I.

It was autumn.

Along the highway came two equipages at a brisk pace. In the first carriage

sat two women. One was a lady, thin and pale. The other, her maid, with a

brilliant red complexion, and plump. Her short, dry locks escaped from

under a faded cap; her red hand, in a torn glove, put them back with a

jerk. Her full bosom, incased in a tapestry shawl, breathed of health; her

restless black eyes now gazed through the window at the fields hurrying by

them, now rested on her mistress, now peered solicitously into the corners

of the coach.

Before the maid's face swung the lady's bonnet on the rack; on her knees

lay a puppy; her feet were raised by packages lying on the floor, and could

almost be heard drumming upon them above the noise of the creaking of the

springs, and the rattling of the windows.

The lady, with her hands resting in her lap and her eyes shut, feebly

swayed on the cushions which supported her back, and, slightly frowning,

struggled with a cough.

She wore a white nightcap, and a blue neckerchief twisted around her

delicate pale neck. A straight line, disappearing under the cap, parted her

blonde hair, which was smoothly pomaded; and there was a dry, deathly

appearance about the whiteness of the skin in this simple parting. The

withered and rather sallow skin was loosely drawn over her delicate and

pretty features, and there was a hectic flush on the cheeks and

cheek-bones. Her lips were dry and restless, her thin eyelashes had lost

their curve, and a cloth travelling capote made straight folds over her

sunken chest. Although her eyes were closed, her face gave the impression

of weariness, irascibility, and habitual suffering.

The lackey, leaning back, was napping on the coach-box. The hired

driver,[88] shouting in a clear voice, urged on his four powerful and

sweaty horses, occasionally looking back at the other driver, who was

shouting just behind them in an open barouche. The tires of the wheels, in

their even and rapid course, left wide parallel tracks on the limy mud of

the highway.

[Footnote 88: _yamshchik._]

The sky was gray and cold, a moist mist was falling over the fields and the

road. It was suffocating in the carriage, and smelt of eau-de-cologne and

dust. The invalid leaned back her head, and slowly opened her eyes. Her

great eyes were brilliant, and of a beautiful dark color. "Again!" said

she, nervously pushing away with her beautiful attenuated hand the end of

her maid's cloak, which occasionally hit against her knee. Her mouth

contracted painfully.

Matriósha raised her cloak in both hands, lifting herself up on her strong

legs, and then sat down again, farther away. Her fresh face was suffused

with a brilliant scarlet.

The invalid's handsome dark eyes eagerly followed the maid's motions; and

then with both hands she took hold of the seat, and did her best to raise

herself a little higher, but her strength was not sufficient.

Again her mouth became contracted, and her whole face took on an expression

of unavailing, angry irony.

"If you would only help me.... Ah! It's not necessary. I can do it myself.

Only have the goodness not to put those pillows behind me.... On the whole,

you had better not touch them, if you don't understand!"

The lady closed her eyes, and then again, quickly raising the lids, gazed

at her maid.

Matriósha looked at her, and gnawed her red lower lip. A heavy sigh escaped

from the sick woman's breast; but the sigh was not ended, but was merged in

a fit of coughing. She scowled, and turned her face away, clutching her

chest with both hands. When the coughing fit was over, she once more shut

her eyes, and continued to sit motionless. The coach and the barouche

rolled into the village. Matriósha drew her fat hand from under her shawl,

and made the sign of the cross.

"What is this?" demanded the lady.

"A post-station, madame."

"Why did you cross yourself, I should like to know?"

"The church, madame."

The lady looked out of the window, and began slowly to cross herself,

gazing with all her eyes at the great village church, in front of which the

invalid's carriage was now passing.

The two vehicles came to a stop together at the post-house. The sick

woman's husband and the doctor dismounted from the barouche, and came to

the coach.

"How are you feeling?" asked the doctor, taking her pulse.

"Well, my dear, aren't you fatigued?" asked the husband, in French.

"Wouldn't you like to go out?"

Matriósha, gathering up the bundles, squeezed herself into the corner, so

as not to interfere with the conversation.

"No matter, it's all the same thing," replied the invalid. "I will not get

out."

The husband, after standing there a little while, went into the post-house.

Matriósha, jumping from the carriage, tiptoed across the muddy road, into

the enclosure.

"If I am miserable, there is no reason why the rest of you should not have

breakfast," said the sick woman, smiling faintly to the doctor, who was

standing by her window.

"It makes no difference to them how I am," she remarked to herself as the

doctor, turning from her with slow step, started to run up the steps of the

station-house. "They are well, and it's all the same to them. O my God!"

