Part 12

When they started off again, the rain had set in in earnest. It was necessary to raise the top, to cover up with the calcined, shrunken apron, to sit all hunched up. The horses clattered their muffled bells; little streams ran over their dark and glistening haunches; the grasses swished succulently under their wheels as they passed some boundary or other, among the fields of grain, through which the young fellow had driven in the hope of shortening the way; the warm rye-scented air gathered underneath the top, blending with the odour of the old _tarantass_.... “So that’s how things are,--Khvoshchinsky has died,” Ivlev was thinking. “I absolutely must drive up, just to have a glance at this deserted sanctuary of the mysterious Lushka.... But what sort of a man was this Khvoshchinsky? A madman, or simply some sort of an overwhelmed soul, all centred in one thing?” To judge by the stories of old land-owners, who were of the same age as Khvoshchinsky, he had at one time passed for an extraordinarily clever fellow in this province. And suddenly there fell upon him this love, this Lushka; then her unexpected death came,--and everything went to rack and ruin. He locked himself up in the house, in that room where Lushka had lived and died, and had sat there through more than twenty years,--not only not going out anywhere, but not showing himself to anybody even on his own estate. He had sat a hole through and through the mattress on Lushka’s bed, and ascribed literally everything that took place in the world to Lushka’s influence: if there were a thunderstorm,--it was Lushka who sent it; if a war were declared,--it meant that Lushka had so decided; if the harvest happened to be bad,--the peasants had not succeeded in pleasing Lushka....

“You’re driving to Khvoshchinsky’s, aren’t you?” called out Ivlev, putting his head out in the rain.

“To Khvoshchinsky’s,” came from the lad, indistinctly through the noise of the rain; water was running down from his drooping cap by this time. “Going up Pisarev’s hill....”

Ivlev did not know any such road. The settlements were constantly becoming poorer and farther away from the world. The boundary came to an end, the horses were going at a walk, and brought the careening _tarantass_ through a washed-out hollow to the bottom of a little hill, into some still unmown meadows, the green declivities of which stood out mournfully against the low-lying clouds. Then the road, now disappearing, now finding itself anew, began to wind in and out, along the bottoms of gullies, through ravines filled with alder bushes and branching osiers. They came upon somebody’s little apiary--several small logs standing upon a slope, among tall grass with wild strawberries glimmering red through it.... They made a detour of some old dam, sunk among nettles, and a pond long since dried up--a deep hollow, grown over with burdocks taller than a man in height.... A pair of black snipe with a mournful cry darted out of them towards the rainy sky.... But upon the dam, amidst the nettles, an old, big bush was blossoming out with little pale pink flowers,--that charming little tree which is called God’s Own Tree,[6]--and Ivlev suddenly recalled the localities, recalled that he had ridden through here more than once on horseback in his youth, with a gun slung over his shoulders....

[6] Abrotanum; southern wood. _Trans._

“They do say that she drowned herself right here,” said the young fellow unexpectedly.

“You’re talking about the mistress of Khvoshchinsky, aren’t you?” asked Ivlev. “That isn’t so; she didn’t even think of drowning.”

“No,--she did drown herself,” said the lad, “only, they think that he went mad from his poverty, most likely, and not on account of her....”

And after a silence, he roughly added:

“Well, we ought to be driving on again.... For this same Khvoshchinskoë now.... Look at how petered out them horses be!”

“Suit yourself,” said Ivlev.

Upon the hillock whither the road (now lead-coloured from the rain) led, upon a clearing from which the trees had been carried away, among the wet, rotting chips and leaves, among the stumps and young aspen growths, with their bitter and fresh scent, a solitary hut was standing. There was never a soul around,--only the singing green-finches, sitting under the rain upon tall flowers, rang through the entire thin forest that stretched upward beyond the hut. But when the _troika_, splashing through the mud, had come abreast of its threshold, a whole pack of huge hounds dashed out from somewhere,--black, chocolate, and smoke-coloured,--and with ferocious baying swirled around the horses, jumping up to their very muzzles, turning head over heels as they ran, and even spinning up to the very top of the _tarantass_. At the same time, and just as unexpectedly, the sky over the _tarantass_ was split by a deafening peal of thunder, which had not sounded once during the day, while the young fellow began in a rage to lash the dogs with his whip, and the horses dashed away at a gallop among the aspen trunks that began flashing before the eyes....

The village of Khvoshchinskoë could already be seen beyond the forest. The hounds lost ground and at once grew quiet, trotting back in a business-like manner; the forest gave way and again fields opened up ahead. Evening was coming on, and one could not determine now whether the storm-clouds, on three sides, were dispersing or encroaching. On the left was one almost black, with blue openings through which light showed; on the right, a hoary one, rumbling with ceaseless thunder; while toward the west, from Khvoshchinsky’s estate, from beyond the sloping hills over the river valley, was a turbidly blue one, with dusty streaks of rain through which could be seen the roseate mountains of clouds piled in the distance. But the rain was abating about the _tarantass_, and Ivlev, standing up, all bespattered with mud, threw back with pleasure the top, now grown heavy, and freely breathed in the fragrant dampness of the field.

He was looking at the approaching estate, was beholding, at last, that of which he had heard so much; but, even as formerly, it seemed to him that Lushka had lived and died not twenty years ago, but almost in times immemorial. Looking out over the bottom-land, all trace of the shallow little river was lost in the lush vegetation, over which a white king-fisher was soaring. Further on, on a mound, lay rows of hay, grown dark from the rain; among them, far apart from one another, were spread out ancient silvery poplars. The house, rather a large one and at one time white, with its wet roof glistening, stood upon an absolutely bare spot. There was neither garden, nor any outbuildings around it,--only two pillars of brick in lieu of gates, and with burdocks growing in the ditches. When the horses had crossed the little river by a ford and had gone up the hill, some woman, in a man’s summer overcoat with its pockets hanging down, was driving a few turkey hens through the burdocks. The _façade_ of the house was unusually bleak; it had few windows, and all of them were small, and set within thick walls. But then, the sombre front entrances were enormous. From one of them a young man in the gray blouse of a high-school student, belted with a broad strap, was looking with wonder at the arrivals; he was black-haired, with handsome eyes, and of very pleasing appearance, although his face was pale, and as spotted with freckles as a bird’s egg.

It was necessary to explain the visit in some way. Having climbed up to the entrance and given his name, Ivlev said that he wanted to see, and perhaps to buy, the library that, so the countess had said, had been left by the deceased. And the young man, flushing deeply and pulling down his blouse from behind, at once led him into the house. “So this, then, is the son of the famous Lushka!” reflected Ivlev, throwing a rapid glance at everything that met his eyes. He looked back frequently and said anything that came to mind first, just so as to have an additional glance at the master of the house, who appeared too youthful for his years. The latter answered hurriedly, but monosyllabically; he was evidently confused both by his bashfulness and his greed. That he was fearfully glad over the possibility of selling the books, and that he had conceived the notion of not parting with them at a cheap price, was apparent from his very first words, from that awkward hastiness with which he announced that books such as those in his possession could not be gotten for any amount of money. Through the half-dark entry, which was spread with straw rusty from dampness, he led Ivlev into a large ante-room.

“So this is where your father lived?” asked Ivlev, entering and taking off his hat.

“Yes, yes,--here,” the young man hastened to answer. “That is, of course, not just here ... for they used to sit in the bedroom most of all ... but, of course, they came here also....”

“Yes, I know,--for he was ill,” said Ivlev.

The young man flared up.

“That is, ill in what way?” he said, and manlier notes sounded in his voice. “That’s all gossip; he was not at all ailing mentally.... he simply read all the time, and did not go out anywhere, that is all.... But no, don’t you take your hat off, please,--it’s very cold here, for we don’t live in this half of the building....”

True, it was far chillier in the house than it was out in the air. In the dismal ante-room, its walls pasted with newspapers, upon the sill of a window, dismal from the storm clouds, was standing a quail cage made out of bast. A little gray bag was hopping over the floor of its own volition. Bending down, the young man captured it and put it down on a bench, and Ivlev understood that there was a quail imprisoned in the little bag. They next entered the parlour. This room, with its windows toward the west and toward the north, took up almost half the entire house. Through one window, against the gold of the evening glow that showed through the clearing clouds, could be seen a century-old weeping birch tree, all black; through the remaining window, a tall, withering acacia tree. The front corner was taken up by a shrine without glass, with images standing and hanging within it; among them stood out, both by its great size and its antiquity, one trimmed with silver, and upon this image, their wax gleaming yellow like dead flesh, were lying wedding candles tied with pale-green bows.

“Pardon me, please,” Ivlev was about to ask, overcoming his scruples, “but, did your father really....”

“No, that’s just so,” mumbled the young man, instantly grasping his meaning. “He bought these candles after her death already.... And he even wore a wedding ring all the time.”

The furniture in this parlour was crude. But then, in the spaces between the windows stood exquisite what-nots, crowded from top to bottom with porcelain knick-knacks, crystal, tea china, and goblets rimmed with gold. As for the floor, it was entirely strewn over with dead bees, that crackled under foot. The empty parlour, as well, was strewed with the bees. Having traversed it, and also some other sombre room with a sleeping ledge built against the side of a stove, the young man came to a stop before a low little door and took a big key out of his trousers’-pocket. Having turned it with difficulty in the rusty key-hole, he threw open the door, mumbling something,--and Ivlev saw a cubby-hole with two windows: against one wall stood a bare iron cot without any bedding; against another--two little bookcases of bird’s-eye birch.

“So this is the library?” asked Ivlev, walking up to one of these.

And the young man, having hastened to answer in the affirmative, helped him to open the little book-case, and began to follow his hands covetously.

The strangest of books did this library consist of! Ivlev would open the thick bindings, would turn over a rough, gray page, and would read: _The Forbidden Ground_.... _The Morning Star and Fight Dæmons_.... _Reflections on the Mysteries of Creation_.... _A Marvellous Journey into a Magick Region_.... _The Latest Dream Book_.... And yet his hands would persist in trembling slightly. So this was what that lonely soul, which had secluded itself forever from the world in this little room and had but lately quitted it, had nurtured itself upon? ... But perhaps this soul had not really been insane, after all?

“‘There is a state....’” The lines of Baratynsky came into Ivlev’s mind:

There is a state,-- But what name shall it be given? ’Tis neither dream nor waking, wavering twixt both; And comprehending it within him, man To frenzy’s verge is driven....

It had cleared up in the west; gold was peeping out from behind the beautiful lavender-coloured clouds and strangely illumined this humble sanctuary of love,--a love beyond understanding, which had transformed into some ecstatic existence a whole life that perhaps was destined to be a most commonplace one had there not happened to be a certain Lushka, mysterious in her enchantment....

Taking a little foot-stool from under the cot, Ivlev sat down before the cabinet and took out his cigarettes, imperceptibly scrutinizing and memorizing the room.

“Do you smoke?” he asked the young man who was bending over him.

The latter again blushed. “I do,” he mumbled, and tried to smile. “That is, I don’t exactly smoke,--rather, I try to jolly myself.... But, however, if I may,--very much obliged to you....”

And, having clumsily taken a cigarette, he lit it with his hands trembling, walked over to the window-sill and sat down upon it, barring out the yellow light of the evening glow.

“And what is this?” asked Ivlev, bending down to the third shelf, upon which lay only a single volume, very small, resembling a prayer-book, and where also stood a casket whose corners were trimmed with silver, grown black with time.

“That’s just ... the necklace of my late mother,” answered the young man, after a confused hesitation, but trying to speak negligently.

“May I have a look?”

“If you please ... although it really is very simple ... it won’t interest you....”

And opening the casket, Ivlev saw a much worn bit of cord, a string of very cheap little round blue globules, resembling stone ones. And such emotion possessed him upon glancing at these globules, which had at one time lain upon the neck of her whose lot it was to be so beloved, and whose dim image could no longer be anything but beautiful, that his eyes grew dim from the beating of his heart.... Having looked his fill, Ivlev carefully put the casket back in its place; he then took up the little book. This was a tiny, beautifully made _Grammar of Love, or the Art of Loving and of Being Loved in Return_, published almost a hundred years ago.

“This book, to my regret, I cannot sell,” said the young man with difficulty. “It’s very valuable.... He even put it under his pillow.”

“But perhaps you will let me have just a look at it?” said Ivlev.

“If you please,” said the young man in a whisper.

And, overcoming his compunctions, vaguely oppressed by the young man’s gaze, Ivlev began slowly turning the leaves of _The Grammar of Love_. It was all divided into short chapters: _Of Beauty_, _Of the Heart_, _Of the Mind_, _Of Deportment_, _Of Love’s Signs_, _Of Attack and Defense_, _Of Falling Out and Reconciliation_, _Of Platonic Love_.... Each chapter consisted of very brief, elegant, at times very subtle, sentences, and some of them were very lightly marked by a pen in red ink. “Love is not a mere episode in our Life,” Ivlev read. “Our Reason contradicts the Heart and doth not convince the latter.” “Women are never so strong as when they arm themselves with Weakness.” “We adore Woman because she holds sovereign sway over our Ideal Dream.” “Vanity chooses; True Love,--never.” “A Woman of Beauty must take second place; the first belongs to the Woman of Charm. It is the latter that becomes the Sovereign of our Heart: before we have rendered our Heart an account of Her, our Heart becomes a Captive to Love for Eternity....” Then followed _An Explanation of the Language of Flowers_, and again here and there were marked passages:

_Wild Poppy_--Sadness. _Priest’s Cap_--Thy alluring beauty is imprinted on my heart. _Periwinkle_--Sweet Remembrances. _The Mournful Geranium_--Melancholy. _Worm-wood_--Eternal Bitterness.

While upon a blank page at the very end, in tiny, bead-like characters, was a stanza of eight lines, written in the same ink. The young man stretched out his neck as he peeped into _The Grammar of Love_, and said with a forced smile:

“He wrote that himself.”

Half an hour later, Ivlev bade him good-bye with relief. Out of all the books he had bought only this small volume at a high price. The turbidly-golden evening glow was fading in the clouds beyond the fields, yellowly reflected in the puddles; the fields were wet and green. The lad was not in any hurry, but Ivlev did not spur him on. The young fellow was saying that that woman who had been driving the turkey hens through the burdocks before was the deacon’s wife; that young Khvoshchinsky has been living with her for a long time now, that he already has children. Ivlev was not listening. He was constantly thinking of Lushka; of her necklace, which had left a complex feeling within him, resembling that which he had once experienced in a little Italian town upon beholding the relics of a female saint. “She has come into my life forever!” he reflected. And, taking _The Grammar of Love_ out of his pocket, he slowly read over, by the light of the evening glow, the verses written upon its last page:

We were assigned a thorny wreath In this world, where all evils be; The love I bore was unto death,-- It died with me.

But--“Live thou in legends of Love’s bliss!” Shall greet it hearts that with Love strove; And to their grandchildren shall show this _Grammar of Love_.

_1915._

A NIGHT CONVERSATION

I

The sky had been silvery with stars all night long, the fields beyond the garden and the threshing floor was darkling evenly, and the wind-mill, with the two horns of its wings, showed sharply black against the clear horizon. But the stars gave out sparks, trembling, frequently cutting the sky with narrow green streaks; the garden was fitfully murmurous, and already chill autumn could be heard in its murmurings. From the direction of the mill, from the sloping plain, from the desolated stubble-field, a strong wind was blowing.

The farm hands had sated themselves at supper,--it was the holiday of the Assumption of the Holy Virgin,--and had avidly smoked their fill on their way through the garden to the threshing barn. Having thrown on their long great coats, tight at the waist, and falling in folds over their short sheepskin coats, they were going there to sleep, to guard the heaps of grain. Following behind the farm hands, dragging a pillow, walked the master’s son, a tall high-school student, with three white _borzoi_ hounds running at his heels. Upon the threshing floor, in the fresh wind, there was a pleasant smell of chaff, of new rye straw. They all lay down comfortably in it, in the very biggest stack of all, as near as possible to the piles of grain and the corn kiln. The dogs fussed about, rustled for a while at the feet of the workers, and also quieted down.

Over the heads of the recumbent men the broad Milky Way, dividing into two smokily-translucent branches, glimmered whitely and faintly, filled with the fine star dust suspended within them. It was quiet and warm in the straw. But a north-east wind, again and again, ran disquietingly through the brushwood that was darkling along the ditch to the left, with its rampart of earth; and increasing, it neared with an inimical noise. Then a cool breath would reach the face, the hands, together with a bad odour from the lanes between the heaps of grain. And over the horizon, beyond the irregular black blotches of the brushwood, icy diamonds vividly flared up; the Capella was bursting into vari-coloured fires.

Having settled down, they all shut their eyes, after a yawning spell. The wind was dreamily rustling the prickling straws that stuck out above their heads. But its coolness reached their faces, and they all felt that they did not want to sleep as yet,--they had slept their fill after dinner. The high-school student alone was languishing from a sweet longing for sleep. But the fleas would not let him sleep. He started scratching, let his thoughts run on wenches, on the widow through whom he, with the help of the farm hand Pashka, had lost his innocence that very summer, and he also became broad awake.

This student was a thin, awkward stripling with an unusually soft colouring--his face was so white that even sunburn had no effect upon it; he was blue-eyed, with outrageously big hands and feet, with a big Adam’s-apple. He had not parted company with the farm hands all summer,--at first he had carted manure, then the sheaves; he put in order the piles of grain, he smoked an atrocious cheap tobacco, he imitated the _moujiks_ in speech and in his roughness with wenches, who always started laughing at him in chorus, greeting him with catcalls and cries of “Veretenkin! Veretenkin!”[7]--a stupid nickname invented by Ivan, who was a helper at the threshing machine. He passed his nights now at the threshing floor, now in the horse stable; he did not change his linen and his canvas clothes for weeks at a time, nor would he take off his tarred boots; he raised blood-blisters on his feet, unaccustomed to coarse foot-cloths; he lost all the buttons on his summer uniform overcoat, which had been soiled by wheels and manure, had broken the letters and the little silver leaves on his uniform cap.

[7] “Spindle-Shanks! Spindle-Shanks!” _Trans._

“He has broken away from the house entirely!” his mother would say of him, with a caressing, kindly regret, enraptured even by his defects. “Of course, he’ll pick up, become stronger,--but just look what a matted choate he is,--he doesn’t even wash his neck!” she would say, smiling to her guests and pulling his soft, chestnut locks, trying to get at the soft little spiral, curling like a girl’s, at the nape of his neck,--dark, contrasting with the childishly white flesh visible under the blouse that buttoned at the side, contrasting with the large vertebræ under the fine, smooth skin. But he would sulkily turn his head away from under her caressing hand, frowning and blushing. He grew not by the day but by the hour, and as he walked he stooped, whistling meditatively, angularly lumbering from side to side. He still ate linden blossoms and the gum of cherry trees; he carried, although by now secretly, a sling shot to shoot sparrows with, but he would have been consumed with shame had this been revealed, and he constantly kept his hands in his pockets. Only last winter he had played Redskins with his little sister Lily. But in the spring, when through all the streets of the town streams were running and shimmering with a blinding dazzle; when the white window-sills in the class-rooms were aflame with the sun; when the teacher’s room was shot through and through with the sun, and the principal’s cat was lying in ambush for the first finches in the high-school garden, still filled with silvery snow,--in the spring he had gotten the notion that he had fallen in love with the slender little Youshkova, a bookish, serious-minded high-school girl; he had struck up a close friendship with Simashko, a spectacled six-termer, and had determined to dedicate his entire summer vacation to self-culture. But in the summer his dreams about self-culture were already forgotten; a new resolve was taken,--to study the common people; which resolve had soon passed into a passionate infatuation with the _moujiks_.