II

On Saturday morning, a little unpleasantness began for Ippolít

Sergyéevitch: as he was dressing himself, he had knocked the lamp off

of the little table to the floor, it had flown into fragments, and

several drops of kerosene from the broken reservoir had fallen into

one of his shoes, which he had not yet put on his feet. The shoes, of

course, had been cleaned, but it began to seem to Ippolít Sergyéevitch

that a repulsive, oily odor was streaming upon the air from the tea,

the bread, the butter, and even from the beautifully dressed hair of

his sister.

This spoiled his temper.

"Take off the shoe, and set it in the sun, then the kerosene will

evaporate,--" his sister advised him.--"And, in the meantime, put on my

husband's slippers, there is one pair which is perfectly new."

"Please don't worry. It will soon disappear."

"It is of the greatest importance to wait until it disappears. Really,

shall not I order the slippers to be brought?"

"No ... I don't want them. Throw them away."

"Why? They are nice slippers, of velvet ... they are fit to use."

He wanted to argue, the kerosene irritated him.

"What will they be good for? You will not wear them."

"Of course I shall not, but Alexander will."

"Who is he?"

"Why, Benkóvsky."

"Aha!--" he gave way to a hard laugh.--"That is very touching fidelity

on the part of your dead husband's slippers. And practical."

"You are malicious to-day."

She looked at him somewhat offended, but very searchingly, and, he,

catching that expression in her eyes, thought unpleasantly:

"She certainly imagines that I am irritated by Várenka's absence."

"Benkóvsky will arrive in time for dinner, probably,--" she informed

him, after a pause.

"I'm very glad to hear it,--" he replied, as he commented to himself:

"She wants me to be amiable toward my future brother-in-law."

And his irritation was augmented by a feeling of oppressive boredom.

But Elizavéta Sergyéevna said, as she carefully spread a thin layer of

butter on her bread:

"Practicalness, in my opinion, is a very praiseworthy quality.

Especially at the present moment, when impoverishment so oppresses

our brethren, who live upon the fruits of the earth. Why should not

Benkóvsky wear the slippers of my deceased husband?..."

"And his shroud also, if you removed the shroud from him, and have

preserved it,"--said Ippolít Sergyéevitch venomously to himself,

concentrating his attention upon the operation of transferring the

boiled cream from the cream-jug to his glass.

"And, altogether, my husband has left a very extensive and appropriate

wardrobe. And Benkóvsky is not spoiled. For you know how many of them

there are--three young fellows besides Alexander, and five young

girls. And the estate has about ten mortgages on it. You know, I

purchased their library, on very advantageous terms;--there are some

very valuable things in it. Look it over, and perhaps you will find

something you need.... Alexander subsists on a very paltry salary."

"Have you known him long?--" he asked her;--it was necessary to talk

about Benkóvsky, although he did not wish to do so.

"Four years, altogether, and so ... intimately, seven or eight months.

You will see that he is very nice. He is so tender, so easily excited,

and something of an idealist, a decadent, I think. However, all the

young generation are inclined to decadentism.... Some fall on the side

of idealism, others on the side of materialism ... and both sorts seem

very clever to me."

"There are men who profess 'scepticism of a hundred horse power,'

as one of my comrades has defined it,--" said Ippolít Sergyéevitch,

bending his face over his glass.

She laughed, as she said:

"That is witty, though it is also rather coarse. Really, I am on

the verge of scepticism myself, the healthy scepticism, you know,

which fetters the wings of all possible impulses, and seems to me

indispensable for ... the acquisition of correct views as to the life

of people."

He made haste to finish his tea, and went away, announcing that he had

to sort over the books which he had brought with him. But the odor of

kerosene lingered still in his chamber, in spite of the open doors.

He scowled, and taking a book, he went out into the park. There, in

the closely clustered family of ancient trees, wearied with gales and

thunderstorms, reigned a melancholy silence, which enervated the mind,

and he walked on, without opening his book, down the principal avenue,

thinking of nothing, desiring nothing.

Here was the river and the boat. Here he had seen Várenka reflected in

the water, and angelically beautiful in that reflection.

"Well, I'm just like a boy from the gymnasium!" he cried to himself,

conscious that the memory of her was agreeable to him.

After halting for a moment by the side of the river, he stepped into

the boat, seated himself in the stern, and began to gaze at that

picture in the water, which had been so lovely three days before.

It was equally beautiful to-day, but to-day, on its transparent

background the white figure of that strange young girl did not make

its appearance. Polkánoff lighted a cigarette, and immediately flung

it into the water, reflecting that, perhaps, he had done a foolish

thing in coming hither. As a matter of fact, of what use was he there?

Apparently, only for the sake of preserving his sister's good name,

to speak more simply, in order to enable his sister to receive Mr.

Benkóvsky into her house, without offending the proprieties. It was not

an important rôle.... And that Benkóvsky could not be very clever if he

really did love Polkánoff's sister, who was, if anything, too clever.

After having sat there for three hours in a semi-meditative condition,

his thoughts paralyzed, in a certain way, and gliding over subjects,

without sitting in judgment upon them, he rose, and went slowly to the

house, angry with himself for the uselessly wasted time, and firmly

resolving to set to work as speedily as possible. As he approached the

terrace, he beheld a slender young man, in a white blouse, girt with a

strap. The young man was standing with his back to the avenue, and was

looking at something, as he bent over the table. Ippolít Sergyéevitch

slackened his pace, wondering whether this could possibly be Benkóvsky?

Then the young man straightened up, with a graceful gesture flung back

the long locks of curling hair from his brow, and turned his face

toward the avenue.

"Why, he's a page of the Middle Ages!" exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch

to himself.

Benkóvsky's face was oval, of a dead-white hue, and appeared jaded,

because of the strained gleam of his large, almond-shaped, black eyes,

deeply sunken in their orbits. His beautifully formed mouth was shaded

by a small, black mustache, and his arched brow by locks of carelessly

dishevelled, waving hair. He was small, below middle stature, but his

willowy figure, elegantly built, and finely proportioned, concealed

this defect. He looked at Ippolít Sergyéevitch as short-sighted persons

look, and there was something sympathetic, but sickly, about his pale

face. In a velvet beretta and costume, he really would seem like a page

who had escaped from a picture representing a court of the Middle Ages.

"Benkóvsky!"--he said, in a low tone, offering his white hand, with the

long, slender fingers of a musician, to Ippolít Sergyéevitch, as the

latter ascended the steps of the terrace.

The young savant shook his hand cordially.

For a moment, both preserved an awkward silence, then Ippolít

Sergyéevitch began to talk about the beauty of the park. The young man

answered him briefly, being anxious, evidently, merely to comply with

the demands of politeness, and exhibiting no interest whatever in his

companion.

Elizavéta Sergyéevna soon made her appearance, in a loose white gown,

with black lace on the collar, and girt at the waist with a long, black

cord, terminating in tassels. This costume harmonized well with her

calm countenance, imparting a majestic expression to its small, but

regular features. On her cheeks played a flush of satisfaction, and her

cold eyes had an animated look.

"Dinner will be ready at once,--" she announced.--"I am going to treat

you to ice-cream. But why are you so bored, Alexander Petróvitch? Yes!

You have not forgotten Schubert?"

"I have brought Schubert and the books,--" he replied frankly, and

meditatively admiring her.

Ippolít Sergyéevitch observed the expression of his face, and felt

awkward, comprehending that this charming young man must have made a

vow to himself not to recognize his existence.

"That's fine!"--exclaimed Elizavéta Sergyéevna, smiling at

Benkóvsky.--"Shall we play it after dinner?"

"If you like!"--and he bowed his head before her. This was gracefully

done, but, nevertheless, it made Ippolít Sergyéevitch grin inwardly.

"It does please me very much,"--declared his sister coquettishly.

"And are you fond of Schubert?"--inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"I love Beethoven best of all--he is the Shakspear of music,"--replied

Benkóvsky, turning his profile toward him.

Ippolít Sergyéevitch had heard Beethoven called the Shakspear of music

before, and the difference between him and Schubert constituted one of

those mysteries which did not interest him in the least. But this boy

did interest him, and he seriously inquired:

"Why do you place Beethoven, in particular, at the head of all?"

"Because he is more of an idealist than all the other musical composers

put together."

"Really? Do you, also, take that as the true view of the world?"

"Undoubtedly. And I know that you are an extreme materialist,--"

explained Benkóvsky, and his eyes gleamed strangely.

"He wants to argue!" thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch,--"But he's a nice

young fellow, straightforward, and, probably, strictly honorable."

And his sympathy for this idealist, who was condemned to wear the dead

man's slippers, increased.

"So, you and I are enemies?"--he inquired, with a smile.

"Gentlemen!"--Elizavéta Sergyéevna called to them from the

room.--"Don't forget that you have only just made each other's

acquaintance...."

Másha, the maid, was setting the table, with a clatter of dishes, and

she cast a furtive glance at Benkóvsky with eyes in which sparkled

artless rapture. Ippolít also gazed at him, reflecting that he must

treat this young fellow with all possible delicacy, and that it would

be well to avoid "ideal" conversations with him, because he would,

in all probability, get excited to the point of rage in arguments.

But Benkóvsky stared at him with a burning glitter in his eyes, and

a nervous quiver on his face.... Evidently, he was passionately

anxious to talk, and he restrained his desire with difficulty. Ippolít

Sergyéevitch made up his mind to confine himself to the bounds of

strictly official courtesy.

His sister, who was already seated at the table, tossed insignificant

phrases, in a jesting tone, now to one, now to the other: the men made

brief replies--one with the careless familiarity of a relative, the

other with the respect of the lover. And all three were seized with a

certain feeling of awkwardness and embarrassment, which made them keep

watch over one another, and over themselves.

Másha brought the first course out on the terrace.

"Please come to dinner, gentlemen!"--Elizavéta Sergyéevna invited them,

as she armed herself with the soup-ladle.--"Will you have a glass of

vódka?"

"Yes, I will!"--said Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"And I will not, if you will excuse me," declared Benkóvsky.

"I willingly excuse you. But you will drink, will you not?"

