One evening a thunderstorm was brewing. The black clouds lay entrenched
beyond the Volga, and the air was as hot and moist as in a bath-house.
Here and there over the fields and roads rose pillars of dust.
In the house Tatiana Markovna sent her household hurrying to close the
stove pipes, the doors and the windows. She was not only afraid of a
thunderstorm herself, but she was not pleased if her fear was not shared
by everybody else--that would be freethinking. So at each flash of
lightning everyone must make the sign of the Cross, on pain of being
thought a blockhead. She chased Egorka from the ante-room into the
servants’ room, because during the approach of the storm he would not
stop giggling with the maids.
The storm approached majestically, with the dull distant noise of the
thunder, with a storm of sand, when suddenly there was a flash of
lightning over the village and a sharp clap of thunder.
Disregarding the passionate warnings of his aunt, Raisky took his cap
and umbrella and hurried into the park, anxious to see the landscape
under the shadow of the storm, to find new ideas for his drawings, and
to observe his own emotions. He descended the cliff, and passed through
the undergrowth by a winding, hardly perceptible path. The rain fell by
bucketfuls, one flash of lightning followed another, the thunder rolled,
and the whole prospect was veiled in mist and cloud. He soon regretted
his intention. His soaked umbrella did not protect him from the rain,
which whipped his face and poured down on his clothes, and his feet sank
ankle-deep in the muddy ground. He was continually knocking against and
stumbling over unevennesses in the ground or tree stumps, treading in
holes and pools. He was obliged to stand still until a flash of
lightning lighted up a few yards of the path. He knew that not far away
lay a ruined arbour, dating from the time when the precipice formed part
of the garden. Not long before he had seen it in the thicket, but now it
was indiscoverable, however much he would have preferred to observe the
storm from its shelter. And since he did not wish to retrace the
horrible path by which he had come, he resolved to make his way to the
nearest carriage road, to climb over the twisted hedge and to reach the
village.
He could hardly drag his soaked boots free of the mud and weeds, and he
was dazzled by the lightning and nearly deafened by the noise. He
confessed that he might as well have admired the storm from the shelter
of the house. In the end he struck the fence, but when he tried to leap
over it he slipped and fell in the ditch. With difficulty he dragged
himself out and clambered over. There was little traffic on the steep
and dangerous ridge, used for the most part as a short cut by empty
one-horse carriages with their quiet beasts.
He closed his dripping umbrella, and put it under his arm. Dazzled by
the lightning, slipping every minute, he toiled painfully up the slope,
and when he reached the summit he heard close by the noise of wheels,
the neighing of horses and the cry of the coachman. He stood on one side
and pressed himself against the fence to allow the passage of the
carriage, since the road was very narrow. In a flash of lightning Raisky
saw before him a char-à-banc with several persons in it, drawn by two
well-kept, apparently magnificent horses. In the light of another flash
he was amazed to recognise Vera.
“Vera,” he cried loudly.
The carriage stood still.
“Who is there? Is it you, cousin, in this weather?”
“And you?”
“I am hurrying home.”
“So do I want to. I came down the precipice, and lost my way in the
bushes.
“Who is driving you? Is there room for me.”
“Plenty of room,” said a masculine voice. “Give me your hand to get up.”
Raisky gave his hand, and was hauled up by a strong arm. Next to Vera
sat Marina, and the two, huddled together like wet chickens, were trying
to protect themselves from the drenching rain by the leather covering.
“Who is with you?” asked Raisky in a low voice. “Whose horses are these,
and who is driving?”
“Ivan Ivanovich.”
“I don’t know him.”
“The Forester,” whispered Vera, and he would have repeated her words if
she had not nudged him to keep silence. “Later,” she said.
He remembered the talk with his aunt, her praises of the Forester, her
hints of his being a good match. This then was the hero of the romance,
the Forester. He tried to get a look at him, but only saw an ordinary
hat with a wide brim, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure wrapped in a
rain coat.
The Forester handled the reins skilfully as he drove up the steep hill,
cracked his whip, whistled, held the horses’ heads with a firm hand when
they threatened to shy at a flash of lightning, and turned round to
those sheltered in the body of the vehicle.
“How do you feel, Vera Vassilievna,” he inquired anxiously. “Are you
very cold and wet?”
“I am quite comfortable, Ivan Ivanovich; the rain does not catch me.”
“You must take my raincoat. God forbid that you should take cold. I
should never forgive myself all my life for having driven you.”
“You weary me with your friendly anxiety. Don’t bother about anything
but your horses.”
“As you please,” replied Ivan Ivanovich with hasty obedience, turning to
his horses, and he cast only an occasional anxious glance towards Vera.
They drove past the village to the door of the new house. Ivan Ivanovich
jumped down and hammered on the door with his riding whip. Handing over
the care of his horses to Prokor, Tarasska and Egorka, who hurried up
for the purpose, he stood by the steps, took Vera in his arms, and
carried her carefully and respectfully, like a precious burden, through
the ranks of wide-eyed lackeys and maid-servants bearing lights, to the
divan in the hall.
