A LEAR OF 
 THE STEPPES 
 
 AND OTHER STORrES 
 
 BY 
 
 IVAN TURGENEV 
 
 Translated from the Russian 
 By CONSTANCE GARNETT 
 
 1Flew IJorlft 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO, 
 
 1898 
 
PRESERVATION r; 
 
 REPLACEMENT ^ 
 
 RF\/irw ::-|r7J?, T V. /O- 
 
 ^Vi.6^ 
 
 All r lights received 
 

 INTRODUCTION 
 
 An examination of A Lear of the Steppes is of 
 especial interest to authors, as the story is so 
 exquisite in its structure, so overwhelming in 
 its effects, that it exposes the artificiality of the 
 great majority of the clever works of art in 
 fiction. A Lear of the Steppes is great in art 
 because it is a living organic whole, springing 
 from the deep roots of life itself; and the 
 innumerable works of art that are fabricated 
 and pasted together from an ingenious plan — 
 works that do not grow from the inevitability 
 of things — appear at once insignificant or false 
 in comparison. 
 
 In examining the art, the artist will note that 
 Turgenev's method of introducing his story is 
 a lesson in sincerity. Harlov, the Lear of the 
 story, is brought forward with such force on the 
 threshold that all eyes resting on his figure 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 cannot but follow his after movements. And 
 absolute conviction gained, all the artist's artful 
 after-devices and subtle presentations and side- 
 lights on the story are not apparent under the 
 straightforward ease and the ^eeming careless- 
 ness with which the narrator describes his 
 boyish memories. Then, Harlov's household, 
 his two daughters, and a crowd of minor 
 characters, are brought before us as persons in 
 the tragedy, and we see that all these people 
 are living each from the innate laws of his 
 being, apparently independently of the author s 
 scheme. This conviction, that the author has 
 no pre-arranged plan, convinces us that in the 
 story we are living a piece of life : here we are 
 verily plunging into life itself 
 
 And the story goes on flowing easily and natur- 
 ally till the people of the neighbourhood, the 
 peasants, the woods and fields around, are known 
 by us as intimately as is any neighbourhood in 
 life. Suddenly a break — the tragedy is upon 
 us. Suddenly the terrific forces that underlie 
 human life, even the meanest of human lives, 
 burst on us astonished and breathless, pre- 
 cisely as a tragedy comes up to the surface and 
 bursts on us in real life : everybody runs about 
 dazed, annoyed, futile; we watch the other 
 people sustaining their own individuality iq- 
 
 vi /\ 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 adequately in the face of the monstrous new 
 events which go their fatal way logically, events 
 which leave the people huddled and useless 
 and gasping. And destruction having burst 
 out of life, life slowly returns to its old grooves 
 — with a difference to us, the difference in the 
 relation of people one to another that a death or 
 a tragedy always leaves to the survivors. Mar- 
 vellous in its truth is Turgenev's analysis of 
 the situation after Harlov's death, marvellous 
 is the simple description of the neighbourhood's 
 attitude to the Harlov family, and marvellous 
 is the lifting of the scene on the after-life of 
 Harlov's daughters. In the pages (pages 140, 
 141, 146, 147) on these women, Turgenev 
 flashes into the reader's mind an extraordinary 
 sense of the inevitability of these women's 
 natures, of their innate growth fashioning their 
 after-lives as logically as a beech puts out 
 beech-leaves and an oak oak-leaves. Through 
 Turgenev's single glimpse at their fortunes one 
 knows the whole intervening fifteen years ; he 
 has carried us into a new world : yet it is the 
 old world ; one needs to know no more. It is 
 life arbitrary but inevitable, life so clarified by 
 art that it is absolutely interpreted ; but life 
 with all the sense of mystery that nature 
 breathes around it in its -ceaseless growth, 
 vii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 II 
 
 This sense of inevitability and of the 
 mystery of life which Turgenev gives us in 
 A Lear of the Steppes is the highest demand we 
 can make from art. Acia^ the last story in the 
 present volume, though it gives us a sense of 
 mystery, is not inevitable : the end is faked to 
 suit the artist's purpose, and thus, as in other 
 ways, it is far inferior to Lear. Faust, the 
 second story, has consummate charm in its 
 strange atmosphere of the supernatural ming- 
 ling with things earthly, but it is not, as is 
 Lear^ life seen from the surface to the revealed 
 depths ; it is a revelation of the strange forces 
 in life, presented beautifully; but it is rather an 
 idea, a problem to be worked out by certain 
 characters, than a piece of life inevitable and 
 growing. When an artist creates in us the 
 sense of inevitability, then his work is at its 
 highest, and is obeying nature's law of growth, 
 unfolding from out itself as inevitably as a tree 
 or a flower or a human being unfolds from out 
 itself. Turgenev at his highest never quits 
 nature, yet he always uses the surface, and what 
 is apparent, to disclose her most secret prin- 
 ciples, her deepest potentialities, her inmost 
 laws of being, and vhatever he presents he 
 viii 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 presents clearly and simply. This combination 
 of powers marks only the few supreme artists. 
 Even great masters often fail in perfect natural- 
 ness : Tolstoi's T/ie Death of Ivan Ifytch, for 
 example, one of the most powerful stories ever 
 written, has too little that is typical of the 
 whole of life, too much that is strained towards 
 the general purpose of the story, to be really 
 natural. Turgenev's special feat in fiction is 
 that his characters reveal themselves by the 
 most ordinary details of their every-day life ; 
 and while these details are always giving us 
 the whole life of the people, and their inner life 
 as well, the novel's significance is being built 
 up simply out of these details, built up by the 
 same process, in fact, as nature creates for us a 
 single strong impression out of a multitude of 
 little details. The Impressionists, it is true,often 
 give us amazingly clever pictures of life, seen 
 subtly and drawn naturally ; but, in general, 
 their able pictures of the way men think and 
 act do not reveal more than the actual thinking 
 and acting that men betray to one another, — 
 chey do not betray the whole significance of 
 their lives more than does the daily life itself 
 And so the Impressionists give pictures of life's 
 surface, and not interpretations of its eternal 
 depths: they pass away as portraits of the 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 time, amazingly felicitous artistic portraits. 
 But Turgenev's power as a poet comes in, 
 whenever he draws a commonplace figure, to 
 make it bring with it a sense of the mystery 
 of its existence. In Lear the steward Kvitsinsky 
 plays a subsidiary part ; he has apparently no 
 significance in the story, and very little is told 
 about him. But who does not perceive that 
 Turgenev looks at and presents the figure of 
 this man in a manner totally different from the 
 \' way any clever novelist of the second rank 
 / would look at and use him? Kvitsinsky, in 
 Turgenev's hands, is an individual with all the 
 individual's mystery in his glance, his coming 
 and going, his way of taking things ; but he is 
 a part of the household's breath, of its very 
 existence; he breathes the atmosphere naturally 
 and creates an atmosphere of his own. If 
 Hugo had created him he would have been 
 out of focus immediately ; Balzac would have 
 described the household minutely, and then let 
 Kvitsinsky appear as a separate entity in it ; 
 the Impressionists would sketch him as a living 
 picture, a part of the household, but he would 
 remain as first created, he would always repeat 
 the first impression he makes on us,a certain man 
 in a certain aspect ; and they would not give us 
 the steward revealing hischaracter imperceptibly 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 from day to day in his minute actions, naturally, 
 and little by little, as this man reveals his. < — -t 
 It is then in his marvellous sense of the j 
 growth of life that Turgenev is superior to 
 most of his rivals. Not only did he observe 
 life minutely and comprehensively, but he repro- 
 duces it as a constantly growing phenomenon, 
 growing naturally, not accidentally or arbi- 
 trarily. For example, in A House of Gentle- 
 folk, take Lavretsky's and Liza's changes of 
 mood when they are falling in love one with 
 another : it is nature herself in them changing 
 very delicately and insensibly ; we feel that the 
 whole picture is alive,, not an effect cut out 
 from life, and cut off from it at the same time, 
 like a bunch of cut flowers, an effect which 
 many clever novelists often give us. And in 
 Lear we feel that the life in Harlov's village 
 is still going on, growing yonder, still growing 
 with all its mysterious sameness and changes, 
 when, in Turgenev's last words, 'The story- 
 teller ceased, and we talked a little longer, and 
 then parted, each to his home.' 
 
 Ill 
 
 Turgenev's sympathy with women and his 
 unequalled power of drawing them, not merely 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 as they appear to men, but as they appear to 
 each other, has been dwelt on by many writers. 
 And in truth, of the three leading qualities 
 into which his artistic powers may be arbitrarily 
 analysed, the most apparent is precisely that 
 delicate feminine intuition and sensitive emo- 
 tional consciousness into all the nuances of 
 personal relations that women possess in life 
 and are never able to put into books. This 
 fluid sympathetic perception is instinctive in 
 Turgenev : it is his temperament to be sym- 
 pathetic or receptive to all types, except, 
 perhaps, to purely masculine men of action, 
 whom he never draws with success. His tem- 
 perament is bathed in a delicate emotional 
 atmosphere quivering with light, which dis- 
 closes all the infinite riches of the created 
 world, the relation of each character to its 
 particular universe, and the significance of its 
 human fate. And this state of soul or flow of 
 mood in Turgenev is creative, as when music 
 floats from a distance to the listener, imme- 
 diately the darkening fields, the rough coarse 
 earth of cheap human life, with all the grind 
 and petty monotony of existence, melt into 
 harmony, and life is seen as a mysterious 
 whole, not merely as a puzzling discrepancy 
 of gaps and contradictions and days of little 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 import This fluid emotional consciousness of 
 Turgenev is feminine, inasmuch as it is a recep- 
 tive, sympathising, and harmonising attitude ; 
 but just where the woman's faculty of recep- 
 tiveness ends, where her perception fails to go 
 beyond the facts she is alive to, Turgenev's 
 consciousness flashes out into the great poet's 
 creative world, with its immense breadth of 
 vision, force, and imagination. Thus in laying 
 down A Lear of the Steppes the reader is con- 
 scious that he is seeing past the human life of 
 the tragedy on to the limitless seas of exist- 
 ence beyond, — he is looking beyond the heads 
 of the moving human figures out on to the in- 
 finite horizon. Just where the woman's interest 
 would stop and rest satisfied with the near 
 personal elements in the drama, Turgenev's 
 constructive poetic force sees the universal, 
 and in turn interprets these figures in relation 
 to the far wider field of the race, the age, and 
 makes them symbolical of the deep forces of 
 all human existence. 
 
 And thus Turgenev becomes a creator, origin- 
 ating a world greater than he received. His 
 creation of Bazarov in Fathers and Children from 
 a three hours' accidental meeting with a man 
 while on a journey, is an extraordinary instance 
 of how unerringly his vision created in fore- 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 thought a world that was to come. He accepted 
 the man, he was penetrated with the new and 
 strange conceptions of life offered, and as a 
 poet he saw in a flash the immense significance 
 to society of this man's appearance in the age. 
 He saw a new and formidable type had arisen 
 in the nation, negating its traditions, its beliefs, 
 its conceptions ; and from this solitary meeting 
 with an individual, Turgenev laid bare and 
 predicted the progress of the most formidable 
 social and political movement in modern 
 Russia, predicted it and set it forth in art, 
 a decade before its birth. 
 
 IV 
 
 In truth, Turgenev's art at its highest may 
 well be the despair of artists who have sufficient 
 insight to understand wherein he excels. He 
 is rich in all the gifts, so he penetrates into 
 everything ; but it is the perfect harmony 
 existing between his gifts that makes him 
 see everything in proportion. Thus he never 
 caricatures ; he is never too forcible, and never 
 too clever. He is a great realist, and his 
 realism carries along with it the natural breath 
 of poetry. His art is highly complex, but, its 
 expression is so pellucid, so simple, that we can 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 see only its body, never the mechanism of its 
 body. His thought and his emotion are blended 
 in one ; he interprets life, but always preserves 
 the atmosphere, the glamour, the mystery of 
 the living thing in his interpretation. His 
 creative world arises spontaneously from his 
 own depths — the mark of the world's great 
 masters. Never thinking of himself, he inspires 
 his readers with a secret delight for the beauty 
 that he found everywhere in life. And he never 
 shuts his eyes against the true. 
 
 EDWARD GARNETT. 
 
 October 1898. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 A LEAR OF THE STEPPES, 3 
 
 FAUST, . .151 
 
 ACIA, 227 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 We were a party of six, gathered together one 
 winter evening at the house of an old college" 
 friend. The conversation turned on Shake- 
 speare, on his types, and how profoundly and 
 truly they were taken from the very heart of 
 humanity. We admired particularly their truth 
 to life, their actuality. Each of us spoke of the 
 Flamlets, the Othellos, the Falstaffs, even the 
 Richard the Thirds and Macbeths — the two 
 last only potentially, it is true, resembling their 
 prototypes — whom he had happened to come 
 across. 
 
 ' And I, gentlemen,' cried our host, a man 
 well past middle age, ' used to know a King 
 Lear ! ' 
 
 ' How was that? ' we questioned him. 
 
 ' Oh, would you like me to tell you about 
 him?' 
 
 ' Please do.' 
 
 And our friend promptly began his narrative. 
 
 3 . 
 
 .84685 
 
u 
 
 ' All my childhood,' he began, ' and early 
 youth, up to the age of fifteen, I spent in the 
 country, on the estate of my mother, a wealthy 
 
 landowner in X province. Almost the 
 
 most vivid impression, that has remained in 
 my memory of that far-off time, is the figure 
 of our nearest neighbour, Martin Petrovitch 
 Harlov. Indeed it would be difficult for such 
 an impression to be obliterated : I never in 
 my life afterwards met anything in the least 
 like Harlov. Picture to yourselves a man of 
 gigantic stature. On his huge carcase was 
 set, a little askew, and without the least trace 
 of a neck, a prodigious head. A perfect hay- 
 stack of tangled yellowish-grey hair stood up 
 all over it, growing almost down to the bushy 
 eyebrows. On the broad expanse of his purple 
 face, that looked as though it had been peeled, 
 there protruded a sturdy knobby nose ; diminu- 
 tive little blue eyes stared out haughtily, and 
 a mouth gaped open that was diminutive too, 
 but crooked, chapped, and of the same colour as 
 the rest of the face. The voice that proceeded 
 4 
 
 ( 
 
A LEAR OF THE^STEPPES 
 
 from this mouth, though hoarse, was exceed- j 
 ingly strong and resonant. ... Its sound re- 
 called the clank of iron bars, carried in a cart 
 over a badly paved road ; and when Harlov 
 spoke, it was as though some one were shout- 
 ing in a high wind across a wide ravine. It 
 was difficult to tell just what Harlov's face 
 expressed, it was such an expanse. . . . One 
 felt one could hardly take it all in at one 
 glance. But it was not disagreeable — a certain 
 grandeur indeed could be discerned in it, only\ 
 it was exceedingly astounding and unusual. 
 And what hands he had — positive cushions ! 
 What fingers, what feet ! I remember I could 
 never gaze without a certain respectful awe at 
 the four-foot span of Martin Petrovitch's back, 
 at his shoulders, like millstones. But what 
 especially struck me was his ears ! They were 
 just like great twists of bread, full of bends and 
 curves ; his cheeks seemed to support them on 
 both sides. Martin Petrovitch used to wear — 
 winter and summer alike — a Cossack dress of 
 green cloth, girt about with a small Tcherkess 
 strap, and tarred boots. I never saw a cravat 
 on him ; and indeed what could he have tied 
 a cravat round ? He breathed slowly and 
 heavily, like a bull, but walked without a 
 sound. One might have imagined that having 
 got into a room, he was in constant fear of 
 upsetting and overturning everything, and so 
 moved cautiously from place to place, side- 
 5 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ways for the most part, as though slinking 
 by. He was possessed of a strength truly 
 Herculean, and in consequence enjoyed great 
 renown in the neighbourhood. Our common 
 people retain to this day their reverence for 
 Titanic heroes. Legends were invented about 
 him. They used to recount that he had one 
 day met a bear in the forest and had almost 
 vanquished him ; that having once caught a 
 thief in his beehouse, he had flung him, horse 
 and cart and all, over the hedge, and so on. 
 Harlov himself never boasted of his strength. 
 ' If my right hand is blessed,' he used to say, 
 ' so it is God's will it should be ! ' He was 
 proud, only he did not take pride in his 
 strength, but in his rank, his descent, his 
 common sense. 
 
 ' Our family 's descended from the Swede 
 Harlus,'he used to maintain. * In the princely 
 reign of Ivan Vassilievitch the Dark (fancy how 
 long ago !) he came to Russia, and that Swede 
 Harlus did not wish to be a Finnish count — 
 but he wished to be a Russian nobleman, and 
 he was inscribed in the golden book. It 's from 
 him we Harlovs are sprung ! . . . And by the 
 same token, all of us Harlovs are born flaxen- 
 haired, with light eyes and clean faces, because 
 we're children of the snow !,' 
 
 ' But, Martin Petrovitch,V I once tried to 
 object, ' there never was an Ivan Vassilievitch 
 the Dark. Then was an Ivan Vassilievitch the 
 6 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Terrible. The Dark was the name given to 
 the great prince Vassily Vassilievitch.' 
 
 'What nonsense will you talk next!' 
 Harlov answered serenely; 'since I say so, 
 so it was ! ' 
 
 One day my mother took it into her head to 
 commend him to his face for his really remark- 
 able incorruptibility. 
 
 ' Ah, Natalia Nikolaevna ! ' he protested 
 almost angrily ; ' what a thing to praise me 
 for, really ! We gentlefolk can't be otherwise ; 
 so that no churl, no low-born, servile creature! 
 dare even imagine evil of us ! I am a Harlov, 
 my family has come down from' — here he 
 pointed up somewhere very high aloft in the 
 ceiling — ' and me not be honest ! How is it 
 possible ? ' 
 
 Another time a high official, who had come 
 into the neighbourhood and was staying 
 with my mother, fancied he could make fun 
 of Martin Petrovitch. The latter had again 
 referred to the Swede Harlus, who came to 
 Russia . . . 
 
 * In the days of King Solomon ? ' the official 
 interrupted. 
 
 ' No, not of King Solomon, but of the great 
 Prince Ivan Vassilievitch the Dark.' 
 
 ' But I imagine,' the official pursued, ' that 
 your family is much more ancient, and goes 
 back to antediluvian days, when there were 
 still mastodons and megatheriums about.' 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 These scientific names were absolutely mean- 
 ingless to Martin Petrovitch ; but he realised 
 that the dignitary was laughing at him. 
 
 ' May be so,' he boomed, ' our family is, no 
 doubt, very ancient ; in those days when my 
 ancestor was in Moscow, they do say there was 
 as great a fool as your excellency living there, 
 and such fools are not seen twice in a thousand/ 
 years.' 
 
 The high official was in a furious rage, while 
 Harlov threw his head back, stuck out his chin, 
 snorted and disappeared. Two days later, he 
 came in again. My mother began reproaching 
 him. 'It's a lesson for him, ma'am,' inter- 
 posed Harlov, ' not to fly off without knowing 
 what he 's about, to find out whom he has to 
 deal with first. He 's young yet, he must be 
 taught' The dignitary was almost of the 
 same age as Harlov ; but this Titan was in 
 the habit of regarding every one as not fully 
 grown up. He had the greatest confidence in 
 himself and was afraid of absolutely no one. 
 "* Can they do anything to me ? Where on 
 earth is the man that can ? ' he would ask, and 
 suddenly he would go off into a short but 
 deafening guffaw. 
 
II 
 
 My mother was exceedingly particular in her 
 choice of acquaintances, but she made Harlov 
 welcome ■ with special cordiality and allowed 
 him many privileges. Twenty-five years before, 
 he had saved her life by holding up her carriage 
 on the edge of a deep precipice, down which 
 the horses had already fallen. The traces and 
 straps of the harness broke, but Martin Petro- 
 vitch did not let go his hold of the wheel he 
 had grasped, though the blood spurted out 
 under his nails. My mother had arranged his 
 marriage. She chose for his wife an orphan 
 girl of seventeen, who had been brought up in 
 her house ; he was over forty at the time. 
 Martin Petrovitch's wife was a frail creature — 
 they said he carried her into his house in the 
 palms of his hands — and she did not live long 
 with him. She bore him two daughters, how- 
 ever. After her death, my mother continued 
 her good offices to Martin Petrovitch. She 
 placed his elder daughter in the district school, 
 and afterwards found her a husband, and 
 already had another in her eye for the second. 
 9 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Harlov was a fairly good manager. He had a 
 little estate of nearly eight hundred acres, and 
 had built on to his place a little, and the way the 
 peasants obeyed him is indescribable. Owing 
 to his stoutness, Harlov scarcely ever went 
 anywhere on foot : the earth did not bear him. 
 He used to go everywhere in a low racing 
 droshky, himself driving a rawboned mare, 
 thirty years old, with a scar on her shoulder, 
 from a wound which she had received in the 
 battle of Borodino, under the quartermaster of 
 a cavalry regiment. This mare was always 
 somehow lame in all four legs ; she could not 
 go at a walking pace, but could only change from 
 a trot to a canter. She used to eat mugwort 
 and wormwood along the hedges, which I have 
 never noticed any other horse do. I remember 
 I always used to wonder how such a broken- 
 down nag could draw such a fearful weight. I 
 won't venture to repeat how many hundred- 
 weight were attributed to our neighbour. In 
 the droshky behind Martin Petrovitch's back 
 perched his swarthy page, Maximka. With his 
 face and whole person squeezed~ctose up to his 
 master, and his bare feet propped on the hind 
 ^xle bar of the droshky, he looked like a little 
 jeaf or worm which had clung by chance to the 
 gigantic carcase before him. This same page 
 boy used once a week to shave Martin Petro- 
 vitch. He used, so they said, to stand on a 
 table to perform this operation. Some jocose 
 
 lO 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 persons averred that he had to run round his 
 master's chin. Harlov did not like staying 
 long at home, and so one might often see him 
 driving about in his invariable equipage, with 
 the reins in one hand (the other he held 
 smartly on his knee with the elbow crooked 
 upwards), with a diminutive old cap on the very 
 top of his head. He looked boldly about him 
 with his little bear-like eyes, shouted in a voice 
 of thunder to all the peasants, artisans, and 
 tradespeople he met Priests he greatly dis- 
 liked, and he would send vigorous abjurations 
 after them when he met them. One day on 
 overtaking me (I was out for a stroll with my 
 gun), he hallooed at a hare that lay near the 
 road in such a way that I could not get the 
 roar and ring of it out of my ears all day. 
 
 II 
 
Ill 
 
 My mother, as I have already stated, made 
 Martin Petrovitch very welcome. She knew 
 what a profound respect he entertained for her 
 person. 'She is a real gentlewoman, one of 
 our sort,' was the way he used to refer to her. 
 He used to style her his benefactress, while she 
 saw in him a devoted giant, who would not 
 have hesitated to face a whole mob of peasants 
 in defence of her ; and although no one foresaw 
 the barest possibility of such a contingency, 
 still, to my mother's notions, in the absence of 
 a husband — she had early been left a widow — 
 such a champion as Martin Petrovitch was not 
 to be despised. And besides, he was a man of 
 upright character, who curried favour with 
 no one, never borrowed money or drank spirits ; 
 and no fool either, though he had received no 
 sort of education. My mother trusted Martin 
 Petrovitch : when she took it into her head to 
 make her will, she asked him to witness it, and 
 he drove home expressly to fetch his round 
 iron-rimmed spectacles, without which he could 
 not write. And with spectacles on nose, he 
 
A LEAR OF THL STEPPES 
 
 succeeded, in a quarter of an hour, with many 
 gasps and groans and great effort, in inscribing 
 his Christian name, father's name, and surname 
 and his rank and designation, tracing enormous 
 quadrangular letters, with tails and flourishes. 
 Having completed this task, he declared he 
 was tired out, and that writing for him was as 
 hard work as catching fleas. Yes, my mother 
 had a respect for him ... he was not, however, 
 admitted beyond the dining-room in our house. 
 He carried a very strong odour about with 
 him ; there was a smell of the earth, of decaying 
 forest, of marsh m.ud about him. 'He's a 
 forest-demon ! ' my old nurse would declare. 
 At dinner a special table used to be laid apart 
 in a corner for Martin Petrovitch, and he was 
 not offended at that, he knew other people 
 were ill at ease sitting beside him, and he too 
 had greater freedom in eating. And he did 
 eat too, as no one, I imagine, has eaten since the 
 days of Polyphemus. At the very beginning 
 of dinner, by way of a precautionary measure, 
 they always served him a pot of some four 
 pounds of porridge, 'else you'd eat me out 
 of house and home,' my mother used to say. 
 ' That I should, ma'am,' Martin Petrovitch 
 would respond, grinning. 
 
 My mother liked to hear his reflections on 
 
 any topic connected with the land. But she 
 
 could not support the sound of his voice for 
 
 long together. ' What 's the meaning of it, my 
 
 13 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 good sir ! ' she would exclaim ; * you might 
 take something to cure yourself of it, really ! 
 You simply deafen me. Such a trumpet- 
 blast ! ' 
 
 ' Natalia Nikolaevna ! benefactress ! ' Martin 
 Petrovitch would rejoin, as a rule, ' I 'm not re- 
 sponsible for my throat. And what medicine 
 could have any effect on me — kindly tell me 
 that ? I 'd better hold my tongue for a bit' 
 
 In reality, I imagine, no medicine could 
 have affected Martin Petrovitch. He was 
 never ill. 
 
 He was not good at telling stories, and did 
 not care for it. ' Much talking gives me 
 asthma,' he used to remark reproachfully. It 
 was only when one got him on to the year 
 rSi2 — he had served in the militia, and had 
 received a bronze medal, which he used to 
 wear on festive occasions attached to a Vladi- 
 mir ribbon — when one questioned him about 
 the French, that he would relate some few 
 anecdotes. He used, however, to maintain 
 stoutly all the while that there never had been 
 any Frenchmen, real ones, in Russia, only some 
 poor marauders, who had straggled over from 
 hunger, and that he had given many a good 
 d rubbing to such rabble in the forests. 
 
 14 
 
IV 
 
 And yet even this self-confident, unflinching 
 giant had his moments of melancholy and 
 depression. Without any visible cause he 
 would suddenly begin to be sad ; he would 
 lock himself up alone in his room, and hum — 
 positively hum — like a whole hive of bees ; or 
 he would call his page Maximka, and tell him 
 to read aloud to him out of the solitary book 
 which had somehow found its way into his 
 house, an odd volume of Novikovsky's The 
 Worker at Leisure^ or else to sing to him. 
 And Maximka, who by some strange freak of 
 chance, could spell out print, syllable by 
 syllable, would set to work with the usual 
 chopping up of the words and transference of 
 the accent, bawling out phrases of the following 
 description : 'but man in his wilfulness draws 
 from this empty hypothesis, which he applies 
 to the animal kingdom, utterly opposite con- 
 clusions. Every animal separately,' he says, 
 ' is not capable of making me happy ! ' and so 
 on. Or he would chant in a shrill little voice 
 a mournful song, of which nothing could be 
 distinguished but : ' Ee . . . eee . . . ee . . . a . . . 
 15 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ee . . . a . . . ee . . . Aaa . . . ska ! O . . . oo . . . 
 oo . . . bee . . . ee . . . ee . . . ee . . . la ! ' While 
 Martin Petrovitch would shake his head, make 
 allusions to the mutability of life, how all things 
 turn to ashes, fade away like grass, pass — and 
 will return no more ! A picture had somehow 
 come into his hands, representing a burning 
 candle, which the winds, with puffed-out 
 cheeks, were blowing upon from all sides ; 
 below was the inscription : ' Such is the life of 
 man.' He was very fond of this picture ; he 
 had hung it up in his own room, but at ordin- 
 ary, not melancholy, times he used to keep 
 it turned face to the wall, so that it might not 
 depress him. Harlov, that colossus, was afraid 
 of death ! To the consolations of religion, to 
 prayer, however, he rarely had recourse in his 
 fits of melancholy. Even then he chiefly 
 relied on his own intelligence. He had no 
 particular religious feeling ; he was not often 
 seen in church ; he used to say, it is true, that 
 he did not go on the ground that, owing to his 
 corporeal dimensions, he was afraid of squeez- 
 ing other people out. The fit of depression 
 commonly ended in Martin Petrovitch's begin- 
 ning to whistle, and suddenly, in a voice of 
 thunder, ordering out his droshky, and dashing 
 off about the neighbourhood, vigorously bran- 
 dishing his disengaged hand over the peak of 
 his cap, as though he would say, ' For all that, I 
 don't care a straw ! ' He was a regular Russian., 
 i6 
 
Strong men, like Martin Petrovitch, are for 
 the most part of a phlegmatic disposition ; but 
 he, on the contrary, was rather easily irritated. 
 He was specially short-tempered with a certain 
 Bitchk ov, who had found a refuge in our house, 
 whereTTe occupied a position between that of a 
 buffoon and a dependant. He was the brother 
 of Harlov's deceased wife, had been nicknamed 
 Souvenir as a little boy, and Souvenir he had 
 remained for every one, even the servants, who 
 addressed him, it is true, as Souvenir Timo- 
 feitch. His real name he seemed hafdty to 
 know himself. He was a pitiful creature, 
 looked down upon by every one ; a toady, in 
 fact. He had no teeth on one side of his 
 mouth, which gave his little wrinkled face a 
 crooked appearance. He was in a perpetual 
 fuss and fidget ; he used to poke himself into 
 the maids' room, or into the counting-house, or 
 into the priest's quarters, or else into the bailiffs 
 hut. He was repelled from everywhere, but he 
 only shrugged himself up, and screwed up his 
 little eyes, and laughed a pitiful mawkish laugh, 
 17 B 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 like the sound of rinsing a bottle. It always 
 seemed to me that had Souvenir had money, 
 he would have turned into the basest person, 
 unprincipled, spiteful, even cruel. Poverty 
 kept him within bounds. He was only allowed 
 drink on holidays. He was decently dressed, 
 by my mother's orders, since in the evenings 
 he took a hand in her game of picquet or boston. 
 Souvenir was constantly repeating, ' Certainly, 
 d'rectly, d'rectly.' ' D'rectly what ? ' my mother 
 would ask, with annoyance. He instantly drew 
 back his hands, in a scare, and lisped, ' At 
 your service, ma'am ! ' Listening at doors, 
 backbiting, and, above all, quizzing, teasing, 
 were his sole interest, and he used to quiz as 
 though he had a right to, as though he were 
 avenging himself for something. He used to 
 call Martin Petrovitch brother, and tormented 
 him beyond endurance. ' What made you kill 
 my sister, Margarita Timofeevna ? ' he used to 
 persist, wriggling about before him and snigger- 
 ing. One day Martin Petrovitch was sitting in 
 the billiard-room, a cool apartment, in which 
 no one had ever seen a single fly, and which our 
 neighbour, disliking heat and sunshine, greatly 
 favoured on this account. He was sitting 
 between the wall and the billiard-table. Sou- 
 venir was fidgeting before his bulky person, 
 mocking him, grimacing. . . . Martin Petro- 
 vitch wanted to get rid of him, and thrust both 
 hands out in front of him. Luckily for Sou- 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 venir he managed to get away, his brother-in- 
 law's open hands came into collision with the 
 edge of the billiard-table, and the billiard-board 
 
 went flying off all its six screws What 
 
 a mass of batter Souvenir would have been 
 turned into under those mighty hands ! 
 
 19 
 
a 
 
 VI 
 
 I HAD long been curious to see how Martin 
 Petrovitch arranged his household, what sort 
 of a home he had. One day I invited myself 
 to accompany him on horseback as far as 
 Eskovo (that was the name of his estate). 
 ' Upon my word, you want to have a look at 
 my dominion,' was Martin Petrovitch's com- 
 ment. * By all means ! I '11 show you the 
 garden, and the house, and the threshing-floor, 
 and everything. I have plenty of everything.' 
 We set off. It was reckoned hardly more 
 than a couple of miles from our place to 
 Eskovo. ' Here it is — my dominion ! ' Martin 
 Petrovitch roared suddenly, trying to turn his 
 immovable neck, and waving his arm to right 
 and left. ' It 's all mine ! ' Harlov's home- 
 stead lay on the top of a sloping hill. At the 
 bottom, a few wretched-looking peasants' huts 
 clustered close to a small pond. At the pond, 
 on a washing platform, an old peasant woman 
 in a check petticoat was beating some soaked 
 linen with a bat. 
 
 * Axinia ! ' boomed Martin Petrovitch, but in 
 20 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 such a note that the rooks flew up in a flock 
 from an oat-field near. . . . 'Washing your 
 husband's breeches ? ' 
 
 The peasant woman turned at once and 
 bowed very low. 
 
 ' Yes, sir,' sounded her weak voice. 
 
 ' Ay, ay ! Yonder, look,' Martin Petrovitch 
 continued, proceeding at a trot alongside a 
 half-rotting wattle fence, 'that is my hemp- 
 patch ; and that yonder 's the peasants' ; see 
 the difference ? And this here is my garden ; 
 the apple-trees I planted, and the willows I 
 planted too. Else there was no timber of any 
 sort here. Look at that, and learn a lesson ! ' 
 
 We turned into the courtyard, shut in by a 
 fence ; right opposite the gate, rose an old 
 tumbledown lodge, with a thatch roof, and steps 
 up to it, raised on posts. On one side stood 
 another, rather newer, and with a tiny attic ; 
 but it too was a ramshackly afl*air. ' Here you 
 may learn a lesson again,' observed Harlov ; 
 ' see what a little manor-house our fathers lived 
 in ; but now see what a mansion I have built 
 myself.' This ' mansion ' was like a house of 
 cards. Five or six dogs, one more ragged and 
 hideous than another, welcomed us with bark- 
 ing. ' Sheep-dogs ! ' observed Martin Petro- 
 vitch. ' Pure-bred Crimeans ! Sh, damned 
 brutes ! I '11 come and strangle you one after 
 another ! ' On the steps of the new building, 
 there came out a young man, in a long full 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 nankeen overall, the husband of Martin Petro- 
 vitch's elder daughter. Skipping quickly up 
 to the droshky, he respectfully supported his 
 father-in-law under the elbow as he got up, 
 and even made as though he would hold the 
 gigantic feet, which the latter, bending his 
 bulky person forward, lifted with a sweeping 
 movement across the seat ; then he assisted 
 me to dismount from my horse. 
 
 ' Anna ! ' cried Harlov, ' Natalia Nikolaevna's 
 son has come to pay us a visit ; you must find 
 some good cheer for him. But where 's Ev- 
 lampia ? ' (Anna was the name of the elder 
 daughter, Evlampia of the younger.) 
 
 ' She 's not at home ; she 's gone into the 
 fields to get cornflowers,' responded Anna, 
 appearing at a little window near the door. 
 
 ' Is there any junket ? ' queried Harlov. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And cream too ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Well, set them on the table, and I '11 show 
 the young gentleman my own room meanwhile. 
 This way, please, this way,' he added, address- 
 ing me, and beckoning with his forefinger. In 
 his own house he treated me less familiarly ; 
 as a host he felt obliged to be more formally 
 respectful. He led me along a corridor. ' Here 
 is where I abide,' he observed, stepping side- 
 ways over the threshold of a wide doorway, 
 ' this is my room. Pray walk in ! ' 
 
 22 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 His room turned out to be a big unplastered 
 apartment, almost empty ; on the walls, on 
 nails driven in askew, hung two riding-whips, 
 a three-cornered hat, reddish with wear, a 
 single-barrelled gun, a sabre, a sort of curious 
 horse-collar inlaid with metal plates, and the 
 picture representing a burning candle blown on 
 by the winds. In one corner stood a wooden 
 settle covered with a parti-coloured rug. Hun- 
 dreds of flies swarmed thickly about the ceiling ; 
 yet the room was cool. But there was a very 
 strong smell of that peculiar odour of the 
 forest which always accompanied Martin Petro- 
 vitch. 
 
 'Well, is it a nice room?' Harlov questioned 
 me. 
 
 ' Very nice.' 
 
 ' Look-ye, there hangs my Dutch horse- 
 collar,' Harlov went on, dropping into his 
 familiar tone again. * A splendid horse-collar ! 
 got it by barter off a Jew. Just you look at it ! ' 
 
 ' It's a good horse-collar.' 
 
 ' It's most practical. And just sniff it . . . 
 what leather ! ' I smelt the horse-collar. It 
 smelt of rancid oil and nothing else. 
 
 * Now, be seated, — there on the stool ; make 
 yourself at home,' observed Harlov, while he 
 himself sank on to the settle, and seemed to 
 fall into a doze, shutting his eyes and even 
 beginning to snore. I gazed at him without 
 speaking, with ever fresh wonder ; he was a 
 23 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 perfect mountain — there was no other word ! 
 Suddenly he started. 
 
 ' Anna ! ' he shouted, while his huge stomach 
 rose and fell like a wave on the sea ; ' what are 
 you about ? Look sharp ! Didn't you hear 
 me?' 
 
 ' Everything 's ready, father ; come in,' I 
 heard his daughter's voice. 
 
 I inwardly marvelled at the rapidity with 
 which Martin Petrovitch's behests had been 
 carried out ; and followed him into the drawing- 
 room, where, on a table covered with a red 
 cloth with white flowers on it, lunch was already 
 prepared : junket, cream, wheaten bread, even 
 powdered sugar and ginger. While I set to 
 work on the junket, Martin Petrovitch growled 
 affectionately, ' Eat, my friend, eat, my dear 
 boy ; don't despise our country cheer,' and 
 sitting down again in a corner, again seemed 
 to fall into a doze. Before me, perfectly 
 motionless, with downcast eyes, stood Anna 
 Martinovna, while I saw through the window 
 her husband walking my cob up and down the 
 yard, and rubbing the chain of the snaffle with 
 his own hands. 
 
 24 
 
VII 
 
 My mother did not like Harlov's elder 
 daughter ; she called her a stuck-up thing. 
 Anna Martinovna scarcely ever came to pay 
 us her respects, and behaved with chilly de- 
 corum in my mother's presence, though it was 
 by her good offices she had been well educated 
 at a boarding-school, and had been married, 
 and on her wedding-day had received a thousand 
 roubles and a yellow Turkish shawl, the latter, 
 it is true, a trifle the worse for wear. She was 
 a woman of medium height, thin, very brisk 
 and rapid in her movements, with thick fair 
 hair and a handsome dark face, on which the 
 pale-blue narrow eyes showed up in a rather 
 strange but pleasing way. She had a straight 
 thin nose, her lips were thin too, and her chin 
 was like the loop-end of a hair-pin. No one 
 looking at her could fail to think : ' Well, you 
 are a clever creature — and a spiteful one, too ! ' 
 And for all that, there was something attractive 
 about her too. Even the dark moles, scat- 
 tered ' like buck-wheat ' over her face, suited 
 her and increased the feeling she inspired. 
 25 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Her hands thrust into her kerchief, she was 
 slily watching me, looking downwards (I was 
 seated, while she was standing). A wicked 
 little smile strayed about her lips and her 
 cheeks and in the shadow of her long eyelashes. 
 ' Ugh, you pampered little fine gentleman ! ' 
 this smile seemed to express. Every time she 
 drew a breath, her nostrils slightly distended — 
 this, too, was rather strange. But all the same, 
 it seemed to me that were Anna Martinovna 
 to love me, or even to care to kiss me with her 
 thin cruel lips, I should simply bound up to 
 the ceiling with delight. I knew she was very 
 severe and exacting, that the peasant women 
 and girls went in terror of her — but what of 
 that? Anna Martinovna secretly excited my 
 imagination . . . though after all, I was only 
 fifteen then, — and at that age ! . . . 
 
 Martin Petrovitch roused himself again. 
 ' Anna ! ' he shouted, ' you ought to strum 
 something on the pianoforte . . . young gentle- 
 men are fond of that' 
 
 I looked round ; there was a pitiful semblance 
 of a piano in the room. 
 
 'Yes, father,' responded Anna Martinovna. 
 ' Only what am I to play the young gentle- 
 man ? He won't find it interesting.' 
 
 ' Why, what did they teach you at your 
 young ladies' seminary ? ' 
 
 ' I 've forgotten everything — besides, |:he 
 notes are broken.' 
 
 26 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Anna Martinovna's voice was very pleasant, 
 resonant and rather plaintive — like the note 
 of some birds of prey. 
 
 ' Very well/ said Martin Petrovitch, and he 
 lapsed into dreaminess again. ' Well,' he began 
 once more, ' wouldn't you like, then, to see 
 the threshing-floor, and have a look round ? 
 Volodka will escort you. — Hi, Volodka ! ' he 
 shouted to his son-in-law, who was still pacing 
 up and down the yard with my horse, 'take 
 the young gentleman to the threshing-floor . . . 
 and show him my farming generally. But I 
 must have a nap ! So ! good-bye ! ' 
 
 He went out and I after him. Anna 
 Martinovna at once set to work rapidly, and, 
 as it were, angrily, clearing the table. In the 
 doorway, I turned and bowed to her. But she 
 seemed not to notice my bow, and only smiled 
 again, more maliciously than before. 
 
 I took my horse from Harlov's son-in-law 
 and led him by the bridle. We went together 
 to the threshing-floor, but as we discovered 
 nothing very remarkable about it, and as he 
 could not suppose any great interest in farming 
 in a young lad like me, we returned through 
 the garden to the main road. 
 
 27 
 
VIII 
 
 I WAS well acquainted with Harlov's son-in-law. 
 \ His name was Vladimir Vassilievitch Sletkin. 
 He was an orphan, brought up by my mother, 
 and the son of a petty official, to whom she 
 had intrusted some business. He had first 
 been placed in the district school, then he had 
 entered the ' seignorial counting-house,' then he 
 had been put into the service of the govern- 
 ment stores, and, finally, married to the daughter 
 of Martin Petrovitch. My mother used to call 
 him a little Jew, and certainly, with his curly 
 hair, his black eyes always moist, like damson 
 jam, his hook nose, and wide red mouth, he 
 did suggest the Jewish type. But the colour 
 of his skin was white and he was altogether 
 very good-looking. He was of a most obliging 
 temper, so long as his personal advantage was 
 not involved. Then he promptly lost all self- 
 control from greediness, and was moved even 
 to tears. He was ready to whine the whole 
 day long to gain the paltriest trifle ; he would 
 remind one a hundred times over of a promise, 
 and be hurt and complain if it were not carried 
 28 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 out at once. He liked sauntering about the 
 fields with a gun ; and when he happened to 
 get a hare or a wild duck, he would thrust his 
 booty into his game-bag with peculiar zest, 
 saying, ' Now, you may be as tricky as you 
 like, you won't escape me ! Now you 're mineV 
 
 'You've a good horse,' he began in his 
 lisping voice, as he assisted me to get into the 
 saddle ; * I ought to have a horse like that ! 
 But where can I get one ? I 've no such luck. 
 If you'd ask your mamma, now — remind 
 her.' 
 
 'Why, has she promised you one?' 
 
 ' Promised ? No ; but I thought that in her 
 great kindness ' 
 
 ' You should apply to Martin Petrovitch.' 
 
 * To Martin Petrovitch ? ' Sletkin repeated, 
 dwelling on each syllable. ' To him I 'm no 
 better than a worthless page, like Maximka. 
 He keeps a tight hand on us, that he does, and 
 you get nothing from him for all your toil.' 
 
 'Really?' 
 
 * Yes, by God. He '11 say, " My word 's 
 sacred! " — and there, it's as though he 's chopped 
 it off with an axe. You may beg or not, it 's 
 all one. Besides, Anna Martinovna, my wife, 
 is not in such favour with him as Evlampia 
 Martinovna. O merciful God, bless us and 
 save us ! ' he suddenly interrupted himself, 
 flinging up his hands in despair. ' Look ! 
 what 's that ? A whole half-rood of oats, our 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 oats, some wretch has gone and cut. The 
 villain ! Just see ! Thieves ! thieves ! It 's a 
 true saying, to be sure, don't trust Eskovo, 
 Beskovo, Erino, and Byelino ! (these were the 
 names of four villages near). Ah, ah, what a 
 thing ! A rouble and a half's worth, or, maybe, 
 two roubles, loss ! ' 
 
 In Sletkin's voice, one could almost hear 
 sobs. I gave my horse a poke in the ribs and 
 rode away from him. 
 
 Sletkin's ejaculations still reached my hear- 
 ing, when suddenly at a turn in the road, I 
 came upon the second daughter of Harlov, 
 Evlampia, who had, in the words of Anna 
 Martinovna, gone into the fields to get corn- 
 flowers. A thick wreath of those flowers was 
 twined about her head. We exchanged bows 
 in silence. Evlampia, too, was very good- 
 looking ; as much so as her sister, though in a 
 difl'erent style. She was tall and stoutly built ; 
 everything about her was on a large scale : her 
 head, and her feet and hands, and her snow- 
 white teeth, and especially her eyes, prominent, 
 languishing eyes, of the dark blue of glass 
 beads. Everything about her, while still beau- 
 tiful, had positively a monumental character 
 (she was a true daughter of Martin Petro- 
 vitch). She did not, it seemed, know what 
 to do with her massive fair mane, and she had 
 twisted it in three plaits round her head. Her 
 mouth was charming, crimson and fresh as a 
 30 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 rose, and as she talked her upper Hp was lifted 
 in the middle in a very fascinating way. But 
 there was something wild and almost fierce in 
 the glance of her huge eyes. * A free bird, 
 wild Cossack breed,' so Martin Petrovitch used 
 to speak of her. I was in awe of her . . . This 
 stately beauty reminded one of her father. 
 
 I rode on a little farther and heard her 
 singing in a strong, even, rather harsh voice, a 
 regular peasant voice ; suddenly she ceased. 
 I looked round and from the crest of the hill 
 saw her standing beside Harlov's son-in-law, 
 facing the rood of oats. The latter was gesti- 
 culating and pointing, but she stood without 
 stirring. The sun lighted up her tall figure, 
 and the wreath of cornflowers shone brilliantly 
 blue on her head. 
 
 31 
 
IX 
 
 I BELIEVE I have already mentioned that, for 
 this second daughter of Harlov's too, my 
 mother had already prepared a match. This 
 was one of the poorest of our neighbours, a 
 retired army major, Gavrila Fedulitch Zhitkov, 
 a man no longer young, and, as he himself 
 expressed it, not without a certain complacency, 
 however, as though recommending himself, 
 ' battered and broken down.' He could barely 
 read and write, and was exceedingly stupid, 
 but secretly aspired to become my mother's 
 steward, as he felt himself to be a ' man of 
 action.' ' I can warm the peasant's hides for 
 them, if I can do anything,' he used to say, 
 almost gnashing his own teeth, ' because I was 
 used to it,' he used to explain, ' in my former 
 duties, I mean.' Had Zhitkov been less of a 
 fool, he would have realised that he had not 
 the slightest chance of being steward to my 
 mother, seeing that, for that, it would have been 
 necessary to get rid of the present steward, 
 one Kvitsinsky, a very capable Pole of great 
 character, in whom my mother had the fullest 
 32 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 confidence. Zhitkov had a long face, like a- 
 horse's ; it was all overgrown with hair of a 
 dusty whitish colour ; his cheeks were covered 
 with it right up to the eyes ; and even in the 
 severest frosts, it was sprinkled with an abun- 
 dant sweat, like drops of dew. At the sight of 
 my mother, he drew himself upright as a post, 
 his head positively quivered with zeal, his huge 
 hands slapped a little against his thighs, and 
 his whole person seemed to express : ' Com- 
 mand ! . . . and I will strive my utmost ! ' My 
 mother was under no illusion on the score of 
 his abilities, which did not, however, hinder her 
 from taking steps to marry him to Evlampia. 
 