"I do not wish to...."

"Touch glasses with a materialist,--" thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

Either the savory soup with patties, or Ippolít Sergyéevitch's

ceremonious manner seemed somewhat to cool and soften the sullen gleam

of the young man's black eyes, and when the second course was served he

began to talk:

"Perhaps my exclamation, in reply to your question, struck you as a

challenge--are we enemies? Perhaps it is impolite, but I assume that

people's relations to one another should be free from their official

falsehood, which everyone has accepted as the rule."

"I entirely agree with you," answered Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with

a smile.--"The more simply, the better. And your straightforward

declaration only pleased me, if you will permit me to express myself in

that way."

Benkóvsky smiled sadly, as he said:

"We really are enemies in the realm of ideas, but that defines itself

at once, of itself. Now, you say--c the more simply, the better,' and I

think so too, but I put one construction on those words, while you put

another...."

"Do we?"--inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"Undoubtedly, if you proceed in the straight line of logic from the

views set forth in your article."

"Of course I do...."

"There, you see.... And from my point of view, your idea of simplicity

would be coarse. But let us drop that question.... Tell me, in

regarding life merely as a mechanism, which has worked out everything,

including ideas, do not you feel conscious of an inward chill, and

is there not in your soul a single drop of compassion for all the

mysterious and enchantingly beautiful, which we degrade to simple

chemistry, to a commingling of atoms of material?"

"Hm!... I do not feel that chill, for my place is clear to me, in the

great mechanism of life, which is more poetical than all fantasies....

As for the metaphysical fermentation of sentiment and mind, that, you

know, is a matter of taste. So far, no one knows what beauty is. In any

case, it is proper to assume that it is a physiological sensation."

One talked in a low tone, full of pensiveness and sorrowful notes

of pity for his erring interlocutor; the other spoke calmly, with a

consciousness of his mental superiority, and with a desire not to

employ words which wounded the vanity of his opponent--words which are

so frequent in a discussion between two well-bred men, as to whose

truth is the nearer to the real truth. Elizavéta Sergyéevna smiled

slightly, as she watched the play of their countenances, and composedly

ate her dinner, carefully gnawing the bones of her game. Másha peeped

from behind the door, and, evidently, wished to understand what the

gentlemen were saying, for her face wore a strained expression, and her

eyes had become round, and lost their wonted expression of cunning and

amiability.

"You say--actuality, but what is it, when everything around us, and

we ourselves are merely chemistry and mechanism, working without

cessation? Everywhere motion, and everything is motion, and there

is not the hundredth part of a second of rest.--How shall I seize

actuality, how shall I recognize it, if I myself, at any given moment,

am not what I was, am not what I shall be the following moment? You,

I, we--are we merely material? But some day we shall lie beneath the

holy pictures, filling the air with the vile stench of corruption....

All that will remain of us on earth will be, perhaps, some faded

photographs, and they can never tell anyone about the joys and torments

of our existence, which has been swallowed up by the unknown. Is it not

terrible to believe that all we thinking and suffering beings live only

for the purpose of decaying?"

Ippolít Sergyéevitch listened attentively to his speech, and said to

himself:

"If you were convinced of the truth of your belief, you would be at

ease. But here you are, shouting. And it is not because you are an

idealist that you shout, my good fellow, but because you have weak

nerves."

But Benkóvsky, gazing into his face, with flaming eyes, went on:

"You talk about science,--very good!--I bow down before it as before

a mighty power which will loose the bonds of the mystery that fetters

me.... But by the light of it I behold myself on the same spot where

stood my distant ancestor, who believed that the thunder rumbles thanks

to the prophet Elijah. I do not believe in Elijah; I know that it

is caused by the action of electricity, but how is that any clearer

than Elijah? In that it is more complicated? It is as inexplicable

as motion, and all the other powers, which people are unsuccessfully

trying to substitute for one. And it sometimes seems to me, that the

entire business of science amounts to complicating conceptions--that

is all! I think, that it is good to believe; people laugh at me, they

say: 'It is not necessary to believe, but to know,' I want to know

what matter is, and they answer me, literally, thus: 'Matter is what

is contained in that locality of space, in which we render objective

the cause of the sensations that we receive,' Why talk like that? Can

that be given out as the answer to the question? It is a sneer at those

who are passionately and sincerely seeking an answer to the anxious

queries of their spirits.... I want to know the aim of existence--that

aspiration of my spirit is also ridiculed. But I am living, life is not

easy, and it gives me a right to demand a categorical answer from the

monopolists of wisdom--why do I live?"

Ippolít Sergyéevitch cast a sidelong glance at the face of Benkóvsky,

which was glowing with emotion, and recognized the fact that that

young man must be answered with words which should correspond with his

own words, in the matter of the strength of stormy feeling injected

into them. But, while he recognized this fact, he felt within himself

a desire to retort. But the poet's huge eyes grew still larger, a

passionate melancholy burned within them. He sighed, and his white,

elegant right hand, fluttered swiftly through the air, now convulsively

clenched into a fist and menacing, now as though clutching at something

in space, which it was powerless to grasp.

"But, while giving nothing, how much you have taken from life I You

reply to that with scorn.... But in it rings--what? The impossibility

of retorting with confidence, and, in addition, your inability to

pity people. For men are asking from you spiritual bread, and you are

offering them the stone of negation! You have stolen the soul of life,

and if there are in it no great feats of love and suffering, you are to

blame for that, for, the slaves of reason, you have surrendered your

soul into its power, and now it has turned cold, and is dying, ill and

poverty-stricken! But life is just as gloomy as ever, and its torments,

its woe, demand heroes.... Where are they?"

"What a hysterical creature he is!" exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch to

himself, as with an unpleasant shiver, he gazed at this little hall of

nerves, which was quivering before him with melancholy excitement.--He

tried to stem the stormy eloquence of his future brother-in-law, but

did not succeed, for, possessed by the inspiration of his protest, the

young man heard nothing and, apparently, saw nothing. He must have

carried these complaints, which poured forth from his soul, about in

him for a long time, and was glad that he could have his say to one of

the men who, in his opinion, had ruined life.

Elizavéta Sergyéevna admired him, screwing up her light eyes, and in

them burned a spark of sensual desire.

"In all that you have so powerfully and beautifully said,--" began

Ippolít Sergyéevitch, in measured and amiable tones, taking advantage

of the involuntary pause of the weary orator, and desirous of soothing

him,--"in all this there indisputably does ring much true feeling, much

searching reason...."

"What can I say to him that is chilling and conciliatory?--" he said to

himself, with renewed force, as he wove his web of compliments.

But his sister rescued him from his trying situation. She had already

eaten her fill, and sat there, leaning against the back of her chair.

Her dark hair was arranged in antique fashion, but this coiffure, in

the form of a diadem, was very becoming to the masterful expression

of her countenance. Her lips, quivering with laughter, displayed a

strip of white teeth, as thin as the edge of a knife, and stopping her

brother with a graceful gesture, she said:

"Permit me to say a word! I know an apothegm of a certain wise man, and

it runs: 'Those are not in the right who speak--there is the truth,

neither are they in the right who reply to them--that is a lie, but

only Sabbaoth and Satan are right, in whose existence I do not believe,

but who must exist somewhere, for it is they who have organized life

in such a dual form, and it is life which has created them. You do not

understand? Yet I am speaking the same human language as you are. But I

compress the entire wisdom of the ages into one phrase, in order that

you may perceive the nothingness of your wisdom."

When she had finished her speech, she asked the men, with an

enchantingly brilliant smile:

"What do you think of that?"

Ippolít Sergyéevitch shrugged his shoulders in silence,--his sister's

words perturbed him, but he was delighted that she had curbed Benkóvsky.

But something strange happened with Benkóvsky. When Elizavéta

Sergyéevna began to speak, his face flamed with ecstasy, and, paling at

every word she uttered, it expressed something akin to terror at the

moment, when she put her question. He tried to make her some reply,

his lips trembled nervously, but no words proceeded from them. And

she, magnificent in her composure, watched the play of his face, and

it must have pleased her to behold the effect of her words on him, for

satisfaction beamed from her eyes.

"To me, at least, it seems as though the entire sumtotal of huge

folios of philosophy are contained in these words," she said, after a

pause.

"You are right, up to a certain point,--" said Ippolít Sergyéevitch,

with a wry smile,--"but, at the same time...."

"So, is it possible that a man is bound to quench the last sparks

of the Promethean fire which still burn in his soul, ennobling his

strivings?--" exclaimed Benkóvsky, gazing sadly at her.

"Why, if they yield anything positive ... anything agreeable to

you!--" she said, with a smile. "It seems to me that you are taking a

very dangerous criterion for the definition of the positive,--" drily

remarked her brother.

"Elizavéta Sergyéevna! You are a woman, tell me:--what echoes does the

great intellectual movement of woman awaken in your soul?--" inquired

Benkóvsky, warming up again.

"It is interesting...."

"Only that?"

"But I think that it ... how shall I express it to you?.. that it is

the aspiration of the superfluous women. They have remained outside

the bulwarks of life, because they are homely, or because they do

not recognize the power of their beauty, do not know the taste of

power over men.... They are superfluous, from a mass of causes!...

But--ice-cream is a necessity!" In silence he took the little green

dish out of her hands, and setting it in front of him, he began to

stare intently at the cold, white mass, nervously rubbing his brow with

his hand, which was trembling with suppressed emotion.

"There, you see that philosophy spoils not only the taste for life,

but even the appetite,--" jested Elizavéta Sergyéevna.

But her brother looked at her and thought, that she was playing an

unworthy game with that boy. In him the whole conversation had evoked a

dawning sensation of boredom, and, although he pitied Benkóvsky, this

pity did not comprise any warmth of heart, and therefore it was devoid

of energy.

"Sic visum Veneri!"--he decided, as he rose from the table, and lighted

a cigarette.

"Shall we play?" Elizavéta Sergyéevna asked Benkóvsky.