"How now, Eduard Ivánovitch," said the husband, as he met the doctor, and

rubbing his hands with a gay smile. "I have ordered my travelling-case

brought; what do you say to that?"

"That's worth while," replied the doctor.

"Well now, how about _her_?" asked the husband with a sigh, lowering his

voice and raising his brows.

"I have told you that she cannot reach Moscow, much less Italy, especially

in such weather."

"What is to be done, then? Oh! my God! my God!"

The husband covered his eyes with his hand.... "Give it here," he added,

addressing his man, who came bringing the travelling-case.

"You'll have to stop somewhere on the route," replied the doctor, shrugging

his shoulders.

"But tell me, how can that be done?" rejoined the husband. "I have done

every thing to keep her from going: I have spoken to her of our means, and

of our children whom we should have to leave behind, and of my business.

She would not hear a word. She has made her plans for living abroad, as

though she were well. But if I should tell her what her real condition is,

it would kill her."

"Well, she is a dead woman now: you may as well know it, Vasíli Dmítritch.

A person cannot live without lungs, and there is no way of making lungs

grow again. It is melancholy, it is hard, but what is to be done about it?

It is my business and yours to make her last days as easy as possible. It

is the confessor that is needed here."

"Oh, my God! Now just perceive how I am situated, in speaking to her of her

last will. Let come whatever may, yet I cannot speak of that. And yet you

know how good she is."

"Try at least to persuade her to wait until the roads are frozen," said the

doctor, shaking his head significantly: "something might happen during the

journey."

* * * * *

"Aksiúsha, oh, Aksiúsha!" cried the superintendent's daughter, throwing a

cloak over her head and tiptoeing down the muddy back steps. "Come along.

Let us have a look at the Shirkínskaya lady: they say she's got

lung-trouble, and they're taking her abroad. I never saw how any one looked

in consumption."

Aksiúsha jumped down from the door-sill; and the two girls, hand in hand,

hurried out of the gates. Shortening their steps, they walked by the coach,

and stared in at the lowered window. The invalid bent her head toward them;

but when she saw their inquisitiveness, she frowned and turned away.

"Oh, de-e-ar!" said the superintendent's daughter, vigorously shaking her

head.... "How wonderfully pretty she used to be, and how she has changed!

It is terrible! Did you see? Did you see, Aksiúsha?"

"Yes, but how thin she is!" assented Aksiúsha. "Let us go by and look

again; we'll make believe go to the well. Did you see, she turned away from

us; still I got a good view of her. Isn't it too bad, Masha?"

"Yes, but what terrible mud!" replied Masha, and both of them started to

run back within the gates.

"It's evident that I have become a fright," thought the sick woman.... "But

we must hurry, hurry, and get abroad, and there I shall soon get well."

"Well, and how are you, my dear?" inquired the husband, coming to the

carriage with still a morsel of something in his mouth.

"Always one and the same question," thought the sick woman, "and he's even

eating!"

"It's no consequence," she murmured between her teeth.

"Do you know, my dear, I am afraid that this journey in such weather will

only make you worse. Eduard Ivánovitch says the same thing. Hadn't we

better turn back?"

She maintained an angry silence.

"The weather will improve maybe, the roads will become good, and that would

be better for you; then at least we could start all together."

"Pardon me. If I had not listened to you so long, I should at this moment

be at Berlin and have entirely recovered."

"What's to be done, my angel? it was impossible, as you know. But now if

you would wait a month, you would be ever so much better; I could finish up

my business, and we could take the children with us."

"The children are well, and I am ill."

"But just see here, my love, if in this weather you should grow worse on

the road.... At least we should be at home."

"What is the use of being at home?... _Die_ at home?" replied the invalid

peevishly.

But the word _die_ evidently startled her, and she turned upon her husband

a supplicating and inquiring look. He dropped his eyes, and said nothing.

The sick woman's mouth suddenly contracted in a childish fashion, and the

tears sprang to her eyes. Her husband covered his face with his

handkerchief, and silently turned from the carriage.

"No, I will go," cried the invalid; and lifting her eyes to the sky, she

clasped her hands, and began to whisper incoherent words. "My God! why must

it be?" she said, and the tears flowed more violently. She prayed long and

fervently, but still there was just the same sense of constriction and pain

in her chest, just the same gray melancholy in the sky and the fields and

the road; just the same autumnal mist, neither thicker nor more tenuous,

but ever the same in its monotony, falling on the muddy highway, on the

roofs, on the carriage, and on the sheep-skin coats of the drivers, who

were talking in strong, gay voices, as they were oiling and adjusting the

carriage.