Ivan TurgenevThe Region of Dead Calm

BokRobot reading edition

Books

Free

The Region of Dead Calm

Ivan Turgenev

Categories:StoriesShort classicsRating 5+Ivan Turgenev
1 chapters · 25,820 words
Adapt
Run: 2026-09-24 22:51BokRobot · Page 1 / 79

I

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

Against one wall stood a very aged, tiny piano; beside it an equally-ancient chest of drawers with holes in place of the locks; between the windows a small, dim mirror was visible; on the partition-wall hung an old portrait, which was almost completely peeled off, representing a woman with powdered hair, in a robe ronde, and with a black ribbon about her slender neck. Judging from the very perceptible sagging of the ceiling, and the slope of the floor, which was full of cracks, the little wing into which we have conducted the reader had existed for a very long time. No one lived in it permanently; it was put to use when the owners came. The young man who was sitting at the table was the owner of the village of Sásovo.

He had arrived only the previous day from his principal estate, situated a hundred versts[11] away, and was preparing to depart the next day, after completing the inspection of the farming, listening to the demands of the peasants, and verifying all the documents.

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

"I obey."

BokRobot · Page 2 / 79

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

The overseer silently swept a glance around the walls as well.

"Well, go now."

The overseer made his obeisance and left the room.

The gentleman stretched himself.

"Hey!"--he shouted,--"Give me some tea!... 'Tis time to go to bed."

His servant went to the other side of the partition, and speedily returned with a glass of tea, a bundle of town cracknels, and a cream-jug on an iron tray. The gentleman began to drink tea, but before he had time to swallow two mouthfuls, the noise of persons entering resounded from an adjoining room, and someone's squeaking voice inquired: "Is Vladimir Sergeyevich Astakhov at home? Can he be seen?"

Vladimir Sergeyevich (that was the name of the young man in the paletot) cast a glance of surprise at his man, and said in a hurried whisper: "Go, find out who it is."

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

"Announce to Vladimir Sergeyevich,"--rang out the same squeaky voice as before,--"that his neighbour Ipatoff wishes to see him, if it will not inconvenience him; and another neighbour has come with me, Bodryakov, Ivan Ilyich, who also desires to pay his respects."

Vladimir Sergeyevich made an involuntary gesture of vexation. Nevertheless, when his man entered the room, he said to him: "Ask them in." And he rose to receive his visitors.

BokRobot · Page 3 / 79

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

The little old man was the first to approach Vladimir Sergeyevich, and, with an amiable inclination of the head, he began in the same shrill little voice: "I have the honour to introduce myself--your nearest neighbour, and even a relative, Ipatoff, Mikhailo Nikolayevich. I have long wished to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. I hope that I have not disturbed you."

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

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

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

The visitors sat down.

BokRobot · Page 4 / 79

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

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

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

"Of course, what could be better... in the country... than that naturalness of intercourse,"--remarked Vladimir Sergeyevich.

"And yet,"--replied the little old man,--"among us in our county dwell people of the cleverest sort--one might say people of European culture, although they do not wear dress-suits. Take, for example, our historian Evsyukoff, Stepan Stepanich: he is interested in Russian history from the most ancient times, and is known in Petersburg--an extremely learned man! There is in our town an ancient Swedish cannon-ball... 'tis placed yonder, in the centre of the public square... and 'twas he who discovered it, you know! Certainly! Zenteler, Anton Karlich... now he has studied natural history; but they say all Germans are successful in that line. When, ten years ago, a stray hyena was killed in our vicinity, it was this Anton Karlich who discovered that it really was a hyena, by reason of the peculiar construction of its tail.

BokRobot · Page 5 / 79

And then, we have a landed proprietor Kaburdin: he chiefly writes light articles; he wields a very dashing pen; his articles appear in 'Galatea.' Bodryakov... not Ivan Ilyich; no, Ivan Ilyich neglects that; but another Bodryakov, Sergey... what the deuce was his father's baptismal name, Ivan Ilyich... what the deuce was it?"

"Sergeyevich,"--prompted Ivan Ilyich.

"Yes; Sergey Sergeyevich--he busies himself with writing verses. Well, of course he's not a Pushkin, but sometimes he turns out things that would pass muster even in the capitals. Do you know his epigram on Agey Fomich?"

"Which Agey Fomich?"

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

"Agéi Fómitch,"--said Bodryakóff, indifferently-- "... not without cause is he gloriously honoured by the nobles' election.... "

"I must tell you,"--interrupted Ipátoff,--"that he was elected almost exclusively by white balls, for he is a most worthy man."

"Agéi Fómitch,"--repeated Bodryakóff, "... not without cause is he gloriously honoured by the nobles' election: He drinks and eats regularly.... So why should he not be the regulator of order?"[13] The little old man burst out laughing.

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

Iván Ílitch merely rolled up his eyes.

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

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

BokRobot · Page 6 / 79

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

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

The conversation between Ipátoff and Vladímir Sergyéitch lasted for quite a long time, but not in its original, so to speak, speculative direction. The little old man questioned Vladímir Sergyéitch about his estate, the condition of his forests and other sorts of land, the improvements which he had already introduced or was only intending to introduce in his farming; he imparted to him several of his own observations; advised him, among other things, in order to get rid of hummocky pastures, to sprinkle them with oats, which, he said, would induce the pigs to plough them up with their snouts, and so forth.

BokRobot · Page 7 / 79

But, at last, perceiving that Vladimir Sergeyevich was so sleepy that he could hardly keep his eyes open, and that a certain deliberation and incoherence were becoming evident in his speech, the little old man rose, and, with a courteous bow, declared that he would not inconvenience him any longer with his presence, but that he hoped to have the pleasure of seeing the valued guest at his own house no later than the following day, at dinner.

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

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

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

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

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

BokRobot · Page 8 / 79

Vladimir Sergeyevich Astakhov belonged to the category of people who, after having cautiously tested their powers in two or three different careers, are wont to say of themselves that they have finally come to the conclusion to look at life from a practical point of view, and who devote their leisure to augmenting their revenues. He was not stupid, was rather penurious, and very sensible; was fond of reading, of society, of music--but all in moderation... and conducted himself very decorously. He was twenty-seven years old. A great many young men of his sort have sprung up recently. He was of medium height, well built, and had agreeable though small features; their expression almost never varied; his eyes always gleamed with one and the same stern, bright glance; only now and then did this glance soften with a faint shade of something which was not precisely sadness, nor yet precisely boredom; a courteous smile rarely quitted his lips.

He had very handsome, fair hair, silky, and falling in long ringlets. Vladímir Sergyéitch owned about six hundred souls[14] on a good estate, and he was thinking of marriage--a marriage of inclination, but which should, at the same time, be advantageous. He was particularly desirous of finding a wife with powerful connections. In a word, he merited the appellation of "gentleman" which had recently come into vogue.

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

BokRobot · Page 9 / 79

Despite the promise he had made to Ipátoff the previous evening, Vladimir Sergeyevich had decided to dine at home and had even ordered his travelling cook to prepare his favourite rice soup with pluck; but suddenly, possibly as a result of the feeling of satisfaction that had filled his soul since early morning, he stopped short in the middle of the room, struck himself on the brow with his hand, and, not without some spirit, exclaimed aloud: "I believe I'll go to that flowery old babbler!" No sooner said than done; half an hour later he was sitting in his new tarantás, drawn by four stout peasant horses, and driving to Ipátoff's house, which was reckoned to be no more than twenty-five versts away by a capital road.

II

mansions, built opposite each other on the two sides of a huge pond through which ran a river. A long dam, planted with silver poplars, shut off the pond; almost on a level with it the red roof of a small hand-mill was visible. Built exactly alike, and painted with the same lilac hue, the tiny houses seemed to be exchanging glances across the broad, watery expanse, with the glittering panes of their small, clean windows. From the middle of each little house a circular terrace projected, and a sharply peaked pediment rose aloft, supported by four white pillars set close together.

The ancient park ran all the way round the pond; lindens stretched out in alleys, and stood in dense clumps; aged pine-trees, with pale yellow boles, dark oaks, and magnificent maples reared here and there high into the air their solitary crests; the dense verdure of the thickly-spreading lilacs and acacias advanced close up to the very sides of the two little houses, leaving revealed only their fronts, from which winding paths paved with brick ran down the slope. Motley-hued ducks, white and grey geese were swimming in separate flocks on the clear water of the pond; it never became covered with scum, thanks to abundant springs which welled into its "head" from the base of the steep, rocky ravine. The situation of the manor was good, pleasant, isolated, and beautiful.

BokRobot · Page 10 / 79

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

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

"Which lady?"--replied Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"I want to find Mikhail Nikolayevich."

"Ah! The young master? Well, then, turn to the right."

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

Mikhail Nikolayevich was playing draughts with The Folding Soul when the arrival of Vladimir Sergeyevich was announced to him. He was delighted, sprang from his armchair, ran out into the anteroom and there kissed the visitor three times.

"You find me with my invariable friend, Vladimir Sergeyevich,"--began the loquacious little old man:--"with Ivan Ilyich, who, I will remark in passing, is completely enchanted with your affability." (Ivan Ilyich darted a silent glance at the corner.) "He was kind enough to remain to play draughts with me, while all my household went for a stroll in the park; but I will send for them at once...."

"But why disturb them?"--Vladimir Sergeyevich tried to remonstrate....

BokRobot · Page 11 / 79

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

"Pythion,"--remarked Iván Ílitch.

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

"I drink nothing until dinner."

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

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

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

"I play all games badly,"--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.

BokRobot · Page 12 / 79

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

Iván Ílitch cast an indifferent glance at Ipátoff, as though he were thinking to himself, "Only the devil knows whether it is a game or a diversion," but, after waiting a while, he said: "Yes; draughts don't count."

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

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

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

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

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

"She's going to rearrange her toilet a bit," remarked the old man, turning to Vladimir Sergeyevich; "they can't get along without that, sir!"

BokRobot · Page 13 / 79

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

She had a magnificent figure. A classical poet would have compared her to Ceres or Juno.

"What have you been doing in the garden?" asked Ipatoff, desirous of bringing her into the conversation.

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

"And are you tired?"

"The children are; I am not."

"I know," interjected the old man, with a smile; "thou art a regular Bobelina! And have you been to grandmamma's?"

"Yes; she is asleep."

"Are you fond of flowers?" asked Vladimir Sergeyevich.

"Yes."

"Why don't you put on your hat when you go out of doors?"--Ipátoff remarked to her.--"Just see how red and sunburned you are."

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

"And are you fond of gardening?"--Vladímir Sergyéitch asked her another question.

"Yes."

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

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

BokRobot · Page 14 / 79

"I don't remember--Meyer or Müller, I think. But why do you ask?"

"For no particular reason, sir,"--replied Iván Ílitch.--"Just to find out his name."

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

A servant appeared at the door, having announced that Egór Kapítonitch had arrived.

"Ah! Ask him in, ask him in!"--exclaimed Ipátoff.

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

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

"Couldn't be helped,"--returned Egór Kapítonitch in a lisping and whining voice, after having preliminarily exchanged greetings with everyone present;--"surely you know, Mikhaíl Sergyéitch, whether I am a free man or not?"

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

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

"But what about Matryóna Márkovna?"

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

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

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

BokRobot · Page 15 / 79

"That's exactly what I'd like to know myself; but, evidently, she's hard to please. Yesterday, for instance, I said at table: 'Matryóna Márkovna,' and Egór Kapítonitch imparted to his voice an insinuating inflection, 'Matryóna Márkovna,' says I, 'what's the meaning of this--that Aldóshka isn't careful with the horses, doesn't know how to drive?' says I; 'there's the black stallion quite foundered.'--I-iikh! how Matryóna Márkovna did flare up, and set to crying shame on me: 'Thou dost not know how to express thyself decently in the society of ladies,' says she; and the young ladies instantly galloped away from the table, and on the next day, the Biriúloff young ladies, my wife's nieces, had heard all about it. And how had I expressed myself badly? And no matter what I say--and sometimes I really am incautious--no matter to whom I say it, especially at home--those Biriúloff girls know all about it the next day.

A fellow simply doesn't know what to do." Sometimes I'm just sitting there, thinking in my own way--I breathe hard, as you perhaps know--and Matryóna Márkovna starts scolding me again: 'Don't snore,' she says; 'nobody snores nowadays!' 'What are you scolding me for, Matryóna Márkovna?' I say. 'Good mercy, you should have compassion, but you scold.' So I don't meditate at home anymore. I just sit and look down--like this--all the time. By Heaven, I do. And then, again, not long ago, we got into bed; 'Matryóna Márkovna,' I said, 'why do you spoil your page-boy, mátushka?[17] Why, he's a regular little pig,' I said, 'and he might at least wash his face on Sundays.' And what happened?

It strikes me that I said it distantly, tenderly, but I didn't hit the mark even then; Matryóna Márkovna started crying shame on me again: 'You don't know how to behave in the company of ladies,' she said; and the next day the Biriúloff girls knew all about it. What time do I have to think about visits under such circumstances, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch?"

"I'm amazed at what you tell me,"--replied Ipátoff;--"I didn't expect that from Matryóna Márkovna. Apparently, she is...."

BokRobot · Page 16 / 79

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

Ipátoff, who wasn't very strong in French himself, only shrugged his shoulders.

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

Egór Kapítonitch darted an oblique glance at him.

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

"Why a philanthropist?"

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

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

BokRobot · Page 17 / 79

The dinner lasted for quite a long time. Ipátoff kept a good cook, and ordered pretty good wines, not from Moscow, but from the capital of the government. Ipátoff lived at his ease, as the saying goes. He did not own more than three hundred souls, but he was not in debt to anyone, and had brought his estate into order. At table, the host himself did the greater part of the talking; Egór Kapítonitch chimed in, but did not forget himself, at the same time; he ate and drank gloriously. Márya Pávlovna preserved unbroken silence, only now and then replying with half-smiles to the hurried remarks of the two little girls, who sat one on each side of her. They were, evidently, very fond of her. Vladimir Sergeyevich made several attempts to strike up a conversation with her, but without particular success. Folding Soul Bodryakoff even ate indolently and languidly. After dinner, everyone went out onto the terrace to drink coffee.

The weather was magnificent; from the garden wafted the sweet perfume of the lindens, which were then in full bloom; the summer air, slightly cooled by the thick shade of the trees, and the humidity of the adjacent pond, breathed forth a sort of caressing warmth. Suddenly, from behind the poplars of the dam, the trampling of a horse’s hooves became audible, and a moment later, a horsewoman appeared in a long riding habit and a grey hat, mounted on a bay horse; she was riding at a gallop; a page was galloping behind her, on a small, white cob.

"Ah!"--exclaimed Ipattov,--"Nadezhda Alexeyevna is coming. What a pleasant surprise!"

"Alone?"--asked Marya Pavlovna, who up to that moment had been standing motionless in the doorway.

"Alone.... Evidently, something has detained Pyotr Alexeyevich."

Marya Pavlovna darted a sidelong glance from beneath her brows, a flush spread over her face, and she turned away.

BokRobot · Page 18 / 79

Meanwhile, the horsewoman had ridden through the wicket-gate into the garden, galloped up to the terrace, and sprang lightly to the ground, without waiting either for her groom or for Ipattov, who had started to meet her. Briskly gathering up the train of her riding habit, she ran up the steps, and springing onto the terrace, exclaimed blithely: "Here I am!"

"Welcome!"--said Ipattov.--"How unexpected, how charming this is! Allow me to kiss your hand...."

"Certainly," returned the visitor; "only, you must take off the glove yourself. I cannot." And, extending her hand to him, she nodded to Márya Pávlovna. "Just imagine, Másha, my brother won't be here today," she said, with a little sigh.

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

"He bade me tell you that he is busy. You must not be angry. Good morning, Egór Kapítonitch; good morning, Iván Ílitch; good morning, children.... Vásya," added the guest, turning to her little groom, "order them to walk Little Beauty up and down well, do you hear? Másha, please give me a pin to fasten up my train.... Come here, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch."

Ipátoff went closer to her.

"Who is that new person?" she asked, quite loudly.

"That is a neighbour, Astákhoff, Vladímir Sergyéevitch, you know, the owner of Sásovo. I'll introduce him to you if you like, shall I?"

"Very well... afterward. Ah, what splendid weather!" she went on. "Egór Kapítonitch, tell me—can it be possible that Matryóna Márkovna grumbles even in weather like this?"

"Matryóna Márkovna never grumbles in any sort of weather, madam; and she is merely strict about manners...."

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

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

"Egór Kapítonitch, don't get angry, my dear man! Ah, I'm tired; allow me to sit down...."

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

Ipátoff led Vladímir Sergyéevitch up to her.

BokRobot · Page 19 / 79

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

Vladimir Sergeyevich bowed, while Nadezhda Alexeyevna looked up at him from under the brim of her round hat.

"Nadezhda Alexeyevna Veretyeff, our neighbor," continued Ipatoff, turning to Vladimir Sergeyevich. "She lives here with her brother, Pyotr Alexeyevich, a retired lieutenant of the Guards. She is a great friend of my sister-in-law, and bears good will toward our household in general."

"A whole formal inventory," said Nadezhda Alexeyevna, laughing, and, as before, scanning Vladimir Sergeyevich from under her hat.

