Lida did not go home, but hurriedly turned her steps in an opposite
direction. The streets were empty, the air stifling. Close to the wall
and fence lay the short shadows, vanquished by the triumphant sun.
Through mere force of habit, Lida opened her parasol. She never noticed
if it was cold or hot, light or dark. She walked swiftly past the
fences all dusty and overgrown with weeds, her head bowed, her eyes
downcast. Now and again she met a few gasping pedestrians half-
suffocated by the heat. Over the town lay silence, the oppressive
silence of a summer afternoon.
A little white puppy had followed Lida. After eagerly sniffing her
dress, it ran on in front, and, looking round, wagged its tail, as if
to say that they were comrades. At the corner of a street stood a funny
little fat boy, a portion of whose shirt peeped out at the back of his
breeches. With cheeks distended and fruit-stained, he was vigorously
blowing a wooden pipe.
Lida beckoned to the little puppy and smiled at the boy. Yet she did so
almost unconsciously; her soul was imprisoned. An obscure force,
separating her from the world, swept her onward, past the sunlight, the
verdure, and all the joy of life, towards a black gulf that by the dull
anguish within her she knew to be near.
An officer of her acquaintance rode by. On seeing Lida he reined in his
horse, a roan, whose glossy coat shone in the sunlight.
“Lidia Petrovna!” he cried, in a pleasant, cheery voice, “Where are you
going in all this heat?”
Mechanically her eyes glanced at his forage-cap, jauntily poised on his
moist, sunburnt brow. She did not speak, but merely smiled her
habitual, coquettish smile.
At that moment, ignorant herself as to what might happen, she echoed
his question:
“Ah! where, indeed?”
She no longer felt angry with Sarudine. Hardly knowing why she had gone
to him, for it seemed impossible to live without him, or bear her grief
alone. Yet it was as if he had just vanished from her life. The past
was dead. That which remained concerned her alone; and as to that she
alone could decide.
Her brain worked with feverish haste, her thoughts being yet clear and
plain. The most dreadful thing was, that the proud, handsome Lida would
disappear, and in her stead there would be a wretched being,
persecuted, besmirched, defenceless. Pride and beauty must be retained.
Therefore, she must go, she must get away to some place where the mud
could not touch her. This fact clearly established, Lida suddenly
imagined herself encircled by a void; life, sunlight, human beings, no
longer existed; she was alone in their midst, absolutely alone. There
was no escape; she must die, she must drown herself. In a moment this
became such a certainty that it was as if round her a wall of stone had
arisen to shut her off from all that had been, and from all that might
be.
“How simple it really is!” she thought, looking round, yet seeing
nothing.
She walked faster now; and though hindered by her wide skirts, she
almost ran, it seemed to her as if her progress were intolerably slow.
“Here’s a house, and yonder there’s another one, with green shutters;
and then, an open space.”
The river, the bridge, and what was to happen there—she had no clear
conception of this. It was as a cloud, a mist that covered all. But
such a state of mind only lasted until she reached the bridge.
As she leant over the parapet and saw the greenish, turbid water, her
confidence instantly forsook her. She was seized with fear and a wild
desire to live. Now her perception of living things came back to her.
She heard voices, and the twittering of sparrows; she saw the sunlight,
the daisies in the grass, and the little white dog, that evidently
looked upon her as his rightful mistress. It sat opposite to her, put
up a tiny paw, and beat the ground with its tail.
Lida gazed at it, longing to hug it convulsively, and large tears
filled her eyes. Infinite regret for her beautiful, ruined life
overcame her. Half fainting, she leant forward, over the edge of the
sun-baked parapet, and the sudden movement caused her to drop one of
her gloves into the water. In mute horror she watched it fall
noiselessly on the smooth surface of the water, making large circles.
She saw her pale yellow glove become darker and darker, and then
filling slowly with water, and turning over once, as in its death-
agony, sink down gradually with a spiral movement to the green depths
of the stream. Lida strained her eyes to mark its descent, but the
yellow spot grew ever smaller and more indistinct, and at last
disappeared. All that met her gaze was the smooth, dark surface of the
water.
“How did that happen, miss?” asked a female voice, close to her.
Lida started backwards, and saw a fat, snub-nosed peasant-woman who
looked at her with sympathetic curiosity.
Although such sympathy was only intended for the lost glove, to Lida it
seemed as if the good-natured, fat woman knew all, and pitied her. For
a moment she was minded to tell her the whole story, and thus gain some
relief, but she swiftly rejected the idea as foolish. She blushed, and
stammered out, “Oh, it’s nothing!” as she reeled backwards from the
bridge.
“Here it’s impossible! They would pull me out!” she thought.