And when, in reply to her words, he bent his head submissively, they

went from the terrace into the house, whence soon resounded the

chords of the piano, and the sounds of a violin being tuned. Ippolít

Sergyéevitch sat in a comfortable arm-chair near the railing of

the terrace, protected from the sun by a lace-like curtain of wild

grapevine, which had climbed from the ground to the roof on cords that

had been strung for it, and heard everything which his sister and

Benkóvsky said.

"Have you written anything lately?"--inquired Elizavéta Sergyéevna, as

she struck the note for the violin.

"Yes, a little piece."

"Recite it!"

"Really, I do not wish to."

"Do you want me to entreat you?"

"Do I? No.... But I should like to recite the verses which are now

composing themselves within me...."

"Pray do!"

"Yes, I will recite them.... But they have only just presented

themselves.. and you have called them into life...."

"How agreeable it is to me to hear that!"

"I do not know.... Perhaps you are speaking with sincerity.... I do not

know...."

"Really, ought not I to go away?"--thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch. But he

was too indolent to move, and he remained, consoling himself with the

thought that they must be aware of his presence on the terrace.

"Of thy calm beauty

The cold gleam doth trouble me...."[1]

[1] These lines are very irregular, as to both rhyme and rhythm in the

original. They are hardly of sufficient merit to warrant a poetical

version.--Translator.

rang out the low voice of Benkóvsky.

"Wilt thou laugh at my dreams?

Thou understandest me not, perchance?"

mournfully inquired the youth.

"I'm afraid it's rather late in the day for you to ask about

that,"--thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with a sceptical smile.

"In thine eyes there is no happiness,

In thy words,--cold laughter do I hear.

And strange to thee is the delirium mad I

Of my soul...."

Benkóvsky paused, from emotion, or from lack of a rhyme.

"But it is so splendid!

In it is a whirlwind of songs, in it is my life!

All permeated is it with stormy passion

To solve the enigma of existence,

To find for all men the road to happiness...."

"I must go!--" decided Ippolít Sergyéevitch, involuntarily brought to

his feet by the young man's hysterical moans, in which simultaneously

resounded a touching "farewell!" to the peace of his soul, and a

despairing "have mercy!" addressed to the woman.

"Thy slave,--to thee I've raised a throne

In the madness of my heart....

And I await...."

"Your ruin, for--sic visum Veneri!"--Ippolít Sergyéevitch completed the

verse, as he walked down the avenue through the park.

He was astonished at his sister:--she did not seem handsome enough to

arouse such love in the young man. She certainly must have effected it

by the tactics of opposition. Then, one must acknowledge her steadfast

bearing, for Benkóvsky was handsome.... Perhaps he, as her brother, and

a well-bred man, ought to speak to her about the true character of her

relations to this boy, glowing with red-hot passion? But to what could

such a conversation lead, now? And he was not enough of an authority

on matters of Cupid and Venus to meddle with this affair.... But,

nevertheless, he must point out to Elizavéta the probable ruin of that

gentleman, if he, with her aid, did not succeed in quenching pretty

promptly the flame of his transports, and did not learn to feel more

normally, and to argue in a more healthy manner.

"And what would happen, if that torch of passion were to flare up

before Várenka's heart?"

But, after putting this question to himself, Ippolít Sergyéevitch did

not try to solve it, but began to wonder what the young girl was doing

at that particular moment? Perhaps she was slapping her Nikon in the

face, or rolling her sick father through the rooms in his arm-chair.

And as he represented her to himself engaged in those occupations, he

was offended, on her account. Yes, it was indispensably necessary to

open the eyes of that girl, to actuality, to acquaint her with the

intellectual tendencies of the day. What a pity that she lived so far

away, and it was impossible to see her more frequently, so that, day by

day, he might shake loose everything which barred off her mind from the

action of logic!

The park was full of stillness, and of fragrant coolness, from the

house floated the singing sounds of the violin, and the nervous notes

of the piano. One after another phrases of sweet entreaty, of tender

summons, of stormy ecstasy were showered over the park.

Music poured from heaven also--there the larks were singing. With

rumpled plumage, and black as a piece of coal, a starling sat on a

linden bough, and bristling up the feathers on his breast, he whistled

significantly, staring sidewise at the meditative man, who was

strolling slowly along the avenue, with his hands clasped behind his

back, and staring far away into the distance, with smiling eyes.

At tea, Benkóvsky was more reserved, and not so much like a crazy man;

Elizavéta Sergyéevna, also seemed to be warmed up by something.

On observing this, Ippolít Sergyéevitch felt himself guaranteed

against the breaking out of any abstract discussions, and so felt less

embarrassed.

"You tell me nothing about St. Petersburg, Ippolít,--" said Elizavéta

Sergyéevna.

"What is there to say about it? It is a very large and lively city....

The weather is damp there, but...."

"But the people are dry,"--interrupted Benkóvsky.

"Not all of them, by any means. There are many who have grown perfectly

soft, and are covered with the mould of very ancient moods; people

everywhere are tolerably varied!"

"Thank God that it is so!" exclaimed Benkóvsky.

"Yes, life would be intolerably tedious if it were not so!" assented

Elizavéta Sergyéevna.--"But in what favor does the country stand with

young people. Are they still speculating on a fall in stocks?"

"Yes, they are becoming somewhat disillusioned."

"That is a characteristic phenomenon for the educated class of our

days,--" said Benkóvsky, with a laugh.--"When the majority of that

class were of the nobility, it had no existence. But now-a-days,

when the son of every low-born extortioner, merchant or official,

who has read two or three popular little books, also belongs to the

educated class,--the country cannot arouse the interest of such an

'intelligéntzia,'[2] Do they know anything about it? Can it be for

them anything except a good place in which to spend the summer? For

them the country is a suburban villa ... and altogether, they are

villa-residents, by virtue of the essential quality of their souls.

They make their appearance, live on, and disappear, leaving behind them

in life divers papers, bits, scraps--the usual traces of their sojourn,

which villa-residents leave behind them in country fields. Others will

follow after them and annihilate this rubbish, and with it the memory

of the ignominious, soulless and impotent educated people of these

years of 1890."

[2] The popular word for the class in question. I leave it untranslated

here for the benefit of those who have already met with the

word.--Translator.

"And are those others repaired noblemen?" asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"You have understood me, apparently,... in a way that is far from

flattering to you, if you will excuse me for saying so!" Benkóvsky

flared up.

"I merely inquired who these coming people are to be?" replied Ippolít

Sergyéevitch, shrugging his shoulders.

"They are--the young country! Its reformed generation, men who already

possess the developed sentiment of human dignity, who thirst for

knowledge, who are of an investigative turn of mind, ready to introduce

themselves to notice."

"I welcome them in advance," said Ippolít Sergyéevitch indifferently.

"Yes, it must be confessed, that the country is beginning to

produce a new impression on the world,--a conciliatory impression,"

remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna.--"I have here some very interesting

children,--Iván and Grigóry Shákhoff, who have read almost half of my

library, and Akim Sozýreff, a man 'who understands everything,' as he

asserts. As a matter of fact, he has brilliant ideas! I put him to the

test--I gave him a work on physics, and said to him--' read this, and

explain to me the laws of the lever and of equilibrium and one week

later, he passed my examination with so much effect, that I was simply

astounded! And moreover, in reply to my commendations, he said: 'What

of that? You understand this, consequently, no one forbids me to do the

same-?--books are written for everybody!, What do you think of that?

But you see ... their idea of their dignity has been developed, so

far, only to the point of insolence and churlishness. They apply these

newly-born properties even to me, but I endure it, and do not complain

to the county chief, because I understand what fiery flowers might

blossom forth on that soil ... very likely, some fine morning, one

might wake up with nothing but the ashes of one's manor left."

Ippolít Sergyéevitch smiled. Benkóvsky glanced, sadly at the woman.

Touching superficially on themes, and not attacking one another's

vanity strongly, they conversed until ten o'clock, and then Elizavéta

Sergyéevna and Benkóvsky went off again to play, and Ippolít

Sergyéevitch bade them good night and retired to his own room,

observing that his future brother-in-law made not the slightest effort

to conceal the satisfaction he felt at getting rid of his betrothed's

brother.

... One discovers what he wishes to discover, and ennui makes its

appearance, as though by way of reward for an investigative turn

of mind. It was precisely this enervating sensation which Ippolít

Sergyéevitch experienced, when he seated himself at the table in

his chamber, with the intention of writing several letters to his

acquaintances. He understood the motives of his sister's peculiar

relations toward Benkóvsky, he understood, also, his rôle in her game.

All this was not nice, but, at the same time, it was all foreign to

him, in a way, and his soul was not disturbed by the parody on the

story of Pygmalion and Galatea which was being enacted in his presence,

although, in his mind, he condemned his sister. Tapping the handle of

his pen, in a melancholy way, against the table, he turned down the

light, and when the room was plunged in obscurity, he began to look out

of the window.

Dead silence reigned in the park, which was illuminated by the moon,

and through the window-panes, the moon had a greenish hue.

Under the windows, a shadow flitted past, and vanished, leaving behind

it a soft sound of rustling branches, quivering at the contact.

Stepping to the window, Ippolít Sergyéevitch opened it, and looked

out,--beyond the trees glimmered the white gown of Másha, the maid.

"What of that?"--he said to himself, with a smile,--"let the maid

love, if the mistress is only playing at love."

*

Slowly the days vanished--drops of time in the boundless ocean of

eternity--and they were all tediously monotonous. There were hardly

any impressions, and it was difficult to work, because the sultry

blaze of the sun, the narcotic perfumes of the park, and the pensive,

moonlight nights, all aroused meditative indolence in the soul. Ippolít

Sergyéevitch calmly enjoyed this purely-vegetable existence, postponing

from day to day his resolve to set to work seriously. Sometimes he felt

bored, he reproached himself for his inactivity, his lack of will, but

all this did not arouse in him the desire to work, and he explained to

himself his indolence as the effort of his organism to amass energy.

In the morning, on awaking from a deep, healthy slumber, he noted, as

he stretched himself luxuriously, how springy his muscles were, how

elastic was his skin, and how deeply and freely his lungs breathed.