But, in the meantime, Vladimir Sergeyevich was thinking to himself: "Why, this is a very pretty woman, too." And, in fact, Nadezhda Alexeyevna was a very charming young girl. Slender and graceful, she appeared much younger than she really was. She was already in her twenty-eighth year. She had a round face, a small head, fluffy fair hair, a sharp, almost audaciously upturned little nose, and merry, almost crafty little eyes. Mockery fairly glittered in them, and kindled in them in sparks. Her features, extremely vivacious and mobile, sometimes assumed an almost amusing expression; humor peered forth from them. Now and then, for the most part suddenly, a shade of pensiveness flitted across her face—and at such times it became gentle and kindly; but she could not surrender herself long to meditation. She easily seized on the ridiculous sides of people, and drew very respectable caricatures.

Everybody had petted her ever since she was born, and that is something which is immediately perceptible; people who have been spoiled in childhood preserve a certain stamp to the end of their lives. Her brother loved her, although he asserted that she stung, not like a bee, but like a wasp; because a bee stings and then dies, whereas it signifies nothing for a wasp to sting. This comparison enraged her.

"Have you come here for long?"--she asked Vladimir Sergeyevich, dropping her eyes, and twisting her riding-whip in her hands.

"No; I intend to go away from here tomorrow."

"Whither?"

"Home."

"Home? Why, may I venture to ask?"

BokRobot · Page 20 / 79

"What do you mean by 'why'? I have affairs at home which brook no delay."

Nadezhda Alexeyevna looked at him.

"Are you such a... punctual man?"

"I try to be a punctual man,"--replied Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"In our sedate era, every honourable man must be sedate and punctual."

"That is perfectly just,"--remarked Ipatoff.--"Isn't that true, Ivan Ilyich?"

Ivan Ilyich merely glanced at Ipatoff; but Yegor Kapitonich remarked: "Yes, that's so."

"'Tis a pity,"--said Nadezhda Alexeyevna;--"precisely what we lack is a jeune premier. You know how to act comedy, I suppose?"

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

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

Vladimir Sergeyevich turned round.... Marya Pavlovna was gazing thoughtfully into the distance, as she stood leaning her head against the door, with her arms folded.... At that moment, her regular features really did suggest the faces of ancient statues. She did not catch Nadezhda Alexeyevna's last words; but, perceiving that the glances of all present were suddenly directed to her, she immediately divined what was going on, blushed, and was about to retreat into the drawing-room.... Nadezhda Alexeyevna briskly took her by the hand and, with the coquettish caressing gesture of a kitten, drew her toward herself, and kissed that almost masculine hand. Marya Pavlovna blushed more vividly than before.

"You are always playing pranks, Nadya," she said.

"Didn't I speak the truth about you? I am ready to appeal to everyone.... Well, enough, enough, I won't do it again. But I will say again," continued Nadezhda Alexeyevna, addressing Vladimir Sergeyevich, "that it is a pity you are leaving. We have a jeune premier; that is what he calls himself, but he is very bad."

"Who is he? Permit me to inquire."

BokRobot · Page 21 / 79

"Bodryakov the poet. How can a poet be a jeune premier? In the first place, he dresses in the most frightful way; in the second place, he writes epigrams, and gets shy in the presence of every woman, even mine. He lisps, one of his hands is always higher than his head, and I don't know what else. Tell me, please, Monsieur Astakhov, are all poets like that?"

Vladimir Sergeyevich straightened up slightly.

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

"Yes, you certainly are a positive man. We shall have to take Bodryakov; there is nothing else to be done. Other jeunes premiers are even worse. That one, at any rate, will learn his part by heart. Masha, in addition to tragic roles, will fill the post of prima donna.... You haven't heard her sing, have you, Monsieur Astakhov?"

"No," replied Vladimir Sergeyevich, showing his teeth in a smile; "and I didn't know...."

"What is the matter with you today, Nadya?" said Marya Pavlovna, with a look of displeasure.

Nadezhda Alexeyevna sprang to her feet.

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

Márya Pávlovna made no reply.

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

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

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

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

BokRobot · Page 22 / 79

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

"Másha,"--said the latter, after reflecting a little,--"sing us 'The farm-hand is sowing the grain.'"[18] Márya Pávlovna began to sing. Her voice was pure and powerful, and she sang well--simply, and without affectation. All listened to her with great attention, while Vladímir Sergyéitch could not conceal his amazement. When Márya Pávlovna had finished, he stepped up to her, and began to assure her that he had not in the least expected....

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You must give us something more,"--remarked Ipátoff.

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

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

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

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

Vladímir Sergyéitch approached her.

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

"And are you fond of music?"

"Yes... very."

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

BokRobot · Page 23 / 79

"But what makes you think that I am learned?"

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

And Nadézhda Alexyéevna fluttered out of the drawing-room.

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

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

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

"Márya Pávlovna sings wonderfully," remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

"Really, it's not bad. But why don't they bring us some tea? And where have the young ladies gone? 'Tis time to drink tea."

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

BokRobot · Page 24 / 79

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

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

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

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

"Permit me, dear mother, to present to you our neighbor, Astákhoff, Vladímir Sergyéitch."

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

"Yes, Grandma."

"And is Másha pouring tea?"

"Yes, Grandma, she is pouring tea."

"And who else is there?"

"Iván Ílitch, and Egór Kapítonitch."

"Matryóna Márkovna's husband?"

"Yes, dear Mother."

The old woman mumbled with her lips.

BokRobot · Page 25 / 79

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

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

The tiny calash started, and rolled softly away.

"How old is your mother?"--inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.

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

All remained silent for a while.

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

And she hastily returned to the drawing-room.

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

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

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

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

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

"Really, I don't know.... However, if I do not incommode you....

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

BokRobot · Page 26 / 79

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

Vladímir Sergyéitch smirked condescendingly.

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

"That is the blood beating,"--said Ipátoff.

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

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

"Why? Is not Márya Pávlovna fond of poetry?"

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

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

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

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

Márya Pávlovna rose.

Nadézhda Alexyéevna turned swiftly toward her.

"Whither art thou going, Másha?"

"To put the children to bed. It is almost nine o'clock."

"But cannot they go to bed without you?"

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

"She is out of sorts today," remarked Nadézhda Alexyéevna; "and I know why," she added in an undertone. "But it will pass off."

"Allow me to inquire," began Vladímir Sergyéitch, "where you intend to spend the winter?"

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

"In Petersburg! Good gracious! How is that possible?"

BokRobot · Page 27 / 79

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

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

"You will not repent of it," remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

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

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

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

"Because... for no particular reason...."

Again Nadézhda Alexyéevna laughed.

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

"She is very original," said Vladímir Sergyéitch, through his teeth.

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

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

"Ah! Well, that is very good, indeed! Másha, where art thou? Come and bid me good-bye."

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

"So you are going already?"--inquired Ipátoff.

"I am; it is high time."

She approached the door leading into the garden.

BokRobot · Page 28 / 79

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

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

All gazed after her....

"Until tomorrow!"--her voice rang out once more from behind the poplars.

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

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

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

"Verses do not please me,"--she replied, with apparent reluctance.

"But perhaps you have not read many verses?"

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

"And is it possible that they did not please you?"

"No; none of them."

"Not even Pushkin's verses?"

"Not even Pushkin's." "Why?"

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

"But, surely, there are verses which are not sweet,"--retorted Vladimir Sergeyevich.

"For example?"--asked Márya Pavlovna.

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

"Why, here now,"--he exclaimed at last;--"do you know Pushkin's 'The Upas-Tree'?[21] No? That poem cannot possibly be called sweet."

"Recite it,"--said Márya Pavlovna, dropping her eyes.

Vladimir Sergeyevich first stared at the ceiling, frowned, mumbled something to himself, and at last recited "The Upas-Tree."

BokRobot · Page 29 / 79

After the first four lines, Márya Pavlovna slowly raised her eyes, and when Vladimir Sergeyevich finished, she said, with equal slowness: "Please recite it again."

"So these verses do please you?"--asked Vladimir Sergeyevich.

"Recite it again."

Vladimir Sergeyevich repeated "The Upas-Tree." Márya Pavlovna rose, went out into the next room, and returned with a sheet of paper, an inkstand, and a pen.

"Please write that down for me,"--she said to Vladimir Sergeyevich.

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

"So am I!"--exclaimed Ipátoff.--"What do you think of those verses, Iván Ilyich?"

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

"Here, ma'am,--I have finished,"--said Vladimir Sergeyevich, as he placed a question mark at the end of the last line.

Mariya Pavlovna thanked him, and carried the written sheet off to her own room.

Half an hour later supper was served, and an hour later all the guests dispersed to their rooms. Vladimir Sergeyevich had repeatedly addressed Mariya Pavlovna; but it was difficult to conduct a conversation with her, and his anecdotes did not seem to interest her greatly. He probably would have fallen asleep as soon as he got into bed had he not been hindered by his neighbor, Egor Kapitonitch. Matryona Markovna's husband, after he was fully undressed and had gotten into bed, talked for a very long time with his servant, and kept bestowing reprimands on him. Every word he uttered was perfectly audible to Vladimir Sergeyevich: only a thin partition separated them.

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

"But, for mercy's sake, Egor Kapitonitch, how have I aged you?"--the servant's dull and sleepy voice made itself heard.

