When Elizavéta Sergyéevna's cabriolet stopped at the porch of Colonel
Ólesoff's house, the tall, thin figure of a woman in a loose gray gown
made its appearance, and a bass voice rang out, with a strong burr on
the letter "r":
"A-ah! What a pleasant surprise!"
Ippolít Sergyéevitch even shivered at this greeting, which resembled a
bellow.
"My brother Ippolít ..." Elizavéta Sergyéevna introduced him, after she
and the woman had kissed each other.
"Margarita Rodiónovna Lutchítzky."
Five cold, sticky bones pressed Ippolít Sergyéevitch's fingers;
flashing gray eyes were riveted on his face, and Aunt Lutchítzky boomed
away in her bass voice, distinctly enunciating every phrase, as though
she were counting them, and were afraid of saying too much.
"I am very glad to make your acquaintance...."
Then she moved to one side, and laid her hand on the house-door.
"Pray, come in!"
Ippolít Sergyéevitch stepped across the threshold, and a hoarse cough
and an irritated exclamation were borne to meet him from some quarter:
"Devil take your stupidity! Go along, see, and tell me, who-o has
come...."
"Go in, go in, Elizavéta Sergyéevna," urged on her brother, perceiving
that he had halted, hesitatingly.--"It's the colonel shouting ... It is
we who have come, colonel!"
In the middle of a large room with a low ceiling, stood a massive
arm-chair, and in it was squeezed a big, lymphatic body, with a red,
wizened face, overgrown with gray moss. The upper part of this mass
turned heavily, emitting a choking snort. Behind the arm-chair rose the
shoulders of a tall, stout woman, who gazed into Ippolít Sergyéevitch's
face with lack-lustre eyes.
"I'm glad to see you ... is this your brother?... Colonel Vasíly
Ólesoff ... he beat the Turks and the Tekke Turkomans, and now he
himself is conquered by diseases ... ho, ho, ho! I'm glad to see you.
Varvára has been drumming in my ears all summer about your learning,
and all the rest of it ... Pray, come hither, into the drawing-room ...
Thékla, push me in!"
The wheels of the chair squeaked piercingly, the colonel lurched
forward, threw himself back, and broke into a hoarse cough, wagging his
head about as though he wanted it to break off.
"When your master coughs--stand still! Haven't I told you that a
thousand times?"
And Aunt Lutchítzky, seizing Thékla by the shoulder, crushed her down
to the floor.
The Polkánoffs stood and waited, until the heavily swaying body of
Ólesoff should have finished coughing. At last they moved forward, and
found themselves in a small room, where it was suffocating, dark and
cramped with a superabundance of softly-stuffed furniture in canvas
covers.
"Pray seat yourselves ... Thékla,--call your young mistress!" commanded
Aunt Lutchítzky.
"Elizavéta Sergyéevna, my dear, I am glad to see you!" announced the
colonel, staring at his guest from beneath his gray eyebrows which met
over his nose, with eyes as round as those of an owl. The colonel's
nose was comically huge, and its tip, purple and shining, mournfully
hid itself in the thick brush of his whiskers.
"I know that you are as glad to see me as I am to see you...." said his
visitor caressingly.
"Ho, ho, ho! That's a lie--begging your pardon! What pleasure is there
in seeing an old man, crippled with gout, and sick with an inexorable
thirst for vódka? Twenty-five years ago, one might really have rejoiced
at the sight of Váska Ólesoff ... and many women did rejoice ... but
now, I'm utterly useless to you, and you're utterly useless to me....
But when you are here, they give me vódka--and so, I'm glad to see you!"
"Don't talk much, or you'll begin to cough again...." Margarita
Bodiónovna warned him.
"Did you hear?--" the colonel turned to Ippolít Sergyéevitch.--"I must
not talk--it's injurious, I must not drink, it's injurious,--I must not
eat as much as I want,--it's injurious! Everything is injurious, devil
take it! And I see, that it's injurious for me to live! Ho, ho, ho! I
have lived too long ... I hope you may never have occasion to say the
same thing about yourself.... However, you will certainly die early,
you'll get the consumption,--you have an impossibly narrow chest...."
Ippolít Sergyéevitch looked, now at him, now at Aunt Lutchítzky, and
thought of Várenka:
"And what monsters she lives among!"
He had never tried to depict to himself the setting of her life, and
now he was crushed by what he beheld. The harsh, angular leanness
of Aunt Lutchítzky offended his eyes; he could not bear to look at
her long neck, covered with yellow skin, and every time she spoke
he began to be apprehensive of something, as though in anticipation
that the bass sounds, which emanated from this woman's broad bosom,
flat as a board, would rend her breast. And the rustle of Aunt
Lutchítzky's skirts seemed to him to be her bones rubbing against
each other. The colonel reeked with some sort of liquor, sweat, and
vile tobacco. Judging from the gleam in his eyes, he must often be
in a fury, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch, as he imagined him in a state
of exasperation, felt loathing for the old man. The rooms were not
comfortable, the wall-paper was smoke-begrimed, and the tiles of the
stoves were streaked with cracks, which, however, made them look like
marble. The paint had been rubbed off of the floors by the wheels of
the rolling-chair, the window-frames were awry, the panes were dull,
everything breathed forth an odor of age, perishing with exhaustion.
"It is sultry to-day,..." remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
"There will be rain," declared Mrs. Lutchítzky categorically.
"Really?" said the visitor doubtfully.
"Trust to Margarita,--" said the old man hoarsely.--"She knows
everything that will take place.... She assures me so every day....
'You will die,' she says, 'and they will rob Várya, and break her
head....'--you see? I dispute it:--the daughter of Colonel Ólesoff will
not permit anyone to turn her head ... she'll do it herself; and that I
shall die--is true.. that is to say, it is as it should be. And you, my
learned gentleman, how do you feel yourself? A very small fish in a big
tank?"
"No, why should I? It is a beautiful wooded country ...." replied
Ippolít Sergyéevitch courteously.
"It is a beautiful wooded country here? Phew! That means that you
haven't seen anything beautiful on earth. The valley of Kazanlik in
Bulgaria is beautiful,... it is beautiful in Kherassan ... on the
Murgal river there is a spot like paradise itself... Ah! My precious
child!..."
