nedjelja, 21. lipnja 2026.
"Women?" "Well, what do you say about women?" "Well, there are no conjurors more subtle in taking us in at every available opportunity with or without reason, often for the sole pleasure of playing tricks on us. And they play these tricks with incredible simplicity, astonishing audacity, unparalleled ingenuity. They play tricks from morning till night, and they all do it—the most virtuous, the most upright, the most sensible of them. You may add that sometimes they are to some extent driven to do these things. Man has always idiotic fits of obstinacy and tyrannical desires. A husband is continually giving ridiculous orders in his own house. He is full of caprices; his wife plays on them even while she makes use of them for the purpose of deception. She persuades him that a thing costs so much because he would kick up a row if its price were higher. And she always extricates herself from the difficulty cunningly by a means so simple and so sly that we gape with amazement when by chance we discover them. We say to ourselves in a stupefied state of mind 'How is it we did not see this till now?'" The man who uttered the words was an ex-Minister of the Empire, the Comte de L——, a thorough profligate, it was said, and a very accomplished gentleman. A group of young men were listening to him.
He went on:
"I was outwitted by an ordinary uneducated woman in a comic and thorough-going fashion. I will tell you about it for your instruction.
"I was at the time Minister for Foreign Affairs, and I was in the habit of taking a long walk every morning in the Champs Elysees. It was the month of May; I walked along, sniffing in eagerly that sweet odor of budding leaves.
"Ere long, I noticed, that I used to meet every day a charming little woman, one of those marvelous, graceful creatures, who bear the trade-mark of Paris. Pretty? Well, yes and no. Well-made? No, better than that: her waist was too slight, her shoulders too narrow, her breast too full, no doubt; but I prefer those exquisite human dolls to that great statuesque corpse, the Venus of Milo.
"And then this sort of woman trots along in an incomparable fashion, and the very rustle of her skirt fills the marrow of your bones with desire. She seemed to give me a side-glance as she passed me. But these women give you all sorts of looks—you never can tell....
"One morning, I saw her sitting on a bench with an open book between her hands. I came across, and sat down beside her. Five minutes later, we were friends. Then, each day, after the smiling salutation 'Good day, Madame,' 'Good day, Monsieur,' we began to chat. She told me that she was the wife of a Government clerk, that her life was a sad one, that in it pleasures were few and cares numerous, and a thousand other things.
"I told her who I was, partly through thoughtless[Pg 371]ness, and partly perhaps through vanity. She pretended to be much astonished.
"Next day, she called at the Ministry to see me; and she came again there so often that the ushers, having their attention drawn to her appearance, used to whisper to one another, as soon as they saw her, the name with which they had christened her 'Madame Leon' that is my Christian name.
"For three months I saw her every morning without growing tired of her for a second, so well was she able incessantly to give variety and piquancy to her physical attractiveness. But one day I saw that her eyes were bloodshot and glowing with suppressed tears, that she could scarcely speak, so much was she preoccupied with secret troubles.
"I begged of her, I implored of her, to tell me what was the cause of her agitation.
"She faltered out at length with a shudder: 'I am—I am pregnant!'
"And she burst out sobbing. Oh! I made a dreadful grimace, and I have no doubt I turned pale, as men generally do at hearing such a piece of news. You cannot conceive what an unpleasant stab you feel in your breast at the announcement of an unexpected paternity of this kind. But you are sure to know it sooner or later. So, in my turn, I gasped: 'But—but—you are married, are you not?'
"She answered: 'Yes, but my husband has been away in Italy for the last two months, and he will not be back for some time.'
"I was determined at any cost to get out of my responsibility.
"I said: 'You must go and join him immediately.'[Pg 372]
"She reddened to her very temples, and with downcast eyes, murmured: 'Yes—but—' She either dared not or would not finish the sentence.
"I understood, and I prudently enclosed her in an envelope the expenses of the journey.
"Eight days later, she sent me a letter from Genoa. The following week, I received one from Florence. Then letters reached me from Leghorn, Rome, and Naples.
"She said to me: 'I am in good health, my dear love, but I am looking frightful. I would not care to have you see me till it is all over; you would not love me. My husband suspects nothing. As his business in this country will require him to stay there much longer, I will not return to France till after my confinement.'
"And, at the end of about eight months, I received from Venice these few words: 'It is a boy.'
"Some time after, she suddenly entered my study one morning, fresher and prettier than ever, and flung herself into my arms.
"And our former connection was renewed.
"I left the Ministry, and she came to live in my house in the Rue de Grenelle. She often spoke to me about the child, but I scarcely listened to what she said about it; it did not concern me. Now and then I placed a rather large sum of money in her hand, saying: 'Put that by for him.'
"Two more years glided by; and she was more eager to tell me some news about the youngster—'about Leon.'[Pg 373]
"Sometimes she would say in the midst of tears: 'You don't care about him; you don't even wish to see him. If you know what grief you cause me!'
"At last I was so much harassed by her that I promised, one day, to go, next morning, to the Champs Elysees, when she took the child there for an airing.
"But at the moment when I was leaving the house, I was stopped by a sudden apprehension. Man is weak and foolish. What if I were to get fond of this tiny being of whom I was the father—my son?
"I had my hat on my head, my gloves in my hands. I flung down the gloves on my desk, and my hat on a chair:
"No. Decidedly I will not go; it is wiser not to go.'
"My door flew open. My brother entered the room. He handed me an anonymous letter he had received that morning:
"'Warn the Comte de L——, your brother, that the little woman of the Rue Casette is impudently laughing at him. Let him make some inquiries about her.'
"I had never told anybody about this intrigue, and I now told my brother the history of it from the beginning to the end. I added:
"For my part, I don't want to trouble myself any further about the matter; but will you, like a good fellow, go and find out what you can about her?
"When my brother had left me, I said to myself: 'In what way can she have deceived me? She has other lovers? What does it matter to me? She is young, fresh, and pretty; I ask nothing more from her.[Pg 374] She seems to love me, and as a matter of fact, she does not cost me much. Really, I don't understand this business.'
"My brother speedily returned. He had learned from the police all that was to be known about her husband: 'A clerk in the Home Department, of regular habits and good repute, and, moreover, a thinking man, but married to a very pretty woman, whose expenses seemed somewhat extravagant for her modest position.' That was all.
"Now, my brother having sought for her at her residence, and finding that she was gone out, succeeded, with the assistance of a little gold, in making the doorkeeper chatter: 'Madame D——, a very worthy woman, and her husband a very worthy man, not proud, not rich, but generous.'
"My brother asked for the sake of saying something:
"'How old is her little boy now?'
"'Why, she has not got any little boy, monsieur.'
"'What? Little Leon?'
"'No, monsieur, you are making a mistake.'
"'I mean the child she had while she was in Italy, two years ago?'
"'She has never been in Italy, monsieur; she has not quitted the house she is living in for the last five years.'
"My brother, in astonishment, questioned the doorkeeper anew, and then he pushed his investigation of the matter further. No child, no journey.
"I was prodigiously astonished, but without clearly understanding the final meaning of this comedy.
"'I want,' said I to him, 'to have my mind perfectly clear about the affair. I will ask her to come here to-morrow. You shall receive her instead of me.[Pg 375] If she has deceived me, you will hand her these ten thousand francs, and I will never see her again. In fact, I am beginning to find I have had enough of her.'
"Would you believe it? I had been grieved the night before because I had a child by this woman; and I was now irritated, ashamed, wounded at having no more of her. I found myself free, released from all responsibility, from all anxiety, and yet I felt myself raging at the position in which I was placed.
"Next morning my brother awaited her in my study. She came in as quickly as usual, rushing towards him with outstretched arms, but when she saw who it was she at once drew back.
"He bowed, and excused himself.
"'I beg your pardon, madame, for being here instead of my brother, but he has authorized me to ask you for some explanations which he would find it painful to seek from you himself.'
"Then, fixing on her face a searching glance, he said abruptly:
"'We know you have not a child by him.'
"After the first moment of stupor, she regained her composure, took a seat, and gazed with a smile at this man who was sitting in judgment on her.
"She answered simply:
"'No; I have no child.'
"'We know also that you have never been in Italy.'
"This time she burst out laughing in earnest.
"'No, I have never been in Italy.'
"My brother, quite stunned, went on:
"'The Comte has requested me to give you this money, and tell you that it is all broken off.'[Pg 376]
"She became serious again, calmly putting the money into her pocket, and, in an ingenuous tone asked:
"'And I am not, then, to see the Comte any more?'
"'No, madame.'
"She appeared to be annoyed, and in a passionless voice she said:
"'So much the worse; I was very fond of him.'
"Seeing that she had made up her mind on the subject so resolutely, my brother, smiling in his turn, said to her:
"'Look here, now, tell me why you invented all this tricky yarn, complicating it by bringing in the sham journey to Italy and the child?'"
She gazed at my brother in amazement, as if he had asked her a stupid question, and replied:
"'I say! How spiteful you are! Do you believe a poor little woman of the people such as I am—nothing at all—could have for three years kept on my hands the Comte de L——, Minister, a great personage, a man of fashion, wealthy and seductive, if she had not taken a little trouble about it? Now it is all over. So much the worse. It couldn't last for ever. None the less I succeeded in doing it for three years. You will say many things to him on my behalf.'
"She rose up. My brother continued questioning her:
"'But—the child? You had one to show him?'
"'Certainly—my sister's child. She lent it to me. I'd bet it was she gave you the information.'
"'Good! And all those letters from Italy?'
"She sat down again so as to laugh at her ease.
"'Oh! those letters—well, they were a bit of poetry. The Comte was not a Minister of Foreign Affairs for nothing.'
"'But—another thing?'
"Oh! the other thing is my secret. I don't want to compromise anyone.'
"And bowing to him with a rather mocking smile, she left the room without any emotion, an actress who had played her part to the end."
And the Comte de L—— added by way of moral:
"So take care about putting your trust in that sort of turtle dove!"
subota, 20. lipnja 2026.
My dear Aunt,—I am going to pay you a visit without making much fuss about it. I shall be at Les Fresnes on the 2nd of September, the day before the hunting season opens, as I do not want to miss it, so that I may tease these gentlemen. You are very obliging, aunt, and I would like you to allow them to dine with you, as you usually do when there are no strange guests, without dressing or shaving for the occasion, on the ground that they are fatigued. They are delighted, of course, when I am not present. But I shall be there, and I shall hold a review, like a general, at the dinner-hour; and, if I find a single one of them at all careless in dress, no matter how little, I mean to send him down to the kitchen to the servant-maids. The men of to-day have so little consideration for others and so little good manners that one must be always severe with them. We live indeed in an age of vulgarity. When they quarrel with one another, they attack one another with insults worthy of street-porters, and, in our presence, they do not conduct themselves even as well as our servants. It is at the seaside that you see this most clearly. They are to be found there in battalions, and you can judge them in the lump. Oh! what coarse beings they are! Just imagine in a train, one of them, a gentleman
who looked well, as I thought, at first sight, thanks to his tailor, was dainty enough to take off his boots in order to put on a pair of old shoes! Another, an old man, who was probably some wealthy upstart (these are the most ill-bred), while sitting opposite to me, had the delicacy to place his two feet on the seat quite close to me. This is a positive fact.
At the water-places, there is an unrestrained outpouring of unmannerliness. I must here make one admission—that my indignation is perhaps due to the fact that I am not accustomed to associate, as a rule, with the sort of people one comes across here, for I should be less shocked by their manners if I had the opportunity of observing them oftener. In the inquiry-office of the hotel, I was nearly thrown down by a young man who snatched the key over my head. Another knocked against me so violently without begging my pardon or lifting his hat, coming away from a ball at the Casino, that he gave me a pain in the chest. It is the same way with all of them. Watch them addressing ladies on the terrace; they scarcely ever bow. They merely raise their hands to their head-gear. But indeed, as they are all more or less bald, it is their best plan.
But what exasperates and disgusts me specially is the liberty they take of talking publicly without any precaution whatsoever about the most revolting adventures. When two men are together, they relate to each other, in the broadest language and with the most abominable comments really horrible stories without caring in the slightest degree whether a woman's ear is within reach of their voices. Yesterday, on the beach I was forced to go away from the place where I sat in order not to be any longer the involuntary confidante of an obscene anecdote, told in such immodest language that I felt just as much humiliated as indignant at having heard it. Would not the most elementary good-breeding have taught them to speak in a lower tone about such matters when we are near at hand. Etretat is, moreover, the country of gossip and scandal. From five to seven o'clock you can see people wandering about in quest of nasty stories about others which they retail from group to group. As you remarked to me, my dear aunt, tittle-tattle is the mark of petty individuals and petty minds. It is also the consolation of women who are no longer loved or sought after. It is enough for me to observe the women who are fondest of gossiping to be persuaded that you are quite right.
The other day I was present at a musical evening at the Casino, given by a remarkable artist, Madame Masson, who sings in a truly delightful manner. I took the opportunity of applauding the admirable Coquelin, as well as two charming boarders of the Vaudeville, M—— and Meillet. I was able, on the occasion, to see all the bathers collected together this year on the beach. There were not many persons of distinction among them.
