I marvel at finding in these two children of mine, my own unrest already
stirring, like a butterfly poised with quivering wings on the dawning
flower of their souls.
I went down alone into the garden and entered the grove, where the
sunshine only penetrates with mild rays of almost lunar whiteness. The
grass under my feet was studded with periwinkles, their prim, pert faces
lifted to the sky; tenuous ferns unfolded their embroidered scrolls, and
masses of gentle wild violets, conscious of their pallor and their
scentlessness, drooped shyly in the shade.
In the branches overhead wild hidden birds tried their new springtide
voices in soft modulations and trills, or in long-drawn contralto notes
of liquescent sweetness. Thus April spoke to me in gentle voices. With a
sudden overwhelming longing to be nearer to the very soul of spring, I
knelt on the grass and buried my face in the cool leaves and blossoms,
bidding my heart be pure and cool as they.
On my homeward way I passed the targets. The servants had put everything
in order--pistols, rifles and cartridges; and a fresh row of bottles
seemed to await with glassy eye the shots of the amateur marksmen. With
a deep sense of humiliation I remembered the feverish agitations of the
previous day, and once more I said to myself: "Henceforward may my life
be serene and pure."
A gay voice rang out close behind me, and startled me from my reverie.
"Lady Marie, good morrow!" It was Bozevsky, who, clicking his spurred
heels together, saluted me with a radiant smile. His morning canter
seemed to have given him an added touch of beauty and of daring; his
fair hair gleamed in the sunshine, his smile was reckless and
resplendent.
I bowed without speaking and attempted to pursue my way to the house,
but he took my hand and detained me.
"Why go in? Everybody is still asleep. Come now," he urged, with a frank
engaging smile, "stay here for awhile and practise at the targets."
So saying he chose a rifle and loaded it. Then he held it out to me. I
took it from him and put it to my shoulder. I aimed carefully and was
about to press the trigger when suddenly Bozevsky, with a lightning
movement, put out his hand and pressed his palm against the muzzle of my
gun.
"Wait!" he cried, with a wild, extravagant laugh. "Wait a moment! Before
you press the trigger I want you to say--'Alexis, I love you!'"
"You are mad!" I exclaimed. "Take away your hand!"
"No. First you must say--'Alexis, I love you.'"
I felt a hot flush rise to my brow. "Take away your hand!" I repeated
and looked steadily at him.
He did not move.
"Take it away, I implore you!"
Still he never moved, and I could see that hand stopping the muzzle of
my gun--a long, slender hand with fingers separate and outstretched, and
I felt almost as if I were under the influence of some hallucination. It
was not only _his_ hand that I saw--I seemed in a kind of frenzy to see
the hands of all men outstretched before me, ready to grasp me, to crush
me, to beat me down. Doubtless a wave of madness swept over me; a
convulsive spasm shook my wrist--and the gun went off. I saw the long,
lithe hand drop like some wounded creature.
With a cry I let the rifle fall, and covered my face. But Bozevsky had
sprung upon me, and with his other hand seized both mine and pressed
them down. He was as white as death. "You little tigress," he gasped.
Then, as I was about to cry out again, he covered my mouth with his
shattered hand, and I felt the blood gush over my face.
What distant heritage of madness broke upon us at that moment? What
primitive frenzy lashed us together in a fierce embrace? I cannot tell.
All I know is that from that hour I was his--tamed, vanquished, broken in
spirit, and yet glad. He was the first, the last, the only lover of my
devastated youth, and by his side the brief springtime of my happiness
flowered and died. When the fearful death that was so soon to lay him
low came upon him, when I saw him fall at my feet shot by Vassili--my
reason gave way. The rest of my life lies behind me like a somber
nightmare landscape, through which I wander, groping in the dark,
stumbling forward on my way to perdition....
Yet sometimes I dream that it is all not true, that he still lives, that
one day the door of my cell will open, and the lover of my youth appear
to me again. I shall see him standing on the threshold, a halo of
sunshine lighting his fair hair, like some young martyr-saint come to
deliver me from my bondage. The hand I wounded will be filled with
roses, and his clear voice will call me by my name.
Then rising from this gloomy prison bench I shall move to meet him.
Shame and crime and captivity will fall away from me like a dark and
worn-out cloak.
Free and fair as in those distant April days in which he loved me, with
white, winged footsteps I shall follow him.