood her little dumb sister with the utmost composure brandishing a little whip, while, facing the steps with his back to me, old latkin, in torn and shabby drawers and high felt boots, was trotting and prancing up and down, capering and jerking his elbows. hearing my footsteps he suddenly turned round and squatted on his heels--then at once, skipping up to me, began speaking very rapidly in a trembling voice, incessantly repeating, "tchoo--tchoo--tchoo!" i was dumbfoundered. i had not seen him for a long time and should not, of course, have known him if i had met him anywhere else. that red, wrinkled, toothless face, those lustreless round eyes and touzled grey hair, those jerks and capers, that senseless halting speech! what did it mean? what inhuman despair was torturing this unhappy creature? what dance of death was this? "tchoo--tchoo," he muttered, wriggling incessantly. "see vassilyevna here came in tchoo--tchoo, just now.... do you hear? with a trough on the roof" (he slapped himself on the head with his hand), "and there she sits like a spade, and she is cross-eyed, cross-eyed, like andryushka; vassilyevna is cross-eyed" (he probably meant to say dumb), "tchoo! my vassilyevna is cross-eyed! they are both on the same cork now. you may wonder, good christians! i have only these two little boats! eh?" latkin was evidently conscious that he was not saying the right thing and made terrible efforts to explain to me what was the matter. raissa did not seem to hear what her father was saying and the little sister went on lashing the whip. "good-bye, diamond-merchant, good-bye, good-bye," latkin drawled several times in succession, making a low bow, seeming delighted at having at last got hold of an intelligible word. my head began to go round. "what does it all mean?" i asked of an old woman who was looking out of the window of the little house. "well, my good gentleman," she answered in a sing-song voice, "they say some man--the lord only knows who--went and drowned himself and she saw it. well, it gave her a fright or something; when she came home she seemed all right though; but when she sat down on the step--here, she has been sitting ever since like an image, it's no good talking to her. i suppose she has lost her speech, too. oh, dear! oh, dear!" "good-bye, good-bye," latkin kept repeating, still with the same bow. i went up to raissa and stood directly facing her. "raissa, dear, what's the matter with you?" she made no answer, she seemed not to notice me. her face had not grown pale, had not changed--but had turned somehow stony and there was a look in it as though she were just falling asleep. "she is cross-eyed, cross-eyed," latkin muttered in my ear. i took raissa by the hand. "david is alive," i cried, more loudly than before. "alive and well; david's alive, do you understand? he was pulled out of the water; he is at home now and told me to say that he will come to you to-morrow; he is alive!" as it were with effort raissa turned her eyes on me; she blinked several times, opening them wider and wider, then leaned her head on one side and flushed slightly all over while her lips parted ... she slowly drew in a deep breath, winced as though in pain and with fearful effort articulated: "da ... dav ... a ... alive," got up impulsively and rushed away. "where are you going?" i exclaimed. but with a faint laugh she ran staggering across the waste-ground.... i, of course, followed her, while behind me a wail rose up in unison from the old man and the child.... raissa darted straight to our house. "here's a day!" i thought, trying not to lose sight of the black dress that was fluttering before me. "well!" xxii passing vassily, my aunt, and even trankvillitatin, raissa ran into the room where david was lying and threw herself on his neck. "oh ... oh ... da ... vidushka," her voice rang out from under her loose curls, "oh!" flinging wide his arms david embraced her and nestled his head against her. "forgive me, my heart," i heard his voice saying. and both seemed swooning with joy. "but why did you go home, raissa, why didn't you stay?" i said to her.... she still kept her head bowed. "you would have seen that he was saved...." "ah, i don't know! ah, i don't know. don't ask. i don't know, i don't remember how i got home. i only remember: i saw you in the air ... something seemed to strike me ... and what happened afterwards ..." "seemed to strike you," repeated david, and we all three suddenly burst out laughing together. we were very happy. "what may be the meaning of this, may i ask," we heard behind us a threatening voice, the voice of my father. he was standing in the doorway. "will there ever be an end to these fooleries? where are we living? are we in the russian empire or the french republic?" he came into the room. "anyone who wants to be rebellious and immoral had better go to france! and how dare _you_ come here?" he said, turning to raissa, who, quietly sitting up and turning to face him, was evidently taken aback but still smiled as before, a friendly and blissful smile. "the daughter of my sworn enemy! how dare you? and hugging him, too! away with you at once, or ..." "uncle," david brought out, and he sat up in bed. "don't insult raissa. she is going away, only don't insult her." "and who are you to teach me? i am not insulting her, i am not in ... sul ... ting her! i am simply turning her out of the house. i have an account to settle with you, too, presently. you have made away with other people's property, have attempted to take your own life, have put me to expense." "to what expense?" david interrupted. "what expense? you have ruined your clothes. do you count that as nothing? and i had to tip the men who brought you. you have given the whole family a fright and are you going to be unruly now? and if this young woman, regardless of shame and honour itself ..." david made a dash as though to get out of bed. "don't insult her, i tell you." "hold your tongue." "don't dare ..." "hold your tongue!" "don't dare to insult my betrothed," cried david at the top of his voice, "my future wife!" "betrothed!" repeated my father, with round eyes. "betrothed! wife! ho, ho, ho! ..." ("ha, ha, ha," my aunt echoed behind the door.) "why, how old are you? he's been no time in the world, the milk is hardly dry on his lips, he is a mere babe and he is going to be married! but i ... but you ..." "let me go, let me go," whispered raissa, and she made for the door. she looked more dead than alive. "i am not going to ask permission of you," david went on shouting, propping himself up with his fists on the edge of the bed, "but of my own father who is bound to be here one day soon; he is a law to me, but you are not; but as for my age, if raissa and i are not old enough ... we will bide our time whatever you may say...." "aië, aië, davidka, don't forget yourself," my father interrupted. "just look at yourself. you are not fit to be seen. you have lost all sense of decency." david put his hand to the front of his shirt. "whatever you may say ..." he repeated. "oh, shut his mouth, porfiry petrovitch," piped my aunt from behind the door, "shut his mouth, and as for this hussy, this baggage ... this ..." but something extraordinary must have cut short my aunt's eloquence at that moment: her voice suddenly broke off and in its place we heard another, feeble and husky with old age.... "brother," this weak voice articulated, "christian soul." xxiii we all turned round.... in the same costume in which i had just seen him, thin, pitiful and wild looking, latkin stood before us like an apparition. "god!" he pronounced in a sort of childish way, pointing upwards with a bent and trembling finger and gazing impotently at my father, "god has chastised me, but i have come for va ... for ra ... yes, yes, for raissotchka.... what ... tchoo! what is there for me? soon underground--and what do you call it? one little stick, another ... cross-beam--that's what i ... want, but you, brother, diamond-merchant ... mind ... i'm a man, too!" raissa crossed the room without a word and taking his arm buttoned his vest. "let us go, vassilyevna," he said; "they are all saints here, don't come to them and he lying there in his case"--he pointed to david--"is a saint, too, but you and i are sinners, brother. come. tchoo.... forgive an old man with a pepper pot, gentleman! we have stolen together!" he shouted suddenly; "stolen together, stolen together!" he repeated, with evident satisfaction that his tongue had obeyed him at last. everyone in the room was silent. "and where is ... the ikon here," he asked, throwing back his head and turning up his eyes; "we must cleanse ourselves a bit." he fell to praying to one of the corners, crossing himself fervently several times in succession, tapping first one shoulder and then the other with his fingers and hurriedly repeating: "have mercy me, oh, lor ... me, oh, lor ... me, oh, lor ..." my father, who had not taken his eyes off latkin, and had not uttered a word, suddenly started, stood beside him and began crossing himself, too. then he turned to him, bowed very low so that he touched the floor with one hand, saying, "you forgive me, too, martinyan gavrilitch," kissed him on the shoulder. latkin in response smacked his lips in the air and blinked: i doubt whether he quite knew what he was doing. then my father turned to everyone in the room, to david, to raissa and to me: "do as you like, act as you think best," he brought out in a soft and mournful voice, and he withdrew. my aunt was running up to him, but he cried out sharply and gruffly to her. he was overwhelmed. "me, oh, lor ... me, oh, lor ... mercy!" latkin repeated. "i am a man." "good-bye, davidushka," said raissa, and she, too, went out of the room with the old man. "i will be with you tomorrow," david called after her, and, turning his face to the wall, he whispered: "i am very tired; it will be as well to have some sleep now," and was quiet. it was a long while before i went out of the room. i kept in hiding. i could not forget my father's threats. but my apprehensions turned out to be unnecessary. he met me and did not utter a word. he seemed to feel awkward himself. but night soon came on and everything was quiet in the house. xxiv next morning david got up as though nothing were the matter and not long after, on the same day, two important events occurred: in the morning old latkin died, and towards evening my uncle, yegor, david's father, arrived in ryazan. without sending any letter in advance, without warning anyone, he descended on us like snow on our heads. my father was completely taken aback and did not know what to offer to his dear guest and where to make him sit. he rushed about as though delirious, was flustered as though he were guilty; but my uncle did not seem to be much touched by his brother's fussy solicitude; he kept repeating: "what's this for?" or "i don't want anything." his manner with my aunt was even colder; she had no great liking for him, indeed. in her eyes he was an infidel, a heretic, a voltairian ... (he had in fact learnt french to read voltaire in the original). i found my uncle yegor just as david had described him. he was a big heavy man with a broad pock-marked face, grave and serious. he always wore a hat with feathers in it, cuffs, a frilled shirt front and a snuff-coloured vest and a sword at his side. david was unspeakably delighted to see him--he actually looked brighter in the face and better looking, and his eyes looked different: merrier, keener, more shining; but he did his utmost to moderate his joy and not to show it in words: he was afraid of being too soft. the first night after uncle yegor's arrival, father and son shut themselves up in the room that had been assigned to my uncle and spent a long time talking together in a low voice; next morning i saw that my uncle looked particularly affectionately and trustfully at his son: he seemed very much pleased with him. david took him to the requiem service for latkin; i went to it, too, my father did not hinder my going but remained at home himself. raissa impressed me by her calm: she looked pale and much thinner but did not shed tears and spoke and behaved with perfect simplicity; and with all that, strange to say, i saw a certain grandeur in her; the unconscious grandeur of sorrow forgetful of itself! uncle yegor made her acquaintance on the spot, in the church porch; from his manner to her, it was evident that david had already spoken of her. he was as pleased with her as with his son: i could read that in david's eyes when he looked at them both. i remember how his eyes sparkled when his father said, speaking of her: "she's a clever girl; she'll make a capable woman." at the latkins' i was told that the old man had quietly expired like a candle that has burnt out, and that until he had lost power and consciousness, he kept stroking his daughter's head and saying something unintelligible but not gloomy, and he was smiling to the end. my father went to the funeral and to the service in the church and prayed very devoutly; trankvillitatin actually sang in the choir. beside the grave raissa suddenly broke into sobs and sank forward on the ground; but she soon recovered herself. her little deaf and dumb sister stared at everyone and everything with big, bright, rather wild-looking eyes; from time to time she huddled up to raissa, but there was no sign of terror about her. the day after the funeral uncle yegor, who, judging from appearances, had not come back from siberia with empty hands (he paid for the funeral and liberally rewarded david's rescuer) but who told us nothing of his doings there or of his plans for the future, uncle yegor suddenly informed my father that he did not intend to remain in ryazan, but was going to moscow with his son. my father, from a feeling of propriety, expressed regret and even tried--very faintly it is true--to induce my uncle to alter his decision, but at the bottom of his heart, i think he was really much relieved. the presence of his brother with whom he had very little in common, who did not even condescend to reproach him, whose feeling for him was more one of simple disgust than disdain--oppressed him ... and parting with david could not have caused him much regret. i, of course, was utterly crushed by the separation; i was utterly desolate at first and lost all support in life and all interest in it. and so my uncle went away and took with him not only david but, to the great astonishment and even indignation of our whole street, raissa and her little sister, too.... when she heard of this, my aunt promptly called him a turk, and called him a turk to the end of her days. and i was left alone, alone ... but this story is not about me. xxv so this is the end of my tale of the watch. what more have i to tell you? five years after david was married to his black-lip, and in 1812, as a lieutenant of artillery, he died a glorious death on the battlefield of borodino in defence of the shevardinsky redoubt. much water has flowed by since then and i have had many watches; i have even attained the dignity of a real repeater with a second hand and the days of the week on it. but in a secret drawer of my writing table there is preserved an old-fashioned silver watch with a rose on the face; i bought it from a jewish pedlar, struck by its likeness to the watch which was once presented to me by my godfather. from time to time, when i am alone and expect no one, i take it out of the drawer and looking at it remember my young days and the companion of those days that have fled never to return. paris.--1875. the diary of a superfluous man and other stories by ivan turgenev _translated from the russian by constance garnett_ 1899 contents the diary of a superfluous man a tour in the forest yakov pasinkov andrei kolosov a correspondence the diary of a superfluous man village of sheep's springs, _march_ 20, 18--. the doctor has just left me. at last i have got at something definite! for all his cunning, he had to speak out at last. yes, i am soon, very soon, to die. the frozen rivers will break up, and with the last snow i shall, most likely, swim away ... whither? god knows! to the ocean too. well, well, since one must die, one may as well die in the spring. but isn't it absurd to begin a diary a fortnight, perhaps, before death? what does it matter? and by how much are fourteen days less than fourteen years, fourteen centuries? beside eternity, they say, all is nothingness--yes, but in that case eternity, too, is nothing. i see i am letting myself drop into metaphysics; that's a bad sign--am i not rather faint-hearted, perchance? i had better begin a description of some sort. it's damp and windy out of doors. i'm forbidden to go out. what can i write about, then? no decent man talks of his maladies; to write a novel is not in my line; reflections on elevated topics are beyond me; descriptions of the life going on around me could not even interest me; while i am weary of doing nothing, and too lazy to read. ah, i have it, i will write the story of all my life for myself. a first-rate idea! just before death it is a suitable thing to do, and can be of no harm to any one. i will begin. i was born thirty years ago, the son of fairly well-to-do landowners. my father had a passion for gambling; my mother was a woman of character ... a very virtuous woman. only, i have known no woman whose moral excellence was less productive of happiness. she was crushed beneath the weight of her own virtues, and was a source of misery to every one, from herself upwards. in all the fifty years of her life, she never once took rest, or sat with her hands in her lap; she was for ever fussing and bustling about like an ant, and to absolutely no good purpose, which cannot be said of the ant. the worm of restlessness fretted her night and day. only once i saw her perfectly tranquil, and that was the day after her death, in her coffin. looking at her, it positively seemed to me that her face wore an expression of subdued amazement; with the half-open lips, the sunken cheeks, and meekly-staring eyes, it seemed expressing, all over, the words, 'how good to be at rest!' yes, it is good, good to be rid, at last, of the wearing sense of life, of the persistent, restless consciousness of existence! but that's neither here nor there. i was brought up badly and not happily. my father and mother both loved me; but that made things no better for me. my father was not, even in his own house, of the slightest authority or consequence, being a man openly abandoned to a shameful and ruinous vice; he was conscious of his degradation, and not having the strength of will to give up his darling passion, he tried at least, by his invariably amiable and humble demeanour and his unswerving submissiveness, to win the condescending consideration of his exemplary wife. my mother certainly did bear her trial with the superb and majestic long-suffering of virtue, in which there is so much of egoistic pride. she never reproached my father for anything, gave him her last penny, and paid his debts without a word. he exalted her as a paragon to her face and behind her back, but did not like to be at home, and caressed me by stealth, as though he were afraid of contaminating me by his presence. but at such times his distorted features were full of such kindness, the nervous grin on his lips was replaced by such a touching smile, and his brown eyes, encircled by fine wrinkles, shone with such love, that i could not help pressing my cheek to his, which was wet and warm with tears. i wiped away those tears with my handkerchief, and they flowed again without effort, like water from a brimming glass. i fell to crying, too, and he comforted me, stroking my back and kissing me all over my face with his quivering lips. even now, more than twenty years after his death, when i think of my poor father, dumb sobs rise into my throat, and my heart beats as hotly and bitterly and aches with as poignant a pity as if it had long to go on beating, as if there were anything to be sorry for! my mother's behaviour to me, on the contrary, was always the same, kind, but cold. in children's books one often comes across such mothers, sermonising and just. she loved me, but i did not love her. yes! i fought shy of my virtuous mother, and passionately loved my vicious father. but enough for to-day. it's a beginning, and as for the end, whatever it may be, i needn't trouble my head about it. that's for my illness to see to. _march_ 21. to-day it is marvellous weather. warm, bright; the sunshine frolicking gaily on the melting snow; everything shining, steaming, dripping; the sparrows chattering like mad things about the drenched, dark hedges. sweetly and terribly, too, the moist air frets my sick chest. spring, spring is coming! i sit at the window and look across the river into the open country. o nature! nature! i love thee so, but i came forth from thy womb good for nothing--not fit even for life. there goes a cock-sparrow, hopping along with outspread wings; he chirrups, and every note, every ruffled feather on his little body, is breathing with health and strength.... what follows from that? nothing. he is well and has a right to chirrup and ruffle his wings; but i am ill and must die--that's all. it's not worth while to say more about it. and tearful invocations to nature are mortally absurd. let us get back to my story. i was brought up, as i have said, very badly and not happily. i had no brothers or sisters. i was educated at home. and, indeed, what would my mother have had to occupy her, if i had been sent to a boarding-school or a government college? that's what children are for--that their parents may not be bored. we lived for the most part in the country, and sometimes went to moscow. i had tutors and teachers, as a matter of course; one, in particular, has remained in my memory, a dried-up, tearful german, rickmann, an exceptionally mournful creature, cruelly maltreated by destiny, and fruitlessly consumed by an intense pining for his far-off fatherland. sometimes, near the stove, in the fearful stuffiness of the close ante-room, full of the sour smell of stale kvas, my unshaved man-nurse, vassily, nicknamed goose, would sit, playing cards with the coachman, potap, in a new sheepskin, white as foam, and superb tarred boots, while in the next room rickmann would sing, behind the partition- herz, mein herz, warum so traurig? was bekümmert dich so sehr? 'sist ja schön im fremden lande- herz, mein herz--was willst du mehr?' after my father's death we moved to moscow for good. i was twelve years old. my father died in the night from a stroke. i shall never forget that night. i was sleeping soundly, as children generally do; but i remember, even in my sleep, i was aware of a heavy gasping noise at regular intervals. suddenly i felt some one taking hold of my shoulder and poking me. i opened my eyes and saw my nurse. 'what is it?' 'come along, come along, alexey mihalitch is dying.' ... i was out of bed and away like a mad thing into his bedroom. i looked: my father was lying with his head thrown back, all red, and gasping fearfully. the servants were crowding round the door with terrified faces; in the hall some one was asking in a thick voice: 'have they sent for the doctor?' in the yard outside, a horse was being led from the stable, the gates were creaking, a tallow candle was burning in the room on the floor, my mother was there, terribly upset, but not oblivious of the proprieties, nor of her own dignity. i flung myself on my father's bosom, and hugged him, faltering: 'papa, papa...' he lay motionless, screwing up his eyes in a strange way. i looked into his face--an unendurable horror caught my breath; i shrieked with terror, like a roughly captured bird--they picked me up and carried me away. only the day before, as though aware his death was at hand, he had caressed me so passionately and despondently. a sleepy, unkempt doctor, smelling strongly of spirits, was brought. my father died under his lancet, and the next day, utterly stupefied by grief, i stood with a candle in my hands before a table, on which lay the dead man, and listened senselessly to the bass sing-song of the deacon, interrupted from time to time by the weak voice of the priest. the tears kept streaming over my cheeks, my lips, my collar, my shirt-front. i was dissolved in tears; i watched persistently, i watched intently, my father's rigid face, as though i expected something of him; while my mother slowly bowed down to the ground, slowly rose again, and pressed her fingers firmly to her forehead, her shoulders, and her chest, as she crossed herself. i had not a single idea in my head; i was utterly numb, but i felt something terrible was happening to me.... death looked me in the face that day and took note of me. we moved to moscow after my father's death for a very simple cause: all our estate was sold up by auction for debts--that is, absolutely all, except one little village, the one in which i am at this moment living out my magnificent existence. i must admit that, in spite of my youth at the time, i grieved over the sale of our home, or rather, in reality, i grieved over our garden. almost my only bright memories are associated with our garden. it was there that one mild spring evening i buried my best friend, an old bob-tailed, crook-pawed dog, trix. it was there that, hidden in the long grass, i used to eat stolen apples--sweet, red, novgorod apples they were. there, too, i saw for the first time, among the ripe raspberry bushes, the housemaid klavdia, who, in spite of her turned-up nose and habit of giggling in her kerchief, aroused such a tender passion in me that i could hardly breathe, and stood faint and tongue-tied in her presence; and once at easter, when it came to her turn to kiss my seignorial hand, i almost flung myself at her feet to kiss her down-trodden goat-skin slippers. my god! can all that be twenty years ago? it seems not long ago that i used to ride on my shaggy chestnut pony along the old fence of our garden, and, standing up in the stirrups, used to pick the two-coloured poplar leaves. while a man is living he is not conscious of his own life; it becomes audible to him, like a sound, after the lapse of time. oh, my garden, oh, the tangled paths by the tiny pond! oh, the little sandy spot below the tumbledown dike, where i used to catch gudgeons! and you tall birch-trees, with long hanging branches, from beyond which came floating a peasant's mournful song, broken by the uneven jolting of the cart, i send you my last farewell!... on parting with life, to you alone i stretch out my hands. would i might once more inhale the fresh, bitter fragrance of the wormwood, the sweet scent of the mown buckwheat in the fields of my native place! would i might once more hear far away the modest tinkle of the cracked bell of our parish church; once more lie in the cool shade under the oak sapling on the slope of the familiar ravine; once more watch the moving track of the wind, flitting, a dark wave over the golden grass of our meadow!... ah, what's the good of all this? but i can't go on to-day. enough till to-morrow. _march_ 22. to-day it's cold and overcast again. such weather is a great deal more suitable. it's more in harmony with my task. yesterday, quite inappropriately, stirred up a multitude of useless emotions and memories within me. this shall not occur again. sentimental out-breaks are like liquorice; when first you suck it, it's not bad, but afterwards it leaves a very nasty taste in the mouth. i will set to work simply and serenely to tell the story of my life. and so, we moved to moscow.... but it occurs to me, is it really worth while to tell the story of my life? no, it certainly is not.... my life has not been different in any respect from the lives of numbers of other people. the parental home, the university, the government service in the lower grades, retirement, a little circle of friends, decent poverty, modest pleasures, unambitious pursuits, moderate desires--kindly tell me, is that new to any one? and so i will not tell the story of my life, especially as i am writing for my own pleasure; and if my past does not afford even me any sensation of great pleasure or great pain, it must be that there is nothing in it deserving of attention. i had better try to describe my own character to myself. what manner of man am i?... it may be observed that no one asks me that question--admitted. but there, i'm dying, by jove!--i'm dying, and at the point of death i really think one may be excused a desire to find out what sort of a queer fish one really was after all. thinking over this important question, and having, moreover, no need whatever to be too bitter in my expressions in regard to myself, as people are apt to be who have a strong conviction of their valuable qualities, i must admit one thing. i was a man, or perhaps i should say a fish, utterly superfluous in this world. and that i propose to show to-morrow, as i keep coughing to-day like an old sheep, and my nurse, terentyevna, gives me no peace: 'lie down, my good sir,' she says, 'and drink a little tea.'... i know why she keeps on at me: she wants some tea herself. well! she's welcome! why not let the poor old woman extract the utmost benefit she can from her master at the last ... as long as there is still the chance? _march_ 23. winter again. the snow is falling in flakes. superfluous, superfluous.... that's a capital word i have hit on. the more deeply i probe into myself, the more intently i review all my past life, the more i am convinced of the strict truth of this expression. superfluous--that's just it. to other people that term is not applicable.... people are bad, or good, clever, stupid, pleasant, and disagreeable; but superfluous ... no. understand me, though: the universe could get on without those people too... no doubt; but uselessness is not their prime characteristic, their most distinctive attribute, and when you speak of them, the word 'superfluous' is not the first to rise to your lips. but i ... there's nothing else one can say about me; i'm superfluous and nothing more. a supernumerary, and that's all. nature, apparently, did not reckon on my appearance, and consequently treated me as an unexpected and uninvited guest. a facetious gentleman, a great devotee of preference, said very happily about me that i was the forfeit my mother had paid at the game of life. i am speaking about myself calmly now, without any bitterness.... it's all over and done with! throughout my whole life i was constantly finding my place taken, perhaps because i did not look for my place where i should have done. i was apprehensive, reserved, and irritable, like all sickly people. moreover, probably owing to excessive self-consciousness, perhaps as the result of the generally unfortunate cast of my personality, there existed between my thoughts and feelings, and the expression of those feelings and thoughts, a sort of inexplicable, irrational, and utterly insuperable barrier; and whenever i made up my mind to overcome this obstacle by force, to break down this barrier, my gestures, the expression of my face, my whole being, took on an appearance of painful constraint. i not only seemed, i positively became unnatural and affected. i was conscious of this myself, and hastened to shrink back into myself. then a terrible commotion was set up within me. i analysed myself to the last thread, compared myself with others, recalled the slightest glances, smiles, words of the people to whom i had tried to open myself out, put the worst construction on everything, laughed vindictively at my own pretensions to 'be like every one else,'--and suddenly, in the midst of my laughter, collapsed utterly into gloom, sank into absurd dejection, and then began again as before--went round and round, in fact, like a squirrel on its wheel. whole days were spent in this harassing, fruitless exercise. well now, tell me, if you please, to whom and for what is such a man of use? why did this happen to me? what was the reason of this trivial fretting at myself?--who knows? who can tell? i remember i was driving once from moscow in the diligence. it was a good road, but the driver, though he had four horses harnessed abreast, hitched on another, alongside of them. such an unfortunate, utterly useless, fifth horse--fastened somehow on to the front of the shaft by a short stout cord, which mercilessly cuts his shoulder, forces him to go with the most unnatural action, and gives his whole body the shape of a comma--always arouses my deepest pity. i remarked to the driver that i thought we might on this occasion have got on without the fifth horse.... he was silent a moment, shook his head, lashed the horse a dozen times across his thin back and under his distended belly, and with a grin responded: 'ay, to be sure; why do we drag him along with us? what the devil's he for?' and here am i too dragged along. but, thank goodness, the station is not far off. superfluous.... i promised to show the justice of my opinion, and i will carry out my promise. i don't think it necessary to mention the thousand trifles, everyday incidents and events, which would, however, in the eyes of any thinking man, serve as irrefutable evidence in my support--i mean, in support of my contention. i had better begin straight away with one rather important incident, after which probably there will be no doubt left of the accuracy of the term superfluous. i repeat: i do not intend to indulge in minute details, but i cannot pass over in silence one rather serious and significant fact, that is, the strange behaviour of my friends (i too used to have friends) whenever i met them, or even called on them. they used to seem ill at ease; as they came to meet me, they would give a not quite natural smile, look, not into my eyes nor at my feet, as some people do, but rather at my cheeks, articulate hurriedly, 'ah! how are you, tchulkaturin!' (such is the surname fate has burdened me with) or 'ah! here's tchulkaturin!' turn away at once and positively remain stockstill for a little while after, as though trying to recollect something. i used to notice all this, as i am not devoid of penetration and the faculty of observation; on the whole i am not a fool; i sometimes even have ideas come into my head that are amusing, not absolutely commonplace. but as i am a superfluous man with a padlock on my inner self, it is very painful for me to express my idea, the more so as i know beforehand that i shall express it badly. it positively sometimes strikes me as extraordinary the way people manage to talk, and so simply and freely.... it's marvellous, really, when you think of it. though, to tell the truth, i too, in spite of my padlock, sometimes have an itch to talk. but i did actually utter words only in my youth; in riper years i almost always pulled myself up. i would murmur to myself: 'come, we'd better hold our tongue.' and i was still. we are all good hands at being silent; our women especially are great in that line. many an exalted russian young lady keeps silent so strenuously that the spectacle is calculated to produce a faint shudder and cold sweat even in any one prepared to face it. but that's not the point, and it's not for me to criticise others. i proceed to my promised narrative. a few years back, owing to a combination of circumstances, very insignificant in themselves, but very important for me, it was my lot to spend six months in the district town o----. this town is all built on a slope, and very uncomfortably built, too. there are reckoned to be about eight hundred inhabitants in it, of exceptional poverty; the houses are hardly worthy of the name; in the chief street, by way of an apology for a pavement, there are here and there some huge white slabs of rough-hewn limestone, in consequence of which even carts drive round it instead of through it. in the very middle of an astoundingly dirty square rises a diminutive yellowish edifice with black holes in it, and in these holes sit men in big caps making a pretence of buying and selling. in this place there is an extraordinarily high striped post sticking up into the air, and near the post, in the interests of public order, by command of the authorities, there is kept a cartload of yellow hay, and one government hen struts to and fro. in short, existence in the town of o---is truly delightful. during the first days of my stay in this town, i almost went out of my mind with boredom. i ought to say of myself that, though i am, no doubt, a superfluous man, i am not so of my own seeking; i'm morbid myself, but i can't bear anything morbid.... i'm not even averse to happiness-indeed, i've tried to approach it right and left.... and so it is no wonder that i too can be bored like any other mortal. i was staying in the town of o---on official business. terentyevna has certainly sworn to make an end of me. here's a specimen of our conversation:-terentyevna. oh--oh, my good sir! what are you for ever writing for? it's bad for you, keeping all on writing. i. but i'm dull, terentyevna. she. oh, you take a cup of tea now and lie down. by god's mercy you'll get in a sweat and maybe doze a bit. i. but i'm not sleepy. she. ah, sir! why do you talk so? lord have mercy on you! come, lie down, lie down; it's better for you. i. i shall die any way, terentyevna! she. lord bless us and save us!... well, do you want a little tea? i. i shan't live through the week, terentyevna! she. eh, eh! good sir, why do you talk so?... well, i'll go and heat the samovar. oh, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! am i really, even in your eyes, not a man? _march 24. sharp frost_. on the very day of my arrival in the town of o----, the official business, above referred to, brought me into contact with a certain kirilla matveitch ozhogin, one of the chief functionaries of the district; but i became intimate, or, as it is called, 'friends' with him a fortnight later. his house was in the principal street, and was distinguished from all the others by its size, its painted roof, and the lions on its gates, lions of that species extraordinarily resembling unsuccessful dogs, whose natural home is moscow. from those lions alone, one might safely conclude that ozhogin was a man of property. and so it was; he was the owner of four hundred peasants; he entertained in his house all the best society of the town of o----, and had a reputation for hospitality. at his door was seen the mayor with his wide chestnut-coloured droshky and pair--an exceptionally bulky man, who seemed as though cut out of material that had been laid by for a long time. the other officials, too, used to drive to his receptions: the attorney, a yellowish, spiteful creature; the land surveyor, a wit--of german extraction, with a tartar face; the inspector of means of communication--a soft soul, who sang songs, but a scandalmonger; a former marshal of the district--a gentleman with dyed hair, crumpled shirt front, and tight trousers, and that lofty expression of face so characteristic of men who have stood on trial. there used to come also two landowners, inseparable friends, both no longer young and indeed a little the worse for wear, of whom the younger was continually crushing the elder and putting him to silence with one and the same reproach. 'don't you talk, sergei sergeitch! what have you to say? why, you spell the word cork with two _k_'s in it.... yes, gentlemen,' he would go on, with all the fire of conviction, turning to the bystanders, 'sergei sergeitch spells it not cork, but kork.' and every one present would laugh, though probably not one of them was conspicuous for special accuracy in orthography, while the luckless sergei sergeitch held his tongue, and with a faint smile bowed his head. but i am forgetting that my hours are numbered, and am letting myself go into too minute descriptions. and so, without further beating about the bush,--ozhogin was married, he had a daughter, elizaveta kirillovna, and i fell in love with this daughter. ozhogin himself was a commonplace person, neither good-looking nor bad-looking; his wife resembled an aged chicken; but their daughter had not taken after her parents. she was very pretty and of a bright and gentle disposition. her clear grey eyes looked out kindly and directly from under childishly arched brows; she was almost always smiling, and she laughed too, pretty often. her fresh voice had a very pleasant ring; she moved freely, rapidly, and blushed gaily. she did not dress very stylishly, only plain dresses suited her. i did not make friends quickly as a rule, and if i were at ease with any one from the first--which, however, scarcely ever occurred--it said, i must own, a great deal for my new acquaintance. i did not know at all how to behave with women, and in their presence i either scowled and put on a morose air, or grinned in the most idiotic way, and in my embarrassment turned my tongue round and round in my mouth. with elizaveta kirillovna, on the contrary, i felt at home from the first moment. it happened in this way. i called one day at ozhogin's before dinner, asked, 'at home?' was told, 'the master's at home, dressing; please to walk into the drawing-room.' i went into the drawing-room; i beheld standing at the window, with her back to me, a girl in a white gown, with a cage in her hands. i was, as my way was, somewhat taken aback; however, i showed no sign of it, but merely coughed, for good manners. the girl turned round quickly, so quickly that her curls gave her a slap in the face, saw me, bowed, and with a smile showed me a little box half full of seeds. 'you don't mind?' i, of course, as is the usual practice in such cases, first bowed my head, and at the same time rapidly crooked my knees, and straightened them out again (as though some one had given me a blow from behind in the legs, a sure sign of good breeding and pleasant, easy manners), and then smiled, raised my hand, and softly and carefully brandished it twice in the air. the girl at once turned away from me, took a little piece of board out of the cage, began vigorously scraping it with a knife, and suddenly, without changing her attitude, uttered the following words: 'this is papa's parrot.... are you fond of parrots?' 'i prefer siskins,' i answered, not without some effort. 'i like siskins, too; but look at him, isn't he pretty? look, he's not afraid.' (what surprised me was that i was not afraid.) 'come closer. his name's popka.' i went up, and bent down. 'isn't he really sweet?' she turned her face to me; but we were standing so close together, that she had to throw her head back to get a look at me with her clear eyes. i gazed at her; her rosy young face was smiling all over in such a friendly way that i smiled too, and almost laughed aloud with delight. the door opened; mr. ozhogin came in. i promptly went up to him, and began talking to him very unconstrainedly. i don't know how it was, but i stayed to dinner, and spent the whole evening with them; and next day the ozhogins' footman, an elongated, dull-eyed person, smiled upon me as a friend of the family when he helped me off with my overcoat. to find a haven of refuge, to build oneself even a temporary nest, to feel the comfort of daily intercourse and habits, was a happiness i, a superfluous man, with no family associations, had never before experienced. if anything about me had had any resemblance to a flower, and if the comparison were not so hackneyed, i would venture to say that my soul blossomed from that day. everything within me and about me was suddenly transformed! my whole life was lighted up by love, the whole of it, down to the paltriest details, like a dark, deserted room when a light has been brought into it. i went to bed, and got up, dressed, ate my breakfast, and smoked my pipe--differently from before. i positively skipped along as i walked, as though wings were suddenly sprouting from my shoulders. i was not for an instant, i remember, in uncertainty with regard to the feeling elizaveta kirillovna inspired in me. i fell passionately in love with her from the first day, and from the first day i knew i was in love. during the course of three weeks i saw her every day. those three weeks were the happiest time in my life; but the recollection of them is painful to me. i can't think of them alone; i cannot help dwelling on what followed after them, and the intensest bitterness slowly takes possession of my softened heart. when a man is very happy, his brain, as is well known, is not very active. a calm and delicious sensation, the sensation of satisfaction, pervades his whole being; he is swallowed up by it; the consciousness of personal life vanishes in him--he is in beatitude, as badly educated poets say. but when, at last, this 'enchantment' is over, a man is sometimes vexed and sorry that, in the midst of his bliss, he observed himself so little; that he did not, by reflection, by recollection, redouble and prolong his feelings ... as though the 'beatific' man had time, and it were worth his while to reflect on his sensations! the happy man is what the fly is in the sunshine. and so it is that, when i recall those three weeks, it is almost impossible for me to retain in my mind any exact and definite impression, all the more so as during that time nothing very remarkable took place between us.... those twenty days are present to my imagination as something warm, and young, and fragrant, a sort of streak of light in my dingy, greyish life. my memory becomes all at once remorselessly clear and trustworthy, only from the instant when, to use the phrase of badly-educated writers, the blows of destiny began to fall upon me. yes, those three weeks.... not but what they have left some images in my mind. sometimes when it happens to me to brood a long while on that time, some memories suddenly float up out of the darkness of the past--like stars which suddenly come out against the evening sky to meet the eyes straining to catch sight of them. one country walk in a wood has remained particularly distinct in my memory. there were four of us, old madame ozhogin, liza, i, and a certain bizmyonkov, a petty official of the town of o----, a light-haired, good-natured, and harmless person. i shall have more to say of him later. mr. ozhogin had stayed at home; he had a headache, from sleeping too long. the day was exquisite; warm and soft. i must observe that pleasure-gardens and picnic-parties are not to the taste of the average russian. in district towns, in the so-called public gardens, you never meet a living soul at any time of the year; at the most, some old woman sits sighing and moaning on a green garden seat, broiling in the sun, not far from a sickly tree--and that, only if there is no greasy little bench in the gateway near. but if there happens to be a scraggy birchwood in the neighbourhood of the town, tradespeople and even officials gladly make excursions thither on sundays and holidays, with samovars, pies, and melons; set all this abundance on the dusty grass, close by the road, sit round, and eat and drink tea in the sweat of their brows till evening. just such a wood there was at that time a mile and a half from the town of o---. we repaired there after dinner, duly drank our fill of tea, and then all four began to wander about the wood. bizmyonkov walked with madame ozhogin on his arm, i with liza on mine. the day was already drawing to evening. i was at that time in the very fire of first love (not more than a fortnight had passed since our first meeting), in that condition of passionate and concentrated adoration, when your whole soul innocently and unconsciously follows every movement of the beloved being, when you can never have enough of her presence, listen enough to her voice, when you smile with the look of a child convalescent after sickness, and a man of the smallest experience cannot fail at the first glance to recognise a hundred yards off what is the matter with you. till that day i had never happened to have liza on my arm. we walked side by side, stepping slowly over the green grass. a light breeze, as it were, flitted about us between the white stems of the birches, every now and then flapping the ribbon of her hat into my face. i incessantly followed her eyes, until at last she turned gaily to me and we both smiled at each other. the birds were chirping approvingly above us, the blue sky peeped caressingly at us through the delicate foliage. my head was going round with excess of bliss. i hasten to remark, liza was not a bit in love with me. she liked me; she was never shy with any one, but it was not reserved for me to trouble her childlike peace of mind. she walked arm in arm with me, as she would with a brother. she was seventeen then.... and meanwhile, that very evening, before my eyes, there began that soft inward ferment which precedes the metamorphosis of the child into the woman.... i was witness of that transformation of the whole being, that guileless bewilderment, that agitated dreaminess; i was the first to detect the sudden softness of the glance, the sudden ring in the voice--and oh, fool! oh, superfluous man! for a whole week i had the face to imagine that i, i was the cause of this transformation! this was how it happened. we walked rather a long while, till evening, and talked little. i was silent, like all inexperienced lovers, and she, probably, had nothing to say to me. but she seemed to be pondering over something, and shook her head in a peculiar way, as she pensively nibbled a leaf she had picked. sometimes she started walking ahead, so resolutely...then all at once stopped, waited for me, and looked round with lifted eyebrows and a vague smile. on the previous evening we had read together. _the prisoner of the caucasus_. with what eagerness she had listened to me, her face propped in both hands, and her bosom pressed against the table! i began to speak of our yesterday's reading; she flushed, asked me whether i had given the parrot any hemp-seed before starting, began humming some little song aloud, and all at once was silent again. the copse ended on one side in a rather high and abrupt precipice; below coursed a winding stream, and beyond it, over an immense expanse, stretched the boundless prairies, rising like waves, spreading wide like a table-cloth, and broken here and there by ravines. liza and i were the first to come out at the edge of the wood; bizmyonkov and the elder lady were behind. we came out, stood still, and involuntarily we both half shut our eyes; directly facing us, across a lurid mist, the vast, purple sun was setting. half the sky was flushed and glowing; red rays fell slanting on the meadows, casting a crimson reflection even on the side of the ravines in shadow, lying in gleams of fire on the stream, where it was not hidden under the overhanging bushes, and, as it were, leaning on the bosom of the precipice and the copse. we stood, bathed in the blazing brilliance. i am not capable of describing all the impassioned solemnity of this scene. they say that by a blind man the colour red is imagined as the sound of a trumpet. i don't know how far this comparison is correct, but really there was something of a challenge in this glowing gold of the evening air, in the crimson flush on sky and earth. i uttered a cry of rapture and at once turned to liza. she was looking straight at the sun. i remember the sunset glow was reflected in little points of fire in her eyes. she was overwhelmed, deeply moved. she made no response to my exclamation; for a long while she stood, not stirring, with drooping head.... i held out my hand to her; she turned away from me, and suddenly burst into tears. i looked at her with secret, almost delighted amazement.... the voice of bizmyonkov was heard a couple of yards off. liza quickly wiped her tears and looked with a faltering smile at me. the elder lady came out of the copse leaning on the arm of her flaxen-headed escort; they, in their turn, admired the view. the old lady addressed some question to liza, and i could not help shuddering, i remember, when her daughter's broken voice, like cracked glass, sounded in reply. meanwhile the sun had set, and the afterglow began to fade. we turned back. again i took liza's arm in mine. it was still light in the wood, and i could clearly distinguish her features. she was confused, and did not raise her eyes. the flush that overspread her face did not vanish; it was as though she were still standing in the rays of the setting sun.... her hand scarcely touched my arm. for a long while i could not frame a sentence; my heart was beating so violently. through the trees there was a glimpse of the carriage in the distance; the coachman was coming at a walking pace to meet us over the soft sand of the road. 'lizaveta kirillovna,' i brought out at last, 'what did you cry for?' 'i don't know,' she answered, after a short silence. she looked at me with her soft eyes still wet with tears--her look struck me as changed, and she was silent again. 'you are very fond, i see, of nature,' i pursued. that was not at all what i meant to say, and the last words my tongue scarcely faltered out to the end. she shook her head. i could not utter another word.... i was waiting for something ... not an avowal--how was that possible? i waited for a confiding glance, a question.... but liza looked at the ground, and kept silent. i repeated once more in a whisper: 'why was it?' and received no reply. she had grown, i saw that, ill at ease, almost ashamed. a quarter of an hour later we were sitting in the carriage driving to the town. the horses flew along at an even trot; we were rapidly whirled along through the darkening, damp air. i suddenly began talking, more than once addressing first bizmyonkov, and then madame ozhogin. i did not look at liza, but i could see that from her corner in the carriage her eyes did not once rest on me. at home she roused herself, but would not read with me, and soon went off to bed. a turning-point, that turning-point i have spoken of, had been reached by her. she had ceased to be a little girl, she too had begun ... like me ... to wait for something. she had not long to wait. but that night i went home to my lodgings in a state of perfect ecstasy. the vague half presentiment, half suspicion, which had been arising within me, had vanished. the sudden constraint in liza's manner towards me i ascribed to maidenly bashfulness, timidity.... hadn't i read a thousand times over in many books that the first appearance of love always agitates and alarms a young girl? i felt supremely happy, and was already making all sorts of plans in my head. if some one had whispered in my ear then: 'you're raving, my dear chap! that's not a bit what's in store for you. what's in store for you is to die all alone, in a wretched little cottage, amid the insufferable grumbling of an old hag who will await your death with impatience to sell your boots for a few coppers...'! yes, one can't help saying with the russian philosopher--'how's one to know what one doesn't know?' enough for to-day. _march 25. a white winter day._ i have read over what i wrote yesterday, and was all but tearing up the whole manuscript. i think my story's too spun out and too sentimental. however, as the rest of my recollections of that time presents nothing of a pleasurable character, except that peculiar sort of consolation which lermontov had in view when he said there is pleasure and pain in irritating the sores of old wounds, why not indulge oneself? but one must know where to draw the line. and so i will continue without any sort of sentimentality. during the whole of the week after the country excursion, my position was in reality in no way improved, though the change in liza became more noticeable every day. i interpreted this change, as i have said before, in the most favourable way for me.... the misfortune of solitary and timid people--who are timid from self-consciousness--is just that, though they have eyes and indeed open them wide, they see nothing, or see everything in a false light, as though through coloured spectacles. their own ideas and speculations trip them up at every step. at the commencement of our acquaintance, liza behaved confidingly and freely with me, like a child; perhaps there may even have been in her attitude to me something more than mere childish liking.... but after this strange, almost instantaneous change had taken place in her, after a period of brief perplexity, she felt constrained in my presence; she unconsciously turned away from me, and was at the same time melancholy and dreamy.... she was waiting ... for what? she did not know ... while i ... i, as i have said above, was delighted at this change.... yes, by god, i was ready to expire, as they say, with rapture. though i am prepared to allow that any one else in my place might have been deceived.... who is free from vanity? i need not say that all this was only clear to me in the course of time, when i had to lower my clipped and at no time over-powerful wings. the misunderstanding that had arisen between liza and me lasted a whole week--and there is nothing surprising in that: it has been my lot to be a witness of misunderstandings that have lasted for years and years. who was it said, by the way, that truth alone is powerful? falsehood is just as living as truth, if not more so. to be sure, i recollect that even during that week i felt from time to time an uneasy gnawing astir within me ... but solitary people like me, i say again, are as incapable of understanding what is going on within them as what is taking place before their eyes. and, besides, is love a natural feeling? is it natural for man to love? love is a sickness; and for sickness there is no law. granting that there was at times an unpleasant pang in my heart; well, everything inside me was turned upside down. and how is one to know in such circumstances, what is all right and what is all wrong? and what is the cause, and what the significance, of each separate symptom? but, be that as it may, all these misconceptions, presentiments, and hopes were shattered in the following manner. one day--it was in the morning about twelve o'clock--i had hardly entered mr. ozhogin's hall, when i heard an unfamiliar, mellow voice in the drawing-room, the door opened, and a tall and slim man of five-and-twenty appeared in the doorway, escorted by the master of the house. he rapidly put on a military overcoat which lay on the slab, and took cordial leave of kirilla matveitch. as he brushed past me, he carelessly touched his foraging cap, and vanished with a clink of his spurs. 'who is that?' i asked ozhogin. 'prince n., 'the latter responded, with a preoccupied face; 'sent from petersburg to collect recruits. but where are the servants?' he went on in a tone of annoyance; 'no one handed him his coat.' we went into the drawing-room. 'has he been here long?' i inquired. 'arrived yesterday evening, i'm told. i offered him a room here, but he refused. he seems a very nice fellow, though.' 'has he been long with you?' 'about an hour. he asked me to introduce him to olimpiada nikitishna.' 'and did you introduce him?' 'of course.' 'and lizaveta kirillovna, too, did he ...' 'he made her acquaintance, too, of course.' i was silent for a space. 'has he come here for long, do you know?' 'yes, i believe he has to be here for a fortnight.' and kirilla matveitch hurried away to dress. i walked several times up and down the drawing-room. i don't recollect that prince n.'s arrival made any special impression on me at the time, except that feeling of hostility which usually possesses us on the appearance of any new person in our domestic circle. possibly there was mingled with this feeling something too of the nature of envy--of a shy and obscure person from moscow towards a brilliant officer from petersburg. 'the prince,' i mused, 'is an upstart from the capital; he'll look down upon us....' i had not seen him for more than an instant, but i had had time to perceive that he was good-looking, clever, and at his ease. after pacing the room for some time, i stopped at last before a looking-glass, pulled a comb out of my pocket, gave a picturesque carelessness to my hair, and, as sometimes happens, became suddenly absorbed in the contemplation of my own face. i remember my attention centred anxiously about my nose; the soft and undefined outlines of that feature afforded me no great satisfaction, when suddenly in the dark depths of the sloping mirror, which reflected almost the whole room, the door opened, and the slender figure of liza appeared. i don't know why i did not stir, and kept the same expression on my face. liza craned her head forward, looked intently at me, and raising her eyebrows, biting her lips, and holding her breath as any one does who is glad at not being noticed, she cautiously drew back and stealthily drew the door to after her. the door creaked slightly. liza started and stood rooted to the spot... i still kept from stirring ... she pulled the handle again and vanished. there was no possibility of doubt: the expression of liza's face at the sight of my figure, that expression in which nothing could be detected except a desire to get away again successfully, to escape a disagreeable interview, the quick flash of delight i had time to catch in her eyes when she fancied she really had managed to creep away unnoticed--it all spoke too clearly; that girl did not love me. for a long, long while i could not take my eyes off that motionless, dumb door, which was once more a patch of white in the looking-glass. i tried to smile at my own long face--dropped my head, went home again, and flung myself on the sofa. i felt extraordinarily heavy at heart, so much so that i could not cry ... and, besides, what was there to cry about...? 'is it possible?' i repeated incessantly, lying, as though i were murdered, on my back with my hands folded on my breast--'is it possible?'...don't you think that's rather good, that 'is it possible?' _march 26. thaw._ when, next day, after long hesitation and with a low sinking at my heart, i went into the ozhogins' familiar drawing-room, i was no longer the same man as they had known during the last three weeks. all my old peculiarities, which i had begun to get over, under the influence of a new feeling, reappeared and took possession of me, like proprietors returning to their house. people of my sort are usually guided, not so much by positive facts, as by their own impressions: i, who no longer ago than the day before had been dreaming of the 'raptures of love returned,' was that day no less convinced of my 'unhappiness,' and was absolutely despairing, though i was not myself able to find any rational ground for my despair. i could not as yet be jealous of prince n., and whatever his qualities might be, his mere arrival was not sufficient to extinguish liza's good-will towards me at once.... but stay, was there any good-will on her part? i recalled the past. 'what of the walk in the wood?' i asked myself. 'what of the expression of her face in the glass?' 'but,' i went on, 'the walk in the wood, i think ... fie on me! my god, what a wretched creature i am!' i said at last, out loud. of such sort were the unphrased, incomplete thoughts that went round and round a thousand times over in a monotonous whirl in my head. i repeat, i went back to the ozhogins' the same hypersensitive, suspicious, constrained creature i had been from my childhood up.... i found the whole family in the drawing-room; bizmyonkov was sitting there, too, in a corner. every one seemed in high good-humour; ozhogin, in particular, positively beamed, and his first word was to tell me that prince n. had spent the whole of the previous evening with them. liza gave me a tranquil greeting. 'oh,' said i to myself; 'now i understand why you're in such spirits.' i must own the prince's second visit puzzled me. i had not anticipated it. as a rule fellows like me anticipate everything in the world, except what is bound to occur in the natural order of things; i sulked and put on the air of an injured but magnanimous person; i tried to punish liza by showing my displeasure, from which one must conclude i was not yet completely desperate after all. they do say that in some cases when one is really loved, it's positively of use to torment the adored one; but in my position it was indescribably stupid. liza, in the most innocent way, paid no attention to me. no one but madame ozhogin observed my solemn taciturnity, and she inquired anxiously after my health. i replied, of course, with a bitter smile, that i was thankful to say i was perfectly well. ozhogin continued to expatiate on the subject of their visitor; but noticing that i responded reluctantly, he addressed himself principally to bizmyonkov, who was listening to him with great attention, when a servant suddenly came in, announcing the arrival of prince n. our host jumped up and ran to meet him; liza, upon whom i at once turned an eagle eye, flushed with delight, and made as though she would move from her seat. the prince came in, all agreeable perfume, gaiety, cordiality.... as i am not composing a romance for a gentle reader, but simply writing for my own amusement, it stands to reason i need not make use of the usual dodges of our respected authors. i will say straight out without further delay that liza fell passionately in love with the prince from the first day she saw him, and the prince fell in love with her too--partly from having nothing to do, and partly from a propensity for turning women's heads, and also owing to the fact that liza really was a very charming creature. there was nothing to be wondered at in their falling in love with each other. he had certainly never expected to find such a pearl in such a wretched shell (i am alluding to the god-forsaken town of o----), and she had never in her wildest dreams seen anything in the least like this brilliant, clever, fascinating aristocrat. after the first courtesies, ozhogin introduced me to the prince, who was very affable in his behaviour to me. he was as a rule very affable with every one; and in spite of the immeasurable distance between him and our obscure provincial circle, he was clever enough to avoid being a source of constraint to any one, and even to make a show of being on our level, and only living at petersburg, as it were, by accident. that first evening.... oh, that first evening! in our happy days of childhood our teachers used to describe and set up before us as an example the manly fortitude of the young spartan, who, having stolen a fox and hidden it under his tunic, without uttering one shriek let it devour all his entrails, and so preferred death itself to disgrace.... i can find no better comparison for my indescribable sufferings during the evening on which i first saw the prince by liza's side. my continual forced smile and painful vigilance, my idiotic silence, my miserable and ineffectual desire to get away--all that was doubtless something truly remarkable in its own way. it was not one wild beast alone gnawing at my vitals; jealousy, envy, the sense of my own insignificance, and helpless hatred were torturing me. i could not but admit that the prince really was a very agreeable young man.... i devoured him with my eyes; i really believe i forgot to blink as usual, as i stared at him. he talked not to liza alone, but all he said was of course really for her. he must have felt me a great bore. he most likely guessed directly that it was a discarded lover he had to deal with, but from sympathy for me, and also a profound sense of my absolute harmlessness, he treated me with extraordinary gentleness. you can fancy how this wounded me! in the course of the evening i tried, i remember, to smooth over my mistake. i positively (don't laugh at me, whoever you may be, who chance to look through these lines--especially as it was my last illusion...) ... i, positively, in the midst of my different sufferings, imagined all of a sudden that liza wanted to punish me for my haughty coldness at the beginning of my visit, that she was angry with me and only flirting with the prince from pique.... i seized my opportunity and with a meek but gracious smile, i went up to her, and muttered--'enough, forgive me, not that i'm afraid ...' and suddenly, without awaiting her reply, i gave my features an extraordinarily cheerful and free-and-easy expression, with a set grin, passed my hand above my head in the direction of the ceiling (i wanted, i remember, to set my cravat straight), and was even on the point of pirouetting round on one foot, as though to say, 'all is over, i am happy, let's all be happy,'--i did not, however, execute this manoeuvre, as i was afraid of losing my balance, owing to an unnatural stiffness in my knees.... liza failed absolutely to understand me; she looked in my face with amazement, gave a hasty smile, as though she wanted to get rid of me as quickly as possible, and again approached the prince. blind and deaf as i was, i could not but be inwardly aware that she was not in the least angry, and was not annoyed with me at that instant: she simply never gave me a thought. the blow was a final one. my last hopes were shattered with a crash, just as a block of ice, thawed by the sunshine of spring, suddenly falls into tiny morsels. i was utterly defeated at the first skirmish, and, like the prussians at jena, lost everything at once in one day. no, she was not angry with me!... alas, it was quite the contrary! she too--i saw that--was being swept off her feet by the torrent. like a young tree, already half torn from the bank, she bent eagerly over the stream, ready to abandon to it for ever the first blossom of her spring and her whole life. a man whose fate it has been to be the witness of such a passion, has lived through bitter moments if he has loved himself and not been loved. i shall for ever remember that devouring attention, that tender gaiety, that innocent self-oblivion, that glance, still a child's and already a woman's, that happy, as it were flowering smile that never left the half-parted lips and glowing cheeks.... all that liza had vaguely foreshadowed during our walk in the wood had come to pass now--and she, as she gave herself up utterly to love, was at once stiller and brighter, like new wine, which ceases to ferment because its full maturity has come.... i had the fortitude to sit through that first evening and the subsequent evenings ... all to the end! i could have no hope of anything. liza and the prince became every day more devoted to each other ... but i had absolutely lost all sense of personal dignity, and could not tear myself away from the spectacle of my own misery. i remember one day i tried not to go, swore to myself in the morning that i would stay at home, and at eight o'clock in the evening (i usually set off at seven) leaped up like a madman, put on my hat, and ran breathless into kirilla matveitch's drawing-room. my position was excessively absurd. i was obstinately silent; sometimes for whole days together i did not utter a sound. i was, as i have said already, never distinguished for eloquence; but now everything i had in my mind took flight, as it were, in the presence of the prince, and i was left bare and bereft. besides, when i was alone, i set my wretched brain working so hard, slowly going over everything i had noticed or surmised during the preceding day, that when i went back to the ozhogins' i scarcely had energy left to observe again. they treated me considerately, as a sick person; i saw that. every morning i adopted some new, final resolution, for the most part painfully hatched in the course of a sleepless night. at one time i made up my mind to have it out with liza, to give her friendly advice ... but when i chanced to be alone with her, my tongue suddenly ceased to work, froze as it were, and we both, in great discomfort, waited for the entrance of some third person. another time i meant to run away, of course for ever, leaving my beloved a letter full of reproaches, and i even one day began this letter; but the sense of justice had not yet quite vanished in me. i realised that i had no right to reproach any one for anything, and i flung what i had written in the fire. then i suddenly offered myself up wholly as a sacrifice, gave liza my benediction, praying for her happiness, and smiled in meek and friendly fashion from my corner at the prince. but the cruel-hearted lovers not only never thanked me for my self-sacrifice, they never even noticed me, and were, apparently, quite ready to dispense with my smiles and my blessings.... then, in wrath, i suddenly flew into quite the opposite mood. i swore to myself, wrapping my cloak about me like a spaniard, to rush out from some dark corner and stab my lucky rival, and with brutal glee i imagined liza's despair.... but, in the first place, such corners were few in the town of o----; and, secondly--the wooden fence, the street lamp, the policeman in the distance.... no! in such corners it was somehow far more suitable to sell buns and oranges than to shed human blood. i must own that, among other means of deliverance, as i very vaguely expressed it in my colloquies with myself, i did entertain the idea of having recourse to ozhogin himself ... of calling the attention of that nobleman to the perilous situation of his daughter, and the mournful consequences of her indiscretion.... i even once began speaking to him on a certain delicate subject; but my remarks were so indirect and misty, that after listening and listening to me, he suddenly, as it were, waking up, rubbed his hand rapidly and vigorously all over his face, not sparing his nose, gave a snort, and walked away from me. it is needless to say that in resolving on this step i persuaded myself that i was acting from the most disinterested motives, was desirous of the general welfare, and was doing my duty as a friend of the house.... but i venture to think that even had kirilla matveitch not cut short my outpourings, i should in any case not have had courage to finish my monologue. at times i set to work with all the solemnity of some sage of antiquity, weighing the qualities of the prince; at times i comforted myself with the hope that it was all of no consequence, that liza would recover her senses, that her love was not real love ... oh, no! in short, i know no idea that i did not worry myself with at that time. there was only one resource which never, i candidly admit, entered my head: i never once thought of taking my life. why it did not occur to me i don't know.... possibly, even then, i had a presentiment i should not have long to live in any case. it will be readily understood that in such unfavourable circumstances my manner, my behaviour with people, was more than ever marked by unnaturalness and constraint. even madame ozhogin--that creature dull-witted from her birth up--began to shun me, and at times did not know in what way to approach me. bizmyonkov, always polite and ready to do services, avoided me. i fancied even at that time that i had in him a companion in misfortune--that he too loved liza. but he never responded to my hints, and altogether showed a reluctance to converse with me. the prince behaved in a very friendly way to him; the prince, one might say, respected him. neither bizmyonkov nor i was any obstacle to the prince and liza; but he did not shun them as i did, nor look savage nor injured--and readily joined them when they desired it. it is true that on such occasions he was not conspicuous for any special mirthfulness; but his good-humour had always been somewhat subdued in character. in this fashion about a fortnight passed by. the prince was not only handsome and clever: he played the piano, sang, sketched fairly well, and was a good hand at telling stories. his anecdotes, drawn from the highest circles of petersburg society, always made a great impression on his audience, all the more so from the fact that he seemed to attach no importance to them.... the consequence of this, if you like, simple accomplishment of the prince's was that in the course of his not very protracted stay in the town of o---he completely fascinated all the neighbourhood. to fascinate us poor dwellers in the steppes is at all times a very easy task for any one coming from higher spheres. the prince's frequent visits to the ozhogins (he used to spend his evenings there) of course aroused the jealousy of the other worthy gentry and officials of the town. but the prince, like a clever person and a man of the world, never neglected a single one of them; he called on all of them; to every married lady and every unmarried miss he addressed at least one flattering phrase, allowed them to feed him on elaborately solid edibles, and to make him drink wretched wines with magnificent names; and conducted himself, in short, like a model of caution and tact. prince n---was in general a man of lively manners, sociable and genial by inclination, and in this case incidentally from prudential motives also; he could not fail to be a complete success in everything. ever since his arrival, all in the house had felt that the time had flown by with unusual rapidity; everything had gone off beautifully. papa ozhogin, though he pretended that he noticed nothing, was doubtless rubbing his hands in private at the idea of such a son-in-law. the prince, for his part, managed matters with the utmost sobriety and discretion, when, all of a sudden, an unexpected incident.... till to-morrow. to-day i'm tired. these recollections irritate me even at the edge of the grave. terentyevna noticed to-day that my nose has already begun to grow sharp; and that, they say, is a bad sign. _march 27. thaw continuing._ things were in the position described above: the prince and liza were in love with each other; the old ozhogins were waiting to see what would come of it; bizmyonkov was present at the proceedings--there was nothing else to be said of him. i was struggling like a fish on the ice, and watching with all my might,--i remember that at that time i set myself the task of preventing liza at least from falling into the snares of a seducer, and consequently began paying particular attention to the maidservants and the fateful 'back stairs'--though, on the other hand, i often spent whole nights in dreaming with what touching magnanimity i would one day hold out a hand to the betrayed victim and say to her, 'the traitor has deceived thee; but i am thy true friend ... let us forget the past and be happy!'--when sudden and glad tidings overspread the whole town. the marshal of the district proposed to give a great ball in honour of their respected guest, on his private estate gornostaevka. all the official world, big and little, of the town of o---received invitations, from the mayor down to the apothecary, an excessively emaciated german, with ferocious pretensions to a good russian accent, which led him into continually and quite inappropriately employing racy colloquialisms.... tremendous preparations were, of course, put in hand. one purveyor of cosmetics sold sixteen dark-blue jars of pomatum, which bore the inscription _à la jesmin_. the young ladies provided themselves with tight dresses, agonising in the waist and jutting out sharply over the stomach; the mammas put formidable erections on their heads by way of caps; the busy papas were half dead with the bustle. the longed-for day arrived at last. i was among those invited. from the town to gornostaevka was reckoned between seven and eight miles. kirilla matveitch offered me a seat in his coach; but i refused.... in the same way children, who have been punished, wishing to pay their parents out, refuse their favourite dainties at table. besides, i felt that my presence would be felt as a constraint by liza. bizmyonkov took my place. the prince drove in his own carriage, and i in a wretched little droshky, hired for an immense sum for this solemn occasion. i am not going to describe that ball. everything about it was just as it always is. there was a band, with trumpets extraordinarily out of tune, in the gallery; there were country gentlemen, greatly flustered, with their inevitable families, mauve ices, viscous lemonade; servants in boots trodden down at heel and knitted cotton gloves; provincial lions with spasmodically contorted faces, and so on and so on. and all this little world was revolving round its sun--round the prince. lost in the crowd, unnoticed even by the young ladies of eight-and-forty, with red pimples on their brows and blue flowers on the top of their heads, i stared incessantly, first at the prince, then at liza. she was very charmingly dressed and very pretty that evening. they only twice danced together (it is true, he danced the mazurka with her); but it seemed, to me at least, that there was a sort of secret, continuous communication between them. even while not looking at her, while not speaking to her, he was still, as it were, addressing her, and her alone. he was handsome and brilliant and charming with other people--for her sake only. she was apparently conscious that she was the queen of the ball, and that she was loved. her face at once beamed with childlike delight and innocent pride, and was suddenly illuminated by another, deeper feeling. happiness radiated from her. i observed all this.... it was not the first time i had watched them.... at first this wounded me intensely; afterwards it, as it were, touched me; but, finally, it infuriated me. i suddenly felt extraordinarily wrathful, and, i remember, was extraordinarily delighted at this new sensation, and even conceived a certain respect for myself. 'we'll show them we're not crushed yet,' i said to myself. when the first inviting notes of the mazurka sounded, i looked about me with composure, and with a cool and easy air approached a long-faced young lady with a red and shiny nose, a mouth that stood awkwardly open, as though it had come unbuttoned, and a scraggy neck that recalled the handle of a bass-viol. i went up to her, and, with a perfunctory scrape of my heels, invited her to the dance. she was wearing a dress of faded rosebud pink, not full-blown rose colour; on her head quivered a striped and dejected beetle of some sort on a thick bronze pin; and altogether this lady was, if one may so express it, soaked through and through with a sort of sour ennui and inveterate lack of success. from the very commencement of the evening she had not once stirred from her seat; no one had thought of asking her to dance. one flaxen-headed youth of sixteen had, through lack of a partner, been on the point of addressing this lady, and had taken a step in her direction, but had thought better of it, stared at her, and hurriedly dived into the crowd. you can fancy with what joyful amazement she agreed to my proposal! i led her in triumph right across the ballroom, picked out two chairs, and sat down with her in the ring of the mazurka, among ten couples, almost opposite the prince, who had, of course, been offered the first place. the prince, as i have said already, was dancing with liza. neither i nor my partner was disturbed by invitations; consequently, we had plenty of time for conversation. to tell the truth, my partner was not conspicuous for her capacity for the utterance of words in consecutive speech; she used her mouth principally for the achievement of a strange downward smile such as i had never till then beheld; while she raised her eyes upward, as though some unseen force were pulling her face in two. but i did not feel her lack of eloquence. happily i felt full of wrath, and my partner did not make me shy. i fell to finding fault with everything and every one in the world, with especial emphasis on town-bred youngsters and petersburg dandies; and went to such lengths at last, that my partner gradually ceased smiling, and instead of turning her eyes upward, began suddenly--from astonishment, i suppose--to squint, and that so strangely, as though she had for the first time observed the fact that she had a nose on her face. and one of the lions, referred to above, who was sitting next me, did not once take his eyes off me; he positively turned to me with the expression of an actor on the stage, who has waked up in an unfamiliar place, as though he would say, 'is it really you!' while i poured forth this tirade, i still, however, kept watch on the prince and liza. they were continually invited; but i suffered less when they were both dancing; and even when they were sitting side by side, and smiling as they talked to each other that sweet smile which hardly leaves the faces of happy lovers, even then i was not in such torture; but when liza flitted across the room with some desperate dandy of an hussar, while the prince with her blue gauze scarf on his knees followed her dreamily with his eyes, as though delighting in his conquest;--then, oh! then, i went through intolerable agonies, and in my anger gave vent to such spiteful observations, that the pupils of my partner's eyes simply fastened on her nose! meanwhile the mazurka was drawing to a close. they were beginning the figure called _la confidente_. in this figure the lady sits in the middle of a circle, chooses another lady as her confidant, and whispers in her ear the name of the gentleman with whom she wishes to dance. her partner conducts one after another of the dancers to her; but the lady, who is in the secret, refuses them, till at last the happy man fixed on beforehand arrives. liza sat in the middle of the circle and chose the daughter of the host, one of those young ladies of whom one says, 'god help them!'... the prince proceeded to discover her choice. after presenting about a dozen young men to her in vain (the daughter of the house refused them all with the most amiable of smiles), he at last turned to me. something extraordinary took place within me at that instant; i, as it were, twitched all over, and would have refused, but got up and went along. the prince conducted me to liza.... she did not even look at me; the daughter of the house shook her head in refusal, the prince turned to me, and, probably incited by the goose-like expression of my face, made me a deep bow. this sarcastic bow, this refusal, transmitted to me through my triumphant rival, his careless smile, liza's indifferent inattention, all this lashed me to frenzy.... i moved up to the prince and whispered furiously, 'you think fit to laugh at me, it seems?' the prince looked at me with contemptuous surprise, took my arm again, and making a show of re-conducting me to my seat, answered coldly, 'i?' 'yes, you!' i went on in a whisper, obeying, however--that is to say, following him to my place; 'you; but i do not intend to permit any empty-headed petersburg up-start----' the prince smiled tranquilly, almost condescendingly, pressed my arm, whispered, 'i understand you; but this is not the place; we will have a word later,' turned away from me, went up to bizmyonkov, and led him up to liza. the pale little official turned out to be the chosen partner. liza got up to meet him. sitting beside my partner with the dejected beetle on her head, i felt almost a hero. my heart beat violently, my breast heaved gallantly under my starched shirt front, i drew deep and hurried breaths, and suddenly gave the local lion near me such a magnificent glare that there was an involuntary quiver of his foot in my direction. having disposed of this person, i scanned the whole circle of dancers.... i fancied two or three gentlemen were staring at me with some perplexity; but, in general, my conversation with the prince had passed unnoticed.... my rival was already back in his chair, perfectly composed, and with the same smile on his face. bizmyonkov led liza back to her place. she gave him a friendly bow, and at once turned to the prince, as i fancied, with some alarm. but he laughed in response, with a graceful wave of his hand, and must have said something very agreeable to her, for she flushed with delight, dropped her eyes, and then bent them with affectionate reproach upon him. the heroic frame of mind, which had suddenly developed in me, had not disappeared by the end of the mazurka; but i did not indulge in any more epigrams or 'quizzing.' i contented myself with glancing occasionally with gloomy severity at my partner, who was obviously beginning to be afraid of me, and was utterly tongue-tied and continuously blinking by the time i placed her under the protection of her mother, a very fat woman with a red cap on her head. having consigned the scared maiden lady to her natural belongings, i turned away to a window, folded my arms, and began to await what would happen. i had rather long to wait. the prince was the whole time surrounded by his host--surrounded, simply, as england is surrounded by the sea,--to say nothing of the other members of the marshal's family and the rest of the guests. and besides, he could hardly go up to such an insignificant person as me and begin to talk without arousing a general feeling of surprise. this insignificance, i remember, was positively a joy to me at the time. 'all right,' i thought, as i watched him courteously addressing first one and then another highly respected personage, honoured by his notice, if only for an 'instant's flash,' as the poets say;--'all right, my dear ... you'll come to me soon--i've insulted you, anyway.' at last the prince, adroitly escaping from the throng of his adorers, passed close by me, looked somewhere between the window and my hair, was turning away, and suddenly stood still, as though he had recollected something. 'ah, yes!' he said, turning to me with a smile, 'by the way, i have a little matter to talk to you about.' two country gentlemen, of the most persistent, who were obstinately pursuing the prince, probably imagined the 'little matter' to relate to official business, and respectfully fell back. the prince took my arm and led me apart. my heart was thumping at my ribs. 'you, i believe,' he began, emphasising the word _you,_ and looking at my chin with a contemptuous expression, which, strange to say, was supremely becoming to his fresh and handsome face, 'you said something abusive to me?' 'i said what i thought,' i replied, raising my voice. 'sh ... quietly,' he observed; 'decent people don't bawl. you would like, perhaps, to fight me?' 'that's your affair,' i answered, drawing myself up. 'i shall be obliged to challenge you,' he remarked carelessly, 'if you don't withdraw your expressions....' 'i do not intend to withdraw from anything,' i rejoined with pride. 'really?' he observed, with an ironical smile. 'in that case,' he continued, after a brief pause, 'i shall have the honour of sending my second to you to-morrow.' 'very good, 'i said in a voice, if possible, even more indifferent. the prince gave a slight bow. 'i cannot prevent you from considering me empty-headed,' he added, with a haughty droop of his eyelids; 'but the princes n---cannot be upstarts. good-bye till we meet, mr.... mr. shtukaturin.' he quickly turned his back on me, and again approached his host, who was already beginning to get excited. mr. shtukaturin!... my name is tchulkaturin.... i could think of nothing to say to him in reply to this last insult, and could only gaze after him with fury. 'till to-morrow,' i muttered, clenching my teeth, and i at once looked for an officer of my acquaintance, a cavalry captain in the uhlans, called koloberdyaev, a desperate rake, and a very good fellow. to him i related, in few words, my quarrel with the prince, and asked him to be my second. he, of course, promptly consented, and i went home. i could not sleep all night--from excitement, not from cowardice. i am not a coward. i positively thought very little of the possibility confronting me of losing my life--that, as the germans assure us, highest good on earth. i could think only of liza, of my ruined hopes, of what i ought to do. 'ought i to try to kill the prince?' i asked myself; and, of course, i wanted to kill him--not from revenge, but from a desire for liza's good. 'but she will not survive such a blow,' i went on. 'no, better let him kill me!' i must own it was an agreeable reflection, too, that i, an obscure provincial person, had forced a man of such consequence to fight a duel with me. the morning light found me still absorbed in these reflections; and, not long after it, appeared koloberdyaev. 'well,' he asked me, entering my room with a clatter, 'where's the prince's second?' 'upon my word,' i answered with annoyance, 'it's seven o'clock at the most; the prince is still asleep, i should imagine.' 'in that case,' replied the cavalry officer, in nowise daunted, 'order some tea for me. my head aches from yesterday evening.... i've not taken my clothes off all night. though, indeed,' he added with a yawn, 'i don't as a rule often take my clothes off.' some tea was given him. he drank off six glasses of tea and rum, smoked four pipes, told me he had on the previous day bought, for next to nothing, a horse the coachman refused to drive, and that he was meaning to drive her out with one of her fore legs tied up, and fell asleep, without undressing, on the sofa, with a pipe in his mouth. i got up and put my papers to rights. one note of invitation from liza, the one note i had received from her, i was on the point of putting in my bosom, but on second thoughts i flung it in a drawer. koloberdyaev was snoring feebly, with his head hanging from the leather pillow.... for a long while, i remember, i scrutinised his unkempt, daring, careless, and good-natured face. at ten o'clock the man announced the arrival of bizmyonkov. the prince had chosen him as second. we both together roused the soundly sleeping cavalry officer. he sat up, stared at us with dim eyes, in a hoarse voice demanded vodka. he recovered himself, and exchanging greetings with bizmyonkov, he went with him into the next room to arrange matters. the consultation of the worthy seconds did not last long. a quarter of an hour later, they both came into my bedroom. koloberdyaev announced to me that 'we're going to fight to-day at three o'clock with pistols.' in silence i bent my head, in token of my agreement. bizmyonkov at once took leave of us, and departed. he was rather pale and inwardly agitated, like a man unused to such jobs, but he was, nevertheless, very polite and chilly. i felt, as it were, conscience-stricken in his presence, and did not dare look him in the face. koloberdyaev began telling me about his horse. this conversation was very welcome to me. i was afraid he would mention liza. but the good-natured cavalry officer was not a gossip, and, moreover, he despised all women, calling them, god knows why, green stuff. at two o'clock we had lunch, and at three we were at the place fixed upon--the very birch copse in which i had once walked with liza, a couple of yards from the precipice. we arrived first; but the prince and bizmyonkov did not keep us long waiting. the prince was, without exaggeration, as fresh as a rose; his brown eyes looked out with excessive cordiality from under the peak of his cap. he was smoking a cigar, and on seeing koloberdyaev shook his hand in a friendly way. even to me he bowed very genially. i was conscious, on the contrary, of being pale, and my hands, to my terrible vexation, were slightly trembling ... my throat was parched.... i had never fought a duel before. 'o god!' i thought; 'if only that ironical gentleman doesn't take my agitation for timidity!' i was inwardly cursing my nerves; but glancing, at last, straight in the prince's face, and catching on his lips an almost imperceptible smile, i suddenly felt furious again, and was at once at my ease. meanwhile, our seconds were fixing the barrier, measuring out the paces, loading the pistols. koloberdyaev did most; bizmyonkov rather watched him. it was a magnificent day--as fine as the day of that ever-memorable walk. the thick blue of the sky peeped, as then, through the golden green of the leaves. their lisping seemed to mock me. the prince went on smoking his cigar, leaning with his shoulder against the trunk of a young lime-tree.... 'kindly take your places, gentlemen; ready,' koloberdyaev pronounced at last, handing us pistols. the prince walked a few steps away, stood still, and, turning his head, asked me over his shoulder, 'you still refuse to take back your words, then?' i tried to answer him; but my voice failed me, and i had to content myself with a contemptuous wave of the hand. the prince smiled again, and took up his position in his place. we began to approach one another. i raised my pistol, was about to aim at my enemy's chest--but suddenly tilted it up, as though some one had given my elbow a shove, and fired. the prince tottered, and put his left hand to his left temple--a thread of blood was flowing down his cheek from under the white leather glove, bizmyonkov rushed up to him. 'it's all right,' he said, taking off his cap, which the bullet had pierced; 'since it's in the head, and i've not fallen, it must be a mere scratch.' he calmly pulled a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket, and put it to his blood-stained curls. i stared at him, as though i were turned to stone, and did not stir. 'go up to the barrier, if you please!' koloberdyaev observed severely. i obeyed. 'is the duel to go on?' he added, addressing bizmyonkov. bizmyonkov made him no answer. but the prince, without taking the handkerchief from the wound, without even giving himself the satisfaction of tormenting me at the barrier, replied with a smile. 'the duel is at an end,' and fired into the air. i was almost crying with rage and vexation. this man by his magnanimity had utterly trampled me in the mud; he had completely crushed me. i was on the point of making objections, on the point of demanding that he should fire at me. but he came up to me, and held out his hand. 'it's all forgotten between us, isn't it?' he said in a friendly voice. i looked at his blanched face, at the blood-stained handkerchief, and utterly confounded, put to shame, and annihilated, i pressed his hand. 'gentlemen!' he added, turning to the seconds, 'everything, i hope, will be kept secret?' 'of course!' cried koloberdyaev; 'but, prince, allow me ...' and he himself bound up his head. the prince, as he went away, bowed to me once more. but bizmyonkov did not even glance at me. shattered--morally shattered--went homewards with koloberdyaev. 'why, what's the matter with you?' the cavalry captain asked me. 'set your mind at rest; the wound's not serious. he'll be able to dance by to-morrow, if you like. or are you sorry you didn't kill him? you're wrong, if you are; he's a first-rate fellow.' 'what business had he to spare me!' i muttered at last. 'oh, so that's it!' the cavalry captain rejoined tranquilly... 'ugh, you writing fellows are too much for me!' i don't know what put it into his head to consider me an author. i absolutely decline to describe my torments during the evening following upon that luckless duel. my vanity suffered indescribably. it was not my conscience that tortured me; the consciousness of my imbecility crushed me. 'i have given myself the last decisive blow by my own act!' i kept repeating, as i strode up and down my room. 'the prince, wounded by me, and forgiving me... yes, liza is now his. now nothing can save her, nothing can hold her back on the edge of the abyss.' i knew very well that our duel could not be kept secret, in spite of the prince's words; in any case, it could not remain a secret for liza. 'the prince is not such a fool,' i murmured in a frenzy of rage, 'as not to profit by it.'... but, meanwhile, i was mistaken. the whole town knew of the duel and of its real cause next day, of course. but the prince had not blabbed of it; on the contrary, when, with his head bandaged and an explanation ready, he made his appearance before liza, she had already heard everything.... whether bizmyonkov had betrayed me, or the news had reached her by other channels, i cannot say. though, indeed, can anything ever be concealed in a little town? you can fancy how liza received him, how all the family of the ozhogins received him! as for me, i suddenly became an object of universal indignation and loathing, a monster, a jealous bloodthirsty madman. my few acquaintances shunned me as if i were a leper. the authorities of the town promptly addressed the prince, with a proposal to punish me in a severe and befitting manner. nothing but the persistent and urgent entreaties of the prince himself averted the calamity that menaced me. that man was fated to annihilate me in every way. by his generosity he had shut, as it were, a coffin-lid down upon me. it's needless to say that the ozhogins' doors were at once closed against me. kirilla matveitch even sent me back a bit of pencil i had left in his house. in reality, he, of all people, had no reason to be angry with me. my 'insane' (that was the expression current in the town) jealousy had pointed out, defined, so to speak, the relations of the prince to liza. both the old ozhogins themselves and their fellow-citizens began to look on him almost as betrothed to her. this could not, as a fact, have been quite to his liking. but he was greatly attracted by liza; and meanwhile, he had not at that time attained his aims. with all the adroitness of a clever man of the world, he took advantage of his new position, and promptly entered, as they say, into the spirit of his new part.... but i!... for myself, for my future, i renounced all hopes, at that time. when suffering reaches the point of making our whole being creak and groan, like an overloaded cart, it ought to cease to be ridiculous ... but no! laughter not only accompanies tears to the end, to exhaustion, to the impossibility of shedding more--it even rings and echoes, where the tongue is dumb, and complaint itself is dead.... and so, as in the first place i don't intend to expose myself as ridiculous, even to myself, and secondly as i am fearfully tired, i will put off the continuation, and please god the conclusion, of my story till tomorrow.... _march 29. a slight frost; yesterday it was thawing._ yesterday i had not the strength to go on with my diary; like poprishtchin, i lay, for the most part, on my bed, and talked to terentyevna. what a woman! sixty years ago she lost her first betrothed from the plague, she has outlived all her children, she is inexcusably old, drinks tea to her heart's desire, is well fed, and warmly clothed; and what do you suppose she was talking to me about, all day yesterday? i had sent another utterly destitute old woman the collar of an old livery, half moth-eaten, to put on her vest (she wears strips over the chest by way of vest) ... and why wasn't it given to her? 'but i'm your nurse; i should think... oh ... oh, my good sir, it's too bad of you ... after i've looked after you as i have!' ... and so on. the merciless old woman utterly wore me out with her reproaches.... but to get back to my story. and so, i suffered like a dog, whose hindquarters have been run over by a wheel. it was only then, only after my banishment from the ozhogins' house, that i fully realised how much happiness a man can extract from the contemplation of his own unhappiness. o men! pitiful race, indeed! ... but, away with philosophical reflections.... i spent my days in complete solitude, and could only by the most roundabout and even humiliating methods find out what was passing in the ozhogins' household, and what the prince was doing. my man had made friends with the cousin of the latter's coachman's wife. this acquaintance afforded me some slight relief, and my man soon guessed, from my hints and little presents, what he was to talk about to his master when he pulled his boots off every evening. sometimes i chanced to meet some one of the ozhogins' family, bizmyonkov, or the prince in the street.... to the prince and to bizmyonkov i bowed, but i did not enter into conversation with them. liza i only saw three times: once, with her mamma, in a fashionable shop; once, in an open carriage with her father and mother and the prince; and once, in church. of course, i was not impudent enough to approach her, and only watched her from a distance. in the shop she was very much preoccupied, but cheerful.... she was ordering something for herself, and busily matching ribbons. her mother was gazing at her, with her hands folded on her lap, and her nose in the air, smiling with that foolish and devoted smile which is only permissible in adoring mothers. in the carriage with the prince, liza was ... i shall never forget that meeting! the old people were sitting in the back seats of the carriage, the prince and liza in the front. she was paler than usual; on her cheek two patches of pink could just be seen. she was half facing the prince; leaning on her straight right arm (in the left hand she was holding a sunshade), with her little head drooping languidly, she was looking straight into his face with her expressive eyes. at that instant she surrendered herself utterly to him, intrusted herself to him for ever. i had not time to get a good look at his face--the carriage galloped by too quickly,--but i fancied that he too was deeply touched. the third time i saw her in church. not more than ten days had passed since the day when i met her in the carriage with the prince, not more than three weeks since the day of my duel. the business upon which the prince had come to o---was by now completed. but he still kept putting off his departure. at petersburg, he was reported to be ill. in the town, it was expected every day that he would make a proposal in form to kirilla matveitch. i was myself only awaiting this final blow to go away for ever. the town of o---had grown hateful to me. i could not stay indoors, and wandered from morning to night about the suburbs. one grey, gloomy day, as i was coming back from a walk, which had been cut short by the rain, i went into a church. the evening service had only just begun, there were very few people; i looked round me, and suddenly, near a window, caught sight of a familiar profile. for the first instant, i did not recognise it: that pale face, that spiritless glance, those sunken cheeks--could it be the same liza i had seen a fortnight before? wrapped in a cloak, without a hat on, with the cold light from the broad white window falling on her from one side, she was gazing fixedly at the holy image, and seemed striving to pray, striving to awake from a sort of listless stupor. a red-cheeked, fat little page with yellow trimmings on his chest was standing behind her, and, with his hands clasped behind his back, stared in sleepy bewilderment at his mistress. i trembled all over, was about to go up to her, but stopped short. i felt choked by a torturing presentiment. till the very end of the evening service, liza did not stir. all the people went out, a beadle began sweeping out the church, but still she did not move from her place. the page went up to her, said something to her, touched her dress; she looked round, passed her hand over her face, and went away. i followed her home at a little distance, and then returned to my lodging. 'she is lost!' i cried, when i had got into my room. as a man, i don't know to this day what my sensations were at that moment. i flung myself, i remember, with clasped hands, on the sofa and fixed my eyes on the floor. but i don't know--in the midst of my woe i was, as it were, pleased at something.... i would not admit this for anything in the world, if i were not writing only for myself.... i had been tormented, certainly, by terrible, harassing suspicions ... and who knows, i should, perhaps, have been greatly disconcerted if they had not been fulfilled. 'such is the heart of man!' some middle-aged russian teacher would exclaim at this point in an expressive voice, while he raises a fat forefinger, adorned with a cornelian ring. but what have we to do with the opinion of a russian teacher, with an expressive voice and a cornelian on his finger? be that as it may, my presentiment turned out to be well founded. suddenly the news was all over the town that the prince had gone away, presumably in consequence of a summons from petersburg; that he had gone away without making any proposal to kirilla matveitch or his wife, and that liza would have to deplore his treachery till the end of her days. the prince's departure was utterly unexpected, for only the evening before his coachman, so my man assured me, had not the slightest suspicion of his master's intentions. this piece of news threw me into a perfect fever. i at once dressed, and was on the point of hastening to the ozhogins', but on thinking the matter over i considered it more seemly to wait till the next day. i lost nothing, however, by remaining at home. the same evening, there came to see me in all haste a certain pandopipopulo, a wandering greek, stranded by some chance in the town of o----, a scandalmonger of the first magnitude, who had been more indignant with me than any one for my duel with the prince. he did not even give my man time to announce him; he fairly burst into my room, warmly pressed my hand, begged my pardon a thousand times, called me a paragon of magnanimity and courage, painted the prince in the darkest colours, censured the old ozhogins, who, in his opinion, had been punished as they deserved, made a slighting reference to liza in passing, and hurried off again, kissing me on my shoulder. among other things, i learned from him that the prince, _en vrai grand seigneur_, on the eve of his departure, in response to a delicate hint from kirilla matveitch, had answered coldly that he had no intention of deceiving any one, and no idea of marrying, had risen, made his bow, and that was all.... next day i set off to the ozhogins'. the shortsighted footman leaped up from his bench on my appearance, with the rapidity of lightning. i bade him announce me; the footman hurried away and returned at once. 'walk in,' he said; 'you are begged to go in.' i went into kirilla matveitch's study.... the rest to-morrow. _march 30. frost._ and so i went into kirilla matveitch's study. i would pay any one handsomely, who could show me now my own face at the moment when that highly respected official, hurriedly flinging together his dressing-gown, approached me with outstretched arms. i must have been a perfect picture of modest triumph, indulgent sympathy, and boundless magnanimity.... i felt myself something in the style of scipio africanus. ozhogin was visibly confused and cast down, he avoided my eyes, and kept fidgeting about. i noticed, too, that he spoke unnaturally loudly, and in general expressed himself very vaguely. vaguely, but with warmth, he begged my forgiveness, vaguely alluded to their departed guest, added a few vague generalities about deception and the instability of earthly blessings, and, suddenly feeling the tears in his eyes, hastened to take a pinch of snuff, probably in order to deceive me as to the cause of his tearfulness.... he used the russian green snuff, and it's well known that that article forces even old men to shed tears that make the human eye look dull and senseless for several minutes. i behaved, of course, very cautiously with the old man, inquired after the health of his wife and daughter, and at once artfully turned the conversation on to the interesting subject of the rotation of crops. i was dressed as usual, but the feeling of gentle propriety and soft indulgence which filled me gave me a fresh and festive sensation, as though i had on a white waistcoat and a white cravat. one thing agitated me, the thought of seeing liza.... ozhogin, at last, proposed of his own accord to take me up to his wife. the kind-hearted but foolish woman was at first terribly embarrassed on seeing me; but her brain was not capable of retaining the same impression for long, and so she was soon at her ease. at last i saw liza ... she came into the room.... i had expected to find in her a shamed and penitent sinner, and had assumed beforehand the most affectionate and reassuring expression of face.... why lie about it? i really loved her and was thirsting for the happiness of forgiving her, of holding out a hand to her; but to my unutterable astonishment, in response to my significant bow, she laughed coldly, observed carelessly, 'oh, is that you?' and at once turned away from me. it is true that her laugh struck me as forced, and in any case did not accord well with her terribly thin face ... but, all the same, i had not expected such a reception.... i looked at her with amazement ... what a change had taken place in her! between the child she had been and the woman before me, there was nothing in common. she had, as it were, grown up, straightened out; all the features of her face, especially her lips, seemed defined ... her gaze had grown deeper, harder, and gloomier. i stayed on at the ozhogins' till dinner-time. she got up, went out of the room, and came back again, answered questions with composure, and designedly took no notice of me. she wanted, i saw, to make me feel that i was not worth her anger, though i had been within an ace of killing her lover. i lost patience at last; a malicious allusion broke from my lips.... she started, glanced swiftly at me, got up, and going to the window, pronounced in a rather shaky voice, 'you can say anything you like, but let me tell you that i love that man, and always shall love him, and do not consider that he has done me any injury, quite the contrary.'... her voice broke, she stopped ... tried to control herself, but could not, burst into tears, and went out of the room.... the old people were much upset.... i pressed the hands of both, sighed, turned my eyes heavenward, and withdrew. i am too weak, i have too little time left, i am not capable of describing in the same detail the new range of torturing reflections, firm resolutions, and all the other fruits of what is called inward conflict, that arose within me after the renewal of my acquaintance with the ozhogins. i did not doubt that liza still loved, and would long love, the prince ... but as one reconciled to the inevitable, and anxious myself to conciliate, i did not even dream of her love. i desired only her affection, i desired to gain her confidence, her respect, which, we are assured by persons of experience, forms the surest basis for happiness in marriage.... unluckily, i lost sight of one rather important circumstance, which was that liza had hated me ever since the day of the duel. i found this out too late. i began, as before, to be a frequent visitor at the house of the ozhogins. kirilla matveitch received me with more effusiveness and affability than he had ever done. i have even ground for believing that he would at that time have cheerfully given me his daughter, though i was certainly not a match to be coveted. public opinion was very severe upon him and liza, while, on the other hand, it extolled me to the skies. liza's attitude to me was unchanged. she was, for the most part, silent; obeyed, when they begged her to eat, showed no outward signs of sorrow, but, for all that, was wasting away like a candle. i must do kirilla matveitch the justice to say that he spared her in every way. old madame ozhogin only ruffled up her feathers like a hen, as she looked at her poor nestling. there was only one person liza did not shun, though she did not talk much even to him, and that was bizmyonkov. the old people were rather short, not to say rude, in their behaviour to him. they could not forgive him for having been second in the duel. but he went on going to see them, as though he did not notice their unamiability. with me he was very chilly, and--strange to say--i felt, as it were, afraid of him. this state of things went on for a fortnight. at last, after a sleepless night, i resolved to have it out with liza, to open my heart to her, to tell her that, in spite of the past, in spite of all possible gossip and scandal, i should consider myself only too happy if she would give me her hand, and restore me her confidence. i really did seriously imagine that i was showing what they call in the school reading-books an unparalleled example of magnanimity, and that, from sheer amazement alone, she would consent. in any case, i resolved to have an explanation and to escape, at last, from suspense. behind the ozhogins' house was a rather large garden, which ended in a little grove of lime-trees, neglected and overgrown. in the middle of this thicket stood an old summer-house in the chinese style: a wooden paling separated the garden from a blind alley. liza would sometimes walk, for hours together, alone in this garden. kirilla matveitch was aware of this, and forbade her being disturbed or followed; let her grief wear itself out, he said. when she could not be found indoors, they had only to ring a bell on the steps at dinner-time and she made her appearance at once, with the same stubborn silence on her lips and in her eyes, and some little leaf crushed up in her hand. so, noticing one day that she was not in the house, i made a show of going away, took leave of kirilla matveitch, put on my hat, and went out from the hall into the courtyard, and from the courtyard into the street, but promptly darted in at the gate again with extraordinary rapidity and hurried past the kitchen into the garden. luckily no one noticed me. without losing time in deliberation, i went with rapid steps into the grove. in a little path before me was standing liza. my heart beat violently. i stood still, drew a deep sigh, and was just on the point of going up to her, when suddenly she lifted her hand without turning round, and began listening.... from behind the trees, in the direction of the blind alley, came a distinct sound of two knocks, as though some one were tapping at the paling. liza clapped her hands together, there was heard the faint creak of the gate, and out of the thicket stepped bizmyonkov. i hastily hid behind a tree. liza turned towards him without speaking.... without speaking, he drew her arm in his, and the two walked slowly along the path together. i looked after them in amazement. they stopped, looked round, disappeared behind the bushes, reappeared again, and finally went into the summer-house. this summer-house was a diminutive round edifice, with a door and one little window. in the middle stood an old one-legged table, overgrown with fine green moss; two discoloured deal benches stood along the sides, some distance from the damp and darkened walls. here, on exceptionally hot days, in bygone times, perhaps once a year or so, they had drunk tea. the door did not quite shut, the window-frame had long ago come out of the window, and hung disconsolately, only attached at one corner, like a bird's broken wing. i stole up to the summer-house, and peeped cautiously through the chink in the window. liza was sitting on one of the benches, with her head drooping. her right hand lay on her knees, the left bizmyonkov was holding in both his hands. he was looking sympathetically at her. 'how do you feel to-day?' he asked her in a low voice. 'just the same,' she answered, 'not better, nor worse.--the emptiness, the fearful emptiness!' she added, raising her eyes dejectedly. bizmyonkov made her no answer. 'what do you think,' she went on: 'will he write to me once more?' 'i don't think so, lizaveta kirillovna!' she was silent. 'and after all, why should he write? he told me everything in his first letter. i could not be his wife; but i have been happy ... not for long ... i have been happy ...' bizmyonkov looked down. 'ah,' she went on quickly, 'if you knew how i loathe that tchulkaturin ... i always fancy i see on that man's hands ... his blood.' (i shuddered behind my chink.) 'though indeed,' she added, dreamily, 'who knows, perhaps, if it had not been for that duel.... ah, when i saw him wounded i felt at once that i was altogether his.' 'tchulkaturin loves you,' observed bizmyonkov. 'what is that to me? i don't want any one's love.'... she stopped and added slowly, 'except yours. yes, my friend, your love is necessary to me; except for you, i should be lost. you have helped me to bear terrible moments ...' she broke off ... bizmyonkov began with fatherly tenderness stroking her hand. 'there's no help for it! what is one to do! what is one to do, lizaveta kirillovna!' he repeated several times. 'and now indeed,' she went on in a lifeless voice, 'i should die, i think, if it were not for you. it's you alone that keep me up; besides, you remind me of him.... you knew all about it, you see. do you remember how fine he was that day.... but forgive me; it must be hard for you....' 'go on, go on! nonsense! bless you!' bizmyonkov interrupted her. she pressed his hand. 'you are very good, bizmyonkov,' she went on;' you are good as an angel. what can i do! i feel i shall love him to the grave. i have forgiven him, i am grateful to him. god give him happiness! may god give him a wife after his own heart'--and her eyes filled with tears--'if only he does not forget me, if only he will sometimes think of his liza!--let us go,' she added, after a brief silence. bizmyonkov raised her hand to his lips. 'i know,' she began again hotly, 'every one is blaming me now, every one is throwing stones at me. let them! i wouldn't, any way, change my misery for their happiness ... no! no!... he did not love me for long, but he loved me! he never deceived me, he never told me i should be his wife; i never dreamed of it myself. it was only poor papa hoped for it. and even now i am not altogether unhappy; the memory remains to me, and however fearful the results ... i'm stifling here ... it was here i saw him the last time.... let's go into the air.' they got up. i had only just time to skip on one side and hide behind a thick lime-tree. they came out of the summer-house, and, as far as i could judge by the sound of their steps, went away into the thicket. i don't know how long i went on standing there, without stirring from my place, plunged in a sort of senseless amazement, when suddenly i heard steps again. i started, and peeped cautiously out from my hiding-place. bizmyonkov and liza were coming back along the same path. both were greatly agitated, especially bizmyonkov. i fancied he was crying. liza stopped, looked at him, and distinctly uttered the following words: 'i do consent, bizmyonkov. i would never have agreed if you were only trying to save me, to rescue me from a terrible position, but you love me, you know everything--and you love me. i shall never find a trustier, truer friend. i will be your wife.' bizmyonkov kissed her hand: she smiled at him mournfully and moved away towards the house. bizmyonkov rushed into the thicket, and i went my way. seeing that bizmyonkov had apparently said to liza precisely what i had intended to say to her, and she had given him precisely the reply i was longing to hear from her, there was no need for me to trouble myself further. within a fortnight she was married to him. the old ozhogins were thankful to get any husband for her. now, tell me, am i not a superfluous man? didn't i play throughout the whole story the part of a superfluous person? the prince's part ... of that it's needless to speak; bizmyonkov's part, too, is comprehensible.... but i--with what object was i mixed up in it?... a senseless fifth wheel to the cart!... ah, it's bitter, bitter for me!... but there, as the barge-haulers say, 'one more pull, and one more yet,'--one day more, and one more yet, and there will be no more bitter nor sweet for me. _march 31_. i'm in a bad way. i am writing these lines in bed. since yesterday evening there has been a sudden change in the weather. to-day is hot, almost a summer day. everything is thawing, breaking up, flowing away. the air is full of the smell of the opened earth, a strong, heavy, stifling smell. steam is rising on all sides. the sun seems beating, seems smiting everything to pieces. i am very ill, i feel that i am breaking up. i meant to write my diary, and, instead of that, what have i done? i have related one incident of my life. i gossiped on, slumbering reminiscences were awakened and drew me away. i have written, without haste, in detail, as though i had years before me. and here now, there's no time to go on. death, death is coming. i can hear her menacing _crescendo_. the time is come ... the time is come!... and indeed, what does it matter? isn't it all the same whatever i write? in sight of death the last earthly cares vanish. i feel i have grown calm; i am becoming simpler, clearer. too late i've gained sense!... it's a strange thing! i have grown calm--certainly, and at the same time ... i'm full of dread. yes, i'm full of dread. half hanging over the silent, yawning abyss, i shudder, turn away, with greedy intentness gaze at everything about me. every object is doubly precious to me. i cannot gaze enough at my poor, cheerless room, saying farewell to each spot on my walls. take your fill for the last time, my eyes. life is retreating; slowly and smoothly she is flying away from me, as the shore flies from the eyes of one at sea. the old yellow face of my nurse, tied up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovar on the table, the pot of geranium in the window, and you, my poor dog, tresór, the pen i write these lines with, my own hand, i see you now ... here you are, here.... is it possible ... can it be, to-day ... i shall never see you again! it's hard for a live creature to part with life! why do you fawn on me, poor dog? why do you come putting your forepaws on the bed, with your stump of a tail wagging so violently, and your kind, mournful eyes fixed on me all the while? are you sorry for me? or do you feel already that your master will soon be gone? ah, if i could only keep my thoughts, too, resting on all the objects in my room! i know these reminiscences are dismal and of no importance, but i have no other. 'the emptiness, the fearful emptiness!' as liza said. o my god, my god! here i am dying.... a heart capable of loving and ready to love will soon cease to beat.... and can it be it will be still for ever without having once known happiness, without having once expanded under the sweet burden of bliss? alas! it's impossible, impossible, i know.... if only now, at least, before death--for death after all is a sacred thing, after all it elevates any being--if any kind, sad, friendly voice would sing over me a farewell song of my own sorrow, i could, perhaps, be resigned to it. but to die stupidly, stupidly.... i believe i'm beginning to rave. farewell, life! farewell, my garden! and you, my lime-trees! when the summer comes, do not forget to be clothed with flowers from head to foot ... and may it be sweet for people to lie in your fragrant shade, on the fresh grass, among the whispering chatter of your leaves, lightly stirred by the wind. farewell, farewell! farewell, everything and for ever! farewell, liza! i wrote those two words, and almost laughed aloud. this exclamation strikes me as taken out of a book. it's as though i were writing a sentimental novel and ending up a despairing letter.... to-morrow is the first of april. can i be going to die to-morrow? that would be really too unseemly. it's just right for me, though ... how the doctor did chatter to-day. _april_ 1. it is over.... life is over. i shall certainly die to-day. it's hot outside ... almost suffocating ... or is it that my lungs are already refusing to breathe? my little comedy is played out. the curtain is falling. sinking into nothing, i cease to be superfluous ... ah, how brilliant that sun is! those mighty beams breathe of eternity ... farewell, terentyevna!... this morning as she sat at the window she was crying ... perhaps over me ... and perhaps because she too will soon have to die. i have made her promise not to kill tresór. it's hard for me to write.... i will put down the pen.... it's high time; death is already approaching with ever-increasing rumble, like a carriage at night over the pavement; it is here, it is flitting about me, like the light breath which made the prophet's hair stand up on end. i am dying.... live, you who are living, 'and about the grave may youthful life rejoice, and nature heedless glow with eternal beauty. _note by the editor_.--under this last line was a head in profile with a big streak of hair and moustaches, with eyes _en face_, and eyelashes like rays; and under the head some one had written the following words: 'this manuscript was read and the contents of it not approved by peter zudotyeshin my my my my dear sir, peter zudotyeshin, dear sir.' but as the handwriting of these lines was not in the least like the handwriting in which the other part of the manuscript was written, the editor considers that he is justified in concluding that the above lines were added subsequently by another person, especially since it has come to his (the editor's) knowledge that mr. tchulkaturin actually did die on the night between the 1st and 2nd of april in the year 18--, at his native place, sheep's springs. * * * * * a tour in the forest first day the sight of the vast pinewood, embracing the whole horizon, the sight of the 'forest,' recalls the sight of the ocean. and the sensations it arouses are the same; the same primaeval untouched force lies outstretched in its breadth and majesty before the eyes of the spectator. from the heart of the eternal forest, from the undying bosom of the waters, comes the same voice: 'i have nothing to do with thee,'--nature says to man, 'i reign supreme, while do thou bestir thyself to thy utmost to escape dying.' but the forest is gloomier and more monotonous than the sea, especially the pine forest, which is always alike and almost soundless. the ocean menaces and caresses, it frolics with every colour, speaks with every voice; it reflects the sky, from which too comes the breath of eternity, but an eternity as it were not so remote from us.... the dark, unchanging pine-forest keeps sullen silence or is filled with a dull roar--and at the sight of it sinks into man's heart more deeply, more irresistibly, the sense of his own nothingness. it is hard for man, the creature of a day, born yesterday, and doomed to death on the morrow, it is hard for him to bear the cold gaze of the eternal isis, fixed without sympathy upon him: not only the daring hopes and dreams of youth are humbled and quenched within him, enfolded by the icy breath of the elements; no--his whole soul sinks down and swoons within him; he feels that the last of his kind may vanish off the face of the earth--and not one needle will quiver on those twigs; he feels his isolation, his feebleness, his fortuitousness;--and in hurried, secret panic, he turns to the petty cares and labours of life; he is more at ease in that world he has himself created; there he is at home, there he dares yet believe in his own importance and in his own power. such were the ideas that came into my mind, some years ago, when, standing on the steps of a little inn on the bank of the marshy little river ressetta, i first gazed upon the forest. the bluish masses of fir-forest lay in long, continuous ridges before me; here and there was the green patch of a small birch-copse; the whole sky-line was hugged by the pine-wood; nowhere was there the white gleam of a church, nor bright stretches of meadow--it was all trees and trees, everywhere the ragged edge of the tree-tops, and a delicate dim mist, the eternal mist of the forest, hung over them in the distance. it was not indolent repose this immobility of life suggested; no--the absence of life, something dead, even in its grandeur, was what came to me from every side of the horizon. i remember big white clouds were swimming by, slowly and very high up, and the hot summer day lay motionless upon the silent earth. the reddish water of the stream glided without a splash among the thick reeds: at its bottom could be dimly discerned round cushions of pointed moss, and its banks sank away in the swampy mud, and sharply reappeared again in white hillocks of fine crumbling sand. close by the little inn ran the trodden highroad. on this road, just opposite the steps, stood a cart, loaded with boxes and hampers. its owner, a thin pedlar with a hawk nose and mouse-like eyes, bent and lame, was putting in it his little nag, lame like himself. he was a gingerbread-seller, who was making his way to the fair at karatchev. suddenly several people appeared on the road, others straggled after them ... at last, quite a crowd came trudging into sight; all of them had sticks in their hands and satchels on their shoulders. from their fatigued yet swinging gait, and from their sun-burnt faces, one could see they had come from a long distance. they were leatherworkers and diggers coming back from working for hire. an old man of seventy, white all over, seemed to be their leader. from time to time he turned round and with a quiet voice urged on those who lagged behind. 'now, now, now, lads,' he said, 'no--ow.' they all walked in silence, in a sort of solemn hush. only one of them, a little man with a wrathful air, in a sheepskin coat wide open, and a lambswool cap pulled right over his eyes, on coming up to the gingerbread man, suddenly inquired: 'how much is the gingerbread, you tomfool?' 'what sort of gingerbread will it be, worthy sir?' the disconcerted gingerbread--man responded in a thin, little voice. 'some are a farthing--and others cost a halfpenny. have you a halfpenny in your purse?' 'but i guess it will sweeten the belly too much,' retorted the sheepskin, and he retreated from the cart. 'hurry up, lads, hurry up,' i heard the old man's voice: 'it's far yet to our night's rest.' 'an uneducated folk,' said the gingerbread-man, with a squint at me, directly all the crowd had trudged past: 'is such a dainty for the likes of them?' and quickly harnessing his horse, he went down to the river, where a little wooden ferry could be seen. a peasant in a white felt 'schlik' (the usual headgear in the forest) came out of a low mud hut to meet him, and ferried him over to the opposite bank. the little cart, with one wheel creaking from time to time, crawled along the trodden and deeply rutted road. i fed my horses, and i too was ferried over. after struggling for a couple of miles through the boggy prairie, i got at last on to a narrow raised wooden causeway to a clearing in the forest. the cart jolted unevenly over the round beams of the causeway: i got out and went along on foot. the horses moved in step snorting and shaking their heads from the gnats and flies. the forest took us into its bosom. on the outskirts, nearer to the prairie, grew birches, aspens, limes, maples, and oaks. then they met us more rarely, the dense firwood moved down on us in an unbroken wall. further on were the red, bare trunks of pines, and then again a stretch of mixed copse, overgrown with underwood of hazelnut, mountain ash, and bramble, and stout, vigorous weeds. the sun's rays threw a brilliant light on the tree-tops, and, filtering through the branches, here and there reached the ground in pale streaks and patches. birds i scarcely heard--they do not like great forests. only from time to time there came the doleful, thrice-repeated call of a hoopoe, and the angry screech of a nuthatch or a jay; a silent, always solitary bird kept fluttering across the clearing, with a flash of golden azure from its lovely feathers. at times the trees grew further apart, ahead of us the light broke in, the cart came out on a cleared, sandy, open space. thin rye was growing over it in rows, noiselessly nodding its pale ears. on one side there was a dark, dilapidated little chapel, with a slanting cross over a well. an unseen brook was babbling peaceably with changing, ringing sounds, as though it were flowing into an empty bottle. and then suddenly the road was cut in half by a birch-tree recently fallen, and the forest stood around, so old, lofty, and slumbering, that the air seemed pent in. in places the clearing lay under water. on both sides stretched a forest bog, all green and dark, all covered with reeds and tiny alders. ducks flew up in pairs--and it was strange to see those water-birds darting rapidly about among the pines. 'ga, ga, ga, ga,' their drawn-out call kept rising unexpectedly. then a shepherd drove a flock through the underwood: a brown cow with short, pointed horns broke noisily through the bushes and stood stockstill at the edge of the clearing, her big, dark eyes fixed on the dog running before me. a slight breeze brought the delicate, pungent smell of burnt wood. a white smoke in the distance crept in eddying rings over the pale, blue forest air, showing that a peasant was charcoal-burning for a glass-factory or for a foundry. the further we went on, the darker and stiller it became all round us. in the pine-forest it is always still; there is only, high overhead, a sort of prolonged murmur and subdued roar in the tree-tops. one goes on and on, and this eternal murmur of the forest never ceases, and the heart gradually begins to sink, and a man longs to come out quickly into the open, into the daylight; he longs to draw a full breath again, and is oppressed by the fragrant damp and decay.... for about twelve miles we drove on at a walking pace, rarely at a trot. i wanted to get by daylight to svyatoe, a hamlet lying in the very heart of the forest. twice we met peasants with stripped bark or long logs on carts. 'is it far to svyatoe?' i asked one of them. 'no, not far.' 'how far?' 'it'll be a little over two miles.' another hour and a half went by. we were still driving on and on. again we heard the creak of a laden cart. a peasant was walking beside it. 'how far, brother, is it still to svyatoe?' 'what?' 'how far to svyatoe?' 'six miles.' the sun was already setting when at last i got out of the forest and saw facing me a little village. about twenty homesteads were grouped close about an old wooden church, with a single green cupola, and tiny windows, brilliantly red in the evening glow. this was svyatoe. i drove into its outskirts. a herd returning homewards overtook my cart, and with lowing, grunting and bleating moved by us. young girls and bustling peasant women came to meet their beasts. whiteheaded boys with merry shrieks went in chase of refractory pigs. the dust swirled along the street in light clouds, flushed crimson as they rose higher in the air. i stopped at the house of the village elder, a crafty and clever 'forester,' one of those foresters of whom they say he can see two yards into the ground. early next morning, accompanied by the village elder's son, and another peasant called yegor, i set off in a little cart with a pair of peasant's horses, to shoot woodcocks and moorhens. the forest formed a continuous bluish ring all round the sky-line; there was reckoned to be two hundred acres, no more, of ploughed land round svyatoe; but one had to go some five miles to find good places for game. the elder's son was called kondrat. he was a flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked young fellow, with a good-natured, peaceable expression of face, obliging and talkative. he drove the horses. yegor sat by my side. i want to say a few words about him. he was considered the cleverest sportsman in the whole district. every step of the ground for fifty miles round he had been over again and again. he seldom fired at a bird, for lack of powder and shot; but it was enough for him to decoy a moorhen or to detect the track of a grouse. yegor had the character of being a straightforward fellow and 'no talker.' he did not care for talking and never exaggerated the number of birds he had taken--a trait rare in a sportsman. he was of medium height, thin, and had a pale, long face, and big, honest eyes. all his features, especially his straight and never-moving lips, were expressive of untroubled serenity. he gave a slight, as it were inward smile, whenever he uttered a word--very sweet was that quiet smile. he never drank spirits, and worked industriously; but nothing prospered with him. his wife was always ailing, his children didn't live; he got poorer and poorer and could never pick up again. and there is no denying that a passion for the chase is no good for a peasant, and any one who 'plays with a gun' is sure to be a poor manager of his land. either from constantly being in the forest, face to face with the stern and melancholy scenery of that inhuman country, or from the peculiar cast and formation of his character, there was noticeable in every action of yegor's a sort of modest dignity and stateliness--stateliness it was, and not melancholy--the stateliness of a majestic stag. he had in his time killed seven bears, lying in wait for them in the oats. the last he had only succeeded in killing on the fourth night of his ambush; the bear persisted in not turning sideways to him, and he had only one bullet. yegor had killed him the day before my arrival. when kondrat brought me to him, i found him in his back yard; squatting on his heels before the huge beast, he was cutting the fat out with a short, blunt knife. 'what a fine fellow you've knocked over there!' i observed. yegor raised his head and looked first at me, then at the dog, who had come with me. 'if it's shooting you've come after, sir, there are woodcocks at moshnoy--three coveys, and five of moorhens,' he observed, and set to work again. with yegor and with kondrat i went out the next day in search of sport. we drove rapidly over the open ground surrounding svyatoe, but when we got into the forest we crawled along at a walking pace once more. 'look, there's a wood-pigeon,' said kondrat suddenly, turning to me: 'better knock it over!' yegor looked in the direction kondrat pointed, but said nothing. the wood-pigeon was over a hundred paces from us, and one can't kill it at forty paces; there is such strength in its feathers. a few more remarks were made by the conversational kondrat; but the forest hush had its influence even on him; he became silent. only rarely exchanging a word or two, looking straight ahead, and listening to the puffing and snorting of the horses, we got at last to 'moshnoy.' that is the name given to the older pine-forest, overgrown in places by fir saplings. we got out; kondrat led the cart into the bushes, so that the gnats should not bite the horses. yegor examined the cock of his gun and crossed himself: he never began anything without the sign of the cross. the forest into which we had come was exceedingly old. i don't know whether the tartars had wandered over it, but russian thieves or lithuanians, in disturbed times, might certainly have hidden in its recesses. at a respectful distance from one another stood the mighty pines with their slightly curved, massive, pale-yellow trunks. between them stood in single file others, rather younger. the ground was covered with greenish moss, sprinkled all over with dead pine-needles; blueberries grew in dense bushes; the strong perfume of the berries, like the smell of musk, oppressed the breathing. the sun could not pierce through the high network of the pine-branches; but it was stiflingly hot in the forest all the same, and not dark; like big drops of sweat the heavy, transparent resin stood out and slowly trickled down the coarse bark of the trees. the still air, with no light or shade in it, stung the face. everything was silent; even our footsteps were not audible; we walked on the moss as on a carpet. yegor in particular moved as silently as a shadow; even the brushwood did not crackle under his feet. he walked without haste, from time to time blowing a shrill note on a whistle; a woodcock soon answered back, and before my eyes darted into a thick fir-tree. but in vain yegor pointed him out to me; however much i strained my eyes, i could not make him out. yegor had to take a shot at him. we came upon two coveys of moorhens also. the cautious birds rose at a distance with an abrupt, heavy sound. we succeeded, however, in killing three young ones. at one _meidan_ [footnote 1: _meidan_ is the name given to a place where tar has been made.--author's note.] yegor suddenly stopped and called me up. 'a bear has been trying to get water,' he observed, pointing to a broad, fresh scratch, made in the very middle of a hole covered with fine moss. 'is that the print of his paw?' i inquired. 'yes; but the water has dried up. that's the track of him too on that pine; he has been climbing after honey. he has cut into it with his claws as if with a knife.' we went on making our way into the inner-most depths of the forest. yegor only rarely looked upwards, and walked on serenely and confidently. i saw a high, round rampart, enclosed by a half-choked-up ditch. 'what's that? a _meidan_ too?' i inquired. 'no,' answered yegor; 'here's where the thieves' town stood.' 'long ago?' 'long ago; our grandfathers remember it. here they buried their treasure. and they took a mighty oath: on human blood.' we went on another mile and a half; i began to feel thirsty. 'sit down a little while,' said yegor: 'i will go for water; there is a well not far from here.' he went away; i was left alone. i sat down on a felled stump, leaned my elbows on my knees, and after a long stillness, raised my head and looked around me. oh, how still and sullenly gloomy was everything around me--no, not gloomy even, but dumb, cold, and menacing at the same time! my heart sank. at that instant, at that spot, i had a sense of death breathing upon me, i felt i almost touched its perpetual closeness. if only one sound had vibrated, one momentary rustle had arisen, in the engulfing stillness of the pine-forest that hemmed me in on all sides! i let my head sink again, almost in terror; it was as though i had looked in, where no man ought to look.... i put my hand over my eyes--and all at once, as though at some mysterious bidding, i began to remember all my life.... there passed in a flash before me my childhood, noisy and peaceful, quarrelsome and good-hearted, with hurried joys and swift sorrows; then my youth rose up, vague, queer, self-conscious, with all its mistakes and beginnings, with disconnected work, and agitated indolence.... there came back, too, to my memory the comrades who shared those early aspirations ... then like lightning in the night there came the gleam of a few bright memories ... then the shadows began to grow and bear down on me, it was darker and darker about me, more dully and quietly the monotonous years ran by--and like a stone, dejection sank upon my heart. i sat without stirring and gazed, gazed with effort and perplexity, as though i saw all my life before me, as though scales had fallen from my eyes. oh, what have i done! my lips involuntarily murmured in a bitter whisper. o life, life, where, how have you gone without a trace? how have you slipped through my clenched fingers? have you deceived me, or was it that i knew not how to make use of your gifts? is it possible? is this fragment, this poor handful of dusty ashes, all that is left of you? is this cold, stagnant, unnecessary something--i, the i of old days? how? the soul was athirst for happiness so perfect, she rejected with such scorn all that was small, all that was insufficient, she waited: soon happiness would burst on her in a torrent--and has not one drop moistened the parched lips? oh, my golden strings, you that once so delicately, so sweetly quivered,--i have never, it seems, heard your music ... you had but just sounded--when you broke. or, perhaps, happiness, the true happiness of all my life, passed close by me, smiled a resplendent smile upon me--and i failed to recognise its divine countenance. or did it really visit me, sit at my bedside, and is forgotten by me, like a dream? like a dream, i repeated disconsolately. elusive images flitted over my soul, awakening in it something between pity and bewilderment ... you too, i thought, dear, familiar, lost faces, you, thronging about me in this deadly solitude, why are you so profoundly and mournfully silent? from what abyss have you arisen? how am i to interpret your enigmatic glances? are you greeting me, or bidding me farewell? oh, can it be there is no hope, no turning back? why are these heavy, belated drops trickling from my eyes? o heart, why, to what end, grieve more? try to forget if you would have peace, harden yourself to the meek acceptance of the last parting, to the bitter words 'good-bye' and 'for ever.' do not look back, do not remember, do not strive to reach where it is light, where youth laughs, where hope is wreathed with the flowers of spring, where dovelike delight soars on azure wings, where love, like dew in the sunrise, flashes with tears of ecstasy; look not where is bliss, and faith and power--that is not our place! 'here is water for you,' i heard yegor's musical voice behind me: 'drink, with god's blessing.' i could not help starting; this living speech shook me, sent a delightful tremor all through me. it was as though i had fallen into unknown, dark depths, where all was hushed about me, and nothing could be heard but the soft, persistent moan of some unending grief.... i was faint and could not struggle, and all at once there floated down to me a friendly voice, and some mighty hand with one pull drew me up into the light of day. i looked round, and with unutterable consolation saw the serene and honest face of my guide. he stood easily and gracefully before me, and with his habitual smile held out a wet flask full of clear liquid.... i got up. 'let's go on; lead the way,' i said eagerly. we set off and wandered a long while, till evening. directly the noonday heat was over, it became cold and dark so rapidly in the forest that one felt no desire to remain in it. 'away, restless mortals,' it seemed whispering sullenly from each pine. we came out, but it was some time before we could find kondrat. we shouted, called to him, but he did not answer. all of a sudden, in the profound stillness of the air, we heard his 'wo, wo,' sound distinctly in a ravine close to us.... the wind, which had suddenly sprung up, and as suddenly dropped again, had prevented him from hearing our calls. only on the trees which stood some distance apart were traces of its onslaught to be seen; many of the leaves were blown inside out, and remained so, giving a variegated look to the motionless foliage. we got into the cart, and drove home. i sat, swaying to and fro, and slowly breathing in the damp, rather keen air; and all my recent reveries and regrets were drowned in the one sensation of drowsiness and fatigue, in the one desire to get back as soon as possible to the shelter of a warm house, to have a good drink of tea with cream, to nestle into the soft, yielding hay, and to sleep, to sleep, to sleep.... second day the next morning the three of us set off to the 'charred wood.' ten years before, several thousand acres in the 'forest' had been burnt down, and had not up to that time grown again; here and there, young firs and pines were shooting up, but for the most part there was nothing but moss and ashes. in this 'charred wood,' which is reckoned to be about nine miles from svyatoe, there are all sorts of berries growing in great profusion, and it is a favourite haunt of grouse, who are very fond of strawberries and bilberries. we were driving along in silence, when suddenly kondrat raised his head. 'ah!' he exclaimed: 'why, that's never efrem standing yonder! 'morning to you, alexandritch,' he added, raising his voice, and lifting his cap. a short peasant in a short, black smock, with a cord round the waist, came out from behind a tree, and approached the cart. 'why, have they let you off?' inquired kondrat. 'i should think so!' replied the peasant, and he grinned. 'you don't catch them keeping the likes of me.' 'and what did piotr filippitch say to it?' 'filippov, is it? oh, he's all right.' 'you don't say so! why, i thought, alexandritch--well, brother, thought i, now you 're the goose that must lie down in the frying-pan!' 'on account of piotr filippov, hey? get along! we've seen plenty like him. he tries to pass for a wolf, and then slinks off like a dog.--going shooting your honour, hey?' the peasant suddenly inquired, turning his little, screwed-up eyes rapidly upon me, and at once dropping them again. 'yes.' 'and whereabouts, now?' 'to the charred wood,' said kondrat. 'you 're going to the charred wood? mind you don't get into the fire.' 'eh?' 'i've seen a lot of woodcocks,' the peasant went on, seeming all the while to be laughing, and making kondrat no answer. 'but you'll never get there; as the crow flies it'll be fifteen miles. why, even yegor here--not a doubt but he's as at home in the forest as in his own back-yard, but even he won't make his way there. hullo, yegor, you honest penny halfpenny soul!' he shouted suddenly. 'good morning, efrem,' yegor responded deliberately. i looked with curiosity at this efrem. it was long since i had seen such a queer face. he had a long, sharp nose, thick lips, and a scanty beard. his little blue eyes positively danced, like little imps. he stood in a free-and-easy pose, his arms akimbo, and did not touch his cap. 'going home for a visit, eh?' kondrat questioned him. 'go on! on a visit! it's not the weather for that, my lad; it's set fair. it's all open and free, my dear; one may lie on the stove till winter time, not a dog will stir. when i was in the town, the clerk said: "give us up," says he, "'lexandritch; you just get out of the district, we'll let you have a passport, first-class one ..." but there, i'd pity on you svyatoe fellows: you'd never get another thief like me.' kondrat laughed. 'you will have your joke, uncle, you will, upon my word,' he said, and he shook the reins. the horses started off. 'wo,' said efrem. the horses stopped. kondrat did not like this prank. 'enough of your nonsense, alexandritch,' he observed in an undertone: 'don't you see we're out with a gentleman? you mind; he'll be angry.' 'get on with you, sea-drake! what should he be angry about? he's a good-natured gentleman. you see, he'll give me something to drink. hey, master, give a poor scoundrel a dram! won't i drink it!' he added, shrugging his shoulder up to his ear, and grating his teeth. i could not help smiling, gave him a copper, and told kondrat to drive on. 'much obliged, your honour,' efrem shouted after us in soldierly fashion. 'and you'll know, kondrat, for the future from whom to learn manners. faint heart never wins; 'tis boldness gains the day. when you come back, come to my place, d'ye hear? there'll be drinking going on three days at home; there'll be some necks broken, i can tell you; my wife's a devil of a woman; our yard's on the side of a precipice.... ay, magpie, have a good time till your tail gets pinched.' and with a sharp whistle, efrem plunged into the bushes. 'what sort of man is he?' i questioned kondrat, who, sitting in the front, kept shaking his head, as though deliberating with himself. 'that fellow?' replied kondrat, and he looked down. 'that fellow?' he repeated. 'yes. is he of your village?' 'yes, he's a svyatoe man. he's a fellow.... you wouldn't find the like of him, if you hunted for a hundred miles round. a thief and cheat--good lord, yes! another man's property simply, as it were, takes his eye. you may bury a thing underground, and you won't hide it from him; and as to money, you might sit on it, and he'd get it from under you without your noticing it.' 'what a bold fellow he is!' 'bold? yes, he's not afraid of any one. but just look at him; he's a beast by his physiognomy; you can see by his nose.' (kondrat often used to drive with gentlemen, and had been in the chief town of the province, and so liked on occasion to show off his attainments.) 'there's positively no doing anything with him. how many times they've taken him off to put him in the prison!--it's simply trouble thrown away. they start tying him up, and he'll say, "come, why don't you fasten that leg? fasten that one too, and a little tighter: i'll have a little sleep meanwhile; and i shall get home before your escort." and lo and behold! there he is back again, yes, back again, upon my soul! well as we all about here know the forest, being used to it from childhood, we're no match for him there. last summer he came at night straight across from altuhin to svyatoe, and no one had ever been known to walk it--it'll be over thirty miles. and he steals honey too; no one can beat him at that; and the bees don't sting him. there's not a hive he hasn't plundered.' 'i expect he doesn't spare the wild bees either?' 'well, no, i won't lay a false charge against him. that sin's never been observed in him. the wild bees' nest is a holy thing with us. a hive is shut in by fences; there's a watch kept; if you get the honey--it's your luck; but the wild bee is a thing of god's, not guarded; only the bear touches it.' 'because he is a bear,' remarked yegor. 'is he married?' 'to be sure. and he has a son. and won't he be a thief too, the son! he's taken after his father. and he's training him now too. the other day he took a pot with some old coppers in it, stolen somewhere, i've no doubt, went and buried it in a clearing in the forest, and went home and sent his son to the clearing. "till you find the pot," says he, "i won't give you anything to eat, or let you into the place." the son stayed the whole day in the forest, and spent the night there, but he found the pot. yes, he's a smart chap, that efrem. when he's at home, he's a civil fellow, presses every one; you may eat and drink as you will, and there'll be dancing got up at his place and merry-making of all sorts. and when he comes to the meeting--we have a parish meeting, you know, in our village--well, no one talks better sense than he does; he'll come up behind, listen, say a word as if he chopped it off, and away again; and a weighty word it'll be, too. but when he's about in the forest, ah! that means trouble! we've to look out for mischief. though, i must say, he doesn't touch his own people unless he's in a fix. if he meets a svyatoe man: "go along with you, brother," he'll shout, a long way away; "the forest devil's upon me: i shall kill you!"--it's a bad business!' 'what can you all be thinking about? a whole district can't get even with one man?' 'well, that's just how it is, any way.' 'is he a sorcerer, then?' 'who can say! here, some days ago, he crept round at night to the deacon's near, after the honey, and the deacon was watching the hive himself. well, he caught him, and in the dark he gave him a good hiding. when he'd done, efrem, he says to him: "but d'you know who it is you've been beating?" the deacon, when he knew him by his voice, was fairly dumfoundered. "well, my good friend," says efrem, "you won't get off so easily for this." the deacon fell down at his feet. "take," says he, "what you please." "no," says he. "i'll take it from you at my own time and as i choose." and what do you think? since that day the deacon's as though he'd been scalded; he wanders about like a ghost. "it's taken," says he, "all the heart out of me; it was a dreadful, powerful saying, to be sure, the brigand fastened upon me." that's how it is with him, with the deacon.' 'that deacon must be a fool,' i observed. 'a fool? well, but what do you say to this? there was once an order issued to seize this fellow, efrem. we had a police commissary then, a sharp man. and so a dozen chaps went off into the forest to take efrem. they look, and there he is coming to meet them.... one of them shouts, "here he is, hold him, tie him!" but efrem stepped into the forest and cut himself a branch, two fingers' thickness, like this, and then out he skips into the road again, looking so frightful, so terrible, and gives the command like a general at a review: "on your knees!" all of them fairly fell down. "but who," says he, "shouted hold him, tie him? you, seryoga?" the fellow simply jumped up and ran ... and efrem after him, and kept swinging his branch at his heels.... for nearly a mile he stroked him down. and afterwards he never ceased to regret: "ah," he'd say, "it is annoying i didn't lay him up for the confession." for it was just before st. philip's day. well, they changed the police commissary soon after, but it all ended the same way.' 'why did they all give in to him?' 'why! well, it is so....' 'he has frightened you all, and now he does as he likes with you.' 'frightened, yes.... he'd frighten any one. and he's a wonderful hand at contrivances, my goodness, yes! i once came upon him in the forest; there was a heavy rain falling; i was for edging away.... but he looked at me, and beckoned to me with his hand like this. "come along," says he, "kondrat, don't be afraid. let me show you how to live in the forest, and to keep dry in the rain." i went up to him, and he was sitting under a fir-tree, and he'd made a fire of damp twigs: the smoke hung about in the fir-tree, and kept the rain from dripping through. i was astonished at him then. and i'll tell you what he contrived one time' (and kondrat laughed); 'he really did do a funny thing. they'd been thrashing the oats at the thrashing-floor, and they hadn't finished; they hadn't time to rake up the last heap; well, they 'd set two watch-men by it for the night, and they weren't the boldest-hearted of the chaps either. well, they were sitting and gossiping, and efrem takes and stuffs his shirt-sleeves full of straw, ties up the wrist-bands, and puts the shirt up over his head. and so he steals up in that shape to the thrashing-floor, and just pops out from behind the corner and gives them a peep of his horns. one chap says to the other: "do you see?" "yes," says the other, and didn't he give a screech all of a sudden ... and then the fences creaked and nothing more was seen of them. efrem shovelled up the oats into a bag and dragged it off home. he told the story himself afterwards. he put them to shame, he did, the chaps.... he did really!' kondrat laughed again. and yegor smiled. 'so the fences creaked and that was all?' he commented. 'there was nothing more seen of them,' kondrat assented. 'they were simply gone in a flash.' we were all silent again. suddenly kondrat started and sat up. 'eh, mercy upon us!' he ejaculated; 'surely it's never a fire!' 'where, where?' we asked. 'yonder, see, in front, where we 're going.... a fire it is! efrem there, efrem--why, he foretold it! if it's not his doing, the damned fellow!...' i glanced in the direction kondrat was pointing. two or three miles ahead of us, behind a green strip of low fir saplings, there really was a thick column of dark blue smoke slowly rising from the ground, gradually twisting and coiling into a cap-shaped cloud; to the right and left of it could be seen others, smaller and whiter. a peasant, all red and perspiring, in nothing but his shirt, with his hair hanging dishevelled about his scared face, galloped straight towards us, and with difficulty stopped his hastily bridled horse. 'mates,' he inquired breathlessly, 'haven't you seen the foresters?' 'no, we haven't. what is it? is the forest on fire?' 'yes. we must get the people together, or else if it gets to trosnoe ...' the peasant tugged with his elbows, pounded with his heels on the horse's sides.... it galloped off. kondrat, too, whipped up his pair. we drove straight towards the smoke, which was spreading more and more widely; in places it suddenly grew black and rose up high. the nearer we moved to it, the more indefinite became its outlines; soon all the air was clouded over, there was a strong smell of burning, and here and there between the trees, with a strange, weird quivering in the sunshine, gleamed the first pale red tongues of flame. 'well, thank god,' observed kondrat, 'it seems it's an overground fire.' 'what's that?' 'overground? one that runs along over the earth. with an underground fire, now, it's a difficult job to deal. what's one to do, when the earth's on fire for a whole yard's depth? there's only one means of safety--digging ditches,--and do you suppose that's easy? but an overground fire's nothing. it only scorches the grasses and burns the dry leaves! the forest will be all the better for it. ouf, though, mercy on us, look how it flares!' we drove almost up to the edge of the fire. i got down and went to meet it. it was neither dangerous nor difficult. the fire was running over the scanty pine-forest against the wind; it moved in an uneven line, or, to speak more accurately, in a dense jagged wall of curved tongues. the smoke was carried away by the wind. kondrat had told the truth; it really was an overground fire, which only scorched the grass and passed on without finishing its work, leaving behind it a black and smoking, but not even smouldering, track. at times, it is true, when the fire came upon a hole filled with dry wood and twigs, it suddenly and with a kind of peculiar, rather vindictive roar, rose up in long, quivering points; but it soon sank down again and ran on as before, with a slight hiss and crackle. i even noticed, more than once, an oak-bush, with dry hanging leaves, hemmed in all round and yet untouched, except for a slight singeing at its base. i must own i could not understand why the dry leaves were not burned. kondrat explained to me that it was owing to the fact that the fire was overground, 'that's to say, not angry.' 'but it's fire all the same,' i protested. 'overground fire,' repeated kondrat. however, overground as it was, the fire, none the less, produced its effect: hares raced up and down with a sort of disorder, running back with no sort of necessity into the neighbourhood of the fire; birds fell down in the smoke and whirled round and round; horses looked back and neighed, the forest itself fairly hummed--and man felt discomfort from the heat suddenly beating into his face.... 'what are we looking at?' said yegor suddenly, behind my back. 'let's go on.' 'but where are we to go?' asked kondrat. 'take the left, over the dry bog; we shall get through.' we turned to the left, and got through, though it was sometimes difficult for both the horses and the cart. the whole day we wandered over the charred wood. at evening--the sunset had not yet begun to redden in the sky, but the shadows from the trees already lay long and motionless, and in the grass one could feel that chill that comes before the dew--i lay down by the roadside near the cart in which kondrat, without haste, was harnessing the horses after their feed, and i recalled my cheerless reveries of the day before. everything around was as still as the previous evening, but there was not the forest, stifling and weighing down the spirit. on the dry moss, on the crimson grasses, on the soft dust of the road, on the slender stems and pure little leaves of the young birch-trees, lay the clear soft light of the no longer scorching, sinking sun. everything was resting, plunged in soothing coolness; nothing was yet asleep, but everything was getting ready for the restoring slumber of evening and night-time. everything seemed to be saying to man: 'rest, brother of ours; breathe lightly, and grieve not, thou too, at the sleep close before thee.' i raised my head and saw at the very end of a delicate twig one of those large flies with emerald head, long body, and four transparent wings, which the fanciful french call 'maidens,' while our guileless people has named them 'bucket-yokes.' for a long while, more than an hour, i did not take my eyes off her. soaked through and through with sunshine, she did not stir, only from time to time turning her head from side to side and shaking her lifted wings ... that was all. looking at her, it suddenly seemed to me that i understood the life of nature, understood its clear and unmistakable though, to many, still mysterious significance. a subdued, quiet animation, an unhasting, restrained use of sensations and powers, an equilibrium of health in each separate creature--there is her very basis, her unvarying law, that is what she stands upon and holds to. everything that goes beyond this level, above or below--it makes no difference--she flings away as worthless. many insects die as soon as they know the joys of love, which destroy the equilibrium. the sick beast plunges into the thicket and expires there alone: he seems to feel that he no longer has the right to look upon the sun that is common to all, nor to breathe the open air; he has not the right to live;--and the man who from his own fault or from the fault of others is faring ill in the world--ought, at least, to know how to keep silence. 'well, yegor!' cried kondrat all at once. he had already settled himself on the box of the cart and was shaking and playing with the reins. 'come, sit down. what are you so thoughtful about? still about the cow?' 'about the cow? what cow?' i repeated, and looked at yegor: calm and stately as ever, he certainly did seem thoughtful, and was gazing away into the distance towards the fields already beginning to get dark. 'don't you know?' answered kondrat; 'his last cow died last night. he has no luck.--what are you going to do?'.... yegor sat down on the box, without speaking, and we drove off. 'that man knows how to bear in silence,' i thought. yakov pasinkov i it happened in petersburg, in the winter, on the first day of the carnival. i had been invited to dinner by one of my schoolfellows, who enjoyed in his youth the reputation of being as modest as a maiden, and turned out in the sequel a person by no means over rigid in his conduct. he is dead now, like most of my schoolfellows. there were to be present at the dinner, besides me, konstantin alexandrovitch asanov, and a literary celebrity of those days. the literary celebrity kept us waiting for him, and finally sent a note that he was not coming, and in place of him there turned up a little light-haired gentleman, one of the everlasting uninvited guests with whom petersburg abounds. the dinner lasted a long while; our host did not spare the wine, and by degrees our heads were affected. everything that each of us kept hidden in his heart--and who is there that has not something hidden in his heart?--came to the surface. our host's face suddenly lost its modest and reserved expression; his eyes shone with a brazen-faced impudence, and a vulgar grin curved his lips; the light-haired gentleman laughed in a feeble way, with a senseless crow; but asanov surprised me more than any one. the man had always been conspicuous for his sense of propriety, but now he began by suddenly rubbing his hand over his forehead, giving himself airs, boasting of his connections, and continually alluding to a certain uncle of his, a very important personage.... i positively should not have known him; he was unmistakably jeering at us ... he all but avowed his contempt for our society. asanov's insolence began to exasperate me. 'listen,' i said to him; 'if we are such poor creatures to your thinking, you'd better go and see your illustrious uncle. but possibly he's not at home to you.' asanov made me no reply, and went on passing his hand across his forehead. 'what a set of people!' he said again; 'they've never been in any decent society, never been acquainted with a single decent woman, while i have here,' he cried, hurriedly pulling a pocket-book out of his side-pocket and tapping it with his hand, 'a whole pack of letters from a girl whom you wouldn't find the equal of in the whole world.' our host and the light-haired gentleman paid no attention to asanov's last words; they were holding each other by their buttons, and both relating something; but i pricked up my ears. 'oh, you 're bragging, mr. nephew of an illustrious personage,' i said, going up to asanov; 'you haven't any letters at all.' 'do you think so?' he retorted, and he looked down loftily at me; 'what's this, then?' he opened the pocket-book, and showed me about a dozen letters addressed to him.... a familiar handwriting, i fancied.... i feel the flush of shame mounting to my cheeks ... my self-love is suffering horribly.... no one likes to own to a mean action.... but there is nothing for it: when i began my story, i knew i should have to blush to my ears in the course of it. and so, i am bound to harden my heart and confess that.... well, this was what passed: i took advantage of the intoxicated condition of asanov, who had carelessly dropped the letters on the champagne-stained tablecloth (my own head was dizzy enough too), and hurriedly ran my eyes over one of the letters.... my heart stood still.... alas! i was myself in love with the girl who had written to asanov, and i could have no doubt now that she loved him. the whole letter, which was in french, expressed tenderness and devotion.... 'mon cher ami constantin!' so it began ... and it ended with the words: 'be careful as before, and i will be yours or no one's.' stunned as by a thunderbolt, i sat for a few instants motionless; at last i regained my self-possession, jumped up, and rushed out of the room. a quarter of an hour later i was back at home in my own lodgings. * * * * * the family of the zlotnitskys was one of the first whose acquaintance i made on coming to petersburg from moscow. it consisted of a father and mother, two daughters, and a son. the father, a man already grey, but still vigorous, who had been in the army, held a fairly important position, spent the morning in a government office, went to sleep after dinner, and in the evening played cards at his club.... he was seldom at home, spoke little and unwillingly, looked at one from under his eyebrows with an expression half surly, half indifferent, and read nothing except books of travels and geography. sometimes he was unwell, and then he would shut himself up in his own room, and paint little pictures, or tease the old grey parrot, popka. his wife, a sickly, consumptive woman, with hollow black eyes and a sharp nose, did not leave her sofa for days together, and was always embroidering cushion-covers in canvas. as far as i could observe, she was rather afraid of her husband, as though she had somehow wronged him at some time or other. the elder daughter, varvara, a plump, rosy, fair-haired girl of eighteen, was always sitting at the window, watching the people that passed by. the son, who was being educated in a government school, was only seen at home on sundays, and he, too, did not care to waste his words. even the younger daughter, sophia, the girl with whom i was in love, was of a silent disposition. in the zlotnitskys' house there reigned a perpetual stillness; it was only broken by the piercing screams of popka, but visitors soon got used to these, and were conscious again of the burden and oppression of the eternal stillness. visitors, however, seldom looked in upon the zlotnitskys; their house was a dull one. the very furniture, the red paper with yellow patterns in the drawing-room, the numerous rush-bottomed chairs in the dining-room, the faded wool-work cushions, embroidered with figures of girls and dogs, on the sofa, the branching lamps, and the gloomy-looking portraits on the walls--everything inspired an involuntary melancholy, about everything there clung a sense of chill and flatness. on my arrival in petersburg, i had thought it my duty to call on the zlotnitskys. they were relations of my mother's. i managed with difficulty to sit out an hour with them, and it was a long while before i went there again. but by degrees i took to going oftener and oftener. i was drawn there by sophia, whom i had not cared for at first, and with whom i finally fell in love. she was a slender, almost thin, girl of medium height, with a pale face, thick black hair, and big brown eyes, always half closed. her severe and well-defined features, especially her tightly shut lips, showed determination and strength of will. at home they knew her to be a girl with a will of her own.... 'she's like her eldest sister, like katerina,' madame zlotnitsky said one day, as she sat alone with me (in her husband's presence she did not dare to mention the said katerina). 'you don't know her; she's in the caucasus, married. at thirteen, only fancy, she fell in love with her husband, and announced to us at the time that she would never marry any one else. we did everything we could--nothing was of any use. she waited till she was three-and-twenty, and braved her father's anger, and so married her idol. there is no saying what sonitchka might not do! the lord preserve her from such stubbornness! but i am afraid for her; she's only sixteen now, and there's no turning her....' mr. zlotnitsky came in, and his wife was instantly silent. what had captivated me in sophia was not her strength of will--no; but with all her dryness, her lack of vivacity and imagination, she had a special charm of her own, the charm of straightforwardness, genuine sincerity, and purity of heart. i respected her as much as i loved her.... it seemed to me that she too looked with friendly eyes on me; to have my illusions as to her feeling for me shattered, and her love for another man proved conclusively, was a blow to me. the unlooked-for discovery i had made astonished me the more as asanov was not often at the zlotnitskys' house, much less so than i, and had shown no marked preference for sonitchka. he was a handsome, dark fellow, with expressive but rather heavy features, with brilliant, prominent eyes, with a large white forehead, and full red lips under fine moustaches. he was very discreet, but severe in his behaviour, confident in his criticisms and utterances, and dignified in his silence. it was obvious that he thought a great deal of himself. asanov rarely laughed, and then with closed teeth, and he never danced. he was rather loosely and clumsily built. he had at one time served in the --th regiment, and was spoken of as a capable officer. 'a strange thing!' i ruminated, lying on the sofa; 'how was it i noticed nothing?' ... 'be careful as before': those words in sophia's letter suddenly recurred to my memory. 'ah!' i thought: 'that's it! what a sly little hussy! and i thought her open and sincere.... wait a bit, that's all; i'll let you know....' but at this point, if i can trust my memory, i began weeping bitterly, and could not get to sleep all night. * * * * * next day at two o'clock i set off to the zlotnitskys'. the father was not at home, and his wife was not sitting in her usual place; after the pancake festival of the preceding day, she had a headache, and had gone to lie down in her bedroom. varvara was standing with her shoulder against the window, looking into the street; sophia was walking up and down the room with her arms folded across her bosom; popka was shrieking. 'ah! how do you do?' said varvara lazily, directly i came into the room, and she added at once in an undertone, 'there goes a peasant with a tray on his head.' ... (she had the habit of keeping up a running commentary on the passers-by to herself.) 'how do you do?' i responded; 'how do you do, sophia nikolaevna? where is tatiana vassilievna?' 'she has gone to lie down,' answered sophia, still pacing the room. 'we had pancakes,' observed varvara, without turning round. 'why didn't you come? ... where can that clerk be going?' 'oh, i hadn't time.' ('present arms!' the parrot screeched shrilly.) 'how popka is shrieking to-day!' 'he always does shriek like that,' observed sophia. we were all silent for a time. 'he has gone in at the gate,' said varvara, and she suddenly got up on the window-sill and opened the window. 'what are you about?' asked sophia. 'there's a beggar,' responded varvara. she bent down, picked up a five-copeck piece from the window; the remains of a fumigating pastille still stood in a grey heap of ashes on the copper coin, as she flung it into the street; then she slammed the window to and jumped heavily down to the floor.... 'i had a very pleasant time yesterday,' i began, seating myself in an arm-chair. 'i dined with a friend of mine; konstantin alexandritch was there.... (i looked at sophia; not an eyebrow quivered on her face.) 'and i must own,' i continued, 'we'd a good deal of wine; we emptied eight bottles between the four of us.' 'really!' sophia articulated serenely, and she shook her head. 'yes,' i went on, slightly irritated at her composure: 'and do you know what, sophia nikolaevna, it's a true saying, it seems, that in wine is truth.' 'how so?' 'konstantin alexandritch made us laugh. only fancy, he began all at once passing his hand over his forehead like this, and saying: "i'm a fine fellow! i've an uncle a celebrated man!"....' 'ha, ha!' came varvara's short, abrupt laugh. ....'popka! popka! popka!' the parrot dinned back at her. sophia stood still in front of me, and looked me straight in the face. 'and you, what did you say?' she asked; 'don't you remember?' i could not help blushing. 'i don't remember! i expect i was pretty absurd too. it certainly is dangerous to drink,' i added with significant emphasis; 'one begins chattering at once, and one's apt to say what no one ought to know. one's sure to be sorry for it afterwards, but then it's too late.' 'why, did you let out some secret?' asked sophia. 'i am not referring to myself.' sophia turned away, and began walking up and down the room again. i stared at her, raging inwardly. 'upon my word,' i thought, 'she is a child, a baby, and how she has herself in hand! she's made of stone, simply. but wait a bit....' 'sophia nikolaevna ...' i said aloud. sophia stopped. 'what is it?' 'won't you play me something on the piano? by the way, i've something i want to say to you,' i added, dropping my voice. sophia, without saying a word, walked into the other room; i followed her. she came to a standstill at the piano. 'what am i to play you?' she inquired. 'what you like ... one of chopin's nocturnes.' sophia began the nocturne. she played rather badly, but with feeling. her sister played nothing but polkas and waltzes, and even that very seldom. she would go sometimes with her indolent step to the piano, sit down, let her coat slip from her shoulders down to her elbows (i never saw her without a coat), begin playing a polka very loud, and without finishing it, begin another, then she would suddenly heave a sigh, get up, and go back again to the window. a queer creature was that varvara! i sat down near sophia. 'sophia nikolaevna,' i began, watching her intently from one side. 'i ought to tell you a piece of news, news disagreeable to me.' 'news? what is it?' 'i'll tell you.... up till now i have been mistaken in you, completely mistaken.' 'how was that?' she rejoined, going on playing, and keeping her eyes fixed on her fingers. 'i imagined you to be open; i imagined that you were incapable of hypocrisy, of hiding your feelings, deceiving....' sophia bent her face closer over the music. 'i don't understand you.' 'and what's more,' i went on; 'i could never have conceived that you, at your age, were already quite capable of acting a part in such masterly fashion.' sophia's hands faintly trembled above the keys. 'why are you saying this?' she said, still not looking at me; 'i play a part?' 'yes, you do.' (she smiled ... i was seized with spiteful fury.) ... 'you pretend to be indifferent to a man and ... and you write letters to him,' i added in a whisper. sophia's cheeks grew white, but she did not turn to me: she played the nocturne through to the end, got up, and closed the piano. 'where are you going?' i asked her in some perplexity. 'you have no answer to make me?' 'what answer can i make you? i don't know what you 're talking about.... and i am not good at pretending....' she began putting by the music. the blood rushed to my head. 'no; you know what i am talking about,' i said, and i too got up from my seat; 'or if you like, i will remind you directly of some of your expressions in one letter: "be as careful as before"....' sophia gave a faint start. 'i never should have expected this of you,' she said at last. 'i never should have expected,' i retorted, 'that you, sophia nikolaevna, would have deigned to notice a man who ...' sophia turned with a rapid movement to me; i instinctively stepped back a little from her; her eyes, always half closed, were so wide open that they looked immense, and they glittered wrathfully under her frowning brows. 'oh! if that's it,' she said, 'let me tell you that i love that man, and that it's absolutely no consequence to me what you think about him or about my love for him. and what business is it of yours? ... what right have you to speak of this? if i have made up my mind ...' she stopped speaking, and went hurriedly out of the room. i stood still. i felt all of a sudden so uncomfortable and so ashamed that i hid my face in my hands. i realised all the impropriety, all the baseness of my behaviour, and, choked with shame and remorse, i stood as it were in disgrace. 'mercy,' i thought, 'what i've done!' 'anton nikititch,' i heard the maid-servant saying in the outer-room, 'get a glass of water, quick, for sophia nikolaevna.' 'what's wrong?' answered the man. 'i fancy she's crying....' i started up and went into the drawing-room for my hat. 'what were you talking about to sonitchka?' varvara inquired indifferently, and after a brief pause she added in an undertone, 'here's that clerk again.' i began saying good-bye. 'why are you going? stay a little; mamma is coming down directly.' 'no; i can't now,' i said: 'i had better call and see her another time.' at that instant, to my horror, to my positive horror, sophia walked with resolute steps into the drawing-room. her face was paler than usual, and her eyelids were a little red. she never even glanced at me. 'look, sonia,' observed varvara; 'there's a clerk keeps continually passing our house.' 'a spy, perhaps...' sophia remarked coldly and contemptuously. this was too much. i went away, and i really don't know how i got home. i felt very miserable, wretched and miserable beyond description. in twenty-four hours two such cruel blows! i had learned that sophia loved another man, and i had for ever forfeited her respect. i felt myself so utterly annihilated and disgraced that i could not even feel indignant with myself. lying on the sofa with my face turned to the wall, i was revelling in the first rush of despairing misery, when i suddenly heard footsteps in the room. i lifted my head and saw one of my most intimate friends, yakov pasinkov. i was ready to fly into a rage with any one who had come into my room that day, but with pasinkov i could never be angry. quite the contrary; in spite of the sorrow devouring me, i was inwardly rejoiced at his coming, and i nodded to him. he walked twice up and down the room, as his habit was, clearing his throat, and stretching out his long limbs; then he stood a minute facing me in silence, and in silence he seated himself in a corner. i had known pasinkov a very long while, almost from childhood. he had been brought up at the same private school, kept by a german, winterkeller, at which i had spent three years. yakov's father, a poor major on the retired list, a very honest man, but a little deranged mentally, had brought him, when a boy of seven, to this german; had paid for him for a year in advance, and had then left moscow and been lost sight of completely.... from time to time there were dark, strange rumours about him. eight years later it was known as a positive fact that he had been drowned in a flood when crossing the irtish. what had taken him to siberia, god knows. yakov had no other relations; his mother had long been dead. he was simply left stranded on winterkeller's hands. yakov had, it is true, a distant relation, a great-aunt; but she was so poor, that she was afraid at first to go to her nephew, for fear she should have the care of him thrust upon her. her fears turned out to be groundless; the kind-hearted german kept yakov with him, let him study with his other pupils, fed him (dessert, however, was not offered him except on sundays), and rigged him out in clothes cut out of the cast-off morning-gowns--usually snuff-coloured--of his mother, an old livonian lady, still alert and active in spite of her great age. owing to all these circumstances, and owing generally to yakov's inferior position in the school, his schoolfellows treated him in rather a casual fashion, looked down upon him, and used to call him 'mammy's dressing-gown,' the 'nephew of the mob-cap' (his aunt invariably wore a very peculiar mob-cap with a bunch of yellow ribbons sticking straight upright, like a globe artichoke, upon it), and sometimes the 'son of yermak' (because his father had, like that hero, been drowned in the irtish). but in spite of those nicknames, in spite of his ridiculous garb, and his absolute destitution, every one was fond of him, and indeed it was impossible not to be fond of him; a sweeter, nobler nature, i imagine, has never existed upon earth. he was very good at lessons too. when i saw him first, he was sixteen years old, and i was only just thirteen. i was an exceedingly selfish and spoilt boy; i had grown up in a rather wealthy house, and so, on entering the school, i lost no time in making friends with a little prince, an object of special solicitude to winterkeller, and with two or three other juvenile aristocrats; while i gave myself great airs with all the rest. pasinkov i did not deign to notice at all. i regarded the long, gawky lad, in a shapeless coat and short trousers, which showed his coarse thread stockings, as some sort of page-boy, one of the house-serfs--at best, a person of the working class. pasinkov was extremely courteous and gentle to everybody, though he never sought the society of any one. if he were rudely treated, he was neither humiliated nor sullen; he simply withdrew and held himself aloof, with a sort of regretful look, as it were biding his time. this was just how he behaved with me. about two months passed. one bright summer day i happened to go out of the playground after a noisy game of leap-frog, and walking into the garden i saw pasinkov sitting on a bench under a high lilac-bush. he was reading. i glanced at the cover of the book as i passed, and read _schiller's werke_ on the back. i stopped short. 'do you mean to say you know german?' i questioned pasinkov.... i feel ashamed to this day as i recall all the arrogance there was in the very sound of my voice.... pasinkov softly raised his small but expressive eyes and looked at me. 'yes,' he answered; 'do you?' 'i should hope so!' i retorted, feeling insulted at the question, and i was about to go on my way, but something held me back. 'what is it you are reading of schiller?' i asked, with the same haughty insolence. 'at this moment i am reading "resignation," a beautiful poem. would you like me to read it to you? come and sit here by me on the bench.' i hesitated a little, but i sat down. pasinkov began reading. he knew german far better than i did. he had to explain the meaning of several lines for me. but already i felt no shame at my ignorance and his superiority to me. from that day, from the very hour of our reading together in the garden, in the shade of the lilac-bush, i loved pasinkov with my whole soul, i attached myself to him and fell completely under his sway. i have a vivid recollection of his appearance in those days. he changed very little, however, later on. he was tall, thin, and rather awkwardly built, with a long back, narrow shoulders, and a hollow chest, which made him look rather frail and delicate, although as a fact he had nothing to complain of on the score of health. his large, dome-shaped head was carried a little on one side; his soft, flaxen hair straggled in lank locks about his slender neck. his face was not handsome, and might even have struck one as absurd, owing to the long, full, and reddish nose, which seemed almost to overhang his wide, straight mouth. but his open brow was splendid; and when he smiled, his little grey eyes gleamed with such mild and affectionate goodness, that every one felt warmed and cheered at heart at the very sight of him. i remember his voice too, soft and even, with a peculiar sort of sweet huskiness in it. he spoke, as a rule, little, and with noticeable difficulty. but when he warmed up, his words flowed freely, and--strange to say!--his voice grew still softer, his glance seemed turned inward and lost its fire, while his whole face faintly glowed. on his lips the words 'goodness,' 'truth,' 'life,' 'science,' 'love,' however enthusiastically they were uttered, never rang with a false note. without strain, without effort, he stepped into the realm of the ideal; his pure soul was at any moment ready to stand before the 'holy shrine of beauty'; it awaited only the welcoming call, the contact of another soul.... pasinkov was an idealist, one of the last idealists whom it has been my lot to come across. idealists, as we all know, are all but extinct in these days; there are none of them, at any rate, among the young people of to day. so much the worse for the young people of to-day! about three years i spent with pasinkov, 'soul in soul,' as the saying is. i was the confidant of his first love. with what grateful sympathy and intentness i listened to his avowal! the object of his passion was a niece of winterkeller's, a fair-haired, pretty little german, with a chubby, almost childish little face, and confidingly soft blue eyes. she was very kind and sentimental: she loved mattison, uhland, and schiller, and repeated their verses very sweetly in her timid, musical voice. pasinkov's love was of the most platonic. he only saw his beloved on sundays, when she used to come and play at forfeits with the winterkeller children, and he had very little conversation with her. but once, when she said to him, 'mein lieber, lieber herr jacob!' he did not sleep all night from excess of bliss. it never even struck him at the time that she called all his schoolfellows 'mein lieber.' i remember, too, his grief and dejection when the news suddenly reached us that fräulein frederike--that was her name--was going to be married to herr kniftus, the owner of a prosperous butcher's shop, a very handsome man, and well educated too; and that she was marrying him, not simply in submission to parental authority, but positively from love. it was a bitter blow for pasinkov, and his sufferings were particularly severe on the day of the young people's first visit. the former fräulein, now frau, frederike presented him, once more addressing him as 'lieber herr jacob,' to her husband, who was all splendour from top to toe; his eyes, his black hair brushed up into a tuft, his forehead and his teeth, and his coat buttons, and the chain on his waistcoat, everything, down to the boots on his rather large, turned-out feet, shone brilliantly. pasinkov pressed herr kniftus's hand, and wished him (and the wish was sincere, that i am certain) complete and enduring happiness. this took place in my presence. i remember with what admiration and sympathy i gazed at yakov. i thought him a hero!.... and afterwards, what mournful conversations passed between us. 'seek consolation in art,' i said to him. 'yes,' he answered me; 'and in poetry.' 'and in friendship,' i added. 'and in friendship,' he repeated. oh, happy days!... it was a grief to me to part from pasinkov. just before i left school, he had, after prolonged efforts and difficulties, after a correspondence often amusing, succeeded in obtaining his certificates of birth and baptism and his passport, and had entered the university. he still went on living at winterkeller's expense; but instead of home-made jackets and breeches, he was provided now with ordinary attire, in return for lessons on various subjects, which he gave the younger pupils. pasinkov was unchanged in his behaviour to me up to the end of my time at the school, though the difference in our ages began to be more noticeable, and i, i remember, grew jealous of some of his new student friends. his influence on me was most beneficial. it was a pity it did not last longer. to give a single instance: as a child i was in the habit of telling lies.... in yakov's presence i could not bring my tongue to utter an untruth. what i particularly loved was walking alone with him, or pacing by his side up and down the room, listening while he, not looking at me, read poetry in his soft, intense voice. it positively seemed to me that we were slowly, gradually, getting away from the earth, and soaring away to some radiant, glorious land of mystery.... i remember one night. we were sitting together under the same lilac-bush; we were fond of that spot. all our companions were asleep; but we had softly got up, dressed, fumbling in the dark, and stealthily stepped out 'to dream.' it was fairly warm out of doors, but a fresh breeze blew now and then and made us huddle closer together. we talked, we talked a lot, and with much warmth--so much so, that we positively interrupted each other, though we did not argue. in the sky gleamed stars innumerable. yakov raised his eyes, and pressing my hand he softly cried out: 'above our heads the sky with the eternal stars.... above the stars their maker....' a thrill of awe ran through me; i felt cold all over, and sank on his shoulder.... my heart was full.... where are those raptures? alas! where youth is. in petersburg i met yakov again eight years after. i had only just been appointed to a position in the service, and some one had got him a little post in some department. our meeting was most joyful. i shall never forget the moment when, sitting alone one day at home, i suddenly heard his voice in the passage.... how i started; with what throbbing at the heart i leaped up and flung myself on his neck, without giving him time to take off his fur overcoat and unfasten his scarf! how greedily i gazed at him through bright, involuntary tears of tenderness! he had grown a little older during those seven years; lines, delicate as if they had been traced by a needle, furrowed his brow here and there, his cheeks were a little more hollow, and his hair was thinner; but he had hardly more beard, and his smile was just the same as ever; and his laugh, a soft, inward, as it were breathless laugh, was the same too.... mercy on us! what didn't we talk about that day! ... the favourite poems we read to one another! i began begging him to move and come and live with me, but he would not consent. he promised, however, to come every day to see me, and he kept his word. in soul, too, pasinkov was unchanged. he showed himself just the same idealist as i had always known him. however rudely life's chill, the bitter chill of experience, had closed in about him, the tender flower that had bloomed so early in my friend's heart had kept all its pure beauty untouched. there was no trace of sadness even, no trace even of melancholy in him; he was quiet, as he had always been, but everlastingly glad at heart. in petersburg he lived as in a wilderness, not thinking of the future, and knowing scarcely any one. i took him to the zlotnitskys'. he used to go and see them rather often. not being self-conscious, he was not shy, but in their house, as everywhere, he said very little; they liked him, however. even the tedious old man, tatiana vassilievna's husband, was friendly to him, and both the silent girls were soon quite at home with him. sometimes he would arrive, bringing with him in the back pocket of his coat some book that had just come out, and for a long time would not make up his mind to read, but would keep stretching his neck out on one side, like a bird, looking about him as though inquiring, 'could he?' at last he would establish himself in a corner (he always liked sitting in corners), would pull out a book and set to reading, at first in a whisper, then louder and louder, occasionally interrupting himself with brief criticisms or exclamations. i noticed that varvara was readier to sit by him and listen than her sister, though she certainly did not understand much; literature was not in her line. she would sit opposite pasinkov, her chin in her hands, staring at him--not into his eyes, but into his whole face--and would not utter a syllable, but only heave a noisy, sudden sigh. sometimes in the evenings we used to play forfeits, especially on sundays and holidays. we were joined on these occasions by two plump, short young ladies, sisters, and distant relations of the zlotnitskys, terribly given to giggling, and a few lads from the military school, very good-natured, quiet fellows. pasinkov always used to sit beside tatiana vassilievna, and with her, judge what was to be done to the one who had to pay a forfeit. sophia did not like the kisses and such demonstrations, with which forfeits are often paid, while varvara used to be cross if she had to look for anything or guess something. the young ladies giggled incessantly--laughter seemed to bubble up by some magic in them,--i sometimes felt positively irritated as i looked at them, but pasinkov only smiled and shook his head. old zlotnitsky took no part in our games, and even looked at us rather disapprovingly from the door of his study. only once, utterly unexpectedly, he came in to us, and proposed that whoever had next to pay a forfeit should waltz with him; we, of course, agreed. it happened to be tatiana vassilievna who had to pay the forfeit. she crimsoned all over, and was confused and abashed like a girl of fifteen; but her husband at once told sophia to go to the piano, while he went up to his wife, and waltzed two rounds with her of the old-fashioned _trois temps_ waltz. i remember how his bilious, gloomy face, with its never-smiling eyes, kept appearing and disappearing as he slowly turned round, his stern expression never relaxing. he waltzed with a long step and a hop, while his wife pattered rapidly with her feet, and huddled up with her face close to his chest, as though she were in terror. he led her to her place, bowed to her, went back to his room and shut the door. sophia was just getting up, but varvara asked her to go on, went up to pasinkov, and holding out her hand, with an awkward smile, said, 'will you like a turn?' pasinkov was surprised, but he jumped up--he was always distinguished by the most delicate courtesy--and took varvara by the waist, but he slipped down at the first step, and leaving hold of his partner at once, rolled right under the pedestal on which the parrot's cage was standing.... the cage fell, the parrot was frightened and shrieked, 'present arms!' every one laughed.... zlotnitsky appeared at his study door, looked grimly at us, and slammed the door to. from that time forth, one had only to allude to this incident before varvara, and she would go off into peals of laughter at once, and look at pasinkov, as though anything cleverer than his behaviour on that occasion it was impossible to conceive. pasinkov was very fond of music. he used often to beg sophia to play him something, and to sit on one side listening, and now and then humming in a thin voice the most pathetic passages. he was particularly fond of schubert's constellation. he used to declare that when he heard the air played he could always fancy that with the sounds long rays of azure light came pouring down from on high, straight upon him. to this day, whenever i look upon a cloudless sky at night, with the softly quivering stars, i always recall schubert's melody and pasinkov.... an excursion into the country comes back to my mind. we set out, a whole party of us, in two hired four-wheel carriages, to pargolovo. i remember we took the carriages from the vladimirsky; they were very old, and painted blue, with round springs, and a wide box-seat, and bundles of hay inside; the brown, broken-winded horses that drew us along at a slow trot were each lame in a different leg. we strolled a long while about the pinewoods round pargolovo, drank milk out of earthenware pitchers, and ate wild strawberries and sugar. the weather was exquisite. varvara did not care for long walks: she used soon to get tired; but this time she did not lag behind us. she took off her hat, her hair came down, her heavy features lighted up, and her cheeks were flushed. meeting two peasant girls in the wood, she sat down suddenly on the ground, called them to her, did not patronise them, but made them sit down beside her. sophia looked at them from some distance with a cold smile, and did not go up to them. she was walking with asanov. zlotnitsky observed that varvara was a regular hen for sitting. varvara got up and walked away. in the course of the walk she several times went up to pasinkov, and said to him, 'yakov ivanitch, i want to tell you something,' but what she wanted to tell him--remained unknown. but it's high time for me to get back to my story. * * * * * i was glad to see pasinkov; but when i recalled what i had done the day before, i felt unutterably ashamed, and i hurriedly turned away to the wall again. after a brief pause, yakov asked me if i were unwell. 'i'm quite well,' i answered through my teeth; 'only my head aches.' yakov made no reply, and took up a book. more than an hour passed by; i was just coming to the point of confessing everything to yakov ... suddenly there was a ring at the outer bell of my flat. the door on to the stairs was opened.... i listened.... asanov was asking my servant if i were at home. pasinkov got up; he did not care for asanov, and telling me in a whisper that he would go and lie down on my bed, he went into my bedroom. a minute later asanov entered. from the very sight of his flushed face, from his brief, cool bow, i guessed that he had not come to me without some set purpose in his mind. 'what is going to happen?' i wondered. 'sir,' he began, quickly seating himself in an armchair, 'i have come to you for you to settle a matter of doubt for me.' 