The sweet, quiet night came, and brought her enchantments. The weary din of day lost itself in oblivion. The clear, tranquil, anaemic moon encircled herself with her own radiance, basked in her own light. She looked at the earth and did not dissipate the mist—it was as if she had taken to herself all the brightness and translucence of the sun’s last afterglow. A calm poured itself out upon the earth and upon the water, and embraced every tree, every bush, every blade of grass.
A soothing mood took possession of Elisaveta. It struck her as strange that they should have quarrelled and stood facing one another like enemies. Why shouldn’t she love him? Why not give herself up to him, submit to the will of another, make it her will? Why all this noisy discussion, these fine, yet remote words about a struggle, about ideals?
Every one in the house, she thought, was tired—was it with the heat? With wrangling? With a secret sorrow inducing sleep, soothingness? The sisters went to their rooms somewhat earlier than usual. Fatigue and a languorous sadness oppressed them. The sisters’ bedrooms were next to each other, one entering the other by a wide, always open door. They could hear one another. The even breathing of her sleeping sister gave a poignant reality to the terrible world of night and slumber.
Elisaveta and Elena did not converse long that night. They parted early. Elisaveta undressed herself, lit a candle, and began to admire herself in the cold, dead, indifferent mirror. Pearl-like were the moon’s reflections on the lines of her graceful body. Palpitating were her white girlish breasts, crowned by two rubies. The living, passionate form stood flaming and throbbing, strangely white in the tranquil rays of the moon. The gradual curves of the body and legs were precise and delicate. The skin stretched across the knees hinted at the elastic energy that it covered. And equally elastic and energetic were the curves of the calves and the feet.
Elisaveta’s body flamed all over, as though a fire had penetrated the whole sweet, sensitive flesh; and oh, how she wished to press, to cling, to embrace! If he would only come! Only by day he spoke to her his dead-sounding words of love, kindled by the kisses of the accursed Dragon. Oh, if he would only come by night to the secretly flaming great Fire of the blossoming Flesh!
Did he love her? Was his a final and a single-souled love conquering by the eternal spirit of the divine Aphrodite? Where love is there daring should be also. Is love, then, gentle, meek, obedient? Is it not a flame, decreed to take what is its own without waiting?
Her eager, impatient fancies seethed. If he only had come he would have been a young god. But he was only a human being who bowed down before his idol; he was a small slave of a small demon. He did not come, he had not dared, he had not guessed: a dark grief came over Elisaveta from the secret seething of her passion.
As she looked at her wonderful image in the mirror, Elisaveta thought:
“Perhaps he is praying. The weak and the haughty—why do they pray? They should be taught to be joyous, to remake their religion and be the first in the new sect.”
Elisaveta could not sleep. Desire tormented her; she did not know what she wanted—was it to go?—to wait? She walked out on the balcony. The nocturnal coolness caressed her naked body. She stood there long; the contact of her naked feet with the warm, moist boards was pleasant. She looked into the pale light of the mist-wrapt garden dreaming there under the moon. She recalled at this moment the details of the day’s walk, and all that they had seen in Trirodov’s house; she recalled it all so clearly, with almost the vividness of a hallucination. Then a drowsiness crept up, seized her. And Elisaveta could not recall later how she found herself in her bed. It was almost as if an invisible being had carried her, tucked her in, and rocked her to sleep.
It was a restless, tormenting sleep. She saw horrible visions, nightmares. They were remarkably clear and real.
She was in a very dusty room. The air in it was stifling, it oppressed her breast. The walls were covered with bookcases filled with books. The tables were also covered with books—all new, slender, with bright covers. The title-pages were for some reason ponderous, terrible to look at. A tall, gaunt, long-haired student entered; his hair was very straight, his face morose and grey, he wore spectacles. He whispered:
“Hide them.”
And he placed on the table a bundle of books and pamphlets. Some one behind Elisaveta stretched out a hand, took the books, and thrust them under the table. Then came a woman student, strangely resembling the man student yet quite different; she was short, thick, red-cheeked, short-haired, cheerful, and wore pince-nez. She also brought a bundle of books, and said quietly:
“Hide them.”
Elisaveta hid the books in the bookcase and was afraid of something.
Then came more students, working men, young women, schoolboys, military men, officials, and clerks; each, placing a packet of books on the table, whispered:
“Hide them.”
Each one slipped away. And Elisaveta went to work to hide the books. She put them in the table drawer, in the cupboard, under the sofas, behind the doors, and in the fireplace. But the pile of books on the table grew and grew; more and more persistent became the whisper:
“Hide them.”
There was no hiding-place left, and yet the books were still being brought in—there was no end to them. Everywhere books—they were pressing on her breast....
Elisaveta awakened. Some one’s face was bending over her. The bedcover slipped from her handsome body. Elena was whispering something. Elisaveta asked her in a drowsy voice:
“Did I wake you?”
“You cried out so,” said Elena.
“I’ve had such a stupid dream,” whispered Elisaveta.
