[2]An "envelope" was a small mattress with attached coverlet, on which babies were carried about.
[2]An "envelope" was a small mattress with attached coverlet, on which babies were carried about.
It was just before Trinity Sunday. Liza was in her fifth month, and, though careful, she was brisk and active. Both the mothers, his and hers, were living in the house, but under pretext of watching and safeguarding her only upset her by their tiffs. Eugene was specially engrossed with a new experiment for the cultivation of sugar-beet on a large scale.
Just before Trinity Liza decided that it was necessary to have a thorough house-cleaning, as it had not been done since Easter, and she hired two women by the day, to help the servants wash the floors and windows, beat the furniture and the carpets, and put covers on them. The women came early in the morning, heated the coppers, and set to work. One of the two was Stepanida, who had just weaned her baby boy. Through the office-clerk—whom she now carried on with—she had begged for the job of washing the floors. She wanted to have a good look at the new mistress. Stepanida was living by herself, as formerly, her husband being away, and she was up to tricks, as she had formerly been first with old Daniel (who had once caught her taking some logs of firewood), afterwards with the master, and now with the young clerk. She was not concerning herself any longer about her master. "He has a wife now," she thought. But it would be good to have a look at the lady and at her establishment: folk said it was well arranged.
Eugene had not seen her since he had met her with the child. Having a baby to attend to she had not been going out to work, and he seldom walked through the village. That morning, on the eve of Trinity Sunday, Eugene rose at five o'clock and rode to the fallow land which was to be sprinkled with phosphates, and he left the house before the women were about it, and while they were still engaged lighting the copper fires.
Merry, contented, and hungry, Eugene returned to breakfast. He dismounted from his mare at the gate and handed her over to the gardener. Flicking the high grass with his whip and repeating, as one often does, a phrase he had just uttered, he walked towards the house. The phrase he repeated was: "phosphates justify"—what or to whom he neither knew nor reflected.
They were beating a carpet on the grass. The furniture had been brought out.
"There now! What a house-cleaning Liza has undertaken! . . . Phosphates justify. . . . What a manageress she is! A manageress! Yes, a manageress," said he to himself, vividly imagining her in her white wrapper and with her smiling joyful face, as it nearly always was when he looked at her. "Yes, I must change my boots, or else 'phosphates justify,' that is, smell of manure, and the manageress is in such a condition. Why 'in such a condition'? Because a new little Irtenev is growing there inside her," he thought. "Yes, phosphates justify," and smiling at his thoughts he put his hand to the door of his room.
But he had not time to push the door before it opened of itself and he met, face to face, a woman coming towards him carrying a pail, barefoot, and with sleeves turned up high. He stepped aside to let her pass, she too stepped aside, adjusting her kerchief with a wet hand.
"Go on, go on, I won't go there, if you . . ." began Eugene and, suddenly, recognizing her, stopped.
She glanced merrily at him with smiling eyes, and pulling down her skirt went out by the door.
"What nonsense! . . . It is impossible," said Eugene to himself, frowning and waving his hand as though to get rid of a fly, displeased at having noticed her. He was vexed that he had noticed her and yet he could not take his eyes from her strong body, swayed by the agile strides of her bare feet, or from her arms, shoulders, and the pleasing folds of her shirt and handsome skirt, tucked up high above her white calves.
"But why am I looking?" said he to himself, lowering his eyes so as not to see her. "But anyhow I must go in to get some other boots." And he turned back to go into his own room, but had not gone five steps before, without knowing why or wherefore, he again glanced round to have another look at her. She was just going round the corner and also glanced at him.
"Ah, what am I doing!" said he to himself. "She may think . . . It is even certain that she already does think . . ."
He entered his damp room. Another woman, an old and skinny one, was there, and was still washing it. Eugene passed on tiptoe across the floor wet with dirty water to the wall where his boots stood, and he was about to leave the room, when the woman herself went out.
"This one has gone and the other, Stepanida, will come here alone," someone within him began to reflect.
"My God, what am I thinking of and what am I doing!" He seized his boots and ran out with them into the hall, put them on there, brushed himself, and went out on to the verandah where both the mammas were already drinking coffee. Liza had evidently been expecting him and came on to the verandah through another door at the same time.
"My God! If she, who considers me so honourable, pure, and innocent,—if she only knew!"—thought he.
Liza, as usual, met him with shining face. But to-day somehow she seemed to him particularly pale, yellow, long, and weak.
