When Raisky returned to his room at daybreak and looked in the mirror,
he hardly recognised himself. He felt chilly, and sent Marina for a
glass of wine which he drank before he threw himself on his bed.
Overcome by moral and physical exhaustion he slept as if he had thrown
himself into the arms of a friend and had confided his trouble to him.
Sleep did him the service of a friend, for it carried him far from Vera,
from Malinovka, from the precipice, from the fantastic vision of last
night. When the ringing of many bells awoke him he lay for several
minutes under the soothing influence of the physical rest, which built a
rampart between him and yesterday. There was no agony in his awakening
moments. But soon memory revived, and his face wore an expression more
terrible than in the worst moments of yesterday. A pain different from
yesterday’s, a new devil had hurled itself upon him. He seized one piece
of clothing after another and dressed as hastily and nervously as Vera
had done as she prepared to go to the precipice.
He rang for Egorka, from whom he learnt that everybody except Vera, who
was not well, had driven to Mass. In wild agitation he dashed across to
the old house. There was no response when he knocked at Vera’s door. He
opened it cautiously, and stole in like a man with murderous intent,
with horror imprinted on his features, and advanced on tiptoe, trembling,
deadly pale, with swaying steps as if he might fall at any minute.
Vera lay on the divan, with her face turned away, her hair falling down
almost to the floor, and her slipper-clad feet hardly covered by her
grey skirt. She tried to turn round when she heard the noise of the
opening door, but could not.
He approached, knelt at her feet, and pressed his lips to the slipper
she wore. Suddenly she turned, and stared at him in astonishment. “Is it
comedy or romance, Boris Pavlovich,” she asked brusquely, turned in
annoyance, and hid her foot under the skirt which she straightened
quickly.
“No, Vera, tragedy,” he whispered in a lifeless voice, and sat down on
the chair near the divan.
The tone of his voice moved her to turn and look keenly at him, and her
eyes opened wide with astonishment. She threw aside her shawl, and rose,
she had divined in Raisky’s face the presence of the same deadly
suffering that she herself endured.
“What is your trouble? Are _you_ unhappy?” she said, laying her
hand on his shoulder. In the simple word and in the tone of her voice
there were revealed the generous qualities of a woman, sympathy,
selflessness, and love.
Keenly touched by the kindness and tenderness in her voice he looked at
her with the same rapturous gratitude which she had worn on her face
yesterday when in self-forgetfulness he had helped her down the
precipice. She returned generosity with generosity, just as yesterday
there had streamed from him a gleam of one of the highest qualities of
the human mind. He was all the more in despair over what he had done,
and wept hot tears. He hid his face in his hands like a man for whom all
is lost.
“What have I done? I have insulted you, woman and sister.”
“Do not make us both suffer,” she said in a gentle, friendly tone.
“Spare me; you see how I am.”
He tried not to meet her eyes, and she again lay down on the divan.
“What a blow I dealt you,” he whispered in horror. “You see my
punishment, Vera!”
“Your blow gave me a minute’s pain, and then I understood that it was
not delivered with an indifferent hand, that you loved me. And it became
clear to me how you must have suffered ... yesterday.”
“Don’t justify my crime, Vera. A knife is a knife, and I aimed a knife
at you.”
“You brought me to myself. I was as if I slept, and you, Grandmother,
Marfinka and the whole house I saw as if in a dream.”
“What am I to do, Vera? Fly from here? In what a state of mind I should
leave! Let me endure my penance here, and be reconciled, as far as is
possible, with myself, with all that has happened here.”
“Your imagination paints what was only a fault as a crime. Remember your
condition when you did it, your agitation!” She gave him her hand, and
continued, “I know now what one is capable of doing in the fever of
emotion.”
She set herself to calm him in spite of her own weariness.
“You are good, Vera, and, womanlike, judge not with your brain, but with
your heart.”
“You are too severe with yourself. Another would have thought himself
justified after all the jesting.... You remember those letters. With
whatever good intention of calming your agitation, of answering your
jest with jests, it was malicious mockery. You suffered more from those
letters than I did yesterday.”
“Oh, dear, no! I have often laughed over them, especially when you asked
for a cloak, a rug, and money for the exile.”