 ' Only, will you be able to manage her, my 
 good sir?' she asked him one day. 
 
 Zhitkov smiled complacently. 
 
 'Upon my word, Natalia Nikolaevna ! I 
 used to keep a whole regiment in order ; they 
 were tame enough in my hands ; and what 's 
 this ? A trumpery business ! ' 
 
 * A regiment 's one thing, sir, but a well-bred 
 girl, a wife, is a very different matter,' my 
 mother observed with displeasure. 
 
 ' Upon my word, ma'am ! Natalia Niko- 
 laevna!' Zhitkov cried again, 'that we're 
 quite able to understand. In one word : a 
 young lady, a delicate person ! ' 
 
 ' Well ! ' my mother decided at length, 
 ' Evlampia won't let herself be trampled upon.' 
 
 33 
 
X 
 
 One day — it was the month of June, and 
 evening was coming on — a servant announced 
 the arrival of Martin Petrovitch. My mother 
 was surprised : we had not seen him for over 
 a week, but he had never visited us so late 
 before. ' Something has happened ! ' she ex- 
 claimed in an undertone. The face of Martin 
 Petrovitch, when he rolled into the room and 
 at once sank into a chair near the door, wore 
 such an unusual expression, it was so pre- 
 occupied and positively pale, that my mother 
 involuntarily repeated her exclamation aloud. 
 Martin Petrovitch fixed his little eyes upon 
 her, was silent for a space, sighed heavily, was 
 silent again, and articulated at last that he had 
 come about something . . . which . . . was of a 
 kind, that on account of . . . 
 
 Muttering these disconnected words, he 
 suddenly got up and went out. 
 
 My mother rang, ordered the footman, who 
 
 appeared, to overtake Martin Petrovitch at 
 
 once and bring him back without fail, but the 
 
 latter had already had time to get into his 
 
 /^roshky and drive away. 
 
 34 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Next morning my mother, who was aston- 
 ished and even alarmed, as much by Martin 
 Petrovitch's strange behaviour as by the extra- 
 ordinary expression of his face, was on the 
 point of sending a special messenger to him, 
 when he made his appearance. This time he 
 seemed more composed. 
 
 ' Tell me, my good friend, tell me,' cried my 
 mother, directly she saw him, 'what ever has 
 happened to you ? I thought yesterday, upon 
 my word I did. ..." Mercy on us ! " I thought, 
 " Hasn't our old friend gone right off his 
 head ? " ' 
 
 ' I 've not gone off my head, madam,' answered 
 Martin Petrovitch ; ' I 'm not that sort of man. 
 But I want to consult with you.' 
 
 ' What about ? ' 
 
 ' I 'm only in doubt, whether it will be agree- 
 able to you in this same contingency ' 
 
 ' Speak away, speak away, my good sir, but 
 more simply. Don't alarm me ! What 's this 
 same contingency ? Speak more plainly. Or 
 is it your melancholy come upon you again ? ' 
 
 Harlov scowled. ' No, it 's not melancholy — 
 that comes upon me in the new moon ; but 
 allow me to ask you, madam, what do you think 
 about death ? ' 
 
 My mother was taken aback. ' About what ?' 
 
 'About death. Can death spare any one 
 whatever in this world ? ' 
 
 * What have you got in your head, my good 
 35 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 friend ? Who of us is immortal ? For all 
 you 're born a giant, even to you there '11 be an 
 end in time.' 
 
 * There will ! oh, there will ! ' Harlov as- 
 sented and he looked downcast, ' I 've had a 
 vision come to me in my dreams,' he brought 
 out at last. 
 
 ' What are you saying ? ' my mother inter- 
 rupted him. 
 
 ' A vision in my dreams,' he repeated — ' I 'm 
 a seer of visions, you know ! ' 
 
 ' You ! ' 
 
 'I. Didn't you know it?' Harlov sighed. 
 ' Well, so. . . . Over a week ago, madam, I lay 
 down, on the very last day of eating meat 
 before St. Peter's fast-day ; I lay down after 
 dinner to r^st a bit, well, and so I fell asleep, 
 and dreamed a raven colt ran into the room to 
 me. And this colt began sporting about and 
 grinning. Black as a beetle was the raven colt' 
 Harlov ceased. 
 
 ' Well ? ' said my mother. 
 
 'And all of a sudden this same colt turns 
 round, and gives me a kick in the left elbow, 
 right in the funny bone. ... I waked up ; my 
 arm would not move nor my leg either. Well, 
 thinks I, it 's paralysis ; however, I worked them 
 up and down, and got them to move again ; 
 only there were shooting pains in the joints a 
 long time, and there are still. When I open 
 my hand, the pains shoot through the joints.' 
 36 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 'Why, Martin Petrovitch, you must have lain 
 upon your arm somehow and crushed it.' 
 
 ' No, madam ; pray, don't talk like that ! It 
 was an intimation . . . referring to my death, 
 I mean.' 
 
 ' Well, upon my word,' my mother was begin- 
 ning. 
 
 'An intimation. Prepare thyself, man, as 
 'twere to say. And therefore, madam, here is 
 what I have to announce to you, without a 
 moment's delay. Not wishing/ Harlov sud- 
 denly began shouting, 'that the same death 
 should come upon me, the servant of God, una- 
 wares, I have planned in my own mind this : 
 to divide — now during my lifetime — my estate 
 between my two daughters, Anna and Evlam- 
 pia, according as God Almighty directs me — ' 
 Martin Petrovitch stopped, groaned, and added, 
 ' without a moment's delay.' 
 
 ' Well, that would be a good idea,' observed 
 my mother; 'though I think you have no need 
 to be in a hurry.' 
 
 ' And seeing that herein I desire,' Harlov 
 continued, raising his voice still higher, 'to be 
 observant of all due order and legality, so I 
 humbly beg your young son, Dmitri Semyono- 
 vitch — I would not venture, madam, to trouble 
 you — I beg the said Dmitri Semyonovitch, your 
 son, and I claim of my kinsman, Bitchkov, as a 
 plain duty, to assist at the ratification of the 
 formal act and transference of possession to my 
 37 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 two daughters — Anna, married, and Evlampia, 
 spinster. Which act will be drawn up in readi- 
 ness the day after to-morrow at twelve o'clock, 
 at my own place, Eskovo, also called Kozul- 
 kino, in the presence of the ruling authorities 
 and functionaries, who are thereto invited.' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch with difficulty reached the 
 end of this speech, which he had obviously 
 learnt by heart, and which was interspersed 
 with frequent sighs. . . . He seemed to have 
 no breath left in his chest ; his pale face was 
 crimson again, and he several times wiped the 
 sweat off it. 
 
 'So you've already composed the deed 
 dividing your property ? ' my mother queried. 
 * When did you manage that ? ' 
 
 ' 1 managed it ... oh ! Neither eating, nor 
 drinking ' 
 
 ' Did you write it yourself? ' 
 
 * Volodka ... oh ! helped.' 
 
 ' And have you forwarded a petition ? ' 
 
 ' I have, and the chamber has sanctioned it, 
 and notice has been given to the district court, 
 and the temporary division of the local court 
 has . . . oh ! . . . been notified to be present' 
 
 My mother laughed. ' I see, Martin Petro- 
 vitch, you 've made every arrangement already 
 — and how quickly. You 've not spared money, 
 1 should say ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed, madam.' 
 
 'Well, well. And you say you want to con- 
 38 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 suit with me. Well, my little Dmitri can go ; 
 and I '11 send Souvenir with him, and speak to 
 Kvitsinsky. . . . But you haven't invited 
 Gavrila Fedulitch ? ' 
 
 ' Gavrila Fedulitch — Mr. Zhitkov — has had 
 notice . . . from me also. As a betrothed, 
 it was only fitting.' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch had obviously exhausted 
 all the resources of his eloquence. Besides, it 
 always seemed to me that he did not look 
 altogether favourably on the match my mother 
 had made for his daughter ; possibly, he had 
 expected a more advantageous marriage for 
 his darling Evlampia. 
 
 He got up from his chair, and made a scrape 
 with his foot. * Thank you for your consent.' 
 
 ' Where are you off to ? ' asked my mother. 
 ' Stay a bit ; I '11 order some lunch to be served 
 you.' 
 
 ' Much obliged,' responded Harlov. ' But I 
 cannot. ... Oh ! I must get home.' 
 
 He backed and was about to move sideways, 
 as his habit was, through the door. 
 
 ' Stop, stop a minute,' my mother went on. 
 ' can you possibly mean to make over the whole 
 of your property without reserve to your 
 daughters ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly, without reserve.' 
 
 'Well, but how about yourself — where are 
 you going to live ? ' 
 
 Harlov positively flung up his hands in 
 39 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 amazement. ' You ask where ? In my house, 
 at home, as I Ve lived hitherto ... so hence- 
 forward. Whatever difference could there 
 be?' 
 
 ' You have such confidence in your daughters 
 and your son-in-law, then ? ' 
 
 ' Were you pleased to speak of Volodka ? A 
 poor stick like him ? Why, I can do as I like 
 with him, whatever it is . . . what authority 
 has he ? As for them, my daughters, that is, 
 to care for me till I 'm in the grave, to give me 
 meat and drink, and clothe me. . . . Merciful 
 heavens ! it 's their first duty. I shall not long 
 be an eyesore to them. Death 's not over the 
 hills — it's upon my shoulders.' 
 
 ' Death is in God's hands,' observed my 
 mother ; ' though that is their duty, to be sure. 
 Only pardon me, Martin Petrovitch ; your elder 
 girl, Anna, is well known to be proud and 
 imperious, and — well — the second has a fierce 
 look. . . .' 
 
 ' Natalia Nikolaevna ! ' Harlov broke in, 
 ^ why do you say that ? . . . Why, as though 
 they . . . My daughters . . . Why, as though 
 I . . . Forget their duty .'' Never in their 
 wildest dreams . . . Offer opposition ? To 
 whom ? Their parent . . . Dare to do such a 
 thing? Have they not my curse to fear? 
 They 've passed their life long in fear and in 
 submission — and all of a sudden . . . Good 
 Lord ! ' 
 
 40 
 
A LEAR OF THE STErPES 
 
 Harlov choked, there was a rattle in his 
 throat. 
 
 ' Very well, very well,' my mother made haste 
 to soothe him ; ' only I don't understand all the 
 same what has put it into your head to divide 
 the property up now. It would have come to 
 them afterwards, in any case. I imagine it's 
 your melancholy that's at the bottom of it all.' 
 
 'Eh, ma'am,' Harlov retjoined, not without 
 vexation, ' you will keep coming back to that. 
 There is, maybe, a higher power at work in this, 
 and you talk of melancholy. I thought to do 
 this, madam, because in my own person, while 
 still in life, I wish to decide in my presence, 
 who is to possess what, and with what I will 
 reward each, so that they may possess, and feel 
 thankfulness, and carry out my wishes, and 
 what their father and benefactor has resolved 
 upon, they may accept as a bountiful gift.' 
 
 Harlov's voice broke again. 
 
 ' Come, that 's enough, that 's enough, my 
 good friend,' my mother cut him short ; * or 
 your raven colt will be putting in an appearance 
 in earnest.' 
 
 ' O Natalia Nikolaevna, don't talk to me of 
 it,' groaned Harlov. 'That's my death come 
 after me. Forgive my intrusion. And you, 
 my little sir, I shall have the honour of expect- 
 ing you the day after to-morrow.' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch went out ; my mother 
 looked after him, and shook her head signifi- 
 41 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 cantly. ' This is a bad business,' she murmured, 
 ' a bad business. You noticed ' — she addressed 
 herself to me — ' he talked, and all the while 
 seemed blinking, as though the sun were in his 
 eyes ; that 's a bad sign. When a man 's like 
 that, his heart 's sure to be heavy, and misfor- 
 tune threatens him. You must go over the 
 day after to-morrow with Vikenty Osipovitch 
 and Souvenir.' 
 
 42 
 
XI 
 
 On the day appointed, our big family coach, 
 with seats for four, harnessed with six bay 
 horses, and with the head coachman, the grey- 
 bearded and portly Alexeitch, on the box, rolled 
 smoothly up to the steps of our house. The 
 importance of the act upon which Harlov was 
 about to enter, and the solemnity with which 
 he had invited us, had had their effect on my 
 mother. She had herself given orders for this 
 extraordinary state equipage to be brought 
 out, and had directed Souvenir and me to put 
 on our best clothes. She obviously wished to 
 show respect to her protege. As for Kvitsinsky, 
 he always wore a frockcoat and white tie. 
 Souvenir chattered like a magpie all the way, 
 giggled, wondered whether his brother would 
 apportion him anything, and thereupon called 
 him a dummy and an old fogey. Kvitsinsky, 
 a man of severe and bilious terJfperament, 
 could not put up with it at last. ' What can 
 induce you,' he observed, in his distinct Polish 
 accent, ' to keep up such a continual unseemly 
 chatter ? Can you really be incapable of sitting 
 43 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 quiet without these "wholly superfluous " (his 
 favourite phrase) inanities?' 'All right, 
 d'rectly/ Souvenir muttered discontentedly, 
 and he fixed his squinting eyes on the carriage 
 window. A quarter of an hour had not passed, 
 the smoothly trotting horses had scarcely begun 
 to get warm under the straps of their new har- 
 ness, when Harlov's homestead came into sight. 
 Through the widely open gate, our coach rolled 
 into the yard. The diminutive postillion, whose 
 legs hardly reached halfway down his horses' 
 body, for the last time leaped up with a babyish 
 shriek into the soft saddle, old Alexeitch at 
 once spread out and raised his elbows, a slight 
 'wo-o' was heard, and we stopped. The 
 dogs did not bark to greet us, and the serf 
 boys, in long smocks that gaped open over 
 their big stomachs, had all hidden themselves. 
 Harlov's son-in-law was awaiting us in the 
 doorway. I remember I was particularly struck 
 by the birch boughs stuck in on both sides of 
 the steps, as though it were Trinity Sunday. 
 ' Grandeur upon grandeur,' Souvenir, who was 
 the first to alight, squeaked through his nose. 
 And certainly there was a solemn air about 
 everything. Harlov's son-in-law was wearing 
 a plush cravat with a satin bow, and an extra- 
 ordinarily tight tail-coat ; while Maximka, who 
 popped out behind his back, had his hair so 
 saturated with kvas, that it positively dripped. 
 We went into the parlour, and saw Martin 
 44 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Petrovitch towering — yes, positively towering 
 — motionless, in the middle of the room. I 
 don't know what Souvenir's and Kvitsinsky's 
 feelings were at the sight of his colossal figure ; 
 but I felt something akin to awe. Martin 
 Petrovitch was attired in a grey Cossack coat 
 — his militia uniform of 1812 it must have 
 been — with a black stand-up collar. A bronze 
 medal was to be seen on his breast, a sabre 
 hung at his side ; he laid his left hand on the 
 hilt, with his right he was leaning on the table, 
 which was covered with a red cloth. Two 
 sheets of paper, full of writing, lay on the table. 
 Harlov stood motionless, not even gasping ; 
 and what dignity was expressed in his attitude, 
 what confidence in himself, in his unlimited 
 and unquestionable power ! He barely greeted 
 us with a motion of the head, and barely articu- 
 lating ' Be seated ! ' pointed the forefinger of 
 his left hand in the direction of some chairs 
 set in a row. Against the right-hand wall of 
 the parlour were standing Harlov's daughters 
 wearing their Sunday clothes : Anna, in a shot 
 lilac-green dress, with a yellow silk sash ; 
 Evlampia, in pink, with crimson ribbons. Near 
 them stood Zhitkov, in a new uniform, with 
 the habitual expression of dull and greedy 
 expectation in his eyes, and with a greater 
 profusion of sweat than usual over his hirsute 
 countenance. On the left side of the room 
 sat the priest, in a threadbare snuff-coloured 
 45 
 
A LEAR OF TH.5 STEPPES 
 
 cassock, an old man, with rough brown hair. 
 This head of hair, and the dejected lack-lustre 
 eyes, and the big wrinkled hands, which seemed 
 a burden even to himself, and lay like two 
 rocks on his knees, and the tarred boots which 
 peeped out beneath his cassock, all seemed 
 to tell of a joyless laborious life. His parish 
 was a very poor one. Beside him was the 
 local police captain, a fattish, palish, dirty- 
 looking little gentleman, with soft puffy little 
 hands and feet, black eyes, black short-clipped 
 moustaches, a continual cheerful but yet sickly 
 little smile on his face. He had the reputation 
 of being a great taker of bribes, and even a 
 tyrant, as the expression was in those days. 
 But not only the gentry, even the peasants 
 were used to him, and liked him. He bent very 
 free and easy and rather ironical looks around 
 him ; it was clear that all this ' procedure ' 
 amused him. In reality, the only part that 
 had any interest for him was the light lunch 
 and spirits in store for us. But the attorney 
 sitting near him, a lean man with a long face, 
 narrow whiskers from his ears to his nose, as 
 they were worn in the days of Alexander the 
 First, was absorbed with his whole soul in 
 Martin Petrovitch's proceedings, and never 
 took his big serious eyes off him. In his con- 
 centrated attention and sympathy, he kept 
 moving and twisting his lips, though without 
 opening his mouth. Souvenir stationed him- 
 46 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 self next him, and began talking to him in a 
 whisper, after first informing me that he was 
 the chief freemason In the province. The 
 temporary division of the local court consists, 
 as every one knows, of the^olice captain, the 
 attorney, and the rural police commissioner ; 
 but the latter was either absent or kept him- 
 self in the background, so that I did not notice 
 him. He bore, however, the nickname ' the 
 non-existent' among us in the district, just as 
 there are tramps called ' the non-identified.' I 
 sat next Souvenir, Kvitsinsky next me. The 
 face of the practical Pole showed unmistake- 
 able annoyance at our 'wholly superfluous' 
 expedition, and unnecessary waste of time. 
 . . . * A grand lady's caprices ! these Russian 
 grandees' fancies ! ' he seemed to be murmuring 
 to himself. ... ' Ugh, these Russians ! ' 
 
 47 
 
XII 
 
 When we were all seated, Martin Petrovitch 
 hunched his shoulders, cleared his throat, 
 scanned us all with his bear-like little eyes, 
 and with a noisy sigh began as follows : 
 
 ' Gentlemen, I have called you together for 
 the following purpose. I am grown old, gentle- 
 men, and overcome by infirmities. . . . Already 
 I have had an intimation, the hour of death 
 steals on, like a thief in the night. . . . Isn't 
 that so, father ? ' he addressed the priest. 
 
 The priest started. ' Quite so, quite so,' he 
 mumbled, his beard shaking. 
 
 ' And therefore,' continued Martin Petro- 
 vitch, suddenly raising his voice, ' not wishing 
 the said death to come upon me unawares, I 
 purposed ' . . . Martin Petrovitch proceeded 
 to repeat, word for word, the speech he had 
 made to my mother two days before. ' In 
 accordance with this my determination,' he 
 shouted louder than ever, 'this deed' (he 
 struck his hand on the papers lying on the 
 table) ' has been drawn up by me, and the 
 presiding authorities have been invited by me, 
 48 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 and wherein my will consists the following 
 points will treat. I have ruled, my day is 
 over ! ' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch put his round iron spec- 
 tacles on his nose, took one of the written 
 sheets from the table, and began : 
 
 ' Deed of partition of the estate of the retired 
 non-commissioned officer and nobleman, Martin 
 Harlov, drawn up by himself in his full and 
 right understanding, and by his own ^^ood 
 judgment, and wherein is precisely defined 
 what benefits are assigned to his two daughters, 
 Anna and Evlampia — bow!' — (they bowed), 
 ' and in what way the serfs and other property, 
 and live stock, be apportioned between the 
 said daughters ! Under my hand ! ' 
 
 ' This is their document ! ' the police captain 
 whispered to Kvitsinsky, with his invariable 
 smile, ' they want to read it for the beauty of 
 the style, but the legal deed is made out for- 
 mally, without all these flourishes.' 
 
 Souvenir was beginning to snigger. . . . 
 
 ' In accordance with my will,' put in Harlov, 
 who had caught the police captain's remark. 
 
 ' In accordance in every point,' the latter 
 hastened to respond cheerfully ; ' only, as 
 you 're aware, Martin Petrovitch, there 's no 
 dispensing with formality. And unnecessary 
 details have been removed. For the chamber 
 can't enter into the question of spotted cows 
 and fancy drakes.' 
 
 49 D 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' Come here ! ' boomed Harlov to his son-in- 
 law, who had come into the room behind us, 
 and remained standing with an obsequious air 
 near the door. He skipped up to his father-in- 
 law at once. 
 
 ' There, take it and read ! It 's hard for me. 
 Only mind and don't mumble it ! Let all the 
 gentlemen present be able to understand it.' 
 
 Sletkin took the paper in both hands, and 
 began timidly, but distinctly, and with taste 
 and feeling, to read the deed of partition. 
 There was set forth in it with the greatest 
 accuracy just what was assigned to Anna and 
 what to Evlampia, and how the division was 
 to be made. Harlov from time to time inter- 
 spersed the reading with phrases. ' Do you 
 hear, that 's for you, Anna, for your zeal ! ' or, 
 ' That I give you, Evlampia ! ' and both the 
 sisters bowed, Anna from the waist, Evlampia 
 simply with a motion of the head. Harlov 
 looked at them with stern dignity. ' The farm 
 house ' (the little new building) was assigned 
 by him to Evlampia, as the younger daughter, 
 ' by the well-known custom.' The reader's 
 voice quivered and resounded at these words, 
 unfavourable for himself; while Zhitkov licked 
 his lips. Evlampia gave him a sidelong glance ; 
 had I been in Zhitkov's shoes, I should not have 
 liked that glance. The scornful expression, 
 characteristic of Evlampia, as of every genuine 
 Russian beauty, had a peculiar shade at that 
 50 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 moment. For himself, Martin Petrovitch 
 reserved the right to go on living in the rooms 
 he occupied, and assigned to himself, under 
 the name of ' rations,' a full allowance * of 
 normal provisions,' and ten roubles a month 
 for clothes. The last phrase of the deed 
 Harlov wished to read himself. ' And this 
 my parental will,' it ran, ' to carry out and 
 observe is a sacred and binding duty on my 
 daughters, seeing it is a command ; seeing 
 that I am, after God, their father and head, 
 and am not bounden to render an account to 
 any, nor have so rendered. And do they carry 
 out my will, so will my fatherly blessing be 
 with them, but should they not so do, which 
 God forbid, then will they be overtaken by my 
 paternal curse that cannot be averted, now and 
 for ever, amen !' Harlov raised the deed high 
 above his head. Anna at once dropped on her 
 knees and touched the ground with her fore- 
 head ; her husband, too, doubled up after her. 
 ' Well, and you ? ' Harlov turned to Evlampia. 
 She crimsoned all over, and she too bowed to 
 the earth ; Zhitkov bent his whole carcase 
 forward. 
 
 ' Sign ! ' cried Harlov, pointing his forefinger 
 to the bottom of the deed. ' Here : " I thank 
 and accept, Anna. I thank and accept, Ev- 
 lampia ! " ' 
 
 Both daughters rose, and signed one after 
 another. Sletkin rose too, and was feeling 
 51 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 after the pen, but Harlov moved him aside, 
 sticking his middle finger into his cravat, so 
 that he gasped. The silence lasted a moment. 
 Suddenly Martin Petrovitch gave a sort of sob, 
 and muttering, ' Well, now it 's all yours ! ' 
 moved away. His daughters and son-in-law 
 looked at one another, went up to him and 
 began kissing him just above his elbow. His 
 shoulder they could not reach. 
 
 52 
 
XIII 
 
 The police captain read the real formal 
 document, the deed of gift, drawn up by Martin 
 Petrovitch. Then he went out on to the steps 
 with the attorney and explained what had 
 taken place to the crowd assembled at the 
 gates, consisting of the witnesses required by 
 law and other people from the neighbourhood, 
 Harlov's peasants, and a few house-serfs. Then 
 began the ceremony of the new owners entering 
 into possession. They came out, too, upon 
 the steps, and the police captain pointed to 
 them when, slightly scowling with one eyebrow, 
 while his careless face assumed for an instant 
 a threatening air, he exhorted the crowd to 
 ' subordination.' He might well have dispensed 
 with these exhortations : a less unruly set of 
 countenances than those of the Harlov peasants, 
 I imagine, have never existed in creation. 
 Clothed in thin smocks and torn sheepskins, 
 but very tightly girt round their waists, as is 
 always the peasants' way on solemn occasions, 
 they stood motionless as though cut out of 
 stone, and whenever the police captain uttered 
 53 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 any exclamation such as, ' D' ye hear, you 
 brutes ? d' ye understand, you devils ? ' they 
 suddenly bowed all at once, as though at the 
 word of command. Each of these ' brutes and 
 devils' held his cap tight in both hands, and 
 never took his eyes off the window, where 
 Martin Petrovitch's figure was visible. The 
 witnesses themselves were hardly less awed. 
 ' Is any impediment known to you,' the police 
 captain roared at them, ' against the entrance 
 into possession of these the sole and legitimate 
 heirs and daughters of Martin Petrovitch 
 Harlov?' 
 
 All the witnesses seemed to huddle together 
 at once. 
 
 ' Do you know any, you devils ? ' the police 
 captain shouted again. 
 
 ' We know nothing, your excellency,' re- 
 sponded sturdily a little old man, marked with 
 small-pox, with a clipped beard and whiskers, 
 an old soldier. 
 
 ' I say ! Eremeitch 's a bold fellow 1 ' the 
 witnesses said of him as they dispersed. 
 
 In spite of the police captain's entreaties, 
 Harlov would not come out with his daughters 
 on to the steps. ' My subjects will obey my 
 will without that ! ' he answered. Something 
 like sadness had come over him on the comple- 
 tion of the conveyance. His face had grown 
 pale. This new unprecedented expression of 
 sadness looked so out of place on Martin 
 54 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Petrovitch's broad and kindly features that I 
 positively was at a loss what to think. Was 
 an attack of melancholy coming over him ? 
 The peasants, on their side, too, were obviously 
 puzzled. And no wonder! 'The master's 
 alive, — there he stands, and such a master, too ; 
 Martin Petrovitch ! And all of a sudden he 
 won't be their owner. ... A queer thing ! ' 
 I don't know whether Harlov had an inkling 
 of the notions that were straying through his 
 'subjects" heads, or whether he wanted to 
 display his power for the last time, but he 
 suddenly opened the little window, stuck his 
 head out, and shouted in a voice of thunder, 
 ' obedience ! ' Then he slammed-to the window. 
 The peasants' bewilderment was certainly not 
 dispelled nor decreased by this proceeding. 
 They became stonier than ever, and even 
 seemed to cease looking at anything. The 
 group of house-serfs (among them were two 
 sturdy wenches, in short chintz gowns, with 
 muscles such as one might perhaps match in 
 Michael Angelo's ' Last Judgment,' and one 
 utterly decrepit old man, hoary with age and 
 half blind, in a threadbare frieze cloak, rumoured 
 to have been 'cornet-player' in the days of 
 Potemkin, — the page Maximka, Harlov had 
 reserved for himself) this group showed more 
 life than the peasants ; at least, it moved rest- 
 lessly about. The new mistresses themselves 
 were very dignified in their attitude, especially 
 55 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Anna. Her thin lips tightly compressed, she 
 looked obstinately down . . . her stern figure 
 augured little good to the house-serfs. Ev- 
 lampia, too, did not raise her eyes ; only once 
 she turned round and deliberately, as it were 
 with surprise, scanned her betrothed, Zhitkov, 
 who had thought fit, following Sletkin, to come 
 out, too, on to the steps. ' What business have 
 you here ? ' those handsome prominent eyes 
 seemed to demand. Sletkin was the most 
 changed of all. A bustling cheeriness showed 
 itself in his whole bearing, as though he were 
 overtaken by hunger ; the movements of his 
 head and his legs were as obsequious as ever, 
 but how gleefully he kept working his arms, 
 how fussily he twitched his shoulder-blades. 
 ' Arrived at last ! ' he seemed to say. Having 
 finished the ceremony of the entrance into 
 possession, the police captain, whose mouth 
 was literally watering at the prospect of lunch, 
 rubbed his hands in that peculiar manner which 
 usually precedes the tossing-ofif of the first 
 glass of spirits. But it appeared that Martin 
 Petrovitch wished first to have a service per- 
 formed with sprinklings of holy water. The 
 priest put on an ancient and decrepit chasuble ; 
 a decrepit deacon came out of the kitchen, 
 with difficulty kindling the incense in an old 
 brazen church-vessel. The service began. 
 Harlov sighed continually ; he was unable, 
 owing to his corpulence, to bow to the ground, 
 56 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 but crossing himself with his right hand and ,' 
 bending his head, he pointed with the fore- ^ 
 finger of his left hand to the floor. Sletkin 
 positively beamed and even shed tears. Zhit- 
 kov, with dignity, in martial fashion, flourished 
 his fingers only slightly between the third and 
 fourth button of his uniform. Kvitsinsky, as 
 a Catholic, remained in the nexTToom! Hut 
 the~"attorney prayed so fervently, sighed so 
 sympathetically after Martin Petrovitch, and 
 so persistently muttered and chewed his lips, 
 turning his eyes upwards, that I felt moved, as 
 I looked at him, and began to pray fervently 
 too. At the conclusion of the service and the 
 sprinkling with holy water, during which every 
 one present, even the blind cornet-player, the 
 contemporary of Potemkin, even Kvitsinsky, 
 moistened their eyes with holy water, Anna and 
 Evlampia once more, at Martin Petrovitch's 
 bidding, prostrated themselves to the ground to 
 thank him. Then at last came the moment of 
 lunch. There were a great many dishes and all 
 very nice ; we all ate terribly much. The inevit- 
 able bottle of Don wine made its appearance. 
 The police captain, who was of all of us the 
 most familiar with the usages of the world, and 
 besides, the representative of government, was 
 the first to propose the toast to the health ' of 
 the fair proprietresses ! ' Then he proposed we 
 should drink to the health of our most honoured 
 and most generous -hearted friend, Martin 
 57 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Petrovitch. At the words ' most generous- 
 hearted,' Sletkin uttered a shrill little cry and 
 ran to kiss his benefactor. . . . ' There, that '11 
 do, that'll do,' muttered Harlov, as it were 
 with annoyance, keeping him off with his 
 elbow . . . But at this point a not quite 
 pleasant, as they say, incident took place. 
 
 58 
 
Souvenir, who had been drinking continuously 
 ever since the beginning of luncheon, suddenly 
 got up from his chair as red as a beetroot, and 
 pointing his finger at Martin Petrovitch, went 
 off into his mawkish, paltry laugh. 
 
 ' Generous-hearted ! Generous-hearted ! ' he 
 began croaking ; ' but we shall see whether 
 this generosity will be much to his taste when 
 he's stripped naked, the servant of God . . . 
 and out in the snow, too ! ' 
 
 ' What rot are you talking, fool ? ' said Harlov 
 contemptuously. 
 
 ' Fool ! fool ! ' repeated Souvenir. * God 
 
 Almighty alone knows which of us is the real 
 
 'looT. But you, brother, did my sister, your 
 
 wife, to her death, and now you Ve done for 
 
 yourself . . . ha-ha-ha ! ' 
 
 ' How dare you insult our honoured bene- 
 factor?' Sletkin began shrilly, and, tearing 
 himself away from Martin Petrovitch, whose 
 shoulder he had clutched, he flew at Souvenir. 
 ' But let me tell you, if our benefactor desires 
 it, we can cancel the deed this very minute ! ' 
 59 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 * And yet, you '11 strip him naked, and turn 
 him out into the snow . . .' returned Souvenir, 
 retreating behind Kvitsinsky. 
 
 ' Silence ! ' thundered Harlov. ' I '11 pound 
 you into a jelly ! And you hold your tongue 
 too, puppy ! ' he turned to Sletkin ; ' don't put 
 in your word where you 're not wanted ! If I, 
 Martin Petrovitch Harlov, have decided to 
 make a deed of partition, who can cancel the 
 same act against my will ? Why, in the whole 
 world there is no power.' . . . 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch ! ' the attorney began in a 
 mellow bass — he too had drunk a good deal, 
 but his dignity was only increased thereby — 
 'but how if the gentleman has spoken the 
 truth ? You have done a generous action ; to be 
 sure, but how if — God forbid — in reality m place 
 of fitting gratitude, some affront come of it ? ' 
 
 I stole a glance at both Martin Petrovitch's 
 daughters. Anna's eyes were simply pinned 
 upon the speaker, and a face more spiteful, 
 more snake-like, and more beautiful in its very 
 spite I had certainly never seen ! Evlampia 
 sat turned away, with her arms folded. A 
 smile more scornful than ever curved her full, 
 rosy lips. 
 
 Harlov got up from his chair, opened his 
 mouth, but apparently his tongue failed him. 
 . . . He suddenly brought his fist down on the 
 table, so that everything in the room danced 
 and rang. 
 
 60 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' Father/ Anna said hurriedly, ' they do not 
 know us, and that is why they judge of us so. 
 But don't, please, make yourself ill. You are 
 angered for nothing, indeed ; see, your face is, 
 as it were, twisted awry.' 
 
 Harlov looked towards Evlampia ; she did 
 not stir, though Zhitkov, sitting beside her, 
 gave her a poke in the side. 
 
 ' Thank you, my daughter Anna,' said Harlov 
 huskily ; ' you are a sensible girl ; I rely upon 
 you and on your husband too.' Sletkin once 
 more gave vent to a shrill little sound ; Zhitkov 
 expanded his chest and gave a little scrape 
 with his foot; but Harlov did not observe his 
 efforts. ' This dolt,' he went on, with a motion 
 of his chin in the direction of Souvenir, 'is 
 pleased to get a chance to teaze me ; but you, 
 my dear sir,' he addressed himself to the 
 attorney, 'it is not for you to pass judgment 
 on Martin Harlov ; that is something beyond 
 you. Though you are a man in official posi- 
 tion, your words are most foolish. Besides, the 
 deed is done, there will be no going back from 
 my determination. . . . Now, I will wish you 
 good-day, I am going away. I am no longer 
 the master of this house, but a guest in it. 
 Anna, do you do your best ; but I will go to 
 my own room. Enough ! ' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch turned his back on us, and, 
 without adding another word, walked deliber- 
 ately out of the room. 
 
 6i 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 This sudden withdrawal on the part of our 
 host could not but break up the party, especially 
 as the two hostesses also vanished not long after. 
 Sletkin vainly tried to keep us. The police 
 captain did not fail to blame the attorney for 
 his uncalled-for candour. ' Couldn't help it!' the 
 latter responded. . . . ' My conscience spoke.' 
 
 ' There, you see that he 's a mason,' Souvenir 
 whispered to me. 
 
 ' Conscience ! ' retorted the police captain. 
 ' We know all about your conscience ! I sup- 
 pose it's in your pocket, just the same as it 
 is with us sinners ! ' 
 
 The priest, meanwhile, even though already 
 on his feet, foreseeing the speedy termination 
 of the repast, lifted mouthful after mouthful to 
 his mouth without a pause. 
 
 'You've got a fine appetite, I see,' Sletkin 
 observed to him sharply. 
 
 ' Storing up for the future,' the priest re- 
 sponded with a meek grimace ; years of hunger 
 were expressed in that reply. 
 
 The carriages rattled up . . . and we sepa- 
 rated. On the way home, no one hindered 
 Souvenir's chatter and silly tricks, as Kvitsinsky 
 had announced that he was sick of all this 
 ' wholl)^ superfluous ' unpleasantness, and had 
 set off home before us on foot. In his place, 
 Zhitkov took a seat in our coach. The re- 
 tired major wore a most dissatisfied expression, 
 and kept twitching his moustaches like a spider. 
 62 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 * Well, your noble Excellency/ lisped Souvenir, 
 ' is subordination exploded, eh ? Wait a bit 
 and see what will happen ! They '11 give you 
 the sack too. Ah, a poor bridegroom you are, 
 a poor bridegroom, an unlucky bridegroom ! ' 
 
 Souvenir was positively beside himself; while 
 poor Zhitkov could do nothing but twitch his 
 moustaches. 
 
 When I got home I told my mother all I 
 had seen. She heard me to the end, and shook 
 her head several times. 'It's a bad business,' 
 was her comment. * I don't like all these 
 innovations ! ' 
 
 63 
 
XV 
 
 Next day Martin Petrovitch came to dinner. 
 My mother congratulated him on the successful 
 conclusion of his project. 'You are now a free 
 man,' she said, ' and ought to feel more at ease.' 
 
 ' More at ease, to be sure, madam,' answered 
 Martin Petrovitch, by no means, however, show- 
 ing in the expression of his face that he really 
 was more at ease. ' Now I can meditate upon 
 my soul, and make ready for my last hour, as 
 I ought' 
 
 ' Well,' queried my mother, * and do the 
 shooting pains still tingle in your arms ^ ' 
 
 Harlov twice clenched and unclenched his 
 left arm. ' They do, madam ; and I 've some- 
 thing else to tell you. As I begin to drop 
 asleep, some one cries in my head, " Take 
 care ! " " Take care ! " ' 
 
 'That's nerves,' observed my mother, and 
 she began speaking of the previous day, and 
 referred to certain circumstances which had 
 attended the completion of the deed of parti- 
 tion. . . . 
 
 ' To be sure, to be sure,' Harlov interrupted 
 64 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 her, ' there was something of the sort ... of no 
 consequence. Only there 's something I would 
 tell you/ he added, hesitating — ' I was not dis- 
 turbed yesterday by Souvenir's silly words — 
 even Mr. Attorney, though he's no fool — even 
 he did not trouble me ; no, it was quite 
 
 another person disturbed me ' Here 
 
 Harlov faltered. 
 
 ' Who ? ' asked my mother. 
 
 Harlov fastened his eyes upon her : 
 ' Evlampia ! ' 
 
 'Evlampia? Your daughter? How was 
 that ? ' 
 
 ' Upon my word, madam, she was like a 
 stone ! nothing but a statue ! Can it be she 
 has no feeling? Her sister, Anna — well, she 
 was all she should be. She's a keen-witted 
 creature ! But Evlampia — why, I 'd shown her 
 — I must own — so much partiality ! Can it be 
 she's no feeling for me! It's clear I'm in a 
 bad way ; it 's clear I 've a feeling that I 'm not 
 long for this world, since I make over every- 
 thing to them ; and yet she's like a stone ! she 
 might at least utter a sound ! Bows — yes, she 
 bows, but there's no thankfulness to be 
 seen.' 
 
 ' There, give over,' observed my mother, ' we '11 
 marry her to Gavrila Fedulitch . . . she'll soon 
 get softer in his hand?.' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch once more looked from 
 under his brows at my mother. ' Well, there 's 
 65 E 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Gavrila Fedulitch, to be sure ! You have con- 
 fidence in him, then, madam ? ' 
 
 * I 've confidence in him.' 
 
 ' Very well ; you should know best, to be 
 sure. But Evlampia, let me tell you, is like 
 me. The character is just the same. She 
 has the wild Cossack blood, and her heart's 
 like a burning coal ! ' 
 
 ' Why, do you mean to tell me you 've a 
 heart like that, my dear sir ? ' 
 
 Harlov made no answer. A brief silence 
 followed. 
 
 ' What are you going to do, Martin Petro- 
 vitch,' my mother began, ' in what way do you 
 mean to set about saving your soul now ? Will 
 you set off to Mitrophan or to Kiev, or may 
 be you'll go to the Optin desert, as it's in the 
 neighbourhood ? There, they do say, there 's 
 a holy monk appeared . . . Father Makary 
 they call him, no one remembers any one like 
 him ! He sees right through all sins.' 
 £ 'If she really turns out an ungrateful daughter,' 
 Harlov enunciated in a husky voice, 'then it 
 would be better for me, I believe, to kill her 
 with my own hands ! ' 
 
 ' What are you saying ! Lord, have mercy on 
 you ! ' cried my mother. ' Think what you 're 
 saying ! There, see, what a pretty pass it 's 
 come to. You should have listened to me the 
 other day when you came to consult me ! Now, 
 here, you '11 go tormenting yourself, instead of 
 66 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 thinking of your soul ! You '11 be torment- 
 ing yourself, and all to no purpose ! Yes ! 
 Here you 're complaining now, and faint- 
 hearted . . .' 
 
 This reproach seemed to stab Harlov to the 
 heart. All his old pride came back to him 
 with a rush. He shook himself, and thrust 
 out his chin. ' I am not a man, madam, Natalia 
 Nikolaevna, to complain or be faint-hearted,' he 
 began sullenly. ' I simply wished to reveal my 
 feelings to you as my benefactress and a person 
 I respect. But the Lord God knows (here he 
 raised his hand high above his head) that this 
 globe of earth may crumble to pieces before I 
 will go back from my word, or . . . (here he 
 positively snorted) show a faint heart, or regret 
 what I have done ! I had good reasons, be 
 sure ! My daughters will never forget their 
 duty, for ever and ever, amen ! ' 
 
 My mother stopped her ears. ' What 's this 
 for, my good sir, like a trumpet-blast! If you 
 really have such faith in your family, well, praise 
 the Lord for it ! You Ve quite put my brains 
 in a whirl ! ' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch begged pardon, sighed 
 twice, and was silent. My mother once more 
 referred to Kiev, the Optin desert, and Father 
 Makary. . . . Harlov assented, said that 'he 
 must ... he must ... he would have to . . . 
 his soul' . . . and that was all. He did not 
 regain his cheerfulness before he went away. 
 67 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 From time to time he clenched and unclenched 
 his fist, looked at his open hand, said that what 
 he feared above everything was dying without 
 repentance, from a stroke, and that he had 
 made a vow to himself not to get angry, as 
 anger vitiated his blood and drove it to his 
 head. . . . Besides, he had now withdrawn from 
 everything. What grounds could he have for 
 getting angry ? Let other people trouble them- 
 selves now and vitiate their blood ! 
 
 As he took leave of my mother he looked at 
 her in a strange way, mournfully and question- 
 ingly . . . and suddenly, with a rapid movement, 
 drew out of his pocket the volume of The 
 Worker's Leisure-Hour^ and thrust it into my 
 mother's hand. 
 
 ' What 's that ? ' she inquired. 
 
 'Read . . . here,' he said hurriedly, 'where 
 the corner's turned down, about death. It 
 seems to me, it 's terribly well said, but I can't 
 make it out at all. Can't you explain it to me, 
 my benefactress ? I '11 come back again and 
 you explain it me.' 
 
 With these words Martin Petrovitch went 
 away. 
 
 ' He 's in a bad way, he 's in a bad way,' 
 observed my mother, directly he had disap- 
 peared through the doorway, and she set to 
 work upon the Leisure-Hour. On the page 
 turned down by Harlov were the following 
 words : 
 
 68 
 
^^ A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 y^ * Death is a grand and solemn work of 
 I nature. It is nothing else than that the spirit, 
 I inasmuch as it is lighter, finer, and infinitely 
 more penetrathig than those elements under 
 whose sway it has been subject, nay, even than 
 the force of electricity itself, so is chemically 
 purified and striveth upward till what time it 
 attaineth an equally spiritual abiding-place for 
 itself . . .' and so on. 
 
 My mother read this passage through twice, 
 and exclaiming, ' Pooh ! ' she flung the book 
 away. 
 
 Three days later, she received the news that 
 her sister's husband was dead, and set off to 
 her sister's country-seat, taking me with her. 
 My mother proposed to spend a month with 
 her, but she stayed on till late in the autumn, 
 and it was only at the end of September that 
 we returned to our own estate. 
 
 69 
 
XVI 
 
 The first news with which my valet, Prokofy, 
 greeted me (he regarded himself as the seig- 
 norial huntsman) was that there was an immense 
 number of wild snipe on the wing, and that in 
 the birch-copse near Eskovo(Harlov's property), 
 especially, they were simply swarming. I had 
 three hours before me till dinner-time. I 
 promptly seized my gun and my game-bag, 
 and with Prokofy and a setter-dog, hastened 
 to the Eskovo copse. We certainly did find a 
 great many wild snipe there, and, firing about 
 thirty charges, killed five. As I hurried 
 homewards with my booty, I saw a peasant 
 ploughing near the road-side. His horse had 
 stopped, and with tearful and angry abuse he 
 was mercilessly tugging with the cord reins at 
 the animal's head, which was bent on one side. 
 I looked attentively at the luckless beast, 
 whose ribs were all but through its skin, and, 
 bathed in sweat, heaved up and down with 
 convulsive, irregular movements like a black- 
 smith's bellows. I recognised it at once as 
 the decrepit old mare, with the scar on her 
 70 
 
r; 
 
 A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 shoulder, who had served Martin Petrovitch 
 so many years. 
 
 ' Is Mr. Harlov living ? ' I asked Prokofy. 
 The chase had so completely absorbed us, that 
 up to that instant we had not talked of any- 
 thing. 
 
 ' Yes, he 's alive. Why ? ' 
 
 ' But that 's his mare, isn't it? Do you mean 
 to say he 's sold her ? ' 
 
 ' His mare it is, to be sure ; but as to selling, 
 he never sold her. But they took her away 
 from him, and handed her over to that peasant' 
 
 ' How, took it ? And he consented ? ' 
 
 ' They never asked his consent. Things have 
 changed here in your absence,' Prokofy observed, 
 with a faint smile in response to my look of 
 amazement ; ' worse luck ! My goodness, yes ! 
 Now Sletkin 's master, and orders every one 
 about.' 
 
 ' But Martin Petrovitch ? ' 
 
 ' Why, Martin Petrovitch has become the 
 ery last person here, you may say. He 's on 
 bread and water, — what more can one say? 
 They've crushed him altogether. Mark my 
 words ; they '11 drive him out of the house.' 
 
 The idea that it was possible to drive such a 
 giant had never entered my head. ' And what 
 does Zhitkov say to it?' I asked at last. 'I 
 suppose he's married to the second daughter?' 
 
 ' Married ? ' repeated Prokofy, and this time 
 he grinned all over his face. * They won't let 
 71 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 him into the house. " We don't want you," 
 they say ; " get along home with you." It 's as 
 I said ; Sletkin directs every one.' 
 
 ' But what does the young lady say ? ' 
 
 ' Evlampia Martinovna ? Ah, master, I could 
 tell you . . . but you 're young — one must 
 think of that. Things are going on here that 
 are ... oh ! ... oh ! ... oh ! Hey ! why 
 Dianka 's setting, I do believe ! ' 
 
 My dog actually had stopped short, before 
 a thick oak bush which bordered a narrow 
 ravine by the roadside. Prokofy and I ran up 
 to the dog ; a snipe flew up out of the bush, 
 we both fired at it and missed ; the snipe settled 
 in another place ; we followed it. 
 