She went to sleep again, and again the same hoard of books. There were so many books that even the window-sills were piled up with them, and a dim and dusty gleam of light barely penetrated. An ominous silence tormented her. Behind the counter at her side stood a student and two boys, strangely erect; they were pale, and seemed to wait for something. All at once the door opened noiselessly. Many men entered, making a loud noise with their boots—first a police official, then another, then a detective in gold-rimmed spectacles, a house-porter, another house-porter, a muzhik, a policeman, another muzhik, another house-porter. More and more came; they filled the room, and still they came—huge, moody, silent fellows. Elisaveta felt it stifling; she awoke.
Again she dropped into sleep, again she was tormented by horrible visions oppressing the breast.
She dreamt that the house was being searched.
“An illegal book!” exclaimed a detective, looking ominously at her as he put a book on the table.
The pile of the illegal books on the table began to grow. They were examined and shaken. A police official sat down to make out a list. The pen ran on, but there was not enough paper.
“More paper!” cried the official.
Page was filled after page. The official mocked at her, threatened her with a revolver.
Once more she awoke, once more she fell asleep. And still another dream.
A small, frail schoolmaster with a squeaky voice came. Then another, a third, and still others—an endless flock of peaceful men with wails of revolt.
And yet another dream.
The city square was bathed in the bright sunlight. A muzhik appeared and shouted at the top of his voice:
“Hey there! Stand up for your gov’r-ment, and for holy Russia!”
Another muzhik came in answer to his shout, then a third and a fourth. Slowly and steadily the crowd grew, the turmoil increased. A muzhik in a white apron wearing a conspicuous emblem7made his way through the crowd and, screwing up his mouth, cried like a madman:
“For Rush-ya, I say, fel-lows, kill ‘em!”
He threw himself on Elisaveta and began to strangle her.
She awoke.
Again there was a dark, terrible dream. Nothing as yet was to be seen, it was hard to tell what was happening. But fear filled the intense darkness. Dark figures seemed to throng in it. The darkness cleared a little, the atmosphere became ominously grey. A narrow courtyard slowly outlined itself, flanked by high walls with windows closely intersected by bars. Her heart whispered audibly:
“A prison. A prison courtyard.”
Out of a narrow door prisoners were being conducted into the still dark courtyard on a cold early morning in winter. They walked in single file—a soldier, a prisoner, a soldier, a prisoner, a soldier—there seemed to be no end to it; there was a steady shuffling of feet across the courtyard. A small gate opened in the wall with a creaking sound. All walked through it. And beyond the wall Elisaveta already caught a glimpse of a flat, endless field of snow, and of a whole row of gallows that stretched into the invisible distance. They were approaching these nearer and nearer—to meet their fate.
She could not remember how it happened, but she also walked with them. A soldier strode in front of her and in front of the soldier was a boy. Though the boy had his back to her she recognized him—it was Misha. Terror paralysed her tongue—when she tried to cry out she could not find her voice. Terror fettered her feet—when she tried to run she remained rooted to the spot. Terror gripped her arms—when she tried to lift them they hung helplessly at her sides.
People were being hanged at the nearest gallows and the prisoners had to walk past the hanged ones to the gallows beyond. Misha was being hanged, but he broke loose. He was hanged again, and again he broke loose. This happened an endless number of times, and each time he broke loose.
She could see a furious face and the grey bristles of trimmed moustaches. She could hear the malignant cry:
“We must finish him off!”
A shot was fired; there was a low, dull discharge: the boy fell and began to toss on the ground. Another shot—the boy kept on tossing. The shots came faster—but the boy was still alive.
Elisaveta awoke; this time she did not go to sleep again. Her heart beat half with pain, half with joy, because it was but a dream—but a dream! Her heart was bright with exultant joy.
The golden arrows of the yet quiet and gentle Dragon fell softly with sidelong glances. Evidently it was still early. In the distance Elisaveta could hear the sound of a horn and the lowing of cows. The bedroom walls were tinged with rose light. The early light stole in through the windows and messaged an altogether new, better day. A refreshing breeze blew in through the open window, the twitter of birds also entered, the air resounded with early morning joy.
Elisaveta was soon aware that Elena was also awake.
Both sisters had slept badly that night. Elisaveta was worn out by nightmares, while Elena woke several times and went to her. Both felt the sweet after-dizziness of sleep suddenly cut short by the Dragon’s sickles. Their memories pursued one another in a confused, vivid flock. They began to recall the circumstances of yesterday’s visit. A secret agitation, akin to shame, stole over them. Little by little they conquered this feeling during the day. Alone again, they discussed what they had seen at Trirodov’s. A strange forgetfulness came upon them. The details of the visit grew more vague the more they tried to recall them. They found themselves in constant disagreement, and corrected one another. It might have been a dream. Now it seemed one, now the other. Was it reality or a dream? Where is the border-line? Whether life be a sweet or a bitter dream, it passes by like a swift vision!
Three days passed by. Again the day was quiet and clear, again the high Dragon smiled his malignant, excessively bright smile. He counted, as he rose, his livid seconds, his flaming minutes; and he let fall upon the earth, with a scarcely perceptible echo, his lead-heavy but transparent hours. It was three o’clock in the afternoon; they had just finished luncheon. The Rameyevs and the Matovs were at home. Again Elisaveta wrangled with Piotr and, as before, the discussion was long, heated and discordant—every one left the table flustered and depressed; the hopeless confusion of it all deeply affected even the usually composed Miss Harrison.
The sisters were left by themselves. They went out on the lower balcony and pretended to read. They appeared to be waiting for something. This waiting made their hearts beat fast under their heaving breasts.
Elisaveta, letting the book fall upon her knees, was the first to break the heavy silence.
“I think he is coming to-day.”
The breeze blew at that moment, there was a rustle in the foliage and a little bird suddenly began to chirp away somewhere—and it seemed as if the depressed garden were glad because of these lively, resonant, quickly uttered words.
“Who?” asked Elena.
The insincerity of her question made her flush quite suddenly. She knew very well whom Elisaveta meant. The latter glanced at her and said:
“Trirodov, of course. It is strange that we should be waiting for him.”
“I think he promised to come,” said Elena indecisively.
“Yes,” answered Elisaveta, “I think he said something at that strange mirror.”
“It was earlier,” observed Elena.
“Yes, I am mixing it all up,” said Elisaveta. “I don’t understand how I could forget so quickly.”
“I too am tangling things up badly,” confessed Elena, astonished at herself. “I feel very tired, I don’t know why.”
The soft noise of wheels over a sandy road grew closer and closer. At last a light trap, drawn by a horse in English harness, could be seen turning into the alley of birches and stopping before the house. The sisters rose nervously. Their faces wore their habitually pleasant smiles and their hands did not tremble.
Trirodov gave the reins to Kirsha, who drove away.
The meeting proved an embarrassing one. The sisters’ agitation was evident in their polite, empty phrases. They entered the drawing-room. Presently Rameyev, accompanied by the Matov brothers, came in to welcome the guest. There was the usual exchange of compliments, of meaningless phrases—as everywhere, as always.
Piotr was uneasy and hostile. He spoke abruptly and with evident unwillingness. Misha looked on with curiosity. He liked Trirodov—he had already heard something about him which assured pleasant relations between them.
The conversation developed rapidly and politely. Not a word was said about the sisters’ visit to Trirodov.
“We’ve heard a great deal about you,” began Rameyev, “I’m glad to know you.”
Trirodov smiled, and his smile seemed slightly derisive. Elisaveta remarked:
“I suppose you think our being glad to see you merely a polite phrase.”
There was sharpness in her voice. Elisaveta, realizing this, suddenly flushed. Rameyev looked at her in astonishment.
“No, I don’t think that,” put in Trirodov. “There’s real pleasure in meeting.”
“That’s the usual thing to say in polite society,” said Piotr quietly.
Trirodov glanced at him with a smile and turned to Rameyev.
“I say it in all sincerity, I am glad to have made your acquaintance. I live very much alone and so am all the more glad of the fortunate circumstance that has brought me here on a matter of business.”
“Business?” asked Rameyev in astonishment.
“I can put the matter in a few words,” said Trirodov. “I wish to extend my estate.”
There was a tinge of sadness in Rameyev’s answer:
“You have bought the better part of the Prosianiya Meadows.”
Trirodov said:
“It’s not quite large enough. I should like to acquire the rest of it—for my colony.”
“I shouldn’t like to let the rest go,” remarked Rameyev. “It belongs to Piotr and Misha.”
“As far as it concerns me,” put in Piotr, “I’d sell my share with the greatest pleasure before those ‘comrade’ fellows take it from me for nothing.”
Misha was silent, but it was evident that the thought of selling his native soil was distasteful to him. He seemed on the point of bursting into tears.
“In my opinion,” observed Rameyev, “the land needn’t be sold. I shouldn’t advise it. I wouldn’t think of selling Misha’s share until he came of age—and I shouldn’t advise you to sell yours either, Piotr.”
Misha, gladdened, glanced gratefully at Rameyev, who continued:
“I can direct you to another plot of land which happens to be on sale. I hope it will suit your needs.”
Trirodov thanked him.
His educational institution now became the topic of conversation.
“Your school, of course, brings you into contact with the Headmaster of the National Schools. How do you manage to get along with him?” asked Rameyev.
Trirodov smiled contemptuously.
“Not at all,” he said.
“A clumsy person, this fellow with his feminine voice,” went on Rameyev. “He’s an ambitious, cold-blooded man. He’s likely to do you an injury.”
“I’m used to it,” answered Trirodov calmly. “We are all used to it.”
“They might close your school,” suggested Piotr in a tone of sharp derision.
“And again they might not,” asserted Trirodov.
“But if they should?” persisted Piotr.
“Let us hope for the best,” said Rameyev.
