“But a man—with glance imperious—Sent a man to the Upas-tree....”
“But a man—with glance imperious—Sent a man to the Upas-tree....”
“But a man—with glance imperious—Sent a man to the Upas-tree....”
reached his ear....
“Come,”—he thought,—“the verses must have taken effect....”
And he began to listen with redoubled attention.... But Márya Pávlovna speedily fell silent, and turned her face more directly toward him; he could distinguish her large, dark eyes, her severe brows and lips....
Suddenly, she started, wheeled round, entered the shadow cast by a dense wall of lofty acacias, and disappeared. Vladímir Sergyéitch stood for a considerable time at the window, then got into bed again, but did not fall asleep very soon.
“A strange being,”—he thought, as he tossed from side to side;—“and yet they say that there is nothing particular in the provinces.... The idea! A strange being! I shall ask her to-morrow what she was doing in the park.”
And Egór Kapítonitch continued to snore as before.
Onthe following morning Vladímir Sergyéitch awoke quite late, and immediately after the general tea and breakfast in the dining-room, drove off home to finish his business on his estate, in spite of all old Ipátoff’s attempts to detain him.Márya Pávlovna also was present at the tea; but Vladímir Sergyéitch did not consider it necessary to question her concerning her late stroll of the night before; he was one of the people who find it difficult to surrender themselves for two days in succession to any unusual thoughts and assumptions whatsoever. He would have been obliged to discuss verses, and the so-called “poetical” mood wearied him very quickly. He spent the whole day until dinner in the fields, ate with great appetite, dozed off, and when he woke up, tried to take up the clerk’s accounts; but before he had finished the first page, he ordered his tarantás to be harnessed, and set off for Ipátoff’s. Evidently, even positive people do not bear about in their breasts hearts of stone, and they are no more fond of being bored than other plain mortals.
As he drove upon the dam he heard voices and the sound of music. They were singing Russian ballads in chorus in Ipátoff’s house. He found the whole company which he had left in the morning on the terrace; all, Nadézhda Alexyéevna among the rest, were sitting in a circle around a man of two-and-thirty—a swarthy-skinned, black-eyed, black-haired man in a velvet jacket, with a scarlet kerchief carelessly knotted about his neck, and a guitar in his hands. This was Piótr Alexyéevitch Véretyeff, brother of Nadézhda Alexyéevna. On catching sight ofVladímir Sergyéitch, old Ipátoff advanced to meet him with a joyful cry, led him up to Véretyeff, and introduced them to each other. After exchanging the customary greetings with his new acquaintance, Astákhoff made a respectful bow to the latter’s sister.
“We’re singing songs in country fashion, Vladímir Sergyéitch,”—began Ipátoff, and pointing to Véretyeff he added:-“Piótr Alexyéitch is our leader,—and what a leader! Just you listen to him!”
“This is very pleasant,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Will not you join the choir?”—Nadézhda Alexyéevna asked him.
“I should be heartily glad to do so, but I have no voice.”
“That doesn’t matter! See, Egór Kapítonitch is singing, and I’m singing. All you have to do is to chime in. Pray, sit down; and do thou strike up, my dear fellow!”
“What song shall we sing now?”—said Véretyeff, thrumming the guitar; and suddenly stopping short, he looked at Márya Pávlovna, who was sitting by his side.—“I think it is your turn now,”—he said to her.
“No; do you sing,”—replied Márya Pávlovna.
“Here’s a song now: ‘Adown dear Mother Volga’”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, with importance.
“No, we will save that up for the last,”—replied Véretyeff, and tinkling the strings of the guitar, he struck up, in slow measure, “The sun is setting.”
He sang splendidly, dashingly, and blithely. His manly face, already expressive, became still more animated when he sang; now and then he shrugged his shoulders, suddenly pressed the strings with his palm, raised his arm, shook his curls, and darted a falcon-like look around him. More than once in Moscow he had seen the famous Ilyá, and he imitated him. The chorus chimed in lustily. Márya Pávlovna’s voice separated itself in a melodious flood from the other voices; it seemed to drag them after it; but she would not sing alone, and Véretyeff remained the leader to the end.
They sang a great many other songs....
In the meantime, along with the evening shadows, a thunder-storm drew on. From noonday it had been steaming hot, and thunder had kept rumbling in the distance; but now a broad thunder-cloud, which had long lain like a leaden pall on the very rim of the horizon, began to increase and show itself above the crests of the trees, the stifling air began to quiver more distinctly, shaken more and more violently by the approaching storm; the wind rose, rustled the foliage abruptly, died into silence, again made a prolonged clamour, and began to roar; a surlygloom flitted over the earth, swiftly dispelling the last reflection of the sunset glow; dense clouds suddenly floated up, as though rending themselves free, and sailed across the sky; a fine rain began to patter down, the lightning flashed in a red flame, and the thunder rumbled heavily and angrily.
“Let us go,”—said old Ipátoff,—“or we shall be drenched.”
All rose.
“Directly!”—exclaimed Piótr Alexyéitch.—“One more song, the last. Listen:
“Akh, thou house, thou house of mine,Thou new house of mine....”
“Akh, thou house, thou house of mine,Thou new house of mine....”
“Akh, thou house, thou house of mine,Thou new house of mine....”
he struck up in a loud voice, briskly striking the strings of the guitar with his whole hand. “My new house of maple-wood,” joined in the chorus, as though reluctantly carried away. Almost at the same moment, the rain began to beat down in streams; but Véretyeff sang “My house” to the end. From time to time, drowned by the claps of thunder, the dashing ballad seemed more dashing than ever beneath the noisy rattle and gurgling of the rain. At last the final detonation of the chorus rang out—and the whole company ran, laughing, into the drawing-room. Loudest of all laughed the little girls, Ipátoff’s daughters, as they shook the rain-drops from their frocks. But, by way of precaution, Ipátoff closed thewindow, and locked the door; and Egór Kapítonitch lauded him, remarking that Matryóna Márkovna also always gave orders to shut up whenever there was a thunder-storm, because electricity is more capable of acting in an empty space. Bodryakóff looked him straight in the face, stepped aside, and overturned a chair. Such trifling mishaps were constantly happening to him.
The thunder-storm passed over very soon. The doors and windows were opened again, and the rooms were filled with moist fragrance. Tea was brought. After tea the old men sat down to cards again. Iván Ílitch joined them, as usual. Vladímir Sergyéitch was about to go to Márya Pávlovna, who was sitting at the window with Véretyeff; but Nadézhda Alexyéevna called him to her, and immediately entered into a fervent discussion with him about Petersburg and Petersburg life. She attacked it; Vladímir Sergyéitch began to defend it. Nadézhda Alexyéevna appeared to be trying to keep him by her side.