'and that is?' 'that is: i wish to know whether you are an honest man.' i flew into a rage. 'what's the meaning of that?' i demanded. 'i'll tell you what's the meaning of it,' he retorted, underlining as it were each word. 'yesterday i showed you a pocket-book containing letters from a certain person to me.... to-day you repeated to that person, with reproach--with reproach, observe--some expressions from those letters, without having the slightest right to do so. i should like to know what explanation you can give of this?' 'and i should like to know what right you have to cross-examine me,' i answered, trembling with fury and inward shame. 'you chose to boast of your uncle, of your correspondence; i'd nothing to do with it. you've got all your letters all right, haven't you?' 'the letters are all right; but i was yesterday in a condition in which you could easily----' 'in short, sir,' i began, speaking intentionally as loud as i could, 'i beg you to leave me alone, do you hear? i don't want to know anything about it, and i'm not going to give you any explanation. you can go to that person for explanations!' i felt that my head was beginning to go round. asanov turned upon me a look to which he obviously tried to impart an air of scornful penetration, pulled his moustaches, and got up slowly. 'i know now what to think,' he observed; 'your face is the best evidence against you. but i must tell you that that's not the way honourable people behave.... to read a letter on the sly, and then to go and worry an honourable girl....' 'will you go to the devil!' i shouted, stamping, 'and send me a second; i don't mean to talk to you.' 'kindly refrain from telling me what to do,' asanov retorted frigidly; 'but i certainly will send a second to you.' he went away. i fell on the sofa and hid my face in my hands. some one touched me on the shoulder; i moved my hands--before me was standing pasinkov. 'what's this? is it true?' ... he asked me. 'you read another man's letter?' i had not the strength to answer, but i nodded in assent. pasinkov went to the window, and standing with his back to me, said slowly: 'you read a letter from a girl to asanov. who was the girl?' 'sophia zlotnitsky,' i answered, as a prisoner on his trial answers the judge. for a long while pasinkov did not utter a word. 'nothing but passion could to some extent excuse you,' he began at last. 'are you in love then with the younger zlotnitsky?' 'yes.' pasinkov was silent again for a little. 'i thought so. and you went to her to-day and began reproaching her?...' 'yes, yes, yes!...' i articulated desperately. 'now you can despise me....' pasinkov walked a couple of times up and down the room. 'and she loves him?' he queried. 'she loves him....' pasinkov looked down, and gazed a long while at the floor without moving. 'well, it must be set right,' he began, raising his head,' things can't be left like this.' and he took up his hat. 'where are you going?' 'to asanov.' i jumped up from the sofa. 'but i won't let you. good heavens! how can you! what will he think?' pasinkov looked at me. 'why, do you think it better to keep this folly up, to bring ruin on yourself, and disgrace on the girl?' 'but what are you going to say to asanov?' 'i'll try and explain things to him, i'll tell him you beg his forgiveness ...' 'but i don't want to apologise to him!' 'you don't? why, aren't you in fault?' i looked at pasinkov; the calm and severe, though mournful, expression of his face impressed me; it was new to me. i made no reply, and sat down on the sofa. pasinkov went out. in what agonies of suspense i waited for his return! with what cruel slowness the time lingered by! at last he came back--late. 'well?' i queried in a timid voice. 'thank goodness!' he answered; 'it's all settled.' 'you have been at asanov's?' 'yes.' 'well, and he?--made a great to-do, i suppose?' i articulated with an effort. 'no, i can't say that. i expected more ... he ... he's not such a vulgar fellow as i thought.' 'well, and have you seen any one else besides?' i asked, after a brief pause. 'i've been at the zlotnitskys'.' 'ah!...' (my heart began to throb. i did not dare look pasinkov in the face.) 'well, and she?' 'sophia nikolaevna is a reasonable, kind-hearted girl.... yes, she is a kind-hearted girl. she felt awkward at first, but she was soon at ease. but our whole conversation only lasted five minutes.' 'and you ... told her everything ... about me ... everything?' 'i told her what was necessary.' 'i shall never be able to go and see them again now!' i pronounced dejectedly.... 'why? no, you can go occasionally. on the contrary, you are absolutely bound to go and see them, so that nothing should be thought....' 'ah, yakov, you will despise me now!' i cried, hardly keeping back my tears. 'me! despise you? ...' (his affectionate eyes glowed with love.) 'despise you ... silly fellow! don't i see how hard it's been for you, how you're suffering?' he held out his hand to me; i fell on his neck and broke into sobs. after a few days, during which i noticed that pasinkov was in very low spirits, i made up my mind at last to go to the zlotnitskys'. what i felt, as i stepped into their drawing-room, it would be difficult to convey in words; i remember that i could hardly distinguish the persons in the room, and my voice failed me. sophia was no less ill at ease; she obviously forced herself to address me, but her eyes avoided mine as mine did hers, and every movement she made, her whole being, expressed constraint, mingled ... why conceal the truth? with secret aversion. i tried, as far as possible, to spare her and myself from such painful sensations. this meeting was happily our last--before her marriage. a sudden change in my fortunes carried me off to the other end of russia, and i bade a long farewell to petersburg, to the zlotnitsky family, and, what was most grievous of all for me, to dear yakov pasinkov. ii seven years had passed by. i don't think it necessary to relate all that happened to me during that period. i moved restlessly about over russia, and made my way into the remotest wilds, and thank god i did! the wilds are not so much to be dreaded as some people suppose, and in the most hidden places, under the fallen twigs and rotting leaves in the very heart of the forest, spring up flowers of sweet fragrance. one day in spring, as i was passing on some official duties through a small town in one of the outlying provinces of eastern russia, through the dim little window of my coach i saw standing before a shop in the square a man whose face struck me as exceedingly familiar. i looked attentively at the man, and to my great delight recognised him as elisei, pasinkov's servant. i at once told the driver to stop, jumped out of the coach, and went up to elisei. 'hullo, friend!' i began, with difficulty concealing my excitement; 'are you here with your master?' 'yes, i'm with my master,' he responded slowly, and then suddenly cried out: 'why, sir, is it you? i didn't know you.' 'are you here with yakov ivanitch?' 'yes, sir, with him, to be sure ... whom else would i be with?' 'take me to him quickly.' 'to be sure! to be sure! this way, please, this way ... we're stopping here at the tavern.' elisei led me across the square, incessantly repeating--'well, now, won't yakov ivanitch be pleased!' this man, of kalmuck extraction, and hideous, even savage appearance, but the kindest-hearted creature and by no means a fool, was passionately devoted to pasinkov, and had been his servant for ten years. 'is yakov ivanitch quite well?' i asked him. elisei turned his dusky, yellow little face to me. 'ah, sir, he's in a poor way ... in a poor way, sir! you won't know his honour.... he's not long for this world, i'm afraid. that's how it is we've stopped here, or we had been going on to odessa for his health.' 'where do you come from?' 'from siberia, sir.' 'from siberia?' 'yes, sir. yakov ivanitch was sent to a post out there. it was there his honour got his wound.' 'do you mean to say he went into the military service?' 'oh no, sir. he served in the civil service.' 'what a strange thing!' i thought. meanwhile we had reached the tavern, and elisei ran on in front to announce me. during the first years of our separation, pasinkov and i had written to each other pretty often, but his last letter had reached me four years before, and since then i had heard nothing of him. 'please come up, sir!' elisei shouted to me from the staircase; 'yakov ivanitch is very anxious to see you.' i ran hurriedly up the tottering stairs, went into a dark little room--and my heart sank.... on a narrow bed, under a fur cloak, pale as a corpse, lay pasinkov, and he was stretching out to me a bare, wasted hand. i rushed up to him and embraced him passionately. 'yasha!' i cried at last; 'what's wrong with you?' 'nothing,' he answered in a faint voice; 'i'm a bit feeble. what chance brought you here?' i sat down on a chair beside pasinkov's bed, and, never letting his hands out of my hands, i began gazing into his face. i recognised the features i loved; the expression of the eyes and the smile were unchanged; but what a wreck illness had made of him! he noticed the impression he was making on me. 'it's three days since i shaved,' he observed; 'and, to be sure, i've not been combed and brushed, but except for that ... i'm not so bad.' 'tell me, please, yasha,' i began; 'what's this elisei's been telling me ... you were wounded?' 'ah! yes, it's quite a history,' he replied. 'i'll tell you it later. yes, i was wounded, and only fancy what by?--an arrow.' 'an arrow?' 'yes, an arrow; only not a mythological one, not cupid's arrow, but a real arrow of very flexible wood, with a sharply-pointed tip at one end.... a very unpleasant sensation is produced by such an arrow, especially when it sticks in one's lungs.' 'but however did it come about? upon my word!...' 'i'll tell you how it happened. you know there always was a great deal of the absurd in my life. do you remember my comical correspondence about getting my passport? well, i was wounded in an absurd fashion too. and if you come to think of it, what self-respecting person in our enlightened century would permit himself to be wounded by an arrow? and not accidentally--observe--not at sports of any sort, but in a battle.' 'but you still don't tell me ...' 'all right, wait a minute,' he interrupted. 'you know that soon after you left petersburg i was transferred to novgorod. i was a good time at novgorod, and i must own i was bored there, though even there i came across one creature....' (he sighed.) ... 'but no matter about that now; two years ago i got a capital little berth, some way off, it's true, in the irkutsk province, but what of that! it seems as though my father and i were destined from birth to visit siberia. a splendid country, siberia! rich, fertile--every one will tell you the same. i liked it very much there. the natives were put under my rule; they're a harmless lot of people; but as my ill-luck would have it, they took it into their heads, a dozen of them, not more, to smuggle in contraband goods. i was sent to arrest them. arrest them i did, but one of them, crazy he must have been, thought fit to defend himself, and treated me to the arrow.... i almost died of it; however, i got all right again. now, here i am going to get completely cured.... the government--god give them all good health!--have provided the cash.' pasinkov let his head fall back on the pillow, exhausted, and ceased speaking. a faint flush suffused his cheeks. he closed his eyes. 'he can't talk much,' elisei, who had not left the room, murmured in an undertone. a silence followed; nothing was heard but the sick man's painful breathing. 'but here,' he went on, opening his eyes, 'i've been stopping a fortnight in this little town.... i caught cold, i suppose. the district doctor here is attending me--you'll see him; he seems to know his business. i'm awfully glad it happened so, though, or how should we have met?' (and he took my hand. his hand, which had just before been cold as ice, was now burning hot.) 'tell me something about yourself,' he began again, throwing the cloak back off his chest. 'you and i haven't seen each other since god knows when.' i hastened to carry out his wish, so as not to let him talk, and started giving an account of myself. he listened to me at first with great attention, then asked for drink, and then began closing his eyes again and turning his head restlessly on the pillow. i advised him to have a little nap, adding that i should not go on further till he was well again, and that i should establish myself in a room beside him. 'it's very nasty here ...' pasinkov was beginning, but i stopped his mouth, and went softly out. elisei followed me. 'what is it, elisei? why, he's dying, isn't he?' i questioned the faithful servant. elisei simply made a gesture with his hand, and turned away. having dismissed my driver, and rapidly moved my things into the next room, i went to see whether pasinkov was asleep. at the door i ran up against a tall man, very fat and heavily built. his face, pock-marked and puffy, expressed laziness--and nothing else; his tiny little eyes seemed, as it were, glued up, and his lips looked polished, as though he were just awake. 'allow me to ask,' i questioned him, 'are you not the doctor?' the fat man looked at me, seeming with an effort to lift his overhanging forehead with his eyebrows. 'yes, sir,' he responded at last. 'do me the favour, mr. doctor, won't you, please, to come this way into my room? yakov ivanitch, is, i believe, now asleep. i am a friend of his and should like to have a little talk with you about his illness, which makes me very uneasy.' 'very good,' answered the doctor, with an expression which seemed to try and say, 'why talk so much? i'd have come anyway,' and he followed me. 'tell me, please,' i began, as soon as he had dropped into a chair, 'is my friend's condition serious? what do you think?' 'yes,' answered the fat man, tranquilly. 'and... is it very serious?' 'yes, it's serious.' 'so that he may...even die?' 'he may.' i confess i looked almost with hatred at the fat man. 'good heavens!' i began; 'we must take some steps, call a consultation, or something. you know we can't... mercy on us!' 'a consultation?--quite possible; why not? it's possible. call in ivan efremitch....' the doctor spoke with difficulty, and sighed continually. his stomach heaved perceptibly when he spoke, as it were emphasising each word. 'who is ivan efremitch?' 'the parish doctor.' 'shouldn't we send to the chief town of the province? what do you think? there are sure to be good doctors there.' 'well! you might.' 'and who is considered the best doctor there?' 'the best? there was a doctor kolrabus there ... only i fancy he's been transferred somewhere else. though i must own there's no need really to send.' 'why so?' 'even the best doctor will be of no use to your friend.' 'why, is he so bad?' 'yes, he's run down.' 'in what way precisely is he ill?' 'he received a wound.... the lungs were affected in consequence ... and then he's taken cold too, and fever was set up ... and so on. and there's no reserve force; a man can't get on, you know yourself, with no reserve force.' we were both silent for a while. 'how about trying homoeopathy?...' said the fat man, with a sidelong glance at me. 'homoeopathy? why, you're an allopath, aren't you?' 'what of that? do you think i don't understand homoeopathy? i understand it as well as the other! why, the chemist here among us treats people homeopathically, and he has no learned degree whatever.' 'oh,' i thought, 'it's a bad look-out!...' 'no, doctor,' i observed, 'you had better treat him according to your usual method.' 'as you please.' the fat man got up and heaved a sigh. 'you are going to him? 'i asked. 'yes, i must have a look at him.' and he went out. i did not follow him; to see him at the bedside of my poor, sick friend was more than i could stand. i called my man and gave him orders to drive at once to the chief town of the province, to inquire there for the best doctor, and to bring him without fail. there was a slight noise in the passage. i opened the door quickly. the doctor was already coming out of pasinkov's room. 'well?' i questioned him in a whisper. 'it's all right. i have prescribed a mixture.' 'i have decided, doctor, to send to the chief town. i have no doubt of your skill, but as you're aware, two heads are better than one.' 'well, that's very praiseworthy!' responded the fat man, and he began to descend the staircase. he was obviously tired of me. i went in to pasinkov. 'have you seen the local aesculapius?' he asked. 'yes,' i answered. 'what i like about him,' remarked pasinkov, 'is his astounding composure. a doctor ought to be phlegmatic, oughtn't he? it's so encouraging for the patient.' i did not, of course, try to controvert this. towards the evening, pasinkov, contrary to my expectations, seemed better. he asked elisei to set the samovar, announced that he was going to regale me with tea, and drink a small cup himself, and he was noticeably more cheerful. i tried, though, not to let him talk, and seeing that he would not be quiet, i asked him if he would like me to read him something. 'just as at winterkeller's--do you remember?' he answered. 'if you will, i shall be delighted. what shall we read? look, there are my books in the window.'... i went to the window and took up the first book that my hand chanced upon.... 'what is it?' he asked. 'lermontov.' 'ah, lermontov! excellent! pushkin is greater, no doubt.... do you remember: "once more the storm-clouds gather close above me in the perfect calm" ... or, "for the last time thy image sweet in thought i dare caress." ah! marvellous! marvellous! but lermontov's fine too. well, i'll tell you what, dear boy: you take the book, open it by chance, and read what you find!' i opened the book, and was disconcerted; i had chanced upon 'the last will.' i tried to turn over the page, but pasinkov noticed my action and said hurriedly: 'no, no, no, read what turned up.' there was no getting out of it; i read 'the last will.' [footnote: the last will alone with thee, brother, i would wish to be; on earth, so they tell me, i have not long to stay, soon you will go home: see that ... but nay! for my fate to speak the truth, no one is very greatly troubled. but if any one asks ... well, whoever may ask, tell them that through the breast i was shot by a bullet; that i died honourably for the tsar, that our doctors are not much good, and that to my native land i send a humble greeting. my father and mother, hardly will you find living.... i'll own i should be sorry that they should grieve for me.] 'splendid thing!' said pasinkov, directly i had finished the last verse. 'splendid thing! but, it's queer,' he added, after a brief pause, 'it's queer you should have chanced just on that.... queer.' i began to read another poem, but pasinkov was not listening to me; he looked away, and twice he repeated again: 'queer!' i let the book drop on my knees. '"there is a girl, their neighbour,"' he whispered, and turning to me he asked--'i say, do you remember sophia zlotnitsky?' i turned red. 'i should think i did!' 'she was married, i suppose?...' 'to asanov, long, long ago. i wrote to you about it.' * * * * * but if either of them is living, say i am lazy about writing, that our regiment has been sent forward, and that they must not expect me home. there is a girl, their neighbour.... as you remember, it's long since we parted.... she will not ask for me.... all the same, you tell her all the truth, don't spare her empty heart- let her weep a little.... it will not hurt her much! 'to be sure, to be sure, so you did. did her father forgive her in the end?' 'he forgave her; but he would not receive asanov.' 'obstinate old fellow! well, and are they supposed to be happy?' 'i don't know, really... i fancy they 're happy. they live in the country, in ---province. i've never seen them, though i have been through their parts.' 'and have they any children?' 'i think so.... by the way, pasinkov?...' i began questioningly. he glanced at me. 'confess--do you remember, you were unwilling to answer my question at the time--did you tell her i cared for her?' 'i told her everything, the whole truth.... i always told her the truth. to be hypocritical with her would have been a sin!' pasinkov was silent for a while. 'come, tell me,' he began again: 'did you soon get over caring for her, or not?' 'not very soon, but i got over it. what's the good of sighing in vain?' pasinkov turned over, facing me. 'well, i, brother,' he began--and his lips were quivering--'am no match for you there; i've not got over caring for her to this day.' 'what!' i cried in indescribable amazement; 'did you love her?' 'i loved her,' said pasinkov slowly, and he put both hands behind his head. 'how i loved her, god only knows. i've never spoken of it to any one, to any one in the world, and i never meant to ... but there! "on earth, so they tell me, i have not long to stay." ... what does it matter?' pasinkov's unexpected avowal so utterly astonished me that i could positively say nothing. i could only wonder, 'is it possible? how was it i never suspected it?' 'yes,' he went on, as though speaking to himself, 'i loved her. i never ceased to love her even when i knew her heart was asanov's. but how bitter it was for me to know that! if she had loved you, i should at least have rejoiced for you; but asanov.... how did he make her care for him? it was just his luck! and change her feelings, cease to care, she could not! a true heart does not change....' i recalled asanov's visit after the fatal dinner, pasinkov's intervention, and i could not help flinging up my hands in astonishment. 'you learnt it all from me, poor fellow!' i cried; 'and you undertook to go and see her then!' 'yes,' pasinkov began again; 'that explanation with her ... i shall never forget it.' it was then i found out, then i realised the meaning of the word i had chosen for myself long before: resignation. but still she has remained my constant dream, my ideal.... and he's to be pitied who lives without an ideal!' i looked at pasinkov; his eyes, fastened, as it were, on the distance, shone with feverish brilliance. 'i loved her,' he went on, 'i loved her, her, calm, true, unapproachable, incorruptible; when she went away, i was almost mad with grief.... since then i have never cared for any one.'... and suddenly turning, he pressed his face into the pillow, and began quietly weeping. i jumped up, bent over him, and began trying to comfort him.... 'it's no matter,' he said, raising his head and shaking back his hair; 'it's nothing; i felt a little bitter, a little sorry ... for myself, that is.... but it's all no matter. it's all the fault of those verses. read me something else, more cheerful.' i took up lermontov and began hurriedly turning over the pages; but, as fate would have it, i kept coming across poems likely to agitate pasinkov again. at last i read him 'the gifts of terek.' 'jingling rhetoric!' said my poor friend, with the tone of a preceptor; 'but there are fine passages. since i saw you, brother, i've tried my hand at poetry, and began one poem--"the cup of life"--but it didn't come off! it's for us, brother, to appreciate, not to create.... but i'm rather tired; i'll sleep a little--what do you say? what a splendid thing sleep is, come to think of it! all our life's a dream, and the best thing in it is dreaming too.' 'and poetry?' i queried. 'poetry's a dream too, but a dream of paradise.' pasinkov closed his eyes. i stood for a little while at his bedside. i did not think he would get to sleep quickly, but soon his breathing became more even and prolonged. i went away on tiptoe, turned into my own room, and lay down on the sofa. for a long while i mused on what pasinkov had told me, recalled many things, wondered; at last i too fell asleep.... some one touched me; i started up; before me stood elisei. 'come in to my master,' he said. i got up at once. 'what's the matter with him?' 'he's delirious.' 'delirious? and hasn't it ever been so before with him?' 'yes, he was delirious last night, too; only to-day it is something terrible.' i went to pasinkov's room. he was not lying down, but sitting up in bed, his whole body bent forward. he was slowly gesticulating with his hands, smiling and talking, talking all the time in a weak, hollow voice, like the whispering of rushes. his eyes were wandering. the gloomy light of a night light, set on the floor, and shaded off by a book, lay, an unmoving patch on the ceiling; pasinkov's face seemed paler than ever in the half darkness. i went up to him, called him by his name--he did not answer. i began listening to his whispering: he was talking of siberia, of its forests. from time to time there was sense in his ravings. 'what trees!' he whispered; 'right up to the sky. what frost on them! silver ... snowdrifts.... and here are little tracks ... that's a hare's leaping, that's a white weasel... no, it's my father running with my papers. here he is!... here he is! must go; the moon is shining. must go, look for my papers.... ah! a flower, a crimson flower--there's sophia.... oh, the bells are ringing, the frost is crackling.... ah, no; it's the stupid bullfinches hopping in the bushes, whistling.... see, the redthroats! cold.... ah! here's asanov.... oh yes, of course, he's a cannon, a copper cannon, and his gun-carriage is green. that's how it is he's liked. is it a star has fallen? no, it's an arrow flying.... ah, how quickly, and straight into my heart!... who shot it? you, sonitchka?' he bent his head and began muttering disconnected words. i glanced at elisei; he was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing ruefully at his master. 'ah, brother, so you've become a practical person, eh?' he asked suddenly, turning upon me such a clear, such a fully conscious glance, that i could not help starting and was about to reply, but he went on at once: 'but i, brother, have not become a practical person, i haven't, and that's all about it! a dreamer i was born, a dreamer! dreaming, dreaming.... what is dreaming? sobakevitch's peasant--that's dreaming. ugh!...' almost till morning pasinkov wandered in delirium; at last he gradually grew quieter, sank back on the pillow, and dozed off. i went back into my room. worn out by the cruel night, i slept soundly. elisei again waked me. 'ah, sir!' he said in a shaking voice, 'i do believe yakov ivanitch is dying....' i ran in to pasinkov. he was lying motionless. in the light of the coming day he looked already a corpse. he recognised me. 'good-bye,' he whispered; 'greet her for me, i'm dying....' 'yasha!' i cried; 'nonsense! you are going to live....' 'no, no! i am dying.... here, take this as a keepsake.' ... (he pointed to his breast.) ... 'what's this?' he began suddenly; 'look: the sea ... all golden, and blue isles upon it, marble temples, palm-trees, incense....' he ceased speaking ... stretched.... within half an hour he was no more. elisei flung himself weeping at his feet. i closed his eyes. on his neck there was a little silken amulet on a black cord. i took it. three days afterwards he was buried.... one of the noblest hearts was hidden for ever in the grave. i myself threw the first handful of earth upon him. iii another year and a half passed by. business obliged me to visit moscow. i took up my quarters in one of the good hotels there. one day, as i was passing along the corridor, i glanced at the black-board with the list of visitors staying in the hotel, and almost cried out aloud with astonishment. opposite the number 12 stood, distinctly written in chalk, the name, sophia nikolaevna asanova. of late i had chanced to hear a good deal that was bad about her husband. i had learned that he was addicted to drink and to gambling, had ruined himself, and was generally misconducting himself. his wife was spoken of with respect.... in some excitement i went back to my room. the passion, that had long long ago grown cold, began as it were to stir within my heart, and it throbbed. i resolved to go and see sophia nikolaevna. 'such a long time has passed since the day we parted,' i thought, 'she has, most likely, forgotten everything there was between us in those days.' i sent elisei, whom i had taken into my service after the death of pasinkov, with my visiting-card to her door, and told him to inquire whether she was at home, and whether i might see her. elisei quickly came back and announced that sophia nikolaevna was at home and would see me. i went at once to sophia nikolaevna. when i went in, she was standing in the middle of the room, taking leave of a tall stout gentleman. 'as you like,' he was saying in a rich, mellow voice; 'he is not a harmless person, he's a useless person; and every useless person in a well-ordered society is harmful, harmful, harmful!' with those words the tall gentleman went out. sophia nikolaevna turned to me. 'how long it is since we met!' she said. 'sit down, please....' we sat down. i looked at her.... to see again after long absence the features of a face once dear, perhaps beloved, to recognise them, and not recognise them, as though across the old, unforgotten countenance a new one, like, but strange, were looking out at one; instantaneously, almost unconsciously, to note the traces time has laid upon it;--all this is rather melancholy. 'i too must have changed in the same way,' each is inwardly thinking.... sophia nikolaevna did not, however, look much older; though, when i had seen her last, she was sixteen, and that was nine years ago. her features had become still more correct and severe; as of old, they expressed sincerity of feeling and firmness; but in place of her former serenity, a sort of secret ache and anxiety could be discerned in them. her eyes had grown deeper and darker. she had begun to show a likeness to her mother.... sophia nikolaevna was the first to begin the conversation. 'we are both changed,' she began. 'where have you been all this time?' 'i've been a rolling stone,' i answered. 'and have you been living in the country all the while?' 'for the most part i've been in the country. i'm only here now for a little time.' 'how are your parents?' 'my mother is dead, but my father is still in petersburg; my brother's in the service; varia lives with him.' 'and your husband?' 'my husband,' she said in a rather hurried voice--'he's just now in south russia for the horse fairs. he was always very fond of horses, you know, and he has started stud stables ... and so, on that account ... he's buying horses now.' at that instant there walked into the room a little girl of eight years old, with her hair in a pigtail, with a very keen and lively little face, and large dark grey eyes. on seeing me, she at once drew back her little foot, dropped a hasty curtsey, and went up to sophia nikolaevna. 'this is my little daughter; let me introduce her to you,' said sophia nikolaevna, putting one finger under the little girl's round chin; 'she would not stop at home--she persuaded me to bring her with me.' the little girl scanned me with her rapid glance and faintly dropped her eyelids. 'she is a capital little person,' sophia nikolaevna went on: 'there's nothing she's afraid of. and she's good at her lessons; i must say that for her.' 'comment se nomme monsieur?' the little girl asked in an undertone, bending over to her mother. sophia nikolaevna mentioned my name. the little girl glanced at me again. 'what is your name?' i asked her. 'my name is lidia,' answered the little girl, looking me boldly in the face. 'i expect they spoil you,' i observed. 'who spoil me?' 'who? everyone, i expect; your parents to begin with.' (the little girl looked, without a word, at her mother.) 'i can fancy konstantin alexandritch,' i was going on ... 'yes, yes,' sophia nikolaevna interposed, while her little daughter kept her attentive eyes fastened upon her; 'my husband, of course--he is very fond of children....' a strange expression flitted across lidia's clever little face. there was a slight pout about her lips; she hung her head. 'tell me,' sophia nikolaevna added hurriedly; 'you are here on business, i expect?' 'yes, i am here on business.... and are you too?' 'yes.... in my husband's absence, you understand, i'm obliged to look after business matters.' 'maman!' lidia was beginning. 'quoi, mon enfant?' 'non--rien.... je te dirai après.' sophia nikolaevna smiled and shrugged her shoulders. 'tell me, please,' sophia nikolaevna began again; 'do you remember, you had a friend ... what was his name? he had such a good-natured face ... he was always reading poetry; such an enthusiastic--' 'not pasinkov?' 'yes, yes, pasinkov ... where is he now?' 'he is dead.' 'dead?' repeated sophia nikolaevna; 'what a pity!...' 'have i seen him?' the little girl asked in a hurried whisper. 'no, lidia, you've never seen him.--what a pity!' repeated sophia nikolaevna. 'you regret him ...' i began; 'what if you had known him, as i knew him?... but, why did you speak of him, may i ask?' 'oh, i don't know....' (sophia nikolaevna dropped her eyes.) 'lidia,' she added; 'run away to your nurse.' 'you'll call me when i may come back?' asked the little girl. 'yes.' the little girl went away. sophia nikolaevna turned to me. 'tell me, please, all you know about pasinkov.' i began telling her his story. i sketched in brief words the whole life of my friend; tried, as far as i was able, to give an idea of his soul; described his last meeting with me and his end. 'and a man like that,' i cried, as i finished my story--'has left us, unnoticed, almost unappreciated! but that's no great loss. what is the use of man's appreciation? what pains me, what wounds me, is that such a man, with such a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having once known the bliss of love returned, without having awakened interest in one woman's heart worthy of him!... such as i may well know nothing of such happiness; we don't deserve it; but pasinkov!... and yet haven't i met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with him in any respect, who were loved? must one believe that some faults in a man--conceit, for instance, or frivolity--are essential to gain a woman's devotion? or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible on earth, as something strange and terrible?' sophia nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern, searching eyes off me, without moving her lips; only her eyebrows contracted from time to time. 'what makes you suppose,' she observed after a brief silence, 'that no woman ever loved your friend?' 'because i know it, know it for a fact.' sophia nikolaevna seemed about to say something, but she stopped. she seemed to be struggling with herself. 'you are mistaken,' she began at last; 'i know a woman who loved your dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day ... and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her.' 'who is this woman? may i know?' 'my sister, varia.' 'varvara nikolaevna!' i cried in amazement. 'yes.' 'what? varvara nikolaevna?' i repeated, 'that...' 'i will finish your sentence,' sophia nikolaevna took me up; 'that girl you thought so cold, so listless and indifferent, loved your friend; that is why she has never married and never will marry. till this day no one has known of this but me; varia would die before she would betray her secret. in our family we know how to suffer in silence.' i looked long and intently at sophia nikolaevna, involuntarily pondering on the bitter significance of her last words. 'you have surprised me,' i observed at last. 'but do you know, sophia nikolaevna, if i were not afraid of recalling disagreeable memories, i might surprise you too....' 'i don't understand you,' she rejoined slowly, and with some embarrassment. 'you certainly don't understand me,' i said, hastily getting up; 'and so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something ...' 'but what is it?' she inquired. 'don't be alarmed, sophia nikolaevna, it's nothing to do with me.' i bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little silken bag i had taken off pasinkov, and sent it to sophia nikolaevna with the following note-'this my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him. in it is the only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its contents; you can read it. he wore it because he loved you passionately; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. now, when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours?' elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic. 'well?' i queried; 'didn't she send any message?' 'no.' i was silent for a little. 'did she read my note?' 'no doubt she did; the maid took it to her.' 'unapproachable,' i thought, remembering pasinkov's last words. 'all right, you can go,' i said aloud. elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not go. 'there's a girl ...' he began, 'here to see you.' 'what girl?' elisei hesitated. 'didn't my master say anything to you?' 'no.... what is it?' 'when my master was in novgorod,' he went on, fingering the door-post, 'he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. so here is this girl, wants to see you. i met her the other day in the street. i said to her, "come along; if the master allows it, i'll let you see him." 'ask her in, ask her in, of course. but ... what is she like?' 'an ordinary girl... working class... russian.' 'did yakov ivanitch care for her?' 'well, yes ... he was fond of her. and she...when she heard my master was dead, she was terribly upset. she's a good sort of girl.' 'ask her in, ask her in.' elisei went out and at once came back. he was followed by a girl in a striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her head, that half hid her face. on seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away. 'what's the matter?' elisei said to her; 'go on, don't be afraid.' i went up to her and took her by the hand. 'what is your name?' i asked her. 'masha,' she replied in a soft voice, stealing a glance at me. she looked about twoor three-and-twenty; she had a round, rather simple-looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and very pretty and clean little hands. she was tidily dressed. 'you knew yakov ivanitch?' i pursued. 'i used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief, and the tears stood in her eyes. i asked her to sit down. she sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of ceremony. elisei went out. 'you became acquainted with him in novgorod?' 'yes, in novgorod,' she answered, clasping her hands under her kerchief. 'i only heard the day before yesterday, from elisei timofeitch, of his death. yakov ivanitch, when he went away to siberia, promised to write to me, and twice he did write, and then he wrote no more. i would have followed him out to siberia, but he didn't wish it.' 'have you relations in novgorod?' 'yes.' 'did you live with them?' 'i used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a lot of children: and so i moved. i always rested my hopes on yakov ivanitch, and longed for nothing but to see him, and he was always good to me--you can ask elisei timofeitch.' masha paused. 'i have his letters,' she went on. 'here, look.' she took several letters out of her pocket, and handed them to me. 'read them,' she added. i opened one letter and recognised pasinkov's hand. 'dear masha!' (he wrote in large, distinct letters) 'you leaned your little head against my head yesterday, and when i asked why you do so, you told me--"i want to hear what you are thinking." i'll tell you what i was thinking; i was thinking how nice it would be for masha to learn to read and write! she could make out this letter ...' masha glanced at the letter. 'that he wrote me in novgorod,' she observed, 'when he was just going to teach me to read. look at the others. there's one from siberia. here, read this.' i read the letters. they were very affectionate, even tender. in one of them, the first one from siberia, pasinkov called masha his best friend, promised to send her the money for the journey to siberia, and ended with the following words--'i kiss your pretty little hands; the girls here have not hands like yours; and their heads are no match for yours, nor their hearts either.... read the books i gave you, and think of me, and i'll not forget you. you are the only, only girl that ever cared for me; and so i want to belong only to you....' 'i see he was very much attached to you,' i said, giving the letters back to her. 'he was very fond of me,' replied masha, putting the letters carefully into her pocket, and the tears flowed slowly down her cheeks. 'i always trusted in him; if the lord had vouchsafed him long life, he would not have abandoned me. god grant him his heavenly peace!'... she wiped her eyes with a corner of her kerchief. 'where are you living now?' i inquired. 'i'm here now, in moscow; i came here with my mistress, but now i'm out of a place. i did go to yakov ivanitch's aunt, but she is very poor herself. yakov ivanitch used often to talk of you,' she added, getting up and bowing; 'he always loved you and thought of you. i met elisei timofeitch the day before yesterday, and wondered whether you wouldn't be willing to assist me, as i'm out of a place just now....' 'with the greatest pleasure, maria ... let me ask, what's your name from your father?' 'petrovna,' answered masha, and she cast down her eyes. 'i will do anything for you i can, maria petrovna,' i continued; 'i am only sorry that i am a visitor here, and know few good families.' masha sighed. 'if i could get a situation of some sort ... i can't cut out, but i can sew, so i'm always doing sewing ... and i can look after children too.' 'give her money,' i thought; 'but how's one to do it?' 'listen, maria petrovna,' i began, not without faltering; 'you must, please, excuse me, but you know from pasinkov's own words what a friend of his i was ... won't you allow me to offer you--for the immediate present--a small sum?' ... masha glanced at me. 'what?' she asked. 'aren't you in want of money?' i said. masha flushed all over and hung her head. 'what do i want with money?' she murmured; 'better get me a situation.' 'i will try to get you a situation, but i can't answer for it for certain; but you ought not to make any scruple, really ... i'm not like a stranger to you, you know.... accept this from me, in memory of our friend....' i turned away, hurriedly pulled a few notes out of my pocket-book, and handed them to her. masha was standing motionless, her head still more downcast. 'take it,' i persisted. she slowly raised her eyes to me, looked me in the face mournfully, slowly drew her pale hand from under her kerchief and held it out to me. i laid the notes in her cold fingers. without a word, she hid the hand again under her kerchief, and dropped her eyes. 'in future, maria petrovna,' i resumed, 'if you should be in want of anything, please apply directly to me. i will give you my address.' 'i humbly thank you,' she said, and after a short pause she added: 'he did not speak to you of me?' 'i only met him the day before his death, maria petrovna. but i'm not sure ... i believe he did say something.' masha passed her hand over her hair, pressed her cheek lightly, thought a moment, and saying 'good-bye,' walked out of the room. i sat at the table and fell into bitter musings. this masha, her relations with pasinkov, his letters, the hidden love of sophia nikolaevna's sister for him.... 'poor fellow! poor fellow!' i whispered, with a catching in my breath. i thought of all pasinkov's life, his childhood, his youth, fräulein frederike.... 'well,' i thought, 'much fate gave to thee! much cause for joy!' next day i went again to see sophia nikolaevna. i was kept waiting in the ante-room, and when i entered, lidia was already seated by her mother. i understood that sophia nikolaevna did not wish to renew the conversation of the previous day. we began to talk--i really don't remember what about--about the news of the town, public affairs.... lidia often put in her little word, and looked slily at me. an amusing air of importance had suddenly become apparent on her mobile little visage.... the clever little girl must have guessed that her mother had intentionally stationed her at her side. i got up and began taking leave. sophia nikolaevna conducted me to the door. 'i made you no answer yesterday,' she said, standing still in the doorway; 'and, indeed, what answer was there to make? our life is not in our own hands; but we all have one anchor, from which one can never, without one's own will, be torn--a sense of duty.' without a word i bowed my head in sign of assent, and parted from the youthful puritan. all that evening i stayed at home, but i did not think of her; i kept thinking and thinking of my dear, never-to-be-forgotten pasinkov--the last of the idealists; and emotions, mournful and tender, pierced with sweet anguish into my soul, rousing echoes on the strings of a heart not yet quite grown old.... peace to your ashes, unpractical man, simple-hearted idealist! and god grant to all practical men--to whom you were always incomprehensible, and who, perhaps, will laugh even now over you in the grave--god grant to them to experience even a hundredth part of those pure delights in which, in spite of fate and men, your poor and unambitious life was so rich! andrei kolosov in a small, decently furnished room several young men were sitting before the fire. the winter evening was only just beginning; the samovar was boiling on the table, the conversation had hardly taken a definite turn, but passed lightly from one subject to another. they began discussing exceptional people, and in what way they differed from ordinary people. every one expounded his views to the best of his abilities; they raised their voices and began to be noisy. a small, pale man, after listening long to the disquisitions of his companions, sipping tea and smoking a cigar the while, suddenly got up and addressed us all (i was one of the disputants) in the following words:-'gentlemen! all your profound remarks are excellent in their own way, but unprofitable. every one, as usual, hears his opponent's views, and every one retains his own convictions. but it's not the first time we have met, nor the first time we have argued, and so we have probably by now had ample opportunity for expressing our own views and learning those of others. why, then, do you take so much trouble?' uttering these words, the small man carelessly flicked the ash off his cigar into the fireplace, dropped his eyelids, and smiled serenely. we all ceased speaking. 'well, what are we to do then, according to you?' said one of us; 'play cards, or what? go to sleep? break up and go home?' 'playing cards is agreeable, and sleep's always salutary,' retorted the small man; 'but it's early yet to break up and go home. you didn't understand me, though. listen: i propose, if it comes to that, that each of you should describe some exceptional personality, tell us of any meeting you may have had with any remarkable man. i can assure you even the feeblest description has far more sense in it than the finest argument.' we pondered. 'it's a strange thing,' observed one of us, an inveterate jester; 'except myself i don't know a single exceptional person, and with my life you are all, i fancy, familiar already. however, if you insist--' 'no!' cried another, 'we don't! but, i tell you what,' he added, addressing the small man, 'you begin. you have put a stopper on all of us, you're the person to fill the gap. only mind, if we don't care for your story, we shall hiss you.' 'if you like,' answered the small man. he stood close to the fire; we sat round him and kept quiet. the small man looked at all of us, glanced at the ceiling, and began as follows:-'ten years ago, my dear friends, i was a student at moscow. my father, a virtuous landowner of the steppes, had handed me over to a retired german professor, who, for a hundred roubles a month, undertook to lodge and board me, and to watch over my morals. this german was the fortunate possessor of an exceedingly solemn and decorous manner; at first i went in considerable awe of him. but on returning home one evening, i saw, with indescribable emotion, my preceptor sitting with three or four companions at a round table, on which there stood a fair-sized collection of empty bottles and half-full glasses. on seeing me, my revered preceptor got up, and, waving his arms and stammering, presented me to the honourable company, who all promptly offered me a glass of punch. this agreeable spectacle had a most illuminating effect on my intelligence; my future rose before me in the most seductive images. and, as a fact, from that memorable day i enjoyed unbounded freedom, and all but worried my preceptor to death. he had a wife who always smelt of smoke and pickled cucumbers; she was still youngish, but had not a single front tooth in her head. all german women, as we know, very quickly lose those indispensable ornaments of the human frame. i mention her, solely because she fell passionately in love with me and fed me almost into my grave.' 'to the point, to the point,' we shouted. 'surely it's not your own adventures you're going to tell us?' 'no, gentlemen!' the small man replied composedly. 'i am an ordinary mortal. and so i lived at my german's, as the saying is, in clover. i did not attend lectures with too much assiduity, while at home i did positively nothing. in a very short time, i had got to know all my comrades and was on intimate terms with all of them. among my new friends was one rather decent and good-natured fellow, the son of a town provost on the retired list. his name was bobov. this bobov got in the habit of coming to see me, and seemed to like me. i, too ... do you know, i didn't like him, nor dislike him; i was more or less indifferent.... i must tell i hadn't in all moscow a single relation, except an old uncle, who used sometimes to ask me for money. i never went anywhere, and was particularly afraid of women; i also avoided all acquaintance with the parents of my college friends, ever after one such parent (in my presence) pulled his son's hair--because a button was off his uniform, while at the very time i hadn't more than six buttons on my whole coat. in comparison with many of my comrades, i passed for being a person of wealth; my father used to send me every now and then small packets of faded blue notes, and consequently i not only enjoyed a position of independence, but i was continually surrounded by toadies and flatterers.... what am i saying?--why, for that matter, so was my bobtail dog armishka, who, in spite of his setter pedigree, was so frightened of a shot, that the very sight of a gun reduced him to indescribable misery. like every young man, however, i was not without that vague inward fermentation which usually, after bringing forth a dozen more or less shapeless poems, passes off in a peaceful and propitious manner. i wanted something, strove towards something, and dreamed of something; i'll own i didn't know precisely what it was i dreamed of. now i understand what was lacking:--i felt my loneliness, thirsted for the society of so-called live people; the word life waked echoes in my heart, and with a vague ache i listened to the sound of it.... valerian nikitich, pass me a cigarette.' lighting the cigarette, the small man continued: 'one fine morning bobov came running to me, out of breath: "do you know, old man, the great news? kolosov has arrived." "kolosov? and who on earth is mr. kolosov?" '"you don't know him? andriusha kolosov! come, old boy, let's go to him directly. he came back last night from a holiday engagement." "but what sort of fellow is he?" "an exceptional man, my boy, let me assure you!" "an exceptional man," i answered; "then you go alone. i'll stop at home. i know your exceptional men! a half-tipsy rhymester with an everlastingly ecstatic smile!" ... "oh no! kolosov's not like that." i was on the point of observing that it was for mr. kolosov to call on me; but, i don't know why, i obeyed bobov and went. bobov conducted me to one of the very dirtiest, crookedest, and narrowest streets in moscow.... the house in which kolosov lodged was built in the old-fashioned style, rambling and uncomfortable. we went into the courtyard; a fat peasant woman was hanging out clothes on a line stretched from the house to the fence.... children were squalling on the wooden staircase...' 'get on! get on!' we objected plaintively. 'i see, gentlemen, you don't care for the agreeable, and cling solely to the profitable. as you please! we groped our way through a dark and narrow passage to kolosov's room; we went in. you have most likely an approximate idea of what a poor student's room is like. directly facing the door kolosov was sitting on a chest of drawers, smoking a pipe. he gave his hand to bobov in a friendly way, and greeted me affably. i looked at kolosov and at once felt irresistibly drawn to him. gentlemen! bobov was right: kolosov really was a remarkable person. let me describe a little more in detail.... he was rather tall, slender, graceful, and exceedingly good-looking. his face... i find it very difficult to describe his face. it is easy to describe all the features one by one; but how is one to convey to any one else what constitutes the distinguishing characteristic, the essence of just _that_ face?' 'what byron calls "the music of the face,"' observed a tightly buttoned-up, pallid gentleman. 'quite so.... and therefore i will confine myself to a single remark: the especial "something" to which i have just referred consisted in kolosov's case in a carelessly gay and fearless expression of face, and also in an exceedingly captivating smile. he did not remember his parents, and had had a wretched bringing-up in the house of a distant relative, who had been degraded from the service for taking bribes. up to the age of fifteen, he had lived in the country; then he found his way into moscow, and after two years spent in the care of an old deaf priest's wife, he entered the university and began to get his living by lessons. he gave instruction in history, geography, and russian grammar, though he had only a dim notion of these branches of science; but in the first place, there is an abundance of 'textbooks' among us in russia, of the greatest usefulness to teachers; and secondly, the requirements of the respectable merchants, who confided their children's education to kolosov, were exceedingly limited. kolosov was neither a wit nor a humorist; but you cannot imagine how readily we all fell under that fellow's sway. we felt a sort of instinctive admiration of him; his words, his looks, his gestures were all so full of the charm of youth that all his comrades were head over ears in love with him. the professors considered him as a fairly intelligent lad, but 'of no marked abilities,' and lazy. kolosov's presence gave a special harmony to our evening reunions. before him, our liveliness never passed into vulgar riotousness; if we were all melancholy--this half childlike melancholy, in his presence, led on to quiet, sometimes fairly sensible, conversation, and never ended in dejected boredom. you are smiling, gentlemen--i understand your smile; no doubt, many of us since then have turned out pretty cads! but youth ... youth....' 'oh, talk not to me of a name great in story! the days of our youth are the days of our glory....' commented the same pallid gentleman. 'by jove, what a memory he's got! and all from byron!' observed the storyteller. 'in one word, kolosov was the soul of our set. i was attached to him by a feeling stronger than any i have ever felt for any woman. and yet, i don't feel ashamed even now to remember that strange love--yes, love it was, for i recollect i went through at that time all the tortures of that passion, jealousy, for instance. kolosov liked us all equally, but was particularly friendly with a silent, flaxen-haired, and unobtrusive youth, called gavrilov. from gavrilov he was almost inseparable; he would often speak to him in a whisper, and used to disappear with him out of moscow, no one knew where, for two or three days at a time.... kolosov did not care to be questioned, and i was lost in surmises. it was not simple curiosity that disturbed me. i longed to become the friend, the attendant squire of kolosov; i was jealous of gavrilov; i envied him; i could never find an explanation to satisfy me of kolosov's strange absences. meanwhile he had none of that air of mysteriousness about him, which is the proud possession of youths endowed with vanity, pallor, black hair, and 'expressive' eyes, nor had he anything of that studied carelessness under which we are given to understand that vast forces are slumbering; no, he was quite open and free; but when he was possessed by passion, an intense, impulsive energy was apparent in everything about him; only he did not waste his energies in vain, and never under any circumstances became high-flown or affected. by the way ... tell me the truth, hasn't it happened to you to sit smoking a pipe with an air of as weary solemnity as if you had just resolved on a grand achievement, while you were simply pondering on what colour to choose for your next pair of trousers?... but the point is, that i was the first to observe in kolosov, always cheerful and friendly as he was, these instinctive, passionate impulses.... they may well say that love is penetrating. i made up my mind at all hazards to get into his confidence. it was no use for me to lay myself out to please kolosov; i had such a childlike adoration for him that he could have no doubt of my devotion ... but to my indescribable vexation, i had, at last, to yield to the conviction that kolosov avoided closer intimacy with me, that he was as it were oppressed by my uninvited attachment. once, when with obvious displeasure he asked me to lend him money--the very next day he returned me the loan with ironical gratitude. during the whole winter my relations with kolosov were utterly unchanged; i often compared myself with gavrilov, and could not make out in what respect he was better than i.... but suddenly everything was changed. in the middle of april, gavrilov fell ill, and died in the arms of kolosov, who never left his room for an instant, and went nowhere for a whole week afterwards. we were all grieved for poor gavrilov; the pale, silent lad seemed to have had a foreboding of his end. i too grieved sincerely for him, but my heart ached with expectation of something.... one ever memorable evening ... i was alone, lying on the sofa, gazing idly at the ceiling ... some one rapidly opened the door of my room and stood still in the doorway; i raised my head; before me stood kolosov. he slowly came in and sat down beside me. 'i have come to you,' he began in a rather thick voice, 'because you care more for me than any of the others do.... i have lost my best friend'--his voice shook a little--'and i feel lonely.... none of you knew gavrilov ... none of you knew....' he got up, paced up and down the room, came rapidly towards me again.... 'will you take his place?' he said, and gave me his hand. i leaped up and flung myself on his breast. my genuine delight touched him.... i did not know what to say, i was choking.... kolosov looked at me and softly laughed. we had tea. at tea he talked of gavrilov; i heard that that timid, gentle boy had saved kolosov's life, and i could not but own to myself that in gavrilov's place i couldn't have resisted chattering about it--boasting of my luck. it struck eight. kolosov got up, went to the window, drummed on the panes, turned swiftly round to me, tried to say something ... and sat down on a chair without a word. i took his hand. 'kolosov, truly, truly i deserve your confidence!' he looked straight into my eyes. 'well, if so,' he brought out at last, 'take your cap and come along.' 'where to?' 'gavrilov did not ask me.' i was silent at once. 'can you play at cards?' 'yes.' we went out, took a cab to one of the gates of the town. at the gate we got out. kolosov went on in front very quickly; i followed him. we walked along the highroad. after we had gone three-quarters of a mile, kolosov turned off. meanwhile night had come on. on the right in the fog were the twinkling lights, the innumerable church-spires of the immense city; on the left, two white horses were grazing in a meadow skirting the forest: before us stretched fields covered with greyish mists. i followed kolosov in silence. he stopped all at once, stretched his hand out in front of him, and said: 'here, this is where we are going.' i saw a small dark house; two little windows showed a dim light in the fog. 'in this house,' kolosov went on, 'lives a man called sidorenko, a retired lieutenant, with his sister, an old maid, and his daughter. i shall pass you off as a relation of mine--you must sit down and play at cards with him.' i nodded without a word. i wanted to show kolosov that i could be as silent as gavrilov.... but i will own i was suffering agonies of curiosity. as we went up to the steps of the house, i caught sight, at a lighted window, of the slender figure of a girl.... she seemed waiting for us and vanished at once. we went into a dark and narrow passage. a crooked, hunchback old woman came to meet us, and looked at me with astonishment. 'is ivan semyonitch at home?' inquired kolosov. 'he is at home.'... 'he is at home!' called a deep masculine voice from within. we went into the dining-room, if dining-room one can call the long, rather dirty room; a small old piano huddled unassumingly in a corner beside the stove; a few chairs stood out along the walls which had once been yellow. in the middle of the room stood a tall, stooping man of fifty, in a greasy dressing-gown. i looked at him more attentively: a morose looking countenance, hair standing up like a brush, a low forehead, grey eyes, immense whiskers, thick lips.... 'a nice customer!' i thought. 'it's a longish time since we've seen you, andrei nikolaevitch,' he observed, holding out his hideous red hand, 'a longish time it is! and where's sevastian sevastianovitch?' 'gavrilov is dead,' answered kolosov mournfully. 'dead! you don't say so! and who's this?' 'my relation--i have the honour to present to you nikolai alexei....' 'all right, all right,' ivan semyonitch cut him short, 'delighted, delighted. and does he play cards?' 'play, of course he does!' 'ah, then, that's capital; we'll sit down directly. hey! matrona semyonovna--where are you? the card-table--quick!... and tea!' with these words mr. sidorenko walked into the next room. kolosov looked at me. 'listen,' he said, 'you can't think how ashamed i am!'... i shut him up. 'come, you there, what's your name, this way,' called ivan semyonitch. i went into the drawing-room. the drawing-room was even smaller than the dining-room. on the walls hung some monstrosities of portraits; in front of the sofa, of which the stuffing protruded in several places, stood a green table; on the sofa sat ivan semyonitch, already shuffling the cards. near him on the extreme edge of a low chair sat a spare woman in a white cap and a black gown, yellow and wrinkled, with short-sighted eyes and thin cat-like lips. 'here,' said ivan semyonitch, 'let me introduce him; the first man's dead; andrei nikolaevitch has brought us another; let's see how he plays!' the old lady bowed awkwardly and cleared her throat. i looked round; kolosov was no longer in the room. 'stop that coughing, matrona semyonovna; sheep cough,' grumbled sidorenko. i sat down; the game began. mr. sidorenko got fearfully hot and furious at my slightest mistake; he pelted his sister with abusive epithets, but she had apparently had time to get used to her brother's amenities, and only blinked in response. but when he announced to matrona semyonovna that she was 'antichrist,' the poor old woman fired up. 'ivan semyonitch,' she protested with heat, 'you were the death of your wife, anfisa karpovna, but you shan't worry me into my grave!' 'indeed?' 'no! you shan't.' 'indeed?' 'no! you shan't.' they kept it up in this fashion for some time. my position was, as you perceive, not merely an unenviable one: it was positively idiotic. i couldn't conceive what had induced kolosov to bring me.... i have never been a good card-player; but on that occasion i was aware myself that i was playing excruciatingly badly. 'no!' the retired lieutenant repeated continually,' you can't hold a candle to sevastianovitch! no! you play carelessly!' i, you may be sure, was inwardly wishing him at the devil. this torture continued for two hours; they beat me hollow. before the end of the last rubber, i heard a slight sound behind my chair--i looked round and saw kolosov; beside him stood a girl of seventeen, who was watching me with a scarcely perceptible smile. 'fill me my pipe, varia,' muttered ivan semyonitch. the girl promptly flew off into the other room. she was not very pretty, rather pale, rather thin; but never before or since have i seen such hair, such eyes. we finished the rubber somehow; i paid up, sidorenko lighted his pipe and grumbled: 'well, now it's time for supper!' kolosov presented me to varia, that is, to varvara ivanovna, the daughter of ivan semyonitch. varia was embarrassed; i too was embarrassed. but in a few minutes kolosov, as usual, had got everything and everyone into full swing; he sat varia down to the piano, begged her to play a dance tune, and proceeded to dance a cossack dance in competition with ivan semyonitch. the lieutenant uttered little shrieks, stamped and cut such incredible capers that even matrona semyonovna burst out laughing and retreated to her own room upstairs. the hunchback old woman laid the table; we sat down to supper. at supper kolosov told all sorts of nonsensical stories; the lieutenant's guffaws were deafening; i peeped from under my eyelids at varia. she never took her eyes off kolosov ... and from the expression of her face alone, i could divine that she both loved him and was loved by him. her lips were slightly parted, her head bent a little forward, a faint colour kept flitting across her whole face; from time to time she sighed deeply, suddenly dropped her eyes, and softly laughed to herself.... i rejoiced for kolosov.... but at the same time, deuce take it, i was envious.... after supper, kolosov and i promptly took up our caps, which did not, however, prevent the lieutenant from saying, with a yawn: 'you've paid us a long visit, gentlemen; it's time to say good-bye.' varia accompanied kolosov into the passage: 'when are you coming, andrei nikolaevitch?' she whispered to him. 'in a few days, for certain.' 'bring him too,' she added, with a very sly smile. 'of course, of course.' ... 'your humble servant!' thought i.... on the way home, i heard the following story. six months before, kolosov had become acquainted with mr. sidorenko in a rather queer way. one rainy evening, kolosov was returning home from shooting, and had reached the gate of the city, when suddenly, at no great distance from the highroad, he heard groans, interspersed with curses. he had a gun; without thinking long, he made straight for the sound, and found a man lying on the ground with a dislocated ankle. this man was mr. sidorenko. with great difficulty he got him home, handed him over to the care of his frightened sister and his daughter, and ran for the doctor.... meantime it was nearly morning; kolosov was almost dropping with fatigue. with the permission of matrona semyonovna, he lay down on the sofa in the parlour, and slept till eight o'clock. on waking up he would at once have gone home; but they kept him and gave him some tea. in the night he had twice succeeded in catching a glimpse of the pale face of varvara ivanovna; he had not particularly noticed her, but in the morning she made a decidedly agreeable impression on him. matrona semyonovna garrulously praised and thanked kolosov; varvara sat silent, pouring out the tea, glanced at him now and then, and with timid shame-faced attentiveness handed him first a cup of tea, then the cream, then the sugar-basin. meanwhile the lieutenant waked up, loudly called for his pipe, and after a short pause bawled: 'sister! hi, sister!' matrona semyonovna went to his bedroom. 'what about that...what the devil's his name? is he gone?' 'no, i'm still here,' answered kolosov, going up to the door; 'are you better now?' 'yes,' answered the lieutenant; 'come in here, my good sir.' kolosov went in. sidorenko looked at him, and reluctantly observed: 'well, thanks; come sometimes and see me--what's your name? who the devil's to know?' 'kolosov,' answered andrei. 'well, well, come and see us; but it's no use your sticking on here now, i daresay they're expecting you at home.' kolosov retreated, said good-bye to matrona semyonovna, bowed to varvara ivanovna, and returned home. from that day he began to visit ivan semyonitch, at first at long intervals, then more and more frequently. the summer came on; he would sometimes take his gun, put on his knapsack, and set off as if he were going shooting. he would go to the retired lieutenant's, and stay on there till evening. varvara ivanovna's father had served twenty-five years in the army, had saved a small sum of money, and bought himself a few acres of land a mile and a half from moscow. he could scarcely read and write; but in spite of his external clumsiness and coarseness, he was shrewd and cunning, and even, on occasion, capable of sharp practice, like many little russians. he was a fearful egoist, obstinate as an ox, and in general exceedingly impolite, especially with strangers; i even detected in him something like a contempt for the whole human race. he indulged himself in every caprice, like a spoilt child; would know no one, and lived for his own pleasure. we were once somehow or other talking about marriages with him; 'marriage ... marriage,' said he; 'whom the devil would i let my daughter marry? eh? what should i do it for? for her husband to knock her about as i used to my wife? besides, whom should i be left with?' such was the retired lieutenant, ivan semyonitch. kolosov used to go and see him, not on his account, of course, but for the sake of his daughter. one fine evening, andrei was sitting in the garden with her, chatting about something; ivan semyonitch went up to him, looked sullenly at varia, and called andrei away. 'listen, my dear fellow,' he said to him; 'you find it good fun, i see, gossiping with my only child, but i'm dull in my old age; bring some one with you, or i've nobody to deal a card to; d'ye hear? i shan't give admittance to you by yourself.' the next day kolosov turned up with gavrilov, and poor sevastian sevastianovitch had for a whole autumn and winter been playing cards in the evenings with the retired lieutenant; that worthy treated him without ceremony, as it is called--in other words, fearfully rudely. you now probably realise why it was that, after gavrilov's death, kolosov took me with him to ivan semyonitch's. as he communicated all these details, kolosov added, 'i love varia, she is the dearest girl; she liked you.' i have forgotten, i fancy, to make known to you that up to that time i had been afraid of women and avoided them, though i would sometimes, in solitude, spend whole hours in dreaming of tender interviews, of love, of mutual love, and so on. varvara ivanovna was the first girl with whom i was forced to talk, by necessity--by necessity it really was. varia was an ordinary girl, and yet there are very few such girls in holy russia. you will ask me--why so? because i never noticed in her anything strained, unnatural, affected; because she was a simple, candid, rather melancholy creature, because one could never call her 'a young lady.' i liked her soft smile; i liked her simple-hearted, ringing little voice, her light and mirthful laugh, her attentive though by no means 'profound' glances. the child promised nothing; but you could not help admiring her, as you admire the sudden, soft cry of the oriole at evening, in the lofty, dark birch-wood. i must confess that at the present time i should pass by such a creature with some indifference; i've no taste now for solitary evening strolls, and orioles; but in those days ... i've no doubt, gentlemen, that, like all well-educated persons, you have been in love at least once in the course of your life, and have learnt from your own experience how love springs up and develops in the human heart, and therefore i'm not going to enlarge too much on what took place with me at that time. kolosov and i used to go pretty often to ivan semyonitch's; and though those damned cards often drove me to utter despair, still, in the mere proximity of the woman one loves (i had fallen in love with varia) there is a sort of strange, sweet, tormenting joy. i made no effort to suppress this growing feeling; besides, by the time i had at last brought myself to call the emotion by its true name, it was already too strong.... i cherished my love in silence, and jealously and shyly concealed it. i myself enjoyed this agonising ferment of silent passion. my sufferings did not rob me of my sleep, nor of my appetite; but for whole days together i was conscious of that peculiar physical sensation in my breast which is a symptom of the presence of love. i am incapable of depicting the conflict of various sensations which took place within me when, for example, kolosov came in from the garden with varia, and her whole face was aglow with ecstatic devotion, exhaustion from excess of bliss.... she so completely lived in his life, was so completely taken up with him, that unconsciously she adopted his ways, looked as he looked, laughed as he laughed.... i can imagine the moments she passed with andrei, the raptures she owed to him.... while he ... kolosov did not lose his freedom; in her absence he did not, i suppose, even think of her; he was still the same unconcerned, gay, and happy fellow we had always known him. and, as i have already told you, we used, kolosov and i, to go pretty often to ivan semyonitch's. sometimes, when he was out of humour, the retired lieutenant did not make me sit down to cards; on such occasions, he would shrink into a corner in silence, scowling and looking crossly at every one. the first time i was delighted at his letting me off so easily; but afterwards i would sometimes begin myself begging him to sit down to whist, the part of third person was so insupportable! i was so unpleasantly in kolosov's and varia's way, though they did assure each other that there was no need to mind me!... meanwhile time went on.... they were happy.... i have no great fondness for describing other people's happiness. but then i began to notice that varia's childish ecstasy had gradually given way to a more womanly, more restless feeling. i began to surmise that the new song was being sung to the old tune--that is, that kolosov was...little by little...cooling. this discovery, i must own, delighted me; i did not feel, i must confess, the slightest indignation against andrei. the intervals between our visits became longer and longer.... varia began to meet us with tear-stained eyes. reproaches were heard ... sometimes i asked kolosov with affected indifference, 'well, shall we go to ivan semyonitch's to-day?' ... he looked coldly at me, and answered quietly, 'no, we're not going.' i sometimes fancied that he smiled slily when he spoke to me of varia.... i failed generally to fill gavrilov's place with him.... gavrilov was a thousand times more good-natured and foolish than i. now allow me a slight digression.... when i spoke of my university comrades, i did not mention a certain mr. shtchitov. he was five-and-thirty; he had been a student for ten years already. i can see even now his rather long pale face, his little brown eyes, his long hawk nose crooked at the end, his thin sarcastic lips, his solemn upstanding shock of hair, and his chin that lost itself complacently in the wide striped cravat of the colour of a raven's wing, the shirt front with bronze buttons, the open blue frock-coat and striped waistcoat.... i can hear his unpleasantly jarring laugh.... he went everywhere, was conspicuous at all possible kinds of 'dancing classes.' ... i remember i could not listen to his cynical stories without a peculiar shudder.... kolosov once compared him to an unswept russian refreshment bar ... a horrible comparison! and with all that, there was a lot of intelligence, common sense, observation, and wit in the man.... he sometimes impressed us by some saying so apt, so true and cutting, that we were all involuntarily reduced to silence and looked at him with amazement. but, to be sure, it is just the same to a russian whether he has uttered an absurdity or a clever thing. shtchitov was especially dreaded by those self-conscious, dreamy, and not particularly gifted youths who spend whole days in painfully hatching a dozen trashy lines of verse and reading them in sing-song to their 'friends,' and who despise every sort of positive science. one such he simply drove out of moscow, by continually repeating to him two of his own lines. yet all the while shtchitov himself did nothing and learnt nothing.... but that's all in the natural order of things. well, shtchitov, god only knows why, began jeering at my romantic attachment to kolosov. the first time, with noble indignation, i told him to go to the devil; the second time, with chilly contempt, i informed him that he was not capable of judging of our friendship--but i did not send him away; and when, on taking leave of me, he observed that without kolosov's permission i didn't even dare to praise him, i felt annoyed; shtchitov's last words sank into my heart.--for more than a fortnight i had not seen varia.... pride, love, a vague anticipation, a number of different feelings were astir within me ... with a wave of the hand and a fearful sinking at my heart, i set off alone to ivan semyonitch's. i don't know how i made my way to the familiar little house; i remember i sat down several times by the road to rest, not from fatigue, but from emotion. i went into the passage, and had not yet had time to utter a single word when the door of the drawing-room flew open and varia ran to meet me. 'at last,' she said, in a quavering voice; 'where's andrei nikolaevitch?' 'kolosov has not come,' i muttered with an effort. 'not come!' she repeated. 'yes ... he told me to tell you that ... he was detained....' i positively did not know what i was saying, and i did not dare to raise my eyes. varia stood silent and motionless before me. i glanced at her: she turned away her head; two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. in the expression of her face there was such sudden, bitter suffering; the conflict between bashfulness, sorrow, and confidence in me was so simply, so touchingly apparent in the unconscious movement of her poor little head that it sent a pang to my heart. i bent a little forward ... she gave a hurried start and ran away. in the parlour i was met by ivan semyonitch. 'how's this, my good sir, are you alone?' he asked me, with a queer twitch of his left eyelid. 'yes, i've come alone,' i stammered. sidorenko went off into a sudden guffaw and departed into the next room. i had never been in such a foolish position; it was too devilishly disgusting! but there was nothing to be done. i began walking up and down the room. 'what was the fat pig laughing at?' i wondered. matrona semyonovna came into the room with a stocking in her hands and sat down in the window. i began talking to her. meanwhile tea was brought in. varia came downstairs, pale and sorrowful. the retired lieutenant made jokes about kolosov. 'i know,' said he, 'what sort of customer he is; you couldn't tempt him here with lollipops now, i expect!' varia hurriedly got up and went away. ivan semyonitch looked after her and gave a sly whistle. i glanced at him in perplexity. 'can it be,' i wondered, 'that he knows all about it?' and the lieutenant, as though divining my thoughts, nodded his head affirmatively. directly after tea i got up and took leave. 'you, my good sir, we shall see again,' observed the lieutenant. i did not say a word in reply.... i began to feel simply frightened of the man. on the steps a cold and trembling hand clutched at mine; i looked round: varia. 'i must speak to you,' she whispered. 'come to-morrow rather earlier, straight into the garden. after dinner papa is asleep; no one will interfere with us.' i pressed her hand without a word, and we parted. next day, at three o'clock in the afternoon, i was in ivan semyonitch's garden. in the morning i had not seen kolosov, though he had come to see me. it was a grey autumn day, but soft and warm. delicate yellow blades of grass nodded over the blanching turf; the nimble tomtits were hopping about the bare dark-brown twigs; some belated larks were hurriedly running about the paths; a hare was creeping cautiously about among the greens; a herd of cattle wandered lazily over the stubble. i found varia in the garden under the apple-tree on the little garden-seat; she was wearing a dark dress, rather creased; her weary eyes, the dejected droop of her hair, seemed to express genuine suffering. i sat down beside her. we were both silent. for a long while she kept twisting a twig in her hand; she bent her head, and uttered: 'andrei nikolaevitch....' i noticed at once, by the twitching of her lips, that she was getting ready to cry, and began consoling her, assuring her hotly of andrei's devotion.... she heard me, nodded her head mournfully, articulated some indistinct words, and then was silent but did not cry. the first moments i had dreaded most of all had gone off fairly well. she began little by little to talk about andrei. 'i know that he does not love me now,' she repeated: 'god be with him! i can't imagine how i am to live without him.... i don't sleep at nights, i keep weeping.... what am i to do! what am i to do! ...' her eyes filled with tears. 'i thought him so kind ... and here ...' varia wiped her eyes, cleared her throat, and sat up. 'it seems such a little while ago,' she went on: 'he was reading to me out of pushkin, sitting with me on this bench....' varia's naïve communicativeness touched me. i listened in silence to her confessions; my soul was slowly filled with a bitter, torturing bliss; i could not take my eyes off that pale face, those long, wet eyelashes, and half-parted, rather parched lips.... and meanwhile i felt ... would you care to hear a slight psychological analysis of my emotions at that moment? in the first place i was tortured by the thought that it was not i that was loved, not i that as making varia suffer: secondly, i was delighted at her confidence; i knew she would be grateful to me for giving her an opportunity of expressing her sorrow: thirdly, i was inwardly vowing to myself to bring kolosov and varia together again, and was deriving consolation from the consciousness of my magnanimity ... in the fourth place, i hoped, by my self-sacrifice, to touch varia's heart; and then ... you see i do not spare myself; no, thank god! it's high time! but from the bell-tower of the monastery near it struck five o'clock; the evening was coming on rapidly. varia got up hastily, thrust a little note into my hand, and went off towards the house. i overtook her, promised to bring andrei to her, and stealthily, like a happy lover, crept out by the little gate into the field. on the note was written in an unsteady hand the words: to andrei nikolaevitch. next day i set off early in the morning to kolosov's. i'm bound to confess that, although i assured myself that my intentions were not only honourable, but positively brimful of great-hearted self-sacrifice, i was yet conscious of a certain awkwardness, even timidity. i arrived at kolosov's. there was with him a fellow called puzyritsin, a former student who had never taken his degree, one of those authors of sensational novels of the so-called 'moscow' or 'grey' school. puzyritsin was a very good-natured and shy person, and was always preparing to be an hussar, in spite of his thirty-three years. he belonged to that class of people who feel it absolutely necessary, once in the twenty-four hours, to utter a phrase after the pattern of, 'the beautiful always falls into decay in the flower of its splendour; such is the fate of the beautiful in the world,' in order to smoke his pipe with redoubled zest all the rest of the day in a circle of 'good comrades.' on this account he was called an idealist. well, so puzyritsin was sitting with kolosov reading him some 'fragment.' i began to listen; it was all about a youth, who loves a maiden, kills her, and so on. at last puzyritsin finished and retreated. his absurd production, solemnly bawling voice, his presence altogether, had put kolosov into a mood of sarcastic irritability. i felt that i had come at an unlucky moment, but there was nothing to be done for it; without any kind of preface, i handed andrei varia's note. kolosov looked at me in perplexity, tore open the note, ran his eyes over it, said nothing, but smiled composedly. 'oh, ho!' he said at last; 'so you've been at ivan semyonitch's?' 'yes, i was there yesterday, alone,' i answered abruptly and resolutely. 'ah!...' observed kolosov ironically, and he lighted his pipe. 'andrei,' i said to him, 'aren't you sorry for her?... if you had seen her tears...' and i launched into an eloquent description of my visit of the previous day. i was genuinely moved. kolosov did not speak, and smoked his pipe. 'you sat with her under the apple-tree in the garden,' he said at last. 'i remember in may i, too, used to sit with her on that seat.... the apple-tree was in blossom, the fresh white flowers fell upon us sometimes; i held both varia's hands... we were happy then.... now the apple-blossom is over, and the apples on the tree are sour.' i flew into a passion of noble indignation, began reproaching andrei for coldness, for cruelty, argued with him that he had no right to abandon a girl so suddenly, after awakening in her a multitude of new emotions; i begged him at least to go and say good-bye to varia. kolosov heard me to the end. 'admitting,' he said to me, when, agitated and exhausted, i flung myself into an armchair, 'that you, as my friend, may be allowed to criticise me. but hear my defence, at least, though...' here he paused for a little while and smiled curiously. 'varia's an excellent girl,' he went on, 'and has done me no wrong whatever.... on the contrary, i am greatly, very greatly indebted to her. i have left off going to see her for a very simple reason--i have left off caring for her....' 'but why? why?' i interrupted him. 'goodness knows why. while i loved her, i was entirely hers; i never thought of the future, and everything, my whole life, i shared with her ... now this passion has died out in me.... well, you would tell me to be a humbug, to play at being in love, wouldn't you? but what for? from pity for her? if she's a decent girl, she won't care for such charity herself, but if she is glad to be consoled by my ... my sympathy, well, she's not good for much!' kolosov's carelessly offhand expressions offended me, perhaps, the more because they were applied to the woman with whom i was secretly in love.... i fired up. 'stop,' i said to him; 'stop! i know why you have given up going to see varia.' 'why?' 'taniusha has forbidden you to.' in uttering these words, i fancied i was dealing a most cutting blow at andrei. taniusha was a very 'easy-going' young lady, black-haired, dark, five-and-twenty, free in her manners, and devilishly clever, a shtchitov in petticoats. kolosov quarrelled with her and made it up again half a dozen times in a month. she was passionately fond of him, though sometimes, during their misunderstandings, she would vow and declare that she thirsted for his blood.... and andrei, too, could not get on without her. kolosov looked at me, and responded serenely, 'perhaps so.' 'not perhaps so,' i shouted, 'but certainly!' kolosov at last got sick of my reproaches.... he got up and put on his cap. 'where are you going?' 'for a walk; you and puzyritsin have given me a headache between you.' 'you are angry with me?' 'no,' he answered, smiling his sweet smile, and holding out his hand to me. 'well, anyway, what do you wish me to tell varia?' 'eh?' ... he thought a little. 'she told you,' he said, 'that we had read pushkin together.... remind her of one line of pushkin's.' 'what line? what line?' i asked impatiently. 'this one: "what has been will not be again."' with those words he went out of the room. i followed him; on the stairs he stopped. 'and is she very much upset?' he asked me, pulling his cap over his eyes. 'very, very much!...' 'poor thing! console her, nikolai; you love her, you know.' 'yes, i have grown fond of her, certainly....' 'you love her,' repeated kolosov, and he looked me straight in the face. i turned away without a word, and we separated. on reaching home, i was in a perfect fever. 'i have done my duty,' i thought; 'i have overcome my own egoism; i have urged andrei to go back to varia!... now i am in the right; he that will not when he may...!' at the same time andrei's indifference wounded me. he had not been jealous of me, he told me to console her.... but is varia such an ordinary girl, is she not even worthy of sympathy?... there are people who know how to appreciate what you despise, andrei nikolaitch!... but what's the good? she does not love me.... no, she does not love me now, while she has not quite lost hope of kolosov's return.... but afterwards...who knows, my devotion will touch her. i will make no claims.... i will give myself up to her wholly, irrevocably.... varia! is it possible you will not love me?...never!...never!... such were the speeches your humble servant was rehearsing in the city of moscow, in the year 1833, in the house of his revered preceptor. i wept... i felt faint... the weather was horrible...a fine rain trickled down the window panes with a persistent, thin, little patter; damp, dark-grey storm-clouds hung stationary over the town. i dined hurriedly, made no response to the anxious inquiries of the kind german woman, who whimpered a little herself at the sight of my red, swollen eyes (germans--as is well known--are always glad to weep). i behaved very ungraciously to my preceptor...and at once after dinner set off to ivan semyonitch... bent double in a jolting droshky, i kept asking myself whether i should tell varia all as it was, or go on deceiving her, and little by little turn her heart from andrei... i reached ivan semyonitch's without knowing what to decide upon... i found all the family in the parlour. on seeing me, varia turned fearfully white, but did not move from her place; sidorenko began talking to me in a peculiarly jeering way. i responded as best i could, looking from time to time at varia, and almost unconsciously giving a dejected and pensive expression to my features. the lieutenant started whist again. varia sat near the window and did not stir. 'you're dull now, i suppose?' ivan semyonitch asked her twenty times over. at last i succeeded in seizing a favourable opportunity. 'you are alone again,' varia whispered to me. 'yes,' i answered gloomily; 'and probably for long.' she swiftly drew in her head. 'did you give him my letter?' she asked in a voice hardly audible. 'yes.' 'well?'... she gasped for breath. i glanced at her.... there was a sudden flash of spiteful pleasure within me. 'he told me to tell you,' i pronounced deliberately, 'that "what has been will not be again...."' varia pressed her left hand to her heart, stretched her right hand out in front, staggered, and went quickly out of the room. i tried to overtake her.... ivan semyonitch stopped me. i stayed another two hours with him, but varia did not appear. on the way back i felt ashamed ... ashamed before varia, before andrei, before myself; though they say it is better to cut off an injured limb at once than to keep the patient in prolonged suffering; but who gave me a right to deal such a merciless blow at the heart of a poor girl?... for a long while i could not sleep ... but i fell asleep at last. in general i must repeat that 'love' never once deprived me of sleep. i began to go pretty often to ivan semyonitch's. i used to see kolosov as before, but neither he nor i ever referred to varia. my relations with her were of a rather curious kind. she became attached to me with that sort of attachment which excludes every possibility of love. she could not help noticing my warm sympathy, and talked eagerly with me ... of what, do you suppose?... of kolosov, nothing but kolosov! the man had taken such possession of her that she did not, as it were, belong to herself. i tried in vain to arouse her pride ... she was either silent or, if she talked--chattered on about kolosov. i did not even suspect in those days that sorrow of that kind--talkative sorrow--is in reality far more genuine than any silent suffering. i must own i passed many bitter moments at that time. i was conscious that i was not capable of filling kolosov's place; i was conscious that varia's past was so full, so rich ... and her present so poor.... i got to the point of an involuntary shudder at the words 'do you remember' ... with which almost every sentence of hers began. she grew a little thinner during the first days of our acquaintance ... but afterwards got better again, and even grew cheerful; she might have been compared then with a wounded bird, not yet quite recovered. meanwhile my position had become insupportable; the lowest passions gradually gained possession of my soul; it happened to me to slander kolosov in varia's presence. i resolved to cut short such unnatural relations. but how? part from varia--i could not.... declare my love to her--i did not dare; i felt that i could not, as yet, hope for a return. marry her.... this idea alarmed me; i was only eighteen; i felt a dread of putting all my future into bondage so early; i thought of my father, i could hear the jeering comments of kolosov's comrades.... but they say every thought is like dough; you have only to knead it well--you can make anything you like of it. i began, for whole days together, to dream of marriage.... i imagined what gratitude would fill varia's heart when i, the friend and confidant of kolosov, should offer her my hand, knowing her to be hopelessly in love with another. persons of experience, i remembered, had told me that marriage for love is a complete absurdity; i began to indulge my fancy; i pictured to myself our peaceful life together in some snug corner of south russia; an mentally i traced the gradual transition in varia's heart from gratitude to affection, from affection to love.... i vowed to myself at once to leave moscow, the university, to forget everything and every one. i began to avoid meeting kolosov. at last, one bright winter day (varia had been somehow peculiarly enchanting the previous evening), i dressed myself in my best, slowly and solemnly sallied out from my room, took a first-rate sledge, and drove down to ivan semyonitch's. varia was sitting alone in the drawing-room reading karamzin. on seeing me she softly laid the book down on her knees, and with agitated curiosity looked into my face; i had never been to see them in the morning before.... i sat down beside her; my heart beat painfully. 'what are you reading?' i asked her at last. 'karamzin.' 'what, are you taking up russian literature?...' she suddenly cut me short. 'tell me, haven't you come from andrei?' that name, that trembling, questioning voice, the half-joyful, half-timid expression of her face, all these unmistakable signs of persistent love, pierced to my heart like arrows. i resolved either to part from varia, or to receive from her herself the right to chase the hated name of andrei from her lips for ever. i do not remember what i said to her; at first i must have expressed myself in rather confused fashion, as for a long while she did not understand me; at last i could stand it no longer, and almost shouted, 'i love you, i want to marry you.' 'you love me?' said varia in bewilderment. i fancied she meant to get up, to go away, to refuse me. 'for god's sake,' i whispered breathlessly, 'don't answer me, don't say yes or no; think it over; to-morrow i will come again for a final answer.... i have long loved you. i don't ask of you love, i want to be your champion, your friend; don't answer me now, don't answer.... till to-morrow.' with these words i rushed out of the room. in the passage ivan semyonitch met me, and not only showed no surprise at my visit, but positively, with an agreeable smile, offered me an apple. such unexpected amiability so struck me that i was simply dumb with amazement. 'take the apple, it's a nice apple, really!' persisted ivan semyonitch. mechanically i took the apple at last, and drove all the way home with it in my hand. you may easily imagine how i passed all that day and the following morning. that night i slept rather badly. 'my god! my god!' i kept thinking; 'if she refuses me! ... i shall die.... i shall die....' i repeated wearily. 'yes, she will certainly refuse me.... and why was i in such a hurry!'... wishing to turn my thoughts, i began to write a letter to my father--a desperate, resolute letter. speaking of myself, i used the expression 'your son.' bobov came in to see me. i began weeping on his shoulder, which must have surprised poor bobov not a little.... i afterwards learned that he had come to me to borrow money (his landlord had threatened to turn him out of the house); he had no choice but to hook it, as the students say.... at last the great moment arrived. on going out of my room, i stood still in the doorway. 'with what feelings,' thought i, 'shall i cross this threshold again to-day?' ... my emotion at the sight of ivan semyonitch's little house was so great that i got down, picked up a handful of snow and pressed it to my face. 'oh, heavens!' i thought, 'if i find varia alone--i am lost!' my legs were giving way under me; i could hardly get to the steps. things were as i had hoped. i found varia in the parlour with matrona semyonovna. i made my bows awkwardly, and sat down by the old lady. varia's face was rather paler than usual.... i fancied that she tried to avoid my eyes.... but what were my feelings when matrona semyonovna suddenly got up and went into the next room!... i began looking out of the window--i was trembling inwardly like an autumn leaf. varia did not speak.... at last i mastered my timidity, went up to her, bent my head.... 'what are you going to say to me?' i articulated in a breaking voice. varia turned away--the tears were glistening on her eyelashes. 'i see,' i went on, 'it's useless for me to hope.'... varia looked shyly round and gave me her hand without a word. 'varia!' i cried involuntarily...and stopped, as though frightened at my own hopes. 'speak to papa,' she articulated at last. 'you permit me to speak to ivan semyonitch?' ... 'yes.'... i covered her hands with kisses. 'don't, don't,' whispered varia, and suddenly burst into tears. i sat down beside her, talked soothingly to her, wiped away her tears.... luckily, ivan semyonitch was not at home, and matrona semyonovna had gone up to her own little room. i made vows of love, of constancy to varia. ...'yes,' she said, suppressing her sobs and continually wiping her eyes; 'i know you are a good man, an honest man; you are not like kolosov.'... 'that name again!' thought i. but with what delight i kissed those warm, damp little hands! with what subdued rapture i gazed into that sweet face!... i talked to her of the future, walked about the room, sat down on the floor at her feet, hid my eyes in my hands, and shuddered with happiness.... ivan semyonitch's heavy footsteps cut short our conversation. varia hurriedly got up and went off to her own room--without, however, pressing my hand or glancing at me. mr. sidorenko was even more amiable than on the previous day: he laughed, rubbed his stomach, made jokes about matrona semyonovna, and so on. i was on the point of asking for his blessing there and then, but i thought better of it and deferred doing so till the next day. his ponderous jokes jarred upon me; besides i was exhausted.... i said good-bye to him and went away. i am one of those persons who love brooding over their own sensations, though i cannot endure such persons myself. and so, after the first transport of heartfelt joy, i promptly began to give myself up to all sorts of reflections. when i had got half a mile from the house of the retired lieutenant, i flung my hat up in the air, in excessive delight, and shouted 'hurrah!' but while i was being jolted through the long, crooked streets of moscow, my thoughts gradually took another turn. all sorts of rather sordid doubts began to crowd upon my mind. i recalled my conversation with ivan semyonitch about marriage in general ... and unconsciously i murmured to myself, 'so he was putting it on, the old humbug!' it is true that i continually repeated, 'but then varia is mine! mine!' ... yet that 'but'--alas, that _but_!--and then, too, the words, 'varia is mine!' aroused in me not a deep, overwhelming rapture, but a sort of paltry, egoistic triumph.... if varia had refused me point-blank, i should have been burning with furious passion; but having received her consent, i was like a man who has just said to a guest, 'make yourself at home,' and sees the guest actually beginning to settle into his room, as if he were at home. 'if she had loved kolosov,' i thought, 'how was it she consented so soon? it's clear she's glad to marry any one.... well, what of it? all the better for me.'... it was with such vague and curious feelings that i crossed the threshold of my room. possibly, gentlemen, my story does not strike you as sounding true. i don't know whether it sounds true or not, but i know that all i have told is the absolute and literal truth. however, i gave myself up all that day to a feverish gaiety, assured myself that i simply did not deserve such happiness; but next morning.... a wonderful thing is sleep! it not only renews one's body: in a way it renews one's soul, restoring it to primaeval simplicity and naturalness. in the course of the day you succeed in _tuning_ yourself, in soaking yourself in falsity, in false ideas ... sleep with its cool wave washes away all such pitiful trashiness; and on waking up, at least for the first few instants, you are capable of understanding and loving truth. i waked up, and, reflecting on the previous day, i felt a certain discomfort.... i was, as it were, ashamed of all my own actions. with instinctive uneasiness i thought of the visit to be made that day, of my interview with ivan semyonitch.... this uneasiness was acute and distressing; it was like the uneasiness of the hare who hears the barking of the dogs and is bound at last to run out of his native forest into the open country...and there the sharp teeth of the harriers are awaiting him.... 'why was i in such a hurry?' i repeated, just as i had the day before, but in quite a different sense. i remember the fearful difference between yesterday and to-day struck myself; for the first time it occurred to me that in human life there lie hid secrets--strange secrets.... with childish perplexity i gazed into this new, not fantastic, real world. by the word 'real' many people understand 'trivial.' perhaps it sometimes is so; but i must own that the first appearance of _reality_ before me shook me profoundly, scared me, impressed me.... what fine-sounding phrases all about love that didn't come off, to use gogol's expression! ... i come back to my story. in the course of that day i assured myself again that i was the most blissful of mortals. i drove out of the town to ivan semyonitch's. he received me very gleefully; he had been meaning to go and see a neighbour, but i myself stopped him. i was afraid to be left alone with varia. the evening was cheerful, but not reassuring. varia was neither one thing nor the other, neither cordial nor melancholy ... neither pretty nor plain. i looked at her, as the philosophers say, objectively--that is to say, as the man who has dined looks at the dishes. i thought her hands were rather red. sometimes, however, my heart warmed, and watching her i gave way to other dreams and reveries. i had only just made her an offer, as it is called, and here i was already feeling as though we were living as husband and wife ... as though our souls already made up one lovely whole, belonged to one another, and consequently were trying each to seek out a separate path for itself.... 'well, have you spoken to papa?' varia said to me, as soon as we were left alone. this inquiry impressed me most disagreeably.... i thought to myself, 'you're pleased to be in a desperate hurry, varvara ivanovna.' 'not yet,' i answered, rather shortly, 'but i will speak to him.' altogether i behaved rather casually with her. in spite of my promise, i said nothing definite to ivan semyonitch. as i was leaving, i pressed his hand significantly, and informed him that i wanted to have a little talk with him ... that was all.... 'good-bye!' i said to varia. 'till we meet!' said she. i will not keep you long in suspense, gentlemen; i am afraid of exhausting your patience.... we never met again. i never went back to ivan semyonitch's. the first days, it is true, of my voluntary separation from varia did not pass without tears, self-reproach, and emotion; i was frightened myself at the rapid drooping of my love; twenty times over i was on the point of starting off to see her. vividly i pictured to myself her amazement, her grief, her wounded feelings; but--i never went to ivan semyonitch's again. in her absence i begged her forgiveness, fell on my knees before her, assured her of my profound repentance--and once, when i met a girl in the street slightly resembling her, i took to my heels without looking back, and only breathed freely in a cook-shop after the fifth jam-puff. the word 'to-morrow' was invented for irresolute people, and for children; like a baby, i lulled myself with that magic word. 'to-morrow i will go to her, whatever happens,' i said to myself, and ate and slept well to-day. i began to think a great deal more about kolosov than about varia ... everywhere, continually, i saw his open, bold, careless face. i began going to see him as before. he gave me the same welcome as ever. but how deeply i felt his superiority to me! how ridiculous i thought all my fancies, my pensive melancholy, during the period of kolosov's connection with varia, my magnanimous resolution to bring them together again, my anticipations, my raptures, my remorse!... i had played a wretched, drawn-out part of screaming farce, but he had passed so simply, so well, through it all.... you will say, 'what is there wonderful in that? your kolosov fell in love with a girl, then fell out of love again, and threw her over.... why, that happens with everybody....' agreed; but which of us knows just when to break with our past? which of us, tell me, is not afraid of the reproaches--i don't mean of the woman--the reproaches of every chance fool? which of us is proof against the temptation of making a display of magnanimity, or of playing egoistically with another devoted heart? which of us, in fact, has the force of character to be superior to petty vanity, to _petty fine feelings_, sympathy and self-reproach?... oh, gentlemen, the man who leaves a woman at that great and bitter moment when he is forced to recognise that his heart is not altogether, not fully, hers, that man, believe me, has a truer and deeper comprehension of the sacredness of love than the faint-hearted creatures who, from dulness or weakness, go on playing on the half-cracked strings of their flabby and sentimental hearts! at the beginning of my story i told you that we all considered andrei kolosov an extraordinary man. and if a clear, simple outlook upon life, if the absence of every kind of cant in a young man, can be called an extraordinary thing, kolosov deserved the name. at a certain age, to be natural is to be extraordinary.... it is time to finish, though. i thank you for your attention.... oh, i forgot to tell you that three months after my last visit i met the old humbug ivan semyonitch. i tried, of course, to glide hurriedly and unnoticed by him, but yet i could not help overhearing the words, 'feather-headed scoundrels!' uttered angrily. 'and what became of varia?' asked some one. 'i don't know,' answered the story-teller. we all got up and separated. 1864. a correspondence a few years ago i was in dresden. i was staying at an hotel. from early morning till late evening i strolled about the town, and did not think it necessary to make acquaintance with my neighbours; at last it reached my ears in some chance way that there was a russian in the hotel--lying ill. i went to see him, and found a man in galloping consumption. i had begun to be tired of dresden; i stayed with my new acquaintance. it's dull work sitting with a sick man, but even dulness is sometimes agreeable; moreover, my patient was not low-spirited and was very ready to talk. we tried to kill time in all sorts of ways; we played 'fools,' the two of us together, and made fun of the doctor. my compatriot used to tell this very bald-headed german all sorts of fictions about himself, which the doctor had always 'long ago anticipated.' he used to mimic his astonishment at any new, exceptional symptom, to throw his medicines out of window, and so on. i observed more than once, however, to my friend that it would be as well to send for a good doctor before it was too late, that his complaint was not to be trifled with, and so on. but alexey (my new friend's name was alexey petrovitch s----) always turned off my advice with jests at the expense of doctors in general, and his own in particular; and at last one rainy autumn evening he answered my urgent entreaties with such a mournful look, he shook his head so sorrowfully and smiled so strangely, that i felt somewhat disconcerted. the same night alexey was worse, and the next day he died. just before his death his usual cheerfulness deserted him; he tossed about uneasily in his bed, sighed, looked round him in anguish ... clutched at my hand, and whispered with an effort, 'but it's hard to die, you know ... dropped his head on the pillow, and shed tears. i did not know what to say to him, and sat in silence by his bed. but alexey soon got the better of these last, late regrets.... 'i say,' he said to me, 'our doctor'll come to-day and find me dead.... i can fancy his face.'... and the dying man tried to mimic him. he asked me to send all his things to russia to his relations, with the exception of a small packet which he gave me as a souvenir. this packet contained letters--a girl's letters to alexey, and copies of his letters to her. there were fifteen of them. alexey petrovitch s---had known marya alexandrovna b---long before, in their childhood, i fancy. alexey petrovitch had a cousin, marya alexandrovna had a sister. in former years they had all lived together; then they had been separated, and had not seen each other for a long while. later on, they had chanced one summer to be all together again in the country, and they had fallen in love--alexey's cousin with marya alexandrovna, and alexey with her sister. the summer had passed by, the autumn came; they parted. alexey, like a sensible person, soon came to the conclusion that he was not in love at all, and had effected a very satisfactory parting from his charmer. his cousin had continued writing to marya alexandrovna for nearly two years longer ... but he too perceived at last that he was deceiving her and himself in an unconscionable way, and he too dropped the correspondence. i could tell you something about marya alexandrovna, gentle reader, but you will find out what she was from her letters. alexey wrote his first letter to her soon after she had finally broken with his cousin. he was at that time in petersburg; he went suddenly abroad, fell ill, and died at dresden. i resolved to print his correspondence with marya alexandrovna, and trust the reader will look at it with indulgence, as these letters are not love-letters--heaven forbid! love-letters are as a rule only read by two persons (they read them over a thousand times to make up), and to a third person they are unendurable, if not ridiculous. i from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna st. petersburg, _march_ 7, 1840. dear marya alexandrovna,-i fancy i have never written to you before, and here i am writing to you now.... i have chosen a curious time to begin, haven't i? i'll tell you what gave me the impulse. mon cousin théodore was with me to-day, and...how shall i put it?...and he confided to me as the greatest secret (he never tells one anything except as a great secret), that he was in love with the daughter of a gentleman here, and that this time he is firmly resolved to be married, and that he has already taken the first step--he has declared himself! i made haste, of course, to congratulate him on an event so agreeable for him; he has been longing to declare himself for a great while...but inwardly, i must own, i was rather astonished. although i knew that everything was over between you, still i had fancied.... in short, i was surprised. i had made arrangements to go out to see friends to-day, but i have stopped at home and mean to have a little gossip with you. if you do not care to listen to me, fling this letter forthwith into the fire. i warn you i mean to be frank, though i feel you are fully justified in taking me for a rather impertinent person. observe, however, that i would not have taken up my pen if i had not known your sister was not with you; she is staying, so théodore told me, the whole summer with your aunt, madame b---. god give her every blessing! and so, this is how it has all worked out.... but i am not going to offer you my friendship and all that; i am shy as a rule of high-sounding speeches and 'heartfelt' effusions. in beginning to write this letter, i simply obeyed a momentary impulse. if there is another feeling latent within me, let it remain hidden under a bushel for the time. i'm not going to offer you sympathy either. in sympathising with others, people for the most part want to get rid, as quick as they can, of an unpleasant feeling of involuntary, egoistic regret.... i understand genuine, warm sympathy ... but such sympathy you would not accept from just any one.... do, please, get angry with me.... if you're angry, you'll be sure to read my missive to the end. but what right have i to write to you, to talk of my friendship, of my feelings, of consolation? none, absolutely none; that i am bound to admit, and i can only throw myself on your kindness. do you know what the preface of my letter's like? i'll tell you: some mr. n. or m. walking into the drawing-room of a lady who doesn't in the least expect him, and who does, perhaps, expect some one else.... he realises that he has come at an unlucky moment, but there's no help for it.... he sits down, begins talking...goodness knows what about: poetry, the beauties of nature, the advantages of a good education...talks the most awful rot, in fact. but, meanwhile, the first five minutes have gone by, he has settled himself comfortably; the lady has resigned herself to the inevitable, and so mr. n. or m. regains his self-possession, takes breath, and begins a real conversation--to the best of his ability. in spite, though, of all this rigmarole, i don't still feel quite comfortable. i seem to see your bewildered--even rather wrathful--face; i feel that it will be almost impossible you should not ascribe to me some hidden motives, and so, like a roman who has committed some folly, i wrap myself majestically in my toga, and await in silence your final sentence.... the question is: will you allow me to go on writing to you?--i remain sincerely and warmly devoted to you, alexey s. ii from marya alexandrovna to alexey petrovitch village of x----, _march_ 22, 1840. dear sir, alexey petrovitch, i have received your letter, and i really don't know what to say to you. i should not even have answered you at all, if it had not been that i fancied that under your jesting remarks there really lies hid a feeling of some friendliness. your letter made an unpleasant impression on me. in answer to your rigmarole, as you call it, let me too put to you one question: _what for?_ what have i to do with you, or you with me? i do not ascribe to you any bad motives ... on the contrary, i'm grateful for your sympathy ... but we are strangers to each other, and i, just now at least, feel not the slightest inclination for greater intimacy with any one whatever.--with sincere esteem, i remain, etc., marya b. iii from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna st. petersburg, _march_ 30. thank you, marya alexandrovna, thank you for your note, brief as it was. all this time i have been in great suspense; twenty times a day i have thought of you and my letter. you can't imagine how bitterly i laughed at myself; but now i am in an excellent frame of mind, and very much pleased with myself. marya alexandrovna, i am going to begin a correspondence with you! confess, this was not at all what you expected after your answer; i'm surprised myself at my boldness.... well, i don't care, here goes! but don't be uneasy; i want to talk to you, not of you, but of myself. it's like this, do you see: it's absolutely needful for me, in the old-fashioned phraseology, to open my heart to some one. i have not the slightest right to select you for my confidant--agreed. but listen: i won't demand of you an answer to my letters; i don't even want to know whether you read my 'rigmarole'; but, in the name of all that's holy, don't send my letters back to me! let me tell you, i am utterly alone on earth. in my youth i led a solitary life, though i never, i remember, posed as a byronic hero; but first, circumstances, and secondly, a faculty of imaginative dreaming and a love for dreaming, rather cool blood, pride, indolence--a number of different causes, in fact, cut me off from the society of men. the transition from dream-life to real life took place in me late...perhaps too late, perhaps it has not fully taken place up to now. so long as i found entertainment in my own thoughts and feelings, so long as i was capable of abandoning myself to causeless and unuttered transports and so on, i did not complain of my solitude. i had no associates; i had what are called friends. sometimes i needed their presence, as an electrical machine needs a discharger--and that was all. love... of that subject we will not speak for the present. but now, i will own, now solitude weighs heavy on me; and at the same time, i see no escape from my position. i do not blame fate; i alone am to blame and am deservedly punished. in my youth i was absorbed by one thing--my precious self; i took my simple-hearted self-love for modesty; i avoided society--and here i am now, a fearful bore to myself. what am i to do with myself? there is no one i love; all my relations with other people are somehow strained and false. and i've no memories either, for in all my past life i can find nothing but my own personality. save me. to you i have made no passionate protestations of love. you i have never smothered in a flood of aimless babble. i passed by you rather coldly, and it is just for that reason i make up my mind to have recourse to you now. (i have had thoughts of doing so before this, but at that time you were not free....) among all my self-created sensations, pleasures and sufferings, the one genuine feeling was the not great, but instinctive attraction to you, which withered up at the time, like a single ear of wheat in the midst of worthless weeds.... let me just for once look into another face, into another soul--my own face has grown hateful to me. i am like a man who should have been condemned to live all his life in a room with walls of looking-glass.... i do not ask of you any sort of confessions--oh mercy, no! bestow on me a sister's unspoken sympathy, or at least the simple curiosity of a reader. i will entertain you, i will really. meanwhile i have the honour to be your sincere friend, a. s. iv from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna st. petersburg, _april_ 7. i am writing to you again, though i foresee that without your approval i shall soon cease writing. i must own that you cannot but feel some distrust of me. well, perhaps you are right too. in old days i should have triumphantly announced to you (and very likely i should have quite believed my own words myself) that i had 'developed,' made progress, since the time when we parted. with condescending, almost affectionate, contempt i should have referred to my past, and with touching self-conceit have initiated you into the secrets of my real, present life ... but, now, i assure you, marya alexandrovna, i'm positively ashamed and sick to remember the capers and antics cut at times by my paltry egoism. don't be afraid: i am not going to force upon you any great truths, any profound views. i have none of them--of those truths and views. i have become a simple good fellow--really. i am bored, marya alexandrovna, i'm simply bored past all enduring. that is why i am writing to you.... i really believe we may come to be friends.... but i'm positively incapable of talking to you, till you hold out a hand to me, till i get a note from you with the one word 'yes.' marya alexandrovna, are you willing to listen to me? that's the question.--yours devotedly, a. s. v from marya alexandrovna to alexey petrovitch village of x----, _april_ 14. what a strange person you are! very well, then.--yes! marya b. vi from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna st. petersburg, _may_ 2, 1840. hurrah! thanks, marya alexandrovna, thanks! you are a very kind and indulgent creature. i will begin according to my promise to talk about myself, and i shall talk with a relish approaching to appetite.... that's just it. of anything in the world one may speak with fire, with enthusiasm, with ecstasy, but with appetite one talks only of oneself. let me tell you, during the last few days a very strange experience has befallen me. i have for the first time taken an all-round view of my past. you understand me. every one of us often recalls what is over--with regret, or vexation, or simply from nothing to do. but to bend a cold, clear gaze over all one's past life--as a traveller turns and looks from a high mountain on the plain he has passed through--is only possible at a certain age ... and a secret chill clutches at a man's heart when it happens to him for the first time. mine, anyway, felt a sick pang. while we are young, _such_ an all-round view is impossible. but my youth is over, and, like one who has climbed on to a mountain, everything lies clear before me. yes, my youth is gone, gone never to return!... here it lies before me, as it were in the palm of my hand. a sorry spectacle! i will confess to you, marya alexandrovna, i am very sorry for myself. my god! my god! can it be that i have myself so utterly ruined my life, so mercilessly embroiled and tortured myself!... now i have come to my senses, but it's too late. has it ever happened to you to save a fly from a spider? has it? you remember, you put it in the sun; its wings and legs were stuck together, glued.... how awkwardly it moved, how clumsily it attempted to get clear!... after prolonged efforts, it somehow gets better, crawls, tries to open its wings ... but there is no more frolicking for it, no more light-hearted buzzing in the sunshine, as before, when it was flying through the open window into the cool room and out again, freely winging its way into the hot air.... the fly, at least, fell through none of its own doing into the dreadful web ... but i! i have been my own spider! and, at the same time, i cannot greatly blame myself. who, indeed, tell me, pray, is ever to blame for anything--alone? or, to put it better, we are all to blame, and yet we can't be blamed. circumstances determine us; they shove us into one road or another, and then they punish us for it. every man has his destiny.... wait a bit, wait a bit! a cleverly worked-out but true comparison has just come into my head. as the clouds are first condensed from the vapours of earth, rise from out of her bosom, then separate, move away from her, and at last bring her prosperity or ruin: so, about every one of us, and out of ourselves, is fashioned--how is one to express it?--is fashioned a sort of element, which has afterwards a destructive or saving influence on us. this element i call destiny.... in other words, and speaking simply, every one makes his own destiny and destiny makes every one.... every one makes his destiny--yes!... but people like us make it too much--that's what's wrong with us! consciousness is awakened too early in us; too early we begin to keep watch on ourselves.... we russians have set ourselves no other task in life but the cultivation of our own personality, and when we're children hardly grown-up we set to work to cultivate it, this luckless personality! receiving no definite guidance from without, with no real respect for anything, no strong belief in anything, we are free to make what we choose of ourselves ... one can't expect every one to understand on the spot the uselessness of intellect 'seething in vain activity' ... and so we get again one monster the more in the world, one more of those worthless creatures in whom habits of self-consciousness distort the very striving for truth, and a ludicrous simplicity exists side by side with a pitiful duplicity ... one of those beings of impotent, restless thought who all their lives know neither the satisfaction of natural activity, nor genuine suffering, nor the genuine thrill of conviction.... mixing up together in ourselves the defects of all ages, we rob each defect of its good redeeming side ... we are as silly as children, but we are not sincere as they are; we are cold as old people, but we have none of the good sense of old age.... to make up, we are psychologists. oh yes, we are great psychologists! but our psychology is akin to pathology; our psychology is that subtle study of the laws of morbid condition and morbid development, with which healthy people have nothing to do.... and, what is the chief point, we are not young, even in our youth we are not young! and at the same time--why libel ourselves? were we never young, did we never know the play, the fire, the thrill of life's forces? we too have been in arcady, we too have strayed about her bright meadows!... have you chanced, strolling about a copse, to come across those dark grasshoppers which, jumping up from under your very feet, suddenly with a whirring sound expand bright red wings, fly a few yards, and then drop again into the grass? so our dark youth at times spread its particoloured wings for a few moments and for no long flight.... do you remember our silent evening walks, the four of us together, beside your garden fence, after some long, warm, spirited conversation? do you remember those blissful moments? nature, benign and stately, took us to her bosom. we plunged, swooning, into a flood of bliss. all around, the sunset with a sudden and soft flush, the glowing sky, the earth bathed in light, everything on all sides seemed full of the fresh and fiery breath of youth, the joyous triumph of some deathless happiness. the sunset flamed; and, like it, our rapturous hearts burned with soft and passionate fire, and the tiny leaves of the young trees quivered faintly and expectantly over our heads, as though in response to the inward tremor of vague feelings and anticipations in us. do you remember the purity, the goodness and trustfulness of ideas, the softening of noble hopes, the silence of full hearts? were we not really then worth something better than what life has brought us to? why was it ordained for us only at rare moments to see the longed-for shore, and never to stand firmly on it, never to touch it: 'never to weep with joy, like the first jew upon the border of the promised land'! these two lines of fet's remind me of others, also his.... do you remember once, as we stood in the highroad, we saw in the distance a cloud of pink dust, blown up by the light breeze against the setting sun? 'in an eddying cloud,' you began, and we were all still at once to listen: 'in an eddying cloud dust rises in the distance ... rider or man on foot is seen not in the dust. i see some one trotting on a gallant steed ... friend of mine, friend far away, think! oh, think of me!' you ceased ... we all felt a shudder pass over us, as though the breath of love had flitted over our hearts, and each of us--i am sure of it--felt irresistibly drawn into the distance, the unknown distance, where the phantom of bliss rises and lures through the mist. and all the while, observe the strangeness; why, one wonders, should we have a yearning for the far away? were we not in love with each other? was not happiness 'so close, so possible'? as i asked you just now: why was it we did not touch the longed-for shore? because falsehood walked hand in hand with us; because it poisoned our best feelings; because everything in us was artificial and strained; because we did not love each other at all, but were only trying to love, fancying we loved.... but enough, enough! why inflame one's wounds? besides, it is all over and done with. what was good in our past moved me, and on that good i will take leave of you for a while. it's time to make an end of this long letter. i am going out for a breath here of the may air, in which spring is breaking through the dry fastness of winter with a sort of damp, keen warmth. farewell.--yours, a. s. vii from marya alexandrovna to alexey petrovitch village of x----,_may_ 1840. i have received your letter, alexey petrovitch, and do you know what feeling t aroused in me?--indignation ... yes, indignation ... and i will explain to you at once why it aroused just that feeling in me. it's only a pity i'm not a great hand with my pen; i rarely write, and am not good at expressing my thoughts precisely and in few words. but you will, i hope, come to my aid. you must try, on your side, to understand me, if only to find out why i am indignant with you. tell me--you have brains--have you ever asked yourself what sort of creature a russian woman is? what is her destiny? her position in the world--in short, what is her life? i don't know if you have had time to put this question to yourself; i can't picture to myself how you would answer it.... i should, perhaps, in conversation be capable of giving you my ideas on the subject, but on paper i am scarcely equal to it. no matter, though. this is the point: you will certainly agree with me that we women, those of us at least who are not satisfied with the common interests of domestic life, receive our final education, in any case, from you men: you have a great and powerful influence on us. now, consider what you do to us. i am talking about young girls, especially those who, like me, live in the wilds, and there are very many such in russia. besides, i don't know anything of others and cannot judge of them. picture to yourself such a girl. her education, suppose, is finished; she begins to live, to enjoy herself. but enjoyment alone is not much to her. she demands much from life, she reads, and dreams ... of love. always nothing but love! you will say.... suppose so; but that word means a great deal to her. i repeat that i am not speaking of a girl to whom thinking is tiresome and boring.... she looks round her, is waiting for the time when he will come for whom her soul yearns.... at last he makes his appearance--she is captivated; she is wax in his hands. all--happiness and love and thought--all have come with a rush together with him; all her tremors are soothed, all her doubts solved by him. truth itself seems speaking by his lips. she venerates him, is over-awed at her own happiness, learns, loves. great is his power over her at that time!... if he were a hero, he would fire her, would teach her to sacrifice herself, and all sacrifices would be easy to her! but there are no heroes in our times.... anyway, he directs her as he pleases. she devotes herself to whatever interests him, every word of his sinks into her soul. she has not yet learned how worthless and empty and false a word may be, how little it costs him who utters it, and how little it deserves belief! after these first moments of bliss and hope there usually comes--through circumstances--(circumstances are always to blame)--there comes a parting. they say there have been instances of two kindred souls, on getting to know one another, becoming at once inseparably united; i have heard it said, too, that things did not always go smoothly with them in consequence ... but of what i have not seen myself i will not speak,--and that the pettiest calculation, the most pitiful prudence, can exist in a youthful heart, side by side with the most passionate enthusiasm--of that i have to my sorrow had practical experience. and so, the parting comes.... happy the girl who realises at once that it is the end of everything, who does not beguile herself with expectations! but you, valorous, just men, for the most part, have not the pluck, nor even the desire, to tell us the truth.... it is less disturbing for you to deceive us.... however, i am ready to believe that you deceive yourselves together with us.... parting! to bear separation is both hard and easy. if only there be perfect, untouched faith in him whom one loves, the soul can master the anguish of parting.... i will say more. it is only then, when she is left alone, that she finds out the sweetness of solitude--not fruitless, but filled with memories and ideas. it is only then that she finds out herself, comes to her true self, grows strong.... in the letters of her friend far away she finds a support for herself; in her own, she, very likely for the first time, finds full self-expression.... but as two people who start from a stream's source, along opposite banks, at first can touch hands, then only communicate by voice, and finally lose sight of each other altogether; so two natures grow apart at last by separation. well, what then? you will say; it's clear they were not destined to be together.... but herein the difference between a man and a woman comes out. for a man it means nothing to begin a new life, to shake off all his past; a woman cannot do this. no, she cannot fling off her past, she cannot break away from her roots--no, a thousand times no! and now begins a pitiful and ludicrous spectacle.... gradually losing hope and faith in herself--and how bitter that is you cannot even imagine!--she pines and wears herself out alone, obstinately clinging to her memories and turning away from everything that the life around offers her.... but he? look for him! where is he? and is it worth his while to stand still? when has he time to look round? why, it's all a thing of the past for him. or else this is what happens: it happens that he feels a sudden inclination to meet the former object of his feelings, that he even makes an excursion with that aim.... but, mercy on us! the pitiful conceit that leads him into doing that! in his gracious sympathy, in his would-be friendly advice, in his indulgent explanation of the past, such consciousness of his superiority is manifest! it is so agreeable and cheering for him to let himself feel every instant--what a clever person he is, and how kind! and how little he understands what he has done! how clever he is at not even guessing what is passing in a woman's heart, and how offensive is his compassion if he does guess it!... tell me, please, where is she to get strength to bear all this? recollect this, too: for the most part, a girl in whose brain--to her misfortune--thought has begun to stir, such a girl, when she begins to love, and falls under a man's influence, inevitably grows apart from her family, her circle of friends. she was not, even before then, satisfied with their life, though she moved in step with them, while she treasured all her secret dreams in her soul.... but the discrepancy soon becomes apparent.... they cease to comprehend her, and are ready to look askance at everything she does.... at first this is nothing to her, but afterwards, afterwards ... when she is left alone, when what she was striving towards, for which she had sacrificed everything--when heaven is not gained while everything near, everything possible, is lost--what is there to support her? jeers, sly hints, the vulgar triumph of coarse commonsense, she could still endure somehow ... but what is she to do, what is to be her refuge, when an inner voice begins to whisper to her that all of them are right and she was wrong, that life, whatever it may be, is better than dreams, as health is better than sickness ... when her favourite pursuits, her favourite books, grow hateful to her, books out of which there is no reading happiness--what, tell me, is to be her support? must she not inevitably succumb in such a struggle? how is she to live and to go on living in such a desert? to know oneself beaten and to hold out one's hand, like a beggar, to persons quite indifferent, for them to bestow the sympathy which the proud heart had once fancied it could well dispense with--all that would be nothing! but to feel yourself ludicrous at the very instant when you are shedding bitter, bitter tears ... o god, spare such suffering!... my hands are trembling, and i am quite in a fever.... my face burns. it is time to stop.... i'll send off this letter quickly, before i'm ashamed of its feebleness. but for god's sake, in your answer not a word--do you hear?--not a word of sympathy, or i'll never write to you again. understand me: i should not like you to take this letter as the outpouring of a misunderstood soul, complaining.... ah! i don't care!--good-bye. m. viii from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna st. petersburg, _may_ 28, 1840. marya alexandrovna, you are a splendid person ... you ... your letter revealed the truth to me at last! my god! what suffering! a man is constantly thinking that now at last he has reached simplicity, that he's no longer showing off, humbugging, lying ... but when you come to look at him more attentively, he's become almost worse than before. and this, too, one must remark: the man himself, alone that is, never attains this self-recognition, try as he will; his eyes cannot see his own defects, just as the compositor's wearied eyes cannot see the slips he makes; another fresh eye is needed for that. my thanks to you, marya alexandrovna.... you see, i speak to you of myself; of you i dare not speak.... ah, how absurd my last letter seems to me now, so flowery and sentimental! i beg you earnestly, go on with your confession. i fancy you, too, will be the better for it, and it will do me great good. it's a true saying: 'a woman's wit's better than many a reason,' and a woman's heart's far and away--by god, yes! if women knew how much better, nobler, and wiser they are than men--yes, wiser--they would grow conceited and be spoiled. but happily they don't know it; they don't know it because their intelligence isn't in the habit of turning incessantly upon themselves, as with us. they think very little about themselves--that's their weakness and their strength; that's the whole secret--i won't say of our superiority, but of our power. they lavish their soul, as a prodigal heir does his father's gold, while we exact a percentage on every worthless morsel.... how are they to hold their own with us?... all this is not compliments, but the simple truth, proved by experience. once more, i beseech you, marya alexandrovna, go on writing to me.... if you knew all that is coming into my brain! ... but i have no wish now to speak, i want to listen to you. my turn will come later. write, write.--your devoted, a. s. ix from marya alexandrovna to alexey petrovitch village of x----, _june_ 12, 1840. i had hardly sent off my last letter to you, alexey petrovitch, when i regretted it; but there was no help for it then. one thing reassures me somewhat: i am sure you realised that it was under the influence of feelings long ago suppressed that it was written, and you excused me. i did not even read through, at the time, what i had written to you; i remember my heart beat so violently that the pen shook in my fingers. however, though i should probably have expressed myself differently if i had allowed myself time to reflect, i don't mean, all the same, to disavow my own words, or the feelings which i described to you as best i could. to-day i am much cooler and far more self-possessed. i remember at the end of my letter i spoke of the painful position of a girl who is conscious of being solitary, even among her own people.... i won't expatiate further upon them, but will rather tell you a few instances; i think i shall bore you less in that way. in the first place, then, let me tell you that all over the country-side i am never called anything but the female philosopher. the ladies especially honour me with that name. some assert that i sleep with a latin book in my hand, and in spectacles; others declare that i know how to extract cube roots, whatever they may be. not a single one of them doubts that i wear manly apparel on the sly, and instead of 'good-morning', address people spasmodically with 'georges sand!'--and indignation grows apace against the female philosopher. we have a neighbour, a man of five-and-forty, a great wit ... at least, he is reputed a great wit ... for him my poor personality is an inexhaustible subject of jokes. he used to tell of me that directly the moon rose i could not take my eyes off it, and he will mimic the way in which i gaze at it; and declares that i positively take my coffee with moonshine instead of with milk--that's to say, i put my cup in the moonlight. he swears that i use phrases of this kind--'it is easy because it is difficult, though on the other hand it is difficult because it is easy'.... he asserts that i am always looking for a word, always striving 'thither,' and with comic rage inquires: 'whither-thither? whither?' he has also circulated a story about me that i ride at night up and down by the river, singing schubert's serenade, or simply moaning, 'beethoven, beethoven!' she is, he will say, such an impassioned old person, and so on, and so on. of course, all this comes straight to me. this surprises you, perhaps. but do not forget that four years have passed since your stay in these parts. you remember how every one frowned upon us in those days. their turn has come now. and all that, too, is no consequence. i have to hear many things that wound my heart more than that. i won't say anything about my poor, good mother's never having been able to forgive me for your cousin's indifference to me. but my whole life is burning away like a house on fire, as my nurse expresses it. 'of course,' i am constantly hearing, 'we can't keep pace with you! we are plain people, we are guided by nothing but common-sense. though, when you come to think of it, what have all these metaphysics, and books, and intimacies with learned folks brought you to?' you perhaps remember my sister--not the one to whom you were once not indifferent--but the other elder one, who is married. her husband, if you recollect, is a simple and rather comic person; you often used to make fun of him in those days. but she's happy, after all; she's the mother of a family, she's fond of her husband, her husband adores her.... 'i am like every one else,' she says to me sometimes, 'but you!' and she's right; i envy her.... and yet, i feel i should not care to change with her, all the same. let them call me a female philosopher, a queer fish, or what they choose--i will remain true to the end ... to what? to an ideal, or what? yes, to my ideal. yes, i will be faithful to the end to what first set my heart throbbing--to what i have recognised, and recognise still, as truth, and good.... if only my strength does not fail me, if only my divinity does not turn out to be a dumb and soulless idol!... if you really feel any friendship for me, if you have really not forgotten me, you ought to aid me, you ought to solve my doubts, and strengthen my convictions.... though after all, what help can you give me? 'all that's rubbish, fiddle-faddle,' was said to me yesterday by my uncle--i think you don't know him--a retired naval officer, a very sensible man; 'husband, children, a pot of soup; to look after the husband and children and keep an eye on the pot--that's what a woman wants.'... tell me, is he right? if he really is right, i can still make up for the past, i can still get into the common groove. why should i wait any longer? what have i to hope for? in one of your letters you spoke of the wings of youth. how often--how long they are tied! and later on comes the time when they fall off, and there is no rising above earth, no flying to heaven any more. write to me.--yours, m. x from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna st. petersburg, _june_ 16, 1840. i hasten to answer your letter, dear marya alexandrovna. i will confess to you that if it were not ... i can't say for business, for i have none ... if it were not that i am stupidly accustomed to this place, i should have gone off to see you again, and should have talked to my heart's content, but on paper it all comes out cold and dead.... marya alexandrovna, i tell you again, women are better than men, and you ought to prove this in practice. let such as us fling away our convictions, like cast-off clothes, or abandon them for a crust of bread, or lull them into an untroubled sleep, and put over them--as over the dead, once dear to us--a gravestone, at which to come at rare intervals to pray--let us do all this; but you women must not be false to yourselves, you must not be false to your ideal.... that word has become ridiculous.... to fear being ridiculous--is not to love truth. it happens, indeed, that the senseless laughter of the fool drives even good men into giving up a great deal ... as, for instance, the defence of an absent friend.... i have been guilty of that myself. but, i repeat, you women are better than we.... in trifling matters you give in sooner than we; but you know how to face fearful odds better than we. i don't want to give you either advice or help--how should i? besides, you have no need of it. but i hold out my hand to you; i say to you, have patience, struggle on to the end; and let me tell you, that, as a sentiment, the consciousness of an honestly sustained struggle is almost higher than the triumph of victory.... victory does not depend on ourselves. of course your uncle is right from a certain point of view; family life is everything for a woman; for her there is no other life. but what does that prove? none but jesuits will maintain that any means are good if only they attain the end. it's false! it's false! feet sullied with the mud of the road are unworthy to go into a holy temple. at the end of your letter is a phrase i do not like; you want to get into the common groove; take care, don't make a false step! besides--do not forget,--there is no erasing the past; and however much you try, whatever pressure you put on yourself, you will not turn into your sister. you have reached a higher level than she; but your soul has been scorched in the fire, hers is untouched. descend to her level, stoop to her, you can; but nature will not give up her rights, and the burnt place will not grow again.... you are afraid--let us speak plainly--you are afraid of being left an old maid. you are, i know, already twenty-six. certainly the position of old maids is an unenviable one; every one is so ready to laugh at them, every one comments with such ungenerous amusement on their peculiarities and weaknesses. but if you scrutinise with a little attention any old bachelor, one may just as well point the finger of scorn at him; one will find plenty in him, too, to laugh at. there's no help for it. there is no getting happiness by struggling for it. but we must not forget that it's not happiness, but human dignity, that's the chief aim in life. you describe your position with great humour. i well understand all the bitterness of it; your position one may really call tragic. but let me tell you you are not alone in it; there is scarcely any quite modern person who isn't placed in it. you will say that that makes it no better for you; but i am of opinion that suffering in company with thousands is quite a different matter from suffering alone. it is not a matter of egoism, but a sense of a general inevitability which comes in. all this is very fine, granted, you will say ... but not practicable in reality. why not practicable? i have hitherto imagined, and i hope i shall never cease to imagine, that in god's world everything honest, good, and true is practicable, and will sooner or later come to pass, and not only will be realised, but is already being realised. let each man only hold firm in his place, not lose patience, nor desire the impossible, but do all in his power. but i fancy i have gone off too much into abstractions. i will defer the continuation of my reflections till the next letter; but i cannot lay down my pen without warmly, most warmly, pressing your hand, and wishing you from my soul all that is good on earth. yours, a. s. _p.s._--by the way, you say it's useless for you to wait, that you have nothing to hope for; how do you know that, let me ask? xi from marya alexandrovna to alexey petrovitch village of x----, _june_ 30, 1840. how grateful i am to you for your letter, alexey petrovitch! how much good it did me! i see you really are a good and trustworthy man, and so i shall not be reserved with you. i trust you. i know you would make no unkind use of my openness, and will give me friendly counsel. here is the question. you noticed at the end of my letter a phrase which you did not quite like. i will tell what it had reference to. there is one of the neighbours here ... he was not here when you were, and you have not seen him. he ... i could marry him if i liked; he is still young, well-educated, and has property. there are no difficulties on the part of my parents; on the contrary, they--i know for a fact--desire this marriage. he is a good man, and i think he loves me ... but he is so spiritless and narrow, his aspirations are so limited, that i cannot but be conscious of my superiority to him. he is aware of this, and as it were rejoices in it, and that is just what sets me against him. i cannot respect him, though he has an excellent heart. what am i to do? tell me! think for me and write me your opinion sincerely. but how grateful i am to you for your letter!... do you know, i have been haunted at times by such bitter thoughts.... do you know, i had come to the point of being almost ashamed of every feeling--not of enthusiasm only, but even of faith; i used to shut a book with vexation whenever there was anything about hope or happiness in it, and turned away from a cloudless sky, from the fresh green of the trees, from everything that was smiling and joyful. what a painful condition it was! i say, _was_ ... as though it were over! i don't know whether it is over; i know that if it does not return i am indebted to you for it. do you see, alexey petrovitch, how much good you have done, perhaps, without suspecting it yourself! by the way, do you know i feel very sorry for you? we are now in the full blaze of summer, the days are exquisite, the sky blue and brilliant.... it couldn't be lovelier in italy even, and you are staying in the stifling, baking town, and walking on the burning pavement. what induces you to do so? you might at least move into some summer villa out of town. they say there are bright spots at peterhof, on the sea-coast. i should like to write more to you, but it's impossible. such a sweet fragrance comes in from the garden that i can't stay indoors. i am going to put on my hat and go for a walk. ... good-bye till another time, good alexey petrovitch. yours devotedly, m. b. _p.s._--i forgot to tell you ... only fancy, that witty gentleman, about whom i wrote to you the other day, has made me a declaration of love, and in the most ardent terms. i thought at first he was laughing at me; but he finished up with a formal proposal--what do you think of him, after all his libels! but he is positively too old. yesterday evening, to tease him, i sat down to the piano before the open window, in the moonlight, and played beethoven. it was so nice to feel its cold light on my face, so delicious to fill the fragrant night air with the sublime music, through which one could hear at times the singing of a nightingale. it is long since i have been so happy. but write to me about what i asked you at the beginning of my letter; it is very important. xii from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna st. petersburg, _july_ 8, 1840. dear marya alexandrovna,--here is my opinion in a couple of words: both the old bachelor and the young suitor--overboard with them both! there is no need even to consider it. neither of them is worthy of you--that's as clear as that twice two makes four. the young neighbour is very likely a good-natured person, but that's enough about him! i am convinced that there is nothing in common between him and you, and you can fancy how amusing it would be for you to live together! besides, why be in a hurry? is it a possible thing that a woman like you--i don't want to pay compliments, and that's why i don't expatiate further--that such a woman should meet no one who would be capable of appreciating her? no, marya alexandrovna, listen to me, if you really believe that i am your friend, and that my advice is of use. but confess, it was agreeable to see the old scoffer at your feet.... if i had been in your place, i'd have kept him singing beethoven's adelaïda and gazing at the moon the whole night long. enough of them, though,--your adorers! it's not of them i want to talk to you to-day. i am in a strange, half-irritated, half-emotional state of mind to-day, in consequence of a letter i got yesterday. i am enclosing a copy of it to you. this letter was written by one of my friends of long ago, a colleague in the service, a good-natured but rather limited person. he went abroad two years ago, and till now has not written to me once. here is his letter.--_n.b._ he is very good-looking. 'cher alexis,--i am in naples, sitting at the window in my room, in chiaja. the weather is superb. i have been staring a long while at the sea, then i was seized with impatience, and suddenly the brilliant idea entered my head of writing a letter to you. i always felt drawn to you, my dear boy--on my honour i did. and so now i feel an inclination to pour out my soul into your bosom ... that's how one expresses it, i believe, in your exalted language. and why i've been overcome with impatience is this. i'm expecting a friend--a woman; we're going together to baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned shepherds in red caps dance the tarantella, to bask in the sun, like lizards--in short, to enjoy life to the utmost. my dear boy, i am more happy than i can possibly tell you. if only i had your style--oh! what a picture i would draw for you! but unfortunately, as you are aware, i'm an illiterate person. the woman i am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour continually starting and looking at the door, loves me--but how i love her i fancy even your fluent pen could not describe. 'i must tell you that it is three months since i got to know her, and from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts continually _crescendo_, like a chromatic scale, higher and higher, and at the present moment i am simply in the seventh heaven. i jest, but in reality my devotion to this woman is something extraordinary, supernatural. fancy, i scarcely talk to her, i can do nothing but stare at her, and laugh like a fool. i sit at her feet, i feel that i'm awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. it sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head.... well, i tell you, simply ... but there, you can't understand it; you 're a philosopher and always were a philosopher. her name is nina, ninetta, as you like; she's the daughter of a rich merchant here. fine as any of your raphaels; fiery as gunpowder, gay, so clever that it's amazing how she can care for a fool like me; she sings like a bird, and her eyes ... 'please excuse this unintentional break.... i fancied the door creaked.... no, she's not coming yet, the heartless wretch! you will ask me how all this is going to end, and what i intend to do with myself, and whether i shall stay here long? i know nothing about it, my boy, and i don't want to. what will be, will be.... why, if one were to be for ever stopping and considering ... 'she! ... she's running up the staircase, singing.... she is here. well, my boy, good-bye.... i've no time for you now, i'm so sorry. she has bespattered the whole letter; she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. for the first moment, she thought i was writing to a woman; when she knew that it was to a friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have any flowers, and whether they are sweet? well, good-bye. ... if you could hear her laughing. silver can't ring like it; and the good-nature in every note of it--you want to kiss her little feet for it. we are going, going. don't mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, m.' the letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of orange-blossom ... two white petals had stuck to the paper. this letter has agitated me.... i remember my stay in naples.... the weather was magnificent then too--may was just beginning; i had just reached twenty-two; but i knew no ninetta. i sauntered about alone, consumed with a thirst for bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it was, as it were, like bliss itself. ... ah, what is it to be young! ... i remember i went out once for a row in the bay. there were two of us; the boatman and i ... what did you imagine? what a night it was, and what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars, what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea--cannot describe this, 'eloquent' though my style may be. in the harbour was a french ship of the line. it was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. the captain of the ship was giving a ball. the gay music floated across to me in snatches at long intervals. i recall in particular the trill of a little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets; it seemed to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. i bade the man row to the ship; twice he took me round it. ... i caught glimpses at the windows of women's figures, borne gaily round in the whirl-wind of the waltz.... i told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the darkness.... i remember a long while the music persistently pursued me.... at last the sounds died away. i stood up in the boat, and in the dumb agony of desire stretched out my arms to the sea.... oh! how my heart ached at that moment! how bitter was my loneliness to me! with what rapture would i have abandoned myself utterly then, utterly ... utterly, if there had been any one to abandon myself to! with what a bitter emotion in my soul i flung myself down in the bottom of the boat and, like repetilov, asked to be taken anywhere, anywhere away! but my friend here has experienced nothing like that. and why should he? he has managed things far more wisely than i. he is living ... while i ... he may well call me a philosopher.... strange! they call you a philosopher too.... what has brought this calamity on both of us? i am not living.... but who is to blame for that? why am i staying on here, in petersburg? what am i doing here? why am i wearing away day after day? why don't i go into the country? what is amiss with our steppes? has not one free breathing space in them? is one cramped in them? a strange craze to pursue dreams, when happiness is perhaps within reach! resolved! i am going, going to-morrow, if i can. i am going home--that is, to you,--it's just the same; we're only twenty versts from one another. why, after all, grow stale here! and how was it this idea did not strike me sooner? dear marya alexadrovna, we shall soon see each other. it's extraordinary, though, that this idea never entered my head before! i ought to have gone long, long ago. good-bye till we meet, marya alexandrovna. _july_ 9. i purposely gave myself twenty-four hours for reflection, and am now absolutely convinced that i have no reason to stay here. the dust in the streets is so penetrating that my eyes are bad. to-day i am beginning to pack, the day after to-morrow i shall most likely start, and within ten days i shall have the pleasure of seeing you. i trust you will welcome me as in old days. by the way, your sister is still staying at your aunt's, isn't she? marya alexandrovna, let me press your hand warmly, and say from my heart, good-bye till we meet. i had been getting ready to go away, but that letter has hastened my project. supposing the letter proves nothing, supposing even ninetta would not please any one else, me for instance, still i am going; that's decided now. till we meet, yours, a. s. xiii from marya alexandrovna to alexey petrovitch village of x-----,_july_ 16, 1840. you are coming here, alexey petrovitch, you will soon be with us, eh? i will not conceal from you that this news both rejoices and disturbs me.... how shall we meet? will the spiritual tie persist which, as it seems to me, has sprung up between us? will it not be broken by our meeting? i don't know; i feel somehow afraid. i will not answer your last letter, though i could say much; i am putting it all off till our meeting. my mother is very much pleased at your coming.... she knew i was corresponding with you. the weather is delicious; we will go a great many walks, and i will show you some new places i have discovered.... i especially like one long, narrow valley; it lies between hillsides covered with forest.... it seems to be hiding in their windings. a little brook courses through it, scarcely seeming to move through the thick grass and flowers.... you shall see. come: perhaps you will not be bored. m.b. _p.s._--i think you will not see my sister; she is still staying at my aunt's. i fancy (but this is between ourselves) she is going to marry a very agreeable young man--an officer. why did you send me that letter from naples? life here cannot help seeming dingy and poor in contrast with that luxuriance and splendour. but mademoiselle ninetta is wrong; flowers grow and smell sweet--with us too. xiv from marya alexandrovna to alexey petrovitch village of x----, _january_ 1841. i have written to you several times, alexey petrovitch ... you have not answered. are you living? or perhaps you are tired of our correspondence; perhaps you have found yourself some diversion more agreeable than what can be afforded for you by the letters of a provincial young lady. you remembered me, it is easy to see, simply from want of anything better to do. if that's so, i wish you all happiness. if you do not even now answer me, i will not trouble you further. it only remains for me to regret my indiscretion in having allowed myself to be agitated for nothing, in having held out a hand to a friend, and having come for one minute out of my lonely corner. i must remain in it for ever, must lock myself up--that is my apportioned lot, the lot of all old maids. i ought to accustom myself to this idea. it's useless to come out into the light of day, needless to wish for fresh air, when the lungs cannot bear it. by the way, we are now hemmed in all round by deadly drifts of snow. for the future i will be wiser.... people don't die of dreariness; but of misery, perhaps, one might perish. if i am wrong, prove it to me. but i fancy i am not wrong. in any case, good-bye. i wish you all happiness. m. b. xv from alexey petrovitch to marya alexandrovna dresden, _september_ 1842. i am writing to you, my dear marya alexandrovna, and i am writing only because i do not want to die without saying good-bye to you, without recalling myself to your memory. i am given up by the doctors ... and i feel myself that my life is ebbing away. on my table stands a rose: before it withers, i shall be no more. this comparison is not, however, altogether an apt one. a rose is far more interesting than i. i am, as you see, abroad. it is now six months since i have been in dresden. i received your last letters--i am ashamed to confess--more than a year ago. i lost some of them and never answered them.... i will tell you directly why. but it seems you were always dear to me; to no one but you have i any wish to say good-bye, and perhaps i have no one else to take leave of. soon after my last letter to you (i was on the very point of going down to your neighbourhood, and had made various plans in advance) an incident occurred which had, one may truly say, a great influence on my fate, so great an influence that here i am dying, thanks to that incident. i went to the theatre to see a ballet. i never cared for ballets; and for every sort of actress, singer, and dancer i had always had a secret feeling of repulsion.... but it is clear there's no changing one's fate, and no one knows himself, and one cannot foresee the future. in reality, in life it's only the unexpected that happens, and we do nothing in a whole lifetime but accommodate ourselves to facts.... but i seem to be rambling off into philosophising again. an old habit! in brief, i fell in love with a dancing-girl. this was the more curious as one could not even call her a beauty. it is true she had marvellous hair of ashen gold colour, and great clear eyes, with a dreamy, and at the same time daring, look in them.... could i fail to know the expression of those eyes? for a whole year i was pining and swooning in the light--of them! she was splendidly well-made, and when she danced her national dance the audience would stamp and shout with delight.... but, i fancy, no one but i fell in love with her,--at least, no one was in love with her as i was. from the very minute when i saw her for the first time (would you believe it, i have only to close my eyes, and at once the theatre is before me, the almost empty stage, representing the heart of a forest, and she running in from the wing on the right, with a wreath of vine on her head and a tiger-skin over her shoulders)--from that fatal moment i have belonged to her utterly, just as a dog belongs to its master; and if, now that i am dying, i do not belong to her, it is only because she has cast me off. to tell the truth, she never troubled herself particularly about me. she scarcely noticed me, though she was very good-natured in making use of my money. i was for her, as she expressed it in her broken french, 'oun rousso, boun enfant,' and nothing more. but i ... i could not live where she was not living; i tore myself away once for all from everything dear to me, from my country even, and followed that woman. you will suppose, perhaps, that she had brains. not in the least! one had only to glance at her low brow, one needed only one glimpse of her lazy, careless smile, to feel certain at once of the scantiness of her intellectual endowments. and i never imagined her to be an exceptional woman. in fact, i never for one instant deceived myself about her. but that was of no avail to me. whatever i thought of her in her absence, in her presence i felt nothing but slavish adoration.... in german fairy-tales, the knights often fall under such an enchantment. i could not take my eyes off her features, i could never tire of listening to her talk, of admiring all her gestures; i positively drew my breath as she breathed. however, she was good-natured, unconstrained--too unconstrained indeed,--did not give herself airs, as actresses generally do. there was a lot of life in her--that is, a lot of blood, that splendid southern blood, into which the sun of those parts must have infused some of its beams. she slept nine hours out of the twenty-four, enjoyed her dinner, never read a single line of print, except, perhaps, the newspaper articles in which she was mentioned; and almost the only tender feeling in her life was her devotion to il signore carlino, a greedy little italian, who waited on her in the capacity of secretary, and whom, later on, she married. and such a woman i could fall in love with--i, a man, versed in all sorts of intellectual subtleties, and no longer young! ... who could have anticipated it? i, at least, never anticipated it. i never anticipated the part i was to play. i never anticipated that i should come to hanging about rehearsals, waiting, bored and frozen, behind the scenes, breathing in the smut and grime of the theatre, making friends with all sorts of utterly unpresentable persons.... making friends, did i say?-cringing slavishly upon them. i never anticipated that i should carry a ballet-dancer's shawl; buy her her new gloves, clean her old ones with bread-crumbs (i did even that, alas!), carry home her bouquets, hang about the offices of journalists and editors, waste my substance, give serenades, catch colds, wear myself out.... i never expected in a little german town to receive the jeering nickname 'der kunst-barbar.'... and all this for nothing, in the fullest sense of the word, for nothing. that's just it. ... do you remember how we used, in talk and by letter, to reason together about love and indulge in all sort of subtleties? but in actual life it turns out that real love is a feeling utterly unlike what we pictured to ourselves. love, indeed, is not a feeling at all, it's a malady, a certain condition of soul and body. it does not develop gradually. one cannot doubt about it, one cannot outwit it, though it does not always come in the same way. usually it takes possession of a person without question, suddenly, against his will--for all the world like cholera or fever.... it clutches him, poor dear, as the hawk pounces on the chicken, and bears him off at its will, however he struggles or resists.... in love, there's no equality, none of the so-called free union of souls, and such idealisms, concocted at their leisure by german professors.... no, in love, one person is slave, and the other master; and well may the poets talk of the fetters put on by love. yes, love is a fetter, and the heaviest to bear. at least i have come to this conviction, and have come to it by the path of experience; i have bought this conviction at the cost of my life, since i am dying in my slavery. what a life mine has been, if you think of it! in my first youth nothing would satisfy me but to take heaven by storm for myself.... then i fell to dreaming of the good of all humanity, of the good of my country. then that passed too. i was thinking of nothing but making a home, family life for myself ... and so tripped over an ant-heap--and plop, down into the grave.... ah, we're great hands, we russians, at making such a finish! but it's time to turn away from all that, it's long been time! may this burden be loosened from off my soul together with life! i want, for the last time, if only for an instant, to enjoy the sweet and gentle feeling which is shed like a soft light within me, directly i think of you. your image is now doubly precious to me.... with it, rises up before me the image of my country, and i send to it and to you a farewell greeting. live, live long and happily, and remember one thing: whether you remain in the wilds of the steppes--where you have sometimes been so sorrowful, but where i should so like to spend my last days--or whether you enter upon a different career, remember life deceives all but him who does not reflect upon her, and, demanding nothing of her, accepts serenely her few gifts and serenely makes the most of them. go forward while you can. but if your strength fails you, sit by the wayside and watch those that pass by without anger or envy. they, too, have not far to go. in old days, i did not tell you this, but death will teach any one. though who says what is life, what is truth? do you remember who it was made no reply to that question? ... farewell, marya alexandrovna, farewell for the last time, and do not remember evil against poor alexey. the jew and other stories by ivan turgenev _translated from the russian_ _by constance garnett_ to the memory of stepniak whose love of turgenev suggested this translation introduction in studying the russian novel it is amusing to note the childish attitude of certain english men of letters to the novel in general, their depreciation of its influence and of the public's 'inordinate' love of fiction. many men of letters to-day look on the novel as a mere story-book, as a series of light-coloured, amusing pictures for their 'idle hours,' and on memoirs, biographies, histories, criticism, and poetry as the age's _serious_ contribution to literature. whereas the reverse is the case. the most serious and significant of all literary forms the modern world has evolved is the novel; and brought to its highest development, the novel shares with poetry to-day the honour of being the supreme instrument of the great artist's literary skill. to survey the field of the novel as a mere pleasure-garden marked out for the crowd's diversion--a field of recreation adorned here and there by the masterpieces of a few great men--argues in the modern critic either an academical attitude to literature and life, or a one-eyed obtuseness, or merely the usual insensitive taste. the drama in all but two countries has been willy-nilly abandoned by artists as a coarse playground for the great public's romps and frolics, but the novel can be preserved exactly so long as the critics understand that to exercise a delicate art is the one _serious_ duty of the artistic life. it is no more an argument against the vital significance of the novel that tens of thousands of people--that everybody, in fact--should to-day essay that form of art, than it is an argument against poetry that for all the centuries droves and flocks of versifiers and scribblers and rhymesters have succeeded in making the name of poet a little foolish in worldly eyes. the true function of poetry! that can only be vindicated in common opinion by the severity and enthusiasm of critics in stripping bare the false, and in hailing as the true all that is animated by the living breath of beauty. the true function of the novel! that can only be supported by those who understand that the adequate representation and criticism of human life would be impossible for modern men were the novel to go the way of the drama, and be abandoned to the mass of vulgar standards. that the novel is the most insidious means of mirroring human society cervantes in his great classic revealed to seventeenth-century europe. richardson and fielding and sterne in their turn, as great realists and impressionists, proved to the eighteenth century that the novel is as flexible as life itself. and from their days to the days of henry james the form of the novel has been adapted by european genius to the exact needs, outlook, and attitude to life of each successive generation. to the french, especially to flaubert and maupassant, must be given the credit of so perfecting the novel's technique that it has become the great means of cosmopolitan culture. it was, however, reserved for the youngest of european literatures, for the russian school, to raise the novel to being the absolute and triumphant expression by the national genius of the national soul. turgenev's place in modern european literature is best defined by saying that while he stands as a great classic in the ranks of the great novelists, along with richardson, fielding, scott, balzac, dickens, thackeray, meredith, tolstoi, flaubert, maupassant, he is the greatest of them all, in the sense that he is the supreme artist. as has been recognised by the best french critics, turgenev's art is both wider in its range and more beautiful in its form than the work of any modern european artist. the novel modelled by turgenev's hands, the russian novel, became _the_ great modern instrument for showing 'the very age and body of the time his form and pressure.' to reproduce human life in all its subtlety as it moves and breathes before us, and at the same time to assess its values by the great poetic insight that reveals man's relations to the universe around him,--that is an art only transcended by shakespeare's own in its unique creation of a universe of great human types. and, comparing turgenev with the european masters, we see that if he has made the novel both more delicate and more powerful than their example shows it, it is because as the supreme artist he filled it with the breath of poetry where others in general spoke the word of prose. turgenev's horizon always broadens before our eyes: where fielding and richardson speak for the country and the town, turgenev speaks for the nation. while balzac makes defile before us an endless stream of human figures, turgenev's characters reveal themselves as wider apart in the range of their spirit, as more mysteriously alive in their inevitable essence, than do meredith's or flaubert's, than do thackeray's or maupassant's. where tolstoi uses an immense canvas in _war and peace_, wherein europe may see the march of a whole generation, turgenev in _fathers and children_ concentrates in the few words of a single character, bazarov, the essence of modern science's attitude to life, that scientific spirit which has transformed both european life and thought. it is, however, superfluous to draw further parallels between turgenev and his great rivals. in england alone, perhaps, is it necessary to say to the young novelist that the novel can become anything, can be anything, according to the hands that use it. in its application to life, its future development can by no means be gauged. it is the most complex of all literary instruments, the chief method to-day of analysing the complexities of modern life. if you love your art, if you would exalt it, treat it absolutely seriously. if you would study it in its highest form, the form the greatest artist of our time has perfected--remember turgenev. edward garnett. november 1899. contents the jew an unhappy girl the duellist three portraits enough the jew ...'tell us a story, colonel,' we said at last to nikolai ilyitch. the colonel smiled, puffed out a coil of tobacco smoke between his moustaches, passed his hand over his grey hair, looked at us and considered. we all had the greatest liking and respect for nikolai ilyitch, for his good-heartedness, common sense, and kindly indulgence to us young fellows. he was a tall, broad-shouldered, stoutly-built man; his dark face, 'one of the splendid russian faces,' [footnote: lermontov in the _treasurer's wife_.--author's note.] straight-forward, clever glance, gentle smile, manly and mellow voice--everything about him pleased and attracted one. 'all right, listen then,' he began. it happened in 1813, before dantzig. i was then in the e---regiment of cuirassiers, and had just, i recollect, been promoted to be a cornet. it is an exhilarating occupation--fighting; and marching too is good enough in its way, but it is fearfully slow in a besieging army. there one sits the whole blessed day within some sort of entrenchment, under a tent, on mud or straw, playing cards from morning till night. perhaps, from simple boredom, one goes out to watch the bombs and redhot bullets flying. at first the french kept us amused with sorties, but they quickly subsided. we soon got sick of foraging expeditions too; we were overcome, in fact, by such deadly dulness that we were ready to howl for sheer _ennui_. i was not more than nineteen then; i was a healthy young fellow, fresh as a daisy, thought of nothing but getting all the fun i could out of the french... and in other ways too... you understand what i mean... and this is what happened. having nothing to do, i fell to gambling. all of a sudden, after dreadful losses, my luck turned, and towards morning (we used to play at night) i had won an immense amount. exhausted and sleepy, i came out into the fresh air, and sat down on a mound. it was a splendid, calm morning; the long lines of our fortifications were lost in the mist; i gazed till i was weary, and then began to doze where i was sitting. a discreet cough waked me: i opened my eyes, and saw standing before me a jew, a man of forty, wearing a long-skirted grey wrapper, slippers, and a black smoking-cap. this jew, whose name was girshel, was continually hanging about our camp, offering his services as an agent, getting us wine, provisions, and other such trifles. he was a thinnish, red-haired, little man, marked with smallpox; he blinked incessantly with his diminutive little eyes, which were reddish too; he had a long crooked nose, and was always coughing. he began fidgeting about me, bowing obsequiously. 'well, what do you want?' i asked him at last. 'oh, i only--i've only come, sir, to know if i can't be of use to your honour in some way...' 'i don't want you; you can go.' 'at your honour's service, as you desire.... i thought there might be, sir, something....' 'you bother me; go along, i tell you.' 'certainly, sir, certainly. but your honour must permit me to congratulate you on your success....' 'why, how did you know?' 'oh, i know, to be sure i do.... an immense sum... immense....oh! how immense....' girshel spread out his fingers and wagged his head. 'but what's the use of talking,' i said peevishly; 'what the devil's the good of money here?' 'oh! don't say that, your honour; ay, ay, don't say so. money's a capital thing; always of use; you can get anything for money, your honour; anything! anything! only say the word to the agent, he'll get you anything, your honour, anything! anything!' 'don't tell lies, jew.' 'ay! ay!' repeated girshel, shaking his side-locks. 'your honour doesn't believe me.... ay... ay....' the jew closed his eyes and slowly wagged his head to right and to left.... 'oh, i know what his honour the officer would like.... i know,... to be sure i do!' the jew assumed an exceedingly knowing leer. 'really!' the jew glanced round timorously, then bent over to me. 'such a lovely creature, your honour, lovely!...' girshel again closed his eyes and shot out his lips. 'your honour, you've only to say the word... you shall see for yourself... whatever i say now, you'll hear... but you won't believe... better tell me to show you... that's the thing, that's the thing!' i did not speak; i gazed at the jew. 'well, all right then; well then, very good; so i'll show you then....' thereupon girshel laughed and slapped me lightly on the shoulder, but skipped back at once as though he had been scalded. 'but, your honour, how about a trifle in advance?' 'but you 're taking me in, and will show me some scarecrow?' 'ay, ay, what a thing to say!' the jew pronounced with unusual warmth, waving his hands about. 'how can you! why... if so, your honour, you order me to be given five hundred... four hundred and fifty lashes,' he added hurriedly....' you give orders--' at that moment one of my comrades lifted the edge of his tent and called me by name. i got up hurriedly and flung the jew a gold coin. 'this evening, this evening,' he muttered after me. i must confess, my friends, i looked forward to the evening with some impatience. that very day the french made a sortie; our regiment marched to the attack. the evening came on; we sat round the fires... the soldiers cooked porridge. my comrades talked. i lay on my cloak, drank tea, and listened to my comrades' stories. they suggested a game of cards--i refused to take part in it. i felt excited. gradually the officers dispersed to their tents; the fires began to die down; the soldiers too dispersed, or went to sleep on the spot; everything was still. i did not get up. my orderly squatted on his heels before the fire, and was beginning to nod. i sent him away. soon the whole camp was hushed. the sentries were relieved. i still lay there, as it were waiting for something. the stars peeped out. the night came on. a long while i watched the dying flame.... the last fire went out. 'the damned jew was taking me in,' i thought angrily, and was just going to get up. 'your honour,'... a trembling voice whispered close to my ear. i looked round: girshel. he was very pale, he stammered, and whispered something. 'let's go to your tent, sir.' i got up and followed him. the jew shrank into himself, and stepped warily over the short, damp grass. i observed on one side a motionless, muffled-up figure. the jew beckoned to her--she went up to him. he whispered to her, turned to me, nodded his head several times, and we all three went into the tent. ridiculous to relate, i was breathless. 'you see, your honour,' the jew whispered with an effort, 'you see. she's a little frightened at the moment, she's frightened; but i've told her his honour the officer's a good man, a splendid man.... don't be frightened, don't be frightened,' he went on--'don't be frightened....' the muffled-up figure did not stir. i was myself in a state of dreadful confusion, and didn't know what to say. girshel too was fidgeting restlessly, and gesticulating in a strange way.... 'any way,' i said to him, 'you get out....' unwillingly, as it seemed, girshel obeyed. i went up to the muffled-up figure, and gently took the dark hood off her head. there was a conflagration in dantzig: by the faint, reddish, flickering glow of the distant fire i saw the pale face of a young jewess. her beauty astounded me. i stood facing her, and gazed at her in silence. she did not raise her eyes. a slight rustle made me look round. girshel was cautiously poking his head in under the edge of the tent. i waved my hand at him angrily,... he vanished. 'what's your name?' i said at last. 'sara,' she answered, and for one instant i caught in the darkness the gleam of the whites of her large, long-shaped eyes and little, even, flashing teeth. i snatched up two leather cushions, flung them on the ground, and asked her to sit down. she slipped off her shawl, and sat down. she was wearing a short cossack jacket, open in front, with round, chased silver buttons, and full sleeves. her thick black hair was coiled twice round her little head. i sat down beside her and took her dark, slender hand. she resisted a little, but seemed afraid to look at me, and there was a catch in her breath. i admired her oriental profile, and timidly pressed her cold, shaking fingers. 'do you know russian?' 'yes... a little.' 'and do you like russians?' 'yes, i like them.' 'then, you like me too?' 'yes, i like you.' i tried to put my arm round her, but she moved away quickly.... 'no, no, please, sir, please...' 'oh, all right; look at me, any way.' she let her black, piercing eyes rest upon me, and at once turned away with a smile, and blushed. i kissed her hand ardently. she peeped at me from under her eyelids and softly laughed. 'what is it?' she hid her face in her sleeve and laughed more than before. girshel showed himself at the entrance of the tent and shook his finger at her. she ceased laughing. 'go away!' i whispered to him through my teeth; 'you make me sick!' girshel did not go away. i took a handful of gold pieces out of my trunk, stuffed them in his hand and pushed him out. 'your honour, me too....' she said. i dropped several gold coins on her lap; she pounced on them like a cat. 'well, now i must have a kiss.' 'no, please, please,' she faltered in a frightened and beseeching voice. 'what are you frightened of?' 'i'm afraid.' 'oh, nonsense....' 'no, please.' she looked timidly at me, put her head a little on one side and clasped her hands. i let her alone. 'if you like... here,' she said after a brief silence, and she raised her hand to my lips. with no great eagerness, i kissed it. sara laughed again. my blood was boiling. i was annoyed with myself and did not know what to do. really, i thought at last, what a fool i am. i turned to her again. 'sara, listen, i'm in love with you.' 'i know.' 'you know? and you're not angry? and do you like me too?' sara shook her head. 'no, answer me properly.' 'well, show yourself,' she said. i bent down to her. sara laid her hands on my shoulders, began scrutinising my face, frowned, smiled.... i could not contain myself, and gave her a rapid kiss on her cheek. she jumped up and in one bound was at the entrance of the tent. 'come, what a shy thing you are!' she did not speak and did not stir. 'come here to me....' 'no, sir, good-bye. another time.' girshel again thrust in his curly head, and said a couple of words to her; she bent down and glided away, like a snake. i ran out of the tent in pursuit of her, but could not get another glimpse of her nor of girshel. the whole night long i could not sleep a wink. the next night we were sitting in the tent of our captain; i was playing, but with no great zest. my orderly came in. 'some one's asking for you, your honour.' 'who is it?' 'a jew.' 'can it be girshel?' i wondered. i waited till the end of the rubber, got up and went out. yes, it was so; i saw girshel. 'well,' he questioned me with an ingratiating smile, 'your honour, are you satisfied?' 'ah, you------!' (here the colonel glanced round. 'no ladies present, i believe.... well, never mind, any way.') 'ah, bless you!' i responded, 'so you're making fun of me, are you?' 'how so?' 'how so, indeed! what a question!' 'ay, ay, your honour, you 're too bad,' girshel said reproachfully, but never ceasing smiling. 'the girl is young and modest.... you frightened her, indeed, you did.' 'queer sort of modesty! why did she take money, then?' 'why, what then? if one's given money, why not take it, sir?' 'i say, girshel, let her come again, and i '11 let you off... only, please, don't show your stupid phiz inside my tent, and leave us in peace; do you hear?' girshel's eyes sparkled. 'what do you say? you like her?' 'well, yes.' 'she's a lovely creature! there's not another such anywhere. and have you something for me now?' 'yes, here, only listen; fair play is better than gold. bring her and then go to the devil. i'll escort her home myself.' 'oh, no, sir, no, that's impossible, sir,' the jew rejoined hurriedly. 'ay, ay, that's impossible. i'll walk about near the tent, your honour, if you like; i'll... i'll go away, your honour, if you like, a little.... i'm ready to do your honour a service.... i'll move away... to be sure, i will.' 'well, mind you do.... and bring her, do you hear?' 'eh, but she's a beauty, your honour, eh? your honour, a beauty, eh?' girshel bent down and peeped into my eyes. 'she's good-looking.' 'well, then, give me another gold piece.' i threw him a coin; we parted. the day passed at last. the night came on. i had been sitting for a long while alone in my tent. it was dark outside. it struck two in the town. i was beginning to curse the jew.... suddenly sara came in, alone. i jumped up took her in my arms... put my lips to her face.... it was cold as ice. i could scarcely distinguish her features.... i made her sit down, knelt down before her, took her hands, touched her waist.... she did not speak, did not stir, and suddenly she broke into loud, convulsive sobbing. i tried in vain to soothe her, to persuade her.... she wept in torrents.... i caressed her, wiped her tears; as before, she did not resist, made no answer to my questions and wept--wept, like a waterfall. i felt a pang at my heart; i got up and went out of the tent. girshel seemed to pop up out of the earth before me. 'girshel,' i said to him, 'here's the money i promised you. take sara away.' the jew at once rushed up to her. she left off weeping, and clutched hold of him. 'good-bye, sara,'i said to her. 'god bless you, good-bye. we'll see each other again some other time.' girshel was silent and bowed humbly. sara bent down, took my hand and pressed it to her lips; i turned away.... for five or six days, my friends, i kept thinking of my jewess. girshel did not make his appearance, and no one had seen him in the camp. i slept rather badly at nights; i was continually haunted by wet, black eyes, and long eyelashes; my lips could not forget the touch of her cheek, smooth and fresh as a downy plum. i was sent out with a foraging party to a village some distance away. while my soldiers were ransacking the houses, i remained in the street, and did not dismount from my horse. suddenly some one caught hold of my foot.... 'mercy on us, sara!' she was pale and excited. 'your honour... help us, save us, your soldiers are insulting us.... your honour....' she recognised me and flushed red. 'why, do you live here?' 'yes.' 'where?' sara pointed to a little, old house. i set spurs to my horse and galloped up. in the yard of the little house an ugly and tattered jewess was trying to tear out of the hands of my long sergeant, siliavka, three hens and a duck. he was holding his booty above his head, laughing; the hens clucked and the duck quacked.... two other cuirassiers were loading their horses with hay, straw, and sacks of flour. inside the house i heard shouts and oaths in little-russian.... i called to my men and told them to leave the jews alone, not to take anything from them. the soldiers obeyed, the sergeant got on his grey mare, proserpina, or, as he called her, 'prozherpila,' and rode after me into the street. 'well,' i said to sara, 'are you pleased with me?' she looked at me with a smile. 'what has become of you all this time?' she dropped her eyes. 'i will come to you to-morrow.' 'in the evening?' 'no, sir, in the morning.' 'mind you do, don't deceive me.' 'no... no, i won't.' i looked greedily at her. by daylight she seemed to me handsomer than ever. i remember i was particularly struck by the even, amber tint of her face and the bluish lights in her black hair.... i bent down from my horse and warmly pressed her little hand. 'good-bye, sara... mind you come.' 'yes.' she went home; i told the sergeant to follow me with the party, and galloped off. the next day i got up very early, dressed, and went out of the tent. it was a glorious morning; the sun had just risen and every blade of grass was sparkling in the dew and the crimson glow. i clambered on to a high breastwork, and sat down on the edge of an embrasure. below me a stout, cast-iron cannon stuck out its black muzzle towards the open country. i looked carelessly about me... and all at once caught sight of a bent figure in a grey wrapper, a hundred paces from me. i recognised girshel. he stood without moving for a long while in one place, then suddenly ran a little on one side, looked hurriedly and furtively round... uttered a cry, squatted down, cautiously craned his neck and began looking round again and listening. i could see all his actions very clearly. he put his hand into his bosom, took out a scrap of paper and a pencil, and began writing or drawing something. girshel continually stopped, started like a hare, attentively scrutinised everything around him, and seemed to be sketching our camp. more than once he hid his scrap of paper, half closed his eyes, sniffed at the air, and again set to work. at last, the jew squatted down on the grass, took off his slipper, and stuffed the paper in it; but he had not time to regain his legs, when suddenly, ten steps from him, there appeared from behind the slope of an earthwork the whiskered countenance of the sergeant siliavka, and gradually the whole of his long clumsy figure rose up from the ground. the jew stood with his back to him. siliavka went quickly up to him and laid his heavy paw on his shoulder. girshel seemed to shrink into himself. he shook like a leaf and uttered a feeble cry, like a hare's. siliavka addressed him threateningly, and seized him by the collar. i could not hear their conversation, but from the despairing gestures of the jew, and his supplicating appearance, i began to guess what it was. the jew twice flung himself at the sergeant's feet, put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a torn check handkerchief, untied a knot, and took out gold coins.... siliavka took his offering with great dignity, but did not leave off dragging the jew by the collar. girshel made a sudden bound and rushed away; the sergeant sped after him in pursuit. the jew ran exceedingly well; his legs, clad in blue stockings, flashed by, really very rapidly; but siliavka after a short run caught the crouching jew, made him stand up, and carried him in his arms straight to the camp. i got up and went to meet him. 'ah! your honour!' bawled siliavka,--'it's a spy i'm bringing you--a spy!...' the sturdy little-russian was streaming with perspiration. 'stop that wriggling, devilish jew--now then... you wretch! you'd better look out, i'll throttle you!' the luckless girshel was feebly prodding his elbows into siliavka's chest, and feebly kicking.... his eyes were rolling convulsively.... 'what's the matter?' i questioned siliavka. 'if your honour'll be so good as to take the slipper off his right foot,--i can't get at it.' he was still holding the jew in his arms. i took off the slipper, took out of it a carefully folded piece of paper, unfolded it, and found an accurate map of our camp. on the margin were a number of notes written in a fine hand in the jews' language. meanwhile siliavka had set girshel on his legs. the jew opened his eyes, saw me, and flung himself on his knees before me. without speaking, i showed him the paper. 'what's this?' 'it's---nothing, your honour. i was only....' his voice broke. 'are you a spy?' he did not understand me, muttered disconnected words, pressed my knees in terror.... 'are you a spy?' 'i!' he cried faintly, and shook his head. 'how could i? i never did; i'm not at all. it's not possible; utterly impossible. i'm ready--i'll--this minute--i've money to give... i'll pay for it,' he whispered, and closed his eyes. the smoking-cap had slipped back on to his neck; his reddish hair was soaked with cold sweat, and hung in tails; his lips were blue, and working convulsively; his brows were contracted painfully; his face was drawn.... soldiers came up round us. i had at first meant to give girshel a good fright, and to tell siliavka to hold his tongue, but now the affair had become public, and could not escape 'the cognisance of the authorities.' 'take him to the general,' i said to the sergeant. 'your honour, your honour!' the jew shrieked in a voice of despair. 'i am not guilty... not guilty.... tell him to let me go, tell him...' 'his excellency will decide about that,' said siliavka. 'come along.' 'your honour!' the jew shrieked after me--'tell him! have mercy!' his shriek tortured me; i hastened my pace. our general was a man of german extraction, honest and good-hearted, but strict in his adherence to military discipline. i went into the little house that had been hastily put up for him, and in a few words explained the reason of my visit. i knew the severity of the military regulations, and so i did not even pronounce the word 'spy,' but tried to put the whole affair before him as something quite trifling and not worth attention. but, unhappily for girshel, the general put doing his duty higher than pity. 'you, young man,' he said to me in his broken russian, 'inexperienced are. you in military matters yet inexperienced are. the matter, of which you to me reported have, is important, very important.... and where is this man who taken was? this jew? where is he?' i went out and told them to bring in the jew. they brought in the jew. the wretched creature could scarcely stand up. 'yes,' pronounced the general, turning to me; 'and where's the plan which on this man found was?' i handed him the paper. the general opened it, turned away again, screwed up his eyes, frowned.... 'this is most as-ton-ish-ing...' he said slowly. 'who arrested him?' 'i, your excellency!' siliavka jerked out sharply. 'ah! good! good!... well, my good man, what do you say in your defence?' 'your... your... your excellency,' stammered girshel, 'i... indeed,... your excellency... i'm not guilty... your excellency; ask his honour the officer.... i'm an agent, your excellency, an honest agent.' 'he ought to be cross-examined,' the general murmured in an undertone, wagging his head gravely. 'come, how do you explain this, my friend?' 'i'm not guilty, your excellency, i'm not guilty.' 'that is not probable, however. you were--how is it said in russian?--taken on the fact, that is, in the very facts!' 'hear me, your excellency; i am not guilty.' 'you drew the plan? you are a spy of the enemy?' 'it wasn't me!' girshel shrieked suddenly; 'not i, your excellency!' the general looked at siliavka. 'why, he's raving, your excellency. his honour the officer here took the plan out of his slipper.' the general looked at me. i was obliged to nod assent. 'you are a spy from the enemy, my good man....' 'not i... not i...' whispered the distracted jew. 'you have the enemy with similar information before provided? confess....' 'how could i?' 'you will not deceive me, my good man. are you a spy?' the jew closed his eyes, shook his head, and lifted the skirts of his gown. 'hang him,' the general pronounced expressively after a brief silence,'according to the law. where is mr. fiodor schliekelmann?' they ran to fetch schliekelmann, the general's adjutant. girshel began to turn greenish, his mouth fell open, his eyes seemed starting out of his head. the adjutant came in. the general gave him the requisite instructions. the secretary showed his sickly, pock-marked face for an instant. two or three officers peeped into the room inquisitively. 'have pity, your excellency,' i said to the general in german as best i could; 'let him off....' 'you, young man,' he answered me in russian, 'i was saying to you, are inexperienced, and therefore i beg you silent to be, and me no more to trouble.' girshel with a shriek dropped at the general's feet. 'your excellency, have mercy; i will never again, i will not, your excellency; i have a wife... your excellency, a daughter... have mercy....' 'it's no use!' 'truly, your excellency, i am guilty... it's the first time, your excellency, the first time, believe me!' 'you furnished no other documents?' 'the first time, your excellency,... my wife... my children... have mercy....' 'but you are a spy.' 'my wife... your excellency... my children....' the general felt a twinge, but there was no getting out of it. 'according to the law, hang the hebrew,' he said constrainedly, with the air of a man forced to do violence to his heart, and sacrifice his better feelings to inexorable duty--'hang him! fiodor karlitch, i beg you to draw up a report of the occurrence....' a horrible change suddenly came over girshel. instead of the ordinary timorous alarm peculiar to the jewish nature, in his face was reflected the horrible agony that comes before death. he writhed like a wild beast trapped, his mouth stood open, there was a hoarse rattle in his throat, he positively leapt up and down, convulsively moving his elbows. he had on only one slipper; they had forgotten to put the other on again... his gown fell open... his cap had fallen off.... we all shuddered; the general stopped speaking. 'your excellency,' i began again, 'pardon this wretched creature.' 'impossible! it is the law,' the general replied abruptly, and not without emotion, 'for a warning to others.' 'for pity's sake....' 'mr. cornet, be so good as to return to your post,' said the general, and he motioned me imperiously to the door. i bowed and went out. but seeing that in reality i had no post anywhere, i remained at no great distance from the general's house. two minutes later girshel made his appearance, conducted by siliavka and three soldiers. the poor jew was in a state of stupefaction, and could hardly move his legs. siliavka went by me to the camp, and soon returned with a rope in his hands. his coarse but not ill-natured face wore a look of strange, exasperated commiseration. at the sight of the rope the jew flung up his arms, sat down, and burst into sobs. the soldiers stood silently about him, and stared grimly at the earth. i went up to girshel, addressed him; he sobbed like a baby, and did not even look at me. with a hopeless gesture i went to my tent, flung myself on a rug, and closed my eyes.... suddenly some one ran hastily and noisily into my tent. i raised my head and saw sara; she looked beside herself. she rushed up to me, and clutched at my hands. 'come along, come along,' she insisted breathlessly. 'where? what for? let us stop here.' 'to father, to father, quick... save him... save him!' 'to what father?' 'my father; they are going to hang him....' 'what! is girshel...?' 'my father... i '11 tell you all about it later,' she added, wringing her hands in despair: 'only come... come....' we ran out of the tent. in the open ground, on the way to a solitary birch-tree, we could see a group of soldiers.... sara pointed to them without speaking.... 'stop,' i said to her suddenly: 'where are we running to? the soldiers won't obey me.' sara still pulled me after her.... i must confess, my head was going round. 'but listen, sara,' i said to her; 'what sense is there in running here? it would be better for me to go to the general again; let's go together; who knows, we may persuade him.' sara suddenly stood still and gazed at me, as though she were crazy. 'understand me, sara, for god's sake. i can't do anything for your father, but the general can. let's go to him.' 'but meanwhile they'll hang him,' she moaned.... i looked round. the secretary was standing not far off. 'ivanov,' i called to him; 'run, please, over there to them, tell them to wait a little, say i've gone to petition the general.' 'yes, sir.' ivanov ran off. we were not admitted to the general's presence. in vain i begged, persuaded, swore even, at last... in vain, poor sara tore her hair and rushed at the sentinels; they would not let us pass. sara looked wildly round, clutched her head in both hands, and ran at breakneck pace towards the open country, to her father. i followed her. every one stared at us, wondering. we ran up to the soldiers. they were standing in a ring, and picture it, gentlemen! they were laughing, laughing at poor girshel. i flew into a rage and shouted at them. the jew saw us and fell on his daughter's neck. sara clung to him passionately. the poor wretch imagined he was pardoned.... he was just beginning to thank me... i turned away. 'your honour,' he shrieked and wrung his hands; 'i'm not pardoned?' i did not speak. 'no?' 'no.' 'your honour,' he began muttering; 'look, your honour, look... she, this girl, see--you know--she's my daughter.' 'i know,' i answered, and turned away again. 'your honour,' he shrieked, 'i never went away from the tent! i wouldn't for anything...' he stopped, and closed his eyes for an instant.... 'i wanted your money, your honour, i must own... but not for anything....' i was silent. girshel was loathsome to me, and she too, his accomplice.... 'but now, if you save me,' the jew articulated in a whisper, 'i'll command her... i... do you understand?... everything... i'll go to every length....' he was trembling like a leaf, and looking about him hurriedly. sara silently and passionately embraced him. the adjutant came up to us. 'cornet,' he said to me; 'his excellency has given me orders to place you under arrest. and you...' he motioned the soldiers to the jew... 'quickly.' siliavka went up to the jew. 'fiodor karlitch,' i said to the adjutant (five soldiers had come with him); 'tell them, at least, to take away that poor girl....' 'of course. certainly.' the unhappy girl was scarcely conscious. girshel was muttering something to her in yiddish.... the soldiers with difficulty freed sara from her father's arms, and carefully carried her twenty steps away. but all at once she broke from their arms and rushed towards girshel.... siliavka stopped her. sara pushed him away; her face was covered with a faint flush, her eyes flashed, she stretched out her arms. 'so may you be accursed,' she screamed in german; 'accursed, thrice accursed, you and all the hateful breed of you, with the curse of dathan and abiram, the curse of poverty and sterility and violent, shameful death! may the earth open under your feet, godless, pitiless, bloodthirsty dogs....' her head dropped back... she fell to the ground.... they lifted her up and carried her away. the soldiers took girshel under his arms. i saw then why it was they had been laughing at the jew when i ran up from the camp with sara. he was really ludicrous, in spite of all the horror of his position. the intense anguish of parting with life, his daughter, his family, showed itself in the jew in such strange and grotesque gesticulations, shrieks, and wriggles that we all could not help smiling, though it was horrible--intensely horrible to us too. the poor wretch was half dead with terror.... 'oy! oy! oy!' he shrieked: 'oy... wait! i've something to tell you... a lot to tell you. mr. under-sergeant, you know me. i'm an agent, an honest agent. don't hold me; wait a minute, a little minute, a tiny minute--wait! let me go; i'm a poor hebrew. sara... where is sara? oh, i know, she's at his honour the quarter-lieutenant's.' (god knows why he bestowed such an unheard-of grade upon me.) 'your honour the quarter-lieutenant, i'm not going away from the tent.' (the soldiers were taking hold of girshel... he uttered a deafening shriek, and wriggled out of their hands.) 'your excellency, have pity on the unhappy father of a family. i'll give you ten golden pieces, fifteen i'll give, your excellency!...' (they dragged him to the birch-tree.) 'spare me! have mercy! your honour the quarter-lieutenant! your excellency, the general and commander-in-chief!' they put the noose on the jew.... i shut my eyes and rushed away. i remained for a fortnight under arrest. i was told that the widow of the luckless girshel came to fetch away the clothes of the deceased. the general ordered a hundred roubles to be given to her. sara i never saw again. i was wounded; i was taken to the hospital, and by the time i was well again, dantzig had surrendered, and i joined my regiment on the banks of the rhine. an unhappy girl yes, yes, began piotr gavrilovitch; those were painful days... and i would rather not recall them.... but i have made you a promise; i shall have to tell you the whole story. listen. i i was living at that time (the winter of 1835) in moscow, in the house of my aunt, the sister of my dead mother. i was eighteen; i had only just passed from the second into the third course in the faculty 'of language' (that was what it was called in those days) in the moscow university. my aunt was a gentle, quiet woman--a widow. she lived in a big, wooden house in ostozhonka, one of those warm, cosy houses such as, i fancy, one can find nowhere else but in moscow. she saw hardly any one, sat from morning till night in the drawing-room with two companions, drank the choicest tea, played patience, and was continually requesting that the room should be fumigated. thereupon her companions ran into the hall; a few minutes later an old servant in livery would bring in a copper pan with a bunch of mint on a hot brick, and stepping hurriedly upon the narrow strips of carpet, he would sprinkle the mint with vinegar. white fumes always puffed up about his wrinkled face, and he frowned and turned away, while the canaries in the dining-room chirped their hardest, exasperated by the hissing of the smouldering mint. i was fatherless and motherless, and my aunt spoiled me. she placed the whole of the ground floor at my complete disposal. my rooms were furnished very elegantly, not at all like a student's rooms in fact: there were pink curtains in the bedroom, and a muslin canopy, adorned with blue rosettes, towered over my bed. those rosettes were, i'll own, rather an annoyance to me; to my thinking, such 'effeminacies' were calculated to lower me in the eyes of my companions. as it was, they nicknamed me 'the boarding-school miss.' i could never succeed in forcing myself to smoke. i studied--why conceal my shortcomings?--very lazily, especially at the beginning of the course. i went out a great deal. my aunt had bestowed on me a wide sledge, fit for a general, with a pair of sleek horses. at the houses of 'the gentry' my visits were rare, but at the theatre i was quite at home, and i consumed masses of tarts at the restaurants. for all that, i permitted myself no breach of decorum, and behaved very discreetly, _en jeune homme de bonne maison_. i would not for anything in the world have pained my kind aunt; and besides i was naturally of a rather cool temperament. ii from my earliest years i had been fond of chess; i had no idea of the science of the game, but i didn't play badly. one day in a cafã©, i was the spectator of a prolonged contest at chess, between two players, of whom one, a fair-haired young man of about five-and-twenty, struck me as playing well. the game ended in his favour; i offered to play a match with him. he agreed,... and in the course of an hour, beat me easily, three times running. 'you have a natural gift for the game,' he pronounced in a courteous tone, noticing probably that my vanity was suffering; 'but you don't know the openings. you ought to study a chess-book--allgacir or petrov.' 'do you think so? but where can i get such a book?' 'come to me; i will give you one.' he gave me his name, and told me where he was living. next day i went to see him, and a week later we were almost inseparable. iii my new acquaintance was called alexander davidovitch fustov. he lived with his mother, a rather wealthy woman, the widow of a privy councillor, but he occupied a little lodge apart and lived quite independently, just as i did at my aunt's. he had a post in the department of court affairs. i became genuinely attached to him. i had never in my life met a young man more 'sympathetic.' everything about him was charming and attractive: his graceful figure, his bearing, his voice, and especially his small, delicate face with the golden-blue eyes, the elegant, as it were coquettishly moulded little nose, the unchanging amiable smile on the crimson lips, the light curls of soft hair over the rather narrow, snow-white brow. fustov's character was remarkable for exceptional serenity, and a sort of amiable, restrained affability; he was never pre-occupied, and was always satisfied with everything; but on the other hand he was never ecstatic over anything. every excess, even in a good feeling, jarred upon him; 'that's savage, savage,' he would say with a faint shrug, half closing his golden eyes. marvellous were those eyes of fustov's! they invariably expressed sympathy, good-will, even devotion. it was only at a later period that i noticed that the expression of his eyes resulted solely from their setting, that it never changed, even when he was sipping his soup or smoking a cigar. his preciseness became a byword between us. his grandmother, indeed, had been a german. nature had endowed him with all sorts of talents. he danced capitally, was a dashing horseman, and a first-rate swimmer; did carpentering, carving and joinery, bound books and cut out silhouettes, painted in watercolours nosegays of flowers or napoleon in profile in a blue uniform; played the zither with feeling; knew a number of tricks, with cards and without; and had a fair knowledge of mechanics, physics, and chemistry; but everything only up to a certain point. only for languages he had no great facility: even french he spoke rather badly. he spoke in general little, and his share in our students' discussions was mostly limited to the bright sympathy of his glance and smile. to the fair sex fustov was attractive, undoubtedly, but on this subject, of such importance among young people, he did not care to enlarge, and fully deserved the nickname given him by his comrades, 'the discreet don juan.' i was not dazzled by fustov; there was nothing in him to dazzle, but i prized his affection, though in reality it was only manifested by his never refusing to see me when i called. to my mind fustov was the happiest man in the world. his life ran so very smoothly. his mother, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles all adored him, he was on exceptionally good terms with all of them, and enjoyed the reputation of a paragon in his family. iv one day i went round to him rather early and did not find him in his study. he called to me from the next room; sounds of panting and splashing reached me from there. every morning fustov took a cold shower-bath and afterwards for a quarter of an hour practised gymnastic exercises, in which he had attained remarkable proficiency. excessive anxiety about one's physical health he did not approve of, but he did not neglect necessary care. ('don't neglect yourself, don't over-excite yourself, work in moderation,' was his precept.) fustov had not yet made his appearance, when the outer door of the room where i was waiting flew wide open, and there walked in a man about fifty, wearing a bluish uniform. he was a stout, squarely-built man with milky-whitish eyes in a dark-red face and a perfect cap of thick, grey, curly hair. this person stopped short, looked at me, opened his mouth wide, and with a metallic chuckle, he gave himself a smart slap on his haunch, kicking his leg up in front as he did so. 'ivan demianitch?' my friend inquired through the door. 'the same, at your service,' the new comer responded. 'what are you up to? at your toilette? that's right! that's right!' (the voice of the man addressed as ivan demianitch had the same harsh, metallic note as his laugh.) 'i've trudged all this way to give your little brother his lesson; and he's got a cold, you know, and does nothing but sneeze. he can't do his work. so i've looked in on you for a bit to warm myself.' ivan demianitch laughed again the same strange guffaw, again dealt himself a sounding smack on the leg, and pulling a check handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, ferociously rolling his eyes, spat into the handkerchief, and ejaculated with the whole force of his lungs: 'tfoo-o-o!' fustov came into the room, and shaking hands with both of us, asked us if we were acquainted. 'not a bit of it!' ivan demianitch boomed at once: 'the veteran of the year twelve has not that honour!' fustov mentioned my name first, then, indicating the 'veteran of the year twelve,' he pronounced: 'ivan demianitch ratsch, professor of... various subjects.' 'precisely so, various they are, precisely,' mr. ratsch chimed in. 'come to think of it, what is there i haven't taught, and that i'm not teaching now, for that matter! mathematics and geography and statistics and italian book-keeping, ha-ha ha-ha! and music! you doubt it, my dear sir?'--he pounced suddenly upon me--'ask alexander daviditch if i'm not first-rate on the bassoon. i should be a poor sort of bohemian--czech, i should say--if i weren't! yes, sir, i'm a czech, and my native place is ancient prague! by the way, alexander daviditch, why haven't we seen you for so long! we ought to have a little duet... ha-ha! really!' 'i was at your place the day before yesterday, ivan demianitch,' replied fustov. 'but i call that a long while, ha-ha!' when mr. ratsch laughed, his white eyes shifted from side to side in a strange, restless way. 'you're surprised, young man, i see, at my behaviour,' he addressed me again. 'but that's because you don't understand my temperament. you must just ask our good friend here, alexander daviditch, to tell you about me. what'll he tell you? he'll tell you old ratsch is a simple, good-hearted chap, a regular russian, in heart, if not in origin, ha-ha! at his christening named johann dietrich, but always called ivan demianitch! what's in my mind pops out on my tongue; i wear my heart, as they say, on my sleeve. ceremony of all sorts i know naught about and don't want to neither! can't bear it! you drop in on me one day of an evening, and you'll see for yourself. my good woman--my wife, that is--has no nonsense about her either; she'll cook and bake you... something wonderful! alexander daviditch, isn't it the truth i'm telling?' fustov only smiled, and i remained silent. 'don't look down on the old fellow, but come round,' pursued mr. ratsch. 'but now...' (he pulled a fat silver watch out of his pocket and put it up to one of his goggle eyes)'i'd better be toddling on, i suppose. i've another chick expecting me.... devil knows what i'm teaching him,... mythology, by god! and he lives a long way off, the rascal, at the red gate! no matter; i'll toddle off on foot. thanks to your brother's cutting his lesson, i shall be the fifteen kopecks for sledge hire to the good! ha-ha! a very good day to you, gentlemen, till we meet again!... eh?... we must have a little duet!' mr. ratsch bawled from the passage putting on his goloshes noisily, and for the last time we heard his metallic laugh. v 'what a strange man!' i said, turning to fustov, who had already set to work at his turning-lathe. 'can he be a foreigner? he speaks russian so fluently.' 'he is a foreigner; only he's been thirty years in russia. as long ago as 1802, some prince or other brought him from abroad... in the capacity of secretary... more likely, valet, one would suppose. he does speak russian fluently, certainly.' 'with such go, such far-fetched turns and phrases,' i put in. 'well, yes. only very unnaturally too. they're all like that, these russianised germans.' 'but he's a czech, isn't he?' 'i don't know; may be. he talks german with his wife.' 'and why does he call himself a veteran of the year twelve? was he in the militia, or what?' 'in the militia! indeed! at the time of the fire he remained in moscow and lost all his property.... that was all he did.' 'but what did he stay in moscow for?' fustov still went on with his turning. 'the lord knows. i have heard that he was a spy on our side; but that must be nonsense. but it's a fact that he received compensation from the treasury for his losses.' 'he wears some sort of uniform.... i suppose he's in government service then?' 'yes. professor in the cadet's corps. he has the rank of a petty councillor.' 'what's his wife like?' 'a german settled here, daughter of a sausagemaker... or butcher....' 'and do you often go to see him?' 'yes.' 'what, is it pleasant there?' 'rather pleasant.' 'has he any children?' 'yes. three by the german, and a son and daughter by his first wife.' 'and how old is the eldest daughter?' 'about five-and-twenty,' i fancied fustov bent lower over his lathe, and the wheel turned more rapidly, and hummed under the even strokes of his feet. 'is she good-looking?' 'that's a matter of taste. she has a remarkable face, and she's altogether... a remarkable person.' 'aha!' thought i. fustov continued his work with special earnestness, and to my next question he only responded by a grunt. 'i must make her acquaintance,' i decided. vi a few days later, fustov and i set off to mr. ratsch's to spend the evening. he lived in a wooden house with a big yard and garden, in krivoy place near the pretchistensky boulevard. he came out into the passage, and meeting us with his characteristic jarring guffaw and noise, led us at once into the drawing-room, where he presented me to a stout lady in a skimpy canvas gown, eleonora karpovna, his wife. eleonora karpovna had most likely in her first youth been possessed of what the french for some unknown reason call _beautã© du diable_, that is to say, freshness; but when i made her acquaintance, she suggested involuntarily to the mind a good-sized piece of meat, freshly laid by the butcher on a clean marble table. designedly i used the word 'clean'; not only our hostess herself seemed a model of cleanliness, but everything about her, everything in the house positively shone, and glittered; everything had been scoured, and polished, and washed: the samovar on the round table flashed like fire; the curtains before the windows, the table-napkins were crisp with starch, as were also the little frocks and shirts of mr. ratsch's four children sitting there, stout, chubby little creatures, exceedingly like their mother, with coarsely moulded, sturdy faces, curls on their foreheads, and red, shapeless fingers. all the four of them had rather flat noses, large, swollen-looking lips, and tiny, light-grey eyes. 'here's my squadron!' cried mr. ratsch, laying his heavy hand on the children's heads one after another. 'kolia, olga, sashka and mashka! this one's eight, this one's seven, that one's four, and this one's only two! ha! ha! ha! as you can see, my wife and i haven't wasted our time! eh, eleonora karpovna?' 'you always say things like that,' observed eleonora karpovna and she turned away. 'and she's bestowed such russian names on her squallers!' mr. ratsch pursued. 'the next thing, she'll have them all baptized into the orthodox church! yes, by jove! she's so slavonic in her sympathies, 'pon my soul, she is, though she is of german blood! eleonora karpovna, are you slavonic?' eleonora karpovna lost her temper. 'i'm a petty councillor's wife, that's what i am! and so i'm a russian lady and all you may say....' 'there, the way she loves russia, it's simply awful!' broke in ivan demianitch. 'a perfect volcano, ho, ho!' 'well, and what of it?' pursued eleonora karpovna. 'to be sure i love russia, for where else could i obtain noble rank? and my children too are nobly born, you know. kolia, sitze ruhig mit den fã¼ssen!' ratsch waved his hand to her. 'there, there, princess, don't excite yourself! but where's the nobly born viktor? to be sure, he's always gadding about! he'll come across the inspector one of these fine days! he'll give him a talking-to! das ist ein bummler, fiktor!' 'dem fiktov kann ich nicht kommandiren, ivan demianitch. sie wissen wohl!' grumbled eleonora karpovna. i looked at fustov, as though wishing finally to arrive at what induced him to visit such people... but at that instant there came into the room a tall girl in a black dress, the elder daughter of mr. ratsch, to whom fustov had referred.... i perceived the explanation of my friend's frequent visits. vii there is somewhere, i remember, in shakespeare, something about 'a white dove in a flock of black crows'; that was just the impression made on me by the girl, who entered the room. between the world surrounding her and herself there seemed to be too little in common; she herself seemed secretly bewildered and wondering how she had come there. all the members of mr. ratsch's family looked self-satisfied, simple-hearted, healthy creatures; her beautiful, but already careworn, face bore the traces of depression, pride and morbidity. the others, unmistakable plebeians, were unconstrained in their manners, coarse perhaps, but simple; but a painful uneasiness was manifest in all her indubitably aristocratic nature. in her very exterior there was no trace of the type characteristic of the german race; she recalled rather the children of the south. the excessively thick, lustreless black hair, the hollow, black, lifeless but beautiful eyes, the low, prominent brow, the aquiline nose, the livid pallor of the smooth skin, a certain tragic line near the delicate lips, and in the slightly sunken cheeks, something abrupt, and at the same time helpless in the movements, elegance without gracefulness... in italy all this would not have struck me as exceptional, but in moscow, near the pretchistensky boulevard, it simply astonished me! i got up from my seat on her entrance; she flung me a swift, uneasy glance, and dropping her black eyelashes, sat down near the window 'like tatiana.' (pushkin's _oniegin_ was then fresh in every one's mind.) i glanced at fustov, but my friend was standing with his back to me, taking a cup of tea from the plump hands of eleonora karpovna. i noticed further that the girl as she came in seemed to bring with her a breath of slight physical chillness.... 'what a statue!' was my thought. viii 'piotr gavrilitch,' thundered mr. ratsch, turning to me, 'let me introduce you to my... to my... my number one, ha, ha, ha! to susanna ivanovna!' i bowed in silence, and thought at once: 'why, the name too is not the same sort as the others,' while susanna rose slightly, without smiling or loosening her tightly clasped hands. 'and how about the duet?' ivan demianitch pursued: 'alexander daviditch? eh? benefactor! your zither was left with us, and i've got the bassoon out of its case already. let us make sweet music for the honourable company!' (mr. ratsch liked to display his russian; he was continually bursting out with expressions, such as those which are strewn broadcast about the ultra-national poems of prince viazemsky.) 'what do you say? carried?' cried ivan demianitch, seeing fustov made no objection. 'kolka, march into the study, and look sharp with the music-stand! olga, this way with the zither! and oblige us with candles for the stands, better-half!' (mr. ratsch turned round and round in the room like a top.) 'piotr gavrilitch, you like music, hey? if you don't care for it, you must amuse yourself with conversation, only mind, not above a whisper! ha, ha ha! but what ever's become of that silly chap, viktor? he ought to be here to listen too! you spoil him completely, eleonora karpovna.' eleonora karpovna fired up angrily. 'aber was kann ich denn, ivan demianitch...' 'all right, all right, don't squabble! bleibe ruhig, hast verstanden? alexander daviditch! at your service, sir!' the children had promptly done as their father had told them. the music-stands were set up, the music began. i have already mentioned that fustov played the zither extremely well, but that instrument has always produced the most distressing impression upon me. i have always fancied, and i fancy still, that there is imprisoned in the zither the soul of a decrepit jew money-lender, and that it emits nasal whines and complaints against the merciless musician who forces it to utter sounds. mr. ratsch's performance, too, was not calculated to give me much pleasure; moreover, his face became suddenly purple, and assumed a malignant expression, while his whitish eyes rolled viciously, as though he were just about to murder some one with his bassoon, and were swearing and threatening by way of preliminary, puffing out chokingly husky, coarse notes one after another. i placed myself near susanna, and waiting for a momentary pause, i asked her if she were as fond of music as her papa. she turned away, as though i had given her a shove, and pronounced abruptly, 'who?' 'your father,' i repeated,'mr. ratsch.' 'mr. ratsch is not my father.' 'not your father! i beg your pardon... i must have misunderstood... but i remember, alexander daviditch...' susanna looked at me intently and shyly. 'you misunderstood mr. fustov. mr. ratsch is my stepfather.' i was silent for a while. 'and you don't care for music?' i began again. susanna glanced at me again. undoubtedly there was something suggesting a wild creature in her eyes. she obviously had not expected nor desired the continuation of our conversation. 'i did not say that,' she brought out slowly. 'troo-too-too-too-too-oo-oo...' the bassoon growled with startling fury, executing the final flourishes. i turned round, caught sight of the red neck of mr. ratsch, swollen like a boa-constrictor's, beneath his projecting ears, and very disgusting i thought him. 'but that... instrument you surely do not care for,' i said in an undertone. 'no... i don't care for it,' she responded, as though catching my secret hint. 'oho!' thought i, and felt, as it were, delighted at something. 'susanna ivanovna,' eleonora karpovna announced suddenly in her german russian, 'music greatly loves, and herself very beautifully plays the piano, only she likes not to play the piano when she is greatly pressed to play.' susanna made eleonora karpovna no reply--she did not even look at her--only there was a faint movement of her eyes, under their dropped lids, in her direction. from this movement alone--this movement of her pupils--i could perceive what was the nature of the feeling susanna cherished for the second wife of her stepfather.... and again i was delighted at something. meanwhile the duet was over. fustov got up and with hesitating footsteps approached the window, near which susanna and i were sitting, and asked her if she had received from lengold's the music that he had promised to order her from petersburg. 'selections from _robert le diable,_' he added, turning to me, 'from that new opera that every one's making such a fuss about.' 'no, i haven't got it yet,' answered susanna, and turning round with her face to the window she whispered hurriedly. 'please, alexander daviditch, i entreat you, don't make me play to-day. i don't feel in the mood a bit.' 'what's that? robert le diable of meyer-beer?' bellowed ivan demianitch, coming up to us: 'i don't mind betting it's a first-class article! he's a jew, and all jews, like all czechs, are born musicians. especially jews. that's right, isn't it, susanna ivanovna? hey? ha, ha, ha, ha!' in mr. ratsch's last words, and this time even in his guffaw, there could be heard something more than his usual bantering tone--the desire to wound was evident. so, at least, i fancied, and so susanna understood him. she started instinctively, flushed red, and bit her lower lip. a spot of light, like the gleam of a tear, flashed on her eyelash, and rising quickly, she went out of the room. 'where are you off to, susanna ivanovna?' mr. ratsch bawled after her. 'let her be, ivan demianitch, 'put in eleonora karpovna. 'wenn sie einmal so et was im kopfe hat...' 'a nervous temperament,'ratsch pronounced, rotating on his heels, and slapping himself on the haunch, 'suffers with the _plexus solaris._ oh! you needn't look at me like that, piotr gavrilitch! i've had a go at anatomy too, ha, ha! i'm even a bit of a doctor! you ask eleonora karpovna... i cure all her little ailments! oh, i'm a famous hand at that!' 'you must for ever be joking, ivan demianitch,' the latter responded with displeasure, while fustov, laughing and gracefully swaying to and fro, looked at the husband and wife. 'and why not be joking, mein mã¼tterchen?' retorted ivan demianitch. 'life's given us for use, and still more for beauty, as some celebrated poet has observed. kolka, wipe your nose, little savage!' ix 'i was put in a very awkward position this evening through your doing,' i said the same evening to fustov, on the way home with him. 'you told me that that girl--what's her name?--susanna, was the daughter of mr. ratsch, but she's his stepdaughter.' 'really! did i tell you she was his daughter? but... isn't it all the same?' 'that ratsch,' i went on.... 'o alexander, how i detest him! did you notice the peculiar sneer with which he spoke of jews before her? is she... a jewess?' fustov walked ahead, swinging his arms; it was cold, the snow was crisp, like salt, under our feet. 'yes, i recollect, i did hear something of the sort,' he observed at last.... 'her mother, i fancy, was of jewish extraction.' 'then mr. ratsch must have married a widow the first time?' 'probably.' 'h'm!... and that viktor, who didn't come in this evening, is his stepson too?' 'no... he's his real son. but, as you know, i don't enter into other people's affairs, and i don't like asking questions. i'm not inquisitive.' i bit my tongue. fustov still pushed on ahead. as we got near home, i overtook him and peeped into his face. 'oh!' i queried, 'is susanna really so musical?' fustov frowned. 'she plays the piano well, 'he said between his teeth. 'only she's very shy, i warn you!' he added with a slight grimace. he seemed to be regretting having made me acquainted with her. i said nothing and we parted. x next morning i set off again to fustov's. to spend my mornings at his rooms had become a necessity for me. he received me cordially, as usual, but of our visit of the previous evening--not a word! as though he had taken water into his mouth, as they say. i began turning over the pages of the last number of the _telescope._ a person, unknown to me, came into the room. it turned out to be mr. ratsch's son, the viktor whose absence had been censured by his father the evening before. he was a young man, about eighteen, but already looked dissipated and unhealthy, with a mawkishly insolent grin on his unclean face, and an expression of fatigue in his swollen eyes. he was like his father, only his features were smaller and not without a certain prettiness. but in this very prettiness there was something offensive. he was dressed in a very slovenly way; there were buttons off his undergraduate's coat, one of his boots had a hole in it, and he fairly reeked of tobacco. 'how d'ye do,' he said in a sleepy voice, with those peculiar twitchings of the head and shoulders which i have always noticed in spoilt and conceited young men. 'i meant to go to the university, but here i am. sort of oppression on my chest. give us a cigar.' he walked right across the room, listlessly dragging his feet, and keeping his hands in his trouser-pockets, and sank heavily upon the sofa. 'have you caught cold?' asked fustov, and he introduced us to each other. we were both students, but were in different faculties. 'no!... likely! yesterday, i must own...' (here ratsch junior smiled, again not without a certain prettiness, though he showed a set of bad teeth) 'i was drunk, awfully drunk. yes'--he lighted a cigar and cleared his throat--'obihodov's farewell supper.' 'where's he going?' 'to the caucasus, and taking his young lady with him. you know the black-eyed girl, with the freckles. silly fool!' 'your father was asking after you yesterday,' observed fustov. viktor spat aside. 'yes, i heard about it. you were at our den yesterday. well, music, eh?' 'as usual.' 'and _she_... with a new visitor' (here he pointed with his head in my direction) 'she gave herself airs, i'll be bound. wouldn't play, eh?' 'of whom are you speaking?' fustov asked. 'why, of the most honoured susanna ivanovna, of course!' viktor lolled still more comfortably, put his arm up round his head, gazed at his own hand, and cleared his throat hoarsely. i glanced at fustov. he merely shrugged his shoulders, as though giving me to understand that it was no use talking to such a dolt. xi viktor, staring at the ceiling, fell to talking, deliberately and through his nose, of the theatre, of two actors he knew, of a certain serafrina serafrinovna, who had 'made a fool' of him, of the new professor, r., whom he called a brute. 'because, only fancy, what a monstrous notion! every lecture he begins with calling over the students' names, and he's reckoned a liberal too! i'd have all your liberals locked up in custody!' and turning at last his full face and whole body towards fustov, he brought out in a half-plaintive, half-ironical voice: 'i wanted to ask you something, alexander daviditch.... couldn't you talk my governor round somehow?... you play duets with him, you know.... here he gives me five miserable blue notes a month.... what's the use of that! not enough for tobacco. and then he goes on about my not making debts! i should like to put him in my place, and then we should see! i don't come in for pensions, not like _some people_.' (viktor pronounced these last words with peculiar emphasis.) 'but he's got a lot of tin, i know! it's no use his whining about hard times, there's no taking me in. no fear! he's made a snug little pile!' fustov looked dubiously at victor. 'if you like,' he began, 'i'll speak to your father. or, if you like... meanwhile... a trifling sum....' 'oh, no! better get round the governor... though,' added viktor, scratching his nose with all his fingers at once, 'you might hand over five-and-twenty roubles, if it's the same to you.... what's the blessed total i owe you?' 'you've borrowed eighty-five roubles of me.' 'yes.... well, that's all right, then... make it a hundred and ten. i'll pay it all in a lump.' fustov went into the next room, brought back a twenty-five-rouble note and handed it in silence to viktor. the latter took it, yawned with his mouth wide open, grumbled thanks, and, shrugging and stretching, got up from the sofa. 'foo! though... i'm bored,' he muttered, 'might as well turn in to the "italie."' he moved towards the door. fustov looked after him. he seemed to be struggling with himself. 'what pension were you alluding to just now, viktor ivanitch?' he asked at last. viktor stopped in the doorway and put on his cap. 'oh, don't you know? susanna ivanovna's pension.... she gets one. an awfully curious story, i can tell you! i'll tell it you one of these days. quite an affair, 'pon my soul, a queer affair. but, i say, the governor, you won't forget about the governor, please! his hide is thick, of course--german, and it's had a russian tanning too, still you can get through it. only, mind my step-mother elenorka's nowhere about! dad's afraid of her, and she wants to keep everything for her brats! but there, you know your way about! good-bye!' 'ugh, what a low beast that boy is!' cried fustov, as soon as the door had slammed-to. his face was burning, as though from the fire, and he turned away from me. i did not question him, and soon retired. xii all that day i spent in speculating about fustov, about susanna, and about her relations. i had a vague feeling of something like a family drama. as far as i could judge, my friend was not indifferent to susanna. but she? did she care for him? why did she seem so unhappy? and altogether, what sort of creature was she? these questions were continually recurring to my mind. an obscure but strong conviction told me that it would be no use to apply to fustov for the solution of them. it ended in my setting off the next day alone to mr. ratsch's house. i felt all at once very uncomfortable and confused directly i found myself in the dark little passage. 'she won't appear even, very likely,' flashed into my mind. 'i shall have to stop with the repulsive veteran and his cook of a wife.... and indeed, even if she does show herself, what of it? she won't even take part in the conversation.... she was anything but warm in her manner to me the other day. why ever did i come?' while i was making these reflections, the little page ran to announce my presence, and in the adjoining room, after two or three wondering 'who is it? who, do you say?' i heard the heavy shuffling of slippers, the folding-door was slightly opened, and in the crack between its two halves was thrust the face of ivan demianitch, an unkempt and grim-looking face. it stared at me and its expression did not immediately change.... evidently, mr. ratsch did not at once recognise me; but suddenly his cheeks grew rounder, his eyes narrower, and from his opening mouth, there burst, together with a guffaw, the exclamation: 'ah! my dear sir! is it you? pray walk in!' i followed him all the more unwillingly, because it seemed to me that this affable, good-humoured mr. ratsch was inwardly wishing me at the devil. there was nothing to be done, however. he led me into the drawing-room, and in the drawing-room who should be sitting but susanna, bending over an account-book? she glanced at me with her melancholy eyes, and very slightly bit the finger-nails of her left hand.... it was a habit of hers, i noticed, a habit peculiar to nervous people. there was no one else in the room. 'you see, sir,' began mr. ratsch, dealing himself a smack on the haunch, 'what you've found susanna ivanovna and me busy upon: we're at our accounts. my spouse has no great head for arithmetic, and i, i must own, try to spare my eyes. i can't read without spectacles, what am i to do? let the young people exert themselves, ha-ha! that's the proper thing. but there's no need of haste.... more haste, worse speed in catching fleas, he-he!' susanna closed the book, and was about to leave the room. 'wait a bit, wait a bit,' began mr. ratsch. 'it's no great matter if you're not in your best dress....' (susanna was wearing a very old, almost childish, frock with short sleeves.) 'our dear guest is not a stickler for ceremony, and i should like just to clear up last week.... you don't mind?'--he addressed me. 'we needn't stand on ceremony with you, eh?' 'please don't put yourself out on my account!' i cried. 'to be sure, my good friend. as you're aware, the late tsar alexey nikolavitch romanoff used to say, "time is for business, but a minute for recreation!" we'll devote one minute only to that same business... ha-ha! what about that thirteen roubles and thirty kopecks?' he added in a low voice, turning his back on me. 'viktor took it from eleonora karpovna; he said that it was with your leave,' susanna replied, also in a low voice. 'he said... he said... my leave...' growled ivan demianitch. 'i'm on the spot myself, i fancy. might be asked. and who's had that seventeen roubles?' 'the upholsterer.' 'oh... the upholsterer. what's that for?' 'his bill.' 'his bill. show me!' he pulled the book away from susanna, and planting a pair of round spectacles with silver rims on his nose, he began passing his finger along the lines. 'the upholsterer,.. the upholsterer... you'd chuck all the money out of doors! nothing pleases you better!... wie die croaten! a bill indeed! but, after all,' he added aloud, and he turned round facing me again, and pulled the spectacles off his nose, 'why do this now? i can go into these wretched details later. susanna ivanovna, be so good as to put away that account-book, and come back to us and enchant our kind guest's ears with your musical accomplishments, to wit, playing on the pianoforte... eh?' susanna turned away her head. 'i should be very happy,' i hastily observed; 'it would be a great pleasure for me to hear susanna ivanovna play. but i would not for anything in the world be a trouble...' 'trouble, indeed, what nonsense! now then, susanna ivanovna, eins, zwei, drei!' susanna made no response, and went out. xiii i had not expected her to come back; but she quickly reappeared. she had not even changed her dress, and sitting down in a corner, she looked twice intently at me. whether it was that she was conscious in my manner to her of the involuntary respect, inexplicable to myself, which, more than curiosity, more even than sympathy, she aroused in me, or whether she was in a softened frame of mind that day, any way, she suddenly went to the piano, and laying her hand irresolutely on the keys, and turning her head a little over her shoulder towards me, she asked what i would like her to play. before i had time to answer she had seated herself, taken up some music, hurriedly opened it, and begun to play. i loved music from childhood, but at that time i had but little comprehension of it, and very slight knowledge of the works of the great masters, and if mr. ratsch had not grumbled with some dissatisfaction, 'aha! wieder dieser beethoven!' i should not have guessed what susanna had chosen. it was, as i found out afterwards, the celebrated sonata in f minor, opus 57. susanna's playing impressed me more than i can say; i had not expected such force, such fire, such bold execution. at the very first bars of the intensely passionate allegro, the beginning of the sonata, i felt that numbness, that chill and sweet terror of ecstasy, which instantaneously enwrap the soul when beauty bursts with sudden flight upon it. i did not stir a limb till the very end. i kept, wanting--and not daring--to sigh. i was sitting behind susanna; i could not see her face; i saw only from time to time her long dark hair tossed up and down on her shoulders, her figure swaying impulsively, and her delicate arms and bare elbows swiftly, and rather angularly, moving. the last notes died away. i sighed at last. susanna still sat before the piano. 'ja, ja,' observed mr. ratsch, who had also, however, listened with attention; 'romantische musik! that's all the fashion nowadays. only, why not play correctly? eh? put your finger on two notes at once--what's that for? eh? to be sure, all we care for is to go quickly, quickly! turns it out hotter, eh? hot pancakes!' he bawled like a street seller. susanna turned slightly towards mr. ratsch. i caught sight of her face in profile. the delicate eyebrow rose high above the downcast eyelid, an unsteady flush overspread the cheek, the little ear was red under the lock pushed behind it. 'i have heard all the best performers with my own ears,' pursued mr. ratsch, suddenly frowning, 'and compared with the late field they were all--tfoo! nil! zero!! das war ein kerl! und ein so reines spiel! and his own compositions the finest things! but all those now "tloo-too-too," and "tra-ta-ta," are written, i suppose, more for beginners. da braucht man keine delicatesse! bang the keys anyhow... no matter! it'll turn out some how! janitscharen musik! pugh!' (ivan demianitch wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.) 'but i don't say that for you, susanna ivanovna; you played well, and oughtn't to be hurt by my remarks.' 'every one has his own taste,' susanna said in a low voice, and her lips were trembling; 'but your remarks, ivan demianitch, you know, cannot hurt me.' 'oh! of course not! only don't you imagine'--mr. ratsch turned to me--'don't you imagine, my young friend, that that comes from our excessive good-nature and meekness of spirit; it's simply that we fancy ourselves so highly exalted that--oo-oo!--we can't keep our cap on our head, as the russian proverb says, and, of course, no criticism can touch us. the conceit, my dear sir, the conceit!' i listened in surprise to mr. ratsch. spite, the bitterest spite, seemed as it were boiling over in every word he uttered.... and long it must have been rankling! it choked him. he tried to conclude his tirade with his usual laugh, and fell into a husky, broken cough instead. susanna did not let drop a syllable in reply to him, only she shook her head, raised her face, and clasping her elbows with her hands, stared straight at him. in the depths of her fixed, wide-open eyes the hatred of long years lay smouldering with dim, unquenchable fire. i felt ill at ease. 'you belong to two different musical generations,' i began, with an effort at lightness, wishing by this lightness to suggest that i noticed nothing, 'and so it is not surprising that you do not agree in your opinions.... but, ivan demianitch, you must allow me to take rather... the side of the younger generation. i'm an outsider, of course; but i must confess nothing in music has ever made such an impression on me as the... as what susanna ivanovna has just played us.' ratsch pounced at once upon me. 'and what makes you suppose,' he roared, still purple from the fit of coughing, 'that we want to enlist you on our side? we don't want that at all! freedom for the free, salvation for the saved! but as to the two generations, that's right enough; we old folks find it hard to get on with you young people, very hard! our ideas don't agree in anything: neither in art, nor in life, nor even in morals; do they, susanna ivanovna?' susanna smiled a contemptuous smile. 'especially in regard to morals, as you say, our ideas do not agree, and cannot agree,' she responded, and something menacing seemed to flit over her brows, while her lips were faintly trembling as before. 'of course! of course!' ratsch broke in, 'i'm not a philosopher! i'm not capable of... rising so superior! i'm a plain man, swayed by prejudices--oh yes!' susanna smiled again. 'i think, ivan demianitch, you too have sometimes been able to place yourself above what are called prejudices.' 'wie so? how so, i mean? i don't know what you mean.' 'you don't know what i mean? your memory's so bad!' mr. ratsch seemed utterly taken aback. 'i... i...' he repeated, 'i...' 'yes, you, mr. ratsch.' there followed a brief silence. 'really, upon my word...' mr. ratsch was beginning; 'how dare you... such insolence...' susanna all at once drew herself up to her full height, and still holding her elbows, squeezing them tight, drumming on them with her fingers, she stood still facing ratsch. she seemed to challenge him to conflict, to stand up to meet him. her face was changed; it became suddenly, in one instant, extraordinarily beautiful, and terrible too; a sort of bright, cold brilliance--the brilliance of steel--gleamed in her lustreless eyes; the lips that had been quivering were compressed in one straight, mercilessly stern line. susanna challenged ratsch, but he gazed blankly, and suddenly subsiding into silence, all of a heap, so to say, drew his head in, even stepped back a pace. the veteran of the year twelve was afraid; there could be no mistake about that. susanna slowly turned her eyes from him to me, as though calling upon me to witness her victory, and the humiliation of her foe, and, smiling once more, she walked out of the room. the veteran remained a little while motionless in his arm-chair; at last, as though recollecting a forgotten part, he roused himself, got up, and, slapping me on the shoulder, laughed his noisy guffaw. 'there, 'pon my soul! fancy now, it's over ten years i've been living with that young lady, and yet she never can see when i'm joking, and when i'm in earnest! and you too, my young friend, are a little puzzled, i do believe.... ha-ha-ha! that's because you don't know old ratsch!' 'no.... i do know you now,' i thought, not without a feeling of some alarm and disgust. 'you don't know the old fellow, you don't know him,' he repeated, stroking himself on the stomach, as he accompanied me into the passage. 'i may be a tiresome person, knocked about by life, ha-ha! but i'm a good-hearted fellow, 'pon my soul, i am!' i rushed headlong from the stairs into the street. i longed with all speed to get away from that good-hearted fellow. xiv 'they hate one another, that's clear,' i thought, as i returned homewards; 'there's no doubt either that he's a wretch of a man, and she's a good girl. but what has there been between them? what is the reason of this continual exasperation? what was the meaning of those hints? and how suddenly it broke out! on such a trivial pretext!' next day fustov and i had arranged to go to the theatre, to see shtchepkin in 'woe from wit.' griboyedov's comedy had only just been licensed for performance after being first disfigured by the censors' mutilations. we warmly applauded famusov and skalozub. i don't remember what actor took the part of tchatsky, but i well remember that he was indescribably bad. he made his first appearance in a hungarian jacket, and boots with tassels, and came on later in a frockcoat of the colour 'flamme du punch,' then in fashion, and the frockcoat looked about as suitable as it would have done on our old butler. i recollect too that we were all in ecstasies over the ball in the third act. though, probably, no one ever executed such steps in reality, it was accepted as correct and i believe it is acted in just the same way to-day. one of the guests hopped excessively high, while his wig flew from side to side, and the public roared with laughter. as we were coming out of the theatre, we jostled against viktor in a corridor. 'you were in the theatre!' he cried, flinging his arms about. 'how was it i didn't see you? i'm awfully glad i met you. you must come and have supper with me. come on; i'll stand the supper!' young ratsch seemed in an excited, almost ecstatic, frame of mind. his little eyes darted to and fro; he was grinning, and there were spots of red on his face. 'why this gleefulness?' asked fustov. 'why? wouldn't you like to know, eh?' viktor drew us a little aside, and pulling out of his trouser-pocket a whole bundle of the red and blue notes then in use waved them in the air. fustov was surprised. 'has your governor been so liberal?' viktor chuckled. 'he liberal! you just try it on!... this morning, relying on your intercession, i asked him for cash. what do you suppose the old skinflint answered? "i'll pay your debts," says he, "if you like. up to twenty-five roubles inclusive!" do you hear, inclusive! no, sir, this was a gift from god in my destitution. a lucky chance.' 'been robbing someone?' fustov hazarded carelessly. viktor frowned. 'robbing, no indeed! i won it, won it from an officer, a guardsman. he only arrived from petersburg yesterday. such a chain of circumstances! it's worth telling... only this isn't the place. come along to yar's; not a couple of steps. i'll stand the show, as i said!' we ought, perhaps, to have refused; but we followed without making any objection. xv at yar's we were shown into a private room; supper was served, champagne was brought. viktor related to us, omitting no detail, how he had in a certain 'gay' house met this officer of the guards, a very nice chap and of good family, only without a hap'orth of brains; how they had made friends, how he, the officer that is, had suggested as a joke a game of 'fools' with viktor with some old cards, for next to nothing, and with the condition that the officer's winnings should go to the benefit of wilhelmina, but viktor's to his own benefit; how afterwards they had got on to betting on the games. 'and i, and i,' cried viktor, and he jumped up and clapped his hands, 'i hadn't more than six roubles in my pocket all the while. fancy! and at first i was completely cleaned out.... a nice position! only then--in answer to whose prayers i can't say--fortune smiled. the other fellow began to get hot and kept showing all his cards.... in no time he'd lost seven hundred and fifty roubles! he began begging me to go on playing, but i'm not quite a fool, i fancy; no, one mustn't abuse such luck; i popped on my hat and cut away. so now i've no need to eat humble pie with the governor, and can treat my friends.... hi waiter! another bottle! gentlemen, let's clink glasses!' we did clink glasses with viktor, and continued drinking and laughing with him, though his story was by no means to our liking, nor was his society a source of any great satisfaction to us either. he began being very affable, playing the buffoon, unbending, in fact, and was more loathsome than ever. viktor noticed at last the impression he was making on us, and began to get sulky; his remarks became more disconnected and his looks gloomier. he began yawning, announced that he was sleepy, and after swearing with his characteristic coarseness at the waiter for a badly cleaned pipe, he suddenly accosted fustov, with a challenging expression on his distorted face. 'i say, alexander daviditch,' said he, 'you tell me, if you please, what do you look down on me for?' 'how so?' my friend was momentarily at a loss for a reply. 'i'll tell you how.... i'm very well aware that you look down on me, and that person does too' (he pointed at me with his finger), 'so there! as though you were yourself remarkable for such high and exalted principles, and weren't just as much a sinner as the rest of us. worse even. still waters... you know the proverb?' fustov turned rather red. 'what do you mean by that?' he asked. 'why, i mean that i'm not blind yet, and i see very clearly everything that's going on under my nose.... and i have nothing against it: first it's not my principle to interfere, and secondly, my sister susanna ivanovna hasn't always been so exemplary herself.... only, why look down on me?' 'you don't understand what you're babbling there yourself! you're drunk,' said fustov, taking his overcoat from the wall. 'he's swindled some fool of his money, and now he's telling all sorts of lies!' viktor continued reclining on the sofa, and merely swung his legs, which were hanging over its arm. 'swindled! why did you drink the wine, then? it was paid for with the money i won, you know. as for lies, i've no need for lying. it's not my fault that in her past susanna ivanovna...' 'hold your tongue!' fustov shouted at him, 'hold your tongue... or...' 'or what?' 'you'll find out what. come along, piotr.' 'aha!' pursued viktor; 'our noble-hearted knight takes refuge in flight. he doesn't care to hear the truth, that's evident! it stings--the truth does, it seems!' 'come along, piotr,' fustov repeated, completely losing his habitual coolness and self-possession. 'let's leave this wretch of a boy!' 'the boy's not afraid of you, do you hear,' viktor shouted after us, 'he despises you, the boy does! do you hear!' fustov walked so quickly along the street that i had difficulty in keeping up with him. all at once he stopped short and turned sharply back. 'where are you going?' i asked. 'oh, i must find out what the idiot.... he's drunk, no doubt, god knows what.... only don't you follow me... we shall see each other to-morrow. good-bye!' and hurriedly pressing my hand, fustov set off towards yar's hotel. next day i missed seeing fustov; and on the day after that, on going to his rooms, i learned that he had gone into the country to his uncle's, near moscow. i inquired if he had left no note for me, but no note was forth-coming. then i asked the servant whether he knew how long alexander daviditch would be away in the country. 'a fortnight, or a little more, probably,' replied the man. i took at any rate fustov's exact address, and sauntered home, meditating deeply. this unexpected absence from moscow, in the winter, completed my utter perplexity. my good aunt observed to me at dinner that i seemed continually expecting something, and gazed at the cabbage pie as though i were beholding it for the first time in my life. 'pierre, vous n'ãªtes pas amoureux?' she cried at last, having previously got rid of her companions. but i reassured her: no, i was not in love. xvi three days passed. i had a secret prompting to go to the ratschs'. i fancied that in their house i should be sure to find a solution of all that absorbed my mind, that i could not make out.... but i should have had to meet the veteran.... that thought pulled me up. one tempestuous evening--the february wind was howling angrily outside, the frozen snow tapped at the window from time to time like coarse sand flung by a mighty hand--i was sitting in my room, trying to read. my servant came, and, with a mysterious air, announced that a lady wished to see me. i was surprised... ladies did not visit me, especially at such a late hour; however, i told him to show her in. the door opened and with swift step there walked in a woman, muffled up in a light summer cloak and a yellow shawl. abruptly she cast off the cloak and the shawl, which were covered with snow, and i saw standing before me susanna. i was so astonished that i did not utter a word, while she went up to the window, and leaning her shoulder against the wall, remained motionless; only her bosom heaved convulsively and her eyes moved restlessly, and the breath came with a faint moan from her white lips. i realised that it was no slight trouble that had brought her to me; i realised, for all my youth and shallowness, that at that instant before my eyes the fate of a whole life was being decided--a bitter and terrible fate. 'susanna ivanovna,' i began, 'how...' she suddenly clutched my hand in her icy fingers, but her voice failed her. she gave a broken sigh and looked down. her heavy coils of black hair fell about her face.... the snow had not melted from off it. 'please, calm yourself, sit down,' i began again, 'see here, on the sofa. what has happened? sit down, i entreat you.' 'no,' she articulated, scarcely audibly, and she sank on to the window-seat. 'i am all right here.... let me be.... you could not expect... but if you knew... if i could... if...' she tried to control herself, but the tears flowed from her eyes with a violence that shook her, and sobs, hurried, devouring sobs, filled the room. i felt a tightness at my heart.... i was utterly stupefied. i had seen susanna only twice; i had conjectured that she had a hard life, but i had regarded her as a proud girl, of strong character, and all at once these violent, despairing tears.... mercy! why, one only weeps like that in the presence of death! i stood like one condemned to death myself. 'excuse me,' she said at last, several times, almost angrily, wiping first one eye, then the other. 'it'll soon be over. i've come to you....' she was still sobbing, but without tears. 'i've come.... you know that alexander daviditch has gone away?' in this single question susanna revealed everything, and she glanced at me, as though she would say: 'you understand, of course, you will have pity, won't you?' unhappy girl! there was no other course left her then! i did not know what answer to make.... 'he has gone away, he has gone away... he believed him!' susanna was saying meanwhile. 'he did not care even to question me; he thought i should not tell him all the truth, he could think that of me! as though i had ever deceived him!' she bit her lower lip, and bending a little, began to scratch with her nail the patterns of ice that covered the window-pane. i went hastily into the next room, and sending my servant away, came back at once and lighted another candle. i had no clear idea why i was doing all this.... i was greatly overcome. susanna was sitting as before on the window-seat, and it was at this moment that i noticed how lightly she was dressed: a grey gown with white buttons and a broad leather belt, that was all. i went up to her, but she did not take any notice of me. 'he believed it,... he believed it,' she whispered, swaying softly from side to side. 'he did not hesitate, he dealt me this last... last blow!' she turned suddenly to me. 'you know his address?' 'yes, susanna ivanovna.. i learnt it from his servants... at his house. he told me nothing of his intention; i had not seen him for two days--went to inquire and he had already left moscow.' 'you know his address?' she repeated. 'well, write to him then that he has killed me. you are a good man, i know. he did not talk to you of me, i dare say, but he talked to me about you. write... ah, write to him to come back quickly, if he wants to find me alive!... no! he will not find me!...' susanna's voice grew quieter at each word, and she was quieter altogether. but this calm seemed to me more awful than the previous sobs. 'he believed him,...' she said again, and rested her chin on her clasped hands. a sudden squall of wind beat upon the window with a sharp whistle and a thud of snow. a cold draught passed over the room.... the candles flickered.... susanna shivered. again i begged her to sit on the sofa. 'no, no, let me be,' she answered, 'i am all right here. please.' she huddled up to the frozen pane, as though she had found herself a refuge in the recesses of the window. 'please.' 'but you're shivering, you're frozen,' i cried, 'look, your shoes are soaked.' 'let me be... please...' she whispered,. and closed her eyes. a panic seized me. 'susanna ivanovna!' i almost screamed: 'do rouse yourself, i entreat you! what is the matter with you? why such despair? you will see, every thing will be cleared up, some misunderstanding... some unlooked-for chance.... you will see, he will soon be back. i will let him know.... i will write to him to-day.... but i will not repeat your words.... is it possible!' 'he will not find me,' susanna murmured, still in the same subdued voice. 'do you suppose i would have come here, to you, to a stranger, if i had not known i should not long be living? ah, all my past has been swept away beyond return! you see, i could not bear to die so, in solitude, in silence, without saying to some one, "i've lost every thing... and i'm dying.... look!"' she drew back into her cold little corner.... never shall i forget that head, those fixed eyes with their deep, burnt-out look, those dark, disordered tresses against the pale window-pane, even the grey, narrow gown, under every fold of which throbbed such young, passionate life! unconsciously i flung up my hands. 'you... you die, susanna ivanovna! you have only to live.... you must live!' she looked at me.... my words seemed to surprise her. 'ah, you don't know,' she began, and she softly dropped both her hands. 'i cannot live, too much, too much i have had to suffer, too much! i lived through it.... i hoped... but now... when even this is shattered... when...' she raised her eyes to the ceiling and seemed to sink into thought. the tragic line, which i had once noticed about her lips, came out now still more clearly; it seemed to spread across her whole face. it seemed as though some relentless hand had drawn it immutably, had set a mark for ever on this lost soul. she was still silent. 'susanna ivanovna,' i said, to break that awful silence with anything; 'he will come back, i assure you!' susanna looked at me again. 'what do you say?' she enunciated with visible effort. 'he will come back, susanna ivanovna, alexander will come back!' 'he will come back?' she repeated. 'but even if he did come back, i cannot forgive him this humiliation, this lack of faith....' she clutched at her head. 'my god! my god! what am i saying, and why am i here? what is it all? what... what did i come to ask... and whom? ah, i am going mad!...' her eyes came to a rest. 'you wanted to ask me to write to alexander,' i made haste to remind her. she started. 'yes, write, write to him... what you like.... and here...' she hurriedly fumbled in her pocket and brought out a little manuscript book. 'this i was writing for him... before he ran away.... but he believed... he believed him!' i understood that her words referred to viktor; susanna would not mention him, would not utter his detested name. 'but, susanna ivanovna, excuse me,' i began, 'what makes you suppose that alexander daviditch had any conversation... with that person?' 'what? why, he himself came to me and told me all about it, and bragged of it... and laughed just as his father laughs! here, here, take it,' she went on, thrusting the manuscript into my hand, 'read it, send it to him, burn it, throw it away, do what you like, as you please.... but i can't die like this with no one knowing.... now it is time.... i must go.' she got up from the window-seat.... i stopped her. 'where are you going, susanna ivanovna, mercy on us! listen, what a storm is raging! you are so lightly dressed.... and your home is not near here. let me at least go for a carriage, for a sledge....' 'no, no, i want nothing,' she said resolutely, repelling me and taking up her cloak and shawl. 'don't keep me, for god's sake! or... i can't answer for anything! i feel an abyss, a dark abyss under my feet.... don't come near me, don't touch me!' with feverish haste she put on her cloak, arranged her shawl.... 'good-bye... good-bye.... oh, my unhappy people, for ever strangers, a curse lies upon us! no one has ever cared for me, was it likely he...' she suddenly ceased. 'no; one man loved me,' she began again, wringing her hands, 'but death is all about me, death and no escape! now it is my turn.... don't come after me,' she cried shrilly. 'don't come! don't come!' i was petrified, while she rushed out; and an instant later, i heard the slam downstairs of the heavy street door, and the window panes shook again under the violent onslaught of the blast. i could not quickly recover myself. i was only beginning life in those days: i had had no experience of passion nor of suffering, and had rarely witnessed any manifestation of strong feeling in others.... but the sincerity of this suffering, of this passion, impressed me. if it had not been for the manuscript in my hands, i might have thought that i had dreamed it all--it was all so unlikely, and swooped by like a passing storm. i was till midnight reading the manuscript. it consisted of several sheets of letter-paper, closely covered with a large, irregular writing, almost without an erasure. not a single line was quite straight, and one seemed in every one of them to feel the excited trembling of the hand that held the pen. here follows what was in the manuscript. i have kept it to this day. xvii my story i am this year twenty-eight years old. here are my earliest recollections; i was living in the tambov province, in the country house of a rich landowner, ivan matveitch koltovsky, in a small room on the second storey. with me lived my mother, a jewess, daughter of a dead painter, who had come from abroad, a woman always ailing, with an extraordinarily beautiful face, pale as wax, and such mournful eyes, that sometimes when she gazed long at me, even without looking at her, i was aware of her sorrowful, sorrowful eyes, and i would burst into tears and rush to embrace her. i had tutors come to me; i had music lessons, and was called 'miss.' i dined at the master's table together with my mother. mr. koltovsky was a tall, handsome old man with a stately manner; he always smelt of _ambre_. i stood in mortal terror of him, though he called me suzon and gave me his dry, sinewy hand to kiss under its lace-ruffles. with my mother he was elaborately courteous, but he talked little even with her. he would say two or three affable words, to which she promptly made a hurried answer; and he would be silent and sit looking about him with dignity, and slowly picking up a pinch of spanish snuff from his round, golden snuff-box with the arms of the empress catherine on it. my ninth year has always remained vivid in my memory.... i learnt then, from the maids in the servants' room, that ivan matveitch koltovsky was my father, and almost on the same day, my mother, by his command, was married to mr. ratsch, who was something like a steward to him. i was utterly unable to comprehend the possibility of such a thing, i was bewildered, i was almost ill, my brain suffered under the strain, my mind was overclouded. 'is it true, is it true, mamma,' i asked her, 'that scented bogey' (that was my name for ivan matveitch) 'is my father?' my mother was terribly scared, she shut my mouth.... 'never speak to any one of that, do you hear, susanna, do you hear, not a word!'... she repeated in a shaking voice, pressing my head to her bosom.... and i never did speak to any one of it.... that prohibition of my mother's i understood.... i understood that i must be silent, that my mother begged my forgiveness! my unhappiness began from that day. mr. ratsch did not love my mother, and she did not love him. he married her for money, and she was obliged to submit. mr. koltovsky probably considered that in this way everything had been arranged for the best, _la position ã©tait rã©gularisã©e_. i remember the day before the marriage my mother and i--both locked in each other's arms--wept almost the whole morning--bitterly, bitterly--and silently. it is not strange that she was silent.... what could she say to me? but that i did not question her shows that unhappy children learn wisdom sooner than happy ones... to their cost. mr. koltovsky continued to interest himself in my education, and even by degrees put me on a more intimate footing. he did not talk to me... but morning and evening, after flicking the snuff from his jabot with two fingers, he would with the same two fingers--always icy cold--pat me on the cheek and give me some sort of dark-coloured sweetmeats, also smelling of _ambre_, which i never ate. at twelve years old i became his reader---_sa petite lectrice_. i read him french books of the last century, the memoirs of saint simon, of mably, renal, helvetius, voltaire's correspondence, the encyclopedists, of course without understanding a word, even when, with a smile and a grimace, he ordered me, 'relire ce dernier paragraphe, qui est bien remarquable!' ivan matveitch was completely a frenchman. he had lived in paris till the revolution, remembered marie antoinette, and had received an invitation to trianon to see her. he had also seen mirabeau, who, according to his account, wore very large buttons--_exagã©rã© en tout_, and was altogether a man of _mauvais ton, en dã©pit de sa naissance!_ ivan matveitch, however, rarely talked of that time; but two or three times a year, addressing himself to the crooked old emigrant whom he had taken into his house, and called for some unknown reason 'm. le commandeur,' he recited in his deliberate, nasal voice, the impromptu he had once delivered at a soiree of the duchesse de polignac. i remember only the first two lines.... it had reference to a comparison between the russians and the french: 'l'aigle se plait aux regions austã¨res ou le ramier ne saurait habiter...' 'digne de m. de saint aulaire!' m. le commandeur would every time exclaim. ivan matveitch looked youngish up to the time of his death: his cheeks were rosy, his teeth white, his eyebrows thick and immobile, his eyes agreeable and expressive, clear, black eyes, perfect agate. he was not at all unreasonable, and was very courteous with every one, even with the servants.... but, my god! how wretched i was with him, with what joy i always left him, what evil thoughts confounded me in his presence! ah, i was not to blame for them!... i was not to blame for what they had made of me.... mr. ratsch was, after his marriage, assigned a lodge not far from the big house. i lived there with my mother. it was a cheerless life i led there. she soon gave birth to a son, viktor, this same viktor whom i have every right to think and to call my enemy. from the time of his birth my mother never regained her health, which had always been weak. mr. ratsch did not think fit in those days to keep up such a show of good spirits as he maintains now: he always wore a morose air and tried to pass for a busy, hard-working person. to me he was cruel and rude. i felt relief when i retired from ivan matveitch's presence; but my own home too i was glad to leave.... unhappy was my youth! for ever tossed from one shore to the other, with no desire to anchor at either! i would run across the courtyard in winter, through the deep snow, in a thin frock--run to the big house to read to ivan matveitch, and as it were be glad to go.... but when i was there, when i saw those great cheerless rooms, the bright-coloured, upholstered furniture, that courteous and heartless old man in the open silk wadded jacket, in the white jabot and white cravat, with lace ruffles falling over his fingers, with a _soupã§on_ of powder (so his valet expressed it) on his combed-back hair, i felt choked by the stifling scent of _ambre_, and my heart sank. ivan matveitch usually sat in a large low chair; on the wall behind his head hung a picture, representing a young woman, with a bright and bold expression of face, dressed in a sumptuous hebrew costume, and simply covered with precious stones, with diamonds.... i often stole a glance at this picture, but only later on i learned that it was the portrait of my mother, painted by her father at ivan matveitch's request. she had changed indeed since those days! well had he succeeded in subduing and crushing her! 'and she loved him! loved that old man!' was my thought.... 'how could it be! love him!' and yet, when i recalled some of my mother's glances, some half-uttered phrases and unconscious gestures.... 'yes, yes, she did love him!' i repeated with horror. ah, god, spare others from knowing aught of such feelings! every day i read to ivan matveitch, sometimes for three or four hours together.... so much reading in such a loud voice was harmful to me. our doctor was anxious about my lungs and even once communicated his fears to ivan matveitch. but the old man only smiled--no; he never smiled, but somehow sharpened and moved forward his lips--and told him: 'vous ne savez pas ce qu'il y a de ressources dans cette jeunesse.' 'in former years, however, m. le commandeur,'... the doctor ventured to observe. ivan matveitch smiled as before. 'vous rãªvez, mon cher,' he interposed: 'le commandeur n'a plus de dents, et il crache ã  chaque mot. j'aime les voix jeunes.' and i still went on reading, though my cough was very troublesome in the mornings and at night.... sometimes ivan matveitch made me play the piano. but music always had a soporific influence on his nerves. his eyes closed at once, his head nodded in time, and only rarely i heard, 'c'est du steibelt, n'est-ce pas? jouez-moi du steibelt!' ivan matveitch looked upon steibelt as a great genius, who had succeeded in overcoming in himself 'la grossiã¨re lourdeur des allemands,' and only found fault with him for one thing: 'trop de fougue! trop d'imagination!'... when ivan matveitch noticed that i was tired from playing he would offer me 'du cachou de bologne.' so day after day slipped by.... and then one night--a night never to be forgotten!--a terrible calamity fell upon me. my mother died almost suddenly. i was only just fifteen. oh, what a sorrow that was, with what cruel violence it swooped down upon me! how terrified i was at that first meeting with death! my poor mother! strange were our relations; we passionately loved each other... passionately and hopelessly; we both as it were treasured up and hid from each other our common secret, kept obstinately silent about it, though we knew all that was passing at the bottom of our hearts! even of the past, of her own early past, my mother never spoke to me, and she never complained in words, though her whole being was nothing but one dumb complaint. we avoided all conversation of any seriousness. alas! i kept hoping that the hour would come, and she would open her heart at last, and i too should speak out, and both of us would be more at ease.... but the daily little cares, her irresolute, shrinking temper, illnesses, the presence of mr. ratsch, and most of all the eternal question,--what is the use? and the relentless, unbroken flowing away of time, of life.... all was ended as though by a clap of thunder, and the words which would have loosed us from the burden of our secret--even the last dying words of leave-taking--i was not destined to hear from my mother! all that is left in my memory is mr. ratsch's calling, 'susanna ivanovna, go, please, your mother wishes to give you her blessing!' and then the pale hand stretched out from the heavy counterpane, the agonised breathing, the dying eyes.... oh, enough! enough! with what horror, with what indignation and piteous curiosity i looked next day, and on the day of the funeral, into the face of my father... yes, my father! in my dead mother's writing-case were found his letters. i fancied he looked a little pale and drawn... but no! nothing was stirring in that heart of stone. exactly as before, he summoned me to his room, a week later; exactly in the same voice he asked me to read: 'si vous le voulez bien, les observations sur l'histoire de france de mably, ã  la page 74... lã  oã¹ nous avons ã¨tã¨ interrompus.' and he had not even had my mother's portrait moved! on dismissing me, he did indeed call me to him, and giving me his hand to kiss a second time, he observed: 'suzanne, la mort de votre mã¨re vous a privã©e de votre appui naturel; mais vous pourrez toujours compter sur ma protection,' but with the other hand he gave me at once a slight push on the shoulder, and, with the sharpening of the corners of the mouth habitual with him, he added, 'allez, mon enfant.' i longed to shriek at him: 'why, but you know you're my father!' but i said nothing and left the room. next morning, early, i went to the graveyard. may had come in all its glory of flowers and leaves, and a long while i sat on the new grave. i did not weep, nor grieve; one thought was filling my brain: 'do you hear, mother? he means to extend his protection to me, too!' and it seemed to me that my mother ought not to be wounded by the smile which it instinctively called up on my lips. at times i wonder what made me so persistently desire to wring--not a confession... no, indeed! but, at least, one warm word of kinship from ivan matveitch? didn't i know what he was, and how little he was like all that i pictured in my dreams as a _father_!... but i was so lonely, so alone on earth! and then, that thought, ever recurring, gave me no rest: 'did not she love him? she must have loved him for something?' three years more slipped by. nothing changed in the monotonous round of life, marked out and arranged for us. viktor was growing into a boy. i was eight years older and would gladly have looked after him, but mr. ratsch opposed my doing so. he gave him a nurse, who had orders to keep strict watch that the child was not 'spoilt,' that is, not to allow me to go near him. and viktor himself fought shy of me. one day mr. ratsch came into my room, perturbed, excited, and angry. on the previous evening unpleasant rumours had reached me about my stepfather; the servants were talking of his having been caught embezzling a considerable sum of money, and taking bribes from a merchant. 'you can assist me,' he began, tapping impatiently on the table with his fingers. 'go and speak for me to ivan matveitch.' 'speak for you? on what ground? what about?' 'intercede for me.... i'm not like a stranger any way... i'm accused... well, the fact is, i may be left without bread to eat, and you, too.' 'but how can i go to him? how can i disturb him?' 'what next! you have a right to disturb him!' 'what right, ivan demianitch?' 'come, no humbug.... he cannot refuse you, for many reasons. do you mean to tell me you don't understand that?' he looked insolently into my eyes, and i felt my cheeks simply burning. hatred, contempt, rose up within me, surged in a rush upon me, drowning me. 'yes, i understand you, ivan demianitch,' i answered at last--my own voice seemed strange to me--'and i am not going to ivan matveitch, and i will not ask him for anything. bread, or no bread!' mr. ratsch shivered, ground his teeth, and clenched his fists. 'all right, wait a bit, your highness!' he muttered huskily. 'i won't forget it!' that same day, ivan matveitch sent for him, and, i was told, shook his cane at him, the very cane which he had once exchanged with the due de la rochefoucauld, and cried, 'you be a scoundrel and extortioner! i put you outside!' ivan matveitch could hardly speak russian at all, and despised our 'coarse jargon,' _ce jargon vulgaire et rude_. some one once said before him, 'that same's self-understood.' ivan matveitch was quite indignant, and often afterwards quoted the phrase as an example of the senselessness and absurdity of the russian tongue. 'what does it mean, that same's self-understood?' he would ask in russian, with emphasis on each syllable. 'why not simply that's understood, and why same and self?' ivan matveitch did not, however, dismiss mr. ratsch, he did not even deprive him of his position. but my stepfather kept his word: he never forgot it. i began to notice a change in ivan matveitch. he was low-spirited, depressed, his health broke down a little. his fresh, rosy face grew yellow and wrinkled; he lost a front tooth. he quite ceased going out, and gave up the reception-days he had established for the peasants, without the assistance of the priest, _sans le concours du clergã©_. on such days ivan matveitch had been in the habit of going in to the peasants in the hall or on the balcony, with a rose in his buttonhole, and putting his lips to a silver goblet of vodka, he would make them a speech something like this: 'you are content with my actions, even as i am content with your zeal, whereat i rejoice truly. we are all _brothers_; at our birth we are equal; i drink your health!' he bowed to them, and the peasants bowed to him, but only from the waist, no prostrating themselves to the ground, that was strictly forbidden. the peasants were entertained with good cheer as before, but ivan matveitch no longer showed himself to his subjects. sometimes he interrupted my reading with exclamations: 'la machine se dã©traque! cela se gã¢te!' even his eyes--those bright, stony eyes--began to grow dim and, as it were, smaller; he dozed oftener than ever and breathed hard in his sleep. his manner with me was unchanged; only a shade of chivalrous deference began to be perceptible in it. he never failed to get up--though with difficulty--from his chair when i came in, conducted me to the door, supporting me with his hand under my elbow, and instead of suzon began to call me sometimes, 'ma chã¨re demoiselle,' sometimes, 'mon antigone.' m. le commandeur died two years after my mother's death; his death seemed to affect ivan matveitch far more deeply. a contemporary had disappeared: that was what distressed him. and yet in later years m. le commandeur's sole service had consisted in crying, 'bien jouã©, mal rã©ussi!' every time ivan matveitch missed a stroke, playing billiards with mr. ratsch; though, indeed, too, when ivan matveitch addressed him at table with some such question as: 'n'est-ce pas, m. le commandeur, c'est montesquieu qui a dit cela dans ses _lettres persanes_?' he had still, sometimes dropping a spoonful of soup on his ruffle, responded profoundly: 'ah, monsieur de montesquieu? un grand ã©crivain, monsieur, un grand ã©crivain!' only once, when ivan matveitch told him that 'les thã©ophilanthropes ont eu pourtant du bon!' the old man cried in an excited voice, 'monsieur de kolontouskoi' (he hadn't succeeded in the course of twenty years in learning to pronounce his patron's name correctly), 'monsieur de kolontouskoi! leur fondateur, l'instigateur de cette secte, ce la reveillã¨re lepeaux ã©tait un bonnet rouge!' 'non, non,' said ivan matveitch, smiling and rolling together a pinch of snuff: 'des fleurs, des jeunes vierges, le culte de la nature... ils out eu du bon, ils out eu du bon!'...i was always surprised at the extent of ivan matveitch's knowledge, and at the uselessness of his knowledge to himself. ivan matveitch was perceptibly failing, but he still put a good face on it. one day, three weeks before his death, he had a violent attack of giddiness just after dinner. he sank into thought, said, 'c'est la fin,' and pulling himself together with a sigh, he wrote a letter to petersburg to his sole heir, a brother with whom he had had no intercourse for twenty years. hearing that ivan matveitch was unwell, a neighbour paid him a visit--a german, a catholic--once a distinguished physician, who was living in retirement in his little place in the country. he was very rarely at ivan matveitch's, but the latter always received him with special deference, and in fact had a great respect for him. he was almost the only person in the world he did respect. the old man advised ivan matveitch to send for a priest, but ivan matveitch responded that 'ces messieurs et moi, nous n'avons rien ã  nous dire,' and begged him to change the subject. on the neighbour's departure, he gave his valet orders to admit no one in future. then he sent for me. i was frightened when i saw him; there were blue patches under his eyes, his face looked drawn and stiff, his jaw hung down. 'vous voila grande, suzon,' he said, with difficulty articulating the consonants, but still trying to smile (i was then nineteen), 'vous allez peut-ãªtre bientã³t rester seule. soyez toujours sage et vertueuse. c'est la derniã¨re rã©commandation d'un'--he coughed--'d'un vieillard qui vous veut du bien. je vous ai recommandã© ã  mon frã¨re et je ne doute pas qu'il ne respecte mes volontã©s....' he coughed again, and anxiously felt his chest. 'du reste, j'esã¨pre encore pouvoir faire quelque chose pour vous... dans mon testament.' this last phrase cut me to the heart, like a knife. ah, it was really too... too contemptuous and insulting! ivan matveitch probably ascribed to some other feeling--to a feeling of grief or gratitude--what was expressed in my face, and as though wishing to comfort me, he patted me on the shoulder, at the same time, as usual, gently repelling me, and observed: 'voyons, mon enfant, du courage! nous sommes tous mortels! et puis il n'y a pas encore de danger. ce n'est qu'une prã©caution que j'ai cru devoir prendre.... allez!' again, just as when he had summoned me after my mother's death, i longed to shriek at him, 'but i'm your daughter! your daughter!' but i thought in those words, in that cry of the heart, he would doubtless hear nothing but a desire to assert my rights, my claims on his property, on his money.... oh, no, for nothing in the world would i say a word to this man, who had not once mentioned my mother's name to me, in whose eyes i was of so little account that he did not even trouble himself to ascertain whether i was aware of my parentage! or, perhaps, he suspected, even knew it, and did not wish 'to raise a dust' (a favourite saying of his, almost the only russian expression he ever used), did not care to deprive himself of a good reader with a young voice! no! no! let him go on wronging his daughter, as he had wronged her mother! let him carry both sins to the grave! i swore it, i swore he should not hear from my lips the word which must have something of a sweet and holy sound in every ear! i would not say to him father! i would not forgive him for my mother and myself! he felt no need of that forgiveness, of that name.... it could not be, it could not be that he felt no need of it! but he should not have forgiveness, he should not, he should not! god knows whether i should have kept my vow, and whether my heart would not have softened, whether i should not have overcome my shyness, my shame, and my pride... but it happened with ivan matveitch just as with my mother. death carried him off suddenly, and also in the night. it was again mr. ratsch who waked me, and ran with me to the big house, to ivan matveitch's bedroom.... but i found not even the last dying gestures, which had left such a vivid impression on my memory at my mother's bedside. on the embroidered, lace-edged pillows lay a sort of withered, dark-coloured doll, with sharp nose and ruffled grey eyebrows.... i shrieked with horror, with loathing, rushed away, stumbled in doorways against bearded peasants in smocks with holiday red sashes, and found myself, i don't remember how, in the fresh air.... i was told afterwards that when the valet ran into the bedroom, at a violent ring of the bell, he found ivan matveitch not in the bed, but a few feet from it. and that he was sitting huddled up on the floor, and that twice over he repeated, 'well, granny, here's a pretty holiday for you!' and that these were his last words. but i cannot believe that. was it likely he would speak russian at such a moment, and such a homely old russian saying too! for a whole fortnight afterwards we were awaiting the arrival of the new master, semyon matveitch koltovsky. he sent orders that nothing was to be touched, no one was to be discharged, till he had looked into everything in person. all the doors, all the furniture, drawers, tables--all were locked and sealed up. all the servants were downcast and apprehensive. i became suddenly one of the most important persons in the house, perhaps the most important. i had been spoken of as 'the young lady' before; but now this expression seemed to take a new significance, and was pronounced with a peculiar emphasis. it began to be whispered that 'the old master had died suddenly, and hadn't time to send for a priest, indeed and he hadn't been at confession for many a long day; but still, a will doesn't take long to make.' mr. ratsch, too, thought well to change his mode of action. he did not affect good-nature and friendliness; he knew he would not impose upon me, but his face wore an expression of sulky resignation. 'you see, i give in,' he seemed to say. every one showed me deference, and tried to please me... while i did not know what to do or how to behave, and could only marvel that people failed to perceive how they were hurting me. at last semyon matveitch arrived. semyon matveitch was ten years younger than ivan matveitch, and his whole life had taken a completely different turn. he was a government official in petersburg, filling an important position.... he had married and been left early a widower; he had one son. in face semyon matveitch was like his brother, only he was shorter and stouter, and had a round bald head, bright black eyes, like ivan matveitch's, only more prominent, and full red lips. unlike his brother, whom he spoke of even after his death as a french philosopher, and sometimes bluntly as a queer fish, semyon matveitch almost invariably talked russian, loudly and fluently, and he was constantly laughing, completely closing his eyes as he did so and shaking all over in an unpleasant way, as though he were shaking with rage. he looked after things very sharply, went into everything himself, exacted the strictest account from every one. the very first day of his arrival he ordered a service with holy water, and sprinkled everything with water, all the rooms in the house, even the lofts and the cellars, in order, as he put it, 'radically to expel the voltairean and jacobin spirit.' in the first week several of ivan matveitch's favourites were sent to the right-about, one was even banished to a settlement, corporal punishment was inflicted on others; the old valet--he was a turk, knew french, and had been given to ivan matveitch by the late field-marshal kamensky--received his freedom, indeed, but with it a command to be gone within twenty-four hours, 'as an example to others.' semyon matveitch turned out to be a harsh master; many probably regretted the late owner. 'with the old master, ivan matveitch,' a butler, decrepit with age, wailed in my presence, 'our only trouble was to see that the linen put out was clean, and that the rooms smelt sweet, and that the servants' voices weren't heard in the passages--god forbid! for the rest, you might do as you pleased. the old master never hurt a fly in his life! ah, it's hard times now! it's time to die!' rapid, too, was the change in my position, that is to say in the position in which i had been placed for a few days against my own will.... no sort of will was found among ivan matveitch's papers, not a line written for my benefit. at once every one seemed in haste to avoid me.... i am not speaking of mr. ratsch... every one else, too, was angry with me, and tried to show their anger, as though i had deceived them. one sunday after matins, in which he invariably officiated at the altar, semyon matveitch sent for me. till that day i had seen him by glimpses, and he seemed not to have noticed me. he received me in his study, standing at the window. he was wearing an official uniform with two stars. i stood still, near the door; my heart was beating violently from fear and from another feeling, vague as yet, but still oppressive. 'i wish to see you, young lady,' began semyon matveitch, glancing first at my feet, and then suddenly into my eyes. the look was like a slap in the face. 'i wished to see you to inform you of my decision, and to assure you of my unhesitating inclination to be of service to you.' he raised his voice. 'claims, of course, you have none, but as... my brother's reader you may always reckon on my... my consideration. i am... of course convinced of your good sense and of your principles. mr. ratsch, your stepfather, has already received from me the necessary instructions. to which i must add that your attractive exterior seems to me a pledge of the excellence of your sentiments.' semyon matveitch went off into a thin chuckle, while i... i was not offended exactly... but i suddenly felt very sorry for myself... and at that moment i fully realised how utterly forsaken and alone i was. semyon matveitch went with short, firm steps to the table, took a roll of notes out of the drawer, and putting it in my hand, he added: 'here is a small sum from me for pocket-money. i won't forget you in future, my pretty; but good-bye for the present, and be a good girl.' i took the roll mechanically: i should have taken anything he had offered me, and going back to my own room, a long while i wept, sitting on my bed. i did not notice that i had dropped the roll of notes on the floor. mr. ratsch found it and picked it up, and, asking me what i meant to do with it, kept it for himself. an important change had taken place in his fortunes too in those days. after a few conversations with semyon matveitch, he became a great favourite, and soon after received the position of head steward. from that time dates his cheerfulness, that eternal laugh of his; at first it was an effort to adapt himself to his patron... in the end it became a habit. it was then, too, that he became a russian patriot. semyon matveitch was an admirer of everything national, he called himself 'a true russian bear,' and ridiculed the european dress, which he wore however. he sent away to a remote village a cook, on whose training ivan matveitch had spent vast sums: he sent him away because he had not known how to prepare pickled giblets. semyon matveitch used to stand at the altar and join in the responses with the deacons, and when the serf-girls were brought together to dance and sing choruses, he would join in their songs too, and beat time with his feet, and pinch their cheeks.... but he soon went back to petersburg, leaving my stepfather practically in complete control of the whole property. bitter days began for me.... my one consolation was music, and i gave myself up to it with my whole soul. fortunately mr. ratsch was very fully occupied, but he took every opportunity to make me feel his hostility; as he had promised, he 'did not forget' my refusal. he ill-treated me, made me copy his long and lying reports to semyon matveitch, and correct for him the mistakes in spelling. i was forced to obey him absolutely, and i did obey him. he announced that he meant to tame me, to make me as soft as silk. 'what do you mean by those mutinous eyes?' he shouted sometimes at dinner, drinking his beer, and slapping the table with his hand. 'you think, maybe, you're as silent as a sheep, so you must be all right.... oh, no! you'll please look at me like a sheep too!' my position became a torture, insufferable,... my heart was growing bitter. something dangerous began more and more frequently to stir within it. i passed nights without sleep and without a light, thinking, thinking incessantly; and in the darkness without and the gloom within, a fearful determination began to shape itself. the arrival of semyon matveitch gave another turn to my thoughts. no one had expected him. it turned out that he was retiring in unpleasant circumstances; he had hoped to receive the alexander ribbon, and they had presented him with a snuff-box. discontented with the government, which had failed to appreciate his talents, and with petersburg society, which had shown him little sympathy, and did not share his indignation, he determined to settle in the country, and devote himself to the management of his property. he arrived alone. his son, mihail semyonitch, arrived later, in the holidays for the new year. my stepfather was scarcely ever out of semyon matveitch's room; he still stood high in his good graces. he left me in peace; he had no time for me then... semyon matveitch had taken it into his head to start a paper factory. mr. ratsch had no knowledge whatever of manufacturing work, and semyon matveitch was aware of the fact; but then my stepfather was an active man (the favourite expression just then), an 'araktcheev!' that was just what semyon matveitch used to call him--'my araktcheev!' 'that's all i want,' semyon matveitch maintained; 'if there is zeal, i myself will direct it.' in the midst of his numerous occupations--he had to superintend the factory, the estate, the foundation of a counting-house, the drawing up of counting-house regulations, the creation of new offices and duties--semyon matveitch still had time to attend to me. i was summoned one evening to the drawing-room, and set to play the piano. semyon matveitch cared for music even less than his brother; he praised and thanked me, however, and next day i was invited to dine at the master's table. after dinner semyon matveitch had rather a long conversation with me, asked me questions, laughed at some of my replies, though there was, i remember, nothing amusing in them, and stared at me so strangely... i felt uncomfortable. i did not like his eyes, i did not like their open expression, their clear glance.... it always seemed to me that this very openness concealed something evil, that under that clear brilliance it was dark within in his soul. 'you shall not be my reader,' semyon matveitch announced to me at last, prinking and setting himself to rights in a repulsive way. 'i am, thank god, not blind yet, and can read myself; but coffee will taste better to me from your little hands, and i shall listen to your playing with pleasure.' from that day i always went over to the big house to dinner, and sometimes remained in the drawing-room till evening. i too, like my stepfather, was in favour: it was not a source of joy for me. semyon matveitch, i am bound to own, showed me a certain respect, but in the man there was, i felt it, something that repelled and alarmed me. and that 'something' showed itself not in words, but in his eyes, in those wicked eyes, and in his laugh. he never spoke to me of my father, of his brother, and it seemed to me that he avoided the subject, not because he did not want to excite ambitious ideas or pretensions in me, but from another cause, to which i could not give a definite shape, but which made me blush and feel bewildered.... towards christmas came his son, mihail semyonitch. ah, i feel i cannot go on as i have begun; these memories are too painful. especially now i cannot tell my story calmly.... but what is the use of concealment? i loved michel, and he loved me. how it came to pass--i am not going to describe that either. from the very evening when he came into the drawing-room--i was at the piano, playing a sonata of weber's when he came in--handsome and slender, in a velvet coat lined with sheepskin and high gaiters, just as he was, straight from the frost outside, and shaking his snow-sprinkled, sable cap, before he had greeted his father, glanced swiftly at me, and wondered--i knew that from that evening i could never forget him--i could never forget that good, young face. he began to speak... and his voice went straight to my heart.... a manly and soft voice, and in every sound such a true, honest nature! semyon matveitch was delighted at his son's arrival, embraced him, but at once asked, 'for a fortnight, eh? on leave, eh?' and sent me away. i sat a long while at my window, and gazed at the lights flitting to and fro in the rooms of the big house. i watched them, i listened to the new, unfamiliar voices; i was attracted by the cheerful commotion, and something new, unfamiliar, bright, flitted into my soul too.... the next day before dinner i had my first conversation with him. he had come across to see my stepfather with some message from semyon matveitch, and he found me in our little sitting-room. i was getting up to go; he detained me. he was very lively and unconstrained in all his movements and words, but of superciliousness or arrogance, of the tone of petersburg superiority, there was not a trace in him, and nothing of the officer, of the guardsman.... on the contrary, in the very freedom of his manner there was something appealing, almost shamefaced, as though he were begging you to overlook something. some people's eyes are never laughing, even at the moment of laughter; with _him_ it was the lips that almost never changed their beautiful line, while his eyes were almost always smiling. so we chatted for about an hour... what about i don't remember; i remember only that i looked him straight in the face all the while, and oh, how delightfully at ease i felt with him! in the evening i played on the piano. he was very fond of music, and he sat down in a low chair, and laying his curly head on his arm, he listened intently. he did not once praise me, but i felt that he liked my playing, and i played with ardour. semyon matveitch, who was sitting near his son, looking through some plans, suddenly frowned. 'come, madam,' he said, smoothing himself down and buttoning himself up, as his manner was, 'that's enough; why are you trilling away like a canary? it's enough to make one's head ache. for us old folks you wouldn't exert yourself so, no fear...' he added in an undertone, and again he sent me away. michel followed me to the door with his eyes, and got up from his seat. 'where are you off to? where are you off to?' cried semyon matveitch, and he suddenly laughed, and then said something more... i could not catch his words; but mr. ratsch, who was present, sitting in a corner of the drawing-room (he was always 'present,' and that time he had brought in the plans), laughed, and his laugh reached my ears.... the same thing, or almost the same thing, was repeated the following evening... semyon matveitch grew suddenly cooler to me. four days later i met michel in the corridor that divided the big house in two. he took me by the hand, and led me to a room near the dining-room, which was called the portrait gallery. i followed him, not without emotion, but with perfect confidence. even then, i believe, i would have followed him to the end of the world, though i had as yet no suspicion of all that he was to me. alas, i loved him with all the passion, all the despair of a young creature who not only has no one to love, but feels herself an uninvited and unnecessary guest among strangers, among enemies!... michel said to me--and it was strange! i looked boldly, directly in his face, while he did not look at me, and flushed slightly--he said to me that he understood my position, and sympathised with me, and begged me to forgive his father.... 'as far as i'm concerned,' he added, 'i beseech you always to trust me, and believe me, to me you 're a sister--yes, a sister.' here he pressed my hand warmly. i was confused, it was my turn to look down; i had somehow expected something else, some other word. i began to thank him. 'no, please,'--he cut me short--'don't talk like that.... but remember, it's a brother's duty to defend his sister, and if you ever need protection, against any one whatever, rely upon me. i have not been here long, but i have seen a good deal already... and among other things, i see through your stepfather.' he squeezed my hand again, and left me. i found out later that michel had felt an aversion for mr. ratsch from his very first meeting with him. mr. ratsch tried to ingratiate himself with him too, but becoming convinced of the uselessness of his efforts, promptly took up himself an attitude of hostility to him, and not only did not disguise it from semyon matveitch, but, on the contrary, lost no opportunity of showing it, expressing, at the same time, his regret that he had been so unlucky as to displease the young heir. mr. ratsch had carefully studied semyon matveitch's character; his calculations did not lead him astray. 'this man's devotion to me admits of no doubt, for the very reason that after i am gone he will be ruined; my heir cannot endure him.'... this idea grew and strengthened in the old man's head. they say all persons in power, as they grow old, are readily caught by that bait, the bait of exclusive personal devotion.... semyon matveitch had good reason to call mr. ratsch his araktcheev.... he might well have called him another name too. 'you're not one to make difficulties,' he used to say to him. he had begun in this condescendingly familiar tone with him from the very first, and my stepfather would gaze fondly at semyon matveitch, let his head droop deprecatingly on one side, and laugh with good-humoured simplicity, as though to say, 'here i am, entirely in your hands.' ah, i feel my hands shaking, and my heart's thumping against the table on which i write at this moment. it's terrible for me to recall those days, and my blood boils.... but i will tell everything to the end... to the end! a new element had come into mr. ratsch's treatment of me during my brief period of favour. he began to be deferential to me, to be respectfully familiar with me, as though i had grown sensible, and become more on a level with him. 'you've done with your airs and graces,' he said to me one day, as we were going back from the big house to the lodge. 'quite right too! all those fine principles and delicate sentiments--moral precepts in fact--are not for us, young lady, they're not for poor folks.' when i had fallen out of favour, and michel did not think it necessary to disguise his contempt for mr. ratsch and his sympathy with me, the latter suddenly redoubled his severity with me; he was continually following me about, as though i were capable of any crime, and must be sharply looked after. 'you mind what i say,' he shouted, bursting without knocking into my room, in muddy boots and with his cap on his head; 'i won't put up with such goings on! i won't stand your stuck-up airs! you're not going to impose on me. i'll break your proud spirit.' and accordingly, one morning he informed me that the decree had gone forth from semyon matveitch that i was not to appear at the dinner-table for the future without special invitation.... i don't know how all this would have ended if it had not been for an event which was the final turning-point of my destiny.... michel was passionately fond of horses. he took it into his head to break in a young horse, which went well for a while, then began kicking and flung him out of the sledge.... he was brought home unconscious, with a broken arm and bruises on his chest. his father was panic-stricken; he sent for the best doctors from the town. they did a great deal for michel; but he had to lie down for a month. he did not play cards, the doctor forbade him to talk, and it was awkward for him to read, holding the book up in one hand all the while. it ended by semyon matveitch sending me in to his son, in my old capacity of reader. then followed hours i can never forget! i used to go in to michel directly after dinner, and sit at a little round table in the half-darkened window. he used to be lying down in a little room out of the drawing-room, at the further end, on a broad leather sofa in the empire style, with a gold bas-relief on its high, straight back. the bas-relief represented a marriage procession among the ancients. michel's head, thrown a little back on the pillow, always moved at once, and his pale face turned towards me: he smiled, his whole face brightened, he flung back his soft, damp curls, and said to me softly, 'good-morning, my kind sweet girl.' i took up the book--walter scott's novels were at the height of their fame in those days--the reading of ivanhoe has left a particularly vivid recollection in my mind.... i could not help my voice thrilling and quivering as i gave utterance to rebecca's speeches. i, too, had jewish blood, and was not my lot like hers? was i not, like rebecca, waiting on a sick man, dear to me? every time i removed my eyes from the page and lifted them to him, i met his eyes with the same soft, bright smile over all his face. we talked very little; the door into the drawing-room was invariably open and some one was always sitting there; but whenever it was quiet there, i used, i don't know why, to cease reading and look intently at michel, and he looked at me, and we both felt happy then and, as it were, glad and shamefaced, and everything, everything we told each other then without a gesture or a word! alas! our hearts came together, ran to meet each other, as underground streams flow together, unseen, unheard... and irresistibly. 'can you play chess or draughts?' he asked me one day. 'i can play chess a little,' i answered. 'that's good. tell them to bring a chess-board and push up the table.' i sat down beside the sofa, my heart was throbbing, i did not dare glance at michel,... yet from the window, across the room, how freely i had gazed at him! i began to set the chessmen... my fingers shook. 'i suggested it... not for the game,'... michel said in an undertone, also setting the pieces, 'but to have you nearer me.' i made no answer, but, without asking which should begin, moved a pawn... michel did not move in reply... i looked at him. his head was stretched a little forward; pale all over, with imploring eyes he signed towards my hand... whether i understood him... i don't remember, but something instantaneously whirled into my head.... hesitating, scarcely breathing, i took up the knight and moved it right across the board. michel bent down swiftly, and catching my fingers with his lips, and pressing them against the board, he began noiselessly and passionately kissing them.... i had no power, i had no wish to draw them back; with my other hand i hid my face, and tears, as i remember now, cold but blissful... oh, what blissful tears!... dropped one by one on the table. ah, i knew, with my whole heart i felt at that moment, all that he was who held my hand in his power! i knew that he was not a boy, carried away by a momentary impulse, not a don juan, not a military lovelace, but one of the noblest, the best of men... and he loved me! 'oh, my susanna!' i heard michel whisper, 'i will never make you shed other tears than these.' he was wrong... he did. but what use is there in dwelling on such memories... especially, especially now? michel and i swore to belong to each other. he knew that semyon matveitch would never let him marry me, and he did not conceal it from me. i had no doubt about it myself and i rejoiced, not that he did not deceive me--he _could not_ deceive--but that he did not try to delude himself. for myself i asked for nothing, and would have followed where and how he chose. 'you shall be my wife,' he repeated to me. 'i am not ivanhoe; i know that happiness is not with lady rowena.' michel soon regained his health. i could not continue going to see him, but everything was decided between us. i was already entirely absorbed in the future; i saw nothing of what was passing around me, as though i were floating on a glorious, calm, but rushing river, hidden in mist. but we were watched, we were being spied upon. once or twice i noticed my stepfather's malignant eyes, and heard his loathsome laugh.... but that laugh, those eyes as it were emerged for an instant from the mist... i shuddered, but forgot it directly, and surrendered myself again to the glorious, swift river... on the day before the departure of michel--we had planned together that he was to turn back secretly on the way and fetch me--i received from him through his trusted valet a note, in which he asked me to meet him at half-past nine in the summer billiard-room, a large, low-pitched room, built on to the big house in the garden. he wrote to me that he absolutely must speak with me and arrange things. i had twice already met michel in the billiard-room... i had the key of the outer door. as soon as it struck half-past nine i threw a warm wrap over my shoulders, stepped quietly out of the lodge, and made my way successfully over the crackling snow to the billiard-room. the moon, wrapped in vapour, stood a dim blur just over the ridge of the roof, and the wind whistled shrilly round the corner of the wall. a shiver passed over me, but i put the key into the lock, went into the room, closed the door behind me, turned round... a dark figure became visible against one of the walls, took a couple of steps forward, stopped... 'michel,' i whispered. 'michel is locked up by my orders, and this is i!' answered a voice, which seemed to rend my heart... before me stood semyon matveitch! i was rushing to escape, but he clutched at my arm. 'where are you off to, vile hussy?' he hissed. 'you 're quite equal to stolen interviews with young fools, so you'll have to be equal to the consequences.' i was numb with horror, but still struggled towards the door... in vain! like iron hooks the ringers of semyon matveitch held me tight. 'let me go, let me go,' i implored at last. 'i tell you you shan't stir!' semyon matveitch forced me to sit down. in the half-darkness i could not distinguish his face. i had turned away from him too, but i heard him breathing hard and grinding his teeth. i felt neither fear nor despair, but a sort of senseless amazement... a captured bird, i suppose, is numb like that in the claws of the kite... and semyon matveitch's hand, which still held me as fast, crushed me like some wild, ferocious claw.... 'aha!' he repeated; 'aha! so this is how it is... so it's come to this... ah, wait a bit!' i tried to get up, but he shook me with such violence that i almost shrieked with pain, and a stream of abuse, insult, and menace burst upon me... 'michel, michel, where are you? save me,' i moaned. semyon matveitch shook me again... that time i could not control myself... i screamed. that seemed to have some effect on him. he became a little quieter, let go my arm, but remained where he was, two steps from me, between me and the door. a few minutes passed... i did not stir; he breathed heavily as before. 'sit still,' he began at last, 'and answer me. let me see that your morals are not yet utterly corrupt, and that you are still capable of listening to the voice of reason. impulsive folly i can overlook, but stubborn obstinacy--never! my son...' there was a catch in his breath... 'mihail semyonitch has promised to marry you? hasn't he? answer me! has he promised, eh?' i answered, of course, nothing. semyon matveitch was almost flying into fury again. 'i take your silence as a sign of assent,' he went on, after a brief pause. 'and so you were plotting to be my daughter-in-law? a pretty notion! but you're not a child of four years old, and you must be fully aware that young boobies are never sparing of the wildest promises, if only they can gain their ends... but to say nothing of that, could you suppose that i--a noble gentleman of ancient family, semyon matveitch koltovsky--would ever give my consent to such a marriage? or did you mean to dispense with the parental blessing?... did you mean to run away, get married in secret, and then come back, go through a nice little farce, throw yourself at my feet, in the hope that the old man will be touched.... answer me, damn you!' i only bent my head. he could kill me, but to force me to speak--that was not in his power. he walked up and down a little. 'come, listen to me,' he began in a calmer voice. 'you mustn't think... don't imagine... i see one must talk to you in a different manner. listen; i understand your position. you are frightened, upset.... pull yourself together. at this moment i must seem to you a monster... a despot. but put yourself in my position too; how could i help being indignant, saying too much? and for all that i have shown you that i am not a monster, that i too have a heart. remember how i treated you on my arrival here and afterwards till... till lately... till the illness of mihail semyonitch. i don't wish to boast of my beneficence, but i should have thought simple gratitude ought to have held you back from the slippery path on which you were determined to enter!' semyon matveitch walked to and fro again, and standing still patted me lightly on the arm, on the very arm which still ached from his violence, and was for long after marked with blue bruises. 'to be sure,' he began again, 'we're headstrong... just a little headstrong! we don't care to take the trouble to think, we don't care to consider what our advantage consists in and where we ought to seek it. you ask me: where that advantage lies? you've no need to look far.... it's, maybe, close at hand.... here am i now. as a father, as head of the family i am bound to be particular.... it's my duty. but i'm a man at the same time, and you know that very well. undoubtedly i'm a practical person and of course cannot tolerate any sentimental nonsense; expectations that are quite inconsistent with everything, you must of course dismiss from your mind for really what sense is there in them?--not to speak of the immorality of such a proceeding.... you will assuredly realise all this yourself, when you have thought it over a little. and i say, simply and straightforwardly, i wouldn't confine myself to what i have done for you. i have always been prepared--and i am still prepared--to put your welfare on a sound footing, to guarantee you a secure position, because i know your value, i do justice to your talents, and your intelligence, and in fact... (here semyon matveitch stooped down to me a little)... you have such eyes that, i confess... though i am not a young man, yet to see them quite unmoved... i understand... is not an easy matter, not at all an easy matter.' these words sent a chill through me. i could scarcely believe my ears. for the first minute i fancied that semyon matveitch meant to bribe me to break with michel, to pay me 'compensation.'... but what was he saying? my eyes had begun to get used to the darkness and i could make out semyon matveitch's face. it was smiling, that old face, and he was walking to and fro with little steps, fidgeting restlessly before me.... 'well, what do you say,' he asked at last, 'does my offer please you?' 'offer?'... i repeated unconsciously,... i simply did not understand a word. semyon matveitch laughed... actually laughed his revolting thin laugh. 'to be sure,' he cried, 'you're all alike you young women'--he corrected himself--'young ladies... young ladies... you all dream of nothing else... you must have young men! you can't live without love! of course not. well, well! youth's all very well! but do you suppose that it's only young men that can love?... there are some older men, whose hearts are warmer... and when once an old man does take a fancy to any one, well--he's simply like a rock! it's for ever! not like these beardless, feather-brained young fools! yes, yes; you mustn't look down on old men! they can do so much! you've only to take them the right way! yes... yes! and as for kissing, old men know all about that too, he-he-he...' semyon matveitch laughed again. 'come, please... your little hand... just as a proof... that's all....' i jumped up from the chair, and with all my force i gave him a blow in the chest. he tottered, he uttered a sort of decrepit, scared sound, he almost fell down. there are no words in human language to express how loathsome and infinitely vile he seemed to me. every vestige of fear had left me. 'get away, despicable old man,' broke from my lips; 'get away, mr. koltovsky, you noble gentleman of ancient family! i, too, am of your blood, the blood of the koltovskys, and i curse the day and the hour when i was born of that ancient family!' 'what!... what are you saying!... what!' stammered semyon matveitch, gasping for breath. 'you dare... at the very minute when i've caught you... when you came to meet misha... eh? eh? eh?' but i could not stop myself.... something relentless, desperate was roused up within me. 'and you, you, the brother... of your brother, you had the insolence, you dared... what did you take me for? can you be so blind as not to have seen long ago the loathing you arouse in me?... you dare use the word offer!... let me out at once, this instant!' i moved towards the door. 'oh, indeed! oh, oh! so this is what she says!' semyon matveitch piped shrilly, in a fit of violent fury, but obviously not able to make up his mind to come near me.... 'wait a bit, mr. ratsch, ivan demianitch, come here!' the door of the billiard-room opposite the one i was near flew wide open, and my stepfather appeared, with a lighted candelabrum in each hand. his round, red face, lighted up on both sides, was beaming with the triumph of satisfied revenge, and slavish delight at having rendered valuable service.... oh, those loathsome white eyes! when shall i cease to behold them? 'be so good as to take this girl at once,' cried semyon matveitch, turning to my stepfather and imperiously pointing to me with a shaking hand. 'be so good as to take her home and put her under lock and key... so that she... can't stir a finger, so that not a fly can get in to her! till further orders from me! board up the windows if need be! you'll answer for her with your head!' mr. ratsch set the candelabra on the billiard-table, made semyon matveitch a low bow, and with a slight swagger and a malignant smile, moved towards me. a cat, i imagine, approaches a mouse who has no chance of escape in that way. all my daring left me in an instant. i knew the man was capable of... beating me. i began to tremble; yes; oh, shame! oh ignominy! i shivered. 'now, then, madam,' said mr. ratsch, 'kindly come along.' he took me, without haste, by the arm above the elbow.... he saw that i should not resist. of my own accord i pushed forward towards the door; at that instant i had but one thought in my mind, to escape as quickly as possible from the presence of semyon matveitch. but the loathsome old man darted up to us from behind, and ratsch stopped me and turned me round face to face with his patron. 'ah!' the latter shouted, shaking his fist; 'ah! so i'm the brother... of my brother, am i? ties of blood! eh? but a cousin, a first cousin you could marry? you could? eh? take her, you!' he turned to my stepfather. 'and remember, keep a sharp look-out! the slightest communication with her--and no punishment will be too severe.... take her!' mr. ratsch conducted me to my room. crossing the courtyard, he said nothing, but kept laughing noiselessly to himself. he closed the shutters and the doors, and then, as he was finally returning, he bowed low to me as he had to semyon matveitch, and went off into a ponderous, triumphant guffaw! 'good-night to your highness,' he gasped out, choking: 'she didn't catch her fairy prince! what a pity! it wasn't a bad idea in its way! it's a lesson for the future: not to keep up correspondence! ho-ho-ho! how capitally it has all turned out though!' he went out, and all of a sudden poked his head in at the door. 'well? i didn't forget you, did i? hey? i kept my promise, didn't i? ho-ho!' the key creaked in the lock. i breathed freely. i had been afraid he would tie my hands... but they were my own, they were free! i instantly wrenched the silken cord off my dressing-gown, made a noose, and was putting it on my neck, but i flung the cord aside again at once. 'i won't please you!' i said aloud. 'what madness, really! can i dispose of my life without michel's leave, my life, which i have surrendered into his keeping? no, cruel wretches! no! you have not won your game yet! he will save me, he will tear me out of this hell, he... my michel!' but then i remembered that he was shut up just as i was, and i flung myself, face downwards, on my bed, and sobbed... and sobbed.... and only the thought that my tormentor was perhaps at the door, listening and triumphing, only that thought forced me to swallow my tears.... i am worn out. i have been writing since morning, and now it is evening; if once i tear myself from this sheet of paper, i shall not be capable of taking up the pen again.... i must hasten, hasten to the finish! and besides, to dwell on the hideous things that followed that dreadful day is beyond my strength! twenty-four hours later i was taken in a closed cart to an isolated hut, surrounded by peasants, who were to watch me, and kept shut up for six whole weeks! i was not for one instant alone.... later on i learnt that my stepfather had set spies to watch both michel and me ever since his arrival, that he had bribed the servant, who had given me michel's note. i ascertained too that an awful, heart-rending scene had taken place the next morning between the son and the father.... the father had cursed him. michel for his part had sworn he would never set foot in his father's house again, and had set off to petersburg. but the blow aimed at me by my stepfather rebounded upon himself. semyon matveitch announced that he could not have him remaining there, and managing the estate any longer. awkward service, it seems, is an unpardonable offence, and some one must be fixed upon to bear the brunt of the _scandal_. semyon matveitch recompensed mr. ratsch liberally, however: he gave him the necessary means to move to moscow and to establish himself there. before the departure for moscow, i was brought back to the lodge, but kept as before under the strictest guard. the loss of the 'snug little berth,' of which he was being deprived 'thanks to me,' increased my stepfather's vindictive rage against me more than ever. 'why did you make such a fuss?' he would say, almost snorting with indignation; 'upon my word! the old chap, of course, got a little too hot, was a little too much in a hurry, and so he made a mess of it; now, of course, his vanity's hurt, there's no setting the mischief right again now! if you'd only waited a day or two, it'd all have been right as a trivet; you wouldn't have been kept on dry bread, and i should have stayed what i was! ah, well, women's hair is long... but their wit is short! never mind; i'll be even with you yet, and that pretty young gentleman shall smart for it too!' i had, of course, to bear all these insults in silence. semyon matveitch i did not once see again. the separation from his son had been a shock to him too. whether he felt remorse or--which is far more likely--wished to bind me for ever to my home, to my family--my family!--anyway, he assigned me a pension, which was to be paid into my stepfather's hands, and to be given to me till i married.... this humiliating alms, this pension i still receive... that is to say, mr. ratsch receives it for me.... we settled in moscow. i swear by the memory of my poor mother, i would not have remained two days, not two hours, with my stepfather, after once reaching the town... i would have gone away, not knowing where... to the police; i would have flung myself at the feet of the governor-general, of the senators; i don't know what i would have done, if it had not happened, at the very moment of our starting from the country, that the girl who had been our maid managed to give me a letter from michel! oh, that letter! how many times i read over each line, how many times i covered it with kisses! michel besought me not to lose heart, to go on hoping, to believe in his unchanging love; he swore that he would never belong to any one but me; he called me his wife, he promised to overcome all hindrances, he drew a picture of our future, he asked of me only one thing, to be patient, to wait a little.... and i resolved to wait and be patient. alas! what would i not have agreed to, what would i not have borne, simply to do his will! that letter became my holy thing, my guiding star, my anchor. sometimes when my stepfather would begin abusing and insulting me, i would softly lay my hand on my bosom (i wore michel's letter sewed into an amulet) and only smile. and the more violent and abusive was mr. ratsch, the easier, lighter, and sweeter was the heart within me.... i used to see, at last, by his eyes, that he began to wonder whether i was going out of my mind.... following on this first letter came a second, still more full of hope.... it spoke of our meeting soon. alas! instead of that meeting there came a morning... i can see mr. ratsch coming in--and triumph again, malignant triumph, in his face--and in his hands a page of the _invalid_, and there the announcement of the death of the captain of the guards--mihail koltovsky. what can i add? i remained alive, and went on living in mr. ratsch's house. he hated me as before--more than before--he had unmasked his black soul too much before me, he could not pardon me that. but that was of no consequence to me. i became, as it were, without feeling; my own fate no longer interested me. to think of him, to think of him! i had no interest, no joy, but that. my poor michel died with my name on his lips.... i was told so by a servant, devoted to him, who had been with him when he came into the country. the same year my stepfather married eleonora karpovna. semyon matveitch died shortly after. in his will he secured to me and increased the pension he had allowed me.... in the event of my death, it was to pass to mr. ratsch.... two--three--years passed... six years, seven years.... life has been passing, ebbing away... while i merely watched how it was ebbing. as in childhood, on some river's edge one makes a little pond and dams it up, and tries in all sorts of ways to keep the water from soaking through, from breaking in. but at last the water breaks in, and then you abandon all your vain efforts, and you are glad instead to watch all that you had guarded ebbing away to the last drop.... so i lived, so i existed, till at last a new, unhoped-for ray of warmth and light....' the manuscript broke off at this word; the following leaves had been torn off, and several lines completing the sentence had been crossed through and blotted out. xviii the reading of this manuscript so upset me, the impression made by susanna's visit was so great, that i could not sleep all night, and early in the morning i sent an express messenger to fustov with a letter, in which i besought him to come to moscow as soon as possible, as his absence might have the most terrible results. i mentioned also my interview with susanna, and the manuscript she had left in my hands. after having sent off the letter, i did not go out of the house all day, and pondered all the time on what might be happening at the ratsches'. i could not make up my mind to go there myself. i could not help noticing though that my aunt was in a continual fidget; she ordered pastilles to be burnt every minute, and dealt the game of patience, known as 'the traveller,' which is noted as a game in which one can never succeed. the visit of an unknown lady, and at such a late hour, had not been kept secret from her: her imagination at once pictured a yawning abyss on the edge of which i was standing, and she was continually sighing and moaning and murmuring french sentences, quoted from a little manuscript book entitled _extraits de lecture_. in the evening i found on the little table at my bedside the treatise of de girando, laid open at the chapter: on the evil influence of the passions. this book had been put in my room, at my aunt's instigation of course, by the elder of her companions, who was called in the household amishka, from her resemblance to a little poodle of that name, and was a very sentimental, not to say romantic, though elderly, maiden lady. all the following day was spent in anxious expectation of fustov's coming, of a letter from him, of news from the ratsches' house... though on what ground could they have sent to me? susanna would be more likely to expect me to visit her.... but i positively could not pluck up courage to see her without first talking to fustov. i recalled every expression in my letter to him.... i thought it was strong enough; at last, late in the evening, he appeared. xix he came into my room with his habitual, rapid, but deliberate step. his face struck me as pale, and though it showed traces of the fatigue of the journey, there was an expression of astonishment, curiosity, and dissatisfaction--emotions of which he had little experience as a rule. i rushed up to him, embraced him, warmly thanked him for obeying me, and after briefly describing my conversation with susanna, handed him the manuscript. he went off to the window, to the very window in which susanna had sat two days before, and without a word to me, he fell to reading it. i at once retired to the opposite corner of the room, and for appearance' sake took up a book; but i must own i was stealthily looking over the edge of the cover all the while at fustov. at first he read rather calmly, and kept pulling with his left hand at the down on his lip; then he let his hand drop, bent forward and did not stir again. his eyes seemed to fly along the lines and his mouth slightly opened. at last he finished the manuscript, turned it over, looked round, thought a little, and began reading it all through a second time from beginning to end. then he got up, put the manuscript in his pocket and moved towards the door; but he turned round and stopped in the middle of the room. 'well, what do you think?' i began, not waiting for him to speak. 'i have acted wrongly towards her,' fustov declared thickly. 'i have behaved... rashly, unpardonably, cruelly. i believed that... viktor--' 'what!' i cried; 'that viktor whom you despise so! but what could he say to you?' fustov crossed his arms and stood obliquely to me. he was ashamed, i saw that. 'do you remember,' he said with some effort, 'that... viktor alluded to... a pension. that unfortunate word stuck in my head. it's the cause of everything. i began questioning him.... well, and he--' 'what did he say?' 'he told me that the old man... what's his name?... koltovsky, had allowed susanna that pension because... on account of... well, in fact, by way of damages.' i flung up my hands. 'and you believed him?' fustov nodded. 'yes! i believed him.... he said, too, that with the young one... in fact, my behaviour is unjustifiable.' 'and you went away so as to break everything off?' 'yes; that's the best way... in such cases. i acted savagely, savagely,' he repeated. we were both silent. each of us felt that the other was ashamed; but it was easier for me; i was not ashamed of myself. xx 'i would break every bone in that viktor's body now,' pursued fustov, clenching his teeth, 'if i didn't recognise that i'm in fault. i see now what the whole trick was contrived for, with susanna's marriage they would lose the pension.... wretches!' i took his hand. 'alexander,' i asked him, 'have you been to her?' 'no; i came straight to you on arriving. i'll go to-morrow... early to-morrow. things can't be left so. on no account!' 'but you... love her, alexander?' fustov seemed offended. 'of course i love her. i am very much attached to her.' 'she's a splendid, true-hearted girl!' i cried. fustov stamped impatiently. 'well, what notion have you got in your head? i was prepared to marry her--she's been baptized--i'm ready to marry her even now, i'd been thinking of it, though she's older than i am.' at that instant i suddenly fancied that a pale woman's figure was seated in the window, leaning on her arms. the lights had burnt down; it was dark in the room. i shivered, looked more intently, and saw nothing, of course, in the window seat; but a strange feeling, a mixture of horror, anguish and pity, came over me. 'alexander!' i began with sudden intensity, 'i beg you, i implore you, go at once to the ratsches', don't put it off till to-morrow! an inner voice tells me that you really ought to see susanna to-day!' fustov shrugged his shoulders. 'what are you talking about, really! it's eleven o'clock now, most likely they're all in bed.' 'no matter.... do go, for goodness' sake! i have a presentiment.... please do as i say! go at once, take a sledge....' 'come, what nonsense!' fustov responded coolly; 'how could i go now? to-morrow morning i will be there, and everything will be cleared up.' 'but, alexander, remember, she said that she was dying, that you would not find her... and if you had seen her face! only think, imagine, to make up her mind to come to me... what it must have cost her....' 'she's a little high-flown,' observed fustov, who had apparently regained his self-possession completely. 'all girls are like that... at first. i repeat, everything will be all right to-morrow. meanwhile, good-bye. i'm tired, and you're sleepy too.' he took his cap, and went out of the room. 'but you promise to come here at once, and tell me all about it?' i called after him. 'i promise.... good-bye!' i went to bed, but in my heart i was uneasy, and i felt vexed with my friend. i fell asleep late and dreamed that i was wandering with susanna along underground, damp passages of some sort, and crawling along narrow, steep staircases, and continually going deeper and deeper down, though we were trying to get higher up out into the air. some one was all the while incessantly calling us in monotonous, plaintive tones. xxi some one's hand lay on my shoulder and pushed it several times.... i opened my eyes and in the faint light of the solitary candle, i saw fustov standing before me. he frightened me. he was staggering; his face was yellow, almost the same colour as his hair; his lips seemed hanging down, his muddy eyes were staring senselessly away. what had become of his invariably amiable, sympathetic expression? i had a cousin who from epilepsy was sinking into idiocy.... fustov looked like him at that moment. i sat up hurriedly. 'what is it? what is the matter? heavens!' he made no answer. 'why, what has happened? fustov! do speak! susanna?...' fustov gave a slight start. 'she...' he began in a hoarse voice, and broke off. 'what of her? have you seen her?' he stared at me. 'she's no more.' 'no more?' 'no. she is dead.' i jumped out of bed. 'dead? susanna? dead?' fustov turned his eyes away again. 'yes; she is dead; she died at midnight.' 'he's raving!' crossed my mind. 'at midnight! and what's the time now?' 'it's eight o'clock in the morning now. they sent to tell me. she is to be buried to-morrow.' i seized him by the hand. 'alexander, you're not delirious? are you in your senses?' 'i am in my senses,' he answered. 'directly i heard it, i came straight to you.' my heart turned sick and numb, as always happens on realising an irrevocable misfortune. 'my god! my god! dead!' i repeated. 'how is it possible? so suddenly! or perhaps she took her own life?' 'i don't know,' said fustov, 'i know nothing. they told me she died at midnight. and to-morrow she will be buried.' 'at midnight!' i thought.... 'then she was still alive yesterday when i fancied i saw her in the window, when i entreated him to hasten to her....' 'she was still alive yesterday, when you wanted to send me to ivan demianitch's,' said fustov, as though guessing my thought. 'how little he knew her!' i thought again. 'how little we both knew her! "high-flown," said he, "all girls are like that."... and at that very minute, perhaps, she was putting to her lips... can one love any one and be so grossly mistaken in them?' fustov stood stockstill before my bed, his hands hanging, like a guilty man. xxii i dressed hurriedly. 'what do you mean to do now, alexander?' i asked. he gazed at me in bewilderment, as though marvelling at the absurdity of my question. and indeed what was there to do? 'you simply must go to them, though,' i began. 'you're bound to ascertain how it happened; there is, possibly, a crime concealed. one may expect anything of those people.... it is all to be thoroughly investigated. remember the statement in her manuscript, the pension was to cease on her marriage, but in event of her death it was to pass to ratsch. in any case, one must render her the last duty, pay homage to her remains!' i talked to fustov like a preceptor, like an elder brother. in the midst of all that horror, grief, bewilderment, a sort of unconscious feeling of superiority over fustov had suddenly come to the surface in me.... whether from seeing him crushed by the consciousness of his fault, distracted, shattered, whether that a misfortune befalling a man almost always humiliates him, lowers him in the opinion of others, 'you can't be much,' is felt, 'if you hadn't the wit to come off better than that!' god knows! any way, fustov seemed to me almost like a child, and i felt pity for him, and saw the necessity of severity. i held out a helping hand to him, stooping down to him from above. only a woman's sympathy is free from condescension. but fustov continued to gaze with wild and stupid eyes at me--my authoritative tone obviously had no effect on him, and to my second question, 'you're going to them, i suppose?' he replied-'no, i'm not going.' 'what do you mean, really? don't you want to ascertain for yourself, to investigate, how, and what? perhaps, she has left a letter... a document of some sort....' fustov shook his head. 'i can't go there,' he said. 'that's what i came to you for, to ask you to go... for me... i can't... i can't....' fustov suddenly sat down to the table, hid his face in both hands, and sobbed bitterly. 'alas, alas!' he kept repeating through his tears; 'alas, poor girl... poor girl... i loved... i loved her... alas!' i stood near him, and i am bound to confess, not the slightest sympathy was excited in me by those incontestably sincere sobs. i simply marvelled that fustov could cry _like that_, and it seemed to me that _now_ i knew what a small person he was, and that i should, in his place, have acted quite differently. what's one to make of it? if fustov had remained quite unmoved, i should perhaps have hated him, have conceived an aversion for him, but he would not have sunk in my esteem.... he would have kept his prestige. don juan would have remained don juan! very late in life, and only after many experiences, does a man learn, at the sight of a fellow-creature's real failing or weakness, to sympathise with him, and help him without a secret self-congratulation at his own virtue and strength, but on the contrary, with every humility and comprehension of the naturalness, almost the inevitableness, of sin. xxiii i was very bold and resolute in sending fustov to the ratsches'; but when i set out there myself at twelve o'clock (nothing would induce fustov to go with me, he only begged me to give him an exact account of everything), when round the corner of the street their house glared at me in the distance with a yellowish blur from the coffin candles at one of the windows, an indescribable panic made me hold my breath, and i would gladly have turned back.... i mastered myself, however, and went into the passage. it smelt of incense and wax; the pink cover of the coffin, edged with silver lace, stood in a corner, leaning against the wall. in one of the adjoining rooms, the dining-room, the monotonous muttering of the deacon droned like the buzzing of a bee. from the drawing-room peeped out the sleepy face of a servant girl, who murmured in a subdued voice, 'come to do homage to the dead?' she indicated the door of the dining-room. i went in. the coffin stood with the head towards the door; the black hair of susanna under the white wreath, above the raised lace of the pillow, first caught my eyes. i went up sidewards, crossed myself, bowed down to the ground, glanced... merciful god! what a face of agony! unhappy girl! even death had no pity on her, had denied her--beauty, that would be little--even that peace, that tender and impressive peace which is often seen on the faces of the newly dead. the little, dark, almost brown, face of susanna recalled the visages on old, old holy pictures. and the expression on that face! it looked as though she were on the point of shrieking--a shriek of despair--and had died so, uttering no sound... even the line between the brows was not smoothed out, and the fingers on the hands were bent back and clenched. i turned away my eyes involuntarily; but, after a brief interval, i forced myself to look, to look long and attentively at her. pity filled my soul, and not pity alone. 'that girl died by violence,' i decided inwardly; 'that's beyond doubt.' while i was standing looking at the dead girl, the deacon, who on my entrance had raised his voice and uttered a few disconnected sounds, relapsed into droning again, and yawned twice. i bowed to the ground a second time, and went out into the passage. in the doorway of the drawing-room mr. ratsch was already on the look-out for me, dressed in a gay-coloured dressing-gown. beckoning to me with his hand, he led me to his own room--i had almost said, to his lair. the room, dark and close, soaked through and through with the sour smell of stale tobacco, suggested a comparison with the lair of a wolf or a fox. xxiv 'rupture! rupture of the external... of the external covering.... you understand.., the envelopes of the heart!' said mr. ratsch, directly the door closed. 'such a misfortune! only yesterday evening there was nothing to notice, and all of a sudden, all in a minute, all was over! it's a true saying, "heute roth, morgen todt!" it's true; it's what was to be expected. i always expected it. at tambov the regimental doctor, galimbovsky, vikenty kasimirovitch.... you've probably heard of him... a first-rate medical man, a specialist--' 'it's the first time i've heard the name,' i observed. 'well, no matter; any way he was always,' pursued mr. ratsch, at first in a low voice, and then louder and louder, and, to my surprise, with a perceptible german accent, 'he was always warning me: "ay, ivan demianitch! ay! my dear boy, you must be careful! your stepdaughter has an organic defect in the heart--hypertrophia cordialis! the least thing and there'll be trouble! she must avoid all exciting emotions above all.... you must appeal to her reason."... but, upon my word, with a young lady... can one appeal to reason? ha... ha... ha...' mr. ratsch was, through long habit, on the point of laughing, but he recollected himself in time, and changed the incipient guffaw into a cough. and this was what mr. ratsch said! after all that i had found out about him!... i thought it my duty, however, to ask him whether a doctor was called in. mr. ratsch positively bounced into the air. 'to be sure there was.... two were summoned, but it was already over--abgemacht! and only fancy, both, as though they were agreeing' (mr. ratsch probably meant, as though they had agreed), 'rupture! rupture of the heart! that's what, with one voice, they cried out. they proposed a post-mortem; but i... you understand, did not consent to that.' 'and the funeral's to-morrow?' i queried. 'yes, yes, to-morrow, to-morrow we bury our dear one! the procession will leave the house precisely at eleven o'clock in the morning.... from here to the church of st. nicholas on hen's legs... what strange names your russian churches do have, you know! then to the last resting-place in mother earth. you will come! we have not been long acquainted, but i make bold to say, the amiability of your character and the elevation of your sentiments!...' i made haste to nod my head. 'yes, yes, yes,' sighed mr. ratsch. 'it... it really has been, as they say, a thunderbolt from a clear sky! ein blitz aus heiterem himmel!' 'and susanna ivanovna said nothing before her death, left nothing?' 'nothing, positively! not a scrap of anything! not a bit of paper! only fancy, when they called me to her, when they waked me up--she was stiff already! very distressing it was for me; she has grieved us all terribly! alexander daviditch will be sorry too, i dare say, when he knows.... they say he is not in moscow.' 'he did leave town for a few days...' i began. 'viktor ivanovitch is complaining they're so long getting his sledge harnessed,' interrupted a servant girl coming in--the same girl i had seen in the passage. her face, still looking half-awake, struck me this time by the expression of coarse insolence to be seen in servants when they know that their masters are in their power, and that they do not dare to find fault or be exacting with them. 'directly, directly,' ivan demianitch responded nervously. 'eleonora karpovna! leonora! lenchen! come here!' there was a sound of something ponderous moving the other side of the door, and at the same instant i heard viktor's imperious call: 'why on earth don't they put the horses in? you don't catch me trudging off to the police on foot!' 'directly, directly,' ivan demianitch faltered again. 'eleonora karpovna, come here!' 'but, ivan demianitch,' i heard her voice, 'ich habe keine toilette gemacht!' 'macht nichts. komm herein!' eleonora karpovna came in, holding a kerchief over her neck with two fingers. she had on a morning wrapper, not buttoned up, and had not yet done her hair. ivan demianitch flew up to her. 'you hear, viktor's calling for the horses,' he said, hurriedly pointing his finger first to the door, then to the window. 'please, do see to it, as quick as possible! der kerl schreit so!' 'der viktor schreit immer, ivan demianitch, sie wissen wohl,' responded eleonora karpovna, 'and i have spoken to the coachman myself, but he's taken it into his head to give the horses oats. fancy, what a calamity to happen so suddenly,' she added, turning to me; 'who could have expected such a thing of susanna ivanovna?' 'i was always expecting it, always!' cried ratsch, and threw up his arms, his dressing-gown flying up in front as he did so, and displaying most repulsive unmentionables of chamois leather, with buckles on the belt. 'rupture of the heart! rupture of the external membrane! hypertrophy!' 'to be sure,' eleonora karpovna repeated after him, 'hyper... well, so it is. only it's a terrible, terrible grief to me, i say again...' and her coarse-featured face worked a little, her eyebrows rose into the shape of triangles, and a tiny tear rolled over her round cheek, that looked varnished like a doll's.... 'i'm very sorry that such a young person who ought to have lived and enjoyed everything... everything... and to fall into despair so suddenly!' 'na! gut, gut... geh, alte!' mr. ratsch cut her short. 'geh' schon, geh' schon,' muttered eleonora karpovna, and she went away, still holding the kerchief with her fingers, and shedding tears. and i followed her. in the passage stood viktor in a student's coat with a beaver collar and a cap stuck jauntily on one side. he barely glanced at me over his shoulder, shook his collar up, and did not nod to me, for which i mentally thanked him. i went back to fustov. xxv i found my friend sitting in a corner of his room with downcast head and arms folded across his breast. he had sunk into a state of numbness, and he gazed around him with the slow, bewildered look of a man who has slept very heavily and has only just been waked. i told him all about my visit to ratsch's, repeated the veteran's remarks and those of his wife, described the impression they had made on me and informed him of my conviction that the unhappy girl had taken her own life.... fustov listened to me with no change of expression, and looked about him with the same bewildered air. 'did you see her?' he asked me at last. 'yes.' 'in the coffin?' fustov seemed to doubt whether susanna were really dead. 'in the coffin.' fustov's face twitched and he dropped his eyes and softly rubbed his hands. 'are you cold?' i asked him. 'yes, old man, i'm cold,' he answered hesitatingly, and he shook his head stupidly. i began to explain my reasons for thinking that susanna had poisoned herself or perhaps had been poisoned, and that the matter could not be left so.... fustov stared at me. 'why, what is there to be done?' he said, slowly opening his eyes wide and slowly closing them. 'why, it'll be worse... if it's known about. they won't bury her. we must let things... alone.' this idea, simple as it was, had never entered my head. my friend's practical sense had not deserted him. 'when is... her funeral?' he went on. 'to-morrow.' 'are you going?' 'yes.' 'to the house or straight to the church?' 'to the house and to the church too; and from there to the cemetery.' 'but i shan't go... i can't, i can't!' whispered fustov and began crying. it was at these same words that he had broken into sobs in the morning. i have noticed that it is often so with weeping; as though to certain words, for the most of no great meaning,--but just to these words and to no others--it is given to open the fount of tears in a man, to break him down, and to excite in him the feeling of pity for others and himself... i remember a peasant woman was once describing before me the sudden death of her daughter, and she fairly dissolved and could not go on with her tale as soon as she uttered the phrase, 'i said to her, fekla. and she says, "mother, where have you put the salt... the salt... sa-alt?"' the word 'salt' overpowered her. but again, as in the morning, i was but little moved by fustov's tears. i could not conceive how it was he did not ask me if susanna had not left something for him. altogether their love for one another was a riddle to me; and a riddle it remained to me. after weeping for ten minutes fustov got up, lay down on the sofa, turned his face to the wall, and remained motionless. i waited a little, but seeing that he did not stir, and made no answer to my questions, i made up my mind to leave him. i am perhaps doing him injustice, but i almost believe he was asleep. though indeed that would be no proof that he did not feel sorrow... only his nature was so constituted as to be unable to support painful emotions for long... his nature was too awfully well-balanced! xxvi the next day exactly at eleven o'clock i was at the place. fine hail was falling from the low-hanging sky, there was a slight frost, a thaw was close at hand, but there were cutting, disagreeable gusts of wind flitting across in the air.... it was the most thoroughly lenten, cold-catching weather. i found mr. ratsch on the steps of his house. in a black frock-coat adorned with crape, with no hat on his head, he fussed about, waved his arms, smote himself on the thighs, shouted up to the house, and then down into the street, in the direction of the funeral car with a white catafalque, already standing there with two hired carriages. near it four garrison soldiers, with mourning capes over their old coats, and mourning hats pulled over their screwed-up eyes, were pensively scratching in the crumbling snow with the long stems of their unlighted torches. the grey shock of hair positively stood up straight above the red face of mr. ratsch, and his voice, that brazen voice, was cracking from the strain he was putting on it. 'where are the pine branches? pine branches! this way! the branches of pine!' he yelled. 'they'll be bearing out the coffin directly! the pine! hand over those pine branches! look alive!' he cried once more, and dashed into the house. it appeared that in spite of my punctuality, i was late: mr. ratsch had thought fit to hurry things forward. the service in the house was already over; the priests--of whom one wore a calotte, and the other, rather younger, had most carefully combed and oiled his hair--appeared with all their retinue on the steps. the coffin too appeared soon after, carried by a coachman, two door-keepers, and a water-carrier. mr. ratsch walked behind, with the tips of his fingers on the coffin lid, continually repeating, 'easy, easy!' behind him waddled eleonora karpovna in a black dress, also adorned with crape, surrounded by her whole family; after all of them, viktor stepped out in a new uniform with a sword with crape round the handle. the coffin-bearers, grumbling and altercating among themselves, laid the coffin on the hearse; the garrison soldiers lighted their torches, which at once began crackling and smoking; a stray old woman, who had joined herself on to the party, raised a wail; the deacons began to chant, the fine snow suddenly fell faster and whirled round like 'white flies.' mr. ratsch bawled, 'in god's name! start!' and the procession started. besides mr. ratsch's family, there were in all five men accompanying the hearse: a retired and extremely shabby officer of roads and highways, with a faded stanislas ribbon--not improbably hired--on his neck; the police superintendent's assistant, a diminutive man with a meek face and greedy eyes; a little old man in a fustian smock; an extremely fat fishmonger in a tradesman's bluejacket, smelling strongly of his calling, and i. the absence of the female sex (for one could hardly count as such two aunts of eleonora karpovna, sisters of the sausagemaker, and a hunchback old maiden lady with blue spectacles on her blue nose), the absence of girl friends and acquaintances struck me at first; but on thinking it over i realised that susanna, with her character, her education, her memories, could not have made friends in the circle in which she was living. in the church there were a good many people assembled, more outsiders than acquaintances, as one could see by the expression of their faces. the service did not last long. what surprised me was that mr. ratsch crossed himself with great fervour, quite as though he were of the orthodox faith, and even chimed in with the deacons in the responses, though only with the notes not with the words. when at last it came to taking leave of the dead, i bowed low, but did not give the last kiss. mr. ratsch, on the contrary, went through this terrible ordeal with the utmost composure, and with a deferential inclination of his person invited the officer of the stanislas ribbon to the coffin, as though offering him entertainment, and picking his children up under the arms swung them up in turn and held them up to the body. eleonora karpovna, on taking farewell of susanna, suddenly broke into a roar that filled the church; but she was soon soothed and continually asked in an exasperated whisper, 'but where's my reticule?' viktor held himself aloof, and seemed to be trying by his whole demeanour to convey that he was out of sympathy with all such customs and was only performing a social duty. the person who showed the most sympathy was the little old man in the smock, who had been, fifteen years before, a land surveyor in the tambov province, and had not seen ratsch since then. he did not know susanna at all, but had drunk a couple of glasses of spirits at the sideboard before starting. my aunt had also come to the church. she had somehow or other found out that the deceased woman was the very lady who had paid me a visit, and had been thrown into a state of indescribable agitation! she could not bring herself to suspect me of any sort of misconduct, but neither could she explain such a strange chain of circumstances.... not improbably she imagined that susanna had been led by love for me to commit suicide, and attired in her darkest garments, with an aching heart and tears, she prayed on her knees for the peace of the soul of the departed, and put a rouble candle before the picture of the consolation of sorrow.... 'amishka' had come with her too, and she too prayed, but was for the most part gazing at me, horror-stricken.... that elderly spinster, alas! did not regard me with indifference. on leaving the church, my aunt distributed all her money, more than ten roubles, among the poor. at last the farewell was over. they began closing the coffin. during the whole service i had not courage to look straight at the poor girl's distorted face; but every time that my eyes passed by it--'he did not come, he did not come,' it seemed to me that it wanted to say. they were just going to lower the lid upon the coffin. i could not restrain myself: i turned a rapid glance on to the dead woman. 'why did you do it?' i was unconsciously asking.... 'he did not come!' i fancied for the last time.... the hammer was knocking in the nails, and all was over. xxvii we followed the hearse towards the cemetery. we were forty in number, of all sorts and conditions, nothing else really than an idle crowd. the wearisome journey lasted more than an hour. the weather became worse and worse. halfway there viktor got into a carriage, but mr. ratsch stepped gallantly on through the sloppy snow; just so must he have stepped through the snow when, after the fateful interview with semyon matveitch, he led home with him in triumph the girl whose life he had ruined for ever. the 'veteran's' hair and eyebrows were edged with snow; he kept blowing and uttering exclamations, or manfully drawing deep breaths and puffing out his round, dark-red cheeks.... one really might have thought he was laughing. 'on my death the pension was to pass to ivan demianitch'; these words from susanna's manuscript recurred again to my mind. we reached the cemetery at last; we moved up to a freshly dug grave. the last ceremony was quickly performed; all were chilled through, all were in haste. the coffin slid on cords into the yawning hole; they began to throw earth on it. mr. ratsch here too showed the energy of his spirit, so rapidly, with such force and vigour, did he fling clods of earth on to the coffin lid, throwing himself into an heroic pose, with one leg planted firmly before him... he could not have shown more energy if he had been stoning his bitterest foe. viktor, as before, held himself aloof; he kept muffling himself up in his coat, and rubbing his chin in the fur of his collar. mr. ratsch's other children eagerly imitated their father. flinging sand and earth was a source of great enjoyment to them, for which, of course, they were in no way to blame. a mound began to rise up where the hole had been; we were on the point of separating, when mr. ratsch, wheeling round to the left in soldierly fashion, and slapping himself on the thigh, announced to all of us 'gentlemen present,' that he invited us, and also the 'reverend clergy,' to a 'funeral banquet,' which had been arranged at no great distance from the cemetery, in the chief saloon of an extremely superior restaurant, 'thanks to the kind offices of our honoured friend sigismund sigismundovitch.'... at these words he indicated the assistant of the police superintendent, and added that for all his grief and his lutheran faith, he, ivan demianitch ratsch, as a genuine russian, put the old russian usages before everything. 'my spouse,' he cried, 'with the ladies that have accompanied her, may go home, while we gentlemen commemorate in a modest repast the shade of thy departed servant!' mr. ratsch's proposal was received with genuine sympathy; 'the reverend clergy' exchanged expressive glances with one another, while the officer of roads and highways slapped ivan demianitch on the shoulder, and called him a patriot and the soul of the company. we set off all together to the restaurant. in the restaurant, in the middle of a long, wide, and quite empty room on the first storey, stood two tables laid for dinner, covered with bottles and eatables, and surrounded by chairs. the smell of whitewash, mingled with the odours of spirits and salad oil, was stifling and oppressive. the police superintendent's assistant, as the organiser of the banquet, placed the clergy in the seats of honour, near which the lenten dishes were crowded together conspicuously; after the priests the other guests took their seats; the banquet began. i would not have used such a festive word as banquet by choice, but no other word would have corresponded with the real character of the thing. at first the proceedings were fairly quiet, even slightly mournful; jaws munched busily, and glasses were emptied, but sighs too were audible--possibly sighs of digestion, but possibly also of feeling. there were references to death, allusions to the brevity of human life, and the fleeting nature of earthly hopes. the officer of roads and highways related a military but still edifying anecdote. the priest in the calotte expressed his approval, and himself contributed an interesting fact from the life of the saint, ivan the warrior. the priest with the superbly arranged hair, though his attention was chiefly engrossed by the edibles, gave utterance to something improving on the subject of chastity. but little by little all this changed. faces grew redder, and voices grew louder, and laughter reasserted itself; one began to hear disconnected exclamations, caressing appellations, after the manner of 'dear old boy,' 'dear heart alive,' 'old cock,' and even 'a pig like that'--everything, in fact, of which the russian nature is so lavish, when, as they say, 'it comes unbuttoned.' by the time that the corks of home-made champagne were popping, the party had become noisy; some one even crowed like a cock, while another guest was offering to bite up and swallow the glass out of which he had just been drinking. mr. ratsch, no longer red but purple, suddenly rose from his seat; he had been guffawing and making a great noise before, but now he asked leave to make a speech. 'speak! out with it!' every one roared; the old man in the smock even bawled 'bravo!' and clapped his hands... but he was already sitting on the floor. mr. ratsch lifted his glass high above his head, and announced that he proposed in brief but 'impressionable' phrases to refer to the qualities of the noble soul which,'leaving here, so to say, its earthly husk (die irdische hã¼lle) has soared to heaven, and plunged...' mr. ratsch corrected himself: 'and plashed....' he again corrected himself: 'and plunged...' 'father deacon! reverend sir! my good soul!' we heard a subdued but insistent whisper, 'they say you've a devilish good voice; honour us with a song, strike up: "we live among the fields!"' 'sh! sh!... shut up there!' passed over the lips of the guests. ...'plunged all her devoted family,' pursued mr. ratsch, turning a severe glance in the direction of the lover of music, 'plunged all her family into the most irreplaceable grief! yes!' cried ivan demianitch, 'well may the russian proverb say, "fate spares not the rod."...' 'stop! gentlemen!' shouted a hoarse voice at the end of the table, 'my purse has just been stolen!...' 'ah, the swindler!' piped another voice, and slap! went a box on the ear. heavens! what followed then! it was as though the wild beast, till then only growling and faintly stirring within us, had suddenly broken from its chains and reared up, ruffled and fierce in all its hideousness. it seemed as though every one had been secretly expecting 'a scandal,' as the natural outcome and sequel of a banquet, and all, as it were, rushed to welcome it, to support it.... plates, glasses clattered and rolled about, chairs were upset, a deafening din arose, hands were waving in the air, coat-tails were flying, and a fight began in earnest. 'give it him! give it him!' roared like mad my neighbour, the fishmonger, who had till that instant seemed to be the most peaceable person in the world; it is true he had been silently drinking some dozen glasses of spirits. 'thrash him!...' who was to be thrashed, and what he was to be thrashed for, he had no idea, but he bellowed furiously. the police superintendent's assistant, the officer of roads and highways, and mr. ratsch, who had probably not expected such a speedy termination to his eloquence, tried to restore order... but their efforts were unavailing. my neighbour, the fishmonger, even fell foul of mr. ratsch himself. 'he's murdered the young woman, the blasted german,' he yelled at him, shaking his fists; 'he's bought over the police, and here he's crowing over it!!' at this point the waiters ran in.... what happened further i don't know; i snatched up my cap in all haste, and made off as fast as my legs would carry me! all i remember is a fearful crash; i recall, too, the remains of a herring in the hair of the old man in the smock, a priest's hat flying right across the room, the pale face of viktor huddled up in a corner, and a red beard in the grasp of a muscular hand.... such were the last impressions i carried away of the 'memorial banquet,' arranged by the excellent sigismund sigismundovitch in honour of poor susanna. after resting a little, i set off to see fustov, and told him all of which i had been a witness during that day. he listened to me, sitting still, and not raising his head, and putting both hands under his legs, he murmured again, 'ah! my poor girl, my poor girl!' and again lay down on the sofa and turned his back on me. a week later he seemed to have quite got over it, and took up his life as before. i asked him for susanna's manuscript as a keepsake: he gave it me without raising any objection. xxviii several years passed by. my aunt was dead; i had left moscow and settled in petersburg. fustov too had moved to petersburg. he had entered the department of the ministry of finance, but we rarely met and i saw nothing much in him then. an official like every one else, and nothing more! if he is still living and not married, he is, most likely, unchanged to this day; he carves and carpenters and uses dumb-bells, and is as much a lady-killer as ever, and sketches napoleon in a blue uniform in the albums of his lady friends. it happened that i had to go to moscow on business. in moscow i learned, with considerable surprise, that the fortunes of my former acquaintance, mr. ratsch, had taken an adverse turn. his wife had, indeed, presented him with twins, two boys, whom as a true russian he had christened briacheslav and viacheslav, but his house had been burnt down, he had been forced to retire from his position, and worst of all, his eldest son, viktor, had become practically a permanent inmate of the debtors' prison. during my stay in moscow, among a company at a friendly gathering, i chanced to hear an allusion made to susanna, and a most slighting, most insulting allusion! i did all i could to defend the memory of the unhappy girl, to whom fate had denied even the charity of oblivion, but my arguments did not make much impression on my audience. one of them, a young student poet, was, however, a little moved by my words. he sent me next day a poem, which i have forgotten, but which ended in the following four lines: 'her tomb lies cold, forlorn, but even death her gentle spirit's memory cannot save from the sly voice of slander whispering on, withering the flowers on her forsaken tomb....' i read these lines and unconsciously sank into musing. susanna's image rose before me; once more i seemed to see the frozen window in my room; i recalled that evening and the blustering snowstorm, and those words, those sobs.... i began to ponder how it was possible to explain susanna's love for fustov, and why she had so quickly, so impulsively given way to despair, as soon as she saw herself forsaken. how was it she had had no desire to wait a little, to hear the bitter truth from the lips of the man she loved, to write to him, even? how could she fling herself at once headlong into the abyss? because she was passionately in love with fustov, i shall be told; because she could not bear the slightest doubt of his devotion, of his respect for her. perhaps; or perhaps because she was not at all so passionately in love with fustov; that she did not deceive herself about him, but simply rested her last hopes on him, and could not get over the thought that even this man had at once, at the first breath of slander, turned away from her with contempt! who can say what killed her; wounded pride, or the wretchedness of her helpless position, or the very memory of that first, noble, true-hearted nature to whom she had so joyfully pledged herself in the morning of her early days, who had so deeply trusted her, and so honoured her? who knows; perhaps at the very instant when i fancied that her dead lips were murmuring, 'he did not come!' her soul was rejoicing that she had gone herself to him, to her michel? the secrets of human life are great, and love itself, the most impenetrable of those secrets.... anyway, to this day, whenever the image of susanna rises before me, i cannot overcome a feeling of pity for her, and of angry reproach against fate, and my lips whisper instinctively, 'unhappy girl! unhappy girl!' 1868. the duellist i a regiment of cuirassiers was quartered in 1829 in the village of kirilovo, in the k--province. that village, with its huts and hay-stacks, its green hemp-patches, and gaunt willows, looked from a distance like an island in a boundless sea of ploughed, black-earth fields. in the middle of the village was a small pond, invariably covered with goose feathers, with muddy, indented banks; a hundred paces from the pond, on the other side of the road, rose the wooden manor-house, long, empty, and mournfully slanting on one side. behind the house stretched the deserted garden; in the garden grew old apple-trees that bore no fruit, and tall birch-trees, full of rooks' nests. at the end of the principal garden-walk, in a little house, once the bath-house, lived a decrepit old steward. every morning, gasping and groaning, he would, from years of habit, drag himself across the garden to the seignorial apartments, though there was nothing to take care of in them except a dozen white arm-chairs, upholstered in faded stuff, two podgy chests on carved legs with copper handles, four pictures with holes in them, and one black alabaster arab with a broken nose. the owner of the house, a careless young man, lived partly at petersburg, partly abroad, and had completely forgotten his estate. it had come to him eight years before, from a very old uncle, once noted all over the countryside for his excellent liqueurs. the empty, dark-green bottles are to this day lying about in the storeroom, in company with rubbish of all sorts, old manuscript books in parti-coloured covers, scantily filled with writing, old-fashioned glass lustres, a nobleman's uniform of the catherine period, a rusty sabre with a steel handle and so forth. in one of the lodges of the great house the colonel himself took up his abode. he was a married man, tall, sparing of his words, grim and sleepy. in another lodge lived the regimental adjutant, an emotional person of fine sentiments and many perfumes, fond of flowers and female society. the social life of the officers of this regiment did not differ from any other kind of society. among their number were good people and bad, clever and silly.... one of them, a certain avdey ivanovitch lutchkov, staff captain, had a reputation as a duellist. lutchkov was a short and not thick-set man; he had a small, yellowish, dry face, lank, black hair, unnoticeable features, and dark, little eyes. he had early been left an orphan, and had grown up among privations and hardships. for weeks together he would be quiet enough,... and then all at once--as though he were possessed by some devil--he would let no one alone, annoying everybody, staring every one insolently in the face; trying, in fact, to pick a quarrel. avdey ivanovitch did not, however, hold aloof from intercourse with his comrades, but he was not on intimate terms with any one but the perfumed adjutant. he did not play cards, and did not drink spirits. in the may of 1829, not long before the beginning of the manoeuvres, there joined the regiment a young cornet, fyodor fedorovitch kister, a russian nobleman of german extraction, very fair-haired and very modest, cultivated and well read. he had lived up to his twentieth year in the home of his fathers, under the wings of his mother, his grandmother, and his two aunts. he was going into the army in deference solely to the wishes of his grandmother, who even in her old age could not see a white plumed helmet without emotion.... he served with no special enthusiasm but with energy, as it were conscientiously doing his duty. he was not a dandy, but was always cleanly dressed and in good taste. on the day of his arrival fyodor fedoritch paid his respects to his superior officers, and then proceeded to arrange his quarters. he had brought with him some cheap furniture, rugs, shelves, and so forth. he papered all the walls and the doors, put up some screens, had the yard cleaned, fixed up a stable, and a kitchen, even arranged a place for a bath.... for a whole week he was busily at work; but it was a pleasure afterwards to go into his room. before the window stood a neat table, covered with various little things; in one corner was a set of shelves for books, with busts of schiller and goethe; on the walls hung maps, four grevedon heads, and guns; near the table was an elegant row of pipes with clean mouthpieces; there was a rug in the outer room; all the doors shut and locked; the windows were hung with curtains. everything in fyodor fedoritch's room had a look of cleanliness and order. it was quite a different thing in his comrades' quarters. often one could scarcely make one's way across the muddy yard; in the outer room, behind a canvas screen, with its covering peeling off it, would lie stretched the snoring orderly; on the floor rotten straw; on the stove, boots and a broken jam-pot full of blacking; in the room itself a warped card-table, marked with chalk; on the table, glasses, half-full of cold, dark-brown tea; against the wall, a wide, rickety, greasy sofa; on the window-sills, tobacco-ash.... in a podgy, clumsy arm-chair one would find the master of the place in a grass-green dressing-gown with crimson plush facings and an embroidered smoking-cap of asiatic extraction, and a hideously fat, unpleasant dog in a stinking brass collar would be snoring at his side.... all the doors always ajar.... fyodor fedoritch made a favourable impression on his new comrades. they liked him for his good-nature, modesty, warm-heartedness, and natural inclination for everything beautiful, for everything, in fact, which in another officer they might, very likely, have thought out of place. they called kister a young lady, and were kind and gentle in their manners with him. avdey ivanovitch was the only one who eyed him dubiously. one day after drill lutchkov went up to him, slightly pursing up his lips and inflating his nostrils: 'good-morning, mr. knaster.' kister looked at him in some perplexity. 'a very good day to you, mr. knaster,' repeated lutchkov. 'my name's kister, sir.' 'you don't say so, mr. knaster.' fyodor fedoritch turned his back on him and went homewards. lutchkov looked after him with a grin. next day, directly after drill he went up to kister again. 'well, how are you getting on, mr. kinderbalsam?' kister was angry, and looked him straight in the face. avdey ivanovitch's little bilious eyes were gleaming with malignant glee. 'i'm addressing you, mr. kinderbalsam!' 'sir,' fyodor fedoritch replied, 'i consider your joke stupid and ill-bred--do you hear?--stupid and ill-bred.' 'when shall we fight?' lutchkov responded composedly. 'when you like,... to-morrow.' next morning they fought a duel. lutchkov wounded kister slightly, and to the extreme astonishment of the seconds went up to the wounded man, took him by the hand and begged his pardon. kister had to keep indoors for a fortnight. avdey ivanovitch came several times to ask after him and on fyodor fedoritch's recovery made friends with him. whether he was pleased by the young officer's pluck, or whether a feeling akin to remorse was roused in his soul--it's hard to say... but from the time of his duel with kister, avdey ivanovitch scarcely left his side, and called him first fyodor, and afterwards simply fedya. in his presence he became quite another man and--strange to say!--the change was not in his favour. it did not suit him to be gentle and soft. sympathy he could not call forth in any one anyhow; such was his destiny! he belonged to that class of persons to whom has somehow been granted the privilege of authority over others; but nature had denied him the gifts essential for the justification of such a privilege. having received no education, not being distinguished by intelligence, he ought not to have revealed himself; possibly his malignancy had its origin in his consciousness of the defects of his bringing up, in the desire to conceal himself altogether under one unchanging mask. avdey ivanovitch had at first forced himself to despise people, then he began to notice that it was not a difficult matter to intimidate them, and he began to despise them in reality. lutchkov enjoyed cutting short by his very approach all but the most vulgar conversation. 'i know nothing, and have learned nothing, and i have no talents,' he said to himself; 'and so you too shall know nothing and not show off your talents before me....' kister, perhaps, had made lutchkov abandon the part he had taken up--just because before his acquaintance with him, the bully had never met any one genuinely idealistic, that is to say, unselfishly and simple-heartedly absorbed in dreams, and so, indulgent to others, and not full of himself. avdey ivanovitch would come sometimes to kister, light a pipe and quietly sit down in an arm-chair. lutchkov was not in kister's company abashed by his own ignorance; he relied--and with good reason--on his german modesty. 'well,' he would begin, 'what did you do yesterday? been reading, i'll bet, eh?' 'yes, i read....' 'well, and what did you read? come, tell away, old man, tell away.' avdey ivanovitch kept up his bantering tone to the end. 'i read kleist's _idyll_. ah, what a fine thing it is! if you don't mind, i'll translate you a few lines....' and kister translated with fervour, while lutchkov, wrinkling up his forehead and compressing his lips, listened attentively.... 'yes, yes,' he would repeat hurriedly, with a disagreeable smile,'it's fine... very fine... i remember, i've read it... very fine.' 'tell me, please,' he added affectedly, and as it were reluctantly, 'what's your view of louis the fourteenth?' and kister would proceed to discourse upon louis the fourteenth, while lutchkov listened, totally failing to understand a great deal, misunderstanding a part... and at last venturing to make a remark.... this threw him into a cold sweat; 'now, if i'm making a fool of myself,' he thought. and as a fact he often did make a fool of himself. but kister was never off-hand in his replies; the good-hearted youth was inwardly rejoicing that, as he thought, the desire for enlightenment was awakened in a fellow-creature. alas! it was from no desire for enlightenment that avdey ivanovitch questioned kister; god knows why he did! possibly he wished to ascertain for himself what sort of head he, lutchkov, had, whether it was really dull, or simply untrained. 'so i really am stupid,' he said to himself more than once with a bitter smile; and he would draw himself up instantly and look rudely and insolently about him, and smile malignantly to himself if he caught some comrade dropping his eyes before his glance. 'all right, my man, you're so learned and well educated,...' he would mutter between his teeth. 'i'll show you... that's all....' the officers did not long discuss the sudden friendship of kister and lutchkov; they were used to the duellist's queer ways. 'the devil's made friends with the baby,' they said.... kister was warm in his praises of his friend on all hands; no one disputed his opinion, because they were afraid of lutchkov; lutchkov himself never mentioned kister's name before the others, but he dropped his intimacy with the perfumed adjutant. ii the landowners of the south of russia are very keen on giving balls, inviting officers to their houses, and marrying off their daughters. about seven miles from the village of kirilovo lived just such a country gentleman, a mr. perekatov, the owner of four hundred souls, and a fairly spacious house. he had a daughter of eighteen, mashenka, and a wife, nenila makarievna. mr. perekatov had once been an officer in the cavalry, but from love of a country life and from indolence he had retired and had begun to live peaceably and quietly, as landowners of the middling sort do live. nenila makarievna owed her existence in a not perfectly legitimate manner to a distinguished gentleman of moscow. her protector had educated his little nenila very carefully, as it is called, in his own house, but got her off his hands rather hurriedly, at the first offer, as a not very marketable article. nenila makarievna was ugly; the distinguished gentleman was giving her no more than ten thousand as dowry; she snatched eagerly at mr. perekatov. to mr. perekatov it seemed extremely gratifying to marry a highly educated, intellectual young lady... who was, after all, so closely related to so illustrious a personage. this illustrious personage extended his patronage to the young people even after the marriage, that is to say, he accepted presents of salted quails from them and called perekatov 'my dear boy,' and sometimes simply, 'boy.' nenila makarievna took complete possession of her husband, managed everything, and looked after the whole property--very sensibly, indeed; far better, any way, than mr. perekatov could have done. she did not hamper her partner's liberty too much; but she kept him well in hand, ordered his clothes herself, and dressed him in the english style, as is fitting and proper for a country gentleman. by her instructions, mr. perekatov grew a little napoleonic beard on his chin, to cover a large wart, which looked like an over-ripe raspberry. nenila makarievna, for her part, used to inform visitors that her husband played the flute, and that all flute-players always let the beard grow under the lower lip; they could hold their instrument more comfortably. mr. perekatov always, even in the early morning, wore a high, clean stock, and was well combed and washed. he was, moreover, well content with his lot; he dined very well, did as he liked, and slept all he could. nenila makarievna had introduced into her household 'foreign ways,' as the neighbours used to say; she kept few servants, and had them neatly dressed. she was fretted by ambition; she wanted at least to be the wife of the marshal of the nobility of the district; but the gentry of the district, though they dined at her house to their hearts' content, did not choose her husband, but first the retired premier-major burkolts, and then the retired second major burundukov. mr. perekatov seemed to them too extreme a product of the capital. mr. perekatov's daughter, mashenka, was in face like her father. nenila makarievna had taken the greatest pains with her education. she spoke french well, and played the piano fairly. she was of medium height, rather plump and white; her rather full face was lighted up by a kindly and merry smile; her flaxen, not over-abundant hair, her hazel eyes, her pleasant voice--everything about her was gently pleasing, and that was all. on the other hand the absence of all affectation and conventionality, an amount of culture exceptional in a country girl, the freedom of her expressions, the quiet simplicity of her words and looks could not but be striking in her. she had developed at her own free will; nenila makarievna did not keep her in restraint. one morning at twelve o'clock the whole family of the perekatovs were in the drawing-room. the husband in a round green coat, a high check cravat, and pea-green trousers with straps, was standing at the window, very busily engaged in catching flies. the daughter was sitting at her embroidery frame; her small dimpled little hand rose and fell slowly and gracefully over the canvas. nenila makarievna was sitting on the sofa, gazing in silence at the floor. 'did you send an invitation to the regiment at kirilovo, sergei sergeitch?' she asked her husband. 'for this evening? to be sure i did, ma chã¨re.' (he was under the strictest orders not to call her 'little mother.') 'to be sure!' 'there are positively no gentlemen,' pursued nenila makarievna. 'nobody for the girls to dance with.' her husband sighed, as though crushed by the absence of partners. 'mamma,' masha began all at once, 'is monsieur lutchkov asked?' 'what lutchkov?' 'he's an officer too. they say he's a very interesting person.' 'how's that?' 'oh, he's not good-looking and he's not young, but every one's afraid of him. he's a dreadful duellist.' (mamma frowned a little.) 'i should so like to see him.' sergei sergeitch interrupted his daughter. 'what is there to see in him, my darling? do you suppose he must look like lord byron?' (at that time we were only just beginning to talk about lord byron.) 'nonsense! why, i declare, my dear, there was a time when i had a terrible character as a fighting man.' masha looked wonderingly at her parent, laughed, then jumped up and kissed him on the cheek. his wife smiled a little, too... but sergei sergeitch had spoken the truth. 'i don't know if that gentleman is coming,' observed nenila makarievna. 'possibly he may come too.' the daughter sighed. 'mind you don't go and fall in love with him,' remarked sergei sergeitch. 'i know you girls are all like that nowadays--so--what shall i say?--romantic...' 'no,' masha responded simply. nenila makarievna looked coldly at her husband. sergei sergeitch played with his watch-chain in some embarrassment, then took his wide-brimmed, english hat from the table, and set off to see after things on the estate. his dog timidly and meekly followed him. as an intelligent animal, she was well aware that her master was not a person of very great authority in the house, and behaved herself accordingly with modesty and circumspection. nenila makarievna went up to her daughter, gently raised her head, and looked affectionately into her eyes. 'will you tell me when you fall in love?' she asked. masha kissed her mother's hand, smiling, and nodded her head several times in the affirmative. 'mind you do,' observed nenila makarievna, stroking her cheek, and she went out after her husband. masha leaned back in her chair, dropped her head on her bosom, interlaced her fingers, and looked long out of window, screwing up her eyes... a slight flush passed over her fresh cheeks; with a sigh she drew herself up, was setting to work again, but dropped her needle, leaned her face on her hand, and biting the tips of her nails, fell to dreaming... then glanced at her own shoulder, at her outstretched hand, got up, went to the window, laughed, put on her hat and went out into the garden. that evening at eight o'clock, the guests began to arrive. madame perekatov with great affability received and 'entertained' the ladies, mashenka the girls; sergei sergeitch talked about the crops with the gentlemen and continually glanced towards his wife. soon there arrived the young dandies, the officers, intentionally a little late; at last the colonel himself, accompanied by his adjutants, kister and lutchkov. he presented them to the lady of the house. lutchkov bowed without speaking, kister muttered the customary 'extremely delighted'... mr. perekatov went up to the colonel, pressed his hand warmly and looked him in the face with great cordiality. the colonel promptly looked forbidding. the dancing began. kister asked mashenka for a dance. at that time the _ecossaise_ was still flourishing. 'do tell me, please,' masha said to him, when, after galloping twenty times to the end of the room, they stood at last, the first couple, 'why isn't your friend dancing?' 'which friend?' masha pointed with the tip of her fan at lutchkov. 'he never dances,' answered kister. 'why did he come then?' kister was a little disconcerted. 'he wished to have the pleasure...' mashenka interrupted him. 'you've not long been transferred into our regiment, i think?' 'into your regiment,' observed kister, with a smile: 'no, not long.' 'aren't you dull here?' 'oh no... i find such delightful society here... and the scenery!'... kister launched into eulogies of the scenery. masha listened to him, without raising her head. avdey ivanovitch was standing in a corner, looking indifferently at the dancers. 'how old is mr. lutchkov?' she asked suddenly. 'oh... thirty-five, i fancy,' answered kister. 'they say he's a dangerous man... hot-tempered,' masha added hurriedly. 'he is a little hasty... but still, he's a very fine man.' 'they say every one's afraid of him.' kister laughed. 'and you?' 'i'm a friend of his.' 'really?' 'your turn, your turn,' was shrieked at them from all sides. they started and began galloping again right across the room. 'well, i congratulate you,' kister said to lutchkov, going up to him after the dance; 'the daughter of the house does nothing but ask questions about you.' 'really?' lutchkov responded scornfully. 'on my honour! and you know she's extremely nice-looking; only look at her.' 'which of them is she?' kister pointed out masha. 'ah, not bad.' and lutchkov yawned. 'cold-hearted person!' cried kister, and he ran off to ask another girl to dance. avdey ivanovitch was extremely delighted at the fact kister had mentioned to him, though he did yawn, and even yawned loudly. to arouse curiosity flattered his vanity intensely: love he despised--in words--but inwardly he was himself aware that it would be a hard and difficult task for him to win love.... a hard and difficult task for him to win love, but easy and simple enough to wear a mask of indifference, of silent haughtiness. avdey ivanovitch was unattractive and no longer young; but on the other hand he enjoyed a terrible reputation--and consequently he had every right to pose. he was used to the bitter, unspoken enjoyment of grim loneliness. it was not the first time he had attracted the attention of women; some had even tried to get upon more friendly terms with him, but he repelled their advances with exasperated obstinacy; he knew that sentiment was not in his line (during tender interviews, avowals, he first became awkward and vulgar, and, through anger, rude to the point of grossness, of insult); he remembered that the two or three women with whom he had at different times been on a friendly footing had rapidly grown cool to him after the first moment of closer intimacy, and had of their own impulse made haste to get away from him... and so he had at last schooled himself to remain an enigma, and to scorn what destiny had denied him.... this is, i fancy, the only sort of scorn people in general do feel. no sort of frank, spontaneous, that is to say good, demonstration of passion suited lutchkov; he was bound to keep a continual check on himself, even when he was angry. kister was the only person who was not disgusted when lutchkov broke into laughter; the kind-hearted german's eyes shone with the generous delight of sympathy, when he read avdey his favourite passages from schiller, while the bully would sit facing him with lowering looks, like a wolf.... kister danced till he was worn out, lutchkov never left his corner, scowled, glanced stealthily at masha, and meeting her eyes, at once threw an expression of indifference into his own. masha danced three times with kister. the enthusiastic youth inspired her with confidence. she chatted with him gaily enough, but at heart she was not at ease. lutchkov engrossed her thoughts. a mazurka tune struck up. the officers fell to bounding up and down, tapping with their heels, and tossing the epaulettes on their shoulders; the civilians tapped with their heels too. lutchkov still did not stir from his place, and slowly followed the couples with his eyes, as they whirled by. some one touched his sleeve... he looked round; his neighbour pointed him out masha. she was standing before him with downcast eyes, holding out her hand to him. lutchkov for the first moment gazed at her in perplexity, then he carelessly took off his sword, threw his hat on the floor, picked his way awkwardly among the arm-chairs, took masha by the hand, and went round the circle, with no capering up and down nor stamping, as it were unwillingly performing an unpleasant duty.... masha's heart beat violently. 'why don't you dance?' she asked him at last. 'i don't care for it,' answered lutchkov. 'where's your place?' 'over there.' lutchkov conducted masha to her chair, coolly bowed to her and coolly returned to his corner... but there was an agreeable stirring of the spleen within him. kister asked masha for a dance. 'what a strange person your friend is!' 'he does interest you...' said fyodor fedoritch, with a sly twinkle of his blue and kindly eyes. 'yes... he must be very unhappy.' 'he unhappy? what makes you suppose so?' and fyodor fedoritch laughed. 'you don't know... you don't know...' masha solemnly shook her head with an important air. 'me not know? how's that?'... masha shook her head again and glanced towards lutchkov. avdey ivanovitch noticed the glance, shrugged his shoulders imperceptibly, and walked away into the other room. iii several months had passed since that evening. lutchkov had not once been at the perekatovs'. but kister visited them pretty often. nenila makarievna had taken a fancy to him, but it was not she that attracted fyodor fedoritch. he liked masha. being an inexperienced person who had not yet talked himself out, he derived great pleasure from the interchange of ideas and feelings, and he had a simple-hearted faith in the possibility of a calm and exalted friendship between a young man and a young girl. one day his three well-fed and skittish horses whirled him rapidly along to mr. perekatov's house. it was a summer day, close and sultry. not a cloud anywhere. the blue of the sky was so thick and dark on the horizon that the eye mistook it for storm-cloud. the house mr. perekatov had erected for a summer residence had been, with the foresight usual in the steppes, built with every window directly facing the sun. nenila makarievna had every shutter closed from early morning. kister walked into the cool, half-dark drawing-room. the light lay in long lines on the floor and in short, close streaks on the walls. the perekatov family gave fyodor fedoritch a friendly reception. after dinner nenila makarievna went away to her own room to lie down; mr. perekatov settled himself on the sofa in the drawing-room; masha sat near the window at her embroidery frame, kister facing her. masha, without opening her frame, leaned lightly over it, with her head in her hands. kister began telling her something; she listened inattentively, as though waiting for something, looked from time to time towards her father, and all at once stretched out her hand. 'listen, fyodor fedoritch... only speak a little more softly... papa's asleep.' mr. perekatov had indeed as usual dropped asleep on the sofa, with his head hanging and his mouth a little open. 'what is it?' kister inquired with curiosity. 'you will laugh at me.' 'oh, no, really!...' masha let her head sink till only the upper part of her face remained uncovered by her hands and in a half whisper, not without hesitation, asked kister why it was he never brought mr. lutchkov with him. it was not the first time masha had mentioned him since the ball.... kister did not speak. masha glanced timorously over her interlaced fingers. 'may i tell you frankly what i think?' kister asked her. 'oh, why not? of course.' 'it seems to me that lutchkov has made a great impression on you.' 'no!' answered masha, and she bent over, as though wishing to examine the pattern more closely; a narrow golden streak of light lay on her hair; 'no... but...' 'well, but?' said kister, smiling. 'well, don't you see,' said masha, and she suddenly lifted her head, so that the streak of light fell straight in her eyes; 'don't you see... he...' 'he interests you....' 'well... yes...' masha said slowly; she flushed a little, turned her head a little away and in that position went on talking. 'there is something about him so... there, you're laughing at me,' she added suddenly, glancing swiftly at fyodor fedoritch. fyodor fedoritch smiled the gentlest smile imaginable. 'i tell you everything, whatever comes into my head,' masha went on: 'i know that you are a very'... (she nearly said great) 'good friend of mine.' kister bowed. masha ceased speaking, and shyly held out her hand to him; fyodor fedoritch pressed the tips of her fingers respectfully. 'he must be a very queer person!' observed masha, and again she propped her elbows on the frame. 'queer?' 'of course; he interests me just because he is queer!' masha added slily. 'lutchkov is a noble, a remarkable man,' kister rejoined solemnly. 'they don't know him in our regiment, they don't appreciate him, they only see his external side. he's embittered, of course, and strange and impatient, but his heart is good.' masha listened greedily to fyodor fedoritch. 'i will bring him to see you, i'll tell him there's no need to be afraid of you, that it's absurd for him to be so shy... i'll tell him... oh! yes, i know what to say... only you mustn't suppose, though, that i would...' (kister was embarrassed, masha too was embarrassed.)... 'besides, after all, of course you only... like him....' 'of course, just as i like lots of people.' kister looked mischievously at her. 'all right, all right,' he said with a satisfied air; 'i'll bring him to you....' 'oh, no....' 'all right, i tell you it will be all right.... i'll arrange everything.' 'you are so...' masha began with a smile, and she shook her finger at him. mr. perekatov yawned and opened his eyes. 'why, i almost think i've been asleep,' he muttered with surprise. this doubt and this surprise were repeated daily. masha and kister began discussing schiller. fyodor fedoritch was not however quite at ease; he felt something like a stir of envy within him... and was generously indignant with himself. nenila makarievna came down into the drawing-room. tea was brought in. mr. perekatov made his dog jump several times over a stick, and then explained he had taught it everything himself, while the dog wagged its tail deferentially, licked itself and blinked. when at last the great heat began to lessen, and an evening breeze blew up, the whole family went out for a walk in the birch copse. fyodor fedoritch was continually glancing at masha, as though giving her to understand that he would carry out her behests; masha felt at once vexed with herself, and happy and uncomfortable. kister suddenly, apropos of nothing, plunged into a rather high-flown discourse upon love in the abstract, and upon friendship... but catching nenila makarievna's bright and vigilant eye he, as abruptly, changed the subject. the sunset was brilliant and glowing. a broad, level meadow lay outstretched before the birch copse. masha took it into her head to start a game of 'catch-catch.' maid-servants and footmen came out; mr. perekatov stood with his wife, kister with masha. the maids ran with deferential little shrieks; mr. perekatov's valet had the temerity to separate nenila makarievna from her spouse; one of the servant-girls respectfully paired off with her master; fyodor fedoritch was not parted from masha. every time as he regained his place, he said two or three words to her; masha, all flushed with running, listened to him with a smile, passing her hand over her hair. after supper, kister took leave. it was a still, starlight night. kister took off his cap. he was excited; there was a lump in his throat. 'yes,' he said at last, almost aloud; 'she loves him: i will bring them together; i will justify her confidence in me.' though there was as yet nothing to prove a definite passion for lutchkov on masha's part, though, according to her own account, he only excited her curiosity, kister had by this time made up a complete romance, and worked out his own duty in the matter. he resolved to sacrifice his feelings--the more readily as 'so far i have no other sentiment for her but sincere devotion,' thought he. kister really was capable of sacrificing himself to friendship, to a recognised duty. he had read a great deal, and so fancied himself a person of experience and even of penetration; he had no doubt of the truth of his suppositions; he did not suspect that life is endlessly varied, and never repeats itself. little by little, fyodor fedoritch worked himself into a state of ecstasy. he began musing with emotion on his mission. to be the mediator between a shy, loving girl and a man possibly embittered only because he had never once in his life loved and been loved; to bring them together; to reveal their own feelings to them, and then to withdraw, letting no one know the greatness of his sacrifice, what a splendid feat! in spite of the coolness of the night, the simple-hearted dreamer's face burned.... next day he went round to lutchkov early in the morning. avdey ivanovitch was, as usual, lying on the sofa, smoking a pipe. kister greeted him. 'i was at the perekatovs yesterday,' he said with some solemnity. 'ah!' lutchkov responded indifferently, and he yawned. 'yes. they are splendid people.' 'really?' 'we talked about you.' 'much obliged; with which of them was that?' 'with the old people... and the daughter too.' 'ah! that... little fat thing?' 'she's a splendid girl, lutchkov.' 'to be sure, they're all splendid.' 'no, lutchkov, you don't know her. i have never met such a clever, sweet and sensitive girl.' lutchkov began humming through his nose: 'in the hamburg gazette, you've read, i dare say, how the year before last, munich gained the day....' 'but i assure you....' 'you 're in love with her, fedya,' lutchkov remarked sarcastically. 'not at all. i never even thought of it.' 'fedya, you're in love with her!' 'what nonsense! as if one couldn't...' 'you're in love with her, friend of my heart, beetle on my hearth,' avdey ivanovitch chanted drawling. 'ah, avdey, you really ought to be ashamed!' kister said with vexation. with any one else lutchkov would thereupon have kept on more than before; kister he did not tease. 'well, well, sprechen sie deutsch, ivan andreitch,' he muttered in an undertone, 'don't be angry.' 'listen, avdey,' kister began warmly, and he sat down beside him. 'you know i care for you.' (lutchkov made a wry face.) 'but there's one thing, i'll own, i don't like about you... it's just that you won't make friends with any one, that you will stick at home, and refuse all intercourse with nice people. why, there are nice people in the world, hang it all! suppose you have been deceived in life, have been embittered, what of it; there's no need to rush into people's arms, of course, but why turn your back on everybody? why, you'll cast me off some day, at that rate, i suppose.' lutchkov went on smoking coolly. 'that's how it is no one knows you... except me; goodness knows what some people think of you... avdey!' added kister after a brief silence; 'do you disbelieve in virtue, avdey?' 'disbelieve... no, i believe in it,'... muttered lutchkov. kister pressed his hand feelingly. 'i want,' he went on in a voice full of emotion, 'to reconcile you with life. you will grow happier, blossom out... yes, blossom out. how i shall rejoice then! only you must let me dispose of you now and then, of your time. to-day it's--what? monday... to-morrow's tuesday... on wednesday, yes, on wednesday we'll go together to the perekatovs'. they will be so glad to see you... and we shall have such a jolly time there... and now let me have a pipe.' avdey ivanovitch lay without budging on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. kister lighted a pipe, went to the window, and began drumming on the panes with his fingers. 'so they've been talking about me?' avdey asked suddenly. 'they have,' kister responded with meaning. 'what did they say?' 'oh, they talked. there're very anxious to make your acquaintance.' 'which of them's that?' 'i say, what curiosity!' avdey called his servant, and ordered his horse to be saddled. 'where are you off to?' 'the riding-school.' 'well, good-bye. so we're going to the perekatovs', eh?' 'all right, if you like,' lutchkov said lazily, stretching. 'bravo, old man!' cried kister, and he went out into the street, pondered, and sighed deeply. iv masha was just approaching the drawing-room door when the arrival of kister and lutchkov was announced. she promptly returned to her own room, and went up to the looking-glass.... her heart was throbbing violently. a girl came to summon her to the drawing-room. masha drank a little water, stopped twice on the stairs, and at last went down. mr. perekatov was not at home. nenila makarievna was sitting on the sofa; lutchkov was sitting in an easy-chair, wearing his uniform, with his hat on his knees; kister was near him. they both got up on masha's entrance--kister with his usual friendly smile, lutchkov with a solemn and constrained air. she bowed to them in confusion, and went up to her mother. the first ten minutes passed off favourably. masha recovered herself, and gradually began to watch lutchkov. to the questions addressed to him by the lady of the house, he answered briefly, but uneasily; he was shy, like all egoistic people. nenila makarievna suggested a stroll in the garden to her guests, but did not herself go beyond the balcony. she did not consider it essential never to lose sight of her daughter, and to be constantly hobbling after her with a fat reticule in her hands, after the fashion of many mothers in the steppes. the stroll lasted rather a long while. masha talked more with kister, but did not dare to look either at him or at lutchkov. avdey ivanovitch did not address a remark to her; kister's voice showed agitation. he laughed and chattered a little over-much.... they reached the stream. a couple of yards or so from the bank there was a water-lily, which seemed to rest on the smooth surface of the water, encircled by its broad, round leaves. 'what a beautiful flower!' observed masha. she had hardly uttered these words when lutchkov pulled out his sword, clutched with one hand at the frail twigs of a willow, and, bending his whole body over the water, cut off the head of the flower. 'it's deep here, take care!' masha cried in terror. lutchkov with the tip of his sword brought the flower to the bank, at her very feet. she bent down, picked up the flower, and gazed with tender, delighted amazement at avdey. 'bravo!' cried kister. 'and i can't swim...' lutchkov observed abruptly. masha did not like that remark. 'what made him say that?' she wondered. lutchkov and kister remained at mr. perekatov's till the evening. something new and unknown was passing in masha's soul; a dreamy perplexity was reflected more than once in her face. she moved somehow more slowly, she did not flush on meeting her mother's eyes--on the contrary, she seemed to seek them, as though she would question her. during the whole evening, lutchkov paid her a sort of awkward attention; but even this awkwardness gratified her innocent vanity. when they had both taken leave, with a promise to come again in a few days, she quietly went off to her own room, and for a long while, as it were, in bewilderment she looked about her. nenila makarievna came to her, kissed and embraced her as usual. masha opened her lips, tried to say something--and did not utter a word. she wanted to confess---she did not know what. her soul was gently wandering in dreams. on the little table by her bedside the flower lutchkov had picked lay in water in a clean glass. masha, already in bed, sat up cautiously, leaned on her elbow, and her maiden lips softly touched the fresh white petals.... 'well,' kister questioned his friend next day, 'do you like the perekatovs? was i right? eh? tell me.' lutchkov did not answer. 'no, do tell me, do tell me!' 'really, i don't know.' 'nonsense, come now!' 'that... what's her name... mashenka's all right; not bad-looking.' 'there, you see...' said kister--and he said no more. five days later lutchkov of his own accord suggested that they should call on the perekatovs. alone he would not have gone to see them; in fyodor fedoritch's absence he would have had to keep up a conversation, and that he could not do, and as far as possible avoided. on the second visit of the two friends, masha was much more at her ease. she was by now secretly glad that she had not disturbed her mamma by an uninvited avowal. before dinner, avdey had offered to try a young horse, not yet broken in, and, in spite of its frantic rearing, he mastered it completely. in the evening he thawed, and fell into joking and laughing--and though he soon pulled himself up, yet he had succeeded in making a momentary unpleasant impression on masha. she could not yet be sure herself what the feeling exactly was that lutchkov excited in her, but everything she did not like in him she set down to the influence of misfortune, of loneliness. v the friends began to pay frequent visits to the perekatovs'. kister's position became more and more painful. he did not regret his action... no, but he desired at least to cut short the time of his trial. his devotion to masha increased daily; she too felt warmly towards him; but to be nothing more than a go-between, a confidant, a friend even--it's a dreary, thankless business! coldly idealistic people talk a great deal about the sacredness of suffering, the bliss of suffering... but to kister's warm and simple heart his sufferings were not a source of any bliss whatever. at last, one day, when lutchkov, ready dressed, came to fetch him, and the carriage was waiting at the steps, fyodor fedoritch, to the astonishment of his friend, announced point-blank that he should stay at home. lutchkov entreated him, was vexed and angry... kister pleaded a headache. lutchkov set off alone. the bully had changed in many ways of late. he left his comrades in peace, did not annoy the novices, and though his spirit had not 'blossomed out,' as kister had foretold, yet he certainly had toned down a little. he could not have been called 'disillusioned' before--he had seen and experienced almost nothing--and so it is not surprising that masha engrossed his thoughts. his heart was not touched though; only his spleen was satisfied. masha's feelings for him were of a strange kind. she almost never looked him straight in the face; she could not talk to him.... when they happened to be left alone together, masha felt horribly awkward. she took him for an exceptional man, and felt overawed by him and agitated in his presence, fancied she did not understand him, and was unworthy of his confidence; miserably, drearily--but continually--she thought of him. kister's society, on the contrary, soothed her and put her in a good humour, though it neither overjoyed nor excited her. with him she could chatter away for hours together, leaning on his arm, as though he were her brother, looking affectionately into his face, and laughing with his laughter--and she rarely thought of him. in lutchkov there was something enigmatic for the young girl; she felt that his soul was 'dark as a forest,' and strained every effort to penetrate into that mysterious gloom.... so children stare a long while into a deep well, till at last they make out at the very bottom the still, black water. on lutchkov's coming into the drawing-room alone, masha was at first scared... but then she felt delighted. she had more than once fancied that there existed some sort of misunderstanding between lutchkov and her, that he had not hitherto had a chance of revealing himself. lutchkov mentioned the cause of kister's absence; the parents expressed their regret, but masha looked incredulously at avdey, and felt faint with expectation. after dinner they were left alone; masha did not know what to say, she sat down to the piano; her fingers flitted hurriedly and tremblingly over the keys; she was continually stopping and waiting for the first word... lutchkov did not understand nor care for music. masha began talking to him about rossini (rossini was at that time just coming into fashion) and about mozart.... avdey ivanovitch responded: 'quite so,' 'by no means,' 'beautiful,' 'indeed,' and that was all. masha played some brilliant variations on one of rossini's airs. lutchkov listened and listened... and when at last she turned to him, his face expressed such unfeigned boredom, that masha jumped up at once and closed the piano. she went up to the window, and for a long while stared into the garden; lutchkov did not stir from his seat, and still remained silent. impatience began to take the place of timidity in masha's soul. 'what is it?' she wondered, 'won't you... or can't you?' it was lutchkov's turn to feel shy. he was conscious again of his miserable, overwhelming diffidence; already he was raging!... 'it was the devil's own notion to have anything to do with the wretched girl,' he muttered to himself.... and all the while how easy it was to touch masha's heart at that instant! whatever had been said by such an extraordinary though eccentric man, as she imagined lutchkov, she would have understood everything, have excused anything, have believed anything.... but this burdensome, stupid silence! tears of vexation were standing in her eyes. 'if he doesn't want to be open, if i am really not worthy of his confidence, why does he go on coming to see us? or perhaps it is that i don't set the right way to work to make him reveal himself?'... and she turned swiftly round, and glanced so inquiringly, so searchingly at him, that he could not fail to understand her glance, and could not keep silence any longer.... 'marya sergievna,' he pronounced falteringly; 'i... i've... i ought to tell you something....' 'speak,' masha responded rapidly. lutchkov looked round him irresolutely. 'i can't now...' 'why not?' 'i should like to speak to you... alone....' 'why, we are alone now.' 'yes... but... here in the house....' masha was at her wits' end.... 'if i refuse,' she thought, 'it's all over.'... curiosity was the ruin of eve.... 'i agree,' she said at last. 'when then? where?' masha's breathing came quickly and unevenly. 'to-morrow... in the evening. you know the copse above the long meadow?'... 'behind the mill?' masha nodded. 'what time?' 'wait...' she could not bring out another word; her voice broke... she turned pale and went quickly out of the room. a quarter of an hour later, mr. perekatov, with his characteristic politeness, conducted lutchkov to the hall, pressed his hand feelingly, and begged him 'not to forget them'; then, having let out his guest, he observed with dignity to the footman that it would be as well for him to shave, and without awaiting a reply, returned with a careworn air to his own room, with the same careworn air sat down on the sofa, and guilelessly dropped asleep on the spot. 'you're a little pale to-day,' nenila makarievna said to her daughter, on the evening of the same day. 'are you quite well?' 'yes, mamma.' nenila makarievna set straight the kerchief on the girl's neck. 'you are very pale; look at me,' she went on, with that motherly solicitude in which there is none the less audible a note of parental authority: 'there, now, your eyes look heavy too. you're not well, masha.' 'my head does ache a little,' said masha, to find some way of escape. 'there, i knew it.' nenila makarievna put some scent on masha's forehead. 'you're not feverish, though.' masha stooped down, and picked a thread off the floor. nenila makarievna's arms lay softly round masha's slender waist. 'it seems to me you have something you want to tell me,' she said caressingly, not loosing her hands. masha shuddered inwardly. 'i? oh, no, mamma.' masha's momentary confusion did not escape her mother's attention. 'oh, yes, you do.... think a little.' but masha had had time to regain her self-possession, and instead of answering, she kissed her mother's hand with a laugh. 'and so you've nothing to tell me?' 'no, really, nothing.' 'i believe you,' responded nenila makarievna, after a short silence. 'i know you keep nothing secret from me.... that's true, isn't it?' 'of course, mamma.' masha could not help blushing a little, though. 'you do quite rightly. it would be wrong of you to keep anything from me.... you know how i love you, masha.' 'oh yes, mamma.' and masha hugged her. 'there, there, that's enough.' (nenila makarievna walked about the room.) 'oh tell me,' she went on in the voice of one who feels that the question asked is of no special importance; 'what were you talking about with avdey ivanovitch to-day?' 'with avdey ivanovitch?' masha repeated serenely. 'oh, all sorts of things....' 'do you like him?' 'oh yes, i like him.' 'do you remember how anxious you were to get to know him, how excited you were?' masha turned away and laughed. 'what a strange person he is!' nenila makarievna observed good-humouredly. masha felt an inclination to defend lutchkov, but she held her tongue. 'yes, of course,' she said rather carelessly; 'he is a queer fish, but still he's a nice man!' 'oh, yes!... why didn't fyodor fedoritch come?' 'he was unwell, i suppose. ah! by the way, fyodor fedoritch wanted to make me a present of a puppy.... will you let me?' 'what? accept his present?' 'yes.' 'of course.' 'oh, thank you!' said masha, 'thank you, thank you!' nenila makarievna got as far as the door and suddenly turned back again. 'do you remember your promise, masha?' 'what promise?' 'you were going to tell me when you fall in love.' 'i remember.' 'well... hasn't the time come yet?' (masha laughed musically.) 'look into my eyes.' masha looked brightly and boldly at her mother. 'it can't be!' thought nenila makarievna, and she felt reassured. 'as if she could deceive me!... how could i think of such a thing!... she's still a perfect baby....' she went away.... 'but this is really wicked,' thought masha. vi kister had already gone to bed when lutchkov came into his room. the bully's face never expressed _one_ feeling; so it was now: feigned indifference, coarse delight, consciousness of his own superiority... a number of different emotions were playing over his features. 'well, how was it? how was it?' kister made haste to question him. 'oh! i went. they sent you greetings.' 'well? are they all well?' 'of course, why not?' 'did they ask why i didn't come?' 'yes, i think so.' lutchkov stared at the ceiling and hummed out of tune. kister looked down and mused. 'but, look here,' lutchkov brought out in a husky, jarring voice, 'you're a clever fellow, i dare say, you're a cultured fellow, but you're a good bit out in your ideas sometimes for all that, if i may venture to say so.' 'how do you mean?' 'why, look here. about women, for instance. how you're always cracking them up! you're never tired of singing their praises! to listen to you, they're all angels.... nice sort of angels!' 'i like and respect women, but------' 'oh, of course, of course,' avdey cut him short. 'i am not going to argue with you. that's quite beyond me! i'm a plain man.' 'i was going to say that... but why just to-day... just now,... are you talking about women?' 'oh, nothing!' avdey smiled with great meaning. 'nothing!' kister looked searchingly at his friend. he imagined (simple heart!) that masha had been treating him badly; had been torturing him, perhaps, as only women can.... 'you are feeling hurt, my poor avdey; tell me...' lutchkov went off into a chuckle. 'oh, well, i don't fancy i've much to feel hurt about,' he said, in a drawling tone, complacently stroking his moustaches. 'no, only, look here, fedya,' he went on with the manner of a preceptor, 'i was only going to point out that you're altogether out of it about women, my lad. you believe me, fedya, they 're all alike. one's only got to take a little trouble, hang about them a bit, and you've got things in your own hands. look at masha perekatov now....' 'oh!' lutchkov tapped his foot on the floor and shook his head. 'is there anything so specially attractive about me, hey? i shouldn't have thought there was anything. there isn't anything, is there? and here, i've a clandestine appointment for to-morrow.' kister sat up, leaned on his elbow, and stared in amazement at lutchkov. 'for the evening, in a wood...' avdey ivanovitch continued serenely. 'only don't you go and imagine it means much. it's only a bit of fun. it's slow here, don't you know. a pretty little girl,... well, says i, why not? marriage, of course, i'm not going in for... but there, i like to recall my young days. i don't care for hanging about petticoats--but i may as well humour the baggage. we can listen to the nightingales together. of course, it's really more in your line; but the wench has no eyes, you see. i should have thought i wasn't worth looking at beside you.' lutchkov talked on a long while. but kister did not hear him. his head was going round. he turned pale and passed his hand over his face. lutchkov swayed up and down in his low chair, screwed up his eyes, stretched, and putting down kister's emotion to jealousy, was almost gasping with delight. but it was not jealousy that was torturing kister; he was wounded, not by the fact itself, but by avdey's coarse carelessness, his indifferent and contemptuous references to masha. he was still staring intently at the bully, and it seemed as if for the first time he was thoroughly seeing his face. so this it was he had been scheming for! this for which he had sacrificed his own inclinations! here it was, the blessed influence of love. 'avdey... do you mean to say you don't care for her?' he muttered at last. 'o innocence! o arcadia!' responded avdey, with a malignant chuckle. kister in the goodness of his heart did not give in even then; perhaps, thought he, avdey is in a bad temper and is 'humbugging' from old habit... he has not yet found a new language to express new feelings. and was there not in himself some other feeling lurking under his indignation? did not lutchkov's avowal strike him so unpleasantly simply because it concerned masha? how could one tell, perhaps lutchkov really was in love with her.... oh, no! no! a thousand times no! that man in love?... that man was loathsome with his bilious, yellow face, his nervous, cat-like movements, crowing with conceit... loathsome! no, not in such words would kister have uttered to a devoted friend the secret of his love.... in overflowing happiness, in dumb rapture, with bright, blissful tears in his eyes would he have flung himself on his bosom.... 'well, old man,' queried avdey, 'own up now you didn't expect it, and now you feel put out. eh? jealous? own up, fedya. eh? eh?' kister was about to speak out, but he turned with his face to the wall. 'speak openly... to him? not for anything!' he whispered to himself. 'he wouldn't understand me... so be it! he supposes none but evil feelings in me--so be it!...' avdey got up. 'i see you're sleepy,' he said with assumed sympathy: 'i don't want to be in your way. pleasant dreams, my boy... pleasant dreams!' and lutchkov went away, very well satisfied with himself. kister could not get to sleep before the morning. with feverish persistence he turned over and over and thought over and over the same single idea--an occupation only too well known to unhappy lovers. 'even if lutchkov doesn't care for her,' he mused, 'if she has flung herself at his head, anyway he ought not even with me, with his friend, to speak so disrespectfully, so offensively of her! in what way is she to blame? how could any one have no feeling for a poor, inexperienced girl? 'but can she really have a secret appointment with him? she has--yes, she certainly has. avdey's not a liar, he never tells a lie. but perhaps it means nothing, a mere freak.... 'but she does not know him.... he is capable, i dare say, of insulting her. after to-day, i wouldn't answer for anything.... and wasn't it i myself that praised him up and exalted him? wasn't it i who excited her curiosity?... but who could have known this? who could have foreseen it?... 'foreseen what? has he so long ceased to be my friend?... but, after all, was he ever my friend? what a disenchantment! what a lesson!' all the past turned round and round before kister's eyes. 'yes, i did like him,' he whispered at last. 'why has my liking cooled so suddenly?... and do i dislike him? no, why did i ever like him? i alone?' kister's loving heart had attached itself to avdey for the very reason that all the rest avoided him. but the good-hearted youth did not know himself how great his good-heartedness was. 'my duty,' he went on, 'is to warn marya sergievna. but how? what right have i to interfere in other people's affairs, in other people's love? how do i know the nature of that love? perhaps even in lutchkov.... no, no!' he said aloud, with irritation, almost with tears, smoothing out his pillow, 'that man's stone.... 'it is my own fault... i have lost a friend.... a precious friend, indeed! and she's not worth much either!... what a sickening egoist i am! no, no! from the bottom of my soul i wish them happiness.... happiness! but he is laughing at her!... and why does he dye his moustaches? i do, really, believe he does.... ah, how ridiculous i am!' he repeated, as he fell asleep. vii the next morning kister went to call on the perekatovs. when they met, kister noticed a great change in masha, and masha, too, found a change in him, but neither spoke of it. the whole morning they both, contrary to their habit, felt uncomfortable. kister had prepared at home a number of hints and phrases of double meaning and friendly counsels... but all this previous preparation turned out to be quite thrown away. masha was vaguely aware that kister was watching her; she fancied that he pronounced some words with intentional significance; but she was conscious, too, of her own excitement, and did not trust her own observations. 'if only he doesn't mean to stay till evening!' was what she was thinking incessantly, and she tried to make him realise that he was not wanted. kister, for his part, took her awkwardness and her uneasiness for obvious signs of love, and the more afraid he was for her the more impossible he found it to speak of lutchkov; while masha obstinately refrained from uttering his name. it was a painful experience for poor fyodor fedoritch. he began at last to understand his own feelings. never had masha seemed to him more charming. she had, to all appearances, not slept the whole night. a faint flush stood in patches on her pale face; her figure was faintly drooping; an unconscious, weary smile never left her lips; now and then a shiver ran over her white shoulders; a soft light glowed suddenly in her eyes, and quickly faded away. nenila makarievna came in and sat with them, and possibly with intention mentioned avdey ivanovitch. but in her mother's presence masha was armed _jusqu'aux dents,_ as the french say, and she did not betray herself at all. so passed the whole morning. 'you will dine with us?' nenila makarievna asked kister. masha turned away. 'no,' kister said hurriedly, and he glanced towards masha. 'excuse me... duties of the service...' nenila makarievna duly expressed her regret. mr. perekatov, following her lead, also expressed something or other. 'i don't want to be in the way,' kister wanted to say to masha, as he passed her, but he bowed down and whispered instead: 'be happy... farewell... take care of yourself...' and was gone. masha heaved a sigh from the bottom of her heart, and then felt panic-stricken at his departure. what was it fretting her? love or curiosity? god knows; but, we repeat, curiosity alone was enough to ruin eve. viii long meadow was the name of a wide, level stretch of ground on the right of the little stream sniezhinka, nearly a mile from the perekatovs' property. the left bank, completely covered by thick young oak bushes, rose steeply up over the stream, which was almost overgrown with willow bushes, except for some small 'breeding-places,' the haunts of wild ducks. half a mile from the stream, on the right side of long meadow, began the sloping, undulating uplands, studded here and there with old birch-trees, nut bushes, and guelder-roses. the sun was setting. the mill rumbled and clattered in the distance, sounding louder or softer according to the wind. the seignorial drove of horses was lazily wandering about the meadows; a shepherd walked, humming a tune, after a flock of greedy and timorous sheep; the sheepdogs, from boredom, were running after the crows. lutchkov walked up and down in the copse, with his arms folded. his horse, tied up near by, more than once whinnied in response to the sonorous neighing of the mares and fillies in the meadow. avdey was ill-tempered and shy, as usual. not yet convinced of masha's love, he felt wrathful with her and annoyed with himself... but his excitement smothered his annoyance. he stopped at last before a large nut bush, and began with his riding-whip switching off the leaves at the ends of the twigs.... he heard a light rustle... he raised his head.... ten paces from him stood masha, all flushed from her rapid walk, in a hat, but with no gloves, in a white dress, with a hastily tied kerchief round her neck. she dropped her eyes instantly, and softly nodded.... avdey went awkwardly up to her with a forced smile. 'how happy i am...' he was beginning, scarcely audibly. 'i am very glad... to meet you...' masha interrupted breathlessly. 'i usually walk here in the evening... and you...' but lutchkov had not the sense even to spare her modesty, to keep up her innocent deception. 'i believe, marya sergievna,' he pronounced with dignity, 'you yourself suggested...' 'yes... yes...' rejoined masha hurriedly. 'you wished to see me, you wanted...' her voice died away. lutchkov did not speak. masha timidly raised her eyes. 'excuse me,' he began, not looking at her, 'i'm a plain man, and not used to talking freely... to ladies... i... i wished to tell you... but, i fancy, you 're not in the humour to listen to me....' 'speak.' 'since you tell me to... well, then, i tell you frankly that for a long while now, ever since i had the honour of making your acquaintance...' avdey stopped. masha waited for the conclusion of his sentence. 'i don't know, though, what i'm telling you all this for.... there's no changing one's destiny...' 'how can one know?...' 'i know!' responded avdey gloomily. 'i am used to facing its blows!' it struck masha that this was not exactly the befitting moment for lutchkov to rail against destiny. 'there are kind-hearted people in the world,' she observed with a smile; 'some even too kind....' 'i understand you, marya sergievna, and believe me, i appreciate your friendliness... i... i... you won't be angry?' 'no.... what do you want to say?' 'i want to say... that i think you charming... marya sergievna, awfully charming....' 'i am very grateful to you,' masha interrupted him; her heart was aching with anticipation and terror. 'ah, do look, mr. lutchkov,' she went on--'look, what a view!' she pointed to the meadow, streaked with long, evening shadows, and flushed red with the sunset. inwardly overjoyed at the abrupt change in the conversation, lutchkov began admiring the view. he was standing near masha.... 'you love nature?' she asked suddenly, with a rapid turn of her little head, looking at him with that friendly, inquisitive, soft glance, which is a gift only vouchsafed to young girls. 'yes... nature... of course...' muttered avdey. 'of course... a stroll's pleasant in the evening, though, i confess, i'm a soldier, and fine sentiments are not in my line.' lutchkov often repeated that he 'was a soldier.' a brief silence followed. masha was still looking at the meadow. 'how about getting away?' thought avdey. 'what rot it is, though! come, more pluck!... marya sergievna...' he began, in a fairly resolute voice. masha turned to him. 'excuse me,' he began, as though in joke, 'but let me on my side know what you think of me, whether you feel at all... so to say,... amiably disposed towards my person?' 'mercy on us, how uncouth he is!' masha said to herself. 'do you know, mr. lutchkov,' she answered him with a smile, 'it's not always easy to give a direct answer to a direct question.' 'still...' 'but what is it to you?' 'oh, really now, i want to know...' 'but... is it true that you are a great duellist? tell me, is it true?' said masha, with shy curiosity. 'they do say you have killed more than one man?' 'it has happened so,' avdey responded indifferently, and he stroked his moustaches. masha looked intently at him. 'this hand then...' she murmured. meanwhile lutchkov's blood had caught fire. for more than a quarter of an hour a young and pretty girl had been moving before his eyes. 'marya sergievna,' he began again, in a sharp and strange voice, 'you know my feelings now, you know what i wanted to see you for.... you've been so kind.... you tell me, too, at last what i may hope for....' masha twisted a wildflower in her hands.... she glanced sideways at lutchkov, flushed, smiled, said,' what nonsense you do talk,' and gave him the flower. avdey seized her hand. 'and so you love me!' he cried. masha turned cold all over with horror. she had not had the slightest idea of making a declaration of love to avdey: she was not even sure herself as yet whether she did care for him, and here he was forestalling her, forcing her to speak out--he must be misunderstanding her then.... this idea flashed quicker than lightning into masha's head. she had never expected such a speedy _dã©nouement._... masha, like an inquisitive child, had been asking herself all day: 'can it be that lutchkov cares for me?' she had dreamed of a delightful evening walk, a respectful and tender dialogue; she had fancied how she would flirt with him, make the wild creature feel at home with her, permit him at parting to kiss her hand... and instead of that... instead of that, she was suddenly aware of avdey's rough moustaches on her cheek.... 'let us be happy,' he was whispering: 'there's no other happiness on earth!' masha shuddered, darted horror-stricken on one side, and pale all over, stopped short, one hand leaning on a birch-tree. avdey was terribly confused. 'excuse me,' he muttered, approaching her, 'i didn't expect really...' masha gazed at him, wide-eyed and speechless... a disagreeable smile twisted his lips... patches of red came out on his face.... 'what are you afraid of?' he went on; 'it's no such great matter.... why, we understand each other... and so....' masha did not speak. 'come, stop that!... that's all nonsense! it's nothing but...' lutchkov stretched out his hand to her. masha recollected kister, his 'take care of yourself,' and, sinking with terror, in a rather shrill voice screamed, 'taniusha!' from behind a nutbush emerged the round face of her maid.... avdey was completely disconcerted. reassured by the presence of her hand-maiden, masha did not stir. but the bully was shaking all over with rage; his eyes were half closed; he clenched his fists and laughed nervously. 'bravo! bravo! clever trick--no denying that!' he cried out. masha was petrified. 'so you took every care, i see, to be on the safe side, marya sergievna! prudence is never thrown away, eh? upon my word! nowadays young ladies see further than old men. so this is all your love amounts to!' 'i don't know, mr. lutchkov, who has given you any right to speak about love... what love?' 'who? why, you yourself!' lutchkov cut her short: 'what next!' he felt he was ship-wrecking the whole business, but he could not restrain himself. 'i have acted thoughtlessly,' said masha.... 'i yielded to your request, relying upon your _dã©licatesse_... but you don't know french... on your courtesy, i mean....' avdey turned pale. masha had stung him to the quick. 'i don't know french... may be; but i know... i know very well that you have been amusing yourself at my expense.' 'not at all, avdey ivanovitch... indeed, i'm very sorry...' 'oh, please, don't talk about being sorry for me,' avdey cut her short peremptorily; 'spare me that, anyway!' 'mr. lutchkov...' 'oh, you needn't put on those grand-duchess airs... it's trouble thrown away! you don't impress me.' masha stepped back a pace, turned swiftly round and walked away. 'won't you give me a message for your friend, your shepherd lad, your tender sweet-heart, kister,' avdey shouted after her. he had lost his head. 'isn't he the happy man?'... masha made him no reply, and hurriedly, gladly retreated. she felt light at heart, in spite of her fright and excitement. she felt as though she had waked up from a troubled sleep, had stepped out of a dark room into air and sunshine.... avdey glared about him like a madman; in speechless frenzy he broke a young tree, jumped on to his mare, and so viciously drove the spurs into her, so mercilessly pulled and tugged at the reins that the wretched beast galloped six miles in a quarter of an hour and almost expired the same night. kister waited for lutchkov in vain till midnight, and next morning he went round himself to see him. the orderly informed fyodor fedoritch that his master was lying down and had given orders that he would see no one. 'he won't see me even?'. 'not even your honour.' kister walked twice up and down the street, tortured by the keenest apprehensions, and then went home again. his servant handed him a note. 'from whom?' 'from the perekatovs. artiomka the postillion brought it.' kister's hands began to tremble. 'he had orders to give you their greetings. he had orders to wait for your answer. am i to give artiomka some vodka?' kister slowly unfolded the note, and read as follows: 'dear good fyodor fedoritch,--i want very, very much to see you. come to-day, if you can. don't refuse my request, i entreat you, for the sake of our old friendship. if only you knew... but you shall know everything. good-bye for a little while,--eh? marie. 'p.s.--be sure to come to-morrow.' 'so your honour, am i to give artiomka some vodka?' kister turned a long, bewildered stare at his servant's countenance, and went out without uttering a word. 'the master has told me to get you some vodka, and to have a drink with you,' said kister's servant to artiomka the postillion. ix masha came with such a bright and grateful face to meet kister, when he came into the drawing-room, she pressed his hand so warmly and affectionately, that his heart throbbed with delight, and a weight seemed rolled from his mind. masha did not, however, say a single word, and she promptly left the room. sergei sergeitch was sitting on the sofa, playing patience. conversation sprang up. sergei sergeitch had not yet succeeded with his usual skill in bringing the conversation round from all extraneous topics to his dog, when masha reappeared, wearing a plaid silk sash, kister's favourite sash. nenila makarievna came in and gave fyodor fedoritch a friendly greeting. at dinner they were all laughing and making jokes; even sergei sergeitch plucked up spirit and described one of the merriest pranks of his youthful days, hiding his head from his wife like an ostrich, as he told the story. 'let us go for a walk, fyodor fedoritch,' masha said to kister after dinner with that note of affectionate authority in her voice which is, as it were, conscious that you will gladly submit to it. 'i want to talk to you about something very, very important,' she added with enchanting solemnity, as she put on her suede gloves. 'are you coming with us, _maman_?' 'no,' answered nenila makarievna. 'but we are not going into the garden.' 'where then?' 'to long meadow, to the copse.' 'take taniusha with you.' 'taniusha, taniusha!' masha cried musically, flitting lightly as a bird from the room. a quarter of an hour later masha walked with kister into the long meadow. as she passed the cattle, she gave a piece of bread to her favourite cow, patted it on the head and made kister stroke it. masha was in great good humour and chatted merrily. kister responded willingly, though he awaited explanations with impatience.... taniusha walked behind at a respectful distance, only from time to time stealing a sly glance at her young lady. 'you're not angry with me, fyodor fedoritch?' queried masha. 'with you, marya sergievna? why, whatever for?' 'the day before yesterday... don't you remember?' 'you were out of humour... that was all.' 'what are we walking in single file for? give me your arm. that's right.... you were out of humour too.' 'yes, i was too.' 'but to-day i'm in good humour, eh?' 'yes, i think so, to-day...' 'and do you know why? because...' masha nodded her head gravely. 'well, i know why.... because i am with you,' she added, not looking at kister. kister softly pressed her hand. 'but why don't you question me?...' masha murmured in an undertone. 'what about?' 'oh, don't pretend... about my letter.' 'i was waiting for...' 'that's just why i am happy with you,' masha interrupted him impulsively: 'because you are a gentle, good-hearted person, because you are incapable... _parceque vous avez de la dã©licatesse_. one can say that to you: you understand french.' kister did understand french, but he did not in the least understand masha. 'pick me that flower, that one... how pretty it is!' masha admired it, and suddenly, swiftly withdrawing her hand from his arm, with an anxious smile she began carefully sticking the tender stalk in the buttonhole of kister's coat. her slender fingers almost touched his lips. he looked at the fingers and then at her. she nodded her head to him as though to say 'you may.'... kister bent down and kissed the tips of her gloves. meanwhile they drew near the already familiar copse. masha became suddenly more thoughtful, and at last kept silent altogether. they came to the very place where lutchkov had waited for her. the trampled grass had not yet grown straight again; the broken sapling had not yet withered, its little leaves were only just beginning to curl up and fade. masha stared about her, and turned quickly to kister. 'do you know why i have brought you here?' 'no, i don't.' 'don't you know? why is it you haven't told me anything about your friend lutchkov to-day? you always praise him so...' kister dropped his eyes, and did not speak. 'do you know,' masha brought out with some effort, 'that i made... an appointment... to meet him here... yesterday?' 'i know that,' kister rejoined hurriedly. 'you know it?... ah! now i see why the day before yesterday... mr. lutchkov was in a hurry it seems to boast of his _conquest_.' kister was about to answer.... 'don't speak, don't say anything in opposition.... i know he's your friend. you are capable of taking his part. you knew, kister, you knew.... how was it you didn't prevent me from acting so stupidly? why didn't you box my ears, as if i were a child? you knew... and didn't you care?' 'but what right had i...' 'what right!... the right of a friend. but he too is your friend.... i'm ashamed, kister.... he your friend.... that man behaved to me yesterday, as if...' masha turned away. kister's eyes flamed; he turned pale. 'oh, never mind, don't be angry.... listen, fyodor fedoritch, don't be angry. it's all for the best. i am very glad of yesterday's explanation... yes, that's just what it was,' added masha. 'what do you suppose i am telling you about it for? to complain of mr. lutchkov? nonsense! i've forgotten about him. but i have done you a wrong, my good friend.... i want to speak openly to you, to ask your forgiveness... your advice. you have accustomed me to frankness; i am at ease with you.... you are not a mr. lutchkov!' 'lutchkov is clumsy and coarse,' kister brought out with difficulty; 'but...' 'why _but_? aren't you ashamed to say _but_? he is coarse, _and_ clumsy, _and_ ill-natured, _and_ conceited.... do you hear?--_and_, not _but_.' 'you are speaking under the influence of anger, marya sergievna,' kister observed mournfully. 'anger? a strange sort of anger! look at me; are people like this when they 're angry? listen,' pursued masha; 'you may think what you like of me... but if you imagine i am flirting with you to-day from pique, well... well...' (tears stood in her eyes)'i shall be angry in earnest.' 'do be open with me, marya sergievna...' 'o, silly fellow! how slow you are! why, look at me, am i not open with you, don't you see right through me?' 'oh, very well... yes; i believe you,' kister said with a smile, seeing with what anxious insistence she tried to catch his eyes. 'but tell me, what induced you to arrange to meet lutchkov?' 'what induced me? i really don't know. he wanted to speak to me alone. i fancied he had never had time, never had an opportunity to speak freely. he has spoken freely now! do you know, he may be an extraordinary man, but he's a fool, really.... he doesn't know how to put two words together. he's simply an ignoramus. though, indeed, i don't blame him much... he might suppose i was a giddy, mad, worthless girl. i hardly ever talked to him.... he did excite my curiosity, certainly, but i imagined that a man who was worthy of being your friend...' 'don't, please, speak of him as my friend,' kister interposed. 'no, no, i don't want to separate you.' 'oh, my god, for you i'm ready to sacrifice more than a friend.... everything is over between me and mr. lutchkov,' kister added hurriedly. masha looked intently into his face. 'well, enough of him,' she said. 'don't let us talk of him. it's a lesson to me for the future. it's i that am to blame. for several months past i have almost every day seen a man who is good, clever, bright, friendly who...' (masha was confused, and stammered) 'who, i think, cared... a little... for me too... and i like a fool,' she went on quickly, 'preferred to him... no, no, i didn't prefer him, but...' she drooped her head, and ceased speaking in confusion. kister was in a sort of terror. 'it can't be!' he kept repeating to himself. 'marya sergievna!' he began at last. masha lifted her head, and turned upon him eyes heavy with unshed tears. 'you don't guess of whom i am speaking?' she asked. scarcely daring to breathe, kister held out his hand. masha at once clutched it warmly. 'you are my friend as before, aren't you?... why don't you answer?' 'i am your friend, you know that,' he murmured. 'and you are not hard on me? you forgive me?... you understand me? you're not laughing at a girl who made an appointment only yesterday with one man, and to-day is talking to another, as i am talking to you.... you're not laughing at me, are you?...' masha's face glowed crimson, she clung with both hands to kister's hand.... 'laugh at you,' answered kister: 'i... i... why, i love you... i love you,' he cried. masha hid her face. 'surely you've long known that i love you, marya sergievna?' x three weeks after this interview, kister was sitting alone in his room, writing the following letter to his mother:-dearest mother!--i make haste to share my great happiness with you; i am going to get married. this news will probably only surprise you from my not having, in my previous letters, even hinted at so important a change in my life--and you know that i am used to sharing all my feelings, my joys and my sorrows, with you. my reasons for silence are not easy to explain to you. to begin with, i did not know till lately that i was loved; and on my own side too, it is only lately that i have realised myself all the strength of my own feeling. in one of my first letters from here, i wrote to you of our neighbours, the perekatovs; i am engaged to their only daughter, marya. i am thoroughly convinced that we shall both be happy. my feeling for her is not a fleeting passion, but a deep and genuine emotion, in which friendship is mingled with love. her bright, gentle disposition is in perfect harmony with my tastes. she is well-educated, clever, plays the piano splendidly.... if you could only see her! i enclose her portrait sketched by me. i need hardly say she is a hundred times better-looking than her portrait. masha loves you already, like a daughter, and is eagerly looking forward to seeing you. i mean to retire, to settle in the country, and to go in for farming. mr. perekatov has a property of four hundred serfs in excellent condition. you see that even from the material point of view, you cannot but approve of my plans. i will get leave and come to moscow and to you. expect me in a fortnight, not later. my own dearest mother, how happy i am!... kiss me...' and so on. kister folded and sealed the letter, got up, went to the window, lighted a pipe, thought a little, and returned to the table. he took out a small sheet of notepaper, carefully dipped his pen into the ink, but for a long while he did not begin to write, knitted his brows, lifted his eyes to the ceiling, bit the end of his pen.... at last he made up his mind, and in the course of a quarter of an hour he had composed the following: 'dear avdey ivanovitch,--since the day of your last visit (that is, for three weeks) you have sent me no message, have not said a word to me, and have seemed to avoid meeting me. every one is, undoubtedly, free to act as he pleases; you have chosen to break off our acquaintance, and i do not, believe me, in addressing you intend to reproach you in any way. it is not my intention or my habit to force myself upon any one whatever; it is enough for me to feel that i am not to blame in the matter. i am writing to you now from a feeling of duty. i have made an offer to marya sergievna perekatov, and have been accepted by her, and also by her parents. i inform _you_ of this fact--directly and immediately--to avoid any kind of misapprehension or suspicion. i frankly confess, sir, that i am unable to feel great concern about the good opinion of a man who himself shows so little concern for the opinions and feelings of other people, and i am writing to you solely because i do not care in this matter even to appear to have acted or to be acting underhandedly. i make bold to say, you know me, and will not ascribe my present action to any other lower motive. addressing you for the last time, i cannot, for the sake of our old friendship, refrain from wishing you all good things possible on earth.--i remain, sincerely, your obedient servant, fyodor kister.' fyodor fedoritch despatched this note to the address, changed his uniform, and ordered his carriage to be got ready. light-hearted and happy, he walked up and down his little room humming, even gave two little skips in the air, twisted a book of songs into a roll, and was tying it up with blue ribbon.... the door opened, and lutchkov, in a coat without epaulettes, with a cap on his head, came into the room. kister, astounded, stood still in the middle of the room, without finishing the bow he was tying. 'so you're marrying the perekatov girl?' queried avdey in a calm voice. kister fired up. 'sir,' he began; 'decent people take off their caps and say good-morning when they come into another man's room.' 'beg pardon,' the bully jerked out; and he took off his cap. 'good-morning.' 'good-morning, mr. lutchkov. you ask me if i am about to marry miss perekatov? haven't you read my letter, then?' 'i have read your letter. you're going to get married. i congratulate you.' 'i accept your congratulation, and thank you for it. but i must be starting.' 'i should like to have a few words of explanation with you, fyodor fedoritch.' 'by all means, with pleasure,' responded the good-natured fellow. 'i must own i was expecting such an explanation. your behaviour to me has been so strange, and i think, on my side, i have not deserved... at least, i had no reason to expect... but won't you sit down? wouldn't you like a pipe?' lutchkov sat down. there was a certain weariness perceptible in his movements. he stroked his moustaches and lifted his eyebrows. 'i say, fyodor fedoritch,' he began at last; 'why did you keep it up with me so long?...' 'how do you mean?' 'why did you pose as such... a disinterested being, when you were just such another as all the rest of us sinners all the while?' 'i don't understand you.... can i have wounded you in some way?...' 'you don't understand me... all right. i'll try and speak more plainly. just tell me, for instance, openly, have you had a liking for the perekatov girl all along, or is it a case of sudden passion?' 'i should prefer, avdey ivanitch, not to discuss with you my relations with marya sergievna,' kister responded coldly. 'oh, indeed! as you please. only you'll kindly allow me to believe that you've been humbugging me.' avdey spoke very deliberately and emphatically. 'you can't believe that, avdey ivanitch; you know me.' 'i know you?... who knows you? the heart of another is a dark forest, and the best side of goods is always turned uppermost. i know you read german poetry with great feeling and even with tears in your eyes; i know that you've hung various maps on your walls; i know you keep your person clean; that i know,... but beyond that, i know nothing...' kister began to lose his temper. 'allow me to inquire,' he asked at last, 'what is the object of your visit? you have sent no message to me for three weeks, and now you come to me, apparently with the intention of jeering at me. i am not a boy, sir, and i do not allow any one...' 'mercy on us,' lutchkov interrupted him; 'mercy on us, fyodor fedoritch, who would venture to jeer at you? it's quite the other way; i've come to you with a most humble request, that is, that you'd do me the favour to explain your behaviour to me. allow me to ask you, wasn't it you who forced me to make the acquaintance of the perekatov family? didn't you assure your humble servant that it would make his soul blossom into flower? and lastly, didn't you throw me with the virtuous marya sergievna? why am i not to presume that it's to _you_ i'm indebted for that final agreeable scene, of which you have doubtless been informed in befitting fashion? an engaged girl, of course, tells her betrothed of everything, especially of her _innocent_ indiscretions. how can i help supposing that it's thanks to you i've been made such a terrific fool of? you took such a mighty interest in my "blossoming out," you know!' kister walked up and down the room. 'look here, lutchkov,' he said at last; 'if you really--joking apart--are convinced of what you say, which i confess i don't believe, then let me tell you, it's shameful and wicked of you to put such an insulting construction on my conduct and intentions. i don't want to justify myself... i appeal to your own conscience, to your memory.' 'yes; i remember you were continually whispering with marya sergievna. besides that, let me ask you another question: weren't you at the perekatovs' after a certain conversation with me, after that evening when i like a fool chattered to you, thinking you my greatest friend, of the meeting she'd arranged?' 'what! you suspect me...' 'i suspect other people of nothing,' avdey cut him short with cutting iciness, 'of which i would not suspect myself; but i have the weakness to suppose that other men are no better than i am.' 'you are mistaken,' kister retorted emphatically; 'other men are better than you.' 'i congratulate them upon it,' lutchkov dropped carelessly; 'but...' 'but remember,' broke in kister, now in his turn thoroughly infuriated, 'in what terms you spoke of... of that meeting... of... but these explanations are leading to nothing, i see.... think what you choose of me, and act as you think best.' 'come, that's better,' observed avdey. 'at last you're beginning to speak plainly.' 'as you think best,' repeated kister. 'i understand your position, fyodor fedoritch,' avdey went on with an affectation of sympathy; 'it's disagreeable, certainly. a man has been acting, acting a part, and no one has recognised him as a humbug; and all of a sudden...' 'if i could believe,' kister interrupted, setting his teeth, 'that it was wounded love that makes you talk like this, i should feel sorry for you; i could excuse you.... but in your abuse, in your false charges, i hear nothing but the shriek of mortified pride... and i feel no sympathy for you.... you have deserved what you've got.' 'ugh, mercy on us, how the fellow talks!' avdey murmured. 'pride,' he went on; 'may be; yes, yes, my pride, as you say, has been mortified intensely and insufferably. but who isn't proud? aren't you? yes, i'm proud, and for instance, i permit no one to feel sorry for me....' 'you don't permit it!' kister retorted haughtily. 'what an expression, sir! don't forget, the tie between us you yourself have broken. i must beg you to behave with me as with a complete outsider.' 'broken! broken the tie between us!' repeated avdey. 'understand me; i have sent you no message, and have not been to see you because i was sorry for you; you must allow me to be sorry for you, since you 're sorry for me!... i didn't want to put you in a false position, to make your conscience prick.... you talk of a tie between us... as though you could remain my friend as before your marriage! rubbish! why, you were only friendly with me before to gloat over your fancied superiority...' avdey's duplicity overwhelmed, confounded kister. 'let us end this unpleasant conversation!' he cried at last. 'i must own i don't see why you've been pleased to come to me.' 'you don't see what i've come to you for?' avdey asked inquiringly. 'i certainly don't see why.' 'n--o?' 'no, i tell you...' 'astonishing!... this is astonishing! who'd have thought it of a fellow of your intelligence!' 'come, speak plainly...' 'i have come, mr. kister,' said avdey, slowly rising to his feet, 'i have come to challenge you to a duel. do you understand now? i want to fight you. ah! you thought you could get rid of me like that! why, didn't you know the sort of man you have to do with? as if i'd allow...' 'very good,' kister cut in coldly and abruptly. 'i accept your challenge. kindly send me your second.' 'yes, yes,' pursued avdey, who, like a cat, could not bear to let his victim go so soon: 'it'll give me great pleasure i'll own to put a bullet into your fair and idealistic countenance to-morrow.' 'you are abusive after a challenge, it seems,' kister rejoined contemptuously. 'be so good as to go. i'm ashamed of you.' 'oh, to be sure, _dã©licatesse_!... ah, marya sergievna, i don't know french!' growled avdey, as he put on his cap. 'till we meet again, fyodor fedoritch!' he bowed and walked out. kister paced several times up and down the room. his face burned, his breast heaved violently. he felt neither fear nor anger; but it sickened him to think what this man really was that he had once looked upon as a friend. the idea of the duel with lutchkov was almost pleasant to him.... once get free from the past, leap over this rock in his path, and then to float on an untroubled tide... 'good,' he thought, 'i shall be fighting to win my happiness.' masha's image seemed to smile to him, to promise him success. 'i'm not going to be killed! not i!' he repeated with a serene smile. on the table lay the letter to his mother.... he felt a momentary pang at his heart. he resolved any way to defer sending it off. there was in kister that quickening of the vital energies of which a man is aware in face of danger. he calmly thought over all the possible results of the duel, mentally placed masha and himself in all the agonies of misery and parting, and looked forward to the future with hope. he swore to himself not to kill lutchkov... he felt irresistibly drawn to masha. he paused a second, hurriedly arranged things, and directly after dinner set off to the perekatovs. all the evening kister was in good spirits, perhaps in too good spirits. masha played a great deal on the piano, felt no foreboding of evil, and flirted charmingly with him. at first her unconsciousness wounded him, then he took masha's very unconsciousness as a happy omen, and was rejoiced and reassured by it. she had grown fonder and fonder of him every day; happiness was for her a much more urgent need than passion. besides, avdey had turned her from all exaggerated desires, and she renounced them joyfully and for ever. nenila makarievna loved kister like a son. sergei sergeitch as usual followed his wife's lead. 'till we meet,' masha said to kister, following him into the hall and gazing at him with a soft smile, as he slowly and tenderly kissed her hands. 'till we meet,' fyodor fedoritch repeated confidently; 'till we meet.' but when he had driven half a mile from the perekatovs' house, he stood up in the carriage, and with vague uneasiness began looking for the lighted windows.... all in the house was dark as in the tomb. xi next day at eleven o'clock in the morning kister's second, an old major of tried merit, came for him. the good old man growled to himself, bit his grey moustaches, and wished avdey ivanovitch everything unpleasant.... the carriage was brought to the door. kister handed the major two letters, one for his mother, the other for masha. 'what's this for?' 'well, one can never tell...' 'nonsense! we'll shoot him like a partridge...' 'any way it's better...' the major with vexation stuffed the two letters in the side pocket of his coat. 'let us start.' they set off. in a small copse, a mile and a half from the village of kirilovo, lutchkov was awaiting them with his former friend, the perfumed adjutant. it was lovely weather, the birds were twittering peacefully; not far from the copse a peasant was tilling the ground. while the seconds were marking out the distance, fixing the barrier, examining and loading the pistols, the opponents did not even glance at one another.... kister walked to and fro with a careless air, swinging a flower he had gathered; avdey stood motionless, with folded arms and scowling brow. the decisive moment arrived. 'begin, gentlemen!' kister went rapidly towards the barrier, but he had not gone five steps before avdey fired, kister started, made one more step forward, staggered. his head sank... his knees bent under him... he fell like a sack on the grass. the major rushed up to him.... 'is it possible?' whispered the dying man. avdey went up to the man he had killed. on his gloomy and sunken face was a look of savage, exasperated regret.... he looked at the adjutant and the major, bent his head like a guilty man, got on his horse without a word, and rode slowly straight to the colonel's quarters. masha... is living to this day. three portraits 'neighbours' constitute one of the most serious drawbacks of life in the country. i knew a country gentleman of the vologodsky district, who used on every suitable occasion to repeat the following words, 'thank god, i have no neighbours,' and i confess i could not help envying that happy mortal. my own little place is situated in one of the most thickly peopled provinces of russia. i am surrounded by a vast number of dear neighbours, from highly respectable and highly respected country gentlemen, attired in ample frockcoats and still more ample waistcoats, down to regular loafers, wearing jackets with long sleeves and a so-called shooting-bag on their back. in this crowd of gentlefolks i chanced, however, to discover one very pleasant fellow. he had served in the army, had retired and settled for good and all in the country. according to his story, he had served for two years in the b-----regiment. but i am totally unable to comprehend how that man could have performed any sort of duty, not merely for two years, but even for two days. he was born 'for a life of peace and country calm,' that is to say, for lazy, careless vegetation, which, i note parenthetically, is not without great and inexhaustible charms. he possessed a very fair property, and without giving too much thought to its management, spent about ten thousand roubles a year, had obtained an excellent cook--my friend was fond of good fare--and ordered too from moscow all the newest french books and magazines. in russian he read nothing but the reports of his bailiff, and that with great difficulty. he used, when he did not go out shooting, to wear a dressing-gown from morning till dinner-time and at dinner. he would look through plans of some sort, or go round to the stables or to the threshing barn, and joke with the peasant women, who, to be sure, in his presence wielded their flails in leisurely fashion. after dinner my friend would dress very carefully before the looking-glass, and drive off to see some neighbour possessed of two or three pretty daughters. he would flirt serenely and unconcernedly with one of them, play blind-man's-buff with them, return home rather late and promptly fall into a heroic sleep. he could never be bored, for he never gave himself up to complete inactivity; and in the choice of occupations he was not difficult to please, and was amused like a child with the smallest trifle. on the other hand, he cherished no particular attachment to life, and at times, when he chanced to get a glimpse of the track of a wolf or a fox, he would let his horse go at full gallop over such ravines that to this day i cannot understand how it was he did not break his neck a hundred times over. he belonged to that class of persons who inspire in one the idea that they do not know their own value, that under their appearance of indifference strong and violent passions lie concealed. but he would have laughed in one's face if he could have guessed that one cherished such an opinion of him. and indeed i must own i believe myself that even supposing my friend had had in youth some strong impulse, however vague, towards what is so sweetly called 'higher things,' that impulse had long, long ago died out. he was rather stout and enjoyed superb health. in our day one cannot help liking people who think little about themselves, because they are exceedingly rare... and my friend had almost forgotten his own personality. i fancy, though, that i have said too much about him already, and my prolixity is the more uncalled for as he is not the hero of my story. his name was piotr fedorovitch lutchinov. one autumn day there were five of us, ardent sportsmen, gathered together at piotr fedorovitch's. we had spent the whole morning out, had run down a couple of foxes and a number of hares, and had returned home in that supremely agreeable frame of mind which comes over every well-regulated person after a successful day's shooting. it grew dusk. the wind was frolicking over the dark fields and noisily swinging the bare tops of the birches and lime-trees round lutchinov's house. we reached the house, got off our horses.... on the steps i stood still and looked round: long storm-clouds were creeping heavily over the grey sky; a dark-brown bush was writhing in the wind, and murmuring plaintively; the yellow grass helplessly and forlornly bowed down to the earth; flocks of thrushes were fluttering in the mountain-ashes among the bright, flame-coloured clusters of berries. among the light brittle twigs of the birch-trees blue-tits hopped whistling. in the village there was the hoarse barking of dogs. i felt melancholy... but it was with a genuine sense of comfort that i walked into the dining-room. the shutters were closed; on a round table, covered with a tablecloth of dazzling whiteness, amid cut-glass decanters of red wine, there were eight lighted candles in silver candlesticks; a fire glowed cheerfully on the hearth, and an old and very stately-looking butler, with a huge bald head, wearing an english dress, stood before another table on which was pleasingly conspicuous a large soup-tureen, encircled by light savoury-smelling steam. in the hall we passed by another venerable man, engaged in icing champagne--'according to the strictest rules of the art.' the dinner was, as is usual in such cases, exceedingly pleasant. we laughed and talked of the incidents of the day's shooting, and recalled with enthusiasm two glorious 'runs.' after dining pretty heartily, we settled comfortably into ample arm-chairs round the fire; a huge silver bowl made its appearance on the table, and in a few minutes the white flame of the burning rum announced our host's agreeable intention 'to concoct a punch.' piotr fedoritch was a man of some taste; he was aware, for instance, that nothing has so fatal an influence on the fancy as the cold, steady, pedantic light of a lamp, and so he gave orders that only two candles should be left in the room. strange half-shadows quivered on the walls, thrown by the fanciful play of the fire in the hearth and the flame of the punch... a soft, exceedingly agreeable sense of soothing comfort replaced in our hearts the somewhat boisterous gaiety that had reigned at dinner. conversations have their destinies, like books, as the latin proverb says, like everything in the world. our conversation that evening was particularly many-sided and lively. from details it passed to rather serious general questions, and lightly and casually came back to the daily incidents of life.... after chatting a good deal, we suddenly all sank into silence. at such times they say an angel of peace is flying over. i cannot say why my companions were silent, but i held my tongue because my eyes had suddenly come to rest on three dusty portraits in black wooden frames. the colours were rubbed and cracked in places, but one could still make out the faces. the portrait in the centre was that of a young woman in a white gown with lace ruffles, her hair done up high, in the style of the eighties of last century. on her right, upon a perfectly black background, there stood out the full, round face of a good-natured country gentleman of five-and-twenty, with a broad, low brow, a thick nose, and a good-humoured smile. the french powdered coiffure was utterly out of keeping with the expression of his slavonic face. the artist had portrayed him wearing a long loose coat of crimson colour with large paste buttons; in his hand he was holding some unlikely-looking flower. the third portrait, which was the work of some other more skilful hand, represented a man of thirty, in the green uniform, with red facings, of the time of catherine, in a white shirt, with a fine cambric cravat. one hand leaned on a gold-headed cane, the other lay on his shirt front. his dark, thinnish face was full of insolent haughtiness. the fine long eyebrows almost grew together over the pitch-black eyes, about the thin, scarcely discernible lips played an evil smile. 'why do you keep staring at those faces?' piotr fedoritch asked me. 'oh, i don't know!' i answered, looking at him. 'would you care to hear a whole story about those three persons?' 'oh, please tell it,' we all responded with one voice. piotr fedoritch got up, took a candle, carried it to the portraits, and in the tone of a showman at a wild beast show, 'gentlemen!' he boomed, 'this lady was the adopted child of my great-grandfather, olga ivanovna n.n., called lutchinov, who died forty years ago unmarried. this gentleman,' he pointed to the portrait of a man in uniform, 'served as a lieutenant in the guards, vassily ivanovitch lutchinov, expired by the will of god in the year seventeen hundred and ninety. and this gentleman, to whom i have not the honour of being related, is a certain pavel afanasiitch rogatchov, serving nowhere, as far as i'm aware.... kindly take note of the hole in his breast, just on the spot where the heart should be. that hole, you see, a regular three-sided hole, would be hardly likely to have come there by chance.... now, 'he went on in his usual voice, 'kindly seat yourselves, arm yourselves with patience, and listen.' gentlemen! (he began) i come of a rather old family. i am not proud of my descent, seeing that my ancestors were all fearful prodigals. though that reproach cannot indeed be made against my great-grandfather, ivan andreevitch lutchinov; on the contrary, he had the character of being excessively careful, even miserly--at any rate, in the latter years of his life. he spent his youth in petersburg, and lived through the reign of elizabeth. in petersburg he married, and had by his wife, my great-grandmother, four children, three sons, vassily, ivan, and pavel, my grandfather, and one daughter, natalia. in addition, ivan andreevitch took into his family the daughter of a distant relation, a nameless and destitute orphan--olga ivanovna, of whom i spoke just now. my great-grandfather's serfs were probably aware of his existence, for they used (when nothing particularly unlucky occurred) to send him a trifling rent, but they had never seen his face. the village of lutchinovka, deprived of the bodily presence of its lord, was flourishing exceedingly, when all of a sudden one fine morning a cumbrous old family coach drove into the village and stopped before the elder's hut. the peasants, alarmed at such an unheard-of occurrence, ran up and saw their master and mistress and all their young ones, except the eldest, vassily, who was left behind in petersburg. from that memorable day down to the very day of his death, ivan andreevitch never left lutchinovka. he built himself a house, the very house in which i have the pleasure of conversing with you at this moment. he built a church too, and began living the life of a country gentleman. ivan andreevitch was a man of immense height, thin, silent, and very deliberate in all his movements. he never wore a dressing-gown, and no one but his valet had ever seen him without powder. ivan andreevitch usually walked with his hands clasped behind his back, turning his head at each step. every day he used to walk in a long avenue of lime-trees, which he had planted with his own hand; and before his death he had the pleasure of enjoying the shade of those trees. ivan andreevitch was exceedingly sparing of his words; a proof of his taciturnity is to be found in the remarkable fact that in the course of twenty years he had not said a single word to his wife, anna pavlovna. his relations with anna pavlovna altogether were of a very curious sort. she directed the whole management of the household; at dinner she always sat beside her husband--he would mercilessly have chastised any one who had dared to say a disrespectful word to her--and yet he never spoke to her, never touched her hand. anna pavlovna was a pale, broken-spirited woman, completely crushed. she prayed every day on her knees in church, and she never smiled. there was a rumour that they had formerly, that is, before they came into the country, lived on very cordial terms with one another. they did say too that anna pavlovna had been untrue to her matrimonial vows; that her conduct had come to her husband's knowledge.... be that as it may, any way ivan andreevitch, even when dying, was not reconciled to her. during his last illness, she never left him; but he seemed not to notice her. one night, anna pavlovna was sitting in ivan andreevitch's bedroom--he suffered from sleeplessness--a lamp was burning before the holy picture. my grandfather's servant, yuditch, of whom i shall have to say a few words later, went out of the room. anna pavlovna got up, crossed the room, and sobbing flung herself on her knees at her husband's bedside, tried to say something--stretched out her hands... ivan andreevitch looked at her, and in a faint voice, but resolutely, called, 'boy!' the servant went in; anna pavlovna hurriedly rose, and went back, tottering, to her place. ivan andreevitch's children were exceedingly afraid of him. they grew up in the country, and were witnesses of ivan andreevitch's strange treatment of his wife. they all loved anna pavlovna passionately, but did not dare to show their love. she seemed of herself to hold aloof from them.... you remember my grandfather, gentlemen; to the day of his death he always walked on tiptoe, and spoke in a whisper... such is the force of habit! my grandfather and his brother, ivan ivanovitch, were simple, good-hearted people, quiet and depressed. my grand'tante natalia married, as you are aware, a coarse, dull-witted man, and all her life she cherished an unutterable, slavish, sheep-like passion for him. but their brother vassily was not of that sort. i believe i said that ivan andreevitch had left him in petersburg. he was then twelve. his father confided him to the care of a distant kinsman, a man no longer young, a bachelor, and a terrible voltairean. vassily grew up and went into the army. he was not tall, but was well-built and exceedingly elegant; he spoke french excellently, and was renowned for his skilful swordsmanship. he was considered one of the most brilliant young men of the beginning of the reign of catherine. my father used often to tell me that he had known more than one old lady who could not refer to vassily ivanovitch lutchinov without heartfelt emotion. picture to yourselves a man endowed with exceptional strength of will, passionate and calculating, persevering and daring, reserved in the extreme, and--according to the testimony of all his contemporaries--fascinatingly, captivatingly attractive. he had no conscience, no heart, no principle, though no one could have called him positively a bad-hearted man. he was vain, but knew how to disguise his vanity, and passionately cherished his independence. when vassily ivanovitch would half close his black eyes, smiling affectionately, when he wanted to fascinate any one, they say it was impossible to resist him; and even people, thoroughly convinced of the coldness and hardness of his heart, were more than once vanquished by the bewitching power of his personal influence. he served his own interests devotedly, and made other people, too, work for his advantage; and he was always successful in everything, because he never lost his head, never disdained using flattery as a means, and well understood how to use it. ten years after ivan andreevitch had settled in the country, he came for a four months' visit to lutchinovka, a brilliant officer of the guards, and in that time succeeded positively in turning the head of the grim old man, his father. strange to say, ivan andreevitch listened with enjoyment to his son's stories of some of his _conquests_. his brothers were speechless in his presence, and admired him as a being of a higher order. and anna pavlovna herself became almost fonder of him than any of her other children who were so sincerely devoted to her. vassily ivanovitch had come down into the country primarily to visit his people, but also with the second object of getting as much money as possible from his father. he lived sumptuously in the glare of publicity in petersburg, and had made a mass of debts. he had no easy task to get round his father's miserliness, and though ivan andreevitch gave him on this one visit probably far more money than he gave all his other children together during twenty years spent under his roof, vassily followed the well-known russian rule, 'get what you can!' ivan andreevitch had a servant called yuditch, just such another tall, thin, taciturn person as his master. they say that this man yuditch was partly responsible for ivan andreevitch's strange behaviour with anna pavlovna; they say he discovered my great-grandmother's guilty intrigue with one of my great-grandfather's dearest friends. most likely yuditch deeply regretted his ill-timed jealousy, for it would be difficult to conceive a more kind-hearted man. his memory is held in veneration by all my house-serfs to this day. my great-grandfather put unbounded confidence in yuditch. in those days landowners used to have money, but did not put it into the keeping of banks, they kept it themselves in chests, under their floors, and so on. ivan andreevitch kept all his money in a great wrought-iron coffer, which stood under the head of his bed. the key of this coffer was intrusted to yuditch. every evening as he went to bed ivan andreevitch used to bid him open the coffer in his presence, used to tap in turn each of the tightly filled bags with a stick, and every saturday he would untie the bags with yuditch, and carefully count over the money. vassily heard of all these doings, and burned with eagerness to overhaul the sacred coffer. in the course of five or six days he had _softened_ yuditch, that is, he had worked on the old man till, as they say, he worshipped the ground his young master trod on. having thus duly prepared him, vassily put on a careworn and gloomy air, for a long while refused to answer yuditch's questions, and at last told him that he had lost at play, and should make an end of himself if he could not get money somehow. yuditch broke into sobs, flung himself on his knees before him, begged him to think of god, not to be his own ruin. vassily locked himself in his room without uttering a word. a little while after he heard some one cautiously knocking at his door; he opened it, and saw in the doorway yuditch pale and trembling, with the key in his hand. vassily took in the whole position at a glance. at first, for a long while, he refused to take it. with tears yuditch repeated, 'take it, your honour, graciously take it!'... vassily at last agreed. this took place on monday. the idea occurred to vassily to replace the money taken out with broken bits of crockery. he reckoned on ivan andreevitch's tapping the bags with his stick, and not noticing the hardly perceptible difference in the sound, and by saturday he hoped to obtain and to replace the sum in the coffer. as he planned, so he did. his father did not, in fact, notice anything. but by saturday vassily had not procured the money; he had hoped to win the sum from a rich neighbour at cards, and instead of that, he lost it all. meantime, saturday had come; it came at last to the turn of the bags filled with broken crocks. picture, gentlemen, the amazement of ivan andreevitch! 'what does this mean?' he thundered. yuditch was silent. 'you stole the money?' 'no, sir.' 'then some one took the key from you?' 'i didn't give the key to any one.' 'not to any one? well then, you are the thief. confess!' 'i am not a thief, ivan andreevitch.' 'where the devil did these potsherds come from then? so you're deceiving me! for the last time i tell you--confess!' yuditch bowed his head and folded his hands behind his back. 'hi, lads!' shrieked ivan andreevitch in a voice of frenzy. 'a stick!' 'what, beat... me?' murmured yuditch. 'yes, indeed! are you any better than the rest? you are a thief! o yuditch! i never expected such dishonesty of you!' 'i have grown grey in your service, ivan andreevitch,' yuditch articulated with effort. 'what have i to do with your grey hairs? damn you and your service!' the servants came in. 'take him, do, and give it him thoroughly.' ivan andreevitch's lips were white and twitching. he walked up and down the room like a wild beast in a small cage. the servants did not dare to carry out his orders. 'why are you standing still, children of ham? am i to undertake him myself, eh?' yuditch was moving towards the door.... 'stay!' screamed ivan andreevitch. 'yuditch, for the last time i tell you, i beg you, yuditch, confess!' 'i can't!' moaned yuditch. 'then take him, the sly old fox! flog him to death! his blood be on my head!' thundered the infuriated old man. the flogging began.... the door suddenly opened, and vassily came in. he was almost paler than his father, his hands were shaking, his upper lip was lifted, and laid bare a row of even, white teeth. 'i am to blame,' he said in a thick but resolute voice. 'i took the money.' the servants stopped. 'you! what? you, vaska! without yuditch's consent?' 'no!' said yuditch, 'with my consent. i gave vassily ivanovitch the key of my own accord. your honour, vassily ivanovitch! why does your honour trouble?' 'so this is the thief!' shrieked ivan andreevitch. 'thanks, vassily, thanks! but, yuditch, i'm not going to forgive you anyway. why didn't you tell me all about it directly? hey, you there! why are you standing still? do you too resist my authority? ah, i'll settle things with you, my pretty gentleman!' he added, turning to vassily. the servants were again laying hands on yuditch.... 'don't touch him!' murmured vassily through his teeth. the men did not heed him. 'back!' he shrieked and rushed upon them.... they stepped back. 'ah! mutiny!' moaned ivan andreevitch, and, raising his stick, he approached his son. vassily leaped back, snatched at the handle of his sword, and bared it to half its length. every one was trembling. anna pavlovna, attracted by the noise, showed herself at the door, pale and scared. a terrible change passed over the face of ivan andreevitch. he tottered, dropped the stick, and sank heavily into an arm-chair, hiding his face in both hands. no one stirred, all stood rooted to the spot, vassily like the rest. he clutched the steel sword-handle convulsively, and his eyes glittered with a weary, evil light.... 'go, all of you... all, out,' ivan andreevitch brought out in a low voice, not taking his hands from his face. the whole crowd went out. vassily stood still in the doorway, then suddenly tossed his head, embraced yuditch, kissed his mother's hand... and two hours later he had left the place. he went back to petersburg. in the evening of the same day yuditch was sitting on the steps of the house serfs' hut. the servants were all round him, sympathising with him and bitterly reproaching their young master. 'that's enough, lads,' he said to them at last, 'give over... why do you abuse him? he himself, the young master, i dare say is not very happy at his audacity....' in consequence of this incident, vassily never saw his father again. ivan andreevitch died without him, and died probably with such a load of sorrow on his heart as god grant none of us may ever know. vassily ivanovitch, meanwhile, went into the world, enjoyed himself in his own way, and squandered money recklessly. how he got hold of the money, i cannot tell for certain. he had obtained a french servant, a very smart and intelligent fellow, bourcier, by name. this man was passionately attached to him and aided him in all his numerous manoeuvres. i do not intend to relate in detail all the exploits of my grand-uncle; he was possessed of such unbounded daring, such serpent-like resource, such inconceivable wiliness, such a fine and ready wit, that i must own i can understand the complete sway that unprincipled person exercised even over the noblest natures. soon after his father's death, in spite of his wiliness, vassily ivanovitch was challenged by an injured husband. he fought a duel, seriously wounded his opponent, and was forced to leave the capital; he was banished to his estate, and forbidden to leave it. vassily ivanovitch was thirty years old. you may easily imagine, gentlemen, with what feelings he left the brilliant life in the capital that he was used to, and came into the country. they say that he got out of the hooded cart several times on the road, flung himself face downwards in the snow and cried. no one in lutchinovka would have known him as the gay and charming vassily ivanovitch they had seen before. he did not talk to any one; went out shooting from morning to night; endured his mother's timid caresses with undisguised impatience, and was merciless in his ridicule of his brothers, and of their wives (they were both married by that time).... i have not so far, i think, told you anything about olga ivanovna. she had been brought as a tiny baby to lutchinovka; she all but died on the road. olga ivanovna was brought up, as they say, in the fear of god and her betters. it must be admitted that ivan andreevitch and anna pavlovna both treated her as a daughter. but there lay hid in her soul a faint spark of that fire which burned so fiercely in vassily ivanovitch. while ivan andreevitch's own children did not dare even to wonder about the cause of the strange, dumb feud between their parents, olga was from her earliest years disturbed and tormented by anna pavlovna's position. like vassily, she loved independence; any restriction fretted her. she was devoted with her whole soul to her benefactress; old lutchinov she detested, and more than once, sitting at table, she shot such black looks at him, that even the servant handing the dishes felt uncomfortable. ivan andreevitch never noticed these glances, for he never took the slightest notice of his family. at first anna pavlovna had tried to eradicate this hatred, but some bold questions of olga's forced her to complete silence. the children of ivan andreevitch adored olga, and the old lady too was fond of her, but not with a very ardent affection. long continued grieving had crushed all cheerfulness and every strong feeling in that poor woman; nothing is so clear a proof of vassily's captivating charm as that he had made even his mother love him passionately. demonstrations of tenderness on the part of children were not in the spirit of the age, and so it is not to be wondered at that olga did not dare to express her devotion, though she always kissed anna pavlovna's hand with special reverence, when she said good-night to her. twenty years later, russian girls began to read romances of the class of _the adventures of marquis glagol, fanfan and lolotta, alexey or the cottage in the forest_; they began to play the clavichord and to sing songs in the style of the once very well-known: 'men like butterflies in sunshine flutter round us opening blossoms,' etc. but in the seventies of last century (olga ivanovna was born in 1757) our country beauties had no notion of such accomplishments. it is difficult for us now to form a clear conception of the russian miss of those days. we can indeed judge from our grandmothers of the degree of culture of girls of noble family in the time of catherine; but how is one to distinguish what they had gradually gained in the course of their long lives from what they were in the days of their youth? olga ivanovna spoke french a little, but with a strong russian accent: in her day there was as yet no talk of french emigrants. in fact, with all her fine qualities, she was still pretty much of a savage, and i dare say in the simplicity of her heart, she had more than once chastised some luckless servant girl with her own hands.... some time before vassily ivanovitch's arrival, olga ivanovna had been betrothed to a neighbour, pavel afanasievitch rogatchov, a very good-natured and straightforward fellow. nature had forgotten to put any spice of ill-temper into his composition. his own serfs did not obey him, and would sometimes all go off, down to the least of them, and leave poor rogatchov without any dinner... but nothing could trouble the peace of his soul. from his childhood he had been stout and indolent, had never been in the government service, and was fond of going to church and singing in the choir. look, gentlemen, at this round, good-natured face; glance at this mild, beaming smile... don't you really feel it reassuring, yourselves? his father used at long intervals to drive over to lutchinovka, and on holidays used to bring with him his pavlusha, whom the little lutchinovs teased in every possible way. pavlusha grew up, began driving over to call on ivan andreevitch on his own account, fell in love with olga ivanovna, and offered her his hand and heart--not to her personally, but to her benefactors. her benefactors gave their consent. they never even thought of asking olga ivanovna whether she liked rogatchov. in those days, in the words of my grandmother, 'such refinements were not the thing.' olga soon got used to her betrothed, however; it was impossible not to feel fond of such a gentle and amiable creature. rogatchov had received no education whatever; his french consisted of the one word _bonjour_, and he secretly considered even that word improper. but some jocose person had taught him the following lines, as a french song: 'sonitchka, sonitchka! ke-voole-voo-de-mwa--i adore you--me-je-ne-pyoo-pa....' this supposed song he always used to hum to himself when he felt in good spirits. his father was also a man of incredible good-nature, always wore a long nankin coat, and whatever was said to him he responded with a smile. from the time of pavel afanasievitch's betrothal, both the rogatchovs, father and son, had been tremendously busy. they had been having their house entirely transformed adding various 'galleries,' talking in a friendly way with the workmen, encouraging them with drinks. they had not yet completed all these additions by the winter; they put off the wedding till the summer. in the summer ivan andreevitch died; the wedding was deferred till the following spring. in the winter vassily ivanovitch arrived. rogatchov was presented to him; he received him coldly and contemptuously, and as time went on, he, so alarmed him by his haughty behaviour that poor rogatchov trembled like a leaf at the very sight of him, was tongue-tied and smiled nervously. vassily once almost annihilated him altogether--by making him a bet, that he, rogatchov, was not able to stop smiling. poor pavel afanasievitch almost cried with, embarrassment, but--actually!--a smile, a stupid, nervous smile refused to leave his perspiring face! vassily toyed deliberately with the ends of his neckerchief, and looked at him with supreme contempt. pavel afanasievitch's father heard too of vassily's presence, and after an interval of a few days--'for the sake of greater formality'--he sallied off to lutchinovka with the object of 'felicitating our honoured guest on his advent to the halls of his ancestors.' afanasey lukitch was famed all over the countryside for his eloquence--that is to say, for his capacity for enunciating without faltering a rather long and complicated speech, with a sprinkling of bookish phrases in it. alas! on this occasion he did not sustain his reputation; he was even more disconcerted than his son, pavel afanasievitch; he mumbled something quite inarticulate, and though he had never been used to taking vodka, he at once drained a glass 'to carry things off'--he found vassily at lunch,--tried at least to clear his throat with some dignity, and did not succeed in making the slightest sound. on their way home, pavel afanasievitch whispered to his parent, 'well, father?' afanasey lukitch responded angrily also in a whisper, 'don't speak of it!' the rogatchovs began to be less frequent visitors at lutchinovka. though indeed they were not the only people intimidated by vassily; he awakened in his own brothers, in their wives, in anna pavlovna herself, an instinctive feeling of uneasiness and discomfort... they tried to avoid him in every way they could. vassily must have noticed this, but apparently had no intention of altering his behaviour to them. suddenly, at the beginning of the spring, he became once more the charming, attractive person they had known of old... the first symptom of this sudden transformation was vassily's unexpected visit to the rogatchovs. afanasey lukitch, in particular, was fairly disconcerted at the sight of lutchinov's carriage, but his dismay very quickly vanished. never had vassily been more courteous and delightful. he took young rogatchov by the arm, went with him to look at the new buildings, talked to the carpenters, made some suggestions, with his own hands chopped a few chips off with the axe, asked to be shown afanasey lukitch's stud horses, himself trotted them out on a halter, and altogether so affected the good-hearted children of the steppes by his gracious affability that they both embraced him more than once. at home, too, vassily managed, in the course of a few days, to turn every one's head just as before. he contrived all sorts of laughable games, got hold of musicians, invited the ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood, told the old ladies the scandals of the town in the most amusing way, flirted a little with the young ones, invented unheard-of diversions, fireworks and such things, in short, he put life into every thing and every one. the melancholy, gloomy house of the lutchinovs was suddenly converted into a noisy, brilliant, enchanted palace of which the whole countryside was talking. this sudden transformation surprised many and delighted all. all sorts of rumours began to be whispered about. sagacious persons opined that vassily ivanovitch had till then been crushed under the weight of some secret trouble, that he saw chances of returning to the capital... but the true cause of vassily ivanovitch's metamorphosis was guessed by no one. olga ivanovna, gentlemen, was rather pretty; though her beauty consisted rather in the extraordinary softness and freshness of her shape, in the quiet grace of her movements than in the strict regularity of her features. nature had bestowed on her a certain independence; her bringing up--she had grown up without father or mother--had developed in her reserve and determination. olga did not belong to the class of quiet and tame-spirited young ladies; but only one feeling had reached its full possibilities in her as yet--hatred for her benefactor. other more feminine passions might indeed flare up in olga ivanovna's heart with abnormal and painful violence... but she had not the cold pride, nor the intense strength of will, nor the self-centred egoism, without which any passion passes quickly away. the first rush of feeling in such half-active, half-passive natures is sometimes extremely violent; but they give way very quickly, especially when it is a question of relentless conformity with accepted principles; they are afraid of consequences.... and yet, gentlemen, i will frankly confess, women of that sort always make the strongest impression on me. ... (at these words the speaker drank a glass of water. rubbish! rubbish! thought i, looking at his round chin; nothing in the world makes a strong impression on you, my dear fellow!) piotr fedoritch resumed: gentlemen, i believe in blood, in race. olga ivanovna had more blood than, for instance, her foster sister, natalia. how did this blood show itself, do you ask? why, in everything; in the lines of her hands, in her lips, in the sound of her voice, in her glance, in her carriage, in her hair, in the very folds of her gown. in all these trifles there lay hid something special, though i am bound to admit that the--how can one express it?--_la distinction_, which had fallen to olga pavlovna's share would not have attracted vassily's notice had he met her in petersburg. but in the country, in the wilds, she not only caught his attention, she was positively the sole cause of the transformation of which i have just been speaking. consider the position. vassily ivanovitch liked to enjoy life; he could not but be bored in the country; his brothers were good-natured fellows, but extremely limited people: he had nothing in common with them. his sister, natalia, with the assistance of her husband, had brought into the world in the course of three years no less than four babies; between her and vassily was a perfect gulf.... anna pavlovna went to church, prayed, fasted, and was preparing herself for death. there remained only olga--a fresh, shy, pretty girl.... vassily did not notice her at first... indeed, who does notice a dependant, an orphan girl kept from charity in the house?... one day, at the very beginning of spring, vassily was walking about the garden, and with his cane slashing off the heads of the dandelions, those stupid yellow flowers, which come out first in such numbers in the meadows, as soon as they begin to grow green. he was walking in the garden in front of the house; he lifted his head, and caught sight of olga ivanovna. she was sitting sideways at the window, dreamily stroking a tabby kitten, who, purring and blinking, nestled on her lap, and with great satisfaction held up her little nose into the rather hot spring sunshine. olga ivanovna was wearing a white morning gown, with short sleeves; her bare, pale-pink, girlish shoulders and arms were a picture of freshness and health. a little red cap discreetly restrained her thick, soft, silky curls. her face was a little flushed; she was only just awake. her slender, flexible neck bent forward so charmingly; there was such seductive negligence, such modesty in the restful pose of her figure, free from corsets, that vassily ivanovitch (a great connoisseur!) halted involuntarily and peeped in. it suddenly occurred to him that olga ivanovna ought not to be left in her primitive ignorance; that she might with time be turned into a very sweet and charming woman. he stole up to the window, stretched up on tiptoe, and imprinted a silent kiss on olga ivanovna's smooth, white arm, a little below the elbow. olga shrieked and jumped up, the kitten put its tail in the air and leaped into the garden. vassily ivanovitch with a smile kept her by the arm.... olga flushed all over, to her ears; he began to rally her on her alarm... invited her to come a walk with him. but olga ivanovna became suddenly conscious of the negligence of her attire, and 'swifter than the swift red deer' she slipped away into the next room. the very same day vassily set off to the rogatchovs. he was suddenly happy and light-hearted. vassily was not in love with olga, no! the word 'love' is not to be used lightly.... he had found an occupation, had set himself a task, and rejoiced with the delight of a man of action. he did not even remember that she was his mother's ward, and another man's betrothed. he never for one instant deceived himself; he was fully aware that it was not for her to be his wife.... possibly there was passion to excuse him--not a very elevated nor noble passion, truly, but still a fairly strong and tormenting passion. of course he was not in love like a boy; he did not give way to vague ecstasies; he knew very well what he wanted and what he was striving for. vassily was a perfect master of the art of winning over, in the shortest time, any one however shy or prejudiced against him. olga soon ceased to be shy with him. vassily ivanovitch led her into a new world. he ordered a clavichord for her, gave her music lessons (he himself played fairly well on the flute), read books aloud to her, had long conversations with her.... the poor child of the steppes soon had her head turned completely. vassily dominated her entirely. he knew how to tell her of what had been till then unknown to her, and to tell her in a language she could understand. olga little by little gained courage to express all her feelings to him: he came to her aid, helped her out with the words she could not find, did not alarm her, at one moment kept her back, at another encouraged her confidences.... vassily busied himself with her education from no disinterested desire to awaken and develop her talents. he simply wanted to draw her a little closer to himself; and he knew too that an innocent, shy, but vain young girl is more easily seduced through the mind than the heart. even if olga had been an exceptional being, vassily would never have perceived it, for he treated her like a child. but as you are aware, gentlemen, there was nothing specially remarkable in olga. vassily tried all he could to work on her imagination, and often in the evening she left his side with such a whirl of new images, phrases and ideas in her head that she could not sleep all night, but lay breathing uneasily and turning her burning cheeks from side to side on the cool pillows, or got up, went to the window and gazed fearfully and eagerly into the dark distance. vassily filled every moment of her life; she could not think of any one else. as for rogatchov, she soon positively ceased to notice his existence. vassily had the tact and shrewdness not to talk to olga in his presence; but he either made him laugh till he was ready to cry, or arranged some noisy entertainment, a riding expedition, a boating party by night with torches and music--he did not in fact let pavel afanasievitch have a chance to think clearly. but in spite of all vassily ivanovitch's tact, rogatchov dimly felt that he, olga's betrothed and future husband, had somehow become as it were an outsider to her... but in the boundless goodness of his heart, he was afraid of wounding her by reproaches, though he sincerely loved her and prized her affection. when left alone with her, he did not know what to say, and only tried all he could to follow her wishes. two months passed by. every trace of self-reliance, of will, disappeared at last in olga. rogatchov, feeble and tongue-tied, could be no support to her. she had no wish even to resist the enchantment, and with a sinking heart she surrendered unconditionally to vassily.... olga ivanovna may very likely then have known something of the bliss of love; but it was not for long. though vassily--for lack of other occupation--did not drop her, and even attached himself to her and looked after her fondly, olga herself was so utterly distraught that she found no happiness even in love and yet could not tear herself away from vassily. she began to be frightened at everything, did not dare to think, could talk of nothing, gave up reading, and was devoured by misery. sometimes vassily succeeded in carrying her along with him and making her forget everything and every one. but the very next day he would find her pale, speechless, with icy hands, and a fixed smile on her lips.... there followed a time of some difficulty for vassily; but no difficulties could dismay him. he concentrated himself like a skilled gambler. he could not in the least rely upon olga ivanovna; she was continually betraying herself, turning pale, blushing, weeping... her new part was utterly beyond her powers. vassily toiled for two: in his restless and boisterous gaiety, only an experienced observer could have detected something strained and feverish. he played his brothers, sisters, the rogatchovs, the neighbours, like pawns at chess. he was everlastingly on the alert. not a single glance, a single movement, was lost on him, yet he appeared the most heedless of men. every morning he faced the fray, and every evening he scored a victory. he was not the least oppressed by such a fearful strain of activity. he slept four hours out of the twenty-four, ate very little, and was healthy, fresh, and good-humoured. meantime the wedding-day was approaching. vassily succeeded in persuading pavel afanasievitch himself of the necessity of delay. then he despatched him to moscow to make various purchases, while he was himself in correspondence with friends in petersburg. he took all this trouble, not so much from sympathy for olga ivanovna, as from a natural bent and liking for bustle and agitation.... besides, he was beginning to be sick of olga ivanovna, and more than once after a violent outbreak of passion for her, he would look at her, as he sometimes did at rogatchov. lutchinov always remained a riddle to every one. in the coldness of his relentless soul you felt the presence of a strange almost southern fire, and even in the wildest glow of passion a breath of icy chill seemed to come from the man. before other people he supported olga ivanovna as before. but when they were alone, he played with her like a cat with a mouse, or frightened her with sophistries, or was wearily, malignantly bored, or again flung himself at her feet, swept her away, like a straw in a hurricane... and there was no feigning at such moments in his passion... he really was moved himself. one day, rather late in the evening, vassily was sitting alone in his room, attentively reading over the last letters he had received from petersburg, when suddenly he heard a faint creak at the door, and olga ivanovna's maid, palashka, came in. 'what do you want?' vassily asked her rather crossly. 'my mistress begs you to come to her.' 'i can't just now. go along.... well what are you standing there for?' he went on, seeing that palashka did not go away. 'my mistress told me to say that she very particularly wants to see you,' she said. 'why, what's the matter?' 'would your honour please to see for yourself....' vassily got up, angrily flung the letters into a drawer, and went in to olga ivanovna. she was sitting alone in a corner, pale and passive. 'what do you want?' he asked her, not quite politely. olga looked at him and closed her eyes. 'what's the matter? what is it, olga?' he took her hand.... olga ivanovna's hand was cold as ice... she tried to speak... and her voice died away. the poor woman had no possible doubt of her condition left her. vassily was a little disconcerted. olga ivanovna's room was a couple of steps from anna pavlovna's bedroom. vassily cautiously sat down by olga, kissed and chafed her hands, comforted her in whispers. she listened to him, and silently, faintly, shuddered. in the doorway stood palashka, stealthily wiping her eyes. in the next room they heard the heavy, even ticking of the clock, and the breathing of some one asleep. olga ivanovna's numbness dissolved at last into tears and stifled sobs. tears are like a storm; after them one is always calmer. when olga ivanovna had quieted down a little, and only sobbed convulsively at intervals, like a child, vassily knelt before her with caresses and tender promises, soothed her completely, gave her something to drink, put her to bed, and went away. he did not undress all night; wrote two or three letters, burnt two or three papers, took out a gold locket containing the portrait of a black-browed, black-eyed woman with a bold, voluptuous face, scrutinised her features slowly, and walked up and down the room pondering. next day, at breakfast, he saw with extreme displeasure poor olga's red and swollen eyes and pale, agitated face. after breakfast he proposed a stroll in the garden to her. olga followed vassily, like a submissive sheep. when two hours afterwards she came in from the garden she quite broke down; she told anna pavlovna she was unwell, and went to lie down on her bed. during their walk vassily had, with a suitable show of remorse, informed her that he was secretly married--he was really as much a bachelor as i am. olga ivanovna did not fall into a swoon--people don't fall into swoons except on the stage--but she turned all at once stony, though she herself was so far from hoping to marry vassily ivanovitch that she was even afraid to think about it. vassily had begun to explain to her the inevitableness of her parting from him and marrying rogatchov. olga ivanovna looked at him in dumb horror. vassily talked in a cool, business-like, practical way, blamed himself, expressed his regret, but concluded all his remarks with the following words: 'there's no going back on the past; we've got to act.' olga was utterly overwhelmed; she was filled with terror and shame; a dull, heavy despair came upon her; she longed for death, and waited in agony for vassily's decision. 'we must confess everything to my mother,' he said to her at last. olga turned deadly pale; her knees shook under her. 'don't be afraid, don't be afraid,' repeated vassily, 'trust to me, i won't desert you... i will make everything right... rely upon me.' the poor woman looked at him with love... yes, with love, and deep, but hopeless devotion. 'i will arrange everything, everything,' vassily said to her at parting... and for the last time he kissed her chilly hands.... next morning--olga ivanovna had only just risen from her bed--her door opened... and anna pavlovna appeared in the doorway. she was supported by vassily. in silence she got as far as an arm-chair, and in silence she sat down. vassily stood at her side. he looked composed; his brows were knitted and his lips slightly parted. anna pavlovna, pale, indignant, angry, tried to speak, but her voice failed her. olga ivanovna glanced in horror from her benefactress to her lover, with a terrible sinking at her heart... she fell on her knees with a shriek in the middle of the room, and hid her face in her hands. 'then it's true... is it true?' murmured anna pavlovna, and bent down to her.... 'answer!' she went on harshly, clutching olga by the arm. 'mother!' rang out vassily's brazen voice, 'you promised me not to be hard on her.' 'i want... confess... confess... is it true? is it true?' 'mother... remember...' vassily began deliberately. this one word moved anna pavlovna greatly. she leaned back in her chair, and burst into sobs. olga ivanovna softly raised her head, and would have flung herself at the old lady's feet, but vassily kept her back, raised her from the ground, and led her to another arm-chair. anna pavlovna went on weeping and muttering disconnected words.... 'come, mother,' began vassily, 'don't torment yourself, the trouble may yet be set right.... if rogatchov...' olga ivanovna shuddered, and drew herself up. 'if rogatchov,' pursued vassily, with a meaning glance at olga ivanovna, 'imagines that he can disgrace an honourable family with impunity...' olga ivanovna was overcome with horror. 'in my house,' moaned anna pavlovna. 'calm yourself, mother. he took advantage of her innocence, her youth, he--you wish to say something'--he broke off, seeing that olga made a movement towards him.... olga ivanovna sank back in her chair. 'i will go at once to rogatchov. i will make him marry her this very day. you may be sure i will not let him make a laughing-stock of us....' 'but... vassily ivanovitch... you...' whispered olga. he gave her a prolonged, cold stare. she sank into silence again. 'mother, give me your word not to worry her before i return. look, she is half dead. and you, too, must rest. rely upon me; i answer for everything; in any case, wait till i return. i tell you again, don't torture her, or yourself, and trust to me.' he went to the door and stopped. 'mother,' said he, 'come with me, leave her alone, i beg of you.' anna pavlovna got up, went up to the holy picture, bowed down to the ground, and slowly followed her son. olga ivanovna, without a word or a movement, looked after them. vassily turned back quickly, snatched her hand, whispered in her ear, 'rely on me, and don't betray us,' and at once withdrew.... 'bourcier!' he called, running swiftly down the stairs, 'bourcier!' a quarter of an hour later he was sitting in his carriage with his valet. that day the elder rogatchov was not at home. he had gone to the district town to buy cloth for the liveries of his servants. pavel afanasievitch was sitting in his own room, looking through a collection of faded butterflies. with lifted eyebrows and protruding lips, he was carefully, with a pin, turning over the fragile wings of a 'night sphinx' moth, when he was suddenly aware of a small but heavy hand on his shoulder. he looked round. vassily stood before him. 'good-morning, vassily ivanovitch,' he said in some amazement. vassily looked at him, and sat down on a chair facing him. pavel afanasievitch was about to smile... but he glanced at vassily, and subsided with his mouth open and his hands clasped. 'tell me, pavel afanasievitch,' said vassily suddenly, 'are you meaning to dance at your _wedding soon?_' 'i?... soon... of course... for my part... though as you and your sister ... i, for my part, am ready to-morrow even.' 'very good, very good. you're a very impatient person, pavel afanasievitch.' 'how so?' 'let me tell you,' pursued vassily ivanovitch, getting up, 'i know all; you understand me, and i order you without delay to-morrow to marry olga.' 'excuse me, excuse me,' objected rogatchov, not rising from his seat; 'you order me. i sought olga ivanovna's hand of myself and there's no need to give me orders.... i confess, vassily ivanovitch, i don't quite understand you.' 'you don't understand me?' 'no, really, i don't understand you.' 'do you give me your word to marry her to-morrow?' 'why, mercy on us, vassily ivanovitch... haven't you yourself put off our wedding more than once? except for you it would have taken place long ago. and now i have no idea of breaking it off. what is the meaning of your threats, your insistence?' pavel afanasievitch wiped the sweat off his face. 'do you give me your word? say yes or no!' vassily repeated emphatically. 'excuse me... i will... but...' 'very good. remember then... she has confessed everything.' 'who has confessed?' 'olga ivanovna.' 'why, what has she confessed?' 'why, what are you pretending to me for, pavel afanasievitch? i'm not a stranger to you.' 'what am i pretending? i don't understand you, i don't, i positively don't understand a word. what could olga ivanovna confess?' 'what? you are really too much! you know what.' 'may god slay me...' 'no, i'll slay you, if you don't marry her... do you understand?' 'what!...' pavel afanasievitch jumped up and stood facing vassily. 'olga ivanovna... you tell me...' 'you're a clever fellow, you are, i must own'--vassily with a smile patted him on the shoulder--'though you do look so innocent.' 'good god!... you'll send me out of my mind.... what do you mean, explain, for god's sake!' vassily bent down and whispered something in his ear. rogatchov cried out, 'what!...!?' vassily stamped. 'olga ivanovna? olga?...' 'yes... your betrothed...' 'my betrothed... vassily ivanovitch... she... she... why, i never wish to see her again,' cried pavel afanasievitch. 'good-bye to her for ever! what do you take me for? i'm being duped... i'm being duped... olga ivanovna, how wrong of you, have you no shame?...' (tears gushed from his eyes.) 'thanks, vassily ivanovitch, thanks very much... i never wish to see her again now! no! no! don't speak of her.... ah, merciful heavens! to think i have lived to see this! oh, very well, very well!' 'that's enough nonsense,' vassily ivanovitch observed coldly. 'remember, you've given me your word: the wedding's to-morrow.' 'no, that it won't be! enough of that, vassily ivanovitch. i say again, what do you take me for? you do me too much honour. i'm humbly obliged. excuse me.' 'as you please!' retorted vassily. 'get your sword.' 'sword... what for?' 'what for?... i'll show you what for.' vassily drew out his fine, flexible french sword and bent it a little against the floor. 'you want... to fight... me?' 'precisely so.' 'but, vassily ivanovitch, put yourself in my place! how can i, only think, after what you have just told me.... i'm a man of honour, vassily ivanovitch, a nobleman.' 'you're a nobleman, you're a man of honour, so you'll be so good as to fight with me.' 'vassily ivanovitch!' 'you are frightened, i think, mr. rogatchov.' 'i'm not in the least frightened, vassily ivanovitch. you thought you would frighten me, vassily ivanovitch. i'll scare him, you thought, he's a coward, and he'll agree to anything directly... no, vassily ivanovitch, i am a nobleman as much as you are, though i've not had city breeding, and you won't succeed in frightening me into anything, excuse me.' 'very good,' retorted vassily; 'where is your sword then?' 'eroshka!' shouted pavel afanasievitch. a servant came in. 'get me the sword--there--you know, in the loft... make haste....' eroshka went out. pavel afanasievitch suddenly became exceedingly pale, hurriedly took off his dressing-gown, put on a reddish coat with big paste buttons... twisted a cravat round his neck... vassily looked at him, and twiddled the fingers of his right hand. 'well, are we to fight then, pavel afanasievitch?' 'let's fight, if we must fight,' replied rogatchov, and hurriedly buttoned up his shirt. 'ay, pavel afanasievitch, you take my advice, marry her... what is it to you... and believe me, i'll...' 'no, vassily ivanovitch,' rogatchov interrupted him. 'you'll kill me or maim me, i know, but i'm not going to lose my honour; if i'm to die then i must die.' eroshka came in, and trembling, gave rogatchov a wretched old sword in a torn leather scabbard. in those days all noblemen wore swords with powder, but in the steppes they only put on powder twice a year. eroshka moved away to the door and burst out crying. pavel afanasievitch pushed him out of the room. 'but, vassily ivanovitch,' he observed with some embarrassment, 'i can't fight with you on the spot: allow me to put off our duel till to-morrow. my father is not at home, and it would be as well for me to put my affairs in order to--to be ready for anything.' 'i see you're beginning to feel frightened again, sir.' 'no, no, vassily ivanovitch; but consider yourself...' 'listen!' shouted lutchinov, 'you drive me out of patience.... either give me your word to marry her at once, or fight...or i'll thrash you with my cane like a coward,--do you understand?' 'come into the garden,' rogatchov answered through his teeth. but all at once the door opened, and the old nurse, efimovna, utterly distracted, broke into the room, fell on her knees before rogatchov, and clasped his legs.... 'my little master!' she wailed, 'my nursling... what is it you are about? will you be the death of us poor wretches, your honour? sure, he'll kill you, darling! only you say the word, you say the word, and we'll make an end of him, the insolent fellow.... pavel afanasievitch, my baby-boy, for the love of god!' a number of pale, excited faces showed in the door...there was even the red beard of the village elder... 'let me go, efimovna, let me go!' muttered rogatchov. 'i won't, my own, i won't. what are you about, sir, what are you about? what'll afanasey lukitch say? why, he'll drive us all out of the light of day.... why are you fellows standing still? take the uninvited guest in hand and show him out of the house, so that not a trace be left of him.' 'rogatchov!' vassily ivanovitch shouted menacingly. 'you are crazy, efimovna, you are shaming me, come, come...' said pavel afanasievitch. 'go away, go away, in god's name, and you others, off with you, do you hear?...' vassily ivanovitch moved swiftly to the open window, took out a small silver whistle, blew lightly... bourcier answered from close by. lutchinov turned at once to pavel afanasievitch. 'what's to be the end of this farce?' 'vassily ivanovitch, i will come to you to-morrow. what can i do with this crazy old woman?...' 'oh, i see it's no good wasting words on you,' said vassily, and he swiftly raised his cane... pavel afanasievitch broke loose, pushed efimovna away, snatched up the sword, and rushed through another door into the garden. vassily dashed after him. they ran into a wooden summerhouse, painted cunningly after the chinese fashion, shut themselves in, and drew their swords. rogatchov had once taken lessons in fencing, but now he was scarcely capable of drawing a sword properly. the blades crossed. vassily was obviously playing with rogatchov's sword. pavel afanasievitch was breathless and pale, and gazed in consternation into lutchinov's face. meanwhile, screams were heard in the garden; a crowd of people were running to the summerhouse. suddenly rogatchov heard the heart-rending wail of old age...he recognised the voice of his father. afanasey lukitch, bare-headed, with dishevelled hair, was running in front of them all, frantically waving his hands.... with a violent and unexpected turn of the blade vassily sent the sword flying out of pavel afanasievitch's hand. 'marry her, my boy,' he said to him: 'give over this foolery!' 'i won't marry her,' whispered rogatchov, and he shut his eyes, and shook all over. afanasey lukitch began banging at the door of the summerhouse. 'you won't?' shouted vassily. rogatchov shook his head. 'well, damn you, then!' poor pavel afanasievitch fell dead: lutchinov's sword stabbed him to the heart... the door gave way; old rogatchov burst into the summerhouse, but vassily had already jumped out of window... two hours later he went into olga ivanovna's room... she rushed in terror to meet him... he bowed to her in silence; took out his sword and pierced pavel afanasievitch's portrait in the place of the heart. olga shrieked and fell unconscious on the floor... vassily went in to anna pavlovna. he found her in the oratory. 'mother,' said he, 'we are avenged.' the poor old woman shuddered and went on praying. within a week vassily had returned to petersburg, and two years later he came back stricken with paralysis--tongue-tied. he found neither anna pavlovna nor olga living, and soon after died himself in the arms of yuditch, who fed him like a child, and was the only one who could understand his incoherent stuttering. 1846. enough a fragment from the note-book of a dead artist i ii iii 'enough,' i said to myself as i moved with lagging steps over the steep mountainside down to the quiet little brook. 'enough,' i said again, as i drank in the resinous fragrance of the pinewood, strong and pungent in the freshness of falling evening. 'enough,' i said once more, as i sat on the mossy mound above the little brook and gazed into its dark, lingering waters, over which the sturdy reeds thrust up their pale green blades.... 'enough.' no more struggle, no more strain, time to draw in, time to keep firm hold of the head and to bid the heart be silent. no more to brood over the voluptuous sweetness of vague, seductive ecstasy, no more to run after each fresh form of beauty, no more to hang over every tremour of her delicate, strong wings. all has been felt, all has been gone through... i am weary. what to me now that at this moment, larger, fiercer than ever, the sunset floods the heavens as though aflame with some triumphant passion? what to me that, amid the soft peace and glow of evening, suddenly, two paces hence, hidden in a thick bush's dewy stillness, a nightingale has sung his heart out in notes magical as though no nightingale had been on earth before him, and he first sang the first song of first love? all this was, has been, has been again, and is a thousand times repeated--and to think that it will last on so to all eternity--as though decreed, ordained--it stirs one's wrath! yes... wrath! iv ah, i am grown old! such thoughts would never have come to me once--in those happy days of old, when i too was aflame like the sunset and my heart sang like the nightingale. there is no hiding it--everything has faded about me, all life has paled. the light that gives life's colours depth and meaning--the light that comes out of the heart of man--is dead within me.... no, not dead yet--it feebly smoulders on, giving no light, no warmth. once, late in the night in moscow, i remember i went up to the grating window of an old church, and leaned against the faulty pane. it was dark under the low arched roof--a forgotten lamp shed a dull red light upon the ancient picture; dimly could be discerned the lips only of the sacred face--stern and sorrowful. the sullen darkness gathered about it, ready it seemed to crush under its dead weight the feeble ray of impotent light.... such now in my heart is the light; and such the darkness. v and this i write to thee, to thee, my one never forgotten friend, to thee, my dear companion, whom i have left for ever, but shall not cease to love till my life's end.... alas! thou knowest what parted us. but that i have no wish to speak of now. i have left thee... but even here, in these wilds, in this far-off exile, i am all filled through and through with thee; as of old i am in thy power, as of old i feel the sweet burden of thy hand on my bent head! for the last time i drag myself from out the grave of silence in which i am lying now. i turn a brief and softened gaze on all my past... our past.... no hope and no return; but no bitterness is in my heart and no regret, and clearer than the blue of heaven, purer than the first snow on mountain tops, fair memories rise up before me like the forms of departed gods.... they come, not thronging in crowds, in slow procession they follow one another like those draped athenian figures we admired so much--dost thou remember?--in the ancient bas-reliefs in the vatican. vi i have spoken of the light that comes from the heart of man, and sheds brightness on all around him... i long to talk with thee of the time when in my heart too that light burned bright with blessing... listen... and i will fancy thee sitting before me, gazing up at me with those eyes--so fond yet stern almost in their intentness. o eyes, never to be forgotten! on whom are they fastened now? who folds in his heart thy glance--that glance that seems to flow from depths unknown even as mysterious springs--like ye, both clear and dark--that gush out into some narrow, deep ravine under the frowning cliffs.... listen. vii it was at the end of march before annunciation, soon after i had seen thee for the first time and--not yet dreaming of what thou wouldst be to me--already, silently, secretly, i bore thee in my heart. i chanced to cross one of the great rivers of russia. the ice had not yet broken up, but looked swollen and dark; it was the fourth day of thaw. the snow was melting everywhere--steadily but slowly; there was the running of water on all sides; a noiseless wind strayed in the soft air. earth and sky alike were steeped in one unvarying milky hue; there was not fog nor was there light; not one object stood out clear in the general whiteness, everything looked both close and indistinct. i left my cart far behind and walked swiftly over the ice of the river, and except the muffled thud of my own steps heard not a sound. i went on enfolded on all sides by the first breath, the first thrill, of early spring... and gradually gaining force with every step, with every movement forwards, a glad tremour sprang up and grew, all uncomprehended within me... it drew me on, it hastened me, and so strong was the flood of gladness within me, that i stood still at last and with questioning eyes looked round me, as i would seek some outer cause of my mood of rapture.... all was soft, white, slumbering, but i lifted my eyes; high in the heavens floated a flock of birds flying back to us.... 'spring! welcome spring!' i shouted aloud: 'welcome, life and love and happiness!' and at that instance, with sweetly troubling shock, suddenly like a cactus flower thy image blossomed aflame within me, blossomed and grew, bewilderingly fair and radiant, and i knew that i love thee, thee only--that i am all filled full of thee.... viii i think of thee... and many other memories, other pictures float before me with thee everywhere, at every turn of my life i meet thee. now an old russian garden rises up before me on the slope of a hillside, lighted up by the last rays of the summer sun. behind the silver poplars peeps out the wooden roof of the manor-house with a thin curl of reddish smoke above the white chimney, and in the fence a little gate stands just ajar, as though some one had drawn it to with faltering hand; and i stand and wait and gaze at that gate and the sand of the garden path--wonder and rapture in my heart. all that i behold seems new and different; over all a breath of some glad, brooding mystery, and already i catch the swift rustle of steps, and i stand intent and alert as a bird with wings folded ready to take flight anew, and my heart burns and shudders in joyous dread before the approaching, the alighting rapture.... ix then i see an ancient cathedral in a beautiful, far-off land. in rows kneel the close packed people; a breath of prayerful chill, of something grave and melancholy is wafted from the high, bare roof, from the huge, branching columns. thou standest at my side, mute, apart, as though knowing me not. each fold of thy dark cloak hangs motionless as carved in stone. motionless, too, lie the bright patches cast by the stained windows at thy feet on the worn flags. and lo, violently thrilling the incense-clouded air, thrilling us within, rolled out the mighty flood of the organ's notes... and i saw thee paler, rigid--thy glance caressed me, glided higher and rose heavenwards--while to me it seemed none but an immortal soul could look so, with such eyes... x another picture comes back to me. no old-world temple subdues us with its stern magnificence; the low walls of a little snug room shut us off from the whole world. what am i saying? we are alone, alone in the whole world; except us two there is nothing living--outside these friendly walls darkness and death and emptiness... it is not the wind that howls without, not the rain streaming in floods; without, chaos wails and moans, his sightless eyes are weeping. but with us all is peaceful and light and warm and welcoming; something droll, something of childish innocence, like a butterfly--isn't it so?--flutters about us. we nestle close to one another, we lean our heads together and both read a favourite book. i feel the delicate vein beating in thy soft forehead; i hear that thou livest, thou hearest that i am living, thy smile is born on my face before it is on thine, thou makest mute answer to my mute question, thy thoughts, my thoughts are like the two wings of one bird, lost in the infinite blue... the last barriers have fallen--and so soothed, so deepened is our love, so utterly has all apartness vanished that we have no need for word or look to pass between us.... only to breathe, to breathe together is all we want, to be together and scarcely to be conscious that we are together.... xi or last of all, there comes before me that bright september when we walked through the deserted, still flowering garden of a forsaken palace on the bank of a great river--not russian--under the soft brilliance of the cloudless sky. oh, how put into words what we felt! the endlessly flowing river, the solitude and peace and bliss, and a kind of voluptuous melancholy, and the thrill of rapture, the unfamiliar monotonous town, the autumn cries of the jackdaws in the high sun-lit treetops, and the tender words and smiles and looks, long, soft, piercing to the very in-most soul, and the beauty, beauty in our lives, about us, on all sides--it is above words. oh, the bench on which we sat in silence with heads bowed down under the weight of feeling--i cannot forget it till the hour i die! how delicious were those few strangers passing us with brief greetings and kind faces, and the great quiet boats floating by (in one--dost thou remember?--stood a horse pensively gazing at the gliding water), the baby prattle of the tiny ripples by the bank, and the very bark of the distant dogs across the water, the very shouts of the fat officer drilling the red-faced recruits yonder, with outspread arms and knees crooked like grasshoppers!... we both felt that better than those moments nothing in the world had been or would be for us, that all else... but why compare? enough... enough... alas! yes: enough. xii for the last time i give myself up to those memories and bid them farewell for ever. so a miser gloating over his hoard, his gold, his bright treasure, covers it over in the damp, grey earth; so the wick of a smouldering lamp flickers up in a last bright flare and sinks into cold ash. the wild creature has peeped out from its hole for the last time at the velvet grass, the sweet sun, the blue, kindly waters, and has huddled back into the depths, curled up, and gone to sleep. will he have glimpses even in sleep of the sweet sun and the grass and the blue kindly water?... xiii sternly, remorselessly, fate leads each of us, and only at the first, absorbed in details of all sorts, in trifles, in ourselves, we are not aware of her harsh hand. while one can be deceived and has no shame in lying, one can live and there is no shame in hoping. truth, not the full truth, of that, indeed, we cannot speak, but even that little we can reach locks up our lips at once, ties our hands, leads us to 'the no.' then one way is left a man to keep his feet, not to fall to pieces, not to sink into the mire of self-forgetfulness... of self-contempt,--calmly to turn away from all, to say 'enough!' and folding impotent arms upon the empty breast, to save the last, the sole honour he can attain to, the dignity of knowing his own nothingness; that dignity at which pascal hints when calling man a thinking reed he says that if the whole universe crushed him, he, that reed, would be higher than the universe, because he would know it was crushing him, and it would know it not. a poor dignity! a sorry consolation! try your utmost to be penetrated by it, to have faith in it, you, whoever you may be, my poor brother, and there's no refuting those words of menace: 'life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury signifying nothing.' i quoted these lines from _macbeth_, and there came back to my mind the witches, phantoms, apparitions.... alas! no ghosts, no fantastic, unearthly powers are terrible; there are no terrors in the hoffmann world, in whatever form it appears.... what is terrible is that there is nothing terrible, that the very essence of life is petty, uninteresting and degradingly inane. once one is soaked through and through with that knowledge, once one has tasted of that bitter, no honey more seems sweet, and even the highest, sweetest bliss, the bliss of love, of perfect nearness, of complete devotion--even that loses all its magic; all its dignity is destroyed by its own pettiness, its brevity. yes; a man loved, glowed with passion, murmured of eternal bliss, of undying raptures, and lo, no trace is left of the very worm that devoured the last relic of his withered tongue. so, on a frosty day in late autumn, when all is lifeless and dumb in the bleached grey grass, on the bare forest edge, if the sun but come out for an instant from the fog and turn one steady glance on the frozen earth, at once the gnats swarm up on all sides; they sport in the warm rays, bustle, flutter up and down, circle round one another... the sun is hidden--the gnats fall in a feeble shower, and there is the end of their momentary life. xiv but are there no great conceptions, no great words of consolation: patriotism, right, freedom, humanity, art? yes; those words there are, and many men live by them and for them. and yet it seems to me that if shakespeare could be born again he would have no cause to retract his hamlet, his lear. his searching glance would discover nothing new in human life: still the same motley picture--in reality so little complex--would unroll before him in its terrifying sameness. the same credulity and the same cruelty, the same lust of blood, of gold, of filth, the same vulgar pleasures, the same senseless sufferings in the name... why, in the name of the very same shams that aristophanes jeered at two thousand years ago, the same coarse snares in which the many-headed beast, the multitude, is caught so easily, the same workings of power, the same traditions of slavishness, the same innateness of falsehood--in a word, the same busy squirrel's turning in the same old unchanged wheel.... again shakespeare would set lear repeating his cruel: 'none doth offend,' which in other words means: 'none is without offence.' and he too would say 'enough!' he too would turn away. one thing perhaps, may be: in contrast to the gloomy tragic tyrant richard, the great poet's ironic genius would want to paint a newer type, the tyrant of to-day, who is almost ready to believe in his own virtue, and sleeps well of nights, or finds fault with too sumptuous a dinner at the very time when his half-crushed victims try to find comfort in picturing him, like richard, haunted by the phantoms of those he has ruined... but to what end? why prove--picking out, too, and weighing words, smoothing and rounding off phrases--why prove to gnats that they are really gnats? xv but art?... beauty?... yes, these are words of power; they are more powerful, may be, than those i have spoken before. venus of milo is, may be, more real than roman law or the principles of 1789. it may be objected--how many times has the retort been heard!--that beauty itself is relative; that by the chinese it is conceived as quite other than the european's ideal.... but it is not the relativity of art confounds me; its transitoriness, again its brevity, its dust and ashes--that is what robs me of faith and courage. art at a given moment is more powerful, may be, than nature; for in nature is no symphony of beethoven, no picture of ruysdã¤el, no poem of goethe, and only dull-witted pedants or disingenuous chatterers can yet maintain that art is the imitation of nature. but at the end of all, nature is inexorable; she has no need to hurry, and sooner or later she takes her own. unconsciously and inflexibly obedient to laws, she knows not art, as she knows not freedom, as she knows not good; from all ages moving, from all ages changing, she suffers nothing immortal, nothing unchanging.... man is her child; but man's work--art--is hostile to her, just because it strives to be unchanging and immortal. man is the child of nature; but she is the universal mother, and she has no preferences; all that exists in her lap has arisen only at the cost of something else, and must in its time yield its place to something else. she creates destroying, and she cares not whether she creates or she destroys--so long as life be not exterminated, so long as death fall not short of his dues.... and so just as serenely she hides in mould the god-like shape of phidias's zeus as the simplest pebble, and gives the vile worm for food the priceless verse of sophokles. mankind, 'tis true, jealously aid her in her work of of slaughter; but is it not the same elemental force, the force of nature, that finds vent in the fist of the barbarian recklessly smashing the radiant brow of apollo, in the savage yells with which he casts in the fire the picture of apelles? how are we, poor folks, poor artists to be a match for this deaf, dumb, blind force who triumphs not even in her conquests, but goes onward, onward, devouring all things? how stand against those coarse and mighty waves, endlessly, unceasingly moving upward? how have faith in the value and dignity of the fleeting images, that in the dark, on the edge of the abyss, we shape out of dust for an instant? xvi all this is true,... but only the transient is beautiful, said schiller; and nature in the incessant play of her rising, vanishing forms is not averse to beauty. does not she carefully deck the most fleeting of her children--the petals of the flowers, the wings of the butterfly--in the fairest hues, does she not give them the most exquisite lines? beauty needs not to live for ever to be eternal--one instant is enough for her. yes; that may be is true--but only there where personality is not, where man is not, where freedom is not; the butterfly's wing spoiled appears again and again for a thousand years as the same wing of the same butterfly; there sternly, fairly, impersonally necessity completes her circle... but man is not repeated like the butterfly, and the work of his hands, his art, his spontaneous creation once destroyed is lost for ever.... to him alone is it vouchsafed to create... but strange and dreadful it is to pronounce: we are creators... for one hour--as there was, in the tale, a caliph for an hour. in this is our pre-eminence--and our curse; each of those 'creators' himself, even he and no other, even this _i_ is, as it were, constructed with certain aim, on lines laid down beforehand; each more or less dimly is aware of his significance, is aware that he is innately something noble, eternal--and lives, and must live in the moment and for the moment.[1] sit in the mud, my friend, and aspire to the skies! the greatest among us are just those who more deeply than all others have felt this rooted contradiction; though if so, it may be asked, can such words be used as greatest, great? [footnote 1: one cannot help recalling here mephistopheles's words to faust:- 'er (gott) findet sich in einem ewgen glanze, uns hat er in die finsterniss gebracht- und euch taugt einzig tag und nacht.' --author's note.] xvii what is to be said of those to whom, with all goodwill, one cannot apply such terms, even in the sense given them by the feeble tongue of man? what can one say of the ordinary, common, second-rate, third-rate toilers--whatsoever they may be--statesmen, men of science, artists--above all, artists? how conjure them to shake off their numb indolence, their weary stupor, how draw them back to the field of battle, if once the conception has stolen into their brains of the nullity of everything human, of every sort of effort that sets before itself a higher aim than the mere winning of bread? by what crowns can they be lured for whom laurels and thorns alike are valueless? for what end will they again face the laughter of 'the unfeeling crowd' or 'the judgment of the fool'--of the old fool who cannot forgive them from turning away from the old bogies--of the young fool who would force them to kneel with him, to grovel with him before the new, lately discovered idols? why should they go back again into that jostling crowd of phantoms, to that market-place where seller and buyer cheat each other alike, where is noise and clamour, and all is paltry and worthless? why 'with impotence in their bones' should they struggle back into that world where the peoples, like peasant boys on a holiday, are tussling in the mire for handfuls of empty nutshells, or gape in open-mouthed adoration before sorry tinsel-decked pictures, into that world where only that is living which has no right to live, and each, stifling self with his own shouting, hurries feverishly to an unknown, uncomprehended goal? no... no.... enough... enough... enough! xviii ...the rest is silence. [footnote: english in the original.--translator's note.] 1864. transcriber's note: every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as possible. some changes have been made. they are listed at the end of the text. italic text has been marked with _underscores_. iván turgénieff volume xi the diary of a superfluous man and other stories [illustration: _i cried out with rapture, and immediately turned to liza._ _from a drawing by fletcher c. ransom._] the novels and stories of iván turgénieff the diary of a superfluous man and other stories translated from the russian by isabel f. hapgood [illustration] new york charles scribner's sons 1904 copyright, 1904, by charles scribner's sons [illustration: the scribner press] preface "in 'the diary of a superfluous man,'" says one well-known russian critic, "we have to deal with the end of the pathological process upon the body of russian society. in turgénieff's productions which followed it we have to deal with a crisis in russian life, with the growth of a new order of things. apart from the fundamental profundity of its tendency, the 'diary' is extremely noteworthy for its artistic workmanship. in spite of a certain monotony of tone in its exposition, it produces a very strong impression by its abundance of poetical beauties, which are perfectly suited to the melancholy mood of the whole story... in creating his 'superfluous man' the author, evidently, aimed at making as powerful an impression as possible, and therefore employed the most brilliant pigments in depicting tchulkatúrin. he attained his object. russian society started back in horror at this portrait of itself, which was somewhat distorted yet a good likeness, and in its strong excitement vigorously repelled all community with the sickly figure of tchulkatúrin. this horror showed that the time was ripe in russian society for a different order of things, that it was tired of inertness and was seeking a wider field of activity in which it might freely develop its real forces." another critic, comparing the "diary" with "hamlet of shshtchígry county," says that what the latter expressed with a convulsive laugh tchulkatúrin gave vent to in sickly, complaining shrieks, both productions being a bitter confession of moral impotence, of mental insolvency. "there is one passage in the 'diary,'" he says, "which--especially if one comes upon it after perusing all that precedes it--it is impossible to read without a strong nervous shock, if not without tears--a passage which always has the same identical effect; and it contains the key to the comprehension of turgénieff's relations toward nature. it is the end of the 'diary.' this passage is noteworthy. the predominant characteristic of turgénieff's talent is here revealed in a particularly brilliant manner: a profound impregnation with nature,--an impregnation which reached the point almost of fusion with it. the breath of spring blows upon the reader, there is a scent of the upturned soil,--and nowhere else, possibly save in that chapter of tolstóy's 'youth,' which describes the removal of the double windows, and the reader is suddenly enveloped in the keen, fresh air of spring, is there anything which can be compared with this passage." still another critic says: "the ironical analysis of the moral feebleness of the russian intellectual class, which constitutes the ruling motive of 'hamlet of shshtchígry county,' is converted into sickly complaint in 'the diary of a superfluous man,' one of the most original and best-sustained of turgénieff's stories, and one which is most profoundly imbued with feeling. "turgénieff's story 'three portraits,'" said the most famous of russian critics, byelínsky, "possesses, in addition to the cleverness and vividness of its presentation, all the fascination, not of a novel, but rather of a reminiscence of the _good_ old times. a fitting motto for it would be: 'deeds of days gone by.'" all the critics admit that the type of vasíly lutchínoff had existed, and one says: "i attribute special importance to turgénieff's vasíly lutchínoff because, in this character, the old type of don juan, of lovelace, and so forth, assumed our own russian, original form for the first time." this type (equally rapacious with that presented by the hero of "the bully," which was written about the same time) is supposed to have prevailed in the eighteenth century, especially in the epoch of katherine ii. although turgénieff never wrote historical novels, this story, in company with passages from others of his works, is regarded as coming, practically, under the head of historical records faithful to the epochs dealt with by the author. "the story 'three meetings,'" says one critic, "belongs entirely in the category of 'art for art's sake.' there can be no question here of any guiding idea. to speak figuratively, it is a fragrant flower, whose perfume one inhales with delight, but which presents no other essential qualities. its whole point lies in its workmanship, and in paraphrase it loses its entire charm." "this story," writes another critic, "may serve, in our opinion, as a curious monument of the ineptness of narrations in the first person. turgénieff, who is such a complete master of the form of personal narration, was bound to exhibit also the weak side of it in its entirety. this has strutted forth in his 'three meetings' with such pride, independence, and, in a measure, with so much coquetry, that it has swallowed up its subject-matter. there are several brilliant pages in the story, but its fantastic, showy matter seems to be directed solely to the end of illuminating the person of the narrator in the most advantageous manner." in discussing "the memoirs of a sportsman," a leading critic of the present day says:... "another peculiarity which immediately won for him [turgénieff] fame and sympathy among the public, is his entirely new manner of depicting figures from peasant life. before the advent of turgénieff the populace, even in the hands of púshkin, even in those of gógol, appeared either in the capacity of an operatic chorus, or in the quality of peasants of the ballet, or as an accessory, comic figure. turgénieff was the first to look into the soul of the common people and demonstrate that that soul was exactly like the soul of the cultivated man, only with its own peculiar turn to conceptions and feelings. by thus bringing the peasant close to us, by exhibiting him in this form, as a being one with us in blood, with whom, therefore, one can sympathise instead of regarding him merely as a rare spectacle, turgénieff deservedly earned the reputation of a champion of emancipation...... two other tales are closely allied to 'the memoirs of a sportsman,' although they do not form a part of that collection: 'mumú' and 'the inn.'... one of them, 'mumú,' is, perhaps, the most eloquent denunciation of serfdom which ever proceeded from turgénieff's pen. it is the only one of his productions in which the central figure of the pig-headed[1] landed-proprietress is delineated with vivid and unconcealed hatred. but in this case also, the chief merit of the story does not lie in this arraignment,--in which are probably reflected the author's childish reminiscences,[2]--but in its warm, compassionate sympathy for the lot of the poor dumb man, whose whole life was concentrated in love for a creature equally ill-treated by fate--for the little dog he had reared. in 'the inn,' also, serfdom is set forth in an extreme and hateful light. but here again the chief gist of the author's idea does not lie in that direction...... it is evident that here turgénieff has touched on the theme to which dostoiévsky was so fond of reverting. that theme is--the accidental sin of a good and honest man, the crime of a pure mind atoned for by voluntary renunciation, and the reconciling power of repentance, humility and prayer. evil remains unpunished in turgénieff's story..... and yet the story produces a shattering moral effect, thanks to the humble grandeur of akím's figure, and its combination of meekness and criminality. mean as naúm is in his triumph, repulsive as is landed-proprietress elizavéta prókhorovna with her cowardly and hypocritical greed, the story leaves on the reader a soothing impression." i. f. h. footnotes: [1] the word used is, literally, "self-fool." it was invented by ostróvsky, in one of his most famous comedies.--translator. [2] some authorities assert positively that the incident narrated occurred in the turgénieff household, and that gerásim's mistress was the author's own mother.--translator. contents page the diary of a superfluous man 1 three portraits 93 three meetings 147 mumú 201 the inn 255 the diary of a superfluous man (1850) hamlet of ovétchi-vódy,[3] march 20, 18 . the doctor has just left me. at last i have obtained a categorical answer! dodge as he might, he could not help saying what he thought, at last. yes, i shall die soon, very soon. the streams are opening, and i shall float away, probably with the last snows .... whither? god knows! to the sea also. well, all right! if i must die, then 't is better to die in the spring. but is it not ridiculous to begin one's diary perhaps a fortnight before one's death? where 's the harm? and in what way are fourteen days less than fourteen years, fourteen centuries? in the presence of eternity, they say, everything is of no account--yes; but, in that case, eternity also is of no account. i am falling into speculation, i think: that is a bad sign--am not i beginning to turn coward?--it will be better if i narrate something. it is raw and windy out of doors,--i am forbidden to go out. but what shall i narrate? a well-bred man does not talk about his maladies; composing a novel, or something of that sort, is not in my line; reflections about exalted themes are beyond my powers; descriptions of life round about me do not even interest me; and to do nothing is tiresome; to read--is idleness. eh! i will narrate to myself the story of my own life. a capital idea! when death is approaching it is proper, and can offend no one. i begin. i was born thirty years ago, the son of a fairly wealthy landed proprietor. my father was a passionate gambler; my mother was a lady with character .... a very virtuous lady. only, i have never known a woman whose virtue afforded less satisfaction. she succumbed under the burden of her merits, and tortured everybody, beginning with herself. during the whole fifty years of her life, she never once rested, never folded her hands; she was eternally bustling and fussing about, like an ant--and without any result whatever, which cannot be said of the ant. an implacable worm gnawed her day and night. only once did i behold her perfectly quiet,--namely, on the first day after her death, in her coffin. as i gazed at her, it really seemed to me that her face expressed mild surprise; the half-open lips, the sunken cheeks, and the gently-motionless eyes seemed to breathe forth the words: "how good it is not to stir!" yes, 't is good, 't is good to part at last from the fatiguing consciousness of life, from the importunate and uneasy sense of existence! but that is not the point. i grew up badly, and not cheerfully. both my father and my mother loved me; but that did not make things any the easier for me. my father had no power whatever in his own house, and no importance, in his quality of a man given over to a shameful and ruinous vice. he admitted his fall, and, without having the strength to renounce his favourite passion, he endeavoured, at least, by his constantly affectionate and discreet mien, by his submissive humility, to win the indulgence of his exemplary wife. my mamma, in fact, bore her misfortune with that magnificent and ostentatious long-suffering of virtue which contains so much of self-satisfied pride. she never reproached my father for anything, she silently surrendered to him her last penny, and paid his debts; he lauded her to her face and behind her back, but was not fond of staying at home, and petted me on the sly, as though he were himself afraid of contaminating me by his presence. but his ruffled features exhaled such kindness at those times, the feverish smirk on his lips was replaced by such a touching smile, his brown eyes, surrounded by fine wrinkles, beamed with so much love, that i involuntarily pressed my cheek to his cheek, moist and warm with tears. i wiped away those tears with my handkerchief, and they flowed again, without effort, like the water in an overfilled glass. i set to crying myself, and he soothed me, patted my back with his hand, kissed me all over my face with his quivering lips. even now, more than twenty years after his death, when i recall my poor father, dumb sobs rise in my throat, and my heart beats--beats as hotly and bitterly, it languishes with as much sorrowful compassion, as though it still had a long time to beat and as though there were anything to feel compassion about! my mother, on the contrary, always treated me in one way, affectionately, but coldly. such mothers, moral and just, are frequently to be met with in children's books. she loved me, but i did not love her. yes! i shunned my virtuous mother, and passionately loved my vicious father. but enough for to-day. i have made a beginning, and there is no cause for me to feel anxious about the end, whatever it may be. my malady will attend to that. march 21. the weather is wonderful to-day. it is warm and bright; the sun is playing gaily on the slushy snow; everything is glittering, smoking, dripping; the sparrows are screaming like mad creatures around the dark, sweating hedges; the damp air irritates my chest sweetly but frightfully. the spring, the spring is coming! i am sitting by the window, and looking out across the little river to the fields. o nature! nature! i love thee so, but i came forth from thy womb unfitted even for life. yonder is a male sparrow hopping about with outspread wings; he is screaming--and every sound of his voice, every ruffled feather on his tiny body breathes forth health and strength. what is to be concluded from that? nothing. he is healthy and has a right to scream and ruffle up his feathers; but i am ill and must die--that is all. it is not worth while to say any more about that. and tearful appeals to nature are comically absurd. let us return to my story. i grew up, as i have already said, badly and not cheerfully. i had no brothers or sisters. i was educated at home. and, indeed, what would my mother have had to occupy her if i had been sent off to boarding-school or to a government institute? that 's what children are for--to keep their parents from being bored. we lived chiefly in the country, and sometimes went to moscow. i had governors and teachers, as is the custom. a cadaverous and tearful german, riechmann, has remained particularly memorable to me,--a remarkably melancholy being, crippled by fate, who was fruitlessly consumed by an anguished longing for his native land. my man-nurse, vasíly, nicknamed "the goose," would sit, unshaved, in his everlasting old coat of blue frieze, beside the stove in the frightfully stifling atmosphere of the close anteroom, impregnated through and through with the sour odour of old kvas,--would sit and play cards with the coachman, potáp, who had just got a new sheepskin coat, white as snow, and invincible tarred boots,--while riechmann would be singing on the other side of the partition: "herz, mein herz, warum so traurig? was bekümmert dich so sehr? 's ist ja schön im fremden lande- herz, mein herz, was willst du mehr?" after my father's death, we definitively removed to moscow. i was then twelve years of age. my father died during the night of a stroke of apoplexy. i shall never forget that night. i was sleeping soundly, as all children are in the habit of sleeping; but i remember, that even athwart my slumber i thought i heard a heavy, laboured breathing. suddenly i felt some one seize me by the shoulder and shake me. i open my eyes: in front of me stands my man-nurse.--"what 's the matter?"--"come along, come along, alexyéi mikhaílitch is dying...." i fly out of the bed like a mad creature, and into the bedroom. i look: my father is lying with his head thrown back, all red in the face, and rattling in his throat most painfully. the servants, with frightened faces, throng the doors; in the anteroom some one inquires in a hoarse voice: "has the doctor been sent for?" in the courtyard, a horse is being led out of the stable, the gate is creaking, a tallow candle is burning in the room on the floor; mamma is there also, overwhelmed, but without losing either her decorum or the consciousness of her own dignity. i flung myself on my father's breast, embraced him, and stammered out: "papa, papa!"... he lay motionless and puckered up his eyes in a strange sort of way. i looked him in the face--unbearable horror stopped my breath; i squeaked with terror, like a roughly-grasped bird. they dragged me from him and carried me away. only the night before, as though with a foreboding of his approaching death, he had caressed me so fervently and so sadly. they brought a dishevelled and sleepy doctor, with a strong smell of lovage vodka. my father died under his lancet, and on the following day, thoroughly stupefied with grief, i stood with a candle in my hand in front of the table on which lay the corpse, and listened unheeding to the thick-voiced intoning of the chanter, occasionally broken by the feeble voice of the priest; tears kept streaming down my cheeks, over my lips, and my collar and my cuffs; i was consumed with tears, i stared fixedly at the motionless face of my father, as though i were expecting him to do something; and my mother, meanwhile, slowly made reverences to the floor, slowly raised herself and, as she crossed herself, pressed her fingers strongly to her brow, her shoulders, and her body. there was not a single thought in my head; i had grown heavy all over, but i felt that something dreadful was taking place with me..... it was then that death looked into my face, and made a note of me. we removed our residence to moscow, after the death of my father, for a very simple reason: all our estate was sold under the hammer for debt,--positively everything, with the exception of one wretched little hamlet, the very one in which i am now finishing my magnificent existence. i confess that, in spite of the fact that i was young at the time, i grieved over the sale of our nest; that is to say, in reality, i grieved over our park only. with that park are bound up my sole bright memories. there, on one tranquil spring evening, i buried my best friend, an old dog with a bob tail and crooked paws--trixie; there, hiding myself in the tall grass, i used to eat stolen apples, red, sweet nóvgorod apples; there, in conclusion, i for the first time beheld through the bushes of ripe raspberries, klaudia the maid, who, despite her snub nose, and her habit of laughing in her kerchief, aroused in me such a tender passion that in her presence i hardly breathed, felt like swooning, and was stricken dumb. but one day, on the bright sunday,[4] when her turn came to kiss my lordly hand, i all but flung myself down and kissed her patched goatskin shoes. great heavens! can it be twenty years since all that happened? it does not seem so very long since i used to ride my shaggy, chestnut horse along the old wattled hedge of our park, and, rising in my stirrups, pluck the double-faced leaves of the poplars. while a man is living he is not conscious of his own life; like a sound, it becomes intelligible to him a little while afterward. oh, my park! oh, my overgrown paths along the little pond! oh, unhappy little spot beneath the decrepit dam, where i used to catch minnows and gudgeons! and you, ye lofty birch-trees, with long, pendulous branches, from behind which, from the country road, the melancholy song of the peasant used to be wafted, unevenly broken by the jolts of the rough cart--i send you my last farewells!... as i part with life i stretch out my hands to you alone. i should like once more to inhale the bitter freshness of the wormwood, the sweet scent of the reaped buckwheat in the fields of my natal spot; i should like once more to hear from afar the modest jangling of the cracked bell on our parish church; once more to lie in the cool shadow beneath the oak-bush on the slope of the familiar ravine; once more to follow with my eyes the moving trace of the wind, as it flew like a dark streak over the golden grass of our meadow.... ekh, to what end is all this? but i cannot go on to-day. until to-morrow. march 22. to-day it is cold and overcast again. such weather is far more suitable. it is in accord with my work. yesterday quite unseasonably evoked in me a multitude of unnecessary feelings and memories. that will not be repeated. emotional effusions are like liquorice-root: when you take your first suck at it, it does n't seem bad, but it leaves a very bad taste in your mouth afterward. i will simply and quietly narrate the story of my life. so then, we went to live in moscow.... but it just occurs to me: is it really worth while to tell the story of my life? no, decidedly it is not worth while.... my life is in no way different from the lives of a mass of other people. the parental home, the university, service in inferior positions, retirement, a small circle of acquaintances, downright poverty, modest pleasures, humble occupations, moderate desires--tell me, for mercy's sake, who does not know all that? and i, in particular, shall not tell the story of my life, because i am writing for my own pleasure; and if my past presents even to me nothing very cheerful, nor even very sorrowful, that means that there really can be nothing in it worthy of attention. i had better try to analyse my own character to myself. what sort of a man am i?... some one may remark to me that no one asks about that.--agreed. but, you see, i am dying,--god is my witness, i am dying,--and really before death the desire to know what sort of a fellow i have been is pardonable, i think. after having thoroughly pondered this important question, and having, moreover, no need to express myself bitterly on my own score, as do people who are strongly convinced of their merits, i must confess one thing: i have been an utterly superfluous man in this world, or, if you like to put it that way, an utterly useless bird. and i intend to prove that to-morrow, because to-day i am coughing like an aged sheep, and my nurse, teréntievna, will give me no peace. "lie down, dear little father mine," she says, "and drink your tea."... i know why she worries me: she wants some tea herself! well! all right! why not permit the poor old woman to extract, at the finish, all possible profit from her master?... the time for that has not yet gone by. march 23. winter again. the snow is falling in large flakes. superfluous, superfluous.... that 's a capital word i have devised. the more deeply i penetrate into myself, the more attentively i scrutinise the whole of my own past life, the more convinced do i become of the strict justice of that expression. superfluous--precisely that. that word is not appropriate to other people.... people are bad, good, clever, stupid, agreeable, and disagreeable; but superfluous.... no. that is to say, understand me: the universe could dispense with these people also .... of course; but uselessness is not their chief quality, is not their distinguishing characteristic, and when you are speaking of them, the word "superfluous" is not the first one that comes to your tongue. but i .... of me nothing else could possibly be said: superfluous--that is all. nature had not, evidently, calculated on my appearance, and in consequence of this, she treated me like an unexpected and unbidden guest. not without cause did one wag, a great lover of swedish whist, say of me, that my mother had discarded.[5] i speak of myself now calmly, without any gall..... 't is a thing of the past! during the whole course of my life i have constantly found my place occupied, possibly because i sought my place in the wrong direction. i was suspicious, bashful, irritable, like all invalids; moreover, probably owing to superfluous vanity,--or by reason of the deficient organisation of my person,--between my feelings and my thoughts and the expression of those feelings and thoughts there existed some senseless, incomprehensible and insuperable barrier; and when i made up my mind to overcome that impediment by force, to break down that barrier, my movements, the expression of my face, my entire being assumed the aspect of anguished tension: i not only seemed, but i actually became unnatural and affected. i was conscious of it myself and made haste to retire again into myself. then a frightful tumult arose within me. i analysed myself to the last shred; i compared myself with other people; i recalled the smallest glances, the smiles, the words of the people before whom i would have liked to expand; i interpreted everything from its bad side, and laughed maliciously over my pretensions "to be like the rest of the world,"--and suddenly, in the midst of my laughter, i sadly relaxed utterly, fell into foolish dejection, and then began the same thing all over again; in a word, i ran round like a squirrel in a wheel. whole days passed in this torturing, fruitless toil. come now, tell me, pray, to whom and for what is such a man of use? why did this happen with me, what was the cause of this minute fidgeting over myself--who knows? who can say? i remember, one day i was driving out of moscow in the diligence. the road was good, but the postilion had hitched an extra trace-horse to the four-span. this unhappy, fifth, wholly unnecessary horse, fastened in rough fashion to the fore-end of a thick, short rope, which ruthlessly saws its haunches, rubs its tail, makes it run in the most unnatural manner, and imparts to its whole body the shape of a comma, always arouses my profound compassion. i remarked to the postilion that, apparently, the fifth horse might be dispensed with on that occasion..... he remained silent awhile, shook the back of his neck, lashed the horse half a score of times in succession with his whip across its gaunt back and under its puffed-out belly--and said, not without a grin: "well, you see, it has stuck itself on, that 's a fact! what the devil 's the use?" and i, also, have stuck myself on... but the station is not far off, i think. superfluous.... i promised to prove the justice of my opinion, and i will fulfil my promise. i do not consider it necessary to mention a thousand details, daily occurrences and incidents, which, moreover, in the eyes of every thoughtful man might serve as incontrovertible proofs in my favour--that is to say, in favour of my view; it is better for me to begin directly with one decidedly important event, after which, probably, no doubt will remain as to the accuracy of the word superfluous. i repeat: i have no intention of entering into details, but i cannot pass over in silence one decidedly curious and noteworthy circumstance,--namely, the strange manner in which my friends treated me (i also had friends) every time i chanced to meet them, or even dropped in to see them. they seemed to grow uneasy; as they came to meet me they either smiled in a not entirely natural manner, looked not at my eyes, not at my feet, as some people do, but chiefly at my cheeks, hastily ejaculated: "ah! how do you do, tchulkatúrin!" (fate had favoured me with that name[6]) or, "ah! so here 's tchulkatúrin!" immediately stepped aside, went apart, and even remained for some time thereafter motionless, as though they were trying to recall something. i noticed all this, because i am not deficient in penetration and the gift of observation; on the whole, i am not stupid; decidedly amusing thoughts sometimes come into my head even, not at all ordinary thoughts; but, as i am a superfluous man with a dumbness inside me, i dread to express my thought, the more so, as i know beforehand that i shall express it very badly. it even seems strange to me, sometimes, that people can talk, and so simply, so freely.... "what a calamity!!" you think. i am bound to say that my tongue pretty often itched, in spite of my dumbness; and i actually did utter words in my youth, but in riper years i succeeded in restraining myself almost every time. i would say to myself in an undertone: "see here, now, 't will be better for me to hold my tongue awhile," and i quieted down. we are all experts at holding our tongues; our women in particular have that capacity: one exalted young russian lady maintains silence so vigorously that such a spectacle is capable of producing a slight shiver and cold perspiration even in a man who has been forewarned. but that is not the point, and it is not for me to criticise other people. i will proceed to the promised story. several years ago, thanks to a concurrence of trivial but, for me, very important circumstances, i chanced to pass six months in the county town of o***. this town is built entirely on a declivity. it has about eight hundred inhabitants, remarkably poor; the wretched little houses are outrageously bad; in the main street, under the guise of a pavement, formidable slabs of unhewn limestone crop out whitely here and there, in consequence of which, even the peasant-carts drive around it; in the very centre of an astonishingly untidy square rises a tiny yellowish structure with dark holes, and in the holes sit men in large caps with visors, and pretend to be engaged in trade; there, also, rears itself aloft a remarkably tall, striped pole, and beside the pole, by way of order, at the command of the authorities, a load of yellow hay is kept, and one governmental hen stalks about. in a word, in the town of o*** existence is excellent. during the early days of my sojourn in that town i nearly went out of my mind with ennui. i must say of myself that, although i am a superfluous man, of course, yet it is not of my own will; i am sickly myself, but i cannot endure anything sickly.... i would have no objections to happiness, i have even tried to approach it from the right and from the left.... and, therefore, it is not surprising that i can also feel bored, like any other mortal. i found myself in the town of o*** on business connected with the government service.... teréntievna is absolutely determined to kill me. here is a specimen of our conversation: _teréntievna._ o-okh, dear little father! why do you keep writing? it is n't healthy for you to write. _i._ but i 'm bored, teréntievna. _she._ but do drink some tea and lie down. _i._ but i don't feel sleepy. _she._ akh, dear little father! why do you say that? the lord be with you! lie down now, lie down: it 's better for you. _i._ i shall die anyway, teréntievna. _she._ the lord forbid and have mercy!... well, now, do you order me to make tea? _i._ i shall not survive this week, teréntievna. _she._ ii-i, dear little father! why do you say that?... so i 'll go and prepare the samovár. oh, decrepit, yellow, toothless creature! is it possible that to you i am not a man! march 24. a hard frost. on the very day of my arrival in the town of o***, the above-mentioned governmental business caused me to call on a certain ozhógin, kiríll matvyéevitch, one of the chief officials of the county; but i made acquaintance with him, or, as the saying is, got intimate with him, two weeks later. his house was situated on the principal street, and was distinguished from all the rest by its size, its painted roof, and two lions on the gate, belonging to that race of lions which bear a remarkable likeness to the unsuccessful dogs whose birthplace is moscow. it is possible to deduce from these lions alone that ozhógin was an opulent man. and, in fact, he owned four hundred souls of serfs;[7] he received at his house the best society of the town of o***, and bore the reputation of being a hospitable man. the chief of police came to him, in a broad carroty-hued drozhky drawn by a pair of horses--a remarkably large man, who seemed to have been carved out of shop-worn material. other officials visited him also: the pettifogger, a yellowish and rather malicious creature; the waggish surveyor, of german extraction, with a tatár face; the officer of ways of communication, a tender soul, a singer, but a scandal-monger; a former county marshal of nobility, a gentleman with dyed hair, and rumpled cuffs, trousers with straps, and that extremely noble expression of countenance which is so characteristic of people who have been under trial by the courts. he was visited also by two landed proprietors, inseparable friends, both no longer young, and even threadbare with age, the younger of whom was constantly squelching the elder, and shutting his mouth with one and the same reproach: "come, that will do, sergyéi sergyéitch! what do you know about it? for you write the word _próbka_ [cork] with the letter _b_.... yes, gentlemen,"--he was wont to continue, with all the heat of conviction, addressing those present:--"sergyéi sergyéitch writes not _próbka_, but _bróbka_." and all present laughed, although, probably, not one of them was particularly distinguished for his skill in orthography; and the unhappy sergyéi sergyéitch held his peace, and bowed his head with a pacific smile. but i am forgetting that my days are numbered, and am entering into too great detail. so then, without further circumlocution: ozhógin was married and had a daughter, elizavéta kiríllovna, and i fell in love with that daughter. ozhógin himself was a commonplace man, neither good nor bad; his wife was beginning to look a good deal like an aged hen; but their daughter did not take after her parents. she was very comely, of vivacious and gentle disposition. her bright grey eyes gazed good-naturedly, and in a straightforward manner from beneath childishly-arched brows; she smiled almost constantly, and laughed also quite frequently. her fresh voice had a very pleasant ring; she moved easily, swiftly, and blushed gaily. she did not dress very elegantly; extremely simple gowns suited her best. as a rule, i have never made acquaintance quickly, and if i have felt at ease with a person on first meeting,--which, however, has almost never been the case,--i confess that that has spoken strongly in favour of the new acquaintance. i have not known how to behave to women at all, and in their presence i either frowned and assumed a fierce expression, or displayed my teeth in a grin in the stupidest way, and twisted my tongue about in my mouth with embarrassment. with elizavéta kiríllovna, on the contrary, i felt myself at home from the very first moment. this is how it came about. one day i arrive at ozhógin's before dinner, and ask: "is he at home?" i am told: "yes, and he is dressing; please come into the hall."[8] i go into the hall; i see a young girl in a white gown standing by the window, with her back toward me, and holding a cage in her hands. i curl up a little, according to my habit; but, nevertheless, i cough out of propriety. the young girl turns round quickly, so quickly that her curls strike her in the face, catches sight of me, bows, and with a smile shows me a little box, half-filled with seed. "will you excuse me?" of course, as is customary in such circumstances, i first bent my head, and, at the same time, crooked and straightened my knees (as though some one had hit me from behind in the back of my legs, which, as everybody knows, serves as a token of excellent breeding and agreeable ease of manner), and then smiled, raised my hand, and waved it twice cautiously and gently in the air. the girl immediately turned away from me, took from the cage a small board, and began to scrape it violently with a knife, and suddenly, without changing her attitude, gave utterance to the following words: "this is papa's bull-finch.... do you like bull-finches?" "i prefer canary-birds,"--i replied, not without a certain effort. "and i am fond of canary-birds also; but just look at him, see how pretty he is. see, he is not afraid."--what surprised me was that i was not afraid.--"come closer. his name is pópka." i went up, and bent over. "he 's very charming, is n't he?" she turned her face toward me; but we were standing so close to each other that she was obliged to throw her head back a little, in order to look at me with her bright eyes. i gazed at her: the whole of her rosy young face was smiling in so friendly a manner that i smiled also, and almost laughed aloud with pleasure. the door opened; mr. ozhógin entered. i immediately went to him, and began to talk with him in a very unembarrassed way; i do not know myself how i came to stay to dinner; i sat out the whole evening, and on the following day, ozhógin's lackey, a long, purblind fellow, was already smiling at me, as a friend of the house, as he pulled off my overcoat. to find a refuge, to weave for myself even a temporary nest, to know the joy of daily relations and habits,--that was a happiness which i, a superfluous man, without domestic memories, had not experienced up to that time. if there were anything about me suggestive of a flower, and if that comparison were not so threadbare, i would decide to say that, from that hour, i began to blossom out in spirit. everything in me and round about me underwent such an instantaneous change! my whole life was illuminated by love,--literally my whole life, down to the smallest details,--like a dark, deserted chamber into which a candle has been brought. i lay down to sleep and i rose up, dressed myself, breakfasted, and smoked my pipe in a way different from my habit; i even skipped as i walked,--really i did, as though wings had suddenly sprouted on my shoulders. i remember that i was not in doubt even for a minute, as to the feeling with which elizavéta kiríllovna had inspired me; and from the very first day, i fell in love with her passionately, and from the very first day, too, i knew that i was in love. i saw her every day for the space of three weeks. those three weeks were the happiest time of my life; but the remembrance of them is painful to me. i cannot think of them alone: that which followed them involuntarily rises up before me, and venomous grief slowly grips the heart which had just grown soft. when a man is feeling very well, his brain, as every one knows, acts very little. a calm and joyous feeling, a feeling of satisfaction, permeates his whole being; he is swallowed up in it; the consciousness of individuality vanishes in him--he is in a state of bliss, as badly educated poets say. but when, at last, that "spell" passes off, a man sometimes feels vexed and regretful that, in the midst of happiness, he was so unobservant of himself that he did not redouble his thoughts, his reflections, and his memories, that he did not prolong his enjoyment .... as though a "blissful" man had any time, and as though it were worth while to reflect about his own emotions! the happy man is like a fly in the sunshine. that is why, when i recall those three weeks, i find it almost impossible to retain in my mind an accurate, definite impression, the more so, as in the whole course of that time, nothing of particular note took place between us..... those twenty days present themselves to me as something warm, young, and fragrant, as a sort of bright streak in my dim and grey-hued life. my memory suddenly becomes implacably faithful and clear, only dating from the moment when the blows of fate descended upon me, speaking again in the words of those same ill-bred writers. yes, those three weeks.... however, they did not precisely leave no images behind in me. sometimes, when i happen to think long of that time, certain memories suddenly float forth from the gloom of the past--as the stars unexpectedly start forth in the evening sky to meet attentively-riveted eyes. especially memorable to me is one stroll in a grove outside the town. there were four of us: old madame ozhógin, liza, i, and a certain bizmyónkoff, a petty official of the town of o***, a fair-haired, good-natured, and meek young man. i shall have occasion to allude to him again. mr. ozhógin remained at home: his head ached, in consequence of his having slept too long. the day was splendid, warm, and calm. i must remark that gardens of entertainment and public amusement are not to the taste of the russian. in governmental towns, in the so-called public gardens, you will never encounter a living soul at any season of the year; possibly some old woman will seat herself, grunting, on a green bench baked through and through by the sun, in the neighbourhood of a sickly tree, and that only when there is no dirty little shop close to the gate. but if there is a sparse little birch-grove in the vicinity of the town, the merchants, and sometimes the officials, will gladly go thither on sundays and feast-days, with their samovár, patties, water-melons, and set out all those good gifts on the dusty grass, right by the side of the road, seat themselves around, and eat and drink tea in the sweat of their brows until the very evening. precisely that sort of small grove existed then two versts distant from the town of o***. we went thither after dinner, drank tea in due form, and then all four of us set off for a stroll through the grove. bizmyónkoff gave his arm to old madame ozhógin; i gave mine to liza. the day was already inclining toward evening. i was then in the very ardour of first love (not more than a fortnight had elapsed since we had become acquainted), in that condition of passionate and attentive adoration, when your whole soul innocently and involuntarily follows every motion of the beloved being; when you cannot satiate yourself with its presence, or hear enough of its voice; when you smile and look like a convalescent child, and any man of a little experience must see at the first glance, a hundred paces off, what is going on in you. up to that day, i had not once chanced to be arm in arm with liza. i walked by her side, treading softly on the green grass. a light breeze seemed to be fluttering around us, between the white boles of the birch-trees, now and then blowing the ribbon of her hat in my face. with an importunate gaze i watched her, until, at last, she turned gaily to me, and we smiled at each other. the birds chirped approvingly overhead, the blue sky peered caressingly through the fine foliage. my head reeled with excess of pleasure. i hasten to remark that liza was not in the least in love with me. she liked me; in general, she was not shy of any one, but i was not fated to disturb her childish tranquillity. she walked arm in arm with me, as with a brother. she was seventeen years old at the time.... and yet, that same evening, in my presence, there began in her that quiet, inward fermentation, which precedes the conversion of a child into a woman..... i was witness to that change of the whole being, that innocent perplexity, that tremulous pensiveness; i was the first to note that sudden softness of glance, that ringing uncertainty of voice--and, oh, stupid fool! oh, superfluous man! for a whole week i was not ashamed to assume that i, i was the cause of that change! this is the way it happened. we strolled for quite a long time, until evening, and chatted very little. i held my peace, like all inexperienced lovers, and she, in all probability, had nothing to say to me; but she seemed to be meditating about something, and shook her head in a queer sort of way, pensively nibbling at a leaf which she had plucked. sometimes she began to stride forward in such a decided way ... and then suddenly halted, waited for me and gazed about her with eyebrows elevated and an absent-minded smile. on the preceding evening, we had read together "the prisoner of the caucasus."[9] with what eagerness had she listened to me, with her face propped on both hands, and her bosom resting against the table! i tried to talk about our reading of the evening before; she blushed, asked me whether i had given the bull-finch any hemp-seed before we started, began to sing loudly some song, then suddenly ceased. the grove ended on one side in a rather steep and lofty cliff; below flowed a small, meandering river, and beyond it, further than the eye could see, stretched endless meadows, now swelling slightly like waves, now spreading out like a table-cloth, here and there intersected with ravines. liza and i were the first to emerge on the edge of the grove; bizmyónkoff remained behind with the old lady. we came out, halted, and both of us involuntarily narrowed our eyes: directly opposite us, in the midst of the red-hot mist, the sun was setting, huge and crimson. half the sky was aglow and flaming; the red rays beat aslant across the meadows, casting a scarlet reflection even on the shady side of the ravine, and lay like fiery lead upon the river, where it was not hidden under overhanging bushes, and seemed to be reposing in the lap of the ravine and the grove. we stood there drenched in the blazing radiance. it is beyond my power to impart all the passionate solemnity of that picture. they say that the colour red appeared to one blind man like the sound of a trumpet; i do not know to what degree that comparison is just; but, actually, there was something challenging in that flaming gold of the evening air, in the crimson glow of sky and earth. i cried out with rapture, and immediately turned to liza. she was gazing straight at the sun. i remember, the glare of the sunset was reflected in her eyes in tiny, flaming spots. she was startled, profoundly moved. she made no answer to my exclamation, did not stir for a long time, and hung her head.... i stretched out my hand to her; she turned away from me, and suddenly burst into tears. i gazed at her with secret, almost joyful surprise.... bizmyónkoff's voice rang out a couple of paces from us. liza hastily wiped her eyes, and with a wavering smile looked at me. the old lady emerged from the grove, leaning on the arm of her fair-haired escort; both of them, in their turn, admired the view. the old lady asked liza some question, and i remember that i involuntarily shivered when, in reply, her daughter's broken voice, like cracked glass, resounded in reply. in the meanwhile, the sun had set, the glow was beginning to die out. we retraced our steps. i again gave liza my arm. it was still light in the grove, and i could clearly discern her features. she was embarrassed, and did not raise her eyes. the flush which had spread all over her face did not disappear; she seemed still to be standing in the rays of the setting sun.... her arm barely touched mine. for a long time i could not start a conversation, so violently was my heart beating. we caught glimpses of the carriage far away, through the trees; the coachman was driving to meet us at a foot-pace over the friable sand of the road. "lizavéta kiríllovna,"--i said at last,--"why did you weep?" "i don't know,"--she answered after a brief pause, looking at me with her gentle eyes, still wet with tears,--their glance seemed to me to have undergone a change,--and again fell silent. "i see that you love nature...." i went on.--that was not in the least what i had meant to say, and my tongue hardly stammered out the last phrase to the end. she shook her head. i could not utter a word more.... i was waiting for something .... not a confession--no, indeed! i was waiting for a confiding glance, a question.... but liza stared at the ground and held her peace. i repeated once more, in an undertone: "why?" and received no reply. she was embarrassed, almost ashamed, i saw that. a quarter of an hour later, we were all seated in the carriage and driving toward the town. the horses advanced at a brisk trot; we dashed swiftly through the moist, darkening air. i suddenly began to talk, incessantly addressing myself now to bizmyónkoff, now to madame ozhógin. i did not look at liza, but i could not avoid perceiving that from the corner of the carriage her gaze never once rested on me. at home she recovered with a start, but would not read with me, and soon went off to bed. the break--that break of which i have spoken--had been effected in her. she had ceased to be a little girl; she was already beginning to expect ... like myself .... something or other. she did not have to wait long. but that night i returned to my lodgings in a state of utter enchantment. the confused something, which was not exactly a foreboding, nor yet exactly a suspicion, that had arisen within me vanished: i ascribed the sudden constraint in liza's behaviour toward me to maidenly modesty, to timidity.... had not i read a thousand times in many compositions, that the first appearance of love agitates and alarms a young girl? i felt myself very happy, and already began to construct various plans in my own mind.... if any one had then whispered in my ear: "thou liest, my dear fellow! that 's not in store for thee at all, my lad! thou art doomed to die alone in a miserable little house, to the intolerable grumbling of an old peasant-woman, who can hardly wait for thy death, in order that she may sell thy boots for a song...." yes, one involuntarily says, with the russian philosopher: "how is one to know what he does not know?"--until to-morrow. march 25. a white winter day. i have read over what i wrote yesterday, and came near tearing up the whole note-book. it seems to me that my style of narrative is too protracted and too mawkish. however, as my remaining memories of that period present nothing cheerful, save the joy of that peculiar nature which lérmontoff had in view when he said that it is a cheerful and a painful thing to touch the ulcers of ancient wounds, then why should not i observe myself? but i must not impose upon kindness. therefore i will continue without mawkishness. for the space of a whole week, after that stroll outside the town, my position did not improve in the least, although the change in liza became more perceptible every day. as i have already stated, i interpreted this change in the most favourable possible light for myself.... the misfortune of solitary and timid men--those who are timid through self-love--consists precisely in this--that they, having eyes, and even keeping them staring wide open, see nothing, or see it in a false light, as though through coloured glasses. and their own thoughts and observations hinder them at every step. in the beginning of our acquaintance liza had treated me trustingly and frankly, like a child; perhaps, even, in her liking for me there was something of simple, childish affection.... but when that strange, almost sudden crisis took place in her, after a short perplexity, she felt herself embarrassed in my presence, she turned away from me involuntarily, and at the same time grew sad and pensive.... she was expecting .... what? she herself did not know .... but i .... i, as i have already said, rejoiced at that crisis.... as god is my witness, i almost swooned with rapture, as the saying is. however, i am willing to admit that any one else in my place might have been deceived also.... who is devoid of self-love? it is unnecessary to say that all this became clear to me only after a time, when i was compelled to fold my injured wings, which were not any too strong at best. the misunderstanding which arose between liza and me lasted for a whole week,--and there is nothing surprising about that: it has been my lot to be a witness of misunderstandings which have lasted for years and years. and who was it that said that only the true is real? a lie is as tenacious of life as is the truth, if not more so. it is a fact, i remember, that even during that week i had a pang now and then .... but a lonely man like myself, i will say once more, is as incapable of understanding what is going on within him as he is of comprehending what is going on before his eyes. yes, and more than that: is love a natural feeling? is it natural to a man to love? love is a malady; and for a malady the law is not written. suppose my heart did contract unpleasantly within me at times; but, then, everything in me was turned upside down. how is a man to know under such circumstances what is right and what is wrong, what is the cause, what is the significance of every separate sensation? but, be that as it may, all these misunderstandings, forebodings, and hopes were resolved in the following manner. one day,--it was in the morning, about eleven o'clock,--before i had contrived to set my foot in mr. ozhógin's anteroom, an unfamiliar, ringing voice resounded in the hall, the door flew open, and, accompanied by the master of the house, there appeared on the threshold a tall, stately man of five-and-twenty, who hastily threw on his military cloak, which was lying on the bench, took an affectionate leave of kiríll matvyéevitch, touched his cap negligently as he passed me--and vanished, clinking his spurs. "who is that?"--i asked ozhógin. "prince n***,"--replied the latter, with a troubled face;--"he has been sent from petersburg to receive the recruits. but where are those servants?"--he went on with vexation:--"there was no one to put on his cloak." we entered the hall. "has he been here long?"--i inquired. "they say he came yesterday evening. i offered him a room in my house, but he declined it. however, he seems to be a very nice young fellow." "did he stay long with you?" "about an hour. he asked me to introduce him to olympiáda nikítichna." "and did you introduce him?" "certainly." "and did he make acquaintance with lizavéta kiríllovna?...." "yes, he made her acquaintance, of course." i said nothing for a while. "has he come to remain long, do you know?" "yes, i think he will be obliged to stay here more than a fortnight." and kiríll matvyéevitch ran off to dress. i paced up and down the hall several times. i do not remember that prince n***'s arrival produced any special impression on me at the time, except that unpleasant sensation which usually takes possession of us at the appearance of a new face in our domestic circle. perhaps that feeling was mingled with something in the nature of envy of the timid and obscure moscow man for the brilliant officer from petersburg.--"the prince,"--i thought,--"is a dandy of the capital; he will look down on us."... i had not seen him for more than a minute, but i had managed to note that he was handsome, alert, and easy-mannered. after pacing the hall for a while, i came to a halt, at last, in front of a mirror, pulled from my pocket a tiny comb, imparted to my hair a picturesque disorder and, as sometimes happens, suddenly became engrossed in the contemplation of my own visage. i remember that my attention was concentrated with particular solicitude on my nose; the rather flabby and undefined outline of that feature was affording me no special gratification--when, all of a sudden, in the dark depths of the inclined glass, which reflected almost the entire room, the door opened, and the graceful figure of liza made its appearance. i do not know why i did not stir and kept the same expression on my face. liza craned her head forward, gazed attentively at me and, elevating her eyebrows, biting her lips, and holding her breath, like a person who is delighted that he has not been seen, cautiously retreated, and softly drew the door to after her. the door creaked faintly. liza shuddered, and stood stock-still on the spot.... i did not move.... again she pulled at the door-handle, and disappeared. there was no possibility of doubt: the expression of liza's face at the sight of my person denoted nothing except a desire to beat a successful retreat, to avoid an unpleasant meeting; the swift gleam of pleasure which i succeeded in detecting in her eyes, when she thought that she really had succeeded in escaping unperceived,--all that said but too clearly: that young girl was not in love with me. for a long, long time i could not withdraw my gaze from the motionless, dumb door, which again presented itself as a white spot in the depths of the mirror; i tried to smile at my own upright figure--hung my head, returned home, and flung myself on the divan. i felt remarkably heavy at heart, so heavy that i could not weep .... and what was there to weep about?.... "can it be?"--i kept reiterating incessantly, as i lay, like a dead man, on my back, and with my hands folded on my breast:--"can it be?".... how do you like that "can it be?" march 26. a thaw. when, on the following day, after long hesitation and inward quailing, i entered the familiar drawing-room of the ozhógins', i was no longer the same man whom they had known for the space of three weeks. all my former habits, from which i had begun to wean myself under the influence of an emotion which was new to me, had suddenly made their appearance again, and taken entire possession of me like the owners returning to their house. people like myself are generally guided not so much by positive facts, as by their own impressions; i, who, no longer ago than the previous evening, had been dreaming of "the raptures of mutual love," to-day cherished not the slightest doubt as to my own "unhappiness," and was in utter despair, although i myself was not able to discover any reasonable pretext for my despair. i could not be jealous of prince n***, and whatever merits he might possess, his mere arrival was not sufficient instantly to extirpate liza's inclination for me.... but stay!--did that inclination exist? i recalled the past. "and the stroll in the forest?" i asked myself. "and the expression of her face in the mirror?"--"but," i went on,--"the stroll in the forest, apparently.... phew, good heavens! what an insignificant being i am!" i exclaimed aloud, at last. this is a specimen of the half-expressed, half-thought ideas which, returning a thousand times, revolved in a monotonous whirlwind in my head. i repeat,--i returned to the ozhógins' the same mistrustful, suspicious, constrained person that i had been from my childhood.... i found the whole family in the drawing-room; bizmyónkoff was sitting there also, in one corner. all appeared to be in high spirits: ozhógin, in particular, was fairly beaming, and his first words were to communicate to me that prince n*** had spent the whole of the preceding evening with them.--"well," i said to myself, "now i understand why you are in such good humour." i must confess that the prince's second call puzzled me. i had not expected that. generally speaking, people like me expect everything in the world except that which ought to happen in the ordinary run of things. i sulked and assumed the aspect of a wounded, but magnanimous man; i wanted to punish liza for her ungraciousness; from which, moreover, it must be concluded, that, nevertheless, i was not yet in utter despair. they say, in some cases when you are really beloved, it is even advantageous to torture the adored object; but in my position, it was unutterably stupid. liza, in the most innocent manner, paid no attention whatever to me. only old madame ozhógin noticed my solemn taciturnity, and anxiously inquired after my health. of course i answered her with a bitter smile that "i was perfectly well, thank god." ozhógin continued to dilate on the subject of his visitor; but, observing that i answered him reluctantly, he addressed himself chiefly to bizmyónkoff, who was listening to him with great attention, when a footman entered and announced prince n***. the master of the house instantly sprang to his feet, and rushed forth to welcome him! liza, on whom i immediately darted an eagle glance, blushed with pleasure, and fidgeted about on her chair. the prince entered, perfumed, gay, amiable.... as i am not composing a novel for the indulgent reader, but simply writing for my own pleasure, there is no necessity for my having recourse to the customary devices of the literary gentlemen. so i will say at once, without further procrastination, that liza, from the very first day, fell passionately in love with the prince, and the prince fell in love with her--partly for the lack of anything to do, but also partly because liza really was a very charming creature. there was nothing remarkable in the fact that they fell in love with each other. he, in all probability, had not in the least expected to find such a pearl in such a wretched shell (i am speaking of the god-forsaken town of o***), and she, up to that time, had never beheld, even in her dreams, anything in the least like this brilliant, clever, fascinating aristocrat. after the preliminary greetings, ozhógin introduced me to the prince, who treated me very politely. as a rule, he was polite to every one, and despite the incommensurable distance which existed between him and our obscure rural circle, he understood not only how to avoid embarrassing any one, but even to have the appearance of being our equal, and of only happening to live in st. petersburg. that first evening.... oh, that first evening! in the happy days of our childhood, our teachers used to narrate to us and hold up to us as an example of manly fortitude the young lacedæmonian who, having stolen a fox and hidden it under his cloak, never once uttered a sound, but permitted the animal to devour all his entrails, and thus preferred death to dishonour.... i can find no better expression of my unutterable sufferings in the course of that evening, when, for the first time, i beheld the prince by liza's side. my persistent, constrained smile, my anguished attention, my stupid taciturnity, my painful and vain longing to depart, all this, in all probability, was extremely noticeable in its way. not one fox alone was ravaging my vitals--jealousy, envy, the consciousness of my own insignificance, and impotent rage were rending me. i could not but admit that the prince was really a very amiable young man.... i devoured him with my eyes; i really believe that i forgot to wink as i gazed at him. he did not chat with liza exclusively, but, of course, he talked for her alone. i must have bored him extremely..... he probably soon divined that he had to do with a discarded lover, but, out of compassion for me, and also from a profound sense of my perfect harmlessness, he treated me with extraordinary gentleness. you can imagine how that hurt me! i remember that, in the course of the evening, i tried to efface my fault; i (do not laugh at me, whoever you may be under whose eyes these lines may chance to fall, especially as this was my final dream) .... i suddenly took it into my head, god is my witness, among the varied torments, that liza was trying to punish me for my arrogant coldness at the beginning of my visit; that she was angry with me, and was flirting with the prince merely out of vexation at me. i seized a convenient opportunity, and approaching her with a meek but caressing smile, i murmured: "enough, forgive me ... however, i do not ask it because i am afraid"--and without awaiting her answer, i suddenly imparted to my face an unusually vivacious and easy expression, gave a wry laugh, threw my hand up over my head in the direction of the ceiling (i remember that i was trying to adjust my neckcloth), and was even on the point of wheeling round on one foot, as much as to say: "all is over, i 'm in fine spirits, let every one be in fine spirits!" but i did not wheel round, nevertheless, because i was afraid of falling, owing to an unnatural stiffness in my knees... liza did not understand me in the least, looked into my face with surprise, smiled hurriedly, as though desirous of getting rid of me as promptly as possible, and again approached the prince. blind and deaf as i was, i could not but inwardly admit that she was not at all angry nor vexed with me at that moment; she simply was not thinking about me. the blow was decisive, my last hopes crumbled to ruin with a crash--as a block of ice penetrated with the spring sun suddenly crumbles into tiny fragments. i had received a blow on the head at the first assault, and, like the prussians at jena, in one day i lost everything. no, she was not angry with me!... alas! on the contrary! she herself--i could see that--was being undermined, as with a billow. like a young sapling, which has already half deserted the bank, she bent eagerly forward over the flood, ready to surrender to it both the first blossoming of her spring, and her whole life. any one to whose lot it has fallen to be a witness to such an infatuation has lived through bitter moments, if he himself loved and was not beloved. i shall forever remember the devouring attention, the tender gaiety, the innocent self-forgetfulness, the glance, half-childish and already womanly, the happy smile which blossomed forth, as it were, and never left the half-parted lips and the blushing cheeks.... everything of which liza had had a dim foreboding during our stroll in the grove had now come to pass--and she, surrendering herself wholly to love, had, at the same time, grown quiet and sparkling like young wine which has ceased to ferment, because its time has come.... i had the patience to sit out that first evening, and the evenings which followed .... all, to the very end! i could cherish no hope whatsoever. liza and the prince grew more and more attached to each other with every day that passed..... but i positively lost all sense of my own dignity, and could not tear myself away from the spectacle of my unhappiness. i remember that one day i made an effort not to go, gave myself my word of honour in the morning that i would remain at home,--and at eight o'clock in the evening (i usually went out at seven), i jumped up like a lunatic, put on my hat, and ran, panting, to kiríll matvyéevitch's. my position was extremely awkward; i maintained obdurate silence, and sometimes for days at a stretch never uttered a sound. i have never been distinguished for eloquence, as i have already said; but now every bit of sense i had seemed to fly away in the presence of the prince, and i remained as poor as a church mouse. moreover, in private, i forced my unhappy brain to toil to such a degree, slowly pondering over everything i had marked or noted in the course of the preceding day, that when i returned to the ozhógins', i hardly had enough strength left to continue my observations. they spared me as they would a sick man, i saw that. every morning i reached a fresh, definitive decision, which had chiefly been hatched out during a sleepless night. now i prepared to have an explanation with liza, to give her some friendly advice ... but when i happened to be alone with her, my tongue suddenly ceased to act, as though it had congealed, and we both painfully awaited the appearance of a third person; then, again, i wanted to flee, for good and all, leaving behind me, for the object of my affections of course, a letter filled with reproaches; and one day i set about that letter, but the sense of justice had not yet quite vanished from within me; i understood that i had no right to upbraid any one for anything, and flung my note into the fire; again i suddenly offered the whole of myself as a sacrifice, in magnanimous fashion, and gave liza my blessing, wishing her happiness in her love, and smiled in a gentle and friendly way on the prince from a corner. but the hard-hearted lovers not only did not thank me for my sacrifice, they did not even perceive it, and evidently stood in no need either of my blessings or of my smiles.... then, with vexation, i suddenly passed over into the diametrically opposite frame of mind. i promised myself, as i swathed myself in my cloak, spanish fashion, to cut the lucky rival's throat from round a corner, and with the joy of a wild beast, i pictured to myself liza's despair.... but, in the first place, in the town of o*** there were very few such corners, and, in the second place, a board fence, a street-lantern, a policeman in the distance.... no! at such a corner as that it would be more seemly to peddle rings of bread than to shed human blood. i must confess that, among other means of deliverance,--as i very indefinitely expressed it when holding a conference with myself,--i thought of appealing straight to mr. ozhógin .... of directing the attention of that nobleman to the dangerous position of his daughter, to the sad consequences of her frivolity.... i even began to talk with him one day on the very ticklish subject, but framed my speech so craftily and obscurely, that he listened and listened to me, and suddenly, as though awaking from sleep, swiftly rubbed the palm of his hand all over his face, not sparing even his nose, snorted, and walked away from me. it is needless to say that, on adopting that decision, i assured myself that i was acting from the most disinterested motives, that i was desirous of the universal welfare, that i was fulfilling the duty of a friend of the family.... but i venture to think that even if kiríll matvyéevitch had not cut short my effusions, i should still have lacked the courage to finish my monologue. i sometimes undertook, with the pompousness of an ancient sage, to weigh the prince's merits; i sometimes comforted myself with the hope that it was merely a passing fancy, that liza would come to her senses, that her love was not genuine love.... oh, no! in a word, i do not know of a thought over which i did not brood at that time. one remedy alone, i frankly confess, never entered my head; namely, it never once occurred to me to commit suicide. why that did not occur to me, i do not know.... perhaps even then i had a foreboding that i had not long to live in any case. it is easy to understand that, under such untoward conditions, my conduct, my behaviour toward other people, was more characterised by unnaturalness and constraint than ever. even old lady ozhógin--that dull-witted being--began to shun me, and at times did not know from which side to approach me. bizmyónkoff, always courteous and ready to be of service, avoided me. it also seemed to me then that in him i had a fellow-sufferer, that he also loved liza. but he never replied to my hints, and, in general, talked to me with reluctance. the prince behaved in a very friendly manner to him; i may say that the prince respected him. neither bizmyónkoff nor i interfered with the prince and liza; but he did not shun them as i did, he did not look like a wolf nor like a victim--and gladly joined them whenever they wished it. he did not distinguish himself particularly by jocularity on such occasions, it is true; but even in times past there had been a quiet element in his mirth. in this manner about two weeks passed. the prince was not only good-looking and clever: he played on the piano, sang, drew very respectably, and knew how to narrate well. his anecdotes, drawn from the highest circles of society in the capital, always produced a strong impression on the hearers, which was all the more powerful because he himself did not seem to attribute any particular importance to them.... the consequence of this guile, if you choose to call it so, on the prince's part was, that in the course of his brief sojourn in the town of o*** he absolutely bewitched the whole of society there. it is always very easy for a man from the highest circles to bewitch us steppe-dwellers. the prince's frequent calls on the ozhógins (he spent his evenings at their house), as a matter of course, aroused the envy of the other nobles and officials; but the prince, being a man of the world and clever, did not neglect a single one of them, called on all of them, said at least one pleasant word to all the dames and young ladies, permitted himself to be stuffed with laboriously-heavy viands and treated to vile wines with magnificent appellations; in a word, behaved himself admirably, cautiously, and cleverly. prince n*** was, altogether, a man of cheerful disposition, sociable, amiable by inclination, and as a matter of calculation also: how was it possible for him to be otherwise than a complete success in every way? from the time of his arrival, every one in the house had thought that the time flew by with remarkable swiftness; everything went splendidly; old ozhógin, although he pretended not to notice anything, was, in all probability, secretly rubbing his hands at the thought of having such a son-in-law. the prince himself was conducting the whole affair very quietly and decorously, when, all of a sudden, an unforeseen event .... until to-morrow. to-day i am weary. these reminiscences chafe me, even on the brink of the grave. teréntievna thought to-day that my nose had grown even more pointed; and that 's a bad sign, they say. march 27. the thaw continues. matters were in the above-described condition: the prince and liza loved each other, the elder ozhógins were waiting to see what would happen; bizmyónkoff was present also--nothing else could be said of him; i was flopping like a fish on the ice, and keeping watch to the best of my ability,--i remember that at that time i appointed to myself the task of at least not allowing liza to perish in the snare of the seducer, and in consequence thereof, i had begun to pay particular attention to the maid-servants and the fatal "back" entrance--although, on the other hand, i sometimes dreamed for whole nights together about the touching magnanimity with which, in the course of time, i would extend my hand to the deluded victim and say to her: "the wily man has betrayed thee; but i am thy faithful friend.... let us forget the past and be happy!"--when, suddenly, a joyful piece of news was disseminated throughout the town: the marshal of nobility for the county intended to give a large ball in honour of the respected visitor, at his own estate gornostáevka, also called gubnyakóva. all the hierarchies and powers of the town of o*** received invitations, beginning with the chief of police and ending with the apothecary, a remarkably pimple-faced german, with cruel pretensions to the ability to speak russian purely, in consequence of which, he was constantly using violent expressions with absolute inappropriateness, as, for instance: "devil take me, i feel a dashing fine fellow to-day."[10]... terrible preparations began, as was fitting. one cosmetic-shop sold sixteen dark-blue jars of pomade, with the inscription, "à la jesmin" with the russian character denoting the hard pronunciation after the _n_. the young ladies supplied themselves with stiff gowns, torturingly tight at the waist-line, and with promontories on the stomach; the mammas erected on their own heads formidable decorations, under the pretext that they were caps; the bustling fathers lay without their hind legs, as the saying is.[11]... the longed-for day arrived at last. i was among those invited. the distance from the town to gornostáevka was reckoned at nine versts. kiríla matvyéevitch offered me a seat in his carriage; but i declined.... thus do chastised children, desirous of revenging themselves well on their parents, refuse their favourite viands at table. moreover, i felt that my presence would embarrass liza. bizmyónkoff took my place. the prince drove out in his own calash, i in a miserable drozhky, which i had hired at an exorbitant price for this festive occasion. i will not describe the ball. everything about it was as usual: musicians with remarkably false horns in the gallery; flustered landed proprietors with antiquated families; lilac ice-cream, slimy orgeat; men in patched boots and knitted cotton gloves; provincial lions with convulsively-distorted faces; and so forth, and so forth. and all this little world circled round its sun--round the prince. lost in the throng, unnoticed even by the maidens of eight-and-forty with pimples on their brows and blue flowers on their temples, i kept incessantly gazing now at the prince, now at liza. she was very charmingly dressed and very pretty that evening. they only danced together twice (he danced the mazurka[12] with her, 't is true!), but, at all events, so it seemed to _me_, there existed between them a certain mysterious, unbroken communication. even when he was not looking at her, was not talking to her, he seemed constantly to be addressing her, and her alone; he was handsome and brilliant, and charming with others--for her alone. she was evidently conscious that she was the queen of the ball--and beloved; her face simultaneously beamed with childish joy and innocent pride, and then suddenly was lighted up with a different, a more profound feeling. she exhaled an atmosphere of happiness. i observed all this.... it was not the first time i had had occasion to watch them.... at first this greatly pained me, then it seemed to touch me, and at last it enraged me. i suddenly felt myself remarkably malicious and, i remember, i rejoiced wonderfully over this new sensation, and even conceived a certain respect for myself. "let 's show them that we have n't perished yet!" i said to myself. when the first sounds summoning to the mazurka thundered out, i calmly glanced around, coldly, and with much ease of manner, approached a long-faced young lady with a red and shining nose, an awkwardly gaping mouth, which looked as though it had been unhooked, and a sinewy neck, which reminded one of the handle of a bass-viol,--approached her, and curtly clicking my heels together, invited her for the dance. she wore a pink gown, which seemed to have faded recently and not quite completely; above her head quivered some sort of a faded melancholy fly on a very thick brass spring; and, altogether, the young woman was impregnated through and through, if one may so express one's self, with a sort of sour boredom and antiquated ill-success. from the very beginning of the evening, she had not stirred from her seat; no one had thought of asking her to dance. one sixteen-year-old youth, in default of any other partner, had been on the point of appealing to this young woman, and had already taken one step in her direction, but had bethought himself, taken one look, and briskly concealed himself in the crowd. you can imagine with what joyful surprise she accepted my proposal! i solemnly led her the whole length of the hall, found two chairs, and seated myself with her in the circle of the mazurka, the tenth pair, almost opposite the prince, to whom, of course, the first place had been conceded. the prince, as i have already said, was dancing with liza. neither my partner nor i were incommoded with invitations; consequently, we had plenty of time for conversation. truth to tell, my lady was not distinguished by ability to utter words in coherent speech: she employed her mouth more for the execution of a strange downward smile, hitherto unbeheld by me; at the same time, she rolled her eyes upward, as though some invisible force were stretching her face; but i had no need of her eloquence. fortunately, i felt vicious, and my partner did not inspire me with timidity. i set to criticising everything and everybody in the world, laying special stress on whipper-snappers from the capital, and petersburg fops, and waxed so angry, at last, that my lady gradually ceased to smile, and instead of rolling her eyes upward, she suddenly began--with amazement, it must have been--to look cross-eyed, and in such a queer way, to boot, as though she had perceived, for the first time, that she had a nose on her face; and my next neighbour, one of those lions of whom i have spoken above, more than once scanned me with a glance, even turned to me with the expression of an actor on the stage who has waked up in an unknown land, as much as to say: "art thou still at it?" however, while i sang like a nightingale, as the saying is, i still continued to watch the prince and liza. they were constantly invited; but i suffered less when both of them were dancing; and even when they were sitting side by side and chatting with each other, and smiling with that gentle smile which refuses to leave the face of happy lovers,--even then i was not so greatly pained; but when liza was fluttering through the hall with some gallant dandy, and the prince, with her blue gauze scarf on his knees, thoughtfully followed her with his eyes, as though admiring his conquest,--then, oh, then i experienced unbearable tortures, and in my vexation i emitted such malicious remarks, that the pupils of my partner's eyes reclined completely from both sides, on her nose! in the meantime, the mazurka was drawing to a close.... they began to execute the figure known as "la confidente." in this figure the lady seats herself in the centre of the circle, chooses another lady for her confidante and whispers in her ear the name of the gentleman with whom she wishes to dance; the cavalier leads up to her the dancers, one by one, and the confidante refuses them until, at last, the happy man who has already been designated makes his appearance. liza sat in the centre of the circle, and chose the daughter of the hostess, one of those young girls of whom it is said that they are "god bless them."[13] the prince began to search for the chosen man. in vain did he present about half a score of young men (the hostess' daughter refused them all, with a pleasant smile), and, at last, had recourse to me. something unusual took place in me at that moment: i seemed to wink with my whole body, and tried to decline; nevertheless, i rose and went. the prince conducted me to liza.... she did not even glance at me; the hostess' daughter shook her head in negation, the prince turned toward me, and, prompted probably by the goose-like expression of my face, made me a profound bow. this mocking reverence, this refusal, presented to me by my triumphant rival, his negligent smile, liza's indifferent inattention,--all this provoked an explosion on my part. i stepped up to the prince and whispered in a frenzied rage: "i think you are permitting yourself to jeer at me?" the prince stared at me with scornful surprise, again took me by the hand, and with the air of leading me back to my seat, replied coldly: "i?" "yes, you, you!"--i went on in a whisper, obeying him, nevertheless; that is to say, following him to my seat;--"you! but i do not intend to allow any frivolous petersburg upstart ..." the prince smiled calmly, almost patronisingly, gripped my hand hard, whispered: "i understand you; but this is not the proper place; we will talk it over," turned away from me, approached bizmyónkoff and led him to liza. the pale little petty official proved to be the chosen cavalier. liza rose to meet him. as i sat beside my partner with the melancholy fly on her head, i felt myself almost a hero. my heart thumped violently within me, my bosom swelled nobly under my starched shirt-front, my breath came fast and deep--and all of a sudden, i stared at the adjacent lion in so magnificent a manner, that he involuntarily wiggled the leg which was turned toward me. having rid myself of this man, i ran my eyes over the circle of dancers.... it seemed to me that two or three gentlemen were gazing at me not without amazement; but, on the whole, my conversation with the prince had not been noticed.... my rival was already seated on his chair, perfectly composed, and with his former smile on his face. bizmyónkoff led liza to her place. she gave him a friendly nod and immediately turned to the prince, as it seemed to me, with a certain anxiety; but he laughed in response, waved his hand gracefully, and must have said something very agreeable to her, for she flushed all over with pleasure, dropped her eyes, and then riveted them on him once more with affectionate reproach. the heroic frame of mind which had suddenly developed in me did not disappear until the end of the mazurka; but i made no more jests, and did not criticise, and merely cast a severe and gloomy glance from time to time at my lady, who was, evidently, beginning to be afraid of me, and was reduced to a state of complete stammering and winked incessantly, when i led her to the natural stronghold of her mother, a very fat woman with a red head-dress. having handed over the frightened young girl as behooved me, i walked off to the window, clasped my hands, and waited to see what would happen. i waited a good while. the prince was constantly surrounded by the host,--precisely that, surrounded, as england is surrounded by the sea,--not to mention the other members of the county marshal of the nobility's family, and the other guests; and, moreover, he could not, without arousing universal surprise, approach such an insignificant man as i, and enter into conversation with him. this insignificance of mine, i remember, was even a source of delight to me then. "fiddlesticks!" i thought, as i watched him turning courteously now to one, now to another respected personage who sought the honour of being noticed by him, if only for "the twinkling of an eye," as the poets say:--"fiddlesticks, my dear fellow!.... thou wilt come to me by and by--for i have insulted thee." at last the prince, having cleverly got rid of the crowd of his adorers, strode past me, darted a glance, not exactly at the window, nor yet exactly at my hair, was on the point of turning away, and suddenly came to a halt, as though he had just remembered something. "akh, yes!"--he said, addressing me with a smile;--"by the way, i have a little matter of business with you." two landed proprietors, the most persistent of all, who were obstinately following up the prince, probably thought that the "little matter of business" was connected with the service, and respectfully retreated. the prince put his arm in mine, and led me to one side. my heart thumped in my breast. "you,"--he began, drawling out the word _you_, and staring at my chin with a contemptuous expression which, strange to say, was infinitely becoming to his fresh, handsome face,--"you said something insolent to me, i believe." "i said what i thought,"--i retorted, raising my voice. "ssssh .... speak more quietly,"--he remarked:--"well-bred men do not shout. perhaps you would like to fight with me?" "that is your affair,"--i replied, drawing myself up. "i shall be compelled to call you out,"--he said carelessly,--"if you do not withdraw your expressions...." "i have no intention of withdrawing anything,"--i retorted proudly. "really?"--he remarked, not without a sneering smile.--"in that case,"--he went on, after a brief pause,--"i shall have the honour to send my second to you to-morrow." "very well, sir,"--i said in the most indifferent tone i could muster. the prince bowed slightly. "i cannot forbid you to think me a frivolous man,"--he added, arrogantly narrowing his eyes;--"but it is impossible that the princes n*** should be upstarts. farewell for the present, mr.... mr. shtukatúrin." he quickly turned his back on me, and again approached his host, who had already begun to grow agitated. "mr. shtukatúrin"!.... my name is tchulkatúrin.... i could find no reply to make to this last insult of his, and only stared after him in a violent rage.--"farewell until to-morrow," i whispered, setting my teeth, and immediately hunted up an officer of my acquaintance, captain koloberdyáeff of the uhlans, a desperate carouser and a splendid fellow, narrated to him in a few words my quarrel with the prince, and asked him to be my second. he, of course, immediately consented, and i wended my way homeward. i could not get to sleep all night--from agitation, not from pusillanimity. i am no coward. i even thought very little indeed about the impending possibility of losing my life, that highest good on earth, according to the germans. i thought of liza only, of my dead hopes, of what i ought to do. "ought i to try to kill the prince?" i asked myself, and, of course, wanted to kill him,--not out of vengeance, but out of a desire for liza's good. "but she will not survive that blow," i went on. "no, it will be better to let him kill me!" i confess that it was also pleasant to me to think that i, an obscure man from the country, had forced so important a personage to fight a duel with me. dawn found me engrossed in these cogitations; and later in the morning, koloberdyáeff presented himself. "well,"--he asked me, noisily entering my bedroom,--"and where 's the prince's second?" "why, good gracious!"--i replied with vexation,--"it 's only seven o'clock in the morning now; i presume the prince is still fast asleep." "in that case,"--returned the irrepressible cavalry-captain,--"order them to give me some tea. i have a headache from last night's doings..... i have n't even been undressed. however,"--he added with a yawn,--"i rarely do undress anyway." tea was served to him. he drank six glasses with rum, smoked four pipes, told me that on the preceding day he had bought for a song a horse which the coachmen had given up as a bad job, and intended to break it in by tying up one of its forelegs,--and fell asleep, without undressing, on the couch, with his pipe still in his mouth. i rose, and put my papers in order. one note of invitation from liza, the only note i had received from her, i was on the point of putting in my breast, but changed my mind, and tossed it into a box. koloberdyáeff was snoring faintly, with his head hanging down from the leather cushions.... i remember that i surveyed for a long time his dishevelled, dashing, care-free and kindly face. at ten o'clock my servant announced the arrival of bizmyónkoff. the prince had selected him for his second. together we roused the soundly-sleeping captain. he rose, stared at us with eyes owlishly stupid from sleep, and in a hoarse voice asked for vodka;--he recovered himself, and after having exchanged salutes with bizmyónkoff, went out with him into the next room for consultation. the conference of the seconds did not last long. a quarter of an hour later they both came to me in my bedroom; koloberdyáeff announced to me that "we shall fight to-day, at three o'clock, with pistols." i silently bowed my head, in token of assent. bizmyónkoff immediately took leave of us, and drove away. he was somewhat pale and inwardly agitated, like a man who is not accustomed to that sort of performance, but was very polite and cold. i seemed, somehow, to feel ashamed in his presence, and i did not dare to look him in the eye. koloberdyáeff began to talk about his horse again. this conversation was very much to my taste. i was afraid he might mention liza. but my good captain was no scandal-monger, and, more than that, he despised all women, calling them, god knows why, "salad." at two o'clock we lunched, and at three were already on the field of action--in that same birch-grove where i had once strolled with liza, a couple of paces from that cliff. we were the first to arrive. but the prince and bizmyónkoff did not make us wait long for them. the prince was, without exaggeration, as fresh as a rose; his brown eyes gazed out with extreme affability from beneath the visor of his military cap. he was smoking a straw cigar, and on catching sight of koloberdyáeff he shook hands with him in a cordial manner. he even bowed very charmingly to me. i, on the contrary, felt conscious that i was pale, and my hands, to my intense vexation, were trembling slightly;... my throat was dry... never, up to that time, had i fought a duel. "o god!" i thought; "if only that sneering gentleman does not take my agitation for timidity!" i inwardly consigned my nerves to all the fiends; but on glancing, at last, straight at the prince's face, and catching on his lips an almost imperceptible smile, i suddenly became inflated with wrath, and immediately recovered my equanimity. in the meantime, our seconds had arranged the barrier, had paced off the distance, and loaded the pistols. koloberdyáeff did most of the active part; bizmyónkoff chiefly watched him. it was a magnificent day--quite equal to the day of the never-to-be-forgotten stroll. the dense azure of the sky again peeped through the gilded green of the leaves. their rustling seemed to excite me. the prince continued to smoke his cigar, as he leaned his shoulder against the trunk of a linden.... "be so good as to take your places, gentlemen; all is ready,"--said koloberdyáeff at last, handing us the pistols. the prince retreated a few paces, halted, and turning his head back over his shoulder, asked me: "and do you still refuse to withdraw your words?"... i tried to answer him; but my voice failed me, and i contented myself with a disdainful motion of the hand. the prince laughed again, and took his place. we began to approach each other. i raised my pistol, and was on the point of taking aim at the breast of my enemy,--at that moment he really was my enemy,--but suddenly elevated the barrel, as though some one had jogged my elbow, and fired. the prince staggered, raised his left hand to his left temple--a thin stream of blood trickled down his cheek from beneath his white wash-leather glove. bizmyónkoff flew to him. "it is nothing,"--he said, taking off his cap, which had been perforated;--"if it did not enter my head, that means it is only a scratch." he calmly pulled a batiste handkerchief from his pocket, and laid it on his curls, which were wet with blood. i looked at him as though petrified, and did not stir from the spot. "please go to the barrier!"--remarked koloberdyáeff to me with severity. i obeyed. "shall the duel go on?"--he added, addressing bizmyónkoff. bizmyónkoff made him no reply; but the prince, without removing the handkerchief from the wound, nor even giving himself the satisfaction of teasing me at the barrier, replied with a smile: "the duel is ended," and fired into the air. i nearly wept with vexation and rage. that man, by his magnanimity, had definitively trampled me in the mud, had cut my throat. i wanted to protest, i wanted to demand that he should fire at me; but he stepped up to me, and offering me his hand, "everything is forgotten between us, is it not?"--he said, in a cordial voice. i cast a glance at his pale face, at that blood-stained handkerchief, and utterly losing my head, blushing with shame, and annihilated, i pressed his hand... "gentlemen!"--he added, addressing the seconds:--"i hope that all this will remain a secret?" "of course!"--exclaimed koloberdyáeff,--"but, prince, allow me...." and he himself bound up his head. the prince, as he departed, bowed to me once more; but bizmyónkoff did not even bestow a glance on me. slain,--morally slain,--i returned home with koloberdyáeff. "but what ails you?"--the captain asked me. "calm yourself; the wound is not dangerous. he can dance to-morrow, if he likes. or are you sorry that you did not kill him? in that case, you 're wrong; he 's a splendid fellow." "why did he spare me?!"--i muttered at last. "oho! so that 's it!"--calmly retorted the captain... "okh, these romancers will be the death of me!" i positively refuse to describe my tortures in the course of the evening which followed this unlucky duel. my pride suffered inexpressibly. it was not my conscience which tormented me; the consciousness of my stupidity annihilated me. "i myself have dealt myself the last, the final blow!" i kept repeating as i paced my room with long strides.... "the prince wounded by me and forgiving me .... yes, liza is his now. nothing can save her now, nor hold her back on the brink of perdition." i was very well aware that our duel could not remain a secret, in spite of the prince's words; in any case, it could not remain a secret to liza. "the prince is not so stupid"--i whispered in a frenzy--"as not to take advantage of it."... and, nevertheless, i was mistaken: the whole town heard about the duel and its actual cause,--on the very next day, of course; but it was not the prince who had babbled--on the contrary; when he had presented himself to liza with a bandaged head and an excuse which had been prepared in advance, she already knew everything... whether bizmyónkoff had betrayed me, or whether the news had reached her by other roads, i cannot say. and, after all, is it possible to conceal anything in a small town? you can imagine how liza took it, how the whole ozhógin family took it! as for me, i suddenly became the object of universal indignation, of loathing, a monster, a crazily jealous man, and a cannibal. my few acquaintances renounced me, as they would have renounced a leper. the town authorities appealed to the prince with a proposition to chastise me in a stern and exemplary manner; only the persistent and importunate entreaties of the prince himself warded off the calamity which menaced my head. this man was fated to annihilate me in every way. by his magnanimity he had shut me up as though with my coffin-lid. it is needless to say that the ozhógins' house was immediately closed to me. kiríla matvyéevitch even returned to me a plain pencil, which i had left at his residence. in reality, he was precisely the last man who should have been incensed with me. my "crazy" jealousy, as they called it in the town, had defined, elucidated, so to speak, the relations between liza and the prince. the old ozhógins themselves and the other residents began to look upon him almost in the light of a betrothed husband. in reality, that could not have been quite agreeable to him; but he liked liza very much; and moreover, at that time he had not, as yet, attained his object.... with all the tact of a clever man of the world, he accommodated himself to his new position, immediately entered into the spirit of his new part, as the saying is.... but i!... i then gave up in despair, so far as i myself was concerned, and so far as my future was concerned. when sufferings reach such a pitch that they make our whole inward being crack and creak like an overloaded cart, they ought to cease being ridiculous.... but no! laughter not only accompanies tears to the end, to exhaustion, to the point where it is impossible to shed any more of them,--not at all! it still rings and resounds at a point where the tongue grows dumb and lamentation itself dies away.... and then, in the first place, as i have no intention of appearing absurd even to myself, and in the second place, as i am frightfully tired, i shall defer the continuation and, god willing, the conclusion of my story until to-morrow.... march 29. a light frost; last night there was a thaw. yesterday i was unable to go on with my diary; like póprishshtchin, i lay most of the time in bed, and chatted with teréntievna. there 's a woman for you! sixty years ago she lost her first betrothed from the plague, she has outlived all her children, she herself is unpardonably old, she drinks tea to her heart's content, she is well-fed, warmly clad; but what do you think she talked to me about yesterday? i had ordered that the cape of an old livery-coat should be given to another utterly denuded old woman for a waistcoat (she wears a breast-piece in the shape of a waistcoat).... the cape was pretty thoroughly eaten by moths, so why should not she have it? "well, it strikes me that i 'm your nurse.... o-okh, my dear little father, 't is a sin for you to do that.... and have n't i been tending you?".... and so forth. the merciless old woman fairly wore me out with her reproaches.... but let us return to the story. so, then, i suffered like a dog which has had the hind part of its body run over by a wheel. only then,--only after my expulsion from the ozhógins' house,--did i become definitively aware how much pleasure a man may derive from the contemplation of his own unhappiness. oh, men! ye are, in reality, a pitiful race!... well, but that is in the nature of a philosophical remark.... i passed my days in utter solitude, and only in the most roundabout and even base ways was i able to find out what was going on in the ozhógin family, what the prince was doing. my servant struck up an acquaintance with the great-aunt of the wife of his coachman. this acquaintance afforded me some alleviation, and my servant speedily was able, from my hints and gifts, to divine what it behooved him to talk about with his master, when he was pulling off the latter's boots at night. sometimes i chanced to meet in the street some member of the ozhógin family, bizmyónkoff, or the prince.... with the prince and bizmyónkoff i exchanged bows, but i did not enter into conversation. i saw liza thrice in all: once with her mamma, in a milliner's shop, once in an open calash with her father, her mother, and the prince; once in church. of course, i did not venture to approach her, and only gazed at her from afar. in the shop she was anxious but cheerful.... she was ordering something for herself, and busily trying on ribbons. her mother was gazing at her, with hands clasped on her stomach, her nose elevated, and indulging in that stupid and affectionate smile which is permissible only to fond mothers. liza was in the calash with the prince.... i shall never forget that meeting! the old ozhógins were sitting on the back seat of the calash, the prince and liza in front. she was paler than usual; two pink streaks were barely discernible on her cheeks. she was half-turned toward the prince; supporting herself on her outstretched right hand (she was holding her parasol in her left), and wearily bending her head, she was gazing straight into his face with her expressive eyes. at that moment she was surrendering herself utterly to him, trusting him irrevocably. i did not have a chance to get a good look at his face,--the calash dashed past too swiftly,--but it seemed to me that he also was deeply moved. the third time i saw her was in church. not more than ten days had elapsed since the day when i had encountered her in the calash with the prince, not more than three weeks since my duel. the business on account of which the prince had come to o*** had long been finished; but he still deferred his departure; he reported in petersburg that he was ill. in the city, people were expecting every day a formal proposal on his part to kiríla matvyéevitch. i myself was only waiting for this last blow, in order to retire forever. the town of o*** had grown loathsome to me. i could not sit still at home, and from morning till night i dragged myself about the suburbs. one grey, wet day, as i was returning from a stroll which had been cut short by the rain, i stepped into the church. the evening service was only just beginning, there were very few people present; i looked about me, and suddenly, near a window, i descried a familiar profile. at first i did not recognise it; that pale face, that extinct glance, those sunken cheeks--could it be the same liza whom i had seen two weeks before? enveloped in a cloak, with no hat on her head, illuminated from one side by a cold ray of light, which fell through the broad window of white glass, she was staring immovably at the ikonostásis, and, apparently, making a violent effort to pray, striving to escape from some sort of dejected rigidity. a fat, red-cheeked page with yellow cartridge-cases on his breast[14] was standing behind her, with his hands clasped behind his back, and staring with sleepy surprise at his mistress. i shuddered all over; i started to go to her, but stopped short. a torturing foreboding gripped my breast. liza never stirred until the very end of vespers. all the congregation departed, a chanter began to sweep out the church, and still she did not stir from her place. the page approached her, and touched her gown; she glanced round, passed her hand over her face, and went away. i escorted her, at a distance, to her house, then returned home. "she is ruined!" i exclaimed, as i entered my room. being a man, i do not know to this day what was the nature of my sensations then. i remember that, folding my arms, i flung myself on the divan, and riveted my eyes on the floor; but i did not know why, only, in the midst of my grief, i seemed to be pleased at something.... i would not have admitted that on any account, if i were not writing for myself.... i really had been tortured by painful, terrible forebodings .... and, who knows, perhaps i should have been disconcerted if they had not been fulfilled. "such is the human heart!" some middle-aged russian teacher would exclaim at this point, in an expressive voice, raising on high his thick forefinger adorned with a carnelian ring. but what care we for the opinion of a russian teacher with an expressive voice, and a carnelian ring on his finger? be that as it may, my forebodings had turned out to be correct. the news suddenly spread through the town that the prince had taken his departure, in consequence, nominally, of an order from petersburg; that he had gone away without having made any proposal of marriage either to kiríla matvyéevitch or to his spouse, and that liza would continue to mourn his perfidy to the end of her days. the prince's departure had been entirely unexpected, because, as late as the evening before, his coachman, according to the assertions of my servant, had not in the least suspected his master's intention. this news threw me into a fever. i immediately dressed myself, was on the point of running to the ozhógins'; but after thinking the matter over, i concluded that it would be decorous to wait until the following day. however, i lost nothing by remaining at home. that evening there ran in to see me a certain pandopipópulo, a greek on his travels, who had accidentally got stranded in o***, a gossip of the first magnitude, who, more than any one else, had seethed with indignation against me for my duel with the prince. he did not even give my servant time to announce him, but fairly forced his way into my room, shook me vigorously by the hand, made a thousand excuses for his conduct, called me a model of magnanimity and fearlessness, depicted the prince in the blackest colours, did not spare the old ozhógins, whom fate had, in his opinion, justly punished; he gave a hit at liza also in passing, and ran off, after kissing me on the shoulder. among other things, i learned from him that the prince, _en vrai grand seigneur_, on the eve of his departure, had replied coldly to a delicate hint from kiríla matvyéevitch, that he had not intended to deceive any one and was not thinking of marrying; had risen, and made his bow, and that was the last they had seen of him.... on the following day, i betook myself to the ozhógins'. the blear-eyed footman, at my appearance, sprang from the bench in the anteroom with lightning-like swiftness; i ordered him to announce me. the lackey hastened off, and immediately returned: "please enter," said he; "i am ordered to invite you in." i entered kiríla matvyéevitch's study.... until to-morrow. march 30. a frost. so, then, i entered kiríla matvyéevitch's study. i would give a good deal to any one who could have shown me my own face at the moment when that worthy official, hastily wrapping his bukhará dressing-gown round him, stepped forward to meet me with outstretched hands. i must have fairly radiated an atmosphere of modest triumph, patronising sympathy, and limitless magnanimity.... i felt that i was something in the nature of scipio africanus. ozhógin was visibly embarrassed and depressed, avoided my eye, and shifted from foot to foot where he stood. i also noticed that he talked in an unnaturally-loud manner, and altogether expressed himself very indefinitely;--indefinitely, but with fervour, did he beg my pardon, indefinitely alluded to the departed visitor, added a few general and indefinite remarks about the deceitfulness and instability of earthly blessings, and suddenly, becoming conscious of a tear in his eye, he hastened to take a pinch of snuff, probably with the object of deluding me as to the cause which was making him weep.... he used green russian snuff, and every one knows that that plant makes even old men shed tears, athwart which the human eye peers forth dimly and senselessly for the space of several minutes. as a matter of course i treated the old man very cautiously, inquired after the health of his wife and daughter, and at once turned the conversation artfully on the interesting question of rotation of crops. i was dressed as usual; but the feeling of soft decorum and gentle condescension which filled my breast, afforded me a festive and fresh sensation, as though i were wearing a white waistcoat and a white neckcloth. one thing disturbed me: the thought of meeting liza again.... at last ozhógin himself proposed to conduct me to his wife. that good, but stupid woman, on beholding me, at first became frightfully embarrassed; but her brain was incapable of preserving one and the same impression for long together, and therefore she speedily recovered her equanimity. at last i saw liza.... she entered the room.... i had expected that i should find in her an abashed, penitent sinner, and had already in advance imparted to my face the most cordial and encouraging expression.... why should i lie? i really loved her and thirsted for the happiness of forgiving her, of putting out my hand to her; but, to my unspeakable amazement, in reply to my significant bow, she laughed coldly, remarked carelessly: "ah? so it 's you?" and immediately turned away from me. her laugh appeared to me forced, it is true, and, in any case, was ill-suited to her dreadfully emaciated face.... but, nevertheless, i had not expected such a reception.... i stared at her in astonishment.... what a change had taken place in her! between the former child and this woman there was nothing in common. she seemed to have grown taller, to have drawn herself up straighter; all her features, especially her lips, seemed to have acquired a more defined outline .... her gaze had become more profound, more firm, and dark. i sat with the ozhógins until dinner; she rose, left the room and returned to it, calmly replied to questions, and deliberately took no heed of me. i could see that she wished to make me feel that i was not worthy even of her anger, although i had come near killing her lover. at last i lost patience: a malicious hint broke from my lips.... she shuddered, darted a swift glance at me, rose, and, walking to the window, said in a voice which trembled slightly: "you can say anything you like, but you must know that i love that man and shall always love him, and do not consider him to blame toward me in the slightest degree, on the contrary ...." her voice broke with a tinkle, she paused .... tried to control herself, but could not, and burst into tears and left the room.... the elder ozhógins grew confused.... i shook hands with both of them, sighed, cast a glance upward, and went away. i am too weak, there is too little time left to me, i am not in a condition to describe with my former minuteness this new series of torturing meditations, firm intentions, and other fruits of the so-called inward conflict, which started up in me after the renewal of my acquaintance with the ozhógins. i did not doubt that liza still loved and would long love the prince .... but, being a man tamed now by circumstances and who had resigned himself to his fate, i did not even dream of her love: i merely desired her friendship, i wanted to win her confidence, her respect, which, according to the assertions of experienced persons, is regarded as the most trustworthy foundation for happiness in marriage..... unhappily, i had lost sight of one rather important circumstance--namely, that liza had hated me ever since the day of the duel. i learned this too late. i began to frequent the ozhógins' house as of yore. kiríla matvyéevitch was more cordial to me and petted me more than ever. i even have cause to think that at the time he would have gladly given me his daughter, although i was not an enviable match: public opinion condemned him and liza, and, on the other hand, extolled me to the skies. liza's treatment of me did not change: she maintained silence most of the time, obeyed when she was bidden to eat, displayed no outward signs of grief, but, nevertheless, she wasted away like a candle. i must do justice to kiríla matvyéevitch: he spared her in every possible way; old madame ozhógin merely bristled up as she looked at her poor child. there was only one man whom liza did not avoid, although she did not talk much to him, namely, bizmyónkoff. the old ozhógins treated him sternly, even roughly; they could not pardon him for having acted as second; but he continued to come to their house, as though he did not notice their disfavour. with me he was very cold, and,--strange to say!--i felt afraid of him, as it were. this state of things lasted for about a fortnight. at last, after a sleepless night, i made up my mind to have an explanation with liza, to lay bare my heart before her; to tell her that, notwithstanding the past, notwithstanding all sorts of rumours and gossip, i should regard myself as too happy if she would favour me with her hand, would restore to me her trust. i really, without jesting, imagined that i was exhibiting, as the compendiums of literature put it, an unprecedented example of magnanimity, and that she would give her consent out of sheer amazement. in any case, i wanted to clear up the situation with her, and escape, definitively, from my state of uncertainty. behind the ozhógins' house lay a fairly spacious garden, terminating in a linden coppice, neglected and overgrown. in the middle of this coppice rose an old arbour in the chinese style; a board fence separated the garden from a blind-alley. liza sometimes strolled for hours at a time alone in this garden. kiríla matvyéevitch knew this and had given orders that she was not to be disturbed, and kept a watch over her: "let her grief wear itself out," he said. when she was not to be found in the house, it was only necessary to ring a small bell on the porch at dinner-time, and she immediately presented herself, with the same obdurate taciturnity on her lips and in her gaze, and some sort of crumpled leaf in her hand. so, one day, observing that she was not in the house, i pretended that i was making ready to depart, took leave of kiríla matvyéevitch, put on my hat, and emerged from the anteroom into the courtyard, and from the courtyard into the street, but instantly, with extraordinary swiftness, slipped back through the gate and made my way past the kitchen into the garden. luckily, no one espied me. without pausing long to think, i entered the grove with hasty steps. before me, on the path, stood liza. my heart began to beat violently in my breast. i stopped short, heaved a deep sigh, and was on the point of approaching her, when all of a sudden, without turning round, she raised her hand and began to listen.... from behind the trees, in the direction of the blind-alley, two knocks rang out clearly, as though some one were tapping on the fence. liza clapped her hands, a faint squeaking of the wicket-gate became audible, and bizmyónkoff emerged from the coppice. i promptly hid myself behind a tree. liza turned silently toward him.... silently he drew her arm through his, and both walked softly along the path. i stared after them in astonishment. they halted, looked about them, disappeared behind the bushes, appeared again, and finally entered the arbour. this arbour was circular in shape, a tiny little building, with one door and one small window; in the centre was to be seen an old table with a single leg, overgrown with fine green moss; two faded little plank divans stood at the sides, at some distance from the damp and dark-hued walls. here, on unusually hot days, and that once a year, and in former times, they had been in the habit of drinking tea. the door would not shut at all; the frame had long ago fallen out of the window and, catching by one corner, dangled mournfully, like the wounded wing of a bird. i stole up to the arbour and cautiously glanced through a crack of the window. liza was sitting on one of the little divans, with drooping head; her right hand lay on her lap; bizmyónkoff was holding the left in both his hands. he was gazing at her with sympathy. "how do you feel to-day?"--he asked her, in a low voice. "just the same!"--she replied;--"neither better nor worse.--emptiness, frightful emptiness!"--she added, dejectedly raising her eyes. bizmyónkoff made no reply. "what think you," she went on;--"will he write to me again?" "i think not, lizavéta kiríllovna!" she remained silent for a while. "and, in fact, what is there for him to write about? he told me everything in his first letter. i could not be his wife; but i was happy ... not for long.... i was happy...." bizmyónkoff lowered his eyes. "akh,"--she went on with animation;--"if you only knew how loathsome that tchulkatúrin is to me!... it always seems to me that i can see ..... his blood ... on that man's hands." (i writhed behind my crack.) "however,"--she added thoughtfully;--"who knows,--perhaps had it not been for that duel .... akh, when i beheld him wounded, i immediately felt that i was all his." "tchulkatúrin loves you,"--remarked bizmyónkoff. "what do i care for that? do i need any one's love?..." she paused, and added slowly: ... "except yours. yes, my friend, your love is indispensable to me: without you i should have perished. you have helped me to endure terrible moments...." she ceased.... bizmyónkoff began to stroke her hand with paternal tenderness. "there 's no help for it, there 's no help for it, lizavéta kiríllovna,"--he repeated, several times in succession. "yes, and now,"--she said dully,--"i think i should die if it were not for you. you alone sustain me; moreover, you remind me .... for you know everything. do you remember how handsome he was that day?.... but forgive me: it must be painful for you...." "speak, speak! what do you mean? god bless you!"--bizmyónkoff interrupted her. she squeezed his hand. "you are very kind, bizmyónkoff,"--she went on:--"you are as kind as an angel. what am i to do? i feel that i shall love him until i die. i have forgiven him, i am grateful to him. may god grant him happiness! may god give him a wife after his own heart!"--and her eyes filled with tears.--"if only he does not forget me, if only he will now and then recall his liza to mind. let us go out,"--she added, after a brief pause. bizmyónkoff raised her hand to his lips. "i know,"--she began with warmth,--"every one is blaming me, every one is casting stones at me now. let them! all the same, i would not exchange my unhappiness for their happiness ... no! no!... he did not love me long, but he did love me! he never deceived me: he did not tell me that i was to be his wife; i myself never thought of such a thing. only poor papa hoped for that. and now i am still not utterly unhappy: there remains to me the memory, and however terrible the consequences may be .... i am stifling here .... it was here that i saw him for the last time.... let us go out into the air." they rose. i barely managed to leap aside and hide behind a thick linden. they came out of the arbour and, so far as i was able to judge from the sound of their footsteps, went off into the grove. i do not know how long i had been standing there, without stirring from the spot, absorbed in a sort of irrational surprise, when suddenly the sound of footsteps became audible again. i started and peered cautiously from my ambush. bizmyónkoff and liza were returning by the same path. both were greatly agitated, especially bizmyónkoff. he had been weeping, apparently. liza halted, gazed at him, and uttered the following words distinctly: "i consent, bizmyónkoff. i would not have consented, had you merely wished to save me, to extricate me from a frightful position; but you love me, you know all--and you love me; i shall never find a more trustworthy, faithful friend. i will be your wife." bizmyónkoff kissed her hand; she smiled sadly at him, and went to the house. bizmyónkoff dashed into the thicket, and i went my way. as bizmyónkoff had probably said to liza precisely what i had intended to say to her, and as she had given him precisely the answer which i had hoped to hear from her, there was no necessity for my troubling myself further. a fortnight later she married him. the old ozhógins were glad to get any bridegroom. well, tell me now, am not i a superfluous man? did not i play in the whole of that affair the part of a superfluous man? the rôle of the prince .... as to that, there is nothing to be said; the rôle of bizmyónkoff also is comprehensible .... but i? why was i mixed up in it?... what a stupid, fifth wheel to the cart i was!... akh, 't is bitter, bitter!... so now, as the stevedores on the volga say: "heave-ho! heave-ho!"[15]--one more little day, then another, and nothing will be either bitter or sweet to me any more. march 31. things are bad. i write these lines in bed. the weather has changed suddenly since yesterday. to-day is hot--almost a summer day. everything is thawing, crumbling, and streaming. there is an odour of ploughed earth in the air: a heavy, powerful, oppressive odour. the steam is rising everywhere. the sun is fairly beating, fairly blazing down. i am in a bad way. i feel that i am decomposing. i started out to write a diary, and instead of that, what have i done? i have narrated one incident out of my own life. i have been babbling, sleeping memories have waked up and carried me away. i have written leisurely, in detail, as though i still had years before me; and now, lo, there is no time to continue. death, death is advancing. i can already hear its menacing crescendo... time 's up.... time 's up!... and where 's the harm? does it make any difference what i have told? in the presence of death all the last earthly vanities disappear. i feel that i am quieting down; i am becoming more simple, more clear. i have acquired sense, but too late!... 't is strange! i am growing still--'t is true, and, nevertheless, i am overcome with dread. yes, i am overcome with dread. half-leaning over the voiceless, yawning gulf, i shudder, i turn aside, with eager attention i gaze about in all directions. every object is doubly dear to me. i cannot gaze my fill at my poor, cheerless room, as i bid farewell to every tiny fleck on my walls! sate yourselves for the last time, ye eyes of mine! life is withdrawing; it is flowing evenly and softly away from me, like the shore from the glances of the traveller by sea. the aged, yellow face of my nurse, bound up in a dark kerchief, the hissing samovár on the table, the pot of geranium in front of the window, and thou, my poor dog, trésor, the pen wherewith i indite these lines, my own hand, i see you now .... there you are, there.... is it possible .... to-day perhaps ... i shall see you no more? 't is painful for a living being to part with life! why dost thou fawn on me, poor dog? why dost thou lean thy breast against my bed convulsively tucking under thy short tail, and never taking from me thy kind, sad eyes? art thou sorry for me? dost thou already feel instinctively that thy master will soon be no more? akh, if i could also pass in review mentally all the objects in my room! i know that these memories are cheerless and insignificant, but i have no others. emptiness, frightful emptiness! as liza said. oh, my god! my god! here i am dying.... my heart capable of love, and ready to love, will soon cease to beat... and can it be that it will be silenced forever, without having even once tasted of happiness, without having a single time swelled beneath the sweet burden of joy? alas! 't is impossible, impossible, i know... if at least now, before my death--and death, nevertheless, is a sacred thing, for it elevates every being--if some charming, sad, friendly voice were to sing over me the parting song of my own woe, perhaps i might become reconciled to it. but to die is stupid, stupid... i believe i am beginning to rave. farewell life, farewell my garden, and you, my lindens! when summer comes, see that you do not forget to cover yourselves with flowers from top to bottom .... and may good people lie in your fragrant shade, on the cool grass beneath the lisping murmur of your leaves, lightly agitated by the breeze. farewell, farewell! farewell everything, and forever! farewell, liza! i have written these two words--and have almost laughed. that exclamation seems bookish. i seem to be composing a sentimental novel, and ending up a despairing letter.... to-morrow is the first of april. can it be that i shall die to-morrow? that would be rather indecorous even. however, it befits me... how the doctor did gabble to-day.... april 1. 't is over. life is ended. i really shall die to-day. it is hot out of doors ... almost stifling .... or is it that my chest is already refusing to breathe? my little comedy has been played through. the curtain is falling. in becoming annihilated, i shall cease to be superfluous... akh, how brilliant that sun is! those powerful rays exhale eternity... farewell, teréntievna!... this morning, as she sat by the window, she fell to weeping .... perhaps over me ... and perhaps, because she herself must die before long also. i made her promise "not to hurt" trésor. it is difficult for me to write.... i drop my pen... 't is time! death is already drawing near with increasing rumble, like a carriage by night on the pavement: it is here, it is hovering around me, like that faint breath which made the hair of the prophet stand upright on his head... i am dying... live on, ye living. and may the young life play at the entrance of the grave, and nature the indifferent with beauty beam forever! _note of the editor._--under this last line there is the profile of a head with a large crest-curl and moustache, with eyes _en face_, and ray-like eyelashes; and under the head some one has written the following words: the abov manuscript has been read and the contints thereof bin approved by pyetr zudotyéshin m m m m dear sir pyetr zudotyéshin. my dear sir. but as the chirography of these lines does not in the least agree with the chirography in which the remainder of the note-book is written, the editor considers himself justified in concluding that the above-mentioned lines were added afterward by another person; the more so, as it has come to his (the editor's) knowledge that mr. tchulkatúrin really did die on the night of april 1-2, 18.., in his natal estate--ovétchi vódy. footnotes: [3] sheep's-waters or springs.--translator. [4] easter.--translator. [5] a decidedly vulgar pun in the original.--translator. [6] derived from _tchulók_, stocking.--translator. [7] meaning male serfs. the women and children were not reckoned.--translator. [8] the large music-room, also used for dancing, as a play-room for the children in winter, and so forth, in russian houses.--translator. [9] by m. y. lérmontoff. [10] the pronunciation is also indicated as being faulty.--translator. [11] ran themselves off their legs.--translator. [12] the mazurka, which is still a great favourite in russia, greatly resembles the cotillon in everything except the steps, which are vivacious. both the cotillon and the mazurka are danced--one before, the other after supper--at court balls and other dances.--translator. [13] utterly insignificant.--translator. [14] the page is called a kazák, and dressed accordingly.--translator. [15] the _burlakí_ on the volga used to tow the barges from ástrakhan to nízhni nóvgorod fair, against the current. the stevedores also are called _burlakí_, and, as they lade the barges, their chantey runs (more literally than i have translated it above): "yet another little time, yet again,..." and so forth.--translator. three portraits (1840) "the neighbours" constitute one of the most serious drawbacks to country life. i knew one landed proprietor of the government of vólogda, who, at every convenient opportunity, was wont to repeat the following words: "thank god, i have no neighbours!"--and i must admit that i could not refrain from envying that lucky mortal. my little village is situated in one of the most thickly-populated governments of russia. i am surrounded by a vast multitude of petty neighbours, beginning with the well-intentioned and respected landed proprietors, clad in capacious dress-coats, and more capacious waistcoats,--and ending with arrant roysterers, who wear hussar-jackets with long sleeves and the so-called "fimsky" knot on the back. in the ranks of these nobles, however, i have accidentally discovered one very amiable young fellow. once upon a time he was in the military service, then he retired, and settled down for good and all in the country. according to his account, he served two years in the b*** regiment; but i positively cannot understand how that man could have discharged any duties whatsoever, not only for the space of two years, but even for the space of two days. he was born "for a peaceful life, for rustic tranquillity," that is to say, for indolent, careless vegetation, which, i may remark in parenthesis, is not devoid of great and inexhaustible charms. he enjoyed a very respectable property: without troubling himself too much about the management of his estate, he spent about ten thousand rubles[16] a year, procured for himself a capital cook (my friend was fond of good eating); he also imported from moscow the newest french books and journals. he read nothing in russian except the reports of his overseer, and that with great difficulty. from morning until dinner (if he did not go off hunting), he did not doff his dressing-gown; he sorted over some sketches or other pertaining to the management, or betook himself to the stable, or to the threshing-shed, and indulged in a good laugh with the peasant wives, who rattled their chains, as the saying is, in his presence, out of ostentation. after dinner my friend dressed himself before the mirror with great care, and drove off to some neighbour endowed with two or three pretty young daughters; heedlessly and pacifically, he dangled after one of them, played at blind-man's buff with them, returned home rather late, and immediately sank into heroic slumber. he could not feel bored, because he never devoted himself to absolute inaction, and he was not fastidious as to his choice of occupations, and, like a child, was amused with the smallest trifle. on the other hand, he felt no special attachment to life, and, it sometimes happened, that when it became necessary to outrun a wolf or a fox, he would launch his horse at full speed over such ravines, that to this day i cannot understand why he did not break his neck a hundred times. he belonged to the category of people who evoke in you the thought that they are not aware of their own value, that beneath their external generosity great and mighty passions are concealed; but he would have laughed in your face, if he could have guessed that you cherished such an opinion concerning him; yes, and, i am bound to admit, i think myself that if my friend was haunted in his youth by any aspiration, indistinct but powerful, toward what is very prettily called "something higher," that aspiration had long, long ago calmed down in him and pined away. he was rather obese, and enjoyed splendid health. in our age, it is impossible not to like people who give little thought to themselves, because they are extremely rare .... and my friend almost completely forgot his own person. however, i have already said too much about him, i think--and my chattering is all the more ill-placed, since he does not serve as the subject of my story. his name was piótr feódorovitch lutchínoff. one autumn day, five of us thorough-going sportsmen had assembled together at piótr feódorovitch's. we had spent the entire morning in the fields, had coursed two wolves and a multitude of hares, and had returned home in the ravishingly-agreeable frame of mind which invades every well-regulated man after a successful hunt. twilight was descending. the wind was playing over the dark fields, and noisily rocking the naked crests of the birches and lindens which surrounded lutchínoff's house. we arrived, and alighted from our horses... on the porch i halted and glanced about me: long storm-clouds were crawling heavily across the grey sky; a dark-brown bush was writhing in the wind, and creaking piteously; the yellow grass bent feebly and sadly to the ground; flocks of blackbirds were flying to and fro among the mountain-ash trees, dotted with clusters of bright-scarlet berries;[17] in the slender and brittle branches of the birch-trees tomtits were hopping and whistling; the dogs were barking hoarsely in the village. melancholy overpowered me .... for which reason i entered the dining-room with genuine pleasure. the shutters were closed; on the round table, covered with a cloth of dazzling whiteness, in the midst of crystal caraffes filled with red wine, burned eight candles in silver candlesticks; a fire blazed merrily on the hearth--and an old, very comely butler, with a huge bald spot, dressed in english fashion, stood in respectful immobility in front of another table, which was already adorned with a large soup-tureen, encircled with a light, fragrant steam. in the anteroom we had passed another respectable man, engaged in cooling the champagne--"according to the strict rules of the art." the dinner was, as is usual on such occasions, extremely agreeable; we laughed, recounted the incidents which had occurred during the hunt, and recalled with rapture two notable "drives." after having dined rather heartily, we disposed ourselves in broad arm-chairs in front of the fireplace; a capacious silver bowl made its appearance on the table, and, a few moments later, the flitting flame of rum announced to us our host's pleasant intention to "brew a punch."--piótr feódorovitch was a man not lacking in taste; he knew, for example, that nothing has such deadly effect on the fancy as the even, cold, and pedantic light of lamps--therefore he ordered that only two candles should be left in the room. strange half-shadows quivered on the walls, produced by the fitful play of the fire on the hearth, and the flame of the punch .... a quiet, extremely agreeable comfort replaced in our hearts the somewhat obstreperous jollity which had reigned at dinner. conversations have their fates--like books (according to the latin apothegm), like everything in the world. our conversation on that evening was peculiarly varied and vivacious. in part it rose to decidedly important general questions, then lightly and unconstrainedly returned to the commonplaces of everyday life.... after chatting a good deal, we all suddenly fell silent. at such times, they say, the angel of silence flits past. i do not know why my companions ceased talking, but i stopped because my eyes had suddenly paused on three dusty portraits in black wooden frames. the colours had been rubbed off, and here and there the canvas was warped, but the faces could still be distinguished. the middle portrait represented a woman, young in years, in a white gown with lace borders, and a tall coiffure of the eighties. on her right, against a perfectly black background, was visible the round, fat face of a good-natured russian landed proprietor five-and-twenty years of age, with a low, broad forehead, a stubby nose, and an ingenuous smile. the powdered french coiffure was extremely out of keeping with the expression of his slavonic countenance. the artist had depicted him in a kaftan of crimson hue with large strass buttons; in his hand he held some sort of unusual flower. the third portrait, painted by another and more experienced hand, represented a man of thirty, in a green uniform of the period of katherine ii, with red facings, a white under-waistcoat, and a thin batiste neckerchief. with one hand he leaned on a cane with a gold head, the other he had thrust into his waistcoat. his thin, swarthy face breathed forth insolent arrogance. his long, slender eyebrows almost met over his pitch-black eyes; on his pale, barely-perceptible lips played an evil smile. "what makes you stare at those faces?"--piótr feódorovitch asked me. "because!"--i answered, looking at him. "would you like to hear the whole story about those three persons?" "pray, do us the favour to tell it,"--we replied with one voice. piótr feódorovitch rose, took a candle, raised it to the portraits, and in the voice of a man who is exhibiting wild animals, "gentlemen!" he proclaimed: "this lady is the adopted daughter of my own great-grandfather, olga ivánovna nn., called lutchínoff, who died unmarried forty years ago. this gentleman,"--pointing to the portrait of the man in uniform,--"is sergeant of the guards, vasíly ivánovitch lutchínoff, who departed this life, by the will of god, in the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety. and this gentleman, to whom i have not the honour to be related, is a certain pável afanásievitch rogatchyóff, who never served anywhere, so far as i am aware. please to note the hole which is in his breast, in the exact place of the heart. this hole, which is, as you see, regular, and three-cornered, probably could not have happened accidentally.... now,"--he went on in his ordinary voice,--"please to take your seats, arm yourselves with patience, and listen." gentlemen (he began) i descend from a fairly ancient race. i am not proud of my descent, because my ancestors were all frightful spendthrifts. this reproach, however, does not apply to my great-grandfather, iván andréevitch lutchínoff,--on the contrary, he bore the reputation of being an extraordinarily penurious and even miserly man--during the last years of his life, at all events. he passed his youth in petersburg, and was a witness of elizavéta's reign. in petersburg he married, and had by his wife, who was also my great-grandmother, four children--three sons, vasíly, iván and pável (my grandfather), and one daughter, natálya. in addition to these, iván andréevitch took into his family the daughter of a distant relative, a full and nameless orphan,--olga ivánovna, of whom i have already spoken. my great-grandfather's subjects were, probably, aware of his existence, because they were in the habit of sending to him (when no particular catastrophe had happened) a very considerable sum in quit-rents;--but they had never beheld his face. the village of lutchínovko, deprived of the light of its master's countenance, was thriving,--when, all of a sudden, one fine morning, a heavy travelling carriage drove into the village, and drew up in front of the elder's cottage. the peasants, startled by such an unprecedented event, flocked thither and beheld their master, mistress, and all the pair's offspring, with the exception of the eldest, vasíly, who had remained in petersburg. from that memorable day forth, and to the very day of his death, iván andréevitch never quitted lutchínovko. he built himself a house, this very house in which i now have the pleasure of chatting with you; he also built the church, and began to live the life of a landed proprietor. iván andréevitch was a man of huge stature, gaunt, taciturn, and extremely slow in all his movements; he never wore a dressing-gown, and no one, with the exception of his valet, had ever seen him with unpowdered hair. iván andréevitch habitually walked with his hands clasped behind his back, slowly turning his head at every step. every day he walked in the long linden alley, which he had planted with his own hands,--and before his death he had the satisfaction of enjoying the shade of those lindens. iván andréevitch was extremely parsimonious of his words; this remarkable circumstance may serve as a proof of his taciturnity--that in the space of twenty years he never said a single word to his spouse, anna pávlovna. altogether, his relations to anna pávlovna were of a very strange nature.--she administered all the domestic affairs, at dinner she always sat by her husband's side,--he would ruthlessly have chastised any man who presumed to utter one disrespectful word to her,--and yet he himself never spoke to her, and never touched her hand. anna pávlovna was a pale, timid, crushed woman; every day she prayed in church on her knees,[18] and never smiled. it was said that formerly, that is to say, before their arrival in the country, they had lived in grand style; it was said, also, that anna pávlovna had broken her marital vows, that her husband had found out about her fault.... however that may have been, iván andréevitch, even when he lay dying, did not become reconciled to her. she never left him during his last illness; but he seemed not to notice her. one night, anna pávlovna was sitting in iván andréevitch's bedroom; he was tortured with insomnia; the shrine-lamp was burning in front of the holy picture; my great-grandfather's servant, yúditch, concerning whom i shall have a couple of words to say to you hereafter, had left the room. anna pávlovna rose, crossed the chamber, and flung herself, sobbing, on her knees before her husband's bed, tried to say something--and stretched out her arms.... iván andréevitch looked at her--and shouted in a weak but firm voice: "man!" the servant entered. anna pávlovna hastily rose to her feet, and returned, reeling, to her place. iván andréevitch's children were extremely afraid of him. they grew up in the country, and were witnesses of iván andréevitch's strange behaviour to his wife. they all passionately loved anna pávlovna, but dared not express their love. she herself seemed to shun them.... you remember my grandfather, gentlemen: to the day of his death, he always used to go about on tiptoe, and he spoke in a whisper .... that 's what habit will do! my grandfather and his brother iván ivánovitch were plain, kind, peaceable and melancholy people; my _grand'tante_ natálya married a coarse, stupid man, as you know, and until her death cherished for him a dumb, servile, sheep-like love; but their brother vasíly was not like that. i think i have told you that iván andréevitch left him in petersburg. he was twenty years old at the time. his father confided him to the care of a distant relative, a man no longer young, a bachelor and a frightful voltairian. vasíly grew up, and entered the service. he was small of stature, but well built and extremely agile; he spoke french splendidly, and was renowned for his skill at fighting with the broadsword. he was considered one of the most brilliant young men of the beginning of katherine ii's reign. my father often told me that he knew more than one old woman who could not mention vasíly ivánovitch lutchínoff without heartfelt emotion. picture to yourself a man gifted with remarkable strength of will, passionate and calculating, patient and daring, secretive to the last degree and--according to the words of all his contemporaries--bewitchingly, enchantingly amiable. he had neither conscience nor good-nature nor honour, although no one could call him a positively bad man. he was selfish--but knew how to conceal his selfishness, and was passionately fond of independence. when vasíly ivánovitch used, smilingly, to screw up his black eyes, when he wanted to fascinate any one, they say that it was impossible to resist him--and even people who were convinced of the coldness and hardness of his spirit more than once surrendered to the bewitching power of his influence. he zealously served himself, and made others toil also for his benefit, and always succeeded in everything, because he never lost his head, did not disdain flattery as a means, and understood how to flatter. ten years after iván andréevitch settled in the country, he came to lutchínovko as a brilliant officer of the guards, for four months,--and in that space of time succeeded in turning the head even of the surly old man, his father. it is strange! iván andréevitch listened with delight to his son's tales of his conquests. his brothers were dumb in his presence, and admired him as a superior being. and even anna pávlovna herself came to love him almost more than all her other children, who were so sincerely devoted to her. vasíly ivánovitch came to the country, in the first place, in order to see his relatives; but, in the second place also, in order to get as much money as possible out of his father. he had lived sumptuously and kept open house in petersburg, and had contracted a multitude of debts. it was not easy for him to reconcile himself to his parent's stinginess, and, although iván andréevitch gave him for his trip alone more money, in all probability, than he gave all his other children in the space of the twenty years which they spent in the paternal house, yet vasíly stuck to the familiar russian rule: "take all you can get!" iván andréevitch had a servant, yúditch by name, as tall, gaunt, and taciturn a man as his master. they say that this yúditch was, in part, the cause of the strange behaviour of iván andréevitch to anna pávlovna: they say that it was he who discovered the guilty liaison of my great-grandmother with one of my great-grandfather's best friends. probably yúditch deeply repented of his ill-judged zeal, because it would be difficult to conceive of a more kind-hearted man. his memory is held sacred to this day by all my house-serfs. yúditch enjoyed the unbounded confidence of my great-grandfather. at that period, landed proprietors had money, but did not hand it over to loan institutions for safe-keeping, but kept it themselves in coffers, in cellars, and the like. iván andréevitch kept all his money in a huge iron-bound coffer, which stood under the head of his bed. the key to this coffer was handed over to yúditch. every evening, when he went to bed, iván andréevitch ordered this chest to be opened in his presence, tapped all the tightly-stuffed sacks in turn with his cane, and on saturdays, he and yúditch untied the sacks and carefully counted over the money. vasíly found out about all these performances and was fired with a desire to rummage a bit in the sacred coffer. in the course of five or six days he _mollified_ yúditch, that is to say, he reduced the poor old fellow to such a state that--as the saying is--he fairly worshipped his young master. after having properly prepared him, vasíly assumed a careworn and gloomy aspect, for a long time refused to answer yúditch's inquiries and, at last, told him that he had gambled away all his money, and intended to lay violent hands on himself if he did not obtain money from somewhere. yúditch began to sob, flung himself on his knees before him, begged him to remember god, not to ruin his soul. vasíly, without uttering a word, locked himself up in his chamber. after a while, he heard some one knocking cautiously on his door. he opened the door and beheld on the threshold yúditch, pale and trembling, with a key in his hands. vasíly immediately understood everything. at first he resisted for a long time. yúditch kept repeating with tears: "pray, master, take it!"... at last, vasíly consented. this happened on monday. the idea occurred to vasíly to replace the money he abstracted with bits of glass. he reckoned on iván andréevitch's not paying any special heed to the barely perceptible difference in the sound when he tapped the sacks with his cane,--and by saturday he hoped to obtain money and replace it in the sacks. no sooner thought than done. his father, in fact, did not notice anything. but vasíly did not obtain money by saturday: he had hoped, with the money he had taken, to clean out at the card-table a certain wealthy neighbour--and, on the contrary, he lost everything himself. in the meantime, saturday arrived; the turn came for the sacks stuffed with bits of glass. picture to yourselves, gentlemen, the amazement of iván andréevitch! "what 's the meaning of this?"--he thundered. yúditch made no reply. "hast thou stolen this money?" "no, sir." "then has some one taken the key from thee?" "i have not given the key to any one." "not to any one? if thou hast not given it to any one--thou art the thief. confess!" "i am not a thief, iván andréevitch." "whence came these bits of glass, damn it? so thou art deceiving me? for the last time i say to thee--confess!" yúditch hung his head and clasped his hands behind his back. "hey there, people!" shouted iván andréevitch in a raging voice.--"the rods!" "what? you mean to .... whip ... me?" whispered yúditch. "thou shalt catch it! and how art thou any better than the rest? thou art a thief! well, now, yúditch! i had not expected such rascality from thee!" "i have grown grey in your service, iván andréevitch," said yúditch with an effort. "and what care i about thy grey hair? may the devil take thee and thy service!" the people entered. "take him, and give him a good flogging!" iván andréevitch's lips were pale and trembling. he ramped about the room like a wild beast in a confined cage. the men did not dare to execute his commands. "what are you standing there for, you vile serfs? have i got to lay hands on him myself, i 'd like to know?" yúditch started for the door. "stop!" yelled iván andréevitch.--"yúditch, for the last time i say to thee, i entreat thee, yúditch, confess." "i cannot," moaned yúditch. "then seize him, the old sycophant!... flog him to death! on my head be it!" thundered the maddened old man. the torture began.... suddenly the door flew open, and vasíly entered. he was almost paler than his father, his hands trembled, his upper lip was raised and disclosed a row of white, even teeth. "i am guilty," he said in a dull but steady voice.--"i took the money." the men stopped short. "thou! what?! thou, váska! without the consent of yúditch?" "no!"--said yúditch:--"with my consent. i myself gave the key to vasíly ivánovitch. dear little father, vasíly ivánovitch! why have you deigned to trouble yourself?" "so that 's who the thief is!"--shouted iván andréevitch.--"thanks, vasíly, thanks! but i shall not spare thee, yúditch, all the same. why didst not thou confess all to me at once? hey, there, you! why have you stopped? or do you no longer recognise my authority? and i 'll settle with you, my dear little dove!" he added, turning to vasíly. the men were on the point of setting to work again on yúditch. "don't touch him!" whispered vasíly through his teeth. the servants did not heed him.--"back!" he shouted, and hurled himself upon them.... they staggered back. "ah! a rebel!"--moaned iván andréevitch, and raising his cane, he advanced on his son. vasíly leaped aside, grasped the hilt of his sword, and bared it half-way. all began to tremble. anna pávlovna, attracted by the noise, frightened and pale, made her appearance in the doorway. iván andréevitch's face underwent a frightful change. he staggered, dropped his cane, and fell heavily into an arm-chair, covering his face with both hands. no one stirred; all stood as though rooted to the spot, not excepting even vasíly. he convulsively gripped the steel hilt of his sword, his eyes flashed with a morose, evil gleam.... "go away all ... begone,"--said iván andréevitch in a low voice, without removing his hands from his face. the whole throng withdrew. vasíly halted on the threshold, then suddenly tossed his head, embraced yúditch, kissed his mother's hand ... and two hours later he was no longer in the village. he had departed for petersburg. on the evening of that day, yúditch was sitting on the porch of the house-serfs' cottage. the servants swarmed around him, pitied him, and bitterly blamed the master. "stop, my lads," he said to them at last;--"enough of that .... why do you abuse him? i don't believe that he, our dear little father, is pleased himself with his desperate deed...." as a result of this affair, vasíly never saw his parents again. iván andréevitch died without him, probably with such grief at his heart as may god spare any of us from experiencing. in the meantime, vasíly ivánovitch went out in society, made merry after his own fashion, and squandered money. how he obtained the money, i cannot say with certainty. he procured for himself a french servant, a clever and intelligent young fellow, a certain boursier. this man became passionately attached to him, and aided him in all his numerous performances. i have no intention of narrating to you in detail all the pranks of my great-uncle; he distinguished himself by such unbounded audacity, such snaky tact, such incredible cold-bloodedness, such adroit and subtle wit, that, i must confess, i can understand the limitless power of that unprincipled man over the most noble souls.... soon after his father's death, vasíly ivánovitch, notwithstanding all his tact, was challenged to a duel by an outraged husband. he fought, severely wounded his antagonist, and was forced to quit the capital: he was ordered to reside permanently on his hereditary estate. vasíly ivánovitch was thirty years of age. you can easily imagine, gentlemen, with what feelings this man, who had become accustomed to the brilliant life of the capital, journeyed to his native place. they say that, on the road, he frequently got out of his kibítka, flung himself face down on the snow, and wept. no one in lutchínovko recognised the former jolly, amiable vasíly ivánovitch. he spoke to no one, he went off hunting from morning until night, with visible impatience endured the timid caresses of his mother, and jeered pitilessly at his brothers, and at their wives (both of them were already married).... so far i have said nothing to you, i believe, about olga ivánovna. she had been brought to lutchínovko as an infant at the breast; she had almost died on the way. olga ivánovna had been reared, as the saying is, in the fear of god and of her parents.... it must be confessed that iván andréevitch and anna pávlovna both treated her like a daughter. but there was concealed in her a feeble spark of that fire which blazed so brightly in the soul of vasíly ivánovitch. in the meantime, while iván andréevitch's own children did not dare to indulge in conjectures concerning the strange, speechless quarrel between their parents, olga, from her earliest years had been disturbed and pained by the position of anna pávlovna. like vasíly, she loved independence; all oppression revolted her. she had attached herself to her benefactress with all the powers of her soul; she hated old lutchínoff, and more than once, as she sat at table, she had fixed upon him such sombre glances, that even the man who was serving the viands felt frightened. iván andréevitch did not notice all those glances, because, in general, he paid no attention whatever to his family. at first, anna pávlovna endeavoured to exterminate this hatred in her--but several bold questions on olga's part forced her to complete silence. iván andréevitch's children adored olga, and the old woman loved her also, although with rather a cold affection. prolonged sorrow had crushed all cheerfulness, all strong feeling, in this poor woman; nothing so clearly proves vasíly's bewitching amiability as the fact that he made even his mother love him ardently. effusions of tenderness on the part of children was not in the spirit of that age, and therefore it is not surprising that olga did not venture to display her devotion, although she always kissed anna pávlovna's hand with particular respect in the evening, when she bade her good-night. she was barely able to read and write. twenty years later, russian girls began to read novels in the style of the "adventures of marquis g***,"--"fanfan and lolotte,"--of "alexyéi; or, the cot in the forest";--they began to learn to play on the clavichord and to sing romances in the style of the following, once very familiar song: "men in the light cling to us like flies"--and so forth. but in the '70s (olga ivánovna was born in the year 1757), our rustic beauties had no conception of all these accomplishments. it would be difficult for us now to picture to ourselves a young russian girl of good birth of that epoch. we can, it is true, judge from our grandmothers as to the degree of education of noble gentlewomen in the times of katherine ii; but how is one to distinguish that which was inculcated in them in the course of their long life, from that which they were in the days of their youth? olga ivánovna spoke a little french, but with a strong russian accent; in her day, there was no thought of such a thing as the _emigrés_.[19] in a word, with all her good qualities, she was, nevertheless, a decided _savage_, and, probably, in the simplicity of her heart, she more than once administered chastisement with her own hands to some unlucky maid.... some time before vasíly ivánovitch's arrival, olga ivánovna had been betrothed to a neighbour,--pável afanásievitch rogatchyóff, an extremely good-natured and honourable man. nature had forgotten to endow him with gall. his own servants did not obey him; they sometimes all went off, from the first to the last of them, and left poor rogatchyóff without any dinner ... but nothing could disturb the tranquillity of his soul. he had been distinguished, even from his childhood, by his obesity and sluggishness; he had never served anywhere, and he was fond of going to church and singing in the choir. look at that good-natured, round face, gentlemen; gaze at that tranquil, brilliant smile .... does not it make you feel cheerful yourselves? once in a while his father had driven over to lutchínovko, and had brought with him, on festival days, his pávlusha, whom the little lutchínoffs tormented in every possible way. pávlusha grew up, began to go to iván andréevitch's of his own accord, fell in love with olga ivánovna, and offered her his hand and his heart--not to her personally, but to her benefactors. her benefactors gave their consent. they never even thought of asking olga ivánovna whether she liked rogatchyóff. at that epoch,--as our grandmothers used to say,--"such luxuries were not in fashion." but olga speedily got used to her betrothed: it was impossible not to grow attached to that gentle, indulgent being. rogatchyóff had received no education whatsoever; all he could say in french was "bonzhour"--and in secret he even regarded that word as improper. and some jester had also taught him the following, which professed to be a french song: "sónetchka, sónetchka! que voulez-vous de moi--i adore you--mais je ne peux pas."... he was always humming this song in an undertone when he felt in good spirits. his father also was a man of indescribably kind disposition; he was forever going about in a long nankeen coat, and no matter what was said to him, he assented to everything with a smile. from the time of pável afanásievitch's betrothal both the rogatchyóffs--father and son--began to bustle about frightfully; they made over their house, they built on various "galleries," they chatted in friendly wise with the workmen, they treated them to vodka. they did not manage to finish all the additional building by winter--so they deferred the wedding until the summer; in the summer, iván andréevitch died--and the wedding was postponed until the following spring; in the winter, vasíly ivánovitch arrived. rogatchyóff was introduced to him; vasíly received him coldly and carelessly, and in the course of time, frightened him to such a degree by his arrogant treatment that poor rogatchyóff quivered like a leaf at his mere appearance, maintained silence, and smiled constrainedly. vasíly once came near driving him off for good--by offering to bet with him that he, rogatchyóff, was unable to stop smiling. poor pável afanásievitch almost wept with confusion, but--'t is an actual fact!--the smile, the very stupid, constrained smile, would not quit his face! and vasíly slowly toyed with the ends of his neckcloth, and stared at him in quite too scornful a manner. pável afanásievitch's father also learned of vasíly's arrival, and a few days later--for the sake of "the greater solemnity"--he set out for lutchínovko with the intention of "congratulating the amiable visitor on his arrival in his native parts." afanásy lúkitch was renowned throughout the whole countryside for his eloquence--that is to say, for his ability to utter, without hesitation, a rather long and cunningly-concocted speech, with a slight admixture of bookish words. alas! on this occasion he did not maintain his reputation; he became confused much worse than his son, pável afanásievitch. he stammered out something very unintelligible, and, although he had never touched vodka in his life, having this time, "by way of countenance," drunk a small glassful (he had found vasíly at luncheon), he had endeavoured, at least, to clear his throat with a certain amount of independence, and had not produced the smallest sound. as he set out for home, pável afanásievitch whispered to his parent: "well, dear little father?" afanásy lúkitch replied to him with irritation, also in a whisper: "don't mention it!" the rogatchyóffs began to come more rarely to lutchínovko. but they were not the only ones whom vasíly intimidated: he aroused in his brothers, in their wives, even in anna pávlovna herself, a painful and involuntary sense of discomfort .... they began to avoid him in all possible ways. vasíly could not help noticing this, but, apparently, he had no intention of altering his behaviour to them, when, all of a sudden, at the beginning of the spring, he again revealed himself as the same amiable, charming man they had previously known him to be.... the first revelation of this sudden change was on the occasion of vasíly's unexpected call on the rogatchyóffs. afanásy lúkitch, in particular, was thoroughly daunted by the sight of lutchínoff's calash, but his fear very speedily vanished. never had vasíly been more amiable and merry. he linked his arm in the arm of young rogatchyóff, walked out with him to inspect the buildings, chatted with the carpenters, gave them advice, himself made a few notches with the axe, ordered them to show him afanásy lúkitch's stud-horses, himself drove them at the end of a rope--and altogether, by his cordial amiability, reduced the kind-hearted steppe-dwellers to such a condition that they both repeatedly embraced him. at home, also, vasíly turned all heads for a few days as of yore: he devised various amusing games, he procured musicians, invited in the neighbours of both sexes, narrated the tittle-tattle of the town to the old ladies in the most diverting manner, paid some court to the young women, invented unheard-of amusements, fireworks, and so forth:--in a word, he enlivened everything and everybody. the sad, gloomy house of the lutchínoffs was suddenly converted into a noisy, brilliant, enchanting sort of dwelling, of which the whole countryside talked.--this sudden change amazed many, delighted all, and various rumours got into circulation; the knowing ones said that some hidden trouble had, up to that time, been afflicting vasíly ivánovitch, that the possibility of returning to the capital had presented itself to him.... but no one divined the true cause of vasíly ivánovitch's regeneration. olga ivánovna, gentlemen, was very far from being uncomely.--but her beauty consisted rather in remarkable softness and freshness of person, in a tranquil charm of movement, than in strict regularity of features. nature had endowed her with a certain independence; her education--she had been reared an orphan--had developed in her caution and firmness. olga did not belong to the category of quiet and languid young gentlewomen; but one feeling alone had fully ripened in her: hatred for her benefactor. however, other and more womanly passions also could flame up in olga ivánovna's soul with unusual, unhealthy force .... but there was in her none of that proud coldness, nor that compact strength of soul, nor that selfish concentration, without which every passion speedily vanishes.--the first outbursts of such half-active, half-passive souls are sometimes remarkably violent; but they very soon undergo a change, especially when it becomes a question of the ruthless application of accepted principles; they fear the consequences.... and, yet, gentlemen, i must confess to you frankly: women of that sort produce upon me a very strong impression.... (at these words, the narrator tossed off a glass of water at one draught.--"nonsense! nonsense!"--i thought, as i looked at his round chin:--"on you, my dear friend, no one in the world produces 'a very strong impression.'") ... piótr feódorovitch went on: gentlemen, i believe in blood, in race. there was more blood in olga ivánovna, than, for example, in her nominal sister--natálya. how did that "blood" show itself?--you ask me.--why, in everything; in the outline of her hands and of her lips, in the sound of her voice, in her glance, in her walk, in the way she dressed her hair,--in the folds of her gown, in short. in all these trifles there was a certain hidden something, although i must admit that that .... how shall i express it?.... that distinction which had fallen to the lot of olga ivánovna would not have attracted the attention of vasíly if he had met her in petersburg. but in the country, in the wilds, she not only excited his attention,--but even, altogether, was the sole cause of the change of which i have just spoken. judge for yourselves: vasíly ivánovitch was fond of enjoying life; he could not help being bored in the country; his brothers were kind-hearted fellows, but extremely limited in mind; he had nothing in common with them. his sister natálya and her husband had had four children in the space of three years; between her and vasíly lay a whole abyss... anna pávlovna went to church, prayed, fasted, and prepared herself for death. there remained only olga, a rosy, timid, charming young girl... at first vasíly did not notice her ... and who would turn his attention on an adopted child, an orphan, a foundling?.... one day, at the very beginning of spring, he was walking through the garden, and with his cane switching off the heads of the chicory, those stupid yellow flowers which make their appearance in such abundance first of all, in the meadows as yet hardly green.--he was strolling in the garden in front of the house, raised his head--and beheld olga ivánovna.--she was sitting with her side to the window, and gazing pensively at a striped kitten, which, purring and blinking, had cuddled down on her lap, and with great satisfaction was presenting its little nose to the spring sunshine, already fairly brilliant. olga ivánovna wore a white morning-gown with short sleeves; her bare, faintly-rosy, as yet not fully-developed shoulders and arms breathed forth freshness and health; a small cap discreetly confined her thick, soft, silky locks; her face was slightly flushed; she had not been long awake. her slender, supple neck was bent forward so charmingly; her unconfined form reposed so engagingly and modestly that vasíly ivánovitch (a great connoisseur!) involuntarily halted and took a look. it suddenly came into his head that olga ivánovna ought not to be left in her pristine ignorance, that in time she might turn out to be a very charming and very amiable woman. he crept up to the window, raised himself on tiptoe, and imprinted a silent kiss on olga ivánovna's smooth, white arm, a little below the elbow.--olga screamed and sprang to her feet, the kitten elevated its tail, and leaped into the garden; vasíly ivánovitch detained her with his hand.... olga blushed all over, to her very ears; he began to jest at her fright .... invited her to walk with him; but suddenly olga ivánovna noticed the negligence of her attire--"more swiftly than the swift-footed doe," she slipped into the next room. that same day, vasíly set off for the rogatchyóffs'. he suddenly grew gay, and brightened up in spirit. vasíly did not fall in love with olga, no!--one must not trifle with the word love.... he had found for himself an occupation, he had set himself a task, and was rejoicing with the joy of an active man. he never even called to mind the fact that she was his mother's adopted child, the betrothed of another man; he did not deceive himself for a single instant; he was very well aware that she could not be his wife.... perhaps passion was his excuse--not a lofty, not a noble passion, 't is true, but, nevertheless, a tolerably strong and torturing passion. of course he did not fall in love like a child; he did not surrender himself to unbounded raptures; he knew well what he wanted and what he was aiming at. vasíly ivánovitch possessed to perfection the ability to win the favour of others, even of those who were prejudiced or timid. olga speedily ceased to shun him. vasíly ivánovitch introduced her into a new world. he imported a clavichord for her, gave her music lessons (he played very fairly himself on the flute), he read books to her, he had long talks with her.... the poor young steppe-girl's head was turned; vasíly had completely subjugated her. he knew how to talk to her about that which, hitherto, had been foreign to her, and to talk in a language which she understood. olga gradually brought herself to express all her feelings to him; he helped her, suggested to her the words which she could not find; he did not startle her; he now repressed, now encouraged her impulses.... vasíly occupied himself with her education not out of a disinterested desire to awaken and develop her abilities; he simply wanted to bring her somewhat closer to him, and he knew, moreover, that it is easier to attract an inexperienced, shy, but vain young girl by the mind than by the heart. even if olga had been a remarkable being, vasíly could not possibly have observed it, because he treated her like a child; but you already know, gentlemen, that there was nothing noteworthy about olga. vasíly strove, as much as possible, to work on her imagination, and often of an evening she would leave him with such a whirl of new images, words, and thoughts in her head, that she was unable to get to sleep until dawn, and sighing sadly, she pressed her burning cheeks against her cold pillows; or she rose and went to the window, and gazed timorously and eagerly into the far-away gloom. vasíly filled every moment of her life; she could not think of any one else. she soon ceased to take any notice of rogatchyóff. vasíly, being a shrewd and clever man, did not speak to olga in his presence; but he either confused him to the verge of tears, or got up some boisterous game, a stroll in the evening, a rowing-party on the river by night with lanterns and music,--in a word, he did not give pável afanásievitch a chance to recover his ground. but, despite all vasíly ivánovitch's cleverness, rogatchyóff was dimly conscious that he, the betrothed and the future husband of olga, had become, as it were, a stranger to her .... but, in his infinite good-heartedness, he was afraid of wounding her by a reproach, although he really loved her and prized her affection. when he was alone with her, he did not know what to talk about, and merely endeavoured to serve her in every possible way. two months passed. every trace of independence, of will, disappeared in olga; the weak and taciturn rogatchyóff could not serve her as a prop; she did not even try to resist the fascination, and with a sinking heart she gave herself unconditionally to vasíly.... olga ivánovna, it is probable, then learned the joys of love; but not for long. although vasíly--for the lack of any other occupation--not only did not discard her, but even became attached to her, and petted her, yet olga lost herself to such a degree that she did not find bliss even in love, and nevertheless she was unable to tear herself away from vasíly. she began to be afraid of everything, she did not dare to think; she talked of nothing; she ceased to read; she became a prey to melancholy. sometimes vasíly succeeded in drawing her after him, and making her forget everybody and everything; but on the following day he found her pale and silent, with cold hands, with a senseless smile on her lips.... a decidedly difficult time began for vasíly; but no difficulties could daunt him. he concentrated himself completely, like an expert gambler. he could not count upon olga ivánovna in the slightest degree; she was incessantly betraying herself, paling, and blushing and weeping ... her new rôle was beyond her strength. vasíly toiled for two; in his boisterous and noisy joy only an experienced observer could have detected a feverish tenseness; he played with his brothers, his sisters, the rogatchyóffs, the neighbours, both men and women,--as though they had been pawns; he was eternally on the alert, he never allowed a single glance, a single movement to escape him, although he appeared to be the most care-free of mortals; every morning he entered into battle, and every evening he celebrated a victory. he was not in the least oppressed by this strange activity; he slept four hours a day, he ate very little, and was healthy, fresh, and gay. in the meantime, the wedding-day was approaching; vasíly succeeded in convincing pável afanásievitch himself of the necessity of a postponement; then he despatched him to moscow to make some purchases, and himself entered into correspondence with his petersburg friends. he exerted himself not so much out of compassion for olga ivánovna, as out of a desire and love for fuss and bustle.... moreover, he had begun to grow tired of olga ivánovna, and more than once already, after a fierce outburst of passion, he had looked at her as he had been wont to look at rogatchyóff. lutchínoff always remained a puzzle to every one; in the very coldness of his implacable spirit you felt conscious of the presence of a strange, almost southern flame, and in the maddest heat of passion, cold emanated from that man.--in the presence of others, he upheld olga ivánovna as before; but when he was alone with her, he played with her as a cat plays with a mouse--he either terrified her with sophisms, or he exhibited heavy and vicious tedium, or, in conclusion, he threw himself at her feet again, swept her away, as a whirlwind sweeps a chip .... and he was not then pretending to be in love ... but really was swooning with it himself... one day, quite late in the evening, vasíly was sitting alone in his own room and attentively perusing the latest letters he had received from petersburg--when, suddenly, the door creaked softly and paláshka, olga ivánovna's maid, entered. "what dost thou want?"--vasíly asked her, quite curtly. "my mistress begs that you will come to her." "i can't at present. go away... well, why dost thou stand there?"--he went on, perceiving that paláshka did not leave the room. "my mistress ordered me to say that there is very great need, sir." "well, but what 's the matter?" "please to see for yourself, sir...." vasíly rose, with vexation tossed the letters into a casket, and betook himself to olga ivánovna. she was sitting alone in a corner,--pale and motionless. "what do you want?"--he asked her, not very politely. olga looked at him, and with a shudder, covered her eyes. "what ails you? what 's the matter with thee, olga?" he took her hand... olga ivánovna's hand was as cold as ice... she tried to speak .... and her voice died away. the poor woman had no doubt left in her mind as to her condition. vasíly was somewhat disconcerted. olga ivánovna's room was a couple of paces from the bedroom of anna pávlovna. vasíly cautiously seated himself beside olga, kissed and warmed her hands, and argued with her in a whisper. she listened to him, and shivered silently, slightly. paláshka stood in the doorway and softly wiped away her tears. in the adjoining room a pendulum was beating heavily and regularly, and the breathing of a sleeper was audible. olga ivánovna's torpor dissolved, at last, in tears and dull sobs. tears are the equivalent of a thunder-storm: after them a person is always quieter. when olga ivánovna had become somewhat composed, and only sobbed convulsively from time to time like a child, vasíly knelt down before her, and with caresses and tender promises soothed her completely, gave her a drink of water, put her to bed, and went away. all night long he did not undress himself, wrote two or three letters, burned two or three papers, got out a golden locket with the portrait of a black-browed and black-eyed woman, with a bold, sensual face, gazed long at her features, and paced his chamber in thought. on the following morning, at tea, he beheld, with a good deal of dissatisfaction, poor olga's reddened, swollen eyes, and pale, distraught face. after breakfast, he proposed to her that she should take a stroll with him in the park. olga followed vasíly like an obedient sheep. but when, two hours later, she returned from the park, she looked dreadfully; she told anna pávlovna that she felt ill, and went to bed. during the walk, vasíly had announced to her, with all due penitence, that he was secretly married--he was just as much a bachelor as i am. olga ivánovna did not fall down in a swoon--people fall in swoons only on the stage; but she became suddenly petrified, although she not only had not been hoping to marry vasíly ivánovitch, but had even, somehow, been afraid to think of it. vasíly began to demonstrate to her the necessity of parting from him and marrying rogatchyóff. olga ivánovna looked at him with dumb horror. vasíly talked coldly, practically, sensibly; he blamed himself, he expressed regret,--but all his arguments wound up with the following words: "we must act." olga lost her head completely; she was frightened and ashamed; dismal, heavy despair took possession of her; she longed for death--and sadly awaited vasíly's decision. "we must confess all to my mother," he said at last. olga turned deadly pale; her limbs gave way beneath her. "don't be frightened, don't be frightened,"--vasíly kept repeating:--"rely on me; i will not forsake thee ... i will arrange everything ... trust in me." the poor woman gazed at him with love ... yes, with love, and with profound, though hopeless devotion. "i will arrange everything, everything,"--said vasíly to her at parting ... and for the last time kissed her ice-cold hands. olga ivánovna had just risen from her bed on the following morning, when her door opened ... and anna pávlovna made her appearance on the threshold. she was supported by vasíly. silently she made her way to an arm-chair, and silently seated herself. vasíly stood beside her. he seemed composed; his brows were contracted, and his lips were slightly parted. anna pávlovna, pale, indignant, wrathful, tried to speak, but her voice failed her. olga ivánovna with terror, took in, in a single glance, her benefactress and her lover; she felt a frightful sinking at the heart ... with a shriek she fell down on her knees in the middle of the room and covered her face with her hands.... "so it is true ... it is true?" whispered anna pávlovna, and bent toward her.... "answer!"--she went on harshly, seizing olga by the arm. "mamma!" rang out vasíly's brazen voice,--"you promised me not to insult her." "i won't ... come, confess .... confess ... is it true? is it true?" "mamma ... remember!..." said vasíly, slowly. that one word shook anna pávlovna violently. she leaned against the back of her chair, and fell to sobbing. olga ivánovna softly raised her head and attempted to fling herself at the old woman's feet, but vasíly restrained her, raised her up, and seated her in another arm-chair. anna pávlovna continued to weep and whisper incoherent words.... "listen, mamma,"--began vasíly. "don't be so overwhelmed! this calamity can still be alleviated.... if rogatchyóff ...." olga ivánovna shuddered and straightened herself up. "if rogatchyóff,"--pursued vasíly, with a significant glance at olga ivánovna,--"has imagined that he can with impunity disgrace an honourable family ...." olga ivánovna was terrified. "in my house,"--moaned anna pávlovna. "calm yourself, mamma. he has taken advantage of her inexperience, of her youth, he .... did you wish to say something?"--he added, perceiving that olga was trying to get at him. olga ivánovna fell back in her chair. "i shall go at once to rogatchyóff. i shall force him to wed her this very day. be assured, i shall not permit him to jeer at us...." "but ... vasíly ivánovitch ... you ..." whispered olga. he stared long and coldly at her. she relapsed into silence. "mamma, give me your word not to disturb her until my arrival. see--she is barely alive. yes, and you require rest yourself. trust to me: i answer for everything; in any case, await my return. i repeat to you--do not kill her, nor yourself--rely upon me." he walked to the door, and paused. "mamma,"--he said: "come with me. leave her alone, i beg of you." anna pávlovna rose, went to the holy picture, made a reverence to the floor, and softly followed her son. olga ivánovna followed her silently and immovably with her eyes. vasíly hastily came back, seized her hand, whispered in her ear: "trust to me, and do not betray us,"--and immediately withdrew.... "boursier!" he shouted, as he ran swiftly down the stairs.--"boursier!" a quarter of an hour later he was seated in his calash with his servant. old rogatchyóff was not at home that day. he had gone to the county town, to buy seersucker for kaftans to clothe his retainers. pável afanásievitch was sitting in his study, and inspecting a collection of faded butterflies. elevating his eyebrows, and thrusting forth his lips, he was cautiously turning about with a pin the large wings of the "nocturnal sphinx," when suddenly, he felt a small but heavy hand on his shoulder. he glanced round--before him stood vasíly. "good morning, vasíly ivánovitch,"--said he, not without some surprise. vasíly looked at him and sat down in front of him on a chair. pável afanásievitch was about to smile ... but glanced at vasíly, relaxed, opened his mouth, and clasped his hands. "come, tell me, pável afanásievitch,"--began vasíly, suddenly:--"do you intend to have the wedding soon?" "i?... soon .... of course.... i, so far as i am concerned .... however, that is as you and your sister choose.... i, for my part, am ready to-morrow, if you like." "very good, very good. you are a very impatient man, pável afanásievitch." "how so, sir?" "listen,"--added vasíly ivánovitch, rising to his feet:--"i know everything; you understand me, and i order you to marry olga without delay, to-morrow." "but excuse me, excuse me,"--returned rogatchyóff, without rising from his seat;--"you order me? i myself have sought the hand of olga ivánovna, and there is no need to order me. i must confess, vasíly ivánovitch, somehow, i don't understand you...." "thou dost not understand?" "no, really, i don't understand, sir." "wilt thou give me thy word to marry her to-morrow?" "why, good gracious, vasíly ivánovitch .... have n't you yourself repeatedly postponed our marriage? if it had not been for you, it would have taken place long ago. and even now i have no idea of refusing. but what is the meaning of your threats, of your urgent demands?" pável afanásievitch wiped the perspiration from his face. "wilt thou give me thy word? speak! yes, or no?"--repeated vasíly with pauses between his words. "certainly ... i give it, sir, but ...." "good. remember.... and she has confessed everything." "who has confessed?" "olga ivánovna." "but what has she confessed?" "why do you dissimulate with me, pável afanásievitch? surely, i 'm not a stranger to you." "how am i dissimulating? i don't understand you, i don't understand you, positively i don't understand you. what could olga ivánovna confess?" "what? you bore me! you know well what." "may god slay me if ...." "no, i will slay thee--if thou dost not marry her .... dost understand?" "what!...." pável afanásievitch leaped to his feet, and stood before vasíly.--"olga ivánovna .... you say ...." "thou 'rt clever, my good fellow, very clever, i must admit." vasíly, with a smile, tapped him on the shoulder.--"in spite of the fact that thou art so mild of aspect ...." "my god, o god!... you will drive me mad... what do you mean to say? explain yourself, for god's sake!" vasíly bent over him and whispered something in his ear. rogatchyóff cried out:--"what?.... how?" vasíly stamped his foot. "olga ivánovna? olga?..." "yes .... your betrothed bride...." "my betrothed bride .... vasíly ivánovitch .... she .... she .... but i will have nothing to do with her!"--shouted pável afanásievitch. "i 'll have none of her! what do you take me for? to deceive me--to deceive me!... olga ivánovna, is n't it sinful of you, are n't you ashamed?...." (tears gushed from his eyes.)--"i thank you, vasíly ivánovitch, i thank you.... and now i 'll have nothing to do with her! i won't! i won't! don't speak of such a thing!.... akh, good heavens!--that i should have lived to see this day! but it is well, it is well!" "stop behaving like a baby,"--remarked vasíly ivánovitch, coldly.--"remember, you have given me your word that the wedding shall take place to-morrow." "no, that shall not be! enough, vasíly ivánovitch, i say to you once more--for whom do you take me? you do me much honour; many thanks, sir. excuse me, sir." "as you like!"--retorted vasíly.--"get your sword." "why?" "this is why." vasíly drew out his slender, flexible french sword, and bent it slightly against the floor. "you mean .... to fight .... with me?..." "precisely so." "but, vasíly ivánovitch, pray, enter into my position! how can i--judge for yourself--after what you have told me?... i am an honest man, vasíly ivánovitch; i am a nobleman." "you are a nobleman, you are an honest man,--then be so good as to fight with me." "vasíly ivánovitch!" "you appear to be a coward, mr. rogatchyóff?" "i am not in the least a coward, vasíly ivánovitch. you have thought to frighten me, vasíly ivánovitch. 'come, now,' you said to yourself, 'i 'll scare him, and he 'll turn cowardly; he will instantly consent to anything.'.... no, vasíly ivánovitch, i 'm the same sort of nobleman as yourself, although i have not received my education in the capital, it is true; and you will not succeed in terrifying me, excuse me." "very good,"--retorted vasíly:--"where is your sword?" "eróshka!"--shouted pável afanásievitch. a man entered. "get my sword--yonder--thou knowest where it is--in the garret .... and be quick about it...." eróshka withdrew. pável afanásievitch suddenly turned extremely pale, hastily took off his dressing-gown, put on a kaftan of a reddish hue with large strass buttons .... wound a neckcloth round his neck.... vasíly watched him, and examined the fingers of his right hand. "so how is it to be? are we to fight, pável afanásievitch?" "if we must fight, we must,"--returned rogatchyóff, hastily buttoning his waistcoat. "hey, pável afanásievitch, heed my advice: marry .... why shouldst thou not?... but i, believe me ...." "no, vasíly ivánovitch,"--rogatchyóff interrupted him. "you will either kill me or maim me, i know; but i have no intention of losing my honour; if i must die, i will." eróshka entered and hurriedly handed rogatchyóff a wretched little old sword, in a cracked, leather scabbard. at that time all nobles wore swords when they had powdered hair; but the nobles of the steppes only powdered their hair a couple of times a year. eróshka retreated to the door, and fell to weeping. pável afanásievitch thrust him out of the room. "but, vasíly ivánovitch,"--he remarked, with some agitation,--"i cannot fight with you instantly: permit me to defer our duel until to-morrow; my father is not at home; and it would not be a bad thing to put my affairs in order, in case of a catastrophe." "i see that you are beginning to quail again, my dear sir." "no, no, vasíly ivánovitch; but judge for yourself...." "listen!"... shouted lutchínoff:--"you are driving me out of patience.... either give me your word to marry immediately, or fight .... or i will trounce you with a cudgel, like a coward, do you understand?" "let us go into the park,"--replied rogatchyóff between his teeth. but suddenly the door opened, and the old nurse efímovna, all dishevelled, forced her way into the room, fell on her knees before rogatchyóff and clasped his feet.... "my dear little father!"--she wailed:--"my child .... what is this thou art projecting? do not ruin us miserable ones, dear little father! for he will kill thee, my dear little dove! but only give us the command, give us the command, and we 'll kill that insolent fellow with our caps.... pável afanásievitch, my darling child, have the fear of god before thine eyes!" a multitude of pale and agitated faces showed themselves in the doorway .... the red beard of the elder even made its appearance.... "let me go, efímovna, let me go!"--muttered rogatchyóff. "i will not let thee go, my own one, i will not let thee go. what art thou doing, dear little father, what art thou doing? and what will afanásy lúkitch say? why, he will drive all of us out of the white world.... and why do ye stand there? seize the unbidden guest by the arms, and lead him forth from the house, that no trace of him may remain...." "rogatchyóff!"--shouted vasíly ivánovitch, menacingly. "thou hast gone crazy, efímovna, thou art disgracing me,".... said pável afanásievitch.--"go away, go, with god's blessing, and begone, all of you, do you hear? do you hear?..." vasíly ivánovitch walked swiftly to the open window, drew out a small silver whistle, and whistled lightly.... boursier answered close at hand. lutchínoff immediately turned to pável afanásievitch. "how is this comedy to end?" "vasíly ivánovitch, i will come to you to-morrow--what am i to do with this crazy woman?...." "eh! i see that it is useless to talk long with you,"--said vasíly, and swiftly raised his cane.... pável afanásievitch dashed forward, thrust aside efímovna, seized his sword, and rushed through the other door into the park. vasíly darted after him. they both ran to a wooden arbour artfully painted in the chinese manner, locked themselves in, and bared their swords. rogatchyóff had once upon a time taken lessons in fencing; but he barely knew how to parry properly. the blades crossed. vasíly was, evidently, playing with rogatchyóff's sword. pável afanásievitch sighed, turned pale, and gazed with consternation into lutchínoff's face. in the meanwhile, cries resounded in the park; a throng of people rushed to the arbour. suddenly rogatchyóff heard a heart-rending, senile roar .... he recognised his father's voice. afanásy lúkitch, hatless, and with dishevelled locks, was running in front of all, waving his arms despairingly.... with a powerful and unexpected turn of his blade, vasíly knocked the sword from pável afanásievitch's hand. "marry, brother,"--he said to him.--"stop being a fool!" "i will not marry!"--whispered rogatchyóff, closed his eyes, and trembled all over. afanásy lúkitch began to pound on the door of the arbour. "thou wilt not?"--shouted vasíly. rogatchyóff shook his head in the negative. "well, then, the devil take thee!" poor pável afanásievitch fell dead: lutchínoff's sword had pierced his heart.... the door burst open, old rogatchyóff rushed into the arbour, but vasíly had already managed to spring out of the window... two hours later, he entered olga ivánovna's room... she darted to meet him in affright.... he silently bowed to her, drew out his sword, and pierced pável afanásievitch's portrait at the place of the heart. olga shrieked, and fell senseless on the floor.... vasíly directed his steps to anna pávlovna. he found her in the room of the holy pictures. "mamma,"--he said,--"we are avenged." the poor old woman shuddered and went on praying. a week later, vasíly took his departure for petersburg,--and two years afterward he returned to the country, crippled with paralysis, and speechless. he no longer found either anna pávlovna or olga ivánovna alive, and soon died himself in the arms of yúditch, who fed him like a baby, and was the only person who could understand his incoherent babble. footnotes: [16] a ruble, at the present time, is worth, on an average, about fifty-two cents. at the period here referred to, the silver ruble would purchase more than a ruble nowadays, while the paper ruble was worth very little.--translator. [17] a very good preserve, with a slightly wild or bitter taste, is made from these berries in russia. it is a favourite preserve for putting in tea.--translator. [18] except during lent, and for special prayers on christmas day, new year's day and pentecost (trinity sunday), hardly any kneeling is prescribed by the rubrics of the eastern catholic church. during easter-tide and on all sundays it is forbidden by the rubrics, on the ground that joy in the resurrection should overpower the sense of sin and contrition. these rules are not always regarded. but a person who kneels much is conspicuous, and spectators assume that the posture indicates great grief or contrition--as above.--translator. [19] many exiles caused by the french revolution found refuge in russia as tutors. some founded families there, intermarrying with russians, and their russified names are easily recognisable.--translator. three meetings (1851) i passa que' colli e vieni allegramente; non ti curar di tanta compania- vieni pensando a me segretamente- ch'io t'accompagna per tutta la via.[20] during the whole course of the summer, i had gone a-hunting nowhere so frequently as to the large village of glínnoe, situated twenty versts from my hamlet. in the environs of this village there are, in all probability, the very best haunts of game in all our county. after having tramped through all the adjacent bush-plots and fields, i invariably, toward the end of the day, turned aside into the neighbouring marsh, almost the only one in the countryside, and thence returned to my cordial host, the elder of glínnoe, with whom i always stopped. it is not more than two versts from the marsh to glínnoe; the entire road runs through a valley, and only midway of the distance is one compelled to cross a small hillock. on the crest of this hillock lies a homestead, consisting of one uninhabited little manor-house and a garden. it almost always happened that i passed it at the very acme of the sunset glow, and i remember, that on every such occasion, this house, with its hermetically-sealed windows, appeared to me like a blind old man who had come forth to warm himself in the sunlight. he is sitting, dear man, close to the highway; the splendour of the sunlight has long since been superseded for him by eternal gloom; but he feels it, at least, on his upturned and outstretched face, on his flushed cheeks. it seemed as though no one had lived in the house itself for a long time; but in a tiny detached wing, in the courtyard, lodged a decrepit man who had received his freedom, tall, stooping, and grey-haired, with expressive and impassive features. he was always sitting on a bench in front of the wing's solitary little window, gazing with sad pensiveness into the distance, and when he caught sight of me, he rose a little way and saluted, with that deliberate gravity which distinguishes old house-serfs who have belonged not to the generation of our fathers, but to our grandfathers. i sometimes entered into conversation with him, but he was not loquacious; all i learned from him was that the farm on which he dwelt belonged to the granddaughter of his old master, a widow, who had a younger sister; that both of them lived in towns, and beyond the sea, and never showed themselves at home; that he was anxious to finish his life as speedily as possible, because "you eat and eat bread so that you get melancholy: so long do you eat." this old man's name was lukyánitch. one day, for some reason or other, i tarried long in the fields; a very fair amount of game had presented itself, and the day had turned out fine for hunting--from early morning it had been still and grey, as though thoroughly permeated with evening. i wandered far a-field, and it was not only already completely dark, but the moon had risen and night had long been standing in the sky, as the expression runs, when i reached the familiar farm. i had to pass along the garden... all around lay such tranquillity... i crossed the broad road, cautiously made my way through the dusty nettles, and leaned against the low, wattled hedge.[21] motionless before me lay the small garden all illuminated and, as it were, soothed to stillness by the silvery rays of the moon,--all fragrant and humid; laid out in ancient fashion, it consisted of a single oblong grass-plot. straight paths came together exactly in the centre, in a circular flower-bed, thickly overgrown with asters; tall lindens surrounded it in an even border. in one spot only was this border, a couple of fathoms in length, broken, and through the gap a part of the low-roofed house was visible, with two windows lighted, to my amazement. young apple-trees reared themselves here and there over the meadow; athwart their slender branches the nocturnal sky gleamed softly blue, and the dreamy light of the moon streamed down; in front of each apple-tree, on the whitening grass, lay its faint, mottled shadow. on one side of the garden the lindens were confusedly green, inundated with motionless, palely-brilliant light; on the other, they stood all black and opaque; a strange, repressed rustling arose at times in their dense foliage; they seemed to be calling to the paths which vanished under them, as though luring them beneath their dim canopy. the whole sky was studded with stars; mysteriously did their soft blue scintillations stream down from on high; they seemed to be gazing with quiet intentness at the distant earth. small, thin clouds now and then sailed across the moon, momentarily converting its tranquil gleam into an obscure but luminous mist.... everything was dreaming. the air, all warm, all perfumed, did not even vibrate; it only shivered now and then, as water shivers when disturbed by a falling branch.... one was conscious of a certain thirst, a certain swooning in it... i bent over the fence: a wild scarlet poppy reared its erect little stalk before me from the matted grass; a large, round drop of night dew glittered with a dark gleam in the heart of the open blossom. everything was dreaming; everything was taking its ease luxuriously round about; everything seemed to be gazing upward, stretching itself out, motionless, expectant... what was it that that warm, not yet sleeping night, was waiting for? it was waiting for a sound; that sensitive stillness was waiting for a living voice--but everything maintained silence. the nightingales had long since ceased their song ... and the sudden booming of a beetle as it flew past, the light smacking of a tiny fish in the fish-pond behind the lindens at the end of the garden, the sleepy whistle of a startled bird, a distant cry in the fields,--so far away that the ear could not distinguish whether it was a man, or a wild animal, or a bird which had uttered it,--a short, brisk trampling of hoofs on the road: all these faint sounds, these rustlings, only rendered the stillness more profound... my heart yearned within me, with an indefinite feeling, akin not precisely to expectation, nor yet to a memory of happiness. i dared not stir; i was standing motionless before this motionless garden steeped in moonlight and in dew, and, without myself knowing why, was staring importunately at those two windows, which shone dimly red in the soft half-darkness, when suddenly a chord rang out of the house,--rang out and rolled forth in a flood.... the irritatingly-resonant air thundered back an echo.... i gave an involuntary start. the chord was followed by the sound of a woman's voice... i began to listen eagerly--and ... can i express my amazement?... two years previously, in italy, at sorrento, i had heard that selfsame song, that selfsame voice.... yes, yes... "vieni pensando a me segretamente ..." it was they; i had recognised them; those were the sounds... this is the way it had happened. i was returning home from a long stroll on the seashore. i was walking swiftly along the street; night had long since descended,--a magnificent night, southern, not calm and sadly-pensive as with us, no! but all radiant, sumptuous, and very beautiful, like a happy woman in her bloom; the moon shone with incredible brilliancy; great, radiant stars fairly throbbed in the dark-blue sky; the black shadows were sharply defined against the ground illuminated to yellowness. on both sides of the street stretched the stone walls of gardens; orange-trees reared above them their crooked branches; the golden globes of heavy fruit, hidden amidst the interlacing leaves, were now barely visible, now glowed brightly, as they ostentatiously displayed themselves in the moonlight. on many trees the blossoms shone tenderly white; the air was all impregnated with fragrance languishingly powerful, penetrating, and almost heavy, although inexpressibly sweet. i walked on, and, i must confess,--having already become accustomed to all these wonders,--i was thinking only of how i might most speedily reach my inn, when suddenly, from a small pavilion, built upon the very wall of a garden along which i was passing, a woman's voice rang out. it was singing some song with which i was unfamiliar, and in its sounds there was something so winning, it seemed so permeated with the passion and joyous expectation expressed by the words of the song, that i instantly and involuntarily halted, and raised my head. there were two windows in the pavilion; but in both the venetian blinds were lowered, and through their narrow chinks a dull light barely made its way. after having repeated "_vieni, vieni!_" twice, the voice became silent; the faint sound of strings was audible, as though of a guitar which had fallen on the rug; a gown rustled, the floor creaked softly. the streaks of light in one window disappeared... some one had approached from within and leaned against it. i advanced a couple of paces. suddenly the blind clattered and flew open; a graceful woman, all in white, swiftly thrust her lovely head from the window, and stretching out her arms toward me, said: "_sei tu?_" i was disconcerted, i did not know what to say; but at that same moment the unknown threw herself backward with a faint shriek, the blind slammed to, and the light in the pavilion grew still more dim, as though it had been carried out into another room. i remained motionless, and for a long time could not recover myself. the face of the woman who had so suddenly presented itself before me was strikingly beautiful. it had flashed too rapidly before my eyes to permit of my immediately recalling each individual feature; but the general impression was indescribably powerful and profound.... i felt then and there that i should never forget that countenance. the moon fell straight on the wall of the pavilion, on the window whence she had shown herself to me, and, great heavens! how magnificently had her great, dark eyes shone in its radiance! in what a heavy flood had her half-loosened black hair fallen upon her uplifted, rounded shoulders! how much bashful tenderness there had been in the soft inclination of her form, how much affection in her voice, when she had called to me--in that hurried, but resonant whisper! after standing for quite a long time on one spot, i at last stepped a little aside, into the shadow of the opposite wall, and began to stare thence at the pavilion with a sort of stupid surprise and anticipation. i listened .... listened with strained attention... it seemed to me now that i heard some one's quiet breathing behind the darkened window, now a rustle and quiet laughter. at last, steps resounded in the distance ... they came nearer; a man of almost identical stature with myself made his appearance at the end of the street, briskly strode up to a gate directly beneath the pavilion, which i had not previously noticed, knocked twice with its iron ring, without looking about him, waited a little, knocked again, and began to sing in an undertone: "_ecco ridente_."... the gate opened ... he slipped noiselessly through it. i started, shook my head, threw my hands apart, and pulling my hat morosely down on my brows, went off home in displeasure. on the following day i vainly paced up and down that street for two hours in the very hottest part of the day, past the pavilion, and that same evening went away from sorrento without even having visited tasso's house. the reader can now picture to himself the amazement which suddenly took possession of me, when i heard that same voice, that same song, in the steppes, in one of the most remote parts of russia.... now, as then, it was night; now, as then, the voice suddenly rang out from a lighted, unfamiliar room; now, as then, i was alone. my heart began to beat violently within me. "is not this a dream?" i thought. and lo! again the final "_vieni!_" rang out.... can it be that the window will open? can it be that the woman will show herself in it?--the window opened. in the window, a woman showed herself. i instantly recognised her, although a distance of fifty paces lay between us, although a light cloud obscured the moon. it was she, my unknown of sorrento. but she did not stretch forth her bare arms as before: she folded them quietly, and leaning them on the window-sill, began to gaze silently and immovably at some point in the garden. yes, it was she; those were her never-to-be-forgotten features, her eyes, the like of which i had never beheld. now, also, an ample white gown enfolded her limbs. she seemed somewhat plumper than in sorrento. everything about exhaled an atmosphere of the confidence and repose of love, the triumph of beauty, of calm happiness. for a long time she did not stir, then she cast a glance backward into the room and, suddenly straightening herself up, exclaimed thrice, in a loud and ringing voice: "_addio!_" the beautiful sounds were wafted far, far away, and for a long time they quivered, growing fainter and dying out beneath the lindens of the garden and in the fields behind me, and everywhere. everything around me was filled for several minutes with the voice of this woman, everything rang in response to her,--rang with her. she shut the window, and a few moments later the light in the house vanished. as soon as i recovered myself--and this was not very soon, i must admit--i immediately directed my course along the garden of the manor, approached the closed gate, and peered through the wattled fence. nothing out of the ordinary was visible in the courtyard; in one corner, under a shed, stood a calash. its front half, all bespattered with dried mud, shone out sharply white in the moonlight. the shutters of the house were closed, as before. i have forgotten to say, that for about a week previous to that day, i had not visited glínnoe. for more than half an hour i paced to and fro in perplexity in front of the fence, so that, at last, i attracted the attention of the old watch-dog, which, nevertheless, did not begin to bark at me, but merely looked at me from under the gate in a remarkably ironical manner, with his purblind little eyes puckered up. i understood his hint, and beat a retreat. but before i had managed to traverse half a verst, i suddenly heard the sound of a horse's hoofs behind me.... in a few minutes a rider, mounted on a black horse, dashed past me at a swift trot, and swiftly turning toward me his face, where i could descry nothing save an aquiline nose and a very handsome moustache under his military cap, which was pulled well down on his brow, turned into the right-hand road, and immediately vanished behind the forest. "so that is he," i thought to myself, and my heart stirred within me in a strange sort of way. it seemed to me that i recognised him; his figure really did suggest the figure of the man whom i had seen enter the garden-gate in sorrento. half an hour later i was in glínnoe at my host's, had roused him, and had immediately begun to interrogate him as to the persons who had arrived at the neighbouring farm. he replied with an effort that the ladies had arrived. "but what ladies?" "why, everybody knows what ladies," he replied very languidly. "russians?" "what else should they be?--russians, of course." "not foreigners?" "hey?" "have they been here long?" "not long, of course." "and have they come to stay long?" "that i don't know." "are they wealthy?" "and that, too, we don't know. perhaps they are wealthy." "did not a gentleman come with them?" "a gentleman?" "yes, a gentleman." the elder sighed. "o, okh, o lord!"--he ejaculated with a yawn.... "n-n-o, there was no .... gentleman, i think there was no gentleman. i don't know!"--he suddenly added. "and what sort of other neighbours are living here?" "what sort? everybody knows what sort,--all sorts." "all sorts?--and what are their names?" "whose--the lady proprietors'? or the neighbours'?" "the lady proprietors'." again the elder yawned. "what are their names?"--he muttered.--"why, god knows what their names are! the elder, i think, is named anna feódorovna, and the other ... no, i don't know that one's name." "well, what 's their surname, at least?" "their surname?" "yes, their surname, their family name." "their family name.... yes. why, as god is my witness, i don't know." "are they young?" "well, no. they are not." "how old are they, then?" "why, the youngest must be over forty." "thou art inventing the whole of this." the elder was silent for a while. "well, you must know best. but i don't know." "well, thou art wound up to say one thing!"--i exclaimed with vexation. knowing, by experience, that there is no possibility of extracting anything lucid from a russian man when once he undertakes to answer in that way (and, moreover, my host had only just thrown himself down to sleep, and swayed forward slightly before every answer, opening his eyes widely with child-like surprise, and with difficulty ungluing his lips, smeared with the honey of the first, sweet slumber),--i gave up in despair, and declining supper, went into the barn. i could not get to sleep for a long time. "who is she?"--i kept incessantly asking myself:--"a russian? if a russian, why does she speak in italian?.... the elder declares that she is not young.... but he 's lying.... and who is that happy man?.. positively, i can comprehend nothing... but what a strange adventure! is it possible that thus, twice in succession ..... but i will infallibly find out who she is, and why she has come hither."... agitated by such disordered, fragmentary thoughts as these, i fell asleep late, and saw strange visions.... now it seems to me that i am wandering in some desert, in the very blaze of noonday--and suddenly, i behold in front of me, a huge spot of shadow running over the red-hot yellow sand... i raise my head--'t is she, my beauty, whisking through the air, all white, with long white wings, and beckoning me to her. i dart after her; but she floats on lightly and swiftly, and i cannot rise from the ground, and stretch out eager hands in vain.... "_addio!_" she says to me, as she flies away.--"why hast thou not wings?.. _addio!_".... and lo, from all sides, "_addio!_" resounds. every grain of sand shouts and squeaks at me: "_addio!_"... then rings out in an intolerable, piercing trill... i brush it aside, as i would a gnat, i seek her with my eyes ... and already she has become a cloud, and is floating upward softly toward the sun; the sun quivers, rocks, laughs, stretches out to meet her long golden threads, and now those threads have enmeshed her, and she melts into them, but i shout at the top of my lungs, like a madman: "that is not the sun, that is not the sun, that is an italian spider. who gave it a passport for russia? i 'll show him up for what he is: i saw him stealing oranges from other people's gardens."... then it seems to me that i am walking along a narrow mountain path... i hurry onward: i must get somewhere or other as quickly as possible, some unheard-of happiness is awaiting me. suddenly a vast cliff rears itself up in front of me. i seek a passage; i go to the right, i go to the left--there is no passage! and now behind the cliff a voice suddenly rings out: "_passa, passa quei colli._"... it is calling me, that voice; it repeats its mournful summons. i fling myself about in anguish, i seek even the smallest cleft.... alas! the cliff is perpendicular, there is granite everywhere.... "_passa quei colli_," wails the voice again. my heart aches, and i hurl my breast against the smooth stone; i scratch it with my nails, in my frenzy.... a dark passage suddenly opens before me... swooning with joy, i dash forward... "nonsense!" some one cries to me:--"thou shalt not pass through.".. i look: lukyánitch is standing in front of me and threatening, and brandishing his arms... i hastily fumble in my pockets: i want to bribe him; but there is nothing in my pockets.... "lukyánitch,"--i say to him,--"let me pass; i will reward thee afterward." "you are mistaken, signor," lukyánitch replies to me, and his face assumes a strange expression:--"i am not a house-serf; recognise in me don quixote de la mancha, the famous wandering knight; all my life long i have been seeking my dulcinea--and i have not been able to find her, and i will not tolerate it, that you shall find yours." "_passa quei colli_".... rings out again the almost sobbing voice. "stand aside, signor!"--i shout wrathfully, and am on the point of precipitating myself forward ... but the knight's long spear wounds me in the very heart... i fall dead,.. i lie on my back... i cannot move ... and lo, i see that she is coming with a lamp in her hand, and elevating it with a fine gesture above her head, she peers about her in the gloom, and creeping cautiously up, bends over me... "so this is he, that jester!" she says with a disdainful laugh.--"this is he who wanted to know who i am!" and the hot oil from her lamp drips straight upon my wounded heart... "psyche!"--i exclaim with an effort, and awake. all night long i slept badly and was afoot before daybreak. hastily dressing and arming myself, i wended my way straight to the manor. my impatience was so great that the dawn had only just begun to flush the sky when i reached the familiar gate. round me the larks were singing, the daws were cawing on the birches; but in the house everything was still buried in death-like matutinal slumber. even the dog was snoring behind the fence. with the anguish of expectation, exasperated almost to the point of wrath, i paced to and fro on the dewy grass, and kept casting incessant glances at the low-roofed and ill-favoured little house which contained within its walls that mysterious being.... suddenly the wicket-gate creaked faintly, opened, and lukyánitch made his appearance on the threshold, in some sort of striped kazák coat. his bristling, long-drawn face seemed to me more surly than ever. gazing at me not without surprise, he was on the point of shutting the wicket again. "my good fellow, my good fellow!"--i cried hastily. "what do you want at such an early hour?"--he returned slowly and dully. "tell me, please, they say that your mistress has arrived?" lukyánitch made no reply for a while. "she has arrived..." "alone?" "with her sister." "were there not guests with you last night?" "no." and he drew the wicket toward him. "stay, stay, my dear fellow.... do me a favour...." lukyánitch coughed and shivered with cold. "but what is it you want?" "tell me, please, how old is your mistress?" lukyánitch darted a suspicious glance at me. "how old is the mistress? i don't know. she must be over forty." "over forty! and how old is her sister?" "why, she 's in the neighbourhood of forty." "you don't say so! and is she good-looking?" "who, the sister?" "yes, the sister." lukyánitch grinned. "i don't know; that 's as a person fancies. in my opinion, she is n't comely." "how so?" "because--she 's very ill-favoured. a bit puny." "you don't say so! and has no one except them come hither?" "no one. who should come?" "but that cannot be!... i ...." "eh, master! there 's no end of talking with you, apparently,"--retorted the old man with vexation.--"whew, how cold it is! good-bye." "stay, stay .... here 's something for thee...." and i held out to him a quarter of a ruble which i had prepared beforehand; but my hand came into contact with the swiftly banged wicket-gate. the silver coin fell to the ground, rolled away, and lay at my feet. "ah, thou old rascal!"--i thought--"don quixote de la mancha! evidently, thou hast received orders to hold thy tongue.... but wait, thou shalt not trick me."... i promised myself that i would elucidate the matter, at any cost. for about half an hour i paced to and fro, without knowing what decision to adopt. at last i made up my mind first to inquire in the village, precisely who had arrived at the manor, and who she was, then to return, and, as the saying runs, not desist until the matter was cleared up.--and if the unknown should come out of the house, i would, at last, see her by daylight, near at hand, like a living woman, not like a vision. it was about a verst to the village, and i immediately betook myself thither, stepping out lightly and alertly: a strange audacity was seething and sparkling in my blood; the invigorating freshness of the morning excited me after the uneasy night.--in the village i learned from two peasants, who were on their way to their work, everything which i could learn from them; namely: i learned that the manor, together with the village which i had entered, was called mikhaílovskoe, that it belonged to the widow of a major, anna feódorovna shlýkoff; that she had with her her sister, an unmarried woman, pelagéya feódorovna badáeff by name; that both of them were advanced in years, were wealthy, hardly ever lived at home, were always travelling about, kept no one in attendance on them except two female domestic serfs and a male cook; that anna feódorovna had recently returned from moscow with no one but her sister.... this last circumstance greatly perturbed me: it was impossible to assume that the peasants also had been commanded to hold their peace about my unknown. but it was utterly impossible to concede that anna feódorovna shlýkoff, a widow of five-and-forty, and that young, charming woman, whom i had seen on the previous evening, were one and the same person. pelagéya feódorovna, judging from the description, was not distinguished for her beauty either, and, in addition to that, at the mere thought that the woman whom i had seen at sorrento could bear the name of pelagéya, and still more of badáeff, i shrugged my shoulders and laughed maliciously. and nevertheless, i had beheld her the night before in that house.... i had beheld her, beheld her with my own eyes, i reflected. irritated, enraged, but still more inclined to stand by my intention, i would have liked to return at once to the manor .... but glanced at my watch; it was not yet six o'clock. i decided to wait a while. every one was still asleep at the farm, in all probability ... and to prowl about the house at such an hour would only serve to arouse unnecessary suspicion; and besides, in front of me stretched bushes, and beyond them an aspen wood was visible... i must do myself the justice to say, that, notwithstanding the thoughts which were exciting me, the noble passion for the hunt had not yet grown wholly mute within me; "perchance," i thought,--"i shall hit upon a covey,--and that will serve to pass away the time." i entered the bushes. but, truth to tell, i walked in a very careless way, quite out of consonance with the rules of the art: i did not follow my dog constantly with my eyes, i did not snort over a thick bush, in the hope that a red-browed black snipe would fly thence with a whirr and a crash, but kept incessantly looking at my watch, which never serves any purpose whatsoever. and, at last, it was going on nine.--"'t is time!" i exclaimed aloud, and was on the point of turning back to the manor, when suddenly a huge black woodcock actually did begin to flutter out of the thick grass a couple of paces from me. i fired at the magnificent bird, and wounded it under the wing; it almost fell to the ground, but recovered itself, started off, fluttering its wings swiftly and, diving toward the wood, tried to soar above the first aspens on the edge, but its strength failed, and it rolled headlong into the thicket. it would have been utterly unpardonable to abandon such a prize. i strode briskly after it, entered the forest, made a sign to dianka, and a few moments later i heard a feeble clucking and flapping; it was the unlucky woodcock, struggling under the paws of my quick-scented hound. i picked it up, put it in my game-bag, glanced round, and--remained rooted to the spot, as it were.... the forest which i had entered was very dense and wild, so that i had with difficulty made my way to the spot where the bird had fallen; but at a short distance from me wound a cart-road, and along this road were riding on horseback my beauty and the man who had overtaken me on the night before; i recognised him by his moustache. they were riding softly, in silence, holding each other by the hand; their horses were barely putting one foot before the other, lazily swaying from side to side and handsomely stretching out their long necks. when i had recovered from my first alarm ... precisely that, alarm: i can give no other appellation to the feeling which suddenly seized upon me.... i fairly bored into her with my eyes. how beautiful she was! how enchantingly her graceful form moved toward me amid the emerald green! soft shadows, tender reflections glided over her--over her long grey habit, over her slender, slightly-bent neck, over her faintly-rosy face, over her glossy black hair, which escaped luxuriantly from under her low-crowned hat. but how shall i transmit that expression of utter, passionate bliss of a person passionate to the point of speechlessness, which breathed forth from her features? her head seemed to be bending beneath the burden of it; moist, golden sparks glittered in her dark eyes, which were half-concealed by her eyelashes; they gazed nowhere, those happy eyes, and the slender brows drooped over them. an irresolute, child-like smile--the smile of profound happiness, strayed over her lips; it seemed as though excess of happiness had wearied and even broken her a little, as a flower in full bloom sometimes breaks its own stem. both her hands lay powerless: one, in the hand of the man who was riding by her side, the other on her horse's mane. i succeeded in getting a good look at her--and at him also.... he was a handsome, stately man, with an un-russian face. he was gazing at her boldly and merrily, and, so far as i was able to observe, was admiring her not without secret pride. he was admiring her, the villain, and was very well-satisfied with himself, and not sufficiently touched, not sufficiently moved,--precisely that, moved... and, as a matter of fact, what man does deserve such devotion, what soul, even the most beautiful, is worthy of furnishing another soul such happiness? i must say, that i was envious of him!.... in the meantime, they had both arrived on a level with me ... my dog suddenly bounded out into the road and began to bark. my unknown started, cast a swift glance around and, catching sight of me, dealt her steed a violent blow on the neck with her whip. the horse snorted, reared up on his hind legs, threw both his hoofs forward simultaneously, and dashed off at a gallop.... the man immediately gave the spur to his black horse, and when i emerged by the road into the border of the forest a few moments later, both of them were already galloping off into the golden distance, across the fields, rising smartly and regularly in their saddles ... and were not galloping in the direction of the farm.... i gazed.... they speedily disappeared behind a hillock, brilliantly illuminated for the last time by the sun against the dark line of the horizon. i stood, and stood, then returned with slow steps to the forest and sat down on the path, covering my eyes with my hand.--i have observed that after meeting strangers, all that is necessary is to close the eyes--and their features immediately start up before you; any one can verify my observation on the street. the more familiar the faces, the more difficult is it for them to present themselves, the more indefinite is their impression; you recall them, but you do not see them,.... and you can never possibly picture to yourself your own face.... the very minutest separate feature is known to you, but the entire image will not constitute itself. so then, i sat down, closed my eyes--and immediately beheld the unknown and her companion, and their horses, and everything.... the man's smiling countenance stood before me with particular sharpness and distinctness. i began to stare intently at it ... it became confused, and dissolved into a sort of crimson mist, and after it, her image also floated away and sank, and would not return. "well, never mind!"--i thought;--"at all events, i have seen them, seen them both clearly.... it remains for me now to find out their names." endeavour to find out their names! what ill-judged, petty curiosity! but i swear that it was not curiosity which had flamed up in me. in truth, it simply seemed to me impossible not to discover, eventually, who they were, after accident had so strangely and so persistently brought us together. moreover, my former impatient perplexity no longer existed; it had been replaced by a certain confused, sorrowful feeling, of which i was somewhat ashamed.... i was jealous.... i did not hasten back to the farm. i must confess that i had become ashamed to pry into the secrets of others. moreover, the appearance of the fond pair by daylight, in the light of the sun, although it was unexpected and, i repeat, strange, had not exactly soothed, but chilled me. i no longer found anything supernatural, miraculous in this occurrence .... nothing resembling an impossible dream.... i began to hunt again with greater assiduity than before; but still, there were no genuine raptures. i hit upon a covey, which engaged my attention for an hour and a half... the young partridges did not respond to my whistle for a long time,--probably because i did not whistle with sufficient "objectivity."--the sun had already risen quite high (my watch indicated twelve o'clock), when i directed my steps toward the manor. i walked without haste. yonder, at last, the low-roofed little house peeped forth from its hill. i approached .... and not without secret satisfaction beheld lukyánitch. as of yore, he was sitting motionless on the bench in front of the wing. the gate was closed--also the shutters. "good morning, uncle!"--i shouted to him from afar.--"hast thou come out to warm thyself?" lukyánitch turned his gaunt face toward me and silently doffed his cap. i went up to him. "good morning, uncle, good morning,"--i repeated, wishing to encourage him.--"why,"--i added, unexpectedly descrying my quarterruble on the ground,--"didst not thou see it?" and i pointed out to him the silver circle, half peeping from beneath the short grass. "yes, i saw it." "then why didst thou not pick it up?" "because it was n't my money, so i did n't pick it up." "what a fellow thou art, brother!"--i returned, not without embarrassment, and picking up the coin, i offered it to him again.--"take it, take it, for tea." "much obliged,"--lukyánitch answered me, with a composed smile.--"it is n't necessary; i 'll manage to pull through without it. much obliged." "but i am ready to give you still more, with pleasure!"--i replied in confusion. "what for? please don't disturb yourself--much obliged for your good-will, but we still have a crust of bread. and perhaps we sha'n't eat that up--that 's as it may happen." and he rose, and put out his hand to the wicket-gate. "stay, stay, old man,"--i began, almost in desperation;--"how uncommunicative thou art to-day, really.... tell me, at least, has your mistress risen yet?" "she has." "and .... is she at home?" "no, she 's not at home." "has she gone off on a visit, pray?" "no, sir; she has gone to moscow." "to moscow! how is that? why, she was here this morning!" "she was." "and she passed the night here?" "she did." "and she came hither recently?" "yes." "what next, my good man?" "why, this: it must be about an hour since she deigned to start back to moscow." "to moscow!" i stared in petrification at lukyánitch; i had not expected this, i admit. lukyánitch stared at me.... a crafty, senile smile distended his withered lips and almost beamed in his melancholy eyes. "and did she go away with her sister?"--i said at last. "yes." "so that now there is no one in the house?" "no one...." "this old man is deceiving me,"--flashed through my head.--"'t is not without cause that he is grinning so craftily.--listen, lukyánitch,"--i said aloud;--"dost wish to do me one favour?" "what is it you wish?"--he enunciated slowly, evidently beginning to feel annoyed by my questions. "thou sayest that there is no one in the house; canst thou show it to me? i should be very grateful to thee." "that is, you want to inspect the rooms?" "yes, the rooms." lukyánitch remained silent for a space. "very well,"--he said at last.--"pray, enter...." and bending down, he stepped across the threshold of the wicket-gate. i followed him. after traversing a tiny courtyard, we ascended the tottering steps of the porch. the old man gave the door a push; there was no lock on it: a cord with a knot stuck out through the key-hole.... we entered the house. it consisted in all of five or six low-ceiled rooms, and, so far as i could make out in the faint light, which streamed sparsely through the rifts in the shutters, the furniture in these rooms was extremely plain and decrepit. in one of them (namely, in the one which opened on the garden) stood a small, antiquated piano.... i raised its warped lid and struck the keys: a shrill, hissing sound rang out and died feebly away, as though complaining of my audacity. it was impossible to discern from anything that people had recently left the house; it had a dead and stifling sort of smell--the odour of an uninhabited dwelling; here and there, indeed, a discarded paper gave one to understand, by its whiteness, that it had been dropped there recently. i picked up one such bit of paper; it proved to be a scrap of a letter; on one side in a dashing feminine handwriting were scrawled the words "_se taire?_" on the other i made out the word "_bonheur_."... on a small round table near the window stood a nosegay of half-faded flowers in a glass, and a green, rumpled ribbon was lying there also .... i took that ribbon as a souvenir.--lukyánitch opened a narrow door, pasted over with wall-paper. "here,"--said he, extending his hand:--"this here is the bedroom, and yonder, beyond it, is the room for the maids, and there are no other chambers...." we returned by way of the corridor.--"and what room is that yonder?"--i asked, pointing at a broad, white door with a lock. "that?"--lukyánitch answered me, in a dull voice.--"that 's nothing." "how so?" "because.... 't is a store-room..." and he started to go into the anteroom. "a store-room? cannot i look at it?"... "what makes you want to do that, master, really?!"--replied lukyánitch with displeasure.--"what is there for you to look at? chests, old crockery ... 't is a store-room, and nothing more...." "all the same, show it to me, please, old man,"--i said, although i was inwardly ashamed of my indecent persistence.--"i should like, you see .... i should like to have just such a house myself at home, in my village ...." i was ashamed: i could not complete the sentence i had begun. lukyánitch stood with his grey head bent on his breast, and stared at me askance in a strange sort of way. "show it,"--i said. "well, as you like,"--he replied at last, got the key, and reluctantly opened the door. i glanced into the store-room. there really was nothing noteworthy about it. on the walls hung old portraits with gloomy, almost black countenances, and vicious eyes. the floor was strewn with all sorts of rubbish. "well, have you seen all you want?"--asked lukyánitch, gruffly. "yes; thanks!"--i hastily replied. he slammed to the door. i went out into the anteroom, and from the anteroom into the courtyard. lukyánitch escorted me, muttering: "good-bye, sir!" and went off to his own wing. "but who was the lady visitor at your house last night?"--i called after him:--"i met her this morning in the grove." i had hoped to daze him with my sudden question, to evoke a thoughtless answer. but the old man merely laughed dully, and slammed the door behind him when he went in. i retraced my steps to glínnoe. i felt awkward, like a boy who has been put to shame. "no,"--i said to myself:--"evidently, i shall not obtain a solution to this puzzle. i 'll give it up! i will think no more of all this." an hour later, i set out on my homeward drive, enraged and irritated. a week elapsed. try as i might to banish from me the memory of the unknown, of her companion, of my meetings with them,--it kept constantly returning, and besieged me with all the importunate persistence of an after-dinner fly.... lukyánitch, with his mysterious looks and reserved speeches, with his coldly-mournful smile, also recurred incessantly to my memory. the house itself, when i thought of it,--that house itself gazed at me cunningly and stupidly through its half-closed shutters, and seemed to be jeering at me, as though it were saying to me: "and all the same thou shalt not find out anything!" at last i could endure it no longer, and one fine day i drove to glínnoe, and from glínnoe set out on foot .... whither? the reader can easily divine. i must confess that, as i approached the mysterious manor, i felt a decidedly violent agitation. the exterior of the house had not undergone the slightest change: the same closed windows, the same melancholy and desolate aspect; only, on the bench, in front of the wing, instead of old lukyánitch, sat some young house-serf or other, of twenty, in a long nankeen kaftan and a red shirt. he was sitting with his curly head resting on his palm, and dozing, swaying to and fro from time to time, and quivering. "good morning, brother!"--i said in a loud voice. he immediately sprang to his feet and stared at me with widely-opened, panic-stricken eyes. "good morning, brother!"--i repeated:--"and where is the old man?" "what old man?"--said the young fellow, slowly. "lukyánitch." "ah, lukyánitch!"--he darted a glance aside.--"do you want lukyánitch?" "yes, i do. is he at home?" "n-no,"--enunciated the young fellow, brokenly,--"he, you know ... how shall i ... tell ... you ... about .... that ...." "is he ill?" "no." "what then?" "why, he is n't here at all." "why not?" "because. something .... unpleasant ... happened to him." "is he dead?"--i inquired with surprise. "he strangled himself." "strangled himself!"--i exclaimed in affright, and clasped my hands. we both gazed in each other's eyes in silence. "how long ago?"--i said at last. "why, to-day is the fifth day since. they buried him yesterday." "but why did he strangle himself?" "the lord knows. he was a freeman, on wages; he did not know want, the masters petted him as though he were a relation. for we have such good masters--may god give them health! i simply can't understand what came over him. evidently, the evil one entrapped him." "but how did he do it?" "why, so. he took and strangled himself." "and nothing of the sort had been previously noticed in him?" "how shall i tell you.... there was nothing .... particular. he was always a very melancholy man. he used to groan, and groan. 'i 'm so bored,' he would say. well, and then there was his age. of late, he really did begin to meditate something. he used to come to us in the village; for i 'm his nephew.--'well, vásya, my lad,' he would say, 'prithee, brother, come and spend the night with me!'--'what for, uncle?'--'why, because i 'm frightened, somehow; 't is tiresome alone.' well, and so i 'd go to him. he would come out into the courtyard and stare and stare so at the house, and shake and shake his head, and how he would sigh!... just before that night, that is to say, the one on which he put an end to his life, he came to us again, and invited me. well, and so i went. when we reached his wing, he sat for a while on the bench; then he rose, and went out. i wait, and 'he 's rather long in coming back'--says i, and went out into the courtyard, and shouted, 'uncle! hey, uncle!' my uncle did not call back. thinks i: 'whither can he have gone? surely, not into the house?' and i went into the house. twilight was already drawing on. and as i was passing the store-room, i heard something scratching there, behind the door; so i took and opened the door. behold, there he sat doubled up under the window. "'what art thou doing there, uncle?' says i. but he turns round, and how he shouts at me, and his eyes are so keen, so keen, they fairly blaze, like a cat's. "'what dost thou want? dost not see--i am shaving myself.' and his voice was so hoarse. my hair suddenly rose upright, and i don't know why i got frightened ... evidently, about that time the devils had already assailed him. "'what, in the dark?'--says i, and my knees fairly shook. "'come,' says he, 'it 's all right, begone!' "i went, and he came out of the store-room and locked the door. so we went back to the wing, and the terror immediately left me. "'what wast thou doing in the store-room, uncle?' says i.--he was fairly frightened. "'hold thy tongue!' says he; 'hold thy tongue!' and he crawled up on the oven-bench. "'well,' thinks i to myself,--''t will be better for me not to speak to him; he surely must be feeling ill to-day.' so i went and lay down on the oven-bench myself, too. and a night-light was burning in a corner. so, i am lying there, and just dozing, you know ... when suddenly i hear the door creaking softly ... and it opens--so, a little. and my uncle was lying with his back to the door, and, as you may remember, he was always a little hard of hearing. but this time he sprang up suddenly... "'who 's calling me, hey? who is it? hast come for me, for me?!' and out he ran into the yard without his hat.... "i thought: 'what 's the matter with him?' and, sinful man that i am, i fell asleep immediately. the next morning i woke up .... and lukyánitch was not there. "i went out of doors and began to call him--he was nowhere. i asked the watchman: "'has n't my uncle come out?' says i. "'no,' says he, 'i have n't seen him.'... "'has n't something happened to him, brother?'.... says i... "'oï!'.... we were both fairly frightened. "'come, feodósyeitch,' says i, 'come on,' says i,--'let 's see whether he is n't in the house.' "'come on,'--says he, 'vasíly timofyéitch!' but he himself was as white as clay. "we entered the house... i was about to pass the store-room, but i glanced and the padlock was hanging open on the hasp, and i pushed the door, but the door was fastened inside.... feodósyeitch immediately ran round, and peeped in at the window. "'vasíly timofyéitch!' he cries;--'his legs are hanging, his legs ...' "i ran to the window. and they were his legs, lukyánitch's legs. and he had hanged himself in the middle of the room.--well, we sent for the judge.... they took him down from the rope; the rope was tied with twelve knots." "well, what did the court say?" "what did the court say? nothing. they pondered and pondered what the cause might be. there was no cause. and so they decided that he must have been out of his mind. his head had been aching of late, he had been complaining very frequently of his head...." i chatted for about half an hour longer with the young fellow, and went away, at last, completely disconcerted. i must confess that i could not look at that rickety house without a secret, superstitious terror.... a month later i quitted my country-seat, and little by little all these horrors, these mysterious encounters, vanished from my mind. ii three years passed. the greater part of that time i spent in petersburg and abroad; and even when i did run down to my place in the country, it was only for a few days at a time, so that i never chanced to be in glínnoe or in mikhaílovskoe on a single occasion. nowhere had i seen my beauty nor the man. one day, toward the end of the third year, in moscow, i chanced to meet madame shlýkoff and her sister, pelagéya badáeff--that same pelagéya whom i, sinful man that i am, had hitherto regarded as a mythical being--at an evening gathering in the house of one of my acquaintances. neither of the ladies was any longer young, and both possessed pleasing exteriors; their conversation was characterised by wit and mirth: they had travelled a great deal, and travelled with profit; easy gaiety was observable in their manners. but they and my acquaintance had positively nothing in common. i was presented to them. madame shlýkoff and i dropped into conversation (her sister was being entertained by a passing geologist). i informed her that i had the pleasure of being her neighbour in *** county. "ah! i really do possess a small estate there,"--she remarked,--"near glínnoe." "exactly, exactly,"--i returned:--"i know your mikhaílovskoe. do you ever go thither?" "i?--rarely." "were you there three years ago?" "stay! i think i was. yes, i was, that is true." "with your sister, or alone?" she darted a glance at me. "with my sister. we spent about a week there. on business, you know. however, we saw no one." "h'm.... i think there are very few neighbours there." "yes, very few. i 'm not fond of neighbours." "tell me,"--i began;--"i believe you had a catastrophe there that same year. lukyánitch ...." madame shlýkoff's eyes immediately filled with tears. "and did you know him?"--she said with vivacity.--"such a misfortune! he was a very fine, good old man ... and just fancy, without any cause, you know ...." madame shlýkoff's sister approached us. she was, in all probability, beginning to be bored by the learned disquisitions of the geologist about the formation of the banks of the volga. "just fancy, pauline,"--began my companion;--"monsieur knew lukyánitch." "really? poor old man!" "i hunted more than once in the environs of mikhaílovskoe at that period, when you were there three years ago,"--i remarked. "i?"--returned pelagéya, in some astonishment. "well, yes, of course!"--hastily interposed her sister; "is it possible that thou dost not recall it?" and she looked her intently in the eye. "akh, yes, yes ... that is true!"--replied pelagéya, suddenly. "ehe--he!" i thought: "i don't believe you were in mikhaílovskoe, my dear." "will not you sing us something, pelagéya feódorovna?"--suddenly began a tall young man, with a crest of fair hair and turbidly-sweet little eyes. "really, i don't know,"--said miss badáeff. "and do you sing?"--i exclaimed with vivacity, springing up briskly from my seat. "for heaven's sake .... akh, for heaven's sake, do sing us something." "but what shall i sing to you?" "don't you know,"--i began, using my utmost endeavours to impart to my face an indifferent and easy expression,--"an italian song ... it begins this way: _'passa quei colli'_?" "yes," replied pelagéya with perfect innocence. "do you want me to sing that? very well." and she seated herself at the piano. i, like hamlet, riveted my eyes on madame shlýkoff. it seemed to me that at the first note she gave a slight start; but she sat quietly to the end. miss badáeff sang quite well. the song ended, the customary plaudits resounded. they began to urge her to sing something else; but the two sisters exchanged glances, and a few minutes later they took their departure. as they left the room i overheard the word "_importun_." "i deserved it!" i thought--and did not meet them again. still another year elapsed. i transferred my residence to petersburg. winter arrived; the masquerades began. one day, as i emerged at eleven o'clock at night from the house of a friend, i felt myself in such a gloomy frame of mind that i decided to betake myself to the masquerade in the assembly of the nobility.[22] for a long time i roamed about among the columns and past the mirrors with a discreetly-fatalistic expression on my countenance--with that expression which, so far as i have observed, makes its appearance in such cases on the faces of the most well-bred persons--why, the lord only knows. for a long time i roamed about, now and then parrying with a jest the advances of divers shrill dominoes with suspicious lace and soiled gloves, and still more rarely addressing them. for a long time i surrendered my ears to the blare of the trumpets and the whining of the violins; at last, being pretty well bored, i was on the point of going home .... and .... and remained. i caught sight of a woman in a black domino, leaning against a column,--and no sooner had i caught sight of her than i stopped short, stepped up to her, and ... will the reader believe me?.... immediately recognised in her my unknown. how i recognised her: whether by the glance which she abstractedly cast upon me through the oblong aperture in her mask, or by the wonderful outlines of her shoulders and arms, or by the peculiarly feminine stateliness of her whole form, or, in conclusion, by some secret voice which suddenly spoke in me,--i cannot say .... only, recognise her i did. with a quiver in my heart, i walked past her several times. she did not stir; in her attitude there was something so hopelessly sorrowful that, as i gazed at her, i involuntarily recalled two lines of a spanish romance: soy un cuadro de tristeza, arrimado a la pared.[23] i stepped behind the column against which she was leaning, and bending my head down to her very ear, enunciated softly: "_passa quei colli._"... she began to tremble all over, and turned swiftly round to me. our eyes met at very short range, and i was able to observe how fright had dilated her pupils. feebly extending one hand in perplexity, she gazed at me. "on may 6, 184*, in sorrento, at ten o'clock in the evening, in della croce street,"--i said in a deliberate voice, without taking my eyes from her; "afterward, in russia, in the *** government, in the hamlet of mikhaílovskoe, on june 22, 184*.".... i said all this in french. she recoiled a little, scanned me from head to foot with a look of amazement, and whispering, "_venez_," swiftly left the room. i followed her. we walked on in silence. it is beyond my power to express what i felt as i walked side by side with her. it was as though a very beautiful dream had suddenly become reality ... as though the statue of galatea had descended as a living woman from its pedestal in the sight of the swooning pygmalion.... i could not believe it, i could hardly breathe. we traversed several rooms.... at last, in one of them, she paused in front of a small divan near the window, and seated herself. i sat down beside her. she slowly turned her head toward me, and looked intently at me. "do you .... do you come from _him_?" she said. her voice was weak and unsteady... her question somewhat disconcerted me. "no .... not from him,"--i replied haltingly. "do you know him?" "yes,"--i replied, with mysterious solemnity. i wanted to keep up my rôle.--"yes, i know him." she looked distrustfully at me, started to say something, and dropped her eyes. "you were waiting for him in sorrento,"--i went on;--"you met him at mikhaílovskoe, you rode on horseback with him...." "how could you ...." she began. "i know ... i know all...." "your face seems familiar to me, somehow,"--she continued:--"but no ...." "no, i am a stranger to you." "then what is it that you want?" "i know that also,"--i persisted. i understood very well that i must take advantage of the excellent beginning to go further, that my repetitions of "i know all, i know," were becoming ridiculous--but my agitation was so great, that unexpected meeting had thrown me into such confusion, i had lost my self-control to such a degree that i positively was unable to say anything else. moreover, i really knew nothing more. i felt conscious that i was talking nonsense, felt conscious that, from the mysterious, omniscient being which i must at first appear to her to be, i should soon be converted into a sort of grinning fool .... but there was no help for it. "yes, i know all,"--i muttered once more. she darted a glance at me, rose quickly to her feet, and was on the point of departing. but this was too cruel. i seized her hand. "for god's sake,"--i began,--"sit down, listen to me...." she reflected, and seated herself. "i just told you,"--i went on fervently,--"that i knew everything--that is nonsense. i know nothing; i do not know either who you are, or who he is, and if i have been able to surprise you by what i said to you a while ago by the column, you must ascribe that to chance alone, to a strange, incomprehensible chance, which, as though in derision, has brought me in contact with you twice, and almost in identically the same way on both occasions, and has made me the involuntary witness of that which, perhaps, you would like to keep secret...." and thereupon, without the slightest circumlocution, i related to her everything: my meetings with her in sorrento, in russia, my futile inquiries in mikhaílovskoe, even my conversation in moscow with madame shlýkoff and her sister. "now you know everything,"--i went on, when i had finished my story.--"i will not undertake to describe to you what an overwhelming impression you made on me: to see you and not to be bewitched by you is impossible. on the other hand, there is no need for me to tell you what the nature of that impression was. remember under what conditions i beheld you both times.... believe me, i am not fond of indulging in senseless hopes, but you must understand also that inexpressible agitation which has seized upon me to-day, and you must pardon the awkward artifice to which i decided to have recourse in order to attract your attention, if only for a moment ...." she listened to my confused explanations without raising her head. "what do you want of me?"--she said at last. "i?... i want nothing ... i am happy as i am.... i have too much respect for such secrets." "really? but, up to this point, apparently .... however,"--she went on,--"i will not reproach you. any man would have done the same in your place. moreover, chance really has brought us together so persistently ... that would seem to give you a certain right to frankness on my part. listen: i am not one of those uncomprehended and unhappy women who go to masquerades for the sake of chattering to the first man they meet about their sufferings, who require hearts filled with sympathy.... i require sympathy from no one; my own heart is dead, and i have come hither in order to bury it definitively." she raised a handkerchief to her lips. "i hope"--she went on with a certain amount of effort--"that you do not take my words for the ordinary effusions of a masquerade. you must understand that i am in no mood for that...." and, in truth, there was something terrible in her voice, despite all the softness of its tones. "i am a russian,"--she said in russian;--up to that point she had expressed herself in the french language:--"although i have lived little in russia.... it is not necessary for me to know your name. anna feódorovna is an old friend of mine; i really did go to mikhaílovskoe under the name of her sister... it was impossible at that time for me to meet him openly... and even without that, rumours had begun to circulate ... at that time, obstacles still existed--he was not free... those obstacles have disappeared ... but he whose name should become mine, he with whom you saw me, has abandoned me." she made a gesture with her hand, and paused awhile.... "you really do not know him? you have not met him?" "not once." "he has spent almost all this time abroad. but he is here now.... that is my whole history,"--she added;--"you see, there is nothing mysterious about it, nothing peculiar." "and sorrento?"--i timidly interposed. "i made his acquaintance in sorrento,"--she answered slowly, becoming pensive. both of us held our peace. a strange discomposure took possession of me. i was sitting beside her, beside that woman whose image had so often flitted through my dreams, had so torturingly agitated and irritated me,--i was sitting beside her and felt a cold and a weight at my heart. i knew that nothing would come of that meeting, that between her and me there was a gulf, that when we parted we should part forever. with her head bowed forward and both hands lying in her lap, she sat there indifferent and careless. i know that carelessness of incurable grief, i know that indifference of irrecoverable happiness! the masks strolled past us in couples; the sounds of the "monotonous and senseless" waltz now reverberated dully in the distance, now were wafted by in sharp gusts; the merry ball-music agitated me heavily and mournfully. "can it be,"--i thought,--"that this woman is the same who appeared to me once on a time in the window of that little country house far away, in all the splendour of triumphant beauty?...." and yet, time seemed not to have touched her. the lower part of her face, unconcealed by the lace of her mask, was of almost childish delicacy; but a chill emanated from her, as from a statue.... galatea had returned to her pedestal, and would descend from it no more. suddenly she drew herself up, darted a glance into the next room, and rose. "give me your arm,"--she said to me. "let us go away quickly, quickly." we returned to the ball-room. she walked so fast that i could barely keep up with her. she came to a standstill beside one of the columns. "let us wait here,"--she whispered. "are you looking for any one?"--i began.... but she paid no heed to me: her eager gaze was fixed upon the crowd. languidly and menacingly did her great black eyes look forth from beneath the black velvet. i turned in the direction of her gaze and understood everything. along the corridor formed by the row of columns and the wall, he was walking, that man whom i had met with her in the forest. i recognised him instantly: he had hardly changed at all. his golden-brown moustache curled as handsomely as ever, his brown eyes beamed with the same calm and self-confident cheerfulness as of yore. he was walking without haste, and, lightly bending his slender figure, was narrating something to a woman in a domino, whose arm was linked in his. as he came on a level with us, he suddenly raised his head, looked first at me, then at the woman with whom i was standing, and probably recognised her eyes, for his eyebrows quivered slightly,--he screwed up his eyes, and a barely perceptible, but intolerably insolent smile hovered over his lips. he bent down to his companion, and whispered a couple of words in her ear; she immediately glanced round, her blue eyes hastily scanned us both, and with a soft laugh she menaced him with her little hand. he slightly shrugged one shoulder, she nestled up to him coquettishly.... i turned to my unknown. she was gazing after the receding pair, and suddenly, tearing her arm from mine, she rushed toward the door. i was about to dash after her; but turning round, she gave me such a look that i made her a profound bow, and remained where i was. i understood that to pursue her would be both rude and stupid. "tell me, please, my dear fellow,"--i said, half an hour later, to one of my friends--the living directory of petersburg:--"who is that tall, handsome gentleman with a moustache?" "that?... that is some foreigner or other, a rather enigmatic individual, who very rarely makes his appearance on our horizon. why do you ask?" "oh, because!".... i returned home. since that time i have never met my unknown anywhere. had i known the name of the man whom she loved, i might, probably, have found out, eventually, who she was, but i myself did not desire that. i have said above that that woman appeared to me like a dream-vision--and like a dream-vision she went past and vanished forever. footnotes: [20] pass through these hills and come cheerily to me: care thou not for too great a company. come thou, and think secretly of me, that i may be thy comrade all the way. [21] in central and southern russia where timber is scarce, fences, and even the walls of barns and store-houses, are made of interlaced boughs.--translator. [22] the nobles' club.--translator. [23] "i am a picture of sorrow, leaning against the wall." mumú (1852) in one of the remote streets of moscow, in a grey house with white pillars, an entresol, and a crooked balcony, dwelt in former days a well-born lady, a widow, surrounded by numerous domestics. her sons were in the service in petersburg, her daughters were married; she rarely went out into society, and was living out the last years of a miserly and tedious old age in solitude. her day, cheerless and stormy, was long since over; but her evening also was blacker than night. among the ranks of her menials, the most remarkable person was the yard-porter, gerásim, a man six feet five inches in height, built like an epic hero, and a deaf-mute from his birth. his mistress had taken him from the village, where he lived alone, in a tiny cottage, apart from his brethren, and was considered the most punctual of the taxable serfs. endowed with remarkable strength, he did the work of four persons. matters made progress in his hands, and it was a cheerful sight to watch him when he ploughed and, applying his huge hands to the primitive plough, seemed to be carving open the elastic bosom of the earth alone, without the aid of his little nag; or about st. peter's day[24] wielding the scythe so shatteringly that he might even have hewn off a young birch-wood from its roots; or threshing briskly and unremittingly with a chain seven feet in length, while the firm, oblong muscles on his shoulders rose and fell like levers. his uninterrupted muteness imparted to his indefatigable labour a grave solemnity. he was a splendid peasant, and had it not been for his infirmity, any maiden would willingly have married him.... but gerásim was brought to moscow, boots were bought for him, a broom and a shovel were put into his hand, and he was appointed to be the yard-porter. at first he felt a violent dislike for his new life. from his childhood he had been accustomed to field-labour, to country life. set apart by his infirmity from communion with his fellow-men, he had grown up dumb and mighty, as a tree grows on fruitful soil.... transported to the town, he did not understand what was happening to him;--he felt bored and puzzled, as a healthy young bull is puzzled when he has just been taken from the pasture, where the grass grew up to his belly,--when he has been taken, and placed in a railway-wagon,--and, lo, with his robust body enveloped now with smoke and sparks, again with billows of steam, he is drawn headlong onward, drawn with rumble and squeaking, and whither--god only knows! gerásim's occupations in his new employment seemed to him a mere farce after his onerous labours as a peasant; in half an hour he had finished everything, and he was again standing in the middle of the courtyard and staring, open-mouthed, at all the passers-by, as though desirous of obtaining from them the solution of his enigmatic situation; or he would suddenly go off to some corner and, flinging his broom or his shovel far from him, would throw himself on the ground face downward, and lie motionless on his breast for whole hours at a time, like a captured wild beast. but man grows accustomed to everything, and gerásim got used, at last, to town life! he had not much to do; his entire duty consisted in keeping the courtyard clean, fetching a cask of water twice a day, hauling and chopping up wood for the kitchen and house,[25] and in not admitting strangers, and keeping watch at night. and it must be said that he discharged his duty with zeal; not a chip was ever strewn about his courtyard, nor any dirt; if in muddy weather the broken-winded nag for hauling water and the barrel entrusted to his care got stranded anywhere, all he had to do was to apply his shoulder,--and not only the cart, but the horse also, would be pried from the spot. if he undertook to chop wood, his axe would ring like glass, and splinters and billets would fly in every direction; and as for strangers--after he had, one night, caught two thieves, and had banged their heads together, and mauled them so that there was no necessity for taking them to the police-station afterward, every one in the neighbourhood began to respect him greatly, and even by day, passers-by who were not in the least rascals, but simply strangers to him, at the sight of the ominous yard-porter, would brandish their arms as though in self-defence, and shout at him as though he were able to hear their cries. with all the other domestics gerásim sustained relations which were not exactly friendly,--they were afraid of him,--but gentle; he regarded them as members of the family. they expressed their meaning to him by signs, and he understood them, accurately executed all orders, but knew his own rights also, and no one dared to take his seat at table. on the whole, gerásim was of stern and serious disposition, and was fond of orderliness in all things; even the cocks did not venture to fight in his presence--but if they did, woe be to them! if he caught sight of them, he would instantly seize them by the legs, whirl them round like a wheel half a score of times in the air, and hurl them in opposite directions. there were geese also in his lady mistress's courtyard, but a goose, as every one knows, is a serious and sensible bird; gerásim felt respect for them, tended them, and fed them; he himself bore a resemblance to a stately gander. he was allotted a tiny chamber over the kitchen; he arranged it himself after his own taste, constructed a bed of oaken planks on four blocks--truly a bed fit for an epic hero; a hundred puds[26] might have been loaded upon it,--it would not have given way. under the bed was a stout chest; in one corner stood a small table of the same sturdy quality, and beside the table a three-legged chair, and so firm and squatty that gerásim himself would pick it up, drop it, and grin. this little den was fastened with a padlock which suggested a _kalátch_[27] in shape, only black; gerásim always carried the key to this lock with him, in his belt. he was not fond of having people come into his room. in this manner a year passed, at the end of which a small incident happened to gerásim. the old gentlewoman with whom he lived as yard-porter in all things followed the ancient customs, and kept a numerous train of domestics; she had in her house not only laundresses, seamstresses, carpenters, tailors, and dressmakers, but also one saddler, who set up to be a veterinary and a medical man for the servants as well (there was a house-physician for the mistress), and, in conclusion, there was a shoemaker, by the name of kapíton klímoff, a bitter drunkard. klímoff regarded himself as an injured being and not appreciated at his true value, a cultured man used to the ways of the capital, who ought not to live in moscow, without occupation, in a sort of desert spot, and if he drank,--as he himself expressed it, with pauses between his words, and thumping himself on the breast,--he drank in reality from grief. one day he was under discussion by the mistress and her head butler, gavríla, a man who would seem, from his little yellow eyes and his duck's-bill nose, to have been designated by fate itself as a commanding personage. the mistress was complaining about the depraved morals of kapíton, who had been picked up somewhere in the street only the night before. "well, gavríla,"--she suddenly remarked:--"shall not we marry him? what dost thou think about it? perhaps that will steady him." "why should n't we marry him, ma'am? it can be done, ma'am,"--replied gavríla;--"and it would even be a very good thing." "yes; only who would marry him?" "of course, ma'am. however, as you like, ma'am. he can always be put to some use, so to speak; you would n't reject him out of any ten men." "i think he likes tatyána?" gavríla was about to make some reply, but compressed his lips. "yes!.... let him woo tatyána,"--the mistress announced her decision, as she took a pinch of snuff with satisfaction:--"dost hear me?" "i obey, ma'am,"--enunciated gavríla, and withdrew. on returning to his chamber (it was situated in a wing, and was almost completely filled with wrought-iron coffers), gavríla first sent away his wife, and then seated himself by the window, and became engrossed in meditation. the mistress's sudden command had evidently dazed him. at last he rose, and ordered kapíton to be called. kapíton presented himself.... but before we repeat their conversation to the reader, we consider it not superfluous to state, in a few words, who this tatyána was, whom kapíton was to marry, and why his mistress's command had disconcerted the major-domo. tatyána, who, as we have said above, served as laundress (but, in her quality of expert and well-trained laundress, she was given only the delicate linen), was a woman of eight-and-twenty, small, thin, fair-haired, with moles on her left cheek. moles on the left cheek are regarded as a bad sign in russia--as the presage of an unhappy life.... tatyána could not boast of her luck. from early youth she had been ill-treated; she had worked for two, and had never received any caresses; she was badly clothed; she received the very smallest of wages; she had practically no relatives; an old butler in the village who had been discharged for uselessness was her uncle, and her other uncles were common peasants,--that is all. at one time she had been a beauty, but her beauty soon left her. she was of extremely meek, or, to put it more accurately, frightened disposition, felt the most complete indifference for herself, and was deadly afraid of other people. her sole thought was as to how she might finish her work by the appointed time. she never talked with any one, and she trembled at the mere mention of the mistress's name, although she hardly knew her by sight. when gerásim was brought from the country, she almost swooned with terror at the sight of his huge form, used all possible efforts to avoid meeting him, and even screwed up her eyes when she was obliged to run past him, as she scurried from the house to the laundry. at first, gerásim paid no special attention to her, then he began to laugh when she crossed his path; then he began to gaze at her with pleasure, and at last he never took his eyes from her. whether he had taken a liking to her because of her gentle expression of countenance, or of the timidity of her movements--god knows! and behold, one day, as she was making her way across the courtyard, cautiously elevating on her outspread fingers a starched wrapper belonging to her mistress ... some one suddenly grasped her by the elbow; she turned round and fairly screamed aloud: behind her stood gerásim. laughing stupidly, and bellowing affectionately, he was offering her a gingerbread cock with gold tinsel on its tail and wings. she tried to refuse it, but he thrust it forcibly straight into her hand, nodded his head, walked away, and, turning round, bellowed once more something of a very friendly nature to her. from that day forth he gave her no peace; wherever she went, he immediately came to meet her, smiled, bellowed, waved his hands, suddenly drew a ribbon from his breast and thrust it into her hand, and cleaned the dust away in front of her with his broom. the poor girl simply did not know how to take it or what to do. the whole household speedily found out about the pranks of the dumb yard-porter; jeers, jests, stinging remarks showered down on tatyána. but none of them could bring himself to ridicule gerásim; the latter was not fond of jests; and they let her alone in his presence. willy-nilly the girl became his protégée. like all deaf and dumb people, he was very perspicacious, and understood perfectly well when they were laughing at him or at her. one day, at dinner, the keeper of the linen, tatyána's chief, undertook, as the saying is, to banter her, and carried it to such a pitch that the latter, poor creature, did not know where to look, and almost wept with vexation. gerásim suddenly rose half-way, stretched out his enormous hand, laid it on the head of the keeper of the linen, and glared into her face with such ferocity that the latter fairly bent over the table. all fell silent. gerásim picked up his spoon again, and went on eating his cabbage-soup. "just see that dumb devil, that forest fiend!" all muttered under their breaths, and the keeper of the linen rose and went off to the maids' room. on another occasion, observing that kapíton--that same kapíton of whom we have just been speaking--was chatting in rather too friendly a manner with tatyána, gerásim beckoned the man to him, led him away to the carriage-house, and seizing by its end a shaft which was standing in the corner, he menaced him slightly but significantly with it. from that time forth no one dared to address a word to tatyána. and all this ran smoothly in his hands. no sooner had the linen-keeper, it is true, run into the maids' hall than she fell down in a swoon, and altogether behaved in such an artful manner, that on that very same day she brought to the knowledge of the mistress gerásim's rude behaviour; but the capricious old lady merely laughed several times, to the extreme offence of her linen-keeper, made her repeat, "what didst thou say? did he bend thee down with his heavy hand?" and on the following day sent a silver ruble to gerásim. she favoured him as a faithful and powerful watchman. gerásim held her in decided awe, but, nevertheless, he trusted in her graciousness, and was making ready to betake himself to her with the request that she would permit him to marry tatyána. he was only waiting for the new kaftan promised him by the major-domo, in order that he might present himself before his mistress in decent shape, when suddenly this same mistress took into her head the idea of marrying tatyána to kapíton. the reader will now be able readily to understand the cause of the perturbation which seized upon gavríla, the major-domo, after his conversation with his mistress. "the mistress,"--he thought, as he sat by the window,--"of course, favours gerásim" (this was well known to gavríla, and therefore he also showed indulgence to him); "still, he is a dumb brute. i can't inform the mistress that gerásim is courting tatyána. and, after all, 't is just; what sort of a husband is he? and, on the other hand, lord forgive! for just as soon as that forest fiend finds out that tatyána is to be married to kapíton, he 'll smash everything in the house, by heaven he will! for you can't reason with him--you can't prevail upon him, the devil that he is, in any way whatsoever--sinful man that i am to have said so wicked a thing .... that 's so!".... the appearance of kapíton broke the thread of gavríla's meditations. the giddy-pated shoemaker entered, threw his hands behind him, and, leaning up against a projecting corner of the wall near the door, in a free-and-easy way he stuck his right leg crosswise in front of the left and shook his head, as much as to say: "here i am. what 's your will?" gavríla looked at kapíton and began to drum on the jamb of the window with his fingers. kapíton merely narrowed his leaden eyes a bit, but did not lower them, even smiled slightly and passed his hand over his whitish hair, which stood out in disarray in all directions, as much as to say: "well, yes, 't is i. what are you staring for?" "good,"--said gavríla, and paused for a space. "thou 'rt a nice one,"--remarked gavríla, and paused awhile.