 The soup was already on the table when I 
 got back. My mother scolded me. * What 's 
 the meaning of it ? ' she said with displeasure ; 
 'the very first day, and you keep us waiting 
 for dinner.' I brought her the wild snipe I had 
 killed ; she did not even look at them. There 
 were also in the room Souvenir, Kvitsinsky, 
 and Zhitkov. The retired major was huddled 
 in a corner, for all the world like a schoolboy 
 in disgrace. His face wore an expression of 
 mingled confusion and annoyance ; his eyes 
 were red . . . One might positively have 
 imagined he had recently been in tears. My 
 mother remained in an ill humour. I was at 
 no great pains to surmise that my late arrival 
 did not count for much in it. During dinner- 
 72 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 time she hardly talked at all. The major 
 turned beseeching glances upon her from 
 time to time, but ate a good dinner neverthe- 
 less. Souvenir was all of a shake. Kvitsinsky 
 preserved his habitual self-confidence of de- 
 meanour. 
 
 'Vikenty Osipitch,' my mother addressed 
 him, * I beg you to send a carriage to-morrow 
 for Martin Petrovitch, since it has come to my 
 knowledge that he has none of his own. And 
 bid them tell him to come without fail, that I 
 desire to see him.' 
 
 Kvitsinsky was about to make some rejoinder, 
 but he restrained himself. 
 
 ' And let Sletkin know,' continued my mother, 
 ' that I command him to present himself before 
 me . . . Do you hear ^ I com . . . mand ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, just so , . . that scoundrel ought ' 
 
 Zhitkov was beginning in a subdued voice ; but 
 my mother gave him such a contemptuous 
 look, that he promptly turned away and was 
 silent. 
 
 ' Do you hear ? I command ! ' repeated my 
 mother. 
 
 ' Certainly, madam,' Kvitsinsky replied sub- 
 missively but with dignity. 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch won't come ! ' Souvenir 
 whispered to me, as he came out of the dining- 
 room with me after dinner. ' You should just 
 see what 's happened to him! It's past com- 
 prehension! It's come to this, that whatever 
 73 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 they say to him, he doesn't understand a word ! 
 Yes ! They 've got the snake under the pitch- 
 fork ! ' 
 
 And Souvenir went off into his • revolting 
 laugh. 
 
 74 
 
XVII 
 
 Souvenir's prediction turned out correct. 
 Martin Petrovitch would not come to my mother. 
 She was not at all pleased with this, and 
 despatched a letter to him. He sent her a 
 square bit of paper, on which the following 
 words were written in big letters : ' Indeed I a 
 can't. I should die of shame. Let me go to ! 
 my ruin. Thanks. Don't torture me. — Martin ; 
 Harlov.' Sletkin did come, but not on the day 
 on which my mother had ' commanded ' his 
 attendance, but twenty-four hours later. My 
 mother gave orders that he should be shown 
 into' her boudoir. . . . God knows what their 
 interview was about, but it did not last long ; 
 a quarter of an hour, not more. Sletkin came 
 out of my mother's room, crimson all over, and 
 with such a viciously spiteful and insolent 
 expression of face, that, meeting him in the 
 drawing-room, I was simply petrified, while 
 Souvenir, who was hanging about there, stopped 
 short in the middle of a snigger. My mother 
 came out of her boudoir, also very red in the 
 75 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 face, and announced, in the hearing of all, that 
 Mr. Sletkin was never, upon any pretext, to be 
 admitted to her presence again, and that if 
 Martin Petrovitch's daughters were to make 
 bold — they've impudence enough, said she — 
 to present themselves, they, too, were to be 
 refused admittance. At dinner-time she sud- 
 denly exclaimed, 'The vile little Jew ! I picked 
 him out of the gutter, I made him a career, 
 he owes everything, everything to me, — and he 
 dares to tell me I 've no business to meddle in 
 their affairs ! that Martin Petrovitch is full of 
 whims and fancies, and it's impossible to 
 humour him ! Humour him, indeed ! What a 
 thing to say ! Ah, he 's an ungrateful wretch ! 
 An insolent little Jew ! ' 
 
 Major Zhitkov, who happened to be one of the 
 company at dinner, imagined that now it was 
 no less than the will of the Almighty for him to 
 seize the opportunity and put in his word . . . 
 but my mother promptly settled him. ' Well, 
 and you 're a fine one, too, my man ! ' she com- 
 mented. ' Couldn't get the upper hand of a 
 girl, and he an officer ! In command of a 
 squadron ! I can fancy how it obeyed you ! 
 He take a steward's place indeed ! a fine steward 
 he 'd make ! ' 
 
 Kvitsinsky, who was sitting at the end of the 
 
 table, smiled to himself a little malignantly, 
 
 while poor Zhitkov could do nothing but twitch 
 
 his moustaches, lift his eyebrows, and bury 
 
 76 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 the whole of his hirsute countenance in his 
 napkin. 
 
 After dinner, he went out on to the steps to 
 smoke his pipe as usual, and he struck me as 
 so miserable and forlorn, that, although I had 
 never liked him, I joined myself on to him at 
 once. 
 
 ' How was it, Gavrila Fedulitch,' I began 
 without further beating about the bush, 'that 
 your affair with Evlampia Martinovna was 
 broken off? I 'd expected you to be married 
 long ago.' 
 
 The retired major looked at me dejectedly. 
 
 ' A snake in the grass,' he began, uttering 
 each letter of each syllable with bitter distinct- 
 ness, * has poisoned me with his fang, and turned 
 all my hopes in life to ashes. And I could tell 
 you, Dmitri Semyonovitch, all his hellish wiles, 
 but T^'nr~aIraTd' of angering your mamma. 
 (' You 're young yet ' — Prokofy's expression 
 
 flashed across my mind.) ' Even as it is' 
 
 Zhitkov groaned. 
 
 ' Patience . . . patience . . . nothing else is 
 left me. (He struck his fist upon his chest.) 
 Patience, old soldier, patience. I served the 
 Tsar faithfully . . . honourably . . . yes. I 
 spared neither blood nor sweat, and now see 
 what I am brought to. Had it been in the 
 regiment — and the matter depending upon me,' 
 he continued after a short silence, spent in 
 convulsively sucking at his cherrywood pipe, 
 
 n 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' I 'd have . . . I 'd have given it him with the 
 flat side of my sword . . . three times over 
 . . . till he 'd had enough . . .' 
 
 Zhitkov took the pipe out of his mouth, and 
 fixed his eyes on vacancy, as though admiring 
 the picture he had conjured up. 
 
 Souvenir ran up, and began quizzing the 
 major. I turned away from them, and deter- 
 mined, come what may, I would see Martin 
 Petrovitch with my own eyes. . . . My boyish 
 curiosity was greatly stirred. 
 
 78 
 
XVIII 
 
 Next day I set out with my gun and dog, 
 but without Prokofy, to the Eskovo copse. It 
 was an exquisite day ; I fancy there are no 
 days like that in September anywhere but in 
 Russia. The stillness was such that one could 
 hear, a hundred paces off, the squirrel hopping 
 over the dry leaves, and the broken twig just 
 feebly catching at the other branches, and fall- 
 ing, at last, on the soft grass — to lie there for 
 ever, not to stir again till it rotted away. The 
 air, neither warm nor chill, but only fragrant, 
 and as it were keen, was faintly, deliciously 
 stinging in my eyes and on my cheeks. A long 
 spider-web, delicate as a silken thread, with a 
 white ball in the middle, floated smoothly in 
 the air, and sticking to the butt-end of my gun, 
 stretched straight out in the air — a sign of settled 
 and warm weather. The sun shone with a 
 brightness as soft as moonlight. Wild snipe 
 were to be met with pretty often ; but I did not 
 pay special attention to them. I knew that the 
 copse went on almost to Harlov's homestead, 
 right up to the hedge of his garden, and I turned 
 79 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 my steps in that direction, though I could not 
 even imagine how I should get into the place 
 itself, and was even doubtful whether I ought to 
 try to do so, as my mother was so angry with 
 its new owners. Sounds of life and humanity 
 reached me from no great distance. I listened., 
 . . . Some one was coming through the copse . . . 
 straight towards me. 
 
 ' You should have said so straight out, dear,' 
 I heard a woman's voice, 
 
 ' Be reasonable,' another voice broke in, the 
 voice of a man. ' Can one do it all at once ? ' 
 
 I knew the voices. There was the gleam of 
 a woman's blue gown through the reddening 
 nut bushes. Beside it stood a dark full coat. 
 Another instant — and there stepped out into 
 the glade, five paces from me, Sletkin and 
 Evlampia. 
 
 They were disconcerted at once. Evlampia 
 promptly stepped back, away into the bushes. 
 Sletkin thought a little, and came up to me. 
 There was not a trace to be seen in his face of 
 the obsequious meekness, with which he had 
 paced up and down Harlov's courtyard, four 
 months before, rubbing up my horse's snaffle. 
 But neither could I perceive in it the insolent 
 defiance, which had so struck me on the pre- 
 vious day, on the threshold of my mother's 
 boudoir. It was still as white and pretty as 
 ever, but seemed broader and more solid. 
 
 ' Well, have you shot many snipe ? ' he asked 
 80 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 me, raising his cap, smiling, and passing his 
 hand over his black curls ; ' you are shooting in 
 our copse. . . . You are very welcome. We 
 would not hinder you. . . . Quite the contrary.' 
 
 ' I have killed nothing to-day,' I rejoined, 
 answering his first question ; ' and I will go 
 out of your copse this instant.' 
 
 Sletkin hurriedly put on his cap. ' Indeed, 
 why so ? We would not drive you out — indeed, 
 we're delighted. . . . Here 's Evlampia Martin- 
 ovna will say the same. Evlampia Martinovna, 
 come here. Where have you hidden yourself ? ' 
 Evlampia's head appeared behind the bushes. 
 But she did not come up to us. She had grown 
 prettier, and seemed taller and bigger than ever. 
 
 ' I 'm very glad, to tell the truth,' Sletkin 
 went on, ' that I have met you. Though you 
 are still young in years, you have plenty of 
 good sense already. Your mother was pleased 
 to be very angry with me yesterday — she 
 would not listen to reason of any sort from me, 
 but I declare, as before God, so before you 
 now, I am not to blame in any way. We 
 can't treat Martin Petrovitch otherwise than 
 we do ; he 's fallen into complete dotage. One 
 can't humour all his whims, really. But we 
 show him all due respect. Only ask Evlampia 
 Martinovna.' 
 
 Evlampia did not stir ; her habitual scornful 
 smile flickered about her lips, and her large 
 eyes watched us with no friendly expression. 
 8i F 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' But why, Vladimir Vassilievitch, have you 
 sold Martin Petrovitch's mare?' (I was par- 
 ticularly impressed by that mare being in the 
 possession of a peasant.) 
 
 ' His mare, why did we sell it ? Why, Lord 
 have mercy on us — what use was she ? She was 
 simply eating her head off. But with the pea- 
 sant she can work at the plough anyway. As 
 for Martin Petrovitch, if he takes a fancy to 
 drive out anywhere, he 's only to ask us. We 
 wouldn't refuse him a conveyance. On a holi- 
 day, we should be pleased.' 
 
 ' Vladimir Vassilievitch,' said Evlampia husk- 
 ily, as though calling him away, and she still 
 did not stir from her place. She was twisting 
 some stalks of ripple grass round her fingers 
 and snapping off their heads, slapping them 
 against each other. 
 
 ' About the page Maximka again,' Sletkin 
 went on, ' Martin Petrovitch complains because 
 we've taken him away and apprenticed him. 
 But kindly consider the matter for yourself 
 Why, what had he to do waiting on Martin 
 Petrovitch ? Kick up his heels ; nothing more. 
 And he couldn't even wait on him properly ; 
 on account of his stupidity and his youth. 
 Now we have sent him away to a harness- 
 maker's. He'll be turned into a first-rate 
 handicraftsman — and make a good thing of it 
 for himself-^and pay us ransom-money too. 
 And, living Inr^a small way as we do, that's a 
 82 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 matter of importance. On a little farm like 
 ours, one can't afford to let anything slip.' 
 
 ' And this is the man Martin Petrovitch called 
 a " poor stick," ' I thought. ' But who reads to 
 Martin Petrovitch now?' I asked. 
 
 ' Why, what is there to read ? He had one 
 book — but, luckily, that 's been mislaid some- 
 where. . . . And what use is reading at his age.' 
 
 ' And who shaves him ?' I asked again. 
 
 Sletkin gave an approving laugh, as though 
 in response to an amusing joke. * Why, no- 
 body. At first he used to singe his beard in 
 the candle — but now he lets it be altogether. 
 And it 's lovely ! ' 
 
 'Vladimir Vassilievitch ! ' Evlampia repeated 
 insistently : ' Vladimir Vassilievitch ! ' 
 
 Sletkin made her a sign with his hand. 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch is clothed and cared for, 
 and eats what we do. What more does he want ? 
 He declared himself that he wanted nothing 
 more in this world but to think of his soul. If 
 only he would realise that everything now, 
 however you look at it, is ours. He says too 
 that we don't pay him his allowance. But 
 we 've not always got money ourselves ; and 
 what does he want with it, when he has every- 
 thing provided him ? And we treat him as one 
 of the family too. I 'm telling you the truth. 
 The rooms, for instance, which he occupies — 
 how we need them ! there 's simply not room 
 to turn round without them ; but we don't say 
 83 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 a word — we put up with it. We even think 
 how to provide amusement for him. There, on 
 St. Peter's Day, I bought him some excellent 
 hooks in the town — real English ones, expen- 
 sive hooks, to catch fish. There are lots of 
 carp in our pond. Let him sit and fish ; in an 
 hour or two, there 'd be a nice little fish soup 
 provided. The most suitable occupation for 
 old men.' 
 
 ' Vladimir Vassilitch ! ' Evlampia called for 
 the third time in an incisive tone, and she flung 
 far away from her the grass she had been 
 twisting in her fingers, ' I am going ! ' Her 
 eyes met mine. ' I am going, Vladimir Vas- 
 silievitch ! ' she repeated, and vanished behind 
 a bush. 
 
 ' I 'm- coming, Evlampia Martinovna, directly ! ' 
 shouted Sletkin. ' Martin Petrovitch himself 
 agrees with us now,' he went on, turning again 
 to me. ' At first he was offended, certainly, 
 and even grumbled, until, you know, he realised ; 
 he was, you remember, a hot-tempered violent 
 man — more 's the pity ! but there, he 's grown 
 quite meek now. Because he sees his own 
 interest. Your mamma — mercy on us! how 
 she pitched into me ! . . . To be sure : she 's 
 a lady that sets as much store by her own 
 authority as Martin Petrovitch used to do. 
 But you come in and see for yourself And 
 you might put in a word when there's an 
 opportunity. I feel NataHa Nikolaevna's 
 • 84 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 bounty to me deeply. But we've got to 
 live too.' 
 
 ' And how was it Zhitkov was refused ? ' I 
 asked. 
 
 ' Fedulitch ? That dolt ? ' Sletkin shrugged 
 his shoulders. ' Why, upon my word, what use 
 could he have been ? His whole life spent 
 among soldiers — and now he has a fancy to 
 take up farming. He can keep the peasants up 
 to the mark, says he, because he 's been used 
 to knocking men about. He can do nothing ; 
 even knocking men about wants some sense. 
 Evlampia Martinovna refused him herself. He 
 was a quite unsuitable person. All our farm- 
 ing would have gone to ruin with him ! ' 
 
 ' Coo — y !' sounded Evlampia's musical voice. 
 
 ' Coming ! coming ! ' Sletkin called back. 
 He held out his hand to me. Though unwill- 
 ingly, I took it. 
 
 ' I beg to take leave, Dmitri Semyonovitch,' 
 said Sletkin, showing all his white teeth. 
 ' Shoot wild snipe as much as you like. It 's 
 wild game, belonging to no one. But if you 
 come across a hare — you spare it ; that game 
 is ours. Oh, and something else ! won't you 
 be having pups from your bitch? I should be 
 obliged for one ! ' 
 
 * Coo — y ! ' Evlampia's voice rang out again. 
 
 ' Coo — y ! ' Sletkin responded, and rushed 
 into the bushes. 
 
 85 
 
XIX 
 
 I REMEMBER, when I was left alone, I was 
 absorbed in wondering how it was Harlov had 
 not pounded Sletkin ' into a jelly,' as he said, 
 and how it was Sletkin had not been afraid of 
 such a fate. It was clear Martin Petrovitch 
 really had grown ' meek,' I thought, and I had 
 a still stronger desire to make my way into 
 Eskovo, and get at least a glance at that 
 colossus, whom I could never picture to myself 
 subdued and tractable. I had reached the 
 edge of the copse, when suddenly a big snipe, 
 with a great rush of wings, darted up at my 
 very feet, and flew off into the depths of the 
 wood. I took aim ; my gun missed fire. I 
 was greatly annoyed ; it had been such a fine 
 bird, and I made up my mind to try if I 
 couldn't make it rise a second time. I set off 
 in the direction of its flight, and going some 
 two hundred paces off into the wood I caught 
 sight — in a little glade, under an overhanging 
 birch-tree — not of the snipe, but of the sam.e 
 Sletkin once m.ore. He was lying on his back, 
 with both hands under his head, and with a 
 86 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 smile of contentment gazing upwards at the 
 sky, swinging his left leg, which was crossed 
 over his right knee. He did not notice my 
 approach. A few paces from him, Evlampia 
 was walking slowly up and down the little 
 glade, with downcast eyes. It seemed as 
 though she were looking for something in 
 the grass — mushrooms or something ; now and 
 then, she stooped and stretched out her hand. 
 She was singing in a low voice. I stopped at 
 once, and fell to listening. At first I could not 
 make out what it was she was singing, but 
 afterwards I recognised clearly the following 
 well-known lines of the old ballad : 
 
 ' Hither, hither, threatening storm-cloud. 
 Slay for me the father-in-law, 
 Strike for me the mother-in-law. 
 The young wife I will kill myself ! ' 
 
 Evlampia sang louder and louder ; the last 
 words she delivered with peculiar energy. 
 Sletkin still lay on his back and laughed to 
 himself, while she seemed all the time to be 
 moving round and round him. 
 
 ' Oh, indeed ! ' he commented at last. ' The 
 things that come into some people's heads ! ' 
 
 ' What ? ' queried Evlampia. 
 
 Sletkin raised his head a little. 'What? 
 Why, what words were those you were utter- 
 ing?' 
 
 ' Why, you know, Volodya, one can't leave 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 the words out of a song,' answered Evlampia, 
 and she turned and saw me. We both cried 
 out aloud at once, and both rushed away in 
 opposite directions. 
 
 I made my way hurriedly out of the copse, 
 and crossing a narrow clearing, found myself 
 facing Harlov's garden. 
 
XX 
 
 I HAD no time, nor would it have been of 
 any use, to deliberate over what I had seen. 
 Only an expression kept recurring to my 
 mind, Move spell,' which I had lately heard, 
 and over the signification of which I had 
 pondered a good deal. I walked alongside 
 the garden fence, and in a few moments, behind 
 the silver poplars (they had not yet lost a 
 single leaf, and the foliage was luxuriantly 
 thick and brilliantly glistening), I saw the yard 
 and two little lodges of Martin Petrovitch's 
 homestead. The whole place struck me as 
 having been tidied up and pulled into shape. 
 On every side one could perceive traces of 
 unflagging and severe supervision. Anna 
 Martinovna came out on to the steps, and 
 screwing up her blue-grey eyes, gazed for a 
 long while in the direction of the copse. 
 
 * Have you seen the master?' she asked a 
 peasant, who was walking across the yard. 
 
 ' Vladimir Vassilitch ? ' responded the latter, 
 taking his cap off. ' He went into the copse, 
 surely.' 
 
 89 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPFES 
 
 ' I know, he went to the copse. Hasn't he 
 come back ? Haven't you seen him ? ' 
 
 ' I 've not seen him . . . nay.' 
 
 The peasant continued standing barehead^ 
 before Anna Martinovna. 
 
 ' Well, you can go,' she said. ' Or no 
 
 wait a bit where 's Martin Petrovitch ? 
 
 Do you know?' 
 
 'Oh, Martin Petrovitch,' answered the peasant, 
 in a sing-song voice, alternately lifting his 
 right and then his left hand, as though 
 pointing away somewhere, ' is sitting yonder, 
 at the pond, with a fishing-rod. He's sitting 
 in the reeds, with a rod. Catching fish, maybe, 
 God knows.' 
 
 * Very well . . . you can go,' repeated Anna 
 Martinovna ; ' and put a^^'ay that wheel, it 's 
 lying about' 
 
 The peasant ran to carry out her command, 
 while she remained standing a few minutes 
 longer on the steps, still gazing in the direction 
 of the copse. Then she clenched one fist 
 menacingly, and went slowly back into the 
 house. ' Axiutka ! ' I heard her imperious 
 voice calling within. 
 
 Anna Martinovna looked angry, and 
 tightened her lips, thin enough at all times, 
 with a sort of special energy. She was care- 
 lessly dressed, and a coil of loose hair had 
 fallen down on to her shoulder. But in spite 
 of the negligence of her attire, and her irritable 
 90 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 humour, she struck me, just as before, as 
 attractive, and I should have been delighted to 
 kiss the narrow hand which looked malignant 
 too, as she twice irritably pushed back the 
 loose tress. 
 
 91 
 
XXI 
 
 ' Can Martin Petrovitch have really taken to 
 fishing ? ' I asked myself, as I turned towards 
 the pond, which was on one side of the garden. 
 I got on to the dam, looked in all directions. 
 . . . Martin Petrovitch was nowhere to be seen. 
 I bent my steps along one of the banks of the 
 pond, and at last, at the very top of it, in a 
 little creek, in the midst of flat broken-down 
 stalks of reddish reed, I caught sight of a huge 
 greyish mass. ... I looked intently : it was 
 Harlov. Bareheaded, unkempt, in a cotton 
 smock torn at the seams, with his legs crossed 
 under him, he was sitting m.otionless on the 
 bare earth. So motionless was he that a 
 sandpiper, at my approach, darted up from 
 the dry mud a couple of paces from him, and 
 flew with a flash of its little wings and a whistle 
 over the surface of the water, showing that no 
 one had moved to frighten him for a long while. 
 Harlov's whole appearance was so extra- 
 ordinary that my dog stopped short directly 
 it saw him, lifted its tail, and growled. He 
 turned his head a very little, and fixed his 
 92 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 wild-looking eyes on me and my dog. He 
 was greatly changed by his beard, though it 
 was short, but thick and curly, in white tufts, 
 like Astrachan fur. In his right hand lay the 
 end of a rod, while the other end hovered 
 feebly over the water. I felt an involuntary 
 pang at my heart. I plucked up my spirits, 
 however, went up to him, and wished him good 
 morning. He slowly blinked as though just 
 awake. 
 
 ' What are you doing, Martin Petrovitch,' 
 I began, ' catching fish here ? ' 
 
 ' Yes .' . . fish,' he answered huskily, and 
 pulled up the rod, on which there fluttered a 
 piece of line, a fathom length, with no hook 
 on it. 
 
 ' Your tackle is broken off,' I observed, and 
 noticed the same moment that there was no 
 sign of bait-tin nor worms near Martin Petro- 
 vitch. . . . And what sort of fishing could there 
 be m September ? 
 
 'Broken off?' he said, and he passed his 
 hand over his face. ' But it 's all the same ! ' 
 
 He dropped the rod in again. 
 
 'Natalia Nikolaevna's son?' he asked me, 
 after the lapse of two minutes, during which I 
 had been gazing at him with secret bewilder- 
 ment. Though he had grown terribly thinner, 
 still he seemed a giant. But what rags he was 
 dressed in, and how utterly he had gone to 
 pieces altogether ! 
 
 93 
 
 7 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' Yes/ I answered, ' I 'm the son of Natalia 
 Nikolaevna B.' 
 
 * Is she well ? ' 
 
 ' My mother is quite well. She was very 
 much hurt at your refusal,' I added ; ' she did 
 not at all expect you would not wish to come 
 and see her.' 
 
 Martin Petrovitch's head sank on his breast. 
 'Have you been there?' he asked, with a 
 motion of his head. 
 
 ' Where ? ' 
 
 ' There, at the house. Haven't you ? Go ! 
 What is there for you to do here ? Go ! It 's 
 useless talking to me. I don't like it.' 
 
 He was silent for a while. 
 
 * You 'd like to be always idling about with 
 a gun ! In my young days I used to be in- 
 clined the same way too. Only my father was 
 strict and made me respect him too. Mind 
 you, very different from fathers now-a-days. 
 My father flogged me with a horsewhip, and 
 that was the end of it ! I 'd to give up idling 
 about ! And so I respected him. . . . Oo ! . . . 
 Yes! . . .' 
 
 Harlov paused again. 
 
 ' Don't you stop here,' he began again. * You 
 go along to the house. Things are managed 
 there now — it's first-rate. Volodka ' . . . Here he 
 faltered for a second. ' Our Volodka 's a good 
 hand at everything. He 's a fine fellow ! yes, 
 indeed, and a fine scoundrel too !' 
 94 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 I did not know what to say ; Martin Fetro- 
 vitch spoke very tranquilly. 
 
 ' And you go and see my daughters. You re- 
 member, I daresay, I had daughters. They 're 
 managers too . . . clever ones. But I'm growing 
 old, my lad ; I 'm on the shelf. Time to repose, 
 you know. . . .' 
 
 ' Nice sort of repose ! ' I thought, glancing 
 round. ' Martin Petrovitch ! ' I uttered aloud, 
 'you really must come and see us.' 
 
 Harlov looked at me. ' Go along, my lad, 
 I tell you.' 
 
 ' Don't hurt mamma's feelings ; come and 
 see us.' 
 
 ' Go away, my lad, go away,' persisted Harlov. 
 ' What do you want to talk to me for ? ' 
 
 ' If you have no carriage, mamma will send 
 you hers.' 
 
 ' Go along ! ' 
 
 * But, really and truly, Martin Petrovitch ! ' 
 
 Harlov looked down again, and I fancied 
 that his cheeks, dingy as though covered with 
 earth, faintly flushed. — ; 
 
 ' Really, do come,' I went on. * What 's the 
 use of your sitting here? of your making your- 
 self miserable ? ' 
 
 'Making myself miserable? ' he commented 
 hesitatingly. 
 
 ' Yes, to be sure — making yourself miser- 
 able ! ' I repeated. 
 
 Harlov said nothing, and seemed lost in 
 95 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 musing. Emboldened by his silence, I deter- 
 mined to be open, to act straightforwardl)^ 
 bluntly. (Do not forget, I was only fifteen 
 then.) 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch ! ' I began, seating myself 
 beside him. ' I know everything, you see, posi- 
 tively everything. I know how your son-in- 
 law is treating you — doubtless with the consent 
 of your daughters. And now you are in such 
 a position . . . But why lose heart?' 
 
 Harlov still remained silent, and simply 
 dropped in his line ; while I — what a sensible 
 fellow, what a sage I felt ! 
 
 ' Doubtless,' I began again, ' you acted im- 
 prudently in giving up everything to your 
 daughters. It was most generous on your 
 part, and I am not going to blame you. In 
 our days it is a quality only too rare ! But 
 since your daughters are so ungrateful, you 
 ought to show a contempt — yes, a contempt — 
 for them . . . and not fret ' 
 
 ' Stop ! ' muttered Harlov suddenly, gnashing 
 his teeth, and his eyes, staring at the pond, 
 glittered wrathfully . . . ' Go away ! ' 
 
 ' But, Martin Petrovitch ' 
 
 ' Go away, I tell you, ... or I '11 kill you ! ' 
 
 I had come quite close to him ; but at the 
 last words I instinctively jumped up. ' What 
 did you say, Martin Petrovitch? ' 
 
 ' I '11 kill you, I tell you ; go away ! ' With 
 a wild moan, a roar, the words broke from 
 96 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Harlov's breast, but he did not turn his head, 
 and still stared wrathfully straight in front of 
 him. ' I '11 take you and fling you and your 
 fool's counsel into the water. You shall learn 
 to pester the old, little milksop ! ' 
 
 * He 's gone mad ! ' flashed through my mind 
 
 I looked at him more attentively, and was 
 completely petrified ; Martin Petrovitch was 
 weeping ! ! Tear after tear rolled from his 
 eyelashes down his cheeks . . . while his face 
 had assumed an expression utterly savage. . . . 
 
 ' Go away ! ' he roared once more, ' or I '11 
 kill you, by God ! for an example to others ! ' 
 
 He was shaking all over from side to side, 
 and showing his teeth like a wild boar. I 
 snatched up my gun and took to my heels. 
 My dog flew after me, barking. He, too, was 
 frightened. 
 
 When I got home, I naturally did not, by so 
 much as a word, to my mother, hint at what I 
 had seen ; but coming across Souvenir, I told 
 him — the devil knows why — all about it. That 
 loathsome person was so delighted at my story, 
 shrieking with laughter, and even dancing with 
 pleasure, that I could hardly forbear striking 
 him. 
 
 ' Ah! I should like,' he kept repeating breath- 
 less with laughter, ' to see that fiend, the Swede, 
 Harlov, crawling into the mud and sitting in 
 it. . . .' 
 
 ' Go over to the pond if you 're so curious.' 
 97 G 
 
 ''1 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 'Yes; but how if he kills me?' 
 
 I felt horribly sick at Souvenir, and regretted 
 my ill-timed confidence. . . . Zhitkov, to whom 
 he repeated my tale, looked at the matter 
 somewhat differently. 
 
 * We shall have to call in the police,' he con- 
 cluded, ' or, may be, we may have to send for a 
 battalion of military.' 
 
 His forebodings with regard to the military 
 battalion did not come true ; but something 
 extraordinary really did happen. 
 
 98 
 
XXII 
 
 In the middle of October, three weeks after 
 my interview with Martin Petrovitch, I was 
 standing at the window of my own room in 
 the second storey of our house, and thinking 
 of nothing at all, I looked disconsolately into 
 the yard and the road that lay beyond it. 
 The weather had been disgusting for the last 
 five days. Shooting was not even to be thought 
 of. All things living had hidden themselves ; 
 even the sparrows made no sound, and the 
 rooks had long ago disappeared from sight. The 
 wind howled drearily, then whistled spasmodic- 
 ally. The low-hanging sky, unbroken by one 
 streak of light, had changed from an unpleasant 
 whitish to a leaden and still more sinister hue ; 
 and the rain, which had been pouring and 
 pouring, mercilessly and unceasingly, had sud- 
 denly become still more violent and more 
 driving, and streamed with a rushing sound 
 over the panes. The trees had been stripped 
 utterly bare, and turned a sort of grey. It 
 seemed they had nothing left to plunder ; 
 yet the wind would not be denied, but set to 
 99 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 harassing them once more. Puddles, clogged 
 with dead leaves, stood everywhere. Big 
 bubbles, continually bursting and rising up 
 again, leaped and glided over them. Along 
 the roads, the mud lay thick and impassable. 
 The cold pierced its way indoors through one's 
 clothes to the very bones. An involuntary 
 shiver passed over the body, and how sick one 
 felt at heart ! Sick, precisely, not sad. It 
 seemed there would never again in the world 
 be sunshine, nor brightness, nor colour, but this 
 rain and mire and grey damp, and raw fog 
 would last for ever, and for ever would the 
 wind whine and moan ! Well, I was standing 
 moodily at my window, and I remember a 
 sudden darkness came on — a bluish darkness — 
 though the clock only pointed to twelve. Sud- 
 denly I fancied I saw a bear dash across our 
 yard from the gates to the steps ! Not on all- 
 fours, certainly, but as he is depicted when he 
 gets up on his hind-paws. I could not believe 
 my eyes. If it were not a bear I had seen, 
 it was, any way, something enormous, black, 
 shaggy. ... I was still lost in wonder as to 
 what it could be, when suddenly I heard below a 
 furious knocking. It seemed something utterly 
 unlooked for, something terrible was stumbling 
 headlong into our house. Then began a com- 
 motion, a hurrying to and fro. . . . 
 
 I quickly went down the stairs, ran into the 
 dining-room. . . . 
 
 lOO 
 
A LEAR OF THE. STEPPES 
 
 At the drawing-room '^doot facing ine' 
 stood my mother, as though rooted to the 
 spot. Behind her, peered several scared 
 female faces. The butler, two footmen, and a 
 page, with his mouth wide open with astonish- 
 ment, were packed together in the doorway 
 of the hall. In the middle of the dining- 
 room, covered with mire, dishevelled, tattered, 
 and soaking wet — so wet that steam rose all 
 round and water was running in little streams 
 over the floor — knelt, shaking ponderously, 
 as it were, at the last gasp . . . the very 
 monster I had seen dashing across the yard ! 
 And who was this monster ? Harlov ! I came 
 up on one side, and saw, not his face, but his 
 head, which he was clutching, with both hands 
 in the hair that blinded him with filth. He 
 was breathing heavily, brokenly ; something 
 positively rattled in his throat — and in all the 
 bespattered dark mass, the only thing that could 
 be clearly distinguished was the tiny whites 
 of the eyes, straying wildly about. He was 
 awful ! The dignitary came into my mind 
 whom he had once crushed for comparing him 
 to a mastodon. Truly, so might have looked 
 some antediluvian creature that had just escaped 
 another more powerful monster, attacking it in 
 the eternal slime of the primeval swamps. 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch ! ' my mother cried at last, 
 and she clasped her hands. * Is that you ? 
 Good God ! Merciful heavens ! ' 
 
 lOI 
 
A LEAR 0F THE STEPPES 
 
 ' I . . . i . . . ' we heard a broken voice, 
 which seemed with effort and painfully to dwell 
 on each sound. ' Alas ! It is I ! ' 
 
 ' But what has happened to you ? Mercy 
 upon us ! ' 
 
 ' Natalia Nikolaev ... na ... I have . . . 
 run straight ... to you . . . from home . . . 
 on foot.' . . . 
 
 ' Through such mud ! But you don't look 
 like a man. Get up ; sit down, anyway. . . . 
 And you,' she turned to the maid-servants, * run 
 quick for cloths. And haven't you some dry 
 clothes ? ' she asked the butler. 
 
 The butler gesticulated as though to say, 
 Is it likely for such a size? . . . 'But we 
 could get a coverlet,' he replied, ' or, there 's 
 a new horse-rug.' 
 
 'But get up, get up, Martin Petrovitch, sit 
 down,' repeated my mother. 
 
 ' They 've turned me out, madam,' Harlov 
 
 moaned suddenly, and he flung his head 
 
 back and stretched his hands out before him. 
 
 / 'They've turned me out, Natalia Nikolaevna! 
 
 My own daughters, out of my own home.' * . . 
 
 My mother sighed and groaned. 
 
 ' What are you saying ? Turned you out ! 
 What wickedness ! what wickedness ! ' (She 
 crossed herself) 'But do get up, Martin 
 Petrovitch, I beg you ! ' 
 
 Two maid-servants came in with cloths and 
 stood still before Harlov. It was clear they 
 1 02 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 did not know how to attack this mountain of 
 filth. ' They have turned me out, madam, they 
 have turned me out ! ' Harlov kept repeating 
 meanwhile. The butler returned with a large 
 woollen coverlet, and he, too, stood still in 
 perplexity. Souvenir's little head was thrust 
 in at a door and vanished again. 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch ! get up ! Sit down ! 
 and tell me everything properly,' my mother 
 commanded in a tone of determination. 
 
 Harlov rose. . . . The butler tried to assist 
 him but only dirtied his hand, and, shaking his 
 fingers, retreated to the door. Staggering and 
 faltering, Harlov got to a chair and sat down. 
 The maids again approached him with their 
 cloths, but he waved them off with his hand, 
 and refused the coverlet. My mother did not 
 herself, indeed, insist ; to dry Harlov was 
 obviously out of the question ; they contented 
 themselves with hastily wiping up his traces 
 on the floor. 
 
 [03 
 
XXIII 
 
 * How have they turned you out ? ' my mother 
 asked, as soon as he had a little time to recover 
 himself. 
 
 ' Madam ! Natalia Nikolaevna ! ' he began, 
 in a strained voice, — and again I was struck by 
 the uneasy straying of his eyes ; ' I will tell 
 you the truth ; I am myself most of all to 
 blame.' 
 
 ' Ay, to be sure ; you would not listen to 
 me at the time,' assented my mother, sinking 
 into an arm-chair and slightly moving a scented 
 handkerchief before her nose ; very strong was 
 the smell that came from Harlov . . . the 
 odour in a forest bog is not so strong. 
 
 'Alas! that's not where I erred, madam, 
 but through pride. Pride has been my ruin, as 
 it ruined the Tsar Navuhodonosor. I fancied 
 God had given me my full share of sense, and 
 if I resolved on anything, it followed it was 
 right ; so . . . and then the fear of death came 
 ... I was utterly confounded ! " I '11 show," 
 said I, " to the last, my power and my strength ! 
 I '11 bestow all on them, — and they must feel 
 104 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 it all their lives. . . ." ' (Harlov suddenly was 
 shaking all over. . . .) ' Like a mangy dog 
 they have driven me out of the house ! This 
 is their gratitude ! ' 
 
 ' In what way ,' my mother was be- 
 ginning. . . . 
 
 ' They took my page, Maximka, from me/ 
 Harlov interrupted her (his eyes were still 
 wandering, he held both hands — the fingers 
 interlaced — under his chin), ' my carriage they 
 took away, my monthly allowance they cut 
 down, did not pay me the sum specified, cut 
 me short all round, in fact ; still I said nothing, 
 bore it all ! And I bore it by reason . . . alas ! 
 of my pride again. That my cruel enemies 
 might not say, " See, the old fool 's sorry for it 
 now " ; and you too, do you remember, madam, 
 had warned me ; " mind you, it 's all to no 
 purpose," you said ! and so I bore it. . . . Only, 
 to-day I came into my room, and it was occupied 
 already, and my bed they'd thrown out into 
 the lumber-room ! " You can sleep there ; we 
 put up with you there even only out of charity ; 
 we 've need of your room for the household." 
 And this was said to me by whom ? Volodka 
 Sletkin ! the vile hound, the base cur ! ' 
 
 Harlov's voice broke. 
 
 ' But your daughters ? What did they do ? ' 
 asked my mother. 
 
 ' But I bore it all,' Harlov went on again ; 
 ' bitterness, bitterness was in my heart, let me 
 105 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 tell you, and shame. ... I could not bear to 
 look upon the light of day ! That was why I 
 was unwilling to come and see you, ma'am, 
 from this same feeling, from shame for my 
 disgrace ! I have tried everything, my good 
 friend ; kindness, affection, and threats, and I 
 reasoned with them, and more besides ! I 
 bowed down before them . . . like this.' (Har- 
 lov showed how he had bowed down.) ' And 
 all in vain. And all of it I bore ! At the 
 beginning, at first, I 'd very different thoughts ; 
 I '11 up, I thought, and kill them. I '11 crush 
 them all, so that not a trace remains of them ! 
 ... I'll let them know! Well, but after, I 
 submitted ! It's a cross, I thought, laid upon 
 me; it's to bid me make ready for death. 
 And all at once, to-day, driven out, like a cur ! 
 And by whom ? Volodka ! And you asked 
 about my daughters ; they 've no will of their 
 own at all. They 're Volodka's slaves ! Yes ! ' 
 My mother wondered. * In Anna's case I 
 can understand that ; she 's a wife. . . . But 
 how comes it your second . . .'| 
 
 'Evlampia? She's worse than Anna ! She's 
 
 altogether given herself up into Volodka's 
 
 1 hands. That's the reason she refused your 
 
 I soldier, too. At his, at Volodka's bidding. 
 
 I Anna, to be sure, ought to resent it, and she 
 
 \ can't bear her sister, but she submits ! He 's 
 
 ' bewitched them, the cursed scoundrel ! Though 
 
 she, Anna, I daresay, is pleased to think that 
 
 io6 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Evlampia, who was always so proud, — and 
 now see what she 's come to ! . . . O . . . alas 
 . . . alas ! God, my God ! ' 
 
 My mother looked uneasily towards me. I 
 moved a little away as a precautionary measure, 
 for fear I should be sent away altogether. . . . 
 
 ' I am very sorry indeed, Martin Petrovitch,' 
 she began, 'that my former protege has caused 
 you so much sorrow, and has turned out so 
 badly. But I, too, was mistaken in him. . . . 
 Who could have expected this of him ? ' 
 
 ' Madam,' Harlov moaned out, and he struck 
 himself a blow on the chest, ' I cannot bear 
 the ingratitude of my daughters ! I cannot, 
 madam ! You know I gave them everything, 
 everything ! And besides, my conscience has 
 been tormenting me. Many things . . . alas ! 
 many things I have thought over, sitting by 
 the pond, fishing. " If you'd only done good 
 to any one in your life ! " was what I pondered 
 upon, "succoured the poor, set the peasants 
 free, or something, to atone for having wrung 
 their lives out of them. You must answer for 
 them before God ! Now their tears are re- 
 venged." And what sort of life have they now? 
 It was a deep pit even in my time — why 
 disguise my sins ? — but now there 's no seeing 
 the bottom ! All these sins I have taken upon 
 my soul ; I have sacrificed my conscience for 
 my children, and for this I 'm laughed to scorn ! 
 Kicked out of the house, like a cur ! ' 
 107 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' Don't think about that, Martin Petrovitch/ 
 observed my mother. 
 
 ' And when he told me, your Volodka,' 
 Harlov went on with fresh force, 'when he told 
 me I was not to live in my room any more, — 
 I laid every plank in that room with my own 
 hands, — when he said that to me, — God only 
 knows what passed within me ! It was all 
 confusion in my head, and like a knife in 
 my heart. . . . Either to cut his throat or get 
 away out of the house ! . . . So, I have run to 
 you, my benefactress, Natalia Nikolaevna . . . 
 where had I to lay my head ? And then the 
 rain, the filth ... I fell down twenty times, 
 maybe ! And now ... in such unseemly . . .' 
 
 Harlov scanned himself and moved restlessly 
 in his chair, as though intending to get up. 
 
 ' Say no more, Martin Petrovitch,' my mother 
 interposed hurriedly ; * what does that signify ? 
 That you Ve made the floor dirty ? That 's no 
 great matter ! Come, I want to make you a 
 proposition. Listen ! They shall take you 
 now to a special room, and make you up a 
 clean bed, — you undress, wash, and lie down 
 and sleep a little, . . .' 
 
 ' Natalia Nikolaevna ! There 's no sleeping 
 for me!' Harlov responded drearily. 'It's as 
 though there were hammers beating in my 
 brain ! Me ! like some good - for - nothing 
 beast ! . . .' 
 
 ' Lie down and sleep,' my mother repeated 
 1 08 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 insistently. ' And then we '11 give you some 
 tea, — yes, and we'll have a talk. Don't lose 
 heart, old friend! If they've driven you out 
 of your house, in my house you will always 
 find a home. ... I have not forgotten, you 
 know, that you saved my life.' 
 
 ' Benefactress ! ' moaned Harlov, and he 
 covered his face with his hand. ' You must 
 save me now ! ' 
 
 This appeal touched my mother almost to 
 tears. ' I am ready and eager to help you, 
 Martin Petrovitch, in everything I am able. 
 But you must promise me that you will listen 
 to me in future and dismiss every evil thought 
 from you.' 
 
 Harlov took his hands from his face. ' If 
 need be,' he said, ' I can forgive them, even ! ' 
 
 My mother nodded her head approvingly. 
 ' I am very glad to see you in such a truly 
 Christian frame of mind, Martin Petrovitch ; 
 but we will talk of that later. Meanwhile, you 
 put yourself to rights, and, most of all, sleep. 
 Take Martin Petrovitch to what was the 
 master's room, the green room,' said my 
 mother, addressing the butler, 'and whatever 
 he asks for, let him have it on the spot ! Give 
 orders for his clothes to be dried and washed, 
 and ask the housekeeper for what linen is 
 needed. Do you hear?' 
 
 'Yes, madam,' responded the butler. 
 
 ' And as soon as he 's asleep, tell the tailor 
 109 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 to take his measure ; and his beard will have 
 to be shaved. Not at once, but after.' 
 
 ' Yes, madam,' repeated the butler. ' Martin 
 Petrovitch, kindly come.' Harlov got up, 
 looked at my mother, was about to go up to 
 her, but stopped, swinging a bow from the 
 waist, crossed himself three times to the image, 
 and followed the steward. Behind him, I, too, 
 slipped out of the room. 
 
 no 
 
XXIV 
 
 The butler conducted Harlov to the green 
 room, and at once ran off for the wardroom 
 maid, as it turned out there were no sheets on 
 the bed. Souvenir, who met us in the passage, 
 and popped into the green room with us, 
 promptly proceeded to dance, grinning and 
 chuckling, round Harlov, who stood, his arms 
 held a little away from him, and his legs apart, 
 in the middle of the room, seeming lost in 
 thought. The water was still dripping from 
 him. 
 
 ' The Swede ! The Swede, Harlus ! ' piped 
 Souvenir, doubling up and holding his sides. 
 ' Mighty founder of the illustrious race of Har- 
 lovs, look down on thy descendant ! What 
 does he look like ? Dost thou recognise him ? 
 Ha, ha, ha ! Your excellency, your hand, I 
 beg ; why, have you got on black gloves ? ' 
 
 I tried to restrain Souvenir, to put him to 
 shame . . . but it was too late for that now. 
 
 * He called me parasite, toady ! " You Ve no 
 roof," said he, " to call your own." But now, no 
 doubt about it, he's become as dependent as 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 poor little me. Martin Petrovitch and Souvenir, 
 the poor toady, are equal now. He '11 have to 
 live on charity too. They '11 toss him the stale 
 and dirty crust, that the dog has sniffed at and 
 refused. . . . And they '11 tell him to eat it, too. 
 Ha, ha, ha ! ' 
 
 Harlov still stood motionless, his head drawn 
 in, his legs and arms held a little apart. 
 
 ' Martin Harlov, a nobleman born ! ' Souvenir 
 went on shrieking. ' What airs he used to give 
 himself. Just look at me ! Don't come near, or 
 I '11 knock you down ! . . . And when he was 
 so clever as to give away and divide his pro- 
 perty, didn't he crow ! " Gratitude ! . . ." he 
 cackled, " gratitude ! " But why were you so 
 mean to me ? Why didn't you make me a 
 present ? May be, I should have felt it more. 
 And you see I was right when I said they 'd 
 strip you bare, and . . .' 
 
 ' Souvenir ! ' I screamed ; but Souvenir was 
 in nowise daunted. Harlov still did not stir. 
 It seemed as though he were only now begin- 
 ning to be aware how soaking wet everything 
 was that he had on, and was waiting to be 
 helped off with his clothes. But the butler had 
 not come back. 
 
 * And a military man too ! ' Souvenir began 
 again. ' In the year twelve, he saved his country ; 
 he showed proofs of his valour. I see how it 
 is. Stripping the frozen marauders of their 
 breeches is work he 's quite equal to, but when 
 
 112 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 the hussies stamp their feet at him he's fright- 
 ened out of his skin.' 
 
 ' Souvenir ! I screamed a second time. 
 
 Harlov looked askance at Souvenir. Till 
 that instant he seemed not to have noticed his 
 presence, and only my exclamation aroused his 
 attention. 
 
 'Look out, brother,' he growled huskily, 
 ' don't dance yourself into trouble.' 
 