Várenka brought with her an aroma of freshness into the musty
atmosphere of the drawing-room. Her form was enveloped in some sort
of mantle, of light lilac _sarpinka_.[1] In her hands she held a huge
bouquet of freshly-gathered flowers, and her face was beaming with
pleasure. "How nice that you have come to-day!--" she exclaimed, as she
greeted her guests.--"I was just preparing to go to you ... they have
been nagging me!"
[1] _Sarpinka_ is a very fine cotton goods, manufactured by German
colonists, in the Government of Sarátoff, on the lower Vólga. It is
almost invariably of two colors, like shot silk, is very durable and
pretty.--Translator.
And with a sweeping gesture, she designated her father and Margarita
Rodiónovna, who was sitting beside her visitor with such unnatural
rigidity, that her backbone seemed to have turned to stone, and to be
incapable of bending.
"Varvára! You're talking nonsense!" she cried sternly to the young
girl, with flashing eyes.
"Don't scream! If you do, I'll tell about Lieutenant Yákovleff, and his
fiery heart...."
"Ho, ho, ho! Várka[2]--be quiet! I'll tell it myself...."
[2] Várya, Várenka, Várka, are all diminutives of Varvára.--Translator.
"What sort of a place have I got into?"--meditated Ippolít
Sergyéevitch, gazing at his sister in amazement.
But, evidently, all this was familiar to her, and although a smile
of disdain quivered on the corners of her mouth, she looked on and
listened with composure.
"I will go and see about tea!"--announced Margarita Bodiónovna,
stretching herself upward, without bending her body, and disappeared,
after casting a glance of reproach at the colonel.
Várenka sat down in her aunt's place, and began to whisper something in
Elizavéta Sergyéevna's ear.
"Why has she such a passion for loose garments!" said Ippolít
Sergyéevitch to himself, casting a furtive glance at her figure, as it
bent toward his sister, in a fine pose. But the colonel rumbled away,
like a cracked double-bass:
"Of course, you are aware, that Margarita is the wife of my comrade,
Lieutenant-Colonel Lutchítzky, who was killed at Iski-Zagra. She
made the campaign with him, that she did! She's an energetic woman,
you know. Well, and in our regiment there was a Lieutenant Yákovleff
... such a delicate young lady he was ... his chest was crushed by a
Turkish volunteer, and consumption ensued, so that was the end of him!
Well, and when he fell ill, she nursed him for five months! What do
you think of that? hey? And, do you know, she gave him her word that
she would not marry. She was young, and handsome ... a very striking
woman. Very worthy men courted her, courted her seriously--Captain
Shmurló, a very fine young Little Russian, even took to drink and left
the service. I, also ... that is to say, I also proposed to her:--
'Margarita! marry me!' ... She would not ... it was very stupid of her,
but noble, of course. And then, when I was seized with the gout, she
presented herself, and said: 'You are alone in the world, I am alone
...' and so forth and so on. Touching and saintly. Eternal friendship,
and we snarl at each other all the time. She comes here every summer,
she even wants to sell her estate and settle down here forever, that is
to say, until I die. I appreciate it--but it's all ridiculous, isn't
it? Ho, ho, ho! For she was a passionate woman, and you see how he has
dried her up? Don't play with fire ... ho! She flies into a rage, you
know, when one narrates this poetry of her life, as she expresses it.
'Don't you dare,' says she, 'to insult the holy things of my heart with
your abominable tongue!' Ah! Ho, ho, ho! But, as a matter of fact, what
sort of a holy thing is it? A delusion of the mind ... the dreams of a
school-girl.... Life is simple, isn't it? Enjoy yourself, and die when
your time comes, that's the whole philosophy! But ... die when your
time comes! But here now, I have overlived the right time, I hope you
won't do that...."
Ippolít Sergyéevitch's head was reeling with the story, and the odor
which emanated from the colonel. But Várenka, paying no heed whatever
to him, and, probably, not comprehending how little agreeable the
conversation with her father was to him, was chatting, in a low tone,
with Elizavéta Sergyéevna, listening seriously and attentively to her.
"I invite you to drink tea!--" Margarita Rodiónovna's bass voice rang
out in the doorway.--"Varvára, wheel your father!"
Ippolít Sergyéevitch drew a breath of relief and followed Várenka, who
lightly pushed in front of her the heavy chair.
Tea was prepared in the English fashion, with a mass of cold viands. A
huge rare piece of roast beef was flanked by bottles of wine, and this
evoked a laugh of contentment on the part of the colonel. It seemed
as though even his half-dead legs, enveloped in bear-skin, quivered
with the anticipation of pleasure. He was rolled up to the table, and
stretching out his fat, trembling hands, overgrown with dark hair,
toward the bottles, he laughed aloud, shaking the air of the great
dining-room, set around with chairs plaited from osier twigs.
The tea-drinking lasted a torturingly long time, and throughout it
the colonel narrated military anecdotes, in a hoarse voice, Margarita
Bodiónovna interposed brief remarks in her bass, and Várenka chatted
softly but vivaciously with Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
"What is she talking about?"--thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch sadly,
delivered over to the colonel as a victim.
It seemed to him that she was paying too little attention to him
to-day. Was this coquetry? And he felt that he was on the point of
becoming angry with her. But now she cast a glance in his direction,
and uttered a ringing laugh.
"My sister has called her attention to me!" reflected Ippolít
Sergyéevitch, frowning with displeasure.
"Ippolít Sergyéevitch! Have you finished your tea?" inquired Várenka.
"Yes, long ago...."
"Would you like to take a stroll? I will show you some splendid places!"
"Let us go. And will you come too, Liza?"
"No! I find it pleasant to sit with Margarita Rodiónovna and the
Colonel."
"Ho, ho, ho! Agreeable to stand on the brink of the grave, into which
my half-dead body is rolling!" and the colonel roared with laughter.
"Why do you say that?"
"The next thing, she will be asking me--'don't you find it tiresome at
our house?'--" thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch, as he emerged with Várenka
from the house into the garden. But she asked him:
"How do you like papa?"
"Oh!"--exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch softly. "He inspires respect!"
"Aha!" replied Várenka, with satisfaction.--"That's what everybody
says. He's frightfully brave! You know, he does not talk about himself,
but Aunt Lutchítzky was in the same regiment with him, and she said
that at Górny Dubnyák a ball crushed his horse's nostrils, and the
animal carried him straight in among the Turks. But the Turks pursued
him; he managed to wheel and gallop along their line; of course,
they killed the horse; he fell, and saw that four men were running
toward him ... One rushed up, and brandished the butt-end of a rifle
over him, but papa let fly,--whack! and the man fell at his feet. He
discharged a revolver straight in his face--bang! And then he pulled
his leg out from under the horse, and the other three rushed up, and
more after them, and our own soldiers flew to meet them, with Yákovleff
... you know who he was?... Papa seized the dead man's rifle, sprang
to his feet--and forward! But he was awfully strong, and that came
near ruining him; he hit the Turk over the head, and the gun broke,
and he had nothing but his sword left, but it was bad and dull, and a
Turk was trying to kill him with a bayonet-thrust in the breast. Then
papa grasped the strap of the rifle in his hand, and ran to meet his
own men, dragging the Turk after him. He understood that he was lost,
turned his face toward the foe, wrenched the gun away from the Turk,
and dashed at them--hurrah! Then Yákovleff rushed up with the soldiers,
and they set to work so heartily, that the Turks beat a retreat. They
gave papa the George[3] for that, but he flew into a rage, because they
did not give the George to a non-commissioned officer of his regiment,
who had saved Yákovleff twice and papa once in that fight, and refused
the cross. But when they gave it to the non-commissioned officer, then
he took it."
[3] The Order of St. George--the most prized of Russian Orders, because
it must be won by desperate, personal valor, on the field of battle.
The names of the members are inscribed in gold on the white marble
walls of the grand Hall of St. George, in the Great Palace, in the
Krémlin, at Moscow. The ribbon is orange and black.--Translator.
"You tell about that fight exactly as though you had taken part in
it...." remarked Ippolít Sergyéevitch, interrupting her narration.
"Ye-es...." she said slowly, sighing and puckering up her eyes.--"I
like war ... And I'm going, as a Sister of Mercy, if they begin to
fight...."
"Then I shall go as a soldier...."
"You?" she inquired, scanning his figure.--"Come, you are jesting,...
you would make a poor soldier.. you are so weak, so thin...."
This stung him.
"I am strong enough, I assure you...." he declared, as though warning
her.
"Well, you don't say so?" said Várenka composedly, not believing him.
A raging desire to seize her in his arms, and crush her to his breast
with all his might flamed up within him--to crush her so that the tears
would gush forth from her eyes. He cast a hasty glance around, twitched
his shoulders, and immediately felt ashamed of his impulse.
They walked through the garden along a path set with regular rows of
apple-trees, and behind them, at the end of the path, gazed forth the
windows of the house. Apples kept falling from the trees, striking the
earth dully, and voices resounded somewhere close at hand. One asked:
"I suppose he has come wooing too?"
But the other swore gruffly.
"Wait ..." Várenka stopped her companion, grasping his sleeve, "let's
hear what they have to say about us...."
He cast a harsh glance at her, and said:
"I am not fond of eavesdropping to the gossip of servants."
"But I love it...." declared Várenka, "when they are by themselves,
they always talk very interestingly about us, their masters...."
"It may be interesting, but it is not nice...." laughed Ippolít
Sergyéevitch.
"Why not? They always speak well of me."
"I congratulate you...."
He was the prey of a malicious impulse to speak sharply, rudely to
her, to wound her. To-day her conduct agitated him:--yonder, in the
house, she had paid no attention to him for a long time, just as though
she did not understand that he had come for her sake, and to see her,
and not to see her crippled father, and dried-up aunt. Then, when
she pronounced him a weakling, she had begun to look upon him with a
certain condescension.
"What is the meaning of all this?" he said to himself.--"If my
exterior does not please her, and I am not interesting from the
internal point of view--what has attracted her to me? A new face--and
nothing more?"
He believed that she was gravitating toward him, and thought that
he had to deal with coquetry under the guise of ingenuousness and
artlessness.
"Perhaps she considers me stupid ... and hopes that I shall grow
wiser...."
"My aunt is right ... it is going to rain!" said Várenka, gazing into
the distance,--"see, what a dark cloud ... and it is growing sultry, as
it always does before a thunder-storm...."
"That is unpleasant.." said Ippolít Sergyéevitch. "We must turn back,
and warn my sister...."
"Why?"
"That we may return home before it begins to rain...."
"Who is going to let you go? And you would not be able to get there
before the thunderstorm begins.... You will have to wait here."
"And what if the rain should last until night?"
"You will spend the night with us," said Várenka categorically.
"No, that is inconvenient...." protested Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
"Oh Lord! Is it so difficult to spend one night inconveniently?"
"I had not my own comfort in view...."
"Then don't worry yourself about other people--each person can take
care of himself."
They disputed and walked on, but the dark cloud swept swiftly to meet
them across the sky, and already the thunder was beginning to rumble
somewhere far away. An oppressive sultriness permeated the atmosphere,
as though the approaching thunder-cloud, condensing all the burning
heat of the day, were driving it before it. And the leaves on the trees
grew still, in eager expectation of the refreshing moisture.
"Shall we turn back?" suggested Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
"Yes, because it is stifling.... How I detest the time before something
is coming ... before a thunderstorm, before holidays. The thunderstorm
or the holiday is all well enough in itself, but it is tiresome to wait
for it. If everything could only be done at once ... you could lie down
and sleep--it is winter, and cold; you wake--and it is spring, with
flowers and sun ... or, the sun is shining, and, all at once, there is
darkness, thunder, a downpour...."
"Perhaps you would like to have a man also change as suddenly and
unexpectedly?" inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with a laugh.
"A man should always be interesting...." she said, sententiously.
"But what do you mean by being interesting?"--exclaimed Ippolít
Sergyéevitch, with vexation.
"What do I mean? Why ... it is difficult to say I think that all
people would be interesting, if they were more ... lively ... yes,
more lively! If they laughed, sang, played more ... if they were more
daring, stronger ... even audacious ... even coarse.."
He listened attentively to her definitions, and asked himself:
"Is she recommending to me the programme of the relations which she
wishes me to bear toward her?..."
"There's no swiftness in people.. and everything ought to be done
swiftly, in order that life should be interesting ...." she explained,
with a serious face.
"Who knows? Perhaps you are right...." remarked Ippolít Sergyéevitch
softly. "That is to say, not entirely right...."
"Don't excuse yourself!--" she laughed.--"Why not entirely? It's either
entirely right or not right at all ... it's either good or bad ...
either handsome or homely ... that's the way to argue! But people say:
'she's quite nice, quite pretty ...' and it's simply out of cowardice
that they speak in that way ... they're afraid of the truth, for some
reason or other!"
"Well, you know, that by just this division into two, you insult far
too many!"
"How so?"
"By injustice...."
"A man always keeps coming back to that same justice! Just as though
all life were contained in it and one couldn't possibly get along
without it. But who wants it?" She cried out angrily and capriciously,
and her eyes kept contracting and emitting sparks.
"Everyone, Varvára Vasílievna! Everyone, from the peasant ... to
yourself...." said Ippolít Sergyéevitch didactically, as he watched her
agitation, and tried to explain it to himself.
"I don't want any justice!"--she rejected it with decision, and
even made a gesture with her hand, as though she were repelling
something.--"And if I do need it, I'll find it for myself ... Why
are you forever bothering yourself about people? And ... you simply
say that, in order to make me angry ... because to-day you are
consequential, and pompous...."
"I? I make you angry? Why?" said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, in amazement.
"How should I know? Because you are bored, probably .... But ...
you'd better stop it! I'm loaded to the muzzle.. even without your
interference! They have been feeding me on sermons the whole week, all
because of my suitors ... they have flooded me with every sort of venom
... and vile suspicions ... thanks to you!"
Her eyes flashed with a phosphorescent gleam, her nostrils quivered,
and she trembled all over with the agitation which had suddenly seized
upon her. Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with a mist in his eyes, and a rapid
beating of the heart, began hotly to defend her against herself.
"I did not mean to anger you...."
But, at that moment, the thunder crashed noisily over their heads--as
though some monstrously-large and coarsely-good-natured person were
laughing. Stunned by the terrific sound, they both shuddered, and
halted, for an instant, but immediately set out, at a rapid pace, for
the house. The foliage trembled on the trees, and a shadow fell upon
the earth from the thunder-cloud, which spread over the sky in a soft,
velvety canopy.
"But what a quarrel you and I have had!" said Várenka on the way.
--"I did not notice how the cloud was creeping up."
On the porch of the house stood Elizavéta Sergyéevna, and Aunt
Lutchítzky, with a large straw hat on her head, which made her look
like a sunflower.
"There is going to be a terrific thunderstorm," she announced, in her
impressive bass voice, straight in Ippolít Sergyéevitch's face, as
though she considered it her plain duty to assure him of the approach
of the tempest. Then she said:
"The colonel has fallen asleep...." and vanished.
"How does this please you?" asked Elizavéta Sergyéevna, indicating the
sky with a nod.--"I think we shall be obliged to spend the night here."
"If we do not incommode anyone...."
"That's just like a man!"--exclaimed Várenka staring at him with
amazement, and almost with pity.--
"You're always afraid of inconveniencing people, of being unjust ...
akh, oh Lord! Well, and you must find it tiresome to live ... always
on pins and needles! The way I think about it is--if you want to
inconvenience people, do it, if you want to be unjust, be unjust!..."
"And God Himself will decide who is in the right," interposed
Elizavéta Sergyéevna, smiling at her with a consciousness of her own
superiority.--"I think I must hide myself under the roof.... What are
you going to do?"
"We will watch the thunderstorm here,--won't we?" the girl asked,
addressing Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
He expressed his assent by a bow.
"Well, I am not fond of the grandiose phenomena of Nature.. if they are
likely to produce fever or a cold in the head. Moreover, one can enjoy
a thunderstorm through the window-panes ... aï!"
The lightning flashed; the gloom, rent by it, quivered, for a moment
revealing what it had engulfed, and then flowed together again. For
a couple of seconds, a crushing silence reigned, then the thunder
roared, like the discharge of a battery, and its rumblings rolled over
the house. The wind burst forth, and seizing the dust and rubbish
on the ground, and whirled around with everything it had gathered,
rising upward in a column. Straws, bits of paper, leaves flew about;
the martins clove the air with frightened squeaks, the foliage rustled
dully on the trees, on the iron roof of the house the dust could be
heard, giving rise to a noisy rattle.
Várenka watched this play of the storm from behind the jamb of the
door, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch, winking from the dust, stood behind
her. The porch was like a box, which is dark inside, but when the
lightning flashed, the girl's graceful figure was illuminated by a
bluish, spectral light.
"Look ... look!" cried Várenka, when the lightning rent the
thunder-cloud.... "did you see? The thunder-cloud seems to
smile--doesn't it? It greatly resembles a smile ... there are just such
surly and taciturn people--that sort of a man remains silent, keeps
silent for ever so long, and then, all of a sudden, he smiles:--his
eyes blaze, his teeth gleam.... And here comes the rain!"
On the roof the big, heavy drops of rain drummed, at long intervals, at
first, then closer and closer together, and, at last, with a roaring
noise.
"Let us go away..." said Ippolít Sergyéevitch "... you will get wet."
He found it awkward to stand so close to her, in that dense
darkness--awkward and disagreeable. And he thought, as he looked at her
neck:
"What if I were to kiss it?"
The lightnings flashed, lighting up half of the heaven, and by their
illumination Ippolít Sergyéevitch perceived that Várenka was waving
her arms, with cries of rapture, and standing, with her body leaning
backward, as though presenting her breast to the lightning. He seized
her from behind, by the waist, and almost laying his head on her
shoulder, he asked her, panting:
"What ... what ... is the matter with you?"
"Why, nothing!" she exclaimed with vexation, freeing herself from his
arms with a supple, powerful motion of her body.--"Good heavens, how
frightened you are ... and you a man!"