The sad habit of philosophizing, which too frequently revealed itself

in his sister, irritated him, at first, but he gradually became

reconciled to this defect in Elizavéta Sergyéevna, and managed, so

cleverly and inoffensively to demonstrate to her the inutility of

philosophy, that she grew more reticent. Her inclination to argue

about everything produced an unpleasant impression on him--he perceived

that his sister was arguing, not from a natural impulse to explain to

herself her relation to life, but merely from a provident desire to

destroy and overthrow everything which might perturb the cold repose

of her soul. She had worked out for herself a scheme of practice, but

theories only interested her in so far as they were able to smooth over

before him her hard, sceptical, and even ironical relations toward

life and people. Although Ippolít Sergyéevitch comprehended all this,

he did not feel within him the slightest desire to reproach and shame

his sister; he condemned her in his own mind, but there was not in it

that something which would have permitted him to express aloud his

condemnation, for, as a matter of fact, his heart was no warmer than

his sister's.

Thus, almost every time, after a visit from Benkóvsky, Ippolít

Sergyéevitch promised himself that he would speak to his sister about

her relations toward that young man, but he did not keep his promise,

imperceptibly to himself refraining from meddling with that affair.

For, as yet, no one could tell which would be the suffering side,

when sound sense should awaken in that highly inflamed young man. And

this would happen--the young man was blazing too violently, and must,

infallibly, burn out. And his sister was bearing it firmly in mind,

that he was younger than she, so there was no cause for anxiety on her

score. But if she got her punishment--what then? That was quite proper,

if life is just....

Várenka came frequently. They rowed on the river, together, or in

company with his sister, but never with Benkóvsky; they strolled

in the forest, and once they drove to a monastery, twenty versts

away. The young girl continued to please him, and to upset him with

her odd remarks, but he always found her society agreeable. Her

ingenuousness perplexed him, and restrained the man within him; the

integrity of her nature aroused his amazement, but the simple-hearted

straightforwardness with which she put aside everything wherewith he

attempted to unsettle the peace of her soul, wounded his self-love.

And more and more frequently did he ask himself:

"But is it possible that I have not sufficient energy to drive out of

her head all these errors and stupidities?"

When he did not see her, he clearly felt the indispensable necessity of

liberating her mind from abnormal paths, he imposed this necessity upon

himself as an obligation, but when Várenka made her appearance--he did

not exactly forget his resolve, but he never placed it in the foremost

rank in his relations toward her. Sometimes he caught himself listening

to her, exactly as though he were desirous of learning something from

her, and he admitted that there was something about her which hampered

the freedom of his mind. It happened, on occasion, that when he had

ready prepared a retort which, by stunning her with its dearness and

force, would have convinced her of the obviousness of her error,--he

locked this retort up within him, as though afraid to utter it. When he

caught himself at this, he thought:

"Can this proceed from lack of confidence in my truth?"

And, of course, he convinced himself of the contrary. Another reason

why he found it difficult to talk to her was, that she hardly knew

even the alphabet of the generally accepted views. It was necessary

to begin at the foundations, and her persistent questions: "why?" and

"what for?" constantly led him off into the thickets of abstractions,

where she understood absolutely nothing. One day, worn out with his

contradictions, she set forth her philosophy to him in these words:

"God created me, like other people, in His own image and likeness ...

which signifies, that everything I do, I do according to His will, and

I live--as He wants me to.... Surely, He knows how I live? Well, and

that is all there is to be said, and it is useless for you to try to

pick a quarrel with me!"

More and more frequently did she irritate in him the glowing sensation

of the male, but he kept watch on himself, and with swift efforts,

which demanded from him constantly increasing consciousness, he

extinguished in himself these flashes of sensuality, he even endeavored

to conceal them from himself, and when he could no longer conceal them,

he said to himself, with a guilty laugh:

"What of it?--That's natural ... considering her beauty.... But I am a

man, and every day my organism is growing stronger under the influence

of this sun and air.. It is natural, but her oddities completely

guarantee me against being carried away by her...."

Season becomes incredibly active and pliable, when man's feeling

requires a mask, behind which to hide the crude truth of his questions.

Feeling, like every other power, straightforward and upright, when

it is shattered by life, or broken by excessive efforts to restrain

its outbursts with the cold bridle of reason, loses both uprightness

and straightforwardness, and remains merely crude. And then, being in

need of a screen for its weakness and coarseness, it betakes itself

for aid to the great capacity which reason possesses of imparting to a

lie the physiognomy of the truth. This capacity was well developed in

Ippolít Sergyéevitch, and with its aid, he successfully imparted to

his attraction toward Várenka the character of interest in her, pure

and free from all impulses. He would not have had the strength to love

her,--he knew that, but in the depths of his mind there flashed up the

hope of possessing her; without himself being aware of it, he expected

that she would be captivated by him. And as he argued with himself

about everything which did not lower him in his own eyes, he succeeded

in concealing within himself everything which might have evoked in him

a doubt as to his good breeding....

One day, at evening tea, his sister announced to him:

"Do you know--to-morrow is Várenka Ólesoff's birthday. We must drive

over there. I want to have a drive.... And it will be good for the

horses, too."

"Do drive over ... and congratulate her on my behalf,--" he said, feeling

that he, also, would like to go.

"But will not you drive with me?--" she inquired, glancing at him, with

curiosity.

"I? I don't know whether I care to.... I think I don't. But I may go,

all the same."

"It is not obligatory!--" remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna, and dropped

her eyelids, to conceal the smile which gleamed in her eyes.

"I know that,--" said he, displeased.

A long pause ensued, during which Ippolít Sergyéevitch remarked to

himself, with severity, that he was conducting himself toward that

young girl exactly as though he were afraid that his self-control would

not resist her charms.

"She told me--that Várenka--that they have a very beautiful site

there,--" he said, and turned scarlet, knowing that his sister

understood him. But she did not betray this in any way--on the

contrary, she began to persuade him.

"Let us go, do, please! You will see, it really is magnificent at their

place. And it will be less awkward for me if you are there.... We will

not stay long, is that right?"

He assented, but his mood was spoiled.

"Why did I find it necessary to lie? What is there disgraceful or

unnatural in my wanting to see a pretty young girl once more?--" he

asked himself angrily. And he made no reply to these questions.

On the following morning, he awoke early, and the first sounds of the

day which his ear caught, were his sister's words:

.... "Ippolít will be astonished!"

They were accompanied by a loud laugh--only Várenka could laugh like

that. Ippolít Sergyéevitch, sitting up in bed, threw off the sheet,

and listened, smiling the while. That which instantaneously invaded

him and filled his soul could hardly be called joy, rather was it a

foreboding of joy near at hand, which pleasantly titillated the nerves.

And springing from his bed, he began to dress himself with a swiftness

which confused and perplexed him. What had happened? Could it be that

she, on her birthday, had come to invite him and his sister to her

house? What a darling girl!

When he entered the dining-room, Várenka dropped her eyes before him

with a penitently-comical manner, and without taking the hand which he

offered her, she began, in a timid voice:

"I am afraid, that you...."

"Just imagine!--" exclaimed Elizavéta Sergyéevna,--"she has run away

from home!"

"What do you mean by that?"--her brother asked her.

"On the sly--" explained Várenka.

"Ha, ha, ha!--" laughed Elizavéta Sergyéevna.

"But ... why?"--persisted Ippolít.

"I have run away from my suitors...." the young girl confessed, and

began to laugh also.--"Imagine, what frightful faces they will make!

Aunt Lutchítzky is awfully anxious to drive me into marriage!--she

sent them solemn invitations, and cooked and baked as much for them as

though I'd had a hundred wooers! And I helped her do it ... but to-day

I woke up, and jumped on my horse--and march! hither. I left them a

note to say that I had gone to the Shtcherbákoffs ... you understand?

twenty-three versts away, in exactly the opposite direction!"

He looked at her, and laughed, with a laugh which evoked a pleasing

warmth in his breast. Again she was clad in a full, white gown, whose

folds fell in tender streams from her shoulders to her feet, enveloping

her body in a cloud, as it were. Clear laughter quivered in her eyes,

and on her face played an animated flush.

"You do not like it?"--she asked him.

"What?"--he inquired briefly.

"What I have done? It was impolite, I understand that,--" she said,

becoming serious, and immediately burst out laughing again....

"I can imagine them! All dressed up, scented ... they'll get drunk with

grief--heavens, how drunk!"

"Are there many of them?--" asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"Four...."

"The tea is poured!" announced Elizavéta Sergyéevna.

"You will have to pay for this prank, Várya.... Have you thought of

that?"

"No ... and I don't want to!--" she replied with decision, as she

seated herself at the table.--"That will take place--when I return to

them ... that is to say, this evening, for I'm going to spend the day

with you. Why should I think from morning on about what will not happen

until the evening? And who can do anything to me, and what can they

do? Papa? He will growl, but I can go away and not listen to, him....

Aunty?--she loves me passionately! They, do you think? Why, I can make

them crawl round me on all fours ... ha, ha, ha! That would be ...

ridiculous! I will try ... Tchernonéboff can't, because he has a big

belly!"

"Várya! You are losing your wits!"--Elizavéta Sergyéevna endeavored to

stop her.

"No, I shall not!--" promised the girl through her laughter, but she

did not stop soon, and kept on depicting her suitors, and captivating

the brother and sister by the genuineness of her animation.

Laughter resounded during the whole time they were drinking tea.

Elizavéta Sergyéevna laughed with a tinge of condescension toward

Várya. Ippolít Sergyéevitch tried to restrain himself, but could not.

After tea, they began to discuss how they should fill up the day which

had begun so merrily. Várenka suggested that they should row in the

boat, to the forest, and drink tea there, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch

immediately agreed with her. But his sister assumed a troubled

expression, and announced:

"I cannot take part in that--I must drive to Sánino to-day, and cannot

defer it. I had intended to drive to your house, Várya, and turn off

there on the way ... but now it is necessary that I should make the

trip expressly...."

Ippolít Sergyéevitch cast a suspicious glance at her--it struck

him that she had that moment invented this, for the purpose of

leaving Várya alone with him. But her face expressed nothing except

dissatisfaction and anxiety.

Várenka was grieved by her words, but soon recovered her animation:

"Well, what of that? So much the worse for you ... and we'll go, all

the same! Won't we? To-day I want to go far.... Only, see here--can

Grigóry and Másha go with us?"

"Grigóry can, of course! But Másha ... who will serve dinner?"

"And who will eat the dinner? You are going to the Benkóvskys, we shall

not return until evening."

"Very well, take Másha also."

Várenka hurried off somewhere or other. Ippolít Sergyéevitch lighted

a cigarette, went out on the terrace, and began to pace up and down

it. This expedition charmed him, but Grigóry and Másha seemed to him

superfluous. They would embarrass him--there was no doubt about that,

and he would not be able to talk freely in their presence.

Half an hour had not elapsed before Ippolít Sergyéevitch and Várya were

standing by the boat, while around it bustled Grigóry--a red-haired,

blue-eyed young fellow, with freckles on his face, and an aquiline

nose. Másha, as she packed the samovár and the various bundles in the

boat, said to him:

"Move quicker, you red-head; don't you see, the quality are waiting."

"Everything will be ready in a minute," replied the young fellow, in a

high tenor voice, as he fastened the row-locks, and winked at Másha.

Ippolít Sergyéevitch saw it, and divined who it was that had been

flitting past his windows by night.

"Do you know,--" said Várya, as she seated herself in the boat, and

indicated Grigóry by a nod,--"he also has the reputation of being a

learned man, with us.... He's a lawyer."

"You're just talking, Varvára Vasílievna,--" laughed Grigóry, showing

his strong white teeth.--"A lawyer!"

"Seriously, Ippolít Sergyéevitch, he knows all the Russian laws...."

"Do you, really, Grigóry?" asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with interest.

"The lady is joking ... the idea! Nobody knows them all, Varvára

Vasílievna."

"And how about the person who wrote them?"

"Mr. Speránsky? He died long, long ago...."[3]

[3] The well-known statesman, who influenced Alexander I between the

years 1806 and 1812.--Speránsky, the son of a poor village priest,

and socially (though not legally) on the level of the peasants, was

educated at an ecclesiastical academy, and became the professor of

mathematics and philosophy in the ecclesiastical school of St Alexander

Névsky, in St. Petersburg. Thence his rise was as follows: he became

the tutor of a nobleman's children; secretary to the Chancellor of

the Imperial Council; Secretary of State. He was an ardent admirer of

Napoleon I., as was Alexander I., and to this, no doubt, was due much

of his influence over the Emperor. The Code Napoléon was his ideal of

legislation, and formed the foundation for a scheme of reforms and

laws which he carried into effect, in part. He thereby antagonized all

classes of society: the aristocracy were offended by his boldness,

which they resented in a man of such low extraction, the peasants were

enraged by the increase in their taxes; and so forth. He was suddenly

sent into polite exile, as the governor of Nizhni Nóvgorod Province, in

March, 1812, but was speedily deprived of his office, and subjected to

strict surveillance. Later on, for a couple of years, his exile took

the form of the governorship of Siberia, whence he returned to St.

Petersburg in 1821. But he never recovered his standing or influence.

He had been created a Count by Alexander I., and, as the male line

of his descendants died out, his descendants in the female line,--the

Russian branch of the Princes Kantakiúzin (Cantacuzéne),--petitioned

the Emperor, in 1872, for permission to add the title of "Count

Speránsky" to their own title, which was granted.--Translator.

"Why, do you read?"--inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch, attentively

scanning the intelligent, eagle-like face of the young man, who was

lightly tossing the oars into the boat.

"And as for the laws, as she say,"--and Grigóry indicated Várya

with his bold eyes.--"The tenth volume of them fell into my hands by

accident ... I looked through it, and saw that it was interesting and

necessary. I began to read.... And now I have the first volume...."

The first article in it is so straight, and says: 'no one,' it says,

'can excuse himself through ignorance of the laws,' Well, so I thought

to myself, that nobody does know them, and it isn't necessary for

everybody to know them all.... And the teacher is soon going to get me

the statutes about the peasants;--it's very interesting to read--and

see what they are like...."

"You see what he is?"--inquired Várenka.

"And do you read much?--" Ippolít Sergyéevitch pursued his inquiry, as

he recalled Gógol's Petrúshka.

"I read, when I have time. There are a great many little books here....

Elizavéta Sergyéevna alone must have as many as a thousand. Only, hers

are all romances, and various stories...."

The boat floated smoothly against the current, the shores moved to

meet it, and all around was intoxicatingly beautiful: bright, still,

fragrant. Ippolít Sergyéevitch gazed at Várenka's face, which was

turned with curiosity toward the broad-chested rower, while the latter,

cutting the mirror-like surface of the river in measured strokes,

chatted about his literary tastes, content that the learned gentleman

so gladly listened to him. Love and pride beamed in the eyes of Másha,

who was watching them from beneath her drooping lashes.

"I don't like to read about how the sun sets and rises ... and, in

general, about nature. I have seen those sunrises more than a thousand

times, I think.... I know all about the woods and the rivers, also;

why should I read about them? But that sort of thing is in every book

... and, in my opinion, it's entirely superfluous.... Everybody

understands the sunset after his own fashion.... And everybody has

his own eyes for that purpose. But about the life of people--that's

interesting. You read, and you say to yourself:--' and what would you

do yourself, if you were placed on that line?' Although you know that

the whole of it is false."

"What is false?"--asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"Why, the little books. They're invented. About the peasant, for

example.... Are they the sort of folks they appear in books? Everybody

writes about them compassionately, and makes them out to be such petty

fools ... it isn't well! Folks read, and think and, as a matter of

fact, they can't understand the peasant ... because in the books he's

... terribly stupid, and bad...."

Várenka must have found these remarks tiresome, for she began to sing,

in a low tone, as she gazed at the shores with dimming eyes.

"See here--Ippolít Sergyéevitch, let's get out and go on foot through

the forest. But here we are, sitting and baking in the sun--is that the

way to take a pleasure trip? Grigóry and Másha can row on to Savyóloff

dell, land there, and prepare tea for us, and meet us.... Grigóry,

bring the boat to the shore. I'm awfully fond of eating and drinking in

the forest, in the air, in the sunshine.... One, somehow, feels like a

free vagabond...."

"There, you see," she said, with animation, as she sprang from the

boat upon the sandy shore,--"you touch earth, and immediately there

is something which ... raises the soul in revolt. Here I've got my

boots full of sand ... and have wet one foot in the water.... That's

unpleasant and pleasant, that means--it is good, because it makes one

feel oneself.... Look, how swiftly the boat has moved on!"

The river lay at their feet, and disturbed by the boat, it plashed

softly against the shore. The boat flew, like an arrow, in the

direction of the forest, leaving behind it a long wake, which glittered

like silver in the sunlight. They could see that Grigóry was laughing,

as he looked at Másha, while she was threatening him with her fist.

"That's a pair of lovers,"--remarked Várenka, with a smile;--"Másha

has already asked Elizavéta Sergyéevna's permission to marry Grigóry.

But Elizavéta Sergyéevna will not allow it, for the present; she does

not like married servants. But Grigóry's term of service ends in the

autumn, and then he'll take Másha away from you ... They're both

splendid people. Grigóry is begging me to sell him a small plot of

ground to be paid for in instalments ... or to let him have it on a

long lease ... he wants ten desyatinas. But I cannot, as long as papa

is alive, and it's a pity ... I know that he would pay me all, and

very punctually ... he's a good hand at everything ... a locksmith,

and a blacksmith, and he's serving at your place as under-coachman....

Kokóvitch--the county chief, and my suitor--says this to me about

him: 6 that's a dangerous beast, do you know--he doesn't respect his

superiors!'"

"Who is that Kokóvitch? A Pole?"[4]--inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch,

admiring her grimaces.

[4] Várenka has mimicked Kokóvitch's pronunciation, which leads to

this question.--Translator.

"A Mordvinian, a Tchuvásh--I don't know! He has a frightfully long and

thick tongue, there isn't room for it in his mouth, and it interferes

with his speech.... Ugh! What mud!"

Their path was blocked by a puddle of water covered with green scum,

and surrounded by a border of greasy mud. Ippolít Sergyéevitch

inspected his feet, remarking:

"We must go around it."

"Aren't you going to jump over it? I thought it was already dried

up...." exclaimed Várenka, indignantly, stamping her foot.... "It is a

long way round, and then, I shall tear my gown there.... Try to leap

across it! It's easy, see--o-one!"

She sprang, and flung herself forward; it seemed to him that her gown

had been tom from her shoulders, and was fluttering through the air.

But she stood on the other side of the puddle, and cried, with regret:

"Aï, how I have spattered myself! Ho, do you go round it ... fie, how

horrid!"

He looked at her, and smiled wanly, catching within him a dark

thought which stimulated him, and feeling that his feet were sinking

into the sticky dampness. On the other side of the mud, Várenka was

shaking her gown, it emitted a soft rustle, and amid its fluttering,

Ippolít Sergyéevitch caught sight of dainty, striped stockings on the

well-formed little feet. For an instant, it seemed to him as though the

mud which separated them from each other, held a sense of warning for

him or for her. But he roughly tore himself away, calling this prick in

the heart stupid childishness, and hastily stepped aside from the road,

into the bushes which bordered it, where, nevertheless, he was obliged

to walk through water concealed by the grass. With wet feet, and a

resolve which was not yet clear to himself, he emerged beside her, and

she, showing him her gown, with a grimace, said:

"Look at that--is that nice? Bah!"

He looked--large, black spots smote the eye, as they triumphantly

decorated the white material.

"I love, and am accustomed to behold thee so sacredly pure, that even

a spot of mud on thy gown would cast a black shadow on my soul ..."

said Ippolít Sergyéevitch slowly, and ceasing, he began to gaze into

the astonished face of Várenka with a smile hovering over his lips.

Her eyes rested questioningly on his face, but he felt as though his

breast were filling up with burning froth, which was on the point of

being converted into wondrous words, such as he had never yet uttered

to anyone, for he had never known them until that moment.

"What was that you said?"--inquired Várenka firmly.

He shuddered, for her question sounded stem, and endeavoring to be

calm, he began seriously to explain to her: "I was reciting verses ...

in Russian they sound like prose ... but you hear that they are verses,

do you not? They are Italian verses, I think ... really, I do not

remember.... However, perhaps it was prose, from some romance.... It

just happened to come into my head...."

"How did it go--say it again?" she asked him, suddenly becoming

thoughtful.

"I love...." he paused, and wiped his brow with his hand.--"Will you

believe it? I have forgotten what I said! On my word of honor--I have

forgotten!"

"Well ... let us go on!--" and she moved forward with decision.

For several minutes Ippolít Sergyéevitch tried to understand and

explain to himself this strange scene, which had placed between him

and the young girl a barrier of mutual distrust--tried, and could get

nothing out of himself, except a consciousness of awkwardness before

Várenka. She walked by his side, in silence, and with bowed head, not

looking at him.

"How am I to explain it all to her?" Ippolít Sergyéevitch reflected.

Her silence was crushing; it seemed as though she were thinking of him,

and not thinking well of him. And unable to devise any explanation of

his outburst, he suddenly remarked, with forced cheerfulness:

"Your suitors ought to know how you are spending your time!"

She glanced at him, as though, by his words, he had called her

back from somewhere far away, but gradually, her face changed from

seriousness to simplicity, and an expression of childlike sweetness.

"Yes! It would--offend them! But they shall know, oh! they shall know!

And, perhaps they ... will think ill of me!"

"Are you afraid of that?"

"I? Of them?--" she inquired, softly but angrily.

"Pardon me for the question."

"Never mind.... You see, you do not know me ... you do not know how

repulsive they all are to me! Sometimes I feel like hurling them under

my feet, and trampling on their faces ... treading on their lips, so

that they could not say anything. Ugh! How detestable they all are!"

Wrath and heartlessness sparkled so clearly in her eyes, that it made

him uncomfortable to look at her, and he turned away, saying to her:

"How sad, that you are compelled to live among people whom you

detest.... Can it be, that there is not one among them who would ...

strike you as well-bred...."

"No! You know, there are frightfully few interesting people in the

world.... Everybody is so stupid, so uninspired, so repulsive...."

He smiled at her complaint, and said with a touch of irony, which was

incomprehensible even to himself:

"It is early yet for you to talk in that way. But wait a little,

and you will meet a man who will satisfy you ... you will find him

interesting in every way...."

"Who is he?"--she asked quickly, and even halted.

"Your future husband."

"But who is he?"

"How can I know that?--" Ippolít Sergyéevitch shrugged his shoulders,

feeling displeased at the animation of her questions.

"But tell me!"--she sighed, and moved on.

They were walking through bushes, which barely reached their shoulders;

the road ran through this underbrush, like a lost ribbon, all in

capricious curves. Now, in front of them, the dense forest made its

appearance. "And do you wish to marry?"--asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"Yes.... I don't know! I'm not thinking about that...." she replied

simply. The glance of her beautiful eyes, fixed on the far distance,

was as concentrated as though she were recalling something far away and

dear to her.

"You ought to spend the winter in town,--there your beauty would

attract to you universal attention, and you would soon find what you

want.... For many would strongly desire to call you their wife,--" he

said, slowly, in a low tone, as he thoughtfully scanned her figure.

"It would be necessary that I should permit that!"

"How can you forbid men to desire it?"

"Ah, yes! Of course ... let them desire it...."

They walked a few steps in silence.

She, pensively gazing into the distance, still was intent on recalling

something, but he, for some reason, was counting the spots of mud on

the front of her gown. There were seven of them: three large ones,

which resembled stars, two, like commas in shape, and one, like a

daub from a brush. By their black color, and their arrangement on the

material, they signified something to him. But what--he did not know.

"Have you been in love?"--her voice suddenly rang out, serious and

searching.

"I?"--shuddered Ippolít Sergyéevitch.--"Yes ... only, it was long ago,

when I was a young fellow...."

"So have I, long ago," she informed him.

"Ah ... who was he?--" inquired Polkánoff,[5] not conscious of the

awkwardness of the question, and tearing off a branch which came under

his hand, he flung it far away from himself.

[5] It must be borne in mind that the surname is not used in Russian

speech or novels nearly as often as the Christian name followed by the

patronymic, which is more definite as to the precise individual, and

the precise member of the family.--Translator.

"He? He was a horse-thief.... Three years have passed since I saw him

last, I was seventeen years old then.... They caught him one day, beat

him, and brought him to our court-yard. He lay there, bound with ropes,

and said nothing, but looked at me.... I was standing on the porch of

the house. I remember, it was such a bright morning--it was early in

the morning, and everyone at our house was still asleep...."

She paused, buried in her memories.

"Under the cart there was a pool of blood--such a thick pool--and into

it fell heavy drops from him.... His name was Sáshka Rémezoff. The

peasants came into the court-yard, and as they looked at him, they

growled like dogs. All of them had evil eyes, but he, that Sáshka,

stared at them all quite calmly.... And I felt that he--although he

was beaten and bound--considered himself better than all of them. He

looked so ... his eyes were large, and brown. I felt sorry for him,

and afraid of him.... I went into the house, and poured him out a

glass of vódka.... Then I went out and gave it to him. But his hands

were bound, and he could not drink it ... and he said to me, raising

his head a little--and his head was all covered with blood: 'Put it in

my mouth, my lady,' I held it to his lips, and he drank so slowly, so

slowly, and said: 'Thank you, my lady! God grant you happiness!'--Then,

all at once, I whispered to him: 'Run!' But he answered aloud:--'If

I live, I certainly will run. You may trust me for that!'--And I was

awfully pleased, that he had said it so loudly, that, everyone in the

court-yard heard him. Then he said: 'My lady! Order them to wash my

face!, I told Dúnya, and she washed it ... although his face remained

blue and swollen from the blows ... yes! They soon carried him away,

and when the cart drove out of the courtyard, I looked at him, and he

bowed to me, and smiled with his eyes ... although he was very badly

bruised.... How I wept for him! How I prayed to God that he might run

away...."

"Do you mean ..." Ippolít Sergyéevitch ironically interrupted

her,--"that perhaps you are waiting for him to make his escape and

present himself before you, and then ... you will marry him?"

She either did not hear or did not understand the irony, for she

answered simply:

"Well, and why should he show himself here?"

"But if he did--would you marry him?"

"Marry a peasant? I don't know ...? no, I think not!"

Polkánoff waxed angry.

"You have ruined your brain with your romances, that's what I have to

say to you, Varvára Vasílievna.--" he remarked severely.

At the sound of his harsh voice, she glanced at his face with

amazement, and began, silently and attentively, to listen to his

stem, almost castigating words. And he demonstrated to her, how that

literature which she loved depraved mind and soul, always distorted

reality, was foreign to ennobling ideas, was indifferent to the sad

truth of life, to the desires and tortures of mankind. His voice

rang out harshly in the silence of the forest which surrounded

them, and frequently, in the wayside branches, a timorous rustling

resounded--some one was hiding there. From the foliage fragrant

twilight peered forth upon the road, now and then, athwart the forest,

a prolonged sound was wafted, which resembled a stifled sigh, and the

foliage quivered faintly, as in slumber.

"You must read and respect only those books which teach you to

understand the meaning of life, to understand the aspirations of men,

and the true motives of their actions. To understand people means,--to

pardon them their defects. You must know how badly people live, and

how well they might live, if they were only more sensible, and if they

paid more respect to the rights of one another. For, of course, all men

desire one thing--happiness, but they proceed toward it by different

paths, and those paths are, sometimes, very ignominious, but that is

only because they do not understand in what happiness consists. Hence,

it is the duty of all practical and honest literature, to explain to

men in what happiness consists, and how to attain to it. But those

books which you read, do not occupy themselves with such problems..

they merely lie, and lie crudely. Here, they have inculcated in you ...

an uncivilized notion of heroism.. And what is the result? Now you will

be seeking in life such people as those in the books...."

"No, of course I shall not!..." said the young girl seriously.--"I know

that there are no such men. But the books are nice precisely for the

reason that they depict that which does not exist. The commonplace is

everywhere ... all life is commonplace.... There is a great deal said

about suffering.... That certainly is false, but if it is false--why

is it not a good thing to say a great deal about that of which there

is so little! Here, you say, that in books one must seek?... exemplary

feelings and thoughts,... and that all men err, and do not understand

themselves.... But, surely, the books are written by men, also! And how

am I to know what I ought to believe, and what is best? And in those

books, which you assail, there is a great deal that is noble...."

"You have not understood me...." he exclaimed, with vexation.

"Really? And you are angry with me for that?--" she asked, in a

penitent tone.

"No! Of course, I am not angry ... as if there could be any question of

such a thing!"

"You are angry, I know it, I know it! For, you see, I always get

provoked myself, when people do not agree with me! But why do you

find it necessary that I should agree with you? And I think, also....

In general, why does everybody always quarrel and insist that others

should agree with them? Then there would be nothing whatever to talk

about."

She laughed, and in the midst of her laugh, she concluded:

"It's exactly as though everybody wanted to have only one word left out

of all the words--'yes!' It's awfully amusing!"

"You ask, why I find it necessary...."

"No, I understand; you have got used to teaching, so you regard it as

indispensable that no one should impede you with objections."

"That's not so at all!--" exclaimed Polkánoff bitterly.--"I wish to

arouse in you the faculty of criticising everything that goes on around

you, and in your own soul."

"Why?"--she inquired, ingenuously looking him straight in the eye.

"Good heavens! What do you mean by 'why'? In order that you may know

how to scrutinize your emotions, your thoughts, your actions.. in order

that you may bear yourself reasonably toward life, toward yourself."

"Well, that must be ... difficult. To scrutinize oneself, to criticise

oneself.. what for? And how is it to be done? Am I to split myself in

two, pray? I don't understand at all! You make it out, that truth is

known to you alone.... Let us assume that I know some truth, and that

everybody else knows some.... But, it appears, everyone is mistaken!

For you say, that truth is one for all men, don't you?... But look--see

what a beautiful glade!"