 Souvenir fairly rolled about with laughter. 
 ' Ah, how you frighten me, most honoured 
 brother. You're a formidable person, to be 
 sure. You must comb your hair, at any rate, 
 or, God forbid, it '11 get dry, and you '11 never 
 wash it clean again ; you '11 have to mow it with 
 a sickle.' Souvenir all of a sudden got into a 
 fury. ' And you give yourself airs still. A 
 poor outcast, and he gives himself airs. Where's 
 your home now ? you 'd better tell me that, you 
 were always boasting of it. " I have a home of 
 my own," he used to say, but you 're homeless. 
 " My ancestral roof," he would say.' Souvenir 
 pounced on this phrase as an inspiration. 
 
 ' Mr. Bitchkov,' I protested. ' What are you 
 about? you forget yourself.' 
 
 But he still persisted in chattering, and still 
 danced and pranced up and down quite close 
 to Harlov. And still the butler and the ward- 
 room maid did not come. 
 
 I felt alarmed. I began to notice that Har- 
 lov, who had, during his conversation with my 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 mother, gradually grown quieter, and even 
 towards the end apparently resigned himself 
 to his fate, was beginning to get worked 
 up again. He breathed more hurriedly, it 
 seemed as though his face were suddenly 
 swollen under his ears, his fingers twitched, his 
 eyes again began moving restlessly in the dark 
 mask of his grim face. . . . 
 
 ' Souvenir, Souvenir ! ' I cried. ' Stop it, I '11 
 tell mamma.' 
 
 But Souvenir seemed possessed by frenzy. 
 ' Yes, yes, most honoured brother,' he began 
 again, 'here we find ourselves, you and I, in the 
 most delicate position. While your daughters, 
 with your son-in-law, Vladimir Vassilievitch, 
 are having a fine laugh at you under your roof. 
 And you should at least curse them, as you 
 promised. Even that you 're not equal to. To 
 be sure, how could you hold your own with 
 Vladimir Vassilievitch? Why, you used to 
 call him Volodka, too. You call him Volodka. 
 He is Vladimir Vassilievitch, Mr. Sletkin, a 
 landowner, a gentleman, while — what are you, 
 pray ? ' 
 
 A furious roar drowned Souvenir's words. . . . 
 Harlov was aroused. His fists were clenched 
 and lifted, his face was purple, there was foam 
 on his drawn lips, he was shaking with rage. 
 ' Roof, you say ! ' he thundered in his iron voice, 
 ' curse, you say. . . . No ! I will not curse them. 
 . . . They don't care for that . . . But the roof 
 114 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ... I will tear the roof off them, and they shall 
 have no roof over their heads, like me. They 
 shall learn to know Martin Harlov. My 
 strength is not all gone yet ; they shall learn to 
 laugh at me ! . . . They shall have no roof over 
 their heads ! ' 
 
 I was stupefied ; never in my life had I wit- 
 nessed such boundless anger. Not a man — a 
 wild beast — paced to and fro before me. I was 
 stupefied ... as for Souvenir, he had hidden 
 under the table in his fright. 
 
 ' They shall not ! ' Harlov shouted for the 
 last time, and almost knocking over the butler 
 and the wardroom maid, he rushed away out of 
 the house. . . . He dashed headlong across the 
 yard, and vanished through the gates. 
 
 11$ 
 
XXV 
 
 My mother was terribly angry when the 
 butler came with an abashed countenance to 
 report Martin Petrovitch's sudden and unex- 
 pected retreat. He did not dare to conceal the 
 cause of this retreat ; I was obliged to confirm 
 his story. ' Then it was all your doing ! ' my 
 mother cried, at the sight of Souvenir, who had 
 run in like a hare, and was even approaching 
 to kiss her hand : ' Your vile tongue is to blame 
 for it all ! ' * Excuse me, d'rectly, d'rectly . . .' 
 faltered Souvenir, stuttering and drawing back 
 his elbows behind him. ' D'rectly, . . . d'rectly 
 ... I know your " d'rectly," ' my mother 
 repeated reprovingly, and she sent him out of 
 the room. Then she rang the bell, sent for 
 Kvitsinsky, and gave him orders to set off on 
 the spot to Eskovo, with a carriage, to find 
 Martin Petrovitch at all costs, and to bring him 
 back. ' Do not let me see you without him,' 
 she concluded. The gloomy Pole bowed his 
 head without a word, and went away. 
 
 I went back to my own room, sat down again 
 at the window, and I pondered a long while, I 
 ii6 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 remember, on what had taken place before my 
 eyes. I was puzzled ; I could not understand 
 how it was that Harlov, who had endured the 
 insults of his own family almost without a mur- 
 mur, had lost all self-control, and been unable 
 to put up with the jeers and pin-pricks of such 
 an abject creature as Souvenir, f I did not 
 understand in those days what msufferable 
 bitterness there may sometimes be in a foolish 
 taunt, even when it comes from lips one scorns: 
 . . . The hated name of Sletkin, uttered by 
 Souvenir, had been like a spark thrown into 
 powder. The sore spot could not endure this 
 final prick. 
 
 About an hour passed by. Our coach drove 
 into the yard ; but our steward sat in it alone. 
 And my mother had said to him — ' don't let 
 me see you without him.' Kvitsinsky jumped 
 hurriedly out of the carriage, and ran up the 
 steps. His face had a perturbed look — some- 
 thing very unusual with him. I promptly 
 rushed downstairs, and followed at his heels 
 into the drawing-room. ' Well ? have you 
 brought him ? ' asked my mother. 
 
 ' I have not brought him,' answered Kvit- 
 sinsky — ' and I could not bring him.' 
 
 ' How 's that ? Have you seen him ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * What has happened to him } A fit ? ' 
 
 * No ; nothing has happened.' 
 
 ' How is it you didn't bring him ? ' 
 117 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' He's pulling his house to pieces.' 
 
 'What?' 
 
 ' He 's standing on the roof of the new build- 
 ing, and pulling it to pieces. Forty boards or 
 more, I should guess, must have come down by 
 now, and some five of the rafters too.' (' They 
 shall not have a roof over their heads.' Harlov's 
 words came back to me.) 
 
 My mother stared at Kvitsinsky. ' Alone 
 . . . he's standing on the roof, and pulling the 
 roof down ? ' 
 
 * Exactly so. He is walking about on the 
 flooring of the garret in the roof, and smashing 
 right and left of him. His strength, you are 
 aware, madam, is superhuman. And the roof 
 too, one must say, is a poor affair ; half- 
 inch deal battens, laid wide apart, one inch 
 nails.' 
 
 My mother looked at me, as though wishing 
 to make sure whether she had heard aright. 
 ' Half-inches wide apart,' she repeated, obvi- 
 ously not understanding the meaning of one 
 word. ' Well, what then ? ' she said at last. 
 
 ' I have come for instructions. There 's no 
 doing anything without men to help. The 
 peasants there are all limp with fright' 
 
 ' And his daughters — what of them ? ' 
 
 ' His daughters are doing nothing. They 're 
 running to and fro, shouting . . . this and 
 that ... all to no purpose.' 
 
 ' And is Sletkin there ? ' 
 ii8 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' He 's there too. He's making more outcry 
 than all of them — but he can't do anything/ 
 
 ' And Martin Petrovitch is standing on the 
 roof?' 
 
 ' On the roof . . . that is, in the garret — and 
 pulling the roof to pieces.' 
 
 * Yes, yes,' said my mother, ' half-inches 
 wide apart.' 
 
 The position was obviously a serious one. 
 What steps were to be taken ? Send to the 
 town for the police captain ? Get together the 
 peasants ? My mother was quite at her wits' 
 end. Zhitkov, who had come in to dinner, was 
 nonplussed too. It is true, he made another 
 reference to a battalion of military ; he offered 
 no advice, however, but confined himself to 
 looking submissive and devoted. Kvitsinsky, 
 seeing he would not get at any instructions, 
 suggested to my mother — with the contemptu- 
 ous respectfulness peculiar to him — that if she 
 would authorise him to take a few of the 
 stable-boys, gardeners, and other house-serfs, 
 he would make an effort . . . 
 
 'Yes, yes,' my mother cut him short, 'do 
 make an effort, dear Vikenty Osipitch ! Only 
 make haste, please, and I will take all responsi- 
 bility on myself! ' 
 
 Kvitsinsky smiled coldly. ' One thing let 
 me make clear, madam, beforehand; it's im- 
 possible to reckon on any result, seeing that 
 Mr. Harlov's strength is so great, and he is 
 119 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 SO desperate too ; he feels himself to have been 
 very cruelly wronged ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes/ my mother assented ; 'and it's all 
 that vile Souvenir's fault ! Never will I for- 
 give him for it. Go and take the servants and 
 set off, Vikenty Osipitch ! ' 
 
 ' You 'd better take plenty of cord, Mr. 
 Steward, and some fire-escape tackle,' Zhitkov 
 brought out in his bass — 'and if there is such 
 a thing as a net, it would be as well to take 
 that along too. We once had in our regi- 
 ment . . .' 
 
 ' Kindly refrain from instructing me, sir,' 
 Kvitsinsky cut him short, with an air of vexa- 
 tion ; ' I know what is needed without your 
 aid.' 
 
 Zhitkov was offended, and protested that as 
 he imagined he, too, was called upon . . . 
 
 'No, no!' interposed my mother; 'you'd 
 better stop where you are . . . Let Vikenty 
 Osipitch act alone . . . Make haste, Vikenty 
 Osipitch ! ' 
 
 Zhitkov was still more offended, while Kvit- 
 sinsky bowed and went out. 
 
 I rushed off to the stable, hurriedly saddled 
 my horse myself, and set off at a gallop along 
 the road to Eskovo. 
 
 1 20 
 
XXVI 
 
 The rain had ceased, but the wind was 
 blowing with redoubled force — straight into 
 my face. Half-way there, the saddle almost 
 slipped round under me ; the girth had got 
 loose ; I got off and tried to tighten the straps 
 with my teeth. . . . All at once I heard some- 
 one calling me by my name . . . Souvenir was 
 running towards me across the green fields. 
 ' What ! ' he shouted to me from some way off, 
 ' was your curiosity too much for you ? But 
 it 's no use ... I went over there, straight, at 
 Harlov's heels . . . Such a state of things you 
 never saw in your life ! ' 
 
 'You want to enjoy what you have done,' I 
 said indignantly, and, jumping on my horse, 
 I set off again at a gallop. But the indefati- 
 gable Souvenir did not give me up, and 
 chuckled and grinned, even as he ran. At last, 
 Eskovo was reached — there was the dam, and 
 there the long hedge and willow-tree of the 
 homestead ... I rode up to the gate, dis- 
 mounted, tied up my horse, and stood still 
 in amazement. 
 
 121 
 
^ LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 Of one third of the roof uf the newer house, 
 of the front part, nothing was left but the 
 skeleton ; boards and litter lay in disorderly 
 heaps on the ground on both sides of the 
 building. Even supposing the roof to be, as 
 Kvitsinsky had said, a poor affair, even so, it 
 was something incredible ! On the floor of 
 the garret, in a whirl of dust and rubbish, a 
 blackish grey mass was moving to and fro 
 with rapid ungainly action, at one moment 
 shaking the remaining chimney, built of brick, 
 (the other had fallen already) then tearing up 
 the boarding and flinging it down below, then 
 ^--clutching at the very rafters. It was Harlov. 
 j He struck me as being exactly like a bear at 
 I this moment too; the head, and back, and 
 shoulders were a bear's, and he put his feet 
 down wide apart without bending the insteps 
 — also like a bear. The bitter wind was 
 blowing upon him from every side, lifting his 
 matted locks. It was horrible to see, here and 
 there, red patches of bare flesh through the 
 rents in his tattered clothes ; it was horrible 
 to hear his wild husky muttering. There were 
 a lot of people in the yard ; peasant-women, 
 boys, and servant-girls stood close along the 
 hedge. A few peasants huddled together in 
 a separate group, a little way off The old 
 village priest, whom I knew, was standing, 
 bareheaded, on the steps of the other house, 
 and holding a brazen cross in both hands, from 
 
 122 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 time to time, silently and hopelessly, raised it, 
 and, as it were, showed it to Harlov. Beside 
 the priest, stood Evlampia with her back 
 against the wall, gazing fixedly at her father. 
 Anna, at one moment, pushed her head out of 
 the little window, then vanished, then hurried 
 into the yard, then went back into the house. 
 Sletkin — pale all over, livid — in an old dressing- 
 gown and smoking-cap, with a single-barrelled 
 rifle in his hands, kept running to and fro 
 with little steps. He had completely gone 
 Jezvish, as it is called. He was gasping, threat- 
 ening, shaking, pointing the gun at Harlov, 
 then letting it drop back on his shoulder — 
 pointing it again, shrieking, weeping. . . . 
 On seeing Souvenir and me he simply flew 
 to us. 
 
 ' Look, look, what is going on here ! ' he 
 wailed — 'look! He's gone out of his mind, 
 he's raving mad . . . and see what he's doing! 
 I Ve sent for the police already — but no one 
 comes ! No one comes ! If I do fire at him, 
 the law couldn't touch me, for every man has 
 a right to defend his own property ! And I 
 will fire! ... By God, I'll fire!' 
 
 He ran off toward the house. 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch, look out ! If you don't 
 get down, I '11 fire ! ' 
 
 ' Fire away ! ' came a husky voice from the 
 roof. ' Fire away ! And meanwhile here 's a 
 little present for you ! ' 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 A long plank flew up, and, turning over 
 twice in the air, came violently to the earth, 
 just at Sletkin's feet. He positively jumped 
 into the air, while Harlov chuckled. 
 
 ' Merciful Jesus ! ' faltered some one behind 
 me. I looked round : Souvenir. * Ah ! ' I 
 thought, ' he 's left off laughing now ! ' 
 
 Sletkin clutched a peasant, who was standing 
 near, by the collar. 
 
 ' Climb up now, climb up, climb up, all of 
 you, you devils,' he wailed, shaking the man 
 with all his force, ' save my property ! ' 
 
 The peasant took a couple of steps for- 
 ward, threw his head back, waved his arms, 
 shouted — ' hi ! here ! master ! ' shifted from one 
 foot to the other uneasily, and then turned 
 back. 
 
 ' A ladder ! bring a ladder ! ' Sletkin ad- 
 dressed the other peasants. 
 
 ' Where are we to get it ? ' was heard in 
 answer. 
 
 ' And if we had a ladder,' one voice pro- 
 nounced deliberately, ' who 'd care to climb 
 up ? Not such fools ! He 'd wring your neck 
 for you — in a twinkling ! ' 
 
 'He'd kill one in no time,' said one young 
 lad with flaxen hair and a half-idiotic face. 
 
 ' To be sure he would,' the others confirmed. 
 
 It struck me that, even if there had been no 
 
 obvious danger, the peasants would yet have 
 
 been loath to carry out their new owner's 
 
 124 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 orders. They almost approved of Harlov, 
 though they were amazed at him. 
 
 ' Ugh, you robbers ! ' moaned Sletkin ; ' you 
 shall all catch it . . .' 
 
 But at this moment, with a heavy rumble, 
 the last chimney came crashing down, and, in 
 the midst of the cloud of yellow dust that flew 
 up instantly, Harlov — uttering a piercing shriek 
 and lifting his bleeding hands high in the air — 
 turned facing us. Sletkin pointed the gun at 
 him again. 
 
 Evlampia pulled him back by the elbow. 
 
 ' Don't interfere ! ' he snarled savagely at her. 
 
 ' And you — don't you dare ! ' she answered ; 
 and her blue eyes flashed menacingly under 
 her scowling brows. ' Father's pulling his 
 house down. It 's his own.' 
 
 ' You lie : it 's ours ! ' 
 
 ' You say ours ; but I say it 's his.' 
 
 Sletkin hissed with fury ; Evlampia's eyes 
 seemed stabbing him in the face. 
 
 ' Ah, how d' ye do ! my delightful daughter ! ' 
 Harlov thundered from above. ' How d' ye 
 do ! Evlampia Martinovna ! How are you 
 getting on with your sweetheart? Are your 
 kisses sweet, and your fondling?' 
 
 ' Father ! ' rang out Evlampia's musical voice. 
 
 ' Eh, daughter ? ' answered Harlov ; and he 
 
 came down to the very edge of the wall. His 
 
 face, as far as I could make it out, wore a 
 
 strange smile, a bright, mirthful — and for that 
 
 125 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 very reason peculiarly strange and evil — smile. 
 . . . Many years later I saw just the same 
 smile on the face of a man condemned to 
 death. 
 
 ' Stop, father ; come down. We are in fault ; 
 we give everything back to you. Come down.' 
 
 'What do you mean by disposing of what's 
 ours ?' put in Sletkin. Evlampia merely scowled 
 more angrily. 
 
 ' I give you back my share. I give up 
 everything. Give over, come down, father ! 
 Forgive us ; forgive me.' 
 
 Harlov still went on smiling. ' It's too late, 
 my darling,' he said, and each of his words rang 
 out like brass. ' Too late your stony heart is 
 touched ! The rock 's started rolling downhill — 
 there 's no holding it back now ! And don't look 
 to me now ; I 'm a doomed man ! You 'd do 
 better to look to your Volodka ; see what a 
 pretty fellow you 've picked out ! And look 
 to your hellish sister ; there 's her foxy nose 
 yonder thrust out of the window ; she 's peering 
 yonder after that husband of hers ! No, my 
 good friends ; you would rob me of a roof 
 over my head, so I will leave you not one beam 
 upon another ! With my own hands I built it, 
 with my own hands I destroy it, — yes, with my 
 hands alone ! See, I 've taken no axe to help 
 me ! ' 
 
 He snorted at his two open hands, and 
 clutched at the centre beam again. 
 
 126 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' Enough, father,' Evlampia was saying 
 meanwhile, and her voice had grown mar- 
 vellously caressing, * let bygones be bygones. 
 Come, trust me ; you always trusted me. 
 Come, get down ; come to me to my little 
 room, to my soft bed. I will dry you and 
 warm you ; I will bind up your wounds ; see, 
 you have torn your hands. You shall live 
 with me as in Christ's bosom ; food shall be 
 sweet to you — and sleep sweeter yet. Come, 
 we have done wrong ! yes, we were puffed up, 
 we have sinned ; come, forgive ! ' 
 
 Harlov shook his head. * Talk away ! Me 
 believe you ! Never again ! You've murdered 
 all trust in my heart ! You 've murdered every- 
 thing! I was an eagle, and became a worm for 
 you . . . and you, — would you even crush the 
 worm ? Have done ! I loved you, you know 
 very well, — but now you are no daughter to 
 me, and I 'm no father to you . . . I 'm a 
 doomed man ! Don't meddle ! As for you, 
 fire away, coward, mighty man of valour ! ' 
 Harlov bellowed suddenly at Sletkin. 'Why 
 is it you keep aiming and don't shoot ? Are 
 you mindful of the law ; if the recipient of a 
 gift commits an attempt upon the life of the 
 giver,' Harlov enunciated distinctly, ' then the 
 giver is empowered to claim everything back 
 again ? Ha, ha ! don't be afraid, law-abiding 
 man ! I 'd make no claims. I '11 make an end 
 of everything myself. . . . Here goes !' 
 127 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' Father ! ' for the last time Evlampia be- 
 sought him. 
 
 ' Silence ! ' 
 
 ' Martin Petrovitch ! brother, be generous 
 and forgive ! ' faltered Souvenir. 
 
 ' Father ! dear father ! ' 
 
 ' Silence, bitch ! ' shouted Harlov. At Sou- 
 venir he did not even glance, — he merely spat 
 in his direction. 
 
 128 
 
<Jh 
 
 XXVII 
 
 At that instant, Kvitsinsky, with all his retinue 
 — in three carts — appeared at the gates. The 
 tired horses panted, the men jumped out, one 
 after another, into the mud. 
 
 ' Aha ! ' Harlov shouted at the top of his 
 voice. 'An army . . . here it comes, an army ! 
 A whole army they 're sending against me ! 
 Capital ! Only I give warning — if any one 
 comes up here to me on the roof, I '11 send him 
 flying down, head over heels ! I 'm an in- 
 hospitable master ; I don't like visitors at 
 wrong times ! No indeed ! ' 
 
 He was hanging with both hands on to the 
 front rafters of the roof, the so-called standards 
 of the gable, and beginning to shake them 
 violently. Balancing on the edge of the garret 
 flooring, he dragged them, as it were, after him, 
 chanting rhythmically like a bargeman, ' One 
 more pull ! one more ! o-oh ! ' 
 
 Slctkin ran up to Kvitsinsky and was be- 
 ginning to whimper and pour out complaints. 
 . . . The latter begged him ' not to interfere,' 
 and proceeded to carry out the plan he had 
 129 I 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 evolved. He took up his position in front of 
 the house, and began, by way of diversion, to 
 explain to Harlov that what he was about was 
 unworthy of his rank. . . . 
 
 ' One more pull ! one more ! ' chanted Harlov. 
 
 . . . ' That Natalia Nikolaevna was greatly 
 displeased at his proceedings, and had not ex- 
 pected it of him.' . . . 
 
 ' One more pull ! one more ! o-oh ! ' Harlov 
 chanted . . . while, meantime, Kvitsinsky had 
 despatched the four sturdiest and boldest of 
 the stable-boys to the other side of the house 
 to clamber up the roof from behind. Harlov, 
 however, detected the plan of attack ; he sud- 
 denly left the standards and ran quickly to the 
 back part of the roof His appearance was so 
 alarming that the two stable-boys who had 
 already got up to the garret, dropped instantly 
 back again to the ground by the water-pipe, 
 to the great glee of the serf boys, who positively 
 roared with laughter. Harlov shook his fist 
 after them and, going back to the front part of 
 the house, again clutched at the standards and 
 began once more loosening them, singing 
 again, like a bargeman. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped, stared. . . . 
 
 ' Maximushka, my dear ! my friend ! ' he 
 cried ; ' is it you ? ' 
 
 I looked round. . . . There, actually, was 
 Maximka, stepping out from the crowd of 
 peasants. Grinning and showing his teeth, he 
 130 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 walked forward. His master, the tailor, had 
 probably let him come home for a holiday. 
 
 * Climb up to me, Maximushka, my faithful 
 servant,' Harlov went on; 'together let us rid 
 ourselves of evil Tartar folk, of Lithuanian 
 thieves ! ' 
 
 Maximka, still grinning, promptly began 
 climbing up the roof. . . . But they seized him 
 and pulled him back — goodness knows why ; 
 possibly as an example to the rest ; he could 
 hardly have been much aid to Martin Petro- 
 vitch. 
 
 ' Oh, all right ! Good ! ' Harlov pronounced, 
 in a voice of menace, and again he took hold 
 of the standards. 
 
 ' Vikenty Osipovitch ! with your permission, 
 I '11 shoot,' Sletkin turned to Kvitsinsky ; 'more 
 to frighten him, see, than anything ; my gun 's 
 only charged with snipe-shot' But Kvitsinsky 
 had not time to answer him, when the front 
 couple of standards, viciously shaken in Harlov's 
 iron hands, heeled over with a loud crack and 
 crashed into the yard ; and with it, not able 
 to stop himself, came Harlov too, and fell with 
 a heavy thud on the earth. Every one shud- 
 dered and drew a deep breath. . . . Harlov lay 
 without stirring on his breast, and on his back 
 lay the top central beam of the roof, which had 
 come down with the falling gable's timbers. 
 
 131 
 
XXVIII 
 
 They ran up to Harlov, rolled the beam off 
 him, turned him over on his back. His face 
 was lifeless, there was blood about his mouth ; 
 he did not seem to breathe. ' The breath is 
 gone out of him,' muttered the peasants, 
 standing about him. They ran to the well 
 for water, brought a whole bucketful, and 
 drenched Harlov's head. The mud and dust 
 ran off his face, but he looked as lifeless 
 as ever. They dragged up a bench, set it 
 in the house itself, and with difficulty raising 
 the huge body of Martin Petrovitch, laid 
 it there with the head to the wall. The 
 page Maximka approached, fell on one knee, 
 and, his other leg stretched far behind 
 him, in a theatrical way, supported his former 
 master's arm. Evlampia, pale as death, 
 stood directly facing her father, her great eyes 
 fastened immovably upon him. Anna and 
 Sletkin did not come near him. All were 
 silent, all, as it were, waited for something. 
 132 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 At last we heard broken, smacking noises in 
 Harlov's throat, as though he were swallowing. 
 
 . . Then he feebly moved one, his right, 
 hand (Maximka supported the left), opened 
 one, the right eye, and slowly gazing about 
 him, as though drunken with some fearful 
 drunkenness, groaned, articulated, stammering, 
 ' I 'm sma-ashed ' . . . and as though after a 
 moment's thought, added, ' here it is, the 
 ra . . . aven co . . . olt ! ' The blood suddenly 
 gushed thickly from his mouth ... his whole 
 body began to quiver. . . . 
 
 ' The end ! ' I thought. . . . But once more 
 Harlov opened the same eye (the left eyelid 
 lay as motionless as on a dead man's face), and 
 fixing it on Evlampia, he articulated, hardly 
 above a breath, ' Well, daugh . . . ter . . . you, 
 I do not . . .' 
 
 Kvitsinsky, with a sharp motion of his hand, 
 beckoned to the priest, who was still standing 
 on the step. . . . The old man came up, his 
 narrow cassock clinging about his feeble knees. 
 But suddenly there was a sort of horrible 
 twitching in Harlov's legs and in his stomach 
 too ; an irregular contraction passed upwards 
 over his face. Evlampia's face seemed quiver- 
 ing and working in the same way. Maximka 
 began crossing himself ... I was seized with 
 horror; I ran out to the gates, squeezed myself 
 close to them, not looking round. A minute 
 later a soft murmur ran through the crowd, 
 133 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 behind my back, and I understood that Martin 
 Petrovitch was no more. 
 
 His skull had been fractured by the beam 
 and his ribs injured, as it appeared at the 
 post-mortem examination. 
 
 134 
 
XXIX 
 
 What had he wanted to say to her as he lay 
 dying? I asked myself as I went home on my 
 cob : ' I do not . . . forgive/ or ' do not . . , 
 pardon.' The rain had come on again, but I 
 rode at a walking pace. I wanted to be alone 
 as long as possible ; I wanted to give myself 
 up to my reflections, unchecked. Souvenir had 
 gone back in one of the carts that had come 
 with Kvitsinsky. Young and frivolous as 1 was 
 at that time, the sudden sweeping change (not 
 in mere details only) that is invariably called 
 forth in all hearts by the coming of death — 
 expected or unexpected, it makes no difference ! 
 — its majesty, its gravity, and its truthfulness 
 could not fail to impress me. I was impressed 
 too, . . . but for all that, my troubled, childish 
 eyes noted many things at once ; they noted 
 how Sletkin, hurriedly and furtively, as though 
 it were something stolen, popped the gun out 
 of sight ; how he and his wife became, both of 
 them, instantly the object of a sort of unspoken 
 but universal aloofness. To Evlampia, though 
 her fault was probably no less than her sister's, 
 135 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 this aloofness did not extend. She even aroused 
 a certain sympathy, when she fell at her dead 
 father's feet. But that she too was guilty, that 
 was none the less felt by all. ' The old man 
 was wronged,' said a grey-haired peasant with 
 a big head, leaning, like some ancient judge, 
 with both hands and his beard on a long staff; 
 ' on your soul lies the sin ! You wronged him ! ' 
 That saying was at once accepted by every one 
 as the final judgment. The peasants' sense of 
 justice found expression in it, I felt that at 
 once. I noticed too that, at the first, Sletkin did 
 not dare to give directions. Without him, they 
 lifted up the body and carried it into the other 
 house. Without asking him, the priest went 
 for everything needful to the church, while the 
 village elder ran to the village to send off a cart 
 and horse to the town. Even Anna Martinovna 
 did not venture to use her ordinary imperious 
 tone in ordering the samovar to be brought, 
 'for hot water, to wash the deceased.' Her 
 orders were more like an entreaty, and she 
 was answered rudely. . . . 
 
 I was absorbed all the while by the question. 
 What was it exactly he wanted to say to his 
 daughter? Did he want to forgive her or to 
 curse her? Finally I decided that it was — 
 forgiveness. 
 
 Three days later, the funeral of Martin Petro- 
 vitch took place. The cost of the ceremony 
 was undertaken by my mother, who was deeply 
 136 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 grieved at his death, and gave orders that no 
 expense was to be spared. She did not herself 
 go to the church, because she was unwilling, 
 as she said, to set eyes on those two vile 
 hussies and that nasty little Jew. But she 
 sent Kvitsinsky, me, and Zhitkov, though from 
 that time forward she always spoke of the latter 
 as a regular old woman. Souvenir she did not 
 admit to her presence, and was furious with him 
 for long after, saying that he was the murderer 
 of her friend. He felt his disgrace acutely ; he 
 was continually running, on tiptoe, up and down 
 the room, next to the one where my mother 
 was ; he gave himself up to a sort of scared 
 and abject melancholy, shuddering and mutter- 
 ing, 'd'rectly ! ' 
 
 In church, and during the procession, Sletkin 
 struck me as having recovered his self-posses- 
 sion. He gave directions and bustled about in 
 his old way, and kept a greedy look-out that not 
 a superfluous farthing should be spent, though 
 his own pocket was not in question. Maximka, 
 in a new Cossack dress, also a present from my 
 mother, gave vent to such tenor notes in the 
 choir, that certainly no one could have any 
 doubts as to the sincerity of his devotion to 
 the deceased. Both the sisters were duly 
 attired in mourning, but they seemed more 
 stupefied than grieved, especially Evlampia. 
 Anna wore a meek, Lenten air, but made no 
 attempt to weep, and was continually passing 
 137 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 her handsome, thin hand over her hair and 
 cheek. Evlampia seemed deep in thought all 
 the time. The universal, unbending alienation, 
 condemnation, which I had noticed on the day 
 of Harlov's death, I detected now too on the 
 faces of all the people in the church, in their 
 actions and their glances, but still more grave 
 and, as it were, impersonal. It seemed as 
 though all those people felt that the sin into 
 which the Harlov family had fallen — this great 
 ^sin — had gone now before the presence of the 
 one righteous Judge, and that for that reason, 
 there was no need now for them to trouble 
 themselves and be indignant. They prayed 
 devoutly for the soul of the dead man, whom 
 in life they had not specially liked, whom they 
 had feared indeed. Very abruptly had death 
 overtaken him. 
 
 ' And it 's not as though he had been drinking 
 heavily, brother,' said one peasant to another, 
 in the porch. 
 
 ' Nay, without drink he was drunken indeed/ 
 responded the other. 
 
 * He was cruelly wronged,' the first peasant 
 repeated the phrase that summed it up. 
 
 ' Cruelly wronged,' the others murmured after 
 him. 
 
 ' The deceased was a hard master to you, 
 wasn't he ? ' I asked a peasant, whom I recog- 
 nised as one of Harlov's serfs. 
 
 ' He was a master, certainly,' answered 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 the peasant, 'but still ... he was cruelly 
 wronged ! ' 
 
 * Cruelly wronged,' ... I heard again in the 
 crowd. 
 
 At the grave, too, Evlampia stood, as it 
 were, lost. Thoughts were torturing her . . . 
 bitter thoughts. I noticed that Sletkin, who 
 several times addressed some remark to her, 
 she treated as she had once treated Zhitkov, 
 and worse still. 
 
 Some days later, there was a rumour all over 
 our neighbourhood, that Evlampia Martinovna 
 had left the home of her fathers for ever, 
 leaving all the property that came to her to 
 her sister and brother-in-law, and only taking 
 some hundreds of roubles. . . . ' So Anna's 
 bought her out, it seems ! ' remarked my 
 mother ; ' but you and I, certainly,' she added, 
 addressing Zhitkov, with whom she was play- 
 ing picquet — he took Souvenir's place, * are not 
 skilful hands ! ' Zhitkov looked dejectedly at 
 his mighty palms. . . . ' Hands like that ! Not 
 skilful ! ' he seemed to be saying to himself. . . . 
 
 Soon after, my mother and I went to live in 
 Moscow, and many years passed before it was 
 my lot to behold Martin Petrovitch's daughters 
 
 139 
 
XXX 
 
 But I did see them again. Anna Martinovna 
 I came across in the most ordinary way. 
 
 After my mother's death I paid a visit to our 
 village, where I had not been for over fifteen 
 years, and there I received an invitation from 
 the mediator (at that time the process of settling 
 the boundaries between the peasants and their 
 former owners was taking place over the whole 
 of Russia with a slowness not yet forgotten) to a 
 meeting of the other landowners of our neigh- 
 bourhood, to be held on the estate of the widow 
 Anna Sletkin. The news that my mother's 
 * nasty little Jew,' with the prune-coloured eyes, 
 no longer existed in this world, caused me, I con- 
 fess, no regret whatever. But it was interesting 
 to get a glimpse of his widow. She had the 
 reputation in the neighbourhood of a first-rate 
 manager. And so it proved ; her estate and 
 homestead and the house itself (I could not help 
 glancing at the roof; it was an iron one) all 
 turned out to be in excellent order ; everything 
 was neat, clean, tidied-up, where needful — 
 painted, as though its mistress were a German. 
 140 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES ^ 
 
 Anna Martinovna herself, of course, looked older. 
 But the peculiar, cold, and, as it were, wicked 
 charm which had once so fascinated me had 
 not altogether left her. She was dressed in 
 rustic fashion, but elegantly. She received us, 
 not cordially — that word was not applicable 
 to her — but courteously, and on seeing me, a 
 witness of that fearful scene, not an eyelash 
 quivered. She made not the slightest reference 
 to my mother, nor her father, nor her sister, 
 nor her husband. 
 
 She had two daughters, both very pretty, 
 slim young things, with charming little faces, 
 and a bright and friendly expression in their 
 black eyes. There was a son, too, a little like 
 his father, but still a boy to be proud of! 
 During the discussions between the landowners, 
 Anna Martinovna's attitude was composed and 
 dignified, she showed no sign of being speci- 
 ally obstinate, nor specially grasping. But 
 none had a truer perception of their own 
 interests than she of hers ; none could more 
 convincingly expound and defend their rights. 
 All the laws 'pertinent to the case,' even the 
 Minister's circulars, she had thoroughly 
 mastered. She spoke little, and in a quiet 
 voice, but every word she uttered was to the 
 point. It ended in our all signifying our 
 agreement to all her demands, and making 
 concessions, which we could only marvel at 
 ourselves. On our way home, some of the 
 141 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 worthy landowners even used harsh words of 
 themselves ; they all hummed and hawed, and 
 shook their heads. 
 
 * Ah, she 's got brains that woman ! ' said one. 
 
 ' A tricky baggage ! ' put in another less 
 delicate proprietor. ' Smooth in word, but 
 cruel in deed ! ' 
 
 ' And a screw into the bargain ! ' added a 
 third ; ' not a glass of vodka nor a morsel of 
 caviare for us — what do you think of that ? ' 
 
 ' What can one expect of her ? ' suddenly 
 croaked a gentleman who had been silent till 
 then, ' every one knows she poisoned her 
 husband ! ' 
 
 To my astonishment, nobody thought fit to 
 controvert this awful and certainly unfounded 
 charge ! I was the more surprised at this, as, 
 in spite of the slighting expressions I have 
 reported, all of them felt respect for Anna 
 Martinovna, not excluding the indelicate land- 
 owner. As for the mediator, he waxed posi- 
 tively eloquent. 
 
 'Put her on a throne,' he exclaimed, 'she'd 
 be another Semiramis or Catherine the Second ! 
 The discipline among her peasants is a perfect 
 model. . . . The education of her children is 
 model ! What a head ! What brains ! ' 
 
 Without going into the question of Semiramis 
 and Catherine, there was no doubt Anna Mar- 
 tinovna was living a very happy life. Ease, 
 inward and external, the pleasant serenity of 
 142 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 spiritual health, seemed the very atmosphere 
 about herself, her family, all her surroundings. 
 Hovvfar she had deserved such happiness . . .that 
 is another question. Such questions, though, are 
 only propounded in youth. Everything in the 
 world, good and bad, comes to man, not through 
 his deserts, but in consequence of some as yet 
 unknown but logical laws which I will not 
 take upon myself to indicate, though I some- 
 times fancy I have a dim perception of them. 
 
 M3 
 
XXXI 
 
 I QUESTIONED the mediator about Evlampia 
 Martinovna, and learnt that she had been lost 
 sight of completely ever since she left home, 
 and probably ' had departed this life long ago.' 
 
 So our worthy mediator expressed himself 
 . . . but I am convinced that I have seen 
 Evlampia, that I have come across her. This 
 was how it was. 
 
 Four years after my interview with Anna 
 Martinovna, I was spending the summer at 
 Murino, a little hamlet near Petersburg, a 
 well-known resort of summer visitors of the 
 middle class. The shooting was pretty decent 
 about Murino at that time, and I used to go 
 out with my gun almost every day. I had a 
 companion on my expeditions, a man of the 
 tradesman class, called Vikulov, a very sensible 
 and good-natured fellow ; but, as he said of 
 himself, of no position whatever. This man 
 had been simply everywhere, and everything 1 
 Nothing could astonish him, he knew every- 
 thing — but he cared for nothing but shooting 
 and wine. Well, one day we were on our way 
 144 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 home to Murino, and we chanced to pass a 
 solitary house, standing at the cross-roads, and 
 enclosed by a high, close paling. It was not 
 the first time I had seen the house, and every 
 time it excited my curiosity. There was some- 
 thing about it mysterious, locked-up, grimly- 
 dumb, something suggestive of a prison or a 
 hospital. Nothing of it could be seen from 
 the road but its steep, dark, red-painted roof. 
 There was only one pair of gates in the whole 
 fence ; and these seemed fastened and never 
 opened. No sound came from the other side 
 of them. For all that, we felt that some one 
 was certainly living in the house ; it had not 
 at all the air of a deserted dwelling. On the 
 contrary, everything about it was stout, and 
 and tight, and strong, as if it would stand a 
 siege ! 
 
 ' What is that fortress ? ' I asked my com- 
 panion. ' Don't you know ? ' 
 
 Vikulov gave a sly wink. ' A fine building, 
 eh ? The police-captain of these parts gets a 
 nice little income out of it ! ' 
 
 'How's that.?' 
 
 * I '11 tell you. You 've heard, I daresay, of 
 the Flagellant dissenters — that do without 
 priests, you know ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Well, it 's there that their chief mother lives.' 
 
 ' A woman ? ' 
 
 ' Yes — the mother ; a mother of God, they say.' 
 
 145 K 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' 
 
 ' I tell you, it is so. She is a strict one, they 
 say. ... A regular commander-in-chief ! She 
 rules over thousands ! I 'd take her, and all 
 these mothers of God . . . But what 's the use 
 of talking ?' 
 
 He called his Pegashka, a marvellous dog, 
 with an excellent scent, but with no notion of 
 setting. Vikulov was obliged to tie her hind 
 paws to keep her from running so furiously. 
 
 His words sank into my memory. I some- 
 times went out of my way to pass by the 
 mysterious house. One day I had just got up 
 to it, when suddenly — wonderful to relate ! — a 
 bolt grated in the gates, a key creaked in the 
 lock, then the gates themselves slowly parted, 
 there appeared a large horse's head, with a 
 plaited forelock under a decorated yoke, and 
 slowly there rolled into the road a small cart, 
 like those driven by horse-dealers, and higglers. 
 On the leather cushion of the cart, near to me, sat 
 a peasant of about thirty, of a remarkably hand- 
 some and attractive appearance, in a neat black 
 smock, and a black cap, pulled down low on 
 his forehead. He was carefully driving the 
 well-fed horse, whose sides were as broad as a 
 stove. Beside the peasant, on the far side of 
 the cart, sat a tall woman, as straight as an 
 arrow. Her head was covered by a costly- 
 looking black shawl. She was dressed in a 
 short jerkin of dove-coloured velvet, and a 
 146 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 dark blue merino skirt ; her white hands she 
 held discreetly clasped on her bosom. The 
 cart turned on the road to the left, and brought 
 the woman within two paces of me ; she turned 
 her head a little, and I recognised Evlampia 
 Harlov. I knew her at once, I did not doubt 
 for one instant, and indeed no doubt was pos- 
 sible ; eyes like hers, and above all that cut of 
 the lips — haughty and sensual — I had never 
 seen in any one else. Her face had grown 
 longer and thinner, the skin was darker, here 
 and there lines could be discerned ; but, above 
 all, the expression of the face was changed ! 
 It is difficult to do justice in words to the self- 
 confidence, the sternness, the pride it had 
 gained ! Not simply the serenity of power — 
 the satiety of power was visible in every feature. 
 The careless glance she cast at me told of long 
 years of habitually meeting nothing but rev- 
 erent, unquestioning obedience. That woman 
 clearly lived surrounded, not by worshippers, 
 but by slaves. She had clearly forgotten even 
 the time when any command, any desire of 
 hers, was not carried out at the instant ! I 
 called her loudly by her name and her father's ; 
 she gave a faint start, looked at me a second 
 time, not with alarm, but with contemptuous 
 wrath, as though asking — ' Who dares to dis- 
 turb me ? ' and barely parting her lips, uttered 
 a word of command. The peasant sitting 
 beside her started forward, with a wave of his 
 147 
 
A LEAR OF THE STEPPES 
 
 arm struck the horse with the reins — the horse 
 set off at a strong rapid trot, and the cart dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 Since then I have not seen Evlampia again. 
 In what way Martin Petrovitch's daughter came 
 to be a Holy Virgin in the Flagellant sect I 
 cannot imagine. But, who knows, very likely 
 she has founded a sect which will be called — 
 or even now is called — after her name, the 
 Evlampieshtchin sect ? Anything may be, 
 anything may come to pass. 
 
 And so this is what I had to tell you of my 
 Lear of the Steppes, of his family and his doings. 
 
 The story-teller ceased, and we talked a little 
 longer, and then parted, each to his home. 
 
 Weimar, 1870. 
 
FAUST 
 
FAUST 
 
 A STORY IN NINE LETTERS 
 Entbchre7t soUst dii^ soUst entbehreii (Faust, Part I.) 
 
 FIRST LETTER 
 
 FROM PAVEL ALEXANDROVITCH B. ... TO 
 SEMYON NIKOLAEVITCH V. . . . 
 
 M Village, 6th June 1850. 
 
 I HAVE been here for three days, my dear 
 fellow, and, as I promised, I take up my pen 
 to write to you. It has been drizzling with fine 
 rain ever since the morning ; I can't go out ; 
 and I want a little chat with you, too. Here I 
 am again in my old home, where — it's a dread- 
 ful thing to say — I have not been for nine long 
 years. Really, as you may fancy, I have be- 
 come quite a different man. Yes, utterly 
 different, indeed ; do you remember, in the 
 drawing-room, the little tarnished looking-glass 
 of my great-grandmother's, with the queer little 
 curly scrolls in the corners — you always used to 
 be speculating on what it had seen a hundred 
 151 
 
FAUST 
 
 years ago — directly I arrived, I went up to 
 it, and I could not help feeling disconcerted. I 
 suddenly saw how old and changed I had 
 become in these last years. But I am not 
 alone in that respect. My little house, which 
 was old and tottering long ago, will hardly 
 hold together now, it is all on the slant, and 
 seems sunk into the ground. My dear Vassi- 
 lievna, the housekeeper (you can't have for- 
 gotten her ; she used to regale you with 
 such capital jam), is quite shrivelled up and 
 bent ; when she saw me, she could not call out, 
 and did not start crying, but only moaned and \ 
 choked, sank helplessly into a chair, and waved 
 her hand. Old Terenty has some spirit left in 
 him still ; he holds himself up as much as ever, 
 and turns out his feet as he walks. He still 
 wears the same yellow nankeen breeches, and 
 the same creaking goatskin slippers, with high 
 heels and ribbons, which touched you so much 
 sometimes, . . . but, mercy on us ! — how the 
 breeches flap about his thin legs nowadays ! 
 how white his hair has grown ! and his face 
 has shrunk up into a sort of little fist. When 
 he speaks to me, when he begins directing the 
 servants, and giving orders in the next room, it 
 makes me laugh and feel sorry for him. All 
 his teeth are gone, and he mumbles with a 
 whistling, hissing sound. On the other hand, 
 the garden has got on wonderfully. The modest 
 little plants of lilac, acacia, and honeysuckle 
 152 
 
FAUST 
 
 (do you remember, we planted them together ?) 
 have grown into splendid, thick bushes. The 
 birches, the maples — all that has spread out and 
 grown tall ; the avenues of lime-trees are par- 
 ticularly fine. I love those avenues, I love the 
 tender grey, green colour, and the delicate 
 fragrance of the air under their arching boughs ; 
 I love the changing network of rings of light 
 on the dark earth — there is no sand here, you 
 know. My favourite oak sapling has grown 
 into a young oak tree. Yesterday I spent more 
 than an hour in the middle of the day on a 
 garden bench in its shade. I felt very happy. 
 All about me the grass was deliciously luxuriant ; 
 a rich, soft, golden light lay upon everything ; it 
 made its way even into the shade . . . and the 
 birds one could hear ! You 've not forgotten, 1 
 expect, that birds are a passion of mine ? The 
 turtle-doves cooed unceasingly ; from time to 
 time there came the whistle of the oriole ; the 
 chaffinch uttered its sweet little refrain ; the 
 blackbirds quarrelled and twittered ; the cuckoo 
 called far away ; suddenly, like a mad thing, 
 the woodpecker uttered its shrill cry. I listened 
 and listened to this subdued, mingled sound, 
 and did not want to move, while my heart 
 was full of something between languor and 
 tenderness. 
 
