Sonya Svetilovitch was badly shaken by the hard, cruel events of that night in the woods. She fell ill, and remained two weeks in an unconscious state. It was feared that she would die. But she was a strong girl and conquered her illness.
Scenes from that nightmarish occasion passed before the poor girl in her heavy delirium. Grey, ferocious demons, with dim, tinny eyes, came to her, taunted her, and acted without reason. There was no place in which to hide from the hideous frenzy.
Deep oppression reigned in the Svetilovitch house. Sonya’s mother wept, and bewailed her lot. Sonya’s father spoke of the matter warmly and eloquently, with gesticulations, to his friends in his study—and inevitably got into a state of indignation. Sonya’s little brothers discussed plans of vengeance. Fräulein Berta, the governess of Sonya’s younger sister, made censorious remarks about barbarous Russia.
All the acquaintances of the Svetilovitches were also indignant. But their indignation assumed only platonic forms. Perhaps it was impossible for it to have been otherwise. To be sure, all the more or less independent people in town paid the Svetilovitches visits of sympathy. Even the liberal Inspector of Taxes came. He was a patient of Doctor Svetilovitch’s, and came during the reception hour to express his interest; incidentally he asked advice about his physical indispositions and paid no fee—in view of its being a visit of sympathy.
Sonya’s father, Doctor Sergey Lvovitch Svetilovitch, was a member of the Constitutional Democratic Party; among his own he was regarded as belonging to the extreme left wing. Like his friend Rameyev, who was a Cadet of more moderate views, he was a member of the local committee.
Doctor Svetilovitch thought he ought to protest against the improper actions of the police. He lodged complaints with the Governor and the District Attorney, and wrote circumstantial petitions to both—his chief concern being that no offending expression of any sort should enter into them.
Doctor Svetilovitch was an extremely correct and loyal man. Other people around him, if placed in unusual circumstances, might lose their presence of mind and forget their principles; others around him, friends or enemies, might act incorrectly and illegally; but Doctor Svetilovitch always remained faithful to himself. No circumstance, no earthly or heavenly power, could swerve him from the path which he acknowledged as the only true one, in so far as it conformed to Constitutional Democratic principles. The problem of expedience of conduct concerned Doctor Svetilovitch but little. The important thing was to be correct in principle. He always placed, however, the responsibility for the result this procedure achieved upon the shoulders of those who wished to follow along other lines. That was why Doctor Svetilovitch enjoyed extraordinary respect in his own party. Great weight was attached to his opinions, and in the matter of tactics his declarations were indisputable.
Several days after Doctor Svetilovitch presented his petition he had a call from an inspector of the police, who handed him, with a request for a receipt, a grey, rough paper impressed at the upper left-hand corner with the stamp of the Skorodozh governing authorities, together with a packet from the District Attorney. This last contained a white solid-looking page of foolscap folded in four, handsomely engraved with the District Attorney’s seal. Both the grey rough paper and the solid-looking page of foolscap contained approximately in the same words the answers to the complaints of Doctor Svetilovitch. These informed Doctor Svetilovitch that a very careful investigation had been made in connexion with his complaints; in conclusion, it was affirmed that Doctor Svetilovitch’s evidence as to the illegal actions of the police, and as to the subjection of the girls caught in the woods to blows, was not borne out by facts.
At last Sonya began to improve. The members of the family and acquaintances tried not to recall the sad incident of that night before Sonya. Only indifferent and pleasant matters were mentioned in the poor girl’s presence in order to divert her. A number of visitors were invited one evening for this purpose. Some were asked by letter, others by Doctor Svetilovitch in person. He visited the Rameyevs and Trirodov in his carriage, which was harnessed to a pair of stout ponies.
In inviting Trirodov, Doctor Svetilovitch asked him to read something from his own work at the gathering, something that would not make Sonya unpleasantly reminiscent. Trirodov agreed to this quite heartily, although he usually avoided reading his own work anywhere.
