did. From the very minute that I beheld her for the first time--(will

you believe it? all I have to do even now is to shut my eyes, and immediately here stands before me the theatre, the almost empty stage, representing the interior of a forest, and she runs out from behind the side-scenes on the right, with a wreath of vine-leaves on her head and a tiger-skin over her shoulders)--from that fatal minute I belonged to her wholly,--just as a dog belongs to his master; and if now, when I am dying, I do not belong to her, it is merely because she has cast me off.

To tell the truth, she never troubled herself especially about me. She barely noticed me, although she good-naturedly made use of my money. I was for her, as she expressed it in her broken French jargon, “_oun Rousso buon enfan_,”--and nothing more. But I ... I could no longer live anywhere where she was not; I tore myself at one wrench from all that was dear to me, from my native land itself, and set out in pursuit of that woman.

Perhaps you think that she was clever?--Not in the least! It sufficed to cast a glance at her low brow, it sufficed to note, if only once, her lazy, heedless smile, in order instantly to convince one’s self as to the paucity of her mental abilities. And I never imagined her to be a remarkable woman. On the whole, I did not deceive myself for a single minute on her score. But that did not help matters in the least. Whatever I thought of her in her absence, in her presence I felt nothing but servile adoration.... In the German fairytales the knights often fall into that sort of stupor. I could not tear my eyes from her features; I could not hear enough of her remarks, or sufficiently watch every movement of hers; to tell the truth, I actually breathed to her breathing. However, she was good-natured, unconstrained--too unconstrained even; she did not put on airs, as the majority of artists do. She had a great deal of life, that is, a great deal of blood, of that splendid Southern blood, into which the sun of their land must have dropped a portion of his rays. She slept nine hours a day, was fond of good eating, never read a single line of print, unless, perhaps, the articles in the newspapers in which she was mentioned, and almost the sole tender sentiment in her life was her attachment to il signore Carlino, a small and greedy Italian who served as her secretary and whom she afterward married. And with such a woman as this I, who have tasted so many varied intellectual subtleties, I, already an old man, could fall in love! Who could have expected it? I never expected it, at all events. I did not anticipate the part which I should be compelled to play. I did not expect that I should haunt rehearsals, freeze and get bored behind the scenes, inhale the reek of the theatre, make acquaintance with various unseemly individuals ... what am I saying?--make acquaintance--bow to them. I had not expected that I should carry a dancer’s shawl, buy new gloves for her, clean her old ones with white bread (but I did it, I take my oath!), cart home her bouquets, run about to the anterooms of journalists and directors, wear myself out, give serenades, catch cold, lose my strength.... I had not expected that I should acquire at last in a certain little German town the ingenious nickname of “_der Kunst-barbar_.”... And all this in vain--in the fullest sense of the word, in vain! There, that is precisely the state of the case....

Do you remember how you and I, orally and by letter, argued about love, into what subtleties we entered? And when it is put to the proof, it turns out that real love is a feeling not at all resembling that which we imagined it to be. Love is not even a feeling at all; it is a malady, a well-known condition of the soul and body. It does not develop gradually; there is no possibility of doubting it; one cannot dodge it, although it does not always manifest itself in identically the same fashion. It generally takes possession of a man without being invited, suddenly, against his will--precisely like the cholera or a fever.... It lays hold upon him, the dear creature, as a hawk does upon a chicken; and it will bear him off whithersoever it wishes, struggle and resist as he may.... In love there is no equality, no so-called free union of souls and other ideal things, invented at their leisure by German professors.... No; in love one person is the slave, the other is the sovereign, and not without cause do the poets prate of the chains imposed by love. Yes, love is a chain, and the heaviest of chains at that. At all events, I have arrived at that conviction, and have reached it by the path of experience. I have purchased that conviction at the price of my life, because I am dying a slave.

Alack, what a fate is mine! one thinks. In my youth I was resolutely determined to conquer heaven for myself.... Later on, I fell to dreaming about the welfare of all mankind, the prosperity of my fatherland. Then that passed off: I thought only of how I might arrange my domestic, my family life ... and I tripped over an ant-hill--and flop! I went headlong on the ground, and into the grave.... What master hands we Russians are at winding up in that fashion!

However, it is high time for me to turn away from all this,--it was time long ago! May this burden fall from my soul along with my life! I wish for the last time, if only for a moment, to enjoy that good, gentle feeling which is diffused within me like a tranquil light as soon as I call you to mind. Your image is now doubly dear to me.... Along with it there surges up before me the image of my native land, and I waft to it and to you my last greeting. Live on, live long and happily, and remember one thing: whether you remain in that remote nook of the steppes, where you sometimes find things so painful, but where I should so like to spend my last day, or whether you shall enter upon another career, remember: life fails to disappoint him alone who does not meditate upon it, and, demanding nothing from it, calmly accepts its sparse gifts, and calmly makes use of them. Go forward, while you can: but when your feet fail you,--sit down near the road, and gaze at the passers-by without vexation and without envy: for they will not go far! I have said this to you before, but death will teach any man whomsoever; moreover, who shall say what is life, what is truth? Remember _who_ it was that gave no answer to this question.... Farewell, Márya Alexándrovna; farewell for the last time, and bear no ill will to poor--

ALEXYÉI.

THE REGION OF DEAD CALM

(1854)

I

In a fairly-large recently-whitewashed chamber of a wing of the manor-house in the village of Sásovo, *** county, T*** Government, a young man in a paletot was sitting at a small, warped table, looking over accounts. Two stearine candles, in silver travelling-candlesticks, were burning in front of him; in one corner, on the wall-bench, stood an open bottle-case, in another a servant was setting up an iron bed. On the other side of a low partition a samovár was murmuring and hissing; a dog was nestling about on some hay which had just been brought in. In the doorway stood a peasant-man in a new overcoat girt with a red belt, with a large beard, and an intelligent face--the overseer, judging by all the tokens. He was gazing attentively at the seated young man.

Against one wall stood a very aged, tiny piano; beside it an equally-ancient chest of drawers with holes in place of the locks; between the windows a small, dim mirror was visible; on the partition-wall hung an old portrait, which was almost completely peeled off, representing a woman with powdered hair, in a _robe ronde_, and with a black ribbon about her slender neck. Judging from the very perceptible sagging of the ceiling, and the slope of the floor, which was full of cracks, the little wing into which we have conducted the reader had existed for a very long time. No one lived in it permanently; it was put to use when the owners came. The young man who was sitting at the table was the owner of the village of Sásovo. He had arrived only on the previous day from his principal estate, situated a hundred versts[11] distant, and was preparing to depart on the morrow, after completing the inspection of the farming, listening to the demands of the peasants, and verifying all the documents.

“Well, that will do,”--he said, raising his head;--“I am tired. Thou mayest go now,”--he added, turning to the overseer;--“and come very early to-morrow morning, and notify the peasants at daybreak that they are to present themselves in assembly,--dost hear me?”

“I obey.”

“And order the estate-clerk to present to me the report for the last month. But thou hast done well,”--the gentleman went on, casting a glance around him,--“in whitewashing the walls. Everything seems cleaner.”

The overseer silently swept a glance around the walls also.

“Well, go now.”

The overseer made his obeisance and left the room.

The gentleman stretched himself.

“Hey!”--he shouted,--“Give me some tea!... ’Tis time to go to bed.”

His servant went to the other side of the partition, and speedily returned with a glass of tea, a bundle of town cracknels, and a cream-jug on an iron tray. The gentleman began to drink tea, but before he had had time to swallow two mouthfuls, the noise of persons entering resounded from an adjoining room, and some one’s squeaking voice inquired:

“Is Vladímir Sergyéitch Astákhoff at home? Can he be seen?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch (that was the name of the young man in the paletot) cast a glance of surprise at his man, and said in a hurried whisper:

“Go, find out who it is.”

The man withdrew, slamming behind him the door, which closed badly.

“Announce to Vladímir Sergyéitch,”--rang out the same squeaking voice as before,--“that his neighbour Ipátoff wishes to see him, if it will not incommode him; and another neighbour has come with me, Bodryakóff, Iván Ílitch, who also desires to pay his respects.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch made an involuntary gesture of vexation. Nevertheless, when his man entered the room, he said to him:

“Ask them in.” And he arose to receive his visitors.

The door opened, and the visitors made their appearance. One of them, a robust, grey-haired little old man, with a small, round head and bright little eyes, walked in advance; the other, a tall, thin man of three-and-thirty, with a long, swarthy face and dishevelled hair, walked behind, with a shambling gait. The old man wore a neat grey coat with large, mother-of-pearl buttons; a small, pink neckerchief, half concealed by the rolling collar of his white shirt, loosely encircled his neck; his feet shone resplendent in gaiters; the plaids of his Scotch trousers were agreeably gay in hue; and, altogether, he produced a pleasant impression. His companion, on the contrary, evoked in the spectator a less favourable sensation: he wore an old black dress-coat, buttoned up to the throat; his full trousers, of thick, winter tricot, matched his coat in colour; no linen was visible, either around his throat or around his wrists. The little old man was the first to approach Vladímir Sergyéitch, and, with an amiable inclination of the head, he began in the same shrill little voice:

“I have the honour to introduce myself,--your nearest neighbour, and even a relative, Ipátoff, Mikhaílo Nikoláitch. I have long wished to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I hope that I have not disturbed you.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch replied that he was very glad to see him, and that he was not disturbed in the least, and would not he take a seat ... and drink tea.

“And this nobleman,”--went on the little old man, after listening with a courteous smile to Vladímir Sergyéitch’s unfinished phrases, and extending his hand in the direction of the gentleman in the dress-coat,--“also your neighbour ... and my good acquaintance, Iván Ílitch, strongly desired to make your acquaintance.”

The gentleman in the dress-coat, from whose countenance no one would have suspected that he was capable of desiring anything strongly in his life--so preoccupied and, at the same time, so sleepy was the expression of that countenance,--the gentleman in the dress-coat bowed clumsily and languidly. Vladímir Sergyéitch bowed to him in return, and again invited the visitors to be seated.

The visitors sat down.

“I am very glad,”--began the little old man, pleasantly throwing apart his hands, while his companion set to scrutinising the ceiling, with his mouth slightly open:--“I am very glad that I have, at last, the honour of seeing you personally. Although you have your permanent residence in a county which lies at a considerable distance from these localities, still, we regard you also as one of our own primordial landed proprietors, so to speak.”

“That is very flattering to me,”--returned Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Flattering or not, it is a fact. You must excuse us, Vladímir Sergyéitch; we people here in *** county are a straightforward folk; we live in our simplicity; we say what we think, without circumlocution. It is our custom, I must tell you, not to call upon each other on Name-days[12] otherwise than in our frock-coats. Truly! We have made that the rule. On that account, we are called ‘frock-coaters’ in the adjoining counties, and we are even reproached for our bad style; but we pay no attention to that! Pray, what is the use of living in the country--and then standing on ceremony?”

“Of course, what can be better ... in the country ... than that naturalness of intercourse,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“And yet,”--replied the little old man,--“among us in our county dwell people of the cleverest sort,--one may say people of European culture, although they do not wear dress-suits. Take, for example, our historian Evsiukóff, Stepán Stepánitch: he is interesting himself in Russian history from the most ancient times, and is known in Petersburg--an extremely learned man! There is in our town an ancient Swedish cannon-ball ... ’tis placed yonder, in the centre of the public square ... and ’twas he who discovered it, you know! Certainly! Tzénteler, Antón Kárlitch ... now he has studied natural history; but they say all Germans are successful in that line. When, ten years ago, a stray hyena was killed in our vicinity, it was this Antón Kárlitch who discovered that it really was a hyena, by cause of the peculiar construction of its tail. And then, we have a landed proprietor Kaburdín: he chiefly writes light articles; he wields a very dashing pen; his articles appear in ‘Galatea.’ Bodryakóff, ... not Iván Ílitch; no, Iván Ílitch neglects that; but another Bodryakóff, Sergyéi ... what the deuce was his father’s baptismal name, Iván Ílitch ... what the deuce was it?”

“Sergyéitch,”--prompted Iván Ílitch.

“Yes; Sergyéi Sergyéitch,--he busies himself with writing verses. Well, of course he’s not a Púshkin, but sometimes he gets off things which would pass muster even in the capitals. Do you know his epigram on Agéi Fómitch?”

“What Agéi Fómitch?”

“Akh, pardon me; I keep forgetting that you are not a resident here, after all. He is our chief of police. The epigram is extremely amusing. Thou rememberest it, I believe, Iván Ílitch?”

“Agéi Fómitch,”--said Bodryakóff, indifferently--

“ ... not without cause is gloriously By the nobles’ election honoured....”

“I must tell you,”--broke in Ipátoff,--“that he was elected almost exclusively by white balls, for he is a most worthy man.”

“Agéi Fómitch,”--repeated Bodryakóff,

“ ... not without cause is gloriously By the nobles’ election honoured: He drinks and eats regularly.... So why should not he be the regulator of order?”[13]

The little old man burst out laughing.

“Ha, ha, ha! that isn’t bad, is it? Ever since then, if you’ll believe me, each one of us will say, for instance, to Agéi Fómitch: ‘Good morning!’--and will invariably add: ‘so why should not he be the regulator of order?’ And does Agéi Fómitch get angry, think you? Not in the least. No--that’s not our way. Just ask Iván Ílitch here if it is.”

Iván Ílitch merely rolled up his eyes.

“Get angry at a jest--how is that possible? Now, take Iván Ílitch there; his nickname among us is ‘The Folding Soul,’ because he agrees to everything very promptly. What then? Does Iván Ílitch take offence at that? Never!”

Iván Ílitch, slowly blinking his eyes, looked first at the little old man, then at Vladímir Sergyéitch.

The epithet, “The Folding Soul,” really did fit Iván Ílitch admirably. There was not a trace in him of what is called will or character. Any one who wished could lead him whithersoever he would; all that was necessary was to say to him: “Come on, Iván Ílitch!”--and he picked up his cap and went; but if another person turned up, and said to him: “Halt, Iván Ílitch!”--he laid down his cap and remained. He was of a peaceable, tranquil disposition, had lived a bachelor-life, did not play cards, but was fond of sitting beside the players and looking into each of their faces in turn. Without society he could not exist, and solitude he could not endure. At such times he became despondent; however, this happened very rarely with him. He had another peculiarity: rising from his bed betimes in the morning, he would sing in an undertone an old romance:

“In the country once a Baron Dwelt in simplicity rural....”

In consequence of this peculiarity of Iván Ílitch’s, he was also called “The Hawfinch,” because, as is well known, the hawfinch when in captivity sings only once in the course of the day, early in the morning. Such was Iván Ílitch Bodryakóff.

The conversation between Ipátoff and Vladímir Sergyéitch lasted for quite a long time, but not in its original, so to speak, speculative direction. The little old man questioned Vladímir Sergyéitch about his estate, the condition of his forests and other sorts of land, the improvements which he had already introduced or was only intending to introduce in his farming; he imparted to him several of his own observations; advised him, among other things, in order to get rid of hummocky pastures, to sprinkle them with oats, which, he said, would induce the pigs to plough them up with their snouts, and so forth. But, at last, perceiving that Vladímir Sergyéitch was so sleepy that he could hardly keep his eyes open, and that a certain deliberation and incoherence were making themselves evident in his speech, the little old man rose, and, with a courteous obeisance, declared that he would not incommode him any longer with his presence, but that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing the valued guest at his own house not later than the following day, at dinner.

“And the first person you meet, not to mention any small child, but, so to speak, any hen or peasant-woman,”--he added,--“will point out to you the road to my village. All you have to do is to ask for Ipátoff. The horses will trot there of themselves.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch replied with a little hesitation--which, however, was natural to him--that he would try ... that if nothing prevented....

“Yes, we shall certainly expect you,”--the little old man interrupted him, cordially, shook his hand warmly, and briskly withdrew, exclaiming in the doorway, as he half turned round:--“Without ceremony!”

“Folding Soul” Bodryakóff bowed in silence and vanished in the wake of his companion, with a preliminary stumble on the threshold.

Having seen his unexpected guests off, Vladímir Sergyéitch immediately undressed, got into bed, and went to sleep.

Vladímir Sergyéitch Astákhoff belonged to the category of people who, after having cautiously tested their powers in two or three different careers, are wont to say of themselves that they have finally come to the conclusion to look at life from a practical point of view, and who devote their leisure to augmenting their revenues. He was not stupid, was rather penurious, and very sensible; was fond of reading, of society, of music--but all in moderation ... and bore himself very decorously. He was twenty-seven years old. A great many young men of his sort have sprung up recently. He was of medium height, well built, and had agreeable though small features; their expression almost never varied; his eyes always gleamed with one and the same stern, bright glance; only now and then did this glance soften with a faint shade of something which was not precisely sadness, nor yet precisely boredom; a courteous smile rarely quitted his lips. He had very handsome, fair hair, silky, and falling in long ringlets. Vladímir Sergyéitch owned about six hundred souls[14] on a good estate, and he was thinking of marriage--a marriage of inclination, but which should, at the same time, be advantageous. He was particularly desirous of finding a wife with powerful connections. In a word, he merited the appellation of “gentleman” which had recently come into vogue.

When he rose on the following morning, very early, according to his wont, our gentleman occupied himself with business, and, we must do him the justice to say, did so in a decidedly practical manner, which cannot always be said of practical young men among us in Russia. He patiently listened to the confused petitions and complaints of the peasants, gave them satisfaction so far as he was able, investigated the quarrels and dissensions which had arisen between relatives, exhorted some, scolded others, audited the clerk’s accounts, brought to light two or three rascalities on the part of the overseer--in a word, handled matters in such wise that he was very well satisfied with himself, and the peasants, as they returned from the assembly to their homes, spoke well of him.

In spite of his promise given on the preceding evening to Ipátoff, Vladímir Sergyéitch had made up his mind to dine at home, and had even ordered his travelling-cook to prepare his favourite rice-soup with pluck; but all of a sudden, possibly in consequence of that feeling of satisfaction which had filled his soul ever since the early morning, he stopped short in the middle of the room, smote himself on the brow with his hand, and, not without some spirit, exclaimed aloud: “I believe I’ll go to that flowery old babbler!” No sooner said than done; half an hour later he was sitting in his new tarantás, drawn by four stout peasant-horses, and driving to Ipátoff’s house, which was reckoned to be not more than twenty-five versts distant by a capital road.

II

Mikhaílo Nikoláevitch Ipátoff’s manor consisted of two separate small mansions, built opposite each other on the two sides of a huge pond through which ran a river. A long dam, planted with silver poplars, shut off the pond; almost on a level with it the red roof of a small hand-mill was visible. Built exactly alike, and painted with the same lilac hue, the tiny houses seemed to be exchanging glances across the broad, watery expanse, with the glittering panes of their small, clean windows. From the middle of each little house a circular terrace projected, and a sharp-peaked pediment rose aloft, supported by four white pillars set close together. The ancient park ran all the way round the pond; lindens stretched out in alleys, and stood in dense clumps; aged pine-trees, with pale yellow boles, dark oaks, magnificent maples here and there reared high in air their solitary crests; the dense verdure of the thickly-spreading lilacs and acacias advanced close up to the very sides of the two little houses, leaving revealed only their fronts, from which winding paths paved with brick ran down the slope. Motley-hued ducks, white and grey geese were swimming in separate flocks on the clear water of the pond; it never became covered with scum, thanks to abundant springs which welled into its “head” from the base of the steep, rocky ravine. The situation of the manor was good, pleasant, isolated, and beautiful.

In one of the two little houses dwelt Mikhaíl Nikoláevitch himself; in the other lived his mother, a decrepit old woman of seventy years. When he drove on to the dam, Vladímir Sergyéitch did not know to which house to betake himself. He glanced about him: a small urchin of the house-serfs was fishing, as he stood barefooted on a half-rotten tree-stump. Vladímir Sergyéitch hailed him.

“But to whom are you going--to the old lady or to the young master?”--replied the urchin, without taking his eyes from his float.

“What lady?”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“I want to find Mikhaílo Nikoláitch.”

“Ah! the young master? Well, then, turn to the right.”

And the lad gave his line a jerk, and drew from the motionless water a small, silvery carp. Vladímir Sergyéitch drove to the right.

Mikhaíl Nikoláitch was playing at draughts with The Folding Soul when the arrival of Vladímir Sergyéitch was announced to him. He was delighted, sprang from his arm-chair, ran out into the anteroom and there kissed the visitor three times.

“You find me with my invariable friend, Vladímir Sergyéitch,”--began the loquacious little old man:--“with Iván Ílitch, who, I will remark in passing, is completely enchanted with your affability.” (Iván Ílitch darted a silent glance at the corner.) “He was so kind as to remain to play draughts with me, while all my household went for a stroll in the park; but I will send for them at once....”

“But why disturb them?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch tried to expostulate....

“Not the least inconvenience, I assure you. Hey, there, Vánka, run for the young ladies as fast as thou canst ... tell them that a guest has favoured us with a visit. And how does this locality please you? It’s not bad, is it? Kaburdín has composed some verses about it. ‘Ipátovka, refuge lovely’--that’s the way they begin,--and the rest of it is just as good, only I don’t remember all of it. The park is large, that’s the trouble; beyond my means. And these two houses, which are so much alike, as you have, perhaps, deigned to observe, were erected by two brothers--my father Nikolái, and my uncle Sergyéi; they also laid out the park; they were exemplary friends ... Damon and ... there now! I’ve forgotten the other man’s name....”

“Pythion,”--remarked Iván Ílitch.

“Not really? Well, never mind.” (At home the old man talked in a much more unconventional manner than when he was paying calls.)--“You are, probably, not ignorant of the fact, Vladímir Sergyéitch, that I am a widower, that I have lost my wife; my elder children are in government educational institutions,[15] and I have with me only the youngest two, and my sister-in-law lives with me--my wife’s sister; you will see her directly. But why don’t I offer you some refreshment? Iván Ílitch, my dear fellow, see to a little luncheon ... what sort of vodka are you pleased to prefer?”

“I drink nothing until dinner.”

“Goodness, how is that possible! However, as you please. The truest hospitality is to let the guest do as he likes. We are very simple-mannered folk here, you see. Here with us, if I may venture so to express myself, we live not so much in a lonely as in a dead-calm place, a remote nook--that’s what! But why don’t you sit down?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch seated himself, without letting go of his hat.

“Permit me to relieve you,”--said Ipátoff, and delicately taking his hat from him, he carried it off to a corner, then returned, looked his visitor in the eye with a cordial smile, and, not knowing just what agreeable thing to say to him, inquired, in the most hearty manner,--whether he was fond of playing draughts.

“I play all games badly,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“And that’s a very fine thing in you,”--returned Ipátoff:--“but draughts is not a game, but rather a diversion--a way of passing leisure time; isn’t that so, Iván Ílitch?”

Iván Ílitch cast an indifferent glance at Ipátoff, as though he were thinking to himself, “The devil only knows whether it is a game or a diversion,” but, after waiting a while, he said:

“Yes; draughts don’t count.”

“Chess is quite another matter, they say,”--pursued Ipátoff;--“’tis a very difficult game, I’m told. But, in my opinion ... but yonder come my people!”--he interrupted himself, glancing through the half-open glass door, which gave upon the park.

Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, turned round, and beheld first two little girls, about ten years of age, in pink cotton frocks and broad-brimmed hats, who were running alertly up the steps of the terrace; not far behind them a tall, plump, well-built young girl of twenty, in a dark gown, made her appearance. They all entered the house, and the little girls courtesied sedately to the visitor.

“Here, sir, let me present you,”--said the host;--“my daughters, sir. This one here is named Kátya, and this one is Nástya, and this is my sister-in-law, Márya Pávlovna, whom I have already had the pleasure of mentioning to you. I beg that you will love and favour them.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch made his bow to Márya Pávlovna; she replied to him with a barely perceptible inclination of the head.

Márya Pávlovna held in her hand a large, open knife; her thick, ruddy-blond hair was slightly dishevelled,--a small green leaf had got entangled in it, her braids had escaped from the comb,--her dark-skinned face was flushed, and her red lips were parted; her gown looked crumpled. She was breathing fast; her eyes were sparkling; it was evident that she had been working in the garden. She immediately left the room; the little girls ran out after her.

“She’s going to rearrange her toilet a bit,”--remarked the old man, turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“they can’t get along without that, sir!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch grinned at him in response, and became somewhat pensive. Márya Pávlovna had made an impression on him. It was long since he had seen such a purely Russian beauty of the steppes. She speedily returned, sat down on the divan, and remained motionless. She had smoothed her hair, but had not changed her gown,--had not even put on cuffs. Her features expressed not precisely pride, but rather austerity, almost harshness; her brow was broad and low, her nose short and straight; a slow, lazy smile curled her lips from time to time; her straight eyebrows contracted scornfully. She kept her large, dark eyes almost constantly lowered. “I know,” her repellent young face seemed to be saying; “I know that you are all looking at me; well, then, look; you bore me.” But when she raised her eyes, there was something wild, beautiful, and stolid about them, which was suggestive of the eyes of a doe. She had a magnificent figure. A classical poet would have compared her to Ceres or Juno.