--"a nice person, there 's no denying that!" kapíton merely shrugged his shoulders. "and art thou any better, pray?" he said to himself. "come, now, just look at thyself; come, look,"--went on gavríla reprovingly;--"well, art not thou ashamed of thyself?" kapíton surveyed with a calm glance his threadbare and tattered coat and his patched trousers, scanned with particular attention his shoes perforated with holes, especially the one on whose toe his right foot rested in so dandified a manner, and again fixed his eyes on the major-domo. "what of it, sir?" "what of it, sir?"--repeated gavríla.--"what of it, sir? and thou sayest: 'what of it, sir?' to boot! thou lookest like the devil,--lord forgive me, sinful man that i am,--that 's what thou lookest like." kapíton winked his little eyes briskly. "curse away, curse away, gavríla andréitch," he thought to himself. "thou hast been drunk again, apparently,"--began gavríla;--"drunk again, surely? hey? come, answer." "owing to the feebleness of my health, i have succumbed to spirituous beverages, in fact,"--returned kapíton. "owing to feebleness of health?.... thou art not whipped enough, that 's what; and thou hast served thine apprenticeship in peter[28] to boot.... much thou didst learn in thine apprenticeship! thou dost nothing but eat the bread of idleness." "in that case, gavríla andréitch, i have but one judge,--the lord god himself, and no one else. he alone knows what sort of a man i am in this world, and whether i really do eat the bread of idleness. and as for thy reflections concerning drunkenness,--in that case also i am not to blame, but rather one of my comrades; for he led me astray, and after he had accomplished his crafty purpose, he went away; that is to say, i ...." "and thou didst remain behind, thou goose, in the street. akh, thou dissolute man! well, but that 's not the point,"--went on the major-domo,--"but this. the mistress ...." here he paused for a moment,--"it is the mistress's pleasure that thou shouldst marry. hearest thou? she thinks that thou wilt grow steady when thou art married. dost understand?" "how can i help understanding, sir?" "well, yes. in my opinion, 't would be better to take thee firmly in hand. well, but that 's her affair. how now? dost thou consent?" kapíton displayed his teeth in a grin. "marriage is a good thing for a man, gavríla andréitch; and i, on my part, agree with very great pleasure." "well, yes,"--returned gavríla, and thought to himself:--"there 's no denying it, the man talks with exactness."--"only, see here,"--he went on, aloud:--"an inconvenient bride has been picked out for thee." "who is she, permit me to inquire?"... "tatyána." "tatyána?" and kapíton's eyes fairly popped out of his head, and he started away from the wall. "well, what art thou scared at?... is n't she to thy taste?" "to my taste, forsooth, gavríla andréitch! the girl herself is all right; she 's a good worker, a meek lass.... but you know yourself, gavríla andréitch, that that forest fiend, that spectre of the steppes, is courting her, you know ...." "i know, brother, i know all,"--the major-domo interrupted him, with vexation:--"but, seest thou ...." "but, good gracious, gavríla andréitch! why, he 'll murder me; by heaven, he 'll murder me, he 'll mash me like a fly! why, he has a hand--just look for yourself what a hand he has; why, he simply has the hand of mínin and pozhársky.[29] for he 's deaf, he 'll kill me, and not hear that he is killing! he flourishes his huge fists exactly as though he were asleep. and there 's no possibility of stopping him. why? because, you know yourself, gavríla andréitch, he 's deaf, and stupid as an owl into the bargain. why, he 's a sort of wild beast, a heathen idol, gavríla andréitch,--worse than an idol ... he 's a sort of aspen-block; why should i now suffer from him? of course nothing matters to me now; i have endured, i have practised patience, i have smeared myself with oil like a glazed kolómna jug,--all the same, i 'm a man, and not some sort of insignificant jug, as a matter of fact." "i know, i know; don't give a description...." "o lord, my god!"--went on the shoemaker, hotly:--"when will the end come? when, o lord! i 'm a miserable wretch, a hopeless wretch. 't is fate, my fate, when you come to think of it! in my younger years i was thrashed by a german master; in the best period of my life i was beaten by my own brother; and at last, in my riper years, to what have i come?..." "ekh, limp linden-bast soul!"--said gavríla.--"why dost thou dilate on the matter, really, now?" "what do you mean by 'why,' gavríla andréitch? i 'm not afraid of blows, gavríla andréitch. let the master thrash me within doors, but give me a greeting before folks, and still i 'm numbered among men; but in this case, from whom must i ...." "come, now, begone!"--gavríla interrupted him, impatiently. kapíton turned and took himself off. "and supposing there were no question of him,"--shouted the major-domo after him;--"dost thou consent?" "i announce my assent,"--replied kapíton, and lurched out of the room. his eloquence did not abandon him even in extremities. the major-domo paced the length of the room several times. "well, now summon tatyána,"--he said at last. in a few moments tatyána entered almost inaudibly, and halted on the threshold. "what is your command, gavríla andréitch?"--she said in a quiet voice. the major-domo gazed fixedly at her. "come,"--said he,--"tániusha, wouldst thou like to marry? the mistress has hunted up a bridegroom for thee." "i obey, gavríla andréitch. but who has been appointed as my bridegroom?"--she added with hesitation. "kapíton, the shoemaker." "i obey, sir." "he is a reckless man--that 's a fact. but the mistress pins her hopes on thee in that respect." "i obey, sir." "it 's a pity about one thing:.... there 's that deaf man, garáska, who 's paying court to thee. and how hast thou bewitched that bear? i do believe he 'll kill thee, the bear that he is...." "he will, gavríla andréitch, he 'll infallibly kill me." "he will.... well, we 'll see about that. what makes thee say, 'he 'll kill me'? has he the right to kill thee, pray? judge for thyself." "why, i don't know, gavríla andréitch, whether he has a right or not." "what a girl! i suppose thou hast not made him any promise...." "what do you mean, sir?" the major-domo paused for a while, and thought: "thou art a meek soul!"--"well, very good,"--he added; "we will have another talk about it, and now, go thy way, tatyána; i see that thou really art an obedient girl." tatyána turned, leaned lightly against the door-jamb, and left the room. "but perhaps the mistress will have forgotten about this wedding by to-morrow,"--meditated the major-domo. "why have i been alarmed? we 'll pinion that insolent fellow if he makes any trouble--we 'll send word to the police.... ustínya feódorovna!"--he shouted in a loud voice to his wife, "prepare the samovár, my good woman...." all that day, tatyána hardly quitted the laundry. at first she wept, then she wiped away her tears, and set to work as of yore. kapíton sat until the dead of night in a drinking establishment with a friend of gloomy aspect, and narrated to him in detail how he had lived in peter with a certain gentleman who had everything that heart could desire, and was a great stickler for order, and withal permitted himself one little delinquency: he was wont to get awfully fuddled, and as for the feminine sex, he simply had all the qualities to attract... his gloomy comrade merely expressed assent; but when kapíton announced, at last, that, owing to certain circumstances, he must lay violent hands upon himself on the morrow, the gloomy comrade remarked that it was time to go to bed. and they parted churlishly, and in silence. in the meantime, the major-domo's expectations were not realised. the idea of kapíton's wedding had so captivated the mistress, that even during the night she had talked of nothing else with one of her companions, whom she kept in the house solely in case of sleeplessness, and who, like night cabmen, slept by day. when gavríla entered her room after tea with his report, her first question was: "and how about our wedding?" he replied, of course, that it was progressing famously, and that kapíton would present himself to her that same day to thank her. the mistress was slightly indisposed; she did not occupy herself long with business. the major-domo returned to his own room and called a council. the matter really did require particular consideration. tatyána did not make any objection, of course; but kapíton declared, in the hearing of all, that he had but one head, and not two or three heads.... gerásim gazed surlily and swiftly at everybody, never left the maids' porch, and, apparently, divined that something unpleasant for him was brewing. the assembled company (among them was present the old butler, nicknamed uncle tail, to whom all respectfully turned for advice, although all they heard from him was "yes! yes! yes! yes!") began, by way of precaution, for safety, by locking kapíton up in the lumber-room with the filtering-machine and set to thinking hard. of course, it was easy to resort to force; but god forbid! there would be a row, the mistress would get uneasy--and a calamity would ensue! what was to be done? they thought and thought, and eventually they hit upon something. it had been repeatedly noticed that gerásim could not abide intoxicated persons.... as he sat at the gate, he turned away angrily whenever any man with a load of drink aboard passed him with unsteady steps, and the visor of his cap over his ear. they decided to instruct tatyána to pretend to be intoxicated, and to walk past gerásim reeling and staggering. the poor girl would not consent for a long time, but they prevailed upon her; moreover, she herself saw that otherwise she would not be able to get rid of her adorer. she did it. kapíton was released from the lumber-room; the affair concerned him, anyhow. gerásim was sitting on the guard-stone at the gate and jabbing the ground with his shovel.... there were people staring at him from round all the corners, from behind the window-shades.... the ruse was completely successful. when first he caught sight of tatyána, he nodded his head with an affectionate bellow; then he took a closer look, dropped his shovel, sprang to his feet, stepped up to her, put his face close down to her face... she reeled worse than ever with terror, and closed her eyes.... he seized her by the arm, dashed the whole length of the courtyard, and entering the room where the council was in session with her, he thrust her straight at kapíton. tatyána was fairly swooning.... gerásim stood there, glared at her, waved his hand, laughed, and departed, clumping heavily to his little den.... for four-and-twenty hours he did not emerge thence. antípka, the postilion, related afterward how, peeping through a crack, he had beheld gerásim seated on his bed, with his head resting on his hand, quietly, peaceably, and only bellowing from time to time; then he would rock himself to and fro, cover his eyes, and shake his head, as postilions or stevedores do when they strike up their melancholy chanteys. antípka was frightened, and he retreated from the crack. but when, on the following day, gerásim emerged from his den, no particular change was noticeable in him. he merely seemed to have become more surly, and paid not the slightest attention to tatyána and kapíton. on that same evening, both of them, with geese under their arms, wended their way to the mistress, and a week later they were married. on the wedding-day itself, gerásim did not alter his demeanour in the slightest degree; only, he returned from the river without water: somehow, he had smashed the cask on the road; and at night, in the stable, he so zealously curried his horse that the animal reeled like a blade of grass in a gale, and shifted from foot to foot under his iron fists. all this took place in the spring. another year passed, in the course of which kapíton finally became a thorough-going drunkard, and as a man utterly unfit for anything, was despatched with the train of freight-sledges to a distant village, together with his wife. on the day of departure he made a great show of courage at first, and declared that, no matter where they might send him, even to the place where the peasant-wives wash shirts and put their clothes-beaters in the sky, he would not come to grief; but afterward he became low-spirited, began to complain that he was being taken to uncivilised people, and finally weakened to such a degree that he was unable even to put his own cap on his head. some compassionate soul pulled it down on his brow, adjusted the visor, and banged it down on top. and when all was ready, and the peasants were already holding the reins in their hands, and only waiting for the word: "with god's blessing!" gerásim emerged from his tiny chamber, approached tatyána, and presented her with a souvenir consisting of a red cotton kerchief, which he had bought expressly for her a year before. tatyána, who up to that moment had borne all the vicissitudes of her life with great equanimity, could hold out no longer, and then and there burst into tears, and, as she took her seat in the cart, exchanged three kisses with gerásim, in christian fashion.[30] he wanted to escort her to the town barrier, and at first walked alongside her cart, but suddenly halted at the crimean ford, waved his hand and directed his steps along the river. this happened toward evening. he walked quietly, and stared at the water. suddenly it seemed to him as though something were floundering in the ooze close to the bank. he bent down, and beheld a small puppy, white with black spots, which, despite all its endeavours, utterly unable to crawl out of the water, was struggling, slipping, and quivering all over its wet, gaunt little body. gerásim gazed at the unfortunate puppy, picked it up with one hand, thrust it into his breast, and set out with great strides homeward. he entered his little den, laid the rescued puppy on his bed, covered it with his heavy coat, ran first to the stable for straw, then to the kitchen for a cup of milk. cautiously throwing back the coat and spreading out the straw, he placed the milk on the bed. the poor little dog was only three weeks old; it had only recently got its eyes open, and one eye even appeared to be a little larger than the other; it did not yet know how to drink out of a cup, and merely trembled and blinked. gerásim grasped it lightly with two fingers by the head, and bent its muzzle down to the milk. the dog suddenly began to drink greedily, snorting, shaking itself and lapping. gerásim gazed and gazed, and then suddenly began to laugh.... all night he fussed over it, put it to bed, wiped it off, and at last fell asleep himself beside it in a joyous, tranquil slumber. no mother tends her infant as gerásim tended his nursling. (the dog proved to be a bitch.) in the beginning she was very weak, puny, and ill-favoured, but little by little she improved in health and looks, and at the end of eight months, thanks to the indefatigable care of her rescuer, she had turned into a very fair sort of a dog of spanish breed, with long ears, a feathery tail in the form of a trumpet, and large, expressive eyes. she attached herself passionately to gerásim, never left him by a pace, and was always following him, wagging her tail. and he had given her a name, too,--the dumb know that their bellowing attracts other people's attention to them:--he called her mumú. all the people in the house took a liking to her, and also called her dear little mumú. she was extremely intelligent, fawned upon every one, but loved gerásim alone. gerásim himself loved her madly .... and it was disagreeable to him when others stroked her: whether he was afraid for her, or jealous of her--god knows! she waked him up in the morning by tugging at his coat-tails; she led to him by the reins the old water-horse, with whom she dwelt in great amity; with importance depicted on her face, she went with him to the river; she stood guard over the brooms and shovels, and allowed no one to enter his room. he cut out an aperture in his door expressly for her, and she seemed to feel that only in gerásim's little den was she the full mistress, and therefore, on entering it, with a look of satisfaction, she immediately leaped upon the bed. at night she did not sleep at all, but she did not bark without discernment, like a stupid watch-dog, which, sitting on its haunches and elevating its muzzle, and shutting its eyes, barks simply out of tedium, at the stars, and usually three times in succession; no! mumú's shrill voice never resounded without cause! either a stranger was approaching too close to the fence, or some suspicious noise or rustling had arisen somewhere..... in a word, she kept capital watch. truth to tell, there was, in addition to her, an old dog in the courtyard, yellow in hue speckled with dark brown, peg-top by name (_voltchók_); but that dog was never unchained, even by night, and he himself, owing to his decrepitude, did not demand freedom, but lay there, curled up in his kennel, and only now and then emitted a hoarse, almost soundless bark, which he immediately broke off short, as though himself conscious of its utter futility. mumú did not enter the manor-house, and when gerásim carried wood to the rooms she always remained behind and impatiently awaited him, with ears pricked up, and her head turning now to the right, then suddenly to the left, at the slightest noise indoors.... in this manner still another year passed. gerásim continued to discharge his avocations as yard-porter and was very well satisfied with his lot, when suddenly an unexpected incident occurred.... namely, one fine summer day the mistress, with her hangers-on, was walking about the drawing-room. she was in good spirits, and was laughing and jesting; the hangers-on were laughing and jesting also, but felt no particular mirth; the people of the household were not very fond of seeing the mistress in merry mood, because, in the first place, at such times she demanded instantaneous and complete sympathy from every one, and flew into a rage if there was a face which did not beam with satisfaction; and, in the second place, these fits did not last very long, and were generally succeeded by a gloomy and cross-grained frame of mind. on that day, she seemed to have got up happily; at cards, she held four knaves: the fulfilment of desire (she always told fortunes with the cards in the morning),--and her tea struck her as particularly delicious, in consequence whereof the maid received praise in words and ten kopéks in money. with a sweet smile on her wrinkled lips, the lady of the house strolled about her drawing-room and approached the window. a flower-garden was laid out in front of the window, and in the very middle of the border, under a rose-bush, lay mumú assiduously gnawing a bone. the mistress caught sight of her. "my god!"--she suddenly exclaimed;--"what dog is that?" the hanger-on whom the mistress addressed floundered, poor creature, with that painful uneasiness which generally takes possession of a dependent person when he does not quite know how he is to understand his superior's exclamation. "i ... d .. do .... on't know, ma'am," she stammered; "i think it belongs to the dumb man." "my god!"--her mistress interrupted her:--"why, it is a very pretty dog! order it to be brought hither. has he had it long? how is it that i have not seen it before?... order it to be brought hither." the hanger-on immediately fluttered out into the anteroom. "man, man!"--she screamed,--"bring mumú here at once! she is in the flower-garden." "and so her name is mumú,"--said the mistress;--"a very nice name." "akh, very nice indeed, ma'am!"--replied the dependent.--"be quick, stepán!" stepán, a sturdy young fellow, who served as footman, rushed headlong to the garden and tried to seize mumú; but the latter cleverly slipped out of his fingers, and elevating her tail, set off at full gallop to gerásim, who was in the kitchen beating out and shaking out the water-cask, twirling it about in his hands like a child's drum. stepán ran after her, and tried to seize her at the very feet of her master; but the agile dog would not surrender herself into the hands of a stranger, and kept leaping and evading him. gerásim looked on at all this tumult with a grin; at last stepán rose in wrath, and hastily gave him to understand by signs that the mistress had ordered the dog to be brought to her. gerásim was somewhat surprised, but he called mumú, lifted her from the ground, and handed her to stepán. stepán carried her into the drawing-room, and placed her on the polished wood floor. the mistress began to call the dog to her in a caressing voice. mumú, who had never in her life been in such magnificent rooms, was extremely frightened, and tried to dart through the door, but, rebuffed by the obsequious stepán, fell to trembling, and crouched against the wall. "mumú, mumú, come hither to me,"--said the mistress;--"come, thou stupid creature .... don't be afraid...." "come, mumú, come to the mistress,"--repeated the dependents;--"come!" but mumú looked anxiously about and did not stir from the spot. "bring her something to eat,"--said the mistress.--"what a stupid thing she is! she won't come to the mistress. what is she afraid of?" "she feels strange still,"--remarked one of the dependents, in a timid and imploring voice. stepán brought a saucer of milk and set it in front of mumú, but mumú did not even smell of the milk, and kept on trembling and gazing about her, as before. "akh, who ever saw such a creature!"--said the mistress, as she approached her, bent down and was on the point of stroking her; but mumú turned her head and displayed her teeth in a snarl.--the mistress hastily drew back her hand. a momentary silence ensued. mumú whined faintly, as though complaining and excusing herself... the mistress retreated and frowned. the dog's sudden movement had frightened her. "akh!"--cried all the dependents with one accord:--"she didn't bite you, did she? god forbid!" (mumú had never bitten any one in her life.) "akh! akh!" "take her away,"--said the old woman, in an altered voice,--"the horrid little dog! what a vicious beast she is!" and slowly turning, she went toward her boudoir. the dependents exchanged timorous glances and started to follow her, but she paused, looked coldly at them, said: "why do you do that? for i have not bidden you," and left the room. the dependents waved their hands in despair at stepán; the latter picked up mumú and flung her out into the yard as speedily as possible, straight at gerásim's feet; and half an hour later a profound stillness reigned in the house, and the old gentlewoman sat on her divan more lowering than a thunder-cloud. what trifles, when one comes to think of it, can sometimes put a person out of tune! the lady was out of sorts until evening, talked with no one, did not play cards, and passed a bad night. she took it into her head that they had not given her the same _eau de cologne_ which they usually gave her, that her pillow smelled of soap, and made the keeper of the linen-closet smell all the bed-linen twice,--in a word, she was upset and extremely incensed. on the following morning she ordered gavríla to be summoned to her presence an hour earlier than usual. "tell me, please,"--she began, as soon as the latter, not without some inward quaking, had crossed the threshold of her boudoir,--"why that dog was barking in our courtyard all night long? it prevented my getting to sleep!" "a dog, ma'am .... which one, ma'am?... perhaps it was the dumb man's dog,"--he uttered in a voice that was not altogether firm. "i don't know whether it belongs to the dumb man or to some one else, only it interfered with my sleep. and i am amazed that there is such a horde of dogs! i want to know about it. we have a watch-dog, have we not?" "yes, ma'am, we have, ma'am, peg-top, ma'am." "well, what need have we for any more dogs? they only create disorder. there 's no head to the house,--that 's what 's the matter. and what does the dumb man want of a dog? who has given him permission to keep a dog in my courtyard? yesterday i went to the window, and it was lying in the garden; it had brought some nasty thing there, and was gnawing it,--and i have roses planted there...." the lady paused for a while. "see that it is removed this very day .... dost hear me?" "i obey, ma'am." "this very day. and now, go. i will have thee called for thy report later." gavríla left the room. as he passed through the drawing-room, the major-domo transferred a small bell from one table to another, for show, softly blew his duck's-bill nose in the hall, and went out into the anteroom. in the anteroom, on a locker, stepán was sleeping in the attitude of a slain warrior in a battalion picture, with his bare legs projecting from his coat, which served him in lieu of a coverlet. the major-domo nudged him, and imparted to him in an undertone some order, to which stepán replied with a half-yawn, half-laugh. the major-domo withdrew, and stepán sprang to his feet, drew on his kaftan and his boots, went out and came to a standstill on the porch. five minutes had not elapsed before gerásim made his appearance with a huge fagot of firewood on his back, accompanied by his inseparable mumú. (the mistress had issued orders that her bedroom and boudoir were to be heated even in summer.) gerásim stood sideways to the door, gave it a push with his shoulder, and precipitated himself into the house with his burden. mumú, according to her wont, remained behind to wait for him. then stepán, seizing a favourable moment, made a sudden dash at her, like a hawk pouncing on a chicken, crushed her to the ground with his breast, gathered her up in his arms, and without stopping to don so much as his cap, ran out into the street with her, jumped into the first drozhky that came to hand, and galloped off to the game market. there he speedily hunted up a purchaser, to whom he sold her for half a ruble, stipulating only that the latter should keep her tied up for at least a week, and immediately returned home; but before he reached the house, he alighted from the drozhky, and making a circuit of the house, he leaped over the fence into the yard from a back alley; he was afraid to enter by the wicket, lest he should encounter gerásim. but his anxiety was wasted; gerásim was no longer in the courtyard. on coming out of the house he had instantly bethought himself of mumú; he could not remember that she had ever failed to await his return, and he began to run in every direction to hunt for her, to call her after his own fashion ... he dashed into his little chamber, to the hay-loft; he darted into the street,--hither and thither.... she was gone! he appealed to the domestics, with the most despairing signs inquired about her; pointing fourteen inches from the ground, he drew her form with his hands.... some of them really did not know what had become of mumú, and only shook their heads; others did know and grinned at him in reply, but the major-domo assumed a very pompous mien and began to shout at the coachmen. then gerásim fled far away from the courtyard. twilight was already falling when he returned. one was justified in assuming, from his exhausted aspect, from his unsteady gait, from his dusty clothing, that he had wandered over the half of moscow. he halted in front of the mistress's windows, swept a glance over the porch on which seven house-serfs were gathered, turned away, and bellowed once more: "mumú!"--mumú did not respond. he went away. all stared after him, but no one smiled, no one uttered a word ... and the curious postilion, antípka, narrated on the following morning in the kitchen, that the dumb man had moaned all night long. all the following day gerásim did not show himself, so that potáp the coachman was obliged to go for water in his stead, which greatly displeased coachman potáp. the mistress asked gavríla whether her command had been executed. gavríla replied that it had. the next morning gerásim emerged from his chamber to do his work. he came to dinner, ate and went off again, without having exchanged greetings with any one. his face, which was inanimate at the best of times, as is the case with all deaf and dumb persons, now seemed to have become absolutely petrified. after dinner he again quitted the courtyard, but not for long, returned and immediately directed his steps to the hay-barn. night came, a clear, moonlight night. sighing heavily and incessantly tossing from side to side, gerásim was lying there, when he suddenly felt as though something were tugging at the skirts of his garments; he trembled all over, but did not raise his head, nevertheless, and even screwed his eyes up tight; but the tugging was repeated, more energetically than before; he sprang to his feet .... before him, with a fragment of rope about her neck, mumú was capering about. a prolonged shriek of joy burst from his speechless breast; he seized mumú and clasped her in a close embrace; in one moment she had licked his nose, his eyes, and his beard... he stood still for a while, pondering, cautiously slipped down from the hay-mow, cast a glance round him, and having made sure that no one was watching him, he safely regained his little chamber. even before this gerásim had divined that the dog had not disappeared of her own volition; that she must have been carried away by the mistress's command; for the domestics had explained to him by signs how his mumú had snapped at her--and he decided to take precautions of his own. first he fed mumú with some bread, caressed her, and put her to bed; then he began to consider how he might best conceal her. at last he hit upon the idea of leaving her all day in his room, and only looking in now and then to see how she was getting along, and taking her out for exercise at night. he closed the opening in his door compactly by stuffing in an old coat of his, and as soon as it was daylight he was in the courtyard, as though nothing had happened, even preserving (innocent guile!) his former dejection of countenance. it could not enter the head of the poor deaf man that mumú would betray herself by her whining; as a matter of fact, every one in the house was speedily aware that the dumb man's dog had come back and was locked up in his room; but out of compassion for him and for her, and partly, perhaps, out of fear of him, they did not give him to understand that his secret had been discovered. the major-domo alone scratched the back of his head and waved his hand in despair, as much as to say: "well, i wash my hands of the matter! perhaps the mistress will not get to know of it!" and never had the dumb man worked so zealously as on that day; he swept and scraped out the entire courtyard, he rooted up all the blades of grass to the very last one, with his own hand pulled up all the props in the garden-fence, with a view to making sure that they were sufficiently firm, and then hammered them in again,--in a word, he fussed and bustled about so, that even the mistress noticed his zeal. twice in the course of the day gerásim went stealthily to his captive; and when night came, he lay down to sleep in her company, in the little room, not in the hay-barn, and only at one o'clock did he go out to take a stroll with her in the fresh air. having walked quite a long time with her in the courtyard, he was preparing to return, when suddenly a noise resounded outside the fence in the direction of the alley. mumú pricked up her ears, began to growl, approached the fence, sniffed, and broke forth into a loud and piercing bark. some drunken man or other had taken it into his head to nestle down there for the night. at that very moment, the mistress had just got to sleep after a prolonged "nervous excitement"; she always had these excited fits after too hearty a supper. the sudden barking woke her; her heart began to beat violently, and to collapse. "maids, maids!"--she moaned.--"maids!" the frightened maids flew to her bedroom. "okh, okh, i'm dying!"--said she, throwing her hands apart in anguish.--"there 's that dog again, again!... okh, send for the doctor! they want to kill me... the dog, the dog again! okh!" and she flung back her head, which was intended to denote a swoon. they ran for the doctor, that is to say, for the household medical man, kharitón. the whole art of this healer consisted in the fact that he wore boots with soft soles, understood how to feel the pulse delicately, slept fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, spent the rest of the time in sighing, and was incessantly treating the mistress to laurel drops. this healer immediately hastened to her, fumigated with burnt feathers, and when the mistress opened her eyes, immediately presented to her on a silver tray a wine-glass with the inevitable drops. the mistress took them, but immediately, with tearful eyes, began to complain of the dog, of gavríla, of her lot, that she, a poor old woman, had been abandoned by every one, that no one had any pity on her, and that every one desired her death. in the meantime the unlucky mumú continued to bark, while gerásim strove in vain to call her away from the fence. "there ... there .... it goes again!..." stammered the mistress, and again rolled up her eyes. the medical man whispered to one of the maids; she rushed into the anteroom, and explained matters to stepán; the latter ran to awaken gavríla, and gavríla, in a passion, gave orders that the whole household should be roused. gerásim turned round, beheld the twinkling lights and shadows in the windows, and, foreboding in his heart a catastrophe, he caught up mumú under his arm, ran into his room and locked the door. a few moments later, five men were thumping at his door, but feeling the resistance of the bolt, desisted. gavríla ran up in a frightful hurry, ordered them all to remain there until morning and stand guard, while he himself burst into the maids' hall and gave orders through the eldest companion, liubóff[31] liubímovna,--together with whom he was in the habit of stealing and enjoying tea, sugar, and other groceries,--that the mistress was to be informed that the dog, unfortunately, had run home again from somewhere or other, but that it would not be alive on the morrow, and that the mistress must do them the favour not to be angry, and must calm down. the mistress probably would not have calmed down very speedily, had not the medical man, in his haste, poured out forty drops instead of twelve. the strength of the laurel took its effect--in a quarter of an hour the mistress was sleeping soundly and peacefully, and gerásim was lying, all pale, on his bed, tightly compressing mumú's mouth. on the following morning the mistress awoke quite late. gavríla was waiting for her awakening in order to make a decisive attack upon gerásim's asylum, and was himself prepared to endure a heavy thunder-storm. but the thunder-storm did not come off. as she lay in bed, the mistress ordered the eldest dependent to be called to her. "liubóff liubímovna,"--she began in a soft, weak voice; she sometimes liked to pretend to be a persecuted and defenceless sufferer; it is needless to state that at such times all the people in the house felt very uncomfortable:--"liubóff liubímovna, you see what my condition is; go, my dear, to gavríla andréitch, and have a talk with him; it cannot be possible that some nasty little dog or other is more precious to him than the tranquillity, the very life of his mistress! i should not like to believe that,"--she added, with an expression of profound emotion:--"go, my dear, be so good, go to gavríla andréitch." liubóff liubímovna betook herself to gavríla's room. what conversation took place between them is not known; but a while later a whole throng of domestics marched through the courtyard in the direction of gerásim's little den; in front walked gavríla, holding on his cap with his hand, although there was no wind; around him walked footmen and cooks; uncle tail gazed out of the window, and issued orders--that is to say, he merely spread his hands apart; in the rear of all, the small urchins leaped and capered, one half of them being strangers who had run in. on the narrow stairway leading to the den sat one sentry; at the door stood two others with clubs. they began to ascend the staircase, and occupied it to its full length. gavríla went to the door, knocked on it with his fist, and shouted: "open!" a suppressed bark made itself audible; but there was no reply. "open, i say!"--he repeated. "but, gavríla andréitch,"--remarked stepán from below:--"he 's deaf, you know--he does n't hear." all burst out laughing. "what is to be done?"--retorted gavríla from the top of the stairs. "why, he has a hole in his door,"--replied stepán;--"so do you wiggle a stick around in it a bit." gavríla bent down. "he has stuffed it up with some sort of coat, that hole." "but do you poke the coat inward." at this point another dull bark rang out. "see there, see there, she 's giving herself away!"--some one remarked in the crowd, and again there was laughter. gavríla scratched behind his ear. "no, brother,"--he went on at last;--"do thou poke the coat through thyself, if thou wishest." "why, certainly!" and stepán scrambled up, took a stick, thrust the coat inside, and began to wiggle the stick about in the opening, saying: "come forth, come forth!" he was still wiggling the stick when the door of the little chamber flew suddenly and swiftly open--and the whole train of menials rolled head over heels down the stairs, gavríla in the lead. uncle tail shut the window. "come, come, come, come!"--shouted gavríla from the courtyard;--"just look out, look out!" gerásim stood motionless on the threshold. the crowd assembled at the foot of the staircase. gerásim stared at all these petty folk in their foreign kaftans from above, with his arms lightly set akimbo; in his scarlet peasant shirt he seemed like a giant in comparison with them. gavríla advanced a pace. "see here, brother,"--said he:--"i 'll take none of thy impudence." and he began to explain to him by signs: "the mistress insists upon having thy dog: hand it over instantly, or 't will be the worse for thee." gerásim looked at him, pointed to the dog, made a sign with his hand at his own neck, as though he were drawing up a noose, and cast an inquiring glance at the major-domo. "yes, yes,"--replied the latter, nodding his head;--"yes, she insists." gerásim dropped his eyes, then suddenly shook himself, again pointed at mumú, who all this time had been standing by his side, innocently wagging her tail and moving her ears to and fro with curiosity, repeated the sign of strangling over his own neck, and significantly smote himself on the breast, as though declaring that he would take it upon himself to annihilate mumú. "but thou wilt deceive,"--waved gavríla to him in reply. gerásim looked at him, laughed disdainfully, smote himself again on the breast, and slammed the door. all present exchanged glances in silence. "well, and what 's the meaning of this?"--began gavríla.--"he has locked himself in." "let him alone, gavríla andréitch,"--said stepán;--"he 'll do it, if he has promised. that 's the sort of fellow he is.... if he once promises a thing, it 's safe. he is n't like us folks in that respect. what is true is true. yes." "yes,"--repeated all, and wagged their heads.--"that 's so. yes." uncle tail opened the window and said "yes," also. "well, we shall see, i suppose,"--returned gavríla;--"but the guard is not to be removed, notwithstanding. hey, there, eróshka!"--he added, addressing a poor man in a yellow nankeen kazák coat, who was reckoned as the gardener:--"what hast thou to do? take a stick and sit here, and if anything happens, run for me on the instant." eróshka took a stick and sat down on the last step of the staircase. the crowd dispersed, with the exception of a few curious bodies and the small urchins, while gavríla returned home, and through liubóff liubímovna gave orders that the mistress should be informed that everything had been done, and that he himself, in order to make quite sure, had sent the postilion for a policeman. the mistress tied a knot in her handkerchief, poured _eau de cologne_ on it, sniffed at it, wiped her temples, sipped her tea and, being still under the influence of the laurel drops, fell asleep again. an hour after all this commotion, the door of the tiny den opened and gerásim made his appearance. he wore a new holiday kaftan; he was leading mumú by a string. eróshka drew aside and let him pass. gerásim directed his way toward the gate. all the small boys who were in the courtyard followed him with their eyes in silence. he did not even turn round; he did not put on his cap until he reached the street. gavríla despatched after him that same eróshka, in the capacity of observer. eróshka, perceiving from afar that he had entered an eating-house in company with his dog, awaited his reappearance. in the eating-house they knew gerásim and understood his signs. he ordered cabbage-soup with meat, and seated himself, with his arms resting on the table. mumú stood beside his chair, calmly gazing at him with her intelligent eyes. her coat was fairly shining with gloss: it was evident that she had recently been brushed. they brought the cabbage-soup to gerásim. he crumbled up bread in it, cut the meat up into small pieces, and set the plate on the floor. mumú began to eat with her customary politeness, hardly touching her muzzle to the food; gerásim stared long at her; two heavy tears rolled suddenly from his eyes; one fell on the dog's sloping forehead, the other into the soup. he covered his face with his hand. mumú ate half a plateful and retired, licking her chops. gerásim rose, paid for the soup, and set out, accompanied by the somewhat astounded glance of the waiter. eróshka, on catching sight of gerásim, sprang round the corner, and allowing him to pass, again set out on his track. gerásim walked on without haste, and did not release mumú from the cord. on reaching the corner of the street he halted, as though in thought, and suddenly directed his course, with swift strides, straight toward the crimean ford. on the way he entered the yard of a house, to which a wing was being built, and brought thence two bricks under his arm. from the crimean ford he turned along the bank, advanced to a certain spot, where stood two boats with oars, tied to stakes (he had already noted them previously), and sprang into one of them, in company with mumú. a lame little old man emerged from behind a hut placed in one corner of a vegetable-garden, and shouted at him. but gerásim only nodded his head, and set to rowing so vigorously, although against the current, that in an instant he had darted off to a distance of a hundred fathoms. the old man stood and stood, scratched his back, first with the left hand then with the right, and returned, limping, to his hut. but gerásim rowed on and on. and now he had left moscow behind him. now, already meadows, fields, groves stretched along the shores, and peasant cottages made their appearance. it smacked of the country. he flung aside the oars, bent his head down to mumú, who was sitting in front of him on a dry thwart,--the bottom was inundated with water,--and remained motionless, with his mighty hands crossed on her back, while the boat drifted a little backward with the current toward the town. at last gerásim straightened up hastily, with a sort of painful wrath on his face, wound the rope around the bricks he had taken, arranged a noose, put it on mumú's neck, lifted her over the river, for the last time gazed at her.... she gazed back at him confidingly and without alarm, waving her little tail slightly. he turned away, shut his eyes, and opened his hands... gerásim heard nothing, neither the swift whine of the falling mumú, nor the loud splash of the water; for him the noisiest day was silent and speechless, as not even the quietest night is to us, and when he opened his eyes again, the little waves were hurrying down the river as before; as before they were plashing about the sides of the boat, and only far astern toward the shore certain broad circles were spreading. eróshka, as soon as gerásim vanished from his sight, returned home and reported what he had seen. "well, yes,"--remarked stepán;--"he will drown her. you may be easy about that. if he has once promised a thing ...." throughout the day no one saw gerásim. he did not dine at home. evening came; all, except him, assembled for supper. "what a queer fellow that gerásim is!"--squealed a fat laundress. "the idea of making such a fuss over a dog!... really!" "but gerásim has been here,"--suddenly exclaimed stepán, as he scooped up his buckwheat groats with his spoon. "what? when?" "why, a couple of hours ago. certainly he has! i met him at the gate; he has gone away from here again; he went out of the courtyard. i wanted to ask him about his dog, but he evidently was out of sorts. well, and he jostled me; it must have been done by accident, he only wanted to get me out of the way; as much as to say: 'don't bother me!'--but he gave me such a dig in the spine, that óï, óï, óï!"--and stepán shrugged his shoulders with an involuntary grimace, and rubbed the nape of his neck.--"yes,"--he added;--"his hand is an apt one, there 's no denying that!" all laughed at stepán and, after supper, dispersed to their beds. and in the meantime, on that same night, on the t*** highway, a giant was marching onward diligently and unremittingly, with a sack on his shoulders, and a long staff in his hands. it was gerásim. he was hurrying on, without looking behind him, hurrying home, to his own house in the country, to his native place. after drowning poor mumú, he had hastened to his little den, had briskly put together a few articles of clothing in an old horse-cloth, had tied it up with a knot, slung it across his shoulder, and taken himself off. he had noted well the road when he had been brought to moscow; the village from which his mistress had taken him lay at most five-and-twenty versts from the highway. he walked along it with a certain invincible hardihood, with despairing, yet joyful firmness. he strode onward, his breast expanded broadly; his eyes were bent eagerly straight ahead. he hastened onward as though his aged mother were waiting for him in his native place, as though she had summoned him to her after long wanderings in foreign lands, among strange peoples... the summer night, which had only just descended, was warm and tranquil; on the one hand, in the direction where the sun had gone down, the rim of the sky was still white, with a crimson gleam from the last reflection of the vanished day,--on the other hand, the blue-grey gloom was rising. night had come thence. hundreds of quail were whistling all around, corn-crakes were vying with each other in their calls.... gerásim could not hear them, he could not hear even the delicate nocturnal rustling of the trees past which he was bearing his mighty feet, but he discerned the familiar scent of the ripening rye, which was exhaled from the dark fields; he felt the breeze wafting to meet him,--the breeze from his native place,--beating on his face, playing with his hair and beard; he beheld in front of him the road homeward, gleaming white, straight as an arrow; he beheld in the sky innumerable stars, which illuminated his path, and like a lion he stepped out powerfully and alertly, so that when the rising sun lighted up with its moistly-crimson rays the gallant fellow who had just been driven to extremities, three-and-thirty versts already lay between him and moscow.... at the end of two days he was at home in his own little cottage, to the great amazement of the soldier's wife who had removed thither. after praying before the holy pictures, he immediately betook himself to the overseer. the overseer was astounded at first; but the haying was only just beginning. gerásim, being a capital workman, immediately had a scythe put into his hand--and he went off to mow as of yore, to mow in such fashion that the peasants simply sweated through and through as they watched his swings and strokes.... but in moscow, on the day following gerásim's flight, they discovered it. they went into his room, ransacked it, and told gavríla. the latter came, made an inspection, shrugged his shoulders, and decided that the dumb man had either run away or drowned himself along with his stupid dog. the police were informed, and the matter was reported to the mistress. the mistress flew into a rage, fell to weeping, ordered him to be hunted up at any cost, asserted that she had never ordered the dog to be made away with, and, at last, so berated gavríla, that the latter did nothing all day but shake his head and add: "well!" until uncle tail brought him to his senses by saying to him: "we-ell!" at last news came from the village of gerásim's arrival there. the mistress calmed down somewhat; at first she was minded to issue an order demanding his immediate return to moscow, but afterward she announced that she wanted nothing to do with so ungrateful a man. moreover, she died herself soon after, and her heirs had other things to think about besides gerásim; and they dismissed the rest of their mother's serfs on quit-rent. and gerásim is living yet, poor, wretched fellow, in his lonely hut; he is healthy and powerful as of yore, and, as of yore, he does the work of four men, and, as of yore, he is staid and dignified. but the neighbours have noticed that ever since his return from moscow he has entirely ceased to have anything to do with women, he does not even look at them, and he keeps not a single dog on his premises.--"however,"--say the peasants,--"'t is lucky for him that he needs no woman; and as for a dog--what should he do with a dog? you could n't drag a thief into his yard with a noose!" such is the fame of the dumb man's heroic strength. footnotes: [24] june 29 (o. s.)--july 13 (n. s.).--translator. [25] formerly all moscow houses were obliged to get their water in barrels on wheels from the river or from public fountains. birch-wood is still used for cooking and heating.--translator. [26] a pud is about thirty-six pounds, english.--translator. [27] a peculiarly shaped and delicious wheaten roll, which is made particularly well in moscow.--translator. [28] st. petersburg.--translator. [29] mínin, the burgher of nízhni nóvgorod, and prince pozhársky, who led the russians against the invading poles in 1612, and expelled them from russia. their expulsion was followed by the election to the throne of the first románoff tzar, mikhaíl feódorovitch.--translator. [30] these kisses are bestowed on the cheeks, alternately.--translator. [31] amy or charity.--translator. the inn (1852) on the great b*** highway, almost equidistant from the two county towns through which it passes, there was still standing, not long since, a spacious inn, very well known to drivers of tróïka-teams, to freight-sledge peasants, to merchants' clerks, to traders of the petty-burgher class, and, in general, to all the numerous and varied travellers, who at all seasons of the year roll along our roads. everybody used to drop in at this inn; except only some landed proprietor's carriage, drawn by six home-bred horses, would glide solemnly past, which, however, did not prevent the coachman and the lackey on the foot-board from looking with particular feeling and attention at the porch but too familiar to them; or some very poor fellow, in a rickety cart, with fifteen kopéks in the purse stuffed into his bosom, on coming to the fine inn, would urge on his weak nag, hastening to his night's lodging in the suburb on the great highway, to the house of the peasant-host, where you will find nothing except hay and bread, but, on the other hand, will not be obliged to pay a kopék too much. in addition to its advantageous situation, the inn of which we have just spoken possessed many attractions: capital water in two deep wells with creaking wheels and iron buckets on chains; a spacious stable-yard with plenty of board sheds on stout pillars; an abundant supply of good oats in the cellar; a warm house, with a huge russian stove, into which, as upon the shoulders of an epic hero, long logs were thrust; two fairly-clean little chambers with reddish-lilac paper on the walls somewhat tattered at the bottom, with a painted wooden divan, chairs to match, and two pots of geranium in the windows, which, however, were never washed and were dim with the dust of many years. this inn offered other comforts:--the blacksmith's shop was near at hand, and the mill was situated almost alongside of it; in conclusion, good food was to be had in it, thanks to the fat and rosy-cheeked peasant-woman who was the cook, and who prepared the viands in a savoury manner and with plenty of fat, and was not stingy of her stores; the nearest dram-shop was only half a verst distant; the landlord kept snuff, which, although mixed with ashes, was extremely heady, and tickled the nose agreeably: in a word, there were many reasons why guests of every sort were not lacking in that inn. travellers had taken a fancy to it--that is the principal thing; without that, as is well known, no business will thrive; and it was liked most of all because, as people said in the countryside, the landlord himself was very lucky and succeeded in all his enterprises, although he little deserved his luck, and it was evident that if a man is destined to be lucky he will be. this landlord was a petty burgher, naúm ivánoff by name. he was of medium stature, thick-set, stooping and broad-shouldered; he had a large, round head, hair which was wavy and already grizzled, although in appearance he was not over forty years of age; a plump and rosy face, a low, but white and smooth brow, and small, bright blue eyes, with which he gazed forth very strangely--askance, and, at the same time, insolently, which is a combination rarely encountered. he always held his head in a drooping position, and turned it with difficulty, perhaps because his neck was very short; he walked briskly and did not swing his arms, but opened his clenched fists as he walked. when he smiled,--and he smiled frequently, but without laughter, as though to himself,--his large lips moved apart in an unpleasant way, and displayed a row of compact and dazzling teeth. he spoke abruptly, and with a certain surly sound in his voice. he shaved off his beard, but did not adopt the foreign dress. his garments consisted of a long, extremely-threadbare kaftan, ample bag-trousers, and shoes worn on the bare feet. he often absented himself from home on business,--and he had a great deal of business: he was a jobber of horses, he hired land, he raised vegetables for the market, he purchased gardens, and in general occupied himself with various commercial speculations,--but his absences never lasted long; like the hawk, to whom in particular, especially as to the expression of his eyes, he bore a strong resemblance, he kept returning to his nest. he understood how to keep that nest in order; he kept track of everything, he heard everything, and gave orders about everything; he dealt out, he served out, and calculated everything himself, and while he did not reduce his price a kopék to any one, yet he did not overcharge. the lodgers did not enter into conversation with him, and he himself was not fond of wasting words without cause. "i need your money, and you need my victuals," he was wont to explain, as though he were tearing off each separate word: "you and i have n't got to stand godparents to a child and become cronies; the traveller has eaten, i have fed him his fill, let him not outstay his welcome. and if he is sleepy, then let him sleep, not chatter." he kept sturdy and healthy, but tame and submissive labourers; they were extremely afraid of him. he never took a drop of intoxicating liquor into his mouth, but he gave each of them ten kopéks for vodka on festival days; on other days they did not dare to drink. people like naúm speedily grow rich;.... but naúm ivánoff had not reached the brilliant condition in which he found himself--and he was reckoned to be worth forty or fifty thousand rubles--by straightforward ways.... twenty years previous to the date at which we have set the beginning of our story, an inn existed on that same site upon the highway. truth to tell, it had not that dark-red plank roof which imparted to naúm ivánoff's house the aspect of a nobleman's manor-house; and it was poorer in its construction, and the sheds in the stable-yard were thatched, and the walls were made of wattled boughs instead of boards; neither was it distinguished by a triangular greek pediment on turned columns; but it was a very decent sort of inn, nevertheless,--spacious, solid, and warm,--and travellers gladly frequented it. its landlord at that time was not naúm ivánoff, but a certain akím semyónoff, the serf of a neighbouring landed proprietress, lizavéta prókhorovna kuntze--the widow of a staff-officer. this akím was an intelligent peasant, with good business capacity, who, having started with two wretched little nags as a carrier, in his youth, returned a year later with three good horses, and from that time forth spent the greater part of his life in roaming along the highways, visited kazán and odessa, orenbúrg and warsaw, and went abroad to "lipetzk,"[32] and travelled toward the last with two tróïkas of huge and powerful stallions harnessed to two enormous carts. whether it was that he became bored by this homeless, roving life, or whether he was seized with the desire to set up a family (in one of his absences his wife had died; the children which he had had died also), at all events he decided, at last, to abandon his former avocation and set up an inn. with the permission of his mistress, he established himself on the highway, purchased in her name half a _desyatína_[33] of land, and erected thereon an inn. the venture proved a success. he had more than enough money for the installation; the experience which he had acquired in his prolonged wanderings to all parts of russia was of the greatest advantage to him: he knew how to please travellers, especially men of his own former calling,--three-horse-team carriers,--with many of whom he was personally acquainted, and whose patronage is particularly valued by the tavern-keepers: so much do these people eat and consume for themselves and their robust horses. akím's inn became known for hundreds of versts round about.... people were even fonder of patronising him than they were of patronising naúm, who afterward succeeded him, although akím was far from being comparable to naúm in his knowledge of the landlord's business. akím had everything established on the old-fashioned footing,--warm but not quite clean; and it sometimes happened that his oats turned out to be light, or damp, and the food also was prepared in rather indifferent fashion; such victuals were sometimes served on his table as had been better left in the oven for good, and that not because he was stingy with material, but just because it happened so--his wife had not looked after things. on the other hand, he was ready to deduct from the price, and he would even not refuse to give credit. in a word, he was a good man and an amiable landlord. he was liberal also with his conversation and standing treat; over the samovár he would sometimes get to babbling so that you would prick up your ears, especially when he began to talk about peter,[34] about the tcherkessian steppes, or about foreign parts; well, and as a matter of course, he was fond of drinking with a nice man, only not to excess, and more for the sake of sociability--so travellers said of him. merchants bore great good-will toward him, as, in general, did all those people who call themselves old-fashioned--those people who do not set out on a journey without having girded themselves and who do not enter a room without crossing themselves,[35] and who will not enter into conversation with a man without having preliminarily bidden him "good morning." akím's mere personal appearance disposed one in his favour; he was tall, rather gaunt, but very well built, even in his mature years; he had a long, comely and regular face, a high, open brow, a thin, straight nose, and small lips. the glance of his prominent brown eyes fairly beamed with gentle cordiality, his thin, soft hair curled in rings about his neck: very little of it remained on the crown of his head. the sound of akím's voice was very agreeable, although weak; in his youth he had been a capital singer, but his long journeys in the open air, in winter, had impaired his lungs. on the other hand, he spoke very fluently and sweetly. when he laughed, ray-like wrinkles, very pleasant to behold, spread themselves out around his eyes;--such wrinkles are to be seen only in kind people. akím's movements were generally slow and not devoid of a certain self-confidence and sedate courtesy, as was befitting a man of experience who had seen much in his day. in fact, akím would have been all right,--or, as they called him even in the manor-house, whither he was wont to go frequently, as well as unfailingly on sundays after the morning service in church, akím semyónovitch,[36]--would have been all right in every respect had he not had one failing, which has ruined many men on this earth, and in the end ruined him also--a weakness for the female sex. akím's amorousness went to extremes: his heart was utterly unable to resist a feminine glance; he melted in it, as the first autumnal snow melts in the sun .... and he had to pay dearly for his superfluous sensibility. in the course of the first year after he had settled down upon the highway, akím was so occupied with the building of his inn, with the installation of his establishment, and with all the worries which are inseparable from all new households, that he positively had not time to think of women, and if any sinful thoughts did enter his head, he promptly expelled them by the perusal of divers holy books, for which he cherished a great respect (he had taught himself to read and write during his first trip as carrier), by chanting the psalms in an undertone, or by some other pious occupation. moreover, he was already in his forty-sixth year,--and at that age all passions sensibly calm down and grow cool; and the time for marrying was past. akím himself had begun to think that that folly, as he expressed it, had broken loose from him ... but evidently no man can escape his fate. akím's former owner, lizavéta prókhorovna kuntze, who had been left a widow by her husband, a staff-officer of german extraction, was herself a native of the town of mittau, where she had passed the early days of her childhood, and where she still had a very numerous and needy family, concerning whom, however, she troubled herself very little, especially since one of her brothers, an officer in an army infantry regiment, had unexpectedly presented himself at her house and on the following day had raised such an uproar that he had all but thrashed the mistress of the house herself, and had addressed her, into the bargain, as "_du lumpenmamsell!_" while on the preceding evening he had himself called her in broken russian: "sister and benefactress." lizavéta prókhorovna hardly ever left the nice little estate acquired by the efforts of her spouse, who had been an architect;[37] she herself managed it, and managed it far from badly. lizavéta prókhorovna did not let slip the smallest source of profit; she derived advantage to herself from everything; and in this point, as well as in that of remarkable cleverness in making one kopék serve instead of two, her german nationality betrayed itself; in everything else she had become extremely russified. she had a considerable number of domestic serfs; in particular, she kept a great many maids, who, however, did not eat the bread of idleness: from morning until night their backs were bowed over work.[38] she was fond of driving out in her carriage with liveried lackeys on the foot-board; she was fond of having people retail gossip to her and play the sycophant; and she herself was a first-rate gossip; she was fond of loading a man down with her favours, and suddenly stunning him with disgrace--in a word, lizavéta prókhorovna conducted herself exactly like a nobly-born dame.--she favoured akím,--he paid her a good round quit-rent with punctuality,--she chatted graciously with him, and even, in jest, invited him to be her guest ... but it was precisely in the manor-house that calamity awaited akím. among the number of lizavéta prókhorovna's maids, there was one young girl of twenty, an orphan, dunyásha by name. she was not ill-favoured, was well formed and clever; her features, although not regular, were calculated to please; her fresh complexion, her thick, fair hair, her red lips, and a certain dashing, half-sneering, half-challenging expression of face, were all quite charming in their way. moreover, in spite of her orphaned state, she bore herself staidly, almost haughtily; she was descended from an ancient line of house-serfs; her late father, aréfy, had been major-domo for thirty years, and her grandfather, stepán, had served as valet to a gentleman long since deceased, a sergeant of the guards and a prince. she dressed neatly, and was proud of her hands, which really were extremely handsome. dunyásha showed great disdain for all her admirers, listened to their sweet sayings with a conceited smile, and if she answered them, it was chiefly by exclamation only, in the nature of: "yes! certainly! catch me doing that! the idea!"... these exclamations scarcely ever left her tongue. dunyásha had spent about three years in moscow, under instruction, where she had acquired those peculiar grimaces and manners which characterise chambermaids who have sojourned in the capitals. people spoke of her as a conceited girl (a great encomium in the mouths of domestics) who, although she had seen much of life, had not lowered her dignity. she sewed far from badly, moreover; but, nevertheless, lizavéta prókhorovna had no particular liking for her, thanks to the head maid, kiríllovna, a woman no longer young, sly, and fond of intrigue. kiríllovna profited by her great influence over her mistress, and contrived very artfully to keep rivals out of the way. and it was with this dunyásha that akím fell in love! and in a way such as he had never loved before. he beheld her for the first time in church; she had only just returned from moscow;.... then he met her several times in the manor-house; at last he spent a whole evening with her at the overseer's, whither he had been invited to tea, along with other honourable personages. the house-serfs did not look down on him, although he did not belong to their social class, and wore a beard;[39] but he was a cultured man, could read and write, and--chief thing of all--he had money; moreover, he did not dress in peasant fashion, but wore a long kaftan of black cloth, boots of dressed calf-leather, and a small kerchief round his neck. to tell the truth, some of the house-serfs did make remarks among themselves to the effect, "'t is plain, nevertheless, that he is not one of us," but to his face they almost flattered him. that evening at the overseer's, dunyásha completed the conquest of akím's amorous heart, although she positively did not reply by a single word to all his ingratiating speeches, and only now and then cast a side-long glance at him, as though astonished at seeing that peasant there. all this only inflamed akím the more. he went off home, thought, and thought, and made up his mind to obtain her hand.... so thoroughly had she "bewitched" him. but how shall we describe dunyásha's wrath and indignation when, five days later, kiríllovna, affectionately calling her into her room, announced to her that akím (and evidently he had understood how to set about the business),--that that beard-wearer and peasant akím, to sit beside whom she had regarded as an insult,--was courting her! at first dunyásha flushed hot all over, then she emitted a forced laugh, then fell to weeping; but kiríllovna conducted the attack so artfully, so clearly made her feel her position in the house, so cleverly hinted at akím's decent appearance, wealth, and blind devotion, and, in conclusion, so significantly alluded to the mistress's own wishes, that dunyásha left the room with hesitation depicted on her face, and encountering akím, merely gazed intently into his eyes, but did not turn away. the fabulously lavish gifts of this enamoured man dispelled her last doubts.... lizavéta prókhorovna, to whom akím, in his joy, had presented a hundred peaches on a large silver salver, gave her consent to his marriage with dunyásha, and the wedding took place. akím spared no expense--and the bride, who on the eve of the wedding had sat in the maids' room like one on the verge of expiring, and had done nothing but cry on the very morning of the wedding, while kiríllovna was dressing her for the ceremony, was speedily comforted.... her mistress gave her her own shawl to wear in church--and that very same day akím gave her another of the same sort, only almost better. so then akím married, and transported his young wife to his inn.... they began to live. dunyásha proved to be a bad housekeeper, a poor helpmeet for her husband. she never looked after anything, she grieved, was bored, unless some passing officer was attentive to her and paid court to her, as he sat behind the capacious samovár; she frequently absented herself, sometimes going to the town to shop, sometimes to the mistress's manor-house, which lay four versts distant from the inn. in the manor-house she refreshed herself; there people of her own sort surrounded her; the maids envied her smart attire; kiríllovna treated her to tea; lizavéta prókhorovna herself chatted with her.... but even these visits did not pass off without bitter emotions for dunyásha.... for instance, being a house-serf, she was not allowed to wear a bonnet, and was obliged to muffle her head up in a kerchief .... "like a merchant's wife," as the crafty kiríllovna said to her.... "like the wife of a petty burgher," thought dunyásha to herself. more than once there recurred to akím's mind the words of his only relative, an aged uncle, an inveterate peasant, a man without family or land: "well, brother, akímushka," he had said to him, when he met him in the street, "i have heard that thou 'rt a-courting...." "well, yes, i am; what of it?" "ekh, akím, akím! thou 'rt no mate for us peasants now, there 's no denying it; neither is she a mate for thee." "but why is n't she a mate for me?" "why, for this reason, at least,"--returned the other, pointing to akím's beard, which he, to please his bride, had begun to clip close--he would not consent to shave it off entirely.... akím dropped his eyes; and the old man turned away, wrapped about him the skirts of his sheepskin coat, which was ragged on the shoulders, and went his way, shaking his head. yes, more than once did akím grow pensive, grunt and sigh.... but his love for his pretty wife did not diminish; he was proud of her, especially when he compared her, not only with the other peasant women, or with his former wife, whom he had married at the age of sixteen, but with the other maids of the house-serf class: as much as to say: "just see what sort of a bird we 've captured!".... her slightest caress afforded him great pleasure... "perhaps," he thought to himself, "she 'll get used to me, she 'll grow accustomed to her new life..." moreover, she conducted herself very well, and no one could say an evil word concerning her. several years passed in this manner. dunyásha really did end by becoming used to her existence. the older akím grew, the more attached he became to her, and the more he trusted her; her friends, who had married men not of the peasant class, suffered dire need, or were in distress, or had fallen into evil hands.... but akím continued to wax richer and richer. he succeeded in everything--he was lucky; only one thing grieved him: god had not given him any children. dunyásha was already in her twenty-fifth year; every one had come to call her avdótya aréfyevna.[40] nevertheless, she had not become a good housewife.--but she had come to love her home, she attended to the stores of provisions, she looked after the servant-maids.... truth to tell, she did all this in an indifferent way, and did not exercise the proper oversight as to cleanliness and order; but, on the other hand, in the principal room of the inn, alongside the portrait of akím, hung her portrait, painted in oils and ordered by her from a home-bred artist, the son of the parish deacon.--she was represented in a white gown and a yellow shawl, with six rows of large pearls on her neck, long earrings in her ears, and rings on every finger... it was possible to recognise her,--although the painter had depicted her as extremely corpulent and rosy-cheeked, and had painted her eyes black instead of grey, and even a trifle squinting... he had not succeeded at all with akím: the latter had, somehow, turned out very dark--_à la rembrandt_,--so that a traveller would sometimes step up and stare at it, and merely bellow a bit. avdótya had begun to dress with a good deal of carelessness; she would throw a large kerchief over her shoulders, and the gown under it would fit anyhow; indolence had taken possession of her, that sighing, languid, sleepy indolence to which russians are but too greatly inclined, especially when their existence is assured..... nevertheless, the affairs of akím and his wife throve very well; they lived in concord, and bore the reputation of being an exemplary married pair. but, like the squirrel which is cleaning its nose at the very moment when the arrow is aimed at it, a man has no foreboding of his own disaster--and suddenly down he crashes, as though on the ice.... one autumn evening a merchant with dry-goods stopped at akím's inn. he was making his way, by devious roads, with two loaded kibítkas, from moscow to khárkoff; he was one of those peddlers whom the wives and daughters of landed proprietors sometimes await with so much impatience. with this peddler, already an elderly man, were travelling two comrades, or, to put it more accurately, two workmen--one pale, thin, hump-backed, the other a stately, handsome young fellow of twenty. they ordered supper, then sat down to drink tea; the peddler invited the landlord and landlady to drink a cup with him--and they did not refuse. a conversation was speedily under way between the two old men (akím had seen his fifty-sixth birthday); the peddler was making inquiries concerning the neighbouring landed proprietors,--and no one could impart to him all necessary details about them better than could akím. the hump-backed labourer kept continually going out to look at the carts, and at last took himself off to sleep; avdótya was left to chat with the other labourer.... she sat beside him and talked little, and chiefly listened to what he narrated to her; but evidently his remarks pleased her; her face grew animated, a flush played over her cheeks, and she laughed quite often and readily. the young labourer sat almost motionless, with his curly head bent toward the table; he spoke softly without raising his voice, and without haste; on the other hand his eyes, not large, but audaciously bright and blue, fairly bored into avdótya; at first she turned away from them, then she began to gaze into his face. the young fellow's face was as fresh and smooth as a crimean apple; he smiled frequently and drummed his white fingers on his white chin, already covered with sparse, dark down. he expressed himself after the merchant fashion, but with great ease, and with a certain careless self-confidence--and kept staring at her all the while with the same insistent and insolent look.... suddenly he moved a little closer to her, and without changing the expression of his face in the least, he said to her: "avdótya aréfyevna, there 's nobody in the world nicer than you; i 'm ready to die for you, i do believe." avdótya laughed loudly. "what 's the matter with thee?"--akím asked her. "why, this man here is telling such absurd things,"--she said, but without any special confusion. the old peddler grinned. "he, he, yes, ma'am; that naúm of mine is such a joker, sir. but you must n't listen to him, ma'am." "yes, certainly! as if i would listen to him,"--she replied, and shook her head. "he, he, of course, ma'am,"--remarked the old man.--"well, but,"--he added in a drawl,--"good-bye, i 'm much obliged, ma'am, but now 't is time to go to roost, ma'am...." and he rose to his feet. "and we are much obliged, sir, too, sir,"--said akím also,--"for the entertainment, that is to say; but now we wish you good night, sir. rise, avdótyushka." avdótya rose, as though reluctantly, and after her naúm rose also .... and all dispersed. the landlord and landlady betook themselves to the small, closet-like room which served them as a bedroom. akím set to snoring instantly. avdótya could not get to sleep for a long time.... at first she lay still, with her face turned to the wall, then she began to toss about on the hot feather-bed, now throwing off, now drawing up the coverlet .... then she fell into a light doze. all of a sudden, a man's loud voice resounded in the yard; it was singing some slow but not mournful song, the words of which could not be distinguished. avdótya opened her eyes, raised herself on her elbow, and began to listen.... the song still went on.... it poured forth sonorously on the autumnal air. akím raised his head. "who 's that singing?"--he inquired. "i don't know,"--she replied. "he sings well,"--he added, after a brief pause.--"well. what a strong voice. i used to sing in my day,"--he continued,--"and i sang well, but my voice is ruined. but that 's a fine singer. it must be that young fellow singing. naúm is his name, i think."--and he turned over on his other side--drew a deep breath, and fell asleep again. the voice did not cease for a long time thereafter.... avdótya continued to listen and listen; at last it suddenly broke off short, as it were, then uttered one more wild shout, and slowly died away. avdótya crossed herself, and laid her head on the pillow.... half an hour elapsed.... she raised herself and began softly to get out of bed.... "whither art thou going, wife?"--akím asked her through his sleep. she stopped short. "to adjust the shrine-lamp,"[41]--she answered; "somehow or other i can't sleep." "thou hadst better say thy prayers,"--stammered akím as he fell asleep. avdótya went to the shrine-lamp, began to adjust it, and incautiously extinguished it; she returned and lay down in bed. silence reigned. early on the following morning the merchant set out on his way with his companions. avdótya was sleeping. akím escorted them for about half a verst; he was obliged to go to the mill. on returning home he found his wife already dressed, and no longer alone; with her was the young fellow of the previous evening, naúm. they were standing by the table, near the window, and talking together. on catching sight of akím, avdótya silently left the room, but naúm said that he had returned for his master's mittens, which the latter had forgotten on the bench, and he also left the room. we shall now inform our readers of that which they, no doubt, have already divined without our aid: avdótya had fallen passionately in love with naúm. how this could come to pass so quickly, it is difficult to explain; it is all the more difficult, in that, up to that time, she had behaved in an irreproachable manner, notwithstanding numerous opportunities and temptations to betray her marital vows. later on, when her relations with naúm became public, many persons in the countryside declared that on that very first evening he had put some magic herb into her tea (people with us still believe firmly in the efficacy of this method), and that this was very readily to be discerned in avdótya, who, they said, very soon thereafter began to grow thin and bored. however that may be, at all events naúm began to be frequently seen at akím's inn. first, he journeyed past with that same merchant, but three months later he made his appearance alone, with his own wares; then a rumour became current that he had taken up his residence in one of the near-by towns of the county, and from that time forth not a week passed that his stout, painted cart, drawn by a pair of plump horses which he drove himself, did not make its appearance on the highway. there was no great friendship between him and akím, but no hostility between them was apparent; akím paid no great attention to him, and knew nothing about him, except that he was an intelligent young fellow, who had started out boldly. he did not suspect avdótya's real feelings, and continued to trust her as before. thus passed two years more. then, one summer day, before dinner, about one o'clock, lizavéta prókhorovna, who precisely during the course of those two years had somehow suddenly grown wrinkled and sallow, despite all sorts of massage, rouge, and powder,--lizavéta prókhorovna, with her lap-dog and her folding parasol, strolled forth for a walk in her neat little german park. lightly rustling her starched gown, she was walking with mincing steps along the sanded path, between two rows of dahlias drawn up in military array, when suddenly she was overtaken by our old acquaintance, kiríllovna, who respectfully announced that a certain merchant from b*** desired to see her on a very important matter. kiríllovna, as of yore, enjoyed the mistress's favour (in reality, _she_ managed the estate of madame kuntze), and some time previously had received permission to wear a white mob-cap, which imparted still more harshness to the thin features of her swarthy face. "a merchant?"--inquired the lady. "what does he want?" "i don't know, ma'am, what he wants,"--replied kiríllovna in a wheedling voice;--"but, apparently, he wishes to purchase something from you, ma'am." lizavéta prókhorovna returned to the drawing-room, seated herself in her customary place, an arm-chair with a canopy, over which ivy meandered prettily, and ordered the merchant from b*** to be summoned. naúm entered, made his bow, and halted at the door. "i have heard that you wish to buy something from me,"--began lizavéta prókhorovna, and thought to herself the while:--"what a handsome man this merchant is!" "exactly so, ma'am." "and precisely what is it?" "will you not deign to sell your inn?" "what inn?" "why, the one which stands on the highway, not far from here." "but that inn does not belong to me. that is akím's inn." "why is n't it yours? it stands on your land, ma'am." "assuming that the land is mine .... bought in my name; still the inn is his." "just so, ma'am. so then, won't you sell it to us, ma'am?" "i am to sell it?" "just so, ma'am. and we would pay a good price for it." lizavéta prókhorovna maintained silence for a while. "really, this is strange,"--she began again; "what are you saying? but how much would you give?"--she added.--"that is to say, i am not asking for myself, but for akím." "why, with all the buildings and, ma'am, dependencies, ma'am ... well ... and, of course, with the land attached to the inn, we would give two thousand rubles, ma'am." "two thousand rubles! that 's very little,"--replied lizavéta prókhorovna. "that 's the proper price, ma'am." "but, have you talked it over with akím?" "why should we talk with him, ma'am? the inn is yours, so we have thought best to discuss it with you, ma'am." "but i have already told you .... really, this is astonishing! how is it that you do not understand me?" "why don't we understand, ma'am? we do." lizavéta prókhorovna looked at naúm, naúm looked at lizavéta prókhorovna. "how is it to be, then, ma'am?"--he began:--"what proposal have you to make on your side, that is to say, ma'am?" "on my side ...." lizavéta prókhorovna fidgeted about in her easy-chair.--"in the first place, i tell you that two thousand is not enough, and in the second place ...." "we 'll add a hundred, if you like." lizavéta prókhorovna rose. "i see that you are talking at cross-purposes, and i have already told you that i cannot and will not sell that inn. i cannot .... that is to say, i will not." naúm smiled and made no reply for a while. "well, as you like, ma'am ...." he remarked, with a slight shrug of the shoulders;--"i will bid you good-day, ma'am."--and he made his bow, and grasped the door-handle. lizavéta prókhorovna turned toward him. "however,...." she said, with barely perceptible hesitation,--"you need not go just yet."--she rang the bell; kiríllovna made her appearance from the boudoir. "kiríllovna, order the servants to give the merchant tea.--i will see you later on,"--she added, with a slight inclination of her head. naúm bowed again, and left the room in company with kiríllovna. lizavéta prókhorovna paced up and down the room a couple of times, then rang the bell again. this time a page entered. she ordered him to summon kiríllovna. in a few moments kiríllovna entered, with barely a squeak of her new goat's-leather shoes. "didst thou hear,"--began lizavéta prókhorovna, with a constrained smile,--"what that merchant is proposing to me? such a queer man, really!" "no, ma'am, i did n't hear.... what is it, ma'am?"--and kiríllovna slightly narrowed her little, black, kalmýk eyes. "he wants to buy akím's inn from me." "and what of that, ma'am?" "why, seest thou .... but how about akím? i have given it to akím." "and, good gracious, my lady, what is it you are pleased to say? is n't that inn yours? are n't we your property, pray? and everything we have,--is n't that also the property of the mistress?" "mercy me, what 's that thou 'rt saying, kiríllovna?"--lizavéta prókhorovna got out her batiste handkerchief and nervously blew her nose.--"akím bought that inn out of his own money." "out of his own money? and where did he get that money?--was n't it through your kindness? and, then, see how long he has enjoyed the use of the land.... surely, all this is through your kindness. and do you think, madam, that even so he will not have more money left? why, he 's richer than you are, as god is my witness, ma'am!" "all that is so, of course, but, nevertheless, i cannot.... how am i to sell that inn?" "but why not sell it, ma'am?"--went on kiríllovna.--"luckily, a purchaser has turned up. permit me to inquire, ma'am, how much does he offer you?" "over two thousand rubles,"--said lizavéta prókhorovna, softly. "he 'll give more, madam, if he offers two thousand at the first word. and you can settle with akím afterward; you can reduce his quit-rent, i suppose.--he will still be grateful." "of course, his quit-rent must be reduced. but no, kiríllovna; how can i sell?..." and lizavéta prókhorovna paced up and down the room.... "no, it is impossible; it is n't right;.... no; please say no more to me about it ... or i shall get angry...." but in spite of the prohibition of the excited lizavéta prókhorovna, kiríllovna continued to talk, and half an hour later she returned to naúm, whom she had left in the butler's pantry with the samovár. "what have you to tell me, my most respected?"--said naúm, foppishly turning his empty cup upside down on his saucer. "this is what i have to tell you,"--returned kiríllovna:--"that you are to go to the mistress; she bids you come." "i obey, ma'am,"--replied naúm, rising, and followed kiríllovna to the drawing-room. the door closed behind them.... when, at last, that door opened again and naúm backed out of it bowing, the matter was already settled; akím's inn belonged to him; he had acquired it for two thousand eight hundred rubles in bank-bills.[42] they had decided to complete the deed of sale as promptly as possible, and not to announce the sale until that was accomplished; lizavéta prókhorovna had received one hundred rubles as deposit, and two hundred rubles went to kiríllovna as commission. "i have got it at a bargain,"--thought naúm, as he climbed into his cart; "i 'm glad it turned out well." at that very time, when the bargain which we have described was being effected at the manor-house, akím was sitting alone on the wall-bench under the window, in his own room, and stroking his beard with an air of displeasure.... we have stated above that he did not suspect his wife's fondness for naúm, although kind persons had, more than once, hinted to him that it was high time for him to listen to reason; of course, he himself was sometimes able to observe that his housewife, for some time past, had become more restive; but then, all the world knows that the female sex is vain and capricious. even when it really seemed to him that something was wrong, he merely waved it from him; he did not wish, as the saying is, to raise a row; his good-nature had not diminished with the years, and, moreover, indolence was making itself felt. but on that day he was very much out of sorts; on the previous evening he had unexpectedly overheard on the street a conversation between his maid-servant and another woman, one of his neighbours.... the woman had asked his maid-servant why she had not run in to see her on the evening of the holiday. "i was expecting thee," she said. "why, i would have come,"--replied the maid-servant,--"but, shameful to say, i caught the mistress at her capers .... bad luck to her!" "thou didst catch her ...." repeated the peasant-wife in a peculiarly-drawling tone, propping her cheek on her hand.--"and where didst thou catch her, my mother?" "why, behind the hemp-patches--the priest's hemp-patches. the mistress, seest thou, had gone out to the hemp-patches to meet that fellow of hers, that naúm, and i could n't see in the dark, whether because of the moonlight, or what not, the lord knows, and so i ran right against them." "thou didst run against them,"--repeated the peasant-wife again.--"well, and what was she doing, my mother? was she standing with him?" "she was standing, right enough. he was standing and she was standing. she caught sight of me, and says she: 'whither art thou running to? take thyself off home.' so i went." "thou wentest."--the peasant-wife was silent for a space.--"well, good-bye, fetíniushka,"--she said, and went her way. this conversation had produced an unpleasant effect on akím. his love for avdótya had already grown cold, but, nevertheless, the maid-servant's words displeased him. and she had told the truth: as a matter of fact, avdótya had gone out that evening to meet naúm, who had waited for her in the dense shadow which fell upon the road from the tall and motionless hemp-patch. the dew had drenched its every stalk from top to bottom; the scent, powerful to the point of oppressiveness, lay all around. the moon had only just risen, huge and crimson, in the dim and the blackish mist. naúm had heard avdótya's hasty footsteps from afar, and had advanced to meet her. she reached him all pale with running; the moon shone directly in her face. "well, how now; hast thou brought it?"--he asked her. "yes, i have,"--she replied in an irresolute tone:--"but, naúm ivánovitch, what ...." "give it here, if thou hast brought it,"--he interrupted her, stretching out his hand. she drew from beneath her kerchief on her neck some sort of packet. naúm instantly grasped it and thrust it into his breast. "naúm ivánitch,"--enunciated avdótya, slowly, and without taking her eyes from him.... "okh, naúm ivánitch, i am ruining my soul for thee...." at that moment the maid-servant had come upon them. so, then, akím was sitting on the wall-bench and stroking his beard with his dissatisfaction. avdótya kept entering the house and leaving it. he merely followed her with his eyes. at last she entered yet again, and taking a warm wadded jacket from the little room, she was already crossing the threshold; but he could endure it no longer, and began to talk, as though to himself: "i wonder,"--he began,--"what makes these women-folks always so fidgety? that they should sit still in one spot is something that can't be demanded of them. that 's no affair of theirs. but what they do love is to be running off somewhere or other, morning or evening.--yes." avdótya heard her husband's speech out to the end without changing her attitude; only, at the word "evening," she moved her head a mere trifle, and seemed to become thoughtful. "well, semyónitch,"--she said at last, with irritation,--"'t is well known that when thou beginnest to talk, why...." she waved her hand and departed, slamming the door behind her. avdótya did not, in fact, hold akím's eloquence in high esteem, and it sometimes happened, when he undertook of an evening to argue with the travellers, or began to tell stories, she would yawn quietly or walk out of the room. akím stared at the closed door.... "when thou beginnest to talk," he repeated in an undertone .... "that 's exactly it, that i have talked very little with thee.... and who art thou? my equal, and, moreover ...." and he rose, meditated, and dealt himself a blow on the nape of his neck with his clenched fist.... a few days passed after this day in a decidedly queer manner. akím kept on staring at his wife, as though he were preparing to say something to her; and she, on her side, darted suspicious glances at him; moreover, both of them maintained a constrained silence; this silence, however, was generally broken by some snappish remark from akím about some neglect in the housekeeping, or on the subject of women in general; avdótya, for the most part, did not answer him with a single word. but, despite all akím's good-natured weakness, matters would infallibly have come to a decisive explanation between him and avdótya had it not been for the fact that, at last, an incident occurred, after which all explanations would have been superfluous. namely, one morning, akím and his wife were just preparing to take a light meal after the noon hour (there was not a single traveller in the inn, after the summer labours), when suddenly a small cart rumbled energetically along the road, and drew up at the porch. akím glanced through the small window, frowned, and dropped his eyes; from the cart, without haste, naúm alighted. avdótya did not see him, but when his voice resounded in the anteroom, the spoon trembled weakly in her hand. he ordered the hired man to put his horse in the yard. at last the door flew wide open, and he entered the room. "morning,"--he said, and doffed his cap. "morning,"--repeated akím through his teeth.--"whence has god brought thee?" "from the neighbourhood,"--returned the other, seating himself on the wall-bench.--"i come from the lady-mistress." "from the mistress,"--said akím, still not rising from his seat.--"on business, pray?" "yes, on business. avdótya aréfyevna, our respects to you." "good morning, naúm,"--she replied. all remained silent for a space. "what have you there--some sort of porridge, i suppose?"--began naúm.... "yes, porridge,"--retorted akím, and suddenly paled:--"but it is n't for thee." naúm darted a glance of astonishment at akím. "why is n't it for me?" "why, just because it is n't for thee."--akím's eyes began to flash, and he smote the table with his fist.--"there is nothing in my house for thee, dost hear me?" "what ails thee, semyónitch, what ails thee? what 's the matter with thee?" "there 's nothing the matter with me, but i 'm tired of _thee_, naúm ivánitch, that 's what."--the old man rose to his feet, trembling all over.--"thou hast taken to haunting my house altogether too much, that 's what." naúm also rose to his feet. "thou hast gone crazy, brother, i do believe,"--he said with a smile.--"avdótya aréfyevna, what 's the matter with him?"... "i tell thee,"--yelled akím, in a quivering voice,--"get out. dost hear me?.... what hast thou to do with avdótya aréfyevna?.... begone, i tell thee! dost hear me?" "what 's that thou art saying to me?"--inquired naúm, significantly. "take thyself away from here; that 's what i 'm saying to thee. there is god, and there is the threshold .... dost understand? or 't will be the worse for thee!" naúm strode forward. "good heavens, don't fight, my dear little doves,"--stammered avdótya, who until then had remained sitting motionless at the table.... naúm cast a glance at her. "don't worry, avdótya aréfyevna, why should we fight! ek-sta, brother,"--he continued, addressing akím:--"thou hast deafened me with thy yells. really. what an insolent fellow thou art! did any one ever hear of such a thing as expelling a man from another man's house,"--added naúm, with deliberate enunciation:--"and the master of the house, into the bargain?" "what dost thou mean by another man's house?"--muttered akím.--"what master of the house?" "why, me, for example." and naúm screwed up his eyes, and displayed his white teeth in a grin. "thee, forsooth? ain't i the master of the house?" "what a stupid fellow thou art, my good fellow.--i am the master of the house, i tell thee." akím opened his eyes to their widest. "what nonsense is that thou art prating, as though thou hadst eaten mad-wort?"--he said at last.--"how the devil dost thou come to be the master?" "well, what 's the use of talking to thee,"--shouted naúm, impatiently.--"dost see this document,"--he added, jerking out of his pocket a sheet of stamped paper folded in four:--"dost see it? this is a deed of sale, understand, a deed of sale for thy land, and for the inn; i have bought them from the landed proprietress, lizavéta prókhorovna. we signed the deed of sale yesterday, in b***--consequently, i am the master here, not thou. gather up thy duds this very day,"--he added, putting the paper back in his pocket;--"and let there be not a sign of thee here by to-morrow; hearest thou?" akím stood as though he had been struck by lightning. "brigand!"--he moaned at last;--"the brigand... hey, fédka, mítka, wife, wife, seize him, seize him--hold him!" he had completely lost his wits. "look out, look out,"--ejaculated naúm, menacingly:--"look out, old man, don't play the fool...." "but beat him, beat him, wife!"--akím kept repeating in a tearful voice, vainly and impotently trying to leave his place.--"the soul-ruiner, the brigand... she was n't enough for thee ... thou wantest to take my house away from me also, and everything.... but no, stay .... that cannot be.... i will go myself. i will tell her myself ... how .... but why sell?... stop .... stop...." and he rushed hatless into the street. "whither art thou running, akím ivánitch, whither art thou running, dear little father?"--cried the maid-servant fetínya, who collided with him in the doorway. "to the mistress! let me go! to the mistress...." roared akím, and catching sight of naúm's cart, which the servants had not yet had time to put in the stable-yard, he sprang into it, seized the reins, and lashing the horse with all his might, he set off at a gallop to the lady's manor-house. "dear little mother, lizavéta prókhorovna,"--he kept repeating to himself all the way,--"why such unkindness? i have shown zeal, methinks!" and, in the meantime, he kept on beating the horse. those who met him drew aside and gazed long after him. in a quarter of an hour akím had reached lizavéta prókhorovna's manor, had dashed up to the porch, had leaped from the cart, and burst straight into the anteroom. "what dost thou want?"--muttered the startled footman, who was sweetly dozing on the locker. "the mistress--i must see the mistress," vociferated akím loudly. the lackey was astounded. "has anything happened?"--he began. "nothing has happened, but i must see the mistress." "what, what?"--said the lackey, more and more astounded, straightening himself up. akím recovered himself... it was as though he had been drenched with cold water. "announce to the mistress, piótr evgráfitch,"--he said, with a low obeisance,--"that akím wishes to see her...." "good,... i will go .... i will announce thee .... but evidently thou art drunk. wait,"--grumbled the lackey, and withdrew. akím dropped his eyes and became confused, as it were.... his boldness had swiftly abandoned him from the very moment he had entered the anteroom. lizavéta prókhorovna was also disconcerted when akím's arrival was announced to her. she immediately gave orders that kiríllovna should be called to her in her boudoir. "i cannot receive him,"--she said hurriedly, as soon as the latter made her appearance;--"i cannot possibly do it. what can i say to him? did n't i tell thee that he would be sure to come and would complain?"--she added, with vexation and agitation;--"i said so...." "why should you receive him, ma'am?"--calmly replied kiríllovna;--"that is not necessary, ma'am. why should you disturb yourself, pray?" "but what am i to do?" "if you will permit me, i will talk with him." lizavéta prókhorovna raised her head. "pray, do me the favour, kiríllovna. do talk with him. do thou tell him .... there--well, that i found it necessary ... and, moreover, that i will make it up to him .... well, there now, thou knowest what to say. pray, do, kiríllovna." "please do not fret, madam,"--returned kiríllovna, and withdrew, with squeaking shoes. a quarter of an hour had not elapsed when their squeaking became audible again, and kiríllovna entered the boudoir with the same composed expression on her face, with the same crafty intelligence in her eyes. "well,"--inquired her mistress,--"how about akím?" "'t is all right, ma'am. he says, ma'am, that everything is in your power, he submits himself wholly to the will of your graciousness, and if only you keep well and prosperous, he will forever be satisfied with his lot." "and he made no complaint?" "none whatever, ma'am. what was there for him to complain about?" "but why did he come, then?"--said lizavéta prókhorovna, not without some surprise. "why, he came to ask, ma'am, until he receives compensation, whether you will not be so gracious as to remit his quit-rent for the coming year, that is to say ...." "of course i will! i will remit it,"--put in lizavéta prókhorovna, with vivacity;--"of course. and, tell him, in general terms, that i will reward him. well, i thank thee, kiríllovna. and he is a good peasant, i see. stay,"--she added:--"here, give him this from me."--and she took out of her work-table a three-ruble bill.--"here, take this and give it to him." "i obey, ma'am,"--replied kiríllovna, and coolly returning to her own room, she coolly locked up the bank-bill in an iron-bound casket which stood by the head of her bed; she kept in it all her ready money, and the amount was not small. kiríllovna by her report had soothed her lady, but the conversation between her and akím had, in reality, not been precisely as she represented it, but to wit: she had ordered him to be summoned to her in the maids' hall. at first he refused to go to her, declaring that he did not wish to see kiríllovna, but lizavéta prókhorovna herself; nevertheless, at last, he submitted, and wended his way through the back door to kiríllovna. he found her alone. on entering the room he came to a halt at once, leaned against the wall near the door, and made an effort to speak .... and could not. kiríllovna stared intently at him. "do you wish to see the mistress, akím semyónitch?"--she began. he merely nodded his head. "that is impossible, akím semyónitch. and what is the use? what is done can't be undone, and you will only worry her. she cannot receive you now, akím semyónitch." "she cannot,"--he repeated, and paused for a space.--"then how is it to be,"--he said at last;--"that means that i must lose my house?" "hearken, akím semyónitch. i know that you have always been a reasonable man. this is the mistress's will. and it cannot be changed. you cannot alter it. there is nothing for you and me to discuss, for it will lead to no result. is n't that so?" akím put his hands behind his back. "but you had better consider,"--went on kiríllovna,--"whether you ought not to ask the mistress to remit your quit-rent, had n't you?..." "that means that i must lose the house,"--repeated akím, in the same tone as before. "akím semyónitch, i 've told you already 't is impossible to change that. you know that yourself even better than i do." "yes. but tell me, at any rate, how much my inn sold for?" "i don't know that, akím semyónitch; i can't tell you.... but why do you stand there?"--she added.--"sit down...." "i 'll stand as i am, ma'am. i 'm a peasant. i thank you humbly." "why do you say that you are a peasant, akím semyónitch? you are the same as a merchant; you cannot be compared even with the house-serfs; why do you say that? don't decry yourself without cause. won't you have some tea?" "no, thanks; i don't require it. and so my dear little house has become your property,"--he added, quitting the wall.--"thanks for that, also. i will bid you good day, my little madam." thereupon he wheeled round, and left the room. kiríllovna smoothed down her apron, and betook herself to her mistress. "so it appears that i actually have become a merchant,"--said akím to himself, as he paused in thought before the gate.--"a fine merchant!" he waved his hand and laughed a bitter laugh.--"well, i might as well go home!" and utterly oblivious of naúm's horse, which he had driven thither, he trudged along the road to the inn. before he had covered the first verst, he heard the rattle of a cart alongside of him. "akím, akím semyónitch!"--some one called to him. he raised his eyes and beheld his acquaintance, the chanter of the parish church, efrém, nicknamed "the mole," a small, round-shouldered man, with a sharp-pointed little nose, and purblind eyes. he was sitting in a rickety little cart on a whisp of straw, with his breast leaning on the driver's seat. "art thou on thy way home, pray?"--he asked akím. akím halted. "yes." "i 'll drive you there,--shall i?" "all right, do." efrém moved aside, and akím clambered into the cart. efrém, who was jolly with drink, it appeared, set to lashing his miserable little nag with the ends of his rope reins; the horse advanced at a weary trot, incessantly twitching her unbridled muzzle. they drove about a verst, without saying one word to each other. akím sat with bowed head, and efrém merely mumbled something to himself, now stimulating the horse to greater speed, now reining it in. "whither hast thou been without a hat, semyónitch?"--he suddenly asked akím, and, without waiting for a reply, he went on in an undertone:--"thou hast left it in a nice little dram-shop, that 's what. thou 'rt a tippler; i know thee, and i love thee because thou art a tippler--'t was high time, long ago, to place thee under ecclesiastical censure, god is my witness; because 't is a bad business.... hurrah!"--he shouted suddenly, at the top of his lungs,--"hurrah! hurrah!" "halt! halt!"--rang out a woman's voice close at hand.--"halt!" akím glanced round. across the fields, in the direction of the cart, a woman was running, so pale and dishevelled that he did not recognise her at first. "halt, halt!"--she moaned again, panting and waving her arms. akím shuddered: it was his wife. he seized the reins. "and why should we halt?"--muttered efrém;--"why should we halt for a female? get u-uup!" but akím jerked the horse abruptly on its haunches. at that moment avdótya reached the road, and fairly tumbled headlong, face downward, in the dust. "dear little father, akím semyónitch,"--she shrieked;--"he has actually turned me out of doors!" akím gazed at her, and did not move, but merely drew the reins still more taut. "hurrah!"--cried efrém again. "and so he has turned thee out?"--said akím. "he has, dear little father, my dear little dove," replied avdótya, sobbing.--"he has turned me out, dear little father. 'the house is mine now,' says he; 'so get out,' says he." "capital, that 's just fine ... capital!"--remarked efrém. "and thou wert counting on remaining, i suppose?"--said akím, bitterly, as he continued to sit in the cart. "remain, indeed! yes, dear little father,"--put in avdótya, who had raised herself on her knees, and again beat her brow against the ground;--"for thou dost not know, seest thou, i.... kill me, akím semyónitch, kill me here, on the spot...." "why should i beat thee, aréfyevna!"--replied akím, dejectedly:--"thou hast vanquished thyself! what more is there to say?" "but what wilt thou think, akím semyónitch.... why, the money .... was thy money.... it is gone, thy money... for i took it, accursed that i am, i got it from the cellar..... i gave it all to that man, that villain, that naúm, accursed creature that i am!... and why didst thou tell me where thou hadst hidden thy money, wretched being that i am!.... for he bought the inn with thy money .... the villain...." sobs drowned her voice. akím clutched his head with both hands. "what!"--he screamed at last;--"and so all the money too ... the money, and the inn, thou hast.... ah! thou hast got it from the cellar .... from the cellar.... yes, i will kill thee, thou brood of vipers!..." and he leaped from the cart.... "semyónitch, semyónitch, don't beat her, don't fight,"--stammered efrém, whose intoxication began to dissipate at such an unexpected event. "yes, dear little father, kill me, kill me, dear little father, kill me, the vile creature: beat away, don't heed him!"--shrieked avdótya, as she writhed convulsively at akím's feet. he stood awhile and stared at her, then retreated a few paces, and sat down on the grass, by the roadside. a brief silence ensued. avdótya turned her head in his direction. "semyónitch, hey, semyónitch!"--began efrém, half-rising in the cart;--"have done with that--that will do ... for thou canst not repair the calamity. phew, what an affair!"--he continued, as though to himself;--"what a damned bad woman... do thou go to him,"--he added, bending over the cart-rail toward avdótya;--"canst not see that he has gone crazy?" avdótya rose, approached akím and again fell at his feet. "dear little father,"--she began in a faint voice. akím rose and went back to the cart. she clutched the skirt of his kaftan. "get away!"--he shouted fiercely, repulsing her. "whither art thou going?"--efrém asked him, perceiving that he was taking his seat again beside him. "why, thou didst offer to drive me to the inn,"--said akím:--"so drive me to thy house.... i have none any more, seest thou. they have bought it from me, you know." "well, all right, let 's go to my house. and how about her?" akím made no answer. "and me, me,"--chimed in avdótya, weeping;--"to whose care dost thou leave me .... whither am i to go?" "go to him,"--returned akím, without turning round:--"to the man to whom thou didst carry my money... drive on, efrém!" efrém whipped up the horse, the cart rolled off, and avdótya set up a shrill scream.... efrém lived a verst from akím's inn, in a tiny cot in the priest's glebe, disposed around the solitary five-domed church, which had recently been erected by the heirs of a wealthy merchant, in conformity with his testamentary dispositions. efrém did not speak to akím all the way, and only shook his head from time to time, uttering words of the following nature: "akh, thou!" and, "ekh, thou!" akím sat motionless, slightly turned away from efrém. at last they arrived. efrém sprang out first from the cart. a little girl of six years in a little chemise girt low ran out to meet him, and screamed: "daddy! daddy!" "and where is thy mother?"--efrém asked her. "she 's asleep in the kennel." "well, let her sleep. akím semyónitch, won't you please come into the house?" (it must be observed that efrém addressed him as "thou" only when he was intoxicated. far more important persons than he addressed akím as "you.") akím entered the chanter's cottage. "pray, come hither to the bench,"--said efrém.--"run along, you little rogues,"--he shouted at three other brats who, along with two emaciated cats bespattered with ashes, suddenly made their appearance from various corners of the room.--"run away! scat! here, akím semyónitch, come here,"--he went on, as he seated his guest:--"and would n't you like something?" "what shall i say to thee, efrém?"--articulated akím at last.--"could n't i have some liquor?" efrém gave a start. "liquor? certainly. i have none in the house,--liquor, that is to say,--but here, i 'll run at once to father feódor. he always has some on hand..... i 'll be back in a jiffy...." and he snatched up his large-eared cap. "and bring as much as possible; i 'll pay for it,"--shouted akím after him.--"i still have money enough for that." "in a jiffy,"... repeated efrém once more, as he disappeared through the door. he really did return very speedily with two quart bottles under his arm, one of which was already uncorked, placed them on the table, got out two small green glasses, the heel of a loaf, and salt. "that 's what i love,"--he kept repeating, as he seated himself opposite akím.--"what 's the use of grieving?"--he filled the glasses for both .... and set to babbling.... avdótya's behaviour had stunned him.--"'t is an astonishing affair, truly,"--said he:--"how did it come about? he must have bewitched her to himself by magic .... hey? that 's what it means, that a woman should be strictly watched! she ought to have had a tight hand kept over her. and yet, it would n't be a bad thing for you to go home; for you must have a lot of property left there, i think."--and to many more speeches of the same sort did efrém give utterance; when he was drinking he did not like to hold his tongue. an hour later, this is what took place in efrém's house. akím, who had not replied by a single word, during the entire course of the drinking-bout, to the interrogations and comments of his loquacious host, and had merely drained glass after glass, was fast asleep on the oven, all red in the face--in a heavy, anguished slumber; the youngsters were wondering at him, while efrém .... alas! efrém was asleep also, but only in a very cramped and cold lumber-room, in which he had been locked up by his wife, a woman of extremely masculine and robust build. he had gone to her in the stable, and had begun to threaten her, if she repeated something or other, but so incoherently and unintelligibly did he express himself that she instantly divined what the trouble was, grasped him by the collar, and led him to the proper place. however, he slept very well and even comfortably in the lumber-room. habit! kiríllovna had not reported her conversation with akím very accurately to lizavéta prókhorovna .... and the same may be said concerning avdótya. naúm had not turned her out of the house, although she had told akím that he had done so; he had not the right to expel her.... he was bound to give the former proprietors time to move out. explanations of quite another sort had taken place between him and avdótya. when akím had rushed into the street, shouting that he would go to the mistress, avdótya had turned to naúm, had stared at him with all her eyes, and clasped her hands. "o lord!"--she began;--"naúm ivánitch, what is the meaning of this? have you bought our inn?" "what if i have, ma'am?"--he retorted.--"i have bought it, ma'am." avdótya said nothing for a while, then suddenly took fright. "so that is what you wanted the money for?" "precisely as you are pleased to put it, ma'am. ehe, i do believe that measly little husband of yours has driven off with my horse,"--he added, as the rumble of wheels reached his ear.--"what a fine dashing fellow he is!" "why, but this is robbery, nothing else!"--shrieked avdótya.--"for the money is ours, my husband's, and the inn is ours ...." "no, ma'am, avdótya aréfyevna,"--naúm interrupted her:--"the inn was n't yours, and what 's the use of saying so; the inn stood on the lady-mistress's land, so it belonged to her also; and the money really was yours, only you were so kind, i may put it, as to contribute it to me, ma'am; and i shall remain grateful to you, and shall even, if the occasion arises, return it to you,--if i should see my way to it; only, it is n't right that i should strip myself bare. just judge for yourself if that is n't so." naúm said all this very calmly, and even with a slight smile. "good heavens!"--screamed avdótya;--"but what 's the meaning of this? what is it? but how am i to show myself in my husband's sight after this? thou villain!"--she added, gazing with hatred at naúm's young, fresh face;--"have n't i ruined my soul for thee, have n't i become a thief for thy sake, hast not thou turned us out of doors, thou abominable villain?! after this there is nothing left for me but to put a noose about my neck, villain, deceiver, thou destroyer of me...." and she wept in torrents.... "pray, don't worry, avdótya aréfyevna,"--said naúm;--"i 'll tell you one thing; a fellow must look out for number one; moreover, that 's what the pike is in the sea for, avdótya aréfyevna--to keep the carp from getting drowsy." "where are we to go now, what is to become of us?"--stammered avdótya through her tears. "that 's more than i can tell, ma'am." "but i 'll cut thy throat, thou villain; i will, i will!..." "no, you won't do that, avdótya aréfyevna; what 's the use of saying that? but i see that it will be better for me to go away from here for a while, or you will be much upset.... i will bid you good day, ma'am, and to-morrow i shall return without fail.... and you will be so good as to permit me to send my hired men to you to-day,"--he added, while avdótya continued to repeat, through her tears, that she would cut his throat and her own also. "and yonder they come, by the way,"--he remarked, looking out of the window. "otherwise, some catastrophe might happen, which god forbid.... matters will be more tranquil so. do me the favour to get your belongings together to-day, ma'am, while they will stand guard over you and help you, if you like. i bid you good day, ma'am." he bowed, left the room and called his men to him.... avdótya sank down on the wall-bench, then laid herself breast down on the table, and began to wring her hands, then suddenly sprang to her feet, and ran after her husband.... we have described their meeting. when akím drove away from her in company with efrém, leaving her alone in the fields, she first wept for a long time, without stirring from the spot. having wept her fill, she directed her course to the mistress's manor. it was a bitter thing for her to enter the house, and still more bitter to show herself in the maids'-hall. all the maids flew to greet her with sympathy and expressions of regret. at the sight of them, avdótya could not restrain her tears; they fairly gushed forth from her red and swollen eyes. completely unnerved, she dropped down on the first chair she came to. they ran for kiríllovna. kiríllovna came, treated her very affectionately, but would not admit her to see the mistress, any more than she had admitted akím. avdótya herself did not insist very strongly on seeing lizavéta prókhorovna; she had come to the manor-house solely because she positively did not know where to lay her head. kiríllovna ordered the samovár to be prepared. for a long time avdótya refused to drink tea, but yielded, at last, to the entreaties and persuasions of all the maids, and after the first cup drank four more. when kiríllovna perceived that her visitor was somewhat pacified, and only shuddered from time to time, sobbing faintly, she asked her whither they intended to remove, and what they wished to do with their things. this question set avdótya to crying again, and she began to asseverate that she wanted nothing more, except to die; but kiríllovna, being a woman of brains, immediately stopped her and advised her to set about transferring her things that very day, without useless waste of time, to akím's former cottage in the village, where dwelt his uncle, that same old man who had tried to dissuade him from marrying; she announced that, with the mistress's permission, they would be furnished with transportation, and the aid of people and horses; "and as for you, my dearest,"--added kiríllovna, compressing her cat-like lips in a sour smile,--"there will always be a place for you in our house, and it will be very agreeable to us if you will be our guest until you recover yourself and get settled in your house. the principal thing is--you must not get downcast. the lord gave, the lord has taken away, and he will give again: everything depends on his will. lizavéta prókhorovna, of course, was obliged to sell your house, according to her calculations, but she will not forget you, and will reward you; she bade me say so to akím semyónitch... where is he now?" avdótya replied that, on meeting her, he had grossly insulted her, and had driven off to chanter efrém's. "to that creature's!"--replied kiríllovna, significantly.--"well, i understand that it is painful for him now, and i don't believe you can hunt him up to-day. what is to be done? we must take measures, maláshka,"--she added, turning to one of the chambermaids. "just ask nikanór ílitch to step here; i will have a talk with him." nikanór ílitch, a man of very paltry appearance, who served somewhat in the capacity of overseer, immediately presented himself, obsequiously listened to everything which kiríllovna said to him,--remarked: "it shall be executed," left the room and issued his orders. avdótya was furnished with three carts and three peasants; these were voluntarily joined by a fourth, who said of himself that he would be "more intelligent than they," and she set off in company with them for the inn, where she found her former hired men and her maid-servant, fetínya, in great terror and excitement.... naúm's recruits, three extremely robust young fellows, had arrived in the morning, and had gone nowhere since, but had maintained a very zealous guard over the inn, according to naúm's promise--so zealous, that one cart speedily proved to be devoid of tires... bitter, very bitter was it for poor avdótya to pack up her things. despite the assistance of the "intelligent" man, who, by the way, knew how to do nothing but stalk about with a staff in his hand, and watch the others, and spit to one side, she did not succeed in moving out that day, and remained to spend the night in the inn, having first requested fetínya not to leave her room; but it was not until daybreak that she fell into a feverish doze, and the tears streamed down her cheeks even in her sleep. in the meantime, efrém awoke earlier than was his wont in his lumber-room, and began to thump and demand his release. at first his wife would not let him out, declaring to him through the door that he had not yet had enough sleep; but he excited her curiosity by promising to tell her about the remarkable thing which had happened to akím; she undid the latch.--efrém imparted to her everything he knew, and wound up with the question: "was he awake or not?" "why, the lord knows,"--replied his wife;--"go and see for thyself; he has not climbed down from the oven yet.--you both got pretty drunk last night; thou shouldst just see thyself--thy face has no semblance of a face; 't is like some sort of ladle; and what a lot of hay has got into thy hair!" "never mind if it has,"--returned efrém,--and passing his hand over his head, he entered the house.--akím was no longer asleep; he was sitting on the oven with his legs dangling; his face also was very strange and discomposed. it appeared all the more distorted because akím was not in the habit of drinking heavily. "well, how now, akím semyónitch, how have you slept?"--began efrém.... akím looked at him with a turbid gaze. "come, brother efrém,"--he said hoarsely,--"can't we do it again--thou knowest what?" efrém darted a swift glance at akím .... at that moment he felt a sort of thrill; that is the kind of sensation a sportsman experiences when standing on the skirt of the woods, at the sudden yelping of his hound in the forest, from which, apparently, all the wild beasts have already fled. "what--more?"--he asked at last. "yes; more." "my wife will see,"--thought efrém,--"and i don't believe she will allow it."--"all right, it can be done,"--he said aloud;--"have patience."--he went out and, thanks to artfully conceived measures, succeeded in smuggling in a huge bottle unperceived beneath the skirt of his coat.... akím seized the bottle ... but efrém did not start to drink with him as on the preceding evening--he was afraid of his wife, and,--having told akím that he would go and see how things were progressing at his house, and how his belongings were being packed, and whether he were not being robbed,--he immediately set off for the inn astride of his unfed little nag,--not forgetting himself, however, if we may take into consideration his projecting bosom. soon after his departure, akím fell asleep again, and lay like one dead on the oven.... he did not even wake up--at all events, he showed no signs of being awake--when efrém, returning four hours later, began to shove him and try to rouse him, and whisper over him some extremely indistinct words to the effect that everything was gone and transported and the holy pictures were gone too, and everything was already over--and that every one was hunting for him, but that he, efrém, had taken due measures, and had prohibited ... and so forth. but he did not whisper long. his wife led him off to the lumber-room again, and herself lay down in the house, on the platform over the oven, in great indignation at her husband and at the guest, thanks to whom her husband had got drunk.... but when, on awakening very early, according to her wont, she cast a glance at the oven, akím was no longer on it.... the cocks had not yet crowed for the second time, and the night was still so dark that the sky was barely turning grey directly overhead, and at the rim was still completely drowned in vapour, when akím emerged from the gate of the chanter's house. his face was pale, but he darted a keen glance around him, and his gait did not betray the drunkard.... he walked in the direction of his former dwelling--the inn, which had already definitively become the property of its new owner, naúm. naúm was not sleeping either, at the time when akím stealthily quitted efrém's house. he was not asleep; he was lying completely dressed on the wall-bench, with his sheepskin coat rolled up under his head. it was not that his conscience was tormenting him--no! he had been present with astounding cold-bloodedness, from the morning on, at the packing and transportation of akím's household goods, and had more than once spoken to avdótya, who was downcast to such a degree that she did not even upbraid him.... his conscience was at ease, but divers surmises and calculations occupied his mind. he did not know whether he was going to make a success of his new career; up to that time, he had never kept an inn--and, generally speaking, had never even had a nook of his own; and so he could not get to sleep.--"this little affair has been begun well,"--he thought;--"what will the future be?"... when the last cart-load of akím's effects had set off just before night-fall (avdótya had followed it weeping), he had inspected the entire inn, all the stables, cellars, and barns; he had crawled up into the attic, had repeatedly ordered his labourers to maintain a strict watch, and, when he was left alone after supper, he had not been able to get to sleep. it so happened that on that day none of the travellers stopped to pass the night; and this pleased him greatly. "i must buy a dog without fail to-morrow,--the worst-tempered dog i can get, from the miller; for they have carried off theirs,"--he said to himself, as he tossed from side to side, and, all of a sudden, he raised his head hastily.... it seemed to him as though some one had stolen past under the window... he listened... not a sound. only a grasshopper shrilled behind the oven, from time to time, and a mouse was gnawing somewhere, and his own breath was audible. all was still in the empty room, dimly illuminated by the yellow rays of a tiny glass shrine-lamp, which he had found time to suspend and light in front of a small holy picture in the corner... he lowered his head; and now again he seemed to hear the gate squeaking .... then the wattled hedge crackled faintly.... he could not endure it, leaped to his feet, opened the door into the next room, and called in a low tone: "feódor, hey, feódor!"--no one answered him.... he went out into the anteroom and nearly fell prone, as he stumbled over feódor, who was sprawling on the floor. the labourer stirred, growling in his sleep; he shook him. "who 's there? what 's wanted?"--feódor was beginning.... "what art thou yelling for? hold thy tongue!"--articulated naúm in a whisper.--"the idea of your sleeping, you damned brutes! hast thou not heard anything?" "no,"--replied the man.... "why?" "and where are the others sleeping?" "the others are sleeping where they were ordered to.... but has anything happened?..." "silence!--follow me." naúm softly opened the door leading from the anteroom into the yard.... out of doors everything was very dark;... it was possible to make out the sheds with their pillars only because they stood out still more densely black in the midst of the black mist.... "sha'n't i light a lantern?"--said feódor in a low voice. but naúm waved his hand and held his breath.... at first he could hear nothing except those nocturnal sounds which one can almost always hear in inhabited places: a horse was munching oats, a pig grunted once faintly in its sleep, a man was snoring somewhere; but suddenly there reached his ear a suspicious sort of noise, proceeding from the extreme end of the yard, close to the fence.... it seemed as though some one was moving about, and breathing or blowing.... naúm looked over feódor's shoulder, and, cautiously descending the steps, walked in the direction of the sound.... a couple of times he halted, and listened, then continued to creep stealthily onward.... suddenly he gave a start.... ten paces from him, in the dense gloom, a point of light suddenly glimmered brightly: it was a red-hot coal, and beside the coal there showed itself for a brief instant the front part of some one's face, with lips puffed out.... swiftly and silently naúm darted at the light, as a cat darts at a mouse.... hastily rising from the ground, a long body rushed to meet him, and almost knocked him from his feet, almost slipped through his hands, but he clung to it with all his might.... "feódor! andréi! petrúshka!"--he shouted, at the top of his lungs;--"come here quick, quick! i 've caught a thief, an incendiary!" the man whom he had captured struggled and resisted .... but naúm did not release him.... feódor immediately darted to his assistance. "a lantern, quick, a lantern! run for a lantern! wake the others, be quick!"--naúm shouted to him,--"and i 'll manage him alone meanwhile--i 'll sit on him... be quick! and fetch a belt to bind him with!" feódor flew to the cottage.... the man whom naúm was holding suddenly ceased his resistance.... "so, evidently, 't is not enough for thee to have taken my wife and my money, and my house, but thou art bent on destroying me also,"--he said in a dull tone.... naúm recognised akím's voice. "so 't is thou, dear little dove,"--said he;--"good, just wait a bit!" "let me go,"--said akím.--"art not thou satisfied?" "see here, to-morrow i 'll show you in the presence of the judge how satisfied i am...." and naúm tightened his hold on akím.... the labourers ran up with two lanterns and some ropes.... "bind him!"--ordered naúm, sharply.... the labourers seized akím, lifted him up, and bound his hands behind him.... one of them was beginning to swear, but on recognising the former landlord of the inn, he held his peace, and merely exchanged glances with the others. "just see there, see there, now,"--naúm kept repeating the while, as he passed the lantern along the ground;--"yonder, there are coals in a pot; just look, he has brought a whole firebrand in the pot--we must find out where he got that pot ... and here, he has broken twigs...." and naúm assiduously stamped out the fire with his foot.--"search him, feódor!"--he added, "and see whether he has anything more about him." feódor searched and felt akím, who stood motionless with his head drooping on his breast, like a dead man.--"there is--here 's a knife,"--said feódor, drawing an old kitchen-knife from akím's breast. "ehe, my dear fellow, so that 's what thou hadst in mind!"--exclaimed naúm.--"you are witnesses, my lads--see there, he intended to cut my throat, to burn up my house.... lock him up in the cellar until morning; he can't get out of there.... i will stand watch all night myself, and to-morrow at dawn we will take him to the chief of police .... and you are witnesses, do you hear...." they thrust akím into the cellar, and slammed the door behind him.... naúm stationed two of the labourers there, and did not lie down to sleep himself. in the meantime, efrém's wife, having convinced herself that her unbidden guest had taken himself off, was on the point of beginning her cooking, although it was hardly daylight out of doors as yet. she squatted down by the oven to get some coals, and saw that some one had already raked out the live embers thence; then she bethought herself of her knife--and did not find it; in conclusion, one of her four pots was missing. efrém's wife bore the reputation of being anything but a stupid woman--and with good reason. she stood for a while in thought, then went to the lumber-room to her husband. it was not easy to arouse him fully--and still more difficult was it to make him understand why he had been awakened... to everything which his wife said, chanter efrém made one and the same reply: "he 's gone,--well, god be with him ... but what business is that of mine? he has carried off a knife and a pot--well, god be with him--but what business is that of mine?" but, at last, he rose, and after listening intently to his wife, he decided that it was a bad business, and that it could not be left as it now stood. "yes,"--the chanter's wife insisted,--"'t is a bad business; i do believe he 'll do mischief out of desperation.... i noticed last night that he was not asleep as he lay there on the oven; it would n't be a bad idea for thee, efrém alexándritch, to find out whether ...." "see here, ulyána feódorovna, i 'll tell thee what,"--began efrém;--"i 'll go to the inn myself immediately; and do thou be kind, dear little mother; give me a little glass of liquor to cure me of my drunkenness." ulyána reflected. "well,"--she decided at last,--"i 'll give thee some liquor, efrém alexándritch; only look out, don't dally." "be at ease, ulyána feódorovna." and, having fortified himself with a glass of liquor, efrém set out for the inn. day had but just dawned when he rode up to the inn, and at the gate a cart was already standing harnessed, and one of naúm's labourers was sitting on the driver's seat, holding the reins in his hands. "whither art thou going?"--efrém asked him. "to town,"--replied the labourer. "why?" the labourer merely shrugged his shoulders and made no reply. efrém sprang from his horse and entered the house. in the anteroom he ran across naúm, fully dressed, and wearing a cap. "i congratulate the new landlord on his new domicile,"--said efrém, who was personally acquainted with him.--"whither away so early?" "yes, there is cause for congratulation,"--replied naúm, surlily.--"this is my first day, and i have almost been burnt out." efrém started.--"how so?" "why, just that; a kind man turned up, who tried to set the house on fire. luckily, i caught him in the act; now i 'm taking him to town." "it can't be akím, can it?".... asked efrém, slowly. "and how dost thou know? it is akím. he came by night, with a firebrand in a pot, and had already crept into the yard, and laid a fire.... all my lads are witnesses.--wouldst like to take a look? but, by the way, 't is high time we were carrying him off." "dear little father, naúm ivánitch,"--began efrém,--"release him; don't utterly ruin the old man. don't take that sin on your soul, naúm ivánitch. just reflect,--the man is desperate,--he has lost, you know ...." "stop that prating!"--naúm interrupted him.--"the idea! as though i would let him go! why, he would set me on fire again to-morrow...." "he will not do it, naúm ivánitch, believe me. believe me, you yourself will be more at ease so--for, you see, there will be inquiries--the court--you surely know what i mean." "well, and what about the court? i have nothing to fear from the court...." "dear little father, naúm ivánitch, how can you help fearing the court?..." "eh, stop that; i see that thou art drunk early, and to-day is a feast-day, to boot." efrém suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, fell to weeping. "i am drunk, but i 'm speaking the truth,"--he blurted out.--"but do you release him, in honour of christ's festival." "come, let 's be starting, cry-baby." and naúm went out on the porch.... "forgive him for avdótya aréfyevna's sake,"--said efrém, following him. naúm approached the cellar, and threw the door wide open. efrém, with timorous curiosity, craned his neck from behind naúm's back, and with difficulty made out akím in one corner of the shallow cellar. the former wealthy householder, the man respected in all the countryside, was sitting with pinioned arms on the straw, like a criminal... on hearing the noise, he raised his head.... he seemed to have grown frightfully thin in the last two days, especially during the last night--his sunken eyes were hardly visible beneath his lofty brow, yellow as wax, his parched lips had turned dark ... his whole face had undergone a change, and assumed a strange expression: both harsh and terrified. "get up and come out,"--said naúm. akím rose, and stepped across the threshold. "akím semyónitch,"--roared efrém,--"thou hast ruined thyself, my dear man!" akím glanced at him in silence. "if i had known why thou didst ask for liquor, i would n't have given it to thee; indeed, i would n't! i do believe i would have drunk it all myself! ekh, naúm ivánitch,"--added efrém, seizing naúm by the hand;--"have mercy on him, let him go!" "thou 'rt joking,"--retorted naúm, with a grin.--"come out, there,"--he added, again addressing akím... "what art thou waiting for?" "naúm ivánoff,".... began akím. "what?" "naúm ivánoff,"--repeated akím;--"listen; i am guilty; i wanted to punish thee myself; but god must judge between thou and me. thou hast taken everything from me, thou knowest that thyself--everything, to the very last morsel.--now thou canst ruin me, and this is all i have to say to thee: if thou wilt release me now--well! let things stand! do thou possess everything! i agree, and wish thee all success. and i say to thee, as in the presence of god: if thou dost release me--thou shalt not regret it. god bless thee!" akím shut his eyes, and ceased speaking. "certainly, certainly,"--retorted naúm;--"as though one could trust thee!" "but thou canst, by god, thou canst!"--said efrém; "really, thou canst. i 'm ready to go bail for akím semyónitch with my head--come now, really!" "nonsense!"--exclaimed naúm.--"let 's be off!" akím looked at him. "as thou wilt, naúm ivánitch. thou hast the power. only, thou art taking a great deal on thy soul. all right, if thou art impatient,--let us start...." naúm, in his turn, darted a keen glance at akím. "but it really would be better,"--he thought to himself, "to let him go to the devil! otherwise, folks will devour me alive. there 'll be no living for avdótya.".... while naúm was reasoning with himself no one uttered a single word. the labourer on the cart, who could see everything through the gate, merely shook his head and slapped the reins on the horse's back. the other two labourers stood on the porch and also maintained silence. "come, listen to me, old man,"--began naúm;--"if i let thee go,--and i forbid these fine fellows" (he nodded his head in the direction of the labourers) "to blab; shall we be quits, thou and i--thou understandest me--quits .... hey?" "possess everything, i say." "thou wilt not consider me in thy debt?" "thou wilt not be in debt to me, neither shall i be in debt to thee." again naúm was silent for a space. "well, take thy oath on that!" "i do, as god is holy,"--replied akím. "here goes then, although i know beforehand that i shall repent of it,"--remarked naúm.--"but so be it! give me your hands." akím turned his back toward him; naúm began to unbind him. "look out, old man,"--he added, as he slipped the rope over his wrists:--"remember, i have spared thee; be careful!" "you 're a dear, naúm ivánitch,"--stammered the deeply-moved efrém.--"the lord will be merciful to you!" akím stretched out his chilled and swollen arms, and was starting for the gate.... all of a sudden naúm "turned jewish," as the expression is--evidently, he was sorry that he had released akím.... "thou hast taken an oath, look out,"--he shouted after him. akím turned round, and surveying the house with an embracing glance, said sadly:--"possess thou everything, forever, undisturbed .... farewell." and he stepped quietly into the street, accompanied by efrém. naúm waved his hand, ordered the cart to be unharnessed, and went back into the house. "whither away, akím semyónitch? art not thou coming to my house?"--exclaimed efrém,--perceiving that akím turned to the right from the highway. "no, efrémushka, thanks,"--replied akím.... "i will go and see what my wife is doing." "thou canst see later on.... but now thou must for joy .. thou knowest ...." "no, thanks, efrém.... i 've had enough as it is. farewell."--and akím walked away without looking behind him. "eka! he has had enough as it is!"--ejaculated the astounded chanter;--"and i have taken my oath on his behalf! well, i did n't expect this,"--he added with vexation,--"after i had vouched for him. phew!" he remembered that he had forgotten to take his knife and pot, and returned to the inn.... naúm gave orders that his things should be delivered to him, but it never entered his head to entertain him. thoroughly enraged and completely sober he presented himself at home. "well, what?"--his wife asked him;--"didst thou find him?" "did i find him?"--retorted efrém;--"certainly i found him; there are thy utensils for thee." "akím?"--inquired his wife, with special emphasis. efrém nodded his head. "yes, akím. but what a goose he is! i went bail for him; without me he would have been put in prison, and he never even treated me to a glass of liquor. ulyána feódorovna, do you, at least, show me consideration; give me just one little glass." but ulyána feódorovna showed him no consideration and drove him out of her sight. in the meantime, akím was proceeding with quiet strides along the road which led to lizavéta prókhorovna's village. he had not yet been able fully to recover himself; he was all quivering inside, like a man who has but just escaped imminent death. he seemed not to believe in his freedom. with dull amazement he stared at the fields, at the sky, at the larks which were fluttering their wings in the warm air. on the previous day, at efrém's house, he had not slept at all since dinner, although he had lain motionless on the oven; at first he had tried to drown with liquor the intolerable pain of injury within him, the anguish of wrathful, impotent indignation .... but the liquor could not entirely overcome him; his heart waxed hot within him, and he began to meditate how he might pay off his malefactor.... he thought of naúm alone; lizavéta prókhorovna did not enter his head, and from avdótya he mentally turned away. toward evening, the thirst for revenge had blazed up in him to the point of crime, and he, the good-natured, weak man, with feverish impatience waited for the night, and like a wolf pouncing on its prey, he rushed forth with fire in his hand to annihilate his former home... but he had been captured .... locked up.... night came. what had not he turned over in his mind during that atrocious night! it is difficult to convey in words all the tortures which he had undergone; it is all the more difficult, because these torments even in the man himself were wordless and dumb.... toward morning, before the arrival of naúm and efrém, akím had felt somewhat easier in mind... "everything is lost!".... he thought .... "everything is scattered to the winds!"--and he waved his hand in despair over everything.... if he had been born with an evil soul, he might have turned into a criminal at that moment; but evil was not a characteristic of akím. beneath the shock of the unexpected and undeserved calamity, in the reek of despair, he had made up his mind to a felonious deed; it had shaken him to the very foundations, and, having miscarried, it had left behind in him a profound weariness.... conscious of his guilt, he wrenched his heart free from all earthly things, and began to pray bitterly but zealously. at first he prayed in a whisper, at last, accidentally, perhaps, he ejaculated almost aloud: "o lord!"--and the tears gushed from his eyes.... long did he weep, then calmed down at last.... his thoughts probably would have undergone a change, had he been forced to smart for his attempt of the day before ... but now he had suddenly recovered his liberty ... and, half-alive, all shattered, but calm, he was on his way to an interview with his wife. lizavéta prókhorovna's manor stood a verst and a half distant from her village, on the left-hand side of the country road along which akím was walking. at the turn which led to the manor, he was on the point of pausing .... but he marched past. he had decided first to go to his former cottage, to his old uncle. akím's tiny and already rickety cottage was situated almost at the extreme end of the village; akím traversed the entire length of the street without encountering a single soul. the whole population was in church. only one ailing old woman lifted her window to gaze after him, and a little girl, who had run out to the well with an empty bucket, gaped in wonder at him and also followed him with her eyes. the first person whom he met was precisely the uncle whom he was seeking. the old man had been sitting since early morning on the earthen bank outside the cottage under the windows, taking snuff, and warming himself in the sun; he was not quite well, and for that reason had not gone to church; he was on his way to see another ailing old man, a neighbour, when he suddenly espied akím.... he stopped short, let the latter come up to him, and looking him in the face, he said: "morning, akímushka!" "morning,"--replied akím, and stepping past the old man, he entered the gate to his cottage.... in the yard stood his horses, his cow, his cart; and his chickens were roaming about there also.... he entered the cottage in silence. the old man followed him. akím seated himself on the bench, and rested his clenched fists on it. the old man gazed compassionately at him, from his stand at the door. "and where is my housewife?"--inquired akím. "why, at the manor-house,"--replied the old man, briskly. "she is there. they have placed thy cattle here, and thy coffers, just as they were--but she is yonder. shall i go for her?" akím did not reply immediately. "yes, go,"--he said at last. "ekh, uncle, uncle,"--he articulated with a sigh, while the latter was taking his cap from its nail:--"dost thou remember what thou saidst to me on the eve of my wedding?" "god's will rules all things, akímushka." "dost thou remember how thou saidst to me that i was no fit mate for you peasants--and now see what a pass things have come to.... i myself have become as poor as a church mouse." "a man can't make calculations against bad people,"--replied the old man;--"and as for him, the dishonest scoundrel, if any one were to teach him a good lesson, some gentleman, for instance, or any other power,--what cause would there be to fear him? the wolf recognised his prey."--and the old man put on his cap and departed. avdótya had but just returned from church when she was informed that her husband's uncle was inquiring for her. up to that time she had very rarely seen him; he had not been in the habit of coming to their inn, and in general he bore the reputation of being a queer fellow; he was passionately fond of snuff, and preserved silence most of the time. she went out to him. "what dost thou want, petróvitch? has anything happened, pray?" "nothing has happened, avdótya aréfyevna; thy husband is asking for thee." "has he returned?" "yes." "but where is he?" "why, in the village; he 's sitting in his cottage." avdótya quailed. "well, petróvitch,"--she asked, looking him straight in the eye,--"is he angry?" "'t is not perceptible that he is." avdótya dropped her eyes. "well, come along,"--she said, throwing on a large kerchief, and the two set out. they walked in silence until they reached the village. but when they began to draw near to the cottage, avdótya was seized with such alarm that her knees trembled under her. "dear little father, petróvitch,"--she said,--"do thou go in first.... tell him that i have come." petróvitch entered the cottage and found akím sitting buried in profound thought, on the selfsame spot where he had left him. "well,"--said akím, raising his head;--"has n't she come?" "yes, she has come,"--replied the old man.--"she 's standing at the gate...." "send her hither." the old man went out, waved his hand to avdótya, said to her: "go along!" and sat down again himself on the earthen bank along the cottage wall. with trepidation avdótya opened the door, crossed the threshold and paused.... akím looked at her. "well, aréfyevna,"--he began,--"what are we--thou and i--to do now?" "forgive me,"--she whispered. "ekh, aréfyevna, we are all sinful folks. what 's the use of discussing it!" "that villain has ruined both of us,"--began avdótya in a voice which jingled and broke, and the tears streamed down her face.--"thou must not let things stand as they are, akím semyónitch; thou must get the money from him. do not spare me. i am ready to declare under oath that i lent the money to him. lizavéta prókhorovna had a right to sell our house, but why should he rob us?.... get the money from him." "i have no money to receive from him,"--replied akím, gloomily.--"he and i have settled our accounts." avdótya was astounded.--"how so?" "why, because we have. knowest thou,"--pursued akím, and his eyes began to blaze;--"knowest thou where i spent the night? thou dost not know? in naúm's cellar, bound hand and foot, like a ram, that 's where i spent last night. i tried to burn down his house, and he caught me, did naúm; he 's awfully clever! and to-day he was preparing to carry me to the town, but he pardoned me; consequently, there is no money coming to me from him.... 'and when did i ever borrow any money of thee?' he will say. and am i to say: 'my wife took it out from under my floor, and carried it to thee?'--'thy wife is a liar,' he will say. and would n't it be a big exposure for thee, aréfyevna? hold thy tongue, rather, i tell thee, hold thy tongue." "forgive me, semyónitch, forgive me,"--whispered the thoroughly frightened avdótya. "that 's not the point,"--replied akím, after remaining silent for a while:--"but what are we--thou and i--to do? we no longer have a home ... nor money either...." "we 'll get along somehow, akím semyónitch;--we will ask lizavéta prókhorovna and she will help us; kiríllovna has promised me that." "no, aréfyevna, thou mayest ask her for thyself along with thy kiríllovna; thou and she are birds of a feather.[43] but i 'll tell thee what: do thou stay here, with god's blessing. i shall not stay here. luckily, we have no children, and perhaps i shall not starve alone. one person can worry along alone." "what wilt thou do, semyónitch--dost mean to go as carrier again?" akím laughed bitterly. "a pretty carrier i would make, there 's no denying that! a fine, dashing young fellow thou hast picked out! no, aréfyevna, that is not the same sort of business as marrying, for example; an old man is not fit for it. only i will not remain here, that 's what; i won't have people pointing the finger at me .... understand? i shall go to pray away my sins, aréfyevna, that 's where i shall go." "what sins hast thou, semyónitch?"--articulated avdótya, timidly. "well, wife, i know what they are." "but in whose care wilt thou leave me, semyónitch? how am i to live without a husband?" "in whose care shall i leave thee? ekh, aréfyevna, how thou sayest that, forsooth! much need hast thou of a husband like me, and an old man and a ruined one to boot. the idea! thou has dispensed with me before, thou canst dispense with me hereafter also. and what property we have left thou mayest take for thyself, curse it!...." "as thou wilt, semyónitch,"--replied avdótya, sadly;--"thou knowest best about that." "exactly so. only, don't think that i am angry with thee, aréfyevna. "no, what 's the use of being angry, when .... i ought to have discovered how things stood earlier in the day. i myself am to blame--and i am punished."--(akím heaved a sigh.)--"as you have made your bed, so you must lie upon it.[44] i am advanced in years, and 't is time for me to be thinking of my soul. the lord himself has brought me to my senses. here was i, seest thou, an old fool, who wanted to live at his ease with a young wife.... no, brother--old man, first do thou pray, and beat thy brow against the earth, and be patient, and fast.... and now, go, my mother. i am very tired and i will get a bit of sleep." and akím stretched himself out, grunting on the bench. avdótya started to say something, stood for a while gazing at him, then turned and went away.... "well, did n't he thrash thee?"--petróvitch asked her, as he sat, all bent double, on the earthen bank, when she came alongside of him. avdótya passed him in silence.--"see there now, he did n't beat her,"--said the old man to himself, as he grinned, ruffled up his hair, and took a pinch of snuff. akím carried out his purpose. he speedily put his petty affairs in order, and a few days after the conversation which we have transcribed, he went, already garbed for the journey, to bid farewell to his wife, who had settled for the time being in a tiny wing of the mistress's manor-house. their leave-taking did not last long.... kiríllovna, who chanced to be on hand, advised akím to present himself to the mistress; and he did so. lizavéta prókhorovna received him with a certain amount of confusion, but affably permitted him to kiss her hand, and inquired where he was intending to betake himself? he replied that he was going first to kíeff, and thence wherever god should grant. she lauded his purpose, and dismissed him. from that time forth he rarely made his appearance at home, although he never forgot to bring his mistress a blessed bread with a particle taken out for her health....[45] but, on the other hand, everywhere where devout russians congregate, his gaunt and aged but still comely and sedate face was to be seen: at the shrine of st. sergius, and on the white shores, and in the óptin hermitage, and in distant valaám.[46] he went everywhere.... this year he passed you in the ranks of the countless throng which marched in a procession of the cross behind the holy picture of the birth-giver of god at the korennáya hermitage;[47] next year you would find him sitting with his wallet on his back, along with other pilgrims on the porch of st. nicholas the wonder-worker in mtzensk.... he made his appearance in moscow nearly every spring. from place to place he trudged with his quiet, unhurried but unceasing stride--'t is said that he even went to jerusalem.... he appeared to be perfectly composed and happy, and many persons talked about his piety and humility, especially those people who had chanced to converse with him. in the meanwhile, naúm's affairs throve exceedingly. he took hold briskly and understandingly, and, as the saying is, went to the head fast. everybody in the neighbourhood knew by what means he had acquired possession of the inn, and they knew also that avdótya had given him her husband's money; no one liked naúm because of his cold and harsh character..... they narrated with condemnation concerning him that one day he had replied to akím himself, who had begged alms under his window, "god will provide," and had brought out nothing to him; but all agreed that no more lucky man than he existed; his grain throve better than his neighbours' grain; his bees swarmed more abundantly; even his hens laid more eggs; his cattle never fell ill; his horses never went lame..... for a long time avdótya could not endure to hear his name (she had accepted lizavéta prókhorovna's offer, and had again entered her service in the capacity of head-seamstress); but eventually, her aversion diminished somewhat; 't was said that want forced her to have recourse to him, and he gave her a hundred rubles.... we shall not condemn her too severely; poverty will break any one's spirit, and the sudden revolution in her life had aged and tamed her down greatly; it is difficult to believe how quickly she lost her good looks, how she grew disheartened and low-spirited.... "and how did it all end?"--the reader will ask. thus: naúm, after having conducted his business successfully for fifteen years, sold his inn on profitable terms to a petty burgher.... he never would have parted with his house if the following apparently insignificant incident had not occurred: two mornings in succession his dog, as it sat in front of the windows, howled in a prolonged and mournful manner; on the second occasion he went out into the street, gazed attentively at the howling dog, shook his head, set off for the town, and that very day agreed on the price with a petty burgher, who had long been trying to purchase his inn.... a week later he departed for some distant place--out of the government,--and what think you? that very night the inn was burned to the ground; not even a kennel remained intact, and naúm's successor was reduced to beggary. the reader can easily imagine what rumours arose in the neighbourhood concerning this conflagration.... evidently he carried his "luck" away with him, all declared.... it is reported that he engaged in the grain business, and became very wealthy. but was it for long? other equally firm pillars have fallen prone, and sooner or later a bad deed has a bad ending. it is not worth while to say much about lizavéta prókhorovna: she is alive to this day, and as often happens with people of that sort, she has not changed in the least; she has not even aged much, but only seems to have grown more lean; moreover, her penuriousness has increased to an extreme degree, although it is difficult to understand for whom she is always hoarding, since she has no children, and is related to no one. in conversation she frequently alludes to akím, and avers that ever since she discovered all his fine qualities, she has come to cherish a great respect for the russian peasant. kiríllovna has purchased her freedom from lizavéta prókhorovna for a considerable sum and has married, for love, some fair-haired young butler or other, at whose hands she endures bitter torture; avdótya is living, as of yore, in the woman's wing of lizavéta prókhorovna's house, but has descended several rungs lower, dresses very poorly, almost filthily, and retains not a trace of the cityfied affectations of the fashionable maid, or the habits of a well-to-do landlady.... no one takes any notice of her, and she herself is glad that they do not; old petróvitch is dead, but akím is still roving on pilgrimages--and god alone knows how much longer he is destined to wander! footnotes: [32] leipzig. [33] a _desyatína_ is 2.70 acres. he was obliged to buy the land in his owner's name: serfs could not hold landed property.--translator. [34] st. petersburg.--translator. [35] to the holy pictures.--translator. [36] see note on p. 273.--translator. [37] he had been a staff-officer in the civil service, according to peter the great's table of ranks.--translator. [38] these numerous maids, in the old serf days, were employed in making the most exquisite linen, lace, embroidery, and so forth.--translator. [39] the beard was regarded as a mark of peasant origin.--translator. [40] neither field-serfs nor the superior house-serfs were addressed by their patronymic (like the nobility). dunyásha is the diminutive of avdóty.--translator. [41] it is customary to have a holy picture, with a shrine-lamp filled with olive-oil burning before it, in bedrooms.--translator. [42] the difference in value between paper and silver money was considerable in those days, and the sort of currency is generally specified.--translator. [43] in russian: "berries from the same field."--translator. [44] in russian: "if you are fond of sleighing, then be fond also of dragging the sledge."--translator. [45] tiny double loaves of leavened bread, like those used in preparing the holy communion, are sold at the entrances to churches. any one who wishes to have the health of his living or the souls of his dead friend prayed for, buys a loaf, and sends it to the sanctuary before the beginning of the morning service, accompanied by a slip of paper, whereon is written: "for the health" (or "for the soul") "of iván"--or whatever the friend's baptismal name may be. the priest removes from the loaf with his spear-shaped knife a triangular particle, which he places on the chalice (it is not used in the communion), and at a certain point of the service, all these persons are prayed for, by name--the lord being aware which of the iváns or máryas is intended. after the service the loaf is returned to the owner, who carries it home, and (when possible) gives it to the person who has been prayed for. it is the custom for pilgrims to the various shrines to bring back loaves of this sort to their friends, and these are highly prized. at some of the famous monasteries, instead of the customary imprint of a cross and the greek letters meaning "jesus christ the conqueror," which are used on the loaves for the communion, a special holy bread (prosforá) is prepared for this purpose, stamped with the saint or saints for which the locality is renowned. in the primitive church, the worshippers were wont to bring offerings of bread, wine, oil and wheat, for the requirements of the service. as long as the congregations were not numerous, all such givers were prayed for by name. when members became so numerous that this would have been burdensome, the custom was instituted of praying for the sovereign and his family, as representatives of all the rest: and this last custom still prevails, mingled (as above described) with a remnant of the original custom.--translator. [46] the shrine of st. sergius at the tróitzky (trinity) monastery, forty miles from moscow. the óptin hermitage in tambóff government. "the white shores"--the famous monasteries of solovétzk, in the white sea, and at byélo-ózero (white lake), south of lake onéga. valáam, an island in lake ladóga, with another famous monastery.--translator. [47] the korennáya hermitage lies about sixteen miles northwest of kursk, in southern russia. mtzensk, nearer the centre, is half-way between orél and túla.--translator. transcriber's notes: the following is a list of changes made to the original. the first line is the original line, the second the corrected one. torturing forboding gripped my breast. liza torturing foreboding gripped my breast. liza native parts." afanásy afanásievitch was renowned native parts." afanásy lúkitch was renowned i am punished."--(akim heaved a sigh.)--"as i am punished."--(akím heaved a sigh.)--"as a reckless character and other stories by iván turgénieff translated from the russian by isabel f. hapgood new york, charles scribner's sons, 1907. contents: a reckless character the dream father alexyéi's story old portraits the song of love triumphant clara mílitch poems in prose endnotes a reckless character[1] (1881) i there were eight of us in the room, and we were discussing contemporary matters and persons, "i do not understand these gentlemen!" remarked a.--"they are fellows of a reckless sort.... really, desperate.... there has never been anything of the kind before." "yes, there has," put in p., a grey-haired old man, who had been born about the twenties of the present century;--"there were reckless men in days gone by also. some one said of the poet yázykoff, that he had enthusiasm which was not directed to anything, an objectless enthusiasm; and it was much the same with those people--their recklessness was without an object. but see here, if you will permit me, i will narrate to you the story of my grandnephew, mísha pólteff. it may serve as a sample of the recklessness of those days." he made his appearance in god's daylight in the year 1828, i remember, on his father's ancestral estate, in one of the most remote nooks of a remote government of the steppes. i still preserve a distinct recollection of mísha's father, andréi nikoláevitch pólteff. he was a genuine, old-fashioned landed proprietor, a pious inhabitant of the steppes, sufficiently well educated,--according to the standards of that epoch,--rather crack-brained, if the truth must be told, and subject, in addition, to epileptic fits.... that also is an old-fashioned malady.... however, andréi nikoláevitch's attacks were quiet, and they generally terminated in a sleep and in a fit of melancholy.--he was kind of heart, courteous in manner, not devoid of some pomposity: i have always pictured to myself the tzar mikhaíl feódorovitch as just that sort of a man. andréi nikoláevitch's whole life flowed past in the punctual discharge of all the rites established since time immemorial, in strict conformity with all the customs of ancient-orthodox, holy-russian life. he rose and went to bed, he ate and went to the bath, he waxed merry or wrathful (he did both the one and the other rarely, it is true), he even smoked his pipe, he even played cards (two great innovations!), not as suited his fancy, not after his own fashion, but in accordance with the rule and tradition handed down from his ancestors, in proper and dignified style. he himself was tall of stature, of noble mien and brawny; he had a quiet and rather hoarse voice, as is frequently the case with virtuous russians; he was neat about his linen and his clothing, wore white neckerchiefs and long-skirted coats of snuff-brown hue, but his noble blood made itself manifest notwithstanding; no one would have taken him for a priest's son or a merchant! andréi nikoláevitch always knew, in all possible circumstances and encounters, precisely how he ought to act and exactly what expressions he must employ; he knew when he ought to take medicine, and what medicine to take, which symptoms he should heed and which might be disregarded ... in a word, he knew everything that it was proper to do.... it was as though he said: "everything has been foreseen and decreed by the old men--the only thing is not to devise anything of your own.... and the chief thing of all is, don't go even as far as the threshold without god's blessing!"--i am bound to admit that deadly tedium reigned in his house, in those low-ceiled, warm, dark rooms which so often resounded from the chanting of vigils and prayer-services,[2] with an odour of incense and fasting-viands,[3] which almost never left them! andréi nikoláevitch had married, when he was no longer in his first youth, a poor young noblewoman of the neighbourhood, a very nervous and sickly person, who had been reared in one of the government institutes for gentlewomen. she played far from badly on the piano; she spoke french in boarding-school fashion; she was given to enthusiasm, and still more addicted to melancholy, and even to tears.... in a word, she was of an uneasy character. as she considered that her life had been ruined, she could not love her husband, who, "as a matter of course," did not understand her; but she respected, she tolerated him; and as she was a thoroughly honest and perfectly cold being, she never once so much as thought of any other "object." moreover, she was constantly engrossed by anxieties: in the first place, over her really feeble health; in the second place, over the health of her husband, whose fits always inspired her with something akin to superstitious terror; and, in conclusion, over her only son, mísha, whom she reared herself with great zeal. andréi nikoláevitch did not prevent his wife's busying herself with mísha--but on one condition: she was never, under any circumstances, to depart from the limits, which had been defined once for all, wherein everything in his house must revolve! thus, for example: during the christmas holidays and vasíly's evening preceding the new year, mísha was not only permitted to dress up in costume along with the other "lads,"--doing so was even imposed upon him as an obligation....[4] on the other hand, god forbid that he should do it at any other time! and so forth, and so forth. ii i remember this mísha at the age of thirteen. he was a very comely lad with rosy little cheeks and soft little lips (and altogether he was soft and plump), with somewhat prominent, humid eyes; carefully brushed and coifed--a regular little girl!--there was only one thing about him which displeased me: he laughed rarely; but when he did laugh his teeth, which were large, white, and pointed like those of a wild animal, displayed themselves unpleasantly; his very laugh had a sharp and even fierce--almost brutal--ring to it; and evil flashes darted athwart his eyes. his mother always boasted of his being so obedient and polite, and that he was not fond of consorting with naughty boys, but always was more inclined to feminine society. "he is his mother's son, an effeminate fellow," his father, andréi nikoláevitch, was wont to say of him:--"but, on the other hand, he likes to go to god's church.... and that delights me." only one old neighbour, a former commissary of the rural police, once said in my presence concerning mísha:--"good gracious! he will turn out a rebel." and i remember that that word greatly surprised me at the time. the former commissary of police, it is true, had a habit of descrying rebels everywhere. just this sort of exemplary youth did mísha remain until the age of eighteen,--until the death of his parents, whom he lost on almost one and the same day. as i resided constantly in moscow, i heard nothing about my young relative. some one who came to town from his government did, it is true, inform me that mísha had sold his ancestral estate for a song; but this bit of news seemed to me altogether too incredible!--and lo! suddenly, one autumn morning, into the courtyard of my house dashes a calash drawn by a pair of splendid trotters, with a monstrous coachman on the box; and in the calash, wrapped in a cloak of military cut with a two-arshín[5] beaver collar, and a fatigue-cap over one ear--_à la diable m'emporte_--sits mísha! on catching sight of me (i was standing at the drawing-room window and staring in amazement at the equipage which had dashed in), he burst into his sharp laugh, and jauntily shaking the lapels of his cloak, he sprang out of the calash and ran into the house. "mísha! mikhaíl andréevitch!" i was beginning ... "is it you?" "call me 'thou' and 'mísha,'" he interrupted me.--"'tis i ... 'tis i, in person.... i have come to moscow ... to take a look at people ... and to show myself. so i have dropped in on you.--what do you think of my trotters?... hey?" again he laughed loudly. although seven years had elapsed since i had seen mísha for the last time, yet i recognised him on the instant.--his face remained thoroughly youthful and as comely as of yore; his moustache had not even sprouted; but under his eyes on his cheeks a puffiness had made its appearance, and an odour of liquor proceeded from his mouth. "and hast thou been long in moscow?" i inquired.--"i supposed that thou wert off there in the country, managing thy estate...." "eh! i immediately got rid of the village!--as soon as my parents died,--may the kingdom of heaven be theirs,"--(mísha crossed himself with sincerity, without the slightest hypocrisy)--"i instantly, without the slightest delay ... _ein, zwei, drei_! ha-ha! i let it go cheap, the rascally thing! such a scoundrel turned up.--well, never mind! at all events, i shall live at my ease--and amuse others.--but why do you stare at me so?--do you really think that i ought to have spun the affair out indefinitely?... my dear relative, can't i have a drink?" mísha talked with frightful rapidity, hurriedly and at the same time as though half asleep. "good mercy, mísha!"--i shouted: "have the fear of god before thine eyes! how dreadful is thine aspect, in what a condition thou art! and thou wishest another drink! and to sell such a fine estate for a song!..." "i always fear god and remember him," he caught me up.--"and he 's good--god, i mean.... he'll forgive! and i also am good.... i have never injured any one in my life as yet. and a drink is good also; and as for hurting ... it won't hurt anybody, either. and as for my looks, they are all right.... if thou wishest, uncle, i'll walk a line on the floor. or shall i dance a bit?" "akh, please drop that!--what occasion is there for dancing? thou hadst better sit down." "i don't mind sitting down.... but why don't you say something about my greys? just look at them, they're regular lions! i'm hiring them for the time being, but i shall certainly buy them together with the coachman. it is incomparably cheaper to own one's horses. and i did have the money, but i dropped it last night at faro.--never mind, i'll retrieve my fortunes to-morrow. uncle ... how about that drink?" i still could not collect myself.--"good gracious! mísha, how old art thou? thou shouldst not be occupying thyself with horses, or with gambling ... thou shouldst enter the university or the service." mísha first roared with laughter again, then he emitted a prolonged whistle. "well, uncle, i see that thou art in a melancholy frame of mind just now. i'll call another time.--but see here: just look in at sokólniki[6] some evening. i have pitched my tent there. the gipsies sing.... well, well! one can hardly restrain himself! and on the tent there is a pennant, and on the pennant is written in bi-i-ig letters: 'the band of poltéva[7] gipsies.' the pennant undulates like a serpent; the letters are gilded; any one can easily read them. the entertainment is whatever any one likes!... they refuse nothing. it has kicked up a dust all over moscow ... my respects.... well? will you come? i've got a gipsy there--a regular asp! black as my boot, fierce as a dog, and eyes ... regular coals of fire! one can't possibly make out whether she is kissing or biting.... will you come, uncle?... well, farewell for the present!" and abruptly embracing me and kissing me with a smack on my shoulder, mísha darted out into the court to his calash, waving his cap over his head, and uttering a yell; the monstrous coachman[8] bestowed upon him an oblique glance across his beard, the trotters dashed forward, and all disappeared! on the following day, sinful man that i am, i did go to sokólniki, and actually did see the tent with the pennant and the inscription. the tent-flaps were raised; an uproar, crashing, squealing, proceeded thence. a crowd of people thronged around it. on the ground, on an outspread rug, sat the gipsy men and gipsy women, singing, and thumping tambourines; and in the middle of them, with a guitar in his hands, clad in a red-silk shirt and full trousers of velvet, mísha was gyrating like a whirligig.--"gentlemen! respected sirs! pray enter! the performance is about to begin! free!"--he was shouting in a cracked voice.--"hey there! champagne! bang! in the forehead! on the ceiling! akh, thou rascal, paul de kock!"--luckily, he did not catch sight of me, and i hastily beat a retreat. i shall not dilate, gentlemen, on my amazement at the sight of such a change. and, as a matter of fact, how could that peaceable, modest lad suddenly turn into a tipsy good-for-nothing? was it possible that all this had been concealed within him since his childhood, and had immediately come to the surface as soon as the weight of parental authority had been removed from him?--and that he had kicked up a dust in moscow, as he had expressed it, there could be no possible doubt, either. i had seen rakes in my day; but here something frantic, some frenzy of self-extermination, some sort of recklessness, had made itself manifest! iii this diversion lasted for two months.... and lo! again i am standing at the window of the drawing-room and looking out into the courtyard.... suddenly--what is this?... through the gate with quiet step enters a novice.... his conical cap is pulled down on his brow, his hair is combed smoothly and flows from under it to right and left ... he wears a long cassock and a leather girdle.... can it be mísha? it is! i go out on the steps to meet him.... "what is the meaning of this masquerade?" i ask. "it is not a masquerade, uncle," mísha answers me, with a deep sigh;--"but as i have squandered all my property to the last kopék, and as a mighty repentance has seized upon me, i have made up my mind to betake myself to the tróitzko-sérgieva lávra,[9] to pray away my sins. for what asylum is now left to me?... and so i have come to bid you farewell, uncle, like the prodigal son...." i gazed intently at mísha. his face was the same as ever, fresh and rosy (by the way, it never changed to the very end), and his eyes were humid and caressing and languishing, and his hands were small and white.... but he reeked of liquor. "very well!" i said at last: "it is a good move if there is no other issue. but why dost thou smell of liquor?" "old habit," replied mísha, and suddenly burst out laughing, but immediately caught himself up, and making a straight, low, monastic obeisance, he added:--"will not you contribute something for the journey? for i am going to the monastery on foot...." "when?" "to-day ... at once." "why art thou in such a hurry?" "uncle! my motto has always been 'hurry! hurry!'" "but what is thy motto now?" "it is the same now.... only '_hurry_--to good!'" so mísha went away, leaving me to meditate over the mutability of human destinies. but he speedily reminded me of his existence. a couple of months after his visit i received a letter from him,--the first of those letters with which he afterward favoured me. and note this peculiarity: i have rarely beheld a neater, more legible handwriting than was possessed by this unmethodical man. the style of his letters also was very regular, and slightly florid. the invariable appeals for assistance alternated with promises of amendment, with honourable words and with oaths.... all this appeared to be--and perhaps was--sincere. mísha's signature at the end of his letters was always accompanied by peculiar flourishes, lines and dots, and he used a great many exclamation-points. in that first letter mísha informed me of a new "turn in his fortune." (later on he called these turns "dives" ... and he dived frequently.) he had gone off to the caucasus to serve the tzar and fatherland "with his breast," in the capacity of a yunker. and although a certain benevolent aunt had commiserated his poverty-stricken condition and had sent him an insignificant sum, nevertheless he asked me to help him to equip himself. i complied with his request, and for a period of two years thereafter i heard nothing about him. i must confess that i entertained strong doubts as to his having gone to the caucasus. but it turned out that he really had gone thither, had entered the t---regiment as yunker, through influence, and had served in it those two years. whole legends were fabricated there about him. one of the officers in his regiment communicated them to me. iv i learned a great deal which i had not expected from him. i was not surprised, of course, that he had proved to be a poor, even a downright worthless military man and soldier; but what i had not expected was, that he had displayed no special bravery; that in battle he wore a dejected and languid aspect, as though he were partly bored, partly daunted. all discipline oppressed him, inspired him with sadness; he was audacious to recklessness when it was a question of himself personally; there was no wager too crazy for him to accept; but do evil to others, kill, fight, he could not, perhaps because he had a good heart,--and perhaps because his "cotton-wool" education (as he expressed it) had enervated him. he was ready to exterminate himself in any sort of way at any time.... but others--no. "the devil only can make him out," his comrades said of him:--"he's puny, a rag---and what a reckless fellow he is--a regular dare-devil!"--i happened afterward to ask mísha what evil spirit prompted him, made him indulge in drinking-bouts, risk his life, and so forth. he always had one answer: "spleen." "but why hast thou spleen?" "just because i have, good gracious! one comes to himself, recovers his senses, and begins to meditate about poverty, about injustice, about russia.... well, and that settles it! immediately one feels such spleen that he is ready to send a bullet into his forehead! one goes on a carouse instinctively." "but why hast thou mixed up russia with this?" "what else could i do? nothing!--that's why i am afraid to think." "all that--that spleen--comes of thy idleness." "but i don't know how to do anything, uncle! my dear relative! here now, if it were a question of taking and staking my life on a card,--losing my all and shooting myself, bang! in the neck!--i can do that!--here now, tell me what to do, what to risk my life for.--i'll do it this very minute!..." "but do thou simply live.... why risk thy life?" "i can't!--you will tell me that i behave recklessly. what else can i do?... one begins to think--and, o lord, what comes into his head! 't is only the germans who think!..." what was the use of arguing with him? he was a reckless man--and that is all there is to say! i will repeat to you two or three of the caucasian legends to which i have alluded. one day, in the company of the officers, mísha began to brag of a circassian sabre which he had obtained in barter.--"a genuine persian blade!"--the officers expressed doubt as to whether it were really genuine. mísha began to dispute.--"see here," he exclaimed at last,--"they say that the finest judge of circassian sabres is one-eyed abdulka. i will go to him and ask."--the officers were dumbfounded. "what abdulka? the one who lives in the mountains? the one who is not at peace with us? abdul-khan?" "the very man." "but he will take thee for a scout, he will place thee in the bug-house,--or he will cut off thy head with that same sabre. and how wilt thou make thy way to him? they will seize thee immediately." "but i will go to him, nevertheless." "we bet that thou wilt not go!" "i take your bet!" and mísha instantly saddled his horse and rode off to abdulka. he was gone for three days. all were convinced that he had come to some dreadful end. and behold! he came back, somewhat tipsy, and with a sabre, only not the one which he had carried away with him, but another. they began to question him. "it's all right," said he. "abdulka is a kind man. at first he really did order fetters to be riveted on my legs, and was even preparing to impale me on a stake. but i explained to him why i had come. 'do not expect any ransom from me,' said i. 'i haven't a farthing to my name--and i have no relatives.'--abdulka was amazed; he stared at me with his solitary eye.-'well,' says he, 'thou art the chief of heroes, russian! am i to believe thee?'--'believe me,' said i; 'i never lie' (and mísha really never did lie).--abdulka looked at me again.-'and dost thou know how to drink wine?'-'i do,' said i; 'as much as thou wilt give, so much will i drink.'--again abdulka was astonished, and mentioned allah. and then he ordered his daughter, or some pretty maiden, whoever she was,--anyhow, she had the gaze of a jackal,--to fetch a leathern bottle of wine.--and i set to work.--'but thy sabre is spurious,' says he; 'here, take this genuine one. and now thou and i are friends.'--and you have lost your wager, gentlemen, so pay up." a second legend concerning mísha runs as follows. he was passionately fond of cards; but as he had no money and did not pay his gambling debts (although he was never a sharper), no one would any longer sit down to play with him. so one day he began to importune a brother officer, and insisted upon the latter's playing with him. "but thou wilt be sure to lose, and thou wilt not pay." "i will not pay in money, that's true--but i will shoot a hole through my left hand with this pistol here!" "but what profit is there for me in that?" "no profit whatever--but it's a curious thing, nevertheless." this conversation took place after a carouse, in the presence of witnesses. whether mísha's proposal really did strike the officer as curious or not,--at all events, he consented. the cards were brought, the game began. mísha was lucky; he won one hundred rubles. and thereupon his opponent smote himself on the forehead. "what a blockhead i am!" he cried.--"on what a bait was i caught! if thou hadst lost, much thou wouldst have shot thyself through the hand!--so it's just an assault on my pocket!" "that's where thou art mistaken," retorted mísha:--"i have won--but i'll shoot the hole through my hand." he seized his pistol, and bang! shot himself through the hand. the bullet went clear through ... and a week later the wound was completely healed! on another occasion still, mísha is riding along the road by night with his comrades.... and they see yawning, right by the side of the road, a narrow ravine in the nature of a cleft, dark, very dark, and the bottom of it not visible. "here now," says one comrade, "mísha is reckless enough about some things, but he will not leap into this ravine." "yes, i will!" "no, thou wilt not, because it is, probably, ten fathoms deep, and thou mightest break thy neck." his friend knew how to attack him--through his vanity.... mísha had a great deal of it. "but i will leap, nevertheless! wilt thou bet on it? ten rubles." "all right!" and before his comrade had managed to finish the last word mísha flew off his horse into the ravine, and crashed down on the stones. they were all fairly petrified with horror.... a good minute passed, and they heard mísha's voice proceeding as though from the bowels of the earth, and very dull: "i'm whole! i landed on sand.... but the descent was long! ten rubles on you!" "climb out!" shouted his comrades. "yes, climb out!"--returned mísha. "damn it! one can't climb out of here! you will have to ride off now for ropes and lanterns. and in the meanwhile, so that i may not find the waiting tedious, toss me down a flask...." and so mísha had to sit for five hours at the bottom of the ravine; and when they dragged him out, it appeared that he had a dislocated shoulder. but this did not daunt him in the least. on the following day a blacksmith bone-setter set his shoulder, and he used it as though nothing were the matter. altogether, his health was remarkable, unprecedented. i have already told you that until his death he preserved an almost childish freshness of complexion. he did not know what it was to be ill, in spite of all his excesses; the vigour of his constitution was not affected in a single instance. where any other man would have fallen dangerously ill, or even have died, he merely shook himself like a duck in the water, and became more blooming than ever. once--that also was in the caucasus.... this legend is improbable, it is true, but from it one can judge what mísha was regarded as capable of doing.... so then, once, in the caucasus, when in a state of intoxication, he fell into a small stream that covered the lower part of his body; his head and arms remained exposed on the bank. the affair took place in winter; a rigorous frost set in; and when he was found on the following morning, his legs and body were visible beneath a stout crust of ice which had frozen over in the course of the night--and he never even had a cold in the head in consequence! on another occasion (this happened in russia, near orél,[10] and also during a severe frost), he chanced to go to a suburban eating-house in company with seven young theological students. these theological students were celebrating their graduation examination, and had invited mísha, as a charming fellow, "a man with a sigh," as it was called then. they drank a great deal; and when, at last, the merry crew were preparing to depart, mísha, dead drunk, was found to be already in a state of unconsciousness. the whole seven theological students had between them only one tróika sledge with a high back;[11]--where were they to put the helpless body? then one of the young men, inspired by classical reminiscences, suggested that mísha be tied by the feet to the back of the sledge, as hector was to the chariot of achilles! the suggestion was approved ... and bouncing over the hummocks, sliding sideways down the declivities, with his feet strung up in the air, and his head dragging through the snow, our mísha traversed on his back the distance of two versts which separated the restaurant from the town, and never even so much as coughed or frowned. with such marvellous health had nature endowed him! v leaving the caucasus, he presented himself once more in moscow, in a circassian coat, with cartridge-pouches on the breast, a dagger in his belt, and a tall fur cap on his head. from this costume he did not part until the end, although he was no longer in the military service, from which he had been dismissed for not reporting on time. he called on me, borrowed a little money ... and then began his "divings," his progress through the tribulations,[12] or, as he expressed it, "through the seven semyóns";[13] then began his sudden absences and returns, the despatching of beautifully-written letters addressed to all possible persons, beginning with the metropolitan and ending with riding-masters and midwives! then began the visits to acquaintances and strangers! and here is one point which must be noted: in making his calls he did not cringe and did not importune; but, on the contrary, he behaved himself in decorous fashion, and even wore a cheery and pleasant aspect, although an ingrained odour of liquor accompanied him everywhere--and his oriental costume was gradually reduced to rags. "give--god will reward you--although i do not deserve it," he was accustomed to say, smiling brightly and blushing openly. "if you do not give, you will be entirely in the right, and i shall not be angry in the least. i shall support myself. god will provide! for there are many, very many people who are poorer and more worthy than i!" mísha enjoyed particular success with women; he understood how to arouse their compassion. and do not think that he was or imagined himself to be a lovelace.... oh, no! in that respect he was very modest. whether he had inherited from his parents such cold blood, or whether herein was expressed his disinclination to do evil to any one,--since, according to his ideas, to consort with a woman means inevitably to insult the woman,--i will not take it upon myself to decide; only, in his relations with the fair sex he was extremely delicate. the women felt this, and all the more willingly did they pity and aid him until he, at last, repelled them by his sprees and hard drinking, by the recklessness of which i have already spoken.... i cannot hit upon any other word. on the other hand, in other respects he had already lost all delicacy and had gradually descended to the extreme depths of degradation. he once went so far that in the assembly of nobility of t---he placed on the table a jug with the inscription: "any one who finds it agreeable to tweak the nose of hereditary nobleman[14] pólteff (whose authentic documents are herewith appended) may satisfy his desire, on condition that he puts a ruble in this jug." and it is said that there were persons who did care to tweak the nobleman's nose! it is true that he first all but throttled one amateur who, having put but one ruble in the jug, tweaked his nose twice, and then made him sue for pardon; it is true also that he immediately distributed to other tatterdemalions a portion of the money thus secured ... but, nevertheless, what outrageous conduct! in the course of his wanderings through the seven semyóns he had also reached his ancestral nest, which he had sold for a song to a speculator and usurer well known at that period. the speculator was at home, and on learning of the arrival of the former owner, who had been transformed into a tramp, he gave orders that he was not to be admitted into the house, and that in case of need he was to be flung out by the scruff of the neck. mísha declared that he would not enter the house, defiled as it was by the presence of a scoundrel; that he would allow no one to throw him out; but that he was on his way to the churchyard to salute the dust of his ancestors. this he did. at the churchyard he was joined by an old house-serf, who had formerly been his man-nurse. the speculator had deprived the old man of his monthly stipend and expelled him from the home farm; from that time forth the man sought shelter in the kennel of a peasant. mísha had managed his estate for so short a time that he had not succeeded in leaving behind him a specially good memory of himself; but the old servitor had not been able to resist, nevertheless, and on hearing of his young master's arrival, he had immediately hastened to the churchyard, had found mísha seated on the ground among the mortuary stones, had begged leave to kiss his hand in memory of old times, and had even melted into tears as he gazed at the rags wherewith the once petted limbs of his nursling were swathed. mísha looked long and in silence at the old man. "timoféi!" he said at last. timoféi gave a start. "what do you wish?" "hast thou a spade?" "i can get one.... but what do you want with a spade, mikhaílo andréitch?" "i want to dig a grave for myself here, timoféi; and lie down here forever between my parents. for this is the only spot which is left to me in the world. fetch the spade!" "i obey," said timoféi; and went off and brought it. and mísha immediately began to dig up the earth, while timoféi stood by with his chin propped on his hand, repeating: "that's the only thing left for thee and me, master!" and mísha dug and dug, inquiring from time to time: "life isn't worth living, is it, timoféi?" "it is not, dear little father." the hole had already grown fairly deep. people saw mísha's work and ran to report about it to the speculator-owner. at first the speculator flew into a rage, and wanted to send for the police. "what hypocrisy!" he said. but afterward, reflecting, probably, that it would be inconvenient to have a row with that lunatic, and that a scandal might be the result, he betook himself in person to the churchyard, and approaching the toiling mísha, he made a polite obeisance to him. the latter continued to dig, as though he had not noticed his successor. "mikhaíl andréitch," began the speculator, "permit me to inquire what you are doing there?" "as you see--i am digging a grave for myself." "why are you doing that?" "because i do not wish to live any longer." the speculator fairly flung apart his hands in surprise.--"you do not wish to live?" mísha cast a menacing glance at the speculator:--"does that surprise you? are not you the cause of it all?... is it not you?... is it not thou?...[15] is it not thou, judas, who hast robbed me, by taking advantage of my youth? dost not thou skin the peasants? is it not thou who hast deprived this decrepit old man of his daily bread? is it not thou?... o lord! everywhere there is injustice, and oppression, and villainy.... so down with everything,--and with me also! i don't wish to live--i don't wish to live any longer in russia!"--and the spade made swifter progress than ever in mísha's hands. "the devil knows the meaning of this!" thought the speculator: "he actually is burying himself."--"mikhaíl andréitch,"--he began afresh, "listen; i really am guilty toward you; people did not represent you properly to me." mísha went on digging. "but why this recklessness?" mísha went on digging--and flung the dirt on the speculator, as much as to say: "take that, earth-devourer!" "really, you have no cause for this. will not you come to my house to eat and rest?" mísha raised his head a little. "now you're talking! and will there be anything to drink?" the speculator was delighted.--"good gracious!... i should think so!" "and dost thou invite timoféi also?" "but why ... well, i invite him also." mísha reflected.--"only look out ... for thou didst turn me out of doors.... don't think thou art going to get off with one bottle!" "do not worry ... there will be as much as you wish of everything." mísha flung aside his spade.... "well, timósha," he said, addressing his old man-nurse, "let us honour the host.... come along!" "i obey," replied the old man. and all three wended their way toward the house. the speculator knew with whom he had to deal. mísha made him promise as a preliminary, it is true, that he would "allow all privileges" to the peasants;--but an hour later that same mísha, together with timoféi, both drunk, danced a gallopade through those rooms where the pious shade of andréi nikoláitch seemed still to be hovering; and an hour later still, mísha, so sound asleep that he could not be waked (liquor was his great weakness), was placed in a peasant-cart, together with his kazák cap and his dagger, and sent off to the town, five-and-twenty versts distant,--and there was found under a fence.... well, and timoféi, who still kept his feet and merely hiccoughed, was "pitched out neck and crop," as a matter of course. the master had made a failure of his attempt. so they might as well let the servant pay the penalty! vi again considerable time elapsed and i heard nothing of mísha.... god knows where he had vanished.--one day, as i was sitting before the samovár at a posting-station on the t---highway, waiting for horses, i suddenly heard, under the open window of the station-room, a hoarse voice uttering in french:--"_monsieur ... monsieur ... prenez pitié d'un pauvre gentilhomme ruiné!_".... i raised my head and looked.... the kazák cap with the fur peeled off, the broken cartridge-pouches on the tattered circassian coat, the dagger in a cracked sheath, the bloated but still rosy face, the dishevelled but still thick hair.... my god! it was mísha! he had already come to begging alms on the highways!--i involuntarily uttered an exclamation. he recognised me, shuddered, turned away, and was about to withdraw from the window. i stopped him ... but what was there that i could say to him? certainly i could not read him a lecture!... in silence i offered him a five-ruble bank-note. with equal silence he grasped it in his still white and plump, though trembling and dirty hand, and disappeared round the corner of the house. they did not furnish me with horses very promptly, and i had time to indulge in cheerless meditations on the subject of my unexpected encounter with mísha. i felt conscience-stricken that i had let him go in so unsympathetic a manner.--at last i proceeded on my journey, and after driving half a verst from the posting-station i observed, ahead of me on the road, a crowd of people moving along with a strange and as it were measured tread. i overtook this crowd,--and what did i see?--twelve beggars, with wallets on their shoulders, were walking by twos, singing and skipping as they went,---and at their head danced mísha, stamping time with his feet and saying: "natchiki-tchikaldi, tchuk-tchuk-tchuk! natchiki-tchikaldi, tchuk-tchuk-tchuk!" as soon as my calash came on a level with him, and he caught sight of me, he immediately began to shout, "hurrah! halt, draw up in line! eyes front, my guard of the road!" the beggars took up his cry and halted,--while he, with his habitual laugh, sprang upon the carriage-step, and again yelled: "hurrah!" "what is the meaning of this?" i asked, with involuntary amazement. "this? this is my squad, my army; all beggars, god's people, my friends! each one of them, thanks to your kindness, has quaffed a cup of liquor: and now we are all rejoicing and making merry!... uncle! 'tis only with the beggars and god's poor that one can live in the world, you know ... by god, that's so!" i made him no reply ... but this time he seemed to me such a good-natured soul, his face expressed such childlike ingenuousness ... a light suddenly seemed to dawn upon me, and there came a prick at my heart.... "get into the calash with me," i said to him. he was amazed.... "what? get into the calash?" "get in, get in!" i repeated. "i want to make thee a proposition. get in!... drive on with me." "well, you command."--he got in.--"come, and as for you, my dear friends, respected comrades," he added to the beggars: "good-bye! until we meet again!"--mísha took off his kazák cap and made a low bow.