She walked farther along the river-bank and followed a smooth foot-path
to the left between the river and a hedge. On either side were nettles
and daisies, sheep’s parsley and ill-smelling garlic. Here it was calm
and peaceful as in some village church. Tall willows bent dreamily over
the stream; the steep, green banks were bathed in sunlight; tall
burdocks flourished amid the nettles, and prickly thistles became
entangled in the lace trimming of Lida’s dress. One huge plant powdered
her with its white seeds.
Lida had now to force herself to go farther, striving to overcome a
mighty power within which held her back. “It must be! It must! It
must!” she repeated, as, dragging herself along, her feet seemed to
break their bonds at every step which took her farther from the bridge
and nearer to the place at which unconsciously she had determined to
stop.
On reaching it, when she saw the black, cold water underneath over-
arching boughs, and the current swirling past a corner of the steep
bank, then she realized for the first time how much she longed to live,
and how awful it was to die. Yet die she must, for to live on was
impossible. Without looking round, she flung down her other glove and
her parasol, and, leaving the path, walked through the tall grasses to
the water. In that moment a thousand thoughts passed through her brain.
Deep in her soul, where long it had lain dormant, her childish faith
awoke, as with simple fervour she repeated this short prayer, “Lord,
save me! Lord, help me!” She suddenly recollected the refrain of a song
that latterly she had been studying; for an instant she thought of
Sarudine, and then she saw the face of her mother who seemed doubly
dear to her in this awful moment. Indeed it was this last recollection
which drove her faster to the river. Never till then had Lida so keenly
realized that her mother and all those who loved her, did not love her
for what she really was, with all her defects and desires, but only for
that which they wished her to be. Now that she had strayed from the
path that according to them was the only right one, these persons, and
especially her mother, having loved her much, would now prove
proportionately severe.
Then, as in a delirious dream, all became confused; fear, the longing
to live, the sense of the inevitable, unbelief, the conviction that all
was at an end, hope, despair, the horrible consciousness that this was
the spot where she must die, and then the vision of a man strangely
like her brother who leapt over a hedge and rushed towards her.
“You could not have thought of anything sillier!” cried Sanine,
breathless.
By a strange coincidence it so happened that Lida had reached the very
spot adjoining Sarudine’s garden where first she had surrendered to
him, a place, screened by dark trees from the light of the moon. Sanine
had seen her in the distance, and had guessed her intention. At first
he was for letting her have her way, but her wild, convulsive movements
aroused his pity, and vaulting the garden-seats and the bushes he
hastened to her rescue.
Her brother’s voice had an alarming effect upon Lida. Her nerves,
wrought to the utmost pitch by her inward conflict, suddenly gave way.
She became giddy; everything swam before her eyes, and she no longer
knew if she were in the water or on the river-bank. Sanine had just
time to seize her firmly and drag her backwards, secretly pleased at
his own strength and adroitness.
“There!” he said.
He placed her in a sitting posture against the hedge, and then looked
about him.
“What shall I do with her?” he thought. Lida in that moment recovered
consciousness, as pale and confused, she began to weep piteously. “My
God! My God!” she sobbed, like a child.
“Silly thing!” said Sanine, chiding her good-humouredly.
Lida did not hear him, but, as he moved, she clutched at his arm,
sobbing more violently.
“Ah! what am I doing?” she thought fearfully. “I ought not to weep; I
must try and laugh it off, or else he’ll guess what is wrong.”
“Well, why are you so upset?” asked Sanine, as he patted her shoulder
tenderly.
Lida looked up at him under her hat, timidly as a child, and stopped
crying.
“I know all about it,” said Sanine; “the whole story. I’ve done so for
ever so long.”
Though Lida was aware that several persons suspected the nature of her
relations with Sarudine, yet when Sanine said this, it was as if he had
struck her in the face. Her supple form recoiled in horror; she gazed
at him dry-eyed, like some wild animal at bay.
“What’s the matter, now? You behave as if I had trodden on your foot,”
laughed Sanine. Taking hold of her round, soft shoulders, which
quivered at his touch, he tenderly drew her back to her former place by
the hedge, and she obediently submitted.
“Come now, what is it that distresses you so?” he said. “Is it because
I know all? Or do you think your misconduct with Sarudine so dreadful
that you are afraid to acknowledge it? I really don’t understand you.
But, if Sarudine won’t marry you, well—that is a thing to be thankful
for. You know now, and you must have known before, what a base, common
fellow he really is, in spite of his good looks and his fitness for
amours. All that he has is beauty, and you have now had your fill of
that.”
“He of mine, not I of his!” she faltered. “Ah! well yes, perhaps I had!
Oh! my God, what shall I do?”
“And now you are pregnant….”
Lida shut her eyes and bowed her head.
