Várenka Ólesoff
I
... A few days after his appointment as instructor in one of the provincial universities, Ippolít Sergyéevitch Polkánoff received a telegram from his sister, from her estate in a distant forest district on the Vólga.
The telegram briefly announced:
“My husband is dead. For God’s sake, come at once to my assistance. Elizavéta.”
This alarming summons unpleasantly agitated Ippolít Sergyéevitch, interfering with his projects and his frame of mind. He had already decided to spend the summer in the country, at the house of one of his comrades, and to do a great deal of work there, in order to prepare himself to do justice to his lectures; and now, here it was necessary to travel more than a thousand versts from St. Petersburg and from the place of his appointment, in order to comfort a woman who had lost her husband, with whom, judging from her own letters, her life had been far from sweet.
He had seen his sister, for the last time, four years previously, had corresponded with her rarely, and dong ago there had been established between them those purely formal relations which are so common between two relatives who are separated by distance, and by dissimilarity of their life-interests.
The telegram evoked in him the memory of his sister’s husband. The latter was a stout, good-natured man, fond of eating and drinking. His face was round, covered with a network of red veins, and his eyes were merry and small; he had a way of roguishly screwing up his left eye, and smiling sweetly, as he sang in atrocious French:
“Regardez par ci, regardez par là....”
And Ippolít Sergyéevitch found it difficult to believe, that that jolly young fellow was dead, because common-place people usually live a long time.
His sister had borne herself toward the weaknesses of this man with a half-scornful condescension; being anything but a stupid woman, she had comprehended, that if you shoot at a stone, you merely lose your arrows. And it was not likely that she was greatly afflicted by his death.
But, nevertheless, it was not easy to refuse her request. He could work at her house quite as well as anywhere else....
After further meditation in this direction, Ippolít Sergyéevitch decided to go, and, a couple of weeks later, on a warm June evening, fatigued with a journey of forty versts1 by posting-wagon, from the wharf to the village, he was seated at the table opposite his sister, on a terrace which overlooked the park, drinking exquisite tea.
Along the balustrade of the terrace, lilac and acacia bushes grew luxuriantly; the slanting rays of the sun, penetrating through the foliage, quivered in the air, in slender, golden ribbons. A tracery of shadows lay upon the table, closely set with country viands; the air was filled with the fragrance of the lindens, the lilacs, and the damp earth, heated by the sun. In the park birds were chirping noisily; now and then a bee or a wasp flew to the terrace and buzzed anxiously, as it hovered about the table. Elizavéta Sergyéevna took a napkin in her hand, and flourished it in the air, in vexation, chasing the bees and the wasps off into the park.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch had already succeeded in convincing himself that his sister had not been particularly shocked by the fact of her husband’s death, that she was gazing at him, her brother, in a searching way, and as she chatted with him, was concealing something from him. He had become accustomed to think of her, as a woman entirely engrossed in the cares of housekeeping, broken down with the disorders of her wedded life, and he had expected to behold her nervous, pale and exhausted. But now, as he looked at her oval face, covered with healthy sunburn, calm, confident, and extremely enlivened by the intelligent gleam of her large, bright eyes, he felt that he was pleasantly disappointed; and as he lent an ear to her remarks, he tried to hear the undercurrent, and to understand what it was she was withholding from him.
“I was prepared for this,—” she said, in a high, calm contralto, and her voice vibrated charmingly on the upper notes.—“After his second shock, he complained almost daily of pains in the heart, of its irregular beating, of insomnia... but, nevertheless, when they brought him home from the fields—I could scarcely stand on my feet.... They tell me that he got very excited out there, and shouted...? and on the day before he had been to visit Ólesoff—a landed proprietor, a retired colonel, a drunkard and a cynic, broken down with the gout. By the way, he has a daughter—there’s a treasure, I can tell you I—You must make her acquaintance....”
“If it cannot be avoided,” interposed Ippolít Sergyéevitch, glancing at his sister with a smile.
“It cannot! She is often at our house... but now, of course, she will come here more frequently than ever,—” she replied to him, with a smile also.
“Is she on the lookout for a husband? I’m not fitted for the part.”
His sister looked him steadily in the face, which was oval, thin, with small, pointed, black beard, and a lofty, white brow.
“Why are you not fitted for the part? Of course, I am speaking in general, without any idea in connection with Miss Ólesoff,—you will understand why when you see her... but, surely, you are thinking of marrying?”
“Not just yet,—” he answered her briefly, raising from his glass his light-gray eyes with a cold gleam.
“Yes,—” said Elizavéta Sergyéevna thoughtfully,—“at the age of thirty it is both late and early, for a man to take that step....”
It pleased him that she had ceased to speak of her husband’s death, but why had she summoned him to her so loudly and in so frightened a manner?
“A man should marry at twenty or at forty,” she said pensively,—“in that way, there is less risk of deceiving oneself or of deceiving another person... but if you do make a mistake, then, in the first case, you pay for it with the freshness of your feelings, and in the second... at least by your outward position, which is almost always solid in the case of a man of forty.”
It struck him that she was saying this more for herself than for him, and he did not interrupt her, but leaned back in his arm-chair and deeply inhaled the aromatic air.
“As I was saying—he had been at Ólesoff’s on the day before, and, of course, he drank there. Well, and so....” Elizavéta Sergyéevna shook her head sadly.—“Now... I am left alone... although, after the second year of my life with him, I felt myself inwardly quite alone. But now my position is so strange! I am twenty-eight years old, I have not lived, I have merely been attached to the service of my husband and children,... the children are dead. And I... what am I now? What am I to do, and how am I to live? I would sell this estate, and go abroad, but his brother lays claim to the inheritance, and there may be a lawsuit. I will not give up what belongs to me, without legal grounds for so doing, and I see none in the claim of his brother. What do you think about it?...”
“I am not a lawyer, you know,—” laughed Ippolít Sergyéevitch.—“But... tell me all about this, and we shall see. That brother—has he written to you?”
“Yes... and quite roughly. He is a gambler, a ruined man, who has sunk very low... my husband did not like him, although they had much in common.”
“We shall see!—” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, and rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was delighted to know why his sister needed him, he did not like anything that was not clear and definite. His first care was the preservation of his inward equanimity, and if anything obscure perturbed that equanimity,—a troubled disquietude and irritation arose in his soul, which anxiously incited him to clear up the thing he did not understand as promptly as possible.
“To speak frankly,”—explained Elizavéta softly, and without looking at her brother,—“this stupid claim has alarmed me. I am so worn out, Ippolít, I do so want to rest... and here, something is beginning again.”
She sighed heavily, and taking his glass, she continued in a melancholy tone, which tickled her brother’s ears unpleasantly:
“Eight years of life with such a man as my deceased husband give me the right, I think, to a rest. Any other woman in my place,—a woman with a less developed sense of duty and respectability—would long ago have broken that heavy chain, but I wore it, although I fainted under its weight. But the death of my children—ah, Ippolít, if you only knew what I endured when I lost them!”
He looked into her face with an expression of sympathy, but her plaints did not touch his soul. He did not like her language, a bookish sort of language, which was not natural to a person who feels deeply, and her bright eyes flitted strangely from side to side, rarely coming to a pause on anything. Her gestures were soft, and cautious, and an inward chill breathed forth from her whole finely-formed figure.
Some sort of a merry bird perched on the balustrade of the terrace, twittering, hopped along it, and flew away. The brother and sister followed it with their eyes, as they sat a few seconds in silence.
“Does anyone come to see you? Do you read?”—asked the brother, as he lighted a cigarette, thinking how delightful it would be to sit in silence, on that magnificent quiet evening, in a comfortable easy-chair, there on the terrace, listening to the quiet rustling of the foliage and waiting for the night, which would come, and extinguish the sounds, and light up the stars.
