»Some do it out of stupidity, some for spite. Because, Liuba

THE DARK

BY

LEONID ANDREEV

TRANSLATED BY L. A. MAGNUS AND K. WALTER

1922

PUBLISHED BY LEONARD AND VIRGINIA WOOLF AT

THE HOGARTH PRESS, HOGARTH HOUSE, RICHMOND

As a rule success had accompanied him in all his undertakings, but

during the last three days complications had arisen which were

unfavourable, not to say critical. His life, though a short one, had

long been a game of terrible hazards; he was accustomed to these sudden

turns of chance and could deal with them; the stake had before been

life itself, his own and others', and this by itself had taught him

alertness, swiftness of thought, and a cold hard outlook.

Chance this time had turned dangerously against him. A mere fluke,

one of those unforeseeable accidents, had provided the police with

a clue; for two whole days the detectives had been on his track,

a known terrorist and nihilist, drawing the net ever closer round

him. One after another the conspirators' hiding places had been

cut off from him; there still remained to him a few streets and

boulevards and restaurants where he might go undiscovered. But his

terrible exhaustion, after two sleepless nights and days of ceaseless

vigilance, had brought in its train a new danger: he might drop off

to sleep anywhere, on a seat in the boulevards, even in a cab, and be

ludicrously arrested as a common drunk.

It was now Tuesday. On Thursday--only one day to spare--he had to

carry out a terrorist act of great importance. The preparations for

the assassination had kept the little organization busy for some

considerable time. The »honour« of throwing the last and decisive bomb

had fallen to him. He must retain self-command at all costs.

But sleep....

It was thus, on that October evening, standing at the crossing of

crowded streets, that he decided to take refuge in a brothel. He would

have had recourse earlier to this refuge, though none too secure,

had it not been for the good reason that all his twenty-six years he

had been chaste, had never known women as mere women, had never been

in a brothel. Now and then he had had to fight sternly against such

desires, but gradually restraint had become habit, and had produced

in him an attitude of calmness and complete indifference towards the

sex. So now, at the thought of being forced into close contact with a

woman who traded in such pleasures, and of perhaps seeing her naked,

he had forebodings of any number of unpleasantnesses and awkward

moments. True, he had only decided to go to a prostitute now, when

his passion was quiescent, when a step had to be taken so important

and serious that virginity and the struggle for it lost their value.

But in any event it was unpleasant, as might be any other obnoxious

incident which must be endured. Once, when assisting in an important

act, in which he played the part of second bomb-thrower, he saw a

horse which had been killed with its hind parts burst open and the

entrails exposed; this incident, its filthy and disgusting character,

and its needlessness, gave him a similar sensation--in its way even

more unpleasant than the death of a comrade from an exploding bomb.

And the more quietly and fearlessly, and even joyously, he anticipated

Thursday, when he would probably have to die, the more was he oppressed

with the prospect of a night with a woman who practised love as a

profession, a thing utterly ridiculous, an incarnation of chaos,

senseless, petty, and dirty.

But there was no alternative. He was tottering with fatigue.

* * * * *

It was still early when he arrived, about ten o'clock; but the great

white hall with its gilded chairs and mirrors was ready for the

reception of guests, and all the fires were lighted. The pianist was

sitting beside the piano, a dapper young man in a black frock coat--for

it was an expensive house. He was smoking, carefully flicking the ash

of his cigarette so as not to soil the carpet, and glancing over the

music. In the corner near the darkened dining room there sat all arow,

on three chairs, three girls whispering to one another.

As he entered with the manageress, two of the girls rose, but the

third remained sitting; the two who rose were very décolletée, the

third wore a deep black frock. The two looked at him straight, with a

look of invitation, half indifferent, half weary; but the third turned

aside. Her profile was calm and simple, like that of any proper young

maiden,--a thoughtful face. Apparently she had been telling a story

to the others, and the others had been listening, and now she was

continuing the train of thought, telling the rest in silence.

And just because she was silent and reflective and did not look at him,

because she had the appearance of a proper woman, he chose her. Never

before having been to a brothel he did not know that in every well

equipped house of this sort there are one or two such women, dressed

in black like nuns or young widows, with pale faces, unrouged, even

stern, their task being to provide an illusion of propriety to those

who seek it,--but when they go with a man to their room, drinking and

becoming like the rest, or even worse,--brawling and breaking the

china, dancing about, undressing and dancing into the hall naked, and

even killing men who are too importunate. Such are the women with

whom drunken students fall in love, whom they persuade to begin new,

honourable lives.

But of all this he knew nothing. And when she rose reluctantly, and

looked at him with displeased and averted eyes, glancing at him

sharply out of her pale and colourless face, he thought once again,

»How very proper she is!«--and felt some relief. But, keeping up the

dissimulation, constant, unavoidable, which caused him to have two

lives and made his life a stage, he balanced himself elegantly on his

feet from his heels to his toes, snapped his fingers, and said to the

girl with the careless air of a habitual debauchee:--

»Well, what about it, my dear? Shall we pay you a visit, now, eh? Where

is your little nest?«

»Now--at once?« the girl asked, surprised, and raised her eyebrows. He

smiled gaily, disclosing even rows of strong straight teeth, blushed

deeply, and replied:

»Certainly. Why lose valuable time?«

»There will be some music soon. We can dance.«

»Dance, my fair charmer? Silly twiddles,--catching oneself by the tail.