Elisaveta looked affectionately at her father. But Trirodov said quietly in his own defence:
“The school might be closed, but it is hard to prevent any one from living on the soil and running a farm. If the school should cease being a mere school and become an educational farm, it would succeed in replacing the large farms as they are now run by their proprietors.”
“But that is Utopia,” said Piotr in some irritation.
“Very well, then, we’ll establish Utopia,” said Trirodov, unruffled.
“But as a beginning you hope to destroy what exists?” asked Piotr.
“Why?” exclaimed Trirodov, astonished.
Strangely agitated, Piotr said:
“The comrades’ proposed division of land, if carried into force, would lead to a crushing of culture and science.”
“I don’t understand this alarm for science and culture,” replied Trirodov. “Both one and the other are sufficiently strong to stand up for themselves.”
“Nevertheless,” argued Piotr, “monuments of civilization are being demolished by thisKham8who is trying to replace us.”
“It is not our monuments of civilization alone that are being destroyed,” retorted Trirodov patiently. “This is very sad, of course, and proper measures should be taken. But the sufferings of the people are so great.... The value of human life is, after all, greater than the value of such monuments.”
In this peculiarly Russian manner the conversation quickly passed on to general themes. Trirodov, who took a large share in it, spoke with a calm assurance. They listened to him with deep attention.
Of his five auditors only Piotr was not captivated. He was tormented by a feeling of hostility to Trirodov. He glanced at Trirodov with suspicion and hate. He was exasperated by Trirodov’s confident tone and facile speech. Piotr’s remarks addressed to the visitor were often caustic, even coarse. Rameyev looked vexed at Piotr now and then, but Trirodov appeared not to notice his sallies, and was simple, tranquil, and courteous. In the end Piotr was compelled to restrain himself and abandon his sharp manner. Then he grew silent altogether. After Trirodov’s departure Piotr left the room. It was evident that he did not wish to join in any discussion about the visitor.
The day was hot, sultry, windless—helplessly prostrate before the arrowed glances of the infuriated Dragon. A number of city folk sought coolness on the float, as the buffet at the steamboat-landing was called in Skorodozh. It was less oppressive under the canvas roof of the float, where at intervals gusts of breeze came from the river.
Piotr and Misha were in town to do some shopping. They stopped on the float to get a glass of lemonade. A steamboat had just come in below them. It began to unload the passengers and wares it brought from neighbouring manufacturing towns. It was the boat’s last stopping-point, the river higher up being too shallow. For a while there was much bustle and noise on the float. The little tables were soon occupied by townsfolk and new arrivals, chiefly officials and landlords. They drank wine and talked loudly, though peacefully; they shouted in the provincial manner, and it was easy to hear that many of the conversations touched more or less on political themes.
Two men who sat at one table were in evident agreement, yet spoke in tones of anger. They were the retired District Attorney Kerbakh and the retired Colonel Zherbenev, both large land-proprietors and patriots—members of the Union of Russian People.9Their speech was loud and vehement, and interpolated with such strange words and phrases as “treachery,” “sedition,” “hang them,” “wipe them out,” “give it to them.”
Nikolai Ilyitch Kerbakh was a small, thin, puny-looking man. The long, drooping moustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face seemed to be there merely to add to its already savage appearance. He rocked in his chair as he lazily stretched himself. His large coat hung about his shoulders like a bag, his highly coloured waistcoat was unbuttoned, his string necktie hung loose, half undone. Altogether he had the look of a man who would not let such small trifles stand in the way of his comfort. Near him, fidgeting restlessly in his chair, was his son, a slobbering, black-toothed youngster of eight, with a flagging, carmine-red under-lip.
Andrey Lavrentyevitch Zherbenev, a tall, lank man with an important air, sat motionless and erect as though he were nailed to his chair, and surveyed those round him with a stern glance. His white linen coat, with all its buttons fastened, sat on him as on a bronze idol.
“In everything, I say, the parents are to blame,” continued Kerbakh in the same savage voice as before. “It is necessary to instil the right ideas from very childhood. Now look at my children....”
And he shouted at his son with unnecessary loudness, though the two sat almost nudging each other:
“Sergey!”
“Yeth?” lisped the slobbering boy.
“Stand up before me and answer.”
The youngster slipped off his chair, stretched himself smartly to his full height in front of his father, and lisped again:
“Yeth, father?”
And he surveyed those sitting at the other tables with a quick, sly look.
“What should be done with the enemies of the Tsar and the Fatherland?” asked Kerbakh.
“They should be destroyed!” answered the boy alertly.
“And afterwards?” continued his father.
The boy quickly repeated the words he had studied:
“And afterwards the foul corpses of the vile enemies of the Fatherland should be thrown on the dunghill.”
Kerbakh and Zherbenev laughed gleefully.
“That describes them—foul carrion, that’s what they are!” said Zherbenev in a hoarse voice.