“What money? what cloak? what exile?” she exclaimed in astonishment. “I
don’t understand.”
“I myself had suspicions,” he said, his face clearing a little. “I could
not believe that that was your idea.” And in a few words he told her the
contents of the two letters.
Her lips turned white.
“Natasha and I wrote to you turn and turn about in the same handwriting,
amusing little letters in which we tried to imitate yours; that is all.
I didn’t know anything about the other letters,” she whispered, turning
her face to the wall.
Raisky strode up and down in thought, while Vera appeared to be resting,
exhausted by the conversation.
“Cousin,” she said suddenly, “I ask your help in a very important matter,
and I know you will not refuse me.” A glance at his face told her that
there was nothing she could not ask of him. “While I still have strength,
I want to tell you the whole history of this year.”
“Why should you do that? I will not and I ought not to know.”
“Do not disturb me, Boris. I can hardly breathe and time is precious. I
will tell you the whole story, and you must repeat it to our Grandmother.
I could not do it,” she said. “My tongue would not say the words--I
would rather die.”
He looked at her with an expression of blank terror. “But why should
Grandmother be told? Think of the consequences. Would it not be better
to keep her in ignorance?”
“No, the burden must be borne. It is possible that Grandmother and I
will both die of it, or we shall lose our senses, but I will not deceive
her. She ought to have known it long ago, but I hoped to be able to tell
her another story, and therefore was silent.”
“To tell her everything, even of yesterday evening,” he asked in a low
tone. “And the name also?”
She nodded almost imperceptibly in assent. Then she made him sit down on
the divan beside her, and in low, broken sentences told the story of her
relations with Mark. When she had finished she wrapped herself,
shivering with cold, in her shawl. He rose from his seat. Both were
silent, each of them in terror, she as she thought of her grandmother,
he as he thought of them both. Before him lay the prospect of having to
deal Tatiana Markovna one thrust after another, and that not in the heat
of passion, or in an access of blind revenge, but in the consciousness
of a most painful duty. It might be as she said an important service,
but it was certainly a terrible commission.
“When shall I tell her?” he asked.
“As soon as possible, for I shall suffer so long as I know she is in
ignorance, and now, give me the eau-de-Cologne from the dressing-table,
and leave me alone.”
“It would not do to tell Grandmother to-day when the house is full of
guests, but to-morrow....” said Raisky.
“How shall I survive it? But till to-morrow, calm her by some means or
other, so that she has no suspicion and sends no one here.”
She closed her eyes in a longing for impenetrable night, for rest
without an awakening; she would like to have been turned into a thing of
stone so that she could neither think nor feel.
When he left her he was weighed down with a greater weight of fear than
that which he had brought to the interview. Vera rose as soon as he left
her, closed the door, and lay down again. She had found consolation and
help in Raisky’s friendship, his sympathy and devotion, as a drowning
man rises to the surface for a moment, but as soon as he was gone she
fell back deeper into the depths. She told herself in despair that life
was over. Before her there stretched the bare steppe; there was no
longer for her a family, nor anything on which a woman’s life depends.
She would have to stand before her aunt, to look her in the eyes, and to
tell her how she had recompensed her love and care. Suddenly she heard
steps and her aunt’s voice. Pale and motionless, as if she had lost the
use of hands and feet, she listened to the light tap at the door. I will
not get up, I cannot, she thought. But when the knock was repeated, she
sprang up with a strength which astonished herself, dried her eyes and
went smiling to meet her aunt.
When Tatiana Markovna had heard from Marfinka that Vera was ill, and
would remain in her room all day, she had come herself to inquire; she
glanced at Vera and sat down on the divan.
“The service has tired me so that I could hardly walk up the steps.
What’s the matter with you, Vera?” she continued, looking keenly at her.
“I congratulate Marfinka on her birthday,” said Vera, in the voice of a
little girl who has learnt her speech by heart. She kissed her
grandmother’s hand and wondered how she had managed to bring the words
over her lips. “I got wet feet yesterday, and have a headache.” She
tried to smile, but there was no smile on her lips.
“You must rub your feet with spirit,” remarked Tatiana Markovna, who had
noticed the strained voice and the unnatural smile, and guessed a lack
of frankness. “Are you coming to be with us, Vera? Don’t force yourself
to do so, and so make yourself worse,” she continued, seeing that Vera
was incapable of answering.