“What are you wrangling about?”—inquired Véretyeff, rising and approaching them.
He swayed lazily from side to side as he walked; in all his movements there was perceptible something which was not exactly carelessness, nor yet exactly fatigue.
“Still about Petersburg.”—replied NadézhdaAlexyéevna.—“Vladímir Sergyéitch cannot sufficiently praise it.”
“‘Tis a fine town,”—remarked Véretyeff;—“but, in my opinion, it is nice everywhere. By Heaven, it is. If one only has two or three women, and—pardon my frankness—wine, a man really has nothing left to wish for.”
“You surprise me,”—retorted Vladímir Sergyéitch. “Can it be possible that you are really of one opinion, that there does not exist for the cultured man....”
“Perhaps ... in fact ... I agree with you,”—interrupted Véretyeff, who, notwithstanding all his courtesy, had a habit of not listening to the end of retorts;—“but that’s not in my line; I’m not a philosopher.”
“Neither am I a philosopher,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“and I have not the slightest desire to be one; but here it is a question of something entirely different.”
Véretyeff cast an abstracted glance at his sister, and she, with a faint laugh, bent toward him, and whispered in a low voice:
“Petrúsha, my dear, imitate Egór Kapítonitch for us, please.”
Véretyeff’s face instantly changed, and, Heaven knows by what miracle, became remarkably like the face of Egór Kapítonitch, although the features of the two faces had absolutely nothing in common, and Véretyeff himself barelywrinkled up his nose and pulled down the corners of his lips.
“Of course,”—he began to whisper, in a voice which was the exact counterpart of Egór Kapítonitch’s,—“Matryóna Márkovna is a severe lady on the score of manners; but, on the other hand, she is a model wife. It is true that no matter what I may have said....”
“The Biriúloff girls know it all,”—put in Nadézhda Alexyéevna, hardly restraining her laughter.
“Everything is known on the following day,”—replied Véretyeff, with such a comical grimace, with such a perturbed sidelong glance, that even Vladímir Sergyéitch burst out laughing.
“I see that you possess great talent for mimicry,”—he remarked.
Véretyeff passed his hand over his face, his features resumed their ordinary expression, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna exclaimed:
“Oh, yes! he can mimic any one whom he wishes.... He’s a master hand at that.”
“And would you be able to imitate me, for example?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I should think so!”—returned Nadézhda Alexyéevna:—“of course.”
“Akh, pray do me the favour to represent me,”—said Astákhoff, turning to Véretyeff.—“I beg that you will not stand on ceremony.”
“And so you too have believed her?”—replied Véretyeff, slightly screwing up one eye, and imparting to his voice the sound of Astákhoff’s voice, but so cautiously and slightly that only Nadézhda Alexyéevna noticed it, and bit her lips.—“Please do not believe her; she will tell you other untrue things about me.”
“And if you only knew what an actor he is!”—pursued Nadézhda Alexyéevna:—“he plays every conceivable sort of a part. And so splendidly! He is our stage-manager, and our prompter, and everything you like. It’s a pity that you are going away so soon.”
“Sister, thy partiality blinds thee,”—remarked Véretyeff, in a pompous tone, but still with the same touch of Astákhoff.—“What will Mr. Astákhoff think of thee?—He will regard thee as a rustic.”
“No, indeed,”—Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning....
“See here, Petrúsha,”—interposed Nadézhda Alexyéevna;—“please show us how a drunken man is utterly unable to get his handkerchief out of his pocket; or no: show us, rather, how a boy catches a fly on the window, and how it buzzes under his fingers.”
“Thou art a regular child,”—replied Véretyeff.
Nevertheless he rose, and stepping to the window, beside which Márya Pávlovna was sitting, he began to pass his hand across the panes, and represent how a small boy catches a fly.
The accuracy with which he imitated its pitiful squeak was really amazing. It seemed as though a live fly were actually struggling under his fingers. Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst out laughing, and gradually every one in the room got to laughing. Márya Pávlovna’s face alone underwent no change, not even her lips quivered. She sat with downcast eyes, but raised them at last, and casting a serious glance at Véretyeff, she muttered through her set teeth:
“What possesses you to make a clown of yourself?”
Véretyeff instantly turned away from the window, and, after standing still for a moment in the middle of the room, he went out on the terrace, and thence into the garden, which had already grown perfectly dark.
“How amusing that Piótr Alexyéitch is!”—exclaimed Egór Kapítonitch, slapping down the seven of trumps with a flourish on some one else’s ace.—“Really, he’s very amusing!”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna rose, and hastily approaching Márya Pávlovna, asked her in an undertone:
“What didst thou say to my brother?”
“Nothing,”—replied the other.
“What dost thou mean by ‘nothing’? Impossible.”
And after waiting a little, Nadézhda Alexyéevna said: “Come!”—took Márya Pávlovna bythe hand, forced her to rise, and went off with her into the garden.
Vladímir Sergyéitch gazed after the two young girls not without perplexity. But they were not absent long; a quarter of an hour later they returned, and Piótr Alexyéitch entered the room with them.
“What a splendid night!” exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as she entered.—“How beautiful it is in the garden!”
“Akh, yes. By the way,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“allow me to inquire, Márya Pávlovna, whether it was you whom I saw in the garden last night?”
Márya Pávlovna gave him a swift look straight in the eyes.
“Moreover, so far as I could make out, you were declaiming Púshkin’s ‘The Upas-Tree.’”
Véretyeff frowned slightly, and he also began to stare at Astákhoff.
“It really was I,”—said Márya Pávlovna;—“only, I was not declaiming anything; I never declaim.”
“Perhaps it seemed so to me,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“but....”
“It did seem so to you?”—remarked Márya Pávlovna, coldly.
“What’s ‘The Upas-Tree’?”—inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“Why, don’t you know?”—retorted Astákhoff.—“Do you mean to say you don’t remember Púshkin’s verses: ‘On the unhealthy, meagre soil’?”
“Somehow I don’t remember.... That upas-tree is a poisonous tree, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Like the datura.... Dost remember, Másha, how beautiful the datura were on our balcony, in the moonlight, with their long, white blossoms? Dost remember what fragrance poured from them,—so sweet, insinuating, and insidious?”
“An insidious fragrance!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Yes; insidious. What are you surprised at? They say it is dangerous, but it is attractive. Why can evil attract? Evil should not be beautiful.”
“Oh, what theories!”—remarked Piótr Alexyéitch;—“how far away we have got from verses!”