As Trirodov was preparing to leave his house that evening and was putting on a coloured tie, Kirsha said to him with his usual gravity:
“I should not go to the Svetilovitches’ to-night if I were you. It would be much wiser to remain at home.”
Trirodov, not all astonished by this unexpected advice, smiled and asked:
“Why shouldn’t I go?”
Kirsha held his father’s hand and said sadly:
“There have been many detectives of late poking their noses about here. What can they want here? It’s almost certain they will make a search of Svetilovitch’s house to-night—I have a presentiment.”
“That’s nothing,” said Trirodov with a smile, “we have got used to everything. But, dear Kirsha, you are very inquisitive—you look in everywhere, even where you shouldn’t.”
“My eyes see, and my ears hear,” replied Kirsha, “is that my fault?”
In the pleasant, well-appointed drawing-room of the Svetilovitches, in the lifeless light of three electric globes with lustrous bronze fittings, the green-blue upholsterings of the Empire furniture seemed illusively beautiful. The dark curves of the grand piano were gleaming. Albums were lying on a little table under the leaves of a palm. The portrait of an old man with a long, white moustache smiled down youthfully and cheerfully from its place on the wall above the sofa. The visitors gathered in the midst of these attractive surroundings, as if there were nothing to mar them. They spoke a great deal, with much heat and eloquence.
Most of the visitors were local Cadets. Among those present were three physicians, one engineer, two legal advocates, the editor of a local progressive newspaper, a justice of the peace, a notary, three gymnasia instructors, and a priest. Nearly all came accompanied by women and girls. There were also several students, college girls, and grownup schoolboys from the higher gymnasia classes.
The young priest, Nikolai Matveyevitch Zakrasin, who sympathized with the Cadets, gave lessons in Trirodov’s school. He was considered a great freethinker among his colleagues, the priests. The town clergy looked askance at him. And the Diocesan Bishop was not well disposed towards him.
Father Zakrasin had completed a course in the ecclesiastical academy. He spoke rather well, wrote something, and collaborated not only in religious but also in worldly periodicals. He had wavy, dense, not over-long hair. His grey eyes smiled amiably and cheerfully. His priestly attire always appeared new and neat. His manners were restrained and gentle. He did not at all resemble the average Russian priest; Father Zakrasin seemed more like a Catholic prelate who had let his beard grow and had put on a golden pectoral cross. Father Zakrasin’s house was bright, neat, and cheerful. The walls were decorated with engravings, scenes from sacred history. His study contained several cases of books. It was evident from their selection that Father Zakrasin’s interests were very broad. In general he liked that which was certain, convincing, and rational.
His wife, Susanna Kirillovna, a good-looking, plump, and calm woman, who was wholly convinced of the justice of the Cadets’ cause, was now sitting quietly on the sofa in the Svetilovitch drawing-room, and expounding truths. Notwithstanding her Constitutional Democratic convictions, she was a real priest’s spouse, a housewifely, loquacious, timorous creature.
Priest Zakrasin’s sister, Irina Matveyevna, or Irinushka as every one called her, was a parish-school girl who had been won over to the cause by the priest’s wife; she was young, rosy, and slender, and greatly resembled her brother. She got excited so often and so intensely that she constantly had to be appeased by the elders, who regarded her youthful impetuosity with benevolent amusement.
Rameyev was there with both his daughters, the Matov brothers, and Miss Harrison. Trirodov was there also.
There was almost a spirit of gaiety. They talked on various subjects—on politics, on literature, on local matters, etc. Sonya’s mother sat in the drawing-room and discussed women’s rights and the works of Knut Hamsun. Sonya’s mother liked this writer intensely, and loved to tell about her meeting with him abroad. There was an autographed portrait of Knut Hamsun upon her table and it was the object of much pride for the whole Svetilovitch family.
At the tea-table in the small neighbouring room, which was called the “buffet,” Sonya—surrounded by young people—was pouring out tea. In Doctor Svetilovitch’s study they spoke of the recent unrest in near-by villages. There were incendiary fires on various estates and farms belonging to the landed gentry. There were several cases in which the bread granaries belonging to certain hoarders were broken into.
