UN- •i.TY OF 
 San 0IE6O
 
 VGr 
 
 H3
 
 IVAN TURGENIEFF 
 
 Volume XIII 
 
 PHANTOMS !S[ AND 
 OTHER STORIES )S
 
 \ni\\mv^'\i 
 
 THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF 
 IVAN TUBGENIEFF 
 
   PHANTOMS •» AND 
 OTHER STORIES ♦* 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY 
 ISABEI 1. HAPCiOOD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1904
 
 fie were flying over a county capital with which I was unfamiliar. 
 From a drawing by THORNTON OAKLEY
 
 THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF 
 IVAN TURGENIEFF 
 
   PHANTOMS •«• AND 
 OTHER STORIES 4. -fr 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY 
 ISABEL F. HAPGOOD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 1904
 
 Copyright, 1904, by 
 Charles Scribner's Soks
 
 I PREFACE 
 
 ^* Phantoms " and " It is Enough " were writ- 
 ten next after " Fathers and Children." Al- 
 though one of TurgeniefF's minor works, the 
 critics pronounced "Phantoms" original, wonder- 
 fully artistic and philosophical, and wonderfully 
 lyrical. The author himself called it " a fantasy," 
 as he did other sketches in which he sometimes 
 poured out, in lyrical form, his sadness evoked by 
 the contrary laws of nature, and man's aspirations 
 toward the absolute, the eternal. It demonstrates 
 the somewhat mystical romanticism which lay con- 
 cealed in Turgenieif' s nature, and only occasion- 
 ally came to the light. 
 
 " YakoiF Pasynkoff " constitutes the author's 
 response to Hegel's sentimental romanticism. 
 The hero of the story is a martyr to the renun- 
 ciation of egotism — a peculiar figure, toward 
 which TurgeniefF bore himself with the most fer- 
 vent sympathy. YakofF is sympathetic, as well 
 as poetical, but remote from real life. One critic 
 objects that the story is weak and incomplete and, 
 as it were, split into two parts, which are unsym- 
 metrical alone, and badly assorted when taken to- 
 gether. Another critic says that YakofF is the
 
 PREFACE 
 
 very personification of moral purity and self-sac- 
 rifice, devoid of a single drop of conceit, weakness, 
 or egotism; the personification of devotion to a 
 beloved object, reminding us of Schiller's Graf 
 Toggenburg. Yet he remains uncomprehended, 
 and, despite all his fine qualities, he perishes with- 
 out leaving a trace, like all Turgenieff 's other 
 " superfluous men." 
 
 Not all of Turgenieff 's heroes are alike, neither 
 do they all belong in his category of Ham- 
 lets; but they all share the same fate: all are 
 overtaken by failure, by that fatal curse which 
 seems to hang over the lives of all good people, 
 and bar their road to happiness. " In what does 
 this curse consist? " asks the critic. Turgenieff 
 himself alludes to this fact in one of his stories, 
 and says that, sometimes, he seems to descry a 
 cause for it. YakofF Pasynkoff belongs with In- 
 sarofF and Solomin, in the long series of Hamlets 
 whom Turgenieff delineated — Hamlets in whom 
 the faculty of pondering over things had slain en- 
 ergy, and who, in literature as in life, have re- 
 placed the romantic heroes of the Don Quixote 
 type. And precisely herein lies TurgeniefF's 
 great service as an artist — that he correctly under- 
 stood and faithfully convicted this type of its 
 moral weakness. 
 
 " Faust," together with " Asya," and " A Cor- 
 respondence " are distinguished among the au- 
 thor's works for their elegance of form, and their 
 
 vi
 
 PREFACE 
 
 tender, poetic treatment. The heroes of these 
 tales are TurgeniefF's real favourites. In the 
 ranks of his superfluous men they represent the 
 aristocracy, as it were — the highest, the most re- 
 fined stratum. They are Russian gentlemen 
 from head to foot, like their creator, whp have 
 tasted Western civilization and are fastidious to 
 the point of squeamishness. 
 
 TurgeniefF's views of life were pessimistic in 
 general, and permeated with distrust in the sta- 
 bility of human happiness,— and, as it were, with 
 a foreboding of inevitable disenchantment in the 
 end. This fundamental motive we meet in all of 
 his novels, without exception. In " Faust " — as 
 in " YakofF PasynkofF "—there is no question of 
 a social conflict, or of social problems. It is merely 
 a record of private, every-day life. Pavel Ale- 
 xandrovitch B. is a superfluous man, but started 
 life under better auspices than did some of Tur- 
 geniefF's previous characters of the same stamp, 
 and is far from being as hopeless a case as Riidin. 
 Of all the superfluous men whom he created, the 
 hero of " Faust " most nearly resembles Tur- 
 genieff himself. " Never before or afterwards," 
 says one critic, " did TurgeniefF rise to such a 
 height ( save in ' A Nobleman's Nest ' ) as in the 
 description of the old house and park,— of the 
 family nest, — contained in that magnificent letter 
 from Pavel B. to his friend. But Pavel B., like 
 the hero of " Asya," had not the strength to meet 
 
 vii
 
 PREFACE 
 
 the crisis when it came. The mournfully pathetic 
 ending to all three of these stories—" Faust," 
 " Asya," and " Yakoff PasynkofF "—again ex- 
 presses Turgenieff 's deep distrust in happiness in 
 life. But possibly his idea may have been that 
 happiness lies in the initial stages of love— in the 
 imperfect possession of the beloved object— at 
 which his heroes stop short. 
 
 " Faust " was written in the interval between 
 " Rudin " and " A Nobleman's Nest." It seems 
 to mark the crisis which took place in the author's 
 spiritual life— a crisis which gave him the strength 
 to create " A Nobleman's Nest." 
 