He gazed, and made no reply to her words. Within him raged a feeling

of dissatisfaction with himself, for his reason had been insulted by

this girl, who would not yield to his efforts to subdue her, to bring

her thoughts to a halt even for a moment, and then turn her into the

right road, directly opposed to the one along which she had been

proceeding up to this time, without encountering any opposition. He

had become accustomed to regard as stupid those people who did not

agree with him; at best, he set them down as devoid of the capacity of

development beyond that point, on which their mind already stood,--and

toward such people, he always bore himself with disdain, mingled with

compassion. But this young girl did not strike him as stupid, and did

not arouse in him his customary sentiments toward his opponents. Why

was this so, and what was she? And he answered himself: "Undoubtedly

merely, because she was so stunningly handsome.... Her wild speeches

might, really, not be regarded as a fault ... simply because they were

original, and originality, on the whole, is rarely met with, especially

in women."

As a man of lofty culture, he outwardly bore himself toward women as

beings who were mentally his equals, but in the depths of his own

soul, like all men, he thought of women sceptically and with irony. In

the heart of man there is much space for faith, but very little for

conviction.

They strolled slowly across the broad, almost perfectly circular

glade. The road cut across it, in two dark lines of wheel-ruts, and

disappeared again in the forest. In the centre of the glade, stood a

small clump of graceful young birch-trees, casting lace-like shadows

on the blades of the mown grass. Not far away from them, a half-ruined

hut, constructed of branches, bowed toward the earth; inside it one

could catch a glimpse of hay, and on it perched two daws. To Ippolít

Sergyéevitch they appeared entirely unnecessary and absurd, in the

midst of this tiny, lovely wilderness, surrounded on all sides by the

dark walls of the mysteriously mute forest. But the daws cast sidelong

glances at the people who were walking along the road, and in their

attitude there was a certain fearlessness and confidence,--as though,

perched there upon the hut, they were guarding the entrance to it, and

were conscious that they were thereby discharging their duty.

"Are not you fatigued?"--inquired Polkánoff, with a feeling akin to

anger, as he stared at the daws, pompous and sullen in their immobility.

"I? Fatigued with walking? It is a downright insult to hear that!

Moreover, it is not more than one verst further to the place where they

are awaiting us ... we shall enter the forest in a moment, and the road

runs down hill."

She told him how beautiful was the spot which was their goal, and he

felt that a soft, agreeable indolence was taking possession of him,

which prevented his paying due heed to her remarks.

"It is a pine forest there, and stands on a hillock, and is called

Savyóloff's Crest. The pine-trees are huge, and there are no branches

on their boles, except that away up aloft, each one has a dark-green

canopy. It is quiet in that forest, even painfully quiet, the ground is

all carpeted with pine needles, and the forest seems to have been swept

up neatly. When I ramble in it, I always think of God, for some reason

or other ... it must be awe-inspiring like that around His throne ...

and the angels do not sing praises to Him--that is not true! What need

has He of praises? Does not He know of Himself how great He is?"

A brilliant thought flashed through Ippolít Sergyéevitch's mind:

"What if I were to take advantage of dogma, to plough up the virgin

soil of her soul?"

But he instantly, and proudly rejected this involuntary confession of

his weakness before her. It would not be honorable to employ a force,

in whose existence he did not believe.

"You ... do not believe in God?"--she inquired, as though divining his

thought.

"What makes you think that?"

"Why ... none of the learned men do believe...."

"None of them, indeed!" he laughed, not caring to talk to her on that

subject. But she would not let him off.

"Isn't it true that all are unbelievers? But how is it that they do not

believe? Please to tell me about those who do not believe in Him at

all.... I do not understand how that can be. Whence has all this made

its appearance?"

He paused, arousing his mind, which had fallen into a sweet doze

beneath the sounds of her voice. Then he began to talk about the origin

of the world, as he understood it:

"Mighty, unknown powers are eternally moving, coming into conflict,

and their vast movement gives rise to the world which we see, in which

the life of thought and of the grass-blade are subjected to the same,

identical laws. This movement had no beginning, and will have no

end...."

The young girl listened attentively to him, and frequently asked him

to explain one point or another. He explained with pleasure, perceiving

the tension of thought in her face. She was thinking, thinking! But

when he had finished, she asked him ingenuously, after pausing for a

minute:

"So it was not begun from the beginning! But in the beginning was God.

How is that? There is simply no mention of Him there, and can that be

what is meant by not believing in Him?"

He wanted to retort, but he understood, from the expression of her

face, that that was useless at the moment. She was a believer--to that

her eyes, which were blazing with mystical fire, bore witness. Softly,

timidly, she told him something strange. He did not catch the beginning

of her speech.

"When you look at people, and see how hateful everything about them

is, and then remember God and the Last Judgment--your heart fairly

contracts! Because, assuredly, He can demand an accounting at any

time-to-day, to-morrow, an hour hence.... And, you know, it sometimes

seems to me--that it will be soon! It will be by day ... and first the

sun will be extinguished ... and then a new flame will flash up, and in

it He will appear."

Ippolít Sergyéevitch listened to her ravings, and said to himself:

"She possesses everything except the one thing which she ought to

have...."

Her remarks called forth pallor on her face, and there was terror in

her eyes. In this low-spirited condition she walked on for a long

time, so that the curiosity with which Ippolít Sergyéevitch had been

listening to her, began to die out, and give place to weariness.

But her delirium suddenly vanished, when a loud laugh was wafted to

their ears, as it rang out somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

"Do you hear that? It is Másha ... We have arrived!"

She hastened her pace, and shouted:

"Másha, á-oo!"

"Why does she shout?" thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch compassionately.

They emerged upon the bank of the river; it sloped down to the water,

and on it cheerful clumps of birch-trees and aspens were capriciously

scattered. And on the opposite shore, at the very water's edge, stood

the lofty, silent pines, filling the air with their heavy, resinous

fragrance. There everything was gloomy, motionless, monotonous, and

permeated with stem dignity, but on this side--the graceful birch-trees

rocked their supple branches to and fro, the silvery foliage of

the aspens quivered; the wild snow-ball, and hazel bushes stood in

luxuriant masses, reflected in the water; yonder the sand gleamed

yellow, sprinkled with reddish pine-needles; here, under their feet,

the second growth of grass, barely peeping forth from among the shorn

stalks, showed green, and the scent of new-mown hay emanated from the

haycocks which had been tossed up under the trees. The river, calm and

cold, reflected like a mirror these two worlds, so unlike one to the

other.

In the shade of a group of birches a gay-colored rug had been spread,

on it stood the samovár, emitting clouds of steam and blue smoke, and

beside it, squatting on her heels, Másha was busying herself, teapot in

hand. Her face was red and happy, her hair was damp.

"Have you been in bathing?" Várenka asked her, "And where is Grigóry?"

"He has gone to take a bath also. He'll soon be back."

"Well, I don't want him. I want to eat, drink, and ... eat and drink!

That I do! And how about you, Ippolít Sergyéevitch?"

"I shall not refuse, you know,--" he laughed.

"Be quick, Másha!"

"What do you command first? Chicken, the pasty...."

"Serve everything at once, and you may disappear! Perhaps someone is

waiting for you?"

"Just nobody at all," smiled Másha softly, gazing at her with grateful

eyes.

"Well, all right, go on pretending!"

*

"How simply she says all that," thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch, attacking

the chicken.--"Can it be that she is acquainted with the sense and the

details of such relations? Very likely, seeing that the country is so

frank and coarse in that sphere."

But Várenka, with a laugh, jested away to the confusion of Másha, who

stood before her with downcast eyes, and with a smile of happiness on

her face.

"Wait, he'll take you in hand!"--she threatened.

"Of co-ourse! And I shall give myself to him!... I ... you know ... I

put him...." and covering her face with her apron, she rocked to and

fro, in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.--"On the way, I pushed him

into the water!"

"Did you! That's a clever girl! And what did he do?"

"He swam after the boat.. and ... and he kept beseeching me, to ... let

him ... into the boat ... but I ... flung him ... a rope, from the

stern!"

The infectious laughter of the two women forced Ippolít Sergyéevitch

to burst into laughter also. He laughed not because he imagined to

himself Grigóry swimming after the boat, but because it did him good

to laugh. A sensation of freedom from himself pervaded him, and, now

and then, he seemed to be surprised at himself from somewhere in the

distance, that he had never before been so simply joyous as at that

moment. Then Másha vanished, and again they remained alone together.

Várenka half reclined on the rug, and drank tea, while Ippolít

Sergyéevitch gazed at her, as through the mist of dreams. Around them

reigned stillness, only the samovár hummed a pensive melody, and, from

time to time, something rustled in the grass.

"What makes you so taciturn?" inquired Várenka, casting an anxious

glance at him. "Perhaps you are bored?"

"No, I'm enjoying myself," he said slowly, "but I don't feel like

talking."

"That's the way I feel, too," and the girl grew animated,--"when it is

still, I don't like at all to chatter. For with words you cannot say

much, because there are feelings for which there are no words at all.

And when people say--'silence,' it is nonsense:--one cannot speak of

silence without destroying it,... can one?"

She paused, gazed at the pine forest, and pointing at it with her hand,

she said, with a quiet smile:

"See, the pines seem to be listening to something. There, among them,

it is still, so still. Sometimes it seems to me that the best way to

live is like that, in silence. But it is fine, too, in a thunderstorm

... akh, how fine! The sky is black, the lightning is vicious, it is

dark, the wind roars.. at such times I feel like going out into the

fields, and standing there, and singing--singing loudly, or running

through the rain, against the wind. It's the same in winter. Do you

know, I once got lost in a snow-storm and came near freezing to death."

"Tell me, how that happened," he requested her. He found it pleasant

to listen to her,--it seemed as though she were talking in a language

which was new to him, although comprehensible.

"I was driving from the town, late at night," she began, moving nearer

to him, and fixing her softly-smiling eyes upon his face.--"The

coachman was Yákoff, such a stem old peasant. And the snow-storm began,

a snow-storm of terrible force, and blew straight in our faces. The

wind came in gusts, and hurled a whole cloud of snow on us, so that the

horses backed, and Yákoff reeled on the box. Everything around seethed

as though in a kettle, and we were in a cold foam. We drove and drove,

and then I saw Yákoff take his cap from his head and cross himself.