"I was alarmed for you," he said, in low tone, retreating into the
corner.
The contact with her seemed to burn his hands, and filled his breast
with inextinguishable fire of desire to embrace her, to embrace her
strongly, even to pain. He had lost his self-control, and he wanted to
quit the porch, and stand in the rain, where the big drops were lashing
the trees like scourges.
"I will go into the house," said he.
"Let us go," agreed Várenka with displeasure, and slipping noiselessly
past him, she went through the door.
"Ho, ho, ho!" the colonel greeted them.--"What? By order of the
commander of the elements you are arrested until further notice? Ho,
ho, ho!"
"This is a frightful thunderstorm," remarked Aunt Lutchítzky, with the
utmost seriousness, intently scanning the pale face of their guest.
"I do not like these mad fits of Nature!" said Elizavéta Sergyéevna,
with a scornful grimace on her cold face.--"Thunder-storms,
snow-storms;--why such a useless waste of a mass of energy?"
Ippolít Sergyéevitch, suppressing his emotion, hardly found the
strength to ask his sister calmly:
"Will it last long, do you think?"
"All night," Margarita Rodiónovna answered him.
"I think it will," assented his sister.
"You can't tear yourselves away from here!" declared Várenka, with a
laugh.
Polkánoff shuddered, feeling that there was something fatal in her
laugh.
"Yes, we shall be obliged to spend the night here," said Elizavéta
Sergyéevna.... "We cannot pass through the Kámoff thicket of young
trees, by night, without defacing the equipage ... by good luck...."
"There are plenty of chambers here," announced aunt Lutchítzky.
"Then ... I will beg you to excuse me! a thunderstorm has the most
shocking effect upon me!... I should like to know ... where I am to be
quartered ... I will go there, for a few minutes."
Ippolít's words, uttered in a low, broken voice, produced a general
alarm.
"Sal ammoniac!" boomed Margarita Rodiónovna, in her deep bass, and,
springing from her chair, she disappeared.
Várenka bustled about the room with astonishment written on her face,
and said to him:
"I'll show you directly ... I will assign you a place ... where it is
quiet...."
Elizavéta Sergyéevna was the most composed of them all, and asked him,
with a smile:
"Are you dizzy?"
And the colonel said, hoarsely:
"Fiddle-faddle! It will pass off! My comrade, Major Gortáloff, who was
killed by the Turks during a sortie, was a dashing fellow! Oh! a rare
fellow! A valiant young man! At Sístoff, he walked forward straight
on the bayonets, ahead of the soldiers, as calmly as though he were
leading a dance:--he hewed, slashed, shouted, broke his sword, seized a
club, and thrashed the Turks with that. He was a brave man, and there
aren't many such! But he, also, got nervous in a thunderstorm, like a
woman ... it was ridiculous! He turned pale, and reeled, as you do, and
cried 'akh,' and 'okh!' He was a hard drinker, and a jolly dog, twelve
vershóks tall[4] ... imagine how it became him!"
[4] A _vershók_ is 1 3/4 inches.--Translator.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch looked, and listened, made his excuses, calmed
them all, and cursed himself. His head really was swimming, and
when Margarita Rodiónovna thrust a smelling-bottle under his nose,
and commanded him: "Smell that!" ... he seized the salts, and began
inhaling the penetrating odor into his nostrils, feeling, that this
whole scene was comic, and was lowering him in Várenka's eyes.
The rain beat angrily against the window, the lightnings flashed in
their glare, the peals of thunder made the panes rattle in a frightened
way, and all this reminded the colonel of the uproar of battle.
"During the last Turkish campaign ... I don't remember where ... there
was just such a tumult as this. Thunder, a torrent of rain, lightning,
volleys of firing from the artillery, a scattered fire from the
infantry.... Lieutenant Vyákhireff took out a bottle of brandy, put the
neck in his lips, and--bul-bul-bul! And a bullet smashed the bottle to
flinders! The Lieutenant looked at the neck of the bottle in his hand,
and said: 'Devil take it, they are making war on bottles!' Ho, ho, ho!
But I said to him: 'You're mistaken, Lieutenant, the Turks are firing
at bottles, but it is you who are making war on bottles!' Ho, ho, ho!
Witty, wasn't it?"
"Do you feel better?" Aunt Lutchítzky asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
He thanked her, with clenched teeth, as he looked at them all
with mournfully-angry eyes, and remarked that Várenka was smiling
incredulously and with surprise at something which his sister was
whispering to her, with her ear bent toward her. At last he succeeded
in getting away from these people, and flinging himself on the divan in
the little chamber which had been assigned to him, he began to reduce
his emotions to order, to the sound of the rain.
Impotent wrath against himself struggled within him with the desire
to understand how it had come about, that he had lost the power of
self-control,--could the attraction toward that young girl be so deeply
seated within him? But he could not manage to settle down upon any one
thing, and pursue his thought to the end; a fierce tempest of excited
emotions was raging within him. At first he resolved, that he would
come to an explanation with her that very day, and immediately rejected
this resolve, when he remembered, that behind it stood the obligation
which he was reluctant to fulfil, of entering into definite relations
to Várenka, and, of course, he could not marry that beautiful monster!
He blamed himself for having gone so far in his infatuation for her,
and for having lacked boldness in his dealings with her. It seemed to
him, that she was entirely ready to give herself to him, and that she
was coldly playing with him, playing like a coquette. He called her
stupid, an animal, heartless, and answered himself, defending her. And
the rain dashed menacingly against the window, and the whole house
shook with the peals of thunder.
But there is no fire which does not die out! After a prolonged and
painful struggle, Ippolít Sergyéevitch succeeded in repressing himself
within the bounds of reason, and all his agitated emotions, beating a
retreat to some spot deep within his heart, gave way to confusion and
indignation at himself.
A young girl, irreparably spoiled by her abnormal surroundings,
inaccessible to the suggestions of sound sense, immovably steadfast
in her errors,--that strange young girl had turned him almost into an
animal, in the course of three months! And he felt himself crushed by
the disgrace of the fact. He had done all he could to render her human;
if he had not been able to do more, that was no fault of his. But
after he had done what he could, he ought to have gone away from her,
and he was to blame for not having taken his departure at the proper
time, and for having allowed her to evoke in him a shameful outburst of
sensuality.
"A less honorable man than myself would have been wiser than I, under
the given circumstances, I think." One unexpected thought stung him
painfully:
"Is it honor which restrains me? Perhaps, it is only weakness of
feeling? What if it is not feeling, but desire which agitates me
thus? Am I capable of loving, in general ... can I be a husband and a
father.. have I that within me which is required for those obligations?
Am I alive?--" As he meditated in this direction, he was conscious of a
coldness within him, and of something timid, which humiliated him.
He was soon summoned to supper.
Várenka greeted him with a searching glance, and the amiable query: "is
your headie better?"
"Yes, thank you...." he replied drily, seating himself at a distance
from her, and thinking to himself:
"She does not even know how to speak: 'is your headie better?' indeed!"
The colonel dozed, nodding his head, and sometimes snoring, all three
of the ladies sat in a row on the divan, and chatted about trifles. The
noise of the rain on the windows became more gentle, but that faint,
persistent sound clearly bore witness to the firm intention of the rain
to drench the earth for an interminably long time. The darkness stared
in at the windows, the room was close and the odor of kerosene from the
three lamps which were burning, mingling with the odor of the colonel,
increased the stifling atmosphere, and the nervous state of Ippolít
Sergyéevitch.
He looked at Várenka and reflected:
"She does not come near me ... why? I wonder whether Elizavéta ...
has been telling her some nonsense or other ... has been drawing
conclusions from her observations of me?"
In the dining-room, fat Thékla was bustling about. Her big eyes kept
peering into the drawing-room at Ippolít Sergyéevitch, who was silently
smoking a cigarette.
"My lady! Supper is ready...." she announced, with a sigh, slowly
presenting her figure in the drawing-room door.
"Let us go and eat ... Ippolít Sergyéevitch, if you please. Aunty, it
is not necessary to disturb papa, let him stay here and doze ... for if
he goes there, he will begin to drink again."
"That is sensible...." remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
But Aunt Lutchítzky said, in a low voice, with a shrug of the shoulders:
"It's late in the day now, to think of that ... if he drinks, he'll
die all the sooner, but, on the other hand, he'll have some pleasure;
if he doesn't drink, he will live a year longer, but not so pleasantly."
"And that is sensible, also,..." remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
At table, Ippolít Sergyéevitch sat beside Várenka, and noticed that the
girl's proximity was again arousing an agitation within him. He very
much desired to move so dose to her that he could touch her gown. And,
as he watched himself, according to his wont, he thought, that in his
infatuation for her there was much obstinacy of the flesh, but strength
of spirit....
"A withered heart!"--he cried bitterly to himself. And then he noticed,
almost with pride, that he was not afraid to speak the truth about
himself, and understood how to interpret every fluctuation of his "ego."
Engrossed with himself, he maintained silence.
At first Várenka addressed him frequently, but on receiving, in reply,
curt, monosyllabic words, she evidently lost all desire to converse
with him. Only after supper, when they were left entirely alone, did
she ask him simply:
"Why are you so depressed? Do you feel bored, or are you displeased
with me?"
He replied, that he did not feel depressed, much less was he displeased
with her.
"Then what is the matter with you?" she persisted.
"Nothing in particular, apparently ... but ... sometimes ... an excess
of attentions to a man tires him."
"An excess of attentions?" Várenka anxiously put a
counter-question.--"Whose? Papa's? For aunty has not been talking with
you."
He felt that he was blushing under this invulnerable artlessness, or
hopeless stupidity. But she, not waiting for his reply, suggested to
him, with a smile:
"Don't be like that, will you? Please! I have a dreadful dislike for
gloomy people.... Come, what do you think of this--let us play cards..
do you know how?"
"I play badly.. and, I must confess, that I am not fond of that form of
uselessly wasting time said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, feeling that he was
effecting a reconciliation with her.
"I don't like it either ... but what is one to do? You see how tiresome
it is here!" said the young girl bitterly.--"I know that you have
become as you are precisely because it is so tedious."
He began to assure her of the contrary, and the more he talked, the
more ardent did his words become, until, at last, before he knew what
he was doing, he wound up:
"If you like, I should not find it tiresome in a desert with you...."
"What am I to do for that?" she caught him up, and he perceived that
her wish to cheer him up was thoroughly sincere.
"You need do nothing,--" he replied, concealing deep within him the
reply which he would have liked to make.
"No, really, you came hither to rest, you have so much difficult work,
you require strength, and before your arrival, Liza said to me: 'You
and I will help the learned man to rest and divert himself....' But we
... what can I do? Really!... if I could get away from this tediousness
... I'd kiss you heartily!"
Things grew dark before his eyes, and all the blood flew to his heart
so stormily that he fairly reeled.
"Try it ... kiss me ... kiss me...." he said, in a low voice, as he
stood before her, without seeing her.
"Oho! So that's what you are like!" laughed Várenka, and vanished.
He hastened after her, and stopped short, clutching at the jamb of the
door, and his whole being yearned toward her.
A few seconds later he saw the colonel:--the old man was sleeping,
with his head resting on his shoulder, and snoring sweetly. It was
this sound which attracted Ippolít Sergyéevitch's attention. Then he
was compelled to convince himself that the monotonous and lugubrious
moaning was not resounding in his own breast, but outside the windows,
and that it was the rain weeping, and not his suffering heart. Then
anger flashed up within him.
"You are playing with me ... you are playing with me thus?" ... he
reiterated to himself, gritting his teeth, and he threatened her with
some humiliating chastisement. His breast was in a glow, but his feet
and his head stung him like sharp icicles.
Laughing merrily over something, the ladies entered, and, at the sight
of them, Ippolít Sergyéevitch inwardly pulled himself together. Aunt
Lutchítzky was laughing in a dull way, as though bubbles were bursting
somewhere in her chest. Várenka's face was animated by a roguish smile,
and Elizavéta Sergyéevna's laughter was condescendingly restrained.