“Várenka comes, and once in a while, Mrs. Banártzeff... do you remember her? Liudmila Vasílievna... she, also, is not happy with her husband.. but she understands how to avoid taking offence. A great many men used to come to see my husband,—but not a single one of them was interesting! Decidedly, there is not a soul with whom to exchange a word... agriculture, hunting, county tittle-tattle, gossip—that is all they talk about.... However, there is one... a bachelor of law—Benkóvsky... young, and very highly educated. You remember the Benkóvskys? Wait! I think someone is coming.”
“Who is coming... that Benkóvsky?”—inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
For some reason, his query set his sister to laughing; as she laughed, she rose from her chair, and said in a voice that was new to him:
“Várenka!”
“Ah!”
“Let us see what you will say about her.... Here she has made the conquest of everybody. But what a monster she is, from a spiritual point of view! How-ever—you shall see for yourself.”
“I don’t care about it,” he declared indifferently, stretching himself out in his arm-chair.
“I will be back directly,”—said Elizavéta Sergyéevna, as she went away.
“But she will present herself without your help,” he said with concern.
“Yes, I’ll be back directly!” his sister called to him from the room.
He frowned, and remained in his chair, gazing into the park. The swift beat of a horse’s hoofs became audible, and the rumble of wheels on the ground.
Before Ippolít Sergyéevitch’s eyes stood rows of aged, gnarled linden trees, maples, and oaks, enveloped in the evening twilight. Their angular branches were interwoven one with another, forming overhead a thick roof of fragrant verdure, and all of them, decrepit with time, with rifted bark and broken boughs, seemed to form a living and friendly family of beings, closely united in an aspiration upward, toward the light. But their bark was thickly covered with a yellow efflorescence of mould, at their roots young trees had sprung up luxuriantly, and from this cause, on the old trees there were many dead branches, which swung in the air like lifeless skeletons.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch gazed at them, and felt an inclination to doze off there in his arm-chair, under the breath of the ancient park.
Between the trunks and boughs gleamed crimson patches of the horizon, and against this vivid background, the trees seemed still more gloomy, and wasted away. Along the avenue, which ran from the terrace into the dusky distance, the thick shadows were slowly moving, and the stillness increased every minute, inspiring confused fancies. Ippolít Sergyéevitch’ imagination, yielding to the sorcery of the evening, depicted from the shadows the silhouette of a woman whom he knew, and his own by her side. They walked in silence down the avenue, into the distance, she pressed closely to him, and he felt the warmth of her body.
“How do you do!”—rang out a thick chest voice.
He sprang to his feet, and looked round, somewhat disconcerted.
Before him stood a young girl, of medium stature, in a gray gown, over her head was thrown something white and airy, like a bridal veil,—that was all he noticed in that first moment.
She offered him her hand, inquiring:
“Ippolít Sergyéevitch, is it not? Miss Ólesoff.... I already knew that you were to arrive to-day, and came to see what you were like. I have never seen any learned men,—and I did not know what they might be like.”
A strong, warm, little hand pressed his hand, and he, somewhat abashed by this unexpected attack, bowed to her in silence, was angry at himself for his confusion, and thought that, when he should look at her face, he would find there frank and coarse coquetry. But when he did look at it, he beheld large, dark eyes, which were smiling artlessly and caressingly, illuminating the handsome face. Ippolít Sergyéevitch remembered that he had seen just that sort of a face, proud with healthy beauty, in an old Italian picture. The same little mouth with splendid lips, the same brow, arched and lofty, and the huge eyes beneath it.
“Permit me... I will order some lights... pray be seated....” he requested her.
“Don’t trouble yourself, I am quite at home here,” she said, seating herself in his chair....
He stood at the table facing her, and gazed at her, feeling that this was awkward, and that it behooved him to speak. But she, not in the least confused by his steady gaze, spoke herself. She asked him how he had come, whether he liked the country, whether he would remain there long; he answered her in monosyllables, and various fragmentary thoughts flashed through his mind. He was stunned, as it were, by a blow, and his brain, always clear, now grew turbid in the presence of feelings suddenly and chaotically aroused by force. His enchantment with her struggled with irritation at himself, and curiosity struggled with something that was akin to fear. But this young girl, blooming with health, sat opposite him, leaning against the back of her chair, closely enveloped in the material of her costume, which permitted a glimpse of the magnificent outlines of her shoulders, bosom and torso, and in a melodious voice full of masterful notes, uttered to him some trivialities, such as are usual when two unacquainted persons meet for the first time. Her dark chestnut hair curled charmingly, and her eyebrows and eyes were darker than her hair. On her dark neck, around her rosy, transparent ear, the skin quivered, announcing the swift circulation of the blood in her veins, a dimple made its appearance every time a smile disclosed her small, white teeth, and every fold of her garments breathed forth an exasperating seduction. There was something rapacious in the arch of her nose, and in her small teeth, which shone forth from between ripe lips, and her attitude, full of unstudied charm, reminded one of the grace of well-fed and petted kittens.
It seemed to Ippolít Sergyéevitch that he had become two persons: one half of his being was absorbed in this sensual beauty, and was slavishly contemplating it, the second half was mechanically noting the existence of the first, and feeling that it had lost its power over it. He replied to the girl’s questions, and put some questions to her himself, not being in a condition to tear his eyes from her entrancing figure. He had already called her, to himself, a luxurious female, and had inwardly laughed at himself, but this did not annihilate his double existence. Thus it went on, until his sister made her appearance on the terrace, with the exclamation:
“See what a clever creature! I was hunting for her yonder, and she is already....”
“I went round by the park.”
“Have you made each other’s acquaintance?”
“Oh, yes! I thought that Ippolít Sergyéevitch was bald, at least!”
“Shall I pour you some tea?”
“Please do.”
Ippolít Sergyéevitch withdrew a little apart from them, and stood near the steps which led down into the park. He passed his hand over his face, and then drew his fingers across his eyes, as though he were wiping the dust from his face and eyes. He was ashamed of himself for having yielded to a burst of emotion, and this shame soon gave way to irritation against the young girl. To himself, he characterized the scene with her as a Kazák attack on a prospective husband, and he felt like announcing himself to her as a man who was utterly indifferent to her challenging beauty.
“I’m going to stay over night with you, and spend all day to-morrow here....” she said to his sister.
“And how about Vasíly Stepánovitch?” asked his sister, in surprise.
“Aunt Lutchítzky is visiting us, she will look after him.... You know, that papa is very fond of her.”
“Excuse me,...” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch drily,—“I am extremely fatigued, and will go and rest....”
He bowed and departed, and Várenka’s exclamation of approbation followed him:
“You ought to have done so long ago!”
In the tone of her exclamation he detected only good nature, but he set it down as an attempt to ingratiate herself, and as false.
The room which had served his sister’s husband as a study had been prepared for him. In the middle of it stood a heavy, awkward writing-table, before which was an oaken arm-chair; along one of the walls, almost for its entire length, stretched a broad, ragged Turkish divan, on the other, a harmonium, and two book-cases. Several large, soft chairs, a small smoking table beside the divan, and a chess-table at the window, completed the furniture of the room. The ceiling was low and blackened with smoke. From the walls dark spots, which were pictures and engravings of some sort, in coarse, gilded frames, peered forth—everything was heavy, old, and emitted a disagreeable odor. On the table stood a large lamp with a blue shade, and the light from it fell upon the floor.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch halted at the edge of this circle of light, and feeling a sensation of confused trepidation, glanced at the windows of the room. There were two of them, and outside, in the gloom of evening the dark silhouettes of the trees were outlined. He went to the windows, and opened both of them. Then the room was filled with the fragrance of the blossoming lindens, and with it floated in a burst of hearty laughter in a chest voice.
On the divan a bed had been made up for him, and it occupied a little more than half of the divan. He glanced at it, and began to undo his necktie; but then, with an abrupt movement, he pushed an arm-chair to the window, and seated himself in it, with a scowl.