As to the music, it can be heard from up there?«

She looked at him and smiled.

»Fairly well.«

She was beginning to like him. He had prominent cheek bones and was

clean shaven; his cheeks and the lower part of the mouth, under the

clean-cut lips, were slightly blue, as when dark-bearded men shave. He

had fine dark eyes, although in expression a little too unswerving; and

they moved slowly and heavily, as though every movement were a great

distance to be traversed. But despite his shaven face and easy manner,

she reasoned, he did not resemble an actor, but rather an acclimatized

foreigner.

»You are not a German?« she asked.

»Nnno. Not quite. I mean, I am an Englishman. Do you like Englishmen?«

»But what good Russian you speak! I should never have guessed!«

He recollected his British passport and the affected accent he had been

using lately, and he blushed again at the thought of having forgotten

to keep up the pretence as he ought to have done. Then with a slight

frown, and assuming a business-like dryness of tone in which a certain

amount of weariness was perceptible, he took the girl by the elbow and

led her along swiftly.

»No, I am a Russian, Russian. Now, where are we to go? Show me! This

way?«

The large mirror showed the full-length figures of the pair sharply and

clearly--she in black, pale, and at that distance very pretty; he also

in black, and just as pale.

Under the glare of the electric lights hanging from the ceiling his

wide forehead and the hard mass of his prominent cheeks were peculiarly

pale; and both in his face and the girl's, where the eyes should have

been, there were mysterious, fascinating hollows. And so strange was

the picture of such a black stern couple against the white walls,

reflected in the broad gilded mirror, that he was startled, and stopped

short by the thought: »Like a bride and bridegroom.« And, as his

imagination was dulled by want of sleep, and his thoughts brusque and

inconsequent, the next moment, looking at the stern pair in mourning

black, he thought: »As at a funeral.« And both notions were equally

unpleasant.

Apparently his feelings were shared by the girl. She silently,

wonderingly glanced at herself and him, him and herself; she tried

to wink--but the mirror would not respond to so slight a movement,

and in the same dull and obstinate manner persisted in picturing this

black shamefast couple. And perhaps this pleased the girl, or recalled

something of herself, something sad, for she smiled gently, and lightly

pressed his clenched hand.

»What a couple!« she said reflectively, and for some reason or other

the dark bow of her eye-lashes, with the fine curve of their droop,

became more noticeable.

This he did not observe, but resolutely dragged the girl along with

him, she tapping her way on high French heels on the parquet flooring.

There was a corridor, as there always is, and narrow dark little

rooms with open doors. At one of them inscribed above in irregular

handwriting, »Liuba«, they entered.

»And now, Liuba,« he said, looking round and unconsciously rubbing his

hands one over the other, as though carefully washing them in cold

water, »don't we want wine and something else? Or some fruit?«

»Fruit is expensive here.«

»That doesn't matter. Do you drink wine?«

He had forgotten himself and was addressing her as you; he noticed it,

but did not correct himself, for there had been something in that touch

of her hand which made him unwilling to use the familiar pronoun, or

play the lover and act a part. This feeling, too, passed on to her; she

stared at him fixedly, and answered deliberately, with some uncertainty

in her voice, though none in the language she used.

»Thank you. I do drink. Wait a moment. I will return at once. I will

tell them to bring only two pears and two apples. Will that be enough?«

It was now she who was using the pronoun of politeness, and through the

tone of voice in which she spoke the word there could be heard the same

irresolution, a slight hesitation and interrogation.

But he paid no attention to this. When he was alone, he went swiftly to

work surveying the room from all sides. He tested the closing of the

door--it closed splendidly, on the latch and on the key; went to the

window, opened both casements--it was high up on the second floor and

looked out on the courtyard. He frowned and shook his head. Then he

experimented on the lights; there were two of them; when the one on the

ceiling was switched off, the other by the bed lit up under a little

red hood--just as in the best hotels.

But the bed!

He grinned and raised his shoulders, as though laughing silently,

distorting his face as people must who are stealthy and for some reason

secretive, even when they are alone.

But the bed!

He walked round it, handled the wadded counterpane, and then with a

sudden longing to be gay and saucy in his joy at the sleep he was going

to have, he twisted his head like a boy, stuck out his lips, made round

eyes--all to express his highest degree of amazement. But at once he

became serious again, sat down, and wearily waited for Liuba.

He wanted to think of Thursday, that he was now in a brothel--that he

was already there--but the thought rebelled and stubbornly resisted

him. Outraged sleep was taking its revenge. There on the street, sleep

had been so gentle; now it no longer caressed his face, as with a soft

downy hand, but made his own hands and feet writhe, and racked his body

as though it would rend him asunder.

Suddenly he began yawning, even to the point of tears. He took out

his Browning and three full clips of cartridges, and savagely blew

down the barrel, as into a key. It was all in order ... and he longed

insufferably for sleep.

When the wine and fruit were brought in, and Liuba came in after them,

he shut the door, only on the latch, and said:

»Well ... all right ... please help yourself, Liuba. Please do.«

»And you ...?« The girl, surprised, looked at him askance.

»I will ... later on. For two nights, you see, I have been having a gay

time of it and have had no sleep, and now....« He yawned frightfully,

straining his jaws.

»Well...?«

»I will ... later. Just an hour. I will ... soon. And you, please drink

and don't spare. And eat the fruit. Why did you get so little?«

»But may I go into the hall? There will be some music.«

This was inconvenient. They might begin talking about him, the strange

guest who had gone to sleep, and might start guessing ... and that

might be awkward. So, lightly restraining a yawn which was already

riving his jaws, he said sedately and earnestly:

»No, Liuba. I shall ask you to stay here. You see, I don't much like

sleeping alone in a room. It's a mere whim, but you will excuse me....«

»Certainly. You have paid your money and....«

»Yes, yes,« and he blushed for the third time, »quite true, but that

isn't what I mean.... And, if you like ... you can lie down too. I will

leave room for you. Only please lie next the wall. You don't mind?«

»No, I don't want to sleep. I will just sit here.«

»Will you read?«

»There are no books here.«

» Would you like today's paper? I have it here. There is something

interesting in it.«

»No, thank you.«

»As you like. You know best. But ... with your permission....«

He shut and locked the door and put the key in his pocket, without

noticing the strange look with which the girl followed his movements.

This courteous and decent conversation, such a curious conversation in

this home of misery where the very air was thick with the vapours of

drunken brawls, seemed to him perfectly natural and quite convincing.

With the same polite air, as though he were in the company of young

ladies, he touched the edge of his frock-coat and asked:

»Do you mind if I take off my coat?«

The girl scowled slightly.

»Certainly. Of course....«

»And my waistcoat? It's so tight.«

The girl did not answer, but merely shrugged her shoulders.

»Here is my pocket-book ... and money. Will you be so good as to take

care of them for me?«

»You had better leave them at the office. We always deposit such things

there.«

»Why?« He looked at the girl, and turned aside in confusion. »Oh, of

course ... but that's silly!«

»But do you know how much you have on you? Some people don't know, and

then afterwards....«

»I understand. Quite. You desire....«

He lay down, politely leaving room for her by the wall. And enchanting

sleep, spaciously smiling, came and nestled with its downy cheek

against his, gently fondled him, stroking his knees, and mercifully

settling to rest with its soft, velvety head on his shoulder. He smiled.

»What makes you smile?« The girl smiled involuntarily.

»Because I am comfortable.... How soft your pillows are! Now we can

talk awhile. Why don't you drink something?«

»I think I shall take off my things ... if you don't mind? I shall have

to sit still so long.«

Her voice had a touch of mockery. But at the sight of his unsuspecting

glance, and hearing his simple.... »Certainly, please do« ... she

explained quite simply and seriously: »My corset is so tight. I shall

take it off, too ... if I may.«

»Certainly, you may.«

He turned away, blushing. But, either because insomnia had so addled

his thoughts, or because all his life he had been so innocent, his

»you may« sounded quite natural to him ... in a house where all things

were allowed and nobody ever thought of asking anybody's leave about

anything.

He heard a rustling of silk and the unbuttoning of a dress,--then a

question:

»You are not an author?«

»What ... an author? No, I am not an author. Er ... do you like

authors?«

»No, I do not.«

»Why? They are men....« He yawned--a long satisfying yawn.

»And what is your name?«

Silence ... and then:

»My name is ... N--no! Peter.«

»And what are you? What do you do?«

The girl questioned him gently, but watchfully, and in a firm tone. The

impression conveyed by her voice might have been that she was moving

towards the bed. But he by now had ceased to hear her; he was already

sleeping. For one moment an expiring thought had flickered in a single

picture, in which time and space melted into a motley of shadows,

gloom and light, motion and repose, a single picture of crowds and

endless streets and a ceaseless turning of wheels depicted the whole

of those two days and nights of frenzied chase. And in an instant all

of this was stilled, dimmed, and had passed away, and then in the soft

half-light, in the deep shadow, he had an image of one of the picture

galleries where, the day before, for two hours, he had eluded his

pursuers. He seemed to be sitting on a red velvet divan, which was

extraordinarily soft, and staring fixedly at a huge black picture; and

such a restfulness proceeded from that old black cracked canvas, his

eyes were so much rested, his thoughts reposing so gently, that for

some moments, even in his sleep, he began fighting sleep, confusedly

afraid of it, as though of an unknown disquietude.

But the music in the hall played on, the frequent little notes with

bare heads hairless jostled up and down, and the thought came: »Now I

can sleep.« And all at once he fell into a deep slumber. Triumphantly,

eagerly, gentle glossy sleep soothed and embraced him and in profound

silence masking their breathing they went their way into a pellucid

melting sea.

Thus he slept on--one hour and then another--on his back in the polite

posture he had assumed awake, his right hand in his pocket holding the

key and his revolver; the girl, neck and arms bare sitting opposite,

smoking, sipping cognac, gazing on him. Now and then, to get a better

view, she craned her rather thin, flexible neck, and, when she moved,

her lips curled with two deep creases of constraint. She had not

thought to turn out the hanging lamp, and under the strong light he

was neither young nor old nor strange nor intimate, but some unknown

being--the cheeks unknown, the nose ending in a bird's beak of shape

unknown, the breathing, so even and powerful and strong, unknown. His

thick hair was cut short in military fashion, and she noticed on the

left temple, near the eye, a little whitened scar from some former

wound. There was no cross strung round his neck.

The music in the hall died down or started afresh--piano and violin

and songs and the pit-a-pat of dancing feet; but she sat on, smoking

cigarettes and observing the sleeper. She stretched her neck

inquisitively to look at his left hand which was lying on his breast

--a very broad palm and strong restful fingers; it seemed to weigh

heavily on him, to hurt, so with a careful movement she lifted it and

let it down gently at the side of the big body on the bed. Then rose

swiftly and noisily, and, as though she wanted to smash the switch,

roughly turned out the upper lamp, lighting the lower one under the red

hood.

But even then he did not stir. His face in the pink light remained as

unknown, as terrifying as before, in its immobility and repose.

She turned aside, clasped her knees with her arms, now softly

reddening, threw her head back and stared motionless at the ceiling

from the dusky hollows of her unblinking eyes. And in her teeth,

tightly pressed, there hung a cigarette, half smoked, cold, dead.

* * * * *

Something had happened, something unexpected and terrible, something

considerable and of consequence, whilst he was sleeping--this much he

understood at a flash, even before he was properly awake, at the first

sound of a harsh, unknown voice. He took it in with that sharpened

sense of danger which to him and his comrades had developed almost into

a new special sense. He was up quickly and sat with his hand pressing

his revolver hard, his eyes searchingly and sharply exploring the

mist of the room. And when he saw her, in the same attitude, with her

shoulders of that transparent rosy hue, and her bared breast, and those

eyes so enigmatically dark and unswerving, he thought to himself: »She

has betrayed me!« Then he looked again more steadily, sighed deeply,

and corrected himself: »She hasn't yet, but she will.«

How miserable it all was!

He drew a deep breath and asked curtly: »Well, what is it?«

She said nothing. She smiled triumphantly and spitefully, looked at

him and was silent,--as though she already accounted him her own, and

without haste or hurry wanted to gloat over her power.

»What did you say just now?« he repeated, with a frown.

»What I said? I said, get up!--that's what I said. Get up! You 've been

asleep. It's time to play the game. This isn't a doss-house, my dear!«

»Tum on the light,« he commanded.

»I will not.«

He turned it on himself, and under the white light he saw her eyes

infinitely wicked and black and painted, and her mouth compressed with

hatred and disdain. And he saw the naked arms, and all of her, alien,

decisive, ready to do something irrevocable. He saw the prostitute--a

creature repellant to him.

»What's the matter with you? Are you drunk?« he asked, seriously

disquieted, and put out a hand to take his high starched collar. But,

anticipating his movement, she snatched at the collar, and without

looking hurled it somewhere, anywhere, into the room, behind the chest

of drawers, into a corner.

»I won't give it to you!«

»What are you after now?« he asked calmly enough, but gripping her arm

with a hard firm pressure all round like an iron ring, so that the

fingers of her thin hand drooped powerlessly.

»Let go! You're hurting me!« she cried, and he held her more gently,

but did not release his hold.

»You--look for it!«

»What is it, my dear? Are you going to shoot me? Isn't that a revolver

you have in your pocket? Well, shoot, shoot! I'll see how you shoot me!

Or would you like to tell me why you take a woman and then go to sleep

by yourself and tell her to drink--'Drink, and I'll go to sleep!' With

his hair cut and clean shaven, so that he thinks nobody will know him!

Do you want to go to the police, my dear? To the police, eh?«

She laughed, loud and merrily--and in a way that really frightened him,

there was such a savage, despairing joy on her face, as though she had

gone mad. And then the idea that all was going to be lost in such a

ludicrous fashion, that he would have to commit this silly, cruel, and

senseless murder, and yet himself probably perish in vain, struck him

with even greater horror. Deadly pale, but externally calm and with the

same resolute air, he looked at her, followed her every movement and

word, collecting his thoughts.

»Well? Silent now? Lost your tongue?«

He could seize this snaky neck and crush it and she would never be able

to utter a shriek. He could do it without compunction; actually, while

he held her so firmly, she had been twisting herself about like a snake.

»So you know, Liuba, what I am?«

»I do. You«--she enunciated the words syllable by syllable, harshly and

with an air of triumph--»you are a revolutionary! That's what you are!«

»How do you know?«

She smiled mockingly.

»We aren't quite in the backwoods here.«

»Well, suppose we admit that I....«

»Pooh, suppose we admit! Let go of my arm! You're all alike, you men,

always ready to use your strength against a woman. Let go!«

He released her arm and sat down, looking at her with a heavy and

obstinate wonder. Something was moving about his cheekbones, a little

ball of muscle, with a disturbed motion; but his expression was

tranquil, serious, somewhat melancholy. And this made him again seem

strange and unknown to her--and also very handsome.

»Well, will you know me again?« she exclaimed, and surprised herself by

adding a coarse reproof. He raised his brows in surprise and spoke to

her calmly, but without averting his eyes, dully, remotely, as from a

great distance.

»Listen, Liuba, certainly you can betray me, not only you, but anyone

in this house, or in the street. One shout--Halt! arrest him!--and men

will come in their tens and hundreds and try to get me--or kill me.

And for what reason? Merely because I have done no harm, merely because

I have devoted all my life to these very people. Do you understand what

it means, to sacrifice one's life?«

»No, I do not,« the girl retorted harshly, but listening attentively.

»Some do it out of stupidity, some for spite. Because, Liuba, a common

man cannot endure a fine man, and the wicked do not love the good....«

»What should they love them for?«

»Don't think, Liuba, that I am simply praising myself. But just look

what my life has been, what it is! From the age of fourteen I have been

rubbing along in prisons, expelled from school, expelled from home.

My parents drove me out. Once I was nearly shot dead, saved only by a

miracle. Try to picture it--all one's life passed in this way, all for

the sake of others, and for oneself, nothing--yes, nothing!«

»And what induced you to be so ... fine?« she asked jeeringly. But he

replied seriously:

»I don't know. I must have been born so.«

»And I was born such a common sort of thing! And yet I came into the

world the same way you did, didn't I?«

But he was not listening. All his mind was held by the vision of his

own past, so unexpectedly, so simply heroic, called up by his own words.

»Yes ... think of it ... I'm 26 years old and there are already grey

hairs on my head, and yet until today ...« he hesitated a moment and

went on firmly, proudly. »Up to now I have never known a woman....

Never ... do you understand? You are the first I even see ... like

that. And to tell the truth, I am just a little ashamed to be looking

at your bare arms.«

The music rose again wildly, and the floor vibrated with the rhythm of

dancing feet, broken by a drunken man's wild whoop, as though he were

heading off a herd of stampeding horses. But in the room it was still,

and the tobacco smoke rose serenely and melted into a ruddy mist.

»That is what my life has been, Liuba!«

He looked down, thoughtfully and sternly, overcome by the thought of a

life so pure, so painfully beautiful. And she made no reply.

Then she got up and threw a wrap around her bare shoulders. But at the

sight of his look of astonishment, almost gratitude, she smiled and

brusquely threw the wrap off, and so arranged her chemise that one

breast, rosy and soft, was left bared. He turned away and slightly

shrugged his shoulders.

»Take a drink!« she said.

»No, I never drink anything.«

»What, never drink! But you see, I do!«

»If you've got some cigarettes, I'll have one.«

»They're very common ones.«

»I don't care.«

And when he took the cigarette he noticed with pleasure that Liuba

had put her chemise straight, and the hope that everything might yet

go smoothly rose again. He was a poor smoker; he did not inhale, and

womanlike held the cigarette between two straight fingers.

»You don't even know how to smoke!« the girl exclaimed angrily, and

roughly tried to snatch the cigarette from him. »Throw it away!«

»Now, there you are,--angry with me again!«

»Yes, I am!«

»But why, Liuba? Just think! For two nights I haven't had any sleep,

running about the town from pillar to post. And now, you're going to

give me up and they'll have me in jail! That's a fine finish, isn't it?

But, Liuba, I'll never give in alive....«

He stopped short.

»Will you shoot?«

»Yes, I shall shoot.«

The music had ceased for a time, but the wild drunken man was still

halloing although apparently someone, as a joke or in earnest, had a

hand on his mouth, the sounds coming through the compressed fingers

even more desperately and savagely. The room reeked no longer with

cheap fragrant soap, but with a thick, moist and repulsive odour; on

one wall, uncovered, there hung messily and flat some petticoats and

blouses. It was all so repugnant, so strange, to think that this also

was life,--that people were living such a life day in, day out,--that

he felt dazed and shrugged his shoulders and again looked round slowly.

»What a place this is!« he said, bemused and resting his eyes on Liuba.

»What of it?« she asked curtly.

He looked at her as she stood there, and suddenly understood that

she was to be pitied; and as soon as he had grasped this he did pity

her--ardently.

»You are poor, Liuba?«

»Well?«

»Give me your hand.«

And, as though to assert in some way his relation to the girl as a

human being, he took her hand and respectfully raised it to his lips.

»You mean that ... for me?«

»Yes, Liuba, for you.«

Then quite quietly, as though thanking him, she said:

»Off you go! Get out of here, you block-head!«

He did not understand at once.

»What?«

»Off with you. Get out of here! Get out!«

Silently, with a steady step, she crossed the room, picked up the

white collar in the corner, and threw it to him with an expression

of disgust, as though it had been the dirtiest, filthiest rag. And

he, likewise silent, but with an expression of high resolve, without

sparing even one glance at the girl, began quietly and slowly buttoning

on the collar; but all in a moment, with a savage whine, Liuba struck

him on his shaven cheek, with all her strength. The collar fell on the

floor; he was shaken from his balance, but steadied himself. Pale,

almost blue, but still silent, with the same look of lofty composure

and proud incomprehension, he faced her with a stolid, unswerving

stare. She was drawing rapid breaths, and staring at him in terror.

»Well?« she gasped.

He looked at her, still silent.

Then, maddened beyond endurance by his haughty unresponsiveness,

terror-stricken by the stone wall against which she seemed to have

flung herself, the girl lost all control of herself and seizing him by

the shoulders forcibly thrust him down upon the bed. She bent over him,

her face near his, and eye to eye.

»Well? Why don't you answer? What are you trying to do with me? You

scoundrel--that's what you are! Kiss my hand, will you? Come here to

boast of yourself, will you? To show off your beauty! What are you

trying to do with me? Do you think I'm so happy?«

She shook him by the shoulders, and her thin fingers, unconsciously

curling and uncurling like a cat's claws, scratched his body through

his shirt.

»And he's never known a woman, hasn't he? You brute, you dare come here

and brag about this to me--to me for whom any man is simply.... Where's

your decency? What do you think you're doing with me? »I'll never

give in alive.« That's the tune is it? But I--of course, I'm already

dead. You understand, you rascal? I'm dead! But I spit in your face ...

ph!... in the face of the living! There! Get out, you brute! Get out of

here!«

With anger he could no longer command, he threw her off him and

she fell backwards against the wall. Apparently his mind was still

confused, for his next movement, equally rapid and decisive, was to

seize his revolver and look at its grinning, toothless mouth. But the

girl never so much as saw his bespattered face, damp and disfigured

with demoniac rage, nor the black revolver. She covered her eyes with

her hands, as though to crush them into the farthest recesses of her

brain, stepped forward swiftly and steadily, and flung herself on the

bed, face down, in a fit of silent sobbing.

Everything had turned out different from what he had anticipated.

Out of vapidity and nonsense there had crept forth a chaos--savage,

drunken, and hysterical, with a crumpled, distorted face.

He shrugged his shoulders, put away the useless revolver, and began

pacing the room, up and down. The girl was crying.

To and fro again. The girl was crying. He stopped beside her, his hands

in his pockets, to look at her.

There, under his eyes, face down, lay a woman sobbing frantically

in an agony of unbearable sorrow, sobbing as one who looks suddenly

back on a wasted life or a better life irretrievably lost. Her naked,

finely tapering shoulder blades were heaving as though to heap fuel on

the raging furnace within, and sinking as though to compress the tense

anguish in her bosom.

The music had started afresh; a mazurka now. And the jingle of spurs

could be heard. Some officers must have come.

Such tears he had never seen! He was disconcerted. He took his hands

out of his pockets, and said gently:

»Liuba!«

Still she sobbed.

»Liuba! What is the matter, Liuba?«

She answered, but so faintly that he could not hear. He sat by her on

the bed, bent his shorn head, and laid a hand on her shoulders; and

his hand responded with a quiver to the trembling of those pitiable

shoulders.

»I can't hear what you say, Liuba?«

Then something distant, dull, soaked in tears:

»Wait--before you go ... over there ... some officers have arrived.

They might see you ... My God--to think...!«

She sat up quickly on the bed, clasping her hands, eyes wide open

staring into space in sudden fear. The terror lasted a moment, and

then she again lay down and wept. Outside the spurs were jingling

rhythmically, and the pianist with revived energy was conscientiously

beating out a vigorous mazurka.

»Take a drink of water, Liuba, do I You really must ... please ...« he

whispered as he bent over her. Her ear was covered with her hair, and

fearing that she could not hear, he carefully brushed aside those dark

curling locks, and discovered a hot little red shell of an ear.

»Please drink! I beg you!«

»No, I don't want a drink. There's no need.... It's all over.«

She had quieted down by now. The sobbing stopped; one more long throe,

and the shuddering shoulders were pathetically still; he was gently

stroking her neck down to the lace of the chemise.

»Are you better, Liuba?«

She said nothing, but heaved a long sigh and turned round, quickly

glancing at him. Then she relaxed and sat up, looked up at him again,

and rubbed his face and eyes with the plaits of her hair. She breathed

another long sigh and quite gently and simply laid her head on his

shoulder, and he as simply put an arm round her and drew her silently

closer to him. His fingers touched her naked shoulder, but this no

longer disturbed him. And thus they sat a long while without speaking,

but with now and then a sigh, staring straight ahead of them into space

with unseeing eyes.

Suddenly there was a sound of voices and steps in the corridor, a

jingling of spurs, quite gentle and elegant, like that of young

officers. The sound came nearer and halted at the door. He rose

promptly. Someone was knocking at the door, first tapping with knuckles

and then banging with their fists, and a woman's voice called out:

»Liubka, open the door!«

He looked at her and waited.

»Give me a handkerchief,« she said, without looking at him, and put her

hand out. She rubbed her face hard, blew her nose noisily, threw the

handkerchief on his knees, and went to the door. He watched and waited.

On her way to the door she turned out the light, and it was all at

once so dark that he could hear his own rather laboured breathing. And

for some reason he sat down again on the creaking bed.

»Well? What is it? What do you want?« she asked through the door,

without opening it, her voice calm, but still betraying some uneasiness.

Feminine voices were heard in argument and, cutting through them as

scissors cut through a tangle of silk, a male voice, young, persuasive,

seeming to proceed from behind strong white teeth and a soft moustache.

Spurs jingled as though the speaker were responding with a bow.

And--strange!--Liuba smiled.

»No. No! I don't want to come--Very well, do as you like. No, not for

all your 'lovely Liubas'. I won't come.« Another knock at the door,

laughter, a sound of scolding, more jingling of spurs, and it all moved

away from the door, and died out somewhere down the corridor. In the

dark, fumbling for his knee with her hand, Liuba sat down by him, but

did not lay her head on his shoulder. She explained briefly:

»The officers are starting a dance. They are summoning everybody. They

are going to have a cotillion.«

»Liuba,« he said, pleadingly, »please turn on the light. Don't be

angry.«

She got up without a word and switched it on. And now she no longer

sat with him but, as before, on the chair facing the bed. Her face was

surly, uninviting, but courteous--like that of a hostess who cannot

help sitting through an uninvited and overlong visit.

»You are not angry with me, Liuba?«

»No. Why should I be?«

»I wondered just now when you laughed so merrily.«

She laughed without looking up.

»When I feel merry, I laugh. But you can't leave just now. You'll have

to wait until the officers get away. It won't be long.«

»Very well. I will wait, thank you, Liuba.«

She laughed again.

»How courteous you are!«

»Don't you like it?«

»Not too well. What are you by birth?«

»My father is a doctor in the military service. My grandfather was a

peasant. We are old-ritualists.«

Liuba, surprised, looked up at him.

»Really? But you don't wear a cross round your neck.«

»A cross!« he laughed. »We wear our cross on our backs.«

The girl frowned slightly.

»You want to go to sleep? You'd better lie down than waste time in this

way.«

»No, I won't lie down. I don't want to sleep any more.«

»As you wish.«

There was a long and awkward silence. Liuba gazed downwards and fixed

her attention on turning a ring on her finger. He looked round the

room; each time be conspicuously avoided meeting the girl's glance,

and rested his eyes on the unfinished glass of cognac. Then, all at

once, it became overwhelmingly clear to him, even palpably evident,

that all this was no longer what it seemed--that little yellow glass

with the cognac, the girl so absorbed in twiddling her ring--and he

himself, too, he was no longer himself, but someone else, someone alien

and quite apart.... Just then the music stopped and there followed a

quiet jingle of spurs.... He seemed to himself to have lived at some

time, not in this house, but in a place very much like it; and that

he had been an active and even important person to whom something was

now happening. That strange feeling was so powerful that he shuddered

and shook his head; and the feeling soon left him, but not altogether;

there remained some faint inexpungible trace of the turbulent memories

of that which had never been. And quite often, in the course of this

unusual night, he caught himself at a point whence he was looking down

on some object or person, trying anxiously to recall them out of the

deep darkness of the past, even out of what had never existed.

Had he not known it for a thing impossible, he would have said that he

had already been here on some occasion, so familiar and habitual had

it all become. And this was unpleasant; it had already imperceptibly

estranged him from himself and his comrades, and mysteriously made him

a part of this institution, part of its wild and loathesome life.

Silence became oppressive.

»Why aren't you drinking?« he asked.

She shivered.

»What?«

»You haven't finished your glass, Liuba. Why don't you?«

»I don't want to by myself.«

»I'm sorry, but I don't drink.«

»And I don't drink by myself.«

»I would rather eat a pear.«

»Pray do so. They are here for that purposes.«

»Wouldn't you like a pear?«

The girl did not answer, but turned aside and caught his glance resting

on her naked and translucently rosy shoulders, and flung a grey knitted

shawl over them.

»It's rather cold,« she said abruptly.

»Yes, a little cold,« he agreed, although it was very warm in that

little room.

And again there was a long and tense silence. From the hall could be

heard the catchy rhythm of a noisy _ritornello_.

»They are dancing,« he said.

»They are dancing,« she replied.

»What was it made you so angry with me, that you struck me, Liuba?«

The girl hesitated and then answered sharply.

»There was nothing else for it so I struck you. I didn't kill you, so

why make a fuss about it?«

Her smile was ugly.

There was nothing else for it? She was looking straight at him with her

dark rounded eyes, with a pallid and determined smile. Nothing else for

it? He noticed a little dimple in her chin. It was hard to believe that

this same head, this evil pallid head, had been lying on his shoulder a

minute or two ago, that he had been caressing her!

»So that's the reason,« he said gloomily. He paced to and fro in the

room once or twice, but not toward the girl; and when he sat down again

in the same place his face wore a strangely sullen and rather haughty

expression. He said nothing, but, raising his eyebrows, stared at the

ceiling where there played a spot of light with red edges. Something

was crawling across it, something small and black, probably a belated

autumn fly, revived by the heat. It had been brought to life in the

night, and certainly understood nothing and would soon die. He sighed.

But now she laughed aloud.

»What is there to make you merry?« He looked up coldly and turned

aside.

»I suppose--you are very much like the author. You don't mind? He too

at first pities me, and then gets angry, because I do not adore him

as though he were an icon. He's so touchy. If he were God, he'd never

forgive even one candle,« she smiled.

»But how do you know any authors? You don't read anything.«

»There is one ...« she said curtly.

He pondered, fixing on the girl his unswerving gaze, too calm in its

scrutiny. Living in a turmoil himself, he began vaguely to recognize in

the girl a rebellious spirit; and this agitated him and made him try

to puzzle out why it was that her wrath had fallen on him. The fact

that she had dealings with authors, and probably talked with them, that

she could sometimes assume such an air of quiet dignity and yet could

speak with such malice--all this gave her interest and endowed her blow

with the character of something more earnest and serious than the mere

hysterical outburst of a half-drunk, half-naked prostitute. At first

he had been only indignant, not offended; but now, in this interval

of reflection, he was gradually becoming affronted, and this not only

intellectually.

»Why did you hit me, Liuba? When you strike anyone in the face, you

should tell them why.«

He repeated his question sullenly and persistently. Obstinacy and stony

hardness were expressed in his prominent cheekbones and the heavy brow

that overshadowed his eyes.

»I don't know,« she replied with the same obduracy, but avoiding his

gaze.

She did not wish to answer him. He shrugged his shoulders, and again

went on, pertinaciously staring at the girl and weaving his fancies.

His thought, usually sluggish, once aroused worked forcibly and could

not be deterred--worked almost mechanically, turning into something

like a hydraulic press which slowly sinking powders up stones and

bends iron beams and crushes anyone that falls beneath it--slowly,

indifferently, irresistibly. Turning neither to the left nor to the

right, unmoved by sophisms, evasions, allusions, his thought would push

forward clumsily and heavily until it ground itself down or reached

the logical extreme beyond which lay the void and mystery. He did not

dissociate his thought from himself; he thought integrally, with the

whole of his body; and each logical deduction forthwith became real to

him--as happens only with very healthy or direct persons who have not

yet turned thought into a pastime.

And now, alarmed, driven out of his course, like a heavy locomotive that

has slipped its rails on a pitch dark night and by some miracle

continues leaping over hillocks and knolls, he was seeking a road and

could not anyhow find it. The girl was still silent and evidently did

not wish to talk.

»Liuba, let us have a quiet talk. We must try to....«

»I don't want to have a quiet talk.«

Then again:

»Listen, Liuba. You hit me, and I cannot let matters rest at that.«

The girl smiled.

»No? What will you do with me? Go to the police-court?«

»No, but I shall keep coming to you until you explain.«

»You will be welcome. Madame gets her profit.«

»I shall come tomorrow. I shall come....«

And then, suddenly, almost simultaneously with the thought that neither

tomorrow nor the day after would he be able to come, there flashed upon

him the surmise, almost certainty, why the girl had struck him. His

face cleared.

»Oh, that's it then! That's why you struck me--because I pitied you? I

offended you with my compassion? Yes, it is very stupid ... but really,

I didn't mean to--though of course it hurts. After all, you are human,

just as I am....«

»Just as you are?« she smiled.

»Well, let that pass. Give me your hand. Let's be friends.«

She turned pale.

»You want me to smack your face again?«

»Give me your hand--as friends--as friends,« he repeated sincerely, but

for some reason in a low voice.

But Liuba got up, and moving a little distance away said:

»Do you know ... either you are a fool or you have been very little

beaten!«

She looked at him and laughed aloud.

»My God, yes! My author! A most perfect author! How could one help

hitting you, my dear?«

She apparently chose the word author purposely, and with some special

and definite meaning. And then, with supreme disdain, taking no more

account of him than of a chattel or hopeless imbecile or drunkard, she

walked freely up and down, and jeered:

»Or was it that I hit you too hard? What are you whining about?«

He made no reply.

»My author says that I'm a hard fighter. Perhaps he has a finer face.

However hard one smacks your cheeks you seem to feel nothing! Oh, I've

knocked lots of people's mouths about, but I've never been so sorry for

anyone as for my author. 'Hit away', he says, 'I deserve it.' A drunken

slobberer! It's disgusting hitting him. He's a brute. But I hurt my

hand on your face. Here--kiss it where it smarts!«

She thrust her hand to his lips and withdrew it swiftly. Her excitement

was increasing. For some minutes it seemed as though she were choking

in a fever; she rubbed her breast, breathing deeply through her open

mouth, and unconsciously gripped the window curtains. And twice she

stopped as she went to and fro to pour out a glass of cognac. The

second time he remarked in a surly tone.

»You said you didn't drink alone.«

»I have no consistency, my dear,« she replied, quite simply. »I'm

drugged, and unless I drink at intervals I stifle ... This revives me.«

Then all at once, as if she had only just noticed him, she raised her

eyes in surprise, and laughed.

»Ah! There you are--still there! Not gone yet! Sit down, sit down!«

With a savage light in her eyes, she threw off the knitted wrap, again

baring her rosy shoulders and thin soft arms. »Why am I all wrapped up

like this? It's hot here and I ... I must have been saving him! How

kind!... Look here, you might at least take your trousers off. It's

only good manners here to do without your trousers. If your drawers are

dirty I'll give you mine. Oh, never mind the slit. Here, put them on.

Now, my dear boy, you must, you'll have to....«

She laughed until she choked, begging and putting out her hands. Then

she knelt down, clasping his hands, and implored him:--

»Now, my darling, do! And I'll kiss your hand!«

He moved away, and, with an air of sullen grief, said:

»What are you trying to do with me, Liuba? What have I done to you? My

relations with you are quite proper. I'm being perfectly decent to you.

What are you doing? What is it? Have I offended you? If I have, forgive

me. You know, I am ... I don't know about these things.«

With a contemptuous shrug of her naked shoulders, Liuba rose from her

knees and sat down, breathing heavily.

»You mean you won't put them on.«

»I'm sorry, but I should look....«

He began saying something, hesitated and continued irresolutely,

drawling his words.

»Listen, Liuba.... It's quite true! ... It's all such nonsense! But,

if you wish it, then we can put out the light? Yes, put out the light,

please, Liuba.«

»What?« The girl's eyes opened wide in bewilderment.

»I mean,« he continued hurriedly, »that you are a woman and I am ...

certainly I was in the wrong.... Don't think it was compassion, Liuba.

No, really it wasn't. Really not, Liuba. I ... but turn out the light,

Liuba.«

With an agitated smile he put out his hands to her in the clumsy

caressing way of a man who has never had to do with women. And this is

what he saw: she clenched her fists with a slow effort and raised them

to her chin and became, as it were, one immense gasp contained in her

swelling bosom, her eyes huge and staring with horror and anguish and

inexpressible contempt.

»What is the matter, Liuba?« he asked, shattered. And with a cold

horror, without unclasping her fingers, almost inaudibly she exclaimed:

»Oh, you brute! My God, what a brute you are!«

Crimson with the shame of the reproof, and outraged in that he had

himself committed outrage, he stamped furiously on the floor and

hurled abuse in rough curt words at those wide staring eyes with their

unfathomable terror and pain.

»You prostitute, you! You refuse! Silence! Silence!«

But she still quietly shook her head and repeated: