Vladímir Sergyéitch was greatly amazed, especially when he noticed that Véretyeff had no coat on, that beneath his unbuttoned shirt his bare breast was visible, that his hair was tumbling over his forehead, and that his very faceappeared changed. Vladímir Sergyéitch got half-way out of bed....
“Allow me to ask ...” he began, throwing his hands apart....
“I have come to you,”—said Véretyeff, in a hoarse voice;—“excuse me for coming in such a guise.... We have been drinking a bit yonder. I wanted to put you at ease. I said to myself: ‘Yonder lies a gentleman who, in all probability, cannot get to sleep.—Let’s help him.’—Understand; you are not going to fight to-morrow, and can go to sleep....”
Vladímir Sergyéitch was still more amazed than before.
“What was that you said?”—he muttered.
“Yes; that has all been adjusted,”—went on Véretyeff;—“that gentleman from the banks of the Visla ... Steltchínsky ... makes his apologies to you ... to-morrow you will receive a letter.... I repeat to you:—all is settled.... Snore away.”
So saying, Véretyeff rose, and directed his course, with unsteady steps, toward the door.
“But permit me, permit me,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“How could you have found out, and how can I believe....”
“Akh! you think that I ... you know ...” (and he reeled forward slightly).... “I tell you ... he will send a letter to you to-morrow.... You do not arouse any particular sympathy in me, but magnanimity is my weak side. But what’s the use of talking.... It’s all nonsense anyway.... But confess,”—he added, with a wink;—“you were pretty well scared, weren’t you, hey?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch flew into a rage.
“Permit me, in conclusion, my dear sir,”—said he....
“Well, good, good,”—Véretyeff interrupted him with a good-natured smile.—“Don’t fly into a passion. Evidently you are not aware that no ball ever takes place without that sort of thing. That’s the established rule. It never amounts to anything. Who feels like exposing his brow? Well, and why not bluster, hey? at newcomers, for instance?In vino veritas.However, neither you nor I know Latin. But I see by your face that you are sleepy. I wish you good night, Mr. Positive Man, well-intentioned mortal. Accept this wish from another mortal who isn’t worth a brass farthing himself.Addio, mio caro!”
And Véretyeff left the room.
“The devil knows what this means!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause, banging his fist into the pillow;—“no one ever heard the like!... this must be cleared up! I won’t tolerate this!”
Nevertheless, five minutes later he was already sleeping softly and profoundly.... Dangerescaped fills the soul of man with sweetness, and softens it.
This is what had taken place before that unanticipated nocturnal interview between Véretyeff and Vladímir Sergyéitch.
In Gavríla Stepánitch’s house lived his grand-nephew, who occupied bachelor quarters in the lower story. When there were balls on hand, the young men dropped in at his rooms between the dances, to smoke a hasty pipe, and after supper they assembled there for a friendly drinking-bout. A good many of the guests had dropped in on him that night. Steltchínsky and Véretyeff were among the number; Iván Ílitch, The Folding Soul, also wandered in there in the wake of the others. They brewed a punch. Although Iván Ílitch had promised Astákhoff that he would not mention the impending duel to any one whomsoever, yet, when Véretyeff accidentally asked him what he had been talking about with that glum fellow (Véretyeff never alluded to Astákhoff otherwise), The Folding Soul could not contain himself, and repeated his entire conversation with Vladímir Sergyéitch, word for word.
Véretyeff burst out laughing, then lapsed into meditation.
“But with whom is he going to fight?”—he asked.
“That’s what I cannot say,”—returned Iván Ílitch.
“At all events, with whom has he been talking?”
“With different people.... With Egór Kapítonitch. It cannot be that he is going to fight with him?’
Véretyeff went away from Iván Ílitch.
So, then, they made a punch, and began to drink. Véretyeff was sitting in the most conspicuous place. Jolly and profligate, he held the pre-eminence in gatherings of young men. He threw off his waistcoat and neckcloth. He was asked to sing; he took a guitar and sang several songs. Heads began to wax rather hot; the young men began to propose toasts. Suddenly Steltchínsky, all red in the face, sprang upon the table, and elevating his glass high above his head, exclaimed loudly:
“To the health ... of I know whom,”—he hastily caught himself up, drank off his liquor, and smashed his glass on the floor, adding:—“May my foe be shivered into just such pieces to-morrow!”
Véretyeff, who had long had his eye on him, swiftly raised his head....
“Steltchínsky,”—said he,—“in the first place, get off the table; that’s indecorous, and you have very bad boots into the bargain; and, in the second place, come hither, I will tell thee something.”
He led him aside.
“Hearken, brother; I know that thou art going to fight to-morrow with that gentleman from Petersburg.”
Steltchínsky started.
“How ... who told thee?”
“I tell thee it is so. And I also know on whose account thou art going to fight.”
“Who is it? I am curious to know.”
“Akh, get out with thee, thou Talleyrand! My sister’s, of course. Come, come, don’t pretend to be surprised. It gives you a goose-like expression. I can’t imagine how this has come about, but it is a fact. That will do, my good fellow,”—pursued Véretyeff.—“What’s the use of shamming? I know, you see, that you have been paying court to her this long time.”
“But, nevertheless, that does not prove....”
“Stop, if you please. But hearken to what I am about to say to you. I won’t permit that duel under any circumstances whatsoever. Dost understand? All this folly will descend upon my sister. Excuse me: so long as I am alive ... that shall not be. As for thou and I, we shall perish—we’re on the road to it; but she must live a long time yet, and live happily. Yes, I swear,”—he added, with sudden heat,—“that I will betray all others, even those who might be ready to sacrifice everything for me, but I willnot permit any one to touch a single hair of her head.”
Steltchínsky emitted a forced laugh.
“Thou art drunk, my dear fellow, and art raving ... that’s all.”
“And art not thou, I’d like to know? But whether I am drunk or not, is a matter of not the slightest consequence. But I’m talking business. Thou shalt not fight with that gentleman, I guarantee that. And what in the world possessed thee to have anything to do with him? Hast grown jealous, pray? Well, those speak the truth who say that men in love are stupid! Why she danced with him simply in order to prevent his inviting.... Well, but that’s not the point. But this duel shall not take place.”
“H’m! I should like to see how thou wilt prevent me?”
“Well, then, this way: if thou dost not instantly give me thy word to renounce this duel, I will fight with thee myself.”
“Really?”
“My dear fellow, entertain no doubt on that score. I will insult thee on the spot, my little friend, in the presence of every one, in the most fantastic manner, and then fight thee across a handkerchief, if thou wilt. But I think that will be disagreeable to thee, for many reasons, hey?”
Steltchínsky flared up, began to say that thiswasintimidation,[28]that he would not permit any one to meddle with his affairs, that he would not stick at anything ... and wound up by submitting, and renouncing all attempts on the life of Vladímir Sergyéitch. Véretyeff embraced him, and half an hour had not elapsed, before the two had already drunk Brüderschaft for the tenth time,—that is to say, they drank with arms interlocked.... The young man who had acted as floor-manager of the ball also drank Brüderschaft with them, and at first clung close to them, but finally fell asleep in the most innocent manner, and lay for a long time on his back in a condition of complete insensibility.... The expression of his tiny, pale face was both amusing and pitiful.... Good heavens! what would those fashionable ladies, his acquaintances, have said, if they had beheld him in that condition! But, luckily for him, he was not acquainted with a single fashionable lady.
Iván Ílitch also distinguished himself on that night. First he amazed the guests by suddenly striking up: “In the country a Baron once dwelt.”
“The hawfinch! The hawfinch has begun to sing!”—shouted all. “When has it ever happened that a hawfinch has sung by night?”
“As though I knew only one song,”—retortedIván Ílitch, who was heated with liquor;—“I know some more, too.”
“Come, come, come, show us your art.”
Iván Ílitch maintained silence for a while, and suddenly struck up in a bass voice: “Krambambuli,[29]bequest of our fathers!” but so incoherently and strangely, that a general outburst of laughter immediately drowned his voice, and he fell silent. When all had dispersed, Véretyeff betook himself to Vladímir Sergyéitch, and the brief conversation already reported, ensued between them.
On the following day, Vladímir Sergyéitch drove off to his own Sásovo very early. He passed the whole morning in a state of excitement, came near mistaking a passing merchant for a second, and breathed freely only when his lackey brought him a letter from Steltchínsky. Vladímir Sergyéitch perused that letter several times,—it was very adroitly worded.... Steltchínsky began with the words: “La nuit porte conseil, Monsieur,”—made no excuses whatever, because, in his opinion, he had not insulted his antagonist in any way; but admitted that he had been somewhat irritated on the preceding evening, and wound up with the statement that he held himself entirely at the disposition of Mr. Astákhoff (“de M-r Astákhoff”), but no longer demanded satisfaction himself. After havingcomposed and despatched a reply, which was filled, simultaneously with courtesy which bordered on playfulness, and a sense of dignity, in which, however, no trace of braggadocio was perceptible, Vladímir Sergyéitch sat down to dinner, rubbing his hands, ate with great satisfaction, and immediately afterward set off, without having even sent relays on in advance. The road along which he drove passed at a distance of four versts from Ipátoff’s manor.... Vladímir Sergyéitch looked at it.
“Farewell, region of dead calm!”—he said with a smile.
The images of Nadézhda Alexyéevna and Márya Pávlovna presented themselves for a moment to his imagination; he dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and sank into a doze.
Morethan three months had passed. Autumn had long since set in; the yellow forests had grown bare, the tomtits had arrived, and—unfailing sign of the near approach of winter—the wind had begun to howl and wail. But there had been no heavy rains, as yet, and mud had not succeeded in spreading itself over the roads. Taking advantage of this circumstance, Vladímir Sergyéitch set out for the government capital,for the purpose of winding up several matters of business. He spent the morning in driving about, and in the evening went to the club. In the vast, gloomy hall of the club he encountered several acquaintances, and, among others, the old retired captain of cavalry Flitch, a busybody, wit, gambler, and gossip, well known to every one. Vladímir Sergyéitch entered into conversation with him.
“Ah, by the way!”—suddenly exclaimed the retired cavalry-captain; “an acquaintance of yours passed through here the other day, and left her compliments for you.”
“Who was she?”
“Madame Steltchínsky.”
“I don’t know any Madame Steltchínsky.”
“You knew her as a girl.... She was born Véretyeff.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna. Her husband served our Governor. You must have seen him also.... A lively man, with a moustache.... He’s hooked a splendid woman, with money to boot.”
“You don’t say so,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“So she has married him.... H’m! And where have they gone?”
“To Petersburg. She also bade me remind you of a certain bonbon motto.... What sort of a motto was it, allow me to inquire?”
And the old gossip thrust forward his sharp nose.
“I don’t remember, really; some jest or other,”—returned Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“But permit me to ask, where is her brother now?”
“Piótr? Well, he’s in a bad way.”
Mr. Flitch rolled up his small, foxy eyes, and heaved a sigh.
“Why, what’s the matter?”—asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“He has taken to dissipation! He’s a ruined man.”
“But where is he now?”
“It is absolutely unknown where he is. He went off somewhere or other after a gipsy girl; that’s the most certain thing of all. He’s not in this government, I’ll guarantee that.”
“And does old Ipátoff still live there?”