BokRobot · Page 30 / 79

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

"What, sir?"

"'What, sir?' What am I to put on to-morrow?"

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

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

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

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

"Yes; and Yakhím said the same thing, sir."

"What was that thou saidst?"

"I say, Yakhím said the same thing, sir."

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

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

BokRobot · Page 31 / 79

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

Finally, in despair, Vladimir Sergeyevich rose, opened the window, and began eagerly inhaling the nocturnal freshness. The window looked out onto the park. Above, the sky was bright; the round face of the full moon was now clearly reflected in the pond, stretching out in a long, golden sheaf of slowly shifting sparkles. On one of the paths, Vladimir Sergeyevich spied a figure in women’s attire; he looked more intently—it was Marya Pavlovna; in the moonlight, her face seemed pale. She stood motionless, and suddenly began to speak.... Vladimir Sergeyevich cautiously put his head out....

"But a man--with an imperious glance-- sent a man to the Upas-tree.... It reached his ear....

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

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

Suddenly, she started, turned around, entered the shadow cast by a dense wall of towering acacias, and disappeared. Vladimir Sergeyevich stood at the window for a considerable time, then got back into bed, but did not fall asleep very soon.

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

And Egór Kapítonitch continued to snore as before.

III

BokRobot · Page 32 / 79

Immediately after the general tea and breakfast in the dining-room, he drove off home to finish his business on his estate, despite all old Ipátoff’s attempts to detain him. Márya Pávlovna was also present at the tea; but Vladímir Sergyéitch did not consider it necessary to question her concerning her late stroll of the night before; he was one of those people who find it difficult to surrender themselves for two days in succession to any unusual thoughts and assumptions whatsoever. He would have been obliged to discuss verses, and the so-called “poetical” mood wearied him very quickly. He spent the whole day until dinner in the fields, ate with great appetite, dozed off, and when he woke up, tried to take up the clerk’s accounts; but before he had finished the first page, he ordered his tarantás to be harnessed, and set off for Ipátoff’s.

Evidently, even positive people do not bear about in their breasts hearts of stone, and they are no more fond of being bored than other plain mortals.

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

"We're singing songs in the country style, Vladímir Sergyéitch,"--began Ipátoff, and pointing to Véretyeff he added:-"Piótr Alexyéitch is our leader,--and what a leader! Just you listen to him!"

"This is very pleasant,"--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch.

"Won't you join the choir?"--asked Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

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

BokRobot · Page 33 / 79

"That doesn't matter! See, Egór Kapítonitch is singing, and I'm singing. All you have to do is to chime in. Please, sit down; and you, dear fellow, strike up!"

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

"No; you sing,"--replied Márya Pávlovna.

"Here's a song now: 'Adown dear Mother Volga'"--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, with importance.

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

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

They sang a great many other songs....

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

"Let us go," said old Ipátoff, "or we shall be drenched."

All rose.

BokRobot · Page 34 / 79

"Directly!" exclaimed Piótr Alexyéitch. "One more song, the last. Listen: 'Akh, thou house, thou house of mine, Thou new house of mine....' He struck up in a loud voice, briskly striking the strings of the guitar with his whole hand. 'My new house of maple-wood,' joined in the chorus, as though reluctantly carried away. Almost at the same moment, the rain began to beat down in streams; but Véretyeff sang 'My house' to the end. From time to time, drowned by the claps of thunder, the dashing ballad seemed more dashing than ever beneath the noisy rattle and gurgling of the rain. At last the final detonation of the chorus rang out—and the whole company ran, laughing, into the drawing-room. Loudest of all laughed the little girls, Ipátoff's daughters, as they shook the raindrops from their frocks.

But, as a precaution, Ipátoff closed the window and locked the door; and Egór Kapítonitch praised him, remarking that Matryóna Márkovna also always gave orders to shut up whenever there was a thunderstorm, because electricity is more capable of acting in an empty space. Bodryakóff looked him straight in the face, stepped aside, and overturned a chair. Such trifling mishaps were constantly happening to him.

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

"What are you arguing about?"--inquired Véretyeff, rising and approaching them.

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

"Still about Petersburg," replied Nadezhda Alexeyevna. "Vladimir Sergeyevich cannot sufficiently praise it."

BokRobot · Page 35 / 79

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

"You surprise me,"--retorted Vladimir Sergeyevich. "Can it be possible that you really hold the same opinion, that there does not exist for the cultured man...."

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

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

Véretyeff cast an abstracted glance at his sister, and she, with a faint laugh, bent toward him, and whispered in a low voice: "Petrúsha, my dear, imitate Egór Kapítonitch for us, please."

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

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

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

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

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

Véretyeff passed his hand over his face; his features resumed their ordinary expression, while Nadézhda Alexyéevna exclaimed: "Oh, yes! He can imitate anyone he wishes.... He's a master hand at that."

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

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

BokRobot · Page 36 / 79

"Akh, please do me the favour of representing me,"--said Astákhoff, turning to Véretyeff.--"I beg that you will not stand on ceremony."

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

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

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

"No, indeed,"--Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning....

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

"Thou art a regular child,"--replied Véretyeff.

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

The accuracy with which he imitated its pitiful squeak was really amazing. It seemed as though a live fly were actually struggling under his fingers. Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst out laughing, and gradually everyone in the room got to laughing. Only Márya Pávlovna's face showed no change; not even her lips quivered. She sat with downcast eyes, but finally raised them, and casting a serious glance at Véretyeff, she muttered through her set teeth: "What possesses you to make a clown of yourself?"

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

BokRobot · Page 37 / 79

"How amusing that Piótr Alexyéitch is!"--exclaimed Egór Kapítonitch, slapping down the seven of trumps with a flourish on someone else's ace.--"Really, he's very amusing!"

Nadézhda Alexyéevna rose, and hastily approaching Márya Pávlovna, asked her in an undertone: "What didst thou say to my brother?"

"Nothing,"--replied the other.

"What do you mean by 'nothing'? Impossible."

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

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

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

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

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

"Moreover, as far as I could make out, you were declaiming Púshkin's 'The Upas-Tree'."

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

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

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

"Did it seem so to you?"--remarked Márya Pávlovna, coldly.

"What's 'The Upas-Tree'?"--inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

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

"Somehow I don't remember.... That upas-tree is a poisonous tree, isn't it?"

"Yes."

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

"An insidious fragrance!"--exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.

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

BokRobot · Page 38 / 79

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

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

"Ah, please recite them,"--said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

"Certainly, madam."

And Astákhoff recited "The Upas-Tree."

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

"The poem is too bombastic?"

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

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

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

Nadézhda Alexyéevna merely shook her head.

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

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

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

"Akh, by the way,"--said Ipátoff, as he rose;--"Vladimir Sergeyevich, one of the local landed proprietors, a neighbour, a very fine and worthy man, Akilin, Gavrila Stepanitch, has commissioned me to ask you whether you will not do him the honour of attending his ball,--that is, I just put it that way, for the sake of style, and said 'ball,' but it is only an evening party with dancing, quite informal. He would have called on you himself without fail, only he was afraid of disturbing you."

"I am much obliged to the gentleman,"--returned Vladimir Sergeyevich;--"but it is imperatively necessary that I should return home...."

"Why--but when do you suppose the ball takes place? It's tomorrow. Tomorrow is Gavrila Stepanitch's name-day. One more day won't matter, and how much pleasure you will give him! And it's only ten versts from here. If you will allow, we will take you thither."

"Really, I don't know,"--began Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"And are you going?"

BokRobot · Page 39 / 79

"The whole family! And Nadezhda Alexeyevna and Pyotr Alexeyevich,--everybody is going!"

"You may invite me on the spot for the fifth quadrille, if you like,"--remarked Nadezhda Alexeyevna.--"The first four are already spoken for."

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

"Me? Let me think... no, I think I am not."

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

"That means you will go? Very good. Certainly."

"Bravo!"--exclaimed Ipátoff.--"Well, Vladimir Sergeyevich, you have put us under an obligation. Gavrilo Stepanitch will simply be ecstatic. Isn't that so, Ivan Ilyich?"

Ivan Ilyich would have preferred to remain silent, according to his wont, but thought it better to utter a sound of approval.

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

"I have my own reasons for that,"--replied Nadezhda Alexeyevna.

"What reasons?--permit me to inquire."

"That's my secret."

"Oh!"

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

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

"Yes," he said indifferently.

"Yes! yes!"--repeated Nadezhda Alexeyevna, reproachfully.--"You men,"--she added, after a brief pause,--"positively do not deserve to be loved by nice women."

"Do you think so? Well, and that sour-faced Petersburger--does he deserve it?"

"Sooner than thou."

"Really!"

And Piótr Alexyéitch recited, with a sigh: "What a mission, O Creator, To be... the brother of a grown-up sister!"

Nadezhda Alexeyevna burst out laughing.

"I cause you a great deal of trouble, there's no denying that. I have a commission for you."

"Really?--I hadn't the slightest suspicion of that."

"I'm speaking of Másha."

"On what grounds?"

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

"Thou knowest thyself,"--she said softly.

Return only the modernized text.

BokRobot · Page 40 / 79

"Ah, I understand!--What's to be done, Nadezhda Alexeyevna, ma'am? I love to drink with a good friend, ma'am, sinful man that I am; I love it, ma'am."

"Stop, brother, please don't talk like that!... This is no joking matter."

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

"It is thy perdition, and thou jestest...."

"The farmhand is sowing the grain, his wife does not agree..." began Piotr Alexeyevich loudly, slapped the horse with the reins, and it dashed onward at a brisk trot.

IV

When the flush of dawn was just colouring the sky, he was no longer in the house.

Halfway between his estate and Ipátoff's, on the very brink of a broad ravine, stood a small birch grove. The young trees grew very close together, and no axe had yet touched their graceful trunks; a shadow that was not dense, but continuous, spread from the tiny leaves onto the soft, thin grass, all mottled with the golden heads of buttercups,[23] the white dots of wood-campanula, and the tiny deep-crimson crosses of wild pinks. The recently-risen sun flooded the whole grove with a powerful though not brilliant light; dewdrops glittered everywhere, while here and there large drops kindled and glowed red; everything exhaled freshness, life, and that innocent triumph of the first moments of the morning, when everything is still so bright and still so silent.

The only thing audible was the carolling voices of the larks above the distant fields, and in the grove itself two or three small birds were executing, in a leisurely manner, their brief songs, and then, apparently, listening to see how their performance had turned out. From the damp earth arose a strong, healthy scent; a pure, light breeze fluttered all about in cool gusts. Morning, glorious morning, breathed forth from everything--everything looked and smiled of the morning, like the rosy, freshly-washed face of a baby who has just woken up.

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

BokRobot · Page 41 / 79

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

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

Márya Pávlovna made no reply.

Véretyeff darted a glance at her.

"Másha, are you angry?"--he repeated.

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

"For what?"--asked Véretyeff, and flung away his branch.

Again Márya Pávlovna made no reply.

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

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

"On whose account, then?"

"On your own."

Véretyeff raised his head and laughed.

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

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

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

Márya Pávlovna merely shrugged her shoulders.

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

And Véretyeff reached out toward Márya Pávlovna.

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

"H'm! Jesting away my life! A new expression! But I hope, Márya Pávlovna, that you used the verb 'to jest' in the active sense?"

Márya Pávlovna contracted her brows.

BokRobot · Page 42 / 79

"Enough of that, Véretyeff,"--she repeated.

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

"No."

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

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

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

"Ah, Veretyeff,"--began Masha;--"you know that I don't know how to express myself. You've told me about that Laura. But she was a woman, you see.... A woman can be forgiven for not thinking about the future."

"When you speak, Masha,"--returned Veretyeff,--"you blush incessantly with self-love and modesty: the blood fairly flows in a crimson flood into your cheeks. I'm awfully fond of that in you."

Marya Pavlovna looked Veretyeff straight in the eye.

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

BokRobot · Page 43 / 79

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

Again Marya Pavlovna looked at him.

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

"Of course I do."

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

"About what?"

Marya Pavlovna hesitated.

"Not to drink liquor,"--she said at last.

Veretyeff laughed.

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

"But to what end?"--interrupted Másha.

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

"But isn't it possible to get along without liquor?"

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

"Like wine.... I'm much obliged to you."

"No, Másha, I do not love you like wine. Stay, I'll prove it to you sometime,--when we are married, say, and go abroad together. Do you know, I am planning in advance how I shall lead you in front of the Venus of Milo. At this point it will be appropriate to say: 'And when she stands with serious eyes Before the Chyprian of Milos-- Twain are they, and the marble in comparison Suffers, it would seem, affront....' "

BokRobot · Page 44 / 79

"What makes me talk constantly in poetry today? It must be that this morning is affecting me. What air! 'Tis exactly as though one were quaffing wine."

"Wine again,"--remarked Márya Pávlovna.

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

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

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

"Where?"--asked Márya Pávlovna.

"Yonder, beyond the ravine, across the field of oats. Someone must have startled it; they don't run in the morning. I'll stop it instantly, if you like."

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

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

BokRobot · Page 45 / 79

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

"Verses?"--inquired Véretyeff, in amazement.

"Yes, verses; the very ones that that gentleman from Petersburg recited last night."

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

"Yes, it does."

"Recite it."

Márya Pávlovna was overcome with shyness....

"Recite it, recite it,"--repeated Véretyeff.

Márya Pávlovna began to recite; Véretyeff stood in front of her, with his arms folded on his breast, and bent himself to listen. At the first line Márya Pávlovna raised her eyes heavenward; she did not wish to encounter Véretyeff's gaze. She recited in her even, soft voice, which reminded one of the sound of a violoncello; but when she reached the lines: "And the poor slave expired at the feet Of his invincible sovereign....," her voice began to tremble, her impassive, haughty brows rose ingenuously, like those of a little girl, and her eyes, with involuntary devotion, fixed themselves on Véretyeff....

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

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

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

V

BokRobot · Page 46 / 79

He belonged to the category of landed proprietors who evoked the admiration of their neighbours by their ingenuity in living well on very insignificant means. Although he did not own more than four hundred serfs, he was in the habit of entertaining the entire government in a huge stone mansion, with a tower and a flag on the tower, erected by himself. The property had descended to him from his father, and had never been distinguished for being well ordered; Gavríla Stepánitch had been absent for a long time—he had been in the service in Petersburg. Finally, twenty-five years before the date of our story, he returned to his native place, with the rank of Collegiate Assessor,[24] and, with a wife and three daughters, had simultaneously undertaken reorganizing and building operations, had gradually established an orchestra, and had begun to give dinners.

At first, everyone prophesied for him speedy and inevitable ruin; more than once rumours had become current to the effect that Gavríla Stepánitch's estate was to be sold under the hammer; but the years passed, dinners, balls, banquets, and concerts followed each other in their customary order, new buildings sprang out of the ground like mushrooms, and still Gavríla Stepánitch's estate was not sold under the hammer, and he himself continued to live as before, and had even grown stout of late.

BokRobot · Page 47 / 79

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

He had settled his two elder daughters advantageously; the youngest was still at home, and of marriageable age. Gavríla Stepánitch also had a wife, an insignificant and wordless being.

BokRobot · Page 48 / 79

At seven o'clock in the evening, Vladímir Sergyéitch presented himself at the Ipátoffs' in dress-suit and white gloves. He found them all fully dressed; the little girls were sitting sedately, afraid of mussing their starched white frocks; old Ipátoff, on catching sight of Vladímir Sergyéitch in his dress-suit, affectionately rebuked him, and pointed to his own frock-coat; Márya Pávlovna wore a muslin gown of a deep rose colour, which was extremely becoming to her. Vladímir Sergyéitch paid her several compliments. Márya Pávlovna's beauty attracted him, although she was evidently shy of him; he also liked Nadézhda Alexyéevna, but her free-and-easy manners somewhat disconcerted him. Moreover, in her remarks, her looks, her very smiles, mockery frequently peeped forth, and this disturbed his citified and well-bred soul.

He would not have been averse to making fun of others with her, but it was unpleasant to him to think that she was probably capable of jeering at himself.

The ball had already begun; a good many guests had assembled, and the home-bred orchestra was crashing and booming and screeching in the gallery, when the Ipátoff family, accompanied by Vladímir Sergyéitch, entered the hall of the Akílin house. The host met them at the very door, thanked Vladímir Sergyéitch for his tender provision of an agreeable surprise—that was the way he expressed himself—and, taking Ipátoff’s arm, he led him to the drawing-room, to the card-tables. Gavríla Stepánitch had received a bad education, and everything in his house, both the music and the furniture and the food and the wines, not only could not be called first-class, but were not even fit to be ranked as second-class. On the other hand, there was plenty of everything, and he himself did not put on airs, was not arrogant... the nobles demanded nothing more from him, and were entirely satisfied with his entertainment.

BokRobot · Page 49 / 79

At supper, for instance, the caviar was served cut up in chunks and heavily salted; but no one objected to your taking it in your fingers, and there was plenty wherewith to wash it down: wines which were cheap, it is true, but were made from grapes, nevertheless, and not some other concoction. The springs in Gavríla Stepánitch's furniture were rather uncomfortable, owing to their stiffness and inflexibility; but, not to mention the fact that there were no springs whatsoever in many of the couches and easy-chairs, anyone could place a worsted cushion under him, and there was a great number of such cushions lying about, embroidered by the hands of Gavríla Stepánitch's spouse herself—and then there was nothing left to desire.

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

So, then, the ball had already begun. They were dancing a quadrille of ten pairs. The cavaliers were the officers of a regiment stationed nearby, and divers not very youthful squires, and two or three officials from the town. Everything was as it should be, everything was proceeding in due order. The Marshal of the Nobility was playing cards with a retired Actual Councillor of State,[26] and a wealthy gentleman, the owner of three thousand souls. The actual state councillor wore on his forefinger a ring with a diamond, talked very softly, kept the heels of his boots closely united, and did not move them from the position used by dancers of former days, nor did he turn his head, which was half concealed by a capital velvet collar. The wealthy gentleman, on the contrary, was constantly laughing at something or other, raising his eyebrows, and flashing the whites of his eyes.

BokRobot · Page 50 / 79

The poet Bodryakóff, a man of shy and awkward appearance, was chatting in a corner with the learned historian Evsiukóff: each had clutched the other by the button. Beside them, one noble, with a remarkably long waist, was expounding certain audacious opinions to another noble who was timidly staring at his forehead. Along the wall sat the mammas in brightly colored caps; around the doors pressed the men of simple cut, young fellows with perturbed faces, and elderly fellows with peaceful ones; but one cannot describe everything. We repeat: everything was as it should be.

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

"What promise?"

"Why, that you would dance the mazurka with me."

"Yes, of course I will dance it with you."

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

"You have probably forgotten, mademoiselle,"--he began,--"that you had already previously promised me today's mazurka."

Nadézhda Alexyéevna became confused.

"Ah! Good heavens, what am I to do?"--she said:--"excuse me, please, M'sieu Steltchínsky, I am so absent-minded; I am really ashamed...."

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

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

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

BokRobot · Page 51 / 79

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

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

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

"I must have a few words with you in the next room, if you will permit,"--said the latter, in French, very courteously, and with an accent that was not Russian.

Vladímir Sergyéitch followed him.

Steltchínsky halted at a window.

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

Vladímir Sergyéitch was astonished.

"Why so?"--he asked.

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

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

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

"That would be extremely unpleasant for me, but no one can prevent you from declining, declaring that you are ill, or going away...."

"I shall not do it. Who do you take me for?"

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

"In what sense do you mean... satisfaction?"

"The meaning is evident."

"You will challenge me to a duel?"

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

Steltchínsky endeavoured to utter these words as negligently as possible. Vladímir Sergyéitch's heart began to beat violently. He looked his wholly unexpected antagonist in the face. "Phew, O Lord, what stupidity!" he thought.

"You are not jesting?"--he articulated aloud.

BokRobot · Page 52 / 79

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

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

"Very good! We will fight tomorrow."

"Very well."

"Tomorrow morning my second will call on you."

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

Vladímir Sergyéitch remained a few minutes longer by the window.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Wouldn't he do?"—he thought, and shrugging his shoulders, he added almost aloud:—"I shall have to take him."

Vladímir Sergyéitch stepped up to him.

BokRobot · Page 53 / 79

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

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

"Yes,"—repeated Vladímir Sergyéitch;—"I should be greatly indebted to you. I am not acquainted with anyone here. You alone...."

"I can't,"—said Iván Ílitch, as though just waking up;—"I absolutely can't." "Why not? You are afraid of unpleasantness; but all this will, I hope, remain a secret...."

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

"Excuse me, I absolutely cannot,"--repeated Iván Ílitch, shaking his head and drawing back, in the process overturning a chair again.

For the first time in his life, he had to refuse a request; but then, the request was such a strange one!

"At any rate,"--pursued Vladímir Sergyéitch, in an agitated voice, as he grasped his hand,--"do me the favour of not speaking to anyone about what I have told you. I earnestly implore this of you."

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

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

Vladímir Sergyéitch was very, very unlike his usual self.

BokRobot · Page 54 / 79

Meanwhile, the ball went on. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have greatly liked to leave at once, but departure was not to be thought of until the end of the mazurka. How was he to yield to his delighted opponent? Unhappily for Vladímir Sergyéitch, the dances were in charge of a free-and-easy young gentleman with long hair and a sunken chest, over which, in semblance of a miniature waterfall, meandered a black satin neckcloth, transfixed with a huge gold pin. This young gentleman had the reputation, throughout the entire government, of being a man who had assimilated, in their most delicate details, all the customs and rules of the highest society, although he had lived in Petersburg only six months altogether, and had not succeeded in penetrating any loftier heights than the houses of Collegiate Assessor Sandaráki and his brother-in-law, State Councillor Kostandaráki.

He superintended the dances at all balls, gave the signal to the musicians by clapping his hands, and in the midst of the roar of the trumpets and the squeaking of the violins shouted: "En avant deux!" or "Grande chaîne!" or "A vous, mademoiselle!" and was incessantly flying, all pale and perspiring, through the hall, slipping headlong, and bowing and scraping. He never began the mazurka before midnight. "And that is a concession,"--he was wont to say;--"in Petersburg I would keep you in torment until two o'clock."

BokRobot · Page 55 / 79

This ball seemed very long to Vladímir Sergyéitch. He prowled about like a shadow from hall to drawing-room, now and again exchanging cold glances with his antagonist, who never missed a single dance, and undertook to invite Márya Pávlovna for a quadrille, but she was already engaged--and a couple of times he bandied words with the anxious host, who appeared to be harassed by the tedium which was written on the countenance of the new guest. At last, the music of the longed-for mazurka thundered out. Vladímir Sergyéitch hunted up his lady, brought two chairs, and seated himself with her, near the end of the circle, almost opposite Steltchínsky. <P_2> With what a face he began the mazurka, how he dragged his lady after him, how he beat the floor with his foot, and twitched his head the while,--all this is almost beyond the power of human pen to describe.

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

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

"Why, because I can tell from the expression on your face.... You haven't smiled a single time since you arrived. I hadn't expected that of you. It's not becoming for you, a positive gentleman, to be misanthropic and to frown à la Byron. Leave that to the authors."

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

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

"Nothing, ma'am,"--replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with feigned indifference, assuming an air of mystery.

"Really?"

"Really, nothing.... You shall know some day, later on."

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

"Life or death?"--she asked in French.

BokRobot · Page 56 / 79

"Life,"--exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna; "I don't want death just yet."

Steltchínsky bowed; she went off with him.[27] The cavalier in the blue glasses, who was called Death, started off with the host's daughter. Steltchínsky had invented the two designations.

"Tell me, please, who is that Mr. Steltchinsky?"--inquired Vladimir Sergeyevich of Nadezhda Alexeyevna, as soon as the latter returned to her place.

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

"None whatsoever, I assure you,"--replied Vladimir Sergeyevich, with a little hesitation.

"I'm such a forgetful creature! You can't imagine!"

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

Nadézhda Alexyéevna gazed at him, her eyes slightly narrowed.

"Really? You find it agreeable to dance with me?"

Vladimir Sergeyevich answered her with a compliment. Little by little he began to talk freely. Nadezhda Alexeyevna was always charming, and particularly so that evening; Vladimir Sergeyevich thought her enchanting. The thought of the duel the next day, while it frayed his nerves, imparted brilliance and vivacity to his remarks; under its influence he allowed himself slight exaggerations in the expression of his feelings.... "I don't care!" he thought. Something mysterious, involuntarily sad, something elegantly hopeless peeked forth in all his words, in his suppressed sighs, in his glances which suddenly darkened. At last, he began to chatter to such an extent that he started discussing love, women, his future, the manner in which he conceived of happiness, what he demanded of Fate.... He explained himself allegorically, through hints. On the eve of his possible death, Vladimir Sergeyevich flirted with Nadezhda Alexeyevna.

BokRobot · Page 57 / 79

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

"Whither?"--he said, in surprise.

"To your own home."

"To Sásovo?"

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

Vladimir Sergeyevich cast down his eyes.

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

"Because I have!"--retorted Nadezhda Alexeyevna.

"But what is the reason?"

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

"But, pardon me..." began Vladimir Sergeyevich....

"Ah, here, by the way... read this,"--Nadezhda Alexeyevna interrupted him with a laugh, as she handed him a motto-slip of paper from bonbons which she had just taken from a small table that stood nearby, as she rose to meet Marya Pavlovna, who had stopped in front of her with another lady.

Marya Pavlovna was dancing with Pyotr Alexeyevich. Her face was covered with a flush, and was flaming, but not cheerful.

Vladimir Sergeyevich glanced at the slip of paper; on it, in wretched French letters, was printed: "Qui me néglige me perd." He raised his eyes, and encountered Steltchinsky's gaze bent on him. Vladímir Sergyéitch smiled awkwardly, leaned his elbow on the back of the chair, and crossed his legs--as if to say: "I don't care for thee!"

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

BokRobot · Page 58 / 79

"Allow me to inquire,"--began Vladímir Sergyéitch, pausing between his words,--"in what sense am I to understand this billet...?"

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

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

"Yes; and very far away, perhaps,"--said Vladimir Sergeyevich, significantly.

"I wish you a happy journey."

And Nadezhda Alexeyevna swiftly approached her brother, merrily whispered something in his ear, then asked aloud: "Grateful to me? Yes? Are you not? Otherwise he would have asked her for the mazurka."

He shrugged his shoulders, and said: "Nevertheless, nothing will come of it...."

She led him off into the drawing-room.

BokRobot · Page 59 / 79

"The flirt!"--thought Vladimir Sergeyevich, and taking his hat in his hand, he slipped unnoticed from the hall, hunted up his footman, to whom he had previously given orders to hold himself in readiness, and was already donning his overcoat, when suddenly, to his intense surprise, the lackey informed him that it was impossible to depart, as the coachman, in some unknown manner, had drunk himself to intoxication, and that it was utterly impossible to arouse him. After cursing the coachman in a remarkably brief but extremely powerful manner (this took place in the anteroom, with witnesses present), and informing his footman that if the coachman was not in proper condition by daylight tomorrow, then no one in the world would be capable of imagining what the result would be, Vladimir Sergeyevich returned to the hall, and requested the major-domo to allot him a chamber, without waiting for supper, which was already prepared in the drawing-room.

The master of the house suddenly popped up, as it were, out of the floor, at Vladimir Sergeyevich's very elbow (Gavril Stepanitch wore boots without heels, and therefore moved about without the slightest sound), and began to hold him back, assuring him that there would be caviar of the very best quality for supper; but Vladimir Sergeyevich excused himself on the plea of a headache. Half an hour later he was lying in a small bed, under a short coverlet, and trying to get to sleep.

But he could not get to sleep. No matter how much he tossed from side to side, no matter how hard he tried to think of something else, the figure of Steltchínsky kept intrusively looming before him.... Now he is taking aim... now he has fired.... "Astákhoff is killed," says someone. Vladímir Sergyéitch could not be called a brave man, yet he was no coward; but even the thought of a duel, no matter with whom, had never once entered his head.... Fight! With his good sense, peaceful disposition, respect for convention, dreams of future prosperity, and an advantageous marriage! If it had not been a question of his own person, he would have laughed heartily, so stupid and ridiculous did this affair seem to him. Fight! With whom, and about what?!

BokRobot · Page 60 / 79

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vladímir Sergyéitch was even more amazed than before.

"What was that you said?"--he muttered.

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

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

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

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

BokRobot · Page 61 / 79

Vladímir Sergyéitch flew into a rage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Véretyeff burst out laughing, then lapsed into meditation.

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

BokRobot · Page 62 / 79

"That's what I cannot say,"--returned Iván Ílitch.

"At any rate, with whom has he been talking?"

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

Véretyeff went away from Iván Ílitch.

So, then, they made a punch, and began to drink. Véretyeff was sitting in the most conspicuous place. Jolly and profligate, he held the pre-eminence in gatherings of young men. He threw off his waistcoat and neckcloth. He was asked to sing; he took a guitar and sang several songs. Heads began to wax rather hot; the young men began to propose toasts. Suddenly Steltchínsky, all red in the face, sprang on the table, and elevating his glass high above his head, exclaimed loudly: "To the health... of I know whom,"--he hastily caught himself up, drank off his liquor, and smashed his glass on the floor, adding:--"May my foe be shivered into just such pieces to-morrow!"

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

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

He led him aside.

"Listen, brother; I know that thou art going to fight tomorrow with that gentleman from Petersburg."

Steltchínsky started.

"How... who told thee?"

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

"Who is it? I am curious to know."

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

"But, nevertheless, that does not prove...."

BokRobot · Page 63 / 79

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

Steltchínsky emitted a forced laugh.

"Thou art drunk, my dear fellow, and art raving... that's all."

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

"H'm! I should like to see how thou wilt prevent me?"

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

"Really?"

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

BokRobot · Page 64 / 79

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

But, luckily for him, he was not acquainted with a single fashionable lady.

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

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

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

"Come, come, come, show us your art."

Iván Ílitch maintained silence for a while, and suddenly struck up in a bass voice: "Krambambuli,[29] bequest of our fathers!" but so incoherently and strangely, that a general burst of laughter immediately drowned his voice, and he fell silent. When everyone had dispersed, Véretyeff went to see Vladímir Sergyéitch, and the brief conversation already reported took place between them.

BokRobot · Page 65 / 79

On the following day, Vladimir Sergeyevich drove off to his own Sásovo very early. He spent the entire morning in a state of excitement, nearly mistaking a passing merchant for a second, and breathed freely only when his lackey brought him a letter from Steltchinsky. Vladimir Sergeyevich perused that letter several times—it was very adroitly worded.... Steltchinsky began with the words: "La nuit porte conseil, Monsieur,"—made no excuses whatsoever, because, in his opinion, he had not insulted his antagonist in any way; but admitted that he had been somewhat irritated on the preceding evening, and concluded by stating that he held himself entirely at the disposition of Mr. Astakhov ("de M-r Astakhov"), but no longer demanded satisfaction himself.

After composing and dispatching a reply, which was filled simultaneously with courtesy bordering on playfulness and a sense of dignity, in which, however, no trace of boastfulness was perceptible, Vladimir Sergeyevich sat down to dinner, rubbing his hands, ate with great satisfaction, and immediately afterward set off, without even having sent relays ahead. The road along which he drove passed at a distance of four versts from Ipátov's manor.... Vladimir Sergeyevich looked at it.

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

The images of Nadezhda Alexyevna and Marya Pavlovna presented themselves for a moment to his imagination; he dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and sank into a doze.

VI

The yellow forests had grown bare, the tomtits had arrived, and--an unfailing sign of the approaching winter--the wind had begun to howl and wail. But there had been no heavy rains yet, and mud had not managed to spread over the roads. Taking advantage of this circumstance, Vladimir Sergeyevich set out for the government capital, in order to wind up several business matters. He spent the morning driving about, and in the evening went to the club. In the vast, gloomy hall of the club he encountered several acquaintances, and among others, the old retired cavalry captain Flitch, a busybody, wit, gambler, and gossip, well known to everyone. Vladimir Sergeyevich entered into conversation with him.

BokRobot · Page 66 / 79

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

"Who was she?"

"Madame Steltchinsky."

"I don't know any Madame Steltchinsky."

"You knew her as a girl.... She was born Veretyeff.... Nadezhda Alexeyevna. Her husband served our Governor. You must have seen him too.... A lively man, with a moustache.... He's hooked a splendid woman, with money to boot."

"You don't say so,"--said Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"So she has married him.... H'm! And where have they gone?"

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

And the old gossip thrust forward his sharp nose.

"I don't remember, really; some jest or other,"--returned Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"But permit me to ask, where is her brother now?"

"Pyotr? Well, he's in a bad way."

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

"Why, what's the matter?"--asked Vladimir Sergeyevich.

"He has taken to dissipation! He's a ruined man."

"But where is he now?"

"It is absolutely unknown where he is. He went off somewhere after a gypsy girl; that's the most certain thing of all. He's not in this government, I'll guarantee that."

"And does old Ipátoff still live there?"

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

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

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

"You don't say so, sir,"--articulated Vladímir Sergyéitch, narrowing his eyes.

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

BokRobot · Page 67 / 79

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

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

Vladimir Sergeyevich exchanged a silent glance with Ivan Ilyich. Both winced a little; but they speedily recovered their serenity.

"Is all your family well?"--inquired Vladimir Sergeyevich.

"Yes, thank God, I thank you sincerely,"--replied Ipatoff.--"Only Marya Pavlovna isn't quite... you know, she stays in her room most of the time."

"Has she caught a cold?"

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

"And Egor Kapitonitch? What is he doing?"

"Ah! Egor Kapitonitch is a dead man. His wife has died."

"It cannot be!"

"She died in twenty-four hours, of cholera. You wouldn't know him now; he has become simply unrecognizable. 'Without Matryona Markovna,' he says, 'life is a burden to me. I shall die,' he says, 'and God be thanked,' he says; 'I don't wish to live,' he says. Yes, he's done for, poor fellow."

"Ah! Good heavens, how unpleasant that is!"--exclaimed Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"Poor Egor Kapitonitch!"

All were silent for a time.

BokRobot · Page 68 / 79

"I hear that your pretty neighbour has married,"--remarked Vladimir Sergeyevich, flushing faintly.

"Nadezhda Alexeyevna? Yes, she has."

Ipatoff darted a sidelong glance at Vladimir Sergeyevich.

"Certainly... certainly, she has married and gone away."

"To Petersburg?"

"To St. Petersburg."

"Marya Pavlovna must miss her, I think. I believe they were great friends."

"Of course she misses her. That cannot be avoided. But as for friendship, let me tell you, the friendship of girls is even worse than the friendship of men. As long as they are face to face, it's all right; but, otherwise, it vanishes."

"Do you think so?"

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

"And has she been gone long?"

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

"I hear that her brother is no longer here, either?"--said Vladimir Sergeyevich, after a brief pause.

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

"And does no one know where he has gone?"

"No."

