On a misty autumn day, as Vera sat at work in her room, Yakob brought
her a letter written on blue paper, which had been brought by a lad who
had instructions to wait for an answer. When she had recovered from the
first shock at the sight of the letter, she took it, laid it on the
table, and dismissed Yakob. She tried to go on with her work but her
hands fell helplessly on her lap.
“When will there be an end of this torture?” she whispered, nervously.
Then she took from her bureau the earlier unopened blue letter, laid it
by the side of the other, and covered her face with her hands. What
answer could he expect from her, she asked herself, when they had parted
for ever? Surely he dare not call her once more. If so, an answer must
be given, for the messenger was waiting. She opened the letters and read
the earlier one:--
“Are we really not to meet again, Vera? That would be incredible. A few
days ago there would have been reason in our separation, now it is a
useless sacrifice, hard for both of us. We have striven obstinately with
one another for a whole year for the prize of happiness; and now that
the goal is attained you run away. Yet it is you who spoke of an eternal
love. Is that logical?”
“Logical!” she repeated, but she collected her courage and read on.
“I am now permitted to choose another place of residence. But now I
cannot leave you, for it would be dishonourable. You cannot think that I
am proud of my victory, and that it is easy for me to go away. I cannot
allow you to harbour such an idea. I cannot leave you, because you love
me.”
Once more she interrupted her reading, but resumed it with an effort--
“And because my whole being is in a fever. Let us be happy, Vera. Be
convinced that our conflict, our quarrelling was nothing but the mask of
passion. The mask has fallen, and we have no other ground of dispute. In
reality we have long been one. You ask for a love which shall be eternal;
many desire that, but it is an impossibility.”
She stopped her reading to tell herself with a pitying smile that his
conception of love was of a perpetual fever.
“My mistake was in openly asserting this truth, which life itself would
have revealed in due course. From this time onwards, I will not assail
your convictions, for it is not they, but passion, which is the
essential factor in our situation. Let us enjoy our happiness in silence.
I hope that you will agree to this logical solution.”
Vera smiled bitterly as she continued to read.
“They would hardly allow you to go away with me, and indeed that is
hardly possible. Nothing but a wild passion could lead you to do such a
thing, and I do not expect it. Other convictions, indifferent to me,
would be needed to impel you to this course; you would be faced with a
future which fulfils neither your own wishes nor the demands of your
relations, for mine is an uncertain existence, without home, hearth or
possessions. But if you think you can persuade your Grandmother, we will
be betrothed, and I will remain here until--for an indefinite time. A
separation now would be like a bad comedy, in which the unprofitable
role is yours, at which Raisky, when he hears of it, will be the first
to laugh. I warn you again now, as I did before. Send your reply to the
address of my landlady, Sekletaia Burdalakov.”
In spite of her exhaustion after reading this epistle Vera took up the
one which Yakob had just brought. It was hastily written in pencil.
“Every day I have been wandering about by the precipice, hoping to see
you in answer to my earlier letter. I have only just heard by chance of
your indisposition. Come, Vera. If you are ill, write two words, and I
will come myself to the old house. If I receive no answer to-day, I will
expect you to-morrow at five o’clock in the arbour. I must know quickly
whether I should go or stay. But I do not think we shall part. In any
case, I expect either you or an answer. If you are ill, I will make my
way into your house.”
Terrified by his threat of coming, she seized pen and paper, but her
hands trembled too much to allow her to write.
“I cannot,” she exclaimed. “I have no strength, I am stifled! How shall
I begin, and what can I write? I have forgotten how I used to write to
him, to speak to him.”
She sent for Yakob, and told him to dismiss the messenger and to say
that an answer would follow later. She wondered as she walked slowly
back to her room, when she would find strength that day to write to him;
what she should say. She could only repeat that she could not, and would
not, and to-morrow she told herself, he would wait for her in the arbour,
he would be wild with disappointment, and if he repeats his signals with
the rifle he will come into conflict with the servants, and eventually
with grandmother herself. She tried to write, but threw the pen aside;
then she thought she would go to him herself, tell him all she had to
say, and then leave him. As once before her hands sought in vain her
mantilla, her scarf, and without knowing what she did, she sank
helplessly down on the divan.