During coffee, as often happened, a peculiarly feminine kind of conversation went on which had no logical sequence, but which evidently was connected in some way for it went on uninterruptedly.
The two old ladies were pin-pricking one another, and Liza was skilfully manœuvring between them.
"I am so vexed that we had not finished washing your room before you got back," she said to her husband. "But I do so want to get everything arranged."
"Well, did you sleep well after I got up?"
"Yes, I slept well, and I feel well."
"How can a woman be well in her condition during this intolerable heat, when her windows face the sun," said Varvara Alexeevna, her mother. "And they have no venetian-blinds or awnings. I always had awnings."
"But you know we are in the shade after ten o'clock," said Mary Pavlovna.
"That's what causes fever; it comes of dampness," said Varvara Alexeevna, not noticing that what she was saying did not agree with what she had just said. "My doctor always says that it is impossible to diagnose an illness unless one knows the patient. And he certainly knows, for he is the leading physician and we pay him a hundred rubles a visit. My late husband did not believe in doctors, but he did not grudge me anything."
"How can a man grudge anything to a woman when perhaps her life and the child's depend . . ."
"Yes, when she has means, a wife need not depend on her husband. A good wife submits to her husband," said Varvara Alexeevna,—"only Liza is too weak after her illness."
"Oh no, mamma, I feel quite well. But why have they not brought you any boiled cream?"
"I don't want any. I can do with raw cream."
"I offered some to Varvara Alexeevna, but she declined," said Mary Pavlovna, as if justifying herself.
"No, I don't want any to-day." And as if to terminate an unpleasant conversation and yield magnanimously, Varvara Alexeevna turned to Eugene and said: "Well, and have you sprinkled the phosphates?"
Liza ran to fetch the cream.
"But I don't want it. I don't want it."
"Liza, Liza, go gently,"—said Mary Pavlovna. "Such rapid movements do her harm."
"Nothing does harm, if one's mind is at peace," said Varvara Alexeevna as if referring to something, though she knew that there was nothing that her words could refer to.
Liza returned with the cream, Eugene drank his coffee and listened morosely. He was accustomed to these conversations, but to-day he was particularly annoyed by its lack of sense. He wanted to think over what had happened to him, but this chatter disturbed him. Having finished her coffee Varvara Alexeevna went away in a bad humour. Liza, Eugene, and Mary Pavlovna stayed behind, and their conversation was simple and pleasant. But Liza, being sensitive, at once noticed that something was tormenting Eugene, and she asked him whether anything unpleasant had happened. He was not prepared for this question, and hesitated a little before replying that there had been nothing unpleasant. And this reply made Liza think all the more; that something was tormenting, and greatly tormenting, him was as evident to her as the fact that a fly had fallen into the milk, yet he did not speak of it. What could it be?
After breakfast they all dispersed. Eugene as usual went to his study. He did not begin reading or writing his letters, but sat smoking one cigarette after another and thinking. He was terribly surprised and disturbed by the expected recrudescence within him of the bad feeling from which he had thought himself free since his marriage. Since then he had not once experienced that feeling, either for her—the woman he had known—or for any other woman except his wife. He had often felt glad of this emancipation, and now suddenly a chance meeting, seemingly so unimportant, revealed to him the fact that he was not free. What now tormented him was not that he was yielding to that feeling and desired her—he did not dream of so doing—but that the feeling was awake within him and he had to be on his guard against it. He had no doubt but that he would suppress it.
He had a letter to answer and a paper to write. He sat down at his writing-table and began to work. Having finished it and quite forgotten what had disturbed him, he went out to go to the stables. And again as ill-luck would have it, either by unfortunate chance or intentionally, as soon as he stepped from the porch, a red skirt and red kerchief appeared from round the corner, and she went past him swinging her arms and swaying her body. She not only went past him, but on passing him ran, as if playfully, to overtake her fellow-servant.
Again the bright midday, the nettles, the back of Daniel's hut, and in the shade of the plane-trees her smiling face biting some leaves, rose in his imagination.
"No, it is impossible to let matters continue so," he said to himself, and waiting till the women had passed out of sight he went to the office.
It was just the dinner-hour and he hoped to find the steward still there. So it happened. The steward was just waking up from his after-dinner nap. Standing in the office, stretching himself and yawning, he was looking at the herdsman who was telling him something.
"Vasili Nikolaich!" said Eugene to the steward.
"What is your pleasure?"
"I want to speak to you."
"What is your pleasure?"
"Just finish what you are saying."
"Aren't you going to bring it in?" said Vasili Nikolaich to the herdsman.
"It's heavy, Vasili Nikolaich."
"What is it?" asked Eugene.
"Why, a cow has calved in the meadow. Well, all right, I'll order them to harness a horse at once. Tell Nicholas Lysukh to get out the dray cart."
The herdsman went out.
"Do you know," began Eugene, flushing and conscious that he was doing so, "do you know, Vasili Nikolaich, while I was a bachelor I went off the track a bit. . . . You may have heard . . ."
Vasili Nikolaich with smiling eyes and evidently sorry for his master, said: "Is it about Stepanida?"
"Why, yes. Look here. Please, please do not engage her to help in the house. You understand, it is very awkward for me . . ."
"Yes, it must have been Vanya, the clerk, who arranged it."
"Yes, please. . . . Well, and hadn't the rest of the phosphates better be strewn?" said Eugene, to hide his confusion.
"Yes, I am just going to see to it."
So it ended. And Eugene calmed down, hoping that as he had lived for a year without seeing her, so things would go on now. "Besides, Vasili Nikolaich will speak to Ivan the clerk; Ivan will speak to her, and she will understand that I don't want it," said Eugene to himself, and he was glad that he had forced himself to speak to Vasili Nikolaich, hard as it had been to do so.
"Yes, it is better, better, than that feeling of doubt, that feeling of shame." He shuddered at the mere remembrance of his sin in thought.
The moral effort he had made to overcome his shame and speak to Vasili Nikolaich, tranquillized Eugene. It seemed to him that the matter was all over now. Liza at once noticed that he was quite calm, and even happier than usual. "No doubt he was upset by our mothers pin-pricking one another. It really is disagreeable, especially for him who is so sensitive and noble, always to hear such unfriendly and ill-mannered insinuations," thought she.
The next day was Trinity Sunday. The weather was beautiful, and the peasant-women, according to custom, on their way into the woods to plait wreaths, came to the landowner's home and began to sing and dance. Mary Pavlovna and Varvara Alexeevna came out on to the porch in smart clothes, carrying sunshades, and went up to the ring of singers. With them, in a jacket of Chinese silk, came out the uncle, a flabby libertine and drunkard, who was living that summer with Eugene.
As usual there was a bright, many-coloured ring of young women and girls, the centre of everything, and around these from different sides like attendant planets that had detached themselves and were circling round, went girls hand in hand, rustling in their new print gowns; young lads giggling and running backwards and forwards after one another; full-grown lads in dark blue or black coats and caps and with red shirts, who unceasingly spat out sunflower-seed shells; and the domestic servants or other outsiders watching the dance-circle from aside. Both the old ladies went close up to the ring, and Liza accompanied them in a light blue dress, with light blue ribbons on her head, and with wide sleeves under which her long white arms and angular elbows were visible.
Eugene did not wish to come out, but it was ridiculous to hide, and he too came out on to the porch smoking a cigarette, bowed to the men and lads, and talked with one of them. The women meanwhile shouted a dance-song with all their might, snapping their fingers, clapping their hands, and dancing.
"They are calling for the master," said a youngster, coming up to Eugene's wife who had not noticed the call. Liza called Eugene to look at the dance and at one of the women dancers who particularly pleased her. This was Stepanida. She wore a yellow skirt, a velveteen sleeveless jacket and a silk kerchief, and was broad, energetic, ruddy, and merry. No doubt she danced well. He saw nothing.
"Yes, yes," said he, removing and replacing his pince-nez. "Yes, yes," repeated he. "So it seems I cannot be rid of her," he thought.
He did not look at her as he was afraid of her attraction, and just on that account what his passing glance caught of her seemed to him especially attractive. Besides this he saw by her sparkling look that she saw him and saw that he admired her. He stood there as long as propriety demanded, and seeing that Varvara Alexeevna had called her, senselessly and insincerely, "my dear," and was talking to her, he turned aside and went away.
He went into the house. He retired in order not to see her, but on reaching the upper story, without knowing how or why, he approached the window, and as long as the women remained at the porch he stood there and looked and looked at her, feasting his eyes on her.
He ran, while there was no one to see him, and then went with quiet steps on to the verandah, and from there, smoking a cigarette and as if going for a stroll, he passed through the garden and followed the direction she had taken. He had not gone two steps along the alley before he noticed behind the trees a velveteen sleeveless jacket, with a pink and yellow skirt and a red kerchief. She was going somewhere with another woman. "Where are they going?"
And suddenly a terrible desire scorched him, as though a hand were seizing his heart. As if by someone else's wish he looked round and went towards her.
"Eugene Ivanich, Eugene Ivanich! I have come to see your honour," said a voice behind him, and Eugene, seeing old Samokhin, who was digging a well for him, roused himself and, turning quickly round, went to meet Samokhin. While speaking with him he turned sideways and saw that she and the woman who was with her went down the slope, evidently to the well, or making an excuse of the well, and having stopped there a little while, ran back to the dance-circle.
After talking to Samokhin, Eugene returned to the house as depressed as if he had committed a crime. In the first place she had understood him, believed that he wanted to see her, and desired it herself. Secondly, that other woman, Anna Prokhorova, evidently knew of it.
Above all, he felt that he was conquered, that he was not master of his own will but that there was another power moving him, that he had been saved only by good fortune, and that, if not to-day, to-morrow or a day later, he would perish all the same.
"Yes, perish," he did not understand it otherwise: to be unfaithful to his young and loving wife with a peasant woman in the village, in the sight of everyone,—what was it but to perish, perish utterly, so that it would be impossible to live? No, something must be done.
"My God, my God! What am I to do? Can it be that I shall perish like this?" said he to himself. "Is it not possible to do anything? Yet something must be done. Do not think about her"—he ordered himself. "Do not think!" and immediately he began thinking and seeing her before him, and seeing also the shade of the plane tree.
He remembered having read of a hermit who, to avoid the temptation he felt for a woman on whom he had to lay his hand to heal her, thrust his other hand into a brazier and burnt his fingers. He called that to mind. "Yes, I am ready to burn my fingers rather than to perish." He looked round to make sure that there was no one in the room, lit a candle, and put a finger into the flame. "There now think about her," he said to himself ironically. It hurt him and he withdrew his smoke-stained finger, threw away the match, and laughed at himself. What nonsense! That was not what had to be done. But it was necessary to do something, to avoid seeing her—either to go away himself or to send her away. Yes,—send her away. Offer her husband money to remove to town, or to another village. People would hear of it and would talk about it. Well, what of that? At any rate it was better than this danger. "Yes, that must be done," he said to himself; and at the very time he was looking at her without moving his eyes. "Where is she going?" he suddenly asked himself. She, as it seemed to him, had seen him at the window and now, having glanced at him and taken another woman by the hand, was going towards the garden swinging her arm briskly. Without knowing why or wherefore, merely in accord with what he had been thinking, he went to the office.
Vasili Nikolaich in holiday costume and with oiled hair was sitting at tea with his wife and a guest who was wearing an oriental kerchief.
"I want a word with you, Vasili Nikolaich!"
"Please say what you want to. We have finished tea."
"No. I'd rather you came out with me."
"Directly; only let me get my cap. Tanya, put out the samovar,"—said Vasili Nikolaich, stepping outside cheerfully.
It seemed to Eugene that Vasili had been drinking, but what was to be done? It might be all the better—he would sympathize with him in his difficulties the more readily.
"I have come again to speak about that same matter, Vasili Nikolaich," said Eugene,—"about that woman."
"Well, what of her? I told them not to take her again on any account."
"No, I have been thinking in general, and this is what I wanted to take your advice about. Isn't it possible to get them away, to send the whole family away?"
"Where can they be sent?" said Vasili, disapprovingly and ironically as it seemed to Eugene.
"Well, I thought of giving them money, or even some land in Koltovski,—so that she should not be here."
"But how can they be sent away? Where is he to go—torn up from his roots? And why should you do it? What harm can she do you?"
"Ah, Vasili Nikolaich, you must understand that it would be dreadful for my wife to hear of it."
"But who will tell her?"
"How can I live with this dread? The whole thing is very painful for me."
"But really, why should you distress yourself? Whoever stirs up the past—out with his eye! Who is not a sinner before God and to blame before the Tsar, as the saying is?"
"All the same it would be better to get rid of them. Can't you speak to the husband?"
"But it is no use speaking! Eh, Eugene Ivanich, what is the matter with you? It is all past and forgotten. All sorts of things happen. Who is there that would now say anything bad of you? Everybody sees you."
"But all the same go and have a talk with him."
"All right, I will speak to him."
Though he knew that nothing would come of it, this talk somewhat calmed Eugene. Above all, it made him feel that through excitement he had been exaggerating the danger.
Had he gone to meet her by appointment? It was impossible. He had simply gone to stroll in the garden and she had happened to run out at the same time.
After dinner that very Trinity Sunday Liza while walking from the garden to the meadow, where her husband wanted to show her the clover, took a false step and fell when crossing a little ditch. She fell gently, on her side; but she gave an exclamation, and her husband saw an expression in her face not only of fear but of pain. He wished to help her up, but she motioned him away with her hand.
"No, wait a bit, Eugene," she said, with a weak smile, and as it seemed to him, she looked up guiltily. "My foot only gave way under me."
"There, I always say," remarked Varvara Alexeevna, "can anyone in her condition possibly jump over ditches?"
"But no, mamma, it is all right. I shall get up directly." With her husband's help she did get up, but immediately turned pale, and her face showed fear.
"Yes, I am not well," and she whispered something to her mother.
"Oh, my God, what have you done! I said you ought not to go there,"—cried Varvara Alexeevna. "Wait,—I will call the servants. She must not walk. She must be carried!"
"Don't be afraid, Liza, I will carry you," said Eugene, putting his left arm round her. "Hold me by the neck. Like that." And stooping down he put his right arm under her knees and lifted her. He could never afterwards forget the suffering and yet beatific expression of her face.
"I am too heavy for you, dear,"—she said with a smile. "Mamma is running, tell her!" And she bent towards him and kissed him. She evidently wanted her mother to see how he was carrying her.
Eugene shouted to Varvara Alexeevna not to hurry, and that he would carry Liza home. Varvara Alexeevna stopped and began to shout still louder.
"You will drop her, you'll be sure to drop her. You want to destroy her. You have no conscience!"
"But I am carrying her excellently."
"I do not want to watch you killing my daughter, and I can't." And she ran round the bend in the alley.
"Never mind, it will pass," said Liza, smiling.
"Yes. If only it does not have consequences like last time."
"No. I am not speaking of that. That is all right. I mean mamma. You are tired. Rest a bit."
But though he found it heavy, Eugene carried his burden proudly and gladly to the house and did not hand her over to the housemaid and the man-cook whom Varvara Alexeevna had found and sent to meet them. He carried her to the bedroom and placed her on the bed.
"Now go away," she said and drawing his hand to her she kissed it. "Annushka and I will manage all right."
Mary Pavlovna also ran in from her rooms in the wing. They undressed Liza and laid her on the bed. Eugene sat in the drawing-room with a book in his hand, waiting. Varvara Alexeevna went past him with such a reproachfully gloomy air that he felt alarmed.
"Well, how is it?" he asked.
"How? What's the good of asking? It is probably what you wanted when you made your wife jump over the ditch."
"Varvara Alexeevna!" he cried. "This is impossible. If you want to torment people and to poison their life,"—he wanted to say, "then go elsewhere to do it," but he restrained himself. "How is it that it does not hurt you?"
"It is too late now." And shaking her cap in a triumphant manner she passed out by the door.
The fall had really been a bad one, Liza's foot had twisted awkwardly and there was danger of her having another miscarriage. Everyone knew that there was nothing to be done, but that she must just lie quietly, yet all the same they decided to send for a doctor.
"Dear Nikolay Semënich," wrote Eugene to the doctor, "you have always been so kind to us, that I hope you will not refuse to come to my wife's assistance. She . . ." and so on. Having written the letter he went to the stables to arrange about the horses and the carriage. Horses had to be got ready to bring the doctor, and others to take him back. When an estate is not run on a large scale, such things cannot be quickly decided but have to be considered. Having arranged it all and dispatched the coachman, it was past nine before he got back to the house. His wife was lying down, and said that she felt perfectly well and had no pain. But Varvara Alexeevna was sitting with a lamp screened from Liza by some sheets of music and knitting a large red coverlet, with a mien that said that after what had happened peace was impossible; but that no matter what anyone else did, she at any rate would do her duty.
Eugene noticed this but, to appear as if he had not seen it, he tried to assume a cheerful and tranquil air and told how he had chosen the horses and how the mare, Kabushka, had galloped capitally as left trace-horse in the troika.
"Yes, of course, it is just the time to exercise the horses when help is needed. Probably the doctor will also be thrown into the ditch," remarked Varvara Alexeevna, examining her knitting from under her pince-nez and moving it close up to the lamp.
"But you know we had to send one way or other, and I made the best arrangement I could."
"Yes, I remember very well how your horses galloped with me under the gateway arch." This was her long-standing fancy, and Eugene now was injudicious enough to remark that was not quite what had happened.
"It is not for nothing that I have always said, and have often remarked to the prince, that it is hardest of all to live with people who are untruthful and insincere; I can endure anything except that."
"Well, if anyone has to suffer more than another, it is certainly I," said Eugene. "But you . . ."
"Yes, it is evident."
"What?"
"Nothing, I am only counting my stitches."
Eugene was standing at the time by the bed and Liza was looking at him, and one of her moist hands outside the coverlet caught his hand and pressed it. "Bear with her for my sake. You know she cannot prevent our loving one another," was what her look said.
"I won't do so again. It's nothing," whispered he, and he kissed her damp, long hand and then her affectionate eyes, which closed while he kissed them.
"Can it be the same thing over again?" he asked. "How are you feeling?"
"I am afraid to say, for fear of being mistaken, but I feel that he is alive and will live," said she, glancing at her stomach.
"Ah, it is dreadful, dreadful to think of."
Notwithstanding Liza's insistence that he should go away, Eugene spent the night with her, hardly closing an eye and ready to attend on her.
But she passed the night well, and had they not sent for the doctor she would perhaps have got up.
By dinner-time the doctor arrived and of course said that, though if the symptoms recurred there might be cause for apprehension, yet actually there were no positive symptoms, but as there were also no contrary indications one might suppose on the one hand that—and on the other hand that. . . . And therefore she must lie still, and that "though I do not like prescribing, yet all the same she should take this mixture and should lie quiet." Besides this, the doctor gave Varvara Alexeevna a lecture on woman's anatomy, during which Varvara Alexeevna nodded her head significantly. Having received his fee, as usual into the backmost part of his palm, the doctor drove away and the patient was left to lie in bed for a week.
Most of his time Eugene spent by his wife's bedside, talking to her, reading to her, and what was hardest of all, enduring without murmur Varvara Alexeevna's attacks, and even contriving to turn these into jokes.
But he could not stay at home. In the first place his wife sent him away, saying that he would fall ill if he always remained with her; and, secondly, the farming was progressing in a way that demanded his presence at every step. He could not stay at home; but was in the fields, in the wood, in the garden, at the thrashing-floor; and everywhere, not merely the thought but the vivid image of Stepanida pursued him, and he only occasionally forgot her. But that would not have mattered, he could perhaps have mastered his feeling; but what was worst of all was that, whereas he had previously lived for months without seeing her, he now continually came across her. She evidently understood that he wished to renew relations with her, and tried to come in his way. Nothing was said either by him or by her, and therefore neither he nor she went directly to a rendezvous, but only sought opportunities of meeting.
The place where it was possible for them to meet each other was in the forest, where peasant-women went with sacks to collect grass for their cows. Eugene knew this and therefore went every day by that wood. Every day he told himself that he would not go there, and every day it ended by his making his way to the forest and, on hearing the sound of voices, standing behind the bushes with sinking heart looking to see if she was there.
Why he wanted to know whether it was she who was there, he did not know. If it had been she and she had been alone, he would not have gone to her—so he believed—he would have run away; but he wanted to see her.
Once he met her. As he was entering the forest she came out of it with two other women, carrying a heavy sack, full of grass, on her back. A little earlier he would perhaps have met her in the forest. But now, with the other women there, she could not go back to him in the forest. But though he realized this impossibility, he stood for a long time, at the risk of attracting the other women's attention, behind a hazel-bush. Of course she did not return, but he stayed there a long time. And, great heavens, how delightful his imagination made her appear to him! And this not once, but five or six times. And each time more intensely. Never had she seemed so attractive, and never had he been so completely in her power.
He felt that he had lost control of himself and had become almost insane. His strictness with himself was not weakened a jot; on the contrary he saw all the abomination of his desire and even of his action, for his going to the wood was an action. He knew that he only need come near her anywhere in the dark, and if possible touch her, and he would yield to his feelings. He knew that it was only shame before people, before her, and no doubt before himself also, that restrained him. And he knew too that he had sought conditions in which that shame would not be apparent—darkness or proximity—in which it would be stifled by animal passion. And therefore he knew that he was a wretched criminal, and despised and hated himself with all his soul. He hated himself because he still had not surrendered: every day he prayed God to strengthen him, to save him from perishing; every day he determined that from to-day onward he would not take a step to see her, and would forget her. Every day he devised means of delivering himself from this enticement, and he made use of those means.
But it was all in vain.
One of the means was continual occupation; another was intense physical work and fasting; a third was imagining clearly to himself the shame that would fall upon him when everybody knew of it—his wife, his mother-in-law, and the folk around. He did all this, and it seemed to him that he was conquering, but the hour came, midday: the hour of their former meetings and the hour when he had met her carrying the grass, and he went to the forest. Thus five days of torment passed. He only saw her from a distance, but did not once encounter her.
Liza was gradually recovering, she could move about and was only uneasy at the change that had taken place in her husband, which she did not understand.
Varvara Alexeevna had gone away for a while and the only visitor was Eugene's uncle. Mary Pavlovna was as usual at home.
Eugene was in his semi-insane condition when there came two days of pouring rain, as often happens after thunder in June. The rain stopped all work. They even ceased carting manure, on account of the dampness and dirt. The peasants remained at home. The herdsmen wore themselves out with the cattle, and eventually drove them home. The cows and sheep wandered about in the pastureland and ran loose in the grounds. The peasant-women, barefoot and wrapped in shawls, splashing through the mud rushed about to seek the runaway cows. Streams flowed everywhere along the paths, all the leaves and all the grass were saturated with water, and streams flowed unceasingly from the spouts into the bubbling puddles.
Eugene sat at home with his wife who was particularly wearisome that day. She questioned Eugene several times as to the cause of his discontent; and he replied with vexation that nothing was the matter. She ceased questioning him, but was still distressed.
They were sitting after breakfast in the drawing-room. His uncle for the hundredth time was recounting fabrications about his society acquaintances. Liza was knitting a jacket and sighed, complaining of the weather and of a pain in the small of her back. The uncle advised her to lie down, and asked for vodka for himself. It was terribly dull for Eugene in the house. Everything was weak and dull. He read a book and a magazine, but understood nothing of them.
"Yes, I must go out and look at the rasping-machine they brought yesterday," said he. He got up and went out.
"Take an umbrella with you."
"Oh, no, I have a leather coat. And I am only going as far as the boiling-room."
He put on his boots and his leather coat and went to the factory; but he had not gone twenty steps before, coming towards him, he met her with her skirts tucked up high above her white calves. She was walking, holding down the shawl in which her head and shoulders were wrapped.
"Where are you going?" said he, not recognizing her the first instant. When he recognized her it was already too late. She stopped, smiling, and looked long at him.
"I am looking for a calf. Where are you off to in such weather?" said she, as if she were seeing him every day.
"Come to the shed," said he suddenly, without knowing how he said it. It was as if someone else had uttered the words.
She bit her shawl, winked, and ran in the direction which led from the garden to the shed, but he continued his path, intending to turn off beyond the lilac-bush and go there too.
"Master," he heard a voice behind him. "The mistress is calling you, and wants you to come back for a minute."
This was Misha, his man-servant.
"My God! This is the second time you have saved me," thought Eugene, and immediately turned back. His wife reminded him that he had promised to take some medicine at the dinner-hour to a sick woman, and he had better take it with him.
While they were getting the medicine some five minutes elapsed, and then, going away with the medicine, he hesitated to go direct to the shed, lest he should be seen from the house, but as soon as he was out of sight he promptly turned and made his way to it. He already saw her in imagination, inside the shed, smiling gaily. But she was not there, and there was nothing in the shed to show that she had been there.
He was already thinking that she had not come, had not heard or understood his words—he had muttered them through his nose as if afraid of her hearing them—or perhaps she had not wanted to come. "And why did I imagine that she would rush to me? She has her own husband; it is only I who am such a wretch as to have a wife, and a good one, and to run after another." Thus he thought sitting in the shed, the thatch of which had a leak and dripped from its straw. "But how delightful it would be if she did come,—alone here in this rain. If only I could embrace her once again; then let happen what may. But yes," he recollected, "one could tell if she has been here by her footprints." He looked at the trodden ground near the shed and at the path overgrown by grass; and the fresh print of bare feet, and even of one that had slipped, was visible. "Yes, she has been here. Well now it is settled. Wherever I may see her I shall go straight to her. I will go to her at night." He sat for a long time in the shed, and left it exhausted and crushed. He delivered the medicine, returned home, and lay down in his room to wait for dinner.
Before dinner Liza came to him and, still wondering what could be the cause of his discontent, began to say that she was afraid that he did not like the idea of her going to Moscow for her confinement, and that she had decided that she would remain at home and would on no account go to Moscow. He knew how she feared both her confinement itself and the risk of not having a healthy child, and therefore he could not help being touched at seeing how ready she was to sacrifice everything for his sake. All was so nice, so pleasant, so clean, in the house; and in his soul it was so dirty, despicable, and horrid. The whole evening Eugene was tormented by knowing that notwithstanding his sincere repulsion at his own weakness, notwithstanding his firm intention to break off,—the same thing would happen again to-morrow.
"No, this is impossible," he said to himself, walking up and down in his room. "There must be some remedy for it. My God! What am I to do?"
Someone knocked at the door as foreigners do. He knew this must be his uncle. "Come in," he said.
The uncle had come as a self-appointed ambassador from Liza.
"Do you know, I really do notice that there is a change in you," he said,—"and Liza—I understand how it troubles her. I understand that it must be hard for you to leave all the business you have so excellently started, butque veux-tu?[3]I should advise you to go away. It will be more satisfactory both for you and for her. And do you know, I should advise you to go to the Crimea. The climate is beautiful and there is an excellentaccoucheurthere, and you would be just in time for the best of the grape season."
"Uncle," Eugene suddenly exclaimed. "Can you keep a secret? A secret that is terrible to me, a shameful secret."
"Oh, come—do you really feel any doubt of me?"
"Uncle, you can help me. Not only help, but save me!" said Eugene. And the thought that he would disclose his secret to his uncle whom he did not respect, the thought that he would show himself in the worst light and humiliate himself before him, was pleasant. He felt himself to be despicable and guilty, and wished to punish himself.
"Speak, my dear fellow, you know how fond I am of you," said the uncle, evidently well content that there was a secret and that it was a shameful one, and that it would be communicated to him, and that he could be of use.
"First of all I must tell you that I am a wretch, a good-for-nothing, a scoundrel—a real scoundrel."
"Now what are you saying . . ." began his uncle, as if he were offended.
"What! Not a wretch when I,—Liza's husband, Liza's! One has only to know her purity, her love—and that I, her husband, want to be untrue to her with a peasant-woman!"
"How's that? Why do you want to—you have not been unfaithful to her?"
"Yes, at least just the same as being untrue, for it did not depend on me. I was ready to do so. I was hindered, or else I should . . . now. I do not know what I should have done . . ."
"But please, explain to me . . ."
"Well, it is like this. When I was a bachelor I was stupid enough to have relations with a woman here in our village. That is to say, I used to have meetings with her in the forest, in the field . . ."
"Was she pretty?" asked his uncle.
Eugene frowned at this question, but he was in such need of external help that he made as if he did not hear it, and continued:
"Well, I thought this was just casual and that I should break it off and have done with it. And I did break it off before my marriage. For nearly a year I did not see her or think about her." It seemed strange to Eugene himself to hear the description of his own condition,—"Then suddenly, I don't myself know why,—really one sometimes believes in witchcraft—I saw her, and a worm crept into my heart—and it gnaws. I reproach myself, I understood the full horror of my action, that is to say, of the act I may commit any moment, and yet I myself turned to it, and if I have not committed it is only because God preserved me. Yesterday I was on my way to see her when Liza sent for me."
"What, in the rain?"
"Yes; I am worn out, Uncle, and have decided to confess to you and to ask your help."
"Yes, of course, it's a bad thing on your own estate. People will get to know. I understand that Liza is weak and that it is necessary to spare her, but why on your own estate?"
Again Eugene tried not to hear what his uncle was saying, and hurried on to the core of the matter.
"Yes, save me from myself. That is what I ask of you. To-day I was hindered by chance. But to-morrow or next time no one will hinder me. And she knows now. Don't leave me alone."
"Yes, all right," said his uncle,—"but are you really so in love?"
"Ah, it is not that at all. It is not that, it is some kind of power that has seized me and holds me. I do not know what to do. Perhaps I shall gain strength, and then . . ."
"Well, it turns out as I suggested," said his uncle. "Let us be off to the Crimea."
"Yes, yes, let us go; and meanwhile you will be with me, and will talk to me."