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IVAN TURGENIEFF

Volume V

ON THE EVE

f-S AND STORIES OF TUKGENIEFF

. THE EVE

^" ^! ^-"yAN BY \

NEW YORK iARLES SCRIBNER'S SON^

1903

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Thou wilt take me with thee, wilt thou not ? " From a drawing by E. POTTHAST.

THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF IVAN TURGENIEFF

ON THE EVE

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

1903

Copyright, 1903, by Charles Scribner's Sons

PREFACE

In a preface to the complete edition of his works, pubhshed in 1880 (the last before his death), TurgenieiF furnishes some extremely interesting details about " On the Eve," in the form of a brief episode from his literary career. This episode runs as follows:

" I spent nearly the whole of the year 1855 (as well as the three years preceding) in my village in the Mtzensk county, Orel Government. Among all my neighbours, the one with whom I was most intimate was a certain Vasfly Karatyeeff, a young landed proprietor, aged twenty-five. KaratyeefF was a romantic man and an en- thusiast, very fond of music and literature, gifted, in ad- dition, with peculiar humour, amorous, impressionable and straightforward. He had been educated In the Mos- cow University, and lived in the country with his father, who was seized with an attack of hypochondria, in the nature of insanity, every three years. KaratyeefF had a sister, — a very remarkable being, — who also ended by going Insane. All these persons died long ago; — that Is why I speak so freely of them. KaratyeefF forced him- self to attend to the farming, of which he understood absolutely nothing, and was particularly fond of reading and of conversing with persons who were sympathetic to him. Very few such people were to be found. The

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PREFACE

neighbours did not like him, because of his free-thinking and his mocking tongue: — moreover, they were afraid to introduce him to their wives and daughters, because he had a well-established reputation — in reality not in the least deserved by him, — of a dangerous Lovelace. He came frequently to my house, and his visits consti- tuted almost my sole recreation and pleasure at that period, which was not a very cheerful one for me.

" When the Crimean war broke out, and recruiting be- gan among the nobility, under the name of the militia, the nobles of our county who disliked KaratyeefF con- spired among themselves, as the saying is, to rid them- selves of him, — and elected him the commanding officer of that militia company. On learning of his appoint- ment, KaratyeefF came to me. I was immediately struck by his perturbed and alarmed aspect. His first words were : ' I shall not return thence ; I shall not survive it ; I shall die there.'

" He could not boast of robust health : his lungs ached constantly, and he was of frail constitution. Although I feared for him all the hardships of the campaign, still I endeavoured to banish his gloomy forebodings and be- gan to assure him that before a year had passed we should meet again in our lonely nook, should see each other, and chat and discuss as of old. But he obstinately persisted in his view ; and after a rather prolonged stroll in my park, he suddenly turned to me with the following words :

" * I have a request to make of you. You know that I spent several years in Moscow, but you do not know that I had an experience there which aroused in me the desire to narrate it — both to myself and to others. I have

PREFACE

tried to do so; but I have been forced to the conviction that I possess no literary talent whatsoever — and the whole thing has ended in my writing it down in this copy-book, which I commit to your hands.'

*' So saying, he drew from his pocket a small manu- script book, containing about fifty pages. ' I am so firmly convinced,' he went on, ' despite all your friendly consolation, that I shall not return from the Crimea, that I beg you to be so good as to take these rough sketches, and make something out of them which shall not vanish without leaving a trace, as I shall ! '

" I tried to refuse ; but perceiving that my refusal pained him, I promised to fulfil his wish, and that same evening, after Karatyeeff 's departure, I glanced through the book which he had left me. There, in hasty outlines, was sketched that which afterward constituted the sub- stance of ' On the Eve.' The story was not finished, however, and broke off abruptly.

" Karatyeeff, during his residence in Moscow, had fallen in love with a young girl, who reciprocated his affection ; but, on making acquaintance with a Bulgarian named Katranoff (a person who, as I afterward learned, had formerly been very famous, and is not forgotten to this day in his native land), had fallen in love with him, and gone off with him to Bulgaria, where he soon died. — The story of this love was given with sincerity but in- artistically. Karatyeeff really had not been born for literature. One scene alone, namely, the jaunt to Tzar- itzyno, was limned with a good deal of animation — and in my romance I have preserved its chief features.

" Truth to tell, at that time I was turning over other images in my head : I was preparing to write ' Rudin ' ;

• •

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PREFACE

but the task which I afterward tried to fulfil in ' On the Eve ' started up before me from time to time. The figure of the principal heroine, Elena, which was then a new type in Russian life, was pretty clearly defined in my imagination ; but a hero was lacking, — the sort of person to whom Elena, with her confused but powerful impulse toward freedom, could give herself. On perusing Ka- ratyeeff 's book I involuntarily exclaimed : ' Here 's the hero whom I have been seeking!' — There was none of that sort, as yet, among contemporary Russians.

" When, on the following day, I saw KaratyeeflP, I not only repeated my promise to fulfil his request, but I thanked him for having rescued me from a difficulty, and cast a ray of light into my hitherto dark meditations and inventions. KaratyeefF was delighted, and repeating once more, ' Don't let all that perish,' he went oiF to serve in the Crimea, whence, to my profound regret, he did not return. His forebodings were realized. He died of typhus in camp near the Putrid Sea, where our Orel militia was stationed, — in earthen huts, — never seeing a single enemy during the whole period of the war, and nevertheless losing, from various maladies, about one- half of its men.

" But I deferred the execution of my promise : I busied myself with other work ; on completing ' Riidin ' I began on ' A Nobleman's Nest ' ; and only in the winter of '58-'59, on finding myself again in the same village and the same surroundings as at the time of my acquaintance with Karatyeeff", did I feel that the slumbering impres- sions were beginning to stir. I hunted up and re-read his copy-book; the figures which had retreated into the background again advanced into the foreground — and I

• • •

Vlll

PREFACE

immediately took up my pen. A number of my friends knew at the time all which I have now related ; but I re- gard it as my duty now, on the definitive publication of my romances, to communicate it to the public also, and thereby pay at least a tardy tribute to the memory of my poor young friend.

" And this is how a Bulgarian became the hero of my romance. But the Messrs. Critics have unani- mously reproached me for the artificiality and lif elessness of that character, have been surprised at my strange caprice in selecting a Bulgarian in particular, and have asked : ' Why ? For what reason ? What 's the sense of it.? ' — The casket has simply been opened; but I did not consider it necessary, at that time, to enter into further explanations."

Assuredly, no one of TurgeniefF's books raised a greater storm, or provoked so diametrically op- posite opinions from the critics. Some declared that InsarofF was nothing but another Riidin; others that he was the precise antithesis of Rudin. Some admired his reticence, his strength, the high relief in which he was depicted ; others called him " shadowy," could detect no force or attraction in him, and jeered at his having captivated Elena by his " heroic " trip of forty miles, on behalf of his compatriots, and, in par- ticular, his silly feat with the German at Tzari- tzyno. Opinions as to Elena were equally diverse. The point about her which seemed particularly to irritate society and the critics was her abandon-

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PREFACE

ment of her home (uncongenial as it was), and the bad example which she thereby set to other Russian girls. The special thing which fairly in- furiated many critics was that Turgenieff should have " imported " a hero from outside of Russia, —and from Bulgaria, of all places!— as though no men worthy of a serious maiden's love, or no fine men, were to be found at home. Their acerbity on this score ends by amusing one who peruses the contemporary and later criticisms. The author's explanation quoted above practically nullifies a great deal of what was written about Elena, as well as about Insaroif, of a carping character.

The one thing which not one of them thought of saying— a woman would have said it probably, but the critics were all men— is: that with Elena's temperament and surroundings it was inevitable that she should fall in love with InsarofF, in spite of the fact that he says almost nothing, is repre- sented as merely preparing to act, and actually does nothing except in the two trivial instances cited. This proposition carries with it the corol- lary that hero and heroine are as faithful to life as are the secondary characters in the book, whom the critics all praised for their fidelity to nature and as genuine artistic creations.

The book was first pubhshed in 1860.

I. F. H.

ON THE EVE:

A ROMANCE

(1859)

ON THE EVE:

A ROMANCE

IN the shade of a lofty linden-tree, on the bank of the Moscow River, not far from Kiin- tzovo, two young men were lying on the grass, on one of the very hottest summer days of the year 1853. One, three-and-twenty years of age, judg- ing from his appearance, of lofty stature, swar- thy of visage, with a pointed and somewhat crooked nose, a high forehead, and a repressed smile on his broad lips, was lying on his back, and thoughtfully gazing into the distance, with his small, grey eyes screwed up; the other was lying on his chest, with his curly, fair-haired head propped on both hands, and was also gazing at something in the distance. He was three years older than his comrade, but seemed much younger: his moustache was barely sprouting, and a light down curled on his chin. There was something childishly pretty, something allur- ingly elegant, in the small features of his fresh, round face, in his sweet, brown eyes, his hand- some, full lips, and small, white hands. Every- thing about him exhaled the happy gaiety of

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ON THE EVE

health, breathed forth youth — ^the unconcern, self-confidence, self-indulgence, and charm of youth. He rolled his eyes about, and smiled, and put his head on one side as small boys do when they know that people like to look at them. He wore an ample white coat, in the nature of a blouse ; a blue kerchief encircled his slender neck, a crumpled straw hat lay upon the grass beside him.

In comparison with him, his companion ap- peared to be an old man, and no one would have thought, to look at his angular form, that he was enjoying himself, that he was at his ease. He was lying in an awkward posture ; his large head, broad above and pointed below, was uncouthly set upon his long neck; uncouthness was ex- pressed by every movement of his arms, of his body, clothed in a tight-fitting, short black coat, of his long legs, with elevated knees, resembling the hind legs of a grasshopper. Nevertheless, it was impossible not to recognise the fact that he was a well-bred man; the stamp of "good- breeding " was perceptible all over his ungainly person, and his countenance, which was homely and even somewhat ridiculous, expressed a habit of thought and kindliness. His name was Andrei Petrovitch BersenefF ; his comrade, the fair-haired young man, was named Shiibin, Pavel Yakov- litch.

" Why dost thou not lie on thy breast, as I am

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ON THE EVE

doing?" began Shiibin. "It's much better so. Especially when you stick your feet in the air, and click your heels together — this way. The grass is just under your nose: it's tiresome to gaze at the landscape — watch some fat little bee- tle crawl up a blade of grass, or an ant bustling about. Really it 's much nicer. But thou hast assumed a sort of pseudo-classical pose, precisely like a ballet-dancer when she leans her elbows on a cardboard cliff. Remember, that thou hast now a perfect right to rest. It 's no joke to have graduated third in the class ! Take your rest, sir ; cease to strain yourself; stretch out your limbs! "

Shubin enunciated the whole of this speech through his nose, half -languidly, half -jestingly (spoiled children talk in that manner to the friends of the family, who bring them sugar- plums), and, without waiting for an answer, he went on:

" What surprises me most of all, in the ants, beetles, and other worthy insects, is their wonder- ful seriousness; they run to and fro with counte- nances as grave as though their lives were of some importance ! Why, good gracious, man, the lord of creation, the most exalted of beings, may be looking at them, but they care nothing for him; perhaps, even, a gnat may alight upon the nose of the lord of creation, and begin to utilise him as food. This is insulting. But, on the other hand, in what respect is their life inferior to ours ?

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ON THE EVE

And why should n't they put on airs of impor- tance if we permit ourselves to be pompous? Come now, philosopher, solve this riddle for me! Why dost thou maintain silence? Hey? "

" What ..." ejaculated Berseneff, coming to himself with a start.

"What!" repeated Shubin. "Thy friend expounds profound thoughts to thee, and thou dost not listen to him."

" I was admiring the view. Look, how hotly yonder fields are blazing in the sunlight! " (Ber- seneff lisped a little. )

" A good bit of color that," — replied Shubin. — " In a word, it is nature! "

Berseneff shook his head. " Thou shouldst be more enthusiastic over all this than I am. It 's in thy line: thou art an artist."

" No, sir; it 's not in my line," — retorted Shii- bin, and pushed his hat back upon the nape of his neck. — " I 'm a butcher, sir; my business is flesh, modelling flesh, shoulders, feet, hands, but here there are no contours, there is no finish, it melts off in all directions. . . Go, seize it if you can!"

" Why, precisely therein lies its beauty," — re- marked Berseneff. " By the way, hast thou fin- ished thy bas-relief? "

"Which one?"

" The child with the goat."

"Damn it! damn it! damn it! "—exclaimed

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ON THE EVE

Shiibin, in a drawl. — " I 've been looking at the real thing, at the old masters, at the antique, and I 've smashed my miserable stuff. Thou pointest out nature to me, and sayest: ' Therein lies beauty.' Of course, there is beauty in every- thing, there 's beauty even in thy nose, but one can't run after every bit of beauty. The an- cients— ^why, even they did n't run after it ; it descended of itself into their works, God knows whence, perhaps from heaven. The whole world belonged to them; we cannot expand ourselves so widely; our arms are too short. We fling out a bait at one tiny point, and then we watch for results. If there 's a bite, bravo ! if there is no bite "

Shiibin thrust out his tongue.

" Stop, stop," — responded Berseneff . " That is a paradox. If thou art not in sympathy with beauty, if thou dost not love it wherever thou en- counterest it, it will not give itself to thee in thine art. If a fine view, if fine music, have no- thing to say to thy soul, — I mean, if thou art not in sympathy with them . . . ."

" Ekh, get out, thou sympathiser! " — retorted Shiibin hastily, and broke into a laugh at his own newly-coined word, but Berseneff became pen- sive.— " No, my dear fellow," — resumed Shiibin, " thou philosopher-sage, third in thy class at the Moscow University, 't is a terrible thing to argue with thee, especially for me, a student who

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ON THE EVE

did not finish his course; but just let me tell thee something: with the exception of my art, I love beauty only in women .... in young girls, and that only since quite recently. ..."

He rolled over on his back, and clasped his hands under his head.

A few moments passed in silence. The still- ness of the sultry midday weighed heavily upon the radiant and slumbering earth.

" By the way, speaking of women," — began Shiibin again. — " Why does n't somebody take Stakhoff in hand? Hast thou seen him in Mos- cow? "

" No."

" The old fellow has gone quite out of his mind. He sits for whole days together at the house of his Augustina Christianovna, — he is hor- ribly bored, but there he sits. They gaze at each other, so stupidly. ... It 's repulsive even to look at. Just think of it! With what a family God has blessed that man: but no, give him his Augustina Christianovna! I don't know of any- thing more hideous than her duck -like physiog- nomy ! The other day, I modelled a caricature of her, in Dantesque style. It turned out quite well. I '11 show it to thee."

' " And the bust of Elena Pavlovna," — inquired Berseneff, — " is that progressing? "

" No, my dear fellow, it is not progressing. That face is enough to drive one to desperation.

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ON THE EVE

You look, and the lines are pure, severe, regular ; apparently, there is no difficulty about catching the likeness. Nothing of the sort. ... It won't yield itself, any more than a treasure will drop into your hands. Hast thou noticed how she lis- tens? Not a single feature moves, only the ex- pression of her glance changes incessantly, — and that alters the whole face. What is a sculptor to do, and a bad sculptor into the bargain ? She 's a wonderful being .... a strange being," — ^he added, after a brief pause.

*' She is a wonderful girl," — BersenefF re- peated after him.

" And the daughter of Nikolai Artemievitch StakhofF! After that, just talk about blood, about race! And the amusing thing is, that she really is his daughter, she resembles him, and resembles her mother, Anna Vasilievna. I re- spect Anna Vasilievna with all my heart, — she is my benefactress : but she 's a hen, all the same. Where did Elena get that soul of hers? Who kindled that fire ? There 's another riddle for th©e, philosopher! "

But the " philosopher," as before, made no re- ply. In general, Berseneff did not sin through loquacity, and, when he spoke, expressed himself awkwardly, hesitated, gesticulated unnecessarily: but on this occasion a special sort of stillness had descended upon his spirit, a stillness akin to weariness and sadness. He had recently settled

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ON THE EVE

in the country, after a long and difficult task which had occupied him for several hours every day. Inactivity, the softness and purity of the air, the consciousness of having attained his ob- ject, the whimsical and careless conversation with his friend, the suddenly-evoked image of a be- loved being, all these varied but, at the same time, in some way similar impressions were merged to- gether within him into one general feeling, which

soothed, agitated him, and enfeebled him

He was a very nervous young man. It was cool and quiet beneath the linden-tree; the flies and bees which fluttered about in its shadow seemed to hum in a more subdued manner; the clean, fine grass, of emerald hue, with no golden gleams, did not wave; the tall blades stood mo- tionless as though enchanted; the tiny clusters of yellow blossoms on the lower branches of the linden hung like dead things. Their sweet perfume penetrated into the very depths of the breast with every breath, but the breast inhaled it willingly. Far away, beyond the river, as far as the horizon, everything was glittering and blazing; from time to time a little breeze swept past, and broke and increased the scintillation; a radiant vapour quivered over the earth. No birds were to be heard: they do not sing in the hours of sultry heat; but the grasshoppers were shrilling everywhere, and it was pleasant to lis- ten to that hot sound of life, as one sat in the

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ON THE EVE

shade, at ease : it inclined to slumber, and evoked dreaminess.

" Hast thou observed," — began BersenefF sud- denly, aiding his speech with gesticulations of his arms, — " what a strange feeling Nature arouses in us? Everything about her is so full, so clear, I mean to say, so satisfying in itself, and we understand this, and admire it, and, at the same time, she always — at least in my own case — causes a certain uneasiness, a certain agitation, even sadness. What is the meaning of this? Are we more powerfully conscious in her presence, face to face with her, of all our own incompleteness, our lack of clearness, or is that satisfaction where- with she contents herself not enough for us, while the other — I mean the one which she does not possess — is necessary for us? "

" H'm,"— replied Shiibin,— " I '11 tell thee, Andrei Petrovitch, whence all this arises. Thou hast described the sensations of the solitary man, who does not live, but merely looks on, and swoons in ecstasy. What 's the good of looking on? Live thyself, and thou wilt be a fine, dashing fellow. Knock at the door of Nature as thou wilt, she will not respond with a single compre- hensible word, because she is dumb. She will ring and grieve, like the chord of a lyre, but thou must not expect any song from her. A living soul — and a woman's soul in particular — will re- spond. Therefore, my noble friend, I counsel

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ON THE EVE

thee to provide thyself with a friend of the heart, and all thy melancholy sensations will immedi- ately vanish. That 's what we ' need,' as thou art wont to say. Seest thou, that agitation, that sadness, is simply a sort of hunger. Give the stomach the right sort of food, and everything will reduce itself to order at once. Take thy place in space, be a body, my dear fellow. And, after all, what is Nature, and what 's the good of her? Just listen: Love . . . what a mighty, burn- ing word! Nature . . . what a cold, scholas- tic expression! And then" (Shubin began to chant): "'Long life to Marya Petrovna!' or no," he added, " not to Marya Petrovna, but that makes no difference! Vous me comprenez"

BersenefF half sat up, and propped his chin on his clasped hands. — " Why this raillery," — he said, without looking at his companion, — " why this jeering? Yes, thou art right: Love is a great word, a great feeling. . . . But of what sort of love art thou speaking? "

Shubin also half sat up. — " Of what love? Of whatever sort you please, if only it be present. I will confess to thee that, in my opinion, there is no such thing as different sorts of love. . . . If thou hast loved . . . ."

" I have, with all my heart," — interjected Ber- seneff.