'What's the matter?'--'Pray, my lady, to the Lord and to Varvára the

Great Martyr, she will help against sudden death.' He spoke simply, and

without fear, so that I was not frightened: I asked--'Have we lost our

way?'--'Yes,' said he.--'But perhaps we shall escape?'--'How are we

to escape, in such a blizzard! Now, I'm going to let go of the reins,

and perhaps the horses will find the way themselves; but do you call

God to mind, all the same!' He is very devout, that Yákoff. The horses

halted, and stood still, and the snow drifted over us. How cold it was!

The snow cut our faces. Yákoff moved from the box, and sat beside me,

so that both of us might be warmer, and we put the rug that was in the

sledge over our heads. I sat there and thought: 'Well, I am lost! And I

shall not eat the bonbons I have brought from the town....' But I was

not afraid, because Yákoff kept talking all the while. I remember that

he said: 'I'm sorry for you, my lady![6] 'Why should you perish?--'

'Why, you will be frozen also?--' 'I'm of no consequence, I've lived

my life, but here are you ...' and he kept on about me. He is very

fond of me, he even scolds sometimes, you know, growls at me, he's so

cross-grained:--'akh, you impious creature, you mad-cap, you shameless

weathercock!..."

[6] _Bárynya_, for a married woman of noble birth, _báryshmsya_, for an

unmarried woman, are more nearly equivalent to "mistress" and "young

mistress." But these are inconvenient, in many instances. In general,

they are used precisely as "my lady" is used by English people of the

lower class to those of superior rank.--Translator.

She assumed a surly mien, and spoke in a deep bass voice, drawling out

her words. The memory of Yákoff had diverted her from her story, and

Ippolít Sergyéevitch was obliged to ask her:

"And how did you find the road?"

"Why, the horses got chilled, and started ahead of their own accord,

and they went on, and on until they reached a village thirteen versts

away from ours. You know, our village is near here, about four versts

distant. If you were to go along the shore, and then by the footpath,

through the forest, to the right, you would come upon a hollow, and our

home-farm would be in sight. But by the highway, it is ten versts from

here."

Several saucy birds hovered around them, and perching upon the branches

of the bushes, twittered valiantly, as though imparting to one another

their impressions concerning these two persons, alone there in the

heart of the forest. From afar laughter, talking and the splash of oars

was wafted to them,--probably from Grigóry and Másha as they rowed on

the river.

"Suppose we call them, and go in that direction, among the

pines?"--suggested Várenka.

He assented, and placing her hand to her mouth like a trumpet, she

began to shout:

"Row thi-is wa-ay!"

Her bosom strained with the cry, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch admired her

in silence. He had to think of some-thing--of something very serious,

he felt,--but he did not wish to think, and this faint appeal of his

mind did not prevent his calmly and freely resigning himself to the

more powerful command of his feelings.

The boat came in sight. Grigóry's face was sly and rather guilty;

Másha's bore a fictitious expression of anger; but Várenka, as she took

her seat in the boat, glanced at them, and laughed, and then they both

began to laugh, confused and happy.

"Venus and her petted slaves," said Ippolít Sergyéevitch to himself.

In the pine forest it was solemn and still as in a temple, and the

mighty, stately tree-trunks stood like columns, supporting a heavy

vault of dark verdure. A warm, heavy odor of resin filled the air,

and under their feet the dry pine-needles crackled softly. In front,

behind, on every side, stood the reddish pines, and only here and

there, at their roots, through a layer of needles, did a pallid green

force its way. In the stillness and in silence the two people strolled

slowly amid this dumb life, turning now to the right, now to the left,

to avoid trees which barred their path.

"We shall not go astray?"--inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"I go astray?" said Várenka in surprise.--"I can always, everywhere

find the way I require ... all one has to do is to look at the sun."

He did not ask her how the sun pointed out the road to her, he did

not, in the least, wish to speak, although he felt, at times, that he

might say a very great deal to her. But these were internal impulses

of desire, flashing up on the surface of his calm mood, and dying out

again in a second, without agitating him. Várenka walked by his side,

and on her face he beheld the reflection of quiet ecstasy.

"Is this nice?" she asked him, now and then, and a caressing smile

caused her lips to quiver.

"Yes, very," he replied briefly, and again they fell silent, as they

roamed through the forest. It seemed to him that he was a young man,

devoutly in love, a stranger to sinful intentions, and to all inward

conflict with himself. But every time that his eyes fell upon the spots

of mud on her gown, a disquieting shadow fell upon his soul. And he did

not understand how this happened, that suddenly, all in a moment, when

such a shadow enveloped his consciousness, with a deep sigh, as though

casting off a weight, he said to her:

"What a beauty you are!"

She looked at him in amazement.

"What ails you? You have held your peace, held your peace--and then,

suddenly, you say that!"

Ippolít Sergyéevitch smiled faintly, disarmed by her composure.

"It is so beautiful here.. you know! The forest is beautiful ... and

you are like a fairy in it ... or, you are a goddess, and the forest is

your temple."

"No," she replied, with a smile, "it is not my forest, it belongs to

the Crown, but our forest is yonder, down the river."

And she pointed with her hand somewhere to one side.

"Is she jesting, or ... does not she understand?--" said Ippolít

Sergyéevitch to himself, and a persistent desire to talk to her about

her beauty began to blaze up within him. But she was pensive, calm, and

this restrained him during the entire time of their stroll.

They rambled on for a long time, but said little, for the soft,

peaceful impressions of that day had breathed into their souls a sweet

languor, in which all desires had sunk to rest, except the desire to

meditate in silence upon something inexpressible in words.

On their return home, they learned that Elizavéta Sergyéevna had not

yet arrived, and they began to drink tea, which Másha hastily prepared.

Immediately after tea, Várenka rode off homeward, having exacted from

him a promise to come to their manor with Elizavéta Sergyéevna. He

saw her off, and as he reached the terrace, he surprised in himself a

mournful sensation of having lost something which was indispensable

to him. As he sat at the table, whereon still stood his glass of tea,

which had grown cold, he sternly tried to bring himself up short, to

suppress this whole play of emotions excited by the day, but pity for

himself made its appearance, and he rejected all operations on himself.

"Why?" he said to himself--"can all this be serious? It is a frolic,

nothing more. It will not hurt her, it cannot hurt her, even if I

wished it. It somewhat interferes with my life ... but there is so much

that is young and beautiful about it...."

Then, smiling condescendingly to himself, he recalled his firm resolve

to develop her mind, and his unsuccessful efforts to do so.

"No, evidently, one must use different words with her. These

unadulterated natures are more inclined to yield their directness to

metaphysics ... defending themselves against logic by the armor of

blind, primitive feeling.... She is a strange girl!"

His sister found him engrossed in thoughts about her. She made her

appearance in noisy, animated mood,--such as he had not beheld her

hitherto. After ordering Másha to boil the samovár, she seated herself

opposite her brother, and began to tell him about the Benkóvskys.

"Forth from all the cracks of their ancient house peer the cruel eyes

of poverty, which is celebrating its victory over that family. In the

house, to all appearances, there is not a kopék of money, nor any

provisions; they sent to the village to get eggs for dinner. There

was no meat at dinner, and so old Benkóvsky talked a great deal about

vegetarianism, and about the possibility of the moral regeneration of

people on that basis. The whole place reeks of decay, and they are all

bad-tempered--from hunger, probably." She had gone to them with the

proposition that they should sell her a small plot of land which cut

into her estate.

"Why did you do that?" inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with interest.

"Well, you can hardly appreciate the calculations which I am carrying

out. Imagine--it is on account of my future children,--" she said,

laughing. "Well, and how have you passed the time?"

"Agreeably."

She said nothing, but eyed him askance.

"Excuse me for the question ... aren't you a little bit afraid of being

captivated by Várenka?"

"What is there to fear?" he inquired, with an interest which was

incomprehensible to himself.

"The possibility of being strongly carried away?"

"Well, I am hardly capable of that.." he replied sceptically, and he

believed that he was speaking the truth.

"And if that is the case, it is very good indeed. A little--that is all

well enough, but you are rather cold ... too serious.. for your years.

And really.... I shall be glad if she stirs you up a little.... Perhaps

you would like to see her more frequently?..."

"She made me promise to go to their house, and begged you to do so...."

Ippolít Sergyéevitch informed her.

"When do you wish to go?"

"It makes no difference to me ... Whenever you find it convenient. You

are in good spirits to-day...."

"Is that very noticeable?"--she laughed.--"What of it? I have passed

the day pleasantly. On the whole ... I am afraid it will seem cynical

to you ... but the truth is, that since the day of my husband's

funeral, I feel that I am reviving to new life ... I am egotistical--of

course! But it is the joyous egotism of a person who has been released

from prison to freedom.... Condemn me ... but be just."

"How many accusations for such a short speech! You are glad and ... go

on being glad...." laughed Ippolít Sergyéevitch amiably.

"And you are kind and charming to-day," said she.--"You see--a little

happiness--and a person immediately becomes better, kinder. But some

over-wise people think that sufferings purify us ... I should like to

have life, by applying that theory to them, purify their minds from

error...."

"But if you were to make Várenka suffer--what would become of her?"

Ippolít Sergyéevitch asked himself.

They soon parted. She began to play, and he, going off to his own

room, lay down on his couch and began to reflect,--what sort of an

idea of him had that young girl formed? Did she consider him handsome?

Or clever? What was there about him that could please her? Something

attracted her to him--that was evident to him. But it was not likely

that he possessed in her eyes any value as a clever, learned man; she

so lightly brushed aside all his theories, views, exhortations. It was

more probable that he pleased her simply as a man.

And on arriving at this conclusion, Ippolít Sergyéevitch flushed with

proud joy. Closing his eyes, with a smile of satisfaction, he pictured

to himself this girl as submissive to him, conquered by him, ready to

do anything for him, timidly entreating him to take her, and teach her

to think, to live, to love.