“Mikhaíl Nikoláitch? That eccentric old fellow? Yes, he still lives there.”
“And is everything in his household ... as it used to be?”
“Certainly, certainly. Here now, why don’t you marry his sister-in-law? She’s not a woman, you know, she’s simply a monument, really. Ha, ha! People have already been talking among us ... ‘why,’ say they....”
“You don’t say so, sir,”—articulated Vladímir Sergyéitch, narrowing his eyes.
At that moment, Flitch was invited to a cardgame, and the conversation terminated.
Vladímir Sergyéitch had intended to returnhome promptly; but suddenly he received by special messenger a report from the overseer, that six of the peasants’ homesteads had burned down in Sásovo, and he decided to go thither himself. The distance from the government capital to Sásovo was reckoned at sixty versts. Vladímir Sergyéitch arrived toward evening at the wing with which the reader is already acquainted, immediately gave orders that the overseer and clerk should be summoned, scolded them both in proper fashion, inspected the scene of the conflagration next morning, took the necessary measures, and after dinner, after some wavering, set off to visit Ipátoff. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have remained at home, had he not heard from Flitch of Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s departure; he did not wish to meet her; but he was not averse to taking another look at Márya Pávlovna.
Vladímir Sergyéitch, as on the occasion of his first visit, found Ipátoff busy at draughts with The Folding Soul. The old man was delighted to see him; yet it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though his face were troubled, and his speech did not flow freely and readily as of old.
Vladímir Sergyéitch exchanged a silent glance with Iván Ílitch. Both winced a little; but they speedily recovered their serenity.
“Are all your family well?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Yes, thank God, I thank you sincerely,”—repliedIpátoff.—“Only Márya Pávlovna isn’t quite ... you know, she stays in her room most of the time.”
“Has she caught cold?”
“No ... she just likes to. She will make her appearance at tea.”
“And Egór Kapítonitch? What is he doing?”
“Akh! Egór Kapítonitch is a dead man. His wife has died.”
“It cannot be!”
“She died in twenty-four hours, of cholera. You wouldn’t know him now, he has become simply unrecognisable. ‘Without Matryóna Márkovna,’ he says, ‘life is a burden to me. I shall die,’ he says, ‘and God be thanked,’ he says; ‘I don’t wish to live,’ says he. Yes, he’s done for, poor fellow.”
“Akh! good heavens, how unpleasant that is!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“Poor Egór Kapítonitch!”
All were silent for a time.
“I hear that your pretty neighbour has married,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch, flushing faintly.
“Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Yes, she has.”
Ipátoff darted a sidelong glance at Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Certainly ... certainly, she has married and gone away.”
“To Petersburg?”
“To St. Petersburg.”
“Márya Pávlovna must miss her, I think. I believe they were great friends.”
“Of course she misses her. That cannot be avoided. But as for friendship, I’ll just tell you, that the friendship of girls is even worse than the friendship of men. So long as they are face to face, it’s all right; but, otherwise, it vanishes.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, by Heaven, ’tis so! Take Nadézhda Alexyéevna, for example. She hasn’t written to us since she went away; but how she promised, even vowed that she would! In truth, she’s in no mood for that now.”
“And has she been gone long?”
“Yes; it must be fully six weeks. She hurried off on the very day after the wedding, foreign fashion.”
“I hear that her brother is no longer here, either?”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause.
“No; he is not. They are city folk, you see; as though they would live long in the country!”
“And does no one know where he has gone?”
“No.”
“He just went into a rage, and—slap-bang on the ear,” remarked Iván Ílitch.
“He just went into a rage, and—slap-bang on the ear,” repeated Ipátoff. “Well, and how aboutyourself, Vladímir Sergyéitch,—what nice things have you been doing?”—he added, wheeling round on his chair.
Vladímir Sergyéitch began to tell about himself; Ipátoff listened and listened to him, and at last exclaimed:
“But why doesn’t Márya Pávlovna come? Thou hadst better go for her, Iván Ílitch.”
Iván Ílitch left the room, and returning, reported that Márya Pávlovna would be there directly.
“What’s the matter? Has she got a headache?”—inquired Ipátoff, in an undertone.
“Yes,” replied Iván Ílitch.
The door opened, and Márya Pávlovna entered. Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, bowed, and could not utter a word, so great was his amazement: so changed was Márya Pávlovna since he had seen her the last time! The rosy bloom had vanished from her emaciated cheeks; a broad black ring encircled her eyes; her lips were bitterly compressed; her whole face, impassive and dark, seemed to have become petrified.
She raised her eyes, and there was no spark in them.
“How do you feel now?” Ipátoff asked her.
“I am well,”—she replied; and sat down at the table, on which the samovár was already bubbling.
Vladímir Sergyéitch was pretty thoroughly bored that evening. But no one was in good spirits. The conversation persisted in taking a cheerless turn.
“Just listen,”—said Ipátoff, among other things, as he lent an ear to the howling of the wind;—“what notes it emits! The summer is long since past; and here is autumn passing, too, and winter is at the door. Again we shall be buried in snow-drifts. I hope the snow will fall very soon. Otherwise, when you go out into the garden, melancholy descends upon you.... Just as though there were some sort of a ruin there. The branches of the trees clash together.... Yes, the fine days are over!”
“They are over,”—repeated Iván Ílitch.
Márya Pávlovna stared silently out of the window.
“God willing, they will return,”—remarked Ipátoff.
No one answered him.
“Do you remember how finely they sang songs here that time?”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I should think they did,”—replied the old man, with a sigh.
“But you might sing to us,”—went on Vladímir Sergyéitch, turning to Márya Pávlovna;—“you have such a fine voice.”
She did not answer him.
