I AM a serious person and my mind is of a philosophic bent. My
vocation is the study of finance. I am a student of financial law
and I have chosen as the subject of my dissertation--the Past and
Future of the Dog Licence. I need hardly point out that young ladies,
songs, moonlight, and all that sort of silliness are entirely out
of my line.
Morning. Ten o'clock. My _maman_ pours me out a cup of coffee. I
drink it and go out on the little balcony to set to work on my
dissertation. I take a clean sheet of paper, dip the pen into the
ink, and write out the title: "The Past and Future of the Dog
Licence."
After thinking a little I write: "Historical Survey. We may deduce
from some allusions in Herodotus and Xenophon that the origin of
the tax on dogs goes back to . . . ."
But at that point I hear footsteps that strike me as highly suspicious.
I look down from the balcony and see below a young lady with a long
face and a long waist. Her name, I believe, is Nadenka or Varenka,
it really does not matter which. She is looking for something,
pretends not to have noticed me, and is humming to herself:
"Dost thou remember that song full of tenderness?"
I read through what I have written and want to continue, but the
young lady pretends to have just caught sight of me, and says in a
mournful voice:
"Good morning, Nikolay Andreitch. Only fancy what a misfortune I
have had! I went for a walk yesterday and lost the little ball off
my bracelet!"
I read through once more the opening of my dissertation, I trim up
the tail of the letter "g" and mean to go on, but the young lady
persists.
"Nikolay Andreitch," she says, "won't you see me home? The Karelins
have such a huge dog that I simply daren't pass it alone."
There is no getting out of it. I lay down my pen and go down to
her. Nadenka (or Varenka) takes my arm and we set off in the direction
of her villa.
When the duty of walking arm-in-arm with a lady falls to my lot,
for some reason or other I always feel like a peg with a heavy cloak
hanging on it. Nadenka (or Varenka), between ourselves, of an ardent
temperament (her grandfather was an Armenian), has a peculiar art
of throwing her whole weight on one's arm and clinging to one's
side like a leech. And so we walk along.
As we pass the Karelins', I see a huge dog, who reminds me of the
dog licence. I think with despair of the work I have begun and sigh.
"What are you sighing for?" asks Nadenka (or Varenka), and heaves
a sigh herself.
Here I must digress for a moment to explain that Nadenka or Varenka
(now I come to think of it, I believe I have heard her called
Mashenka) imagines, I can't guess why, that I am in love with her,
and therefore thinks it her duty as a humane person always to look
at me with compassion and to soothe my wound with words.
"Listen," said she, stopping. "I know why you are sighing. You are
in love, yes; but I beg you for the sake of our friendship to believe
that the girl you love has the deepest respect for you. She cannot
return your love; but is it her fault that her heart has long been
another's?"
Mashenka's nose begins to swell and turn red, her eyes fill with
tears: she evidently expects some answer from me, but, fortunately,
at this moment we arrive. Mashenka's mamma, a good-natured woman
but full of conventional ideas, is sitting on the terrace: glancing
at her daughter's agitated face, she looks intently at me and sighs,
as though saying to herself: "Ah, these young people! they don't
even know how to keep their secrets to themselves!"
On the terrace with her are several young ladies of various colours
and a retired officer who is staying in the villa next to ours. He
was wounded during the last war in the left temple and the right
hip. This unfortunate man is, like myself, proposing to devote the
summer to literary work. He is writing the "Memoirs of a Military
Man." Like me, he begins his honourable labours every morning, but
before he has written more than "I was born in . . ." some Varenka
or Mashenka is sure to appear under his balcony, and the wounded
hero is borne off under guard.
All the party sitting on the terrace are engaged in preparing some
miserable fruit for jam. I make my bows and am about to beat a
retreat, but the young ladies of various colours seize my hat with
a squeal and insist on my staying. I sit down. They give me a plate
of fruit and a hairpin. I begin taking the seeds out.