A new-comer at the next table, a stranger apparently to those present, was giving an order for a bottle of beer. Of middle age and medium height, he was stout, or rather flabby; he had small glittering eyes; and his dress had seen much wear. Kerbakh and Zherbenev gave him an occasional passing glance, not of a very friendly nature. As though they took it for granted that the stranger held antagonistic views, they increased the vehemence of their speeches and spoke more and more furiously of agitators and of Little Mother Russia, and mentioned, by the way, a number of local undesirables, Trirodov among them.
The new-comer scrutinized the two speakers for a long time. It was evident that the name of Trirodov, often repeated in Kerbakh’s remarks, aroused an intense interest, even agitation, in the stranger. His fixed scrutiny of his two neighbours at last attracted their attention and they exchanged annoyed glances.
Then the stranger ventured to join in their conversation.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, “unless I am mistaken, you were speaking of Mr. Trirodov—am I right?”
“My dear sir, you....” began Kerbakh.
The new-comer immediately jumped to his feet and began to apologize profusely.
“May I impose upon your good nature to forgive my impertinent curiosity. I am Ostrov, the actor—tragedian. You may have heard of me?”
“For the first time,” said Kerbakh surlily.
“I’ve never heard the name,” said Zherbenev.
The stranger smiled pleasantly, as if he had been commended, and continued to speak without showing the slightest embarrassment:
“Well—er—I’ve played in many cities. I’m just passing through here. I’m on my way to attend to some personal business in the Rouban Government. And you just happened to mention a name very familiar to me.”
Kerbakh and Zherbenev exchanged glances. Malignant thoughts about Trirodov again took possession of their minds. Ostrov continued:
“I had no suspicion that Trirodov lived here. He is a very old and intimate acquaintance of mine. I might say we are friends.”
“So-o,” said Zherbenev severely, glancing at Ostrov with disapproval.
Something in Ostrov’s voice and manner aroused their antagonism. His glance was certainly impudent. Indeed his words and his whole demeanour were provokingly arrogant. But it was impossible to be rude with him. His words were proper enough in themselves.
“We haven’t met for some years,” Ostrov went on. “How does he manage to get on?”
“Mr. Trirodov is to all appearances a rich man,” said Kerbakh unwillingly.
“A rich man? That’s agreeable news. In fact, this wealth of Mr. Trirodov’s is of comparatively recent origin. I’m quite sure of that. Of recent origin, I assure you,” repeated Ostrov, giving a sly wink.
“And not of the cleanest?” asked Kerbakh.
He winked at Zherbenev. The latter made a grimace and chuckled. Ostrov looked cautiously at Kerbakh.
“Why do you assume so?” he asked. “No-o, I shouldn’t say that. Quite clean. Indeed, I can assure you of its clean origin,” he repeated with peculiar emphasis.
Misha looked with curiosity at the speakers. He wished to hear something about Trirodov. But Piotr quickly paid his bill and rose to go. Kerbakh tried to hold him.
“Here’s a friend of your friend Trirodov,” he said.
“I haven’t yet had time to become a friend of Trirodov’s,” Piotr answered sharply, “and I don’t intend to. As for his friends, nearly every one has his more or less strange acquaintance.”
And he quickly left with Misha. Ostrov glanced after him with a smile and said:
“A grave young man.”
“Mr. Trirodov has bought some land belonging to him and his brother,” explained Kerbakh.
Piotr Matov’s hostility to Trirodov evidently had its roots in the chance circumstance that Trirodov had bought the house and part of the estate, the Prosianiya Meadows, which formerly belonged to the paternal Matov.
Many in the town of Skorodozh remembered very well Dmitry Alexandrovitch Matov, the father of Piotr and Mikhail Matov. He had been a member of the local District Council for a single term, and was not chosen again. He could not hide his connexions and his affairs, and lost his reputation, though the scandal was hushed up. This happened when times were still quiet. During his term of office he paid visits to the governor more often than necessary.
About the same time, in response to some one’s complaint, the President of the District Council had been dispatched “in administrative order” to the Olonetsk Government. There were dark rumours about Matov. At the next election a few votes were given in his favour, but not enough. He ceased to have any connexion with the District Council.
Matov’s money affairs were in a bad state. He led a heedless life, dissipated, and roamed from place to place. Bold, headstrong, unrestrained, he lived only for his own pleasure. More than once he squandered all—to the last farthing. But invariably he found sudden means again, no one knew how, and again he would lead a dissipated, gay, profligate life. His estate was mortgaged and re-mortgaged. His relations with the peasants began to be unbearable. Their own difficulties and his temper led to constant disputes. A reign of spite began: the cattle were driven into the corn, some of the buildings were set afire, some of the peasants were gaoled.
The Prosianiya Meadows more than once passed from a period of lavish prosperity to a state of complete and hopeless poverty. This was because Matov was lucky enough to fall heir to several inheritances. Not only did people say that luck was on his side, but they also hinted at forged wills, strangled aunts, and poisoned children. Dark adventures of some sort enriched and ruined Matov by turns. It was all like some dubious, fantastic game of chance....
