One late afternoon, ten years ago, the examining magistrate, Peter
Sergeitch, and I rode to the station together at hay-making time to
fetch the mail.
The weather was superb, but as we were riding home we heard thunder
growling, and saw an angry black cloud coming straight toward us. The
storm was approaching and we were riding into its very teeth. Our house
and the village church were gleaming white upon its breast, and the
tall, silvery poplars were glistening against it. The scent of rain and
of new-mown hay hung in the air. My companion was in high spirits,
laughing and talking the wildest nonsense.
“How splendid it would be,” he cried, “if we should suddenly come upon
some antique castle of the Middle Ages with towers battlemented,
moss-grown, and owl-haunted, where we could take refuge from the storm
and where a bolt of lightning would end by striking us!”
But at that moment the first wave swept across the rye and oat fields,
the wind moaned, and whirling dust filled the air. Peter Sergeitch
laughed and spurred his horse.
“How glorious!” he cried. “How glorious!”
His gay mood was infectious. I, too, laughed to think that in another
moment we should be wet to the skin, and perhaps struck by lightning.
The blast and the swift pace thrilled us, and set our blood racing; we
caught our breath against the gale and felt like flying birds.
The wind had fallen when we rode into our courtyard, and heavy drops of
rain were drumming on the roof and lawn. The stable was deserted.
Peter Sergeitch himself unsaddled the horses, and led them into their
stalls. I stood at the stable door waiting for him, watching the descent
of the slanting sheets of rain. The sickly sweet scent of hay was even
stronger here than it had been in the fields. The air was dark with
thunder-clouds and rain.
“What a flash!” cried Peter Sergeitch coming to my side after an
especially loud, rolling thunderclap that, it seemed, must have cleft
the sky in two. “Well?”
He stood on the threshold beside me breathing deeply after our swift
ride, with his eyes fixed on my face. I saw that his glance was full of
admiration.
“Oh, Natalia!” he cried. “I would give anything on earth to be able to
stand here for ever looking at you. You are glorious to-day.”
His look was both rapturous and beseeching, his face was pale, and drops
of rain were glistening on his beard and moustache; these, too, seemed
to be looking lovingly at me.
“I love you!” he cried. “I love you and I am happy because I can see
you. I know that you cannot be my wife, but I ask nothing, I desire
nothing; only know that I love you. Don’t answer me, don’t notice me,
only believe that you are very dear to me, and suffer me to look at
you.”
His ecstasy communicated itself to me. I saw his rapt look, I heard the
tones of his voice mingling with the noise of the rain, and stood rooted
to the spot as if bewitched. I longed to look at those radiant eyes and
listen to those words for ever.
“You are silent! Good!” said Peter Sergeitch. “Do not speak!”
I was very happy. I laughed with pleasure, and ran through the pouring
rain into the house. He laughed too, and ran after me.
We burst in wet and panting and tramped noisily up-stairs like two
children. My father and brother, unaccustomed to seeing me laughing and
gay, looked at me in surprise and began to laugh with us.
The storm blew over, the thunder grew silent, but the rain-drops still
glistened on Peter Sergeitch’s beard. He sang and whistled and romped
noisily with the dog all the evening, chasing him through the house and
nearly knocking the butler carrying the samovar off his feet. He ate a
huge supper, talking all kinds of nonsense the while, swearing that if
you eat fresh cucumbers in winter you can smell the spring in your
nostrils.
When I went to my room I lit the candle and threw the casement wide
open. A vague sensation took hold of me. I remembered that I was free
and healthy, well-born and rich, and that I was beloved, but chiefly
that I was well-born and rich—well-born and rich! Goodness, how
delightful that was! Later, shrinking into bed to escape the chill that
came stealing in from the garden with the dew, I lay and tried to decide
whether I loved Peter Sergeitch or not. Not being able to make head or
tail of the question, I went to sleep.
