IX

When they got home, Laevsky and Nadyezhda Fyodorovna went into their

dark, stuffy, dull rooms. Both were silent. Laevsky lighted a candle,

while Nadyezhda Fyodorovna sat down, and without taking off her

cloak and hat, lifted her melancholy, guilty eyes to him.

He knew that she expected an explanation from him, but an explanation

would be wearisome, useless and exhausting, and his heart was heavy

because he had lost control over himself and been rude to her. He

chanced to feel in his pocket the letter which he had been intending

every day to read to her, and thought if he were to show her that

letter now, it would turn her thoughts in another direction.

"It is time to define our relations," he thought. "I will give it

her; what is to be will be."

He took out the letter and gave it her.

"Read it. It concerns you."

Saying this, he went into his own room and lay down on the sofa in

the dark without a pillow. Nadyezhda Fyodorovna read the letter,

and it seemed to her as though the ceiling were falling and the

walls were closing in on her. It seemed suddenly dark and shut in

and terrible. She crossed herself quickly three times and said:

"Give him peace, O Lord . . . give him peace. . . ."

And she began crying.

"Vanya," she called. "Ivan Andreitch!"

There was no answer. Thinking that Laevsky had come in and was

standing behind her chair, she sobbed like a child, and said:

"Why did you not tell me before that he was dead? I wouldn't have

gone to the picnic; I shouldn't have laughed so horribly. . . . The

men said horrid things to me. What a sin, what a sin! Save me,

Vanya, save me. . . . I have been mad. . . . I am lost. . . ."

Laevsky heard her sobs. He felt stifled and his heart was beating

violently. In his misery he got up, stood in the middle of the room,

groped his way in the dark to an easy-chair by the table, and sat

down.

"This is a prison . . ." he thought. "I must get away . . . I can't

bear it."

It was too late to go and play cards; there were no restaurants in

the town. He lay down again and covered his ears that he might not

hear her sobbing, and he suddenly remembered that he could go to

Samoylenko. To avoid going near Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, he got out

of the window into the garden, climbed over the garden fence and

went along the street. It was dark. A steamer, judging by its lights,

a big passenger one, had just come in. He heard the clank of the

anchor chain. A red light was moving rapidly from the shore in the

direction of the steamer: it was the Customs boat going out to it.

"The passengers are asleep in their cabins . . ." thought Laevsky,

and he envied the peace of mind of other people.

The windows in Samoylenko's house were open. Laevsky looked in at

one of them, then in at another; it was dark and still in the rooms.

"Alexandr Daviditch, are you asleep?" he called. "Alexandr Daviditch!"

He heard a cough and an uneasy shout:

"Who's there? What the devil?"

"It is I, Alexandr Daviditch; excuse me."

A little later the door opened; there was a glow of soft light from

the lamp, and Samoylenko's huge figure appeared all in white, with

a white nightcap on his head.

"What now?" he asked, scratching himself and breathing hard from

sleepiness. "Wait a minute; I'll open the door directly."

"Don't trouble; I'll get in at the window. . . ."

Laevsky climbed in at the window, and when he reached Samoylenko,

seized him by the hand.

"Alexandr Daviditch," he said in a shaking voice, "save me! I beseech

you, I implore you. Understand me! My position is agonising. If it

goes on for another two days I shall strangle myself like . . .

like a dog."

"Wait a bit. . . . What are you talking about exactly?"

"Light a candle."

"Oh . . . oh! . . ." sighed Samoylenko, lighting a candle. "My God!

My God! . . . Why, it's past one, brother."

"Excuse me, but I can't stay at home," said Laevsky, feeling great

comfort from the light and the presence of Samoylenko. "You are my

best, my only friend, Alexandr Daviditch. . . . You are my only

hope. For God's sake, come to my rescue, whether you want to or

not. I must get away from here, come what may! . . . Lend me the

money!"

"Oh, my God, my God! . . ." sighed Samoylenko, scratching himself.

"I was dropping asleep and I hear the whistle of the steamer, and

now you . . . Do you want much?"

"Three hundred roubles at least. I must leave her a hundred, and I

need two hundred for the journey. . . . I owe you about four hundred

already, but I will send it you all . . . all. . . ."

Samoylenko took hold of both his whiskers in one hand, and standing

with his legs wide apart, pondered.

"Yes . . ." he muttered, musing. "Three hundred. . . . Yes. . . .

But I haven't got so much. I shall have to borrow it from some one."

"Borrow it, for God's sake!" said Laevsky, seeing from Samoylenko's

face that he wanted to lend him the money and certainly would lend

it. "Borrow it, and I'll be sure to pay you back. I will send it

from Petersburg as soon as I get there. You can set your mind at

rest about that. I'll tell you what, Sasha," he said, growing more

animated; "let us have some wine."

"Yes . . . we can have some wine, too."

They both went into the dining-room.

"And how about Nadyezhda Fyodorovna?" asked Samoylenko, setting

three bottles and a plate of peaches on the table. "Surely she's

not remaining?"

"I will arrange it all, I will arrange it all," said Laevsky, feeling

an unexpected rush of joy. "I will send her the money afterwards

and she will join me. . . . Then we will define our relations. To

your health, friend."

"Wait a bit," said Samoylenko. "Drink this first. . . . This is

from my vineyard. This bottle is from Navaridze's vineyard and this

one is from Ahatulov's. . . . Try all three kinds and tell me

candidly. . . . There seems a little acidity about mine. Eh? Don't

you taste it?"

"Yes. You have comforted me, Alexandr Daviditch. Thank you. . . .

I feel better."

"Is there any acidity?"

"Goodness only knows, I don't know. But you are a splendid, wonderful

man!"

Looking at his pale, excited, good-natured face, Samoylenko remembered

Von Koren's view that men like that ought to be destroyed, and

Laevsky seemed to him a weak, defenceless child, whom any one could

injure and destroy.

"And when you go, make it up with your mother," he said. "It's not

right."

"Yes, yes; I certainly shall."

They were silent for a while. When they had emptied the first bottle,

Samoylenko said:

"You ought to make it up with Von Koren too. You are both such

splendid, clever fellows, and you glare at each other like wolves."

"Yes, he's a fine, very intelligent fellow," Laevsky assented, ready

now to praise and forgive every one. "He's a remarkable man, but

it's impossible for me to get on with him. No! Our natures are too

different. I'm an indolent, weak, submissive nature. Perhaps in a

good minute I might hold out my hand to him, but he would turn away

from me . . . with contempt."

Laevsky took a sip of wine, walked from corner to corner and went

on, standing in the middle of the room:

"I understand Von Koren very well. His is a resolute, strong,

despotic nature. You have heard him continually talking of 'the

expedition,' and it's not mere talk. He wants the wilderness, the

moonlit night: all around in little tents, under the open sky, lie

sleeping his sick and hungry Cossacks, guides, porters, doctor,

priest, all exhausted with their weary marches, while only he is

awake, sitting like Stanley on a camp-stool, feeling himself the

monarch of the desert and the master of these men. He goes on and

on and on, his men groan and die, one after another, and he goes

on and on, and in the end perishes himself, but still is monarch

and ruler of the desert, since the cross upon his tomb can be seen

by the caravans for thirty or forty miles over the desert. I am

sorry the man is not in the army. He would have made a splendid

military genius. He would not have hesitated to drown his cavalry

in the river and make a bridge out of dead bodies. And such hardihood

is more needed in war than any kind of fortification or strategy.

Oh, I understand him perfectly! Tell me: why is he wasting his

substance here? What does he want here?"

"He is studying the marine fauna."

"No, no, brother, no!" Laevsky sighed. "A scientific man who was

on the steamer told me the Black Sea was poor in animal life, and

that in its depths, thanks to the abundance of sulphuric hydrogen,

organic life was impossible. All the serious zoologists work at the

biological station at Naples or Villefranche. But Von Koren is

independent and obstinate: he works on the Black Sea because nobody

else is working there; he is at loggerheads with the university,

does not care to know his comrades and other scientific men because

he is first of all a despot and only secondly a zoologist. And

you'll see he'll do something. He is already dreaming that when he

comes back from his expedition he will purify our universities from

intrigue and mediocrity, and will make the scientific men mind their

p's and q's. Despotism is just as strong in science as in the army.

And he is spending his second summer in this stinking little town

because he would rather be first in a village than second in a town.

Here he is a king and an eagle; he keeps all the inhabitants under

his thumb and oppresses them with his authority. He has appropriated

every one, he meddles in other people's affairs; everything is of

use to him, and every one is afraid of him. I am slipping out of

his clutches, he feels that and hates me. Hasn't he told you that

I ought to be destroyed or sent to hard labour?"

"Yes," laughed Samoylenko.

Laevsky laughed too, and drank some wine.

"His ideals are despotic too," he said, laughing, and biting a

peach. "Ordinary mortals think of their neighbour--me, you, man

in fact--if they work for the common weal. To Von Koren men are

puppets and nonentities, too trivial to be the object of his life.

He works, will go for his expedition and break his neck there, not

for the sake of love for his neighbour, but for the sake of such

abstractions as humanity, future generations, an ideal race of men.

He exerts himself for the improvement of the human race, and we are

in his eyes only slaves, food for the cannon, beasts of burden;

some he would destroy or stow away in Siberia, others he would break

by discipline, would, like Araktcheev, force them to get up and go

to bed to the sound of the drum; would appoint eunuchs to preserve

our chastity and morality, would order them to fire at any one who

steps out of the circle of our narrow conservative morality; and

all this in the name of the improvement of the human race. . . .

And what is the human race? Illusion, mirage . . . despots have

always been illusionists. I understand him very well, brother. I

appreciate him and don't deny his importance; this world rests on

men like him, and if the world were left only to such men as us,

for all our good-nature and good intentions, we should make as great

a mess of it as the flies have of that picture. Yes."

Laevsky sat down beside Samoylenko, and said with genuine feeling:

"I'm a foolish, worthless, depraved man. The air I breathe, this

wine, love, life in fact--for all that, I have given nothing in

exchange so far but lying, idleness, and cowardice. Till now I have

deceived myself and other people; I have been miserable about it,

and my misery was cheap and common. I bow my back humbly before Von

Koren's hatred because at times I hate and despise myself."

Laevsky began again pacing from one end of the room to the other

in excitement, and said:

"I'm glad I see my faults clearly and am conscious of them. That

will help me to reform and become a different man. My dear fellow,

if only you knew how passionately, with what anguish, I long for

such a change. And I swear to you I'll be a man! I will! I don't

know whether it is the wine that is speaking in me, or whether it

really is so, but it seems to me that it is long since I have spent

such pure and lucid moments as I have just now with you."

"It's time to sleep, brother," said Samoylenko.

"Yes, yes. . . . Excuse me; I'll go directly."

Laevsky moved hurriedly about the furniture and windows, looking

for his cap.

"Thank you," he muttered, sighing. "Thank you. . . . Kind and

friendly words are better than charity. You have given me new life."

He found his cap, stopped, and looked guiltily at Samoylenko.

"Alexandr Daviditch," he said in an imploring voice.

"What is it?"

"Let me stay the night with you, my dear fellow!"

"Certainly. . . . Why not?"

Laevsky lay down on the sofa, and went on talking to the doctor for

a long time.

X

Three days after the picnic, Marya Konstantinovna unexpectedly

called on Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and without greeting her or taking

off her hat, seized her by both hands, pressed them to her breast

and said in great excitement:

"My dear, I am deeply touched and moved: our dear kind-hearted

doctor told my Nikodim Alexandritch yesterday that your husband was

dead. Tell me, my dear . . . tell me, is it true?"

"Yes, it's true; he is dead," answered Nadyezhda Fyodorovna.

"That is awful, awful, my dear! But there's no evil without some

compensation; your husband was no doubt a noble, wonderful, holy

man, and such are more needed in Heaven than on earth."

Every line and feature in Marya Konstantinovna's face began quivering

as though little needles were jumping up and down under her skin;

she gave an almond-oily smile and said, breathlessly, enthusiastically:

"And so you are free, my dear. You can hold your head high now, and

look people boldly in the face. Henceforth God and man will bless

your union with Ivan Andreitch. It's enchanting. I am trembling

with joy, I can find no words. My dear, I will give you away. . . .

Nikodim Alexandritch and I have been so fond of you, you will

allow us to give our blessing to your pure, lawful union. When,

when do you think of being married?"

"I haven't thought of it," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, freeing her

hands.

"That's impossible, my dear. You have thought of it, you have."

"Upon my word, I haven't," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, laughing.

"What should we be married for? I see no necessity for it. We'll

go on living as we have lived."

"What are you saying!" cried Marya Konstantinovna in horror. "For

God's sake, what are you saying!"

"Our getting married won't make things any better. On the contrary,

it will make them even worse. We shall lose our freedom."

"My dear, my dear, what are you saying!" exclaimed Marya Konstantinovna,

stepping back and flinging up her hands. "You are talking wildly!

Think what you are saying. You must settle down!"

"'Settle down.' How do you mean? I have not lived yet, and you

tell me to settle down."

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna reflected that she really had not lived. She

had finished her studies in a boarding-school and had been married

to a man she did not love; then she had thrown in her lot with

Laevsky, and had spent all her time with him on this empty, desolate

coast, always expecting something better. Was that life?

"I ought to be married though," she thought, but remembering Kirilin

and Atchmianov she flushed and said:

"No, it's impossible. Even if Ivan Andreitch begged me to on his

knees--even then I would refuse."

Marya Konstantinovna sat on the sofa for a minute in silence, grave

and mournful, gazing fixedly into space; then she got up and said

coldly:

"Good-bye, my dear! Forgive me for having troubled you. Though it's

not easy for me, it's my duty to tell you that from this day all

is over between us, and, in spite of my profound respect for Ivan

Andreitch, the door of my house is closed to you henceforth."

She uttered these words with great solemnity and was herself

overwhelmed by her solemn tone. Her face began quivering again; it

assumed a soft almond-oily expression. She held out both hands to

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who was overcome with alarm and confusion,

and said in an imploring voice:

"My dear, allow me if only for a moment to be a mother or an elder

sister to you! I will be as frank with you as a mother."

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna felt in her bosom warmth, gladness, and pity

for herself, as though her own mother had really risen up and were

standing before her. She impulsively embraced Marya Konstantinovna

and pressed her face to her shoulder. Both of them shed tears. They

sat down on the sofa and for a few minutes sobbed without looking

at one another or being able to utter a word.

"My dear child," began Marya Konstantinovna, "I will tell you some

harsh truths, without sparing you."

"For God's sake, for God's sake, do!"

"Trust me, my dear. You remember of all the ladies here, I was the

only one to receive you. You horrified me from the very first day,

but I had not the heart to treat you with disdain like all the rest.

I grieved over dear, good Ivan Andreitch as though he were my son

--a young man in a strange place, inexperienced, weak, with no

mother; and I was worried, dreadfully worried. . . . My husband was

opposed to our making his acquaintance, but I talked him over . . .

persuaded him. . . . We began receiving Ivan Andreitch, and with

him, of course, you. If we had not, he would have been insulted. I

have a daughter, a son. . . . You understand the tender mind, the

pure heart of childhood . . . 'who so offendeth one of these little

ones.' . . . I received you into my house and trembled for my

children. Oh, when you become a mother, you will understand my

fears. And every one was surprised at my receiving you, excuse my

saying so, as a respectable woman, and hinted to me . . . well, of

course, slanders, suppositions. . . . At the bottom of my heart I

blamed you, but you were unhappy, flighty, to be pitied, and my

heart was wrung with pity for you."

"But why, why?" asked Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, trembling all over.

"What harm have I done any one?"

"You are a terrible sinner. You broke the vow you made your husband

at the altar. You seduced a fine young man, who perhaps had he not

met you might have taken a lawful partner for life from a good

family in his own circle, and would have been like every one else

now. You have ruined his youth. Don't speak, don't speak, my dear!

I never believe that man is to blame for our sins. It is always the

woman's fault. Men are frivolous in domestic life; they are guided

by their minds, and not by their hearts. There's a great deal they

don't understand; woman understands it all. Everything depends on

her. To her much is given and from her much will be required. Oh,

my dear, if she had been more foolish or weaker than man on that

side, God would not have entrusted her with the education of boys

and girls. And then, my dear, you entered on the path of vice,

forgetting all modesty; any other woman in your place would have

hidden herself from people, would have sat shut up at home, and

would only have been seen in the temple of God, pale, dressed all

in black and weeping, and every one would have said in genuine

compassion: 'O Lord, this erring angel is coming back again to Thee

. . . .' But you, my dear, have forgotten all discretion; have lived

openly, extravagantly; have seemed to be proud of your sin; you

have been gay and laughing, and I, looking at you, shuddered with

horror, and have been afraid that thunder from Heaven would strike

our house while you were sitting with us. My dear, don't speak,

don't speak," cried Marya Konstantinovna, observing that Nadyezhda

Fyodorovna wanted to speak. "Trust me, I will not deceive you, I

will not hide one truth from the eyes of your soul. Listen to me,

my dear. . . . God marks great sinners, and you have been marked-out:

only think--your costumes have always been appalling."

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, who had always had the highest opinion of her

costumes, left off crying and looked at her with surprise.

"Yes, appalling," Marya Konstantinovna went on. "Any one could judge

of your behaviour from the elaboration and gaudiness of your attire.

People laughed and shrugged their shoulders as they looked at you,

and I grieved, I grieved. . . . And forgive me, my dear; you are

not nice in your person! When we met in the bathing-place, you made

me tremble. Your outer clothing was decent enough, but your petticoat,

your chemise. . . . My dear, I blushed! Poor Ivan Andreitch! No one

ever ties his cravat properly, and from his linen and his boots,

poor fellow! one can see he has no one at home to look after him.

And he is always hungry, my darling, and of course, if there is no

one at home to think of the samovar and the coffee, one is forced

to spend half one's salary at the pavilion. And it's simply awful,

awful in your home! No one else in the town has flies, but there's

no getting rid of them in your rooms: all the plates and dishes are

black with them. If you look at the windows and the chairs, there's

nothing but dust, dead flies, and glasses. . . . What do you want

glasses standing about for? And, my dear, the table's not cleared

till this time in the day. And one's ashamed to go into your bedroom:

underclothes flung about everywhere, india-rubber tubes hanging on

the walls, pails and basins standing about. . . . My dear! A husband

ought to know nothing, and his wife ought to be as neat as a little

angel in his presence. I wake up every morning before it is light,

and wash my face with cold water that my Nikodim Alexandritch may

not see me looking drowsy."

"That's all nonsense," Nadyezhda Fyodorovna sobbed. "If only I were

happy, but I am so unhappy!"

"Yes, yes; you are very unhappy!" Marya Konstantinovna sighed,

hardly able to restrain herself from weeping. "And there's terrible

grief in store for you in the future! A solitary old age, ill-health;

and then you will have to answer at the dread judgment seat. . .

It's awful, awful. Now fate itself holds out to you a helping hand,

and you madly thrust it from you. Be married, make haste and be

married!"

"Yes, we must, we must," said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna; "but it's

impossible!"

"Why?"

"It's impossible. Oh, if only you knew!"

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna had an impulse to tell her about Kirilin, and

how the evening before she had met handsome young Atchmianov at the

harbour, and how the mad, ridiculous idea had occurred to her of

cancelling her debt for three hundred; it had amused her very much,

and she returned home late in the evening feeling that she had sold

herself and was irrevocably lost. She did not know herself how it

had happened. And she longed to swear to Marya Konstantinovna that

she would certainly pay that debt, but sobs and shame prevented her

from speaking.

"I am going away," she said. "Ivan Andreitch may stay, but I am

going."

"Where?"

"To Russia."

"But how will you live there? Why, you have nothing."

"I will do translation, or . . . or I will open a library . . . ."

"Don't let your fancy run away with you, my dear. You must have

money for a library. Well, I will leave you now, and you calm

yourself and think things over, and to-morrow come and see me,

bright and happy. That will be enchanting! Well, good-bye, my angel.

Let me kiss you."

Marya Konstantinovna kissed Nadyezhda Fyodorovna on the forehead,

made the sign of the cross over her, and softly withdrew. It was

getting dark, and Olga lighted up in the kitchen. Still crying,

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna went into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.

She began to be very feverish. She undressed without getting up,

crumpled up her clothes at her feet, and curled herself up under

the bedclothes. She was thirsty, and there was no one to give her

something to drink.

"I'll pay it back!" she said to herself, and it seemed to her in

delirium that she was sitting beside some sick woman, and recognised

her as herself. "I'll pay it back. It would be stupid to imagine

that it was for money I . . . I will go away and send him the money

from Petersburg. At first a hundred . . . then another hundred . . .

and then the third hundred. . . ."

It was late at night when Laevsky came in.

"At first a hundred . . ." Nadyezhda Fyodorovna said to him, "then

another hundred . . ."

"You ought to take some quinine," he said, and thought, "To-morrow

is Wednesday; the steamer goes and I am not going in it. So I shall

have to go on living here till Saturday."

Nadyezhda Fyodorovna knelt up in bed.

"I didn't say anything just now, did I?" she asked, smiling and

screwing up her eyes at the light.

"No, nothing. We shall have to send for the doctor to-morrow morning.

Go to sleep."

He took his pillow and went to the door. Ever since he had finally

made up his mind to go away and leave Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, she had

begun to raise in him pity and a sense of guilt; he felt a little

ashamed in her presence, as though in the presence of a sick or old

horse whom one has decided to kill. He stopped in the doorway and

looked round at her.

"I was out of humour at the picnic and said something rude to you.

Forgive me, for God's sake!"

Saying this, he went off to his study, lay down, and for a long

while could not get to sleep.

Next morning when Samoylenko, attired, as it was a holiday, in

full-dress uniform with epaulettes on his shoulders and decorations

on his breast, came out of the bedroom after feeling Nadyezhda

Fyodorovna's pulse and looking at her tongue, Laevsky, who was

standing in the doorway, asked him anxiously: "Well? Well?"

There was an expression of terror, of extreme uneasiness, and of

hope on his face.

"Don't worry yourself; there's nothing dangerous," said Samoylenko;

"it's the usual fever."

"I don't mean that." Laevsky frowned impatiently. "Have you got the

money?"

"My dear soul, forgive me," he whispered, looking round at the door

and overcome with confusion.

"For God's sake, forgive me! No one has anything to spare, and I've

only been able to collect by five- and by ten-rouble notes. . . .

Only a hundred and ten in all. To-day I'll speak to some one else.

Have patience."

"But Saturday is the latest date," whispered Laevsky, trembling

with impatience. "By all that's sacred, get it by Saturday! If I

don't get away by Saturday, nothing's any use, nothing! I can't

understand how a doctor can be without money!"

"Lord have mercy on us!" Samoylenko whispered rapidly and intensely,

and there was positively a breaking note in his throat. "I've been

stripped of everything; I am owed seven thousand, and I'm in debt

all round. Is it my fault?"

"Then you'll get it by Saturday? Yes?"

"I'll try."

"I implore you, my dear fellow! So that the money may be in my hands

by Friday morning!"

Samoylenko sat down and prescribed solution of quinine and kalii

bromati and tincture of rhubarb, tincturæ gentianæ, aquæ foeniculi

--all in one mixture, added some pink syrup to sweeten it, and

went away.