 And it's not only the garden that has grown 
 up : I am continually coming across sturdy, 
 thick-set lads, whom I cannot recognise as the 
 153 
 
FAUST 
 
 little boys I used to know in old days. Your 
 favourite, Timosha, has turned into a Timofay, 
 such as you could never imagine. You had 
 fears in those days for his health, and predicted 
 consumption ; but now you should just see his 
 huge, red hands, as they stick out from the 
 narrow sleeves of his nankeen coat, and the stout 
 rounded muscles that stand out all over him ! 
 He has a neck like a bull's, and a head all over 
 tight, fair curls — a regular Farnese Hercules. 
 His face, though, has changed less than the 
 others' ; it is not even much larger in circum- 
 ference, and the good-humoured, ' gaping' — as 
 you used to say — smile has remained the same. 
 I have taken him to be my valet ; I got rid of 
 my Petersburg fellow at Moscow ; he was really 
 too fond of putting me to shame, and making 
 me feel the superiority of his Petersburg man- 
 ners. Of my dogs I have not found one ; they 
 have all passed away. Nefka lived longer than 
 any of them — and she did not live till my return, 
 as Argos lived till the return of Ulysses; she was 
 not fated to look once more with her lustreless 
 eyes on her master and companion in the chase. 
 But Shavka is all right, and barks as hoarsely as 
 ever, and has one ear torn just the same, and 
 burrs sticking to his tail, — all just as it should be. 
 I have taken up my abode in what was your 
 room. It is true the sun beats down upon it, 
 and there are a lot of flies in it ; but there is 
 less of the smell of the old house in it than in 
 154 
 
FAUST 
 
 the Other rooms. It 's a queer thing; that musty^^^ 
 rather sour, faint smell has a powerful effect on 
 my imagination; I don't mean that it's dis- 
 agreeable to me, quite the contrary, but it 
 produces melancholy, and, at last, depression. 
 I am very fond, just as you are, of podgy old 
 chests with brass plates, white armchairs with 
 oval backs, and crooked legs, fly-blown glass 
 lustres, with a big egg of lilac tinsel in the 
 centre — of all sorts of ancestral furniture, in 
 fact. But I can't stand seeing it all continually ; 
 a sort of agitated dejection (it is just that) takes 
 possession of me. In the room where I have 
 established myself, the furniture is of the most 
 ordinary, home-made description. I have left, 
 though, in the corner, a long narrow set of 
 shelves, on which there is an old-fashioned set 
 of blown green and blue glasses, just discernible 
 through the dust. And I have had hung on the 
 wall that portrait of a woman — you remember, 
 in the black frame ? — that you used to call the 
 portrait of Manon Lescaut. It has got rather 
 darker in these nine years; but the eyes have the 
 same pensive, sly, and tender look, the lips have 
 the same capricious, melancholy smile, and the 
 half-plucked rose falls as softly as ever from her 
 slender fingers. I am greatly amused by the 
 blinds in my room. They were once green, 
 but have been turned yellow by the sun ; on 
 them are depicted, in dark colours, scenes 
 from d'Arlencourt's Hermit. On one curtain 
 155 
 
FAUST 
 
 the hermit, with an immense beard, goggle- 
 eyes, and sandals on his feet, is carrying off a 
 young lady with dishevelled locks to the moun- 
 tains. On another one, there is a terrific com- 
 bat going on between four knights wearing 
 birettas, and with puffs on their shoulders ; one, 
 much foreshortened, lies slain — in fact, there 
 are pictures of all sorts of horrors, while all 
 about there is such unbroken peace, and the 
 blinds themselves throw such soft light on the 
 ceiling. ... A sort of inward calm has come 
 upon me since I have been settled here ; one 
 wants to do nothing, one wants to see no one, 
 one looks forward to nothing, one is too lazy 
 for thought, but not too lazy for musing ; two 
 different things, as you know well. Memories 
 of childhood, at first, came flooding upon me — 
 wherever I went, whatever I looked at, they 
 surged up on all sides, distinct, to the smallest 
 detail, and, as it were, immovable, in their clearly 
 defined outlines. . . . Then these memories 
 were succeeded by others, then . . . then I 
 gradually turned away from the past, and all 
 that was left was a sort of drowsy heaviness in 
 my heart. Fancy ! as I was sitting on the dike, 
 under a willow, I suddenly and unexpectedly 
 burst out crying, and should have gone on cry- 
 ing a long while, in spite of my advanced years, 
 if I had not been put to shame by a passing 
 peasant woman, who stared at me with curiosity, 
 then, without turning her face towards me, gave 
 156 
 
FAUST 
 
 a low bow from the waist, and passed on. I 
 should be very glad to remain in the same mood 
 (I shan't do any more crying, of course) till I 
 go away from here, that is, till September, and 
 should be very sorry if any of my neighbours 
 should take it into his head to call on me. 
 However there is no danger, I fancy, of that ; I 
 have no near neighbours here. You will under- 
 stand me, I 'm sure ; you know yourself, by 
 experience, how often solitude is beneficial . . . 
 I need it now after wanderings of all sorts. 
 
 But I shan't be dull. I have brought a few 
 books with me, and I have a pretty fair library 
 here. Yesterday, I opened all the bookcases, 
 and was a long while rummaging about among 
 the musty books. I found many curious things 
 I had not noticed before : Candide^ in a manu- 
 script translation of somewhere about 1770; 
 newspapers and magazines of the same period ; 
 the Triumphant Chameleon (that is, Mirabeau), 
 le Paysan Perverti, etc. I came across children's 
 books, my own, and my father's, and my grand- 
 mother's, and even, fancy, my great grand- 
 mother's ; in one dilapidated French grammar 
 in a particoloured binding, was written in fat 
 letters : ' Ce livre appartient a Mile Eudoxie de 
 Lavrine,' and it was dated 1 741. I saw books 
 I had brought at different times from abroad, 
 among others, Goethe's Faust. You're not 
 aware, perhaps, that there was a time when I 
 knew Faust by heart (the first part, of course) 
 157 
 
word for word ; I was never tired of reading it. 
 . . But other days, other dreams, and for the 
 last nine years, it has so happened, that I have 
 scarcely had a Goethe in my hand. It was 
 with an indescribable emotion that I saw the 
 little book I knew so well, again (a poor edition 
 of 1828). I brought it away with me, lay down 
 on the bed, and began to read. How all that 
 splendid first scene affected me ! The entrance 
 of the Spirit of the Earth, the words, you 
 remember — ' on the tide of life, in the whirl of 
 creation,' stirred a long unfamiliar tremor and 
 shiver of ecstasy. I recalled everything : Ber- 
 lin, and student days, and Fraulein Clara Stick, 
 and Zeidelmann in the role of Mephistopheles, 
 and the music of Radzivil, and all and every- 
 thing. ... It was a long while before I could 
 get to sleep : my youth rose up and stood 
 before me like a phantom ; it ran like fire, like 
 poison through my veins, my heart leaped and 
 would not be still, something plucked at its 
 chords, and yearnings began surging up. . . . 
 
 You see what fantasies your friend gives 
 himself up to, at almost forty, when he sits in 
 solitude in his solitary little house ! What if 
 any one could have peeped at me ! Well, 
 what ? I shouldn't have been a bit ashamed 
 of myself To be ashamed is a sign of youth, 
 too ; and I have begun (do you know how ?) 
 to notice that I 'm getting old. I '11 tell you 
 how. I try in these days to make as much as 
 158 
 
FAUST 
 
 I can of my happy sensations, and to make 
 little of my sad ones, and in the days of my 
 youth I did just the opposite. At times, one 
 used to carry about one's melancholy as 
 if it were a treasure, and be ashamed of a 
 cheerful mood . . . But for all that, it strikes 
 me, that in spite of all my experience of life, 
 there is something in the world, friend 
 Horatio, which I have not experienced, and 
 that ' something ' almost the most important. 
 
 Oh, what have I worked myself up to ! 
 Farewell for the present ! What are you about 
 in Petersburg ? By the way ; Savely, my 
 country cook, wishes to send his duty to 
 you. He too is older, but not very much so, 
 he is grown rather corpulent, stouter all over. 
 He is as good as ever at chicken-soup, with 
 stewed onions, cheesecakes with goffered 
 edges, and peagoose — peagoose is the famous 
 dish of the steppes, which makes your tongue 
 white and rough for twenty-four hours after. 
 On the other hand, he roasts the meat as he 
 always did, so that you can hammer on the 
 plate with it — hard as a board. But I must 
 really say, good-bye ! Yours, P. B. 
 
 159 
 
SECOND LETTER 
 
 From the SAME to the SAME 
 
 M Village, /z^;?^ 12, 1850. 
 
 I HAVE rather an important piece of news to 
 tell you, my dear friend. Listen ! Yesterday 
 I felt disposed for a walk before dinner — only 
 not in the garden ; I walked along the road 
 towards the town. Walking rapidly, quite 
 aimlessly, along a straight, long road is very 
 pleasant. You feel as if you 're doing some- 
 thing, hurrying somewhere. I look up ; a 
 coach is coming towards me. Surely not some 
 one to see me, I wondered with secret terror . . . 
 No : there was a gentleman with moustaches in 
 the carriage, a stranger to me. I felt reassured. 
 But all of a sudden, when he got abreast with 
 me, this gentleman told the coachman to stop 
 the horses, politely raised his cap, and still 
 more politely asked me, ' was not L' . . . 
 mentioning my name. I too came to a stand- 
 still, and with the fortitude of a prisoner 
 brought up for trial, replied that I was myself ; 
 while I stared like a sheep at the gentleman 
 160 
 
FAUST 
 
 with the moustaches and said to myself — * I do 
 believe I Ve seen him somewhere ! ' 
 
 ' You don't recognise me ? ' he observed, as 
 he got out of the coach. 
 
 ' No, I don't' 
 
 ' But I knew you directly.' 
 
 Explanations followed ; it appeared that it 
 was Priemkov — do you remember? — a fellow 
 we used to know at the university. ' Why, is 
 that an important piece of news ? ' you are 
 asking yourself at this instant, my dear Semyon 
 Nikolaitch. ' Priemkov, to the best of my recol- 
 lection, was rather a dull chap ; no harm in him 
 though, and not a fool.' Just so, my dear boy ; 
 but hear the rest of our conversation. 
 
 ' I was delighted,' says he, ' when I heard 
 you had come to your country-place, into our 
 neighbourhood. But I was not alone in that 
 feeling.' 
 
 ' Allow me to ask,' I questioned : ' who was 
 so kind . . .' 
 
 ' My wife.' 
 
 ' Your wife ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, my wife ; she is an old acquaintance 
 of yours.' 
 
 ' May I ask what was your wife's name ? ' 
 
 ' Vera Nikolaevna ; she was an Eltsov . . .' 
 
 ' Vera Nikolaevna ! ' I could not help ex- 
 claiming . . . 
 
 This it is, which is the important piece of 
 news I spoke of at the beginning of my letter. 
 
 l6l L 
 
FAUST 
 
 But perhaps you don't see anything impor- 
 tant even in this ... I shall have to tell you 
 something of my past . . . long past, life. 
 
 When we both left the university in 183 — 
 I was three-and-twenty. You went into the 
 service ; I decided, as you know, to go to 
 Berlin. But there was nothing to be done in 
 Berlin before October. I wanted to spend the 
 summer in Russia — in the country — to have a 
 good lazy holiday for the last time ; and then 
 to set to work in earnest. How far this last 
 project was carried out, there is no need to 
 enlarge upon here . . . ' But where am I to 
 spend the summer?' I asked myself. I did 
 not want to go to my own place ; my father 
 had died not long before, I had no near 
 relations, I was afraid of the solitude and 
 dreariness . . . And so I was delighted to 
 receive an invitation from a distant cousin to 
 stay at his country-place in T . . . province. 
 He was a well-to-do, good-natured, simple- 
 hearted man ; he lived in style as a country 
 magnate, and had a palatial country house. 
 I went to stay there. My cousin had a large 
 family ; two sons and five daughters. Besides 
 them, there was always a crowd of people in 
 his house. Guests were for ever arriving ; and 
 yet it wasn't jolly at all. The days were spent 
 in noisy entertainments, there was no chance 
 of being by oneself. Everything was done in 
 common, every one tried to be entertaining, 
 162 
 
FAUST 
 
 to invent some amusement, and at the end of 
 the day every one was fearfully exhausted. 
 There was something vulgar about the way 
 we lived. I was already beginning to look 
 forward to getting away, and was only waiting 
 till my cousin's birthday festivities were over, 
 when on the very day of those festivities, at 
 the ball, I saw Vera Nikolaevna Eltsov — and I 
 stayed on. 
 
 She was at that time sixteen. She was 
 living with her mother on a little estate four 
 miles from my cousin's place. Her father — a 
 remarkable man, I have been told — had risen 
 rapidly to the grade of colonel, and would 
 have attained further distinctions, but he died 
 young, accidentally shot by a friend when out 
 shooting. Vera Nikolaevna was a baby at 
 the time of his death. Her mother too was 
 an exceptional woman ; she spoke several 
 languages, and was very well informed. She 
 was seven or eight years older than her husband 
 whom she had married for love ; he had run 
 away with her in secret from her father's house. 
 She never got over his loss, and, till the day of 
 her death (I heard from Priemkov that she had 
 died soon after her daughter's marriage), she 
 never wore anything but black. I have a vivid 
 recollection of her face : it was expressive, dark, 
 with thick hair beginning to turn grey ; large, 
 severe, lustreless eyes, and a straight, fine nose. 
 Her father — his surname was Ladanov — had 
 163 
 
FAUST 
 
 lived for fifteen years in Italy. Vera Niko- 
 laevna's mother was the daughter of a simple 
 Albanian peasant girl, who, the day after 
 giving birth to her child, was killed by her 
 betrothed lover — a Transteverino peasant — 
 from whom Ladanov had enticed her away. 
 . . . The story made a great sensation at the 
 time. On his return to Russia, Ladanov never 
 left his house, nor even his study ; he devoted 
 himself to chemistry, anatomy, and magical 
 arts ; tried to discover means to prolong 
 human life, fancied he could hold intercourse 
 with spirits, and call up the dead. . . . The 
 neighbours looked upon him as a sorcerer. 
 He was extremely fon^of his daughter, and 
 ^fcught her everything himself: but he never 
 forgave her elopement with Eltsov, never 
 allowed either of them to come into his 
 presence, predicted a life of sorrow for both 
 of them, and died in solitude. When Madame 
 Eltsov was left a widow, she devoted her whole 
 time to the education of her daughter, and 
 scarcely saw any friends. When I first met 
 Vera Nikolaevna, she had — ^just fancy — never 
 been in a town in her life, not even in the 
 town of her district. 
 
 Vera Nikolaevna was not like the common 
 run of Russian girls ; there was the stamp of 
 something special upon her. I was struck 
 from the first minute by the extraordinary 
 repose of all her movements and remarks. 
 164 
 
FAUST 
 
 She seemed free from any sort of disturbance 
 or agitation ; she answered simply and intelli- 
 gently, and listened attentively. The expres- 
 sion of her face was sincere and truthful as a 
 child's, but a little cold and immobile, though 
 not dreamy. She was rarely gay, and not 
 ill the way other girls are ; the serenity of 
 an innocent heart shone out in everything 
 about her, and cheered one more than any 
 gaiety. She was not tall, and had a very good 
 figure, rather slender ; she had soft, regular 
 features, a lovely smooth brow, light golden 
 hair, a straight nose, like her mother's, and 
 rather full lips ; her dark grey eyes looked out 
 somewhat too directly from under soft, upward- 
 turned eyelashes. Her hands were small, and 
 not very pretty ; one never sees hands like 
 hers on people of talent . . . and, as a fact. 
 Vera Nikolaevna had no special talents. Her 
 voice rang out clear as a child of seven's. I 
 was presented to her mother at my cousin's 
 ball, and a few days later I called on them 
 for the first time. 
 
 Madame Eltsov was a very strange woman, 
 a woman of character, of strong will and con- 
 centration. She had a great influence on me ; 
 I at once respected her and feared her. Every- 
 thing with her was done on a principle, and 
 she had educated her daughter too on a 
 principle, though she did not interfere with 
 her freedom. Her daughter loved her and 
 165 
 
FAUST 
 
 trusted her blindly. Madame Eltsov had only 
 to give her a book, and say — ' Don't read that 
 page/ she would prefer to skip the preceding 
 page as well, and would certainly never glance 
 at the page interdicted. But Madame Eltsov 
 too had her idees fixes, her fads. She was 
 mortally afraid, for instance, of anything that 
 might work upon the imagination. And so 
 her daughter reached the age of seventeen 
 without ever having read a novel or a poem, 
 while in Geography, History, and even Natural 
 History, she would often put me to shame, 
 graduate as I was, and a graduate, as you 
 know, not by any means low down on the 
 list either. I used to try and argue with 
 Madame Eltsov about her fad, though it was 
 difficult to draw her into conversation; she 
 was very silent. She simply shook her head. 
 
 'You tell me,' she said at last, 'that reading 
 poetry is both useful and pleasant. ... I con- 
 sider one must make one's choice early in life ; 
 either the useful or the pleasant, and abide by 
 it once for all. I, too, tried at one time to 
 unite the two. . . . That 's impossible, and leads 
 to ruin or vulgarity.' 
 
 Yes, a wonderful being she was, that woman, 
 an upright, proud nature, not without a certain 
 fanaticism and superstition of her own. ' I am 
 afraid of life,' she said to me one day. And 
 really she was afraid of it, afraid of those secret 
 forces on which life rests and which rarely, but 
 1 66 
 
FAUST 
 
 SO suddenly, break out. Woe to him who is 
 their sport ! These forces had shown them- 
 selves in fearful shape for Madame Eltsov ; 
 think of her mother's death, her husband's, her 
 father's. . . . Any one would have been panic- 
 stricken. I never saw her smile. She had, as 
 it were, locked herself up and thrown the key 
 into the water. She must have suffered great 
 grief in her time, and had never shared it with 
 any one; she had hidden it all away within 
 herself She had so thoroughly trained herself 
 not to give way to her feelings that she was even 
 ashamed to express her passionate love for her 
 daughter ; she never once kissed her in my 
 presence, and never used any endearing names, 
 always Vera. I remember one saying of hers ; 
 I happened to say to her that all of us modern 
 people were half broken by life. ' It 's no good 
 being half broken,' she observed ; ' one must 
 be broken in thoroughly or let it alone. . . .' 
 
 Very few people visited Madame Eltsov ; 
 but I went often to see her. I was secretly 
 aware that she looked on me with favour ; and 
 I liked Vera Nikolaevna very much indeed. 
 We used to talk and walk together. . . . Her 
 mother was no check upon us ; the daughter 
 did not like to be away from her mother, and 
 I, for my part, felt no craving for solitary talks 
 with her. . . . Vera Nikolaevna had a strange 
 habit of thinking aloud ; she used at night in 
 her sleep to talk loudly and distinctly about 
 167 
 
FAUST 
 
 what had impressed her during the day. One 
 day, looking at me attentively, leaning softly, 
 as her way was, on her hand, she said, ' It 
 seems to me that B. is a good person, but 
 there's no relying on him.' The relations 
 existing between us were of the friendliest and 
 most tranquil ; only once I fancied I detected 
 somewhere far off in the very depths of her 
 clear eyes something strange, a sort of soft- 
 ness and tenderness. . . . But perhaps I was 
 mistaken. 
 
 Meanwhile the time was slipping by, and it 
 was already time for me to prepare for de- 
 parture. But still I put it off. At times, when 
 I thought, when I realised that soon I should 
 see no more of this sweet girl I had grown so 
 fond of, I felt sick at heart. . . . Berlin began 
 to lose its attractive force. I had not the 
 courage to acknowledge to myself what was 
 going on within me, and, indeed, I didn't un- 
 derstand what was taking place, — it was as 
 though a cloud were overhanging my soul. 
 At last one morning everything suddenly be- 
 came clear to me. ' Why seek further, what is 
 there to strive towards? Why, I shall not 
 attain to truth in any case. Isn't it better to 
 stay here, to be married ? ' And, imagine, the 
 idea of marriage had no terrors for me in those 
 days. On the contrary, I rejoiced in it. More 
 than that ; that day I declared my intentions ; 
 only not to Vera Nikolaevna, as one would 
 1 68 
 
FAUST 
 
 naturally suppose, but to Madame Eltsov. 
 The old lady looked at me. 
 
 ' No,' she said ; ' my dear boy, go to Berlin, 
 get broken in thoroughly. You're a good 
 fellow ; but it 's not a husband like you that 's 
 needed for Vera.' 
 
 I hung my head, blushed, and, what will 
 very likely surprise you still more, inwardty 
 agreed with Madame Eltsov on the spot. A 
 week later I went away, and since then I have 
 not seen her nor Vera Nikolaevna. 
 
 I have related this episode briefly because I 
 know you don't care for anything ' meandering.' 
 When I got to Berlin I very quickly forgot 
 Vera Nikolaevna. . . . But I will own that 
 hearing of her so unexpectedly has excited me. 
 I am impressed by the idea that she is so close, 
 that she is my neighbour, that I shall see her 
 in a day or two. The past seems suddenly to 
 have sprung up out of the earth before my 
 eyes, and to have rushed down upon me. 
 Priemkov informed me that he was coming to 
 call upon me with the very object of renewing 
 our old acquaintance, and that he should look 
 forward to seeing me at his house as soon 
 as I could possibly come. He told me he 
 had been in the cavalry, had retired with the 
 rank of lieutenant, had bought an estate 
 about six miles from me, and was intending 
 to devote himself to its management, that 
 he had had three children, but that two had 
 169 
 
FAUST 
 
 died, and he had only a little girl of five sur- 
 viving. 
 
 ' And does your wife remember me ? ' I 
 inquired. 
 
 ' Yes, she remembers you,' he replied, with 
 some slight hesitation. ' Of course, she was a 
 child, one may say, in those days; but her 
 mother always spoke very highly of you, and 
 you know how precious every word of her poor 
 mother's is to her.' 
 
 I recalled Madame Eltsov's words, that I 
 was not suitable for her Vera. . . . ' I suppose 
 you were suitable,' I thought, with a sidelong 
 look at Priemkov. He spent some hours with 
 me. He is a very nice, dear, good fellow, 
 speaks so modestly, and looks at me so good- 
 naturedly. One can't help liking him . . . but 
 his intellectual powers have not developed 
 since we used to know him. I shall certainly 
 go and see him, possibly to-morrow. I am 
 exceedingly curious to see how Vera Nikolaevna 
 has turned out. 
 
 You, spiteful fellow, are most likely laughing 
 at me as you read this, sitting at your directors' 
 table. But I shall write and tell you, all the 
 same, the impression she makes on me. Good- 
 bye — till my next. — Yours, P. B. 
 
 170 
 
THIRD LETTER 
 From the SAME to the SAME 
 
 M Village, /z^«^ i6, 1850. 
 
 Well, my dear boy, I have been to her 
 house ; I have seen her. First of all I must 
 tell you one astonishing fact : you may believe 
 me or not as you like, but she has scarcely 
 changed at all either in face or in figure. 
 When she came to meet me, I almost cried 
 out in amazement ; it was simply a little girl 
 of seventeen ! Only her eyes are not a little 
 girl's ; but then her eyes were never like a 
 child's, even in her young days, — they were 
 too clear. But the same composure, the same 
 serenity, the same voice, not one line on her 
 brow, as though she had been laid in the snow 
 all these years. And she 's twenty-eight now, 
 and has had three children. ... It's incom- 
 prehensible ! Don't imagine, please, that I had 
 some preconceived preference, and so am 
 exaggerating ; quite the other way ; I don't 
 like this absence of change in her a bit. 
 
 A woman of eight-and-twenty, a wife and a 
 171 
 
FAUST 
 
 mother, ought not to be like a little girl ; she 
 should have gained something from life. She 
 gave me a very cordial welcome ; but Priemkov 
 was simply overjoyed at my arrival ; the dear 
 fellow seems on the look-out for some one to 
 make much of Their house is very cosy and 
 clean. Vera Nikolaevna was dressed, too, like 
 a girl ; all in white, with a blue sash, and a 
 slender gold chain on her neck. Her daughter 
 is very sweet and not at all like her. She 
 reminds one of her grandmother. In the 
 drawing-room, just over a sofa, there hangs a 
 portrait of that strange woman, a striking 
 likeness. It caught my eye directly I went 
 into the room. It seemed as though she were 
 gazing sternly and earnestly at me. We sat 
 down, spoke of old times, and by degrees got 
 into conversation. I could not help continually 
 glancing at the gloomy portrait of Madame 
 Eltsov. Vera Nikolaevna was sitting just 
 under it ; it is her favourite place. Imagine 
 my amazement : Vera Nikolaevna has never 
 yet read a single novel, a single poem — in fact, 
 not a single invented work, as she expresses 
 it ! This incomprehensible indifference to the 
 highest pleasures of the intellect irritated me. 
 In a woman of intelligence, and as far as I 
 can judge, of sensibility, it 's simply unpar- 
 donable. 
 
 ' What ? do you make it a principle,' I asked, 
 ' never to read books of that sort ? ' 
 172 
 
FAUST 
 
 ' I have never happened to/ she answered ; ' 1 
 haven't had time ! ' 
 
 ' Not time ! You surprise me ! I should 
 have thought,' I went on, addressing Priemkov, 
 * you would have interested your wife in poetry.' 
 
 ' I should have been delighted ' Priem- 
 kov was beginning, but Vera Nikolaevna in- 
 terrupted him — 
 
 ' Don't pretend ; you 've no great love for 
 poetry yourself.' 
 
 ' Poetry ; well, no,' he began ; ' I 'm not very 
 fond of it ; but novels, now. . . .' 
 
 ' But what do you do, how do you spend 
 your evenings?' I queried; 'do you play 
 cards ? ' 
 
 'We sometimes play,' she answered; 'but 
 there's always plenty to do. We read, too; 
 there are good books to read besides poetry.' 
 
 ' Why are you so set against poetry? ' 
 
 ' I 'm not set against it ; I have been used to 
 not reading these invented works from a child. 
 That was my mother's wish, and the longer I 
 live the more I am convinced that everything 
 my mother did, everything she said, was right, 
 sacredly right.' 
 
 ' Well, as you will, but I can't agree with 
 you ; I am certain you are depriving yourself 
 quite needlessly of the purest, the most legiti- 
 mate pleasure. Why, you 're not opposed to 
 music and painting, I suppose ; why be opposed 
 to poetry ? ' 
 
 173 
 
FAUST 
 
 ' I 'm not opposed to it ; I have never got to 
 know anything of it — that 's all.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I will see to that ! Your mother 
 did not, I suppose, wish to prevent your 
 knowing anything of the works of creative, 
 poetic art all your life ? ' 
 
 ' No ; when I was married, my mother 
 removed every restriction ; it never occurred 
 to me to read — what did you call them ? . . . 
 well, anyway, to read novels.' 
 
 I listened to Vera Nikolaevna in astonish- 
 ment. I had not expected this. 
 
 She looked at me with her serene glance. 
 Birds look so when they are not fright- 
 ened. 
 
 ' I '11 bring you a book ! ' I cried. (I thought 
 oi Faust, which I had just been reading.) 
 
 Vera Nikolaevna gave a gentle sigh. 
 
 ' It it won't be Georges — Sand ? ' she 
 
 questioned with some timidity. 
 
 ' Ah ! then you 've heard of her ? Well, if 
 it were, where 's the harm ? . . . No, I '11 bring 
 you another author. You 've not forgotten 
 German, have you ? ' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' She speaks it like a German,' put in 
 Priemkov. 
 
 * Well, that 's splendid ! I will bring you — 
 but there, you shall see what a wonderful thing 
 I will bring you.' 
 
 'Very good, we shall see. But now let us 
 174 
 
FAUST 
 
 go into the garden, or there'll be no keeping 
 Natasha still.' 
 
 She put on a round straw hat, a child's hat, 
 just such a one as her daughter was wearing, 
 only a little larger, and we went into the garden. 
 I walked beside her. In the fresh air, in the 
 shade of the tall limes, I thought her face 
 looked sweeter than ever, especially when she 
 turned a little and threw back her head so as 
 to look up at me from under the brim of her 
 hat. If it had not been for Priemkov walking 
 behind us, and the little girl skipping about in 
 front of us, I could really have fancied I was 
 three-and-twenty, instead of thirty-five ; and 
 that I was just on the point of starting for 
 Berlin, especially as the garden we were walk- 
 ing in was very much like the garden in Madame 
 Eltsov's estate. I could not help expressing my 
 feelings to Vera Nikolaevna. 
 
 * Every one tells me that I am very little 
 changed externally,' she answered, 'though 
 indeed I have remained just the same in- 
 wardly too,' 
 
 We came up to a little Chinese summer-house, 
 
 ' We had no summer-house like this at Osin- 
 ovka,' she said; ' but you mustn't mind its being 
 so tumbledown and discoloured : it 's very nice 
 and cool inside.' 
 
 We went into the house. I looked round. 
 
 ' I tell you what, Vera Nikolaevna,' I observed, 
 * you let them bring a table and some chairs in 
 175 
 
FAUST 
 
 here. Here it is really delicious. I will read 
 you here Goethe's Faust — that's the thing 
 I am going to read you.' 
 
 'Yes, there are no flies here,' she observed 
 simply. * When will you come ? ' 
 
 ' The day after to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Very well,' she answered. ' I will arrange it.' 
 
 Natasha, who had come into the summer- 
 house with us, suddenly gave a shriek and 
 jumped back, quite pale. 
 
 'What is it?' inquired Vera Nikolaevna. 
 
 ' O mammy,' said the little girl, pointing into 
 the corner, ' look, what a dreadful spider ! ' 
 
 Vera Nikolaevna looked into the corner : a 
 fat mottled spider was crawling slowly along 
 the wall. 
 
 'What is there to fear in that?' she said. 
 ' It won't bite, look.' 
 
 And before I had time to stop her, she took 
 up the hideous insect, let it run over her hand, 
 and threw it away. 
 
 ' Well, you are brave ! ' I cried. 
 
 'Where is the bravery in that? It wasn't a 
 venomous spider.' 
 
 ' One can see you are as well up in Natural 
 History as ever, but I couldn't have held it in 
 my hand.' 
 
 'There's nothing to be afraid of!' repeated 
 Vera Nikolaevna. 
 
 Natasha looked at us both in silence, and 
 laughed. 
 
 176 
 
FAUST 
 
 ' How like your mother she is ! ' I remarked. 
 
 * Yes,' rejoined Vera Nikolaevna with a smile 
 of pleasure, ' it is a great happiness to me. God 
 grant she may be like her, not in face only ! ' 
 
 We were called in to dinner, and after dinner 
 I went away. 
 
 N.B. — The dinner was very good and well- 
 cooked, an observation in parenthesis for you, 
 you gourmand ! 
 
 To-morrow I shall take them Faust. I 'm 
 afraid old Goethe and I may not come off 
 very well. I will write and tell you all about 
 it most exactly. 
 
 Well, and what do you think of all these 
 proceedings ? No doubt, that she has made 
 a great impression on me, that I 'm on the 
 point of falling in love, and all the rest of it } 
 Rubbish, my dear boy ! There 's a limit to every- 
 thing. I 've been fool enough. No more ! One 
 can't begin life over again at my age. Besides, 
 I never did care for women of that sort. . . . 
 Nice sort of women I did care for, if you come 
 to that ! ! 
 
 ' I shudder — my heart is sick — 
 I am ashamed of my idols.' 
 
 Any way, I am very glad of such neighbours, 
 glad of the opportunity of seeing something of 
 an intelligent, simple, bright creature. And as 
 to what comes of it later on, you shall hear in 
 due time. — Yours, P. B. 
 
 177 M 
 
FOURTH LETTER 
 
 From the SAME to the SAME 
 
 M Village, y^^/z^- 20, 1850. 
 
 The reading took place yesterday, dear friend, 
 and here follows the manner thereof. First of 
 all, I hasten to tell you : a success quite beyond 
 all expectation — success, in fact, is not the word. 
 . . . Well, I '11 tell you. I arrived to dinner. 
 We sat down a party of six to dinner : she, 
 Priemkov, their little girl, the governess (an 
 uninteresting colourless figure), I, and an old 
 German in a short cinnamon-coloured frock-coat, 
 very clean, well-shaved and brushed ; he had the 
 meekest, most honest face, and a toothless 
 smile, and smelled of coffee mixed with chicory 
 . . . all old Germans have that peculiar odour 
 about them. I was introduced to him ; he was 
 one Schimmel, a German tutor, living with 
 the princes H., neighbours of the Priemkovs. 
 Vera Nikolaevna, it appeared, had a liking for 
 him, and had invited him to be present at the 
 reading. We dined late, and sat a long while 
 at table, and afterwards went a walk. The 
 178 
 
FAUST 
 
 weather was exquisite. In the morning there 
 had been rain and a blustering wind, but 
 towards evening all was calm again. We 
 came out on to an open meadow. Directly 
 over the meadow a great rosy cloud poised 
 lightly, high up in the sky ; streaks of grey 
 stretched like smoke over it ; on its very edge, 
 continually peeping out and vanishing again, 
 quivered a little star, while a little further off 
 the crescent of the moon shone white upon 
 a background of azure, faintly flushed with 
 red. I drew Vera Nikolaevna's attention to 
 the cloud. 
 
 'Yes,' she said, 'that is lovely; but look in 
 this direction.' I looked round. An immense 
 dark-blue storm-cloud rose up, hiding the setting 
 sun ; it reared a crest like a thick sheaf flung 
 upwards against the sky ; it was surrounded 
 by a bright rim of menacing purple, which 
 in one place, in the very middle, broke right 
 through its mighty mass, like fire from a burn- 
 ing crater. . . . 
 
 ' There '11 be a storm,' remarked Priemkov. 
 
 But I am wandering from the main point. 
 
 I forgot to tell you in my last letter that 
 when I got home from the Priemkovs' I felt 
 sorry I had mentioned Faust ; Schiller would 
 have been a great deal better for the first time, 
 if it was to be something German. I felt 
 especially afraid of the first scenes, before the 
 meeting with Gretchen. I was not quite easy 
 179 
 
FAUST 
 
 about Mephistopheles either. But I was under 
 the spell of Faust, and there was nothing else 
 I could have read with zest. It was quite dark 
 when we went into the summer-house ; it had 
 been made ready for us the day before. Just 
 opposite the door, before a little sofa, stood a 
 round table covered with a cloth ; easy-chairs 
 and seats were placed round it ; there was a 
 lamp alight on the table. I sat down on the little 
 sofa, and took out the book. Vera Nikolaevna 
 settled herself in an easy-chair, a little way off, 
 close to the door. In the darkness, through 
 the door, a green branch of acacia stood out 
 in the lamplight, swaying lightly ; from time 
 to time a flood of night air flowed into the 
 room. Priemkov sat near me at the table, the 
 German beside him. The governess had re- 
 mained in the house with Natasha. I made 
 a brief, introductory speech. I touched on the 
 old legend of doctor Faust, the significance of 
 Mephistopheles, and Goethe himself, and asked 
 them to stop me if anything struck them as 
 obscure. Then I cleared my throat. . . . 
 Priemkov asked me if I wouldn't have some 
 sugar water, and one could perceive that he 
 was very well satisfied with himself for having 
 put this question to me. I refused. Profound 
 silence reigned. I began to read, without raising 
 my eyes. I felt ill at ease; my heart beat, 
 and my voice shook. The first exclamation 
 of sympathy came from the German, and he 
 1 80 
 
FAUST 
 
 was the only one to break the silence all 
 the while I was reading. . . . ' Wonderful ! 
 sublime ! ' he repeated, adding now and then, 
 ' Ah ! that 's profound.' Priemkov, as far as I 
 could observe, was bored ; he did not know 
 German very well, and had himself admitted 
 he did not care for poetry ! . . . Well, it was 
 his own doing ! I had wanted to hint at dinner 
 that his company could be dispensed with at 
 the reading, but I felt a delicacy about saying 
 so. Vera Nikolaevna did not stir ; twice I stole 
 a glance at her. Her eyes were fixed directly 
 and intently upon me ; her face struck me as 
 pale. After the first meeting of Faust with 
 Gretchen she bent forward in her low chair, 
 clasped her hands, and remained motionless in 
 that position till the end. I felt that Priemkov 
 was thoroughly sick of it, and at first that de- 
 pressed me, but gradually I forgot him, warmed 
 up, and read with fire, with enthusiasm. ... I 
 was reading for Vera Nikolaevna alone ; an 
 inner voice told me that Faust was affect- 
 ing her. When I finished (the intermezzo I 
 omitted : that bit belongs in style to the second 
 part, and I skipped part, too, of the ' Night 
 on the Brocken ') • • • when I finished, when 
 that last 'Heinrich!' was heard, the German 
 with much feeling commented — * My God ! how 
 splendid ! ' Priemkov, apparently overjoyed 
 (poor chap !), leaped up, gave a sigh, and began 
 thanking me for the treat I had given them. 
 i8i 
 
FAUST 
 
 . . , But I made him no reply ; I looked towards 
 Vera Nikolaevna. ... I wanted to hear what 
 she would say. She got up, walked irresolutely 
 towards the door, stood a moment in the door- 
 way, and softly went out into the garden. I 
 rushed after her. She was already some paces 
 off; her dress was just visible, a white patch in 
 the thick shadow. 
 
 ' Well ? ' I called—^ didn't you like it ? ' 
 
 She stopped. 
 
 ' Can you leave me that book ? ' I heard her 
 voice saying. 
 
 ' I will present it you, Vera Nikolaevna, if 
 you care to have it.' 
 
 * Thank you ! ' she answered, and disappeared. 
 Priemkov and the German came up to me. 
 
 * How wonderfully warm it is ! ' observed 
 Priemkov ; 'it's positively stifling. But where 
 has my wife gone ? ' 
 
 ' Home, I think,' I answered. 
 
 ' I suppose it will soon be time for supper,' 
 he rejoined. 'You read splendidly,' he added, 
 after a short pause. 
 
 ' Vera Nikolaevna liked Faust, I think,' 
 said I. 
 
 ' No doubt of it ! ' cried Priemkov. 
 
 ' Oh, of course ! ' chimed in Schimmel. 
 
 We went into the house. 
 
 'Where's your mistress?' Priemkov inquired 
 of a maid who happened to meet us. 
 
 ' She has gone to her bedroom.' 
 182 
 
FAUST 
 
 Priemkov went off to her bedroom. 
 
 I went out on to the terrace with Schimmel. 
 The old man raised his eyes towards the sky. 
 
 ' How many stars ! ' he said slowly, taking a 
 pinch of snuff; 'and all are worlds,' he added, 
 and he took another pinch. 
 
 I did not feel it necessary to answer him, 
 and simply gazed upwards in silence. A secret 
 uncertainty weighed upon my heart. . . . The 
 stars, I fancied, looked down seriously at us. 
 Five minutes later Priemkov appeared and 
 called us into the dining-room. Vera Niko- 
 laevna came in soon after. We sat down. 
 
 ' Look at Verotchka,' Priemkov said to me. 
 
 I glanced at her. 
 
 ' Well ? don't you notice anything ? ' 
 
 I certainly did notice a change in her face, 
 but I answered, I don't know wh}^ — 
 
 ' No, nothing.' 
 
 ' Her eyes are red,' Priemkov went on. 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 ' Only fancy ! I went upstairs to her and 
 found her crying. It 's a long while since such 
 a thing has happened to her. I can tell you 
 the last time she cried ; it was when our Sasha 
 died. You see what 5'ou have done with your 
 Faust ! ' he added, with a smile. 
 
 ' So you see now. Vera Nikolaevna,' I began, 
 ' that I was right when ' 
 
 ' I did not expect this,' she interrupted me ; 
 ' but God knows whether you are right. Per- 
 183 
 
FAUST 
 
 haps that was the very reason my mother 
 forbade.my reading such books, — she knew ' 
 
 Vera Nikolaevna stopped. 
 
 ' What did she know ? ' I asked. * Tell me.' 
 
 ' What for ? I 'm ashamed of myself, as it is ; 
 what did I cry for ? But we '11 talk about it 
 another time. There was a great deal I did 
 not quite understand.' 
 
 ' Why didn't you stop me ? ' 
 
 ' I understood all the words, and the meaning 
 of them, but ' 
 
 She did not finish her sentence, and looked 
 away dreamily. At that instant there came 
 from the garden the sound of rustling leaves, 
 suddenly fluttering in the rising wind. Vera 
 Nikolaevna started and looked round towards 
 the open window. 
 
 ' I told you there would be a storm ! ' cried 
 Priemkov. ' But what made you start like that, 
 Verotchka ? ' 
 
 She glanced at him without speaking. A 
 faint, far-off flash of lightning threw a mysteri- 
 ous light on her motionless face. 
 
 * It 's all due to your Faust,' Priemkov went 
 on. ' After supper we must all go to by-by. 
 . . . Mustn't we, Herr Schimmel ? ' 
 
 ' After intellectual enjoyment physical repose 
 is as grateful as it is beneficial,' responded the 
 kind-hearted German, and he drank a wine- 
 glass of vodka. 
 
 Immediately after supper we separated. As 
 184 
 
FAUST 
 
 I said good-night to Vera Nikolaevna I pressed 
 her hand ; her hand was cold. I went up to 
 the room assigned to me, and stood a long 
 while at the window before I undressed and 
 got into bed. Priemkov's prediction was ful- 
 filled ; the storm came close, and broke. I 
 listened to the roar of the wind, the patter and 
 splash of the rain, and watched how the church, 
 built close by, above the lake, at each flash of 
 lightning stood out, at one moment black 
 against a background of white, at the next 
 white against a background of black, and then 
 was swallowed up in the darkness again. . . . 
 But my thoughts were far away. I kept 
 thinking of Vera Nikolaevna, of what she 
 would say to me when she had read Faust 
 herself, I thought of her tears, remembered 
 how she had listened. . . . 
 
 The storm had long passed away, the stars 
 came out, all was hushed around. Some bird 
 I did not know sang different notes, several 
 times in succession repeating the same phrase. 
 Its clear, solitary voice rang out strangely in 
 the deep stillness ; and still I did not go to 
 bed. . . . 
 
 Next morning, earlier than all the rest, I 
 was down in the drawing-room. I stood before 
 the portrait of Madame Eltsov. * Aha,' I 
 thought, with a secret feeling of ironical tri- 
 umph, ' after all, I have read your daughter a 
 forbidden book ! ' All at once I fancied — you 
 185 
 
FAUST 
 
 have most likely noticed that eyes en face 
 always seem fixed straight on any one looking 
 at a picture — but this time I positively fancied 
 the old lady moved them with a reproachful 
 look on me. 
 
 I turned round, went to the window, and 
 caught sight of Vera Nikolaevna. With a 
 parasol on her shoulder and a light white 
 kerchief on her head, she was walking about 
 the garden. I went out at once and said good- 
 morning to her, 
 
 ' I didn't sleep all night,' she said ; ' my head 
 aches ; I came out into the air — it may go off.' 
 
 ' Can that be the result of yesterday's 
 reading ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Of course ; I am not used to it. There are 
 things in your book I can't get out of my 
 mind ; I feel as though they were simply 
 turning my head,' she added, putting her hand 
 to her forehead. 
 
 ' That 's splendid,' I commented ; ' but I tell 
 you what I don't like — I 'm afraid this sleep- 
 lessness and headache may turn you against 
 reading such things.' 
 
 'You think so?' she responded, and she 
 picked a sprig of wild jasmine as she passed. 
 ' God knows ! I fancy if one has once entered 
 on that path, there is no turning back.' 
 
 She suddenly flung away the spray. 
 
 ' Come, let us sit down in this arbour,' she 
 went on ; ' and please, until I talk of it of my 
 i86 
 
FAUST 
 
 own accord, don't remind me — of that book.' 
 (She seemed afraid to utter the name Faust^ 
 
 We went into the arbour and sat down. 
 
 ' I won't talk to you about Faust' I be^an ; 
 ' but you will let me congratulate you and tell 
 you that I envy you.' 
 
 ' You envy me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; you, as I know you now, with your 
 soul, have such delights awaiting you ! There 
 are great poets besides Goethe ; Shakespeare, 
 Schiller — and, indeed, our own Pushkin, and 
 you must get to know him too.' 
 
 She did not speak, and drew in the sand 
 with her parasol. 
 
 O, my friend, Semyon Nikolaitch ! if you 
 could have seen how sweet she was at that 
 instant ; pale almost to transparency, stooping 
 forward a little, weary, inwardly perturbed — and 
 yet serene as the sky ! I talked, talked a long 
 while, then ceased, and sat in silence watching 
 her. . . . She did not raise her eyes, and went 
 on drawing with her parasol and rubbing it out 
 again. Suddenly we heard quick, childish steps ; 
 Natasha ran into the arbour. Vera Nikolaevna 
 drew herself up, .rose, and to my surprise she 
 embraced her daughter with a sort of passionate 
 tenderness. . . . That was not one of her ways. 
 Then Priemkov made his appearance. Schim- 
 mel, that grey-haired but punctual innocent, 
 had left before daybreak so as not to miss a 
 lesson. We went in to morning tea. 
 187 
 
FAUST 
 
 But I am tired ; it 's high time to finish this 
 letter. It 's sure to strike you as foolish and 
 confused. I feel confused myself I 'm not 
 myself. I don't knowv/hat's the matter with 
 me. I am continually haunted by a little room 
 with bare walls, a lamp, an open door, the 
 fragrance and freshness of the night, and there, 
 near the door, an intent youthful face, light 
 white garments. ... I understand now why I 
 wanted to marry her : I was not so stupid, it 
 seems, before my stay in Berlin as I had 
 hitherto supposed. Yes, Semyon Nikolaitch, 
 your friend is in a curious frame of mind. All 
 this I know will pass off . . . and if it doesn't 
 pass off, — well, what then ? it won't pass off, 
 and that 's all. But any way I am well satisfied 
 with myself; in the first place, I have spent an 
 exquisite evening ; and secondly, if I have 
 awakened that soul, who can blame me ? Old 
 Madame Eltsov is nailed up on the wall, and 
 must hold her peace. The old thing ! . . . I 
 don't know all the details of her life ; but I 
 know she ran away from her father's house ; 
 she was not half Italian for nothing, it seems. 
 She wanted to keep her daughter secure . . . 
 we shall see, 
 
 I must put down my pen. You, jeering 
 person, pray think what you like of me, only 
 don't jeer at me in writing. You and I are old 
 friends, and ought to spare each other. Good- 
 bye !— Yours, P. B. 
 
FIFTH LETTER 
 
 From the SAME to the SAME 
 
 M Village, ////y 26, 1850. 
 
 It 's a long time since I wrote to you, dear 
 Semyon Nicolaitch ; more than a month, I 
 think. I had enough to write about but I was 
 overcome by laziness. To tell the truth, I 
 have hardly thought of you all this time. But 
 from your last letter to me I gather that you 
 are drawing conclusions in regard to me, which 
 are unjust, that is to say, not altogether just. 
 You imagine I have fallen in love with Vera 
 (I feel it awkward, somehow, to call her Vera 
 Nikolaevna) ; you are wrong. Of course I see 
 her often, I like her extremely . . . indeed, 
 who wouldn't like her ? I should like to sec 
 you in my place. She 's an exquisite creature ! 
 Rapid intuition, together with the inexperience 
 of a child, clear common-sense, and an innate 
 feeling for beauty, a continual striving towards 
 the true and the lofty, and a comprehension 
 of everything, even of the vicious, even of 
 the ridiculous, a soft womanly charm brooding 
 189 
 
FAUST 
 
 over all this like an angel's white wings . . . 
 But what 's the use of words ! We have read 
 a great deal, we have talked a great deal 
 together during this month. Reading with 
 her is a delight such as I had never experi- 
 enced before. You seem to be discovering new 
 worlds. She never goes into ecstasies over 
 anything ; anything boisterous is distasteful to 
 her ; she is softly radiant all over when she 
 likes anything, and her face wears such a 
 noble and good — yes, good expression. From 
 her earliest childhood Vera has not known 
 what deceit was ; she is accustomed to truth, 
 it is the breath of her being, and so in poetry 
 too, only what is true strikes her as natural ; 
 at once, without effort or difficulty, she recog- 
 nises it as a familiar face ... a great privilege 
 and happiness. One must give her mother 
 credit for it. How many times have I thought, 
 as I watched Vera — yes, Goethe was right, 
 ' the good even in their obscure striving feel 
 always where the true path lies.' There is 
 only one thing annoying — her husband is 
 always about the place. (Please don't laugh 
 a senseless guffaw, don't sully our pure friend- 
 ship, even in thought). He is about as capable 
 of understanding poetry as I am of playing the 
 flute, but he does not like to lag behind his 
 wife, he wants to improve himself too. Some- 
 times she puts me out of patience herself; all 
 of a sudden a mood comes over her ; she won't 
 190 
 
FAUST 
 
 read or talk, she works at her embroidery- 
 frame, busies herself with Natasha, or with 
 the housekeeper, runs off all at once into the 
 kitchen, or simply sits with her hands folded 
 looking out of the window, or sets to playing 
 ' fools ' with the nurse ... I have noticed at 
 these times it doesn't do to bother her ; it 's 
 better to bide one's time till she comes up, 
 begins to talk or takes up a book. She has a 
 great deal of independence, and I am very 
 glad of it. In the days of our youth, do you 
 remember, young girls would sometimes repeat 
 one's own words to one, as they so well knew 
 how, and one would be in ecstasies over the 
 echo, and possibly quite impressed by it, till one 
 realised what it meant? but this woman's . . . 
 not so ; she thinks for herself. She takes nothing 
 on trust; there's no overawing her with autho- 
 rity; she won't begin arguing; but she won't 
 give in either. We have discussed Faust more 
 than once ; but, strange to say, Gretchen she 
 never speaks of, herself, she only listens to 
 what I say of her. Mephistopheles terrifies 
 her, not as the devil, but as ' something which 
 may exist in every man.' . . . These are her 
 own words. I began trying to convince her 
 that this ' something ' is what we call reflection; 
 but she does not understand the word reflec- 
 tion in its German sense ; she only knows the 
 French ' reflexion,' and is accustomed to 
 regarding it as useful. Our relations are 
 191 
 
FAUST 
 
 marvellous ! From a certain point of view I 
 can say that I have a great influence over her, 
 and am, as it were, educating her ; but she too, 
 though she is unaware of it herself, is changing 
 me for the better in many ways. It 's only 
 lately, for instance — thanks to her — that I have 
 discovered what an immense amount of con- 
 ventional, rhetorical stuff there is in many 
 fine and celebrated poetical works. What 
 leaves her cold is at once suspect in my eyes. 
 Yes, I have grown better, serener. One can't 
 be near her, see her, and remain the man one 
 was. 
 