The young ladies of various colours talk about men: they say that
So-and-So is nice-looking, that So-and-So is handsome but not nice,
that somebody else is nice but ugly, and that a fourth would not
have been bad-looking if his nose were not like a thimble, and so
on.
"And you, _Monsieur Nicolas_," says Varenka's mamma, turning to me,
"are not handsome, but you are attractive. . . . There is something
about your face. . . . In men, though, it's not beauty but intelligence
that matters," she adds, sighing.
The young ladies sigh, too, and drop their eyes . . . they agree
that the great thing in men is not beauty but intelligence. I steal
a glance sideways at a looking-glass to ascertain whether I really
am attractive. I see a shaggy head, a bushy beard, moustaches,
eyebrows, hair on my cheeks, hair up to my eyes, a perfect thicket
with a solid nose sticking up out of it like a watch-tower. Attractive!
h'm!
"But it's by the qualities of your soul, after all, that you will
make your way, _Nicolas_," sighs Nadenka's mamma, as though affirming
some secret and original idea of her own.
And Nadenka is sympathetically distressed on my account, but the
conviction that a man passionately in love with her is sitting
opposite is obviously a source of the greatest enjoyment to her.
When they have done with men, the young ladies begin talking about
love. After a long conversation about love, one of the young ladies
gets up and goes away. Those that remain begin to pick her to pieces.
Everyone agrees that she is stupid, unbearable, ugly, and that one
of her shoulder-blades sticks out in a shocking way.
But at last, thank goodness! I see our maid. My _maman_ has sent
her to call me in to dinner. Now I can make my escape from this
uncongenial company and go back to my work. I get up and make my
bows.
Varenka's _maman_, Varenka herself, and the variegated young ladies
surround me, and declare that I cannot possibly go, because I
promised yesterday to dine with them and go to the woods to look
for mushrooms. I bow and sit down again. My soul is boiling with
rage, and I feel that in another moment I may not be able to answer
for myself, that there may be an explosion, but gentlemanly feeling
and the fear of committing a breach of good manners compels me to
obey the ladies. And I obey them.
We sit down to dinner. The wounded officer, whose wound in the
temple has affected the muscles of the left cheek, eats as though
he had a bit in his mouth. I roll up little balls of bread, think
about the dog licence, and, knowing the ungovernable violence of
my temper, try to avoid speaking. Nadenka looks at me sympathetically.
Soup, tongue and peas, roast fowl, and compôte. I have no appetite,
but eat from politeness.
After dinner, while I am standing alone on the terrace, smoking,
Nadenka's mamma comes up to me, presses my hand, and says breathlessly:
"Don't despair, _Nicolas!_ She has such a heart, . . . such a heart!
. . ."
We go towards the wood to gather mushrooms. Varenka hangs on my arm
and clings to my side. My sufferings are indescribable, but I bear
them in patience.
We enter the wood.
"Listen, Monsieur Nicolas," says Nadenka, sighing. "Why are you so
melancholy? And why are you so silent?"
Extraordinary girl she is, really! What can I talk to her about?
What have we in common?
"Oh, do say something!" she begs me.
I begin trying to think of something popular, something within the
range of her understanding. After a moment's thought I say:
"The cutting down of forests has been greatly detrimental to the
prosperity of Russia. . . ."
"Nicolas," sighs Nadenka, and her nose begins to turn red, "Nicolas,
I see you are trying to avoid being open with me. . . . You seem
to wish to punish me by your silence. Your feeling is not returned,
and you wish to suffer in silence, in solitude . . . it is too
awful, Nicolas!" she cries impulsively seizing my hand, and I see
her nose beginning to swell. "What would you say if the girl you
love were to offer you her eternal friendship?"
I mutter something incoherent, for I really can't think what to say
to her.
In the first place, I'm not in love with any girl at all; in the
second, what could I possibly want her eternal friendship for? and,
thirdly, I have a violent temper.
Mashenka (or Varenka) hides her face in her hands and murmurs, as
though to herself:
"He will not speak; . . . it is clear that he will have me make the
sacrifice! I cannot love him, if my heart is still another's . . .
but . . . I will think of it. . . . Very good, I will think of it
. . . I will prove the strength of my soul, and perhaps, at the
cost of my own happiness, I will save this man from suffering!" . . .
I can make nothing out of all this. It seems some special sort of
puzzle.
We go farther into the wood and begin picking mushrooms. We are
perfectly silent the whole time. Nadenka's face shows signs of
inward struggle. I hear the bark of dogs; it reminds me of my
dissertation, and I sigh heavily. Between the trees I catch sight
of the wounded officer limping painfully along. The poor fellow's
right leg is lame from his wound, and on his left arm he has one
of the variegated young ladies. His face expresses resignation to
destiny.
We go back to the house to drink tea, after which we play croquet
and listen to one of the variegated young ladies singing a song:
"No, no, thou lovest not, no, no." At the word "no" she twists her
mouth till it almost touches one ear.
"_Charmant!_" wail the other young ladies, "_Charmant!_"
The evening comes on. A detestable moon creeps up behind the bushes.
There is perfect stillness in the air, and an unpleasant smell of
freshly cut hay. I take up my hat and try to get away.
"I have something I must say to you!" Mashenka whispers to me
significantly, "don't go away!"
I have a foreboding of evil, but politeness obliges me to remain.
Mashenka takes my arm and leads me away to a garden walk. By this
time her whole figure expresses conflict. She is pale and gasping
for breath, and she seems absolutely set on pulling my right arm
out of the socket. What can be the matter with her?
"Listen!" she mutters. "No, I cannot! No! . . ." She tries to say
something, but hesitates. Now I see from her face that she has come
to some decision. With gleaming eyes and swollen nose she snatches
my hand, and says hurriedly, "_Nicolas_, I am yours! Love you I
cannot, but I promise to be true to you!"
Then she squeezes herself to my breast, and at once springs away.
"Someone is coming," she whispers. "Farewell! . . . To-morrow at
eleven o'clock I will be in the arbour. . . . Farewell!"
And she vanishes. Completely at a loss for an explanation of her
conduct and suffering from a painful palpitation of the heart, I
make my way home. There the "Past and Future of the Dog Licence"
is awaiting me, but I am quite unable to work. I am furious. . . .
I may say, my anger is terrible. Damn it all! I allow no one to
treat me like a boy, I am a man of violent temper, and it is not
safe to trifle with me!
When the maid comes in to call me to supper, I shout to her: "Go
out of the room!" Such hastiness augurs nothing good.
Next morning. Typical holiday weather. Temperature below freezing,
a cutting wind, rain, mud, and a smell of naphthaline, because my
_maman_ has taken all her wraps out of her trunks. A devilish
morning! It is the 7th of August, 1887, the date of the solar
eclipse. I may here remark that at the time of an eclipse every one
of us may, without special astronomical knowledge, be of the greatest
service. Thus, for example, anyone of us can (1) take the measurement
of the diameters of the sun and the moon; (2) sketch the corona of
the sun; (3) take the temperature; (4) take observations of plants
and animals during the eclipse; (5) note down his own impressions,
and so on.
It is a matter of such exceptional importance that I lay aside the
"Past and Future of the Dog Licence" and make up my mind to observe
the eclipse.
We all get up very early, and I divide the work as follows: I am
to measure the diameter of the sun and moon; the wounded officer
is to sketch the corona; and the other observations are undertaken
by Mashenka and the variegated young ladies.
We all meet together and wait.
"What is the cause of the eclipse?" asks Mashenka.
I reply: "A solar eclipse occurs when the moon, moving in the plane
of the ecliptic, crosses the line joining the centres of the sun
and the earth."
"And what does the ecliptic mean?"