 In " Asya " Turgenieff furnished the defend- 
 ers of independence in Russian feminine nature 
 with another weighty proof. Hence this little 
 story constitutes one of those sympathetic bonds 
 which united the great writer to the Russian read- 
 ing public. Its hero is another portrait from the 
 author's gallery of men who turn pusillanimous in 
 the presence of a woman, and show that they are 
 inferior to her. As Solomin, in " Virgin Soil," 
 puts it: " All Russian women are more active and 
 more lofty than the men." Here is a man whose 
 heart is open to all elevated emotions, whose hon- 
 our is impeccable, whose mind is receptive to all 
 noble aspirations. " And what does this man do? 
 He makes a scene which would disgrace the worst 
 extortioner," says one critic. Some people re- 
 sented the author's presenting this character as an 
 
 viii
 
 PREFACE 
 
 honourable man. " But," as one critic remarks, 
 " therein Hes the melancholy merit of his story— 
 that the hero's character is so faithful to our so- 
 ciety." Asya herself is equally faithful to life— 
 a charming, fresh, free child of nature; yielding 
 herself wholly to each successive impression and 
 emotion. I. F. H. 
 
 IX
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 PHANTOMS: A FANTASY 1 
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 55 
 
 " FAUST ": A STORY IN NINE LETTERS . . 127 
 
 AN EXCURSION TO THE FOREST BELT ... 203 
 
 ASYA 239
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 (1863)
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 A FANTASY 
 
 One instant . . . and the magic tale is o'er— 
 And with the possible the soul is filled once more. 
 
 A. Fet.i 
 
 I COULD not get to sleep for a long time, and 
 kept tossing incessantly from side to side. 
 " May the devil take those table-tipping follies! " 
 — I thought: — "they only upset the nerves." — 
 Drowsiness began to overpower me. . . 
 
 Suddenly it seemed to me as though a chord 
 had twanged faintly and lugubriously in the 
 room. 
 
 I raised my head. The moon was hanging low 
 in the sky, and staring me straight in the eye. 
 White as chalk its light lay on the floor. . . . 
 The strange sound was clearly repeated. 
 
 I leaned on my elbow. A slight alarm nipped 
 at my heart. — One minute passed, then another. 
 .... A cock crowed somewhere in the distance ; 
 still further away another answered. 
 
 I dropped my head on my pillow. " Just see 
 
 ^The pseudonym of Afanisy Afanasievitch Sh^nshin 
 (1820-1892).— Translator. 
 
 3
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 to what one can bring one's self," I began my re- 
 flections again: — "my ears will begin to ring." 
 
 A little later I fell asleep— or it seemed to me 
 that I did. I had a remarkable dream. It seemed 
 to me as though I were lying in my bedroom, in 
 my bed, but I was not asleep, and could not close 
 my eyes. ... I turned over. . . . The streak of 
 moonlight on the floor softly began to rise up, 
 to straighten itself, to become slightly rounded at 
 the top. . . . Before me, transparent as mist, 
 a white woman stood motionless. 
 
 " Who art thou? " — I asked with an effort. 
 
 The voice which replied was like the rustling 
 of leaves. — " It is I .... I .... I .... I have come 
 for thee." 
 
 " For me ? But who art thou ? " 
 
 " Come by night to the corner of the forest, 
 where the old oak stands. I shall be there." 
 
 I tried to get a good look at the features of 
 the mysterious woman — and suddenly I gave an 
 involuntary start: I felt a chill breath on me. 
 And now I was no longer lying in my bed, but 
 sitting on it— and there, where the spectre had 
 seemed to stand, the moonlight lay in a long 
 streak on the floor. 
 
 II 
 
 The day passed after a fashion. I remember 
 that I tried to read, to work .... it came to no- 
 
 4
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 thing. Night arrived. My heart beat violently 
 within me, as though I were expecting something. 
 I went to bed and turned my face to the wall. 
 
 "Why didst thou not come?" — an audible 
 whisper rang out in the room. 
 
 I glanced round swiftly. 
 
 It was she again .... the mysterious phan- 
 tom. Motionless eyes in a motionless face, and 
 a gaze full of grief. 
 
 "Come!" — the whisper made itself heard 
 again. 
 
 " I will come," — I replied, with involuntary 
 terror. The phantom quietly swayed forward, 
 and became all mixed up, undulating lightly like 
 smoke; — and the moonlight again lay white upon 
 the polished floor. 
 
 Ill 
 
 I PASSED the day in a state of agitation. At sup- 
 per I drank almost a whole bottle of wine, and 
 started to go out on the porch ; but returned, and 
 flung myself on my bed. My blood was surging 
 heavily through my veins. 
 
 Again a sound made itself heard. ... I shud- 
 dered, but did not look round. Suddenly I felt 
 some one clasp me in a close embrace from behind, 
 and whisper in my ear: " Come, come, come!" 
 . . . . Trembling with fright I groaned: 
 
 " I will come! " — and straightened myself up. 
 
 5
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 The woman stood bending over me, close beside 
 the head of my bed. She smiled faintly and van- 
 ished. But I had succeeded in scrutinising her 
 face. It seemed to me that I had seen her before ; 
 — but where? when? I rose late and roamed about 
 the fields all daj^ long, approached the old oak- 
 tree on the border of the forest, and made an at- 
 tentive inspection of the surroundings. 
 
 Toward evening I seated myself at an open 
 window in my study. The old housekeeper set a 
 cup of tea before me — but I did not taste it; 
 . . . . I kept wondering and asking myself: 
 " Am not I losing my mind? " The sun had only 
 just set — and not only did the sky grow red, but 
 the whole air suddenly became suffused with an 
 almost unnatural crimson; the leaves and grass, 
 as though covered with fresh varnish, did not 
 stir; in their stony immobility, in the sharp bril- 
 liancy of their outlines, in that commingling of 
 a strong glow and death-like tranquillity, there 
 was something strange, enigmatical. A rather 
 large grey bird flew up without any sound, and 
 alighted on the very edge of the window. ... I 
 looked at it — and it looked at me askance with 
 its round, dark eye. " I wonder if she did not 
 send thee in order to remind me?" — I thought. 
 
 The bird immediately fluttered its soft wings, 
 and flew away, as before, without any noise. I 
 sat for a long time still at the window, but I no 
 longer gave myself up to wonder: I seemed to 
 
 6
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 have got into a charmed circle, and an irresisti- 
 ble though quiet power was drawing me on, as 
 the onrush of the torrent draws the boat while 
 still far away from the falls. At last I gave a 
 start. The crimson had long since disappeared 
 from the air, the hues had darkened, and the en- 
 chanted silence had ceased. A breeze was begin- 
 ning to flutter about, the moon stood out with 
 ever-increasing distinctness in the sky which was 
 turning darkly blue, — and soon the leaves on the 
 trees began to gleam silver and black in its cold 
 rays. My old woman entered my study with a 
 lighted candle, but the draught from the window 
 blew on it and extinguished the flame. I could 
 endure it no longer ; I sprang to my feet, banged 
 my cap down on my head, and set out for the cor- 
 ner of the forest, for the aged oak. 
 
 IV 
 
 Many years before, this oak had been struck by 
 lightning; its crest had been shattered and had 
 withered away, but it still retained life enough 
 for several centuries. As I began to draw near 
 to it, a dark cloud floated across the moon : it was 
 very dark under its wide-spreading boughs. At 
 first I did not notice anything peculiar; but I 
 glanced to one side— and my heart sank within 
 me ; a white figure was standing motionless beside 
 
 7
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 a tall bush, between the oak-tree and the forest. 
 My hair rose slightly on my head; but I sum- 
 moned my courage, and advanced toward the 
 forest. 
 
 Yes, it was she, my nocturnal visitor. As I 
 approached her, the moon shone forth again. She 
 seemed all woven of semi-transparent, milky 
 vapour,— through her face I could see a branch 
 softly waving in the wind, — only her hair and 
 eyes shone dimly-black, and on one of the fingers 
 of her clasped hands gleamed a narrow gold ring. 
 I halted in front of her, and tried to speak; 
 but my voice died in my breast, although I no 
 longer felt any real terror. Her eyes were turned 
 upon me; their gaze expressed neither grief nor 
 joy, but a certain lifeless attention. I waited to 
 see whether she would utter a word ; but she stood 
 motionless and dumb, and kept gazing at me 
 with her deadly-intent look. Again I began to 
 feel uneasy. 
 
 " I have come!" — I exclaimed at last with an 
 effort. My voice had a dull, queer ring. 
 
 " I love thee," — a whisper became audible. 
 
 " Thou lovest me! " — I repeated in amazement. 
 
 " Give thyself to me," — rustled the voice again 
 in reply to me. 
 
 " Give myself to thee! But thou art a phantom 
 — thou hast no body." — A strange sensation over- 
 powered me. — " What art thou, — smoke, air, va- 
 pour? Give myself to thee! Answer me first — 
 
 8
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 who art thou? Hast thou hved upon earth? 
 Whence hast thou revealed thyself? " 
 
 " Give thyself to me. I will do thee no harm. 
 Say only two words : ' Take me.' " 
 
 I looked at her. " What is that she is saying? '* 
 I thought. "What is the meaning of all this? 
 And how will she take me? Shall I try the ex- 
 periment? " 
 
 "Well, very good,"— I uttered aloud, and 
 with unexpected force, as though some one had 
 given me a push from behind. " Take me ! " 
 
 Before I had finished uttering these words, the 
 mysterious figure, with a sort of inward laugh, 
 which made her face quiver for an instant, swayed 
 forward, her arms separated and were out- 
 stretched. ... I tried to spring aside ; but I was 
 already in her power. She clasped me in her em- 
 brace, my body rose about fourteen inches from 
 the earth — and we both soared oif, smoothly and 
 not too swiftly, over the wet, motionless grass. 
 
 At first my head reeled, and I involuntarily closed 
 my eyes. ... A minute later, I opened them 
 again. We were floating on as before. But the 
 forest was no longer visible; beneath us lay out- 
 spread a level plain dotted with dark spots. With 
 terror I convinced myself that we had risen to a 
 fearful height. 
 
 9
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 " I am lost— I am in the power of Satan,'* 
 flashed through me hke hghtning. Up to that 
 moment, the thought of obsession by an unclean 
 power, of the possibility of damnation, had not 
 entered my head. We continued to dash head- 
 long onward, and seemed to be soaring ever 
 higher and higher. 
 
 " Whither art thou carrying me? " — I moaned 
 at last. 
 
 " Wherever thou wishest,"— replied my fellow- 
 traveller. She was sticking close to me all over; 
 her face almost rested on my face. Nevertheless, 
 I barely felt her touch. 
 
 " Let me down to the earth ; I feel giddy at this 
 height." 
 
 " Good; only shut your eyes and do not take 
 breath." 
 
 I obeyed — and immediately felt myself falling, 
 like a stone which has been hurled. . . . the wind 
 whistled through my hair. When I came to my- 
 self, we were again floating close above the 
 ground, so that we caught in the tips of the tall 
 plants. 
 
 "Set me on my feet,"— I began.— "What 
 pleasure is there in flying? I am not a bird." 
 
 " I thought it would be agreeable to you. We 
 have no other occupation." 
 
 " You have not? But who are you? " 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " Thou dost not dare to tell me that? " 
 
 10
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 A plaintive sound, like that which had awak- 
 ened me on the first night, trembled on my ear. 
 In the meantime, we continued to move almost 
 imperceptibly through tlie night air. 
 
 " Let me go! " — I said. My companion bent 
 backward, and I found myself on my feet. She 
 came to a halt in front of me and again clasped 
 her hands. I recovered my equanimity and 
 looked her in the face: as before, it expressed 
 submissive grief. 
 
 " Where are we? " — I queried. I did not rec- 
 ognise my surroundings. 
 
 " Far from thy home, but thou mayest be there 
 in one moment." 
 
 " In what manner? Am I to trust myself to 
 thee again? " 
 
 " I have not done and will not do thee any 
 harm. We shall float together until dawn, that is 
 all. I can carry thee whithersoever thou wishest 
 — to all the ends of the earth. Give thyself to 
 me; say again: ' Take me! ' " 
 
 "Well, then .... take me!" 
 
 Again she fell upon my neck, again my feet 
 left the earth — and away we flew. 
 
 VI 
 
 ti 
 
 Whither? "—she asked me. 
 " Straight ahead, ever straight ahead." 
 " But the forest lies in that direction." 
 
 11
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 " Let us rise above the forest — only, very 
 gently." 
 
 We soared aloft, like wood-snipe flying upon 
 a birch-tree, and again floated on in a straight 
 line. Instead of grass, the crests of the trees 
 flitted past under our feet. It was wonderful to 
 see the forest from above, its bristling spine all 
 illuminated by the moon. It seemed some sort 
 of a vast slumbering wild beast, and accompanied 
 us with a broad, incessant rustling, resembling an 
 unintelligible growl. Here and there we came 
 across small glades; a dentated strip of shadow 
 stood out finely in black on one side of them. 
 .... Now and then a hare cried pitifully below ; 
 up above, an owl whistled, also in plaintive wise ; 
 there was an odour of mushrooms, of buds, of 
 lovage abroad in the air; the moonlight fairly 
 poured in a flood in all directions — coldly and 
 severely ; the myriad stars glittered directly above 
 our heads. 
 
 And now the forest was left behind; athwart 
 the plain stretched a strip of mist; a river flowed 
 there. We floated along one of its shores, above 
 the bushes, rendered heavy and immovable by 
 humidity. The waves on the river now glistened 
 with a blue gleam, now rolled on darkly and as 
 though they were vicious. In places a thin vapour 
 moved strangely above it, and the cups of the 
 water-lilies shone out with the virginal and sump- 
 tuous whiteness of all their unfolded petals, as 
 
 12
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 though they knew that they were inaccessible. I 
 took it into my head to pluck one of them — and 
 lo! I immediately found myself directly over the 
 smooth surface of the river. . . . The dampness 
 struck me unpleasantly in the face as soon as I 
 had broken the strong stem of a large blossom. 
 We began to flit from shore to shore, like the 
 sand-pipers, which we kept waking, and which 
 we pursued. More than once it happened that 
 we flew down upon a little family of wild ducks, 
 disposed in a circle on a clear spot among the 
 reeds — but they did not stir; perhaps one of them 
 would hastily take its head out from under its 
 wing, look and look, and then anxiously thrust 
 its bill back again into its downy feathers; or 
 another would quack faintly, its whole body quiv- 
 ering the while. We frightened one heron; it 
 rose out of a willow bush, with dangling legs, and 
 flapped its wings with awkward vigour; it really 
 did seem to me then to resemble a German. Not 
 a fish splashed anywhere— they, too, were asleep. 
 I began to get used to the sensation of flying, 
 and even found a certain pleasure in it; any one 
 who has chanced to fly in his sleep will understand 
 me. I took to watching with great attention the 
 strange being, thanks to whom such improbable 
 events were happening to me. 
 
 13
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 VII 
 
 She was a woman with a small, non-Russian 
 face. Greyish-white, semi-transparent, with 
 barely-defined shadows, it reminded one of 
 the figures on an alabaster vase illuminated 
 from within — and again it seemed to be familiar 
 to me. 
 
 " May I talk with thee? "—I said. 
 
 " Speak." 
 
 " I see that thou hast a ring on thy finger; so 
 thou hast dwelt on earth — thou hast been mar- 
 ried? " 
 
 I paused. . . . There was no reply. 
 
 " What is thy name — or what was thy name, 
 at least? " 
 
 " Call me EUis." 
 
 " Ellis! That is an English name? Art thou 
 an English woman? Thou hast known me be- 
 fore?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Why didst thou reveal thyself to me in par- 
 ticular? " 
 
 " I love thee." 
 
 " And art thou content? " 
 
 " Yes ; we are floating, we are circling, you and 
 I, through the pure air." 
 
 " Ellis! "—I said suddenly,—" perchance thou 
 art a guilty, a damned soul? " 
 
 14
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 My companion's head dropped.—" I do not un- 
 derstand thee,"— she whispered. 
 
 " I adjure thee, in God's name . ..." I was 
 beginning. 
 
 " What art thou saying? "—she said with sur- 
 prise. — " I do not understand." — It seemed to me 
 that the arm which lay about my waist hke a 
 girdle, was moving gently. . . . 
 
 " Fear not,"— said Ellis,—" fear not, my dear 
 one! " — Her face turned and moved closer to my 
 face. ... I felt on my lips a strange sensation, 
 like the touch of a soft, delicate sting. . . . 
 Leeches which are not vicious take hold in that 
 way. 
 
 VIII 
 
 I GLANCED downward. We had again managed 
 to rise to a very considerable height. We were 
 flying over a county capital with which I was 
 unfamiliar, situated on the slope of a broad hill. 
 The churches reared themselves amid a dark mass 
 of wooden roofs and fruit orchards ; a long bridge 
 lowered black at a curve in the river; everything 
 was silent, overwhelmed with sleep. The very 
 domes and crosses seemed to glitter with a dumb 
 gleam; dumbly the tall poles of the wells reared 
 themselves aloft beside the round clumps of wil- 
 lows; the whitish highway dumbly plunged, like 
 a narrow dart, into one end of the town— and 
 
 15
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 dumbly emerged from the other side upon the 
 gloomy expanse of the monotonous fields. 
 
 " What town is that? "—I queried. 
 
 " ***ofF, in the *** Government." 
 
 " ***oiF, in the *** Government? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Well, I am very far from home ! " 
 
 " For us distance is nothing." 
 
 " Really? " Sudden boldness flashed up within 
 me. — " Then carry me to South America! " 
 
 " I cannot go to America. It is day there now." 
 
 "While you and I are night birds? Well, 
 somewhere or other, only as far off as possible." 
 
 " Close thine eyes and do not draw breath," — 
 replied Ellis, — and we dashed headlong onward 
 with the swiftness of the whirlwind. The wind 
 rushed into my ears with a crashing noise. 
 
 We halted, but the noise did not cease. On 
 the contrary, it had become converted into a sort 
 of menacing roar, a thunderous din. . . . 
 
 " Now thou mayest open thine eyes,"— said 
 Elhs. 
 
 IX 
 
 I OBEYED. . . . My God, where was I? 
 
 Overhead were heavy, smoky clouds ; they were 
 crowding together, and flying like a herd of 
 vicious monsters .... and yonder, below, was 
 another monster: the raging, just that,— raging 
 
 16
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 sea. . . . The white foam was glistening convul- 
 sively, and seething in it in mounds, — and rearing 
 aloft in shaggy billows, it was pounding with 
 harsh thunder on the pitch-black cliffs. The howl- 
 ing of the storm, the icy breath of the heaving 
 deep, the heavy dashing of the surf, in which, at 
 times, one seemed to hear something resembling 
 howls, the distant firing of cannon, the ringing 
 of bells, the torturing shriek, and the grinding 
 of the pebbles on the shore, the sudden scream of 
 an invisible gull, on the troubled horizon the 
 reeling remains of a ship — everywhere death, 
 death and horror. . . . My head began to reel, 
 and swooning, I again closed my eyes. . . . 
 
 " What is this? Where are we? " 
 
 " On the southern shore of the Isle of Wight, 
 in front of the Blackgang Cliff, where ships are 
 so frequently dashed to pieces," — said Ellis, this 
 time with peculiar distinctness and, as it seemed 
 to me, not without malicious joy. . . . 
 
 " Take me away, away from here. . . . home! 
 Home! " 
 
 I shrank together utterly, I clutched my face 
 in my hands. ... I felt that we were floating 
 still more swiftly than before; the wind no longer 
 howled nor whistled— it shrieked through my 
 hair, in my garments. ... I gasped for breath. . . . 
 
 " Now stand on thy feet,"— rang out the voice 
 of Ellis. 
 
 I tried to control myself, my consciousness. . . . 
 
 17
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 I felt the ground under foot, but heard nothing, 
 as though everything round about had died .... 
 only the blood beat irregularly in my temples, and 
 my head still reeled with a faint, internal sound. 
 I straightened myself up and opened my eyes. 
 
 X 
 
 We were on the dam of my pond. Directly in 
 front of me, athwart the pointed leaves of the 
 willows, its broad expanse was visible with fila- 
 ments of feathery mist clinging to it here and 
 there. On the right a field of rye glinted dully; 
 on the left the trees of the garden reared them- 
 selves aloft, long, motionless, and damp in ap- 
 pearance. . . . Morning had not yet breathed 
 upon them. Across the sky two or three clouds 
 were stretched, obliquely, like wreaths of smoke; 
 they seemed yellowish, and the first faint reflec- 
 tion of the dawn fell on them, God knows 
 whence : the eye could not yet detect on the whit- 
 ening horizon the spot from which it must be bor- 
 rowed. The stars had disappeared; nothing was 
 stirring yet, although everything was already 
 awake in the enchanted stillness of early morn- 
 ing. 
 
 " The morning! Yonder is the morning!"— 
 exclaimed Ellis in my very ear. . . . "Farewell! 
 until to-morrow! " 
 
 I turned. . . . Lightly quitting the ground, 
 
 18
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 she floated past, — and suddenly raised both arms 
 above her head. The head, and the arms, and the 
 shoulders instantly flushed with warm, corporeal 
 light; in the dark eyes quivered living sparks; a 
 smile of mysterious delicacy flitted across the red- 
 dening lips. ... A charming woman suddenly 
 made her appearance before me. . . . But she in- 
 stantly threw herself backward, as though falling 
 into a swoon, and melted away like vapour. 
 
 I stood motionless. 
 
 When I came to my senses and looked about 
 me, it seemed to me that the corporeal, pale-rosy 
 flush which had coursed over the figure of my 
 phantom had not yet vanished and, dispersed 
 through the air, was flooding me on all sides. . . . 
 It was the dawn flushing red. I suddenly became 
 conscious of extreme fatigue and wended my 
 way homeward. As I passed the poultry-yard 
 I heard the first matutinal quacking of the gos- 
 lings (no bird wakes earlier than they) ; along the 
 roof, at the tip of each projecting stake, perched 
 a daw; and all of them were diligently and si- 
 lently pluming themselves, distinctly outlined 
 against the milky sky. From time to time, they 
 all rose into the air simultaneously and, after 
 flying about a little while, alighted again in a 
 row, without croaking. . . . From the forest 
 near at hand was wafted, twice, the hoarsely- 
 fresh cry of the black-cock, which had just flown 
 up from the dewy grass all overgrown with 
 
 19
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 berries. . . . With a light shiver all over my 
 body, I gained my bed and speedily sank into a 
 sound sleep. 
 
 XI 
 
 On the following night, when I began to draw 
 near to the ancient oak, Ellis floated to meet me, 
 as to a friend. I was not afraid of her as on the 
 preceding day; I was almost delighted to see her. 
 I did not even attempt to understand what had 
 happened with me: all I cared about was to fly 
 as far as possible, through curious places. 
 
 Again Ellis's arm was wound about me — and 
 again we darted off. 
 
 *' Let us go to Italy," — I whispered in her ear. 
 
 *' Whithersoever thou wilt, my dear one," — 
 she replied solemnly and softly — and softly and 
 solemnly she turned her face toward me. It 
 seemed to me to be less transparent than on the 
 day before; more feminine and more dignified; 
 it reminded me of that beautiful creature who 
 had flashed before my vision in the dawn before 
 our parting. 
 
 " To-night is a great night,"— went on Ellis. 
 —"It rarely comes,— only when seven times thir- 
 teen . . . ." 
 
 At this point I lost several words. 
 
 " Now that can be seen which is invisible at 
 other times," 
 
 20
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 " Ellis! "-I pleaded,-" who art thou? Tell 
 me!" 
 
 She silently raised her long, white hand. 
 
 In the dark heaven, at the point to which her 
 finger pointed, in the midst of tiny stars, a comet 
 gleamed in a reddish streak. 
 
 "How am I to understand thee?" — I began. 
 — " Dost thou mean that thou soarest like that 
 comet, between the planets and the sun, — that 
 thou soarest among men .... and how?" 
 
 But Ellis's hand was suddenly clapped over my 
 eyes. . . . Something akin to the grey mist from 
 a damp valley enveloped me. . . . 
 
 " To Italy! to Italy! "—I heard her whisper.— 
 " This night is a great night! " 
 
 XII 
 
 The mist disappeared from before my eyes, and I 
 beheld beneath me an interminable plain. But 
 I was able to understand, from the very touch of 
 the warm, soft air on my cheeks, that I was not 
 in Russia; and neither did that plain resemble 
 our Russian plains. It was a vast, dim expanse, 
 apparently devoid of grass and empty; here and 
 there, throughout its entire length, gleamed small 
 stagnant pools, like tiny fragments of a mirror; 
 far away the inaudible, motionless sea was visible 
 Great stars glittered in the intervals between the 
 large, beautiful clouds; a thousand-voiced, un- 
 
 21
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 ceasing, yet not clamorous trill, arose in all direc- 
 tions; and wonderful was that penetrating and 
 dreamy rumble, that voice of the nocturnal 
 desert. . . . 
 
 " The Pontine Marshes,"— said Ellis.-" Dost 
 thou hear the frogs ? Dost thou discern the odour 
 of sulphur? " 
 
 " The Pontine Marshes . ..." I repeated, and 
 a sensation of majestic sadness took possession 
 of me. — " But why hast thou brought me hither, 
 to this mournful, deserted region ? Let us rather 
 fly to Rome." 
 
 " Rome is close at hand,"— replied Ellis. . . . 
 "Prepare thyself!" 
 
 We descended and dashed along the ancient 
 Roman road. A buffalo slowly raised from the 
 ooze his shaggy, monstrous head with short 
 whorls of bristles between the crooked horns 
 which curved backward. He rolled the whites 
 of his eyes sideways, and snorted heavily with 
 his wet nostrils, as though he scented us. 
 
 " Rome, Rome is near," .... whispered 
 Ellis.—" Look, look ahead." 
 
 I raised my eyes. 
 
 What was that which rose darkly against the 
 night sky? The lofty arches of a huge bridge? 
 What river did it span? Why was it rent in 
 places? No, it was not a bridge, it was an ancient 
 aqueduct. Round about lay the sacred land of 
 Campania, and yonder, far away, were the Alban 
 
 22
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 Hills ; and their crests and the great back of the 
 ancient aqueduct gleamed faintlj^ in the rays of 
 the moon which had just risen. . . . 
 
 We suddenly soared upward and hung sus- 
 pended in the air before an isolated ruin. No 
 one could have told what it had formerly been: 
 a tomb, a palace, a tower. . . . Black ivy envel- 
 oped the whole of it with its deadly power — and 
 below, a half -ruined arch yawned like jaws. A 
 heavy, cellar-like odour was wafted in my face 
 from that heap of small, closely-packed stones, 
 from which the granite facing of the wall had 
 long since fallen off. 
 
 "Here," — said Ellis, raising her hand; — 
 "here! — Utter loudly, thrice in succession, the 
 name of a great Roman." 
 
 " But what will happen? " 
 
 " Thou shalt see." 
 
 I reflected. — " Divus Cajus Julius Caesar! " — 
 I suddenly exclaimed: — "Divus Cajus Julius 
 Csesar! " I repeated slowly: — " Ceesar! " 
 
 XIII 
 
 Before the last echoes of my voice had had time 
 to die away I heard. ... 
 
 It is difficult to say precisely what. At first 
 I heard a confused burst of trumpet notes and of 
 hand-clapping, barely perceptible to the ear, but 
 endlessly repeated. It seemed as though some- 
 
 23
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 where, immensely far away, in some bottomless 
 abyss, an innumerable throng were suddenly be- 
 ginning to stir, and rise, rise, undulating and 
 exchanging barely audible shouts, as though 
 athwart a dream, athwart an oppressive di'eam 
 many ages in duration. Then the air began to 
 blow and darken above the ruin. . . . Shadows 
 began to flit past me, myriads of shadows, mil- 
 lions of outlines, now rounded like helmets, now 
 long like spears ; the rays of the moon were shiv- 
 ered into many bluish sparks on these spears and 
 helmets — and the whole of that army, that throng, 
 moved nearer and nearer, grew greater, surged 
 mightily. . . . An indescribable effort, a tense 
 effort sufficient to lift the whole world, could 
 be felt in it ; but not a single figure stood out dis- 
 tinctly. . . . And suddenly it seemed to me as 
 though a tremor ran through it all, as though 
 certain huge billows had surged back and parted. 
 . . . . "Caesar! Caesar venit!" — rustled voices 
 like the leaves of the forest upon which a whirl- 
 wind has suddenly descended .... a dull shock 
 surged along, and a pallid, stern head in a laurel 
 wreath, with drooping lids, — the head of the em- 
 peror,— began slowly to move forward from the 
 ruin. . . . 
 
 There are no words of mortal tongue to ex- 
 press the dread which gripped my heart. It 
 seemed to me that if that head were to open its 
 eyes, to unseal its lips, I should fall dead on the 
 
 24
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 spot.— " Ellis! " — I moaned:—"! do not wish 
 it, I cannot, I do not want Rome, coarse, menac- 
 ing Rome. . . . Away, away from here! " — " Pu- 
 sillanimous! " — she wliispered, and we dashed 
 headlong away. Once more I heard behind me 
 the iron shout of the legions, like thunder now 
 .... then all grew dark. 
 
 XIV 
 
 " Look about thee,"— said Elhs to me,—" and 
 calm thyself." 
 
 I obeyed ; and I remember that my first impres- 
 sion was so sweet that I could only heave a sigh. 
 Something smoky-blue, silvery-soft encompassed 
 me on every side. At first I could distinguish 
 nothing: that azure splendour blinded me. But 
 lo! little by little the outlines of beautiful moun- 
 tains and forests began to start forth before me; 
 a lake lay outspread before me, with stars quiv- 
 ering in its depths, and the caressing murmur 
 of the surge. The fragrance of orange-blossoms 
 enveloped me in a billow, and along with it, also 
 in a billow, as it were, the strong, pure tones of 
 a youthful feminine voice reached my ears. That 
 fragrance, those sounds, fairly drew me down- 
 ward, and I began to descend .... to descend 
 to a luxurious marble palace, which gleamed 
 white and in friendlywise amid a cypress grove, 
 The sounds were welling forth from its wide- 
 
 25
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 open windows ; the waves of the lake, dotted with 
 a dust of flowers, plashed against its walls— and 
 directly opposite, all clothed in the dark-green 
 of orange-trees and laurels, all bathed in radiant 
 mist, all studded with statues, slender columns, 
 and porticoes of temples, a circular island rose 
 from the bosom of the lake. . . . 
 
 "Isola Bella! "-said Ellis. . . . "LagoMag- 
 giore. ..." 
 
 I articulated only: "Ah!" and continued to 
 descend. The feminine voice rang out ever more 
 loudly, ever more clearly in the palace; I was ir- 
 resistibly drawn to it. ... I wanted to gaze into 
 the face of the songstress who was warbling such 
 strains on such a night. We halted in front of a 
 window. 
 
 In the middle of a room decorated in Pom- 
 peian style, and more resembling an ancient tem- 
 ple than the newest sort of a hall, surrounded 
 by Greek statues, Etruscan vases, rare plants, 
 precious stuffs, and lighted from above by the 
 soft rays of two lamps enclosed in crystal globes, 
 sat a young woman at the piano. With her head 
 thrown slightly backward, and her eyes half- 
 closed she was singing an Italian aria; she was 
 singing and smiling, and, at the same time, her 
 features were expressive of seriousness, even of 
 severity .... a sign of complete enjoyment. 
 She smiled .... and the Faun of Praxiteles, 
 indolent, as young as she, effeminate, sensual 
 
 26
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 also, seemed to be smiling at her from one corner, 
 from behind the branches of an oleander, athwart 
 the thin smoke which rose from a bronze per- 
 f uming-pan upon an antique tripod. The beauty- 
 was alone. Enchanted by the sounds, the beauty, 
 the glitter and perfume of the night, shaken to 
 the very depths of my soul by the spectacle of that 
 young, calm, brilliant happiness, I totally for- 
 got my companion, forgot in what strange wise 
 I had become a witness of that life which was so 
 distant, so remote, so strange to me— and I 
 wanted to step through the window, I wanted to 
 enter into conversation. . . . 
 
 My whole body quivered from a forcible blow 
 —as though I had touched a Ley den jar. I 
 glanced round. . . . Ellis's face was gloomy and 
 menacing, despite all its transparency; wrath 
 glowed dully in her eyes, which had suddenly 
 been opened to their full extent. . . . 
 
 " Away! "—she whispered furiously; and 
 again there was the whirlwind and gloom and 
 dizziness. . . . Only this time it was not the 
 shout of the legions, but the voice of the song- 
 stress, broken short off on a high note, which 
 lingered in my ears. . . . 
 
 We halted. A high note, that same high note, 
 continued to ring out and did not cease to re- 
 sound, although I felt an entirely different air, 
 a different odour. . . . Invigorating freshness 
 breathed upon me, as from a great river, and 
 
 27
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 there was the scent of hay, of smoke, of hemp. 
 The long-drawn note was followed by a second, 
 then by a third, but with such an indubitable shad- 
 ing, such a familiar turn characteristic of my 
 native land, that I immediately said to myself: 
 " That is a Russian man singing a Russian song," 
 —and at that moment everything round about me 
 grew clear. 
 
 XV 
 
 We found ourselves above a flat shore. On the 
 left, stretched out, losing themselves in infinity, 
 lay mowed meadows, dotted with huge hay- 
 stacks; on the right, to an equally unlimited ex- 
 tent, spread out the level expanse of a vast river 
 abounding in water. Not far from the shores 
 huge, dark barges were rocking quietly at an- 
 chor, slightly moving the tips of their masts like 
 index-fingers. From one of these barges were 
 wafted to me the sounds of a flowing voice, and 
 on it burned lights, quivering and rocking in 
 the water with their long, red reflections. Here 
 and there both on the river and in the fields twin- 
 kled other lights— the eye was unable to discern 
 whether near at hand or far away; now they 
 blinked, again they stood forth in large, radiant 
 spots; numberless katydids shrilled ceaselessly— 
 quite equal to the frogs on the Pontine Marshes ; 
 and beneath the cloudless, but low-hanging, dark 
 
 28
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 sky invisible birds uttered their calls from time to 
 time. 
 
 " Are we in Russia? " — I asked Ellis. 
 
 "This is the Volga," — she replied. 
 
 We soared along the bank. — " Why hast thou 
 torn me thence, from that beautiful land? " — I 
 began. — "Wert thou envious, pray? Did not 
 jealousy awake in thee? " 
 
 Ellis's lips quivered faintly, and a menace 
 again flashed in her eyes. . . . But her whole 
 face immediately grew rigid once more. 
 
 " I want to go home," — I said. 
 
 "Wait, wait,"-replied Ellis.-" To-night is 
 a great night. It will not soon return. Thou 
 mayest be the spectator. . . . Wait." 
 
 And suddenly we flew across the Volga, in a 
 slanting direction, close above the water, low and 
 abruptly, like swallows before a storm. The 
 broad waves gurgled heavily below us, the keen 
 river wind beat us with its cold, strong wing .... 
 the lofty right shore soon began to rise before 
 us in the semi-darkness. Steep hills with great 
 clefts made their appearance. We approached 
 them. 
 
 " Shout, ' Tow-path men to the prow! ' " Ellis 
 whispered to me. 
 
 I remembered the dread which I had experi- 
 enced at the appearance of the Roman spectres, 
 I felt fatigue and a certain strange anguish, as 
 though my heart were melting within me — and 
 
 29
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 I did not wish to utter the fateful words. I knew 
 beforeliand that in reply to them something mon- 
 strous would appear, like Freischiitz, in the Volga 
 Valley. — But my lips parted against my will, and 
 I shouted in a weak, strained voice: " Tow-path 
 men to the prowl " ^ 
 
 XVI 
 
 At first all remained dumb, as before the Roman 
 ruin. — But suddenly close to my very ear, a 
 coarse bark-hauler's ^ laugh rang out, and some- 
 thing fell with a bang into the water and began 
 to choke. ... I glanced round : no one was any- 
 where to be seen, but an echo rebounded from 
 the shore, and instantly and from all quarters a 
 deafening uproar arose. What was there not in 
 that chaos of sounds! Shouts and whines; vio- 
 lent swearing and laughter, laughter most of all ; 
 strokes of oars and of axes ; the crash as of break- 
 ing in doors and chests; the creaking of rigging 
 and wheels, and the galloping of horses; the 
 sound of alarm-bells and the clanking of chains; 
 the rumble and roar of conflagrations, drunken 
 songs and interchange of hurried speech; incon- 
 solable, despairing weeping, and imperious ex- 
 
 ^ According to tradition, this was the war-cry of the Volga brigands 
 when they captured vessels. —Translator. 
 