“I recited those verses yesterday evening to Márya Pávlovna,” interposed Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“and they pleased her greatly.”
“Akh, please recite them,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“Certainly, madam.”
And Astákhoff recited “The Upas-Tree.”
“Too bombastic,”—ejaculated Véretyeff, as though against his will, as soon as Vladímir Sergyéitch had finished.
“The poem is too bombastic?”
“No, not the poem.... Excuse me, it seems to me that you do not recite with sufficient simplicity. The thing speaks for itself; however, I may be mistaken.”
“No, thou art not mistaken,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, pausing between her words.
“Oh, yes; that is a matter of course! In thy eyes I am a genius, an extremely gifted man, who knows everything, can do everything; unfortunately, he is overcome with laziness; isn’t that so?”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna merely shook her head.
“I shall not quarrel with you; you must know best about that,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch, somewhat sulkily.—“That’s not in my line.”
“I made a mistake, pardon me,”—ejaculated Véretyeff, hastily.
In the meantime, the game of cards had come to an end.
“Akh, by the way,”—said Ipátoff, as he rose;—“Vladímir Sergyéitch, one of the local landed proprietors, a neighbour, a very fine and worthy man, Akílin, Gavríla Stepánitch, has commissioned me to ask you whether you will not do him the honour to be present at his ball,—that is, I just put it so, for beauty of style, and said ‘ball,’ but it is only an evening party with dancing, quite informal. He would have called uponyou himself without fail, only he was afraid of disturbing you.”
“I am much obliged to the gentleman,”—returned Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“but it is imperatively necessary that I should return home....”
“Why—but when do you suppose the ball takes place? ’Tis to-morrow. To-morrow is Gavríla Stepánitch’s Name-day. One day more won’t matter, and how much pleasure you will give him! And it’s only ten versts from here. If you will allow, we will take you thither.”
“Really, I don’t know,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“And are you going?”
“The whole family! And Nadézhda Alexyéevna and Piótr Alexyéitch,—everybody is going!”
“You may invite me on the spot for the fifth quadrille, if you like,”—remarked Nadézhda Alexyéevna.—“The first four are already bespoken.”
“You are very kind; and are you already engaged for the mazurka?”
“I? Let me think ... no, I think I am not.”
“In that case, if you will be so kind, I should like to have the honour....”
“That means that you will go? Very good. Certainly.”
“Bravo!”—exclaimed Ipátoff.—“Well, Vladímir Sergyéitch, you have put us under an obligation. Gavrílo Stepánitch will simply go into raptures. Isn’t that so, Iván Ílitch?”
Iván Ílitch would have preferred to hold his peace, according to his wont, but thought it better to utter a sound of approval.
“What possessed thee,”—said Piótr Alexyéitch an hour later to his sister, as he sat with her in a light two-wheeled cart, which he was driving himself,—“what possessed thee to saddle thyself with that sour-visaged fellow for the mazurka?”
“I have reasons of my own for that,”—replied Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“What reasons?—permit me to inquire.”
“That’s my secret.”
“Oho!”
And with his whip he lightly flicked the horse, which was beginning to prick up its ears, snort, and shy. It was frightened by the shadow of a huge willow bush which fell across the road, dimly illuminated by the moon.
“And shalt thou dance with Másha?”—Nadézhda Alexyéevna, in her turn, questioned her brother.
“Yes,” he said indifferently.
“Yes! yes!”—repeated Nadézhda Alexyéevna, reproachfully.—“You men,”—she added, after a brief pause,—“positively do not deserve to be loved by nice women.”
“Dost think so? Well, and that sour-visaged Petersburger—does he deserve it?”
“Sooner than thou.”
“Really!”
And Piótr Alexyéitch recited, with a sigh:
“What a mission, O Creator,To be ... the brother of a grown-up sister!”
“What a mission, O Creator,To be ... the brother of a grown-up sister!”
“What a mission, O Creator,To be ... the brother of a grown-up sister!”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst out laughing.
“I cause thee a great deal of trouble, there’s no denying that. I have a commission to thee.”
“Really?—I hadn’t the slightest suspicion of that.”
“I’m speaking of Másha.”
“On what score?”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s face assumed a slight expression of pain.
“Thou knowest thyself,”—she said softly.
“Ah, I understand!—What’s to be done, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, ma’am? I love to drink with a good friend, ma’am, sinful man that I am; I love it, ma’am.”
“Stop, brother, please don’t talk like that!... This is no jesting matter.”
“Tram-tram-tam-poom!”—muttered Piótr Alexyéitch through his teeth.
“It is thy perdition, and thou jestest....”
“The farm-hand is sowing the grain, his wife does not agree....”
“The farm-hand is sowing the grain, his wife does not agree....”
“The farm-hand is sowing the grain, his wife does not agree....”
struck up Piótr Alexyéitch loudly, slapped the horse with the reins, and it dashed onward at a brisk trot.
Onreaching home Véretyeff did not undress, and a couple of hours later, when the flush of dawn was just colouring the sky, he was no longer in the house.
Half-way between his estate and Ipátoff’s, on the very brink of a broad ravine, stood a small birch grove. The young trees grew very close together, and no axe had yet touched their graceful trunks; a shadow which was not dense, but continuous, spread from the tiny leaves on the soft, thin grass, all mottled with the golden heads of buttercups,[23]the white dots of wood-campanula, and the tiny deep-crimson crosses of wild pinks. The recently-risen sun flooded the whole grove with a powerful though not brilliant light; dewdrops glittered everywhere, while here and there large drops kindled and glowed red; everything exhaled freshness, life, and that innocent triumph of the first moments of the morning, when everything is still so bright and still so silent. The only thing audible was the carolling voices of the larks above the distant fields, and in the grove itself two or three small birds wereexecuting, in a leisurely manner, their brief songs, and then, apparently, listening to see how their performance had turned out. From the damp earth arose a strong, healthy scent; a pure, light breeze fluttered all about in cool gusts. Morning, glorious morning, breathed forth from everything—everything looked and smiled of the morning, like the rosy, freshly-washed face of a baby who has just waked up.
Not far from the ravine, in the middle of a small glade, on an outspread cloak, sat Véretyeff. Márya Pávlovna was standing beside him, leaning against a birch-tree, with her hands clasped behind her.
Both were silent. Márya Pávlovna was gazing fixedly into the far distance; a white scarf had slipped from her head to her shoulders, the errant breeze was stirring and lifting the ends of her hastily-knotted hair. Véretyeff sat bent over, tapping the grass with a small branch.
“Well,”—he began at last,—“are you angry with me?”
Márya Pávlovna made no reply.