Next day I went to lunch at Yport. I noticed a tall man with a beard who was coming out of a large house like a castle. It was the painter, Jean Paul Laurens. He is not satisfied apparently with imprisoning the subjects of his pictures he insists on imprisoning himself.
Then, I found myself seated on the shingle close to a man still young, of gentle and refined appearance, who[Pg 364] was reading some verses. But he read them with such concentration, with such passion, I may say, that he did not even raise his eyes towards me. I was somewhat astonished, and I asked the conductor of the baths without appearing to be much concerned, the name of this gentleman. I laughed inwardly a little at this reader of rhymes; he seemed behind the age, for a man. This person, I thought, must be a simpleton. Well, aunt, I am now infatuated about this stranger. Just fancy, his name is Sully Prudhomme! I turned round to look at him at my ease, just where I sat. His face possesses the two qualities of calmness and elegance. As somebody came to look for him, I was able to hear his voice, which is sweet and almost timid. He would certainly not tell obscene stories aloud in public, or knock against ladies without apologizing. He is sure to be a man of refinement, but his refinement is of an almost morbid, vibrating character. I will try this winter to get an introduction to him.
I have no more news to tell you, my dear aunt, and I must interrupt this letter in haste, as the post-hour is near. I kiss your hands and your cheeks.—Your devoted niece,
Berthe De X.
P. S.—I should add, however, by way of justification of French politeness, that our fellow-countrymen are, when traveling, models of good manners in comparison with the abominable English, who seem to have been brought up by stable-boys, so much do they take care not to incommode themselves in any way, while they always incommode their neighbors.
[Pg 365]Madame de L. to Madame de X.
Les Fresnes, Saturday.
My Dear Child,—Many of the things you have said to me are very reasonable, but that does not prevent you from being wrong. Like you, I used formerly to feel very indignant at the impoliteness of men, who, as I supposed, constantly treated me with neglect; but, as I grew older and reflected on everything, putting aside coquetry, and observing things without taking any part in them myself, I perceived this much—that if men are not always polite, women are always indescribably rude.
We imagine that we should be permitted to do anything, my darling, and at the same time we consider that we have a right to the utmost respect, and in the most flagrant manner we commit actions devoid of that elementary good-breeding of which you speak with passion.
I find, on the contrary, that men have, for us, much consideration, as compared with our bearing towards them. Besides, darling, men must needs be, and are, what we make them. In a state of society, where women are all true gentlewomen, all men would become gentlemen.
Mark my words; just observe and reflect.
Look at two women meeting in the street. What an attitude each assumes towards the other! What disparaging looks! What contempt they throw into each glance! How they toss their heads while they inspect each other to find something to condemn! And, if the footpath is narrow, do you think one woman would make room for another, or will beg[Pg 366] pardon as she sweeps by? Never! When two men jostle each other by accident in some narrow lane, each of them bows and at the same time gets out of the other's way, while we women press against each other stomach to stomach, face to face, insolently staring each other out of countenance.
Look at two women who are acquaintances meeting on a stair case before the drawing-room door of a friend of theirs to whom one has just paid a visit, and to whom the other is about to pay a visit. They begin to talk to each other, and block up the passage. If anyone happens to be coming up behind them, man or woman, do you imagine that they will put themselves half-an-inch out of their way? Never! never!
I was waiting myself, with my watch in my hands, one day last winter, at a certain drawing-room door. And behind two gentlemen were also waiting without showing any readiness to lose their temper, like me. The reason was that they had long grown accustomed to our unconscionable insolence.
The other day, before leaving Paris, I went to dine with no less a person than your husband in the Champs Elysees in order to enjoy the open air. Every table was occupied. The waiter asked us not to go, and there would soon be a vacant table.
At that moment, I noticed an elderly lady of noble figure, who, having paid the amount of her docket, seemed on the point of going away. She saw me, scanned me from head to foot, and did not budge. For more than a full quarter-of-an-hour she sat there, immovable, putting on her gloves, and calmly staring at those who were waiting like myself. Now, two young men who were just finishing their dinner, having seen[Pg 367] me in their turn, quickly summoned the waiter in order to pay whatever they owed, and at once offered me their seats, even insisting on standing while waiting for their change. And, bear in mind, my fair niece, that I am no longer pretty, like you, but old and white-haired.
It is we (do you see?) who should be taught politeness, and the task would be such a difficult one that Hercules himself would not be equal to it. You speak to me about Etretat, and about the people who indulged in "tittle-tattle" along the beach of that delightful watering-place. It is a spot now lost to me, a thing of the past, but I found much amusement there in days gone by.
There were only a few of us, people in good society, really good society, and a few artists, and we all fraternized. We paid little attention to gossip in those days.
Well, as we had no insipid Casino, where people only gather for show, where they talk in whispers, where they dance stupidly, where they succeed in thoroughly boring one another, we sought some other way of passing our evenings pleasantly. Now, just guess what came into the head of one of our husbandry? Nothing less than to go and dance each night in one of the farm-houses in the neighborhood.
We started out in a group with a street-organ, generally played by Le Poittevin, the painter, with a cotton nightcap on his head. Two men carried lanterns. We followed in procession, laughing and chattering like a pack of fools.
We woke up the farmer and his servant-maids and laboring men. We got them to make onion-soup[Pg 368] (horror!), and we danced under the apple-trees, to the sound of the barrel-organ. The cocks waking up began to crow in the darkness of the out-houses; the horses began prancing on the straw of their stables. The cool air of the country caressed our cheeks with the smell of grass and of new-mown hay.
How long ago it is! How long ago it is. It is thirty years since then!
I do not want you, my darling, to come for the opening of the hunting season. Why spoil the pleasure of our friends by inflicting on them fashionable toilets on this day of vigorous exercise in the country? This is the way, child, that men are spoiled. I embrace you.—Your old aunt
petak, 19. lipnja 2026.
The burning July sun blazed dazzlingly over Smolkena, pouring down upon the old huts a generous stream of resplendent rays. A goodly share of the sunlight fell to the roof of the Starosta’s[2] hut, newly recovered with smoothly-planed, yellow, fragrant planks. It was Sunday, and almost the entire population of the village had gone out into the street, thickly overgrown with grass and bespattered in spots with quantities of dry mud. A large group of peasants—men and women—had gathered in front of the Starosta’s hut. Some sat on the earthwork around the house, others simply stood; while the children chased one another in and out of the throng, calling forth from the elders rebukes and blows. The centre of the crowd was a tall man, with large, drooping mustaches. To judge from his swarthy face, covered with thick gray bristles and a network of deep wrinkles, as well as from the gray tufts of hair which forced their way from under the dirty straw hat, he might have been [Pg 184]fifty years of age. He was gazing on the ground, and the nostrils of his large, gristly nose were quivering; and when he raised his head, throwing his glance upon the windows of the Starosta’s hut, his eyes—large, melancholy, and even morose—became visible; they were sunk deep within their orbits, and the bushy brows cast shadows over their dark pupils. He was dressed in the brown under-cassock of a lay-brother, worse for the wear; it hardly covered his knees, and was girt with cord. Over his back was flung a bag; in his right hand he carried a long stick with iron ferrule; his left hand he held in his bosom. The people eyed him suspiciously, derisively, with contempt; and with evident joy in having caught a wolf before he had had time to do hurt to their flock. He was passing through the village, and had asked for a drink at the window of the Starosta’s hut. The Starosta gave him cider and entered into conversation with him. The wayfarer, however, unlike his kind, answered unwillingly. The Starosta asked him for his passport, but none was forthcoming. It was decided to send him to the local magistrate. The Starosta chose as the man’s escort the village deputy, and was now in the hut giving him directions, having in the meantime left the prisoner in the midst of the mob which made sport of him. The prisoner stood near the trunk of a willow and rested against it his stooped back.
Presently there appeared on the staircase of the hut a dim-eyed old man, with a foxy face and a gray, wedge-shaped beard. He lowered his booted feet step by step, measuredly, and his round stomach moved from side to side solidly under the long calico shirt. Just over his shoulder came to view the bearded, four-cornered face of the deputy.
“Do you understand me, Efimushka?” the Starosta questioned the deputy.
“Why shouldn’t I understand? It’s easy enough. Simply means I am to take this man to the magistrate—and there’s an end of it!” The deputy, pronouncing his speech with measured emphasis and with comical dignity, winked at the public.
“And the papers?”
“The papers are stuck away in my bosom.”
“Well, all right, then,” said the Starosta, and, scratching his sides energetically, he added:
“Go, and God be with you!”
“Well, shall we march on, father?” said the deputy to the prisoner.
“You might furnish a conveyance,” grumbled the prisoner at the deputy’s proposition.
The Starosta smiled.
[Pg 186]
“A con—vey—ance? The idea! There are lots of you fellows tramping across fields and villages. Where are all the horses to come from? You’ve got to make it on foot; that’s all there’s to it!”
“That’s nothing, father; let us go,” said the deputy cheerfully. “Do you think it so far? Can’t be more than twenty versts! You’ll be there before you know it. We shall make a nice trip of it. And afterwards you shall have a rest.”
“In a cool place,” explained the Starosta.
“That’s nothing,” the deputy hastened to say. “A man, when he is very tired, will find rest even in jail. And especially after a hot day you will find it cool and comfortable there.”
The prisoner eyed his escort sharply; the latter smiled good-naturedly and frankly.
“Well, come along, honest father! Good-bye, Vasil Gavrilich! Let’s go!”
“God be with you, Efimushka! Use both your eyes.”
“Yes, you’ll have to look sharp!” was the suggestion thrown at the deputy by a young peasant in the crowd.
“What, do you think I’m an infant?”
They started, keeping close to the huts, so as to be within the strip of shadow. The man in the cassock walked in front, with the loose but rapid[Pg 187] gait of a being accustomed to roaming. The deputy, with a sturdy stick in his hand, followed.
Efimushka was a little peasant, low in stature, but built strongly, with a broad, good-natured face framed in an unkempt red beard beginning just below his bright gray eyes. He nearly always smiled at something, showing his healthy yellow teeth, and wrinkling his nose as if he wanted to sneeze. He was dressed in a long garment whose folds were caught up at the waist with a belt, so that they might not hamper his feet; on his head was stuck a dark green cap, without a visor, reminding one of a prisoner’s cap.
His companion moved on as if oblivious of another presence. They walked along by a narrow by-path, which wound its way through a billowy sea of rye; and the shadows of the travellers glided along against the gold of the corn.
Looking towards the horizon, the crest of a wood appeared blue against the sky. To the left stretched endlessly field upon field; in their midst, like a dark patch, lay a village; and beyond the village again fields, losing themselves finally in the bluish haze.
To the right, from behind a group of willows, a church spire covered with tin-plate, as yet unpainted, pierced the blue sky. It glistened so[Pg 188] strongly in the sun that it was painful to look at.
Up high the larks twittered; and in the rye the cornflowers smiled; and it was hot—almost stifling. From under the feet of the travellers the dust flew up.
Efimushka, clearing his throat, began to sing in falsetto voice.
“It’s no use. I can’t make my voice carry! And yet—there was a time when I could sing.... The Vishensky teacher would say, ‘Well, Efimushka, make a start!’ And we would sing together! A fine fellow he was, too!”
“Who was he?”, asked the man in the cassock, in a dull bass voice.
“The Vishensky teacher.”
“Was Vishensky his name?”
“No, brother; that’s the name of the village. The teacher’s name was Pavel Mikhalich. A first-rate sort he was. Died three years ago.”
“Was he young?”
“He wasn’t thirty.”
“What did he die of?”
“Of grief, I take it.”
Efimushka’s companion glanced at him askance and smiled.
“You see, my dear fellow, this is how it happened. He taught—seven years at a stretch he taught. Well, he began to cough. He coughed[Pg 189] and he coughed, and then got to grieving.... Well, you know how it is—grief drove him to drink. And Father Alexei did not like him; and when he started drinking, Father Alexei sent a report to town—told this and that: the teacher is drinking, and that sort of thing. It’s a scandal, to be sure. And the people in town sent back an answer and a woman teacher. She was tall, bony, big-nosed. Well, Pavel Mikhalich saw how things stood. He felt hurt. ‘Here,’ thought he,’ I have taught and taught ... and now you—— ’ ... From the school he went straight to the hospital, and within five days gave up his soul to God.... That’s all.”
For a time they went on in silence. They were approaching the wood, which with every step loomed larger and larger and was turning from blue to green.
“Shall we go by the wood?” asked Efimushka’s fellow traveller.
“We will only catch the edge of it, for a half-verst or so. But what are you up to? I shall keep my eye on you, my good man.”
And Efimushka, shaking his head, laughed.
“What ails you?” the prisoner asked.
“Oh, nothing! But you are a funny one! ‘Shall we go by the wood?’ says he. You are a simpleton, dear fellow; another wouldn’t have[Pg 190] asked this question—that is, if he were any smarter. He would have made straight for the wood, and——”
“Well?”
“Oh, nothing! I see through you, brother. Your game is like a very thin reed! I should advise you to drop this idea about the wood! Do you think you can get around me? I can handle three like you; as for you, I can manage you with my left hand. Do you understand?”
“Understand you? You’re a fool!” said the prisoner simply but with emphasis.
“Ah, I hit the mark that time!” said Efimushka triumphantly.
“Blockhead! What mark did you hit?” asked the prisoner, with a wry smile.
