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diff --git a/9911-0.txt b/9911-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5de4ee9 --- /dev/null +++ b/9911-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,10130 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Torrents of Spring, by Ivan Turgenev + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: The Torrents of Spring + +Author: Ivan Turgenev + +Translator: Constance Garnett + +Release Date: October 30, 2003 [eBook #9911] +[Most recently updated: December 17, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Keren Vergon, William Flis, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TORRENTS OF SPRING *** + + + + +The Torrents of Spring + +by Ivan Turgenev + +Translated from the Russian + +BY CONSTANCE GARNETT + +1897 + + +Contents + + THE TORRENTS OF SPRING + FIRST LOVE + MUMU + + + + +THE TORRENTS OF SPRING + + + “Years of gladness, + Days of joy, + Like the torrents of spring + They hurried away.” + + —_From an Old Ballad_. + + +… At two o’clock in the night he had gone back to his study. He had +dismissed the servant after the candles were lighted, and throwing +himself into a low chair by the hearth, he hid his face in both hands. + +Never had he felt such weariness of body and of spirit. He had passed +the whole evening in the company of charming ladies and cultivated men; +some of the ladies were beautiful, almost all the men were +distinguished by intellect or talent; he himself had talked with great +success, even with brilliance … and, for all that, never yet had the +_taedium vitae_ of which the Romans talked of old, the “disgust for +life,” taken hold of him with such irresistible, such suffocating +force. Had he been a little younger, he would have cried with misery, +weariness, and exasperation: a biting, burning bitterness, like the +bitter of wormwood, filled his whole soul. A sort of clinging +repugnance, a weight of loathing closed in upon him on all sides like a +dark night of autumn; and he did not know how to get free from this +darkness, this bitterness. Sleep it was useless to reckon upon; he knew +he should not sleep. + +He fell to thinking … slowly, listlessly, wrathfully. He thought of the +vanity, the uselessness, the vulgar falsity of all things human. All +the stages of man’s life passed in order before his mental gaze (he had +himself lately reached his fifty-second year), and not one found grace +in his eyes. Everywhere the same ever-lasting pouring of water into a +sieve, the ever-lasting beating of the air, everywhere the same +self-deception—half in good faith, half conscious—any toy to amuse the +child, so long as it keeps him from crying. And then, all of a sudden, +old age drops down like snow on the head, and with it the ever-growing, +ever-gnawing, and devouring dread of death … and the plunge into the +abyss! Lucky indeed if life works out so to the end! May be, before the +end, like rust on iron, sufferings, infirmities come…. He did not +picture life’s sea, as the poets depict it, covered with tempestuous +waves; no, he thought of that sea as a smooth, untroubled surface, +stagnant and transparent to its darkest depths. He himself sits in a +little tottering boat, and down below in those dark oozy depths, like +prodigious fishes, he can just make out the shapes of hideous monsters: +all the ills of life, diseases, sorrows, madness, poverty, blindness…. +He gazes, and behold, one of these monsters separates itself off from +the darkness, rises higher and higher, stands out more and more +distinct, more and more loathsomely distinct…. An instant yet, and the +boat that bears him will be overturned! But behold, it grows dim again, +it withdraws, sinks down to the bottom, and there it lies, faintly +stirring in the slime…. But the fated day will come, and it will +overturn the boat. + +He shook his head, jumped up from his low chair, took two turns up and +down the room, sat down to the writing-table, and opening one drawer +after another, began to rummage among his papers, among old letters, +mostly from women. He could not have said why he was doing it; he was +not looking for anything—he simply wanted by some kind of external +occupation to get away from the thoughts oppressing him. Opening +several letters at random (in one of them there was a withered flower +tied with a bit of faded ribbon), he merely shrugged his shoulders, and +glancing at the hearth, he tossed them on one side, probably with the +idea of burning all this useless rubbish. Hurriedly, thrusting his +hands first into one, and then into another drawer, he suddenly opened +his eyes wide, and slowly bringing out a little octagonal box of +old-fashioned make, he slowly raised its lid. In the box, under two +layers of cotton wool, yellow with age, was a little garnet cross. + +For a few instants he looked in perplexity at this cross—suddenly he +gave a faint cry…. Something between regret and delight was expressed +in his features. Such an expression a man’s face wears when he suddenly +meets some one whom he has long lost sight of, whom he has at one time +tenderly loved, and who suddenly springs up before his eyes, still the +same, and utterly transformed by the years. + +He got up, and going back to the hearth, he sat down again in the +arm-chair, and again hid his face in his hands…. “Why to-day? just +to-day?” was his thought, and he remembered many things, long since +past. + +This is what he remembered…. + +But first I must mention his name, his father’s name and his surname. +He was called Dimitri Pavlovitch Sanin. + +Here follows what he remembered. + + + + +I + + +It was the summer of 1840. Sanin was in his twenty-second year, and he +was in Frankfort on his way home from Italy to Russia. He was a man of +small property, but independent, almost without family ties. By the +death of a distant relative, he had come into a few thousand roubles, +and he had decided to spend this sum abroad before entering the +service, before finally putting on the government yoke, without which +he could not obtain a secure livelihood. Sanin had carried out this +intention, and had fitted things in to such a nicety that on the day of +his arrival in Frankfort he had only just enough money left to take him +back to Petersburg. In the year 1840 there were few railroads in +existence; tourists travelled by diligence. Sanin had taken a place in +the “_bei-wagon_”; but the diligence did not start till eleven o’clock +in the evening. There was a great deal of time to be got through before +then. Fortunately it was lovely weather, and Sanin after dining at a +hotel, famous in those days, the White Swan, set off to stroll about +the town. He went in to look at Danneker’s Ariadne, which he did not +much care for, visited the house of Goethe, of whose works he had, +however, only read _Werter_, and that in the French translation. He +walked along the bank of the Maine, and was bored as a well-conducted +tourist should be; at last at six o’clock in the evening, tired, and +with dusty boots, he found himself in one of the least remarkable +streets in Frankfort. That street he was fated not to forget long, long +after. On one of its few houses he saw a signboard: “Giovanni Roselli, +Italian confectionery,” was announced upon it. Sanin went into it to +get a glass of lemonade; but in the shop, where, behind the modest +counter, on the shelves of a stained cupboard, recalling a chemist’s +shop, stood a few bottles with gold labels, and as many glass jars of +biscuits, chocolate cakes, and sweetmeats—in this room, there was not a +soul; only a grey cat blinked and purred, sharpening its claws on a +tall wicker chair near the window and a bright patch of colour was made +in the evening sunlight, by a big ball of red wool lying on the floor +beside a carved wooden basket turned upside down. A confused noise was +audible in the next room. Sanin stood a moment, and making the bell on +the door ring its loudest, he called, raising his voice, “Is there no +one here?” At that instant the door from an inner room was thrown open, +and Sanin was struck dumb with amazement. + + + + +II + + +A young girl of nineteen ran impetuously into the shop, her dark curls +hanging in disorder on her bare shoulders, her bare arms stretched out +in front of her. Seeing Sanin, she rushed up to him at once, seized him +by the hand, and pulled him after her, saying in a breathless voice, +“Quick, quick, here, save him!” Not through disinclination to obey, but +simply from excess of amazement, Sanin did not at once follow the girl. +He stood, as it were, rooted to the spot; he had never in his life seen +such a beautiful creature. She turned towards him, and with such +despair in her voice, in her eyes, in the gesture of her clenched hand, +which was lifted with a spasmodic movement to her pale cheek, she +articulated, “Come, come!” that he at once darted after her to the open +door. + +In the room, into which he ran behind the girl, on an old-fashioned +horse-hair sofa, lay a boy of fourteen, white all over—white, with a +yellowish tinge like wax or old marble—he was strikingly like the girl, +obviously her brother. His eyes were closed, a patch of shadow fell +from his thick black hair on a forehead like stone, and delicate, +motionless eyebrows; between the blue lips could be seen clenched +teeth. He seemed not to be breathing; one arm hung down to the floor, +the other he had tossed above his head. The boy was dressed, and his +clothes were closely buttoned; a tight cravat was twisted round his +neck. + +The girl rushed up to him with a wail of distress. “He is dead, he is +dead!” she cried; “he was sitting here just now, talking to me—and all +of a sudden he fell down and became rigid…. My God! can nothing be done +to help him? And mamma not here! Pantaleone, Pantaleone, the doctor!” +she went on suddenly in Italian. “Have you been for the doctor?” + +“Signora, I did not go, I sent Luise,” said a hoarse voice at the door, +and a little bandy-legged old man came hobbling into the room in a +lavender frock coat with black buttons, a high white cravat, short +nankeen trousers, and blue worsted stockings. His diminutive little +face was positively lost in a mass of iron-grey hair. Standing up in +all directions, and falling back in ragged tufts, it gave the old man’s +figure a resemblance to a crested hen—a resemblance the more striking, +that under the dark-grey mass nothing could be distinguished but a beak +nose and round yellow eyes. + +“Luise will run fast, and I can’t run,” the old man went on in Italian, +dragging his flat gouty feet, shod in high slippers with knots of +ribbon. “I’ve brought some water.” + +In his withered, knotted fingers, he clutched a long bottle neck. + +“But meanwhile Emil will die!” cried the girl, and holding out her hand +to Sanin, “O, sir, O _mein Herr_! can’t you do something for him?” + +“He ought to be bled—it’s an apoplectic fit,” observed the old man +addressed as Pantaleone. + +Though Sanin had not the slightest notion of medicine, he knew one +thing for certain, that boys of fourteen do not have apoplectic fits. + +“It’s a swoon, not a fit,” he said, turning to Pantaleone. “Have you +got any brushes?” + +The old man raised his little face. “Eh?” + +“Brushes, brushes,” repeated Sanin in German and in French. “Brushes,” +he added, making as though he would brush his clothes. + +The little old man understood him at last. + +“Ah, brushes! _Spazzette_! to be sure we have!” + +“Bring them here; we will take off his coat and try rubbing him.” + +“Good … _Benone_! And ought we not to sprinkle water on his head?” + +“No … later on; get the brushes now as quick as you can.” + +Pantaleone put the bottle on the floor, ran out and returned at once +with two brushes, one a hair-brush, and one a clothes-brush. A curly +poodle followed him in, and vigorously wagging its tail, it looked up +inquisitively at the old man, the girl, and even Sanin, as though it +wanted to know what was the meaning of all this fuss. + +Sanin quickly took the boy’s coat off, unbuttoned his collar, and +pushed up his shirt-sleeves, and arming himself with a brush, he began +brushing his chest and arms with all his might. Pantaleone as zealously +brushed away with the other—the hair-brush—at his boots and trousers. +The girl flung herself on her knees by the sofa, and, clutching her +head in both hands, fastened her eyes, not an eyelash quivering, on her +brother. + +Sanin rubbed on, and kept stealing glances at her. Mercy! what a +beautiful creature she was! + + + + +III + + +Her nose was rather large, but handsome, aquiline-shaped; her upper lip +was shaded by a light down; but then the colour of her face, smooth, +uniform, like ivory or very pale milky amber, the wavering shimmer of +her hair, like that of the Judith of Allorio in the Palazzo-Pitti; and +above all, her eyes, dark-grey, with a black ring round the pupils, +splendid, triumphant eyes, even now, when terror and distress dimmed +their lustre…. Sanin could not help recalling the marvellous country he +had just come from…. But even in Italy he had never met anything like +her! The girl drew slow, uneven breaths; she seemed between each breath +to be waiting to see whether her brother would not begin to breathe. + +Sanin went on rubbing him, but he did not only watch the girl. The +original figure of Pantaleone drew his attention too. The old man was +quite exhausted and panting; at every movement of the brush he hopped +up and down and groaned noisily, while his immense tufts of hair, +soaked with perspiration, flapped heavily from side to side, like the +roots of some strong plant, torn up by the water. + +“You’d better, at least, take off his boots,” Sanin was just saying to +him. + +The poodle, probably excited by the unusualness of all the proceedings, +suddenly sank on to its front paws and began barking. + +“_Tartaglia—canaglia_!” the old man hissed at it. But at that instant +the girl’s face was transformed. Her eyebrows rose, her eyes grew +wider, and shone with joy. + +Sanin looked round … A flush had over-spread the lad’s face; his +eyelids stirred … his nostrils twitched. He drew in a breath through +his still clenched teeth, sighed…. + +“Emil!” cried the girl … “Emilio mio!” + +Slowly the big black eyes opened. They still had a dazed look, but +already smiled faintly; the same faint smile hovered on his pale lips. +Then he moved the arm that hung down, and laid it on his chest. + +“Emilio!” repeated the girl, and she got up. The expression on her face +was so tense and vivid, that it seemed that in an instant either she +would burst into tears or break into laughter. + +“Emil! what is it? Emil!” was heard outside, and a neatly-dressed lady +with silvery grey hair and a dark face came with rapid steps into the +room. + +A middle-aged man followed her; the head of a maid-servant was visible +over their shoulders. + +The girl ran to meet them. + +“He is saved, mother, he is alive!” she cried, impulsively embracing +the lady who had just entered. + +“But what is it?” she repeated. “I come back … and all of a sudden I +meet the doctor and Luise …” + +The girl proceeded to explain what had happened, while the doctor went +up to the invalid who was coming more and more to himself, and was +still smiling: he seemed to be beginning to feel shy at the commotion +he had caused. + +“You’ve been using friction with brushes, I see,” said the doctor to +Sanin and Pantaleone, “and you did very well…. A very good idea … and +now let us see what further measures …” + +He felt the youth’s pulse. “H’m! show me your tongue!” + +The lady bent anxiously over him. He smiled still more ingenuously, +raised his eyes to her, and blushed a little. + +It struck Sanin that he was no longer wanted; he went into the shop. +But before he had time to touch the handle of the street-door, the girl +was once more before him; she stopped him. + +“You are going,” she began, looking warmly into his face; “I will not +keep you, but you must be sure to come to see us this evening: we are +so indebted to you—you, perhaps, saved my brother’s life, we want to +thank you—mother wants to. You must tell us who you are, you must +rejoice with us …” + +“But I am leaving for Berlin to-day,” Sanin faltered out. + +“You will have time though,” the girl rejoined eagerly. “Come to us in +an hour’s time to drink a cup of chocolate with us. You promise? I must +go back to him! You will come?” + +What could Sanin do? + +“I will come,” he replied. + +The beautiful girl pressed his hand, fluttered away, and he found +himself in the street. + + + + +IV + + +When Sanin, an hour and a half later, returned to the Rosellis’ shop he +was received there like one of the family. Emilio was sitting on the +same sofa, on which he had been rubbed; the doctor had prescribed him +medicine and recommended “great discretion in avoiding strong emotions” +as being a subject of nervous temperament with a tendency to weakness +of the heart. He had previously been liable to fainting-fits; but never +had he lost consciousness so completely and for so long. However, the +doctor declared that all danger was over. Emil, as was only suitable +for an invalid, was dressed in a comfortable dressing-gown; his mother +wound a blue woollen wrap round his neck; but he had a cheerful, almost +a festive air; indeed everything had a festive air. Before the sofa, on +a round table, covered with a clean cloth, towered a huge china +coffee-pot, filled with fragrant chocolate, and encircled by cups, +decanters of liqueur, biscuits and rolls, and even flowers; six slender +wax candles were burning in two old-fashioned silver chandeliers; on +one side of the sofa, a comfortable lounge-chair offered its soft +embraces, and in this chair they made Sanin sit. All the inhabitants of +the confectioner’s shop, with whom he had made acquaintance that day, +were present, not excluding the poodle, Tartaglia, and the cat; they +all seemed happy beyond expression; the poodle positively sneezed with +delight, only the cat was coy and blinked sleepily as before. They made +Sanin tell them who he was, where he came from, and what was his name; +when he said he was a Russian, both the ladies were a little surprised, +uttered ejaculations of wonder, and declared with one voice that he +spoke German splendidly; but if he preferred to speak French, he might +make use of that language, as they both understood it and spoke it +well. Sanin at once availed himself of this suggestion. “Sanin! Sanin!” +The ladies would never have expected that a Russian surname could be so +easy to pronounce. His Christian name—“Dimitri”—they liked very much +too. The elder lady observed that in her youth she had heard a fine +opera—“Demetrio e Polibio”—but that “Dimitri” was much nicer than +“Demetrio.” In this way Sanin talked for about an hour. The ladies on +their side initiated him into all the details of their own life. The +talking was mostly done by the mother, the lady with grey hair. Sanin +learnt from her that her name was Leonora Roselli; that she had lost +her husband, Giovanni Battista Roselli, who had settled in Frankfort as +a confectioner twenty-five years ago; that Giovanni Battista had come +from Vicenza and had been a most excellent, though fiery and irascible +man, and a republican withal! At those words Signora Roselli pointed to +his portrait, painted in oil-colours, and hanging over the sofa. It +must be presumed that the painter, “also a republican!” as Signora +Roselli observed with a sigh, had not fully succeeded in catching a +likeness, for in his portrait the late Giovanni Battista appeared as a +morose and gloomy brigand, after the style of Rinaldo Rinaldini! +Signora Roselli herself had come from “the ancient and splendid city of +Parma where there is the wonderful cupola, painted by the immortal +Correggio!” But from her long residence in Germany she had become +almost completely Germanised. Then she added, mournfully shaking her +head, that all she had left was _this_ daughter and _this_ son +(pointing to each in turn with her finger); that the daughter’s name +was Gemma, and the son’s Emilio; that they were both very good and +obedient children—especially Emilio … (“Me not obedient!” her daughter +put in at that point. “Oh, you’re a republican, too!” answered her +mother). That the business, of course, was not what it had been in the +days of her husband, who had a great gift for the confectionery line … +(“_Un grand uomo_!” Pantaleone confirmed with a severe air); but that +still, thank God, they managed to get along! + + + + +V + + +Gemma listened to her mother, and at one minute laughed, then sighed, +then patted her on the shoulder, and shook her finger at her, and then +looked at Sanin; at last, she got up, embraced her mother and kissed +her in the hollow of her neck, which made the latter laugh extremely +and shriek a little. Pantaleone too was presented to Sanin. It appeared +he had once been an opera singer, a baritone, but had long ago given up +the theatre, and occupied in the Roselli family a position between that +of a family friend and a servant. In spite of his prolonged residence +in Germany, he had learnt very little German, and only knew how to +swear in it, mercilessly distorting even the terms of abuse. +“_Ferroflucto spitchebubbio_” was his favourite epithet for almost +every German. He spoke Italian with a perfect accent—for was he not by +birth from Sinigali, where may be heard “_lingua toscana in bocca +romana_”! Emilio, obviously, played the invalid and indulged himself in +the pleasant sensations of one who has only just escaped a danger or is +returning to health after illness; it was evident, too, that the family +spoiled him. He thanked Sanin bashfully, but devoted himself chiefly to +the biscuits and sweetmeats. Sanin was compelled to drink two large +cups of excellent chocolate, and to eat a considerable number of +biscuits; no sooner had he swallowed one than Gemma offered him +another—and to refuse was impossible! He soon felt at home: the time +flew by with incredible swiftness. He had to tell them a great +deal—about Russia in general, the Russian climate, Russian society, the +Russian peasant—and especially about the Cossacks; about the war of +1812, about Peter the Great, about the Kremlin, and the Russian songs +and bells. Both ladies had a very faint conception of our vast and +remote fatherland; Signora Roselli, or as she was more often called, +Frau Lenore, positively dumfoundered Sanin with the question, whether +there was still existing at Petersburg the celebrated house of ice, +built last century, about which she had lately read a very curious +article in one of her husband’s books, “_Bettezze delle arti_.” And in +reply to Sanin’s exclamation, “Do you really suppose that there is +never any summer in Russia?” Frau Lenore replied that till then she had +always pictured Russia like this—eternal snow, every one going about in +furs, and all military men, but the greatest hospitality, and all the +peasants very submissive! Sanin tried to impart to her and her daughter +some more exact information. When the conversation touched on Russian +music, they begged him at once to sing some Russian air and showed him +a diminutive piano with black keys instead of white and white instead +of black. He obeyed without making much ado and accompanying himself +with two fingers of the right hand and three of the left (the first, +second, and little finger) he sang in a thin nasal tenor, first “The +Sarafan,” then “Along a Paved Street.” The ladies praised his voice and +the music, but were more struck with the softness and sonorousness of +the Russian language and asked for a translation of the text. Sanin +complied with their wishes—but as the words of “The Sarafan,” and still +more of “Along a Paved Street’ (_sur une rue pavée une jeune fille +allait à l’eau_ was how he rendered the sense of the original) were not +calculated to inspire his listeners with an exalted idea of Russian +poetry, he first recited, then translated, and then sang Pushkin’s, “I +remember a marvellous moment,” set to music by Glinka, whose minor bars +he did not render quite faithfully. Then the ladies went into +ecstasies. Frau Lenore positively discovered in Russian a wonderful +likeness to the Italian. Even the names Pushkin (she pronounced it +Pussekin) and Glinka sounded somewhat familiar to her. Sanin on his +side begged the ladies to sing something; they too did not wait to be +pressed. Frau Lenore sat down to the piano and sang with Gemma some +duets and “stornelle.” The mother had once had a fine contralto; the +daughter’s voice was not strong, but was pleasing. + + + + +VI + + +But it was not Gemma’s voice—it was herself Sanin was admiring. He was +sitting a little behind and on one side of her, and kept thinking to +himself that no palm-tree, even in the poems of Benediktov—the poet in +fashion in those days—could rival the slender grace of her figure. +When, at the most emotional passages, she raised her eyes upwards—it +seemed to him no heaven could fail to open at such a look! Even the old +man, Pantaleone, who with his shoulder propped against the doorpost, +and his chin and mouth tucked into his capacious cravat, was listening +solemnly with the air of a connoisseur—even he was admiring the girl’s +lovely face and marvelling at it, though one would have thought he must +have been used to it! When she had finished the duet with her daughter, +Frau Lenore observed that Emilio had a fine voice, like a silver bell, +but that now he was at the age when the voice changes—he did, in fact, +talk in a sort of bass constantly falling into falsetto—and that he was +therefore forbidden to sing; but that Pantaleone now really might try +his skill of old days in honour of their guest! Pantaleone promptly put +on a displeased air, frowned, ruffled up his hair, and declared that he +had given it all up long ago, though he could certainly in his youth +hold his own, and indeed had belonged to that great period, when there +were real classical singers, not to be compared to the squeaking +performers of to-day! and a real school of singing; that he, Pantaleone +Cippatola of Varese, had once been brought a laurel wreath from Modena, +and that on that occasion some white doves had positively been let fly +in the theatre; that among others a Russian prince Tarbusky—“_il +principe Tarbusski_”—with whom he had been on the most friendly terms, +had after supper persistently invited him to Russia, promising him +mountains of gold, mountains!… but that he had been unwilling to leave +Italy, the land of Dante—_il paese del Dante!_ Afterward, to be sure, +there came … unfortunate circumstances, he had himself been imprudent…. +At this point the old man broke off, sighed deeply twice, looked +dejected, and began again talking of the classical period of singing, +of the celebrated tenor Garcia, for whom he cherished a devout, +unbounded veneration. “He was a man!” he exclaimed. “Never had the +great Garcia (_il gran Garcia_) demeaned himself by singing falsetto +like the paltry tenors of to-day—_tenoracci_; always from the chest, +from the chest, _voce di petto, si!_” and the old man aimed a vigorous +blow with his little shrivelled fist at his own shirt-front! “And what +an actor! A volcano, _signori miei_, a volcano, _un Vesuvio_! I had the +honour and the happiness of singing with him in the _opera dell’ +illustrissimo maestro_ Rossini—in Otello! Garcia was Otello,—I was +Iago—and when he rendered the phrase”:—here Pantaleone threw himself +into an attitude and began singing in a hoarse and shaky, but still +moving voice: + +“L’i … ra daver … so daver … so il fato +lo più no … no … no … non temerò!” + + +The theatre was all a-quiver, _signori miei_! though I too did not fall +short, I too after him. + +“L’i ra daver … so daver … so il fato +Temèr più non davro!” + + +And all of a sudden, he crashed like lightning, like a tiger: _Morro!… +ma vendicato …_ Again when he was singing … when he was singing that +celebrated air from “_Matrimonio segreto_,” _Pria che spunti_ … then +he, _il gran Garcia_, after the words, “_I cavalli di galoppo_”—at the +words, “_Senza posa cacciera_,”—listen, how stupendous, _come è +stupendo_! At that point he made …” The old man began a sort of +extraordinary flourish, and at the tenth note broke down, cleared his +throat, and with a wave of his arm turned away, muttering, “Why do you +torment me?” Gemma jumped up at once and clapping loudly and shouting, +bravo!… bravo!… she ran to the poor old super-annuated Iago and with +both hands patted him affectionately on the shoulders. Only Emil +laughed ruthlessly. _Cet âge est sans pitié_—that age knows no +mercy—Lafontaine has said already. + +Sanin tried to soothe the aged singer and began talking to him in +Italian—(he had picked up a smattering during his last tour +there)—began talking of “_paese del Dante, dove il si suona_.” This +phrase, together with “_Lasciate ogni speranza_,” made up the whole +stock of poetic Italian of the young tourist; but Pantaleone was not +won over by his blandishments. Tucking his chin deeper than ever into +his cravat and sullenly rolling his eyes, he was once more like a bird, +an angry one too,—a crow or a kite. Then Emil, with a faint momentary +blush, such as one so often sees in spoilt children, addressing his +sister, said if she wanted to entertain their guest, she could do +nothing better than read him one of those little comedies of Malz, that +she read so nicely. Gemma laughed, slapped her brother on the arm, +exclaimed that he “always had such ideas!” She went promptly, however, +to her room, and returning thence with a small book in her hand, seated +herself at the table before the lamp, looked round, lifted one finger +as much as to say, “hush!”—a typically Italian gesture—and began +reading. + + + + +VII + + +Malz was a writer flourishing at Frankfort about 1830, whose short +comedies, written in a light vein in the local dialect, hit off local +Frankfort types with bright and amusing, though not deep, humour. It +turned out that Gemma really did read excellently—quite like an actress +in fact. She indicated each personage, and sustained the character +capitally, making full use of the talent of mimicry she had inherited +with her Italian blood; she had no mercy on her soft voice or her +lovely face, and when she had to represent some old crone in her +dotage, or a stupid burgomaster, she made the drollest grimaces, +screwing up her eyes, wrinkling up her nose, lisping, squeaking…. She +did not herself laugh during the reading; but when her audience (with +the exception of Pantaleone: he had walked off in indignation so soon +as the conversation turned _o quel ferroflucto Tedesco_) interrupted +her by an outburst of unanimous laughter, she dropped the book on her +knee, and laughed musically too, her head thrown back, and her black +hair dancing in little ringlets on her neck and her shaking shoulders. +When the laughter ceased, she picked up the book at once, and again +resuming a suitable expression, began the reading seriously. Sanin +could not get over his admiration; he was particularly astonished at +the marvellous way in which a face so ideally beautiful assumed +suddenly a comic, sometimes almost a vulgar expression. Gemma was less +successful in the parts of young girls—of so-called “_jeunes +premières_”; in the love-scenes in particular she failed; she was +conscious of this herself, and for that reason gave them a faint shade +of irony as though she did not quite believe in all these rapturous +vows and elevated sentiments, of which the author, however, was himself +rather sparing—so far as he could be. + +Sanin did not notice how the evening was flying by, and only +recollected the journey before him when the clock struck ten. He leaped +up from his seat as though he had been stung. + +“What is the matter?” inquired Frau Lenore. + +“Why, I had to start for Berlin to-night, and I have taken a place in +the diligence!” + +“And when does the diligence start?” + +“At half-past ten!” + +“Well, then, you won’t catch it now,” observed Gemma; “you must stay … +and I will go on reading.” + +“Have you paid the whole fare or only given a deposit?” Frau Lenore +queried. + +“The whole fare!” Sanin said dolefully with a gloomy face. + +Gemma looked at him, half closed her eyes, and laughed, while her +mother scolded her: + +“The young gentleman has paid away his money for nothing, and you +laugh!” + +“Never mind,” answered Gemma; “it won’t ruin him, and we will try and +amuse him. Will you have some lemonade?” + +Sanin drank a glass of lemonade, Gemma took up Malz once more; and all +went merrily again. + +The clock struck twelve. Sanin rose to take leave. + +“You must stay some days now in Frankfort,” said Gemma: “why should you +hurry away? It would be no nicer in any other town.” She paused. “It +wouldn’t, really,” she added with a smile. Sanin made no reply, and +reflected that considering the emptiness of his purse, he would have no +choice about remaining in Frankfort till he got an answer from a friend +in Berlin, to whom he proposed writing for money. + +“Yes, do stay,” urged Frau Lenore too. “We will introduce you to Mr. +Karl Klüber, who is engaged to Gemma. He could not come to-day, as he +was very busy at his shop … you must have seen the biggest draper’s and +silk mercer’s shop in the _Zeile_. Well, he is the manager there. But +he will be delighted to call on you himself.” + +Sanin—heaven knows why—was slightly disconcerted by this piece of +information. “He’s a lucky fellow, that fiancé!” flashed across his +mind. He looked at Gemma, and fancied he detected an ironical look in +her eyes. He began saying good-bye. + +“Till to-morrow? Till to-morrow, isn’t it?” queried Frau Lenore. + +“Till to-morrow!” Gemma declared in a tone not of interrogation, but of +affirmation, as though it could not be otherwise. + +“Till to-morrow!” echoed Sanin. + +Emil, Pantaleone, and the poodle Tartaglia accompanied him to the +corner of the street. Pantaleone could not refrain from expressing his +displeasure at Gemma’s reading. + +“She ought to be ashamed! She mouths and whines, _una caricatura_! She +ought to represent Merope or Clytemnaestra—something grand, tragic—and +she apes some wretched German woman! I can do that … _merz, kerz, +smerz_,” he went on in a hoarse voice poking his face forward, and +brandishing his fingers. Tartaglia began barking at him, while Emil +burst out laughing. The old man turned sharply back. + +Sanin went back to the White Swan (he had left his things there in the +public hall) in a rather confused frame of mind. All the talk he had +had in French, German, and Italian was ringing in his ears. + +“Engaged!” he whispered as he lay in bed, in the modest apartment +assigned to him. “And what a beauty! But what did I stay for?” + +Next day he sent a letter to his friend in Berlin. + + + + +VIII + + +He had not finished dressing, when a waiter announced the arrival of +two gentlemen. One of them turned out to be Emil; the other, a +good-looking and well-grown young man, with a handsome face, was Herr +Karl Klüber, the betrothed of the lovely Gemma. + +One may safely assume that at that time in all Frankfort, there was not +in a single shop a manager as civil, as decorous, as dignified, and as +affable as Herr Klüber. The irreproachable perfection of his get-up was +on a level with the dignity of his deportment, with the elegance—a +little affected and stiff, it is true, in the English style (he had +spent two years in England)—but still fascinating, elegance of his +manners! It was clear from the first glance that this handsome, rather +severe, excellently brought-up and superbly washed young man was +accustomed to obey his superior and to command his inferior, and that +behind the counter of his shop he must infallibly inspire respect even +in his customers! Of his supernatural honesty there could never be a +particle of doubt: one had but to look at his stiffly starched collars! +And his voice, it appeared, was just what one would expect; deep, and +of a self-confident richness, but not too loud, with positively a +certain caressing note in its timbre. Such a voice was peculiarly +fitted to give orders to assistants under his control: “Show the +crimson Lyons velvet!” or, “Hand the lady a chair!” + +Herr Klüber began with introducing himself; as he did so, he bowed with +such loftiness, moved his legs with such an agreeable air, and drew his +heels together with such polished courtesy that no one could fail to +feel, “that man has both linen and moral principles of the first +quality!” The finish of his bare right hand—(the left, in a suède +glove, held a hat shining like a looking-glass, with the right glove +placed within it)—the finish of the right hand, proffered modestly but +resolutely to Sanin, surpassed all belief; each finger-nail was a +perfection in its own way! Then he proceeded to explain in the choicest +German that he was anxious to express his respect and his indebtedness +to the foreign gentleman who had performed so signal a service to his +future kinsman, the brother of his betrothed; as he spoke, he waved his +left hand with the hat in it in the direction of Emil, who seemed +bashful and turning away to the window, put his finger in his mouth. +Herr Klüber added that he should esteem himself happy should he be able +in return to do anything for the foreign gentleman. Sanin, with some +difficulty, replied, also in German, that he was delighted … that the +service was not worth speaking of … and he begged his guests to sit +down. Herr Klüber thanked him, and lifting his coat-tails, sat down on +a chair; but he perched there so lightly and with such a transitory air +that no one could fail to realise, “this man is sitting down from +politeness, and will fly up again in an instant.” And he did in fact +fly up again quickly, and advancing with two discreet little +dance-steps, he announced that to his regret he was unable to stay any +longer, as he had to hasten to his shop—business before everything! but +as the next day was Sunday, he had, with the consent of Frau Lenore and +Fräulein Gemma, arranged a holiday excursion to Soden, to which he had +the honour of inviting the foreign gentleman, and he cherished the hope +that he would not refuse to grace the party with his presence. Sanin +did not refuse so to grace it; and Herr Klüber repeating once more his +complimentary sentiments, took leave, his pea-green trousers making a +spot of cheerful colour, and his brand-new boots squeaking cheerfully +as he moved. + + + + +IX + + +Emil, who had continued to stand with his face to the window, even +after Sanin’s invitation to him to sit down, turned round directly his +future kinsman had gone out, and with a childish pout and blush, asked +Sanin if he might remain a little while with him. “I am much better +to-day,” he added, “but the doctor has forbidden me to do any work.” + +“Stay by all means! You won’t be in the least in my way,” Sanin cried +at once. Like every true Russian he was glad to clutch at any excuse +that saved him from the necessity of doing anything himself. + +Emil thanked him, and in a very short time he was completely at home +with him and with his room; he looked at all his things, asked him +about almost every one of them, where he had bought it, and what was +its value. He helped him to shave, observing that it was a mistake not +to let his moustache grow; and finally told him a number of details +about his mother, his sister, Pantaleone, the poodle Tartaglia, and all +their daily life. Every semblance of timidity vanished in Emil; he +suddenly felt extraordinarily attracted to Sanin—not at all because he +had saved his life the day before, but because he was such a nice +person! He lost no time in confiding all his secrets to Sanin. He +expatiated with special warmth on the fact that his mother was set on +making him a shopkeeper, while he _knew_, knew for certain, that he was +born an artist, a musician, a singer; that Pantaleone even encouraged +him, but that Herr Klüber supported mamma, over whom he had great +influence; that the very idea of his being a shopkeeper really +originated with Herr Klüber, who considered that nothing in the world +could compare with trade! To measure out cloth—and cheat the public, +extorting from it “_Narren—oder Russen Preise_” (fools’—or Russian +prices)—that was his ideal![1] + + [1] In former days—and very likely it is not different now—when, from + May onwards, a great number of Russians visited Frankfort, prices rose + in all the shops, and were called “Russians’,” or, alas! “fools’ + prices.” + + +“Come! now you must come and see us!” he cried, directly Sanin had +finished his toilet and written his letter to Berlin. + +“It’s early yet,” observed Sanin. + +“That’s no matter,” replied Emil caressingly. “Come along! We’ll go to +the post—and from there to our place. Gemma will be so glad to see you! +You must have lunch with us…. You might say a word to mamma about me, +my career….” + +“Very well, let’s go,” said Sanin, and they set off. + + + + +X + + +Gemma certainly was delighted to see him, and Frau Lenore gave him a +very friendly welcome; he had obviously made a good impression on both +of them the evening before. Emil ran to see to getting lunch ready, +after a preliminary whisper, “don’t forget!” in Sanin’s ear. + +“I won’t forget,” responded Sanin. + +Frau Lenore was not quite well; she had a sick headache, and, +half-lying down in an easy chair, she tried to keep perfectly still. +Gemma wore a full yellow blouse, with a black leather belt round the +waist; she too seemed exhausted, and was rather pale; there were dark +rings round her eyes, but their lustre was not the less for it; it +added something of charm and mystery to the classical lines of her +face. Sanin was especially struck that day by the exquisite beauty of +her hands; when she smoothed and put back her dark, glossy tresses he +could not take his eyes off her long supple fingers, held slightly +apart from one another like the hand of Raphael’s Fornarina. + +It was very hot out-of-doors; after lunch Sanin was about to take +leave, but they told him that on such a day the best thing was to stay +where one was, and he agreed; he stayed. In the back room where he was +sitting with the ladies of the household, coolness reigned supreme; the +windows looked out upon a little garden overgrown with acacias. +Multitudes of bees, wasps, and humming beetles kept up a steady, eager +buzz in their thick branches, which were studded with golden blossoms; +through the half-drawn curtains and the lowered blinds this +never-ceasing hum made its way into the room, telling of the sultry +heat in the air outside, and making the cool of the closed and snug +abode seem the sweeter. + +Sanin talked a great deal, as on the day before, but not of Russia, nor +of Russian life. Being anxious to please his young friend, who had been +sent off to Herr Klüber’s immediately after lunch, to acquire a +knowledge of book-keeping, he turned the conversation on the +comparative advantages and disadvantages of art and commerce. He was +not surprised at Frau Lenore’s standing up for commerce—he had expected +that; but Gemma too shared her opinion. + +“If one’s an artist, and especially a singer,” she declared with a +vigorous downward sweep of her hand, “one’s got to be first-rate! +Second-rate’s worse than nothing; and who can tell if one will arrive +at being first-rate?” Pantaleone, who took part too in the +conversation—(as an old servant and an old man he had the privilege of +sitting down in the presence of the ladies of the house; Italians are +not, as a rule, strict in matters of etiquette)—Pantaleone, as a matter +of course, stood like a rock for art. To tell the truth, his arguments +were somewhat feeble; he kept expatiating for the most part on the +necessity, before all things, of possessing “_un certo estro +d’inspirazione_”—a certain force of inspiration! Frau Lenore remarked +to him that he had, to be sure, possessed such an “_estro_”—and yet … +“I had enemies,” Pantaleone observed gloomily. “And how do you know +that Emil will not have enemies, even if this “_estro_” is found in +him?” “Very well, make a tradesman of him, then,” retorted Pantaleone +in vexation; “but Giovan’ Battista would never have done it, though he +was a confectioner himself!” “Giovan’ Battista, my husband, was a +reasonable man, and even though he was in his youth led away …” But the +old man would hear nothing more, and walked away, repeating +reproachfully, “Ah! Giovan’ Battista!…” Gemma exclaimed that if Emil +felt like a patriot, and wanted to devote all his powers to the +liberation of Italy, then, of course, for such a high and holy cause he +might sacrifice the security of the future—but not for the theatre! +Thereupon Frau Lenore became much agitated, and began to implore her +daughter to refrain at least from turning her brother’s head, and to +content herself with being such a desperate republican herself! Frau +Lenore groaned as she uttered these words, and began complaining of her +head, which was “ready to split.” (Frau Lenore, in deference to their +guest, talked to her daughter in French.) + +Gemma began at once to wait upon her; she moistened her forehead with +eau-de-Cologne, gently blew on it, gently kissed her cheek, made her +lay her head on a pillow, forbade her to speak, and kissed her again. +Then, turning to Sanin, she began telling him in a half-joking, +half-tender tone what a splendid mother she had, and what a beauty she +had been. “‘Had been,’ did I say? she is charming now! Look, look, what +eyes!” + +Gemma instantly pulled a white handkerchief out of her pocket, covered +her mother’s face with it, and slowly drawing it downwards, gradually +uncovered Frau Lenore’s forehead, eyebrows, and eyes; she waited a +moment and asked her to open them. Her mother obeyed; Gemma cried out +in ecstasy (Frau Lenore’s eyes really were very beautiful), and rapidly +sliding the handkerchief over the lower, less regular part of the face, +fell to kissing her again. Frau Lenore laughed, and turning a little +away, with a pretence of violence, pushed her daughter away. She too +pretended to struggle with her mother, and lavished caresses on her—not +like a cat, in the French manner, but with that special Italian grace +in which is always felt the presence of power. + +At last Frau Lenore declared she was tired out … Then Gemma at once +advised her to have a little nap, where she was, in her chair, “and I +and the Russian gentleman—‘_avec le monsieur russe_’—will be as quiet, +as quiet … as little mice … ‘_comme des petites souris_.’” Frau Lenore +smiled at her in reply, closed her eyes, and after a few sighs began to +doze. Gemma quickly dropped down on a bench beside her and did not stir +again, only from time to time she put a finger of one hand to her +lips—with the other hand she was holding up a pillow behind her +mother’s head—and said softly, “sh-sh!” with a sidelong look at Sanin, +if he permitted himself the smallest movement. In the end he too sank +into a kind of dream, and sat motionless as though spell-bound, while +all his faculties were absorbed in admiring the picture presented him +by the half-dark room, here and there spotted with patches of light +crimson, where fresh, luxuriant roses stood in the old-fashioned green +glasses, and the sleeping woman with demurely folded hands and kind, +weary face, framed in the snowy whiteness of the pillow, and the young, +keenly-alert and also kind, clever, pure, and unspeakably beautiful +creature with such black, deep, overshadowed, yet shining eyes…. What +was it? A dream? a fairy tale? And how came _he_ to be in it? + + + + +XI + + +The bell tinkled at the outer door. A young peasant lad in a fur cap +and a red waistcoat came into the shop from the street. Not one +customer had looked into it since early morning … “You see how much +business we do!” Frau Lenore observed to Sanin at lunch-time with a +sigh. She was still asleep; Gemma was afraid to take her arm from the +pillow, and whispered to Sanin: “You go, and mind the shop for me!” +Sanin went on tiptoe into the shop at once. The boy wanted a quarter of +a pound of peppermints. “How much must I take?” Sanin whispered from +the door to Gemma. “Six kreutzers!” she answered in the same whisper. +Sanin weighed out a quarter of a pound, found some paper, twisted it +into a cone, tipped the peppermints into it, spilt them, tipped them in +again, spilt them again, at last handed them to the boy, and took the +money…. The boy gazed at him in amazement, twisting his cap in his +hands on his stomach, and in the next room, Gemma was stifling with +suppressed laughter. Before the first customer had walked out, a second +appeared, then a third…. “I bring luck, it’s clear!” thought Sanin. The +second customer wanted a glass of orangeade, the third, half-a-pound of +sweets. Sanin satisfied their needs, zealously clattering the spoons, +changing the saucers, and eagerly plunging his fingers into drawers and +jars. On reckoning up, it appeared that he had charged too little for +the orangeade, and taken two kreutzers too much for the sweets. Gemma +did not cease laughing softly, and Sanin too was aware of an +extraordinary lightness of heart, a peculiarly happy state of mind. He +felt as if he had for ever been standing behind the counter and dealing +in orangeade and sweetmeats, with that exquisite creature looking at +him through the doorway with affectionately mocking eyes, while the +summer sun, forcing its way through the sturdy leafage of the chestnuts +that grew in front of the windows, filled the whole room with the +greenish-gold of the midday light and shade, and the heart grew soft in +the sweet languor of idleness, carelessness, and youth—first youth! + +A fourth customer asked for a cup of coffee; Pantaleone had to be +appealed to. (Emil had not yet come back from Herr Klüber’s shop.) +Sanin went and sat by Gemma again. Frau Lenore still went on sleeping, +to her daughter’s great delight. “Mamma always sleeps off her sick +headaches,” she observed. Sanin began talking—in a whisper, of course, +as before—of his minding the shop; very seriously inquired the price of +various articles of confectionery; Gemma just as seriously told him +these prices, and meanwhile both of them were inwardly laughing +together, as though conscious they were playing in a very amusing +farce. All of a sudden, an organ-grinder in the street began playing an +air from the Freischütz: “_Durch die Felder, durch die Auen_ …” The +dance tune fell shrill and quivering on the motionless air. Gemma +started … “He will wake mamma!” Sanin promptly darted out into the +street, thrust a few kreutzers into the organ-grinder’s hand, and made +him cease playing and move away. When he came back, Gemma thanked him +with a little nod of the head, and with a pensive smile she began +herself just audibly humming the beautiful melody of Weber’s, in which +Max expresses all the perplexities of first love. Then she asked Sanin +whether he knew “Freischütz,” whether he was fond of Weber, and added +that though she was herself an Italian, she liked _such_ music best of +all. From Weber the conversation glided off on to poetry and +romanticism, on to Hoffmann, whom every one was still reading at that +time. + +And Frau Lenore still slept, and even snored just a little, and the +sunbeams, piercing in narrow streaks through the shutters, were +incessantly and imperceptibly shifting and travelling over the floor, +the furniture, Gemma’s dress, and the leaves and petals of the flowers. + + + + +XII + + +It appeared that Gemma was not very fond of Hoffmann, that she even +thought him … tedious! The fantastic, misty northern element in his +stories was too remote from her clear, southern nature. “It’s all +fairy-tales, all written for children!” she declared with some +contempt. She was vaguely conscious, too, of the lack of poetry in +Hoffmann. But there was one of his stories, the title of which she had +forgotten, which she greatly liked; more precisely speaking, it was +only the beginning of this story that she liked; the end she had either +not read or had forgotten. The story was about a young man who in some +place, a sort of restaurant perhaps, meets a girl of striking beauty, a +Greek; she is accompanied by a mysterious and strange, wicked old man. +The young man falls in love with the girl at first sight; she looks at +him so mournfully, as though beseeching him to deliver her…. He goes +out for an instant, and, coming back into the restaurant, finds there +neither the girl nor the old man; he rushes off in pursuit of her, +continually comes upon fresh traces of her, follows them up, and can +never by any means come upon her anywhere. The lovely girl has vanished +for him for ever and ever, and he is never able to forget her imploring +glance, and is tortured by the thought that all the happiness of his +life, perhaps, has slipped through his fingers. + +Hoffmann does not end his story quite in that way; but so it had taken +shape, so it had remained, in Gemma’s memory. + +“I fancy,” she said, “such meetings and such partings happen oftener in +the world than we suppose.” + +Sanin was silent … and soon after he began talking … of Herr Klüber. It +was the first time he had referred to him; he had not once remembered +him till that instant. + +Gemma was silent in her turn, and sank into thought, biting the nail of +her forefinger and fixing her eyes away. Then she began to speak in +praise of her betrothed, alluded to the excursion he had planned for +the next day, and, glancing swiftly at Sanin, was silent again. + +Sanin did not know on what subject to turn the conversation. + +Emil ran in noisily and waked Frau Lenore … Sanin was relieved by his +appearance. + +Frau Lenore got up from her low chair. Pantaleone came in and announced +that dinner was ready. The friend of the family, ex-singer, and servant +also performed the duties of cook. + + + + +XIII + + +Sanin stayed on after dinner too. They did not let him go, still on the +same pretext of the terrible heat; and when the heat began to decrease, +they proposed going out into the garden to drink coffee in the shade of +the acacias. Sanin consented. He felt very happy. In the quietly +monotonous, smooth current of life lie hid great delights, and he gave +himself up to these delights with zest, asking nothing much of the +present day, but also thinking nothing of the morrow, nor recalling the +day before. How much the mere society of such a girl as Gemma meant to +him! He would shortly part from her and, most likely, for ever; but so +long as they were borne, as in Uhland’s song, in one skiff over the sea +of life, untossed by tempest, well might the traveller rejoice and be +glad. And everything seemed sweet and delightful to the happy voyager. +Frau Lenore offered to play against him and Pantaleone at “tresette,” +instructed him in this not complicated Italian game, and won a few +kreutzers from him, and he was well content. Pantaleone, at Emil’s +request, made the poodle, Tartaglia, perform all his tricks, and +Tartaglia jumped over a stick “spoke,” that is, barked, sneezed, shut +the door with his nose, fetched his master’s trodden-down slippers; +and, finally, with an old cap on his head, he portrayed Marshal +Bernadotte, subjected to the bitterest upbraidings by the Emperor +Napoleon on account of his treachery. Napoleon’s part was, of course, +performed by Pantaleone, and very faithfully he performed it: he folded +his arms across his chest, pulled a cocked hat over his eyes, and spoke +very gruffly and sternly, in French—and heavens! what French! Tartaglia +sat before his sovereign, all huddled up, with dejected tail, and eyes +blinking and twitching in confusion, under the peak of his cap which +was stuck on awry; from time to time when Napoleon raised his voice, +Bernadotte rose on his hind paws. “_Fuori, traditore!_” cried Napoleon +at last, forgetting in the excess of his wrath that he had to sustain +his rôle as a Frenchman to the end; and Bernadotte promptly flew under +the sofa, but quickly darted out again with a joyful bark, as though to +announce that the performance was over. All the spectators laughed, and +Sanin more than all. + +Gemma had a particularly charming, continual, soft laugh, with very +droll little shrieks…. Sanin was fairly enchanted by that laugh—he +could have kissed her for those shrieks! + +Night came on at last. He had in decency to take leave! After saying +good-bye several times over to every one, and repeating several times +to all, “till to-morrow!”