Véretyeff darted a glance at her.
“Másha, are you angry?”—he repeated.
Márya Pávlovna scanned him with a swift glance from head to foot turned slightly away, and said:
“Yes.”
“What for?”—asked Véretyeff, and flung away his branch.
Again Márya Pávlovna made no reply.
“But, as a matter of fact, you have a right to be angry with me,”—began Véretyeff, after a brief pause.—“You must regard me as a man who is not only frivolous, but even....”
“You do not understand me,”—interrupted Márya Pávlovna.—“I am not in the least angry with you on my own account.”
“On whose account, then?”
“On your own.”
Véretyeff raised his head and laughed.
“Ah! I understand!”—he said.—“Again! again the thought is beginning to agitate you: ‘Why don’t I make something of myself?’ Do you know what, Másha, you are a wonderful being; by Heaven, you are! You worry so much about other people and so little about yourself. There is not a bit of egoism in you; really, really there isn’t. There’s no other girl in the world like you. It’s a pity about one thing: I decidedly am not worthy of your affection; I say that without jesting.”
“So much the worse for you. You feel and do nothing.”—Again Véretyeff laughed.
“Másha, take your hand from behind your back, and give it to me,”—he said, with insinuating affection in his voice.
Márya Pávlovna merely shrugged her shoulders.
“Give me your beautiful, honest hand; I want to kiss it respectfully and tenderly. Thus does a giddy-pated scholar kiss the hand of his condescending tutor.”
And Véretyeff reached out toward Márya Pávlovna.
“Enough of that!”—said she. “You are always laughing and jesting, and you will jest away your life like that.”
“H’m! jest away my life! A new expression! But I hope, Márya Pávlovna, that you used the verb ‘to jest’ in the active sense?”
Márya Pávlovna contracted her brows.
“Enough of that, Véretyeff,”—she repeated.
“To jest away life,”—went on Véretyeff, half rising;—“but you are imagining me as worse than I am; you are wasting your life in seriousness. Do you know, Másha, you remind me of a scene from Púshkin’s ‘Don Juan.’ You have not read Púshkin’s ‘Don Juan’?”
“No.”
“Yes, I had forgotten, you see, that you do not read verses.—In that poem guests come to a certain Laura; she drives them all away and remains alone with Carlos. The two go out on the balcony; the night is wonderful. Laura admires, and Carlos suddenly begins to demonstrate to her that she will grow old in course oftime.—‘Well,’ replies Laura, ‘it may be cold and rainy in Paris now, but here, with us, “the night is redolent of orange and of laurel.” Why make guesses at the future?’ Look around you, Másha; is it not beautiful here? See how everything is enjoying life, how young everything is. And aren’t we young ourselves?”
Véretyeff approached Márya Pávlovna; she did not move away from him, but she did not turn her head toward him.
“Smile, Másha,”—he went on;—“only with your kind smile, not with your usual grin. I love your kind smile. Raise your proud, stern eyes.—What ails you? You turn away. Stretch out your hand to me, at least.”
“Akh, Véretyeff,”—began Másha;—“you know that I do not understand how to express myself. You have told me about that Laura. But she was a woman, you see.... A woman may be pardoned for not thinking of the future.”
“When you speak, Másha,”—returned Véretyeff,—“you blush incessantly with self-love and modesty: the blood fairly flows in a crimson flood into your cheeks. I’m awfully fond of that in you.”
Márya Pávlovna looked Véretyeff straight in the eye.
“Farewell,”—she said, and threw her scarf over her head.
Véretyeff held her back. “Enough, enough.Stay!”—he cried.—“Come, why are you going? Issue your commands! Do you want me to enter the service, to become an agriculturist? Do you want me to publish romances with accompaniment for the guitar; to print a collection of poems, or of drawings; to busy myself with painting, sculpture, dancing on the rope? I’ll do anything, anything, anything you command, if only you will be satisfied with me! Come, really now, Másha, believe me.”
Again Márya Pávlovna looked at him.
“You will do all that in words only, not in deeds. You declare that you will obey me....”
“Of course I do.”
“You obey, but how many times have I begged you....”
“What about?”
Márya Pávlovna hesitated.
“Not to drink liquor,”—she said at last.
Véretyeff laughed.
“Ekh, Másha! And you are at it, too! My sister is worrying herself to death over that also. But, in the first place, I’m not a drunkard at all; and in the second place, do you know why I drink? Look yonder, at that swallow.... Do you see how boldly it manages its tiny body,—and hurls it wherever it wishes? Now it has soared aloft, now it has darted downward. It has even piped with joy: do you hear? So that’s why I drink, Másha, in order to feel those samesensations which that swallow experiences.... Hurl yourself whithersoever you will, soar wheresoever you take a fancy....”
“But to what end?”—interrupted Másha.
“What do you mean by that? What is one to live on then?”
“But isn’t it possible to get along without liquor?”
“No, it is not; we are all damaged, rumpled. There’s passion ... it produces the same effect. That’s why I love you.”
“Like wine.... I’m much obliged to you.”
“No, Másha, I do not love you like wine. Stay, I’ll prove it to you sometime,—when we are married, say, and go abroad together. Do you know, I am planning in advance how I shall lead you in front of the Venus of Milo. At this point it will be appropriate to say:
“And when she stands with serious eyesBefore the Chyprian of Milos—Twain are they, and the marble in comparisonSuffers, it would seem, affront....
“And when she stands with serious eyesBefore the Chyprian of Milos—Twain are they, and the marble in comparisonSuffers, it would seem, affront....
“And when she stands with serious eyesBefore the Chyprian of Milos—Twain are they, and the marble in comparisonSuffers, it would seem, affront....
“What makes me talk constantly in poetry to-day? It must be that this morning is affecting me. What air! ’Tis exactly as though one were quaffing wine.”
“Wine again,”—remarked Márya Pávlovna.
“What of that! A morning like this, and you with me, and not feel intoxicated! ‘With seriouseyes....’ Yes,”—pursued Véretyeff, gazing intently at Márya Pávlovna,—“that is so.... For I remember, I have beheld, rarely, but yet I have beheld these dark, magnificent eyes, I have beheld them tender! And how beautiful they are then! Come, don’t turn away, Másha; pray, smile at least ... show me your eyes merry, at all events, if they will not vouchsafe me a tender glance.”
“Stop, Véretyeff,”—said Márya Pávlovna.—“Release me! It is time for me to go home.”
“But I’m going to make you laugh,”—interposed Véretyeff; “by Heaven, I will make you laugh. Eh, by the way, yonder runs a hare....”
“Where?”—asked Márya Pávlovna.