If she told her grandmother the necessary steps would be taken, but
otherwise the letters would begin again. Or should she send her cousin,
who was after all her natural and nearest friend and protector, to
convince Mark that there was no hope for him? But she considered that he
also was in the toils of passion, and that it would be hard for him to
execute the mission, that he might be involved in a heated dispute,
which might develop into a dangerous situation. She turned to Tushin,
whom she could trust to accomplish the errand effectively without
blundering. But it seemed impossible to set Tushin face to face with the
rival who had robbed him of his desires. Yet she saw no alternative. No
delay was possible; to-morrow would bring another letter, and then,
failing an answer, Mark himself.
After brief consideration, she wrote a note to Tushin, and this time the
same pen covered easily and quickly the same paper that had been so
impracticable half an hour before. She asked him to come and see her the
next morning.
Until now Vera had been accustomed to guard her own secrets, and to
exercise an undivided rule in the world of her thoughts. If she had
given her confidence to the priest’s wife, it was out of charity. She
had confided to her the calendar of her everyday life, its events, its
emotions and impressions; she had told her of her secret meetings with
Mark, but concealed from her the catastrophe, telling her simply that
all was over between them. As the priest’s wife was ignorant of the
dénouement of the story at the foot of the precipice, she put down
Vera’s illness to grief at their parting.
Vera loved Marfinka as she loved Natalie Ivanovna, not as a comrade, but
as a child. In more peaceful times she would again confide the details
of her life to Natalie Ivanovna as before; but in a crisis she went to
Tatiana Markovna, sent for Tushin, or sought help from her cousin Boris.
Now she put the letters in her pocket, found her aunt, and sat down
beside her.
“What has happened, Vera? You are upset.”
“Not upset, but worried. I have received letters, from _there_.”
“From _there_!” repeated Tatiana Markovna, turning pale.
“The first was written some time ago, but I have only just opened it,
and the second was brought to me to-day,” she said, laying them both on
the table.
“You want me to know what is in them?”
“Read them, Grandmother.”
Tatiana Markovna put on her glasses, and tried to read them, but she
found that she could not decipher them, and eventually Vera had to read
them. She read in a whisper, suppressing a phrase here and there; then
she crumpled them up and put them back in her pocket.
“What do you think, Veroshka?” asked Tatiana Markovna, uncertainly. “He
is willing to be betrothed and to remain here. Perhaps if he is prepared
to live like other people, if he loves you, and if you think you could
be happy--”
“He calls betrothal a comedy, and yet suggests it. He thinks that only
that is needed to make me happy. Grandmother, you know my frame of mind;
so why do you ask me?”
“You came to me to ask me what you should decide,” began Tatiana
Markovna with some hesitation, as she did not yet understand why Vera
had read her the letters. She was incensed at Mark’s audacity, and
feared that Vera herself might be seized with a return of her passion.
For these reasons she concealed her anxiety.
“It was not for that that I came to you, Grandmother. You know that my
mind has long been made up. I will have no more to do with him. And if I
am to breathe freely again, and to hope to be able to live once more, it
is under the condition that I hear nothing of him, that I can forget
everything. He reminds me of what has happened, calls me down there,
seeks to allure me with talk of happiness, will marry me.... Gracious
Heaven! Understand, Grandmother,” she went on, as Tatiana Markovna’s
anxiety could no longer be concealed, “that if by a miracle he now
became the man I hoped he would be, if he now were to believe all that I
believe, and loved me as I desired to love him, even if all this
happened I would not turn aside from my path at his call.” No song could
have been sweeter to the ears of Tatiana Markovna. “I should not be
happy with him,” Vera continued. “I could never forget what he had been,
or believe in the new Mark. I have endured more than enough to kill any
passion. There is nothing left in my heart but a cold emptiness, and but
for you, Grandmother, I should despair.”
She wept convulsively, her head pressed against her aunt’s shoulder.
“Do not recall your sufferings, Veroshka, and do not distress yourself
unnecessarily. We agreed never to speak of it again.”
“But for the letters I should not have spoken, for I need peace. Take me
away, Grandmother, hide me, or I shall die. He calls me--to that place.”
Tatiana Markovna rose and drew Vera into the armchair, while she drew
herself to her full height.
“If that is so,” she said, “if he thinks he can continue to annoy you,
he will have to reckon with me. I will shield and protect you. Console
yourself, child, you will hear no more of him.”
“What will you do?” she asked in amazement, springing from her chair.
“He summons you. Well, I will go to the rendezvous in your place, and we
will see if he calls you any more, or comes here, or writes to you.” She
strode up and down the room trembling with anger. “At what time does he
go to the arbour to-morrow. At five, I think?” she asked sharply.
“Grandmother, you don’t understand,” said Vera gently, taking her hand.
“Calm yourself. I make no accusation against him. Never forget that I
alone am guilty. He does not know what has happened to me during these
days, and therefore he writes. Now it is necessary to explain to him how
ill and spiritless I am, and you want to fight. I don’t wish that. I
would have written to him, but could not; and I have not the strength to
see him. I would have asked Ivan Ivanovich, but you know how he cares
for me and what hopes he cherishes. To bring him into contact with a man
who has destroyed those hopes is impossible.”
“Impossible,” agreed Tatiana Markovna. “God knows what might happen
between them. You have a near relation, who knows all and loves you like
a sister, Borushka.”
“If that were how he loved me,” thought Vera. She did not mean to reveal
Raisky’s passion for her, which remained her secret.
“Perhaps I will ask my cousin,” she said. “Or I will collect my strength,
and answer the letter myself, so as to make him understand my position
and renounce all hope. But in the mean time, I must let him know so that
he does not come to the arbour to wait in vain for me.”
“I will do that,” struck in Tatiana Markovna.
“But you will not go yourself?” asked Vera, looking direct into her eyes.
“Remember that I make no complaint against him, and wish him no evil.”
“Nor do I,” returned her aunt, looking away. “You may be assured I will
not go myself, but I will arrange it so that he does not await you in
the arbour.”
“Forgive me, Grandmother, for this fresh disturbance.”
Tatiana Markovna sighed, and kissed her niece. Vera left the room in a
calmer frame of mind, wondering what means her aunt proposed to take to
prevent Mark from coming next day to the arbour.
Next day at noon Vera heard horse’s hoofs at the gate. When she looked
out of the window her eyes shone with pleasure for a moment, as she saw
Tushin ride into the courtyard. She went to meet him.
“I saw you from the window,” she said, adding, as she looked at him,
“Are you well?”
“What else should I be?” he answered with embarrassment, turning his
head away so that she should not notice the signs of suffering on his
face. “And you?”
“I fell ill, and my illness might have taken an ill turn, but now it is
over. Where is Grandmother?” she asked, turning to Vassilissa.
“The Mistress went out after tea, and took Savili with her.”
Vera invited Tushin to her room, but for the moment both were
embarrassed.
“Have you forgiven me?” asked Vera after a pause, without looking at him.
“Forgiven you?”
“For all you have endured. Ivan Ivanovich, you have changed. I can see
that you carry a heavy heart. Your suffering and Grandmother’s is a hard
penance for me. But for you three, Grandmother, you, and Cousin Boris,
I could not survive.”
“And yet you say that you give us pain. Look at me; I think I am better
already. If you would only recover your own peace of mind it will all be
over and forgotten.”
“I had begun to recover, and to forget. Marfinka’s marriage is close at
hand, there was a great deal to do and my attention was distracted, but
yesterday I was violently excited, and am not quite calm now.”
“What has happened? Can I serve you, Vera Vassilievna?”
“I cannot accept your service.”
“Because you do not think me able....”
“Not that. You know all that has happened; read what I have received,”
she said, taking the letters from a box, and handing them to him.
Tushin read, and turned as pale as he had been when he arrived.
“You are right. In this matter my assistance is superfluous. You alone
can....”
“I cannot, Ivan Ivanovich,” she said, while he looked at her
interrogatively. “I can neither write a word to him, nor see him; yet I
must give him an answer. He will wait there in the arbour, or if I leave
him without an answer he will come here, and I can do nothing.”
“What kind of answer?”
“You ask the same question as Grandmother. Yet you have read the letter!
He promises me happiness, will submit to a betrothal. Yesterday I tried
to write to him to tell him that I was not happy, and should not be
happy after betrothal, and to bid him farewell. But I cannot put these
lines on paper, and I cannot commission anyone to deliver my answer.
Grandmother flared up when she read the letter, and I fear she would not
be able to restrain her feelings. So I....”
“You thought of me,” said Tushin, standing up. “Tushin, you thought,
would do you this service, and then you sent for me.” Pride, joy, and
affection shone in his eyes.
“No, Ivan Ivanovich. I sent for you, so that you might be at my side in
these difficult hours. I am calmer when you are here. But I will not
send you--down there, I will not inflict on you this last insult, will
not set you face to face with a man, who cannot be an object of
indifference to you--no, no.”
Tushin was about to speak, but instead he stretched out his hands in
silence, and Vera looked at him with mixed feelings of gratitude and
sorrow, as she realised with what small things he was made happy.
“Insult!” he said. “It would have been hard to bear if you were to send
me to him with an olive branch, to bring him up here from the depths of
the precipice. But even though that dove-like errand would not suit me,
I would still undertake it to give you peace, if I thought it would make
you happy.”
“Ivan Ivanovich,” replied Vera, hardly restraining her tears, “I believe
you would have done it, but I would never send you.”
“But now I am not asked to go outside my rôle of Bear; to tell him what
you cannot write to him, Vera Vassilievna, would give me happiness.”
She reflected that this was all the happiness with which she had to
reward him, and dropped her eyes. His mood changed when he noticed her
thoughtful, melancholy air; his proud bearing, the gleam in his eyes,
and the colour in his face disappeared. He regretted his incautious
display of pleasure. It seemed to him that his delight and his mention
of the word “happiness!” had been tantamount to a renewal of his
profession of love and the offer of his hand, and had betrayed to her
the fact that he rejoiced selfishly at her breach with Mark.
Vera guessed that he was deceiving himself once more. Her heart, her
feminine instinct, her friendship, these things prevented Tushin from
abandoning his hope; she gave what she could, an unconditional trust and
a boundless esteem.
“Yes, Ivan Ivanovich, I see now that I have placed my hopes on you,
though I did not confess it to myself, and no one would have persuaded
me to ask this service of you. But since you make the generous offer
yourself, I am delighted, and thank you with all my heart. No one can
help me as you do, because no one else loves me as you do.”
“You spoil me, Vera Vassilievna, when you talk like that. But it is true;
you read my very soul.”
“Will it not be hard for you to see him.”
“No, I shan’t faint,” he smiled.
“Go at five o’clock to the arbour and tell him....” She considered a
moment, then scribbled with a pencil what she had said she wished to say
without adding a word. “Here is my answer,” she said, handing him the
open envelope. “You may add anything you think necessary, for you know
all. And don’t forget, Ivan Ivanovich, that I blame him for nothing, and
consequently,” she added, looking away, “you may leave your whip
behind.”
“Very well,” he said between his teeth.
“Forgive me,” said Vera, offering her hand. “I do not say it as a
reproach. I breathe more freely now that I have told you what I wish,
and what I don’t wish in your interview.”
“And you thought I needed the hint?”
“Pardon a sick woman,” she said, and he pressed her hand again.