—Emil he went so far as to kiss—Sanin started +home, carrying with him the image of the young girl, at one time +laughing, at another thoughtful, calm, and even indifferent—but always +attractive! Her eyes, at one time wide open, clear and bright as day, +at another time half shrouded by the lashes and deep and dark as night, +seemed to float before his eyes, piercing in a strange sweet way across +all other images and recollections. + +Of Herr Klüber, of the causes impelling him to remain in Frankfort—in +short, of everything that had disturbed his mind the evening before—he +never thought once. + + + + +XIV + + +We must, however, say a few words about Sanin himself. + +In the first place, he was very, very good-looking. A handsome, +graceful figure, agreeable, rather unformed features, kindly bluish +eyes, golden hair, a clear white and red skin, and, above all, that +peculiar, naïvely-cheerful, confiding, open, at the first glance, +somewhat foolish expression, by which in former days one could +recognise directly the children of steady-going, noble families, “sons +of their fathers,” fine young landowners, born and reared in our open, +half-wild country parts,—a hesitating gait, a voice with a lisp, a +smile like a child’s the minute you looked at him … lastly, freshness, +health, softness, softness, softness,—there you have the whole of +Sanin. And secondly, he was not stupid and had picked up a fair amount +of knowledge. Fresh he had remained, for all his foreign tour; the +disturbing emotions in which the greater part of the young people of +that day were tempest-tossed were very little known to him. + +Of late years, in response to the assiduous search for “new types,” +young men have begun to appear in our literature, determined at all +hazards to be “fresh”… as fresh as Flensburg oysters, when they reach +Petersburg…. Sanin was not like them. Since we have had recourse +already to simile, he rather recalled a young, leafy, freshly-grafted +apple-tree in one of our fertile orchards—or better still, a +well-groomed, sleek, sturdy-limbed, tender young “three-year-old” in +some old-fashioned seignorial stud stable, a young horse that they have +hardly begun to break in to the traces…. Those who came across Sanin in +later years, when life had knocked him about a good deal, and the +sleekness and plumpness of youth had long vanished, saw in him a +totally different man. + +Next day Sanin was still in bed when Emil, in his best clothes, with a +cane in his hand and much pomade on his head, burst into his room, +announcing that Herr Klüber would be here directly with the carriage, +that the weather promised to be exquisite, that they had everything +ready by now, but that mamma was not going, as her head was bad again. +He began to hurry Sanin, telling him that there was not a minute to +lose…. And Herr Klüber did, in fact, find Sanin still at his toilet. He +knocked at the door, came in, bowed with a bend from the waist, +expressed his readiness to wait as long as might be desired, and sat +down, his hat balanced elegantly on his knees. The handsome +shop-manager had got himself up and perfumed himself to excess: his +every action was accompanied by a powerful whiff of the most refined +aroma. He arrived in a comfortable open carriage—one of the kind called +landau—drawn by two tall and powerful but not well-shaped horses. A +quarter of an hour later Sanin, Klüber, and Emil, in this same +carriage, drew up triumphantly at the steps of the confectioner’s shop. +Madame Roselli resolutely refused to join the party; Gemma wanted to +stay with her mother; but she simply turned her out. + +“I don’t want any one,” she declared; “I shall go to sleep. I would +send Pantaleone with you too, only there would be no one to mind the +shop.” + +“May we take Tartaglia?” asked Emil. + +“Of course you may.” + +Tartaglia immediately scrambled, with delighted struggles, on to the +box and sat there, licking himself; it was obviously a thing he was +accustomed to. Gemma put on a large straw hat with brown ribbons; the +hat was bent down in front, so as to shade almost the whole of her face +from the sun. The line of shadow stopped just at her lips; they wore a +tender maiden flush, like the petals of a centifoil rose, and her teeth +gleamed stealthily—innocently too, as when children smile. Gemma sat +facing the horses, with Sanin; Klüber and Emil sat opposite. The pale +face of Frau Lenore appeared at the window; Gemma waved her +handkerchief to her, and the horses started. + + + + +XV + + +Soden is a little town half an hour’s distance from Frankfort. It lies +in a beautiful country among the spurs of the Taunus Mountains, and is +known among us in Russia for its waters, which are supposed to be +beneficial to people with weak lungs. The Frankforters visit it more +for purposes of recreation, as Soden possesses a fine park and various +“wirthschaften,” where one may drink beer and coffee in the shade of +the tall limes and maples. The road from Frankfort to Soden runs along +the right bank of the Maine, and is planted all along with fruit trees. +While the carriage was rolling slowly along an excellent road, Sanin +stealthily watched how Gemma behaved to her betrothed; it was the first +time he had seen them together. _She_ was quiet and simple in her +manner, but rather more reserved and serious than usual; _he_ had the +air of a condescending schoolmaster, permitting himself and those under +his authority a discreet and decorous pleasure. Sanin saw no signs in +him of any marked attentiveness, of what the French call +“_empressement_,” in his demeanour to Gemma. It was clear that Herr +Klüber considered that it was a matter settled once for all, and that +therefore he saw no reason to trouble or excite himself. But his +condescension never left him for an instant! Even during a long ramble +before dinner about the wooded hills and valleys behind Soden, even +when enjoying the beauties of nature, he treated nature itself with the +same condescension, through which his habitual magisterial severity +peeped out from time to time. So, for example, he observed in regard to +one stream that it ran too straight through the glade, instead of +making a few picturesque curves; he disapproved, too, of the conduct of +a bird—a chaffinch—for singing so monotonously. Gemma was not bored, +and even, apparently, was enjoying herself; but Sanin did not recognise +her as the Gemma of the preceding days; it was not that she seemed +under a cloud—her beauty had never been more dazzling—but her soul +seemed to have withdrawn into herself. With her parasol open and her +gloves still buttoned up, she walked sedately, deliberately, as +well-bred young girls walk, and spoke little. Emil, too, felt stiff, +and Sanin more so than all. He was somewhat embarrassed too by the fact +that the conversation was all the time in German. Only Tartaglia was in +high spirits! He darted, barking frantically, after blackbirds, leaped +over ravines, stumps and roots, rushed headlong into the water, lapped +at it in desperate haste, shook himself, whining, and was off like an +arrow, his red tongue trailing after him almost to his shoulder. Herr +Klüber, for his part, did everything he supposed conducive to the +mirthfulness of the company; he begged them to sit down in the shade of +a spreading oak-tree, and taking out of a side pocket a small booklet +entitled, “_Knallerbsen; oder du sollst und wirst lachen!_” (Squibs; or +you must and shall laugh!) began reading the funny anecdotes of which +the little book was full. He read them twelve specimens; he aroused +very little mirth, however; only Sanin smiled, from politeness, and he +himself, Herr Klüber, after each anecdote, gave vent to a brief, +business-like, but still condescending laugh. At twelve o’clock the +whole party returned to Soden to the best tavern there. + +They had to make arrangements about dinner. Herr Klüber proposed that +the dinner should be served in a summer-house closed in on all +sides—“_im Gartensalon_”; but at this point Gemma rebelled and declared +that she would have dinner in the open air, in the garden, at one of +the little tables set before the tavern; that she was tired of being +all the while with the same faces, and she wanted to see fresh ones. At +some of the little tables, groups of visitors were already sitting. + +While Herr Klüber, yielding condescendingly to “the caprice of his +betrothed,” went off to interview the head waiter, Gemma stood +immovable, biting her lips and looking on the ground; she was conscious +that Sanin was persistently and, as it were, inquiringly looking at +her—it seemed to enrage her. At last Herr Klüber returned, announced +that dinner would be ready in half an hour, and proposed their +employing the interval in a game of skittles, adding that this was very +good for the appetite, he, he, he! Skittles he played in masterly +fashion; as he threw the ball, he put himself into amazingly heroic +postures, with artistic play of the muscles, with artistic flourish and +shake of the leg. In his own way he was an athlete—and was superbly +built! His hands, too, were so white and handsome, and he wiped them on +such a sumptuous, gold-striped, Indian bandana! + +The moment of dinner arrived, and the whole party seated themselves at +the table. + + + + +XVI + + +Who does not know what a German dinner is like? Watery soup with knobby +dumplings and pieces of cinnamon, boiled beef dry as cork, with white +fat attached, slimy potatoes, soft beetroot and mashed horseradish, a +bluish eel with French capers and vinegar, a roast joint with jam, and +the inevitable “_Mehlspeise_,” something of the nature of a pudding +with sourish red sauce; but to make up, the beer and wine first-rate! +With just such a dinner the tavernkeeper at Soden regaled his +customers. The dinner, itself, however, went off satisfactorily. No +special liveliness was perceptible, certainly; not even when Herr +Klüber proposed the toast “What we like!” (Was wir lieben!) But at +least everything was decorous and seemly. After dinner, coffee was +served, thin, reddish, typically German coffee. Herr Klüber, with true +gallantry, asked Gemma’s permission to smoke a cigar…. But at this +point suddenly something occurred, unexpected, and decidedly +unpleasant, and even unseemly! + +At one of the tables near were sitting several officers of the garrison +of the Maine. From their glances and whispering together it was easy to +perceive that they were struck by Gemma’s beauty; one of them, who had +probably stayed in Frankfort, stared at her persistently, as at a +figure familiar to him; he obviously knew who she was. He suddenly got +up, and glass in hand—all the officers had been drinking hard, and the +cloth before them was crowded with bottles—approached the table at +which Gemma was sitting. He was a very young flaxen-haired man, with a +rather pleasing and even attractive face, but his features were +distorted with the wine he had drunk, his cheeks were twitching, his +blood-shot eyes wandered, and wore an insolent expression. His +companions at first tried to hold him back, but afterwards let him go, +interested apparently to see what he would do, and how it would end. +Slightly unsteady on his legs, the officer stopped before Gemma, and in +an unnaturally screaming voice, in which, in spite of himself, an +inward struggle could be discerned, he articulated, “I drink to the +health of the prettiest confectioner in all Frankfort, in all the world +(he emptied his glass), and in return I take this flower, picked by her +divine little fingers!” He took from the table a rose that lay beside +Gemma’s plate. At first she was astonished, alarmed, and turned +fearfully white … then alarm was replaced by indignation; she suddenly +crimsoned all over, to her very hair—and her eyes, fastened directly on +the offender, at the same time darkened and flamed, they were filled +with black gloom, and burned with the fire of irrepressible fury. The +officer must have been confused by this look; he muttered something +unintelligible, bowed, and walked back to his friends. They greeted him +with a laugh, and faint applause. + +Herr Klüber rose spasmodically from his seat, drew himself up to his +full height, and putting on his hat pronounced with dignity, but not +too loud, “Unheard of! Unheard of! Unheard of impertinence!” and at +once calling up the waiter, in a severe voice asked for the bill … more +than that, ordered the carriage to be put to, adding that it was +impossible for respectable people to frequent the establishment if they +were exposed to insult! At those words Gemma, who still sat in her +place without stirring—her bosom was heaving violently—Gemma raised her +eyes to Herr Klüber … and she gazed as intently, with the same +expression at him as at the officer. Emil was simply shaking with rage. + +“Get up, _mein Fräulein_,” Klüber admonished her with the same +severity, “it is not proper for you to remain here. We will go inside, +in the tavern!” + +Gemma rose in silence; he offered her his arm, she gave him hers, and +he walked into the tavern with a majestic step, which became, with his +whole bearing, more majestic and haughty the farther he got from the +place where they had dined. Poor Emil dragged himself after them. + +But while Herr Klüber was settling up with the waiter, to whom, by way +of punishment, he gave not a single kreutzer for himself, Sanin with +rapid steps approached the table at which the officers were sitting, +and addressing Gemma’s assailant, who was at that instant offering her +rose to his companions in turns to smell, he uttered very distinctly in +French, “What you have just done, sir, is conduct unworthy of an honest +man, unworthy of the uniform you wear, and I have come to tell you you +are an ill-bred cur!” The young man leaped on to his feet, but another +officer, rather older, checked him with a gesture, made him sit down, +and turning to Sanin asked him also in French, “Was he a relation, +brother, or betrothed of the girl?” + +“I am nothing to her at all,” cried Sanin, “I am a Russian, but I +cannot look on at such insolence with indifference; but here is my card +and my address; _monsieur l’officier_ can find me.” + +As he uttered these words, Sanin threw his visiting-card on the table, +and at the same moment hastily snatched Gemma’s rose, which one of the +officers sitting at the table had dropped into his plate. The young man +was again on the point of jumping up from the table, but his companion +again checked him, saying, “Dönhof, be quiet! Dönhof, sit still.” Then +he got up himself, and putting his hand to the peak of his cap, with a +certain shade of respectfulness in his voice and manner, told Sanin +that to-morrow morning an officer of the regiment would have the honour +of calling upon him. Sanin replied with a short bow, and hurriedly +returned to his friends. + +Herr Klüber pretended he had not noticed either Sanin’s absence nor his +interview with the officers; he was urging on the coachman, who was +putting in the horses, and was furiously angry at his deliberateness. +Gemma too said nothing to Sanin, she did not even look at him; from her +knitted brows, from her pale and compressed lips, from her very +immobility it could be seen that she was suffering inwardly. Only Emil +obviously wanted to speak to Sanin, wanted to question him; he had seen +Sanin go up to the officers, he had seen him give them something +white—a scrap of paper, a note, or a card…. The poor boy’s heart was +beating, his cheeks burned, he was ready to throw himself on Sanin’s +neck, ready to cry, or to go with him at once to crush all those +accursed officers into dust and ashes! He controlled himself, however, +and did no more than watch intently every movement of his noble Russian +friend. + +The coachman had at last harnessed the horses; the whole party seated +themselves in the carriage. Emil climbed on to the box, after +Tartaglia; he was more comfortable there, and had not Klüber, whom he +could hardly bear the sight of, sitting opposite to him. + +The whole way home Herr Klüber discoursed … and he discoursed alone; no +one, absolutely no one, opposed him, nor did any one agree with him. He +especially insisted on the point that they had been wrong in not +following his advice when he suggested dining in a shut-up +summer-house. There no unpleasantness could have occurred! Then he +expressed a few decided and even liberal sentiments on the unpardonable +way in which the government favoured the military, neglected their +discipline, and did not sufficiently consider the civilian element in +society (_das bürgerliche Element in der Societät_!), and foretold that +in time this cause would give rise to discontent, which might well pass +into revolution, of which (here he dropped a sympathetic though severe +sigh) France had given them a sorrowful example! He added, however, +that he personally had the greatest respect for authority, and never … +no, never!… could be a revolutionist—but he could not but express his … +disapprobation at the sight of such licence! Then he made a few general +observations on morality and immorality, good-breeding, and the sense +of dignity. + +During all these lucubrations, Gemma, who even while they were walking +before dinner had not seemed quite pleased with Herr Klüber, and had +therefore held rather aloof from Sanin, and had been, as it were, +embarrassed by his presence—Gemma was unmistakably ashamed of her +betrothed! Towards the end of the drive she was positively wretched, +and though, as before, she did not address a word to Sanin, she +suddenly flung an imploring glance at him…. He, for his part, felt much +more sorry for her than indignant with Herr Klüber; he was even +secretly, half-consciously, delighted at what had happened in the +course of that day, even though he had every reason to expect a +challenge next morning. + +This miserable _partie de plaisir_ came to an end at last. As he helped +Gemma out of the carriage at the confectionery shop, Sanin without a +word put into her hand the rose he had recovered. She flushed crimson, +pressed his hand, and instantly hid the rose. He did not want to go +into the house, though the evening was only just beginning. She did not +even invite him. Moreover Pantaleone, who came out on the steps, +announced that Frau Lenore was asleep. Emil took a shy good-bye of +Sanin; he felt as it were in awe of him; he greatly admired him. Klüber +saw Sanin to his lodging, and took leave of him stiffly. The +well-regulated German, for all his self-confidence, felt awkward. And +indeed every one felt awkward. + +But in Sanin this feeling of awkwardness soon passed off. It was +replaced by a vague, but pleasant, even triumphant feeling. He walked +up and down his room, whistling, and not caring to think about +anything, and was very well pleased with himself. + + + + +XVII + + +“I will wait for the officer’s visit till ten o’clock,” he reflected +next morning, as he dressed, “and then let him come and look for me!” +But Germans rise early: it had not yet struck nine when the waiter +informed Sanin that the Herr Seconde Lieutenant von Richter wished to +see him. Sanin made haste to put on his coat, and told him to ask him +up. Herr Richter turned out, contrary to Sanin’s expectation, to be a +very young man, almost a boy. He tried to give an expression of dignity +to his beardless face, but did not succeed at all: he could not even +conceal his embarrassment, and as he sat down on a chair, he tripped +over his sword, and almost fell. Stammering and hesitating, he +announced to Sanin in bad French that he had come with a message from +his friend, Baron von Dönhof; that this message was to demand from Herr +von Sanin an apology for the insulting expressions used by him on the +previous day; and in case of refusal on the part of Herr von Sanin, +Baron von Dönhof would ask for satisfaction. Sanin replied that he did +not mean to apologise, but was ready to give him satisfaction. Then +Herr von Richter, still with the same hesitation, asked with whom, at +what time and place, should he arrange the necessary preliminaries. +Sanin answered that he might come to him in two hours’ time, and that +meanwhile, he, Sanin, would try and find a second. (“Who the devil is +there I can have for a second?” he was thinking to himself meantime.) +Herr von Richter got up and began to take leave … but at the doorway he +stopped, as though stung by a prick of conscience, and turning to Sanin +observed that his friend, Baron von Dönhof, could not but recognise … +that he had been … to a certain extent, to blame himself in the +incident of the previous day, and would, therefore, be satisfied with +slight apologies (“_des exghizes léchères_.”) To this Sanin replied +that he did not intend to make any apology whatever, either slight or +considerable, since he did not consider himself to blame. “In that +case,” answered Herr von Richter, blushing more than ever, “you will +have to exchange friendly shots—_des goups de bisdolet à l’amiaple_!” + +“I don’t understand that at all,” observed Sanin; “are we to fire in +the air or what?” + +“Oh, not exactly that,” stammered the sub-lieutenant, utterly +disconcerted, “but I supposed since it is an affair between men of +honour … I will talk to your second,” he broke off, and went away. + +Sanin dropped into a chair directly he had gone, and stared at the +floor. “What does it all mean? How is it my life has taken such a turn +all of a sudden? All the past, all the future has suddenly vanished, +gone,—and all that’s left is that I am going to fight some one about +something in Frankfort.” He recalled a crazy aunt of his who used to +dance and sing: + +“O my lieutenant! +My little cucumber! +My little love! +Dance with me, my little dove!” + + +And he laughed and hummed as she used to: “O my lieutenant! Dance with +me, little dove!” “But I must act, though, I mustn’t waste time,” he +cried aloud—jumped up and saw Pantaleone facing him with a note in his +hand. + +“I knocked several times, but you did not answer; I thought you weren’t +at home,” said the old man, as he gave him the note. “From Signorina +Gemma.” + +Sanin took the note, mechanically, as they say, tore it open, and read +it. Gemma wrote to him that she was very anxious—about he knew what—and +would be very glad to see him at once. + +“The Signorina is anxious,” began Pantaleone, who obviously knew what +was in the note, “she told me to see what you are doing and to bring +you to her.” + +Sanin glanced at the old Italian, and pondered. A sudden idea flashed +upon his brain. For the first instant it struck him as too absurd to be +possible. + +“After all … why not?” he asked himself. + +“M. Pantaleone!” he said aloud. + +The old man started, tucked his chin into his cravat and stared at +Sanin. + +“Do you know,” pursued Sanin, “what happened yesterday?” + +Pantaleone chewed his lips and shook his immense top-knot of hair. +“Yes.” + +(Emil had told him all about it directly he got home.) + +“Oh, you know! Well, an officer has just this minute left me. That +scoundrel challenges me to a duel. I have accepted his challenge. But I +have no second. Will _you_ be my second?” + +Pantaleone started and raised his eyebrows so high that they were lost +under his overhanging hair. + +“You are absolutely obliged to fight?” he said at last in Italian; till +that instant he had made use of French. + +“Absolutely. I can’t do otherwise—it would mean disgracing myself for +ever.” + +“H’m. If I don’t consent to be your second you will find some one +else.” + +“Yes … undoubtedly.” + +Pantaleone looked down. “But allow me to ask you, Signor de Tsanin, +will not your duel throw a slur on the reputation of a certain lady?” + +“I don’t suppose so; but in any case, there’s no help for it.” + +“H’m!” Pantaleone retired altogether into his cravat. “Hey, but that +_ferroflucto Klüberio_—what’s he about?” he cried all of a sudden, +looking up again. + +“He? Nothing.” + +“_Che_!” Pantaleone shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. “I have, in +any case, to thank you,” he articulated at last in an unsteady voice +“that even in my present humble condition you recognise that I am a +gentleman—_un galant’uomo_! In that way you have shown yourself to be a +real _galant’uomo_. But I must consider your proposal.” + +“There’s no time to lose, dear Signor Ci … cippa …” + +“Tola,” the old man chimed in. “I ask only for one hour for +reflection…. The daughter of my benefactor is involved in this…. And, +therefore, I ought, I am bound, to reflect!… In an hour, in +three-quarters of an hour, you shall know my decision.” + +“Very well; I will wait.” + +“And now … what answer am I to give to Signorina Gemma?” + +Sanin took a sheet of paper, wrote on it, “Set your mind at rest, dear +friend; in three hours’ time I will come to you, and everything shall +be explained. I thank you from my heart for your sympathy,” and handed +this sheet to Pantaleone. + +He put it carefully into his side-pocket, and once more repeating “In +an hour!” made towards the door; but turning sharply back, ran up to +Sanin, seized his hand, and pressing it to his shirt-front, cried, with +his eyes to the ceiling: “Noble youth! Great heart! (_Nobil giovanotto! +Gran cuore!_) permit a weak old man (_a un vecchiotto!_) to press your +valorous right hand (_la vostra valorosa destra!_)” Then he skipped +back a pace or two, threw up both hands, and went away. + +Sanin looked after him … took up the newspaper and tried to read. But +his eyes wandered in vain over the lines: he understood nothing. + + + + +XVIII + + +An hour later the waiter came in again to Sanin, and handed him an old, +soiled visiting-card, on which were the following words: “Pantaleone +Cippatola of Varese, court singer (_cantante di camera_) to his Royal +Highness the Duke of Modena”; and behind the waiter in walked +Pantaleone himself. He had changed his clothes from top to toe. He had +on a black frock coat, reddish with long wear, and a white piqué +waistcoat, upon which a pinchbeck chain meandered playfully; a heavy +cornelian seal hung low down on to his narrow black trousers. In his +right hand he carried a black beaver hat, in his left two stout chamois +gloves; he had tied his cravat in a taller and broader bow than ever, +and had stuck into his starched shirt-front a pin with a stone, a +so-called “cat’s eye.” On his forefinger was displayed a ring, +consisting of two clasped hands with a burning heart between them. A +smell of garments long laid by, a smell of camphor and of musk hung +about the whole person of the old man; the anxious solemnity of his +deportment must have struck the most casual spectator! Sanin rose to +meet him. + +“I am your second,” Pantaleone announced in French, and he bowed +bending his whole body forward, and turning out his toes like a dancer. +“I have come for instructions. Do you want to fight to the death?” + +“Why to the death, my dear Signor Cippatola? I will not for any +consideration take back my words—but I am not a bloodthirsty person!… +But come, wait a little, my opponent’s second will be here directly. I +will go into the next room, and you can make arrangements with him. +Believe me I shall never forget your kindness, and I thank you from my +heart.” + +“Honour before everything!” answered Pantaleone, and he sank into an +arm-chair, without waiting for Sanin to ask him to sit down. “If that +_ferroflucto spitchebubbio_,” he said, passing from French into +Italian, “if that counter-jumper Klüberio could not appreciate his +obvious duty or was afraid, so much the worse for him!… A cheap soul, +and that’s all about it!… As for the conditions of the duel, I am your +second, and your interests are sacred to me!… When I lived in Padua +there was a regiment of the white dragoons stationed there, and I was +very intimate with many of the officers!… I was quite familiar with +their whole code. And I used often to converse on these subjects with +your principe Tarbuski too…. Is this second to come soon?” + +“I am expecting him every minute—and here he comes,” added Sanin, +looking into the street. + +Pantaleone got up, looked at his watch, straightened his topknot of +hair, and hurriedly stuffed into his shoe an end of tape which was +sticking out below his trouser-leg, and the young sub-lieutenant came +in, as red and embarrassed as ever. + +Sanin presented the seconds to each other. “M. Richter, +sous-lieutenant, M. Cippatola, artiste!” The sub-lieutenant was +slightly disconcerted by the old man’s appearance … Oh, what would he +have said had any one whispered to him at that instant that the +“artist” presented to him was also employed in the culinary art! But +Pantaleone assumed an air as though taking part in the preliminaries of +duels was for him the most everyday affair: probably he was assisted at +this juncture by the recollections of his theatrical career, and he +played the part of second simply as a part. Both he and the +sub-lieutenant were silent for a little. + +“Well? Let us come to business!” Pantaleone spoke first, playing with +his cornelian seal. + +“By all means,” responded the sub-lieutenant, “but … the presence of +one of the principals …” + +“I will leave you at once, gentlemen,” cried Sanin, and with a bow he +went away into the bedroom and closed the door after him. + +He flung himself on the bed and began thinking of Gemma … but the +conversation of the seconds reached him through the shut door. It was +conducted in the French language; both maltreated it mercilessly, each +after his own fashion. Pantaleone again alluded to the dragoons in +Padua, and Principe Tarbuski; the sub-lieutenant to “_exghizes +léchères_” and “_goups de bistolet à l’amiaple_.” But the old man would +not even hear of any _exghizes_! To Sanin’s horror, he suddenly +proceeded to talk of a certain young lady, an innocent maiden, whose +little finger was worth more than all the officers in the world … +(_oune zeune damigella innoucenta, qu’a elle sola dans soun péti doa +vale piu que tout le zouffissié del mondo!_), and repeated several +times with heat: “It’s shameful! it’s shameful!” (_E ouna onta, ouna +onta_!) The sub-lieutenant at first made him no reply, but presently an +angry quiver could be heard in the young man’s voice, and he observed +that he had not come there to listen to sermonising. + +“At your age it is always a good thing to hear the truth!” cried +Pantaleone. + +The debate between the seconds several times became stormy; it lasted +over an hour, and was concluded at last on the following conditions: +“Baron von Dönhof and M. de Sanin to meet the next day at ten o’clock +in a small wood near Hanau, at the distance of twenty paces; each to +have the right to fire twice at a signal given by the seconds, the +pistols to be single-triggered and not rifle-barrelled.” Herr von +Richter withdrew, and Pantaleone solemnly opened the bedroom door, and +after communicating the result of their deliberations, cried again: +“_Bravo Russo! Bravo giovanotto!_ You will be victor!” + +A few minutes later they both set off to the Rosellis’ shop. Sanin, as +a preliminary measure, had exacted a promise from Pantaleone to keep +the affair of the duel a most profound secret. In reply, the old man +had merely held up his finger, and half closing his eyes, whispered +twice over, _Segredezza_! He was obviously in good spirits, and even +walked with a freer step. All these unusual incidents, unpleasant +though they might be, carried him vividly back to the time when he +himself both received and gave challenges—only, it is true, on the +stage. Baritones, as we all know, have a great deal of strutting and +fuming to do in their parts. + + + + +XIX + + +Emil ran out to meet Sanin—he had been watching for his arrival over an +hour—and hurriedly whispered into his ear that his mother knew nothing +of the disagreeable incident of the day before, that he must not even +hint of it to her, and that he was being sent to Klüber’s shop again!… +but that he wouldn’t go there, but would hide somewhere! Communicating +all this information in a few seconds, he suddenly fell on Sanin’s +shoulder, kissed him impulsively, and rushed away down the street. +Gemma met Sanin in the shop; tried to say something and could not. Her +lips were trembling a little, while her eyes were half-closed and +turned away. He made haste to soothe her by the assurance that the +whole affair had ended … in utter nonsense. + +“Has no one been to see you to-day?” she asked. + +“A person did come to me and we had an explanation, and we … we came to +the most satisfactory conclusion.” + +Gemma went back behind the counter. + +“She does not believe me!” he thought … he went into the next room, +however, and there found Frau Lenore. + +Her sick headache had passed off, but she was in a depressed state of +mind. She gave him a smile of welcome, but warned him at the same time +that he would be dull with her to-day, as she was not in a mood to +entertain him. He sat down beside her, and noticed that her eyelids +were red and swollen. + +“What is wrong, Frau Lenore? You’ve never been crying, surely?” + +“Oh!” she whispered, nodding her head towards the room where her +daughter was. “Don’t speak of it … aloud.” + +“But what have you been crying for?” + +“Ah, M’sieu Sanin, I don’t know myself what for!” + +“No one has hurt your feelings?” + +“Oh no!… I felt very low all of a sudden. I thought of Giovanni +Battista … of my youth … Then how quickly it had all passed away. I +have grown old, my friend, and I can’t reconcile myself to that anyhow. +I feel I’m just the same as I was … but old age—it’s here! it is here!” +Tears came into Frau Lenore’s eyes. “You look at me, I see, and +wonder…. But you will get old too, my friend, and will find out how +bitter it is!” + +Sanin tried to comfort her, spoke of her children, in whom her own +youth lived again, even attempted to scoff at her a little, declaring +that she was fishing for compliments … but she quite seriously begged +him to leave off, and for the first time he realised that for such a +sorrow, the despondency of old age, there is no comfort or cure; one +has to wait till it passes off of itself. He proposed a game of +tresette, and he could have thought of nothing better. She agreed at +once and seemed to get more cheerful. + +Sanin played with her until dinner-time and after dinner Pantaleone too +took a hand in the game. Never had his topknot hung so low over his +forehead, never had his chin retreated so far into his cravat! Every +movement was accompanied by such intense solemnity that as one looked +at him the thought involuntarily arose, “What secret is that man +guarding with such determination?” But _segredezza! segredezza!_ + +During the whole of that day he tried in every possible way to show the +profoundest respect for Sanin; at table, passing by the ladies, he +solemnly and sedately handed the dishes first to him; when they were at +cards he intentionally gave him the game; he announced, apropos of +nothing at all, that the Russians were the most great-hearted, brave, +and resolute people in the world! + +“Ah, you old flatterer!” Sanin thought to himself. + +And he was not so much surprised at Signora Roselli’s unexpected state +of mind, as at the way her daughter behaved to him. It was not that she +avoided him … on the contrary she sat continually a little distance +from him, listened to what he said, and looked at him; but she +absolutely declined to get into conversation with him, and directly he +began talking to her, she softly rose from her place, and went out for +some instants. Then she came in again, and again seated herself in some +corner, and sat without stirring, seeming meditative and perplexed … +perplexed above all. Frau Lenore herself noticed at last, that she was +not as usual, and asked her twice what was the matter. + +“Nothing,” answered Gemma; “you know I am sometimes like this.” + +“That is true,” her mother assented. + +So passed all that long day, neither gaily nor drearily—neither +cheerfully nor sadly. Had Gemma been different—Sanin … who knows?… +might not perhaps have been able to resist the temptation for a little +display—or he might simply have succumbed to melancholy at the +possibility of a separation for ever…. But as he did not once succeed +in getting a word with Gemma, he was obliged to confine himself to +striking minor chords on the piano for a quarter of an hour before +evening coffee. + +Emil came home late, and to avoid questions about Herr Klüber, beat a +hasty retreat. The time came for Sanin too to retire. + +He began saying good-bye to Gemma. He recollected for some reason +Lensky’s parting from Olga in _Oniegin_. He pressed her hand warmly, +and tried to get a look at her face, but she turned a little away and +released her fingers. + + + + +XX + + +It was bright starlight when he came out on the steps. What multitudes +of stars, big and little, yellow, red, blue and white were scattered +over the sky! They seemed all flashing, swarming, twinkling +unceasingly. There was no moon in the sky, but without it every object +could be clearly discerned in the half-clear, shadowless twilight. +Sanin walked down the street to the end … He did not want to go home at +once; he felt a desire to wander about a little in the fresh air. He +turned back and had hardly got on a level with the house, where was the +Rosellis’ shop, when one of the windows looking out on the street, +suddenly creaked and opened; in its square of blackness—there was no +light in the room—appeared a woman’s figure, and he heard his +name—“Monsieur Dimitri!” + +He rushed at once up to the window … Gemma! She was leaning with her +elbows on the window-sill, bending forward. + +“Monsieur Dimitri,” she began in a cautious voice, “I have been wanting +all day long to give you something … but I could not make up my mind +to; and just now, seeing you, quite unexpectedly again, I thought that +it seems it is fated” … + +Gemma was forced to stop at this word. She could not go on; something +extraordinary happened at that instant. + +All of a sudden, in the midst of the profound stillness, over the +perfectly unclouded sky, there blew such a violent blast of wind, that +the very earth seemed shaking underfoot, the delicate starlight seemed +quivering and trembling, the air went round in a whirlwind. The wind, +not cold, but hot, almost sultry, smote against the trees, the roof of +the house, its walls, and the street; it instantaneously snatched off +Sanin’s hat, crumpled up and tangled Gemma’s curls. Sanin’s head was on +a level with the window-sill; he could not help clinging close to it, +and Gemma clutched hold of his shoulders with both hands, and pressed +her bosom against his head. The roar, the din, and the rattle lasted +about a minute…. Like a flock of huge birds the revelling whirlwind +darted revelling away. A profound stillness reigned once more. + +Sanin raised his head and saw above him such an exquisite, scared, +excited face, such immense, large, magnificent eyes—it was such a +beautiful creature he saw, that his heart stood still within him, he +pressed his lips to the delicate tress of hair, that had fallen on his +bosom, and could only murmur, “O Gemma!” + +“What was that? Lightning?” she asked, her eyes wandering afar, while +she did not take her bare arms from his shoulder. + +“Gemma!” repeated Sanin. + +She sighed, looked around behind her into the room, and with a rapid +movement pulling the now faded rose out of her bodice, she threw it to +Sanin. + +“I wanted to give you this flower.” + +He recognised the rose, which he had won back the day before…. + +But already the window had slammed-to, and through the dark pane +nothing could be seen, no trace of white. + +Sanin went home without his hat…. He did not even notice that he had +lost it. + + + + +XXI + + +It was quite morning when he fell asleep. And no wonder! In the blast +of that instantaneous summer hurricane, he had almost as +instantaneously felt, not that Gemma was lovely, not that he liked +her—that he had known before … but that he almost … loved her! As +suddenly as that blast of wind, had love pounced down upon him. And +then this senseless duel! He began to be tormented by mournful +forebodings. And even suppose they didn’t kill him…. What could come of +his love for this girl, another man’s betrothed? Even supposing this +“other man” was no danger, that Gemma herself would care for him, or +even cared for him already … What would come of it? How ask what! Such +a lovely creature!… + +He walked about the room, sat down to the table, took a sheet of paper, +traced a few lines on it, and at once blotted them out…. He recalled +Gemma’s wonderful figure in the dark window, in the starlight, set all +a-fluttering by the warm hurricane; he remembered her marble arms, like +the arms of the Olympian goddesses, felt their living weight on his +shoulders…. Then he took the rose she had thrown him, and it seemed to +him that its half-withered petals exhaled a fragrance of her, more +delicate than the ordinary scent of the rose. + +“And would they kill him straight away or maim him?” + +He did not go to bed, and fell asleep in his clothes on the sofa. + +Some one slapped him on the shoulder…. He opened his eyes, and saw +Pantaleone. + +“He sleeps like Alexander of Macedon on the eve of the battle of +Babylon!” cried the old man. + +“What o’clock is it?” inquired Sanin. + +“A quarter to seven; it’s a two hours’ drive to Hanau, and we must be +the first on the field. Russians are always beforehand with their +enemies! I have engaged the best carriage in Frankfort!” + +Sanin began washing. “And where are the pistols?” + +“That _ferroflucto Tedesco_ will bring the pistols. He’ll bring a +doctor too.” + +Pantaleone was obviously putting a good face on it as he had done the +day before; but when he was seated in the carriage with Sanin, when the +coachman had cracked his whip and the horses had started off at a +gallop, a sudden change came over the old singer and friend of Paduan +dragoons. He began to be confused and positively faint-hearted. +Something seemed to have given way in him, like a badly built wall. + +“What are we doing, my God, _Santissima Madonna!_” he cried in an +unexpectedly high pipe, and he clutched at his head. “What am I about, +old fool, madman, _frenetico_?” + +Sanin wondered and laughed, and putting his arm lightly round +Pantaleone’s waist, he reminded him of the French proverb: “_Le vin est +tiré—il faut le boire_.” + +“Yes, yes,” answered the old man, “we will drain the cup together to +the dregs—but still I’m a madman! I’m a madman! All was going on so +quietly, so well … and all of a sudden: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!” + +“Like the _tutti_ in the orchestra,” observed Sanin with a forced +smile. “But it’s not your fault.” + +“I know it’s not. I should think not indeed! And yet … such insolent +conduct! _Diavolo, diavolo_!” repeated Pantaleone, sighing and shaking +his topknot. + +The carriage still rolled on and on. + +It was an exquisite morning. The streets of Frankfort, which were just +beginning to show signs of life, looked so clean and snug; the windows +of the houses glittered in flashes like tinfoil; and as soon as the +carriage had driven beyond the city walls, from overhead, from a blue +but not yet glaring sky, the larks’ loud trills showered down in +floods. Suddenly at a turn in the road, a familiar figure came from +behind a tall poplar, took a few steps forward and stood still. Sanin +looked more closely…. Heavens! it was Emil! + +“But does he know anything about it?” he demanded of Pantaleone. + +“I tell you I’m a madman,” the poor Italian wailed despairingly, almost +in a shriek. “The wretched boy gave me no peace all night, and this +morning at last I revealed all to him!” + +“So much for your _segredezza_!” thought Sanin. The carriage had got up +to Emil. Sanin told the coachman to stop the horses, and called the +“wretched boy” up to him. Emil approached with hesitating steps, pale +as he had been on the day he fainted. He could scarcely stand. + +“What are you doing here?” Sanin asked him sternly. “Why aren’t you at +home?” + +“Let … let me come with you,” faltered Emil in a trembling voice, and +he clasped his hands. His teeth were chattering as in a fever. “I won’t +get in your way—only take me.” + +“If you feel the very slightest affection or respect for me,” said +Sanin, “you will go at once home or to Herr Klüber’s shop, and you +won’t say one word to any one, and will wait for my return!” + +“Your return,” moaned Emil—and his voice quivered and broke, “but if +you’re—” + +“Emil!” Sanin interrupted—and he pointed to the coachman, “do control +yourself! Emil, please, go home! Listen to me, my dear! You say you +love me. Well, I beg you!” He held out his hand to him. Emil bent +forward, sobbed, pressed it to his lips, and darting away from the +road, ran back towards Frankfort across country. + +“A noble heart too,” muttered Pantaleone; but Sanin glanced severely at +him…. The old man shrank into the corner of the carriage. He was +conscious of his fault; and moreover, he felt more and more bewildered +every instant; could it really be he who was acting as second, who had +got horses, and had made all arrangements, and had left his peaceful +abode at six o’clock? Besides, his legs were stiff and aching. + +Sanin thought it as well to cheer him up, and he chanced on the very +thing, he hit on the right word. + +“Where is your old spirit, Signor Cippatola? Where is _il antico +valor_?” + +Signor Cippatola drew himself up and scowled “_Il antico valor_?” he +boomed in a bass voice. “_Non è ancora spento_ (it’s not all lost yet), +_il antico valor!_” + +He put himself in a dignified attitude, began talking of his career, of +the opera, of the great tenor Garcia—and arrived at Hanau a hero. + +After all, if you think of it, nothing is stronger in the world … and +weaker—than a word! + +XXII + +The copse in which the duel was to take place was a quarter of a mile +from Hanau. Sanin and Pantaleone arrived there first, as the latter had +predicted; they gave orders for the carriage to remain outside the +wood, and they plunged into the shade of the rather thick and +close-growing trees. They had to wait about an hour. + +The time of waiting did not seem particularly disagreeable to Sanin; he +walked up and down the path, listened to the birds singing, watched the +dragonflies in their flight, and like the majority of Russians in +similar circumstances, tried not to think. He only once dropped into +reflection; he came across a young lime-tree, broken down, in all +probability by the squall of the previous night. It was unmistakably +dying … all the leaves on it were dead. “What is it? an omen?” was the +thought that flashed across his mind; but he promptly began whistling, +leaped over the very tree, and paced up and down the path. As for +Pantaleone, he was grumbling, abusing the Germans, sighing and moaning, +rubbing first his back and then his knees. He even yawned from +agitation, which gave a very comic expression to his tiny shrivelled-up +face. Sanin could scarcely help laughing when he looked at him. + +They heard, at last, the rolling of wheels along the soft road. “It’s +they!” said Pantaleone, and he was on the alert and drew himself up, +not without a momentary nervous shiver, which he made haste, however, +to cover with the ejaculation “B-r-r!” and the remark that the morning +was rather fresh. A heavy dew drenched the grass and leaves, but the +sultry heat penetrated even into the wood. + +Both the officers quickly made their appearance under its arched +avenues; they were accompanied by a little thick-set man, with a +phlegmatic, almost sleepy, expression of face—the army doctor. He +carried in one hand an earthenware pitcher of water—to be ready for any +emergency; a satchel with surgical instruments and bandages hung on his +left shoulder. It was obvious that he was thoroughly used to such +excursions; they constituted one of the sources of his income; each +duel yielded him eight gold crowns—four from each of the combatants. +Herr von Richter carried a case of pistols, Herr von Dönhof—probably +considering it the thing—was swinging in his hand a little cane. + +“Pantaleone!” Sanin whispered to the old man; “if … if I’m +killed—anything may happen—take out of my side pocket a paper—there’s a +flower wrapped up in it—and give the paper to Signorina Gemma. Do you +hear? You promise?” + +The old man looked dejectedly at him, and nodded his head +affirmatively…. But God knows whether he understood what Sanin was +asking him to do. + +The combatants and the seconds exchanged the customary bows; the doctor +alone did not move as much as an eyelash; he sat down yawning on the +grass, as much as to say, “I’m not here for expressions of chivalrous +courtesy.” Herr von Richter proposed to Herr “Tshibadola” that he +should select the place; Herr “Tshibadola” responded, moving his tongue +with difficulty—“the wall” within him had completely given way again. +“You act, my dear sir; I will watch….” + +And Herr von Richter proceeded to act. He picked out in the wood close +by a very pretty clearing all studded with flowers; he measured out the +steps, and marked the two extreme points with sticks, which he cut and +pointed. He took the pistols out of the case, and squatting on his +heels, he rammed in the bullets; in short, he fussed about and exerted +himself to the utmost, continually mopping his perspiring brow with a +white handkerchief. Pantaleone, who accompanied him, was more like a +man frozen. During all these preparations, the two principals stood at +a little distance, looking like two schoolboys who have been punished, +and are sulky with their tutors. + +The decisive moment arrived…. “Each took his pistol….” + +But at this point Herr von Richter observed to Pantaleone that it was +his duty, as the senior second, according to the rules of the duel, to +address a final word of advice and exhortation to be reconciled to the +combatants, before uttering the fatal “one! two! three!”; that although +this exhortation had no effect of any sort and was, as a rule, nothing +but an empty formality, still, by the performance of this formality, +Herr Cippatola would be rid of a certain share of responsibility; that, +properly speaking, such an admonition formed the direct duty of the +so-called “impartial witness” (_unpartheiischer Zeuge_) but since they +had no such person present, he, Herr von Richter, would readily yield +this privilege to his honoured colleague. Pantaleone, who had already +succeeded in obliterating himself behind a bush, so as not to see the +offending officer at all, at first made out nothing at all of Herr von +Richter’s speech, especially, as it had been delivered through the +nose, but all of a sudden he started, stepped hurriedly forward, and +convulsively thumping at his chest, in a hoarse voice wailed out in his +mixed jargon: “_A la la la … Che bestialita! Deux zeun ommes comme ça +que si battono—perchè? Che diavolo? Andata a casa!_” + +“I will not consent to a reconciliation,” Sanin intervened hurriedly. + +“And I too will not,” his opponent repeated after him. + +“Well, then shout one, two, three!” von Richter said, addressing the +distracted Pantaleone. The latter promptly ducked behind the bush +again, and from there, all huddled together, his eyes screwed up, and +his head turned away, he shouted at the top of his voice: “_Una … due … +tre!_” + +The first shot was Sanin’s, and he missed. His bullet went ping against +a tree. Baron von Dönhof shot directly after him—intentionally, to one +side, into the air. + +A constrained silence followed…. No one moved. Pantaleone uttered a +faint moan. + +“Is it your wish to go on?” said Dönhof. + +“Why did you shoot in the air?” inquired Sanin. + +“That’s nothing to do with you.” + +“Will you shoot in the air the second time?” Sanin asked again. + +“Possibly: I don’t know.” + +“Excuse me, excuse me, gentlemen …” began von Richter; “duellists have +not the right to talk together. That’s out of order.” + +“I decline my shot,” said Sanin, and he threw his pistol on the ground. + +“And I too do not intend to go on with the duel,” cried Dönhof, and he +too threw his pistol on the ground. “And more than that, I am prepared +to own that I was in the wrong—the day before yesterday.” + +He moved uneasily, and hesitatingly held out his hand. Sanin went +rapidly up to him and shook it. Both the young men looked at each other +with a smile, and both their faces flushed crimson. + +“_Bravi! bravi!_” Pantaleone roared suddenly as if he had gone mad, and +clapping his hands, he rushed like a whirlwind from behind the bush; +while the doctor, who had been sitting on one side on a felled tree, +promptly rose, poured the water out of the jug and walked off with a +lazy, rolling step out of the wood. + +“Honour is satisfied, and the duel is over!” von Richter announced. + +“_Fuori!_” Pantaleone boomed once more, through old associations. + +When he had exchanged bows with the officers, and taken his seat in the +carriage, Sanin certainly felt all over him, if not a sense of +pleasure, at least a certain lightness of heart, as after an operation +is over; but there was another feeling astir within him too, a feeling +akin to shame…. The duel, in which he had just played his part, struck +him as something false, a got-up formality, a common officers’ and +students’ farce. He recalled the phlegmatic doctor, he recalled how he +had grinned, that is, wrinkled up his nose when he saw him coming out +of the wood almost arm-in-arm with Baron Dönhof. And afterwards when +Pantaleone had paid him the four crowns due to him … Ah! there was +something nasty about it! + +Yes, Sanin was a little conscience-smitten and ashamed … though, on the +other hand, what was there for him to have done? Could he have left the +young officer’s insolence unrebuked? could he have behaved like Herr +Klüber? He had stood up for Gemma, he had championed her … that was so; +and yet, there was an uneasy pang in his heart, and he was +conscience-smitten, and even ashamed. + +Not so Pantaleone—he was simply in his glory! He was suddenly possessed +by a feeling of pride. A victorious general, returning from the field +of battle he has won, could not have looked about him with greater +self-satisfaction. Sanin’s demeanour during the duel filled him with +enthusiasm. He called him a hero, and would not listen to his +exhortations and even his entreaties. He compared him to a monument of +marble or of bronze, with the statue of the commander in Don Juan! For +himself he admitted he had been conscious of some perturbation of mind, +“but, of course, I am an artist,” he observed; “I have a highly-strung +nature, while you are the son of the snows and the granite rocks.” + +Sanin was positively at a loss how to quiet the jubilant artist. + +Almost at the same place in the road where two hours before they had +come upon Emil, he again jumped out from behind a tree, and, with a cry +of joy upon his lips, waving his cap and leaping into the air, he +rushed straight at the carriage, almost fell under the wheel, and, +without waiting for the horses to stop, clambered up over the +carriage-door and fairly clung to Sanin. + +“You are alive, you are not wounded!” he kept repeating. “Forgive me, I +did not obey you, I did not go back to Frankfort … I could not! I +waited for you here … Tell me how was it? You … killed him?” + +Sanin with some difficulty pacified Emil and made him sit down. + +With great verbosity, with evident pleasure, Pantaleone communicated to +him all the details of the duel, and, of course, did not omit to refer +again to the monument of bronze and the statue of the commander. He +even rose from his seat and, standing with his feet wide apart to +preserve his equilibrium, folding his arm on his chest and looking +contemptuously over his shoulder, gave an ocular representation of the +commander—Sanin! Emil listened with awe, occasionally interrupting the +narrative with an exclamation, or swiftly getting up and as swiftly +kissing his heroic friend. + +The carriage wheels rumbled over the paved roads of Frankfort, and +stopped at last before the hotel where Sanin was living. + +Escorted by his two companions, he went up the stairs, when suddenly a +woman came with hurried steps out of the dark corridor; her face was +hidden by a veil, she stood still, facing Sanin, wavered a little, gave +a trembling sigh, at once ran down into the street and vanished, to the +great astonishment of the waiter, who explained that “that lady had +been for over an hour waiting for the return of the foreign gentleman.” +Momentary as was the apparition, Sanin recognised Gemma. He recognised +her eyes under the thick silk of her brown veil. + +“Did Fräulein Gemma know, then?”