It was already quite dark when the others returned from their walk.
Their clear, merry voices rang out through the soft dusk that veiled
the garden. Lida ran, flushed and laughing, to her mother. She brought
with her cool scents from the river that blended delightfully with the
fragrance of her own sweet youth and beauty which the companionship of
sympathetic admirers heightened and enhanced.
“Supper, mamma, let’s have supper!” she cried playfully dragging her
mother along. “Meanwhile Victor Sergejevitsch is going to sing
something to us.”
Maria Ivanovna, as she went out to get supper ready, thought to herself
that Fate could surely have nothing but happiness in store for so
beautiful and charming a girl as her darling Lida.
Sarudine and Tanaroff went to the piano in the drawing-room, while Lida
reclined lazily in the rocking-chair on the veranda. Novikoff, mute,
walked up and down on the creaking boards of the veranda floor,
furtively glancing at Lida’s face, at her firm, full bosom, at her
little feet shod in yellow shoes, and her dainty ankles. But she took
no heed of him nor of his glances, so enthralled was she by the might
and magic of a first passion. She shut her eyes, and smiled at her
thoughts.
In Novikoff’s soul there was the old strife; he loved Lida, yet he
could not be sure of her feelings towards himself. At times she loved
him, so he thought; and again, there were times when she did not. If he
thought ‘yes,’ how easy and pleasant it seemed for this young, pure,
supple body to surrender itself to him. If he thought ‘no,’ such an
idea was foul and detestable; he was angry at his own lust, deeming
himself vile, and unworthy of Lida.
At last be determined to be guided by chance.
“If I step on the last board with my right foot, then I’ve got to
propose; and if with the left, then—”
He dared not even think of what would happen in that case.
He trod on the last board with his left foot. It threw him into a cold
sweat; but he instantly reassured himself.
“Pshaw! What nonsense! I’m like some old woman! Now then; one, two,
three—at three I’ll go straight up to her, and speak. Yes, but what am
I going to say? No matter! Here goes! One, two, three! No, three times
over! One, two, three! One, two—”
His brain seemed on fire, his mouth grew parched, his heart beat so
violently that his knees shook.
“Don’t stamp like that!” exclaimed Lida, opening her eyes. “One can’t
hear anything.”
Only then was Novikoff aware that Sarudine was singing.
The young officer had chosen that old romance,
I loved you once! Can you forget?
Love in my heart is burning yet.
He did not sing badly, but after the style of untrained singers who
seek to give expression by exaggerated tone-colour. Novikoff found
nothing to please him in such a performance.
“What is that? One of his own compositions?” asked he, with unusual
bitterness.
“No! Don’t disturb us, please, but sit down!” said Lida, sharply. “And
if you don’t like music, go and look at the moon!”
Just then the moon, large, round and red, was rising above the black
tree-tops. Its soft evasive light touched the stone steps, and Lida’s
dress, and her pensive, smiling face. In the garden the shadows had
grown deeper; they were now sombre and profound as those of the forest.
Novikoff sighed, and then blurted out.
“I prefer you to the moon,” thinking to himself, “that’s an idiotic
remark!”
Lida burst out laughing.
“What a lumpish compliment!” she exclaimed.
“I don’t know how to pay compliments,” was Novikoff’s sullen rejoinder.
“Very well, then, sit still and listen,” said Lida, shrugging her
shoulders, pettishly.
But you no longer care, I know,
Why should I grieve you with my woe?
The tones of the piano rang out with silvery clearness through the
green, humid garden. The moonlight became more and more intense and the
shadows harder. Crossing the grass, Sanine sat down under a linden-tree
and was about to light a cigarette. Then he suddenly stopped and
remained motionless, as if spell-bound by the evening calm that the
sounds of the piano and of this youthfully sentimental voice in no way
disturbed, but rather served to make more complete.
“Lidia Petrovna!” cried Novikoff hurriedly, as if this particular
moment must never be lost. “Well?” asked Lida mechanically, as she
looked at the garden and the moon above it and the dark boughs that
stood out sharply against its silver disc.
“I have long waited—that is—I have been anxious to say something to
you,” Novikoff stammered out.
Sanine turned his head round to listen.