“Of course, it’s a bad business,” continued Sanine, gently. “In the
first place, giving birth to children is a nasty, painful affair; in
the second place, and what really matters, people would persecute you
incessantly. After all, Lidotschka, my Lidotschka,” he said with a
sudden access of affection, “you’ve not done harm to anybody; and, if
you were to bring a dozen babies into the world, the only person to
suffer thereby would be yourself.”
Sanine paused to reflect, as he folded his arms across his chest and
bit the ends of his moustache.
“I could tell you what you ought to do, but you are too weak and too
foolish to follow my advice. You are not plucky enough. Anyhow, it is
not worth while to commit suicide. Look at the sun shining, at the
calm, flowing stream. Once dead, remember, every one would know what
your condition had been. Of what good, then, would that be to you? It
is not because you are pregnant that you want to die, but because you
are afraid of what other folk will say. The terrible part of your
trouble lies, not in the actual trouble itself, but because you put it
between yourself and your life which, as you think, ought to end. But,
in reality, that will not alter life a jot. You do not fear folk who
are remote, but those who are close to you, especially those who love
you and who regard your surrender as utterly shocking because it was
made in a wood, or a meadow, instead of in a lawful marriage-bed. They
will not be slow to punish you for your offence, so, of what good are
they to you? They are stupid, cruel, brainless people. Why should you
die because of stupid, cruel, brainless people?”
Lida looked up at him with her great questioning eyes in which Sanine
could detect a spark of comprehension.
“But what am I to do? Tell me, what … what …” she murmured huskily.
“For you there are two ways open: you must get rid of this child that
nobody wants, and whose birth, as you must see yourself, will only
bring trouble.”
Lida’s eyes expressed wild horror.
“To kill a being that knows the joy of living and the terror of death
is a grave injustice,” he continued; “but a germ, an unconscious mass
of flesh and blood …”
Lida experienced a strange sensation. At first shame overwhelmed her,
such shame as if she were completely stripped, while brutal fingers
touched her. She dared not look at her brother, fearing that for very
shame they would both expire. But Sanine’s grey eyes wore a calm
expression, and his voice was firm and even in tone, as if he were
talking of ordinary matters. It was this quiet strength of utterance
and the profound truth of his words that removed Lida’s shame and fear.
Yet suddenly despair prevailed, as she clasped her forehead, while the
flimsy sleeves of her dress fluttered like the wings of a startled
bird.
“I cannot, no, I cannot!” she faltered, “I dare say you’re right, but I
cannot! It is so awful!”
“Well, well, if you can’t,” said Sanine, as he knelt down, and gently
drew away her hands from her face, “we must contrive to hide it,
somehow. I will see to it that Sarudine has to leave the town, and you
—well, you shall marry Novikoff, and be happy. I know that if you had
never met this dashing young officer, you would have accepted Sascha
Novikoff. I am certain of it.” At the mention of Novikoff’s name Lida
saw light through the gloom. Because Sarudine had made her unhappy, and
she was convinced that Novikoff would never have done so, for an
instant it seemed to her that all could easily be set right. She would
at once get up, go back, say something or other, and life in all its
radiant beauty would again lie before her. Again she would live, again
she would love, only this time it would be a better life, a deeper,
purer love. Yet immediately afterwards she recollected that this was
impossible, for she had been soiled and degraded by an ignoble,
senseless amour.
A gross word, which she scarcely knew and had never uttered, suddenly
came into her mind. She applied it to herself. It was as if she had
received a box on the ears.
“Great heavens! Am I really a …? Yes, yes, of course, I am!”
“What did you say?” she murmured, ashamed of her own resonant voice.
“Well, what is it to be?” asked Sanine, as he glanced at her pretty
hair falling in disorder about her white neck flecked by sunlight
breaking through the network of leaves. A sudden fear seized him that
he would not succeed in persuading her, and that this young, beautiful
woman, fitted to bestow such joy upon others, might vanish into the
dark, senseless void. Lida was silent. She strove to repress her
longing to live, which, despite her will, had mastered her whole
trembling frame. After all that had occurred, it seemed to her shameful
not only to live, but to wish to live. Yet her body, strong and full of
vitality, rejected so distorted an idea as if it were poison.
“Why this silence?” asked Sanine.
“Because it is impossible…. It would be a vile thing to do!… I….”
“Don’t talk such nonsense!” retorted Sanine impatiently.
Lida looked up at him again, and in her tearful eyes there was a
glimmer of hope.
Sanine broke off a twig, which he bit and then flung away.
“A vile thing!” he went on, “A vile thing! My words amaze you. Yet why?
The question is one that neither you nor I can ever rightly answer.
Crime! What is a crime? If a mother’s life is in danger when giving
birth to a child, and that living child, to save its mother, is
destroyed that is not a crime, but an unfortunate necessity! But to
suppress something that does not yet exist, that is called a crime, a
horrible deed. Yes, a horrible deed, even though the mother’s life,
and, what is more, her happiness, depends upon it! Why must it be so?