… he said slowly in a displeased voice +in German, addressing Emil and Pantaleone, who were following close on +his heels. + +Emil blushed and was confused. + +“I was obliged to tell her all,” he faltered; “she guessed, and I could +not help it…. But now that’s of no consequence,” he hurried to add +eagerly, “everything has ended so splendidly, and she has seen you well +and uninjured!” + +Sanin turned away. + +“What a couple of chatterboxes you are!” he observed in a tone of +annoyance, as he went into his room and sat down on a chair. + +“Don’t be angry, please,” Emil implored. + +“Very well, I won’t be angry”—(Sanin was not, in fact, angry—and, after +all, he could hardly have desired that Gemma should know nothing about +it). “Very well … that’s enough embracing. You get along now. I want to +be alone. I’m going to sleep. I’m tired.” + +“An excellent idea!” cried Pantaleone. “You need repose! You have fully +earned it, noble signor! Come along, Emilio! On tip-toe! On tip-toe! +Sh—sh—sh!” + +When he said he wanted to go to sleep, Sanin had simply wished to get +rid of his companions; but when he was left alone, he was really aware +of considerable weariness in all his limbs; he had hardly closed his +eyes all the preceding night, and throwing himself on his bed he fell +immediately into a sound sleep. + + + + +XXIII + + +He slept for some hours without waking. Then he began to dream that he +was once more fighting a duel, that the antagonist standing facing him +was Herr Klüber, and on a fir-tree was sitting a parrot, and this +parrot was Pantaleone, and he kept tapping with his beak: one, one, +one! + +“One … one … one!” he heard the tapping too distinctly; he opened his +eyes, raised his head … some one was knocking at his door. + +“Come in!” called Sanin. + +The waiter came in and answered that a lady very particularly wished to +see him. + +“Gemma!” flashed into his head … but the lady turned out to be her +mother, Frau Lenore. + +Directly she came in, she dropped at once into a chair and began to +cry. + +“What is the matter, my dear, good Madame Roselli?” began Sanin, +sitting beside her and softly touching her hand. “What has happened? +calm yourself, I entreat you.” + +“Ah, Herr Dimitri, I am very … very miserable!” + +“You are miserable?” + +“Ah, very! Could I have foreseen such a thing? All of a sudden, like +thunder from a clear sky …” + +She caught her breath. + +“But what is it? Explain! Would you like a glass of water?” + +“No, thank you.” Frau Lenore wiped her eyes with her handkerchief and +began to cry with renewed energy. “I know all, you see! All!” + +“All? that is to say?” + +“Everything that took place to-day! And the cause … I know that too! +You acted like an honourable man; but what an unfortunate combination +of circumstances! I was quite right in not liking that excursion to +Soden … quite right!” (Frau Lenore had said nothing of the sort on the +day of the excursion, but she was convinced now that she had foreseen +“all” even then.) “I have come to you as to an honourable man, as to a +friend, though I only saw you for the first time five days ago…. But +you know I am a widow, a lonely woman…. My daughter …” + +Tears choked Frau Lenore’s voice. Sanin did not know what to think. +“Your daughter?” he repeated. + +“My daughter, Gemma,” broke almost with a groan from Frau Lenore, +behind the tear-soaked handkerchief, “informed me to-day that she would +not marry Herr Klüber, and that I must refuse him!” + +Sanin positively started back a little; he had not expected that. + +“I won’t say anything now,” Frau Lenore went on, “of the disgrace of +it, of its being something unheard of in the world for a girl to jilt +her betrothed; but you see it’s ruin for us, Herr Dimitri!” Frau Lenore +slowly and carefully twisted up her handkerchief in a tiny, tiny little +ball, as though she would enclose all her grief within it. “We can’t go +on living on the takings of our shop, Herr Dimitri! and Herr Klüber is +very rich, and will be richer still. And what is he to be refused for? +Because he did not defend his betrothed? Allowing that was not very +handsome on his part, still, he’s a civilian, has not had a university +education, and as a solid business man, it was for him to look with +contempt on the frivolous prank of some unknown little officer. And +what sort of insult was it, after all, Herr Dimitri?” + +“Excuse me, Frau Lenore, you seem to be blaming me.” + +“I am not blaming you in the least, not in the least! You’re quite +another matter; you are, like all Russians, a military man …” + +“Excuse me, I’m not at all …” + +“You’re a foreigner, a visitor, and I’m grateful to you,” Frau Lenore +went on, not heeding Sanin. She sighed, waved her hands, unwound her +handkerchief again, and blew her nose. Simply from the way in which her +distress expressed itself, it could be seen that she had not been born +under a northern sky. + +“And how is Herr Klüber to look after his shop, if he is to fight with +his customers? It’s utterly inconsistent! And now I am to send him +away! But what are we going to live on? At one time we were the only +people that made angel cakes, and nougat of pistachio nuts, and we had +plenty of customers; but now all the shops make angel cakes! Only +consider; even without this, they’ll talk in the town about your duel … +it’s impossible to keep it secret. And all of a sudden, the marriage +broken off! It will be a scandal, a scandal! Gemma is a splendid girl, +she loves me; but she’s an obstinate republican, she doesn’t care for +the opinion of others. You’re the only person that can persuade her!” + +Sanin was more amazed than ever. “I, Frau Lenore?” + +“Yes, you alone … you alone. That’s why I have come to you; I could not +think of anything else to do! You are so clever, so good! You have +fought in her defence. She will trust you! She is bound to trust +you—why, you have risked your life on her account! You will make her +understand, for I can do nothing more; you make her understand that she +will bring ruin on herself and all of us. You saved my son—save my +daughter too! God Himself sent you here … I am ready on my knees to +beseech you….” And Frau Lenore half rose from her seat as though about +to fall at Sanin’s feet…. He restrained her. + +“Frau Lenore! For mercy’s sake! What are you doing?” + +She clutched his hand impulsively. “You promise …” + +“Frau Lenore, think a moment; what right have I …” + +“You promise? You don’t want me to die here at once before your eyes?” + +Sanin was utterly nonplussed. It was the first time in his life he had +had to deal with any one of ardent Italian blood. + +“I will do whatever you like,” he cried. “I will talk to Fräulein +Gemma….” + +Frau Lenore uttered a cry of delight. + +“Only I really can’t say what result will come of it …” + +“Ah, don’t go back, don’t go back from your words!” cried Frau Lenore +in an imploring voice; “you have already consented! The result is +certain to be excellent. Any way, _I_ can do nothing more! She won’t +listen to _me_!” + +“Has she so positively stated her disinclination to marry Herr Klüber?” +Sanin inquired after a short silence. + +“As if she’d cut the knot with a knife! She’s her father all over, +Giovanni Battista! Wilful girl!” + +“Wilful? Is she!” … Sanin said slowly. + +“Yes … yes … but she’s an angel too. She will mind you. Are you coming +soon? Oh, my dear Russian friend!” Frau Lenore rose impulsively from +her chair, and as impulsively clasped the head of Sanin, who was +sitting opposite her. “Accept a mother’s blessing—and give me some +water!” + +Sanin brought Signora Roselli a glass of water, gave her his word of +honour that he would come directly, escorted her down the stairs to the +street, and when he was back in his own room, positively threw up his +arms and opened his eyes wide in his amazement. + +“Well,” he thought, “well, _now_ life is going round in a whirl! And +it’s whirling so that I’m giddy.” He did not attempt to look within, to +realise what was going on in himself: it was all uproar and confusion, +and that was all he knew! What a day it had been! His lips murmured +unconsciously: “Wilful … her mother says … and I have got to advise her +… her! And advise her what?” + +Sanin, really, was giddy, and above all this whirl of shifting +sensations and impressions and unfinished thoughts, there floated +continually the image of Gemma, the image so ineffaceably impressed on +his memory on that hot night, quivering with electricity, in that dark +window, in the light of the swarming stars! + + + + +XXIV + + +With hesitating footsteps Sanin approached the house of Signora +Roselli. His heart was beating violently; he distinctly felt, and even +heard it thumping at his side. What should he say to Gemma, how should +he begin? He went into the house, not through the shop, but by the back +entrance. In the little outer room he met Frau Lenore. She was both +relieved and scared at the sight of him. + +“I have been expecting you,” she said in a whisper, squeezing his hand +with each of hers in turn. “Go into the garden; she is there. Mind, I +rely on you!” + +Sanin went into the garden. + +Gemma was sitting on a garden-seat near the path, she was sorting a big +basket full of cherries, picking out the ripest, and putting them on a +dish. The sun was low—it was seven o’clock in the evening—and there was +more purple than gold in the full slanting light with which it flooded +the whole of Signora Roselli’s little garden. From time to time, +faintly audibly, and as it were deliberately, the leaves rustled, and +belated bees buzzed abruptly as they flew from one flower to the next, +and somewhere a dove was cooing a never-changing, unceasing note. Gemma +had on the same round hat in which she had driven to Soden. She peeped +at Sanin from under its turned-down brim, and again bent over the +basket. + +Sanin went up to Gemma, unconsciously making each step shorter, and … +and … and nothing better could he find to say to her than to ask why +was she sorting the cherries. + +Gemma was in no haste to reply. + +“These are riper,” she observed at last, “they will go into jam, and +those are for tarts. You know the round sweet tarts we sell?” + +As she said those words, Gemma bent her head still lower, and her right +hand with two cherries in her fingers was suspended in the air between +the basket and the dish. + +“May I sit by you?” asked Sanin. + +“Yes.” Gemma moved a little along on the seat. Sanin placed himself +beside her. “How am I to begin?” was his thought. But Gemma got him out +of his difficulty. + +“You have fought a duel to-day,” she began eagerly, and she turned all +her lovely, bashfully flushing face to him—and what depths of gratitude +were shining in those eyes! “And you are so calm! I suppose for you +danger does not exist?” + +“Oh, come! I have not been exposed to any danger. Everything went off +very satisfactorily and inoffensively.” + +Gemma passed her finger to right and to left before her eyes … Also an +Italian gesture. “No! no! don’t say that! You won’t deceive me! +Pantaleone has told me everything!” + +“He’s a trustworthy witness! Did he compare me to the statue of the +commander?” + +“His expressions may be ridiculous, but his feeling is not ridiculous, +nor is what you have done to-day. And all that on my account … for me … +I shall never forget it.” + +“I assure you, Fräulein Gemma …” + +“I shall never forget it,” she said deliberately; once more she looked +intently at him, and turned away. + +He could now see her delicate pure profile, and it seemed to him that +he had never seen anything like it, and had never known anything like +what he was feeling at that instant. His soul was on fire. + +“And my promise!” flashed in among his thoughts. + +“Fräulein Gemma …” he began after a momentary hesitation. + +“What?” + +She did not turn to him, she went on sorting the cherries, carefully +taking them by their stalks with her finger-tips, assiduously picking +out the leaves…. But what a confiding caress could be heard in that one +word, “What?” + +“Has your mother said nothing to you … about …” + +“About?” + +“About me?” + +Gemma suddenly flung back into the basket the cherries she had taken. + +“Has she been talking to you?” she asked in her turn. + +“Yes.” + +“What has she been saying to you?” + +“She told me that you … that you have suddenly decided to change … your +former intention.” Gemma’s head was bent again. She vanished altogether +under her hat; nothing could be seen but her neck, supple and tender as +the stalk of a big flower. + +“What intentions?” + +“Your intentions … relative to … the future arrangement of your life.” + +“That is … you are speaking … of Herr Klüber?” + +“Yes.” + +“Mamma told you I don’t want to be Herr Klüber’s wife?” + +“Yes.” + +Gemma moved forward on the seat. The basket tottered, fell … a few +cherries rolled on to the path. A minute passed by … another. + +“Why did she tell you so?” he heard her voice saying. Sanin as before +could only see Gemma’s neck. Her bosom rose and fell more rapidly than +before. + +“Why? Your mother thought that as you and I, in a short time, have +become, so to say, friends, and you have some confidence in me, I am in +a position to give you good advice—and you would mind what I say.” + +Gemma’s hands slowly slid on to her knees. She began plucking at the +folds of her dress. + +“What advice will you give me, Monsieur Dimitri?” she asked, after a +short pause. + +Sanin saw that Gemma’s fingers were trembling on her knees…. She was +only plucking at the folds of her dress to hide their trembling. He +softly laid his hand on those pale, shaking fingers. + +“Gemma,” he said, “why don’t you look at me?” She instantly tossed her +hat back on to her shoulder, and bent her eyes upon him, confiding and +grateful as before. She waited for him to speak…. But the sight of her +face had bewildered, and, as it were, dazed him. The warm glow of the +evening sun lighted up her youthful head, and the expression of that +head was brighter, more radiant than its glow. + +“I will mind what you say, Monsieur Dimitri,” she said, faintly +smiling, and faintly arching her brows; “but what advice do you give +me?” + +“What advice?” repeated Sanin. “Well, you see, your mother considers +that to dismiss Herr Klüber simply because he did not show any special +courage the day before yesterday …” + +“Simply because?” said Gemma. She bent down, picked up the basket, and +set it beside her on the garden seat. + +“That … altogether … to dismiss him, would be, on your part … +unreasonable; that it is a step, all the consequences of which ought to +be thoroughly weighed; that in fact the very position of your affairs +imposes certain obligations on every member of your family …” + +“All that is mamma’s opinion,” Gemma interposed; “those are her words; +but what is your opinion?” + +“Mine?” Sanin was silent for a while. He felt a lump rising in his +throat and catching at his breath. “I too consider,” he began with an +effort … + +Gemma drew herself up. “Too? You too?” + +“Yes … that is …” Sanin was unable, positively unable to add a single +word more. + +“Very well,” said Gemma. “If you, as a friend, advise me to change my +decision—that is, not to change my former decision—I will think it +over.” Not knowing what she was doing, she began to tip the cherries +back from the plate into the basket…. “Mamma hopes that I will mind +what you say. Well … perhaps I really will mind what you say.” + +“But excuse me, Fräulein Gemma, I should like first to know what reason +impelled you …” + +“I will mind what you say,” Gemma repeated, her face right up to her +brows was working, her cheeks were white, she was biting her lower lip. +“You have done so much for me, that I am bound to do as you wish; bound +to carry out your wishes. I will tell mamma … I will think again. Here +she is, by the way, coming here.” + +Frau Lenore did in fact appear in the doorway leading from the house to +the garden. She was in an agony of impatience; she could not keep +still. According to her calculations, Sanin must long ago have finished +all he had to say to Gemma, though his conversation with her had not +lasted a quarter of an hour. + +“No, no, no, for God’s sake, don’t tell her anything yet,” Sanin +articulated hurriedly, almost in alarm. “Wait a little … I will tell +you, I will write to you … and till then don’t decide on anything … +wait!” + +He pressed Gemma’s hand, jumped up from the seat, and to Frau Lenore’s +great amazement, rushed past her, and raising his hat, muttered +something unintelligible—and vanished. + +She went up to her daughter. + +“Tell me, please, Gemma…” + +The latter suddenly got up and hugged her. “Dear mamma, can you wait a +little, a tiny bit … till to-morrow? Can you? And till to-morrow not a +word?… Ah!…” + +She burst into sudden happy tears, incomprehensible to herself. This +surprised Frau Lenore, the more as the expression of Gemma’s face was +far from sorrowful,—rather joyful in fact. + +“What is it?” she asked. “You never cry and here, all at once …” + +“Nothing, mamma, never mind! you only wait. We must both wait a little. +Don’t ask me anything till to-morrow—and let us sort the cherries +before the sun has set.” + +“But you will be reasonable?” + +“Oh, I’m very reasonable!” Gemma shook her head significantly. She +began to make up little bunches of cherries, holding them high above +her flushed face. She did not wipe away her tears; they had dried of +themselves. + + + + +XXV + + +Almost running, Sanin returned to his hotel room. He felt, he knew that +only there, only by himself, would it be clear to him at last what was +the matter, what was happening to him. And so it was; directly he had +got inside his room, directly he had sat down to the writing-table, +with both elbows on the table and both hands pressed to his face, he +cried in a sad and choked voice, “I love her, love her madly!” and he +was all aglow within, like a fire when a thick layer of dead ash has +been suddenly blown off. An instant more … and he was utterly unable to +understand how he could have sat beside her … her!—and talked to her +and not have felt that he worshipped the very hem of her garment, that +he was ready as young people express it “to die at her feet.” The last +interview in the garden had decided everything. Now when he thought of +her, she did not appear to him with blazing curls in the shining +starlight; he saw her sitting on the garden-seat, saw her all at once +tossing back her hat, and gazing at him so confidingly … and the tremor +and hunger of love ran through all his veins. He remembered the rose +which he had been carrying about in his pocket for three days: he +snatched it out, and pressed it with such feverish violence to his +lips, that he could not help frowning with the pain. Now he considered +nothing, reflected on nothing, did not deliberate, and did not look +forward; he had done with all his past, he leaped forward into the +future; from the dreary bank of his lonely bachelor life he plunged +headlong into that glad, seething, mighty torrent—and little he cared, +little he wished to know, where it would carry him, or whether it would +dash him against a rock! No more the soft-flowing currents of the +Uhland song, which had lulled him not long ago … These were mighty, +irresistible torrents! They rush flying onwards and he flies with +them…. + +He took a sheet of paper, and without blotting out a word, almost with +one sweep of the pen, wrote as follows:— + +“DEAR GEMMA,—You know what advice I undertook to give you, what your +mother desired, and what she asked of me; but what you don’t know and +what I must tell you now is, that I love you, love you with all the +ardour of a heart that loves for the first time! This passion has +flamed up in me suddenly, but with such force that I can find no words +for it! When your mother came to me and asked me, it was still only +smouldering in me, or else I should certainly, as an honest man, have +refused to carry out her request…. The confession I make you now is the +confession of an honest man. You ought to know whom you have to do +with—between us there should exist no misunderstandings. You see that I +cannot give you any advice…. I love you, love you, love you—and I have +nothing else—either in my head or in my heart!! + + +“DM. SANIN.” + + +When he had folded and sealed this note, Sanin was on the point of +ringing for the waiter and sending it by him…. “No!” he thought, “it +would be awkward…. By Emil? But to go to the shop, and seek him out +there among the other employés, would be awkward too. Besides, it’s +dark by now, and he has probably left the shop.” Reflecting after this +fashion, Sanin put on his hat, however, and went into the street; he +turned a corner, another, and to his unspeakable delight, saw Emil +before him. With a satchel under his arm, and a roll of papers in his +hand, the young enthusiast was hurrying home. + +“They may well say every lover has a lucky star,” thought Sanin, and he +called to Emil. + +The latter turned and at once rushed to him. + +Sanin cut short his transports, handed him the note, and explained to +whom and how he was to deliver it…. Emil listened attentively. + +“So that no one sees?” he inquired, assuming an important and +mysterious air, that said, “We understand the inner meaning of it all!” + +“Yes, my friend,” said Sanin and he was a little disconcerted; however, +he patted Emil on the cheek…. “And if there should be an answer…. You +will bring me the answer, won’t you? I will stay at home.” + +“Don’t worry yourself about that!” Emil whispered gaily; he ran off, +and as he ran nodded once more to him. + +Sanin went back home, and without lighting a candle, flung himself on +the sofa, put his hands behind his head, and abandoned himself to those +sensations of newly conscious love, which it is no good even to +describe. One who has felt them knows their languor and sweetness; to +one who has felt them not, one could never make them known. + +The door opened—Emil’s head appeared. + +“I have brought it,” he said in a whisper: “here it is—the answer!” + +He showed and waved above his head a folded sheet of paper. + +Sanin leaped up from the sofa and snatched it out of Emil’s hand. +Passion was working too powerfully within him: he had no thought of +reserve now, nor of the observance of a suitable demeanour—even before +this boy, her brother. He would have been scrupulous, he would have +controlled himself—if he could! + +He went to the window, and by the light of a street lamp which stood +just opposite the house, he read the following lines:— + +I beg you, I beseech you—_don’t come to see us, don’t show yourself all +day to-morrow_. It’s necessary, absolutely necessary for me, and then +everything shall be settled. I know you will not say no, because … + + +“GEMMA.” + + +Sanin read this note twice through. Oh, how touchingly sweet and +beautiful her handwriting seemed to him! He thought a little, and +turning to Emil, who, wishing to give him to understand what a discreet +young person he was, was standing with his face to the wall, and +scratching on it with his finger-nails, he called him aloud by name. + +Emil ran at once to Sanin. “What do you want me to do?” + +“Listen, my young friend…” + +“Monsieur Dimitri,” Emil interrupted in a plaintive voice, “why do you +address me so formally?” + +Sanin laughed. “Oh, very well. Listen, my dearest boy—(Emil gave a +little skip of delight)—listen; _there_ you understand, there, you will +say, that everything shall be done exactly as is wished—(Emil +compressed his lips and nodded solemnly)—and as for me … what are you +doing to-morrow, my dear boy?” + +“I? what am I doing? What would you like me to do?” + +“If you can, come to me early in the morning—and we will walk about the +country round Frankfort till evening…. Would you like to?” + +Emil gave another little skip. “I say, what in the world could be +jollier? Go a walk with you—why, it’s simply glorious! I’ll be sure to +come!” + +“And if they won’t let you?” + +“They will let me!” + +“Listen … Don’t say _there_ that I asked you to come for the whole +day.” + +“Why should I? But I’ll get away all the same! What does it matter?” + +Emil warmly kissed Sanin, and ran away. + +Sanin walked up and down the room a long while, and went late to bed. +He gave himself up to the same delicate and sweet sensations, the same +joyous thrill at facing a new life. Sanin was very glad that the idea +had occurred to him to invite Emil to spend the next day with him; he +was like his sister. “He will recall her,” was his thought. + +But most of all, he marvelled how he could have been yesterday other +than he was to-day. It seemed to him that he had loved Gemma for all +time; and that he had loved her just as he loved her to-day. + + + + +XXVI + + +At eight o’clock next morning, Emil arrived at Sanin’s hotel leading +Tartaglia by a string. Had he sprung of German parentage, he could not +have shown greater practicality. He had told a lie at home; he had said +he was going for a walk with Sanin till lunch-time, and then going to +the shop. While Sanin was dressing, Emil began to talk to him, rather +hesitatingly, it is true, about Gemma, about her rupture with Herr +Klüber; but Sanin preserved an austere silence in reply, and Emil, +looking as though he understood why so serious a matter should not be +touched on lightly, did not return to the subject, and only assumed +from time to time an intense and even severe expression. + +After drinking coffee, the two friends set off together—on foot, of +course—to Hausen, a little village lying a short distance from +Frankfort, and surrounded by woods. The whole chain of the Taunus +mountains could be seen clearly from there. The weather was lovely; the +sunshine was bright and warm, but not blazing hot; a fresh wind rustled +briskly among the green leaves; the shadows of high, round clouds +glided swiftly and smoothly in small patches over the earth. The two +young people soon got out of the town, and stepped out boldly and gaily +along the well-kept road. They reached the woods, and wandered about +there a long time; then they lunched very heartily at a country inn; +then climbed on to the mountains, admired the views, rolled stones down +and clapped their hands, watching the queer droll way in which the +stones hopped along like rabbits, till a man passing below, unseen by +them, began abusing them in a loud ringing voice. Then they lay full +length on the short dry moss of yellowish-violet colour; then they +drank beer at another inn; ran races, and tried for a wager which could +jump farthest. They discovered an echo, and began to call to it; sang +songs, hallooed, wrestled, broke up dry twigs, decked their hats with +fern, and even danced. Tartaglia, as far as he could, shared in all +these pastimes; he did not throw stones, it is true, but he rolled head +over heels after them; he howled when they were singing, and even drank +beer, though with evident aversion; he had been trained in this art by +a student to whom he had once belonged. But he was not prompt in +obeying Emil—not as he was with his master Pantaleone—and when Emil +ordered him to “speak,” or to “sneeze,” he only wagged his tail and +thrust out his tongue like a pipe. + +The young people talked, too. At the beginning of the walk, Sanin, as +the elder, and so more reflective, turned the conversation on fate and +predestination, and the nature and meaning of man’s destiny; but the +conversation quickly took a less serious turn. Emil began to question +his friend and patron about Russia, how duels were fought there, and +whether the women there were beautiful, and whether one could learn +Russian quickly, and what he had felt when the officer took aim at him. +Sanin, on his side, questioned Emil about his father, his mother, and +in general about their family affairs, trying every time not to mention +Gemma’s name—and thinking only of her. To speak more precisely, it was +not of her he was thinking, but of the morrow, the mysterious morrow +which was to bring him new, unknown happiness! It was as though a veil, +a delicate, bright veil, hung faintly fluttering before his mental +vision; and behind this veil he felt … felt the presence of a youthful, +motionless, divine image, with a tender smile on its lips, and eyelids +severely—with affected severity—downcast. And this image was not the +face of Gemma, it was the face of happiness itself! For, behold, at +last _his_ hour had come, the veil had vanished, the lips were parting, +the eyelashes are raised—his divinity has looked upon him—and at once +light as from the sun, and joy and bliss unending! He dreamed of this +morrow—and his soul thrilled with joy again in the melting torture of +ever-growing expectation! + +And this expectation, this torture, hindered nothing. It accompanied +every action, and did not prevent anything. It did not prevent him from +dining capitally at a third inn with Emil; and only occasionally, like +a brief flash of lightning, the thought shot across him, What if any +one in the world knew? This suspense did not prevent him from playing +leap-frog with Emil after dinner. The game took place on an open green +lawn. And the confusion, the stupefaction of Sanin may be imagined! At +the very moment when, accompanied by a sharp bark from Tartaglia, he +was flying like a bird, with his legs outspread over Emil, who was bent +double, he suddenly saw on the farthest border of the lawn two +officers, in whom he recognised at once his adversary and his second, +Herr von Dönhof and Herr von Richter! Each of them had stuck an +eyeglass in his eye, and was staring at him, chuckling!… Sanin got on +his feet, turned away hurriedly, put on the coat he had flung down, +jerked out a word to Emil; the latter, too, put on his jacket, and they +both immediately made off. + +It was late when they got back to Frankfort. “They’ll scold me,” Emil +said to Sanin as he said good-bye to him. “Well, what does it matter? +I’ve had such a splendid, splendid day!” + +When he got home to his hotel, Sanin found a note there from Gemma. She +fixed a meeting with him for next day, at seven o’clock in the morning, +in one of the public gardens which surround Frankfort on all sides. + +How his heart throbbed! How glad he was that he had obeyed her so +unconditionally! And, my God, what was promised … what was not +promised, by that unknown, unique, impossible, and undubitably certain +morrow! + +He feasted his eyes on Gemma’s note. The long, elegant tail of the +letter G, the first letter of her name, which stood at the bottom of +the sheet, reminded him of her lovely fingers, her hand…. He thought +that he had not once touched that hand with his lips…. “Italian women,” +he mused, “in spite of what’s said of them, are modest and severe…. And +Gemma above all! Queen … goddess … pure, virginal marble….” + +“But the time will come; and it is not far off….” There was that night +in Frankfort one happy man…. He slept; but he might have said of +himself in the words of the poet: + + “I sleep … but my watchful heart sleeps not.” + +And it fluttered as lightly as a butterfly flutters his wings, as he +stoops over the flowers in the summer sunshine. + + + + +XXVII + + +At five o’clock Sanin woke up, at six he was dressed, at half-past six +he was walking up and down the public garden within sight of the little +arbour which Gemma had mentioned in her note. It was a still, warm, +grey morning. It sometimes seemed as though it were beginning to rain; +but the outstretched hand felt nothing, and only looking at one’s +coat-sleeve, one could see traces of tiny drops like diminutive beads, +but even these were soon gone. It seemed there had never been a breath +of wind in the world. Every sound moved not, but was shed around in the +stillness. In the distance was a faint thickening of whitish mist; in +the air there was a scent of mignonette and white acacia flowers. + +In the streets the shops were not open yet, but there were already some +people walking about; occasionally a solitary carriage rumbled along … +there was no one walking in the garden. A gardener was in a leisurely +way scraping the path with a spade, and a decrepit old woman in a black +woollen cloak was hobbling across the garden walk. Sanin could not for +one instant mistake this poor old creature for Gemma; and yet his heart +leaped, and he watched attentively the retreating patch of black. + +Seven! chimed the clock on the tower. Sanin stood still. Was it +possible she would not come? A shiver of cold suddenly ran through his +limbs. The same shiver came again an instant later, but from a +different cause. Sanin heard behind him light footsteps, the light +rustle of a woman’s dress…. He turned round: she! + +Gemma was coming up behind him along the path. She was wearing a grey +cape and a small dark hat. She glanced at Sanin, turned her head away, +and catching him up, passed rapidly by him. + +“Gemma,” he articulated, hardly audibly. + +She gave him a little nod, and continued to walk on in front. He +followed her. + +He breathed in broken gasps. His legs shook under him. + +Gemma passed by the arbour, turned to the right, passed by a small flat +fountain, in which the sparrows were splashing busily, and, going +behind a clump of high lilacs, sank down on a bench. The place was snug +and hidden. Sanin sat down beside her. + +A minute passed, and neither he nor she uttered a word. She did not +even look at him; and he gazed not at her face, but at her clasped +hands, in which she held a small parasol. What was there to tell, what +was there to say, which could compare, in importance, with the simple +fact of their presence there, together, alone, so early, so close to +each other. + +“You … are not angry with me?” Sanin articulated at last. + +It would have been difficult for Sanin to have said anything more +foolish than these words … he was conscious of it himself…. But, at any +rate, the silence was broken. + +“Angry?” she answered. “What for? No.” + +“And you believe me?” he went on. + +“In what you wrote?” + +“Yes.” + +Gemma’s head sank, and she said nothing. The parasol slipped out of her +hands. She hastily caught it before it dropped on the path. + +“Ah, believe me! believe what I wrote to you!” cried Sanin; all his +timidity suddenly vanished, he spoke with heat; “if there is truth on +earth—sacred, absolute truth—it’s that I love, love you passionately, +Gemma.” + +She flung him a sideway, momentary glance, and again almost dropped the +parasol. + +“Believe me! believe me!” he repeated. He besought her, held out his +hands to her, and did not dare to touch her. “What do you want me to do +… to convince you?” + +She glanced at him again. + +“Tell me, Monsieur Dimitri,” she began; “the day before yesterday, when +you came to talk to me, you did not, I imagine, know then … did not +feel …” + +“I felt it,” Sanin broke in; “but I did not know it. I have loved you +from the very instant I saw you; but I did not realise at once what you +had become to me! And besides, I heard that you were solemnly +betrothed…. As far as your mother’s request is concerned—in the first +place, how could I refuse?—and secondly, I think I carried out her +request in such a way that you could guess….” + +They heard a heavy tread, and a rather stout gentleman with a knapsack +over his shoulder, apparently a foreigner, emerged from behind the +clump, and staring, with the unceremoniousness of a tourist, at the +couple sitting on the garden-seat, gave a loud cough and went on. + +“Your mother,” Sanin began, as soon as the sound of the heavy footsteps +had ceased, “told me your breaking off your engagement would cause a +scandal”—Gemma frowned a little—that I was myself in part responsible +for unpleasant gossip, and that … consequently … I was, to some extent, +under an obligation to advise you not to break with your betrothed, +Herr Klüber….” + +“Monsieur Dimitri,” said Gemma, and she passed her hand over her hair +on the side turned towards Sanin, “don’t, please, call Herr Klüber my +betrothed. I shall never be his wife. I have broken with him.” + +“You have broken with him? when?” + +“Yesterday.” + +“You saw him?” + +“Yes. At our house. He came to see us.” + +“Gemma? Then you love me?” + +She turned to him. + +“Should … I have come here, if not?” she whispered, and both her hands +fell on the seat. + +Sanin snatched those powerless, upturned palms, and pressed them to his +eyes, to his lips…. Now the veil was lifted of which he had dreamed the +night before! Here was happiness, here was its radiant form! + +He raised his head, and looked at Gemma, boldly and directly. She, too, +looked at him, a little downwards. Her half-shut eyes faintly +glistened, dim with light, blissful tears. Her face was not smiling … +no! it laughed, with a blissful, noiseless laugh. + +He tried to draw her to him, but she drew back, and never ceasing to +laugh the same noiseless laugh, shook her head. “Wait a little,” her +happy eyes seemed to say. + +“O Gemma!” cried Sanin: “I never dreamed that you would love me!” + +“I did not expect this myself,” Gemma said softly. + +“How could I ever have dreamed,” Sanin went on, “when I came to +Frankfort, where I only expected to remain a few hours, that I should +find here the happiness of all my life!” + +“All your life? Really?” queried Gemma. + +“All my life, for ever and ever!” cried Sanin with fresh ardour. + +The gardener’s spade suddenly scraped two paces from where they were +sitting. + +“Let’s go home,” whispered Gemma: “we’ll go together—will you?” + +If she had said to him at that instant “Throw yourself in the sea, will +you?” he would have been flying headlong into the ocean before she had +uttered the last word. + +They went together out of the garden and turned homewards, not by the +streets of the town, but through the outskirts. + + + + +XXVIII + + +Sanin walked along, at one time by Gemma’s side, at another time a +little behind her. He never took his eyes off her and never ceased +smiling. She seemed to hasten … seemed to linger. As a matter of fact, +they both—he all pale, and she all flushed with emotion—were moving +along as in a dream. What they had done together a few instants +before—that surrender of each soul to another soul—was so intense, so +new, and so moving; so suddenly everything in their lives had been +changed and displaced that they could not recover themselves, and were +only aware of a whirlwind carrying them along, like the whirlwind on +that night, which had almost flung them into each other’s arms. Sanin +walked along, and felt that he even looked at Gemma with other eyes; he +instantly noted some peculiarities in her walk, in her movements,—and +heavens! how infinitely sweet and precious they were to him! And she +felt that that was how he was looking at her. + +Sanin and she were in love for the first time; all the miracles of +first love were working in them. First love is like a revolution; the +uniformly regular routine of ordered life is broken down and shattered +in one instant; youth mounts the barricade, waves high its bright flag, +and whatever awaits it in the future—death or a new life—all alike it +goes to meet with ecstatic welcome. + +“What’s this? Isn’t that our old friend?” said Sanin, pointing to a +muffled-up figure, which hurriedly slipped a little aside as though +trying to remain unobserved. In the midst of his abundant happiness he +felt a need to talk to Gemma, not of love—that was a settled thing and +holy—but of something else. + +“Yes, it’s Pantaleone,” Gemma answered gaily and happily. “Most likely +he has been following me ever since I left home; all day yesterday he +kept watching every movement I made … He guesses!” + +“He guesses!” Sanin repeated in ecstasy. What could Gemma have said at +which he would not have been in ecstasy? + +Then he asked her to tell him in detail all that had passed the day +before. + +And she began at once telling him, with haste, and confusion, and +smiles, and brief sighs, and brief bright looks exchanged with Sanin. +She said that after their conversation the day before yesterday, mamma +had kept trying to get out of her something positive; but that she had +put off Frau Lenore with a promise to tell her her decision within +twenty-four hours; how she had demanded this limit of time for herself, +and how difficult it had been to get it; how utterly unexpectedly Herr +Klüber had made his appearance more starched and affected than ever; +how he had given vent to his indignation at the childish, unpardonable +action of the Russian stranger—“he meant your duel, Dimitri,”—which he +described as deeply insulting to him, Klüber, and how he had demanded +that “you should be at once refused admittance to the house, Dimitri.” +“For,” he had added—and here Gemma slightly mimicked his voice and +manner—“‘it casts a slur on my honour; as though I were not able to +defend my betrothed, had I thought it necessary or advisable! All +Frankfort will know by to-morrow that an outsider has fought a duel +with an officer on account of my betrothed—did any one ever hear of +such a thing! It tarnishes my honour!” Mamma agreed with him—fancy!—but +then I suddenly told him that he was troubling himself unnecessarily +about his honour and his character, and was unnecessarily annoyed at +the gossip about his betrothed, for I was no longer betrothed to him +and would never be his wife! I must own, I had meant to talk to you +first … before breaking with him finally; but he came … and I could not +restrain myself. Mamma positively screamed with horror, but I went into +the next room and got his ring—you didn’t notice, I took it off two +days ago—and gave it to him. He was fearfully offended, but as he is +fearfully self-conscious and conceited, he did not say much, and went +away. Of course I had to go through a great deal with mamma, and it +made me very wretched to see how distressed she was, and I thought I +had been a little hasty; but you see I had your note, and even apart +from it I knew …” + +“That I love you,” put in Sanin. + +“Yes … that you were in love with me.” + +So Gemma talked, hesitating and smiling and dropping her voice or +stopping altogether every time any one met them or passed by. And Sanin +listened ecstatically, enjoying the very sound of her voice, as the day +before he had gloated over her handwriting. + +“Mamma is very much distressed,” Gemma began again, and her words flew +very rapidly one after another; “she refuses to take into consideration +that I dislike Herr Klüber, that I never was betrothed to him from +love, but only because of her urgent entreaties…. She suspects—you, +Dimitri; that’s to say, to speak plainly, she’s convinced I’m in love +with you, and she is more unhappy about it because only the day before +yesterday nothing of the sort had occurred to her, and she even begged +you to advise me…. It was a strange request, wasn’t it? Now she calls +you … Dimitri, a hypocrite and a cunning fellow, says that you have +betrayed her confidence, and predicts that you will deceive me….” + +“But, Gemma,” cried Sanin, “do you mean to say you didn’t tell her?…” + +“I told her nothing! What right had I without consulting you?” + +Sanin threw up his arms. “Gemma, I hope that now, at least, you will +tell all to her and take me to her…. I want to convince your mother +that I am not a base deceiver!” + +Sanin’s bosom fairly heaved with the flood of generous and ardent +emotions. + +Gemma looked him full in the face. “You really want to go with me now +to mamma? to mamma, who maintains that … all this between us is +impossible—and can never come to pass?” There was one word Gemma could +not bring herself to utter…. It burnt her lips; but all the more +eagerly Sanin pronounced it. + +“Marry you, Gemma, be your husband—I can imagine no bliss greater!” + +To his love, his magnanimity, his determination—he was aware of no +limits now. + +When she heard those words, Gemma, who had stopped still for an +instant, went on faster than ever…. She seemed trying to run away from +this too great and unexpected happiness! But suddenly her steps +faltered. Round the corner of a turning, a few paces from her, in a new +hat and coat, straight as an arrow and curled like a poodle—emerged +Herr Klüber. He caught sight of Gemma, caught sight of Sanin, and with +a sort of inward snort and a backward bend of his supple figure, he +advanced with a dashing swing to meet them. Sanin felt a pang; but +glancing at Klüber’s face, to which its owner endeavoured, as far as in +him lay, to give an expression of scornful amazement, and even +commiseration, glancing at that red-cheeked, vulgar face, he felt a +sudden rush of anger, and took a step forward. + +Gemma seized his arm, and with quiet decision, giving him hers, she +looked her former betrothed full in the face…. The latter screwed up +his face, shrugged his shoulders, shuffled to one side, and muttering +between his teeth, “The usual end to the song!” (Das alte Ende vom +Liede!)—walked away with the same dashing, slightly skipping gait. + +“What did he say, the wretched creature?” asked Sanin, and would have +rushed after Klüber; but Gemma held him back and walked on with him, +not taking away the arm she had slipped into his. + +The Rosellis’ shop came into sight. Gemma stopped once more. + +“Dimitri, Monsieur Dimitri,” she said, “we are not there yet, we have +not seen mamma yet…. If you would rather think a little, if … you are +still free, Dimitri!” + +In reply Sanin pressed her hand tightly to his bosom, and drew her on. + +“Mamma,” said Gemma, going with Sanin to the room where Frau Lenore was +sitting, “I have brought the real one!” + + + + +XXIX + + +If Gemma had announced that she had brought with her cholera or death +itself, one can hardly imagine that Frau Lenore could have received the +news with greater despair. She immediately sat down in a corner, with +her face to the wall, and burst into floods of tears, positively +wailed, for all the world like a Russian peasant woman on the grave of +her husband or her son. For the first minute Gemma was so taken aback +that she did not even go up to her mother, but stood still like a +statue in the middle of the room; while Sanin was utterly stupefied, to +the point of almost bursting into tears himself! For a whole hour that +inconsolable wail went on—a whole hour! Pantaleone thought it better to +shut the outer door of the shop, so that no stranger should come; +luckily, it was still early. The old man himself did not know what to +think, and in any case, did not approve of the haste with which Gemma +and Sanin had acted; he could not bring himself to blame them, and was +prepared to give them his support in case of need: he greatly disliked +Klüber! Emil regarded himself as the medium of communication between +his friend and his sister, and almost prided himself on its all having +turned out so splendidly! He was positively unable to conceive why Frau +Lenore was so upset, and in his heart he decided on the spot that +women, even the best of them, suffer from a lack of reasoning power! +Sanin fared worst of all. Frau Lenore rose to a howl and waved him off +with her hands, directly he approached her; and it was in vain that he +attempted once or twice to shout aloud, standing at a distance, “I ask +you for your daughter’s hand!” Frau Lenore was particularly angry with +herself. “How could she have been so blind—have seen nothing? Had my +Giovann’ Battista been alive,” she persisted through her tears, +“nothing of this sort would have happened!” “Heavens, what’s it all +about?” thought Sanin; “why, it’s positively senseless!” He did not +dare to look at Gemma, nor could she pluck up courage to lift her eyes +to him. She restricted herself to waiting patiently on her mother, who +at first repelled even her…. + +At last, by degrees, the storm abated. Frau Lenore gave over weeping, +permitted Gemma to bring her out of the corner, where she sat huddled +up, to put her into an arm-chair near the window, and to give her some +orange-flower water to drink. She permitted Sanin—not to approach … oh, +no!—but, at any rate, to remain in the room—she had kept clamouring for +him to go away—and did not interrupt him when he spoke. Sanin +immediately availed himself of the calm as it set in, and displayed an +astounding eloquence. He could hardly have explained his intentions and +emotions with more fire and persuasive force even to Gemma herself. +Those emotions were of the sincerest, those intentions were of the +purest, like Almaviva’s in the _Barber of Seville_. He did not conceal +from Frau Lenore nor from himself the disadvantageous side of those +intentions; but the disadvantages were only apparent! It is true he was +a foreigner; they had not known him long, they knew nothing positive +about himself or his means; but he was prepared to bring forward all +the necessary evidence that he was a respectable person and not poor; +he would refer them to the most unimpeachable testimony of his +fellow-countrymen! He hoped Gemma would be happy with him, and that he +would be able to make up to her for the separation from her own +people!… The allusion to “separation”—the mere word “separation”—almost +spoiled the whole business…. Frau Lenore began to tremble all over and +move about uneasily…. Sanin hastened to observe that the separation +would only be temporary, and that, in fact, possibly it would not take +place at all! + +Sanin’s eloquence was not thrown away. Frau Lenore began to glance at +him, though still with bitterness and reproach, no longer with the same +aversion and fury; then she suffered him to come near her, and even to +sit down beside her (Gemma was sitting on the other side); then she +fell to reproaching him,—not in looks only, but in words, which already +indicated a certain softening of heart; she fell to complaining, and +her complaints became quieter and gentler; they were interspersed with +questions addressed at one time to her daughter, and at another to +Sanin; then she suffered him to take her hand and did not at once pull +it away … then she wept again, but her tears were now quite of another +kind…. Then she smiled mournfully, and lamented the absence of Giovanni +Battista, but quite on different grounds from before…. An instant more +and the two criminals, Sanin and Gemma, were on their knees at her +feet, and she was laying her hands on their heads in turn; another +instant and they were embracing and kissing her, and Emil, his face +beaming rapturously, ran into the room and added himself to the group +so warmly united. + +Pantaleone peeped into the room, smiled and frowned at the same time, +and going into the shop, opened the front door. + + + + +XXX + + +The transition from despair to sadness, and from that to “gentle +resignation,” was accomplished fairly quickly in Frau Lenore; but that +gentle resignation, too, was not slow in changing into a secret +satisfaction, which was, however, concealed in every way and suppressed +for the sake of appearances. Sanin had won Frau Lenore’s heart from the +first day of their acquaintance; as she got used to the idea of his +being her son-in-law, she found nothing particularly distasteful in it, +though she thought it her duty to preserve a somewhat hurt, or rather +careworn, expression on her face. Besides, everything that had happened +the last few days had been so extraordinary…. One thing upon the top of +another. As a practical woman and a mother, Frau Lenore considered it +her duty also to put Sanin through various questions; and Sanin, who, +on setting out that morning to meet Gemma, had not a notion that he +should marry her—it is true he did not think of anything at all at that +time, but simply gave himself up to the current of his passion—Sanin +entered, with perfect readiness, one might even say with zeal, into his +part—the part of the betrothed lover, and answered all her inquiries +circumstantially, exactly, with alacrity. When she had satisfied +herself that he was a real nobleman by birth, and had even expressed +some surprise that he was not a prince, Frau Lenore assumed a serious +air and “warned him betimes” that she should be quite unceremoniously +frank with him, as she was forced to be so by her sacred duty as a +mother! To which Sanin replied that he expected nothing else from her, +and that he earnestly begged her not to spare him! + +Then Frau Lenore observed that Herr Klüber—as she uttered the name, she +sighed faintly, tightened her lips, and hesitated—Herr Klüber, Gemma’s +former betrothed, already possessed an income of eight thousand +guldens, and that with every year this sum would rapidly be increased; +and what was his, Herr Sanin’s income? “Eight thousand guldens,” Sanin +repeated deliberately…. “That’s in our money … about fifteen thousand +roubles…. My income is much smaller. I have a small estate in the +province of Tula…. With good management, it might yield—and, in fact, +it could not fail to yield—five or six thousand … and if I go into the +government service, I can easily get a salary of two thousand a year.” + +“Into the service in Russia?” cried Frau Lenore, “Then I must part with +Gemma!” + +“One might be able to enter in the diplomatic service,” Sanin put in; +“I have some connections…. There one’s duties lie abroad. Or else, this +is what one might do, and that’s much the best of all: sell my estate +and employ the sum received for it in some profitable undertaking; for +instance, the improvement of your shop.” Sanin was aware that he was +saying something absurd, but he was possessed by an incomprehensible +recklessness! He looked at Gemma, who, ever since the “practical” +conversation began, kept getting up, walking about the room, and +sitting down again—he looked at her—and no obstacle existed for him, +and he was ready to arrange everything at once in the best way, if only +she were not troubled! + +“Herr Klüber, too, had intended to give me a small sum for the +improvement of the shop,” Lenore observed after a slight hesitation. + +“Mother! for mercy’s sake, mother!” cried Gemma in Italian. + +“These things must be discussed in good time, my daughter,” Frau Lenore +replied in the same language. She addressed herself again to Sanin, and +began questioning him as to the laws existing in Russia as to marriage, +and whether there were no obstacles to contracting marriages with +Catholics as in Prussia. (At that time, in 1840, all Germany still +remembered the controversy between the Prussian Government and the +Archbishop of Cologne upon mixed marriages.) When Frau Lenore heard +that by marrying a Russian nobleman, her daughter would herself become +of noble rank, she evinced a certain satisfaction. “But, of course, you +will first have to go to Russia?” + +“Why?” + +“Why? Why, to obtain the permission of your Tsar.” + +Sanin explained to her that that was not at all necessary … but that he +might certainly have to go to Russia for a very short time before his +marriage—(he said these words, and his heart ached painfully, Gemma +watching him, knew it was aching, and blushed and grew dreamy)—and that +he would try to take advantage of being in his own country to sell his +estate … in any case he would bring back the money needed. + +“I would ask you to bring me back some good Astrakhan lambskin for a +cape,” said Frau Lenore. “They’re wonderfully good, I hear, and +wonderfully cheap!” + +“Certainly, with the greatest pleasure, I will bring some for you and +for Gemma!” cried Sanin. + +“And for me a morocco cap worked in silver,” Emil interposed, putting +his head in from the next room. + +“Very well, I will bring it you … and some slippers for Pantaleone.” + +“Come, that’s nonsense, nonsense,” observed Frau Lenore. “We are +talking now of serious matters. But there’s another point,” added the +practical lady. “You talk of selling your estate. But how will you do +that? Will you sell your peasants then, too?” + +Sanin felt something like a stab at his heart. He remembered that in a +conversation with Signora Roselli and her daughter about serfdom, +which, in his own words, aroused his deepest indignation, he had +repeatedly assured them that never on any account would he sell his +peasants, as he regarded such a sale as an immoral act. + +“I will try and sell my estate to some man I know something of,” he +articulated, not without faltering, “or perhaps the peasants themselves +will want to buy their freedom.” + +“That would be best of all,” Frau Lenore agreed. “Though indeed selling +live people …” + +“_Barbari_!” grumbled Pantaleone, who showed himself behind Emil in the +doorway, shook his topknot, and vanished. + +“It’s a bad business!” Sanin thought to himself, and stole a look at +Gemma. She seemed not to have heard his last words. “Well, never mind!” +he thought again. In this way the practical talk continued almost +uninterruptedly till dinner-time. Frau Lenore was completely softened +at last, and already called Sanin “Dimitri,” shook her finger +affectionately at him, and promised she would punish him for his +treachery. She asked many and minute questions about his relations, +because “that too is very important”; asked him to describe the +ceremony of marriage as performed by the ritual of the Russian Church, +and was in raptures already at Gemma in a white dress, with a gold +crown on her head. + +“She’s as lovely as a queen,” she murmured with motherly pride, “indeed +there’s no queen like her in the world!” + +“There is no one like Gemma in the world!” Sanin chimed in. + +“Yes; that’s why she is Gemma!” (Gemma, as every one knows, means in +Italian a precious stone.) + +Gemma flew to kiss her mother…. It seemed as if only then she breathed +freely again, and the load that had been oppressing her dropped from +off her soul. + +Sanin felt all at once so happy, his heart was filled with such +childish gaiety at the thought, that here, after all, the dreams had +come true to which he had abandoned himself not long ago in these very +rooms, his whole being was in such a turmoil that he went quickly out +into the shop. He felt a great desire, come what might, to sell +something in the shop, as he had done a few days before…. “I have a +full right to do so now!” he felt. “Why, I am one of the family now!” +And he actually stood behind the counter, and actually kept shop, that +is, sold two little girls, who came in, a pound of sweets, giving them +fully two pounds, and only taking half the price from them. + +At dinner he received an official position, as betrothed, beside Gemma. +Frau Lenore pursued her practical investigations. Emil kept laughing +and urging Sanin to take him with him to Russia. It was decided that +Sanin should set off in a fortnight. Only Pantaleone showed a somewhat +sullen face, so much so that Frau Lenore reproached him. “And he was +his second!” Pantaleone gave her a glance from under his brows. + +Gemma was silent almost all the time, but her face had never been +lovelier or brighter. After dinner she called Sanin out a minute into +the garden, and stopping beside the very garden-seat where she had been +sorting the cherries two days before, she said to him. “Dimitri, don’t +be angry with me; but I must remind you once more that you are not to +consider yourself bound …” + +He did not let her go on…. + +Gemma turned away her face. “And as for what mamma spoke of, do you +remember, the difference of our religion—see here!…” + +She snatched the garnet cross that hung round her neck on a thin cord, +gave it a violent tug, snapped the cord, and handed him the cross. + +“If I am yours, your faith is my faith!” Sanin’s eyes were still wet +when he went back with Gemma into the house. + +By the evening everything went on in its accustomed way. They even +played a game of _tresette_. + + + + +XXXI + + +Sanin woke up very early. He found himself at the highest pinnacle of +human happiness; but it was not that prevented him from sleeping; the +question, the vital, fateful question—how he could dispose of his +estate as quickly and as advantageously as possible—disturbed his rest. +The most diverse plans were mixed up in his head, but nothing had as +yet come out clearly. He went out of the house to get air and freshen +himself. He wanted to present himself to Gemma with a project ready +prepared and not without. + +What was the figure, somewhat ponderous and thick in the legs, but +well-dressed, walking in front of him, with a slight roll and waddle in +his gait? Where had he seen that head, covered with tufts of flaxen +hair, and as it were set right into the shoulders, that soft cushiony +back, those plump arms hanging straight down at his sides? Could it be +Polozov, his old schoolfellow, whom he had lost sight of for the last +five years? Sanin overtook the figure walking in front of him, turned +round…. A broad, yellowish face, little pig’s eyes, with white lashes +and eyebrows, a short flat nose, thick lips that looked glued together, +a round smooth chin, and that expression, sour, sluggish, and +mistrustful—yes; it was he, it was Ippolit Polozov! + +“Isn’t my lucky star working for me again?” flashed through Sanin’s +mind. + +“Polozov! Ippolit Sidorovitch! Is it you?” + +The figure stopped, raised his diminutive eyes, waited a little, and +ungluing his lips at last, brought out in a rather hoarse falsetto, +“Dimitri Sanin?” + +“That’s me!” cried Sanin, and he shook one of Polozov’s hands; arrayed +in tight kid-gloves of an ashen-grey colour, they hung as lifeless as +before beside his barrel-shaped legs. “Have you been here long? Where +have you come from? Where are you stopping?” + +“I came yesterday from Wiesbaden,” Polozov replied in deliberate tones, +“to do some shopping for my wife, and I’m going back to Wiesbaden +to-day.” + +“Oh, yes! You’re married, to be sure, and they say, to such a beauty!” + +Polozov turned his eyes away. “Yes, they say so.” + +Sanin laughed. “I see you’re just the same … as phlegmatic as you were +at school.” + +“Why should I be different?” + +“And they do say,” Sanin added with special emphasis on the word “do,” +“that your wife is very rich.” + +“They say that too.” + +“Do you mean to say, Ippolit Sidorovitch, you are not certain on that +point?” + +“I don’t meddle, my dear Dimitri … Pavlovitch? Yes, Pavlovitch!—in my +wife’s affairs.” + +“You don’t meddle? Not in any of her affairs?” + +Polozov again shifted his eyes. “Not in any, my boy. She does as she +likes, and so do I.” + +“Where are you going now?” Sanin inquired. + +“I’m not going anywhere just now; I’m standing in the street and +talking to you; but when we’ve finished talking, I’m going back to my +hotel, and am going to have lunch.” + +“Would you care for my company?” + +“You mean at lunch?” + +“Yes.” + +“Delighted, it’s much pleasanter to eat in company. You’re not a great +talker, are you?” + +“I think not.” + +“So much the better.” + +Polozov went on. Sanin walked beside him. And Sanin +speculated—Polozov’s lips were glued together, again he snorted +heavily, and waddled along in silence—Sanin speculated in what way had +this booby succeeded in catching a rich and beautiful wife. He was not +rich himself, nor distinguished, nor clever; at school he had passed +for a dull, slow-witted boy, sleepy, and greedy, and had borne the +nickname “driveller.” It was marvellous! + +“But if his wife is very rich, they say she’s the daughter of some sort +of a contractor, won’t she buy my estate? Though he does say he doesn’t +interfere in any of his wife’s affairs, that passes belief, really! +Besides, I will name a moderate, reasonable price! Why not try? +Perhaps, it’s all my lucky star…. Resolved! I’ll have a try!” + +Polozov led Sanin to one of the best hotels in Frankfort, in which he +was, of course, occupying the best apartments. On the tables and chairs +lay piles of packages, cardboard boxes, and parcels. “All purchases, my +boy, for Maria Nikolaevna!” (that was the name of the wife of Ippolit +Sidorovitch). Polozov dropped into an arm-chair, groaned, “Oh, the +heat!” and loosened his cravat. Then he rang up the head-waiter, and +ordered with intense care a very lavish luncheon. “And at one, the +carriage is to be ready! Do you hear, at one o’clock sharp!” + +The head-waiter obsequiously bowed, and cringingly withdrew. + +Polozov unbuttoned his waistcoat. From the very way in which he raised +his eyebrows, gasped, and wrinkled up his nose, one could see that +talking would be a great labour to him, and that he was waiting in some +trepidation to see whether Sanin was going to oblige him to use his +tongue, or whether he would take the task of keeping up the +conversation on himself. + +Sanin understood his companion’s disposition of mind, and so he did not +burden him with questions; he restricted himself to the most essential. +He learnt that he had been for two years in the service (in the Uhlans! +how nice he must have looked in the short uniform jacket!) that he had +married three years before, and had now been for two years abroad with +his wife, “who is now undergoing some sort of cure at Wiesbaden,” and +was then going to Paris. On his side too, Sanin did not enlarge much on +his past life and his plans; he went straight to the principal +point—that is, he began talking of his intention of selling his estate. + +Polozov listened to him in silence, his eyes straying from time to time +to the door, by which the luncheon was to appear. The luncheon did +appear at last. The head-waiter, accompanied by two other attendants, +brought in several dishes under silver covers. + +“Is the property in the Tula province?” said Polozov, seating himself +at the table, and tucking a napkin into his shirt collar. + +“Yes.” + +“In the Efremovsky district … I know it.” + +“Do you know my place, Aleksyevka?” Sanin asked, sitting down too at +the table. + +“Yes, I know it.” Polozov thrust in his mouth a piece of omelette with +truffles. “Maria Nikolaevna, my wife, has an estate in that +neighbourhood…. Uncork that bottle, waiter! You’ve a good piece of +land, only your peasants have cut down the timber. Why are you selling +it?” + +“I want the money, my friend. I would sell it cheap. Come, you might as +well buy it … by the way.” + +Polozov gulped down a glass of wine, wiped his lips with the napkin, +and again set to work chewing slowly and noisily. + +“Oh,” he enunciated at last…. “I don’t go in for buying estates; I’ve +no capital. Pass the butter. Perhaps my wife now would buy it. You talk +to her about it. If you don’t ask too much, she’s not above thinking of +that…. What asses these Germans are, really! They can’t cook fish. What +could be simpler, one wonders? And yet they go on about ‘uniting the +Fatherland.’ Waiter, take away that beastly stuff!” + +“Does your wife really manage … business matters herself?” Sanin +inquired. + +“Yes. Try the cutlets—they’re good. I can recommend them. I’ve told you +already, Dimitri Pavlovitch, I don’t interfere in any of my wife’s +concerns, and I tell you so again.” + +Polozov went on munching. + +“H’m…. But how can I have a talk with her, Ippolit Sidorovitch?” + +“It’s very simple, Dimitri Pavlovitch. Go to Wiesbaden. It’s not far +from here. Waiter, haven’t you any English mustard? No? Brutes! Only +don’t lose any time. We’re starting the day after to-morrow. Let me +pour you out a glass of wine; it’s wine with a bouquet—no vinegary +stuff.” + +Polozov’s face was flushed and animated; it was never animated but when +he was eating—or drinking. + +“Really, I don’t know, how that could be managed,” Sanin muttered. + +“But what makes you in such a hurry about it all of a sudden?” + +“There is a reason for being in a hurry, brother.” + +“And do you need a lot of money?” + +“Yes, a lot. I … how can I tell you? I propose … getting married.” + +Polozov set the glass he had been lifting to his lips on the table. + +“Getting married!” he articulated in a voice thick with astonishment, +and he folded his podgy hands on his stomach. “So suddenly?” + +“Yes … soon.” + +“Your intended is in Russia, of course?” + +“No, not in Russia.” + +“Where then?” + +“Here in Frankfort.” + +“And who is she?” + +“A German; that is, no—an Italian. A resident here.” + +“With a fortune?” + +“No, without a fortune.” + +“Then I suppose your love is very ardent?” + +“How absurd you are! Yes, very ardent.” + +“And it’s for that you must have money?” + +“Well, yes … yes, yes.” + +Polozov gulped down his wine, rinsed his mouth, and washed his hands, +carefully wiped them on the napkin, took out and lighted a cigar. Sanin +watched him in silence. + +“There’s one means,” Polozov grunted at last, throwing his head back, +and blowing out the smoke in a thin ring. “Go to my wife. If she likes, +she can take all the bother off your hands.” + +“But how can I see your wife? You say you are starting the day after +to-morrow?” + +Polozov closed his eyes. + +“I’ll tell you what,” he said at last, rolling the cigar in his lips, +and sighing. “Go home, get ready as quick as you can, and come here. At +one o’clock I am going, there’s plenty of room in my carriage. I’ll +take you with me. That’s the best plan. And now I’m going to have a +nap. I must always have a nap, brother, after a meal. Nature demands +it, and I won’t go against it. And don’t you disturb me.” + +Sanin thought and thought, and suddenly raised his head; he had made up +his mind. + +“Very well, agreed, and thank you. At half-past twelve I’ll be here, +and we’ll go together to Wiesbaden. I hope your wife won’t be angry….” + +But Polozov was already snoring. He muttered, “Don’t disturb me!” gave +a kick, and fell asleep, like a baby. + +Sanin once more scanned his clumsy figure, his head, his neck, his +upturned chin, round as an apple, and going out of the hotel, set off +with rapid strides to the Rosellis’ shop. He had to let Gemma know. + + + + +XXXII + + +He found her in the shop with her mother. Frau Lenore was stooping +down, measuring with a big folding foot-rule the space between the +windows. On seeing Sanin, she stood up, and greeted him cheerfully, +though with a shade of embarrassment. + +“What you said yesterday,” she began, “has set my head in a whirl with +ideas as to how we could improve our shop. Here, I fancy we might put a +couple of cupboards with shelves of looking-glass. You know, that’s the +fashion nowadays. And then …” + +“Excellent, excellent,” Sanin broke in, “we must think it all over…. +But come here, I want to tell you something.” He took Frau Lenore and +Gemma by the arm, and led them into the next room. Frau Lenore was +alarmed, and the foot-rule slipped out of her hands. Gemma too was +almost frightened, but she took an intent look at Sanin, and was +reassured. His face, though preoccupied, expressed at the same time +keen self-confidence and determination. He asked both the women to sit +down, while he remained standing before them, and gesticulating with +his hands and ruffling up his hair, he told them all his story; his +meeting with Polozov, his proposed expedition to Wiesbaden, the chance +of selling the estate. “Imagine my happiness,” he cried in conclusion: +“things have taken such a turn that I may even, perhaps, not have to go +to Russia! And we can have our wedding much sooner than I had +anticipated!” + +“When must you go?” asked Gemma. + +“To-day, in an hour’s time; my friend has ordered a carriage—he will +take me.” + +“You will write to us?” + +“At once! directly I have had a talk with this lady, I will write.” + +“This lady, you say, is very rich?” queried the practical Frau Lenore. + +“Exceedingly rich! her father was a millionaire, and he left everything +to her.” + +“Everything—to her alone? Well, that’s so much the better for you. Only +mind, don’t let your property go too cheap! Be sensible and firm. Don’t +let yourself be carried away! I understand your wishing to be Gemma’s +husband as soon as possible … but prudence before everything! Don’t +forget: the better price you get for your estate, the more there will +be for you two, and for your children.” + +Gemma turned away, and Sanin gave another wave of his hand. “You can +rely on my prudence, Frau Lenore! Indeed, I shan’t do any bargaining +with her. I shall tell her the fair price; if she’ll give it—good; if +not, let her go.” + +“Do you know her—this lady?” asked Gemma. + +“I have never seen her.” + +“And when will you come back?” + +“If our negotiations come to nothing—the day after to-morrow; if they +turn out favourably, perhaps I may have to stay a day or two longer. In +any case I shall not linger a minute beyond what’s necessary. I am +leaving my heart here, you know! But I have said what I had to say to +you, and I must run home before setting off too…. Give me your hand for +luck, Frau Lenore—that’s what we always do in Russia.” + +“The right or the left?” + +“The left, it’s nearer the heart. I shall reappear the day after +to-morrow with my shield or on it! Something tells me I shall come back +in triumph! Good-bye, my good dear ones….” + +He embraced and kissed Frau Lenore, but he asked Gemma to follow him +into her room—for just a minute—as he must tell her something of great +importance. He simply wanted to say good-bye to her alone. Frau Lenore +saw that, and felt no curiosity as to the matter of such great +importance. + +Sanin had never been in Gemma’s room before. All the magic of love, all +its fire and rapture and sweet terror, seemed to flame up and burst +into his soul, directly he crossed its sacred threshold…. He cast a +look of tenderness about him, fell at the sweet girl’s feet and pressed +his face against her waist…. + +“You are mine,” she whispered: “you will be back soon?” + +“I am yours. I will come back,” he declared, catching his breath. + +“I shall be longing for you back, my dear one!” + +A few instants later Sanin was running along the street to his lodging. +He did not even notice that Pantaleone, all dishevelled, had darted out +of the shop-door after him, and was shouting something to him and was +shaking, as though in menace, his lifted hand. + +Exactly at a quarter to one Sanin presented himself before Polozov. The +carriage with four horses was already standing at the hotel gates. On +seeing Sanin, Polozov merely commented, “Oh! you’ve made up your mind?” +and putting on his hat, cloak, and over-shoes, and stuffing cotton-wool +into his ears, though it was summer-time, went out on to the steps. The +waiters, by his directions, disposed all his numerous purchases in the +inside of the carriage, lined the place where he was to sit with silk +cushions, bags, and bundles, put a hamper of provisions for his feet to +rest on, and tied a trunk on to the box. Polozov paid with a liberal +hand, and supported by the deferential door-keeper, whose face was +still respectful, though he was unseen behind him, he climbed gasping +into the carriage, sat down, disarranged everything about him +thoroughly, took out and lighted a cigar, and only then extended a +finger to Sanin, as though to say, “Get in, you too!” Sanin placed +himself beside him. Polozov sent orders by the door-keeper to the +postillion to drive carefully—if he wanted drinks; the carriage steps +grated, the doors slammed, and the carriage rolled off. + + + + +XXXIII + + +It takes less than an hour in these days by rail from Frankfort to +Wiesbaden; at that time the extra post did it in three hours. They +changed horses five times. Part of the time Polozov dozed and part of +the time he simply shook from side to side, holding a cigar in his +teeth; he talked very little; he did not once look out of the window; +picturesque views did not interest them; he even announced that “nature +was the death of him!” Sanin did not speak either, nor did he admire +the scenery; he had no thought for it. He was all absorbed in +reflections and memories. At the stations Polozov paid with exactness, +took the time by his watch, and tipped the postillions—more or +less—according to their zeal. When they had gone half way, he took two +oranges out of the hamper of edibles, and choosing out the better, +offered the other to Sanin. Sanin looked steadily at his companion, and +suddenly burst out laughing. + +“What are you laughing at?” the latter inquired, very carefully peeling +his orange with his short white nails. + +“What at?” repeated Sanin. “Why, at our journey together.” + +“What about it?” Polozov inquired again, dropping into his mouth one of +the longitudinal sections into which an orange parts. + +“It’s so very strange. Yesterday I must confess I thought no more of +you than of the Emperor of China, and to-day I’m driving with you to +sell my estate to your wife, of whom, too, I have not the slightest +idea.” + +“Anything may happen,” responded Polozov. “When you’ve lived a bit +longer, you won’t be surprised at anything. For instance, can you fancy +me riding as an orderly officer? But I did, and the Grand Duke Mihail +Pavlovitch gave the order, “Trot! let him trot, that fat cornet! Trot +now! Look sharp!” + +Sanin scratched behind his ear. + +“Tell me, please, Ippolit Sidorovitch, what is your wife like? What is +her character? It’s very necessary for me to know that, you see.” + +“It was very well for him to shout, ‘Trot!’” Polozov went on with +sudden vehemence, “But me! how about me? I thought to myself, ‘You can +take your honours and epaulettes—and leave me in peace!’ But … you +asked about my wife? What my wife is? A person like any one else. Don’t +wear your heart upon your sleeve with her—she doesn’t like that. The +great thing is to talk a lot to her … something for her to laugh at. +Tell her about your love, or something … but make it more amusing, you +know.” + +“How more amusing?” + +“Oh, you told me, you know, that you were in love, wanting to get +married. Well, then, describe that.” + +Sanin was offended. “What do you find laughable in that?” + +Polozov only rolled his eyes. The juice from the orange was trickling +down his chin. + +“Was it your wife sent you to Frankfort to shop for her?” asked Sanin +after a short time. + +“Yes, it was she.” + +“What are the purchases?” + +“Toys, of course.” + +“Toys? have you any children?” + +Polozov positively moved away from Sanin. + +“That’s likely! What do I want with children? Feminine fallals … +finery. For the toilet.” + +“Do you mean to say you understand such things?” + +“To be sure I do.” + +“But didn’t you tell me you didn’t interfere in any of your wife’s +affairs?” + +“I don’t in any other. But this … is no consequence. To pass the +time—one may do it. And my wife has confidence in my taste. And I’m a +first-rate hand at bargaining.” + +Polozov began to speak by jerks; he was exhausted already. “And is your +wife very rich?” + +“Rich; yes, rather! Only she keeps the most of it for herself.” + +“But I expect you can’t complain either?” + +“Well, I’m her husband. I’m hardly likely not to get some benefit from +it! And I’m of use to her. With me she can do just as she likes! I’m +easy-going!” + +Polozov wiped his face with a silk handkerchief and puffed painfully, +as though to say, “Have mercy on me; don’t force me to utter another +word. You see how hard it is for me.” + +Sanin left him in peace, and again sank into meditation. + +The hotel in Wiesbaden, before which the carriage stopped, was exactly +like a palace. Bells were promptly set ringing in its inmost recesses; +a fuss and bustle arose; men of good appearance in black frock-coats +skipped out at the principal entrance; a door-keeper who was a blaze of +gold opened the carriage doors with a flourish. + +Like some triumphant general Polozov alighted and began to ascend a +staircase strewn with rugs and smelling of agreeable perfumes. To him +flew up another man, also very well dressed but with a Russian face—his +valet. Polozov observed to him that for the future he should always +take him everywhere with him, for the night before at Frankfort, he, +Polozov, had been left for the night without hot water! The valet +portrayed his horror on his face, and bending down quickly, took off +his master’s goloshes. + +“Is Maria Nikolaevna at home?” inquired Polozov. + +“Yes, sir. Madam is pleased to be dressing. Madam is pleased to be +dining to-night at the Countess Lasunsky’s.” + +“Ah! there?… Stay! There are things there in the carriage; get them all +yourself and bring them up. And you, Dmitri Pavlovitch,” added Polozov, +“take a room for yourself and come in in three-quarters of an hour. We +will dine together.” + +Polozov waddled off, while Sanin asked for an inexpensive room for +himself; and after setting his attire to rights, and resting a little, +he repaired to the immense apartment occupied by his Serenity +(Durchlaucht) Prince von Polozov. + +He found this “prince” enthroned in a luxurious velvet arm-chair in the +middle of a most magnificent drawing-room. Sanin’s phlegmatic friend +had already had time to have a bath and to array himself in a most +sumptuous satin dressing-gown; he had put a crimson fez on his head. +Sanin approached him and scrutinised him for some time. Polozov was +sitting rigid as an idol; he did not even turn his face in his +direction, did not even move an eyebrow, did not utter a sound. It was +truly a sublime spectacle! After having admired him for a couple of +minutes, Sanin was on the point of speaking, of breaking this hallowed +silence, when suddenly the door from the next room was thrown open, and +in the doorway appeared a young and beautiful lady in a white silk +dress trimmed with black lace, and with diamonds on her arms and +neck—Maria Nikolaevna Polozov. Her thick fair hair fell on both sides +of her head, braided, but not fastened up into a knot. + + + + +XXXIV + + +“Ah, I beg your pardon!” she said with a smile half-embarrassed, +half-ironical, instantly taking hold of one end of a plait of her hair +and fastening on Sanin her large, grey, clear eyes. + +“I did not think you had come yet.” + +“Sanin, Dmitri Pavlovitch—known him from a boy,” observed Polozov, as +before not turning towards him and not getting up, but pointing at him +with one finger. + +“Yes…. I know…. You told me before. Very glad to make your +acquaintance. But I wanted to ask you, Ippolit Sidorovitch…. My maid +seems to have lost her senses to-day …” + +“To do your hair up?” + +“Yes, yes, please. I beg your pardon,” Maria Nikolaevna repeated with +the same smile. She nodded to Sanin, and turning swiftly, vanished +through the doorway, leaving behind her a fleeting but graceful +impression of a charming neck, exquisite shoulders, an exquisite +figure. + +Polozov got up, and rolling ponderously, went out by the same door. + +Sanin did not doubt for a single second that his presence in “Prince +Polozov’s” drawing-room was a fact perfectly well known to its +mistress; the whole point of her entry had been the display of her +hair, which was certainly beautiful. Sanin was inwardly delighted +indeed at this freak on the part of Madame Polozov; if, he thought, she +is anxious to impress me, to dazzle me, perhaps, who knows, she will be +accommodating about the price of the estate. His heart was so full of +Gemma that all other women had absolutely no significance for him; he +hardly noticed them; and this time he went no further than thinking, +“Yes, it was the truth they told me; that lady’s really magnificent to +look at!” + +But had he not been in such an exceptional state of mind he would most +likely have expressed himself differently; Maria Nikolaevna Polozov, by +birth Kolishkin, was a very striking personality. And not that she was +of a beauty to which no exception could be taken; traces of her +plebeian origin were rather clearly apparent in her. Her forehead was +low, her nose rather fleshy and turned up; she could boast neither of +the delicacy of her skin nor of the elegance of her hands and feet—but +what did all that matter? Any one meeting her would not, to use +Pushkin’s words, have stood still before “the holy shrine of beauty,” +but before the sorcery of a half-Russian, half-Gipsy woman’s body in +its full flower and full power … and he would have been nothing loath +to stand still! + +But Gemma’s image preserved Sanin like the three-fold armour of which +the poets sing. + +Ten minutes later Maria Nikolaevna appeared again, escorted by her +husband. She went up to Sanin … and her walk was such that some +eccentrics of that—alas!—already, distant day, were simply crazy over +her walk alone. “That woman, when she comes towards one, seems as +though she is bringing all the happiness of one’s life to meet one,” +one of them used to say. She went up to Sanin, and holding out her hand +to him, said in her caressing and, as it were, subdued voice in +Russian, “You will wait for me, won’t you? I’ll be back soon.” + +Sanin bowed respectfully, while Maria Nikolaevna vanished behind the +curtain over the outside door; and as she vanished turned her head back +over her shoulder, and smiled again, and again left behind her the same +impression of grace. + +When she smiled, not one and not two, but three dimples came out on +each cheek, and her eyes smiled more than her lips—long, crimson, juicy +lips with two tiny moles on the left side of them. + +Polozov waddled into the room and again established himself in the +arm-chair. He was speechless as before; but from time to time a queer +smile puffed out his colourless and already wrinkled cheeks. He looked +like an old man, though he was only three years older than Sanin. + +The dinner with which he regaled his guest would of course have +satisfied the most exacting gourmand, but to Sanin it seemed endless, +insupportable! Polozov ate slowly, “with feeling, with judgment, with +deliberation,” bending attentively over his plate, and sniffing at +almost every morsel. First he rinsed his mouth with wine, then +swallowed it and smacked his lips…. Over the roast meat he suddenly +began to talk—but of what? Of merino sheep, of which he was intending +to order a whole flock, and in such detail, with such tenderness, using +all the while endearing pet names for them. After drinking a cup of +coffee, hot to boiling point (he had several times in a voice of +tearful irritation mentioned to the waiter that he had been served the +evening before with coffee, cold—cold as ice!) and bitten off the end +of a Havannah cigar with his crooked yellow teeth, he dropped off, as +his habit was, into a nap, to the intense delight of Sanin, who began +walking up and down with noiseless steps on the soft carpet, and +dreaming of his life with Gemma and of what news he would bring back to +her. Polozov, however, awoke, as he remarked himself, earlier than +usual—he had slept only an hour and a half—and after drinking a glass +of iced seltzer water, and swallowing eight spoonfuls of jam, Russian +jam, which his valet brought him in a dark-green genuine “Kiev” jar, +and without which, in his own words, he could not live, he stared with +his swollen eyes at Sanin and asked him wouldn’t he like to play a game +of “fools” with him. Sanin agreed readily; he was afraid that Polozov +would begin talking again about lambs and ewes and fat tails. The host +and the visitor both adjourned to the drawing-room, the waiter brought +in the cards, and the game began, not,—of course, for money. + +At this innocent diversion Maria Nikolaevna found them on her return +from the Countess Lasunsky’s. She laughed aloud directly she came into +the room and saw the cards and the open card-table. Sanin jumped up, +but she cried, “Sit still; go on with the game. I’ll change my dress +directly and come back to you,” and vanished again with a swish of her +dress, pulling off her gloves as she went. + +She did in fact return very soon. Her evening dress she had exchanged +for a full lilac silk tea-gown, with open hanging sleeves; a thick +twisted cord was fastened round her waist. She sat down by her husband, +and, waiting till he was left “fool,” said to him, “Come, dumpling, +that’s enough!” (At the word “dumpling” Sanin glanced at her in +surprise, and she smiled gaily, answering his look with a look, and +displaying all the dimples on her cheeks.) “I see you are sleepy; kiss +my hand and get along; and Monsieur Sanin and I will have a chat +together alone.” + +“I’m not sleepy,” observed Polozov, getting up ponderously from his +easy-chair; “but as for getting along, I’m ready to get along and to +kiss your hand.” She gave him the palm of her hand, still smiling and +looking at Sanin. + +Polozov, too, looked at him, and went away without taking leave of him. + +“Well, tell me, tell me,” said Maria Nikolaevna eagerly, setting both +her bare elbows on the table and impatiently tapping the nails of one +hand against the nails of the other, “Is it true, they say, you are +going to be married?” + +As she said these words, Maria Nikolaevna positively bent her head a +little on one side so as to look more intently and piercingly into +Sanin’s eyes. + + + + +XXXV + + +The free and easy deportment of Madame Polozov would probably for the +first moment have disconcerted Sanin—though he was not quite a novice +and had knocked about the world a little—if he had not again seen in +this very freedom and familiarity a good omen for his undertaking. “We +must humour this rich lady’s caprices,” he decided inwardly; and as +unconstrainedly as she had questioned him he answered, “Yes; I am going +to be married.” + +“To whom? To a foreigner?” + +“Yes.” + +“Did you get acquainted with her lately? In Frankfort?” + +“Yes.” + +“And what is she? May I know?” + +“Certainly. She is a confectioner’s daughter.” + +Maria Nikolaevna opened her eyes wide and lifted her eyebrows. + +“Why, this is delightful,” she commented in a drawling voice; “this is +exquisite! I imagined that young men like you were not to be met with +anywhere in these days. A confectioner’s daughter!” + +“I see that surprises you,” observed Sanin with some dignity; “but in +the first place, I have none of these prejudices …” + +“In the first place, it doesn’t surprise me in the least,” Maria +Nikolaevna interrupted; “I have no prejudices either. I’m the daughter +of a peasant myself. There! what can you say to that? What does +surprise and delight me is to have come across a man who’s not afraid +to love. You do love her, I suppose?” + +“Yes.” + +“Is she very pretty?” + +Sanin was slightly stung by this last question…. However, there was no +drawing back. + +“You know, Maria Nikolaevna,” he began, “every man thinks the face of +his beloved better than all others; but my betrothed is really +beautiful.” + +“Really? In what style? Italian? antique?” + +“Yes; she has very regular features.” + +“You have not got her portrait with you?” + +“No.” (At that time photography was not yet talked off. Daguerrotypes +had hardly begun to be common.) + +“What’s her name?” + +“Her name is Gemma.” + +“And yours?” + +“Dimitri.” + +“And your father’s?” + +“Pavlovitch.” + +“Do you know,” Maria Nikolaevna said, still in the same drawling voice, +“I like you very much, Dimitri Pavlovitch. You must be an excellent +fellow. Give me your hand. Let us be friends.” + +She pressed his hand tightly in her beautiful, white, strong fingers. +Her hand was a little smaller than his hand, but much warmer and +smoother and whiter and more full of life. + +“Only, do you know what strikes me?” + +“What?” + +“You won’t be angry? No? You say she is betrothed to you. But was that +… was that quite necessary?” + +Sanin frowned. “I don’t understand you, Maria Nikolaevna.” + +Maria Nikolaevna gave a soft low laugh, and shaking her head tossed +back the hair that was falling on her cheeks. “Decidedly—he’s +delightful,” she commented half pensively, half carelessly. “A perfect +knight! After that, there’s no believing in the people who maintain +that the race of idealists is extinct!” + +Maria Nikolaevna talked Russian all the time, an astonishingly pure +true Moscow Russian, such as the people, not the nobles speak. + +“You’ve been brought up at home, I expect, in a God-fearing, old +orthodox family?” she queried. “You’re from what province?” + +“Tula.” + +“Oh! so we’re from the same part. My father … I daresay you know who my +father was?” + +“Yes, I know.” + +“He was born in Tula…. He was a Tula man. Well … well. Come, let us get +to business now.” + +“That is … how come to business? What do you mean to say by that?” + +Maria Nikolaevna half-closed her eyes. “Why, what did you come here +for?” (when she screwed up her eyes, their expression became very +kindly and a little bantering, when she opened them wide, into their +clear, almost cold brilliancy, there came something ill-natured … +something menacing. Her eyes gained a peculiar beauty from her +eyebrows, which were thick, and met in the centre, and had the +smoothness of sable fur). “Don’t you want me to buy your estate? You +want money for your nuptials? Don’t you?” + +“Yes.” + +“And do you want much?” + +“I should be satisfied with a few thousand francs at first. Your +husband knows my estate. You can consult him—I would take a very +moderate price.” + +Maria Nikolaevna tossed her head from left to right. “_In the first +place_,” she began in deliberate tones, drumming with the tips of her +fingers on the cuff of Sanin’s coat, “I am not in the habit of +consulting my husband, except about matters of dress—he’s my right hand +in that; _and in the second place_, why do you say that you will fix a +low price? I don’t want to take advantage of your being very much in +love at the moment, and ready to make any sacrifices…. I won’t accept +sacrifices of any kind from you. What? Instead of encouraging you … +come, how is one to express it properly?—in your noble sentiments, eh? +am I to fleece you? that’s not my way. I can be hard on people, on +occasion—only not in that way.” + +Sanin was utterly unable to make out whether she was laughing at him or +speaking seriously, and only said to himself: “Oh, I can see one has to +mind what one’s about with you!” + +A man-servant came in with a Russian samovar, tea-things, cream, +biscuits, etc., on a big tray; he set all these good things on the +table between Sanin and Madame Polozov, and retired. + +She poured him out a cup of tea. “You don’t object?” she queried, as +she put sugar in his cup with her fingers … though sugar-tongs were +lying close by. + +“Oh, please!… From such a lovely hand …” + +He did not finish his phrase, and almost choked over a sip of tea, +while she watched him attentively and brightly. + +“I spoke of a moderate price for my land,” he went on, “because as you +are abroad just now, I can hardly suppose you have a great deal of cash +available, and in fact, I feel myself that the sale … the purchase of +my land, under such conditions is something exceptional, and I ought to +take that into consideration.” + +Sanin got confused, and lost the thread of what he was saying, while +Maria Nikolaevna softly leaned back in her easy-chair, folded her arms, +and watched him with the same attentive bright look. He was silent at +last. + +“Never mind, go on, go on,” she said, as it were coming to his aid; +“I’m listening to you. I like to hear you; go on talking.” + +Sanin fell to describing his estate, how many acres it contained, and +where it was situated, and what were its agricultural advantages, and +what profit could be made from it … he even referred to the picturesque +situation of the house; while Maria Nikolaevna still watched him, and +watched more and more intently and radiantly, and her lips faintly +stirred, without smiling: she bit them. He felt awkward at last; he was +silent a second time. + +“Dimitri Pavlovitch,” began Maria Nikolaevna, and sank into thought +again…. “Dimitri Pavlovitch,” she repeated…. “Do you know what: I am +sure the purchase of your estate will be a very profitable transaction +for me, and that we shall come to terms; but you must give me two +days…. Yes, two days’ grace. You are able to endure two days’ +separation from your betrothed, aren’t you? Longer I won’t keep you +against your will—I give you my word of honour. But if you want five or +six thousand francs at once, I am ready with great pleasure to let you +have it as a loan, and then we’ll settle later.” + +Sanin got up. “I must thank you, Maria Nikolaevna, for your kindhearted +and friendly readiness to do a service to a man almost unknown to you. +But if that is your decided wish, then I prefer to await your decision +about my estate—I will stay here two days.” + +“Yes; that is my wish, Dimitri Pavlovitch. And will it be very hard for +you? Very? Tell me.” + +“I love my betrothed, Maria Nikolaevna, and to be separated from her is +hard for me.” + +“Ah! you’re a heart of gold!” Maria Nikolaevna commented with a sigh. +“I promise not to torment you too much. Are you going?” + +“It is late,” observed Sanin. + +“And you want to rest after your journey, and your game of ‘fools’ with +my husband. Tell me, were you a great friend of Ippolit Sidorovitch, my +husband?” + +“We were educated at the same school.” + +“And was he the same then?” + +“The same as what?” inquired Sanin. Maria Nikolaevna burst out +laughing, and laughed till she was red in the face; she put her +handkerchief to her lips, rose from her chair, and swaying as though +she were tired, went up to Sanin, and held out her hand to him. + +He bowed over it, and went towards the door. + +“Come early to-morrow—do you hear?” she called after him. He looked +back as he went out of the room, and saw that she had again dropped +into an easy-chair, and flung both arms behind her head. The loose +sleeves of her tea-gown fell open almost to her shoulders, and it was +impossible not to admit that the pose of the arms, that the whole +figure, was enchantingly beautiful. + + + + +XXXVI + + +Long after midnight the lamp was burning in Sanin’s room. He sat down +to the table and wrote to “his Gemma.” He told her everything; he +described the Polozovs—husband and wife—but, more than all, enlarged on +his own feelings, and ended by appointing a meeting with her in three +days!!! (with three marks of exclamation). Early in the morning he took +this letter to the post, and went for a walk in the garden of the +Kurhaus, where music was already being played. There were few people in +it as yet; he stood before the arbour in which the orchestra was +placed, listened to an adaptation of airs from “Robert le Diable,” and +after drinking some coffee, turned into a solitary side walk, sat down +on a bench, and fell into a reverie. The handle of a parasol gave him a +rapid, and rather vigorous, thump on the shoulder. He started…. Before +him in a light, grey-green barége dress, in a white tulle hat, and +_suède_ gloves, stood Maria Nikolaevna, fresh and rosy as a summer +morning, though the languor of sound unbroken sleep had not yet quite +vanished from her movements and her eyes. + +“Good-morning,” she said. “I sent after you to-day, but you’d already +gone out. I’ve only just drunk my second glass—they’re making me drink +the water here, you know—whatever for, there’s no telling … am I not +healthy enough? And now I have to walk for a whole hour. Will you be my +companion? And then we’ll have some coffee.” + +“I’ve had some already,” Sanin observed, getting up; “but I shall be +very glad to have a walk with you.” + +“Very well, give me your arm then; don’t be afraid: your betrothed is +not here—she won’t see you.” + +Sanin gave a constrained smile. He experienced a disagreeable sensation +every time Maria Nikolaevna referred to Gemma. However, he made haste +to bend towards her obediently…. Maria Nikolaevna’s arm slipped slowly +and softly into his arm, and glided over it, and seemed to cling tight +to it. + +“Come—this way,” she said to him, putting up her open parasol over her +shoulder. “I’m quite at home in this park; I will take you to the best +places. And do you know what? (she very often made use of this +expression), we won’t talk just now about that sale, we’ll have a +thorough discussion of that after lunch; but you must tell me now about +yourself … so that I may know whom I have to do with. And afterwards, +if you like, I will tell you about myself. Do you agree?” + +“But, Maria Nikolaevna, what interest can there be for you …” + +“Stop, stop. You don’t understand me. I don’t want to flirt with you.” +Maria Nikolaevna shrugged her shoulders. “He’s got a betrothed like an +antique statue, is it likely I am going to flirt with him? But you’ve +something to sell, and I’m the purchaser. I want to know what your +goods are like. Well, of course, you must show what they are like. I +don’t only want to know what I’m buying, but whom I’m buying from. That +was my father’s rule. Come, begin … come, if not from childhood—come +now, have you been long abroad? And where have you been up till now? +Only don’t walk so fast, we’re in no hurry.” + +“I came here from Italy, where I spent several months.” + +“Ah, you feel, it seems, a special attraction towards everything +Italian. It’s strange you didn’t find your lady-love there. Are you +fond of art? of pictures? or more of music?” + +“I am fond of art…. I like everything beautiful.” + +“And music?” + +“I like music too.” + +“Well, I don’t at all. I don’t care for anything but Russian songs—and +that in the country and in the spring—with dancing, you know … red +shirts, wreaths of beads, the young grass in the meadows, the smell of +smoke … delicious! But we weren’t talking of me. Go on, tell me.” + +Maria Nikolaevna walked on, and kept looking at Sanin. She was tall—her +face was almost on a level with his face. + +He began to talk—at first reluctantly, unskilfully—but afterwards he +talked more freely, chattered away in fact. Maria Nikolaevna was a very +good listener; and moreover she seemed herself so frank, that she led +others unconsciously on to frankness. She possessed that great gift of +“intimateness”—_le terrible don de la familiarité_—to which Cardinal +Retz refers. Sanin talked of his travels, of his life in Petersburg, of +his youth…. Had Maria Nikolaevna been a lady of fashion, with refined +manners, he would never have opened out so; but she herself spoke of +herself as a “good fellow,” who had no patience with ceremony of any +sort; it was in those words that she characterised herself to Sanin. +And at the same time this “good fellow” walked by his side with feline +grace, slightly bending towards him, and peeping into his face; and +this “good fellow” walked in the form of a young feminine creature, +full of the tormenting, fiery, soft and seductive charm, of which—for +the undoing of us poor weak sinful men—only Slav natures are possessed, +and but few of them, and those never of pure Slav blood, with no +foreign alloy. Sanin’s walk with Maria Nikolaevna, Sanin’s talk with +Maria Nikolaevna lasted over an hour. And they did not stop once; they +kept walking about the endless avenues of the park, now mounting a hill +and admiring the view as they went, and now going down into the valley, +and getting hidden in the thick shadows,—and all the while arm-in-arm. +At times Sanin felt positively irritated; he had never walked so long +with Gemma, his darling Gemma … but this lady had simply taken +possession of him, and there was no escape! “Aren’t you tired?” he said +to her more than once. “I never get tired,” she answered. Now and then +they met other people walking in the park; almost all of them +bowed—some respectfully, others even cringingly. To one of them, a very +handsome, fashionably dressed dark man, she called from a distance with +the best Parisian accent, “_Comte, vous savez, il ne faut pas venir me +voir—ni aujourd’hui ni demain_.” The man took off his hat, without +speaking, and dropped a low bow. + +“Who’s that?” asked Sanin with the bad habit of asking questions +characteristic of all Russians. + +“Oh, a Frenchman, there are lots of them here … He’s dancing attendance +on me too. It’s time for our coffee, though. Let’s go home; you must be +hungry by this time, I should say. My better half must have got his +eye-peeps open by now.” + +“Better half! Eye-peeps!” Sanin repeated to himself … “And speaks +French so well … what a strange creature!” + +Maria Nikolaevna was not mistaken. When she went back into the hotel +with Sanin, her “better half” or “dumpling” was already seated, the +invariable fez on his head, before a table laid for breakfast. + +“I’ve been waiting for you!” he cried, making a sour face. “I was on +the point of having coffee without you.” + +“Never mind, never mind,” Maria Nikolaevna responded cheerfully. “Are +you angry? That’s good for you; without that you’d turn into a mummy +altogether. Here I’ve brought a visitor. Make haste and ring! Let us +have coffee—the best coffee—in Saxony cups on a snow-white cloth!” + +She threw off her hat and gloves, and clapped her hands. + +Polozov looked at her from under his brows. + +“What makes you so skittish to-day, Maria Nikolaevna?” he said in an +undertone. + +“That’s no business of yours, Ippolit Sidoritch! Ring! Dimitri +Pavlovitch, sit down and have some coffee for the second time. Ah, how +nice it is to give orders! There’s no pleasure on earth like it!” + +“When you’re obeyed,” grumbled her husband again. + +“Just so, when one’s obeyed! That’s why I’m so happy! Especially with +you. Isn’t it so, dumpling? Ah, here’s the coffee.” + +On the immense tray, which the waiter brought in, there lay also a +playbill. Maria Nikolaevna snatched it up at once. + +“A drama!” she pronounced with indignation, “a German drama. No matter; +it’s better than a German comedy. Order a box for me—_baignoire_—or no +… better the _Fremden-Loge_,” she turned to the waiter. “Do you hear: +the _Fremden-Loge_ it must be!” + +“But if the _Fremden-Loge_ has been already taken by his excellency, +the director of the town (_seine Excellenz der Herr Stadt-Director_),” +the waiter ventured to demur. + +“Give his excellency ten _thalers_, and let the box be mine! Do you +hear!” + +The waiter bent his head humbly and mournfully. + +“Dimitri Pavlovitch, you will go with me to the theatre? the German +actors are awful, but you will go … Yes? Yes? How obliging you are! +Dumpling, are you not coming? + +“You settle it,” Polozov observed into the cup he had lifted to his +lips. + +“Do you know what, you stay at home. You always go to sleep at the +theatre, and you don’t understand much German. I’ll tell you what you’d +better do, write an answer to the overseer—you remember, about our mill +… about the peasants’ grinding. Tell him that I won’t have it, and I +won’t and that’s all about it! There’s occupation for you for the whole +evening.” + +“All right,” answered Polozov. + +“Well then, that’s first-rate. You’re a darling. And now, gentlemen, as +we have just been speaking of my overseer, let’s talk about our great +business. Come, directly the waiter has cleared the table, you shall +tell me all, Dimitri Pavlovitch, about your estate, what price you will +sell it for, how much you want paid down in advance, everything, in +fact! (At last, thought Sanin, thank God!) You have told me something +about it already, you remember, you described your garden delightfully, +but dumpling wasn’t here…. Let him hear, he may pick a hole somewhere! +I’m delighted to think that I can help you to get married, besides, I +promised you that I would go into your business after lunch, and I +always keep my promises, isn’t that the truth, Ippolit Sidoritch?” + +Polozov rubbed his face with his open hand. “The truth’s the truth. You +don’t deceive any one.” + +“Never! and I never will deceive any one. Well, Dimitri Pavlovitch, +expound the case as we express it in the senate.” + + + + +XXXVII + + +Sanin proceeded to expound his case, that is to say, again, a second +time, to describe his property, not touching this time on the beauties +of nature, and now and then appealing to Polozov for confirmation of +his “facts and figures.” But Polozov simply gasped and shook his head, +whether in approval or disapproval, it would have puzzled the devil, +one might fancy, to decide. However, Maria Nikolaevna stood in no need +of his aid. She exhibited commercial and administrative abilities that +were really astonishing! She was familiar with all the ins-and-outs of +farming; she asked questions about everything with great exactitude, +went into every point; every word of hers went straight to the root of +the matter, and hit the nail on the head. Sanin had not expected such a +close inquiry, he had not prepared himself for it. And this inquiry +lasted for fully an hour and a half. Sanin experienced all the +sensations of the criminal on his trial, sitting on a narrow bench +confronted by a stern and penetrating judge. “Why, it’s a +cross-examination!” he murmured to himself dejectedly. Maria Nikolaevna +kept laughing all the while, as though it were a joke; but Sanin felt +none the more at ease for that; and when in the course of the +“cross-examination” it turned out that he had not clearly realised the +exact meaning of the words “repartition” and “tilth,” he was in a cold +perspiration all over. + +“Well, that’s all right!” Maria Nikolaevna decided at last. “I know +your estate now … as well as you do. What price do you suggest per +soul?” (At that time, as every one knows, the prices of estates were +reckoned by the souls living as serfs on them.) + +“Well … I imagine … I could not take less than five hundred roubles for +each,” Sanin articulated with difficulty. O Pantaleone, Pantaleone, +where were you! This was when you ought to have cried again, “Barbari!” + +Maria Nikolaevna turned her eyes upwards as though she were +calculating. + +“Well?” she said at last. “I think there’s no harm in that price. But I +reserved for myself two days’ grace, and you must wait till to-morrow. +I imagine we shall come to an arrangement, and then you will tell me +how much you want paid down. And now, _basta cosi_!” she cried, +noticing Sanin was about to make some reply. “We’ve spent enough time +over filthy lucre … _à demain les affaires_. Do you know what, I’ll let +you go now … (she glanced at a little enamelled watch, stuck in her +belt) … till three o’clock … I must let you rest. Go and play +roulette.” + +“I never play games of chance,” observed Sanin. + +“Really? Why, you’re a paragon. Though I don’t either. It’s stupid +throwing away one’s money when one’s no chance. But go into the +gambling saloon, and look at the faces. Very comic ones there are +there. There’s one old woman with a rustic headband and a moustache, +simply delicious! Our prince there’s another, a good one too. A +majestic figure with a nose like an eagle’s, and when he puts down a +_thaler_, he crosses himself under his waistcoat. Read the papers, go a +walk, do what you like, in fact. But at three o’clock I expect you … +_de pied ferme_. We shall have to dine a little earlier. The theatre +among these absurd Germans begins at half-past six. She held out her +hand. “_Sans rancune, n’est-ce pas?_” + +“Really, Maria Nikolaevna, what reason have I to be annoyed?” + +“Why, because I’ve been tormenting you. Wait a little, you’ll see. +There’s worse to come,” she added, fluttering her eyelids, and all her +dimples suddenly came out on her flushing cheeks. “Till we meet!” + +Sanin bowed and went out. A merry laugh rang out after him, and in the +looking-glass which he was passing at that instant, the following scene +was reflected: Maria Nikolaevna had pulled her husband’s fez over his +eyes, and he was helplessly struggling with both hands. + + + + +XXXVIII + + +Oh, what a deep sigh of delight Sanin heaved, when he found himself in +his room! Indeed, Maria Nikolaevna had spoken the truth, he needed +rest, rest from all these new acquaintances, collisions, conversations, +from this suffocating atmosphere which was affecting his head and his +heart, from this enigmatical, uninvited intimacy with a woman, so alien +to him! And when was all this taking place? Almost the day after he had +learnt that Gemma loved him, after he had become betrothed to her. Why, +it was sacrilege! A thousand times he mentally asked forgiveness of his +pure chaste dove, though he could not really blame himself for +anything; a thousand times over he kissed the cross she had given him. +Had he not the hope of bringing the business, for which he had come to +Wiesbaden, to a speedy and successful conclusion, he would have rushed +off headlong, back again, to sweet Frankfort, to that dear house, now +his own home, to her, to throw himself at her loved feet…. But there +was no help for it! The cup must be drunk to the dregs, he must dress, +go to dinner, and from there to the theatre…. If only she would let him +go to-morrow! + +One other thing confounded him, angered him; with love, with +tenderness, with grateful transport he dreamed of Gemma, of their life +together, of the happiness awaiting him in the future, and yet this +strange woman, this Madame Polozov persistently floated—no! not +floated, poked herself, so Sanin with special vindictiveness expressed +it—_poked herself_ in and faced his eyes, and he could not rid himself +of her image, could not help hearing her voice, recalling her words, +could not help being aware even of the special scent, delicate, fresh +and penetrating, like the scent of yellow lilies, that was wafted from +her garments. This lady was obviously fooling him, and trying in every +way to get over him … what for? what did she want? Could it be merely +the caprice of a spoiled, rich, and most likely unprincipled woman? And +that husband! What a creature he was! What were his relations with her? +And why would these questions keep coming into his head, when he, +Sanin, had really no interest whatever in either Polozov or his wife? +Why could he not drive away that intrusive image, even when he turned +with his whole soul to another image, clear and bright as God’s +sunshine? How, through those almost divine features, dare _those +others_ force themselves upon him? And not only that; those other +features smiled insolently at him. Those grey, rapacious eyes, those +dimples, those snake-like tresses, how was it all that seemed to cleave +to him, and to shake it all off, and fling it away, he was unable, had +not the power? + +Nonsense! nonsense! to-morrow it would all vanish and leave no trace…. +But would she let him go to-morrow? + +Yes…. All these question he put to himself, but the time was moving on +to three o’clock, and he put on a black frockcoat and after a turn in +the park, went in to the Polozovs! + +He found in their drawing-room a secretary of the legation, a very tall +light-haired German, with the profile of a horse, and his hair parted +down the back of his head (at that time a new fashion), and … oh, +wonder! whom besides? Von Dönhof, the very officer with whom he had +fought a few days before! He had not the slightest expectation of +meeting him there and could not help being taken aback. He greeted him, +however. + +“Are you acquainted?” asked Maria Nikolaevna who had not failed to +notice Sanin’s embarrassment. + +“Yes … I have already had the honour,” said Dönhof, and bending a +little aside, in an undertone he added to Maria Nikolaevna, with a +smile, “The very man … your compatriot … the Russian …” + +“Impossible!” she exclaimed also in an undertone; she shook her finger +at him, and at once began to bid good-bye both to him and the long +secretary, who was, to judge by every symptom, head over ears in love +with her; he positively gaped every time he looked at her. Dönhof +promptly took leave with amiable docility, like a friend of the family +who understands at half a word what is expected of him; the secretary +showed signs of restiveness, but Maria Nikolaevna turned him out +without any kind of ceremony. + +“Get along to your sovereign mistress,” she said to him (there was at +that time in Wiesbaden a certain princess di Monaco, who looked +surprisingly like a _cocotte_ of the poorer sort); “what do you want to +stay with a plebeian like me for?” + +“Really, dear madam,” protested the luckless secretary, “all the +princesses in the world….” + +But Maria Nikolaevna was remorseless, and the secretary went away, +parting and all. + +Maria Nikolaevna was dressed that day very much “to her advantage,” as +our grandmothers used to say. She wore a pink glacé silk dress, with +sleeves _à la Fontange_, and a big diamond in each ear. Her eyes +sparkled as much as her diamonds; she seemed in a good humour and in +high spirits. + +She made Sanin sit beside her, and began talking to him about Paris, +where she was intending to go in a few days, of how sick she was of +Germans, how stupid they were when they tried to be clever, and how +inappropriately clever sometimes when they were stupid; and suddenly, +point-blank, as they say—_à brûle pourpoint_—asked him, was it true +that he had fought a duel with the very officer who had been there just +now, only a few days ago, on account of a lady? + +“How did you know that?” muttered Sanin, dumfoundered. + +“The earth is full of rumours, Dimitri Pavlovitch; but anyway, I know +you were quite right, perfectly right, and behaved like a knight. Tell +me, was that lady your betrothed?” + +Sanin slightly frowned … + +“There, I won’t, I won’t,” Maria Nikolaevna hastened to say. “You don’t +like it, forgive me, I won’t do it, don’t be angry!” Polozov came in +from the next room with a newspaper in his hand. “What do you want? Or +is dinner ready?” + +“Dinner’ll be ready directly, but just see what I’ve read in the +_Northern Bee_ … Prince Gromoboy is dead.” + +Maria Nikolaevna raised her head. + +“Ah! I wish him the joys of Paradise! He used,” she turned to Sanin, +“to fill all my rooms with camellias every February on my birthday. But +it wasn’t worth spending the winter in Petersburg for that. He must +have been over seventy, I should say?” she said to her husband. + +“Yes, he was. They describe his funeral in the paper. All the court +were present. And here’s a poem too, of Prince Kovrizhkin’s on the +occasion.” + +“That’s nice!” + +“Shall I read them? The prince calls him the good man of wise counsel.” + +“No, don’t. The good man of wise counsel? He was simply the goodman of +Tatiana Yurevna. Come to dinner. Life is for the living. Dimitri +Pavlovitch, your arm.” + +The dinner was, as on the day before, superb, and the meal was a very +lively one. Maria Nikolaevna knew how to tell a story … a rare gift in +a woman, and especially in a Russian one! She did not restrict herself +in her expressions; her countrywomen received particularly severe +treatment at her hands. Sanin was more than once set laughing by some +bold and well-directed word. Above all, Maria Nikolaevna had no +patience with hypocrisy, cant, and humbug. She discovered it almost +everywhere. She, as it were, plumed herself on and boasted of the +humble surroundings in which she had begun life. She told rather queer +anecdotes of her relations in the days of her childhood, spoke of +herself as quite as much of a clodhopper as Natalya Kirilovna +Narishkin. It became apparent to Sanin that she had been through a +great deal more in her time than the majority of women of her age. + +Polozov ate meditatively, drank attentively, and only occasionally cast +first on his wife, then on Sanin, his lightish, dim-looking, but, in +reality, very keen eyes. + +“What a clever darling you are!” cried Maria Nikolaevna, turning to +him; “how well you carried out all my commissions in Frankfort! I could +give you a kiss on your forehead for it, but you’re not very keen after +kisses.” + +“I’m not,” responded Polozov, and he cut a pine-apple with a silver +knife. + +Maria Nikolaevna looked at him and drummed with her fingers on the +table. “So our bet’s on, isn’t it?” she said significantly. + +“Yes, it’s on.” + +“All right. You’ll lose it.” + +Polozov stuck out his chin. “Well, this time you mustn’t be too +sanguine, Maria Nikolaevna, maybe you will lose.” + +“What is the bet? May I know?” asked Sanin. + +“No … not now,” answered Maria Nikolaevna, and she laughed. + +It struck seven. The waiter announced that the carriage was ready. +Polozov saw his wife out, and at once waddled back to his easy-chair. + +“Mind now! Don’t forget the letter to the overseer,” Maria Nikolaevna +shouted to him from the hall. + +“I’ll write, don’t worry yourself. I’m a business-like person.” + + + + +XXXIX + + +In the year 1840, the theatre at Wiesbaden was a poor affair even +externally, and its company, for affected and pitiful mediocrity, for +studious and vulgar commonplaceness, not one hair’s-breadth above the +level, which might be regarded up to now as the normal one in all +German theatres, and which has been displayed in perfection lately by +the company in Carlsruhe, under the “illustrious” direction of Herr +Devrient. At the back of the box taken for her “Serenity Madame von +Polozov” (how the waiter devised the means of getting it, God knows, he +can hardly have really bribed the stadt-director!) was a little room, +with sofas all round it; before she went into the box, Maria Nikolaevna +asked Sanin to draw up the screen that shut the box off from the +theatre. + +“I don’t want to be seen,” she said, “or else they’ll be swarming round +directly, you know.” She made him sit down beside her with his back to +the house so that the box seemed to be empty. The orchestra played the +overture from the _Marriage of Figaro_. The curtain rose, the play +began. + +It was one of those numerous home-raised products in which well-read +but talentless authors, in choice, but dead language, studiously and +cautiously enunciated some “profound” or “vital and palpitating” idea, +portrayed a so-called tragic conflict, and produced dulness … an +Asiatic dulness, like Asiatic cholera. Maria Nikolaevna listened +patiently to half an act, but when the first lover, discovering the +treachery of his mistress (he was dressed in a cinnamon-coloured coat +with “puffs” and a plush collar, a striped waistcoat with +mother-of-pearl buttons, green trousers with straps of varnished +leather, and white chamois leather gloves), when this lover pressed +both fists to his bosom, and poking his two elbows out at an acute +angle, howled like a dog, Maria Nikolaevna could not stand it. + +“The humblest French actor in the humblest little provincial town acts +better and more naturally than the highest German celebrity,” she cried +in indignation; and she moved away and sat down in the little room at +the back. “Come here,” she said to Sanin, patting the sofa beside her. +“Let’s talk.” + +Sanin obeyed. + +Maria Nikolaevna glanced at him. “Ah, I see you’re as soft as silk! +Your wife will have an easy time of it with you. That buffoon,” she +went on, pointing with her fan towards the howling actor (he was acting +the part of a tutor), “reminded me of my young days; I, too, was in +love with a teacher. It was my first … no, my second passion. The first +time I fell in love with a young monk of the Don monastery. I was +twelve years old. I only saw him on Sundays. He used to wear a short +velvet cassock, smelt of lavender water, and as he made his way through +the crowd with the censer, used to say to the ladies in French, +‘_Pardon, excusez_’ but never lifted his eyes, and he had eyelashes +like that!” Maria Nikolaevna marked off with the nail of her middle +finger quite half the length of the little finger and showed Sanin. “My +tutor was called—Monsieur Gaston! I must tell you he was an awfully +learned and very severe person, a Swiss,—and with such an energetic +face! Whiskers black as pitch, a Greek profile, and lips that looked +like cast iron! I was afraid of him! He was the only man I have ever +been afraid of in my life. He was tutor to my brother, who died … was +drowned. A gipsy woman has foretold a violent death for me too, but +that’s all moonshine. I don’t believe in it. Only fancy Ippolit +Sidoritch with a dagger!” + +“One may die from something else than a dagger,” observed Sanin. + +“All that’s moonshine! Are you superstitious? I’m not a bit. What is to +be, will be. Monsieur Gaston used to live in our house, in the room +over my head. Sometimes I’d wake up at night and hear his footstep—he +used to go to bed very late—and my heart would stand still with +veneration, or some other feeling. My father could hardly read and +write himself, but he gave us an excellent education. Do you know, I +learnt Latin!” + +“You? learnt Latin?” + +“Yes; I did. Monsieur Gaston taught me. I read the _Æneid_ with him. +It’s a dull thing, but there are fine passages. Do you remember when +Dido and Æneas are in the forest?…” + +“Yes, yes, I remember,” Sanin answered hurriedly. He had long ago +forgotten all his Latin, and had only very faint notions about the +_Æneid_. + +Maria Nikolaevna glanced at him, as her way was, a little from one side +and looking upwards. “Don’t imagine, though, that I am very learned. +Mercy on us! no; I’m not learned, and I’ve no talents of any sort. I +scarcely know how to write … really; I can’t read aloud; nor play the +piano, nor draw, nor sew—nothing! That’s what I am—there you have me!” + +She threw out her hands. “I tell you all this,” she said, “first, so as +not to hear those fools (she pointed to the stage where at that instant +the actor’s place was being filled by an actress, also howling, and +also with her elbows projecting before her) and secondly, because I’m +in your debt; you told me all about yourself yesterday.” + +“It was your pleasure to question me,” observed Sanin. + +Maria Nikolaevna suddenly turned to him. “And it’s not your pleasure to +know just what sort of woman I am? I can’t wonder at it, though,” she +went on, leaning back again on the sofa cushions. “A man just going to +be married, and for love, and after a duel…. What thoughts could he +have for anything else?” + +Maria Nikolaevna relapsed into dreamy silence, and began biting the +handle of her fan with her big, but even, milkwhite teeth. + +And Sanin felt mounting to his head again that intoxication which he +had not been able to get rid of for the last two days. + +The conversation between him and Maria Nikolaevna was carried on in an +undertone, almost in a whisper, and this irritated and disturbed him +the more…. + +When would it all end? + +Weak people never put an end to things themselves—they always wait for +the end. + +Some one sneezed on the stage; this sneeze had been put into the play +by the author as the “comic relief” or “element”; there was certainly +no other comic element in it; and the audience made the most of it; +they laughed. + +This laugh, too, jarred upon Sanin. + +There were moments when he actually did not know whether he was furious +or delighted, bored or amused. Oh, if Gemma could have seen him! + +“It’s really curious,” Maria Nikolaevna began all at once. “A man +informs one and in such a calm voice, ‘I am going to get married’; but +no one calmly says to one, ‘I’m going to throw myself in the water.’ +And yet what difference is there? It’s curious, really.” + +Annoyance got the upper hand of Sanin. “There’s a great difference, +Maria Nikolaevna! It’s not dreadful at all to throw oneself in the +water if one can swim; and besides … as to the strangeness of +marriages, if you come to that …” + +He stopped short abruptly and bit his tongue. + +Maria Nikolaevna slapped her open hand with her fan. + +“Go on, Dimitri Pavlovitch, go on—I know what you were going to say. +‘If it comes to that, my dear madam, Maria Nikolaevna Polozov,’ you +were going to say, ‘anything more curious than _your_ marriage it would +be impossible to conceive…. I know your husband well, from a child!’ +That’s what you were going to say, you who can swim!” + +“Excuse me,” Sanin was beginning…. + +“Isn’t it the truth? Isn’t it the truth?” Maria Nikolaevna pronounced +insistently. + +“Come, look me in the face and tell me I was wrong!” + +Sanin did not know what to do with his eyes. “Well, if you like; it’s +the truth, if you absolutely insist upon it,” he said at last. + +Maria Nikolaevna shook her head. “Quite so, quite so. Well, and did you +ask yourself, you who can swim, what could be the reason of such a +strange … step on the part of a woman, not poor … and not a fool … and +not ugly? All that does not interest you, perhaps, but no matter. I’ll +tell you the reason not this minute, but directly the _entr’acte_ is +over. I am in continual uneasiness for fear some one should come in….” + +Maria Nikolaevna had hardly uttered this last word when the outer door +actually was half opened, and into the box was thrust a head—red, oily, +perspiring, still young, but toothless; with sleek long hair, a pendent +nose, huge ears like a bat’s, with gold spectacles on inquisitive dull +eyes, and a _pince-nez_ over the spectacles. The head looked round, saw +Maria Nikolaevna, gave a nasty grin, nodded…. A scraggy neck craned in +after it…. + +Maria Nikolaevna shook her handkerchief at it. “I’m not at home! _Ich +bin nicht zu Hause, Herr P…! Ich bin nicht zu Hause…. Ksh-sk! +ksh-sh-sh!_” + +The head was disconcerted, gave a forced laugh, said with a sort of +sob, in imitation of Liszt, at whose feet he had once reverently +grovelled, “_Sehr gut, sehr gut!_” and vanished. + +“What is that object?” inquired Sanin. + +“Oh, a Wiesbaden critic. A literary man or a flunkey, as you like. He +is in the pay of a local speculator here, and so is bound to praise +everything and be ecstatic over every one, though for his part he is +soaked through and through with the nastiest venom, to which he does +not dare to give vent. I am afraid he’s an awful scandalmonger; he’ll +run at once to tell every one I’m in the theatre. Well, what does it +matter?” + +The orchestra played through a waltz, the curtain floated up again…. +The grimacing and whimpering began again on the stage. + +“Well,” began Maria Nikolaevna, sinking again on to the sofa. “Since +you are here and obliged to sit with me, instead of enjoying the +society of your betrothed—don’t turn away your eyes and get cross—I +understand you, and have promised already to let you go to the other +end of the earth—but now hear my confession. Do you care to know what I +like more than anything?” + +“Freedom,” hazarded Sanin. + +Maria Nikolaevna laid her hand on his hand. + +“Yes, Dimitri Pavlovitch,” she said, and in her voice there was a note +of something special, a sort of unmistakable sincerity and gravity, +“freedom, more than all and before all. And don’t imagine I am boasting +of this—there is nothing praiseworthy in it; only it’s _so_ and always +will be _so_ with me to the day of my death. I suppose it must have +been that I saw a great deal of slavery in my childhood and suffered +enough from it. Yes, and Monsieur Gaston, my tutor, opened my eyes too. +Now you can, perhaps, understand why I married Ippolit Sidoritch: with +him I’m free, perfectly free as air, as the wind…. And I knew that +before marriage; I knew that with him I should be a free Cossack!” + +Maria Nikolaevna paused and flung her fan aside. + +“I will tell you one thing more; I have no distaste for reflection … +it’s amusing, and indeed our brains are given us for that; but on the +consequences of what I do I never reflect, and if I suffer I don’t pity +myself—not a little bit; it’s not worth it. I have a favourite saying: +_Cela ne tire pas à conséquence_,—I don’t know how to say that in +Russian. And after all, what does _tire à consequence_? I shan’t be +asked to give an account of myself here, you see—in this world; and up +there (she pointed upwards with her finger), well, up there—let them +manage as best they can. When they come to judge me up there, _I_ shall +not be _I_! Are you listening to me? Aren’t you bored?” + +Sanin was sitting bent up. He raised his head. “I’m not at all bored, +Maria Nikolaevna, and I am listening to you with curiosity. Only I … +confess … I wonder why you say all this to me?” + +Maria Nikolaevna edged a little away on the sofa. + +“You wonder?… Are you slow to guess? Or so modest?” + +Sanin lifted his head higher than before. + +“I tell you all this,” Maria Nikolaevna continued in an unmoved tone, +which did not, however, at all correspond with the expression of her +face, “because I like you very much; yes, don’t be surprised, I’m not +joking; because since I have met you, it would be painful to me that +you had a disagreeable recollection of me … not disagreeable even, that +I shouldn’t mind, but untrue. That’s why I have made you come here, and +am staying alone with you and talking to you so openly…. Yes, yes, +openly. I’m not telling a lie. And observe, Dimitri Pavlovitch, I know +you’re in love with another woman, that you’re going to be married to +her…. Do justice to my disinterestedness! Though indeed it’s a good +opportunity for you to say in your turn: _Cela ne tire pas à +conséquence_!” + +She laughed, but her laugh suddenly broke off, and she stayed +motionless, as though her own words had suddenly struck her, and in her +eyes, usually so gay and bold, there was a gleam of something like +timidity, even like sadness. + +“Snake! ah, she’s a snake!” Sanin was thinking meanwhile; “but what a +lovely snake!” + +“Give me my opera-glass,” Maria Nikolaevna said suddenly. “I want to +see whether this _jeune première_ really is so ugly. Upon my word, one +might fancy the government appointed her in the interests of morality, +so that the young men might not lose their heads over her.” + +Sanin handed her the opera-glass, and as she took it from him, swiftly, +but hardly audibly, she snatched his hand in both of hers. + +“Please don’t be serious,” she whispered with a smile. “Do you know +what, no one can put fetters on me, but then you see I put no fetters +on others. I love freedom, and I don’t acknowledge duties—not only for +myself. Now move to one side a little, and let us listen to the play.” + +Maria Nikolaevna turned her opera-glass upon the stage, and Sanin +proceeded to look in the same direction, sitting beside her in the half +dark of the box, and involuntarily drinking in the warmth and fragrance +of her luxurious body, and as involuntarily turning over and over in +his head all she had said during the evening—especially during the last +minutes. + + + + +XL + + +The play lasted over an hour longer, but Maria Nikolaevna and Sanin +soon gave up looking at the stage. A conversation sprang up between +them again, and went on the same lines as before; only this time Sanin +was less silent. Inwardly he was angry with himself and with Maria +Nikolaevna; he tried to prove to her all the inconsistency of her +“theory,” as though she cared for theories! He began arguing with her, +at which she was secretly rejoiced; if a man argues, it means that he +is giving in or will give in. He had taken the bait, was giving way, +had left off keeping shyly aloof! She retorted, laughed, agreed, mused +dreamily, attacked him … and meanwhile his face and her face were close +together, his eyes no longer avoided her eyes…. Those eyes of hers +seemed to ramble, seemed to hover over his features, and he smiled in +response to them—a smile of civility, but still a smile. It was so much +gained for her that he had gone off into abstractions, that he was +discoursing upon truth in personal relations, upon duty, the sacredness +of love and marriage…. It is well known that these abstract +propositions serve admirably as a beginning … as a starting-point…. + +People who knew Maria Nikolaevna well used to maintain that when her +strong and vigorous personality showed signs of something soft and +modest, something almost of maidenly shamefacedness, though one +wondered where she could have got it from … then … then, things were +taking a dangerous turn. + +Things had apparently taken such a turn for Sanin…. He would have felt +contempt for himself, if he could have succeeded in concentrating his +attention for one instant; but he had not time to concentrate his mind +nor to despise himself. + +She wasted no time. And it all came from his being so very +good-looking! One can but exclaim, No man knows what may be his making +or his undoing! + +The play was over. Maria Nikolaevna asked Sanin to put on her shawl and +did not stir, while he wrapped the soft fabric round her really queenly +shoulders. Then she took his arm, went out into the corridor, and +almost cried out aloud. At the very door of the box Dönhof sprang up +like some apparition; while behind his back she got a glimpse of the +figure of the Wiesbaden critic. The “literary man’s” oily face was +positively radiant with malignancy. + +“Is it your wish, madam, that I find you your carriage?” said the young +officer addressing Maria Nikolaevna with a quiver of ill-disguised fury +in his voice. + +“No, thank you,” she answered … “my man will find it. Stop!” she added +in an imperious whisper, and rapidly withdrew drawing Sanin along with +her. + +“Go to the devil! Why are you staring at me?” Dönhof roared suddenly at +the literary man. He had to vent his feelings upon some one! + +“_Sehr gut! sehr gut!_” muttered the literary man, and shuffled off. + +Maria Nikolaevna’s footman, waiting for her in the entrance, found her +carriage in no time. She quickly took her seat in it; Sanin leapt in +after her. The doors were slammed to, and Maria Nikolaevna exploded in +a burst of laughter. + +“What are you laughing at?” Sanin inquired. + +“Oh, excuse me, please … but it struck me: what if Dönhof were to have +another duel with you … on my account…. wouldn’t that be wonderful?” + +“Are you very great friends with him?” Sanin asked. + +“With him? that boy? He’s one of my followers. You needn’t trouble +yourself about him!” + +“Oh, I’m not troubling myself at all.” + +Maria Nikolaevna sighed. “Ah, I know you’re not. But listen, do you +know what, you’re such a darling, you mustn’t refuse me one last +request. Remember in three days’ time I am going to Paris, and you are +returning to Frankfort…. Shall we ever meet again?” + +“What is this request?” + +“You can ride, of course?” + +“Yes.” + +“Well, then, to-morrow morning I’ll take you with me, and we’ll go a +ride together out of the town. We’ll have splendid horses. Then we’ll +come home, wind up our business, and amen! Don’t be surprised, don’t +tell me it’s a caprice, and I’m a madcap—all that’s very likely—but +simply say, I consent.” + +Maria Nikolaevna turned her face towards him. It was dark in the +carriage, but her eyes glittered even in the darkness. + +“Very well, I consent,” said Sanin with a sigh. + +“Ah! You sighed!” Maria Nikolaevna mimicked him. “That means to say, as +you’ve begun, you must go on to the bitter end. But no, no…. You’re +charming, you’re good, and I’ll keep my promise. Here’s my hand, +without a glove on it, the right one, for business. Take it, and have +faith in its pressure. What sort of a woman I am, I don’t know; but I’m +an honest fellow, and one can do business with me.” + +Sanin, without knowing very well what he was doing, lifted the hand to +his lips. Maria Nikolaevna softly took it, and was suddenly still, and +did not speak again till the carriage stopped. + +She began getting out…. What was it? Sanin’s fancy? or did he really +feel on his cheek a swift burning kiss? + +“Till to-morrow!” whispered Maria Nikolaevna on the steps, in the light +of the four tapers of a candelabrum, held up on her appearance by the +gold-laced door-keeper. She kept her eyes cast down. “Till to-morrow!” + +When he got back to his room, Sanin found on the table a letter from +Gemma. He felt a momentary dismay, and at once made haste to rejoice +over it to disguise his dismay from himself. It consisted of a few +lines. She was delighted at the “successful opening of negotiations,” +advised him to be patient, and added that all at home were well, and +were already rejoicing at the prospect of seeing him back again. Sanin +felt the letter rather stiff, he took pen and paper, however … and +threw it all aside again. “Why write? I shall be back myself to-morrow +… it’s high time!” + +He went to bed immediately, and tried to get to sleep as quickly as +possible. If he had stayed up and remained on his legs, he would +certainly have begun thinking about Gemma, and he was for some reason … +ashamed to think of her. His conscience was stirring within him. But he +consoled himself with the reflection that to-morrow it would all be +over for ever, and he would take leave for good of this feather-brained +lady, and would forget all this rotten idiocy!… + +Weak people in their mental colloquies, eagerly make use of strong +expressions. + +_Et puis … cela ne tire pas à conséquence!_ + + + + +XLI + + +Such were Sanin’s thoughts, as he went to bed; but what he thought next +morning when Maria Nikolaevna knocked impatiently at his door with the +coral handle of her riding-whip, when he saw her in the doorway, with +the train of a dark-blue riding habit over her arm, with a man’s small +hat on her thickly coiled curls, with a veil thrown back over her +shoulder, with a smile of invitation on her lips, in her eyes, over all +her face—what he thought then—history does not record. + +“Well? are you ready?” rang out a joyous voice. + +Sanin buttoned his coat, and took his hat in silence. Maria Nikolaevna +flung him a bright look, nodded to him, and ran swiftly down the +staircase. And he ran after her. + +The horses were already waiting in the street at the steps. There were +three of them, a golden chestnut thorough-bred mare, with a thin-lipped +mouth, that showed the teeth, with black prominent eyes, and legs like +a stag’s, rather thin but beautifully shaped, and full of fire and +spirit, for Maria Nikolaevna; a big, powerful, rather thick-set horse, +raven black all over, for Sanin; the third horse was destined for the +groom. Maria Nikolaevna leaped adroitly on to her mare, who stamped and +wheeled round, lifting her tail, and sinking on to her haunches. But +Maria Nikolaevna, who was a first-rate horse-woman, reined her in; they +had to take leave of Polozov, who in his inevitable fez and in an open +dressing-gown, came out on to the balcony, and from there waved a +_batiste_ handkerchief, without the faintest smile, rather a frown, in +fact, on his face. Sanin too mounted his horse; Maria Nikolaevna +saluted Polozov with her whip, then gave her mare a lash with it on her +arched and flat neck. The mare reared on her hind legs, made a dash +forward, moving with a smart and shortened step, quivering in every +sinew, biting the air and snorting abruptly. Sanin rode behind, and +looked at Maria Nikolaevna; her slender supple figure, moulded by +close-fitting but easy stays, swayed to and fro with self-confident +grace and skill. She turned her head and beckoned him with her eyes +alone. He came alongside of her. + +“See now, how delightful it is,” she said. “I tell you at the last, +before parting, you are charming, and you shan’t regret it.” + +As she uttered those last words, she nodded her head several times as +if to confirm them and make him feel their full weight. + +She seemed so happy that Sanin was simply astonished; her face even +wore at times that sedate expression which children sometimes have when +they are very … very much pleased. + +They rode at a walking pace for the short distance to the city walls, +but then started off at a vigorous gallop along the high road. It was +magnificent, real summer weather; the wind blew in their faces, and +sang and whistled sweetly in their ears. They felt very happy; the +sense of youth, health and life, of free eager onward motion, gained +possession of both; it grew stronger every instant. + +Maria Nikolaevna reined in her mare, and again went at a walking pace; +Sanin followed her example. + +“This,” she began with a deep blissful sigh, “this now is the only +thing worth living for. When you succeed in doing what you want to, +what seemed impossible—come, enjoy it, heart and soul, to the last +drop!” She passed her hand across her throat. “And how good and kind +one feels oneself then! I now, at this moment … how good I feel! I feel +as if I could embrace the whole world! No, not the whole world…. That +man now I couldn’t.” She pointed with her whip at a poorly dressed old +man who was stealing along on one side. “But I am ready to make him +happy. Here, take this,” she shouted loudly in German, and she flung a +net purse at his feet. The heavy little bag (leather purses were not +thought of at that time) fell with a ring on to the road. The old man +was astounded, stood still, while Maria Nikolaevna chuckled, and put +her mare into a gallop. + +“Do you enjoy riding so much?” Sanin asked, as he overtook her. + +Maria Nikolaevna reined her mare in once more: only in this way could +she bring her to a stop. + +“I only wanted to get away from thanks. If any one thanks me, he spoils +my pleasure. You see I didn’t do that for his sake, but for my own. How +dare he thank me? I didn’t hear what you asked me.” + +“I asked … I wanted to know what makes you so happy to-day.” + +“Do you know what,” said Maria Nikolaevna; either she had again not +heard Sanin’s question, or she did not consider it necessary to answer +it. “I’m awfully sick of that groom, who sticks up there behind us, and +most likely does nothing but wonder when we gentlefolks are going home +again. How shall we get rid of him?” She hastily pulled a little +pocket-book out of her pocket. “Send him back to the town with a note? +No … that won’t do. Ah! I have it! What’s that in front of us? Isn’t it +an inn?” + +Sanin looked in the direction she pointed. “Yes, I believe it is an +inn.” + +“Well, that’s first-rate. I’ll tell him to stop at that inn and drink +beer till we come back.” + +“But what will he think?” + +“What does it matter to us? Besides, he won’t think at all; he’ll drink +beer—that’s all. Come, Sanin (it was the first time she had used his +surname alone), on, gallop!” + +When they reached the inn, Maria Nikolaevna called the groom up and +told him what she wished of him. The groom, a man of English extraction +and English temperament, raised his hand to the beak of his cap without +a word, jumped off his horse, and took him by the bridle. + +“Well, now we are free as the birds of the air!” cried Maria +Nikolaevna. “Where shall we go. North, south, east, or west? Look—I’m +like the Hungarian king at his coronation (she pointed her whip in each +direction in turn). All is ours! No, do you know what: see, those +glorious mountains—and that forest! Let’s go there, to the mountains, +to the mountains!” + +“_In die Berge wo die Freiheit thront!_” + +She turned off the high-road and galloped along a narrow untrodden +track, which certainly seemed to lead straight to the hills. Sanin +galloped after her. + + + + +XLII + + +This track soon changed into a tiny footpath, and at last disappeared +altogether, and was crossed by a stream. Sanin counselled turning back, +but Maria Nikolaevna said, “No! I want to get to the mountains! Let’s +go straight, as the birds fly,” and she made her mare leap the stream. +Sanin leaped it too. Beyond the stream began a wide meadow, at first +dry, then wet, and at last quite boggy; the water oozed up everywhere, +and stood in pools in some places. Maria Nikolaevna rode her mare +straight through these pools on purpose, laughed, and said, “Let’s be +naughty children.” + +“Do you know,” she asked Sanin, “what is meant by pool-hunting?” + +“Yes,” answered Sanin. + +“I had an uncle a huntsman,” she went on. + +“I used to go out hunting with him—in the spring. It was delicious! +Here we are now, on the pools with you. Only, I see, you’re a Russian, +and yet mean to marry an Italian. Well, that’s your sorrow. What’s +that? A stream again! Gee up!” + +The horse took the leap, but Maria Nikolaevna’s hat fell off her head, +and her curls tumbled loose over her shoulders. Sanin was just going to +get off his horse to pick up the hat, but she shouted to him, “Don’t +touch it, I’ll get it myself,” bent low down from the saddle, hooked +the handle of her whip into the veil, and actually did get the hat. She +put it on her head, but did not fasten up her hair, and again darted +off, positively holloaing. Sanin dashed along beside her, by her side +leaped trenches, fences, brooks, fell in and scrambled out, flew down +hill, flew up hill, and kept watching her face. What a face it was! It +was all, as it were, wide open: wide-open eyes, eager, bright, and +wild; lips, nostrils, open too, and breathing eagerly; she looked +straight before her, and it seemed as though that soul longed to master +everything it saw, the earth, the sky, the sun, the air itself; and +would complain of one thing only—that dangers were so few, and all she +could overcome. “Sanin!” she cried, “why, this is like Bürger’s Lenore! +Only you’re not dead—eh? Not dead … I am alive!” She let her force and +daring have full fling. It seemed not an Amazon on a galloping horse, +but a young female centaur at full speed, half-beast and half-god, and +the sober, well-bred country seemed astounded, as it was trampled +underfoot in her wild riot! + +Maria Nikolaevna at last drew up her foaming and bespattered mare; she +was staggering under her, and Sanin’s powerful but heavy horse was +gasping for breath. + +“Well, do you like it?” Maria Nikolaevna asked in a sort of exquisite +whisper. + +“I like it!” Sanin echoed back ecstatically. And his blood was on fire. + +“This isn’t all, wait a bit.” She held out her hand. Her glove was torn +across. + +“I told you I would lead you to the forest, to the mountains…. Here +they are, the mountains!” The mountains, covered with tall forest, rose +about two hundred feet from the place they had reached in their wild +ride. “Look, here is the road; let us turn into it—and forwards. Only +at a walk. We must let our horses get their breath.” + +They rode on. With one vigorous sweep of her arm Maria Nikolaevna flung +back her hair. Then she looked at her gloves and took them off. “My +hands will smell of leather,” she said, “you won’t mind that, eh?” … +Maria Nikolaevna smiled, and Sanin smiled too. Their mad gallop +together seemed to have finally brought them together and made them +friends. + +“How old are you?” she asked suddenly. + +“Twenty-two.” + +“Really? I’m twenty-two too. A nice age. Add both together and you’re +still far off old age. It’s hot, though. Am I very red, eh?” + +“Like a poppy!” + +Maria Nikolaevna rubbed her face with her handkerchief. “We’ve only to +get to the forest and there it will be cool. Such an old forest is like +an old friend. Have you any friends?” + +Sanin thought a little. “Yes … only few. No real ones.” + +“I have; real ones—but not old ones. This is a friend too—a horse. How +carefully it carries one! Ah, but it’s splendid here! Is it possible I +am going to Paris the day after to-morrow?” + +“Yes … is it possible?” Sanin chimed in. + +“And you to Frankfort?” + +“I am certainly going to Frankfort.” + +“Well, what of it? Good luck go with you! Anyway, to-day’s ours … ours +… ours!” + +The horses reached the forest’s edge and pushed on into the forest. The +broad soft shade of the forest wrapt them round on all sides. + +“Oh, but this is paradise!” cried Maria Nikolaevna. “Further, deeper +into the shade, Sanin!” + +The horses moved slowly on, “deeper into the shade,” slightly swaying +and snorting. The path, by which they had come in, suddenly turned off +and plunged into a rather narrow gorge. The smell of heather and +bracken, of the resin of the pines, and the decaying leaves of last +year, seemed to hang, close and drowsy, about it. Through the clefts of +the big brown rocks came strong currents of fresh air. On both sides of +the path rose round hillocks covered with green moss. + +“Stop!” cried Maria Nikolaevna, “I want to sit down and rest on this +velvet. Help me to get off.” + +Sanin leaped off his horse and ran up to her. She leaned on both his +shoulders, sprang instantly to the ground, and seated herself on one of +the mossy mounds. He stood before her, holding both the horses’ bridles +in his hand. + +She lifted her eyes to him…. “Sanin, are you able to forget?” + +Sanin recollected what had happened yesterday … in the carriage. “What +is that—a question … or a reproach?” + +“I have never in my life reproached any one for anything. Do you +believe in magic?” + +“What?” + +“In magic?—you know what is sung of in our ballads—our Russian peasant +ballads?” + +“Ah! That’s what you’re speaking of,” Sanin said slowly. + +“Yes, that’s it. I believe in it … and you will believe in it.” + +“Magic is sorcery …” Sanin repeated, “Anything in the world is +possible. I used not to believe in it—but I do now. I don’t know +myself.” + +Maria Nikolaevna thought a moment and looked about her. “I fancy this +place seems familiar to me. Look, Sanin, behind that bushy oak—is there +a red wooden cross, or not?” + +Sanin moved a few steps to one side. “Yes, there is.” Maria Nikolaevna +smiled. “Ah, that’s good! I know where we are. We haven’t got lost as +yet. What’s that tapping? A wood-cutter?” + +Sanin looked into the thicket. “Yes … there’s a man there chopping up +dry branches.” + +“I must put my hair to rights,” said Maria Nikolaevna. “Else he’ll see +me and be shocked.” She took off her hat and began plaiting up her long +hair, silently and seriously. Sanin stood facing her … All the lines of +her graceful limbs could be clearly seen through the dark folds of her +habit, dotted here and there with tufts of moss. + +One of the horses suddenly shook itself behind Sanin’s back; he himself +started and trembled from head to foot. Everything was in confusion +within him, his nerves were strung up like harpstrings. He might well +say he did not know himself…. He really was bewitched. His whole being +was filled full of one thing … one idea, one desire. Maria Nikolaevna +turned a keen look upon him. + +“Come, now everything’s as it should be,” she observed, putting on her +hat. “Won’t you sit down? Here! No, wait a minute … don’t sit down! +What’s that?” + +Over the tree-tops, over the air of the forest, rolled a dull rumbling. + +“Can it be thunder?” + +“I think it really is thunder,” answered Sanin. + +“Oh, this is a treat, a real treat! That was the only thing wanting!” +The dull rumble was heard a second time, rose, and fell in a crash. +“Bravo! Bis! Do you remember I spoke of the _Æneid_ yesterday? They too +were overtaken by a storm in the forest, you know. We must be off, +though.” She rose swiftly to her feet. “Bring me my horse…. Give me +your hand. There, so. I’m not heavy.” + +She hopped like a bird into the saddle. Sanin too mounted his horse. + +“Are you going home?” he asked in an unsteady voice. + +“Home indeed!” she answered deliberately and picked up the reins. +“Follow me,” she commanded almost roughly. She came out on to the road +and passing the red cross, rode down into a hollow, clambered up again +to a cross road, turned to the right and again up the mountainside…. +She obviously knew where the path led, and the path led farther and +farther into the heart of the forest. She said nothing and did not look +round; she moved imperiously in front and humbly and submissively he +followed without a spark of will in his sinking heart. Rain began to +fall in spots. She quickened her horse’s pace, and he did not linger +behind her. At last through the dark green of the young firs under an +overhanging grey rock, a tumbledown little hut peeped out at him, with +a low door in its wattle wall…. Maria Nikolaevna made her mare push +through the fir bushes, leaped off her, and appearing suddenly at the +entrance to the hut, turned to Sanin, and whispered “Æneas.” + +Four hours later, Maria Nikolaevna and Sanin, accompanied by the groom, +who was nodding in the saddle, returned to Wiesbaden, to the hotel. +Polozov met his wife with the letter to the overseer in his hand. After +staring rather intently at her, he showed signs of some displeasure on +his face, and even muttered, “You don’t mean to say you’ve won your +bet?” + +Maria Nikolaevna simply shrugged her shoulders. + +The same day, two hours later, Sanin was standing in his own room +before her, like one distraught, ruined…. + +“Where are you going, dear?” she asked him. “To Paris, or to +Frankfort?” + +“I am going where you will be, and will be with you till you drive me +away,” he answered with despair and pressed close to him the hands of +his sovereign. She freed her hands, laid them on his head, and clutched +at his hair with her fingers. She slowly turned over and twisted the +unresisting hair, drew herself up, her lips curled with triumph, while +her eyes, wide and clear, almost white, expressed nothing but the +ruthlessness and glutted joy of conquest. The hawk, as it clutches a +captured bird, has eyes like that. + + + + +XLIII + + +This was what Dimitri Sanin remembered when in the stillness of his +room turning over his old papers he found among them a garnet cross. +The events we have described rose clearly and consecutively before his +mental vision…. But when he reached the moment when he addressed that +humiliating prayer to Madame Polozov, when he grovelled at her feet, +when his slavery began, he averted his gaze from the images he had +evoked, he tried to recall no more. And not that his memory failed him, +oh no! he knew only too well what followed upon that moment, but he was +stifled by shame, even now, so many years after; he dreaded that +feeling of self-contempt, which he knew for certain would overwhelm +him, and like a torrent, flood all other feelings if he did not bid his +memory be still. But try as he would to turn away from these memories, +he could not stifle them entirely. He remembered the scoundrelly, +tearful, lying, pitiful letter he had sent to Gemma, that never +received an answer…. See her again, go back to her, after such +falsehood, such treachery, no! no! he could not, so much conscience and +honesty was left in him. Moreover, he had lost every trace of +confidence in himself, every atom of self-respect; he dared not rely on +himself for anything. Sanin recollected too how he had later on—oh, +ignominy!—sent the Polozovs’ footman to Frankfort for his things, what +cowardly terror he had felt, how he had had one thought only, to get +away as soon as might be to Paris—to Paris; how in obedience to Maria +Nikolaevna, he had humoured and tried to please Ippolit Sidoritch and +been amiable to Dönhof, on whose finger he noticed just such an iron +ring as Maria Nikolaevna had given him!!! Then followed memories still +worse, more ignominious … the waiter hands him a visiting card, and on +it is the name, “Pantaleone Cippatola, court singer to His Highness the +Duke of Modena!” He hides from the old man, but cannot escape meeting +him in the corridor, and a face of exasperation rises before him under +an upstanding topknot of grey hair; the old eyes blaze like red-hot +coals, and he hears menacing cries and curses: “_Maledizione!_” hears +even the terrible words: “_Codardo! Infame traditore!_” Sanin closes +his eyes, shakes his head, turns away again and again, but still he +sees himself sitting in a travelling carriage on the narrow front seat +… In the comfortable places facing the horses sit Maria Nikolaevna and +Ippolit Sidoritch, the four horses trotting all together fly along the +paved roads of Wiesbaden to Paris! to Paris! Ippolit Sidoritch is +eating a pear which Sanin has peeled for him, while Maria Nikolaevna +watches him and smiles at him, her bondslave, that smile he knows +already, the smile of the proprietor, the slave-owner…. But, good God, +out there at the corner of the street not far from the city walls, +wasn’t it Pantaleone again, and who with him? Can it be Emilio? Yes, it +was he, the enthusiastic devoted boy! Not long since his young face had +been full of reverence before his hero, his ideal, but now his pale +handsome face, so handsome that Maria Nikolaevna noticed him and poked +her head out of the carriage window, that noble face is glowing with +anger and contempt; his eyes, so like _her_ eyes! are fastened upon +Sanin, and the tightly compressed lips part to revile him…. + +And Pantaleone stretches out his hand and points Sanin out to Tartaglia +standing near, and Tartaglia barks at Sanin, and the very bark of the +faithful dog sounds like an unbearable reproach…. Hideous! + +And then, the life in Paris, and all the humiliations, all the +loathsome tortures of the slave, who dare not be jealous or complain, +and who is cast aside at last, like a worn-out garment…. + +Then the going home to his own country, the poisoned, the devastated +life, the petty interests and petty cares, bitter and fruitless regret, +and as bitter and fruitless apathy, a punishment not apparent, but of +every minute, continuous, like some trivial but incurable disease, the +payment farthing by farthing of the debt, which can never be settled…. + +The cup was full enough. + +How had the garnet cross given Sanin by Gemma existed till now, why had +he not sent it back, how had it happened that he had never come across +it till that day? A long, long while he sat deep in thought, and taught +as he was by the experience of so many years, he still could not +comprehend how he could have deserted Gemma, so tenderly and +passionately loved, for a woman he did not love at all…. Next day he +surprised all his friends and acquaintances by announcing that he was +going abroad. + +The surprise was general in society. Sanin was leaving Petersburg, in +the middle of the winter, after having only just taken and furnished a +capital flat, and having even secured seats for all the performances of +the Italian Opera, in which Madame Patti … Patti, herself, herself, was +to take part! His friends and acquaintances wondered; but it is not +human nature as a rule to be interested long in other people’s affairs, +and when Sanin set off for abroad, none came to the railway station to +see him off but a French tailor, and he only in the hope of securing an +unpaid account “_pour un saute-en-barque en velours noir tout à fait +chic_.” + + + + +XLIV + + +Sanin told his friends he was going abroad, but he did not say where +exactly: the reader will readily conjecture that he made straight for +Frankfort. Thanks to the general extension of railways, on the fourth +day after leaving Petersburg he was there. He had not visited the place +since 1840. The hotel, the White Swan, was standing in its old place +and still flourishing, though no longer regarded as first class. The +_Zeile_, the principal street of Frankfort was little changed, but +there was not only no trace of Signora Roselli’s house, the very street +in which it stood had disappeared. Sanin wandered like a man in a dream +about the places once so familiar, and recognised nothing; the old +buildings had vanished; they were replaced by new streets of huge +continuous houses and fine villas; even the public garden, where that +last interview with Gemma had taken place, had so grown up and altered +that Sanin wondered if it really were the same garden. What was he to +do? How and where could he get information? Thirty years, no little +thing! had passed since those days. No one to whom he applied had even +heard of the name Roselli; the hotel-keeper advised him to have +recourse to the public library, there, he told him, he would find all +the old newspapers, but what good he would get from that, the +hotel-keeper owned he didn’t see. Sanin in despair made inquiries about +Herr Klüber. That name the hotel-keeper knew well, but there too no +success awaited him. The elegant shop-manager, after making much noise +in the world and rising to the position of a capitalist, had +speculated, was made bankrupt, and died in prison…. This piece of news +did not, however, occasion Sanin the slightest regret. He was beginning +to feel that his journey had been rather precipitate…. But, behold, one +day, as he was turning over a Frankfort directory, he came on the name: +Von Dönhof, retired major. He promptly took a carriage and drove to the +address, though why was this Von Dönhof certain to be that Dönhof, and +why even was the right Dönhof likely to be able to tell him any news of +the Roselli family? No matter, a drowning man catches at straws. + +Sanin found the retired major von Dönhof at home, and in the +grey-haired gentleman who received him he recognised at once his +adversary of bygone days. Dönhof knew him too, and was positively +delighted to see him; he recalled to him his young days, the escapades +of his youth. Sanin heard from him that the Roselli family had long, +long ago emigrated to America, to New York; that Gemma had married a +merchant; that he, Dönhof, had an acquaintance also a merchant, who +would probably know her husband’s address, as he did a great deal of +business with America. Sanin begged Dönhof to consult this friend, and, +to his delight, Dönhof brought him the address of Gemma’s husband, Mr. +Jeremy Slocum, New York, Broadway, No. 501. Only this address dated +from the year 1863. + +“Let us hope,” cried Dönhof, “that our Frankfort belle is still alive +and has not left New York! By the way,” he added, dropping his voice, +“what about that Russian lady, who was staying, do you remember, about +that time at Wiesbaden—Madame von Bo … von Bolozov, is she still +living?” + +“No,” answered Sanin, “she died long ago.” Dönhof looked up, but +observing that Sanin had turned away and was frowning, he did not say +another word, but took his leave. + +That same day Sanin sent a letter to Madame Gemma Slocum, at New York. +In the letter he told her he was writing to her from Frankfort, where +he had come solely with the object of finding traces of her, that he +was very well aware that he was absolutely without a right to expect +that she would answer his appeal; that he had not deserved her +forgiveness, and could only hope that among happy surroundings she had +long ago forgotten his existence. He added that he had made up his mind +to recall himself to her memory in consequence of a chance circumstance +which had too vividly brought back to him the images of the past; he +described his life, solitary, childless, joyless; he implored her to +understand the grounds that had induced him to address her, not to let +him carry to the grave the bitter sense of his own wrongdoing, expiated +long since by suffering, but never forgiven, and to make him happy with +even the briefest news of her life in the new world to which she had +gone away. “In writing one word to me,” so Sanin ended his letter, “you +will be doing a good action worthy of your noble soul, and I shall +thank you to my last breath. I am stopping here at the _White Swan_ (he +underlined those words) and shall wait, wait till spring, for your +answer.” + +He despatched this letter, and proceeded to wait. For six whole weeks +he lived in the hotel, scarcely leaving his room, and resolutely seeing +no one. No one could write to him from Russia nor from anywhere; and +that just suited his mood; if a letter came addressed to him he would +know at once that it was the one he was waiting for. He read from +morning till evening, and not journals, but serious books—historical +works. These prolonged studies, this stillness, this hidden life, like +a snail in its shell, suited his spiritual condition to perfection; and +for this, if nothing more, thanks to Gemma! But was she alive? Would +she answer? + +At last a letter came, with an American postmark, from New York, +addressed to him. The handwriting of the address on the envelope was +English…. He did not recognise it, and there was a pang at his heart. +He could not at once bring himself to break open the envelope. He +glanced at the signature—Gemma! The tears positively gushed from his +eyes: the mere fact that she signed her name, without a surname, was a +pledge to him of reconciliation, of forgiveness! He unfolded the thin +sheet of blue notepaper: a photograph slipped out. He made haste to +pick it up—and was struck dumb with amazement: Gemma, Gemma living, +young as he had known her thirty years ago! The same eyes, the same +lips, the same form of the whole face! On the back of the photograph +was written, “My daughter Mariana.” The whole letter was very kind and +simple. Gemma thanked Sanin for not having hesitated to write to her, +for having confidence in her; she did not conceal from him that she had +passed some painful moments after his disappearance, but she added at +once that for all that she considered—and had always considered—her +meeting him as a happy thing, seeing that it was that meeting which had +prevented her from becoming the wife of Mr. Klüber, and in that way, +though indirectly, had led to her marriage with her husband, with whom +she had now lived twenty-eight years, in perfect happiness, comfort, +and prosperity; their house was known to every one in New York. Gemma +informed Sanin that she was the mother of five children, four sons and +one daughter, a girl of eighteen, engaged to be married, and her +photograph she enclosed as she was generally considered very like her +mother. The sorrowful news Gemma kept for the end of the letter. Frau +Lenore had died in New York, where she had followed her daughter and +son-in-law, but she had lived long enough to rejoice in her children’s +happiness and to nurse her grandchildren. Pantaleone, too, had meant to +come out to America, but he had died on the very eve of leaving +Frankfort. “Emilio, our beloved, incomparable Emilio, died a glorious +death for the freedom of his country in Sicily, where he was one of the +‘Thousand’ under the leadership of the great Garibaldi; we all bitterly +lamented the loss of our priceless brother, but, even in the midst of +our tears, we were proud of him—and shall always be proud of him—and +hold his memory sacred! His lofty, disinterested soul was worthy of a +martyr’s crown!” Then Gemma expressed her regret that Sanin’s life had +apparently been so unsuccessful, wished him before everything peace and +a tranquil spirit, and said that she would be very glad to see him +again, though she realised how unlikely such a meeting was…. + +We will not attempt to describe the feelings Sanin experienced as he +read this letter. For such feelings there is no satisfactory +expression; they are too deep and too strong and too vague for any +word. Only music could reproduce them. + +Sanin answered at once; and as a wedding gift to the young girl, sent +to “Mariana Slocum, from an unknown friend,” a garnet cross, set in a +magnificent pearl necklace. This present, costly as it was, did not +ruin him; during the thirty years that had elapsed since his first +visit to Frankfort, he had succeeded in accumulating a considerable +fortune. Early in May he went back to Petersburg, but hardly for long. +It is rumoured that he is selling all his lands and preparing to go to +America. + + + + +FIRST LOVE + + +The party had long ago broken up. The clock struck half-past twelve. +There was left in the room only the master of the house and Sergei +Nikolaevitch and Vladimir Petrovitch. + +The master of the house rang and ordered the remains of the supper to +be cleared away. “And so it’s settled,” he observed, sitting back +farther in his easy-chair and lighting a cigar; “each of us is to tell +the story of his first love. It’s your turn, Sergei Nikolaevitch.” + +Sergei Nikolaevitch, a round little man with a plump, +light-complexioned face, gazed first at the master of the house, then +raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I had no first love,” he said at last; +“I began with the second.” + +“How was that?” + +“It’s very simple. I was eighteen when I had my first flirtation with a +charming young lady, but I courted her just as though it were nothing +new to me; just as I courted others later on. To speak accurately, the +first and last time I was in love was with my nurse when I was six +years old; but that’s in the remote past. The details of our relations +have slipped out of my memory, and even if I remembered them, whom +could they interest?” + +“Then how’s it to be?” began the master of the house. “There was +nothing much of interest about my first love either; I never fell in +love with any one till I met Anna Nikolaevna, now my wife,—and +everything went as smoothly as possible with us; our parents arranged +the match, we were very soon in love with each other, and got married +without loss of time. My story can be told in a couple of words. I must +confess, gentlemen, in bringing up the subject of first love, I +reckoned upon you, I won’t say old, but no longer young, bachelors. +Can’t you enliven us with something, Vladimir Petrovitch?” + +“My first love, certainly, was not quite an ordinary one,” responded, +with some reluctance, Vladimir Petrovitch, a man of forty, with black +hair turning grey. + +“Ah!” said the master of the house and Sergei Nikolaevitch with one +voice: “So much the better…. Tell us about it.” + +“If you wish it … or no; I won’t tell the story; I’m no hand at telling +a story; I make it dry and brief, or spun out and affected. If you’ll +allow me, I’ll write out all I remember and read it you.” + +His friends at first would not agree, but Vladimir Petrovitch insisted +on his own way. A fortnight later they were together again, and +Vladimir Petrovitch kept his word. + +His manuscript contained the following story:— + + + + +I + + +I was sixteen then. It happened in the summer of 1833. + +I lived in Moscow with my parents. They had taken a country house for +the summer near the Kalouga gate, facing the Neskutchny gardens. I was +preparing for the university, but did not work much and was in no +hurry. + +No one interfered with my freedom. I did what I liked, especially after +parting with my last tutor, a Frenchman who had never been able to get +used to the idea that he had fallen “like a bomb” (_comme une bombe_) +into Russia, and would lie sluggishly in bed with an expression of +exasperation on his face for days together. My father treated me with +careless kindness; my mother scarcely noticed me, though she had no +children except me; other cares completely absorbed her. My father, a +man still young and very handsome, had married her from mercenary +considerations; she was ten years older than he. My mother led a +melancholy life; she was for ever agitated, jealous and angry, but not +in my father’s presence; she was very much afraid of him, and he was +severe, cold, and distant in his behaviour…. I have never seen a man +more elaborately serene, self-confident, and commanding. + +I shall never forget the first weeks I spent at the country house. The +weather was magnificent; we left town on the 9th of May, on St. +Nicholas’s day. I used to walk about in our garden, in the Neskutchny +gardens, and beyond the town gates; I would take some book with +me—Keidanov’s Course, for instance—but I rarely looked into it, and +more often than anything declaimed verses aloud; I knew a great deal of +poetry by heart; my blood was in a ferment and my heart ached—so +sweetly and absurdly; I was all hope and anticipation, was a little +frightened of something, and full of wonder at everything, and was on +the tiptoe of expectation; my imagination played continually, +fluttering rapidly about the same fancies, like martins about a +bell-tower at dawn; I dreamed, was sad, even wept; but through the +tears and through the sadness, inspired by a musical verse, or the +beauty of evening, shot up like grass in spring the delicious sense of +youth and effervescent life. + +I had a horse to ride; I used to saddle it myself and set off alone for +long rides, break into a rapid gallop and fancy myself a knight at a +tournament. How gaily the wind whistled in my ears! or turning my face +towards the sky, I would absorb its shining radiance and blue into my +soul, that opened wide to welcome it. + +I remember that at that time the image of woman, the vision of love, +scarcely ever arose in definite shape in my brain; but in all I +thought, in all I felt, lay hidden a half-conscious, shamefaced +presentiment of something new, unutterably sweet, feminine…. + +This presentiment, this expectation, permeated my whole being; I +breathed in it, it coursed through my veins with every drop of blood … +it was destined to be soon fulfilled. + +The place, where we settled for the summer, consisted of a wooden +manor-house with columns and two small lodges; in the lodge on the left +there was a tiny factory for the manufacture of cheap wall-papers…. I +had more than once strolled that way to look at about a dozen thin and +dishevelled boys with greasy smocks and worn faces, who were +perpetually jumping on to wooden levers, that pressed down the square +blocks of the press, and so by the weight of their feeble bodies struck +off the variegated patterns of the wall-papers. The lodge on the right +stood empty, and was to let. One day—three weeks after the 9th of +May—the blinds in the windows of this lodge were drawn up, women’s +faces appeared at them—some family had installed themselves in it. I +remember the same day at dinner, my mother inquired of the butler who +were our new neighbours, and hearing the name of the Princess Zasyekin, +first observed with some respect, “Ah! a princess!” … and then added, +“A poor one, I suppose?” + +“They arrived in three hired flies,” the butler remarked deferentially, +as he handed a dish: “they don’t keep their own carriage, and the +furniture’s of the poorest.” + +“Ah,” replied my mother, “so much the better.” + +My father gave her a chilly glance; she was silent. + +Certainly the Princess Zasyekin could not be a rich woman; the lodge +she had taken was so dilapidated and small and low-pitched that people, +even moderately well-off in the world, would hardly have consented to +occupy it. At the time, however, all this went in at one ear and out at +the other. The princely title had very little effect on me; I had just +been reading Schiller’s _Robbers_. + + + + +II + + +I was in the habit of wandering about our garden every evening on the +look-out for rooks. I had long cherished a hatred for those wary, sly, +and rapacious birds. On the day of which I have been speaking, I went +as usual into the garden, and after patrolling all the walks without +success (the rooks knew me, and merely cawed spasmodically at a +distance), I chanced to go close to the low fence which separated our +domain from the narrow strip of garden stretching beyond the lodge to +the right, and belonging to it. I was walking along, my eyes on the +ground. Suddenly I heard a voice; I looked across the fence, and was +thunder-struck…. I was confronted with a curious spectacle. + +A few paces from me on the grass between the green raspberry bushes +stood a tall slender girl in a striped pink dress, with a white +kerchief on her head; four young men were close round her, and she was +slapping them by turns on the forehead with those small grey flowers, +the name of which I don’t know, though they are well known to children; +the flowers form little bags, and burst open with a pop when you strike +them against anything hard. The young men presented their foreheads so +eagerly, and in the gestures of the girl (I saw her in profile), there +was something so fascinating, imperious, caressing, mocking, and +charming, that I almost cried out with admiration and delight, and +would, I thought, have given everything in the world on the spot only +to have had those exquisite fingers strike me on the forehead. My gun +slipped on to the grass, I forgot everything, I devoured with my eyes +the graceful shape and neck and lovely arms and the slightly disordered +fair hair under the white kerchief, and the half-closed clever eye, and +the eyelashes and the soft cheek beneath them…. + +“Young man, hey, young man,” said a voice suddenly near me: “is it +quite permissible to stare so at unknown young ladies?” + +I started, I was struck dumb…. Near me, the other side of the fence, +stood a man with close-cropped black hair, looking ironically at me. At +the same instant the girl too turned towards me…. I caught sight of big +grey eyes in a bright mobile face, and the whole face suddenly quivered +and laughed, there was a flash of white teeth, a droll lifting of the +eyebrows…. I crimsoned, picked up my gun from the ground, and pursued +by a musical but not ill-natured laugh, fled to my own room, flung +myself on the bed, and hid my face in my hands. My heart was fairly +leaping; I was greatly ashamed and overjoyed; I felt an excitement I +had never known before. + +After a rest, I brushed my hair, washed, and went downstairs to tea. +The image of the young girl floated before me, my heart was no longer +leaping, but was full of a sort of sweet oppression. + +“What’s the matter?” my father asked me all at once: “have you killed a +rook?” + +I was on the point of telling him all about it, but I checked myself, +and merely smiled to myself. As I was going to bed, I rotated—I don’t +know why—three times on one leg, pomaded my hair, got into bed, and +slept like a top all night. Before morning I woke up for an instant, +raised my head, looked round me in ecstasy, and fell asleep again. + + + + +III + + +“How can I make their acquaintance?” was my first thought when I waked +in the morning. I went out in the garden before morning tea, but I did +not go too near the fence, and saw no one. After drinking tea, I walked +several times up and down the street before the house, and looked into +the windows from a distance…. I fancied her face at a curtain, and I +hurried away in alarm. + +“I must make her acquaintance, though,” I thought, pacing distractedly +about the sandy plain that stretches before Neskutchny park … “but how, +that is the question.” I recalled the minutest details of our meeting +yesterday; I had for some reason or other a particularly vivid +recollection of how she had laughed at me…. But while I racked my +brains, and made various plans, fate had already provided for me. + +In my absence my mother had received from her new neighbour a letter on +grey paper, sealed with brown wax, such as is only used in notices from +the post-office or on the corks of bottles of cheap wine. In this +letter, which was written in illiterate language and in a slovenly +hand, the princess begged my mother to use her powerful influence in +her behalf; my mother, in the words of the princess, was very intimate +with persons of high position, upon whom her fortunes and her +children’s fortunes depended, as she had some very important business +in hand. “I address myself to you,” she wrote, “as one gentlewoman to +another gentlewoman, and for that reason am glad to avail myself of the +opportunity.” Concluding, she begged my mother’s permission to call +upon her. I found my mother in an unpleasant state of indecision; my +father was not at home, and she had no one of whom to ask advice. Not +to answer a gentlewoman, and a princess into the bargain, was +impossible. But my mother was in a difficulty as to how to answer her. +To write a note in French struck her as unsuitable, and Russian +spelling was not a strong point with my mother herself, and she was +aware of it, and did not care to expose herself. She was overjoyed when +I made my appearance, and at once told me to go round to the +princess’s, and to explain to her by word of mouth that my mother would +always be glad to do her excellency any service within her powers, and +begged her to come to see her at one o’clock. This unexpectedly rapid +fulfilment of my secret desires both delighted and appalled me. I made +no sign, however, of the perturbation which came over me, and as a +preliminary step went to my own room to put on a new necktie and tail +coat; at home I still wore short jackets and lay-down collars, much as +I abominated them. + + + + +IV + + +In the narrow and untidy passage of the lodge, which I entered with an +involuntary tremor in all my limbs, I was met by an old grey-headed +servant with a dark copper-coloured face, surly little pig’s eyes, and +such deep furrows on his forehead and temples as I had never beheld in +my life. He was carrying a plate containing the spine of a herring that +had been gnawed at; and shutting the door that led into the room with +his foot, he jerked out, “What do you want?” + +“Is the Princess Zasyekin at home?” I inquired. + +“Vonifaty!” a jarring female voice screamed from within. + +The man without a word turned his back on me, exhibiting as he did so +the extremely threadbare hindpart of his livery with a solitary reddish +heraldic button on it; he put the plate down on the floor, and went +away. + +“Did you go to the police station?” the same female voice called again. +The man muttered something in reply. “Eh…. Has some one come?” I heard +again…. “The young gentleman from next door. Ask him in, then.” + +“Will you step into the drawing-room?” said the servant, making his +appearance once more, and picking up the plate from the floor. I +mastered my emotions, and went into the drawing-room. + +I found myself in a small and not over clean apartment, containing some +poor furniture that looked as if it had been hurriedly set down where +it stood. At the window in an easy-chair with a broken arm was sitting +a woman of fifty, bareheaded and ugly, in an old green dress, and a +striped worsted wrap about her neck. Her small black eyes fixed me like +pins. + +I went up to her and bowed. + +“I have the honour of addressing the Princess Zasyekin?” + +“I am the Princess Zasyekin; and you are the son of Mr. V.?” + +“Yes. I have come to you with a message from my mother.” + +“Sit down, please. Vonifaty, where are my keys, have you seen them?” + +I communicated to Madame Zasyekin my mother’s reply to her note. She +heard me out, drumming with her fat red fingers on the window-pane, and +when I had finished, she stared at me once more. + +“Very good; I’ll be sure to come,” she observed at last. “But how young +you are! How old are you, may I ask?” + +“Sixteen,” I replied, with an involuntary stammer. + +The princess drew out of her pocket some greasy papers covered with +writing, raised them right up to her nose, and began looking through +them. + +“A good age,” she ejaculated suddenly, turning round restlessly on her +chair. “And do you, pray, make yourself at home. I don’t stand on +ceremony.” + +“No, indeed,” I thought, scanning her unprepossessing person with a +disgust I could not restrain. + +At that instant another door flew open quickly, and in the doorway +stood the girl I had seen the previous evening in the garden. She +lifted her hand, and a mocking smile gleamed in her face. + +“Here is my daughter,” observed the princess, indicating her with her +elbow. “Zinotchka, the son of our neighbour, Mr. V. What is your name, +allow me to ask?” + +“Vladimir,” I answered, getting up, and stuttering in my excitement. + +“And your father’s name?” + +“Petrovitch.” + +“Ah! I used to know a commissioner of police whose name was Vladimir +Petrovitch too. Vonifaty! don’t look for my keys; the keys are in my +pocket.” + +The young girl was still looking at me with the same smile, faintly +fluttering her eyelids, and putting her head a little on one side. + +“I have seen Monsieur Voldemar before,” she began. (The silvery note of +her voice ran through me with a sort of sweet shiver.) “You will let me +call you so?” + +“Oh, please,” I faltered. + +“Where was that?” asked the princess. + +The young princess did not answer her mother. + +“Have you anything to do just now?” she said, not taking her eyes off +me. + +“Oh, no.” + +“Would you like to help me wind some wool? Come in here, to me.” + +She nodded to me and went out of the drawing-room. I followed her. + +In the room we went into, the furniture was a little better, and was +arranged with more taste. Though, indeed, at the moment, I was scarcely +capable of noticing anything; I moved as in a dream and felt all +through my being a sort of intense blissfulness that verged on +imbecility. + +The young princess sat down, took out a skein of red wool and, +motioning me to a seat opposite her, carefully untied the skein and +laid it across my hands. All this she did in silence with a sort of +droll deliberation and with the same bright sly smile on her slightly +parted lips. She began to wind the wool on a bent card, and all at once +she dazzled me with a glance so brilliant and rapid, that I could not +help dropping my eyes. When her eyes, which were generally half closed, +opened to their full extent, her face was completely transfigured; it +was as though it were flooded with light. + +“What did you think of me yesterday, M’sieu Voldemar?” she asked after +a brief pause. “You thought ill of me, I expect?” + +“I … princess … I thought nothing … how can I?