This sensation of incomprehensible trepidation disquieted his mind, and irritated him. The feeling of dissatisfaction with himself rarely presented itself to him, but when it did, it never seized hold upon him powerfully, or for long—he managed to get rid of it promptly. He was convinced that a man should and can understand his emotions, and develop or suppress them; and when people talked to him about the mysterious complication of man’s psychical life, he grinned ironically, and called such opinions metaphysics. It was all the worse for him now to feel that he was entering the sphere of some incomprehensible emotions or other.
He asked himself: Is it possible that the meeting with this healthy and handsome young girl—who must be extremely sensual and stupid,—was it possible that this meeting could have such a strange influence upon him? And after having carefully scrutinized the series of impressions of that day, he was compelled to answer himself in the affirmative. Yes, it was so because she had taken his mind unawares, because he was extremely fatigued with the journey, and had been in a dreamy mood which was quite unusual for him at the moment when she made her appearance before him.
This reflection somewhat soothed him, and she immediately presented herself to his eyes in her splendid, maidenly beauty. He contemplated her, closing his eyes and nervously inhaling the smoke of his cigarette, but as he contemplated her, he criticised.
“In reality,”—he reflected,—“she is vulgar: there is too much blood and muscle in her healthy body, and there are too few nerves. Her ingenuous face is not intelligent, and the pride which beams in the frank gaze of her deep, dark eyes is the pride of a woman who is convinced of her beauty, and is spoiled by the admiration of men. My sister said that this Várenka makes a conquest of everybody.”—Of course, she was trying to make a conquest of him, also. But he had come hither to work, and not to frolic, and she would soon understand that.
“But am not I thinking a great deal about her, for a first encounter?”—flashed through his mind.
The disk of the moon, huge and blood-red in hue, was rising somewhere, far away behind the trees of the park: it gazed forth from the darkness like the eye of a monster, born of it. Faint sounds, coming from the direction of the village, were borne upon the air.... Now and then, in the grass beneath the window, a rustling resounded; it must be a tortoise or a hedgehog on the prowl. A nightingale was singing somewhere. And the moon mounted slowly in the sky, as though the fateful necessity of its movement was understood by it and wearied it. Flinging his cigarette, which had gone out, from the window, Ippolít Sergyéevitch rose, undressed, and extinguished the lamp. Then the darkness poured into the room from the garden, the trees moved up to the windows, as though desirous of looking in; on the floor lay two streaks of moonlight, still faint and turbid.
The springs of the divan creaked shrilly under the body of Ippolít Sergyéevitch, and overcome by the pleasant coolness of the linen sheets, he stretched himself out, and lay still on his back. Soon he was dozing, and under his window he heard someone’s cautious footsteps and a thick whisper:
“... Má-arya... Are you there? Hey?”...
With a smile, he fell fast asleep.
And in the morning, when he awoke in the brilliant sunlight, which filled his room, he smiled again at the memory of the preceding evening, and of the young girl. He presented himself at tea carefully dressed, cold and serious, as was befitting a learned man; but when he saw that his sister was seated alone at the table, he involuntarily burst out:
“But where is....”
His sister’s sly smile stopped him before he had finished his question, and he seated himself, in silence, at the table. Elizavéta Sergyéevna scrutinized his costume in detail, smiling all the while, and paying no heed to his involuntary scowl. Her significant smile enraged him.
“She rose long ago, and she and I have been to bathe, and she must be in the park now... and will soon make her appearance,—” explained Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
“How circumstantial you are,—” he said, with a laugh.—“Please give orders to have my things unloaded immediately after tea.”
“And have them taken out?”
“No, no, that’s not necessary, I’ll do that myself, otherwise everything will get mixed up.... There are books and candy for you....”
“Thanks! That’s nice of you... and here comes Várenka!”
She made her appearance in the doorway, in a thin, white gown, which fell from her shoulders to her feet in rich folds. Her costume resembled a child’s blouse, and in it she looked like a child. Pausing for a second at the door, she asked:
“Have you been waiting for me?—” and approached the table as noiselessly as a cloud.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch bowed to her in silence, and as he shook her hand, her arm being bared to the elbow, he perceived a delicate odor of violets which emanated from her.
“How you have scented yourself!” exclaimed Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
“Is it any more than I always do? You are fond of perfumes, Ippolít Sergyéevitch? I am—awfully! When the violets are in bloom, I pluck them every morning after my bath, and rub them in my hands,—I learned that in the pro-gymnasium.... Do you like violets?”
He drank his tea, and did not glance at her, but he felt her eyes on his face.
“I really have never thought about it—whether I like them or not,—” he said drily, shrugging his shoulders, but as he involuntarily glanced at her, he smiled.
Shaded by the snow-white material of her gown, her face flamed with a magnificent flush, and her deep eyes beamed with clear joy. She breathed forth health, freshness, unconscious happiness. She was as good as a bright May morning in the north.
“You haven’t thought about it?”—she exclaimed.—“But how is that... seeing that you are a botanist.”
“But not a floriculturist,—” he explained briefly, and involuntarily reflecting that this might be rude, he turned his eyes away from her face.
“But are not botany and floriculture one and the same?—” she inquired, after a pause.
His sister laughed unrestrainedly. And he suddenly became conscious that this laugh made him writhe, for some reason, and he exclaimed pityingly to himself:
“Yes, she is stupid!”
But later on, as he explained to her the difference between botany and floriculture, he softened his verdict, and pronounced her merely ignorant. As she listened to his intelligent and serious remarks, she gazed at him with the eyes of an attentive pupil, and this pleased him. As he talked, he often turned his eyes from her face to his sister’s, and in her gaze, which was immovably fixed on Várenka’s face, he discerned eager envy. This interfered with the speech, as it called forth in him a sentiment allied to disdain for his sister.
“Ye-es,—” said the young girl slowly,—“so that’s how it is! And is botany an interesting science?”
“Hm! you see, one must look upon science from the point of view of its utility to men,—” he explained, with a sigh. Her lack of development, allied with her beauty, increased his compassion for her. But she, meditatively tapping the edge of her cup with her teaspoon, asked him:
“Of what utility can it be, that you know how burdock grows?
“The same which we deduce from studying the phenomena of life in any one man.”
“A man and a burdock....” she smiled. “Does one man live like all the rest?”
He found it strange that this uninteresting conversation did not fatigue him.
“Do I eat and drink in the same way as the peasants?” she continued seriously, contracting her brows. “And do many people live as I do?”
“How do you live?”—he inquired, foreseeing that this question would change the course of the conversation. He wished to do so, because a malicious, sneering element had now been added to the envy in the gaze which his sister had fastened upon Várenka.
“How do I live?—” the girl suddenly flushed up.—“Well!—” And she even closed her eyes with satisfaction. “You know, I wake up in the morning, and if the day is bright, I immediately feel dreadfully gay! It is as though I had received a costly and beautiful gift, which I had long been wanting to possess.... I run and take my bath—we have a river with springs—the water is cold, and it fairly nips the body! There are very deep spots, and I plunge straight into them, head first, from the bank—splash! It fairly bums one, all over.. you fly into the water as from a precipice, and there is a ringing in your head.... You come to the surface, tear yourself out of the water, and the sun looks down at you and laughs! Then I go home through the forest, I gather flowers, I inhale the forest air until I am intoxicated; when I arrive, tea is ready! I drink tea, and before me stand flowers.. and the sun gazes at me.... Ah, if you only knew how I love the sun! Then the day advances, and housekeeping cares begin.. everyone loves me at home, they all understand and obey at once,—and everything whirls on like a wheel until the evening.. then the sun sets, the moon and the stars make their appearance... how beautiful and how new this always is! you understand! I cannot say it intelligibly.. why it is so good to live!... But perhaps you feel just the same yourself, do you? Surely, you understand why such a life is good and interesting?”
“Yes... of course!—” he assented, ready to wipe the venomous smile from his sister’s face with his hand.
He looked at Várenka, and did not restrain himself from admiring her, as she quivered with the desire to impart to him the strength of the exultation which filled her being, but this ecstasy of hers heightened his feeling of pity for her to the degree of a painfully-poignant sensation. He beheld before him a being permeated with the charm of vegetable life, full of rough poetry, overwhelmingly beautiful, but not ennobled by brains.
