Elisaveta dressed herself up as a boy. She loved to do this and she
did it quite often; so tedious is the monotony of our lives that even
a change of dress furnishes a diversion!
Elisaveta put on a white sailor-jacket with a blue collar, and blue
knee-breeches which revealed the beauty and grace of her sunburnt
lower limbs; she put on a cap, took a fishing-rod and went to the
river. Elisaveta looked like a rather tall stripling of fourteen in
this dress.
It was quiet and bright on the river’s bank. Elisaveta sat down on a
stone at the edge, lowered her feet into the water, and watched the
float. A rowing-boat appeared. Elisaveta looked intently and saw that
it contained Stchemilov. The latter called out:
“I say, my lad, if you belong here, can you tell me if....”
Then he paused because Elisaveta was laughing.
“Well, who would have thought it--comrade Elisaveta?”
“You didn’t recognize me, comrade?” asked Elisaveta with a merry
laugh, as she approached the landing-place where Stchemilov was
already fastening his boat.
“I must confess that I didn’t know you at once,” he replied, as he
pressed her hand warmly. “I have come for you. To-night we are to hold
our mass meeting.”
“Is it really to-night?” asked Elisaveta.
She grew cold from agitation and confusion as she recalled that she
had promised to speak that evening.
“Yes, to-night,” said Stchemilov; “I hope you haven’t changed your
mind. You will speak, eh?”
“I thought it was to be to-morrow,” she replied. “Just wait a moment.
I’ll get a small bundle of clothes. I will change at your place.”
She quickly and gaily tripped up the bank. Stchemilov whistled as he
sat waiting in the boat. Elisaveta soon reappeared, and deftly jumped
into the boat.
It was necessary to row past the whole length of the town. No one on
either bank recognized Elisaveta in her boy’s attire. Stchemilov’s
house, a cabin in the middle of a vegetable garden, stood on a steep
bank of the river, just along the edge of the town.
No one had yet arrived at the house. Elisaveta picked up a periodical
which lay on the table and asked:
“Tell me, comrade, how do you like these verses?”
Stchemilov looked at the periodical, open at a page which contained
Trirodov’s verses. He smiled and said:
“What shall I say? His revolutionary poems are not bad. Nowadays,
however, everybody writes them. As for his other works, they are not
written about us. Noblemen’s delights are not for us.”
“It’s a long time since I’ve been here,” said Elisaveta. “What a mess
you’ve got here.”
“A house without a mistress,” answered Stchemilov, rather confused.
Elisaveta began to put things in order and to clean and to scrub. She
moved about with agile grace. Stchemilov admired her graceful limbs;
it was fascinating to watch the play of the muscles under the brown
skin of her calves. He exclaimed in a clear, almost ecstatic voice:
“How graceful you are, Elisaveta! Like a statue! I never saw such arms
and legs.”
“I feel embarrassed, comrade Aleksei. You praise me to my eyes as if I
were a charming piece of property.”
Stchemilov suddenly flushed with embarrassment; his habitual
self-assurance appeared to have left him unexpectedly. He breathed
heavily and stammered out in confusion:
“Comrade Elisaveta, you are a fine person. Don’t be offended at my
words. I love you. I know that for you social inequality is a silly
thing; and you know that for me your money is of no account. Now if I
am not repugnant to you....”
Elisaveta stood before him calm and yet sad, and as she dried her
hands, grown red from the cold water, with a towel, she said quietly:
“Forgive me, comrade Aleksei--you are right about my views, but I love
another.”
She herself did not know how these words came to be spoken. Love
another! So unexpectedly the secret of her heart revealed itself in
superficial words. But did he love her, that other one?
They were both flustered. Stchemilov strove heroically to control his
agitation. As he looked with his confused eyes into her clear blue
ones he said:
“Forgive me, Elisaveta, and forget what I have said. I didn’t guess
right that time and did the wrong thing. I didn’t think that you’d
love him. Don’t be angry at me and don’t despise me.”
“Enough, Aleksei,” said Elisaveta tenderly. “You know how I respect
you. We are friends. Give me your hand.”
Stchemilov gave her hand a tight, comradely pressure, then bent down
and kissed it. Elisaveta drew nearer to him and kissed his lips with a
tranquil, innocent, delicious kiss, such as a sister gives a brother.
Then she snatched up her bundle and ran into the passage, one of the
doors of which led to a small storeroom where the literature was kept
in a trunk under the floor.
She ran into Kiril on the way.
“Is Aleksei home, my lad?”
“Yes,” said Elisaveta; “enter, comrade Kiril.”
When Kiril heard the familiar voice and, lifting his eyes, saw plaits
of hair wound around the lad’s head, he was astonished. He was very
much embarrassed upon recognizing Elisaveta. She hid herself behind
the door of the storeroom, while Kiril blundered for a long time in
the dark hall, unable in his confusion to find the door.
Others began to come in: there was the school-instructor Bodeyev,
instructor Voronok of the town school, and the imported orator, who
came accompanied by Alkina.
Elisaveta was attired by now in a simple dark blue dress.
“It’s time to start,” said Stchemilov.
Once seated in the rowing-boat, the members of the party became silent
and slightly nervous. Only the new-comer was perfectly calm--he was
used to it. Near-sighted, he looked indifferently out of his
spectacles, now one side, now the other, and told bits of news while
smoking one cigarette after another. He was young, tall, and
flat-chested. He had a lean face, long, smooth, chestnut-coloured
hair, and a scant beard. His flat round cap, reddish in the sun, gave
him the look of an artisan.
It had begun to grow dark by the time they disembarked at the
appointed place. There was still a half-verst to go through the wood
on foot. The evening twilight seemed oppressed under the eternal
vaults of the wood; it hummed and rustled with barely audible noises
and the sad whisperings of stealthy beings.
They gathered at last in a large glade in the midst of a tall, dense
wood. The moon was already high in the sky, and the black shadows of
the trees crept across half of the glade. The trees were intensely
still and pensive, as if they wished to listen to the words of these
people who had collected at their feet. But they really did not care
to listen--they had their own life and were indifferent to all these
people. And they suffered neither joy nor sadness at sheltering in
their dark shade many young girls who were in love with the dream of
liberation--among them Elisaveta, who was also in love with this
dream, and who created for it a temple of young passion and
embroidered into this dream’s design the image of a living man in a
mysterious house. She was deliciously in love and painfully agitated
by the sudden acknowledgment she made of her love in her poignantly
sweet words, “I love another.”
In the dark shade of the trees were red glimmering cigarettes and
pipes. The odour of tobacco mingled with the fresh, nocturnal coolness
and gave it a sweet piquancy. Piquant also, in the nocturnal
stillness, were the sounds of the young, eager voices. And these
people had no concern with the mystery of the wood made audible in the
silence. The people behaved as if they were at home. They sat about
and walked and met each other and chatted. Sometimes, when the din of
talk grew too loud, the leaders of the meeting uttered their warnings.
Then the voices were lowered.
There were about three hundred people of all kinds--labouring men,
young people from schools, young Jews, and very many girls. All the
young Jews and Jewesses of the town had come. They were agitated more
than the rest and their speech nearly always passed into a violent
commotion. They awaited so much, they hoped so passionately! They were
so painfully in love with the dream of liberation!
Some of the instructresses from Trirodov’s colony were also here,
among them the sad Nadezhda and the ecstatic Maria. There were quite a
number of schoolboys and schoolgirls present. These tried to act at
ease, to show that it was not their first occasion of the sort. There
were also many college students, both men and women. The young were
burning with joyous unrest. But all who had gathered were intensely
agitated. It was the sweet agitation of their dream of liberation; how
tenderly and how passionately they were in love with it! And in more
than one young heart virginal passion flowed together with the dream
of liberation; young passionate love flamed with a great fire in the
joy of liberation, making one of liberation and love, of revolt and
sacrifice, of wine and blood--what delicious mystery in love thirsting
and yielding! And more than one pair of eyes sparkled at the sight of
a beloved image, and more than one pair of lips whispered:
“And he’s here!”
“And she’s here!”
In the shade, under the trees, where indiscreet glances could not
penetrate, impatient lips met in a quick, timid kiss. And the first
words were:
“I’m not late, comrade?”
“No, comrade Natalya, you are in time.”