During the lean days the ingeniously constructed buildings on his estate were in a state of disrepair, the live stock showed decrease, the wheat was got rid of quickly and cheaply, the wood was sold for a trifling sum for lumber, the labourers were not paid for the work they had done. On the other hand, during prosperous days, following the death of some relative, things used to pick up in a marvellous way. Companies of carpenters, masons, roofers, and painters would make their appearance. The owner’s fancies were swiftly and energetically carried out. Money was spent lavishly, without reckoning the cost.
Dmitry Alexandrovitch Matov was already forty years old, and many dark, mad misdeeds weighed on his shoulders, when, quite unexpectedly to all and possibly to himself, he married a young girl with excellent means and a dark past. There was a report that she had been the mistress of a dignitary, who had begun to grow weary of her. She managed, none the less, to keep up her connexions and to collect capital. She would have been very beautiful but for a strange stain—as from fire—on her left cheek, which disfigured her. This spot was very conspicuous and completely marred the beauty of her face.
Very shortly a fierce hatred arose between husband and wife, no one knew why. The gossips said he was disappointed in his expectations, while she had found out about his mistresses and revels and had got wind of the dark rumours about his inheritances. The quarrels grew more frequent. Quite often he left his home, and always suddenly. Once he took all valuables with him and decamped, leaving with his wife only his mortgaged estate, his debts, and their two sons. A short time afterwards all sorts of reports came in about him. Some had seen him in Odessa, others in Manchuria. Later even rumours ceased.
Then came the unexpected news of his death in a remote southern town. Its cause remained unknown. Even his body had not been found. It was only certain that he had been lured into an empty, uninhabited house—there all trace of him was lost.
Matov’s widow soon died from a sudden, sharp illness. Her sons remained in the house of Rameyev. He became their guardian.
“He’s an agitator and a conspirator,” said Zherbenev sharply.
Ostrov smiled.
“All the same, I must stand up for my friend. Pardon me if I ask the question: are these calumnies against my friend actuated by patriotic reasons? Of course, from the most honourable impulses!”
“I do not take up my time with calumnies,” said Zherbenev dryly.
“Oh, I beg your pardon. But I’ll not intrude upon you any longer. I’m very grateful for the pleasant conversation and for the interesting information.”
Ostrov left them. Kerbakh and Zherbenev quietly discussed him.
“What a strange-looking man! Quite a beast!”
“Yes, what a character! I shouldn’t like to meet him alone in the woods.”
“Our poet and doctor of chemistry has fine friends, I must say!”
Elisaveta and Elena were walking again on a path close to the road that connected the Prosianiya Meadows and the Rameyev estate. The sisters were glad that it was so still and deserted around them and that the turmoil of life seemed so remote from them. Life with all its bustling movement seemed indeed distant, and it was a joy to dismiss all its conditions and proprieties from their minds and to walk with bare feet upon the soft ground, the sand, the clay, and the grass; it filled their hearts with a simple, childlike, and chaste delight.
Both were dressed alike, in short frocks; there was a sash raised rather high at the waist, two other bands crossed each other at the breast, the sleeves were cut quite short at the shoulders.
They walked on farther, and their eyes contemplated gaily and affectionately the half-hidden depths of the valleys, the woods, and the thickets. A simple-hearted devotion to this lovable nature possessed them—it was a sweet and tender devotion. It struck a deep note in Elisaveta, who was in a mood of expectancy. If only she could have met some one deserving of her love whom she might place at the crossings of all earthly and heavenly roads, and to whom she might do obeisance!
This tender devotion aroused young virginal intoxication in Elena also. She felt herself in love—not with any one in particular, but with everything: as the air loves in the springtime, kissing all in its gladness; as a stream’s currents love when they brush caressingly past boys’ and girls’ pink knees—such were the currents of the stream that suddenly became visible, winding its way among the green in the direction of the River Skorodyen, into which it emptied itself.
The bridge was some way off, and so the sisters waded the stream. There was the delicious coolness of the water round their knees. They remained standing on the bank and admired the porcupines of sand, studded sparsely with tall blades of grass as with spines; also the round pebbles made smooth by the water. Their cooled legs felt for some time afterwards the sensation of the water’s loving caresses.
Just as the running water falls in love with all beauty that is immersed in it, so Elena fell in love with all that her vision evoked for her.
Most of all her love was directed towards Piotr. His love for Elisaveta wounded her with a sweet pain.
The sisters descended into the hollow near Trirodov’s colony, ascended it again to the other side, walked along the already familiar path, and opened the gate—this time it yielded without effort. They entered. Soon they saw a lake before them. The children and their instructresses were bathing. There was a spirit of buoyancy in the brown nakedness disporting itself in the buoyant waters—buoyant were the splashes, the laughter, and the outcries!
The children and the instructresses walked out of the water upon the dry ground and ran naked upon the sand. Their legs, bare and sunburnt, seemed white in the green grass, like young birch-saplings growing out of the earth.
They suddenly caught sight of the sisters, formed a ring of beautiful wet bodies around them, and twirled in a circle at a fast, furious pace. The discarded clothes that lay there close by seemed unnecessary to the sisters at that moment. What, after all, was more beautiful and lovely than the nude, eternal body?
The sisters learnt afterwards that they more often walked about naked here than in their clothes.
The radiantly sad Nadezhda said to them:
“To lull the beast to sleep and to awaken the human being—that is the reason of our nakedness.”
The dark, black-haired Maria said with ecstasy:
“We have bared our feet in order to come in closer contact with the earth; we have become simple and happy, like people in the first garden. We have discarded our clothes in order to come closer to the elements. Caressed by these, clothed by the fire of the sun’s rays, we have discovered the human being in us. This being is not the uncouth beast thirsting for blood, or the townsman counting his profits—it is the human being, clean in body and alive with love.”
So natural, indispensable, and inevitable seemed the nakedness of these young, beautiful bodies that it appeared rather stupid to put on one’s clothes afterwards. The sisters joined in with the naked dancers, and went into the water and lay on the grass under the trees. It was pleasant to feel the beauty, the grace, and the agility of their bodies among these other twirling, beautiful, strong bodies.
Elisaveta’s observant glance detected two types among the girl instructresses. There were the rapturous ones and the dissembling ones.
The rapturous ones gave themselves up with a bacchic joy to a life lived in the embrace of chaste nature: they fervently carried out all the rites of the colony, joyously divested themselves of all fear and shame, made great efforts and self-denials; and they laughed and they flamed, overcome by a passionate thirst of noble actions and of love—a thirst which not all the waters of this poor earth can quench. Among this number were the sad Nadezhda and the ecstatic Maria.
The others, the dissembling ones, were those who had sold their time and had parted with all their habits, inclinations, and proprieties for money. They pretended that they loved children, simple life, and bodily beauty. They did not find it hard to dissemble, for the others served them as excellent models.
This time the sisters were shown the buildings of the colony, or at least as much of them as they could see in an hour, and all sorts of things made by the children—books and pictures—things that belonged to this or that child. They were shown the fruit-orchard and the garden-beds, above which the bees buzzed; and the air was fresh with the honeyed aroma of flowers half lost in the tender softness of profuse grasses.
But the sisters soon left.
They had intended to go home, but somehow they lost their way among the paths and found themselves in sight of Trirodov’s house. Elisaveta espied the high turrets rising above the white wall and recalled Trirodov’s neither young nor handsome face: she became suffused with a sweet passion, as with a rich wine—but it was an emotion not free from pain.
Before they realized it they were quite close to the white wall, near the ponderous closed gates. The small gate was open. A quiet, white boy was looking at the sisters through the crevice with an inviting glance. The sisters exchanged irresolute glances.
“Shall we go in, Vetochka10?” asked Elena.
“Yes, let’s go in,” said Elisaveta.
The sisters entered and found themselves in the garden. They found old Elikonida at the entrance. She was sitting on the bench near the small gate and was mumbling something slowly and indistinctly. Evidently no one was there to listen to her. Perhaps the old woman was talking to herself.
Old Elikonida was first engaged to nurse Kirsha; now she carried out the duties of a housekeeper. She had always been austere and never wasted a word in speaking with people. The sisters tried to draw her into conversation; they wanted to ask her things, about the ways of the house, the habits of Trirodov—they were such inquisitive girls! Elena asked many questions, although Elisaveta tried to restrain her; but they found out nothing. The old woman looked past the sisters and mumbled in answer to all questions:
“I know what I know. I have seen what I have seen.”
The quiet children approached them. They stood motionless and inanimate in the shade of the old trees, and looked at the sisters with a fixed, expressionless stare. The sisters felt uncomfortable and made haste to depart. They could hear behind them the austere mumbling of Elikonida:
“I’ve seen what I’ve seen.”
And the quiet children laughed their quiet, quiet laughter, which was truly like the sudden rustle of autumn leaves all aflutter in the air.
The sisters walked home silently. They found the right path and walked without blundering. The evening darkness was coming on. They made haste. The warm, damp earth clung to their feet and seemed to hinder their movements.
They were not far from their own house when they suddenly came upon Ostrov in the woods. He seemed to be on the look-out for something as he walked. When he saw the sisters he turned aside and stood behind the trees; then he strode forward quickly and faced them with an unexpected suddenness that made Elena shudder and Elisaveta frown. Ostrov bowed to them with derisive politeness and said:
“May I ask you something, fair ladies?”
Elisaveta surveyed him calmly and said without haste:
“What is it?”
Elena was silent with fear.
“Are you taking a walk?” asked Ostrov.
“Yes,” answered Elisaveta briefly.
“Mr. Trirodov’s house is somewhere hereabouts, unless I’m mistaken,” said Ostrov, half questioningly.
“Yes, you’ll find it by following the direction from which we came,” replied Elena.
She wanted to conquer her fear. Ostrov winked at her insolently and said:
“Thank you most humbly. And who may you be?”
“Perhaps it is not necessary that you should know,” replied Elisaveta with a half-question.
Ostrov burst into laughter and said with unpleasant familiarity:
“It may not be necessary, but it would be interesting.”