…” I answered in +confusion. + +“Listen,” she rejoined. “You don’t know me yet. I’m a very strange +person; I like always to be told the truth. You, I have just heard, are +sixteen, and I am twenty-one: you see I’m a great deal older than you, +and so you ought always to tell me the truth … and to do what I tell +you,” she added. “Look at me: why don’t you look at me?” + +I was still more abashed; however, I raised my eyes to her. She smiled, +not her former smile, but a smile of approbation. “Look at me,” she +said, dropping her voice caressingly: “I don’t dislike that … I like +your face; I have a presentiment we shall be friends. But do you like +me?” she added slyly. + +“Princess …” I was beginning. + +“In the first place, you must call me Zinaïda Alexandrovna, and in the +second place it’s a bad habit for children”—(she corrected herself) +“for young people—not to say straight out what they feel. That’s all +very well for grown-up people. You like me, don’t you?” + +Though I was greatly delighted that she talked so freely to me, still I +was a little hurt. I wanted to show her that she had not a mere boy to +deal with, and assuming as easy and serious an air as I could, I +observed, “Certainly. I like you very much, Zinaïda Alexandrovna; I +have no wish to conceal it.” + +She shook her head very deliberately. “Have you a tutor?” she asked +suddenly. + +“No; I’ve not had a tutor for a long, long while.” + +I told a lie; it was not a month since I had parted with my Frenchman. + +“Oh! I see then—you are quite grown-up.” + +She tapped me lightly on the fingers. “Hold your hands straight!” And +she applied herself busily to winding the ball. + +I seized the opportunity when she was looking down and fell to watching +her, at first stealthily, then more and more boldly. Her face struck me +as even more charming than on the previous evening; everything in it +was so delicate, clever, and sweet. She was sitting with her back to a +window covered with a white blind, the sunshine, streaming in through +the blind, shed a soft light over her fluffy golden curls, her innocent +neck, her sloping shoulders, and tender untroubled bosom. I gazed at +her, and how dear and near she was already to me! It seemed to me I had +known her a long while and had never known anything nor lived at all +till I met her…. She was wearing a dark and rather shabby dress and an +apron; I would gladly, I felt, have kissed every fold of that dress and +apron. The tips of her little shoes peeped out from under her skirt; I +could have bowed down in adoration to those shoes…. “And here I am +sitting before her,” I thought; “I have made acquaintance with her … +what happiness, my God!” I could hardly keep from jumping up from my +chair in ecstasy, but I only swung my legs a little, like a small child +who has been given sweetmeats. + +I was as happy as a fish in water, and I could have stayed in that room +for ever, have never left that place. + +Her eyelids were slowly lifted, and once more her clear eyes shone +kindly upon me, and again she smiled. + +“How you look at me!” she said slowly, and she held up a threatening +finger. + +I blushed … “She understands it all, she sees all,” flashed through my +mind. “And how could she fail to understand and see it all?” + +All at once there was a sound in the next room—the clink of a sabre. + +“Zina!” screamed the princess in the drawing-room, “Byelovzorov has +brought you a kitten.” + +“A kitten!” cried Zinaïda, and getting up from her chair impetuously, +she flung the ball of worsted on my knees and ran away. + +I too got up and, laying the skein and the ball of wool on the +window-sill, I went into the drawing-room and stood still, hesitating. +In the middle of the room, a tabby kitten was lying with outstretched +paws; Zinaïda was on her knees before it, cautiously lifting up its +little face. Near the old princess, and filling up almost the whole +space between the two windows, was a flaxen curly-headed young man, a +hussar, with a rosy face and prominent eyes. + +“What a funny little thing!” Zinaïda was saying; “and its eyes are not +grey, but green, and what long ears! Thank you, Viktor Yegoritch! you +are very kind.” + +The hussar, in whom I recognised one of the young men I had seen the +evening before, smiled and bowed with a clink of his spurs and a jingle +of the chain of his sabre. + +“You were pleased to say yesterday that you wished to possess a tabby +kitten with long ears … so I obtained it. Your word is law.” And he +bowed again. + +The kitten gave a feeble mew and began sniffing the ground. + +“It’s hungry!” cried Zinaïda. “Vonifaty, Sonia! bring some milk.” + +A maid, in an old yellow gown with a faded kerchief at her neck, came +in with a saucer of milk and set it before the kitten. The kitten +started, blinked, and began lapping. + +“What a pink little tongue it has!” remarked Zinaïda, putting her head +almost on the ground and peeping at it sideways under its very nose. + +The kitten having had enough began to purr and move its paws +affectedly. Zinaïda got up, and turning to the maid said carelessly, +“Take it away.” + +“For the kitten—your little hand,” said the hussar, with a simper and a +shrug of his strongly-built frame, which was tightly buttoned up in a +new uniform. + +“Both,” replied Zinaïda, and she held out her hands to him. While he +was kissing them, she looked at me over his shoulder. + +I stood stockstill in the same place and did not know whether to laugh, +to say something, or to be silent. Suddenly through the open door into +the passage I caught sight of our footman, Fyodor. He was making signs +to me. Mechanically I went out to him. + +“What do you want?” I asked. + +“Your mamma has sent for you,” he said in a whisper. “She is angry that +you have not come back with the answer.” + +“Why, have I been here long?” + +“Over an hour.” + +“Over an hour!” I repeated unconsciously, and going back to the +drawing-room I began to make bows and scrape with my heels. + +“Where are you off to?” the young princess asked, glancing at me from +behind the hussar. + +“I must go home. So I am to say,” I added, addressing the old lady, +“that you will come to us about two.” + +“Do you say so, my good sir.” + +The princess hurriedly pulled out her snuff-box and took snuff so +loudly that I positively jumped. “Do you say so,” she repeated, +blinking tearfully and sneezing. + +I bowed once more, turned, and went out of the room with that sensation +of awkwardness in my spine which a very young man feels when he knows +he is being looked at from behind. + +“Mind you come and see us again, M’sieu Voldemar,” Zinaïda called, and +she laughed again. + +“Why is it she’s always laughing?” I thought, as I went back home +escorted by Fyodor, who said nothing to me, but walked behind me with +an air of disapprobation. My mother scolded me and wondered what ever I +could have been doing so long at the princess’s. I made her no reply +and went off to my own room. I felt suddenly very sad…. I tried hard +not to cry…. I was jealous of the hussar. + + + + +V + + +The princess called on my mother as she had promised and made a +disagreeable impression on her. I was not present at their interview, +but at table my mother told my father that this Prince Zasyekin struck +her as a _femme très vulgaire_, that she had quite worn her out begging +her to interest Prince Sergei in their behalf, that she seemed to have +no end of lawsuits and affairs on hand—_de vilaines affaires +d’argent_—and must be a very troublesome and litigious person. My +mother added, however, that she had asked her and her daughter to +dinner the next day (hearing the word “daughter” I buried my nose in my +plate), for after all she was a neighbour and a person of title. Upon +this my father informed my mother that he remembered now who this lady +was; that he had in his youth known the deceased Prince Zasyekin, a +very well-bred, but frivolous and absurd person; that he had been +nicknamed in society “_le Parisien_,” from having lived a long while in +Paris; that he had been very rich, but had gambled away all his +property; and for some unknown reason, probably for money, though +indeed he might have chosen better, if so, my father added with a cold +smile, he had married the daughter of an agent, and after his marriage +had entered upon speculations and ruined himself utterly. + +“If only she doesn’t try to borrow money,” observed my mother. + +“That’s exceedingly possible,” my father responded tranquilly. “Does +she speak French?” + +“Very badly.” + +“H’m. It’s of no consequence anyway. I think you said you had asked the +daughter too; some one was telling me she was a very charming and +cultivated girl.” + +“Ah! Then she can’t take after her mother.” + +“Nor her father either,” rejoined my father. “He was cultivated indeed, +but a fool.” + +My mother sighed and sank into thought. My father said no more. I felt +very uncomfortable during this conversation. + +After dinner I went into the garden, but without my gun. I swore to +myself that I would not go near the Zasyekins’ garden, but an +irresistible force drew me thither, and not in vain. I had hardly +reached the fence when I caught sight of Zinaïda. This time she was +alone. She held a book in her hands, and was coming slowly along the +path. She did not notice me. + +I almost let her pass by; but all at once I changed my mind and +coughed. + +She turned round, but did not stop, pushed back with one hand the broad +blue ribbon of her round straw hat, looked at me, smiled slowly, and +again bent her eyes on the book. + +I took off my cap, and after hesitating a moment, walked away with a +heavy heart. “_Que suis-je pour elle?_” I thought (God knows why) in +French. + +Familiar footsteps sounded behind me; I looked round, my father came up +to me with his light, rapid walk. + +“Is that the young princess?” he asked me. + +“Yes.” + +“Why, do you know her?” + +“I saw her this morning at the princess’s.” + +My father stopped, and, turning sharply on his heel, went back. When he +was on a level with Zinaïda, he made her a courteous bow. She, too, +bowed to him, with some astonishment on her face, and dropped her book. +I saw how she looked after him. My father was always irreproachably +dressed, simple and in a style of his own; but his figure had never +struck me as more graceful, never had his grey hat sat more becomingly +on his curls, which were scarcely perceptibly thinner than they had +once been. + +I bent my steps toward Zinaïda, but she did not even glance at me; she +picked up her book again and went away. + + + + +VI + + +The whole evening and the following day I spent in a sort of dejected +apathy. I remember I tried to work and took up Keidanov, but the boldly +printed lines and pages of the famous text-book passed before my eyes +in vain. I read ten times over the words: “Julius Caesar was +distinguished by warlike courage.” I did not understand anything and +threw the book aside. Before dinner-time I pomaded myself once more, +and once more put on my tail-coat and necktie. + +“What’s that for?” my mother demanded. “You’re not a student yet, and +God knows whether you’ll get through the examination. And you’ve not +long had a new jacket! You can’t throw it away!” + +“There will be visitors,” I murmured almost in despair. + +“What nonsense! fine visitors indeed!” + +I had to submit. I changed my tail-coat for my jacket, but I did not +take off the necktie. The princess and her daughter made their +appearance half an hour before dinner-time; the old lady had put on, in +addition to the green dress with which I was already acquainted, a +yellow shawl, and an old-fashioned cap adorned with flame-coloured +ribbons. She began talking at once about her money difficulties, +sighing, complaining of her poverty, and imploring assistance, but she +made herself at home; she took snuff as noisily, and fidgeted and +lolled about in her chair as freely as ever. It never seemed to have +struck her that she was a princess. Zinaïda on the other hand was +rigid, almost haughty in her demeanour, every inch a princess. There +was a cold immobility and dignity in her face. I should not have +recognised it; I should not have known her smiles, her glances, though +I thought her exquisite in this new aspect too. She wore a light barége +dress with pale blue flowers on it; her hair fell in long curls down +her cheek in the English fashion; this style went well with the cold +expression of her face. My father sat beside her during dinner, and +entertained his neighbour with the finished and serene courtesy +peculiar to him. He glanced at her from time to time, and she glanced +at him, but so strangely, almost with hostility. Their conversation was +carried on in French; I was surprised, I remember, at the purity of +Zinaïda’s accent. The princess, while we were at table, as before made +no ceremony; she ate a great deal, and praised the dishes. My mother +was obviously bored by her, and answered her with a sort of weary +indifference; my father faintly frowned now and then. My mother did not +like Zinaïda either. “A conceited minx,” she said next day. “And fancy, +what she has to be conceited about, _avec sa mine de grisette_!” + +“It’s clear you have never seen any grisettes,” my father observed to +her. + +“Thank God, I haven’t!” + +“Thank God, to be sure … only how can you form an opinion of them, +then?” + +To me Zinaïda had paid no attention whatever. Soon after dinner the +princess got up to go. + +“I shall rely on your kind offices, Maria Nikolaevna and Piotr +Vassilitch,” she said in a doleful sing-song to my mother and father. +“I’ve no help for it! There were days, but they are over. Here I am, an +excellency, and a poor honour it is with nothing to eat!” + +My father made her a respectful bow and escorted her to the door of the +hall. I was standing there in my short jacket, staring at the floor, +like a man under sentence of death. Zinaïda’s treatment of me had +crushed me utterly. What was my astonishment, when, as she passed me, +she whispered quickly with her former kind expression in her eyes: +“Come to see us at eight, do you hear, be sure….” I simply threw up my +hands, but already she was gone, flinging a white scarf over her head. + + + + +VII + + +At eight o’clock precisely, in my tail-coat and with my hair brushed up +into a tuft on my head, I entered the passage of the lodge, where the +princess lived. The old servant looked crossly at me and got up +unwillingly from his bench. There was a sound of merry voices in the +drawing-room. I opened the door and fell back in amazement. In the +middle of the room was the young princess, standing on a chair, holding +a man’s hat in front of her; round the chair crowded some half a dozen +men. They were trying to put their hands into the hat, while she held +it above their heads, shaking it violently. On seeing me, she cried, +“Stay, stay, another guest, he must have a ticket too,” and leaping +lightly down from the chair she took me by the cuff of my coat “Come +along,” she said, “why are you standing still? _Messieurs_, let me make +you acquainted: this is M’sieu Voldemar, the son of our neighbour. And +this,” she went on, addressing me, and indicating her guests in turn, +“Count Malevsky, Doctor Lushin, Meidanov the poet, the retired captain +Nirmatsky, and Byelovzorov the hussar, whom you’ve seen already. I hope +you will be good friends.” I was so confused that I did not even bow to +any one; in Doctor Lushin I recognised the dark man who had so +mercilessly put me to shame in the garden; the others were unknown to +me. + +“Count!” continued Zinaïda, “write M’sieu Voldemar a ticket.” + +“That’s not fair,” was objected in a slight Polish accent by the count, +a very handsome and fashionably dressed brunette, with expressive brown +eyes, a thin little white nose, and delicate little moustaches over a +tiny mouth. “This gentleman has not been playing forfeits with us.” + +“It’s unfair,” repeated in chorus Byelovzorov and the gentleman +described as a retired captain, a man of forty, pock-marked to a +hideous degree, curly-headed as a negro, round-shouldered, +bandy-legged, and dressed in a military coat without epaulets, worn +unbuttoned. + +“Write him a ticket, I tell you,” repeated the young princess. “What’s +this mutiny? M’sieu Voldemar is with us for the first time, and there +are no rules for him yet. It’s no use grumbling—write it, I wish it.” + +The count shrugged his shoulders but bowed submissively, took the pen +in his white, ring-bedecked fingers, tore off a scrap of paper and +wrote on it. + +“At least let us explain to Mr. Voldemar what we are about,” Lushin +began in a sarcastic voice, “or else he will be quite lost. Do you see, +young man, we are playing forfeits? the princess has to pay a forfeit, +and the one who draws the lucky lot is to have the privilege of kissing +her hand. Do you understand what I’ve told you?” + +I simply stared at him, and continued to stand still in bewilderment, +while the young princess jumped up on the chair again, and again began +waving the hat. They all stretched up to her, and I went after the +rest. + +“Meidanov,” said the princess to a tall young man with a thin face, +little dim-sighted eyes, and exceedingly long black hair, “you as a +poet ought to be magnanimous, and give up your number to M’sieu +Voldemar so that he may have two chances instead of one.” + +But Meidanov shook his head in refusal, and tossed his hair. After all +the others I put my hand into the hat, and unfolded my lot…. Heavens! +what was my condition when I saw on it the word, Kiss! + +“Kiss!” I could not help crying aloud. + +“Bravo! he has won it,” the princess said quickly. “How glad I am!” She +came down from the chair and gave me such a bright sweet look, that my +heart bounded. “Are you glad?” she asked me. + +“Me?” … I faltered. + +“Sell me your lot,” Byelovzorov growled suddenly just in my ear. “I’ll +give you a hundred roubles.” + +I answered the hussar with such an indignant look, that Zinaïda clapped +her hands, while Lushin cried, “He’s a fine fellow!” + +“But, as master of the ceremonies,” he went on, “it’s my duty to see +that all the rules are kept. M’sieu Voldemar, go down on one knee. That +is our regulation.” + +Zinaïda stood in front of me, her head a little on one side as though +to get a better look at me; she held out her hand to me with dignity. A +mist passed before my eyes; I meant to drop on one knee, sank on both, +and pressed my lips to Zinaïda’s fingers so awkwardly that I scratched +myself a little with the tip of her nail. + +“Well done!” cried Lushin, and helped me to get up. + +The game of forfeits went on. Zinaïda sat me down beside her. She +invented all sorts of extraordinary forfeits! She had among other +things to represent a “statue,” and she chose as a pedestal the hideous +Nirmatsky, told him to bow down in an arch, and bend his head down on +his breast. The laughter never paused for an instant. For me, a boy +constantly brought up in the seclusion of a dignified manor-house, all +this noise and uproar, this unceremonious, almost riotous gaiety, these +relations with unknown persons, were simply intoxicating. My head went +round, as though from wine. I began laughing and talking louder than +the others, so much so that the old princess, who was sitting in the +next room with some sort of clerk from the Tversky gate, invited by her +for consultation on business, positively came in to look at me. But I +felt so happy that I did not mind anything, I didn’t care a straw for +any one’s jeers, or dubious looks. Zinaïda continued to show me a +preference, and kept me at her side. In one forfeit, I had to sit by +her, both hidden under one silk handkerchief: I was to tell her _my +secret_. I remember our two heads being all at once in a warm, +half-transparent, fragrant darkness, the soft, close brightness of her +eyes in the dark, and the burning breath from her parted lips, and the +gleam of her teeth and the ends of her hair tickling me and setting me +on fire. I was silent. She smiled slyly and mysteriously, and at last +whispered to me, “Well, what is it?” but I merely blushed and laughed, +and turned away, catching my breath. We got tired of forfeits—we began +to play a game with a string. My God! what were my transports when, for +not paying attention, I got a sharp and vigorous slap on my fingers +from her, and how I tried afterwards to pretend that I was +absent-minded, and she teased me, and would not touch the hands I held +out to her! What didn’t we do that evening! We played the piano, and +sang and danced and acted a gypsy encampment. Nirmatsky was dressed up +as a bear, and made to drink salt water. Count Malevsky showed us +several sorts of card tricks, and finished, after shuffling the cards, +by dealing himself all the trumps at whist, on which Lushin “had the +honour of congratulating him.” Meidanov recited portions from his poem +“The Manslayer” (romanticism was at its height at this period), which +he intended to bring out in a black cover with the title in blood-red +letters; they stole the clerk’s cap off his knee, and made him dance a +Cossack dance by way of ransom for it; they dressed up old Vonifaty in +a woman’s cap, and the young princess put on a man’s hat…. I could not +enumerate all we did. Only Byelovzorov kept more and more in the +background, scowling and angry…. Sometimes his eyes looked bloodshot, +he flushed all over, and it seemed every minute as though he would rush +out upon us all and scatter us like shavings in all directions; but the +young princess would glance at him, and shake her finger at him, and he +would retire into his corner again. + +We were quite worn out at last. Even the old princess, though she was +ready for anything, as she expressed it, and no noise wearied her, felt +tired at last, and longed for peace and quiet. At twelve o’clock at +night, supper was served, consisting of a piece of stale dry cheese, +and some cold turnovers of minced ham, which seemed to me more +delicious than any pastry I had ever tasted; there was only one bottle +of wine, and that was a strange one; a dark-coloured bottle with a wide +neck, and the wine in it was of a pink hue; no one drank it, however. +Tired out and faint with happiness, I left the lodge; at parting +Zinaïda pressed my hand warmly, and again smiled mysteriously. + +The night air was heavy and damp in my heated face; a storm seemed to +be gathering; black stormclouds grew and crept across the sky, their +smoky outlines visibly changing. A gust of wind shivered restlessly in +the dark trees, and somewhere, far away on the horizon, muffled thunder +angrily muttered as it were to itself. + +I made my way up to my room by the back stairs. My old man-nurse was +asleep on the floor, and I had to step over him; he waked up, saw me, +and told me that my mother had again been very angry with me, and had +wished to send after me again, but that my father had prevented her. (I +had never gone to bed without saying good-night to my mother, and +asking her blessing. There was no help for it now!) + +I told my man that I would undress and go to bed by myself, and I put +out the candle. But I did not undress, and did not go to bed. + +I sat down on a chair, and sat a long while, as though spell-bound. +What I was feeling was so new and so sweet…. I sat still, hardly +looking round and not moving, drew slow breaths, and only from time to +time laughed silently at some recollection, or turned cold within at +the thought that I was in love, that this was she, that this was love. +Zinaïda’s face floated slowly before me in the darkness—floated, and +did not float away; her lips still wore the same enigmatic smile, her +eyes watched me, a little from one side, with a questioning, dreamy, +tender look … as at the instant of parting from her. At last I got up, +walked on tiptoe to my bed, and without undressing, laid my head +carefully on the pillow, as though I were afraid by an abrupt movement +to disturb what filled my soul…. I lay down, but did not even close my +eyes. Soon I noticed that faint glimmers of light of some sort were +thrown continually into the room…. I sat up and looked at the window. +The window-frame could be clearly distinguished from the mysteriously +and dimly-lighted panes. It is a storm, I thought; and a storm it +really was, but it was raging so very far away that the thunder could +not be heard; only blurred, long, as it were branching, gleams of +lightning flashed continually over the sky; it was not flashing, +though, so much as quivering and twitching like the wing of a dying +bird. I got up, went to the window, and stood there till morning…. The +lightning never ceased for an instant; it was what is called among the +peasants a _sparrow night_. I gazed at the dumb sandy plain, at the +dark mass of the Neskutchny gardens, at the yellowish façades of the +distant buildings, which seemed to quiver too at each faint flash…. I +gazed, and could not turn away; these silent lightning flashes, these +gleams seemed in response to the secret silent fires which were aglow +within me. Morning began to dawn; the sky was flushed in patches of +crimson. As the sun came nearer, the lightning grew gradually paler, +and ceased; the quivering gleams were fewer and fewer, and vanished at +last, drowned in the sobering positive light of the coming day…. + +And my lightning flashes vanished too. I felt great weariness and peace +… but Zinaïda’s image still floated triumphant over my soul. But it +too, this image, seemed more tranquil: like a swan rising out of the +reeds of a bog, it stood out from the other unbeautiful figures +surrounding it, and as I fell asleep, I flung myself before it in +farewell, trusting adoration…. + +Oh, sweet emotions, gentle harmony, goodness and peace of the softened +heart, melting bliss of the first raptures of love, where are they, +where are they? + + + + +VIII + + +The next morning, when I came down to tea, my mother scolded me—less +severely, however, than I had expected—and made me tell her how I had +spent the previous evening. I answered her in few words, omitting many +details, and trying to give the most innocent air to everything. + +“Anyway, they’re people who’re not _comme il faut_,” my mother +commented, “and you’ve no business to be hanging about there, instead +of preparing yourself for the examination, and doing your work.” + +As I was well aware that my mother’s anxiety about my studies was +confined to these few words, I did not feel it necessary to make any +rejoinder; but after morning tea was over, my father took me by the +arm, and turning into the garden with me, forced me to tell him all I +had seen at the Zasyekins’. + +A curious influence my father had over me, and curious were the +relations existing between us. He took hardly any interest in my +education, but he never hurt my feelings; he respected my freedom, he +treated me—if I may so express it—with courtesy,… only he never let me +be really close to him. I loved him, I admired him, he was my ideal of +a man—and Heavens! how passionately devoted I should have been to him, +if I had not been continually conscious of his holding me off! But when +he liked, he could almost instantaneously, by a single word, a single +gesture, call forth an unbounded confidence in him. My soul expanded, I +chattered away to him, as to a wise friend, a kindly teacher … then he +as suddenly got rid of me, and again he was keeping me off, gently and +affectionately, but still he kept me off. + +Sometimes he was in high spirits, and then he was ready to romp and +frolic with me, like a boy (he was fond of vigorous physical exercise +of every sort); once—it never happened a second time!—he caressed me +with such tenderness that I almost shed tears…. But high spirits and +tenderness alike vanished completely, and what had passed between us, +gave me nothing to build on for the future—it was as though I had +dreamed it all. Sometimes I would scrutinise his clever handsome bright +face … my heart would throb, and my whole being yearn to him … he would +seem to feel what was going on within me, would give me a passing pat +on the cheek, and go away, or take up some work, or suddenly freeze all +over as only he knew how to freeze, and I shrank into myself at once, +and turned cold too. His rare fits of friendliness to me were never +called forth by my silent, but intelligible entreaties: they always +occurred unexpectedly. Thinking over my father’s character later, I +have come to the conclusion that he had no thoughts to spare for me and +for family life; his heart was in other things, and found complete +satisfaction elsewhere. “Take for yourself what you can, and don’t be +ruled by others; to belong to oneself—the whole savour of life lies in +that,” he said to me one day. Another time, I, as a young democrat, +fell to airing my views on liberty (he was “kind,” as I used to call +it, that day; and at such times I could talk to him as I liked). +“Liberty,” he repeated; “and do you know what can give a man liberty?” + +“What?” + +“Will, his own will, and it gives power, which is better than liberty. +Know how to will, and you will be free, and will lead.” + +“My father, before all, and above all, desired to live, and lived…. +Perhaps he had a presentiment that he would not have long to enjoy the +“savour” of life: he died at forty-two. + +I described my evening at the Zasyekins’ minutely to my father. Half +attentively, half carelessly, he listened to me, sitting on a garden +seat, drawing in the sand with his cane. Now and then he laughed, shot +bright, droll glances at me, and spurred me on with short questions and +assents. At first I could not bring myself even to utter the name of +Zinaïda, but I could not restrain myself long, and began singing her +praises. My father still laughed; then he grew thoughtful, stretched, +and got up. I remembered that as he came out of the house he had +ordered his horse to be saddled. He was a splendid horseman, and, long +before Rarey, had the secret of breaking in the most vicious horses. + +“Shall I come with you, father?” I asked. + +“No,” he answered, and his face resumed its ordinary expression of +friendly indifference. “Go alone, if you like; and tell the coachman +I’m not going.” + +He turned his back on me and walked rapidly away. I looked after him; +he disappeared through the gates. I saw his hat moving along beside the +fence; he went into the Zasyekins’. + +He stayed there not more than an hour, but then departed at once for +the town, and did not return home till evening. + +After dinner I went myself to the Zasyekins’. In the drawing-room I +found only the old princess. On seeing me she scratched her head under +her cap with a knitting-needle, and suddenly asked me, could I copy a +petition for her. + +“With pleasure,” I replied, sitting down on the edge of a chair. + +“Only mind and make the letters bigger,” observed the princess, handing +me a dirty sheet of paper; “and couldn’t you do it to-day, my good +sir?” + +“Certainly, I will copy it to-day.” + +The door of the next room was just opened, and in the crack I saw the +face of Zinaïda, pale and pensive, her hair flung carelessly back; she +stared at me with big chilly eyes, and softly closed the door. + +“Zina, Zina!” called the old lady. Zinaïda made no response. I took +home the old lady’s petition and spent the whole evening over it. + + + + +IX + + +My “passion” dated from that day. I felt at that time, I recollect, +something like what a man must feel on entering the service: I had +ceased now to be simply a young boy; I was in love. I have said that my +passion dated from that day; I might have added that my sufferings too +dated from the same day. Away from Zinaïda I pined; nothing was to my +mind; everything went wrong with me; I spent whole days thinking +intensely about her … I pined when away,… but in her presence I was no +better off. I was jealous; I was conscious of my insignificance; I was +stupidly sulky or stupidly abject, and, all the same, an invincible +force drew me to her, and I could not help a shudder of delight +whenever I stepped through the doorway of her room. Zinaïda guessed at +once that I was in love with her, and indeed I never even thought of +concealing it. She amused herself with my passion, made a fool of me, +petted and tormented me. There is a sweetness in being the sole source, +the autocratic and irresponsible cause of the greatest joy and +profoundest pain to another, and I was like wax in Zinaïda’s hands; +though, indeed, I was not the only one in love with her. All the men +who visited the house were crazy over her, and she kept them all in +leading-strings at her feet. It amused her to arouse their hopes and +then their fears, to turn them round her finger (she used to call it +knocking their heads together), while they never dreamed of offering +resistance and eagerly submitted to her. About her whole being, so full +of life and beauty, there was a peculiarly bewitching mixture of +slyness and carelessness, of artificiality and simplicity, of composure +and frolicsomeness; about everything she did or said, about every +action of hers, there clung a delicate, fine charm, in which an +individual power was manifest at work. And her face was ever changing, +working too; it expressed, almost at the same time, irony, dreaminess, +and passion. Various emotions, delicate and quick-changing as the +shadows of clouds on a sunny day of wind, chased one another +continually over her lips and eyes. + +Each of her adorers was necessary to her. Byelovzorov, whom she +sometimes called “my wild beast,” and sometimes simply “mine,” would +gladly have flung himself into the fire for her sake. With little +confidence in his intellectual abilities and other qualities, he was +for ever offering her marriage, hinting that the others were merely +hanging about with no serious intention. Meidanov responded to the +poetic fibres of her nature; a man of rather cold temperament, like +almost all writers, he forced himself to convince her, and perhaps +himself, that he adored her, sang her praises in endless verses, and +read them to her with a peculiar enthusiasm, at once affected and +sincere. She sympathised with him, and at the same time jeered at him a +little; she had no great faith in him, and after listening to his +outpourings, she would make him read Pushkin, as she said, to clear the +air. Lushin, the ironical doctor, so cynical in words, knew her better +than any of them, and loved her more than all, though he abused her to +her face and behind her back. She could not help respecting him, but +made him smart for it, and at times, with a peculiar, malignant +pleasure, made him feel that he too was at her mercy. “I’m a flirt, I’m +heartless, I’m an actress in my instincts,” she said to him one day in +my presence; “well and good! Give me your hand then; I’ll stick this +pin in it, you’ll be ashamed of this young man’s seeing it, it will +hurt you, but you’ll laugh for all that, you truthful person.” Lushin +crimsoned, turned away, bit his lips, but ended by submitting his hand. +She pricked it, and he did in fact begin to laugh,… and she laughed, +thrusting the pin in pretty deeply, and peeping into his eyes, which he +vainly strove to keep in other directions…. + +I understood least of all the relations existing between Zinaïda and +Count Malevsky. He was handsome, clever, and adroit, but something +equivocal, something false in him was apparent even to me, a boy of +sixteen, and I marvelled that Zinaïda did not notice it. But possibly +she did notice this element of falsity really and was not repelled by +it. Her irregular education, strange acquaintances and habits, the +constant presence of her mother, the poverty and disorder in their +house, everything, from the very liberty the young girl enjoyed, with +the consciousness of her superiority to the people around her, had +developed in her a sort of half-contemptuous carelessness and lack of +fastidiousness. At any time anything might happen; Vonifaty might +announce that there was no sugar, or some revolting scandal would come +to her ears, or her guests would fall to quarrelling among +themselves—she would only shake her curls, and say, “What does it +matter?” and care little enough about it. + +But my blood, anyway, was sometimes on fire with indignation when +Malevsky approached her, with a sly, fox-like action, leaned gracefully +on the back of her chair, and began whispering in her ear with a +self-satisfied and ingratiating little smile, while she folded her arms +across her bosom, looked intently at him and smiled too, and shook her +head. + +“What induces you to receive Count Malevsky?” I asked her one day. + +“He has such pretty moustaches,” she answered. “But that’s rather +beyond you.” + +“You needn’t think I care for him,” she said to me another time. “No; I +can’t care for people I have to look down upon. I must have some one +who can master me…. But, merciful heavens, I hope I may never come +across any one like that! I don’t want to be caught in any one’s claws, +not for anything.” + +“You’ll never be in love, then?” + +“And you? Don’t I love you?” she said, and she flicked me on the nose +with the tip of her glove. + +Yes, Zinaïda amused herself hugely at my expense. For three weeks I saw +her every day, and what didn’t she do with me! She rarely came to see +us, and I was not sorry for it; in our house she was transformed into a +young lady, a young princess, and I was a little overawed by her. I was +afraid of betraying myself before my mother; she had taken a great +dislike to Zinaïda, and kept a hostile eye upon us. My father I was not +so much afraid of; he seemed not to notice me. He talked little to her, +but always with special cleverness and significance. I gave up working +and reading; I even gave up walking about the neighbourhood and riding +my horse. Like a beetle tied by the leg, I moved continually round and +round my beloved little lodge. I would gladly have stopped there +altogether, it seemed … but that was impossible. My mother scolded me, +and sometimes Zinaïda herself drove me away. Then I used to shut myself +up in my room, or go down to the very end of the garden, and climbing +into what was left of a tall stone greenhouse, now in ruins, sit for +hours with my legs hanging over the wall that looked on to the road, +gazing and gazing and seeing nothing. White butterflies flitted lazily +by me, over the dusty nettles; a saucy sparrow settled not far off on +the half crumbling red brickwork and twittered irritably, incessantly +twisting and turning and preening his tail-feathers; the still +mistrustful rooks cawed now and then, sitting high, high up on the bare +top of a birch-tree; the sun and wind played softly on its pliant +branches; the tinkle of the bells of the Don monastery floated across +to me from time to time, peaceful and dreary; while I sat, gazed, +listened, and was filled full of a nameless sensation in which all was +contained: sadness and joy and the foretaste of the future, and the +desire and dread of life. But at that time I understood nothing of it, +and could have given a name to nothing of all that was passing at +random within me, or should have called it all by one name—the name of +Zinaïda. + +Zinaïda continued to play cat and mouse with me. She flirted with me, +and I was all agitation and rapture; then she would suddenly thrust me +away, and I dared not go near her—dared not look at her. + +I remember she was very cold to me for several days together; I was +completely crushed, and creeping timidly to their lodge, tried to keep +close to the old princess, regardless of the circumstance that she was +particularly scolding and grumbling just at that time; her financial +affairs had been going badly, and she had already had two +“explanations” with the police officials. + +One day I was walking in the garden beside the familiar fence, and I +caught sight of Zinaïda; leaning on both arms, she was sitting on the +grass, not stirring a muscle. I was about to make off cautiously, but +she suddenly raised her head and beckoned me imperiously. My heart +failed me; I did not understand her at first. She repeated her signal. +I promptly jumped over the fence and ran joyfully up to her, but she +brought me to a halt with a look, and motioned me to the path two paces +from her. In confusion, not knowing what to do, I fell on my knees at +the edge of the path. She was so pale, such bitter suffering, such +intense weariness, was expressed in every feature of her face, that it +sent a pang to my heart, and I muttered unconsciously, “What is the +matter?” + +Zinaïda stretched out her head, picked a blade of grass, bit it and +flung it away from her. + +“You love me very much?” she asked at last. “Yes.” + +I made no answer—indeed, what need was there to answer? + +“Yes,” she repeated, looking at me as before. “That’s so. The same +eyes,”—she went on; sank into thought, and hid her face in her hands. +“Everything’s grown so loathsome to me,” she whispered, “I would have +gone to the other end of the world first—I can’t bear it, I can’t get +over it…. And what is there before me!… Ah, I am wretched…. My God, how +wretched I am!” + +“What for?” I asked timidly. + +Zinaïda made no answer, she simply shrugged her shoulders. I remained +kneeling, gazing at her with intense sadness. Every word she had +uttered simply cut me to the heart. At that instant I felt I would +gladly have given my life, if only she should not grieve. I gazed at +her—and though I could not understand why she was wretched, I vividly +pictured to myself, how in a fit of insupportable anguish, she had +suddenly come out into the garden, and sunk to the earth, as though +mown down by a scythe. It was all bright and green about her; the wind +was whispering in the leaves of the trees, and swinging now and then a +long branch of a raspberry bush over Zinaïda’s head. There was a sound +of the cooing of doves, and the bees hummed, flying low over the scanty +grass. Overhead the sun was radiantly blue—while I was so sorrowful…. + +“Read me some poetry,” said Zinaïda in an undertone, and she propped +herself on her elbow; “I like your reading poetry. You read it in +sing-song, but that’s no matter, that comes of being young. Read me ‘On +the Hills of Georgia.’ Only sit down first.” + +I sat down and read “On the Hills of Georgia.” + +“‘That the heart cannot choose but love,’” repeated Zinaïda. “That’s +where poetry’s so fine; it tells us what is not, and what’s not only +better than what is, but much more like the truth, ‘cannot choose but +love,’—it might want not to, but it can’t help it.” She was silent +again, then all at once she started and got up. “Come along. Meidanov’s +indoors with mamma, he brought me his poem, but I deserted him. His +feelings are hurt too now … I can’t help it! you’ll understand it all +some day … only don’t be angry with me!” + +Zinaïda hurriedly pressed my hand and ran on ahead. We went back into +the lodge. Meidanov set to reading us his “Manslayer,” which had just +appeared in print, but I did not hear him. He screamed and drawled his +four-foot iambic lines, the alternating rhythms jingled like little +bells, noisy and meaningless, while I still watched Zinaïda and tried +to take in the import of her last words. + +“Perchance some unknown rival +Has surprised and mastered thee?” + + +Meidanov bawled suddenly through his nose—and my eyes and Zinaïda’s +met. She looked down and faintly blushed. I saw her blush, and grew +cold with terror. I had been jealous before, but only at that instant +the idea of her being in love flashed upon my mind. “Good God! she is +in love!” + + + + +X + + +My real torments began from that instant. I racked my brains, changed +my mind, and changed it back again, and kept an unremitting, though, as +far as possible, secret watch on Zinaïda. A change had come over her, +that was obvious. She began going walks alone—and long walks. Sometimes +she would not see visitors; she would sit for hours together in her +room. This had never been a habit of hers till now. I suddenly +became—or fancied I had become—extraordinarily penetrating. + +“Isn’t it he? or isn’t it he?” I asked myself, passing in inward +agitation from one of her admirers to another. Count Malevsky secretly +struck me as more to be feared than the others, though, for Zinaïda’s +sake, I was ashamed to confess it to myself. + +My watchfulness did not see beyond the end of my nose, and its secrecy +probably deceived no one; any way, Doctor Lushin soon saw through me. +But he, too, had changed of late; he had grown thin, he laughed as +often, but his laugh seemed more hollow, more spiteful, shorter, an +involuntary nervous irritability took the place of his former light +irony and assumed cynicism. + +“Why are you incessantly hanging about here, young man?” he said to me +one day, when we were left alone together in the Zasyekins’ +drawing-room. (The young princess had not come home from a walk, and +the shrill voice of the old princess could be heard within; she was +scolding the maid.) “You ought to be studying, working—while you’re +young—and what are you doing?” + +“You can’t tell whether I work at home,” I retorted with some +haughtiness, but also with some hesitation. + +“A great deal of work you do! that’s not what you’re thinking about! +Well, I won’t find fault with that … at your age that’s in the natural +order of things. But you’ve been awfully unlucky in your choice. Don’t +you see what this house is?” + +“I don’t understand you,” I observed. + +“You don’t understand? so much the worse for you. I regard it as a duty +to warn you. Old bachelors, like me, can come here, what harm can it do +us! we’re tough, nothing can hurt us, what harm can it do us; but your +skin’s tender yet—this air is bad for you—believe me, you may get harm +from it.” + +“How so?” + +“Why, are you well now? Are you in a normal condition? Is what you’re +feeling—beneficial to you—good for you?” + +“Why, what am I feeling?” I said, while in my heart I knew the doctor +was right. + +“Ah, young man, young man,” the doctor went on with an intonation that +suggested that something highly insulting to me was contained in these +two words, “what’s the use of your prevaricating, when, thank God, +what’s in your heart is in your face, so far? But there, what’s the use +of talking? I shouldn’t come here myself, if … (the doctor compressed +his lips) … if I weren’t such a queer fellow. Only this is what +surprises me; how it is, you, with your intelligence, don’t see what is +going on around you?” + +“And what is going on?” I put in, all on the alert. + +The doctor looked at me with a sort of ironical compassion. + +“Nice of me!” he said as though to himself, “as if he need know +anything of it. In fact, I tell you again,” he added, raising his +voice, “the atmosphere here is not fit for you. You like being here, +but what of that! it’s nice and sweet-smelling in a greenhouse—but +there’s no living in it. Yes! do as I tell you, and go back to your +Keidanov.” + +The old princess came in, and began complaining to the doctor of her +toothache. Then Zinaïda appeared. + +“Come,” said the old princess, “you must scold her, doctor. She’s +drinking iced water all day long; is that good for her, pray, with her +delicate chest?” + +“Why do you do that?” asked Lushin. + +“Why, what effect could it have?” + +“What effect? You might get a chill and die.” + +“Truly? Do you mean it? Very well—so much the better.” + +“A fine idea!” muttered the doctor. The old princess had gone out. + +“Yes, a fine idea,” repeated Zinaïda. “Is life such a festive affair? +Just look about you…. Is it nice, eh? Or do you imagine I don’t +understand it, and don’t feel it? It gives me pleasure—drinking iced +water; and can you seriously assure me that such a life is worth too +much to be risked for an instant’s pleasure—happiness I won’t even talk +about.” + +“Oh, very well,” remarked Lushin, “caprice and irresponsibility…. Those +two words sum you up; your whole nature’s contained in those two +words.” + +Zinaïda laughed nervously. + +“You’re late for the post, my dear doctor. You don’t keep a good +look-out; you’re behind the times. Put on your spectacles. I’m in no +capricious humour now. To make fools of you, to make a fool of myself … +much fun there is in that!—and as for irresponsibility … M’sieu +Voldemar,” Zinaïda added suddenly, stamping, “don’t make such a +melancholy face. I can’t endure people to pity me.” She went quickly +out of the room. + +“It’s bad for you, very bad for you, this atmosphere, young man,” +Lushin said to me once more. + + + + +XI + + +On the evening of the same day the usual guests were assembled at the +Zasyekins’. I was among them. + +The conversation turned on Meidanov’s poem. Zinaïda expressed genuine +admiration of it. “But do you know what?” she said to him. “If I were a +poet, I would choose quite different subjects. Perhaps it’s all +nonsense, but strange ideas sometimes come into my head, especially +when I’m not asleep in the early morning, when the sky begins to turn +rosy and grey both at once. I would, for instance … You won’t laugh at +me?” + +“No, no!” we all cried, with one voice. + +“I would describe,” she went on, folding her arms across her bosom and +looking away, “a whole company of young girls at night in a great boat, +on a silent river. The moon is shining, and they are all in white, and +wearing garlands of white flowers, and singing, you know, something in +the nature of a hymn.” + +“I see—I see; go on,” Meidanov commented with dreamy significance. + +“All of a sudden, loud clamour, laughter, torches, tambourines on the +bank…. It’s a troop of Bacchantes dancing with songs and cries. It’s +your business to make a picture of it, Mr. Poet;… only I should like +the torches to be red and to smoke a great deal, and the Bacchantes’ +eyes to gleam under their wreaths, and the wreaths to be dusky. Don’t +forget the tiger-skins, too, and goblets and gold—lots of gold….” + +“Where ought the gold to be?” asked Meidanov, tossing back his sleek +hair and distending his nostrils. + +“Where? on their shoulders and arms and legs—everywhere. They say in +ancient times women wore gold rings on their ankles. The Bacchantes +call the girls in the boat to them. The girls have ceased singing their +hymn—they cannot go on with it, but they do not stir, the river carries +them to the bank. And suddenly one of them slowly rises…. This you must +describe nicely: how she slowly gets up in the moonlight, and how her +companions are afraid…. She steps over the edge of the boat, the +Bacchantes surround her, whirl her away into night and darkness…. Here +put in smoke in clouds and everything in confusion. There is nothing +but the sound of their shrill cry, and her wreath left lying on the +bank.” + +Zinaïda ceased. (“Oh! she is in love!” I thought again.) + +“And is that all?” asked Meidanov. + +“That’s all.” + +“That can’t be the subject of a whole poem,” he observed pompously, +“but I will make use of your idea for a lyrical fragment.” + +“In the romantic style?” queried Malevsky. + +“Of course, in the romantic style—Byronic.” + +“Well, to my mind, Hugo beats Byron,” the young count observed +negligently; “he’s more interesting.” + +“Hugo is a writer of the first class,” replied Meidanov; “and my +friend, Tonkosheev, in his Spanish romance, _El Trovador_ …” + +“Ah! is that the book with the question-marks turned upside down?” +Zinaïda interrupted. + +“Yes. That’s the custom with the Spanish. I was about to observe that +Tonkosheev …” + +“Come! you’re going to argue about classicism and romanticism again,” +Zinaïda interrupted him a second time.” We’d much better play… + +“Forfeits?” put in Lushin. + +“No, forfeits are a bore; at comparisons.” (This game Zinaïda had +invented herself. Some object was mentioned, every one tried to compare +it with something, and the one who chose the best comparison got a +prize.) + +She went up to the window. The sun was just setting; high up in the sky +were large red clouds. + +“What are those clouds like?” questioned Zinaïda; and without waiting +for our answer, she said, “I think they are like the purple sails on +the golden ship of Cleopatra, when she sailed to meet Antony. Do you +remember, Meidanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?” + +All of us, like Polonius in _Hamlet_, opined that the clouds recalled +nothing so much as those sails, and that not one of us could discover a +better comparison. + +“And how old was Antony then?” inquired Zinaïda. + +“A young man, no doubt,” observed Malevsky. + +“Yes, a young man,” Meidanov chimed in in confirmation. + +“Excuse me,” cried Lushin, “he was over forty.” + +“Over forty,” repeated Zinaïda, giving him a rapid glance…. + +I soon went home. “She is in love,” my lips unconsciously repeated…. +“But with whom?” + + + + +XII + + +The days passed by. Zinaïda became stranger and stranger, and more and +more incomprehensible. One day I went over to her, and saw her sitting +in a basket-chair, her head pressed to the sharp edge of the table. She +drew herself up … her whole face was wet with tears. + +“Ah, you!” she said with a cruel smile. “Come here.” + +I went up to her. She put her hand on my head, and suddenly catching +hold of my hair, began pulling it. + +“It hurts me,” I said at last. + +“Ah! does it? And do you suppose nothing hurts me?” she replied. + +“Ai!” she cried suddenly, seeing she had pulled a little tuft of hair +out. “What have I done? Poor M’sieu Voldemar!” + +She carefully smoothed the hair she had torn out, stroked it round her +finger, and twisted it into a ring. + +“I shall put your hair in a locket and wear it round my neck,” she +said, while the tears still glittered in her eyes. “That will be some +small consolation to you, perhaps … and now good-bye.” + +I went home, and found an unpleasant state of things there. My mother +was having a scene with my father; she was reproaching him with +something, while he, as his habit was, maintained a polite and chilly +silence, and soon left her. I could not hear what my mother was talking +of, and indeed I had no thought to spare for the subject; I only +remember that when the interview was over, she sent for me to her room, +and referred with great displeasure to the frequent visits I paid the +princess, who was, in her words, _une femme capable de tout_. I kissed +her hand (this was what I always did when I wanted to cut short a +conversation) and went off to my room. Zinaïda’s tears had completely +overwhelmed me; I positively did not know what to think, and was ready +to cry myself; I was a child after all, in spite of my sixteen years. I +had now given up thinking about Malevsky, though Byelovzorov looked +more and more threatening every day, and glared at the wily count like +a wolf at a sheep; but I thought of nothing and of no one. I was lost +in imaginings, and was always seeking seclusion and solitude. I was +particularly fond of the ruined greenhouse. I would climb up on the +high wall, and perch myself, and sit there, such an unhappy, lonely, +and melancholy youth, that I felt sorry for myself—and how consolatory +were those mournful sensations, how I revelled in them!… + +One day I was sitting on the wall looking into the distance and +listening to the ringing of the bells…. Suddenly something floated up +to me—not a breath of wind and not a shiver, but as it were a whiff of +fragrance—as it were, a sense of some one’s being near…. I looked down. +Below, on the path, in a light greyish gown, with a pink parasol on her +shoulder, was Zinaïda, hurrying along. She caught sight of me, stopped, +and pushing back the brim of her straw hat, she raised her velvety eyes +to me. + +“What are you doing up there at such a height?” she asked me with a +rather queer smile. “Come,” she went on, “you always declare you love +me; jump down into the road to me if you really do love me.” + +Zinaïda had hardly uttered those words when I flew down, just as though +some one had given me a violent push from behind. The wall was about +fourteen feet high. I reached the ground on my feet, but the shock was +so great that I could not keep my footing; I fell down, and for an +instant fainted away. When I came to myself again, without opening my +eyes, I felt Zinaïda beside me. “My dear boy,” she was saying, bending +over me, and there was a note of alarmed tenderness in her voice, “how +could you do it, dear; how could you obey?… You know I love you…. Get +up.” + +Her bosom was heaving close to me, her hands were caressing my head, +and suddenly—what were my emotions at that moment—her soft, fresh lips +began covering my face with kisses … they touched my lips…. But then +Zinaïda probably guessed by the expression of my face that I had +regained consciousness, though I still kept my eyes closed, and rising +rapidly to her feet, she said: “Come, get up, naughty boy, silly, why +are you lying in the dust?” I got up. “Give me my parasol,” said +Zinaïda, “I threw it down somewhere, and don’t stare at me like that … +what ridiculous nonsense! you’re not hurt, are you? stung by the +nettles, I daresay? Don’t stare at me, I tell you…. But he doesn’t +understand, he doesn’t answer,” she added, as though to herself…. “Go +home, M’sieu’ Voldemar, brush yourself, and don’t dare to follow me, or +I shall be angry, and never again …” + +She did not finish her sentence, but walked rapidly away, while I sat +down by the side of the road … my legs would not support me. The +nettles had stung my hands, my back ached, and my head was giddy; but +the feeling of rapture I experienced then has never come a second time +in my life. It turned to a sweet ache in all my limbs and found +expression at last in joyful hops and skips and shouts. Yes, I was +still a child. + + + + +XIII + + +I was so proud and light-hearted all that day, I so vividly retained on +my face the feeling of Zinaïda’s kisses, with such a shudder of delight +I recalled every word she had uttered, I so hugged my unexpected +happiness that I felt positively afraid, positively unwilling to see +her, who had given rise to these new sensations. It seemed to me that +now I could ask nothing more of fate, that now I ought to “go, and draw +a deep last sigh and die.” But, next day, when I went into the lodge, I +felt great embarrassment, which I tried to conceal under a show of +modest confidence, befitting a man who wishes to make it apparent that +he knows how to keep a secret. Zinaïda received me very simply, without +any emotion, she simply shook her finger at me and asked me, whether I +wasn’t black and blue? All my modest confidence and air of mystery +vanished instantaneously and with them my embarrassment. Of course, I +had not expected anything particular, but Zinaïda’s composure was like +a bucket of cold water thrown over me. I realised that in her eyes I +was a child, and was extremely miserable! Zinaïda walked up and down +the room, giving me a quick smile, whenever she caught my eye, but her +thoughts were far away, I saw that clearly…. “Shall I begin about what +happened yesterday myself,” I pondered; “ask her, where she was +hurrying off so fast, so as to find out once for all” … but with a +gesture of despair, I merely went and sat down in a corner. + +Byelovzorov came in; I felt relieved to see him. + +“I’ve not been able to find you a quiet horse,” he said in a sulky +voice; “Freitag warrants one, but I don’t feel any confidence in it, I +am afraid.” + +“What are you afraid of?” said Zinaïda; “allow me to inquire?” + +“What am I afraid of? Why, you don’t know how to ride. Lord save us, +what might happen! What whim is this has come over you all of a +sudden?” + +“Come, that’s my business, Sir Wild Beast. In that case I will ask +Piotr Vassilievitch.” … (My father’s name was Piotr Vassilievitch. I +was surprised at her mentioning his name so lightly and freely, as +though she were confident of his readiness to do her a service.) + +“Oh, indeed,” retorted Byelovzorov, “you mean to go out riding with him +then?” + +“With him or with some one else is nothing to do with you. Only not +with you, anyway.” + +“Not with me,” repeated Byelovzorov. “As you wish. Well, I shall find +you a horse.” + +“Yes, only mind now, don’t send some old cow. I warn you I want to +gallop.” + +“Gallop away by all means … with whom is it, with Malevsky, you are +going to ride?” + +“And why not with him, Mr. Pugnacity? Come, be quiet,” she added, “and +don’t glare. I’ll take you too. You know that to my mind now +Malevsky’s—ugh!” She shook her head. + +“You say that to console me,” growled Byelovzorov. + +Zinaïda half closed her eyes. “Does that console you? O … O … O … Mr. +Pugnacity!” she said at last, as though she could find no other word. +“And you, M’sieu’ Voldemar, would you come with us?” + +“I don’t care to … in a large party,” I muttered, not raising my eyes. + +“You prefer a _tête-à-tête_?… Well, freedom to the free, and heaven to +the saints,” she commented with a sigh. “Go along, Byelovzorov, and +bestir yourself. I must have a horse for to-morrow.” + +“Oh, and where’s the money to come from?” put in the old princess. + +Zinaïda scowled. + +“I won’t ask you for it; Byelovzorov will trust me.” + +“He’ll trust you, will he?” … grumbled the old princess, and all of a +sudden she screeched at the top of her voice, “Duniashka!” + +“Maman, I have given you a bell to ring,” observed Zinaïda. + +“Duniashka!” repeated the old lady. + +Byelovzorov took leave; I went away with him. Zinaïda did not try to +detain me. + + + + +XIV + + +The next day I got up early, cut myself a stick, and set off beyond the +town-gates. I thought I would walk off my sorrow. It was a lovely day, +bright and not too hot, a fresh sportive breeze roved over the earth +with temperate rustle and frolic, setting all things a-flutter and +harassing nothing. I wandered a long while over hills and through +woods; I had not felt happy, I had left home with the intention of +giving myself up to melancholy, but youth, the exquisite weather, the +fresh air, the pleasure of rapid motion, the sweetness of repose, lying +on the thick grass in a solitary nook, gained the upper hand; the +memory of those never-to-be-forgotten words, those kisses, forced +itself once more upon my soul. It was sweet to me to think that Zinaïda +could not, anyway, fail to do justice to my courage, my heroism…. +“Others may seem better to her than I,” I mused, “let them! But others +only say what they would do, while I have done it. And what more would +I not do for her?” My fancy set to work. I began picturing to myself +how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood +I would tear her by force from prison, and expire at her feet. I +remembered a picture hanging in our drawing-room—Malek-Adel bearing +away Matilda—but at that point my attention was absorbed by the +appearance of a speckled woodpecker who climbed busily up the slender +stem of a birch-tree and peeped out uneasily from behind it, first to +the right, then to the left, like a musician behind the bass-viol. + +Then I sang “Not the white snows,” and passed from that to a song well +known at that period: “I await thee, when the wanton zephyr,” then I +began reading aloud Yermak’s address to the stars from Homyakov’s +tragedy. I made an attempt to compose something myself in a sentimental +vein, and invented the line which was to conclude each verse: “O +Zinaïda, Zinaïda!” but could get no further with it. Meanwhile it was +getting on towards dinner-time. I went down into the valley; a narrow +sandy path winding through it led to the town. I walked along this +path…. The dull thud of horses’ hoofs resounded behind me. I looked +round instinctively, stood still and took off my cap. I saw my father +and Zinaïda. They were riding side by side. My father was saying +something to her, bending right over to her, his hand propped on the +horses’ neck, he was smiling. Zinaïda listened to him in silence, her +eyes severely cast down, and her lips tightly pressed together. At +first I saw them only; but a few instants later, Byelovzorov came into +sight round a bend in the glade, he was wearing a hussar’s uniform with +a pelisse, and riding a foaming black horse. The gallant horse tossed +its head, snorted and pranced from side to side, his rider was at once +holding him in and spurring him on. I stood aside. My father gathered +up the reins, moved away from Zinaïda, she slowly raised her eyes to +him, and both galloped off … Byelovzorov flew after them, his sabre +clattering behind him. “He’s as red as a crab,” I reflected, “while she +… why’s she so pale? out riding the whole morning, and pale?” + +I redoubled my pace, and got home just at dinner-time. My father was +already sitting by my mother’s chair, dressed for dinner, washed and +fresh; he was reading an article from the _Journal des Débats_ in his +smooth musical voice; but my mother heard him without attention, and +when she saw me, asked where I had been to all day long, and added that +she didn’t like this gadding about God knows where, and God knows in +what company. “But I have been walking alone,” I was on the point of +replying, but I looked at my father, and for some reason or other held +my peace. + + + + +XV + + +For the next five or six days I hardly saw Zinaïda; she said she was +ill, which did not, however, prevent the usual visitors from calling at +the lodge to pay—as they expressed it, their duty—all, that is, except +Meidanov, who promptly grew dejected and sulky when he had not an +opportunity of being enthusiastic. Byelovzorov sat sullen and red-faced +in a corner, buttoned up to the throat; on the refined face of Malevsky +there flickered continually an evil smile; he had really fallen into +disfavour with Zinaïda, and waited with special assiduity on the old +princess, and even went with her in a hired coach to call on the +Governor-General. This expedition turned out unsuccessful, however, and +even led to an unpleasant experience for Malevsky; he was reminded of +some scandal to do with certain officers of the engineers, and was +forced in his explanations to plead his youth and inexperience at the +time. Lushin came twice a day, but did not stay long; I was rather +afraid of him after our last unreserved conversation, and at the same +time felt a genuine attraction to him. He went a walk with me one day +in the Neskutchny gardens, was very good-natured and nice, told me the +names and properties of various plants and flowers, and suddenly, _à +propos_ of nothing at all, cried, hitting himself on his forehead, “And +I, poor fool, thought her a flirt! it’s clear self-sacrifice is sweet +for some people!” + +“What do you mean by that?” I inquired. + +“I don’t mean to tell you anything,” Lushin replied abruptly. + +Zinaïda avoided me; my presence—I could not help noticing it—affected +her disagreeably. She involuntarily turned away from me … +involuntarily; that was what was so bitter, that was what crushed me! +But there was no help for it, and I tried not to cross her path, and +only to watch her from a distance, in which I was not always +successful. As before, something incomprehensible was happening to her; +her face was different, she was different altogether. I was specially +struck by the change that had taken place in her one warm still +evening. I was sitting on a low garden bench under a spreading +elderbush; I was fond of that nook; I could see from there the window +of Zinaïda’s room. I sat there; over my head a little bird was busily +hopping about in the darkness of the leaves; a grey cat, stretching +herself at full length, crept warily about the garden, and the first +beetles were heavily droning in the air, which was still clear, though +it was not light. I sat and gazed at the window, and waited to see if +it would open; it did open, and Zinaïda appeared at it. She had on a +white dress, and she herself, her face, shoulders, and arms, were pale +to whiteness. She stayed a long while without moving, and looked out +straight before her from under her knitted brows. I had never known +such a look on her. Then she clasped her hands tightly, raised them to +her lips, to her forehead, and suddenly pulling her fingers apart, she +pushed back her hair behind her ears, tossed it, and with a sort of +determination nodded her head, and slammed-to the window. + +Three days later she met me in the garden. I was turning away, but she +stopped me of herself. + +“Give me your arm,” she said to me with her old affectionateness, “it’s +a long while since we have had a talk together.” + +I stole a look at her; her eyes were full of a soft light, and her face +seemed as it were smiling through a mist. + +“Are you still not well?” I asked her. + +“No, that’s all over now,” she answered, and she picked a small red +rose. “I am a little tired, but that too will pass off.” + +“And will you be as you used to be again?” I asked. + +Zinaïda put the rose up to her face, and I fancied the reflection of +its bright petals had fallen on her cheeks. “Why, am I changed?” she +questioned me. + +“Yes, you are changed,” I answered in a low voice. + +“I have been cold to you, I know,” began Zinaïda, “but you mustn’t pay +attention to that … I couldn’t help it…. Come, why talk about it!” + +“You don’t want me to love you, that’s what it is!” I cried gloomily, +in an involuntary outburst. + +“No, love me, but not as you did.” + +“How then?” + +“Let us be friends—come now!” Zinaïda gave me the rose to smell. +“Listen, you know I’m much older than you—I might be your aunt, really; +well, not your aunt, but an older sister. And you …” + +“You think me a child,” I interrupted. + +“Well, yes, a child, but a dear, good clever one, whom I love very +much. Do you know what? From this day forth I confer on you the rank of +page to me; and don’t you forget that pages have to keep close to their +ladies. Here is the token of your new dignity,” she added, sticking the +rose in the buttonhole of my jacket, “the token of my favour.” + +“I once received other favours from you,” I muttered. + +“Ah!” commented Zinaïda, and she gave me a sidelong look, “What a +memory he has! Well? I’m quite ready now …” And stooping to me, she +imprinted on my forehead a pure, tranquil kiss. + +I only looked at her, while she turned away, and saying, “Follow me, my +page,” went into the lodge. I followed her—all in amazement. “Can this +gentle, reasonable girl,” I thought, “be the Zinaïda I used to know?” I +fancied her very walk was quieter, her whole figure statelier and more +graceful … + +And, mercy! with what fresh force love burned within me! + + + + +XVI + + +After dinner the usual party assembled again at the lodge, and the +young princess came out to them. All were there in full force, just as +on that first evening which I never forgot; even Nirmatsky had limped +to see her; Meidanov came this time earliest of all, he brought some +new verses. The games of forfeits began again, but without the strange +pranks, the practical jokes and noise—the gipsy element had vanished. +Zinaïda gave a different tone to the proceedings. I sat beside her by +virtue of my office as page. Among other things, she proposed that any +one who had to pay a forfeit should tell his dream; but this was not +successful. The dreams were either uninteresting (Byelovzorov had +dreamed that he fed his mare on carp, and that she had a wooden head), +or unnatural and invented. Meidanov regaled us with a regular romance; +there were sepulchres in it, and angels with lyres, and talking flowers +and music wafted from afar. Zinaïda did not let him finish. “If we are +to have compositions,” she said, “let every one tell something made up, +and no pretence about it.” The first who had to speak was again +Byelovzorov. + +The young hussar was confused. “I can’t make up anything!” he cried. + +“What nonsense!” said Zinaïda. “Well, imagine, for instance, you are +married, and tell us how you would treat your wife. Would you lock her +up?” + +“Yes, I should lock her up.” + +“And would you stay with her yourself?” + +“Yes, I should certainly stay with her myself.” + +“Very good. Well, but if she got sick of that, and she deceived you?” + +“I should kill her.” + +“And if she ran away?” + +“I should catch her up and kill her all the same.” + +“Oh. And suppose now I were your wife, what would you do then?” + +Byelovzorov was silent a minute. “I should kill myself….” + +Zinaïda laughed. “I see yours is not a long story.” + +The next forfeit was Zinaïda’s. She looked at the ceiling and +considered. “Well, listen, she began at last, “what I have thought of…. +Picture to yourselves a magnificent palace, a summer night, and a +marvellous ball. This ball is given by a young queen. Everywhere gold +and marble, crystal, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, fragrant scents, +every caprice of luxury.” + +“You love luxury?” Lushin interposed. + +“Luxury is beautiful,” she retorted; “I love everything beautiful.” + +“More than what is noble?” he asked. + +“That’s something clever, I don’t understand it. Don’t interrupt me. So +the ball is magnificent. There are crowds of guests, all of them are +young, handsome, and brave, all are frantically in love with the +queen.” + +“Are there no women among the guests?” queried Malevsky. + +“No—or wait a minute—yes, there are some.” + +“Are they all ugly?” + +“No, charming. But the men are all in love with the queen. She is tall +and graceful; she has a little gold diadem on her black hair.” + +I looked at Zinaïda, and at that instant she seemed to me so much above +all of us, there was such bright intelligence, and such power about her +unruffled brows, that I thought: “You are that queen!” + +“They all throng about her,” Zinaïda went on, “and all lavish the most +flattering speeches upon her.” + +“And she likes flattery?” Lushin queried. + +“What an intolerable person! he keeps interrupting … who doesn’t like +flattery?” + +“One more last question,” observed Malevsky, “has the queen a husband?” + +“I hadn’t thought about that. No, why should she have a husband?” + +“To be sure,” assented Malevsky, “why should she have a husband?” + +“_Silence!_” cried Meidanov in French, which he spoke very badly. + +“_Merci!_” Zinaïda said to him. “And so the queen hears their speeches, +and hears the music, but does not look at one of the guests. Six +windows are open from top to bottom, from floor to ceiling, and beyond +them is a dark sky with big stars, a dark garden with big trees. The +queen gazes out into the garden. Out there among the trees is a +fountain; it is white in the darkness, and rises up tall, tall as an +apparition. The queen hears, through the talk and the music, the soft +splash of its waters. She gazes and thinks: you are all, gentlemen, +noble, clever, and rich, you crowd round me, you treasure every word I +utter, you are all ready to die at my feet, I hold you in my power … +but out there, by the fountain, by that splashing water, stands and +waits he whom I love, who holds me in his power. He has neither rich +raiment nor precious stones, no one knows him, but he awaits me, and is +certain I shall come—and I shall come—and there is no power that could +stop me when I want to go out to him, and to stay with him, and be lost +with him out there in the darkness of the garden, under the whispering +of the trees, and the splash of the fountain …” Zinaïda ceased. + +“Is that a made-up story?” Malevsky inquired slyly. Zinaïda did not +even look at him. + +“And what should we have done, gentlemen?” Lushin began suddenly, “if +we had been among the guests, and had known of the lucky fellow at the +fountain?” + +“Stop a minute, stop a minute,” interposed Zinaïda, “I will tell you +myself what each of you would have done. You, Byelovzorov, would have +challenged him to a duel; you, Meidanov, would have written an epigram +on him … No, though, you can’t write epigrams, you would have made up a +long poem on him in the style of Barbier, and would have inserted your +production in the _Telegraph_. You, Nirmatsky, would have borrowed … +no, you would have lent him money at high interest; you, doctor,…” she +stopped. “There, I really don’t know what you would have done….” + +“In the capacity of court physician,” answered Lushin, “I would have +advised the queen not to give balls when she was not in the humour for +entertaining her guests….” + +“Perhaps you would have been right. And you, Count?…” + +“And I?” repeated Malevsky with his evil smile…. + +“You would offer him a poisoned sweetmeat.” Malevsky’s face changed +slightly, and assumed for an instant a Jewish expression, but he +laughed directly. + +“And as for you, Voldemar,…” Zinaïda went on, “but that’s enough, +though; let us play another game.” + +“M’sieu Voldemar, as the queen’s page, would have held up her train +when she ran into the garden,” Malevsky remarked malignantly. + +I was crimson with anger, but Zinaïda hurriedly laid a hand on my +shoulder, and getting up, said in a rather shaky voice: “I have never +given your excellency the right to be rude, and therefore I will ask +you to leave us.” She pointed to the door. + +“Upon my word, princess,” muttered Malevsky, and he turned quite pale. + +“The princess is right,” cried Byelovzorov, and he too rose. + +“Good God, I’d not the least idea,” Malevsky went on, “in my words +there was nothing, I think, that could … I had no notion of offending +you…. Forgive me.” + +Zinaïda looked him up and down coldly, and coldly smiled. “Stay, then, +certainly,” she pronounced with a careless gesture of her arm. + +“M’sieu Voldemar and I were needlessly incensed. It is your pleasure to +sting … may it do you good.” + +“Forgive me,” Malevsky repeated once more; while I, my thoughts +dwelling on Zinaïda’s gesture, said to myself again that no real queen +could with greater dignity have shown a presumptuous subject to the +door. + +The game of forfeits went on for a short time after this little scene; +every one felt rather ill at ease, not so much on account of this +scene, as from another, not quite definite, but oppressive feeling. No +one spoke of it, but every one was conscious of it in himself and in +his neighbour. Meidanov read us his verses; and Malevsky praised them +with exaggerated warmth. “He wants to show how good he is now,” Lushin +whispered to me. We soon broke up. A mood of reverie seemed to have +come upon Zinaïda; the old princess sent word that she had a headache; +Nirmatsky began to complain of his rheumatism…. + +I could not for a long while get to sleep. I had been impressed by +Zinaïda’s story. “Can there have been a hint in it?” I asked myself: +“and at whom and at what was she hinting? And if there really is +anything to hint at … how is one to make up one’s mind? No, no, it +can’t be,” I whispered, turning over from one hot cheek on to the +other…. But I remembered the expression of Zinaïda’s face during her +story…. I remembered the exclamation that had broken from Lushin in the +Neskutchny gardens, the sudden change in her behaviour to me, and I was +lost in conjectures. “Who is he?” These three words seemed to stand +before my eyes traced upon the darkness; a lowering malignant cloud +seemed hanging over me, and I felt its oppressiveness, and waited for +it to break. I had grown used to many things of late; I had learned +much from what I had seen at the Zasyekins; their disorderly ways, +tallow candle-ends, broken knives and forks, grumpy Vonifaty, and +shabby maid-servants, the manners of the old princess—all their strange +mode of life no longer struck me…. But what I was dimly discerning now +in Zinaïda, I could never get used to…. “An adventuress!” my mother had +said of her one day. An adventuress—she, my idol, my divinity? This +word stabbed me, I tried to get away from it into my pillow, I was +indignant—and at the same time what would I not have agreed to, what +would I not have given only to be that lucky fellow at the fountain!… +My blood was on fire and boiling within me. “The garden … the +fountain,” I mused…. “I will go into the garden.” I dressed quickly and +slipped out of the house. The night was dark, the trees scarcely +whispered, a soft chill air breathed down from the sky, a smell of +fennel trailed across from the kitchen garden. I went through all the +walks; the light sound of my own footsteps at once confused and +emboldened me; I stood still, waited and heard my heart beating fast +and loudly. At last I went up to the fence and leaned against the thin +bar. Suddenly, or was it my fancy, a woman’s figure flashed by, a few +paces from me … I strained my eyes eagerly into the darkness, I held my +breath. What was that? Did I hear steps, or was it my heart beating +again? “Who is here?” I faltered, hardly audibly. What was that again, +a smothered laugh … or a rustling in the leaves … or a sigh just at my +ear? I felt afraid … “Who is here?” I repeated still more softly. + +The air blew in a gust for an instant; a streak of fire flashed across +the sky; it was a star falling. “Zinaïda?” I wanted to call, but the +word died away on my lips. And all at once everything became profoundly +still around, as is often the case in the middle of the night…. Even +the grasshoppers ceased their churr in the trees—only a window rattled +somewhere. I stood and stood, and then went back to my room, to my +chilled bed. I felt a strange sensation; as though I had gone to a +tryst, and had been left lonely, and had passed close by another’s +happiness. + + + + +XVII + + +The following day I only had a passing glimpse of Zinaïda: she was +driving somewhere with the old princess in a cab. But I saw Lushin, +who, however, barely vouchsafed me a greeting, and Malevsky. The young +count grinned, and began affably talking to me. Of all those who +visited at the lodge, he alone had succeeded in forcing his way into +our house, and had favourably impressed my mother. My father did not +take to him, and treated him with a civility almost insulting. + +“Ah, _monsieur le page_,” began Malevsky, “delighted to meet you. What +is your lovely queen doing?” + +His fresh handsome face was so detestable to me at that moment, and he +looked at me with such contemptuous amusement that I did not answer him +at all. + +“Are you still angry?” he went on. “You’ve no reason to be. It wasn’t I +who called you a page, you know, and pages attend queens especially. +But allow me to remark that you perform your duties very badly.” + +“How so?” + +“Pages ought to be inseparable from their mistresses; pages ought to +know everything they do, they ought, indeed, to watch over them,” he +added, lowering his voice, “day and night.” + +“What do you mean?” + +“What do I mean? I express myself pretty clearly, I fancy. Day and +night. By day it’s not so much matter; it’s light, and people are about +in the daytime; but by night, then look out for misfortune. I advise +you not to sleep at nights and to watch, watch with all your energies. +You remember, in the garden, by night, at the fountain, that’s where +there’s need to look out. You will thank me.” + +Malevsky laughed and turned his back on me. He, most likely, attached +no great importance to what he had said to me, he had a reputation for +mystifying, and was noted for his power of taking people in at +masquerades, which was greatly augmented by the almost unconscious +falsity in which his whole nature was steeped…. He only wanted to tease +me; but every word he uttered was a poison that ran through my veins. +The blood rushed to my head. “Ah! so that’s it!” I said to myself; +“good! So there was reason for me to feel drawn into the garden! That +shan’t be so!” I cried aloud, and struck myself on the chest with my +fist, though precisely what should not be so I could not have said. +“Whether Malevsky himself goes into the garden,” I thought (he was +bragging, perhaps; he has insolence enough for that), “or some one else +(the fence of our garden was very low, and there was no difficulty in +getting over it), anyway, if any one falls into my hands, it will be +the worse for him! I don’t advise any one to meet me! I will prove to +all the world and to her, the traitress (I actually used the word +“traitress”) that I can be revenged!” + +I returned to my own room, took out of the writing-table an English +knife I had recently bought, felt its sharp edge, and knitting my brows +with an air of cold and concentrated determination, thrust it into my +pocket, as though doing such deeds was nothing out of the way for me, +and not the first time. My heart heaved angrily, and felt heavy as a +stone. All day long I kept a scowling brow and lips tightly compressed, +and was continually walking up and down, clutching, with my hand in my +pocket, the knife, which was warm from my grasp, while I prepared +myself beforehand for something terrible. These new unknown sensations +so occupied and even delighted me, that I hardly thought of Zinaïda +herself. I was continually haunted by Aleko, the young gipsy—“Where art +thou going, young handsome man? Lie there,” and then, “thou art all +besprent with blood…. Oh, what hast thou done?… Naught!” With what a +cruel smile I repeated that “Naught!” My father was not at home; but my +mother, who had for some time past been in an almost continual state of +dumb exasperation, noticed my gloomy and heroic aspect, and said to me +at supper, “Why are you sulking like a mouse in a meal-tub?” I merely +smiled condescendingly in reply, and thought, “If only they knew!” It +struck eleven; I went to my room, but did not undress; I waited for +midnight; at last it struck. “The time has come!” I muttered between my +teeth; and buttoning myself up to the throat, and even pulling my +sleeves up, I went into the garden. + +I had already fixed on the spot from which to keep watch. At the end of +the garden, at the point where the fence, separating our domain from +the Zasyekins,’ joined the common wall, grew a pine-tree, standing +alone. Standing under its low thick branches, I could see well, as far +as the darkness of the night permitted, what took place around. Close +by, ran a winding path which had always seemed mysterious to me; it +coiled like a snake under the fence, which at that point bore traces of +having been climbed over, and led to a round arbour formed of thick +acacias. I made my way to the pine-tree, leaned my back against its +trunk, and began my watch. + +The night was as still as the night before, but there were fewer clouds +in the sky, and the outlines of bushes, even of tall flowers, could be +more distinctly seen. The first moments of expectation were oppressive, +almost terrible. I had made up my mind to everything. I only debated +how to act; whether to thunder, “Where goest thou? Stand! show +thyself—or death!” or simply to strike…. Every sound, every whisper and +rustle, seemed to me portentous and extraordinary…. I prepared myself…. +I bent forward…. But half-an-hour passed, an hour passed; my blood had +grown quieter, colder; the consciousness that I was doing all this for +nothing, that I was even a little absurd, that Malevsky had been making +fun of me, began to steal over me. I left my ambush, and walked all +about the garden. As if to taunt me, there was not the smallest sound +to be heard anywhere; everything was at rest. Even our dog was asleep, +curled up into a ball at the gate. I climbed up into the ruins of the +greenhouse, saw the open country far away before me, recalled my +meeting with Zinaïda, and fell to dreaming…. + +I started…. I fancied I heard the creak of a door opening, then the +faint crack of a broken twig. In two bounds I got down from the ruin, +and stood still, all aghast. Rapid, light, but cautious footsteps +sounded distinctly in the garden. They were approaching me. “Here he is +… here he is, at last!” flashed through my heart. With spasmodic haste, +I pulled the knife out of my pocket; with spasmodic haste, I opened it. +Flashes of red were whirling before my eyes; my hair stood up on my +head in my fear and fury…. The steps were coming straight towards me; I +bent—I craned forward to meet him…. A man came into view…. My God! it +was my father! I recognised him at once, though he was all muffled up +in a dark cloak, and his hat was pulled down over his face. On tip-toe +he walked by. He did not notice me, though nothing concealed me; but I +was so huddled up and shrunk together that I fancy I was almost on the +level of the ground. The jealous Othello, ready for murder, was +suddenly transformed into a school-boy…. I was so taken aback by my +father’s unexpected appearance that for the first moment I did not +notice where he had come from or in what direction he disappeared. I +only drew myself up, and thought, “Why is it my father is walking about +in the garden at night?” when everything was still again. In my horror +I had dropped my knife in the grass, but I did not even attempt to look +for it; I was very much ashamed of myself. I was completely sobered at +once. On my way to the house, however, I went up to my seat under the +elder-tree, and looked up at Zinaïda’s window. The small +slightly-convex panes of the window shone dimly blue in the faint light +thrown on them by the night sky. All at once—their colour began to +change…. Behind them—I saw this, saw it distinctly—softly and +cautiously a white blind was let down, let down right to the +window-frame, and so stayed. + +“What is that for?” I said aloud almost involuntarily when I found +myself once more in my room. “A dream, a chance, or …” The suppositions +which suddenly rushed into my head were so new and strange that I did +not dare to entertain them. + + + + +XVIII + + +I got up in the morning with a headache. My emotion of the previous day +had vanished. It was replaced by a dreary sense of blankness and a sort +of sadness I had not known till then, as though something had died in +me. + +“Why is it you’re looking like a rabbit with half its brain removed?” +said Lushin on meeting me. At lunch I stole a look first at my father, +then at my mother: he was composed, as usual; she was, as usual, +secretly irritated. I waited to see whether my father would make some +friendly remarks to me, as he sometimes did…. But he did not even +bestow his everyday cold greeting upon me. “Shall I tell Zinaïda all?” +I wondered…. “It’s all the same, anyway; all is at an end between us.” +I went to see her, but told her nothing, and, indeed, I could not even +have managed to get a talk with her if I had wanted to. The old +princess’s son, a cadet of twelve years old, had come from Petersburg +for his holidays; Zinaïda at once handed her brother over to me. +“Here,” she said, “my dear Volodya,”—it was the first time she had used +this pet-name to me—“is a companion for you. His name is Volodya, too. +Please, like him; he is still shy, but he has a good heart. Show him +Neskutchny gardens, go walks with him, take him under your protection. +You’ll do that, won’t you? you’re so good, too!” She laid both her +hands affectionately on my shoulders, and I was utterly bewildered. The +presence of this boy transformed me, too, into a boy. I looked in +silence at the cadet, who stared as silently at me. Zinaïda laughed, +and pushed us towards each other. “Embrace each other, children!” We +embraced each other. “Would you like me to show you the garden?” I +inquired of the cadet. “If you please,” he replied, in the regular +cadet’s hoarse voice. Zinaïda laughed again…. I had time to notice that +she had never had such an exquisite colour in her face before. I set +off with the cadet. There was an old-fashioned swing in our garden. I +sat him down on the narrow plank seat, and began swinging him. He sat +rigid in his new little uniform of stout cloth, with its broad gold +braiding, and kept tight hold of the cords. “You’d better unbutton your +collar,” I said to him. “It’s all right; we’re used to it,” he said, +and cleared his throat. He was like his sister. The eyes especially +recalled her, I liked being nice to him; and at the same time an aching +sadness was gnawing at my heart. “Now I certainly am a child,” I +thought; “but yesterday….” I remembered where I had dropped my knife +the night before, and looked for it. The cadet asked me for it, picked +a thick stalk of wild parsley, cut a pipe out of it, and began +whistling. Othello whistled too. + +But in the evening how he wept, this Othello, in Zinaïda’s arms, when, +seeking him out in a corner of the garden, she asked him why he was so +depressed. My tears flowed with such violence that she was frightened. +“What is wrong with you? What is it, Volodya?” she repeated; and seeing +I made no answer, and did not cease weeping, she was about to kiss my +wet cheek. But I turned away from her, and whispered through my sobs, +“I know all. Why did you play with me?… What need had you of my love?” + +“I am to blame, Volodya …” said Zinaïda. “I am very much to blame …” +she added, wringing her hands. “How much there is bad and black and +sinful in me!… But I am not playing with you now. I love you; you don’t +even suspect why and how…. But what is it you know?” + +What could I say to her? She stood facing me, and looked at me; and I +belonged to her altogether from head to foot directly she looked at +me…. A quarter of an hour later I was running races with the cadet and +Zinaïda. I was not crying, I was laughing, though my swollen eyelids +dropped a tear or two as I laughed. I had Zinaïda’s ribbon round my +neck for a cravat, and I shouted with delight whenever I succeeded in +catching her round the waist. She did just as she liked with me. + + + + +XIX + + +I should be in a great difficulty, if I were forced to describe exactly +what passed within me in the course of the week after my unsuccessful +midnight expedition. It was a strange feverish time, a sort of chaos, +in which the most violently opposed feelings, thoughts, suspicions, +hopes, joys, and sufferings, whirled together in a kind of hurricane. I +was afraid to look into myself, if a boy of sixteen ever can look into +himself; I was afraid to take stock of anything; I simply hastened to +live through every day till evening; and at night I slept … the +light-heartedness of childhood came to my aid. I did not want to know +whether I was loved, and I did not want to acknowledge to myself that I +was not loved; my father I avoided—but Zinaïda I could not avoid…. I +burnt as in a fire in her presence … but what did I care to know what +the fire was in which I burned and melted—it was enough that it was +sweet to burn and melt. I gave myself up to all my passing sensations, +and cheated myself, turning away from memories, and shutting my eyes to +what I foreboded before me…. This weakness would not most likely have +lasted long in any case … a thunderbolt cut it all short in a moment, +and flung me into a new track altogether. + +Coming in one day to dinner from a rather long walk, I learnt with +amazement that I was to dine alone, that my father had gone away and my +mother was unwell, did not want any dinner, and had shut herself up in +her bedroom. From the faces of the footmen, I surmised that something +extraordinary had taken place…. I did not dare to cross-examine them, +but I had a friend in the young waiter Philip, who was passionately +fond of poetry, and a performer on the guitar. I addressed myself to +him. From him I learned that a terrible scene had taken place between +my father and mother (and every word had been overheard in the maids’ +room; much of it had been in French, but Masha the lady’s-maid had +lived five years’ with a dressmaker from Paris, and she understood it +all); that my mother had reproached my father with infidelity, with an +intimacy with the young lady next door, that my father at first had +defended himself, but afterwards had lost his temper, and he too had +said something cruel, “reflecting on her age,” which had made my mother +cry; that my mother too had alluded to some loan which it seemed had +been made to the old princess, and had spoken very ill of her and of +the young lady too, and that then my father had threatened her. “And +all the mischief,” continued Philip, “came from an anonymous letter; +and who wrote it, no one knows, or else there’d have been no reason +whatever for the matter to have come out at all.” + +“But was there really any ground,” I brought out with difficulty, while +my hands and feet went cold, and a sort of shudder ran through my +inmost being. + +Philip winked meaningly. “There was. There’s no hiding those things; +for all that your father was careful this time—but there, you see, +he’d, for instance, to hire a carriage or something … no getting on +without servants, either.” + +I dismissed Philip, and fell on to my bed. I did not sob, I did not +give myself up to despair; I did not ask myself when and how this had +happened; I did not wonder how it was I had not guessed it before, long +ago; I did not even upbraid my father…. What I had learnt was more than +I could take in; this sudden revelation stunned me…. All was at an end. +All the fair blossoms of my heart were roughly plucked at once, and lay +about me, flung on the ground, and trampled underfoot. + + + + +XX + + +My mother next day announced her intention of returning to the town. In +the morning my father had gone into her bedroom, and stayed there a +long while alone with her. No one had overheard what he said to her; +but my mother wept no more; she regained her composure, and asked for +food, but did not make her appearance nor change her plans. I remember +I wandered about the whole day, but did not go into the garden, and +never once glanced at the lodge, and in the evening I was the spectator +of an amazing occurrence: my father conducted Count Malevsky by the arm +through the dining-room into the hall, and, in the presence of a +footman, said icily to him: “A few days ago your excellency was shown +the door in our house; and now I am not going to enter into any kind of +explanation with you, but I have the honour to announce to you that if +you ever visit me again, I shall throw you out of window. I don’t like +your handwriting.” The count bowed, bit his lips, shrank away, and +vanished. + +Preparations were beginning for our removal to town, to Arbaty Street, +where we had a house. My father himself probably no longer cared to +remain at the country house; but clearly he had succeeded in persuading +my mother not to make a public scandal. Everything was done quietly, +without hurry; my mother even sent her compliments to the old princess, +and expressed her regret that she was prevented by indisposition from +seeing her again before her departure. I wandered about like one +possessed, and only longed for one thing, for it all to be over as soon +as possible. One thought I could not get out of my head: how could she, +a young girl, and a princess too, after all, bring herself to such a +step, knowing that my father was not a free man, and having an +opportunity of marrying, for instance, Byelovzorov? What did she hope +for? How was it she was not afraid of ruining her whole future? Yes, I +thought, this is love, this is passion, this is devotion … and Lushin’s +words came back to me: to sacrifice oneself for some people is sweet. I +chanced somehow to catch sight of something white in one of the windows +of the lodge…. “Can it be Zinaïda’s face?” I thought … yes, it really +was her face. I could not restrain myself. I could not part from her +without saying a last good-bye to her. I seized a favourable instant, +and went into the lodge. + +In the drawing-room the old princess met me with her usual slovenly and +careless greetings. + +“How’s this, my good man, your folks are off in such a hurry?” she +observed, thrusting snuff into her nose. I looked at her, and a load +was taken off my heart. The word “loan,” dropped by Philip, had been +torturing me. She had no suspicion … at least I thought so then. +Zinaïda came in from the next room, pale, and dressed in black, with +her hair hanging loose; she took me by the hand without a word, and +drew me away with her. + +“I heard your voice,” she began, “and came out at once. Is it so easy +for you to leave us, bad boy?” + +“I have come to say good-bye to you, princess,” I answered, “probably +for ever. You have heard, perhaps, we are going away.” + +Zinaïda looked intently at me. + +“Yes, I have heard. Thanks for coming. I was beginning to think I +should not see you again. Don’t remember evil against me. I have +sometimes tormented you, but all the same I am not what you imagine +me.” She turned away, and leaned against the window. + +“Really, I am not like that. I know you have a bad opinion of me.” + +“I?” + +“Yes, you … you.” + +“I?” I repeated mournfully, and my heart throbbed as of old under the +influence of her overpowering, indescribable fascination. “I? Believe +me, Zinaïda Alexandrovna, whatever you did, however you tormented me, I +should love and adore you to the end of my days.” + +She turned with a rapid motion to me, and flinging wide her arms, +embraced my head, and gave me a warm and passionate kiss. God knows +whom that long farewell kiss was seeking, but I eagerly tasted its +sweetness. I knew that it would never be repeated. “Good-bye, +good-bye,” I kept saying … + +She tore herself away, and went out. And I went away. I cannot describe +the emotion with which I went away. I should not wish it ever to come +again; but I should think myself unfortunate had I never experienced +such an emotion. + +We went back to town. I did not quickly shake off the past; I did not +quickly get to work. My wound slowly began to heal; but I had no +ill-feeling against my father. On the contrary he had, as it were, +gained in my eyes … let psychologists explain the contradiction as best +they can. One day I was walking along a boulevard, and to my +indescribable delight, I came across Lushin. I liked him for his +straightforward and unaffected character, and besides he was dear to me +for the sake of the memories he aroused in me. I rushed up to him. +“Aha!” he said, knitting his brows,” so it’s you, young man. Let me +have a look at you. You’re still as yellow as ever, but yet there’s not +the same nonsense in your eyes. You look like a man, not a lap-dog. +That’s good. Well, what are you doing? working?” + +I gave a sigh. I did not like to tell a lie, while I was ashamed to +tell the truth. + +“Well, never mind,” Lushin went on, “don’t be shy. The great thing is +to lead a normal life, and not be the slave of your passions. What do +you get if not? Wherever you are carried by the tide—it’s all a bad +look-out; a man must stand on his own feet, if he can get nothing but a +rock to stand on. Here, I’ve got a cough … and Byelovzorov—have you +heard anything of him?” + +“No. What is it?” + +“He’s lost, and no news of him; they say he’s gone away to the +Caucasus. A lesson to you, young man. And it’s all from not knowing how +to part in time, to break out of the net. You seem to have got off very +well. Mind you don’t fall into the same snare again. Good-bye.” + +“I shan’t,” I thought…. “I shan’t see her again.” But I was destined to +see Zinaïda once more. + + + + +XXI + + +My father used every day to ride out on horse-back. He had a splendid +English mare, a chestnut piebald, with a long slender neck and long +legs, an inexhaustible and vicious beast. Her name was Electric. No one +could ride her except my father. One day he came up to me in a good +humour, a frame of mind in which I had not seen him for a long while; +he was getting ready for his ride, and had already put on his spurs. I +began entreating him to take me with him. + +“We’d much better have a game of leap-frog,” my father replied. “You’ll +never keep up with me on your cob.” + +“Yes, I will; I’ll put on spurs too.” + +“All right, come along then.” + +We set off. I had a shaggy black horse, strong, and fairly spirited. It +is true it had to gallop its utmost, when Electric went at full trot, +still I was not left behind. I have never seen any one ride like my +father; he had such a fine carelessly easy seat, that it seemed that +the horse under him was conscious of it, and proud of its rider. We +rode through all the boulevards, reached the “Maidens’ Field,” jumped +several fences (at first I had been afraid to take a leap, but my +father had a contempt for cowards, and I soon ceased to feel fear), +twice crossed the river Moskva, and I was under the impression that we +were on our way home, especially as my father of his own accord +observed that my horse was tired, when suddenly he turned off away from +me at the Crimean ford, and galloped along the river-bank. I rode after +him. When he had reached a high stack of old timber, he slid quickly +off Electric, told me to dismount, and giving me his horse’s bridle, +told me to wait for him there at the timber-stack, and, turning off +into a small street, disappeared. I began walking up and down the +river-bank, leading the horses, and scolding Electric, who kept +pulling, shaking her head, snorting and neighing as she went; and when +I stood still, never failed to paw the ground, and whining, bite my cob +on the neck; in fact she conducted herself altogether like a spoilt +thorough-bred. My father did not come back. A disagreeable damp mist +rose from the river; a fine rain began softly blowing up, and spotting +with tiny dark flecks the stupid grey timber-stack, which I kept +passing and repassing, and was deadly sick of by now. I was terribly +bored, and still my father did not come. A sort of sentry-man, a Fin, +grey all over like the timber, and with a huge old-fashioned shako, +like a pot, on his head, and with a halberd (and how ever came a +sentry, if you think of it, on the banks of the Moskva!) drew near, and +turning his wrinkled face, like an old woman’s, towards me, he +observed, “What are you doing here with the horses, young master? Let +me hold them.” + +I made him no reply. He asked me for tobacco. To get rid of him (I was +in a fret of impatience, too), I took a few steps in the direction in +which my father had disappeared, then walked along the little street to +the end, turned the corner, and stood still. In the street, forty paces +from me, at the open window of a little wooden house, stood my father, +his back turned to me; he was leaning forward over the window-sill, and +in the house, half hidden by a curtain, sat a woman in a dark dress +talking to my father; this woman was Zinaïda. + +I was petrified. This, I confess, I had never expected. My first +impulse was to run away. “My father will look round,” I thought, “and I +am lost …” but a strange feeling—a feeling stronger than curiosity, +stronger than jealousy, stronger even than fear—held me there. I began +to watch; I strained my ears to listen. It seemed as though my father +were insisting on something. Zinaïda would not consent. I seem to see +her face now—mournful, serious, lovely, and with an inexpressible +impress of devotion, grief, love, and a sort of despair—I can find no +other word for it. She uttered monosyllables, not raising her eyes, +simply smiling—submissively, but without yielding. By that smile alone, +I should have known my Zinaïda of old days. My father shrugged his +shoulders, and straightened his hat on his head, which was always a +sign of impatience with him…. Then I caught the words: “_Vous devez +vous séparer de cette…_” Zinaïda sat up, and stretched out her arm…. +Suddenly, before my very eyes, the impossible happened. My father +suddenly lifted the whip, with which he had been switching the dust off +his coat, and I heard a sharp blow on that arm, bare to the elbow. I +could scarcely restrain myself from crying out; while Zinaïda +shuddered, looked without a word at my father, and slowly raising her +arm to her lips, kissed the streak of red upon it. My father flung away +the whip, and running quickly up the steps, dashed into the house…. +Zinaïda turned round, and with outstretched arms and downcast head, she +too moved away from the window. + +My heart sinking with panic, with a sort of awe-struck horror, I rushed +back, and running down the lane, almost letting go my hold of Electric, +went back to the bank of the river. I could not think clearly of +anything. I knew that my cold and reserved father was sometimes seized +by fits of fury; and all the same, I could never comprehend what I had +just seen…. But I felt at the time that, however long I lived, I could +never forget the gesture, the glance, the smile, of Zinaïda; that her +image, this image so suddenly presented to me, was imprinted for ever +on my memory. I stared vacantly at the river, and never noticed that my +tears were streaming. “She is beaten,” I was thinking,… “beaten … +beaten….” + +“Hullo! what are you doing? Give me the mare!” I heard my father’s +voice saying behind me. + +Mechanically I gave him the bridle. He leaped on to Electric … the +mare, chill with standing, reared on her haunches, and leaped ten feet +away … but my father soon subdued her; he drove the spurs into her +sides, and gave her a blow on the neck with his fist…. “Ah, I’ve no +whip,” he muttered. + +I remembered the swish and fall of the whip, heard so short a time +before, and shuddered. + +“Where did you put it?” I asked my father, after a brief pause. + +My father made no answer, and galloped on ahead. I overtook him. I felt +that I must see his face. + +“Were you bored waiting for me?” he muttered through his teeth. + +“A little. Where did you drop your whip?” I asked again. + +My father glanced quickly at me. “I didn’t drop it,” he replied; “I +threw it away.” He sank into thought, and dropped his head … and then, +for the first, and almost for the last time, I saw how much tenderness +and pity his stern features were capable of expressing. + +He galloped on again, and this time I could not overtake him; I got +home a quarter-of-an-hour after him. + +“That’s love,” I said to myself again, as I sat at night before my +writing-table, on which books and papers had begun to make their +appearance; “that’s passion!… To think of not revolting, of bearing a +blow from any one whatever … even the dearest hand! But it seems one +can, if one loves…. While I … I imagined …” + +I had grown much older during the last month; and my love, with all its +transports and sufferings, struck me myself as something small and +childish and pitiful beside this other unimagined something, which I +could hardly fully grasp, and which frightened me like an unknown, +beautiful, but menacing face, which one strives in vain to make out +clearly in the half-darkness…. + +A strange and fearful dream came to me that same night. I dreamed I +went into a low dark room…. My father was standing with a whip in his +hand, stamping with anger; in the corner crouched Zinaïda, and not on +her arm, but on her forehead, was a stripe of red … while behind them +both towered Byelovzorov, covered with blood; he opened his white lips, +and wrathfully threatened my father. + +Two months later, I entered the university; and within six months my +father died of a stroke in Petersburg, where he had just moved with my +mother and me. A few days before his death he received a letter from +Moscow which threw him into a violent agitation…. He went to my mother +to beg some favour of her: and, I was told, he positively shed +tears—he, my father! On the very morning of the day when he was +stricken down, he had begun a letter to me in French. “My son,” he +wrote to me, “fear the love of woman; fear that bliss, that poison….” +After his death, my mother sent a considerable sum of money to Moscow. + + + + +XXII + + +Four years passed. I had just left the university, and did not know +exactly what to do with myself, at what door to knock; I was hanging +about for a time with nothing to do. One fine evening I met Meidanov at +the theatre. He had got married, and had entered the civil service; but +I found no change in him. He fell into ecstasies in just the same +superfluous way, and just as suddenly grew depressed again. + +“You know,” he told me among other things, “Madame Dolsky’s here.” + +“What Madame Dolsky?” + +“Can you have forgotten her?—the young Princess Zasyekin whom we were +all in love with, and you too. Do you remember at the country-house +near Neskutchny gardens?” + +“She married a Dolsky?” + +“Yes.” + +“And is she here, in the theatre?” + +“No: but she’s in Petersburg. She came here a few days ago. She’s going +abroad.” + +“What sort of fellow is her husband?” I asked. + +“A splendid fellow, with property. He’s a colleague of mine in Moscow. +You can well understand—after the scandal … you must know all about it +…” (Meidanov smiled significantly) “it was no easy task for her to make +a good marriage; there were consequences … but with her cleverness, +everything is possible. Go and see her; she’ll be delighted to see you. +She’s prettier than ever.” + +Meidanov gave me Zinaïda’s address. She was staying at the Hotel Demut. +Old memories were astir within me…. I determined next day to go to see +my former “flame.” But some business happened to turn up; a week +passed, and then another, and when at last I went to the Hotel Demut +and asked for Madame Dolsky, I learnt that four days before, she had +died, almost suddenly, in childbirth. + +I felt a sort of stab at my heart. The thought that I might have seen +her, and had not seen her, and should never see her—that bitter thought +stung me with all the force of overwhelming reproach. “She is dead!” I +repeated, staring stupidly at the hall-porter. I slowly made my way +back to the street, and walked on without knowing myself where I was +going. All the past swam up and rose at once before me. So this was the +solution, this was the goal to which that young, ardent, brilliant life +had striven, all haste and agitation! I mused on this; I fancied those +dear features, those eyes, those curls—in the narrow box, in the damp +underground darkness—lying here, not far from me—while I was still +alive, and, maybe, a few paces from my father…. I thought all this; I +strained my imagination, and yet all the while the lines: + +“From lips indifferent of her death I heard, +Indifferently I listened to it, too,” + + +were echoing in my heart. O youth, youth! little dost thou care for +anything; thou art master, as it were, of all the treasures of the +universe—even sorrow gives thee pleasure, even grief thou canst turn to +thy profit; thou art self-confident and insolent; thou sayest, “I alone +am living—look you!”—but thy days fly by all the while, and vanish +without trace or reckoning; and everything in thee vanishes, like wax +in the sun, like snow…. And, perhaps, the whole secret of thy charm +lies, not in being able to do anything, but in being able to think thou +wilt do anything; lies just in thy throwing to the winds, forces which +thou couldst not make other use of; in each of us gravely regarding +himself as a prodigal, gravely supposing that he is justified in +saying, “Oh, what might I not have done if I had not wasted my time!” + +I, now … what did I hope for, what did I expect, what rich future did I +foresee, when the phantom of my first love, rising up for an instant, +barely called forth one sigh, one mournful sentiment? + +And what has come to pass of all I hoped for? And now, when the shades +of evening begin to steal over my life, what have I left fresher, more +precious, than the memories of the storm—so soon over—of early morning, +of spring? + +But I do myself injustice. Even then, in those light-hearted young +days, I was not deaf to the voice of sorrow, when it called upon me, to +the solemn strains floating to me from beyond the tomb. I remember, a +few days after I heard of Zinaïda’s death, I was present, through a +peculiar, irresistible impulse, at the death of a poor old woman who +lived in the same house as we. Covered with rags, lying on hard boards, +with a sack under her head, she died hardly and painfully. Her whole +life had been passed in the bitter struggle with daily want; she had +known no joy, had not tasted the honey of happiness. One would have +thought, surely she would rejoice at death, at her deliverance, her +rest. But yet, as long as her decrepit body held out, as long as her +breast still heaved in agony under the icy hand weighing upon it, until +her last forces left her, the old woman crossed herself, and kept +whispering, “Lord, forgive my sins”; and only with the last spark of +consciousness, vanished from her eyes the look of fear, of horror of +the end. And I remember that then, by the death-bed of that poor old +woman, I felt aghast for Zinaïda, and longed to pray for her, for my +father—and for myself. + + + + +MUMU + + +In one of the outlying streets of Moscow, in a grey house with white +columns and a balcony, warped all askew, there was once living a lady, +a widow, surrounded by a numerous household of serfs. Her sons were in +the government service at Petersburg; her daughters were married; she +went out very little, and in solitude lived through the last years of +her miserly and dreary old age. Her day, a joyless and gloomy day, had +long been over; but the evening of her life was blacker than night. + +Of all her servants, the most remarkable personage was the porter, +Gerasim, a man full twelve inches over the normal height, of heroic +build, and deaf and dumb from his birth. The lady, his owner, had +brought him up from the village where he lived alone in a little hut, +apart from his brothers, and was reckoned about the most punctual of +her peasants in the payment of the seignorial dues. Endowed with +extraordinary strength, he did the work of four men; work flew apace +under his hands, and it was a pleasant sight to see him when he was +ploughing, while, with his huge palms pressing hard upon the plough, he +seemed alone, unaided by his poor horse, to cleave the yielding bosom +of the earth, or when, about St. Peter’s Day, he plied his scythe with +a furious energy that might have mown a young birch copse up by the +roots, or swiftly and untiringly wielded a flail over two yards long; +while the hard oblong muscles of his shoulders rose and fell like a +lever. His perpetual silence lent a solemn dignity to his unwearying +labour. He was a splendid peasant, and, except for his affliction, any +girl would have been glad to marry him…. But now they had taken Gerasim +to Moscow, bought him boots, had him made a full-skirted coat for +summer, a sheepskin for winter, put into his hand a broom and a spade, +and appointed him porter. + +At first he intensely disliked his new mode of life. From his childhood +he had been used to field labour, to village life. Shut off by his +affliction from the society of men, he had grown up, dumb and mighty, +as a tree grows on a fruitful soil. When he was transported to the +town, he could not understand what was being done with him; he was +miserable and stupefied, with the stupefaction of some strong young +bull, taken straight from the meadow, where the rich grass stood up to +his belly, taken and put in the truck of a railway train, and there, +while smoke and sparks and gusts of steam puff out upon the sturdy +beast, he is whirled onwards, whirled along with loud roar and whistle, +whither—God knows! What Gerasim had to do in his new duties seemed a +mere trifle to him after his hard toil as a peasant; in half-an-hour, +all his work was done, and he would once more stand stock-still in the +middle of the courtyard, staring open-mouthed at all the passers-by, as +though trying to wrest from them the explanation of his perplexing +position; or he would suddenly go off into some corner, and flinging a +long way off the broom or the spade, throw himself on his face on the +ground, and lie for hours together without stirring, like a caged +beast. But man gets used to anything, and Gerasim got used at last to +living in town. He had little work to do; his whole duty consisted in +keeping the courtyard clean, bringing in a barrel of water twice a day, +splitting and dragging in wood for the kitchen and the house, keeping +out strangers, and watching at night. And it must be said he did his +duty zealously. In his courtyard there was never a shaving lying about, +never a speck of dust; if sometimes, in the muddy season, the wretched +nag, put under his charge for fetching water, got stuck in the road, he +would simply give it a shove with his shoulder, and set not only the +cart but the horse itself moving. If he set to chopping wood, the axe +fairly rang like glass, and chips and chunks flew in all directions. +And as for strangers, after he had one night caught two thieves and +knocked their heads together—knocked them so that there was not the +slightest need to take them to the police-station afterwards—every one +in the neighbourhood began to feel a great respect for him; even those +who came in the day-time, by no means robbers, but simply unknown +persons, at the sight of the terrible porter, waved and shouted to him +as though he could hear their shouts. With all the rest of the +servants, Gerasim was on terms, hardly friendly—they were afraid of +him—but familiar; he regarded them as his fellows. They explained +themselves to him by signs, and he understood them, and exactly carried +out all orders, but knew his own rights too, and soon no one dared to +take his seat at the table. Gerasim was altogether of a strict and +serious temper, he liked order in everything; even the cocks did not +dare to fight in his presence, or woe betide them! directly he caught +sight of them, he would seize them by the legs, swing them ten times +round in the air like a wheel, and throw them in different directions. +There were geese, too, kept in the yard; but the goose, as is well +known, is a dignified and reasonable bird; Gerasim felt a respect for +them, looked after them, and fed them; he was himself not unlike a +gander of the steppes. He was assigned a little garret over the +kitchen; he arranged it himself to his own liking, made a bedstead in +it of oak boards on four stumps of wood for legs—a truly Titanic +bedstead; one might have put a ton or two on it—it would not have bent +under the load; under the bed was a solid chest; in a corner stood a +little table of the same strong kind, and near the table a three-legged +stool, so solid and squat that Gerasim himself would sometimes pick it +up and drop it again with a smile of delight. The garret was locked up +by means of a padlock that looked like a kalatch or basket-shaped loaf, +only black; the key of this padlock Gerasim always carried about him in +his girdle. He did not like people to come to his garret. + +So passed a year, at the end of which a little incident befell Gerasim. + +The old lady, in whose service he lived as porter, adhered in +everything to the ancient ways, and kept a large number of servants. In +her house were not only laundresses, sempstresses, carpenters, tailors +and tailoresses, there was even a harness-maker—he was reckoned as a +veterinary surgeon, too,—and a doctor for the servants; there was a +household doctor for the mistress; there was, lastly, a shoemaker, by +name Kapiton Klimov, a sad drunkard. Klimov regarded himself as an +injured creature, whose merits were unappreciated, a cultivated man +from Petersburg, who ought not to be living in Moscow without +occupation—in the wilds, so to speak; and if he drank, as he himself +expressed it emphatically, with a blow on his chest, it was sorrow +drove him to it. So one day his mistress had a conversation about him +with her head steward, Gavrila, a man whom, judging solely from his +little yellow eyes and nose like a duck’s beak, fate itself, it seemed, +had marked out as a person in authority. The lady expressed her regret +at the corruption of the morals of Kapiton, who had, only the evening +before, been picked up somewhere in the street. + +“Now, Gavrila,” she observed, all of a sudden, “now, if we were to +marry him, what do you think, perhaps he would be steadier?” + +“Why not marry him, indeed, ’m? He could be married, ’m,” answered +Gavrila, “and it would be a very good thing, to be sure, ’m.” + +“Yes; only who is to marry him?” + +“Ay, ’m. But that’s at your pleasure, ’m. He may, any way, so to say, +be wanted for something; he can’t be turned adrift altogether.” + +“I fancy he likes Tatiana.” + +Gavrila was on the point of making some reply, but he shut his lips +tightly. + +“Yes!