“And how is your mother?”—Vladímir Sergyéitch inquired of Ipátoff, not knowing what to talk about.
“Thank God! she gets on nicely, considering her ailments. She came over in her little carriage to-day. She’s a broken tree, I must tell you—creak, creak, and the first you know, some young, strong sapling falls over; but she goes on standing and standing. Ekh, ha, ha!”
Márya Pávlovna dropped her hands in her lap, and bowed her head.
“And, nevertheless, her existence is hard,”—began Ipátoff again;—“rightly is it said: ‘old age is no joy.’”
“And there’s no joy in being young,”—said Márya Pávlovna, as though to herself.
Vladímir Sergyéitch would have liked to return home that night, but it was so dark out of doors that he could not make up his mind to set out. He was assigned to the same chamber, up-stairs, in which, three months previously, he had passed a troubled night, thanks to Egór Kapítonitch....
“Does he snore now?”—thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he recalled his drilling of his servant, and the sudden appearance of Márya Pávlovna in the garden....
Vladímir Sergyéitch walked to the window, and laid his brow against the cold glass. His own face gazed dimly at him from out of doors, as though his eyes were riveted upon a black curtain, and it was only after a considerable time that he was able to make out against the starless sky the branches of the trees, writhing wildly in the gloom. They were harassed by a turbulent wind.
Suddenly it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though something white had flashed along the ground.... He gazed more intently, laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaiming in an undertone: “That’s what imagination will do!” got into bed.
He fell asleep very soon; but he was not fated to pass a quiet night on this occasion either. He was awakened by a running to and fro, which arose in the house.... He raised his head from the pillow.... Agitated voices, exclamations, hurried footsteps were audible, doors were banging; now the sound of women weeping rang out, shouts were set up in the garden, other cries farther off responded.... The uproar in the house increased, and became more noisy with every moment.... “Fire!” flashed through Vladímir Sergyéitch’s mind. In alarm he sprang from his bed, and rushed to the window; but there was no redness in the sky; only, in the garden, points of flame were moving briskly along the paths,—caused by people running about with lanterns. Vladímir Sergyéitch went quickly to the door, opened it, and ran directly into Iván Ílitch. Pale, dishevelled, half-clothed, the latter was dashing onward, without himself knowing whither.
“What is it? What has happened?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch, excitedly, seizing him by the arm.
“She has disappeared; she has thrown herself into the water,”—replied Iván Ílitch, in a choking voice.
“Who has thrown herself into the water? Who has disappeared?”
“Márya Pávlovna! Who else could it be but Márya Pávlovna? She has perished, the darling! Help! Good heavens, let us run as fast as we can! Be quick, my dear people!”
And Iván Ílitch rushed down the stairs.
Vladímir Sergyéitch put on his shoes somehow, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and ran after him.
In the house he no longer encountered any one, all had hastened out into the garden; only the little girls, Ipátoff’s daughters, met him in the corridor, near the anteroom; deadly pale with terror, they stood there in their little white petticoats, with clasped hands and bare feet, beside a night-lamp set on the floor. Through the drawing-room, past an overturned table, flew Vladímir Sergyéitch to the terrace. Through the grove, in the direction of the dam, light and shadows were flashing....
“Go for boat-hooks! Go for boat-hooks asquickly as possible!”—Ipátoff’s voice could be heard shouting.
“A net, a net, a boat!”—shouted other voices.
Vladímir Sergyéitch ran in the direction of the shouts. He found Ipátoff on the shore of the pond; a lantern hung on a bough brilliantly illuminated the old man’s grey head. He was wringing his hands, and reeling like a drunken man; by his side, a woman lay writhing and sobbing on the grass; round about men were bustling. Iván Ílitch had already advanced into the water up to his knees, and was feeling the bottom with a pole; a coachman was undressing, trembling all over as he did so; two men were dragging a boat along the shore; a sharp trampling of hoofs was audible along the village street.... The wind swept past with a shriek, as though endeavouring to quench the lantern, while the pond plashed noisily, darkling in a menacing way....
“What do I hear?”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, rushing up to Ipátoff.—“Is it possible?”
“The boat-hooks—fetch the boat-hooks!”—moaned the old man by way of reply to him....
“But good gracious, perhaps you are mistaken, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch....”
“No, mistaken indeed!”—said the woman who was lying on the grass, Márya Pávlovna’s maid, in a tearful voice. “Unlucky creature that I am, I heard her myself, the darling, throw herself into the water, and struggling in the water,and screaming: ‘Save me!’ and then, once more: ‘Save me!’”
“Why didn’t you prevent her, pray?”
“But how was I to prevent her, dear little father, my lord? Why, when I discovered it, she was no longer in her room, but my heart had a foreboding, you know; these last days she has been so sad all the time, and has said nothing; so I knew how it was, and rushed straight into the garden, just as though some one had made me do it; and suddenly I heard something go splash! into the water: ‘Save me!’ I heard the cry: ‘Save me!’... Okh, my darling, light of my eyes!”
“But perhaps it only seemed so to thee!”
“Seemed so, forsooth! But where is she? what has become of her?”
“So that is what looked white to me in the gloom,” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch....
In the meanwhile, men had run up with boat-hooks, dragged thither a net, and begun to spread it out on the grass, a great throng of people had assembled, a commotion had arisen, and a jostling ... the coachman seized one boat-hook, the village elder seized another, both sprang into the boat, put off, and set to searching the water with the hooks; the people on the shore lighted them. Strange and dreadful did their movements seem, and their shadows in the gloom, above the agitated pond, in the dim and uncertain light of the lanterns.
“He ... here, the hook has caught!”—suddenly cried the coachman.
All stood stock-still where they were.
