More than three months had passed. Autumn had long since set in; the
yellow forests had grown bare, the tomtits had arrived, and--unfailing
sign of the near approach of winter--the wind had begun to howl and
wail. But there had been no heavy rains, as yet, and mud had not
succeeded in spreading itself over the roads. Taking advantage of this
circumstance, Vladímir Sergyéitch set out for the government capital,
for the purpose of winding up several matters of business. He spent the
morning in driving about, and in the evening went to the club. In the
vast, gloomy hall of the club he encountered several acquaintances, and,
among others, the old retired captain of cavalry Flitch, a busybody,
wit, gambler, and gossip, well known to every one. Vladímir Sergyéitch
entered into conversation with him.
“Ah, by the way!”--suddenly exclaimed the retired cavalry-captain; “an
acquaintance of yours passed through here the other day, and left her
compliments for you.”
“Who was she?”
“Madame Steltchínsky.”
“I don’t know any Madame Steltchínsky.”
“You knew her as a girl.... She was born Véretyeff.... Nadézhda
Alexyéevna. Her husband served our Governor. You must have seen him
also.... A lively man, with a moustache.... He’s hooked a splendid
woman, with money to boot.”
“You don’t say so,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“So she has married
him.... H’m! And where have they gone?”
“To Petersburg. She also bade me remind you of a certain bonbon
motto.... What sort of a motto was it, allow me to inquire?”
And the old gossip thrust forward his sharp nose.
“I don’t remember, really; some jest or other,”--returned Vladímir
Sergyéitch.--“But permit me to ask, where is her brother now?”
“Piótr? Well, he’s in a bad way.”
Mr. Flitch rolled up his small, foxy eyes, and heaved a sigh.
“Why, what’s the matter?”--asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“He has taken to dissipation! He’s a ruined man.”
“But where is he now?”
“It is absolutely unknown where he is. He went off somewhere or other
after a gipsy girl; that’s the most certain thing of all. He’s not in
this government, I’ll guarantee that.”
“And does old Ipátoff still live there?”
“Mikhaíl Nikoláitch? That eccentric old fellow? Yes, he still lives
there.”
“And is everything in his household ... as it used to be?”
“Certainly, certainly. Here now, why don’t you marry his sister-in-law?
She’s not a woman, you know, she’s simply a monument, really. Ha, ha!
People have already been talking among us ... ‘why,’ say they....”
“You don’t say so, sir,”--articulated Vladímir Sergyéitch, narrowing his
eyes.
At that moment, Flitch was invited to a cardgame, and the conversation
terminated.
Vladímir Sergyéitch had intended to return home promptly; but suddenly
he received by special messenger a report from the overseer, that six of
the peasants’ homesteads had burned down in Sásovo, and he decided to go
thither himself. The distance from the government capital to Sásovo was
reckoned at sixty versts. Vladímir Sergyéitch arrived toward evening at
the wing with which the reader is already acquainted, immediately gave
orders that the overseer and clerk should be summoned, scolded them both
in proper fashion, inspected the scene of the conflagration next
morning, took the necessary measures, and after dinner, after some
wavering, set off to visit Ipátoff. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have
remained at home, had he not heard from Flitch of Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s
departure; he did not wish to meet her; but he was not averse to taking
another look at Márya Pávlovna.
Vladímir Sergyéitch, as on the occasion of his first visit, found
Ipátoff busy at draughts with The Folding Soul. The old man was
delighted to see him; yet it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though his
face were troubled, and his speech did not flow freely and readily as of
old.
Vladímir Sergyéitch exchanged a silent glance with Iván Ílitch. Both
winced a little; but they speedily recovered their serenity.
“Are all your family well?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Yes, thank God, I thank you sincerely,”--replied Ipátoff.--“Only Márya
Pávlovna isn’t quite ... you know, she stays in her room most of the
time.”
“Has she caught cold?”
“No ... she just likes to. She will make her appearance at tea.”
“And Egór Kapítonitch? What is he doing?”
“Akh! Egór Kapítonitch is a dead man. His wife has died.”
“It cannot be!”
“She died in twenty-four hours, of cholera. You wouldn’t know him now,
he has become simply unrecognisable. ‘Without Matryóna Márkovna,’ he
says, ‘life is a burden to me. I shall die,’ he says, ‘and God be
thanked,’ he says; ‘I don’t wish to live,’ says he. Yes, he’s done for,
poor fellow.”
“Akh! good heavens, how unpleasant that is!”--exclaimed Vladímir
Sergyéitch.--“Poor Egór Kapítonitch!”
All were silent for a time.
“I hear that your pretty neighbour has married,”--remarked Vladímir
Sergyéitch, flushing faintly.
“Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Yes, she has.”
Ipátoff darted a sidelong glance at Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“Certainly ... certainly, she has married and gone away.”
“To Petersburg?”
“To St. Petersburg.”
“Márya Pávlovna must miss her, I think. I believe they were great
friends.”
“Of course she misses her. That cannot be avoided. But as for
friendship, I’ll just tell you, that the friendship of girls is even
worse than the friendship of men. So long as they are face to face, it’s
all right; but, otherwise, it vanishes.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes, by Heaven, ’tis so! Take Nadézhda Alexyéevna, for example. She
hasn’t written to us since she went away; but how she promised, even
vowed that she would! In truth, she’s in no mood for that now.”
“And has she been gone long?”
“Yes; it must be fully six weeks. She hurried off on the very day after
the wedding, foreign fashion.”
“I hear that her brother is no longer here, either?”--said Vladímir
Sergyéitch, after a brief pause.
“No; he is not. They are city folk, you see; as though they would live
long in the country!”
“And does no one know where he has gone?”
“No.”
“He just went into a rage, and--slap-bang on the ear,” remarked Iván
Ílitch.
“He just went into a rage, and--slap-bang on the ear,” repeated Ipátoff.
“Well, and how about yourself, Vladímir Sergyéitch,--what nice things
have you been doing?”--he added, wheeling round on his chair.
Vladímir Sergyéitch began to tell about himself; Ipátoff listened and
listened to him, and at last exclaimed:
“But why doesn’t Márya Pávlovna come? Thou hadst better go for her, Iván
Ílitch.”
Iván Ílitch left the room, and returning, reported that Márya Pávlovna
would be there directly.
“What’s the matter? Has she got a headache?”--inquired Ipátoff, in an
undertone.
“Yes,” replied Iván Ílitch.
The door opened, and Márya Pávlovna entered. Vladímir Sergyéitch rose,
bowed, and could not utter a word, so great was his amazement: so
changed was Márya Pávlovna since he had seen her the last time! The rosy
bloom had vanished from her emaciated cheeks; a broad black ring
encircled her eyes; her lips were bitterly compressed; her whole face,
impassive and dark, seemed to have become petrified.
She raised her eyes, and there was no spark in them.
“How do you feel now?” Ipátoff asked her.
“I am well,”--she replied; and sat down at the table, on which the
samovár was already bubbling.
Vladímir Sergyéitch was pretty thoroughly bored that evening. But no one
was in good spirits. The conversation persisted in taking a cheerless
turn.
“Just listen,”--said Ipátoff, among other things, as he lent an ear to
the howling of the wind;--“what notes it emits! The summer is long since
past; and here is autumn passing, too, and winter is at the door. Again
we shall be buried in snow-drifts. I hope the snow will fall very soon.
Otherwise, when you go out into the garden, melancholy descends upon
you.... Just as though there were some sort of a ruin there. The
branches of the trees clash together.... Yes, the fine days are over!”
“They are over,”--repeated Iván Ílitch.
Márya Pávlovna stared silently out of the window.
“God willing, they will return,”--remarked Ipátoff.
No one answered him.
“Do you remember how finely they sang songs here that time?”--said
Vladímir Sergyéitch.
“I should think they did,”--replied the old man, with a sigh.
“But you might sing to us,”--went on Vladímir Sergyéitch, turning to
Márya Pávlovna;--“you have such a fine voice.”
She did not answer him.
“And how is your mother?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch inquired of Ipátoff, not
knowing what to talk about.
“Thank God! she gets on nicely, considering her ailments. She came over
in her little carriage to-day. She’s a broken tree, I must tell
you--creak, creak, and the first you know, some young, strong sapling
falls over; but she goes on standing and standing. Ekh, ha, ha!”
Márya Pávlovna dropped her hands in her lap, and bowed her head.
“And, nevertheless, her existence is hard,”--began Ipátoff
again;--“rightly is it said: ‘old age is no joy.’”
“And there’s no joy in being young,”--said Márya Pávlovna, as though to
herself.
Vladímir Sergyéitch would have liked to return home that night, but it
was so dark out of doors that he could not make up his mind to set out.
He was assigned to the same chamber, up-stairs, in which, three months
previously, he had passed a troubled night, thanks to Egór
Kapítonitch....
“Does he snore now?”--thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he recalled his
drilling of his servant, and the sudden appearance of Márya Pávlovna in
the garden....
Vladímir Sergyéitch walked to the window, and laid his brow against the
cold glass. His own face gazed dimly at him from out of doors, as though
his eyes were riveted upon a black curtain, and it was only after a
considerable time that he was able to make out against the starless sky
the branches of the trees, writhing wildly in the gloom. They were
harassed by a turbulent wind.
Suddenly it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though something white had
flashed along the ground.... He gazed more intently, laughed, shrugged
his shoulders, and exclaiming in an undertone: “That’s what imagination
will do!” got into bed.
He fell asleep very soon; but he was not fated to pass a quiet night on
this occasion either. He was awakened by a running to and fro, which
arose in the house.... He raised his head from the pillow.... Agitated
voices, exclamations, hurried footsteps were audible, doors were
banging; now the sound of women weeping rang out, shouts were set up in
the garden, other cries farther off responded.... The uproar in the
house increased, and became more noisy with every moment.... “Fire!”
flashed through Vladímir Sergyéitch’s mind. In alarm he sprang from his
bed, and rushed to the window; but there was no redness in the sky;
only, in the garden, points of flame were moving briskly along the
paths,--caused by people running about with lanterns. Vladímir
Sergyéitch went quickly to the door, opened it, and ran directly into
Iván Ílitch. Pale, dishevelled, half-clothed, the latter was dashing
onward, without himself knowing whither.
“What is it? What has happened?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch,
excitedly, seizing him by the arm.
“She has disappeared; she has thrown herself into the water,”--replied
Iván Ílitch, in a choking voice.
“Who has thrown herself into the water? Who has disappeared?”
“Márya Pávlovna! Who else could it be but Márya Pávlovna? She has
perished, the darling! Help! Good heavens, let us run as fast as we can!
Be quick, my dear people!”
And Iván Ílitch rushed down the stairs.
Vladímir Sergyéitch put on his shoes somehow, threw his cloak over his
shoulders, and ran after him.
In the house he no longer encountered any one, all had hastened out into
the garden; only the little girls, Ipátoff’s daughters, met him in the
corridor, near the anteroom; deadly pale with terror, they stood there
in their little white petticoats, with clasped hands and bare feet,
beside a night-lamp set on the floor. Through the drawing-room, past an
overturned table, flew Vladímir Sergyéitch to the terrace. Through the
grove, in the direction of the dam, light and shadows were flashing....
“Go for boat-hooks! Go for boat-hooks as quickly as
possible!”--Ipátoff’s voice could be heard shouting.
“A net, a net, a boat!”--shouted other voices.
Vladímir Sergyéitch ran in the direction of the shouts. He found Ipátoff
on the shore of the pond; a lantern hung on a bough brilliantly
illuminated the old man’s grey head. He was wringing his hands, and
reeling like a drunken man; by his side, a woman lay writhing and
sobbing on the grass; round about men were bustling. Iván Ílitch had
already advanced into the water up to his knees, and was feeling the
bottom with a pole; a coachman was undressing, trembling all over as he
did so; two men were dragging a boat along the shore; a sharp trampling
of hoofs was audible along the village street.... The wind swept past
with a shriek, as though endeavouring to quench the lantern, while the
pond plashed noisily, darkling in a menacing way....
“What do I hear?”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, rushing up to
Ipátoff.--“Is it possible?”
“The boat-hooks--fetch the boat-hooks!”--moaned the old man by way of
reply to him....
“But good gracious, perhaps you are mistaken, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch....”
“No, mistaken indeed!”--said the woman who was lying on the grass, Márya
Pávlovna’s maid, in a tearful voice. “Unlucky creature that I am, I
heard her myself, the darling, throw herself into the water, and
struggling in the water, and screaming: ‘Save me!’ and then, once more:
‘Save me!’”
“Why didn’t you prevent her, pray?”
“But how was I to prevent her, dear little father, my lord? Why, when I
discovered it, she was no longer in her room, but my heart had a
foreboding, you know; these last days she has been so sad all the time,
and has said nothing; so I knew how it was, and rushed straight into the
garden, just as though some one had made me do it; and suddenly I heard
something go splash! into the water: ‘Save me!’ I heard the cry: ‘Save
me!’... Okh, my darling, light of my eyes!”
“But perhaps it only seemed so to thee!”
“Seemed so, forsooth! But where is she? what has become of her?”
“So that is what looked white to me in the gloom,” thought Vladímir
Sergyéitch....
In the meanwhile, men had run up with boat-hooks, dragged thither a net,
and begun to spread it out on the grass, a great throng of people had
assembled, a commotion had arisen, and a jostling ... the coachman
seized one boat-hook, the village elder seized another, both sprang into
the boat, put off, and set to searching the water with the hooks; the
people on the shore lighted them. Strange and dreadful did their
movements seem, and their shadows in the gloom, above the agitated pond,
in the dim and uncertain light of the lanterns.
“He ... here, the hook has caught!”--suddenly cried the coachman.
All stood stock-still where they were.
The coachman pulled the hook toward him, and bent over.... Something
horned and black slowly came to the surface....
“A tree-stump,”--said the coachman, pulling away the hook.
“But come back, come back!”--they shouted to him from the shore.--“Thou
wilt accomplish nothing with the hooks; thou must use the net.”
“Yes, yes, the net!”--chimed in others.
“Stop,”--said the elder;--“I’ve got hold of something also ... something
soft, apparently,”--he added, after a brief pause.
A white spot made its appearance alongside the boat....
“The young lady!”--suddenly shouted the elder.--“’Tis she!”
He was not mistaken.... The hook had caught Márya Pávlovna by the sleeve
of her gown. The coachman immediately seized her, dragged her out of the
water ... in a couple of powerful strokes the boat was at the shore....
Ipátoff, Iván Ílitch, Vladímir Sergyéitch, all rushed to Márya Pávlovna,
raised her up, bore her home in their arms, immediately undressed her,
and began to roll her, and warm her.... But all their efforts, their
exertions, proved vain.... Márya Pávlovna did not come to herself....
Life had already left her.
Early on the following morning, Vladímir Sergyéitch left Ipátovka;
before his departure, he went to bid farewell to the dead woman. She was
lying on the table in the drawing-room in a white gown.... Her thick
hair was not yet entirely dry, a sort of mournful surprise was expressed
on her pale face, which had not had time to grow distorted; her parted
lips seemed to be trying to speak, and ask something; ... her hands,
convulsively clasped, as though with grief, were pressed tight to her
breast.... But with whatever sorrowful thought the poor drowned girl had
perished, death had laid upon her the seal of its eternal silence and
peace ... and who understands what a dead face expresses during those
few moments when, for the last time, it meets the glance of the living
before it vanishes forever and is destroyed in the grave?
Vladímir Sergyéitch stood for a while in decorous meditation before the
body of Márya Pávlovna, crossed himself thrice, and left the room,
without having noticed Iván Ílitch who was weeping softly in one
corner.... And he was not the only one who wept that day: all the
servants in the house wept bitterly: Márya Pávlovna had left a good
memory behind her.
The following is what old Ipátoff wrote, a week later, in reply to a
letter which had come, at last, from Nadézhda Alexyéevna:
“One week ago, dear Madam, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, my unhappy
sister-in-law, your acquaintance, Márya Pávlovna, wilfully ended
her own life, by throwing herself by night into the pond, and we
have already committed her body to the earth. She decided upon this
sad and terrible deed, without having bidden me farewell, without
leaving even a letter or so much as a note, to declare her last
will.... But you know better than any one else, Nadézhda
Alexyéevna, on whose soul this great and deadly sin must fall! May
the Lord God judge your brother, for my sister-in-law could not
cease to love him, nor survive the separation....”
Nadézhda Alexyéevna received this letter in Italy, whither she had gone
with her husband, Count de Steltchínsky, as he was called in all the
hotels. He did not visit hotels alone, however; he was frequently seen
in gambling-houses, in the Kur-Saal at the baths.... At first he lost a
great deal of money, then he ceased to lose, and his face assumed a
peculiar expression, not precisely suspicious, nor yet precisely
insolent, like that which a man has who unexpectedly gets involved in
scandals.... He saw his wife rarely. But Nadézhda Alexyéevna did not
languish in his absence. She developed a passion for painting and the
fine arts. She associated chiefly with artists, and was fond of
discussing the beautiful with young men. Ipátoff’s letter grieved her
greatly, but did not prevent her going that same day to “the Dogs’
Cave,” to see how the poor animals suffocated when immersed in sulphur
fumes.
She did not go alone. She was escorted by divers cavaliers. Among their
number, a certain Mr. Popelin, an artist--a Frenchman, who had not
finished his course--with a small beard, and dressed in a checked
sack-coat, was the most agreeable. He sang the newest romances in a thin
tenor voice, made very free-and-easy jokes, and although he was gaunt of
form, yet he ate a very great deal.