“What have you been doing in the garden?”--Ipátoff asked her, being desirous of bringing her into the conversation.

“I have been cutting off dead branches, and digging up the flower-beds,” she replied, in a voice which was rather low, but agreeable and resonant.

“And are you tired?”

“The children are; I am not.”

“I know,”--interposed the old man, with a smile;--“thou art a regular Bobélina! And have you been to grandmamma’s?”

“Yes; she is asleep.”

“Are you fond of flowers?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch asked her.

“Yes.”

“Why dost thou not put on thy hat when thou goest out of doors?”--Ipátoff remarked to her.--“Just see how red and sunburned thou art.”

She silently passed her hand over her face. Her hands were not large, but rather broad, and decidedly red. She did not wear gloves.

“And are you fond of gardening?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch put another question to her.

“Yes.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch began to narrate what a fine garden there was in his neighbourhood, belonging to a wealthy landed proprietor named N***.--The head gardener, a German, received in wages alone two thousand rubles, silver[16]--he said, among other things.

“And what is the name of that gardener?”--inquired Iván Ílitch, suddenly.

“I don’t remember,--Meyer or Müller, I think. But why do you ask?”

“For no reason in particular, sir,”--replied Iván Ílitch.--“To find out his name.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch continued his narration. The little girls, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch’s daughters, entered, sat down quietly, and quietly began to listen....

A servant made his appearance at the door, had announced that Egór Kapítonitch had arrived.

“Ah! Ask him in, ask him in!”--exclaimed Ipátoff.

There entered a short, fat little old man, one of the sort of people who are called squat or dumpy, with a puffy and, at the same time, a wrinkled little face, after the fashion of a baked apple. He wore a grey hussar jacket with black braiding and a standing collar; his full coffee-coloured velveteen trousers ended far above his ankles.

“Good morning, my most respected Egór Kapítonitch,”--exclaimed Ipátoff, advancing to meet him.--“We haven’t seen each other for a long time.”

“Couldn’t be helped,”--returned Egór Kapítonitch in a lisping and whining voice, after having preliminarily exchanged salutations with all present;--“surely you know, Mikhaíl Sergyéitch, whether I am a free man or not?”

“And how are you not a free man, Egór Kapítonitch?”

“Why, of course I’m not, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch; there’s my family, my affairs.... And there’s Matryóna Márkovna to boot,” and he waved his hand in despair.

“But what about Matryóna Márkovna?”

And Ipátoff launched a slight wink at Vladímir Sergyéitch, as though desirous of exciting his interest in advance.

“Why, everybody knows,”--returned Egór Kapítonitch, as he took a seat;--“she’s always discontented with me, don’t you know that? Whatever I say, it’s wrong, not delicate, not decorous. And why it isn’t decorous, the Lord God alone knows. And the young ladies, my daughters that is to say, do the same, taking pattern by their mother. I don’t say but what Matryóna Márkovna is a very fine woman, but she’s awfully severe on the score of manners.”

“But, good gracious! in what way are your manners bad, Egór Kapítonitch?”

“That’s exactly what I’d like to know myself; but, evidently, she’s hard to suit. Yesterday, for instance, I said at table: ‘Matryóna Márkovna,’” and Egór Kapítonitch imparted to his voice an insinuating inflection,--“‘Matryóna Márkovna,’ says I, ‘what’s the meaning of this,--that Aldóshka isn’t careful with the horses, doesn’t know how to drive?’ says I; ‘there’s the black stallion quite foundered.’--I-iikh! how Matryóna Márkovna did flare up, and set to crying shame on me: ‘Thou dost not know how to express thyself decently in the society of ladies,’ says she; and the young ladies instantly galloped away from the table, and on the next day, the Biriúloff young ladies, my wife’s nieces, had heard all about it. And how had I expressed myself badly? And no matter what I say--and sometimes I really am incautious,--no matter to whom I say it, especially at home,--those Biriúloff girls know all about it the next day. A fellow simply doesn’t know what to do. Sometimes I’m just sitting so, thinking after my fashion,--I breathe hard, as perhaps you know,--and Matryóna Márkovna sets to berating me again: ‘Don’t snore,’ says she; ‘nobody snores nowadays!’--‘What art thou scolding about, Matryóna Márkovna?’ says I. ‘Good mercy, thou shouldst have compassion, but thou scoldest.’ So I don’t meditate at home any more. I sit and look down--so--all the time. By Heaven, I do. And then, again, not long ago, we got into bed; ‘Matryóna Márkovna,’ says I, ‘what makes thee spoil thy page-boy, mátushka?[17] Why, he’s a regular little pig,’ says I, ‘and he might wash his face of a Sunday, at least.’ And what happened? It strikes me that I said it distantly, tenderly, but I didn’t hit the mark even then; Matryóna Márkovna began to cry shame on me again: ‘Thou dost not understand how to behave in the society of ladies,’ says she; and the next day the Biriúloff girls knew all about it. What time have I to think of visits under such circumstances, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch?”

“I’m amazed at what you tell me,”--replied Ipátoff;--“I did not expect that from Matryóna Márkovna. Apparently, she is....”

“An extremely fine woman,”--put in Egór Kapítonitch;--“a model wife and mother, so to speak, only strict on the score of manners. She says that _ensemble_ is necessary in everything, and that I haven’t got it. I don’t speak French, as you are aware, I only understand it. But what’s that _ensemble_ that I haven’t got?”

Ipátoff, who was not very strong in French himself, only shrugged his shoulders.

“And how are your children--your sons, that is to say?”--he asked Egór Kapítonitch after a brief pause.

Egór Kapítonitch darted an oblique glance at him.

“My sons are all right. I’m satisfied with them. The girls have got out of hand, but I’m satisfied with my sons. Lyólya discharges his service well, his superior officers approve of him; that Lyólya of mine is a clever fellow. Well, Míkhetz--he’s not like that; he has turned out some sort of a philanthropist.”

“Why a philanthropist?”

“The Lord knows; he speaks to nobody, he shuns folks. Matryóna Márkovna mostly abashes him. ‘Why dost thou take pattern by thy father?’ she says to him. ‘Do thou respect him, but copy thy mother as to manners.’ He’ll get straightened out, he’ll turn out all right also.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch asked Ipátoff to introduce him to Egór Kapítonitch. They entered into conversation. Márya Pávlovna did not take part in it; Iván Ílitch seated himself beside her, and said two words, in all, to her; the little girls came up to him, and began to narrate something to him in a whisper.... The housekeeper entered, a gaunt old woman, with her head bound up in a dark kerchief, and announced that dinner was ready. All wended their way to the dining-room.

The dinner lasted for quite a long time. Ipátoff kept a good cook, and ordered pretty good wines, not from Moscow, but from the capital of the government. Ipátoff lived at his ease, as the saying goes. He did not own more than three hundred souls, but he was not in debt to any one, and had brought his estate into order. At table, the host himself did the greater part of the talking; Egór Kapítonitch chimed in, but did not forget himself, at the same time; he ate and drank gloriously. Márya Pávlovna preserved unbroken silence, only now and then replying with half-smiles to the hurried remarks of the two little girls, who sat one on each side of her. They were, evidently, very fond of her. Vladímir Sergyéitch made several attempts to enter into conversation with her, but without particular success. Folding Soul Bodryakóff even ate indolently and languidly. After dinner all went out on the terrace to drink coffee. The weather was magnificent; from the garden was wafted the sweet perfume of the lindens, which were then in full flower; the summer air, slightly cooled by the thick shade of the trees, and the humidity of the adjacent pond, breathed forth a sort of caressing warmth. Suddenly, from behind the poplars of the dam, the trampling of a horse’s hoofs became audible, and a moment later, a horsewoman made her appearance in a long riding-habit and a grey hat, mounted on a bay horse; she was riding at a gallop; a page was galloping behind her, on a small, white cob.

“Ah!”--exclaimed Ipátoff,--“Nadézhda Alexyéevna is coming. What a pleasant surprise!”

“Alone?”--asked Márya Pávlovna, who up to that moment had been standing motionless in the doorway.

“Alone.... Evidently, something has detained Piótr Alexyéevitch.”

Márya Pávlovna darted a sidelong glance from beneath her brows, a flush overspread her face, and she turned away.

In the meantime, the horsewoman had ridden through the wicket-gate into the garden, galloped up to the terrace, and sprang lightly to the ground, without waiting either for her groom or for Ipátoff, who had started to meet her. Briskly gathering up the train of her riding-habit, she ran up the steps, and springing upon the terrace, exclaimed blithely:

“Here I am!”

“Welcome!”--said Ipátoff.--“How unexpected, how charming this is! Allow me to kiss your hand....”

“Certainly,”--returned the visitor; “only, you must pull off the glove yourself.--I cannot.” And, extending her hand to him, she nodded to Márya Pávlovna.--“Just fancy, Másha, my brother will not be here to-day,”--she said, with a little sigh.

“I see for myself that he is not here,”--replied Márya Pávlovna in an undertone.

“He bade me say to thee that he is busy. Thou must not be angry. Good morning, Egór Kapítonitch; good morning, Iván Ílitch; good morning, children.... Vásya,”--added the guest, turning to her small groom,--“order them to walk Little Beauty up and down well, dost hear? Másha, please give me a pin, to fasten up my train.... Come here, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch.”

Ipátoff went closer to her.

“Who is that new person?”--she asked, quite loudly.

“That is a neighbour, Astákhoff, Vladímir Sergyéevitch, you know, the owner of Sásovo. I’ll introduce him if you like, shall I?”

“Very well ... afterward. Akh, what splendid weather!”--she went on.--“Egór Kapítonitch, tell me--can it be possible that Matryóna Márkovna growls even in such weather as this?”

“Matryóna Márkovna never grumbles in any sort of weather, madam; and she is merely strict on the score of manners....”

“And what are the Biriúloff girls doing? They know all about it the next day, don’t they?...” And she burst into a ringing, silvery laugh.

“You are pleased to laugh constantly,”--returned Egór Kapítonitch.--“However, when should a person laugh, if not at your age?”

“Egór Kapítonitch, don’t get angry, my dear man! Akh, I’m tired; allow me to sit down....”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna dropped into an arm-chair, and playfully pulled her hat down over her very eyes.

Ipátoff led Vladímir Sergyéitch up to her.

“Permit me, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, to present to you our neighbour, Mr. Astákhoff, of whom you have, probably, heard a great deal.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch made his bow, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna looked up at him from under the brim of her round hat.

“Nadézhda Alexyéevna Véretyeff, our neighbour,”--went on Ipátoff, turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“She lives here with her brother, Piótr Alexyéitch, a retired lieutenant of the Guards. She is a great friend of my sister-in-law, and bears good will to our household in general.”

“A whole formal inventory,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, laughing, and, as before, scanning Vladímir Sergyéitch from under her hat.

But, in the meantime, Vladímir Sergyéitch was thinking to himself: “Why, this is a very pretty woman also.” And, in fact, Nadézhda Alexyéevna was a very charming young girl. Slender and graceful, she appeared much younger than she really was. She was already in her twenty-eighth year. She had a round face, a small head, fluffy fair hair, a sharp, almost audaciously upturned little nose, and merry, almost crafty little eyes. Mockery fairly glittered in them, and kindled in them in sparks. Her features, extremely vivacious and mobile, sometimes assumed an almost amusing expression; humour peered forth from them. Now and then, for the most part suddenly, a shade of pensiveness flitted across her face,--and at such times it became gentle and kindly; but she could not surrender herself long to meditation. She easily seized upon the ridiculous sides of people, and drew very respectable caricatures. Everybody had petted her ever since she was born, and that is something which is immediately perceptible; people who have been spoiled in childhood preserve a certain stamp to the end of their lives. Her brother loved her, although he asserted that she stung, not like a bee, but like a wasp; because a bee stings and then dies, whereas it signifies nothing for a wasp to sting. This comparison enraged her.

“Have you come here for long?”--she asked Vladímir Sergyéitch, dropping her eyes, and twisting her riding-whip in her hands.

“No; I intend to go away from here to-morrow.”

“Whither?”

“Home.”

“Home? Why, may I venture to ask?”

“What do you mean by ‘why’? I have affairs at home which do not brook delay.”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna looked at him.

“Are you such a ... punctual man?”

“I try to be a punctual man,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“In our sedate era, every honourable man _must_ be sedate and punctual.”

“That is perfectly just,”--remarked Ipátoff.--“Isn’t that true Iván Ílitch?”

Iván Ílitch merely glanced at Ipátoff; but Egór Kapítonitch remarked:

“Yes, that’s so.”

“‘Tis a pity,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna;--“precisely what we lack is a _jeune premier_. You know how to act comedy, I suppose?”

“I have never put my powers in that line to the test.”

“I am convinced that you would act well. You have that sort of bearing ... a stately mien, which is indispensable in a _jeune premier_. My brother and I are preparing to set up a theatre here. However, we shall not act comedies only: we shall act all sorts of things--dramas, ballets, and even tragedies. Why wouldn’t Másha do for Cleopatra or Phèdre? Just look at her!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round.... Márya Pávlovna was gazing thoughtfully into the distance, as she stood leaning her head against the door, with folded arms.... At that moment, her regular features really did suggest the faces of ancient statues. She did not catch Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s last words; but, perceiving that the glances of all present were suddenly directed to her, she immediately divined what was going on, blushed, and was about to retreat into the drawing-room.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna briskly grasped her by the hand and, with the coquettish caressing action of a kitten, drew her toward her, and kissed that almost masculine hand. Márya Pávlovna flushed more vividly than before.

“Thou art always playing pranks, Nádya,”--she said.

“Didn’t I speak the truth about thee? I am ready to appeal to all.... Well, enough, enough, I won’t do it again. But I will say again,”--went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna, addressing Vladímir Sergyéitch,--“that it is a pity you are going away. We have a _jeune premier_, it is true; he calls himself so, but he is very bad.”

“Who is he? permit me to inquire.”

“Bodryakóff the poet. How can a poet be a _jeune premier_? In the first place, he dresses in the most frightful way; in the second place, he writes epigrams, and gets shy in the presence of every woman, even in mine. He lisps, one of his hands is always higher than his head, and I don’t know what besides. Tell me, please, M’sieu Astákhoff, are all poets like that?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch drew himself up slightly.

“I have never known a single one of them, personally; but I must confess that I have never sought acquaintance with them.”

“Yes, you certainly are a positive man. We shall have to take Bodryakóff; there’s nothing else to be done. Other _jeunes premiers_ are even worse. That one, at all events, will learn his part by heart. Másha, in addition to tragic rôles, will fill the post of prima donna.... You haven’t heard her sing, have you, M’sieu Astákhoff?”

“No,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, displaying his teeth in a smile; “and I did not know....”

“What is the matter with thee to-day, Nádya?”--said Márya Pávlovna, with a look of displeasure.

Nadézhda Alexyéevna sprang to her feet.

“For Heaven’s sake, Másha, do sing us something, please.... I won’t let thee alone until thou singest us something, Másha dearest. I would sing myself, to entertain the visitors, but thou knowest what a bad voice I have. But, on the other hand, thou shalt see how splendidly I will accompany thee.”

Márya Pávlovna made no reply.

“There’s no getting rid of thee,”--she said at last.--“Like a spoiled child, thou art accustomed to have all thy caprices humoured. I will sing, if you like.”

“Bravo, bravo!”--exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna, clapping her hands.--“Let us go into the drawing-room, gentlemen.--And as for caprices,”--she added, laughing,--“I’ll pay you off for that! Is it permissible to expose my weaknesses in the presence of strangers? Egór Kapítonitch, does Matryóna Márkovna shame you _thus_ before people?”

“Matryóna Márkovna,”--muttered Egór Kapítonitch,--“is a very worthy lady; only, on the score of manners....”

“Well, come along, come along!”--Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted him, and entered the drawing-room.

All followed her. She tossed off her hat and seated herself at the piano. Márya Pávlovna stood near the wall, a good way from Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

“Másha,”--said the latter, after reflecting a little,--“sing us ‘The farm-hand is sowing the grain.’”[18]

Márya Pávlovna began to sing. Her voice was pure and powerful, and she sang well--simply, and without affectation. All listened to her with great attention, while Vladímir Sergyéitch could not conceal his amazement. When Márya Pávlovna had finished, he stepped up to her, and began to assure her that he had not in the least expected....

“Wait, there’s something more coming!”--Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted him.--“Másha, I will soothe thy Topknot[19] soul:--Now sing us ‘Humming, humming in the trees.’”

“Are you a Little Russian?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch asked her.

“I am a native of Little Russia,” she replied, and began to sing “Humming, humming.”

At first she uttered the words in an indifferent manner; but the mournfully passionate lay of her fatherland gradually began to stir her, her cheeks flushed scarlet, her glance flashed, her voice rang out fervently. She finished.

“Good heavens! How well thou hast sung that!”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, bending over the keys.--“What a pity that my brother was not here!”

Márya Pávlovna instantly dropped her eyes, and laughed with her customary bitter little laugh.

“You must give us something more,”--remarked Ipátoff.

“Yes, if you will be so good,”--added Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Excuse me, I will not sing any more to-day,”--said Márya Pávlovna, and left the room.

Nadézhda Alexyéevna gazed after her, first reflected, then smiled, began to pick out “The farm-hand is sowing the grain” with one finger, then suddenly began to play a brilliant polka, and without finishing it, struck a loud chord, clapped to the lid of the piano, and rose.

“‘Tis a pity that there is no one to dance with!”--she exclaimed.--“It would be just the thing!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch approached her.

“What a magnificent voice Márya Pávlovna has,”--he remarked;--“and with how much feeling she sings!”

“And are you fond of music?”

“Yes ... very.”

“Such a learned man, and you are fond of music!”

“But what makes you think that I am learned?”

“Akh, yes; excuse me, I am always forgetting that you are a positive man. But where has Márya Pávlovna gone? Wait, I’ll go after her.”

And Nadézhda Alexyéevna fluttered out of the drawing-room.

“A giddy-pate, as you see,”--said Ipátoff, coming up to Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“but the kindest heart. And what an education she received you cannot imagine; she can express herself in all languages. Well, they are wealthy people, so that is comprehensible.”

“Yes,”--articulated Vladímir Sergyéitch, abstractedly,--“she is a very charming girl. But permit me to inquire, Was your wife also a native of Little Russia?”

“Yes, she was, sir, My late wife was a Little Russian, as her sister Márya Pávlovna is. My wife, to tell the truth, did not even have a perfectly pure pronunciation; although she was a perfect mistress of the Russian language, still she did not express herself quite correctly; they pronounce _i_, _ui_, there, and their _kha_ and _zhe_ are peculiar also, you know; well, Márya Pávlovna left her native land in early childhood. But the Little Russian blood is still perceptible, isn’t it?”

“Márya Pávlovna sings wonderfully,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Really, it is not bad. But why don’t they bring us some tea? And where have the young ladies gone? ’Tis time to drink tea.”

The young ladies did not return very speedily. In the meantime, the samovár was brought, the table was laid for tea. Ipátoff sent for them. Both came in together. Márya Pávlovna seated herself at the table to pour the tea, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna walked to the door opening on the terrace, and began to gaze out into the garden. The brilliant summer day had been succeeded by a clear, calm evening; the sunset was flaming; the broad pond, half flooded with its crimson, stood a motionless mirror, grandly reflecting in its deep bosom all the airy depths of the sky, and the house, and the trees turned upside down, and had grown black, as it were. Everything was silent round about. There was no noise anywhere.

“Look, how beautiful!”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna to Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he approached her;--“down below there, in the pond, a star has kindled its fire by the side of the light in the house; the house-light is red, the other is golden. And yonder comes grandmamma,”--she added in a loud voice.

From behind a clump of lilac-bushes a small calash made its appearance. Two men were drawing it. In it sat an old lady, all wrapped up, all doubled over, with her head resting on her breast. The ruffle of her white cap almost completely concealed her withered and contracted little face. The tiny calash halted in front of the terrace. Ipátoff emerged from the drawing-room, and his little daughters ran out after him. They had been constantly slipping from room to room all the evening, like little mice.

“I wish you good evening, dear mother,”--said Ipátoff, stepping up close to the old woman, and elevating his voice.--“How do you feel?”

“I have come to take a look at you,”--said the old woman in a dull voice, and with an effort.--“What a glorious evening it is. I have been asleep all day, and now my feet have begun to ache. Okh, those feet of mine! They don’t serve me, but they ache.”

“Permit me, dear mother, to present to you our neighbour, Astákhoff, Vladímir Sergyéitch.”

“I am very glad to meet you,”--returned the old woman, scanning him with her large, black, but dim-sighted eyes.--“I beg that you will love my son. He is a fine man; I gave him what education I could; of course, I did the best a woman could. He is still somewhat flighty, but, God willing, he will grow steady, and ’tis high time he did; ’tis time for me to surrender matters to him. Is that you, Nádya?”--added the old woman, glancing at Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

“Yes, grandmamma.”

“And is Másha pouring tea?”

“Yes, grandmamma, she is pouring tea.”

“And who else is there?”

“Iván Ílitch, and Egór Kapítonitch.”

“The husband of Matryóna Márkovna?”

“Yes, dear mother.”

The old woman mumbled with her lips.

“Well, good. But why is it, Mísha, that I can’t manage to get hold of the overseer? Order him to come to me very early to-morrow morning; I shall have a great deal of business to arrange with him. I see that nothing goes as it should with you, without me. Come, that will do, I am tired; take me away.... Farewell, bátiushka;[20] I don’t remember your name and patronymic,”--she added, addressing Vladímir Sergyéitch. “Pardon an old woman. But don’t come with me, grandchildren, it isn’t necessary. All you care for is to run all the time. Másha spoils you. Well, start on.”

The old woman’s head, which she had raised with difficulty, fell back again on her breast....

The tiny calash started, and rolled softly away.

“How old is your mother?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Only in her seventy-third year; but it is twenty-six years since her legs failed her; that happened soon after the demise of my late father. But she used to be a beauty.”

All remained silent for a while.

Suddenly, Nadézhda Alexyéevna gave a start. “Was that--a bat flying past? Áï, what a fright!”

And she hastily returned to the drawing-room.

“It is time for me to go home, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch; order my horse to be saddled.”

“And it is time for me to be going, too,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Where are you going?”--said Ipátoff.--“Spend the night here. Nadézhda Alexyéevna has only two versts to ride, while you have fully twelve. And what’s your hurry, too, Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Wait for the moon; it will soon be up now. It will be lighter to ride.”

“Very well,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.--“It is a long time since I had a moonlight ride.”

“And will you spend the night?”--Ipátoff asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Really, I don’t know.... However, if I do not incommode you....”

“Not in the least, I assure you; I will immediately order a chamber to be prepared for you.”

“But it is nice to ride by moonlight,”--began Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as soon as candles were brought, tea was served, and Ipátoff and Egór Kapítonitch had sat down to play preference together, while The Folding Soul seated himself silently beside them:--“especially through the forest, between the walnut-trees. It is both terrifying and agreeable, and what a strange play of light and shade there is--it always seems as though some one were stealing up behind you, or in front of you....”

Vladímir Sergyéitch smirked condescendingly.

“And here’s another thing,”--she went on;--“have you ever happened to sit beside the forest on a warm, dark, tranquil night? At such times it always seems to me as though two persons were hotly disputing in an almost inaudible whisper, behind me, close at my very ear.”

“That is the blood beating,”--said Ipátoff.

“You describe in a very poetical way,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch. Nadézhda Alexyéevna glanced at him.

“Do you think so?... In that case, my description would not please Másha.”

“Why? Is not Márya Pávlovna fond of poetry?”

“No; she thinks all that sort of thing is made up--is all false; and she does not like that.”

“A strange reproach!”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch. “Made up! How could it be otherwise? But, after all, what are composers for?”

“Well, there, that’s exactly the point; but I am sure you cannot be fond of poetry.”

“On the contrary, I love good verses, when they really are good and melodious, and--how shall I say it?--when they present ideas, thoughts....”

Márya Pávlovna rose.

Nadézhda Alexyéevna turned swiftly toward her.

“Whither art thou going, Másha?”

“To put the children to bed. It is almost nine o’clock.”

“But cannot they go to bed without thee?”

But Márya Pávlovna took the children by the hand and went away with them.

“She is out of sorts to-day,”--remarked Nadézhda Alexyéevna;--“and I know why,”--she added in an undertone.--“But it will pass off.”

“Allow me to inquire,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch,--“where you intend to spend the winter?”

“Perhaps here, perhaps in Petersburg. It seems to me that I shall be bored in Petersburg.”

“In Petersburg! Good gracious! How is that possible?”