The coachman pulled the hook toward him, and bent over.... Something horned and black slowly came to the surface....
“A tree-stump,”—said the coachman, pulling away the hook.
“But come back, come back!”—they shouted to him from the shore.—“Thou wilt accomplish nothing with the hooks; thou must use the net.”
“Yes, yes, the net!”—chimed in others.
“Stop,”—said the elder;—“I’ve got hold of something also ... something soft, apparently,”—he added, after a brief pause.
A white spot made its appearance alongside the boat....
“The young lady!”—suddenly shouted the elder.—“’Tis she!”
He was not mistaken.... The hook had caught Márya Pávlovna by the sleeve of her gown. The coachman immediately seized her, dragged her out of the water ... in a couple of powerful strokes the boat was at the shore.... Ipátoff, Iván Ílitch, Vladímir Sergyéitch, all rushed to Márya Pávlovna, raised her up, bore her home in their arms, immediately undressed her, and began to roll her, and warm her.... But all their efforts, their exertions,proved vain.... Márya Pávlovna did not come to herself.... Life had already left her.
Early on the following morning, Vladímir Sergyéitch left Ipátovka; before his departure, he went to bid farewell to the dead woman. She was lying on the table in the drawing-room in a white gown.... Her thick hair was not yet entirely dry, a sort of mournful surprise was expressed on her pale face, which had not had time to grow distorted; her parted lips seemed to be trying to speak, and ask something; ... her hands, convulsively clasped, as though with grief, were pressed tight to her breast.... But with whatever sorrowful thought the poor drowned girl had perished, death had laid upon her the seal of its eternal silence and peace ... and who understands what a dead face expresses during those few moments when, for the last time, it meets the glance of the living before it vanishes forever and is destroyed in the grave?
Vladímir Sergyéitch stood for a while in decorous meditation before the body of Márya Pávlovna, crossed himself thrice, and left the room, without having noticed Iván Ílitch who was weeping softly in one corner.... And he was not the only one who wept that day: all the servants in the house wept bitterly: Márya Pávlovna had left a good memory behind her.
The following is what old Ipátoff wrote, aweek later, in reply to a letter which had come, at last, from Nadézhda Alexyéevna:
“One week ago, dear Madam, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, my unhappy sister-in-law, your acquaintance, Márya Pávlovna, wilfully ended her own life, by throwing herself by night into the pond, and we have already committed her body to the earth. She decided upon this sad and terrible deed, without having bidden me farewell, without leaving even a letter or so much as a note, to declare her last will.... But you know better than any one else, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, on whose soul this great and deadly sin must fall! May the Lord God judge your brother, for my sister-in-law could not cease to love him, nor survive the separation....”
“One week ago, dear Madam, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, my unhappy sister-in-law, your acquaintance, Márya Pávlovna, wilfully ended her own life, by throwing herself by night into the pond, and we have already committed her body to the earth. She decided upon this sad and terrible deed, without having bidden me farewell, without leaving even a letter or so much as a note, to declare her last will.... But you know better than any one else, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, on whose soul this great and deadly sin must fall! May the Lord God judge your brother, for my sister-in-law could not cease to love him, nor survive the separation....”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna received this letter in Italy, whither she had gone with her husband, Count de Steltchínsky, as he was called in all the hotels. He did not visit hotels alone, however; he was frequently seen in gambling-houses, in the Kur-Saal at the baths.... At first he lost a great deal of money, then he ceased to lose, and his face assumed a peculiar expression, not precisely suspicious, nor yet precisely insolent, like that which a man has who unexpectedly gets involved in scandals.... He saw his wife rarely. But Nadézhda Alexyéevna did not languish in his absence. She developed a passion for painting and the fine arts. She associated chiefly with artists, and was fond of discussing the beautifulwith young men. Ipátoff’s letter grieved her greatly, but did not prevent her going that same day to “the Dogs’ Cave,” to see how the poor animals suffocated when immersed in sulphur fumes.
She did not go alone. She was escorted by divers cavaliers. Among their number, a certain Mr. Popelin, an artist—a Frenchman, who had not finished his course—with a small beard, and dressed in a checked sack-coat, was the most agreeable. He sang the newest romances in a thin tenor voice, made very free-and-easy jokes, and although he was gaunt of form, yet he ate a very great deal.
Itwas a sunny, cold January day; a multitude of people were strolling on the Névsky Prospékt. The clock on the tower of the city hall marked three o’clock. Along the broad stone slabs, strewn with yellow sand, was walking, among others, our acquaintance Vladímir Sergyéitch Astákhoff. He has grown very virile since we parted from him; his face is framed in whiskers, and he has grown plump all over, but he has not aged. He was moving after the crowd at a leisurely pace, and now and then casting a glance about him; he was expecting hiswife; she had preferred to drive up in the carriage with her mother. Vladímir Sergyéitch married five years ago, precisely in the manner which he had always desired: his wife was wealthy, and with the best of connections. Courteously lifting his splendidly brushed hat when he met his numerous acquaintances, Vladímir Sergyéitch was still stepping out with the free stride of a man who is satisfied with his lot, when suddenly, just at the Passage,[30]he came near colliding with a gentleman in a Spanish cloak and foraging-cap, with a decidedly worn face, a dyed moustache, and large, swollen eyes. Vladímir Sergyéitch drew aside with dignity, but the gentleman in the foraging-cap glanced at him, and suddenly exclaimed:
“Ah! Mr. Astákhoff, how do you do?”
Vladímir Sergyéitch made no reply, and stopped short in surprise. He could not comprehend how a gentleman who could bring himself to walk on the Névsky in a foraging-cap could be acquainted with his name.
“You do not recognise me,”—pursued the gentleman in the cap:—“I saw you eight years ago, in the country, in the T*** Government, at the Ipátoffs’. My name is Véretyeff.”
