More than three months had passed.
The day came that Von Koren had fixed on for his departure. A cold,
heavy rain had been falling from early morning, a north-east wind
was blowing, and the waves were high on the sea. It was said that
the steamer would hardly be able to come into the harbour in such
weather. By the time-table it should have arrived at ten o'clock
in the morning, but Von Koren, who had gone on to the sea-front at
midday and again after dinner, could see nothing through the
field-glass but grey waves and rain covering the horizon.
Towards the end of the day the rain ceased and the wind began to
drop perceptibly. Von Koren had already made up his mind that he
would not be able to get off that day, and had settled down to play
chess with Samoylenko; but after dark the orderly announced that
there were lights on the sea and that a rocket had been seen.
Von Koren made haste. He put his satchel over his shoulder, and
kissed Samoylenko and the deacon. Though there was not the slightest
necessity, he went through the rooms again, said good-bye to the
orderly and the cook, and went out into the street, feeling that
he had left something behind, either at the doctor's or his lodging.
In the street he walked beside Samoylenko, behind them came the
deacon with a box, and last of all the orderly with two portmanteaus.
Only Samoylenko and the orderly could distinguish the dim lights
on the sea. The others gazed into the darkness and saw nothing. The
steamer had stopped a long way from the coast.
"Make haste, make haste," Von Koren hurried them. "I am afraid it
will set off."
As they passed the little house with three windows, into which
Laevsky had moved soon after the duel, Von Koren could not resist
peeping in at the window. Laevsky was sitting, writing, bent over
the table, with his back to the window.
"I wonder at him!" said the zoologist softly. "What a screw he has
put on himself!"
"Yes, one may well wonder," said Samoylenko. "He sits from morning
till night, he's always at work. He works to pay off his debts. And
he lives, brother, worse than a beggar!"
Half a minute of silence followed. The zoologist, the doctor, and
the deacon stood at the window and went on looking at Laevsky.
"So he didn't get away from here, poor fellow," said Samoylenko.
"Do you remember how hard he tried?"
"Yes, he has put a screw on himself," Von Koren repeated. "His
marriage, the way he works all day long for his daily bread, a new
expression in his face, and even in his walk--it's all so
extraordinary that I don't know what to call it."
The zoologist took Samoylenko's sleeve and went on with emotion in
his voice:
"You tell him and his wife that when I went away I was full of
admiration for them and wished them all happiness . . . and I beg
him, if he can, not to remember evil against me. He knows me. He
knows that if I could have foreseen this change, then I might have
become his best friend."
"Go in and say good-bye to him."
"No, that wouldn't do."
"Why? God knows, perhaps you'll never see him again."
The zoologist reflected, and said:
"That's true."
Samoylenko tapped softly at the window. Laevsky started and looked
round.
"Vanya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say goodbye to you," said
Samoylenko. "He is just going away."
Laevsky got up from the table, and went into the passage to open
the door. Samoylenko, the zoologist, and the deacon went into the
house.
"I can only come for one minute," began the zoologist, taking off
his goloshes in the passage, and already wishing he had not given
way to his feelings and come in, uninvited. "It is as though I were
forcing myself on him," he thought, "and that's stupid."
"Forgive me for disturbing you," he said as he went into the room
with Laevsky, "but I'm just going away, and I had an impulse to see
you. God knows whether we shall ever meet again."
"I am very glad to see you. . . . Please come in," said Laevsky,
and he awkwardly set chairs for his visitors as though he wanted
to bar their way, and stood in the middle of the room, rubbing his
hands.
"I should have done better to have left my audience in the street,"
thought Von Koren, and he said firmly: "Don't remember evil against
me, Ivan Andreitch. To forget the past is, of course, impossible
--it is too painful, and I've not come here to apologise or to
declare that I was not to blame. I acted sincerely, and I have not
changed my convictions since then. . . . It is true that I see, to
my great delight, that I was mistaken in regard to you, but it's
easy to make a false step even on a smooth road, and, in fact, it's
the natural human lot: if one is not mistaken in the main, one is
mistaken in the details. Nobody knows the real truth."
"No, no one knows the truth," said Laevsky.
"Well, good-bye. . . . God give you all happiness."
Von Koren gave Laevsky his hand; the latter took it and bowed.
"Don't remember evil against me," said Von Koren. "Give my greetings
to your wife, and say I am very sorry not to say good-bye to her."
"She is at home."
Laevsky went to the door of the next room, and said:
"Nadya, Nikolay Vassilitch wants to say goodbye to you."
Nadyezhda Fyodorovna came in; she stopped near the doorway and
looked shyly at the visitors. There was a look of guilt and dismay
on her face, and she held her hands like a schoolgirl receiving a
scolding.
"I'm just going away, Nadyezhda Fyodorovna," said Von Koren, "and
have come to say good-bye."
She held out her hand uncertainly, while Laevsky bowed.
"What pitiful figures they are, though!" thought Von Koren. "The
life they are living does not come easy to them. I shall be in
Moscow and Petersburg; can I send you anything?" he asked.
"Oh!" said Nadyezhda Fyodorovna, and she looked anxiously at her
husband. "I don't think there's anything. . . ."
"No, nothing . . ." said Laevsky, rubbing his hands. "Our greetings."
Von Koren did not know what he could or ought to say, though as he
went in he thought he would say a very great deal that would be
warm and good and important. He shook hands with Laevsky and his
wife in silence, and left them with a depressed feeling.
"What people!" said the deacon in a low voice, as he walked behind
them. "My God, what people! Of a truth, the right hand of God has
planted this vine! Lord! Lord! One man vanquishes thousands and
another tens of thousands. Nikolay Vassilitch," he said ecstatically,
"let me tell you that to-day you have conquered the greatest of
man's enemies--pride."
"Hush, deacon! Fine conquerors we are! Conquerors ought to look
like eagles, while he's a pitiful figure, timid, crushed; he bows
like a Chinese idol, and I, I am sad. . . ."
They heard steps behind them. It was Laevsky, hurrying after them
to see him off. The orderly was standing on the quay with the two
portmanteaus, and at a little distance stood four boatmen.
"There is a wind, though. . . . Brrr!" said Samoylenko. "There must
be a pretty stiff storm on the sea now! You are not going off at a
nice time, Koyla."
"I'm not afraid of sea-sickness."
"That's not the point. . . . I only hope these rascals won't upset
you. You ought to have crossed in the agent's sloop. Where's the
agent's sloop?" he shouted to the boatmen.
"It has gone, Your Excellency."
"And the Customs-house boat?"
"That's gone, too."
"Why didn't you let us know," said Samoylenko angrily. "You dolts!"
"It's all the same, don't worry yourself . . ." said Von Koren.
"Well, good-bye. God keep you."
Samoylenko embraced Von Koren and made the sign of the cross over
him three times.
"Don't forget us, Kolya. . . . Write. . . . We shall look out for
you next spring."
"Good-bye, deacon," said Von Koren, shaking hands with the deacon.
"Thank you for your company and for your pleasant conversation.
Think about the expedition."
"Oh Lord, yes! to the ends of the earth," laughed the deacon. "I've
nothing against it."
Von Koren recognised Laevsky in the darkness, and held out his hand
without speaking. The boatmen were by now below, holding the boat,
which was beating against the piles, though the breakwater screened
it from the breakers. Von Koren went down the ladder, jumped into
the boat, and sat at the helm.
"Write!" Samoylenko shouted to him. "Take care of yourself."
"No one knows the real truth," thought Laevsky, turning up the
collar of his coat and thrusting his hands into his sleeves.
The boat turned briskly out of the harbour into the open sea. It
vanished in the waves, but at once from a deep hollow glided up
onto a high breaker, so that they could distinguish the men and
even the oars. The boat moved three yards forward and was sucked
two yards back.
"Write!" shouted Samoylenko; "it's devilish weather for you to go
in."
"Yes, no one knows the real truth . . ." thought Laevsky, looking
wearily at the dark, restless sea.
"It flings the boat back," he thought; "she makes two steps forward
and one step back; but the boatmen are stubborn, they work the oars
unceasingly, and are not afraid of the high waves. The boat goes
on and on. Now she is out of sight, but in half an hour the boatmen
will see the steamer lights distinctly, and within an hour they
will be by the steamer ladder. So it is in life. . . . In the search
for truth man makes two steps forward and one step back. Suffering,
mistakes, and weariness of life thrust them back, but the thirst
for truth and stubborn will drive them on and on. And who knows?
Perhaps they will reach the real truth at last."
"Go--o--od-by--e," shouted Samoylenko.
"There's no sight or sound of them," said the deacon. "Good luck
on the journey!"
It began to spot with rain.