" Well, yes, that is a matter of course : the soul is not an apple: it cannot be divided. If thou

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ON THE EVE

hast been in love, thou art in the right. And I had no intention to jeer. I have such tenderness in my heart now, it is so softened .... I merely wished to explain why nature, according to thee, has that effect upon us. Because she rouses in us the necessity for love, and is not able to satisfy it. She impels us gently to other, living em- braces, but we do not understand her, and we expect something from her herself. Akh, An- drei, Andrei, it is beautiful. This sun, this sky, everything, everything around us, is very beauti- ful, but thou art sad ; but if, at this moment, thou heldest in thy hand the hand of a beloved woman, if that hand and the whole woman were thine, if thou wert even gazing with her eyes, feeling not with thine own solitary feeling, but with her feeling, — Nature would not inspire thee with sadness, Andrei, and thou wouldst not begin to notice her beauty: she herself would rejoice and sing, she would join in thy hymn, because thou wouldst then have endowed her, the dumb, with a tongue! "

Shiibin sprang to his feet, and strode back and forth a couple of times, but BersenefF bowed his head, and a slight flush suffused his face.

" I do not entirely agree with thee," — he be- gan:— "Nature is not always hinting at . . at

love to us." (He could not utter the

word " love " at once.) " She also menaces us: she reminds us of . . . terrible . . . yes, of un-

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ON THE EVE

attainable mysteries. Is not she bound to engulf us, is not she incessantly devouring us? In her are both life and death; and in her death speaks as loudly as life."

" And in love there is both life and death," — interposed Shubin.

" And moreover," — went on Berseneff , — *' when I, for example, stand in springtime, in the forest, in a green copse, when I fancy I hear the sounds of Oberon's horn" (Berseneff was a little shamefaced when he had uttered these words) — "is that — "

" It is a thirst for love, a thirst for happiness, nothing else! " — exclaimed Shubin, "I, too, know those sounds, I know that languor and anticipa- tion which invade the soul beneath the shadows of the forest, in its bosom; or, in the evening, in the open fields, when the sun is setting and the vapour is rising from the river behind the bushes. But from the forest and from the river, and from the earth, and from the sky, from every Httle cloud, from every blade of grass, I expect, I de- mand happiness, in everything I feel its ap- proach, I hear its summons. ' My god is a bright and merry god ! ' That is the way I once began a poem ; confess : it was a magnificent first Hne, but I could n't possibly match it with a second. Hap- piness ! happiness ! until life is over, so long as all our members are in our power, so long as we are going not down hill but up hill! Devil take it! "

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ON THE EVE

— continued Shiibin, with sudden fervour — *' we are young, we are not monsters, we are not stupid: let us conquer happiness for ourselves! "

He shook his curls, and glanced upward in a self-confident, almost challenging manner at the sky. BersenefF looked at him.

" Is there really nothing higher than happi- ness? " — he said softly.

" What, for example? " — inquired Shiibin, and paused.

" Why, here, for example, thou and I, as thou sayest, are young; we are good fellows, let us assume ; each of us wishes happiness for himself. .... But is that word ' happiness ' the sort of word which would have united us, would have kindled us to flame, would have made us offer each other our hands? Is it not an egotistical, a distintegrating word, I mean to say? "

"And dost thou know any words which do unite?"

*' Yes, — and there are not a few of them ; and thou knowest them also."

" You don't say so? What words are they? "

" Why, take art, for instance, — since thou art an artist, — fatherland, science, liberty, justice."

" And love? " — asked Shiibin.

" Love, also, is a word which unites ; but not that love for which thou art now thirsting: not love as enjoyment, but love as sacrifice."

Shiibin frowned.

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ON THE EVE

" That 's all right for the Germans ; I want to love for myself; I want to be number one."

" Number one," — repeated BersenefF. — " But it strikes me that the whole significance of life consists in placing one's self as number two."

" If everybody were to act as thou counsel- lest," — remarked Shiibin, with a lugubrious grimace, — " nobody on earth would eat pine- apples : everybody would leave them for some one else."

" As a matter of fact, pineapples are not in- dispensable; however, have no apprehensions: there will always be people to be found who would like to take the bread out of other people's mouths."

The two friends remained silent for a while.

" I met Insaroff again the other day," — began Berseneff : — " I invited him to call on me; I am very anxious to introduce him to thee .... and to the StakhofFs."

" What Insaroff is that? Akh, yes, that Ser- vian or Bulgarian, of whom thou hast spoken to me? Is n't it he who has put all those philo- sophical thoughts into thy head? "

" Perhaps so."

" Is he a remarkable individual? "

" Yes."

"Clever, gifted?"

" Clever? . . . Gifted? I don't know, I don't think so."

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ON THE EVE

" No? What is there remarkable about him? "

" Thou wilt see. But now, I think it is time to be going, Anna Vasilievna is expecting us, I fancy. What time is it?"

" Two o'clock. Come along. How stifling it is! This conversation has set all my blood aflame. And there was a moment when thou, also . . . I 'm not an artist for nothing: I have taken note of everything. Confess, a woman occupies thy mind? . . ."

Shiibin tried to peer into Bersenefl"s face, but the latter turned away, and emerged from be- neath the shade of the linden. Shiibin followed him, treading with graceful swagger on his tiny feet. BersenefF moved clumsily, raised his shoul- ders high as he walked, thrust forward his neck: but, notwithstanding this, he appeared a better- bred man than Shiibin, more of a gentleman, we should have said, had not that word become so trite among us.

17

II

The young men descended to the Moscow River, and strolled along its banks. The water exhaled coolness, and the soft plash of the little waves caressed the ear.

" I should like to take another bath," — re- marked Shubin, — " but I 'm afraid of being late. Look at the river: it is fairly beckoning to us. The ancient Greeks would have recognised it as a nymph. But we are not Greeks, O nymph! — we are thick-skinned Scythians."

" We have water-nymphs also," remarked Ber- senefF.

" Get out with your water-nymphs! What use have I, a sculptor, for those offspring of a confused, cold fancy, those images born in the reek of a peasant's hut, in the gloom of winter nights? I must have light, space. . . When, my God, shall I go to Italy? When . . . ."

" That is, thou intendest to say, to Little Rus- sia? "

" Shame upon thee, Andrei Petrovitch, to re- proach me for a thoughtless bit of stupidity, of which, even without that, I have bitterly repented. Well, yes, I behaved like a fool: Anna Vasi- lievna, that Idndest of women, did give me money

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for a trip to Italy, but I betook myself to the Topknots/ to eat dough-balls, and . . . ."

" Don't finish thy remark, please," — inter- rupted BersenefF.

" Nevertheless, I will say that that money was not spent in vain. I beheld there such types, especially feminine types. . . Of course, I know : outside of Italy there is no salvation! "

" Thou wilt go to Italy," — remarked Berse- neff, without turning toward him — " and thou wilt accomplish nothing. Thou wilt merely flap thy wings, but thou wilt not soar. We know you!"

" But Stavasser soared. . . And he is not the only one. And if I don't soar — it will signify that I am an aquatic penguin, without wings. I 'm stifling here, I want to go to Italy," — went on Shiibin, — " there is sun, there is beauty there. . ."

A young girl, in a broad-brimmed straw hat, with a rose-coloured parasol over her shoulder, made her appearance, at that moment, in the path along which the two friends were walking.

" But what do I behold? Beauty is coming to meet us even here! The greeting of a humble artist to the enchanting Zoya!" — suddenly ex- claimed Shubin, with a theatrical flourish of his hat.

^The scornful Great Russian name for the Little Russian. — Translator.

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The young girl to whom this exclamation was addressed shook her finger at him, and allowing the two friends to approach her, she said, in a ring- ing voice, with the merest suggestion of a lisp:

" Why don't you come to dinner, gentlemen? The table is set."

" What do I hear? " said Shiibin, clasping his hands. — " Is it possible that you, charming Zoya, have brought yourself to come in search of us, in this heat? Is that how I am to construe the meaning of your speech ? Tell me, can it be ? Or no, do not utter that word: repentance will kill me on the spot."

" Akh, do stop, Pavel Yakovlevitch," — re- turned the young girl, not without vexation: — " why do you never speak seriously to me? I shall get angry," — she added, with a coquettish shrug of the shoulders and a pout.

" You will not be angry with me, my ideal Zoya Nikitishna : you will not wish to plunge me into the abyss of wild despair. But I do not know how to talk seriously, because I am not a serious man."

The girl shrugged her shoulders, and turned to BersenefF.

" He is always like that: he treats me like a child ; and I am already over eighteen years old. I 'm grown up."

" O heavens! " — moaned Shubin, and rolled up his eyes ; but BersenefF laughed noiselessly.

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The girl stamped her little foot.

" Pavel Yakovlevitch ! I shall get angry ! He- lene started to come with me," — she went on, — " but stopped behind in the garden. The heat frightened her, but I 'm not afraid of heat. Let us go."

She set out along the path, lightly swaying her slender iigure at every step, and tossing back from her face, with her pretty little hand covered with a black mitt, the long, soft locks of her hair.

The friends followed her ( Shiibin now silently pressed his hands to his heart, again he raised them above his head ) , and, a few moments later, they found themselves in front of one of the nu- merous suburban villas which surround Kiin- tzovo. A small wooden house, with a partial sec- ond storey, painted pink, stood amid a garden, and peeped forth from among the verdure of the trees in a naive sort of way. Zoya was the first to open the wicket-gate, run into the garden, and cry out: "I have brought the wanderers!" A young girl, with a pale and expressive face, rose from a bench beside the path, and on the thresh- old of the house a lady in a lilac-silk gown made her appearance, and, raising an embroidered ba- tiste handkerchief above her head to protect it from the sun, she smiled languidly and indo- lently.

21

Ill

Anna Vasilievna Stakhoff, born Shubin, had been left a full orphan at seven years of age, and heiress to a fairly large property. She had rela- tives who were very wealthy, and relatives who were very poor; the poor ones on her father's side, the wealthy ones on her mother's: Senator Bolgin, the Princess Tchikurasoff . Prince Ar- dalion Tchikurasoff, who was appointed as her guardian, placed her in the best boarding-school in Moscow, and when she left school took her into his own house. He lived in handsome style, and gave balls in the winter. Anna Vasilievna's future husband, Nikolai Artemievitch Stakhoff, won her at one of these balls, where she wore " a charming pink gown, with a head-dress of tiny roses." She preserved that head-dress. . . . Ni- kolai Artemievitch Stakhoff, the son of a retired captain who had been wounded in the year 1812, and had received a lucrative post in Petersburg, had entered the military school at the age of six- teen, and graduated into the Guards. He was handsome, well built, and was considered about the best cavalier at evening parties of the middle class, which he chiefly frequented : he did not have access to fashionable society. Two dreams had

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occupied him from his youth up: to become an Imperial aide-de-camp and to make an advan- tageous marriage ; he speedily renounced the first dream, but clung all the more tenaciously to the second. As a result of this, he went to Mos- cow every winter. Nikolai Artemievitch spoke French very respectably, and had the reputation of being a philosopher, because he did not in- dulge in carouses. While he was still only an ensign, he had been fond of arguing obstinately on the question, for example, as to whether it is possible for a man, in the course of his whole life, to traverse the entire globe, and whether it is possible for him to know what goes on at the bottom of the sea — and he always maintained the opinion that it is not possible.

Nikolai Artemievitch had passed his twenty- fifth birthday when he " hooked " Anna Vasi- lievna ; he resigned his commission, and retired to the country to engage in farming. Rural exis- tence soon palled on him, and the estate was on a quit-rent basis ;^ he settled in Moscow, in his wife's house. In his youth, he had never played at card-games, but now he became passionately fond of loto, and when that was prohibited, of whist. He was bored to death at home; he entered into relations with a widow of German extraction,

1 That is, the serfs paid an annual sum for the privilege of being released from agricultural labours for the master, and of earning their living in the towns, at any trade wherein they were skilled. — Trans- lator.

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and spent almost all his time at her house. In the summer of '53 he did not remove to Kiintzovo; he remained in Moscow, ostensibly with the ob- ject of taking a course of mineral waters; in reality, he did not wish to part from his widow. He did not talk much with her, however, but mostly argued as to whether the weather could be predicted, and so forth. Once, some one called him " a frondeur " ; this appellation pleased him greatly. " Yes," he thought, drawing down the corners of his lips in a self-satisfied way, and swaying to and fro, " I am not easily satisfied ; you can't cheat me." Nikolai Artemievitch's critical faculty consisted in this — ^that, for in- stance, when he heard the word "nerves,"he would say: " And what are nerves? " or some one would allude in his presence to the triumphs of astron- omy, and he would say: " And do you believe in astronomy? " But when he wished overwhelm- ingly to dumfound his antagonist, he said: " All that is mere phrases." It must be confessed that such retorts appeared (and still appear) to many persons irrefutable; but Nikolai Artemievitch had not even a suspicion that Augustina Chris- tianovna, in her letters to her cousin, called him " Mein Pinselchen." ^

Nikolai Artemievitch's wife, Anna Vasilievna, was a small, thin woman, with delicate features, inclined to emotion and melancholy. At board-

^ My simpleton.

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ing-school she had busied herself with music, and had read romances, then she had cast aside, all this ; she had begun to take pleasure in dress, and this taste had persisted; she had undertaken the education of her daughter, but had weakened, and given her over to the hands of a governess; and it ended in her doing nothing whatever, ex- cept grieving and indulging in gentle agitation. The birth of Elena Nikolaevna had shattered her health, and she was not able to have any more children; Nikolai Artemievitch was in the habit of alluding to this circumstance, by way of justi- fying his acquaintance with Augustina Chris- tianovna. Her husband's infidelity greatly em- bittered Anna Vasilievna; what particularly wounded her was that, one day, by a trick, he pre- sented his German with a pair of grey horses from her (Anna Vasilievna's) stud. She never reproached him to his face, but she complained of him, on the sly, to every one in the house in turn, even to her daughter. Anna Vasilievna was not fond of society; it pleased her to have a visitor sit with her, and narrate something; when left alone, she immediately fell ill. She had a very loving and tender heart : life speedily ground her between the millstones.

Pavel Yakolevitch Shiibin was her grand- nephew. His father was in the government ser- vice in Moscow. His brothers had entered the cadet corps; he was the youngest, his mother's

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darling, of delicate constitution: he remained at home. He had been destined for the university, and had passed his examinations with difficulty. From his earliest years, he had begun to display an inclination for sculpture: ponderous Senator Bolgin one day saw a statuette of himself at his aunt's (the lad was sixteen years old at that time) , and declared that he intended to protect the youthful talent. The sudden death of Shubin's father came near changing the young man's whole future. The senator, the patron of talent, presented him with a plaster bust of Homer — and that was all ; but Anna Vasilievna aided him with money, and in a lame sort of fashion, at the age of nineteen, he entered the medical course of the university. Pavel felt no predilection for medicine, but, according to the distribution of the students which existed at that period, it was im- possible for him to enter any other course ; more- over, he hoped to study anatomy. But he did not study anatomy; he did not pass into the second year, and without waiting for the examinations, he left the university, to devote himself wholly to his vocation. He toiled zealously, but by fits and starts ; he roamed about the environs of Moscow ; he modelled and drew the portraits of peasant maidens; he entered into relations with various persons, young and old, of high and low degree, — ^with Italian model-makers and Russian artists ; he would not listen to the suggestion of the

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Academy, and recognised no professor. He pos- sessed decided talent: he began to be known in JVIoscow. His mother, a Parisian by birth, taught him French, bustled and worried about him day and night, was proud of him, and when she died of consumption, at an early age, she entreated Anna Vasilievna to take charge of him. He was then in his twenty-first year. Anna Vasilievna complied with her last wish: he occupied a small chamber in a wing of the house.

27

IV

" Come, let us go to dinner," — said the mistress of the house, in a mournful voice, and all betook themselves to the dining-room. — " Sit next to me, Zoe," — said Anna Vasilievna; " and do thou, Helene, entertain our guest ; and please, Paul, do not play pranks and do not tease Zoe. I have a headache to-day."

Again Shubin rolled his eyes heavenward; Zoe replied to him by a half -smile. This Zoe, or, to speak more accurately, Zoya Nikitishna Miiller, vi^as a pretty, little, slightly cross-eyed Russian German, with a little nose cleft at the tip, and tiny red lips, fair-haired and plump. She sang Russian romances far from badly, played neatly on the piano divers pieces, some- times merry, sometimes sentimental; she dressed with taste, but in a childish way, somehow, and too spotlessly. Anna Vasilievna had taken her as a companion for her daughter, but kept her al- most uninterruptedly by her own side. Elena made no complaint on this score: she positively did not know what to say to Zoya when she chanced to be left alone with her.

The dinner lasted rather a long time; Berse-

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nefF chatted with Elena about university life, about his intentions and hopes. Shiibin listened, and maintained silence, eating with exaggerated avidity, and from time to time casting comical mournful glances at Zoya, who responded to him with the same phlegmatic smile as before. After dinner, Elena went into the garden with Berse- nefF and Shiibin; Zoya gazed after them, and slightly shrugging her shoulders, seated herself at the piano. Anna VasiHevna began to say: " Why don't you go for a walk also? " but with- out waiting for an answer, she added: " Play me something sad. ..."

" La derniere pensee de Weber? " asked Zoya.

" Akh, yes, Weber," — said Anna Vasilievna, dropping into an arm-chair, and a tear sprang to her eyelashes.

Meanwhile, Elena had led the friends to an arbour of lilacs, with a small wooden table in the centre, and benches all round it. Shiibin cast a glance around, gave several little skips, and say- ing in a whisper, "Wait!" ran off to his own room, brought a lump of clay, and began to model a figure of Zoya, shaking his head, muttering, and laughing the while.

" At your old tricks again," — remarked Elena, with a glance at his work, and turned to Berse- nefF, with whom she pursued the conversation which had been begun at dinner.

"My old tricks!"— repeated Shiibin.— " The

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subject is downright inexhaustible! To-day, in particular, she drove me beyond patience."

" Why so? " inquired Elena. — " One would think that you were talking about some mali- cious, disagreeable old hag. A pretty, young girl . . . ."

" Of course,"— interrupted Shubin,— " she is pretty, very pretty ; I am convinced that any pas- ser-by, on glancing at her, is inevitably bound to think : ' There 's a girl with whom it would be pleasant to . . . dance a polka ; ' I am also con- vinced that she knows this, and that it is agree- able to her.— Why those bashful grimaces, that modesty? Come, you know very well what I mean to say," he added through his teeth. — " However, you are otherwise occupied at pres- ent."

And, smashing Zoya's figure, Shubin set has- tily, and as though vexed, to moulding and knead- ing his clay.

" And so, you would like to be a professor? " —Elena asked BersenefF.

" Yes," rephed the latter, crushing his red hands between his knees. " That is my cherished dream. Of course, I am very well aware of everything wliich I lack to become worthy of so lofty .... I mean to say that I am too inade- quately prepared, but I hope to receive permis- sion to go abroad; I shall remain there three or

four years, if necessary, and then "

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He paused, dropped his eyes, then suddenly raised them and, with an awkward smile, smoothed back his hair. When BersenefF talked with a woman, his speech became still more dehberate, and he lisped still more decidedly.

" You wish to be a professor of history? "—in- quired Elena.

" Yes, or of philosophy," — he added, lowering his voice,—" if that should prove to be possible."

" He is already devilish strong in philosophy," — remarked Shubin, making deep lines with his finger-nail in the clay, — " so why should he go abroad? "

" And shall you be perfectly satisfied with your position?" — asked Elena, resting her elbow on the table, and looking him straight in the face.

" Perfectly, Elena Nikolaevna, perfectly. What profession can be better? Upon my word, to follow in the footsteps of Timofei Nikolae-

vitch The mere thought of such a career

fills me with joy and agitation, — yes, .... with agitation, which .... which springs from the consciousness of my own small powers. My deceased father gave me his blessing on that

matter I shall never forget his last

words."

" Did your father die last winter? "

" Yes, Elena Nikolaevna, in February."

" They say,"— pursued Elena,—" that he left a remarkable work in manuscript: is that true? "

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" Yes, he did. He was a wonderful man. You would have loved him, Elena Nikolaevna."

" I am convinced of that. And what are the contents of that work? "

" It is somewhat difficult to convey to you the contents of the work in a few words, Elena Niko- laevna. My father was a learned man, a Schel- lingist: he employed terms which are not always lucid. . . ."