“Akh! Good heavens! excuse me!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“But how you have changed since then!...”
“Yes, I have grown old,”—returned Piótr Alexyéitch, passing his hand, which was devoid of a glove, over his face.—“But you have not changed.”
Véretyeff had not so much aged as fallen away and sunk down. Small, delicate wrinkles covered his face; and when he spoke, his lips and cheeks twitched slightly. From all this it was perceptible that the man had been living hard.
“Where have you disappeared to all this time, that you have not been visible?”—Vladímir Sergyéitch asked him.
“I have been wandering about here and there. And you have been in Petersburg all the while?”
“Yes, most of the time.”
“Are you married?”
“Yes.”
And Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a rather severe mien, as though with the object of saying to Véretyeff: “My good fellow, don’t take it into thy head to ask me to present thee to my wife.”
Véretyeff understood him, apparently. An indifferent sneer barely flitted across his lips.
“And how is your sister?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“Where is she?”
“I cannot tell you for certain. She must be in Moscow. I have not received any letters from her this long time!”
“Is her husband alive?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Ipátoff?”
“I don’t know; probably he is alive also; but he may be dead.”
“And that gentleman—what the deuce was his name?—Bodryakóff,—what of him?”
“The one you invited to be your second—you remember, when you were so scared? Why, the devil knows!”
Vladímir Sergyéitch maintained silence for a while, with dignity written on his face.
“I always recall with pleasure those evenings,”—he went on,—“when I had the opportunity” (he had nearly said, “the honour”) “of making the acquaintance of your sister and yourself. She was a very amiable person. And do you sing as agreeably as ever?”
“No; I have lost my voice.... But that was a good time!”
“I visited Ipátovka once afterward,”—added Vladímir Sergyéitch, elevating his eyebrows mournfully. “I think that was the name of that village—on the very day of a terrible event....”
“Yes, yes, that was frightful, frightful,”—Véretyeff hastily interrupted him.—“Yes, yes. And do you remember how you came near fighting with my present brother-in-law?”
“H’m! I remember!”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, slowly.—“However, I must confess toyou that so much time has elapsed since then, that all that sometimes seems to me like a dream....”
“Like a dream,”—repeated Véretyeff, and his pale cheeks flushed;—“like a dream ... no, it was not a dream, for me at all events. It was the time of youth, of mirth and happiness, the time of unlimited hopes, and invincible powers; and if it was a dream, then it was a very beautiful dream. And now, you and I have grown old and stupid, we dye our moustaches, and saunter on the Névsky, and have become good for nothing; like broken-winded nags, we have become utterly vapid and worn out; it cannot be said that we are pompous and put on airs, nor that we spend our time in idleness; but I fear we drown our grief in drink,—that is more like a dream, and a hideous dream. Life has been lived, and lived in vain, clumsily, vulgarly—that’s what is bitter! That’s what one would like to shake off like a dream, that’s what one would like to recover one’s self from!... And then ... everywhere, there is one frightful memory, one ghost.... But farewell!”
Véretyeff walked hastily away; but on coming opposite the door of one of the principal confectioners on the Névsky, he halted, entered, and after drinking a glass of orange vodka at the buffet, he wended his way through the billiard-room, all dark and dim with tobacco-smoke, to the rear room. There he found several acquaintances, his former comrades—Pétya Lazúrin, Kóstya Kovróvsky, and Prince Serdiukóff, and two other gentlemen who were called simply Vasiúk, and Filát. All of them were men no longer young, though unmarried; some of them had lost their hair, others were growing grey; their faces were covered with wrinkles, their chins had grown double; in a word, these gentlemen had all long since passed their prime, as the saying is. Yet all of them continued to regard Véretyeff as a remarkable man, destined to astonish the universe; and he was wiser than they only because he was very well aware of his utter and radical uselessness. And even outside of his circle, there were people who thought concerning him, that if he had not ruined himself, the deuce only knows what he would have made of himself.... These people were mistaken. Nothing ever comes of Véretyeffs.
Piótr Alexyéitch’s friends welcomed him with the customary greetings. At first he dumbfounded them with his gloomy aspect and his splenetic speeches; but he speedily calmed down, cheered up, and affairs went on in their wonted rut.
But Vladímir Sergyéitch, as soon as Véretyeff left him, contracted his brows in a frown and straightened himself up. Piótr Alexyéitch’s unexpected sally had astounded, even offended him extremely.
“‘We have grown stupid, we drink liquor, we dye our moustaches’ ...parlez pour vous, mon cher,”—he said at last, almost aloud, and emitting a couple of snorts caused by an access of involuntary indignation, he was preparing to continue his stroll.
“Who was that talking with you?”—rang out a loud and self-confident voice behind him.
Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round and beheld one of his best friends, a certain Mr. Pompónsky. This Mr. Pompónsky, a man of lofty stature, and stout, occupied a decidedly important post, and never once, from his very earliest youth, had he doubted himself.
“Why, a sort of eccentric,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, linking his arm in Mr. Pompónsky’s.
“Good gracious, Vladímir Sergyéitch, is it permissible for a respectable man to chat on the street with an individual who wears a foraging-cap on his head? ’Tis indecent! I’m amazed! Where could you have made acquaintance with such a person?”
“In the country.”
“In the country.... One does not bow to one’s country neighbours in town....ce n’est pas comme il faut. A gentleman should always bear himself like a gentleman if he wishes that....”
“Here is my wife,”—Vladímir Sergyéitch hastily interrupted him.—“Let us go to her.”
And the two gentlemen directed their steps to a low-hung, elegant carriage, from whose window there peered forth the pale, weary, and irritatingly-arrogant little face of a woman who was still young, but already faded.
Behind her another lady, also apparently in a bad humour,—her mother,—was visible. Vladímir Sergyéitch opened the door of the carriage, and offered his arm to his wife. Pompónsky gave his to the mother-in-law, and the two couples made their way along the Névsky Prospékt, accompanied by a short, black-haired footman in yellowish-grey gaiters, and with a big cockade on his hat.
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“IT is enough,” I said to myself, while my feet, treading unwillingly the steep slope of the mountain, bore me downward toward the quiet river; “it is enough,” I repeated, as I inhaled the resinous scent of the pine grove, to which the chill of approaching evening had imparted a peculiar potency and pungency; “it is enough,” I said once more, as I seated myself on a mossy hillock directly on the brink of the river and gazed at its dark, unhurried waves, above which a thick growth of reeds lifted their pale-green stalks.... “It is enough!—Have done with dreaming, with striving: ’tis high time to pull thyself together;’tis high time to clutch thy head with both hands and bid thy heart be still. Give over pampering thyself with the sweet indulgence of indefinite but captivating sensations; give over running after every new form of beauty; give over seizing every tremor of its delicate and powerful pinions.—Everything is known, everything has been felt over and over again many times already.... I am weary.—What care I that at this very moment the dawn is suffusing the sky ever more and more broadly, like some inflamed, all-conquering passion! What care I that two paces from me, amid the tranquillity and the tenderness and the gleam of evening, in the dewy depths of a motionless bush, a nightingale has suddenly burst forth in such magical notes as though there had never been any nightingales in the world before it, and as though it were the first to chant the first song of the first love! All that has been, has been, I repeat; it has been recapitulated a thousand times—and when one remembers that all this will so continue for a whole eternity—as though to order, by law—one even grows vexed! Yes ... vexed!”
Eh, how I have suffered! Formerly such thoughts never entered my head—formerly, in those happy days when I myself was wont toflame like the glow of dawn, and to sing like the nightingale.—I must confess that everything has grown obscure round about me, all life has withered. The light which gives to its colours both significance and power—that light which emanates from the heart of man—has become extinct within me.... No, it has not yet become extinct—but it is barely smouldering, without radiance and without warmth. I remember how one day, late at night, in Moscow, I stepped up to the grated window of an ancient church and leaned against the uneven glass. It was dark under the low arches; a forgotten shrine-lamp flickered with a red flame in front of an ancient holy picture, and only the lips of the holy face were visible, stern and suffering: mournful gloom closed in around and seemed to be preparing to crush with its dull weight the faint ray of unnecessary light.... And in my heart reign now the same sort of light and the same sort of gloom.
Andthis I write to thee—to thee, my only and unforgettable friend; to thee, my dear companion,[31]whom I have left forever, but whom I shall never cease to love until my life ends.... Alas! thou knowest what it was that separated us. ButI will not refer to that now. I have left thee ... but even here, in this remote nook, at this distance, in this exile, I am all permeated with thee, I am in thy power as of yore, as of yore I feel the sweet pressure of thy hands upon my bowed head!—Rising up for the last time, from the mute grave in which I now am lying, I run a mild, much-moved glance over all my past, over all our past.... There is no hope and no return, but neither is there any bitterness in me, or regret; and clearer than the heavenly azure, purer than the first snows on the mountain heights, are my beautiful memories.... They do not press upon me in throngs: they pass by in procession, like those muffled figures of the Athenian god-born ones, which—dost thou remember?—we admired so greatly on the ancient bas-reliefs of the Vatican....
I havejust alluded to the light which emanates from the human heart and illumines everything which surrounds it.... I want to talk with thee about that time when that gracious light burned in my heart.—Listen ... but I imagine that thou art sitting in front of me, and gazing at me with thine affectionate but almost severely-attentive eyes. O eyes never to be forgotten! On whom, on what are they now fixed? Who is receiving into his soul thy glance—that glancewhich seems to flow from unfathomable depths, like those mysterious springs—like you both bright and dark—which well up at the very bottom of narrow valleys, beneath overhanging cliffs?... Listen.
Itwas at the end of March, just before the Feast of the Annunciation, shortly after I saw thee for the first time—and before I as yet suspected what thou wert destined to become to me, although I already bore thee, silently and secretly in my heart.—I was obliged to cross one of the largest rivers in Russia. The ice had not yet begun to move in it, but it seemed to have swollen up and turned dark; three days previously a thaw had set in. The snow was melting round about diligently but quietly; everywhere water was oozing out; in the light air a soundless breeze was roving. The same even, milky hue enveloped earth and sky: it was not a mist, but it was not light; not a single object stood out from the general opacity; everything seemed both near and indistinct. Leaving my kibítka far behind, I walked briskly over the river-ice, and with the exception of the beat of my own footsteps, I could hear nothing. I walked on, enveloped on all sides by the first stupor and breath of early spring ... and little by little augmenting with every step, with everymovement in advance, there gradually rose up and grew within me a certain joyous incomprehensible agitation.... It drew me on, it hastened my pace—and so powerful were its transports, that I came to a standstill at last and looked about me in surprise and questioningly, as though desirous of detecting the outward cause of my ecstatic condition.... All was still, white, sunny; but I raised my eyes: high above flocks of migratory birds were flying past.... “Spring! Hail, Spring!”—I shouted in a loud voice. “Hail, life and love and happiness!”—And at that same instant, with sweetly-shattering force, similar to the flower of a cactus, there suddenly flared up within me thy image—flared up and stood there, enchantingly clear and beautiful—and I understood that I loved thee, thee alone, that I was all filled with thee....