“What about?” asked Lida, absently.
Sarudine had finished his song and after a pause began to sing again.
He thought that he had a voice of extraordinary beauty, and he much
liked to hear it.
Novikoff felt himself growing red, and then pale. It was as if he were
going to faint.
“I—look here—Lidia Petrovna—will you be my wife?”
As he stammered out these words he felt all the while that he ought to
have said something very different and that his own emotions should
have been different also. Before he had got the words out he was
certain that the answer would be “no”; and at the same time he had an
impression that something utterly silly and ridiculous was about to
occur.
Lida asked mechanically, “Whose wife?” Then suddenly, she blushed
deeply, and rose, as if intending to speak. But she said nothing and
turned aside in confusion. The moonlight fell full on her features.
“I—love you!” stammered Novikoff.
For him, the moon no longer shone; the evening air seemed stifling, the
earth, he thought, would open beneath his feet.
“I don’t know how to make speeches—but—no matter, I love you very
much!”
(“Why, very much?” he thought to himself, “as if I were alluding to
ice-cream.”)
Lida played nervously with a little leaf that had fluttered down into
her hands. What she had just heard embarrassed her, being both
unexpected and futile; besides, it created a novel feeling of
disagreeable restraint between herself and Novikoff whom from her
childhood she had always looked upon as a relative, and whom she liked.
“I really don’t know what to say! I had never thought about it.”
Novikoff felt a dull pain at his heart, as if it would stop beating.
Very pale, he rose and seized his cap.
“Good-bye,” he said, not hearing the sound of his own voice. His
quivering lips were twisted into a meaningless smile.
“Are you going? Good-bye!” said Lida, laughing nervously and proffering
her hand.
Novikoff grasped it hastily, and without putting on his cap strode out
across the grass, into the garden. In the shade he stood still and
gripped his head with both hands.
“My God! I am doomed to such luck as this! Shoot myself? No, that’s all
nonsense! Shoot myself, eh?” Wild, incoherent thoughts flashed through
his brain. He felt that he was the most wretched and humiliated and
ridiculous of mortals.
Sanine at first wished to call out to him, but checking the impulse, he
merely smiled. To him it was grotesque that Novikoff should tear his
hair and almost weep because a woman whose body he desired would not
surrender herself to him. At the same time he was rather glad that his
pretty sister did not care for Novikoff.
For some moments Lida remained motionless in the same place, and
Sanine’s curious gaze was riveted on her white silhouette in the
moonlight. Sarudine now came from the lighted drawing-room on to the
veranda. Sanine distinctly heard the faint jingling of his spurs. In
the drawing-room Tanaroff was playing an old-fashioned, mournful waltz
whose languorous cadences floated on the air. Approaching Lida,
Sarudine gently and deftly placed his arm round her waist. Sanine could
perceive that both figures became merged into one that swayed in the
misty light.
“Why so pensive?” murmured Sarudine, with shining eyes, as his lips
touched Lida’s dainty little ear. Lida was at once joyful and afraid.
Now, as on all occasions when Sarudine embraced her, she felt a strange
thrill. She knew that in intelligence and culture he was her inferior,
and that she could never be dominated by him; yet at the same time she
was aware of something delightful and alarming in letting herself be
touched by this strong, comely young man. She seemed to be gazing down
into a mysterious, unfathomable abyss, and thinking, “I could hurl
myself in, if I chose.”
“We shall be seen,” she murmured half audibly.
Though not encouraging his embrace, she yet did not shrink from it;
such passive surrender excited him the more.
“One word, just one!” whispered Sarudine, as he crushed her closer to
him, his veins throbbing with desire; “will you come?”
Lida trembled. It was not the first time that he had asked her this
question, and each time she had felt strange tremors that deprived her
of her will.
“Why?” she asked, in a low voice as she gazed dreamily at the moon.
“Why? That I may have you near me, and see you, and talk to you. Oh!
like this, it’s torture! Yes, Lida, you’re torturing me! Now, will you
come?”
So saying, he strained her to him, passionately. His touch as that of
glowing iron, sent a thrill through her limbs; it seemed as if she were
enveloped in a mist, languorous, dreamy, oppressive. Her lithe, supple
frame grew rigid and then swayed towards him, trembling with pleasure
and yet with fear. Around her all things had undergone a curious,
sudden change. The moon was a moon no longer; it seemed close, close to
the trellis-work of the veranda, as if it hung just above the luminous
lawn. The garden was not the one that she knew, but another garden,
sombre, mysterious, that, suddenly approaching, closed round her. Her
brain reeled. She drew back, and with strange languor, freed herself
from Sarudine’s embrace.
“Yes,” she murmured with difficulty. Her lips were white and parched.
With faltering steps she re-entered the house, conscious of something
terrible yet alluring that inevitably drew her to the brink of an
abyss.
“Nonsense!” she reflected. “It’s not that at all. I am only joking. It
just interests me, and it amuses me, too.”
Thus did she seek to persuade herself, as she stood facing the darkened
mirror in her room, wherein she only saw herself _en silhouette_
against the glass door of the brightly lighted dining-room. Slowly she
raised both arms above her head, and lazily stretched herself, watching
meanwhile the sensuous movements of her supple body.
Left to himself, Sarudine stood erect and shook his shapely limbs. His
eyes were half closed, and, as he smiled, his teeth shone beneath his
fair moustache. He was accustomed to have luck, and on this occasion he
foresaw even greater enjoyment in the near future. He imagined Lida in
all her voluptuous beauty at the very moment of surrender. The passion
of such a picture caused him physical pain.
At first, when he paid court to her, and after that, when she had
allowed him to embrace her and kiss her, Lida had always made him feel
somewhat afraid. While he caressed her, there was something strange,
unintelligible in her dark eyes, as though she secretly despised him.
She seemed to him so clever, so absolutely unlike other women to whom
he had always felt himself obviously superior, and so proud, that for a
kiss he looked to receive a box on the ear. The thought of possessing
her was almost disquieting. At times he believed that she was just
playing with him and his position appeared simply foolish and absurd.
But to-day, after this promise, uttered hesitatingly, in faltering
tones such as he had heard other women use, he felt suddenly certain of
his power and that victory was near. He knew that things would be just
as he had desired them to be. And to this sense of voluptuous
expectancy was added a touch of spite: this proud, pure, cultured girl
should surrender to him, as all the others had surrendered; he would
use her at his pleasure, as he had used the rest. Scenes libidinous and
debasing rose up before him. Lida nude, with hair dishevelled and
inscrutable eyes, became the central figure in a turbulent orgy of
cruelty and lust. Suddenly he distinctly saw her lying on the ground;
he heard the swish of the whip; he observed a blood-red stripe on the
soft, nude, submissive body. His temples throbbed, he staggered
backwards, sparks danced before his eyes. The thought of it all became
physically intolerable. His hand shook as he lit a cigarette; again his
strong limbs twitched convulsively, and he went indoors. Sanine who had
heard nothing yet who had seen and comprehended all, followed him,
roused almost to a feeling of jealousy.
“Brutes like that are always lucky,” he thought to himself, “What the
devil does it all mean? Lida and he?”
At supper, Maria Ivanovna seemed in a bad temper. Tanaroff as usual
said nothing. He thought what a fine thing it would be if he were
Sarudine, and had such a sweetheart as Lida to love him. He would have
loved her in quite a different way, though. Sarudine did not know how
to appreciate his good fortune. Lida was pale and silent, looking at no
one. Sarudine was gay, and on the alert, like a wild beast that scents
its prey. Sanine yawned as usual, ate, drank a good deal of brandy and
apparently seemed longing to go to sleep. But when supper was over, he
declared his intention of walking home with Sarudine. It was near
midnight, and the moon shone high overhead. Almost in silence the two
walked towards the officer’s quarters. All the way Sanine kept looking
furtively at Sarudine, wondering if he should, or should not, strike
him in the face.
“Hm! Yes!” he suddenly began, as they got close to the house, “there
are all sorts of blackguards in this world!”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Sarudine, raising his eyebrows.
“That is so; speaking generally. Blackguards are the most fascinating
people.”
“You don’t say so?” exclaimed Sarudine, smiling.
“Of course they are. There’s nothing so boring in all the world as your
so-called honest man. What is an honest man? With the programme of
honesty and virtue everybody has long been familiar; and so it contains
nothing that is new. Such antiquated rubbish robs a man of all
individuality, and his life is lived within the narrow, tedious limits
of virtue. Thou shalt not steal, nor lie, nor cheat, nor commit
adultery. The funny thing is, that all that is born is one! Everybody
steals, and lies, and cheats and commits adultery as much as he can.”
“Not everybody,” protested Sarudine loftily.
“Yes, yes; everybody! You have only got to examine a man’s life in
order to get at his sins. Treachery, for instance. Thus, after
rendering to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, when we go quietly to
bed, or sit down to table, we commit acts of treachery.”
“What’s that you say?” cried Sarudine, half angrily.
“Of course we do. We pay taxes; we serve our time in the army, yes; but
that means that we harm millions by warfare and injustice, both of
which we abhor. We go calmly to our beds, when we should hasten to
rescue those who in that very moment are perishing for us and for our
ideas. We eat more than we actually want, and leave others to starve,
when, as virtuous folk, our whole lives should be devoted to their
welfare. So it goes on. It’s plain enough. Now a blackguard, a real,
genuine blackguard is quite another matter. To begin with he is a
perfectly sincere, natural fellow.”
“Natural?”
“Of course he is. He does only what a man naturally does. He sees
something that does not belong to him, something that he likes—and, he
takes it. He sees a pretty woman who won’t give herself to him, so he
manages to get her, either by force or by craft. And that is perfectly
natural, the desire and the instinct for self-gratification being one
of the few traits that distinguish a man from a beast. The more animal
an animal is, the less it understands of enjoyment, the less able it is
to procure this. It only cares to satisfy its needs. We are all agreed
that man was not created in order to suffer, and that suffering is not
the ideal of human endeavour.”
“Quite so,” said Sarudine.
“Very well, then, enjoyment is the aim of human life. Paradise is the
synonym for absolute enjoyment, and we all of us, more or less, dream
of an earthly paradise. This legend of paradise is by no means an
absurdity, but a symbol, a dream.”
“Yes,” continued Sanine, after a pause, “Nature never meant men to be
abstinent, and the sincerest men are those who do not conceal their
desires, that is to say, those who socially count as blackguards,
fellows such as—you, for instance.”
Sarudine started back in amazement.
“Yes, you,” continued Sanine, affecting not to notice this, “You’re the
best fellow in the world, or, at any rate, you think you are. Come now,
tell me, have you ever met a better?”
“Yes, lots of them,” replied Sarudine, with some hesitation. He had not
the least idea what Sanine meant, nor if he ought to appear amused or
annoyed.
“Well, name them, please,” said Sanine.
Sarudine shrugged his shoulders, doubtfully.
“There, you see!” exclaimed Sanine gaily. “You yourself are the best of
good fellows, and so am I; yet we both of us would not object to
stealing, or telling lies or committing adultery—least of all to
committing adultery.”
“How original!” muttered Sarudine, as he again shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you think so?” asked the other, with a slight shade of annoyance in
his tone. “Well, I don’t! Yes, blackguards, as I said, are the most
sincere and interesting people imaginable, for they have no conception
of the bounds of human baseness. I always feel particularly pleased to
shake hands with a blackguard.”
He immediately grasped Sarudine’s hand and shook it vigorously as he
looked him full in the face. Then he frowned, and muttered curtly,
“Good-bye, good-night,” and left him.
For a few moments Sarudine stood perfectly still and watched him
depart. He did not know how to take such speeches as these of Sanine;
he became at once bewildered and uneasy. Then he thought of Lida, and
smiled. Sanine was her brother, and what he had said was really right
after all. He began to feel a sort of brotherly attachment for him.
“An amusing fellow, by Gad!” he thought, complacently, as if Sanine in
a way belonged to him, also. Then he opened the gate, and went across
the moonlit courtyard to his quarters.
On reaching home, Sanine undressed and got into bed, where he tried to
read “Thus spake Zarathustra” which he had found among Lida’s books.
But the first few pages were enough to irritate him. Such inflated
imagery left him unmoved. He spat, flung the volume aside, and soon
fell fast asleep.