--the beggars all seemed to be dumbfounded.... i ordered the coachman to whip up the horses, and the calash rolled on. this is what i wished to propose to mísha: the idea had suddenly occurred to me to take him into my establishment, into my country-house, which was situated about thirty versts from that posting-station,--to save him, or, at least, to make an effort to save him. "hearken, mísha," said i; "wilt thou settle down with me?... thou shalt have everything provided for thee, clothes and under-linen shall be made for thee, thou shalt be properly fitted out, and thou shalt receive money for tobacco and so forth, only on one condition: not to drink liquor!... dost thou accept?" mísha was even frightened with joy. he opened his eyes very wide, turned crimson, and suddenly falling on my shoulder, he began to kiss me and to repeat in a spasmodic voice:--"uncle ... benefactor.... may god reward you!..." he melted into tears at last, and doffing his kazák cap, began to wipe his eyes, his nose, and his lips with it. "look out," i said to him. "remember the condition--not to drink liquor!" "why, damn it!" he exclaimed, flourishing both hands, and as a result of that energetic movement i was still more strongly flooded with that spirituous odour wherewith he was thoroughly impregnated.... "you see, dear uncle, if you only knew my life.... if it were not for grief, cruel fate, you know.... but now i swear,--i swear that i will reform, and will prove.... uncle, i have never lied--ask any one you like if i have.... i am an honourable, but an unhappy man, uncle; i have never known kindness from any one...." at this point he finally dissolved in sobs. i tried to soothe him and succeeded, for when we drove up to my house mísha had long been sleeping the sleep of the dead, with his head resting on my knees. vii he was immediately allotted a special room, and also immediately, as the first measure, taken to the bath, which was absolutely indispensable. all his garments, and his dagger and tall kazák cap and hole-ridden shoes, were carefully laid away in the storehouse; clean linen was put on him, slippers, and some of my clothing, which, as is always the case with paupers, exactly fitted his build and stature. when he came to the table, washed, neat, fresh, he seemed so much touched, and so happy, he was beaming all over with such joyful gratitude, that i felt emotion and joy.... his face was completely transfigured. little boys of twelve wear such faces at easter, after the communion, when, thickly pomaded, clad in new round-jackets and starched collars, they go to exchange the easter greeting with their parents. mísha kept feeling of himself cautiously and incredulously, and repeating:--"what is this?... am not i in heaven?"--and on the following day he announced that he had not been able to sleep all night for rapture! in my house there was then living an aged aunt with her niece. they were both greatly agitated when they heard of mísha's arrival; they did not understand how i could have invited him to my house! he bore a very bad reputation. but, in the first place, i knew that he was always very polite to ladies; and, in the second place, i trusted to his promise to reform. and, as a matter of fact, during the early days of his sojourn under my roof mísha not only justified my expectations, but exceeded them; and he simply enchanted my ladies. he played picquet with the old lady; he helped her to wind yarn; he showed her two new games of patience; he accompanied the niece, who had a small voice, on the piano; he read her french and russian poetry; he narrated diverting but decorous anecdotes to both ladies;--in a word, he was serviceable to them in all sorts of ways, so that they repeatedly expressed to me their surprise, while the old woman even remarked: "how unjust people sometimes are!... what all have not they said about him ... while he is so discreet and polite ... poor mísha!" it is true that at table "poor mísha" licked his lips in a peculiarly-hasty way every time he even looked at a bottle. but all i had to do was to shake my finger, and he would roll up his eyes, and press his hand to his heart ... as much as to say: "i have sworn...." "i am regenerated now!" he assured me.--"well, god grant it!" i thought to myself.... but this regeneration did not last long. during the early days he was very loquacious and jolly. but beginning with the third day he quieted down, somehow, although, as before, he kept close to the ladies and amused them. a half-sad, half-thoughtful expression began to flit across his face, and the face itself grew pale and thin. "art thou ill?" i asked him. "yes," he answered;--"my head aches a little." on the fourth day he became perfectly silent; he sat in a corner most of the time, with dejectedly drooping head; and by his downcast aspect evoked a feeling of compassion in the two ladies, who now, in their turn, tried to divert him. at table he ate nothing, stared at his plate, and rolled bread-balls. on the fifth day the feeling of pity in the ladies began to be replaced by another--by distrust and even fear. mísha had grown wild, he avoided people and kept walking along the wall, as though creeping stealthily, and suddenly darting glances around him, as though some one had called him. and what had become of his rosy complexion? it seemed to be covered with earth. "art thou still ill?" i asked him. "no; i am well," he answered abruptly. "art thou bored?" "why should i be bored?"--but he turned away and would not look me in the eye. "or hast thou grown melancholy again?"--to this he made no reply. on the following day my aunt ran into my study in a state of great excitement, and declared that she and her niece would leave my house if mísha were to remain in it. "why so?" "why, we feel afraid of him.... he is not a man,--he is a wolf, a regular wolf. he stalks and stalks about, saying never a word, and has such a wild look.... he all but gnashes his teeth. my kátya is such a nervous girl, as thou knowest.... she took a great interest in him the first day.... i am afraid for her and for myself...." i did not know what reply to make to my aunt. but i could not expel mísha, whom i had invited in. he himself extricated me from this dilemma. that very day--before i had even left my study--i suddenly heard a dull and vicious voice behind me. "nikolái nikoláitch, hey there, nikolái nikoláitch!" i looked round. in the doorway stood mísha, with a terrible, lowering, distorted visage. "nikolái nikoláitch," he repeated ... (it was no longer "dear uncle"). "what dost thou want?" "let me go ... this very moment!" "what?" "let me go, or i shall commit a crime,--set the house on fire or cut some one's throat."--mísha suddenly fell to shaking.--"order them to restore my garments, and give me a cart to carry me to the highway, and give me a trifling sum of money!" "but art thou dissatisfied with anything?" i began. "i cannot live thus!" he roared at the top of his voice.--"i cannot live in your lordly, thrice-damned house! i hate, i am ashamed to live so tranquilly!... how do _you_ manage to endure it?!" "in other words," i interposed, "thou wishest to say that thou canst not live without liquor...." "well, yes! well, yes!" he yelled again.--"only let me go to my brethren, to my friends, to the beggars!... away from your noble, decorous, repulsive race!" i wanted to remind him of his promise on oath, but the criminal expression of mísha's face, his unrestrained voice, the convulsive trembling of all his limbs--all this was so frightful that i made haste to get rid of him. i informed him that he should receive his clothing at once, that a cart should be harnessed for him; and taking from a casket a twenty-ruble bank-note, i laid it on the table. mísha was already beginning to advance threateningly upon me, but now he suddenly stopped short, his face instantaneously became distorted, and flushed up; he smote his breast, tears gushed from his eyes, and he stammered, --"uncle!--angel! i am a lost man, you see!---thanks! thanks!"--he seized the bank-note and rushed out of the room. an hour later he was already seated in a cart, again clad in his circassian coat, again rosy and jolly; and when the horses started off he uttered a yell, tore off his tall kazák cap, and waving it above his head, he made bow after bow. immediately before his departure he embraced me long and warmly, stammering:--"benefactor, benefactor!... it was impossible to save me!" he even ran in to see the ladies, and kissed their hands over and over again, went down on his knees, appealed to god, and begged forgiveness! i found kátya in tears later on. but the coachman who had driven mísha reported to me, on his return, that he had taken him to the first drinking establishment on the highway, and that there he "had got stranded," had begun to stand treat to every one without distinction, and had soon arrived at a state of inebriation. since that time i have never met mísha, but i learned his final fate in the following manner. viii three years later i again found myself in the country; suddenly a servant entered and announced that madame pólteff was inquiring for me. i knew no madame pólteff, and the servant who made the announcement was grinning in a sarcastic sort of way, for some reason or other. in reply to my questioning glance he said that the lady who was asking for me was young, poorly clad, and had arrived in a peasant-cart drawn by one horse which she was driving herself! i ordered that madame pólteff should be requested to do me the favour to step into my study. i beheld a woman of five-and-twenty,--belonging to the petty burgher class, to judge from her attire,--with a large kerchief on her head. her face was simple, rather round in contour, not devoid of agreeability; her gaze was downcast and rather melancholy, her movements were embarrassed. "are you madame pólteff?" i asked, inviting her to be seated. "just so, sir," she answered, in a low voice, and without sitting down.--"i am the widow of your nephew, mikhaíl andréevitch pólteff." "is mikhaíl andréevitch dead? has he been dead long?--but sit down, i beg of you." she dropped down on a chair. "this is the second month since he died." "and were you married to him long ago?" "i lived with him one year in all." "and whence come you now?" "i come from the vicinity of túla.... there is a village there called známenskoe-glúshkovo--perhaps you deign to know it. i am the daughter of the sexton there. mikhaíl andréitch and i lived there.... he settled down with my father. we lived together a year in all." the young woman's lips twitched slightly, and she raised her hand to them. she seemed to be getting ready to cry, but conquered herself, and cleared her throat. "the late mikhaíl andréitch, before his death," she went on, "bade me go to you. 'be sure to go,' he said. and he told me that i was to thank you for all your goodness, and transmit to you ... this ... trifle" (she drew from her pocket a small package), "which he always carried on his person.... and mikhaíl andréitch said, wouldn't you be so kind as to accept it in memory--that you must not scorn it.... 'i have nothing else to give him,' ... meaning you ... he said...." in the packet was a small silver cup with the monogram of mikhaíl's mother. this tiny cup i had often seen in mikhaíl's hands; and once he had even said to me, in speaking of a pauper, that he must be stripped bare, since he had neither cup nor bowl, "while i have this here," he said. i thanked her, took the cup and inquired, "of what malady did mikhaíl andréitch die?--probably...." here i bit my tongue, but the young woman understood my unspoken thought.... she darted a swift glance at me, then dropped her eyes, smiled sadly, and immediately said, "akh, no! he had abandoned that entirely from the time he made my acquaintance.... only, what health had he?!... it was utterly ruined. as soon as he gave up drinking, his malady immediately manifested itself. he became so steady, he was always wanting to help my father, either in the household affairs, or in the vegetable garden ... or whatever other work happened to be on hand ... in spite of the fact that he was of noble birth. only, where was he to get the strength?... and he would have liked to busy himself in the department of writing also,--he knew how to do that beautifully, as you are aware; but his hands shook so, and he could not hold the pen properly.... he was always reproaching himself: 'i'm an idle dog,' he said. 'i have done no one any good, i have helped no one, i have not toiled!' he was very much afflicted over that same.... he used to say, 'our people toil, but what are we doing?...' akh, nikolái nikoláitch, he was a fine man--and he loved me ... and i.... akh, forgive me...." here the young woman actually burst into tears. i would have liked to comfort her, but i did not know how. "have you a baby?" i asked at last. she sighed.--"no, i have not.... how could i have?"--and here tears streamed worse than before. so this was the end of mísha's wanderings through tribulations [old p. concluded his story].--you will agree with me, gentlemen, as a matter of course, that i had a right to call him reckless; but you will probably also agree with me that he did not resemble the reckless fellows of the present day, although we must suppose that any philosopher would find traits of similarity between him and them. in both cases there is the thirst for self-annihilation, melancholy, dissatisfaction.... and what that springs from i will permit precisely that philosopher to decide. the dream (1876) i i was living with my mother at the time, in a small seaport town. i was just turned seventeen, and my mother was only thirty-five; she had married very young. when my father died i was only seven years old; but i remembered him well. my mother was a short, fair-haired woman, with a charming, but permanently-sad face, a quiet, languid voice, and timid movements. in her youth she had borne the reputation of a beauty, and as long as she lived she remained attractive and pretty. i have never beheld more profound, tender, and melancholy eyes. i adored her, and she loved me.... but our life was not cheerful; it seemed as though some mysterious, incurable and undeserved sorrow were constantly sapping the root of her existence. this sorrow could not be explained by grief for my father alone, great as that was, passionately as my mother had loved him, sacredly as she cherished his memory.... no! there was something else hidden there which i did not understand, but which i felt,--felt confusedly and strongly as soon as i looked at those quiet, impassive eyes, at those very beautiful but also impassive lips, which were not bitterly compressed, but seemed to have congealed for good and all. i have said that my mother loved me; but there were moments when she spurned me, when my presence was burdensome, intolerable to her. at such times she felt, as it were, an involuntary aversion for me--and was terrified afterward, reproaching herself with tears and clasping me to her heart. i attributed these momentary fits of hostility to her shattered health, to her unhappiness.... these hostile sentiments might have been evoked, it is true, in a certain measure, by some strange outbursts, which were incomprehensible even to me myself, of wicked and criminal feelings which occasionally arose in me.... but these outbursts did not coincide with the moments of repulsion.--my mother constantly wore black, as though she were in mourning. we lived on a rather grand scale, although we associated with no one. ii my mother concentrated upon me all her thoughts and cares. her life was merged in my life. such relations between parents and children are not always good for the children ... they are more apt to be injurious. moreover i was my mother's only child ... and only children generally develop irregularly. in rearing them the parents do not think of themselves so much as they do of them.... that is not practical. i did not get spoiled, and did not grow obstinate (both these things happen with only children), but my nerves were unstrung before their time; in addition to which i was of rather feeble health--i took after my mother, to whom i also bore a great facial resemblance. i shunned the society of lads of my own age; in general, i was shy of people; i even talked very little with my mother. i was fonder of reading than of anything else, and of walking alone--and dreaming, dreaming! what my dreams were about it would be difficult to say. it sometimes seemed to me as though i were standing before a half-open door behind which were concealed hidden secrets,--standing and waiting, and swooning with longing--yet not crossing the threshold; and always meditating as to what there was yonder ahead of me--and always waiting and longing ... or falling into slumber. if the poetic vein had throbbed in me i should, in all probability, have taken to writing verses; if i had felt an inclination to religious devoutness i might have become a monk; but there was nothing of the sort about me, and i continued to dream--and to wait. iii i have just mentioned that i sometimes fell asleep under the inspiration of obscure thoughts and reveries. on the whole, i slept a great deal, and dreams played a prominent part in my life; i beheld visions almost every night. i did not forget them, i attributed to them significance, i regarded them as prophetic, i strove to divine their secret import. some of them were repeated from time to time, which always seemed to me wonderful and strange. i was particularly perturbed by one dream. it seems to me that i am walking along a narrow, badly-paved street in an ancient town, between many-storied houses of stone, with sharp-pointed roofs. i am seeking my father who is not dead, but is, for some reason, hiding from us, and is living in one of those houses. and so i enter a low, dark gate, traverse a long courtyard encumbered with beams and planks, and finally make my way into a small chamber with two circular windows. in the middle of the room stands my father, clad in a dressing-gown and smoking a pipe. he does not in the least resemble my real father: he is tall, thin, black-haired, he has a hooked nose, surly, piercing eyes; in appearance he is about forty years of age. he is displeased because i have hunted him up; and i also am not in the least delighted at the meeting--and i stand still, in perplexity. he turns away slightly, begins to mutter something and to pace to and fro with short steps.... then he retreats a little, without ceasing to mutter, and keeps constantly casting glances behind him, over his shoulder; the room widens out and vanishes in a fog.... i suddenly grow terrified at the thought that i am losing my father again. i rush after him--but i no longer see him, and can only hear his angry, bear-like growl.... my heart sinks within me. i wake up, and for a long time cannot get to sleep again.... all the following day i think about that dream and, of course, am unable to arrive at any conclusion. iv the month of june had come. the town in which my mother and i lived became remarkably animated at that season. a multitude of vessels arrived at the wharves, a multitude of new faces presented themselves on the streets. i loved at such times to stroll along the quay, past the coffee-houses and inns, to scan the varied faces of the sailors and other people who sat under the canvas awnings, at little white tables with pewter tankards filled with beer. one day, as i was passing in front of a coffee-house, i caught sight of a man who immediately engrossed my entire attention. clad in a long black coat of peasant cut, with a straw hat pulled down over his eyes, he was sitting motionless, with his arms folded on his chest. thin rings of black hair descended to his very nose; his thin lips gripped the stem of a short pipe. this man seemed so familiar to me, every feature of his swarthy, yellow face, his whole figure, were so indubitably stamped on my memory, that i could not do otherwise than halt before him, could not help putting to myself the question: "who is this man? where have i seen him?" he probably felt my intent stare, for he turned his black, piercing eyes upon me.... i involuntarily uttered a cry of surprise.... this man was the father whom i had sought out, whom i had beheld in my dream! there was no possibility of making a mistake,--the resemblance was too striking. even the long-skirted coat, which enveloped his gaunt limbs, reminded me, in colour and form, of the dressing-gown in which my father had presented himself to me. "am not i dreaming?" i thought to myself.... "no.... it is daylight now, a crowd is roaring round me, the sun is shining brightly in the blue sky, and i have before me, not a phantom, but a living man." i stepped up to an empty table, ordered myself a tankard of beer and a newspaper, and seated myself at a short distance from this mysterious being. v placing the sheets of the newspaper on a level with my face, i continued to devour the stranger with my eyes.--he hardly stirred, and only raised his drooping head a little from time to time. he was evidently waiting for some one. i gazed and gazed.... sometimes it seemed to me that i had invented the whole thing, that in reality there was no resemblance whatever, that i had yielded to the semi-involuntary deception of the imagination ... but "he" would suddenly turn a little on his chair, raise his hand slightly, and again i almost cried aloud, again i beheld before me my "nocturnal" father! at last he noticed my importunate attention, and, first with surprise, then with vexation, he glanced in my direction, started to rise, and knocked down a small cane which he had leaned against the table. i instantly sprang to my feet, picked it up and handed it to him. my heart was beating violently. he smiled in a constrained way, thanked me, and putting his face close to my face, he elevated his eyebrows and parted his lips a little, as though something had struck him. "you are very polite, young man," he suddenly began, in a dry, sharp, snuffling voice.--"that is a rarity nowadays. allow me to congratulate you. you have been well brought up." i do not remember precisely what answer i made to him; but the conversation between us was started. i learned that he was a fellow-countryman of mine, that he had recently returned from america, where he had lived many years, and whither he was intending to return shortly. he said his name was baron.... i did not catch the name well. he, like my "nocturnal" father, wound up each of his remarks with an indistinct, inward growl. he wanted to know my name.... on hearing it he again showed signs of surprise. then he asked me if i had been living long in that town, and with whom? i answered him that i lived with my mother. "and your father?" "my father died long ago." he inquired my mother's christian name, and immediately burst into an awkward laugh--and then excused himself, saying that he had that american habit, and that altogether he was a good deal of an eccentric. then he asked where we lived. i told him. vi the agitation which had seized upon me at the beginning of our conversation had gradually subsided; i thought our intimacy rather strange--that was all. i did not like the smile with which the baron questioned me; neither did i like the expression of his eyes when he fairly stabbed them into me.... there was about them something rapacious and condescending ... something which inspired dread. i had not seen those eyes in my dream. the baron had a strange face! it was pallid, fatigued, and, at the same time, youthful in appearance, but with a disagreeable youthfulness! neither had my "nocturnal" father that deep scar, which intersected his whole forehead in a slanting direction, and which i did not notice until i moved closer to him. before i had had time to impart to the baron the name of the street and the number of the house where we lived, a tall negro, wrapped up in a cloak to his very eyes, approached him from behind and tapped him softly on the shoulder. the baron turned round, said: "aha! at last!" and nodding lightly to me, entered the coffee-house with the negro. i remained under the awning. i wished to wait until the baron should come out again, not so much for the sake of entering again into conversation with him (i really did not know what topic i could start with), as for the purpose of again verifying my first impression.--but half an hour passed; an hour passed.... the baron did not make his appearance. i entered the coffee-house, i made the circuit of all the rooms--but nowhere did i see either the baron or the negro.... both of them must have taken their departure through the back door. my head had begun to ache a little, and with the object of refreshing myself i set out along the seashore to the extensive park outside the town, which had been laid out ten years previously. after having strolled for a couple of hours in the shade of the huge oaks and plaintain-trees, i returned home. vii our maid-servant flew to meet me, all tremulous with agitation, as soon as i made my appearance in the anteroom. i immediately divined, from the expression of her face, that something unpleasant had occurred in our house during my absence.--and, in fact, i learned that half an hour before a frightful shriek had rung out from my mother's bedroom. when the maid rushed in she found her on the floor in a swoon which lasted for several minutes. my mother had recovered consciousness at last, but had been obliged to go to bed, and wore a strange, frightened aspect; she had not uttered a word, she had not replied to questions--she had done nothing but glance around her and tremble. the servant had sent the gardener for a doctor. the doctor had come and had prescribed a soothing potion, but my mother had refused to say anything to him either. the gardener asserted that a few moments after the shriek had rung out from my mother's room he had seen a strange man run hastily across the flower-plots of the garden to the street gate. (we lived in a one-story house, whose windows looked out upon a fairly large garden.) the gardener had not been able to get a good look at the man's face; but the latter was gaunt, and wore a straw hat and a long-skirted coat.... "the baron's costume!" immediately flashed into my head.--the gardener had been unable to overtake him; moreover, he had been summoned, without delay, to the house and despatched for the doctor. i went to my mother's room; she was lying in bed, whiter than the pillow on which her head rested.... at sight of me she smiled faintly, and put out her hand to me. i sat down by her side, and began to question her; at first she persistently parried my questions; but at last she confessed that she had seen something which had frightened her greatly. "did some one enter here?" i asked. "no," she answered hastily, "no one entered, but it seemed to me ... i thought i saw ... a vision...." she ceased speaking and covered her eyes with her hand. i was on the point of communicating to her what i had heard from the gardener--and my meeting with the baron also, by the way ... but, for some reason or other, the words died on my lips. nevertheless i did bring myself to remark to my mother that visions do not manifest themselves in the daylight.... "stop," she whispered, "please stop; do not torture me now. some day thou shalt know...." again she relapsed into silence. her hands were cold, and her pulse beat fast and unevenly. i gave her a dose of her medicine and stepped a little to one side, in order not to disturb her. she did not rise all day. she lay motionless and quiet, only sighing deeply from time to time, and opening her eyes in a timorous fashion.--every one in the house was perplexed. viii toward night a slight fever made its appearance, and my mother sent me away. i did not go to my own chamber, however, but lay down in the adjoining room on the divan. every quarter of an hour i rose, approached the door on tiptoe, and listened.... everything remained silent--but my mother hardly slept at all that night. when i went into her room early in the morning her face appeared to me to be swollen, and her eyes were shining with an unnatural brilliancy. in the course of the day she became a little easier, but toward evening the fever increased again. up to that time she had maintained an obstinate silence, but now she suddenly began to talk in a hurried, spasmodic voice. she was not delirious, there was sense in her words, but there was no coherency in them. not long before midnight she raised herself up in bed with a convulsive movement (i was sitting beside her), and with the same hurried voice she began to narrate to me, continually drinking water in gulps from a glass, feebly flourishing her hands, and not once looking at me the while.... at times she paused, exerted an effort over herself, and went on again.... all this was strange, as though she were doing it in her sleep, as though she herself were not present, but as though some other person were speaking with her lips, or making her speak. ix "listen to what i have to tell thee," she began. "thou art no longer a young boy; thou must know all. i had a good friend.... she married a man whom she loved with all her heart, and she was happy with her husband. but during the first year of their married life they both went to the capital to spend a few weeks and enjoy themselves. they stopped at a good hotel and went out a great deal to theatres and assemblies. my friend was very far from homely; every one noticed her, all the young men paid court to her; but among them was one in particular ... an officer. he followed her unremittingly, and wherever she went she beheld his black, wicked eyes. he did not make her acquaintance, and did not speak to her even once; he merely kept staring at her in a very strange, insolent way. all the pleasures of the capital were poisoned by his presence. she began to urge her husband to depart as speedily as possible, and they had fully made up their minds to the journey. one day her husband went off to the club; some officers--officers who belonged to the same regiment as this man--had invited him to play cards.... for the first time she was left alone. her husband did not return for a long time; she dismissed her maid and went to bed.... and suddenly a great dread came upon her, so that she even turned cold all over and began to tremble. it seemed to her that she heard a faint tapping on the other side of the wall--like the noise a dog makes when scratching--and she began to stare at that wall. in the corner burned a shrine-lamp; the chamber was all hung with silken stuff.... suddenly something began to move at that point, rose, opened.... and straight out of the wall, all black and long, stepped forth that dreadful man with the wicked eyes! "she tried to scream and could not. she was benumbed with fright. he advanced briskly toward her, like a rapacious wild beast, flung something over her head, something stifling, heavy and white.... what happened afterward i do not remember.... i do not remember! it was like death, like murder.... when that terrible fog dispersed at last--when i ... my friend recovered her senses, there was no one in the room. again--and for a long time--she was incapable of crying out, but she did shriek at last ... then again everything grew confused.... "then she beheld by her side her husband, who had been detained at the club until two o'clock.... his face was distorted beyond recognition. he began to question her, but she said nothing.... then she fell ill.... but i remember that when she was left alone in the room she examined that place in the wall.... under the silken hangings there proved to be a secret door. and her wedding-ring had disappeared from her hand. this ring was of an unusual shape. upon it seven tiny golden stars alternated with seven tiny silver stars; it was an ancient family heirloom. her husband asked her what had become of her ring; she could make no reply. her husband thought that she had dropped it somewhere, hunted everywhere for it, but nowhere could he find it. gloom descended upon him, he decided to return home as speedily as possible, and as soon as the doctor permitted they quitted the capital.... but imagine! on the very day of their departure they suddenly encountered, on the street, a litter.... in that litter lay a man who had just been killed, with a cleft skull---and just imagine! that man was that same dreadful nocturnal visitor with the wicked eyes.... he had been killed over a game of cards! "then my friend went away to the country, and became a mother for the first time ... and lived several years with her husband. he never learned anything about that matter, and what could she say? she herself knew nothing. but her former happiness had vanished. darkness had invaded their life--and that darkness was never dispelled.... they had no other children either before or after ... but that son...." my mother began to tremble all over, and covered her face with her hands. "but tell me now," she went on, with redoubled force, "whether my friend was in any way to blame? with what could she reproach herself? she was punished, but had not she the right to declare, in the presence of god himself, that the punishment which overtook her was unjust? then why can the past present itself to her, after the lapse of so many years, in so frightful an aspect, as though she were a sinner tortured by the gnawings of conscience? macbeth slew banquo, so it is not to be wondered at that he should have visions ... but i...." but my mother's speech became so entangled and confused that i ceased to understand her ... i no longer had any doubt that she was raving in delirium. x any one can easily understand what a shattering effect my mother's narration produced upon me! i had divined, at her very first word, that she was speaking of herself, and not of any acquaintance of hers; her slip of the tongue only confirmed me in my surmise. so it really was my father whom i had sought out in my dream, whom i had beheld when wide awake! he had not been killed, as my mother had supposed, but merely wounded.... and he had come to her, and had fled, affrighted by her fright. everything suddenly became clear to me; the feeling of involuntary repugnance for me which sometimes awoke in my mother, and her constant sadness, and our isolated life.... i remember that my head reeled, and i clutched at it with both hands, as though desirous of holding it firmly in its place. but one thought had become riveted in it like a nail. i made up my mind, without fail, at any cost, to find that man again! why? with what object?--i did not account to myself for that; but to find him ... to find him--that had become for me a question of life or death! on the following morning my mother regained her composure at last ... the fever passed off ... she fell asleep. committing her to the care of our landlord and landlady and the servants, i set out on my quest. xi first of all, as a matter of course, i betook myself to the coffee-house where i had met the baron; but in the coffee-house no one knew him or had even noticed him; he was a chance visitor. the proprietors had noticed the negro--his figure had been too striking to escape notice; but who he was, where he stayed, no one knew either. leaving my address, in case of an emergency, at the coffee-house, i began to walk about the streets and the water-front of the town, the wharves, the boulevards; i looked into all the public institutions, and nowhere did i find any one who resembled either the baron or his companion.... as i had not caught the baron's name, i was deprived of the possibility of appealing to the police; but i privately gave two or three guardians of public order to understand (they gazed at me in surprise, it is true, and did not entirely believe me) that i would lavishly reward their zeal if they should be successful in coming upon the traces of those two individuals, whose personal appearance i tried to describe as minutely as possible. having strolled about in this manner until dinner-time, i returned home thoroughly worn out. my mother had got out of bed; but with her habitual melancholy there was mingled a new element, a sort of pensive perplexity, which cut me to the heart like a knife. i sat with her all the evening. we said hardly anything; she laid out her game of patience, i silently looked at her cards. she did not refer by a single word to her story, or to what had happened the day before. it was as though we had both entered into a compact not to touch upon those strange and terrifying occurrences.... she appeared to be vexed with herself and ashamed of what had involuntarily burst from her; but perhaps she did not remember very clearly what she had said in her semi-fevered delirium, and hoped that i would spare her.... and, in fact, i did spare her, and she was conscious of it; as on the preceding day she avoided meeting my eyes. a frightful storm had suddenly sprung up out of doors. the wind howled and tore in wild gusts, the window-panes rattled and quivered; despairing shrieks and groans were borne through the air, as though something on high had broken loose and were flying with mad weeping over the shaking houses. just before dawn i lost myself in a doze ... when suddenly it seemed to me as though some one had entered my room and called me, had uttered my name, not in a loud, but in a decided voice. i raised my head and saw no one; but, strange to relate! i not only was not frightened--i was delighted; there suddenly arose within me the conviction that now i should, without fail, attain my end. i hastily dressed myself and left the house. xii the storm had subsided ... but its last flutterings could still be felt. it was early; there were no people in the streets; in many places fragments of chimneys, tiles, boards of fences which had been rent asunder, the broken boughs of trees, lay strewn upon the ground.... "what happened at sea last night?" i involuntarily thought at the sight of the traces left behind by the storm. i started to go to the port, but my feet bore me in another direction, as though in obedience to an irresistible attraction. before ten minutes had passed i found myself in a quarter of the town which i had never yet visited. i was walking, not fast, but without stopping, step by step, with a strange sensation at my heart; i was expecting something remarkable, impossible, and, at the same time, i was convinced that that impossible thing would come to pass. xiii and lo, it came to pass, that remarkable, that unexpected thing! twenty paces in front of me i suddenly beheld that same negro who had spoken to the baron in my presence at the coffee-house! enveloped in the same cloak which i had then noticed on him, he seemed to have popped up out of the earth, and with his back turned toward me was walking with brisk strides along the narrow sidewalk of the crooked alley! i immediately dashed in pursuit of him, but he redoubled his gait, although he did not glance behind him, and suddenly made an abrupt turn around the corner of a projecting house. i rushed to that corner and turned it as quickly as the negro had done.... marvellous to relate! before me stretched a long, narrow, and perfectly empty street; the morning mist filled it with its dim, leaden light,--but my gaze penetrated to its very extremity. i could count all its buildings ... and not a single living being was anywhere astir! the tall negro in the cloak had vanished as suddenly as he had appeared! i was amazed ... but only for a moment. another feeling immediately took possession of me; that street which stretched out before my eyes, all dumb and dead, as it were,--i recognised it! it was the street of my dream. i trembled and shivered--the morning was so chilly--and instantly, without the slightest wavering, with a certain terror of confidence, i went onward. i began to seek with my eyes.... yes, there it is, yonder, on the right, with a corner projecting on the sidewalk--yonder is the house of my dream, yonder is the ancient gate with the stone scrolls on each side.... the house is not circular, it is true, but square ... but that is a matter of no importance.... i knock at the gate, i knock once, twice, thrice, ever more and more loudly.... the gate opens slowly, with a heavy screech, as though yawning. in front of me stands a young serving-maid with a dishevelled head and sleepy eyes. she has evidently just waked up. "does the baron live here?" i inquire, as i run a swift glance over the deep, narrow courtyard.... it is there; it is all there ... there are the planks which i had seen in my dream. "no," the maid answers me, "the baron does not live here." "what dost thou mean by that? it is impossible!" "he is not here now. he went away yesterday." "whither?" "to america." "to america!" i involuntarily repeated. "but he is coming back?" the maid looked suspiciously at me. "i don't know. perhaps he will not come back at all." "but has he been living here long?" "no, not long; about a week. now he is not here at all." "but what was the family name of that baron?" the maid-servant stared at me. "don't you know his name? we simply called him the baron. hey, there! piótr!" she cried, perceiving that i was pushing my way in.--"come hither: some stranger or other is asking all sorts of questions." from the house there presented itself the shambling figure of a robust labourer. "what's the matter? what's wanted?" he inquired in a hoarse voice,--and having listened to me with a surly mien, he repeated what the maid-servant had said. "but who does live here?" i said. "our master." "and who is he?" "a carpenter. they are all carpenters in this street." "can he be seen?" "impossible now, he is asleep." "and cannot i go into the house?" "no; go your way." "well, and can i see your master a little later?" "why not? certainly. he can always be seen.... that's his business as a dealer. only, go your way now. see how early it is." "well, and how about that negro?" i suddenly asked. the labourer stared in amazement, first at me, then at the maid-servant. "what negro?" he said at last.--"go away, sir. you can come back later. talk with the master." i went out into the street. the gate was instantly banged behind me, heavily and sharply, without squeaking this time. i took good note of the street and house and went away, but not home.--i felt something in the nature of disenchantment. everything which had happened to me was so strange, so remarkable--and yet, how stupidly it had been ended! i had been convinced that i should behold in that house the room which was familiar to me--and in the middle of it my father, the baron, in a dressing-gown and with a pipe.... and instead of that, the master of the house was a carpenter, and one might visit him as much as one pleased,--and order furniture of him if one wished! but my father had gone to america! and what was left for me to do now?... tell my mother everything, or conceal forever the very memory of that meeting? i was absolutely unable to reconcile myself to the thought that such a senseless, such a commonplace ending should be tacked on to such a supernatural, mysterious beginning! i did not wish to return home, and walked straight ahead, following my nose, out of the town. xiv i walked along with drooping head, without a thought, almost without sensation, but wholly engrossed in myself.--a measured, dull and angry roar drew me out of my torpor. i raised my head: it was the sea roaring and booming fifty paces from me. greatly agitated by the nocturnal storm, the sea was a mass of white-caps to the very horizon, and steep crests of long breakers were rolling in regularly and breaking on the flat shore, i approached it, and walked along the very line left by the ebb and flow on the yellow, ribbed sand, strewn with fragments of trailing seawrack, bits of shells, serpent-like ribbons of eel-grass. sharp-winged gulls with pitiful cry, borne on the wind from the distant aerial depths, soared white as snow against the grey, cloudy sky, swooped down abruptly, and as though skipping from wave to wave, departed again and vanished like silvery flecks in the strips of swirling foam. some of them, i noticed, circled persistently around a large isolated boulder which rose aloft in the midst of the monotonous expanse of sandy shores. coarse seaweed grew in uneven tufts on one side of the rock; and at the point where its tangled stems emerged from the yellow salt-marsh, there was something black, and long, and arched, and not very large.... i began to look more intently.... some dark object was lying there--lying motionless beside the stone.... that object became constantly clearer and more distinct the nearer i approached.... i was only thirty paces from the rock now.... why, that was the outline of a human body! it was a corpse; it was a drowned man, cast up by the sea! i went clear up to the rock. it was the corpse of the baron, my father! i stopped short, as though rooted to the spot. then only did i understand that ever since daybreak i had been guided by some unknown forces--that i was in their power,--and for the space of several minutes there was nothing in my soul save the ceaseless crashing of the sea, and a dumb terror in the presence of the fate which held me in its grip.... xv he was lying on his back, bent a little to one side, with his left arm thrown above his head ... the right was turned under his bent body. the sticky slime had sucked in the tips of his feet, shod in tall sailor's boots; the short blue pea-jacket, all impregnated with sea-salt, had not unbuttoned; a red scarf encircled his neck in a hard knot. the swarthy face, turned skyward, seemed to be laughing; from beneath the upturned upper lip small close-set teeth were visible; the dim pupils of the half-closed eyes were hardly to be distinguished from the darkened whites; covered with bubbles of foam the dirt-encrusted hair spread out over the ground and laid bare the smooth forehead with the purplish line of the scar; the narrow nose rose up like a sharp, white streak between the sunken cheeks. the storm of the past night had done its work.... he had not beheld america! the man who had insulted my mother, who had marred her life, my father--yes! my father, i could cherish no doubt as to that--lay stretched out helpless in the mud at my feet. i experienced a sense of satisfied vengeance, and compassion, and repulsion, and terror most of all ... of twofold terror; terror of what i had seen, and of what had come to pass. that evil, that criminal element of which i have already spoken, those incomprehensible spasms rose up within me ... stifled me. "aha!" i thought to myself: "so that is why i am what i am.... that is where blood tells!" i stood beside the corpse and gazed and waited, to see whether those dead pupils would not stir, whether those benumbed lips would not quiver. no! everything was motionless; the very seaweed, among which the surf had cast him, seemed to have congealed; even the gulls had flown away--there was not a fragment anywhere, not a plank or any broken rigging. there was emptiness everywhere ... only he--and i--and the foaming sea in the distance. i cast a glance behind me; the same emptiness was there; a chain of hillocks on the horizon ... that was all! i dreaded to leave that unfortunate man in that loneliness, in the ooze of the shore, to be devoured by fishes and birds; an inward voice told me that i ought to hunt up some men and call them thither, if not to aid--that was out of the question--at least for the purpose of laying him out, of bearing him beneath an inhabited roof.... but indescribable terror suddenly took possession of me. it seemed to me as though that dead man knew that i had come thither, that he himself had arranged that last meeting--it even seemed as though i could hear that dull, familiar muttering.... i ran off to one side ... looked behind me once more.... something shining caught my eye; it brought me to a standstill. it was a golden hoop on the outstretched hand of the corpse.... i recognised my mother's wedding-ring. i remember how i forced myself to return, to go close, to bend down.... i remember the sticky touch of the cold fingers, i remember how i panted and puckered up my eyes and gnashed my teeth, as i tugged persistently at the ring.... at last i got it off--and i fled--fled away, in headlong flight,--and something darted after me, and overtook me and caught me. xvi everything which i had gone through and endured was, probably, written on my face when i returned home. my mother suddenly rose upright as soon as i entered her room, and gazed at me with such insistent inquiry that, after having unsuccessfully attempted to explain myself, i ended by silently handing her the ring. she turned frightfully pale, her eyes opened unusually wide and turned dim like _his_.--she uttered a faint cry, seized the ring, reeled, fell upon my breast, and fairly swooned there, with her head thrown back and devouring me with those wide, mad eyes. i encircled her waist with both arms, and standing still on one spot, never stirring, i slowly narrated everything, without the slightest reservation, to her, in a quiet voice: my dream and the meeting, and everything, everything.... she heard me out to the end, only her breast heaved more and more strongly, and her eyes suddenly grew more animated and drooped. then she put the ring on her fourth finger, and, retreating a little, began to get out a mantilla and a hat. i asked where she was going. she raised a surprised glance to me and tried to answer, but her voice failed her. she shuddered several times, rubbed her hands as though endeavouring to warm herself, and at last she said: "let us go at once thither." "whither, mother dear?" "where he is lying.... i want to see ... i want to know ... i shall identify...." i tried to persuade her not to go; but she was almost in hysterics. i understood that it was impossible to oppose her desire, and we set out. xvii and lo, again i am walking over the sand of the dunes, but i am no longer alone, i am walking arm in arm with my mother. the sea has retreated, has gone still further away; it is quieting down; but even its diminished roar is menacing and ominous. here, at last, the solitary rock has shown itself ahead of us--and there is the seaweed. i look intently, i strive to distinguish that rounded object lying on the ground--but i see nothing. we approach closer. i involuntarily retard my steps. but where is that black, motionless thing? only the stalks of the seaweed stand out darkly against the sand, which is already dry.... we go to the very rock.... the corpse is nowhere to be seen, and only on the spot where it had lain there still remains a depression, and one can make out where the arms and legs lay.... round about the seaweed seems tousled, and the traces of one man's footsteps are discernible; they go across the down, then disappear on reaching the flinty ridge. my mother and i exchange glances and are ourselves frightened at what we read on our own faces.... can he have got up of himself and gone away? "but surely thou didst behold him dead?" she asks in a whisper. i can only nod my head. three hours have not elapsed since i stumbled upon the baron's body.... some one had discovered it and carried it away.--i must find out who had done it, and what had become of him. but first of all i must attend to my mother. xviii while she was on her way to the fatal spot she was in a fever, but she controlled herself. the disappearance of the corpse had startled her as the crowning misfortune. she was stupefied. i feared for her reason. with great difficulty i got her home. i put her to bed again; again i called the doctor for her; but as soon as my mother partly recovered her senses she at once demanded that i should instantly set out in search of "that man." i obeyed. but, despite all possible measures, i discovered nothing. i went several times to the police-office, i visited all the villages in the neighbourhood, i inserted several advertisements in the newspapers, i made inquiries in every direction--all in vain! it is true that i did hear that a drowned man had been found at one of the hamlets on the seashore.... i immediately hastened thither, but he was already buried, and from all the tokens he did not resemble the baron. i found out on what ship he had sailed for america. at first every one was positive that that ship had perished during the tempest; but several months afterward rumours began to circulate to the effect that it had been seen at anchor in the harbour of new york. not knowing what to do, i set about hunting up the negro whom i had seen.--i offered him, through the newspapers, a very considerable sum of money if he would present himself at our house. a tall negro in a cloak actually did come to the house in my absence.... but after questioning the servant-maid, he suddenly went away and returned no more. and thus the trace of my ... my father grew cold; thus did it vanish irrevocably in the mute gloom. my mother and i never spoke of him. only, one day, i remember that she expressed surprise at my never having alluded before to my strange dream; and then she added: "of course, it really ..." and did not finish her sentence. my mother was ill for a long time, and after her convalescence our former relations were not reëstablished. she felt awkward in my presence until the day of her death.... precisely that, awkward. and there was no way of helping her in her grief. everything becomes smoothed down, the memories of the most tragic family events gradually lose their force and venom; but if a feeling of awkwardness has been set up between two closely-connected persons, it is impossible to extirpate it! i have never again had that dream which had been wont so to disturb me; i no longer "search for" my father; but it has sometimes seemed to me--and it seems so to me to this day--that in my sleep i hear distant shrieks, unintermittent, melancholy plaints; they resound somewhere behind a lofty wall, across which it is impossible to clamber; they rend my heart--and i am utterly unable to comprehend what it is: whether it is a living man groaning, or whether i hear the wild, prolonged roar of the troubled sea. and now it passes once more into that beast-like growl--and i awake with sadness and terror in my soul. father alexyéi's story (1877) twenty years ago i was obliged--in my capacity of private inspector--to make the circuit of all my aunt's rather numerous estates. the parish priests, with whom i regarded it as my duty to make acquaintance, proved to be individuals of pretty much one pattern, and made after one model, as it were. at length, in about the last of the estates which i was inspecting, i hit upon a priest who did not resemble his brethren. he was a very aged man, almost decrepit; and had it not been for the urgent entreaties of his parishioners, who loved and respected him, he would long before have petitioned to be retired that he might rest. two peculiarities impressed me in father alexyéi (that was the priest's name). in the first place, he not only asked nothing for himself but announced plainly that he required nothing; and, in the second place, i have never beheld in any human face a more sorrowful, thoroughly indifferent--what is called an "overwhelmed"--expression. the features of that face were of the ordinary rustic type: a wrinkled forehead, small grey eyes, a large nose, a wedge-shaped beard, a swarthy, sunburned skin.... but the expression! ... the expression!... in that dim gaze life barely burned, and sadly at that; and his voice also was, somehow, lifeless and dim. i fell ill and kept my bed for several days. father alexyéi dropped in to see me in the evenings, not to chat, but to play "fool."[16] the game of cards seemed to divert him more than it did me. one day, after having been left "the fool" several times in succession (which delighted father alexyéi not a little), i turned the conversation on his past life, on the afflictions which had left on him such manifest traces. father alexyéi remained obdurate for a long time at first, but ended by relating to me his story. he must have taken a liking to me for some reason or other. otherwise he would not have been so frank with me. i shall endeavour to transmit his story in his own words. father alexyéi talked very simply and intelligently, without any seminary or provincial tricks and turns of speech. it was not the first time i had noticed that russians, of all classes and callings, who have been violently shattered and humbled express themselves precisely in such language. ... i had a good and sedate wife [thus he began], i loved her heartily, and we begat eight children. one of my sons became a bishop, and died not so very long ago, in his diocese. i shall now tell you about my other son,--yákoff was his name. i sent him to the seminary in the town of t----, and soon began to receive the most comforting reports about him. he was the best pupil in all the branches! even at home, in his boyhood, he had been distinguished for his diligence and discretion; a whole day would sometimes pass without one's hearing him ... he would be sitting all the time over his book, reading. he never caused me and my wife[17] the slightest displeasure; he was a meek lad. only sometimes he was thoughtful beyond his years, and his health was rather weak. once something remarkable happened to him. he left the house at daybreak, on st. peter's day,[18] and was gone almost all the morning. at last he returned. my wife and i ask him: "where hast thou been?" "i have been for a ramble in the forest," says he, "and there i met a certain little green old man, who talked a great deal with me, and gave me such savoury nuts!" "what little green old man art thou talking about?" we ask him. "i don't know," says he; "i never saw him before. he was a little old man with a hump, and he kept shifting from one to the other of his little feet, and laughing--and he was all green, just like a leaf." "what," say we, "and was his face green also?" "yes, his face, and his hair, and even his eyes." our son had never lied to us; but this time my wife and i had our doubts. "thou must have fallen asleep in the forest, in the heat of the day, and have seen that old man in thy dreams." "i wasn't asleep at all," says he. "why, don't you believe me?" says he. "see here, i have one of the nuts left in my pocket." yákoff pulled the nut out of his pocket and showed it to us.--the kernel was small, in the nature of a chestnut, and rather rough; it did not resemble our ordinary nuts. i laid it aside, and intended to show it to the doctor ... but it got lost.... i did not find it again. well, sir, so we sent him to the seminary, and, as i have already informed you, he rejoiced us by his success. so my spouse and i assumed that he would turn out a fine man! when he came for a sojourn at home it was a pleasure to look at him; he was so comely, and there was no mischief about him;--every one liked him, every one congratulated us. only he was still rather thin of body, and there was no real good rosiness in his face. so then, he was already in his nineteenth year, and his education would soon be finished. when suddenly we receive from him a letter.--he writes to us: "dear father and mother, be not wroth with me, permit me to be a layman;[19] my heart does not incline to the ecclesiastical profession, i dread the responsibility, i am afraid i shall sin--doubts have taken hold upon me! without your parental permission and blessing i shall venture on nothing--but one thing i will tell you; i am afraid of myself, for i have begun to think a great deal." i assure you, my dear sir, that this letter made me very sad,--as though a boar-spear had pricked my heart,--for i saw that i should have no one to take my place![20] my eldest son was a monk; and this one wanted to abandon his vocation altogether. i was also pained because priests from our family have lived in our parish for close upon two hundred years. but i thought to myself: "there's no use in kicking against the pricks; evidently, so it was predestined for him. what sort of a pastor would he be if he has admitted doubt to his mind?" i took counsel with my wife, and wrote to him in the following sense: "think it over well, my son yákoff; measure ten times before you cut off once--there are great difficulties in the worldly service, cold and hunger, and scorn for our caste! and thou must know beforehand that no one will lend a hand to aid; so see to it that thou dost not repine afterward. my desire, as thou knowest, has always been that thou shouldst succeed me; but if thou really hast come to cherish doubts as to thy calling and hast become unsteady in the faith, then it is not my place to restrain thee. the lord's will be done! thy mother and i will not refuse thee our blessing." yákoff answered me with a grateful letter. "thou hast rejoiced me, dear father," said he. "it is my intention to devote myself to the profession of learning, and i have some protection; i shall enter the university and become a doctor, for i feel a strong bent for science." i read yáshka's letter and became sadder than before; but i did not share my grief with any one. my old woman caught a severe cold about that time and died--from that same cold, or the lord took her to himself because he loved her, i know not which. i used to weep and weep because i was a lonely widower--but what help was there for that?[21] so it had to be, you know. and i would have been glad to go into the earth ... but it is hard ... it will not open. and i was expecting my son; for he had notified me: "before i go to moscow," he said, "i shall look in at home." and he did come to the parental roof, but did not remain there long. it seemed as though something were urging him on; he would have liked, apparently, to fly on wings to moscow, to his beloved university! i began to question him as to his doubts. "what was the cause of them?" i asked. but i did not get much out of him. one idea had pushed itself into his head, and that was the end of it! "i want to help my neighbours," he said.--well, sir, he left me. i don't believe he took a penny with him, only a few clothes. he had such reliance on himself! and not without reason. he passed an excellent examination, matriculated as student, obtained lessons in private houses.... he was very strong on the ancient languages! and what think you? he took it into his head to send me money. i cheered up a little,--not on account of the money, of course,--i sent that back to him, and even scolded him; but i cheered up because i saw that the young fellow would make his way in the world. but my rejoicing did not last long.... he came to me for his first vacation.... and, what marvel is this? i do not recognise my yákoff! he had grown so tiresome and surly,--you couldn't get a word out of him. and his face had changed also: he had grown about ten years older. he had been taciturn before, there's no denying that! at the slightest thing he would grow shy and blush like a girl.... but when he raised his eyes, you could see that all was bright in his soul! but now it was quite different. he was not shy, but he held aloof, like a wolf, and was always looking askance. he had neither a smile nor a greeting for any one--he was just like a stone! if i undertook to interrogate him, he would either remain silent or snarl. i began to wonder whether he had taken to drink--which god forbid!--or had conceived a passion for cards; or whether something in the line of a weakness for women had happened to him. in youth love-longings act powerfully,--well, and in such a large city as moscow bad examples and occasions are not lacking. but no; nothing of that sort was discernible. his drink was kvas[22] and water; he never looked at the female sex--and had no intercourse with people in general. and what was most bitter of all to me, he did not have his former confidence in me; a sort of indifference had made its appearance, just as though everything belonging to him had become loathsome to him. i turned the conversation on the sciences, on the university, but even there could get no real answer. he went to church, but he was not devoid of peculiarities there also; everywhere he was grim and scowling, but in church he seemed always to be grinning. after this fashion he spent six weeks with me, then went back to moscow. from moscow he wrote to me twice, and it seemed to me, from his letters, as though he were regaining his sensibilities. but picture to yourself my surprise, my dear sir! suddenly, in the very middle of the winter, just before the christmas holidays, he presents himself before me! "how didst thou get here? how is this? what's the matter? i know that thou hast no vacation at this time.--dost thou come from moscow?"--i ask. "yes." "and how about ... the university?" "i have left the university." "thou hast left it?" "just so." "for good?" "for good." "but art thou ill, pray, yákoff?" "no, father," says he, "i am not ill; but just don't bother me and question me, dear father, or i will go away from here--and that's the last thou wilt ever see of me." yákoff tells me that he is not ill, but his face is such that i am fairly frightened. it was dreadful, dark--not human, actually!--his cheeks were drawn, his cheek-bones projected, he was mere skin and bone; his voice sounded as though it proceeded from a barrel ... while his eyes.... o lord and master! what eyes!--menacing, wild, incessantly darting from side to side, and it was impossible to catch them; his brows were knit, his lips seemed to be twisted on one side.... what had happened to my joseph most fair,[23] to my quiet lad? i cannot comprehend it. "can he have gone crazy?" i say to myself. he roams about like a spectre by night, he does not sleep,--and then, all of a sudden, he will take to staring into a corner as though he were completely benumbed.... it was enough to scare one! although he had threatened to leave the house if i did not leave him in peace, yet surely i was his father! my last hope was ruined--yet i was to hold my tongue! so one day, availing myself of an opportunity, i began to entreat yákoff with tears, i began to adjure him by the memory of his dead mother: "tell me," i said, "as thy father in the flesh and in the spirit, yásha, what aileth thee? do not kill me; explain thyself, lighten thy heart! can it be that thou hast ruined some christian soul? if so, repent!" "well, dear father," he suddenly says to me (this took place toward nightfall), "thou hast moved me to compassion. i will tell thee the whole truth. i have not ruined any christian soul--but my own soul is going to perdition." "how is that?" "in this way...." and thereupon yákoff raised his eyes to mine for the first time.--"it is going on four months now," he began.... but suddenly he broke off and began to breathe heavily. "what about the fourth month? tell me, do not make me suffer!" "this is the fourth month that i have been seeing him." "him? who is he?" "why, the person ... whom it is awkward to mention at night." i fairly turned cold all over and fell to quaking. "what?!" i said, "dost thou see _him_?" "yes." "and dost thou see him now?" "yes." "where?" and i did not dare to turn round, and we both spoke in a whisper. "why, yonder ..." and he indicated the spot with his eyes ... "yonder, in the corner." i summoned up my courage and looked at the corner; there was nothing there. "why, good gracious, there is nothing there, yákoff!" "_thou_ dost not see him, but i do." again i glanced round ... again nothing. suddenly there recurred to my mind the little old man in the forest who had given him the chestnut. "what does he look like?" i said.... "is he green?" "no, he is not green, but black." "has he horns?" "no, he is like a man,--only all black." as yákoff speaks he displays his teeth in a grin and turns as pale as a corpse, and huddles up to me in terror; and his eyes seem on the point of popping out of his head, and he keeps staring at the corner. "why, it is a shadow glimmering faintly," i say. "that is the blackness from a shadow, but thou mistakest it for a man." "nothing of the sort!--and i see his eyes: now he is rolling up the whites, now he is raising his hand, he is calling me." "yákoff, yákoff, thou shouldst try to pray; this obsession would disperse. let god arise and his enemies shall be scattered!" "i have tried," says he, "but it has no effect." "wait, wait, yákoff, do not lose thy courage. i will fumigate with incense; i will recite a prayer; i will sprinkle holy water around thee." yákoff merely waved his hand. "i believe neither in thy incense nor in holy water; they don't help worth a farthing. i cannot get rid of him now. ever since he came to me last summer, on one accursed day, he has been my constant visitor, and he cannot be driven away, understand this, father, and do not wonder any longer at my behaviour--and do not torment me." "on what day did he come to thee?" i ask him, and all the while i am making the sign of the cross over him. "was it not when thou didst write about thy doubts?" yákoff put away my hand. "let me alone, dear father," says he, "don't excite me to wrath lest worse should come of it. i'm not far from laying hands on myself, as it is." you can imagine, my dear sir, how i felt when i heard that.... i remember that i wept all night. "how have i deserved such wrath from the lord?" i thought to myself. at this point father alexyéi drew from his pocket a checked handkerchief and began to blow his nose, and stealthily wiped his eyes, by the way. a bad time began for us then [he went on]. i could think of but one thing: how to prevent him from running away, or--which the lord forbid!--of actually doing himself some harm! i watched his every step, and was afraid to enter into conversation.--and there dwelt near us at that time a neighbour, the widow of a colonel, márfa sávishna was her name; i cherished a great respect for her, because she was a quiet, sensible woman, in spite of the fact that she was young and comely. i was in the habit of going to her house frequently, and she did not despise my vocation.[24] not knowing, in my grief and anguish, what to do, i just told her all about it.--at first she was greatly alarmed, and even thoroughly frightened; but later on she became thoughtful. for a long time she deigned to sit thus, in silence; and then she expressed a wish to see my son and converse with him. and i felt that i ought without fail to comply with her wish; for it was not feminine curiosity which prompted it in this case, but something else. on returning home i began to persuade yákoff. "come with me to see the colonel's widow," i said to him. he began to flourish his legs and arms! "i won't go to her," says he, "not on any account! what shall i talk to her about?" he even began to shout at me. but at last i conquered him, and hitching up my little sledge, i drove him to márfa sávishna's, and, according to our compact, i left him alone with her. i was surprised at his having consented so speedily. well, never mind,--we shall see. three or four hours later my yákoff returns. "well," i ask, "how did our little neighbour please thee?" he made me no answer. i asked him again. "she is a virtuous woman," i said.--"i suppose she was amiable with thee?" "yes," he says, "she is not like the others." i saw that he seemed to have softened a little. and i made up my mind to question him then and there.... "and how about the obsession?" i said. yákoff looked at me as though i had lashed him with a whip, and again made no reply. i did not worry him further, and left the room; and an hour later i went to the door and peeped through the keyhole.... and what do you think?--my yásha was asleep! he was lying on the couch and sleeping. i crossed myself several times in succession. "may the lord send márfa sávishna every blessing!" i said. "evidently, she has managed to touch his embittered heart, the dear little dove!" the next day i see yákoff take his cap.... i think to myself: "shall i ask him whither he is going?--but no, better not ask ... it certainly must be to her!"... and, in point of fact, yákoff did set off for márfa sávishna's house--and sat with her still longer than before; and on the day following he did it again! then again, the next day but one! my spirits began to revive, for i saw that a change was coming over my son, and his face had grown quite different, and it was becoming possible to look into his eyes: he did not turn away. he was just as depressed as ever, but his former despair and terror had disappeared. but before i had recovered my cheerfulness to any great extent everything again broke off short! yákoff again became wild, and again it was impossible to approach him. he sat locked up in his little room, and went no more to the widow's. "can it be possible," i thought, "that he has hurt her feelings in some way, and she has forbidden him the house?--but no," i thought ... "although he is unhappy he would not dare to do such a thing; and besides, she is not that sort of woman." at last i could endure it no longer, and i interrogated him: "well, yákoff, how about our neighbour?... apparently thou hast forgotten her altogether." but he fairly roared at me:--"our neighbour? dost thou want _him_ to jeer at me?" "what?" i say.--then he even clenched his fists and ... got perfectly furious. "yes!" he says; and formerly he had only towered up after a fashion, but now he began to laugh and show his teeth.--"away! begone!" to whom these words were addressed i know not! my legs would hardly bear me forth, to such a degree was i frightened. just imagine: his face was the colour of red copper, he was foaming at the mouth, his voice was hoarse, exactly as though some one were choking him!... and that very same day i went--i, the orphan of orphans--to márfa sávishna ... and found her in great affliction. even her outward appearance had undergone a change: she had grown thin in the face. but she would not talk with me about my son. only one thing she did say: that no human aid could effect anything in that case. "pray, father," she said,--and then she presented me with one hundred rubles,--"for the poor and sick of your parish," she said. and again she repeated: "pray!"--o lord! as if i had not prayed without that--prayed day and night! here father alexyéi again pulled out his handkerchief, and again wiped away his tears, but not by stealth this time, and after resting for a little while, he resumed his cheerless narrative. yákoff and i then began to descend as a snowball rolls down hill, and both of us could see that an abyss lay at the foot of the hill; but how were we to hold back, and what measures could we take? and it was utterly impossible to conceal this; my entire parish was greatly disturbed, and said: "the priest's son has gone mad; he is possessed of devils,--and the authorities ought to be informed of all this."--and people infallibly would have informed the authorities had not my parishioners taken pity on me ... for which i thank them. in the meantime winter was drawing to an end, and spring was approaching.--and such a spring as god sent!--fair and bright, such as even the old people could not remember: the sun shone all day long, there was no wind, and the weather was warm! and then a happy thought occurred to me: to persuade yákoff to go off with me to do reverence to mitrofány, in vorónezh. "if that last remedy is of no avail," i thought, "well, then, there is but one hope left--the grave!" so i was sitting one day on the porch just before evening, and the sunset glow was flaming in the sky, and the larks were warbling, and the apple-trees were in bloom, and the grass was growing green.... i was sitting and meditating how i could communicate my intention to yákoff. suddenly, lo and behold! he came out on the porch; he stood, gazed around, sighed, and sat down on the step by my side. i was even frightened out of joy, but i did nothing except hold my tongue. but he sits and looks at the sunset glow, and not a word does he utter either. but it seemed to me as though he had become softened, the furrows on his brow had been smoothed away, his eyes had even grown bright.... a little more, it seemed, and a tear would have burst forth! on beholding such a change in him i--excuse me!--grew bold. "yákoff," i said to him, "do thou hearken to me without anger...." and then i informed him of my intention; how we were both to go to saint mitrofány on foot; and it is about one hundred and fifty versts to vorónezh from our parts; and how pleasant it would be for us two, in the spring chill, having risen before dawn, to walk and walk over the green grass, along the highway; and how, if we made proper obeisance and prayed before the shrine of the holy man, perhaps--who knows?--the lord god would show mercy upon us, and he would receive healing, of which there had already been many instances. and just imagine my happiness, my dear sir! "very well," says yákoff, only he does not turn round, but keeps on gazing at the sky.--"i consent. let us go." i was fairly stupefied.... "my friend," i say, "my dear little dove, my benefactor!"... but he asks me: "when shall we set out?" "why, to-morrow, if thou wilt," i say. so on the following day we started. we slung wallets over our shoulders, took staves in our hands, and set forth. for seven whole days we trudged on, and all the while the weather favoured us, and was even downright wonderful! there was neither sultry heat nor rain; the flies did not bite, the dust did not make us itch. and every day my yákoff acquired a better aspect. i must tell you that yákoff had not been in the habit of seeing _that one_ in the open air, but had felt him behind him, close to his back, or his shadow had seemed to be gliding alongside, which troubled my son greatly. but on this occasion nothing of that sort happened, and nothing made its appearance. we talked very little together ... but how greatly at our ease we felt--especially i! i saw that my poor boy was coming to life again. i cannot describe to you, my dear sir, what my feelings were then.--well, we reached vorónezh at last. we cleaned up ourselves and washed ourselves, and went to the cathedral, to the holy man. for three whole days we hardly left the temple. how many prayer-services we celebrated, how many candles we placed before the holy pictures! and everything was going well, everything was fine; the days were devout, the nights were tranquil; my yákoff slept like an infant. he began to talk to me of his own accord. he would ask: "dost thou see nothing, father dear?" and smile. "no, i see nothing," i would answer.--what more could be demanded? my gratitude to the saint was unbounded. three days passed; i said to yákoff: "well, now, dear son, the matter has been set in order; there's a festival in our street. one thing remains to be done; do thou make thy confession and receive the communion; and then, with god's blessing, we will go our way, and after having got duly rested, and worked a bit on the farm to increase thy strength, thou mayest bestir thyself and find a place--and márfa sávishna will certainly help us in that," i said. "no," said yákoff, "why should we trouble her? but i will take her a ring from mitrofány's hand." thereupon i was greatly encouraged. "see to it," i said, "that thou takest a silver ring, not a gold one,--not a wedding-ring!" my yákoff flushed up and merely repeated that it was not proper to trouble her, but immediately assented to all the rest.--we went to the cathedral on the following day; my yákoff made his confession, and prayed so fervently before it! and then he went forward to take the communion. i was standing a little to one side, and did not feel the earth under me for joy.... it is no sweeter for the angels in heaven! but as i look--what is the meaning of that?--my yákoff has received the communion, but does not go to sip the warm water and wine![25] he is standing with his back to me.... i go to him. "yákoff," i say, "why art thou standing here?" he suddenly wheels round. will you believe it, i sprang back, so frightened was i!--his face had been dreadful before, but now it had become ferocious, frightful! he was as pale as death, his hair stood on end, his eyes squinted.... i even lost my voice with terror. i tried to speak and could not; i was perfectly benumbed.... and he fairly rushed out of the church! i ran after him ... but he fled straight to the tavern where we had put up, flung his wallet over his shoulder, and away he flew! "whither?" i shouted to him. "yákoff, what aileth thee? stop, wait!" but yákoff never uttered a word in reply to me, but ran like a hare, and it was utterly impossible to overtake him! he disappeared from sight. i immediately turned back, hired a cart, and trembled all over, and all i could say was: "o lord!" and, "o lord!" and i understood nothing: some calamity had descended upon us! i set out for home, for i thought, "he has certainly fled thither."--and so he had. six versts out of the town i espied him; he was striding along the highway. i overtook him, jumped out of the cart, and rushed to him. "yásha! yásha!"--he halted, turned his face toward me, but kept his eyes fixed on the ground and compressed his lips. and say what i would to him, he stood there just like a statue, and one could just see that he was breathing. and at last he trudged on again along the highway.--what was there to do? i followed him.... akh, what a journey that was, my dear sir! great as had been our joy on the way to vorónezh, just so great was the horror of the return! i would try to speak to him, and he would begin to gnash his teeth at me over his shoulder, precisely like a tiger or a hyena! why i did not go mad i do not understand to this day! and at last, one night, in a peasant's chicken-house, he was sitting on the platform over the oven and dangling his feet and gazing about on all sides, when i fell on my knees before him and began to weep, and besought him with bitter entreaty: "do not slay thy old father outright," i said; "do not let him fall into despair--tell me what has happened to thee?" he glanced at me as though he did not see who was before him, and suddenly began to speak, but in such a voice that it rings in my ears even now. "listen, daddy," said he. "dost thou wish to know the whole truth? when i had taken the communion, thou wilt remember, and still held the particle[26] in my mouth, suddenly _he_ (and that was in the church, in the broad daylight!) stood in front of me, just as though he had sprung out of the ground, and whispered to me ... (but he had never spoken to me before)--whispered: 'spit it out, and grind it to powder!' i did so; i spat it out, and ground it under foot. and now it must be that i am lost forever, for every sin shall be forgiven, save the sin against the holy spirit...." and having uttered these dreadful words, my son threw himself back on the platform and i dropped down on the floor of the hut.... my legs failed me.... father alexyéi paused for a moment, and covered his eyes with his hand. but why should i weary you longer [he went on], and myself? my son and i dragged ourselves home, and there he soon afterward expired, and i lost my yásha. for several days before his death he neither ate nor drank, but kept running back and forth in the room and repeating that there could be no forgiveness for his sin.... but he never saw _him_ again. "he has ruined my soul," he said; "and why should he come any more now?" and when yákoff took to his bed, he immediately sank into unconsciousness, and thus, without repentance, like a senseless worm, he went from this life to life eternal.... but i will not believe that the lord judged harshly.... and among other reasons why i do not believe it is, that he looked so well in his coffin; he seemed to have grown young again and resembled the yákoff of days gone by. his face was so tranquil and pure, his hair curled in little rings, and there was a smile on his lips. márfa sávishna came to look at him, and said the same thing. she encircled him all round with flowers, and laid flowers on his heart, and set up the gravestone at her own expense. and i was left alone.... and that is why, my dear sir, you have beheld such great grief on my face.... it will never pass off---and it cannot. i wanted to speak a word of comfort to father alexyéi ... but could think of none. we parted soon after. old portraits[27] (1881) about forty versts from our village there dwelt, many years ago, the great-uncle of my mother, a retired sergeant of the guards and a fairly wealthy landed proprietor, alexyéi sergyéitch telyégin, on his ancestral estate, sukhodól. he never went anywhere himself, and therefore did not visit us; but i was sent to pay my respects to him a couple of times a year, at first with my governor, and later on alone. alexyéi sergyéitch always received me very cordially, and i spent three or four days with him. he was already an old man when i made his acquaintance; i remember that i was twelve years old at my first visit, and he was already over seventy. he had been born under the empress elizabeth, in the last year of her reign. he lived alone with his wife, malánya pávlovna; she was ten years younger than he. they had had two daughters who had been married long before, and rarely visited sukhodól; there had been quarrels between them and their parents,[28] and alexyéi sergyéitch hardly ever mentioned them. i see that ancient, truly noble steppe home as though it stood before me now. of one story, with a huge mezzanine,[29] erected at the beginning of the present century from wonderfully thick pine beams--such beams were brought at that epoch from the zhízdrin pine forests; there is no trace of them nowadays!--it was very spacious and contained a multitude of rooms, which were decidedly low-ceiled and dark, it is true, and the windows were mere slits in the walls, for the sake of warmth. as was proper, the offices and the house-serfs' cottages surrounded the manor-house on all sides, and a park adjoined it, small but with fine fruit-trees, pellucid apples and seedless pears; for ten versts round about stretched out the flat, black-loam steppe. there was no lofty object for the eye: neither a tree nor a belfry; only here and there a windmill reared itself aloft with holes in its wings; it was a regular sukhodól! (dry valley). inside the house the rooms were filled with ordinary, plain furniture; rather unusual was a verst-post which stood on a window-sill in the hall, and bore the following inscription: "if thou walkest 68 times around this hall,[30] thou wilt have gone a verst; if thou goest 87 times from the extreme corner of the drawing-room to the right corner of the billiard-room, thou wilt have gone a verst,"--and so forth. but what most impressed the guest who arrived for the first time was the great number of pictures hung on the walls, for the most part the work of so-called italian masters: ancient landscapes, and mythological and religious subjects. but as all these pictures had turned very black, and had even become warped, all that met the eye was patches of flesh-colour, or a billowy red drapery on an invisible body--or an arch which seemed suspended in the air, or a dishevelled tree with blue foliage, or the bosom of a nymph with a large nipple, like the cover of a soup-tureen; a sliced watermelon, with black seeds; a turban, with a feather above a horse's head; or the gigantic, light-brown leg of some apostle or other, with a muscular calf and up-turned toes, suddenly protruded itself. in the drawing-room, in the place of honour, hung a portrait of the empress katherine ii, full length, a copy from lampi's well-known portrait--the object of special reverence, one may say adoration, for the master of the house. from the ceiling depended crystal chandeliers in bronze fittings, very small and very dusty. alexyéi sergyéitch himself was a very squat, pot-bellied, little old man, with a plump, but agreeable face all of one colour, with sunken lips and very vivacious little eyes beneath lofty eyebrows. he brushed his scanty hair over the back of his head; it was only since the year 1812 that he had discarded powder. alexyéi sergyéitch always wore a grey "redingote" with three capes which fell over his shoulders, a striped waistcoat, chamois-leather breeches and dark-red morocco short boots with a heart-shaped cleft, and a tassel at the top of the leg; he wore a white muslin neckerchief, a frill, lace cuffs, and two golden english "onions,"[31] one in each pocket of his waistcoat. in his right hand he generally held an enamelled snuff-box with "spanish" snuff, while his left rested on a cane with a silver handle which had been worn quite smooth with long use. alexyéi sergyéitch had a shrill, nasal voice, and was incessantly smiling, amiably, but somewhat patronisingly, not without a certain self-satisfied pompousness. he also laughed in an amiable manner, with a fine, thin laugh like a string of wax pearls. he was courteous and affable, in the ancient manner of katherine's day, and moved his hands slowly and with a circular motion, also in ancient style. on account of his weak legs he could not walk, but he was wont to trip with hurried little steps from one arm-chair to another arm-chair, in which he suddenly seated himself--or, rather, he fell into it, as softly as though he had been a pillow. as i have already said, alexyéi sergyéitch never went anywhere, and associated very little with the neighbours, although he was fond of society,--for he was loquacious! he had plenty of society in his own house, it is true: divers nikanór nikanóritches, sevastyéi sevastyéitches, fedúlitches, and mikhéitches, all poverty-stricken petty nobles, in threadbare kazák coats and short jackets, frequently from his own noble shoulders, dwelt beneath his roof, not to mention the poor gentlewomen in cotton-print gowns, with black kerchiefs on their shoulders, and worsted reticules in their tightly-clenched fingers,--divers avdótiya sávishnas, pelagéya mirónovnas, and plain feklúskas and arínkas, who received asylum in the women's wing. no less than fifteen persons ever sat down to alexyéi sergyéitch's table ... he was so hospitable!--among all these parasites two individuals stood forth with special prominence: a dwarf named janus or the two-faced, a dane,--or, as some asserted, of jewish extraction,--and crazy prince l. in contrast to the customs of that day the dwarf did not in the least serve as a butt for the guests, and was not a jester; on the contrary, he maintained constant silence, wore an irate and surly mien, contracted his brows in a frown, and gnashed his teeth as soon as any one addressed a question to him. alexyéi sergyéitch also called him a philosopher, and even respected him. at table he was always the first to be served after the guests and the master and mistress of the house.--"god has wronged him," alexyéi sergyéitch was wont to say: "that was the lord's will; but it is not my place to wrong him." "why is he a philosopher?" i asked one day. (janus did not like me. no sooner would i approach him, than he would begin to snarl and growl hoarsely, "stranger! don't bother me!") "but god have mercy, why isn't he a philosopher?" replied alexyéi sergyéitch. "just observe, my little gentleman, how finely he holds his tongue!" "but why is he two-faced?" "because, my young sir, he has one face outside; there it is for you, ninny, and judge it.... but the other, the real one, he hides. and i am the only one who knows that face, and for that i love him.... because 't is a good face. thou, for example, gazest and beholdest nothing ... but even without words, i see when he is condemning me for anything; for he is strict! and always with reason. which thing thou canst not understand, young sir; but just believe me, an old man!" the true history of the two-faced janus--whence he had come, how he had got into alexyéi sergyéitch's house--no one knew. on the other hand, the story of prince l. was well known to all. as a young man of twenty, he had come from a wealthy and distinguished family to petersburg, to serve in a regiment of the guards; the empress katherine noticed him at the first court reception, and halting in front of him and pointing to him with her fan, she said, in a loud voice, addressing one of her favourites: "look, adám vasílievitch, see what a beauty! a regular doll!" the blood flew to the poor young fellow's head. on reaching home he ordered his calash to be harnessed up, and donning his ribbon of the order of saint anna, he started out to drive all over the town, as though he had actually fallen into luck.--"crush every one who does not get out of the way!" he shouted to his coachman.--all this was immediately brought to the empress's knowledge; an order was issued that he was to be adjudged insane and given in charge of his two brothers; and the latter, without the least delay, carried him off to the country and chained him up in a stone bag.--as they were desirous to make use of his property, they did not release the unfortunate man even when he recovered his senses and came to himself, but continued to keep him incarcerated until he really did lose his mind.--but their wickedness profited them nothing. prince l. outlived his brothers, and after long sufferings, found himself under the guardianship of alexyéi sergyéitch, who was a connection of his. he was a fat, perfectly bald man, with a long, thin nose and blue goggle-eyes. he had got entirely out of the way of speaking--he merely mumbled something unintelligible; but he sang the ancient russian ballads admirably, having retained, to extreme old age, his silvery freshness of voice, and in his singing he enunciated every word clearly and distinctly. something in the nature of fury came over him at times, and then he became terrifying. he would stand in one corner, with his face to the wall, and all perspiring and crimson,--crimson all over his bald head to the nape of his neck. emitting a malicious laugh, and stamping his feet, he would issue orders that some one was to be castigated,--probably his brothers.--"thrash!"-he yelled hoarsely, choking and coughing with laughter,--"scourge, spare not, thrash, thrash, thrash the monsters my malefactors! that's right! that's right!" just before he died he greatly amazed and frightened alexyéi sergyéitch. he entered the latter's room all pale and quiet, and inclining his body in obeisance to the girdle, he first returned thanks for the asylum and oversight, and then requested that a priest might be sent for; for death had come to him--he had beheld her--and he must pardon all men and whiten himself. "how was it that thou didst see her?" muttered the astounded alexyéi sergyéitch, who now heard a coherent speech from him for the first time.--"what is she like? has she a scythe?" "no," replied prince l.--"she's a plain old woman in a loose gown--only she has but one eye in her forehead, and that eye has no lid." and on the following day prince l. actually expired, after having fulfilled all his religious obligations and taken leave of every one intelligently and with emotion. "that's the way i shall die also," alexyéi sergyéitch was wont to remark. and, in fact, something similar happened with him--of which, later on. but now let us return to our former subject. alexyéi sergyéitch did not consort with the neighbours, as i have already said; and they did not like him any too well, calling him eccentric, arrogant, a mocker, and even a martinist who did not recognise the authorities, without themselves understanding, of course, the meaning of the last word. to a certain extent the neighbours were right. alexyéi sergyéitch had resided for nearly seventy years in succession in his sukhodól, having almost no dealings whatever with the superior authorities, with the military officials, or the courts. "the court is for the bandit, the military officer for the soldier," he was wont to say; "but i, god be thanked, am neither a bandit nor a soldier." alexyéi sergyéitch really was somewhat eccentric, but the soul within him was not of the petty sort. i will narrate a few things about him. i never found out authoritatively what were his political views, if, indeed, one can apply to him such a very new-fangled expression; but he was, in his way, rather an aristocrat than a nobly-born master of serfs. more than once he complained because god had not given him a son and heir "for the honour of the race, for the continuation of the family." on the wall of his study hung the genealogical tree of the telyégins, with very profuse branches, and multitudinous circles in the shape of apples, enclosed in a gilt frame. "we telyégins,"[32] he said, "are a very ancient stock, existing from remote antiquity; there have been a great many of us telyégins, but we have not run after foreigners, we have not bowed our backs, we have not wearied ourselves by standing on the porches of the mighty, we have not nourished ourselves on the courts, we have not earned wages, we have not pined for moscow, we have not intrigued in peter;[33] we have sat still, each on his place, his own master on his own land ... thrifty, domesticated birds, my dear sir!--although i myself have served in the guards, yet it was not for long, i thank you!" alexyéi sergyéitch preferred the olden days.--"things were freer then, more seemly, i assure you on my honour! but ever since the year one thousand and eight hundred" (why precisely from that year he did not explain), "this warring and this soldiering have come into fashion, my dear fellow. these military gentlemen have mounted upon their heads some sort of plumes made of cocks' tails, and made themselves like cocks; they have drawn their necks up tightly, very tightly ... they speak in hoarse tones, their eyes are popping out of their heads--and how can they help being hoarse? the other day some police corporal or other came to see me.--'i have come to you, your well-born,' quoth he.... (a pretty way he had chosen to surprise me! ... for i know myself that i am well-born....) 'i have a matter of business with you.' but i said to him: 'respected sir, first undo the hooks on thy collar. otherwise, which god forbid, thou wilt sneeze! akh, what will become of thee! what will become of thee!--thou wilt burst like a puff-ball.... and i shall be responsible for it!' and how they drink, those military gentlemen--o-ho-ho! i generally give orders that they shall be served with champagne from the don, because don champagne and pontacq are all the same to them; it slips down their throats so smoothly and so fast--how are they to distinguish the difference? and here's another thing: they have begun to suck that sucking-bottle, to smoke tobacco. a military man will stick that same sucking-bottle under his moustache, between his lips, and emit smoke through his nostrils, his mouth, and even his ears--and think himself a hero! there are my horrid sons-in-law, for example; although one of them is a senator, and the other is some sort of a curator, they suck at the sucking-bottle also,--and yet they regard themselves as clever men!..." alexyéi sergyéitch could not endure smoking tobacco, nor dogs, especially small dogs.--"come, if thou art a frenchman, then keep a lap-dog. thou runnest, thou skippest hither and thither, and it follows thee, with its tail in the air ... but of what use is it to fellows like me?"--he was very neat and exacting. he never spoke of the empress katherine otherwise than with enthusiasm, and in a lofty, somewhat bookish style: "she was a demi-god, not a human being!--only contemplate yon smile, my good sir," he was wont to add, pointing at the lampi portrait, "and admit that she was a demi-god! i, in my lifetime, have been so happy as to have been vouchsafed the bliss of beholding yon smile, and to all eternity it will never be erased from my heart!"--and thereupon he would impart anecdotes from the life of katherine such as it has never been my lot to read or hear anywhere. here is one of them. alexyéi sergyéitch did not permit the slightest hint at the failings of the great empress. "yes, and in conclusion," he cried: "is it possible to judge her as one judges other people?--one day, as she was sitting in her powder-mantle, at the time of her morning toilet, she gave orders that her hair should be combed out.... and what happened? the waiting-woman passes the comb through it, and electric sparks fly from it in a perfect shower!--then she called to her the body physician, rodgerson, who was present on duty, and says to him: 'i know that people condemn me for certain actions; but dost thou see this electricity? consequently, with such a nature and constitution as mine, thou mayest thyself judge, for thou art a physician, that it is unjust to condemn me, but they should understand me!'" the following incident was ineffaceably retained in the memory of alexyéi sergyéitch. he was standing one day on the inner watch in the palace, and he was only sixteen years of age. and lo, the empress passes him--he presents arms.... "and she," cried alexyéi sergyéitch, again with rapture, "smiling at my youth and my zeal, deigned to give me her hand to kiss, and patted me on the cheek, and inquired who i was, and whence i came, and from what family? and then ..." (here the old man's voice generally broke) ... "then she bade me give my mother her compliments and thank her for rearing her children so well. and whether i was in heaven or on earth, and how and whither she withdrew,--whether she soared up on high, or passed into another room,--i know not to this day!" i often tried to question alexyéi sergyéitch about those olden days, about the men who surrounded the empress.... but he generally evaded the subject. "what's the use of talking about old times?"--he said ... "one only tortures himself. one says to himself,--'thou wert a young man then, but now thy last teeth have vanished from thy mouth.' and there's no denying it--the old times were good ... well, and god be with them! and as for those men--i suppose, thou fidgety child, that thou art talking about the accidental men? thou hast seen a bubble spring forth on water? so long as it is whole and lasts, what beautiful colours play upon it! red and yellow and blue; all one can say is, ''tis a rainbow or a diamond!'--but it soon bursts, and no trace of it remains. and that's what those men were like." "well, and how about potyómkin?" i asked one day. alexyéi sergyéitch assumed a pompous mien. "potyómkin, grigóry alexándritch, was a statesman, a theologian, a nursling of katherine's, her offspring, one must say.... but enough of that, my little sir!" alexyéi sergyéitch was a very devout man and went to church regularly, although it was beyond his strength. there was no superstition perceptible in him; he ridiculed signs, the evil eye, and other "twaddle," yet he did not like it when a hare ran across his path, and it was not quite agreeable for him to meet a priest.[34] he was very respectful to ecclesiastical persons, nevertheless, and asked their blessing, and even kissed their hand every time, but he talked with them reluctantly.--"they emit a very strong odour," he explained; "but i, sinful man that i am, have grown effeminate beyond measure;--their hair is so long[35] and oily, and they comb it out in all directions, thinking thereby to show me respect, and they clear their throats loudly in the middle of conversation, either out of timidity or because they wish to please me in that way also. well, but they remind me of my hour of death. but be that as it may, i want to live a while longer. only, little sir, don't repeat these remarks of mine; respect the ecclesiastical profession--only fools do not respect it; and i am to blame for talking nonsense in my old age." alexyéi sergyéitch had received a scanty education,[36] like all nobles of that epoch; but he had completed it, to a certain degree, by reading. he read only russian books of the end of the last century; he considered the newer writers unleavened and weak in style. during his reading he placed beside him, on a round, one-legged little table, a silver jug filled with a special effervescent kvas flavoured with mint, whose pleasant odour disseminated itself through all the rooms. he placed large, round spectacles on the tip of his nose; but in his later years he did not so much read as stare thoughtfully over the rims of the spectacles, elevating his brows, mowing with his lips and sighing. once i caught him weeping, with a book on his knees, which greatly surprised me, i admit. he recalled the following wretched doggerel: o all-conquering race of man! rest is unknown to thee! thou findest it only when thou swallowest the dust of the grave.... bitter, bitter is this rest! sleep, ye dead.... but weep, ye living! these verses were composed by a certain górmitch-gormítzky, a roving poetaster, whom alexyéi sergyéitch had harboured in his house because he seemed to him a delicate and even subtle man; he wore shoes with knots of ribbon, pronounced his _o's_ broadly, and, raising his eyes to heaven, he sighed frequently. in addition to all these merits, górmitch-gormítzky spoke french passably well, for he had been educated in a jesuit college, while alexyéi sergyéitch only "understood" it. but having once drunk himself dead-drunk in a dram-shop, this same subtle gormítzky displayed outrageous violence. he thrashed "to flinders" alexyéi sergyéitch's valet, the cook, two laundresses who happened along, and even an independent carpenter, and smashed several panes in the windows, yelling lustily the while: "here now, i'll just show these russian sluggards, these unlicked katzápy!"[37]--and what strength that puny little man displayed! eight men could hardly control him! for this turbulence alexyéi sergyéitch gave orders that the rhymster should be flung out of the house, after he had preliminarily been rolled in the snow (it happened in the winter), to sober him. "yes," alexyéi sergyéitch was wont to say, "my day is over; the horse is worn out. i used to keep poets at my expense, and i used to buy pictures and books from the jews--and my geese were quite as good as those of mukhán, and i had genuine slate-coloured tumbler-pigeons.... i was an amateur of all sorts of things! except that i never was a dog-fancier, because of the drunkenness and the clownishness! i was mettlesome, untamable! god forbid that a telyégin should be anything but first-class in everything! and i had a splendid horse-breeding establishment.... and those horses came ... whence, thinkest thou, my little sir?--from those very renowned studs of the tzar iván alexyéitch, the brother of peter the great.... i'm telling you the truth! all stallions, dark brown in colour, with manes to their knees, tails to their hoofs.... lions! vanity of vanities, all is vanity! but what's the use of regretting it? every man has his limit fixed for him.--you cannot fly higher than heaven, nor live in the water, nor escape from the earth.... let us live on a while longer, at any rate!" and again the old man smiled and took a pinch of his spanish tobacco. his peasants loved him. their master was kind, according to them, and not a heart-breaker.--only, they also repeated that he was a worn-out steed. formerly alexyéi sergyéitch had gone into everything himself: he had ridden out into the fields, and to the flour-mill, and to the oil-mill and the storehouses, and looked in to the peasants' cottages; every one was familiar with his racing-drozhky,[38] upholstered in crimson plush and drawn by a well-grown horse with a broad blaze extending clear across its forehead, named "lantern"--from that same famous breeding establishment. alexyéi sergyéitch drove him himself with the ends of the reins wound round his fists. but when his seventieth birthday came the old man gave up everything, and entrusted the management of his estate to the peasant bailiff antíp, of whom he secretly stood in awe and called micromegas (memories of voltaire!), or simply "robber." "well, robber, hast thou gathered a big lot of stolen goods?" he would say, looking the robber straight in the eye. "everything is according to your grace," antíp would reply merrily. "grace is all right, only just look out for thyself, micromegas! don't dare to touch my peasants, my subjects behind my back! they will make complaint ... my cane is not far off, seest thou?" "i always keep your little cane well in mind, dear little father alexyéi sergyéitch," replied antíp-micromegas, stroking his beard. "that's right, keep it in mind!" and master and bailiff laughed in each other's faces. with his house-serfs, with his serfs in general, with his "subjects" (alexyéi sergyéitch loved that word), he dealt gently.--"because, judge for thyself, little nephew, if thou hast nothing of thine own save the cross on thy neck,[39] and that a brass one, don't hanker after other folks' things.... what sense is there in that?" there is no denying the fact that no one even thought of the so-called problem of the serfs at that epoch; and it could not disturb alexyéi sergyéitch. he very calmly ruled his "subjects"; but he condemned bad landed proprietors and called them the enemies of their class. he divided the nobles in general into three categories: the judicious, "of whom there are not many"; the profligate, "of whom there is a goodly number"; and the licentious, "of whom there are enough to dam a pond." and if any one of them was harsh and oppressive to his subjects, that man was guilty in the sight of god, and culpable in the sight of men!--yes; the house-serfs led an easy life in the old man's house; the "subjects behind his back" were less well off, as a matter of course, despite the cane wherewith he threatened micromegas.--and how many there were of them--of those house-serfs--in his manor! and for the most part they were old, sinewy, hairy, grumbling, stoop-shouldered, clad in long-skirted nankeen kaftans, and imbued with a strong acrid odour! and in the women's department nothing was to be heard but the trampling of bare feet, and the rustling of petticoats.--the head valet was named irinárkh, and alexyéi sergyéitch always summoned him with a long-drawn-out call: "i-ri-na-a-árkh!"--he called the others: "young fellow! boy! what subject is there?!"--he could not endure bells. "god have mercy, this is no tavern!" and what amazed me was, that no matter at what time alexyéi sergyéitch called his valet, the man instantly presented himself, just as though he had sprung out of the earth, and placing his heels together, and putting his hands behind his back, stood before his master a grim and, as it were, an irate but zealous servant! alexyéi sergyéitch was lavish beyond his means; but he did not like to be called "benefactor."--"what sort of a benefactor am i to you, sir?... i'm doing myself a favour, not you, my good sir!" (when he was angry or indignant he always called people "you.")--"to a beggar give once, give twice, give thrice," he was wont to say.... "well, and if he returns for the fourth time--give to him yet again, only add therewith: 'my good man, thou shouldst work with something else besides thy mouth all the time.'" "uncle," i used to ask him, "what if the beggar should return for the fifth time after that?" "why, then, do thou give to him for the fifth time." the sick people who appealed to him for aid he had cured at his own expense, although he himself did not believe in doctors, and never sent for them.--"my deceased mother," he asserted, "used to heal all maladies with olive-oil and salt; she both administered it internally and rubbed it on externally, and everything passed off splendidly. and who was my mother? she had her birth under peter the first--only think of that!" alexyéi sergyéitch was a russian man in every respect; he loved russian viands, he loved russian songs, but the accordion, "a factory invention," he detested; he loved to watch the maidens in their choral songs, the women in their dances. in his youth, it was said, he had sung rollickingly and danced with agility. he loved to steam himself in the bath,--and steamed himself so energetically that irinárkh, who served him as bath-attendant, thrashed him with a birch-besom soaked in beer, rubbed him down with shredded linden bark,[40] then with a bit of woollen cloth, rolled a soap bladder over his master's shoulders,--this faithfully-devoted irinárkh was accustomed to say every time, as he climbed down from the shelf as red as "a new brass statue": "well, for this time i, the servant of god, irinárkh tolobyéeff, am still whole.... what will happen next time?" and alexyéi sergyéitch spoke splendid russian, somewhat old-fashioned, but piquant and pure as spring water, constantly interspersing his speech with his pet words: "honour bright," "god have mercy," "at any rate," "sir," and "little sir."... enough concerning him, however. let us talk about alexyéi sergyéitch's spouse, malánya pávlovna. malánya pávlovna was a native of moscow, and had been accounted the greatest beauty in town, _la vénus de moscou_.--when i knew her she was already a gaunt old woman, with delicate but insignificant features, little curved hare-like teeth in a tiny little mouth, with a multitude of tight little curls on her forehead, and dyed eyebrows. she constantly wore a pyramidal cap with rose-coloured ribbons, a high ruff around her neck, a short white gown and prunella shoes with red heels; and over her gown she wore a jacket of blue satin, with the sleeve depending from the right shoulder. she had worn precisely such a toilet on st. peter's day, 1789! on that day, being still a maiden, she had gone with her relatives to the khodýnskoe field,[41] to see the famous prize-fight arranged by the orlóffs. "and count alexyéi grigórievitch ..." (oh, how many times did i hear that tale!), ... "having descried me, approached, made a low obeisance, holding his hat in both hands, and spake thus: 'my stunning beauty, why dost thou allow that sleeve to hang from thy shoulder? is it that thou wishest to have a match at fisticuffs with me?... with pleasure; only i tell thee beforehand that thou hast vanquished me--i surrender!--and i am thy captive!'--and every one stared at us and marvelled." and so she had worn that style of toilet ever since. "only, i wore no cap then, but a hat _à la bergère de trianon_; and although i was powdered, yet my hair gleamed through it like gold!" malánya pávlovna was stupid to sanctity, as the saying goes; she chattered at random, and did not herself quite know what issued from her mouth--but it was chiefly about orlóff.--orlóff had become, one may say, the principal interest of her life. she usually entered--no! she floated into--the room, moving her head in a measured way like a peacock, came to a halt in the middle of it, with one foot turned out in a strange sort of way, and holding the pendent sleeve in two fingers (that must have been the pose which had pleased orlóff once on a time), she looked about her with arrogant carelessness, as befits a beauty,-she even sniffed and whispered "the idea!" exactly as though some important cavalier-adorer were besieging her with compliments,--then suddenly walked on, clattering her heels and shrugging her shoulders.-she also took spanish snuff out of a tiny bonbon box, scooping it out with a tiny golden spoon, and from time to time, especially when a new person made his appearance, she raised--not to her eyes, but to her nose (her vision was excellent)--a double lorgnette in the shape of a pair of horns, showing off and twisting about her little white hand with one finger standing out apart. how many times did malánya pávlovna describe to me her wedding in the church of the ascension, "which is on the arbát square--such a fine church!--and all moscow was present at it ... there was such a crush! 't was frightful! there were equipages drawn by six horses, golden carriages, runners ... one of count zavadóvsky's runners even fell under the wheels! and the bishop himself married us,[42] and what an address he delivered! everybody wept--wherever i looked there was nothing but tears, tears ... and the governor-general's horses were tiger-coloured.... and how many, many flowers people brought!... they overwhelmed us with flowers! and one foreigner, a rich, very rich man, shot himself for love on that occasion, and orlóff was present also.... and approaching alexyéi sergyéitch he congratulated him and called him a lucky dog.... 'thou art a lucky dog, brother gaper!' he said. and in reply alexyéi sergyéitch made such a wonderful obeisance, and swept the plume of his hat along the floor from left to right ... as much as to say: 'there is a line drawn now, your radiance, between you and my spouse which you must not step across!'--and orlóff, alexyéi grigórievitch, immediately understood and lauded him.--oh, what a man he was! what a man! and then, on another occasion, alexis and i were at a ball in his house--i was already married--and what magnificent diamond buttons he wore! and i could not restrain myself, but praised them. 'what splendid diamonds you have, count!' and thereupon he took a knife from the table, cut off one button and presented it to me--saying: 'you have in your eyes, my dear little dove, diamonds a hundredfold finer; just stand before the mirror and compare them.' and i did stand there, and he stood beside me.--'well? who is right?'--says he--and keeps rolling his eyes all round me. and then alexyéi sergyéitch was greatly dismayed; but i said to him: 'alexis,' i said to him, 'please do not be dismayed; thou shouldst know me better!' and he answered me: 'be at ease, mélanie!'--and those same diamonds i now have encircling a medallion of alexyéi grigórievitch--i think, my dear, that thou hast seen me wear it on my shoulder on festival days, on a ribbon of st. george--because he was a very brave hero, a cavalier of the order of st. george: he burned the turks!"[43] notwithstanding all this, malánya pávlovna was a very kind woman; she was easy to please.--"she doesn't nag you, and she doesn't sneer at you," the maids said of her.--malánya pávlovna was passionately fond of all sweets, and a special old woman, who occupied herself with nothing but the preserves, and therefore was called the preserve-woman, brought to her, half a score of times in a day, a chinese plate now with candied rose-leaves, again with barberries in honey, or orange sherbet. malánya pávlovna feared solitude--dreadful thoughts come then--and was almost constantly surrounded by female hangers-on whom she urgently entreated: "talk, talk! why do you sit there and do nothing but warm your seats?"--and they began to twitter like canary-birds. being no less devout than alexyéi sergyéitch, she was very fond of praying; but as, according to her own words, she had not learned to recite prayers well, she kept for that purpose the widow of a deacon, who prayed so tastily! she would never stumble to all eternity! and, in fact, that deacon's widow understood how to utter prayerful words in an irrepressible sort of way, without a break even when she inhaled or exhaled her breath--and malánya pávlovna listened and melted with emotion. she had another widow also attached to her service; the latter's duty consisted in telling her stories at night,--"but only old ones," entreated malánya pávlovna, "those i already know; all the new ones are spurious." malánya pávlovna was very frivolous and sometimes suspicious. all of a sudden she would take some idea into her head. she did not like the dwarf janus, for example; it always seemed to her as though he would suddenly start in and begin to shriek: "but do you know who i am? a buryát prince! so, then, submit!"--and if she did not, he would set fire to the house out of melancholy. malánya pávlovna was as lavish as alexyéi sergyéitch; but she never gave money--she did not wish to soil her pretty little hands--but kerchiefs, ear-rings, gowns, ribbons, or she would send a patty from the table, or a bit of the roast, or if not that, a glass of wine. she was also fond of regaling the peasant-women on holidays. they would begin to dance, and she would click her heels and strike an attitude. alexyéi sergyéitch was very well aware that his wife was stupid; but he had trained himself, almost from the first year of his married life, to pretend that she was very keen of tongue and fond of saying stinging things. as soon as she got to chattering he would immediately shake his little finger at her and say: "okh, what a naughty little tongue! what a naughty little tongue! won't it catch it in the next world! it will be pierced with red-hot needles!"--but malánya pávlovna did not take offence at this; on the contrary, she seemed to feel flattered at hearing such remarks--as much as to say: "well, i can't help it! it isn't my fault that i was born witty!" malánya pávlovna worshipped her husband, and all her life remained an exemplary and faithful wife. but there had been an "object" in her life also, a young nephew, a hussar, who had been slain, so she assumed, in a duel on her account---but, according to more trustworthy information, he had died from a blow received on the head from a billiard-cue, in tavern company. the water-colour portrait of this "object" was preserved by her in a secret casket. malánya pávlovna crimsoned to the very ears every time she alluded to kapítonushka--that was the "object's" name;--while alexyéi sergyéitch scowled intentionally, again menaced his wife with his little finger and said, "trust not a horse in the meadow, a wife in the house! okh, that kapítonushka, kupidónushka!"--then malánya pávlovna bristled up all over and exclaimed: "alexis, shame on you, alexis!--you yourself probably flirted with divers little ladies in your youth--and so you take it for granted...." "come, that will do, that will do, malániushka," alexyéi sergyéitch interrupted her, with a smile;--"thy gown is white, and thy soul is whiter still!" "it is whiter, alexis; it is whiter!" "okh, what a naughty little tongue, on my honour, what a naughty little tongue!" repeated alexyéi sergyéitch, tapping her on the cheek. to mention malánya pávlovna's "convictions" would be still more out of place than to mention those of alexyéi sergyéitch; but i once chanced to be the witness of a strange manifestation of my aunt's hidden feelings. i once chanced, in the course of conversation, to mention the well-known sheshkóvsky.[44] malánya pávlovna suddenly became livid in the face,--as livid as a corpse,--turned green, despite the layer of paint and powder, and in a dull, entirely-genuine voice (which very rarely happened with her--as a general thing she seemed always somewhat affected, assumed an artificial tone and lisped) said: "okh! whom hast thou mentioned! and at nightfall, into the bargain!--don't utter that name!" i was amazed; what significance could that name possess for such an inoffensive and innocent being, who would not have known how to devise, much less to execute, anything reprehensible?--this alarm, which revealed itself after a lapse of nearly half a century, induced in me reflections which were not altogether cheerful. alexyéi sergyéitch died in his eighty-eighth year, in the year 1848, which evidently disturbed even him. and his death was rather strange. that morning he had felt well, although he no longer quitted his arm-chair at all. but suddenly he called to his wife: "malániushka, come hither!" "what dost thou want, alexis?" "it is time for me to die, that's what, my darling." "god be with you, alexyéi sergyéitch! why so?" "this is why. in the first place, one must show moderation; and more than that; i was looking at my legs a little while ago ... they were strange legs--and that settles it!--i looked at my hands---and those were strange also! i looked at my belly--and the belly belonged to some one else!--which signifies that i am devouring some other person's life.[45] send for the priest; and in the meanwhile, lay me on my bed, from which i shall not rise again." malánya pávlovna was in utter consternation, but she put the old man to bed, and sent for the priest. alexyéi sergyéitch made his confession, received the holy communion, took leave of the members of his household, and began to sink into a stupor. malánya pávlovna was sitting beside his bed. "alexis!" she suddenly shrieked, "do not frighten me, do not close thy dear eyes! hast thou any pain?" the old man looked at his wife.--"no, i have no pain ... but i find it ... rather difficult ... difficult to breathe." then, after a brief pause:--"malániushka," he said, "now life has galloped past--but dost thou remember our wedding ... what a fine young couple we were?" "we were, my beauty, alexis my incomparable one!" again the old man remained silent for a space. "and shall we meet again in the other world, malániushka?" "i shall pray to god that we may, alexis."--and the old woman burst into tears. "come, don't cry, silly one; perchance the lord god will make us young again there--and we shall again be a fine young pair!" "he will make us young, alexis!" "everything is possible to him, to the lord," remarked alexyéi sergyéitch.--"he is a worker of wonders!--i presume he will make thee a clever woman also.... come, my dear, i was jesting; give me thy hand to kiss." "and i will kiss thine." and the two old people kissed each other's hands. alexyéi sergyéitch began to quiet down and sink into a comatose state. malánya pávlovna gazed at him with emotion, brushing the tears from her eyelashes with the tip of her finger. she sat thus for a couple of hours. "has he fallen asleep?" asked in a whisper the old woman who knew how to pray so tastily, peering out from behind irinárkh, who was standing as motionless as a pillar at the door, and staring intently at his dying master. "yes," replied malánya pávlovna, also in a whisper. and suddenly alexyéi sergyéitch opened his eyes. "my faithful companion," he stammered, "my respected spouse, i would like to bow myself to thy feet for all thy love and faithfulness--but how am i to rise? let me at least sign thee with the cross." malánya pávlovna drew nearer, bent over.... but the hand which had been raised fell back powerless on the coverlet, and a few moments later alexyéi sergyéitch ceased to be. his daughters with their husbands only arrived in time for the funeral; neither one of them had any children. alexyéi sergyéitch had not discriminated against them in his will, although he had not referred to them on his death-bed. "my heart is locked against them," he had said to me one day. knowing his kind-heartedness, i was surprised at his words.--it is a difficult matter to judge between parents and children.--"a vast ravine begins with a tiny rift," alexyéi sergyéitch had said to me on another occasion, referring to the same subject. "a wound an arshín long will heal over, but if you cut off so much as a nail, it will not grow again!" i have an idea that the daughters were ashamed of their eccentric old folks. a month later malánya pávlovna expired also. she hardly rose from her bed again after the day of alexyéi sergyéitch's death, and did not array herself; but they buried her in the blue jacket, and with the medal of orlóff on her shoulder, only minus the diamonds. the daughters shared those between them, under the pretext that those diamonds were to be used for the setting of holy pictures; but as a matter of fact they used them to adorn their own persons. and now how vividly do my old people stand before me, and what a good memory i cherish of them! and yet, during my very last visit to them (i was already a student at the time) an incident occurred which injected some discord into the harmoniously-patriarchal mood with which the telyégin house inspired me. among the number of the household serfs was a certain iván, nicknamed "sukhíkh--the coachman, or the little coachman, as he was called, on account of his small size, in spite of his years, which were not few. he was a tiny scrap of a man, nimble, snub-nosed, curly-haired, with a perennial smile on his infantile countenance, and little, mouse-like eyes. he was a great joker and buffoon; he was able to acquire any trick; he set off fireworks, snakes, played all card-games, galloped his horse while standing erect on it, flew higher than any one else in the swing, and even knew how to present chinese shadows. there was no one who could amuse children better than he, and he would have been only too glad to occupy himself with them all day long. when he got to laughing he set the whole house astir. people would answer him from this point and that--every one would join in.... they would both abuse him and laugh.--iván danced marvellously--especially 'the fish.'--the chorus would thunder out a dance tune, the young fellow would step into the middle of the circle, and begin to leap and twist about and stamp his feet, and then come down with a crash on the ground--and there represent the movements of a fish which has been thrown out of the water upon the dry land; and he would writhe about this way and that, and even bring his heels up to his neck; and then, when he sprang to his feet and began to shout, the earth would simply tremble beneath him! alexyéi sergyéitch was extremely fond of choral songs and dances, as i have already said; he could never refrain from shouting: 'send hither vániushka! the little coachman! give us 'the fish,' be lively!'--and a minute later he would whisper in ecstasy: 'akh, what a devil of a man he is!'" well, then,--on my last visit this same iván sukhíkh comes to me in my room, and without uttering a word plumps down on his knees. "what is the matter with thee, iván?" "save me, master!" "why, what's the trouble?" and thereupon iván related to me his grief. he had been swapped twenty years previously by the messrs. sukhóy for another serf, a man belonging to the telyégins--he had simply been exchanged, without any formalities and documents. the man who had been given in exchange for him had died, but the messrs. sukhóy had forgotten all about iván and had left him in alexyéi sergyéitch's house as his property; his nickname alone served as a reminder of his origin.[46]--but lo and behold! his former owners had died also, their estate had fallen into other hands, and the new owner, concerning whom rumours were in circulation to the effect that he was a cruel man, a torturer, having learned that one of his serfs was to be found at alexyéi sergyéitch's without any passport and right, began to demand his return; in case of refusal he threatened to have recourse to the courts and a penalty--and he did not threaten idly, as he himself held the rank of privy councillor,[47] and had great weight in the government.[48] iván, in his affright, darted to alexyéi sergyéitch. the old man was sorry for his dancer, and he offered to buy iván from the privy councillor at a good price; but the privy councillor would not hear of such a thing; he was a little russian and obstinate as the devil. the poor fellow had to be surrendered. "i have got used to living here, i have made myself at home here, i have eaten bread here, and here i wish to die," ivan said to me--and there was no grin on his face now; on the contrary, he seemed turned into stone.... "but now i must go to that malefactor.... am i a dog that i am to be driven from one kennel to another with a slip-noose round my neck--and a 'take that'? save me, master; entreat your uncle,--remember how i have always amused you.... or something bad will surely come of it; the matter will not pass off without sin." "without what sin, iván?" "why, i will kill that gentleman.--when i arrive i shall say to him: 'let me go back, master; otherwise, look out, beware.... i will kill you.'" if a chaffinch or a bullfinch could talk and had begun to assure me that it would claw another bird, it would not have caused me greater astonishment than did iván on that occasion.--what! ványa sukhíkh, that dancer, jester, buffoon, that favourite of the children, and a child himself--that kindest-hearted of beings--a murderer! what nonsense! i did not believe him for a single moment. i was startled in the extreme that he should have been able to utter such a word! nevertheless, i betook myself to alexyéi sergyéitch. i did not repeat to him what iván had said to me, but i tried in every way to beg him to see whether he could not set the matter right. "my little sir," the old man replied to me, "i would be only too delighted, but how can i?--i have offered that topknot[49] huge remuneration. i offered him three hundred rubles, i assure thee on my honour! but in vain. what is one to do? we had acted illegally, on faith, after the ancient fashion ... and now see what a bad thing has come of it! i am sure that topknot will take iván from me by force the first thing we know; he has a strong hand, the governor eats sour cabbage-soup with him--the topknot will send a soldier! i'm afraid of those soldiers! in former days, there's no denying it, i would have defended iván,--but just look at me now, how decrepit i have grown. how am i to wage war?"--and, in fact, during my last visit i found that alexyéi sergyéitch had aged very greatly; even the pupils of his eyes had acquired a milky hue--like that in infants--and on his lips there appeared not the discerning smile of former days, but that strainedly-sweet, unconscious smirk which never leaves the faces of very old people even in their sleep. i imparted alexyéi sergyéitch's decision to iván. he stood a while, held his peace, and shook his head.--"well," he said at last, "what is fated to be cannot be avoided. only my word is firm. that is to say: only one thing remains for me ... play the wag to the end.--master, please give me something for liquor!" i gave it; he drank himself drunk--and on that same day he danced "the fish" in such wise that the maidens and married women fairly squealed with delight, so whimsically amusing was he. the next day i went home, and three months later--when i was already in petersburg--i learned that iván had actually kept his word!--he had been sent to his new master; his master had summoned him to his study and announced to him that he was to serve as his coachman, that he entrusted him with a tróika of vyátka horses,[50] and that he should exact a strict account from him if he treated them badly, and, in general, if he were not punctual.--"i'm not fond of jesting," he said.--iván listened to his master, first made obeisance to his very feet, and then informed him that it was as his mercy liked, but he could not be his servant.--"release me on quit-rent, your high-born," he said, "or make a soldier of me; otherwise there will be a catastrophe before long." the master flared up.--"akh, damn thee! what is this thou darest to say to me?--know, in the first place, that i am 'your excellency,' and not 'your high-born'; in the second place, thou art beyond the age, and thy size is not such that i can hand thee over as a soldier; and, in conclusion,--what calamity art thou threatening me with? art thou preparing to commit arson?" "no, your excellency, not to commit arson." "to kill me, then, pray?" iván maintained a stubborn silence.--"i will not be your servant," he said at last. "here, then, i'll show thee," roared the gentleman, "whether thou wilt be my servant or not!"--and after having cruelly flogged iván, he nevertheless ordered that the tróika of vyátka horses should be placed in his charge, and appointed him a coachman at the stables. iván submitted, to all appearances; he began to drive as coachman. as he was a proficient in that line his master speedily took a fancy to him,--the more so as iván behaved very discreetly and quietly, and the horses throve under his care; he tended them so that they became as plump as cucumbers,--one could never leave off admiring them! the master began to drive out more frequently with him than with the other coachmen. he used to ask: "dost thou remember, iván, how unpleasant was thy first meeting with me? i think thou hast got rid of thy folly?" but to these words iván never made any reply. so, then, one day, just before the epiphany, the master set out for the town with iván in his tróika with bells, in a broad sledge lined with rugs. the horses began to ascend a hill at a walk, while iván descended from the box and went back to the sledge, as though he had dropped something.--the cold was very severe. the master sat there all wrapped up, and with his beaver cap drawn down over his ears. then iván pulled a hatchet out from under the skirts of his coat, approached his master from behind, knocked off his cap, and saying: "i warned thee, piótr petróvitch--now thou hast thyself to thank for this!"--he laid open his head with one slash. then he brought the horses to a standstill, put the cap back on his murdered master's head, and again mounting the box, he drove him to the town, straight to the court-house. "here's the general from sukhóy for you, murdered; and i killed him.--i told him i would do it, and i have done it. bind me!" they seized iván, tried him, condemned him to the knout and then to penal servitude.--the merry, bird-like dancer reached the mines--and there vanished forever.... yes; involuntarily--although in a different sense,--one repeats with alexyéi sergyéitch:--"the old times were good ... well, yes, but god be with them! i want nothing to do with them!" the song of love triumphant (1881) mdxlii dedicated to the memory of gustave flaubert wage du zu irren und zu träumen! schiller. the following is what i read in an italian manuscript: i about the middle of the sixteenth century there dwelt in ferrara--(it was then flourishing under the sceptre of its magnificent dukes, the patrons of the arts and of poetry)--there dwelt two young men, named fabio and muzio. of the same age and nearly related, they were almost never separated; a sincere friendship had united them since their early childhood, and a similarity of fate had strengthened this bond. both belonged to ancient families; both were wealthy, independent, and without family; the tastes and inclinations of both were similar. muzio occupied himself with music, fabio with painting. all ferrara was proud of them as the finest ornaments of the court, of society, and of the city. but in personal appearance they did not resemble each other, although both were distinguished for their stately, youthful beauty. fabio was the taller of the two, white of complexion, with ruddy-gold hair, and had blue eyes. muzio, on the contrary, had a swarthy face, black hair, and in his dark-brown eyes there was not that merry gleam, on his lips not that cordial smile, which fabio had; his thick eyebrows over-hung his narrow eyelids, while fabio's golden brows rose in slender arches on his pure, smooth forehead. muzio was less animated in conversation also; nevertheless both friends were equally favoured by the ladies; for not in vain were they models of knightly courtesy and lavishness. at one and the same time with them there dwelt in ferrara a maiden named valeria. she was considered one of the greatest beauties in the city, although she was to be seen only very rarely, as she led a retired life and left her house only to go to church;--and on great festivals for a walk. she lived with her mother, a nobly-born but not wealthy widow, who had no other children. valeria inspired in every one whom she met a feeling of involuntary amazement and of equally involuntary tender respect: so modest was her mien, so little aware was she, to all appearance, of the full force of her charms. some persons, it is true, thought her rather pale; the glance of her eyes, which were almost always lowered, expressed a certain shyness and even timidity; her lips smiled rarely, and then but slightly; hardly ever did any one hear her voice. but a rumour was in circulation to the effect that it was very beautiful, and that, locking herself in her chamber, early in the morning, while everything in the city was still sleeping, she loved to warble ancient ballads to the strains of a lute, upon which she herself played. despite the pallor of her face, valeria was in blooming health; and even the old people, as they looked on her, could not refrain from thinking:--"oh, how happy will be that young man for whom this bud still folded in its petals, still untouched and virgin, shall at last unfold itself!" ii fabio and muzio beheld valeria for the first time at a sumptuous popular festival, got up at the command of the duke of ferrara, ercole, son of the famous lucrezia borgia, in honour of some distinguished grandees who had arrived from paris on the invitation of the duchess, the daughter of louis xii, king of france. side by side with her mother sat valeria in the centre of an elegant tribune, erected after drawings by palladius on the principal square of ferrara for the most honourable ladies of the city. both fabio and muzio fell passionately in love with her that day; and as they concealed nothing from each other, each speedily learned what was going on in his comrade's heart. they agreed between themselves that they would both try to make close acquaintance with valeria, and if she should deign to choose either one of them the other should submit without a murmur to her decision. several weeks later, thanks to the fine reputation which they rightfully enjoyed, they succeeded in penetrating into the not easily accessible house of the widow; she gave them permission to visit her. from that time forth they were able to see valeria almost every day and to converse with her;--and with every day the flame kindled in the hearts of both young men blazed more and more vigorously. but valeria displayed no preference for either of them, although their presence evidently pleased her. with muzio she occupied herself with music; but she chatted more with fabio: she was less shy with him. at last they decided to learn their fate definitely, and sent to valeria a letter wherein they asked her to explain herself and say on whom she was prepared to bestow her hand. valeria showed this letter to her mother, and informed her that she was content to remain unmarried; but if her mother thought it was time for her to marry, she would wed the man of her mother's choice. the honourable widow shed a few tears at the thought of parting from her beloved child; but there was no reason for rejecting the suitors: she considered them both equally worthy of her daughter's hand. but as she secretly preferred fabio, and suspected that he was more to valeria's taste also, she fixed upon him. on the following day fabio learned of his happiness: and all that was left to muzio was to keep his word and submit. this he did; but he was not able to be a witness to the triumph of his friend, his rival. he immediately sold the greater part of his property, and collecting a few thousand ducats, he set off on a long journey to the orient. on taking leave of fabio he said to him that he would not return until he should feel that the last traces of passion in him had vanished. it was painful for fabio to part from the friend of his childhood and his youth ... but the joyful anticipation of approaching bliss speedily swallowed up all other sentiments--and he surrendered himself completely to the transports of happy love. he soon married valeria, and only then did he learn the full value of the treasure which it had fallen to his lot to possess. he had a very beautiful villa at a short distance from ferrara; he removed thither with his wife and her mother. a bright time then began for them. wedded life displayed in a new and captivating light all valeria's perfections. fabio became a remarkable artist,---no longer a mere amateur, but a master. valeria's mother rejoiced and returned thanks to god as she gazed at the happy pair. four years flew by unnoticed like a blissful dream. one thing alone was lacking to the young married couple, one thing caused them grief: they had no children ... but hope had not deserted them. toward the end of the fourth year a great, and this time a genuine grief, visited them: valeria's mother died, after an illness of a few days. valeria shed many tears; for a long time she could not reconcile herself to her loss. but another year passed; life once more asserted its rights and flowed on in its former channel. and, lo! one fine summer evening, without having forewarned any one, muzio returned to ferrara. iii during the whole five years which had elapsed since his departure, no one had known anything about him. all rumours concerning him had died out, exactly as though he had vanished from the face of the earth. when fabio met his friend on one of the streets in ferrara he came near crying out aloud, first from fright, then from joy, and immediately invited him to his villa. there, in the garden, was a spacious, detached pavilion; he suggested that his friend should settle down in that pavilion. muzio gladly accepted, and that same day removed thither with his servant, a dumb malay--dumb but not deaf, and even, judging from the vivacity of his glance, a very intelligent man.... his tongue had been cut out. muzio had brought with him scores of chests filled with divers precious things which he had collected during his prolonged wanderings. valeria was delighted at muzio's return; and he greeted her in a cheerfully-friendly but composed manner. from everything it was obvious that he had kept the promise made to fabio. in the course of the day he succeeded in installing himself in his pavilion; with the aid of his malay he set out the rarities he had brought--rugs, silken tissues, garments of velvet and brocade, weapons, cups, dishes, and beakers adorned with enamel, articles of gold and silver set with pearls and turquoises, carved caskets of amber and ivory, faceted flasks, spices, perfumes, pelts of wild beasts, the feathers of unknown birds, and a multitude of other objects, the very use of which seemed mysterious and incomprehensible. among the number of all these precious things there was one rich pearl necklace which muzio had received from the shah of persia for a certain great and mysterious service; he asked valeria's permission to place this necklace on her neck with his own hand; it seemed to her heavy, and as though endowed with a strange sort of warmth ... it fairly adhered to the skin. toward evening, after dinner, as they sat on the terrace of the villa, in the shade of oleanders and laurels, muzio began to narrate his adventures. he told of the distant lands which he had seen, of mountains higher than the clouds, of rivers like unto seas; he told of vast buildings and temples, of trees thousands of years old, of rainbow-hued flowers and birds; he enumerated the cities and peoples he had visited.... (their very names exhaled something magical). all the orient was familiar to muzio: he had traversed persia and arabia, where the horses are more noble and beautiful than all other living creatures; he had penetrated the depths of india, where is a race of people resembling magnificent plants; he had attained to the confines of china and tibet, where a living god, the dalai lama by name, dwells upon earth in the form of a speechless man with narrow eyes. marvellous were his tales! fabio and valeria listened to him as though enchanted. in point of fact, muzio's features had undergone but little change: swarthy from childhood, his face had grown still darker,--had been burned beneath the rays of a more brilliant sun,--his eyes seemed more deeply set than of yore, that was all; but the expression of that face had become different: concentrated, grave, it did not grow animated even when he alluded to the dangers to which he had been subjected by night in the forests, deafened by the roar of tigers, by day on deserted roads where fanatics lie in wait for travellers and strangle them in honour of an iron goddess who demands human blood. and muzio's voice had grown more quiet and even; the movements of his hands, of his whole body, had lost the flourishing ease which is peculiar to the italian race. with the aid of his servant, the obsequiously-alert malay, he showed his host and hostess several tricks which he had been taught by the brahmins of india. thus, for example, having preliminarily concealed himself behind a curtain, he suddenly appeared sitting in the air, with his legs doubled up beneath him, resting the tips of his fingers lightly on a bamboo rod set upright, which not a little amazed and even alarmed fabio and valeria.... "can it be that he is a magician?" the thought occurred to her.--but when he set to calling out tame snakes from a covered basket by whistling on a small flute,--when, wiggling their fangs, their dark, flat heads made their appearance from beneath the motley stuff, valeria became frightened and begged muzio to hide away those horrors as quickly as possible. at supper muzio regaled his friends with wine of shiraz from a round flask with a long neck; extremely fragrant and thick, of a golden hue, with greenish lights, it sparkled mysteriously when poured into the tiny jasper cups. in taste it did not resemble european wines: it was very sweet and spicy; and, quaffed slowly, in small sips, it produced in all the limbs a sensation of agreeable drowsiness. muzio made fabio and valeria drink a cup apiece, and drank one himself. bending over her cup, he whispered something and shook his fingers. valeria noticed this; but as there was something strange and unprecedented in all muzio's ways in general, and in all his habits, she merely thought: "i wonder if he has not accepted in india some new faith, or whether they have such customs there?"--then, after a brief pause, she asked him: "had he continued to occupy himself with music during the time of his journeys?"--in reply muzio ordered the malay to bring him his indian violin. it resembled those of the present day, only, instead of four strings it had three; a bluish snake-skin was stretched across its top, and the slender bow of reed was semi-circular in form, and on its very tip glittered a pointed diamond. muzio first played several melancholy airs,--which were, according to his assertion, popular ballads,--strange and even savage to the italian ear; the sound of the metallic strings was plaintive and feeble. but when muzio began the last song, that same sound suddenly strengthened, quivered powerfully and resonantly; the passionate melody poured forth from beneath the broadly-handled bow,--poured forth with beautiful undulations, like the snake which had covered the top of the violin with its skin; and with so much fire, with so much triumphant joy did this song beam and blaze that both fabio and valeria felt a tremor at their heart, and the tears started to their eyes ... while muzio, with his head bent down and pressed against his violin, with pallid cheeks, and brows contracted into one line, seemed still more concentrated and serious than ever, and the diamond at the tip of the bow scattered ray-like sparks in its flight, as though it also were kindled with the fire of that wondrous song. and when muzio had finished and, still holding the violin tightly pressed between his chin and his shoulder, dropped his hand which held the bow--"what is that? what hast thou been playing to us?" fabio exclaimed.--valeria uttered not a word, but her whole being seemed to repeat her husband's question. muzio laid the violin on the table, and lightly shaking back his hair, said, with a courteous smile: "that? that melody ... that song i heard once on the island of ceylon. that song is known there, among the people, as the song of happy, satisfied love." "repeat it," whispered fabio. "no; it is impossible to repeat it," replied muzio. "and it is late now. signora valeria ought to rest; and it is high time for me also.... i am weary." all day long muzio had treated valeria in a respectfully-simple manner, like a friend of long standing; but as he took leave he pressed her hand very hard, jamming his fingers into her palm, staring so intently into her face the while that she, although she did not raise her eyelids, felt conscious of that glance on her suddenly-flushing cheeks. she said nothing to muzio, but drew away her hand, and when he was gone she stared at the door through which he had made his exit. she recalled how, in former years also, she had been afraid of him ... and now she was perplexed. muzio went off to his pavilion; the husband and wife withdrew to their bed-chamber. iv valeria did not soon fall asleep; her blood was surging softly and languidly, and there was a faint ringing in her head ... from that strange wine, as she supposed, and, possibly, also from muzio's tales, from his violin playing.... toward morning she fell asleep at last, and had a remarkable dream. it seems to her that she enters a spacious room with a low, vaulted ceiling.... she has never seen such a room in her life. all the walls are set with small blue tiles bearing golden patterns; slender carved pillars of alabaster support the marble vault; this vault and the pillars seem semi-transparent.... a pale, rose-coloured light penetrates the room from all directions, illuminating all the objects mysteriously and monotonously; cushions of gold brocade lie on a narrow rug in the very middle of the floor, which is as smooth as a mirror. in the corners, barely visible, two tall incense-burners, representing monstrous animals, are smoking; there are no windows anywhere; the door, screened by a velvet drapery, looms silently black in a niche of the wall. and suddenly this curtain softly slips aside, moves away ... and muzio enters. he bows, opens his arms, smiles.... his harsh arms encircle valeria's waist; his dry lips have set her to burning all over.... she falls prone on the cushions.... * * * * * moaning with fright, valeria awoke after long efforts.--still not comprehending where she is and what is the matter with her, she half raises herself up in bed and looks about her.... a shudder runs through her whole body.... fabio is lying beside her. he is asleep; but his face, in the light of the round, clear moon, is as pale as that of a corpse ... it is more melancholy than the face of a corpse. valeria awoke her husband--and no sooner had he cast a glance at her than he exclaimed: "what is the matter with thee?" "i have seen ... i have seen a dreadful dream," she whispered, still trembling.... but at that moment, from the direction of the pavilion, strong sounds were wafted to them--and both fabio and valeria recognised the melody which muzio had played to them, calling it the song of love triumphant.--fabio cast a glance of surprise at valeria.... she closed her eyes, and turned away--and both, holding their breath, listened to the song to the end. when the last sound died away the moon went behind a cloud, it suddenly grew dark in the room.... the husband and wife dropped their heads on their pillows, without exchanging a word, and neither of them noticed when the other fell asleep. v on the following morning muzio came to breakfast; he seemed pleased, and greeted valeria merrily. she answered him with confusion,-scrutinised him closely, and was startled by that pleased, merry face, those piercing and curious eyes. muzio was about to begin his stories again ... but fabio stopped him at the first word. "evidently, thou wert not able to sleep in a new place? my wife and i heard thee playing the song of last night." "yes? did you hear it?"--said muzio.--"i did play it, in fact; but i had been asleep before that, and i had even had a remarkable dream." valeria pricked up her ears.--"what sort of a dream?" inquired fabio. "i seemed," replied muzio, without taking his eyes from valeria, "to see myself enter a spacious apartment with a vaulted ceiling, decorated in oriental style. carved pillars supported the vault; the walls were covered with tiles, and although there were no windows nor candles, yet the whole room was filled with a rosy light, just as though it had all been built of transparent stone. in the corners chinese incense-burners were smoking; on the floor lay cushions of brocade, along a narrow rug. i entered through a door hung with a curtain, and from another door directly opposite a woman whom i had once loved made her appearance. and she seemed to me so beautiful that i became all aflame with my love of days gone by...." muzio broke off significantly. valeria sat motionless, only paling slowly ... and her breathing grew more profound. "then," pursued muzio, "i woke up and played that song." "but who was the woman?" said fabio. "who was she? the wife of an east indian. i met her in the city of delhi.... she is no longer among the living. she is dead." "and her husband?" asked fabio, without himself knowing why he did so. "her husband is dead also, they say. i soon lost sight of them." "strange!" remarked fabio.--"my wife also had a remarkable dream last night--which she did not relate to me," added fabio. but at this point valeria rose and left the room. immediately after breakfast muzio also went away, asserting that he was obliged to go to ferrara on business, and that he should not return before evening. vi several weeks before muzio's return fabio had begun a portrait of his wife, depicting her with the attributes of saint cecilia.--he had made noteworthy progress in his art; the famous luini, the pupil of leonardo da vinci, had come to him in ferrara, and aiding him with his own advice, had also imparted to him the precepts of his great master. the portrait was almost finished; it only remained for him to complete the face by a few strokes of the brush, and then fabio might feel justly proud of his work. when muzio departed to ferrara, fabio betook himself to his studio, where valeria was generally awaiting him; but he did not find her there; he called to her--she did not respond. a secret uneasiness took possession of fabio; he set out in quest of her. she was not in the house; fabio ran into the garden--and there, in one of the most remote alleys, he descried valeria. with head bowed upon her breast, and hands clasped on her knees, she was sitting on a bench, and behind her, standing out against the dark green of a cypress, a marble satyr, with face distorted in a malicious smile, was applying his pointed lips to his reed-pipes. valeria was visibly delighted at her husband's appearance, and in reply to his anxious queries she said that she had a slight headache, but that it was of no consequence, and that she was ready for the sitting. fabio conducted her to his studio, posed her, and took up his brush; but, to his great vexation, he could not possibly finish the face as he would have liked. and that not because it was somewhat pale and seemed fatigued ... no; but he did not find in it that day the pure, holy expression which he so greatly loved in it, and which had suggested to him the idea of representing valeria in the form of saint cecilia. at last he flung aside his brush, told his wife that he was not in the mood, that ft would do her good to lie down for a while, as she was not feeling quite well, to judge by her looks,--and turned his easel so that the portrait faced the wall. valeria agreed with him that she ought to rest, and repeating her complaint of headache, she retired to her chamber. fabio remained in the studio. he felt a strange agitation which was incomprehensible even to himself. muzio's sojourn under his roof, a sojourn which he, fabio, had himself invited, embarrassed him. and it was not that he was jealous ... was it possible to be jealous of valeria?--but in his friend he did not recognise his former comrade. all that foreign, strange, new element which muzio had brought with him from those distant lands--and which, apparently, had entered into his very flesh and blood,---all those magical processes, songs, strange beverages, that dumb malay, even the spicy odour which emanated from muzio's garments, from his hair, his breath,--all this inspired in fabio a feeling akin to distrust, nay, even to timidity. and why did that malay, when serving at table, gaze upon him, fabio, with such disagreeable intentness? really, one might suppose that he understood italian. muzio had said concerning him, that that malay, in paying the penalty with his tongue, had made a great sacrifice, and in compensation now possessed great power.--what power? and how could he have acquired it at the cost of his tongue? all this was very strange! very incomprehensible! fabio went to his wife in her chamber; she was lying on the bed fully dressed, but was not asleep.--on hearing his footsteps she started, then rejoiced again to see him, as she had done in the garden. fabio sat down by the bed, took valeria's hand, and after a brief pause, he asked her, "what was that remarkable dream which had frightened her during the past night? and had it been in the nature of that dream which muzio had related?" valeria blushed and said hastily--"oh, no! no! i saw ... some sort of a monster, which tried to rend me." "a monster? in the form of a man?" inquired fabio. "no, a wild beast ... a wild beast!"--and valeria turned away and hid her flaming face in the pillows. fabio held his wife's hand for a while longer; silently he raised it to his lips, and withdrew. the husband and wife passed a dreary day. it seemed as though something dark were hanging over their heads ... but what it was, they could not tell. they wanted to be together, as though some danger were menacing them;--but what to say to each other, they did not know. fabio made an effort to work at the portrait, to read ariosto, whose poem, which had recently made its appearance in ferrara, was already famous throughout italy; but he could do nothing.... late in the evening, just in time for supper, muzio returned. vii he appeared calm and contented--but related few stories; he chiefly interrogated fabio concerning their mutual acquaintances of former days, the german campaign, the emperor charles; he spoke of his desire to go to rome, to have a look at the new pope. again he offered valeria wine of shiraz--and in reply to her refusal he said, as though to himself, "it is not necessary now." on returning with his wife to their bedroom fabio speedily fell asleep ... and waking an hour later was able to convince himself that no one shared his couch: valeria was not with him. he hastily rose, and at the selfsame moment he beheld his wife, in her night-dress, enter the room from the garden. the moon was shining brightly, although not long before a light shower had passed over.--with widely-opened eyes, and an expression of secret terror on her impassive face, valeria approached the bed, and fumbling for it with her hands, which were outstretched in front of her, she lay down hurriedly and in silence. fabio asked her a question, but she made no reply; she seemed to be asleep. he touched her, and felt rain-drops on her clothing, on her hair, and grains of sand on the soles of her bare feet. then he sprang up and rushed into the garden through the half-open door. the moonlight, brilliant to harshness, inundated all objects. fabio looked about him and descried on the sand of the path traces of two pairs of feet; one pair was bare; and those tracks led to an arbour covered with jasmin, which stood apart, between the pavilion and the house. he stopped short in perplexity; and lo! suddenly the notes of that song which he had heard on the preceding night again rang forth! fabio shuddered, and rushed into the pavilion.... muzio was standing in the middle of the room, playing on his violin. fabio darted to him. "thou hast been in the garden, thou hast been out, thy clothing is damp with rain." "no.... i do not know ... i do not think ... that i have been out of doors ..." replied muzio, in broken accents, as though astonished at fabio's advent, and at his agitation. fabio grasped him by the arm.--"and why art thou playing that melody again? hast thou had another dream?" muzio glanced at fabio with the same surprise as before, and made no answer. "come, answer me!" "the moon is steel, like a circular shield.... the river gleams like a snake.... the friend is awake, the enemy sleeps- the hawk seizes the chicken in his claws.... help!" mumbled muzio, in a singsong, as though in a state of unconsciousness. fabio retreated a couple of paces, fixed his eyes on muzio, meditated for a space ... and returned to his house, to the bed-chamber. with her head inclined upon her shoulder, and her arms helplessly outstretched, valeria was sleeping heavily. he did not speedily succeed in waking her ... but as soon as she saw him she flung herself on his neck, and embraced him convulsively; her whole body was quivering. "what aileth thee, my dear one, what aileth thee?" said fabio repeatedly, striving to soothe her. but she continued to lie as in a swoon on his breast. "akh, what dreadful visions i see!" she whispered, pressing her face against him. fabio attempted to question her ... but she merely trembled.... the window-panes were reddening with the first gleams of dawn when, at last, she fell asleep in his arms. viii on the following day muzio disappeared early in the morning, and valeria informed her husband that she intended to betake herself to the neighbouring monastery, where dwelt her spiritual father--an aged and stately monk, in whom she cherished unbounded confidence. to fabio's questions she replied that she desired to alleviate by confession her soul, which was oppressed with the impressions of the last few days. as he gazed at valeria's sunken visage, as he listened to her faint voice, fabio himself approved of her plan: venerable father lorenzo might be able to give her useful advice, disperse her doubts.... under the protection of four escorts, valeria set out for the monastery, but fabio remained at home; and while awaiting the return of his wife, he roamed about the garden, trying to understand what had happened to her, and feeling the unremitting terror and wrath and pain of indefinite suspicions.... more than once he entered the pavilion; but muzio had not returned, and the malay stared at fabio like a statue, with an obsequious inclination of his head, and a far-away grin--at least, so it seemed to fabio--a far-away grin on his bronze countenance. in the meantime valeria had narrated everything in confession to her confessor, being less ashamed than frightened. the confessor listened to her attentively, blessed her, absolved her from her involuntary sins,--but thought to himself: "magic, diabolical witchcraft ... things cannot be left in this condition".... and accompanied valeria to her villa, ostensibly for the purpose of definitely calming and comforting her. at the sight of the confessor fabio was somewhat startled; but the experienced old man had already thought out beforehand how he ought to proceed. on being left alone with fabio, he did not, of course, betray the secrets of the confessional; but he advised him to banish from his house, if that were possible, his invited guest who, by his tales, songs, and his whole conduct, had upset valeria's imagination. moreover, in the old man's opinion, muzio had not been firm in the faith in days gone by, as he now recalled to mind; and after having sojourned so long in regions not illuminated by the light of christianity, he might have brought thence the infection of false doctrines; he might even have dabbled in magic; and therefore, although old friendship did assert its rights, still wise caution pointed to parting as indispensable. fabio thoroughly agreed with the venerable monk. valeria even beamed all over when her husband communicated to her her confessor's counsel; and accompanied by the good wishes of both husband and wife, and provided with rich gifts for the monastery and the poor, father lorenzo wended his way home. fabio had intended to have an explanation with muzio directly after supper, but his strange guest did not return to supper. then fabio decided to defer the interview with muzio until the following day, and husband and wife withdrew to their bed-chamber. ix valeria speedily fell asleep; but fabio could not get to sleep. in the nocturnal silence all that he had seen, all that he had felt, presented itself to him in a still more vivid manner; with still greater persistence did he ask himself questions, to which, as before, he found no answer. was muzio really a magician? and had he already poisoned valeria? she was ill ... but with what malady? while he was engrossed in painful meditations, with his head propped on his hand and restraining his hot breathing, the moon again rose in the cloudless sky; and together with its rays, through the semi-transparent window-panes, in the direction of the pavilion, there began to stream in--or did fabio merely imagine it?--there began to stream in a breath resembling a faint, perfumed current of air.... now an importunate, passionate whisper began to make itself heard ... and at that same moment he noticed that valeria was beginning to stir slightly. he started, gazed; she rose, thrust first one foot, then the other from the bed, and, like a somnambulist, with her dull eyes strained straight ahead, and her arms extended before her, she advanced toward the door into the garden! fabio instantly sprang through the other door of the bedroom, and briskly running round the corner of the house, he closed the one which led into the garden.... he had barely succeeded in grasping the handle when he felt some one trying to open the door from within, throwing their force against it ... more and more strongly ... then frightened moans resounded. * * * * * "but muzio cannot have returned from the town, surely," flashed through fabio's head, and he darted into the pavilion.... what did he behold? coming to meet him, along the path brilliantly flooded with the radiance of the moonlight, also with arms outstretched and lifeless eyes staring widely--was muzio.... fabio ran up to him, but the other, without noticing him, walked on, advancing with measured steps, and his impassive face was smiling in the moonlight like the face of the malay. fabio tried to call him by name ... but at that moment he heard a window bang in the house behind him.... he glanced round.... in fact, the window of the bedroom was open from top to bottom, and with one foot thrust across the sill stood valeria in the window ... and her arms seemed to be seeking muzio, her whole being was drawn toward him. unspeakable wrath flooded fabio's breast in a suddenly-invading torrent.--"accursed sorcerer!" he yelled fiercely, and seizing muzio by the throat with one hand, he fumbled with the other for the dagger in his belt, and buried its blade to the hilt in his side. muzio uttered a piercing shriek, and pressing the palm of his hand to the wound, fled, stumbling, back to the pavilion.... but at that same instant, when fabio stabbed him, valeria uttered an equally piercing shriek and fell to the ground like one mowed down. fabio rushed to her, raised her up, carried her to the bed, spoke to her.... for a long time she lay motionless; but at last she opened her eyes, heaved a deep sigh, convulsively and joyously, like a person who has just been saved from inevitable death,--caught sight of her husband, and encircling his neck with her arms, pressed herself to his breast. "thou, thou, it is thou," she stammered. gradually the clasp of her arms relaxed, her head sank backward, and whispering, with a blissful smile:--"thank god, all is over.... but how weary i am!"--she fell into a profound but not heavy slumber. x fabio sank down beside her bed, and never taking his eyes from her pale, emaciated, but already tranquil face, he began to reflect upon what had taken place ... and also upon how he ought to proceed now. what was he to do? if he had slain muzio--and when he recalled how deeply the blade of his dagger had penetrated he could not doubt that he had done so--then it was impossible to conceal the fact. he must bring it to the knowledge of the duke, of the judges ... but how was he to explain, how was he to narrate such an incomprehensible affair? he, fabio, had slain in his own house his relative, his best friend! people would ask, "what for? for what cause?..." but what if muzio were not slain?--fabio had not the strength to remain any longer in uncertainty, and having made sure that valeria was asleep, he cautiously rose from his arm-chair, left the house, and directed his steps toward the pavilion. all was silent in it; only in one window was a light visible. with sinking heart he opened the outer door--(a trace of bloody fingers still clung to it, and on the sand of the path drops of blood made black patches)-raversed the first dark chamber ... and halted on the threshold, petrified with astonishment. in the centre of the room, on a persian rug, with a brocade cushion under his head, covered with a wide scarlet shawl with black figures, lay muzio, with all his limbs stiffly extended. his face, yellow as wax, with closed eyes and lids which had become blue, was turned toward the ceiling, and no breath was to be detected: he seemed to be dead. at his feet, also enveloped in a scarlet shawl, knelt the malay. he held in his left hand a branch of some unfamiliar plant, resembling a fern, and bending slightly forward, he was gazing at his master, never taking his eyes from him. a small torch, thrust into the floor, burned with a greenish flame, and was the only light in the room. its flame did not flicker nor smoke. the malay did not stir at fabio's entrance, but merely darted a glance at him and turned his eyes again upon muzio. from time to time he raised himself a little, and lowered the branch, waving it through the air,--and his dumb lips slowly parted and moved, as though uttering inaudible words. between muzio and the malay there lay upon the floor the dagger with which fabio had stabbed his friend. the malay smote the blood-stained blade with his bough. one minute passed ... then another. fabio approached the malay, and bending toward him, he said in a low voice: "is he dead?"--the malay bowed his head, and disengaging his right hand from beneath the shawl, pointed imperiously to the door. fabio was about to repeat his question, but the imperious hand repeated its gesture, and fabio left the room, raging arid marvelling but submitting. he found valeria asleep, as before, with a still more tranquil face. he did not undress, but seated himself by the window, propped his head on his hand, and again became immersed in thought. the rising sun found him still in the same place. valeria had not wakened. xi fabio was intending to wait until she should awake, and then go to ferrara--when suddenly some one tapped lightly at the door of the bedroom. fabio went out and beheld before him his aged major-domo, antonio. "signor," began the old man, "the malay has just informed us that signor muzio is ailing and desires to remove with all his effects to the town; and therefore he requests that you will furnish him with the aid of some persons to pack his things--and that you will send, about dinner-time, both pack-and saddle-horses and a few men as guard. do you permit?" "did the malay tell thee that?" inquired fabio. "in what manner? for he is dumb." "here, signor, is a paper on which he wrote all this in our language, very correctly." "and muzio is ill, sayest thou?" "yes, very ill, and he cannot be seen." "has not a physician been sent for?" "no; the malay would not allow it." "and was it the malay who wrote this for thee?" "yes, it was he." fabio was silent for a space. "very well, take the necessary measures," he said at last. antonio withdrew. fabio stared after his servant in perplexity.--"so he was not killed?"--he thought ... and he did not know whether to rejoice or to grieve.--"he is ill?"--but a few hours ago he had beheld him a corpse! fabio returned to valeria. she was awake, and raised her head. the husband and wife exchanged a long, significant look. "is he already dead?" said valeria suddenly.--fabio shuddered. "what ... he is not?--didst thou.... has he gone away?" she went on. fabio's heart was relieved.--"not yet; but he is going away to-day." "and i shall never, never see him again?" "never." "and those visions will not be repeated?" "no." valeria heaved another sigh of relief; a blissful smile again made its appearance on her lips. she put out both hands to her husband. "and we shall never speak of him, never, hearest thou, my dear one. and i shall not leave this room until he is gone. but now do thou send me my serving-women ... and stay: take that thing!"--she pointed to a pearl necklace which lay on the night-stand, the necklace which muzio had given her,---"and throw it immediately into our deep well. embrace me--i am thy valeria--and do not come to me until ... that man is gone." fabio took the necklace--its pearls seemed to have grown dim--and fulfilled his wife's behest. then he began to roam about the garden, gazing from a distance at the pavilion, around which the bustle of packing was already beginning. men were carrying out chests, lading horses ... but the malay was not among them. an irresistible feeling drew fabio to gaze once more on what was going on in the pavilion. he recalled the fact that in its rear façade there was a secret door through which one might penetrate to the interior of the chamber where muzio had been lying that morning. he stole up to that door, found it unlocked, and pushing aside the folds of a heavy curtain, darted in an irresolute glance. xii muzio was no longer lying on the rug. dressed in travelling attire, he was sitting in an arm-chair, but appeared as much of a corpse as at fabio's first visit. the petrified head had fallen against the back of the chair, the hands lay flat, motionless, and yellow on the knees. his breast did not heave. round about the chair, on the floor strewn with dried herbs, stood several flat cups filled with a dark liquid which gave off a strong, almost suffocating odour,--the odour of musk. around each cup was coiled a small, copper-coloured serpent, which gleamed here and there with golden spots; and directly in front of muzio, a couple of paces distant from him, rose up the tall figure of the malay, clothed in a motley-hued mantle of brocade, girt about with a tiger's tail, with a tall cap in the form of a horned tiara on his head. but he was not motionless: now he made devout obeisances and seemed to be praying, again he drew himself up to his full height, even stood on tiptoe; now he threw his hands apart in broad and measured sweep, now he waved them urgently in the direction of muzio, and seemed to be menacing or commanding with them, as he contracted his brows in a frown and stamped his foot. all these movements evidently cost him great effort, and even caused him suffering: he breathed heavily, the sweat streamed from his face. suddenly he stood stock-still on one spot, and inhaling the air into his lungs and scowling, he stretched forward, then drew toward him his clenched fists, as though he were holding reins in them ... and to fabio's indescribable horror, muzio's head slowly separated itself from the back of the chair and reached out after the malay's hands.... the malay dropped his hands, and muzio's head again sank heavily backward; the malay repeated his gestures, and the obedient head repeated them after him. the dark liquid in the cups began to seethe with a faint sound; the very cups themselves emitted a faint tinkling, and the copper snakes began to move around each of them in undulating motion. then the malay advanced a pace, and elevating his eyebrows very high and opening his eyes until they were of huge size, he nodded his head at muzio ... and the eyelids of the corpse began to flutter, parted unevenly, and from beneath them the pupils, dull as lead, revealed themselves. with proud triumph and joy--a joy that was almost malicious--beamed the face of the malay; he opened his lips widely, and from the very depths of his throat a prolonged roar wrested itself with an effort.... muzio's lips parted also, and a faint groan trembled on them in reply to that inhuman sound. but at this point fabio could endure it no longer: he fancied that he was witnessing some devilish incantations! he also uttered a shriek and started off at a run homeward, without looking behind him,--homeward as fast as he could go, praying and crossing himself as he ran. xiii three hours later antonio presented himself before him with the report that everything was ready, all the things were packed, and signor muzio was preparing to depart. without uttering a word in answer to his servant, fabio stepped out on the terrace, whence the pavilion was visible. several pack-horses were grouped in front of it; at the porch itself a powerful black stallion, with a roomy saddle adapted for two riders, was drawn up. there also stood the servants with bared heads and the armed escort. the door of the pavilion opened and, supported by the malay, muzio made his appearance. his face was deathlike, and his arms hung down like those of a corpse,--but he walked ... yes! he put one foot before the other, and once mounted on the horse, he held himself upright, and got hold of the reins by fumbling. the malay thrust his feet into the stirrups, sprang up behind him on the saddle, encircled his waist with his arm,--and the whole procession set out. the horses proceeded at a walk, and when they made the turn in front of the house, fabio fancied that on muzio's dark countenance two small white patches gleamed.... could it be that he had turned his eyes that way?--the malay alone saluted him ... mockingly, but as usual. did valeria see all this? the shutters of her windows were closed ... but perhaps she was standing behind them. xiv at dinner-time she entered the dining-room, and was very quiet and affectionate; but she still complained of being weary. yet there was no agitation about her, nor any of her former constant surprise and secret fear; and when, on the day after muzio's departure, fabio again set about her portrait, he found in her features that pure expression, the temporary eclipse of which had so disturbed him ... and his brush flew lightly and confidently over the canvas. husband and wife began to live their life as of yore. muzio had vanished for them as though he had never existed. and both fabio and valeria seemed to have entered into a compact not to recall him by a single sound, not to inquire about his further fate; and it remained a mystery for all others as well. muzio really did vanish, as though he had sunk through the earth. one day fabio thought himself bound to relate to valeria precisely what had occurred on that fateful night ... but she, probably divining his intention, held her breath, and her eyes narrowed as though she were anticipating a blow.... and fabio understood her: he did not deal her that blow. one fine autumnal day fabio was putting the finishing touches to the picture of his cecilia; valeria was sitting at the organ, and her fingers were wandering over the keys.... suddenly, contrary to her own volition, from beneath her fingers rang out that song of love triumphant which muzio had once played,--and at that same instant, for the first time since her marriage, she felt within her the palpitation of a new, germinating life.... valeria started and stopped short.... what was the meaning of this? could it be.... with this word the manuscript came to an end. clara mílitch a tale (1882) i in the spring of 1878 there lived in moscow, in a small wooden house on shabólovka street, a young man five-and-twenty years of age, yákoff arátoff by name. with him lived his aunt, an old maid, over fifty years of age, his father's sister, platonída ivánovna. she managed his housekeeping and took charge of his expenditures, of which arátoff was utterly incapable. he had no other relations. several years before, his father, a petty and not wealthy noble of the t---government, had removed to moscow, together with him and platonída ivánovna who, by the way, was always called platósha; and her nephew called her so too. when he quitted the country where all of them had constantly dwelt hitherto, old arátoff had settled in the capital with the object of placing his son in the university, for which he had himself prepared him; he purchased for a trifling sum a small house on one of the remote streets, and installed himself therein with all his books and "preparations." and of books and preparations he had many, for he was a man not devoid of learning ... "a supernatural eccentric," according to the words of his neighbours. he even bore among them the reputation of a magician: he had even received the nickname of "the insect-observer." he busied himself with chemistry, mineralogy, entomology, botany, and medicine; he treated voluntary patients with herbs and metallic powders of his own concoction, after the method of paracelsus. with those same powders he had sent into the grave his young, pretty, but already too delicate wife, whom he had passionately loved, and by whom he had had an only son. with those same metallic powders he had wrought considerable havoc with the health of his son also, which, on the contrary, he had wished to reinforce, as he detected in his organisation anæmia and a tendency to consumption inherited from his mother. the title of "magician" he had acquired, among other things, from the fact that he considered himself a great-grandson--not in the direct line, of course--of the famous bruce, in whose honour he had named his son yákoff.[51] he was the sort of man who is called "very good-natured," but of a melancholy temperament, fussy, and timid, with a predilection for everything that was mysterious or mystical.... "ah!" uttered in a half-whisper was his customary exclamation; and he died with that exclamation on his lips, two years after his removal to moscow. his son yákoff did not, in outward appearance, resemble his father, who had been homely in person, clumsy and awkward; he reminded one rather of his mother. there were the same delicate, pretty features, the same soft hair of ashblonde hue, the same plump, childish lips, and large, languishing, greenish-grey eyes, and feathery eyelashes. on the other hand in disposition he resembled his father; and his face, which did not resemble his father's, bore the stamp of his father's expression; and he had angular arms, and a sunken chest, like old arátoff, who, by the way, should hardly be called an old man, since he did not last to the age of fifty. during the latter's lifetime yákoff had already entered the university, in the physico-mathematical faculty; but he did not finish his course,--not out of idleness, but because, according to his ideas, a person can learn no more in the university than he can teach himself at home; and he did not aspire to a diploma, as he was not intending to enter the government service. he avoided his comrades, made acquaintance with hardly any one, was especially shy of women, and lived a very isolated life, immersed in his books. he was shy of women, although he had a very tender heart, and was captivated by beauty.... he even acquired the luxury of an english keepsake, and (oh, for shame!) admired the portraits of divers, bewitching gulnares and medoras which "adorned" it.... but his inborn modesty constantly restrained him. at home he occupied his late father's study, which had also been his bedroom; and his bed was the same on which his father had died. the great support of his whole existence, his unfailing comrade and friend, was his aunt, that platósha, with whom he exchanged barely ten words a day, but without whom he could not take a step. she was a long-visaged, long-toothed being, with pale eyes in a pale face, and an unvarying expression partly of sadness, partly of anxious alarm. eternally attired in a grey gown, and a grey shawl which was redolent of camphor, she wandered about the house like a shadow, with noiseless footsteps; she sighed, whispered prayers--especially one, her favourite, which consisted of two words: "lord, help!"--and managed the housekeeping very vigorously, hoarding every kopék and buying everything herself. she worshipped her nephew; she was constantly fretting about his health, was constantly in a state of alarm, not about herself but about him, and as soon as she thought there was anything the matter with him, she would quietly approach and place on his writing-table a cup of herb-tea, or stroke his back with her hands, which were as soft as wadding. this coddling did not annoy yákoff, but he did not drink the herb-tea, and only nodded approvingly. but neither could he boast of his health. he was extremely sensitive, nervous, suspicious; he suffered from palpitation of the heart, and sometimes from asthma. like his father, he believed that there existed in nature and in the soul of man secrets, of which glimpses may sometimes be caught, though they cannot be understood; he believed in the presence of certain forces and influences, sometimes well-disposed but more frequently hostile ... and he also believed in science,--in its dignity and worth. of late he had conceived a passion for photography. the odour of the ingredients used in that connection greatly disturbed his old aunt,--again not on her own behalf, but for yásha's sake, on account of his chest. but with all his gentleness of disposition he possessed no small portion of stubbornness, and he diligently pursued his favourite occupation. "platósha" submitted, and merely sighed more frequently than ever, and whispered "lord, help!" as she gazed at his fingers stained with iodine. yákoff, as has already been stated, shunned his comrades; but with one of them he struck up a rather close friendship, and saw him frequently, even after that comrade, on leaving the university, entered the government service, which, however, was not very exacting: to use his own words, he had "tacked himself on" to the building of the church of the saviour[52] without, of course, knowing anything whatever about architecture. strange to say, that solitary friend of arátoff's, kupfer by name, a german who was russified to the extent of not knowing a single word of german, and even used the epithet "german"[53] as a term of opprobrium,--that friend had, to all appearance, nothing in common with him. he was a jolly, rosy-cheeked young fellow with black, curly hair, loquacious, and very fond of that feminine society which arátoff so shunned. truth to tell, kupfer breakfasted and dined with him rather often, and even--as he was not a rich man--borrowed small sums of money from him; but it was not that which made the free-and-easy german so diligently frequent the little house on shabólovka street. he had taken a liking to yákoff's spiritual purity, his "ideality,"--possibly as a contrast to what he daily encountered and beheld;--or, perhaps, in that same attraction toward "ideality" the young man's german blood revealed itself. and yákoff liked kupfer's good-natured frankness; and in addition to this, his tales of the theatres, concerts, and balls which he constantly attended--in general of that alien world into which yákoff could not bring himself to penetrate--secretly interested and even excited the young recluse, yet without arousing in him a desire to test all this in his own experience. and platósha liked kupfer; she sometimes thought him too unceremonious, it is true; but instinctively feeling and understanding that he was sincerely attached to her beloved yásha, she not only tolerated the noisy visitor, but even felt a kindness for him. ii at the time of which we are speaking, there was in moscow a certain widow, a georgian princess,--a person of ill-defined standing and almost a suspicious character. she was about forty years of age; in her youth she had, probably, bloomed with that peculiar oriental beauty, which so quickly fades; now she powdered and painted herself, and dyed her hair a yellow hue. various, not altogether favourable, and not quite definite, rumours were in circulation about her; no one had known her husband--and in no one city had she lived for any length of time. she had neither children nor property; but she lived on a lavish scale,--on credit or otherwise. she held a salon, as the saying is, and received a decidedly mixed company--chiefly composed of young men. her whole establishment, beginning with her own toilette, furniture, and table, and ending with her equipage and staff of servants, bore a certain stamp of inferiority, artificiality, transitoriness ... but neither the princess herself nor her guests, apparently, demanded anything better. the princess was reputed to be fond of music and literature, to be a patroness of actors and artists; and she really did take an interest in these "questions," even to an enthusiastic degree--and even to a pitch of rapture which was not altogether simulated. she indubitably did possess the æsthetic chord. moreover, she was very accessible, amiable, devoid of pretensions, of affectation, and--a fact which many did not suspect--in reality extremely kind, tender-hearted and obliging.... rare qualities, and therefore all the more precious, precisely in individuals of that stamp. "a frivolous woman!" one clever person said concerning her, "and she will infallibly get into paradise! for she forgives everything--and everything will be forgiven her!"--it was also said concerning her that when she disappeared from any town, she always left behind her as many creditors as persons whom she had loaded with benefits. a soft heart can be pressed in any direction you like. kupfer, as was to be expected, was a visitor at her house, and became very intimate with her ... altogether too intimate, so malicious tongues asserted. but he always spoke of her not only in a friendly manner, but also with respect; he lauded her as a woman of gold--interpret that as you please!--and was a firm believer in her love for art, and in her comprehension of art!--so then, one day after dinner, at the arátoffs', after having discussed the princess and her evening gatherings, he began to urge yákoff to break in upon his life of an anchorite for once, and permit him, kupfer, to introduce him to his friend. at first yákoff would not hear to anything of the sort. "why, what idea hast thou got into thy head?" exclaimed kupfer at last. "what sort of a presentation is in question? i shall simply take thee, just as thou art now sitting there, in thy frock-coat, and conduct thee to her evening. they do not stand on ceremony in the least there, brother! here now, thou art learned, and thou art fond of music" (there actually was in arátoff's study a small piano, on which he occasionally struck a few chords in diminished sevenths)--"and in her house there is any quantity of that sort of thing!... and there thou wilt meet sympathetic people, without any airs! and, in conclusion, it is not right that at thy age, with thy personal appearance" (arátoff dropped his eyes and waved his hand)--"yes, yes, with thy personal appearance, thou shouldst shun society, the world, in this manner! i'm not going to take thee to call on generals, seest thou! moreover, i don't know any generals myself!... don't be stubborn, my dear fellow! morality is a good thing, a thing worthy of respect.... but why give thyself up to asceticism? assuredly, thou art not preparing to become a monk!" arátoff continued, nevertheless, to resist; but platonída ivánovna unexpectedly came to kupfer's assistance. although she did not quite understand the meaning of the word "asceticism," still she also thought that it would not be a bad idea for yáshenka to divert himself, to take a look at people,--and show himself.--"the more so," she added, "that i have confidence in feódor feódoritch! he will not take thee to any bad place!..." "i'll restore him to thee in all his pristine purity!" cried kupfer, at whom platonída ivánovna, in spite of her confidence, kept casting uneasy glances; arátoff blushed to his very ears--but he ceased to object. it ended in kupfer taking him, on the following day, to the princess's evening assembly. but arátoff did not remain there long. in the first place, he found at her house about twenty guests, men and women, who were, presumably, sympathetic, but who were strangers to him, nevertheless; and this embarrassed him, although he was obliged to talk very little: but he feared this most of all. in the second place, he did not like the hostess herself, although she welcomed him very cordially and unaffectedly. everything about her displeased him; her painted face, and her churned-up curls, and her hoarsely-mellifluous voice, her shrill laugh, her way of rolling up her eyes, her too _décolleté_ bodice--and those plump, shiny fingers with a multitude of rings!... slinking off into a corner, he now swiftly ran his eyes over the faces of all the guests, as though he did not even distinguish one from another; again he stared persistently at his own feet. but when, at last, an artist who had just come to town, with a drink-sodden countenance, extremely long hair, and a bit of glass under his puckered brow, seated himself at the piano, and bringing down his hands on the keys and his feet on the pedals, with a flourish, began to bang out a fantasia by liszt on a wagnerian theme, arátoff could stand it no longer, and slipped away, bearing in his soul a confused and oppressive impression, athwart which, nevertheless, there pierced something which he did not understand, but which was significant and even agitating. iii kupfer came on the following day to dinner; but he did not enlarge upon the preceding evening, he did not even reproach arátoff for his hasty flight, and merely expressed regret that he had not waited for supper, at which champagne had been served! (of nízhegorod[54] fabrication, we may remark in parenthesis). kupfer probably understood that he had made a mistake in trying to rouse his friend, and that arátoff was a man who positively was not adapted to that sort of society and manner of life. on his side, arátoff also did not allude to the princess or to the night before. platonída ivánovna did not know whether to rejoice at the failure of this first attempt or to regret it. she decided, at last, that yásha's health might suffer from such expeditions, and regained her complacency. kupfer went away directly after dinner, and did not show himself again for a whole week. and that not because he was sulking at arátoff for the failure of his introduction,--the good-natured fellow was incapable of such a thing,--but he had, evidently, found some occupation which engrossed all his time, all his thoughts;--for thereafter he rarely came to the arátoffs', wore an abstracted aspect, and soon vanished.... arátoff continued to live on as before; but some hitch, if we may so express ourselves, had secured lodgment in his soul. he still recalled something or other, without himself being quite aware what it was precisely,--and that "something" referred to the evening which he had spent at the princess's house. nevertheless, he had not the slightest desire to return to it; and society, a section of which he had inspected in her house, repelled him more than ever. thus passed six weeks. and lo! one morning, kupfer again presented himself to him, this time with a somewhat embarrassed visage. "i know," he began, with a forced laugh, "that thy visit that evening was not to thy taste; but i hope that thou wilt consent to my proposal nevertheless ... and wilt not refuse my request." "what art thou talking about?" inquired arátoff. "see here," pursued kupfer, becoming more and more animated; "there exists here a certain society of amateurs and artists, which from time to time organises readings, concerts, even theatrical representations, for philanthropic objects...." "and the princess takes part?" interrupted arátoff. "the princess always takes part in good works--but that is of no consequence. we have got up a literary and musical morning ... and at that performance thou mayest hear a young girl ... a remarkable young girl!--we do not quite know, as yet, whether she will turn out a rachel or a viardot ... for she sings splendidly, and declaims and acts.... she has talent of the first class, my dear fellow! i am not exaggerating.--so here now ... wilt not thou take a ticket?--five rubles if thou wishest the first row." "and where did this wonderful young girl come from?" asked arátoff. kupfer grinned.--"that i cannot say.... of late she has found an asylum with the princess. the princess, as thou knowest, is a patron of all such people.... and it is probable that thou sawest her that evening." arátoff started inwardly, faintly ... but made no answer. "she has even acted somewhere in country districts," went on kupfer, "and, on the whole, she was created for the theatre. thou shalt see for thyself!" "is her name clara?" asked arátoff. "yes, clara...." "clara!" interrupted arátoff again.--"it cannot be!" "why not?--clara it is, ... clara mílitch; that is not her real name ... but that is what she is called. she is to sing a romance by glinka ... and one by tchaikóvsky, and then she will recite the letter from 'evgény onyégin'[55]--come now! wilt thou take a ticket?" "but when is it to be?" "to-morrow ... to-morrow, at half-past one, in a private hall, on ostozhyónka street.... i will come for thee. a ticket at five rubles?... here it is.... no, this is a three-ruble ticket.--here it is.--and here is the affiche.[56]--i am one of the managers." arátoff reflected. platonída ivánovna entered the room at that moment and, glancing at his face, was suddenly seized with agitation.--"yásha," she exclaimed, "what ails thee? why art thou so excited? feódor feódorovitch, what hast thou been saying to him?" but arátoff did not give his friend a chance to answer his aunt's question, and hastily seizing the ticket which was held out to him, he ordered platonída ivánovna to give kupfer five rubles on the instant. she was amazed, and began to blink her eyes.... nevertheless, she handed kupfer the money in silence. yáshenka had shouted at her in a very severe manner. "she's a marvel of marvels, i tell thee!" cried kupfer, darting toward the door.--"expect me to-morrow!" "has she black eyes?" called arátoff after him. "as black as coal!" merrily roared kupfer, and disappeared. arátoff went off to his own room, while platonída ivánovna remained rooted to the spot, repeating: "help, lord! lord, help!" iv the large hall in a private house on ostozhyónka street was already half filled with spectators when arátoff and kupfer arrived. theatrical representations were sometimes given in that hall, but on this occasion neither stage-scenery nor curtain were visible. those who had organised the "morning" had confined themselves to erecting a platform at one end, placing thereon a piano and a couple of music-racks, a few chairs, a table with a carafe of water and a glass, and hanging a curtain of red cloth over the door which led to the room set apart for the artists. in the first row the princess was already seated, clad in a bright green gown; arátoff placed himself at some distance from her, after barely exchanging a bow with her. the audience was what is called motley; it consisted chiefly of young men from various institutions of learning. kupfer, in his quality of a manager, with a white ribbon on the lapel of his dress-coat, bustled and fussed about with all his might; the princess was visibly excited, kept looking about her, launching smiles in all directions, and chatting with her neighbours ... there were only men in her immediate vicinity. the first to make his appearance on the platform was a flute-player of consumptive aspect, who spat out ... that is to say, piped out a piece which was consumptive like himself. two persons shouted "bravo!" then a fat gentleman in spectacles, very sedate and even grim of aspect, recited in a bass voice a sketch by shtchedrín;[57] the audience applauded the sketch, not him.--then the pianist, who was already known to arátoff, presented himself, and pounded out the same liszt fantasia; the pianist was favoured with a recall. he bowed, with his hand resting on the back of a chair, and after each bow he tossed back his hair exactly like liszt! at last, after a decidedly long intermission, the red cloth over the door at the rear of the platform moved, was drawn widely apart, and clara mílitch made her appearance. the hall rang with applause. with unsteady steps she approached the front of the platform, came to a halt, and stood motionless, with her large, red, ungloved hands crossed in front of her, making no curtsey, neither bending her head nor smiling. she was a girl of nineteen, tall, rather broad-shouldered, but well built. her face was swarthy, partly hebrew, partly gipsy in type; her eyes were small and black beneath thick brows which almost met, her nose was straight, slightly up-turned, her lips were thin with a beautiful but sharp curve; she had a huge braid of black hair, which was heavy even to the eye, a low, impassive, stony brow, tiny ears ... her whole countenance was thoughtful, almost surly. a passionate, self-willed nature,--not likely to be either kindly or even intelligent,--but gifted, was manifested by everything about her. for a while she did not raise her eyes, but suddenly gave a start and sent her intent but not attentive glance, which seemed to be buried in herself, along the rows of spectators. "what tragic eyes!" remarked a certain grey-haired fop, who sat behind arátoff, with the face of a courtesan from revel,--one of moscow's well-known first-nighters and rounders. the fop was stupid and intended to utter a bit of nonsense ... but he had spoken the truth! arátoff, who had never taken his eyes from clara since she had made her appearance, only then recalled that he actually had seen her at the princess's; and had not only seen her, but had even noticed that she had several times looked at him with particular intentness out of her dark, watchful eyes. and on this occasion also ... or did he merely fancy that it was so?