Sonya’s mother was asked to play something. She refused a long time, but finally, with evident pleasure, went to the grand piano, and played a selection from Grieg. Then the notary took his turn at the instrument. Irinushka, blushing furiously, sang with much expression the new popular song to his accompaniment:
Once I loved a learned student,I admit I wasn’t prudent;On the day I married himThe village feasted to the brim.Vodka every one was drinking,All were doing loud thinking—How to make the masters toil,And amongst us share their soil.Suddenly there came a copperRight into our hut a-flopper!“I’ll send you both to Sakhalin22For raising this rebellious din.”“Well, my dear one, quick, get ready,Mind that you walk ‘long there steady,For your charming words, my sweet,A gaol is waiting you to greet.”Do you think I was agitated?No, not me—I was most elated.Then the muzhiks stepped right inAnd chucked him out on the green.
This song was an illustration appropriate to the discussions on village tendencies. It achieved a great success. Irinushka was profusely praised and thanked for it. Irinushka blushed, and regretted that she knew no other songs of the same kind.
Then Trirodov read his story of a beautiful and exultant love. He read simply and calmly, not as actors read. He finished reading and in the cold polite praises he felt how remote he was from all these people. Once more, as it frequently had happened before, there stirred in his soul the thought: “Why do I come to see these people?”
“There is so little in common between them and me,” thought Trirodov. Only Elisaveta’s smile and word consoled him.
Afterwards there was dancing—then card-playing. It was as always, as everywhere.
No one else was expected. The dining-room table was being set for supper. Suddenly there was a loud, violent bell-ring. The housemaid ran quickly to answer it. Some one in the drawing-room remarked in astonishment:
“A rather late visitor.”
Every one suddenly felt depressed for some reason. There was an air of ominous expectancy. Were robbers about to break in? Was it a telegram containing an unpleasant announcement? Or would some one come in panting and exhausted and divulge a piece of terrible news? But the words they addressed to each other were of quite a different nature.
“But who can it be at such a late hour?” said one woman to another.
“Who else can it be but Piotr Ivanitch!”
“That’s so; he likes coming late.”
“Do you remember—once at the Taranovs?”
Piotr Ivanitch, approaching at that moment, overheard the remark.
“You are unfair to me, Marya Ivanovna! I’ve been here a long time,” said he.
“Forgive me, but who, then, can it be?” said Marya Ivanovna in confusion.
“We’ll soon know. Let’s take a look.”
The inquisitive engineer put his head out into the hall and stumbled upon some one in a grey uniform who was walking impetuously towards the drawing-room. Some one whispered in suppressed horror:
“The police!”
When the maid, in response to the ring, opened the door, several men filed into the hall, awkwardly jostling one another—house-porters,23gendarmes, detectives, an Inspector of the police, an officer of the gendarmerie, two petty constables. The maid stood speechless with fright. The police inspector shouted at her:
“Get back to the kitchen!”
A detachment of policemen and porters remained outside under the command of the Inspector of the constabulary. They watched to see that no one entered or left the Svetilovitch house.
Altogether about twenty policemen entered the house. For some unknown reason they were armed with rifles with fixed bayonets. Three hideous-looking men in civilian clothes kept close to the policemen. These were the detectives. Two policemen stationed themselves at the entrance, two others ran to the telephone, which was attached to a wall in the hall. It was evident that everything had been arranged beforehand by a manager expert in such matters. The rest of the men tumbled into the drawing-room. The Inspector of the police stretched his neck and, assuming a tense red expression and bulging his eyes, shouted very loudly.
“Don’t any one dare to move from his place!”
And he looked round in self-satisfaction at the officer of the gendarmerie.
The men and the women remained transfixed in their places, as if they were acting a tableau. They were looking silently at the new-comers.