" Andrei Petrovitch," — Elena interrupted him, — " pardon my ignorance; but what does a Schel- lingist mean? "

BersenefF smiled slightly.

" A Schellingist signifies, a follower of Schel- ling, the German philosopher; and Schelling's doctrine consisted in "

" Andrei Petrovitch ! " — suddenly exclaimed Shiibin: — "for God's sake! Thou dost not in- tend to deliver a lecture on Schelling to Elena Nikolaevna? Spare her!"

" It is not a lecture at all," muttered Berse- nefF, and flushed crimson, — " I wanted . . . ."

" And why not a lecture? " — interposed Elena; " you and I are greatly in need of a lecture, Pavel Yakovlevitch."

Shiibin fixed his eyes on her, and suddenly burst out laughing.

" What are you laughing at? " — she asked coldly and almost sharply.

Shubin stopped short.

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*' Come now, don't get angry," — ^he said, after a pause. — " I beg your pardon. But really, what possesses you, — good gracious! — now, in such weather, under these trees, to discuss philosophy? Let us talk, rather, about nightingales, about roses, about youthful eyes and smiles."

" Yes, and about French romances, and wo- man's fripperies," went on Elena.

" And about fripperies, if you like," retorted Shubin, " if they are pretty."

" Very well. But what if we do not care to talk about fripperies? You call yourself a free artist, why do you infringe upon the freedom of others ? And permit me to ask you, if that 's your way of thinking, why you attack Zoya ? It is par- ticularly convenient to discuss fripperies and roses with her."

Shubin suddenly flared up, and half rose from the bench. — " Ah, you don't say so? " he began, in a nervous voice. — " I understand your hint; you are sending me off to her, Elena Nikolaevna. In other words, I am intruding here."

" I had no thought of sending you away from here."

" You mean to say," — went on Shubin testily, — " that I am not worthy of any other society, that I am a mate for her, that I am as empty and silly and shallow as that sickly-sweet little Ger- man? Is n't that so, madam? "

Elena contracted her brows. — " You have not

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always expressed yourself about her in that man- ner, Pavel Yakovlevitch," she remarked.

" Ah! reproach! reproach, now! " cried Shiibin. — " Well, yes, I do not conceal the fact, there was a moment — precisely that, one moment — when those fresh, commonplace little cheeks .... But if I wished to pay you back with reproach, and remind you .... Good-bye, madam," he suddenly added, — " I am on the point of talking at random." ^

And dealing a blow upon the clay, which he had moulded into the shape of a head, he rushed out of the arbour and went off to his own room.

" A child," — remarked Elena, gazing after him.

" An artist," said BerseneiF, with a gentle smile. — " All artists are like that. One must par- don them their caprices. That is their preroga- tive."

" Yes," returned Elena, — " but, so far, Pavel has not established that prerogative for himself. What has he accomplished up to the present time? Give me your arm, and let us walk in the avenue. He disturbed us. We were talking about your father's writings."

Berseneif gave Elena his arm, and went into the garden with her; but the conversation which had been begun, having been broken off too soon, was not renewed. Berseneff again began to set forth his views on the vocation of professor, on

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his future career. He moved quietly by Elena's side, stepped awkwardly, supported her arm clumsily, now and then jostled her with his shoulder, and never once looked at her; but his speech flowed lightly, if not quite freely, he ex- pressed himself simply and pertinently, and in his eyes, which roved slowly over the boles of the trees, over the sand of the path, over the grass, there beamed the quiet emotion of noble feelings, and in his tranquil voice there was audible the joy of a man who is conscious that he is successfully expressing himself to another person who is dear to him. Elena listened attentively to him, and, half turned toward him, never removed her eyes from his face, which had paled slightly, — from his eyes, which were friendly and gentle, although they avoided an encounter with her eyes. Her soul unclosed, and something tender, just, good, was poured into her heart, or sprang up within it.

35

Shubin did not leave his room until nightfall. It was already perfectly dark; the moon, not yet at the full, hung high in the heaven, the Milky Way gleamed white, and the stars had begun to stud the sky, when BersenefF, having taken his leave of Anna Vasilievna, Elena, and Zoya, went to his friend's door. He found it locked, and tapped.

" Who 's there? " rang out Shiibin's voice.

" I," — replied BerseneiF.

" What dost thou want? "

" Let me in, Pavel ; have done with thy ca- prices; art not thou ashamed of thyself? "

" I 'm not capricious; I 'm asleep, and behold- ing Zoya in my dreams."

" Stop that, please. Thou art not a child. Let me in. I must have a talk with thee."

" Hast not thou talked enough already with Elena? "

" Have done, have done with that; let me in! "

Shubin replied by a feigned snore; BersenefF shrugged his shoulders, and went home.

The night was warm, and, somehow, peculiarly quiet, as though everything round about were

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listening and watching; and Berseneff, envel- oped by the motionless mist, involuntarily came to a halt, and began also to listen and watch. A faint murmur, like the rustle of a woman's gown, arose from time to time in the crests of the trees near by, and excited in Berseneff a sweet and painful sensation — a sensation of semi-alarm. Little shivers coursed down his cheeks, his ej^^es were chilled with quick-springing tears ; he would have liked to walk absolutely without noise, to hide himself, to steal along stealthily. A keen lit- tle breeze attacked him on the flank : he shivered slightly, and stood stock-still; a sleepy beetle tumbled from a bough and landed on the path with a clatter: Berseneff emitted a soft " Ah! " and again came to a halt. But he began to think of Elena, and all these transient sensations in- stantly vanished; only the vivifying impression of the nocturnal freshness, and the nocturnal stroll, and the image of the young girl absorbed his whole soul. Berseneff walked on with droop- ing head, and called to mind her words, her ques- tions. It seemed to him that he heard the tread of rapid footsteps behind him. He listened in- tently : some one was running, some one was pur- suing him; the panting breath was audible, and all at once, out of the black circle of shadow cast by a huge tree, Shiibin popped up in front of him, with no hat upon his dishevelled hair, and ghastly pale in the moonlight.

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" I am glad thou hast taken this path," he ar- ticulated with difficulty; " I should not have slept all night if I had not overtaken thee. Give me thine arm. Thou art on thy way home, I sup- pose? "

" Yes."

" I will accompany thee." But how wilt thou go without thy hat? " Never mind about that. I have taken oiF my neckcloth also. It is warm now."

The friends advanced a few paces.

*' I was very foolish to-day, was n't I? " asked Shubin suddenly.

" To speak frankly, yes. I could not under- stand thee. I have never seen thee like that. And what was it that angered thee, pray? A few trifles!"

"H'm!" muttered Shubin. — "What a way thou hast of expressing thyself ! — but I am in no mood for trifles. Seest thou," he added, — " I am bound to inform thee, that I . . . . that .... Think of me what thou wilt .... I ... . well, here goes! I am in love with Elena! "

"Thou art in love with Elena!" — repeated Berseneff, and stopped short.

" Yes," went on Shubin, with forced careless- ness.— " Does that surprise thee? I will tell thee more. Until this evening I was able to hope that, in course of time, she would come to love me. . . . But to-day I have become convinced

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that I have nothing to hope for, — she has fallen in love with some one else."

*' With some one else? With whom, then? "

" With whom? With thee! " cried Shiibin, and slapped Berseneff on the shoulder.

"With me!"

" With thee," — repeated Shubin.

Berseneff fell back a pace, and stood stock- still. Shubin gazed keenly at him.

"And does that surprise thee? Thou art a modest youth. But she does love thee. . . . Thou mayest rest at ease on that score."

" What nonsense thou art chattering! " ejacu- lated Berseneff, at last, with vexation.

" No, it is n't nonsense. But why are we stand- ing here? Let 's go on. It 's easier when we are walking. I have known her for a long time, and I know her well. I cannot be mistaken. Thou art after her own heart. There was a time when she liked me: but, in the first place, I am too frivolous a young man for her, while thou art a serious being, thou art a morally and physically clean individual, thou .... Stay, I am not through. . . Thou art a conscientious enthusiast, a genuine representative of those priests of science, of which, — no, not of which, — of whom, — of whom the middle-class Russian gentry are so justly proud. And, in the second place, the other day, Elena caught me kissing Zoya's arms! "

"Zoya's?"

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<(

Yes, Zoya's. What wouldst thou have me do? She has such fine shoulders."

" Shoulders? "

" Why, yes, shoulders — arms — is n't it all the same? Elena caught me in the midst of these fa- miliar occupations after dinner, while before din- ner I had been objurgating Zoya in her presence. Elena, unfortunately, does not understand how perfectly natural such contradictions are. Then tliou didst turn up : thou art a believer . . . what the deuce is it that thou believest in? . . . thou art eloquent, thou blushest, thou growest con- fused, thou grievest over Schiller, over Schelling (and she is always hunting up distinguished per- sons), and so thou hast carried off the victory, while unhappy I endeavour to jest . . . and . . . nevertheless ..."

Shubin suddenly burst into tears, stepped aside, sat down on the ground, and clutched himself by the hair.

Berseneff went up to him.

" Pavel," — he began, — " what childishness is this? Good gracious! What is the matter with thee to-day? God knows what nonsense thou hast taken into thy head. And thou art weeping ! Really, it seems to me that thou art pretending."

Shubin raised his head. The tears glistened on his cheeks in the moonlight, but his face was smiling.

" Andrei Petrovitch," — ^he said, — " thou may-

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est think of me what thou wilt. I am even ready- to admit that I have a fit of hysterics at the pres- ent moment ; but God is my witness that I am in love with Elena, and that Elena loves thee. How- ever, I promised to escort thee home, and I will keep my word."

He rose.

" What a night ! silvery, dark, young ! How fine it is now for those who are in love! How delightful they find it not to sleep! Shalt thou sleep, Andrei Petrovitch? "

BersenefF made no reply, and accelerated his gait.

" Why art thou in such a hurry? " — went on Shubin. — " Trust my words, such a night will never be repeated in thy life. But Schelling awaits thee at home. He has done thee a service to-day, 't is true ; but do not hasten, nevertheless. Sing, if thou knowest how,— sing still more loudly; if thou dost not know how — take off thy hat, throw back thy head, and smile at the stars. They are all gazing at thee — at thee alone: the stars do nothing else but gaze at people who are in love, — that is why they are so charming. Thou art in love, art thou not, Andrei Petrovitch ? . . . Thou dost not answer me. . . . Why dost thou not answer? " — began Shubin again. — " Oh, if thou feelest thyself happy, hold thy peace, hold thy peace! I chatter, because I am an unlucky wretch, I am not beloved; I am a juggler, an artist, a

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buffoon; but what wordless raptures would not I quaff in these nocturnal streams of light, be- neath these stars, beneath these brilliants, if I knew that I were loved? .... Berseneff, art thou happy? "

Berseneff remained silent, as before, and strode swiftly along the level road. Aliead, among the trees, the lights of the hamlet in which he lived began to twinkle; it consisted of half a score, in all, of small villas. At its very beginning, on the right of the road, beneath two wide-spreading birch-trees, was a tiny shop ; all its windows were already closed, but a broad streak of light fell in fan-shape from the open door, upon the tram- pled grass, and surged upward upon the trees, sharply illuminating the whitish under side of their dense foliage. A young girl, a lady's maid, to all appearance, was standing in the shop, with her back to the road, and bargaining with the shopkeeper : from beneath the red kerchief, which she had thrown over her head, and held fast under her chin with her bare hand, her plump cheek and slender neck were just visible. The young men stepped into the band of light, Shubin glanced at the interior of the shop, halted, and, exclaimed: "Annushka!" The young girl turned briskly round. A pretty, rather broad, but rosy face, with merry brown eyes and black brows, was revealed. — "Annushka!" — repeated Shubin. The girl looked at him, took fright,

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grew abashed — and without finishing her pur- chase, descended the steps, slipped hastily past, and with hardly a glance behind her walked down the road to the left. The shopkeeper, a corpulent man and indifferent to everything in the world, like all suburban shopkeepers, grunted and yawned after her, while Shubin turned to Ber- senefF with the words: " That . . that . . thou seest .... I am acquainted with a family here . . . thou must not think. . . ." and without finishing his speech, he ran after the retreating girl.

" Wipe away thy tears, at least," — shouted BersenefF after him, and could not refrain from laughing. But when he reached home, the ex- pression of his face was not merry; he was no longer laughing. Not for one moment did he believe what Shubin had said to him, but the words he had uttered had sunk deep into his soul. " Pavel was making a fool of me," — he thought ..." but when she does fall in love . . . whom will she love? "

A piano stood in Berseneff 's room, small and not new, but with a soft and agreeable, although not quite pure tone. BersenefF sat down at it, and began to strike chords. Like all Russian nobles, he had studied music in his childhood, and, like almost all Russian nobles, he played very badly; but he was passionately fond of mu- sic. Properly speaking, what he loved in it was

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not the art, nor the forms wherewith it expresses itself (symphonies and sonatas, even operas, made him low-spirited), but its poetry: he loved those sweet and troubled, aimless and all-embrac- ing emotions which are evoked in the soul by blending and the shifting successions of sounds. For more than an hour he did not leave the piano, repeating the same chords over and over many times, awkwardly seeking new ones, pausing and allowing the sounds to die away on diminished sevenths. His heart ached within him, and his eyes were more than once suffused with tears. He was not ashamed of them; he was shedding them in the dark. " Pavel is right," he thought; "I have a presentiment that he is right: this evening will not be repeated." At last he rose, lighted a candle, donned his dressing-gown, took from its shelf the second volume of Raumer's " History of the Hohenstaufens," — and heaving a sigh or two, began to read diligently.

44

VI

In the meantime, Elena had returned to her own chamber, seated herself in front of the open win- dow, and leaned her head on her hand. It had become her habit to spend a quarter of an hour every evening at the window of her chamber. During that time, she held converse with herself, rendered herself an account of the day that was past. She had recently celebrated her twentieth birthday. She was tall of stature, had a pale and dark-skinned face, large grey eyes under arched brows, surrounded with tiny freckles, a perfectly regular brow and nose, a tightly compressed mouth, and a decidedly pointed chin. The braids of her dark-chestnut hair hung low on her slender neck. In the whole of her being, in the expres- sion of her face, which was attentive and some- what timid, in her mutable glance, in her smile, which seemed strained, in her soft and uneven voice, there was something nervous, electrical, something impulsive and precipitate, — in a word, something which could not please every one, which even repelled some people. Her hands were nar- row, rosy, with long fingers; her feet also were narrow; she walked rapidly, almost impetuously,

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with her body slightly bent forward. She had grown up very strangely; at first she had wor- shipped her father, then she had become passion- ately attached to her mother, and had cooled toward both of them, especially toward her father. Of late, she had treated her mother like an ail- ing grandmother; and her father, who had been proud of her, as long as she had possessed the reputation of being a remarkable child, began to be afraid of her when she grew up, and said of her, that she was some sort of an enthusiastic republican, God knows whom she took after! Weakness agitated her, stupidity angered her, a lie she never forgave " unto ages of ages " ;^ her demands made no concessions to anything what- ever, her very prayers were often mingled with reproach. A person had but to lose her respect, — and she promptly pronounced judgment, often too promptly, — and he forthwith ceased to exist for her. All impressions took deep root in her soul : she did not take life easily.

The governess to whom Anna Vasilievna had entrusted the task of finishing her daughter's education, — an education, we may remark in parenthesis, which had never even been begun by the bored young lady — was a Russian, the daughter of a ruined bribe-taker, graduate of a Government Institute, a very sentimental, ami-

^The equivalent, in the Eastern Church, of "for ever and ever."— Thanslator.

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able, and deceitful creature ; she was forever fall- ing in love, and ended by marrying, in her fiftieth year (when Elena had already passed her seven- teenth birthday), some officer or other who im- mediately abandoned her. This governess had been very fond of literature, and was herself in the habit of scribbling bad verses; she imbued Elena with a taste for reading, but reading alone did not satisfy the girl; from her childhood up, she had thirsted for activity, for active good : the poor, the hungry, the sick, interested her, dis- turbed, tortured her ; she saw them in her dreams, she questioned all her acquaintances about them; she bestowed alms carefully, with an involuntary air of gravity, almost with emotion. All op- pressed animals, — gaunt watch-dogs, kittens con- demned to death, sparrows which had tumbled out of the nest, even insects and reptiles found a protector and defender in Elena; she tended them herself, she did not despise them. Her mother did not interfere with her; on the other hand, her father was very much incensed with his daughter for her vulgar coddling, as he called it, and declared that one could not take a step in the house without treading on a dog or a cat. " Le- notchka,"— he would shout at her, " come hither, make haste, a spider is sucking a fly, release the unhappy victim! " And Lenotchka, all in a flut- ter would run to him, release the fly, and separate its legs which were stuck together. " Come, now,

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let it bite thee, if thou art so kind," remarked her father ironically; but she paid no heed to him. At the age of ten, Elena made acquaintance with a poor little girl, Katya, and was in the habit of going in secret to meet her in the garden. She carried her dainties, made her presents of ker- chiefs, and ten-kopek coins — Katya accepted no toys. She sat down beside her on the dry earth, in the thicket, behind a clump of nettles; with a sensation of joyous humility she ate her black bread, listened to her stories. Katya had an aunt, an ill-tempered old woman, who frequently beat her; Katya hated her, and was always talking about running away from her aunt, and of how she would live entirely free from all restraint. With secret reverence and terror, Elena listened to these new, unfamiliar words, stared attentively at Katya, and at such times everything about her — her black, quick eyes, almost like those of a wild beast, her sunburned arms, her dull little voice, even her tattered clothing — seemed to Elena to be something peculiar, almost holy. Elena would return home, and for a long time thereafter think about the poor, about God's will ; she thought of how she would cut herself a staff from a nut- tree, throw a beggar's wallet over her shoulder, and run off with Katya; how she would roam about the highways in a wreath of corn-flowers: she had once seen Katya with such a wreath. If one of her relatives entered the room at that

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moment, she became shy, and looked queer. One day, she ran through the rain to her rendezvous with Katya, and splashed her frock; her father caught sight of her and called her a slut, a little peasant. She flushed crimson all over, and had a terrible and wonderful sensation at her heart. Katya often hummed some half -barbarous, sol- diers' ditty; Elena learned the song from her .... Anna Vasilievna overheard her, and flew into a rage.

" Where hast thou picked up that abomina- tion?"— she asked her daughter. Elena merely stared at her mother, and said not a word : she felt that she would sooner allow herself to be rent in pieces than to betray her secret, and again she had a sweet and terrified feeling in her heart. How- ever, her acquaintance with Katya did not last long: the poor little girl fell ill of a fever, and died a few days later.

Elena grieved greatly, and it was long before she could get to sleep at night after she heard of Katya's death. The last words of the little beg- gar child rang incessantly in her ears, and it seemed to her that they were calling her. . . .

But the years followed years ; swiftly and inau- dibly, like the waters beneath the snows, Elena's youth flowed past in outward idleness, in in- ward strife and unrest. She had no friends: she did not become intimate with a single one of the young girls who visited the Stakliofl's' house.

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Parental authority never weighed heavily upon Elena, and at the age of sixteen she became almost entirely independent; she lived her own life, but a lonely life. Her soul burned and expired alone, she beat her wings like a bird in a cage, but there was no cage: no one checked her, no one re- strained her, yet she was restless and pined. Sometimes she did not understand herself, she was even afraid of herself. Everything around her seemed to her either senseless or incompre- hensible. " How can one live without love? but there is no one to love! " she thought, and fear fell upon her at that thought, at those sensations. At eighteen, she came near dying of a malignant fever. Shaken to the very foundations, her whole organism, strong and healthy by nature, was un- able, for a long time, to recover itself; the last traces of illness disappeared, at last, but Elena Nikolaevna's father still talked, not without wrath, about her nerves. Sometimes she took it into her head that she wanted something which no one, in the whole of Russia, wishes, thinks of. Then she calmed down, even laughed at herself, spent day after day in careless unconcern; but suddenly something powerful, nameless, which she was not able to control, fairly seethed up within her, and demanded to burst its way out. The tempest passed over, the weary wings, which had not soared, drooped; but these fits left their mark upon her. Try as she would not to betray

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what was taking place within her, the sadness of her agitated soul was revealed in her very external composure, and her relatives often had a right to shrug their shoulders, to marvel, and to fail to comprehend her " peculiarities."

On the day upon which our story began, Elena did not leave her window until long after her ac- customed time. She thought a great deal about BersenefF, about her conversation with him. She liked him ; she had faith in the warmth of his feel- ings, in the purity of his intentions. Never be- fore had he talked with her as on that evening. She recalled the expression of his bold eyes, of his smile — and smiled herself, and fell into rev- erie, but it was no longer about him. She set to gazing out into " the night " through the open window. For a long time she gazed at the dark, low-hanging heaven; then she rose, with a ges- ture tossed the hair back from her face, and, without herself knowing why, she stretched out, toward that heaven, her bare, cold arms ; then she dropped them, knelt down before her bed, pressed her face to her pillow, and in spite of all her efforts not to yield to the feeling which was sweeping in upon her, she fell to weeping with strange, amazed, but burning tears.

51

VII

On the following day, at twelve o'clock, Berse- neiF set out for Moscow with a cabman who was returning thither. He had to get some money from the post-office to purchase certain books, and he wished, incidentally, to see InsarofF and have a conference with him. The idea had oc- curred to Berseneff, during his last chat with Shiibin, to invite InsarofF to visit him at the villa. But he did not speedily find him: he had re- moved from his former lodgings to other quar- ters, which v/ere awkward to reach. They were situated in the rear courtyard of a hideous stone house, built in the Petersburg style, between Arbat Square and Povarskaya Street. In vain did BersenefF wander from one dirty entrance to another, in vain did he call out now to the yard- porter, now to " somebody." Even in Peters- burg the yard-porters endeavour to avoid the gaze of visitors, and much more so in Moscow : no one answered BersenefF's shouts: only a curious tailor, in nothing but his waistcoat, and with a skein of grey thread on his shoulder, silently thrust through the hinged pane of a window high up his dull and unshaven face, with black, bruised

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eyes, and a black, hornless goat, which had climbed upon a dung-heap turned round, bleated pitifully, and began to chew its cud more briskly than before. A woman in an old sleeved cloak and patched shoes took pity, at last, upon Berse- neiF, and pointed out to him InsarofF's lodgings. BersenefF found him at home. He had hired a chamber from the very tailor who had gazed so indifferently from the hinged pane at the embar- rassment of the straying man, — a large, almost perfectly bare chamber, with dark-green walls, three square windows, a tiny bed in one corner, a leather-covered couch in another, and a huge cage suspended close to the ceiling; in this cage a nightingale had once lived. Insaroff advanced to meet Berseneff as soon as the latter crossed the threshold, but did not exclaim, " Ah, is that you!" or, " Akh, my God! what brings you here? " He did not even say, " Good-morning," but simply shook him by the hand, and led him to the only chair in the room.

" Sit down," — he said, and seated himself on the edge of the table.

" Things are still in disorder with me, as you see," — added Insaroff, pointing at a pile of pa- pers and books on the floor; " I have not yet in- stalled myself properly. I have not had time as yet."

Insaroff spoke Russian with perfect correct- ness, pronouncing each word strongly and

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clearly; but his guttural, though agreeable voice had a certain ring which was not Russian. In- saroff's foreign extraction (he was a Bulgarian by birth) was still more plainly apparent in his personal appearance: he was a young man five- and-twenty years of age, thin and wiry, with a hollow chest and angular arms ; he had sharp fea- tures, a nose with a hump, bluish-black straight hair, a small forehead, small deep-set eyes with an intent gaze, and thick eyebrows; when he smiled, very handsome white teeth made their ap- pearance for an instant from beneath thick, harsh, too clearly outlined lips. He was dressed in an old but neat frock-coat, buttoned to the chin.

" Why have you removed from your former lodging? " — BersenefF asked him.

" This one is cheaper; it is nearer the univer- sity."

" But it is vacation-time now . . . And what possesses you to live in town during the summer? You ought to have hired a villa, if you had made up your mind to move."

InsarofF made no reply to this remark, and offered Berseneff a pipe, with the words: " Ex- cuse me, I have no cigarettes or cigars."

Berseneff lighted the pipe.

" Now I," he went on, — " have hired a little house near Kuntzovo. It is very cheap, and very convenient. So that there is even an extra room up-stairs."

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Again InsarofF made no reply.

Berseneff stretched himself.

" I have even been thinking," — he began again, emitting the smoke in a thin stream, — " that if, for example, I were to find any one . . . you, for example, — that is what I was thinking .... who would like .... who would consent to install himself up-stairs in my house .... how nice it would be ! What do you think of it, Dmi- try Nikanoritch? "

InsarofF turned his small eyes on him. — " Are you proposing that I should live with you in your villa? "

" Yes; I have an extra chamber up-stairs."

" I am very much obliged to you, Andrei Pe- trovitch; but I do not think that my means will permit me to do it."

" What do you mean by that? "

" They will not permit me to live in a villa. I cannot afford two sets of lodgings."

" Why, but I . . . " Berseneff began, then paused. — " You would not be at any extra ex- pense,"— he went on. — " Your present lodgings could be retained for you, let us assume; on the other hand, everything is very cheap there; we might even arrange, for example, to dine to- gether."

InsarofF maintained silence, Berseneff felt awkward.

" At all events, come and visit me sometime,*

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he began, after waiting a while. — " A couple of steps from me lives a family with whom I am very anxious to make you acquainted. If you only knew, InsarofF, what a splendid young girl there is there ! One of my most intimate friends lives there also, a man of great talent ; I am con- vinced that you will take to him." (A Russian loves to stand treat — if with nothing else, then with his acquaintances. ) — " Really, now, do come. But, better still, come and live with us, — really you ought. We might work together, read . . . you know, I am busying myself with history and philosophy. You are interested in all that. I have a great manj^ books."

Insaroff rose and paced the room. — " Allow me to inquire," — he asked at last, — " how much you pay for your villa? "

" One hundred rubles."

*' And how many rooms has it? "

" Five."

" Consequently, by computation, one room would cost twenty rubles? "

"Yes. . . But, good gracious! I don't need it at all. It is simply standing empty."

"Possibly; but listen," — added Insaroif with a decided but, at the same time, ingenuous move- ment of the head:—" I can accept your propo- sition only in case you will consent to take the money from me according to the computation. I am able to give twenty rubles, the more so as,

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according to your words, I shall be effecting an economy on everything else there."

" Of course ; but, really, I am ashamed to do it."

" It cannot be done otherwise, Andrei Petro- vitch."

"Well, as you like; only, what an obstinate fellow you are! "

Again Insaroff said nothing.

The young men came to an agreement as to the day on which Insaroff was to move. They called the landlord, but first he sent his daughter, a a little girl seven years of age, with a huge, mot- ley-hued kerchief on her head; she listened with attention, almost in affright, to everything In- saroff said to her, and silently went away; after her, her mother, who was near her confinement, made her appearance, also with a kerchief on her head, only it was tiny. Insaroff explained to her that he was going to move to a country villa near Kuntzovo, but retained the lodging, and en- trusted all his things to her ; the tailor's wife also seemed to take fright, and retired. Finally, the master of the house came; at first, he seemed to understand all about it, and only remarked thoughtfully: " Near Kuntzovo? " but then sud- denly flung open the door, and shouted, " Are the lodgings to be kept for you, pray? " Insaroff soothed him. " Because, I must know," repeated the tailor gruffly, and disappeared.

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BersenefF went his way, very much pleased with the success of his proposition. Insaroff escorted him to the door, with an amiable cour- tesy which is not much in use in Russia ; and when he was left alone, he carefully removed his coat, and busied himself with putting his papers in order.

58

VIII

On the evening of that same day, Anna Vasi- lievna was sitting in her drawing-room, and pre- paring to weep. Besides herself, there were in the room her husband and a certain Uvar Ivano- vitch StakhoiF, Nicolai Artemievitch's great- uncle, a cornet on the retired list, aged sixty, a man obese to the point of being unable to move, with small, sleepy, yellow eyes, and thick, colour- less lips in a bloated yellow face. Ever since his retirement from the army, he had lived uninter- ruptedly in Moscow on the interest from a small capital which had been bequeathed to him by his wife, a member of the merchant class. He did nothing, and it is hardly probable that he thought ; but if he did think, he kept his thoughts to him- self. Only once in the course of his life had he become excited and displayed activity, namely: when he read in the newspapers about a new in- strument at the London International Expo- sition: a " controbombardon," and wanted to im- port that instrument, and even inquired where he was to send the money, and through what office. Uvar Ivanovitch wore a capacious sack- coat, snuff -brown in hue, and a white necker-

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chief, ate much and often, and only in embar- rassing circumstances, — that is to say, on every occasion when it behooved him to express any opinion, — did he wiggle the fingers of his right hand convulsively in the air, beginning first with the thumb and running to the little finger, then beginning with the little finger and ending with the thumb, with difficulty articulating: " It ought . . . somehow, you know ..."

Uvar Ivanovitch was seated in an arm-chair by the window and breathing hard, Nikolai Ar- temievitch was pacing up and down the room with great strides, with his hands thrust into his pockets: his face expressed displeasure.

He came to a halt, at last, and shook his head. — " Yes," — he began, — " in our day, young peo- ple were brought up diff'erently. Young people did not permit themselves to be lacking in respect for their elders." (He pronounced the ma'n} through his nose, in French fashion. ) " But now, all I can do is to look on and marvel. Perhaps I am not right, and they are ; but I was not a born dolt. What do you think about it, Uvar Ivano- vitch?"

Uvar Ivanovitch merely stared at him, and twiddled his fingers.

" There is Elena Nikolaevna, for instance," — pursued Nikolai Artemievitch — " I don't under- stand Elena Nikolaevna, really I don't. I 'm not

^ Manktrovat, to be lacking in respect.— Tea nslatob,

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sufficiently lofty for her. Her heart is so capa- cious that it embraces all nature, down to the very tiniest cockroach or frog, — in a word, every- thing, with the exception of her father. Well, very good ; I know it, and I don't meddle. For it is a question of nerves, and learning, and soar- ing heavenward, and all that is not in our line. But Mr. Shiibin ... let us assume that he is an artist, a wonderful, remarkable artist, I do not dispute that; but for him to be lacking in respect toward his elder, toward a man to whom, nevertheless, he may be said to owe a great deal, — that is what I, I must confess, dans mon gros hon sens^ cannot allow. I am not exacting by nature, no, but there is a limit to all things."

Anna Vasilievna rang the bell in an agitated manner. A page entered.

"Why does not Pavel Yakovlevitch come?" she said. "Why cannot I get him to come?"

Nikolai Artemievitch shrugged his shoulders. — " But why, for goodness sake, do you want to summon him ? I am not demanding it in the least, I do not even desire it.

" ^Vhy do you ask the reason, Nikolai Artemie- vitch? He has disturbed you; perhaps he has in- terfered with your course of treatment. I want to call him to account. I want to know in what way he has angered you."

" I tell you again that I do not demand it.

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And what possesses you . . . devant les domes- tiques . . . .'*

Anna Vasilievna blushed slightly.—" There is no need of your saying that, Nikolai Artemie- vitch. I never . . . devant . ... les domes- tiques . . . Go away, Fediushka, and see that thou bringest Pavel Yakovlevitch hither imme- diately."

The page left the room.

" But that is not in the least necessary," — muttered Nikolai Artemievitch between his teeth, and again he began to stride up and down the room. " I had not that in view at all, when I started the subject."

" Mercy me ! Paul ought to apologise to you."

*' Good heavens! What do I want of his apol- ogies? And what are apologies? Mere phrases."

" What do you mean by not wanting him to apologise? He must be brought to his senses."

" Bring him to his senses yourself. He will listen to you more readily than to me. But I make no charges against him."

" Really, Nikolai Artemievitch, you have been out of humour ever since your arrival to-day. I have even seen you growing thin before my very eyes. I 'm afraid your course of treatment is not helping you."

" My course of treatment is indispensable to me," — remarked Nikolai Artemievitch; "my liver is out of order."

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At that moment, Shubin entered. He seemed weary. A slight, almost mocking smile played about his lips.

" You sent for me, Anna Vasilievna? " — ^he said.

" Yes, of course I sent for thee. Good hea- vens ! Paul, this is terrible. I am very much dis- pleased with thee. How canst thou be lacking in respect to Nikolai Artemievitch ? "

" Has Nikolai Artemievitch been complaining to you about me? " — asked Shubin, and glanced at StakhofF, with the same mocking smile on his lips. The latter turned away and dropped his eyes.

" Yes, he has. I do not know how thou art to blame toward him, but thou must apologise in- stantly, because his health is very much shaken at present; and, in short, we are all bound, in our youth, to respect our benefactors."

"Ekli, is that logic?" thought Shubin, and turned to Stakhoff. — " I am ready to apologise to you, Nikolai Artemievitch," he said with a courteous half -bow, " if I really have offended you in any way."

" I did n't in the least . . . mean it that way," — returned Nikolai Artemievitch, as before avoiding Shubin's eyes.—" However, I willingly pardon you, because, you know, I am not an ex- acting man."

" Oh, there is not the slightest doubt about

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that!" — said Shubin. "But permit me to in- quire whether Anna Vasilievna is acquainted with the precise nature of my offence? "

" No, I know nothing," — remarked Anna Vasi- lievna, and stretched out her neck.

"Oh, gracious heavens!" — exclaimed Nikolai Artemievitch hastily: — " how many times already have I begged and entreated, how many times have I said how repugnant to me are all these ex- planations and scenes ! When a man comes home once in an age, he wants to rest, — I tell you, in the domestic circle, interieur^ he wants to be a family man; — but there are scenes, unpleasant- nesses. There 's not a minute's peace. One is forced to go to the club . . or somewhere . . against his will. The man is alive, he has a phys- ical side, it has its demands, but here . . . ."

And without completing the phrase he had be- gun, Nikolai Artemievitch swiftly quitted the room and banged the door. Anna Vasilievna gazed after him. — " To the club? " — she whis- pered bitterly: — " You are not going to the club, giddypate ! There is no one at the club to whom you can give horses from my stud-farm — and grey ones, at that! My favourite colour. Yes, yes, a light-minded man!"— she added, raising her voice: — " You are not going to the club. As for thee, Paul,"— she continued, as she rose,— " art not thou ashamed of thyself? Thou art not a child, I think. There now, I have a

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headache coming on. Where is Zoya, dost thou know? "

" I think she is up-stairs, in her own room. That sagacious Httle fox always hides herself in her own den in such weather as this."

" Come now, please, please stop that I " — Anna Vasilievna fumbled about her.

"Hast thou seen my wine-glass of grated horse- radish? Paul, please do not anger me in future."

" Why should I anger you, Aunty? Let me kiss your hand. And I saw your horse-radish on a little table in the boudoir."

" Darya is forever forgetting it somewhere or other," — said Anna Vasilievna, and went away, rustling her silk gown.

Shubin started to follow her, but paused on hearing behind him the deliberate voice of Uvar Ivanovitch.

" Thou didst not get .... what thou hast deserved .... puppy," — said the retired cor- net, with stops and pauses.

Shubin stepped up to him. — *' And for what ought I to have been punished, laudable Uvar Ivanovitch? "

"For what? Thou art young, therefore re- spect. Yes."

" Whom? "

"Whom? Thou knowest well whom. Grin

away."

Shubin folded his arms on his chest.

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" Akh, you representative of primitive, uni- versal principle," — ^he exclaimed, — " you black- earth force, you foundation of the social edifice! "

Uvar Ivanovitch wiggled his fingers. — "Enough, my good fellow; don't try my pa- tience."

" Here you have a nobleman who is not young, apparently," — went on Shiibin, — " yet how much happy, childish faith still lies smouldering within him! Revere him! But do you know, you ele- mental man, why Nikolai Artemievitch is wroth with me? You see, I spent the whole morning, to-day, with him, at his German woman's; you see, we sang a trio to-day, * Leave me not ' ; you just ought to have heard it. That would affect you, I think. We sang, my dear sir, we sang — well, and I got bored ; I saw that things were not as they should be; there was a lot of tenderness. I began to tease them both. It turned out finely. First she got angry with me ; then with him ; then he got furious with her, and told her that he was happy nowhere but at home, and that he had a paradise there ; and I said to her : ' Ach ! ' German fashion ; he went away, and I remained ; he came hither, — to paradise, that is to say,— but paradise nauseates him. So he took to growling. Well, sir, and who is to blame now, in your opinion? "

" Thou, of course," — replied Uvar Ivanovitch.

Shiibin stared at him. — " May I make so bold as to ask you, respected knight-errant," — he be-

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gan, in an obsequious voice: — " whether it is your pleasure to utter those enigmatic words in con- sequence of some combination of your thinking faculties, or under the inspiration of the mo- mentary necessity to produce that vibration known as sound? "

" Don't tempt me," — groaned Uvar Ivano- vitch. . . .

Shiibin laughed, and ran out of the room. — " Hey, there," — shouted Uvar Ivanovitch, a

quarter of an hour later: — " I say a

glass of whiskey."

The page brought the whiskey and a little solid refreshment on a tray. Uvar Ivanovitch softly took the wine-glass from the tray, and stared at it long and intently, as though he did not quite understand what sort of thing he had in his hand. Then he looked at the page and asked if his name were not Vaska. Then he assumed a pained expression, took a bite, and dived into his pocket for his handkerchief. But the page had long since carried off the tray and the carafe to their place, and had eaten the remains of the her- ring, and had already succeeded in falling asleep, leaning up against his master's overcoat, while Uvar Ivanovitch was still holding his hand- kerchief in front of his face with outspread fin- gers, and staring now out of the window, now at the floor and walls, with the same fixed attention.

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IX

Shubin returned to his own chamber in the wing and was about to open a book. Nikolai Artemie- vitch's valet cautiously entered the room and handed him a small, three-cornered note, the seal of which bore a large coat-of-arms. — " I hope," ran this note, " that you, as an honourable man, will not permit yourself to hint, by so much as a single word, at a certain note of hand which was discussed this morning. You know my relations and my principles, the insignificance of the sum itself, and other circumstances,— in short, there are family secrets which must be respected, and family peace is such a sacred thing, that only etres sans coeurs, among whom I have no reason to reckon you, repudiate them! (Return this note.) N. S."

Shubin scrawled below it, with a pencil: *' Don't worry, I don't pick people's pockets of their handkerchiefs yet " ; returned the note to the valet, and again took up his book. But it soon slipped from his hands. He gazed at the crim- son sky, at two sturdy young pine-trees, which stood apart from the other trees, and thought: " Pine-trees are blue b}^ daylight, but how mag-

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nificently green they are in the evening," and be- took himself to the garden, in the secret hope of meeting Elena there. He was not disappointed. Ahead of him, on the path between the shrubs, her gown was fluttering. He overtook her, and as he came alongside, he said:

" Don't glance in my direction, I am not worthy of it."

She cast a fleeting glance at him, gave an eva- nescent smile, and pursued her way toward the depths of the garden. Shiibin followed her.

" I request that you will not look at me," — he began — " yet I address you: a manifest con- tradiction! But that makes no difl'erence: it 's not the first time I 've done it. I just remem- bered that I had not yet asked your pardon, in proper form, for my stupid sally of yesterday. You are not angry with me, Elena Nikolaevna? "

She paused, and did not answer him at once — not because she was angry, but her thoughts were far away.

" No," — she said at last, — " I am not in the least angry."

Shiibin bit his lip.