--on catching sight of him in the first row, she seemed to be delighted, seemed to blush--and again she gazed intently at him. then, without turning round, she retreated a couple of paces in the direction of the piano, at which the accompanist, the long-haired foreigner, was already seated. she was to execute glinka's romance, "as soon as i recognised thee...." she immediately began to sing, without altering the position of her hands and without glancing at the notes. her voice was soft and resonant,--a contralto,--she pronounced her words distinctly and forcibly, and sang monotonously, without shading but with strong expression. "the lass sings with conviction," remarked the same fop who sat behind arátoff,--and again he spoke the truth. shouts of "bis!" "bravo!" resounded all about, but she merely darted a swift glance at arátoff, who was neither shouting nor clapping,--he had not been particularly pleased by her singing,--made a slight bow and withdrew, without taking the arm of the hairy pianist which he had crooked out like a cracknel. she was recalled ... but it was some time before she made her appearance, advanced to the piano with the same uncertain tread as before, and after whispering a couple of words to her accompanist, who was obliged to get and place on the rack before him not the music he had prepared but something else,--she began tchaikóvsky's romance: "no, only he who hath felt the thirst of meeting".... this romance she sang in a different way from the first--in an undertone, as though she were weary ... and only in the line before the last, "he will understand how i have suffered,"--did a ringing, burning cry burst from her. the last line, "and how i suffer...." she almost whispered, sadly prolonging the final word. this romance produced a slighter impression on the audience than glinka's; but there was a great deal of applause.... kupfer, in particular, distinguished himself: he brought his hands together in a peculiar manner, in the form of a cask, when he clapped, thereby producing a remarkably sonorous noise. the princess gave him a large, dishevelled bouquet, which he was to present to the songstress; but the latter did not appear to perceive kupfer's bowed figure, and his hand outstretched with the bouquet, and she turned and withdrew, again without waiting for the pianist, who had sprung to his feet with still greater alacrity than before to escort her, and who, being thus left in the lurch, shook his hair as liszt himself, in all probability, never shook his! during the whole time she was singing arátoff had been scanning clara's face. it seemed to him that her eyes, athwart her contracted lashes, were again turned on him. but he was particularly struck by the impassiveness of that face, that forehead, those brows, and only when she uttered her passionate cry did he notice a row of white, closely-set teeth gleaming warmly from between her barely parted lips. kupfer stepped up to him. "well, brother, what dost thou think of her?" he asked, all beaming with satisfaction. "she has a fine voice," replied arátoff, "but she does not know how to sing yet, she has had no real school." (why he said this and what he meant by "school" the lord only knows!) kupfer was surprised.--"she has no school," he repeated slowly.... "well, now.... she can still study. but on the other hand, what soul! but just wait until thou hast heard her recite tatyána's letter." he ran away from arátoff, and the latter thought: "soul! with that impassive face!"--he thought that she bore herself and moved like a hypnotised person, like a somnambulist.... and, at the same time, she was indubitably.... yes! she was indubitably staring at him. meanwhile the "morning" went on. the fat man in spectacles presented himself again; despite his serious appearance he imagined that he was a comic artist and read a scene from gógol, this time without evoking a single token of approbation. the flute-player flitted past once more; again the pianist thundered; a young fellow of twenty, pomaded and curled, but with traces of tears on his cheeks, sawed out some variations on his fiddle. it might have appeared strange that in the intervals between the recitations and the music the abrupt notes of a french horn were wafted, now and then, from the artists' room; but this instrument was not used, nevertheless. it afterward came out that the amateur who had offered to perform on it had been seized with a panic at the moment when he should have made his appearance before the audience. so at last, clara mílitch appeared again. she held in her hand a small volume of púshkin; but during her reading she never once glanced at it.... she was obviously frightened; the little book shook slightly in her fingers. arátoff also observed the expression of dejection which _now_ overspread her stern features. the first line: "i write to you ... what would you more?" she uttered with extreme simplicity, almost ingenuously,--stretching both arms out in front of her with an ingenuous, sincere, helpless gesture. then she began to hurry a little; but beginning with the line: "another! nay! to none on earth could i have given e'er my heart!" she regained her self-possession, and grew animated; and when she reached the words: "all, all life hath been a pledge of faithful meeting thus with thee,"--her hitherto rather dull voice rang out enthusiastically and boldly, and her eyes riveted themselves on arátoff with a boldness and directness to match. she went on with the same enthusiasm, and only toward the close did her voice again fall, and in it and in her face her previous dejection was again depicted. she made a complete muddle, as the saying is, of the last four lines,--the little volume of púshkin suddenly slipped from her hands, and she beat a hasty retreat. the audience set to applauding and recalling her in desperate fashion.... one theological student,--a little russian,--among others, bellowed so loudly: "muíluitch! muíluitch!"[58] that his neighbour politely and sympathetically begged him to "spare himself, as a future proto-deacon!"[59] but arátoff immediately rose and betook himself to the entrance. kupfer overtook him.... "good gracious, whither art thou going?" he yelled:--"i'll introduce thee to clara if thou wishest--shall i?" "no, thanks," hastily replied arátoff, and set off homeward almost at a run. v strange emotions, which were not clear even to himself, agitated him. in reality, clara's recitation had not altogether pleased him either ... altogether he could not tell precisely why. it had troubled him, that recitation, it had seemed to him harsh, unmelodious.... somehow it seemed to have broken something within him, to have exerted some sort of violence. and those importunate, persistent, almost insolent glances--what had caused them? what did they signify? arátoff's modesty did permit him even a momentary thought that he might have pleased that strange young girl, that he might have inspired her with a sentiment akin to love, to passion!... and he had imagined to himself quite otherwise that as yet unknown woman, that young girl, to whom he would surrender himself wholly, and who would love him, become his bride, his wife.... he rarely dreamed of this: he was chaste both in body and soul;--but the pure image which rose up in his imagination at such times was evoked under another form,--the form of his dead mother, whom he barely remembered, though he cherished her portrait like a sacred treasure. that portrait had been painted in water-colours, in a rather inartistic manner, by a friendly neighbour, but the likeness was striking, as every one averred. the woman, the young girl, whom as yet he did not so much as venture to expect, must possess just such a tender profile, just such kind, bright eyes, just such silky hair, just such a smile, just such a clear understanding.... but this was a black-visaged, swarthy creature, with coarse hair, and a moustache on her lip; she must certainly be bad-tempered, giddy.... "a gipsy" (arátoff could not devise a worse expression)--what was she to him? and in the meantime, arátoff was unable to banish from his mind that black-visaged gipsy, whose singing and recitation and even whose personal appearance were disagreeable to him. he was perplexed, he was angry with himself. not long before this he had read walter scott's romance "saint ronan's well" (there was a complete edition of walter scott's works in the library of his father, who revered the english romance-writer as a serious, almost a learned author). the heroine of that romance is named clara mowbray. a poet of the '40's, krásoff, wrote a poem about her, which wound up with the words: "unhappy clara! foolish clara! unhappy clara mowbray!" arátoff was acquainted with this poem also.... and now these words kept incessantly recurring to his memory.... "unhappy clara! foolish clara!..." (that was why he had been so surprised when kupfer mentioned clara mílitch to him.) even platósha noticed, not precisely a change in yákoff's frame of mind--as a matter of fact, no change had taken place--but something wrong about his looks, in his remarks. she cautiously interrogated him about the literary morning at which he had been present;--she whispered, sighed, scrutinised him from in front, scrutinised him from the side, from behind--and suddenly, slapping her hands on her thighs, she exclaimed: "well, yáshal--i see what the trouble is!" "what dost thou mean?" queried arátoff in his turn. "thou hast certainly met at that morning some one of those tail-draggers" (that was what platonída ivánovna called all ladies who wore fashionable gowns).... "she has a comely face--and she puts on airs like _this_,--and twists her face like _this_" (platósha depicted all this in her face), "and she makes her eyes go round like this...." (she mimicked this also, describing huge circles in the air with her forefinger).... "and it made an impression on thee, because thou art not used to it.... but that does not signify anything, yásha ... it does not signify anything! drink a cup of herb-tea when thou goest to bed, and that will be the end of it!... lord, help!" platósha ceased speaking and took herself off.... she probably had never made such a long and animated speech before since she was born ... but arátoff thought: "i do believe my aunt is right.... it is all because i am not used to such things...." (he really had attracted the attention of the female sex to himself for the first time ... at any rate, he had never noticed it before.) "i must not indulge myself." so he set to work at his books, and drank some linden-flower tea when he went to bed, and even slept well all that night, and had no dreams. on the following morning he busied himself with his photography, as though nothing had happened.... but toward evening his spiritual serenity was again disturbed. vi to wit: a messenger brought him a note, written in a large, irregular feminine hand, which ran as follows: "if you guess who is writing to you, and if it does not bore you, come to-morrow, after dinner, to the tver boulevard--about five o'clock--and wait. you will not be detained long. but it is very important. come." there was no signature. arátoff instantly divined who his correspondent was, and that was precisely what disturbed him.--"what nonsense!" he said, almost aloud. "this is too much! of course i shall not go."--nevertheless, he ordered the messenger to be summoned, and from him he learned merely that the letter had been handed to him on the street by a maid. having dismissed him, arátoff reread the letter, and flung it on the floor.... but after a while he picked it up and read it over again; a second time he cried: "nonsense!" he did not throw the letter on the floor this time, however, but put it away in a drawer. arátoff went about his customary avocations, busying himself now with one, now with another; but his work did not make progress, was not a success. suddenly he noticed that he was waiting for kupfer, that he wanted to interrogate him, or even communicate something to him.... but kupfer did not make his appearance. then arátoff got púshkin and read tatyána's letter and again felt convinced that that "gipsy" had not in the least grasped the meaning of the letter. but there was that jester kupfer shouting: "a rachel! a viardot!" then he went to his piano, raised the cover in an abstracted sort of way, tried to search out in his memory the melody of tchaikóvsky's romance; but he immediately banged to the piano-lid with vexation and went to his aunt, in her own room, which was always kept very hot, and was forever redolent of mint, sage, and other medicinal herbs, and crowded with such a multitude of rugs, étagères, little benches, cushions and various articles of softly-stuffed furniture that it was difficult for an inexperienced person to turn round in it, and breathing was oppressive. platonída ivánovna was sitting by the window with her knitting-needles in her hand (she was knitting a scarf for yáshenka--the thirty-eighth, by actual count, during the course of his existence!)--and was greatly surprised. arátoff rarely entered her room, and if he needed anything he always shouted in a shrill voice from his study: "aunt platósha!"--but she made him sit down and, in anticipation of his first words, pricked up her ears, as she stared at him through her round spectacles with one eye, and above them with the other. she did not inquire after his health, and did not offer him tea, for she saw that he had not come for that. arátoff hesitated for a while ... then began to talk ... to talk about his mother, about the way she had lived with his father, and how his father had made her acquaintance. he knew all this perfectly well ... but he wanted to talk precisely about that. unluckily for him, platósha did not know how to converse in the least; she made very brief replies, as though she suspected that yásha had not come for that purpose. "certainly!"--she kept repeating hurriedly, as she plied her knitting-needles almost in an angry way. "every one knows that thy mother was a dove ... a regular dove.... and thy father loved her as a husband should love, faithfully and honourably, to the very grave; and he never loved any other woman,"--she added, elevating her voice and removing her spectacles. "and was she of a timid disposition?" asked arátoff, after a short pause. "certainly she was. as is fitting for the female sex. the bold ones are a recent invention." "and were there no bold ones in your time?" "there were such even in our day ... of course there were! but who were they? some street-walker, or shameless hussy or other. she would drag her skirts about, and fling herself hither and thither at random.... what did she care? what anxiety had she? if a young fool came along, he fell into her hands. but steady-going people despised them. dost thou remember ever to have beheld such in our house?" arátoff made no reply and returned to his study. platonída ivánovna gazed after him, shook her head and again donned her spectacles, again set to work on her scarf ... but more than once she fell into thought and dropped her knitting-needles on her knee. and arátoff until nightfall kept again and again beginning, with the same vexation, the same ire as before, to think about "the gipsy," the appointed tryst, to which he certainly would not go! during the night also she worried him. he kept constantly seeing her eyes, now narrowed, now widely opened, with their importunate gaze riveted directly on him, and those impassive features with their imperious expression. on the following morning he again kept expecting kupfer, for some reason or other; he came near writing him a letter ... however, he did nothing ... but spent most of his time pacing to and fro in his study. not for one instant did he even admit to himself the thought that he would go to that stupid "rendezvous" ... and at half-past four, after having swallowed his dinner in haste, he suddenly donned his overcoat and pulling his cap down on his brows, he stole out of the house without letting his aunt see him and wended his way to the tver boulevard. vii arátoff found few pedestrians on the boulevard. the weather was raw and quite cold. he strove not to think of what he was doing. he forced himself to turn his attention to all the objects he came across and pretended to assure himself that he had come out to walk precisely like the other people.... the letter of the day before was in his side-pocket, and he was uninterruptedly conscious of its presence. he walked the length of the boulevard a couple of times, darting keen glances at every feminine form which approached him, and his heart thumped, thumped violently.... he began to feel tired, and sat down on a bench. and suddenly the idea occurred to him: "come now, what if that letter was not written by her but by some one else, by some other woman?" in point of fact, that should have made no difference to him ... and yet he was forced to admit to himself that he did not wish this. "it would be very stupid," he thought, "still more stupid than _that_!" a nervous restlessness began to take possession of him; he began to feel chilly, not outwardly but inwardly. several times he drew out his watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at the face, put it back again,--and every time forgot how many minutes were lacking to five o'clock. it seemed to him as though every one who passed him stared at him in a peculiar manner, surveying him with a certain sneering surprise and curiosity. a wretched little dog ran up, sniffed at his legs and began to wag its tail. he flourished his arms angrily at it. he was most annoyed of all by a small boy from a factory in a bed-ticking jacket, who seated himself on the bench and first whistled, then scratched his head, dangling his legs, encased in huge, broken boots, the while, and staring at him from time to time. "his employer is certainly expecting him," thought arátoff, "and here he is, the lazy dog, wasting his time idling about...." but at that same moment it seemed to him as though some one had approached and taken up a stand close behind him ... a warm current emanated thence.... he glanced round.... it was she! he recognised her immediately, although a thick, dark-blue veil concealed her features. he instantly sprang from the bench, and remained standing there, unable to utter a word. she also maintained silence. he felt greatly agitated ... but her agitation was as great as his: arátoff could not help seeing even through the veil how deadly pale she grew. but she was the first to speak. "thank you," she began in a broken voice, "thank you for coming. i did not hope...." she turned away slightly and walked along the boulevard. arátoff followed her. "perhaps you condemn me," she went on, without turning her head.--"as a matter of fact, my action is very strange.... but i have heard a great deal about you ... but no! i ... that was not the cause.... if you only knew.... i wanted to say so much to you, my god!... but how am i to do it?... how am i to do it!" arátoff walked by her side, but a little in the rear. he did not see her face; he saw only her hat and a part of her veil ... and her long, threadbare cloak. all his vexation against her and against himself suddenly returned to him; all the absurdity, all the awkwardness of this tryst, of these explanations between utter strangers, on a public boulevard, suddenly presented itself to him. "i have come hither at your behest," he began in his turn, "i have come, my dear madame" (her shoulders quivered softly, she turned into a side path, and he followed her), "merely for the sake of having an explanation, of learning in consequence of what strange misunderstanding you were pleased to appeal to me, a stranger to you, who ... who only _guessed_, as you expressed it in your letter, that it was precisely you who had written to him ... because he guessed that you had tried, in the course of that literary morning to show him too much ... too much obvious attention." arátoff uttered the whole of this little speech in the same resonant but firm voice in which men who are still very young answer at examinations on questions for which they are well prepared.... he was indignant; he was angry.... and that wrath had loosed his tongue which was not very fluent on ordinary occasions. she continued to advance along the path with somewhat lagging steps.... arátoff followed her as before, and as before saw only her little old mantilla and her small hat, which was not quite new either. his vanity suffered at the thought that she must now be thinking: "all i had to do was to make a sign, and he immediately hastened to me!" arátoff lapsed into silence ... he expected that she would reply to him; but she did not utter a word. "i am ready to listen to you," he began again, "and i shall even be very glad if i can be of service to you in any way ... although, i must confess, nevertheless, that i find it astonishing ... that considering my isolated life...." but at his last words clara suddenly turned to him and he beheld the same startled, profoundly-sorrowful visage, with the same large, bright tears in its eyes, with the same woful expression around the parted lips; and the visage was so fine thus that he involuntarily broke off short and felt within himself something akin to fright, and pity and forbearance. "akh, why ... why are you like this? ..." she said with irresistibly sincere and upright force--and what a touching ring there was to her voice!--"is it possible that my appeal to you can have offended you?... is it possible that you have understood nothing?... ah, yes! you have not understood anything, you have not understood what i said to you. god knows what you have imagined about me, you have not even reflected what it cost me to write to you!... you have been anxious only on your own account, about your own dignity, your own peace!... but did i...." (she so tightly clenched her hands which she had raised to her lips that her fingers cracked audibly).... "as though i had made any demands upon you, as though explanations were requisite to begin with.... 'my dear madame'.... 'i even find it astonishing'.... 'if i can be of service to you'.... akh, how foolish i have been!--i have been deceived in you, in your face!... when i saw you for the first time.... there.... there you stand.... and not one word do you utter! have you really not a word to say?" she had been imploring.... her face suddenly flushed, and as suddenly assumed an evil and audacious expression,--"o lord! how stupid this is!"--she cried suddenly, with a harsh laugh.--"how stupid our tryst is! how stupid i am! ... and you, too!... fie!" she made a disdainful gesture with her hand as though sweeping him out of her path, and passing around him she ran swiftly from the boulevard and disappeared. that gesture of the hand, that insulting laugh, that final exclamation instantly restored arátoff to his former frame of mind and stifled in him the feeling which had risen in his soul when she turned to him with tears in her eyes. again he waxed wroth, and came near shouting after the retreating girl: "you may turn out a good actress, but why have you taken it into your head to play a comedy on me?" with great strides he returned home, and although he continued to be indignant and to rage all the way thither, still, at the same time, athwart all these evil, hostile feelings there forced its way the memory of that wondrous face which he had beheld only for the twinkling of an eye.... he even put to himself the question: "why did not i answer her when she demanded from me at least one word?"--"i did not have time," ... he thought.... "she did not give me a chance to utter that word.... and what would i have uttered?" but he immediately shook his head and said, "an actress!" and yet, at the same time, the vanity of the inexperienced, nervous youth, which had been wounded at first, now felt rather flattered at the passion which he had inspired.... "but on the other hand," he pursued his reflections, "all that is at an end of course.... i must have appeared ridiculous to her.".... this thought was disagreeable to him, and again he grew angry ... both at her ... and at himself. on reaching home he locked himself in his study. he did not wish to encounter platósha. the kind old woman came to his door a couple of times, applied her ear to the key-hole, and merely sighed and whispered her prayer.... "it has begun!" she thought.... "and he is only five-and-twenty.... akh, it is early, early!" viii akátoff was very much out of sorts all the following day. "what is the matter, yásha?" platonída ivánovna said to him. "thou seemest to be tousled to-day, somehow."... in the old woman's peculiar language this quite accurately defined arátoff's moral condition. he could not work, but even he himself did not know what he wanted. now he was expecting kupfer again (he suspected that it was precisely from kupfer that clara had obtained his address ... and who else could have "talked a great deal" about him?); again he wondered whether his acquaintance with her was to end in that way? ... again he imagined that she would write him another letter; again he asked himself whether he ought not to write her a letter, in which he might explain everything to her,---as he did not wish to leave an unpleasant impression of himself.... but, in point of fact, _what_ was he to explain?--now he aroused in himself something very like disgust for her, for her persistence, her boldness; again that indescribably touching face presented itself to him and her irresistible voice made itself heard; and yet again he recalled her singing, her recitation--and did not know whether he was right in his wholesale condemnation.--in one word: he was a tousled man! at last he became bored with all this and decided, as the saying is, "to take it upon himself" and erase all that affair, as it undoubtedly was interfering with his avocations and disturbing his peace of mind.--he did not find it so easy to put his resolution into effect.... more than a week elapsed before he got back again into his ordinary rut. fortunately, kupfer did not present himself at all, any more than if he had not been in moscow. not long before the "affair" arátoff had begun to busy himself with painting for photographic ends; he devoted himself to this with redoubled zeal. thus, imperceptibly, with a few "relapses" as the doctors express it, consisting, for example in the fact that he once came very near going to call on the princess, two weeks ... three weeks passed ... and arátoff became once more the arátoff of old. only deep down, under the surface of his life, something heavy and dark secretly accompanied him in all his comings and goings. thus does a large fish which has just been hooked, but has not yet been drawn out, swim along the bottom of a deep river under the very boat wherein sits the fisherman with his stout rod in hand. and lo! one day as he was skimming over some not quite fresh numbers of the _moscow news,_ arátoff hit upon the following correspondence: "with great sorrow," wrote a certain local literary man from kazán, "we insert in our theatrical chronicle the news of the sudden death of our gifted actress, clara mílitch, who had succeeded in the brief space of her engagement in becoming the favourite of our discriminating public. our sorrow is all the greater because miss mílitch herself put an end to her young life, which held so much of promise, by means of poison. and this poisoning is all the more dreadful because the actress took the poison on the stage itself! they barely got her home, where, to universal regret, she died. rumours are current in the town to the effect that unrequited love led her to that terrible deed." arátoff softly laid the newspaper on the table. to all appearances he remained perfectly composed ... but something smote him simultaneously in his breast and in his head, and then slowly diffused itself through all his members. he rose to his feet, stood for a while on one spot, and again seated himself, and again perused the letter. then he rose once more, lay down on his bed and placing his hands under his head, he stared for a long time at the wall like one dazed. little by little that wall seemed to recede ... to vanish ... and he beheld before him the boulevard beneath grey skies and _her_ in her black mantilla ... then her again on the platform ... he even beheld himself by her side.--that which had smitten him so forcibly in the breast at the first moment, now began to rise up ... to rise up in his throat.... he tried to cough, to call some one, but his voice failed him, and to his own amazement, tears which he could not restrain gushed from his eyes.... what had evoked those tears? pity? regret? or was it simply that his nerves had been unable to withstand the sudden shock? surely, she was nothing to him? was not that the fact? "but perhaps that is not true," the thought suddenly occurred to him. "i must find out! but from whom? from the princess?--no, from kupfer ... from kupfer? but they say he is not in moscow.--never mind! i must apply to him first!" with these ideas in his head arátoff hastily dressed himself, summoned a cab and dashed off to kupfer. ix he had not hoped to find him ... but he did. kupfer actually had been absent from moscow for a time, but had returned about a week previously and was even preparing to call on arátoff again. he welcomed him with his customary cordiality, and began to explain something to him ... but arátoff immediately interrupted him with the impatient question: "hast thou read it?--is it true?" "is what true?" replied the astounded kupfer. "about clara mílitch?" kupfer's face expressed compassion.--"yes, yes, brother, it is true; she has poisoned herself. it is such a misfortune!" arátoff held his peace for a space.--"but hast thou also read it in the newspaper?" he asked:--"or perhaps thou hast been to kazán thyself?" "i have been to kazán, in fact; the princess and i conducted her thither. she went on the stage there, and had great success. only i did not remain there until the catastrophe.... i was in yaroslávl." "in yaroslávl?" "yes; i escorted the princess thither.... she has settled in yaroslávl now." "but hast thou trustworthy information?" "the most trustworthy sort ... at first hand! i made acquaintance in kazán with her family.--but stay, my dear fellow ... this news seems to agitate thee greatly.--but i remember that clara did not please thee that time! thou wert wrong! she was a splendid girl--only her head! she had an ungovernable head! i was greatly distressed about her!" arátoff did not utter a word, but dropped down on a chair, and after waiting a while he asked kupfer to tell him ... he hesitated. "what?" asked kupfer. "why ... everything," replied arátoff slowly.--"about her family, for instance ... and so forth. everything thou knowest!" "but does that interest thee?--certainly!" kupfer, from whose face it was impossible to discern that he had grieved so greatly over clara, began his tale. from his words arátoff learned that clara mílitch's real name had been katerína milovídoff; that her father, now dead, had been an official teacher of drawing in kazán, had painted bad portraits and official images, and moreover had borne the reputation of being a drunkard and a domestic tyrant ... "and a _cultured_ man into the bargain!".... (here kupfer laughed in a self-satisfied manner, by way of hinting at the pun he had made);[60]--that he had left at his death, in the first place, a widow of the merchant class, a thoroughly stupid female, straight out of one of ostróvsky's comedies;[61] and in the second place, a daughter much older than clara and bearing no resemblance to her--a very clever girl and "greatly developed, my dear fellow!" that the two--widow and daughter--lived in easy circumstances, in a decent little house which had been acquired by the sale of those wretched portraits and holy pictures; that clara ... or kátya, whichever you choose to call her, had astonished every one ever since her childhood by her talent, but was of an insubordinate, capricious disposition, and was constantly quarrelling with her father; that having an inborn passion for the theatre, she had run away from the parental house at the age of sixteen with an actress.... "with an actor?" interjected arátoff. "no, not with an actor, but an actress; to whom she had become attached.... this actress had a protector, it is true, a wealthy gentleman already elderly, who only refrained from marrying her because he was already married--while the actress, it appeared, was married also." further, kupfer informed arátoff that, prior to her arrival in moscow, clara had acted and sung in provincial theatres; that on losing her friend the actress (the gentleman had died also, it seems, or had made it up with his wife--precisely which kupfer did not quite remember ...), she had made the acquaintance of the princess, "that woman of gold, whom thou, my friend yákoff andréitch," the narrator added with feeling, "wert not able to appreciate at her true worth"; that finally clara had been offered an engagement in kazán, and had accepted it, although she had previously declared that she would never leave moscow!--but how the people of kazán had loved her--it was fairly amazing! at every representation she received bouquets and gifts! bouquets and gifts!--a flour merchant, the greatest bigwig in the government, had even presented her with a golden inkstand!--kupfer narrated all this with great animation, but without, however, displaying any special sentimentality, and interrupting his speech with the question:--"why dost thou want to know that?" ... or "to what end is that?" when arátoff, after listening to him with devouring attention, demanded more and still more details. everything was said at last, and kupfer ceased speaking, rewarding himself for his toil with a cigar. "but why did she poison herself?" asked arátoff. "the newspaper stated...." kupfer waved his hands.--"well.... that i cannot say.... i don't know. but the newspaper lies, clara behaved in an exemplary manner ... she had no love-affairs.... and how could she, with her pride! she was as proud as satan himself, and inaccessible! an insubordinate head! firm as a rock! if thou wilt believe me,--i knew her pretty intimately, seest thou,--i never beheld a tear in her eyes!" "but i did," thought arátoff to himself. "only there is this to be said," went on kupfer:--"i noticed a great change in her of late: she became so depressed, she would remain silent for hours at a time; you couldn't get a word out of her. i once asked her: 'has any one offended you, katerína semyónovna?' because i knew her disposition: she could not endure an insult. she held her peace, and that was the end of it! even her success on the stage did not cheer her up; they would shower her with bouquets ... and she would not smile! she gave one glance at the gold inkstand,--and put it aside!--she complained that no one would write her a genuine part, as she conceived it. and she gave up singing entirely. i am to blame, brother!... i repeated to her that thou didst not think she had any _school_. but nevertheless ... why she poisoned herself is incomprehensible! and the way she did it too...." "in what part did she have the greatest success?".... arátoff wanted to find out what part she had played that last time, but for some reason or other he asked something else. "in ostróvsky's' grúnya'[62] i believe. but i repeat to thee: she had no love-affairs! judge for thyself by one thing: she lived in her mother's house.... thou knowest what some of those merchants' houses are like; a glass case filled with holy images in every corner and a shrine lamp in front of the case; deadly, stifling heat; a sour odour; in the drawing-room nothing but chairs ranged along the wall, and geraniums in the windows;--and when a visitor arrives, the hostess begins to groan as though an enemy were approaching. what chance is there for love-making, and amours in such a place? sometimes it happened that they would not even admit me. their maid-servant, a robust peasant-woman, in a turkey red cotton sarafan,[63] and pendulous breasts, would place herself across the path in the anteroom and roar: 'whither away?' no, i positively cannot understand what made her poison herself. she must have grown tired of life," kupfer philosophically wound up his remarks. arátoff sat with drooping head.--"canst thou give me the address of that house in kazán?" he said at last. "i can; but what dost thou want of it?--dost thou wish to send a letter thither?" "perhaps so." "well, as thou wilt. only the old woman will not answer thee. her sister might ... the clever sister!--but again, brother, i marvel at thee! such indifference formerly ... and now so much attention! all that comes of living a solitary life, my dear fellow!" arátoff made no reply to this remark and went away, after having procured the address in kazán. agitation, surprise, expectation had been depicted on his face when he went to kupfer.... now he advanced with an even gait, downcast eyes, and hat pulled low down over his brows; almost every one he met followed him with a searching gaze ... but he paid no heed to the passers-by ... it was quite different from what it had been on the boulevard!... "unhappy clara! foolish clara!" resounded in his soul. x nevertheless, arátoff passed the following day in a fairly tranquil manner. he was even able to devote himself to his customary occupations. there was only one thing: both during his busy time and in his leisure moments he thought incessantly of clara, of what kupfer had told him the day before. truth to tell, his thoughts were also of a decidedly pacific nature. it seemed to him that that strange young girl interested him from a psychological point of view, as something in the nature of a puzzle, over whose solution it was worth while to cudgel one's brains,--"she ran away from home with a kept actress," he thought, "she placed herself under the protection of that princess, in whose house she lived,--and had no love-affairs? it is improbable!... kupfer says it was pride! but, in the first place, we know" (arátoff should have said: "we have read in books") ... "that pride is compatible with light-minded conduct; and in the second place, did not she, such a proud person, appoint a meeting with a man who might show her scorn ... and appoint it in a public place, into the bargain ... on the boulevard!"--at this point there recurred to arátoff's mind the whole scene on the boulevard, and he asked himself: "had he really shown scorn for clara?"--"no," he decided.... that was another feeling ... a feeling of perplexity ... of distrust, in short!--"unhappy clara!" again rang through his brain.--"yes, she was unhappy," he decided again ... that was the most fitting word. "but if that is so, i was unjust. she spoke truly when she said that i did not understand her. 'tis a pity!--it may be that a very remarkable being has passed so close to me ... and i did not take advantage of the opportunity, but repulsed her.... well, never mind! my life is still before me. i shall probably have other encounters of a different sort! "but what prompted her to pick out _me_ in particular?"--he cast a glance at a mirror which he was passing at the moment. "what is there peculiar about me? and what sort of a beauty am i?--my face is like everybody else's face.... however, she was not a beauty either. "she was not a beauty ... but what an expressive face she had! impassive ... but expressive! i have never before seen such a face.--and she has talent ... that is to say, she had talent, undoubted talent. wild, untrained, even coarse ... but undoubted.--and in that case also i was unjust to her."--arátoff mentally transported himself to the musical morning ... and noticed that he remembered with remarkable distinctness every word she had sung or recited, every intonation.... that would not have been the case had she been devoid of talent. "and now all that is in the grave, where she has thrust herself.... but i have nothing to do with that.... i am not to blame! it would even be absurd to think that i am to blame."--again it flashed into arátoff's mind that even had she had "anything of that sort" about her, his conduct during the interview would indubitably have disenchanted her. that was why she had broken into such harsh laughter at parting.--and where was the proof that she had poisoned herself on account of an unhappy love? it is only newspaper correspondents who attribute every such death to unhappy love!--but life easily becomes repulsive to people with character, like clara ... and tiresome. yes, tiresome. kupfer was right: living simply bored her. "in spite of her success, of her ovations?"--arátoff meditated.--the psychological analysis to which he surrendered himself was even agreeable to him. unaccustomed as he had been, up to this time, to all contact with women, he did not suspect how significant for him was this tense examination of a woman's soul. "consequently," he pursued his meditations, "art did not satisfy her, did not fill the void of her life. genuine artists exist only for art, for the theatre.... everything else pales before that which they regard as their vocation.... she was a dilettante!" here arátoff again became thoughtful.--no, the word "dilettante" did not consort with that face, with the expression of that face, of those eyes.... and again there rose up before him the image of clara with her tear-filled eyes riveted upon him, and her clenched hands raised to her lips.... "akh, i won't think of it, i won't think of it ..." he whispered.... "what is the use?" in this manner the whole day passed. during dinner arátoff chatted a great deal with platósha, questioned her about old times, which, by the way, she recalled and transmitted badly, as she was not possessed of a very glib tongue, and had noticed hardly anything in the course of her life save her yáshka. she merely rejoiced that he was so good-natured and affectionate that day!--toward evening arátoff quieted down to such a degree that he played several games of trumps with his aunt. thus passed the day ... but the night was quite another matter! xi it began well; he promptly fell asleep, and when his aunt entered his room on tiptoe for the purpose of making the sign of the cross over him thrice as he slept--she did this every night--he was lying and breathing as quietly as a child.--but before daybreak he had a vision. he dreamed that he was walking over the bare steppes, sown with stones, beneath a low-hanging sky. between the stones wound a path; he was advancing along it. suddenly there rose up in front of him something in the nature of a delicate cloud. he looked intently at it; the little cloud turned into a woman in a white gown, with a bright girdle about her waist. she was hurrying away from him. he did not see either her face or her hair ... a long piece of tissue concealed them. but he felt bound to overtake her and look into her eyes. only, no matter how much haste he made, she still walked more quickly than he. on the path lay a broad, flat stone, resembling a tomb-stone. it barred her way. the woman came to a halt. arátoff ran up to her. she turned toward him--but still he could not see her eyes ... they were closed. her face was white,--white as snow; her arms hung motionless. she resembled a statue. slowly, without bending a single limb, she leaned backward and sank down on that stone.... and now arátoff was lying beside her, outstretched like a mortuary statue,--and his hands were folded like those of a corpse. but at this point the woman suddenly rose to her feet and went away. arátoff tried to rise also ... but he could not stir, he could not unclasp his hands, and could only gaze after her in despair. then the woman suddenly turned round, and he beheld bright, vivacious eyes in a living face, which was strange to him, however. she was laughing, beckoning to him with her hand ... and still he was unable to move. she laughed yet once again, and swiftly retreated, merrily nodding her head, on which a garland of tiny roses gleamed crimson. arátoff strove to shout, strove to break that frightful nightmare.... suddenly everything grew dark round about ... and the woman returned to him. but she was no longer a statue whom he knew not ... she was clara. she halted in front of him, folded her arms, and gazed sternly and attentively at him. her lips were tightly compressed, but it seemed to arátoff that he heard the words: "if thou wishest to know who i am, go thither!" "whither?" he asked. "thither!"--the moaning answer made itself audible.--"thither!" arátoff awoke. he sat up in bed, lighted a candle which stood on his night-stand, but did not rise, and sat there for a long time slowly gazing about him. it seemed to him that something had taken place within him since he went to bed; that something had taken root within him ... something had taken possession of him. "but can that be possible?" he whispered unconsciously. "can it be that such a power exists?" he could not remain in bed. he softly dressed himself and paced his chamber until daylight. and strange to say! he did not think about clara for a single minute,--and he did not think about her because he had made up his mind to set off for kazán that very day! he thought only of that journey, of how it was to be made, and what he ought to take with him,--and how he would there ferret out and find out everything,--and regain his composure. "if thou dost not go," he argued with himself, "thou wilt surely lose thy reason!" he was afraid of that; he was afraid of his nerves. he was convinced that as soon as he should see all that with his own eyes, all obsessions would flee like a nocturnal nightmare.--"and the journey will occupy not more than a week in all," he thought.... "what is a week? and there is no other way of ridding myself of it." the rising sun illuminated his room; but the light of day did not disperse the shades of night which weighed upon him, did not alter his decision. platósha came near having an apoplectic stroke when he communicated his decision to her. she even squatted down on her heels ... her legs gave way under her. "to kazán? why to kazán?" she whispered, protruding her eyes which were already blind enough without that. she would not have been any more astounded had she learned that her yásha was going to marry the neighbouring baker's daughter, or depart to america.--"and shalt thou stay long in kazán?" "i shall return at the end of a week," replied arátoff, as he stood half-turned away from his aunt, who was still sitting on the floor. platósha tried to remonstrate again, but arátoff shouted at her in an utterly unexpected and unusual manner: "i am not a baby," he yelled, turning pale all over, while his lips quivered and his eyes flashed viciously.--"i am six-and-twenty years of age. i know what i am about,--i am free to do as i please!--i will not permit any one.... give me money for the journey; prepare a trunk with linen and clothing ... and do not bother me! i shall return at the end of a week, platósha," he added, in a softer tone. platósha rose to her feet, grunting, and, making no further opposition, wended her way to her chamber. yásha had frightened her.--"i have not a head on my shoulders," she remarked to the cook, who was helping her to pack yásha's things,--"not a head--but a bee-hive ... and what bees are buzzing there i do not know! he is going away to kazán, my mother, to ka-zá-án!" the cook, who had noticed their yard-porter talking for a long time to the policeman about something, wanted to report this circumstance to her mistress, but she did not dare, and merely thought to herself: "to kazán? if only it isn't some place further away!"--and platonída ivánovna was so distracted that she did not even utter her customary prayer.--in such a catastrophe as this even the lord god could be of no assistance! that same day arátoff set off for kazán. xii no sooner had he arrived in that town and engaged a room at the hotel, than he dashed off in search of the widow milovídoff's house. during the whole course of his journey he had been in a sort of stupor, which, nevertheless, did not in the least prevent his taking all proper measures,--transferring himself at nizhni nóvgorod from the railway to the steamer, eating at the stations, and so forth. as before, he was convinced that everything would be cleared up _there_, and accordingly he banished from his thoughts all memories and speculations, contenting himself with one thing,--the mental preparation of the speech in which he was to set forth to clara mílitch's family the real reason of his trip.--and now, at last, he had attained to the goal of his yearning, and ordered the servant to announce him. he was admitted--with surprise and alarm--but he was admitted. the widow milovídoff's house proved to be in fact just as kupfer had described it; and the widow herself really did resemble one of ostróvsky's women of the merchant class, although she was of official rank; her husband had been a collegiate assessor.[64] not without some difficulty did arátoff, after having preliminarily excused himself for his boldness, and the strangeness of his visit, make the speech which he had prepared, to the effect that he wished to collect all the necessary information concerning the gifted actress who had perished at such an early age; that he was actuated not by idle curiosity, but by a profound sympathy for her talent, of which he was a worshipper (he said exactly that--"a worshipper"); that, in conclusion, it would be a sin to leave the public in ignorance of the loss it had sustained,--and why its hopes had not been realized! madame milovídoff did not interrupt arátoff; it is hardly probable that she understood very clearly what this strange visitor was saying to her, and she merely swelled a little with pride, and opened her eyes widely at him on perceiving that he had a peaceable aspect, and was decently clad, and was not some sort of swindler ... and was not asking for any money. "are you saying that about kátya?" she asked, as soon as arátoff ceased speaking. "exactly so ... about your daughter." "and you have come from moscow for that purpose?" "yes, from moscow." "merely for that?" "merely for that." madame milovídoff suddenly took fright.--"why, you--are an author? do you write in the newspapers?" "no, i am not an author,--and up to the present time, i have never written for the newspapers." the widow bent her head. she was perplexed. "consequently ... it is for your own pleasure?" she suddenly inquired. arátoff did not immediately hit upon the proper answer. "out of sympathy, out of reverence for talent," he said at last. the word "reverence" pleased madame milovídoff. "very well!" she ejaculated with a sigh.... "although i am her mother, and grieved very greatly over her.... it was such a catastrophe, you know!... still, i must say, that she was always a crazy sort of girl, and ended up in the same way! such a disgrace.... judge for yourself: what sort of a thing is that for a mother? we may be thankful that they even buried her in christian fashion...." madame milovídoff crossed herself.--"from the time she was a small child she submitted to no one,--she abandoned the paternal roof ... and finally, it is enough to say that she became an actress! every one knows that i did not turn her out of the house; for i loved her! for i am her mother, all the same! she did not have to live with strangers,--and beg alms!..." here the widow melted into tears.--"but if you, sir," she began afresh, wiping her eyes with the ends of her kerchief, "really have that intention, and if you will not concoct anything dishonourable about us,--but if, on the contrary, you wish to show us a favour,--then you had better talk with my other daughter. she will tell you everything better than i can...." "ánnotchka!" called madame milovídoff:--"ánnotchka, come hither! there's some gentleman or other from moscow who wants to talk about kátya!" there was a crash in the adjoining room, but no one appeared.--"ánnotchka!" cried the widow again--"anna semyónovna! come hither, i tell thee!" the door opened softly and on the threshold appeared a girl no longer young, of sickly aspect, and homely, but with very gentle and sorrowful eyes. arátoff rose from his seat to greet her, and introduced himself, at the same time mentioning his friend kupfer.--"ah! feódor feódoritch!" ejaculated the girl softly, as she softly sank down on a chair. "come, now, talk with the gentleman," said madame milovídoff, rising ponderously from her seat: "he has taken the trouble to come expressly from moscow,--he wishes to collect information about kátya. but you must excuse me, sir," she added, turning to arátoff.... "i shall go away, to attend to domestic affairs. you can have a good explanation with ánnotchka--she will tell you about the theatre ... and all that sort of thing. she's my clever, well-educated girl: she speaks french and reads books quite equal to her dead sister. and she educated her sister, i may say.... she was the elder--well, and so she taught her." madame milovídoff withdrew. when arátoff was left alone with anna semyónovna he repeated his speech; but from the first glance he understood that he had to deal with a girl who really was cultured, not with a merchant's daughter,--and so he enlarged somewhat, and employed different expressions;--and toward the end he became agitated, flushed, and felt conscious that his heart was beating hard. anna semyónovna listened to him in silence, with her hands folded; the sad smile did not leave her face ... bitter woe which had not ceased to cause pain, was expressed in that smile. "did you know my sister?" she asked arátoff. "no; properly speaking, i did not know her," he replied. "i saw and heard your sister once ... but all that was needed was to hear and see your sister once, in order to...." "do you mean to write her biography?" anna put another question. arátoff had not expected that word; nevertheless, he immediately answered "why not?" but the chief point was that he wished to acquaint the public.... anna stopped him with a gesture of her hand. "to what end? the public caused her much grief without that; and kátya had only just begun to live. but if you yourself" (anna looked at him and again smiled that same sad smile, only now it was more cordial ... apparently she was thinking: "yes, thou dost inspire me with confidence") ... "if you yourself cherish such sympathy for her, then permit me to request that you come to us this evening ... after dinner. i cannot now ... so suddenly.... i will collect my forces.... i will make an effort.... akh, i loved her too greatly!" anna turned away; she was on the point of bursting into sobs. arátoff rose alertly from his chair, thanked her for her proposal, said that he would come without fail ... without fail! and went away, bearing in his soul an impression of a quiet voice, of gentle and sorrowful eyes--and burning with the languor of anticipation. xiii arátoff returned to the milovídoffs' house that same day, and conversed for three whole hours with anna semyónovna. madame milovídoff went to bed immediately after dinner--at two o'clock--and "rested" until evening tea, at seven o'clock. arátoff's conversation with clara's sister was not, properly speaking, a conversation: she did almost the whole of the talking, at first with hesitation, with confusion, but afterward with uncontrollable fervour. she had, evidently, idolised her sister. the confidence wherewith arátoff had inspired her waxed and strengthened; she was no longer embarrassed; she even fell to weeping softly, twice, in his presence. he seemed to her worthy of her frank revelations and effusions. nothing of that sort had ever before come into her own dull life!... and he ... he drank in her every word. this, then, is what he learned ... much of it, as a matter of course, from what she refrained from saying ... and much he filled out for himself. in her youth clara had been, without doubt, a disagreeable child; and as a young girl she had been only a little softer: self-willed, hot-tempered, vain, she had not got on particularly well with her father, whom she despised for his drunkenness and incapacity. he was conscious of this and did not pardon it in her. her musical faculties showed themselves at an early age; her father repressed them, recognising painting as the sole art,--wherein he himself had had so little success, but which had nourished him and his family. clara had loved her mother ... in a careless way, as she would have loved a nurse; she worshipped her sister, although she squabbled with her, and bit her.... it is true that afterward she had been wont to go down on her knees before her and kiss the bitten places. she was all fire, all passion, and all contradiction: vengeful and kind-hearted, magnanimous and rancorous; "she believed in fate, and did not believe in god" (these words anna whispered with terror); she loved everything that was beautiful, and dressed herself at haphazard; she could not endure to have young men pay court to her, but in books she read only those pages where love was the theme; she did not care to please, she did not like petting and never forgot caresses as she never forgot offences; she was afraid of death, and she had killed herself! she had been wont to say sometimes, "i do not meet the sort of man i want--and the others i will not have!"--"well, and what if you should meet the right sort?" anna had asked her.--"if i do ... i shall take him."--"but what if he will not give himself?"--"well, then ... i will make an end of myself. it will mean that i am good for nothing." clara's father ... (he sometimes asked his wife when he was drunk: "who was the father of that black-visaged little devil of thine?--i was not!")--clara's father, in the endeavour to get her off his hands as promptly as possible, undertook to betroth her to a wealthy young merchant, a very stupid fellow,--one of the "cultured" sort. two weeks before the wedding (she was only sixteen years of age), she walked up to her betrothed, folded her arms, and drumming with her fingers on her elbows (her favourite pose), she suddenly dealt him a blow, bang! on his rosy cheek with her big, strong hand! he sprang to his feet, and merely gasped,--it must be stated that he was dead in love with her.... he asked: "what is that for?" she laughed and left the room.--"i was present in the room," narrated anna, "and was a witness. i ran after her and said to her: 'good gracious, kátya, why didst thou do that?'--but she answered me: 'if he were a real man he would have thrashed me, but as it is, he is a wet hen!' and he asks what it is for, to boot. if he loved me and did not avenge himself, then let him bear it and not ask: 'what is that for?' he'll never get anything of me, unto ages of ages!' and so she did not marry him. soon afterward she made the acquaintance of that actress, and left our house. my mother wept, but my father only said: 'away with the refractory goat from the flock!' and would take no trouble, or try to hunt her up. father did not understand clara. on the eve of her flight," added anna, "she almost strangled me in her embrace, and kept repeating: 'i cannot! i cannot do otherwise!... my heart may break in two, but i cannot! our cage is too small ... it is not large enough for my wings! and one cannot escape his fate'".... "after that," remarked anna, "we rarely saw each other.... when father died she came to us for a couple of days, took nothing from the inheritance, and again disappeared. she found it oppressive with us.... i saw that. then she returned to kazán as an actress." arátoff began to interrogate anna concerning the theatre, the parts in which clara had appeared, her success.... anna answered in detail, but with the same sad, although animated enthusiasm. she even showed arátoff a photographic portrait, which represented clara in the costume of one of her parts. in the portrait she was looking to one side, as though turning away from the spectators; the ribbon intertwined with her thick hair fell like a serpent on her bare arm. arátoff gazed long at that portrait, thought it a good likeness, inquired whether clara had not taken part in public readings, and learned that she had not; that she required the excitement of the theatre, of the stage ... but another question was burning on his lips. "anna semyónovna!" he exclaimed at last, not loudly, but with peculiar force, "tell me, i entreat you, why she ... why she made up her mind to that frightful step?" anna dropped her eyes.--"i do not know!" she said, after the lapse of several minutes.--"god is my witness, i do not know!" she continued impetuously, perceiving that arátoff had flung his hands apart as though he did not believe her.... "from the very time she arrived here she seemed to be thoughtful, gloomy. something must infallibly have happened to her in moscow, which i was not able to divine! but, on the contrary, on that fatal day, she seemed ... if not more cheerful, at any rate more tranquil than usual. i did not even have any forebodings," added anna with a bitter smile, as though reproaching herself for that. "you see," she began again, "it seemed to have been written in kátya's fate, that she should be unhappy. she was convinced of it herself from her early youth. she would prop her head on her hand, meditate, and say: 'i shall not live long!' she had forebodings. just imagine, she even saw beforehand,--sometimes in a dream, sometimes in ordinary wise,--what was going to happen to her! 'i cannot live as i wish, so i will not live at all,' ... was her adage.--'our life is in our own hands, you know!' and she proved it." anna covered her face with her hands and ceased speaking. "anna semyónovna," began arátoff, after waiting a little: "perhaps you have heard to what the newspapers attributed...." "to unhappy love?" interrupted anna, removing her hands from her face with a jerk. "that is a calumny, a calumny, a lie!... my unsullied, unapproachable kátya ... kátya! ... and an unhappy, rejected love? and would not i have known about that?... everybody, everybody fell in love with her ... but she.... and whom could she have fallen in love with here? who, out of all these men, was worthy of her? who had attained to that ideal of honour, uprightness, purity,--most of all, purity,--which she constantly held before her, in spite of all her defects?... reject her ... her...." anna's voice broke.... her fingers trembled slightly. suddenly she flushed scarlet all over ... flushed with indignation, and at that moment--and only at that moment--did she resemble her sister. arátoff attempted to apologise. "listen," broke in anna once more:--"i insist upon it that you shall not believe that calumny yourself, and that you shall dissipate it, if possible! here, you wish to write an article about her, or something of that sort:--here is an opportunity for you to defend her memory! that is why i am talking so frankly with you. listen: kátya left a diary...." arátoff started.--"a diary," he whispered. "yes, a diary ... that is to say, a few pages only.--kátya was not fond of writing ... for whole months together she did not write at all ... and her letters were so short! but she was always, always truthful, she never lied.... lie, forsooth, with her vanity! i ... i will show you that diary! you shall see for yourself whether it contains a single hint of any such unhappy love!" anna hastily drew from the table-drawer a thin copy-book, about ten pages in length, no more, and offered it to arátoff. the latter grasped it eagerly, recognised the irregular, bold handwriting,--the handwriting of that anonymous letter,--opened it at random, and began at the following lines: "moscow--tuesday ... june. i sang and recited at a literary morning. to-day is a significant day for me. _it must decide my fate_." (these words were doubly underlined.) "once more i have seen...." here followed several lines which had been carefully blotted out.--and then: "no! no! no!... i must return to my former idea, if only...." arátoff dropped the hand in which he held the book, and his head sank quietly on his breast. "read!" cried anna.--"why don't you read? read from the beginning.... you can read the whole of it in five minutes, though this diary extends over two whole years. in kazán she wrote nothing...." arátoff slowly rose from his chair, and fairly crashed down on his knees before anna! she was simply petrified with amazement and terror. "give ... give me this diary," said arátoff in a fainting voice.--"give it to me ... and the photograph ... you must certainly have another--but i will return the diary to you.... but i must, i must...." in his entreaty, in the distorted features of his face there was something so despairing that it even resembled wrath, suffering.... and in reality he was suffering. it seemed as though he had not been able to foresee that such a calamity would descend upon him, and was excitedly begging to be spared, to be saved.... "give it to me," he repeated. "but ... you ... you were not in love with my sister?" said anna at last. arátoff continued to kneel. "i saw her twice in all ... believe me!... and if i had not been impelled by causes which i myself cannot clearly either understand or explain ... if some power that is stronger than i were not upon me.... i would not have asked you.... i would not have come hither.... i must ... i ought ... why, you said yourself that i was bound to restore her image!" "and you were not in love with my sister?" asked anna for the second time. arátoff did not reply at once, and turned away slightly, as though with pain. "well, yes! i was! i was!--and i am in love with her now...." he exclaimed with the same desperation as before. footsteps became audible in the adjoining room. "rise ... rise ..." said anna hastily. "my mother is coming." arátoff rose. "and take the diary and the picture. god be with you!--poor, poor kátya!... but you must return the diary to me," she added with animation.--"and if you write anything, you must be sure to send it to me.... do you hear?" the appearance of madame milovídoff released arátoff from the necessity of replying.--he succeeded, nevertheless, in whispering:--"you are an angel! thanks! i will send all that i write...." madame milovídoff was too drowsy to divine anything. and so arátoff left kazán with the photographic portrait in the side-pocket of his coat. he had returned the copy-book to anna, but without her having detected it, he had cut out the page on which stood the underlined words. on his way back to moscow he was again seized with a sort of stupor. although he secretly rejoiced that he had got what he went for, yet he repelled all thoughts of clara until he should reach home again. he meditated a great deal more about her sister anna.--"here now," he said to himself, "is a wonderful, sympathetic being! what a delicate comprehension of everything, what a loving heart, what absence of egoism! and how comes it that such girls bloom with us, and in the provinces,--and in such surroundings into the bargain! she is both sickly, and ill-favoured, and not young,--but what a capital wife she would make for an honest, well-educated man! that is the person with whom one ought to fall in love!..." arátoff meditated thus ... but on his arrival in moscow the matter took quite another turn. xiv platonída ivánova was unspeakably delighted at the return of her nephew. she had thought all sorts of things during his absence!--"at the very least he has gone to siberia!" she whispered, as she sat motionless in her little chamber: "for a year at the very least!"--moreover the cook had frightened her by imparting the most authentic news concerning the disappearance of first one, then another young man from the neighbourhood. yásha's complete innocence and trustworthiness did not in the least serve to calm the old woman.--"because ... much that signifies!--he busies himself with photography ... well, and that is enough! seize him!" and now here was her yáshenka come back to her safe and sound! she did notice, it is true, that he appeared to have grown thin, and his face seemed to be sunken--that was comprehensible ... he had had no one to look after him. but she did not dare to question him concerning his trip. at dinner she inquired: "and is kazán a nice town?" "yes," replied arátoff. "tatárs live there, i believe?" "not tatárs only." "and hast not thou brought a khalát[65] thence?" "no, i have not." and there the conversation ended. but as soon as arátoff found himself alone in his study he immediately felt as though something were embracing him round about, as though he were again in _the power_,--precisely that, in the power of another life, of another being. although he had told anna--in that outburst of sudden frenzy--that he was in love with clara, that word now seemed to him devoid of sense and whimsical.--no, he was not in love; and how could he fall in love with a dead woman, whom, even during her lifetime he had not liked, whom he had almost forgotten?--no! but he was in the power of ... in _her_ power ... he no longer belonged to himself. he had been _taken possession of_. taken possession of to such a point that he was no longer trying to free himself either by ridiculing his own stupidity, or by arousing in himself if not confidence, at least hope that all this would pass over, that it was nothing but nerves,--or by seeking proofs of it,--or in any other way!--"if i meet him i shall take him" he recalled clara's words reported by anna ... and so now he had been taken. but was not she dead? yes; her body was dead ... but how about her soul?--was not that immortal ... did it require bodily organs to manifest its power? magnetism has demonstrated to us the influence of the living human soul upon another living human soul.... why should not that influence be continued after death, if the soul remains alive?--but with what object? what might be the result of this?--but do we, in general, realise the object of everything which goes on around us? these reflections occupied arátoff to such a degree that at tea he suddenly asked platósha whether she believed in the immortality of the soul. she did not understand at first what it was he had asked; but afterward she crossed herself and replied, "of course. how could the soul be otherwise than immortal?" "but if that is so, can it act after death?" arátoff put a second question. the old woman replied that it could ... that is to say, it can pray for us; when it shall have passed through all sorts of tribulations, and is awaiting the last judgment. but during the first forty days it only hovers around the spot where its death occurred. "during the first forty days?" "yes; and after that come its tribulations."[66] arátoff was surprised at his aunt's erudition, and went off to his own room.--and again he felt the same thing, that same power upon him. the power was manifested thus--that the image of clara incessantly presented itself to him, in its most minute details,--details which he did not seem to have observed during her lifetime; he saw ... he saw her fingers, her nails, the bands of hair on her cheeks below her temples, a small mole under the left eye; he saw the movement of her lips, her nostrils, her eyebrows ... and what sort of a gait she had, and how she held her head a little on the right side ... he saw everything!--he did not admire all this at all; he simply could not help thinking about it and seeing it.--yet he did not dream about her during the first night after his return ... he was very weary and slept like one slain. on the other hand, no sooner did he awake than she again entered his room, and there she remained, as though she had been its owner; just as though she had purchased for herself that right by her voluntary death, without asking him or requiring his permission. he took her photograph; he began to reproduce it, to enlarge it. then it occurred to him to arrange it for the stereoscope. it cost him a great deal of trouble, but at last he succeeded. he fairly started when he beheld through the glass her figure which had acquired the semblance of bodily substance. but that figure was grey, as though covered with dust ... and moreover, the eyes ... the eyes still gazed aside, as though they were averting themselves. he began to gaze at them for a long, long time, as though expecting that they might, at any moment, turn themselves in his direction ... he even puckered up his eyes deliberately ... but the eyes remained motionless, and the whole figure assumed the aspect of a doll. he went away, threw himself into an arm-chair, got out the leaf which he had torn from her diary, with the underlined words, and thought: "they say that people in love kiss the lines which have been written by a beloved hand; but i have no desire to do that--and the chirography appears to me ugly into the bargain. but in that line lies my condemnation."--at this point there flashed into his mind the promise he had made to anna about the article. he seated himself at his table, and set about writing it; but everything he wrote turned out so rhetorical ... worst of all, so artificial ... just as though he did not believe in what he was writing, or in his own feelings ... and clara herself seemed to him unrecognisable, incomprehensible! she would not yield herself to him. "no," he thought, throwing aside his pen, "either i have no talent for writing in general, or i must wait a while yet!" he began to call to mind his visit to the milovídoffs, and all the narration of anna, of that kind, splendid anna.... the word she had uttered: "unsullied!" suddenly struck him. it was exactly as though something had scorched and illuminated him. "yes," he said aloud, "she was unsullied and i am unsullied.... that is what has given her this power!" thoughts concerning the immortality of the soul, the life beyond the grave, again visited him. "is it not said in the bible: 'o death, where is thy sting?' and in schiller: 'and the dead also shall live!' (_auch die todten sollen leben!_)--or here again, in mickiewicz, 'i shall love until life ends ... and after life ends!'--while one english writer has said: 'love is stronger than death!'"--the biblical sentence acted with peculiar force on arátoff. he wanted to look up the place where those words were to be found.... he had no bible; he went to borrow one from platósha. she was astonished; but she got out an old, old book in a warped leather binding with brass clasps, all spotted with wax, and handed it to arátoff. he carried it off to his own room, but for a long time could not find that verse ... but on the other hand, he hit upon another: "greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends".... (the gospel of john, chap. xv, verse 13). he thought: "that is not properly expressed.--it should read: 'greater _power_ hath no man!'".... "but what if she did not set her soul on me at all? what if she killed herself merely because life had become a burden to her?--what if she, in conclusion, did not come to that tryst with the object of obtaining declarations of love at all?" but at that moment clara before her parting on the boulevard rose up before him.... he recalled that sorrowful expression on her face, and those tears, and those words:--"akh, you have understood nothing!" no! he could not doubt for what object and for what person she had laid down her life.... thus passed that day until nightfall. xv arátoff went early to bed, without feeling particularly sleepy; but he hoped to find rest in bed. the strained condition of his nerves caused him a fatigue which was far more intolerable than the physical weariness of the journey and the road. but great as was his fatigue, he could not get to sleep. he tried to read ... but the lines got entangled before his eyes. he extinguished his candle, and darkness took possession of his chamber.--but he continued to lie there sleepless, with closed eyes.... and now it seemed to him that some one was whispering in his ear.... "it is the beating of my heart, the rippling of the blood," he thought.... but the whisper passed into coherent speech. some one was talking russian hurriedly, plaintively, and incomprehensibly. it was impossible to distinguish a single separate word.... but it was clara's voice! arátoff opened his eyes, rose up in bed, propped himself on his elbows.... the voice grew fainter, but continued its plaintive, hurried, unintelligible speech as before.... it was indubitably clara's voice! some one's fingers ran over the keys of the piano in light arpeggios.... then the voice began to speak again. more prolonged sounds made themselves audible ... like moans ... always the same. and then words began to detach themselves.... "roses ... roses ... roses.".... "roses," repeated arátoff in a whisper.-"akh, yes! the roses which i saw on the head of that woman in my dream...." "roses," was audible again. "is it thou?" asked arátoff, whispering as before. the voice suddenly ceased. arátoff waited ... waited--and dropped his head on his pillow. "a hallucination of hearing," he thought. "well, and what if ... what if she really is here, close to me?... what if i were to see her, would i be frightened? but why should i be frightened? why should i rejoice? possibly because it would be a proof that there is another world, that the soul is immortal.--but, however, even if i were to see anything, that also might be a hallucination of the sight".... nevertheless he lighted his candle, and shot a glance over the whole room not without some trepidation ... and descried nothing unusual in it. he rose, approached the stereoscope ... and there again was the same grey doll, with eyes which gazed to one side. the feeling of alarm in arátoff was replaced by one of vexation. he had been, as it were, deceived in his expectations ... and those same expectations appeared to him absurd.--"well, this is downright stupid!" he muttered as he got back into bed, and blew out his light. again profound darkness reigned in the room. arátoff made up his mind to go to sleep this time.... but a new sensation had cropped up within him. it seemed to him as though some one were standing in the middle of the room, not far from him, and breathing in a barely perceptible manner. he hastily turned round, opened his eyes.... but what could be seen in that impenetrable darkness?--he began to fumble for a match on his night-stand ... and suddenly it seemed to him as though some soft, noiseless whirlwind dashed across the whole room, above him, through him--and the words: "'tis i!" rang plainly in his ears. "'tis i! 'tis i!..." several moments passed before he succeeded in lighting a match. again there was no one in the room, and he no longer heard anything except the violent beating of his own heart. he drank a glass of water, and remained motionless, with his head resting on his hand. he said to himself: "i will wait. either this is all nonsense ... or she is here. she will not play with me like a cat with a mouse!" he waited, waited a long time ... so long that the hand on which he was propping his head became numb ... but not a single one of his previous sensations was repeated. a couple of times his eyes closed.... he immediately opened them ... at least, it seemed to him that he opened them. gradually they became riveted on the door and so remained. the candle burned out and the room became dark once more ... but the door gleamed like a long, white spot in the midst of the gloom. and lo! that spot began to move, it contracted, vanished ... and in its place, on the threshold, a female form made its appearance. arátoff looked at it intently ... it was clara! and this time she was gazing straight at him, she moved toward him.... on her head was a wreath of red roses.... it kept undulating, rising.... before him stood his aunt in her nightcap, with a broad red ribbon, and in a white wrapper. "platósha!" he enunciated with difficulty.--"is it you?" "it is i," replied platonída ivánovna.... "it is i, yashyónotchek, it is i." "why have you come?" "why, thou didst wake me. at first thou seemedst to be moaning all the while ... and then suddenly thou didst begin to shout: 'save me! help me!'" "i shouted?" "yes, thou didst shout, and so hoarsely: 'save me!'--i thought: 'o lord! can he be ill?' so i entered. art thou well?" "perfectly well." "come, that means that thou hast had a bad dream. i will fumigate with incense if thou wishest--shall i?" again arátoff gazed intently at his aunt, and burst into a loud laugh.... the figure of the kind old woman in nightcap and wrapper, with her frightened, long-drawn face, really was extremely comical. all that mysterious something which had surrounded him, had stifled him, all those delusions dispersed on the instant. "no, platósha, my dear, it is not necessary," he said.--"forgive me for having involuntarily alarmed you. may your rest be tranquil--and i will go to sleep also." platonída ivánovna stood a little while longer on the spot where she was, pointed at the candle, grumbled: "why dost thou not extinguish it? ... there will be a catastrophe before long!"--and as she retired, could not refrain from making the sign of the cross over him from afar. arátoff fell asleep immediately, and slept until morning. he rose in a fine frame of mind ... although he regretted something.... he felt light and free. "what romantic fancies one does devise," he said to himself with a smile. he did not once glance either at the stereoscope or the leaf which he had torn out. but immediately after breakfast he set off to see kupfer. what drew him thither ... he dimly recognised. xvi arátoff found his sanguine friend at home. he chatted a little with him, reproached him for having quite forgotten him and his aunt, listened to fresh laudations of the golden woman, the princess, from whom kupfer had just received,--from yaroslávl,--a skull-cap embroidered with fish-scales ... and then suddenly sitting down in front of kupfer, and looking him straight in the eye, he announced that he had been to kazán. "thou hast been to kazán? why so?" "why, because i wished to collect information about that ... clara mílitch." "the girl who poisoned herself?" "yes." kupfer shook his head.--"what a fellow thou art! and such a sly one! thou hast travelled a thousand versts there and back ... and all for what? hey? if there had only been some feminine interest there! then i could understand everything! every sort of folly!"--kupfer ruffled up his hair.--"but for the sake of collecting materials, as you learned men put it.... no, i thank you! that's what the committee of statistics exists for!--well, and what about it--didst thou make acquaintance with the old woman and with her sister? she's a splendid girl, isn't she?" "splendid," assented arátoff.--"she communicated to me many curious things." "did she tell thee precisely how clara poisoned herself?" "thou meanest ... what dost thou mean?" "why, in what manner?" "no.... she was still in such affliction.... i did not dare to question her too much. but was there anything peculiar about it?" "of course there was. just imagine: she was to have acted that very day--and she did act. she took a phial of poison with her to the theatre, drank it before the first act, and in that condition played through the whole of that act. with the poison inside her! what dost thou think of that strength of will? what character, wasn't it? and they say that she never sustained her role with so much feeling, with so much warmth! the audience suspected nothing, applauded, recalled her.... but as soon as the curtain fell she dropped down where she stood on the stage. she began to writhe ... and writhe ... and at the end of an hour her spirit fled! but is it possible i did not tell thee that? it was mentioned in the newspapers also." arátoff's hands suddenly turned cold and his chest began to heave. "no, thou didst not tell me that," he said at last.--"and dost thou not know what the piece was?" kupfer meditated.--"i was told the name of the piece ... a young girl who has been betrayed appears in it.... it must be some drama or other. clara was born for dramatic parts. her very appearance.... but where art thou going?" kupfer interrupted himself, perceiving that arátoff was picking up his cap. "i do not feel quite well," replied arátoff. "good-bye.... i will drop in some other time." kupfer held him back and looked him in the face.--"what a nervous fellow thou art, brother! just look at thyself.... thou hast turned as white as clay." "i do not feel well," repeated arátoff, freeing himself from kupfer's hands and going his way. only at that moment did it become clear to him that he had gone to kupfer with the sole object of talking about clara.... "about foolish, about unhappy clara".... but on reaching home he speedily recovered his composure to a certain extent. the circumstances which had attended clara's death at first exerted a shattering impression upon him ... but later on that acting "with the poison inside her," as kupfer had expressed it, seemed to him a monstrous phrase, a piece of bravado, and he tried not to think of it, fearing to arouse within himself a feeling akin to aversion. but at dinner, as he sat opposite platósha, he suddenly remembered her nocturnal apparition, recalled that bob-tailed wrapper, that cap with the tall ribbon (and why should there be a ribbon on a night-cap?), the whole of that ridiculous figure, at which all his visions had dispersed into dust, as though at the whistle of the machinist in a fantastic ballet! he even made platósha repeat the tale of how she had heard him shout, had taken fright, had leaped out of bed, had not been able at once to find either her own door or his, and so forth. in the evening he played cards with her and went off to his own room in a somewhat sad but fairly tranquil state of mind. arátoff did not think about the coming night, and did not fear it; he was convinced that he should pass it in the best possible manner. the thought of clara awoke in him from time to time; but he immediately remembered that she had killed herself in a "spectacular" manner, and turned away. that "outrageous" act prevented other memories from rising in him. giving a cursory glance at the stereoscope it seemed to him that she was looking to one side because she felt ashamed. directly over the stereoscope on the wall, hung the portrait of his mother. arátoff removed it from its nail, kissed it, and carefully put it away in a drawer. why did he do this? because that portrait must not remain in the vicinity of that woman ... or for some other reason--arátoff did not quite know. but his mother's portrait evoked in him memories of his father ... of that father whom he had seen dying in that same room, on that very bed. "what dost thou think about all this, father?" he mentally addressed him. "thou didst understand all this; thou didst also believe in schiller's world of spirits.--give me counsel!" "my father has given me counsel to drop all these follies," said arátoff aloud, and took up a book. but he was not able to read long, and feeling a certain heaviness all through his body, he went to bed earlier than usual, in the firm conviction that he should fall asleep immediately. and so it came about ... but his hopes for a peaceful night were not realised. xvii before the clock struck midnight he had a remarkable, a menacing dream. it seemed to him that he was in a sumptuous country-house of which he was the owner. he had recently purchased the house, and all the estates attached to it. and he kept thinking: "it is well, now it is well, but disaster is coming!" beside him was hovering a tiny little man, his manager; this man kept making obeisances, and trying to demonstrate to arátoff how admirably everything about his house and estate was arranged.--"please, please look," he kept reiterating, grinning at every word, "how everything is flourishing about you! here are horses ... what magnificent horses!" and arátoff saw a row of huge horses. they were standing with their backs to him, in stalls; they had wonderful manes and tails ... but as soon as arátoff walked past them the horses turned their heads toward him and viciously displayed their teeth. "it is well," thought arátoff, "but disaster is coming!" "please, please," repeated his manager again; "please come into the garden; see what splendid apples we have!" the apples really were splendid, red, and round; but as soon as arátoff looked at them, they began to shrivel and fall.... "disaster is coming!" he thought. "and here is the lake," murmurs the manager: "how blue and smooth it is! and here is a little golden boat!... would you like to have a sail in it?... it moves of itself." "i will not get into it!" thought arátoff; "a disaster is coming!" and nevertheless he did seat himself in the boat. on the bottom, writhing, lay a little creature resembling an ape; in its paws it was holding a phial filled with a dark liquid. "pray do not feel alarmed," shouted the manager from the shore.... "that is nothing! that is death! a prosperous journey!" the boat darted swiftly onward ... but suddenly a hurricane arose, not like the one of the day before, soft and noiseless--no; it is a black, terrible, howling hurricane!--everything is in confusion round about;--and amid the swirling gloom arátoff beholds clara in theatrical costume: she is raising the phial to her lips, a distant "bravo! bravo!" is audible, and a coarse voice shouts in arátoff's ear: "ah! and didst thou think that all this would end in a comedy?--no! it is a tragedy! a tragedy!" arátoff awoke all in a tremble. it was not dark in the room.... a faint and melancholy light streamed from somewhere or other, impassively illuminating all objects. arátoff did not try to account to himself for the light.... he felt but one thing: clara was there in that room ... he felt her presence ... he was again and forever in her power! a shriek burst from his lips: "clara, art thou here?" "yes!" rang out clearly in the middle of the room illuminated with the motionless light. arátoff doubly repeated his question.... "yes!" was audible once more. "then i want to see thee!" he cried, springing out of bed. for several moments he stood in one spot, treading the cold floor with his bare feet. his eyes roved: "but where? where?" whispered his lips.... nothing was to be seen or heard. he looked about him, and noticed that the faint light which filled the room proceeded from a night-light, screened by a sheet of paper, and placed in one corner, probably by platósha while he was asleep. he even detected the odour of incense also, in all probability, the work of her hands. he hastily dressed himself. remaining in bed, sleeping, was not to be thought of.--then he took up his stand in the centre of the room and folded his arms. the consciousness of clara's presence was stronger than ever within him. and now he began to speak, in a voice which was not loud, but with the solemn deliberation wherewith exorcisms are uttered: "clara,"--thus did he begin,--"if thou art really here, if thou seest me, if thou hearest me, reveal thyself!... if that power which i feel upon me is really thy power,--reveal thyself! if thou understandest how bitterly i repent of not having understood thee, of having repulsed thee,--reveal thyself!--if that which i have heard is really thy voice; if the feeling which has taken possession of me is love; if thou art now convinced that i love thee,--i who up to this time have not loved, and have not known a single woman;--if thou knowest that after thy death i fell passionately, irresistibly in love with thee, if thou dost not wish me to go mad--reveal thyself!" no sooner had arátoff uttered this last word than he suddenly felt some one swiftly approach him from behind, as on that occasion upon the boulevard--and lay a hand upon his shoulder. he wheeled round--and saw no one. but the consciousness of _her_ presence became so distinct, so indubitable, that he cast another hasty glance behind him.... what was that?! in his arm-chair, a couple of paces from him, sat a woman all in black. her head was bent to one side, as in the stereoscope.... it was she! it was clara! but what a stern, what a mournful face! arátoff sank down gently upon his knees.--yes, he was right, then; neither fear, nor joy was in him, nor even surprise.... his heart even began to beat more quietly;--the only thing in him was the feeling: "ah! at last! at last!" "clara," he began in a faint but even tone, "why dost thou not look at me? i know it is thou ... but i might, seest thou, think that my imagination had created an image like _that one_...." (he pointed in the direction of the stereoscope).... "prove to me that it is thou.... turn toward me, look at me, clara!" clara's hand rose slowly ... and fell again. "clara! clara! turn toward me!" and clara's head turned slowly, her drooping lids opened, and the dark pupils of her eyes were fixed on arátoff. he started back, and uttered a tremulous, long-drawn: "ah!" clara gazed intently at him ... but her eyes, her features preserved their original thoughtfully-stern, almost displeased expression. with precisely that expression she had presented herself on the platform upon the day of the literary morning, before she had caught sight of arátoff. and now, as on that occasion also, she suddenly flushed scarlet, her face grew animated, her glance flashed, and a joyful, triumphant smile parted her lips.... "i am forgiven!"--cried arátoff.--"thou hast conquered.... so take me! for i am thine, and thou art mine!" he darted toward her, he tried to kiss those smiling, those triumphant lips,--and he did kiss them, he felt their burning touch, he felt even the moist chill of her teeth, and a rapturous cry rang through the half-dark room. platonída ivánovna ran in and found him in a swoon. he was on his knees; his head was lying on the arm-chair; his arms, outstretched before him, hung powerless; his pale face breathed forth the intoxication of boundless happiness. platonída ivánovna threw herself beside him, embraced him, stammered: "yásha! yáshenka! yashenyónotchek!!"[67] tried to lift him up with her bony arms ... he did not stir. then platonída ivánovna set to screaming in an unrecognisable voice. the maid-servant ran in. together they managed somehow to lift him up, seated him in a chair, and began to dash water on him--and water in which a holy image had been washed at that.... he came to himself; but merely smiled in reply to his aunt's queries, and with such a blissful aspect that she became more perturbed than ever, and kept crossing first him and then herself.... at last arátoff pushed away her hand, and still with the same beatific expression on his countenance, he said:-"what is the matter with you, platósha?" "what ails thee, yáshenka?" "me?--i am happy ... happy, platósha ... that is what ails me. but now i want to go to bed and sleep." he tried to rise, but felt such a weakness in his legs and in all his body that he was not in a condition to undress and get into bed himself without the aid of his aunt and of the maid-servant. but he fell asleep very quickly, preserving on his face that same blissfully-rapturous expression. only his face was extremely pale. xviii when platonída ivánovna entered his room on the following morning he was in the same condition ... but his weakness had not passed off, and he even preferred to remain in bed. platonída ivánovna did not like the pallor of his face in particular. "what does it mean, o lord!" she thought. "there isn't a drop of blood in his face, he refuses his beef-tea; he lies there and laughs, and keeps asserting that he is quite well!" he refused breakfast also.--"why dost thou do that, yásha?" she asked him; "dost thou intend to lie like this all day?" "and what if i do?" replied arátoff, affectionately. this very affection also did not please platonída ivánovna. arátoff wore the aspect of a man who has learned a great secret, which is very agreeable to him, and is jealously clinging to it and reserving it for himself. he was waiting for night, not exactly with impatience but with curiosity. "what comes next?" he asked himself;--"what will happen?" he had ceased to be surprised, to be perplexed; he cherished no doubt as to his having entered into communication with clara; that they loved each other ... he did not doubt, either. only ... what can come of such a love?--he recalled that kiss ... and a wondrous chill coursed swiftly and sweetly through all his limbs.--"romeo and juliet did not exchange such a kiss as that!" he thought. "but the next time i shall hold out better.... i shall possess her.... she will come with the garland of tiny roses in her black curls.... "but after that what? for we cannot live together, can we? consequently i must die in order to be with her? was not that what she came for,--and is it not in _that_ way she wishes to take me? "well, and what of that? if i must die, i must. death does not terrify me in the least now. for it cannot annihilate me, can it? on the contrary, only _thus_ and _there_ shall i be happy ... as i have never been happy in my lifetime, as she has never been in hers.... for we are both unsullied!--oh, that kiss!" * * * * * platonída ivánovna kept entering arátoff's room; she did not worry him with questions, she merely took a look at him, whispered, sighed, and went out again.--but now he refused his dinner also.... things were getting quite too bad. the old woman went off to her friend, the medical man of the police-district, in whom she had faith simply because he did not drink and was married to a german woman. arátoff was astonished when she brought the man to him; but platonída ivánovna began so insistently to entreat her yáshenka to permit paramón paramónitch (that was the medical man's name) to examine him--come, now, just for her sake!--that arátoff consented. paramón paramónitch felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, interrogated him after a fashion, and finally announced that it was indispensably necessary to "auscultate" him. arátoff was in such a submissive frame of mind that he consented to this also. the doctor delicately laid bare his breast, delicately tapped it, listened, smiled, prescribed some drops and a potion, but chief of all, advised him to be quiet, and refrain from violent emotions. "you don't say so!" thought arátoff.... "well, brother, thou hast bethought thyself too late!" "what ails yásha?" asked platonída ivánovna, as she handed paramón paramónitch a three-ruble bank-note on the threshold. the district doctor, who, like all contemporary doctors,--especially those of them who wear a uniform,--was fond of showing off his learned terminology, informed her that her nephew had all the dioptric symptoms of nervous cardialgia, and that febris was present also. "but speak more simply, dear little father," broke in platonída ivánovna; "don't scare me with latin; thou art not in an apothecary's shop!" "his heart is out of order," explained the doctor;--"well, and he has fever also," ... and he repeated his advice with regard to repose and moderation. "but surely there is no danger?" sternly inquired platonída ivánovna, as much as to say: "look out and don't try your latin on me again!" "not at present!" the doctor went away, and platonída ivánovna took to grieving.... nevertheless she sent to the apothecary for the medicine, which arátoff would not take, despite her entreaties. he even refused herb-tea. "what makes you worry so, dear?" he said to her. "i assure you i am now the most perfectly healthy and happy man in the whole world!" platonída ivánovna merely shook her head. toward evening he became slightly feverish; yet he still insisted upon it that she should not remain in his room, and should go away to her own to sleep. platonída ivánovna obeyed, but did not undress, and did not go to bed; she sat up in an arm-chair and kept listening and whispering her prayer. she was beginning to fall into a doze, when suddenly a dreadful, piercing shriek awakened her. she sprang to her feet, rushed into arátoff's study, and found him lying on the floor, as upon the night before. but he did not come to himself as he had done the night before, work over him as they would. that night he was seized with a high fever, complicated by inflammation of the heart. a few days later he died. a strange circumstance accompanied his second swoon. when they lifted him up and put him to bed, there proved to be a small lock of woman's black hair clutched in his right hand. where had that hair come from? anna semyónovna had such a lock, which she had kept after clara's death; but why should she have given to arátoff an object which was so precious to her? could she have laid it into the diary, and not noticed the fact when she gave him the book? in the delirium which preceded his death arátoff called himself romeo ... after the poison; he talked about a marriage contracted, consummated;--said that now he knew the meaning of delight. especially dreadful for platonída ivánovna was the moment when arátoff, recovering consciousness, and seeing her by his bedside, said to her: "aunty, why art thou weeping? is it because i must die? but dost thou not know that love is stronger than death?... death! o death, where is thy sting? thou must not weep, but rejoice, even as i rejoice...." and again the face of the dying man beamed with that same blissful smile which had made the poor old woman shudder so. poems in prose (1878-1882) _from the editor of the "european messenger_" in compliance with our request, iván sergyéevitch turgénieff has given his consent to our sharing now with the readers of our journal, without delay, those passing comments, thoughts, images which he had noted down, under one impression or another of current existence, during the last five years,--those which belong to him personally, and those which pertain to society in general. they, like many others, have not found a place in those finished productions of the past which have already been presented to the world, and have formed a complete collection in themselves. from among these the author has made fifty selections. in the letter accompanying the pages which we are now about to print, i. s. turgénieff says, in conclusion: "... let not your reader peruse these 'poems in prose' at one sitting; he will probably be bored, and the book will fall from his hands. but let him read them separately,--to-day one, to-morrow another,--and then perchance some one of them may leave some trace behind in his soul...." the pages have no general title; the author has written on their wrapper: "senilia--an old man's jottings,"--but we have preferred the words carelessly dropped by the author in the end of his letter to us, quoted above,--"poems in prose"--and we print the pages under that general title. in our opinion, it fully expresses the source from which such comments might present themselves to the soul of an author well known for his sensitiveness to the various questions of life, as well as the impression which they may produce on the reader, "leaving behind in his soul" many things. they are, in reality, poems in spite of the fact that they are written in prose. we place them in chronological order, beginning with the year 1878. m. s.[68] october 28, 1882. i (1878) the village the last day of july; for a thousand versts round about lies russia, the fatherland. the whole sky is suffused with an even azure; there is only one little cloud in it, which is half floating, half melting. there is no wind, it is warm ... the air is like new milk! larks are carolling; large-cropped pigeons are cooing; the swallows dart past in silence; the horses neigh and munch, the dogs do not bark, but stand peaceably wagging their tails. and there is an odour of smoke abroad, and of grass,--and a tiny whiff of tan,--and another of leather.--the hemp-patches, also, are in their glory, and emit their heavy but agreeable fragrance. a deep but not long ravine. along its sides, in several rows, grow bulky-headed willows, stripped bare at the bottom. through the ravine runs a brook; on its bottom tiny pebbles seem to tremble athwart its pellucid ripples.--far away, at the spot where the rims of earth and sky come together, is the bluish streak of a large river. along the ravine, on one side are neat little storehouses, and buildings with tightly-closed doors; on the other side are five or six pine-log cottages with board roofs. over each roof rises a tall pole with a starling house; over each tiny porch is an openwork iron horse's head with a stiff mane.[69] the uneven window-panes sparkle with the hues of the rainbow. jugs holding bouquets are painted on the shutters. in front of each cottage stands sedately a precise little bench; on the earthen banks around the foundations of the house cats lie curled in balls, with their transparent ears pricked up on the alert; behind the lofty thresholds the anterooms look dark and cool. i am lying on the very brink of the ravine, on an outspread horse-cloth; round about are whole heaps of new-mown hay, which is fragrant to the point of inducing faintness. the sagacious householders have spread out the hay in front of their cottages: let it dry a little more in the hot sun, and then away with it to the barn! it will be a glorious place for a nap! the curly heads of children project from each haycock; crested hens are searching in the hay for gnats and small beetles; a white-toothed puppy is sprawling among the tangled blades of grass. ruddy-curled youths in clean, low-girt shirts, and heavy boots with borders, are bandying lively remarks as they stand with their breasts resting on the unhitched carts, and display their teeth in a grin. from a window a round-faced lass peeps out; she laughs, partly at their words, and partly at the pranks of the children in the heaped-up hay. another lass with her sturdy arms is drawing a huge, dripping bucket from the well.... the bucket trembles and rocks on the rope, scattering long, fiery drops. in front of me stands an aged housewife in a new-checked petticoat of homespun and new peasant-shoes. large inflated beads in three rows encircle her thin, swarthy neck; her grey hair is bound about with a yellow kerchief with red dots; it droops low over her dimmed eyes. but her aged eyes smile in cordial wise; her whole wrinkled face smiles. the old woman must be in her seventh decade ... and even now it can be seen that she was a beauty in her day! with the sunburned fingers of her right hand widely spread apart, she holds a pot of cool, unskimmed milk, straight from the cellar; the sides of the pot are covered with dewdrops, like small pearl beads. on the palm of her left hand the old woman offers me a big slice of bread still warm from the oven. as much as to say: "eat, and may health be thine, thou passing guest!" a cock suddenly crows and busily flaps his wings; an imprisoned calf lows without haste, in reply. "hey, what fine oats!" the voice of my coachman makes itself heard.... o russian contentment, repose, plenty! o free village! o tranquillity and abundance! and i thought to myself: "what care we for the cross on the dome of saint sophia in constantinople, and all the other things for which we strive, we people of the town?" february, 1878. a conversation "never yet has human foot trod either the jungfrau or the finsteraarhorn." the summits of the alps.... a whole chain of steep cliffs.... the very heart of the mountains. overhead a bright, mute, pale-green sky. a hard, cruel frost; firm, sparkling snow; from beneath the snow project grim blocks of ice-bound, wind-worn cliffs. two huge masses, two giants rise aloft, one on each side of the horizon: the jungfrau and the finsteraarhorn. and the jungfrau says to its neighbour: "what news hast thou to tell? thou canst see better.--what is going on there below?" several thousand years pass by like one minute. and the finsteraarhorn rumbles in reply: "dense clouds veil the earth.... wait!" more thousands of years elapse, as it were one minute. "well, what now?" inquires the jungfrau. "now i can see; down yonder, below, everything is still the same: party-coloured, tiny. the waters gleam blue; the forests are black; heaps of stones piled up shine grey. around them small beetles are still bustling,--thou knowest, those two-legged beetles who have as yet been unable to defile either thou or me." "men?" "yes, men." thousands of years pass, as it were one minute. "well, and what now?" asks the jungfrau. "i seem to see fewer of the little beetles," thunders the finsteraarhorn. "things have become clearer down below; the waters have contracted; the forests have grown thinner." more thousands of years pass, as it were one minute. "what dost thou see?" says the jungfrau. "things seem to have grown clearer round us, close at hand," replies the finsteraarhorn; "well, and yonder, far away, in the valleys there is still a spot, and something is moving." "and now?" inquires the jungfrau, after other thousands of years, which are as one minute. "now it is well," replies the finsteraarhorn; "it is clean everywhere, quite white, wherever one looks.... everywhere is our snow, level snow and ice. everything is congealed. it is well now, and calm." "good," said the jungfrau.--"but thou and i have chattered enough, old fellow. it is time to sleep." "it is time!" the huge mountains slumber; the green, clear heaven slumbers over the earth which has grown dumb forever. february, 1878. the old woman i was walking across a spacious field, alone. and suddenly i thought i heard light, cautious footsteps behind my back.... some one was following me. i glanced round and beheld a tiny, bent old woman, all enveloped in grey rags. the old woman's face was visible from beneath them: a yellow, wrinkled, sharp-nosed, toothless face. i stepped up to her.... she halted. "who art thou? what dost thou want? art thou a beggar? dost thou expect alms?" the old woman made no answer. i bent down to her and perceived that both her eyes were veiled with a semi-transparent, whitish membrane or film, such as some birds have; therewith they protect their eyes from too brilliant a light. but in the old woman's case that film did not move and reveal the pupils ... from which i inferred that she was blind. "dost thou want alms?" i repeated my question.--"why art thou following me?"--but, as before, the old woman did not answer, and merely shrank back almost imperceptibly. i turned from her and went my way. and lo! again i hear behind me those same light, measured footsteps which seem to be creeping stealthily up. "there's that woman again!" i said to myself.--"why has she attached herself to me?"--but at this point i mentally added: "probably, owing to her blindness, she has lost her way, and now she is guiding herself by the sound of my steps, in order to come out, in company with me, at some inhabited place. yes, yes; that is it." but a strange uneasiness gradually gained possession of my thoughts: it began to seem to me as though that old woman were not only following me, but were guiding me,--that she was thrusting me now to the right, now to the left, and that i was involuntarily obeying her. still i continue to walk on ... but now, in front of me, directly in my road, something looms up black and expands ... some sort of pit.... "the grave!" flashes through my mind.--"that is where she is driving me!" i wheel abruptly round. again the old woman is before me ... but she sees! she gazes at me with large, evil eyes which bode me ill ... the eyes of a bird of prey.... i bend down to her face, to her eyes.... again there is the same film, the same blind, dull visage as before.... "akh!" i think ... "this old woman is my fate--that fate which no man can escape! "i cannot get away! i cannot get away!--what madness.... i must make an effort." and i dart to one side, in a different direction. i advance briskly.... but the light footsteps, as before, rustle behind me, close, close behind me.... and in front of me again the pit yawns. again i turn in another direction.... and again there is the same rustling behind me, the same menacing spot in front of me. and no matter in what direction i dart, like a hare pursued ... it is always the same, the same! "stay!" i think.--"i will cheat her! i will not go anywhere at all!"--and i instantaneously sit down on the ground. the old woman stands behind me, two paces distant.--i do not hear her, but i feel that she is there. and suddenly i behold that spot which had loomed black in the distance, gliding on, creeping up to me itself! o god! i glance behind me.... the old woman is looking straight at me, and her toothless mouth is distorted in a grin.... "thou canst not escape!" february, 1878. the dog there are two of us in the room, my dog and i.... a frightful storm is raging out of doors. the dog is sitting in front of me, and gazing straight into my eyes. and i, also, am looking him straight in the eye. he seems to be anxious to say something to me. he is dumb, he has no words, he does not understand himself--but i understand him. i understand that, at this moment, both in him and in me there dwells one and the same feeling, that there is no difference whatever between us. we are exactly alike; in each of us there burns and glows the selfsame tremulous flame. death is swooping down upon us, it is waving its cold, broad wings.... "and this is the end!" who shall decide afterward, precisely what sort of flame burned in each one of us? no! it is not an animal and a man exchanging glances.... it is two pairs of eyes exactly alike fixed on each other. and in each of those pairs, in the animal and in the man, one and the same life is huddling up timorously to the other. february, 1878. the rivau i had a comrade-rival; not in our studies, not in the service or in love; but our views did not agree on any point, and every time we met, interminable arguments sprang up. we argued about art, religion, science, about the life of earth and matters beyond the grave,--especially life beyond the grave. he was a believer and an enthusiast. one day he said to me: "thou laughest at everything; but if i die before thee, i will appear to thee from the other world.... we shall see whether thou wilt laugh then." and, as a matter of fact, he did die before me, while he was still young in years; but years passed, and i had forgotten his promise,--his threat. one night i was lying in bed, and could not get to sleep, neither did i wish to do so. it was neither light nor dark in the room; i began to stare into the grey half-gloom. and suddenly it seemed to me that my rival was standing between the two windows, and nodding his head gently and sadly downward from above. i was not frightened, i was not even surprised ... but rising up slightly in bed, and propping myself on my elbow, i began to gaze with redoubled attention at the figure which had so unexpectedly presented itself. the latter continued to nod its head. "what is it?" i said at last.--"art thou exulting? or art thou pitying?--what is this--a warning or a reproach?... or dost thou wish to give me to understand that thou wert in the wrong? that we were both in the wrong? what art thou experiencing? the pains of hell? the bliss of paradise? speak at least one word!" but my rival did not utter a single sound--and only went on nodding his head sadly and submissively, as before, downward from above. i burst out laughing ... he vanished. february, 1878. the beggar man i was passing along the street when a beggar, a decrepit old man, stopped me. swollen, tearful eyes, blue lips, bristling rags, unclean sores.... oh, how horribly had poverty gnawed that unhappy being! he stretched out to me a red, bloated, dirty hand.... he moaned, he bellowed for help. i began to rummage in all my pockets.... neither purse, nor watch, nor even handkerchief did i find.... i had taken nothing with me. and the beggar still waited ... and extended his hand, which swayed and trembled feebly. bewildered, confused, i shook that dirty, tremulous hand heartily.... "blame me not, brother; i have nothing, brother." the beggar man fixed his swollen eyes upon me; his blue lips smiled--and in his turn he pressed my cold fingers. "never mind, brother," he mumbled. "thanks for this also, brother.--this also is an alms, brother." i understood that i had received an alms from my brother. february, 1878. "thou shalt hear the judgment of the dullard...." _púshkin_ "thou shalt hear the judgment of the dullard...." thou hast always spoken the truth, thou great writer of ours; thou hast spoken it this time, also. "the judgment of the dullard and the laughter of the crowd."... who is there that has not experienced both the one and the other? all this can--and must be borne; and whosoever hath the strength,--let him despise it. but there are blows which beat more painfully on the heart itself.... a man has done everything in his power; he has toiled arduously, lovingly, honestly.... and honest souls turn squeamishly away from him; honest faces flush with indignation at his name. "depart! begone!" honest young voices shout at him.--"we need neither thee nor thy work, thou art defiling our dwelling--thou dost not know us and dost not understand us.... thou art our enemy!" what is that man to do then? continue to toil, make no effort to defend himself--and not even expect a more just estimate. in former days tillers of the soil cursed the traveller who brought them potatoes in place of bread, the daily food of the poor man.... they snatched the precious gift from the hands outstretched to them, flung it in the mire, trod it under foot. now they subsist upon it--and do not even know the name of their benefactor. so be it! what matters his name to them? he, although he be nameless, has saved them from hunger. let us strive only that what we offer may be equally useful food. bitter is unjust reproach in the mouths of people whom one loves.... but even that can be endured.... "beat me--but hear me out!" said the athenian chieftain to the spartan chieftain. "beat me--but be healthy and full fed!" is what we ought to say. february, 1878. the contented man along a street of the capital is skipping a man who is still young.--his movements are cheerful, alert; his eyes are beaming, his lips are smiling, his sensitive face is pleasantly rosy.... he is all contentment and joy. what has happened to him? has he come into an inheritance? has he been elevated in rank? is he hastening to a love tryst? or, simply, has he breakfasted well, and is it a sensation of health, a sensation of full-fed strength which is leaping for joy in all his limbs? or they may have hung on his neck thy handsome, eight-pointed cross, o polish king stanislaus! no. he has concocted a calumny against an acquaintance, he has assiduously disseminated it, he has heard it--that same calumny--from the mouth of another acquaintance--and _has believed it himself_. oh, how contented, how good even at this moment is that nice, highly-promising young man. february, 1878. the rule of life "if you desire thoroughly to mortify and even to injure an opponent," said an old swindler to me, "reproach him with the very defect or vice of which you feel conscious in yourself.--fly into a rage ... and reproach him! "in the first place, that makes other people think that you do not possess that vice. "in the second place, your wrath may even be sincere.... you may profit by the reproaches of your own conscience. "if, for example, you are a renegade, reproach your adversary with having no convictions! "if you yourself are a lackey in soul, say to him with reproof that he is a lackey ... the lackey of civilisation, of europe, of socialism!" "you may even say, the lackey of non-lackeyism!" i remarked. "you may do that also," chimed in the old rascal. february, 1878. the end of the world a dream it seems to me as though i am somewhere in russia, in the wilds, in a plain country house. the chamber is large, low-ceiled, with three windows; the walls are smeared with white paint; there is no furniture. in front of the house is a bare plain; gradually descending, it recedes into the distance; the grey, monotoned sky hangs over it like a canopy. i am not alone; half a score of men are with me in the room. all plain folk, plainly clad; they are pacing up and down in silence, as though by stealth. they avoid one another, and yet they are incessantly exchanging uneasy glances. not one of them knows why he has got into this house, or who the men are with him. on all faces there is disquiet and melancholy ... all, in turn, approach the windows and gaze attentively about them, as though expecting something from without. then again they set to roaming up and down. among us a lad of short stature is running about; from time to time he screams in a shrill, monotonous voice: "daddy, i'm afraid!"--this shrill cry makes me sick at heart--and i also begin to be afraid.... of what? i myself do not know. only i feel that a great, great calamity is on its way, and is drawing near. and the little lad keeps screaming. akh, if i could only get away from here! how stifling it is! how oppressive!... but it is impossible to escape. that sky is like a shroud. and there is no wind.... is the air dead? suddenly the boy ran to the window and began to scream with the same plaintive voice as usual: "look! look! the earth has fallen in!" "what? fallen in?"--in fact: there had been a plain in front of the house, but now the house is standing on the crest of a frightful mountain!--the horizon has fallen, has gone down, and from the very house itself a black, almost perpendicular declivity descends. we have all thronged to the window.... horror freezes our hearts.--"there it is ... there it is!" whispers my neighbour. and lo! along the whole distant boundary of the earth something has begun to stir, some small, round hillocks have begun to rise and fall. "it is the sea!" occurs to us all at one and the same moment.--"it will drown us all directly.... only, how can it wax and rise up? on that precipice?" and nevertheless it does wax, and wax hugely.... it is no longer separate hillocks which are tumbling in the distance.... a dense, monstrous wave engulfs the entire circle of the horizon. it is flying, flying upon us!--like an icy hurricane it sweeps on, swirling with the outer darkness. everything round about has begun to quiver,--and yonder, in that oncoming mass,--there are crashing and thunder, and a thousand-throated, iron barking.... ha! what a roaring and howling! it is the earth roaring with terror.... it is the end of it! the end of all things! the boy screamed once more.... i tried to seize hold of my comrades, but we, all of us, were already crushed, buried, drowned, swept away by that icy, rumbling flood, as black as ink. darkness ... eternal darkness! gasping for breath, i awoke. march, 1878. masha when i was living in petersburg,--many years ago,--whenever i had occasion to hire a public cabman i entered into conversation with him. i was specially fond of conversing with the night cabmen,--poor peasants of the suburbs, who have come to town with their ochre-tinted little sledges and miserable little nags in the hope of supporting themselves and collecting enough money to pay their quit-rent to their owners. so, then, one day i hired such a cabman.... he was a youth of twenty years, tall, well-built, a fine, dashing young fellow; he had blue eyes and rosy cheeks; his red-gold hair curled in rings beneath a wretched little patched cap, which was pulled down over his very eyebrows. and how in the world was that tattered little coat ever got upon those shoulders of heroic mould! but the cabman's handsome, beardless face seemed sad and lowering. i entered into conversation with him. sadness was discernible in his voice also. "what is it, brother?" i asked him.--"why art not thou cheerful? hast thou any grief?" the young fellow did not reply to me at once. "i have, master, i have," he said at last.--"and such a grief that it would be better if i were not alive. my wife is dead." "didst thou love her ... thy wife?" the young fellow turned toward me; only he bent his head a little. "i did, master. this is the eighth month since ... but i cannot forget. it is eating away my heart ... so it is! and why must she die? she was young! healthy!... in one day the cholera settled her." "and was she of a good disposition?" "akh, master!" sighed the poor fellow, heavily.--"and on what friendly terms she and i lived together! she died in my absence. when i heard here that they had already buried her, i hurried immediately to the village, home. it was already after midnight when i arrived. i entered my cottage, stopped short in the middle of it, and said so softly: 'masha! hey, masha!' only a cricket shrilled.--then i fell to weeping, and sat down on the cottage floor, and how i did beat my palm against the ground!--'thy bowels are insatiable!' i said.... 'thou hast devoured her ... devour me also!'--akh, masha!" "masha," he added in a suddenly lowered voice. and without letting his rope reins out of his hands, he squeezed a tear out of his eye with his mitten, shook it off, flung it to one side, shrugged his shoulders--and did not utter another word. as i alighted from the sledge i gave him an extra fifteen kopéks. he made me a low obeisance, grasping his cap in both hands, and drove off at a foot-pace over the snowy expanse of empty street, flooded with the grey mist of the january frost. april, 1878. the fool once upon a time a fool lived in the world. for a long time he lived in clover; but gradually rumours began to reach him to the effect that he bore the reputation everywhere of a brainless ninny. the fool was disconcerted and began to fret over the question how he was to put an end to those unpleasant rumours. a sudden idea at last illumined his dark little brain.... and without the slightest delay he put it into execution. an acquaintance met him on the street and began to praise a well-known artist.... "good gracious!" exclaimed the fool, "that artist was relegated to the archives long ago.... don't you know that?--i did not expect that of you.... you are behind the times." the acquaintance was frightened, and immediately agreed with the fool. "what a fine book i have read to-day!" said another acquaintance to him. "good gracious!" cried the fool.--"aren't you ashamed of yourself? that book is good for nothing; everybody dropped it in disgust long ago.--don't you know that?--you are behind the times." and that acquaintance also was frightened and agreed with the fool. "what a splendid man my friend n. n. is!" said a third acquaintance to the fool.--"there's a truly noble being for you!" "good gracious!"--exclaimed the fool,--"it is well known that n. n. is a scoundrel! he has robbed all his relatives. who is there that does not know it? you are behind the times." the third acquaintance also took fright and agreed with the fool, and renounced his friend. and whosoever or whatsoever was praised in the fool's presence, he had the same retort for all. he even sometimes added reproachfully: "and do you still believe in the authorities?" "a malicious person! a bilious man!" his acquaintances began to say about the fool.--"but what a head!" "and what a tongue!" added others. "oh, yes; he is talented!" it ended in the publisher of a newspaper proposing to the fool that he should take charge of his critical department. and the fool began to criticise everything and everybody, without making the slightest change in his methods, or in his exclamations. now he, who formerly shrieked against authorities, is an authority himself,--and the young men worship him and fear him. but what are they to do, poor fellows? although it is not proper--generally speaking--to worship ... yet in this case, if one does not do it, he will find himself classed among the men who are behind the times! there is a career for fools among cowards. april, 1878. an oriental legend who in bagdad does not know the great giaffar, the sun of the universe? one day, many years ago, when he was still a young man, giaffar was strolling in the suburbs of bagdad. suddenly there fell upon his ear a hoarse cry: some one was calling desperately for help. giaffar was distinguished among the young men of his own age for his good sense and prudence; but he had a compassionate heart, and he trusted to his strength. he ran in the direction of the cry, and beheld a decrepit old man pinned against the wall of the city by two brigands who were robbing him. giaffar drew his sword and fell upon the malefactors. one he slew, the other he chased away. the old man whom he had liberated fell at his rescuer's feet, and kissing the hem of his garment, exclaimed: "brave youth, thy magnanimity shall not remain unrewarded. in appearance i am a beggar; but only in appearance. i am not a common man.--come to-morrow morning early to the chief bazaar; i will await thee there at the fountain--and thou shalt convince thyself as to the justice of my words." giaffar reflected: "in appearance this man is a beggar, it is true; but all sorts of things happen. why should not i try the experiment?"--and he answered: "good, my father, i will go." the old man looked him in the eye and went away. on the following morning, just as day was breaking, giaffar set out for the bazaar. the old man was already waiting for him, with his elbows leaning on the marble basin of the fountain. silently he took giaffar by the hand and led him to a small garden, surrounded on all sides by high walls. in the very centre of this garden, on a green lawn, grew a tree of extraordinary aspect. it resembled a cypress; only its foliage was of azure hue. three fruits--three apples--hung on the slender up-curving branches. one of medium size was oblong in shape, of a milky-white hue; another was large, round, and bright red; the third was small, wrinkled and yellowish. the whole tree was rustling faintly, although there was no wind. it tinkled delicately and plaintively, as though it were made of glass; it seemed to feel the approach of giaffar. "youth!"--said the old man, "pluck whichever of these fruits thou wilt, and know that if thou shalt pluck and eat the white one, thou shalt become more wise than all men; if thou shalt pluck and eat the red one, thou shalt become as rich as the hebrew rothschild; if thou shalt pluck and eat the yellow one, thou shalt please old women. decide! ... and delay not. in an hour the fruits will fade, and the tree itself will sink into the dumb depths of the earth!" giaffar bowed his head and thought.--"what am i to do?" he articulated in a low tone, as though arguing with himself.--"if one becomes too wise, he will not wish to live, probably; if he becomes richer than all men, all will hate him; i would do better to pluck and eat the third, the shrivelled apple!" and so he did; and the old man laughed a toothless laugh and said: "oh, most wise youth! thou hast chosen the good part!--what use hast thou for the white apple? thou art wiser than solomon as thou art.--and neither dost thou need the red apple.... even without it thou shalt be rich. only no one will be envious of thy wealth." "inform me, old man," said giaffar, with a start, "where the respected mother of our god-saved caliph dwelleth?" the old man bowed to the earth, and pointed out the road to the youth. who in bagdad doth not know the sun of the universe, the great, the celebrated giaffar? april, 1878. two four-line stanzas there existed once a city whose inhabitants were so passionately fond of poetry that if several weeks passed and no beautiful new verses had made their appearance they regarded that poetical dearth as a public calamity. at such times they donned their worst garments, sprinkled ashes on their heads, and gathering in throngs on the public squares, they shed tears, and murmured bitterly against the muse for having abandoned them. on one such disastrous day the young poet junius, presented himself on the square, filled to overflowing with the sorrowing populace. with swift steps he ascended a specially-constructed tribune and made a sign that he wished to recite a poem. the lictors immediately brandished their staves. "silence! attention!" they shouted in stentorian tones. "friends! comrades!" began junius, in a loud, but not altogether firm voice: "friends! comrades! ye lovers of verses! admirers of all that is graceful and fair! be not cast down by a moment of dark sadness! the longed-for instant will come ... and light will disperse the gloom!"[70] junius ceased speaking ... and in reply to him, from all points of the square, clamour, whistling, and laughter arose. all the faces turned toward him flamed with indignation, all eyes flashed with wrath, all hands were uplifted, menaced, were clenched into fists. "a pretty thing he has thought to surprise us with!" roared angry voices. "away from the tribune with the talentless rhymster! away with the fool! hurl rotten apples, bad eggs, at the empty-pated idiot! give us stones! fetch stones!" junius tumbled headlong from the tribune ... but before he had succeeded in fleeing to his own house, outbursts of rapturous applause, cries of laudation and shouts reached his ear. filled with amazement, but striving not to be detected (for it is dangerous to irritate an enraged wild beast), junius returned to the square. and what did he behold? high above the throng, above its shoulders, on a flat gold shield, stood his rival, the young poet julius, clad in a purple mantle, with a laurel wreath on his waving curls.... and the populace round about was roaring: "glory! glory! glory to the immortal julius! he hath comforted us in our grief, in our great woe! he hath given us verses sweeter than honey, more melodious than the cymbals, more fragrant than the rose, more pure than heaven's azure! bear him in triumph; surround his inspired head with a soft billow of incense; refresh his brow with the waving of palm branches; lavish at his feet all the spices of arabia! glory!" junius approached one of the glorifiers.--"inform me, o my fellow-townsman! with what verses hath julius made you happy?--alas, i was not on the square when he recited them! repeat them, if thou canst recall them, i pray thee!" "such verses--and not recall them?" briskly replied the man interrogated.--"for whom dost thou take me? listen--and rejoice, rejoice together with us!" 'ye lovers of verses!'--thus began the divine julius.... "'ye lovers of verses! comrades! friends! admirers of all that is graceful, melodious, tender! be not east down by a moment of heavy grief! the longed-for moment will come--and day will chase away the night!' "what dost thou think of that?" "good gracious!" roared junius. "why, those are my lines!--julius must have been in the crowd when i recited them; he heard and repeated them, barely altering--and that, of course, not for the better--a few expressions!" "aha! now i recognise thee.... thou art junius," retorted the citizen whom he had accosted, knitting his brows.--"thou art either envious or a fool!... only consider just one thing, unhappy man! julius says in such lofty style: 'and day will chase away the night!'.... but with thee it is some nonsense or other: 'and the light will disperse the gloom!?'--what light?! what darkness?!" "but is it not all one and the same thing...." junius was beginning.... "add one word more," the citizen interrupted him, "and i will shout to the populace, and it will rend thee asunder." junius prudently held his peace, but a grey-haired old man, who had overheard his conversation with the citizen, stepped up to the poor poet, and laying his hand on his shoulder, said: "junius! thou hast said thy say at the wrong time; but the other man said his at the right time.--consequently, he is in the right, while for thee there remain the consolations of thine own conscience." but while his conscience was consoling junius to the best of its ability,--and in a decidedly-unsatisfactory way, if the truth must be told,--far away, amid the thunder and patter of jubilation, in the golden dust of the all-conquering sun, gleaming with purple, darkling with laurel athwart the undulating streams of abundant incense, with majestic leisureliness, like an emperor marching to his empire, the proudly-erect figure of julius moved forward with easy grace ... and long branches of the palm-tree bent in turn before him, as though expressing by their quiet rising, their submissive obeisance, that incessantly-renewed adoration which filled to overflowing the hearts of his fellow-citizens whom he had enchanted! april, 1878. the sparrow i had returned from the chase and was walking along one of the alleys in the garden. my hound was running on in front of me. suddenly he retarded his steps and began to crawl stealthily along as though he detected game ahead. i glanced down the alley and beheld a young sparrow, with a yellow ring around its beak and down on its head. it had fallen from the nest (the wind was rocking the trees of the alley violently), and sat motionless, impotently expanding its barely-sprouted little wings. my hound was approaching it slowly when, suddenly wrenching itself from a neighbouring birch, an old black-breasted sparrow fell like a stone in front of my dog's very muzzle--and, with plumage all ruffled, contorted, with a despairing and pitiful cry, gave a couple of hops in the direction of the yawning jaws studded with big teeth. it had flung itself down to save, it was shielding, its offspring ... but the whole of its tiny body was throbbing with fear, its voice was wild and hoarse, it was swooning, it was sacrificing itself! what a huge monster the dog must have appeared to it! and yet it could not have remained perched on its lofty, secure bough.... a force greater than its own will had hurled it thence. my trésor stopped short, retreated.... evidently he recognised that force. i hastened to call off the discomfited hound, and withdrew with reverence. yes; do not laugh. i felt reverential before that tiny, heroic bird, before its loving impulse. love, i thought, is stronger than death.--only by it, only by love, does life support itself and move. april, 1878. the skulls a sumptuous, luxuriously illuminated ball-room; a multitude of cavaliers and ladies. all faces are animated, all speeches are brisk.... a rattling conversation is in progress about a well-known songstress. the people are lauding her as divine, immortal.... oh, how finely she had executed her last trill that evening! and suddenly--as though at the wave of a magic wand--from all the heads, from all the faces, a thin shell of skin flew off, and instantly there was revealed the whiteness of skulls, the naked gums and cheek-bones dimpled like bluish lead. with horror did i watch those gums and cheek-bones moving and stirring,--those knobby, bony spheres turning this way and that, as they gleamed in the light of the lamps and candles, and smaller spheres--the spheres of the eyes bereft of sense--rolling in them. i dared not touch my own face, i dared not look at myself in a mirror. but the skulls continued to turn this way and that, as before.... and with the same clatter as before, the brisk tongues, flashing like red rags from behind the grinning teeth, murmured on, how wonderfully, how incomparably the immortal ... yes, the immortal songstress had executed her last trill! april, 1878. the toiler and the lazy man a conversation the toiler why dost thou bother us? what dost thou want? thou art not one of us.... go away! the lazy man[71] i am one of you, brethren! the toiler nothing of the sort; thou art not one of us! what an invention! just look at my hands. dost thou see how dirty they are? and they stink of dung, and tar,--while thy hands are white. and of what do they smell? the lazy man--_offering his hands_ smell. the toiler--_smelling the hands_ what's this? they seem to give off an odour of iron. the lazy man iron it is. for the last six years i have worn fetters on them. the toiler and what was that for? the lazy man because i was striving for your welfare, i wanted to liberate you, the coarse, uneducated people; i rebelled against your oppressors, i mutinied.... well, and so they put me in prison. the toiler they put you in prison? it served you right for rebelling! _two years later_ the same toiler to another toiler hearken, piótra!... dost remember one of those white-handed lazy men was talking to thee the summer before last? the other toiler i remember.... what of it? first toiler they're going to hang him to-day, i hear; that's the order which has been issued. second toiler has he kept on rebelling? first toiler he has. second toiler yes.... well, see here, brother mitry: can't we get hold of a bit of that rope with which they are going to hang him? folks say that that brings the greatest good luck to a house. first toiler thou'rt right about that. we must try, brother piótra. april, 1878. the rose the last days of august.... autumn had already come. the sun had set. a sudden, violent rain, without thunder and without lightning, had just swooped down upon our broad plain. the garden in front of the house burned and smoked, all flooded with the heat of sunset and the deluge of rain. she was sitting at a table in the drawing-room and staring with stubborn thoughtfulness into the garden, through the half-open door. i knew what was going on then in her soul. i knew that after a brief though anguished conflict, she would that same instant yield to the feeling which she could no longer control. suddenly she rose, walked out briskly into the garden and disappeared. one hour struck ... then another; she did not return. then i rose, and emerging from the house, i bent my steps to the alley down which--i had no doubt as to that--she had gone. everything had grown dark round about; night had already descended. but on the damp sand of the path, gleaming scarlet amid the encircling gloom, a rounded object was visible. i bent down. it was a young, barely-budded rose. two hours before i had seen that same rose on her breast. i carefully picked up the flower which had fallen in the mire, and returning to the drawing-room, i laid it on the table, in front of her arm-chair. and now, at last, she returned, and traversing the whole length of the room with her light footsteps, she seated herself at the table. her face had grown pale and animated; swiftly, with merry confusion, her lowered eyes, which seemed to have grown smaller, darted about in all directions. she caught sight of the rose, seized it, glanced at its crumpled petals, glanced at me--and her eyes, coming to a sudden halt, glittered with tears. "what are you weeping about?" i asked. "why, here, about this rose. look what has happened to it." at this point i took it into my head to display profundity of thought. "your tears will wash away the mire," i said with a significant expression. "tears do not wash, tears scorch," she replied, and, turning toward the fireplace, she tossed the flower into the expiring flame. "the fire will scorch it still better than tears," she exclaimed, not without audacity,--and her beautiful eyes, still sparkling with tears, laughed boldly and happily. i understood that she had been scorched also. april, 1878. in memory of j. p. vrévsky in the mire, on damp, stinking straw, under the pent-house of an old carriage-house which had been hastily converted into a field military hospital in a ruined bulgarian hamlet, she had been for more than a fortnight dying of typhus fever. she was unconscious--and not a single physician had even glanced at her; the sick soldiers whom she had nursed as long as she could keep on her feet rose by turns from their infected lairs, in order to raise to her parched lips a few drops of water in a fragment of a broken jug. she was young, handsome; high society knew her; even dignitaries inquired about her. the ladies envied her, the men courted her ... two or three men loved her secretly and profoundly. life smiled upon her; but there are smiles which are worse than tears, a tender, gentle heart ... and such strength, such a thirst for sacrifice! to help those who needed help ... she knew no other happiness ... she knew no other and she tasted no other. every other happiness passed her by. but she had long since become reconciled to that, and all flaming with the fire of inextinguishable faith, she dedicated herself to the service of her fellow-men. what sacred treasures she held hidden there, in the depths of her soul, in her own secret recesses, no one ever knew--and now no one will ever know. and to what end? the sacrifice has been made ... the deed is done. but it is sorrowful to think that no one said "thank you" even to her corpse, although she herself was ashamed of and shunned all thanks. may her dear shade be not offended by this tardy blossom, which i venture to lay upon her grave! september, 1878. the last meeting we were once close, intimate friends.... but there came an evil moment and we parted like enemies. many years passed.... and lo! on entering the town where he lived i learned that he was hopelessly ill, and wished to see me. i went to him, i entered his chamber.... our glances met. i hardly recognised him. o god! how disease had changed him! yellow, shrivelled, with his head completely bald, and a narrow, grey beard, he was sitting in nothing but a shirt, cut out expressly.... he could not bear the pressure of the lightest garment. abruptly he extended to me his frightfully-thin hand, which looked as though it had been gnawed away, with an effort whispered several incomprehensible words--whether of welcome or of reproach, who knows? his exhausted chest heaved; over the contracted pupils of his small, inflamed eyes two scanty tears of martyrdom flowed down. my heart sank within me.... i sat down on a chair beside him, and involuntarily dropping my eyes in the presence of that horror and deformity, i also put out my hand. but it seemed to me that it was not his hand which grasped mine. it seemed to me as though there were sitting between us a tall, quiet, white woman. a long veil enveloped her from head to foot. her deep, pale eyes gazed nowhere; her pale, stern lips uttered no sound.... that woman joined our hands.... she reconciled us forever. yes.... it was death who had reconciled us.... april, 1878. the visit i was sitting at the open window ... in the morning, early in the morning, on the first of may. the flush of dawn had not yet begun; but the dark, warm night was already paling, already growing chill. no fog had risen, no breeze was straying, everything was of one hue and silent ... but one could scent the approach of the awakening, and in the rarefied air the scent of the dew's harsh dampness was abroad. suddenly, into my chamber, through the open window, flew a large bird, lightly tinkling and rustling. i started, looked more intently.... it was not a bird: it was a tiny, winged woman, clad in a long, close-fitting robe which billowed out at the bottom. she was all grey, the hue of mother-of-pearl; only the inner side of her wings glowed with a tender flush of scarlet, like a rose bursting into blossom; a garland of lilies-of-the-valley confined the scattered curls of her small, round head,--and two peacock feathers quivered amusingly, like the feelers of a butterfly, above the fair, rounded little forehead. she floated past a couple of times close to the ceiling: her tiny face was laughing; laughing also were her huge, black, luminous eyes. the merry playfulness of her capricious flight shivered their diamond rays. she held in her hand a long frond of a steppe flower--"imperial sceptre"[72] the russian folk call it; and it does, indeed, resemble a sceptre. as she flew rapidly above me she touched my head with that flower. i darted toward her.... but she had already fluttered through the window, and away she flew headlong.... in the garden, in the wilderness of the lilac-bushes, a turtle-dove greeted her with its first cooing; and at the spot where she had vanished the milky-white sky flushed a soft crimson. i recognised thee, goddess of fancy! thou hast visited me by accident--thou hast flown in to young poets. o poetry! o youth! o virginal beauty of woman! only for an instant can ye gleam before me,--in the early morning of the early spring! may, 1878. necessitas--vis--libertas a bas-relief a tall, bony old woman with an iron face and a dull, impassive gaze is walking along with great strides, and pushing before her, with her hand as harsh as a stick, another woman. this woman, of vast size, powerful, corpulent, with the muscles of a hercules, and a tiny head on a bull-like neck-and blind--is pushing on in her turn a small, thin young girl. this girl alone has eyes which see; she resists, turns backward, elevates her thin red arms; her animated countenance expresses impatience and hardihood.... she does not wish to obey, she does not wish to advance in the direction whither she is being impelled ... and, nevertheless, she must obey and advance. _necessitas--vis--libertas_: whoever likes may interpret this. may, 1878. alms in the vicinity of a great city, on the broad, much-travelled road, an aged, ailing man was walking. he was staggering as he went; his emaciated legs, entangling themselves, trailing and stumbling, trod heavily and feebly, exactly as though they belonged to some one else; his clothing hung on him in rags; his bare head drooped upon his breast.... he was exhausted. he squatted down on a stone by the side of the road, bent forward, propped his elbows on his knees, covered his face with both hands, and between his crooked fingers the tears dripped on the dry, grey dust. he was remembering.... he remembered how he had once been healthy and rich,--and how he had squandered his health, and distributed his wealth to others, friends and enemies.... and lo! now he had not a crust of bread, and every one had abandoned him, his friends even more promptly than his enemies.... could he possibly humble himself to the point of asking alms? and he felt bitter and ashamed at heart. and the tears still dripped and dripped, mottling the grey dust. suddenly he heard some one calling him by name. he raised his weary head and beheld in front of him a stranger: a face calm and dignified, but not stern; eyes not beaming, but bright; a gaze penetrating, but not evil. "thou hast given away all thy wealth," an even voice made itself heard.... "but surely thou art not regretting that thou hast done good?" "i do not regret it," replied the old man, with a sigh, "only here am i dying now." "and if there had been no beggars in the world to stretch out their hands to thee," pursued the stranger, "thou wouldst have had no one to whom to show thy beneficence; thou wouldst not have been able to exercise thyself therein?" the old man made no reply, and fell into thought. "therefore, be not proud now, my poor man," spoke up the stranger again. "go, stretch out thy hand, afford to other good people the possibility of proving by their actions that they are good." the old man started, and raised his eyes ... but the stranger had already vanished,--but far away, on the road, a wayfarer made his appearance. the old man approached him, and stretched out his hand.--the wayfarer turned away with a surly aspect and gave him nothing. but behind him came another, and this one gave the old man a small alms. and the old man bought bread for himself with the copper coins which had been given him, and sweet did the bit which he had begged seem to him, and there was no shame in his heart--but, on the contrary, a tranquil joy overshadowed him. may, 1878. the insect i dreamed that a score of us were sitting in a large room with open windows. among us were women, children, old men.... we were all talking about some very unfamiliar subject--talking noisily and unintelligibly. suddenly, with a harsh clatter, a huge insect, about three inches and a half long, flew into the room ... flew in, circled about and alighted on the wall. it resembled a fly or a wasp.--its body was of a dirty hue; its flat, hard wings were of the same colour; it had extended, shaggy claws and a big, angular head, like that of a dragon-fly; and that head and the claws were bright red, as though bloody. this strange insect kept incessantly turning its head downward, upward, to the right, to the left, and moving its claws about ... then suddenly it wrested itself from the wall, flew clattering through the room,--and again alighted, again began to move in terrifying and repulsive manner, without stirring from the spot. it evoked in all of us disgust, alarm, even terror.... none of us had ever seen anything of the sort; we all cried: "expel that monster!" we all flourished our handkerchiefs at it from a distance ... for no one could bring himself to approach it ... and when the insect had flown in we had all involuntarily got out of the way. only one of our interlocutors, a pale-faced man who was still young, surveyed us all with surprise.--he shrugged his shoulders, he smiled, he positively could not understand what had happened to us and why we were so agitated. he had seen no insect, he had not heard the ominous clatter of its wings. suddenly the insect seemed to rivet its attention on him, soared into the air, and swooping down upon his head, stung him on the brow, a little above the eyes.... the young man emitted a faint cry and fell dead. the dreadful fly immediately flew away.... only then did we divine what sort of a visitor we had had. may, 1878. cabbage-soup the son of a widowed peasant-woman died--a young fellow aged twenty, the best labourer in the village. the lady-proprietor of that village, on learning of the peasant-woman's affliction, went to call upon her on the very day of the funeral. she found her at home. standing in the middle of her cottage, in front of the table, she was ladling out empty[73] cabbage-soup from the bottom of a smoke-begrimed pot, in a leisurely way, with her right hand (her left hung limply by her side), and swallowing spoonful after spoonful. the woman's face had grown sunken and dark; her eyes were red and swollen ... but she carried herself independently and uprightly, as in church.[74] "o lord!" thought the lady; "she can eat at such a moment ... but what coarse feelings they have!" and then the lady-mistress recalled how, when she had lost her own little daughter, aged nine months, a few years before, she had refused, out of grief, to hire a very beautiful villa in the vicinity of petersburg, and had passed the entire summer in town!--but the peasant-woman continued to sip her cabbage-soup. at last the lady could endure it no longer.--"tatyána!" said she.... "good gracious!--i am amazed! is it possible that thou didst not love thy son? how is it that thy appetite has not disappeared?--how canst thou eat that cabbage-soup?" "my vásya is dead," replied the woman softly, and tears of suffering again began to stream down her sunken cheeks,--"and, of course, my own end has come also: my head has been taken away from me while i am still alive. but the cabbage-soup must not go to waste; for it is salted" the lady-mistress merely shrugged her shoulders and went away. she got salt cheaply. may, 1878. the azure realm o azure realm! o realm of azure, light, youth, and happiness! i have beheld thee ... in my dreams. there were several of us in a beautiful, decorated boat. like the breast of a swan the white sail towered aloft beneath fluttering pennants. i did not know who my companions were; but with all my being i felt that they were as young, as merry, as happy as i was! and i paid no heed to them. all about me i beheld only the shoreless azure sea, all covered with a fine rippling of golden scales, and over-head an equally shoreless azure sea, and in it, triumphantly and, as it were, smilingly, rolled on the friendly sun. and among us, from time to time, there arose laughter, ringing and joyous as the laughter of the gods! or suddenly, from some one's lips, flew forth words, verses replete with wondrous beauty and with inspired power ... so that it seemed as though the very sky resounded in reply to them, and round about the sea throbbed with sympathy.... and then blissful silence began again. diving lightly through the soft waves, our swift boat glided on. it was not propelled by the breeze; it was ruled by our own sportive hearts. whithersoever we wished, thither did it move, obediently, as though it were gifted with life. we encountered islands, magical, half-transparent islands with the hues of precious stones, jacinths and emeralds. intoxicating perfumes were wafted from the surrounding shores; some of these islands pelted us with a rain of white roses and lilies-of-the-valley; from others there rose up suddenly long-winged birds, clothed in rainbow hues. the birds circled over our heads, the lilies and roses melted in the pearly foam, which slipped along the smooth sides of our craft. in company with the flowers and the birds, sweet, sweet sounds were wafted to our ears.... we seemed to hear women's voices in them.... and everything round about,--the sky, the sea, the bellying of the sail up aloft, the purling of the waves at the stern,--everything spoke of love, of blissful love. and she whom each one of us loved--she was there ... invisibly and near at hand. yet another moment and lo! her eyes would beam forth, her smile would blossom out.... her hand would grasp thy hand, and draw thee after her into an unfading paradise! o azure realm! i have beheld thee ... in my dream! june, 1878. two rich men when men in my presence extol rothschild, who out of his vast revenues allots whole thousands for the education of children, the cure of the sick, the care of the aged, i laud and melt in admiration. but while i laud and melt i cannot refrain from recalling a poverty-stricken peasant's family which received an orphaned niece into its wretched, tumble-down little hovel. "if we take kátka," said the peasant-woman; "we shall spend our last kopéks on her, and there will be nothing left wherewith to buy salt for our porridge." "but we will take her ... and unsalted porridge," replied the peasant-man, her husband. rothschild is a long way behind that peasant-man! july, 1878. the old man the dark, distressing days have come.... one's own maladies, the ailments of those dear to him, cold and the gloom of old age. everything which thou hast loved, to which thou hast surrendered thyself irrevocably, collapses and falls into ruins. the road has taken a turn down hill. but what is to be done? grieve? lament? thou wilt help neither thyself nor others in that way.... on the withered, bent tree the foliage is smaller, more scanty--but the verdure is the same as ever. do thou also shrivel up, retire into thyself, into thy memories, and there, deep, very deep within, at the very bottom of thy concentrated soul, thy previous life, accessible to thee alone, will shine forth before thee with its fragrant, still fresh verdure, and the caress and strength of the springtime! but have a care ... do not look ahead, poor old man! july, 1878. the correspondent two friends are sitting at a table and drinking tea. a sudden noise has arisen in the street. plaintive moans, violent oaths, outbursts of malicious laughter have become audible. "some one is being beaten," remarked one of the friends, after having cast a glance out of the window. "a criminal? a murderer?" inquired the other.--"see here, no matter who it is, such chastisement without trial is not to be tolerated. let us go and defend him." "but it is not a murderer who is being beaten." "not a murderer? a thief, then? never mind, let us go, let us rescue him from the mob." "it is not a thief, either." "not a thief? is it, then, a cashier, a railway employee, an army contractor, a russian mæcenas, a lawyer, a well-intentioned editor, a public philanthropist?... at any rate, let us go, let us aid him!" "no ... they are thrashing a correspondent." "a correspondent?--well, see here now, let's drink a glass of tea first." july, 1878. two brothers it was a vision.... two angels presented themselves before me ... two spirits. i say angels ... spirits, because neither of them had any garments on their naked bodies, and from the shoulders of both sprang long, powerful wings. both are youths. one is rather plump, smooth of skin, with black curls. he has languishing brown eyes with thick eyelashes; his gaze is ingratiating, cheerful, and eager. a charming, captivating countenance a trifle bold, a trifle malicious. his full red lips tremble slightly. the youth smiles like one who has authority,--confidently and lazily; a sumptuous garland of flowers rests lightly on his shining hair, almost touching his velvet eyebrows. the spotted skin of a leopard, pinned with a golden dart, hangs lightly from his plump shoulders down upon his curving hips. the feathers of his wings gleam with changeable tints of rose-colour; their tips are of a brilliant red, just as though they had been dipped in fresh, crimson blood. from time to time they palpitate swiftly, with a pleasant silvery sound, the sound of rain in springtime. the other is gaunt and yellow of body. his ribs are faintly discernible at every breath. his hair is fair, thin, straight; his eyes are huge, round, pale grey in colour ... his gaze is uneasy and strangely bright. all his features are sharp-cut: his mouth is small, half open, with fish-like teeth; his nose is solid, aquiline; his chin projecting, covered with a whitish down. those thin lips have never once smiled. it is a regular, terrible, pitiless face! moreover, the face of the first youth,--of the beauty,--although it is sweet and charming, does not express any compassion either. around the head of the second are fastened a few empty, broken ears of grain intertwined with withered blades of grass. a coarse grey fabric encircles his loins; the wings at his back, of a dull, dark-blue colour, wave softly and menacingly. both youths appeared to be inseparable companions. each leaned on the other's shoulder. the soft little hand of the first rested like a cluster of grapes on the harsh collar-bone of the second; the slender, bony hand of the second, with its long, thin fingers, lay outspread, like a serpent, on the womanish breast of the first. and i heard a voice. this is what it uttered: "before thee stand love and hunger---own brothers, the two fundamental bases of everything living. "everything which lives moves, for the purpose of obtaining food; and eats, for the purpose of reproducing itself. "love and hunger have one and the same object; it is necessary that life should not cease,--one's own life and the life of others are the same thing, the universal life." august, 1878. the egoist he possessed everything which was requisite to make him the scourge of his family. he had been born healthy, he had been born rich--and during the whole course of his long life he had remained rich and healthy; he had never committed a single crime; he had never stumbled into any blunder; he had not made a single slip of the tongue or mistake. he was irreproachably honest!... and proud in the consciousness of his honesty, he crushed every one with it: relatives, friends, and acquaintances. his honesty was his capital ... and he exacted usurious interest from it. honesty gave him the right to be pitiless and not to do any good deed which was not prescribed;--and he was pitiless, and he did no good ... because good except by decree is not good. he never troubled himself about any one, except his own very exemplary self, and he was genuinely indignant if others did not take equally assiduous care of it! and, at the same time, he did not consider himself an egoist, and upbraided and persecuted egoists and egoism more than anything else!--of course! egoism in other people interfered with his own. not being conscious of a single failing, he did not understand, he did not permit, a weakness in any one else. altogether, he did not understand anybody or anything, for he was completely surrounded by himself on all sides, above and below, behind and before. he did not even understand the meaning of forgiveness. he never had had occasion to forgive himself.... then how was he to forgive others? before the bar of his own conscience, before the face of his own god, he, that marvel, that monster of virtue, rolled up his eyes, and in a firm, clear voice uttered: "yes; i am a worthy, a moral man!" he repeated these words on his death-bed, and nothing quivered even then in his stony heart,--in that heart devoid of a fleck or a crack. o monstrosity of self-satisfied, inflexible, cheaply-acquired virtue--thou art almost more repulsive than the undisguised monstrosity of vice! december, 1878. the supreme being's feast one day the supreme being took it into his head to give a great feast in his azure palace. he invited all the virtues as guests. only the virtues ... he invited no men ... only ladies. very many of them assembled, great and small. the petty virtues were more agreeable and courteous than the great ones; but all seemed well pleased, and chatted politely among themselves, as befits near relatives and friends. but lo! the supreme being noticed two very beautiful ladies who, apparently, were entirely unacquainted with each other. the host took one of these ladies by the hand and led her to the other. "beneficence!" said he, pointing to the first. "gratitude!" he added, pointing to the second. the two virtues were unspeakably astonished; ever since the world has existed--and it has existed a long time--they had never met before. december, 1878. the sphinx yellowish-grey, friable at the top, firm below, creaking sand ... sand without end, no matter in which direction one gazes! and above this sand, above this sea of dead dust, the huge head of the egyptian sphinx rears itself aloft. what is it that those vast, protruding lips, those impassively-dilated, up-turned nostrils, and those eyes, those long, half-sleepy, half-watchful eyes, beneath the double arch of the lofty brows, are trying to say? for they are trying to say something! they even speak--but only [oe]dipus can solve the riddle and understand their mute speech. bah! yes, i recognise those features ... there is nothing egyptian about the low white forehead, the prominent cheek-bones, the short, straight nose, the fine mouth with its white teeth, the soft moustache and curling beard,--and those small eyes set far apart ... and on the head the cap of hair furrowed with a parting.... why, it is thou, karp, sídor, semyón, thou petty peasant of yaroslávl, or of ryazán, my fellow-countryman, the kernel of russia! is it long since thou didst become the sphinx? or dost thou also wish to say something? yes; and thou also art a sphinx. and thy eyes--those colourless but profound eyes--speak also.... and their speeches are equally dumb and enigmatic. only where is thine [oe]dipus? alas! 'tis not sufficient to don a cap to become thine [oe]dipus, o sphinx of all the russias! december, 1878. nymphs i was standing in front of a chain of beautiful mountains spread out in a semi-circle; the young, verdant forest clothed them from summit to base. the southern sky hung transparently blue above us; on high the sun beamed radiantly; below, half hidden in the grass, nimble brooks were babbling. and there recurred to my mind an ancient legend about how, in the first century after the birth of christ, a grecian ship was sailing over the aegean sea. it was midday.... the weather was calm. and suddenly, high up, over the head of the helmsman, some one uttered distinctly: "when thou shalt sail past the islands, cry in a loud voice, 'great pan is dead!'" the helmsman was amazed ... and frightened. but when the ship ran past the islands he called out: "great pan is dead!" and thereupon, immediately, in answer to his shout, along the whole length of the shore (for the island was uninhabited), there resounded loud sobbing groans, prolonged wailing cries: "he is dead! great pan is dead!" this legend recurred to my mind ... and a strange thought flashed across my brain.--"what if i were to shout that call?" but in view of the exultation which surrounded me i could not think of death, and with all the force at my command i shouted: "he is risen! great pan is risen!" and instantly,--oh, marvel!--in reply to my exclamation, along the whole wide semi-circle of verdant mountains there rolled a vigorous laughter, there arose a joyous chattering and splashing. "he is risen! pan is risen!" rustled youthful voices.--everything there in front of me suddenly broke into laughter more brilliant than the sun on high, more sportive than the brooks which were babbling beneath the grass. the hurried tramp of light footsteps became audible; athwart the green grove flitted the marble whiteness of waving tunics, the vivid scarlet of naked bodies.... it was nymphs, nymphs, dryads, bacchantes, running down from the heights into the plain.... they made their appearance simultaneously along all the borders of the forest. curls fluttered on divine heads, graceful arms uplifted garlands and cymbals, and laughter, sparkling, olympian laughter, rippled and rolled among them.... in front floats a goddess. she is taller and handsomer than all the rest;--on her shoulders is a quiver; in her hands is a bow; upon her curls, caught high, is the silvery sickle of the moon.... diana, is it thou? but suddenly the goddess halted ... and immediately, following her example, all the nymphs came to a halt also. the ringing laughter died away. i saw how the face of the goddess, suddenly rendered dumb, became covered with a deathly pallor; i saw how her feet grew petrified, how inexpressible terror parted her lips, strained wide her eyes, which were fixed on the remote distance.... what had she descried? where was she gazing? i turned in the direction in which she was gazing.... at the very edge of the sky, beyond the low line of the fields, a golden cross was blazing like a spark of fire on the white belfry of a christian church.... the goddess had caught sight of that cross. i heard behind me a long, uneven sigh, like the throbbing of a broken harp-string,--and when i turned round again, no trace of the nymphs remained.... the broad forest gleamed green as before, and only in spots, athwart the close network of the branches, could tufts of something white be seen melting away. whether these were the tunics of the nymphs, or a vapour was rising up from the bottom of the valley, i know not. but how i regretted the vanished goddesses! december, 1878. enemy and friend a captive condemned to perpetual incarceration broke out of prison and started to run at a headlong pace.... after him, on his very heels, darted the pursuit. he ran with all his might.... his pursuers began to fall behind. but lo! in front of him was a river with steep banks,--a narrow, but deep river.... and he did not know how to swim! from one shore to the other a thin, rotten board had been thrown. the fugitive had already set foot upon it.... but it so happened that just at this point, beside the river, his best friend and his most cruel enemy were standing. the enemy said nothing and merely folded his arms; on the other hand, the friend shouted at the top of his voice:--"good heavens! what art thou doing? come to thy senses, thou madman! dost thou not see that the board is completely rotten?--it will break beneath thy weight, and thou wilt infallibly perish!" "but there is no other way of crossing ... and hearest thou the pursuit?" groaned in desperation the unhappy wight, as he stepped upon the board. "i will not permit it!... no, i will not permit thee to perish!"--roared his zealous friend, snatching the plank from beneath the feet of the fugitive.--the latter instantly tumbled headlong into the tumultuous waters--and was drowned. the enemy smiled with satisfaction, and went his way; but the friend sat down on the shore and began to weep bitterly over his poor ... poor friend! "he would not heed me! he would not heed me!" he whispered dejectedly. "however!" he said at last. "he would have been obliged to languish all his life in that frightful prison! at all events, he is not suffering now! now he is better off! evidently, so had his fate decreed! "and yet, it is a pity, from a human point of view!" and the good soul continued to sob inconsolably over his unlucky friend. december, 1878. christ i saw myself as a youth, almost a little boy, in a low-ceiled country church.--slender wax tapers burned like red spots in front of the ancient holy pictures. an aureole of rainbow hues encircled each tiny flame.--it was dark and dim in the church.... but a mass of people stood in front of me. all reddish, peasant heads. from time to time they would begin to surge, to fall, to rise again, like ripe ears of grain when the summer breeze flits across them in a slow wave. suddenly some man or other stepped from behind and took up his stand alongside me. i did not turn toward him, but i immediately felt that that man was--christ. emotion, curiosity, awe took possession of me simultaneously. i forced myself to look at my neighbour. he had a face like that of everybody else,--a face similar to all human faces. his eyes gazed slightly upward, attentively and gently. his lips were closed, but not compressed; the upper lip seemed to rest upon the lower; his small beard was parted in the middle. his hands were clasped, and did not move. and his garments were like those of every one else. "christ, forsooth!" i thought to myself. "such a simple, simple man! it cannot be!" i turned away.--but before i had time to turn my eyes from that simple man it again seemed to me that it was christ in person who was standing beside me. again i exerted an effort over myself.... and again i beheld the same face, resembling all human faces, the same ordinary, although unfamiliar, features. and suddenly dread fell upon me, and i came to myself. only then did i understand that precisely such a face--a face like all human faces--is the face of christ. december, 1878. ii 1879-1882 the stone have you seen an old, old stone on the seashore, when the brisk waves are beating upon it from all sides, at high tide, on a sunny spring day--beating and sparkling and caressing it, and drenching its mossy head with crumbling pearls of glittering foam? the stone remains the same stone, but brilliant colours start forth upon its surly exterior. they bear witness to that distant time when the molten granite was only just beginning to harden and was all glowing with fiery hues. thus also did young feminine souls recently attack my old heart from all quarters,--and beneath their caressing touch it glowed once more with colours which faded long ago,--with traces of its pristine fire! the waves have retreated ... but the colours have not yet grown dim, although a keen breeze is drying them. may, 1879. doves i was standing on the crest of a sloping hill; in front of me lay outspread, and motley of hue, the ripe rye, now like a golden, again like a silvery sea. but no surge was coursing across this sea; no sultry breeze was blowing; a great thunder-storm was brewing. round about me the sun was still shining hotly and dimly; but in the distance, beyond the rye, not too far away, a dark-blue thunder-cloud lay in a heavy mass over one half of the horizon. everything was holding its breath ... everything was languishing beneath the ominous gleam of the sun's last rays. not a single bird was to be seen or heard; even the sparrows had hidden themselves. only somewhere, close at hand, a solitary huge leaf of burdock was whispering and flapping. how strongly the wormwood on the border-strips[75] smells! i glanced at the blue mass ... and confusion ensued in my soul. "well, be quick, then, be quick!" i thought. "flash out, ye golden serpent! rumble, ye thunder! move on, advance, discharge thy water, thou evil thunder-cloud; put an end to this painful torment!" but the storm-cloud did not stir. as before, it continued to crush the dumb earth ... and seemed merely to wax larger and darker. and lo! through its bluish monotony there flashed something smooth and even; precisely like a white handkerchief, or a snowball. it was a white dove flying from the direction of the village. it flew, and flew onward, always straight onward ... and vanished behind the forest. several moments passed--the same cruel silence still reigned.... but behold! now _two_ handkerchiefs are fluttering, _two_ snowballs are floating back; it is _two_ white doves wending their way homeward in even flight. and now, at last, the storm has broken loose--and the fun begins! i could hardly reach home.--the wind shrieked and darted about like a mad thing; low-hanging rusty-hued clouds swirled onward, as though rent in bits; everything whirled, got mixed up, lashed and rocked with the slanting columns of the furious downpour; the lightning flashes blinded with their fiery green hue; abrupt claps of thunder were discharged like cannon; there was a smell of sulphur.... but under the eaves, on the very edge of a garret window, side by side sit the two white doves,--the one which flew after its companion, and the one which it brought and, perhaps, saved. both have ruffled up their plumage, and each feels with its wing the wing of its neighbour.... it is well with them! and it is well with me as i gaze at them.... although i am alone ... alone, as always. may, 1879. to-morrow! to-morrow! how empty, and insipid, and insignificant is almost every day which we have lived through! how few traces it leaves behind it! in what a thoughtlessly-stupid manner have those hours flown past, one after another! and, nevertheless, man desires to exist; he prizes life, he hopes in it, in himself, in the future.... oh, what blessings he expects from the future! and why does he imagine that other future days will not resemble the one which has just passed? but he does not imagine this. on the whole, he is not fond of thinking--and it is well that he does not. "there, now, to-morrow, to-morrow!" he comforts himself--until that "to-morrow" over-throws him into the grave. well--and once in the grave,--one ceases, willy-nilly, to think. may, 1879. nature i dreamed that i had entered a vast subterranean chamber with a lofty, arched roof. it was completely filled by some sort of even light, also subterranean. in the very centre of the chamber sat a majestic woman in a flowing robe green in hue. with her head bowed on her hand, she seemed to be immersed in profound meditation. i immediately understood that this woman was nature itself,--and reverent awe pierced my soul with an instantaneous chill. i approached the seated woman, and making a respectful obeisance, "o our common mother," i exclaimed, "what is the subject of thy meditation? art thou pondering the future destinies of mankind? as to how it is to attain the utmost possible perfection and bliss?" the woman slowly turned her dark, lowering eyes upon me. her lips moved, and a stentorian voice, like unto the clanging of iron, rang out: "i am thinking how i may impart more power to the muscles in the legs of a flea, so that it may more readily escape from its enemies. the equilibrium of attack and defence has been destroyed.... it must be restored." "what!" i stammered, in reply.--"so that is what thou art thinking about? but are not we men thy favourite children?" the woman knit her brows almost imperceptibly.--"all creatures are my children," she said, "and i look after all of them alike,--and i annihilate them in identically the same way." "but good ... reason ... justice...." i stammered again. "those are the words of men," rang out the iron voice. "i know neither good nor evil.... reason is no law to me--and what is justice?--i have given thee life,--i take it away and give it to others; whether worms or men ... it makes no difference to me.... but in the meantime, do thou defend thyself, and hinder me not!" i was about to answer ... but the earth round about me uttered a dull groan and trembled--and i awoke. august, 1879. "hang him!" "it happened in the year 1803," began my old friend, "not long before austerlitz. the regiment of which i was an officer was quartered in moravia. "we were strictly forbidden to harry and oppress the inhabitants; and they looked askance on us as it was, although we were regarded as allies. "i had an orderly, a former serf of my mother's, egór by name. he was an honest and peaceable fellow; i had known him from his childhood and treated him like a friend. "one day, in the house where i dwelt, abusive shrieks and howls arose: the housewife had been robbed of two hens, and she accused my orderly of the theft. he denied it, and called upon me to bear witness whether 'he, egór avtamónoff, would steal!' i assured the housewife of egór's honesty, but she would listen to nothing. "suddenly the energetic trampling of horses' hoofs resounded along the street: it was the commander-in-chief himself riding by with his staff. he was proceeding at a foot-pace,--a fat, pot-bellied man, with drooping head and epaulets dangling on his breast. "the housewife caught sight of him, and flinging herself across his horse's path, she fell on her knees and, all distraught, with head uncovered, began loudly to complain of my orderly, pointing to him with her hand: "'sir general!' she shrieked. 'your radiance! judge! help! save! this soldier has robbed me!' "egór was standing on the threshold of the house, drawn up in military salute, with his cap in his hand,--and had even protruded his breast and turned out his feet, like a sentry,--and not a word did he utter! whether he was daunted by all that mass of generals halting there in the middle of the street, or whether he was petrified in the presence of the calamity which had overtaken him,--at any rate, there stood my egór blinking his eyes, and white as clay! "the commander-in-chief cast an abstracted and surly glance at him, bellowing wrathfully: 'well, what hast thou to say?'.... egór stood like a statue and showed his teeth! if looked at in profile, it was exactly as though the man were laughing. "then the commander-in-chief said abruptly: 'hang him!'--gave his horse a dig in the ribs and rode on, first at a foot-pace, as before, then at a brisk trot. the whole staff dashed after him; only one adjutant, turning round in his saddle, took a close look at egór. "it was impossible to disobey.... egór was instantly seized and led to execution. "thereupon he turned deadly pale, and only exclaimed a couple of times, with difficulty, 'good heavens! good heavens!'--and then, in a low voice--'god sees it was not i!' "he wept bitterly, very bitterly, as he bade me farewell. i was in despair.--'egór! egór!' i cried, 'why didst thou say nothing to the general?' "'god sees it was not i,' repeated the poor fellow, sobbing.--the housewife herself was horrified. she had not in the least expected such a dreadful verdict, and fell to shrieking in her turn. she began to entreat each and all to spare him, she declared that her hens had been found, that she was prepared to explain everything herself.... "of course, this was of no use whatsoever. military regulations, sir! discipline!--the housewife sobbed more and more loudly. "egór, whom the priest had already confessed and communicated, turned to me: "'tell her, your well-born, that she must not do herself an injury.... for i have already forgiven her.'" as my friend repeated these last words of his servant, he whispered: "egórushka[76] darling, just man!"--and the tears dripped down his aged cheeks. august, 1879. what shall i think?... what shall i think when i come to die,--if i am then in a condition to think? shall i think what a bad use i have made of my life, how i have dozed it through, how i have not known how to relish its gifts? "what? is this death already? so soon? impossible! why, i have not succeeded in accomplishing anything yet.... i have only been preparing to act!" shall i recall the past, pause over the thought of the few bright moments i have lived through, over beloved images and faces? will my evil deeds present themselves before my memory, and will the corrosive grief of a belated repentance descend upon my soul? shall i think of what awaits me beyond the grave ... yes, and whether anything at all awaits me there? no ... it seems to me that i shall try not to think, and shall compel my mind to busy itself with some nonsense or other, if only to divert my own attention from the menacing darkness which looms up black ahead. in my presence one dying person kept complaining that they would not give him red-hot nuts to gnaw ... and only in the depths of his dimming eyes was there throbbing and palpitating something, like the wing of a bird wounded unto death.... august, 1879. "how fair, how fresh were the roses" somewhere, some time, long, long ago, i read a poem. i speedily forgot it ... but its first line lingered in my memory: "how fair, how fresh were the roses...." it is winter now; the window-panes are coated with ice; in the warm chamber a single candle is burning. i am sitting curled up in one corner; and in my brain there rings and rings: "how fair, how fresh were the roses...." and i behold myself in front of the low window of a russian house in the suburbs. the summer evening is melting and merging into night, there is a scent of mignonette and linden-blossoms abroad in the warm air;--and in the window, propped on a stiffened arm, and with her head bent on her shoulder, sits a young girl, gazing mutely and intently at the sky, as though watching for the appearance of the first stars. how ingenuously inspired are the thoughtful eyes; how touchingly innocent are the parted, questioning lips; how evenly breathes her bosom, not yet fully developed and still unagitated by anything; how pure and tender are the lines of the young face! i do not dare to address her, but how dear she is to me, how violently my heart beats! "how fair, how fresh were the roses...." and in the room everything grows darker and darker.... the candle which has burned low begins to flicker; white shadows waver across the low ceiling; the frost creaks and snarls beyond the wall--and i seem to hear a tedious, senile whisper: "how fair, how fresh were the roses...." other images rise up before me.... i hear the merry murmur of family, of country life. two red-gold little heads, leaning against each other, gaze bravely at me with their bright eyes; the red cheeks quiver with suppressed laughter; their hands are affectionately intertwined; their young, kind voices ring out, vying with each other; and a little further away, in the depths of a snug room, other hands, also young, are flying about, with fingers entangled, over the keys of a poor little old piano, and the lanner waltz cannot drown the grumbling of the patriarchal samovár.... "how fair, how fresh were the roses...." the candle flares up and dies out.... who is that coughing yonder so hoarsely and dully? curled up in a ring, my aged dog, my sole companion, is nestling and quivering at my feet.... i feel cold.... i am shivering ... and they are all dead ... all dead.... "how fair, how fresh were the roses." septembers 1879. a sea voyage i sailed from hamburg to london on a small steamer. there were two of us passengers: i and a tiny monkey, a female of the ouistiti breed, which a hamburg merchant was sending as a gift to his english partner. she was attached by a slender chain to one of the benches on the deck, and threw herself about and squeaked plaintively, like a bird. every time i walked past she stretched out to me her black, cold little hand, and gazed at me with her mournful, almost human little eyes.--i took her hand, and she ceased to squeak and fling herself about. there was a dead calm. the sea spread out around us in a motionless mirror of leaden hue. it seemed small; a dense fog lay over it, shrouding even the tips of the masts, and blinding and wearying the eyes with its soft gloom. the sun hung like a dim red spot in this gloom; but just before evening it became all aflame and glowed mysteriously and strangely scarlet. long, straight folds, like the folds of heavy silken fabrics, flowed away from the bow of the steamer, one after another, growing ever wider, wrinkling and broadening, becoming smoother at last, swaying and vanishing. the churned foam swirled under the monotonous beat of the paddle-wheels; gleaming white like milk, and hissing faintly, it was broken up into serpent-like ripples, and then flowed together at a distance, and vanished likewise, swallowed up in the gloom. a small bell at the stern jingled as incessantly and plaintively as the squeaking cry of the monkey. now and then a seal came to the surface, and turning an abrupt somersault, darted off beneath the barely-disturbed surface. and the captain, a taciturn man with a surly, sunburned face, smoked a short pipe and spat angrily into the sea, congealed in impassivity. to all my questions he replied with an abrupt growl. i was compelled, willy-nilly, to have recourse to my solitary fellow-traveller--the monkey. i sat down beside her; she ceased to whine, and again stretched out her hand to me. the motionless fog enveloped us both with a soporific humidity; and equally immersed in one unconscious thought, we remained there side by side, like blood-relatives. i smile now ... but then another feeling reigned in me. we are all children of one mother--and it pleased me that the poor little beastie should quiet down so confidingly and nestle up to me, as though to a relative. november, 1879. n. n. gracefully and quietly dost thou walk along the path of life, without tears and without smiles, barely animated by an indifferent attention. thou art kind and clever ... and everything is alien to thee--and no one is necessary to thee. thou art very beautiful--and no one can tell whether thou prizest thy beauty or not.--thou art devoid of sympathy thyself and demandest no sympathy. thy gaze is profound, and not thoughtful; emptiness lies in that bright depth. thus do the stately shades pass by without grief and without joy in the elysian fields, to the dignified sounds of gluck's melodies. november, 1879. stay! stay! as i now behold thee remain thou evermore in my memory! from thy lips the last inspired sound hath burst forth--thine eyes do not gleam and flash, they are dusky, weighted with happiness, with the blissful consciousness of that beauty to which thou hast succeeded in giving expression,--of that beauty in quest of which thou stretchest forth, as it were, thy triumphant, thine exhausted hands! what light, more delicate and pure than the sunlight, hath been diffused over all thy limbs, over the tiniest folds of thy garments? what god, with his caressing inflatus, hath tossed back thy dishevelled curls? his kiss burneth on thy brow, grown pale as marble! here it is--the open secret, the secret of poetry, of life, of love! here it is, here it is--immortality! there is no other immortality--and no other is needed.--at this moment thou art deathless. i will pass,--and again thou art a pinch of dust, a woman, a child.... but what is that to thee!--at this moment thou hast become loftier than all transitory, temporal things, thou hast stepped out of their sphere.--this _thy_ moment will never end. stay! and let me be the sharer of thy immortality, drop into my soul the reflection of thine eternity! november, 1879. the monk i used to know a monk, a hermit, a saint. he lived on the sweetness of prayer alone,--and as he quaffed it, he knelt so long on the cold floor of the church that his legs below the knee swelled and became like posts. he had no sensation in them, he knelt--and prayed. i understood him--and, perhaps, i envied him; but let him also understand me and not condemn me--me, to whom his joys are inaccessible. he strove to annihilate himself, his hated _ego_; but the fact that i do not pray does not arise from self-conceit. my ego is, perchance, even more burdensome and repulsive to me than his is to him. he found a means of forgetting himself ... and i find a means to do the same, but not so constantly. he does not lie ... and neither do i lie. november, 1879. we shall still fight on! what an insignificant trifle can sometimes put the whole man back in tune! full of thought, i was walking one day along the highway. heavy forebodings oppressed my breast; melancholy seized hold upon me. i raised my head.... before me, between two rows of lofty poplars, the road stretched out into the distance. across it, across that same road, a whole little family of sparrows was hopping, hopping boldly, amusingly, confidently! one of them in particular fairly set his wings akimbo, thrusting out his crop, and twittering audaciously, as though the very devil was no match for him! a conqueror--and that is all there is to be said. but in the meantime, high up in the sky, was soaring a hawk who, possibly, was fated to devour precisely that same conqueror. i looked, laughed, shook myself--and the melancholy thoughts instantly fled. i felt daring, courage, a desire for life. and let _my_ hawk soar over _me_ if he will.... "we will still fight on, devil take it!" november, 1879. prayer no matter what a man may pray for he is praying for a miracle.--every prayer amounts to the following: "great god, cause that two and two may not make four." only such a prayer is a genuine prayer from a person to a person. to pray to the universal spirit, to the supreme being of kant, of hegel--to a purified, amorphous god, is impossible and unthinkable. but can even a personal, living god with a form cause that two and two shall not make four? every believer is bound to reply, "he can," and is bound to convince himself of this. but what if his reason revolts against such an absurdity? in that case shakspeare will come to his assistance: "there are many things in the world, friend horatio...." and so forth. and if people retort in the name of truth,--all he has to do is to repeat the famous question: "what is truth?" and therefore, let us drink and be merry--and pray. july, 1881. the russian language in days of doubt, in days of painful meditations concerning the destinies of my fatherland, thou alone art my prop and my support, o great, mighty, just and free russian language!--were it not for thee, how could one fail to fall into despair at the sight of all that goes on at home?--but it is impossible to believe that such a language was not bestowed upon a great people! june, 1882. endnotes: [1] see endnote to "old portraits," in this volume.--translator. [2] the vigil-service (consisting of vespers and matins, or compline and matins) may be celebrated in unconsecrated buildings, and the devout not infrequently have it, as well as prayer-services, at home.--translator. [3] meaning the odour of the oil which must be used in preparing food, instead of butter, during the numerous fasts.--translator. [4] the custom of thus dressing up as bears, clowns, and so forth, and visiting all the houses in the neighbourhood, is still kept up in rustic localities. st. vasíly's (basil's) day falls on january 1.--translator. [5] an arshín is twenty-eight inches.--translator [6] a park for popular resort in the suburbs of moscow.--translator [7] incorrectly written for poltáva.--translator [8] the fatter the coachman, the more stylish he is. if he is not fat naturally, he adds cushions under his coat.--translator. [9] that is, to the trinity monastery of the first class founded by st. sergius in 1340. it is situated about forty miles from moscow, and is the most famous monastery in the country next to the catacombs monastery at kíeff.--translator. [10] pronounced _aryól_.--translator. [11] such a sledge, drawn by the national team of three horses, will hold five or six persons closely packed.--translator. [12] the word he used, _mytárstvo_, has a peculiar meaning. it refers specifically to the experiences of the soul when it leaves the body. according to the teaching of divers ancient fathers of the church, the soul, as soon as it leaves the body, is confronted by accusing demons, who arraign it with all the sins, great and small, which it has committed during its earthly career. if its good deeds, alms, prayers, and so forth (added to the grace of god), offset the evil, the demons are forced to renounce their claims. these demons assault the soul in relays, each "trial," "suffering," or "tribulation" being a _mytárstvo_. one ancient authority enumerates twenty such trials. the soul is accompanied and defended in its trials by angels, who plead its cause. eventually, they conduct it into the presence of god, who then assigns to it a temporary abode of bliss or woe until the day of judgment. the derivation of this curious and utterly untranslatable word is as follows: _mytár_ means a publican or tax-gatherer. as the publicans, under the roman sway over the jews, indulged in various sorts of violence, abuses, and inhuman conduct, calling every one to strict account, and even stationing themselves at the city gates to intercept all who came and went, _mytárstvo_ represents, in general, the taxing or testing of the soul, which must pay a ransom before it is released from its trials and preliminary tribulations.--translator. [13] a folk-tale narrates how the tzar arkhídei obtained his beauteous bride by the aid of seven brothers called "the seven semyóns," who were his peasants. the bride was distant a ten years' journey; but each of the brothers had a different "trade," by the combined means of which they were enabled to overcome time and space and get the bride for their master.--translator. [14] the word used in russian indicates not only that he was a hereditary noble, but that his nobility was ancient--a matter of some moment in a country where nobility, both personal and hereditary, can be won in the service of the state.--translator. [15] the change to _thou_ is made to express disrespect.--translator. [16] a simple card-game.--translator. [17] the word used is _popadyá_, the feminine form of _pop(e)_, or priest. _svyashtchénnik_ is, however, more commonly used for priest. --translator. [18] june 29 (o. s.), july 12 (n. s.).--translator. [19] in former days the sons of priests generally became priests. it is still so, in a measure.--translator. [20] therefore, there would be no one to maintain his widow and daughters, unless some young man could be found to marry one of the daughters, be ordained, take the parish, and assume the support of the family.--translator. [21] parish priests (the white clergy) must marry before they are ordained sub-deacon, and are not allowed to remarry in the holy catholic church of the east.--translator. [22] a sourish, non-intoxicating beverage, prepared by putting water on rye meal or the crusts of sour black rye bread and allowing it to ferment.--translator. [23] one of the ancient religious ballads sung by the "wandering cripples." joseph (son of jacob) is called by this appellation, and also a "tzarévitch," or king's son. for a brief account of these ballads see: "the epic songs of russia" (introduction), and chapter i in "a survey of russian literature" (i. f. hapgood). this particular ballad is mentioned on page 22 of the last-named book.--translator. (n.b. this note is placed here because there is no other book in english where any information whatever can be had concerning these ballads or this ballad.--i.f.h.) [24] ecclesiastics are regarded as plebeians by the gentry or nobles in russia.--translator. [25] in the catholic church of the east the communion is received fasting. a little to one side of the priest stands a cleric holding a platter of blessed bread, cut in small bits, and a porringer of warm water and wine, which (besides their symbolical significance) are taken by each communicant after the holy elements, in order that there may be something interposed between the sacrament and ordinary food.--translator. [26] that is, the particle of bread dipped in the wine, which is placed in the mouth by the priest with the sacramental spoon. --translator. [27] turgénieff labelled this story and "a reckless character," "fragments from my own memoirs and those of other people." in a foot-note he begs the reader not to mistake the "i" for the author's own personality, as it was adopted merely for convenience of narration.--translator. [28] the russian expression is: "a black cat had run between them."--translator. [29] in russia a partial second story, over the centre, or the centre and ends of the main story, is called thus.--translator. [30] in russian houses the "hall" is a combined ball-room, music-room, play-room, and exercising-ground; not the entrance hall.--translator. [31] we should call such a watch a "turnip."--translator. [32] the author is slightly sarcastic in the name he has chosen for this family, which is derived from _telyéga_, a peasant-cart.--translator. [33] st. petersburg.--translator. [34] both these are bad omens, according to superstitious russians.--translator. [35] priests and monks in russia wear their hair and beards long to resemble the pictures of christ. missionaries in foreign lands are permitted to conform to the custom of the country and cut it short.--translator. [36] "had been educated on copper coins" is the russian expression. that is, had received a cheap education.--translator. [37] the nickname generally applied by the little russians to the great russians.--translator. [38] the racing-drozhky is frequently used in the country. it consists of a plank, without springs, mounted on four small wheels of equal size. the driver sits flat on the plank, which may or may not be upholstered.--translator. [39] the baptismal cross.--translator. [40] the bath-besom is made of birch-twigs with the leaves attached, and is soaked in hot water (or in beer) to keep it soft. the massage administered with the besom is delightful. the peasants often use besoms of nettles, as a luxury. the shredded linden bark is used as a sponge.--translator. [41] the great manoeuvre plain, near which the moscow garrison is lodged, in the vicinity of petróvsky park and palace. here the disaster took place during the coronation festivities of the present emperor.--translator. [42] it is very rarely that a bishop performs the marriage ceremony. all bishops are monks; and monks are not supposed to perform ceremonies connected with the things which they have renounced. the exceptions are when monks are appointed parish priests (as in some of the american parishes, for instance), and, therefore, must fulfil the obligations of a married parish priest; or when the chaplain-monk on war-ships is called upon, at times, to minister to scattered orthodox, in a port which has no settled priest.--translator. [43] the order of st. george, with its black and orange ribbon, must be won by great personal bravery--like the victoria cross.--translator. [44] head of the secret service under alexander i.--translator. [45] that is, living too long.--translator. [46] _sukhóy_, dry; _sukhíkh_, genitive plural (proper names are declinable), meaning, "one of the sukhóys."--translator. [47] the third from the top in the table of ranks instituted by peter the great.--translator. [48] corresponding, in a measure, to an american state.--translator. [49] the great russians' scornful nickname for a little russian.--translator. [50] each coachman has his own pair or tróika of horses to attend to, and has nothing to do with any other horses which may be in the stable.--translator. [51] yákoff (james) daniel bruce, a russian engineer, of scottish extraction, born in moscow, 1670, became grand master of the artillery in 1711, and died in 1735.--translator. [52] the great cathedral in commemoration of the russian triumph in the war of 1812, which was begun in 1837, and completed in 1883. --translator. [53] _nyémetz_, "the dumb one," meaning any one unable to speak russian (hence, any foreigner), is the specific word for a german.--translator. [54] short for nízhni nóvgorod.--translator. [55] the famous letter from the heroine, tatyána, to the hero, evgény onyégin, in pushkin's celebrated poem. the music to the opera of the same name, which has this poem for its basis, is by tchaikóvsky. --translator. [56] advertisements of theatres, concerts, and amusements in general, are not published in the daily papers, but in an _affiche_, printed every morning, for which a separate subscription is necessary. --translator. [57] m. e. saltikóff wrote his famous satires under the name of shtchedrín.--translator. [58] the little russians (among other peculiarities of pronunciation attached to their dialect) use the guttural instead of the clear _i_.--translator. [59] a bishop or priest in the russian church is not supposed to speak loudly, no matter how fine a voice he may possess. the deacon, on the contrary, or the proto-deacon (attached to a cathedral) is supposed to have a huge voice, and, especially at certain points, to roar at the top of his lungs. he sometimes cracks his voice--which is what the sympathetic neighbour was hinting at here.--translator. [60] an image, or holy picture, is _óbraz_; the adjective "cultured" is derived from the same word in its sense of pattern, model--_obrazóvanny_. --translator. [61] ostróvsky's comedies of life in the merchant class are irresistibly amusing, talented, and true to nature.--translator. [62] turgénieff probably means grúsha (another form for the diminutive of agrippína, in russian agrafénya). the play is "live as you can."--translator. [63] a full gown gathered into a narrow band just under the armpits and suspended over the shoulders by straps of the same.--translator. [64] the eighth from the top in the table of ranks won by service to the state, which peter the great instituted. a sufficiently high grade in that table confers hereditary nobility; the lower grades carry only personal nobility.--translator. [65] the long tatár coat, with large sleeves, and flaring, bias skirts.---translator. [66] see note on page 24.--translator. [67] diminutives of yákoff, implying great affection.--translator. [68] mikhaíl stasiulévitch.--translator. [69] the favourite decoration in rustic architecture.--translator. [70] these lines do not rhyme in the original.--translator. [71] "the white-handed man" would be the literal translation.--translator. [72] the pretty name for what we call mullein.--translator. [73] that is, made without meat.--translator. [74] the ideal bearing in church is described as standing "like a candle"; that is, very straight and motionless.--translator. [75] strips of grass left as boundaries between the tilled fields allotted to different peasants.--translator. [76] the affectionate diminutive.--translator. 