The policemen, awkwardly holding their rifles, tramped with their ponderous boots on the parquet-floor and made their way about the rooms. They paused at all the doors, looked at the visitors timorously and savagely, uneasily pressed the barrels of their rifles, and tried to look like real soldiers. It was evident that these zealous people were ready to fire at any one whomsoever at the first suspicious movement: they thought that a band of conspirators had gathered here.
All the rooms were overrun with these strangers. It began to smell of bad tobacco, sweat, and vodka. Many of them drank to keep their courage up: they were afraid of a possible armed resistance.
A gendarme placed his Colonel’s voluminous portfolio on the grand piano in the drawing-room. The Colonel, stepping forward to the middle of the room, so that the light of the centre cluster of lamps fell almost directly upon his bald forehead and upon his bushy, sandy-haired moustache, pronounced in an official tone:
“Where’s the master of this house?”
He made a determined effort to give the impression that he did not know Doctor Svetilovitch or the others. Actually he knew nearly all of them personally. Doctor Svetilovitch walked up to him.
“I am the master of this house. I am Doctor Svetilovitch,” he said in a no less official tone.
The Colonel in the blue uniform then announced:
“M. Svetilovitch, it is my duty to make a search of your house.”
Doctor Svetilovitch asked:
“Under whose authority are you doing this? And where is your warrant for carrying out the search?”
The Colonel of the gendarmerie turned towards the piano and rummaged in his portfolio, but produced nothing. He said:
“I assure you I have an order. If you have any doubts you can call up on the telephone.”
Then the Colonel turned to the Inspector of the police and said:
“Please collect them all in one room.”
All, except Doctor Svetilovitch, were compelled to go into the dining-room, which now became crowded and uncomfortable. Armed constables were placed at both doors—the one entering the hall and the other the dining-room—as well as in all the corners. Their faces were dull, and their guns seemed unnecessary and absurd in these peaceful surroundings—but then the guests felt even more uncomfortable.
A detective looked out from time to time from the drawing-room door. He looked searchingly into the faces. The look he had on his disagreeable face with its white eyebrows and eyelashes gave the impression that he was sniffing the air.
In the drawing-room the Colonel of the gendarmerie was saying to Doctor Svetilovitch:
“And now, M. Svetilovitch, will you be so good as to tell me with what object you have arranged this gathering?”
Doctor Svetilovitch replied with an ironic smile:
“With the object of dancing and dining, nothing more. You can see for yourself that we are all peaceable folk.”
“Very well,” said the Colonel in an authoritative, rude tone. “Are the names and families of all gathered here with the object you state known to you?”
Doctor Svetilovitch shrugged his shoulders in astonishment and replied:
“Of course they are known to me! Why shouldn’t I know my own guests? I believe you know many of them yourself.”
“Be so good,” requested the Colonel, “as to give me the names of all your guests.”
He produced a sheet of paper from his portfolio and placed it on the piano. The Colonel wrote the names down as Doctor Svetilovitch gave them. When the doctor stopped short the Colonel asked laconically:
“All?”
“Doctor Svetilovitch answered as briefly:
“All.”
“Show us into your study,” said the Colonel.
They went into the study and rummaged among everything there. They turned over all the books and disarranged the writing-table. They looked through the letters. The Colonel demanded:
“Open the bookcases, the bureau drawers.”
Doctor Svetilovitch answered: “The keys, as you see, are in their places in the locks.”
He put his hands into his pockets and stood by the window.
“Will you be good enough to open them?” said the Colonel.
“I can’t do this,” replied Doctor Svetilovitch. “I do not consider it obligatory to help you in your searches.”
Pride filled his Cadet’s soul. He felt that he was behaving correctly and valiantly. What was the consequence? The uninvited guests opened everything themselves and rummaged where they pleased. A constable put aside all those books which looked suspicious. Several of these books had been published in Russia quite openly and sold no less openly. They took several books wholly innocent in their contents, simply because they thought they detected a rebellious note in their titles.
The Colonel of the gendarmerie announced:
“We will take the correspondence and the manuscripts with us.”
Doctor Svetilovitch said in vexation:
“I assure you there’s nothing criminal there. The manuscripts are very necessary to my work.”