"He just went into a rage, and--slap-bang on the ear," remarked Ivan Ilyich.

"He just went into a rage, and--slap-bang on the ear," repeated Ipatoff. "Well, and how about yourself, Vladimir Sergeyevich--what nice things have you been doing?"--he added, wheeling round on his chair.

Vladimir Sergeyevich began to tell about himself; Ipatoff listened and listened to him, and at last exclaimed: "But why doesn't Marya Pavlovna come? You had better go for her, Ivan Ilyich."

Ivan Ilyich left the room, and returning, reported that Marya Pavlovna would be there directly.

"What's the matter? Has she got a headache?"--inquired Ipatoff, in an undertone.

"Yes," replied Ivan Ilyich.

BokRobot · Page 69 / 79

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

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

"How do you feel now?" asked Ipatoff.

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

Vladimir Sergeyevich was quite thoroughly bored that evening. But no one was in a good mood. The conversation kept taking a gloomy turn.

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

"They are over,"--repeated Ivan Ilyich.

Mariya Pavlovna stared silently out of the window.

"God willing, they will return,"--remarked Ipatoff.

No one answered him.

"Do you remember how beautifully they sang songs here that time?"--said Vladimir Sergeyevich.

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

"But you might sing to us,"--went on Vladimir Sergeyevich, turning to Mariya Pavlovna--"you have such a fine voice."

She did not answer him.

"And how is your mother?"--Vladimir Sergeyevich inquired of Ipatoff, not knowing what to talk about.

"Thank God! She gets along nicely, considering her ailments. She came over in her little carriage today. She's a broken tree, I must tell you--creak, creak, and the first thing you know, some young, strong sapling falls over; but she keeps standing and standing. Ekh, ha, ha!"

Mariya Pavlovna dropped her hands in her lap, and bowed her head.

BokRobot · Page 70 / 79

"And, nevertheless, her existence is hard,"--began Ipatoff again--"rightly is it said: 'old age is no joy.'"

"And there's no joy in being young," said Márya Pávlovna, as though to herself.

Vladímir Sergyéitch would have liked to return home that night, but it was so dark outside that he could not bring himself to set out. He was assigned to the same upstairs room in which, three months earlier, he had spent a troubled night thanks to Egór Kapítonitch....

"Does he snore now?" thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he recalled his scolding of his servant and the sudden appearance of Márya Pávlovna in the garden....

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

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

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

BokRobot · Page 71 / 79

"What is it? What has happened?"--inquired Vladimir Sergeyevich, excitedly, seizing him by the arm.

"She has disappeared; she has thrown herself into the water,"--replied Ivan Ilyich, in a choking voice.

"Who has thrown herself into the water? Who has disappeared?"

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

And Ivan Ilyich rushed down the stairs.

Vladimir Sergeyevich somehow put on his shoes, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and ran after him.

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

"Go for boat-hooks! Go for boat-hooks as quickly as possible!"--Ipatoff's voice could be heard shouting.

"A net, a net, a boat!"--shouted other voices.

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

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

"The boat-hooks--fetch the boat-hooks!"--moaned the old man in reply to him....

"But good gracious, perhaps you are mistaken, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch...."

BokRobot · Page 72 / 79

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

"Why didn't you prevent her, pray?"

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

"But perhaps it only seemed so to thee!"

"Seemed so, indeed! But where is she? What has become of her?"

"So that is what looked white to me in the gloom," thought Vladimir Sergeyevich....

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

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

All stood stock-still where they were.

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

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

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

"Yes, yes, the net!"--chimed in others.

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

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

"The young lady!"--suddenly shouted the elder.--"'Tis she!"

BokRobot · Page 73 / 79

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

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

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

BokRobot · Page 74 / 79

The following is what old Ipátoff wrote, a week later, in reply to a letter which had finally arrived from Nadézhda Alexyéevna: "One week ago, dear Madam, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, my unhappy sister-in-law, your acquaintance, Márya Pávlovna, wilfully ended her own life by throwing herself into the pond at night, and we have already committed her body to the earth." She decided on this sad and terrible deed, without having bid me farewell, without leaving even a letter or so much as a note, to declare her last will.... But you know better than anyone else, Nadezhda Alexeyevna, on whose soul this great and deadly sin must fall! May the Lord God judge your brother, for my sister-in-law could not cease to love him, nor survive the separation....

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

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

VII

BokRobot · Page 75 / 79

on Nevsky Prospect. The clock on the city hall tower marked three o'clock. Walking along the broad stone slabs, strewn with yellow sand, was, among others, our acquaintance Vladimir Sergeyevich Astakhov. He had grown very virile since we parted from him; his face was framed by whiskers, and he had grown plump all over, but he had not aged. He was moving after the crowd at a leisurely pace, now and then casting a glance about him; he was expecting his wife; she had preferred to arrive in the carriage with her mother. Courteously lifting his splendidly brushed hat when he met his numerous acquaintances, Vladimir Sergeyevich was still stepping out with the free stride of a man who is satisfied with his lot, when suddenly, just at the Passage,[30] he came close to colliding with a gentleman in a foraging cap and a Spanish cloak, with a decidedly worn face, a dyed moustache, and large, swollen eyes.

Vladimir Sergeyevich drew aside with dignity, but the gentleman in the foraging cap glanced at him, and suddenly exclaimed: "Ah! Mr. Astakhov, how do you do?"

Vladimir Sergeyevich made no reply, and stopped short in surprise. He could not comprehend how a gentleman who could bring himself to walk on Nevsky in a foraging cap could be acquainted with his name.

"You do not recognise me,"--pursued the gentleman in the cap:--"I saw you eight years ago, in the country, in the T*** Government, at the Ipátovs'. My name is Veretyev."

"Ah! Good heavens! excuse me!"--exclaimed Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"But how you have changed since then!..."

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

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

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

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

"Yes, most of the time."

"Are you married?"

"Yes."

BokRobot · Page 76 / 79

And Vladimir Sergeyevich assumed a rather severe expression, as if to say to Veretyeff: "My good fellow, don't even think of asking me to introduce you to my wife."

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

"And how is your sister?"--inquired Vladimir Sergeyevich.--"Where is she?"

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

"Is her husband alive?"

"Yes."

"And Mr. Ipátoff?"

"I don't know; probably he is alive too; but he may be dead."

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

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

Vladimir Sergeyevich remained silent for a while, with dignity written on his face.

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

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

"I visited Ipátovka once afterward,"--added Vladimir Sergeyevich, raising his eyebrows mournfully. "I think that was the name of that village--on the very day of a terrible event...."

"Yes, yes, that was frightful, frightful,"--Veretyeff hastily interrupted him.--"Yes, yes. And do you remember how you came close to fighting with my present brother-in-law?"

"Hmm! I remember!"--replied Vladimir Sergeyevich, slowly.--"However, I must confess to you that so much time has elapsed since then, that all that sometimes seems to me like a dream...."

BokRobot · Page 77 / 79

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

But farewell!"

Véretyeff walked hastily away; but on coming opposite the door of one of the principal confectioners on the Névsky, he halted, entered, and after drinking a glass of orange vodka at the buffet, he made his way through the billiard-room, all dark and dim with tobacco-smoke, to the rear room. There he found several acquaintances, his former comrades—Pétya Lazúrin, Kóstya Kovróvsky, and Prince Serdiukóff, and two other gentlemen who were simply called Vasiúk and Filát. All of them were men no longer young, though unmarried; some of them had lost their hair, others were growing grey; their faces were covered with wrinkles, their chins had grown double; in a word, these gentlemen had all long since passed their prime, as the saying goes. Yet all of them continued to regard Véretyeff as a remarkable man, destined to astonish the universe; and he was wiser than they only because he was very well aware of his utter and radical uselessness.

And even outside of his circle, there were people who thought concerning him that if he had not ruined himself, the deuce only knows what he would have made of himself.... These people were mistaken. Nothing ever comes of Véretyeffs.

BokRobot · Page 78 / 79

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

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

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

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

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

"Why, a sort of eccentric,"--said Vladímir Sergyéitch, linking his arm in Mr. Pompónsky's. "Good gracious, Vladímir Sergyéitch, is it permissible for a respectable man to chat on the street with an individual who wears a foraging-cap on his head? 'Tis indecent! I'm amazed! Where could you have made acquaintance with such a person?"

"In the country."

"In the country.... One does not bow to one's country neighbours in town.... ce n'est pas comme il faut. A gentleman should always conduct himself like a gentleman if he wishes that...."

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

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

BokRobot · Page 79 / 79

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

BokRobot

BokRobot

BokRobot brings together books and fairy tales to read and explore. Discover a growing collection, or create books and fairy tales of your own.

More books you might like

It is EnoughIvan TurgenevThe DogIvan TurgenevA CorrespondenceIvan TurgenevThe Outcasts of Poker FlatThe MezzotintM. R. (Montague Rhodes) JamesThe Magic ShopH. G. Wells