XXXIIIReposing under the slender birches in the glade is a party of girls, young men and grown-up people. One sits on the stump of a felled tree, another on the trunk of an old birch struck down in a storm, a third lies upon an overcoat spread on the grass, a fourth rests his back against a young birch. There is a single, slight glow of a cigarette, but this, too, goes out.In the luminous, haunting mist everything seems white, translucent, fabulously impressive. And it seems as though the birches in the glade and the moon in the sky are waiting for something.Here is Natasha. Here is also Natasha’s friend, a college girl from Moscow, white-skinned, sharp-featured, looking like a healthy little wild beast. Then there are Borya and his friend, both in linen jackets, both lean, with pale faces and dark, flaming eyes.And there is yet another—a tall, stout figure in a dark blouse. He has an air of self-confidence and seems to be the most knowing, the most experienced, the most able of those present.He is surrounded by the grown-up people and the girls, and he is being questioned. Cheery, good-natured, impatient voices appeal to him.“Do sing for us theInternational.”Borya, a lad with pale, frowning forehead, and blue-black circles under his eyes, looks into the other’s face and implores more heartily than the rest.The tall, broad-chested Mikhail Lvovich looks askance and stubbornly refuses to sing.“I can’t,” he says gruffly. “My throat is not in condition.”Borya and Natasha insist.Mikhail Lvovich then makes a gesture with his hand and accedes not less gruffly.“Very well, I’ll sing.”Every one is overjoyed.Mikhail Lvovich poses himself on his knees. Above the mist-white glade, above the white-faced lads, above the white mist itself, there rises toward the witching moon, floating tranquilly in the skies, the words of that proud, passionate hymn:“Arise, ye branded with a curse!”Mikhail Lvovich sings. His eyes are fixed on the ground, upon the cold grass, white in the glamorous light of the full, clear moon. It is hard to tell whether he does not wish to or cannot look straight into the eyes of these girls and boys—into these trusting, clean eyes.And they have gathered round him, how closely they have nestled round him, these pure-spirited young girls; and the young lads, their knees in the grass, follow every movement of his lips, and join in quietly. The bold melody grows, gains in volume. Like an exultant prophecy ring the eloquent words:In the InternationalAs brothers all men shall meet.XXXIVMikhail has finished the song. For a time no one speaks. Then the agitated voices all ring out together, stirring the heavy silence of the woods.Clear, girlish eyes are looking earnestly upon Mikhail Lvovich’s morose set face. A clear, girlish voice implores insistently and gently:“Sing again, please. Be a dear. Sing it once more. I will make a note of the words. I want to know them by heart.”Natasha approaches nearer and says quietly:“We will all of us learn the words and sing them each day, like a prayer. We shall do it with a full heart.”Mikhail Lvovich at last lifts his eyes. They are small, sparkling, shrewd. This time they have fixed themselves severely and inquisitively on Natasha’s face, which suddenly has become confused at this snake-like glance.Mikhail Lvovich addresses her gruffly.“It doesn’t require much bravery to sing on the quiet, in the woods. Any one can do that.”Natasha’s face becomes pale. Dark flames of unchildish determination kindle in her eyes. Excitedly she cries:“We will learn the words, and we will sing them where they are wanted. My God, are we to depend upon words, and upon words alone? We are ready for deeds.”Borya repeats after her: “We are ready. We shall do all that is necessary. Yes, even die if need be.”Mikhail Lvovich says with a calm assurance:“Yes, I know.”In his eyes, fixed intently upon the ground, a dim, small flame is visible.XXXVThere is a short silence. Then a thin voice is heard. It is the girl, slender as a young birch, with the sharp, cheerful little face, who is speaking.“My God! What strength! What eloquence!”Mikhail Lvovich slowly turns his face toward her. He smiles severely and says nothing.The girl has her hands clasped across her knees. It is an extremely pretty pose. Her face has suddenly assumed a very grave air, breathing passionate entreaty and fiery determination. She exclaims fervently:“Let’s all sing the chorus! Mikhail Lvovich will teach us. You will teach us, Mikhail Lvovich, won’t you?”“Very well,” Mikhail Lvovich replies with his usual severe dignity.He casts his dull, heavy gaze round the crowded circle of delighted young faces. He alone sits with his back to the open glade and to the witching moon. His face, now in the shade, has become even more significant. And his whole bearing is one of imposing solemnity.The faces of the younger people are white in the moonlight. Their garments are luminously bright. Their voices are brilliantly clear. In their simple trust there is the sense of an avowal.“Well, let us begin!” exclaims the slender girl, somewhat agitated.Mikhail Lvovich raises his hand with a solemn gesture and begins:“Arise, ye branded with a curse!”The children sing with a will, mingling their high, clear voices with Mikhail Lvovich’s deep, low voice. Their young voices are blazing with the passionate flame of freedom and revolt. Higher and still higher, above the white mists, above the black forest, toward the silver clouds and the quiet glimmering stars, toward the aspectful moon, rise the sounds of the invocation.And the white-trunked birches, the milk-white moon, motionless in the sky, the white, silvery grass, pressed down by children’s knees—all is still, all is silent, all is harkening with a sensitive ear. Everything around listens with poignant and solemn intentness to the song of these luminous children who, bathed in the translucent silver of the cool, lunar glimmer, their knees on the grass, their eyes burning in their uplifted faces, are repeating faithfully the words sung by the tall, self-contained young man whose dark face with fixed glance gazes morosely on the ground. They repeat after him:In the InternationalAs brothers all men shall meet.The strange foreign word, un-Russian in its ring, suggests to them the lofty, holy designation of a promised land, a new land under new skies, a land in which they have faith.After the hymn there is silence, a holy silence, solemn and palpable, reaching from the earth to the heavens. They might have been in the temple of a new, as yet unknown religion, in a mystic moment of sacrificial rites.XXXVIMikhail Lvovich is the first to break the silence. He speaks slowly, looking at no one and directing his heavy gaze above the children’s pale faces, beyond the flaming ring of their glances:“My friends, you know the sort of time this is. Each one of us can be of use. If any one of us is sent I hope that none will tremble for his precious life, and that none will be deterred by the thought of a mother’s sorrow.”The children exclaim:“None! None! If they would but send us!”“What is the sorrow of a single mother compared to the suffering of an entire nation!” thinks Natasha proudly.There rises up for an instant a mental image of the ashen-pale face of her mother, her intensely dark, eloquent eyes. A sharp pain, lasting a moment, pierces her heart. What of that? It is, after all, but a single instant of weakness. A proud will shall conquer this slight suffering of a single relative by conferring great love upon the many, the strangers, the grievous sufferers.What is the woe of one mother! Let Niobe weep eternally for her children, killed by the burning, poisoned arrows of the high Dragon; let Rachel remain unconsoled for ever—what is the woe of a poor mother? Serene is Apollo’s face, radiant is Apollo’s dream.Yet how painful, how painful! A dimness comes over the transcendent idea, as though the dark countenance of the ominous figure who sang the proud hymn has dimmed the moon and has cast an austere shadow upon the heart itself.And now there is no moon, and no night, and no white glade in the mist in the forest. The bright day stares again at Natasha, she is at the window, the book lies before her, the old house is depressingly silent. The cloud has disappeared, the heavens are clear again, the evil Dragon is once more aiming his flaming arrows, he reiterates his conquest anew.This cruel melancholy must be faced. Sting, accursed Dragon, burn, torment. Rejoice, conqueror! But even he must soon go to his setting, and, dying, pour out his blood upon half the heavens.XXXVIINatasha, a yellow straw hat upon her head, is now walking in the field. The ground is hot, the sky is blue, the air is sultry and the wind asleep; the corn is yellow, the grass is green. Bathed again in the bright heat, Natasha prods her sweetly fatiguing memories, which cast into oblivion this dismal day.She goes on—and there stretches before her, even as on a day long ago, the hot golden field, with its tall stalks inclining their heads in the heat. It is the revival of a former stifling, sultry midday.That was in the days when Natasha still loved the good, human sun, the source of life and joy, the eternal, the untiring herald of labours and deeds, of deeds beyond the powers of man.Oh, the treacherous speech of the Serpent Tempter! He turns our heads and he entices, and he makes our poor earth seem like some fabulous kingdom.Again there is a slight wavering stir in the sea of the heat-exhausted ears of rye, studded over with little blue flowers which lower timidly their sweetly-dazed heads from sultriness.Natasha and her brother Boris are walking together, on an inviting narrow path among the golden waves of rye.How high the rye is! One can barely see the green roof of the old house on the right for the tall stalks, and the semi-circular window in the mezzanine: and on the left the little grey, rough huts of the village.Natasha and Boris follow one another. All around them the dry ears of rye waver and rustle, and among them are the blue-eyed little cornflowers. The two fragilely slender human silhouettes answered to the same wavering motion.Natasha goes ahead. She turns to see why Boris has lagged behind. The boy, brown and slender, with large burning eyes, attired in his linen jacket, is gathering the little blue flowers. He has already gathered almost as many as his hands can hold.XXXVIIINatasha, laughing, says to her brother: “Enough, my dear, enough. I shan’t be able to carry them all.”“You’ll do it easily enough, never fear!” Boris answers cheerfully.Natasha stretches out her sunburnt hand to take the flowers. The sheaf of blue cornflowers, spreading across her breast, almost hides her, she is so slender.Again Boris addresses her cheerfully: “Well, is it heavy?”Natasha laughs. Her face lights up with the joy of gratitude, and with a cheerful, childlike determination. “I will carry these, but no more!” she says.“I want to gather as many as possible for you.” Boris’s voice is serious; “because you know we may not see each other for some time.” There is a quaver in his voice as he says this.“Perhaps, never,” Natasha, growing pensive, replies.Both faces become sad and careworn.Boris, frowning, glances sideways, and asks: “Natasha, are you going with him?”Natasha knows that Boris is inquiring about Mikhail Lvovich, who is now sending her on a dangerous business, and who has also promised to send Boris on some foolhardy errand. The brave are so often foolhardy.“No, I am going alone,” Natasha replies, “he will only lead me later to the spot.”Boris looks at Natasha with gloomy, envious eyes, and asks rather cautiously: “Are you frightened, Natasha?”Natasha smiles. And what pride there is in her smile! She speaks, and her voice is tranquil: “No, Boris, I feel happy.”Boris observes that her face is really happy, and that her dark, flaming eyes are cheerful enough. Looking at her thus, her tranquillity communicates itself to him, and inspires him with a calm confidence in himself and in the business in hand.The children go farther. Boris again gathers the cornflowers. Natasha is musing about something. She has broken off an ear of rye, and is absently nibbling at the grain.XXXIXIt is a long, hot, sultry day. The inexorable Dragon looks down indifferently upon the children. Unwearying, he aims his bright, vivid shafts at the sunburnt, fiery-eyed lad and at the slender, erect, black-eyed girl. His blazing shafts are evil, and they are well aimed; and his strong clear light is pitiless—but she walks on, and in her eyes there is hope, and in her eyes there is resolution, and in her dark eyes there is a flame which sets the soul afire to achieve deeds beyond the powers of man.Natasha suddenly pauses at the end of the path by the dusty road. Her eyes look at Boris full of tender admiration. It is evident that she desires to stamp upon her memory all the beloved features of the familiar tanned face—the curve of the dense brows, the rigid set of the red lips, the firm outlines of the chin, the stern profile.Natasha sighs lightly and addresses Boris gently and cheerfully:“Enough, dearest. They may not let me into the train with a heap like this. They will say: ‘This should be put in the luggage van.’”Both laugh carelessly. And still Boris is loath to leave the cornflowers. He says:“Only a few more. I want you to have a gigantic bouquet.”“You would have everything gigantic!” Natasha returns good-humouredly.But her face is serious. She knows how deep this quality is in him, and how significant. Boris looks at her, and in answer repeats his favourite, his most intimate thought:“Yes, it is true. I love all bigness, all immoderation. In everything! In everything! If we only acted like this always! And gave ourselves wholly to a thing! Oh, how different life would be!”Natasha, lost in thought, repeats: “Yes, big things, things beyond the powers of man. To make life lavish. Only no stinginess, no trembling for one’s skin. Far better to die—to gather all life into one little knot, and to throw it away!”“Yes, yes,” says Boris, and his eyes, dark as night, glow with the fury of a yet distant storm. “We must have no care for lives, but be lavish with them, lavish to the end—only then may we reach our goal!”They cross the road and again walk calmly along a narrow path. Her dress is white among the golden waves. Natasha stretches out her slender hand, the ears of rye rustle dryly and solid seeds of ripe rye fall into it. They are struck from above by the vivid shafts of the pitiless Dragon.The children are walking on, conscious of their vow. They go trustingly, and they do not know that he who sends them is a traitor, and that their sacrifice is vain.XLWhat is this dry rustling all around? It is the rye. But where are the little cornflowers, where is Boris? The little blue-eyed flowers are in the rye, and Boris has been hanged.“And I?” Natasha asks herself in a strange, oppressive perplexity. She looks round her like one just awakened.“Why am I here?”She answers herself: “I escaped. A lucky chance saved me.”Natasha is oppressed by the thought. How had she survived it? “Far better if I had perished!”It all happened very simply. Natasha, being Number Three, was placed at the railway station itself, her duty being contingent on the failure of Number One and Number Two. But the first was successful, though he himself perished in the explosion.The second, upon hearing the explosion not far away, lost his presence of mind. He ran to save himself. He caught a cab, and got off near the river. Here he hired a row-boat. When near the middle of the river, he threw the bomb into the water. The man who rowed had guessed that something was wrong. Besides, he had been seen from the Government steamer and from the banks. Number Two was taken, tried and hanged.Natasha did not betray herself in any way. She walked calmly, without haste, bearing her dangerous burden, observed by no one. She mixed freely with the passing crowd. She delivered the bomb at the appointed place.A few days later she left for home. She had not been followed. Natasha was awaiting a second commission, and quite suddenly she abandoned the business, because her trust in it had died.It happened even before Borya was hanged. But her decision came finally in those nightmare days when, quickly and unexpectedly, his life came to an end.Those were terrible days.But, no, it is better not to think of them, it is better not to remember them. To remember them is to suffer. Far better to remember other things, things cloudless and long past.XLIOh magic mirror of memory, so much is reflected in thee! Beloved images pass by with a kind of glimmer.There were the flowers, which they themselves looked after. There was one flower-bed which they cared for with especial tenderness. There was the fresh, intoxicating evening aroma of gilliflower. There was the cluster of jasmine, dewy at dawn, so sweetly and so gently fragrant, that one wished to weep in its presence, as the grass weeps its tears of dew at golden dawn.Then there was the open space in the garden, and the giant-stride in the centre. What gigantic steps they took! How fast and how high she flew round with Boris!How glorious were the feast-days to the childish hearts. There was Christmas Eve, with its tree, and candles upon the green branches, with all the many-coloured glitter of golden nuts, red, green and blue trimmings, snow-white foils of cotton-wool, offerings which gladdened with their unexpectedness. Then in the daytime there is real snow, glittering like salt, and crunching under one’s feet; the frost pinches the cheeks, the sun is shining, their mittens are of the softest down, their hats are white and soft, the sleds are flying down hillocks—oh, what joy!And now Easter is here. What a solemn night! Then the joyous chanting of matins. The candle flames are everywhere, there seems to be no end to them. There is a smell of Easter cakes. There are Easter eggs painted in all colours. Every one is kissing each other. Every one is happy.“Christoss Voskress!”“Voistinu Voskress!”But the dear dead do not stir.No. The beloved memories do not break the continuity of the circle, the resurrection of the others—the fearsome, tragic memories. Inevitably the vision leads on to the last terrible moments.XLIIThey lived in the capital that winter. Boris was studying his final term in thegymnasia. For Christmas he went to another city: to relatives, he said.Natasha was suspicious. But he did not tell her the truth.“Really, nothing,” he answered to all her questions. “No one is sending me. I am going of my own accord. To see Aunt Liuba.”And Natasha did not insist.For several days she did not get any letters from him. But she did not worry. Boris disliked writing letters. They thought he was enjoying himself.It was an evening in early January. Her mother and grandmother had gone out visiting. Natasha, pleading a headache, remained at home.“I’ll lie down on the sofa. It will pass away.”The truth was she thought the home of her affected, worldly relatives a dull place, and she had no desire to go there.The maid had leave to go out. Natasha remained in the house alone. She lay down in her room on the sofa with an interesting new book.After the cheer and ease of the holidays, Natasha felt in good spirits. She was comfortable, tranquil and cheerful. The hangings on the windows were impenetrably opaque. The lamp, burning brightly and evenly, concealed its garish white blaze from her eyes under its trimmed, beaded shade. The whole small room was lost in a luminous twilight.At last, however, page after page of running lines of print tired Natasha. She dropped into a doze, and was shortly sound asleep. The open book fell softly on the rug.XLIIISuddenly a bell rings. Natasha gives a start.Ours? No. The bell rang so timidly, so hesitatingly. It was as though she heard it ring in a dream, and not in reality; again, it might have been the ring of some mischievous urchin.Perhaps she had only imagined it. It is so comfortable to doze. She feels too lazy to get up. Let them ring.But here is a second ring, more insistent and louder.Natasha jumps up and runs into the vestibule, rearranging her hair on the way. Remembering that she is alone in the house she does not open the door, but asks: “Who’s there?”From behind the door she can hear the low, somewhat hoarse voice of the telegraph boy: “A telegram.”Her heart begins to beat with fright. It is always terrible to receive telegrams. For only good news travels slowly. Bad news makes haste.Natasha puts one end of the door-chain to a little hook in the door. Then she opens the door partly and looks out. There stands the messenger in his uniform, with a metal plate in his cap. He hands her the telegram.“Sign here, miss.”The grey-white, dry paper trembles in Natasha’s hands. Natasha feels a sudden tug at her heart. She speaks incoherently:“What is it? Oh my God! Sign, did you say?”She runs to the table. Her hands tremble. She has managed somehow to scrawl her family name “Ozoreva,” the pen hesitating and scratching upon the grey paper.“Here is the signature.”Across the little door-chain she thrusts the signed paper and a tip into the hand of the messenger. Then she bangs the door to after him. Now she is in front of the lamp. What can it be?Tearing the seal open she reads. Terrible words. Such simple, yet such incomprehensible words. Because they are about Boris.“Boris has shot ——. Arrested with comrades. Military trial to-morrow. Death sentence threatened.”XLIVNatasha re-reads the telegram. A sudden terror, strangely akin to shame, for a moment strikes at her heart. She can hear the heavy beat of blood in her temples. She is, as it were, being strangled from all sides; she can hardly breathe; the walls seem to have come together, oppressing her on all sides; and the rapid, pale, pencilled strokes seem also to have run together into one jumble on the grey paper.Certain thoughts, one after the other, slowly make way into Natasha’s dimmed consciousness—oppressive, evil, pitiless thoughts.Stupefied, she wonders how she shall tell her mother. She observes that her hands tremble. She recalls the telephone number of the Lareyevs, where her mother undoubtedly is.Then terror seizes her anew; she shivers violently from head to foot as with ague. Her mind is a whirl of confusion.“No, it is a mistake! It cannot be. It is a cruel, senseless mistake! It is some one’s stupid, cruel joke.”Boris, our beloved boy, with his fine honest eyes—think of him hanging! There will be a rattle in his throat, as strangling, he will swing in the noose. With sharp, clutching pain, the gentle, childish neck will tighten; the sunburnt face will grow purple; the swollen tongue will creep out all in froth, and the widely dilated eyes will reflect the terror of cruel death.No, no, it cannot be! It is a mistake! But who can be malicious enough to make such a mistake?And then where is Boris?Her cold reasoning says that it is so, that no mistake has been made. The words are clear, the address is correct—yes, yes! It was really to be expected. Here it is, this lavishness of life which he dreamt of, which they both dreamt of. “I love all immoderation. To be lavish—only then we may reach our goal!”Her legs tremble. She feels herself terribly weak. She sits down on the sofa.Oh God, what’s to be done? How is she to tell her mother this terrible thing?Or should she conceal it? And do everything that could be done by herself? But no, she could do ridiculously little herself!It is necessary to tell. It must be done quickly. She must not lose an instant. Perhaps it is still possible to save Boris, by going, by petitioning.Why is she sitting still then? It is necessary to act at once.Natasha seizes the telephone. What a long time the operator takes to answer.At last she is connected. She can hear sounds of music and the hum of voices.A cheerful, familiar voice asks:“Who’s there?”“It is Natasha Ozoreva.”“Good evening, Natasha,” says Marusya Lareyeva loudly. “What a pity you did not come. We are having a fine time.”“Good evening, dear Marusya. Is mamma with you?”“Yes, she is here. Shall I call her?”“No, no, for God’s sake. Let some one break it to her....”“Has anything happened?”“Marusya, a terrible misfortune. Our Boris has been arrested.”“My God! For what?”“I don’t know. He’ll have a military trial. I feel desperate. It’s so terrible. For God’s sake, don’t frighten mother too much. Tell her to come home at once, please.”“Oh, my God, how awful!”“Oh, Marusya, dearest, for God’s sake, be quick.”“I’ll tell my mother at once. Wait at the telephone, Natasha.”Natasha holds the receiver to her ear and waits. She hears the noise of footsteps. Some one has begun to sing.Then again the same voice, extremely agitated:“Natasha, do you hear? Your mother wants to speak to you herself.”Natasha trembles with fright. Good God, what shall she tell her mother! She inquires:“What? Is she coming herself to the telephone?” she asks.“Yes, yes. Your mother is here now.”XLVThe voice of Sofia Alexandrovna, terribly agitated, is heard:“Natasha, is that you? For God’s sake, what has happened?”Natasha replies:“Yes, mamma, it is I. A telegram has come. Mamma, don’t be frightened, it must be a mistake.”This time the voice is more controlled.“Read me the telegram at once.”“Just a moment. I’ll get it,” says Natasha.The telegram is read.“What, a military trial?”“Yes, military.”“To-morrow?”“Yes, yes, to-morrow.”“Death sentence threatened?”“Mamma, please be yourself, for God’s sake. Perhaps something can be done.”“We must go there. Get the things ready, Natasha. Mother and I are returning at once, and we will take the first train out.”The conversation is at an end.Natasha is alone. She runs about the deserted house, letting things fall in the poignant silence. She is busy with travelling bags and with pillows.She stops to look at the time-table. There is a train at half-past twelve. Yes, there is still time to catch it.Then the bell rings, frightening her even more than the earlier ring. The mother and the grandmother have arrived, pale and distraught.XLVIA sleepless, wearisome journey in the train. The wheels roll on with a measured, jarring sound. Stops are made. How slow it all is! How agonizing! If only it would be quicker, quicker!Or were it better to wish that time should be arrested? That its huge, shaggy wings outspread and flapping above the world should suddenly become motionless? That its owlish glance should be stilled for ever in the instant just before the terrible word is said?They reach their destination in the morning. At the station, a dirty, dejected place, they are met by a cousin of Natasha’s, an attorney by profession. From his pale, worried face, they guess that everything is over.He talks quickly and incoherently. He comforts them with hopes in which he himself does not believe. The trial had been held early that morning. Boris and both his comrades—all of the same green youth—had been sentenced to die by hanging. The court would entertain no appeal. The only hope lay in the district general. He was really not a bad man at heart. Perhaps, by imploring, he might be induced to lighten the sentence to that of hard labour for an indefinite period.Poor mothers! What is it they implore?XLVIISofia Alexandrovna and Natasha arrived at the general’s. They waited long in the quiet, cold-looking reception-room; the glossy parquet floor shone, portraits in heavy gilt frames hung on the walls, and the careful steps of uniformed officials, coming through a large white door, resounded from time to time.At last they were received. The general listened most amiably, but declined emphatically to do anything. He rose, clinked his spurs, and stretched himself to his full height; He stood there tall, erect, his breast decorated with orders, his head grey, his face ruddy, with black eyebrows and broad nose.In vain the humiliating entreaties.Pale, the proud mother knelt before the general and, weeping bitterly, she kissed his hands and at last threw herself at his feet—all in vain. She received the cold answer:“I am sorry, madam, it is impossible. I understand your affliction, I sympathize fully; with your sorrow, but what can I do? Whose fault is it? Upon me lies a great responsibility toward my Emperor and my country. I have my duty—I can’t help you. It is against yourself that you ought to bring your reproaches—you’ve brought him up.”Of what avail the tears of a poor mother? Strike thy head upon the parquet floor, bend thy face to the black glitter of his boots; or else depart, proud and silent. It is all the same, he can do nothing. Thy tears and thy entreaties do not touch him, thy curses do not offend him. He is a kind man, he is the loving father of a family, but his upright martial soul does not tremble before the word death. More than once he had risked his life boldly in battle—what is the life of a conspirator to him?“But he is a mere boy!”“No, madam, this is not a childish prank. I am sorry.”He walks away. She hears the measured clinking of his spurs. The parquet floor reflects dimly his tall, erect figure.“General, have pity!”The cold, white door has swung to after him. She hears the quiet, pleasant voice of a young official. He raises her from the floor and helps her to find her way out.XLVIIIThey granted a last meeting. A few minutes passed in questions, answers, embraces, and tears.Boris said very little.“Don’t cry, mamma. I am not afraid. There is nothing else they can do. They don’t feed you at all badly here. Remember me to all. And you, Natasha, take care of mother. One sacrifice is enough from our family. Well, good-bye.”He seemed somehow callous and distant. He seemed to be thinking of something else, of something he could tell no one. And his words had an external ring, as though merely to make conversation.That night, before daybreak, Boris was hanged. The scaffold was set up in the gaol courtyard. The spot where he was buried was kept secret.The mother implored the next day: “Show me his grave at least!”What was there to show! He was laid in a coffin, he was put into a hole in the earth and the soil that covered him was smoothed down to its original level—we all know how such culprits are buried.“Tell me at least how he died.”“Well, he was a brave one. He was calm, a bit serious. And he refused a priest, and would not kiss the cross.”They returned home. A fog of melancholy hung over them, and within them there lit up a spark of mad hope—no, Borya is not dead, Borya will return.XLIXThe thought that Boris had been hanged could not enter into their habitual, everyday thoughts. Only in the hour when the sun was at its zenith, and in the hour of the midnight moon, it would penetrate their awakened consciousness like a sharp poniard. Again it would pierce the soul with a sharp, tormenting pain, and again it would vanish in the dim mist of dawn with a kind of dull agony. And again, the same unreasonable conviction would awake in their hearts.No, Borya will return. The bell will suddenly ring, and the door will be opened to him.“Oh, Borya! Where have you been wandering?”How we shall kiss him! And how much there will be to tell!“What does it matter where you have been wandering. You have been wandering, and, you have been found, like the prodigal son.”How happy all will be!The old nurse will not be consoled. She wails:“Boryushka, Boryushka, my incomparable one! I say to him: ‘Boryushka, I’m going to the poor-house!’ And he says to me: ‘No,’ says he, ‘nyanechka,[4]I’ll not let you go to the poor-house. I,’ he says, ‘will let you stop with me,nyanechka; only wait till I grow up,’ says he, ‘and you can live with me.’ Oh, Boryushka, what’s this you’ve done!”In the morning the old nurse enters the vestibule. Whose grey overcoat is it that she sees hanging on the rack? It is Borya’s, hisgymnasiauniform. Has he then not gone to thegymnasiato-day?She wanders into the dining-room, making a muffled noise with her soft slippers.“Natashenka, is Boryushka home to-day? His overcoat’s there on the rack. Or is he sick?”“Nyanechka!” exclaims Natasha.And, frightened, she looks at her mother.The old nurse has suddenly remembered. She is crying. The grey head shivers in its black wrap. The old woman wails:“I go there and I look, what’s that I see? Borya’s overcoat. I say to myself, Borya’s gone to thegymnasia, why’s his overcoat here? It’s no holiday. Oh, my Boryushka is gone!”She wails louder and louder. Then the old woman falls to the floor and begins to beat the boards with her head.“Borechka, my own Borechka! If the Lord had only taken me, an old woman, instead of him. What’s the use of life to me? I drag along, of no cheer to myself or to any one else.”Natasha, helpless, tries to quiet her.“Nyanechka, dearest, rest a little.”“May Thou rest me, O Lord! My heart told me something was wrong. I’ve been dreaming all sorts of bad dreams. These black dreams have come true! Oh, Borechka, my own!”The old woman continues to beat her head and to wail. Natasha implores her mother:“For God’s sake, mamma, have Borya’s overcoat taken from the rack.”Sofia Alexandrovna looks at her with her dark, smouldering eyes and says morosely:“Why? It had better hang there. He might suddenly need it.”Oh, hateful memories! As long as the evil Dragon reigns in the heavens it is impossible to escape them.Natasha roams restlessly, she can find no place for herself. She is off to the woods; she recalls Boris there, and that he has been hanged. She is off to the river; she recalls Boris there, and that he is no more. She is back at home, and the walls of the old house recall Boris to her, and that he will not return.Like a pale shadow the mother wanders along the walks of the garden, choosing to pause there where the shade is densest. The old grandmother sits upon a bench and finishes the reading of the newspapers. It is the same every day.[4]Little nurse.LAnd now the evening is approaching. The sun is low and red. It looks straight into people’s eyes as though, while expiring, it were begging for mercy. A breeze blows from the river, and it brings the laughter of white water nymphs.A number of noisy urchins are running in the road; their shirt-tails flap merrily in the wind, while their sleeves are filled with wind like balloons. The sound of a harmonica comes from the distance, and its song runs on very merrily. The corncrake screeches in the field, and its call resembles a general’s loud snore.The old house once more casts and arranges its long dark shadows disturbed by the intrusive day. Its windows blaze forth with the red fire of the evening sun.The gilliflower exhales its seductive aroma in some of the distant paths. The roses seem even redder in the sunset, and more sweet. The eternal Aphrodite—the naked marble of her proud body taking on a rose tint—smiles again, and lets fall her draperies as fascinatingly as ever.And everything is directed as before toward cherished, unreasonable hopes. Enfeebled by the day’s heat, and by the sadness of the bright day, the harassed soul has exhausted its measure of suffering, and it falls from the iron embrace of sorrow to the beloved dark earth of the past, once more besprinkled with dreamily refreshing dew.And again, as at dawn, the three women in the old house await Boris, or a short time happy in their madness.They await him, and they chat of him, until, from behind the trees of the dark wood, the cold moon shows her ever sad face. The dead moon is under a white shroud of mist.Then again they remember that Borya has been hanged, and they meet at the green-covered pond to weep for him.LINatasha is the first to leave the house. She has on a white dress and a black cloak. Her black hair is covered with a thin black kerchief. Her very deep dark eyes shine with flame-like brightness. She stands, her pale face uplifted toward the moon. She awaits the other two.Elena Kirillovna and Sofia Alexandrovna arrive together.Elena Kirillovna leaves the house slightly earlier, but Sofia Alexandrovna runs after her and overtakes her almost at the pond. They wear black cloaks, black kerchiefs on their heads, and black shoes.Natasha begins:“On the night before the execution he did not sleep. The moon, just as clear as to-night’s, looked into the narrow window of his cell. On the floor the moon sadly outlined a green rhomb, intersected lengthwise and crosswise by narrow dark strokes. Boris walked up and down his cell, and looked now at the moon, now at the green rhomb, and thought—I wish I knew his thoughts that night.”Her remark has a quite tranquil sound. It might have been about a stranger.Sofia Alexandrovna now and again wrings her hands, and as she begins to speak her voice is agitated and heavy with grief:“What can one think at such moments! The moon, long dead, looks in. There are five steps from the door to the window, four steps across. The mind springs feverishly from object to object. That the execution is to take place on the morrow is the one thing you try not to think of. Stubbornly you repel the thought. But it remains, it refuses to depart, it throttles the soul with an oppressive, horrible nightmare. The anguish is intense and enfeebling. But I do not wish my gaolers and all these officials who are come to me to see my anguish. I will be calm. And yet what anguish—if only, lifting up my pale face, I could cry aloud to the pale moon!”Elena Kirillovna whispers faintly:“Terrible, Sonyushka.”There are tears in her voice—simple, old-womanish, grandmotherly tears.LIISofia Alexandrovna, ignoring the interruption, continues:“Why should I really go to my death boldly and resolutely? Is it not all the same? I shall die in the courtyard, in the dark of night. Whether I die boldly, or weep like a coward, or beg for mercy, or resist the executioner—is it not all the same? No one will know how I died. I shall face death alone. Why should I really suffer this wild anguish? I will raise up my voice to wail and to weep, and I will shake the whole gaol with my despairing cries, and I will awake the town, the so-called free town, which is only a larger gaol—so that I shall not suffer alone, but that others shall share in my last agony, in my last dread. But no, I won’t do that. It is my fate to die alone.”Natasha rises, trembles, presses her mother’s cold hand in hers, and says:“Mamma, mamma, it is terrible, if alone. No, don’t say that he felt alone. We shall be with him.”Elena Kirillovna whispers:“Yes, Sonyushka, it would be terrible alone. In such moments!”“We are with him,” insists Natasha vehemently. “We are with him now.”A smile is on Sofia Alexandrovna’s lips, a smile such as a dying person smiles to greet his last consolation. Sofia Alexandrovna speaks:“My last consolation is the thought that I am not alone. He is with me. These walls are unrealities, this gaol built by men is a lie. What is real and true is my suffering and I am one with them in my grief. A poor consolation! And yet I, just think, this extraordinary I, Boris, I am dying.”“I am dying,” repeats Natasha.Her voice is clouded, and it is fraught with despair. And all three remain silent for a brief while, overcome by the spell of these tragic words.LIIISofia Alexandrovna speaks again. Her voice sounds tranquil, deliberate, measured:“There is no consolation for the dying. His grief is boundless. The cold moon continues to torment him. A moan struggles to break from his throat, a moan like the wild baying of a caged beast.”Natasha speaks sadly:“But he is not alone, not alone. We are with him in his grief.”Her eyes, darker than a dark night, look up toward the lifeless moon, and the green enchantress, reflected in them, torments her with a dull pain.Sofia Alexandrovna smiles—and her smile is dead—and with the voice of inconsolable sorrow she speaks again slowly and calmly:“We are with him only in his despair, in his pitiful inconsolability, in his dark solitude. But he was alone, alone, when he was strangled by the hand of a hired hangman; strangled in that dark enclosure which it is not for us to demolish. And the dead moon tormented him, as it torments us. She tempted him with the mad desire to moan wildly, like a wild beast before dying. And now we, in this hour, under this moon—are we not also tormented by the same mad desire to run, to run far from people, and to moan and to wail, and to flee from a grief too great to be borne!”She rises abruptly and walks away, wringing her beautiful white hands. She walks fast, almost runs, driven as it were by some strange, furious will not her own. Natasha follows her with the measured yet rapid, deliberate, mechanical gait of an automaton. And behind them trips along Elena Kirillovna, who lets fall a few scant tears on her black cloak.The moon follows them callously in their hurried journey across the garden, across the field, into that wood, into that still glade, where once the children sang their proud hymn, and where they let their mad desires be known to one who was to betray them for a price—young blood for gold.The grass in the fields is wet with dew. The river is white with mist. The high moon is clear and cold. Everywhere it is quiet, as though all the earthly rustlings and noises had lost themselves in the moon’s dead light.LIVAnd here is the glade. “Natasha, do you remember? How warmly they all sangArise, ye branded with a curse!Natasha, will you sing it again? Do. Is it a torture?”“I’ll sing,” replies Natasha quietly.She sings in a low voice, almost to herself. The mother listens, and the grandmother listens—but what have the birches and the grass and the clear moon to do with human songs!In the InternationalAs brothers all men shall meet!Her song is at an end. The wood is silent. The moon waits. The mist is pensive. The birches seem to listen. The sky is clear.Ah, for whom is all this life? Who calls? Who responds? Or is it all the play of the dead?Loudly wailing, the mother calls: “Borya, Borya!”Overflowing with tears Elena Kirillovna replies: “Borya won’t come. There is no Borya.”Natasha stretches out her arms toward the lifeless moon, and cries out: “Borya has been hanged!”All three now stand side by side, looking at the moon, and weeping. Louder grows their sobbing, fiercer the note of despair. Their moans merge finally into a prolonged, wild wailing, which can be heard for some distance.The dog at the forester’s hut is restless. Trembling with all his lean body, his short hair bristling, he has pricked up his ears. Rising, he stretches his slender limbs. His sharp muzzle, showing its teeth, is uplifted to the tormenting moon. His eyes burn with a yearning flame. The dog bays in answer to the distant wail of the women in the wood.People are asleep.
Reposing under the slender birches in the glade is a party of girls, young men and grown-up people. One sits on the stump of a felled tree, another on the trunk of an old birch struck down in a storm, a third lies upon an overcoat spread on the grass, a fourth rests his back against a young birch. There is a single, slight glow of a cigarette, but this, too, goes out.
In the luminous, haunting mist everything seems white, translucent, fabulously impressive. And it seems as though the birches in the glade and the moon in the sky are waiting for something.
Here is Natasha. Here is also Natasha’s friend, a college girl from Moscow, white-skinned, sharp-featured, looking like a healthy little wild beast. Then there are Borya and his friend, both in linen jackets, both lean, with pale faces and dark, flaming eyes.
And there is yet another—a tall, stout figure in a dark blouse. He has an air of self-confidence and seems to be the most knowing, the most experienced, the most able of those present.
He is surrounded by the grown-up people and the girls, and he is being questioned. Cheery, good-natured, impatient voices appeal to him.
“Do sing for us theInternational.”
Borya, a lad with pale, frowning forehead, and blue-black circles under his eyes, looks into the other’s face and implores more heartily than the rest.
The tall, broad-chested Mikhail Lvovich looks askance and stubbornly refuses to sing.
“I can’t,” he says gruffly. “My throat is not in condition.”
Borya and Natasha insist.
Mikhail Lvovich then makes a gesture with his hand and accedes not less gruffly.
“Very well, I’ll sing.”
Every one is overjoyed.
Mikhail Lvovich poses himself on his knees. Above the mist-white glade, above the white-faced lads, above the white mist itself, there rises toward the witching moon, floating tranquilly in the skies, the words of that proud, passionate hymn:
“Arise, ye branded with a curse!”
Mikhail Lvovich sings. His eyes are fixed on the ground, upon the cold grass, white in the glamorous light of the full, clear moon. It is hard to tell whether he does not wish to or cannot look straight into the eyes of these girls and boys—into these trusting, clean eyes.
And they have gathered round him, how closely they have nestled round him, these pure-spirited young girls; and the young lads, their knees in the grass, follow every movement of his lips, and join in quietly. The bold melody grows, gains in volume. Like an exultant prophecy ring the eloquent words:
In the InternationalAs brothers all men shall meet.
Mikhail has finished the song. For a time no one speaks. Then the agitated voices all ring out together, stirring the heavy silence of the woods.
Clear, girlish eyes are looking earnestly upon Mikhail Lvovich’s morose set face. A clear, girlish voice implores insistently and gently:
“Sing again, please. Be a dear. Sing it once more. I will make a note of the words. I want to know them by heart.”
Natasha approaches nearer and says quietly:
“We will all of us learn the words and sing them each day, like a prayer. We shall do it with a full heart.”
Mikhail Lvovich at last lifts his eyes. They are small, sparkling, shrewd. This time they have fixed themselves severely and inquisitively on Natasha’s face, which suddenly has become confused at this snake-like glance.
Mikhail Lvovich addresses her gruffly.
“It doesn’t require much bravery to sing on the quiet, in the woods. Any one can do that.”
Natasha’s face becomes pale. Dark flames of unchildish determination kindle in her eyes. Excitedly she cries:
“We will learn the words, and we will sing them where they are wanted. My God, are we to depend upon words, and upon words alone? We are ready for deeds.”
Borya repeats after her: “We are ready. We shall do all that is necessary. Yes, even die if need be.”
Mikhail Lvovich says with a calm assurance:
“Yes, I know.”
In his eyes, fixed intently upon the ground, a dim, small flame is visible.
There is a short silence. Then a thin voice is heard. It is the girl, slender as a young birch, with the sharp, cheerful little face, who is speaking.
“My God! What strength! What eloquence!”
Mikhail Lvovich slowly turns his face toward her. He smiles severely and says nothing.
The girl has her hands clasped across her knees. It is an extremely pretty pose. Her face has suddenly assumed a very grave air, breathing passionate entreaty and fiery determination. She exclaims fervently:
“Let’s all sing the chorus! Mikhail Lvovich will teach us. You will teach us, Mikhail Lvovich, won’t you?”
“Very well,” Mikhail Lvovich replies with his usual severe dignity.
He casts his dull, heavy gaze round the crowded circle of delighted young faces. He alone sits with his back to the open glade and to the witching moon. His face, now in the shade, has become even more significant. And his whole bearing is one of imposing solemnity.
The faces of the younger people are white in the moonlight. Their garments are luminously bright. Their voices are brilliantly clear. In their simple trust there is the sense of an avowal.
“Well, let us begin!” exclaims the slender girl, somewhat agitated.
Mikhail Lvovich raises his hand with a solemn gesture and begins:
“Arise, ye branded with a curse!”
The children sing with a will, mingling their high, clear voices with Mikhail Lvovich’s deep, low voice. Their young voices are blazing with the passionate flame of freedom and revolt. Higher and still higher, above the white mists, above the black forest, toward the silver clouds and the quiet glimmering stars, toward the aspectful moon, rise the sounds of the invocation.
And the white-trunked birches, the milk-white moon, motionless in the sky, the white, silvery grass, pressed down by children’s knees—all is still, all is silent, all is harkening with a sensitive ear. Everything around listens with poignant and solemn intentness to the song of these luminous children who, bathed in the translucent silver of the cool, lunar glimmer, their knees on the grass, their eyes burning in their uplifted faces, are repeating faithfully the words sung by the tall, self-contained young man whose dark face with fixed glance gazes morosely on the ground. They repeat after him:
In the InternationalAs brothers all men shall meet.
The strange foreign word, un-Russian in its ring, suggests to them the lofty, holy designation of a promised land, a new land under new skies, a land in which they have faith.
After the hymn there is silence, a holy silence, solemn and palpable, reaching from the earth to the heavens. They might have been in the temple of a new, as yet unknown religion, in a mystic moment of sacrificial rites.
Mikhail Lvovich is the first to break the silence. He speaks slowly, looking at no one and directing his heavy gaze above the children’s pale faces, beyond the flaming ring of their glances:
“My friends, you know the sort of time this is. Each one of us can be of use. If any one of us is sent I hope that none will tremble for his precious life, and that none will be deterred by the thought of a mother’s sorrow.”
The children exclaim:
“None! None! If they would but send us!”
“What is the sorrow of a single mother compared to the suffering of an entire nation!” thinks Natasha proudly.
There rises up for an instant a mental image of the ashen-pale face of her mother, her intensely dark, eloquent eyes. A sharp pain, lasting a moment, pierces her heart. What of that? It is, after all, but a single instant of weakness. A proud will shall conquer this slight suffering of a single relative by conferring great love upon the many, the strangers, the grievous sufferers.
What is the woe of one mother! Let Niobe weep eternally for her children, killed by the burning, poisoned arrows of the high Dragon; let Rachel remain unconsoled for ever—what is the woe of a poor mother? Serene is Apollo’s face, radiant is Apollo’s dream.
Yet how painful, how painful! A dimness comes over the transcendent idea, as though the dark countenance of the ominous figure who sang the proud hymn has dimmed the moon and has cast an austere shadow upon the heart itself.
And now there is no moon, and no night, and no white glade in the mist in the forest. The bright day stares again at Natasha, she is at the window, the book lies before her, the old house is depressingly silent. The cloud has disappeared, the heavens are clear again, the evil Dragon is once more aiming his flaming arrows, he reiterates his conquest anew.
This cruel melancholy must be faced. Sting, accursed Dragon, burn, torment. Rejoice, conqueror! But even he must soon go to his setting, and, dying, pour out his blood upon half the heavens.
Natasha, a yellow straw hat upon her head, is now walking in the field. The ground is hot, the sky is blue, the air is sultry and the wind asleep; the corn is yellow, the grass is green. Bathed again in the bright heat, Natasha prods her sweetly fatiguing memories, which cast into oblivion this dismal day.
She goes on—and there stretches before her, even as on a day long ago, the hot golden field, with its tall stalks inclining their heads in the heat. It is the revival of a former stifling, sultry midday.
That was in the days when Natasha still loved the good, human sun, the source of life and joy, the eternal, the untiring herald of labours and deeds, of deeds beyond the powers of man.
Oh, the treacherous speech of the Serpent Tempter! He turns our heads and he entices, and he makes our poor earth seem like some fabulous kingdom.
Again there is a slight wavering stir in the sea of the heat-exhausted ears of rye, studded over with little blue flowers which lower timidly their sweetly-dazed heads from sultriness.
Natasha and her brother Boris are walking together, on an inviting narrow path among the golden waves of rye.
How high the rye is! One can barely see the green roof of the old house on the right for the tall stalks, and the semi-circular window in the mezzanine: and on the left the little grey, rough huts of the village.
Natasha and Boris follow one another. All around them the dry ears of rye waver and rustle, and among them are the blue-eyed little cornflowers. The two fragilely slender human silhouettes answered to the same wavering motion.
Natasha goes ahead. She turns to see why Boris has lagged behind. The boy, brown and slender, with large burning eyes, attired in his linen jacket, is gathering the little blue flowers. He has already gathered almost as many as his hands can hold.
Natasha, laughing, says to her brother: “Enough, my dear, enough. I shan’t be able to carry them all.”
“You’ll do it easily enough, never fear!” Boris answers cheerfully.
Natasha stretches out her sunburnt hand to take the flowers. The sheaf of blue cornflowers, spreading across her breast, almost hides her, she is so slender.
Again Boris addresses her cheerfully: “Well, is it heavy?”
Natasha laughs. Her face lights up with the joy of gratitude, and with a cheerful, childlike determination. “I will carry these, but no more!” she says.
“I want to gather as many as possible for you.” Boris’s voice is serious; “because you know we may not see each other for some time.” There is a quaver in his voice as he says this.
“Perhaps, never,” Natasha, growing pensive, replies.
Both faces become sad and careworn.
Boris, frowning, glances sideways, and asks: “Natasha, are you going with him?”
Natasha knows that Boris is inquiring about Mikhail Lvovich, who is now sending her on a dangerous business, and who has also promised to send Boris on some foolhardy errand. The brave are so often foolhardy.
“No, I am going alone,” Natasha replies, “he will only lead me later to the spot.”
Boris looks at Natasha with gloomy, envious eyes, and asks rather cautiously: “Are you frightened, Natasha?”
Natasha smiles. And what pride there is in her smile! She speaks, and her voice is tranquil: “No, Boris, I feel happy.”
Boris observes that her face is really happy, and that her dark, flaming eyes are cheerful enough. Looking at her thus, her tranquillity communicates itself to him, and inspires him with a calm confidence in himself and in the business in hand.
The children go farther. Boris again gathers the cornflowers. Natasha is musing about something. She has broken off an ear of rye, and is absently nibbling at the grain.
It is a long, hot, sultry day. The inexorable Dragon looks down indifferently upon the children. Unwearying, he aims his bright, vivid shafts at the sunburnt, fiery-eyed lad and at the slender, erect, black-eyed girl. His blazing shafts are evil, and they are well aimed; and his strong clear light is pitiless—but she walks on, and in her eyes there is hope, and in her eyes there is resolution, and in her dark eyes there is a flame which sets the soul afire to achieve deeds beyond the powers of man.
Natasha suddenly pauses at the end of the path by the dusty road. Her eyes look at Boris full of tender admiration. It is evident that she desires to stamp upon her memory all the beloved features of the familiar tanned face—the curve of the dense brows, the rigid set of the red lips, the firm outlines of the chin, the stern profile.
Natasha sighs lightly and addresses Boris gently and cheerfully:
“Enough, dearest. They may not let me into the train with a heap like this. They will say: ‘This should be put in the luggage van.’”
Both laugh carelessly. And still Boris is loath to leave the cornflowers. He says:
“Only a few more. I want you to have a gigantic bouquet.”
“You would have everything gigantic!” Natasha returns good-humouredly.
But her face is serious. She knows how deep this quality is in him, and how significant. Boris looks at her, and in answer repeats his favourite, his most intimate thought:
“Yes, it is true. I love all bigness, all immoderation. In everything! In everything! If we only acted like this always! And gave ourselves wholly to a thing! Oh, how different life would be!”
Natasha, lost in thought, repeats: “Yes, big things, things beyond the powers of man. To make life lavish. Only no stinginess, no trembling for one’s skin. Far better to die—to gather all life into one little knot, and to throw it away!”
“Yes, yes,” says Boris, and his eyes, dark as night, glow with the fury of a yet distant storm. “We must have no care for lives, but be lavish with them, lavish to the end—only then may we reach our goal!”
They cross the road and again walk calmly along a narrow path. Her dress is white among the golden waves. Natasha stretches out her slender hand, the ears of rye rustle dryly and solid seeds of ripe rye fall into it. They are struck from above by the vivid shafts of the pitiless Dragon.
The children are walking on, conscious of their vow. They go trustingly, and they do not know that he who sends them is a traitor, and that their sacrifice is vain.
What is this dry rustling all around? It is the rye. But where are the little cornflowers, where is Boris? The little blue-eyed flowers are in the rye, and Boris has been hanged.
“And I?” Natasha asks herself in a strange, oppressive perplexity. She looks round her like one just awakened.
“Why am I here?”
She answers herself: “I escaped. A lucky chance saved me.”
Natasha is oppressed by the thought. How had she survived it? “Far better if I had perished!”
It all happened very simply. Natasha, being Number Three, was placed at the railway station itself, her duty being contingent on the failure of Number One and Number Two. But the first was successful, though he himself perished in the explosion.
The second, upon hearing the explosion not far away, lost his presence of mind. He ran to save himself. He caught a cab, and got off near the river. Here he hired a row-boat. When near the middle of the river, he threw the bomb into the water. The man who rowed had guessed that something was wrong. Besides, he had been seen from the Government steamer and from the banks. Number Two was taken, tried and hanged.
Natasha did not betray herself in any way. She walked calmly, without haste, bearing her dangerous burden, observed by no one. She mixed freely with the passing crowd. She delivered the bomb at the appointed place.
A few days later she left for home. She had not been followed. Natasha was awaiting a second commission, and quite suddenly she abandoned the business, because her trust in it had died.
It happened even before Borya was hanged. But her decision came finally in those nightmare days when, quickly and unexpectedly, his life came to an end.
Those were terrible days.
But, no, it is better not to think of them, it is better not to remember them. To remember them is to suffer. Far better to remember other things, things cloudless and long past.
Oh magic mirror of memory, so much is reflected in thee! Beloved images pass by with a kind of glimmer.
There were the flowers, which they themselves looked after. There was one flower-bed which they cared for with especial tenderness. There was the fresh, intoxicating evening aroma of gilliflower. There was the cluster of jasmine, dewy at dawn, so sweetly and so gently fragrant, that one wished to weep in its presence, as the grass weeps its tears of dew at golden dawn.
Then there was the open space in the garden, and the giant-stride in the centre. What gigantic steps they took! How fast and how high she flew round with Boris!
How glorious were the feast-days to the childish hearts. There was Christmas Eve, with its tree, and candles upon the green branches, with all the many-coloured glitter of golden nuts, red, green and blue trimmings, snow-white foils of cotton-wool, offerings which gladdened with their unexpectedness. Then in the daytime there is real snow, glittering like salt, and crunching under one’s feet; the frost pinches the cheeks, the sun is shining, their mittens are of the softest down, their hats are white and soft, the sleds are flying down hillocks—oh, what joy!
And now Easter is here. What a solemn night! Then the joyous chanting of matins. The candle flames are everywhere, there seems to be no end to them. There is a smell of Easter cakes. There are Easter eggs painted in all colours. Every one is kissing each other. Every one is happy.
“Christoss Voskress!”
“Voistinu Voskress!”
But the dear dead do not stir.
No. The beloved memories do not break the continuity of the circle, the resurrection of the others—the fearsome, tragic memories. Inevitably the vision leads on to the last terrible moments.
They lived in the capital that winter. Boris was studying his final term in thegymnasia. For Christmas he went to another city: to relatives, he said.
Natasha was suspicious. But he did not tell her the truth.
“Really, nothing,” he answered to all her questions. “No one is sending me. I am going of my own accord. To see Aunt Liuba.”
And Natasha did not insist.
For several days she did not get any letters from him. But she did not worry. Boris disliked writing letters. They thought he was enjoying himself.
It was an evening in early January. Her mother and grandmother had gone out visiting. Natasha, pleading a headache, remained at home.
“I’ll lie down on the sofa. It will pass away.”
The truth was she thought the home of her affected, worldly relatives a dull place, and she had no desire to go there.
The maid had leave to go out. Natasha remained in the house alone. She lay down in her room on the sofa with an interesting new book.
After the cheer and ease of the holidays, Natasha felt in good spirits. She was comfortable, tranquil and cheerful. The hangings on the windows were impenetrably opaque. The lamp, burning brightly and evenly, concealed its garish white blaze from her eyes under its trimmed, beaded shade. The whole small room was lost in a luminous twilight.
At last, however, page after page of running lines of print tired Natasha. She dropped into a doze, and was shortly sound asleep. The open book fell softly on the rug.
Suddenly a bell rings. Natasha gives a start.
Ours? No. The bell rang so timidly, so hesitatingly. It was as though she heard it ring in a dream, and not in reality; again, it might have been the ring of some mischievous urchin.
Perhaps she had only imagined it. It is so comfortable to doze. She feels too lazy to get up. Let them ring.
But here is a second ring, more insistent and louder.
Natasha jumps up and runs into the vestibule, rearranging her hair on the way. Remembering that she is alone in the house she does not open the door, but asks: “Who’s there?”
From behind the door she can hear the low, somewhat hoarse voice of the telegraph boy: “A telegram.”
Her heart begins to beat with fright. It is always terrible to receive telegrams. For only good news travels slowly. Bad news makes haste.
Natasha puts one end of the door-chain to a little hook in the door. Then she opens the door partly and looks out. There stands the messenger in his uniform, with a metal plate in his cap. He hands her the telegram.
“Sign here, miss.”
The grey-white, dry paper trembles in Natasha’s hands. Natasha feels a sudden tug at her heart. She speaks incoherently:
“What is it? Oh my God! Sign, did you say?”
She runs to the table. Her hands tremble. She has managed somehow to scrawl her family name “Ozoreva,” the pen hesitating and scratching upon the grey paper.
“Here is the signature.”
Across the little door-chain she thrusts the signed paper and a tip into the hand of the messenger. Then she bangs the door to after him. Now she is in front of the lamp. What can it be?
Tearing the seal open she reads. Terrible words. Such simple, yet such incomprehensible words. Because they are about Boris.
“Boris has shot ——. Arrested with comrades. Military trial to-morrow. Death sentence threatened.”
Natasha re-reads the telegram. A sudden terror, strangely akin to shame, for a moment strikes at her heart. She can hear the heavy beat of blood in her temples. She is, as it were, being strangled from all sides; she can hardly breathe; the walls seem to have come together, oppressing her on all sides; and the rapid, pale, pencilled strokes seem also to have run together into one jumble on the grey paper.
Certain thoughts, one after the other, slowly make way into Natasha’s dimmed consciousness—oppressive, evil, pitiless thoughts.
Stupefied, she wonders how she shall tell her mother. She observes that her hands tremble. She recalls the telephone number of the Lareyevs, where her mother undoubtedly is.
Then terror seizes her anew; she shivers violently from head to foot as with ague. Her mind is a whirl of confusion.
“No, it is a mistake! It cannot be. It is a cruel, senseless mistake! It is some one’s stupid, cruel joke.”
Boris, our beloved boy, with his fine honest eyes—think of him hanging! There will be a rattle in his throat, as strangling, he will swing in the noose. With sharp, clutching pain, the gentle, childish neck will tighten; the sunburnt face will grow purple; the swollen tongue will creep out all in froth, and the widely dilated eyes will reflect the terror of cruel death.
No, no, it cannot be! It is a mistake! But who can be malicious enough to make such a mistake?
And then where is Boris?
Her cold reasoning says that it is so, that no mistake has been made. The words are clear, the address is correct—yes, yes! It was really to be expected. Here it is, this lavishness of life which he dreamt of, which they both dreamt of. “I love all immoderation. To be lavish—only then we may reach our goal!”
Her legs tremble. She feels herself terribly weak. She sits down on the sofa.
Oh God, what’s to be done? How is she to tell her mother this terrible thing?
Or should she conceal it? And do everything that could be done by herself? But no, she could do ridiculously little herself!
It is necessary to tell. It must be done quickly. She must not lose an instant. Perhaps it is still possible to save Boris, by going, by petitioning.
Why is she sitting still then? It is necessary to act at once.
Natasha seizes the telephone. What a long time the operator takes to answer.
At last she is connected. She can hear sounds of music and the hum of voices.
A cheerful, familiar voice asks:
“Who’s there?”
“It is Natasha Ozoreva.”
“Good evening, Natasha,” says Marusya Lareyeva loudly. “What a pity you did not come. We are having a fine time.”
“Good evening, dear Marusya. Is mamma with you?”
“Yes, she is here. Shall I call her?”
“No, no, for God’s sake. Let some one break it to her....”
“Has anything happened?”
“Marusya, a terrible misfortune. Our Boris has been arrested.”
“My God! For what?”
“I don’t know. He’ll have a military trial. I feel desperate. It’s so terrible. For God’s sake, don’t frighten mother too much. Tell her to come home at once, please.”
“Oh, my God, how awful!”
“Oh, Marusya, dearest, for God’s sake, be quick.”
“I’ll tell my mother at once. Wait at the telephone, Natasha.”
Natasha holds the receiver to her ear and waits. She hears the noise of footsteps. Some one has begun to sing.
Then again the same voice, extremely agitated:
“Natasha, do you hear? Your mother wants to speak to you herself.”
Natasha trembles with fright. Good God, what shall she tell her mother! She inquires:
“What? Is she coming herself to the telephone?” she asks.
“Yes, yes. Your mother is here now.”
The voice of Sofia Alexandrovna, terribly agitated, is heard:
“Natasha, is that you? For God’s sake, what has happened?”
Natasha replies:
“Yes, mamma, it is I. A telegram has come. Mamma, don’t be frightened, it must be a mistake.”
This time the voice is more controlled.
“Read me the telegram at once.”
“Just a moment. I’ll get it,” says Natasha.
The telegram is read.
“What, a military trial?”
“Yes, military.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes, yes, to-morrow.”
“Death sentence threatened?”
“Mamma, please be yourself, for God’s sake. Perhaps something can be done.”
“We must go there. Get the things ready, Natasha. Mother and I are returning at once, and we will take the first train out.”
The conversation is at an end.
Natasha is alone. She runs about the deserted house, letting things fall in the poignant silence. She is busy with travelling bags and with pillows.
She stops to look at the time-table. There is a train at half-past twelve. Yes, there is still time to catch it.
Then the bell rings, frightening her even more than the earlier ring. The mother and the grandmother have arrived, pale and distraught.
A sleepless, wearisome journey in the train. The wheels roll on with a measured, jarring sound. Stops are made. How slow it all is! How agonizing! If only it would be quicker, quicker!
Or were it better to wish that time should be arrested? That its huge, shaggy wings outspread and flapping above the world should suddenly become motionless? That its owlish glance should be stilled for ever in the instant just before the terrible word is said?
They reach their destination in the morning. At the station, a dirty, dejected place, they are met by a cousin of Natasha’s, an attorney by profession. From his pale, worried face, they guess that everything is over.
He talks quickly and incoherently. He comforts them with hopes in which he himself does not believe. The trial had been held early that morning. Boris and both his comrades—all of the same green youth—had been sentenced to die by hanging. The court would entertain no appeal. The only hope lay in the district general. He was really not a bad man at heart. Perhaps, by imploring, he might be induced to lighten the sentence to that of hard labour for an indefinite period.
Poor mothers! What is it they implore?
Sofia Alexandrovna and Natasha arrived at the general’s. They waited long in the quiet, cold-looking reception-room; the glossy parquet floor shone, portraits in heavy gilt frames hung on the walls, and the careful steps of uniformed officials, coming through a large white door, resounded from time to time.
At last they were received. The general listened most amiably, but declined emphatically to do anything. He rose, clinked his spurs, and stretched himself to his full height; He stood there tall, erect, his breast decorated with orders, his head grey, his face ruddy, with black eyebrows and broad nose.
In vain the humiliating entreaties.
Pale, the proud mother knelt before the general and, weeping bitterly, she kissed his hands and at last threw herself at his feet—all in vain. She received the cold answer:
“I am sorry, madam, it is impossible. I understand your affliction, I sympathize fully; with your sorrow, but what can I do? Whose fault is it? Upon me lies a great responsibility toward my Emperor and my country. I have my duty—I can’t help you. It is against yourself that you ought to bring your reproaches—you’ve brought him up.”
Of what avail the tears of a poor mother? Strike thy head upon the parquet floor, bend thy face to the black glitter of his boots; or else depart, proud and silent. It is all the same, he can do nothing. Thy tears and thy entreaties do not touch him, thy curses do not offend him. He is a kind man, he is the loving father of a family, but his upright martial soul does not tremble before the word death. More than once he had risked his life boldly in battle—what is the life of a conspirator to him?
“But he is a mere boy!”
“No, madam, this is not a childish prank. I am sorry.”
He walks away. She hears the measured clinking of his spurs. The parquet floor reflects dimly his tall, erect figure.
“General, have pity!”
The cold, white door has swung to after him. She hears the quiet, pleasant voice of a young official. He raises her from the floor and helps her to find her way out.
They granted a last meeting. A few minutes passed in questions, answers, embraces, and tears.
Boris said very little.
“Don’t cry, mamma. I am not afraid. There is nothing else they can do. They don’t feed you at all badly here. Remember me to all. And you, Natasha, take care of mother. One sacrifice is enough from our family. Well, good-bye.”
He seemed somehow callous and distant. He seemed to be thinking of something else, of something he could tell no one. And his words had an external ring, as though merely to make conversation.
That night, before daybreak, Boris was hanged. The scaffold was set up in the gaol courtyard. The spot where he was buried was kept secret.
The mother implored the next day: “Show me his grave at least!”
What was there to show! He was laid in a coffin, he was put into a hole in the earth and the soil that covered him was smoothed down to its original level—we all know how such culprits are buried.
“Tell me at least how he died.”
“Well, he was a brave one. He was calm, a bit serious. And he refused a priest, and would not kiss the cross.”
They returned home. A fog of melancholy hung over them, and within them there lit up a spark of mad hope—no, Borya is not dead, Borya will return.
The thought that Boris had been hanged could not enter into their habitual, everyday thoughts. Only in the hour when the sun was at its zenith, and in the hour of the midnight moon, it would penetrate their awakened consciousness like a sharp poniard. Again it would pierce the soul with a sharp, tormenting pain, and again it would vanish in the dim mist of dawn with a kind of dull agony. And again, the same unreasonable conviction would awake in their hearts.
No, Borya will return. The bell will suddenly ring, and the door will be opened to him.
“Oh, Borya! Where have you been wandering?”
How we shall kiss him! And how much there will be to tell!
“What does it matter where you have been wandering. You have been wandering, and, you have been found, like the prodigal son.”
How happy all will be!
The old nurse will not be consoled. She wails:
“Boryushka, Boryushka, my incomparable one! I say to him: ‘Boryushka, I’m going to the poor-house!’ And he says to me: ‘No,’ says he, ‘nyanechka,[4]I’ll not let you go to the poor-house. I,’ he says, ‘will let you stop with me,nyanechka; only wait till I grow up,’ says he, ‘and you can live with me.’ Oh, Boryushka, what’s this you’ve done!”
In the morning the old nurse enters the vestibule. Whose grey overcoat is it that she sees hanging on the rack? It is Borya’s, hisgymnasiauniform. Has he then not gone to thegymnasiato-day?
She wanders into the dining-room, making a muffled noise with her soft slippers.
“Natashenka, is Boryushka home to-day? His overcoat’s there on the rack. Or is he sick?”
“Nyanechka!” exclaims Natasha.
And, frightened, she looks at her mother.
The old nurse has suddenly remembered. She is crying. The grey head shivers in its black wrap. The old woman wails:
“I go there and I look, what’s that I see? Borya’s overcoat. I say to myself, Borya’s gone to thegymnasia, why’s his overcoat here? It’s no holiday. Oh, my Boryushka is gone!”
She wails louder and louder. Then the old woman falls to the floor and begins to beat the boards with her head.
“Borechka, my own Borechka! If the Lord had only taken me, an old woman, instead of him. What’s the use of life to me? I drag along, of no cheer to myself or to any one else.”
Natasha, helpless, tries to quiet her.
“Nyanechka, dearest, rest a little.”
“May Thou rest me, O Lord! My heart told me something was wrong. I’ve been dreaming all sorts of bad dreams. These black dreams have come true! Oh, Borechka, my own!”
The old woman continues to beat her head and to wail. Natasha implores her mother:
“For God’s sake, mamma, have Borya’s overcoat taken from the rack.”
Sofia Alexandrovna looks at her with her dark, smouldering eyes and says morosely:
“Why? It had better hang there. He might suddenly need it.”
Oh, hateful memories! As long as the evil Dragon reigns in the heavens it is impossible to escape them.
Natasha roams restlessly, she can find no place for herself. She is off to the woods; she recalls Boris there, and that he has been hanged. She is off to the river; she recalls Boris there, and that he is no more. She is back at home, and the walls of the old house recall Boris to her, and that he will not return.
Like a pale shadow the mother wanders along the walks of the garden, choosing to pause there where the shade is densest. The old grandmother sits upon a bench and finishes the reading of the newspapers. It is the same every day.
[4]Little nurse.
And now the evening is approaching. The sun is low and red. It looks straight into people’s eyes as though, while expiring, it were begging for mercy. A breeze blows from the river, and it brings the laughter of white water nymphs.
A number of noisy urchins are running in the road; their shirt-tails flap merrily in the wind, while their sleeves are filled with wind like balloons. The sound of a harmonica comes from the distance, and its song runs on very merrily. The corncrake screeches in the field, and its call resembles a general’s loud snore.
The old house once more casts and arranges its long dark shadows disturbed by the intrusive day. Its windows blaze forth with the red fire of the evening sun.
The gilliflower exhales its seductive aroma in some of the distant paths. The roses seem even redder in the sunset, and more sweet. The eternal Aphrodite—the naked marble of her proud body taking on a rose tint—smiles again, and lets fall her draperies as fascinatingly as ever.
And everything is directed as before toward cherished, unreasonable hopes. Enfeebled by the day’s heat, and by the sadness of the bright day, the harassed soul has exhausted its measure of suffering, and it falls from the iron embrace of sorrow to the beloved dark earth of the past, once more besprinkled with dreamily refreshing dew.
And again, as at dawn, the three women in the old house await Boris, or a short time happy in their madness.
They await him, and they chat of him, until, from behind the trees of the dark wood, the cold moon shows her ever sad face. The dead moon is under a white shroud of mist.
Then again they remember that Borya has been hanged, and they meet at the green-covered pond to weep for him.
Natasha is the first to leave the house. She has on a white dress and a black cloak. Her black hair is covered with a thin black kerchief. Her very deep dark eyes shine with flame-like brightness. She stands, her pale face uplifted toward the moon. She awaits the other two.
Elena Kirillovna and Sofia Alexandrovna arrive together.
Elena Kirillovna leaves the house slightly earlier, but Sofia Alexandrovna runs after her and overtakes her almost at the pond. They wear black cloaks, black kerchiefs on their heads, and black shoes.
Natasha begins:
“On the night before the execution he did not sleep. The moon, just as clear as to-night’s, looked into the narrow window of his cell. On the floor the moon sadly outlined a green rhomb, intersected lengthwise and crosswise by narrow dark strokes. Boris walked up and down his cell, and looked now at the moon, now at the green rhomb, and thought—I wish I knew his thoughts that night.”
Her remark has a quite tranquil sound. It might have been about a stranger.
Sofia Alexandrovna now and again wrings her hands, and as she begins to speak her voice is agitated and heavy with grief:
“What can one think at such moments! The moon, long dead, looks in. There are five steps from the door to the window, four steps across. The mind springs feverishly from object to object. That the execution is to take place on the morrow is the one thing you try not to think of. Stubbornly you repel the thought. But it remains, it refuses to depart, it throttles the soul with an oppressive, horrible nightmare. The anguish is intense and enfeebling. But I do not wish my gaolers and all these officials who are come to me to see my anguish. I will be calm. And yet what anguish—if only, lifting up my pale face, I could cry aloud to the pale moon!”
Elena Kirillovna whispers faintly:
“Terrible, Sonyushka.”
There are tears in her voice—simple, old-womanish, grandmotherly tears.
Sofia Alexandrovna, ignoring the interruption, continues:
“Why should I really go to my death boldly and resolutely? Is it not all the same? I shall die in the courtyard, in the dark of night. Whether I die boldly, or weep like a coward, or beg for mercy, or resist the executioner—is it not all the same? No one will know how I died. I shall face death alone. Why should I really suffer this wild anguish? I will raise up my voice to wail and to weep, and I will shake the whole gaol with my despairing cries, and I will awake the town, the so-called free town, which is only a larger gaol—so that I shall not suffer alone, but that others shall share in my last agony, in my last dread. But no, I won’t do that. It is my fate to die alone.”
Natasha rises, trembles, presses her mother’s cold hand in hers, and says:
“Mamma, mamma, it is terrible, if alone. No, don’t say that he felt alone. We shall be with him.”
Elena Kirillovna whispers:
“Yes, Sonyushka, it would be terrible alone. In such moments!”
“We are with him,” insists Natasha vehemently. “We are with him now.”
A smile is on Sofia Alexandrovna’s lips, a smile such as a dying person smiles to greet his last consolation. Sofia Alexandrovna speaks:
“My last consolation is the thought that I am not alone. He is with me. These walls are unrealities, this gaol built by men is a lie. What is real and true is my suffering and I am one with them in my grief. A poor consolation! And yet I, just think, this extraordinary I, Boris, I am dying.”
“I am dying,” repeats Natasha.
Her voice is clouded, and it is fraught with despair. And all three remain silent for a brief while, overcome by the spell of these tragic words.
Sofia Alexandrovna speaks again. Her voice sounds tranquil, deliberate, measured:
“There is no consolation for the dying. His grief is boundless. The cold moon continues to torment him. A moan struggles to break from his throat, a moan like the wild baying of a caged beast.”
Natasha speaks sadly:
“But he is not alone, not alone. We are with him in his grief.”
Her eyes, darker than a dark night, look up toward the lifeless moon, and the green enchantress, reflected in them, torments her with a dull pain.
Sofia Alexandrovna smiles—and her smile is dead—and with the voice of inconsolable sorrow she speaks again slowly and calmly:
“We are with him only in his despair, in his pitiful inconsolability, in his dark solitude. But he was alone, alone, when he was strangled by the hand of a hired hangman; strangled in that dark enclosure which it is not for us to demolish. And the dead moon tormented him, as it torments us. She tempted him with the mad desire to moan wildly, like a wild beast before dying. And now we, in this hour, under this moon—are we not also tormented by the same mad desire to run, to run far from people, and to moan and to wail, and to flee from a grief too great to be borne!”
She rises abruptly and walks away, wringing her beautiful white hands. She walks fast, almost runs, driven as it were by some strange, furious will not her own. Natasha follows her with the measured yet rapid, deliberate, mechanical gait of an automaton. And behind them trips along Elena Kirillovna, who lets fall a few scant tears on her black cloak.
The moon follows them callously in their hurried journey across the garden, across the field, into that wood, into that still glade, where once the children sang their proud hymn, and where they let their mad desires be known to one who was to betray them for a price—young blood for gold.
The grass in the fields is wet with dew. The river is white with mist. The high moon is clear and cold. Everywhere it is quiet, as though all the earthly rustlings and noises had lost themselves in the moon’s dead light.
And here is the glade. “Natasha, do you remember? How warmly they all sangArise, ye branded with a curse!Natasha, will you sing it again? Do. Is it a torture?”
“I’ll sing,” replies Natasha quietly.
She sings in a low voice, almost to herself. The mother listens, and the grandmother listens—but what have the birches and the grass and the clear moon to do with human songs!
In the InternationalAs brothers all men shall meet!
Her song is at an end. The wood is silent. The moon waits. The mist is pensive. The birches seem to listen. The sky is clear.
Ah, for whom is all this life? Who calls? Who responds? Or is it all the play of the dead?
Loudly wailing, the mother calls: “Borya, Borya!”
Overflowing with tears Elena Kirillovna replies: “Borya won’t come. There is no Borya.”
Natasha stretches out her arms toward the lifeless moon, and cries out: “Borya has been hanged!”
All three now stand side by side, looking at the moon, and weeping. Louder grows their sobbing, fiercer the note of despair. Their moans merge finally into a prolonged, wild wailing, which can be heard for some distance.
The dog at the forester’s hut is restless. Trembling with all his lean body, his short hair bristling, he has pricked up his ears. Rising, he stretches his slender limbs. His sharp muzzle, showing its teeth, is uplifted to the tormenting moon. His eyes burn with a yearning flame. The dog bays in answer to the distant wail of the women in the wood.
People are asleep.