Raisky followed, wet and dirty, without once removing his eyes from them.
The Forester went back into the ante-room, made himself as respectable
as he could, shook himself, pushed his fingers through his hair, and
demanded a brush.
Meanwhile Tatiana Markovna bade Vera welcome and reproached her for
venturing on such a journey; she must change her clothes throughout and
in a few moments the samovar would be brought in, and supper served.
“Quick, quick, Grandmother!” said Vera, rubbing herself affectionately
against her. “Let us have tea, soup, roast and wine. Ivan Ivanovich is
hungry.” She knew how to quiet her aunt’s anxiety.
“That’s splendid. It shall be served in a minute. Where is Ivan
Ivanovich?”
“I am making myself a bit decent,” cried a voice from the ante-room.
Egor, Yakob and Stepan hummed round the Forester as if he had been a
good horse. Then he entered the hall and respectfully kissed the hands
of Tatiana Markovna, and of Marfinka, who had only just decided to get
out of bed, where she had hidden herself for fear of the storm.
“It is not necessary, Marfinka,” said her aunt, “to hide from the storm.
You should pray to God, and will not then be struck.”
“I am not afraid of thunder and lightning, of which the peasants are
usually the victims, but it makes me nervous,” replied Marfinka.
Raisky, with the water still dripping off him, stood in the window
watching the guest. Ivan Ivanovich Tushin was a tall, broad-shouldered
man of thirty-eight, with strongly-marked features, a dark, thick beard,
and large grey rather timid eyes, and hands disproportionately large,
with broad nails. He wore a grey coat and a high-buttoned vest, with a
broad turned-down home-spun collar. He was a fine man, but with marked
simplicity, not to put a fine point on it in his glance and his manners.
Raisky wondered jealously whether he was Vera’s hero. Why not? Women
like these tall men with open faces and highly developed muscular
strength. But Vera--
“And you, Borushka,” cried Tatiana Markovna suddenly, clapping her hands.
“Look at your clothes. Egorka and the rest of you! Where are you? There
is a pool on the floor round you, Borushka. You will be ill. Vera was
driving home, but there was no reason for you to go out into the storm.
Go and change your clothes, Borushka, and have some rum in your tea.
Ivan Ivanovich, you ought to go with him. Are you acquainted? My nephew
Boris Raisky--Ivan Ivanovich Tushin.”
“We have already made acquaintance,” said Tushin, with a bow. “We picked
up your nephew on the way. Many thanks, I need nothing, but you, Boris
Pavlovich, ought to change.”
“You must forgive an old woman for telling you you are all half mad. No
animal leaves his hole in weather like this. Yakob, shut the shutters
closer. Fancy crossing the Volga in weather like this.”
“My carriage is solid, and has a cover. Vera Vassilievna sat as dry as
if she were in a room.”
“But in this terrible storm.”
“Only old women are afraid of a storm.”
“I’m much obliged.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Tushin in embarrassment. “It slipped from my
tongue. I meant ordinary women.”
“God will forgive you,” laughed Tatiana Markovna. “It won’t indeed hurt
you, but Vera! Were you not afraid?”
“One does not think of fear with Ivan Ivanovich.”
“If Ivan Ivanovich went bear-hunting, would you go with him?”
“Yes, Grandmother. Take me with you sometimes, Ivan Ivanovich.”
“With pleasure, Vera Vassilievna, in winter. You have only to command.”
“That is just like her, not to mind what her Grandmother thinks.”
“I was joking, Grandmother.”
“I know you would be equal to it. Had you no scruples about hindering
Ivan Ivanovich; this distance....”
“It is my fault. As soon as I heard from Natalie Ivanovna that Vera
Vassilievna wanted to come home, I asked for the pleasure,” he said
looking at Vera with a mixed air of modesty and respect.
“A nice pleasure in this weather.”
“It was lighter while we were driving, and Vera Vassilievna was not
afraid.”
“Is Anna Ivanovna well?”
“Thank you. She sends her kindest regards, and has sent you some
preserves, also some peaches out of the orangery, and mushrooms. They
are in the char-à-banc.”
“It is very good of her. We have no peaches. I have put aside for her
some of the tea that Borushka brought with him.”
“Many thanks.”
“How could you let your horses climb the hill in such weather? Were they
terrified by the storm?”
“My horses obey me like dogs. Should I have driven Vera Vassilievna if
there were any danger?”
“You are a good friend,” interrupted Vera. “I have absolute trust both
in you, and in your horses.”
At this moment Raisky returned, having changed his clothes. He had
noticed the glance which Vera gave Tushin, and had heard her last remark.
“Thank you, Vera Vassilievna,” answered Tushin. “Don’t forget what you
have just said. If you ever need anything, if....”
“If there is another such raging storm,” said Tatiana Markovna.
“Any storm,” added Tushin firmly.
“There are other storms in life,” said Tatiana Markovna with a sigh.
“Whatever they are, if they break on you, Vera Vassilievna, seek refuge
in the forest over the Volga, where lives a bear who will serve you, as
the fairytale tells.”
“I will remember,” returned Vera laughing. “If a sorcerer wants to carry
me off, as in the fairy-tale, I will take refuge in the wood.”
Raisky saw Tushin’s glance of devotion and modest reserve, he heard his
words, so quietly and modestly spoken, and thought the letter written on
the blue paper could be from no one else. He looked at Vera to see if
she were moved or would relapse into a stony silence, but she showed no
sign. Vera appeared to him in a new light. In her manner and her words
to Tushin he saw simplicity, trust, gentleness and affection such as she
showed to no one else, not even to her aunt or to Marfinka.
“She is on her guard with her Grandmother,” he thought, “and takes no
heed of Marfinka. But when she looks at Tushin, speaks to him, or gives
her hand it is plain to see that they are friends.”
The Forester, who had business to do in the town, stayed for three days
with Tatiana Markovna, and for three days Raisky sought for the key to
this new character and to his place in Vera’s heart.
They called Ivan Ivanovich the “Forester,” because he lived on his
estate in the midst of the forest. He loved the forest, growing new
timber on the one hand and on the other allowing it to be cut down and
loaded up on the Volga for sale. The several thousand _dessiatins_
of surrounding forest were exceedingly well managed, and nothing was
lacking; there was even a steam saw. He attended to everything himself,
and in his spare time hunted and fished and amused himself with his
bachelor neighbours. From time to time he sought a change of scene, and
then arranged with his friends to drive in a three-horse carriage, drawn
by fresh horses, forty versts away to the seat of a landed proprietor,
where for three days the fun was fast enough. Then they returned, put up
with Tushin, or waked the sleepy town. In these festivals all class
distinctions were lost.
After this dissipation he would again remain lost to the world for three
months in his forest home, see after the wood cutting, and go hunting
with two servants, and occasionally have to lie up with a wounded arm.
The life suited him. He read works on agriculture and forestry, took
counsel with his German assistant, an experienced forester, who was
nevertheless not allowed to be the master. All orders must come from
Tushin himself, and were carried out by the help of two foremen and a
gang of hired labourers. In his spare time he liked to read French
novels, the only distraction that he permitted himself. There was
nothing extraordinary in a retired life like this in the wide district
in which he lived.
Raisky learnt that Tushin saw Vera at the pope’s house, that he went
there expressly when he heard that Vera was a visitor. Vera herself told
him so. She and Natalie Ivanovna, too, visited Tushin’s property, known
as “Smoke,” because far away from the hills could be seen the smoke
rising from the chimneys of the house in the depth of the forest.
Tushin lived with his spinster sister, Anna Ivanovna, to whom Tatiana
Markovna was much attached. Tatiana Markovna was delighted when she came
to town. There was no one with whom she liked more to drink coffee, no
one to whom she gave her confidence in the same degree; they shared the
same liking for household management, the same deep-rooted self-esteem
and the same respect for family tradition.
Of Tushin himself there was little more to say than was revealed on a
first occasion; his character lay bare to the daylight, with no secret,
no romantic side. He possessed more than plain good sense, for his
understanding did not derive from the brain alone, but from the heart
and will. Men of his type, especially when they care nothing for the
superfluous things of life, but keep their eyes fixed undeviatingly on
the necessary, do not make themselves noticed in the crowd and rarely
reach the front of the world’s stage.
Raisky noticed in the Forester’s behaviour towards Vera a constant
adoration expressed by his glance and his voice, and sometimes by his
timidity; on her side an equally constant confidence, frankness and
affection, nothing more. He did not surprise in her a single sign or
gesture, a single word or glance that might have betrayed her. Tushin
showed pure esteem and a consistent readiness to serve her as her bear,
and no more. Surely he was not the man who wrote the letter on the blue
paper.
After the Forester had taken his leave, the household fell back into its
regular routine. Vera seemed untroubled and in possession of a quiet
happiness, and showed herself kind and affectionate to her aunt and
Marfinka. Yet there were days when unrest suddenly came upon her, when
she went hastily to her room in the old house, or descended the
precipice into the park, and displayed a gloomy resentment if Raisky or
Marfinka ventured to disturb her solitude. After a short interval she
resumed an even, sympathetic temper, helped in the household, looked
over her aunt’s accounts, and even paid visits to the ladies in the town.
She discussed literary questions with Raisky, who realised from the
opinions she expressed that her reading was wide and enticed her into
thorough-going discussions. They read together, though not regularly.
Sometimes a wild intoxication flared up in her, but it was a
disconcerting merriment. One evening, when she suddenly left the room,
Tatiana Markovna and Raisky exchanged a long questioning glance.
“What do you think of Vera?” she began. “She seems to have recovered
from her malady of the soul.”
“I think it is more serious than before.”
“What is the matter with you, Borushka? You can see how gay and friendly
she has become.”
“Is she like the Vera you have known. I fear that this is not gladness,
but rather agitation, even intoxication.”
“You are right. She is changed.”
“Don’t you notice that she is ecstatic?”
“Ecstatic?” repeated Tatiana Markovna anxiously. “Why do you say that,
especially just at night? I shan’t sleep. The ecstasy of a young girl
spells disaster.”