The sisters walked on rapidly, but he did not desist. They thought him repulsive. There was something alarming in his obtrusiveness.
“You evidently live hereabouts, fair ladies,” continued Ostrov; “I will therefore venture to ask you what you know about Mr. Trirodov, who interests me immensely.”
Elena laughed, perhaps somewhat dissemblingly, in order to hide her agitation and fear.
“Perhaps we don’t live hereabouts,” she said.
Ostrov whistled.
“Very likely, isn’t it, that you’ve come all the way from Moscow with your bare little feet,” he shouted angrily.
“We cannot tell you anything that can interest you,” said Elena coldly. “You had better apply to him personally. It would be more proper.”
Ostrov again burst into a sarcastic laugh and exclaimed:
“I can’t deny that that would be proper, my handsome barefoot one. But suppose he’s very busy, eh? How, then, would you advise me to get this interesting information I want?”
The sisters were silent and walked on rapidly. Ostrov persisted:
“You are of his colony? Unless I’m mistaken you are instructresses there. As far as one could judge from your light dresses and your contempt of footwear, I think I’m not mistaken, eh? Tell me, it’s an amusing life there, isn’t it?”
“No,” said Elisaveta, “we are not instructresses and we do not live there.”
“What a pity!” said Ostrov incredulously. “I might have told you something about Mr. Trirodov.”
He looked at the sisters attentively. They were silent.
“I’ve got together all sorts of information here and elsewhere,” he went on. “Curious things they tell about him, very curious indeed. And where did he get his money? In general there are many suspicious circumstances about his life.”
“Suspicious for whom?” asked Elena. “And what affair is it of ours?”
“What affair is it of yours, my charming maidens?” repeated Ostrov after her. “I have a well-founded suspicion that you are acquainted with Mr. Trirodov, and I therefore hope that you’ll tell me something about him.”
“You had better not hope,” said Elisaveta.
“And why not?” observed Ostrov in a familiar tone. “He’s an old acquaintance of mine. In years gone by we lived, drank, and roamed together. And quite suddenly I lost sight of him, and now quite as suddenly I’ve found him again. Naturally, I’m interested. As an old friend, you see!”
“Now, look here,” said Elisaveta, “we do not wish to converse with you. You had better go where you were going. We know nothing that would interest you and we have nothing to say to you.”
“So that’s it!” said Ostrov, with an insolent smile. “And now, my beauty, I’d better tell you that you’re expressing yourself a little carelessly. Suppose I whistled suddenly, eh?”
“What for?” asked Elisaveta, astonished.
“What for-r? Well, some one may come out to my whistle.”
“What then?” asked Elisaveta.
After a short silence Ostrov resumed his threatening tone:
“You may be asked to give a few details about what Mr. Trirodov is doing behind his walls.”
“Nonsense!” said Elisaveta in vexation.
“In any case, I’m only joking,” said Ostrov, suddenly changing his tone.
He was listening intently. Some one was coming towards them. The sisters recognized Piotr and walked quickly to meet him. From their haste and flustered manner Piotr understood that the man was distasteful to them. He eyed him fixedly and recalled where he had met him, whereupon he frowned and asked the sisters:
“Who is this?”
“A very inquisitive person who somehow has got an idea that we have many interesting things to tell him about Trirodov,” said Elisaveta with a smile.
Ostrov raised his hat and said:
“I’ve had the honour to see you on the float.”
“Well, what of it?” asked Piotr sharply.
“Well—er, I have the honour to remind you,” said Ostrov with exaggerated politeness.
“What are you doing here?” asked Piotr.
“I’ve had the pleasure of meeting these charming young ladies,” Ostrov began to explain.
Piotr interrupted him sharply:
“And now you let the young ladies alone and go away from here.”
“Why shouldn’t I have turned to these young ladies with a polite question and an interesting tale?” asked Ostrov.
Piotr, without replying, turned to the sisters:
“You little girls are ready to enter into conversation with every vagrant.”
An expression of bitterness crept into Ostrov’s face. Possibly this was only a game, but it was certainly well played. It made Piotr feel uncomfortable.
“A vagrant? And what is a vagrant?” asked Ostrov.
“What is a vagrant?” repeated Piotr in confusion. “What a question!”
“Well, sir, you have permitted yourself to use the word, and I’m rather interested to know in what sense you’ve used it in its application to me.”
Piotr, annoyed at being disconcerted by the stranger’s question, said sharply:
“A vagrant is one who roams about without shelter and without money and obtrudes upon others instead of attending to his own business.”
“Thank you for the definition,” said Ostrov with a bow. “It is true that I have but little money and that I’m compelled to roam about—such is the nature of my profession.”
“What is your profession?” asked Piotr.
Ostrov bowed with dignity and said:
“I’m an actor!”
“I doubt it,” said Piotr once more sharply, “you look more like a detective.”
“You are mistaken,” said Ostrov in a flustered way.
Piotr turned away from him.
“Let us go home at once,” he said to the sisters.