“About the wood. I understand, I do. You were thinking that when we reached the wood you would knock me down—yes, knock me down—and then make a break for the fields or for the woods. Now, isn’t that so?”
“You’re a fool,” said the apprehended man, shrugging his shoulders. “Where could I go?”
“Well, where you wish—that’s your affair.”
“But where?”
Efimushka’s companion was either angry or else he really wished to know from his escort precisely in what direction he could run.
[Pg 191]
“I told you, where you wished,” replied Efimushka calmly.
“There’s nowhere where I could run, nowhere,” said his companion quietly.
“W-well!” the escort pronounced incredulously, and waved his hand. “There’s always some place where one could run to. The world is large. There will be always enough room in it for one man.”
“Tell me, then: do you really want me to run away?” the prisoner, smiling, ventured to ask.
“Ah, you! You are terribly good! What will come of it? You’ll run away, and in your place some one else will have to go to jail. And that one will be me. No, I’m simply making conversation.”
“You are a blessed fool—otherwise you seem a good sort of fellow,” said Efimushka’s companion, uttering a sigh. Efimushka quite agreed with him.
“It is true I am called blessed by some people; and that I’m a good fellow is also true. I am a simple man—that’s at the bottom of it. Other people say things with cunning, in an underhand sort of way, but why should I? I am alone in the world. Deal wrongly—and you die; deal rightly—you die also. And so I’ve kept straight, mostly.”
[Pg 192]
“That is the right way,” remarked the prisoner indifferently.
“How else should it be? Why should I let my soul go wrong when I am alone here? I am a free man, brother. As I wish, so I live. I have my own idea of life, and live according to it. So it goes. By the way, how are you called?”
“How? Well, you may call me Ivan Ivanov.”
“So! Are you of the priesthood?”
“N-no.”
“Well! And I thought you were——”
“Because of my dress?”
“Well, you look like a runaway monk or an unfrocked priest.... But your face is not at all suited; it looks more like a soldier’s. God knows what kind of man you are!” Efimushka cast a curious glance at the stranger. The other sighed, readjusted his hat, wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and asked the deputy:
“Do you smoke?”
“Happy to afford you the pleasure. To be sure, I do!”
He drew out of his bosom a soiled pouch and, lowering his head, without decreasing his gait, began to fill a clay pipe with tobacco.
“Well, have your smoke.” The prisoner paused, inclined his head to receive a light from a match held by the convoy, and drew in[Pg 193] his cheeks. A thin blue smoke rose in the air.
“You haven’t told me as yet to what class you belong.”
“The gentry,” replied the prisoner curtly, and spat out sideways.
“So that’s it! How come you, then, to be strolling about without a passport?”
“I simply choose to.”
“So—so! What an occupation! You gentry do not usually take to this wolfish life. Ah, but you are a poor wretch!”
“Well, let it go at that ... and stop your chattering,” remarked the poor wretch dryly.
Efimushka, however, surveyed the passportless man with increased curiosity and interest, and, shaking his head in a perplexed manner, continued:
“Eh, but how fate does play with a man, when you come to think of it! And it is very likely true that you are of the gentry, because you have a grand manner about you. Have you lived long like this?”
The man with the grand manner looked gloomily at Efimushka, and waved him aside like some pestering wasp.
“Drop it, I tell you! Why do you stick at it like a woman?”
[Pg 194]
“Now, don’t be vexed,” said Efimushka reassuringly. “I speak from the heart ... and I am really kind-hearted....”
“Well, that’s lucky for you.... On the other hand, your tongue keeps on babbling without a stop—that’s unlucky for me!”
“No more, then, since you object. I can keep quiet, since you want none of my conversation. Still, you’re vexed for nothing. Is it my fault that you are leading a vagabond’s life?”
The prisoner stopped and clamped his jaws together so that his cheek-bones stood out like two sharp corners and the gray bristle covering them rose rigidly on end. He measured Efimushka from head to foot with passionate disdain and with a screwed-up expression at the eyes. Before Efimushka could note this, the other once more began to measure the ground with a broad stride.
The face of the loquacious deputy assumed an aspect of distraught pensiveness. He gazed upwards, whence sounded the trills of the larks, and with them whistled between his teeth, at the same time swinging his stick to the measure of his steps.
They approached the edge of the forest. It stood there like an immovable, dark wall. Not a sound came from it to greet the travellers. The[Pg 195] sun already had set, and its oblique rays colored the tops of the trees purple and gold. The trees exhumed a fragrant dampness; and the gloom and the concentrated silence which filled the forest gave birth to sombre feelings.
When a forest stands before us dark and immovable, when it is all plunged in a mysterious silence, and every tree assumes the attitude as of listening to something, then it seems that the entire forest is filled with something alive, and that that something is only hiding for a time. And you await the next moment in the expectation that it will bring forth something huge and incomprehensible to the human mind, and that it will speak in a mighty voice about the great mysteries of creation.
II
At the edge of the wood, Efimushka and his companion decided to rest, and so they sat themselves on the grass beside the trunk of a huge oak. The prisoner slowly took down the bag from his shoulder and asked his convoy indifferently:
“Do you want some bread?”
“If you’ll give me, I’ll not refuse,” Efimushka replied with a smile.
And in silence they began to eat their bread. Efimushka ate slowly and sighed continually,[Pg 196] directing his gaze across the field to his left, somewhere into the distance, while his companion was all absorbed in the process of gratifying his appetite. He ate rapidly and munched audibly, measuring with his eyes his crust of bread. The dusk began to settle upon the field, and the corn had already lost its golden lustre and assumed a rose-yellow hue. Towards the southwest small fleecy clouds advanced across the sky; they cast shadows upon the field and crept across the ears of corn towards the forest, where sat two dark human figures. Other shadows were cast on the ground by the trees, and they breathed melancholy into the soul.
“Glory be to Thee, O Lord!” exclaimed Efimushka, gathering up the crumbs of his piece of bread and licking them up from the palm of his hand with his tongue. “The Lord hath fed us—no one hath seen us; and He who hath seen us, His eye was unoffended! Comrade, what do you say to sitting here another hour or so? Plenty time for the cold cell, eh?”
His comrade nodded his assent.
“Well, well.... A very good place—it has a place in my heart.... Over there, to the left, once stood the manor of the Tuchkovs.”
“Where?” quickly inquired the prisoner, wheeling[Pg 197] around in the direction indicated by Efimushka.
“Over there, behind that hill. All the land hereabouts belonged to them. They were very rich; but after the emancipation they didn’t do as well.... I too belonged to them—all of us belonged to them. It was a big family.... There was the Colonel himself—Alexander Nikitich Tuchkov. Then, there were four sons—where could they all have gone to? It is as if the wind carried them along, like leaves in the autumn. Only Ivan Alexandrovich remains—I am taking you to him now. He is our magistrate ... quite an old man.”
The prisoner laughed. His laugh had a hollow sound in it; it was a strange inward sort of laugh: his chest and stomach shook, but the face remained unmoved; and when he showed his teeth, there issued from between them hollow, dog-like sounds.
Efimushka, trembling apprehensively, reached out for his stick and placed it nearer within his reach. He asked:
“What is the matter with you now?”
“Nothing.... It was just a passing thought,” said the prisoner abruptly, but kindly. “Go on with your story.”
“W-well, yes. As I was saying, they were[Pg 198] important people, the Tuchkovs, and now they are here no more.... Some of them have died, some of them have simply vanished, and not a soul knows what’s become of them. One especially I have in mind—the very youngest. Victor was his name—Vic for short. He was a comrade of mine.... At the time of the emancipation we were, both of us, fourteen years old.... He was a fine lad, and may God be good to his soul! A pure stream! Running along beautifully all day—and gurgling.... Where is he now? Is he living or dead?”
“In what way was he so ‘good’?” Efimushka’s companion asked quietly.
“In every way!” exclaimed Efimushka. “He had beauty, good sense, a kind heart.... My dear man, he was a ripe berry. Ah, but you should have seen then the two of us!... The games we played! The merry life we led! There were times when he would cry, ‘Efimka, let’s go hunting!’ He had a gun—a birthday gift from his father—and I used to carry it. And off we would wander into the woods for a whole day, or for two days, or even three! Once back home, he would get a scolding, and I a birching; the next day you’d forget all about it and start life anew. This time he would call, ‘Efimushka, let us go after mushrooms!’ Thousands of birds we[Pg 199] must have killed! We gathered these mushrooms by the ton! He used to catch butterflies and bugs and stick them on pins in little boxes. And he taught me my letters.... ‘Efimka,’ he said to me,’ I will teach you. Begin,’ said he, and I began. ‘Say,’ says he, ‘A!’ I roared out, ‘A—a!’ How we did laugh! At the start I took it as a joke—what does a man like me want with reading and writing?... But he rebuked me: ‘You, fool, have been granted freedom that you might learn.... If you knew how to read, it would help you to know how to live and where to seek the truth.’ ... To be sure, he was an apt child; and he had probably heard such speeches from his elders, and began to talk that way himself.... Of course, we know it’s nonsense. Real learning is in the heart; and only the heart can point the way to truth.... It is all-seeing.... And so he taught me.... Stuck so hard to his business that he gave me no rest! It was torture to me. ‘Vic,’ I would appeal to him, ‘it’s impossible for me to learn my letters. I really can’t manage it!’ ... You should have seen him rage at me! Sometimes he threatened me with a whip! But teach me he would! ‘Be merciful!’ I’d cry.... Once I tried to dodge the lesson, and there was a row, let me tell you. He sought for[Pg 200] me all day long with a gun—wanted to shoot me. And later he told me that had he met me that day he certainly would have shot me! He was a fearless one. He was unbending and fiery—a real lord.... He loved me; his was an ardent soul.... Once my father used the birch on my back, and when Vic saw it, off he went at once to my father’s house. Good Lord, but there was a scene! He was all pale and trembling, and clenched his fists, and followed my father up into the loft. Says he, ‘How dared you?’ The old man replied, ‘But I’m his father!’ ‘So? Very well, father, I can’t manage you single-handed, but your back all the same shall be like Efimka’s!’ He gave way to tears after that, and ran out of the house.... And what do you say to this? He actually carried out his word. He must have said something to his servants, for one day father came home groaning; he tried to take off his shirt, and it stuck to his back.... My father was very angry with me at the time. ‘I’m suffering on your account. You are an informer.’ And he gave me a good beating. But as to being an informer, that I was not....”
“That’s true, Efim, you were not!” said the prisoner, with emphasis, and trembled violently. “It’s evident even now that you couldn’t have been an informer,” he added hastily.
[Pg 201]
“That’s it!” exclaimed Efimushka. “I simply loved him—this fellow Vic.... Such a talented child he was! All loved him, not alone I.... Fine speeches he used to make.... I can’t remember any of them now—thirty years have passed since then.... Oh, Lord! Where is he now? If he is alive, he must be having a grand job, or else—he is having the very devil of a time of it.... Life is a most strange thing! It seethes and seethes—and still nothing comes of it.... And people perish.... It is pitiful, to the very death, how pitiful!”
Efimushka, sighing deeply, inclined his head on his bosom.... There was a brief silence.
“And are you sorry for me?” asked the prisoner cheerfully, while his face lit up with a good, kindly smile.
“You are a queer one!” exclaimed Efimushka. “Why shouldn’t I feel sorry for you? What are you, when you come to think of it? If you are roaming about, that only shows that you haven’t a thing on earth of your own—not a corner, not a chip.... And, aside from that, perhaps you are burdened with some great sin—who knows? In a word, you’re a miserable man.”
“That’s how it is,” replied the prisoner.
Once more there was a pause. The sun had[Pg 202] already set, and the shadows grew more dense. The air was fragrant with the fresh moisture of the earth, with the smell of flowers, and with that pungent odor that comes from the woods. For a long time they sat there in silence.
“It is fine to sit here; but, for all that, we’ve got to go. Still eight more versts to do.... Come along, father; get up!”
“Let’s sit here a while longer,” begged the other.
“I don’t mind it myself—I love to be near the woods at night.... But when shall we ever get to the magistrate’s? I will catch it if I get there late.”
“Never fear, they shan’t say anything.”
“Perhaps you’ll put in a word for me,” said the deputy, with a smile.
“I may.”
“You?”
“And why not?”
“You’re a wag! He’ll try a little pepper on you.”
“You mean, he’ll flog me?”
“He’s a terror! And right clever, too. He’ll punch you with his fist on the ear, and I’ll warrant you—you’ll not be steady on your feet.”
“We’ll see to that,” said the prisoner reassuringly, touching the convoy’s shoulder in a friendly manner.
[Pg 203]
This familiarity did not please Efimushka. Everything else considered, he, after all, stood for the law, and this goose should bear in mind that Efimushka wore under his coat a brass badge. Efimushka arose, took his stick in his hand, rearranged the badge in a conspicuous place on his breast, and said gruffly:
“Get up! We’ve got to be on the move.”
“I am not going,” said the prisoner.
Efimushka was nonplussed, and, opening his eyes wide, remained for the moment silent—not comprehending why the prisoner had become all of a sudden such a joker.
“Well, don’t make a fuss, and come along,” said he more softly.
“I am not going,” the prisoner repeated resolutely.