… let him marry Tatiana,” the lady decided, taking a pinch of +snuff complacently, “Do you hear?” + +“Yes, ’m,” Gavrila articulated, and he withdrew. + +Returning to his own room (it was in a little lodge, and was almost +filled up with metal-bound trunks), Gavrila first sent his wife away, +and then sat down at the window and pondered. His mistress’s unexpected +arrangement had clearly put him in a difficulty. At last he got up and +sent to call Kapiton. Kapiton made his appearance…. But before +reporting their conversation to the reader, we consider it not out of +place to relate in few words who was this Tatiana, whom it was to be +Kapiton’s lot to marry, and why the great lady’s order had disturbed +the steward. + +Tatiana, one of the laundresses referred to above (as a trained and +skilful laundress she was in charge of the fine linen only), was a +woman of twenty-eight, thin, fair-haired, with moles on her left cheek. +Moles on the left cheek are regarded as of evil omen in Russia—a token +of unhappy life…. Tatiana could not boast of her good luck. From her +earliest youth she had been badly treated; she had done the work of +two, and had never known affection; she had been poorly clothed and had +received the smallest wages. Relations she had practically none; an +uncle she had once had, a butler, left behind in the country as +useless, and other uncles of hers were peasants—that was all. At one +time she had passed for a beauty, but her good looks were very soon +over. In disposition, she was very meek, or, rather, scared; towards +herself, she felt perfect indifference; of others, she stood in mortal +dread; she thought of nothing but how to get her work done in good +time, never talked to any one, and trembled at the very name of her +mistress, though the latter scarcely knew her by sight. When Gerasim +was brought from the country, she was ready to die with fear on seeing +his huge figure, tried all she could to avoid meeting him, even dropped +her eyelids when sometimes she chanced to run past him, hurrying from +the house to the laundry. Gerasim at first paid no special attention to +her, then he used to smile when she came his way, then he began even to +stare admiringly at her, and at last he never took his eyes off her. +She took his fancy, whether by the mild expression of her face or the +timidity of her movements, who can tell? So one day she was stealing +across the yard, with a starched dressing-jacket of her mistress’s +carefully poised on her outspread fingers … some one suddenly grasped +her vigorously by the elbow; she turned round and fairly screamed; +behind her stood Gerasim. With a foolish smile, making inarticulate +caressing grunts, he held out to her a gingerbread cock with gold +tinsel on his tail and wings. She was about to refuse it, but he thrust +it forcibly into her hand, shook his head, walked away, and turning +round, once more grunted something very affectionately to her. From +that day forward he gave her no peace; wherever she went, he was on the +spot at once, coming to meet her, smiling, grunting, waving his hands; +all at once he would pull a ribbon out of the bosom of his smock and +put it in her hand, or would sweep the dust out of her way. The poor +girl simply did not know how to behave or what to do. Soon the whole +household knew of the dumb porter’s wiles; jeers, jokes, sly hints were +showered upon Tatiana. At Gerasim, however, it was not every one who +would dare to scoff; he did not like jokes; indeed, in his presence, +she, too, was left in peace. Whether she liked it or not, the girl +found herself to be under his protection. Like all deaf-mutes, he was +very suspicious, and very readily perceived when they were laughing at +him or at her. One day, at dinner, the wardrobe-keeper, Tatiana’s +superior, fell to nagging, as it is called, at her, and brought the +poor thing to such a state that she did not know where to look, and was +almost crying with vexation. Gerasim got up all of a sudden, stretched +out his gigantic hand, laid it on the wardrobe-maid’s head, and looked +into her face with such grim ferocity that her head positively flopped +upon the table. Every one was still. Gerasim took up his spoon again +and went on with his cabbage-soup. “Look at him, the dumb devil, the +wood-demon!” they all muttered in under-tones, while the wardrobe-maid +got up and went out into the maids’ room. Another time, noticing that +Kapiton—the same Kapiton who was the subject of the conversation +reported above—was gossiping somewhat too attentively with Tatiana, +Gerasim beckoned him to him, led him into the cartshed, and taking up a +shaft that was standing in a corner by one end, lightly, but most +significantly, menaced him with it. Since then no one addressed a word +to Tatiana. And all this cost him nothing. It is true the +wardrobe-maid, as soon as she reached the maids’ room, promptly fell +into a fainting-fit, and behaved altogether so skilfully that Gerasim’s +rough action reached his mistress’s knowledge the same day. But the +capricious old lady only laughed, and several times, to the great +offence of the wardrobe-maid, forced her to repeat “how he bent your +head down with his heavy hand,” and next day she sent Gerasim a rouble. +She looked on him with favour as a strong and faithful watchman. +Gerasim stood in considerable awe of her, but, all the same, he had +hopes of her favour, and was preparing to go to her with a petition for +leave to marry Tatiana. He was only waiting for a new coat, promised +him by the steward, to present a proper appearance before his mistress, +when this same mistress suddenly took it into her head to marry Tatiana +to Kapiton. + +The reader will now readily understand the perturbation of mind that +overtook the steward Gavrila after his conversation with his mistress. +“My lady,” he thought, as he sat at the window, “favours Gerasim, to be +sure”—(Gavrila was well aware of this, and that was why he himself +looked on him with an indulgent eye)—“still he is a speechless +creature. I could not, indeed, put it before the mistress that +Gerasim’s courting Tatiana. But, after all, it’s true enough; he’s a +queer sort of husband. But on the other hand, that devil, God forgive +me, has only got to find out they’re marrying Tatiana to Kapiton, he’ll +smash up everything in the house, ’pon my soul! There’s no reasoning +with him; why, he’s such a devil, God forgive my sins, there’s no +getting over him no how … ’pon my soul!” + +Kapiton’s entrance broke the thread of Gavrila’s reflections. The +dissipated shoemaker came in, his hands behind him, and lounging +carelessly against a projecting angle of the wall, near the door, +crossed his right foot in front of his left, and tossed his head, as +much as to say, “What do you want?” + +Gavrila looked at Kapiton, and drummed with his fingers on the +window-frame. Kapiton merely screwed up his leaden eyes a little, but +he did not look down, he even grinned slightly, and passed his hand +over his whitish locks which were sticking up in all directions. “Well, +here I am. What is it?” + +“You’re a pretty fellow,” said Gavrila, and paused. “A pretty fellow +you are, there’s no denying!” + +Kapiton only twitched his little shoulders. + +“Are you any better, pray?” he thought to himself. + +“Just look at yourself, now, look at yourself,” Gavrila went on +reproachfully; “now, what ever do you look like?” + +Kapiton serenely surveyed his shabby tattered coat, and his patched +trousers, and with special attention stared at his burst boots, +especially the one on the tip-toe of which his right foot so gracefully +poised, and he fixed his eyes again on the steward. + +“Well?” + +“Well?” repeated Gavrila. “Well? And then you say well? You look like +old Nick himself, God forgive my saying so, that’s what you look like.” + +Kapiton blinked rapidly. + +“Go on abusing me, go on, if you like, Gavrila Andreitch,” he thought +to himself again. + +“Here you’ve been drunk again,” Gavrila began, “drunk again, haven’t +you? Eh? Come, answer me!” + +“Owing to the weakness of my health, I have exposed myself to +spirituous beverages, certainly,” replied Kapiton. + +“Owing to the weakness of your health!… They let you off too easy, +that’s what it is; and you’ve been apprenticed in Petersburg…. Much you +learned in your apprenticeship! You simply eat your bread in idleness.” + +“In that matter, Gavrila Andreitch, there is one to judge me, the Lord +God Himself, and no one else. He also knows what manner of man I be in +this world, and whether I eat my bread in idleness. And as concerning +your contention regarding drunkenness, in that matter, too, I am not to +blame, but rather a friend; he led me into temptation, but was +diplomatic and got away, while I….” + +“While you were left, like a goose, in the street. Ah, you’re a +dissolute fellow! But that’s not the point,” the steward went on, “I’ve +something to tell you. Our lady…” here he paused a minute, “it’s our +lady’s pleasure that you should be married. Do you hear? She imagines +you may be steadier when you’re married. Do you understand?” + +“To be sure I do.” + +“Well, then. For my part I think it would be better to give you a good +hiding. But there—it’s her business. Well? are you agreeable?” + +Kapiton grinned. + +“Matrimony is an excellent thing for any one, Gavrila Andreitch; and, +as far as I am concerned, I shall be quite agreeable.” + +“Very well, then,” replied Gavrila, while he reflected to himself: +“there’s no denying the man expresses himself very properly. Only +there’s one thing,” he pursued aloud: “the wife our lady’s picked out +for you is an unlucky choice.” + +“Why, who is she, permit me to inquire?” + +“Tatiana.” + +“Tatiana?” + +And Kapiton opened his eyes, and moved a little away from the wall. + +“Well, what are you in such a taking for?… Isn’t she to your taste, +hey?” + +“Not to my taste, do you say, Gavrila Andreitch! She’s right enough, a +hard-working steady girl…. But you know very well yourself, Gavrila +Andreitch, why that fellow, that wild man of the woods, that monster of +the steppes, he’s after her, you know….” + +“I know, mate, I know all about it,” the butler cut him short in a tone +of annoyance: “but there, you see….” + +“But upon my soul, Gavrila Andreitch! why, he’ll kill me, by God, he +will, he’ll crush me like some fly; why, he’s got a fist—why, you +kindly look yourself what a fist he’s got; why, he’s simply got a fist +like Minin Pozharsky’s. You see he’s deaf, he beats and does not hear +how he’s beating! He swings his great fists, as if he’s asleep. And +there’s no possibility of pacifying him; and for why? Why, because, as +you know yourself, Gavrila Andreitch, he’s deaf, and what’s more, has +no more wit than the heel of my foot. Why, he’s a sort of beast, a +heathen idol, Gavrila Andreitch, and worse … a block of wood; what have +I done that I should have to suffer from him now? Sure it is, it’s all +over with me now; I’ve knocked about, I’ve had enough to put up with, +I’ve been battered like an earthenware pot, but still I’m a man, after +all, and not a worthless pot.” + +“I know, I know, don’t go talking away….” + +“Lord, my God!” the shoemaker continued warmly, “when is the end? when, +O Lord! A poor wretch I am, a poor wretch whose sufferings are endless! +What a life, what a life mine’s been, come to think of it! In my young +days, I was beaten by a German I was ’prentice to; in the prime of life +beaten by my own countrymen, and last of all, in ripe years, see what I +have been brought to….” + +“Ugh, you flabby soul!” said Gavrila Andreitch. “Why do you make so +many words about it?” + +“Why, do you say, Gavrila Andreitch? It’s not a beating I’m afraid of, +Gavrila Andreitch. A gentleman may chastise me in private, but give me +a civil word before folks, and I’m a man still; but see now, whom I’ve +to do with….” + +“Come, get along,” Gavrila interposed impatiently. Kapiton turned away +and staggered off. + +“But, if it were not for him,” the steward shouted after him, “you +would consent for your part?” + +“I signify my acquiescence,” retorted Kapiton as he disappeared. + +His fine language did not desert him, even in the most trying +positions. + +The steward walked several times up and down the room. + +“Well, call Tatiana now,” he said at last. + +A few instants later, Tatiana had come up almost noiselessly, and was +standing in the doorway. + +“What are your orders, Gavrila Andreitch?” she said in a soft voice. + +The steward looked at her intently. + +“Well, Taniusha,” he said, “would you like to be married? Our lady has +chosen a husband for you.” + +“Yes, Gavrila Andreitch. And whom has she deigned to name as a husband +for me?” she added falteringly. + +“Kapiton, the shoemaker.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“He’s a feather-brained fellow, that’s certain. But it’s just for that +the mistress reckons upon you.” + +“Yes, sir.” + +“There’s one difficulty … you know the deaf man, Gerasim, he’s courting +you, you see. How did you come to bewitch such a bear? But you see, +he’ll kill you, very like, he’s such a bear….” + +“He’ll kill me, Gavrila Andreitch, he’ll kill me, and no mistake.” + +“Kill you…. Well, we shall see about that. What do you mean by saying +he’ll kill you? Has he any right to kill you? tell me yourself.” + +“I don’t know, Gavrila Andreitch, about his having any right or not.” + +“What a woman! why, you’ve made him no promise, I suppose….” + +“What are you pleased to ask of me?” + +The steward was silent for a little, thinking, “You’re a meek soul! +Well, that’s right,” he said aloud; “we’ll have another talk with you +later, now you can go, Taniusha; I see you’re not unruly, certainly.” + +Tatiana turned, steadied herself a little against the doorpost, and +went away. + +“And, perhaps, our lady will forget all about this wedding by +to-morrow,” thought the steward; “and here am I worrying myself for +nothing! As for that insolent fellow, we must tie him down, if it comes +to that, we must let the police know” … “Ustinya Fyedorovna!” he +shouted in a loud voice to his wife, “heat the samovar, my good soul….” +All that day Tatiana hardly went out of the laundry. At first she had +started crying, then she wiped away her tears, and set to work as +before. Kapiton stayed till late at night at the ginshop with a friend +of his, a man of gloomy appearance, to whom he related in detail how he +used to live in Petersburg with a gentleman, who would have been all +right, except he was a bit too strict, and he had a slight weakness +besides, he was too fond of drink; and, as to the fair sex, he didn’t +stick at anything. His gloomy companion merely said yes; but when +Kapiton announced at last that, in a certain event, he would have to +lay hands on himself to-morrow, his gloomy companion remarked that it +was bedtime. And they parted in surly silence. + +Meanwhile, the steward’s anticipations were not fulfilled. The old lady +was so much taken up with the idea of Kapiton’s wedding, that even in +the night she talked of nothing else to one of her companions, who was +kept in her house solely to entertain her in case of sleeplessness, +and, like a night cabman, slept in the day. When Gavrila came to her +after morning tea with his report, her first question was: “And how +about our wedding—is it getting on all right?” He replied, of course, +that it was getting on first rate, and that Kapiton would appear before +her to pay his reverence to her that day. The old lady was not quite +well; she did not give much time to business. The steward went back to +his own room, and called a council. The matter certainly called for +serious consideration. Tatiana would make no difficulty, of course; but +Kapiton had declared in the hearing of all that he had but one head to +lose, not two or three…. Gerasim turned rapid sullen looks on every +one, would not budge from the steps of the maids’ quarters, and seemed +to guess that some mischief was being hatched against him. They met +together. Among them was an old sideboard waiter, nicknamed Uncle Tail, +to whom every one looked respectfully for counsel, though all they got +out of him was, “Here’s a pretty pass! to be sure, to be sure, to be +sure!” As a preliminary measure of security, to provide against +contingencies, they locked Kapiton up in the lumber-room where the +filter was kept; then considered the question with the gravest +deliberation. It would, to be sure, be easy to have recourse to force. +But Heaven save us! there would be an uproar, the mistress would be put +out—it would be awful! What should they do? They thought and thought, +and at last thought out a solution. It had many a time been observed +that Gerasim could not bear drunkards…. As he sat at the gates, he +would always turn away with disgust when some one passed by +intoxicated, with unsteady steps and his cap on one side of his ear. +They resolved that Tatiana should be instructed to pretend to be tipsy, +and should pass by Gerasim staggering and reeling about. The poor girl +refused for a long while to agree to this, but they persuaded her at +last; she saw, too, that it was the only possible way of getting rid of +her adorer. She went out. Kapiton was released from the lumber-room; +for, after all, he had an interest in the affair. Gerasim was sitting +on the curb-stone at the gates, scraping the ground with a spade…. From +behind every corner, from behind every window-blind, the others were +watching him…. The trick succeeded beyond all expectations. On seeing +Tatiana, at first, he nodded as usual, making caressing, inarticulate +sounds; then he looked carefully at her, dropped his spade, jumped up, +went up to her, brought his face close to her face…. In her fright she +staggered more than ever, and shut her eyes…. He took her by the arm, +whirled her right across the yard, and going into the room where the +council had been sitting, pushed her straight at Kapiton. Tatiana +fairly swooned away…. Gerasim stood, looked at her, waved his hand, +laughed, and went off, stepping heavily, to his garret…. For the next +twenty-four hours, he did not come out of it. The postillion Antipka +said afterwards that he saw Gerasim through a crack in the wall, +sitting on his bedstead, his face in his hand. From time to time he +uttered soft regular sounds; he was wailing a dirge, that is, swaying +backwards and forwards with his eyes shut, and shaking his head as +drivers or bargemen do when they chant their melancholy songs. Antipka +could not bear it, and he came away from the crack. When Gerasim came +out of the garret next day, no particular change could be observed in +him. He only seemed, as it were, more morose, and took not the +slightest notice of Tatiana or Kapiton. The same evening, they both had +to appear before their mistress with geese under their arms, and in a +week’s time they were married. Even on the day of the wedding Gerasim +showed no change of any sort in his behaviour. Only, he came back from +the river without water, he had somehow broken the barrel on the road; +and at night, in the stable, he washed and rubbed down his horse so +vigorously, that it swayed like a blade of grass in the wind, and +staggered from one leg to the other under his fists of iron. + +All this had taken place in the spring. Another year passed by, during +which Kapiton became a hopeless drunkard, and as being absolutely of no +use for anything, was sent away with the store waggons to a distant +village with his wife. On the day of his departure, he put a very good +face on it at first, and declared that he would always be at home, send +him where they would, even to the other end of the world; but later on +he lost heart, began grumbling that he was being taken to uneducated +people, and collapsed so completely at last that he could not even put +his own hat on. Some charitable soul stuck it on his forehead, set the +peak straight in front, and thrust it on with a slap from above. When +everything was quite ready, and the peasants already held the reins in +their hands, and were only waiting for the words “With God’s blessing!” +to start, Gerasim came out of his garret, went up to Tatiana, and gave +her as a parting present a red cotton handkerchief he had bought for +her a year ago. Tatiana, who had up to that instant borne all the +revolting details of her life with great indifference, could not +control herself upon that; she burst into tears, and as she took her +seat in the cart, she kissed Gerasim three times like a good Christian. +He meant to accompany her as far as the town-barrier, and did walk +beside her cart for a while, but he stopped suddenly at the Crimean +ford, waved his hand, and walked away along the riverside. + +It was getting towards evening. He walked slowly, watching the water. +All of a sudden he fancied something was floundering in the mud close +to the bank. He stooped over, and saw a little white-and-black puppy, +who, in spite of all its efforts, could not get out of the water; it +was struggling, slipping back, and trembling all over its thin wet +little body. Gerasim looked at the unlucky little dog, picked it up +with one hand, put it into the bosom of his coat, and hurried with long +steps homewards. He went into his garret, put the rescued puppy on his +bed, covered it with his thick overcoat, ran first to the stable for +straw, and then to the kitchen for a cup of milk. Carefully folding +back the overcoat, and spreading out the straw, he set the milk on the +bedstead. The poor little puppy was not more than three weeks old, its +eyes were only just open—one eye still seemed rather larger than the +other; it did not know how to lap out of a cup, and did nothing but +shiver and blink. Gerasim took hold of its head softly with two +fingers, and dipped its little nose into the milk. The pup suddenly +began lapping greedily, sniffing, shaking itself, and choking. Gerasim +watched and watched it, and all at once he laughed outright…. All night +long he was waiting on it, keeping it covered, and rubbing it dry. He +fell asleep himself at last, and slept quietly and happily by its side. + +No mother could have looked after her baby as Gerasim looked after his +little nursling. At first, she—for the pup turned out to be a bitch—was +very weak, feeble, and ugly, but by degrees she grew stronger and +improved in looks, and thanks to the unflagging care of her preserver, +in eight months’ time she was transformed into a very pretty dog of the +spaniel breed, with long ears, a bushy spiral tail, and large +expressive eyes. She was devotedly attached to Gerasim, and was never a +yard from his side; she always followed him about wagging her tail. He +had even given her a name—the dumb know that their inarticulate noises +call the attention of others. He called her Mumu. All the servants in +the house liked her, and called her Mumu, too. She was very +intelligent, she was friendly with every one, but was only fond of +Gerasim. Gerasim, on his side, loved her passionately, and he did not +like it when other people stroked her; whether he was afraid for her, +or jealous—God knows! She used to wake him in the morning, pulling at +his coat; she used to take the reins in her mouth, and bring him up the +old horse that carried the water, with whom she was on very friendly +terms. With a face of great importance, she used to go with him to the +river; she used to watch his brooms and spades, and never allowed any +one to go into his garret. He cut a little hole in his door on purpose +for her, and she seemed to feel that only in Gerasim’s garret she was +completely mistress and at home; and directly she went in, she used to +jump with a satisfied air upon the bed. At night she did not sleep at +all, but she never barked without sufficient cause, like some stupid +house-dog, who, sitting on its hind-legs, blinking, with its nose in +the air, barks simply from dulness, at the stars, usually three times +in succession. No! Mumu’s delicate little voice was never raised +without good reason; either some stranger was passing close to the +fence, or there was some suspicious sound or rustle somewhere…. In +fact, she was an excellent watch-dog. It is true that there was another +dog in the yard, a tawny old dog with brown spots, called Wolf, but he +was never, even at night, let off the chain; and, indeed, he was so +decrepit that he did not even wish for freedom. He used to lie curled +up in his kennel, and only rarely uttered a sleepy, almost noiseless +bark, which broke off at once, as though he were himself aware of its +uselessness. Mumu never went into the mistress’s house; and when +Gerasim carried wood into the rooms, she always stayed behind, +impatiently waiting for him at the steps, pricking up her ears and +turning her head to right and to left at the slightest creak of the +door…. + +So passed another year. Gerasim went on performing his duties as +house-porter, and was very well content with his lot, when suddenly an +unexpected incident occurred…. One fine summer day the old lady was +walking up and down the drawing-room with her dependants. She was in +high spirits; she laughed and made jokes. Her servile companions +laughed and joked too, but they did not feel particularly mirthful; the +household did not much like it, when their mistress was in a lively +mood, for, to begin with, she expected from every one prompt and +complete participation in her merriment, and was furious if any one +showed a face that did not beam with delight, and secondly, these +outbursts never lasted long with her, and were usually followed by a +sour and gloomy mood. That day she had got up in a lucky hour; at cards +she took the four knaves, which means the fulfilment of one’s wishes +(she used to try her fortune on the cards every morning), and her tea +struck her as particularly delicious, for which her maid was rewarded +by words of praise, and by twopence in money. With a sweet smile on her +wrinkled lips, the lady walked about the drawing-room and went up to +the window. A flower-garden had been laid out before the window, and in +the very middle bed, under a rose-bush, lay Mumu busily gnawing a bone. +The lady caught sight of her. + +“Mercy on us!” she cried suddenly; “what dog is that?” + +The companion, addressed by the old lady, hesitated, poor thing, in +that wretched state of uneasiness which is common in any person in a +dependent position who doesn’t know very well what significance to give +to the exclamation of a superior. + +“I d … d … don’t know,” she faltered: “I fancy it’s the dumb man’s +dog.” + +“Mercy!” the lady cut her short: “but it’s a charming little dog! order +it to be brought in. Has he had it long? How is it I’ve never seen it +before?… Order it to be brought in.” + +The companion flew at once into the hall. + +“Boy, boy!” she shouted: “bring Mumu in at once! She’s in the +flower-garden.” + +“Her name’s Mumu then,” observed the lady: “a very nice name.” + +“Oh, very, indeed!” chimed in the companion. “Make haste, Stepan!” + +Stepan, a sturdily-built young fellow, whose duties were those of a +footman, rushed headlong into the flower-garden, and tried to capture +Mumu, but she cleverly slipped from his fingers, and with her tail in +the air, fled full speed to Gerasim, who was at that instant in the +kitchen, knocking out and cleaning a barrel, turning it upside down in +his hands like a child’s drum. Stepan ran after her, and tried to catch +her just at her master’s feet; but the sensible dog would not let a +stranger touch her, and with a bound, she got away. Gerasim looked on +with a smile at all this ado; at last, Stepan got up, much amazed, and +hurriedly explained to him by signs that the mistress wanted the dog +brought in to her. Gerasim was a little astonished; he called Mumu, +however, picked her up, and handed her over to Stepan. Stepan carried +her into the drawing-room, and put her down on the parquette floor. The +old lady began calling the dog to her in a coaxing voice. Mumu, who had +never in her life been in such magnificent apartments, was very much +frightened, and made a rush for the door, but, being driven back by the +obsequious Stepan, she began trembling, and huddled close up against +the wall. + +“Mumu, Mumu, come to me, come to your mistress,” said the lady; “come, +silly thing … don’t be afraid.” + +“Come, Mumu, come to the mistress,” repeated the companions. “Come +along!” + +But Mumu looked round her uneasily, and did not stir. + +“Bring her something to eat,” said the old lady. “How stupid she is! +she won’t come to her mistress. What’s she afraid of?” + +“She’s not used to your honour yet,” ventured one of the companions in +a timid and conciliatory voice. + +Stepan brought in a saucer of milk, and set it down before Mumu, but +Mumu would not even sniff at the milk, and still shivered, and looked +round as before. + +“Ah, what a silly you are!” said the lady, and going up to her, she +stooped down, and was about to stroke her, but Mumu turned her head +abruptly, and showed her teeth. The lady hurriedly drew back her hand…. + +A momentary silence followed. Mumu gave a faint whine, as though she +would complain and apologise…. The old lady moved back, scowling. The +dog’s sudden movement had frightened her. + +“Ah!” shrieked all the companions at once, “she’s not bitten you, has +she? Heaven forbid! (Mumu had never bitten any one in her life.) Ah! +ah!” + +“Take her away,” said the old lady in a changed voice. “Wretched little +dog! What a spiteful creature!” + +And, turning round deliberately, she went towards her boudoir. Her +companions looked timidly at one another, and were about to follow her, +but she stopped, stared coldly at them, and said, “What’s that for, +pray? I’ve not called you,” and went out. + +The companions waved their hands to Stepan in despair. He picked up +Mumu, and flung her promptly outside the door, just at Gerasim’s feet, +and half-an-hour later a profound stillness reigned in the house, and +the old lady sat on her sofa looking blacker than a thunder-cloud. + +What trifles, if you think of it, will sometimes disturb any one! + +Till evening the lady was out of humour; she did not talk to any one, +did not play cards, and passed a bad night. She fancied the +eau-de-Cologne they gave her was not the same as she usually had, and +that her pillow smelt of soap, and she made the wardrobe-maid smell all +the bed linen—in fact she was very upset and cross altogether. Next +morning she ordered Gavrila to be summoned an hour earlier than usual. + +“Tell me, please,” she began, directly the latter, not without some +inward trepidation, crossed the threshold of her boudoir, “what dog was +that barking all night in our yard? It wouldn’t let me sleep!” + +“A dog, ’m … what dog, ’m … may be, the dumb man’s dog, ’m,” he brought +out in a rather unsteady voice. + +“I don’t know whether it was the dumb man’s or whose, but it wouldn’t +let me sleep. And I wonder what we have such a lot of dogs for! I wish +to know. We have a yard dog, haven’t we?” + +“Oh yes, ’m, we have, ’m. Wolf, ’m.” + +“Well, why more, what do we want more dogs for? It’s simply introducing +disorder. There’s no one in control in the house—that’s what it is. And +what does the dumb man want with a dog? Who gave him leave to keep dogs +in my yard? Yesterday I went to the window, and there it was lying in +the flower-garden; it had dragged in some nastiness it was gnawing, and +my roses are planted there….” + +The lady ceased. + +“Let her be gone from to-day … do you hear?” + +“Yes, ’m.” + +“To-day. Now go. I will send for you later for the report.” + +Gavrila went away. + +As he went through the drawing-room, the steward by way of maintaining +order moved a bell from one table to another; he stealthily blew his +duck-like nose in the hall, and went into the outer-hall. In the +outer-hall, on a locker was Stepan asleep in the attitude of a slain +warrior in a battalion picture, his bare legs thrust out below the coat +which served him for a blanket. The steward gave him a shove, and +whispered some instructions to him, to which Stepan responded with +something between a yawn and a laugh. The steward went away, and Stepan +got up, put on his coat and his boots, went out and stood on the steps. +Five minutes had not passed before Gerasim made his appearance with a +huge bundle of hewn logs on his back, accompanied by the inseparable +Mumu. (The lady had given orders that her bedroom and boudoir should be +heated at times even in the summer.) Gerasim turned sideways before the +door, shoved it open with his shoulder, and staggered into the house +with his load. Mumu, as usual, stayed behind to wait for him. Then +Stepan, seizing his chance, suddenly pounced on her, like a kite on a +chicken, held her down to the ground, gathered her up in his arms, and +without even putting on his cap, ran out of the yard with her, got into +the first fly he met, and galloped off to a market-place. There he soon +found a purchaser, to whom he sold her for a shilling, on condition +that he would keep her for at least a week tied up; then he returned at +once. But before he got home, he got off the fly, and going right round +the yard, jumped over the fence into the yard from a back street. He +was afraid to go in at the gate for fear of meeting Gerasim. + +His anxiety was unnecessary, however; Gerasim was no longer in the +yard. On coming out of the house he had at once missed Mumu. He never +remembered her failing to wait for his return, and began running up and +down, looking for her, and calling her in his own way…. He rushed up to +his garret, up to the hay-loft, ran out into the street, this way and +that…. She was lost! He turned to the other serfs, with the most +despairing signs, questioned them about her, pointing to her height +from the ground, describing her with his hands…. Some of them really +did not know what had become of Mumu, and merely shook their heads, +others did know, and smiled to him for all response, while the steward +assumed an important air, and began scolding the coachmen. Then Gerasim +ran right away out of the yard. + +It was dark by the time he came back. From his worn-out look, his +unsteady walk, and his dusty clothes, it might be surmised that he had +been running over half Moscow. He stood still opposite the windows of +the mistress’ house, took a searching look at the steps where a group +of house-serfs were crowded together, turned away, and uttered once +more his inarticulate “Mumu.” Mumu did not answer. He went away. Every +one looked after him, but no one smiled or said a word, and the +inquisitive postillion Antipka reported next morning in the kitchen +that the dumb man had been groaning all night. + +All the next day Gerasim did not show himself, so that they were +obliged to send the coachman Potap for water instead of him, at which +the coachman Potap was anything but pleased. The lady asked Gavrila if +her orders had been carried out. Gavrila replied that they had. The +next morning Gerasim came out of his garret, and went about his work. +He came in to his dinner, ate it, and went out again, without a +greeting to any one. His face, which had always been lifeless, as with +all deaf-mutes, seemed now to be turned to stone. After dinner he went +out of the yard again, but not for long; he came back, and went +straight up to the hay-loft. Night came on, a clear moonlight night. +Gerasim lay breathing heavily, and incessantly turning from side to +side. Suddenly he felt something pull at the skirt of his coat. He +started, but did not raise his head, and even shut his eyes tighter. +But again there was a pull, stronger than before; he jumped up … before +him, with an end of string round her neck, was Mumu, twisting and +turning. A prolonged cry of delight broke from his speechless breast; +he caught up Mumu, and hugged her tight in his arms, she licked his +nose and eyes, and beard and moustache, all in one instant…. He stood a +little, thought a minute, crept cautiously down from the hay-loft, +looked round, and having satisfied himself that no one could see him, +made his way successfully to his garret. Gerasim had guessed before +that his dog had not got lost by her own doing, that she must have been +taken away by the mistress’ orders; the servants had explained to him +by signs that his Mumu had snapped at her, and he determined to take +his own measures. First he fed Mumu with a bit of bread, fondled her, +and put her to bed, then he fell to meditating, and spent the whole +night long in meditating how he could best conceal her. At last he +decided to leave her all day in the garret, and only to come in now and +then to see her, and to take her out at night. The hole in the door he +stopped up effectually with his old overcoat, and almost before it was +light he was already in the yard, as though nothing had happened, +even—innocent guile!—the same expression of melancholy on his face. It +did not even occur to the poor deaf man that Mumu would betray herself +by her whining; in reality, every one in the house was soon aware that +the dumb man’s dog had come back, and was locked up in his garret, but +from sympathy with him and with her, and partly, perhaps, from dread of +him, they did not let him know that they had found out his secret. The +steward scratched his hand, and gave a despairing wave of his hand, as +much as to say, “Well, well, God have mercy on him! If only it doesn’t +come to the mistress’ ears!” + +But the dumb man had never shown such energy as on that day; he cleaned +and scraped the whole courtyard, pulled up every single weed with his +own hand, tugged up every stake in the fence of the flower-garden, to +satisfy himself that they were strong enough, and unaided drove them in +again; in fact, he toiled and laboured so that even the old lady +noticed his zeal. Twice in the course of the day Gerasim went +stealthily in to see his prisoner; when night came on, he lay down to +sleep with her in the garret, not in the hay-loft, and only at two +o’clock in the night he went out to take her a turn in the fresh air. +After walking about the courtyard a good while with her, he was just +turning back, when suddenly a rustle was heard behind the fence on the +side of the back street. Mumu pricked up her ears, growled—went up to +the fence, sniffed, and gave vent to a loud shrill bark. Some drunkard +had thought fit to take refuge under the fence for the night. At that +very time the old lady had just fallen asleep after a prolonged fit of +“nervous agitation”; these fits of agitation always overtook her after +too hearty a supper. The sudden bark waked her up: her heart +palpitated, and she felt faint. “Girls, girls!” she moaned. “Girls!” +The terrified maids ran into her bedroom. “Oh, oh, I am dying!” she +said, flinging her arms about in her agitation. “Again, that dog +again!… Oh, send for the doctor. They mean to be the death of me…. The +dog, the dog again! Oh!” And she let her head fall back, which always +signified a swoon. They rushed for the doctor, that is, for the +household physician, Hariton. This doctor, whose whole qualification +consisted in wearing soft-soled boots, knew how to feel the pulse +delicately. He used to sleep fourteen hours out of the twenty-four, but +the rest of the time he was always sighing, and continually dosing the +old lady with cherrybay drops. This doctor ran up at once, fumigated +the room with burnt feathers, and when the old lady opened her eyes, +promptly offered her a wineglass of the hallowed drops on a silver +tray. The old lady took them, but began again at once in a tearful +voice complaining of the dog, of Gavrila, and of her fate, declaring +that she was a poor old woman, and that every one had forsaken her, no +one pitied her, every one wished her dead. Meanwhile the luckless Mumu +had gone on barking, while Gerasim tried in vain to call her away from +the fence. “There … there … again,” groaned the old lady, and once more +she turned up the whites of her eyes. The doctor whispered to a maid, +she rushed into the outer-hall, and shook Stepan, he ran to wake +Gavrila, Gavrila in a fury ordered the whole household to get up. + +Gerasim turned round, saw lights and shadows moving in the windows, and +with an instinct of coming trouble in his heart, put Mumu under his +arm, ran into his garret, and locked himself in. A few minutes later +five men were banging at his door, but feeling the resistance of the +bolt, they stopped. Gavrila ran up in a fearful state of mind, and +ordered them all to wait there and watch till morning. Then he flew off +himself to the maids’ quarter, and through an old companion, Liubov +Liubimovna, with whose assistance he used to steal tea, sugar, and +other groceries and to falsify the accounts, sent word to the mistress +that the dog had unhappily run back from somewhere, but that to-morrow +she should be killed, and would the mistress be so gracious as not to +be angry and to overlook it. The old lady would probably not have been +so soon appeased, but the doctor had in his haste given her fully forty +drops instead of twelve. The strong dose of narcotic acted; in a +quarter of an hour the old lady was in a sound and peaceful sleep; +while Gerasim was lying with a white face on his bed, holding Mumu’s +mouth tightly shut. + +Next morning the lady woke up rather late. Gavrila was waiting till she +should be awake, to give the order for a final assault on Gerasim’s +stronghold, while he prepared himself to face a fearful storm. But the +storm did not come off. The old lady lay in bed and sent for the eldest +of her dependent companions. + +“Liubov Liubimovna,” she began in a subdued weak voice—she was fond of +playing the part of an oppressed and forsaken victim; needless to say, +every one in the house was made extremely uncomfortable at such +times—“Liubov Liubimovna, you see my position; go, my love to Gavrila +Andreitch, and talk to him a little. Can he really prize some wretched +cur above the repose—the very life—of his mistress? I could not bear to +think so,” she added, with an expression of deep feeling. “Go, my love; +be so good as to go to Gavrila Andreitch for me.” + +Liubov Liubimovna went to Gavrila’s room. What conversation passed +between them is not known, but a short time after, a whole crowd of +people was moving across the yard in the direction of Gerasim’s garret. +Gavrila walked in front, holding his cap on with his hand, though there +was no wind. The footmen and cooks were close behind him; Uncle Tail +was looking out of a window, giving instructions, that is to say, +simply waving his hands. At the rear there was a crowd of small boys +skipping and hopping along; half of them were outsiders who had run up. +On the narrow staircase leading to the garret sat one guard; at the +door were standing two more with sticks. They began to mount the +stairs, which they entirely blocked up. Gavrila went up to the door, +knocked with his fist, shouting, “Open the door!” + +A stifled bark was audible, but there was no answer. + +“Open the door, I tell you,” he repeated. + +“But, Gavrila Andreitch,” Stepan observed from below, “he’s deaf, you +know—he doesn’t hear.” + +They all laughed. + +“What are we to do?” Gavrila rejoined from above. + +“Why, there’s a hole there in the door,” answered Stepan, “so you shake +the stick in there.” + +Gavrila bent down. + +“He’s stuffed it up with a coat or something.” + +“Well, you just push the coat in.” + +At this moment a smothered bark was heard again. + +“See, see—she speaks for herself,” was remarked in the crowd, and again +they laughed. + +Gavrila scratched his ear. + +“No, mate,” he responded at last, “you can poke the coat in yourself, +if you like.” + +“All right, let me.” + +And Stepan scrambled up, took the stick, pushed in the coat, and began +waving the stick about in the opening, saying, “Come out, come out!” as +he did so. He was still waving the stick, when suddenly the door of the +garret was flung open; all the crowd flew pell-mell down the stairs +instantly, Gavrila first of all. Uncle Tail locked the window. + +“Come, come, come,” shouted Gavrila from the yard, “mind what you’re +about.” + +Gerasim stood without stirring in his doorway. The crowd gathered at +the foot of the stairs. Gerasim, with his arms akimbo, looked down at +all these poor creatures in German coats; in his red peasant’s shirt he +looked like a giant before them. Gavrila took a step forward. + +“Mind, mate,” said he, “don’t be insolent.” + +And he began to explain to him by signs that the mistress insists on +having his dog; that he must hand it over at once, or it would be the +worse for him. + +Gerasim looked at him, pointed to the dog, made a motion with his hand +round his neck, as though he were pulling a noose tight, and glanced +with a face of inquiry at the steward. + +“Yes, yes,” the latter assented, nodding; “yes, just so.” + +Gerasim dropped his eyes, then all of a sudden roused himself and +pointed to Mumu, who was all the while standing beside him, innocently +wagging her tail and pricking up her ears inquisitively. Then he +repeated the strangling action round his neck and significantly struck +himself on the breast, as though announcing he would take upon himself +the task of killing Mumu. + +“But you’ll deceive us,” Gavrila waved back in response. + +Gerasim looked at him, smiled scornfully, struck himself again on the +breast, and slammed-to the door. + +They all looked at one another in silence. + +“What does that mean?” Gavrila began. “He’s locked himself in.” + +“Let him be, Gavrila Andreitch,” Stepan advised; “he’ll do it if he’s +promised. He’s like that, you know…. If he makes a promise, it’s a +certain thing. He’s not like us others in that. The truth’s the truth +with him. Yes, indeed.” + +“Yes,” they all repeated, nodding their heads, “yes—that’s so—yes.” + +Uncle Tail opened his window, and he too said, “Yes.” + +“Well, may be, we shall see,” responded Gavrila; “any way, we won’t +take off the guard. Here you, Eroshka!” he added, addressing a poor +fellow in a yellow nankeen coat, who considered himself to be a +gardener, “what have you to do? Take a stick and sit here, and if +anything happens, run to me at once!” + +Eroshka took a stick, and sat down on the bottom stair. The crowd +dispersed, all except a few inquisitive small boys, while Gavrila went +home and sent word through Liubov Liubimovna to the mistress, that +everything had been done, while he sent a postillion for a policeman in +case of need. The old lady tied a knot in her handkerchief, sprinkled +some eau-de-Cologne on it, sniffed at it, and rubbed her temples with +it, drank some tea, and, being still under the influence of the +cherrybay drops, fell asleep again. + +An hour after all this hubbub the garret door opened, and Gerasim +showed himself. He had on his best coat; he was leading Mumu by a +string. Eroshka moved aside and let him pass. Gerasim went to the +gates. All the small boys in the yard stared at him in silence. He did +not even turn round; he only put his cap on in the street. Gavrila sent +the same Eroshka to follow him and keep watch on him as a spy. Eroshka, +seeing from a distance that he had gone into a cookshop with his dog, +waited for him to come out again. + +Gerasim was well known at the cookshop, and his signs were understood. +He asked for cabbage soup with meat in it, and sat down with his arms +on the table. Mumu stood beside his chair, looking calmly at him with +her intelligent eyes. Her coat was glossy; one could see she had just +been combed down. They brought Gerasim the soup. He crumbled some bread +into it, cut the meat up small, and put the plate on the ground. Mumu +began eating in her usual refined way, her little muzzle daintily held +so as scarcely to touch her food. Gerasim gazed a long while at her; +two big tears suddenly rolled from his eyes; one fell on the dog’s +brow, the other into the soup. He shaded his face with his hand. Mumu +ate up half the plateful, and came away from it, licking her lips. +Gerasim got up, paid for the soup, and went out, followed by the rather +perplexed glances of the waiter. Eroshka, seeing Gerasim, hid round a +corner, and letting him get in front, followed him again. + +Gerasim walked without haste, still holding Mumu by a string. When he +got to the corner of the street, he stood still as though reflecting, +and suddenly set off with rapid steps to the Crimean Ford. On the way +he went into the yard of a house, where a lodge was being built, and +carried away two bricks under his arm. At the Crimean Ford, he turned +along the bank, went to a place where there were two little +rowing-boats fastened to stakes (he had noticed them there before), and +jumped into one of them with Mumu. A lame old man came out of a shed in +the corner of a kitchen-garden and shouted after him; but Gerasim only +nodded, and began rowing so vigorously, though against stream, that in +an instant he had darted two hundred yards away. The old man stood for +a while, scratched his back first with the left and then with the right +hand, and went back hobbling to the shed. + +Gerasim rowed on and on. Moscow was soon left behind. Meadows stretched +each side of the bank, market gardens, fields, and copses; peasants’ +huts began to make their appearance. There was the fragrance of the +country. He threw down his oars, bent his head down to Mumu, who was +sitting facing him on a dry cross seat—the bottom of the boat was full +of water—and stayed motionless, his mighty hands clasped upon her back, +while the boat was gradually carried back by the current towards the +town. At last Gerasim drew himself up hurriedly, with a sort of sick +anger in his face, he tied up the bricks he had taken with string, made +a running noose, put it round Mumu’s neck, lifted her up over the +river, and for the last time looked at her…. she watched him +confidingly and without any fear, faintly wagging her tail. He turned +away, frowned, and wrung his hands…. Gerasim heard nothing, neither the +quick shrill whine of Mumu as she fell, nor the heavy splash of the +water; for him the noisiest day was soundless and silent as even the +stillest night is not silent to us. When he opened his eyes again, +little wavelets were hurrying over the river, chasing one another; as +before they broke against the boat’s side, and only far away behind +wide circles moved widening to the bank. + +Directly Gerasim had vanished from Eroshka’s sight, the latter returned +home and reported what he had seen. + +“Well, then,” observed Stepan, “he’ll drown her. Now we can feel easy +about it. If he once promises a thing….” + +No one saw Gerasim during the day. He did not have dinner at home. +Evening came on; they were all gathered together to supper, except him. + +“What a strange creature that Gerasim is!” piped a fat laundrymaid; +“fancy, upsetting himself like that over a dog…. Upon my word!” + +“But Gerasim has been here,” Stepan cried all at once, scraping up his +porridge with a spoon. + +“How? when?” + +“Why, a couple of hours ago. Yes, indeed! I ran against him at the +gate; he was going out again from here; he was coming out of the yard. +I tried to ask him about his dog, but he wasn’t in the best of humours, +I could see. Well, he gave me a shove; I suppose he only meant to put +me out of his way, as if he’d say, ‘Let me go, do!’ but he fetched me +such a crack on my neck, so seriously, that—oh! oh!” And Stepan, who +could not help laughing, shrugged up and rubbed the back of his head. +“Yes,” he added; “he has got a fist; it’s something like a fist, +there’s no denying that!” + +They all laughed at Stepan, and after supper they separated to go to +bed. + +Meanwhile, at that very time, a gigantic figure with a bag on his +shoulders and a stick in his hand, was eagerly and persistently +stepping out along the T—— highroad. It was Gerasim. He was hurrying on +without looking round; hurrying homewards, to his own village, to his +own country. After drowning poor Mumu, he had run back to his garret, +hurriedly packed a few things together in an old horsecloth, tied it up +in a bundle, tossed it on his shoulder, and so was ready. He had +noticed the road carefully when he was brought to Moscow; the village +his mistress had taken him from lay only about twenty miles off the +highroad. He walked along it with a sort of invincible purpose, a +desperate and at the same time joyous determination. He walked, his +shoulders thrown back and his chest expanded; his eyes were fixed +greedily straight before him. He hastened as though his old mother were +waiting for him at home, as though she were calling him to her after +long wanderings in strange parts, among strangers. The summer night, +that was just drawing in, was still and warm; on one side, where the +sun had set, the horizon was still light and faintly flushed with the +last glow of the vanished day; on the other side a blue-grey twilight +had already risen up. The night was coming up from that quarter. Quails +were in hundreds around; corncrakes were calling to one another in the +thickets…. Gerasim could not hear them; he could not hear the delicate +night-whispering of the trees, by which his strong legs carried him, +but he smelt the familiar scent of the ripening rye, which was wafted +from the dark fields; he felt the wind, flying to meet him—the wind +from home—beat caressingly upon his face, and play with his hair and +his beard. He saw before him the whitening road homewards, straight as +an arrow. He saw in the sky stars innumerable, lighting up his way, and +stepped out, strong and bold as a lion, so that when the rising sun +shed its moist rosy light upon the still fresh and unwearied traveller, +already thirty miles lay between him and Moscow. + +In a couple of days he was at home, in his little hut, to the great +astonishment of the soldier’s wife who had been put in there. After +praying before the holy pictures, he set off at once to the village +elder. The village elder was at first surprised; but the haycutting had +just begun; Gerasim was a first-rate mower, and they put a scythe into +his hand on the spot, and he went to mow in his old way, mowing so that +the peasants were fairly astounded as they watched his wide sweeping +strokes and the heaps he raked together…. + +In Moscow the day after Gerasim’s flight they missed him. They went to +his garret, rummaged about in it, and spoke to Gavrila. He came, +looked, shrugged his shoulders, and decided that the dumb man had +either run away or had drowned himself with his stupid dog. They gave +information to the police, and informed the lady. The old lady was +furious, burst into tears, gave orders that he was to be found whatever +happened, declared she had never ordered the dog to be destroyed, and, +in fact, gave Gavrila such a rating that he could do nothing all day +but shake his head and murmur, “Well!” until Uncle Tail checked him at +last, sympathetically echoing “We-ell!” At last the news came from the +country of Gerasim’s being there. The old lady was somewhat pacified; +at first she issued a mandate for him to be brought back without delay +to Moscow; afterwards, however, she declared that such an ungrateful +creature was absolutely of no use to her. Soon after this she died +herself; and her heirs had no thought to spare for Gerasim; they let +their mother’s other servants redeem their freedom on payment of an +annual rent. + +And Gerasim is living still, a lonely man in his lonely hut; he is +strong and healthy as before, and does the work of four men as before, +and as before is serious and steady. But his neighbours have observed +that ever since his return from Moscow he has quite given up the +society of women; he will not even look at them, and does not keep even +a single dog. “It’s his good luck, though,” the peasants reason; “that +he can get on without female folk; and as for a dog—what need has he of +a dog? you wouldn’t get a thief to go into his yard for any money!” +Such is the fame of the dumb man’s Titanic strength. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TORRENTS OF SPRING *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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