“And in the winter? Are you fond of winter? It is all white, healthy, stimulating, it challenges you to contend with it....”
A sharp ring of the bell interrupted her speech. Elizavéta Sergyéevna had rung, and when a tall maid, with a round, kind face, and roguish eyes, flew into the room, she said to her, in a weary voice:
“Clear away the dishes, Másha!”
Then she began to walk up and down the room, in a preoccupied way, shuffling her feet.
All this somewhat sobered the enthusiastic young girl; she twitched her shoulders as though she were shaking something from them, and rather abashed she asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch:
“Have I bored you with my stupid tales?”
“Come, how can you say so?”—he protested.
“No, seriously,—I have made myself appear stupid to you?”—she persisted.
“But why?!”—exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch and was surprised that he had said it so warmly and sincerely.
“I am wild... that is to say, I am not cultivated...” she said apologetically.—“But I am very glad to talk with you... because you are a learned man, and so... unlike what I imagined you to be.”
“And what did you imagine me to be like?”—he queried, with a smile.
“I thought you would always be talking about various wise things... why, and how, and this is not so, but this other way, and everybody is stupid, and I alone am wise.... Papa had a friend visiting him, he was a colonel too, like papa, and he was learned, like you... But he was a military learned man... what do you call it... of the General Staff...? and he was frightfully puffed up... in my opinion, he did not even know anything, but simply bragged....”
“And you imagined that I was like that?”—enquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
She was disconcerted, blushed, and springing from her chair, she ran about the room in an absurd way, saying in confusion:
“Akh, how can you think so... now, could I....”
“Well, see here, my dear children....” remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna, scanning them with her eyes screwed up,—“I’m going off to attend to something about the housekeeping, and I leave you... to the will of God!”
And she vanished, with a laugh, rustling her skirts as she went. Ippolít Sergyéevitch looked after her reproachfully, and reflected, that he must have a talk with her about her way of behaving toward this really very charming, though undeveloped young girl.
“Do you know, I have an idea—would you like to go in the boat? We will drive to the forest, and then have a stroll there, and be back by dinner-time. Shall we? I’m awfully glad that the day is so bright, and that I’m not at home.... For papa has another attack of gout, and I should have been obliged to fuss about him. And papa is capricious when he is ill.”
Amazed at her frank egotism, he did not immediately reply to her in the affirmative, and when he did reply, he recalled the intention, which had arisen in him the evening before, and with which he had emerged from his chamber that morning. But, surely, she had afforded no ground, so far, for suspicion of a desire to conquer his heart? In her speeches, everything was perceptible except coquetry. And, in conclusion, why not spend one day with such... an undoubtedly original young girl?
“And do you know how to row? Never mind if you do it badly.... I will do it myself, I am strong. And the boat is so light. Shall we go?”
They went out upon the terrace, and descended into the park. By the side of his tall, thin figure, she appeared shorter and more plump. He offered her his arm, but she declined it.
“Why? It is nice when one is tired, but otherwise, it only hinders one in walking.”
He smiled as he looked at her through his eyeglasses, and walked on, adjusting his stride to her pace, which greatly pleased him. Her walk was light and graceful,—her white gown floated around her form, but not a single fold undulated. In one hand she held a parasol, with the other she gesticulated freely and gracefully, as she told him about the beauty of the suburbs of the village.
Her arm, hared to the elbow, was strong and brown, covered with a golden down, and as it moved through the air, it compelled Ippolít Sergyéevitch’s eyes to follow it attentively.... And again, in the dark depths of his soul, a confused, incomprehensible apprehension of something began to tremble. He tried to annihilate it, asking himself: What had prompted him to follow this young girl? And he answered himself:—curiosity, a calm and pure desire to contemplate her beauty.
“Yonder is the river! Go and take your seat in the boat, and I will get the oars at once....”
And she disappeared among the trees before he could ask her to show him where he could find the oars.
In the still, cold water of the river, the trees were reflected upside down; he seated himself in the boat, and gazed at them. These spectral images were more splendid and beautiful than the living trees, which stood on the bank, shading the water with their curved and gnarled branches. Their reflection flattered them, thrusting into the background what was deformed, and creating in the water a clear and harmonious fantasy, on the foundation of the paltry reality, disfigured by time.
As he admired the transparent picture, surrounded by the silence and the gleam of the sun which was not yet hot, and drank in along with the air the songs of the larks full of the joy of existence, Ippolít Sergyéevitch felt springing into life within him a sensation of repose which was novel and agreeable to him, which caressed his brain, and lulled to sleep its constant and rebellious striving to understand and to explain. Quiet peace reigned around, not a leaf quivered on the trees, and in this peace the mute triumph of nature was unceasingly in progress, life, always smitten with death but invincible, was being soundlessly created, and death was working quietly, smiting all things, but never winning the victory. And the blue sky shone in triumphant beauty.
In the background of the picture in the water of the river, a white beauty, with a smile on her face, made her appearance. She stood there, with the oars in her hands, as though inviting him to go to her, mute, very lovely, and she seemed to have dropped down from the sky.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch knew that it was Várenka, emerging from the park, and that she was looking at him, but he did not wish to destroy the enchantment by a sound or a movement.
“Say, what a dreamer you are!—” her astonished exclamation rang out on the air.
Then, with regret, he turned away from the water, glanced at the girl, who was descending vivaciously and easily to the shore, down the steep path from the park.
And his regret vanished with this glance at her, for this girl was, in reality, enchantingly beautiful.
“I could not possibly have imagined that you were fond of dreaming! You have such a stem, serious face.. You will steer: is that right? We will row upstream.. it is more beautiful there... and, in general, it is more interesting to go against the current, because then you row, you get exercise, you feel yourself....”
The boat, pushed out from the shore, rocked lazily on the sleepy water, but a powerful stroke of the oars immediately put it alongside of the bank, and rolling from side to side under a second stroke, it glided lightly forward.
“We will row under the hilly shore, because it is shady there..” said the young girl, as she cut the water with skilful strokes. “Only, the current is weak here,... but on the Dnyépr,—Aunt Lutchítzky has an estate there—it’s a terror, I can tell you! It fairly tears the oars out of your hands... you haven’t seen the rapids of the Dnyépr?...”
“Only the threshold of the door,”2 Ippolít Sergyéevitch tried to pun.
“I have been through them,” she said, laughing.—“It was fine! One day, they came near smashing the boat, and in that case, we should infallibly have been drowned....”
“Well, that would not have been fine at all,” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch seriously.
“What of that? I’m not in the least afraid of death... although I love to live. Perhaps it will be as interesting there as it is here on earth....”
“And perhaps there is nothing at all there....” he said, glancing at her with curiosity.
“Well, how can there help being!”—she exclaimed, with conviction. —“Of course there is!”
He decided not to interfere with her—let her go on philosophizing; at the proper moment he would stop her, and make her spread out before him the whole miserable little world of her imagination. She sat opposite him, with her small feet resting against a cross-bar, nailed to the bottom of the boat, and with every stroke of the oars, she bent her body backward. Then, beneath the thin material of her gown, her virgin bosom was outlined in relief, high, springy, quivering with the exercise.
“She does not wear corsets,—” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch to himself, dropping his eyes. But there they rested on her tiny feet. Pressed against the bottom of the boat, her legs were tensely stretched, and at such times their outlines were visible to the knees.
“Did she put on that idiotic dress on purpose?”—he said to himself in vexation, and turned away, to look at the high shore.
They had passed the park, and now they were floating under a steep cliff; from it swung curly pea-vines, the long slender wreaths of pumpkin, with their velvety leaves, large yellow circles of the sunflower, standing on the edge of the abyss, looked down into the water. The other shore, low and smooth, stretched away into the distance, to the green walls of the forest, and was thickly covered with grass, succulent and brilliant in hue; pale blue and dark blue flowers, as pretty as the eyes of children, peered caressingly forth from it at the boat. And ahead of them stood the dark-green forest—and the river pierced its way into it, like a piece of cold steel.