I thinkof thee ... and many other memories, other pictures rise up before me,—and thou art everywhere, on all the paths of my life I encounter thee.—Now there presents itself to me an old Russian garden on the slope of a hill, illuminated by the last rays of the summer sun. From behind silvery poplars peeps forth the wooden roof of the manor-house, with a slender wreath of crimson smoke hanging above the whitechimney, and in the fence a wicket-gate stands open a crack, as though some one had pulled it to with undecided hand. And I stand and wait, and gaze at that gate and at the sand on the garden paths; I wonder and I am moved: everything I see seems to me remarkable and new, everything is enveloped with an atmosphere of a sort of bright, caressing mystery, and already I think I hear the swift rustle of footsteps; and I stand, all alert and light, like a bird which has just folded its wings and is poised ready to soar aloft again—and my heart flames and quivers in joyous dread before the imminent happiness which is flitting on in front....
ThenI behold an ancient cathedral in a distant, beautiful land. The kneeling people are crowded close in rows; a prayerful chill, something solemn and sad breathes forth from the lofty, bare vault, from the huge pillars which branch upward.—Thou art standing by my side, speechless and unsympathetic, exactly as though thou wert a stranger to me; every fold of thy dark gown hangs motionless, as though sculptured; motionless lie the mottled reflections of the coloured windows at thy feet on the well-worn flagstones.—And now, vigorously agitating the air dim with incense, inwardly agitating us, in a heavysurge the tones of the organ roll out; and thou hast turned pale and drawn thyself up; thy gaze has touched me, has slipped on higher and is raised heavenward;—but it seems to me that only a deathless soul can look like that and with such eyes....
Nowanother picture presents itself to me.—’Tis not an ancient temple which crushes us with its stern magnificence: the low walls of a cosey little room separate us from the whole world.—What am I saying? We are alone—alone in all the world; except us two there is no living thing; beyond those friendly walls lie darkness and death and emptiness. That is not the wind howling, that is not the rain streaming in floods; it is Chaos wailing and groaning; it is its blind eyes weeping. But with us all is quiet and bright, and warm and gracious; something diverting, something childishly innocent is fluttering about like a butterfly, is it not? We nestle up to each other, we lean our heads together and both read a good book; I feel the slender vein in thy delicate temple beating; I hear how thou art living, thou hearest how I am living, thy smile is born upon my face before it comes on thine; thou silently repliest to my silent question; thy thoughts, my thoughts, are like the two wings of one and thesame bird drowned in the azure.... The last partitions have fallen—and our love has become so calm, so profound, every breach has vanished so completely, leaving no trace behind it, that we do not even wish to exchange a word, a glance.... We only wish to breathe, to breathe together, to live together, to be together, ... and not even to be conscious of the fact that we are together....
Or, in conclusion, there presents itself to me a clear September morning when thou and I were walking together through the deserted garden, as yet not wholly out of bloom, of an abandoned palace, on the bank of a great non-Russian river, beneath the soft radiance of a cloudless sky. Oh, how shall I describe those sensations?—that endlessly-flowing river, that absence of people, and tranquillity, and joy, and a certain intoxicating sadness, and the vibration of happiness, the unfamiliar, monotonous town, the autumnal croaking of the daws in the tall, bright trees—and those affectionate speeches and smiles and glances long and soft, which pierce to the very bottom, and beauty,—the beauty in ourselves, round about, everywhere;—it is beyond words. Oh, bench on which we sat in silence, with heads drooping low with happiness—I shall never forget thee to my dying hour!—How charming were those rare passers-by with their gentle greeting and kind faces, and the large, quiet boats which floated past (on one of them—dost thou remember?—stood a horse gazing pensively at the water gliding by under its feet), the childish babble of the little waves inshore and the very barking of distant dogs over the expanse of the river, the very shouts of the corpulent under-officer at the red-cheeked recruits drilling there on one side, with their projecting elbows and their legs thrust forward like the legs of cranes!... We both felt that there never had been and never would be anything better in the world for us than those moments—than all the rest.... But what comparisons are these! Enough ... enough.... Alas! yes: it is enough.
Forthe last time I have surrendered myself to these memories, and I am parting from them irrevocably—as a miser, after gloating for the last time upon his hoard, his gold, his bright treasure, buries it in the damp earth; as the wick of an exhausted lamp, after flashing up in one last brilliant flame, becomes covered with grey ashes. The little wild animal has peered forth for the last time from his lair at the velvety grass, at the fair little sun, at the blue, gracious waters,—andhas retreated to the deepest level, and curled himself up in a ball, and fallen asleep. Will he have visions, if only in his sleep, of the fair little sun, and the grass, and the blue, gracious waters?
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Sternlyand ruthlessly does Fate lead each one of us—and only in the early days do we, occupied with all sorts of accidents, nonsense, ourselves, fail to feel her harsh hand.—So long as we are able to deceive ourselves and are not ashamed to lie, it is possible to live and to hope without shame. The truth—not the full truth (there can be no question of that), but even that tiny fraction which is accessible to us—immediately closes our mouths, binds our hands, and reduces “to negation.”—The only thing that is then left for a man, in order to keep erect on his feet and not crumble to dust, not to become bemired in the ooze of self-forgetfulness, is self-scorn; is to turn calmly away from everything and say: “It is enough!”—and folding his useless arms on his empty breast to preserve the last, the sole merit which is accessible to him, the merit of recognising his own insignificance; the merit to which Pascal alludes, when, calling man a thinking reed, he says that if the entire universe were to crush him, he, that reed, would still be higher than the universe because he would know that it is crushing him—while it would not know that. A feeble merit! Sad consolation! Try as thou mayest to permeate thyself with it, to believe in it,—oh, thou my poor brother, whosoever thou mayest be!—thou canst not refute those ominous words of the poet: