they very much troubled her. Even putting aside snakes and mad dogs,
there was no knowing where she might lose herself or who she might
meet.... In the mountains musicians roamed about and beggars as
well.... So that mamma was partly glad when Vava made some friends
and acquaintances for herself. And although these acquaintances were
not such as she would have chosen for herself or Mimotchka, anyhow it
Was better than Vava's being alone. First of all, at the gymnastics,
Vava made acquaintance with some children, then with their nurses,
governesses, and relations, and before three weeks had elapsed she
was united in bonds of the tenderest friendship with a young girl who
had just finished her studies as pupil in the institution,[12] with a
youth, the brother of the young girl, with a governess, with a little
Moscow doctor and his wife, and with a student, the tutor of the
actress Morozoffs ten-year-old boy.
[12] Government establishments for the education of young girls,
daughters of gentlemen.
They formed a little circle of their own, walked together, made
excursions in the mountains and environs, lent each other books, talked
and argued.... Vava was in ecstasies over her new acquaintances.
Of course they were not quite Washingtons, but still they were
thoroughly nice, good people, and how different from her Petersburg
acquaintances! They did not ridicule anyone, were not proud of
anything, they were severe to themselves and indulgent to others,
they did not talk scandal, but occupied themselves with their own
affairs.... They not only thought as she did about everything, but
they had ideas and views of their own besides, which were new to her
and awoke a host of fresh thoughts in her. This overjoyed her. Now she
heard and read about all kinds of things--and there was somebody for
her to share her impressions with too.
They were delightful people, and ever so much better than she was....
She was particularly fond of the governess: she was so intelligent, so
patient and just.... Vava was not worth her little finger.
Of her home and mother Vava never spoke to her new acquaintances. She
would have thought it mean to complain or to try and interest them
in her troubles. But, judging from their general opinions and other
examples, she saw that from their point of view she was right in not
liking the kind of life her family led and in wishing for something
different. But for the present she must submit and wait, and afterwards
she would be able to arrange her life as she wanted to.
And, thinking of how, some day in the future, she would arrange her
life, Vava was particularly fascinated by one idea. She had found her
mission, imagined a work after her own heart, found an object in life
that was really worthy, interesting, and absorbing.
She could never live as Zina lived. If she had possessed some talent
she would have lived for that, but she had no talents whatever, so
this is what she would do. As soon as she was twenty-five, and everyone
could see that she was going to be an old maid, then she would ask to
be given her own money. And with this money she would open a home for
children who had been forsaken by their parents. And she would take
into her home all the poor, forsaken, lost, destitute children.... She
would take care of them and she would have many, many children, first
a hundred, then two hundred, and so on, more and more. And she herself
would bathe and dry them, and dress them, and put them to bed, and
teach them to walk and talk, read and think, love and forgive....
In her imagination Vava already saw her rooms, full of children's
cots of dazzling whiteness, and in them the children, pretty, little,
tender, helpless children.... They went to sleep, they awoke and
smiled, and screamed, and cried, and called her "Mamma!" And she loved
them all, every one of them.... Some were healthy, handsome, and
lively, and she was justly proud of them; others, poor, weakly, and
crippled, and she was tender and pitiful to them.... And she loved all
of them, yes, all.... Then they grew up and their characters developed.
They helped her to educate the little ones as they came in. They
laboured and studied and developed.... And now they became the Gracchi
and the William Tells that she had been looking for.... And they
entered upon life's work while she, old and grey, followed after them
ready to bless or console....
If only she could soon be twenty-five! She would reach that age some
day. Mimotchka had already reached it. And meanwhile she must study and
prepare herself, and above all, correct herself and attain a proper
equilibrium of mind. With her character it would be difficult. But what
of that? She would strive hard with herself. And then the work itself
would give her strength. She would have helpers too. She would take
into her home young girls, portionless, good young girls, and make them
so happy that they would not feel their position irksome. Then she
would take old women, like those that go into almshouses, old and poor.