“Let us go over there, comrade Valentine.”
The names were pronounced tenderly. A man in a cap, black shirt,[18]
and high boots, walked up to Elisaveta. He had a small black beard and
moustache, and his face, which was both familiar and unfamiliar, had
something in it that stirred her. He exclaimed:
“Elisaveta, you don’t recognize me?”
She recognized him at once by his voice. A warmth suffused her. She
laughed and said joyously:
“I knew you by your voice alone. Your beard and moustache make you
wholly unrecognizable.”
“They are glued on,” explained Trirodov.
They conversed. He heard some one whisper behind his back:
“That is comrade Elisaveta. She’s considered the first beauty in our
town.”
Trirodov was for some reason overjoyed at these words, partly because
Elisaveta heard them and blushed so furiously that even the dim
moonlight could not hide her blushes.
A few detectives had also managed to find their way here, and there
was even one provocateur. These chattels alone knew that the police
had information about the meeting and that the wood would shortly be
encircled by the Cossacks.
Conversations were kept up among small groups for some time before the
meeting opened. The agitators discussed matters with labouring men who
were not in the party. The more interesting people were introduced to
the invited speaker.
Stchemilov’s loud voice rang out:
“Comrades, attention. I propose comrade Abram as chairman.”
“Agreed, agreed,” came suppressed voices from every side.
Comrade Abram took his place on a high stump of a hewn-down tree. The
speeches began. Elisaveta was nervous until it came her turn to speak.
She was troubled with pain and fear because she knew that Trirodov
would hear her.
Proud, brave watchwords and bold instructions were heard. The
provocateur also made a speech. He urged them to an immediate armed
revolt. Some one’s voice called out:
“Comrades--this man’s a provocateur!”
There was a commotion. The provocateur shouted something in his
defence. He was promptly jostled out.
Then Stchemilov spoke; he was followed by the invited orator.
Elisaveta’s agitation grew.
But when the chairman said, “Comrade Elisaveta, the word belongs to
you,” she suddenly became calm and, having ascended the high stump
that served as the platform, began to speak. Her deep, measured voice
carried far. Some one seemed to echo it in the wood--it was like a
fantastic, restless din. A being beloved by her and near to her sat
there and listened; her beloved, near comrades also listened. Hundreds
of attentive eyes followed her, and the dear friendly looks,
converging like lances under a shield, held her very high in the pure
atmosphere of happiness.
The sweet moments of joy passed by like a short dream. She ended her
speech and came down among the audience, where she was received with
flattering comments and strong pressures of the hand--sometimes, it
must be confessed, a little over-strong.
“I say, comrade, you’ll break my hand. How strong you are!”
And his face would also break into a joyous smile.
The speeches ended. The songs began. The wood re-echoed with proud,
brave words, with a song of freedom and revolt. Suddenly the song
stopped short, a confused murmur ran through the crowd. Some one
shouted:
“The Cossacks!”
Some one shouted:
“Run, comrades!”
Some one ran. Some one shouted:
“Be calm, comrades!”
The Cossacks had hid themselves in the wood a couple of versts from
the meeting. Many of them had managed to take several drinks. As they
sat around their bonfires they began to sing a gay, noisy, indecent
song, but their officers enjoined silence.
A spy came running; he whispered something to the colonel. Soon a
command was given. The Cossacks jumped quickly on their horses and
rode away, leaving the half-consumed bonfire behind them. The dry
faggots and the grass smouldered a long time. The forest caught
fire.[19]
“What’s the matter?” asked Elisaveta.
Some one whispered quickly:
“Do you hear, it’s the Cossacks! I wonder which side they are coming
from. It’s hard to tell which way to run.”
“They are coming from town,” said some one. “The only thing to do is
to go towards Opalikha.”
The leaders began to give orders:
“Comrades, be calm. Scatter as quickly as possible. Don’t jostle. The
road to Dubky is clear.”
A number of horses’ heads suddenly appeared from among the trees quiet
close to Elisaveta, and their dumb but good eyes looked on
incomprehensibly. The crowd of young people began to run, and carried
Elisaveta along with them. She was seized by a feeling of stupor. She
thought:
“What’s the use of running? They’ll overtake us and drive us wherever
they will.”