"Perhaps they are laughing at me!" thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
The game of cards which Várenka had suggested did not take place, and
this afforded Ippolít Sergyéevitch the possibility of withdrawing
to his room, under the pretext of indisposition. As he left the
drawing-room, he felt three pairs of eyes fixed on his back, and knew
that they all expressed astonishment. He was not disconcerted by this,
being full of the desire to revenge himself on the naughty little
girl, to humiliate her, for having dared to indulge in such pranks, to
make her weep, and to gaze at her and laugh aloud at her tears. But
his feelings could not remain long at such a pitch of intensity, he
was accustomed to subject their fermentation to the power of reason,
and he never expressed them until they had cooled down. His vanity
was irritated to the point of suffering by the conviction that she
was playing with him: but, along with this, there again sprang up the
resolve, which had been suppressed by the recent scene, to pay off the
girl by utter neglect of her beauty. She must be made to feel of how
little consequence she was in his eyes,--it would be good for her, but
it must be a lesson, not vengeance, of course.
Such arguments always soothed him, but now there was in his breast
something which could not be put aside, which was oppressive, and he
simultaneously wished and did not wish to define this singular, almost
painful sensation.
"Damn all nameless sensations!" he exclaimed to himself.
But some drops of water, which fell from somewhere to the floor,
monotonously beat out:
"Tak ... tak...."
After sitting there an hour, in this state of conflict with himself in
the unsuccessful endeavor to comprehend what remained incomprehensible,
and was more powerful than all he did comprehend, he decided to go to
bed, and sleep, in order that he might depart on the morrow, free from
everything which so had worried and humiliated him. But, as he lay in
his bed, he involuntarily pictured to himself Várenka as he had beheld
her on the porch, with her arms uplifted, as though for an embrace,
with her bosom quivering with satisfaction at the flashing of the
lightning. And again he reflected, that if he had been bolder with her
... and then he stopped himself, and finished the thought thus:--then
he would have fastened about his neck a mistress who was indisputably
very beautiful, but frightfully inconvenient, burdensome, and stupid,
with the character of a wildcat, and with the coarsest sensuality, that
was certain!...
But all at once, in the midst of these thoughts, illuminated by a
surmise or a foreboding, he trembled all over, leaped swiftly to his
feet, and running to the door of his room, he unlocked it. Then,
smiling, he again lay down in his bed, and began to stare at the door,
thinking to himself, with hope and rapture:
"That does happen ... that does happen...."
He had read, somewhere, of its having happened once: she had entered
during the night, and had surrendered herself, asking nothing,
demanding nothing, simply for the sake of the sensation. Várenka..
assuredly, she had something in common with the heroine of that
story,--she was capable of acting thus. In her charming exclamation:
"So that's what you are like!"--there had, perhaps, rung for him, a
promise, which he had not understood And now, suddenly, she would come,
clad in white, all trembling with shame and desire!
He rose from his bed several times, lent an ear to the stillness of the
house, to the noise of the rain against the windows, and cooled his
fevered body. But everything was quiet, and the longed-for sound of
footsteps did not ring through the stillness.
"How will she enter?"--he said to himself, and he pictured her to
himself, on the threshold of the door, with a proud resolute face.--Of
course, she would give her beauty to him proudly! It was the gift
of an empress. But perhaps she would stand before him with drooping
head, abashed, modest, with tears in her eyes. Or, she would make her
appearance with a laugh, with a quiet laugh, at his torments, which
she knew, which she always noted, though she never showed him that she
noticed them, in order to trouble him, and to amuse herself.
In this condition, verging on the delirium of madness, depicting
sensuous scenes in his imagination, irritating his nerves, Ippolít
Sergyéevitch did not notice that the rain had ceased, and that the
stars were peering in through his window, from a clear sky. He was
awaiting the sound of footsteps, a woman's footsteps, which should
bring him pleasure. But they did not ring out through the slumberous
stillness. At times, and only for a brief moment, the hope of embracing
the young girl died out in him; then he heard, in the hurried beating
of his heart, a reproach to himself, and he recognized the fact that
his recent condition was one that was foreign to him, was disgraceful
to him, both painful and repulsive. But the inner world of a man is too
complicated and varied to permit of any one thing persistently holding
all aspirations in equilibrium, and therefore, in the life of every
man, there is an abyss, into which he will fall without warning, when
the time for it arrives. And the cautious, by the bitter irony of the
powers which govern life, fall the most deeply, and injure themselves
the most painfully.
He raved until morning dawned, tortured by passion, and when the sun
had already risen, footsteps did make themselves heard. He sat up in
bed, trembling, with swollen eyes, and waited, and felt that when she
did make her appearance, he would not be able to utter a single word
of gratitude to her. But the steps which were approaching his door were
slow, heavy....
And now the door opened softly ... Ippolít Sergyéevitch threw himself
back feebly on his pillow, and, closing his eyes, remained motionless.
"Have I waked you up? I want your boots ... and your trousers ..."
said fat Thékla, in a sleepy voice, as she approached the bed, with
the slowness of an ox. Sighing, yawning, and knocking against the
furniture, she gathered up his clothing, and went out, leaving behind
her an odor of the kitchen.
He lay there for a long time, broken and annihilated, indifferently
watching in himself the slow disappearance of the fragments of those
images which had racked his nerves all night.
Again the peasant woman entered, with his clothing, well-brushed, laid
it down, and went out, panting heavily. He began to dress himself,
without stopping to consider why it was necessary to do it so early.
Then, without reflecting, he decided to go and take a bath in the
river, and this animated him, to a certain degree. Treading softly
over the floors, he passed the room in which the colonel's snore was
booming, then the door of another chamber. He paused, for an instant,
before it, but after bestowing an attentive glance upon it, he felt
sure that it was not the one. And, at last, half asleep, he emerged
into the garden, and walked down the narrow path, knowing that it would
lead him to the river.
The weather was clear and fresh, the rays of the sun had not yet lost
the rosy hues of dawn. The starlings were chattering vivaciously with
one another as they pecked at the cherries. On the leaves, drops of dew
quivered like diamonds; falling to the earth, in joyous, sparkling
tears, they vanished. The earth was damp, but it had swallowed up all
the moisture which had fallen during the night, and nowhere was there
mud or a puddle visible:--Everything round about was pure, and fresh
and new--as though everything had been born that night, and everything
was quiet and motionless, as though it had not yet become used to life
on the earth, and, beholding the sun for the first time, in silent
astonishment it was admiring its marvellous beauty.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch gazed about him, and the shroud of mire which
had clothed his mind and soul during the night that was past began
to release him from its folds, making way for the pure breath of the
new-born day, filled with sweet and refreshing perfumes.
Here was the river, still rose-colored and gold in the rays of the
sun. The water, slightly turbid from the rain, faintly reflected the
verdure of the banks in its waves. Somewhere, close at hand, a fish was
splashing, and this splashing, and the songs of the birds were the only
sounds which broke the stillness of the morning. Had it not been damp,
he might have lain down on the ground, beside the river, under the
canopy of verdure, and remained there until his soul had regained its
composure from the emotions which he had experienced.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch walked along the shore, fantastically carved into
sandy promontories, and tiny bays surrounded with verdure, and a new
picture opened out before him almost every half-dozen paces. As he
strolled thus noiselessly, on the very edge of the water, he knew that
new and ever new scenes awaited him. And he scrutinized in detail the
outlines of every bay, and the forms of the trees, which bent over
them, as though desirous of ascertaining with certainty, precisely how
the details of this picture differed from those of the one he had just
left behind.
And, all at once, he came to a halt, dazzled.
Before him, up to her waist in the water, stood Várenka, with her head
bent over, squeezing her wet hair with her hands. Her body was rosy
with the cold and the rays of the sun, drops of water glistened on it
like silver scales. They trickled slowly from her shoulders and breast,
and fell into the water, and before falling, each drop glittered for a
long time in the sunlight, as though it did not wish to leave the body
which it had washed. And the water was streaming from her hair, passing
through the rosy fingers of the young girl with a tender dripping sound
which smote sweetly on the ear.
He gazed at her in ecstasy, with reverence, as at something holy--so
pure and harmonious was the beauty of this young girl, in the blooming
freshness of her youth, and he felt no other desire, save that of
gazing upon her. Above her head, on the branch of a hazel-bush, a
nightingale was sobbing and singing, but for him, the whole light of
the sun, and all sounds were concentrated in that young girl, amid
the waves. And the waves softly stroked her body, noiselessly and
caressingly passing around it, in their peaceful flow.
But the good is as brief as the beautiful is rare, and what he beheld,
he beheld for a few seconds only, for the girl suddenly raised her
head, and with an angry cry, she swiftly dropped into the water up to
her neck.
This movement of hers was reflected in his heart--it seemed to fall,
shuddering, into a cold which cramped him. The girl gazed at him with
flashing eyes, and a frown of anger intersected her brow, distorting
her face with fear, scorn and wrath. He heard her indignant voice:
"Begone ... go away! What are you doing? Aren't you ashamed of
yourself!..."
But her words floated to him from somewhere in the distance, dimly,
forbidding him nothing. And he bent over the water, stretching out
his arms, hardly able to stand on his feet, which were trembling with
his efforts to support his unnaturally-curved body, flaming with the
torture of passion. The whole of him, every fibre of his being, yearned
toward her, and now, at last, he fell upon his knees, which almost
touched the water.
She cried out in anger, made a movement to swim away, but halted,
saying in a low, agitated voice:
"Go away ... I will not tell anyone...."
"I cannot...." he tried to answer her, but his trembling lips refused
to utter the words, for they had no power to say anything.
"Have a care ... you! Go away!"--screamed the girl.--"You scoundrel!
You base man...."
What were these cries to him? He gazed into her eyes with his own drily
burning eyes, and kneeling there, he waited for her, and he would have
waited, had he known, that someone was brandishing an axe over his
head, to smash his skull.
"Oh! you ... disgusting dog ... come, I'll give it to you...."
whispered the young girl, with loathing, and suddenly dashed out of the
water toward him.
She grew before his eyes, grew, as she dazzled him with her
beauty,--and now she stood complete, to her very toes, before him,
very beautiful and wrathful; he saw this, and awaited her with eager
perturbation. Now she bent toward him ... he flourished his arms, but
embraced the air.
And at that moment, a blow in the face from something damp and heavy
blinded him, and he fell backward.
He began swiftly to rub his eyes--damp sand was under his fingers,
and upon his head, shoulders, and cheeks blows rained down. But the
blows did not evoke pain in him, but some other sentiment, and as
he shielded his head with his hands, he did so mechanically rather
than consciously. He heard angry sobs.... At last, overturned by a
powerful blow in the breast, he fell on his back. He was not beaten
again. The bushes rustled and grew still.... Incredibly long were
the seconds of sullen silence which ensued after that rustling died
out. The man still lay there motionless, crushed by his disgrace, and
filled with an instinctive longing to hide himself from his shame, he
pressed closely to the earth. When he opened his eyes, he perceived the
infinitely-deep, blue sky, and it seemed to him that it was swiftly
retreating further away from him, higher, higher ... and this made him
breathe so heavily that he groaned, and slowly sank away somewhere,
where there were no sensations.
... Thus he lay, until he felt cold; when he opened his eyes he saw
Várenka bending over him. Through her fingers tears were dripping upon
his face. He heard her voice:
... "Well--is this nice?... How will you go to the house in this
state?... all dirty, muddy, wet, and torn ... Ekh, you stupid!... Do say
that you tumbled into the water from the bank.... Aren't you ashamed of
yourself? For, you know, I might have killed you ... if I had happened
to get hold of something else."
And she said a great deal more to him, but all this did not, in the
least, diminish or augment what he felt. And he made no reply to her
words, until she told him that she was going. Then he asked softly:
"You?... I shall not see you ... anymore?"
And when he asked this he remembered and understood that he ought to
say to her: "Forgive me...."
But he did not manage to say it, because, with a wave of her hand, she
vanished among the trees.
He sat, with his back propped against the trunk of a tree, or
something, and stared dully at the turbid water of the river as it
flowed past his feet.
And it flowed slowly ... slowly ... slowly on....