Nobody knows, but everybody loudly maintains that view, crying,
‘Bravo!’” Sanine laughed sarcastically. “Oh! you men, you men! Men
create for themselves phantoms, shadows, illusions, and are the first
to suffer by them. But they all exclaim, ‘Oh! Man is a masterpiece,
noblest of all; man is the crown, the King of creation;’ but a king
that has never yet reigned, a suffering king that quakes at his own
shadow.”
For a moment, Sanine paused.
“After all, that is not the main point. You say that it is a vile
thing. I don’t know; perhaps it is. If Novikoff were to hear of your
trouble, it would grieve him terribly; in fact, he might shoot himself,
but yet he would love you, just the same. In that case, the blame would
be his. But if he were a really intelligent man, he would not attach
the slightest importance to the fact that you had already (excuse the
expression!) slept with somebody else. Neither your body nor your soul
have suffered thereby. Good Lord! Why, he might marry a widow himself,
for instance! Therefore it is not that which prevents him, but the
confused notions with which his head is filled. And, as regards
yourself, if it were only possible for human beings to love once in
their lives, then, a second attempt to do so would certainly prove
futile and unpleasant. But this is not so. To fall in love, or to be
loved, is just as delightful and desirable. You will get to love
Novikoff, and, if you don’t, well, we’ll travel together, my
Lidotschka; one can live, can’t one, anywhere, after all?”
Lida sighed and strove to overcome her final scruples.
“Perhaps … everything will come right again,” she murmured. “Novikoff…
he’s so good and kind … nice-looking, too, isn’t he? Yes … no… I don’t
know what to say.”
“If you had drowned yourself, what then? The powers of good and evil
would have neither gained nor lost thereby. Your corpse, bloated,
disfigured, and covered with slime, would have been dragged from the
river, and buried. That would have been all!”
Lida had a lurid vision of greenish, turbid water with slimy, trailing
weeds and gruesome bubbles floating round her.
“No, no, never!” she thought, turning pale. “I would rather bear all
the shame of it … and Novikoff … everything … anything but that.”
“Ah! look how scared you are!” said Sanine, laughing.
Lida smiled through her tears, and her very smile consoled her.
“Whatever happens, I mean to live!” she said with passionate energy.
“Good!” exclaimed Sanine, as he jumped up. “Nothing is more awful than
the thought of death. But so long as you can bear the burden without
losing perception of the sights and sounds of life, I say live! Am I
not right? Now, give me your paw!”
Lida held out her hand. The shy, feminine gesture betokened childish
gratitude.
“That’s right … What a pretty little hand you’ve got.”
Lida smiled and said nothing.
But Sanine’s words had not proved ineffectual. Hers was a vigorous,
buoyant vitality; the crisis through which she had just passed had
strained that vitality to the utmost. A little more pressure, and the
string would have snapped. But the pressure was not applied, and her
whole being vibrated once more with an impetuous, turbulent desire to
live. She looked above, around her, in ecstasy, listening to the
immense joy pulsating on every side; in the sunlight, in the green
meadows, the shining stream, the calm, smiling face of her brother, and
in herself. It was as if she now could see and hear all this for the
first time. “To be alive!” cried a gladsome voice within her.
“All right!” said Sanine. “I will help you in your trouble, and stand
by you when you fight your battles. And now, as you’re such a beauty,
you must give me a kiss.”
Lida smiled; a smile mysterious as that of a wood-nymph. Sanine put his
arms round her waist, and, as her warm supple form thrilled at his
touch, his fond embrace became almost vehement. A strange, indefinable
sense of joy overcame Lida, as she yearned for life ampler and more
intense. It mattered not to her what she did. She slowly put both arms
round her brother’s neck and, with half-closed eyes, set her lips tight
to give the kiss.
She felt unspeakably happy beneath Sanine’s burning caress, and in that
moment cared not who it was that kissed her, just as a flower warmed by
the sun never asks whence comes such warmth.
“What is the matter with me?” she thought, pleasurably alarmed. “Ah!
yes! I wanted to drown myself … how silly! And for what? Oh! that’s
nice! Again! Again! Now, I’ll kiss you! It’s lovely! And I don’t care
what happens so long as I’m alive, alive!”
“There, now, you see,” said Sanine, releasing her. “All good things are
just good, and one mustn’t make them out to be anything else.”
Lida smiled absently, and slowly re-arranged her hair. Sanine handed
her the parasol and glove. To find the other glove was missing at first
surprised her, but instantly recollecting the reason, she felt greatly
amused at the absurd importance which she had given to that trifling
incident.
“Ah! well, that’s over!” she thought, and walked with her brother along
the river-bank. Fiercely the sun’s rays beat upon her round, ripe
bosom.