And Vladímir Sergyéitch began to describe all the comforts, advantages, and charm of life in our capital. Nadézhda Alexyéevna listened to him with attention, never taking her eyes from him. She seemed to be committing his features to memory, and laughed to herself from time to time.

“I see that you are very eloquent,”--she said at last.--“I shall be obliged to spend the winter in Petersburg.”

“You will not repent of it,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“I never repent of anything; it is not worth the bother. If you have perpetrated a blunder, try to forget it as speedily as possible--that’s all.”

“Allow me to ask,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause, and in the French language;--“have you known Márya Pávlovna long?”

“Allow me to ask,”--retorted Nadézhda Alexyéevna, with a swift laugh;--“why you have put precisely that question to me in French?”

“Because ... for no particular reason....”

Again Nadézhda Alexyéevna laughed.

“No; I have not known her very long. But she is a remarkable girl, isn’t she?”

“She is very original,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, through his teeth.

“And in your mouth--in the mouth of positive persons--does that constitute praise? I do not think so. Perhaps I seem original to you, also? But,”--she added, rising from her seat and casting a glance through the window,--“the moon must have risen; that is its light on the poplars. It is time to depart.... I will go and give order that Little Beauty shall be saddled.”

“He is already saddled, ma’am,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s groom, stepping out from the shadow in the garden into a band of light which fell on the terrace.

“Ah! Well, that’s very good, indeed! Másha, where art thou? Come and bid me good-bye.”

Márya Pávlovna made her appearance from the adjoining room. The men rose from the card-table.

“So you are going already?”--inquired Ipátoff.

“I am; it is high time.”

She approached the door leading into the garden.

“What a night!”--she exclaimed.--“Come here; hold out your face to it; do you feel how it seems to breathe upon you? And what fragrance! all the flowers have waked up now. They have waked up--and we are preparing to go to sleep.... Ah, by the way, Másha,”--she added:--“I have told Vladímir Sergyéitch, you know, that thou art not fond of poetry. And now, farewell ... yonder comes my horse....”

And she ran briskly down the steps of the terrace, swung herself lightly into the saddle, said, “Good-bye until to-morrow!”--and lashing her horse on the neck with her riding-switch, she galloped off in the direction of the dam.... The groom set off at a trot after her.

All gazed after her....

“Until to-morrow!”--her voice rang out once more from behind the poplars.

The hoof-beats were still audible for a long time in the silence of the summer night. At last, Ipátoff proposed that they should go into the house again.

“It really is very nice out of doors,”--he said;--“but we must finish our game.”

All obeyed him. Vladímir Sergyéitch began to question Márya Pávlovna as to why she did not like poetry.

“Verses do not please me,”--she returned, with apparent reluctance.

“But perhaps you have not read many verses?”

“I have not read them myself, but I have had them read to me.”

“And is it possible that they did not please you?”

“No; none of them.”

“Not even Púshkin’s verses?”

“Not even Púshkin’s.”

“Why?”

Márya Pávlovna made no answer; but Ipátoff, twisting round across the back of his chair, remarked, with a good-natured laugh, that she not only did not like verses, but sugar also, and, in general, could not endure anything sweet.

“But, surely, there are verses which are not sweet,”--retorted Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“For example?”--Márya Pávlovna asked him.

Vladímir Sergyéitch scratched behind his ear.... He himself knew very few verses by heart, especially of the sort which were not sweet.

“Why, here now,”--he exclaimed at last;--“do you know Púshkin’s ‘The Upas-Tree’?[21] No? That poem cannot possibly be called sweet.”

“Recite it,”--said Márya Pávlovna, dropping her eyes.

Vladímir Sergyéitch first stared at the ceiling, frowned, mumbled something to himself, and at last recited “The Upas-Tree.”

After the first four lines, Márya Pávlovna slowly raised her eyes, and when Vladímir Sergyéitch ended, she said, with equal slowness:

“Please recite it again.”

“So these verses do please you?”--asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Recite it again.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch repeated “The Upas-Tree.” Márya Pávlovna rose, went out into the next room, and returned with a sheet of paper, an inkstand and a pen.

“Please write that down for me,”--she said to Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Certainly; with pleasure,”--he replied, beginning to write.--“But I must confess that I am puzzled to know why these verses have pleased you so. I recited them simply to prove to you that not all verses are sweet.”

“So am I!”--exclaimed Ipátoff.--“What do you think of those verses, Iván Ílitch?”

Iván Ílitch, according to his wont, merely glanced at Ipátoff, but did not utter a word.

“Here, ma’am,--I have finished,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he placed an interrogation-point at the end of the last line.

Márya Pávlovna thanked him, and carried the written sheet off to her own room.

Half an hour later supper was served, and an hour later all the guests dispersed to their rooms. Vladímir Sergyéitch had repeatedly addressed Márya Pávlovna; but it was difficult to conduct a conversation with her, and his anecdotes did not seem to interest her greatly. He probably would have fallen asleep as soon as he got into bed had he not been hindered by his neighbour, Egór Kapítonitch. Matryóna Márkovna’s husband, after he was fully undressed and had got into bed, talked for a very long time with his servant, and kept bestowing reprimands on him. Every word he uttered was perfectly audible to Vladímir Sergyéitch: only a thin partition separated them.

“Hold the candle in front of thy breast,”--said Egór Kapítonitch, in a querulous voice;--“hold it so that I can see thy face. Thou hast aged me, aged me, thou conscienceless man--hast aged me completely.”

“But, for mercy’s sake, Egór Kapítonitch, how have I aged you?”--the servant’s dull and sleepy voice made itself heard.

“How? I’ll tell thee how. How many times have I said to thee: ‘Mítka,’ I have said to thee, ‘when thou goest a-visiting with me, always take two garments of each sort, especially’ ... hold the candle in front of thy breast ... ‘especially underwear.’ And what hast thou done to me to-day?”

“What, sir?”

“‘What, sir?’ What am I to put on to-morrow?”

“Why, the same things you wore to-day, sir.”

“Thou hast aged me, malefactor, aged me. I was almost beside myself with the heat to-day, as it was. Hold the candle in front of thy breast, I tell thee, and don’t sleep when thy master is talking to thee.”

“Well, but Matryóna Márkovna said, sir, ‘That’s enough. Why do you always take such a mass of things with you? They only get worn out for nothing.’”

“Matryóna Márkovna.... Is it a woman’s business, pray, to enter into that? You have aged me. Okh, you have made me old before my time!”

“Yes; and Yakhím said the same thing, sir.”

“What’s that thou saidst?”

“I say, Yakhím said the same thing, sir.”

“Yakhím! Yakhím!”--repeated Egór Kapítonitch, reproachfully.--“Ekh, you have aged me, ye accursed, and don’t even know how to speak Russian intelligibly. Yakhím! Who’s Yakhím! Efrím,--well, that might be allowed to pass, it is permissible to say that; because the genuine Greek name is Evthímius, dost understand me?... Hold the candle in front of thy breast.... So, for the sake of brevity, thou mayest say Efrím, if thou wilt, but not Yakhím by any manner of means. Yákhim!”[22] added Egór Kapítonitch, emphasising the syllable _Ya_.--“You have aged me, ye malefactors. Hold the candle in front of thy breast!”

And for a long time, Egór Kapítonitch continued to berate his servant, in spite of sighs, coughs, and other tokens of impatience on the part of Vladímir Sergyéitch....

At last he dismissed his Mítka, and fell asleep; but Vladímir Sergyéitch was no better off for that: Egór Kapítonitch snored so mightily and in so deep a voice, with such playful transitions from high tones to the very lowest, with such accompanying whistlings, and even snappings, that it seemed as though the very partition were shaking in response to him; poor Vladímir Sergyéitch almost wept. It was very stifling in the chamber which had been allotted to him, and the feather-bed whereon he was lying embraced his whole body in a sort of crawling heat.

At last, in despair, Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, opened the window, and began with avidity to inhale the nocturnal freshness. The window looked out on the park. It was light overhead, the round face of the full moon was now clearly reflected in the pond, and stretched itself out in a long, golden sheaf of slowly transfused spangles. On one of the paths Vladímir Sergyéitch espied a figure in woman’s garb; he looked more intently; it was Márya Pávlovna; in the moonlight her face seemed pale. She stood motionless, and suddenly began to speak.... Vladímir Sergyéitch cautiously put out his head....

“But a man--with glance imperious-- Sent a man to the Upas-tree....”

reached his ear....

“Come,”--he thought,--“the verses must have taken effect....”

And he began to listen with redoubled attention.... But Márya Pávlovna speedily fell silent, and turned her face more directly toward him; he could distinguish her large, dark eyes, her severe brows and lips....

Suddenly, she started, wheeled round, entered the shadow cast by a dense wall of lofty acacias, and disappeared. Vladímir Sergyéitch stood for a considerable time at the window, then got into bed again, but did not fall asleep very soon.

“A strange being,”--he thought, as he tossed from side to side;--“and yet they say that there is nothing particular in the provinces.... The idea! A strange being! I shall ask her to-morrow what she was doing in the park.”

And Egór Kapítonitch continued to snore as before.

III

On the following morning Vladímir Sergyéitch awoke quite late, and immediately after the general tea and breakfast in the dining-room, drove off home to finish his business on his estate, in spite of all old Ipátoff’s attempts to detain him. Márya Pávlovna also was present at the tea; but Vladímir Sergyéitch did not consider it necessary to question her concerning her late stroll of the night before; he was one of the people who find it difficult to surrender themselves for two days in succession to any unusual thoughts and assumptions whatsoever. He would have been obliged to discuss verses, and the so-called “poetical” mood wearied him very quickly. He spent the whole day until dinner in the fields, ate with great appetite, dozed off, and when he woke up, tried to take up the clerk’s accounts; but before he had finished the first page, he ordered his tarantás to be harnessed, and set off for Ipátoff’s. Evidently, even positive people do not bear about in their breasts hearts of stone, and they are no more fond of being bored than other plain mortals.

As he drove upon the dam he heard voices and the sound of music. They were singing Russian ballads in chorus in Ipátoff’s house. He found the whole company which he had left in the morning on the terrace; all, Nadézhda Alexyéevna among the rest, were sitting in a circle around a man of two-and-thirty--a swarthy-skinned, black-eyed, black-haired man in a velvet jacket, with a scarlet kerchief carelessly knotted about his neck, and a guitar in his hands. This was Piótr Alexyéevitch Véretyeff, brother of Nadézhda Alexyéevna. On catching sight of Vladímir Sergyéitch, old Ipátoff advanced to meet him with a joyful cry, led him up to Véretyeff, and introduced them to each other. After exchanging the customary greetings with his new acquaintance, Astákhoff made a respectful bow to the latter’s sister.

“We’re singing songs in country fashion, Vladímir Sergyéitch,”--began Ipátoff, and pointing to Véretyeff he added:-“Piótr Alexyéitch is our leader,--and what a leader! Just you listen to him!”

“This is very pleasant,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Will not you join the choir?”--Nadézhda Alexyéevna asked him.

“I should be heartily glad to do so, but I have no voice.”

“That doesn’t matter! See, Egór Kapítonitch is singing, and I’m singing. All you have to do is to chime in. Pray, sit down; and do thou strike up, my dear fellow!”

“What song shall we sing now?”--said Véretyeff, thrumming the guitar; and suddenly stopping short, he looked at Márya Pávlovna, who was sitting by his side.--“I think it is your turn now,”--he said to her.

“No; do you sing,”--replied Márya Pávlovna.

“Here’s a song now: ‘Adown dear Mother Volga’”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, with importance.

“No, we will save that up for the last,”--replied Véretyeff, and tinkling the strings of the guitar, he struck up, in slow measure, “The sun is setting.”

He sang splendidly, dashingly, and blithely. His manly face, already expressive, became still more animated when he sang; now and then he shrugged his shoulders, suddenly pressed the strings with his palm, raised his arm, shook his curls, and darted a falcon-like look around him. More than once in Moscow he had seen the famous Ilyá, and he imitated him. The chorus chimed in lustily. Márya Pávlovna’s voice separated itself in a melodious flood from the other voices; it seemed to drag them after it; but she would not sing alone, and Véretyeff remained the leader to the end.

They sang a great many other songs....

In the meantime, along with the evening shadows, a thunder-storm drew on. From noonday it had been steaming hot, and thunder had kept rumbling in the distance; but now a broad thunder-cloud, which had long lain like a leaden pall on the very rim of the horizon, began to increase and show itself above the crests of the trees, the stifling air began to quiver more distinctly, shaken more and more violently by the approaching storm; the wind rose, rustled the foliage abruptly, died into silence, again made a prolonged clamour, and began to roar; a surly gloom flitted over the earth, swiftly dispelling the last reflection of the sunset glow; dense clouds suddenly floated up, as though rending themselves free, and sailed across the sky; a fine rain began to patter down, the lightning flashed in a red flame, and the thunder rumbled heavily and angrily.

“Let us go,”--said old Ipátoff,--“or we shall be drenched.”

All rose.

“Directly!”--exclaimed Piótr Alexyéitch.--“One more song, the last. Listen:

“Akh, thou house, thou house of mine, Thou new house of mine....”

he struck up in a loud voice, briskly striking the strings of the guitar with his whole hand. “My new house of maple-wood,” joined in the chorus, as though reluctantly carried away. Almost at the same moment, the rain began to beat down in streams; but Véretyeff sang “My house” to the end. From time to time, drowned by the claps of thunder, the dashing ballad seemed more dashing than ever beneath the noisy rattle and gurgling of the rain. At last the final detonation of the chorus rang out--and the whole company ran, laughing, into the drawing-room. Loudest of all laughed the little girls, Ipátoff’s daughters, as they shook the rain-drops from their frocks. But, by way of precaution, Ipátoff closed the window, and locked the door; and Egór Kapítonitch lauded him, remarking that Matryóna Márkovna also always gave orders to shut up whenever there was a thunder-storm, because electricity is more capable of acting in an empty space. Bodryakóff looked him straight in the face, stepped aside, and overturned a chair. Such trifling mishaps were constantly happening to him.

The thunder-storm passed over very soon. The doors and windows were opened again, and the rooms were filled with moist fragrance. Tea was brought. After tea the old men sat down to cards again. Iván Ílitch joined them, as usual. Vladímir Sergyéitch was about to go to Márya Pávlovna, who was sitting at the window with Véretyeff; but Nadézhda Alexyéevna called him to her, and immediately entered into a fervent discussion with him about Petersburg and Petersburg life. She attacked it; Vladímir Sergyéitch began to defend it. Nadézhda Alexyéevna appeared to be trying to keep him by her side.

“What are you wrangling about?”--inquired Véretyeff, rising and approaching them.

He swayed lazily from side to side as he walked; in all his movements there was perceptible something which was not exactly carelessness, nor yet exactly fatigue.

“Still about Petersburg.”--replied Nadézhda Alexyéevna.--“Vladímir Sergyéitch cannot sufficiently praise it.”

“‘Tis a fine town,”--remarked Véretyeff;--“but, in my opinion, it is nice everywhere. By Heaven, it is. If one only has two or three women, and--pardon my frankness--wine, a man really has nothing left to wish for.”

“You surprise me,”--retorted Vladímir Sergyéitch. “Can it be possible that you are really of one opinion, that there does not exist for the cultured man....”

“Perhaps ... in fact ... I agree with you,”--interrupted Véretyeff, who, notwithstanding all his courtesy, had a habit of not listening to the end of retorts;--“but that’s not in my line; I’m not a philosopher.”

“Neither am I a philosopher,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“and I have not the slightest desire to be one; but here it is a question of something entirely different.”

Véretyeff cast an abstracted glance at his sister, and she, with a faint laugh, bent toward him, and whispered in a low voice:

“Petrúsha, my dear, imitate Egór Kapítonitch for us, please.”

Véretyeff’s face instantly changed, and, Heaven knows by what miracle, became remarkably like the face of Egór Kapítonitch, although the features of the two faces had absolutely nothing in common, and Véretyeff himself barely wrinkled up his nose and pulled down the corners of his lips.

“Of course,”--he began to whisper, in a voice which was the exact counterpart of Egór Kapítonitch’s,--“Matryóna Márkovna is a severe lady on the score of manners; but, on the other hand, she is a model wife. It is true that no matter what I may have said....”

“The Biriúloff girls know it all,”--put in Nadézhda Alexyéevna, hardly restraining her laughter.

“Everything is known on the following day,”--replied Véretyeff, with such a comical grimace, with such a perturbed sidelong glance, that even Vladímir Sergyéitch burst out laughing.

“I see that you possess great talent for mimicry,”--he remarked.

Véretyeff passed his hand over his face, his features resumed their ordinary expression, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna exclaimed:

“Oh, yes! he can mimic any one whom he wishes.... He’s a master hand at that.”

“And would you be able to imitate me, for example?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“I should think so!”--returned Nadézhda Alexyéevna:--“of course.”

“Akh, pray do me the favour to represent me,”--said Astákhoff, turning to Véretyeff.--“I beg that you will not stand on ceremony.”

“And so you too have believed her?”--replied Véretyeff, slightly screwing up one eye, and imparting to his voice the sound of Astákhoff’s voice, but so cautiously and slightly that only Nadézhda Alexyéevna noticed it, and bit her lips.--“Please do not believe her; she will tell you other untrue things about me.”

“And if you only knew what an actor he is!”--pursued Nadézhda Alexyéevna:--“he plays every conceivable sort of a part. And so splendidly! He is our stage-manager, and our prompter, and everything you like. It’s a pity that you are going away so soon.”

“Sister, thy partiality blinds thee,”--remarked Véretyeff, in a pompous tone, but still with the same touch of Astákhoff.--“What will Mr. Astákhoff think of thee?--He will regard thee as a rustic.”

“No, indeed,”--Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning....

“See here, Petrúsha,”--interposed Nadézhda Alexyéevna;--“please show us how a drunken man is utterly unable to get his handkerchief out of his pocket; or no: show us, rather, how a boy catches a fly on the window, and how it buzzes under his fingers.”

“Thou art a regular child,”--replied Véretyeff.

Nevertheless he rose, and stepping to the window, beside which Márya Pávlovna was sitting, he began to pass his hand across the panes, and represent how a small boy catches a fly.

The accuracy with which he imitated its pitiful squeak was really amazing. It seemed as though a live fly were actually struggling under his fingers. Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst out laughing, and gradually every one in the room got to laughing. Márya Pávlovna’s face alone underwent no change, not even her lips quivered. She sat with downcast eyes, but raised them at last, and casting a serious glance at Véretyeff, she muttered through her set teeth:

“What possesses you to make a clown of yourself?”

Véretyeff instantly turned away from the window, and, after standing still for a moment in the middle of the room, he went out on the terrace, and thence into the garden, which had already grown perfectly dark.

“How amusing that Piótr Alexyéitch is!”--exclaimed Egór Kapítonitch, slapping down the seven of trumps with a flourish on some one else’s ace.--“Really, he’s very amusing!”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna rose, and hastily approaching Márya Pávlovna, asked her in an undertone:

“What didst thou say to my brother?”

“Nothing,”--replied the other.

“What dost thou mean by ‘nothing’? Impossible.”

And after waiting a little, Nadézhda Alexyéevna said: “Come!”--took Márya Pávlovna by the hand, forced her to rise, and went off with her into the garden.

Vladímir Sergyéitch gazed after the two young girls not without perplexity. But they were not absent long; a quarter of an hour later they returned, and Piótr Alexyéitch entered the room with them.

“What a splendid night!” exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as she entered.--“How beautiful it is in the garden!”

“Akh, yes. By the way,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“allow me to inquire, Márya Pávlovna, whether it was you whom I saw in the garden last night?”

Márya Pávlovna gave him a swift look straight in the eyes.

“Moreover, so far as I could make out, you were declaiming Púshkin’s ‘The Upas-Tree.’”

Véretyeff frowned slightly, and he also began to stare at Astákhoff.

“It really was I,”--said Márya Pávlovna;--“only, I was not declaiming anything; I never declaim.”

“Perhaps it seemed so to me,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“but....”

“It did seem so to you?”--remarked Márya Pávlovna, coldly.

“What’s ‘The Upas-Tree’?”--inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

“Why, don’t you know?”--retorted Astákhoff.--“Do you mean to say you don’t remember Púshkin’s verses: ‘On the unhealthy, meagre soil’?”

“Somehow I don’t remember.... That upas-tree is a poisonous tree, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Like the datura.... Dost remember, Másha, how beautiful the datura were on our balcony, in the moonlight, with their long, white blossoms? Dost remember what fragrance poured from them,--so sweet, insinuating, and insidious?”

“An insidious fragrance!”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Yes; insidious. What are you surprised at? They say it is dangerous, but it is attractive. Why can evil attract? Evil should not be beautiful.”

“Oh, what theories!”--remarked Piótr Alexyéitch;--“how far away we have got from verses!”

“I recited those verses yesterday evening to Márya Pávlovna,” interposed Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“and they pleased her greatly.”

“Akh, please recite them,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

“Certainly, madam.”

And Astákhoff recited “The Upas-Tree.”

“Too bombastic,”--ejaculated Véretyeff, as though against his will, as soon as Vladímir Sergyéitch had finished.

“The poem is too bombastic?”

“No, not the poem.... Excuse me, it seems to me that you do not recite with sufficient simplicity. The thing speaks for itself; however, I may be mistaken.”

“No, thou art not mistaken,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, pausing between her words.

“Oh, yes; that is a matter of course! In thy eyes I am a genius, an extremely gifted man, who knows everything, can do everything; unfortunately, he is overcome with laziness; isn’t that so?”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna merely shook her head.

“I shall not quarrel with you; you must know best about that,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch, somewhat sulkily.--“That’s not in my line.”

“I made a mistake, pardon me,”--ejaculated Véretyeff, hastily.

In the meantime, the game of cards had come to an end.

“Akh, by the way,”--said Ipátoff, as he rose;--“Vladímir Sergyéitch, one of the local landed proprietors, a neighbour, a very fine and worthy man, Akílin, Gavríla Stepánitch, has commissioned me to ask you whether you will not do him the honour to be present at his ball,--that is, I just put it so, for beauty of style, and said ‘ball,’ but it is only an evening party with dancing, quite informal. He would have called upon you himself without fail, only he was afraid of disturbing you.”

“I am much obliged to the gentleman,”--returned Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“but it is imperatively necessary that I should return home....”

“Why--but when do you suppose the ball takes place? ’Tis to-morrow. To-morrow is Gavríla Stepánitch’s Name-day. One day more won’t matter, and how much pleasure you will give him! And it’s only ten versts from here. If you will allow, we will take you thither.”

“Really, I don’t know,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“And are you going?”

“The whole family! And Nadézhda Alexyéevna and Piótr Alexyéitch,--everybody is going!”

“You may invite me on the spot for the fifth quadrille, if you like,”--remarked Nadézhda Alexyéevna.--“The first four are already bespoken.”

“You are very kind; and are you already engaged for the mazurka?”

“I? Let me think ... no, I think I am not.”

“In that case, if you will be so kind, I should like to have the honour....”

“That means that you will go? Very good. Certainly.”

“Bravo!”--exclaimed Ipátoff.--“Well, Vladímir Sergyéitch, you have put us under an obligation. Gavrílo Stepánitch will simply go into raptures. Isn’t that so, Iván Ílitch?”

Iván Ílitch would have preferred to hold his peace, according to his wont, but thought it better to utter a sound of approval.

“What possessed thee,”--said Piótr Alexyéitch an hour later to his sister, as he sat with her in a light two-wheeled cart, which he was driving himself,--“what possessed thee to saddle thyself with that sour-visaged fellow for the mazurka?”

“I have reasons of my own for that,”--replied Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

“What reasons?--permit me to inquire.”

“That’s my secret.”

“Oho!”

And with his whip he lightly flicked the horse, which was beginning to prick up its ears, snort, and shy. It was frightened by the shadow of a huge willow bush which fell across the road, dimly illuminated by the moon.

“And shalt thou dance with Másha?”--Nadézhda Alexyéevna, in her turn, questioned her brother.

“Yes,” he said indifferently.

“Yes! yes!”--repeated Nadézhda Alexyéevna, reproachfully.--“You men,”--she added, after a brief pause,--“positively do not deserve to be loved by nice women.”

“Dost think so? Well, and that sour-visaged Petersburger--does he deserve it?”

“Sooner than thou.”

“Really!”

And Piótr Alexyéitch recited, with a sigh:

“What a mission, O Creator, To be ... the brother of a grown-up sister!”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst out laughing.

“I cause thee a great deal of trouble, there’s no denying that. I have a commission to thee.”

“Really?--I hadn’t the slightest suspicion of that.”

“I’m speaking of Másha.”

“On what score?”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s face assumed a slight expression of pain.

“Thou knowest thyself,”--she said softly.

“Ah, I understand!--What’s to be done, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, ma’am? I love to drink with a good friend, ma’am, sinful man that I am; I love it, ma’am.”

“Stop, brother, please don’t talk like that!... This is no jesting matter.”

“Tram-tram-tam-poom!”--muttered Piótr Alexyéitch through his teeth.

“It is thy perdition, and thou jestest....”

“The farm-hand is sowing the grain, his wife does not agree....”

struck up Piótr Alexyéitch loudly, slapped the horse with the reins, and it dashed onward at a brisk trot.

IV

On reaching home Véretyeff did not undress, and a couple of hours later, when the flush of dawn was just colouring the sky, he was no longer in the house.

Half-way between his estate and Ipátoff’s, on the very brink of a broad ravine, stood a small birch grove. The young trees grew very close together, and no axe had yet touched their graceful trunks; a shadow which was not dense, but continuous, spread from the tiny leaves on the soft, thin grass, all mottled with the golden heads of buttercups,[23] the white dots of wood-campanula, and the tiny deep-crimson crosses of wild pinks. The recently-risen sun flooded the whole grove with a powerful though not brilliant light; dewdrops glittered everywhere, while here and there large drops kindled and glowed red; everything exhaled freshness, life, and that innocent triumph of the first moments of the morning, when everything is still so bright and still so silent. The only thing audible was the carolling voices of the larks above the distant fields, and in the grove itself two or three small birds were executing, in a leisurely manner, their brief songs, and then, apparently, listening to see how their performance had turned out. From the damp earth arose a strong, healthy scent; a pure, light breeze fluttered all about in cool gusts. Morning, glorious morning, breathed forth from everything--everything looked and smiled of the morning, like the rosy, freshly-washed face of a baby who has just waked up.

Not far from the ravine, in the middle of a small glade, on an outspread cloak, sat Véretyeff. Márya Pávlovna was standing beside him, leaning against a birch-tree, with her hands clasped behind her.

Both were silent. Márya Pávlovna was gazing fixedly into the far distance; a white scarf had slipped from her head to her shoulders, the errant breeze was stirring and lifting the ends of her hastily-knotted hair. Véretyeff sat bent over, tapping the grass with a small branch.

“Well,”--he began at last,--“are you angry with me?”

Márya Pávlovna made no reply.

Véretyeff darted a glance at her.

“Másha, are you angry?”--he repeated.

Márya Pávlovna scanned him with a swift glance from head to foot turned slightly away, and said:

“Yes.”

“What for?”--asked Véretyeff, and flung away his branch.

Again Márya Pávlovna made no reply.

“But, as a matter of fact, you have a right to be angry with me,”--began Véretyeff, after a brief pause.--“You must regard me as a man who is not only frivolous, but even....”

“You do not understand me,”--interrupted Márya Pávlovna.--“I am not in the least angry with you on my own account.”

“On whose account, then?”

“On your own.”

Véretyeff raised his head and laughed.

“Ah! I understand!”--he said.--“Again! again the thought is beginning to agitate you: ‘Why don’t I make something of myself?’ Do you know what, Másha, you are a wonderful being; by Heaven, you are! You worry so much about other people and so little about yourself. There is not a bit of egoism in you; really, really there isn’t. There’s no other girl in the world like you. It’s a pity about one thing: I decidedly am not worthy of your affection; I say that without jesting.”

“So much the worse for you. You feel and do nothing.”--Again Véretyeff laughed.

“Másha, take your hand from behind your back, and give it to me,”--he said, with insinuating affection in his voice.

Márya Pávlovna merely shrugged her shoulders.

“Give me your beautiful, honest hand; I want to kiss it respectfully and tenderly. Thus does a giddy-pated scholar kiss the hand of his condescending tutor.”

And Véretyeff reached out toward Márya Pávlovna.

“Enough of that!”--said she. “You are always laughing and jesting, and you will jest away your life like that.”

“H’m! jest away my life! A new expression! But I hope, Márya Pávlovna, that you used the verb ‘to jest’ in the active sense?”

Márya Pávlovna contracted her brows.

“Enough of that, Véretyeff,”--she repeated.

“To jest away life,”--went on Véretyeff, half rising;--“but you are imagining me as worse than I am; you are wasting your life in seriousness. Do you know, Másha, you remind me of a scene from Púshkin’s ‘Don Juan.’ You have not read Púshkin’s ‘Don Juan’?”

“No.”

“Yes, I had forgotten, you see, that you do not read verses.--In that poem guests come to a certain Laura; she drives them all away and remains alone with Carlos. The two go out on the balcony; the night is wonderful. Laura admires, and Carlos suddenly begins to demonstrate to her that she will grow old in course of time.--‘Well,’ replies Laura, ‘it may be cold and rainy in Paris now, but here, with us, “the night is redolent of orange and of laurel.” Why make guesses at the future?’ Look around you, Másha; is it not beautiful here? See how everything is enjoying life, how young everything is. And aren’t we young ourselves?”

Véretyeff approached Márya Pávlovna; she did not move away from him, but she did not turn her head toward him.

“Smile, Másha,”--he went on;--“only with your kind smile, not with your usual grin. I love your kind smile. Raise your proud, stern eyes.--What ails you? You turn away. Stretch out your hand to me, at least.”

“Akh, Véretyeff,”--began Másha;--“you know that I do not understand how to express myself. You have told me about that Laura. But she was a woman, you see.... A woman may be pardoned for not thinking of the future.”

“When you speak, Másha,”--returned Véretyeff,--“you blush incessantly with self-love and modesty: the blood fairly flows in a crimson flood into your cheeks. I’m awfully fond of that in you.”

Márya Pávlovna looked Véretyeff straight in the eye.

“Farewell,”--she said, and threw her scarf over her head.

Véretyeff held her back. “Enough, enough. Stay!”--he cried.--“Come, why are you going? Issue your commands! Do you want me to enter the service, to become an agriculturist? Do you want me to publish romances with accompaniment for the guitar; to print a collection of poems, or of drawings; to busy myself with painting, sculpture, dancing on the rope? I’ll do anything, anything, anything you command, if only you will be satisfied with me! Come, really now, Másha, believe me.”

Again Márya Pávlovna looked at him.

“You will do all that in words only, not in deeds. You declare that you will obey me....”

“Of course I do.”

“You obey, but how many times have I begged you....”

“What about?”

Márya Pávlovna hesitated.

“Not to drink liquor,”--she said at last.

Véretyeff laughed.

“Ekh, Másha! And you are at it, too! My sister is worrying herself to death over that also. But, in the first place, I’m not a drunkard at all; and in the second place, do you know why I drink? Look yonder, at that swallow.... Do you see how boldly it manages its tiny body,--and hurls it wherever it wishes? Now it has soared aloft, now it has darted downward. It has even piped with joy: do you hear? So that’s why I drink, Másha, in order to feel those same sensations which that swallow experiences.... Hurl yourself whithersoever you will, soar wheresoever you take a fancy....”

“But to what end?”--interrupted Másha.

“What do you mean by that? What is one to live on then?”

“But isn’t it possible to get along without liquor?”

“No, it is not; we are all damaged, rumpled. There’s passion ... it produces the same effect. That’s why I love you.”

“Like wine.... I’m much obliged to you.”

“No, Másha, I do not love you like wine. Stay, I’ll prove it to you sometime,--when we are married, say, and go abroad together. Do you know, I am planning in advance how I shall lead you in front of the Venus of Milo. At this point it will be appropriate to say:

“And when she stands with serious eyes Before the Chyprian of Milos-- Twain are they, and the marble in comparison Suffers, it would seem, affront....

“What makes me talk constantly in poetry to-day? It must be that this morning is affecting me. What air! ’Tis exactly as though one were quaffing wine.”

“Wine again,”--remarked Márya Pávlovna.

“What of that! A morning like this, and you with me, and not feel intoxicated! ‘With serious eyes....’ Yes,”--pursued Véretyeff, gazing intently at Márya Pávlovna,--“that is so.... For I remember, I have beheld, rarely, but yet I have beheld these dark, magnificent eyes, I have beheld them tender! And how beautiful they are then! Come, don’t turn away, Másha; pray, smile at least ... show me your eyes merry, at all events, if they will not vouchsafe me a tender glance.”

“Stop, Véretyeff,”--said Márya Pávlovna.--“Release me! It is time for me to go home.”

“But I’m going to make you laugh,”--interposed Véretyeff; “by Heaven, I will make you laugh. Eh, by the way, yonder runs a hare....”

“Where?”--asked Márya Pávlovna.

“Yonder, beyond the ravine, across the field of oats. Some one must have startled it; they don’t run in the morning. I’ll stop it on the instant, if you like.”

And Véretyeff whistled loudly. The hare immediately squatted, twitched its ears, drew up its fore paws, straightened itself up, munched, sniffed the air, and again began to munch with its lips. Véretyeff promptly squatted down on his heels, like the hare, and began to twitch his nose, sniff, and munch like it. The hare passed its paws twice across its muzzle and shook itself,--they must have been wet with dew,--stiffened its ears, and bounded onward. Véretyeff rubbed his hands over his cheeks and shook himself also.... Márya Pávlovna could not hold out, and burst into a laugh.

“Bravo!”--cried Véretyeff, springing up. “Bravo! That’s exactly the point--you are not a coquette. Do you know, if any fashionable young lady had such teeth as you have she would laugh incessantly. But that’s precisely why I love you, Másha, because you are not a fashionable young lady, don’t laugh without cause, and don’t wear gloves on your hands, which it is a joy to kiss, because they are sunburned, and one feels their strength.... I love you, because you don’t argue, because you are proud, taciturn, don’t read books, don’t love poetry....”

“I’ll recite some verses to you, shall I?”--Márya Pávlovna interrupted him, with a certain peculiar expression on her face.

“Verses?”--inquired Véretyeff, in amazement.

“Yes, verses; the very ones which that Petersburg gentleman recited last night.”

“‘The Upas-Tree’ again?... So you really were declaiming in the garden, by night? That’s just like you.... But does it really please you so much?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Recite it.”

Márya Pávlovna was seized with shyness....

“Recite it, recite it,”--repeated Véretyeff.

Márya Pávlovna began to recite; Véretyeff stood in front of her, with his arms folded on his breast, and bent himself to listen. At the first line Márya Pávlovna raised her eyes heavenward; she did not wish to encounter Véretyeff’s gaze. She recited in her even, soft voice, which reminded one of the sound of a violoncello; but when she reached the lines:

“And the poor slave expired at the feet Of his invincible sovereign....”

her voice began to quiver, her impassive, haughty brows rose ingenuously, like those of a little girl, and her eyes, with involuntary devotion, fixed themselves on Véretyeff....

He suddenly threw himself at her feet and embraced her knees.

“I am thy slave!”--he cried.--“I am at thy feet, thou art my sovereign, my goddess, my ox-eyed Hera, my Medea....”

Márya Pávlovna attempted to repulse him, but her hands sank helplessly in his thick curls, and, with a smile of confusion, she dropped her head on her breast....

V

Gavríla Stepánitch Akílin, at whose house the ball was appointed, belonged to the category of landed proprietors who evoked the admiration of the neighbours by their ingenuity in living well on very insignificant means. Although he did not own more than four hundred serfs, he was in the habit of entertaining the whole government in a huge stone mansion, with a tower and a flag on the tower, erected by himself. The property had descended to him from his father, and had never been distinguished for being well ordered; Gavríla Stepánitch had been an absentee for a long time--had been in the service in Petersburg. At last, twenty-five years before the date of our story, he returned to his native place, with the rank of Collegiate Assessor,[24] and, with a wife and three daughters, had simultaneously undertaken reorganisation and building operations, had gradually set up an orchestra, and had begun to give dinners. At first everybody had prophesied for him speedy and inevitable ruin; more than once rumours had become current to the effect that Gavríla Stepánitch’s estate was to be sold under the hammer; but the years passed, dinners, balls, banquets, concerts, followed each other in their customary order, new buildings sprang out of the earth like mushrooms, and still Gavríla Stepánitch’s estate was not sold under the hammer, and he himself continued to live as before, and had even grown stout of late.

Then the neighbours’ gossip took another direction; they began to hint at certain vast sums which were said to be concealed; they talked of a treasure.... “And if he were only a good farmer, ...” so argued the nobles among themselves; “but that’s just what he isn’t, you know! Not at all! So it is deserving of surprise, and incomprehensible.” However that may have been, every one went very gladly to Gavríla Stepánitch’s house. He received his guests cordially, and played cards for any stake they liked. He was a grey-haired little man, with a small, pointed head, a yellow face, and yellow eyes, always carefully shaven and perfumed with eau-de-cologne; both on ordinary days and on holidays he wore a roomy blue dress-coat, buttoned to the chin, a large stock, in which he had a habit of hiding his chin, and he was foppishly fastidious about his linen; he screwed up his eyes and thrust out his lips when he took snuff, and spoke very politely and softly, incessantly employing the letter _s_.[25]

In appearance, Gavríla Stepánitch was not distinguished by vivacity, and, in general, his exterior was not prepossessing, and he did not look like a clever man, although, at times, craft gleamed in his eye. He had settled his two elder daughters advantageously; the youngest was still at home, and of marriageable age. Gavríla Stepánitch also had a wife, an insignificant and wordless being.

At seven o’clock in the evening, Vladímir Sergyéitch presented himself at the Ipátoffs’ in dress-suit and white gloves. He found them all entirely dressed; the little girls were sitting sedately, afraid of mussing their starched white frocks; old Ipátoff, on catching sight of Vladímir Sergyéitch in his dress-suit, affectionately upbraided him, and pointed to his own frock-coat; Márya Pávlovna wore a muslin gown of a deep rose colour, which was extremely becoming to her. Vladímir Sergyéitch paid her several compliments. Márya Pávlovna’s beauty attracted him, although she was evidently shy of him; he also liked Nadézhda Alexyéevna, but her free-and-easy manners somewhat disconcerted him. Moreover, in her remarks, her looks, her very smiles, mockery frequently peeped forth, and this disturbed his citified and well-bred soul. He would not have been averse to making fun of others with her, but it was unpleasant to him to think that she was probably capable of jeering at himself.

The ball had already begun; a good many guests had assembled, and the home-bred orchestra was crashing and booming and screeching in the gallery, when the Ipátoff family, accompanied by Vladímir Sergyéitch, entered the hall of the Akílin house. The host met them at the very door, thanked Vladímir Sergyéitch for his tender procuration of an agreeable surprise,--that was the way he expressed himself,--and, taking Ipátoff’s arm, he led him to the drawing-room, to the card-tables. Gavríla Stepánitch had received a bad education, and everything in his house, both the music and the furniture and the food and the wines, not only could not be called first-class, but were not even fit to be ranked as second-class. On the other hand, there was plenty of everything, and he himself did not put on airs, was not arrogant ... the nobles demanded nothing more from him, and were entirely satisfied with his entertainment. At supper, for instance, the caviare was served cut up in chunks and heavily salted; but no one objected to your taking it in your fingers, and there was plenty wherewith to wash it down: wines which were cheap, it is true, but were made from grapes, nevertheless, and not some other concoction. The springs in Gavríla Stepánitch’s furniture were rather uncomfortable, owing to their stiffness and inflexibility; but, not to mention the fact that there were no springs whatever in many of the couches and easy-chairs, any one could place under him a worsted cushion, and there was a great number of such cushions lying about, embroidered by the hands of Gavríla Stepánitch’s spouse herself--and then there was nothing left to desire.

In a word, Gavríla Stepánitch’s house could not possibly have been better adapted to the sociable and unceremonious style of ideas of the inhabitants of *** county, and it was solely owing to Mr. Akílin’s modesty that at the assemblies of the nobility he was not elected Marshal, but a retired Major Podpékin, a greatly respected and worthy man, despite the fact that he brushed his hair over to the right temple from the left ear, dyed his moustache a lilac hue, and as he suffered from asthma, had of late fallen into melancholy.

So, then, the ball had already begun. They were dancing a quadrille of ten pairs. The cavaliers were the officers of a regiment stationed close by, and divers not very youthful squires, and two or three officials from the town. Everything was as it should be, everything was proceeding in due order. The Marshal of the Nobility was playing cards with a retired Actual Councillor of State,[26] and a wealthy gentleman, the owner of three thousand souls. The actual state councillor wore on his forefinger a ring with a diamond, talked very softly, kept the heels of his boots closely united, and did not move them from the position used by dancers of former days, and did not turn his head, which was half concealed by a capital velvet collar. The wealthy gentleman, on the contrary, was constantly laughing at something or other, elevating his eyebrows, and flashing the whites of his eyes. The poet Bodryakóff, a man of shy and clumsy aspect, was chatting in a corner with the learned historian Evsiukóff: each had clutched the other by the button. Beside them, one noble, with a remarkably long waist, was expounding certain audacious opinions to another noble who was timidly staring at his forehead. Along the wall sat the mammas in gay-hued caps; around the doors pressed the men of simple cut, young fellows with perturbed faces, and elderly fellows with peaceable ones; but one cannot describe everything. We repeat: everything was as it should be.

Nadézhda Alexyéevna had arrived even earlier than the Ipátoffs; Vladímir Sergyéitch saw her dancing with a young man of handsome appearance in a dandified dress-suit, with expressive eyes, thin black moustache, and gleaming teeth; a gold chain hung in a semicircle on his stomach. Nadézhda Alexyéevna wore a light-blue gown with white flowers; a small garland of the same flowers encircled her curly head; she was smiling, fluttering her fan, and gaily gazing about her; she felt that she was the queen of the ball. Vladímir Sergyéitch approached her, made his obeisance, and looking her pleasantly in the face, he asked her whether she remembered her promise of the day before.

“What promise?”

“Why, that you would dance the mazurka with me.”

“Yes, of course I will dance it with you.”

The young man who stood alongside Nadézhda Alexyéevna suddenly flushed crimson.

“You have probably forgotten, mademoiselle,”--he began,--“that you had already previously promised to-day’s mazurka to me.”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna became confused.

“Akh! good heavens, what am I to do?”--she said:--“excuse me, pray, M’sieu Steltchínsky, I am so absent-minded; I really am ashamed....”

M’sieu Steltchínsky made no reply, and merely dropped his eyes; Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a slight air of dignity.

“Be so good, M’sieu Steltchínsky,”--went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “you and I are old acquaintances, but M’sieu Astákhoff is a stranger among us; do not place me in an awkward position: permit me to dance with him.”

“As you please,”--returned the young man.--“But you must begin.”

“Thanks,”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, and fluttered off to meet her vis-à-vis.

Steltchínsky followed her with his eyes, then looked at Vladímir Sergyéitch. Vladímir Sergyéitch, in his turn, looked at him, then stepped aside.

The quadrille soon came to an end. Vladímir Sergyéitch strolled about the hall a little, then he betook himself to the drawing-room and paused at one of the card-tables. Suddenly he felt some one touch his hand from behind; he turned round--before him stood Steltchínsky.

“I must have a couple of words with you in the next room, if you will permit,”--said the latter, in French, very courteously, and with an accent which was not Russian.

Vladímir Sergyéitch followed him.

Steltchínsky halted at a window.

“In the presence of ladies,”--he began, in the same language as before,--“I could not say anything else than what I did say; but I hope you do not think that I really intend to surrender to you my right to the mazurka with M-lle Véretyeff.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch was astounded.

“Why so?”--he asked.

“Because, sir,”--replied Steltchínsky, quietly, laying his hand on his breast and inflating his nostrils,--“I don’t intend to,--that’s all.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch also laid his hand on his breast, but did not inflate his nostrils.

“Permit me to remark to you, my dear sir,”--he began,--“that by this course you may drag M-lle Véretyeff into unpleasantness, and I assume....”

“That would be extremely unpleasant to me, but no one can prevent your declining, declaring that you are ill, or going away....”

“I shall not do it. For whom do you take me?”

“In that case, I shall be compelled to demand satisfaction from you.”

“In what sense do you mean ... satisfaction?”

“The sense is evident.”

“You will challenge me to a duel?”

“Precisely so, sir, if you do not renounce the mazurka.”

Steltchínsky endeavoured to utter these words as negligently as possible. Vladímir Sergyéitch’s heart set to beating violently. He looked his wholly unexpected antagonist in the face. “Phew, O Lord, what stupidity!” he thought.

“You are not jesting?”--he articulated aloud.

“I am not in the habit of jesting in general,”--replied Steltchínsky, pompously;--“and particularly with people whom I do not know. You will not renounce the mazurka?”--he added, after a brief pause.

“I will not,”--retorted Vladímir Sergyéitch, as though deliberating.

“Very good! We will fight to-morrow.”

“Very well.”

“To-morrow morning my second will call upon you.”

And with a courteous inclination, Steltchínsky withdrew, evidently well pleased with himself.

Vladímir Sergyéitch remained a few minutes longer by the window.

“Just look at that, now!”--he thought.--“This is the result of thy new acquaintances! What possessed me to come? Good! Splendid!”

But at last he recovered himself, and went out into the hall.

In the hall they were already dancing the polka. Before Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes Márya Pávlovna flitted past with Piótr Alexyéitch, whom he had not noticed up to that moment; she seemed pale, and even sad; then Nadézhda Alexyéevna darted past, all beaming and joyous, with some youthful, bow-legged, but fiery artillery officer; on the second round, she was dancing with Steltchínsky. Steltchínsky shook his hair violently when he danced.

“Well, my dear fellow,”--suddenly rang out Ipátoff’s voice behind Vladímir Sergyéitch’s back;--“you’re only looking on, but not dancing yourself? Come, confess that, in spite of the fact that we live in a dead-calm region, so to speak, we aren’t badly off, are we, hey?”

“Good! damn the dead-calm region!” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and mumbling something in reply to Ipátoff, he went off to another corner of the hall.

“I must hunt up a second,”--he pursued his meditations;--“but where the devil am I to find one? I can’t take Véretyeff; I know no others; the devil only knows what a stupid affair this is!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch, when he got angry, was fond of mentioning the devil.

At this moment, Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes fell upon The Folding Soul, Iván Ílitch, standing idly by the window.

“Wouldn’t he do?”--he thought, and shrugging his shoulders, he added almost aloud:--“I shall have to take him.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch stepped up to him.

“A very strange thing has just happened to me,”--began our hero with a forced smile:--“just imagine some young man or other, a stranger to me, has challenged me to a duel; it is utterly impossible for me to refuse; I am in indispensable need of a second: will not you act?”

Although Iván Ílitch was characterised, as we know, by imperturbable indifference, yet such an unexpected proposition startled even him. Thoroughly perplexed, he riveted his eyes on Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Yes,”--repeated Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“I should be greatly indebted to you. I am not acquainted with any one here. You alone....”

“I can’t,”--said Iván Ílitch, as though just waking up;--“I absolutely can’t.”

“Why not? You are afraid of unpleasantness; but all this will, I hope, remain a secret....”

As he spoke these words, Vladímir Sergyéitch felt himself blushing and growing confused.

“Excuse me, I can’t possibly,”--repeated Iván Ílitch, shaking his head and drawing back, in which operation he again overturned a chair.

For the first time in his life it was his lot to reply to a request by a refusal; but then, the request was such a queer one!

“At any rate,”--pursued Vladímir Sergyéitch, in an agitated voice, as he grasped his hand,--“do me the favour not to speak to any one concerning what I have said to you. I earnestly entreat this of you.”

“I can do that, I can do that,”--hastily replied Iván Ílitch;--“but the other thing I cannot do, say what you will; I positively am unable to do it.”

“Well, very good, very good,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch;--“but do not forget that I rely on your discretion.... I shall announce to-morrow to that gentleman,” he muttered to himself with vexation,--“that I could not find a second, so let him make what arrangements he sees fit, for I am a stranger here. And the devil prompted me to apply to that gentleman! But what else was there for me to do?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch was very, very unlike his usual self.

In the meantime, the ball went on. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have greatly liked to depart at once, but departure was not to be thought of until the end of the mazurka. How was he to give up to his delighted antagonist? Unhappily for Vladímir Sergyéitch, the dances were in charge of a free-and-easy young gentleman with long hair and a sunken chest, over which, in semblance of a miniature waterfall, meandered a black satin neckcloth, transfixed with a huge gold pin. This young gentleman had the reputation, throughout the entire government, of being a man who had assimilated, in their most delicate details, all the customs and rules of the highest society, although he had lived in Petersburg only six months altogether, and had not succeeded in penetrating any loftier heights than the houses of Collegiate Assessor Sandaráki and his brother-in-law, State Councillor Kostandaráki. He superintended the dances at all balls, gave the signal to the musicians by clapping his hands, and in the midst of the roar of the trumpets and the squeaking of the violins shouted: “_En avant deux!_” or “_Grande chaîne!_” or “_A vous, mademoiselle!_” and was incessantly flying, all pale and perspiring, through the hall, slipping headlong, and bowing and scraping. He never began the mazurka before midnight. “And that is a concession,”--he was wont to say;--“in Petersburg I would keep you in torment until two o’clock.”

This ball seemed very long to Vladímir Sergyéitch. He prowled about like a shadow from hall to drawing-room, now and again exchanging cold glances with his antagonist, who never missed a single dance, and undertook to invite Márya Pávlovna for a quadrille, but she was already engaged--and a couple of times he bandied words with the anxious host, who appeared to be harassed by the tedium which was written on the countenance of the new guest. At last, the music of the longed-for mazurka thundered out. Vladímir Sergyéitch hunted up his lady, brought two chairs, and seated himself with her, near the end of the circle, almost opposite Steltchínsky.

The young man who managed affairs was in the first pair, as might have been expected. With what a face he began the mazurka, how he dragged his lady after him, how he beat the floor with his foot, and twitched his head the while,--all this is almost beyond the power of human pen to describe.

“But it seems to me, M’sieu Astákhoff, that you are bored,”--began Nadézhda Alexyéevna, suddenly turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“I? Not in the least. What makes you think so?”

“Why, because I do from the expression of your face.... You have never smiled a single time since you arrived. I had not expected that of you. It is not becoming to you positive gentlemen to be misanthropical and to frown à la Byron. Leave that to the authors.”

“I notice, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, that you frequently call me a positive man, as though mockingly. It must be that you regard me as the coldest and most sensible of beings, incapable of anything which.... But do you know, I will tell you something; a positive man is often very sad at heart, but he does not consider it necessary to display to others what is going on there inside of him; he prefers to hold his peace.”

“What do you mean by that?”--inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna, surveying him with a glance.

“Nothing, ma’am,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with feigned indifference, assuming an air of mystery.

“Really?”

“Really, nothing.... You shall know some day, later on.”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna wanted to pursue her questions, but at that moment a young girl, the host’s daughter, led up to her Steltchínsky and another cavalier in blue spectacles.

“Life or death?”--she asked in French.

“Life,”--exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “I don’t want death just yet.”

Steltchínsky bowed; she went off with him.[27]

The cavalier in the blue glasses, who was called Death, started off with the host’s daughter. Steltchínsky had invented the two designations.

“Tell me, please, who is that Mr. Steltchínsky?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch of Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as soon as the latter returned to her place.

“He is attached to the Governor’s service, and is a very agreeable man. He does not belong in these parts. He is somewhat of a coxcomb, but that runs in the blood of all of them. I hope you have not had any explanations with him on account of the mazurka?”

“None whatever, I assure you,”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with a little hesitation.

“I’m such a forgetful creature! You can’t imagine!”

“I am bound to be delighted with your forgetfulness: it has afforded me the pleasure of dancing with you to-night.”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna gazed at him, with her eyes slightly narrowed.

“Really? You find it agreeable to dance with me?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch answered her with a compliment. Little by little he got to talking freely. Nadézhda Alexyéevna was always charming, and particularly so that evening; Vladímir Sergyéitch thought her enchanting. The thought of the duel on the morrow, while it fretted his nerves, imparted brilliancy and vivacity to his remarks; under its influence he permitted himself slight exaggerations in the expression of his feelings.... “I don’t care!” he thought. Something mysterious, involuntarily sad, something elegantly-hopeless peeped forth in all his words, in his suppressed sighs, in his glances which suddenly darkened. At last, he got to chattering to such a degree that he began to discuss love, women, his future, the manner in which he conceived of happiness, what he demanded of Fate.... He explained himself allegorically, by hints. On the eve of his possible death, Vladímir Sergyéitch flirted with Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

She listened to him attentively, laughed, shook her head, now disputed with him, again pretended to be incredulous.... The conversation, frequently interrupted by the approach of ladies and cavaliers, took a rather strange turn toward the end.... Vladímir Sergyéitch had already begun to interrogate Nadézhda Alexyéevna about herself, her character, her sympathies. At first she parried the questions with a jest, then, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly to Vladímir Sergyéitch, she asked him when he was going away.

“Whither?”--he said, in surprise.

“To your own home.”

“To Sásovo?”

“No, home, to your village, a hundred versts from here.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch cast down his eyes.

“I should like to go as promptly as possible,”--he said with a preoccupied look on his face.--“To-morrow, I think ... if I am alive. For I have business on hand. But why have you suddenly taken it into your head to ask me about that?”

“Because I have!”--retorted Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

“But what is the reason?”

“Because I have!”--she repeated.--“I am surprised at the curiosity of a man who is going away to-morrow, and to-day wants to find out about my character....”

“But, pardon me ...” began Vladímir Sergyéitch....

“Ah, here, by the way ... read this,”--Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted him with a laugh, as she handed him a motto-slip of paper from bonbons which she had just taken from a small table that stood near by, as she rose to meet Márya Pávlovna, who had stopped in front of her with another lady.

Márya Pávlovna was dancing with Piótr Alexyéitch. Her face was covered with a flush, and was flaming, but not cheerful.

Vladímir Sergyéitch glanced at the slip of paper; thereon, in wretched French letters, was printed:

“_Qui me néglige me perd._”

He raised his eyes, and encountered Steltchínsky’s gaze bent upon him. Vladímir Sergyéitch smiled constrainedly, threw his elbow over the back of the chair, and crossed his legs--as much as to say: “I don’t care for thee!”

The fiery artillery officer brought Nadézhda Alexyéevna up to her chair with a dash, pirouetted gently in front of her, bowed, clicked his spurs, and departed. She sat down.

“Allow me to inquire,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch, with pauses between his words,--“in what sense I am to understand this billet?...”

“But what in the world does it say?”--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.--“Ah, yes! ‘_Qui me néglige me perd._’ Well! that’s an admirable rule of life, which may be of service at every step. In order to make a success of anything, no matter what, one must not neglect anything whatsoever.... One must endeavour to obtain everything; perhaps one will obtain something. But I am ridiculous. I ... I am talking to you, a practical man, about rules of life....”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst into a laugh, and Vladímir Sergyéitch strove, in vain, to the very end of the mazurka, to renew their previous conversation. Nadézhda Alexyéevna avoided it with the perversity of a capricious child. Vladímir Sergyéitch talked to her about his sentiments, and she either did not reply to him at all, or else she called his attention to the gowns of the ladies, to the ridiculous faces of some of the men, to the skill with which her brother danced, to the beauty of Márya Pávlovna; she began to talk about music, about the day before, about Egór Kapítonitch and his wife, Matryóna Márkovna ... and only at the very close of the mazurka, when Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning to make her his farewell bow, did she say, with an ironical smile on her lips and in her eyes:

“So you are positively going to-morrow?”

“Yes; and very far away, perhaps,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, significantly.

“I wish you a happy journey.”

And Nadézhda Alexyéevna swiftly approached her brother, merrily whispered something in his ear, then asked aloud:

“Grateful to me? Yes? art thou not? otherwise he would have asked _her_ for the mazurka.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and said:

“Nevertheless, nothing will come of it....”

She led him off into the drawing-room.

“The flirt!”--thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and taking his hat in his hand, he slipped unnoticed from the hall, hunted up his footman, to whom he had previously given orders to hold himself in readiness, and was already donning his overcoat, when suddenly, to his intense surprise, the lackey informed him that it was impossible to depart, as the coachman, in some unknown manner, had drunk to intoxication, and that it was utterly impossible to arouse him. After cursing the coachman in a remarkably brief but extremely powerful manner (this took place in the anteroom, outside witnesses were present), and informing his footman that if the coachman was not in proper condition by daylight to-morrow, then no one in the world would be capable of picturing to himself what the result would be, Vladímir Sergyéitch returned to the hall, and requested the major-domo to allot him a chamber, without waiting for supper, which was already prepared in the drawing-room. The master of the house suddenly popped up, as it were, out of the floor, at Vladímir Sergyéitch’s very elbow (Gavríla Stepánitch wore boots without heels, and therefore moved about without the slightest sound), and began to hold him back, assuring him that there would be caviar of the very best quality for supper; but Vladímir Sergyéitch excused himself on the plea of a headache. Half an hour later he was lying in a small bed, under a short coverlet, and trying to get to sleep.

But he could not get to sleep. Toss as he would from side to side, strive as he would to think of something else, the figure of Steltchínsky importunately towered up before him.... Now he is taking aim ... now he has fired.... “Astákhoff is killed,” says some one. Vladímir Sergyéitch could not be called a brave man, yet he was no coward; but even the thought of a duel, no matter with whom, had never once entered his head.... Fight! with his good sense, peaceable disposition, respect for the conventions, dreams of future prosperity, and an advantageous marriage! If it had not been a question of his own person, he would have laughed heartily, so stupid and ridiculous did this affair seem to him. Fight! with whom, and about what?!

“Phew! damn it! what nonsense!”--he exclaimed involuntarily aloud.--“Well, and what if he really does kill me?”--he continued his meditations;--“I must take measures, make arrangements.... Who will mourn for me?”

And in vexation he closed his eyes, which were staringly-wide open, drew the coverlet up around his neck ... but could not get to sleep, nevertheless....

Dawn was already breaking, and exhausted with the fever of insomnia, Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning to fall into a doze, when suddenly he felt some weight or other on his feet. He opened his eyes.... On his bed sat Véretyeff.

Vladímir Sergyéitch was greatly amazed, especially when he noticed that Véretyeff had no coat on, that beneath his unbuttoned shirt his bare breast was visible, that his hair was tumbling over his forehead, and that his very face appeared changed. Vladímir Sergyéitch got half-way out of bed....

“Allow me to ask ...” he began, throwing his hands apart....

“I have come to you,”--said Véretyeff, in a hoarse voice;--“excuse me for coming in such a guise.... We have been drinking a bit yonder. I wanted to put you at ease. I said to myself: ‘Yonder lies a gentleman who, in all probability, cannot get to sleep.--Let’s help him.’--Understand; you are not going to fight to-morrow, and can go to sleep....”

Vladímir Sergyéitch was still more amazed than before.

“What was that you said?”--he muttered.

“Yes; that has all been adjusted,”--went on Véretyeff;--“that gentleman from the banks of the Visla ... Steltchínsky ... makes his apologies to you ... to-morrow you will receive a letter.... I repeat to you:--all is settled.... Snore away.”

So saying, Véretyeff rose, and directed his course, with unsteady steps, toward the door.

“But permit me, permit me,”--began Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“How could you have found out, and how can I believe....”

“Akh! you think that I ... you know ...” (and he reeled forward slightly).... “I tell you ... he will send a letter to you to-morrow.... You do not arouse any particular sympathy in me, but magnanimity is my weak side. But what’s the use of talking.... It’s all nonsense anyway.... But confess,”--he added, with a wink;--“you were pretty well scared, weren’t you, hey?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch flew into a rage.

“Permit me, in conclusion, my dear sir,”--said he....

“Well, good, good,”--Véretyeff interrupted him with a good-natured smile.--“Don’t fly into a passion. Evidently you are not aware that no ball ever takes place without that sort of thing. That’s the established rule. It never amounts to anything. Who feels like exposing his brow? Well, and why not bluster, hey? at newcomers, for instance? _In vino veritas._ However, neither you nor I know Latin. But I see by your face that you are sleepy. I wish you good night, Mr. Positive Man, well-intentioned mortal. Accept this wish from another mortal who isn’t worth a brass farthing himself. _Addio, mio caro!_”

And Véretyeff left the room.

“The devil knows what this means!”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause, banging his fist into the pillow;--“no one ever heard the like!... this must be cleared up! I won’t tolerate this!”

Nevertheless, five minutes later he was already sleeping softly and profoundly.... Danger escaped fills the soul of man with sweetness, and softens it.

This is what had taken place before that unanticipated nocturnal interview between Véretyeff and Vladímir Sergyéitch.

In Gavríla Stepánitch’s house lived his grand-nephew, who occupied bachelor quarters in the lower story. When there were balls on hand, the young men dropped in at his rooms between the dances, to smoke a hasty pipe, and after supper they assembled there for a friendly drinking-bout. A good many of the guests had dropped in on him that night. Steltchínsky and Véretyeff were among the number; Iván Ílitch, The Folding Soul, also wandered in there in the wake of the others. They brewed a punch. Although Iván Ílitch had promised Astákhoff that he would not mention the impending duel to any one whomsoever, yet, when Véretyeff accidentally asked him what he had been talking about with that glum fellow (Véretyeff never alluded to Astákhoff otherwise), The Folding Soul could not contain himself, and repeated his entire conversation with Vladímir Sergyéitch, word for word.

Véretyeff burst out laughing, then lapsed into meditation.

“But with whom is he going to fight?”--he asked.

“That’s what I cannot say,”--returned Iván Ílitch.

“At all events, with whom has he been talking?”

“With different people.... With Egór Kapítonitch. It cannot be that he is going to fight with him?’

Véretyeff went away from Iván Ílitch.

So, then, they made a punch, and began to drink. Véretyeff was sitting in the most conspicuous place. Jolly and profligate, he held the pre-eminence in gatherings of young men. He threw off his waistcoat and neckcloth. He was asked to sing; he took a guitar and sang several songs. Heads began to wax rather hot; the young men began to propose toasts. Suddenly Steltchínsky, all red in the face, sprang upon the table, and elevating his glass high above his head, exclaimed loudly:

“To the health ... of I know whom,”--he hastily caught himself up, drank off his liquor, and smashed his glass on the floor, adding:--“May my foe be shivered into just such pieces to-morrow!”

Véretyeff, who had long had his eye on him, swiftly raised his head....

“Steltchínsky,”--said he,--“in the first place, get off the table; that’s indecorous, and you have very bad boots into the bargain; and, in the second place, come hither, I will tell thee something.”

He led him aside.

“Hearken, brother; I know that thou art going to fight to-morrow with that gentleman from Petersburg.”

Steltchínsky started.

“How ... who told thee?”

“I tell thee it is so. And I also know on whose account thou art going to fight.”

“Who is it? I am curious to know.”

“Akh, get out with thee, thou Talleyrand! My sister’s, of course. Come, come, don’t pretend to be surprised. It gives you a goose-like expression. I can’t imagine how this has come about, but it is a fact. That will do, my good fellow,”--pursued Véretyeff.--“What’s the use of shamming? I know, you see, that you have been paying court to her this long time.”

“But, nevertheless, that does not prove....”

“Stop, if you please. But hearken to what I am about to say to you. I won’t permit that duel under any circumstances whatsoever. Dost understand? All this folly will descend upon my sister. Excuse me: so long as I am alive ... that shall not be. As for thou and I, we shall perish--we’re on the road to it; but she must live a long time yet, and live happily. Yes, I swear,”--he added, with sudden heat,--“that I will betray all others, even those who might be ready to sacrifice everything for me, but I will not permit any one to touch a single hair of her head.”

Steltchínsky emitted a forced laugh.

“Thou art drunk, my dear fellow, and art raving ... that’s all.”

“And art not thou, I’d like to know? But whether I am drunk or not, is a matter of not the slightest consequence. But I’m talking business. Thou shalt not fight with that gentleman, I guarantee that. And what in the world possessed thee to have anything to do with him? Hast grown jealous, pray? Well, those speak the truth who say that men in love are stupid! Why she danced with him simply in order to prevent his inviting.... Well, but that’s not the point. But this duel shall not take place.”

“H’m! I should like to see how thou wilt prevent me?”

“Well, then, this way: if thou dost not instantly give me thy word to renounce this duel, I will fight with thee myself.”

“Really?”

“My dear fellow, entertain no doubt on that score. I will insult thee on the spot, my little friend, in the presence of every one, in the most fantastic manner, and then fight thee across a handkerchief, if thou wilt. But I think that will be disagreeable to thee, for many reasons, hey?”

Steltchínsky flared up, began to say that this was _intimidation_,[28] that he would not permit any one to meddle with his affairs, that he would not stick at anything ... and wound up by submitting, and renouncing all attempts on the life of Vladímir Sergyéitch. Véretyeff embraced him, and half an hour had not elapsed, before the two had already drunk Brüderschaft for the tenth time,--that is to say, they drank with arms interlocked.... The young man who had acted as floor-manager of the ball also drank Brüderschaft with them, and at first clung close to them, but finally fell asleep in the most innocent manner, and lay for a long time on his back in a condition of complete insensibility.... The expression of his tiny, pale face was both amusing and pitiful.... Good heavens! what would those fashionable ladies, his acquaintances, have said, if they had beheld him in that condition! But, luckily for him, he was not acquainted with a single fashionable lady.

Iván Ílitch also distinguished himself on that night. First he amazed the guests by suddenly striking up: “In the country a Baron once dwelt.”

“The hawfinch! The hawfinch has begun to sing!”--shouted all. “When has it ever happened that a hawfinch has sung by night?”

“As though I knew only one song,”--retorted Iván Ílitch, who was heated with liquor;--“I know some more, too.”

“Come, come, come, show us your art.”

Iván Ílitch maintained silence for a while, and suddenly struck up in a bass voice: “Krambambuli,[29] bequest of our fathers!” but so incoherently and strangely, that a general outburst of laughter immediately drowned his voice, and he fell silent. When all had dispersed, Véretyeff betook himself to Vladímir Sergyéitch, and the brief conversation already reported, ensued between them.

On the following day, Vladímir Sergyéitch drove off to his own Sásovo very early. He passed the whole morning in a state of excitement, came near mistaking a passing merchant for a second, and breathed freely only when his lackey brought him a letter from Steltchínsky. Vladímir Sergyéitch perused that letter several times,--it was very adroitly worded.... Steltchínsky began with the words: “_La nuit porte conseil, Monsieur_,”--made no excuses whatever, because, in his opinion, he had not insulted his antagonist in any way; but admitted that he had been somewhat irritated on the preceding evening, and wound up with the statement that he held himself entirely at the disposition of Mr. Astákhoff (“_de M-r Astákhoff_”), but no longer demanded satisfaction himself. After having composed and despatched a reply, which was filled, simultaneously with courtesy which bordered on playfulness, and a sense of dignity, in which, however, no trace of braggadocio was perceptible, Vladímir Sergyéitch sat down to dinner, rubbing his hands, ate with great satisfaction, and immediately afterward set off, without having even sent relays on in advance. The road along which he drove passed at a distance of four versts from Ipátoff’s manor.... Vladímir Sergyéitch looked at it.

“Farewell, region of dead calm!”--he said with a smile.

The images of Nadézhda Alexyéevna and Márya Pávlovna presented themselves for a moment to his imagination; he dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and sank into a doze.

VI

More than three months had passed. Autumn had long since set in; the yellow forests had grown bare, the tomtits had arrived, and--unfailing sign of the near approach of winter--the wind had begun to howl and wail. But there had been no heavy rains, as yet, and mud had not succeeded in spreading itself over the roads. Taking advantage of this circumstance, Vladímir Sergyéitch set out for the government capital, for the purpose of winding up several matters of business. He spent the morning in driving about, and in the evening went to the club. In the vast, gloomy hall of the club he encountered several acquaintances, and, among others, the old retired captain of cavalry Flitch, a busybody, wit, gambler, and gossip, well known to every one. Vladímir Sergyéitch entered into conversation with him.

“Ah, by the way!”--suddenly exclaimed the retired cavalry-captain; “an acquaintance of yours passed through here the other day, and left her compliments for you.”

“Who was she?”

“Madame Steltchínsky.”

“I don’t know any Madame Steltchínsky.”

“You knew her as a girl.... She was born Véretyeff.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna. Her husband served our Governor. You must have seen him also.... A lively man, with a moustache.... He’s hooked a splendid woman, with money to boot.”

“You don’t say so,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“So she has married him.... H’m! And where have they gone?”

“To Petersburg. She also bade me remind you of a certain bonbon motto.... What sort of a motto was it, allow me to inquire?”

And the old gossip thrust forward his sharp nose.

“I don’t remember, really; some jest or other,”--returned Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“But permit me to ask, where is her brother now?”

“Piótr? Well, he’s in a bad way.”

Mr. Flitch rolled up his small, foxy eyes, and heaved a sigh.

“Why, what’s the matter?”--asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“He has taken to dissipation! He’s a ruined man.”

“But where is he now?”

“It is absolutely unknown where he is. He went off somewhere or other after a gipsy girl; that’s the most certain thing of all. He’s not in this government, I’ll guarantee that.”

“And does old Ipátoff still live there?”

“Mikhaíl Nikoláitch? That eccentric old fellow? Yes, he still lives there.”

“And is everything in his household ... as it used to be?”

“Certainly, certainly. Here now, why don’t you marry his sister-in-law? She’s not a woman, you know, she’s simply a monument, really. Ha, ha! People have already been talking among us ... ‘why,’ say they....”

“You don’t say so, sir,”--articulated Vladímir Sergyéitch, narrowing his eyes.

At that moment, Flitch was invited to a cardgame, and the conversation terminated.

Vladímir Sergyéitch had intended to return home promptly; but suddenly he received by special messenger a report from the overseer, that six of the peasants’ homesteads had burned down in Sásovo, and he decided to go thither himself. The distance from the government capital to Sásovo was reckoned at sixty versts. Vladímir Sergyéitch arrived toward evening at the wing with which the reader is already acquainted, immediately gave orders that the overseer and clerk should be summoned, scolded them both in proper fashion, inspected the scene of the conflagration next morning, took the necessary measures, and after dinner, after some wavering, set off to visit Ipátoff. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have remained at home, had he not heard from Flitch of Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s departure; he did not wish to meet her; but he was not averse to taking another look at Márya Pávlovna.

Vladímir Sergyéitch, as on the occasion of his first visit, found Ipátoff busy at draughts with The Folding Soul. The old man was delighted to see him; yet it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though his face were troubled, and his speech did not flow freely and readily as of old.

Vladímir Sergyéitch exchanged a silent glance with Iván Ílitch. Both winced a little; but they speedily recovered their serenity.

“Are all your family well?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Yes, thank God, I thank you sincerely,”--replied Ipátoff.--“Only Márya Pávlovna isn’t quite ... you know, she stays in her room most of the time.”

“Has she caught cold?”

“No ... she just likes to. She will make her appearance at tea.”

“And Egór Kapítonitch? What is he doing?”

“Akh! Egór Kapítonitch is a dead man. His wife has died.”

“It cannot be!”

“She died in twenty-four hours, of cholera. You wouldn’t know him now, he has become simply unrecognisable. ‘Without Matryóna Márkovna,’ he says, ‘life is a burden to me. I shall die,’ he says, ‘and God be thanked,’ he says; ‘I don’t wish to live,’ says he. Yes, he’s done for, poor fellow.”

“Akh! good heavens, how unpleasant that is!”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“Poor Egór Kapítonitch!”

All were silent for a time.

“I hear that your pretty neighbour has married,”--remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch, flushing faintly.

“Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Yes, she has.”

Ipátoff darted a sidelong glance at Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Certainly ... certainly, she has married and gone away.”

“To Petersburg?”

“To St. Petersburg.”

“Márya Pávlovna must miss her, I think. I believe they were great friends.”

“Of course she misses her. That cannot be avoided. But as for friendship, I’ll just tell you, that the friendship of girls is even worse than the friendship of men. So long as they are face to face, it’s all right; but, otherwise, it vanishes.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, by Heaven, ’tis so! Take Nadézhda Alexyéevna, for example. She hasn’t written to us since she went away; but how she promised, even vowed that she would! In truth, she’s in no mood for that now.”

“And has she been gone long?”

“Yes; it must be fully six weeks. She hurried off on the very day after the wedding, foreign fashion.”

“I hear that her brother is no longer here, either?”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause.

“No; he is not. They are city folk, you see; as though they would live long in the country!”

“And does no one know where he has gone?”

“No.”

“He just went into a rage, and--slap-bang on the ear,” remarked Iván Ílitch.

“He just went into a rage, and--slap-bang on the ear,” repeated Ipátoff. “Well, and how about yourself, Vladímir Sergyéitch,--what nice things have you been doing?”--he added, wheeling round on his chair.

Vladímir Sergyéitch began to tell about himself; Ipátoff listened and listened to him, and at last exclaimed:

“But why doesn’t Márya Pávlovna come? Thou hadst better go for her, Iván Ílitch.”

Iván Ílitch left the room, and returning, reported that Márya Pávlovna would be there directly.

“What’s the matter? Has she got a headache?”--inquired Ipátoff, in an undertone.

“Yes,” replied Iván Ílitch.

The door opened, and Márya Pávlovna entered. Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, bowed, and could not utter a word, so great was his amazement: so changed was Márya Pávlovna since he had seen her the last time! The rosy bloom had vanished from her emaciated cheeks; a broad black ring encircled her eyes; her lips were bitterly compressed; her whole face, impassive and dark, seemed to have become petrified.

She raised her eyes, and there was no spark in them.

“How do you feel now?” Ipátoff asked her.

“I am well,”--she replied; and sat down at the table, on which the samovár was already bubbling.

Vladímir Sergyéitch was pretty thoroughly bored that evening. But no one was in good spirits. The conversation persisted in taking a cheerless turn.

“Just listen,”--said Ipátoff, among other things, as he lent an ear to the howling of the wind;--“what notes it emits! The summer is long since past; and here is autumn passing, too, and winter is at the door. Again we shall be buried in snow-drifts. I hope the snow will fall very soon. Otherwise, when you go out into the garden, melancholy descends upon you.... Just as though there were some sort of a ruin there. The branches of the trees clash together.... Yes, the fine days are over!”

“They are over,”--repeated Iván Ílitch.

Márya Pávlovna stared silently out of the window.

“God willing, they will return,”--remarked Ipátoff.

No one answered him.

“Do you remember how finely they sang songs here that time?”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“I should think they did,”--replied the old man, with a sigh.

“But you might sing to us,”--went on Vladímir Sergyéitch, turning to Márya Pávlovna;--“you have such a fine voice.”

She did not answer him.

“And how is your mother?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch inquired of Ipátoff, not knowing what to talk about.

“Thank God! she gets on nicely, considering her ailments. She came over in her little carriage to-day. She’s a broken tree, I must tell you--creak, creak, and the first you know, some young, strong sapling falls over; but she goes on standing and standing. Ekh, ha, ha!”

Márya Pávlovna dropped her hands in her lap, and bowed her head.

“And, nevertheless, her existence is hard,”--began Ipátoff again;--“rightly is it said: ‘old age is no joy.’”

“And there’s no joy in being young,”--said Márya Pávlovna, as though to herself.

Vladímir Sergyéitch would have liked to return home that night, but it was so dark out of doors that he could not make up his mind to set out. He was assigned to the same chamber, up-stairs, in which, three months previously, he had passed a troubled night, thanks to Egór Kapítonitch....

“Does he snore now?”--thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he recalled his drilling of his servant, and the sudden appearance of Márya Pávlovna in the garden....

Vladímir Sergyéitch walked to the window, and laid his brow against the cold glass. His own face gazed dimly at him from out of doors, as though his eyes were riveted upon a black curtain, and it was only after a considerable time that he was able to make out against the starless sky the branches of the trees, writhing wildly in the gloom. They were harassed by a turbulent wind.

Suddenly it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though something white had flashed along the ground.... He gazed more intently, laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaiming in an undertone: “That’s what imagination will do!” got into bed.

He fell asleep very soon; but he was not fated to pass a quiet night on this occasion either. He was awakened by a running to and fro, which arose in the house.... He raised his head from the pillow.... Agitated voices, exclamations, hurried footsteps were audible, doors were banging; now the sound of women weeping rang out, shouts were set up in the garden, other cries farther off responded.... The uproar in the house increased, and became more noisy with every moment.... “Fire!” flashed through Vladímir Sergyéitch’s mind. In alarm he sprang from his bed, and rushed to the window; but there was no redness in the sky; only, in the garden, points of flame were moving briskly along the paths,--caused by people running about with lanterns. Vladímir Sergyéitch went quickly to the door, opened it, and ran directly into Iván Ílitch. Pale, dishevelled, half-clothed, the latter was dashing onward, without himself knowing whither.

“What is it? What has happened?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch, excitedly, seizing him by the arm.

“She has disappeared; she has thrown herself into the water,”--replied Iván Ílitch, in a choking voice.

“Who has thrown herself into the water? Who has disappeared?”

“Márya Pávlovna! Who else could it be but Márya Pávlovna? She has perished, the darling! Help! Good heavens, let us run as fast as we can! Be quick, my dear people!”

And Iván Ílitch rushed down the stairs.

Vladímir Sergyéitch put on his shoes somehow, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and ran after him.

In the house he no longer encountered any one, all had hastened out into the garden; only the little girls, Ipátoff’s daughters, met him in the corridor, near the anteroom; deadly pale with terror, they stood there in their little white petticoats, with clasped hands and bare feet, beside a night-lamp set on the floor. Through the drawing-room, past an overturned table, flew Vladímir Sergyéitch to the terrace. Through the grove, in the direction of the dam, light and shadows were flashing....

“Go for boat-hooks! Go for boat-hooks as quickly as possible!”--Ipátoff’s voice could be heard shouting.

“A net, a net, a boat!”--shouted other voices.

Vladímir Sergyéitch ran in the direction of the shouts. He found Ipátoff on the shore of the pond; a lantern hung on a bough brilliantly illuminated the old man’s grey head. He was wringing his hands, and reeling like a drunken man; by his side, a woman lay writhing and sobbing on the grass; round about men were bustling. Iván Ílitch had already advanced into the water up to his knees, and was feeling the bottom with a pole; a coachman was undressing, trembling all over as he did so; two men were dragging a boat along the shore; a sharp trampling of hoofs was audible along the village street.... The wind swept past with a shriek, as though endeavouring to quench the lantern, while the pond plashed noisily, darkling in a menacing way....

“What do I hear?”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, rushing up to Ipátoff.--“Is it possible?”

“The boat-hooks--fetch the boat-hooks!”--moaned the old man by way of reply to him....

“But good gracious, perhaps you are mistaken, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch....”

“No, mistaken indeed!”--said the woman who was lying on the grass, Márya Pávlovna’s maid, in a tearful voice. “Unlucky creature that I am, I heard her myself, the darling, throw herself into the water, and struggling in the water, and screaming: ‘Save me!’ and then, once more: ‘Save me!’”

“Why didn’t you prevent her, pray?”

“But how was I to prevent her, dear little father, my lord? Why, when I discovered it, she was no longer in her room, but my heart had a foreboding, you know; these last days she has been so sad all the time, and has said nothing; so I knew how it was, and rushed straight into the garden, just as though some one had made me do it; and suddenly I heard something go splash! into the water: ‘Save me!’ I heard the cry: ‘Save me!’... Okh, my darling, light of my eyes!”

“But perhaps it only seemed so to thee!”

“Seemed so, forsooth! But where is she? what has become of her?”

“So that is what looked white to me in the gloom,” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch....

In the meanwhile, men had run up with boat-hooks, dragged thither a net, and begun to spread it out on the grass, a great throng of people had assembled, a commotion had arisen, and a jostling ... the coachman seized one boat-hook, the village elder seized another, both sprang into the boat, put off, and set to searching the water with the hooks; the people on the shore lighted them. Strange and dreadful did their movements seem, and their shadows in the gloom, above the agitated pond, in the dim and uncertain light of the lanterns.

“He ... here, the hook has caught!”--suddenly cried the coachman.

All stood stock-still where they were.

The coachman pulled the hook toward him, and bent over.... Something horned and black slowly came to the surface....

“A tree-stump,”--said the coachman, pulling away the hook.

“But come back, come back!”--they shouted to him from the shore.--“Thou wilt accomplish nothing with the hooks; thou must use the net.”

“Yes, yes, the net!”--chimed in others.

“Stop,”--said the elder;--“I’ve got hold of something also ... something soft, apparently,”--he added, after a brief pause.

A white spot made its appearance alongside the boat....

“The young lady!”--suddenly shouted the elder.--“’Tis she!”

He was not mistaken.... The hook had caught Márya Pávlovna by the sleeve of her gown. The coachman immediately seized her, dragged her out of the water ... in a couple of powerful strokes the boat was at the shore.... Ipátoff, Iván Ílitch, Vladímir Sergyéitch, all rushed to Márya Pávlovna, raised her up, bore her home in their arms, immediately undressed her, and began to roll her, and warm her.... But all their efforts, their exertions, proved vain.... Márya Pávlovna did not come to herself.... Life had already left her.

Early on the following morning, Vladímir Sergyéitch left Ipátovka; before his departure, he went to bid farewell to the dead woman. She was lying on the table in the drawing-room in a white gown.... Her thick hair was not yet entirely dry, a sort of mournful surprise was expressed on her pale face, which had not had time to grow distorted; her parted lips seemed to be trying to speak, and ask something; ... her hands, convulsively clasped, as though with grief, were pressed tight to her breast.... But with whatever sorrowful thought the poor drowned girl had perished, death had laid upon her the seal of its eternal silence and peace ... and who understands what a dead face expresses during those few moments when, for the last time, it meets the glance of the living before it vanishes forever and is destroyed in the grave?

Vladímir Sergyéitch stood for a while in decorous meditation before the body of Márya Pávlovna, crossed himself thrice, and left the room, without having noticed Iván Ílitch who was weeping softly in one corner.... And he was not the only one who wept that day: all the servants in the house wept bitterly: Márya Pávlovna had left a good memory behind her.

The following is what old Ipátoff wrote, a week later, in reply to a letter which had come, at last, from Nadézhda Alexyéevna:

“One week ago, dear Madam, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, my unhappy sister-in-law, your acquaintance, Márya Pávlovna, wilfully ended her own life, by throwing herself by night into the pond, and we have already committed her body to the earth. She decided upon this sad and terrible deed, without having bidden me farewell, without leaving even a letter or so much as a note, to declare her last will.... But you know better than any one else, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, on whose soul this great and deadly sin must fall! May the Lord God judge your brother, for my sister-in-law could not cease to love him, nor survive the separation....”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna received this letter in Italy, whither she had gone with her husband, Count de Steltchínsky, as he was called in all the hotels. He did not visit hotels alone, however; he was frequently seen in gambling-houses, in the Kur-Saal at the baths.... At first he lost a great deal of money, then he ceased to lose, and his face assumed a peculiar expression, not precisely suspicious, nor yet precisely insolent, like that which a man has who unexpectedly gets involved in scandals.... He saw his wife rarely. But Nadézhda Alexyéevna did not languish in his absence. She developed a passion for painting and the fine arts. She associated chiefly with artists, and was fond of discussing the beautiful with young men. Ipátoff’s letter grieved her greatly, but did not prevent her going that same day to “the Dogs’ Cave,” to see how the poor animals suffocated when immersed in sulphur fumes.

She did not go alone. She was escorted by divers cavaliers. Among their number, a certain Mr. Popelin, an artist--a Frenchman, who had not finished his course--with a small beard, and dressed in a checked sack-coat, was the most agreeable. He sang the newest romances in a thin tenor voice, made very free-and-easy jokes, and although he was gaunt of form, yet he ate a very great deal.

VII

It was a sunny, cold January day; a multitude of people were strolling on the Névsky Prospékt. The clock on the tower of the city hall marked three o’clock. Along the broad stone slabs, strewn with yellow sand, was walking, among others, our acquaintance Vladímir Sergyéitch Astákhoff. He has grown very virile since we parted from him; his face is framed in whiskers, and he has grown plump all over, but he has not aged. He was moving after the crowd at a leisurely pace, and now and then casting a glance about him; he was expecting his wife; she had preferred to drive up in the carriage with her mother. Vladímir Sergyéitch married five years ago, precisely in the manner which he had always desired: his wife was wealthy, and with the best of connections. Courteously lifting his splendidly brushed hat when he met his numerous acquaintances, Vladímir Sergyéitch was still stepping out with the free stride of a man who is satisfied with his lot, when suddenly, just at the Passage,[30] he came near colliding with a gentleman in a Spanish cloak and foraging-cap, with a decidedly worn face, a dyed moustache, and large, swollen eyes. Vladímir Sergyéitch drew aside with dignity, but the gentleman in the foraging-cap glanced at him, and suddenly exclaimed:

“Ah! Mr. Astákhoff, how do you do?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch made no reply, and stopped short in surprise. He could not comprehend how a gentleman who could bring himself to walk on the Névsky in a foraging-cap could be acquainted with his name.

“You do not recognise me,”--pursued the gentleman in the cap:--“I saw you eight years ago, in the country, in the T*** Government, at the Ipátoffs’. My name is Véretyeff.”

“Akh! Good heavens! excuse me!”--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“But how you have changed since then!...”

“Yes, I have grown old,”--returned Piótr Alexyéitch, passing his hand, which was devoid of a glove, over his face.--“But you have not changed.”

Véretyeff had not so much aged as fallen away and sunk down. Small, delicate wrinkles covered his face; and when he spoke, his lips and cheeks twitched slightly. From all this it was perceptible that the man had been living hard.

“Where have you disappeared to all this time, that you have not been visible?”--Vladímir Sergyéitch asked him.

“I have been wandering about here and there. And you have been in Petersburg all the while?”

“Yes, most of the time.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

And Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a rather severe mien, as though with the object of saying to Véretyeff: “My good fellow, don’t take it into thy head to ask me to present thee to my wife.”

Véretyeff understood him, apparently. An indifferent sneer barely flitted across his lips.

“And how is your sister?”--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.--“Where is she?”

“I cannot tell you for certain. She must be in Moscow. I have not received any letters from her this long time!”

“Is her husband alive?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Ipátoff?”

“I don’t know; probably he is alive also; but he may be dead.”

“And that gentleman--what the deuce was his name?--Bodryakóff,--what of him?”

“The one you invited to be your second--you remember, when you were so scared? Why, the devil knows!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch maintained silence for a while, with dignity written on his face.

“I always recall with pleasure those evenings,”--he went on,--“when I had the opportunity” (he had nearly said, “the honour”) “of making the acquaintance of your sister and yourself. She was a very amiable person. And do you sing as agreeably as ever?”

“No; I have lost my voice.... But that was a good time!”

“I visited Ipátovka once afterward,”--added Vladímir Sergyéitch, elevating his eyebrows mournfully. “I think that was the name of that village--on the very day of a terrible event....”

“Yes, yes, that was frightful, frightful,”--Véretyeff hastily interrupted him.--“Yes, yes. And do you remember how you came near fighting with my present brother-in-law?”

“H’m! I remember!”--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, slowly.--“However, I must confess to you that so much time has elapsed since then, that all that sometimes seems to me like a dream....”

“Like a dream,”--repeated Véretyeff, and his pale cheeks flushed;--“like a dream ... no, it was not a dream, for me at all events. It was the time of youth, of mirth and happiness, the time of unlimited hopes, and invincible powers; and if it was a dream, then it was a very beautiful dream. And now, you and I have grown old and stupid, we dye our moustaches, and saunter on the Névsky, and have become good for nothing; like broken-winded nags, we have become utterly vapid and worn out; it cannot be said that we are pompous and put on airs, nor that we spend our time in idleness; but I fear we drown our grief in drink,--that is more like a dream, and a hideous dream. Life has been lived, and lived in vain, clumsily, vulgarly--that’s what is bitter! That’s what one would like to shake off like a dream, that’s what one would like to recover one’s self from!... And then ... everywhere, there is one frightful memory, one ghost.... But farewell!”

Véretyeff walked hastily away; but on coming opposite the door of one of the principal confectioners on the Névsky, he halted, entered, and after drinking a glass of orange vodka at the buffet, he wended his way through the billiard-room, all dark and dim with tobacco-smoke, to the rear room. There he found several acquaintances, his former comrades--Pétya Lazúrin, Kóstya Kovróvsky, and Prince Serdiukóff, and two other gentlemen who were called simply Vasiúk, and Filát. All of them were men no longer young, though unmarried; some of them had lost their hair, others were growing grey; their faces were covered with wrinkles, their chins had grown double; in a word, these gentlemen had all long since passed their prime, as the saying is. Yet all of them continued to regard Véretyeff as a remarkable man, destined to astonish the universe; and he was wiser than they only because he was very well aware of his utter and radical uselessness. And even outside of his circle, there were people who thought concerning him, that if he had not ruined himself, the deuce only knows what he would have made of himself.... These people were mistaken. Nothing ever comes of Véretyeffs.

Piótr Alexyéitch’s friends welcomed him with the customary greetings. At first he dumbfounded them with his gloomy aspect and his splenetic speeches; but he speedily calmed down, cheered up, and affairs went on in their wonted rut.

But Vladímir Sergyéitch, as soon as Véretyeff left him, contracted his brows in a frown and straightened himself up. Piótr Alexyéitch’s unexpected sally had astounded, even offended him extremely.

“‘We have grown stupid, we drink liquor, we dye our moustaches’ ... _parlez pour vous, mon cher_,”--he said at last, almost aloud, and emitting a couple of snorts caused by an access of involuntary indignation, he was preparing to continue his stroll.

“Who was that talking with you?”--rang out a loud and self-confident voice behind him.

Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round and beheld one of his best friends, a certain Mr. Pompónsky. This Mr. Pompónsky, a man of lofty stature, and stout, occupied a decidedly important post, and never once, from his very earliest youth, had he doubted himself.

“Why, a sort of eccentric,”--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, linking his arm in Mr. Pompónsky’s.

“Good gracious, Vladímir Sergyéitch, is it permissible for a respectable man to chat on the street with an individual who wears a foraging-cap on his head? ’Tis indecent! I’m amazed! Where could you have made acquaintance with such a person?”

“In the country.”

“In the country.... One does not bow to one’s country neighbours in town.... _ce n’est pas comme il faut_. A gentleman should always bear himself like a gentleman if he wishes that....”

“Here is my wife,”--Vladímir Sergyéitch hastily interrupted him.--“Let us go to her.”

And the two gentlemen directed their steps to a low-hung, elegant carriage, from whose window there peered forth the pale, weary, and irritatingly-arrogant little face of a woman who was still young, but already faded.

Behind her another lady, also apparently in a bad humour,--her mother,--was visible. Vladímir Sergyéitch opened the door of the carriage, and offered his arm to his wife. Pompónsky gave his to the mother-in-law, and the two couples made their way along the Névsky Prospékt, accompanied by a short, black-haired footman in yellowish-grey gaiters, and with a big cockade on his hat.

IT IS ENOUGH

(1864)

A FRAGMENT FROM THE DIARY OF A DEAD ARTIST

I

* * * * *

II

* * * * *

III

“It is enough,” I said to myself, while my feet, treading unwillingly the steep slope of the mountain, bore me downward toward the quiet river; “it is enough,” I repeated, as I inhaled the resinous scent of the pine grove, to which the chill of approaching evening had imparted a peculiar potency and pungency; “it is enough,” I said once more, as I seated myself on a mossy hillock directly on the brink of the river and gazed at its dark, unhurried waves, above which a thick growth of reeds lifted their pale-green stalks.... “It is enough!--Have done with dreaming, with striving: ’tis high time to pull thyself together; ’tis high time to clutch thy head with both hands and bid thy heart be still. Give over pampering thyself with the sweet indulgence of indefinite but captivating sensations; give over running after every new form of beauty; give over seizing every tremor of its delicate and powerful pinions.--Everything is known, everything has been felt over and over again many times already.... I am weary.--What care I that at this very moment the dawn is suffusing the sky ever more and more broadly, like some inflamed, all-conquering passion! What care I that two paces from me, amid the tranquillity and the tenderness and the gleam of evening, in the dewy depths of a motionless bush, a nightingale has suddenly burst forth in such magical notes as though there had never been any nightingales in the world before it, and as though it were the first to chant the first song of the first love! All that has been, has been, I repeat; it has been recapitulated a thousand times--and when one remembers that all this will so continue for a whole eternity--as though to order, by law--one even grows vexed! Yes ... vexed!”

IV

Eh, how I have suffered! Formerly such thoughts never entered my head--formerly, in those happy days when I myself was wont to flame like the glow of dawn, and to sing like the nightingale.--I must confess that everything has grown obscure round about me, all life has withered. The light which gives to its colours both significance and power--that light which emanates from the heart of man--has become extinct within me.... No, it has not yet become extinct--but it is barely smouldering, without radiance and without warmth. I remember how one day, late at night, in Moscow, I stepped up to the grated window of an ancient church and leaned against the uneven glass. It was dark under the low arches; a forgotten shrine-lamp flickered with a red flame in front of an ancient holy picture, and only the lips of the holy face were visible, stern and suffering: mournful gloom closed in around and seemed to be preparing to crush with its dull weight the faint ray of unnecessary light.... And in my heart reign now the same sort of light and the same sort of gloom.

V

And this I write to thee--to thee, my only and unforgettable friend; to thee, my dear companion,[31] whom I have left forever, but whom I shall never cease to love until my life ends.... Alas! thou knowest what it was that separated us. But I will not refer to that now. I have left thee ... but even here, in this remote nook, at this distance, in this exile, I am all permeated with thee, I am in thy power as of yore, as of yore I feel the sweet pressure of thy hands upon my bowed head!--Rising up for the last time, from the mute grave in which I now am lying, I run a mild, much-moved glance over all my past, over all our past.... There is no hope and no return, but neither is there any bitterness in me, or regret; and clearer than the heavenly azure, purer than the first snows on the mountain heights, are my beautiful memories.... They do not press upon me in throngs: they pass by in procession, like those muffled figures of the Athenian god-born ones, which--dost thou remember?--we admired so greatly on the ancient bas-reliefs of the Vatican....

VI

I have just alluded to the light which emanates from the human heart and illumines everything which surrounds it.... I want to talk with thee about that time when that gracious light burned in my heart.--Listen ... but I imagine that thou art sitting in front of me, and gazing at me with thine affectionate but almost severely-attentive eyes. O eyes never to be forgotten! On whom, on what are they now fixed? Who is receiving into his soul thy glance--that glance which seems to flow from unfathomable depths, like those mysterious springs--like you both bright and dark--which well up at the very bottom of narrow valleys, beneath overhanging cliffs?... Listen.

VII

It was at the end of March, just before the Feast of the Annunciation, shortly after I saw thee for the first time--and before I as yet suspected what thou wert destined to become to me, although I already bore thee, silently and secretly in my heart.--I was obliged to cross one of the largest rivers in Russia. The ice had not yet begun to move in it, but it seemed to have swollen up and turned dark; three days previously a thaw had set in. The snow was melting round about diligently but quietly; everywhere water was oozing out; in the light air a soundless breeze was roving. The same even, milky hue enveloped earth and sky: it was not a mist, but it was not light; not a single object stood out from the general opacity; everything seemed both near and indistinct. Leaving my kibítka far behind, I walked briskly over the river-ice, and with the exception of the beat of my own footsteps, I could hear nothing. I walked on, enveloped on all sides by the first stupor and breath of early spring ... and little by little augmenting with every step, with every movement in advance, there gradually rose up and grew within me a certain joyous incomprehensible agitation.... It drew me on, it hastened my pace--and so powerful were its transports, that I came to a standstill at last and looked about me in surprise and questioningly, as though desirous of detecting the outward cause of my ecstatic condition.... All was still, white, sunny; but I raised my eyes: high above flocks of migratory birds were flying past.... “Spring! Hail, Spring!”--I shouted in a loud voice. “Hail, life and love and happiness!”--And at that same instant, with sweetly-shattering force, similar to the flower of a cactus, there suddenly flared up within me thy image--flared up and stood there, enchantingly clear and beautiful--and I understood that I loved thee, thee alone, that I was all filled with thee....

VIII

I think of thee ... and many other memories, other pictures rise up before me,--and thou art everywhere, on all the paths of my life I encounter thee.--Now there presents itself to me an old Russian garden on the slope of a hill, illuminated by the last rays of the summer sun. From behind silvery poplars peeps forth the wooden roof of the manor-house, with a slender wreath of crimson smoke hanging above the white chimney, and in the fence a wicket-gate stands open a crack, as though some one had pulled it to with undecided hand. And I stand and wait, and gaze at that gate and at the sand on the garden paths; I wonder and I am moved: everything I see seems to me remarkable and new, everything is enveloped with an atmosphere of a sort of bright, caressing mystery, and already I think I hear the swift rustle of footsteps; and I stand, all alert and light, like a bird which has just folded its wings and is poised ready to soar aloft again--and my heart flames and quivers in joyous dread before the imminent happiness which is flitting on in front....

IX

Then I behold an ancient cathedral in a distant, beautiful land. The kneeling people are crowded close in rows; a prayerful chill, something solemn and sad breathes forth from the lofty, bare vault, from the huge pillars which branch upward.--Thou art standing by my side, speechless and unsympathetic, exactly as though thou wert a stranger to me; every fold of thy dark gown hangs motionless, as though sculptured; motionless lie the mottled reflections of the coloured windows at thy feet on the well-worn flagstones.--And now, vigorously agitating the air dim with incense, inwardly agitating us, in a heavy surge the tones of the organ roll out; and thou hast turned pale and drawn thyself up; thy gaze has touched me, has slipped on higher and is raised heavenward;--but it seems to me that only a deathless soul can look like that and with such eyes....

X

Now another picture presents itself to me.--’Tis not an ancient temple which crushes us with its stern magnificence: the low walls of a cosey little room separate us from the whole world.--What am I saying? We are alone--alone in all the world; except us two there is no living thing; beyond those friendly walls lie darkness and death and emptiness. That is not the wind howling, that is not the rain streaming in floods; it is Chaos wailing and groaning; it is its blind eyes weeping. But with us all is quiet and bright, and warm and gracious; something diverting, something childishly innocent is fluttering about like a butterfly, is it not? We nestle up to each other, we lean our heads together and both read a good book; I feel the slender vein in thy delicate temple beating; I hear how thou art living, thou hearest how I am living, thy smile is born upon my face before it comes on thine; thou silently repliest to my silent question; thy thoughts, my thoughts, are like the two wings of one and the same bird drowned in the azure.... The last partitions have fallen--and our love has become so calm, so profound, every breach has vanished so completely, leaving no trace behind it, that we do not even wish to exchange a word, a glance.... We only wish to breathe, to breathe together, to live together, to be together, ... and not even to be conscious of the fact that we are together....

XI

Or, in conclusion, there presents itself to me a clear September morning when thou and I were walking together through the deserted garden, as yet not wholly out of bloom, of an abandoned palace, on the bank of a great non-Russian river, beneath the soft radiance of a cloudless sky. Oh, how shall I describe those sensations?--that endlessly-flowing river, that absence of people, and tranquillity, and joy, and a certain intoxicating sadness, and the vibration of happiness, the unfamiliar, monotonous town, the autumnal croaking of the daws in the tall, bright trees--and those affectionate speeches and smiles and glances long and soft, which pierce to the very bottom, and beauty,--the beauty in ourselves, round about, everywhere;--it is beyond words. Oh, bench on which we sat in silence, with heads drooping low with happiness--I shall never forget thee to my dying hour!--How charming were those rare passers-by with their gentle greeting and kind faces, and the large, quiet boats which floated past (on one of them--dost thou remember?--stood a horse gazing pensively at the water gliding by under its feet), the childish babble of the little waves inshore and the very barking of distant dogs over the expanse of the river, the very shouts of the corpulent under-officer at the red-cheeked recruits drilling there on one side, with their projecting elbows and their legs thrust forward like the legs of cranes!... We both felt that there never had been and never would be anything better in the world for us than those moments--than all the rest.... But what comparisons are these! Enough ... enough.... Alas! yes: it is enough.

XII

For the last time I have surrendered myself to these memories, and I am parting from them irrevocably--as a miser, after gloating for the last time upon his hoard, his gold, his bright treasure, buries it in the damp earth; as the wick of an exhausted lamp, after flashing up in one last brilliant flame, becomes covered with grey ashes. The little wild animal has peered forth for the last time from his lair at the velvety grass, at the fair little sun, at the blue, gracious waters,--and has retreated to the deepest level, and curled himself up in a ball, and fallen asleep. Will he have visions, if only in his sleep, of the fair little sun, and the grass, and the blue, gracious waters?

* * * * *

* * * * *

* * * * *

XIII

Sternly and ruthlessly does Fate lead each one of us--and only in the early days do we, occupied with all sorts of accidents, nonsense, ourselves, fail to feel her harsh hand.--So long as we are able to deceive ourselves and are not ashamed to lie, it is possible to live and to hope without shame. The truth--not the full truth (there can be no question of that), but even that tiny fraction which is accessible to us--immediately closes our mouths, binds our hands, and reduces “to negation.”--The only thing that is then left for a man, in order to keep erect on his feet and not crumble to dust, not to become bemired in the ooze of self-forgetfulness, is self-scorn; is to turn calmly away from everything and say: “It is enough!”--and folding his useless arms on his empty breast to preserve the last, the sole merit which is accessible to him, the merit of recognising his own insignificance; the merit to which Pascal alludes, when, calling man a thinking reed, he says that if the entire universe were to crush him, he, that reed, would still be higher than the universe because he would know that it is crushing him--while it would not know that. A feeble merit! Sad consolation! Try as thou mayest to permeate thyself with it, to believe in it,--oh, thou my poor brother, whosoever thou mayest be!--thou canst not refute those ominous words of the poet:

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more: it is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing....[32]

I have cited the verses from “Macbeth,” and those witches, phantoms, visions have recurred to my mind.... Alas! it is not visions, not fantastic, subterranean powers that are terrible; the creations of Hoffmann are not dreadful, under whatsoever form they may present themselves.... The terrible thing is that there is nothing terrible, that the very substance of life itself is petty, uninteresting--and insipid to beggary. Having once become permeated with _this_ consciousness, having once tasted of _this_ wormwood, no honey will ever seem sweet--and even that loftiest, sweetest happiness, the happiness of love, of complete friendship, of irrevocable devotion--even it loses all its charm; all its worth is annihilated by its own pettiness, its brevity. Well, yes: a man has loved, he has burned, he has faltered words about eternal bliss, about immortal enjoyments--and behold: it is long, long since the last trace vanished of that worm which has eaten out the last remnants of his withered tongue. Thus late in autumn, on a frosty day, when everything is lifeless and dumb in the last blades of grass, on the verge of the denuded forest, the sun has but to emerge for an instant from the fog, to gaze intently at the chilled earth, and immediately, from all sides, gnats rise up; they frolic in the warmth of his rays, they bustle and jostle upward, downward, they circle round one another.... The sun hides himself, and the gnats fall to the earth in a soft rain--and there is an end to their momentary life.

XIV

“But are there no great conceptions, no great words of consolation? Nationality, right, liberty, humanity, art?” Yes; those words do exist, and many people live by them and for them. But nevertheless, I have an idea that if Shakspeare were to be born again he would find no occasion to disclaim his “Hamlet,” his “Lear.” His penetrating glance would not descry anything new in human existence: the same motley and, in reality, incoherent picture would still unfold itself before him in its disquieting monotony. The same frivolity, the same cruelty, the same pressing demand for blood, gold, filth, the same stale pleasures, the same senseless sufferings in the name of ... well, in the name of the same nonsense which was ridiculed by Aristophanes three thousand years ago, the same coarse lures to which the many-headed beast still yields as readily as ever--in a word, the same anxious skipping of the squirrel in the same old wheel, which has not even been renewed.... Shakspeare would again make Lear repeat his harsh: “There are no guilty ones”--which, in other words, signifies: “There are no just”--and he also would say: “It is enough!” and he also would turn away.--One thing only: perhaps, in contrast to the gloomy, tragic tyrant Richard, the ironical genius of the great poet would like to draw another, more up-to-date tyrant, who is almost ready to believe in his own virtue and rests calmly at night or complains of the over-dainty dinner at the same time that his half-stifled victims are endeavouring to comfort themselves by at least imagining him as Richard III. surrounded by the ghosts of the people he has murdered....

But to what purpose?

Why demonstrate--and that by picking and weighing one’s words, by rounding and polishing one’s speech--why demonstrate to gnats that they really are gnats?

XV

But art?... Beauty?... Yes, those are mighty words; they are, probably, mightier than those which I have mentioned above. The Venus of Melos, for example, is more indubitable than the Roman law, or than the principles of 1789. Men may retort--and how many times have I heard these retorts!--that beauty itself is also a matter of convention, that to the Chinese it presents itself in a totally different manner from what it does to the European.... But it is not the conventionality of art which disconcerts me; its perishableness, and again its perishableness,--its decay and dust--that is what deprives me of courage and of faith. Art, at any given moment, is, I grant, more powerful than Nature itself, because in it there is neither symphony of Beethoven nor picture of Ruysdael nor poem of Goethe--and only dull-witted pedants or conscienceless babblers can still talk of art as a copy of Nature. But in the long run Nature is irresistible; she cannot be hurried, and sooner or later she will assert her rights. Unconsciously and infallibly obedient to law, she does not know art, as she does not know liberty, as she does not know good; moving onward from eternity, transmitted from eternity, she tolerates nothing immortal, nothing unchangeable.... Man is her child; but the human, the artificial is inimical to her, precisely because she strives to be unchangeable and immortal. Man is the child of Nature; but she is the universal mother, and she has no preferences: everything which exists in her bosom has arisen only for the benefit of another and must, in due time, make way for that other--she creates by destroying, and it is a matter of perfect indifference to her what she creates, what she destroys, if only life be not extirpated, if only death do not lose its rights.... And therefore she as calmly covers with mould the divine visage of Phidias’s Jupiter as she does a plain pebble, and delivers over to be devoured by the contemned moth the most precious lines of Sophocles. Men, it is true, zealously aid her in her work of extermination; but is not the same elementary force,--is not the force of Nature shown in the finger of the barbarian who senselessly shattered the radiant brow of Apollo, in the beast-like howls with which he hurled the picture of Apelles into the fire? How are we poor men, poor artists, to come to an agreement with this deaf and dumb force, blind from its birth, which does not even triumph in its victories, but marches, ever marches on ahead, devouring all things? How are we to stand up against those heavy, coarse, interminably and incessantly onrolling waves, how believe, in short, in the significance and worth of those perishable images which we, in the darkness, on the verge of the abyss, mould from the dust and for a mere instant?

XVI

All this is so ... but only the transitory is beautiful, Shakspeare has said; and Nature herself, in the unceasing play of her rising and vanishing forms, does not shun beauty. Is it not she who sedulously adorns the most momentary of her offspring--the petals of the flowers, the wings of the butterfly--with such charming colours? Is it not she who imparts to them such exquisite outlines? It is not necessary for beauty to live forever in order to be immortal--one moment is sufficient for it. That is so; that is just, I grant you--but only in cases where there is no personality, where man is not, liberty is not: the faded wing of the butterfly comes back again, and a thousand years later, with the selfsame wing of the selfsame butterfly, necessity sternly and regularly and impartially fulfils its round ... but man does not repeat himself like the butterfly, and the work of his hands, his art, his free creation once destroyed, is annihilated forever.... To him alone is it given to “create” ... but it is strange and terrible to articulate: “We are creators ... for an hour,”--as there once was, they say, a caliph for an hour.--Therein lies our supremacy--and our curse: each one of these “creators” in himself--precisely he, not any one else, precisely that ego--seems to have been created with deliberate intent, on a plan previously designed; each one more or less dimly understands his significance, feels that he is akin to something higher, something eternal--and he lives, he is bound to live in the moment and for the moment.[33] Sit in the mud, my dear fellow, and strive toward heaven!--The greatest among us are precisely those who are the most profoundly conscious of all of that fundamental contradiction; but in that case the question arises,--are the words “greatest, great” appropriate?

XVII

But what shall be said of those to whom, despite a thorough desire to do so, one cannot apply those appellations even in the sense which is attributed to them by the feeble human tongue?--What shall be said of the ordinary, commonplace, second-rate, third-rate toilers--whoever they may be--statesmen, learned men, artists--especially artists? How force them to shake off their dumb indolence, their dejected perplexity, how draw them once more to the field of battle, if once the thought as to the vanity of everything human, of every activity which sets for itself a higher aim than the winning of daily bread, has once crept into their heads? By what wreaths are they lured on--they, for whom laurels and thorns have become equally insignificant? Why should they again subject themselves to the laughter of “the cold throng” or to “the condemnation of the dunce,”--of the old dunce who cannot forgive them for having turned away from the former idols; of the young dunce who demands that they shall immediately go down on their knees in his company, that they should lie prone before new, just-discovered idols? Why shall they betake themselves again to that rag-fair of phantoms, to that market-place where both the seller and the buyer cheat each other equally, where everything is so noisy, so loud--and yet so poor and worthless? Why “with exhaustion in their bones” shall they interweave themselves again with that world where the nations, like peasant urchins on a festival day, flounder about in the mud for the sake of a handful of empty nuts, or admire with gaping mouths the wretched woodcuts, decorated with tinsel gold,--with that world where they had no right to life while they lived in it, and, deafening themselves with their own shouts, each one hastens with convulsive speed to a goal which he neither knows nor understands? No ... no.... It is enough ... enough ... enough!

XVIII

... The rest is silence.[34] ...

THE DOG

(1866)

“But if we can admit the possibility of the supernatural, the possibility of its intervention in real life,--then allow me to inquire, what rôle is sound judgment bound to play after this?”--shouted Antón Stepánitch, crossing his arms on his stomach.

Antón Stepánitch had held the rank of State Councillor,[35] had served in some wonderful department, and, as his speech was interlarded with pauses and was slow and uttered in a bass voice, he enjoyed universal respect. Not long before the date of our story, “the good-for-nothing little Order of St. Stanislas had been stuck on him,” as those who envied him expressed it.

“That is perfectly just,”--remarked Skvorévitch.

“No one will dispute that,”--added Kinarévitch.

“I assent also,”--chimed in, in falsetto, from a corner the master of the house, Mr. Finopléntoff.

“But I, I must confess, cannot assent, because something supernatural has happened to me,”--said a man of medium stature and middle age, with a protruding abdomen and a bald spot, who had been sitting silent before the stove up to that moment. The glances of all present in the room were turned upon him with curiosity and surprise--and silence reigned.

This man was a landed proprietor of Kalúga, not wealthy, who had recently come to Petersburg. He had once served in the hussars, had gambled away his property, resigned from the service and settled down in the country. The recent agricultural changes had cut off his revenues, and he had betaken himself to the capital in search of a snug little position. He possessed no abilities, and had no influential connections; but he placed great reliance on the friendship of an old comrade in the service, who had suddenly, without rhyme or reason, become a person of importance, and whom he had once aided to administer a sound thrashing to a card-sharper. Over and above that he counted upon his own luck--and it had not betrayed him; several days later he obtained the post of inspector of government storehouses, a profitable, even honourable position which did not require extraordinary talents: the storehouses themselves existed only in contemplation, and no one even knew with certainty what they were to contain,--but they had been devised as a measure of governmental economy.

Antón Stepánitch was the first to break the general silence.

“What, my dear sir?”--he began. “Do you seriously assert that something supernatural--I mean to say, incompatible with the laws of nature--has happened to you?”

“I do,”--returned “my dear sir,” whose real name was Porfíry Kapítonitch.

“Incompatible with the laws of nature?”--energetically repeated Antón Stepánitch, who evidently liked that phrase.

“Precisely ... yes; precisely the sort of thing you allude to.”

“This is astonishing! What think you, gentlemen?”--Antón Stepánitch endeavoured to impart to his features an ironical expression, but without result--or, to speak more accurately, the only result was to produce the effect that Mr. State Councillor smelt a bad odour.--“Will not you be so kind, my dear sir,”--he went on, addressing the landed proprietor from Kalúga,--“as to communicate to us the particulars of such a curious event?”

“Why not? Certainly!”--replied the landed proprietor, and moving forward to the middle of the room in an easy manner he spoke as follows:

I have, gentlemen, as you are probably aware,--or as you may not be aware,--a small estate in Kozyól County. I formerly derived some profit from it--but now, of course, nothing but unpleasantness is to be anticipated. However, let us put politics aside! Well, sir, on that same estate I have a “wee little” manor: a vegetable garden, as is proper, a tiny pond with little carp, and some sort of buildings--well, and a small wing for my own sinful body.... I am a bachelor. So, sir, one day--about six years ago--I had returned home rather late; I had been playing cards at a neighbour’s house--but I beg you to observe, I was not tipsy, as the expression goes. I undressed, got into bed, and blew out the light. And just imagine, gentlemen; no sooner had I blown out the light, than something began to rummage under my bed! Is it a rat? I thought. No, it was not a rat: it clawed and fidgeted and scratched itself.... At last it began to flap its ears!

It was a dog--that was clear. But where had the dog come from? I keep none myself. “Can some stray animal have run in?” I thought. I called to my servant; his name is Fílka. The man entered with a candle.

“What’s this,”--says I,--“my good Fílka? How lax thou art! A dog has intruded himself under my bed.”

“What dog?”--says he.

“How should I know?”--says I;--“that’s thy affair--not to allow thy master to be disturbed.”

My Fílka bent down, and began to pass the candle about under the bed.

“Why,”--says he,--“there’s no dog here.”

I bent down also; in fact there was no dog.... Here was a marvel! I turned my eyes on Fílka: he was smiling.

“Fool,”--said I to him,--“what art thou grinning about? When thou didst open the door the dog probably took and sneaked out into the anteroom. But thou, gaper, didst notice nothing, because thou art eternally asleep. Can it be that thou thinkest I am drunk?”

He attempted to reply, but I drove him out, curled myself up in a ring, and heard nothing more that night.

But on the following night--just imagine!--the same thing was repeated. No sooner had I blown out the light than it began to claw and flap its ears. Again I summoned Fílka, again he looked under the bed--again nothing! I sent him away, blew out the light--phew, damn it! there was the dog still. And a dog it certainly was: I could hear it breathing and rummaging in its hair with its teeth in search of fleas so plainly!

“Fílka!”--says I,--“come hither without a light!”... He entered.... “Well, now,”--says I, “dost thou hear?...”

“I do,”--said he. I could not see him, but I felt that the fellow was quailing.

“What dost thou make of it?”--said I.

“What dost thou command me to make of it, Porfíry Kapítonitch?... ’Tis an instigation of the Evil One!”

“Thou art a lewd fellow; hold thy tongue with thy instigation of the Evil One.”... But the voices of both of us were like those of birds, and we were shaking as though in a fever--in the darkness. I lighted a candle: there was no dog, and no noise whatever--only Fílka and I as white as clay. And I must inform you, gentlemen--you can believe me or not--but from that night forth for the space of six weeks the same thing went on. At last I even got accustomed to it and took to extinguishing my light because I cannot sleep with a light. “Let him fidget!” I thought. “It doesn’t harm me.”

“But--I see--that you do not belong to the cowardly squad,”--interrupted Antón Stepánitch, with a half-scornful, half-condescending laugh. “The hussar is immediately perceptible!”

“I should not be frightened at you, in any case,”--said Porfíry Kapítonitch, and for a moment he really did look like a hussar.--“But listen further.”

A neighbour came to me, the same one with whom I was in the habit of playing cards. He dined with me on what God had sent, and lost fifty rubles to me for his visit; night was drawing on--it was time for him to go. But I had calculations of my own:--“Stop and spend the night with me, Vasíly Vasílitch; to-morrow thou wilt win it back, God willing.”

My Vasíly Vasílitch pondered and pondered--and stayed. I ordered a bed to be placed for him in my own chamber.... Well, sir, we went to bed, smoked, chattered,--chiefly about the feminine sex, as is fitting in bachelor society,--and laughed, as a matter of course. I look; Vasíly Vasílitch has put out his candle and has turned his back on me; that signifies: “_Schlafen Sie wohl._” I waited a little and extinguished my candle also. And imagine: before I had time to think to myself, “What sort of performance will there be now?” my dear little animal began to make a row. And that was not all; he crawled out from under the bed, walked across the room, clattering his claws on the floor, waggling his ears, and suddenly collided with a chair which stood by the side of Vasíly Vasílitch’s bed!

“Porfíry Kapítonitch,”--says Vasíly Vasílitch, and in such an indifferent voice, you know,--“I didn’t know that thou hadst taken to keeping a dog. What sort of an animal is it--a setter?”

“I have no dog,”--said I,--“and I never have had one.”

“Thou hast not indeed! But what’s this?”

“What is this?”--said I.--“See here now; light the candle and thou wilt find out for thyself.”

“It isn’t a dog?”

“No.”

Vasíly Vasílitch turned over in bed.--“But thou art jesting, damn it?”

“No, I’m not jesting.”--I hear him go scratch, scratch with a match, and that thing does not stop, but scratches its side. The flame flashed up ... and basta! There was not a trace of a dog! Vasíly Vasílitch stared at me--and I stared at him.

“What sort of a trick is this?”--said he.

“Why,”--said I,--“this is such a trick that if thou wert to set Socrates himself on one side and Frederick the Great on the other even they couldn’t make head or tail of it.”--And thereupon I told him all in detail. Up jumped my Vasíly Vasílitch as though he had been singed! He couldn’t get into his boots.

“Horses!”--he yelled--“horses!”

I began to argue with him, but in vain. He simply groaned.

“I won’t stay,”--he shouted,--“not a minute!--Of course, after this, thou art a doomed man!--Horses!...”

But I prevailed upon him. Only his bed was dragged out into another room--and night-lights were lighted everywhere. In the morning, at tea, he recovered his dignity; he began to give me advice.

“Thou shouldst try absenting thyself from the house for several days, Porfíry Kapítonitch,” he said: “perhaps that vile thing would leave thee.”

But I must tell you that he--that neighbour of mine--had a capacious mind! he worked his mother-in-law so famously among other things: he palmed off a note of hand on her; which signifies that he chose the most vulnerable moment! She became like silk: she gave him a power of attorney over all her property--what more would you have? But that was a great affair--to twist his mother-in-law round his finger--wasn’t it, hey? Judge for yourselves. But he went away from me somewhat discontented; I had punished him to the extent of another hundred rubles. He even swore at me: “Thou art ungrateful,”--he said, “thou hast no feeling;” but how was I to blame for that? Well, this is in parenthesis--but I took his suggestion under consideration. That same day I drove off to town and established myself in an inn, with an acquaintance, an old man of the Old Ritualist sect.[36]

He was a worthy old man, although a trifle harsh, because of loneliness: his whole family were dead. Only he did not favour tobacco at all,[37] and felt a great loathing for dogs; I believe, for example, that rather than admit a dog into the room he would have rent himself in twain! “For how is it possible?”--he said. “There in my room, on the wall, the Sovereign Lady herself deigns to dwell;[38] and shall a filthy dog thrust his accursed snout in there?”--That was ignorance, of course! However, this is my opinion: if any man has been vouchsafed wisdom, let him hold to it!

“But you are a great philosopher, I see,”--interrupted Antón Stepánitch again, with the same laugh as before.

This time Porfíry Kapítonitch even scowled.

“What sort of a philosopher I am no one knows,”--he said as his moustache twitched in a surly manner:--“but I would gladly take you as a pupil.”

We all fairly bored our eyes into Antón Stepánitch; each one of us expected an arrogant retort or at least a lightning glance.... But Mr. State Councillor altered his smile from scorn to indifference, then yawned, dangled his foot--and that was all!

So then, I settled down at that old man’s house--[went on Porfíry Kapítonitch].--He assigned me a room “for acquaintance’s” sake,--not of the best; he himself lodged there also, behind a partition--and that was all I required. But what tortures I did undergo! The chamber was small, it was hot, stifling, and there were flies, and such sticky ones; in the corner was a remarkably large case for images, with ancient holy pictures; their garments were dim and puffed out; the air was fairly infected with olive-oil, and some sort of a spice in addition; on the bedstead were two down beds; if you moved a pillow, out ran a cockroach from beneath it.... I drank an incredible amount of tea, out of sheer tedium--it was simply horrible! I got into bed; it was impossible to sleep.--And on the other side of the partition my host was sighing and grunting and reciting his prayers. I heard him begin to snore--and very lightly and courteously, in old-fashioned style. I had long since extinguished my candle--only the shrine-lamp was twinkling in front of the holy pictures.... A hindrance, of course! So I took and rose up softly, in my bare feet: I reached up to the lamp and blew it out.... Nothing happened.--“Aha!” I thought: “this means that he won’t make a fuss in the house of strangers.”... But no sooner had I lain down on the bed than the row began again! The thing clawed, and scratched himself and flapped his ears ... well, just as I wanted him to. Good! I lay there and waited to see what would happen. I heard the old man wake up.

“Master,”--said he,--“hey there, master?”

“What’s wanted?”--said I.

“Was it thou who didst put out the shrine-lamp?”--And without awaiting my reply, he suddenly began to mumble:

“What’s that? What’s that? A dog? A dog? Akh, thou damned Nikonian!”[39]

“Wait a bit, old man,”--said I,--“before thou cursest; but it would be better for thee to come hither thyself. Things deserving of wonder are going on here,”--said I.

The old man fussed about behind the partition and entered my room with a candle, a slender one, of yellow wax; and I was amazed as I looked at him! He was all bristling, with shaggy ears and vicious eyes like those of a polecat; on his head was a small skull-cap of white felt; his beard reached to his girdle and was white also; and he had on a waistcoat with brass buttons over his shirt, and fur boots on his feet, and he disseminated an odour of juniper. In that condition he went up to the holy pictures, crossed himself thrice with two fingers[40] lighted the shrine-lamp, crossed himself again, and turning to me, merely grunted:

“Explain thyself!”

Thereupon, without the least delay, I communicated to him all the circumstances. The old man listened to all my explanations without uttering the smallest word; he simply kept shaking his head. Then he sat down on my bed, still maintaining silence. He scratched his breast, the back of his head, and other places, and still remained silent.

“Well, Feodúl Ivánitch,”--said I, “what is thy opinion: is this some sort of visitation of the Evil One, thinkest thou?”

The old man stared at me.--“A pretty thing thou hast invented! A visitation of the Evil One, forsooth! ’Twould be all right at thy house, thou tobacco-user,--but ’tis quite another thing here! Only consider how many holy things there are here! And thou must needs have a visitation of the devil!--And if it isn’t that, what is it?”

The old man relapsed into silence, scratched himself again, and at last he said, but in a dull sort of way, because his moustache kept crawling into his mouth:

“Go thou to the town of Byéleff. There is only one man who can help thee. And that man dwells in Byéleff;[41] he is one of our people. If he takes a fancy to help thee, that’s thy good luck; if he doesn’t take a fancy,--so it must remain.”

“But how am I to find him?”--said I.

“We can give thee directions,”--said he;--“only why dost thou call this a visitation of the devil? ’Tis a vision, or a sign; but thou wilt not be able to comprehend it; ’tis not within thy flight. And now lie down and sleep under Christ’s protection, dear little father; I will fumigate with incense; and in the morning we will take counsel together. The morning is wiser than the evening, thou knowest.”

Well, sir, and we did take counsel together in the morning--only I came near choking to death with that same incense. And the old man instructed me after this wise: that when I had reached Byéleff I was to go to the public square, and in the second shop on the right inquire for a certain Prokhóritch; and having found Prokhóritch, I was to hand him a document. And the whole document consisted of a scrap of paper, on which was written the following: “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen. To Sergyéi Prokhóritch Pervúshin. Trust this man. Feodúly Ivánovitch.” And below: “Send some cabbages, for God’s sake.”

I thanked the old man, and without further ado ordered my tarantás to be harnessed, and set off for Byéleff. For I argued in this way: admitting that my nocturnal visitor did not cause me much grief, still, nevertheless, it was not quite decorous for a nobleman and an officer--what do you think about it?

“And did you really go to Byéleff?”--whispered Mr. Finopléntoff.

I did, straight to Byéleff. I went to the square, and inquired in the second shop on the right for Prokhóritch. “Is there such a man?”--I asked.

“There is,”--I was told.

“And where does he live?”

“On the Oká, beyond the vegetable-gardens.”

“In whose house?”[42]

“His own.”

I wended my way to the Oká, searched out his house, that is to say, not actually a house, but a downright hovel. I beheld a man in a patched blue overcoat and a tattered cap,--of the petty burgher class, judging by his appearance,--standing with his back to me, and digging in his cabbage-garden.--I went up to him.

“Are you such and such a one?”--said I.

He turned round,--and to tell you the truth, such piercing eyes I have never seen in all my life. But his whole face was no bigger than one’s fist; his beard was wedge-shaped, and his lips were sunken: he was an aged man.

“I am he,”--he said.--“What do you wanta?”

“Why, here,”--said I;--“this is what I wanta,”--and I placed the document in his hand. He gazed at me very intently, and said:

“Please come into the house; I cannot read without my spectacles.”

Well, sir, he and I went into his kennel--actually, a regular kennel; poor, bare, crooked; it barely held together. On the wall was a holy picture of ancient work,[43] as black as a coal; only the whites of the eyes were fairly burning in the faces of the holy people. He took some round iron spectacles from a small table, placed them on his nose, perused the writing, and through his spectacles again scrutinised me.

“You have need of me?”

“I have,”--said I,--“that’s the fact.”

“Well,”--said he, “if you have, then make your statement, and I will listen.”

And just imagine; he sat down, and pulling a checked handkerchief from his pocket, he spread it out on his knees--and the handkerchief was full of holes--and gazed at me as solemnly as though he had been a senator,[44] or some minister or other; and did not ask me to sit down. And what was still more astonishing, I suddenly felt myself growing timid, so timid ... simply, my soul sank into my heels. He pierced me through and through with his eyes, and that’s all there is to be said! But I recovered my self-possession, and narrated to him my whole story. He remained silent for a while, shrank together, mowed with his lips, and then began to interrogate me, still as though he were a senator, so majestically and without haste. “What is your name?”--he asked. “How old are you? Who were your parents? Are you a bachelor or married?”--Then he began to mow with his lips again, frowned, thrust out his finger and said:

“Do reverence to the holy image of the honourable saints of Solovétzk,[45] Zósim and Saváty.”

I made a reverence to the earth, and did not rise to my feet; such awe and submission did I feel for that man that I believe I would have instantly done anything whatsoever he might have ordered me!... I see that you are smiling, gentlemen; but I was in no mood for laughing then, by Heaven I was not.

“Rise, sir,”--he said at last.--“It is possible to help you. This has not been sent to you by way of punishment, but as a warning; it signifies that you are being looked after; some one is praying earnestly for you. Go now to the bazaar and buy yourself a bitch, which you must keep by you day and night, without ceasing. Your visions will cease, and your dog will prove necessary to you into the bargain.”

A flash of light seemed suddenly to illuminate me; how those words did please me! I made obeisance to Prokhóritch, and was on the point of departing, but remembered that it was impossible for me not to show him my gratitude; I drew a three-ruble note from my pocket. But he put aside my hand and said to me:

“Give it to our chapel, or to the poor, for this service is gratis.”

Again I made him an obeisance, nearly to the girdle, and immediately marched off to the bazaar. And fancy, no sooner had I begun to approach the shops when behold, a man in a frieze cloak advanced to meet me, and under his arm he carried a setter bitch, two months old, with light-brown hair, a white muzzle, and white fore paws.

“Halt!” said I to the man in the frieze cloak; “what will you take for her?”

“Two rubles in silver.”

“Take three!”

The man was astonished, and thought the gentleman had lost his mind--but I threw a banknote in his teeth, seized the bitch in my arms, and rushed to my tarantás. The coachman harnessed up the horses briskly, and that same evening I was at home. The dog sat on my lap during the whole journey--and never uttered a sound; but I kept saying to her: “Tresórushko! Tresórushko!” I immediately gave her food and water, ordered straw to be brought, put her to bed, and dashed into bed myself. I blew out the light; darkness reigned.

“Come now, begin!”--said I.--Silence.--“Do begin, thou thus and so!”--Not a sound. It was laughable. I began to take courage.--“Come now, begin, thou thus and so, and ’tother thing!” But nothing happened--there was a complete lull! The only thing to be heard was the bitch breathing hard.

“Fílka!”--I shouted;--“Fílka! Come hither, stupid man!”--He entered.--“Dost thou hear the dog?”

“No, master,”--said he,--“I don’t hear anything,”--and began to laugh.

“And thou wilt not hear it again forever! Here’s half a ruble for thee for vodka!”

“Please let me kiss your hand,”--said the fool, and crawled to me in the dark.... My joy was great, I can tell you!

“And was that the end of it all?”--asked Antón Stepánitch, no longer ironically.

The visions did cease, it is true--and there were no disturbances of any sort--but wait, that was not the end of the whole matter. My Tresórushko began to grow, and turned out a cunning rogue. Thick-tailed, heavy, flop-eared, with drooping dewlaps, she was a regular “take-advance,”--a thoroughgoing good setter. And moreover, she became greatly attached to me. Hunting is bad in our parts,--well, but as I had set up a dog I had to supply myself with a gun also. I began to roam about the surrounding country with my Tresór; sometimes I would knock over a hare (my heavens, how she did course those hares!), and sometimes a quail or a duck. But the chief point was that Tresór never, never strayed a step away from me. Wherever I went, there she went also; I even took her to the bath with me--truly! One of our young gentlewomen undertook to eject me from her drawing-room on account of Tresór; but I raised such a row that I smashed some of her window-panes!

Well, sir, one day--it happened in summer.... And I must tell you that there was such a drought that no one could recall its like; the air was full of something which was neither smoke nor fog; there was an odour of burning, and mist, and the sun was like a red-hot cannon-ball; and the dust was such that one could not leave off sneezing! People went about with their mouths gaping open, just like crows.

It bored me to sit at home constantly in complete undress, behind closed shutters; and by the way, the heat was beginning to moderate.... And so, gentlemen, I set off afoot to the house of one of my neighbours. This neighbour of mine lived about a verst from me,--and was really a benevolent lady. She was still young and blooming, and of the most attractive exterior; only she had a fickle disposition. But that is no detriment in the feminine sex; it even affords pleasure.... So, then, I trudged to her porch--and that trip seemed very salt to me! Well, I thought, Nimfodóra Semyónovna will regale me with bilberry-water, and other refreshments--and I had already grasped the door-handle when, suddenly, around the corner of the servants’ cottage there arose a trampling of feet, a squealing and shouting of small boys.... I looked round. O Lord, my God! Straight toward me was dashing a huge, reddish beast, which at first sight I did not recognise as a dog; its jaws were gaping, its eyes were blood-shot, its hair stood on end.... Before I could take breath the monster leaped upon the porch, elevated itself on its hind legs, and fell straight on my breast. What do you think of that situation? I was swooning with fright, and could not lift my arms; I was completely stupefied; ... all I could see were the white tusks right at the end of my nose, the red tongue all swathed in foam. But at that moment another dark body soared through the air in front of me, like a ball--it was my darling Tresór coming to my rescue; and she went at that beast’s throat like a leech! The beast rattled hoarsely in the throat, gnashed its teeth, staggered back.... With one jerk I tore open the door, and found myself in the anteroom. I stood there, beside myself with terror, threw my whole body against the lock, and listened to a desperate battle which was in progress on the porch. I began to shout, to call for help; every one in the house took alarm. Nimfodóra Semyónovna ran up with hair unbraided; voices clamoured in the courtyard--and suddenly there came a cry: “Hold him, hold him, lock the gate!”

I opened the door,--just a crack,--and looked. The monster was no longer on the porch. People were rushing in disorder about the courtyard, flourishing their arms, picking up billets of wood from the ground--just as though they had gone mad. “To the village! It has run to the village!” shrieked shrilly a peasant-woman in a pointed coronet head-dress of unusual dimensions, thrusting her head through a garret-window. I emerged from the house.

“Where is Tresór?”--said I.--And at that moment I caught sight of my saviour. She was walking away from the gate, limping, all bitten, and covered with blood....

“But what was it, after all?”--I asked the people, as they went circling round the courtyard like crazy folk.

“A mad dog!”--they answered me, “belonging to the Count; it has been roving about here since yesterday.”

We had a neighbour, a Count; he had introduced some very dreadful dogs from over-sea. My knees gave way beneath me; I hastened to the mirror and looked to see whether I had been bitten. No; God be thanked, nothing was visible; only, naturally, my face was all green; but Nimfodóra Semyónovna was lying on the couch, and clucking like a hen. And that was easily to be understood: in the first place, nerves; in the second place, sensibility. But she came to herself, and asked me in a very languid way: was I alive? I told her that I was, and that Tresór was my saviour.

“Akh,”--said she,--“what nobility! And I suppose the mad dog smothered her?”

“No,”--said I,--“it did not smother her, but it wounded her seriously.”

“Akh,”--said she,--“in that case, she must be shot this very moment!”

“Nothing of the sort,”--said I;--“I won’t agree to that; I shall try to cure her.” ...

In the meanwhile, Tresór began to scratch at the door; I started to open it for her.

“Akh,”--cried she,--“what are you doing? Why, she will bite us all dreadfully!”

“Pardon me,”--said I,--“the poison does not take effect so soon.”

“Akh,”--said she,--“how is that possible? Why, you have gone out of your mind!”

“Nimfótchka,”--said I,--“calm thyself; listen to reason....”

But all at once she began to scream: “Go away; go away this instant with your disgusting dog!”

“I will go,”--said I.

“Instantly,”--said she,--“this very second! Take thyself off, brigand,”--said she,--“and don’t dare ever to show yourself in my sight again. Thou mightest go mad thyself!”

“Very good, ma’am,”--said I; “only give me an equipage, for I am afraid to go home on foot now.”

She riveted her eyes on me. “Give, give him a calash, a carriage, a drozhky, whatever he wants,--anything, for the sake of getting rid of him as quickly as possible. Akh, what eyes! akh, what eyes he has!”--And with these words she flew out of the room, dealing a maid who was entering a box on the ear,--and I heard her go off into another fit of hysterics.--And you may believe me or not, gentlemen, but from that day forth I broke off all acquaintance with Nimfodóra Semyónovna; and, taking all things into mature consideration, I cannot but add that for that circumstance also I owe my friend Tresór a debt of gratitude until I lie down in my coffin.

Well, sir, I ordered a calash to be harnessed, placed Tresór in it, and drove off home with her. At home I looked her over, washed her wounds, and thought to myself: “I’ll take her to-morrow, as soon as it is light, to the wizard in Efrém County. Now this wizard was an old peasant, a wonderful man; he would whisper over water--but others say that he emitted serpents’ venom on it--and give it to you to drink, and your malady would instantly disappear. By the way, I thought, I’ll get myself bled in Efrémovo; ’tis a good remedy for terror; only, of course, not from the arm, but from the bleeding-vein.”

“But where is that place--the bleeding-vein?”--inquired Finopléntoff, with bashful curiosity.

Don’t you know? That spot on the fist close to the thumb, on which one shakes snuff from the horn.--Just here, see! ’Tis the very best place for blood-letting; therefore, judge for yourselves; from the arm it will be venal blood, while from this spot it is sparkling. The doctors don’t know that, and don’t understand it; how should they, the sluggards, the dumb idiots? Blacksmiths chiefly make use of it. And what skilful fellows they are! They’ll place their chisel on the spot, give it a whack with their hammer--and the deed is done!... Well, sir, while I was meditating in this wise, it had grown entirely dark out of doors, and it was time to go to sleep. I lay down on my bed, and Tresór, of course, was there also. But whether it was because of my fright or of the stifling heat, or because the fleas or my thoughts were bothersome, at any rate, I could not get to sleep. Such distress fell upon me as it is impossible to describe; and I kept drinking water, and opening the window, and thrumming the “Kamárynskaya”[46] on the guitar, with Italian variations.... In vain! I felt impelled to leave the room,--and that’s all there was to it. At last I made up my mind. I took a pillow, a coverlet, and a sheet, and wended my way across the garden to the hay-barn; well, and there I settled myself. And there things were agreeable to me, gentlemen; the night was still, extremely still, only now and then a breeze as soft as a woman’s hand would blow across my cheek, and it was very cool; the hay was fragrant as tea, the katydids were rasping in the apple-trees; then suddenly a quail would emit its call--and you would feel that he was taking his ease, the scamp, sitting in the dew with his mate.... And the sky was so magnificent; the stars were twinkling, and sometimes a little cloud, as white as wadding, would float past, and even it would hardly stir....

At this point in the narrative, Skvorévitch sneezed; Kinarévitch, who never lagged behind his comrade in anything, sneezed also. Antón Stepánitch cast a glance of approbation at both.

Well, sir--[went on Porfíry Kapítonitch],--so I lay there, and still I could not get to sleep. A fit of meditation had seized upon me; and I pondered chiefly over the great marvel, how that Prokhóritch had rightly explained to me about the warning--and why such wonders should happen to me in particular.... I was astonished, in fact, because I could not understand it at all--while Tresórushko whimpered as she curled herself up on the hay; her wounds were paining her. And I’ll tell you another thing that kept me from sleeping--you will hardly believe it; the moon! It stood right in front of me, so round and big and yellow and flat; and it seemed to me as though it were staring at me--by Heaven it did; and so arrogantly, importunately.... At last I stuck my tongue out at it, I really did. Come, I thought, what art thou so curious about? I turned away from it; but it crawled into my ear, it illuminated the back of my head, and flooded me as though with rain; I opened my eyes, and what did I see? It made every blade of grass, every wretched little blade in the hay, the most insignificant spider’s web, stand out distinctly! “Well, look, then!” said I. There was no help for it. I propped my head on my hand and began to stare at it. But I could not keep it up; if you will believe it, my eyes began to stick out like a hare’s and to open very wide indeed, just as though they did not know what sleep was like. I think I could have eaten up everything with those same eyes. The gate of the hay-barn stood wide open; I could see for a distance of five versts out on the plain; and distinctly, not in the usual way on a moonlight night. So I gazed and gazed, and did not even wink.... And suddenly it seemed to me as though something were waving about far, far away ... exactly as though things were glimmering indistinctly before my eyes. Some time elapsed; again a shadow leaped across my vision,--a little nearer now; then again, still nearer. What is it? I thought. Can it be a hare? No, I thought, it is larger than a hare, and its gait is unlike that of a hare. I continued to look, and again the shadow showed itself, and it was moving now across the pasture-land (and the pasture-land was whitish from the moonlight) like a very large spot; it was plain that it was some sort of a wild beast--a fox or a wolf. My heart contracted within me ... but what was I afraid of, after all? Aren’t there plenty of wild animals running about the fields by night? But my curiosity was stronger than my fears; I rose up, opened my eyes very wide, and suddenly turned cold all over. I fairly froze rigid on the spot, as though I had been buried in ice up to my ears; and why? The Lord only knows! And I saw the shadow growing bigger and bigger, which meant that it was making straight for the hay-barn.... And then it became apparent to me that it really was a large, big-headed wild beast.... It dashed onward like a whirlwind, like a bullet.... Good heavens! What was it? Suddenly it stopped short, as though it scented something.... Why, it was the mad dog I had encountered that day! ’Twas he, ’twas he! O Lord! And I could not stir a finger, I could not shout.... It ran to the gate, glared about with its eyes, emitted a howl, and dashed straight for me on the hay!

But out of the hay, like a lion, sprang my Tresór; and then the struggle began. The two clinched jaw to jaw, and rolled over the ground in a ball! What took place further I do not remember; all I do remember is that I flew head over heels across them, just as I was, into the garden, into the house, and into my own bedroom!... I almost dived under the bed--there’s no use in concealing the fact. And what leaps, what bounds I made in the garden! You would have taken me for the leading ballerina who dances before the Emperor Napoleon on the day of his Angel--and even she couldn’t have overtaken me. But when I had recovered myself a little, I immediately routed out the entire household; I ordered them all to arm themselves, and I myself took a sword and a revolver. (I must confess that I had purchased that revolver after the Emancipation, in case of need, you know--only I had hit upon such a beast of a pedlar that out of three charges two inevitably missed fire.) Well, sir, I took all this, and in this guise we sallied forth, in a regular horde, with staves and lanterns, and directed our footsteps toward the hay-barn. We reached it and called--nothing was to be heard; we entered the barn at last.... and what did we see? My poor Tresórushko lay dead, with her throat slit, and that accursed beast had vanished without leaving a trace!

Then, gentlemen, I began to bleat like a calf, and I will say it without shame; I fell down on the body of my twofold rescuer, so to speak, and kissed her head for a long time. And there I remained in that attitude until my old housekeeper, Praskóvya, brought me to my senses (she also had run out at the uproar).

“Why do you grieve so over the dog, Porfíry Stepánitch?”--said she. “You will surely catch cold, which God forbid!” (I was very lightly clad.) “And if that dog lost her life in saving you, she ought to reckon it as a great favour!”

Although I did not agree with Praskóvya, I went back to the house. And the mad dog was shot on the following day by a soldier from the garrison. And it must have been that that was the end appointed by Fate to the dog, for the soldier fired a gun for the first time in his life, although he had a medal for service in the year ’12. So that is the supernatural occurrence which happened to me.

THE narrator ceased speaking and began to fill his pipe. But we all exchanged glances of surprise.

“But perhaps you lead a very upright life,”--began Mr. Finopléntoff,--“and so by way of reward....” But at that word he faltered, for he saw that Porfíry Kapítonitch’s cheeks were beginning to swell out and turn red, and his eyes too were beginning to pucker up--evidently the man was on the point of breaking out....

“But admitting the possibility of the supernatural, the possibility of its interference in everyday life, so to speak,”--began Antón Stepánitch:--“then what rôle, after this, must sound sense play?”

None of us found any answer, and, as before, we remained perplexed.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The well-known poet Yákoff Petróvitch Polónsky is the authority for this statement, in his “Recollections of Turgénieff,” printed in the early numbers of the _Niva_ for 1884.--TRANSLATOR.

[2] The finest of the public parks in Moscow, situated near the famous Sparrow Hills, is called “Neskútchny”--“Not Tiresome,” generally rendered “Sans Souci.” It contains an imperial residence, the Alexander Palace, used as an official summer home by the Governor-General of Moscow.--TRANSLATOR.

[3] Princes, princesses, counts, and countesses have the title of _Siyátelstvo_ (_siyám_--to shine, to be radiant); generally translated “Illustrious Highness” or “Serenity.”--TRANSLATOR.

[4] The custom still prevails in Russia, to a great extent, for all elderly women to wear caps. In the peasant class it is considered as extremely indecorous to go “simple-haired,” as the expression runs--TRANSLATOR.

[5] The famous gate from the “White town” into the “China town,” in Moscow, where there is a renowned holy picture of the Iberian Virgin, in a chapel. Evidently the lawyers’ quarter was in this vicinity.--TRANSLATOR.

[6] In Púshkin’s poem, “The Gipsies.”--TRANSLATOR.

[7] The respectful “s,” which is an abbreviation of “sir” or “madam.”--TRANSLATOR.

[8] A square in Moscow.--TRANSLATOR.

[9] A great plain situated on the outskirts of the town. So called because (says tradition) it was here that annually were assembled the young girls who were sent, in addition to the money tribute, to the Khan, during the Tatár period, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.--TRANSLATOR.

[10] Afanásy Afanásievitch Shénshin (1820-1892) always wrote under this name.--TRANSLATOR.

[11] A verst is two thirds of a mile.--TRANSLATOR.

[12] The Name-day--that is, the day of the saint after whom a person is named--is observed with feasting and congratulation, instead of the birthday. For ceremonious calls, no matter at what hour of the day, a man who has no official uniform must wear his evening suit, on penalty of being considered ignorant or rude, or (in official circles) of being refused admittance.--TRANSLATOR.

[13] A pun is intended: _isprávno_, regularly, in orderly manner; _ispravnik_, the chief of police in a rural district.--TRANSLATOR.

[14] Male serfs. The women and children did not figure on the revision lists.--TRANSLATOR.

[15] Of different grades (civil and military), for the children of the nobility or gentry. They are not charities.--TRANSLATOR.

[16] In those days there was a great difference in the value of silver and paper money--hence the kind is usually specified.--TRANSLATOR.

[17] Literally, “dear little mother.”--TRANSLATOR.

[18] A little Russian song.--TRANSLATOR.

[19] The popular nickname among Great Russians for the Little Russians.--TRANSLATOR.

[20] Literally, “dear little father”: the genuinely Russian mode of address to a man of any class, as _mátushka_ (“dear little mother”) is for women of all classes.--TRANSLATOR.

[21] The poem, after describing the deadly qualities of the upas-tree, narrates how a potentate sent one of his slaves to bring him flowers from it. The slave, thoroughly aware of his danger, fulfilled his sovereign’s behest, returned with branches of the tree, and dropped dead.--TRANSLATOR.

[22] It should be Akím, popular for Iakínthos, Hyacinth.--TRANSLATOR.

[23] The unpoetical Russian name is “chicken-blindness” (night-blindness).--TRANSLATOR.

[24] The eighth (out of fourteen) in Peter the Great’s Table of Ranks.--TRANSLATOR.

[25] “S’,” a polite addition to sentences, equivalent to a contraction of the words for “sir” or “madam.”--TRANSLATOR.

[26] The fourth from the top in the Table of Ranks.--TRANSLATOR.

[27] The figures in the mazurka are like those in the cotillon (which is often danced the same evening), but the step is very animated and original.--TRANSLATOR.

[28] He uses an impromptu Russification of a foreign word: _intimidátziya_.--TRANSLATOR.

[29] A mixed drink.--TRANSLATOR.

[30] A large collection of shops, under one roof, extending from the Névsky Prospékt to the Bolsháya Italyánskaya (“Great Italian Street”), in St. Petersburg.--TRANSLATOR.

[31] The Russian shows that a woman is addressed.--TRANSLATOR.

[32] “Macbeth,” Act V, scene v.

[33] How can one fail to recall at this point the words of Mephistopheles in “Faust”:

“Er (Gott) findet sich in einen ew’gen Glanze, Uns hat er in die Finsterniss gebracht-- Und euch taugt einzig Tag und Nacht.”

[34] This is in English in the original.--TRANSLATOR.

[35] The fifth (from the top) of the fourteen grades in the Table of Ranks, instituted by Peter the Great, which were to be won by service to the State.--TRANSLATOR.

[36] Those who reject the official and necessary corrections made in the Scriptures and Church service books in the reign of Peter the Great’s father.--TRANSLATOR.

[37] The Old Ritualists oppose tea, coffee, and tobacco, chiefly, it would seem, because they are “newfangled,” having come into use after the schism. Later on they invented curious religious reasons for their denunciation of these and other things.--TRANSLATOR.

[38] The holy picture (_ikóna_) of the Mother of Christ.--TRANSLATOR.

[39] The Old Ritualists’ most opprobrious epithet, designating a member of the State Church, which accepted the emendations instituted by Patriarch Níkon referred to in a previous note.--TRANSLATOR.

[40] One of the hotly disputed points of difference between the Old Ritualists and the members of the State Church is in their manner of crossing themselves. The latter use the forefinger, middle finger, and thumb joined at the tips.--TRANSLATOR.

[41] In the government of Tula, central Russia.--TRANSLATOR.

[42] Formerly, houses were not numbered, and addresses ran: “In the house of ***” (the proprietor, man or woman), often with many complicated directions added to designate the special house. These ancient addresses still remain, along with the numbers or alone, especially on many of the houses in Moscow, and in country towns.--TRANSLATOR.

[43] Old Ritualists will tolerate no others. Neither will they employ the words “buy” or “sell” in connection with these ikónas; they say “exchange.”--TRANSLATOR.

[44] The Senate in Russia is the Supreme Court of Appeals, and the senators are appointed, not elected.--TRANSLATOR.

[45] A famous monastery on an island in the White Sea.--TRANSLATOR.

[46] A vivacious and favourite popular dance-tune. It is several centuries old, and of interesting historical origin.--TRANSLATOR.

End of Project Gutenberg's First love and other stories, by Iván Turgénieff