“We’ll have a look at them,” said the Colonel dryly. “Don’t be concerned about them, they will be kept in safety.”
Then they rummaged the other rooms. They searched the beds to see if there were any concealed fire-arms.
When he returned into the study the Colonel of the gendarmerie said to Doctor Svetilovitch:
“Well, try and see if you can find the papers of the strike committee.”
“I have no such papers,” replied Doctor Svetilovitch.
“S-so! Now,” said the Colonel very significantly, “tell us frankly where you keep the weapons concealed.”
“What weapons?” asked Doctor Svetilovitch in astonishment.
The Colonel replied with an ironic smile:
“Any sort that you may have about—revolvers, bombs, or machine-guns.”
“I haven’t any kind of weapons,” said Doctor Svetilovitch with an amused laugh. “I haven’t even a gun for hunting. What kind of weapon can I possibly have?”
“We’ll have a look!” said the Colonel in a meaningful voice.
They turned the whole house upside down. Of course they found no weapons of any kind.
While all this was going on Trirodov was reading in the dining-room his own verses and some which were not his. The constables listened in a dull way. They did not understand anything, but waited patiently to see if any rebellious words were mentioned, but their waiting remained unrewarded.
The Inspector of the police then entered the dining-room. Every one looked guardedly at him. He said solemnly, as if he were announcing the beginning of an important and useful work:
“Gentlemen, now we must subject all those present to a personal examination. One at a time, please. Suppose we begin with you,” said he, turning to the engineer.
The face of the Inspector of the police expressed a consciousness of his personal dignity. His movements were sure and significant. It was evident that he not only was not ashamed of what he was saying and doing, but that he had not the slightest comprehension that there was anything in this to be ashamed of. The engineer, a young and handsome man, shrugged his shoulders, smiled contemptuously and went into the study, being directed there by an awkward motion of the red-palmed paw of the Commissary of the rural police.
The priest’s wife found herself an arm-chair in the dining-room, but she was not any more comfortable in it. Terrified in her arm-chair, she trembled like jelly. With pale lips she whispered to the parish-school girl she had won over to the cause:
“Irinushka, dearest, think of it—they are going to search us!”
The parish-school girl, Irinushka, looking slender, fresh, and red, like a newly washed carrot, moved her ears in her fright—a faculty which her companions envied her intensely—and whispered something to the priest’s wife.
The constable looked savagely at the priest’s wife and at the parish-school girl, and cried out in a shrill, somewhat hoarse voice, which resembled the crowing of a cock:
“I must very humbly ask you not to whisper.”
The constables with the guns pricked up their ears. Their sudden zeal made them perspire. The priest’s wife and the parish-school girl almost fainted from fright, but the girl at once recovered herself and began to get angry; she was now even more angry than she had been frightened a little while ago. Small tears gleamed in her eyes; small drops of perspiration appeared on her cheeks and on her forehead. The angry girl’s face grew even redder, so that now she resembled no longer a carrot but a wet beetroot. The only person in the room to be refreshingly and youthfully indignant, and all aflame with a deep anger, she looked truly beautiful in her ingenuous exasperation.
“Here is something new!” she cried. “Whispering is forbidden! Are you afraid that we will say something against you, that we will hurt you?”
At this moment all the Cadets and their wives and daughters, who were sitting around the table and against the walls, turned their horrified faces at the parish-school girl, and all together hissed at her. They would have laid hands on her, some one would have gagged her mouth—but not one of them dared to make a move. They sat motionless, looked at the parish-school girl with eyes dilated with fear, and hissed.
The parish-school girl, overcome with fright, grew silent. Only the hissing could be heard in the dining-room. Even the constables began to smile at the friendly hissing of the Cadets of both sexes.
When they had finished hissing, Irinushka said almost tranquilly:
“We didn’t whisper anything criminal. I only said about you, Mr. Constable, that you were fascinatingly handsome with your dark hair.”
When she saw that the Rameyev sisters were laughing, Irinushka turned to Elisaveta:
“You do agree with me, Vetochka, that the constable is a fascinatingly handsome man?”
The constable flushed. He was not sure whether the blushing girl was laughing at him or in earnest. In any case he frowned, vigorously twirled his dark moustache, and exclaimed:
“I must humbly ask you not to express yourself.”
Later, at home, Irinushka was scolded for her behaviour, regarded as untactful by Priest Zakrasin. The priest’s wife was especially angry. Poor Irinushka even cried several times.
But this was later. At this particular instant the Inspector of the police and the Colonel of the gendarmerie were sitting in Doctor Svetilovitch’s study and were examining the guests one by one; they turned their pockets inside out and, for some unknown reason, deprived their owners of letters, notes, and notebooks.
Rameyev was in a quiet, genial mood. He laughed on being searched. Trirodov made an effort to be calm and was a little sharper than he wished to be.
The women were searched in one of the bedrooms. A police-matron was brought for this purpose. She was a dirty, cunning sycophant. The contact of her coarse hands was repulsive. Elisaveta felt uncomfortably unclean after she had passed through the policewoman’s paws. Elena shivered with fear and nausea.
Those who had been searched were not permitted to enter the dining-room but were led into the drawing-room. Nearly all the searched ones were proud of this. They looked as if they were celebrating a birthday.
No one was arrested. They began to draw up the official report. Trirodov quietly addressed a gendarme, but the latter replied in a whisper:
“We are not permitted to enter into conversation with any one. Those scoundrelly spies are watching us, so that we shouldn’t speak with liberals. They are quick to inform against us.”
“You are in an unfortunate business,” said Trirodov.
The Inspector of the police read the official report aloud. It was signed by Doctor Svetilovitch, the Inspector, and the witnesses.
When the uninvited guests left, the hosts and the invited guests sat down to supper.
It was presently discovered that the beer prepared for the occasion had been consumed. At the same time the cap of one of the guests had disappeared. Its owner was very much disturbed. The cap became almost the sole topic of conversation.
On the next day there was much talk in town about the search at the Svetilovitches, the consumed beer, and especially about the lost cap.
Not a little was said in the newspapers about the beer and the cap. One newspaper in St. Petersburg devoted a very heated article to the stolen cap. The author of the article made very broad generalizations. He asked:
“Is it not one of those caps with which we were preparing to throw back the foreign enemy? Is not all Russia seeking now its lost cap and cannot be consoled?"24
Much less was said and written about the consumed beer. For some reason or other it did not offend people so much. In accordance with our general custom of placing substance above the form, it was found that the stealing of the cap deserved the greater protest, inasmuch as it is more difficult to get along without a cap than without beer.
Once more alone! He sat in his room, musing of her, recalling her dear features.
There was an album before him—portrait after portrait of her—naked, beautiful, calling to love, to the sweet solace of love. Would this white breast cease heaving? Would these clear eyes grow dim?
She died.
Trirodov closed the album. For a long time he remained immersed in thought. Suddenly there was a rustling behind the wall, which gradually grew louder—it seemed as if the whole house were alive with the movements of the quiet children. Some one knocked on the door; Kirsha entered, distraught. He said:
“Father, let us go into the wood as fast as we can.”
Trirodov looked at him in silence. Kirsha went on:
“Something terrible is happening. There, near the hollow, by the spring.”
Elisaveta’s blue eyes appeared to him suddenly as in a flame. Where was she? Was she in a difficulty? And his heart fell into the dark abyss of fear.
Kirsha made haste. He almost cried in his agitation.
They went on horseback. They whipped up their horses. They feared they might be too late.
Again the quiet, dark, intensely pensive wood. Elisaveta walked alone—tranquil, blue-eyed, simple in her dress, harmonious in the graceful harmony of her deep experiences. She fell into thought—she recalled things and mused upon them. Her dreams were revealed in the gleam of her blue eyes. Dreams of happiness and of passionate love were interwoven with a different, greater love; and these melted into one another in the fiery longing for noble activity and sacrifice.