“What do you mean by saying you’re not going?” shouted Efimushka, in astonishment and anger.
“Just that. I want to spend the night with you here. Come, build a fire.”
“Let you spend the night here, will I? As to the fire, I’ll build it on your back, I will,” growled Efimushka. But in the depths of his soul he was amazed. Here is a man who says, “I am not going,” and yet shows no opposition, nor any desire to quarrel, but[Pg 204] simply lies on the ground, and that’s all. What is one to do?
“Don’t shout so, Efim,” suggested the prisoner calmly.
Efimushka again became silent, and, changing his weight from foot to foot, he looked down on the prisoner with wide-awake eyes. But the other returned his gaze and smiled. Efimushka was thinking very hard as to what his next move should be.
What he could not understand was that this vagabond, who had been all the time morose and malignant in his manner, should suddenly develop such good spirits. What was to prevent Efimushka from falling on the fellow, wrenching his arms, hitting him once or twice across the neck, and ending this farce? Assuming the most severe, authoritative tone of which he was capable, Efimushka said:
“Well, you piece of putty, enough of that! Up with you! Or else I’ll bind you—and then you’ll go along all right, never fear! Do you understand me? Well? I’ll flog you!”
“M-me?” asked the prisoner, with a chuckle.
“Whom else do you think?”
“What, you’ll flog Vic Tuchkov?”
“None of that, now!” cried the astonished[Pg 205] Efimushka. “But who are you, really? What sort of game are you playing?”
“Don’t shout so, Efimushka; it is time you recognized me,” said the prisoner, smiling calmly, and rising to his feet. “Why don’t you say ‘how d’you do?’”
Efimushka drew back from the hand stretched out to him, and, open-eyed, looked into the face of the prisoner. Then his lips trembled and his face contracted.
“Victor Alexandrovich!... Really, is it you?” he asked in a whisper.
“If you insist, I’ll show you my papers. But I’ll do better—I’ll remind you of old times.... Now, let me see—do you remember how you once fell into a wolves’ lair in the pine forest of Ramensk? And how I climbed up a tree after a nest and hung head downwards from a limb? And how we stole cream from the old woman Petrovna? And the tales she told us?”
Overpowered by this recital, Efimushka sat down on the ground and laughed in a confused manner.
“Do you believe now?” the prisoner asked, as he sat down at Efimushka’s side, looking straight in his companion’s face and placing his hand on his shoulder. Efimushka was silent. The landscape had grown dark by this time. In the forest[Pg 206] arose a confused murmuring and whispering. Somewhere from its distant depths came the sounds of a night-bird’s song. A cloud was passing over the wood with an almost imperceptible motion.
“What ails you, Efim? Aren’t you glad to meet me, or are you so glad? Eh, you holy soul! As you were as a babe, so are you now. Well, Efim! Say something, dear creature!”
Efimushka tried to control himself.
“Well, brother, why don’t you speak?” said the prisoner, shaking his head reproachfully. “What ails you, any way? You should be ashamed! Here you are in your fiftieth year, and occupied with such trifling business! Give it up!” And, taking hold of the deputy by the shoulders, he shook him lightly. The deputy burst into laughter, and at last delivered himself, without glancing at his neighbor:
“Well, who am I? Of course, I’m glad.... And it’s really you? How am I to believe it? You, and ... such a business as this! Vic ... and in such a shape! Going to jail.... Without passport ... without tobacco.... Oh, Lord! Is that the proper order of things? At least, if I were only in your place, and you were the deputy! Even that would have been easier to bear! But instead[Pg 207] ... how can I look you straight in your eyes? I had always recalled you with joy ... Vic.... One sometimes thinks about it.... And the heart aches at the thought.... But now—look! Oh, Lord! ... if one were to tell people about it, they wouldn’t believe it.”
His eyes fixed intently upon the ground, he mumbled his broken phrases, and now and then gripped his hand to his bosom or to his throat.
“Never mind telling people about it; it is unnecessary. And stop lamenting.... Don’t worry on my account. I have my papers. I didn’t show them to the Starosta, because I didn’t want to be recognized.... My brother Ivan shan’t send me to jail, but will help to put me on my feet. I will remain with him, and once more will we two go hunting.... Now, you see how well everything will end.”
Vic said this gently, using the intonation which elders employ in calming their aggrieved young. The passing cloud and the moon met by this time; and the edge of the cloud, touched up with the silver rays, took on a soft, opal tint. From among the corn came the cries of the quail; somewhere or other the railbird prattled. The darkness grew denser....
“To think that it’s really true,” began Efimushka[Pg 208] softly. “Ivan Alexandrovich will surely lend a helping hand to his own brother; and that means you will begin life anew. It is really so.... And we will go hunting.... And yet, somehow, it is different.... I thought you would do things in this world! But instead, here’s what it’s come to!”
Vic Tuchkov laughed.
“I, brother Efimushka, have done enough deeds in my day.... I have squandered my share in the estate; I have given up my position in the service; I have been an actor; I have been a clerk in the lumber trade; afterwards I have had my own troupe of actors.... Then I lost everything, contracted debts, got mixed up in a bad affair ... eh! I have had everything.... And I have lost everything!”
The prisoner waved his hand and laughed good-naturedly.
“And, brother Efimushka, I am no longer a gentleman. I am cured of that. Now we will have good times together! Eh? what do you say? Come, cheer up!”
“What should I say,” began Efimushka, in a subdued voice. “I am ashamed. I have been telling you such things ... such nonsense!... I am only a peasant....[Pg 209] And we will spend the night here? I’ll light a fire.”
“Well, go ahead!”
The prisoner stretched himself upon the ground, face upwards, while the deputy went into the woods, from whence soon came sounds of the cracking of twigs. Presently Efimushka reappeared with an armful of firewood, and in a jiffy a small serpent of flame was merrily working its way upward through the pile of wood.
The old comrades, sitting opposite each other, watched it pensively, and took turns at smoking the pipe.
“Just as in the old days,” said Efimushka sadly.
“Only, the times are not the same,” said Tuchkov.
“W-well, yes, life is sterner than character.... Ah, but she has broken you....”
“That still remains to be seen—whether I’m stronger or she,” smiled Tuchkov.
They became silent.
Behind them loomed the dark wall of the softly whispering forest; the bonfire crackled merrily; around it danced the silent shadows; and across the field lay an impenetrable darkness.
FOOTNOTES:
2 Head of village community.
četvrtak, 18. lipnja 2026.
I remember how we ran through the wood, how the bullets whizzed past us, how the twigs that were hit by them snapped and fell, how we scrambled through the bushes. The firing grew heavier. Looking through to the outer edge, I could see little flashes of red here and there. Sidorov, a young private of Company I—“How did he come to fall into our line?” was the thought that flashed through my head—suddenly sat down on the ground and silently looked at me with open, terrified eyes. A stream of blood trickled from his mouth. Yes, that too I remember well. I also remember how when almost on the edge of the wood I first saw ... him in the thick bushes. He was an enormous, corpulent Turk, but I ran straight at him, although I am weak and small. Something burst, something huge seemed to fly past me; there was a ringing in my ears. “He has shot me,” was my thought. But he, with a cry of terror, pressed his back against the dense foliage. He could have gone around it without difficulty,but in his fright he lost his presence of mind completely, and he tried to crawl through the prickly bushes. With a blow, I knocked the gun out of his hand; I followed this by a thrust with my bayonet. There was an outcry: a roar that died into a moan. I ran on farther. Our soldiers cried, “Hurrah!” fell low, and discharged their guns. I remember that I too fired several times after we had left the wood and were in the field. Suddenly the cry of “Hurrah!” grew louder, and we all in a body moved forward. That is, not we, but my comrades; I remained behind. That seemed strange to me. Still stranger was the fact that suddenly everything vanished; all the cries and firing died away. I could hear nothing, but saw only something blue, which I concluded was the sky. Afterwards, that too passed out of my senses.
Never before have I found myself in such a strange situation. I am lying, it seems, on my stomach, and I see before me only a small clod of earth. A few blades of grass, an ant climbing down one of these head downwards, bits of litter from last year’s grass—that is my whole world. And I can see with only one eye, because the other is obstructed by some hard[Pg 73] substance, perhaps a twig upon which my head rests. I feel terribly uncomfortable, and I wish to stir; it is incomprehensible to me why I cannot. So the time passes. I hear the noise of the grasshoppers and the humming of bees. Nothing more. At last I make an effort, and, extracting my right arm from under me, I press both my hands against the earth and try to rise to my knees.
Something sharp and rapid like lightning shoots across my entire body from the knees to my chest and head, and I collapse to the ground. Again darkness, again nothingness.
I am awake once more. Why do I see stars, which shine so brightly in the dark-blue Bulgarian sky? Am I in my tent? Why have I crawled out of it? I make a movement, and feel an agonizing pain in my legs.
Yes, I have been wounded in battle. Dangerously or not? I catch hold of my legs, there where the pain is. And both the right and the left legs are covered with clotted blood. When I touch them with my hands, the pain becomes even more intense. It is like a protracted toothache, gnawing at the very soul. There is a ringing in the ears, an oppressiveness in the head. I vaguely understand that I have been wounded in both[Pg 74] legs. But it is all incomprehensible. Why have I not been picked up? Have the Turks really beaten us? I try to recall what has happened to me; at the beginning things seem a bit confused, but they gradually become clearer, and I come to the conclusion that we have not been beaten. And simply because I fell on the little field on top of the slope. In any case, how it all happened is difficult for me to remember; but I do recall how they all rushed forward, and that I alone could not run; and that only something blue remained before my eyes. Somewhat earlier our captain pointed towards this hillock. “Boys, we will get there!” he cried in his sonorous voice. And we got there; it is clear we have not been beaten.... Why, then, was I not picked up? This is such an open spot, and everything is visible. There must be others lying here. The shots came so thick. I must turn my head to look. It is easier to do this now, because when I first came to consciousness and I saw the grass, and the ant crawling head downwards, I tried to rise, and I fell back, not into my former position, but turned over on my spine. That explains why I see the stars.
I try to rise to a sitting position. This is very difficult, when both legs are wounded. After several attempts I begin to despair; at last,[Pg 75] however, with tears in my eyes, forced out by the pain, I manage it.
Overhead I see a spot of dark-blue sky, in which are visible a large star and a number of small ones; and around me something dark and tall—the bushes. I am in the bushes—that is why I have not been found!
I feel a stirring at the roots of my hair.
How, then, did I get into the bushes, if I were shot in the open field? It is likely that I crawled here when I was wounded and the pain obliterated the memory of it. It is singular, however, that I should not be able to move now, and that I had been able to drag myself then towards these bushes. It is possible that I got my second wound while lying here, which may explain the matter.
I now see pale-rose stains around me. The large star has lost its brilliancy; some of the small ones have disappeared. It is because the moon has begun to rise. How good it must be at home!...
I hear strange sounds somewhere.... As if some one were moaning. Yes, it is a moan. Is it another unfortunate lying near me, forgotten like myself, with broken legs—or with a bullet in his stomach? No, the moans sound so near, and yet it seems there is no one here.... Oh, God, but it is—myself! Low, piteous moans;[Pg 76] am I actually in such agony? I must be. Only, I don’t understand this pain; because there is a fog in my head that weighs me down like lead. It is better that I should lie down again and go to sleep—and sleep and sleep.... Shall I ever wake again? It does not really matter.
At the instant that I am gathering strength to lie down, a broad, pale strip of moonlight strikes the spot where I am sitting, revealing something dark and large lying only a few feet away. Here and there upon it little gleams are visible in the moonlight. Is it buttons or bullets? Is it a corpse, or is it some one wounded?
Well, I will lie down....
No, it is impossible. Our soldiers have not departed. They are here, they have beaten the Turks and have remained here. Why do I not hear voices and the crackle of bonfires? I must be too weak to hear. They are surely here.
“Help! Help!”
Wild, incoherent, and hoarse cries burst from my bosom, and they receive no answer. Loudly they scatter in the nocturnal air. Everything else is silent. Only the crickets chirrup on ceaselessly as before. The round moon looks compassionately down on me.
If he were only wounded, my cries surely would have roused him. It is a corpse. Is it one of us[Pg 77] or a Turk? Oh, God! as if it really mattered.... And I feel sleep descending upon my inflamed eyes.
I am lying with closed eyes, though I have been awake for some time. I do not wish to open my eyes, because I feel through the shut eyelids the blaze of the sun; if I open them, they will begin to smart. Perhaps I had better not even stir.... It was yesterday—yes, it must have been yesterday—that I was wounded; a day has now passed, and other days will pass, and I shall die. It does not matter. It is better not to stir. I will keep my body motionless. If I could only stop the working of the brain! Nothing will stop that. Thoughts, memories, crowd upon me. In any case, it will not be for long; the end must come soon. The newspapers will publish just a few lines to say that our losses have been insignificant: so many have been wounded; among those killed is Ivanov, a private in the volunteers’ ranks. No, even my name will not be mentioned; they will simply say, “One killed.” One soldier in the ranks—like some little dog.
The entire picture now comes to mind. It happened long ago; in fact, everything, all my life, that life, before I lay here with wounded legs, seems to have been such a long time ago....[Pg 78] I remember strolling along the street. Seeing a crowd of people, I stopped. The crowd stood and silently looked upon something white, bloody, piteously whining. It was a handsome little dog which had been run over by a tram-car. It was dying, as I am now. A house-porter made his way through the crowd, picked the dog up by the collar, and carried it away. The crowd dispersed.
Will some one carry me away? No, you lie here and die. But how good it is to live!... Upon that particular day—when the little dog met misfortune—I was happy. I was walking along in a kind of intoxication; and there was good cause. Oh, my memories, don’t torture me, leave me! My past was happiness; my present is agony.... If only my sufferings alone remained, and my memories ceased to torture me—for they compel comparisons. Ah, longings, longings! You are wounded worse.
It is becoming hot. The sun is scorching me. I open my eyes, see the same bushes, the same sky—only, in the light of day. And here, too, is my neighbor. Yes, it is the Turk—his body. What a huge fellow! I recognize him—it is the very same one.
Before my eyes lies a man I have killed. Why have I killed him?
[Pg 79]
He lies here dead, blood-stained. What fate brought him here? Who is he? Perhaps, like myself, he has an old mother. Long will she sit evenings at the door of her wretched hut, looking ever towards the north: is he coming home, he, her beloved son, her protector and provider?...
And I? Yes, I also.... I would even change places with him. How happy he is! He hears nothing; neither does he feel pain from wounds, nor terrible longing, nor thirst.... The bayonet entered his very heart.... There is a large black hole in his uniform, and blood all around it. That is my work.
I did not wish to do it. I did not wish to harm any one when I volunteered. The thought that I too should have to kill somehow escaped me. I only imagined how I would expose my own breast to bullets. And I did expose it.
Well, and what has it come to? Fool, fool! This unfortunate fellah, in Egyptian uniform, he is even less to blame than you are. Before he and others were packed, like herrings in a barrel, into a steamer and brought to Constantinople, he had not even heard of Russia or of Bulgaria. He was commanded to go, and he went. Had he refused to go, he would have been beaten with sticks, and perhaps some Pasha or other would[Pg 80] have fired a bullet into him. It was a long, difficult march for him from Stamboul to Rustchuk. We attacked, he defended himself. Seeing, however, that we were a fearless people, and that, unafraid of his English carbine, we rushed forward and still moved forward, he was seized with terror. Just as he was trying to get away, some sort of little man, whom he could have killed with one blow of his dark fist, ran forward and plunged a bayonet into his heart.
Of what had he been guilty?
And of what am I guilty, even though I have killed him? Of what am I guilty? Why am I tortured by thirst? Thirst! Who knows the meaning of this word? Even during the days when we marched through Roumania, fifty versts at a stretch, through unbearable heat, I did not feel what I feel now. If only some one came along this way!
Oh, God! But there must be water in that big flask of his! Only to reach it! Come what may, I will get it.
I begin to crawl. I drag my legs slowly; my exhausted arms barely stir the passive body from its place. The spot is hardly more than fifteen feet away, but it seems like ten versts. Nevertheless, I must crawl on. My throat is aflame with a terrible fire. To be sure, without water, I[Pg 81] could die the more quickly. All the same, perhaps....
And so I crawl. My legs drag on the ground, and every movement calls forth most excruciating pain. I cry out again and again, with tears in my eyes, and still I crawl on. At last! The flask is in my hand.... There’s water in it—and quite a deal! It seems more than half full. Ah, it will last me some time ... until I die!
It is you, my victim, who will save me! I begin to undo the flask, propping myself up on one elbow; and suddenly, losing my balance, I fall downward across the breast of my deliverer. Decay having set in, a strong stench comes from his body.
I have slaked my thirst. The water is warm, but not spoilt; and there is a great deal of it. I can live a few more days. I remember having read somewhere that one could exist without food for over a week, provided one had water. Yes, and I recall also the story of the man who committed suicide by starvation, but who lived a long time because he drank water.
Well, and what’s to be the end of it? And if I do live five or six days longer, what of that? Our troops have gone, the Bulgarians have dispersed. I am far from a road. Death—there is no way[Pg 82] out of it. I have but prolonged my three-day agony with a seven-day one. Perhaps I had better end it all. At my neighbor’s side lies his gun, an excellent English mechanism. I have only to stretch out my hand; then—one little moment, and an end. There is quite a lot of cartridges here, too. He hadn’t had time to dispose of them all.
Shall I end it all—or wait? Wait for what? Deliverance? Death? Or shall I wait until the Turks come here and tear the skin from my wounded legs? Far better that I should put an end to it myself.
No; there is no need to lose courage. I will struggle to the end, to my last resource. There is still hope of being found. It is possible my bones are not affected; and I may return to health. I shall again see my native land, my mother, and Masha....
Oh, Lord, save them from knowing the whole truth! Let them think I was killed outright. What if they should learn that I had suffered slow torture for two, three, or four days!
My head is in a whirl. My journey to my neighbor has completely exhausted me. What a terrible stench! He has grown black ... and what will he be like to-morrow or the day after? And now I am lying here only because I[Pg 83] haven’t sufficient strength to drag myself away. I will rest awhile, and will then crawl back to my old place; and, besides, the breeze blows from that direction and will drive the smell away.
I am lying now in complete exhaustion. The sun is scorching my face and hands. There is nothing to cover oneself with. If only night would come! I think this will be the second night.
My thoughts wander, and I am losing consciousness.
I must have slept a long time, because when I awoke it was already night. As before, the wounds ache, and my neighbor lies beside me—the same huge, motionless figure.
I cannot help thinking of him. Have I really left behind me all that is pleasant and dear to me, and marched here at the speed of four versts an hour, hungered, froze, suffered from the heat, only to undergo this final torture—for no other reason than that this unfortunate should cease to live? And have I really accomplished anything useful for my country except this murder?
This is murder—and I am a murderer.
When I first got the idea into my head to go and fight, Mother and Masha did not try to dissuade me, although they both wept much. Blinded by my idea, I did not understand those[Pg 84] tears. Only now I understand what I have done to those so near to me.
Why recall all this? There is no returning to the past.
And what a singular attitude my acquaintances assumed towards my action! “What a madman! He is meddling without knowing why!” How could they say that? How could they reconcile their words with their ideas of heroism, love of mother country, and other such things? Surely I earned their admiration for living up to these virtues. Yet I am a “madman.”
Presently I am on my way to Kishinev; I am supplied with a knapsack and all the other military accoutrements. I go with thousands of others; among them a few, like myself, are volunteers. The rest would have preferred to remain at home, if they were permitted. Nevertheless, they go along just like we “conscious ones,” march thousands of versts, and fight as well as ourselves, or even better. They fulfil their obligations notwithstanding the fact that they would on the instant drop everything and go home if permission were given them.
A fresh early morning breeze has begun to blow. There is a stirring among the bushes; I can hear the flutter of a bird’s wings. The stars are no longer visible. The dark blue sky has[Pg 85] turned gray, and stretching across it are gentle, fleecy cloudlets; a gray mist is rising from the earth. It is the beginning of the third day of my ... what can I call it? Life? Agony?
The third day.... How many more are left to me? At any rate, only a few. I have grown terribly weak, and I fear that I am unable to move away from the corpse. Only a little while longer, and I will stretch out by his side, and we shall not be unpleasant to each other.
I must have a drink. I will drink three times a day—in the morning, at noon, and in the evening.
The sun has risen. Its enormous disk, broken and intersected by the dark branches of the bushes, is red like blood. It looks as if it will be a hot day. My neighbor—what will become of you? Even now you are quite terrible.
Yes, he is terrible. His hair has begun to fall out. His skin, dark by nature, has grown a pale yellow; his bloated face has become so tightly stretched that the skin burst just behind one ear. The worms have begun to swarm there. The lower limbs, encased in gaiters, have swollen, and huge blisters have showed themselves from between the hooks of the gaiters. What will the sun make of him to-day?
[Pg 86]
It is unendurable to be so near him. I must get away, at all costs. Can I do it? I am still able to lift my hand, open the flask, and drink; but to move my passive, cumbersome body is quite another matter. Still, I will make an effort, even if it should take me an hour to move a few inches.
The entire morning passes in this attempt to shift. The pain is intense, but what does it matter? I no longer remember; I cannot imagine to myself the perception of a normal man. I have gotten used to the pain. I have managed to shift about fifteen feet, and am now in my old place. Not for long, however, have I enjoyed the fresh breeze, as far as it can be fresh with a rotting corpse only a few steps away. The breeze too has shifted and has brought the stench upon me anew to the point of nausea. The empty stomach contracts painfully and convulsively; all the internals groan. But the ill-smelling, infected air continues to pour upon me.
I weep in my desperation.
Broken in body and spirit and half insane, I was beginning to lose consciousness. Suddenly ... or is it only a delusion of a distressed imagination? Yes, I think I hear voices. The clatter of horses’ hoofs—and human voices. I almost came near shouting, but restrained[Pg 87] myself. Suppose they should be Turks? They, of course—as if I already hadn’t suffered enough—will subject me to terrible torture, such as makes your hair stand on end just to read about in the newspapers. They’ll peel my skin off, and they’ll apply a fire to my wounded legs ... or they might invent some new torture. Is it not better to end my life at their hands than die here? Who can tell?—they may be my countrymen! Oh, accursed bushes! Why have you fenced yourselves so thickly around me? There is no opening except one aperture in the foliage, that opens like a window upon a hollow visible in the distance. There, I think, is a brook from which we drank before the battle. I can see, too, the huge flat stone across the stream, put there to serve as a bridge. They will surely cross it. The voices are dying away. I cannot make out the language they speak; my hearing too has grown weak. Oh, Lord! what if they are my countrymen!... I will shout. They will hear me even from the brook. That is better than falling into the hands of the Bashi-Bazouks. What has become of them? I don’t see them. I am being consumed with impatience; I no longer even notice the smell of the corpse, although it has not grown any less.
Suddenly a body of horsemen make their[Pg 88] appearance crossing the bridge. Cossacks! Blue uniforms, red stripes, lances! About fifty of them! At the fore, upon a handsome horse, is an officer with a black beard. No sooner do the fifty horsemen cross the brook than he turns full face in his saddle and shouts:
“Tro-t, march!”
“Stop, stop, for God’s sake! Help, help, brothers!” But the stamping of sturdy horses, the clanging of many sabres, and the lusty shouting of Cossack throats are too much for my weak outcry—and I am not heard.
Oh, curses! In complete exhaustion, I fall face to the ground and begin to weep. In my falling, I fail to notice that I have upset the flask and out of its mouth the water—my life, my deliverance, my respite from death—is oozing. I notice it only when there is no more than a half-cupful left; the rest has been absorbed by the dry, thirsty earth.
It is simply agony to recall the stupor which seized me after this terrible accident. I lay motionless, with half-closed eyes. The wind kept changing, and now fanned me with pure, clear air and now sent the stench upon me anew. My neighbor has become unsightly beyond all description. Once I opened my eyes to glance at him, and I recoiled in horror. He no longer had[Pg 89] any face. The flesh seemed to peel right off the bone. That horrible smile of bones, that eternal grin, seemed never so repulsive, never so awful, although it had been my lot to hold many a human skull in my hands before, in the medical classes. The skeleton in uniform with shining buttons caused me to shudder. “This is war,” I reflected, “and here is its symbol.”
The sun is burning and scorching me as before. My hands and face have been smarting for some time. I drank up the remaining water. The thirst tortured me so intensely that in trying to take a single swallow I gulped down all. Fool that I was not to have called to the Cossacks when they were so near! Even if they had been Turks, it would have been better than this. They would have tortured me an hour or two; but now there’s no saying how long I am to lie here and suffer. My dear, dearest mother! If you only knew! You would tear your gray hair out, you would knock your head against the wall, you would curse the day of my birth, you would curse the world which invented war and its sorrows.
It is well that you and Masha will not hear of my sufferings. Farewell, Mother; farewell, my sweetheart, my love! But how sad and bitter I feel! And there is something gnawing at the heart....
[Pg 90]
Again I am thinking of that little white dog! The porter did not pity it, but knocked its head against the wall and threw it into a garbage heap. And still it was alive; and suffered a whole day. I am more unfortunate, because I have suffered already three days. To-morrow will be the fourth day, then the fifth, the sixth.... Death, where art thou? Come, come! Take me!
But death does not come. And I am lying in the blaze of this terrible sun; and there is not a drop of water to refreshen my inflamed throat; the corpse, too, is making me ill. Myriads of vermin are feeding in it. How they swarm! When he is eaten, and there is nothing left except the bones and the uniform, then it will be my turn. I too shall share the same fate.
The day passes, and the night passes. No change. Again morning. No change. Another day will pass....
The bushes are stirring and rustling, as if they were talking among themselves. “You will die, you will die, you will die!” they whisper. “You will not see, you will not see, you will not see!” answer the bushes on the other side.
“No, you will not see them here!” I hear a loud voice quite near.
I tremble and at once come to myself. I look[Pg 91] up, to find the good blue eyes of our corporal Yakovlev looking at me.
“Spades!” he cries out. “There are two more of them here—and one of them is theirs!”
“There is no need for spades, no need to bury me; I’m alive!” I wish to cry out; but only a feeble groan issues from my parched lips.
“Lord! But he is alive! Barin[1] Ivanov! Children, come this way! Our Barin is alive! And bring the doctor, quick!”
Presently I feel the pleasant contact in my mouth of water, whiskey, and of something else. Then everything disappears.
The stretcher sways with a measured motion. This motion is soothing. Now I recall myself, now everything lapses from my memory. The bandaged wounds no longer hurt. An inexpressible feeling of comfort has diffused itself through my entire body....
“Hal-t! L-lo-wer! Fresh hands to the stretchers! Now get hold—lift—march!”
The command is issued by Peter Ivanich, our sanitary officer, a tall, lean, and very kindly man. He is so tall that as I turn my eyes in his direction I can see his head, his peculiar long beard, [Pg 92]and his shoulders, although the stretcher is being carried on the shoulders of four big men.
“Peter Ivanich!” I whisper.
“What is it, dear fellow?”
Peter Ivanich leans toward me.
“Peter Ivanich, what did the doctor tell you? Will I die soon?”
“What are you saying, Ivanov? Of course you will live. Your bones are whole. What a lucky fellow you are! Your bones are all right, and so are your arteries! But tell me, how did you manage to pull through these three and a half days? What did you eat?”
“Nothing.”
“And had you anything to drink?”
“I took the Turk’s flask. Peter Ivanich, I cannot speak now. Later....”
“Well, God be with you, dear fellow, and have your nap.”
Again sleep, forgetfulness....
When I awake again, I am in the division hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors. At my feet stands a man whom I recognize as a celebrated St. Petersburg professor. His hands are blood-stained. He is attending to me, and presently he turns to speak to me:
“Well, the Lord has been good to you, young man. You will remain alive. We’ve deprived you of one leg; but that is a mere trifle. Can you talk?”
Yes, I can talk, and I am telling him all that I have written here.
[1] A term of deference usually employed by peasants and servants in addressing their master, or in speaking of him.
srijeda, 17. lipnja 2026.
A few days ago I saw a wedding.... But no! I had better tell you about a Christmas tree. The wedding was fine in its way, and it pleased me immensely; but the other episode was more interesting. It is difficult to say why, at the sight of the wedding, I recalled the tree. This is how it happened. Exactly five years ago, on New Year’s Eve, I had been invited to a children’s party. The personage who invited me was a well-known man of affairs, with many connections, a wide acquaintance, involved in intrigue; so it was quite natural to suppose that this children’s party served as a mere pretext for the parents to crowd together and to discuss other interesting matters in what seemed like an innocent, accidental, and unpremeditated manner. I was an outsider; I had little to talk about, and I therefore passed the evening quite independently. There was another gentleman present, who was apparently of no particular importance, and who, like myself, had stumbled upon this domestic happiness. He, above all[Pg 18] others, attracted my attention. He was a tall, spare figure, quite serious in aspect and very neat in dress. But it was evident that he was beyond joyousness and domestic happiness. Once he betook himself to a corner, he immediately ceased to smile, but frowned with his dense, black brows. Except for the host, he was unacquainted with a single soul at the party. It was apparent that he was terribly bored, and that he sustained bravely until the end the rôle of a totally diverted and happy individual. I learned later that this gentleman was from the provinces, and had a very important head-splitting affair to settle in the capital; that he had a letter of recommendation to our host, who was not at all disposed to treat its bearer con amore, and had invited him to the children’s party merely out of politeness. He was not asked to join in a game of cards, nor to help himself to a cigar; and no one thought to enter into conversation with him. It was possible that the species of bird was recognized from a distance by its feathers.
At any rate, our gentleman, at a loss what to do with his hands, found it necessary to stroke his side-whiskers. The side-whiskers were indeed very good ones, but he stroked them with such assiduity that to look at him it was quite natural to presume that the side-whiskers came into the world first, and that[Pg 19] the gentleman was attached to them afterwards that he might stroke them.
Aside from this figure, participating after the manner described in the domestic happiness of the host—who had five well-fed boy youngsters—there was another gentleman who diverted me. He, however, was of a totally different character. In fact, a real personage. They called him Julian Mastakovich. The very first glance could have told you that he was a respected guest, and that his relation to the host was similar to the host’s relation to the man who stroked his side-whiskers. The host and the hostess showered compliments upon him, waited upon him, flattered him, conducted their guests into his presence for introduction, while him they did not conduct to any one else. I observed how a tear glistened in the host’s eyes when Julian Mastakovich said that seldom had he spent so pleasant an evening.
I experienced a disagreeable feeling before this person, and so after admiring the children I went into the small drawing-room, which was almost empty, and sat down in a kind of flowery arbor belonging to the hostess, and occupying almost half of the room.
The children were incredibly charming, and seemed determined not to resemble their elders, notwithstanding all the efforts of their mothers[Pg 20] and governesses. In a twinkling they bared the tree to its last bonbon, and had managed to break half of the playthings before they knew for whom they were designated. Especially fine to look at was a dark-eyed, curly-haired lad, who aimed at me continuously with his wooden gun. But, above all, my attention was attracted by his sister, a girl of eleven years, as lovely as Cupid, quiet, pensive, pale, with large, musing eyes, slightly projecting out of their circles. The other children had somehow offended her; for that reason, she came into the very room where I sat, and, betaking herself into a corner, was soon occupied with her doll. The guests looked with great deference in the direction of her father, a wealthy proprietor, and some one mentioned in a half-whisper that a dowry of three hundred thousand rubles had already been laid aside for her.
I turned around to glance at those interested in this circumstance, and my gaze fell upon Julian Mastakovich, who, having thrust his hands behind him and inclined his head a trifle to the side, was listening with a marked intentness to the chatter of these folk.
Afterward I could not help but feel astonished at the sageness of the hosts in distributing the children’s gifts. The little girl who already had[Pg 21] a dowry of three hundred thousand rubles received the most expensive doll. Then followed the other gifts, growing lower in value in proportion to the lower standing of the parents of these happy children. The last youngster, a boy of ten years, meagre, diminutive, freckled, and red-haired, received only a small volume of tales dealing with the bountifulness of nature, the joy of tears, and the like; the book contained no pictures, not even a decoration. He was the son of a poor widow, the governess of the host’s children, and had a haunted, suppressed look. He was dressed in a wretched cotton jacket. Having received his book, he hovered for a long time around the toys. He had the most intense longing to play with the other children, but dared not. It was evident that he already felt and understood his position.
It is a favorite occupation of mine to observe children. It is highly interesting to mark in them certain early and free inclinations of their natures. I noted how the red-haired boy was tempted by the expensive playthings of the other children—and especially by a toy theatre, in which he showed a most eager desire to play some rôle—to such a degree that he adopted an ingratiating manner to attain his end. He smiled and joined the other children in their play, gave up his apple[Pg 22] to one puffed-up youngster who already had a whole handkerchiefful of gifts tied to his body, and even offered to carry another boy on his back, if only they would not drive him away from the theatre. Soon, however, a bully in the party gave him a sound drubbing. The boy did not dare to cry out. Presently the governess, his mother, appeared, and ordered him not to interfere with the other children’s play. The boy came into the room where the little girl was. She permitted him to join her, and the two of them were at once absorbed very earnestly in the rich doll.
I had been sitting in the ivy bower a half-hour and had almost dozed off, while listening to the small chatter of the red-haired boy and the beauty with three hundred thousand rubles’ dowry, solicitous over the doll, when suddenly Julian Mastakovich walked into the room. He took advantage of a particularly disgraceful quarrel among the children to steal out of the reception-room. I had noticed that only a few moments before he was discussing very fervently with the father of the future rich bride, whose acquaintance he had only just made, the preëminence of one kind of service over another. At this instant he stood as if lost in thought, and seemed to be making a calculation of some sort upon his fingers.
“Three hundred ... three hundred,” he[Pg 23] whispered. “Eleven ... twelve ... thirteen ... sixteen ... five years! Say, at four per cent—five times twelve equal sixty; at compound interest ... well, let us suppose in five years it ought to reach four hundred. Yes, that’s it.... But the rascal surely has it salted away at more than four per cent. Eight or ten is more likely. Well, let’s say five hundred—five hundred thousand at the very least; not counting a few extra for rags ... h’m ...”
Having ended his calculation, he sneezed vigorously and moved to leave the room, when suddenly, his eye alighting upon the little girl, he stopped. He did not see me behind the vases of flowers. He seemed to me to be violently agitated. Either his calculation had upset him, or something else; but he did not know what to do with his hands, and was unable to remain on one spot. His agitation increased— ne plus ultra—when he stopped and threw another determined glance at the future bride. He was about to move forward, but first looked around. Then he approached the child on his tiptoes, as if conscious of guilt. Smiling, he bent over her and kissed her head; while she, not expecting this onslaught, cried out from fright.
“What are you doing here, sweet child?” he[Pg 24] asked in a whisper, glancing around him, and pinching the little girl’s cheek.
“We are playing....”
“Ah! With him?” Julian Mastakovich looked askew at the boy. “Go into the next room, like a nice little boy,” he said to him.
The boy was silent and gazed at him with perturbed eyes. Julian Mastakovich looked around once more and bent over the little girl.
“And what have you, sweet child, a doll?” he asked.
“Yes, a doll,” answered the little girl, frowning, and quailing visibly.
“A doll.... And do you know, sweet child, what the doll is made of?”
“I don’t know,” answered the little girl in a whisper, lowering her head.
“Of rags, my darling.... And you, my boy, you had better go into the other room to your fellows,” said Julian Mastakovich, as he looked severely at the youngster. The girl and the boy frowned and caught hold of each other. They did not wish to part.
“And do you know why they gave you this doll?” asked Julian Mastakovich, lowering his voice more and more.
“I don’t know.”
[Pg 25]
“Because you have been a lovely and well-behaved child the entire week.”
At this juncture, Julian Mastakovich, agitated to the utmost, looked round and, lowering his tone to a whisper, asked finally in an almost inaudible voice, dying away more and more from agitation and impatience:
“And will you love me, sweet girlie, when I shall come as a guest to your papa and mamma?”
Having said this, Julian Mastakovich made one more effort to kiss the lovely child; but the red-haired boy, quick to see that she was at the point of tears, seized her hands and, out of deep sympathy for her, began to whimper. Julian Mastakovich became quite angry.
“Begone, begone from here, begone!” he said to the boy. “Begone into the other room! Begone to your own fellows!”
“No, don’t go! Don’t go! You had better go,” said the young girl, “but leave him alone, leave him alone!” She was almost in tears.
Presently there was a commotion just within the door. Julian Mastakovich immediately rose to his feet, somewhat frightened. The red-haired boy was even more frightened. He left his companion and stole out silently, with his hands brushing the wall, into the dining-room. To hide his confusion, Julian Mastakovich followed him.[Pg 26] He was as red as a lobster, and when he looked in the glass he seemed appalled as his own image. Perhaps he was annoyed at his rage and impatience. Perhaps the calculation he made earlier on his fingers had so affected him, tempting and inflaming him, that, notwithstanding his position and dignity, he was impelled to act like a young boy to attain his object, despite the fact that the object in any case could be attained only five years hence. I followed the esteemed gentleman into the dining-room and witnessed a strange scene. Julian Mastakovich, his face all red from irritation and malice, was pursuing the red-haired boy, who, retreating farther and farther from him, did not know what to do with himself in his fright.
“Begone with you! What are you doing here? Begone, you good-for-nothing! Begone! Stealing fruit, are you? Stealing fruit? Begone, good-for-nothing! Begone, unclean one! Begone, begone to the likes of yourself!”
The frightened boy, driven to desperate measures, tried to get under the table. Then his pursuer, enraged to the last degree, drew out his long batiste handkerchief and lashed it out at the cowering boy.
It is necessary to mention that Julian Mastakovich was a trifle fat. He was a satiated, red-cheeked,[Pg 27] stoutish person, large at the waist and with fat legs; he was as round as a nut. He began to perspire, to pant, and to grow fearfully red. His fury knew no bounds, so great was his feeling of malice and—who knows?—perhaps jealousy. I laughed out loud. Julian Mastakovich turned around, and in spite of his importance was covered with most abject confusion. At this instant the host entered by the opposite door. The boy climbed out from under the table and wiped his knees and elbows. Julian Mastakovich made haste to put his handkerchief, which he held by one corner, to his nose.
The host, not without perplexity, surveyed the three of us; but, like a man who understood life and looked at it with a serious eye, availed himself of the opportunity to speak to his guest alone.
“This is the youngster,” said he, pointing at the red-haired boy, “whom I had the pleasure of mentioning to you....”
“Ah?” answered Julian Mastakovich, not yet fully recovered from his discomfiture.
“He is the son of the governess of my children,” continued the host in an appealing voice. “She is a poor woman, a widow, the wife of an honest official; and it is for this reason that ... Julian Mastakovich, is it possible to....”
“Oh, no, no!” Julian Mastakovich made haste to exclaim. “No, Philip Alekseievich; I am sorry, but it is utterly impossible. There is no vacancy, and even if there were, there would be ten candidates for the place, each having a greater right to it than he.... It is a great pity, a great pity....”
“Yes, a pity,” repeated the host. “He is such a modest, quiet lad....”
“And quite a scamp, I should say,” added Julian Mastakovich, his mouth hysterically athwart. “Begone, boy! Why are you standing there? Go to your equals!”
At this point he could not restrain himself any longer, and looked at me with one eye. I too could not resist, and laughed straight in his face. Julian Mastakovich turned away immediately, and with sufficient distinctness for me to hear asked the host the identity of “that strange young man.” They exchanged whispers and left the room. I observed afterward how Julian Mastakovich, listening to the host, shook his head incredulously.
Having laughed to my heart’s content, I returned to the reception-room. There the great man, surrounded by the fathers and the mothers of families, the host and the hostess, was speaking with great warmth to a lady to whom he had just[Pg 29] been introduced. The lady held by her hand the little girl with whom only ten minutes before he had made the scene. Now he was lavish in his praises and raptures over the beauty, talents, manners, and breeding of the lovely child. He was plainly playing the wheedler before the mother. She listened to him, almost with tears of joy in her eyes. The father’s lips smiled. The prevailing spirit of good-will rejoiced the heart of the host. Even all the guests lent a sympathetic hand, and made the children stop their games in order not to interfere with the conversation. The entire atmosphere was saturated with devotion. I heard later how the mother of the interesting little girl, touched to the very depths of her heart, begged Julian Mastakovich, in most effusive language, to do her the great honor of conferring on the house more often his precious presence; I heard with what undisguised joy Julian Mastakovich accepted the invitation, and how the guests, dispersing afterward in various directions as propriety demanded, exchanged with one another complimentary salutations regarding the host, the hostess, the little girl, and in particular Julian Mastakovich.
“Is this gentleman married?” I asked almost aloud of an acquaintance who stood nearest to Julian Mastakovich.
[Pg 30]
Julian Mastakovich threw at me a searching and malicious glance.
“No!” answered my acquaintance, mortified deeply at the awkwardness which I committed purposely....
Not long ago I was passing the—— Church, and I was astonished at the tremendous crowd that had gathered there. Every one talked about a wedding. It was a bleak day in late autumn. I made my way through the crowd and caught a glimpse of the bridegroom. He was a round, satiated, pot-bellied little person, very much adorned. He ran hither and thither, fussed, and gave orders. At last a murmur went through the crowd, announcing the arrival of the bride. I squeezed through the crowd and saw an astoundingly beautiful girl, who had hardly experienced the first bloom of spring. But the beautiful girl was pale and sad. She looked bewildered; and it seemed to me that her eyes were red from newly-shed tears. The classic rigidity of her features imparted to her beauty a kind of dignity and strength. But through all this rigidity and dignity, through all this sadness, there penetrated the first aspect of childhood’s innocence; it suggested something naïve, fragile, and juvenile to the last degree; and though the look bespoke[Pg 31] resignation, it also seemed to utter a silent prayer for mercy.
It was said in the crowd that she had just passed her sixteenth birthday. An intent scrutiny of the bridegroom suddenly revealed him to me as Julian Mastakovich, whom I had not seen for exactly five years. I looked at her.... My God! I quickly made haste to leave the church. In the crowd they were telling each other how rich the bride was, that she had a dowry of five hundred thousand rubles ... and so much besides in rags....
“At any rate, his calculation was a good one!” I reflected, as I jostled my way into the street.
utorak, 16. lipnja 2026.
It was a moonlight night in May, and the nightingales were singing, when the wife of Father Ignatius entered his chamber. Her countenance expressed suffering, and the little lamp she held in her hand trembled. Approaching her husband, she touched his shoulder, and managed to say between her sobs: “Father, let us go to Verochka!” Without turning his head, Father Ignatius glanced severely at his wife over the rims of his spectacles, and looked long and intently, till she waved her unoccupied hand and dropped on a low divan. “That one toward the other should be so pitiless!” she pronounced slowly, with emphasis on the final syllables, and her good plump face was distorted with a grimace of pain and exasperation, as if thus she would express what stern people they were—her husband and daughter. Father Ignatius smiled and arose. Closing his book, he took off his spectacles, put them in the case, and meditated. His long black beard, inwoven[Pg 146] with silver threads, lay dignified on his breast, and slowly heaved at every deep breath. “Well, let us go,” said he. Olga Stepanovna quickly arose and entreated in an appealing, timorous voice: “Only don’t revile her, Father! You know the sort she is.”
Vera’s chamber was in the attic, and the narrow, wooden stair bent and creaked under the heavy tread of Father Ignatius. Tall and ponderous, he bent his head to avoid striking the floor of the upper story, and frowned disdainfully when the white jacket of his wife brushed his face. Well he knew that nothing would come of their talk with Vera
“Why do you come?” asked Vera, raising a bared arm to her eyes. The other arm lay on top of a white summer blanket, hardly distinguishable from the fabric, so white, translucent, and cold was its aspect.
“Verochka——” began her mother, but, sobbing, she grew silent.
“Vera,” said her father, making an effort to soften his dry and hard voice—“Vera, tell us, what troubles you?”
Vera was silent.
“Vera, do not your mother and I deserve your[Pg 147] confidence? Do we not love you? And is there some one nearer to you than we? Tell us about your sorrow, and, take the word of an experienced old man, you’ll feel better for it. And we too. Look at your aged mother, how much she suffers!”
“Verochka!”
“And I——” The dry voice trembled, truly something had broken in it. “And I—do you think I find it easy? As if I did not see that some sorrow is gnawing at you—and what is it? And I, your father, do not know what it is. Do you think that right?”
Vera was silent. Father Ignatius very cautiously stroked his beard, as if afraid that his fingers would enmesh themselves involuntarily in it, and continued:
“Against my wish you went to St. Petersburg—did I pronounce a curse upon you, you who disobeyed me? Or did I deny you money? Or, perhaps, I have not been kind? Well, why, then, are you silent? There, you’ve had your St. Petersburg!”
Father Ignatius became silent, and there loomed before him an image of something huge, granite, and terrible, full of invisible dangers and of strange and indifferent people. And it was there that, alone and weak, his Vera had gone, and it was there they had lost her. An awful hatred[Pg 148] against that terrible and mysterious city arose in the soul of Father Ignatius, and an anger against his daughter, who was silent—obstinately silent.
“St. Petersburg has nothing to do with it,” said Vera morosely, and closed her eyes. “And nothing is the matter with me. Better go to bed, it is late.”
“Verochka, my child,” whimpered her mother, “do tell me!”
“ Akh, Mamma!” Vera impatiently interrupted her.
Father Ignatius sat down on a chair and laughed.
“Well, then, it’s nothing?” he inquired ironically.
“Father,” sharply ejaculated Vera, raising herself from the pillow, “you know that I love you and Mother. Well, I do feel a little weary. But that will pass. Do go to sleep, and I also wish to sleep. And to-morrow, or some other time, we’ll have a chat.”
Father Ignatius arose so impetuously that the chair hit the wall, and he took his wife’s hand.
“Let us go.”
“Verochka!”
“Let us go, I tell you!” shouted Father[Pg 149] Ignatius. “If she has forgotten God, shall we——”
Almost forcibly he led Olga Stepanovna out of the room, and when they descended the stairs, his wife, decreasing her gait, said in a harsh whisper:
“It was you, priest, who have made her such! From you she learned her ways. And you’ll answer for it. Akh, unhappy creature that I am!”
She burst into tears, and, as her vision grew dim, her foot, missing a step, would descend with a sudden jolt, as if she were eager to fall into some abyss which waited below.
From that day Father Ignatius ceased to speak to his daughter, but she seemed not to notice it. As before, she lay in her room, or walked about, continually with the palms of her hands wiping her eyes, as if they contained some irritating foreign substance. And, crushed between these two silent people, the jolly, fun-loving wife of the priest quailed and seemed lost, not knowing what to say or do.
Occasionally Vera took a stroll. A week after the interview she went out in the evening, as was her habit. She was not seen again alive, as that night she threw herself under the train, and it cut her in two.
Father Ignatius himself directed the funeral.[Pg 150] His wife was not present in church, for at the news of Vera’s death she was prostrated by a stroke. She lost control of her feet, hands, and tongue, and when the church bells rang out she lay motionless in the half-darkened room. She heard the people intone the chants as they issued out of church and passed the house, and she made an effort to raise her hand to make the sign of the cross, but her hand refused to obey; she wished to say, “Farewell, Vera!” but the tongue lay in her mouth huge and heavy. And her attitude was so calm that it gave one an impression of restfulness, or of sleep. Only, her eyes remained open.
At the funeral, in church, were many people who knew Father Ignatius, and many strangers. All bewailed Vera’s terrible death, and tried to detect in the movements and voice of Father Ignatius tokens of a deep sorrow. They did not love Father Ignatius, because of his severity and proud manners, his scorn of sinners, his unforgiving spirit, his envy and covetousness, his habit of utilizing every opportunity to extort money from his parishioners. They all wished to see him suffer, to see his spirit broken, to see him conscious in his two-fold guilt for the death of his daughter—as a cruel father and a bad priest—incapable of preserving his own flesh from sin.[Pg 151] They cast searching glances at him, and he, feeling these glances directed toward his back, made efforts to hold erect its broad and strong expanse, and his thoughts were not concerning his dead daughter, but concerning his own dignity.
“A hardened priest!” with a shake of his head said Karzenoff, a carpenter, to whom Father Ignatius owed five rubles for frames.
And thus, hard and erect, Father Ignatius reached the burial-ground; and in the same manner he returned. Only at the door of his wife’s chamber did his backbone relax a little, but this may have been due to the fact that the height of the door was insufficient to admit his tall figure. The change from broad daylight made it hard for him to distinguish the face of his wife, but, after scrutiny, he was astonished at its calmness, and because the eyes showed no tears. And there was neither anger nor sorrow in the eyes—they were dumb, though they kept silent with difficulty, reluctantly, as did the entire round and helpless body that pressed against the feather bedding.
“Well, how do you feel?” inquired Father Ignatius.
But the lips were dumb; the eyes too were silent. Father Ignatius laid his hand on her forehead; it was cold and moist, and Olga Stepanovna did not show in any way that she had[Pg 152] felt the contact of the hand. When Father Ignatius removed his hand there gazed at him, immobile, two deep gray eyes, from the dilated pupils seeming almost entirely dark, and there was neither sadness in them nor anger.
“I am going into my own room,” said Father Ignatius, who began to feel cold and terror.
He passed through the drawing-room, where, as usual, everything appeared neat and in order, and where, attired in white covers, stood tall chairs, like corpses in their shrouds. In one window hung an empty wire cage, with the door open.
“Nastasya,” shouted Father Ignatius. His own voice seemed to him coarse, and he felt ill at ease because he raised it to so high a pitch in these silent rooms, so soon after his daughter’s funeral.
“Nastasya!” he called more softly, “where is the canary?”
“It flew away, to be sure.”
“Why did you let it out?”
Nastasya began to weep, and, wiping her face with the edges of her calico headkerchief, said through her tears:
“It was my young mistress’s soul. Was it right to hold it?”
And it seemed to Father Ignatius that the[Pg 153] happy little yellow canary, always singing with side-tilted head, was actually the soul of Vera, and if it had not flown away it wouldn’t have been possible to say that Vera had died. He became even more incensed at the maid-servant and shouted:
“Off with you!”
And because Nastasya did not vanish on the instant he added:
“Fool!”
II
From the day of the funeral, silence reigned in the little house. It was not stillness, for stillness is merely the absence of sounds; it was silence, because it seemed that they who were silent could speak but would not. So thought Father Ignatius each time he entered his wife’s chamber and met that obstinate gaze, so heavy in its aspect that it seemed to transform the very air into lead, which bore down one’s head and spine. So thought he, examining his daughter’s music-sheets, which bore marks of her voice-work, and also her books and her portrait, which she had brought with her from St. Petersburg. Father Ignatius never deviated from the following order when scrutinizing the portrait: First, he would[Pg 154] gaze on the cheek upon which a strong light had been thrown by the painter; in his fancy he would see upon it a slight wound, which he had noticed on Vera’s cheek in death, and the source of which mystified him. More than once he meditated upon causes, and each time he reasoned that if it had been made by the train the entire skull would have been crushed, whereas the head of Vera remained wholly untouched.
It was possible that some one had done it with his foot when the body was being lifted, or accidentally with a finger-nail.
The details of Vera’s death, contemplated at length, taxed the strength of Father Ignatius, so that he would soon pass on to the eyes. These were dark, handsome, with long lashes that cast deep shadows beneath, causing the whites to seem particularly luminous, both eyes appearing to be inclosed in black mourning frames. A strange expression had been given them by the unknown but talented artist; it seemed as if in the space between the eyes and the object upon which they gazed lay a thin, transparent film. It resembled somewhat the effect made by an imperceptible layer of dust on the black top of a piano, softening the shine of polished wood. And no matter how Father Ignatius placed the portrait, the eyes insistently followed him; but there was no speech[Pg 155] in them, only silence; and this silence was so clear that it seemed it could be heard. Gradually Father Ignatius began to think that he heard silence.