“Aren’t you warm?” asked Várenka.
He glanced at her, and felt abashed:—upon her brow, beneath her crown of waving hair, glistened drops of perspiration, and her breast heaved high and rapidly.
“Pray forgive me!”—he exclaimed penitently.—“I forgot myself in looking about me... you are tired... give me the oars!”
“I will not give them to you! Do you think I am tired? That is an insult to me! We haven’t gone two versts yet.... No, keep your seat... we will land presently, and take a stroll.”
It was evident from her face, that it was useless to argue with her, and shrugging his shoulders with vexation, he made no reply, thinking to himself with displeasure: “It is plain that she considers me weak.”
“You see—this is the road to our house,—” she pointed it out to him on the shore, with a nod of her head.—“Here is the ford across the river, and from here to our house is fourteen versts. It is fine on our place, also, more beautiful than on your Polkánovka.”
“Do you live in the country during the winter?” he asked.
“Why not? You see, I have the entire charge of the housekeeping, papa never rises from his chair.... He is carried through the rooms.”
“But you must find it tiresome to live in that way?”
“Why? I have an awful lot to do... and only one assistant—Nikon, papa’s orderly. He is already an old man, and he drinks, besides, but he’s awfully strong, and knows his business. The peasants are afraid of him he beats them, and they also once beat him terribly... very terribly! He is remarkably honest, and he’s devoted to papa and me... he loves us like a dog! And I love him, too. Perhaps you have read a romance, where the hero is an officer, Count Grammont, and he had an orderly also, Sadi-Coco?”
“I have not read it,—” confessed the young savant modestly.
“You must be sure to read it—it is a good romance,—” she advised him with conviction.—“When Nikon pleases me, I call him Sadi-Coco. At first he used to get angry with me for that, but one day I read that romance to him, and now he knows that it is flattering for him to be like Sadi-Coco.”
Ippolít Sergyéevitch looked at her, as a European looks at a delicately executed but fantastically-deformed statue of a Chinaman; with a mixture of amazement, compassion and curiosity. But she, with ardor, related to him the feats of Sadi-Coco, filled with disinterested devotion to Count Louis Grammont.
“Excuse me, Varvára3 Vasílievna,” he interrupted her,—“but have you read the romances of the Russian writers?”
“Oh, yes! But I don’t like them—they are tiresome, very tiresome! And they always write things which I know just as well as they do. They cannot invent anything interesting, and almost everything they say is true.”
“But don’t you like the truth?”—asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch kindly.
“Ah, no indeed! I always speak the truth, straight to people’s faces, and....”
She paused, reflected, and inquired:
“What is there to like in that? It is my habit, how can one like it?”
He did not manage to say anything to her on this point, because she quickly and loudly gave the command:
“Steer to the right... be quick! To that oak-tree, yonder.... Aï, how awkward you are!”
The boat did not obey his hand, and ran ashore broadside on, although he churned the water forcibly with his oar.
“Never mind, never mind,” she said, and suddenly rising to her feet, she sprang over the side.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch uttered a low shriek, and stretched his arms toward her, but she was standing uninjured on the shore, holding the chain of the boat in her hands, and apologetically asking him:
“Did I frighten you?”
“I thought you would fall into the water,—” he said, softly.
“But could anyone fall there? And moreover, the water is not deep there,—” she defended herself, dropping her eyes, and drawing the boat to the bank. And he, as he sat at the stem, reflected that he ought to have done that.
“Do you see what a forest there is?—” she said, when he had stepped out on the bank, and stood beside her.—“Isn’t it fine here? There are no such beautiful forests around St. Petersburg, are there?”
In front of them lay a narrow road, hemmed in on both sides by tree trunks of different sizes. Under their feet the gnarled roots, crushed by the wheels of peasant-carts, lay outstretched, and over them was a thick tent of boughs, with here and there, high aloft, blue scraps of sky. The rays of sunlight, slender as violin-strings, quivered in the air, obliquely intersecting this narrow, green corridor. The odor of rotting foliage, of mushrooms and birch trees, surrounded them. Birds flitted past, disturbing the solemn stillness of the forest with their lively songs and anxious twittering. A woodpecker was tapping somewhere, a bee was buzzing, and in front of them, as though showing them the road, two butterflies fluttered, in pursuit of each other.
They strolled slowly on. Ippolít Sergyéevitch was silent, and did not interfere with Várenka’s finding words wherewith to express her thoughts, while she said warmly to him:
“I don’t like to read about the peasants; what can there be that is interesting in their lives? I know them, I live with them, and I see that people do not write accurately, do not write the truth about them. They are described as such wretched creatures, but they are only base, and there is nothing to pity them for. They want only one thing—to cheat us, to steal something from us. They are always importuning us, always moaning, they’re disgusting, dirty... and they’re clever, oh! they’re even very cunning. Oh, if you only knew how they torture me sometimes!”
She had warmed up to her theme now, and wrath and bad humor were expressed on her face. Evidently, the peasants occupied a large place in her life; she rose to hatred, as she depicted them. Ippolít Sergyéevitch was astonished at the violence of her agitation but, as he did not care to hear these sallies from the master’s point of view, he interrupted the young girl:
“You were speaking of the French writers....”
“Ah, yes! That is to say, about the Russian writers,—” she corrected him, calming down,—“you ask, why the Russians write worse than they,—that is dear enough! because they do not invent anything interesting. The French writers have real heroes, who do not talk like everybody else, and who behave differently. They are always brave, in love, jolly... but with us, the heroes are simple little men, without daring, without fiery feelings,—ugly, pitiful little creatures—the most real sort of men, and nothing more! Why are they heroes? You will never understand that in a Russian book. The Russian hero is a stupid, sluggish sort of fellow, he’s always disgusted with something, he’s always thinking of something incomprehensible, and he pities everybody, and he himself is pitiful, ve-ery pi-tiful indeed! He meditates, and talks and then he goes to make a declaration of love, and then he meditates again until he gets married... and when he is married, he says sour nonsense to his wife, and abandons her.... What is there interesting in that? It even angers me, because it resembles a deception—instead of a hero, there is always some sort of a stuffed scarecrow stuck up in a romance! And never, while you are reading a Russian book, can you forget real life,—is that nice? But when you read the works of a Frenchman—you shudder for the heroes, you pity them, you hate, you want to fight when they fight, you weep when they perish... you wait for the end of the romance with passionate interest, and when you read it—you almost cry with vexation, because that is all. You live—but in Russian books, it is utterly incomprehensible why men live. Why write books, if you cannot narrate anything unusual? Really, it is strange!”
“There is a great deal which might be said in reply to you, Varvára Vasílievna,—” he stemmed the stormy tide of her speech.
“Well then, reply!—” she burst out, with a smile.—“Of course, you will rout me!”
“I shall try. First of all, what Russian authors have you read?”
“Various... but they are all alike. Take Saliás, for example... he imitates the French, but badly. However, he has Russian heroes also, and can one write anything interesting about them? And I have read a great many others—Mórdovtzeff, Márkevitch, Pazúkhin, I think—you see, even from their names it is plain that they cannot write well! You haven’t read them? But have you read Fortuné de Boisgobey? Ponson du Terrail? Arsène Houssaye? Pierre Zaconné? Dumas, Gaboriau, Borne? How fine, good heavens! Wait... do you know what pleases me most in romances is the villains, those who so artfully weave various spiteful plots, who murder and poison,... they’re clever, strong... and when, at last, they are caught,—rage seizes upon me, and I even go so far as to cry. Everybody hates the villain, everybody is against him—he is alone against them all! That’s—a hero! And those others, the virtuous people, become disgusting, when they win.... And, in general, do you know, people please me so long as they strongly desire something, march forward somewhere, seek something, torment themselves... but if they have reached their goal, and have come to a halt, then they are no longer interesting... they are even insipid!”
Excited, and, probably, proud of what she had said to him, she walked slowly by his side, raising her head prettily, and flashing her eyes.
He looked into her face, and nervously twisting his head, he sought for a retort which should, at one stroke, tear from her mind that coarse veil of dust which enveloped it. But, while feeling himself bound to reply to her, he wished to listen longer to her ingenuous and original chatter, to behold her again carried away with her opinions, and sincerely laying bare her soul before him. He had never heard such speeches; they were hideous and impossible in his eyes, but, at the same time, everything she had said harmonized, to perfection, with her rather rapacious beauty. Before him was an unpolished mind, which offended him by its roughness, and a woman who was seductively beautiful, who irritated his sensuality. These two forces crushed him down with all the energy of their directness, and he must set up something in opposition to them, otherwise, he felt—they might drive him out of the wonted ruts of those views and moods, with which he had dwelt in peace until he met her. He possessed a clear sense of logic, and he had argued well with persons of his own circle. But how was he to talk with her, and what ought he say to her, in order to urge her mind into the right road, and ennoble her soul, which had been deformed by stupid novels, and the society of the peasants, and of that soldier, her drunken father?
“Ugh, how foolishly I have been talking!—” she exclaimed, with a sigh.—“I have bored you, haven’t I?”
“No, but....”
“You see, I’m very glad to know you. Until you came, I had no one to talk with. Your sister does not like me, and is always angry with me... it must be became I give my father vódka, and because I thrashed Nikon....”
“You?! You thrashed him? Eh... how did you do that?”—said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, in amazement.
“Very simply, I lashed him with papa’s kazák whip, that’s all! You know, they were threshing the grain, there was an awful hurry, and he, the beast, was drunk! Wasn’t I angry! How dared he get drunk when the work was seething, and his eyes were needed in every direction? Those peasants, they....”
“But, listen, Varvára Vasílievna,—” he began, impressively and as gently as possible,—“is it nice to beat a servant? Is that noble? Reflect! Did those heroes, whom you adore, beat their admirers?... Sadi-Coco....”
“Oh, indeed they did! One day, Count Louis gave Coco such a box on the ear, that I even felt sorry for the poor little soldier. And what can I do with them, except beat them? It’s a good thing I am able to do it... for I am strong! Feel what muscles I’ve got!”
Bending her arm at the elbow, she proudly offered it to him. He laid his hand on her arm above her elbow, and pressed it hard with his fingers, but immediately recollected himself, and in confusion, blushing crimson, he looked around him. Everywhere the trees stood in silence, and only....
In general, he was not modest with women, but this woman, by her simplicity and trustfulness made him so, although she kindled in him a feeling which was perilous to him.
“You have enviable health,—” he said, staring intently and thoughtfully at her little, sun-burned hand, as it adjusted the folds of her gown on her bosom.—“And I think that you have a very good heart,—” he broke out, unexpectedly to himself.
“I don’t know!”—she retorted, shaking her head. “Hardly,—I have no character: sometimes I feel sorry for people, even for those whom I do not like.”
“Only sometimes?”—he laughed.—“But, surely, they are always deserving of pity and sympathy.”
“What for?”—she inquired, smiling also.
“Cannot you see how unhappy they are? Take those peasants of yours, for example. How difficult it is for them to live, and how much injustice, woe, torture there is in their lives.”
This burst hotly from him, and she looked attentively at his face, as she said:
“You must be very good, if you speak like that. But, you see, you don’t know the peasants, you have not lived in the country. They are unhappy, it is true—but who is to blame for that? They are crafty, and no one prevents their becoming happy.”
“But they have not even bread enough to satisfy their hunger!”
“I should think not! See what a lot of them there are....”
“Yes, there are a great many of them! But there is a great deal of land, also... for there are people who own tens of thousands of desyatinas.4 For instance, how much have you?”
“Five hundred and seventy-three desyatinas.. Well, and what of that? Is it possible... come, listen to me! Is it possible to give it to them?”
She gazed at him with the look of an adult on a child, and laughed softly. This laughter confused and angered him.... There flashed up within him the desire to convince her of the errors of her mind.
And, pronouncing his words distinctly, even sharply, he began to talk to her about the injustice of the distribution of wealth, about the majority of men’s lack of rights, about the fatal struggle for a place in life and for a morsel of bread, about the power of the rich and the helplessness of the poor, and about the mind—the guide in life, crushed by century-long injustice, and the host of prejudices, which are advantageous to the powerful minority of people.
She maintained silence, as she walked along by his side, and gazed at him with curiosity and surprise.
Around them reigned the dusky tranquillity of the forest, that tranquillity across which sounds seem to slide, without disturbing its melancholy harmony. The leaves of the aspens quivered nervously, as though the trees were impatiently awaiting something passionately longed for.
“The duty of every honest man,” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch impressively, “is to contribute to the conflict on behalf of the enslaved all his brain, and all his heart, endeavoring either to put an end to the tortures of the conflict, or to hasten its progress. For that genuine heroism is required, and precisely in this conflict is where you ought to look for it. Outside of it—there is no heroism. The heroes of this fight are the only ones who are worthy of admiration and imitation... and you ought to direct your attention precisely to this spot, Varvára Vasílievna, seek your heroes here, expend your strength here... it seems to me, that you might become a notably-steadfast defender of the truth! But, first of all, you must read a great deal, you must learn to understand life in its real aspect, unadorned by fancy... you must fling all those stupid romances into the fire....”
He paused, and wiping the perspiration from his brow, he waited—wearied with his long speech—to see what she would say.
She was gazing into the distance, straight ahead of her, with her eyes narrowed, and on her face quivered shadows. Five minutes of silence were broken by her quiet exclamation:
“How well you talk!... Is it possible that everybody in the university can talk so well?”
The young savant heaved a hopeless sigh, and expectation of her answer gave place within him to a dull irritation against her, and compassion for himself. Why would not she accept what was so logically clear for every being endowed with the very smallest reasoning powers? What, precisely, was lacking in his remarks, that they failed to strike home to her feelings?
“You talk very well!—” she sighed, without waiting for him to reply, and in her eyes he read genuine satisfaction.
“But do I speak truthfully?”—he asked.
“No!—” replied the young girl, without stopping to think.—“Although you are a learned man, I shall argue with you. For, you see, I also understand some things!—You speak so that it appears.. as though people were building a house, and all of them were equals in the work. And even not they only, but everything:—the bricks, and the carpenters, and the trees, and the master of the house—with you, everything is equal to everything else. But is that possible? The peasant must work, you must teach, and the Governor must watch, to see if everybody does what is necessary. And then you said, that life is a battle... well, where is it? On the contrary, people live very peaceably. But if it is a battle, then there must be vanquished people. But the general utility is something that I cannot understand. You say that general utility consists in the equality of all men. But that is not true! My papa is a colonel—how is he the equal of Nikon or of a peasant? And you—you are a learned man, but are you the equal of our teacher of the Russian language, who drank vódka, who was red-headed, stupid, and blew his nose loudly, like a trumpet? Aha!”
She exulted, regarding her arguments as irresistible, while he admired her joyous agitation, and felt satisfied with himself, because he had caused her this joy.
But his mind strove to solve the problem why the solid thought, unassailed by analysis, which he had aroused, worked in a direction exactly opposite to the one in which he had thrust it?
“I like you and I do not like some other person... where is the equality?”
“You like me?—” Ippolít Sergyéevitch inquired, rather abruptly.
“Yes... very much!” she nodded her head affirmatively, and immediately asked:
“What of it?”
He was frightened for himself in the presence of the abyss of ingenuousness which looked forth at him from her clear gaze.
“Can this be her way of coquetting?”—he thought—“she has read romances enough, apparently, to understand herself as a woman....”
“Why do you ask about that?—” she persisted, gazing into his face with curious eyes.
Her gaze confused him.
“Why?”—He shrugged his shoulders,—“I think it is natural. You are a woman... I am a man....” he explained, as calmly as he could.
“Well, and what of that? All the same, there is no reason why you should know. You see, you are not preparing to marry me!”
She said this so simply, that he was not even disconcerted. It merely struck him, that some power, with which it was useless to contend in view of its blind, elemental character, was altering the work of his brain from one direction to another. And, with a shade of playfulness, he said to her:
“Who knows?... And then... the desire to please, and the desire to marry, or to get married—are not identical, as you surely must know.”
She suddenly burst out into a loud laugh, and he immediately cooled under her laughter, and mutely cursed both himself and her. Her bosom quivered with rich, sincere mirth, which merrily shook the air, but he remained silent, guiltily awaiting a retort to his playfulness.
“Okh! well, what sort... what sort of a wife... should I make for you! It’s as ridiculous... as the ostrich and the bee! Ha, ha, ha!”
And he, also, broke into laughter,—not at her queer comparison, but at his own failure to comprehend the springs which governed the movements of her soul.
“You are a charming girl!”—he broke out sincerely.
“Give me your hand... you walk very slowly, and I will pull you along! It is time for us to turn back... high time! We have been roaming for four hours... and Elizavéta Sergyéevna will be displeased with us, because we are late for dinner....”
They went back. Ippolít Sergyéevitch felt himself bound to return to his explanation of her errors, which did not permit him to feel as free by her side as he would have liked to be. But first it was necessary to suppress within himself that obscure uneasiness, which was dully fermenting in him, impeding his intention to listen calmly to her arguments, and to controvert them with decision. It would be so easy for him to cut away the abnormal excrescence from her brain by the cold logic of his mind, if that strange, enervating, nameless sensation did not embarrass him. What was it? It resembled a disinclination to introduce into the spiritual realm of this young girl ideas which were foreign to her.... But such an evasion of his obligations would be shameful in a man who was steadfast in his principles. And he regarded himself in that light, and was profoundly convinced of the power of his mind, and of its supremacy over feeling.
“Is to-day Tuesday?” she said.—“Yes, of course. That means, that three days hence the little black gentleman will arrive....”
“Who will arrive, and where, did you say?”
“The little black gentleman, Benkóvsky, will come to us on Saturday.”
“Why?”
She began to laugh, gazing searchingly at him.
“Don’t you know? He’s an official....”
“Ah! yes, my sister told me....”
“She told you?” said Várenka, becoming animated.—
“Well, tell me then—will they be married soon?”
“What do you mean by that? Why should they marry?”—asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch disconcerted.
“Why?”—said Várenka, in amazement, with a vivid blush.—“Why, I don’t know. It’s the regulation thing to do! But, oh Lord! Can it be possible that you did not know about that?”
“I know nothing!—” ejaculated Ippolít Sergyéevitch with decision.
“And I have told you!”—she cried, in despair.—“A pretty thing, truly! Please, my dear Ippolít Sergyéevitch, don’t know anything about it now... as though I had not said anything!”
“Very well! But permit me; I really do not know anything. I have understood one thing—that my sister is going to marry Mr. Benkóvsky.. is that it?”
“Well, yes! That is to say, if she herself has not told you that, perhaps it will not take place. You will not tell her about this?”
“I will not tell her, of course!” promised he.—“I came hither to a funeral, and have hit upon a wedding, it seems? That is pleasant!”
“Please don’t say a word about the wedding!—” she entreated him.—“You don’t know anything.”
“That is perfectly true.—What sort of a person is this Mr. Benkóvsky? May I inquire?”
“You may, about him! He’s rather black of complexion, rather sweet, and rather taciturn. He has little eyes, a little mustache, little lips, little hands and a little fiddle. He loves tender little songs, and little cheese patties. I always feel like rapping him over his little snout.”
“Well, you don’t love him!” exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch, feeling sorry for Mr. Benkóvsky at this humiliating description of his exterior.
“And he does not love me! I... I can’t endure little, sweet, unassuming men. A man ought to be tall, and strong; he ought to talk loudly, his eyes should be large, fiery, and his emotions should be bold, and know no impediments. He should will a thing and do it—that’s a man!”
“Apparently, there are no more such!” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with a dry laugh, feeling that her ideal of a man was repulsive to him, and irritated him.
“There must be some!” she exclaimed with confidence.
“But Varvára Vasílievna, you have depicted a sort of wild beast! What is there attractive about such a monster?”
“He’s not a wild beast at all, but a strong man! Strength—that is what is attractive. The men nowadays are born with rheumatism, with a cough, with various diseases—is that nice? Would I find it interesting, for example, to have for a husband a gentleman with pimples on his face, like County Chief Kokóvitch? or a pretty little gentleman, like Benkóvsky? Ora round-shouldered, gaunt hop-pole, like court-usher Múkhin? Or Grísha Tchernonéboff, the merchant’s son, a fat man, with the asthma, and a bald head, and a red nose? What sort of children could such trashy husbands have? For, you see, one must think of that... mustn’t one? For the children are a very important consideration! But those men don’t think.... They love nothing. They are good for nothing, and I... I would beat my husband if I were married to any of those men!”
Ippolít Sergyéevitch stopped her, demonstrating that her judgment of men was, in general, incorrect, because she had seen too few people. And the men she had mentioned must not be regarded from the external point of view alone—that was unjust. A man may have an ugly nose, but a fine soul, pimples on his face, but a brilliant mind. He found it tiresome and difficult to enunciate these elementary truths; until his meeting with her, he had so rarely remembered their existence, that now they all appeared to him musty and threadbare. He felt that all this did not suit her, and that she would not accept it.
“There is the river!” she exclaimed joyfully, interrupting his speech.
And Ippolít Sergyéevitch reflected:
“She rejoices, because I am silenced.”
Again they floated along the river, seated facing each other. Várenka took possession of the oars, and rowed hastily, powerfully; the water involuntarily gurgled under the boat, little waves flowed to the shores. Ippolít Sergyéevitch watched the shores moving to meet the boat, and felt exhausted with all he had said and heard during the course of this expedition.
“See, how fast the boat is going!” Várenka said to him.
“Yes,” he replied briefly, without turning his eyes to her. It made no difference even without seeing her, he could picture to himself how seductively her body was bending and her bosom was heaving.
The park came in sight... Soon they were walking up its avenue, and the graceful figure of Elizavéta Sergyéevna was coming to meet them, with a significant smile. She held some papers in her hands, and said:
“Well, you have had a long walk!”
“Have we been gone long! On the other hand, I have such an appetite, that I—ugh! I could eat you!”
And Várenka, encircling Elizavéta Sergyéevna’s waist, whirled her lightly round her, laughing at the latter’s cries.
The dinner was tasteless and tiresome, because Várenka was engrossed with the process of satisfying her hunger, and maintained silence, and Elizavéta Sergyéevna was angry with her brother, who observed the searching glances which she directed at his face, every now and then. Soon after dinner, Várenka drove off homeward, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch went to his room, lay down on the divan, and began to meditate, summing up the impressions of the day. He recalled the most trivial details of the walk, and felt that a turbid sediment was being formed from them, which was eating into his stable equilibrium of mind and feeling. He even felt the physical novelty of his mood, in the shape of a strange weight, which oppressed his heart—as though his blood had coagulated during that time, and was circulating more slowly than was its wont. This resembled fatigue, inclined him to revery, and formed the preface to some desire which had not yet assumed form. And this was disagreeable only because it remained a nameless sensation, despite Ippolít Sergyéevitch’s efforts to give it a name.
“I must wait to analyze it, until the fermentation has subsided....” he came to the conclusion.
But a feeling of keen dissatisfaction with himself presented itself, and he simultaneously reproached himself for having lost the ability to control his emotions, and for having that day conducted himself in a manner unbecoming a serious man. Alone with himself, he was always firm and stem with himself, more so than when with other people. Accordingly, he now began to scrutinize himself.
Indisputably, that young girl was stupefyingly beautiful, but to behold her, and instantly to enter in the dark circle of some troubled sensation or other—was too much for her, and was disgraceful for him, for that was wantonness, a lack of strength of character. She strongly stirred his sensuality,—yes, but he must contend against that.
“Must I?”—suddenly flashed into his head the curt, poignant question.
He frowned, and bore himself toward the question as though it had been put by someone outside of himself. In any case, what was going on within him was not the beginning of a passion for a woman, rather was it a protest of his mind, which had been affronted by the encounter from which he had not emerged as the conqueror, although his opponent had been as weak as a child. He ought to have talked to that girl figuratively, for it was evident that she did not understand a logical argument. His duty was to exterminate her wild conceptions, to destroy all those coarse and stupid fancies, with which her brain was soaked. He must strip her mind of all those errors, purify, empty her soul, and then she would be capable of accepting the truth and of holding it within her.
“Can I do that?”—an irrelevant question again flashed up within him. And again he evaded it.... What would she be like, when she had accepted something new, and contrary to what was already in her? And it seemed to him, that when her soul, freed from the captivity of error, should have become permeated with harmonious teaching, foreign to everything obscure and blinding,—that young girl would be doubly beautiful.
When he was called to tea, he had already firmly made up his mind to reconstruct her world, imposing this decision upon himself as a direct obligation. Now he would meet her coldly and composedly, and would impart to his intercourse with her a character of stem criticism of everything that she should say, or should do.
“Well, how do you like Várenka?”—inquired his sister, when he emerged on the terrace.
“Very charming girl,” he replied, elevating his brows.
“Yes? So, that’s it... I thought you would be struck by her lack of development.”
“I really am rather surprised at that side of her,—” he assented.—“But, to speak frankly, she is, in many ways, better than the girls who are developed and who put on airs over that fact.”
“Yes, she is handsome.. and a desirable bride... she has five hundred desyatinas of very fine land, about one hundred of building timber. And, in addition, she will inherit a solid estate from her aunt. And neither estate is mortgaged....”
He perceived that his sister was determined not to understand him, but he did not care to explain to himself why she found this necessary.
“I do not look at her from that point of view,—” said he.
“Do so, then... I seriously advise it.”
“Thanks.”
“You are a little out of temper, apparently?”
“On the contrary. But what of that?”
“Nothing. I want to know it, as an anxious sister.”
She smiled prettily, and rather ingratiatingly. That smile reminded him of Mr. Benkóvsky, and he, also, smiled at her.
“What are you laughing at?—” she inquired.
“And you, what are you laughing at?”
“I feel merry.”
“I feel merry also, although I did not bury my wife two weeks ago,—” he said, with a laugh.
But she put on a serious face, and sighed, as she said:
“Perhaps, in your soul, you condemn me for lack of feeling toward my deceased husband. You think that I am egotistical? But, Ippolít, you know what my husband was, I wrote to you what my life was like. And I often said to myself:—‘My God! and was I created merely for the purpose of pleasing the coarse appetites of Nikoláï Stepánovitch Banártzeff, when he has drunk himself into such a state of intoxication that he cannot distinguish his wife from a simple peasant woman, or a woman of the street?’”
“You don’t say so!”... exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch, recalling her letters, in which she had talked a great deal about her husband’s lack of character, his fondness for liquor, his indolence, and of all vices except debauchery.
“Do you doubt it?—” she inquired reproachfully, and sighed. —“Nevertheless, it is a fact. He was often in such a condition.... I do not assert that he betrayed me, but I admit it. Could he be conscious, whether I was with him, or some other woman, when he mistook the window for the door? Yes.. and that was the way I lived for years....” She talked long and tediously to him about her sad life, and he listened and waited for her to tell him the thing that she wished to tell. And it involuntarily occurred to him, that Várenka would never be likely to complain of her life, however it might turn out for her.
“It seems to me that fate ought to reward me for those long years of grief.... Perhaps it is near—my recompense.”
Elizavéta Sergyéevna paused, and casting an interrogative glance at her brother, she blushed slightly.
“What do you mean to say?”—he inquired, affectionately, bending toward her.
“You see... perhaps I shall... marry again!”
“And you will do exactly right! I congratulate you!... But why are you so disconcerted?”
“Really, I do not know!”
“Who is he?”
“I think I have mentioned him to you... Benkóvsky... the future procurator... and, in the meantime, a poet and dreamer.... Perhaps you have come across his verses? He prints them....”
“I do not read verses. Is he a good man? However, of course he is good....”
“I am sufficiently clever not to answer in the affirmative; but I think I may say, without self-delusion, that he is capable of making up to me for the past. He loves me.... I have invented a little philosophy for myself... perhaps it will seem rather harsh to you.”
“Philosophize without fear, that’s the fashion at present...” jested Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
“Men and women are two tribes, which are everlastingly at war” said the woman softly,... “Confidence, friendship and other feelings of that sort, are hardly possible between me and a man. But love is possible.... And love is the victory of the one who loves the least over the one who loves the most.... I have been conquered once, and have paid for it... now I have won the victory, and shall enjoy the fruits of conquest....”
“It is a tolerably fierce sort of philosophy,...” Ippolít Sergyéevitch interrupted her, feeling, with satisfaction, that Várenka could not philosophize in that manner.
“Life has taught it to me.... You see, he is four years younger than I am,... he has only just finished at the university,... I know that that is dangerous for me... and, how shall I express it?... I should like to arrange matters with him in such a way, that my property-right shall not be subjected to any risk.”
“Yes... so what then?” inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch, becoming attentive.
“So, you are to advise me as to how this is to be arranged. I do not wish to give him any legal rights over my property... and I would not give him any over my person, if that could be avoided.”
“It strikes me that that could be effected by a civil marriage. However....”
“No, I reject a civil marriage....”
He looked at her, and thought, with a feeling of fastidiousness: “Well, she is wise! If God created men, life re-creates them so easily, that they certainly must have long ago become repulsive to him.”
And his sister convincingly explained to him her view of marriage.
“Marriage ought to be a reasonable contract, excluding every risk. That is precisely how I mean to deal with Benkóvsky. But, before taking that step, I should like to clear up the legality of that vexatious brother’s claim. Please look over these documents.”
“Will you permit me to undertake this matter to-morrow”—he inquired.
“Of course, when you like.”
She continued, for a long time, to set forth her ideas to him, then she told him a great deal about Benkóvsky. Of him she spoke condescendingly, with a smile flitting over her lips, and, for some reason, with her eyes puckered up, Ippolít listened to her, and was amazed at the utter absence in himself of all sympathy for her fate, or interest in her remarks.
The sun had already set when they parted, he, exhausted by her, to his own room; she, animated by the conversation, with a confident sparkle in her eyes,—to attend to her housekeeping.
When he arrived in his own quarters, Ippolít lighted the lamp, got a book, and tried to read; but with the very first page, he comprehended that it would please him equally well if he closed the book. Stretching himself luxuriously, he closed it, and fidgetted about in his arm-chair, seeking a comfortable attitude, but the chair was hard; then he betook himself to the divan, and lay down on it. At first, he thought of nothing at all; then, with vexation, he remembered, that he would soon be obliged to make the acquaintance of Mr. Benkóvsky, and immediately he smiled, as he recalled the sketch which Várenka had given of that gentleman.
And soon she alone occupied his thoughts and his imagination. Among other things, he thought:
“And what if I were to marry such a charming monster? I think she might prove a very interesting wife if only for the reason that one does not hear from her mouth the cheap wisdom of the popular books....”
But after having surveyed his position, in the character of Várenka’s husband, from all sides, he began to laugh, and categorically answered himself:
“Never!”
And after that, he felt sad.
Notes
1 A verst is two-thirds of a mile.—Translator.
2 Poróg, a threshold,—porogt, rapide, in Russian.—Translator.
3 Várenka it the caressing diminutive of Varvára.—Translator.
4 A desyatína is 2.70 acres.—Translator.