Next morning when I awoke and saw the shadows of the lindens and the
trembling patches of sunlight that played across my bed, the events of
yesterday rose vividly before me. Life seemed rich, and varied, and full
of beauty. I dressed quickly and ran singing into the garden.
And then, what happened? Nothing! When winter came and we moved to the
city, Peter Sergeitch seldom came to see us. Country acquaintances are
only attractive in the country. In town, in the winter, they lose half
their charm. When they come to call they look as if they were wearing
borrowed clothes, and they stir their tea much too long. Peter Sergeitch
sometimes spoke of love, but his words did not sound as enchanting as
they had in the country. Here we felt more keenly the barrier between
us. I was titled and rich; he was poor and was not even a noble, but an
examining magistrate, the son of a deacon. Both of us—I because I was
very young, and he, heaven knows why—considered this barrier very great
and very high. He smiled affectedly when he was with us in town and
criticised high society; if any one beside himself was in the
drawing-room he remained morosely silent. There is no barrier so high
but that it may be surmounted, but, from what I have known of him, the
modern hero of romance is too timid, too indolent and lazy, too finical
and ready to accept the idea that he is a failure cheated by life, to
make the struggle. Instead, he carps at the world, and calls it vile,
forgetting that his own criticism at last becomes vile in itself.
I was beloved; happiness was near, seemed almost to be walking at my
side; my path was strewn with roses, and I lived without trying to
understand myself, not knowing what I was expecting nor what I demanded
from life. And so time went on and on—Men with their love passed near
me; bright days and warm nights flew by; the nightingales sang; the air
was sweet with new-mown hay—all these things, so dear, so touching to
remember, flashed by me swiftly, unheeded, as they do by every one,
leaving no trace behind them, until they vanished like mist. Where is it
all now?
My father died; I grew older. All that had been so enchanting, so
gracious, so hope-inspiring; the sound of rain, the rolling of thunder,
dreams of happiness, and words of love, all these grew to be a memory
alone. I now see before me a level, deserted plain, bounded by a dark
and terrible horizon, without a living soul upon it.
A bell rang. It was Peter Sergeitch. When I see the winter trees,
remembering how they decked themselves in green for me in summer time, I
whisper:
“Oh, you darling things!”
And when I see the people with whom I passed my own springtime, my heart
grows warm and sad, and I whisper the same words.
Peter Sergeitch had moved to the city long ago through the influence of
my father. He was a little elderly now, and a little stooping. It was
long since he had spoken any words of love, he talked no nonsense now,
and was dissatisfied with his occupation. He was a little ailing, and a
little disillusioned; he snapped his fingers at life, and would have
been glad to have had it over. He took his seat in the chimney-corner
and looked silently into the fire. Not knowing what to say, I asked:
“Well, what news have you?”
“None at all.”
Silence fell once more. The ruddy firelight played across his melancholy
features.
I remembered our past, and suddenly my shoulders shook; I bent my head
and wept bitterly. I felt unbearably sorry for myself and for this man,
and I longed passionately for those things which had gone by, and which
life now denied us. I no longer cared for my riches or my title.
I sobbed aloud with my head in my hands murmuring: “My God, my God, our
lives are ruined!”
He sat silent and did not tell me not to weep. He knew that tears must
be shed, and that the time for them had come. I read his pity for me in
his eyes, and I, too, pitied him and was vexed with this timid failure
who had not been able to mould his life or mine aright.
As I bade him farewell in the hall he seemed purposely to linger there,
putting on his coat. He kissed my hand in silence twice, and looked long
into my tear-stained face. I was sure that he was remembering that
thunder-storm, those sheets of rain, our laughter, and my face as it had
then been. He tried to say something; he would have done so gladly, but
nothing came. He only shook his head and pressed my hand—God bless him!
When he had gone, I went back into the study and sat down on the carpet
before the fire. Grey ashes were beginning to creep over the dying
embers. The wintry blast was beating against the windows more angrily
than ever and chanting some tale in the chimney.
The maid servant came in and called my name, thinking that I had fallen
asleep.