" What an anxious . . . and what an indiff'er- ent face! " he murmured. — " Elena Nikolaevna," — he went on, raising his voice: — " permit me to narrate to you a little anecdote. I had a friend ; this friend also had a friend, who first behaved himself as an honest man should, and then took

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to drink. So, early one morning, my friend meets him on the street (and please to observe that they had ceased to know each other) — meets him, and perceives that he is drmik. My friend took and turned away from him. But the other man stepped up, and says : ' I would n't have been angry if you had not bowed, but why do you turn away ? Perhaps I do this from grief. Peace to my ashes! ' "

Shubin relapsed into silence.

" Is that all? "—asks Elena.

" Yes."

" I do not understand you. What are you hint- ing at? You just told me not to look in your direction."

" Yes, but now I have told you how bad it is to turn away."

" But did I . . . " Elena was beginning.

"But did n't you?"

Elena flushed faintly, and offered Shubin her hand. He pressed it firmly.

" You seem to have caught me in ill-feeling," — said Elena, — " but your suspicion is unjust. I never even thought of avoiding you."

" Let us admit that, let us admit it. But con- fess that at this moment you have in your head a thousand thoughts, not one of which you will con- fide to me. Well? am not I speaking the truth? "

" Perhaps so. "

"But why is it? Wliy?"

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" My thoughts are not clear to myself," — said Elena.

" That is precisely the reason why you should confide them to another person," — interposed Shiibin. " But I will tell you what the matter is. You have a bad opinion of me."

"I?"

" Yes, you. You imagine that everything about me is half -spurious, because I am an artist ; that I not only am not capable of any business whatever, — as to that, you are, in all probability, quite right, — but even of any genuine, profound feeling ; that I cannot even weep sincerely, that I am a chatterbox and a scandal-monger, — all be- cause I am an artist. After that, are n't we un- fortunate, God-slain people? You, for example, whom I am ready to worship, do not believe in my repentance."

" Yes, Pavel Yakovlevitch, I do believe in your repentance, I believe in your tears. But it seems to me, that your very repentance amuses you, and so do your tears."

Shiibin shuddered.

*' Well, as the doctors express it, I seem to be an incurable case, casus incur abilis. All that is left for me to do, is to bow my head and submit. But in the meantime, O Lord, can it be true, can it be that I am forever fretting over myself, when such a soul is living by my side? And to know, that one will never penetrate into that soul,

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will never find out, why it grieves, why it rejoices, what is fermenting within it, what it craves, whither it is going. . . . Tell me,"— he said, after a brief pause: — " would you never, for any consideration, under any circumstances whatever, fall in love with an artist? "

Elena looked him straight in the eye.

" I think not, Pavel Yakovlevitch ; no."

*' Which remains to be demonstrated," — re- marked Shiibin, with comical dejection. — " After this, I assume that it would be more decent for me not to interfere with your solitary stroll. A professor would have asked you : ' But on the foundation of what data have you said no ? ' But I am not a professor, I am a child, according to your view; so remember, do not turn away from children. Farewell. Peace to my ashes!"

Elena was on the point of detaining him, but changed her mind and said: — " Farewell."

Shubin quitted the yard. At a short distance from the StakliofFs' villa Berseneff met him. He was walking with brisk strides, with bowed head, and his hat pushed back on his nape.

"Andrei Petrovitch!" — shouted Shubin.

The latter came to a halt.

*' Go along, go along," — continued Shubin : — " I did it thoughtlessly, I will not detain thee, — and wend thy way straight to the garden; thou wilt find Elena there. — She is expecting thee, I think .... she is expecting some one, at any

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rate. . . . Dost thou understand the force of the words ' she is expecting ' ? And knowest thou, brother, one remarkable circumstance? Imag- ine, here I have been living in the same house with her for two years. I am in love with her, and yet it was only just now, a moment ago, that I have — not precisely understood but— seen her. I have seen her, and thrown apart my hands in de- spair. Don't look at me, please, with that falsely sarcastic grin, which is not very becoming to thy sedate features. Well, yes, I understand, thou wouldst remind me of Annushka. What of that? I don't deny it. Annushkas are mates for such fellows as I. So, long live the Annushkas, and the Zoyas, and even the very Augustina Christia- novnas ! Go along to Elena, now, while I go off to .... to Annushka, art thou thinking? No, brother, brother, worse; to Prince TchikurasoiF. He 's a Maecenas of Kazan Tatar origin, after the style of Bolgin. Seest thou this note of invita- tion, these letters: R. S. V. P.? Even in the country I have no peace. Addio! "

Berseneff listened to Shubin's tirade to the end, in silence and as though somewhat ashamed on his account, then he entered the yard of the StakhofF villa. And Shubin really did go to Prince TchikurasofF, to whom he uttered, with the most amiable mien, the most pointed imperti- nences. The Maecenas of Kazan Tatar origin shouted with laughter, the JVIsecenas's guests

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laughed also, and no one was merry, and when they parted all were in a rage. Thus do two slightly-acquainted gentlemen, when they meet on the Nevsky, suddenly display their teeth in a grin at each other, mawkishly wrinkle up their eyes, noses, and cheeks, and then immediately, as soon as they have passed each other, assume their former indifferent or morose, chiefly apo- plectic expression.

74

Elena received Berseneff in a friendly manner, not in the garden, but in the drawing-room, and immediately, almost impatiently, renewed their conversation of the previous evening. She was alone: Nikolai Artemievitch had quietly slipped oiF somewhere, Anna Vasilievna was lying down up-stairs with a wet bandage on her head. Zoya was sitting beside her, with her skirt primly ar- ranged, and her hands folded on her knees ; Uvar Ivanovitch was reposing in the mezzanine on a broad, comfortable divan, which had received the nickname of " the doze-compeller." Again BerseneiF alluded to his father: he held his mem- ory sacred. Let us say a few words about him. The owner of eighty-two souls,^ whom he emancipated before his death, an illuminatuSj a former student at Gottingen, the author of a manuscript work, " The Presentations or Pre- figurings of the Soul in the World," — a work wherein Schellingism,Swedenborgianism,and re- publicanism were intermingled in the most origi- nal manner — BersenefF's father brought him to Moscow while he was still a small lad, immedi- ately after the death of his mother, and himself

^ Male serfs. —Translator.

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undertook his education. He prepared himself for every lesson, and toiled with remarkable con- scientiousness and with utter lack of success: he was a dreamer, a book-worm, a mystic, he talked with a stutter, in a dull voice, expressed himself obscurely and in an involved way, chiefly in com- parisons, and was abashed even in the presence of his son, whom he passionately loved. It is not sur- prising that the son was merely staggered by his lessons, and did not advance a hair's breadth. The old man (he was about fifty years of age, having married very late in life) divined, at last, that things were not going as they should, and placed his Andriiisha in a boarding-school. Andriiisha began to learn, but did not escape from parental oversight : the father visited him incessantly, bor- ing the head of the school to death with his exhor- tations and conversations; the inspectors also were bored by the unbidden visitor: he was con- stantly bringing them what they called most amazing books on education. Even the scholars felt uncomfortable at the sight of the old man's tanned and pock-marked face, his gaunt figure, constantly clad in a spike-tailed grey dress-coat. The school-boys never suspected that this surly gentleman, who never smiled, with his stork-like gait and long nose, heartily sympathised and grieved with every one of them, almost the same as he did with his own son. One day he took it into his head to harangue them on the subject of

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Washington: "Youthful nursHngs!" he began, but at the first sounds of his queer voice the youthful nurslings dispersed. The honest grad- uate of Gottingen did not live on roses: he was constantly crushed by the course of history, by all sorts of problems and considerations. When young BersenefF entered the university, he ac- companied him to the lectures ; but his health had already begun to fail. The events of the year '48 shattered it to the very foundation (he was forced to make his book all over), and he died in the winter of the year 1853, before his son graduated from the university, but not until he had congratulated him in advance on having ob- tained his degree, and consecrated him to the ser- vice of science. " I transfer the torch to thee," — ■ he said to him, two hours before his death, — " I have held it as long as I could, do not thou let go of the torch until the end."

BersenefF talked for a long time to Elena about his father. The awkwardness which he had felt in her presence vanished, and he did not lisp as badly as before. The conversation turned on the university.

" Tell me," — Elena asked him, — " were there any remarkable individuals among your com- rades? "

Again BersenefF recalled Shiibin.

" No, Elena Nikolaevna, to tell you the tiTith, there was not a single individual of mark among

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us. Yes, and why should there be! There was such a time at the Moscow University, they say! Only, not now. Now it is a school, not a univer- sity. I have had a hard time with my comrades," he added, dropping his head.

"A hard time? " whispered Elena.

" However," — went on Berseneff , — " I must correct myself: I know one student— he is not in my course, it is true— who really is a remarkable man."

"What is his name?" — asked Elena with vivacity.

" Insaroif , Dmitry Nikanorovitch. He is a Bulgarian."

" Not a Russian? "

" No, not a Russian."

" But why is he living in Moscow? "

" He has come hither to study. And do you know, with what object he is studying? He has a certain idea: the liberation of his native land. And his lot is unusual. His father was a fairly well-to-do merchant, a native of Tirnovo. Tir- novo is now a small town, but in olden times it used to be the capital of Bulgaria, when Bulgaria was still an independent kingdom. He traded in Sofia, he had relations with Russia; his sister, InsarofF's own aunt, still lives in Kieff, married to a former teacher of history in a gym- nasium there. In 1835, that is to say, about eighteen years ago, a frightful crime was perpe-

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trated: InsarofF's mother suddenly disappeared, without leaving a trace: a week later, she was found with her throat cut."

Elena shuddered. BersenefF paused.

" Go on, go on," she said.

"Rumours were in circulation that she had been abducted and murdered by a Turkish Aga; her husband, Insaroff 's father, discovered the truth and wanted to avenge himself, but he only wounded the Aga with his dagger. . . He was shot."

"Shot? Without a trial?"

" Yes. Insaroff at that time was in his eighth year. He was left on the hands of the neigh- bours. His sister learned of the fate of her bro- ther's family, and wanted to have her nephew with her. He was taken to Odessa, and thence to KiefF. In KiefF he lived for twelve years. That is why he speaks Russian so well."

" Does he speak Russian? "

" As well as you and I do. When he was twenty years of age (that was in the beginning of 1848) , he wanted to return to his native land. He went to Sofia and Tirnovo, and traversed the whole of Bulgaria, in its length and breadth, spent two years there, and learned his native lan- guage again. The Turkish government perse- cuted him, and probably, during those two years, he was subjected to great perils; I once saw on his neck a broad scar, which must have been the

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vestige of a wound; but he does not like to talk about it. He is a taciturn fellow, also, in his way. I have tried to make him tell me all about it, — but in vain. He replies in general phrases. He is frightfully stubborn. In the year 1850 he re- turned again to Russia, to Moscow, with the in- tention of perfecting his culture, of getting bet- ter acquainted with the Russians. Later on, when he graduates from the university "

" And what then? " interrupted Elena.

" Whatever God sends. It is difficult to con- jecture in advance."

For a long time Elena did not remove her eyes from BerseneiF.

" You have interested me greatly with your story," she said. — " What is he like personally, that friend of yours, — what did you say his name is? . . . InsarofF? "

" How can I tell you? He is not bad-looking, according to my taste. But you shall see him for yourself."

"How so?"

*' I shall bring him hither to your house. He is coming to our hamlet the day after to-mor- row, and is to live in the same lodgings with me."

" Really? But will he care to come to us? "

" I should say sol He will be very glad to come."

" He is not proud."

"He?— He? Not in the least. That is to say,

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he is proud, if you like to call it that, but not in the sense in which you mean. For instance, he will not borrow money from any one! "

" And is he poor? "

" Yes, he is not rich. When he went to Bul- garia, he got together a few crumbs, which had remained intact of his father's property, and his aunt aids him; but all that is a mere trifle."

*' He must have a great deal of character," — remarked Elena.

" Yes. He is a man of iron. And, at the same time, as you will see, there is something childlike, sincere about him, with all his concentration, and even secretiveness. In truth, his sincerity is not our trashy sincerity, the sincerity of people who

have absolutely nothing to conceal But

I will bring him to you, — just wait."

"And he is not shy?" — Elena put another question.

" No, he is not shy. Only self -conceited peo- ple are shy."

" And are you conceited? "

Berseneff became confused, and flung his hands apart.

" You arouse my curiosity," — continued Elena. — " But come, tell me, did not he avenge himself on that Turkish Aga?"

Berseneff smiled.

" People avenge themselves only in romances, Elena Nikolaevna; and, moreover, in the twelve

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years which had elapsed, the Aga might have died."

" But has Mr. InsarofF told you nothing about it?"

" Nothing."

" Why did he go to Sofia?"

" His father had lived there."

Elena became thoughtful.

" To free his fatherland ! "—she said.—" Those are awkward words even to utter, they are so great "

At that moment, Anna Vasilievna entered the room, and the conversation came to an end.

Strange sensations agitated BerseneiF when he returned home that evening. He did not re- pent of his intention to make Elena acquainted with InsarofF: he regarded as very natural the profound impression which his recitals about the young Bulgarian had produced. . . . Had not he himself endeavoured to strengthen that im- pression! But a secret and gloomy feeling stealthily made its nest in his heart; he was de- pressed with a sadness which was not pleasant. This sadness did not, however, prevent his taking up the " History of the Hohenstaufens," and beginning to read it, at the very same page where he had left off on the previous evening.

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Two days later, InsarofF, in accordance with his promise, presented himself to BersenefF with his luggage. He had no servant, but he put his room in order without any assistance, placed the furniture, wiped up the dust, and swept the floor. He fidgeted for a particularly long time over the writing-table, which absolutely refused to fit the wall-space designated for it; but Insaroif, with the taciturn persistence peculiar to him, had his way. Having got settled, he asked BersenefF to take from him ten rubles in advance, and arm- ing himself with a stout staff, he set off to in- spect the environs of his new residence. He returned, three hours later, and in reply to Ber- senefF's invitation to share his meal, he said that he would not refuse to dine with him that day, but he had already made an arrangement with the landlady, and thenceforth he would get his food from her.

" Good gracious! " — retorted Berseneff : "You will be badly fed : that woman does not know the first thing about cooking. Why are not you will- ing to dine with me? We could have shared the expense."

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" My means do not permit me to dine as you do," — replied InsarofF, with a calm smile.

There was something about that smile which did not admit of insistence: BersenefF did not add a word. After dinner, he proposed to In- saroff that he should take him to the Stakhoff s ; but the latter replied that he intended to de- vote the entire evening to writing to his Bul- garian correspondents, and therefore begged him to defer the visit to the Stakhoffs until another day. BersenefF was already acquainted with the inflexibility of InsarofF's will, but only now, when he found himself under the same roof with him, was he definitively able to convince himself of the fact that InsaroiF never changed any of his de- cisions, just as he never put off the fulfilment of a promise he had once given. This more than German punctiliousness seemed, at first, brutal, and even slightly ridiculous, to BersenefF, a radi- cally Russian man ; but he speedily became accus- tomed to it, and ended by thinking it, if not worthy of respect, at least extremely convenient.

On the day after his removal, InsarofF rose at four o'clock in the morning, explored nearly the whole of Kuntzovo, bathed in the river, drank a glass of cold milk, and set to work ; and he had not a little work on hand : he was studying Rus- sian history, and law, and political economy, and was translating Bulgarian ballads and chronicles, collecting materials concerning the Eastern Ques-

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tion, compiling a Russian grammar for the Bul- garians, and a Bulgarian grammar for the Rus- sians. BersenefF dropped into his room, and talked to him about Feuerbach. Insaroff listened to him attentively, and replied rarely, but practi- cally; from his replies it was obvious that he was trying to make up his mind whether it was ne- cessary for him to occupy his mind with Feuer- bach, or whether he could dispense with him. BersenefF then turned the conversation on his work, and asked Insaroff to show him some of it. Insaroff read to him his translation of two or three Bulgarian ballads, and expressed a desire to know his opinion. BersenefF thought the translation accurate, but not sufficiently viva- cious. Insaroff took his remark under consider- ation. From the ballads, BersenefF passed to the contemporary situation of Bulgaria, and here, for the first time, he observed what Insaroff underwent at the mere mention of his native land: it was not that his face flushed hotly, or that his voice was raised— no! but his whole being seemed to gather strength and strain onward, the outlines of his lips became more clearly and more pitilessly defined, and in the depths of his eyes some sort of a dull, un- quenchable fire kindled. Insaroff was not fond of dilating upon his own trip to his native land, but about Bulgaria in general he talked willingly with every one ; he talked, without haste,

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about the Turks, about their oppressions, about the woes and calamities of his fellow-country- men, about their hopes ; the concentrated deliber- ation of a sole and long-existing passion was au- dible in his every word.

" I 'm afraid that Turkish Aga paid his debt to him for the death of his mother and father," — BersenefF was thinking in the meantime.

Before Insaroff had ceased speaking, the door opened, and Shiibin made his appearance on the threshold.

He entered the room in a rather too free-and- easy, good-natured way; Berseneff, who knew him well, immediately comprehended that some- thing had stirred him up.

" I will introduce myself without ceremony," — ^he began, with a bright and frank expression of countenance: — "my name is Shiibin; I am a friend of this young man here." (He pointed at BersenefF.) "You are Mr. InsarofF, I think, are you not? "

" I am InsarofF."

" Then give me your hand, and let us make ac- quaintance. I do not know whether BersenefF has talked to you about me, but he has talked to me about you. You have taken up your abode here? Capital! Don't be angry with me for star- ing intently at you. I am a sculptor by profes- sion, and I foresee that before long I shall ask your permission to model your head."

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" My head is at your service," — said InsarofF.

" What are we doing to-day, hey? " — said Shii- bin, suddenly seating himself on a low stool, with both arms propped upon his widely- parted knees. — " Andrei Petrovitch, has Your Well-born any plan for the present day? The weather is glorious; it is so redolent of hay and dry strawberries .... that it is as though one were drinking herb tea. We ought to get up some sort of jollification. Let 's show the new resident of Kiintzovo all its numer- ous beauties. ("He is stirred up," BersenefF continued to think to himself.) " Come, why art thou silent, my friend Horatio? Open thy wise lips. Shall we get up some sort of an affair, or not? "

"I don't know," — remarked BersenefF: — " that 's as InsarofF says. I think he is preparing to work."

Shiibin wheeled round on his stool.

" Do you want to work? " — he asked, some- what through his nose.

" No," — replied InsarofF;—" I can devote to- day to a stroll."

"Ah!"— ejaculated Shiibin.— " Well, that's fine. Come along, my friend Andrei Petrovitch, cover your wise head with a hat, and let us walk straight ahead, whithersoever our eyes gaze. Our eyes are young — they see far. I know of a very bad little eating-house, where they will give us a

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very nasty little dinner; and we shall be very jolly. Come along."

Half an hour later, all three of them were strolling along the shore of the Moscow River. It appeared that InsarofF had a decidedly queer, long-eared cap, over which Shubin went into not entirely natural ecstasies. InsarofF strode along at a leisurely pace, gazed about him, breathed the air, talked and smiled composedly: but he had consecrated that day to pleasure, and was enjoy- ing himself to the full.

" That 's the way good little boys walk on Sun- days," whispered Shubin in BersenefF's ear. Shubin himself cut up all sorts of capers, ran on ahead, assumed the poses of famous statues, turned somersaults on the grass ; InsaroiF's com- posure did not exactly irritate him, but it made him play antics. " What makes thee grimace so, Frenchman ! " BersenefF remarked to him a couple of times. " Yes, I am a Frenchman, — half a Frenchman," — Shubin retorted; "but do thou keep the mean between jest and seriousness, as a certain waiter used to say to me." The young men turned away from the river, and walked along a deep, narrow gully, between two walls of tall, golden rye; a bluish shadow fell upon them from one of these walls; the radiant sun seemed to glide across the crests of the ears; the larks were singing, the quails were calling ; everywhere

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about the grass grew green; a warm breeze flut- tered and raised its blades, and rocked the heads of the flowers. After prolonged ramblings, rests, and chat — (Shiibin even tried to play at leap-frog with a toothless, wretched passing peas- ant, who laughed incessantly, whatever the gen- tlemen did to him) — the young men arrived at the " very bad little " eating-house. The servant almost upset each one of them, and actually did feed them with a very nasty dinner, with some sort of wine from beyond the Balkans, all which, however, did not prevent their heartily enjoying themselves, as Shiibin had predicted that they would; he himself was the most noisily merry — and the least merry of them all. He drank the health of the incomprehensible but great Vene- lin, the health of the Bulgarian King Krum, Khrum, or Khrom, who lived about the time of Adam.

" In the ninth century," — Insarofl" corrected him.

" In the ninth century? " — exclaimed Shiibin. —"Oh, what bliss!"

Berseneff* remarked that, in the midst of all his antics, sallies, and jests, Shiibin seemed to be constantly examining Insarofl*,— kept sounding him, as it were,— and was the prey of inward agi- tation,— while Insarofl* remained calm and clear as before.

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At last they returned home, changed their clothes, and, in order not to spoil the programme which they had adopted in the morning, they de- cided to betake themselves that same evening to the StakhofFs. Shubin ran on ahead to give no- tice of their coming.

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XII

" The Hero Insaroff will deign to come hither in a moment! " he exclaimed trimnphantly, as he entered the drawing-room of the Stakhoffs, where, at that moment, there was no one but Elena and Zoya.

" Wer? '"—asked Zoya in German. When taken by surprise, she always expressed herself in her native tongue. Elena drew herself up. Shubin glanced at her with a playful smile on his lips. She was vexed, but said nothing.

"You have heard," — he repeated: — "Mr. InsaroiF is coming hither."

" I have heard," — she replied, — " and I have heard what you called him. I am amazed at you, I really am. Mr. InsaroiF has not yet set his foot here, and you already consider it necessary to make wry faces."

Shubin suddenly relaxed.

" You are right, you are always right, Elena Nikolaevna: — but I did n't mean it, God is my witness that I did not. We have been strolling together all day, and he is an excellent man, I assure you."

" I did not ask you about that," — said Elena, rising from her seat.

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Is Mr. Insaroff young? " — inquired Zoya.

He is one hundred and forty-four years old," answered Shiibin, with vexation.

The page announced the arrival of the two friends. BersenefF introduced InsarofF. Elena asked them to be seated, and sat down herself, but Zoya went away up-stairs: Anna Vasilievna must be informed. A conversation began, — ra- ther insignificant, like all first conversations. Shiibin kept silent watch from a corner, but there was nothing to watch. In Elena he ob- served the traces of repressed vexation with him- self, Shiibin, — and that was all. He glanced at BersenefF and at InsarofF, and, as a sculptor, he compared their faces. Neither of them was handsome, he thought: the Bulgarian had a face full of character, a sculpturesque face; it was well illuminated now; the Great Russian de- mands rather painting: he has no lines, but he has physiognomy. But, probably, one might fall in love with the latter as well as with the former. She was not in love yet, but she would fall in love with BersenefF, he decided in his own mind. — Anna Vasilievna made her appear- ance in the drawing-room, and the conversation took a turn completely of the summer-villa order, — precisely that, the villa order, not the country order. It was a very varied conversation in the matter of the abundance of the subjects discussed; but brief, tiresome pauses broke it

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off every three minutes. In one of these pauses, Anna Vasilievna turned to Zoya. Shubin under- stood her mute hint, and made a wry face, but Zoya seated herself at the piano and played and sang all her little pieces. Uvar Ivanovitch showed himself for a moment in the dooi'way, but wiggled his fingers and retreated. Then tea was served, and the whole party went into the garden. . . It had grown dark out of doors, and the guests went away.

InsarofF had really made less of an impression on Elena than she herself had expected; or, to speak more accurately, his straightforwardness and unconstrainedness had pleased her, — and his face had pleased her. But InsarofF's whole being, composedly firm, and simple in an every- day way, somehow did not accord with the im- age which she had formed in her own mind from Berseneff's accounts. Elena, without herself suspecting it, had expected something " more fatal." But, thought she, he said very little to- day; I myself am to blame: I did not question him, I will wait until the next time .... but his eyes are expressive, honest eyes. She felt that she did not wish to bow down before him and give him a friendly hand, and she was sur- prised: not thus had she pictured to herself peo- ple, like Insaroff , who were " heroes." This last word reminded her of Shubin, and she flushed up and waxed indignant, as she lay in her bed.

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" How do you like your new acquaintances? " BersenefF asked Insaroff on their way home.

" I hke them very much," — repHed Insaroff, — " especially the daughter. She must be a splendid girl. She gets agitated, but in her case it must be a good agitation."

" We must go to them as often as we can," — remarked Berseneff.

" Yes, we must," — said Insaroff — and said nothing more the whole way home. He immedi- ately locked himself up in his room, but his can- dle burned until long after midnight.

Before Berseneff had succeeded in reading a page of Raumer, a handful of fine gravel was flung and rattled against the panes of his win- dow. He involuntarily started, opened the win- dow, and espied Shiibin, pale as a sheet.

"What a turbulent fellow thou art! thou night-moth! " began Berseneff.

" Hush! " Shiibin interrupted him: — " I have come to thee by stealth, as Max did to Agatha. It is imperatively necessary that I should say a few words to thee in private."

" Then come into the room."

*' No, that is unnecessary," — replied Shubin, leaning his elbows on the window-sill: — "it 's jollier this way, more like Spain. In the first place, I congratulate thee; thy stocks have gone up. Thy vaunted, remarkable man has been a dead failure. I can vouch for that. And,

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in order to demonstrate to thee my disinterested- ness, listen : here 's a formal inventory of Mr. In- saroif : Talents, none; poetry, has n't any; capa- city for work, an immense amount; memory, a great deal; mind, neither varied nor profound, but healthy and lively, aridity and power, and even a gift of language, when the subject is his — between ourselves be it said — most deadly tiresome Bulgaria. What? thou wilt say, I am unjust? One more remark: thou wilt never be on terms of calling him thou^ and no one ever has called him thou; I, as an artist, am repulsive to him, a fact of which I am proud. He 's dry, dry, and he can grind all of you to powder. He is bound up with his land — not like our empty ves- sels, who fawn on the people ; as much as to say : ' Flow into us, thou living water ! ' On the other hand, his problem is easier, more readily under- stood : all it amounts to is, to turn out the Turks, and a great matter that is! But all these quali- ties, thank God, do not please women. There's no fascination, charme; nothing of that which thou and I possess."

" Why dost thou implicate me in this? " — mut- tered Berseneff. — " And thou art not right as to the rest: thou art not in the least repulsive to him, and he is on the footing of thou with his fellow-countrymen, .... that I know."

" That is another matter! For them he is a hero; but I must say that my conception of

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heroes is different: a hero ought not to know how to talk — a hero bellows like a bull; on the other hand, when he moves his horns the walls tumble down. And he himself ought not to know why he moves, yet he does move. How- ever, perhaps heroes of another calibre are re- quired in our times."

" Why does InsaroiF occupy thy mind so much?" — inquired Berseneff. — "Is it possible that thou hast run hither merely for the purpose of describing his character to me? "

" I came hither," — began Shiibin, — " because I was very sad at home."

"Not really I Dost not thou wish to weep agam f

"Laugh away! I came hither because I am ready to bite my own elbows, because despair is gnawing rtie — vexation, jealousy "

" Jealousy! — of whom? "

" Of thee, of him, of everybody. I am tor- mented by the thought that if I had understood her earher, if I had set about the business intelli- gently .... But what 's the use of talking! It will end in my constantly laughing, fooling, playing antics, as she says, and then I shall take and strangle myself."

" Well, as for strangling thyself, thou wilt not," — remarked Berseneff.

" On such a night, of course not; but only let us live until the autumn. On such a night as this

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people die also, but it is from happiness. Akh, happiness! Every shadow stretched out athwart the road from the trees seems to be whispering, now: ' I know where happiness is. . . . Wilt thou have me tell thee ? ' I would invite thee to a stroll, but thou art now under the influence of prose. Sleep, and mayest thou dream of mathematical figures! But my soul is bursting. You, gentlemen, behold a man laugh, and that signifies, according to you, that he is at ease ; you can prove to him that he is contradicting himself, which means that he is not suffering. . . Be- gone with you! "

Shiibin swiftly withdrew from the window. " Annushka! " BersenefF felt like shouting after him, but he restrained himself; in fact, Shubin looked unlike his natural self. A couple of min- utes later, Berseneff even fancied that he heard sobs ; he rose, and opened the window ; everything was quiet, only somewhere, in the distance, some one — probably a passing peasant— struck up " The Mozdok Steppe."

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In the course of the first two weeks after In- sarofF's removal to the neighbourhood of Kiin- tzovo, he did not visit the StakliofFs more than four or five times ; Berseneff went to them every other day. Elena was always glad to see him, a lively and interesting conversation always arose between him and her, but, nevertheless, he frequently returned home with a melancholy countenance. Shubin scarcely showed himself; he busied himself with his art, with feverish ac- tivity: he either sat behind locked doors in his chamber and rushed thence in his blouse, all smeared with clay, or spent days in Moscow, where he had a studio, whither came to him models and Italian model-makers, his friends and teachers. Elena never once talked with In- sarofF as she would have liked to talk; in his absence, she prepared herself to question him about many things, but when he came she felt ashamed of her preparations. InsarofF's very composure daunted her : it seemed to her that she had no right to make him express his opinions, and she resolved to wait; withal she felt that with every visit of his, however insignificant were

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the words which were exchanged between them, he attracted her more and more : but she had not happened to be left alone with him, — and in order to get close to a person it is necessary to have at least one private conversation with him. She talked a great deal about him to BersenefF. BersenefF understood that Elena's imagination had been struck by InsarofF, and rejoiced that his friend had not proved a failure, as Shubin had asserted; he narrated to her, with fervour, everything he knew about him, down to the very smallest details (we frequently, when we wish to please a person ourselves, extol our friends in conversation with him, almost never suspecting, moreover, that by that very fact we extol our- selves), and only now and then, when Elena's pale cheeks flushed slightly, and her eyes began to beam and open widely, did that noxious sad- ness, which he had already experienced, grip his heart.

One day Berseneff went to the Stakhoffs at eleven in the morning, an unusual hour for him. Elena came to the drawing-room to receive him.

" Just imagine," — he began with a forced smile: — "our InsarofF has disappeared."

" Disappeared? " said Elena.

" Yes, disappeared. Day before yesterday, in the evening, he went off somewhere, and since then there has been no sign of him."

*' Did not he tell you where he was going? "

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<< "1VT~ >'

No.'

Elena sank down on a chair.

" Probably he went to Moscow," — she re- marked, striving to appear indifferent, and, at the same time, surprised that she was striving to appear indifferent.

" I do not think so," — returned BersenefF. — " He did not go away alone."

" With whom, then? "

*' Two men, who must have been fellow-coun- trymen of his, came to him the day before yes- terday."

" Bulgarians? Why do you think that? "

" Because, so far as I was able to overhear them, they were talking with him in a language which was unknown to me, yet was Slavonic. .... Now you, Elena Nikolaevna, have always thought that there was very little that was mys- terious about Insaroff; what could be more mys- terious than this visit? Imagine: they entered his room— and began to shout and quarrel, and so savagely, so viciously. . . And he shouted also."

"He also?"

" He also. He shouted at them. They seemed to be complaining of each other. And if you could but have seen those visitors! Swarthy, dull faces, with broad cheek-bones and aquiline noses, each of them over forty years of age, badly dressed, dusty, sweaty, with the aspect of ar-

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tisans — neither artisans nor gentlemen. . . God knows what sort of men."

" And he went away with them? "

" Yes. He fed them, and went off with them. My landlady said that, between the two, they devoured a huge pot of buckwheat groats. She says they vied with each other in gulping it down, just like wolves."

Elena gave a faint laugh.

" You will see," — she said: — " all this will turn out in some very prosaic manner."

" God grant it ! Only, you are wrong to use that word. There is nothing prosaic about In- saroff, although Shiibin declares . . . ."

"Shiibin!" — interrupted Elena, and shrugged her shoulders.—" But admit that those two gen- tlemen who gulped down the groats "

" Themistocles also ate on the eve of the bat- tle of Salamis,"— remarked Berseneff, with a smile.

" Exactly so: but, on the other hand, the bat- tle took place on the following day."

" But you must let me know when he returns," — added Elena, and tried to change the conver- sation,— but the conversation languished. Zoya made her appearance, and began to walk about the room on tiptoe, thereby giving it to be under- stood that Anna Vasilievna had not yet waked up.

Berseneff took his departure.

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On that same day, in the evening, a note was brought from him to Elena. " He has returned," — he wrote to her: — " sunburned, and dusty to the very eyebrows ; but why and whither he went, I do not know; cannot you find out? "

" ' Cannot you find out! ' "—whispered Elena. — " Does he talk with me? "

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About two o'clock on the following day, Elena was standing in the garden, in front of a small kennel, where she was rearing two watch-dog pups. (The gardener had found them aban- doned under the hedge, and had brought them to his young mistress, concerning whom the laun- dresses had told him that she had compassion on all wild beasts and animals.) She glanced into the kennel, convinced herself that the puppies were alive and well and that they had been lit- tered down with fresh straw, turned around, and almost shrieked aloud: directly in front of her, alone, InsarofF was walking up the alley.

" Good morning," — he said, approaching her, and removing his cap. She noticed that he had, in fact, grown very sunburned during the last three days. — " I wanted to come hither with Andrei Petrovitch, but he lingered for some rea- son or other; so I set out without him. There was no one at your house, — everybody is asleep or out walking, — so I came hither."

" You seem to be apologising," — replied Elena. — " That is entirely unnecessary. We are

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all very glad to see you. . . . Let us sit down on that bench yonder, in the shade."

She seated herself. InsarofF sat down beside her.

" You have not been at home of late, I be- lieve? " — she began.

"No," — he replied: " I went away. . . . Did Andrei Petrovitch tell you? "

Insaroff glanced at her, smiled, and began to play with his cap. When he smiled, he winked his eyes swiftly and thrust out his lips, which im- parted to him a very good-natured aspect.

" Andrei Petrovitch, probably, told you also that I had gone off with some . . . horrible peo- ple,"— he went on, continuing to smile.

Elena was somewhat disconcerted, but imme- diately felt that it was necessary always to speak the truth to InsarofF.

" Yes," she said, with decision.

" What did you think of me? " — he suddenly asked her.

Elena raised her eyes to his.

" I thought,"— she said . ..." I thought that you always know what you are doing, and that you are not capable of doing anything bad."

" Well, I thank you for that. See here, Elena Nikolaevna," — he began, moving closer to her, in a confidential sort of way: — "there is only a small family of us here; among us there are people who are not highly educated; but all

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are firmly devoted to the general cause. Un- happily, quarrels cannot be avoided, and all know me, trust me; so they called on me to ar- bitrate in a quarrel. I went."

" Was it far from here? "

" I went more than sixty versts, to the Troit- zky suburb.^ There, at the monastery, there are also some of our people. At all events, I did not have my trouble for nothing : I arranged the matter."

" And did you find it difficult? "

" Yes. One persisted in being stubborn. He would not give up the money."

"What? Was the quarrel about money?"

" Yes ; and not a large amount, either. But what did you suppose it was? "

" And for such a trifle you travelled sixty versts — j^ou wasted three days? "

" It is not a trifle, Elena Nikolaevna, when one's fellow-countrymen are concerned. To re- fuse in such a case, would be a sin. Here, I per- ceive that you do not refuse your aid even to puppies, and for that I laud you. And as for my having wasted time, that is of no consequence. I will make it up later on. Our time does not belong to us."

"To whom, then?"

" To every one who needs us. I have told you

* The Trinity — Sergy^i Monastery, forty miles from Moscow. — Teianslator.

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all this without circumlocution, because I value your opinion. I can imagine how Andrei Petro- vitch amazed you! "

" You value my opinion," — said Elena in a low tone: — " why? "

Again InsarofF smiled.

" Because you are a nice young lady, not an aristocrat . . . that 's all."

A brief silence ensued.

"Dmitry Nikanorovitch,"— said Elena: "do you know that this is the first time you have been so frank with me? "

" How so? It strikes me, that I have always told you everything I thought."

" No; this is the first time, and I am very glad of it, — and I, also, wish to be frank with you. May I?"

InsarofF laughed and said:

" You may."

" I warn you, that I am very curious."

" Never mind, speak on."

" Andrei Petrovitch has told me a great deal about your life, about your youth. I know one circumstance, one frightful circumstance. . . . I know that, afterward, you went home to your fatherland. . . . Do not answer me, for God's sake, if my question appears to you to be indis- creet,— but one thought tortures me. . . . Tell me, did you meet that man "

Elena's breath failed her. Her daring both

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mortified and terrified her. Insaroif gazed in- tently at her, narrowing his eyes slightly, and touching his chin with his fingers.

" Elena Nikolaevna," — he began, at last, and his voice was softer than usual, which almost frightened Elena: — " I understand what man you just referred to. No, I did not meet him, and God be thanked for that! I did not seek him. I did not seek him because I did not con- sider that I had a right to kill him, — I would have killed him quite calmly,— but it was not a case for private vengeance, when it is a ques- tion of national, general vengeance .... or no, that is not the proper word . . . when it is a question of the emancipation of a nation. The one would have interfered with the other. In its own good time, that will not escape, either. .... That will not escape, either,"— he re- peated— and shook his head.

Elena cast a sidelong glance at him.

" You love your native land greatly? " she ar- ticulated timidly.

" That is not settled, as yet," — he replied. — " You see, when some one of us shall die for her, then it may be said that he loved her."

" So that, if you should be deprived of the pos- sibility of returning to Bulgaria," — went on Elena: — "you would be very unhappy in Rus- sia?"

Insaroff dropped his eyes.

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" It seems to me that I should not survive that," — he said.

"Tell me," — began Elena again: — "is the Bulgarian language difficult to learn? "

" Not at all. A Russian ought to be ashamed not to know Bulgarian. A Russian ought to know all the Slavonic dialects. Would you like to have me bring you some Bulgarian books? You will see how easy it is. What ballads we have ! As good as the Servian. And, stay, I will translate one of them for you. . . . Do you know anything at all about our history? " No, I know nothing," — replied Elena. Wait, I will bring you a book. You will see the principal facts, at least, in it. Now listen to the ballad. . . However, I had better bring you a written translation. I am convinced that you will like us. If you only knew what a blessed land is ours! Yet they trample it under foot, they torture it," — he added, with an involuntary gesture of his hands, and his face darkened: — " they have taken from us everything, every- thing: our churches, our rights, our lands; the accursed Turks drive us like a flock, they cut our throats "

"Dmitry Nikanorovitch ! " exclaimed Elena.

He paused.

" Forgive me. I cannot speak of it with in- difference. You just asked me, whether I loved my native land? What else on earth can one

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love? What alone is unchangeable, what is above all suspicion, what else is it impossible not to believe in, except God? And when that fa- therland needs thee .... Observe: the hum- blest peasant in Bulgaria and I, — we desire one and the same thing. We have but one aim, all of us. You must understand what confidence and strength that gives! "

InsarofF paused for a moment, and again began to talk about Bulgaria. Elena listened to him with devouring, profound, and melan- choly attention. When he had finished, she asked him once more:

" So, you would not remain in Russia, on any terms? "...

And when he went away, she gazed long after him. He had become for her a different man that day. The man to whom she bade farewell was not the same man whom she had greeted two hours before.

From that day forth, he began to come more and more frequently, and Berseneff came more and more rarely. Between the two friends a strange something had established itself of which both were plainly conscious, but which they could not name, and were afraid to explain. A month passed in this manner.

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Anna Vasilievna was fond of staying at home, as the reader is ah'eady aware: but sometimes, quite unexpectedly, she manifested an uncon- querable desire for something out of the ordi- nary, some wonderful partie de plaisir; and the more difficult was this partie de plaisir, the more preparations and preliminary arrangements did it require, the more excited did Anna Vasilievna become, the more agreeable was it to her. If that mood descended upon her in the winter, she or- dered that two or three adjoining boxes should be engaged, assembled all her acquaintances, and went to the theatre, or even to a masquerade; in the summer, she went somewhere out of town, the farther the better. On the following day, she complained of headache, groaned, and did not get out of her bed, and a couple of months afterward, the thirst for the " out of the ordi- nary " was again kindled within her. So it hap- pened now. Some one referred, in her presence, to the beauties of Tzaritzyno,^ and Anna Vasi-

^ A village twelve miles from Moscow, with an unfinished palace, begun by Katherine II., and a park. To reach it from Kiintzovo, six miles from town), involves traversing the whole breadth of Moscow. — Translator.

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lievna suddenly announced that she intended to go to Tzaritzyno on the next day but one. The house was in an uproar ; a special messenger sped to Moscow for Nikolai Artemievitch ; with him also hastened the butler to purchase wine, pasties, and all sorts of edibles; Shubin was commanded to engage a calash and postilion (the carriage alone was insufficient), and to arrange for re- lays of horses; the page ran twice to Berseneff and InsarofF, and carried them two notes of in- vitation, written first in Russian, then in French, by Zoya; Anna Vasilievna busied herself with the travelling toilets of the young ladies. In the meantime, the partie de plaisir came near being upset: Nikolai Artemievitch arrived from Moscow in a sour and ill-disposed, rebellious frame of mind (he was still in the sulks at Augustma Christianovna) ; and on learning what was on hand, he announced, with decision, that he would not go;— that to rush from Kiint- zovo to Moscow, and from Moscow to Tzarit- zyno, and from Tzaritzyno to Moscow, and from Moscow back to Kiintzovo, was folly ; and, in short, he added, " Let it first be proved to me, that any one spot on the earth's surface can be any jollier than any other spot, then I will go." Of course, no one could prove this to him, and Anna Vasilievna, in the absence of any se- date cavalier, was on the point of renouncing her partie de plaisir^, when she remembered Uvar

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Ivanovitch, and in her distress she sent to his room for him, saying: "A drowning man clutches at a straw." They waked him up; he went down-stairs, listened in silence to Anna Vasilievna's proposal, twiddled his fingers, and, to the general surprise, consented. Anna Vasi- lievna kissed him on the cheek, and called him a darling; Nikolai Artemievitch smiled scornfully, and said, " Quelle hourde! " (he was fond, on oc- casion, of using "chic " French words) ; and, on the following morning, at seven o'clock, the car- riage and the calash, loaded to the brim, rolled out of the yard of the StakhoiFs' villa. In the carriage sat the ladies, the maid, and BersenefF; InsarofF installed himself on the box ; and in the calash were Uvar Ivanovitch and Shiibin. Uvar Ivanovitch himself, by a movement of his fingers, had summoned Shiibin to him; he knew that the latter would tease him the whole way, but be- tween the " black earth force " and the young artist there existed a certain strange bond and a bickering frankness. On this occasion, however, Shiibin left his fat friend in peace: he was taci- turn, abstracted, and gentle.

The sun already stood high in the cloudless azure when the carriages drove up to the ruins of the castle of Tzaritzyno, gloomy and forbid- ding even at noon-day. The whole company alighted on the grass, and immediately moved on to the park. In front walked Elena and

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Zoya with InsarofF; behind them, with an ex- pression of complete bliss on her face, trod Anna Vasilievna, arm in arm with Uvar Ivanovitch. He panted and waddled, his new straw hat sawed his forehead, and his feet burned in his boots, but he was enjoying himself. Shiibin and Berse- nefF closed the procession. *' We will be in the reserves, my dear fellow, like certain veterans," Shubin whispered to BersenefF. " Bulgaria is there now," he added, indicating Elena with a movement of his brows.

The weather was glorious. Everything round about was blooming, humming and singing; in the distance gleamed the water of the ponds; a light, festive feeling took possession of the soul. — " Akh, how nice! akh, how nice!" — Anna Vasilievna kept incessantly repeating; Uvar Ivanovitch nodded his head approvingly, and once he even remarked: "What 's the use of talking! " Elena exchanged words with Insa- rofF from time to time ; Zoya held the broad brim of her hat with two fingers, thrust her tiny feet, clad in light-grey boots with blunt toes, coquet- tishly from beneath her rose-coloured barege gown, and peered now to one side, now behind her. "Oho!" suddenly exclaimed Shubin, in a low tone: "Zoya Nikitishna is looking back, I do believe. I '11 go to her. Elena Nikolaevna despises me now, but she respects thee, Andrei Petrovitch, which amounts to the same thing.

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I '11 go; I Ve been sulking long enough. But I advise thee, my friend, to botanise: in thy po- sition, that is the best thing thou canst devise ; and it is useful from a scientific point of view also. Good-bye!" Shubin hastened to Zoya, crooked his arm, saying, ''Ihre Hand, Madame" took her arm, and marched on ahead with her. Elena halted, summoned BersenefF, and took his arm, but continued to chat with Insaroff. She asked him, what were the words in his language for hly of the valley, ash, oak, linden .... ("Bulgaria!" thought poor Andrei Petro- vitch.)

All at once, a shriek rang out in front; all raised their heads. Shubin's cigar-case flew into a bush, flung by the hand of Zoya. " Wait, I '11 pay you ofl" for that! " he exclaimed, dived into the bush, found his cigar-case, and was about to return to Zoya ; but no sooner had he approached her, than again his cigar-case flew across the path! Five times this performance was re- peated, he laughing and menacing all the while; but Zoya only smiled quietly, and writhed like a kitten. At last he grasped her fingers, and squeezed them so that she squealed and for a long time afterward blew on her hand, pretend- ing to be angry, while he hummed something in her ear.

" Rogues, the j^oung folks," remarked Anna Vasilievna merrily to Uvar Ivanovitch.

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The latter twiddled his fingers.

"What a girl Zoya Nikitishna is!"— Berse- nefF said to Elena.

" And Shiibin? " — she replied.

Meanwhile, the whole party had reached the arbour, known by the name of the Pretty Arbour, and halted to admire the view of the Tzaritzyno ponds. They stretched out, one beyond the other, for several versts; the dense forest lay dark beyond them. The grass which covered the entire slope of the hill to the principal pond imparted to the water itself a remarkably-bril- liant emerald hue. Nowhere, even on the shore, was there a wave swelling or foam gleaming white ; not even a ripple flitted over the even sur- face. It seemed as though a mass of chilled glass had spread itself out in a huge font, and the sky had descended to its bottom, and the undulating trees were gazing immovably at themselves in its transparent bosom. All admired the view long and in silence; even Shiibin subsided, even Zoya grew pensive. At last, all were unanimously seized with a desire to go upon the water. Shii- bin, InsarofF, and BersenefF ran a race with one another on the grass. They hunted up a big, gaily-painted boat, found a couple of oarsmen, and called the ladies. The ladies descended to them ; Uvar Ivanovitch cautiously went down af- ter them. While he was entering the boat, and seating himself, there was a great deal of laugh-

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ter. "Look out, master! Don't drown us!" remarked one of the rowers, a snub-nosed young fellow, in a sprigged calico shirt. — " Come, come, you windbags!" said Uvar Ivanovitch. The boat pushed off. The young men tried to take the oars, but only one of them— Insaroff— knew how to row. Shiibin suggested that they sing in chorus some Russian song, and himself started up: " Adown dear Mother Volga . . . ." Ber- senefF, Zoya, and even Anna Vasilievna joined in (InsarofF did not know how to sing) ; but a discord ensued in the third verse, the singers got into confusion and BersenefF alone tried to continue in his bass voice: " Naught in her waves can be seen," — but he, also, speedily became disconcerted. The rowers exchanged winks, and grinned in silence. — " Well? " — Shiibin turned to them, — "evidently, the ladies and gentlemen cannot sing? " — The young fellow in the sprigged calico shirt merely shook his head. — " Just wait then. Snub-nose," — retorted Shiibin. " We '11 show you. Zoya Nikitishna, sing us ' Le Lac,' by Niedermeyer. Don't row, you!" — The wet oars were elevated in the air, like wings, and there remained motionless, sonor- ously trickling drops ; the boat floated on a little further, and came to a standstill, barely circling on the water, like a swan. Zoya affected airs. "Allons! " said Anna Vasilievna caressingly. .... Zoya flung aside her hat, and began to

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sing : "^ O lac, Vannee a peine a fini sa car- nere ....

Her small but clear little voice fairly hurtled across the mirror-like surface of the pond; far away, in the forest, every word was re-echoed; it seemed as though some one there were singing also, in a voice which was distinct and mysterious, but not human or of this world. When Zoya had finished, a thunderous bravo rang out from one of the arbours on the shore, and from it rushed forth several red-faced Germans, who had come to Tzaritzyno to have a carouse. Sev- eral of them were coatless, minus cravats, and even minus waistcoats, and they roared, " Bis! " so violently, that Anna Vasilievna gave orders to row to the other end of the pond as quickly as possible. But, before the boat reached the shore, Uvar Ivanovitch had managed to astonish his acquaintances again: observing that, at one spot of the forest, the echo repeated every sound with particular distinctness, he suddenly began to call like a quail. At first all started, but immedi- ately they experienced genuine pleasure, the more so as Uvar Ivanovitch gave the call with great fidelity and lifelikeness. This encour- aged him, and he tried to mew like a cat ; but his mewing did not turn out so successful; he called once more like a quail, looked at them all, and relapsed into silence. Shiibin rushed to kiss him: he repulsed him. At that moment the boat

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made its landing, and the whole party got out on the shore. In the meanwhile, the coachman, aided by the footman and the maid, had brought the baskets from the carriage, and prepared the dinner on the grass, beneath the aged linden- trees. All seated themselves around the out- spread table-cloth, and began on the pasties and other viands. All had an excellent appetite, and Anna Vasilievna kept constantly offering things to her guests, and urging them to eat more, as- serting that this was very healthful in the open air; she addressed sucli remarks even to Uvar Ivanovitch. — "Be easy!" he bellowed at her, with his mouth crammed full. " The Lord has given such a splendid day! " she kept incessantly repeating. It was impossible to stop her: she seemed to have grown twenty years younger. "Yes, yes," she said; "I was very comely, in my time, also; they would n't have rejected me from the first ten, as to looks."— Shiibin joined Zoya, and kept constantly pouring wine for her; she refused, he urged her, and it ended in his drinking a glass himself, then urging her to drink again; he also assured her that he wanted to lay his head on her knees: she would not, on any terms, permit him " so great a familiarity." Elena seemed more serious than all the rest, but in her heart there was a wondrous calm, such as she had not experienced for a long time. She felt herself infinitely amiable, and constantly

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wished to have by her side not only InsarofF but

also BersenefF Andrei Petrovitch dimly

apprehended what this meant, and sighed by stealth.

The hours flew past; evening drew on. Anna Vasflievna suddenly started up in affright. — " Akh, good heavens, how late it is! " — she said. " We have had a good time, but all good things must come to an end." She began to fidget, and all began to fidget about, rose to their feet, and walked in the direction of the castle, where the equipages were. As they passed the ponds, all halted to admire Tzaritzyno for the last time. Everywhere flamed the brilliant hues which pre- cede evening: the sky was crimson, the foliage gleamed with flitting sparks, agitated by the rising breeze; the distant waters flowed on, touched with gold; the reddish towers and ar- bours, scattered here and there about the park, stood out sharply against the dark green. " Farewell, Tzaritzyno, we shall not forget our trip of to-day!" said Anna Vasflievna. . . . But at that moment, as though in confirmation of her last words, a strange event occurred, which really was not so easily forgotten.

Namely: Anna Vasilievna had not finished wafting her farewell greeting to Tzaritzyno, when suddenly, a few paces from her, behind a tall bush of lilacs, there rang out discordant ex- clamations, laughter and shouts — and a whole

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horde of dishevelled men, the very same admirers of singing who had so vigorously applauded Zoya, poured out on the path. The admirers of singing appeared to be very drunk. They halted at sight of the ladies; but one of them, of huge stature, with a bull neck, and inflamed eyes like a bull's, separated himself from his companions, and, bowing clumsily and reeling as he walked, approached Anna Vasflievna, who was petrified with fright.

"Bon jour J madame" — he said, in a mighty voice, — " how is your health? "

Anna Vasilievna staggered backward.

" And why," — pursued the giant, in bad Rus- sian,— " were not you willing to sing his when our company shouted, ' bis,' and ' bravo'? "

" Yes, yes, why? " — rang out in the ranks of the company.

InsarofF was on the point of stepping forward, but Shiibin stopped him, and himself went to Anna Vasilievna's rescue.

" Allow me," — he began, — " respected stran- ger, to express to you the unfeigned amazement into which you have thrown us all by your be- haviour. So far as I can judge, you belong to the Saxon branch of the Caucasian race; conse- quently, we are bound to assume in you a know- ledge of the social decencies, and yet you are addressing a lady to whom you have not been in- troduced. At any other time, believe me, I would

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be particularly glad to make closer acquaintance with you ; for I observe in you such a phenomenal development of muscles, — biceps, triceps, and deltoidseus, — that, as a sculptor, I would regard it as a genuine pleasure to have you for a nude model; but, on the present occasion, leave us in peace."

The " respected stranger " listened to the whole of Shubin's speech, scornfully twisted his head on one side, and stuck his arms akimbo.

" I understands nodings vat you say to me," he said at last. — " You dinks, perhaps, dat I am a master shoemaker or vatchmaker? Eh! I am officer, I am official, yes."

" I have no doubt of that," — began Shii- bin ....

" And dis is vat I says," — went on the stran- ger, brushing him off the path like a branch with his powerful hand, — "I says: vy did n't you sing bis when we shouted, ' Bis ' ? And now I am going avay, immediately, dis very minute, only, dis is vat is necessary, dat dis fraulein, not dis madam, dat is not necessary, but dis vun, or dis vun " (he pointed at Elena and Zoya), " should give me einen Kuss, as we say in German, a kees, yes; vat of dat? it is noding."

" Nothing, it is nothing," rang out again in the ranks of the company.— '^'^7^^/ der Stakra- menter!" said one German, who was already roisterously drunk, choking with laughter.

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Zoya clutched at Insaroff 's arm, but he tore himself free from her, and placed himself di- rectly in front of the insolent giant.

" Please go away," — he said to him in a low but sharp voice.

The German laughed ponderously. — " Vat you mean by avay? I like dat! Can't I valk here also? Vat you mean by avay? Vy avay? "

" Because you have dared to disturb a lady," — said InsarofF, and suddenly paled, — " because you are drunk."

" Vat? I am drunk? Do you hear? Horen Sie das, Herr Provisor? I 'm an officer, and he dares . . . Now I shall demand Satisfaction! Einen Kuss will ich! "

" If you take another step," — began Insa- rofF

"Veil? And vat den?"

" I will throw you into the water."

" Into de vater? Herr Jet Is dat all? Come, let 's see, it 's very curious, how you '11 throw me into de vater. . . ."

The officer raised his arms, and started for- ward, but suddenly something remarkable hap- pened: he gave a groan, his whole huge body swayed, rose from the ground, his legs kicked in the air, and before the ladies had time to shriek, before any one could understand how the thing was done, the officer, with his whole mass, splashed

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heavily in the pond, and immediately disap- peared beneath the swirling water.

"Akh!" screamed the ladies in unison.

" Mein Gott!" was audible from the other side.

A minute elapsed . . . and the round head, all plastered with damp hair, made its appear- ance above the water; it emitted bubbles, that head; two arms gesticulated convulsively at its very lips. . . .

" He will drown, save him, save him! " Anna Vasilievna shrieked to Insaroff, who was stand- ing on the shore, his legs planted far apart, and panting.

" He '11 swim out," he said, with scornful and pitiless indifference. — " Let us go," — he added, offering Anna Vasilievna his arm, — " come along, Uvar Ivanovitch, Elena Nikolaevna."

" A . . . a . . . . o . . . . o . . ." at that moment resounded the j^ell of the unlucky Ger- man, w^ho had contrived to grasp the shore reeds.

All moved on after Insaroff, and all were obliged to pass that same " companie." But, de- prived of their head, the roisterers had quieted down, and did not utter a word; one only, the bravest of them all, muttered, as he shook his head : " Well, but this . . . this, God knows, what . . . after this " ; and another even pulled off his hat. Insaroff seemed to them very for-

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midable, and with good cause : something malevo- lent, something dangerous had come forth in his face. The Germans rushed to fish their comrade out, and the latter, as soon as he found himself on dry land, began tearfully to curse and shout after those " Russian bandits," that he would complain, that he would go to Count von Kieze- ritz himself. . . .

But the " Russian bandits " paid no attention to his shouts, and made all haste to the cas- tle. All maintained silence while they walked through the park, only Anna Vasilievna sighed slightly. But at last they approached their car- riages, halted, and an irrepressible, interminable shout of laughter arose from them, as with the heaven-dwellers of Homer. First Shiibin burst out shrilly, like a crazy person; after him Berse- neiF rattled away like a shower of peas; then Zoya scattered fine pearls of laughter; Anna Vasilievna, also, suddenly went into such parox- ysms of mirth, that Elena could not refrain from smiling; even Insaroff, at last, could not resist. But louder and longer than all the rest, shouted Uvar Ivanovitch ; he roared until he had a stitch in the side, until he sneezed, until he strangled. He would quiet down a little, and say through his tears: " I . . . think . . . that that knocked him out .... but ... he ... . splash, ker- flop I" . . . And with the last, convulsively ex- pelled word, a fresh outburst of laughter shook

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his whole frame. Zoya spurred him on still more. " I see his legs in the air," said she. . . .

" Yes, yes," chimed in Uvar Ivanovitch,— " his legs, his legs . . . and then! and he went spla-ash ker-flop!"

" Yes, and how did he manage it, for the Ger- man was twice as big as he? " asked Zoya.

" I '11 tell you," — replied Uvar Ivanovitch, wiping his eyes, — " I saw him seize the man by his belt with one hand, thrust under his leg, and then, slap-dash! I hear: 'What's this?' . . . but he went splash, ker-flop ! "

The equipages had been on their way for a long time, the castle of Tzaritzyno had long van- ished from sight, and still Uvar Ivanovitch could not calm down. Shiibin, who was again driving with him in the calash, became ashamed of him at last.

And Insaroff felt conscience-stricken. He sat in the carriage opposite Elena (BerseneiF had placed himself on the box) and preserved silence: she, also, was silent. He thought that she was condemning him; but she was not con- demning him. She had been very greatly frightened at the first moment ; then she had been struck by the expression of his face; after that, she had been engaged in meditation. It was not quite clear to her what she was meditating about. The feeling which she had experienced during the course of the day had disappeared;

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she was conscious of this; but it had been re~ placed by something else which, as yet, she did not comprehend. The partie de plaisir had lasted too long: the evening had imperceptibly merged into night. The carriage rolled swiftly onward, past ripe fields, where the air was suf- focating and fragrant and redolent of grain, again past broad meadows, and their sudden coolness beat upon the face in a light wave. The sky seemed to be smoking at the edges. At last the moon floated up, dull and red. Anna Vasi- lievna was dozing ; Zoya was hanging out of the window, and gazing at the road. At last it oc- curred to Elena that she had not spoken to In- saroff for more than an hour. She turned to him with a trivial question: he immediately an- swered her joyously. Certain indefinite sounds began to be wafted through the air : JMoscow was hastening to meet them. Ahead of them twin- kled tiny points of light; their number kept constantly increasing; at last, the stones of the pavement rang beneath their wheels. Anna Vasi- lievna waked up ; all in the carriage began to talk, although not one of them was able to hear what the conversation was about, so loudly did the pavement resound beneath the two carriages and the thirty-two hoofs of the horses. Long and wearisome did the transit from JMoscow to Kiint- zovo appear; everybody was asleep or silent, with heads nestled in various corners; Elena

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alone did not close her eyes: she never re- moved them from Insaroff's dark figure. Mel- ancholy had descended upon Shubin: the breeze blew in his eyes, and irritated him; he muffled himself in the collar of his cloak, and all but wept. Uvar Ivanovitch was snoring blissfully, swaying to right and left. At last the equipages came to a halt. Two footmen carried Anna Vasilievna from the carriage; she was com- pletely done up, and announced to her fellow- travellers, as she took leave of them, that she was barely alive; they began to thank her, but she merely repeated: "Barely alive." Elena shook Insaroff's hand for the first time; and sat for a long time, without undressing, at her win- dow; while Shubin seized the opportunity to whisper to BersenefF as the latter departed:

" Well, and why is n't he a hero? — he pitches drunken Germans into the water! "

" But thou didst not do even that," — retorted Berseneff , and went home with InsarofF.

The dawn was already invading the sky when the two friends regained their lodgings. The sun had not yet risen, but the chill had already set in, the grey dew covered the grass, and the first larks were carolling on high in the half -twi- light aerial abj^ss, whence, like a solitary eye, gazed one huge, last star.

127

XVI

Shortly after Elena had made Insaroif 's ac- quaintance, she had (for the fifth or sixth time) begun a diary. Here are excerpts from that diary:

" Jwne .... Andrei Petrovitch brings me books, but I cannot read them. I am ashamed to confess this to him; I do not wish to return the books, to he, to say that I have read them. It seems to me that that would grieve him. He notices everything in me. Apparently, he is very much attached to me. He is a very nice man, is Andrei Petrovitch.

" . . . . What is it that I want.? Why is my heart so heavy, so languid? Why do I gaze with envy at the birds which flit past? I believe that I would like to fly with them, fly — whither I know not, only far away from here. And is not that desire sinful? Here I have a mother, a father, a family. Do not I love them? No ! I do not love them as I would like to love them. It is terrible for me to speak this out, but it is the truth. Perhaps I am a great sinner ; perhaps that is the reason why I am so sad, why I have no peace. Some hand or other lies heavy on me, is crushing me. It is as though I were in prison, and as though the walls were on the point of falling upon me. Why do not other people feel this? Whom shall I love, if I am cold to my own

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people? Evidently, papa is right: he accuses me of loving only dogs and cats. I must think this over. I pray but little; I must pray. . . . But it seems to me that I could love !

" .... I am still timid with Mr. Insaroff . I do not know why; I am not so very young, I think, and he is so simple and kind. He sometimes wears a very serious face. It must be that he has no time for us. I feel it, and I am ashamed, as it were, to rob him of his time. Andrei Petrovitch — is another matter. I am ready to chat with him all day long. But he keeps talking to me about Insaroff. And what terrible details ! I saw him in my dreams last night, with a dagger in his hand. And he seemed to say to me : * I will kill thee, and kill myself.' What nonsense !

" . . . . Oh, if some one would only say to me : ' Here, this is what thou shouldst do ! ' To be good — that is not enough; to do good . . . yes; that is the principal thing in life. But how shall I do good.'* Oh, if I could only control myself! I do not know why I think so often of Mr. Insaroff. When he comes, and sits, and listens attentively, but makes no effort himself, no fuss, I gaze at him, and find it agreeable — nothing more; but when he goes away, I keep recalling his words, and I am vexed with myself, and I even grow excited ... I know not why. (He speaks French badly, and is not ashamed of it — I like that. ) However, I always do think a great deal about new people. In chatting with him, I sud- denly recalled our butler Vasily, who dragged a helpless old man from a burning cottage, and came near perish- ing himself. Papa called him a fine fellow, mamma gave him five rubles, but I wanted to bow down at his feet.

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He had a simple, even a stupid face, and he became a drunkard afterward.

" To-day I gave a copper coin to a poor

woman, and she said to me : ' Why art thou so sad? ' And I did not even suspect that I had a sad aspect. I think it arises from the fact that I am alone, always alone, with all my good and all my bad. I have no one to whom I can give my hand. The one who approaches me is not the one I want, and the one I would Hke .... passes me by.

" .... I do not know what is the matter with me to-day ; my head is in a snarl, I am ready to fall on my knees and beg and pray for mercy. I do not know who is doing it, or how it is being done, but it seems as though I were being murdered, and I shriek inwardly and rebel: I weep, and cannot hold my peace. . . . My God ! My God! quell thou these transports in me! Thou alone canst do this, all else is powerless: neither my insignifi- cant alms, nor occupations, nothing, nothing, notliing can help me. I would hke to go off somewhere as a servant, truly : I should feel more at ease.

" What is the use of youth, why do I live, why have I a soul, to what end is all this.''

" . . . . Insaroff, Mr, InsarofF — I really do not know how to write — continues to occupy my thoughts. I would like to know what he has in his soul. Appar- ently, he is so frank, so accessible, yet notliing is visible to me. Sometimes he looks at me with eyes which seem to be scrutinising ... or is that only my fancy? Paul is constantly teasing me — I am angry with Paul. Wliat does he want? He is in love with me . . . but I do not want his love. He is in love with Zoya also. I am unjust

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to him ; he told me yesterday, that I did not know how to be unjust half-way . . . that is true. It is very wrong.

" Akh, I feel that unhappiness is necessary to a man, or poverty, or illness, otherwise he grows arrogant at once.

" . . . . Why did Andrei Pctrovitch tell me to-day about those two Bulgarians? It seemed as though he told me that with a purpose. What is Mr. Insaroff to me.'' I am angry with Andrei Petrovitch.

" .... I take up my pen and do not know how to begin. How unexpectedly he talked with me in the gar- den to-day ! How affectionate and confidential he was ! How quickly this has come about ! It is as though we were old, old friends, and had only just recognised each other. How could I have failed to understand him hitherto ! How near he is to me now ! And this is the astonishing part of it: I have become much calmer now. I find it ridiculous: yesterday I was angry with Andrei Petrovitch, — at him, — I even called him Mr. Insaroff; but to-day . . . Here, at last, is an upright man ; here is some one on whom I can rely. This man does not lie: he is the first man I have met who does not lie: all the rest lie, lie continually. Andrei Petrovitch, dear and kind, why do I insult you ? No ! Andrei Petrovitch is more learned than he, perhaps, perhaps he is even cleverer, . . But, I do not know, he is such a small man beside him. When he speaks of his fatherland, he grows, and grows, and his face becomes handsome, and his voice is like steel, and it seems as though there were not a man in the world before whom he would lower his eyes. And he not only talks — he acts, and will act. I shall question him. . . . How suddenly he turned to me, and smiled at me ! . . .

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Only brothers smile in that way. Akh, how content I am ! When he came to us for the first time, I did not, in the least, think that he would become a close friend so soon ! And now it even pleases me that I remained indif- ferent that first time. Indifferent ! Can it be that I am not indifferent now? . . .

" It is a long time since I felt such inward

peace. It is so still within me, so still. And there is nothing to record. I see him often, that is all. What else is there to record?

" . . . . Paul has shut himself in his room, Andrei Petrovitch has taken to coming more rarely .... Poor fellow ! it seems to me that he . . . however, that is im- possible. I love to talk with Andrei Petrovitch: never a word about himself, always something practical, use- ful. With Shubin the case is different. Shiibin is as gorgeously arrayed as a butterfly, and admires his ar- ray: butterflies do not do that. However, both Shubin and Andrei Petrovitch ... I know what I want to say.

" . . . . He finds it agreeable to come to our house, I see that. But why? What has he found in me? Really, our tastes are similar: neither of us is fond of poetry: neither of us knows anything about art. But how much better he is than I am ! He is calm, I am in perpetual agitation; he has a road, a goal — but as for me, whither am I going? where is my nest? He is calm, but all his thougl^ts are far away. The time will come when he will leave us forever, and go away to his own land, yonder, beyond the sea. What of that? God grant he may ! Nevertheless, I shall be glad that I have known him while he was here.

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" Why is not he a Russian ? No, he cannot be a Rus- sian.

" And mamma likes him. She says : * He is a modest man.' Kind mamma! She does not understand him. Paul holds his peace: he has divined that his hints are displeasing to me, but he is jealous of him. Wicked boy! And by what right.'* Have I ever

" All this is nonsense ! Why does this keep coming into my head.''

" . . . . But it is really strange that so far, up to the age of twenty, I have never been in love with any one. It seems to me that D. (I shall call him D., I like that name: Dmitry) is so clear in soul because he has given himself wholly to his cause, to his dream. What is there for him to be agitated about.? He who has consecrated himself wholly . . . wholly .... wholly .... has little grief, he no longer is responsible for anything. It is not / who will ; it wills. By the way, he and I both love the same flowers. I plucked a rose

to-day. One petal fell, he picked it up I gave

him the whole rose.

" . . . . D. comes often to us. Yesterday he sat here the whole evening. He wants to teach me Bul- garian. I felt at ease with him, as though at home. Better than at home.

" . . . . The days fly I am both happy and,

for some reason, apprehensive, and I feel like thanking God, and the tears are not far off'. O warm, bright days!

" .... I still feel light of heart, as of yore, and only rarely a little sad. I am happy. Am 1 happy.? .... It will be long before I shall forget the

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jaunt of yesterday. What strange, novel, terrible im- pressions ! When he suddenly seized that giant and hurled him, like a small ball, into the water, I was not frightened .... but he frightened me. And after- ward— what an ominous, almost cruel face! How he said : ' He '11 swim out ! ' It upset me completely. It must be that I have not understood him. And then, when every one was laughing, when I laughed, how pained I felt for him ! He was ashamed, I felt that, — he was ashamed before me. He told me that, later on, in the carriage, in the darkness, when I tried to scrutinise him, and was afraid of him. Yes, one cannot jest with him, and he does know how to defend himself. But why that viciousness, why those quivering lips, that venom in the eyes.'' Or, perhaps it could not be otherwise. Is it impossible to be a man, a champion, and remain gentle and soft.'' Life is a harsh matter, he said to me not long ago. I repeated this remark to Andrei Petrovitch; he did not agree with D. Which of them is right.'' And how that day began ! How happy I was to walk by his side, even in silence. . . . But I am glad that it hap- pened. Evidently, it was as it should be.

" . . . . Again uneasiness I am not quite

well.

" . . . . All these last days I have not recorded any- thing in this note-book, because I did not wish to write. I felt that, whatever I might write, it would not be what was in my soul. . . . And what is in my soul.'' I have had a long interview with him, which has revealed to me many things. He told me about his plans (by the way, I know now why he has that wound on the neck. . My God ! when I think that he was already condemned

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to death, that he barely escaped, that he was wounded

). He foresees a war, and rejoices at it. And,

nevertheless, I have never seen D. so sad. What can he .... he! .... be sad about .f* Papa returned from the town, found us together, and gave us rather a strange look. Andrei Petrovitch came: I notice that he has grown very thin and pale. He reproached me for, as he said, treating Shubin too coldly and carelessly. But I had quite forgotten Paul. When I see him, I will try to repair my fault. But I am not in the mood for him now .... nor for any one in the world. Andrei Petrovitch talked to me with a sort of compassion. What is the meaning of all this.? Why is all around me and within me dark,? It seems to me, that around me and within me something enigmatic is in progress, that the answer must be sought ....

" .... I did not sleep last night ; my head aches. Why should I write? He went away so soon to-day,

and I wanted to talk to him He seems to shun

me. Yes, he does shun me.

" . . . . The answer is found, a light has dawned upon me ! O God ! have pity on rae. . . . I am in love ! "

135

XVII

On the day when Elena inscribed this last, fate- ful word in her diary, Insaroff sat in BersenefF's room, and BersenefF stood before him with an expression of amazement on his face. InsarofF had just announced to him his intention to re- move to Moscow on the following day.

"Good gracious!" — exclaimed Berseneff: — " the very finest part of the season is beginning. What will you do in Moscow? What a sudden decision! Or have you received some news? "

" I have received no news," returned InsarofF — " but, according to my views, it is impossible for me to remain here."

" But how is it possible "

*' Andrei Petrovitch,"— said InsaroiF,— " be so good as not to insist, I entreat you. It pains me to part with you, but it cannot be helped."

BerseneiF stared fixedly at him.

" I know," — he said at last, — " you are not to be convinced. And so, the matter is settled? "

" Completely settled,"— repHed InsarofF, ris- ing and withdrawing.

BersenefF strode about the room, seized his hat, and betook himself to the StakhofFs.

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(<

You have something to impart to me,** — Elena said to him, as soon as they were left alone together.

" Yes; how did you guess? "

" No matter. Tell me, what is it? "

BersenefF communicated to her InsarofF's re- solve.

Elena turned pale.

" What does it mean? " — she articulated with difficulty.

" You know," — said BersenefF, — " that Dmi- try Nikanorovitch does not like to give an ac- count of his actions. But I think .... Let us sit down, Elena Nikolaevna; you do not seem to be quite well .... I think I can guess the real cause of this sudden departure."

" What— what is the cause? " repeated Elena, clasping BersenefF's hand tightly, without her- self being aware of it, in her hands, which had grown cold.

" Well, you see,"~began Berseneff with a melancholy smile — " how shall I explain it to you? I must revert to last spring, to the time when I be- came more intimately acquainted with Insaroff. I then met him at the house of a relation ; this re- lation had a daughter, a very pretty young girl. It seemed to me that InsarofF was not indifFer- ent to her and I said so to him. He laughed, and answered me that I was mistaken, that his heart had not sufFered, but that he would go away at

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once, if anything of that sort should happen with him, as he did not wish — those were his very words — to betray his cause and his duty for the satisfaction of his personal feelings. ' I am a Bulgarian,' he said, ' and I want no Russian love.' "

" Well . . . and do you .... now . . . ." whispered Elena, involuntarily turning away her head, like a person who is expecting a blow, but still not releasing BerseneiF's hand from her grasp.

" I think " — he said, and lowered his voice — " I think that that has now happened which I then erroneously assumed."

" That is to say . . . you think .... do not torture me! " — broke out Elena suddenly.

" I think," — hastily went on BersenefF, — " that InsarofF has now fallen in love with a Rus- sian maiden, and, in accordance with his vow, he is resolved to flee."

Elena gripped his hand still more tightly, and bent her head still lower, as though desirous of hiding from the sight of an outsider the flush of shame which overspread her whole face and neck with sudden flame.

" Andrei Petrovitch, you are as kind as an angel," — she said, — " but, surely, he will come to bid us farewell? "

" Yes, I assume that he will certainly come, be- cause he does not wish to go . . ."

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" Tell him, tell him . . . ."

But here the poor girl broke down: tears streamed from her eyes, and she rushed from the room.

" So that is how she loves him," thought Ber- seneff , as he slowly wended his way homeward. " I did not expect that; I did not expect that it was already so strong. I am kind, she says," — he continued his meditations . . . . " Who shall say by virtue of what feelings and motives I have communicated all this to Elena? But not out of kindness, not out of kindness. Is it that accursed desire to convince myself whether the dagger is still sticking in the wound? I must be content — they love each other, and I have helped them. . . . ' The future mediator between science and the Russian public,' Shiibin calls me ; evidently it is written in my destiny that I shall be a mediator. But what if I have made a mis- take? No, I have not. . . ."

It was bitter for Andrei Petrovitch, and Rau- mer never entered his head.

On the following day, at two o'clock, InsarofF presented himself at the StakliofFs. As though expressly at that hour, in Anna Vasilievna's drawing-room sat a neighbour, the wife of the arch-priest, who was a very kind and respectable woman, but had had a trifling unpleasantness with the police, because she had taken it into her head, at the very hottest part of the day, to bathe in

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a pond near a road along which the family of some influential general or other was wont to drive. The presence of an outsider was, at first, even agreeable to Elena, from whose face every drop of blood had fled as soon as she heard Insa- rofl"s tread; but her heart died within her at the thought that he might take leave without having spoken with her in private. He also appeared embarrassed, and avoided her gaze. "Is it pos- sible that he will take leave at once?" thought Elena. In fact, Insarofl* was on the point of ad- dressing Anna Vasflievna, when Elena rose, and hastily called him aside to the window. The arch-priest's wife was surprised, and tried to turn round; but she was so tightly laced that her cor- set squeaked at every movement she made. She remained motionless.

" Listen," — said Elena hurriedly, — " I know why you are come; Andrei Petrovitch has told me of your intention; but I beg you, I entreat you, not to bid us farewell to-day, but to come hither to-morrow at an earher hour — about eleven o'clock. I must say a couple of words to you."

Insarofl* inclined his head in silence.

" I shall not detain you. . . . Do you promise me?"

Again Insarofl* bowed, but said nothing.

" Come here, Lenotchka," — said Anna Vasi-

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lievna, — " see here: what a splendid reticule the matushka ^ has ! "

" I embroidered it myself," said the arch- priest's wife.

Elena quitted the window.

InsaroiF did not remain more than a quarter of an hour at the Staklioffs'. Elena watched him covertly. He fidgeted about on his seat as usual, did not know where to fix his eyes, and went away in a strange, abrupt manner, just as though he had vanished.

The day passed slowly for Elena; still more slowly did the long, long night drag out its course. Elena, at times, sat on her bed, clasping her knees with her arms, and with her head resting on them; again she walked to the window, pressed her burning brow to the cold glass, and thought, thought, thought, until she was exhausted, the same thoughts, over and over again. Her heart had not precisely turned to stone, nor yet had it vanished from her breast ; she did not feel it, but the veins in her head throbbed violently, and her hair burned her, and her lips were parched. " He will come ... he did not bid mamma good-bye ... he will not deceive Can it be that An- drei Petrovitch spoke the truth? It cannot be.

1 Matushka— dear little mother— is the characteristic Russian form of address for women of all classes; but it is particularly applied to the wives of ecclesiastics. Bdtiushka — dear little father— is used, ger;- erally and specifically, in the same way. — Thaxslatob.

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.... He did not promise in words to come. . . Can it be that I have parted from him forever? " .... Such thoughts as these never quitted her . . . precisely that, never quitted her: they did not come, they did not return, — they surged to and fro incessantly within her, like a fog. — "He loves me I" suddenly flared up through all her being, and she stared intently into the gloom; a mysterious smile, unseen by any one,

parted her lips but she instantly shook

her head, laid the clenched fingers of her hand against her nape, and again, like a fog, the for- mer thoughts surged within her. Just before dawn, she undressed herself, and went to bed, but could not sleep. The first fiery rays of the sun beat into her room. ..." Oh, if he does love mel" — she suddenly exclaimed, and, un- abashed by the light which illuminated her, she stretched out her arms in an embrace. . . .

She rose, dressed herself, went down-stairs. No one was awake in the house as yet. She went into the garden ; but in the garden it was so still, and green, and cool, the birds chirped so con- fidingly, the flowers gazed forth so gaily, that she felt uncomfortable.— "Oh!"— she thought, "if it is true, there is not a single blade of grass which is happier than I, — but is it true? " She returned to her chamber, and, for the sake of killing time, began to change her gown. But everything slipped and fell from her hands, and she was still

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sitting, half -clad, in front of her dressing-glass when she was summoned to drink tea. She went down-stairs; her mother observed her pallor, but said merely: " How interesting thou art to-day! " and, sweeping a glance over her, she added: " That gown is very becoming to thee ; thou shouldst al- ways put it on when thou hast a mind to please any one." Elena made no reply, and seated her- self in a corner. In the meanwhile, the clock struck nine; two hours still remained before eleven. Elena took up a book, then tried to sew, then took to her book again ; then she made a vow to herself that she would walk the length of one avenue one hundred times, and did it; then for a long time she watched Anna Vasilievna laying out her game of patience .... and glanced at the clock: it was not yet ten. Shiibin came into the drawing-room. She tried to talk to him, and begged him to excuse her, without knowing why she did so. . . . Her every word did not so much cost her an effort as it evoked in her a sort of surprise. Shiibin bent down to her. She ex- pected a jeer, raised her eyes, and beheld before her a sorrowful