“Yonder, beyond the ravine, across the field of oats. Some one must have startled it; they don’t run in the morning. I’ll stop it on the instant, if you like.”
And Véretyeff whistled loudly. The hare immediately squatted, twitched its ears, drew up its fore paws, straightened itself up, munched, sniffed the air, and again began to munch with its lips. Véretyeff promptly squatted down on his heels, like the hare, and began to twitch his nose, sniff, and munch like it. The hare passed its paws twice across its muzzle and shook itself,—they must have been wet with dew,—stiffened its ears, and bounded onward. Véretyeff rubbed his hands over his cheeks and shook himself also.... Márya Pávlovna could not hold out, and burst into a laugh.
“Bravo!”—cried Véretyeff, springing up. “Bravo! That’s exactly the point—you are not a coquette. Do you know, if any fashionable young lady had such teeth as you have she would laugh incessantly. But that’s precisely why I love you, Másha, because you are not a fashionable young lady, don’t laugh without cause, and don’t wear gloves on your hands, which it is a joy to kiss, because they are sunburned, and one feels their strength.... I love you, because you don’t argue, because you are proud, taciturn, don’t read books, don’t love poetry....”
“I’ll recite some verses to you, shall I?”—Márya Pávlovna interrupted him, with a certain peculiar expression on her face.
“Verses?”—inquired Véretyeff, in amazement.
“Yes, verses; the very ones which that Petersburg gentleman recited last night.”
“‘The Upas-Tree’ again?... So you really were declaiming in the garden, by night? That’s just like you.... But does it really please you so much?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Recite it.”
Márya Pávlovna was seized with shyness....
“Recite it, recite it,”—repeated Véretyeff.
Márya Pávlovna began to recite; Véretyeffstood in front of her, with his arms folded on his breast, and bent himself to listen. At the first line Márya Pávlovna raised her eyes heavenward; she did not wish to encounter Véretyeff’s gaze. She recited in her even, soft voice, which reminded one of the sound of a violoncello; but when she reached the lines:
“And the poor slave expired at the feetOf his invincible sovereign....”
“And the poor slave expired at the feetOf his invincible sovereign....”
“And the poor slave expired at the feetOf his invincible sovereign....”
her voice began to quiver, her impassive, haughty brows rose ingenuously, like those of a little girl, and her eyes, with involuntary devotion, fixed themselves on Véretyeff....
He suddenly threw himself at her feet and embraced her knees.
“I am thy slave!”—he cried.—“I am at thy feet, thou art my sovereign, my goddess, my ox-eyed Hera, my Medea....”
Márya Pávlovna attempted to repulse him, but her hands sank helplessly in his thick curls, and, with a smile of confusion, she dropped her head on her breast....
Gavríla Stepánitch Akílin, at whose house the ball was appointed, belonged to the category of landed proprietors who evoked the admirationof the neighbours by their ingenuity in living well on very insignificant means. Although he did not own more than four hundred serfs, he was in the habit of entertaining the whole government in a huge stone mansion, with a tower and a flag on the tower, erected by himself. The property had descended to him from his father, and had never been distinguished for being well ordered; Gavríla Stepánitch had been an absentee for a long time—had been in the service in Petersburg. At last, twenty-five years before the date of our story, he returned to his native place, with the rank of Collegiate Assessor,[24]and, with a wife and three daughters, had simultaneously undertaken reorganisation and building operations, had gradually set up an orchestra, and had begun to give dinners. At first everybody had prophesied for him speedy and inevitable ruin; more than once rumours had become current to the effect that Gavríla Stepánitch’s estate was to be sold under the hammer; but the years passed, dinners, balls, banquets, concerts, followed each other in their customary order, new buildings sprang out of the earth like mushrooms, and still Gavríla Stepánitch’s estate was not sold under the hammer, and he himself continued to live as before, and had even grown stout of late.
Then the neighbours’ gossip took another direction; they began to hint at certain vast sums which were said to be concealed; they talked of a treasure.... “And if he were only a good farmer, ...” so argued the nobles among themselves; “but that’s just what he isn’t, you know! Not at all! So it is deserving of surprise, and incomprehensible.” However that may have been, every one went very gladly to Gavríla Stepánitch’s house. He received his guests cordially, and played cards for any stake they liked. He was a grey-haired little man, with a small, pointed head, a yellow face, and yellow eyes, always carefully shaven and perfumed with eau-de-cologne; both on ordinary days and on holidays he wore a roomy blue dress-coat, buttoned to the chin, a large stock, in which he had a habit of hiding his chin, and he was foppishly fastidious about his linen; he screwed up his eyes and thrust out his lips when he took snuff, and spoke very politely and softly, incessantly employing the letters.[25]
In appearance, Gavríla Stepánitch was not distinguished by vivacity, and, in general, his exterior was not prepossessing, and he did not look like a clever man, although, at times, craft gleamed in his eye. He had settled his two elder daughters advantageously; the youngest wasstill at home, and of marriageable age. Gavríla Stepánitch also had a wife, an insignificant and wordless being.
At seven o’clock in the evening, Vladímir Sergyéitch presented himself at the Ipátoffs’ in dress-suit and white gloves. He found them all entirely dressed; the little girls were sitting sedately, afraid of mussing their starched white frocks; old Ipátoff, on catching sight of Vladímir Sergyéitch in his dress-suit, affectionately upbraided him, and pointed to his own frock-coat; Márya Pávlovna wore a muslin gown of a deep rose colour, which was extremely becoming to her. Vladímir Sergyéitch paid her several compliments. Márya Pávlovna’s beauty attracted him, although she was evidently shy of him; he also liked Nadézhda Alexyéevna, but her free-and-easy manners somewhat disconcerted him. Moreover, in her remarks, her looks, her very smiles, mockery frequently peeped forth, and this disturbed his citified and well-bred soul. He would not have been averse to making fun of others with her, but it was unpleasant to him to think that she was probably capable of jeering at himself.
The ball had already begun; a good many guests had assembled, and the home-bred orchestra was crashing and booming and screeching in the gallery, when the Ipátoff family, accompanied by Vladímir Sergyéitch, entered the hall ofthe Akílin house. The host met them at the very door, thanked Vladímir Sergyéitch for his tender procuration of an agreeable surprise,—that was the way he expressed himself,—and, taking Ipátoff’s arm, he led him to the drawing-room, to the card-tables. Gavríla Stepánitch had received a bad education, and everything in his house, both the music and the furniture and the food and the wines, not only could not be called first-class, but were not even fit to be ranked as second-class. On the other hand, there was plenty of everything, and he himself did not put on airs, was not arrogant ... the nobles demanded nothing more from him, and were entirely satisfied with his entertainment. At supper, for instance, the caviare was served cut up in chunks and heavily salted; but no one objected to your taking it in your fingers, and there was plenty wherewith to wash it down: wines which were cheap, it is true, but were made from grapes, nevertheless, and not some other concoction. The springs in Gavríla Stepánitch’s furniture were rather uncomfortable, owing to their stiffness and inflexibility; but, not to mention the fact that there were no springs whatever in many of the couches and easy-chairs, any one could place under him a worsted cushion, and there was a great number of such cushions lying about, embroidered by the hands of Gavríla Stepánitch’s spouse herself—and then there was nothing left to desire.
In a word, Gavríla Stepánitch’s house could not possibly have been better adapted to the sociable and unceremonious style of ideas of the inhabitants of *** county, and it was solely owing to Mr. Akílin’s modesty that at the assemblies of the nobility he was not elected Marshal, but a retired Major Podpékin, a greatly respected and worthy man, despite the fact that he brushed his hair over to the right temple from the left ear, dyed his moustache a lilac hue, and as he suffered from asthma, had of late fallen into melancholy.
So, then, the ball had already begun. They were dancing a quadrille of ten pairs. The cavaliers were the officers of a regiment stationed close by, and divers not very youthful squires, and two or three officials from the town. Everything was as it should be, everything was proceeding in due order. The Marshal of the Nobility was playing cards with a retired Actual Councillor of State,[26]and a wealthy gentleman, the owner of three thousand souls. The actual state councillor wore on his forefinger a ring with a diamond, talked very softly, kept the heels of his boots closely united, and did not move them from the position used by dancers of former days, and did not turn his head, which was half concealed by a capital velvet collar. The wealthy gentleman, on the contrary, was constantly laughing at something or other, elevating his eyebrows, andflashing the whites of his eyes. The poet Bodryakóff, a man of shy and clumsy aspect, was chatting in a corner with the learned historian Evsiukóff: each had clutched the other by the button. Beside them, one noble, with a remarkably long waist, was expounding certain audacious opinions to another noble who was timidly staring at his forehead. Along the wall sat the mammas in gay-hued caps; around the doors pressed the men of simple cut, young fellows with perturbed faces, and elderly fellows with peaceable ones; but one cannot describe everything. We repeat: everything was as it should be.
Nadézhda Alexyéevna had arrived even earlier than the Ipátoffs; Vladímir Sergyéitch saw her dancing with a young man of handsome appearance in a dandified dress-suit, with expressive eyes, thin black moustache, and gleaming teeth; a gold chain hung in a semicircle on his stomach. Nadézhda Alexyéevna wore a light-blue gown with white flowers; a small garland of the same flowers encircled her curly head; she was smiling, fluttering her fan, and gaily gazing about her; she felt that she was the queen of the ball. Vladímir Sergyéitch approached her, made his obeisance, and looking her pleasantly in the face, he asked her whether she remembered her promise of the day before.
“What promise?”
“Why, that you would dance the mazurka with me.”
“Yes, of course I will dance it with you.”
The young man who stood alongside Nadézhda Alexyéevna suddenly flushed crimson.
“You have probably forgotten, mademoiselle,”—he began,—“that you had already previously promised to-day’s mazurka to me.”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna became confused.
“Akh! good heavens, what am I to do?”—she said:—“excuse me, pray, M’sieu Steltchínsky, I am so absent-minded; I really am ashamed....”
M’sieu Steltchínsky made no reply, and merely dropped his eyes; Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a slight air of dignity.
“Be so good, M’sieu Steltchínsky,”—went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “you and I are old acquaintances, but M’sieu Astákhoff is a stranger among us; do not place me in an awkward position: permit me to dance with him.”
“As you please,”—returned the young man.—“But you must begin.”
“Thanks,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, and fluttered off to meet her vis-à-vis.
Steltchínsky followed her with his eyes, then looked at Vladímir Sergyéitch. Vladímir Sergyéitch, in his turn, looked at him, then stepped aside.
The quadrille soon came to an end. Vladímir Sergyéitch strolled about the hall a little, thenhe betook himself to the drawing-room and paused at one of the card-tables. Suddenly he felt some one touch his hand from behind; he turned round—before him stood Steltchínsky.
“I must have a couple of words with you in the next room, if you will permit,”—said the latter, in French, very courteously, and with an accent which was not Russian.
Vladímir Sergyéitch followed him.
Steltchínsky halted at a window.
“In the presence of ladies,”—he began, in the same language as before,—“I could not say anything else than what I did say; but I hope you do not think that I really intend to surrender to you my right to the mazurka with M-lle Véretyeff.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch was astounded.
“Why so?”—he asked.
“Because, sir,”—replied Steltchínsky, quietly, laying his hand on his breast and inflating his nostrils,—“I don’t intend to,—that’s all.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch also laid his hand on his breast, but did not inflate his nostrils.
“Permit me to remark to you, my dear sir,”—he began,—“that by this course you may drag M-lle Véretyeff into unpleasantness, and I assume....”
“That would be extremely unpleasant to me, but no one can prevent your declining, declaring that you are ill, or going away....”
“I shall not do it. For whom do you take me?”
“In that case, I shall be compelled to demand satisfaction from you.”
“In what sense do you mean ... satisfaction?”
“The sense is evident.”
“You will challenge me to a duel?”
“Precisely so, sir, if you do not renounce the mazurka.”
Steltchínsky endeavoured to utter these words as negligently as possible. Vladímir Sergyéitch’s heart set to beating violently. He looked his wholly unexpected antagonist in the face. “Phew, O Lord, what stupidity!” he thought.
“You are not jesting?”—he articulated aloud.
“I am not in the habit of jesting in general,”—replied Steltchínsky, pompously;—“and particularly with people whom I do not know. You will not renounce the mazurka?”—he added, after a brief pause.
“I will not,”—retorted Vladímir Sergyéitch, as though deliberating.
“Very good! We will fight to-morrow.”
“Very well.”
“To-morrow morning my second will call upon you.”
And with a courteous inclination, Steltchínsky withdrew, evidently well pleased with himself.
Vladímir Sergyéitch remained a few minutes longer by the window.
“Just look at that, now!”—he thought.—“This is the result of thy new acquaintances! What possessed me to come? Good! Splendid!”
But at last he recovered himself, and went out into the hall.
In the hall they were already dancing the polka. Before Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes Márya Pávlovna flitted past with Piótr Alexyéitch, whom he had not noticed up to that moment; she seemed pale, and even sad; then Nadézhda Alexyéevna darted past, all beaming and joyous, with some youthful, bow-legged, but fiery artillery officer; on the second round, she was dancing with Steltchínsky. Steltchínsky shook his hair violently when he danced.