But she had not enough strength to pause. They were all running, and
she with them. Another detachment of Cossacks appeared in front of
them. Cries and wails went up from the crowd, which began to scatter
in all directions. The Cossacks came on, as it were, in a broad chain.
Many managed to break through, some with blood-stained faces and torn
clothes. The others were driven forward from the rear and the sides
and gradually became a compact mass. It was evident that the Cossacks
were trying to get the crowd into the middle of the glade. Those who
had broken through the ring at the very beginning had some hope of
escape. There were about a hundred people in the ring. They were
driven towards the town, and those who tried to escape were lashed
with the _nagaika_.
A few shots resounded in the distance. The provocateur fired the first
shot--into the air. This aroused the anger of the Cossacks, who began
to shoot at those who ran.
Elisaveta and Alkina managed to escape the first ring together. But
they could hear all around them the cries of the Cossacks. They paused
and pressed close to an old oak, not knowing which way to turn. They
were joined by Trirodov.
“Follow me,” he said to them; “I think I can find a less dangerous
place.”
“What has become of our invited speaker?” asked Alkina.
“Don’t worry about that,” was the impatient reply; “he was the first
to be attended to. He’s out of danger now. You’d better go on
quickly.”
He walked confidently through the bushes and they followed him.
The sounds made by the patrols of Cossacks were heard on every side.
Suddenly the runners were confronted by the figure of a Cossack who
stepped out from the bushes. He aimed his _nagaika_ at Elisaveta,
but she, falling headlong, escaped the brunt of the blow. The Cossack
bent down, caught Elisaveta by her plait of hair, and began to drag
her after him. Elisaveta cried out from pain. Trirodov pulled out a
revolver and shot him almost without taking aim. The Cossack cried out
and let his victim go. All three then made their way through the
bushes. A deep hollow cut their progress short.
“Well, we are almost out of danger here,” said Trirodov.
They lowered themselves, almost rolled down to the bottom of the
hollow. Their faces and hands bore scratches and their clothes were
torn. On one of the sloping sides of the hollow they found a deep
recess made by the rains, and now obscured by the bushes; and here
they hid themselves.
“Presently we’ll make for the river-bank,” said Trirodov. “We are
quite close to it.”
Suddenly they heard the crackle of breaking twigs above them, followed
by a revolver-shot and outcries. A running figure defined itself in
the dark.
“Kiril!” called Elisaveta in a whisper, “come here.”
Kiril heard her, and threw himself through the bushes in the direction
of the hiding-place. Elisaveta could now see, quite close to her, his
fatigued, desperate eyes. There was a loud, near report of a revolver.
Kiril reeled; there was the sound of breaking twigs as he fell heavily
and rolled down the hollow.
Presently a running Cossack came down precipitately from above. He
brushed so closely past them that a twig caught by his body struck
Alkina’s shoulder. But Alkina did not stir; pale, slender, and calm,
she stood tightly pressing her body against the almost perpendicular
wall of their refuge. The Cossack bent over Kiril, examined him
attentively, then muttered as he straightened himself:
“Well, there’s no breath left in him. You’re done for, my clever
chap.”
Then he turned to climb back again. When the rustle of the parted
bushes ceased Trirodov said:
“Now we must walk carefully along this hollow until we come to the
river. There is a bend in the river here in the direction of the
town--we are bound to get somewhere almost across from my place. Then
we must find our way to the other side somehow or other.”
Slowly and cautiously they made their way through the thick growths of
the hollow. They walked in the dark--Trirodov and the two with him,
his chance one and his fated one, sent him by the two Moirae, Aisa and
Ananke.[20]
The bushes became moist and a fresh breeze blew from the river. Then
Alkina came close to Trirodov and whispered to him:
“If you are glad that she loves you, tell me, and I will share your
gladness.”
Trirodov pressed her hand warmly.
The quiet, dim river lay before them. Beyond it the labours and
dangers of life created by the dream of liberation awaited them.
Soon the mist would rise above the river under the cold and witching
moon--soon the misty veil of fantasy would lighten the tedious and
commonplace life, and behind the veil of mist there would rise in dim
outlines another kind of life, creative and unattainable.