 What will come of all this ? you ask. I 
 really believe — nothing. I shall pass my time 
 very delightfully till September and then go 
 away. Life will seem dark and dreary to me 
 for the first months ... I shall get used to 
 it. I know how full of danger is any tie what- 
 ever between a man and a young woman, how 
 imperceptibly one feeling passes into another 
 ... I should have had the strength to break 
 it off, if I had not been sure that we were both 
 perfectly undisturbed. It is true one day 
 something queer passed between us. I don't 
 know how or from what — I remember we had 
 been reading 07tiegin — I kissed her hand. 
 She turned a little away, bent her eyes upon 
 me (I have never seen such a look, except in 
 her; there is dreaminess and intent attention 
 in it, and a sort of sternness), . . . suddenly 
 192 
 
FAUST 
 
 flushed, got up and went away. I did not 
 succeed in being alone with her that day. She 
 avoided me, and for four mortal hours she 
 played cards with her husband, the nurse, and 
 the governess ! Next morning she proposed 
 a walk in the garden to me. We walked all 
 through it, down to the lake. Suddenly with- 
 out turning towards me, she softly whispered — 
 ' Please don't do that again ! ' and instantly 
 began telling me about something else. . . . 
 I was very much ashamed. 
 
 I must admit that her image is never out of 
 my mind, and indeed I may almost say I have 
 begun writing a letter to you with the object 
 of having a reason for thinking and talking 
 about her. I hear the tramp and neighing of 
 horses ; it 's my carriage being got ready. I 
 am going to see them. My coachman has 
 given up asking me where to drive to, when 
 I get into my carriage — he takes me straight 
 off to the Priemkovs'. A mile and a half from 
 their village, at an abrupt turn in the road, 
 their house suddenly peeps out from behind 
 a birch copse . . . Each time I feel a thrill of 
 joy in my heart directly I catch the glimmer 
 of its windows in the distance. Schimmel (the 
 harmless old man comes to see them from 
 
 time to time ; the princes H , thank God, 
 
 have only called once) . . . Schimmel, with 
 the modest solemnity characteristic of him, 
 said very aptly, pointing to the house where 
 193 N 
 
FAUST 
 
 Vera lives : ' That is the abode of peace ! ' In 
 that house dwells an angel of peace. . . . 
 
 Cover me with thy wing, 
 Still the throbbing of my heart, 
 And grateful will be the shade 
 To the enraptured soul. . . . 
 
 But enough of this ; or you '11 be fancying 
 all sorts of things. Till next time . . . What 
 shall I write to you next time, I wonder? — 
 Good-bye ! By the way, she never says ' Good- 
 bye,' but always, ' So, good-bye ! ' — I like that 
 tremendously. — Yours, P. B. 
 
 P.S. — I can't recollect whether I told you 
 that she knows I wanted to marry her. 
 
 [94 
 
V 
 
 SIXTH LETTER 
 From the SAME to the SAME 
 
 M Village, August lo, 1850. 
 
 Confess you are expecting a letter from me 
 of despair or of rapture ! . . . Nothing of the 
 sort. My letter will be like any other letter. 
 Nothing new has happened, and nothing, I 
 imagine, possibly can happen. The other day 
 we went out in a boat on the lake. I will tell 
 you about this boating expedition. We were 
 three : she, Schimmel, and I. I don't know 
 what induces her to invite the old fellow so 
 
 often. The H s, I hear, are annoyed with 
 
 him for neglecting his lessons. This time, 
 though, he was entertaining. Priemkov did 
 not come with us; he had a headache. The 
 weather was splendid, brilliant ; great white 
 cloi^ds that seemed torn to shreds over a blue 
 sky, everywhere glitter, a rustle in the trees, 
 the plash and lapping of water on the bank, 
 running coils of gold on the waves, freshness 
 and sunlight ! At first the German and I 
 rowed ; then we hoisted a sail and flew before 
 195 
 
FAUST 
 
 the wind. The boat's bow almost dipped in 
 the water, and a constant hissing and foaming 
 followed the helm. She sat at the rudder and 
 steered ; she tied a kerchief over her head ; 
 she could not have kept a hat on ; her curls 
 strayed from under it and fluttered in the air. 
 She held the rudder firmly in her little sun- 
 burnt hand, and smiled at the spray which 
 flew at times in her face. I was curled up at 
 the bottom of the boat ; not far from her feet. 
 The German brought out a pipe, smoked his 
 shag, and, only fancy, began singing in a rather 
 pleasing bass. First he sang the old-fashioned 
 song : ' Freut euch des Lebens,' then an air 
 from the ' Magic Flute,' then a song called the 
 ' A B C of Love.' In this song all the letters 
 of the alphabet — with additions of course — are 
 sung through in order, beginning with 'ABC 
 D — Wenn ich dich seh ! ' and ending with ' U 
 V W X— Mach einen Knicks ! ' He sang all 
 the couplets with much expression ; but you 
 should have seen how slily he winked with his 
 left eye at the word ' Knicks ! ' Vera laughed 
 and shook her finger at him. I observed that, 
 as far as I could judge, Mr. Schimmel had 
 been a redoubtable fellow in his day. ' Oh yes, 
 I could take my own part ! ' he rejoined with 
 dignity; and he knocked the ash out of his 
 pipe on to his open hand, and, with a knowing 
 air, held the mouth-piece on one side in his 
 teeth, while he felt in the tobacco-pouch. 
 196 
 
FAUST 
 
 ' When I was a student/ he added, ' o-oh-oh ! ' 
 He said nothing more. But what an o-oh-oh ! 
 it was ! Vera begged him to sing some 
 students' song, and he sang her : ' Knaster, den 
 gelben,' but broke down on the last note. 
 Altogether he was quite jovial and expansive. 
 Meanwhile the wind had blown up, the waves 
 began to be rather large, and the boat heeled 
 a little over on one side ; swallows began 
 flitting above the water all about us. We 
 made the sail loose and began to tack about. 
 The wind suddenly blew a cross squall, we had 
 not time to right the sail, a wave splashed over 
 the boat's edge and flung a lot of water into 
 the boat. And now the German proved him- 
 self a man of spirit ; he snatched the cord from 
 me, and set the sail right, saying as he did so — 
 ' So macht man-'inl Kuxhaven ! ' 
 
 Vera was most likely frightened, for she 
 turned pale, but as her way is, she did not utter 
 a word, but picked up her skirt, and put her 
 feet upon the crosspiece of the boat. I was 
 suddenly reminded of the poem of Goethe's (I 
 have been simply steeped in him for some time 
 past) . . . you remember? — 'On the waves 
 glitter a thousand dancing stars,' and I repeated 
 it aloud. When I reached the line : ' My eyes, 
 why do you look down ? ' she slightly raised 
 her eyes (I was sitting lower than she ; her gaze 
 had rested on me from above) and looked a long 
 while away into the distance, screwing up her 
 
 107 
 
FAUST 
 
 eyes from the wind. ... A light rain came on 
 in an instant, and pattered, making bubbles on 
 the water. I offered her my overcoat ; she put 
 it over her shoulders. We got to the bank — 
 not at the landing-place — and walked home. I 
 gave her my arm. I kept feeling that I wanted 
 to tell her something ; but I did not speak. 
 I asked her, though, I remember, why she 
 always sat, when she was at home, under the 
 portrait of Madame Eltsov, like a little bird 
 under its mother's wing. ' Your comparison is 
 a very true one,' she responded, * I never want 
 to come out from under her wing.' ' Shouldn't 
 you like to come out into freedom ? ' I asked 
 again. She made no answer. 
 
 I don't know why I have described this 
 expedition — perhaps, because it has remained 
 in my memory as one of the brightest events 
 of the past days, though, in reality, how can 
 one call it an event? I had such a sense of 
 comfort and unspeakable gladness of heart, and 
 tears, light, happy tears were on the point of 
 bursting from my eyes. 
 
 Oh ! fancy, the next day, as I was walking 
 in the garden by the arbour, I suddenly heard 
 a pleasing, musical, woman's voice singing — 
 'Freut euch des Lebens !'...! glanced into the 
 arbour : it was Vera. ' Bravo ! ' I cried ; ' I 
 didn't know you had such a splendid voice.' 
 She was rather abashed, and did not speak. 
 Joking apart, she has a fine, strong soprano. 
 198 
 
FAUST 
 
 And I do believe she has never even suspected 
 that she has a good voice. What treasures of 
 untouched wealth lie hid in her ! She does not 
 know herself. But am I not right in saying 
 such a woman is a rarity in our time? 
 
 August 12. 
 
 We had a very strange conversation yesterday. 
 We touched first upon apparitions. Fancy, she 
 believes in them, and says she has her own 
 reasons for it. Priemkov, who was sitting there, 
 dropped his eyes, and shook his head, as though 
 in confirmation of her words. I began question- 
 ing her, but soon noticed that this conversation 
 was disagreeable to her. We began talking of 
 imagination, of the power of imagination. I 
 told them that in my youth I used to dream a 
 great deal about happiness (the common occu- 
 pation of people, who have not had or are not 
 having good luck in life). Among other dreams, 
 I used to brood over the bliss it would be to 
 spend a few weeks, with the woman I loved, in 
 Venice. I so often mused over this, especially 
 at night, that gradually there grew up in my 
 head a whole picture, which I could call up at 
 will : I had only to close my eyes. This is 
 what I imagined — night, a moon, the moonlight 
 white and soft, a scent — of lemon, do you 
 suppose ? no, of vanilla, a scent of cactus, a wide 
 expanse of water, a flat island overgrown with 
 olives ; on the island, at the edge of the shore, 
 199 
 
FAUST 
 
 a small marble house, with open windows ; 
 music audible, coming from I know not where ; 
 in the house trees with dark leaves, and the 
 light of a half-shaded lamp ; from one window, 
 a heavy velvet cloak, with gold fringe, hangs 
 out with one end falling in the water ; and with 
 their arms on the cloak, sit he and she^ gazing 
 into the distance where Venice can be seen. 
 All this rose as clearly before my mind as 
 though I had seen it all with my own eyes. 
 She listened to my nonsense, and said that she 
 too often dreamed, but that her day-dreams 
 were of a different sort : she fancied herself in 
 the deserts of Africa, with some explorer, or 
 seeking the traces of Franklin in the frozen 
 Arctic Ocean. She vividly imagined all the 
 hardships she had to endure, all the difiiculties 
 she had to contend with. . . . 
 
 ' You have read a lot of travels,' observed her 
 husband. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' she responded ; ' but if one must 
 dream, why need one dream of the unattain- 
 able?' 
 
 'And why not?' I retorted. 'Why is the 
 poor unattainable to be condemned ? ' 
 
 ' I did not say that,' she said ; ' I meant to 
 say, what need is there to dream of oneself, of 
 one's own happiness ? It 's useless thinking of 
 that ; it does not come — why pursue it? It is 
 like health ; when you don't think of it, it 
 means that it's there.' 
 
 200 
 
FAUST 
 
 These words astonished mc. There's a 
 i^reat soul in this woman, beheve me. . . . From 
 Venice the conversation passed to Italy, to the 
 Italians. Priemkov went away. Vera and I 
 were left alone. 
 
 * You have Italian blood in your veins too,' 
 I observed. 
 
 ' Yes,' she responded ; ' shall I show you the 
 portrait of my grandmother ? ' 
 
 'Please do.' 
 
 She went to her own sitting-room, and 
 brought out a rather large gold locket. Open- 
 ing this locket, I saw excellently painted minia- 
 ture portraits of Madame Eltsov's father and 
 his wife — the peasant woman from Albano. 
 Vera's grandfather struck me by his likeness to 
 his daughter. Only his features, set in a white 
 cloud of powder, seemed even more severe, 
 sharp, and hard, and in his little yellow eyes 
 there was a gleam of a sort of sullen obstinacy. 
 But what a face the Italian woman had, volup- 
 tuous, open like a full-blown rose, with pro- 
 minent, large, liquid eyes, and complacently 
 smiling red lips ! Her delicate sensual nostrils 
 seemed dilating and quivering as after recent 
 kisses. The dark checks seemed fragrant of 
 glowing heat and health, the luxuriance of 
 youth and womanly power . . . That brow had 
 never done any thinking, and, thank God, she 
 had been depicted in her Albanian dress ! The 
 artist (a master) had put a vine in her hair, 
 20 1 
 
FAUST 
 
 which was black as pitch with bright grey high 
 lights ; this Bacchic ornament was in marvellous 
 keeping with the expression of her face. And 
 do you know of whom the face reminded me ? 
 My Manon Lescaut in the black frame. And 
 what is most wonderful of all, as I looked at 
 the portrait, I recalled that in Vera too, in spite 
 of the utter dissimilarity of the features, there 
 is at times a gleam of something like that 
 smile, that look. . . . 
 
 Yes, I tell you again ; neither she herself nor 
 any one else in the world knows as yet all that 
 is latent in her. . . . 
 
 By the way — Madame Eltsov, before her 
 daughter's marriage, told her all her life, her 
 mother's death, and so on, probably with a view 
 to her edification. What specially affected 
 Vera was what she heard about her grandfather, 
 the mysterious Ladanov. Isn't it owing to 
 that that she believes in apparitions? It's 
 strange ! She is so pure and bright herself, and 
 yet is afraid of everything dark and under- 
 ground, and believes in it. . . . 
 
 But enough. Why write all this ? However, 
 as it is written, it may be sent off to you. — 
 Yours, P. B. 
 
 202 
 
SEVENTH LETTER 
 From the SAME to the SAME 
 
 M Village, August 22, 1850. 
 
 I TAKE Up my pen ten days after my last 
 letter . ^ . Oh my dear fellow, I can't hide my 
 feelings any longer ! . . . How wretched I am ! 
 How I love her ! You can imagine with what 
 a thrill of bitterness I write that fatal word. I 
 am not a boy, not a young man even ; I am no 
 lonq;er at that stan;e when to deceive another is 
 almost impossible, but to deceive oneself costs 
 no effort. I know all, and see clearly. I know 
 that I am just on forty, that she 's another 
 man's wife, that she loves her husband ; I 
 know very well that the unhappy feeling 
 which has gained possession of me can lead to 
 nothing but secret torture and an utter waste 
 of vital energy — I know all that, I expect 
 nothing, and I wish for nothing ; but I am not 
 the better off for that. As long as a month 
 ago I began to notice that the attraction she 
 has for me was growing stronger and stronger. 
 This partly troubled me, and partly even 
 20^ 
 
FAUST 
 
 delighted me . . . But how could I dream that 
 everything would be repeated with me, which 
 you would have thought could no more come 
 again than youth can ? What am I saying ! 
 I never loved like this, no, never ! Manon 
 Lescauts, Fritilions, these were my idols — such 
 idols can easily be broken ; but now . . . only 
 now, I have found out what it is to love a 
 woman. I feel ashamed even to speak of it ; 
 but it 's so. I 'm ashamed . . . Love is egoism 
 any way ; and at my years it 's not permissible 
 to be an egoist ; at thirty-seven one cannot 
 live for oneself; one must live to some purpose, 
 with the aim of doing one's duty, one's work 
 on earth. And I had begun to set to work . . . 
 And here everything is scattered to the winds 
 again, as by a hurricane ! Now I understand 
 what I wrote to you in my first letter ; I 
 understand now what was the experience I 
 had missed. How suddenly this blow has 
 fallen upon me ! I stand and look senselessly 
 forward ; a black veil hangs before my eyes ; 
 my heart is full of heaviness and dread ! I 
 can control myself, I am outwardly calm not 
 only before others, but even in solitude. I 
 can't really rave like a boy ! But the worm 
 has crept into my heart, and gnaws it night 
 and day. How will it end? Hitherto I have 
 fretted and suffered when away from her, and 
 in her presence was at peace again at once — 
 now I have no rest even when I am with her, 
 204 
 
FAUST 
 
 that is what alarms me. Oh my friend, how 
 hard it is to be ashamed of one's tears, to hide 
 them ! Only youth may weep ; tears are only 
 fitting for the young. . . . 
 
 I cannot read over this letter ; it has been 
 wrung from me involuntarily, like a groan. I 
 can add nothing, tell you nothing . . . Give 
 me time ; I will come to myself, and possess 
 my soul again ; I will talk to you like a man, 
 but now I am longing to lay my head on your 
 breast and 
 
 Oh Mephistopheles ! you too are no help 
 to me ! I stopped short of set purpose, of set 
 purpose I called up what irony is in me, I told 
 myself how ludicrous and mawkish these 
 laments, these outbursts will seem to me in a 
 year, in half a year . . . No, Mephistopheles 
 is powerless, his tooth has lost its edge. . . . 
 Farewell. — Yours, P. B. 
 
 205 
 
EIGHTH LETTER 
 
 From the same to the SAME 
 
 M Village, Septeinbcr 8, 1850. 
 
 My dear Semyon Nikolaitch, — You have 
 taken my last letter too much to heart. 
 You know I have always been given to ex- 
 aggerating my sensations. It 's done as it 
 were unconsciously in me ; a womanish nature! 
 In the process of years this will pass away of 
 course ; but I admit with a sigh I have not 
 corrected the failing so far. So set your mind 
 at rest. I am not going to deny the impres- 
 sion made on me by Vera, but I say again, in 
 all this there is nothing out of the way. For 
 you to come here, as you write of doing, would 
 be out of the question, quite. Post over a 
 thousand versts, God knows with what object 
 — why, it would be madness ! But I am very 
 grateful for this fresh proof of your affection, 
 and believe me, I shall never forget it. Your 
 journey here would be the more out of place as 
 I mean to come to Petersburg shortly myself. 
 When I am sitting on your sofa, I shall have a 
 206 
 
FAUST 
 
 great deal to tell you, but now I really don't 
 want to; what's the use? I shall only talk 
 nonsense, I dare say, and muddle things up. 
 I will write to you again before I start. And 
 so good-bye for a little while. Be well and 
 happy, and don't worry yourself too much 
 about the fate of— your devoted, P. B. 
 
 !07 
 
NINTH LETTER 
 
 From the SAME to the SAME 
 
 P Village, March lo, 1853. 
 
 I HAVE been a long while without answering 
 your letter ; I have been all these days think- 
 ing about it. I felt that it was not idle 
 curiosity but real friendship that prompted 
 you, and yet I hesitated whether to follow 
 your advice, whether to act on your desire. 
 I have made up my mind at last ; I will tell 
 you everything. Whether my confession will 
 ease my heart as you suppose, I don't know ; 
 but it seems to me I have no right to hide 
 from you what has changed my life for ever ; 
 it seems to me, indeed, that I should be 
 wronging — alas ! even more wronging — the 
 dear being ever in my thoughts, if I did not 
 confide our mournful secret to the one heart 
 still dear to me. You alone, perhaps, on earth, 
 remember Vera, and you judge of her lightly 
 and falsely ; that I cannot endure. You shall 
 know all. Alas ! it can all be told in a couple 
 of words. All there was between us flashed 
 208 
 
FAUST 
 
 by in an instant, like lightning, and like light- 
 ning, brought death and ruin. . . . Over two 
 years have passed since she died ; since I took 
 up my abode in this remote spot, which I shall 
 not leave till the end of my days, and every- 
 thing is still as vivid in my memory, my 
 wounds are still as fresh, my grief as bitter . . . 
 I will not complain. Complaints rouse up 
 sorrow and so ease it, but not mine. I will 
 begin my story. 
 
 Do you remember my last letter — the letter 
 in which I tried to allay your fears and dis- 
 suaded you from coming from Petersburg? 
 You suspected its assumed lightness of tone, 
 you put no faith in our seeing each other soon ; 
 you were right. On the day before I wrote to 
 you, I had learnt that I was loved. As I 
 write these words, I realise how hard it 
 would be for me to tell my story to the end. 
 The ever insistent thought of her death will 
 torture me with redoubled force, I shall be 
 consumed by these memories. . . . But I will 
 try to master myself, and will either throw 
 aside the pen, or will say not a word more 
 than is necessary. This is how I learnt that 
 Vera loved me. First of all I must tell you 
 (and you will believe me) that up to that day 
 I had absolutely no suspicion. It is true she 
 had grown pensive at times, which had never 
 been the way with her before ; but I did not 
 know why this change had come upon her. 
 209 o 
 
FAUST 
 
 At last, one day, the seventh of September 
 — a day memorable for me — this is what 
 happened. You know how I loved her and 
 how wretched I was. I wandered about like an 
 uneasy spirit, and could find no rest. I tried 
 to keep at home, but I could not control my- 
 self, and went off to her. I found her alone 
 in her own sitting-room. Priemkov was not 
 at home, he had gone out shooting. When 
 I went in to Vera, she looked intently at me 
 and did not respond to my bow. She was 
 sitting at the window ; on her knees lay a 
 book I recognised at once ; it was my Faust. 
 Her face showed traces of weariness. I sat 
 down opposite her. She asked me to read 
 aloud the scene of Faust with Gretchen, when 
 she asks him if he believes in God. I took 
 the book and began reading. When I had 
 finished, I glanced at her. Her head leaning 
 on the back of her low chair and her arms 
 crossed on her bosom, she was still looking as 
 intently at me. 
 
 I don't know why, my heart suddenly began 
 to throb. 
 
 ' What have you done to me ? ' she said in a 
 slow voice. 
 
 ' What ? ' I articulated in confusion. 
 
 ' Yes, what have you done to me ? ' she 
 repeated. 
 
 'You mean to say,' I began; 'why did I 
 persuade you to read such books ? ' 
 
 2IO 
 
FAUST 
 
 She rose without speaking, and went out of 
 the room. I looked after her. 
 
 On the doorway she stopped and turned 
 to me. 
 
 ' I love you,' she said ; ' that 's what you 
 have done to me.' 
 
 The blood rushed to my head. . . . 
 
 ' I love you, I am in love with you,' repeated 
 Vera. 
 
 She went out and shut the door after her. 
 I will not try to describe what passed within 
 me then. I remember I went out into the 
 garden, made my way into a thicket, leaned 
 against a tree, and how long I stood there, I 
 could not say. I felt faint and numb ; a feel- 
 ing of bliss came over my heart with a rush 
 from time to time. . . . No, I cannot speak of 
 that. Priemkov's voice roused me from my 
 stupor ; they had sent to tell him I had come: 
 he had come home from shooting and was 
 looking for me. He was surprised at finding 
 me alone in the garden, without a hat on, and 
 he led me into the house. ' My wife's in the 
 drawing-room,' he observed ; 'let's go to her.' 
 You can imagine my sensations as I stepped 
 through the doorway of the drawing-room. Vera 
 was sitting in the corner, at her embroidery 
 frame ; I stole a glance at her, and it was 
 a long while before I raised my eyes again. 
 To my amazement, she seemed composed ; 
 there was no trace of agitation in what she 
 
FAUST 
 
 said, nor in the sound of her voice. At last I 
 brought myself to look at her. Our eyes met 
 . . . She faintly blushed, and bent over her 
 canvas. I began to watch her. She seemed, 
 as it were, perplexed ; a cheerless smile hung 
 about her lips now and then. 
 
 Priemkov went out. She suddenly raised 
 her head and in a rather loud voice asked me — 
 ' What do you intend to do now ? ' 
 
 I was taken aback, and hurriedly, in a sub- 
 dued voice, answered, that I intended to do 
 the duty of an honest man — to go away, * for,' 
 I added, ' I love you, Vera Nikolaevna, you 
 have probably seen that long ago.' She bent 
 over her canvas again and seemed to ponder. 
 
 ' I must talk with you,' she said ; ' come this 
 evening after tea to our little house . . . you 
 know, where you read Faust! 
 
 She said this so distinctly that I can't to this 
 day conceive how it was Priemkov, who came 
 into the room at that instant, heard nothing. 
 Slowly, terribly slowly, passed that day. Vera 
 sometimes looked about her with an expres- 
 sion as though she were asking herself if she 
 were not dreaming. And at the same time 
 there was a look of determination in her face ; 
 while I ... I could not recover myself. Vera 
 loves me ! These words were continually 
 going round and round in my head ; but I 
 did not understand them — I neither under- 
 stood myself nor her. I could not believe in 
 
 212 
 
FAUST 
 
 such unhoped-for, such overwhelming happi- 
 ness ; with an effort I recalled the past,, and I 
 too looked and talked as in a dream. . . . 
 
 After evening tea, when I had already begun 
 to think how I could steal out of the house 
 unobserved, she suddenly announced of her 
 own accord that she wanted a walk, and asked 
 me to accompany her. I got up, took my hat, 
 and followed her. I did not dare begin to 
 speak, I could scarcely breathe, I awaited her 
 first word, I awaited explanations ; but she did 
 not speak. In silence we reached the summer- 
 house, in silence we went into it, and then — I 
 don't know to this day, I can't understand 
 how it happened — we suddenly found our- 
 selves in each other's arms. Some unseen 
 force flung me to her and her to me. In the 
 fading daylight, her face, with the curls tossed 
 back, lighted up for an instant with a smile of 
 self-surrender and tenderness, and our lips met 
 in a kiss. . . . 
 
 That kiss was the first and last. 
 
 Vera suddenly broke from my arms and 
 with an expression of horror in her wide open 
 eyes staggered back 
 
 ' Look round,' she said in a shaking voice ; 
 * do you see nothing ? ' 
 
 I turned round quickly. 
 
 ' Nothing. Why, do you see something .^ ' 
 
 'Not now, but I'did.' 
 
 She drew deep, gasping breaths. 
 
 21^ 
 
FAUST 
 
 'Whom? what?' 
 
 ' My mother,' she said slowly, and she began 
 trembling all over. I shivered too, as though 
 with cold. I suddenly felt ashamed, as though 
 I were guilty. And indeed, wasn't I guilty at 
 that instant ? 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' I began ; ' what do you mean ? 
 Tell me rather ' 
 
 ' No, for God's sake, no ! ' she interposed, 
 clutching her head. ' This is madness — 
 I 'm going out of my mind. . . . One can't 
 play with this — it's death. . . . Good-bye. . . .' 
 
 I held out my hands to her. 
 
 ' Stay, for God's sake, for an instant,' I cried 
 in an involuntary outburst. I didn't know 
 what I was saying and could scarcely stand 
 upright. ' For God's sake ... it is too cruel ! ' 
 
 She glanced at me. 
 
 ' To-morrow, to-morrow evening,' she said, 
 * not to-day, I beseech you — go away to- 
 day . . . to-morrow evening come to the 
 garden gate, near the lake. I will be there, I 
 will come. ... I swear to you I will come,' she 
 added with passion, and her eyes shone ; 
 ' whoever may hinder me, I swear ! I will tell 
 you everything, only let me go to-day.' 
 
 And before I could utter a word she was 
 gone. Utterly distraught, I stayed where I 
 was. My head was in a whirl. Across the 
 mad rapture, which filled my whole being, 
 there began to steal a feeling of apprehension. 
 214 
 
FAUST 
 
 . . . I looked round. The dim, damp room in 
 which I was standing oppressed me with its 
 low roof and dark walls. 
 
 I went out and walked with dejected steps 
 towards the house. Vera was waiting for me 
 on the terrace ; she went into the house directly 
 I drew near, and at once retreated to her 
 bedroom. 
 
 I went away. • 
 
 How I spent the night and the next day till 
 the evening I can't tell you. I only remember 
 that I lay, my face hid in my hands, I recalled 
 her smile before our kiss, I whispered — *At 
 last, she . . .' 
 
 I recalled, too, Madame Eltsov's words, 
 which Vera had repeated to me. She had said 
 to her once, * You are like ice ; until you melt 
 as strong as stone, but directly you melt 
 there 's nothing of you left.' 
 
 Another thing recurred to my mind ; Vera 
 and I had once been talking of talent, ability. 
 
 ' There 's only one thing I can do,' she said ; 
 ' keep silent till the last minute.' 
 
 I did not understand it in the least at the 
 time. 
 
 ' But what is the meaning of her fright ? ' 
 I wondered — ' Can she really have seen 
 Madame Eltsov? Imagination!' I thought, 
 and again I gave myself up to the emotions of 
 expectation. 
 
 It was on that day I wrote you, — with what 
 215 
 
FAUST 
 
 thoughts in my head it hurts me to recall — that 
 deceitful letter. 
 
 In the evening — the sun had not yet set — I 
 took up my stand about fifty paces from the 
 garden gate in a tall thicket on the edge of the 
 lake. I had come from home on foot. I will 
 confess to my shame ; fear, fear of the most 
 cowardly kind, filled my heart ; I was inces- 
 santly starting . . . but I had no feeling of 
 remorse. Hiding among the twigs, I kept 
 continual watch on the little gate. It did not 
 open. The sun set, the evening drew on ; then 
 the stars came out, and the sky turned black. 
 No one appeared. I was in a fever. Night 
 came on. I could bear it no longer ; I came 
 cautiously out of the thicket and stole down 
 to the gate. Everything was still in the garden. 
 I called Vera, in a whisper, called a second 
 time, a third. ... No voice called back. Half- 
 an-hour more passed by, and an hour ; it 
 became quite dark. I was worn out by sus- 
 pense ; I drew the gate towards me, opened it at 
 once, and on tip-toe, like a thief, walked towards 
 the house. I stopped in the shadow of a lime-tree. 
 
 Almost all the windows in the house had 
 lights in them ; people were moving to and fro 
 in the house. This surprised me ; my watch, 
 as far as I could make out in the dim starlight, 
 said half-past eleven. Suddenly I heard a 
 noise near the house ; a carriage drove out of 
 the courtyard. 
 
 216 
 
FAUST 
 
 'Visitors, it seems,' I thought. Losing every 
 hope of seeing Vera, I made my way out of 
 the garden and walked with rapid steps home- 
 wards. It was a dark September night, but 
 warm and windless. The feeling, not so much 
 of annoyance as of sadness, which had taken 
 possession of me, gradually disappeared, and I 
 got home, rather tired from my rapid walk, 
 but soothed by the peacefulness of the night, 
 happy and almost light-hearted. I went to my 
 room, dismissed Timofay, and without un- 
 dressing, flung myself on my bed and plunged 
 into reverie. 
 
 At first my day-dreams were sweet, but soon 
 I noticed a curious change in myself I began 
 to feel a sort of secret gnawing anxiety, a sort 
 of deep, inward uneasiness. I could not under- 
 stand what it arose from, but I began to feel 
 sick and sad, as though I were menaced by 
 some approaching trouble, as though some one 
 dear to me were suffering at that instant and 
 calling on me for help. A wax candle on the 
 table burnt with a small, steady flame, the 
 pendulum swung with a heavy, regular tick. 
 I leant my head on my hand and fell to gazing 
 into the empty half-dark of my lonely room. 
 I thought of Vera, and my heart failed me ; 
 all, at which I had so rejoiced, struck me, as it 
 ought to have done, as unhappiness, as hopeless 
 ruin. The feeling of apprehension grew and 
 grew ; I could not lie still any longer ; I 
 217 
 
FAUST 
 
 suddenly fancied again that some one was 
 calling me in a voice of entreaty. ... I raised 
 my head and shuddered ; I had not been mis- 
 taken ; a pitiful cry floated out of the distance 
 and rang faintly resounding on the dark 
 window-panes. I was frightened ; I jumped 
 off the bed ; I opened the window. A distinct 
 moan broke into the room and, as it were, 
 hovered about me. Chilled with terror, I 
 drank in its last dying echoes. It seemed as 
 though some one were being killed in the 
 distance and the luckless wretch were beseech- 
 ing in vain for mercy. Whether it was an owl 
 hooting in the wood or some other creature 
 that uttered this wail, I did not think to 
 consider at the time, but, like Mazeppa, I called 
 back in answer to the ill-omened sound. 
 
 'Vera, Vera!' I cried; 'is it you calling 
 me?' Timofay, sleepy and amazed, appeared 
 before me. 
 
 I came to my senses, drank a glass of water, 
 and went into another room ; but sleep did 
 not come to me. My heart throbbed painfully 
 though not rapidly. I could not abandon 
 myself to dreams of happiness again ; I dared 
 not believe in it. 
 
 Next day, before dinner, I went to the 
 Priemkovs'. Priemkov met me with a care- 
 worn face. 
 
 ' My wife is ill,' he began ; ' she is in bed ; I 
 sent for a doctor.' 
 
 218 
 
FAUST 
 
 ' What is the matter with her ? 
 
 * I can't make out. Yesterday evening she 
 went into the garden and suddenly came back 
 quite beside herself, panic-stricken. Her maid 
 ran for me. I went in, and asked my wife 
 what was wrong. She made no answer, and 
 so she has lain ; by night delirium set in. In 
 her delirium she said all sorts of things ; she 
 mentioned you. The maid told me an extra- 
 ordinary thing ; that Vera's mother appeared 
 to her in the garden ; she fancied she was 
 coming to meet her with open arms.' 
 
 You can imagine what I felt at these words. 
 
 ' Of course that 's nonsense,' Priemkov went 
 on ; ' though I must admit that extraordinary 
 things have happened to my wife in that way.' 
 
 ' And you say Vera Nikolaevna is very un- 
 well ? ' 
 
 ' Yes : she was very bad in the night ; now 
 she is wandering.' 
 
 ' What did the doctor say ? ' 
 
 ' The doctor said that the disease was unde- 
 fined as yet. . . .' 
 
 March 12. 
 I cannot go on as I began, dear friend ; it 
 costs me too much effort and re-opens my 
 wounds too. cruelly. The disease, to use the 
 doctor's words, became defined, and Vera died 
 of it. She did not live a fortnight after the 
 fatal day of our momentary interview. I saw 
 219 
 
FAUST 
 
 her once more before her death. I have no 
 memory more heart-rending. I had already 
 learned from the doctor that there was no 
 hope. Late in the evening, when every one in 
 the house was in bed, I stole to the door of 
 her room and looked in at her. Vera lay in 
 her bed, with closed eyes, thin and small, with 
 a feverish flush on her cheeks. I gazed at her 
 as though turned to stone. All at once she 
 opened her eyes, fastened them upon me, 
 scrutinised me, and stretching out a wasted 
 hand — 
 
 ' Was will er an dem heiligen Ort 
 Der da . . . der dort . . .' ^ 
 
 she articulated, in a voice so terrible that I 
 rushed headlong away. Almost all through 
 her illness, she raved about Fanst and her 
 mother, whom she sometimes called Martha, 
 sometimes Gretchen's mother. 
 
 Vera died. I was at her burying. Ever 
 since then I have given up everything and am 
 settled here for ever. 
 
 Think now of what I have told you ; think 
 of her, of that being so quickly brought to 
 destruction. How it came to pass, how ex- 
 plain this incomprehensible intervention of the 
 dead in the affairs of the living, I don't know 
 and never shall know. But you must admit 
 that it is not a fit of whimsical spleen, as you 
 
 ^ Faust, Part i., Last Scene. 
 220 
 
FAUST 
 
 express it, which has driven me to retire from 
 the world. I am not what I was, as you knew 
 me ; I believe in a great deal now which I did 
 not believe formerly. All this time I have 
 thought so much of that unhappy woman (I 
 had almost said, girl), of her origin, of the 
 secret play of fate, which we in our blindness 
 call blind chance. Who knows what seeds 
 each man living on earth leaves behind him, 
 which are only destined to come up after his 
 death? Who can say by what mysterious 
 bond a man's fate is bound up with his chil- 
 dren's, his descendants' ; how his yearnings are 
 reflected in them, and how they are punished 
 for his errors ? We must all submit and bow 
 our heads before the Unknown. 
 
 Yes, Vera perished, while I was untouched. 
 I remember, when I was a child, we had in my 
 home a lovely vase of transparent alabaster. 
 Not a spot sullied its virgin whiteness. One 
 day when I was left alone, I began shaking the 
 stand on which it stood . . . the vase suddenly 
 fell down and broke to shivers. I was numb 
 with horror, and stood motionless before the 
 fragments. My father came in, saw me, and 
 said, ' There, see what you have done ; we 
 shall never have our lovely vase again ; now 
 there is no mending it ! ' I sobbed. I felt I 
 had committed a crime. 
 
 I grew into a man — and thoughtlessly broke 
 a vessel a thousand times more precious. . . . 
 
 221 
 
< 
 
 FAUST 
 
 In vain I tell myself that I could not have 
 dreamed of such a sudden catastrophe, that it 
 struck me too with its suddenness, that I did 
 not even suspect what sort of nature Vera 
 was. She certainly knew how to be silent till 
 the last minute. I ought to have run away 
 directly I felt that I loved her, that I loved a 
 married woman. But I stayed, and that fair 
 being was shattered, and with despair I gaze 
 at the work of my own hands. 
 
 Yes, Madame Eltsov took jealous care of 
 her daughter. She guarded her to the end, 
 and at the first incautious step bore her away 
 with her to the grave ! 
 
 It is time to make an end. ... I have not 
 told one hundredth part of what I ought to 
 have ; but this has been enough for me. Let 
 all that has flamed up fall back again into the 
 depths of my heart. ... In conclusion, I say 
 to you — one conviction I have gained from the 
 experience of the last years — life is not jest 
 /fa.nd not amusement ; life is not even enjoy- 
 vment . . . life is hard labour. Renunciation, 
 ' continual renunciation — that is its secret 
 meaning, its solution. Not the fulfilment of 
 cherished dreams and aspirations, however 
 lofty they may be — the fulfilment of duty, 
 that is what must be the care of man. Without 
 laying on himself chains, the iron chains of 
 duty, he cannot reach without a fall the end of 
 his career. But in youth we think — the freer 
 
FAUST 
 
 the better, the further one will get. Youth 
 may be excused for thinking so. But it is 
 shameful to delude oneself when the stern 
 face of truth has looked one in the eyes at 
 last. 
 
 Good-bye ! In old days I would have added, 
 be happy ; now I say to you, try to live, it is 
 not so easy as it seems. Think of me, not in 
 hours of sorrow, but in hours of contemplation, 
 and keep in your heart the image of Vera in 
 all its pure stainlessness. . . . Once more, 
 good-bye ! — Yours, P. B. 
 
 1855. 
 
 223 
 
ACI A 
 
AC I A 
 
 I 
 
 At that time I was five-and-twenty, began 
 N. N., — it was in days long past, as you per- 
 ceive. I had only just gained my freedom and 
 gone abroad, not to * finish my education,' as 
 the phrase was in those days ; I simply wanted 
 to have a look at God's world. I was young, 
 and in good health and spirits, and had plenty 
 of money. Troubles had not yet had time to 
 gatjier about me. I existed without thought, 
 did as I Hked, lived like the lilies of the field, 
 in fact. It never occurred to me in those days 
 that man is not a plant, and cannot go on living 
 like one for long. Youth will eat gilt ginger- 
 bread and fancy it 's daily bread too ; but the 
 time comes when you 're in want of dry bread 
 even. There 's no need to go into that, though. 
 I travelled without any sort of aim, without 
 a plan ; I stopped wherever I liked the place, 
 and went on again directly I felt a desire to 
 see new faces — faces, nothing else. I was in- 
 terested in people exclusively ; I hated famous 
 227 
 
ACTA 
 
 monuments and museums of curiosities, the 
 very sight of a guide produced in me a sense 
 of weariness and anger ; I was alnf6st driven 
 crazy in the Dresden ' Griine-Gwolbe.' Nature 
 affected me extremely, but I did not care for 
 the so-called beauties of nature, extraordinary 
 mountains, precipices, and waterfalls ; I did not 
 like nature to obtrude, to force itself upon me. 
 But faces, living human faces — people's talk, 
 and gesture, and laughter — that was what was 
 absolutely necessary to me. In a crowd I 
 always had a special feeling of ease and com- 
 fort. I enjoyed going where others went, 
 shouting when others shouted, and at the 
 same time I liked to look at the others shout-, 
 ing. It amused me to watch people . . . though 
 I didn't even watch them — I simply stared 
 at them with a sort of delighted, ever-eager 
 curiosity. But I am diverging again. 
 
 And so twenty years ago I was staying in 
 the little German town Z., on the left bank 
 of the Rhine. I was seeking solitude; I had 
 just been stabbed to the heart by a young 
 widow, with whom I had made acquaintance 
 at'a watering-place. She was very pretty and 
 clever^ and flirted with every one — with me, 
 too, poor sinner. At first she had positively 
 encouraged me, but later on she cruelly wounded 
 my feelings, sacrificing me for a red -faced 
 Bavarian lieutenant. It must be owned, the 
 wound to my heart was not a very deep one ; 
 228 
 
^^ ACTA 
 
 )UtX1 
 
 but T thought it my duty to give myself up 
 for a time to gloom and solitude — youth will 
 find amusement in anything ! — and so I settled 
 at Z. ^ " 
 
 I liked the little town for its situation on the 
 slope of two high hills, its ruined walls and 
 towers, its ancient lime-trees, its steep bridge 
 over the little clear stream that falls into the 
 Rhine, and, most of all, for its excellent wine. 
 In the evening, directly after sunset (it was 
 June), very pretty flaxen-haired German girls 
 used to walk about its narrow streets and 
 articulate ' Guten Abend ' in agreeable voices 
 on meeting a stranger, — some of them did not 
 go home even when the moon had risen behind 
 the pointed roofs of the old houses, and the 
 tiny stones that paved the street could be dis- 
 tinctly seen in its still beams. I liked wander- 
 ing about the town at that time ; the moon 
 seemed to keep a steady watch on it from the 
 clear sky ; and the town was aware of this 
 steady gaze, and stood quiet and attentive, 
 bathed in the moonlight, that peaceful light 
 which is yet softly exciting to the soul. The 
 cock on the tall Gothic bell-tower gleamed a 
 pale gold, the same gold sheen glimmered in 
 waves over the black surface of the stream ; 
 slender candles (the German is a thrifty soul !) 
 twinkled modestly in the narrow windows under 
 the slate roofs ; branches of vine thrust out their 
 twining tendrils mysteriously from behind stone 
 
 22Q 
 
ACIA ^ 
 
 walls ; something flitted into the shade by the 
 old-fashioned well in the three-cornered market 
 place ; the drowsy whistle of the night watch- 
 man broke suddenly on the silence, a good- 
 natured dog gave a subdued growl, while the 
 air simply caressed the face, and the lime-trees 
 smelt so sweet that unconsciously the lungs 
 drew in deeper and deeper breaths of it, and 
 the name ' Gretchen ' hung, half exclamation, 
 half question, on the lips. 
 
 The little town of Z. lies a mile and a half 
 from the Rhine. I used often to walk to look 
 at the majestic river, and would spend long 
 hours on a stone-seat under a huge solitary 
 ash-tree, musing, not without some mental 
 effort, on the faithless widow. A little statue 
 of a Madonna, with an almost childish face 
 and a red heart, pierced with swords, on her 
 bosom, peeped mournfully out of the branches 
 of the ash-tree. On the opposite bank of the 
 river was the little town L., somewhat larger 
 than that in which I had taken up my quarters. 
 One evening I was sitting on my favourite seat, 
 gazing at the sky, the river, and the vine- 
 yards. In front of me flaxen-headed boys 
 were scrambling up the sides of a boat that 
 had been pulled ashore, and turned with its 
 tarred bottom upwards. Sailing-boats moved 
 slowly by with slightly dimpling sails ; the 
 greenish waters glided by, swelling and faintly 
 rumbling. All of a sudden sounds of music 
 230 
 
ACIA 
 
 drifted across to me ; I listened. A waltz was 
 being played in the town of L. The double 
 bass boomed spasmodically, the sound of the 
 fiddle floated across indistinctly now and then, 
 the flute was tootling briskly. 
 
 'What's that?' I inquired of an old man 
 who came up to me, in a plush waistcoat, blue 
 stockings, and shoes with buckles. 
 
 ' That,' he replied, after first shifting his pipe 
 from one corner of his mouth to the other, 
 ' is the students come over from B. to a com- 
 mersh.' 
 
 * I '11 have a look at this commersh,' 1 thought. 
 * 1 've never been over to L. either.' I sought 
 out a ferryman, and went over to the other 
 side. 
 
 231 
 
II 
 
 Every one, perhaps, may not know what such 
 a commersh is. It is a solemn festival of a 
 special sort, at which students meet together 
 who are of one district or brotherhood (Lands- 
 mannschaft). Almost all who take part in the 
 commersh wear the time-honoured costume 
 of German students : Hungarian jackets, big 
 boots, and little caps, with bands round them 
 of certain colours. The students generally 
 assemble to a dinner, presided over by their 
 senior member, and they keep up the festiv- 
 ities till morning — drinking, singing songs, 
 ' Landesvater,' ' Gaudeamus,' etc., smoking, and 
 reviling the Philistines. Sometimes they hire 
 an orchestra. 
 
 Just such a commersh was going on in L., 
 in front of a little inn, with the sign of the Sun, 
 in the garden looking on to the street. Flags 
 were flying over the inn and over the garden ; 
 the students were sitting at tables under the 
 pollard lime-trees ; a huge bull-dog was lying 
 under one of the tables ; on one side, in an 
 ivy-covered arbour, were the musicians, playing 
 232 
 
ACIA 
 
 away zealously, and continually invigorating 
 themselves with beer. A good many people 
 had collected in the street, before the low 
 garden wall ; the worthy citizens of L. could 
 not let slip a chance of staring at visitors. 
 I too mingled in the crowd of spectators. I 
 enjoyed watching the students' faces ; their 
 embraces, exclamations, the innocent affecta- 
 tions of youth, the fiery glances, the laughter 
 without cause — the sweetest laughter in the 
 world — all this joyous effervescence of young, 
 fresh life, this eager pushing forward — any- 
 where, so long as it's forward — the simple-hearted 
 freedom moved me and stirred me. 
 
 ' Couldn't I join them ? ' I was wondering. . . . 
 
 ' Acia, have you had enough of it?' I heard 
 a -man's voice say suddenly, in Russian, just 
 behind me. 
 
 'Let's stay a little longer,' answered another 
 voice, a woman's, in the same language. 
 
 I turned quickly round. . . . My eyes fell on 
 a handsome young man in a peaked cap and a 
 loose short jacket. He had on his arm a young 
 girl, not very tall, wearing a straw hat, which 
 concealed all the upper part of her face. 
 