Every morning after breakfast the priest would enter the drawing-room, take in at a rapid glance the empty cage and the other familiar objects, and, seating himself in the arm-chair, would close his eyes and listen to the silence of the house. There was something grotesque about this. The cage kept silence, stilly and tenderly, and in this silence were felt sorrow and tears and distant dead laughter. The silence of his wife, deepened by the walls, continued insistent, heavy as lead, and terrible, so terrible that on the hottest day Father Ignatius would be seized with cold shivers. Continuous and frigid as the grave, and mysterious as death, was the silence of his daughter. The silence itself seemed to share this suffering and struggled, as it were, with the terrible desire to pass into speech; something strong and cumbersome, as a machine, held it motionless, however, and stretched it out as a wire. And somewhere at the distant end, the wire would begin to agitate and resound subduedly, feebly, and plaintively. With joy, yet with terror, Father Ignatius would seize upon this engendered sound, and, resting with his arms upon the arm of the[Pg 156] chair, would lean his head forward, waiting for the sound to reach him. But it would break and pass into silence.
“How stupid!” muttered Father Ignatius angrily, arising from the chair, still erect and tall. Through the window he saw, suffused with sunlight, the street paved with round, even-sized stones, and, directly across, the stone wall of a long, windowless shed. On the corner stood a cab-driver, looking like a clay statue, and it was difficult to understand why he stood there, when for hours there was not a single passer-by.
III
Father Ignatius had occasion for considerable speech outside his house. There was talking to be done with the clergy, with the members of his flock, while officiating at ceremonies, sometimes with acquaintances at social evenings; yet, upon his return, he would feel invariably that the entire day he had been silent. This was due to the fact that with none of those people could he talk upon the matter which concerned him most, and upon which he would reflect each night: Why did Vera die?
Father Ignatius did not seem to realize that now this could not be known, and thought that[Pg 157] it was still possible to know. Each night—all his nights had become sleepless—he would re-experience that moment when he and his wife, at dead midnight, had stood near Vera’s bed, and he had entreated her: “Tell us!” And when in his recollection he would reach these words, the rest appeared to him not as it was in reality. His closed eyes, preserving in their darkness a live, undimmed picture of that night, saw how Vera raised herself in her bed, smiled, and tried to say something. But what was it she had tried to say? That unuttered word of Vera’s, which would have solved all, seemed so near that if one only had bent his ear and suppressed the beats of his heart, one could have heard it—and at the same time it was so infinitely, so hopelessly distant. Father Ignatius would arise from his bed, stretch forth his wringing hands, and cry:
“Vera!”
And he would be answered by silence.
One evening Father Ignatius entered the chamber of Olga Stepanovna, whom he had not come to see for a week, seated himself at her head, and, turning away from that insistent, heavy gaze, said:
“Mother, I wish to talk to you about Vera. Do you hear?”
Her eyes were silent, and Father Ignatius,[Pg 158] raising his voice, spoke sternly and powerfully, as he was accustomed to speak to penitents:
“I am aware that you are under the impression that I have been the cause of Vera’s death. Reflect, however: did I love her less than you loved her? You reason absurdly. I have been stern; did that prevent her from doing as she wished? I forfeited the dignity of a father, I humbly bent my neck, when she defied my malediction and departed—hence. And you—did you not plead with her to remain, did you not weep, old woman, until I commanded you to be silent? Did I beget cruelty in her? Did I not teach her about God, about humility, about love?”
Father Ignatius quickly glanced into the eyes of his wife, and turned away.
“What was there for me to do when she refused to reveal her sorrow? Did I not command her? Did I not entreat her? I suppose, in your opinion, I should have dropped on my knees before the girl, and cried like an old woman! How should I have known what was going on in her head! Cruel, heartless daughter!”
Father Ignatius came down on his knee with his fist.
“There was no love in her—that’s what! As far as I’m concerned, that’s settled, of course—I’m[Pg 159] a tyrant! Perhaps she loved you—you who wept and humbled yourself?”
Father Ignatius gave a hollow laugh.
“There’s love for you! And as a solace for you, what a death she chose! A cruel, ignominious death. She died in the dust, in the dirt—as a d-dog who is kicked in the jaw.”
The voice of Father Ignatius sounded low and hoarse:
“I feel ashamed! Ashamed to go out in the street! Ashamed before the altar! Ashamed before God! Cruel, undeserving daughter! Accurst in thy grave!”
When Father Ignatius glanced at his wife she was unconscious; she came to only after several hours. When she regained consciousness her eyes maintained their silence, and it was impossible to tell whether or not she remembered what Father Ignatius had said.
That very night—it was a moonlit, calm, warm, deathly still night in May—Father Ignatius, proceeding on his tiptoes so as not to be overheard by his wife and the sick-nurse, climbed up the stairs and entered Vera’s room. The window in the attic had remained closed since the death of Vera, and the air was dry and warm, with a light odor of burning that comes from heat generated during the day in the iron roof. Long[Pg 160] unvisited, an atmosphere of lifelessness and forsakenness permeated the apartment, while the timber of the the walls, and other objects gave forth a slight odor of active decay. The moonlight streamed in through the window, and its reflections on the white floor cast a dim light into the corners of the room, while the white, clean bed, with two pillows, one large and one small, seemed phantom-like and aërial. Father Ignatius opened the window, causing a considerable current of fresh air to pour into the room, smelling of dust, of the near-by river, and of the blooming linden. An indistinct sound as of voices in chorus also drifted in occasionally; evidently young people were rowing and singing.
Resembling a white phantom, Father Ignatius made his way noiselessly, in bare feet, to the empty bed, bent his knees, and fell face down on the pillows, embracing them—on that spot where Vera’s face should have been. Long he lay thus; the song grew louder, then died out; but he still lay there, while his long black hair spread over his shoulders and the bed.
The moon had changed its position, and the room grew darker, when Father Ignatius raised his head and murmured, charging his voice with the entire strength of his long-suppressed and unconscious love, and hearkening to his own[Pg 161] words, as if it were not he who was listening, but Vera.
“Vera, my daughter! Do you understand what you are to me, daughter? Little daughter! My heart, my blood, and my life. Your father—your old father—is already gray, and also feeble.”
The shoulders of Father Ignatius shook, and the entire burdened figure became convulsed. Suppressing his agitation, Father Ignatius murmured tenderly, as to an infant:
“Your old father entreats you. No, little Vera, he supplicates. He weeps. He never has wept before. Your sorrow, little child, your sufferings—they are also mine. Greater than mine.”
Father Ignatius shook his head.
“Greater, Verochka. What is death to an old man like me? But you—if you only knew how delicate and weak and timid you are! Do you recall how you bruised your finger once and the blood trickled and you cried a little? My child! I know that you love me, love me intensely. Every morning you kiss my hand. Tell me, do tell me, what grief troubles your little head, and I—with these hands—shall smother your grief. They are still strong, Vera, these hands.”
The hair of Father Ignatius shook.
“Tell me!”
[Pg 162]
Father Ignatius fixed his eyes on the wall, and wrung his hands.
“Tell me!”
Stillness prevailed in the room, and from afar was heard the prolonged, interrupted whistle of a locomotive.
Father Ignatius, gazing out of his dilated eyes, as if there had suddenly arisen before him the frightful phantom of the mutilated corpse, slowly raised himself from his knees, and, making an incredulous motion, reached for his head with his hand, with spread and tensely stiffened fingers. Making a step toward the door, Father Ignatius whispered brokenly:
“Tell me!”
And he was answered by silence.
IV
The next day, after an early and lonely dinner, Father Ignatius went to the graveyard, for the first time since his daughter’s death. It was warm, deserted, and still; it seemed more like a brilliantly clear night. Following habit, Father Ignatius straightened his back with effort, looked severely about him, and thought that he was the same as formerly; he was conscious neither of the new, terrible weakness in his legs, nor that[Pg 163] his long beard had become entirely white, as if a hard frost had hit it. The road to the graveyard led through a long, direct street, slightly on an upward incline, and at its termination loomed the arch of the graveyard gate, resembling a dark, perpetually open mouth, edged with glistening teeth.
Vera’s grave was situated in the depth of the grounds, where the sandy little pathways ended, and for a considerable time Father Ignatius was obliged to blunder along the narrow footpaths which led in a broken line between green mounds, forgotten and abandoned by all. Here and there appeared sloping tombstones, green with age, broken railings, and large, heavy stones planted in the ground, and seemingly crushing it with some cruel, ancient spite.
Near one such stone was the grave of Vera. It was covered with fresh turf, turned yellow; around, however, all was in bloom. The ash embraced the maple tree; and the widely spread hazel bush stretched out over the grave its bending branches with their downy, shaggy foliage. Sitting down on a neighboring grave and catching his breath, Father Ignatius looked around him, throwing a glance toward the cloudless expanse of sky, where in complete immobility hung the glowing sun disk—and here he felt only that deep,[Pg 164] incomparable stillness which reigns in graveyards, when the wind is absent and the slumbering foliage has ceased its rustling. And anew the thought came to Father Ignatius that this was not a stillness, but a silence. It extended to the very brick walls of the graveyard, crept over them, and occupied the town. And it terminated only—in those gray, obstinate, and persistently silent eyes.
Father Ignatius’s shoulders shivered, and he lowered his eyes upon the grave of Vera. He gazed long upon the little tufts of grass uprooted together with the earth from some open, windswept field and not successful in adapting themselves to a strange soil; he could not imagine that here, under this grass, only a few feet from him, lay Vera. And this nearness seemed incomprehensible, and brought confusion into the soul, and a strange agitation. She of whom Father Ignatius was accustomed to think as of one passed away forever into the dark depths of eternity was here, close by—and it was hard to understand that nevertheless she was no more and never again would be. And in the mind’s fancy of Father Ignatius it seemed that if he could only utter some word, which was almost upon his lips, or if he could make some sort of movement, Vera would issue forth from her grave and arise to the[Pg 165] same height and beauty that was once hers. And not alone would she arise, but all the corpses, intensely sensitive in their solemnly-cold silence.
Father Ignatius removed his wide-brimmed black hat, smoothed down his disarranged hair, and whispered:
“Vera!”
The fear that he might be overheard by a stranger made Father Ignatius feel ill at ease and caused him to look carefully around him as he stepped on the grave. No one was present, and this time he repeated loudly:
“Vera!”
It was the voice of an aged man, sharp and demanding, and it was strange that so powerfully expressed a desire should receive no response.
“Vera!”
Loudly and insistently the voice called, and when it relapsed into silence it seemed for a moment that somewhere from underneath came an incoherent answer. And Father Ignatius, clearing his ear of his long hair, pressed it to the rough, prickly turf.
“Vera, tell me!”
With terror, Father Ignatius felt pouring into his ear something cold as of the grave, which froze his marrow; Vera seemed to be speaking—speaking, however, with the same unbroken[Pg 166] silence. This feeling became more racking and terrible, and when Father Ignatius finally forced himself to wrench away his head, his face was as pale as that of a corpse, and he fancied that the entire atmosphere trembled and palpitated from a resounding silence, and that this terrible sea was being swept by a wild hurricane. The silence strangled him; with icy waves it rolled through his head and agitated the hair; it smote against his breast, which groaned under the blows. Trembling from head to foot, casting around him sharp and sudden glances, Father Ignatius slowly raised himself and with a prolonged and torturous effort attempted to straighten his spine and to give proud dignity to his trembling body. He succeeded in this. With measured protractedness, Father Ignatius shook the dirt from his knees, put on his hat, made the sign of the cross three times over the grave, and walked away with an even and firm gait, not recognizing, however, the familiar burial ground and losing his way.
“Well, here I’ve gone astray!” smiled Father Ignatius, halting at the branching of the footpaths.
He stood there for a moment, and, unreflecting, turned to the left, because it was impossible to stand and to wait. The silence drove him on. It arose from the green graves; it was the breath[Pg 167] issuing from the gray, melancholy crosses; in thin, stifling currents it came from all pores of the earth, satiated with the dead. Father Ignatius increased his stride. Dizzy, he circled the same paths, jumped over graves, stumbled across railings, clutching with his hands the prickly, metallic garlands, and turning the soft material of his dress into tatters. His sole thought was to escape. He fled from one place to another, and finally broke into a dead run, seeming very tall and unusual in the flowing cassock, and his hair streaming in the wind. A corpse arisen from the grave could not have frightened a passer-by more than this wild figure of a man, running and leaping, and waving his arms, his face distorted and insane, and the open mouth breathing with a dull, hoarse sound. With one long leap, Father Ignatius landed on a little street, at one end of which appeared the small church attached to the graveyard. At the entrance, on a low bench, dozed an old man, seemingly a distant pilgrim, and near him, assailing each other, were two quarreling old beggar women, filling the air with their oaths.
When Father Ignatius reached his home, it was already dusk, and there was light in Olga Stepanovna’s chamber. Not waiting to undress, or even to remove his hat, Father Ignatius, dusty[Pg 168] and tattered, approached his wife and fell on his knees.
“Mother ... Olga ... have pity on me!” he wept. “I shall go mad.”
He beat his head against the edge of the table and he wept with anguish, as one who was weeping for the first time. Then he raised his head, confident that a miracle would come to pass, that his wife would speak and would pity him.
“My love!”
With his entire big body he drew himself toward his wife—and met the gaze of those gray eyes. There was neither compassion in them, nor anger. It was possible his wife had forgiven him, but in her eyes there was neither pity nor anger. They were dumb and silent.
And silent was the entire dark, deserted house.
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