What did she not recall? What did she not dream of?
Sharp swords were being forged. To whose lot would they fall?
The high standard of solitary freedom was fluttering.
Youths and maidens!
There, in the dark halls of his house, proud plans were being made.
What a beautiful environment of naked beauty!
There were the children—happy and beautiful—in the wood.
There were the quiet children in his house—radiant and lovable and touched with such sadness.
There was the strange Kirsha.
Portraits of his first wife—naked and beautiful.
Elisaveta’s blue eyes gleamed dreamily.
She recalled the details of the previous evening—the remote room in Trirodov’s house, the small gathering in it, the long discussions, the subsequent labours, the measured knock of the typing-machine, the damp pages put into portfolios.
Then she thought how she, Stchemilov, Voronok and some one else walked out into the various streets of the town to paste up the bills. They put the paste on while still walking. They always took a look round first to see that no one was in sight. Then they would pause and quickly stick the bill on the fence. They would go on farther.... The effort had been successful.
Elisaveta did not think where she was going; she had walked quite far out of her way, to a place that she had not been to before. She imagined that the quiet children were keeping guard over her. She walked trustfully in the forest silence, yielding her bare feet to the caresses of the moist forest grasses, and now listened, now ceased listening, in delicious drowsiness.
Something rustled behind the bushes, some one’s nimble feet were running behind the light undergrowth.
Suddenly she heard a loud laugh—almost at her ears; it broke into her sweet reverie with such a violent suddenness—like the trumpet of an archangel calling to wake the dear dead on Judgment Day. Elisaveta felt some one’s hot breath on her neck. A rough, perspiring hand caught her by her bared forearm.
It was as if Elisaveta had suddenly awakened from a pleasant dream. She raised her frightened eyes and paused like one bewitched. Two vigorous ragged men stood before her. They were both handsome young fellows; one of them was astonishingly handsome, swarthy, black-eyed. Both were barely covered by their dirty rags, the openings in which showed their dirty, perspiring, powerful bodies.
The men were laughing and crying insolently:
“We’ve caught you this time, pretty one!”
“We’ll fondle you to your heart’s content—you shan’t forget us so soon!”
They drew closer and closer to her and blew their hot breath upon her. Elisaveta suddenly came to herself, tore herself away with a quick movement and began to run. A horror akin to wonder swung the resounding bell in her breast—her heavily beating heart. It hindered her running, and there was a beating of sharp little hammers under her knees.
The two men quickly overtook her, and as they obstructed her passage they laughed insolently and said:
“Ah, my beauty! Don’t make a fuss!”
“You won’t get away anyway.”
They jostled one another as they pulled Elisaveta about, each towards himself; and acted altogether awkwardly, as if they did not know who should begin and how. Their sensual panting bared their white teeth, vigorous as those of a wild beast. The beauty of the half-naked, swarthy man tempted Elisaveta—it was a sudden piquant temptation acting like a poison.
The handsome man, his voice hoarse with agitation, shouted:
“Tear her clothes! Let her dance naked before us, and make our eyes glad.”
“She hasn’t much on!” the other responded with a gay laugh.
He caught the broad collar of Elisaveta’s dress with one hand and jerked it forward; he thrust the other hand, large, hot, and perspiring, under her chemise and pressed and squeezed her taut young breast.
“Two men against one woman—aren’t you ashamed?” said Elisaveta.
“Don’t be ashamed, my lass, and lie down on the grass,” exclaimed the handsome, swarthy one, with a laugh very much like a horse’s neigh. His white teeth gleamed, his eyes flamed with desire, as he tore Elisaveta’s clothes with his hands and his teeth. The red and the white roses of her body were soon bared.
The sensual breathing of the assailants was horrible and repugnant to her, and she found it no less horrible and repugnant to look at their perspiring faces, at the gleaming of their enkindled eyes. But their beauty was tempting. In the dark depths of her consciousness a thought struggled—to yield herself, to yield willingly.
Her dress and chemise, flimsy of texture, ripped with a barely audible noise. Elisaveta struggled desperately, and shouted something—she did not remember what.
All her clothes were already torn, and soon the last shreds of her very light garments fell from her naked body. And in the struggle the rags of the two clumsily moving men ripped with a loud, splitting sound, their sudden nakedness rousing them even more.
There was seductiveness for Elisaveta in the nakedness of these impetuous bodies. She taunted them:
“The two of you can’t manage one girl.”
She was strong and agile. It was difficult for them to conquer her. Her naked body struggled and wriggled itself out of their arms. The blue arch of her teeth on the naked shoulder of the handsome, swarthy man grew red quickly. Drops of dark blood spurted on to his naked torso.
“Wait, you carrion-flesh,” he cried in a hoarse voice, “I will....”
The powerful but awkward pair grew more and more exasperated. They were enraged and intoxicated by her extraordinary resistance, by the falling away of their rags and their sudden nakedness. They beat Elisaveta, in the beginning with their fists, later with quickly severed branches, or with those which already lay on the ground. The sharp fires of pain stung her naked body and tempted her with a burning temptation to yield herself willingly. But she did not yield herself. Her loud sobs resounded for some distance around her.
The struggle continued for a long time. Elisaveta already began to weaken, and the raging passions of the two men had not yet exhausted themselves. Naked and savage, the lips of their wry mouths grown blue, their blood-inflamed eyes gleaming dimly, they were on the point of drawing her down to the ground.
Suddenly the white, quiet boys came running in a swarm into the glade, lightly and noiselessly, like a rapid, light summer shower. They appeared so quickly from among the bushes and threw themselves on the savage pair; they surrounded them, cast themselves upon them, threw them down, cast a sleeping spell upon them, and dragged them away into the depth of the dark hollow. And they left the naked bodies sprawling helplessly on the rough grasses.
The rapid, noiseless movements of the quiet boys put Elisaveta into a mood verging on oblivion, half painful and half sweet.
What happened in that thicket seemed like a heavy and incredible dream to Elisaveta—a sudden and cruel whim of the undependable Aisa. And for a long time a dark horror nestled in her soul, merging with senseless laughter—the exulting smile of pitiless irony....
Elisaveta came to herself. She saw above her the green branches of the birches and the lovely pale faces. She lay in the refreshing grass encircled by quiet children. She could not recall at once what had happened to her. Her nakedness was incomprehensible to her—but she felt no shame.
Her eyes paused for a moment on some one’s neatly combed fair hair. She recognized Klavdia, the dissembling instructress. She stood under the tree, her arms folded, and looked with her grey eyes gleaming with envy at Elisaveta’s naked body; it was as if a grey spider was spinning across her soul a grey web of dull oblivion and tedious indifference.
“Clothes will be here in a moment,” said one of the boys quietly.
Elisaveta closed her eyes and lay tranquilly. Her head felt somewhat dizzy. Fatigue overcame her. Beautiful and graceful she lay there—as perfect as the dream of Don Quixote....
They were dark, long-drawn-out moments, and there fell in their midst from the gradually darkening sky a brief interval of great comprehension. And this brief interval became like an age—from birth until death. Early next morning Elisaveta clearly recalled the course of this strange, vivid life—the sad lofty road, the life of Queen Ortruda.25
And when, suffocating, Ortruda was dying....
The rush of light feet in the grass awakened Elisaveta. Light, adroit hands dressed her. The quiet boys helped her to rise. Elisaveta rose and looked around her: a light green Grecian tunic draped her tired body within its broad folds. Elisaveta thought:
“How shall I manage to walk so far?”
And as if in answer to her question, she suddenly caught sight of a light trap under the trees. Some one said:
“Kirsha will drive you home.”
In her strange dress Elisaveta returned home. She sat silently in the trap. She did not even notice Trirodov. She was trying to recall something. Through the dark horror and senseless laughter there shone clearer and clearer the recollection of another life lived through momentarily—the life of Queen Ortruda.