Vera was all the more frightened by her aunt’s consideration for her.
Her conscience stirred, and she felt that Tatiana Markovna must already
know all, and that her confession would come too late. She was on the
point of falling on her breast, and making her confession there and then,
but her strength failed her.
“Excuse me, Grandmother, from dinner; perhaps I will come over in the
afternoon.”
“As you like. I will send your dinner across.”
“Thank you, I am already quite hungry,” said Vera quickly, without
knowing what she said.
Tatiana Markovna kissed her, and stroked her hair, remarking casually
that one of the maids should come and do her room, as she might have a
visitor.
Tatiana Markovna returned sadly to the house. She was, indeed, politely
attentive to her guests as she always was, but Raisky noticed
immediately that something was wrong with her after her visit to Vera.
She found it hard to restrain her emotion, hardly touched the food, did
not even look round when Petrushka smashed a pile of plates, and more
than once broke off in the middle of a sentence. In the afternoon as the
guests took coffee on the broad terrace in the mild September sunshine,
Tatiana Markovna moved among her guests as if she were hardly aware of
them. Raisky wore a gloomy air and had eyes for no one but his aunt.
“Something is wrong with Vera,” she whispered to him. “She is in trouble.
Have you seen her?”
“No,” he said. But his aunt looked at him as if she doubted what he said.
Paulina Karpovna had not come. She had sent word that she was ill, and
the messenger brought flowers and plants for Marfinka. In order to
explain the scene of the day before, and to find out whether she had
guessed anything, Raisky had paid a visit in the morning to Paulina
Karpovna. She received him with a pretence of being offended, but with
hardly disguised satisfaction. His excuse was that he had dined with
friends that night and had had a glass too much. He begged for
forgiveness which was accorded with a smile, all which did not prevent
Paulina Karpovna from recounting to all her acquaintance her love scene.
Tushin came to dinner, and brought Marfinka a lovely pony to ride. He
asked for Vera, and was plainly disturbed when he heard of the
indisposition which prevented her from coming to dinner. Tatiana
Markovna observed him, wondering why Vera’s absence had such a
remarkable effect on him, though this had often been the case before
without exciting any surprise on her part. She could not keep out of her
head anxiety as to what change had come over Vera since yesterday
evening. She had had a little quarrel with Tiet Nikonich, and had
scolded him for having brought Marfinka the Sèvres mirror. Afterwards
she was closeted with him for a quarter of an hour in her sitting-room,
and he emerged from the interview looking serious. He shifted his foot
less, and even when he was talking to ladies his serous inquiring glance
would wander to Raisky or Tushin.
Up till this time Tatiana Markovna had been so gay. Her one anxiety, and
at the moment the only one perhaps, had been the celebration of Vera’s
nameday a fortnight ahead, she would have liked to have celebrated it
with the same magnificence as Marfinka’s birthday, although Vera had
roundly declared that on that day she meant to go on a visit to Anna
Ivanovna Tushin, or to her friend Natasha. But how Tatiana Markovna had
changed since Mass. As she talked with her guests she was thinking only
of Vera, and gave absent-minded answers. The excuse of a cold had not
deceived her, and as she had touched Vera’s brow on leaving her, she had
realised that a cold could be nothing but a pretext. She remembered that
Vera and Raisky had vanished in the afternoon and that neither had
appeared at supper. She was constantly watching Raisky, who sought to
avoid her glance, thereby only arousing her suspicions the more.
Then Vera herself unexpectedly appeared amongst the guests, wearing a
warm mantilla over her light dress and a wrap round her throat. Raisky
was so astonished that he looked at her as if she were an apparition. A
few hours ago she had been almost too exhausted to speak, and now here
she was in person. He wondered where women found their strength. Vera
went round speaking to the guests, looked at Marfinka’s presents, and
ate, to quench her thirst, as she said, a slice of water melon. Tatiana
Markovna was to some extent relieved to see Vera, but it disturbed her
to notice that Raisky’s face had changed. For the first time in her life
she cursed her guests; they were just sitting down to cards, then there
would be tea, and then supper, and Vikentev was not going until
to-morrow morning.