They could be the nurses. She did not want any Swedish gymnastics or
English _bonnes;_ everything would be on the simplest footing, without
any pretensions or nonsense. And then, and then....
And her castles in the air so inspirited Vava that she got stronger
every day, and wrote her mother the most affectionate and respectful
letters, and was so attentive to her aunt that the good lady became
really attached to her, and often said, "Décidément Julie est une
personne de beaucoup d'esprit, mais elle manque de cœur."
At first Doctor Variashski had paid Mimotchka a great deal of
attention. He walked with her, sat by her at the music, rode on
horseback with her, and came to tea with them several times, but he
soon got tired of it. Mamma wearied him with her perpetual chatter,
besides which Mimotchka herself was so unamusing and difficult to get
on with.
She, on her side, was quite disillusioned with the doctor, whom she
had liked so much at first. Mimotchka was spoilt and pampered, and
accustomed to everything being done for her happiness and pleasure,
while the doctor was dreadfully selfish and only thought of himself.
For instance, he rode on horseback with her, and trotted the whole
time (because it was good for his health). And what a state she was in,
poor thing! And once, too, when she had only just drank her koumiss,
her habit bodice felt so tight, and she endured such dreadful torments
that she even cried when she got home. And mamma, while rubbing her
side and counting out fifteen drops of valerian for her to take,
thought, "What pigs those men are" (mamma sometimes used rather vulgar
expressions to herself). "They go galloping on for their own pleasure,
and never remember that the poor thing isn't strong. And he a doctor,
too!"
But what made mamma more indignant then anything with Doctor
Variashski, was that she heard he was completely captivated by the
charms of his neighbour and patient, Mdme. Tchereshneff. Mdme.
Tchereshneff was a widow of thirty-four, who had come to the springs
with her son, a boy of six, and his nurse. She occupied rooms next door
to Variashski, and their balconies touched. She wore pretty toilettes,
and in general was interesting and elegant-looking. All this mamma
learnt from Mdlle. Kossovitch.
Soon she was able to assure herself with her own eyes of the truth of
this information. Variashski walked with Mdme. Tchereshneff, he rode
with her and went out shooting eagles with her (yes, she went out
shooting--that showed what sort of woman she was!), he went to tea
with her, played with her boy, in fact, they were hardly ever apart.
This made our ladies very, very much cooler towards Variashski. Of
course mamma did not in the least wish him to compromise her daughter
in the way he was compromising Mdme. Tchereshneff. But then he
would never dare to. Mimotchka and Mdme. Tchereshneff were two quite
different people. Mimotchka might have admirers, but she must not be
talked about. And then to allow a doctor to pay you attention too,
a man to whom you would give ten roubles for a visit, and who you
could dismiss like a hairdresser. Mamma was really surprised at Mdme.
Tchereshneff!... If only Mimotchka had liked, of course, she could
have found something better.... Yes, if only she had wished it, the
whole division would have been at her feet.... And princes besides!
But, a doctor.... A man whom you paid for his visits!... And mamma had
thought him such a serious, respectable man!... Certainly he was no
longer very young. And to spend whole days at Mdme. Tchereshneff's; _à
son âge!_ ... It was evidently true what Doctor Shavronski said about
Variashski's going out in a fez and with a pipe in his mouth, followed
by a train of eight ladies, who were all in love with him.... What
things one does hear and see!... And Doctor Variashski's proceedings
so cooled mamma's and Mimotchka's feelings towards him that it was
positively decided to pay him a hundred roubles and not a hundred
and fifty. Mamma had even ceased believing in him as if he were the
Almighty.
Kislovodsk was preparing for the season. The prices in the hotels had
already gone up in expectation of the invalids who were making cures
in other places and had to come on here to finish off, and for a rest
after the strictness of the _régime._
"Kislovodsk," says Lermontoff, "is the scene of the _dénouement_ of
all the love stories begun at the foot of Beshtau, Mashouka, and
Jeleznaia."
Here, in general, accounts are wound up, intrigues unravelled, and
deceptions unmasked; doctors count over their fees, and the invalids
prove their newly acquired health; in a word, here, in the Narzan-laden
atmosphere, the grand finale of the watering season is played out.
Kislovodsk was preparing for the season. And meanwhile, in the other
stations, all kinds of love affairs were beginning and developing, and
would be wound up at Kislovodsk. Widows suffering from _ennui,_ wives
separated from their husbands, dissatisfied wives, giddy, volatile,
sentimental old maids, and would-be brides--all these swarmed and
crowded at the Jeleznovodsk springs, and, having drawn from them fresh
health and courage, threw out lines and nets right and left. And
fishes, both large and small, nibbled and were entangled in them.
And so the day came when Doctor Ivanoff's first three patients migrated
from Jeleznovodsk to Kislovodsk, and Doctor Grazianski's seven patients
moved over from Piatigorsk to Jeleznovodsk, where the season was at its
full height. The invalids had got better, they had made acquaintance
with each other, and were well amused as they let themselves be drawn
into the usual idle, though frivolously busy, watering-place life. The
evenings got darker, the stars brighter, and the storms more frequent.
Mimotchka was not dull. She had got even prettier, and was looking
blooming. She hadn't any flirtation going on, oh no! Did her heart beat
too calmly, or was all around her unworthy of passion? Neither one nor
the other. Simply she was too well brought up for any deviation from
the path of duty. And although all around her, under her very eyes,
couples met, smiled, and flirted, although she was surrounded by an
atmosphere of love-making, Mimotchka was perfectly cool and calm. What
were all these bakers' and farmers' wives to her? What did she care
about all these people that swarmed and crawled on the grass under
the sun's rays like beetles and grasshoppers? They might live as they
liked, she would live as she "ought." And, proud in the knowledge of
her irreproachableness and inaccessibility, Mimotchka, young, fresh,
and pretty, tripped lightly and gracefully through the green alleys,
without paying the slightest attention either to the approving and
admiring glances directed at her, or to the meetings with _him,_ with
_l'homme au chien_ (although he had grown ever so much handsomer!).
No, Mimotchka had not the least shade of a flirtation, and, together
with mamma, made fun of their neighbour on the adjoining balcony,
a young widow from Smolensk, who, although she was still wearing
mourning, said to her acquaintances, "Yes, I am not against a
flirtation, only I don't want to take the initiative." And when, soon
after, a young officer of the line[13] took to visiting her, mamma
called him "the officer with the initiative." And what a nuisance
he was to them! He spat and coughed and smoked cigarette after
cigarette, and the worst possible cigarettes too, while the widow, in a
languishing voice, sang about
"The night, and love, and the moon."
[13] Officers of the line rank lower in social position than officers
of the guards.
Mamma used to listen to their conversations; the balconies were only
divided by a canvas partition.
"Haven't you anything to read to me?" asked the widow; "it's so dull.
Lend me some book, only not a love story, please.... Are there any such
books?"
"Of course there are. Have you read any of Gleb Ouspensky's[14] books?"
"Gleb? No. Are they good?"
"Well, you must read them. I'll bring them to you."
"Bring them; yes, do bring them."
And they read Gleb Ouspensky together, afterwards they read
Schopenhauer. And mamma, sitting with her work on her own balcony,
laughed to herself, thinking, "Read on, read on; evidently, tout chemin
mène à Rome."
[14] A realistic author, who chiefly wrote sketches of peasant life.
When the officer was tired of reading he put the book down on the table
and lit a cigarette.
"How true, how true it all is!" said the widow, gazing pensively
towards Beshtau. "I look on life just as Schopenhauer does. There is
nothing that can bear being analysed without being dispersed like
smoke. Truly, life is not worth living."
"Yes, certainly life is a pretty considerable muddle. But still, for
all that, why not try and live without analysing and reflecting about
everything?"
"No, once you know that life is worthless, it's not worth while living."
"No, it's worth trying just for the sake of being convinced."
"But if you know beforehand it's not worth while?"
"But why isn't it worth while? Why, Schopenhauer himself went through
it all before writing about it."
"But then, what sort of a life did he live? Well, yes, he found out
that everything is falsehood, fancy, and vanity, that we deceive
ourselves. And we all come to the same conclusion. Is it worth while
wasting strength to come to a result already known, even though it be
only known from books?"
"Well, you take a very high-flown view. I look on things much more
simply."
"Why are we wasting the time in talking? Go oh reading, go on!" ...
Of course this was all very ridiculous, and Mimotchka would never have
allowed herself to be as silly as the widow. Peuh! She felt so happy
and bright, and yet without any love-making whatever. An officer of
her husband's division rode with her and introduced his friends to
her. They all admired and liked her. She could easily have got to
know _l'homme au chien._ But she herself did not wish to. After all,
what was the good of it? Mimotchka, like Vava, chiefly delighted in
the feeling of her freedom, and in the absence of all restraint and
guardianship. Here mamma did not bother her, and did not accompany
her on her walks. She would have liked to have done so, but the
burning Caucasian sun prevented her. Mamma could not stand heat. In
the morning, after seeing the young people off, and, like Providence,
arranging everything for their comfort, mamma, when they had gone,
closed the shutters, pulled down the blinds, and, having made it dark
and cool, lay down on her bed with a book. In thought she was, of
course, with her poor, sick children, who were broiling in the sun. She
felt quite comfortable about Mimotchka, but Vava gave her considerable
uneasiness. Vava was like fire, so impulsive, so impressionable (those
slim girls were always so _passionnées,_) and here, besides, there was
something in the very air of the place, the burning sun.... And yet
Vava was so bright, so nice, so much improved in her looks, and so
contented with everything.... Supposing there was some secret reason
for all this.
And mamma got frightened, very much frightened. And in the stillness of
the night, more than once, the images of the student and the military
cadet flew over her pillowed head like two demons come to trouble her
sleep and disturb her rest. After much consideration and preparation
mamma tried to caution Vava. Vava only answered her warnings with a
look, but such a look that mamma's soul sunk into her shoes, and
she inwardly determined never again to revert to the subject. In
order to quiet her conscience, however, and relieve herself of all
responsibility towards Julia, she called the maid Katia, and ordered
her to look strictly after her young lady and let her know with whom
she walked, where she went, and whether she was ever alone with anyone.
And Katia, after having ironed Mimotchka's petticoats and laid out
everything that would be required for the evening, went out into the
park, with the firm intention of looking after her young lady. But
as her young lady was very much on the move, and running after her
was very tiring, Katia wisely sat down on a bench under the shade of
a spreading tree, which Vava must certainly pass on her way home to
dinner, and sat there watching the people going by.
Opposite the bench, on a little eminence, stood some hawkers with glass
cases, an Italian selling corals and mosaics, and some Armenians with
Caucasian wares. Among them was a small Armenian with cunning little
eyes, an enormous nose, and a high black cap. And standing by his
glass case, in which were displayed Caucasian turquoises and oxidised
silver things, belts, daggers, brooches, and pins, all bearing the
inscription, "Kavkas, Kavkas, Kavkas," he looked at Katia so knowingly
and so expressively, just as if he knew how she was deceiving her
mistress.
Three days running Katia sat on the same bench, and the Armenian walked
round his wares and shot killing glances at her, while his eyes seemed
to grow still narrower and his nose still bigger. But Katia pretended
not to notice anything, and drew figures on the gravel with her
parasol. Then he spoke to her. She was passing him and looking across
at Beshtau, when he said, "How hot it is! Why do you go out walking at
this time? It's not pleasant walking now. The evening is the time for
going out. It's not hot in the evening; it's nice then." Katia still
pretended not to hear, and went up in the direction of the mountain,
coquettishly swinging her parasol. Then he began to bow to her. Then
Katia bowed in return, at first gravely, and afterwards with a smile.
Finally, he tried to persuade her to buy something.
"Your prices are too high," said Katia; "they're not for my pocket."
"But you must know them first, and then say.... I'll not ask too
high.... You look at the things and ask the prices."
So Katia began examining and choosing the things in his glass case.
In a week's time she already knew all the things in his show-case
by heart; she knew his name, how old he was, that he had a cousin in
Petersburg in a Caucasian wine-shop, and that he himself would also
come to Petersburg; she also heard all about Tiflis and Kislovodsk,
heard that it was a great deal pleasanter in the park in the evening
than in the daytime, and that it was so dark, so very dark! Katia
learnt all this, but as yet _she_ did not choose anything out of his
glass case, but postponed doing so until she got to Kislovodsk.
Meanwhile Vava, who had aroused such black suspicions in mamma's mind,
sat quietly at the gymnasium with her friend the governess, and, unable
to contain herself any longer, unfolded to her her project of a home
for destitute children. The governess sympathised with her idea, but
did not quite believe in the possibility of its realisation, and,
shaking her head, smiled incredulously.
"It's all very nice," she said, when Vava had finished, "but it will
never come to anything. You will marry and bring up your own children,
which will be a great deal better."
"In what way?"
"It will be more natural. It's impossible to love strange children like
your own."
"But they won't be strange children, because they will be mine almost
from the day of their birth."
"For all that, it's not the same. Of course I can't judge from my own
experience; but every one says so, and I think it must be so myself. A
strange child can never be the same as your own. I know it wouldn't be
to me."
"But I could love a strange child like my own.... How not to love
them? One pities them so, poor little forsaken, innocent things; and if
you love out of pity, you love better and stronger."
"No--anyhow there is something unnatural about it. I should understand
if you were unhappy, or had been disappointed in your own personal
happiness, then it would be all very well; but why imagine all this
when you have still the possibility of being happy?"
"Yes, but then I can only be happy in that way."
During this time Mimotchka was sitting by herself in the summer-house
by the Bishop's Palace, reading _La Grande Marnière._ Her reading did
not advance much. The book did not interest her, and she read over
the same page several times. In the summer-house, besides her, were
seated two priests and some nurses with children, and although their
conversation was uninteresting, still it amused her; and Mimotchka
did not care to move, because it was pleasanter and cooler here than
anywhere else.
The priests got up and, as they went out, knocked up against _l'homme
au chien,_ who was just entering the summer-house with his dog. The
young man walked up to the railings, and, resting his elbows on them,
gazed into the distance. Mimotchka became absorbed in her reading. The
nurses, after looking at the newcomer, resumed their conversation.
"Why are there so many priests here?"
"They've all got something or other the matter with them. Lenten fare
is bad for their insides. That's why they all drink this mud water.
It's a very good water, this muddy kind is. Our folks drink it." ...
"And ours, too, began by drinking it. But now they drink the
Bariatinski spring. Only my lady was too lazy to go herself in the
morning to the spring, and always sent me to fetch the muddy water for
her; and so I had to go, although it's a good way off. Now they drink
Bariatinski water."
"Then your lady is making a cure herself?"
"No--all our people are. The young lady, and the master, and the
mistress."
"And are they really ill, or is it only from too good living?"
"No, it's not exactly from too good living, but it's just as the Lord
sends it. The master isn't quite right in his head. Yes, at one time he
really was shut up in a madhouse. He threw himself into the water and
tried, so to say, to make away with himself. Well, now he's better.
Kousmitch cured him. Now he is able to go about by himself. He takes
the waters, too--and afterwards we shall go to the Crimea. Now there is
not much the matter with him...."
"Out of his mind? Why, what a dreadful thing!"
"Yes, indeed; Heaven preserve us from it! It was awful what we had to
put up with in the house! Kousmitch cured him, though."
"And your young lady--how about her?"
"Nothing much. She's a poor frightened thing, very thin, and has
pimples on her face. She's a quiet enough young lady; there's no harm
in her. We had a young man after her at one time--yes, a real one, a
military man, too, in a uniform.... Only he got hold of part of the
dowry in advance and went after someone else. And she fretted and
fretted--she's all right now--Kousmitch did her good."
"And your lady herself?"