“Well, my dear fellow,”—suddenly rang out Ipátoff’s voice behind Vladímir Sergyéitch’s back;—“you’re only looking on, but not dancing yourself? Come, confess that, in spite of the fact that we live in a dead-calm region, so to speak, we aren’t badly off, are we, hey?”
“Good! damn the dead-calm region!” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and mumbling something in reply to Ipátoff, he went off to another corner of the hall.
“I must hunt up a second,”—he pursued his meditations;—“but where the devil am I to find one? I can’t take Véretyeff; I know no others;the devil only knows what a stupid affair this is!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch, when he got angry, was fond of mentioning the devil.
At this moment, Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes fell upon The Folding Soul, Iván Ílitch, standing idly by the window.
“Wouldn’t he do?”—he thought, and shrugging his shoulders, he added almost aloud:—“I shall have to take him.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch stepped up to him.
“A very strange thing has just happened to me,”—began our hero with a forced smile:—“just imagine some young man or other, a stranger to me, has challenged me to a duel; it is utterly impossible for me to refuse; I am in indispensable need of a second: will not you act?”
Although Iván Ílitch was characterised, as we know, by imperturbable indifference, yet such an unexpected proposition startled even him. Thoroughly perplexed, he riveted his eyes on Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Yes,”—repeated Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“I should be greatly indebted to you. I am not acquainted with any one here. You alone....”
“I can’t,”—said Iván Ílitch, as though just waking up;—“I absolutely can’t.”
“Why not? You are afraid of unpleasantness; but all this will, I hope, remain a secret....”
As he spoke these words, Vladímir Sergyéitch felt himself blushing and growing confused.
“Excuse me, I can’t possibly,”—repeated Iván Ílitch, shaking his head and drawing back, in which operation he again overturned a chair.
For the first time in his life it was his lot to reply to a request by a refusal; but then, the request was such a queer one!
“At any rate,”—pursued Vladímir Sergyéitch, in an agitated voice, as he grasped his hand,—“do me the favour not to speak to any one concerning what I have said to you. I earnestly entreat this of you.”
“I can do that, I can do that,”—hastily replied Iván Ílitch;—“but the other thing I cannot do, say what you will; I positively am unable to do it.”
“Well, very good, very good,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“but do not forget that I rely on your discretion.... I shall announce to-morrow to that gentleman,” he muttered to himself with vexation,—“that I could not find a second, so let him make what arrangements he sees fit, for I am a stranger here. And the devil prompted me to apply to that gentleman! But what else was there for me to do?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch was very, very unlike his usual self.
In the meantime, the ball went on. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have greatly liked to depart at once, but departure was not to be thought of until the end of the mazurka. How was he to give up to his delighted antagonist? Unhappily for Vladímir Sergyéitch, the dances were in charge of a free-and-easy young gentleman with long hair and a sunken chest, over which, in semblance of a miniature waterfall, meandered a black satin neckcloth, transfixed with a huge gold pin. This young gentleman had the reputation, throughout the entire government, of being a man who had assimilated, in their most delicate details, all the customs and rules of the highest society, although he had lived in Petersburg only six months altogether, and had not succeeded in penetrating any loftier heights than the houses of Collegiate Assessor Sandaráki and his brother-in-law, State Councillor Kostandaráki. He superintended the dances at all balls, gave the signal to the musicians by clapping his hands, and in the midst of the roar of the trumpets and the squeaking of the violins shouted: “En avant deux!” or “Grande chaîne!” or “A vous, mademoiselle!” and was incessantly flying, all pale and perspiring, through the hall, slipping headlong, and bowing and scraping. He never began the mazurka before midnight. “And that is a concession,”—he was wont to say;—“in Petersburg I would keep you in torment until two o’clock.”
This ball seemed very long to Vladímir Sergyéitch. He prowled about like a shadow from hall to drawing-room, now and again exchanging cold glances with his antagonist, who never missed a single dance, and undertook to invite Márya Pávlovna for a quadrille, but she was already engaged—and a couple of times he bandied words with the anxious host, who appeared to be harassed by the tedium which was written on the countenance of the new guest. At last, the music of the longed-for mazurka thundered out. Vladímir Sergyéitch hunted up his lady, brought two chairs, and seated himself with her, near the end of the circle, almost opposite Steltchínsky.
The young man who managed affairs was in the first pair, as might have been expected. With what a face he began the mazurka, how he dragged his lady after him, how he beat the floor with his foot, and twitched his head the while,—all this is almost beyond the power of human pen to describe.
“But it seems to me, M’sieu Astákhoff, that you are bored,”—began Nadézhda Alexyéevna, suddenly turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I? Not in the least. What makes you think so?”
“Why, because I do from the expression of your face.... You have never smiled a single time since you arrived. I had not expected that of you. It is not becoming to you positive gentlemen to be misanthropical and to frown à la Byron. Leave that to the authors.”
“I notice, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, that you frequently call me a positive man, as though mockingly. It must be that you regard me as the coldest and most sensible of beings, incapable of anything which.... But do you know, I will tell you something; a positive man is often very sad at heart, but he does not consider it necessary to display to others what is going on there inside of him; he prefers to hold his peace.”
“What do you mean by that?”—inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna, surveying him with a glance.
“Nothing, ma’am,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with feigned indifference, assuming an air of mystery.
“Really?”
“Really, nothing.... You shall know some day, later on.”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna wanted to pursue her questions, but at that moment a young girl, the host’s daughter, led up to her Steltchínsky and another cavalier in blue spectacles.
“Life or death?”—she asked in French.
“Life,”—exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “I don’t want death just yet.”
Steltchínsky bowed; she went off with him.[27]
The cavalier in the blue glasses, who was called Death, started off with the host’s daughter. Steltchínsky had invented the two designations.
“Tell me, please, who is that Mr. Steltchínsky?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch of Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as soon as the latter returned to her place.
“He is attached to the Governor’s service, and is a very agreeable man. He does not belong in these parts. He is somewhat of a coxcomb, but that runs in the blood of all of them. I hope you have not had any explanations with him on account of the mazurka?”
“None whatever, I assure you,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with a little hesitation.
“I’m such a forgetful creature! You can’t imagine!”
“I am bound to be delighted with your forgetfulness: it has afforded me the pleasure of dancing with you to-night.”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna gazed at him, with her eyes slightly narrowed.
“Really? You find it agreeable to dance with me?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch answered her with a compliment. Little by little he got to talking freely. Nadézhda Alexyéevna was always charming, and particularly so that evening; Vladímir Sergyéitch thought her enchanting. The thought of the duel on the morrow, while it fretted his nerves,imparted brilliancy and vivacity to his remarks; under its influence he permitted himself slight exaggerations in the expression of his feelings.... “I don’t care!” he thought. Something mysterious, involuntarily sad, something elegantly-hopeless peeped forth in all his words, in his suppressed sighs, in his glances which suddenly darkened. At last, he got to chattering to such a degree that he began to discuss love, women, his future, the manner in which he conceived of happiness, what he demanded of Fate.... He explained himself allegorically, by hints. On the eve of his possible death, Vladímir Sergyéitch flirted with Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
She listened to him attentively, laughed, shook her head, now disputed with him, again pretended to be incredulous.... The conversation, frequently interrupted by the approach of ladies and cavaliers, took a rather strange turn toward the end.... Vladímir Sergyéitch had already begun to interrogate Nadézhda Alexyéevna about herself, her character, her sympathies. At first she parried the questions with a jest, then, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly to Vladímir Sergyéitch, she asked him when he was going away.
“Whither?”—he said, in surprise.
“To your own home.”
“To Sásovo?”
“No, home, to your village, a hundred versts from here.”
Vladímir Sergyéitch cast down his eyes.
“I should like to go as promptly as possible,”—he said with a preoccupied look on his face.—“To-morrow, I think ... if I am alive. For I have business on hand. But why have you suddenly taken it into your head to ask me about that?”
“Because I have!”—retorted Nadézhda Alexyéevna.
“But what is the reason?”
“Because I have!”—she repeated.—“I am surprised at the curiosity of a man who is going away to-morrow, and to-day wants to find out about my character....”
“But, pardon me ...” began Vladímir Sergyéitch....
“Ah, here, by the way ... read this,”—Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted him with a laugh, as she handed him a motto-slip of paper from bonbons which she had just taken from a small table that stood near by, as she rose to meet Márya Pávlovna, who had stopped in front of her with another lady.
Márya Pávlovna was dancing with Piótr Alexyéitch. Her face was covered with a flush, and was flaming, but not cheerful.
Vladímir Sergyéitch glanced at the slip of paper; thereon, in wretched French letters, was printed:
“Qui me néglige me perd.”
He raised his eyes, and encountered Steltchínsky’s gaze bent upon him. Vladímir Sergyéitch smiled constrainedly, threw his elbow over the back of the chair, and crossed his legs—as much as to say: “I don’t care for thee!”
The fiery artillery officer brought Nadézhda Alexyéevna up to her chair with a dash, pirouetted gently in front of her, bowed, clicked his spurs, and departed. She sat down.
“Allow me to inquire,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch, with pauses between his words,—“in what sense I am to understand this billet?...”
“But what in the world does it say?”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.—“Ah, yes! ‘Qui me néglige me perd.’ Well! that’s an admirable rule of life, which may be of service at every step. In order to make a success of anything, no matter what, one must not neglect anything whatsoever.... One must endeavour to obtain everything; perhaps one will obtain something. But I am ridiculous. I ... I am talking to you, a practical man, about rules of life....”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst into a laugh, and Vladímir Sergyéitch strove, in vain, to the very end of the mazurka, to renew their previous conversation. Nadézhda Alexyéevna avoided it with the perversity of a capricious child. Vladímir Sergyéitch talked to her about his sentiments, and she either did not reply to him at all, or else she called his attention to the gowns of the ladies,to the ridiculous faces of some of the men, to the skill with which her brother danced, to the beauty of Márya Pávlovna; she began to talk about music, about the day before, about Egór Kapítonitch and his wife, Matryóna Márkovna ... and only at the very close of the mazurka, when Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning to make her his farewell bow, did she say, with an ironical smile on her lips and in her eyes:
“So you are positively going to-morrow?”
“Yes; and very far away, perhaps,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, significantly.
“I wish you a happy journey.”
And Nadézhda Alexyéevna swiftly approached her brother, merrily whispered something in his ear, then asked aloud:
“Grateful to me? Yes? art thou not? otherwise he would have askedherfor the mazurka.”
He shrugged his shoulders, and said:
“Nevertheless, nothing will come of it....”
She led him off into the drawing-room.
“The flirt!”—thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and taking his hat in his hand, he slipped unnoticed from the hall, hunted up his footman, to whom he had previously given orders to hold himself in readiness, and was already donning his overcoat, when suddenly, to his intense surprise, the lackey informed him that it was impossible to depart, as the coachman, in some unknown manner, had drunk to intoxication,and that it was utterly impossible to arouse him. After cursing the coachman in a remarkably brief but extremely powerful manner (this took place in the anteroom, outside witnesses were present), and informing his footman that if the coachman was not in proper condition by daylight to-morrow, then no one in the world would be capable of picturing to himself what the result would be, Vladímir Sergyéitch returned to the hall, and requested the major-domo to allot him a chamber, without waiting for supper, which was already prepared in the drawing-room. The master of the house suddenly popped up, as it were, out of the floor, at Vladímir Sergyéitch’s very elbow (Gavríla Stepánitch wore boots without heels, and therefore moved about without the slightest sound), and began to hold him back, assuring him that there would be caviar of the very best quality for supper; but Vladímir Sergyéitch excused himself on the plea of a headache. Half an hour later he was lying in a small bed, under a short coverlet, and trying to get to sleep.
But he could not get to sleep. Toss as he would from side to side, strive as he would to think of something else, the figure of Steltchínsky importunately towered up before him.... Now he is taking aim ... now he has fired.... “Astákhoff is killed,” says some one. Vladímir Sergyéitch could not be called a braveman, yet he was no coward; but even the thought of a duel, no matter with whom, had never once entered his head.... Fight! with his good sense, peaceable disposition, respect for the conventions, dreams of future prosperity, and an advantageous marriage! If it had not been a question of his own person, he would have laughed heartily, so stupid and ridiculous did this affair seem to him. Fight! with whom, and about what?!
“Phew! damn it! what nonsense!”—he exclaimed involuntarily aloud.—“Well, and what if he really does kill me?”—he continued his meditations;—“I must take measures, make arrangements.... Who will mourn for me?”
And in vexation he closed his eyes, which were staringly-wide open, drew the coverlet up around his neck ... but could not get to sleep, nevertheless....
Dawn was already breaking, and exhausted with the fever of insomnia, Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning to fall into a doze, when suddenly he felt some weight or other on his feet. He opened his eyes.... On his bed sat Véretyeff.