The Diary of a Superfluous Man  

• Yofi don't say so! Why, I thought, Alex-

anrlritch — well, brother, thought I, now you’re the goose that must lie down in the frying- pan!’

‘On account of Piotr Filippov, hey? Get along 1 We 've seen plenty like him. He tries to pass for a wolf, and then slinks^ off like a dog, — Going shooting your honour, hey ? ’ the peasant suddenly inquired, turning his little, screwed-up eyes rapidly upon me, and at once dropping them again.

‘Yes.’

‘ And whereabouts, now ? ’ „

‘ To the Charred Wood,’ said Kondrat

‘You’re going to the Charred Wood? mind you don’t get into the fire.’

‘Eh?’

‘ I ’ve seen a lot* of woodcocks,’ the peasant went on, ^seeming all the while to be laughing, and making Kohdrat no answer. ‘,But you ’ll never get there ; as the crow flies it’ll be fifteen miles, Why, even Yegor here — not a doubt but he 's as at home in the forest as in his own back-yard, but even he won’t make his way there. Hullo, Yegor, you honest penny half^ penny soul 1 ’ he shout^ suddenly.

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‘Good morning, Efrem/ Yegor responded deliberately.

I looked with curiosity at this Efrem. It was long since I had seen such a queer face. He had a long, sharp nose, thick lips, and a scanty beard. His little blue eyes positively danced, like little imps. He stood in a free- and-easy pose, his arms akimbo, and did not touch his cap.

‘ Going hctoe for a visit, eh ? ’ Kondrat ques- tioned him.

‘Go on! on a visit! It’s not the* weather for that, my lad; it^s set fair. It's all open and free, my dear ; oqe may lie on the stove till winter time, not a dog will stir. When I was in the town^ the clerk said ; “ Give us up,” says he, “ 'Lexandritch ; you just get out of the district, we’ll let you have a passport, first-class one . • but there, I 'd pity on you Svyatoe fellows : you'd n^ver get another thief like me.'

Kondrat laughed. •

‘You will^have your joke, uncle, you will, upon my word,' he said, and he shook the reins. The horses started off.

‘Wo,' said Efrem, The horses stopped.

Kondrat did not like this prapk.

‘ Enough of your nonsense, Alexandritch/ he observed in an undertone; ‘don't you see

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we *re out with a gentleman ? You mind ; he be angry.'

‘ Get on with you, sea-drake ! What should he be angry about? He's a good-natured gentleman. You see, he *11 give me something to drink. Hey, master, give a poor scoundrel a dram ! Won't I drink it ! ' he added, shrug- ging his shoulder up to his ear, and grating his teeth.

I could not help smiling, gave hhn a copper, and told Kondrat to drive on.

‘ Much obliged, your honour,* Efrem shouted after us in soldierly fashion. ‘ And you '11 know, Kondrat, for the future ^om whom to learn manners. Faint heart never wins ; 'tis boldness gains the day. When you comg back, come to my place, d'ye hear? There'll be drinking going on three days at home ; there '11 be some necks broken, 1 can tell you ; my wife 's a devil of a woman ; oiyr yard 's on the side of a pre- cipice. . . . Ay, magpie, have a good time till your tail gets pinched.' And with a sharp whistle, Efrem^plunged into the blushes.

‘What sort of man is he?' I questioned Kondrat, who, sitting in the front, kept shaking h!s head, as though deliberating with himself.

‘ That fellow?' replied Kondrat, and he looked . doWn. ^ That fellow ? * he repeated

‘ Yes. Is he of your village ? *

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‘Yes, he’s a Svyatoe man. He’s a fellow. . . . You wouldn’t find the like of him, if you hunted for a hundred miles round. A thief and cheat-r-good Lord, yesl Another man’s property simply, as it were, takes his eye. You may buty a thing underground, and you won’t hide it from him ; and as to money, you might sit on it, and he 'd get it from under you without your noticing it.’

‘ What a hold fellow he is 1 ’

‘Bold ? Yes, hq’s not afraid of anyone. But •just look at him ;*he’s a beast by hisr physio- gnomy ; you can see by his nose.’ (Kondrat often used to drive»with gentlemen, and had been in the chief town of the province, and so liked on occ^ion to show off his attainments.)

• There ’s positively no doing anything with him.

How many times they ’ve taken him off to put him in the prison ! — it ’s simply trouble thrown away. They start tying hjm up, and he’ll say, “Come, why don’t you fasten that leg? fasten that one too, and a little tighter : L’U have a little sleeps meanwhile; and I shall get home before your escort’’ And lo and behold I there he is ^ck again, yes, back again, upon my soul! Well as we all about here know the forest, being used to it from childhood, we’re no match for him there. Last summer he came at night straight across from Altuhin to 133

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Svyatoe, and no one had ever been known to walk it — it’ll be over thirty miles. And he steals honey too ; no one can beat him at that ; and the bees don't sting him. There 's not a hive he hasn’t plundered.’

‘I expect he doesn’t spare the wild bees either ? ’

‘ Well, no, I won’t lay a false charge against him. That sin ’s never been observed in him. The wild bees’ nest is a holy thing *with us. A hive is shut in by fences ; there ’s a watch kept ; if you get the honey — ^it 's your luck ; but the wild bee is a thing of God’s, not guarded ; only the bear touches it’ •

‘ Because he is a bear,’ remarked Yegor.

• Is he married ? ' ,

‘ To be sure. And he has a son. And won’t he be a thief too, the son ! He ’s taken after his father. And he’s training him now too. The other day h| took a pot with some old cuppers in it, stcjlcn somewhere, I ’ve no doubt, went apd buried it in a clearing in the forest, and went homeland sent his son to the clearing. " Till you find the pot,” says he, “ I won’t give you anything to eat, or let you into the place." The son stayed the whole day in the forest, and spent the night there, but he found the pot Yes, he ’s a smaut chap, that Efrem. When he ’s at home, he ’s a civil fellow, presses eveiy one ;

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you may eat and drink as you will, and there *11 be dancing got up at his place and merry-making of all sorts. And when he comes to the n^eeting — we have a parish meeting, you know, in our village — well, no one talks better sense than he does ; he *11 come up behind, listen, say a word as if he chopped it off, and away again ; and a weighty word it *11 be, too. But when he *s about in the forest, ah! that means trouble! We*ve to look out for mischief. Though, I must say, he doesn't touch his own people unless he 's in a fix. If he meets a Svyatoe man : “ Go along with you, brother,** he *11 shout, a long way away; ‘‘the forest divil*s upon me: I shall kill you ! ** — it *s a bad business ! *

‘What catfi you all be thinking about? A whole district can't get even with one man?*

‘ Well, that *s just how it is, any way.*

• Is he a sorcerer, then ? ’

‘Who can say! Here, sqjne days ago, he crept round at night to the deacon’s near, after the honey, and the deacon watching the hive himself. Well, he caught him, and in the dark he gave him a good hiding. When he *d done, Efrem, he says to him : “ But d* you know who it is you *ve been beating ? ” The deacon, when he knew him by his voice, was fairly dum- foundered. “ Well, my good friend,** says Efrem, “you won't get off so easily for this.” The dpsicon us

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fell down at his feet. “Take,” says he, “what you please.” “ No,” says he, “ I '11 take it from you at my 01 JP time and as I choose.” And what do you think? Since that day the deacon's as though he’d been scalded; he wanders about like a ghost “ It’s taken,” says he, “all the heart out of me ; it was a dreadful, powerful saying, to be sure, the brigand fastened upon me.” That 's how it is with him, with the deacon.’

’ That deacon must be a fool,’ I dbserved.

‘A fool? Well, but what do you say to this ? There was once an order issued to seize this fellow, Efrem. We had a police com- missary then, a sharp man. And so a dozen chaps went off into the forest to take Efrem. They look, and th^re he is coming to meet them. . . . One of them shouts, “ Here he is, hold him, tie him 1 ” But Efrem stepped into the foreat and cut himself a branch, two fingers’ thickness, like this, and then out he skips into the road again, looking so frightful, so terrible, and gives the command like a general at a review ; “ On your knees 1 ” All of them fairly fell down. “ But who,” says he, “ shouted hold him, tie him? You, Seryoga?” The fellow simply jumped up and ran . . . and Efrem after him, and kept swinging his branch at his heels. , • . For nearly a mile he stroked him down. And afterwards he never ceased to 136

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regret : “ Ah,” he ’d say, “ it is annoying I didn’t lay him up for the confession.” For it was just before St Philip’s day. Well, they changed the police *commissary soon after, but it all ended the same way.’

‘ Why did they all give in to him ? ’

^ Why ! well, it is so. . . .’

‘ He has frightened you all, and now he does as he likes with you.’

‘FrightenSd, yes. ... He’d frighten any one. And he’s a wonderful hand at con- trivances, my goodness, yes ! I once came upon him in the forest ; there was a heavy rain falling; I was for edging away. . . ; But he looked at me, and beckoned to me with his hand like thj^ “ Come alopg,” says he, “ Kon- drat, don’t be afraid. Let me show you how to live in the forest, and to keep dry in the rain.” J went up to him, and he was sitting under a fir-tree, and he ’d made a fire^of damp twigs ; the smoke hung about in the fir-tree, and kept the rain from dripping through. I was (aston- ished at him ^hen. And I ’ll telf you what he contrived one time ’ (and Kondrat laughed) ; ' he really did do a funny thing. They’d been thrashing the oats at the thrashing-floor, and th^ hadn’t finished ; they hadn’t time to rake* up the last heap ; well, they ’d set two watch- men by it for the night, and they weren’t the

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boldest-hearted of the chaps either. Well, they were sitting and gossiping, and Efrem takes and stuffs his shirt-sleeves full of straw, ties up the wrist-bands, and puts the shirt up over his head. And so he steals up in that shape to the thrashing-floor, and just pops out from behind the corner and gives them a peep of his horns. One chap says to the other : “ Do you see ? " “Yes,” says the other, and didn't he give a screech all of a sudden . . . and then the fences creaked and nothing more was seen of them. Efrem shovelled up the oats into a bag and dragged it off home. He told the story himself afterwards. He put thenr. to shame, he did, the chaps. ... He did really 1 ’

Kondrat laughed again. And .Yegor smiled. ' So the fences creaked and that was all ? ’ he commented ‘ There was nothing more seen of them,’ Kondr.it assented. ‘They were simply gone in a flash.’

We were all silent again. Suddenly Kondrat started and sat up.

‘ £h, mercy upon us 1 ’ he ejaculated ; 'surely it’s never a fire I’ ^

‘Where, where?’ we asked.

‘Yonder, see, in front, where we’re going.*,, . , ^ fire it is I Efrem there, Efrem — why, he foretold itl If it’s not his doing, tlie damned felkrwl . . /

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I glanced in the direction Kondrat was point- ing. Two or three miles ahead of us, behind a green strip of low fir saplings, there really was a thick colpmn of dark blue smoke slowlj^ rising from the ground, gradually twisting and coiling into a cap-shaped cloud ; to the right and left of it could be seen others, smaller and whiter.

A peasant, all red and perspiring, in nothing but his shirt, with his hair hanging dishevelled about his a scared face, galloped straight towards us, and with difficulty stopped his hastily bridled horse.

‘Mates,* he inquired breathlessly, ‘haven*t you seen the foresters ? ’

‘ No, we haven’t. What is it ? is the forest on fire ? * ^

‘Yes. We must get the people together, or else if it gets to Trosnoe . . .*

The peasant tugged with his elbows, pounded with his heels on the horse's sides. ... It galloped off.

Kondrat, too, whipped up his pair. W,e drove straight tow^ards the smoke, whfbh was spread- ing more and more widely ; in places it suddenly '§rew black and rose up high. The nearer we iqpved to it, the more indefinite became its outlines; soon all the air was clouded over, there waft a strong smell of burning, and here and there between the trees, with a strange, i 129

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weird quivering in the sunshine, gleamed the first pale red tongues of dame.

^Well, thank God,' observed Kondrat, ‘it seems it 's an overground fire.’

‘ What ’s that ? *

‘ Overground ? One that runs along over the earth. With an underground fire, now, it’s a difficult job to deal. What ’s one to do, when the earth’s on fire for a whole yard’s depth? There’s only one means of safety — digging ditches, — and do you suppose that’s easy? But an overground fire’s nothing. It only scorches the grasses and burns the dry leaves ! The forest will be all thc^ better for it. Ouf, though, mercy on us look how it flares ! *

We drove almost up to the edge of the fire. I got down and went to meet it. It was neither dangerous nor difficult. The fire was running over the scanty pine-forest against the wind; it moved in an uneven line, or, to speak more accurately, in a Sense jagged wall of curved tongues^ The smoke was carried away by the wind. Kondra't had told the truth; it really was an overground fire, which only scorched the grass and passed on without finishing its work, leaving behind it a black and smoking, but not even smouldering, track. At times, it is true, when the fire came upon a hole filled with dry wood/ and twigs, it suddenly and with a kind of 130

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peculiat;, rather vindictive roar, rose up in long, quivering poinfe ; but it soon sank down again and ran on as before, with a slight hiss and crackle. J. even noticed, ihbre than once, an oak-bush, with dry hanging leaves, hemmed in all round and yet untouched, except for a slight singeing at its base. I must own I could not understand why the dry leaves were not burned. Kondrat explained to me that it was owing to ' the fact thart the fire was overground, ‘ that 's to say, not angry.’ ‘ But it 's fire all the same,’ I protested. ‘Overground fire,’ repeated Kon- drat However, overground as it wa.s, the fire, none the less, prodqf ed its effect ; hares raced up and down with a sort of disorder, running back with ^o sort of necessity into the neigh- bourhood of the fire; birds fell down in the smoke and whirled round and round ; horses looked back and neighed, the forest itself fairly hummed — and man felt di|comfort from the heat suddenly beating into his face. . . .

‘What are we looking at?’ said Yegor suddenly, tjphind my back. * l!et ’s go on.’

‘ But where are we to go ? ’ asked Kondrat

‘ Take the left, over the dry b<^ ; we shall get through.’

We turned to the left, and got through, though ,4t was sometimes difficult for both the hcu^ and the cart

• 3 *

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The whole day we wandered over the Charred Wood. At evening — the sunsef had not ye£ b^un to redden in the sky, but the shadows from the trees already lay long and motionless, and in the grass one could feel that chill that comes before the dew — I lay down by the road- side near the cart in which Kondrat, without haste, was harnessing the horses after their feed, and I recalled my cheerless reveries of the day before. Everything around was as^still as the previous evening, but there was not the forest, stifling and weighing down the spirit. On the dry moss, on the crimson grasses, on the soft dust of the road, on the slejyder stems and pure little leaves of the young birch-trees, lay the clear soft light of the no longer scor;:hing, sink- ing sun. Everything was resting, plunged in soothing coolness ; nothing was yet asleep, but everything was getting ready for the restoring slumber of evening and night-time. Every- thing seemed to be saying to man : ‘ Rest, brother of ours breathe lightly, and grieve not, thou too, at the sleep close before thee.* I raised my head and saw at the very end of a., delicate twig one of those large flies with emerald h^d, long body, and four transparent wi^gs, w^hich the fanciful French call * maidens/ while our guileless people has named thenn^

• bucket-yokes/ For a long while, more than

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an hour, I did not take my eyes off her. Soaked through and through with sunshine, she did not stir, only from time to time^ turning her heac^ from side to side and shaking her lifted wings . . . that was all. Looking at her, it suddenly seemed to me that I under- stood the life of nature, understood its clear and unmistakable though, to many, still mysterious significance. A subdued, quiet animation,® an unhasting, restrained use of sen- sations and powers, an equilibrium of health in each separate creature — there is her Very basis, her unvarying law, that is w^hat she stands upon and holds to. Everything that goes beyond this level, above or below — it makes no difference — Ishe flings •away as worthless. Many insects 'die as soon as they know the joys of love, which destroy the equilibrium. The sick beast plunges into the thicket and expires there alone: he seems to feel that he no longer has the right to look upon the .sun that is common to all, nor to breathe the open air ; he haj not the right to live ;*-an4the man who from his own fault or from the fault of others is faring ill in the world — ought, at least, to know how to keep silence.

‘Well, Yegor cried Kondrat all at once, •^He had already settled himself on the box of the cart and was shaking and playlhg with

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the reins. * Come, sit down. What are you so thoughtful about ? Still about the cow ? '

• Abput the cow ? What cow ? ' I repeated,

and looked at Yegor : calm and Stately as ever, he certainly did seem thoughtful, and was gazing away into the distance towards the fields already beginning to get dark.

‘ Don’t you know ? * answered Kondrat ; ‘ his last cow died last night He has no luck. — What are you going to do ? ’ . . , ^

Yegor sat down on the box, without speak- ing, and we drove off. * That man knows hoW to bear in silence/ I thought

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YAKOV PASINKOV

I

It happeneti in Petersburg, in the winter, on the first day of the carnival. 1 had been invited to dinner by one of my schoolfellows, who enjoyed in his youth the reputation of being as modest «s a maiden, and turned out in the sequel a person by no means over rigid in 4ii* conduct. He is dead now, like most of my schoolfellows. There were to be present at the dinner, besides me, Kon- stantin Alexandrovitch Asanov, and a literary celebrity of those days. Thg literary celebrity kept us waiting for him, and finally sent a note that he was not coining^ and in place of him there turned up a little light-haired gentleman, one of the everlasting uninvited guests with whom Petersburg abounds.

The dinner lasted a long while ; our host did not spare the wine, and by degrees our heads were affected. Everything that each of us kept hidden in his heart — and who is there 137

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that has not something hidden in his heart ? — came to the surface. Our host’s face suddenly lost ijjs modest and reserved expression ; his eyes shone with a brazen-faced impudence, and a vulgar grin curved his lips ; the light-haired gentleman laughed in a feeble way, witli a senseless crow ; but Asanov surprised me more than any one. The man had always been con- spicuous for his sense of propriety, but now he began by suddenly rubbing his hSind over his forehead, giving himself airs, boasting of his connections, and continually alluding to a certain uncle of his, a very important per- sonage. ... I positively should not have known him ; he was unmistakably jeering at us ... he all but avowed his eo’^tempt for our society. Asanov’s insolence began to ex- asperate me.

‘ Listen,' I said to him ; ‘if we are such poor creatures to yoiyr thinking, you'd better go and see your illustrious uncle. But possibly he 's not at honie to you.'

Asanov made me no reply, and went on passing his band across his forehead.

‘ What a set of people I ’ he said again ; ‘theyVe never been in any decent society, never been acquainted with a single decent woman^ while I have here,' he crimed, hurriedly pulling a pocket-book out of his side**pocket 138

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and tapping it witii his hand, ‘ a whole pack of letters from a girl whom you wouldn’t find the equal of in the whole world.’

Our host and the light-haired gentfeman paid no attention to Asanov’s last words ; they were holding each other by their buttons, and both relating something ; but 1 pricked up my ears.

‘Oh, you’re bragging, Mr. nephew of an illustrious ^rsonage,’ I said, going up to Asanov ; ‘ you haven’t any letters at all.’

‘ Do you think so ? ’ he retorted, ' and he looked down loftily at me ; ‘ what ’s this, then ? ’ He opened the pocket-book, and showed me about a dozen letters addressed to him. ... A familiar hMidwriting, I fancied ... I feel the flush of shame mounting to my cheeks . . . my self-love is suffering horribly. . . . No one likes to own to a mean action. . . . But there is nothing for it : when I l^gan my story, I knew I should have to blush to my ears in the

course of it And so, 1 am bound to harden

my heart and confess that . . ,

Well, this was what passed : I took advan* tage of the intoxicated condition of Asanov, who had carelessly dropped the letters on the champ^pie-stained tablecloth (my own head tras dizzy enough too), and hurriedly ran my eyes over one of the letters. . . .

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My heart stood still . . Alas ! I was

myself in love with the girl who had written to Asanov, and I could have no doubt now that ‘she loved him. The whole letter, which was in French, expressed tenderness and devotion. . • .

‘ Mon cher ami Constantin ! * so it began . . . and it ended with the words : ‘ be careful as before, and I will be yours or no one's '

Stunned as by a thunderbolt, P sat for a few instants motionless ; at last I regained my self- possession, jumped up, and rushed out of the room.

A quarter of an houiii later I was back at home in my own lodgings.

« i •

The family of the Zlotnitskys was one of the first whose acquaintance I made on com- ing CO Fetersbuig from Moscow. It consisted of a father and pother, two daughters, and a son. The father, a man already grey, but still vigorous, who had been in the army, held a fairly impoitant position, spent Ahe m!$ll‘ning in a government office, went to sleep after dinner, and in the evening played cards at hi$ club. ... He was seldom at home, spoke little and unwillingly, looked at one from under his ej^brows with an expression half surly, half indifferent, and read npthing except books of

1«9

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travels and geography. Sometimes he was unwell, and then he would shut himself up in his own room, and paint little pictures, or tease the old gre% parrot, Popka. His wife, a sfckly, consumptive woman, with hollow black eyes and a sharp nose, did not leave her sofa for days together, and was always embroidering cushion-covers in canvas. As far as I could observe, she was rather afraid of her husband, as though sllfe had somehow wronged him at some time or other. The elder daughter, Varvara, a plump, rosy, fair-haired girl of eighteen, was always sitting at the window, watching the people, that passed by. The son, who was being educated in a government school, wa4i^)nly seen at home on Sundays, and he, too, did not care to waste his words. Even the younger" daughter, Sophia, the girl with whom I was in love, was of a silent dis- position. In the Zlotnitskjjs* house there reigned a perpetual stillness ; it was only broken by the piercing screams of Popka, but visitors soon ,got used to these, and were con- scious again of the burden and oppression of the eternal stillness. Visitors, however, seldom looked in upon the Zlotnitskys ; their house was a dull one. The very furniture, the red paper with yellow patterns in the drawing-- room^ the numerous rush-bottomed chairs in

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the dfnfng-room*, the faded wool-work cushions, embroidered with figures of girls and dogs, on the sofa, the branching lamps, and the gloomy- lookilig portraits on the walls — -^everything inspired an involuntary melancholy, abopt everything there clung a sense of chill and flatness. On iny arrival in Petersburg, I had thought it my duty to call on the Zlotnitskys. They were relations of my mother s. I managed with difficulty to sit out an hoia- with them, and it was a long while before I went there again. But by degrees I took to going oftener and oftener. I was drawn there by Sophia, whom I had not cared ^for at first, and with whom I finally fell in love.

She was a slender, almost ^hin, girl of medium height, with a pale face, thick black hair, and big brown eyes, always half closed Her severe and well-defined features, cspeciall}’ her tightly shut lips, showed determination and strength of will.^ At home they knew her to be a girl with a will of her own. . . .

•She’s like •her eldest sister, lijj:e Katerina,* Madame Zlotnitsky said one day, as she sat alone with me (in her husband’s presence she did not dare to mention the said Katerina). • You don't know her ; she *s in the Caucasus, married. At thirteen, only fancy, she fell ip love with her husband, and announced to us at

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tke time that she would never marry any one else. We did everything we could — nothing was of any use. She waited till she was three- and-twenty^ and braved her father's angef, and s5 married her idol. There is no saying what Sonitchka might not do ! The Lord preserve her from such stubbornness ! But I am afraid for her; she’s only sixteen now, and there’s no turning her. . . .’

Mr. Zlotnitsky came in, and his wife was instantly silent.

What had captivated me in Sophia was not her strength of will — no; but with all her dryness, her lack of ^ivacity and imagination, she had a special charm of her own, the charm of strnigh^orwardness, genuine sincerity, and purity of heart. I respected her as much as I Icved her, ... It seemed to me that she too looked with friendly eyes on me ; to have my illusions as to her feeling for me shattered, and her love for another man proved conclusively, was i blow to me.

i unlooked-for discovery 1 had made astonished me the more as Asanov was not often at the Zlotnitskys’ house, much less so than I, and had shown no marked preference for Sonitchka. He was a handsome, dark fallow, with expressive but rather heavy features, with brilliant, prominent eyes, with a

• 43

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large white forehead, and full red lips under fine moustaches. He was very discreet, but severe in his behaviour, confident in his criti- cisms® and utterances, and dignified in his silence. It was obvious that he thought a great deal of himself. Asanov rarely laughed, and then with closed teeth, and he never danced. He was rather loosely and clumsily built He had at one time served in the — th regiment, and was spoken of zl a capable officer.

• A strange thing ! * I ruminated, lying on the

sofa ; ‘ how was it I noticed nothing ? ' . . . ‘ Be careful as before*: those words in Sophia*s letter suddenly recurred to my memory. * Ah ! * I thought : ‘ that *s it ! What a sly^ittle hussy ! And I thought her open and sincere. . . . Wait a bit, that *s all ; I *11 let you know. . . .*

But at this point, if I can trust my memory, I began weeping bitterly, and could not get to sleep all night

Next day it two o'clock I set off to the Zlotnitskys*. The father was not at home, and his wife was not sitting in her usual place; after the pancake festival of the preceding day, she had a headache, and had gone to lie down in her bedroom, Varvara was standing witji her shoulder against the window, looking into 144

I YAKOV PASINKOV

the street ; Sophia was walking up and down the room with her arms folded across her bosom ; Popka was shrieking.

‘Ah! how do you do?* said Varvara lazily, directly I came into the room, and she added at once in an undertone, ‘ There goes a peasant with a tray on his head.* . . . (She had the habit of keeping up a running commentary on the passers-by to herself.)

‘How do^you do?* I responded; ‘how do you do, Sophia Nikolaevna? Where is Tatiana Vassilievna ? *

• She has gone to lie down,* answered Sophia,

still pacing the room;*

• We had pancakes,* observed Varvara, with-

out turni»:3i(t round. ‘Why didn*t you come? . . . Where can that clerk be going ? *

• Oh, I hadn’t time.’ (‘Present arms!* the

parrot screeched shrilly.) ‘ How Popka is shrieking to-day ! *

‘He always does shriek like that/ observed Sophia.

We were all silent for a time.

‘ He has gone in at the gate/ said Varvara, and she suddenly got up on the window-sill and opened the window.

‘ What are you about ? * asked Sophia.

• ‘ There *s a beggar/ responded Varvara. She

bent down, picked up a five-copeck piece from K 145

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the window ; the remains of a fumigating pastille still stood in a grey heap of ashes on the copper coin, as she flung it into the street ; then she slammed the window to ^nd jumped heavily down to the floor. . . .

‘I had a very pleasant time yesterday,’ I began, seating myself in an arm-chair. ‘ 1 dined with a friend of mine; Konstantin Alexandritch was there. ... (I looked at Sophia; not an eyebrow quivered on her face.) “ And I must own,’ I continued, ‘ we ’d a good deal of wine ; we emptied eight bottles between the four of us.’

‘Really I’ Sophia articulated serenely, and she shook her head.

‘Yes,’ I went on, slightly irritf'’’ed at her composure: ‘and do you know what, Sophia Nikolaevna, it’s a true saying, it seems, that in wine is truth.’

‘ How so ? ’ ^

‘Konstantin Alexandritch made us laugh. Only fancy, he began all at once passing his hand over his forehead like this, and saying: “ I ’m a fine fellow I I ’ve an uncle a celebrated man!” . . .’

‘ Ha, ha ! ’ came Varvara’s short, abrupt 4ugh.

. . . ‘ Popka I Popka t Popka ! ’ the parrot dinned back at her.

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Sophia stood still in front of me, and looked me straight in the face.

‘ And you, what did you .say ? ' she a^ked ; ‘ don’t you cemember ? ’

I could not help blushing.

• I don’t remember ! 1 expect I was j^retty

absurd too. It certainly is dangerous to drink/ I added with significant emphasis ; ‘one begins chattering at once, and one ’s apt to say what no one ought to know. One ’s sure to be sorry for it afterwards, but then it’s too late.’ ^

• Why, did you let out some secret ? ’ asked

Sophia.

‘ I am not referring«to myself.’

Sophia turned away, and began walking up and dowi> 4i\e room again. 1 stared at her, raging inwardly, ‘ Upon my word,’ I thought, ‘she is a child, a baby, and how she has herself in hand ! She ’s made of stone, simply. But wait a bit. , . .’

‘Sophia Nikolaevna . • I said aloud.

Sophia stopped.

‘What is iti»?’

‘ Won’t you play me something on the piano ? By the way, I ’ve something I want to say to you,’ I added, dropping my voice.

Sophia, without saying a word, walked into the other room ; I followed her. She came to a standstill at the piano.

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^ What am I to play you ? ' she inquired.

• What you like . . . one of Chopin's nocturnes.*

Sophia began the nocturne. She played

rather badly, but with feeling. *Her sister played nothing but polkas and waltzes, and even that very seldom. She would go sometimes with her indolent step to the piano, sit down, let her coat slip from her shoulders down to her elbows (I never saw her without a coat), begin playing a polka very loud, and wit&out finishing it, begin another, then she would suddenly heave a sigh, get up, and go back again to the window. A queer creature was that Varvara !

I sat down near Sophfa. ^

• Sophia Nikolaevna,' I began, watching her

intently from one side. * I ought«t:/^ tell you a piece of news, news disagreeable to me.'

‘ News? what is it?'

‘ I *11 tell you. . . . Up till now I have been mistaken in yoii^ completely mistaken.'

‘How was that?' she rejoined, going on playing, and* keeping her eyes fixed on her fingers. •

‘ 1 imagined you to be open ; I imagined that j^u were incapable of hypocrisy, of hiding your feelings, deceiving. . , .’

Sophia bent her face closer over the music.

‘ I don’t understand you.’

‘ Aiid what 's more,' I went on ; ‘ I could neveir 148

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have conceived that you, at your age, were already quite capable of acting a part in such masterly fashion.’

Sophia’s #hands faintly trembled above the keys. ‘ Why are you saying this ? ’ she said, still not looking at me ; ‘I play a part ? ’

‘Yes, you do.’ (She smiled ... I was seized with spiteful fury.) . . . ‘ You pretend to be indifferent to a man and . . . and you write letters to hint,’ I added in a whisper.

Sophia's cheeks grew white, but she did not turn to nfie : she played the nocturne through to the end, got up, and closed the piano.

‘ Where are you gomg ? ’ I asked her in some perplexity. ‘ You have no answer to make me ? ’

‘What 9^s!wer can I make you? I don’t know what you’re talking about. . . . And I am not good at pretending. . . .’

She began putting by the music.

The blood rushed to my head.

‘ No ; you know what I am talking about,' I said, and I too got up from my seat ; ‘ or if you like, I will remind you directly of some of your expressions in one letter: “ be as careful as before” . . .’

Sophia gave a faint start.

‘ I never should have expected this of you,* she said at last.

• I never should have expected/ I retortedi

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‘that you, Sophia Nikolaevna, would have deigned to notice a man who . .

Soj^hia turned with a rapid movement to me ; I instinctively stepped back a little* from her ; her eyes, always half closed, were so wide open that they looked immense, and they glittered wrathfully under her frowning brows.

‘ Oh ! if that ’s it,’ she said, ‘ let me tell you that I love that man, and that it’s absolutely no consequence to me what you think about him or about my love for him. And what business is it of yours ? . . . What right have you to speak of this? If I have made up my mind . . *■

She stopped speaking, and went hurriedly out of the room. I .stood still. Ktflt all of a sudden so uncomfortable and so ashamed that I hid my face in my hands. I realised all the impropriety, all the baseness of my behaviour, and, choked with shame and remorse, I stood as it were in disgrace. ‘Mercy,’ I thought, ' what I Ve done ! ’

‘ Anton Nikititch,’ I heard the •maid-servant saying in the outer-room, ‘ get a glass of water, quick, for Sophia Nikolaevna.’

‘ What ’s wrong ? ’ answered the man.

' I fancy she ’s crying. . . .’

I started up and went into the drawing-rooAi for my hat.

VAKOV PASINKOV

‘What were you talking about to Sonitchka?’ Varvara inquired indifferently, and after a brief pause she added in an undertone, ‘ Here ’s that clerk agaiiv’

I began saying good-bye.

‘ Why are you going ? Stay a little ; mamma is coming down directly/

‘ No ; I can*t now,* I said : ‘ I had better call and see her another time.*

At that lAstant, to my horror, to my positive horror, Sophia walked with resolute steps into the drawing-room. Her face was paler than usual, and her eyelids were a little red She nev^r even glanced ati me.

‘Look, Sonia,* observed Varvara ; ‘ there *s a clerk keeps/^ontinually passing our house.'

‘ A spy, perhaps . . / Sophia remarked coldly and contemptuously.

This was too much. I went away, and I really don’t know how I got hpme.

I felt very miserable, wretched and miserable beyond description. In twenty-four hours two such cruel blows ! I had learned that Sophia loved another man, and I had for ever forfeited her respect. I felt myself so utterly annihilated" and disgraced that I could not even feel in- dignant with myself. Lying on the sofa with my face turned to the wall, I was revelling in the first rush of despairing misery, when I 151

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suddenly heard footsteps in the room. I lifted my head and saw one of my most intimate frientls, Yakov Pasinkov.

4

I was ready to fly into a ra^e with any one who had come into my room tliat day, but with Pasinkov I could never be angry. Quite the contrary ; in spite of the sorrow devouring me, I was inwardly rejoiced at his coming, and I nodded to him. He walked twice up and down the room, as his* habit was, clearing his throat, and stretching out his long limbs ; then he stood a minute facing me in silence, and in silence he seated himself in a corner. %

I had known Pasinkov a very long while, almost from childhood. He had brought up at the same private school, kept by a German, Winterkcller, at which I had spent three years. Yakov*s father, a poor major on the retired list, a very honest gian, but a little deranged mentally, had brought him, when a boy of seven, to this German ; had paid for him for a year in advance, and had then left Moscow and been lost sight of completely. , . . From time to time there were dark, strange rumours about him. Eight years later it was known as a positive fact that he had been drowned in a flodd when crossing the Irtish, What had taken him to Siberia, God knows, Yakov

IS2

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had no other relations; his mother had long been dead. He was simply left stranded on Winterkeller*s hands. Yakov had, it is true, a distant relation, a great-aunt ; but she was so poor, that she was afraid at first to go to her nephew, for fear she should have the care of him thrust upon her. Her fears turned out to be groundless ; the kind-hearted German kept Yakov with him, let him study with his other pupilsj fed him (dessert, however, was not offered him except on Sundays), and rigged him out in clothes cut out of the ' cast-off morning-gowns — usually snuff-coloured — of his mother, an old Livonian lady, still alert and active in spite of her great age. Owing to all these circ^jpistances, and owing generally to Yakov’s inferior position in the school, his schoolfellows treated him in rather a casual fashion, looked down upon him, and used to call him ‘ mammy’s dressing-gjwn,’ the ‘ nephew of the mob-cap’ (his aunt invariably wore a very peculiar mob-cap with a bunch of yellow ribbons stic^:ing straight upright, like a globe artichoke, upon it), and sometimes the ‘ son of Yermak' (because his father had, like that hero, been drowned in the Irtish). But in spite of those nicknames, in spite of his ridiculous garb, and his absolute destitution, every one was fond of him, and indeed it was impossible not to be IS3

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fond of him ; a sweeter, nobler nature, I imagine, has never existed upon earth. He was very good at lessons too.

When I saw him first, he was sixteen years old, and I was only just thirteen. I was an exceedingly selfish and spoilt boy ; I had grown up in a rather wealthy house, and so, on enter- ing the school, I lost no time in making friends with a little prince, an object of special solicitude to Winterkeller, and with two or \hree other juvenile aristocrats ; while I gave myself great airs with all the rest Pasinkov I did not deign to notice at all. I regarded the long, gawky lad, in a shapeless coat andishort trousers, which showed his coarse thread stockings, as some sort of page-boy, one of the hou5e-.serfs — at best, a person of the working class. Pasinkov was extremely courteous and gentle to every- body, though he never sought the society of any one. If he were judely treated, he was neither humiliated nor sullen ; he simply withdrew and held himself aloof, with a sort of regretful look, as it were biding his time. This was just how he behaved with me. About two months passed. One bright summer day I happened to go out of the playg^und after a noisy game of leap- frog, and waydng into the garden I saw Pasinkov sitting on a bench under a high lilac-bush. Ho was reading. I glanced at the cover of the 154

YAKOV PASINKOV

book as I passed, and read Schillef^s Werke on the back. I stopped short

‘ Do you mean to say you know Gerpian ? ’ I questioned Pasinkov. . . .

I feel ashamed to this day as I recall all the arrogance there was in the very sound of niy voice. . . . Pasinkov softly raised his small but expressive eyes and looked at me.

• Yes,* he answered ; ‘ do you ? *

‘ I should hope so ! * I retorted, feeling in- sulted at the question, and I was about to go on my way, but something held me back.

‘What is it you are reading of Schiller?* I asked, with the sameliaughty insolence.

‘At this moment I am reading “Resigna- tion,” a beautiful poem. Would you like me to read it to you ? Come and sit here by me on the bench.*

I hesitated a little, but I sat down. Pasinkov began reading. He knew Carman far better than I did. He had to explain the meaning of several lines for me. But already I felt no shame at my ignorance and his superiority to me. From that day, from the very hour of our reading together in the garden, in the shade of the lilac-bush, I loved Pasinkov with my whole soul, I attached myself to him and fell Completely under his sway.

I have a vivid recollection of his appearance ISS

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m those days. He changed very little, however, later on. He was tall, thin, and ratherawkwardly built, with a long back, narrow shoulders, and a hollow chest, which made him look wither frail and delicate, although as a fact he had nothing to complain of on the score of health. His large, dome-shaped head was carried a little on one side ; his soft, flaxen hair straggled in lank locks about his slender neck. Ilis face was not hand- some, and might even have struck one as absurd, owing to the long, full, and reddish nose, which seemed almost to overhang his wide, straight mouth. But his open brow was splendid ; and when he smiled, his littla> grey eyes gleamed with such mild and affectionate goodness, that every one felt warmed and cheered «at heart at the very sight of him, I remember his voice too, soft and even, with a peculiar sort of sweet huskiness in it. He spoke, as a rule, little, and with noticeable difficulty. But when he warmed up, his words flowed freely, and — strange to say!— his voice grew still softer, his glance seemed turned inward and lost its fire, while his whole face faintly glowed. On his lips the words * goodness,' ‘ truth,’ ‘ life,’ ‘ science,’ ‘ love,' however enthusiastically they were uttered, never rang with a false note. Without strain, without effort, he stepped into the realm of the ideal ; his pure soul was at any moment 156

YAKOV PASINKOV

ready to stand before the ‘holy shrine of beauty*; it awaited only the welcoming call, the contact of another soul, , . . Pasinkov was an idealist, one of the last idealists w^om it has been my lot to come across. Idealists, as we all know, are all but extinct in these days ; there are none of them, at any rate, among the young people of to-day. So much the worse for the young people of to-day !

About three years I spent with Pasinkov, ‘soul in soul,* as the saying is. I was the confidant of his first love. With what grateful sympathy and intentness I listened to his avowal ! The objett of his passion was a niece of WinterkellePs, a fair-haired, pretty little German, with a chubby, almost childish little face, and confidingly soft blue eyes. She was very kind and sentimental : she loved Mattison, Uhland, and Schiller, and repeated their verses very sweetly in jier timid, musical voice. Pasinkov’s love was of the most platonic. He only saw his beloved on Sundays, when she used to come and play at forfeits with the Winterkeller children, and he had very little conversation with her. But once, when she "said to him, ‘mein lieber, lieber Herr Jacob!* he did not sleep all night from excess of bliss. 4t never even struck him at the time that she called all his schoolfellows ‘mein lieber.’ I

• 57

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remember, too, his grief and dejection when the news suddenly reached us that Fraulein Frederike — that was her name — was going to be married to Herr Kniftus, the owner of a prosperous butcher’s shop, a very handsome man, and well educated too ; and that she was marrying him, not simply in submission to parental authority, but positively from love. It was a bitter blow for Pasinkov, and his sufferings were particularly severe* on the day of the young people’s first visit. The former Fraulein, now Frau, Frederike presented him, once more addressing him as ‘lieber Herr Jacob,’ to her husband, who was all splendour from top to toe ; his eyes, his black hair brushed up into a tuft, his forehead and his teeth, and his coat buttons, and the chain on his waistcoat, everything, down to the boots on his rather large, tumed-out feet, shone bril- liantly. Pasinko^ pressed Herr Kniftus’s hand, and wished him (and the wish was sincere, that 1 am certain) complete and enduring happiness. This took place in my presence. I remember with what admiration and sym- pathy I gazed at Yakov. I thought him a hero ! . . . And afterwards, what mournful con- versations passed between us. ‘ Seek consola- tion in art,’ I said to him. ‘ Yes,’ he answered me; ‘and in poetry.’ ‘And in friendship,’ I 158

YAKOV PASINKOV

added. ' And in friendship/ he repeated. Oh, happy days I . . .

It was a grief to me to part from Pasinkov. Just beforp I left school, he Bad, after prolonged efforts and difficulties, after a correspondence often amusing, succeeded in obtaining his certificates of birth and baptism and his passport, and had entered the university. He still went on living at Winterkcller’s expense ; but instead t>f home-made jackets and breeches, he was provided now with ordinary attire, in return for lessons on various subjects, which he gave the younger pupils. Pasinkov was unchanged in his behaviour to me up to the end of my time at the school, though the difference in our ages began to be more noticeable, and I, I remember, grew jealous of some of his new student friends. His influence on me was most beneficial. It was a pity it did not last longer.^ To give a single instance : as a child I was in the habit of tell- ing lies. ... In Yakov’s presence I could not bring my tqngue to utter an untruth. What t particularly loved was walking alone with him, or pacing by his side up and down the room, listening while he, not looking at me, read poetry in his soft, intense voice. It positively seemed Jo me that we were slowly, gradually, getting away from the earth, and soaring away to some >59

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radiant, glorious land of mystery. ... I re-* member one night. We were sitting together under the same lilac-bush : we were fond of that spot All our companions wore asleep ; but we had softly got up, dressed, fumbling in the dark, and stealthily stepped out ‘ to dream/ It was fairly warm out of doors, but a fresh breeze blew now and then and made us huddle closer* together. We talked, we talked a lot, and with much warmth— so much* so, that we positively interrupted each other, though we did not argue. In the sky gleamed stars innumer- able. Yakov raised his eyes, and pressing my hand he softly cried out : t

• Above our heads

The sky with the eternal stars. • . .

Above the stars their Maker. . .

A thrill of awe ran through me; I felt cold all over, and sank on his shoulder. . . . My heart was full. . . . Where are those raptures ? Alas ! where youth is.

In Petersburg I met Yakov again eight years after. I had only just been appointed to a position in the service, and some one had got him a little post in some department Our meeting was most joyful. I shall never forget the moment when, sitting alone one day at home* I suddenly heard his voice in the passage. . . • i6q

YAKOV PASINKOV

How I started ; with what throbbing at the heart I leaped up and flung myself on his neck, without giving him time to take off his fur overcoat and unfasten his scarf 1 How greedily I gazed at him through bright, involuntary tears of tender- ness ! He had grown a little older during those seven years ; lines, delicate as if they had been traced by a needle, furrowed his brow here and there, his cheeks were a little more hollow, and his hair was thinner ; but he had hardly more beard, and his smile was just the same as ever ; and his laugh, a soft, inward, as it were breath- less laugh, was the same too. . . .

Mercy on us ! what*>didn’t we talk about that day ! • . . The favourite poems we read to one another! I began begging him to move and come and live with me, but he would not con- sent. He promised, however, to come every day to see me, and he kept his word.

In soul, too, Pasinkov was rfinchanged. He showed himself just the same idealist as I had always known him. However ruciely life’s chill, the bitter chill of experience, had closed in about him, the tender flower that had bloomed so early in my friend’s heart had kept all its pure beauty untouched. There was no trace of sadness even, no trace even of melancholy in him ; he was quiet, as he had always been, but everlastingly glad at heart. h i6i

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In Petersburg he lived as in a wilderness, not thinking of the future, and knowing scarcely any 9>ne. I took him to the Zlotnitskys’. He used to go and see them rather often. Not being self-conscious, he was not shy, but in their house, as everywhere, he said very little ; they liked him, however. Even the tedious old man, Tatiana Vassilievna’s husband, was friendly to him, and both the silent girls were soon quite at home with him.

Sometimes he would arrive, bringing with him in the back pocket of his coat some book that had just come out, and for a long time would not make up his ttiind to read, but would keep stretching his neck out on one side, like a bird, looking about him as though inquiring, ‘could he?’ At last he would establish him- self in a comer (he always liked sitting in comers), would pull out a book and set to reading, at first in a whisper, then louder and louder, occasionally interrupting himself with brief criticisiQs or exclamations. I noticed that Varvara was readier to sit by him and listen than her sister, though she certainly did not understand much; literature was not in her lint^ She would sit opposite Pasinkov, her chin in her hands, staring at him — not into his eyes, but inkli his whole face — and would not pttefi syllable, but only heave a noisy, sudicWj^ijEigh

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Sometimes in the evenings we used to play for- feits, especially on Sundays and holidays. We were joined on these occasions by two plump, short youtig ladies, sisters, and distant relations of the Zlotnitskys, terribly given to giggling, and a few lads from the military school, very good-natured, quiet fellows. Pasinkov always used to sit beside Tatiana Vassilievna, and with her, judge \jhat was to be done to the one who had to pay a forfeit.

Sophia did not like the kisses and such demonstrations, with which forfeits are often paid, while Varvara used to be cross if she had to look for anything \>r guess something. The young ladies giggled incessantly — laughter seemed to bubble up by some magic in them, — I sometimes felt positively irritated as I looked at them, but Pasinkov only smiled and shook his head. Old Zlotnitsky took no part in our games, and even looked at us rather dis- approvingly from the door of his study. Only once, utterly unexpectedly, he odme in to us, and proposeSd that whoever had next to pay a forfeit should waltz with him; we, of course, agreed. It happened to be Tatiana Vassilievna who had to pay the forfeit She crimsoned all over, and was confused and abashed like a girl

• df hiftpen ; but her husband at once told Sophia to

go piano, while he went up to his wUe, and 163

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waltzed two tounds with her of the old-fashioned trois temps waltz. I remember how his bilious, gloom)' face, with its never-smiling eyes, kept appearing and disappearing as he slowly turned round, his stern expression never relaxing. He waltzed with a long step and a hop, while his wife pattered rapidly with her feet, and huddled up with her face close to his chest, as though she were in terror. He led her to her place, bowed to her, went back to his room and shut the door. Sophia was just getting up, but Varvara asked her to go on, went up to Pasinkov, and holding out her hand, with an awkward smile, said, ‘Will you like a turn?’ Pasinkov was surprised, but he jumped up — he was always distinguished by the most delicate courtesy — and took Varvara by the waist, but he slipped down at the first step, and leaving hold of hi.s partner at once, rolled right under the pedestal on which the parrot’s cage was standing. . . . The cage fell, the parrot was frightened and shrieked, ‘Present arms!’ Every one laughed. . . . Zlotnitsky appeared at his study door, looked grimly at us, and slammed the door to. From that time forth, one had only to allude to this incident before Varvara, and she would go off into peals of laughter at once, and look at Pasinkov, aes lliough anything cleverer than bis bdiaviour 164

YAKOV PASINKOV

on that occasion it was impossible to con- ceive.

Pasinkov was very fond of music. He used often to ^cg Sophia to play him something, and to sit on one side listening, and now and then humming in a thin voice the most pathetic passages. He was particularly fond of Schubert’s Constellation. He used to declare that when he heard the air played he could always fancy that with the sounds long rays of azure light came pouring down from on high, straight upon him. To this day, whenever I look upon a cloudless sky at night, with the softly quivering stars^ I always recall Schubert’s melody and Pasinkov. . . . An excursion into the country comes back to my mind. We set out, a whole party of us, in two hired four- wheel carnages, to Pargolovo. I remember we took the carriages from the Vladimirsky ; they were very old, and painted ^blue, with round springs, and a wide box-seat, and bundles of hay inside; the brown, broken-winded horses that drew ys along at a slow trot were each lame in a different leg. We strolled a long while about the pinewoods round Pargolovo, drank milk out of earthenware pitchers, emd ate wild strawberries and sugar. The weather was exquisite. Varvara did not care for long walks : she used soon to get tired ; but this time 165

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she did not lag behind us. She took off her hat, her hair came down, her heavy features lighted up, and her cheeks were flushed. Meet- ing tw6 peasant girls in the wood, she, sat down suddenly on the ground, called them to her, did not patronise them, but made them sit down beside her. Sophia looked at them from some distance with a cold smile, and did not go up to them. She was walking with Asanov. Zlotnitsky observed that Varvara wtis a regular hen for sitting. Varvara got up and walked away. In the course of the walk she several times went up to Pasinkov, and said to him, ‘ Yakov Ivanitch, I want t« tell you something,’ but what she wanted to tell him — remained unknown.

But it ’s high time for me to get back to my story.

I was glad to see Pasinkov; but when I recalled what I had done the day before, I felt unutterably ashamed, and I hurriedly turned away to the wall again. After a Jsrief pause, Yakov asked me if I were unwell.

• I*m quite well,’ I answered through my

teeth ; ‘ only my head aches.'

Yakov made no reply, and took up a book. More than an hour passed by; I was just, coming to the point of confessing everything to

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Yakov . . . suddenly there was a ring at the outer bell of my flat.

The door on to the stairs was opened. ... 1 listened. . ,. . Asanov was asking my sftrvant if I were at home.

Pasinkov got up ; he did not care for Asanov, and telling me in a whisper that he would go and lie down on my bed, he went into my bed- room.

A minute»later Asanov entered.

From the very sight of his flushed face, from his brief, cool bow, I guessed that he. had not come to me without some set purpose in his mind. ‘What is gcjng to happen?’ 1 won- dered.

‘ Sir,’ he began, quickly seating himself in an armchair, ‘ I have come to you for you to settle a matter of doubt for me.’

‘ And that is ? ’

‘ That is : I wish to know whether you are an honest man.’

I flew into a rage. ‘ What ’s the meaning of that ? ’ I denjanded.

‘ I ’ll tell you what ’s the meaning of it,’ he retorted, underlining as it were each word. ‘Yesterday I showed you a pocket-book con- taining letters from a certain person to me. . . , To-day you repeated to that person, with le- ftfoach — ^with reproach, observe — ^some expres- 167

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sions from those letters, without having the slightest right to do so. I should like to know what explanation you can give of this ? *

• Arfld I should like to know what; right

have to cross-examine me,’ I answered, trem- bling with fury and inward shame. ‘ You chose to boast of your uncle, of your correspondence ; I ’d nothing to do with it. You Ve got all your letters all right, haven’t you ? ’

‘ The letters are all right ; ^but I was yesterday in a condition in which you could easily ’

‘ In short, sir,’ I began, speaking intentionally as loud as I could, *I beg you to leave me alone, do you hear ? I don’t want to know any- thing about it, and I ’na not going to give you any explanation. You can go to that person for explanations ! ’ I felt that my head was beginning to go round.

Asanov turned^ upon me a look to which he obviously tried to impart an air of scornful penetration, pulled his moustaches, and got up slowly, »

• I know now what to think,’ he observed ;

^your face is the best evidence against you. But I must tell you that that’s not the way honourable people behave. • • . To read a letter on the sly, and then to go and worry an honour-** able girl. . . /

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‘Will you go to the devil!* I shouted, stamping, ‘ and send me a second ; I don’t mean to talk to you.* ^

‘ Kindly^refrain from telling me. what to do,’ Asanov retorted frigidly ; ‘ but I certainly will send a second to you.*

He went away. I fell on the sofa and hid my face in my hands. Some one touched me on the shoulder; I moved my hands — before me was stanfiing Pasinkov.

‘ What ’s this ? is it true ? ’ . . . he asked me.

You read another man’s letter ? *

I had not the strength to answer, but I nodded in assent. •

Pasinkov went to the window, and standing with his back to me, said slowly: ‘You read a letter from a girl to Asanov. Who was the girl ? ’

‘ Sophia Zlotnitsky,’ I answered, as a prisoner on his trial answers the judge. #

For a long while Pasinkov did not utter a word.

! Nothing but passion could to some extent excuse you,’ he began at last. ‘Are you in love then with the younger Zlotnitsky ? *

‘Yes.*

Pasinkov was silent again for a little.

•‘I thought so. And you went to her to-day and began reproaching her? • •

169

YAKOV PASINKOV

'Yes, yes, yes 1 . . I articulated desperately. ‘ Now you can despise me. . .

Fasinkov walked a couple of times up and down Ihe room, ,

‘ And she loves him ? ’ he queried.

‘ She loves him. . . .*

Fasinkov looked down, and gazed a long while at the floor without moving.

‘ Well, it must be set right,’ he began, raising his head, ‘ things can’t be left like this.’

And he took up his hat

‘ Where are you going ? ’

‘ To Asanov,’

I jumped up from the sofa.

‘ But I won't let you. Good heavens I how can you 1 what will he think ? ’

Fasinkov looked at me.

‘Why, do you think it better to keep this folly up, to bring ruin on yourself, and disgrace on the girl ? ’ ^

' But what are you going to say to Asanov ? ’

• I ’ll try and explain things to him, I ’ll tell

him you b^ his forgiveness . . ,

‘ But I don’t want to apologise to him 1 *

• You don’t ? Why, aren’t you in fault ? ’

I looked at Fasinkov ; the calm and severe though mournful, expression of his face im- pressed me; it was new to me. I made np reiply, and sat down on the sofa.

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YAKOV PASINKOV

Pasinkov went out

In what agonies of suspense I waited for his return ! With what cruel slowness the time lingei]pd by 1 At last 'he came bSck — late.

‘ Well ? ’ I queried in a timid voice.

‘Thank goodness!’ he answered; ‘it’s all settled.’

‘ You have been at Asanov’s ? ’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, and he? — made a great to-do, I sup- pose ? ’ I articulated with an effort

‘ No, I can’t say that I expected more . . . He . . . he’s not such a vulgar fellow as I thought’

‘Well, and have you seen any one else be- sides 7 ’ I asked, after a brief pause.

' I ’ve been at the Zlotnitskys’.’

‘ Ah ! . . .’ (My heart began to throb. I did not dare look Pasinkov in th| face.) ‘Well, and she ? ’

‘Sophia Nikolaevna is a reasonable, kind- hearted girl. ^ . . Yes, she is a kind-hearted girl. She felt awkward at first, but she was soon at ease. But our whole conversation only lasted five minutes.’

‘And you . . . told her everything . . . about me . . . everything?’

• 1 told her what was necessary/

171

YAKOV PASINKOV

• 1 shall never be able to go and see them

again now ! ’ I pronounced dejectedly. . . .

‘Why? No, you can go occasionally. On the contrary, you are absolutely txjund to go and see them, so that nothing should be thought. . .

‘Ah, Yakov, you will despise me now!’ I cried, hardly keeping back my tears.

‘ Me ! Despise you ? . . .’ (His affectionate eyes glowed with love.) ‘ Despise you . . . silly fellow! Don’t I see how hard it’s been for you, how you 're suffering ? ’

He held out his hand to me; I fell on his neck and broke into soba

After a few days, during which I noticed that Fasinkov was in very low spirits, I made up my mind at last to go to the Zlotnitskys’. What 1 felt, as I stepped into their drawing-room, it would be di^cult to convey in words; I remember that I could hardly distinguish the persons in the room, and my voice failed me. Sophia was no less ill at ease ; she obviously forced herself to address me, but her eyes avoided mine as mine did hers, and every move- ment she made, her whole being, expressed constraint, mingled . . . why conceal the truth? with secret aversion, I tried, as far as possible, to spare her and myself from such painful 173

YAKOV PASINKOV

sensations. This meeting was happily our last — before her marriage. A sudden change in my fortunes carried me off to the other ^nd of Russia, and I bade a long farewell to Peters- burg, to the Zlotnitsky family, and, what was most grievous of all for me, to dear Yakov Pasinkov.

173

YAKOV PASINKOV

II

Seven years had passed by. I don’t think it necessary to relate all that happened to me during that period. I moved restlessly about over Russia, and made my way into the re- motest wilds, and thank God { did 1 The wilds are not so much to be dreaded as some people suppose, and in the most hidden places, under the fkllen twigs and rotting leaves in the very heart of the forest, spring up flowers of sweet fragrance.

One day in spring, as I was passing on some oflicial duties through a small town in one of the outlying provinces of Eastern Russia, through the dim little window of my coach I saw standing before a shop in the square a man whose fate struck me as exceedingly familiar. I looked attentively at the man, and to my great delight recognised him as Elisei, Pasinkov's servant *

I at once told the driver to stop, jumped out of the coach, and went up to Elisei.

‘ Hullo, friend 1 ’ I began, with difficulty con- cealing my excitement ; ‘are you here with .your master?’

'Yea^ I’m with my master,’ he responded

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^ YAKOV PASINKOV

slowly, and then suddenly cried out : ‘ Why, sir, is it you ? I dida’t know you.’

‘ Are you here with Yakov Ivanitch ? ’

‘Yes, sir, with him, to be sure . . . whom else would I be with ? ’

‘ Take me to him quickly.’

‘To be sure I to be sure! This way, please, this way . . . we’re .stopping here at the tavern.’ Elisei led me across the square, inces- santly repeating — ‘ Well, now, won’t Yakov Ivanitch be pleased ! ’ ks

This man, of Kalmuck extraction, and hideous, even savage appearance, but the kindest-hearted creal^ure and by no means a fool,' was passionately devoted to Pasinkov, and had been his servant for ten years.

‘Is Yakov Ivanitch quite well?’ I asked him.

Elisei turned his dhsky, yellow little face to me.

‘ Ah, sir, he 's in a poor way ... in a poor way, sir ! You won’t know his honour. . . . He’s not long for this world, I’m afraid. That’s how it is we’ve stopped here, or we had been going on to Odessa for hiis health.’

‘ Where do you come from ? ’

‘ From Siberia, sir.’

• ‘From Siberia?’

‘Yes, sir. Yakov Ivanitch was sent tp a

• 75

YAKOV PASINKOV

post out there. It was there his honour got his wound.’

‘ Do you mean to say he went into the mili- tary service? ’

• Oh no, sir. He served in the civil service.’

‘ What a strange thing ! ’ I thought

Meanwhile we had reached the tavern, and Elisei ran on in front to announce me During the first years of our separation, Pasinkov and I had written to each other pretty often, but his last letter had reached me four years before, and since then I had heard nothing of him.

‘ Please come up, sir ! ’ Elisei shouted to me from the staircase; ‘Ykkov Ivanitch is very anxious to see you.’

I ran hurriedly up the tottering stairs, went into a dark little room — and my heart sank. . . . On a narrow bed, under a fur cloak, pale as a corpse, lay Pasinkov, and he was stretching out to me a bare, VKasted hand. I rushed up to him and embraced him passionately.

‘Yasha ! ’ I cried at last ; ‘ what ’s wrong with you?'

‘Nothing,’ he answered in a faint voice; ‘ { ’m a bit feeble. What chance brought you here?’

I sat down on a chair beside Pasinkov's bed, and, never letting his hands out of my hands, i b^an gazing into his face. I recognised the 176

YAKOV PASINKOV

features I loved ; the expression of the eyes and the smile were unchanged ; but what a wreck illness had made of him !

He noticed the impression he was making on me.

‘ It ’s three days since I shaved/ he observed ;

‘ and, to be sure, I Ve not been combed and brushed, but except for that ... I'm not so bad.'

‘Tell me,*please, Yasha/ I began; ‘what's this Elisei's been telling me . , . you were wounded ? *

‘Ah! yes, it's quite a history/ he replied.

‘ I '11 tell you it later, fifes, I was wounded, and only fancy what by ? — an arrow.'

‘ An arrow ? '

‘Yes, an arrow ; only not a mythological one, not Cupid s arrow, but a real arrow of very flexible wood, with a sharply-pointed tip at one end. ... A very unpleasant ^nsation is pro- duced by such an arrow, especially when it sticks in one's lungs.'

‘ But however did it come about ? upon my word ! . . .’

‘ I 'll tell you how it happened. You know there always was a great deal of the absurd in my life. Do you remember my comical corre- siK>ndence about getting my passport ? Well, I was wounded in an absurd fashion too. Andk

M 177 *

YAKOV PASINKOV

if you come to think of it, what sclf-Fe&pecting person in our enlightened century would per- mit himself to be wounded by an arrow ? And not accidentally — observe — not at sports of any sort, but in a battle.'

‘ Hut you still don’t tell me . .

‘All right, wait a minute,’ he interrupted. ‘You know that soon after you left Petersburg I was transferred to Novgorod. I was a good time at Novgorod, and I must own I was bored there, though even there I came across one creature. . . (He sighed.) . . . ‘But no matter about that now ; two years ago I got a capital little berth, some way off, it*s true, in the Irkutsk province, but what of that ! It seems as though my father and I were destined from birth to visit Siberia. A splendid country, Siberia ! Rich, fertile — every one will tell you the same. I liked it very much there. The natives were put under my wile ; they 're a harmless lot of people ; but as my ill-luck would have it, they took it into their heads, a dozen of them, not more, to smuggle in contraband goods. 1 was sent to arrest them. Arrest them I did, but one of them, crazy he must have been, thought (it to defend himself, and treated me to the arrow. ... I almost died of it; however, I got all i^ht again. Now, here I am going to get completely cured. . . . The government — God 178

YAKOV PASINKOV

give them all good health ! — have provided the cash.’

Pasinkov let his head fail back on th^ pillow, exhaustol, and ceased speaking. A faint flush suffused his cheeks. He closed his eyes.

‘ He can't talk much,’ Elisei, who had not left the room, murmured in an undertone.

A silence followed ; nothing was heard but the sick man’s painful breathing.

‘But he?e,’ he went on, opening his eyes, ‘I’ve been stopping a fortnight in this little town. ... I caught cold, 1 suppose. The district doctor here is attending me — you’ll see him ; he seems ft> know his business. I’m awfully glad it happened so, though, or how should we have met ? ’ (And he took my hand. His hand, which had just before been cold as ice, was now burning hot.) ‘ Tell me something about yourself,’ he began again, throwing the cloak back off his chest. ‘Jfou and I haven’t seen each other since God knows when.’

• I hastened to carry out his wish, so as not to let him talk, and started giving an account of myself. He listened to me at first with great attention, then asked for drink, and then began closing his eyes again and turning his • head restlessly on the pillow. I advised him •to have a little nap, adding that I should not go on further till he was well again, and that

YAKOV PASINKOV

I should establish myself in a room beside him.

‘ It 's very nasty here • . Pasinkov was begin- ning, h\j.t I stopped his mouth, and went softly out. Elisci followed me. « 

• What is it, Elisei ? Why, he 's dying, isn't

he ? ' 1 questioned the faithful servant.

Elisei simply made a gesture with his hand, and turned away.

Having dismissed my driver, and rapidly moved my things into the next room, I went to sec whether Pasinkov was asleep. At the door I ran up against a tall man, very fat and heavily built. His face, pock-marked and puffy, expressed laziness— and nothing else; his tiny little eyes seemed, as it were, glued up, and his lips looked polished, as though he were just awake.

^ Allow me to ask,' I questioned him, 'arc you not the doctor ? '

The fat man logked at me, seeming with an effort to lift his overhanging forehead with his eyebrows.

' Yes, sir,' he responded at last. •

• Do me the favour, Mr. Doctor, won't you,

please, to come this way into my room ? Yakov Ivanitch, is, I believe, now asleep. I am a friend of his and should like to have a little talk With you about his illness, which makes «  me Very uneasy/

i8o

VAKOV PASINKOV

‘Very good,’ answered the doctor, with an expression which seemed to try and say, ‘ Why talk so much ? I ’d have come anyway^ and he followed»me.

‘ Tell me, please,’ I began, as soon as he had dropped into a chair, ‘ is my friend’s condition serious ? What do you think ? ’

‘Yes,’ answered the fat man, tranquilly.

‘ And ... is it very serious ? ’

‘Yes, itl serious.’

‘ So that he may . . . even die ? ’

‘ He may.’

I confess I looked almost with hatred at the fat man. *

• Good heavens I ’ I began ; ‘ we must take

some steps, call a consultation, or something. You know we can’t . . . Mercy on us ! ’

‘ A consultation ? — quite possible ; why not ? It ’s possible. Call in Ivan Kfremitch. . . .’

The doctor spoke with dilSculty, and sighed continually. His stomach heaved perceptibly when he spoke, as it were emphasising each word. •

‘Who is Ivan Efremitch?’

‘ The parish doctor.’

‘ Shouldn’t we send to the chief town of the province ? What do you think ? There are sure

• to be good doctors there.’

‘Well ! you might.’

i8i

YAKOV PASINKOV

• And who is considered the best doctor

there ? ’

‘The, best? There was a doctor Kolrabus there . . . only I fancy he’s been transferred somewhere else. Though I must own there ’s no need really to send.’

‘Why so?’

‘ Even the best doctor will be of no use to your friend.’

‘ Why, is he so bad ? ’

‘ Yes, he ’s run down.’

‘ In what way precisely is he ill ? ’

‘ He received a wound. . . . The lungs were affected in consequence*. . . and then he’s taken cold too, and fever was set up . . . and so on. And there’s no reserve force; a man can’t get on, you know yourself, with no reserve force.’

We were both silent for a while.

' How about trying homoeopathy ? . . .’ said the fat man, with a sidelong glance at me.

• Homoeopathy ? Why, you 're an allopath,

aren’t you ? ’ .

‘What of that? Do you think I don’t understand homoeopathy? I understand it as well as the other! 'l^y, the chemist here amon^ us treats people homoeopathically, and he has no learned degree whateyer.’

• Oh,’ I thought, ‘it's a bad look-out I . .

183

YAKOV PASINKOV

' No, doctor,’ I observed, ‘ you had better treat him according to your usual method.’

• As you please’

The fat,man got up and heaved a siglt

‘ You are going to him ? ’ I asked.

‘ Yes, I must have a look at him.’

And he went out.

I did not follow him; to see him at the bedside of my poor, sick friend was more than I could staiM. I called my man and gave him orders to drive at once to the chief town of the province, to inquire there for the best doctor, and to bring him without fail. There was a slight noise i« the passage. I opened the door quickly.

The doctor was already coming out of Pasin- kov’s room.

‘Well?’ I questioned him in a whisper.

• It ’s all right I have prescrij>ed a mixture.’

• I have decided, doctor, to send to the chief

town. I have no doubt of your skill, but as you ’re aware, two heads are better than one.’

‘Well, that’s very praiseworthy 1 ’ responded the fat man, and he began to descend the stair- case. He was obviously tired of me.

I went in to Pasinkov.

‘Have you seen the local ^Esculapius?’ he

^ked.

‘ Yes,’ I ansWbred.

183

YAKOV PASINKOV

• What I like about him,’ remarked Pasinkov,

‘ is his astounding composure. A doctor ought to be phlegmatic, oughtn’t he? It’s so en- coura^ng for the patient’ .

I did not, of course, try to controvert this.

Towards the evening, Pasinkov, contrary to my expectations, seemed better. He asked Elisei to set the samovar, announced that he was going to regale me with tea* and drink a small cup himself, and he was noticeably more cheerful. I tried, tliough, not to let him talk, and seeing that he would not be quiet, I asked him if he would* like me to read him .something. ‘ Just as at Winterkeller’s — do you remember?’ he answered. ‘ If you will, I shall be delighted. What shall we read? Look, there are my books in the window.’ . . .

I went to the window and took up the first book that my hand chanced upon. . . .

‘ What is it ? ’ lie asked.

‘ Lermontov.'

‘Ah, Lermontov! Excellent! , Pushkin is greater, no doubt ... Do you remember: “Once more the storm-clouds gather close Above me in the perfect calm ”... or, “ For the last time thy image sweet In thought I dare caress.” Ah! marvellous! marvellous !t But Lermontov ’s fine too. W^l, I ’ll tell you >84

YAKOV PASINKOV

what, dear boy : you take the book, open it by chance, and read what you find ! '

I opened the book, and was disconcerted ; I had chanced upon ‘ The Last Will.* I tried to turn over the page, but Pasinkov noticed my action and said hurriedly: *No, no, no, read what turned up.*

There was no getting out of it ; I read ' The Last Will.*i

1 THE LAST WILL

Alone with thee, brother,

I would wish to ;

On earth, so they tell me,

I have not long to stay,

Soon you will go home :

See that . • . But nay ! for my fate To speak the truth, no one Is very greatly troubled.

But if any one asks . • .

Well, whoever may ask.

Tell them that through the breast I was shot by a bullet ;

That I died honourably for the Tsar, That our doctors are not much good, And that to my native land 1 send a humble greeting.

My father and mother, hardly Will you find living. , , .

1 ’ll own IfShottld be sorry That they should grieve for me ;

185

YAKOV PASINKOV

'Splendid thing!* said Pasinkov, directly I had finished the last verse. ‘Splendid thing I But, it ’s queer,’ he added, after a brief pause, ‘it’s queer you should have chancqd just on that. . . . Queer.*

I b^an to read another poem, but Pasinkov was not listening to me ; he looked away, and twice he repeated again : ‘ Queer ! ’

I let the book drop on my knees.

‘“There is a girl, their neighbou#,”* he whis- pered, and turning to me he asked — ‘ I say, do you remember Sophia Zlotnitsky ? ’

I turned red.

' I should think I did !<

‘She was married, I suppose? . . .*

‘ To Asanov, long, long ago. I wrote to you about it’

Bat if either of them is living,

Say I am about writing,

That our regiment has been sent forward, And that they must not expect me home.

There is a girl, their neighbour. .

As you remember, it ’s long Since we parted. . . • She will not Ask for me. ... All the same,

You tell her all the truth,

Don't spare her empty heart—

Det her weep a little. • • • « 

It will not hurt her much I i86

YAKOV PASINKOV

'To be sure, to be sure, SO you did. Did her father forgive her in the end ? ’

‘ He forgave her ; but he would not receive Asanov.’ ,

‘Obstinate old fellow! Well, and are they supposed to be happy ? '

‘I don’t know, really ... I fancy they’re

happy. They live in the country, in

province. I ’ve never seen them, though I have been thfough their parts.’

‘ And have they any children ? ’

• I think so. . . . By the way, Pasinkov ? . . .’

I began questioningly.

He glanced at me. *

‘Confess — do you remember, you were un- willing to answer my question at the time — did you tell her I cared for her ? '

• I told her everything, the whole truth. . . .

I always told her the truth. To be hypocritical with her would have been a sii\! ’

Pasinkov was silent for a while.

‘ Come, tell me,’ he began again : ‘ did you soon get ovet; caring for her, or not ? ’

‘ Not very soon, but I got over it What ’s the good of sighing in vain ? ’

Pasinkov turned over, facing me.

‘Well, I, brother,’ he began — ^and his lips were quivering — ‘ am no match for you there ; I ’ve not got over caring for her to tWs day**

187

YAKOV PASINKOV

'Whati’ I cried in indescribable amaze* ment ; ‘ did you love her ? '

‘ I ^ loved her,’ said Pasinkov slowly, and he put both hands behind his head. ‘ How I loved her, God only knows. I ’ve never spoken of it to any one, to any one in the world, and I never meant to . . . but there ! “ On earth, so they tell me, I have not long to stay.” . . . What does it matter ? ’

Pasinkov’s unexpected avowal so utterly astonished me that I could positively say no- thing. I could only wonder, ‘ Is it possible? how was it I never suspected it?’

‘Yes,’ he went on, ks though speaking to himself, ‘ I loved her. I never ceased to love her even when I knew her heart was Asanov’s. But how bitter it was for me to know that ! If she had loved you, I should at least have rejoiced for you , but Asanov. . . . How did he make her (^re for him? It was just his luck ! And change her feelings, cease to care, she could not! A true heart does not change. . .

I recalled Asanov’s visit after the fatal dinner, Pasinkov’s intervention, and I could not help flinging up my hands in astonishment.

‘You learnt it all from me, poor fellow!’ I criefi; ‘and you undertook tq go and see hiir then!’

YAKOV PASINKOV

' Yes/ Pasinkov began again ; ‘ that explana- tion with her ... I shall never forget it. It was then I found out, then I realise^ the meaning of.the word I had chosen for myself long before: resignation. But still she has remained my constant dream, my ideal. . . . And he’s to be pitied who lives without an ideal ! ’

I looked at Pasinkov ; his eyes, fastened, as it weie, on tlie distance, shone with feverish brilliance.

‘ I loved her,’ he went on, ‘ I loved her, her, calm, true, unapproachable, incorruptible ; when she went away, I was 'Almost mad with grief. . . . Since then I have never cared for any one.* . . .

And suddenly turning, he pressed his face into the pillow, and began quietly weeping.

I jumped up, bent over him, and began trying to comfort him. ... ,

'It’s no matter/ he said, raising his head and shaking back his hair; ‘it’s nothing; I felt a little bitter, a little sorry ... for myself, that is. . . . But it’s all no matter. It’s all the fault of those verses. Read me something else, more cheerful.’

I took up Lermontov and began hurriedly turning over the^ p^es ; but, as fate would have it, I kept coming across poems likely to 189

YAKOV PASIMKOV

agitate Pasinkov again. At last 1 read him ‘ The Gifts of Terek.’

• Jiggling rhetoric ! ’ said my poor friend, with

the tone of a preceptor; ‘but there are fine passages. Since I saw you, brother, I ’ve tried my hand at poetry, and began one poem-~ “The Cup of Life” — but it didn’t, come offi It ’s for us, brother, to appreciate, not to create, . . . But I ’m rather tiled ; I ’ll sleep a little — what do you say? What a splendid thing sleep is, come to think of it I All our life ’s a dream, and the best thing in it is di earning too.’

‘ And poetry ? * I queried.

‘Poetry’s a dream too, but a dream of paradise.’

Pasinkov closed his eyes.

I stood for a little while at his bedsidd. ' I did not think he would get to sleep quickty^ but soon his breatbmg became more even and pro- longed. I went away on tiptoe, turned into my own room, and lay down on the sofa. For a long while I mused on what Pasinkov had told me, recalled many things, wondered; at last I too fell asleep. . . .

Some one touched me ; I started up ; before me stood Elisel

'*Come in to my master,’ hq said.

I <got up at once.

190

VAKOV PASINKOV

• What 's the matter with him ? '

‘ He’s delirious.’

‘Delirious? And hasn’t it ever bqpn so before with him ? ’

' Yes, he was delirious last night, too ; only tO*day it is something terrible.'

I went to Pasinkov’s room. He was not lying down, but sitting up in bed, his whole tody bent forward. He was slowly gesticu- lating with his hands, smiling and talking, talking all the time in a weak, hollow voice, like the whispering of rushes. His eyes were wandering. The gloomy light of a night-light, set on the door, and shaded off by a book, lay, an unmoving patch on the ceiling ; Pasinkov’s face seemed paler than ever in the half darkness.

1 went up to him, called him by his name —he did not answer. I began listening to his whispering : he was talking of Siberia, of its forests. From time to time there was sense ia his ravings.

• What trees ! ’ he whispered ; * right up to

the sky. What frost on them ! Silver . . . snowdrifts. . . . And here are little tracks . . . that’s a hare’s leaping, that’s a white weasel. . . . No, it’s my father running with my papers. Here t^e is I . . . Here he is I Must go ; the moon is shining. Must go^ look for

1 ^

YAKOV PASINKOV

my papers. . . . Ah I A flower, a crimson flower — there 's Sophia. . . . Oh, the bells are ringing, the frost is crackling. . . . Ah, no ; it ’s the stupid bullfinches hopping in the bushes, whistling. . . . See, the red throats ! Cold. . . . Ahl here’s Asanov. . . . Oh yes, of course, he ’s a cannon, a copper cannon, and his gun- carriage is green. That ’s how it is he ’s liked. Is it a star has fallen ? No, it ’s an arrow flying. . . . Ah, how quickly, and straight into my heart! . . . Who shot it? You, Sonitchka ? ’

He bent his head and began muttering dis- connected words. I glanced at Elisei ; he was standing, his hands clasped behind his back, gazing ruefully at his master.

‘ Ah, brother, so you ’ve become a practical person, eh ? ’ he asked suddenly, turning upon me such a clear, such a fully conscious glance, that I could not. help starting and was about to reply, but he went on at once : ‘ But I, brother, have not become a practical person, I haven’t, and that’s all about it 1. A dreamer I was born, a dreamer 1 Dreaming, dreaming. . . . What is dreaming ? Sobakevitch’s peasant — ^that ’s dreaming. Ugh I . . .’

Almost till morning Pasinkov wandered in delirium; at last he gradual^ gremtr quieter, sank back on the pillow, and dozed oC I’ went 19a

YAKOV PASINKOV

back into my room. Worn out by the cruel night, I slept soundly.

Elisei again waked me.

‘ Ah, sir J ' he said in a shaking voice, ‘ I do believe Yakov Ivanitch is dying. . ,

I ran in to Pasinkov. He was lying motion- less. In the light of the coming day he looked already a corpse. He recognised me.

• Good-bye,* he whispered ; ‘ greet her for

me, I *m dying. . .'

‘ Yasha ! * I cried ; ‘ nonsense ! you are going to live. . . .’

^No, no! I am dying. . . Here, take this as a keepsake.* . . f (He pointed to his breast.) . .

• Whdt *s this ? * he began suddenly ; ‘ look :

the sea ... all golden, and blue isles upon it, marble temples, [)alm-trces, incense. . . *

He ceased speaking . . . stretched . , ,

Within half an hour he was 90 more. Elisei flung himself weeping at his feet. I closed his eyes.

On his neeje there was a little silken amulet on a black cord. I took it.

Three days afterwards he was buried. . . One of the noblest hearts was hidden for ever in the gravet. I myself threw the first handful 0^ earth upon higi.

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VAKOV PASINKOV

m

Another year and a half passed by. Business obliged me to visit Moscow. I took up my quarters in one of the good hotels there. One day, as T was passing along the corridor, I glanced at the black-board with the list of visitors staying in the hotel, and Vilmost cried out aloud with astonishment Opposite the number 12 stood, distinctly written in chalk, the name, Sophia Nikolaevna Asanova. Of late I had chanced to he^r a good deal that was bad about her husband. I had learned that he was addicted to drink and to gambling, had ruined himself, and was generally misconduct- ing himself. Ills wife was spoken of with respect ... In some excitement I went back to my room. T^ie passion, that had long long ago grown cold, began as it were to stir within my heart, and it throbbed. I resolved to go and sec Sophia Nikolaevna. ' Suc]i a long time has passed since the day we parted,' 1 thought, ‘ she has, most likely, forgotten everything there was between us in those days.’

I sent Elisei, whom I had taken into my service after the death of Pasinkov, with my visiting-card to her door, and tc^d him to inquiry 194

YAKOV PASINKOV

v^ether she was at home, and whether I might see Tier. EHsei quickly came back and an- nounced that Sophia Nikolaevna was at home and would see me.

I went at once to Sophia Nikolaevna. When I went in, she was standing in the middle of the room, taking leave of a tall stout gentleman.

‘As you like,’ he was saying in a rich, mellow voice ; ‘ he^ is not a harmless person, he ’s a useless person ; and every useless person in a well-ordered society is harmful, harmful, harmful ! ’

With those words^the tall gentleman went out. Sophia Nikolaevna turned to me.

‘How long it is since we metl’ she said.

• Sit down, please. . . .’

We sat down. I looked at her. ... To see again after long absence the features of a face once dear, perhaps beloved, to recognise them, and not recognise tliem, as though across the old, unforgotten countenance a new one, like, but strange, were looking out at one ; instantaneoHsly, almost unconsciously, to note the traces time has laid upon it ; — all this is rather melancholy. ‘ I too must have changed in the same way,’ each is inwardly thinking. . . .

Sophia Nikolaevna did not, however, look ftmch older ; though, when 1 had seen her last, she was sixteen, and that was nine years ago. 195

YAKOV PASINKOV

Her features had become still more correct and severe ; as of old, they expressed sincerity of feeling and firmness; but in place of her former serenity, a sort of secret ache and anxiety could be discerned in them. Her eyes had grown deeper and darker. She had begun to show a likeness to her mother. ...

Sophia Nikolaevna was the first to begin the conversation. ^

‘ We are both changed,' she began. ' Where have you been all this time ? *

• I Ve been a rolling stone,' I answered. ‘ And

have you been living in^ the country all the while ? *

‘ For the most part I 've been in the country. I 'm only here now for a little time.'

• How are your parents ? '

• My Inother is dead, but my father is still in

Petersburg; my brother's in the service ; Varia lives with him,' « 

• And your husband ? '

‘My husband,' she said in a rather hurried voice — he 's just now in South Russia for the horse fairs. He was always very fond of horses, you know, and he has started stud stables , , . ahd so, on that account ... he 's buying horses now/

At that instant there walked jnto the room aT girl of ei|fht years old, with her hair in a 196

YAKOV MSINKOV

pigtail, with a very keen and lively little face, and large dark grey eyes. On seeing me, she at once drew back her little foot, dropped a hasty ciytsey, aad went up to Sophia Nikola- evna.

‘This is my little daughter; let me introduce her to you/ said Sophia Nikolaevna, putting one finger under the little girl’s round chin ;

• she would not stop at home — she persuaded

me to brin^ her with me.*

The little girl scanned me with her rapid glance and faintly dropped her eyelids.

, * She is a capital little person,* Sophia Nikola- evna went on : ‘ therfe *s nothing she *s afraid of And she *s good at her lessons ; I must say that for her.*

‘Comment se nomme monsieur?* the little girl asked in an undertone, bending over to her mother.

Sophia Nikolaevna mentioned my name. The little girl glanced at me again.

‘ What is your name ? * I asked her.

‘ My naqjie is Lidia,* answered the little girl, looking me boldly in the face.

‘ I expect they spoil you,* I observed.

‘ Who spoil me ? '

\‘Who? everyone, I expect; your parents to •begin with.*

(The little girl looked, without a word, at her 197

YAKOV PASINKOV

mother.) ‘lean fancy Konstantin Alexandritch/

I was going on . . .

‘Yes^ yes/ Sophia Nikolaevna interposed, while her little daughter kept her ^attentive eyes fastened upon her ; ‘ my husband, of course — he is very fond of children. . . .*

A strange expression flitted across Lidia^s clever little face. There was a slight pout about her lips ; she hung her head.

‘ Tell me/ Sophia Nikolaevna addecl hurriedly; ‘you are here on business, I expect?*

‘Yes, I am here on business. . , . And are you too ? *

‘Yes. ... In my husband's absence, you understand, I *m obliged to look after business matters.*

‘ Maman ! * Lidia was beginning.

‘ Quoi, mon enfant ? *

‘Non — rien . . . Je te dirai apris.*

Sophia Nikolaevna smiled and shrugged her shoulders.

‘Tell me, please/ Sophia Nikolaevna began again ; ‘ do you remember, you had ^ friend . . . what was his name? he had such a good- natured face ... he was always reading poetry •

such an enthusiastic ’

‘Not Pasinkov?’

‘Yes, yes, Pasinkov . . . wheje is he now?* ’ ‘ He is dead/

198

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« 

‘Dead?’ repeated Sophia Nikolaevna; ‘what a pity ! . .

‘ Have I seen him ? ’ the little girl asked in a hurried whisper. .

‘ No, Lidia, you Ve never seen him. — What a pity!’ repeated Sophia Nikolaevna.

‘ You regret him . . .' I began ; ‘ what if you had known him, as I knew him ? . . . But, why did you speak of him, may I ask ? ’

• Oh, I d<fn’t know. . . .’ (Sophia Nikolaevna

dropped her eyes.) ‘Lidia,’ she added ; ‘ run away to your nurse.’

‘You’ll call me when I may come back?’ asked the little girl. *

‘Yes.’

The little girl went away. Sophia Nikolaevna turned to me.

• Tell me, please, all you know about Pasinkov.’

I began telling her his story. I sketched in

brief words the whole life o^ my friend ; tried, as far as I was able, to give an idea of his soul ; described his last meeting with me and his end.

‘ And a pian like that,’ I cried, as I finished my story — ‘has left us, unnoticed, almost un- appreciated ! But that ’s no great loss. What is the use of man’s appreciation ? What pains me, what wounds me, is that such a man, withl «uch a loving and devoted heart, is dead without having once known the bliss of love returned,

• 99

YAKOV PASINKOV

without having awakened interest' in one woman’s heart worthy of him 1 . . . Such as I may well know nothing of such happiness ; we don’t deserve it ; but Pasinkov ! . And yet haven’t I met thousands of men in my life, who could not compare with him in any respect, who were loved ? Must one believe that some faults in a man —conceit, for instance, or frivolity — are essential to gain a woman’s devotion ? Or does love fear perfection, the perfection possible on earth, as something strange and terrible ? ’ Sophia Nikolaevna heard me to the end, without taking her stern, searching eyes off me, without moving her lipS ; only her eyebrows contracted from time to time,

‘What makes you suppose,’ she observed after a brief silence, ‘that no woman ever loved your friend ? ’

‘ Because I know it, know it for a fact* Sophia Nikolaevna seemed about to say “something, but she stopped. She seemed to be struggling with herself

‘You are mistaken,’ she beg^n at last; ‘ I know a woman who loved your dead friend passionately; she loves him and remembers him to this day • . . and the news of his death will be a fearful blow for her,*

‘ Who is this woman ? may I know ? *

• My sister, Varia.’ *

200

YAKOV PASINKOV ,

• Varvara Nikolaevna ! ’ I cried in amazement
• Yes/

‘What? Varvara Nikolaevna?* I repeated, ‘that . . ;

‘ I will finish your sentence/ Sophia Nikola- evna took me up ; ‘ that girl you thought sO cold, io listless and indifferent, loved your friend ; that is why she has never married and never will marry. Till this day no one has known of tlfis but me ; Varia would die before she would betray her secret In our family we know how to suffer in silence.*

I looked long and intently at Sophia Nikola- evna, involuntarily pohdering on the bitter sig- nificance of her last words.

‘ You have surprised jne/ I observed at last ‘But do you know, Sophia Nikolaevna, if I were not afraid of recalling disagreeable memories, I might surprise you too. . . ,*

‘ I don*t understand you/ sh^ rejoined slowly, and with some embarrassment

‘You certainly don’t understand me/ I said, hastily gettipg up ; ‘ and so allow me, instead of verbal explanation, to send you something . . / ‘ But what is it ? * she inquired.

‘Don’t be alarmed, Sophia Nikolaevna, it's nothing to do with me/

> I bowed, and went back to my room, took out the little sillcen bag I had taken off Pasinkov, 201

VAKOV PASINKOV

and sent it to Sophia Nikolaevna with the following note —

‘Thjs my friend wore always on his breast and died with it on him. In it is the; only note you ever wrote him, quite insignificant in its contents ; you can read it. He wore it because , he loved you passionately ; he confessed it to me only the day before his death. Now, when he is dead, why should you not know that his heart too was yours ? ’ *

Elisei returned quickly and brought me back the relic.

‘ Well ? ’ I queried ; ' didn’t she send any message?’

‘No.’

I was silent for a little.

, ‘ Did she read my note ? '

• No doubt she did ; the maid took it to her.’

‘Unapproachable,’ I thought, remembering Pasinkov's last \|;;ords. ' All right, you can go,’ I said aloud.

Elisei smiled somewhat queerly and did not

go-

‘There’s a girl . , .’he began, ‘here to see you.’

‘What girl?’

Elisei hesitated.

' Didn't my master say anything to you ? ' •

‘No. . . . What is it?* *

YAKOV PASINKOV

‘When my master was in Novgorod,’ he went on, fingering the door-post, ‘he made acquaintance, so to say, with a girl. Sc^ here is this girh wants to see you. I met her the other day in the street. I said to her, “ Come along ; if the master allows it, 1 ’ll let you, see him.”

‘ Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But . , . what is she like ? ’

‘An ordinary girl . . . working class . . . Russian.’

‘ Did Yakov Ivanitch care fqr her ? ’

‘Well, yes ... he was fond of her. And she . . . when she hear^ my master was dead, she was terribly upset. She’s a good sort of girl.’

‘ Ask her in, ask her in.’

Elisei went out and at once came back. He was followed by a girl in a striped cotton gown, with a dark kerchief on her he;vd, that half hid her face. On seeing me, she was much taken aback and turned away.

‘ What ’s the matter ? ’ Elisei said to her ; ‘ go on, don’t be afraid.’

I went up to her and took her by the hand.

‘ What is your name ? ’ I asked her.

, ‘ Masha,* she replied in a soft voice, stealing alliance at me. ,

, She looked about two- or three-and-twenty;

203

YAKOV PASINKOV

she had a round, rather simple- looking, but pleasant face, soft cheeks, mild blue eyes, and very^jjretty and clean little hands. She was tidily dressed. ^

‘You knew Yakov Ivanitch?’ I pursued.

‘ I used to know him,' she said, tugging at the ends of her kerchief, and the tears stood in her eyes.

I asked her to sit down.

She sat down at once on the edge of a chair, without any affectation of ceremony. Elisei went out.

‘You became acquainted with him in Nov- gorod ? '

‘Yes, in Novgorod,’ she answered, clasping her hands under her kerchief. ‘ I only heard the day before yesterday, from Elisei Timo- feitch, of his death. Yakov Ivanitch, when he went away to Siberia, promised to write to me, and twice he <jid write, and then he wrote no more. I would have followed him out to Siberia, but he didn't wish it.’

‘ Have you relations in Novgorpd?*

‘Yes.’

‘ Did you live with them ? '

‘ I used to live with mother and my married sister; but afterwards mother was cross with me, and my sister was crowded up, too; she has a lot of children : and so I moved. 1 ^ 204

YAKOV PASINKOV

always rested my hopes on Yakov Ivanitch, and longed for nothing but to see him, and he was always good to me — you can ask fllisei Timofeitch*

Masha paused.

‘ I have his letters,’ she went on. ‘ Here, look.’ She took several letters out of her pocket, and handed them to me. ‘ Read them,’ she added.

I opened one letter and recognised Pasinkov’s hand. *

‘Dear Masha!’ (he wrote in large, distinct letters) ‘you leaned your little head against my head yesterday, and when I asked why you do so, you told me — “ I wjftit to hear what you are thinking.” I ’ll tell you what I was thinking ; I was thinking how nice it would be for Ma.sha to learn to read and write! She could make out this letter . . .’

Masha glanced at the letter.

‘That he wrote me in No^orod,’ she ob- served, ‘when he was just going to teach me to read. Look at the others. There’s one from Siberia.. Here, read this.’

I read^ the letters. They were very affec- tionate, even tender. In one of them, the first one from Siberia, Pasinkov called Masha his best friend, promised to send her the mon^ for the journey to Siberia, and ended with the following words — ‘I kiss your pretty little J05

YAKOV PASINKOV

hands ; the girls here have not hands like yours ; and their heads are no match for yours, nor t]ieir hearts either. . . . Read the books I gave you, and think of me, and I 'IJ not forget you. You are the only, only girl that ever cared for me ; and so I want to belong only to you. . .

‘ I see he was very much attached to you,’ I said, giving the letters back to her.

‘ He was very fond of me,’ replied Masha, putting the letters carefully into her pocket, and the tears flowed slowly down her checks. ‘ I always trusted in him ; if the Lord had vouchsafed him long fife, he would not have abandoned me. God grant him His heavenly peace!’ . . .

She wiped her eyes with a corner of her kerchief.

‘ Where are you living now ? ’ I inquired.

‘I’m here npw, in Moscow; I came here with my mistress, but now I ’m out of a place. I did go to Yakov Ivanitch’s aunt, but she is very poor herself. Yakov lyanitch used often to talk of you,’ she added, getting up and bowing; ‘ he always loved you and thought of you. I met Elisei Timofeitch the day before yesterday, and wondered whether you wouldn’t be willing to assist me, as I out of a place just Abw. . .

306

YAKOV PASINKOV

‘With the greatest pleasure, Maria , , , let me ask, what ’s your name from your father? ’

‘Petrovna,’ answered Masha, and she oast down her ^yes.

‘ I will do anything for you I can, Maria Petrovna,’ I continued ; ‘ I am only sorry that I am a visitor here, and know few good families.’

Masha sighed.

‘ If I could get a situation of some sort ... I can’t cut out, but I can sew, so 1 'm always doing .sewing . . . and I can look after children too.’

• Give her money,’ I Aought ; ' but how ’s one

to do it?’

‘ Listen, Maria Petrovna,’ I b^an, not with- out faltering; ‘you mu.st, plca.se, excuse me, but you know from Pasinkov’s own words what a friend of his I was . . . won’t you allow me to offer you — for the immed^iate present — a small sum ? ’ . . .

Masha glanced at me.

‘ What ? ’ sjie asked.

• Aren’t you in want of money ? ’ I said.

Masha flushed all over and hung her head.

‘What do I want with money?’ she mur- mured ; ‘ better get me a situation.’

. ‘ I will try to get you a situation, but I can’t answer for it for certain ; but you ought not to 207

YAKOV PASINKOV

make any scruple, really ... I’m not like a stranger to you, you know. . . Accept this from ipe, in memory of our friend . .

I turned away, hurriedly pulled a few notes out of my pocket-book, and handed them to her.

Masha was standing motionless, her head still more downcast

‘Take it,’ I persisted.

She slowly raised her eyes to me, looked me in the face mournfully, slowly drew her pale hand from under her kerchief and held it out to me,

I laid the notes in her*cold fingers. Without a word, she hid the hand again under her kerchief, and dropped her eyes.

‘In future, Maria Petrovna,’ I resumed, ‘if you should be in want of anything, please apply directly to me. I will give you my address.’

‘ I humbly thank you,’ she said, and after a short pause she added : ‘ He did not speak to you of me ? '

‘I only met him the day before his death, Maria Petrovna. But I’m not sure ... I believe he did say something.'

Masha passed her hand over her hair, pressed her cheek lightly, thought a njoment, and say- ing ‘Good-bye,’ walked out of the room.

3o8

YAKOV PASINKOV

I sat at the table and fell into bitter musings. This Masha, her relations with Pasinkov, his letters, the hidden love of Sophia Nikolaevna’s sister for him, . . . Poor fellow 1 poor fellow 1 ’ I whispered, with a catching in my breath. 1 thought of all Pasinkov’s life, his childhood, his youth, Fraiilein Frederike . . . ‘ Well,’ I thought, ‘much fate gave to theel much cause for

joy!’

Next day I went again to see Sophia Nikola- evna. I was kept waiting in the ante-roo|n, and when I entered, Lidia was already seated by her mother. I undci .ood tliat Sophia Nikolaevna did not wish to renew the con- versation of the previous day.

We began to talk — I really don’t remember what about — about the news of the town, public affairs . . . Lidia often put in her little word, and looked slily at me. An amusing air of im- portance had suddenly become «ipparent on her mobile little visage. . . . The clever little girl must have guessed that her mother had in- tentionally stationed her at her side.

I got up and began taking leave. Sophia Nikolaevna conducted me to the door.

• I made you no answer yesterday,’ she said,

standing still in the doorway; ‘and, indeed, what answer was^here to make? Our life is not in our own hands ; but we all have one andior, o 209

YAKOV PASINKOV

from which one can never, without one’s own will, be torn — a sense of duty/

Without a word I bowed my head in sign of assent, and parted from the youthful *Puritan.

All that evening I stayed at home, but I did not think of her ; I kept thinking and thinking of my dear, never-to-be-forgotten Pasinkov — the last of the idealists ; and emotions, mourn- ful and tender, pierced with sweet anguish into my soul, rousing echoes on the strings of a he|Lrt not yet quite grown old. . . . Peace to )C^r ashes, unpractical man, simple-hearted idealist I and God grant to all practical men — to whom you were always incomprehensible, and who, perhaps, will laugh even now over you in the grave — God grant to them to ex- perience even a hundredth part of those pure delights in which, in spite of fate and men, your poor and unambitious life was so rich 1

1855-

aio

ANDREI KOEOSOV

ANDREI KOLOSOV

In a small, decently furnished room several young men^were sitting before the fire. The winter evening was only just beginning ; the samovar was boiling on the table, the conversa- tion had hardly taken a definite turn, but passed lightly from one subject to another. They began discussing exceptional people, and in what way they differed from ordinary people. Every one expounded his views to the best of his abilities; they raised their voices and began to be noisy. A small, pale man, after listening long to the disquisitions of his com- panions, sipping tea and smoking a cigar the while, suddenly got up and addressed us all (I was one of the disputants) in the following words : — •

‘ Gentlemen ! all your profound remarks are excellent in their own way, but unprofitable* Every one, as usual, hears his opponent's views, and every one retains his own convictions. But it ’$ not the first^iime we have met, nor the first time we have argued, and so we have probably

3J3

ANDREI KOLOSOV

by now had ample opportunity for expressing our own views and learning those of others. Why, then, do you take so much trouble ? '

Uttering these words, the small man care- lessly flicked the ash off his cigar into the fireplace, dropped his eyelids, and smiled serenely. We all ceased speaking.

‘ Well, what are we to do then, according to you ? * said one of us ; ‘ play carcjs, or what ? go to sleep ? break up and go home ? ’

‘Playing cards is agreeable, and sleep’s always salutary,’ retorted the small man ; ‘ but it’s early yet to break up and go home. You didn’t understand me, though. Listen : I pro- pose, if it comes to that, that each of you should describe some exceptional personality, tell us of any meeting you may have had with any remarkable man. I can assure you even the feeblest description has far more sense in it than the finest argument’

We pondered.

‘It’s a strange thing,’ observed one of us, an inveterate jester; ‘except myself I don’t know a single exceptional person, and with my life you arc all, I fancy, familiar already.

However, if you insist ’

‘No!’ cried another, ‘we don’t! But, I tell you what,’ he added, addressing the small mad,

• you begin. You have put a stopper on all of

an

ANDREI KOLOSOV

US, you*re the person to fill the g^p. Only mind, if we don’t care for your story, we shall hiss you/

‘ If you Jike,* answered the small man.

He stood close to the fire ; we sat round him and kept quiet. The small man looked at all of us, glanced at the ceiling, and began as follows : —

‘Ten years ago, my dear friends, I was a student at • Moscow. My father, a virtuous landowner of the steppes, had handed me over to a retired German pmfessor, who, for a hundred roubles a month, undertook to lodge and board me, and t(f watch over my morals. This German was the fortunate possessor of an exceedingly solemn and decorous manner ; at first I went in considerable awe of him. But on returning home one evening, I saw, with indescribable emotion, my preceptor sitting with three or four companions at a round table, on which there stood a fair-sized collec- tion of empty bottles and half-full glasses. On seeing me, my revered preceptor got up, and, waving his arms and stammering, presented me to the honourable company, who all promptly offered me a glass of punch. This agreeable spectacle had a most illuminating effect on my intelligence ; my future rose before me in the most sedifttive images. And; as a fact, 215

ANDREI KOLOSOV

from that memorable day I enjoyed unbounded freedom, and all but worried my preceptor to death. He had a wife who always smelt of smoke* and pickled cucumbers ; she was still youngish, but had not a single front tooth in her head All German women, as we know, very quickly lose those indispensable ornaments of the human frame. I mention her, solely because she fell passionately in love with me and fed me almost into my grave.* ^

‘'Fo the point, to the point,* wc shcoited, ‘ Surely it *s not your own adventures you Ve going to tell us ? *

‘No, gentlemen!* small man replied composedly. ‘ I am an ordinary mortal. And so I lived at my Gcrman*s, as the saying is, in clover. I did not attend lectures with too much assiduity, while at home I did positively nothing. In a very short time, I had got to know all my comrades and was on intimate terms with all *of them. Among my new friends was one rather decent and good-natured fellow, the son of a town provost on the retired list His name was Bobov. This Bobov got in the habit of coming to see me, and seemed to like me. I, too , . , do you know, I didn’t like him, nor dislike him ; I was more or less indifferent * . . I must tell I hadn’t in all Moscow a single relation, exce[ft; an old uncle,

di6

ANDREI KOLOSOV

who used sometimes to ask me for money. I never went anywhere, and was particularly afraid of women ; I also avoided all acquaint- ance wit|^ the parents of my college friends, ever after one such parent (in my presence) pulled his son's hair — because a button was off his uniform, while at the very time I hadn't more than six buttons on my whole coat. In comparison with many of my comrades, I passed for Being a person of wealth ; my father used to send me every now and then small packets of faded blue notes, and consequently I not only enjoyed a position of independence, but I was continually' surrounded by toadies and flatterers. . . . What am I saying? — why, for that matter, so was my bobtail dog Ar- mishka, who, in spite of his setter pedigree, was so frightened of a shot, that the very sight of a gun reduced him to indescribable misery. Like every young man, however, I was not without that vague inward fermentation which usually, after bringing forth a dozen more or less shapelejss poems, passes off in a peaceful and propitious manner. I wanted something, strove towards something, and dreamed of something; I'll own I didn't know precisely what it was I dreamed of. Now I understand what was lacking;: — I felt my loneliness, thirsted For the society* of so-called live people ; the ai7

ANDREI KOLOSOV

word I.ife waked echoes in my heart, and with a vague ache I listened to the sound of it. . . Valerian Nikitich, pass me a cigarette.* « 

Lighting the cigarette, the small man con- tinued :

‘One fine morning Bobov came running to me, out of breath: “Do you know, old man, the great news ? Kolosov has arrived.” “ Ko- losov ? and who on earth is Mr. KoSosov ? **

• “ You don*t know him ? Andriusha Kolosov !

Come, old boy, let’s go to him directly. He came back last night from a holiday engage- ment.** “ But what sort df fellow is he ? ** “ An exceptional man, my boy, let me assure you ! ” “ An exceptional man,** I answered ; “ then you go alone. I *11 stop at home. I know your exceptional men ! A half-tipsy rhymester with an everlastingly ecstatic smile!” . , . “Oh no! Kolosov’s not like that.” I was on the point of observing that it was for Mr. Kolosov to call on me ; but, I don’t know why, I obeyed Bobov and went. Bobov conductejl me to one of the very dirtiest, crookedest, and narrowest streets in Moscow. . . . The house in which Kolosov lodged was built in the old-fashioned style, rambling and uncomfortable. We went into the courtyard ; a fat peasant woman was hanging out dothes on a line*stretched from ' 218 '

ANDREI KOLOSOV

the house to the fence. . . . Children were squalling on the wooden staircase . .

‘ Get on ! get on ! * we objected plaintwely.

‘I see, igentlemefi, you don't care for the agreeable, and cling solely to the profitable. As you please ! We groped our way through a dark and narrow passage to Kolosov’s room ; we went in. You have most likely an approxi- mate idea jf what a poor student's room is like. Directly facing the door Kolosov was sitting on a chest of drawers, smoking a pipe. He gave his hand to Bobov in a friendly way, and greeted me affably. I looked at Kolosov and at once %lt irresistibly drawn to him. Gentlemen ! Bobov was right : Kolosov really was a remarkable person. Let me de- scribe a little more in detail. ... He was rather tall, slender, graceful, and exceedingly good-looking. His face ... I find it very difficult to describe his face. It is easy to describe all the features one by one ; but how is one to convey to any one else what con- stitutes the. distinguishing characteristic, the essence of just that face?’

‘ What Byron calls " the music of the face,” * observed a tightly buttoned-up, pallid gentle- man.

• ‘Quite so. . And therefore I will confine

tnyself to a single remark : the especial “ some- 219

ANDREI KOLOSOV

thing ” to which I have just referred consisted in Kolosov’s case in a carelessly gay and fear- less ejrpression of face, and also in an exceed- ingly captivating smile. He did not remember his parents, and had had a wretched bringing- up in the house of a distant relative, who had been degraded from the service for taking bribes. Up to the age of fifteen, he had lived in the country; then he found his way into** Moscow, and after two years spent in the caise*< of an old deaf priest’s wife, he entered the!' university and began to get his living by lessons. He gave instruction in history, geography, and Russian grammar, though he had only a dim notion of these branches of science ; but in the first place, there is an abundance of ‘text- books’ among us in Russia, of the greatest usefulness to teachers ; and secondly, the re- quirements of the respectable merchants, who confided their children’s education to Kolosov, were exceedingly limited. Kolosov was neither a wit nor a humorist ; but you cannot imagine how readily we all fell under that fellow’s sway. We felt a sort of instinctive admiration of him ; his words, his looks, his gestures were all so full of the charm of youth that all his comrades were head over ears in love with him. The professors considered him as a fairly intelligent lad, but * of no marked abilities/ and lazy.

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ANDREI KOLOSOV

Kolosov's presence gave a s|>ecial harmony to our evening reunions. Before him, our liveli- ness never passed into vulgar riotousoess; if we were «11 mdancholy — ^this half childlike melancholy, in his presence, led on to quiet, sometimes fairly sensible, conversation, and nevei ended in dejected boredom. You are smiling, gentlemen— I understand your smile; no doubt, n^any of us since then have turned .^t pretty cads 1 But youth . . . youth. . .

‘ Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story I

The days of our youth are the' days of our glory. . . .*

commented the same pallid gentleman.

‘ By Jove, what a memory he 's got ! and all from Byron ! ’ observed the storyteller. ‘ In one word, Kolosov was the soul of our set I was attached to him by a feeling stronger than any I have ever felt for any woman. And yet, I don’t feel ashamed even now to remember that strange love — ^yes, love it was, for I recollect I went through at that time all the tortures of that passion, jealousy, for instance, Kolosov liked us all equally, but was particularly friendly with a silent, flaxen-haired, and unobtrusive youth, called Gavrilov. From Gavrilov he was almost inseparable ; he would often speak to him in a whisper, and us^ to disappear with him out of Moscow, no one knew where, for two or three

SSI

ANDREI KOLOS^ir

days at a time. . . . Kolosov did not care to be questioned, and I was lost in surmises. It was nqt simple curiosity that disturbed me. I longed to become the friend, the .^attendant squire of Kolosov ; I was jealous of Gavrilov ; I envied him ; I could never find an explanation to satisfy me of Kolosov's strange absences. Meanwhile he had none of that air of mysterious- ness about him, which is the proud possession of youths endowed with vanity, pallor, black hair, and * expressive ' eyes, nor had he anything of that studied carelessness under which we are given to understand that vast forces are slumbering; no, he was\uite open and free; but when he was possessed by passion, an intense, impulsive energy was apparent in everything about him ; only he did not waste his energies in vain, and never under^ any cir- cumstances became high-flown or affected. By the way . . ^ tell me the truth, hasn’t it happened to you to sit smoking a pipe with an air of as weary solemnity as if you had just resolved on a grand achievement, while you were simply pondering on what colour to ch^igfse for your next pair of trousers ? . . . Bu| ^e point is, that I was the first to observe in Kolobov, always cheerful and friendly as he was, these instinctive, passionate impulges. . . . They may well say that love is penetrating. 1 made

'^iiDREl KOLOSOV

Up my mind at all hazards to get into his confidence. It was no use for me to lay myself out to please Kolosov ; I had such a childlike adoration#for him that he could have no doubt of my devotion . . . but to my indescribable vexation, I had, at last, to yield to the con- virtion that Kolosov avoided closer intimacy with me, that he was as it were oppressed by my uninvitgd attachment. Once, when with obvious displeasure he asked me to lend him money — the very next day he returned me the loan with ironical gratitude. • During the whole winter my relations with Kolosov were utterly unchanged ; I often * compared myself wjith Gavrilov, and could not make out in what respect he was better than 1. . . . But suddenly everything was changed. In the middle of April, Gi^vrilov fell ill, and died in the arms of Kolosov, who never left his room for an instant, and went nowhere for a whole ♦week afterwards. We were all grieved for poor Gavrilov ; the pale, silent lad seemed to have had a foreboding of his end. I ,too grieved sincerely for him, but mp^csirt ached with expectation of something. . .^^|Dne ever memorable evening ... I Avas aldhe, lying on the sofa, gazing idly at the ceiling . . . some one rapidly opened the door my room an|^ stood still in the doorway ; f raised my head ; before me stood Kolosov

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He slowly came in and sat down beside me. ‘ I have come to you/ he began in a rather thick v/>ice, ‘ because you care more for me than any of the others do. ... I have lost my best friend' — ^his voice shook a little — ‘and I feel lonely. . . . None of you knew Gavrilov . , , none of you knew. . . / He got up, paced up and down the room, came rapidly towards me again. . . . ‘ Will you take his plape? ’ he said, and gave me his hand. I leaped up and flung myself on his breast. My genuine delight touched him. ... I did not know what to say, I was choking. . . . Kolosov looked at me and softly laughed. Wc had" tea. At tea he talked of Gavrilov ; I heard that that timid, gentle boy had saved Kolosov's life, and I could not but own to myself that in Gavrilov's place I couldn't have resisted chattering about it — boasting of my luck. It struck eight. Kolosov got up, went to, the window, drummed on the panes, turned swiftly round to me, tried to say something . . . and sat down on a chair without a word. I took his hand. ‘Kolosov, truly, truly I deserve your confidence!' He looked straight into my eyes. ‘ Well, if so,' he brought out at last, ‘take your cap and come along,'

• Where to?' ‘Gavrilov did not ask me.' I

was silent at once. ‘ Can you|^ play at cards •Yes.’

ANDREI KOLOSOV

We went out, took a cab to one of the gates of the town. At the gate we got out Kolosov went on in front very quickly ; I followed him. We walke^ along^the highroad. After we had gone three-quarters of a mile, Kolosov turned off. Meanwhile ni^ht had come on. On the right in the fog were the twinkling lights, the innumerable church-spires of the immense city ; on the left, two white horses were grazing in a meadow skirting the forest : before us stretched fields covered with greyish mists. I followed Kolosov in silence. He stopped all at once, stretched his hand out in front of him, and said : ^ Here, this is v^here we are going.’ I saw a small dark house; two little windows showed a dim light in the fog. ‘ In this house,* Kolosov went on, ‘ lives a man called Sidorenko, a retired lieutenant, with his sister, an old maid, and his daughter. I shall pass you off as a relation of mine — you must si^ down and play at cards with him.’ I nodded without a word. I wanted to show Kolosov that I could be as silent as Gavrilov. . . . But I will own I was suffering agonies of curiosity. As we went up to the steps of the house, I caught sight, at a lighted window, of the slender figure of a girl. . . . She seemed waiting for us and vanished at once. We went into a dark and narrow passage. A crSoked, hunchback old woman p 225

XndAEI KOLOSOV

came to meet us, and looked at me wifli astonishment ‘ Is Ivan Semyonitch at home ? ' . inquired Kolosov. ‘ He is at home/ ‘ He is at home ! * called a deep masculine voice from within. We went into the dining-room, if dining- room one can call the long, rather dirty room ; a small old piano huddled unassumingly in a corner beside the stove ; a few chairs stood out along the walls which had once been yellow. In the middle of the room stood a fall, stooping man of fifty, in a greasy dressing-gown. I looked at him more attentively: a morose- looking countenance, hair standing up like a brush, a low forehead? grey eyes, immense whiskers, thick lips. ... ‘A nice customer P I thought. ‘It*s a longish time since weVe seen you, Andrei Nikolaevitch,' he observed, holding out his hideous red hand, ‘ a longish time it is ! And where ’s Sevastian Sevastianov- itch?' ^Gavrilov is dead,' answered Kolosov mournfully. ‘ liead ! you don't say so ! And who *s this ? ' ‘ My relation — I have the honour

to present to you Nikolai Alexei. . .J ‘All right, all right,* Ivan Semyonitch cut him short,

• delighted, delighted. And does he play cards?’

‘ Play, of course he does 1 ’ ‘ Ah, then, that 's

capital; we’ll sit down directly. Hey! Matrona Semyonovna — where are you? the cajrd-table — quick! . . . And tlal' With these 226

ANDREI KOLOSOV

VoMs Mr. Sidorenko walked into the next

room. Kolosov looked at rne. * Listen/ he

said, * you can’t think how ashamed I anrb! ’ . . . I shut him up. ^ Come, you there, what ’s your name, this way,’ called Ivan Semyonitch. I went into the drawing-room. The drawing- room was even smaller than the dining-room. On the walls hung some monstrosities of por- traits ; in frqpt of the sofa, of which the stuffing protruded in several places, stood a green table; on the sofa sat Ivan Semyonitch, already shuffling the cards. Near hmi ori the extreme edge of a low chair sat a spare woman in a white cap and a black gown, yellow and wrinkled, with short-sighted eyes and thin cat- like lips. ‘ Here,’ said Ivan Semyonitch, ‘ let me introduce him ; the first man ’s dead ; Andrei Nikolaevitch has brought us another; let's see how he plays!’ The old lady bowed awkwardly and cleared her throat. 1 .looked round ; Kolosov was no longer in the room. * Stop that coughing, Matrona Semyonovna; sheep cough,' grumbled Sidorenko. I sat down ; the game began. Mr. Sidorenko got fearfully hot and furious at my slightest mistake ; he pelted his sister with abusive epithets, but she had apparently had time to get used to her brother’s afhenities, and qply blinked in response. But when he announced to Matrona Semyonovna 237

ANDREI KOLOSOV

that she was * Antichrist/ the poor old woman fired up. ‘ Ivan Semyomtch/ she protested with heat, ‘ you were the death of your wife, Anfisa Karpovna, but you shan’t worry me into my grave!’ ‘Indeed?’ ‘No! you shan’t.’ ‘Indeed?’ ‘No! you shan’t* They kept it up in this fashion for some time. My position was, as you perceive, not merely an unenviable one : it was positively idiotic. I couldn’t cpnceive what had induced Kolosov to bring me. . . * I have never been a good card-player ; but on that occasion I was aware myself that I was playing excruciatingly badly. ‘ No ! ’ the retired lieu- tenant repeated continually, ‘ you can’t hold a candle to Sevastianovitch ! No ! you play care- lessly!’ I, you may be sure, was inwardly wishing him at the devil. This torture con- tinued for two hours ; they beat me hollow. Before the end of the last rubber, I heard a slight sound behind my chair — I looked round and saw Kolosov ; beside him stood a girl of seventeen, who was watching me with a scarcely perceptible smile. ‘Fill me my* pipe, Varia/ muttered Ivan Semyonitch. The girl promptly flew off into the other room. She was not veiy pretty, rather pale, rather thin ; but never before or since have I seen such hair, such eyes. We finished the rubber somehow; I paid v/p. Sidorenko lighted his pipe and grumbled:

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•Well, now it’s time for supper!’ Kolosov presented me to Varia, that is, to Varvara Ivanovna, the daughter of Ivan Semjjonitch. Varia wa^embarraSsed ; I too was embarrassed. But in a few minutes Kolosov, as usual, had got everything and every one into full swing ; he sat Varia down to the piano, begged her to play a dance tune, and proceeded to dance a Cossack dance in competition with Ivan Semyonitch. The lieutenant uttered little shrieks, stamped and cut such incredible capers that even Matrona Semyonovna burst* out laughing and retreated to her own room upstairs. The hunchback old womaft laid the table ; we sat down to supper. At supper Kolosov told all sorts of nonsensical stories ; the lieutenant’s guffaws were deafening ; I peeped from under my eyelids at Varia. She never took her eyes off Kolosov . . . and from the expression of her face alone, I could divine that she both loved him and was loved by him. Her lips were slightly parted, her head bent a little forward, a faint colcjur kept flitting across her whole face; from time to time she sighed deeply, suddenly dropped her eyes, and softly laughed to herself. ... I rejoiced for Kolosov. . . . But at the same time, deuce take it, I was envious. . . .

After supper* Kolosov and I promptly took 229

AUDKEl KOLOSOV

up our caps, which did not, however, prevent the lieutenant from saying, with a yawn: ‘YouVe paid us a long visit, gentlemen ; it’s time to say good-bye/ Varia accompanied Kolosov into the passage : ‘ When are you coming, Andrei Nikolaevitch?’ she whispered to him. * In a few days, for certain/ ‘ Bring him too,* she added, with a very sly smile. ‘Of course, of course/ . . • ‘Your humble ser- vant ! ’ thought I. . . . *

On the way home, I heard the following story. Six months before, Kolosov had become acquainted with Mr. Sidorenko in a rather queer way. One rainy ‘evening, Kolosov was returning home from shooting, and had reached the gate of the city, when suddenly, at no great distance from the highroad, he heard groans, interspersed with curses. He had a gun ; with- out thinking long, he made straight for the sound, and found a man lying on the ground with a dislocated ankle. This man was Mr. Sidorenko. With great difficulty he got him home, handed him over to the ,care of his frightened sister and his daughter, and ran for the doctor. , . . Meantime it was nearly morning; Kolosov was almost dropping with fatigue. With the permission of Matrona Semyonovna, he lay down on Ae sofa in the parlour, and slept till eight o^clock. On waking 230

ANDREI KOLOSOV

lip he would at once have gone home; but they kept him and gave him some tea. In the night he had twice succeeded in catching a glimpse <jf the pate face of Varvara Ivanovna ; he had not particularly noticed her, but in the morning she made a decidedly agreeable impression on him. Matrona Semyonovna garrulously praised and thanked Kolosov ; Varvara sat silent, pouring out the tea, glanced at him no^ and then, and with timid shame- faced attentiveness handed him first a cup of tea, then the cream, then the sugar-basin. Meanwhile the lieutenant waked up, loudly called for his pipe, fend after a short pause bawled ; ‘ Sister ! hi, sister ! ' Matrona Sem- yonovna went to his bedroom. ^What about that . . • what the devil’s his name? is he gone ? ’ ‘ No, I ’m still here,’ answered Kolosov, going up to the door ; ‘ are you better now ? * ‘ Yes,* answered the lieutenant ; ‘ come in here, my good sir.* Kolosov went in. Sidorenko looked at him, and reluctantly observed i- ‘Well, thanks: come sometimes and see me -—what ’s your name ? who the devil 's to know?’ ‘Kolosov,’ answered Andrei. ‘Well, well, come and see us; but it’s no use your sticking on here now, I daresay they're ex- fpecting you at home.’ Kolosov retreated, said good-bye to lAatrona Semyonovna, bowed to 33i

ANDREI KOLOSOV

Varvara Ivanovna, and returned home. From that day he began to visit Ivan Semyonitch, at first at long intervals, then more and more frequently. The summer came on ;,he would sometimes take his gun, put on his knapsack, and set off as if he were going shooting. He would go to the retired lieutenant’s, and stay on there till evening.

Varvaia Ivanovna’s father had served twenty- five years in the army, had saved a small sum of money, and bought himself a few acres of land a mile and a half from Moscow. He could scarcely read and write ; but in spite of his external clumsiness and coarseness, he was shrewd and cunning, and even, on occasion, capable of .sharp practice, like many Little Russians, He was a fearful egoist, obstinate as an ox, and in general exceedingly impolite, especially with strangers ; I even detected in him something like a contempt for the whole human race. He indulged himself in every caprice, like a spoilt child ; would know no one, and lived for his own pleasure. We were once somehow or other talking aboyt marriages with him ; ‘ Marriage . . . marriage,’ said he ; ‘whom the devil would I let my daughter marry? Eh? what should I do it for? for her husband to knock her about as I used to my wife? Besides, whom should I be left, with?'* Such was the retired lieutenant, Ivan Semyon- 232

ANDREI KOLOSOV

itch. Kolosov used to go and see him, not on his account, of course, but for the sake of his daughter. One fine evening, Andrei was sitting ii\ the garden with her, chatting about something ; Ivan Semyonitch went up to him, looked sullenly at Varia, and called Andrei away. ‘Listen, my dear fellow,’ he said to him ; ‘you find it good fun, I see, gossiping with my only child, but I’m dull in my old age ; bring some one with you, or I Ve nobody to deal a card to ; d’ ye hear ? I shan’t give admittance to you by yourself.' The next day Kolosov turned up with Gavrilov, and poor Sevastian Sevasflanovitch had for a whole auturfin and winter been playing cards in the evenings with the retired lieutenant ; that worthy treated him without ceremony, as it is called — in other words, fearfully rudely. You now probably realise why it was that, after Gavrilov’s death, Kolosov took me with him to Jvan Semyonitch's. As he communicated all these details, Kolosov added, ‘ I love Varia, she is the dearest girl ; she liked you.’

I have forgotten, I fancy, to make known to you that up to that time I had been afraid of women and avoided them, though I would sometimes, in solitude, spend whole hours in dreaming of tender interviews, of love, of mutual love, and so on. Varvara Ivanovna

ANDREI KOLOSOV

was the first girl with whom I was forced to talk, by necessity — by necessity it really was. yaria was an ordinary girl, and yet there are very few such girls in holy Russia. You will ask me — why so? Because I never noticed in her anything strained, unnatural, affected ; because she was a simple, candid, rather melancholy creature, because one could never call her ‘ a young lady.* I liked her soft smile ; I liked her simple-hearted, ringing little voice, her light and mirthful laugh, her atten- tive though by no means ‘ profound * glances. The child promised nothing; but you could not help admiring her,* as you admire the sudden, soft cry of the oriole at evening, in the lofty, dark birch-wood. I must confess that at the present time I should pass by such a creature with some indifference ; I *ve no taste now for solitary evening strolls, and orioles; but in those days . . .

I *ve no doubt, gentlemen, that, like all well- educated persons, you have been in love at least once in the course of your life, anc^have learnt from your own experience how love springs up and develops in the human heart, and therefore I’m not going to enlarge too much on what took place with me at that time. Kolosov and I used to go pretty often to Ivan Semyon-* itch’s; and though those damned cards often

m ‘

ANDREI KOLOSOV

drove me to utter despair, still, in the mere proximity of the woman one loves (I had fallen in love with Varia) there is a sort of ^trange, sweet, tormenting joy. I made no effort to suppress this growing feeling ; besides, by the time I had at last brought myself to call the emotion by its true name, it was already too strong. • . , I cherished my love in silence, and jealously and shyly concealed it, I myself enjoyed this agonising ferment of silent passion. My sufferings did not rob me of my sleep, nor of my appetite ; but for whole days together I was conscious of that peculiar physi- cal sensation in my breast which is a symptom of the presence of love. I am incapable of depicting the conflict of various sensations which took place within me when, for example, Kolosov came in from the garden with Varia, and her whole face was aglow with ecstatic devotion, exhaustion from excess of bliss. . . . She so completely lived in his life, was so completely taken up with him, that uncon- sciously she adopted his ways, looked as he looked, laughed as he laughed. ... I can imagine the moments she passed with Andrei, the raptures she owed to him. . . . While he . . . Kolosov did not lose his freedom; in feer absence h^ did not, I suppose, even think of her ; he was still the same unconcerned

• 35

ANDREI ItOLOSOV

gay, and happy fellow we had always known him.

And^. as I have already told you, we used, Kolosov and I, to go pretty oftea to Ivan Semyonitch’s. Sometimes, when he was out of humour, the retired lieutenant did not make me sit down to cards ; on such occasions, he would shrink into a corner in silence, scowling and looking crossly at every onc^ The first time I was delighted at his letting me off so easily ; but afterwards I would sometimes begin myself begging him to sit down to whist, the part of third person was so insup- portable! I was so unpleasantly in Kolosovas and Varia’s way, though they did assure each other that there was no need to mind me ! . . •

Meanwhile time went on. . . . They were happy. ... I have no great fondness for de- scribing other people's happiness. But then I began to notice that Varia’s childish ecstasy had gradually given way to a more womanly, more restless feeling. I begian to surmise that the new song was being sung to the old tune — that is, that Kolosov was . . . little by little . . . cooling. This discovery, I must own, delighted me ; I did not feel, I must confess, the slightest indignation against Andrei.

The intervals between ou^ visits became longer and longer. . . . Varia began to meet 236

ANDREI KOLOSOV

US with tear-stained eyes. Reproaches were heard . . . Sometimes I asked Kolosov with affected indifference, ‘Well, shall we; go to Ivan SemyonitcH’s to-day?' . . . He looked coldly at me, and answered quietly, ‘ No, we’re not going/ I sometimes fancied that he smiled slily when he spoke to me of Varia. ... I failed generally to fill Gavrilov's place with him. . . . Gavrilov \^as a thousand times more good* natured and foolish than I.

Now allow me a slight digression. . . . When I spoke of my university comrades, I did not mention a certain Mr. Shtchitov. He was five- and-thirty ; he had been a student for ten years , already. I can see even now his rather long pale face, his little brown eyes, his long hawk nose crooked at the end, his thin sarcastic lips, his solemn upstanding shock of hair, and his chin that lost itself complacently in the wide striped cravat of the colour of a raven's wing, the shirt front with bronze buttons, the open blue frock- coat and striped waistcoat. ... I can hear his unpleasantly jarring laugh. ... He went every- where, was conspicuous at all possible kinds of ‘dancing classes.' ... I remember I could not listen to his cynical stories without a* peculiar shudder. . . . Kolosov once compared him to ^n unswept l^ssian refreshment bar . . , a, horrible comparison ! And with all that, there n7

ANDREI KOLOSOV

was a lot of intelligence, common sense, observa- tion, and wit in the man. ... He sometimes impressed us by some saying so apt, so true and cutting, that we were all involuntarily reduced to silence and looked at him with amazement. But, to be sure, it is just the same to a Russian whether he has uttered an absurdity or a clever thing. Shtchitov was especially dreaded by those self-conscious, dreamy, and not particularly gifted youths who spend whole days in painfully hatching a dozen trashy lines of verse and reading them in sing-song to their

• friends,* and who despise every sort of positive

science. One such he 'simply drove out of Moscow, by continually repeating to him two of his own lines. Yet all the while Shtchitov himself did nothing and learnt nothing. . . . But that*s all in the natural order of things. Well, Shtchitov, God only knows why, began jeering at my romantic attachment to Kolosov, The first time, with noble indignation, I told him to go to the devil ; the second time, with chilly contempt, I informed him that he was dot capable of judging of our friendship — but I did not send him away ; and when, on taking leave of me, he observed that without Kolosov’s permission I didd't even dare to praise him,

^ 1 felt annoyed ; Shtchitov’s last words sank into* lay heart — For more than a fortnight I had

ANDREI KOLOSOV

not seen Varia. . . . Pride, love, a vague anti- cipation, a number of different feelings were astir within me . . . with a wave of thf hand and a fearful sinking at my heart, I set off alone to Iva*^ Semyonitch’s.

I don’t know how I made my way to the familiar little house ; I remember I sat down several times by the road to rest, not from fatigKt:, but from emotion. I went into the passage, an3 had not yet had time to utter a single word when the door of the drawing-room flew open and Varia ran to meet me. ‘ At last,* she said, in a quavering voice ; ‘where’s Andrei Nikolaevitch?* ‘Kolbsov has not come,’ I m'ottercd with art effort. ‘Not come!’ she repeated. ‘Yes ... he told me to tell you that ... he was detained. . . .’ I positively did not know what I was saying, and I did not dare to raise my eyes. Varia stood silent and motionless before me. I glanced at her: she turned away her head ; two big tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. In the expression of her face ther^ was such sudden, bitter suffering ; the conflict between bashfulness, sorrow, and confidence in me was so simply, so touchingly^, apparent in the unconscious movement of her poor little head that it sent a pang to my heart Inherit a little forward ... she gave a hurried . staul and ran away. In the parlour I was

s'

ANDREI KOLOSOV

by Ivan Semyonitch. * How's this, my good sir, are you alone ? ' he asked me, with a queer twitch of his left eyelid. * Yes, I Ve come alone,* I stammered. Sidorenko went off intp a sudden guffaw and departed into the next room.

I had never been in such a foolish position ; it was too devilishly disgusting ! But there was nothing to be done. I began walking up and down the room. ‘ What was the fat pig laugh- ing at?* I wondered. Matrona Semyonovna came into the room with a stocking in her hands and sat down in the wmdow. I ^ began talking to her. Meanwhile tea was brought in. Varia came downstairs, pale and sorrowful. The retired lieutenant made jokes about Kolosov. know,* said he, ‘what sort of customer he is ; you couldn't tempt him here with lollipops now, I expect!* Varia hurriedly got up and went away. Ivan Semyonitch looked after her and gave a sly whistle. I glanced at him in perplexity. ‘Can it be,* I wondered, ‘that he knows all about it?* And the lieutenant, as though ^ivining my thoughts, nodded his head affirmatively. Directly after tea I got up and took leave. ‘ You, my good sir, we shall see again,* observed the lieutenant. I did not say a word in reply. ... I began to feel simply frightened of the man.

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On the steps a cojd and trembling hand clutched at mine ; I lopked round : Varia. ‘ I must speak to you,’ she whispered. •* Come to-morrow rather’ earlier, straight into the garden. After dinner papa is asleep; no one will interfere with us.’ I pressed her hand without a word, and we parted.

Next day, at three o’clock in the afternoon, I was in lyan Semyonitch’s garden. In the morning I had not seen Kolosov, though he had come to see me. It was a grey autumn day, but soft and warm. Delicate yellow .blades of grass nodded over the blanching turf; the nimble tomtits were hopping about the bare dark- brown twigs; some belated larks were hurriedly running about the paths ; a hare was creeping cautiously about among the greens ; a herd of cattle wandered lazily over the stubble. I found Varia in the garden under the apple-tree on the little garden-seat ; she was wearing a dark dress, rather creased ; her weary eyes, the dejected droop of her hair, seemed to express genuine suffering.

I sat down beside her. We were both silent For a long while she kept twisting a twig in her hand; she bent her head, and uttered: ‘Andrei Nikolaevitch. . . I noticed at once, by the twitching^ of her lips, tha| she was getting ready to cry, and began consoling her, assuring Q . a4i

ANDREI KOLOSOV

her hotly of Andrei’s devotion. . . She heard

me, nodded her head mournfully, articulated some indistinct words, and then was silent but did not cry. The first moments I had dreaded most of all had gone off fairly well. She began little by little to talk about Andrei. ‘ I know that he dors not love me now,’ she repeated : ' God be with him 1 I can’t imagine how I am to live without him. ... I don't sl^ep at nights, I keep weeping. . . . What am 1 to do ! What am I to do ! . . .’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘ I thought him so kind . . . and here . . .’ Varia wiped her eyes, clcai <'d hi r throat, and sat up. ‘ It seems such a little while ago,’ she went on : ‘ he was reading to me out of Pushkin, sitting with me on this bench. . . .’ Vana’s naive communicativeness touched me. I listened in silence to her confessions ; my soul was slowly filled with a bitter, torturing bliss ; I could not take my eyes off that pale face, those long, wet eyelashes, and half-parted, rather parched lips. . . , And meanwhile I felt . . . Would you care to hear a slight psychological analysis of my emotions at that moment ? in the first place I was tortured by the thought that it was not I that was loved, not I that was making Varia suffer: secondly, I was delighted at her con- fidence ; I knew she would b^ grateful to mb for giving her an opportunity of expressing hqr 342

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sorrow : thirdly, I was inwardly vowing to myself to bring Kolosov and Varia together again, and was deriving consolation frotn the consciousness of my magnanimity ... in the fourth place, I hoped, by my self-sacrifice, to touch Varia*s heart ; and then ... You see I do not spare myself ; no, thank God I it*s high time !

But from Mie bell-tower of the monastery near it struck five o’clock ; the evening was coming on rapidly. Varia got up hastily, thrust a little note into my hand, and went off towards the house^ I overtook her, pro- mised to bring Andrei to her, and stealthily, like a happy lover, crept out by the little gate into the field. On the note was written in an unsteady hand the words: To Andrei Nikolaevitch.

Next day I set off early in the morning to Kolosov’s. I ’m bound to confess that, although I assured myself that my intentions were not only honourable, but positively brimful of great- hearted self-sacrifice, I was yet conscious of a certain awkwardness, even timidity. I arrived at , Kolosov’s. There was with him a fellow called Puzyritsin, a former student who had never taken his degree, one of those authors o( sen- sational novels qf the so-called ‘Moscow’ or ‘grey’ school. Puzyritsin was a very good-^

• 43

ANDREI KOLOSOV

natured and shy person, and was always pre- paring to be an hussar, in spite of his thirty- three ‘years. He belonged to that class of people who feel it absolutely necesisary, once in the twenty-four hours, to utter a phrase after the pattern of, *The beautiful always falls into decay in the flower of its splendour ; such is the fate of the beautiful in the world,’ in order to smoke his pipe with redo%ibled zest all the rest of the day in a circle of ' good comrades.’ On this account he was called an idealist. Well, so Puzyritsin was sitting with Kolosov reading him some ‘fijigment.* I began to listen; it was all about a youth, who loves a maiden, kills her, and so on. At last Puzyritsin finished and retreated. His absurd production, solemnly bawling voice, his presence altogether, had put Kolosov into a mood of sarcastic irrita- bility. I felt that I had come at an unlucky moment, but there was nothing to be done for it ; without any kind of preface, I handed Andrei Varia’s note.

Kolosov looked at me in perplexity, tore open the note, ran his eyes over it, said nothing, but smiled composedly. * Oh, ho ! ' he said at , last; *so you’ve been at Ivan Semyonitch’s ? '

^ Yes, I was there yesterday, alone,’ I answered abruptly and resolutely. ^

• Ah 1 . * observed Kolosov ironically, itd

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he lighted his pipe. ‘Andrei/ I said to him, ‘aren’t you sorry for her? ... If you had seen her tears . . ^

And I launched into an eloquent description of my visit of the previous day. I was genu- inely moved. Kolosov did not speak, and 3moked his pipe.

‘You sat with her under the apple-tree in the garden/ he said at last. ‘I remember in May I, too, •used to sit with her on that seat. . . . The apple-tree was in blossom, the fresh white flowers fell upon us sometimes ; I held both Varia’s hands ... we were happy then,

• , , Now the apple-blbssom is over, and the

apples on the tree are sour.’

I flew into a passion of noble indignation, began reproaching Andrei for coldness, for cruelty, argued with him that he had no right to abandon a girl so suddenly, after awaken- ing in her a multitude of new emotions; I begged him at least to go and say good-bye to Varia. Kolosov heard me to the end.

‘Admitting,* he said to me, when, agitated and exhausted, I flung myself into an arm- chair, ‘that you, as my friend, may be allowed to criticise me. But hear my defence, at least, though . . /

« Here he paused for a little while and smiled curiously. ‘ Vafria 's an excellent girl/ he went

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on, *and has done me no wrong whatever. • . . On the contrary, I am greatly, very greatly indebted to her. I haye left off going to see her for a very simple reason — I have left off caring for her. . .

‘But why? why?’ I interrupted him.

‘ Goodness knows why. While I loved her, I was entirely hers ; I never thought of the future, and everything, my whole life, I shared with her . . . now this passion fias died out in me. . . . Well, you would tell me to be a humbug, to play at being in love, wouldn’t you? But what for? from pity for her? If she’s a decent girl, sift won’t care for such charity herself, but if she is glad to be con- soled by my . . • my sympathy, well, she’s not good for much ! ’

Kolosov’s carelessly offhand expressions offended me, perhaps, the more because they were applied to the woman with whom I was secretly in love. ... I fired up, ‘ Stop,’ I said to him ; ‘ stop ! I know why you have given up going to see Varia.’

‘Why?’

‘Taniusha has forbidden you to/

In uttering these words, I fancied I was dealing a most cutting blow at Andrei. Tani- usha was a very ‘easy-going’ young lady, black-haired, dark, five-and-twenty, free in her 246

ANDREI KOLOSOV

manners, and devilishly clever, a Shtchitov in petticoats. Kolosov quarrelled with her and made it up again half a dozen times in a month. ^She was passionately fond of him, though sometimes, during their misunderstand- ings, she would vow and declare that she thirsted for his blood. . . . And Andrei, too, could not get on without her. Kolosov looked at me, and responded serenely, * Perhaps so.*

• Not peAaps so,* I shouted, * but certainly ! *

Kolosov at last got sick of my reproaches.

. . . He got up and put on his cap.

‘ Where are you going?*

• For a walk ; you Snd Puzyritsin have given

me a headache between you.'

‘ You are angry with me ? '

• No,' he answered, smiling his sweet smile,

and holding out his hand to me,

• Well, anyway, what do you wish me to tell

Varia?'

‘ Eh ? ' . , . He thought a little. ‘ She told you,' he said, ‘ that we had read Pushkin to- gether. . . Remind her of one line of

Pushkin's.' 'What line? what line?' I asked impatiently. ‘ This one :

“What has been will not be again.”*

With those words he went out of the room. I followed him ; %n the stairs he stopped.

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ANDREI KOLOSOV

• And is she very much upset ? ’ he asked me,

pulling his cap over his eyes.

‘ Verj^, very much ! . . /

‘ Poor thing ! Console her, Nikolai ^ you love her, you know.'

‘Yes, I have grown fond of her, certainly. . .

You love her,' repeated Kolosov, and he looked me straight in the face. I turned away without a word, and we separated.

On reaching home, I was in a perfect fever.

‘ I have done my duty,' I thought ; ‘ I have overcome my own egoism ; 1 have urged Andrei to go back to Varia ! ... Now I am in the right ; he that will ndt when he may . . . ! ' At the same time Andrei's indifference wounded me. He had not been jealous of me, he told me to console her. . . . But is Varia such an ordinary girl, is she not even worthy of sympathy? , . . There are people who know how to appreciate what you despise, Andrei Nikolaitch! . . . But what's the good? She does not love me. . . . No, she does not love me now, while she has not quite Ipst hope of Kolosov's return. . . . But afterwards , , . who knows, my devotion will touch her. I will make no claims. , . . I will give wself up to her wholly, irrevocably. . . . VariaJ Is it pos- sible you will not love me? . . . never! * . tieverl , . • ^

ANDREI KOLOSOV

Such were the. speeches your humble servant was rehearsing in the city of Moscow, in the year 1833, in the house of his revered prgceptor. I wept . ^ . I felt faint . • . The weather was horrible ... a fine rain trickled down the window panes with a persistent, thin, little patter ; damp, dark-grey storm-clouds hung stationary over the town. I dined hurriedly, made no response to the anxious inquiries of the kind (German woman, who whimpered a little herself at the sight of my red, swollen eyes (Germans — as is weir known — are always glad to weep). I behaved very ungraciously to my preceptor . . . an^ at once after dinner set off to Ivan Semyonitch. . . . Bent double in a jolting droshky, I kept asking myself whether I should tell Varia all as it was, or go on deceiving her, and little by little turn her heart from Andrei. ... I reached Ivan Semyonitch’s without knowing what to decide upon. ... I found all the family in the parlour. On seeing me, Varia turned fearfully white, but did not move from Ijer place ; Sidorenko began talking to me in a peculiarly jeering way. I responded as best I could, looking from time to time at Varia, and ajmost unconsciously giving a de- jected and pensive expression to my features. The lieutenant started whist again. Varia sat nW the window and did not stir. ‘You're S49

ANDREI KOLOSOV

dull now, I suppose?’ Ivan Semyonitch asked her twenty times over.

At l^st 1 succeeded in seizing a favourable opportunity. ,

‘You are alone again,’ Varia whispered to me.

‘Yes,’ I answered gloomily; ‘and probably for long.’

She swiftly drew in her head.

‘ Did you give him my letter ? ’ sbe asked in a voice hardly audible.

‘Yes.’

‘ Well ? ’ . . . she gasped for breath. I glanced at her. . . . There was a sfidden flash of spiteful pleasure within me.

‘ He told me to tell you,’ I pronounced de- liberately, ‘that “what has been will not be again. . . ." ’

Varia pressed her left hand to her heart, stretched her right hand out in front, stag- gered, and went quickly out of the room.' I tried to overtake her. . . . Ivan Semyonitch stopped me. I stayed another twq hours with him, but Varia did not appear. On the way back I felt ashamed . . . ashamed before Varia, before Andrei, before myself ; though they say it is better to cut off an injured limb at once than to keep the patient in prolonged sttifmng; but who gave me a ri^ht to deal^such 250

ANDREI KOLOSOV

a merciless blow at the heart of a poor girl ? . . . For a long while I could not sleep . . . but I fell asleep at last. In general I mus^^ repeat that ‘ lov^’ never "once deprived me of sleep.

I began to go pretty often to Ivan Semyon- itch's. I used to see Kolosov as before, but neither he nor I ever referred to Varia. My relations with her were of a rather curious kind. She becam^ attached to me with that sort of attachment which excludes every possibility of love. She could not help noticing my warm sympathy, and talked eagefrly with me ... of what, do you suppose ? ... of Kolosov, nothing but Kolosov! The man had taken such pos- session of her that she did not, as it were, belong to herself. I tried in vain to arouse her pride . . . she was either silent or, if she talked — chattered on about Kolosov. I did not even suspect in those days that sorrow of that kind — talkative sorrow — is in reality far more genuine than any silent suffering. I must own I passed many bitter moments at that time. I was conscious that I was not capable of filling Kolosov’s place ; I was conscious that Varia’s past was so full, so rich . . . and her present so poor. ... I got to the point of an involuntary shudder at the words ‘Do you remember’ . . . with which almost every sentence of hers began. She grew a littTe thinner during the first days 251

ANDREI KOLOSOV

of our acquaintance . . . but afterwards got better again, and even grew cheerful ; she might l\ave been compared then with a wounded bird, not yet quite recovered.

Meanwhile my position had become insup- portable ; the lowest passions gradually gained possession of my soul ; it happened to me to slander Kolosov in Varia’s presence. I re- solved to cut short such unnatural relations. But how? Part from Varia — I could not. . . . Declare my love to her — I did not dare; I felt that I could not, as yet, hope for a return. Marry her. , . . This idea alarmed me ; I ^as only eighteen ; I felt a dread of putting all my future into bondage so early ; I thought df my father, I could hear the jeering comments of Kolosov*s comrades. . . . But they say every thought is like dough ; you have only to knead it well — you can make anything you like of it. I began, for whole days together, to dream of marriage. ... I imagined what gratitude would fill Varia’s heart when I, the friend and confidant of Kolosov, should offer hpr my nand, knowing her to be hopelessly In love with another. Persons of experience, I remembered, had told me that marriage for love is a com- plete absurdity ; I began to indulge my fancy ; 1 pictured to myself our peaceful life together in some snug comer of Soutli Russia ; and

ANDREI KOLOSOV

mentally I traced the gradual transition in Varia's heart from gratitude to affection, from affection to love. .... I vowed to myselfet once to leave* Moscow, the university, to forget eveiything and every one. I began to avoid meeting Kolosov.

At last, one bright winter day (Varia had teea somehow peculiarly enchanting the previous evening), I •dressed myself in my best, slowly and solemnly sallied out from my room, took a first-rate sledge, and drove down to Ivan Semyonitch*s. Varia was sitting alone in the drawing-room reading Karamzin. On seeing me she softly laid the book down on her knees, and with agitated curiosity looked into my face; I had never been to see them in the morning before. ... I sat down beside her ; my heart beat painfully, ‘What are you reading?’ I asked her at last. ‘ Karamzin.’ ‘ What, are you tak- ing up Russian literature ? . . .’ She suddenly cut me short. ‘ Tell me, haven’t you come from AndMfeiP’ That name, that trembling, question- ing voice, the half-joyful, half-timid expression of her face, all nhese unmistakable signs of persistent love, pierced to my heart like arrows. I resolved either to part from Varia, or to receive from her herself the right to chase the Thated name of,,Andrei from her lips for ever, I do not remember what I said to her ; at first I 253

ANDREI KOLOSOV

must have expressed myself in rather confused fashion, as for a long while she did not under- stand ire ; at last I could stand it no longer, and almost shouted, ‘I love you, I want to marry you/ ‘ You love me ? * said Varia in bewilderment I fancied she meant to get up, to go away, to refuse me. ‘For God's sake,* 1 whispered breathlessly, ‘ don't answer me. don't say yes or no ; think it over to-morrow I will come again for a final answer. ... I have long loved you. I don't ask of you love, I want to be your champion, your friend ; don't answer me now, don't answer. ^ . Till to-morrow.'

With these words I rushed out of the room. In the passage Ivan Semyonitch met me, and not only showed no surprise at my visit, but posi- tively, with an agreeable smile, offered me an apple. Such unexpected amiability so struck me that I was simply dumb with amazement. ‘ Take the apple, it 's a nice apple, really ! ' persisted Ivan Semyonitch. Mechanically I took the apple at last, and drove all the way home with it in my hand.

You may easily imagine how I passed all that day and the following morning. That night I slept rather badly. ‘My God I my God I* I kept thinking; ‘if she refuses me I . , , I shall die. ... I shall (Jie. . . .' I re- peated wearily. ‘Yes, she will certainly refuse 254

ANDREI KOLOSOV

me. . . . And why was I in such a hurry ! * . . . Wishing to turn my thoughts, I began to write a letter to my father — a desperate, resolute letter. Speaking of myself, I used the expres- * sion ‘your son.’ Bobov came in to see me.

I began weeping on his shoulder, which must have surprised poor Bobov not a little. . • . 1 afterwards learned that he had come to me to borrow nioiyey (his landlord had threatened to turn him out of the house) ; he had no choice hut to hook it, as the students say. . . .

At last the great moment arrived. On going out of my room, I stc^d still in the doorway. ‘With what feelings,’ thought I, ‘shall I cross this threshold again to-day?’ . . . My emotion at the sight of Ivan Semyonitch’s little house was so great that I got down, picked up a handful of snow and pressed it to my face. ‘Oh, heavens!’ I thought, ‘if I find Varia alone — I am lost I ’ My legs were giving way under me ; I could hardly get to the steps. Things were as I had hoped. I found Varia in the parlour with Matrona Semyonovna. I made my bows awkwardly, and sat down by the old lady. Varia’s face was rather paler than usual, ... I fancied that she tried to avoid my eyes. . . . But what were my feelings v>hen Matrona ^emyonovna suddenly got up and went into the next room ! • . . I began

255

ANDRBI KOLOSOV

looking out of the window — I was trembling inwardly like an autumn leaf. Varia did not speak, . . At last I mastered my timidity, went up to her, bent my head. . . .

‘ What are you going to say to me ? ’ I arti- culated in a breaking voice.

Varia turned away — the tears were glistening on her eyelashes.

‘ I see,’ I went on, ‘ it ’s useles; for me to hope.’ . .

Varia looked shyly round and gave me her hand without a word.

‘Varia ! ’ I cried involuntarily . , . and stopped, as though frightened at my own hopes.

‘ Speak to papa,’ she articulated at last.

‘ You permit me to speak to Ivan Semyon- itch?’ . . .

‘ Yes.’ ... I covered her hands with kisses.

‘ Don’t, don’t,’ whispered Varia, and suddenly burst into tears.

I sat down beside her, talked soothingly to her, wiped away her tears. . . . Luckily, Ivan Semyonitch was not at home, and Matrona Sem- yonovna had gone up to her own little room. I made vows of love, of constancy to Varia. . . . ‘Yes,’ she said, suppressing hpr sobs and continually wiping her eyes;^ ‘I know yoh are a good man, an honest man ; 3mu are not 356

ANDREI KOLOSOV

like Kolosov,’ . . . ‘ That name again ! thought 1. But with what delight I kissed those warm, damp little hands ! with what subdued rapture I gazed into that sweet face 1 ... 1 talked to her of the future, walked about the room, sat down on the floor at her feet, hid my eyes in my hands, and shuddered with happiness. . . . Ivan Semyonitch’s heavy footsteps cut short our conversation. Varia hurriedly got up and went off to her own room — without, however, pressing my hand or glancing at me. Mr. i|iidorenko was even more amiable than on the previous day : ,j|ie laughed, rubbed his stomach, made jokes about Matrona Semyon- ovna, and so on. I was on the point of asking for his blessing there and then, but I thought better of it and deferred doing so till the next day. His ponderous jokes jarred upon me; besides 1 was exhaust^. ... 1 said good-bye to him and went away.

I am one of those persons who love brooding over their own sensations, though I cannot endure such persons myself. And so, after the prst transport of heartfelt joy, I promptly began to give myself up to all sorts of reflec- ^tions. When I had got half a mile from the house of the retired lieutenant, I flung my hA up in the ^ir, in excessive delight, and shouted ‘ Hurrah ! ’ But while I was being a 357

ANDREI KOLOSOV

jolted through the long, crooked streets of Moscow, my thoughts gradually took another turn. »A11 sorts of rather sordid doubts began to crowd upon my mind. I recalled my con- versation with Ivan Semyonitch about marriage in general . . . and unconsciously I murmured to myself, ‘ So he was putting it on, the old hum- bug!’ It is true that I continually repeated,

‘ but then Varia is mine ! mine ! ’ ... . Yet that ‘but' — alas, that but\ — and then, too, the words, ‘Varia is mine!’ aroused in me not a deep, overwhelming rapture, but a sort of paltry, egoistic triump|p. ... If Varia had refused me point-blank, I should have been burning with furious passion ; but having re- ceived her consent, I was like a man who has just said to a guest, ‘Make yourself at home,’ and sees the guest actually beginning to settle into his room, as if he were at home. ‘If she had loved Kolosov,' I thought, ‘how was it she consented so soon ? It ’s clear she ’s glad to marry any one. . . . Well, what of it ? all the better for me.’ ... It was with such vague and curious feelings that I crossed the, threshold of my room. Possibly, gentlemen, my story does not strike you as sounding true. I don’t know whether it sounds true or not, but I know that all I have tojfl is the absolute and literal truth. However, I gave myself up 358

ANDREI KOLOSOV

all that day to a feverish gaiety, assured myself that I simply did not deserve such happiness ; but next morning . .

A wonderful thing is sleep! It not only renews one’s body: in a way it renews one’s soul, restoring it to primaeval simplicity and naturalness. In the course of the day you succeed in tuning yourself, in soaking yourself in falsity, in false ideas . . . sleep with its cool wave washes away all such pitiful trashiness ; and on waking up, at least for the first few instants, you are capable of understanding and loving truth. I waked|Up, and, reflecting on the previous day, I felt a certain discomfort. ... I was, as it were, ashamed of all my own actions. With instinctive uneasiness I thought of the visit to be made that day, of my inter- view with Ivan Semyonitch. . . . This uneasi- ness was acute and distressing ; it was like the uneasiness of the hare who hears the barking of the dogs and is bound at last to run out of his native forest into the open country . . . and there the sharp teeth of the harriers are await- ing him. . . . ‘Why was I in such a hurry?’ ^I repeated, just as I had the day before, but in quite a different sense. I remember the fearful difference between yesterday and to-day st/iick myself ; fpr the first time it occurred to me that in human life there lie hid secrets «S9

ANDREI KOLOSOV

— Strange secrets. . . . With childish perplexity I gazed into this new, not fantastic, real world. By the word ‘real’ many people understand ‘trivial.’ Perhaps it sometimes istso; but I must own that the first appearance of reality before me shook me profoundly, scared me, impressed me. . . .

What fine-sounding phrases all about love that didn’t come off, to use Gogol’s expression 1 ... I come back to my story. In the course of that day I assured myself again that 1 was the most blissful of mortals. 1 drove out of the town to Ivan Semyomteh’s. He received me very gleefully ; he had been meaning to go and see a neighlx>ur, but I myself stopped him. I was afraid to be left alone with VariR. The evening was cheerful, but not reassuring. Varia was neither one thing nor the other, neither cordial nor melancholy . . . neither pretty nor plain. I looked at her, as the philosophers say, objectively — that is to say, as the man who has dined looks at the dishes. I thought her hands were rather red. Sometimes, however, my heart warmed, and watching her I gave way to other dreams and reveries. I had only just made her an offer, as it is called, and here J was already feeling as though we were living as husband and wife ... as though our sc^ls already made up one lovely whole, belonged to one another, 2te

ANDREI KOLOSOV

and consequently were trying each to seek out a separate path for itself. . . .

‘Well, have you .spoken to papa?’»Varia said to me) as soon as we were left alone.

This inquiry impressed me most disagreeably. . , . I thought to myself, ‘You ’re pleased to be in a desperate hurry, Varvara Ivanovna.’

‘ Not yet,’ I answered, rather shortly, ‘ but I will speak to him.'

Altogether I behaved rather casually with her. In spite of my promise, I said nothing definite to Ivan Semyonitch. ’ As I was leav- ing, I pressed his hand significantly, and in- formed him that I wanted to have a little talk with him . . . that was all. . . . ‘Good- bye ! * I said to Varia.

‘ Till we meet ! ’ said she.

I will not keep you long in suspense, gentle- men ; I am afraid of exhausting your patience. . . . We never met again. I never went back to Ivan Semyonitch’s, The first days, it is true, of my voluntary separation from Varia did not pas9 without tears, self-reproach, and emotion ; I was frightened my. self at the rapid drooping of my love ; twenty times over I was on the point of starting off to see her. Vividly I pictured to myself her amazement, her grief, i&T wounded fillings ; but — I never went to Ivan Semyonitch’s again. In her absence I 261

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be^ed her foi^iveness, fell on my knees before her, assured her of my profound repentance — and once, when I met a girl in the street slightly resembling her, I took to my heels without looking back, and only breathed freely in a cook-shop after the fifth jam -puff. The word ‘to-morrow’ was invented for irresolute people, and for children ; like a baby, I lulled myself with that ma^ic word. ‘To-morrow I will go to her, whatever happens,' I said to myself, and ate and slept well to-day. I began to think a great deal more about Kolosov than about Varia . . . every^/here, continually, I saw his open, bold, careless face. I b^an going to see him as before. He gave me the same welcome as ever. But how deeply I felt his superiority to me I How ridiculous I thought all my fancies, my pensive melancholy, during the period of Kolosov's connection with Varia, my magnanimous resolution to bring them to- gether again, my anticipations, my raptures, my remorse! ... I had played a wretched, drawn-out part of screaming farse, but he had passed so simply, so well, through it all. . . . You will say, ‘ What is there wonderful in ^ that? your Kolosov fell in love with a girl, then fell out of love again, and threw her over.

. . . Why, that happens with|,everybody. . Agreed ; but which of us knows just when to

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ANDREI KOLOSOV

break with our past? Which of us, tell me, is not afraid of the reproaches — I don’t mean of the woman — the reproaches of every^chance fool ? WJiich of us is proof against the tempta- tion of making a display* of magnanimity, or of playing egoistically with another devoted heart? Which of us, in fact, has the force of character to be superior to petty vanity, to petty fine feelings, sympathy and self-reproach ?

. . . Oh, gentlemen, the man who leaves a woman at that great and bitter moment when he is forced to recognise that his heart is not altogether, not fully, hers, that man, believe me, has a truer and deeper comprehension of the sacredness of love than the faint-hearted creatures who, from dulness or weakness, go on playing on the half-cracked strings of their flabby and sentimental hearts I At the begin- ning of my story I told you that we all con- sidered Andrei Kolosov an extraordinary man. And if a clear, simple outlook upon life, if the absence of every kind of cant in a young man, can be called an extraordinary thing, Kolosov deserved the name. At a certain ^e, to be natural is to be extraordinary. ... It is time to finish, though. I thank you for your attention. , . . . Oh, I forgot to tell you that three months «fter my last visit 1 met the old humbug Ivan Semyoniibh. I tried, of course, to f^Hde 263

AKDREl KOLOSOV

A'

hurriedly and unnoticed by him, but yet I could not help overhearing the words, ‘ Feather- headecj^ scoundrels ! * uttered angrily.

• And what became of Varia?^ a^ed some

one.

‘ I don’t know,* answered the stoiy-teller. We all got up and separated.

1864.

164

CORRESPONDENCE

A CORRESPONDENCE

A FEW years I was in Dresden. I was staying at an hotel. From early morning till late evening I strolled about the town, and did not think it necessary to make acquaintance with my neighbours; at last it reached my ears in some chancys way that there was a Russian in the hotel — lying ill. I went to see him, and found a man in galloping consumption. I had begun to be tired of Dresden ; 1 stayed with my new acquaintance. It’s dull work sitting with a sick man, but even dulness is sometimes agreeable; moreover, my patient was not low-spirited and was very ready to talk. We tried to kill time in all sorts of ways ; we played ‘ Fools,’ the two of us together, and made fiin of the doctor. My compatriot used to tell this very bald-headed German all sorts of fictions about himself, which the doctor had always ‘long ago anticipated.* He used to mimic his astonishment at any new, exceptional

• symptom, to tiirow his medicines out of window,

and so on. I observed more than once, how- 367

A CORRESPONDENCE

ever, to my friend that it would be as well to send for a good doctor before it was too late, that hi^ complaint was not to be trifled with, and so on. But Alexey (my new friend's name was Alexey Petrovitch S — —) always turned off my advice with jests at the expense of doctors in general, and his own in particular ; and at last one rainy autumn evening he answered my urgent entreaties with such a mournful look, he shook his head so sorrow- fully and smiled so strangely, that I felt some- what disconcerted. The same night Alexey was worse, and the nex/^ day he died. Just before his death his usual cheerfulness deserted him ; he tossed about uneasily in his bed, sighed, looked round him in anguish . . . clutched at my hand, and whispered with an effort, 'But it’s hard to die, you know’ . . . dropped his head on the pillow, and shed tears. I did not know what to say to him, and sat in silence by his bed. But Alexey soon got the better of these last, late regrets. . . . ‘ I say,’ he said to me, ‘our doctor'll come to-day and find me dead. ... I can fancy his face.’ . . . And the dying man tried to mimic him. He asked me to send ail his things to Russia to his relations, with the exception of a small packet which he gave me as a souvenir. c

This packet contained letters — a girl’s letters 268

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to Alexey, and copies of his letters to her.' There were fifteen of them. Alexey Petrov-

itch S had known Marya Alexandrovna

B - long before, in their childhood, I fancy.

AMxey Petrovitch had a cousin, Marya Alex- androvna had a sister. In former years they had ail lived together; then they had been separated, and had not seen each other for a long while. Later on, they had chanced one summer to be all together again in the country, and they had fallen in love — Alexey’s cousin with Marya Alexandrovna, and Alexey with her sister. The summer h^d passed by, the autumn came; they parted. Alexey, like a sensible person, soon came to the conclusion that he was not in love at all, and had effected a very satis- factory parting from his charmer. His cousin had continued writing to Marya Alexandrovna for nearly two years longer . . . but he too perceived at last that he was deceiving her and himself in an unconscionable way, and he too dropped the correspondence.

I could tell you something about Matya Alexandrovna, gentle reader, but you will find out what she was from her letters. Alexey wrote his first letter to her soon after she had finally broken with his cousin. He was at that fime in Petersljprg ; he went suddenly abroad, fell ill, and died at Dresdea I resolved to print 269

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his correspondence with Marya Alexandrovfia, and trust the reader will look at it with indulg- ence, as these letters are not love - letters — Heaven forbid ! Love-letters are as a jrule only read by two persons (they read them over % thousand times to make up), and to a third person they are unendurable, if not ridiculous.

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I

FROM AI-EXEY.PETROVITCH TO MaRya ALEXANDROVNA

St. Petersburg, March 7, 184a Dear Marya Alexandrovna,—

I fancy I have never written to you before, and here I am writing to you now. ... I have chosen a curious time to begin, haven’t I ? I ’ll tell you what gave me the impulse. Mon cousin Theo- dore was with me to-day, and . . . how shall I put it ? . . . and he conl^ded to me as the greatest secret (he never tells one anything except as a great secret), that he was in love with the daughter of a gentleman here, and that this time he is firmly resolved to be married, and that he has already taken the first step — he has declared himself 1 I made haste, of course, to congratulate him on an event so agreeable for him; he has been longing to declare himself for a great while . . . but inwardly, I must own, I was* rather astonished. Although I knew that everything was over between you, still I had fancied ... In short, I was sur- prised. I h^id made arrangements to go out to see friend to-day, but I have stopped at Home and to have a little gossip with

you. If you do not care to listen to me, fling

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this letter forthwith 'into the fire. I warn you I ftiean to be frank, though I feel you are fuUy justified in taking jne for a rather impertinent perMn. Observe, however, that I v^ould not have taken up my pen if I had nottknown yofir sister wdis not with you ; she is staying, so Theodore told me, the whole summer with

your aunt, Madame B ^ God give her

every blessing I

And so, this is how it has all worked out . . . But I am not going to offer you my friend- ship and ail that ; I am shy as a rule of high- sounding speeches and 'heartfelt' effusions. In beginning to write this letter, I simply obeyed a momentary impulse. If there is another feeling latent within me, let it remain hidden under a bushel for the time.

I *m not going to offer you sympathy either. In sympathising with others, people for the most part want to get rid, as quick as thqy can, of an unpleasant feeling of involuntpy, egoistier^et . . . I understand genuine, warm sympathy . . . but such sympathy you would not accept from just any one. . . . Do, please, get angry with me. ... If you 're angry, you ’ll be sure to tead my missive to the end.

• ‘iBut what right have I to write to you, to talk

«if mj^ friendship, of my ftelings^of consolation? Nonci, absolutely none ; that I am bound to 373

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admit, and I can only throw myself on your kindness.

Do you know what the preface of my latter ’s like ? I ’ll ,tell you : some Mr. N. or M. walking into the draWfng-room of a lady who doesp’t in' the least expect him, and who does, perhaps, expect some one else. ... He realises that he has come at an unlucky moment, but there’s no help for it. . . . He sits down, begins talk* ing . . . goodness knows what about: poetiy, the beauties of nature, the advantages of a good education . . . talks the most awful rot, in fact, But, meanwhile, the Qrst five minutes have gone by, he has settled himself coitifortably ; the lady has resigned herself to the inevitable, and so Mr. N. or M. regains his self-possession, takes breath, and begins a real conversation — to the best of his ability.

In spite, though, of all this rigmarole, I don’t still feel quite comfortable. I seem to see your bewildered — even rather wrathful — face ; I feel that 'it will be almost impossible you sl^Uld not ascribe to me some hidden motives, anct so, like a Roman who has committed some folly, I wrap myself majestically in my toga^ 'and await in silence your final sentence. . . ,

The question is : Will you allow me to go 6|^ writing to you ?— I remain sincerely and Warmly devoted tp you, ^ Aubxby &

273

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n

FROllI MARYA ALEXAN 0 ROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

Village o? X——, March 22, 184a

Dear Sir,

Alexey Petrovitch,

I have received your letter, and I really don't know what to say to you. I should not even have answered you at all, if it had not been that I fancied that under your jesting remarks there really lies hid a feelii^ of some friendliness. Your letter made an unpleasant impression on me. In answer to your rigmarole, as you call it, let me too put to you one question : What for f What have I to do with you, or you with me ? I do not ascribe to you any bad motives . . . on the contrary, I'm grateful for srour sympathy . . . but we are strangers to each other, and I, just now at least; feel not the slightest inclination for greater intimacy with any one whatever. — ^With sincare esteem, I remain, etc., Marya B.

• 74

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111

FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

St. Petersburg, March 3a Thank you, Maiya Alexandrovna, thank you for your note, brief as it was. All this time I have been in great suspense; twenty times a day 1 have thought of you and my letter. You can’t imagine how bitterly 1 laughed at myself ; but now I am in an excellent frame of mind, and very much pleased with myself. Marya Alexandrovna, I am going to begin a corre- spondence with you I Confess, this was not at all what you expected after your answer ; I 'm surprised myself at my boldness. . . . Well, I don’t care, here goes 1 But don't be uneasy ; I want to talk to you, not of you, but of myself. It ’s like this, do you see : it ’s absolutely needful for me, in the old-fashioned phraseology, to open my heart to some one. I have not the slightest rigl\;t to select you for my confidant — agreed. But listen : I won’t demand of you an answer to my letters ; I don’t even want to know whether you read my ‘ rigmarole ’ ; but, in the name of all that’s holy, don’t send my letters back to me !

Let me tell y^u, I am utterly alone on earth.

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In my youth I led a solitary life, though I never, I remember, posed as a Byronic hero ; but first, circumstances, and secondly, a faculty of ima- ginative dreaming and a love foi; dreaming, rather cool blood, pride, indolence — a number of different causes, in fact, cut me off from the society of men. The transition from dream- life to real life took place in me late . . . perhaps too late, perhaps it has not fully taken place up to now. long as I found entertainment in my own thoughts and feelings, so long as I was capable of abandoning myself to causeless and unuttered transports ayd so on, I did not com- plain of my solitude. I had no associates; I had what are called friends. Sometimes I needed their presence, as an electrical machine needs a dischai^er — and that was all. Love ... of that subject we will not speak for the present But now, I will own, now solitude weighs heavy on me; and at the same time, I see no escape from my position. I do not blame fate; I alone am to blame and am deservedly punished. In my youth 1 was absorbed by one thing — my precious self ; I took my simple-hearted self-love for modesty ; I avoided society— and here I am now, a fearful bore to myself. What am I to do with myself? There is no one I love ; all my relations vffth other people are Somdhow s&ained and false.

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And I 've no memories either, for in all my past life I can find nothing but my own personality. Save me. To you I have made no passionate pro- testations of love. You I have never smothered in a flood of aimless babble. I passed by you rather coldly, and it is just for that reason 1 make up my mind to have recourse to you now. (I have had thoughts of doing so before this, but at that time you were not free. . . .) Among all my self-created sensations, pleasures and suflerings, the one genuine feeling was the not great, but instinctive attraction to you, which withered up at the time, like a single ear of wheat in the midst of worthless weeds. . . . Let me just for once look into another face, into another soul — my own face has grown hateful to me. I am like a man who should have been condemned to live all his life in a room with walls of looking-glass. ... I do not ask of you any sort of confessions — oh mercy, no 1 Bestow on me a sister’s unspoken sympathy, or at least the simple curiosity of a reader, 1 will entertain youj I will really.

Meanwhile I have the honour to be your sincere friend, A. S.

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IV

FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCII TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

St. Petersburg, April 7.

I am writing to you again, though I foresee that without your approval I shall soon cease writing. I must own that you cannot but feel some distrust of me. Well, perhaps you are right too. In old days I should have triumph- antly announced to you (and very likely I should have quite believed my own words my- self) that I had ‘developed,’ made progress, since the time when we parted. With conde- scending, almost affectionate, contempt I should have referred to my past, and with touching self-conceit have initiated you into the secrets of my real, present life . . . but, now, I assure you, Marya Alexandrovna, I 'm positively ashamed and sick to remember the capers and antics cut at times by my paltry egoism. Don’t be afraid : I am not going to force upon you any great truths, any profound views. 1 have none of them — of those truths and views. I have become a simple good fellow — ^really. I ajn bored, Marya Alexandrovna, Vm simply bored past all enduring. That is why 1 am writing 378

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to you. ... I really believe we may come to be friends. . . .

But I’m positively incapable of tallying to you, till ypu hold out a hand to me, till I get a note from you with die one word ‘ Yes.* Marya Alexandrovna, are you willing to listen to me ? That’s the question. — Yours devotedly,

A.S.

97a

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V

FROM MARYA ALEXANUROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

Village of X , April 14.

What a strange person you are 1 Very well, then. — Yes! Marya B.

VI

FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

St. Petersburg, May 2, 1840.

Hurrah ! Thanks, Marya Alexandrovna, thanks 1 You are a very kind and indulgent creature.

I will begin according to my promise to talk about myself, and I shall talk with a relish approaching to appetite. . . . That’s just it. Of anything in the world one may speak with fire, with enthusiasm, with ecstasy, but with appetite one talks only of oneself.

Let me tell you, during the last few days a very strange experience has befallen me. I have for the first time taken an all-round view of my past You understand me. Every oner pf us often recalls what is over-ftwith r^ret, or

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vexation, or simply from nothing to do. But to bend a cold, clear gaze over all one’s past life — as a traveller turns and looks from* a high mountaiii on the plain he has passed through — is only possible at a certain age . . . and a secret chill clutches at a man’s heart when it happens to him for the first time. Mine, anyway, felt a sick pang. While we are young, such an all-round view is impossible. But my youth is over, and, like one who has climbed on to a mountain, everything lies clear before me.

Yes, my youth is gone, gonfe never to return ! . . . Here it lies befqj-e me, as it were in the palm of my hand.

A sorry spectacle I I will confess to you, Marya Alexandrovna, I am very sorry for my- self. My God ! my God ! Can it be that I have myself so utterly ruined my life, so mercilessly embroiled and tortured myself! . . . Now I have come to my senses, but it ’s too late. Has it ever happened to you to save a fly from a spider? Has it ? You remember, you put it in the sun ; its wings and legs were stuck together, glued. . . . How awkwardly it moved, how clumsily it attempted to get clear! . . . After prolonged efforts, it somehow gets better, crawls, tries to open its wings . . . but there is no more frolick- ing for it, no more light-hearted buzzing in the sunshine, as beiore, when it was flying through s8|

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the open window into the cool room and out again, freely winging its way into the hot air. . . . The fly, at least, fell through none of its own doing into the dreadful web . . .(but 1 1

I have been my own spider I

And, at the same time, I cannot greatiy blame myself. Who, indeed, tell me, pray, is ever to blame for anything — alone ? Or, to put it better, we are all to blame, and yet we can’t be blamed. Circumstances determine us; they shove us into one road or another, and then they punish us for it. Every man has his destiny. . . . Wait a bit, wait a bit I A cleverjy worked-out but true comparison has just come into my head. As the clouds are first condensed from the vapours of earth, rise from out of her bosom, then separate, move away from her, and at last bring her prosperity or ruin : so, about every one of us, and out of ourselves, is fashioned — how is one to express it? — is fashioned a sort of element, which has afterwards a destructive or saving influence on us. This element I call destiny. . . . In other words, and speaking simply, every one makes his own destiny and destiny makes every one . . .

Every one makes his destiny — yes 1 , . . but people like us make it too much — that 's what 's wrong with us ! Consciousness jjp awakened tod early in us ; too early we begin to keep watch aSa

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on •ourselves. . . . We Russians have set ourselves no other task in life but the culti- vation of our own. personality, and whftn we ’re children > hardly grown-up we set to work to cultivate it, this luckless personality I Receiving no definite guidance from without, with no real respect for anything, no strong belief in any- thing, we are free to make what we choose of ourselves . . . one can’t expect every one to understand on the spot the uselessness of intellect ‘ seething in vain activity ’ . . . and so we get again one monster the more in the ^orld, one more of those worthless creatures in whom habits of self-consciousness distort the very striving for truth, and a ludicrous simplicity exists side by side with a pitiful duplicity . . . one of those beings of impotent, restless thought who all their lives know neither the satisfaction of natural activity, nor genuine suffering, nor the genuine thrill of conviction. . . . Mixing up together in ourselves the defects of all ages, we rob each defect of its good redeeming side ... we artf as silly as children, but we are not sincere as they are ; we are cold as old people, but we have none of the good sense of old age. ... To make up, we are psychologists. Oh yes, we are great psychologists t But our psycholc^ is akin to pathology ; our psychology is that subtle study of the laws of morbid condition 283

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and morbid development, with which healthy people have nothing to do. . . . And, what is the chief point, we are not young, even in our youth we are not young I

And at the same time — why libel ourselves? Were we never young, did we never know the play, the fire, the thrill of life’s forces ? We too have been in Arcady, we too have strayed about her bright meadows 1 . . . Have you chanced, strolling about a copse, to come across those dark grasshoppers which, jumping up from under your very feet, suddenly with a whirring sound expand bright red wings, fly a few yards, and then drop again into the grass? So our dark youth at times spread its particoloured wings for a few moments and for no long flight ... Do you remember our silent evening walks, the four of us together, beside your garden fence, after some long, warm, spirited con^ versation? Do you remember those blissful moments ? Nature, benign and stately, took us to her bosom. We plunged, swooning, into a flood of bliss. All around, the suneet with a sudden and soft flush, the glowing sky, the earth bathed in light, everything on all sides seemed full of the fresh and fiery breath of youth, the joyous triumph of some deathless^ happiness. The sunset flamed ; like it, our rapturous hearts burned with soft and passionate s84

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(a% and the tiny leaves of the young trees quivered faintly and expectantly over our heads, as though in response to the in\vard tremor of vague fqplings and anticipations in us. Do you remember the purity, the goodness and trustful- ness of ideas, the softening of noble hopes, the silence of full hearts ? Were we not really then worth something better than what life has brought us to? Why was it ordained for us only at rare moments to see the longed-for shore, and never to stand firmly on it, never to touch it :

‘ Never to weep wtth joy, like the first Jew Uptm the border of the promised land * i

These two lines of Fet’s remind me of others, also his. ... Do you remember once, as we stood in the highroad, we saw in the distance a cloud of pink dust, blown up by the light breeze gainst die setting sun ? ' In an eddying cloud,' you began, and we were all still at once to listen:

'In an eddying cloud Dust rises in the distance . . . Rider or man on foot Is seen not in the dust

1 see some one trotting On a gallant steed . . .

Frie^ of mine, friend far away, Thiu ! oh, think of me I’ a«S

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» »

You ceased ... we all felt a shudder gass over us, as though the breath of love had flitted over ou( hearts, and each of us — I am sure of it — felt irresistibly drawn into the distfince, the unknown distance, where the phantom of bliss rises and lures through the mist. And all the while, observe the strangeness ; why, dne wonders, should we have a yearning for the far away? Were we not in love with each other? Was not happiness ‘so close, so pos> sible’? As I asked you just now : why was it we did not touch the longed-for shore ? Be- cause falsehood walked hand in hand with us ; because it poisoned our best feelings ; because everything in us was artificial and strained; because we did not love each oftier at all, but were only trying to love, fancying we loved. . . .

But enough, enough I why inflame one’s wounds ? Besides, it is all over and done with. What was good in our past moved me, and on that good I will take leave of you for a while. It’s time to make an lyid of thi» long letter. I am going out for a 'breath here of the May air, in which spring is breaking* through the dry fastness of winter with a sort of damp, keen warmth. Farewell. — Yours,

A.S, *

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VII

FROM MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

VtLLAGR OF X ^May 1840.

I have received your letter, Alexey Petro- vitch, and do you know what feeling it aroused in me? — indignation . . . yes, indignation , , . and I will explain to you at once why it aroused just that feeling in me. It’s only a pity I 'm not a great hand with my pen ; I rarely write, and am not good at expressing my thoughts precisely anS in few words. But you will, I hope, come to my aid. You must try, on your side, to understand me, if only to find out why I am indignant with you.

Tell me — you have brains — have you ever asked yourself what sort of creature a Russian woman is ? what is her destiny? her position in the world — in short, what is her life? I don’t know if you have had time to put this question to yourself j I can’t picture to myself how you would answbr it ... I should, perhaps, in con- versation be capable of giving you my ideas on the subject, but on paper I am scarcely equal to it No matter, though. This is the point :

• you will certainly agree with me that we

women, those us at least who are not satis- 387

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fied with the common interests of domeistic life, receive out final education, in any case, ux>m you mfn : you have a great and powerful influence on us. Now, consider wha,t you do to us. I am talking about young girls, especi- ally those who, like me, live in the wilds, and there are very many such in Russia. Besides, I don’t know anything oi others and cannot judge of them. Picture to yourself such a girl. Her education, suppose, is finished ; jflie begins to live, to enjoy herself. But enjoyment alone is not much to her. She demands much fr<;p life, she reads, and dreamy ... of love. Always noticing but lovel you will say. . . . Suppose so ; but that word means a great deal to her I repeat that I am not speaking 8f a girl* to whom thinking is tiresome and boring. . . . She looks round her, is waiting for the time when he will come for whom her soul yearns. ... At last he makes his appearance — ahe is captivated ; she is wax in his hands. All — ^happiness and love and thought — all have come with a rush tc^ether with him ; all her tremors ^ soothed, all her doubts solved by him. Truth itself seems Speaking 1^ his lips. She venerates him, is over- awed at her own happiness, learns, loves. Great is his power over her at that time 1 ... If he Were a hero, he would fire her, would teach hef to sacrifice herself, and all sacilBces would be

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easy to her I But there are no heroes in our timeS. . . . Anyway, he dinects her as he pleases. She devotes herself to whatever interests him, every' word of his sinks into her soul. She has not yet learned how worth- less and empty and false a word may be, how little it costs him who utters it, and how little it deserves belief 1 After these first moments of bliss and hope there usually comes — through circumstances — (circumstances are always to blame) — there comes a parting. They say there have been instances of two kindred souls, ,on getting to know one another, becoming at once inseparably united ; I have heard it said, too, that things did not always go smoothly with them in consequence . . . but of what I have not seen myself I will not speak, — and that the pettiest calculation, the most pitiful prudence, can exist in a youthful heart, side by side with the most passionate enthusiasm — of that I have to my sorrow had practical experience. And so, the parting comes. . . . Happy the girl who realises at o^ce that it is the end of everything, who does not beguile herself with expectations i But you, valorous, just men, for the most part, have not the pluck, nor even the desire, to tell us the truth. ... It is less disturbing for you to deceive us. . . . However, I am ready to believe that ydb deceive yourselves together T 389

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with US. . . . Parting ! To bear separation is both hard and easy. If only there be perfect, untouqhed faith in him whom one loves, the soul can master the anguish of parting. ... I will say more. It is only then, when she is left alone, that she finds out the sweetness of soli* lude — not fruitless, but filled with memories and ideas. It is only then that she finds out her- self, comes to her true self, grows strong. ... In the letters of her friend far awayShe finds a support for herself ; in her own, she, very likely for the first time, finds full self-expression. . . . But as two people who start from a stream’s source, along opposite banl^s, at first can touch hands, then only communicate by voice, and finally lose sight of each other altogether ; so two natures grow apart at last by separation. Well, what then ? you will say ; it ’s clear they were not destined to be together. . . . But herein the difference between a man and a woman comes out. For a man it means nothing to begin a new life, to shake off all his past ; a woman cannot do this. No, she cannot fling off her past, she cannot break away from her roots — no, a thousand times no! And now b^ns a pitiful and ludicrous spectacle. . . . Gradually losing hope and faith in herself— and how bitter that is 3 rou canndt even imagine |-«-she pines an% w«ar9 herself

S90

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out a^one, obstinately clinging to her memories and turning away from everything that the life around offers her. . . . But he? vLook for him ! .where is Ihe ? And is it worth hiS while to stand still ? When has he time to look round ? Why, it ’s all a thing of the past for him^ Or else this is what happens : it happens that he feels a sudden inclination to meet the former object of his feelings, that he even makes an excursion tirith that aim. . . . But, mercy on us ! the pitiful conceit that leads him into doing that 1 In his gracious sympathy, in his would- b& friendly advice, in hj^ indulgent explanation of the past, such coosciousness of his superiority is manifest! It is so agreeable and cheering for him to let himself feel every instant — what a clever person he is, and how kind I And how little he understands what he has done I How clever he is at not even guessing what is passing in a woman’s heart, and how offensive is his compassion if he does guess it I . . .

Tell me, please, where is she to get strength to bear all this? Recollect this, too: for the most part, a girl in whose brain — to her mis- fortune — ^thought has begun to stir, such a girl, 'when she begins to love, and falls under a n^’s influence, inevitably grows apart from Wfr family, her circle of friends. She was not, even before theij| satisfied with their life, though 991

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she moved in step with them, while she tre^ured all her secret dreams in her soul. . . . But the discrepancy soon becomes apparent. . . . They cease to comprehend her, and are re^fiy to look askance at everything she does. ... At first this is nothing to her, but afterwards, after- wards . . . when she is left alone, when what she was striving towards, for which she had sacri- ficed everything — when heaven is not gained while everything near, everything possible, is lost — what is there to support her? Jeers, sly hints, the vulgar triumph of coarse common- sense, she could still ensure somehow . . . but what is she to do, what is to be her refuge, when an inner voice begins to whisper to her that all of them are right and she was wrong, that life, whatever it may be, is better than dreams, as health is better than sickness . . . when her favourite pursuits, her favourite books, grow hateful to her, books out of which there is no reading happiness — what, tell me, is to be her support? Must she not inevitably succumb in such a struggle? how is she to live and to go on living in such a desert ? To know oneself beaten and to hold out one’s hand, like a b^gar, to persons quite indifferent, for them to bestow the sympathy which the proud heart had once fancied it could well dispense with — all thit would be nothing I But to feel yourself 99 »

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ludicg^us at the very instant when you arc shedding bitter, bitter tears . . . O God, spare such suffering ! . . . ,

My hands are^rembling, and I am quite in a fever, . . . My face burns. It is time to stop. ... I *11 send off this letter quickly, before I ’m ashamed of its feebleness. But for God*s sake, in your answer not a word — do you hear? — not a word of sympathy, or I *11 never write to you again. Understand me: I should not like you to take this letter as the outpouring of a misunderstood soul, complaining. . , . Ah 1 I don’t care ! — Good-bye# M.

m

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VIII

Fr6m ALEXEY PETROVITCII TO MARYA ALEXANDROVKTA •

St. Petersburg, May 28, 184a Marya Alexandrovna, you are a splendid person . . . you . . . your letter revealed the truth to me at last ! My God ! what suffering 1 A man is constantly thinking that now at last he has reached simplicity, that he ’s no longer showing off, humbugging, lying . . . but when you come to look at hiir more attentively, he ’s become almost worse than before. And this, too, one must remark : the man himself, alone that is, never attains this self-recognition, try as he will ; his eyes cannot see his own defects, just as the compositor’s wearied eyes cannot see the slips he makes; another fresh eye is needed for that My thanks to you, Marya Alexandrovna. . . . You see, I speak to you of myself ; of you I dare not speak. . . . Ah, how absurd my last letter seems to me now, so flowery and sentimental 1 I beg you earnestly, go on with your confession. 1 fancy you, too, will be the better for it, and it will do me great good. It’s a true saying: *A woman’s wit’s better than many a reason,’ ^nd a woman^s heart ’s far and away — ^by God, yes 1 If women 394

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kne)^ow*inuch better, nobler, and wiser they are than men — yes, wiser — they would grow conceited and be spoiled. But happilfr they don’t kno]ir it ; they don’t know it because their intelligence isn’t in the habit of turning in- cessantly upon themselves, as with us. They think very little about themselves — ^that ’s their weakness and their strength ; that ’s the whole secret — I won’t say of our superiority, but of our power. They lavish their soul, as a pro- digal heir does his father’s gold, while we exact a percentage on every worthless morsel. . . . How are they to hold, their own with us? . . . All this is not compliments, but the simple truth, proved by experience. Once more, I beseech you, Marya Alexandrovna, go on writing to me. ... If you knew all' that is coming into my brain! . . . But I have no wish now to speak, I want to listen to yoil. My turn will come later. Write, write . — Yaiu devoted, A. S. ,,

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IX

FRO»f MARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

ViLIAGE OF X 12, 184a

I had hardly sent off my last letter to you, Alexey Petrovitch, when I regretted it; but there was no help for it then. One thing reassures me somewhat : I am sure you realised that it was under the influence of feelings long ago suppressed that it was written, and you excused me. I did not^ven read through, at the time, what I had written to you ; I remem- ber my heart beat so violently that the pen shook in my fingers. However, though I should probably have expressed myself differ- ently if I had allowed myself time to reflect, I don't mean, all the same, to disavow my own words, or the feelings which I described to you as best I could. To-day I am much cooler and far more self-possessed.

I remember at the end of my letter I spoke of the painful position of a girl who is con- scious of being solitary, even among her own people. ... I won’t expatiate further upon them, but will rather tell you a few instances I think I shall bore you less in ^at way.

In the first place, then, let me tell you that 396 '

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all ^ver Ihe country-side I am never called anything but the female philosopher. The ladies especially honour me with that name. Some assert that I sleep with a Latin book in my hand, and in spectacles ; others declare that I know how to extract cube roots, what- ever they may be. Not a single one of them doubts that I wear manly apparel on the sly, and instead of ‘good-morning,’ address people spasmodically with * Georges Sand ! ' — and in- dignation g^ows apace against the female philosopher. We have a 'neighbour, a man of five-and-forty, a tgreat wit ... at least, he is reputed a great wit ... for him my poor personality is an inexhaustible subject of jokes. He used to tell of me that directly the moon rose I could not take my eyes off it, and he will mimic the way in which I gaze at it ; and declares that 1 positively take my coffee with moonshine instead of with milk — that ’s to say, I put my cup in the moonlight. He swears that I use phrases of this kind — ‘ It is easy be- cause it is difficult, though on the other hand it is difficult because it is easy.’ ... He asserts that I am always looking for a word, always striving ‘ thither,’ and with comic rage inquires : ‘whither — thither? whither?’ He has also Circulated a stmy about me that I ride at night up and down oy the river, singing Schubert's

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Serenade, or simply moaning, ' !^eethi{iren, Beethoven r She is, he will say, such an impassioned old person, and so on, and so on. Of course, all this comes straight to me. This surprises you, perhaps. But do not for- get that four years have passed since your stay in these parts. You remember how every one frowned upon us in those days. Their turn has come now. And all that, too, is no con- sequence. I have to hear many things that wound my heart more than that. I won’t say an)rthing about my poor, good mother’s never having been able to forgive me for your cousin’s indifference to me. But my whole life is burn- ing away like a house on fire, as my nurse expresses ib ‘Of course,’ I am constantly hearing, ‘we can’t keep pace with you! we are plain people, we are guided by nothing but common-sense. Though, when you come to think of it, what have all these metaphysics, and books, and intimacies with learned folks brought you to? ’ You perhaps remember my sister — ^not the one to whom yow y||ie once not indifferent — ^but the other elddi^ e, who is married. Her husband, if you recollect, is a simple and rather comic person ; you often used to make fun of him in those days. But she’s happy, after all; sh^^’s the mothe/ of a family, she’s fond of her hustMlnd, her 398

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hu^nd 'adores her. ... * 1 am like every one else/ she says to me sometimes, * but you I ' And she’s right ; I envy her. . . .

And yet, I feel I should not care to change with her, all the same. Let them call me a female philosopher, a queer fish, or what they choose — I will remain true to the end ... to what ? to an ideal, or what ? Yes, to my ideal Yes, 1 will be faithful to the end to what first set my heart throbbing — to what I have re- cognised, and recognise still, as truth, and good. ... If only my strength does not fail me, if only my divinity dqps not turn out to be a dumb and soulless idol 1 . . .

If you really feel any friendship for me, if you have really not forgotten me, you ought to aid me, you ought to solve my doubts, and strengthen my convictions. . . .

Though after all, what help can you give me? ‘All that’s rubbish, fiddle-faddle,’ was said to me yesterday by my uncle — I think you don’t know him — a retired naval officer, a very Mimsible man ; ' husband, children, a pot of soup^»lt> look after the husband and children and keep an eye on the pot — ^that’s what a woman wants.’ . . . Tell me, is he right?

If he really is right, 1 can still make up

• for the past, can still get into the common

groove >' Why should I wait any longer? what

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have I to hope for? In one of your letjprs you spoke of the wings of youth. How often — how leng they are tied ! And later on comes the time when they fall off, and th^ is no rising above earth, no flying to heaven any more. Write to me. — Yours, M.

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X

FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCH TO mARYA ALEXANDROVNA

St. Petersburg, /««« i6, 1840.

I hasten to answer your letter, dear Marya Alexandrovna. I will confess to you that if it were not ... I can't fay for business, for I have none ... if it were not that I am stupidly accustomed to this place, I should have gone off to see you again, and should have talked to my heart’s content, but on paper it all comes out cold and dead. . . .

Marya Alexandrovna, I tell you again, women are better than men, and you ought to prove this in practice. Let such as us fling away our convictions, like cast-off clothes, or abandon them for a crust of bread, or lull them into an untroubled sleep, and put over them — as over the dead, once dear to us — a gravestone, at which to come at rare intervals to prs^y — let us do lall this ; but you women must not be false to yourselves, ycHu must not be faflse to your idej^ . . . That word has become ridiculous. ... To fear being, ridiculous — is not to love truth. It happens, indeed, that ' the senseless laughter of the fool drives even good men into giving up a great deal ... as, 301

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for instance, the defence of an abseht friend. ... I have been guilty of that myself. But, I repeat, you women are better than we. . . . In trifling matters you give in sooner Jhan we ; but you know how to face fearful odds better than we. I don’t want to give you either advice or help — ^how should 1 ? besides, you have no need of it. But I hold out my hand to you ;

I say to you. Have patience, struggle on to the end ; and let me tell you, that, as a senti- ment, the consciousness of an honestly sus* tained struggle is almost higher than the triumph of victory. . Victory does not depend on ourselves. Of course your uncle is right from a certain point of view ; family life is everything for a woman ; for her there is no other life.

But what does that prove ? None but Jesuits will maintain that any means are good if only they attain the end. It’s false! it’s false! Feet sullied with the mud of the road are un- worthy to go into a holy templ<^ v At the end of youf letter is a phrase 1 do not like ; you want to get into the commo|t groove ; take care, don’t make a false step 1 Asides — do not forget, — there it no erasing the past ; ,«nd how- ever much you try, whatever pressure you put on }raurself, you will not turn into 3 rour sister.* You have reached a higher level '\han she ; but 303

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your souf has been scorched in the fire, hers is untouched. Descend to her level, stoop to her, you can ; but nature will not give«up her rights, apd the burnt place will not grow again. . . .

You are afraid — let us speak plainly — you are afraid of being left an old maid. You are, I know, already twenty-six. Certainly the position of old maids is an unenviable one ; every one is so ready to laugh at them, every one comments with such ungenerous amuse- ment on their peculiarities' and weaknesses. But if you scrutinise^ with a little attention any old bachelor, one may just as well point the finger of scorn at him ; one will find plenty in him, too, to laugh at. There’s no help for it There is no getting happiness by struggling for it But we must not forget that it’s not happiness, but human dignity, that’s the chief aim in life.

You describe your position with great humour. I well understand all the bitterness of it ; your position one may really call tragit. But let me tell[ you you are not aldne !n it; there is scarcely any quite modem person who isn’t place(| in it. You will say that that makes it no bett^ for you ; but I am of opinion that buffering in company with thousands is quite a different mafter from suffering alone. It is 303

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I

not a matter of egoism, but a sense of a general inevitability which comes in.

All tfeis is very fine, granted, you will say , . . but not practicable in reality. Why not prac- ticable ? I have hitherto imagined, and I hope I shall never cease to imagine, that in •God’s world everything honest, good, and true is practicable, and will sooner or later come to pass, and not only will be realised, but is already being realised. Let each man only hold firm in his place, not lose patience, nor desire the impossible, but do all in his power. But I fancy I have gone off too much into ab- stractions. I will defer tlie continuation of my reflections till the next letter ; but I cannot lay down my pen without warmly, most warmly, pressing your hand, and wishing you from my soul all that is good on earth.

Yours, A. S.

PS . — By the way, you say it 's useless for you to wait, that you, have nothing to hope for ; how do you know that, let me ^sk ?

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XI

FROM MARYA ALE^ANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

Village of X ,June 30, 1840.

. How grateful I am to you for your letter, Alexey Petrovitch! How much good it did me ! I see you really are a good and trust- worthy man, and so I shall not be reserved with you. I trust you. I know you would make no unkind use of mj^ openness, and will give me friendly, counsel. Here is the question.

You noticed at the end of my letter a phrase which you did not quite like. I will tell what it had reference to. There is one of the neigh- bours here ... he was not here when you were, and you have not seen him. He ... I could marry him if I liked ; he is still young, well-educated, and has |nx>perty. There are no difficulties on the pWt of my parents; on the contrary^ jffiey — I know for a facie— desire this marriage. He is a good man, and I think ^ he loves me . . . but he is so spiritless and narrow, his aspirations are so limited, that 1 cannot but be conscious of my superiority to htm. He is aware of this, and as it were re- joices indt, ana that is just what sets me V 30s

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against him. I cannot respect hfim, tl^ough he has an excellent heart. What am I to do ? tell me ! Think for me and write me your opinion sincerely. ,

But how grateful I am to you for your letter I . . . Do you know, I have been haunted at times by such bitter thoughts. . . . Do you know, I had come to the point of being almost ashamed of every feeling — not of enthusiasm only, but even of faith ; I used to shut a book with vexation whenever there was anything about hope or happiness in it, and turned away from a cloudless sky, ^om the fresh green of the trees, from everything that was smiling and joyful. What a painful condition it was ! I say, was ... as though it were over I

I don’t know whether it is over; I know that if it does not return I am indebted to you for it. Do you see, Alexey Petrovitch, how much good you have done, perhaps, without suspecting it yourself! By the way, do you know I feel very sorry for you ? We are now in the full blaze of summer, the days are exquisite, the sky blue and brilliant ... It couldn’t be lovelier in Italy eve^ ^

staying in the stifling, baking toum, and walk* ' ing on the burning pavement What indices you to do so ? You might at least move into some summer villa out of tdika Tliey say 3b6

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ther^are 6r^ht spots at Peterhof, on the sea- coast.

I should like to write more to you, hut it ’s impossibly. Such a' sweet fragrance comes in from the garden that I can’t stay indoors. I am going to put on my hat and go for a walk. . . . Good-bye till another time, good Alexey Petrovitch. Yours devotedly, M. B.

P.S . — I forgot to tell you . . . only fancy, that witty gentleman, about whom I wrote to you the other day, has made me a declaration of love, and in the post ardent terms. 1 thought at first he was laughing at me ; but he finished up with a formal proposal — what do you think of him, after all his libels I But he is positively too old. Yesterday evening, to tease him, 1 sat down to the piano before the open window, in the moonlight, and played Beethoven. It was so nice to feel its cold light on my face, so delicious to fill the fragrant n^ht air with the sublime music, through which one could hear at times the singing of a nightingale. It is long since I havi been so happy. But write to me about what I asked 3 mu at the b^inning of my letter ; it is very important

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xn

rR(ftl ALEXEY PRTROVITCH TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

St. Petersburg, 8) 184P. Dear Marya Alexandrovna, — Here is my opinion in a couple of words : both the old bachelor and the young suitor— overboard with them both ! There is no need even to consider it Neither of them is worthy of you — ^that ’s as clear as that twice two makes four. The young neighbour is very likcly,a good-natured person, but that ’s enough about him ! I am convinced that there is nothing in common between him and you, and you can fancy how amusing it would be for you to live together! Besides, why be in a huriy ? Is it a possible thing that a woman like you — I don’t want to pay com- pliments, and that’s why I don’t expatiate further — that such a woman should meet no one who would be capable of appreciating her ? No, Marya Alexandrovna, listen t* me, if you really believe that I am your friend, and that my advice is of use. But confess, it was agree- able to see the old scoffer at your feet ... If I had been in your place, I^'d have kept him singing Beethoven's Adelarda a|id gazing at the moon the whole night long.

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EyouglT of them, though, — your adorers! It ’s not of them I want to talk to you to-day. I am in a strange, half-irritated, half-eiltotional state of mind to-day, in consequence of a letter I got yesterday. I am enclosing a copy of it to 3 A)U. This letter was written by one of my friends of long ago, a colleagfue in the service, a good-natured but rather limited person. He went abroad two years ago, and till now has not written to me once. Here is his letter. — N.B. He is very good-looking.

• Cher Alexis, — I ^m in Naples, sitting at

the window in my room, in Chiaja. The weather is superb. I have been staring a long while at the sea, then 1 was seized with impa- tience, and suddenly the brilliant idea entered my head of writing a letter to you. I always felt drawn to you, my dear boy — on my honour I did. And so now I feel an inclina- tion to pour out my soul into your bosom . . . tiiat ’s how one expresses it, I believe, in your exadted language. And why I ’ve been over- come with impatience is this. 1 'm expecting a friend — a woman; we’re going together to Baiae to eat oysters and oranges, and see the tanned shepherds in red caps dance the taran- t&lla, to bask in the sun, like lizards — ^in short, to enjoy life to* the utmost My dear boy, I 309

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am more happy than I can possibly tell,you. If only I had your style — oh ! what a picture I woulfl draw for you ! But unfortunately, as you are aware, I ’m an illiterate person. The woman I am expecting, and who has kept me now more than a hour continually startihg and looking at the door, loves me — but how I love her I fancy even your fluent pen could not describe.

‘ I must tell you that it is three months since I got to know her, and from the very first day of our acquaintance my love mounts continu- ally crescendo, like a qhromatic scale, higher and higher, and at the present moment I am simply in the seventh heaven. I jest, but in reality my devotion to this woman is some- thing extraordinary, supernatural Fancy, I scarcely talk to her, I can do nothing but steure at her, and laugh like a fool I sit at her feet, I feel that I ’m awfully silly and happy, simply inexcusably happy. It sometimes happens that she lays her hand on my head. . . . Well, I tell you, simply . . . But there, you can’t understand it ; you *re a philosopher and always were a philosopher. Her name is Nina, Ninetta, as you like ; she ’s the daughter of a rich merchant here. Fine as any of your Raphaels ; fiery as g:unpowde^ gay, so clevw that it’s amazing how she can care for a 310

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fobl^like 'me ; she sings like a bird, and her eyes . . .

‘ Please excuse this unintentional bre«k. . . . I fancied, the door creaked. . . . No, she’s not coming yet, the heartless wretch! You will ask me how all this is going to end, and what I intend to do with myself, and whether I shall stay here long ? I know nothing about it, my boy, and I don’t want to. What will be, will be. . . . Why, if one were to be for ever stop- ping and considering . . .

‘She! . . . she’s running up the staircase, singing. . . . She is here. Well, my boy, good-bye. ... I ’ve no time for you now, I ’m so sorry. She has bespattered the whole letter ; she slapped a wet nosegay down on the paper. For the first moment, she thought I was writing to a woman ; when she knew that it was to a friend, she told me to send her greetings, and ask you if you have any flowers, and whether they are sweet ? Weil, good-bye. . . . If you could hear her laughing. Silver can’t ring like it ; and the good-nature in every note of it — ^you want to kiss her little feet for it We are going, going. Don’t mind the untidy smudges, and envy yours, M.’

The letter was in fact bespattered all over, and smelt of*brangc-blossom . . . two white 311

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w

petals had stuck to the paper. Iliis letter has agitated me. ... I remember my stay in Naples^ . . . The weather was magnificent then too — May was just beginning ; { had just reached twenty-two ; but I knew no Ninetta. I sauntered about alone, consumed with a thirst fof bliss, at once torturing and sweet, so sweet that it was, as it were, like bliss itself. . . . Ah, what is it to be young ! . . . I remember I went out once for a rowjjn the bay. There were two of us; the boatman and I . . . what did you imagine ? What a night it was, and what a sky, what stars, how they quivered and broke on the waves! with what delicate flame the water flashed and glimmered under the oars, what delicious fragrance filled the whole sea — I cannot describe this, ‘ eloquent ’ though my style may be. In the harbour was a French ship of the line. It was all red with lights; long streaks of red, the reflection of the lighted windows, stretched over the dark sea. The captain of the ship was giving a ball. The gay music floated across to me in snatches at long intervals. I recall in particular the trill of a little flute in the midst of the deep blare of the trumpets ; it seemed to flit, like a butterfly, about my boat. I bade the man row to the ship ; twice he topk me round it I caught glimpses at windows of 312 •

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women*s*figures, borne gaily round in the whirl- wind of the waltz. ... I told the boatman to row away, far away, straight into the darkness. ... I remember a “long while the music per- sistently pursued me. ... At last the sounds died away. I stood up in the boat, and in the dumb agony of desire stretched out my arms to the sea. ... Oh ! how my heart ached at that moment! How bitter was my loneliness to me ! With what rapture would I have aban- doned myself utterly then, utterly . . . utterly, if there had been any one to abandon myself to 1 With what a bitter emotion in my soul I flung myself down in the oottom of the boat and, like Repetilov, asked to be taken anywhere, anywhere away I But my friend here has experienced nothing like that. And why should he ? He has managed things far more wisely than I. He is living , . . while I . . . He may well call me a philosopher. . . , Strange ! they call you a philosopher too. . , . What has brought this calamity on both of us? •

I am not living. . . . But who is to blame for that ? Why am I staying on here, in Peters- burg? what am I doing here? why am I wearing away day after day ? why don*t I go into the country? What is amiss with our steppes? has fiot one free breathing space in ♦ 3*3

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them? is one cramped in them? A strajige craze to pursue dreams, when happiness is perhaps«within reach I Resolved ! I am going, going to-morrow, if I can. I am going; home — that is, to you, — it’s just the .same; we’re only twenty versts from one another. ’Why, after all, grow stale here! And how was it this idea did not strike me sooner? Dear Marya Alexandrovna, we shall soon see each other. It’s extraordinary, though, that this idea never entered my head before I I ought to have gone long, long ago. Good-bye till we meet, Marya Alexan(^vna.

I purposely gave myself twenty-four hours for reflection, and am now absolutely convinced that I have no reason to stay here. The dust in the streets is so penetrating that my eyes are bad. To-day I am beginning to pack, the day after to-morrow I shall most likely start, and within ten days I shall have the pleasure of seeing you. 1 trust you will welcome me as in old da^a By the way, your sister is still staying at your aunt’s, isn’t she ?

Marya Alexandrovna, let me press your hand warmly, and say from my heart, Good-bye* till we meet 1 had been gettU^g ready to go 3*4 *

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aw%y, but that letter has hastened my project. Supposing the letter proves nothing, suppos- ing even Ninetta would not please ftny one else, me<for instance, still I am going; that’s decided now. Till we meet, yours,

A. S.

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xin

FROM ftARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH '

Village of X i6, 1840,

You are coming here, Alexey Petrovitch, you will soon be with us, eh ? I will not con- ceal from you that this news both rejoices and disturbs me. . . , How shall we meet? Will the spiritual tie persist which, as it seems to me, has sprung up between us ? Will it not be broken by our meeting ? , I don't know ; I feel somehow afraid. I will not answer your last letter, though I could say much ; I am putting it all off till our meeting. My mother is very much pleased at your coming. . . . She knew I was corresponding with you. The weather is delicious ; we will go a great many walks, and I will show you some new places I have discovered. ... I especially like one long, narrow valley ; it lies between hillsides covered with forest ... It seems to be hiding in their windings. A little brook courses through it, scarcely seemitig to move through the thibk grass and flowers. . . . You shall see. Come : perhaps you will not be bored.

M. B.

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P.S.—l think you will not see my sister; she is still staying at my aunt’s. I fancy (but this is between ourselves) she is going to marry a very agreeable young man — an officer. Why did you send me that letter from Naples? Life here cannot help seeming dingy and poor in contrast with that luxuriance and splendour. But Mademoiselle Ninetta is wrong; flowers grow and smell sweet — ^with us too.

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XIV

FROM ftARYA ALEXANDROVNA TO ALEXEY PETROVITCH

Village of X ^January 1641.

I have written to you several times, Alexey Petrovitch . . . you have not answered. Are you living ? Or perhaps you are tired of our correspondence ; perhaps you have found your- self some diversion more agreeable than what can be afforded for you by the letters of a pro- vincial young lady. Yoy remembered me, it is easy to see, simply from want of anything better to do. If that ’s so, I wish you all happi- ness. . If you do not even now answer me, I will not trouble you further. It only remains for me to regret my indiscretion in having allowed myself to be agitated for nothing, in having held out a hand to a friend, and having come for one minute out of my lonely comer.

I must remain in it for ever, must lock myself up — that is my apportioned lot, tha lot of all old maids. I ought to accustom myself to this idea. It’s useless to come out into the light of day, needless to wish for fresh air, when the lungs cannot bear it By the way, we are now hemmed in all round 1^ deadly drifts of snow. ‘ For the future I will be wise*? . . . People

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do^’t die* of dreariness ; but of misery, perhaps, one might perish. If I am wrong, prove it to me. But I fancy I am not wrong. *10 any case, goqd-bye. I wish you all happiness.

M. B.

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XV

FROM ALEXEY PETROVITCII TO MARYA ALEXANDROVNA

Dresden, Si^te»iber\i/\2,

I am writing to you, my dear Marya Alex- atidrovna, and I am writing only because I do not want to die without saying good-bye to you, without recalling myself to your memory, I am given up by the doctors . . . and I feel myself that my life is ebbing away. On my table stands a rose: before it withers, I shall be no more. This comparison is not, however, altogether an apt one. A rose is far more interesting than I.

I am, as you see, abroad. It is now six months since I have been in Dresden. I re- ceived your last letters — I am ashamed to confess— more than a year ago. I lost some of them and never answered them. ... I will tell you directly why. But it seems you were always dear to me ; to no one but you have I any wish to say good-bye, an^ perhaps I have no one else to take leave of.

Soon after my last letter to you (I was on the very point of going dovpn to your neigh- bourho^, and had made various plans in advance) an incident occurred iwch had, one 320

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truly say, a great influence on my fate, so great an influence that here I am dying, thanks to that incident. I went to th« theatre to see a leaflet 1 never cared for ballets ; and for every sort of actress, singer, and dancer I had ahvays had a secret feeling of repulsion. . . . But it is clear there 's no changing one 's fate, and no one knows himself, and one cannot foresee the future. In reality, in life it ’s only the unexpected that happens, and we do nothing in a whole lifetime but accommodate ourselves to facts. . . . But I seem to be ram* bling off into philosophising again. An old habit 1 In briefi I fel! in love with a dancing- girl.

This was the more curious as one could not even call her a beauty. It is true she had marvellous hair of ashen gold colour, and great clear eyes, with a dreamy, and at the same time daring, look in them. . . . Could I fail to know the expression of those eyes ? For a whole year I was pining and swooning in the light — of them I She was splendidly well- made, and when she danced her national dance the audien^ would stamp and shout with delight . . . But, I fancy, no one but I fell in love with her, — at least, no one was in love with her as I was. From the very minute when I saw Hfer for the first time (would you X 321

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believe it, I have only to close my eyes, and at once the theatre is before me, the almost empty stage, representing t^e heart of a forest, and she running in from the wing on t^e right, with a wreath of vine on her head and a tiger- skin over her shoulders) — from thatf* fatal moment I have belonged to her utterly, just as a dog belongs to its master ; and if, now that I am dying, I do not belong to her, it is only because she has cast me off.

To tell the truth, she never troubled herself particularly about me. She scarcely noticed me, though she was very good-natured in making use of my money. I was for her, as she expressed it in her broken French, ‘oun Rousso, boun enfant,’ and nothing more. But I ... I could not live where she was not living; I tore myself away once for all from everything dear to me, from my country even, and followed that woman.

You will suppose, perhaps, that she had brains. Not in the least! One had only to glance at her low brow, one needed only one glimpse of her lazy, careless smile, to feel certain at once of the scantiness of her* in- tellectual endowments. And 1 never imagined her to be an exceptional woman. In fact, I never for one instant deceived myself about* her. But that was of no avail fe me. What-

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ever I ftiought of her in her absence, in her presence I felt nothing but slavish adoration. ... In German fairy-tales, the knights often fall under such an enchantment. I could not take my eyes off her features, I could never tire o? listening to her talk, of admiring all her gestures ; I positively drew my breath as she breathed. However, she was good-natured, unconstrained — too unconstrained indeed, — did not give herself airs, as actresses generally do. There was a lot of life in her — that is, a lot of blood, that splendid southern blood, into which the sun of those parts must have infused some of its beams. §he slept nine hours out of the twenty-four, enjoyed her dinner, never read a single line of print, except, perhaps, the newspaper articles in which she was men- tioned ; and almost the only tender feeling in her life was her devotion to il Signore Carlino, a greedy little Italian, who waited on her in the capacity of secretary, and whom, later on, she married. And such a woman I could fall m love with— I, a man, versed in all sorts of intellectual subtleties, and no longer ^young! . . . Who could have anticipated it? I, at least, never anticipated it. I never anti- cipated the part 1 was to play. I never antici- 'pated that I should come to hanging about rehearsals, waRting, bored and frozeUi behind

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the scenes, breathing in the smut aAd grime of the theatre, making friends with all sort^ of utterly unpresentable persons. . . . Making friends, did I say? — cringing slavishly upon them. I never anticipated that I should carry a ballet-dancer’s shawl^ buy her her new gloves, clean her old ones with bread-crumbs (I did even that, alas I ), carry home her bouquets, hang about the offices of journalists and editors, waste my substance, give serenades, catch colds, wear myself out. ... I never ex- pected in a little German town to receive the jeering nickname ‘ der Kunst-barbar.’ . . And all this for nothing, in tfie fullest sense of the word, for nothing. That 's just it ... Do you remember how we used, in talk and by letter, to reason together about love and indulge in all sort of subtleties? But in actual life it turns out that real love is a feeling utterly unlike what we pictured to ourselves. Love, indeed, is not a feeling at all, it’s a malady, a certain condition of soul and body. It does not develop gradually. Qne cannot doubt about it, one cannot outwit it, though it does not always come in the same way.. Usually it takes possession of a person without question, suddenly, against his will — for all ^ world like cholera or fever. ... It clutches* him, poor dear, as the hawk pihunces on the 3*4

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chicken, \nd bears him off at its will, however he struggles or resists. ... In love, there’s no equality, none of the so-called free union of souls, and such idealisms, concocted at their leisure by German professors. . . . No, in love, one peitson is slave, and the other master ; and well may the poets talk of the fetters put on by love. Yes, love is a fetter, and the heaviest to bear. At least I have come to this con- viction, and have come to it by the path of experience; I have bought this conviction at the cost of my life, since I am dying in my slavery.

What a life mine ifas been, if you think of it I In my first youth nothing would satisfy me but to take heaven by storm for myself,

. . . Then I fell to dreaming of the good of all humanity, of the good of my country. Then that passed too. 1 was thinking of nothing but making a home, family life for myself . . . and so tripped over an ant-heap — and plop, down into the grave. . . . Ah, we ’re great hands, we itussians, at making such a finish 1 But it ’s time to turn away from all that, it ’s .long been time I May this burden be loosened from off my soul together with life 1 I want, for the last time, if only for an instant, to enjoy

• the sweet and gentle feeling which is shed

like a soft ligHt within me, directly I think of 3»5

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you. Your image is now doubly p/ecious to me. . . . With it, rises up before me the image of my qpuntry, and I send to it and to you a farewell greeting. Live, live long and happily, and remember one thing : whether yoi^remain in the wilds of the steppes — where yoli have sometimes been so sorrowful, but where I should so like to spend my last days — or whether you enter upon a different career, remember life deceives all but him who does not reflect upon her, and, demanding nothing of her, accepts serenely her few gifts and serenely makes the most of them. Go forward while you can. But if your sti}iength fails you, sit by the wayside and watch those that pass by without anger or envy. They, too, have not far to go. In old days, I did not tell you this, but death will teach any one. Though who says what is life, what is truth ? Do you remember who it was made no reply to that question ? . . . Farewell, Marya Alexandrovna, farewell for the last time, and do not re- member evil against poor ^LEXEV.

Printed by T. and A. CoMSTanue, Printenho Hk Uajeety at the Edinburgh University