 'You are Russians,' fell involuntarily from 
 my lips. 
 
 The young man smiled and answered — 
 
 ' Yes, we are Russians.' 
 
 ' I never expected ... in such an out of the 
 way place,' I was beginning — 
 233 
 
ACIA 
 
 * Nor did we,' he interrupted me. ' Well, so 
 much the better. Let me introduce myself. 
 
 My name's Gagin, and this is my ' he 
 
 hesitated for an instant, 'my sister. What is 
 your name, may I ask?' 
 
 I told him my name, and we got into con- 
 versation. I found out that Gagin was travel- 
 ling, like me, for his amusement ; that he had 
 arrived a week before at L., and was staying 
 on there. To tell the truth, I was not eager to 
 make friends with Russians abroad. I used 
 to recognise them a long way off by their walk, 
 the cut of their clothes, and, most of all, by 
 the expression of their faces which was self- 
 complacent and supercilious, often imperious, 
 but would all of a sudden change, and give 
 place to an expression of shyness and cautious- 
 ness. . . . The whole man would suddenly be 
 on his guard, his eyes would shift uneasily. . . . 
 ' Mercy upon us ! Haven't I said something 
 silly ; aren't they laughing at me ? ' those rest- 
 less eyes seem to ask. . . . An instant later 
 and haughtiness has regained its sway over the 
 physiognomy, varied at times by a look of dull 
 blankness. Yes, I avoided Russians ; but I 
 liked Gagin at once. There are faces in the 
 world of that happy sort ; every one is glad 
 to look at them, as though they warmed or 
 soothed one in some way. Gagin had just 
 such a face — sweet and kind, with large soft 
 eyes and soft curly hair. He spoke in such a 
 234 
 
ACIA 
 
 way that even if you did not see his face, you 
 could tell by the mere sound of his voice that 
 he was smiling ! 
 
 The girl, whom he had called his sister, 
 struck me at the first glance as very charm- 
 ing. There was something individual, charac- 
 teristic in the lines of her dark, round face, 
 with its small, fine nose, almost childish cheeks, 
 and clear black eyes. She was gracefully built, 
 but hardly seemed to have reached her full 
 development yet. She was not in the least 
 like her brother. 
 
 ' Will you come home with us ? ' Gagin said 
 to me ; 'I think we 've stared enough at the 
 Germans. Our fellows, to be sure, would have 
 broken the windows, and smashed up the chairs, 
 but these chaps are very sedate. What do you 
 say, Acia, shall we go home ? ' 
 
 The girl nodded her head in assent. 
 
 ' We live outside the town,' Gagin continued, 
 'in a vineyard, in a lonely little house, high up. 
 It's delightful there, you'll see. Our landlady 
 promised to make us some junket. It will 
 soon be dark now, and you had much better 
 cross the Rhine by moonlight' 
 
 We set ofif. Through the low gates of the 
 town (it was enclosed on all sides by an ancient 
 wall of cobble-stones, even the barbicans had 
 not all fallen into ruins at that time), we came 
 out into the open country, and after walking a 
 hundred paces beside a stone wall, we came to 
 235 
 
ACIA 
 
 a standstill before a little narrow gate. Gagin 
 opened it, and led us along a steep path up the 
 mountain-side. On the slopes on both sides 
 was the vineyard ; the sun had just set, and a 
 delicate rosy flush lay on the green vines, on 
 the tall poles, on the dry earth, which was 
 dotted with big and little stones, and on the 
 white wall of the little cottage, with sloping 
 black beams, and four bright little windows, 
 which stood at the very top of the mountain 
 we had climbed up. 
 
 ' Here is our house ! ' cried Gagin, directly 
 we began to approach the cottage, ' and here 's 
 the landlady bringing in the junket. Guten 
 Abend, Madame ! . . . We '11 come in to supper 
 directly; but first,' he added, ' look round . . . 
 isn't it a view ? ' 
 
 The view certainly was marvellous. The 
 Rhine lay at our feet, all silvery between its 
 green banks ; in one place it glowed with the 
 purple and gold of the sunset. The little town, 
 nestling close to the river-bank, displayed all 
 its streets and houses ; sloping hills and 
 meadows ran in wide stretches in all direc- 
 tions. Below it was fine, but above was finer 
 still ; I was specially impressed by the depth 
 and purity of the sky, the radiant transparency 
 of the atmosphere. The fresh, light air seemed 
 softly quivering and undulating, as though 
 it too were more free and at ease on the 
 heights. 
 
 236 
 
ACIA 
 
 ' You have chosen delightful lodgings,' I 
 observed. 
 
 ' It was Acia found it,' answered Gagin ; 
 ' come, Acia,' he went on, ' see after the supper. 
 Let everything be brought out here. We will 
 have supper in the open air. We can hear the 
 music better here. Have you ever noticed,' he 
 added, turning to me, *a waltz is often poor 
 stuff close by — vulgar, coarse music — but in 
 the distance, it 's exquisite ! it fairly stirs every 
 romantic chord within one.' 
 
 Acia (her real name was Anna, but Gagin 
 called her Acia, and you must let me do the 
 same), went into the house, and soon came 
 back with the landlady. They were carrying 
 together a big tray, with a bowl of junket, 
 plates, spoons, sugar, fruit, and bread. We sat 
 down and began supper. Acia took off her 
 hat ; her black hair cropped short and combed, 
 like a boy's, fell in thick curls on her neck and 
 ears. At first she was shy of me ; but Gagin 
 said to her — 
 
 ' Come, Acia, come out of your shell ! he 
 won't bite.' 
 
 She smiled, and a little while after she began 
 talking to me of her own accord. I had never 
 seen such a restless creature. She did not sit 
 still for a single instant; she got up, ran off 
 into the house, and ran back again, hummed 
 in an undertone, often laughed, and in a very 
 strange way ; she seemed to laugh, not at what 
 237 
 
ACIA 
 
 she heard, but at the different ideas that crossed 
 her mind. Her big eyes looked out boldly, 
 brightly, directly, but sometimes her eyelids 
 faintly drooped, and then their expression 
 instantaneously became deep and tender. 
 
 We chatted away for a couple of hours. The 
 
 daylight had long died away, and the evening 
 
 glow, at first fiery, then clear and red, then 
 
 pale and dim, had slowly melted away and 
 
 passed into night, but our conversation still 
 
 went on, as quiet and peaceful as the air around 
 
 us. Gagin ordered a bottle of Rhine wine ; we 
 
 drank it between us, slowly and deliberately. 
 
 The music floated across to us as before, its 
 
 . strains seemed sweeter and tenderer ; lights 
 
 were burning in the town and on the river. 
 
 Acia suddenly let her head fall, so that her 
 
 curls dropped into her eyes, ceased speaking, 
 
 and sighed. Then she said she was sleepy, 
 
 and went indoors. I saw, though, that she 
 
 stood a long while at the unopened window 
 
 without lighting a candle. At last the moon 
 
 /^rose and began shining upon the Rhine ; every- 
 
 / thing turned to light and darkness, everything 
 
 \ was transformed, even the wine in our cut-glass 
 
 1 tumblers gleamed with a mysterious light. 
 
 I The wind drooped, as it were, folded its wings 
 
 \ and sank to rest ; the fragrant warmth of night 
 
 I rose in whiffs from the earth. 
 
 ^'" * It 's time I was going ! ' I cried, ' or else 
 
 perhaps, there'll be no getting a ferryman.' 
 
 238 
 
ACIA 
 
 ' Yes, it 's time to start,' Gagin assented. 
 
 We went down the path. Suddenly we 
 heard the rolling of the stones behind us ; it 
 was Acia coming after us. 
 
 ' Aren't you asleep ? ' asked her brother ; 
 but, without answering a word, she ran by us. 
 The last, smouldering lamps, lighted by the 
 students in the garden of the inn, threw a light 
 on the leaves of the trees from below, giving 
 them a fantastic and festive look. We found 
 Acia at the river's edge ; she was talking to a 
 ferryman. I jumped into the boat, and said 
 good-bye to my new friends. Gagin promised 
 to pay me a visit next day ; I pressed his hand, 
 and held out my hand to Acia ; but she only 
 looked at me and shook her head. The boat 
 pushed off and floated on the rapid river. The 
 ferryman, a sturdy old man, buried his oars in 
 the dark water, and pulled with great effort. 
 
 ' You are in the streak of moonlight, you 
 have broken it up,' Acia shouted to me. 
 
 I dropped my eyes ; the waters eddied round 
 the boat, blacker than ever. 
 
 ' Good-bye ! ' I heard her voice. 
 
 ' Till to-morrow,' Gagin said after her. 
 
 The boat reached the other side. I got out 
 and looked about me. No one could be seen 
 now on the opposite bank. The streak of 
 moonlight stretched once more like a bridge of 
 gold right across the river. Like a farewell, 
 the air of the old-fashioned Lanner waltz 
 239 
 
ACIA 
 
 drifted across. Gagin was right ; I felt every 
 chord in my heart vibrating in response to its 
 seductive melody. I started homewards across 
 the darkening fields, drinking in slowly the 
 fragrant air, and reached my room, deeply 
 stirred by the voluptuous languor of vague, 
 endless anticipation. I felt happy. . . . But 
 why was I happy ? I desired nothing, I thought 
 of nothing. ... I was happy. 
 
 Almost laughing from excess of sweet, light- 
 hearted emotions, I dived into my bed, and 
 was just closing my eyes, when all at once it 
 struck me that I had not once all the evening 
 remembered my cruel charmer. . . . 'What's 
 the meaning of it?' I wondered to myself; 'is 
 it possible I'm not in love?' But though I 
 asked myself this question, I fell asleep, I think, 
 at once, like a baby in its cradle. 
 
 240 
 
Ill 
 
 Next morning (t was awake, but had not yet 
 begun to get up), I heard the tap of a stick on 
 my window, and a voice I knew at once for 
 Gagin's hummed — 
 
 ' Art thou asleep ? with the guitar 
 Will I awaken thee . . .' 
 
 I made haste to open the door to him. 
 
 * Good-morning,' said Gagin, coming in ; 
 ' I 'm disturbing you rather early, but only see 
 what a morning it is. Fresh, dewy, larks 
 singing . . .' 
 
 With his curly, shining hair, his open neck 
 and rosy cheeks, he was fresh as the morning 
 himself. 
 
 I dressed ; we went out into the garden, sat 
 down on a bench, ordered coffee, and proceeded 
 to talk. Gagin told me his plans for the future ; 
 he possessed a moderate fortune, was not depen- 
 dent on any one, and wanted to devote himself 
 to painting. He only regretted that he had 
 not had more sense sooner, but had wasted so 
 much time doing nothing. I too referred to 
 241 Q 
 
ACIA 
 
 my projects, and incidentally confided to him 
 the secret of my unhappy love. He listened 
 to me amiably, but, so far as I could observe, 
 I did not arouse in him any very strong sym- 
 pathy with my passion. Sighing once or twice 
 after me, for civility's sake, Gagin suggested 
 that I should go home with him and look at 
 his sketches. I agreed at once. 
 
 We did not find Acia. She had, the land- 
 lady told us, gone to the ' ruin.' A mile and 
 a half from L. were the remains of a feudal 
 castle. Gagin showed me all his canvases. 
 In his sketches there was a good deal of 
 life and truth, a certain breadth and free- 
 dom ; but not one of them was finished, and 
 the drawing struck me as careless and in- 
 correct. I gave candid expression to my 
 opinion. 
 
 'Yes, yes,' he assented, with a sigh; 'you're 
 right ; it 's all very poor and crude ; what 's to 
 be done ? I haven't had the training I ought 
 to have had ; besides, one's cursed Slavonic 
 slackness gets the better of one. While one 
 dreams of work, one soars away in eagle 
 flight ; one fancies one 's going to shake the 
 earth out of its place — but when it comes 
 to doing anything, one's weak and weary 
 directly.' 
 
 I began trying to cheer him up, but he waved 
 me off, and bundling his sketches up together, 
 threw them on the sofa. 
 242 
 
ACIA 
 
 ' If I Ve patience, something may be made of 
 me,' he muttered ; ' if I haven't, I shall remain 
 a half-baked noble amateur. Come, we'd 
 better be looking for Acia.' 
 
 We went out. 
 
 H3 
 
IV 
 
 The road to the ruin went twisting down 
 the steep incline into a narrow wooded valley ; 
 at the bottom ran a stream, noisily threading 
 its way through the pebbles, as though in haste 
 to flow into the great river, peacefully shining 
 beyond the dark ridge of the deep indented 
 mountain crest. Gagin called my attention to 
 some places where the light fell specially finely ; 
 one could see in his words that, even if not a 
 painter, he was undoubtedly an artist. The 
 ruin soon came into sight. On the very summit 
 of the naked rock rose a square tower, black all 
 over, still strong, but, as it were, cleft in two by 
 a longitudinal crack. Mossy walls adjoined 
 the tower ; here and there ivy clung about it ; 
 wind-twisted bushes hung down from the grey 
 battlements and crumbling arches. A stray 
 path led up to the gates, still standing entire. 
 We had just reached them, when suddenly a 
 girl's figure darted up in front of us, ran swiftly 
 over a heap of debris, and stood on the project- 
 ing part of the wall, right over the precipice. 
 'Why, it's Acia ! ' cried Gagin; 'the mad 
 244 
 
ACIA 
 
 thing.' We went through the gates and found 
 ourselves in a small courtyard, half overgrown 
 with crab-apple trees and nettles. On the pro- 
 jecting ledge, Acia actually was sitting. She 
 turned and faced us, laughing, but did not move. 
 Gagin shook his finger at her, while I loudly 
 reproached her for her recklessness. 
 
 ' That 's enough,' Gagin said to me in a whis- 
 per ; ' don't tease her ; you don't know what she 
 is ; she 'd very likely climb right up on to the 
 tower. Look, you 'd better be admiring the 
 intelligence of the people of these parts ! ' 
 
 I looked round. In a corner, ensconced in 
 a tiny, wooden hut, an old woman was knit- 
 ting a stocking, and looking at us through her 
 spectacles. She sold beer, gingerbread, and 
 seltzer water to tourists. We seated ourselves 
 on a bench, and began drinking some fairly cold 
 beer out of heavy pewter pots. Acia still sat 
 without moving, with her feet tucked under her, 
 and a muslin scarf wrapped round her head ; 
 her graceful figure stood out distinctly and 
 finely against the clear sky ; but I looked at 
 her with a feeling of hostility. The evening 
 before I had detected something forced, some- 
 thing not quite natural about her. . . . 'She's 
 trying to impress us,' I thought ; ' whatever for ? 
 What a childish trick.' As though guessing 
 my thoughts, she suddenly turned a rapid, 
 searching glance upon me, laughed again, 
 leaped in two bounds from the wall, and going 
 245 
 
ACTA 
 
 Up to the old woman, asked her for a glass of 
 water. 
 
 'Do you think I am thirsty?' she said, 
 addressing her brother ; ' no ; there are some 
 flowers on the walls, which must be watered.' 
 
 Gagin made her no reply ; and with the glass 
 in her hand, she began scrambling over the 
 ruins, now and then stopping, bending down, 
 and with comic solemnity pouring a few drops 
 of water, which sparkled brightly in the sun. 
 Her movements were very charming, but I felt, 
 as before, angry with her, even while I could 
 not help admiring her lightness and agility. 
 At one dangerous place she purposely screamed, 
 and then laughed. ... I felt still more annoyed 
 with her. 
 
 'Why, she climbs like a goat,' the old woman 
 mumbled, turning for an instant from her 
 stocking. 
 
 At last, Acia had emptied the glass, and 
 with a saucy swing she walked back to us. A 
 queer smile was faintly twitching at her eye- 
 brows, nostrils, and lips; her dark eyes were 
 screwed up with a half insolent, half merry 
 look. 
 
 ' You consider my behaviour improper,' her 
 face seemed to say ; ' all the same, I know 
 you're admiring me.' 
 
 ' Well done, Acia, well done,' Gagin said in a 
 low voice. 
 
 She seemed all at once overcome with shame, 
 246 
 
ACTA 
 
 she dropped her long eyelashes, and sat down 
 beside us with a guilty air. At that moment 
 I got for the first time a good look at her face, 
 the most changeable face I had ever seen. A 
 few instants later it had turned quite pale, and 
 wore an intense, almost mournful expression, 
 its very features seemed larger, sterner, simpler. 
 She completely subsided. We walked round 
 the ruins (Acia followed us), and admired the 
 views. Meanwhile it was getting near dinner- 
 time. As he paid the old woman, Gagin asked 
 for another mug of beer, and turning to me, 
 cried with a sly face — 
 
 ' To the health of the lady of your heart' 
 
 ' Why, has he — have you such a lady ? ' 
 Acia asked suddenly. 
 
 ' Why, who hasn't ? ' retorted Gagin. 
 
 Acia seemed pensive for an instant ; then 
 her face changed, the challenging, almost inso- 
 lent smile came back once more. 
 
 On the way home she kept laughing, and 
 was more mischievous again. She broke off a 
 long branch, put it on her shoulder, like a gun, 
 and tied her scarf round her head. I remember 
 we met a numerous family of light-haired 
 affected English people ; they all, as though at 
 a word of command, looked Acia up and down 
 with their glassy eyes in chilly amazement, 
 while she started singing aloud, as though in 
 defiance of them. When she reached home, 
 she went straight to her own room, and only 
 247 
 
ACTA 
 
 appeared when dinner was on the table. She 
 was dressed in her best clothes, had carefully 
 arranc^ed her hair, laced herself in at the waist, 
 and put on gloves. At dinner she behaved 
 very decorously, almost affectedly, hardly tast- 
 ing anything, and drinking water out of a wine- 
 glass. She obviously wanted to show herself 
 in a new character before me — the character of 
 a well-bred, refined young lady. Gagin did 
 not check her ; one could see that it was his 
 habit to humour her in everything. He merely 
 glanced at me good-humouredly now and then, 
 and slightly shrugged his shoulders, as though 
 he would say — ' She 's a baby ; don't be hard 
 on her.' Directly dinner was over, Acia got 
 up, made us a curtsey, and putting on her hat, 
 asked Gagin if she might go to see Frau Luise. 
 
 ' Since when do you ask leave,' he answered 
 with his invariable smile, a rather embarrassed 
 smile this time ; ' are you bored with us ? ' 
 
 ' No ; but I promised Frau Luise yesterday 
 to go and see her ; besides, I thought you 
 would like better being alone. Mr. N. (she 
 indicated me) will tell you something more 
 about himself.' 
 
 She went out. 
 
 * Frau Luise,' Gagin began, trying to avoid 
 meeting my eyes, ' is the widow of a former 
 burgomaster here, a good-natured, but silly old 
 woman. She has taken a great fancy to Acia. 
 Acia has a passion for making friends with 
 248 
 
■Il> 
 
 ACTA .i . 
 
 people of a lower class ; I 've hoticed, it '9^'^ >'**^ 
 always pride that 's at the root of that. She 's 
 pretty well spoilt with me, as you see,' he went 
 on after a brief pause : ' but what would you 
 have me do? I can't be exacting with any 
 one, and with her less than any one else. I am 
 bound not to be hard on her.' 
 
 I was silent. Gagin changed the conversa- 
 tion. The more I saw of him, the more strongly 
 was I attracted by him. I soon understood 
 him. His was a typically Russian nature, 
 truthful, honest, simple ; but, unhappily, with 
 out energy, lacking tenacity and inward fire 
 Youth was not boiling over within him, but } 
 shone with a subdued light. He was very 
 sweet and clever, but I could not picture 
 to myself what he would become in ripe 
 manhood. An artist . . . without intense, 
 incessant toil, there is no being an artist . . . 
 and as for toil, I mused, watching his soft fea- 
 tures, listening to his slow deliberate talk, ' no, 
 you '11 never toil, you don't know how to put 
 pressure on yourself But not to love him was 
 an impossibility ; one's heart w^as simply drawn 
 to him. We spent four hours together, some- 
 times sitting on the sofa, sometimes walking 
 slowly up and down before the house ; and in 
 those four hours we became intimate friends. 
 
 The sun was setting, and it was time for me 
 to go home. Acia had not yet come back. 
 
 ' What a reckless thing she is,' said Gagin. 
 249 
 
ACIA 
 
 ' Shall I come along with you? We'll turn in 
 at Frau Luise's on the way. I '11 ask whether 
 she 's there. It 's not far out of the way.' 
 
 We went down into the town, and turning off 
 into a rlarrow, crooked little by-street, stopped 
 before a house four storeys high, and with two 
 windows abreast in each storey. The second 
 storey projected beyond the first, the third and 
 fourth stood out still further than the second ; 
 the whole house, with its crumbling carving, its 
 two stout columns below, its pointed brick roof, 
 and the projecting piece on the attic poking 
 out like a beak, looked like a huge, crouching 
 bird. 
 
 ' Acia,' shouted Gagin, ' are you here ? ' 
 
 A window, with a light in it in the third 
 storey, rattled and opened, and we saw Acia's 
 dark head. Behind her peered out the tooth- 
 less and dim-sighted face of an old German 
 woman. 
 
 ' I 'm here,' said Acia, leaning roguishly out 
 with her elbows on the window-sill ; ' I 'm quite 
 contented here. Hullo there, catch,' she added, 
 flinging Gagin a twig of geranium; 'imagine 
 I 'm the lady of your heart.' 
 
 Frau Luise laughed. 
 
 ' N. is going,' said Gagin ; * he wants to say 
 good-bye to you.' 
 
 ' Really,' said Acia ; ' in that case give him 
 my geranium, and I '11 come back directly.' 
 
 She slammed-to the window and seemed to 
 250 
 
ACIA 
 
 be kissing Frau Luise. Gagin offered me the 
 twig without a word. I put it in my pocket in 
 silence, went on to the ferry, and crossed over 
 to the other side of the river. 
 
 I remember I went home thinking of nothing 
 in particular, but v/ith a strange load at my 
 heart, when I was suddenly struck by a strong 
 familiar scent, rare in Germany. I stood still, 
 and saw near the road a small bed of hemp. 
 Its fragrance of the steppes instantaneously 
 brought my own country to my mind, and 
 stirred a passionate longing for it in my 
 heart. I longed to breathe Russian air, to 
 tread on Russian soil. ' What am I doing here, 
 why am I trailing about in foreign countries 
 among strangers ? ' I cried, and the dead weight 
 I had felt at my heart suddenly passed into a 
 bitter, stinging emotion. I reached home in 
 quite a different frame of mind from the even- 
 ing before. I felt almost enraged, and it was 
 a long while before I could recover my equan- 
 imity. I was beset by a feeling of anger I 
 could not explain. At last I sat down, and 
 bethinking myself of my faithless widow (I 
 wound up every day regularly by dreaming, as 
 in duty bound, of this lady), I pulled out one 
 of her letters. But I did not even open it ; my 
 thoughts promptly took another turn. I began 
 dreaming — dreaming of Acia. I recollected 
 that Gagin had, in the course of conversation, 
 hinted at certain difficulties, obstacles in the 
 251 
 
ACIA 
 
 way of his returning to Russia. ... * Come, is 
 she his sister?' I said aloud. 
 
 I undressed, got into bed, and tried to get to 
 sleep ; but an hour later I was sitting up again 
 in bed, propped up with my elbow on the pillow, 
 and was once more thinking about this ' whim- 
 sical chit of a girl with the affected laugh.' . . . 
 'She 's the figure of the little Galatea of Raphael 
 in the Farnesino,' I murmured : ' yes ; and 
 she's not his sister ' 
 
 The widow's letter lay tranquil and undis- 
 turbed on the floor, a white patch in the moon- 
 light. 
 
 252 
 
Next morning I went again to L . I 
 
 persuaded myself I wanted to see Gagin, but 
 secretly I was tempted to go and see what 
 Acia would do, whether she would be as 
 whimsical as on the previous day. I found 
 them both in their sitting-room, and strange 
 to say — possibly because I had been thinking 
 so much that night and morning of Russia — 
 Acia struck me as a typically Russian girl, 
 and a girl of the humbler class, almost like 
 a Russian servant-girl. She wore an old 
 gown, she had combed her hair back behind 
 her ears, and was sitting still as a mouse at 
 the window, working at some embroidery in 
 a frame, quietly, demurely, as though she had 
 never done anything else all her life. She said 
 scarcely anything, looked quietly at her work, 
 and lier features wore such an ordinary, 
 commonplace expression, that I could not 
 help thinking of our Katias and Mashas at 
 home in Russia. To complete the resem- 
 blance she started singing in a low voice, 
 ' Little mother, little dove.' I looked at her 
 253 
 
ACIA 
 
 little face, which was rather yellow and listless, 
 I thought of my dreams of the previous night, 
 and I felt a pang of regret for something. 
 
 It was exquisite weather. Gagin announced 
 that he was going to make a sketch to-day 
 from nature ; I asked him if he would let me 
 go with him, whether I shouldn't be in his way. 
 
 ' On the contrary,' he assured me ; ' you may 
 give me some good advice.' 
 
 He put on a hat a la Vandyck, and a blouse, 
 took a canvas under his arm, and set out ; I 
 sauntered after him. Acia stayed at home. 
 Gagin, as he went out, asked her to see that 
 the soup wasn't too thin ; Acia promised to 
 look into the kitchen. Gagin went as far as 
 the valley I knew already, sat down on a stone, 
 and began to sketch a hollow oak with spread- 
 ing branches. I lay on the grass and took out 
 a book ; but I didn't read two pages, and he 
 simply spoiled a sheet of paper ; we did little 
 else but talk, and as far as I am competent to V 
 judge, we talked rather cleverly and subtly | 
 of the right method of working, of what we J 
 must avoid, and what one must cling to, and 
 wherein lay the significance of the artist in our 
 age. Gagin, at last, decided that he was not 
 in the mood to-day, and lay down beside me 
 on the grass. And then our youthful eloquence 
 flowed freely ; fervent, pensive, enthusiastic by 
 turns, but consisting almost always of those 
 vague generalities into which a Russian is so 
 254 
 
ACIA 
 
 ready to expand. When we had talked to 
 our hearts' content, and were full of a feeling 
 of satisfaction as though we had got something 
 done, achieved some sort of success, we returned 
 home. I found Acia just as I had left her ; 
 however assiduously I watched her I could not 
 detect a shade of coquetry, nor a sign of an 
 intentionally assumed role in her ; this time it 
 was impossible to reproach her for artificiality. 
 
 ' Aha ! ' said Gagin ; ' she has imposed fast- 
 ing and penance on herself.' 
 
 Towards evening she yawned several times 
 with obvious genuineness, and went early to 
 her room. I myself soon said good-bye to 
 Gagin, and as I went home, I had no dreams 
 of any kind ; that day was spent in sober sen- 
 sations. I remember, however, as I lay down 
 to sleep, I involuntarily exclaimed aloud — 
 
 ' What a chameleon the girl is ! ' and after a 
 moment's thought I added ; ' anyway, she 's 
 not his sister.' 
 
 255 
 
VI 
 
 A WHOLE fortnight passed by. I visited the 
 Gagins every day. Acia seemed to avoid me, 
 but she did not permit herself one of the 
 mischievous tricks which had so surprised me 
 the first two days of our acquaintance. She 
 seemed secretly wounded or embarrassed ; she 
 even laughed less than at first. I watched her 
 with curiosity. 
 
 She spoke French and German fairly well ; 
 but one could easily see, in everything she did, 
 that she had not from childhood been brought 
 up under a woman's care, and that she had 
 had a curious, irregular education that had 
 nothing in common with Gagin's bringing up. 
 He was, in spite of the Vandyck hat and the 
 blouse, so thoroughly every inch of him the 
 soft, half-effeminate Great Russian nobleman, 
 while she was not like the young girl of the 
 same class. In all her movements there was 
 a certain restlessness. The wild stock had 
 not long been grafted, the new wine was still 
 fermenting. By nature modest and timid, she 
 was exasperated by her own shyness, and in 
 256 
 
ACIA 
 
 her exasperation tried to force herself to be 
 bold and free and easy, in which she was not 
 always successful. I sometimes began to talk 
 to her about her life in Russia, about her past ; 
 she answered my questions reluctantly. 1 
 found out, however, that before going abroad 
 she had lived a long while in the country. I 
 came upon her once, intent on a book, alone. 
 With her head on her hands and her fingers 
 thrust into her hair, she was eagerly devouring 
 the lines. 
 
 'Bravo!' I said, going up to her; 'how 
 studious you are ! ' She raised her head, and 
 looked gravely and severely at me. ' You 
 think I can do nothing but laugh,' she said, 
 and was about to go away. . . . 
 
 I glanced at the title of the book ; it was 
 some French novel. 
 
 ' I can't commend your choice, though,' I 
 observed. 
 
 ' What am I to read then ? ' she cried ; and 
 flinging the book on the table, she added — ' so 
 I 'd better go and play the fool,' and ran out 
 into the garden. 
 
 That same day, in the evening, I was reading 
 Gagin Hermann und Dorothea. Acia at first 
 kept fidgeting about us, then all at once she 
 stopped, listened, softly sat down by me, and 
 heard the reading through to the end. The 
 next day I hardly knew her again, till I 
 guessed it had suddenly occurred to her to be 
 
 257 R 
 
ACIA 
 
 as domestic and discreet as Dorothea. In fact I 
 saw her as a half-enigmatic creature. Vain, self- 
 conscious to the last degree, she attracted me 
 even when I was irritated by her. Of one thing 
 only I felt more and more convinced ; and that 
 was, that she was not Gagin's sister. His 
 manner with her was not like a brother's, it was 
 too affectionate, too considerate, and at the 
 same time a little constrained. 
 
 A curious incident apparently confirmed my 
 suspicions. 
 
 One evening, when I reached the vineyard 
 where the Gagins lived, I found the gate 
 fastened. Without losing much tim.e in 
 deliberation, I made my way to a broken- 
 down place I had noticed before in the hedge 
 and jumped over it. Not far from this spot 
 there was a little arbour of acacias on one side 
 of the path. I got up to it and was just about 
 to pass it. . . . Suddenly I was struck by 
 Acia's voice passionately and tearfully uttering 
 the following words : 
 
 ' No, I '11 love no one but you, no, no, I will 
 love you only, for ever!' 
 
 ' Come, Acia, calm yourself,' said Gagin ; 
 * you know I believe you.' 
 
 Their voices came from the arbour. I could 
 see them both through the thin net-work of 
 leaves. They did not notice me. 
 
 *You, you only,' she repeated, and she 
 flung herself on his neck, and with broken 
 258 
 
ACIA 
 
 sobs began kissing him and clinging to his 
 breast. 
 
 ' Come, come/ he repeated, lightly passing 
 his hand over her hair. 
 
 For a few instants I stood motionless . . . 
 Suddenly I started — should I go up to them ? 
 — ' On no consideration,' flashed through my 
 head. With rapid footsteps I turned back to 
 the hedge, leaped over it into the road, and 
 almost running, went home. I smiled, rubbed 
 my hands, wondered at the chance which had 
 so suddenly confirmed my surmises (I did not 
 for one instant doubt their accuracy) and yet 
 there was a great bitterness in my heart. 
 What accomplished hypocrites they are, 
 though, I thought. And what for? Why 
 should he try to take me in ? I shouldn't 
 have expected it of him . . . And what a 
 touching scene of reconciliation ! 
 
 259 
 
VII 
 
 I SLEPT badly, and next morning got up early, 
 fastened a knapsack on my back, and telling 
 my landlady not to expect me back for the 
 night, set off walking to the mountains, along 
 the upper part of the stream on which Z. is 
 situated. These mountains, offsets of the ridge 
 known as the Hundsriick, are very interesting 
 from a geological point of view. They are 
 especially remarkable for the purity and regu- 
 larity of the strata of basalt ; but I was in no 
 mood for geological observations. I did not 
 take stock of what was passing within me. One 
 feeling was clear to me ; a disinclination to see 
 the Gagins. I assured myself that the sole 
 reason of my sudden distaste for their society 
 was anger at their duplicity. Who forced them 
 to pass themselves off as brother and sister? 
 However, I tried not to think about them ; 
 I sauntered in leisurely fashion about the 
 mountains and valleys, sat in the village inns, 
 talking peacefully to the innkeepers and people 
 drinking in them, or lay on a flat stone warmed 
 by the sun, and watched the clouds floating by. 
 260 
 
ACTA 
 
 Luckily it was exquisite weather. In such 
 pursuits I passed three days, and not without 
 pleasure, though my heart did ache at times. 
 My own mood was in perfect harmony with 
 the peaceful nature of that quiet countryside. 
 
 I gave myself up entirely to the play of 
 circumstances, of fleeting impressions ; in slow 
 succession they flowed through my soul, and 
 left on it at last one general sensation, in which 
 all I had seen, felt, and heard in those three 
 days was mingled — all ; the delicate fragrance 
 of resin in the forest, the call and tap of the 
 woodpeckers, the never-ceasing chatter of the 
 clear brooks, with spotted trout lying in the 
 sand at the bottom, the somewhat softened 
 outlines of the mountains, the surly rocks, 
 the little clean villages, with respectable old 
 churches and trees, the storks in the meadows, 
 the neat mills with swiftly turning wheels, 
 the beaming faces of the villagers, their blue 
 smocks and grey stockings, the creaking, 
 deliberately-moving wagons, drawn by sleek 
 horses, and sometimes cows, the long-haired 
 young men, wandering on the clean roads, 
 planted with apple and pear trees. . . . 
 
 Even now I like to recall my impressions of 
 those days. Good luck go with thee, modest 
 nook of Germany, with thy simple plenty, with 
 traces everywhere of busy hands, of patient 
 though leisurely toil. . . . Good luck and peace 
 to thee ! 
 
 261 • 
 
ACIA 
 
 I came home at the end of the third day. 
 I forgot to say that in my anger with the 
 Gagins I tried to revive the image of my cruel- 
 hearted widow, but my efforts were fruitless. 
 I remember when I applied myself to musing 
 upon her, I saw a little peasant girl of five 
 years old, with a round little face and inno- 
 cently staring eyes. She gazed with such 
 childish directness at me. ... I felt ashamed 
 before her innocent stare, I could not lie in her 
 presence, and at once, and once for all, said a 
 last good-bye to my former flame. 
 
 At home I found a note from Gagin. He 
 wondered at the suddenness of my plan, 
 reproached me, asked why I had not taken 
 him with me, and pressed me to go and see him 
 directly I was back. I read this note with- 
 dissatisfaction ; but the next day I set off to 
 the Gagins. 
 
 262 
 
VIII 
 
 Gagin met me in friendly fashion, and over- 
 whelmed me with affectionate reproaches ; but 
 Acia, as though intentionally, burst out laugh- 
 ing for no reason whatever, directly she saw 
 me, and promptly ran away, as she so often 
 did. GagIn was disconcerted ; he muttered 
 after her that she must be crazy, and begged 
 me to excuse her. I confess I was very much 
 annoyed with Acia ; already, apart from that, 
 I was not at my ease ; and now again this 
 unnatural laughter, these strange grimaces. I 
 pretended, however, not to notice anything, 
 and began telling Gagin some of the incidents 
 of my short tour. He told me what he had 
 been doing in my absence. But our talk did 
 not flow easily ; Acia came into the room and 
 ran out again ; I declared at last that I had 
 urgent work to do, and must get back home. 
 Gagin at first tried to keep me, then, looking 
 intently at me, offered to see me on my way. 
 In the passage, Acia suddenly came up to me 
 and held out her hand ; I shook her fingers 
 very slightly, and barely bowed to her. Gagin 
 26.3 
 
ACTA 
 
 and I crossed the Rhine together, and when 
 we reached my favourite ash-tree with the 
 statuette of the Madonna, we sat down on the 
 bench to admire the view. A remarkable 
 conversation took place between us. 
 
 At first we exchanged a few words, then we 
 were silent, watching the clear river. 
 
 ' Tell me,' began Gagin all at once, with his 
 habitual smile, 'what do you think of Acia? 
 I suppose she must strike you as rather strange, 
 doesn't she ? ' 
 
 * Yes,' I answered, in some perplexity. I had 
 not expected he would begin to speak of her. 
 
 ' One has to know her well to judge of her,' 
 he observed ; * she has a very good heart, but 
 she's wilful. She's difficult to get on with. 
 But you couldn't blame her if you knew her 
 story. . . .' 
 
 ' Her story ? ' I broke in. ... ' Why, isn't 
 she your ' Gagin glanced at me. 
 
 ' Do you really think she isn't my sister? . . . 
 No,' he went on, paying no attention to my 
 confusion, ' she really is my sister, she 's my 
 father's daughter. Let me tell you about her, 
 I feel I can trust you, and I '11 tell you all 
 about it. 
 
 ' My father was very kind, clever, cultivated, 
 and unhappy. Fate treated him no worse than 
 others ; but he could not get over her first blow. 
 He married early, for love ; his wife, my mother, 
 died very soon after ; I was only six months 
 264 
 
ACIA 
 
 old then. My father took me away with him 
 to his country place, and for twelve years he 
 never went out anywhere. He looked after 
 my education himself, and would never have 
 parted with me, if his brother, my uncle, had 
 not come to see us in the country. This uncle 
 always lived in Petersburg, where he held a 
 very important post. He persuaded my father 
 to put me in his charge, as my father would 
 not on any consideration agree to leave the 
 country. My uncle represented to him that it 
 was bad for a boy of my age to live in complete 
 solitude, that with such a constantly depressed 
 and taciturn instructor as my father I should 
 infallibly be much behind other boys of my 
 age in education, and that my character even 
 might very possibly suffer. My father resisted 
 his brother's counsels a long while, but he gave 
 way at last, I cried at parting from my father ; 
 I loved him, though I had never seen a smile 
 on his face . . . but when I got to Petersburg, 
 I soon forgot our dark and cheerless home. I 
 entered a cadet's school, and from school passed 
 on into a regiment of the Guards. Every 
 year I used to go home to the country for a 
 few weeks, and every year I found my father 
 more and more low-spirited, absorbed in him- 
 self, depressed, and even timorous. He used 
 to go to church every day, and had quite 
 got out of the way of talking. On one of my 
 visits — I was about twenty then — I saw for the 
 265 
 
ACIA 
 
 first time in our house a thin, dark-eyed little 
 girl of ten years old — Acia. My father told 
 me she was an orphan whom he had kept out 
 of charity — that was his very expression. I 
 paid no particular attention to her ; she was 
 shy, quick in her movements, and silent as a 
 little wild animal, and directly I went into my 
 father's favourite room — an immense gloomy 
 apartment, where my mother had died, and 
 where candles were kept burning even in the 
 daytime — she would hide at once behind his 
 big arm-chair, or behind the book-case. It so 
 happened that for three or four years after that 
 visit the duties of the service prevented my 
 going home to the country. I used to get a 
 short letter from my father every month ; Acia 
 he rarely mentioned, and only incidentally. 
 He was over fifty, but he seemed still young. 
 Imagine my horror; all of a sudden, suspecting 
 nothing, I received a letter from the steward, 
 in which he informed me my father was danger- 
 ously ill, and begged me to come as soon as 
 possible if I wanted to take leave of him. I 
 galloped off post-haste, and found my father 
 still alive, but almost at his last gasp. He 
 was greatly relieved to see me, clasped me in 
 his wasted arms, and gazed at me with a 
 long, half-scrutinising, half-imploring look, and 
 making me promise I would carry out his 
 last request, he told his old valet to bring 
 Acia. The old man brought her in ; she could 
 266 ' 
 
ACTA 
 
 scarcely stand upright, and was shaking all 
 over. 
 
 ' " Here," said my father with an effort, " I 
 confide to you my daughter — your sister. You 
 will hear all about her from Yakov," he added, 
 pointing to the valet. 
 
 ' Acia sobbed, and fell with her face on the 
 bed. . . . Half-an-hour later my father died. 
 
 ' This was what I learned. Acia was the 
 daughter of my father by a former maid-ser- 
 vant of my mother's, Tatiana. I have a vivid 
 recollection of this Tatiana, I remember her 
 tall, slender figure, her handsome, stern, clever 
 face, with big dark eyes. She had the character 
 of being a proud, unapproachable girl. As far 
 as I could find out from Yakov's respectful, 
 unfinished sentences, my father had become 
 attached to her some years after my mother's 
 death. Tatiana was not living then in my father's 
 house, but in the hut of a married sister, who 
 had charge of the cows. My father became 
 exceedingly fond of her, and after my departure 
 from the country he even wanted to marry 
 her, but she herself would not consent to be 
 his wife, in spite of his entreaties. 
 
 '"The deceased Tatiana Vassilievna," Yakov 
 informed me, standing in the doorway with his 
 hands behind him, "had good sense in every- 
 thing, and she didn't want to do harm to your 
 father. ' A poor wife I should be for you, a poor 
 sort of lady I should make,' so she was pleased 
 267 
 
ACIA 
 
 to say, she said so before me." Tatiana would 
 not even move into the house, and went on liv- 
 ing at her sister's with Acia. In my childhood 
 I used to see Tatiana only on saints' days in 
 church. With her head tied up in a dark ker- 
 chief, and a yellow shawl on her shoulders, she 
 used to stand in the crowd, near a window — 
 her stern profile used to stand out sharply 
 against the transparent window-pane — and she 
 used to pray sedately and gravely, bowing low 
 to the ground in the old-fashioned way. When 
 my uncle carried me off, Acia was only two 
 years old, and she lost her mother when she 
 was nine. 
 
 ' Directly Tatiana died, my father took Acia 
 into his house. He had before then expressed 
 a wish to have her with him, but that too 
 Tatiana had refused him. Imagine what must 
 have passed in Acia's mind when she was taken 
 into the master's house. To this day she cannot 
 forget the moment when they first put her on a 
 silk dress and kissed her hand. Her mother, as 
 long as she lived, had brought her up very 
 strictly ; with my father she enjoyed absolute 
 freedom. He was her tutor ; she saw no one 
 except him. He did not spoil her, that is to say, 
 he didn't fondle and pet her ; but he loved her 
 passionately, and never checked her in anything; 
 in his heart he considered he had wronged her. 
 v|^ Acia soon realised that she was the chief per- 
 sonage in the house ; she knew the master was 
 268 
 
ACIA 
 
 her father ; but just as quickly she was aware 
 of her false position ; self-consciousness was 
 strongly developed in her, mistrustfulness too ; 
 bad habits took root, simplicity was lost. She 
 wanted (she confessed this to me once herself), 
 to force the whole world to forget her origin ; 
 she was ashamed of her mother, and at the 
 same time ashamed of being ashamed, and was 
 proud of her too. You see she knew and 
 knows a lot that she oughtn't to have known 
 at her age. . . . But was it her fault? The 
 forces of youth were at work in her, her heart 
 was in a ferment, and not a guiding hand near 
 her. Absolute independence in everything ! 
 And wasn't it hard for her to put up with ? 
 She wanted to be as good as other young 
 ladies ; she flew to books. But what good 
 could she get from that ? Her life went on as 
 irregularly as it had begun, but her heart was 
 not spoiled, her intellect was uninjured. 
 
 ' And there was I left, a boy of twenty, with 
 a girl of thirteen on my hands ! For the first 
 few days after my father's death the very sound 
 of my voice threw her into a fever, my caresses 
 caused her anguish, and it was only slowly and 
 gradually that she got used to me. It is true 
 that later, when she fully realised that I really 
 did acknowledge her as my sister, and cared for 
 her, she became passionately attached to me ; 
 Y she can feel nothing by halves. 
 
 ' I took her to Petersburg. Painful as it was 
 269 
 
ACIA 
 
 to part with her, we could not live together. 
 I sent her to one of the best boarding-schools. 
 Acia knew our separation was inevitable, yet 
 she began by fretting herself ill over it, and 
 almost died. Later on she plucked up more 
 spirit, and spent four years at school ; but, 
 contrary to my expectations, she was almost 
 exactly the same as before. The headmistress 
 of the school often made complaints of her, 
 ' And we can't punish her,' she used to say 
 to me, 'and she's not amenable to kindness.' 
 Acia was exceedingly quick-witted, and did 
 better at her lessons than any one ; but she 
 never would put herself on a level with the 
 rest ; she was perverse, and held herself aloof. 
 ... I could not blame her very much for it ; 
 in her position she had either to be subservient, 
 or to hold herself aloof. Of all her school- 
 fellows she only made friends with one, an 
 ugly girl of poor family, who was sat upon by 
 the rest. The other girls with whom she was 
 brought up, mostly of good family, did not like 
 her, teased her and taunted her as far as they 
 could. Acia would not give way to them an 
 inch. One day at their lesson on the law of God, 
 the teacher was talking of the vices. ' Servility 
 and cowardice are the worst vices,' Acia said 
 aloud. She would still go her own way, in 
 fact ; only her manners were improved, though 
 even in that respect I think she did not gain a 
 great deal. 
 
 270 
 
ACIA 
 
 * At last she reached her seventeenth year. 
 I could not keep her any longer at school. I 
 found myself in a rather serious difficulty. Sud- 
 denly a blessed idea came to me — to resign my 
 commission and go abroad for a year or two, 
 taking Acia with me. No sooner thought than 
 done ; and here we are on the banks of the 
 Rhine, where I am trying to take up painting, 
 and she ... is as naughty and troublesome 
 as ever. But now I hope you will not judge 
 her too harshly ; for though she pretends she 
 doesn't care, she values the good opinion of 
 every one, and yours particularly.' 
 
 And Gagin smiled again his gentle smile. 
 I pressed his hand warmly. 
 
 ' That 's how it is,' Gagin began again ; ' but 
 I have a trying time with her. She's like gun- 
 powder, always ready to go off. So far, she has 
 never taken a fancy to any one, but woe betide 
 us, if she falls in love ! I sometimes don't know 
 what to do with her. The other day she took 
 some notion into her head, and suddenly began 
 declaring I was colder to her than I used to 
 be, that she loved me and no one else, and never 
 would love any one else. . . . And she cried so, 
 as she said it — ' 
 
 ' So that was it,' — I was beginning, but I bit 
 my tongue. 
 
 ' Tell me,' I questioned Gagin, * we have 
 talked so frankly about everything, is it possible 
 really, she has never cared for any one yet? 
 271 
 
ACIA 
 
 Didn't she see any young men in Peters- 
 burg?' 
 
 ' She didn't like them at all. No, Acia wants 
 a hero — an exceptional individual — or a pic- 
 turesque shepherd on a mountain pass. But 
 I've been chattering away, and keeping you,' 
 he added, getting up. 
 
 'Do you know ,' I began ; * let's go back 
 
 to your place, I don't want to go home.' 
 
 ' What about your work ? ' 
 
 I made no reply. Gagin smiled good-humour- 
 edly, and we went back to L. As I caught sight 
 of the familiar vineyard and little white house, 
 I felt a certain sweetness — yes, sweetness in my 
 heart, as though honey was stealthily dropping 
 thence for me. My heart was light after what 
 Gagin had told me. 
 
 72 
 
IX 
 
 AciA met us in the very doorway of the house. 
 ! expected a laugh again ; but she came to 
 meet us, pale and silent, with downcast eyes. 
 
 ' Here he is again,' Gagin began, ' and he 
 wanted to come back of his own accord, 
 observe.' 
 
 Acia looked at me inquiringly. It was my 
 turn now to hold out my hand, and this time 
 I pressed her chilly fingers warmly. I felt very 
 sorry for her. I understood now a great deal 
 in her that had puzzled me before ; her inward 
 restlessness, her want of breeding, her desire to 
 be striking — all became clear to me. I had 
 had a peep into that soul ; a secret scourge 
 was always tormenting her, her ignorant self- 
 consciousness struggled in confused alarm, but 
 her whole nature strove towards truth. I under- 
 stood why this strange little girl attracted me ; 
 it was not only by the half-wild charm of her 
 slender body that she attracted me ; I liked 
 her soul. 
 
 Gagin began rummaging among his canvases. 
 I suggested to Acia that she should take a 
 273 s 
 
ACIA 
 
 turn with me in the vineyard. She agreed at 
 once, with cheerful and almost humble readi- 
 ness. We went half-way down the mountain, 
 and sat down on a broad stone. 
 
 'And you weren't dull without us?' Acia 
 began. 
 
 'And were you dull without me?' I queried. 
 
 Acia gave me a sidelong look. 
 
 'Yes/ she answered. 'Was it nice in the 
 mountains ? ' she went on at once. ' Were they 
 high ones ? Higher than the clouds ? Tell me 
 what you saw. You were telling my brother, 
 but I didn't hear anything.' 
 
 ' It was of your own accord you went away,' 
 I remarked. 
 
 ' I went away . . . because . . . — I 'm not 
 going away now,' she added with a confid- 
 ing caress in her voice. 'You were angry 
 to-day.' 
 
 'I?' 
 
 ' Yes, you.' 
 
 ' Upon my word, whatever for ? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, but you were angry, and you 
 went away angry. I was very much vexed 
 that you went away like that, and I 'm so glad 
 you came back.' 
 
 ' And I 'm glad I came back,' 1 observed. 
 
 Acia gave herself a little shrug, as children 
 often do when they are very pleased. 
 
 ' Oh, I 'm good at guessing ! ' she went on. 
 ' Sometimes, simply from the way papa coughed, 
 274 
 
ACIA 
 
 I could tell in the next room whether he was 
 pleased with me or not.' 
 
 Till that day Acia had never once spoken 
 to me of her father. I was struck by it. 
 
 ' Were you fond of your father ? ' I said, and 
 suddenly, to my intense annoyance, I felt I was 
 reddening. 
 
 She made no answer, and blushed too. We 
 were both silent. In the distance a smoking 
 steamer was scudding along on the Rhine. We 
 began watching it. 
 
 'Why don't you tell me about your tour?' 
 Acia murmured. 
 
 ' Why did you laugh to-day directly you saw 
 me?' I asked. 
 
 ' I don't know really. Sometimes 1 want to 
 cry, but I laugh. You mustn't judge me — 
 by what I do. Oh, by-the-bye, what a story 
 that is about the Lorelei ! Is that /ler rock we 
 can see? They say she used to drown every 
 one, but as soon as she fell in love she threw 
 herself in the water. I like that story. Frau 
 Luise tells me all sorts of stories. Frau Luise 
 has a black cat with yellow eyes. . . .' 
 
 Acia raised her head and shook her 
 curls. 
 
 ' Ah, I am happy,' she said. ] 
 
 At that instant there floated across to us 
 broken, monotonous sounds. Hundreds of voices 
 in unison and at regular intervals were repeat- 
 ing a chanted litany. The crowd of pilgrims 
 275 
 
ACTA 
 
 moved slowly along the road below with crosses 
 and banners. . . . 
 
 ' I should like to go with them,' said Ada, 
 listening to the sounds of the voices gradually 
 growing fainter. 
 
 * Are you so religious ? ' 
 
 * I should like to go far away on a pilgrimage, 
 on some great exploit,' she went on. 'As it 
 is, the days pass by, life passes by, and what 
 have we done ? ' 
 
 ' You are ambitious,' I observed. ' You want 
 to live to some purpose, to leave some trace 
 behind you. . . .' 
 
 ' Is that impossible, then ? ' 
 
 ' Impossible,' I was on the point of repeat- 
 ing. . . . But I glanced at her bright eyes, and 
 only said : 
 
 ' You can try.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' began Acia, after a brief silence 
 during which shadows passed over her face, 
 which had already turned pale, * did you care 
 much for that lady? . . . You remember my 
 brother drank her health at the ruins the day 
 after we first knew you.' 
 
 I laughed. 
 
 ' Your brother was joking. I never cared for 
 any lady ; at any rate, I don't care for one now.' 
 
 ' And what do you like in women ? ' she 
 asked, throwing back her head with innocent 
 curiosity. 
 
 ' What a strange question ! ' I cried. 
 276 
 
ACIA 
 
 Acia was a little disconcerted. 
 
 ' I ought not to ask you such a question, 
 ought I ? Forgive me, I 'm used to chattering 
 away about anything that comes Into my head. 
 That 's why I 'm afraid to speak.' 
 
 'Speak, for God's sake, don't be afraid,' I 
 hastened to Intervene ; ' I 'm so glad you 're 
 leaving off being shy at last.' 
 
 ■ Acia looked down, and laughed a soft light- 
 hearted laugh ; I had never heard such a laugh 
 from her. 
 
 * Well, tell me about something,' she went 
 on, stroking out the skirt of her dress, and 
 arranging the folds over her legs, as though 
 she were settling herself for a long while ; ' tell 
 me or read me something, just as you read us, 
 do you remember, from Oniegin . . .' 
 
 She suddenly grew pensive — 
 
 ' Where now is the cross and the branches' shade 
 Over my poor mother's grave ! ' 
 
 She murmured in a low voice. 
 
 ' That 's not as it is in Pushkin,' I observed. 
 
 * But I should like to have been Tatlanaj' she 
 went on, in the same dreamy tone. ' Tell me 
 a story,' she suddenly added eagerly. 
 
 But I was not in a mood for telling stories. 
 I was watching her, all bathed in the bright 
 sunshine, all peace and gentleness. Every- 
 thing was joyously radiant about us, below, 
 and above us — sky, earth, and waters ; the 
 277 
 
ACIA 
 
 very air seemed saturated with brilliant 
 light. 
 
 ' Look, how beautiful ! ' I said, unconsciously 
 sinking my voice. 
 
 *Yes, it is beautiful,' she answered just as 
 softly, not looking at me. ^ If only you and I 
 were birds — how we would soar, how we would 
 fly. . . . We 'd simply plunge into that blue 
 . . . But we're not birds.' 
 
 ' But we may grow wings,' I rejoined. 
 
 ' How so? ' 
 
 ' Live a little longer — and you '11 find out. 
 There are feelings that lift us above the earth. 
 Don't trouble yourself, you will have wings.' 
 
 ' Have you had them ? ' 
 
 ' How shall I say ... I think up till now I 
 never have taken flight.' 
 
 Ada grew pensive once more. I bent a 
 little towards her. 
 
 * Can you waltz ? ' she asked me suddenly. 
 
 ' Yes,' I answered, rather puzzled. 
 
 ' Well, come along then, come along . . . 
 I '11 ask my brother to play us a waltz. . . . 
 We'll fancy we are flying, that our wings 
 have grown.' 
 
 She ran into the house. I ran after her, and 
 in a few minutes, we were turning round and 
 round the narrow little room, to the sweet 
 strains of Lanner. Acia waltzed splendidly, 
 with enthusiasm. Something soft and womanly 
 suddenly peeped through the childish severity 
 278 
 
ACIA 
 
 of her profile. Long after, my arm kept the 
 feeling of the contact of her soft waist, long 
 after I heard her quickened breathing close to 
 my ear, long after I was haunted by dark, 
 immobile, almost closed eyes in a pale but 
 eager face, framed in by fluttering curls. 
 
 279 
 
X 
 
 All that day passed most delightfully. We 
 were as merry as children. Acia was very 
 sweet and simple. Gagin was delighted, as he 
 watched her. I went home late. When I had 
 got out into the middle of the Rhine, I asked 
 the ferryman to let the boat float down with 
 the current. The old man pulled up his oars, 
 and the majestic river bore us along. As I 
 looked about me, listened, brooded over re- 
 collections, I was suddenly aware of a secret 
 ( restlessness astir in my heart ... I lifted my 
 eyes skywards, but there was no peace even 
 in the sky; studded with stars, it seemed all 
 moving, quivering, twinkling ; I bent over to 
 the river — but even there, even in those cold 
 dark depths, the stars were trembling and 
 glimmering ; I seemed to feel an exciting 
 quickening of life on all sides — and a sense of 
 alarm rose up within me too. I leaned my 
 elbows on the boat's edge . . . The whispering 
 of the wind in my ears, the soft gurgling of the 
 water at the rudder worked on my nerves, and 
 the fresh breath of the river did not cool me ; 
 280 
 
ACTA 
 
 a nightingale was singing on the bank, and 
 stung me with the sweet poison of its notes. 
 Tears rose into my eyes, but they were not ^ 
 the tears of aimless rapture. . . . What I was 
 feeling was not the vague sense I had known 
 of late of all-embracincr desire when the soul 
 expands, resounds, when it feels that it grasps '' 
 all, loves all. ... No ! it was the thirst for 
 happiness aflame in me. I did not dare yet 
 to call it by its name — but happiness, happi- 
 ness full and overflowing — that was what I 
 wanted, that was what I pined for. . . . The 
 boat floated on, and the old ferryman sat 
 dozing as he leant on his oars. 
 
 281 
 
XI 
 
 As I set off next day to the Gaglns, I did not 
 ask myself whether I was in love with Acia, 
 but I thought a great deal about her, her fate 
 absorbed me, I rejoiced at our unexpected 
 intimacy. I felt that it was only yesterday I 
 had got to know her ; till then she had turned 
 away from me. And now, when she had at 
 last revealed herself to me, in what a seductive 
 light her image showed itself, how fresh it was 
 for me, what secret fascinations were modestly 
 peeping out. . . . 
 
 I walked boldly up the familiar road, gazing 
 continually at the cottage, a white spot in the 
 distance. I thought not of the future — not 
 even of the morrow — I was very happy. 
 
 Acia flushed directly I came into the room ; 
 I noticed that she had dressed herself in her 
 best again, but the expression of. her face was 
 not in keeping with her finery ; it was mourn- 
 ful. And I had come in siach high spirits ! I 
 even fancied that she was on the point of 
 running away as usual, but she controlled her- 
 self and remained. Gagin was in that peculiar 
 282 
 
ACIA 
 
 condition of artistic heat and intensity which 
 seizes amateurs all of a sudden, like a fit, when 
 they imagine they are succeeding in * catching 
 nature and pinning her down.' He was stand- 
 ing with dishevelled locks, and besmeared with 
 paint, before a stretched canvas, and flourish- 
 ing the brush over it ; he almost savagely 
 nodded to me, turned away, screwed up his 
 eyes, and bent again over his picture. I did 
 not hinder him, but went and sat down by 
 Acia. Slowly her dark eyes turned to 
 me. 
 
 ' You 're not the same to-day as yesterday,' 
 I observed, after ineffectual efforts to call up 
 a smile on her lips. 
 
 * No, I 'm not,' she answered, in a slow 
 and dull voice. ' But that means nothing. I 
 did not sleep well, I was thinking all 
 night.' 
 
 ' What about ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, I thought about so many things. It 's 
 a way I have had from childhood ; ever since I 
 used to live with mother — ' 
 
 She uttered the word with an effort, and 
 then repeated again — 
 
 'When I used to live with mother ... I 
 used to think why it was no one could tell 
 what would happen to him ; and sometimes 
 one sees trouble coming — and one can't escape; 
 and how it is one can never tell all the truth 
 . . . Then I used to think I knew nothing, and 
 
ACIA 
 
 that I ought to learn. I want to be educated 
 over again ; I 'm very badly educated. I can't 
 play the piano, I can't draw, and even sewing 
 I do very badly. I have no talent for any- 
 thing ; I must be a very dull person to be 
 with.' 
 
 * You 're unjust to yourself,' I replied ; 
 * you've read a lot, you're cultivated, and 
 with your cleverness — ' 
 
 * Why, am I clever ? ' she asked with such 
 naive interest, that I could not help laughing ; 
 but she did not even smile. ' Brother, am I 
 clever ? ' she asked Gagin. 
 
 He made her no answer, but went on work- 
 ing, continually changing brushes and raising 
 his arm. 
 
 ' I don't know myself what is in my head,' 
 Acia continued, with the same dreamy air. ' I 
 am sometimes afraid of myself, really. Ah, I 
 should like ... Is it true that women ought 
 not to read a great deal ? ' 
 
 ' A great deal 's not wanted, but . . .' 
 
 ' Tell me what I ought to read ? Tell me 
 what I ought to do. I will do everything you 
 tell me/ she added, turning to me with 
 innocent confidence. 
 
 I could not at once find a reply. 
 
 ' You won't be dull with me, though ? ' 
 
 ' What nonsense,' I was beginning. . . . 
 
 ' All right, thanks ! ' Acia put in ; ' 1 was 
 thinking you would be bored.' 
 284 
 
ACTA 
 
 And her little hot hand clasped mine ) 
 warmly. 
 
 * N ! ' Gagin cried at that instant ; ' isn't that 
 background too dark ? ' 
 
 I went up to him. Acia got up and went 
 away. 
 
 285 
 
XII 
 
 She came back in an hour, stood in the door- 
 way and beckoned to me. 
 
 * Listen,' she said ; ' if I were to die, would 
 you be sorry ? ' 
 
 ' What ideas you have to-day ! ' I exclaimed. 
 
 * I fancy I shall die soon ; it seems to me 
 sometimes as though everything about me were 
 saying good-bye. It's better to die than live 
 like this. . . . Ah ! don't look at me Hke that ; 
 I 'm not pretending, really. Or else I shall 
 begin to be afraid of you again.' 
 
 ' Why, were you afraid of me?' 
 
 ' If I am queer, it 's really not my fault,' she 
 rejoined. * You see, I can't even laugh now. . . .' 
 
 She remained gloomy and preoccupied till 
 evening. Something was taking place in her ; 
 what, I did not understand. Her eyes often 
 rested upon me ; my heart slowly throbbed 
 under her enigmatic gaze. She appeared com- 
 posed, and yet as I watched her I kept wanting 
 to tell her not to let herself get excited.. I 
 admired her, found a touching charm in her 
 pale face, her hesitating, slow movements, but 
 286 
 
ACIA 
 
 she for some reason fancied I was out of 
 humour. 
 
 ' Let me tell you something/ she said to me 
 not long before parting ; ' I am tortured by the 
 idea that you consider me frivolous. . . . For 
 the future believe what I say to you, only do 
 you, too, be open with me ; and I will always 
 tell you the truth, I give you my word of 
 honour. . . .' 
 
 This ' word of honour ' set me laughing again. 
 
 ' Oh, don't laugh,' she said earnestly, ' or I 
 shall say to you to-day what you said to me 
 yesterday, "why are you laughing?"' and after 
 a brief silence she added, ' Do you remember 
 you spoke yesterday of "wings"? . . . My 
 wings have grown, but I have nowhere to 
 fly.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' I said ; ' all the ways lie open 
 before you. . . .' 
 
 Acia looked at me steadily, straight in the 
 face. 
 
 ' You have a bad opinion of me to-day,' she 
 said, frowning. 
 
 ' I ? a bad opinion of you ! . . .' 
 
 'Why is it you are both so low-spirited,' 
 Gagin interrupted me — ' would you like me to 
 play a waltz,. as I did yesterday ? ' 
 
 ' No, no,' replied Acia, and she clenched her 
 hands ; ' not to-day, not for anything ! ' 
 
 ' I 'm not going to force you to ; don't excite 
 yourself 
 
 287 
 
ACIA 
 
 * Not for anything ! ' she repeated, turning 
 pale. 
 
 ' Can it be she 's in love with me ? ' I thought, 
 as I drew near the dark rushing waters of the 
 Rhine. 
 
XIII 
 
 ' Can it be that she loves me?' I asked myself 
 next morning, directly I awoke. I did not 
 want to look into myself. I felt that her 
 image, the image of the * girl with the affected 
 laugh,' had crept close into my heart, and that 
 I should not easily get rid of it. I went to 
 
 L and stayed there the whole day, but I 
 
 saw Acia only by glimpses. She was not well ; 
 she had a headache. She came downstairs for 
 a minute, with a bandage round her forehead, 
 looking white and thin, her eyes half-closed. 
 With a faint smile she said, ' It will soon be 
 over, it 's nothing ; everything 's soon over, 
 isn't it?' and went away. I felt bored and, as 
 it were, listlessly sad, yet I could not make up 
 my mind to go for a long while, and went 
 home late, without seeing her again. 
 
 The next morning passed in a sort of half 
 slumber of the consciousness. I tried to set to 
 work, and could not ; I tried to do nothing 
 and not to think — and that was a failure too. 
 I strolled about the town, returned home, 
 went out again. 
 
 28Q T 
 
ACIA 
 
 'Are you Herr N ?' I heard a childish 
 
 voice ask suddenly behind me. I looked 
 round ; a little boy was standing before me. 
 * This is for you from Fraiilein Annette/ he 
 said, handing me a note. 
 
 I opened it and recognised the irregular 
 rapid handwriting of Acia. ' I must see you 
 to-day/ she wrote to me ; ' come to-day at four 
 o'clock to the stone chapel on the road near 
 the ruin. I have done a most foolish thing 
 to-day. . . . Come, for God's sake ; you shall 
 know all about it. . . . Tell the messenger, 
 yes.' 
 
 ' Is there an answer? ' the boy asked me. 
 
 ' Say, yes,' I replied. The boy ran off. 
 
 290 
 
XIV 
 
 I WENT home to my own room, sat down, and 
 sank into thought. My heart was beating 
 violently. I read Acia's note through several 
 times. I looked at my watch ; it was not yet 
 twelve o'clock. 
 
 The door opened, Gagin walked in. 
 
 His face was overcast. He seized my hand 
 and pressed it warmly. He seemed very much 
 agitated. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' I asked. 
 
 Gagin took a chair and sat down opposite 
 me. ' Three days ago,' he began with a rather 
 forced smile, and hesitating, ' I surprised you 
 by what I told you ; to-day I am going to 
 surprise you more. With any other man I 
 could not, most likely, bring myself ... so 
 directly. . . . But you 're an honourable man, 
 you 're my friend, aren't you ? Listen — my 
 sister, Acia, is in love with you.' 
 
 I trembled all over and stood up. . . . 
 
 ' Your sister, you say ' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' Gagin cut me short. ' I tell you, 
 she's mad, and she'll drive me mad. But 
 291 
 
ACIA 
 
 happily she can't tell a lie, and she confides in 
 me. Ah, what a soul there is in* that little 
 girl! . . . but she'll be her own ruin, that's 
 certain.' 
 
 ' But you 're making a mistake,' I began. 
 
 ' No, I 'm not making a mistake. Yesterday, 
 you know, she was lying down almost all day, 
 she ate nothing, but she did not complain. . . . 
 She never does complain. I was not anxious, 
 though towards evening she was in a slight 
 fever. At two o'clock last night I was wakened 
 by our landlady ; "Go to your sister," she said ; 
 ■" there 's something wrong with her." I ran in 
 to Acia, and found her not undressed, feverish, 
 and in tears ; her head was aching, her teeth 
 were chattering. "What's the matter with 
 you?" I said, " are you ill ? " She threw herself 
 on my neck and began imploring me to take 
 her away as soon as possible, if I want to keep 
 her alive. ... I could make out nothing, I 
 tried to soothe her. . . . Her sobs grew more 
 violent, . . . and suddenly through her sobs I 
 made out . . . well, in fact, I made out that 
 she loves you. I assure you, you and I are 
 reasonable people, and we can't imagine how 
 deeply she feels and with what incredible force 
 her feelings show themselves ; it has come 
 upon her as unexpectedly and irresistibly as a 
 thunderstorm. You're a very nice person,' 
 Gagin pursued, 'but why she's so in love with 
 you, I confess I don't understand. She says 
 292 
 
ACIA 
 
 she has been drawn to you from the first 
 moment she saw you. That's why she cried 
 the other day when she declared she would 
 never love anyone but me. — She imagines you 
 despise her, that you most likely know about 
 her birth ; she asked me if I hadn't told you 
 her story, — I said, of course, that I hadn't ; but 
 her intuition 's simply terrible. She has one 
 wish, — to get away, to get away at once. I 
 sat with her till morning ; she made me promise 
 we should not be here to-morrow, and only 
 then, she fell asleep. I have been thinking and 
 thinking, and at last I made up my mind to 
 speak to you. To my mind, Acia is right; 
 the best thing is for us both to go away from 
 here. And I should have taken her away 
 to-day, if I had not been struck by an idea 
 which made me pause. Perhaps . . . who 
 knows? do you like my sister? If so, what's 
 the object of my taking her away? And so I 
 decided to cast aside all reserve. . . . Besides, 
 I noticed something myself ... I made up my 
 mind ... to find out from you . . .' Poor 
 Gagin was completely out of countenance. 
 ' Excuse me, please,' he added, * I 'm not used 
 to such bothers.' 
 
 I took his hand. 
 
 ' You want to know,' I pronounced in a steady 
 voice, 'whether I like your sister? Yes, I do 
 like her—' 
 
 Gagin glanced at me. ' But,' he said, 
 293 
 
ACIA 
 
 faltering, 'you 'd hardly marry her, would 
 you?' 
 
 ' How would you have me answer such a ques- 
 tion ? Only think ; can I at the moment ' 
 
 ' I know, I know,' Gagin cut me short ; ' I 
 have no right to expect an answer from you, 
 and my question was the very acme of impro- 
 priety. . . . But what am I to do ? One can't 
 play with fire. You don't know Acia ; she 's 
 quite capable of falling ill, running away, or 
 asking you to see her alone. . . . Any other 
 girl might manage to hide it all and wait — but 
 not she. It is the first time with her, that's 
 the worst of it ! If you had seen how she 
 sobbed at my feet to-day, you would understand 
 my fears.' 
 
 I was pondering. Gagin's words ' asking 
 you to see her alone,' had sent a twinge to my 
 heart. I felt it was shameful not to meet his 
 honest frankness with frankness. 
 
 'Yes,' I said at last; 'you are right. An 
 hour ago I got a note from your sister. Here 
 it is,' 
 
 Gagin took the note, quickly looked it 
 through, and let his hands fall on his knees. 
 The expression of perplexity on his face was 
 very amusing, but I was in no mood for 
 laughter. 
 
 ' I tell you again, you 're an honourable man,' 
 he said ; ' but what 's to be done now ? What ? 
 she herself wants to go away, and she writes 
 294 
 
ACIA ', . 
 
 to you and blames herself for acting unwisely 
 . . . and when had she time to write this? 
 What does she wish of you ? ' 
 
 I pacified him, and we began to discuss as 
 coolly as we could what we ought to do. 
 
 The conclusion we reached at last was that, 
 to avoid worse harm befalling, I was to go and 
 meet Acia, and to have a straight-forward 
 explanation with her ; Gagin pledged himself 
 to stay at home, and not to give a sign of 
 knowing about her note to me ; in the evening 
 we arranged to see each other again. 
 
 ' I have the greatest confidence in you,' said 
 Gagin, and he pressed my hand ; ' have mercy 
 on her and on me. But we shall go away 
 to-morrow, anyway,' he added getting up, ' for 
 you won't marry Acia, I see.' 
 
 ' Give me time till the evening,' I objected. 
 
 ' All right, but you won't marry her.' 
 
 He went away, and I threw myself on the 
 sofa, and shut my eyes. My head was going 
 round ; too many impressions had come burst- 
 ing on it at once. I was vexed at Gagin's 
 frankness, I was vexed with Acia, her love 
 delighted and disconcerted me, I could not 
 comprehend what had made her reveal it to her 
 brother ; the absolute necessity of rapid, almost 
 instantaneous decision exasperated me. 'Marry 
 a little girl of seventeen, with her character, 
 how is it possible ? ' I said, getting up. 
 
 295 
 
XV 
 
 At the appointed hour I crossed the Rhine, 
 and the first person I met on the opposite bank 
 was the very boy who had come to me in the 
 morning. He was obviously waiting for me. 
 
 ' From Fraiilein Annette/ he said in a whis- 
 per, and he handed me another note. 
 
 Acia informed me she had changed the place 
 of our meeting. I was to go in an hour and a 
 half, not to the chapel, but to Frau Luise's 
 house, to knock below, and go up to the third 
 storey. 
 
 ' Is it, yes, again ? ' asked the boy. 
 
 'Yes,' I repeated, and I walked along the 
 bank of the Rhine. There was not time to go 
 home, I didn't want to wander about the streets. 
 Beyond the town wall there was a little garden, 
 with a skittle ground and tables for beer 
 drinkers. I went in there. A few middle- 
 aged Germans were playing skittles ; the 
 wooden balls rolled along with a sound of 
 knocking, now and then cries of approval 
 reached me. A pretty waitress, with her eyes 
 swollen with weeping, brought me a tankard of 
 296 
 
ACIA 
 
 beer; I glanced at her face. She turned quickly 
 and walked away. 
 
 * Yes, yes/ observed a fat, red-cheeked citizen 
 sitting by, 'our Hannchen is dreadfully upset 
 to-day ; her sweetheart's gone for a soldier.' 
 I looked at her ; she was sitting huddled up in 
 a corner, her face propped on her hand ; tears 
 were' rolling one by one between her fingers. 
 Some one called for beer ; she took him a pot, 
 and went back to her place. Her grief affected 
 me ; I began musing on the interview awaiting 
 me, but my dreams were anxious, cheerless 
 dreams. It was with no light heart I was going 
 to this interviev/ ; I had no prospect before me 
 of giving myself up to the bliss of love returned ; 
 what lay before me was to keep my word, to 
 do a difficult duty. ' One can't play with her.' 
 These words of Gagin's had gone through my 
 heart like arrows. And three days ago, in that 
 boat borne along by the current, had I not 
 been pining with the thirst for happiness ? It 
 had become possible, and I was hesitating, I 
 was pushing it away, I was bound to push 
 it from me — its suddenness bewildered me. 
 Acia herself, with her fiery temperament, her 
 past, her bringing-up, this fascinating, strange 
 creature, I confess she frightened me. My 
 feelings were long struggling within me. The 
 appointed hour was drawing near. ' I can't 
 marry her,' I decided at last ; ' she shall not 
 know I love her.' 
 
 297 
 
ACIA 
 
 I got Up, and putting a thaler in the hand of 
 poor Hannchen (she did not even thank me), I 
 directed my steps towards Frau Luise's. The 
 air was already overcast with the shadows of 
 evening, and the narrow strip of sky, above the 
 dark street, was red with the glow of sunset. I 
 knocked faintly at the door ; it was opened at 
 once. I stepped through the doorway, and 
 found myself in complete darkness. 
 
 ' This way.' I heard an old woman's voice. 
 ' You 're expected.' 
 
 I took two steps, groping my way, a long 
 hand took mine. 
 
 * Is that you, Frau Luise ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the same voice, ' 'Tis I, my 
 fine young man.' The old woman led me up a 
 steep staircase, and stopped on the third floor. 
 In the feeble light from a tiny window, I saw 
 the wrinkled visage of the burgomaster's widow. 
 A crafty smile of mawkish sweetness contorted 
 her sunken lips, and pursed up her dim-sighted 
 eyes. She pointed me to a little door ; with an 
 abrupt movement I opened it and slammed it 
 behind me. 
 
 298 
 
XVI 
 
 In the little room into which I stepped, it was 
 rather dark, and I did not at once see Acia. 
 Wrapped in a big shawl, she was sitting on a 
 chair by the window, turning away from me 
 and almost hiding her head like a frightened 
 bird. She was breathing quickly, and trembling 
 all over. I felt unutterably sorry for her. I 
 went up to her. She averted her head still 
 more. . . . 
 
 *Anna Nikolaevna,' I said. 
 
 She suddenly drew herself up, tried to look 
 at me, and could not. I took her hand, it was 
 cold, and lay like a dead thing in mine. 
 
 * I wished ' — Acia began, trying to smile, 
 but unable to control her pale lips ; ' I wanted 
 — No, I can't,' she said, and ceased. Her 
 voice broke at every word. 
 
 I sat down beside her. 
 
 'Anna Nikolaevna,' I repeated, and I too 
 could say nothing more. 
 
 A silence followed. I still held her hand 
 and looked at her. She sat as before, shrinking 
 together, breathing with difficulty, and stealthily 
 299 
 
ACIA 
 
 biting her lower lip to keep back the rising tears. 
 ... I looked at her ; there was something 
 touchingly helpless in her timid passivity ; it 
 seemed as though she had been so exhausted 
 she had hardly reached the chair, and had 
 simply fallen on it. My heart began to melt . . . 
 
 ' Acia/ I said hardly audibly . . . 
 
 She slowly lifted her eyes to me. . . . Oh, 
 the eyes of a woman who loves — who can 
 describe them ? They were supplicating, those 
 eyes, they were confiding, questioning, sur- 
 rendering ... I could not resist their fascination. 
 A subtle flame passed all through me with 
 tingling shocks ; I bent down and pressed my 
 lips to her hand. . . . 
 
 I heard a quivering sound, like a broken sigh 
 and I felt on my hair the touch of a feeble hand 
 shaking like a leaf. I raised my head and 
 looked at her face. How transformed it was all 
 of a sudden. The expression of terror had 
 vanished from it, her eyes looked far away and 
 drew me after them, her lips were slightly 
 parted, her forehead was white as marble, and 
 her curls floated back as though the wind had 
 stirred them. I forgot everything, I drew her 
 to me, her hand yielded unresistingly, her whole 
 body followed her hand, the shawl fell from her 
 shoulders, and her head lay softly on my breast, 
 lay under my burning lips. . . . 
 
 ' Yours ' . . . she murmured, hardly above a 
 breath. 
 
 300 
 
ACIA 
 
 My arms were slipping round her waist. . . . 
 But suddenly the thought of Gagin flashed like 
 lightning before me. 'What are we doing,' I 
 cried, abruptly moving back . . . ' Your brother 
 . . . why, he knows everything. . . . He knows 
 I am with you.' 
 
 Acia sank back on her chair. 
 
 ' Yes,' I went on, getting up and walking to 
 the other end of the room. 'Your brother 
 knows all about it ... I had to tell him.' . . . 
 
 'You had to?' she articulated thickly. She 
 could not, it seemed, recover herself, and hardly 
 understood me. 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' I repeated with a sort of exaspera- 
 tion, 'and it's all your fault, your fault. What 
 did you betray your secret for? Who forced 
 you to tell your brother ? He has been with 
 me to-day, and told me what you said to him.' 
 I tried not to look at Acia, and kept walking 
 with long strides up and down the room. ' Now 
 everything is over, everything.' 
 
 Acia tried to get up from her chair. 
 
 'Stay,' I cried, 'stay, I implore you. You 
 have to do with an honourable man — yes, an 
 honourable man. But, in Heaven's name, what 
 upset you ? Did you notice any change in 
 me? But I could not hide my feelings from 
 your brother when he came to me to-day.' 
 
 ' Why am I talking like this ? ' I was thinking 
 inwardly, and the idea that I was an immoral 
 liar, that Gagin knew of our interview, that 
 301 
 
ACIA 
 
 everything was spoilt, exposed — seemed buzzing 
 persistently in my head. 
 
 ' I didn't call my brother ' — I heard a fright- 
 ened whisper from Acia : ' he came of him- 
 self.' 
 
 ' See what you have done,' I persisted. ' Now 
 you want to go away. . . .' 
 
 'Yes, I must go away,' she murmured in the 
 same soft voice. * I only asked you to come 
 here to say good-bye.' 
 
 'And do you suppose,' I retorted, 'it will be 
 easy for me to part with you ? ' 
 
 'But what did you tell my brother for?' 
 Acia said, in perplexity. 
 
 ' I tell you — I could not do otherwise. If 
 you had not yourself betrayed yourself . . .' 
 
 ' I locked myself in my room,' she answered 
 simply. ' I did not know the landlady had 
 another key. . . .' 
 
 This innocent apology on her lips at such a 
 moment almost infuriated me at the time . . . 
 and now I cannot think of it without emotion. 
 Poor, honest, truthful child ! 
 
 ' And now everything 's at an end ! ' I began 
 again, 'everything. Now we shall have to 
 part' I stole a look at Acia. . . . Her face 
 had quickly flushed crimson. She was, I felt it, 
 both ashamed and afraid. I went on walking 
 and talking as though in delirium. ' You did 
 not let the feeling develop which had begun 
 to grow ; you have broken off our relations 
 302 
 
ACTA 
 
 yourself; you had no confidence in me; you 
 doubted me. . . .' 
 
 While I was talking, Acia bent more and 
 more forward, and suddenly slid on her knees, 
 dropped her head on her arms, and began 
 sobbing. I ran up to her and tried to lift 
 her up, but she would not let me. I can't 
 bear women's tears ; at the sight of them I 
 am at my wits' end at once. 
 
 'Anna Nikolaevna, Acia,' I kept repeating, 
 ' please, I implore you, for God's sake, stop.' . . . 
 I took her hand again. . . . 
 
 But, to my immense astonishment, she sud- 
 denly jumped up, rushed with lightning swift- 
 ness to the door, and vanished. . . . 
 
 When, a few minutes later, Frau Luise came 
 into the room I was still standing in the very 
 middle of it, as it were, thunderstruck. I could 
 not believe this interview could possibly have 
 come to such a quick, such a stupid end, when 
 I had not said a hundredth part of what I 
 wanted to say, and what I ought to have said, 
 when I did not know myself in what way it 
 would be concluded. . . . 
 
 ' Is Fraiilein gone ? ' Frau Luise asked me, 
 raising her yellow eyebrows right up to her 
 false front. 
 
 I stared at her like a fool, and went away. 
 
 303 
 
XVII 
 
 I MADE my way out of the town and struck 
 out straight into the open country. I was de- 
 voured by anger, frenzied anger. I hurled 
 reproaches at myself. How was it I had 
 not seen the reason that had forced Acia to 
 change the place of our meeting ; how was it 
 I did not appreciate what it must have cost 
 her to go to that old woman ; how was it I 
 had not kept her? Alone with her, in that dim, 
 half-dark room I had had the force, I had had 
 the heart to repulse her, even to reproach her. 
 . . . Now her image simply pursued me. I 
 begged her forgiveness. The thought of that 
 pale face, those wet and timid eyes, of her 
 loose hair falling on the drooping neck, the 
 light touch of her head against my breast 
 maddened me. ' Yours ' — I heard her whisper. 
 ' I acted from conscientious motives,' I assured 
 myself . . . Not true ! Did I really desire 
 such a termination ? Was I capable of part- 
 ing from her? Could I really do without 
 her? 
 
 304 
 
ACIA 
 
 ' Madman ! madman ! ' I repeated with ex- 
 asperation. . . . 
 
 Meanwhile night was coming on. I walked 
 with long strides towards the house where Acia 
 lived. 
 
 305 
 
XVIII 
 
 Gagin came out to meet me. 
 
 'Have you seen my sister?' he shouted to 
 me while I was still some distance ofif. 
 
 * Why, isn't she at home ? I asked. 
 'No.' 
 
 ' She hasn't come back ? ' 
 
 * No. I was in fault,' Gagin went on. ' I 
 couldn't restrain myself. Contrary to our agree- 
 ment, I went to the chapel ; she was not there ; 
 didn't she come, then ? ' 
 
 ' She hasn't been at the chapel ? ' 
 
 ' And you haven't seen her ? ' 
 
 I was obliged to admit I had seen her. 
 
 'Where?' 
 
 ' At Frau Luise's. I parted from her an hour 
 ago,' I added. ' I felt sure she had come home.' 
 
 ' We will wait a little/ said Gagin. 
 
 We went into the house and sat down near 
 each other. We were silent. We both felt very 
 uncomfortable. We were continually looking 
 round, staring at the door, listening. At last 
 Gagin got up. 
 
 ' Oh, this is beyond anything !' he cried. ' My 
 306 
 
ACIA 
 
 heart 's in my mouth. She '11 be the death of 
 me, by God ! . . . Let 's go and look for her.' 
 
 We went out. It was quite dark by now, 
 outside. 
 
 'What did you talk about to her?' Gagin 
 asked me, as he pulled his hat over his eyes. 
 
 ' I only saw her for five minutes,' I answered. 
 ' I talked to her as we agreed.' 
 
 ' Do you know what ? ' he replied, * it 's better 
 for us to separate. In that way we are more 
 likely to come across her before long. In any 
 case come back here within an hour.' 
 
 307 
 
XIX 
 
 I WENT hurriedly down from the vineyard 
 and rushed into the town. I walked rapidly 
 through all the streets, looked in all directions, 
 even at Frau Luise's windows, went back to the 
 Rhine, and ran along the bank. . . . From time 
 to time I was met by women's figures, but Acia 
 was nowhere to be seen. There was no anger 
 gnawing at my heart now. I was tortured by 
 a secret terror, and it was not only terror that 
 I felt . . . no, I felt remorse, the most intense 
 regret, and love, — yes ! the tenderest love. I 
 wrung my hands. I called ' Acia ' through the 
 falling darkness of the night, first in a low 
 voice, then louder and louder ; I repeated a 
 hundred times over that I loved her. I vowed 
 I would never part from her. I would have 
 given everything in the world to hold her cold 
 hand again, to hear again her soft voice, to see 
 her again before me. . . . She had been so near, 
 she had come to me, her mind perfectly made 
 up, in perfect innocence of heart and feelings, 
 she had offered me her unsullied youth . . . and 
 I had not folded her to my breast, I had robbed 
 308 
 
ACTA 
 
 myself of the bliss of watching her sweet face 
 blossom with delight and the peace of rapture. 
 . . . This thought drove me out of my mind. 
 
 ' Where can she have gone ? What can she 
 have done with herself?' I cried in an agony 
 of helpless despair. ... I caught a glimpse of 
 something white on the very edge of the river. 
 I knew the place ; there stood there, over the 
 tomb of a man who had been drowned seventy 
 years ago, a stone cross half-buried in the 
 ground, bearing an old inscription. My heart 
 sank ... I ran up to the cross ; the white figure 
 vanished. I shouted ' Acia ! ' I felt frightened 
 myself by my uncanny voice, but no one 
 called back. 
 
 I resolved to go and see whether Gagin had 
 found her. 
 
 309 
 
XX 
 
 As I climbed swiftly up the vineyard path I 
 caught sight of a light in Acia's room. . . . 
 This reassured me a little. 
 
 I went up to the house. The door below 
 was fastened. I knocked. A window on the 
 ground floor was cautiously opened, and Gagin's 
 head appeared. 
 
 ' Have you found her ? ' I asked. 
 
 ' She has come back/ he answered in a 
 whisper. ' She is in her own room undress- 
 ing. Everything is all right.' 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' I cried, in an indescribable 
 rush of joy. ' Thank God ! now everything is 
 right. But you know we must have another 
 talk.' 
 
 ' Another time,' he replied, softly drawing the 
 casement towards him. ' Another time ; but 
 now good-bye.' 
 
 'Till to-morrow,' I said. 'To-morrow every- 
 thing shall be arranged.' 
 
 ' Good-bye,' repeated Gagin. The window 
 was closed. I was on the point of knocking 
 at the window. I was on the point of telling 
 310 
 
ACTA 
 
 Gagin there and then that I wanted to ask him 
 for his sister's hand. But such a proposal at 
 such a time. ... * To-morrow,' I reflected, 
 ' to-morrow I shall be happy. . . .' 
 
 To-morrow I shall be happy ! Happiness has 
 no to-morrow, no yesterday ; it thinks not 
 on the past, and dreams not of the future ; 
 it has the present — not a day even — a moment. 
 
 I don't remember how I got to Z. It was 
 not my legs that carried me, nor a boat that 
 ferried me across ; I felt that I was borne 
 along by great, mighty wings. I passed a bush 
 where a nightingale was singing. I stopped 
 and listened long ; I fancied it sang my love 
 and happiness. 
 
 311 
 
XXI 
 
 When next morning I began to approach the 
 little house I knew so well, I was struck with 
 one circumstance ; all the windows in it were 
 open, and the door too stood open ; some bits 
 of paper were lying about in front of the door- 
 way ; a maidservant appeared with a broom 
 at the door. 
 
 I went up to her. . . . 
 
 ' They are gone ! ' she bawled, before I had 
 time to inquire whether Gagin was at home. 
 
 'Gone?' ... I repeated. 'What do you 
 mean by gone ? Where ? ' 
 
 ' They went away this morning at six o'clock, 
 and didn't say where. Wait a minute, I believe 
 you 're Mr. N , aren't you ? ' 
 
 ' I 'm Mr. N , yes.' 
 
 'The mistress has a letter for you.' The 
 maid went up-stairs and returned with a letter. 
 * Here it is, if you please, sir.' 
 
 ' But it 's impossible. . . . how can it be ? ' . . . 
 I was beginning. The servant stared blankly 
 at me, and began sweeping. 
 
 I opened the letter. Gagin had written it ; 
 312 
 
ACIA 
 
 there was not one word from Acia. He be^an 
 with begging me not to be angry at his sudden 
 departure ; he felt sure that, on mature con- 
 sideration, I should approve of his decision. 
 He could find no other way out of a position 
 which might become difficult and dangerous. 
 ' Yesterday evening,' he wrote, * while we were 
 both waiting in silence for Acia, I realised 
 conclusively the necessity of separation. There 
 are prejudices I respect ; I can understand 
 that it's impossible for you to marry Acia. 
 She has told me everything ; for the sake of 
 her peace of mind, I was bound to yield to her 
 reiterated urgent entreaties.' At the end of 
 the letter he expressed his regret that our 
 acquaintance had come to such a speedy 
 termination, wished me every happiness, shook 
 my hand in friendship, and besought me not to 
 try to seek them out. 
 
 'What prejudices?' I cried aloud, as though 
 he could hear me ; ' what rubbish ! What 
 right has he to snatch her from me? . . .' I 
 clutched at my head. 
 
 The servant began loudly calling for her 
 mistress ; her alarm forced me to control my- 
 self. One idea was aflame within me ; to find 
 them, to find them wherever they might be. 
 To accept this blow, to resign myself to such a 
 calamity was impossible. I learnt from the 
 landlady that they had got on to a steamer at 
 six o'clock in the morning, and were going 
 313 
 
ACIA 
 
 down the Rhine. I went to the ticket-office ; 
 there I was told they had taken tickets for 
 Cologne. I was going home to pack up at 
 once and follow them. I happened to pass the 
 house of Frau Luise. . . . Suddenly I heard 
 some one calling me. I raised my head, and at 
 the window of the very room where I had met 
 Acia the day before, I saw the burgomaster's 
 widow. She smiled her loathsome smile, and 
 called me. I turned away, and was going on ; 
 but she called after me that she had something 
 for me. These words brought me to a halt, 
 and I went into her house. How can I 
 describe my feelings when I saw that room 
 again? . . . 
 
 ' By rights,' began the old woman, showing 
 me a little note ; ' I oughtn't to have given you 
 this unless you 'd come to me of your own 
 accord, but you are such a fine young man. 
 Take it.' 
 
 I took the note. 
 
 On a tiny scrap of paper stood the following 
 words, hurriedly scribbled in pencil : 
 
 ' Good-bye, we shall not see each other 
 again. It is not through pride that I 'm going 
 away — no, I can't help it. Yesterday when I 
 was crying before you, if you had said one 
 word to me, only one word — I should have 
 stayed. You did not say it. It seems it is 
 better so . . . Good-bye for ever ! ' 
 
 One word . . . Oh, madman that I was ! 
 314 
 
ACTA 
 
 That word ... I had repeated it the night 
 before with tears, I had flung it to the wind, I 
 had said it over and over again among the 
 empty fields . . . but I did not say it to her, ^ 
 I did not tell her I loved her . . . Indeed, I 
 could not have uttered that word then. When 
 I met her in that fatal room, I had as yet no 
 clear consciousness of my love ; it had not 
 fully awakened even when I was sitting with 
 her brother in senseless and burdensome 
 silence ... it flamed up with irrepressible force 
 only a few instants later, when, terrified by 
 the possibility of misfortune, I began to seek 
 and call her . . . but then it was already too 
 late. ' But that 's impossible ! ' I shall be told ; 
 I don't know whether it 's possible, I know 
 that it 's the truth. Acia would not have gone 
 away if there had been the faintest shade of 
 coquetry in her, and if her position had not 
 been a false one. She could not put up with 
 what any other girl would have endured ; I 
 did not realise that. My evil genius had 
 arrested an avowal on my lips at my last 
 interview with Gagin at the darkened window, 
 and the last thread I might have caught at, 
 had slipped out of my fingers. 
 
 The same day I went back with my port- 
 manteau packed, to L., and started for Col- 
 ogne. I remember the steamer was already off, 
 and I was taking a mental farewell of those 
 streets, all those spots which I was never to 
 315 
 
ACTA 
 
 forget — when I caught sight of Hannchen. 
 She was sitting on a seat near the river. Her 
 face was pale but not sad ; a handsome young 
 fellow was standing beside her, laughing and 
 telling her some story ; while on the other side 
 of the Rhine my little Madonna peeped out of 
 the green of the old ash-tree as mournfully as 
 ever. 
 
XXII 
 
 In Cologne I came upon traces of the Gagins ; 
 I found out they had gone to London ; I 
 pushed on in pursuit of them ; but in London 
 all my researches were in vain. It was long 
 before I would resign myself, for a long while 
 I persevered, but I was obliged, at last, to g'wG 
 up all hope of coming across them. 
 
 And I never saw them again — I never saw 
 
 Acia. Vague rumours reached me about him, 
 
 but she had vanished for ever for me. I don't 
 
 even know whether she is alive. One day, a 
 
 few years later, in a railway carriage abroad, 
 
 I caught a glimpse of a woman, whose face 
 
 vividly recalled those features I could never 
 
 '' ^et . . . but I was most likely deceived by 
 
 lance resemblance. Acia remained in my 
 
 Tiory a little girl such as I had known her 
 
 :he best time of my life, as I saw her the 
 
 time, leaning against the back of a low 
 
 )den chair. 
 
 '.ut I must own I did not grieve over-long 
 her ; I even came to the conclusion that 
 had done all for the best, in not uniting 
 317 
 
AC I A 
 
 me to Ada ; I consoled myself, with the reflec- 
 tion that I should probably not have been 
 happy with such a wife. I was young then — 
 and the future, the brief, swiftly-passing future 
 seemed boundless to me then. Could not what 
 had been be repeated, I thought, and better, 
 fairer still ? . . . I got to know other women — 
 but the feeling Acia had aroused in me, that 
 intense, tender, deep feeling has never come 
 again. No ! no eyes have for me taken the 
 place of those that were once turned wi ^ love 
 upon my eyes, to no heart, pressed to my 
 breast, has my heart responded with such 
 joyous sweet emotion ! Condemned as I have 
 been to a solitary life, without ties or family, 
 I have led a dreary existence ; but I keep as 
 sacred relics, her little notes and the dry 
 geranium, the flower she threw me once out of 
 the window. It still retains a faint scent, while 
 the hand that gave it, the hand I only once 
 pressed to my lips, has perhaps long since 
 decayed in the grave . . . And I myself, what 
 has become of me? What is left of me, of 
 those blissful, heart-stirring days, of those 
 winged hopes and aspirations? The faint 
 fragrance of an insignificant plant outlives all 
 man's joys and sorrows — outlives man himself. 
 
 1857. 
 
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