 2 Before the introduction of steamers on the Volga, all vessels were 
 hauled up-stream from Astrakhan to Nizhni-Novgorod— or even fur- 
 ther—by men walking along the tow-paths on the shore. —Translator. 
 
 80
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 clamations; the death-rattle, and audacious whis- 
 tHng ; the yelling and trampling of the dance. . . . 
 "Beat! Hang! Drown! Cut his throat! That's 
 fine! That 's fine! So! Show no pity! "—were 
 distinctly audible; even the broken breathing of 
 panting men was audible;— and nevertheless, 
 everywhere round about, as far as the eye could 
 see, nothing came into sight, nothing underwent 
 any change. The river flowed past mysteriously, 
 almost morosely; the very shore seemed more de- 
 serted and wild than before— that was all. 
 
 I turned to Ellis, but she laid her finger on her 
 lips. . . . 
 
 " Stepan TimofeitchI Stepan Timofeitch is 
 coming! " — arose a rustling round about; — " our 
 dear little father is coming, our ataman, our 
 nourisher! "—As before, I saw no one, but it 
 suddenly seemed to me as though a huge body 
 were moving straight at me. ..." Frolka! 
 Where art thou, dog? " — thundered a terrible 
 voice. — " Set fire on all sides — and put them 
 under the axe, my little White-hands! " ^ 
 
 The heat of a flame close at hand breathed 
 upon me, and the bitter reek of smoke, — and at 
 the same moment something warm, like blood, 
 spattered upon my face and hands. . . . Wild 
 laughter roared round about. . . . 
 
 ^The bandit chief, generally known in history as Stenka Rdzin 
 and Frol or Frdlka, his younger brother and inseparable companion, 
 captured and laid waste great stretches of the Volga. Their mem- 
 ory still lives in epic ballads and among the peasants.— Translator. 
 
 31
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 I lost consciousness, and when I recovered my 
 senses, Ellis and I were slipping along the famil- 
 iar verge of my forest, straight toward the old 
 oak-tree. . . . 
 
 " Seest thou yonder path? "—Ellis said to me, 
 — " yonder where the moon is shining dimly and 
 two small birch-trees are bending over? . . . Dost 
 thou wish to go thither? " 
 
 But I felt so shattered and exhausted, that in 
 reply I could say only :— " Home home! " 
 
 " Thou art at home,"— answered Ellis. 
 
 In fact, I was standing in front of the door of 
 my house— alone. Elhs had vanished. The 
 watch-dog was about to approach, glared suspi- 
 ciously at me— and fled howling. 
 
 With difficulty I dragged myself to my bed, 
 and fell asleep, without undressing. 
 
 XVII 
 
 On the following morning I had a headache, and 
 could hardly move my feet; but I paid no atten- 
 tion to my bodily indisposition. I was gnawed 
 by penitence, stifled with vexation. 
 
 I was extremely displeased with myself. " Pu- 
 sillanimous! "—I kept repeating incessantly:— 
 " Yes— Ellis is right. What did I fear? How 
 could I fail to profit by the opportunity? .... 
 I might have beheld Caesar himself — and I 
 swooned with terror, I squealed, I turned away, 
 
 32
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 like a child from the rod. Well, Razin— that is 
 quite a different matter. In my quality of noble- 
 man and land-owner .... However, what was 
 the actual cause of my fright in that case also? 
 Pusillanimous, pusillanimous!" .... 
 
 /' But is it not in a dream that I am seeing all 
 this?" — I asked myself at last. I called my 
 housekeeper. 
 
 " INIarfa, at what time did I go to bed last 
 night?— dost thou remember? " 
 
 " Why, who knows, my benefactor. . . . Late, 
 I think. In the gloaming thou didst leave the 
 house; and thou were clattering thy heels in thy 
 bedroom after midnight. Just before dawn— 
 yes. And this is the third day it has been like 
 that. Evidently, something has happened to 
 worry thee." 
 
 "Ehe-he!"— I thought.— " There can be no 
 doubt as to the flying."—" Well, and how do I 
 look to-day? "—I added aloud. 
 
 " How dost thou look? Let me look at thee. 
 Thy cheeks are somewhat sunken. And thou art 
 pale, my nourisher; there now, there is n't a drop 
 of blood in thy face." 
 
 I winced slightly. ... I dismissed Marfa. 
 
 " If thou goest on like this thou wilt surely die 
 or lose thy mind,"— I reasoned, as I sat meditat- 
 ing by the window. " I must abandon all this. 
 It is dangerous. And, here now, how strangely 
 my heart is beating! And when I am flying, it 
 
 33
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 constantly seems to me as though some one were 
 sucking it, or as though something were seeping 
 out of it— like the spring sap from a birch, if you 
 thrust an axe into it. And yet I feel sorry. And 
 there is Ellis. . . . She is playing with me as a 
 cat plays with a mouse .... but it is unlikely 
 that she wishes any evil to me. I '11 surrender 
 myself to her for the last time— I '11 gaze my fill 
 —and then. . . . But what if she is drinking my 
 blood? This is terrible. Moreover, such swift 
 motion cannot fail to be injurious; they say that 
 on the railways in England it is forbidden to go 
 more than one hundred and twenty versts an 
 hour. . . ." 
 
 Thus did I meditate— but at ten o'clock in the 
 evening I was already standing before the aged 
 oak. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 The night was cold, dim, and grey; there was a 
 scent of rain in the air. To my surprise, I found 
 no one under the oak; I made the circuit of it 
 several times, walked as far as the verge of the 
 forest, and returned, staring assiduously into the 
 darkness. . . . Everything was deserted. I 
 waited a while, then uttered Ellis's name several 
 times in succession, with ever-increasing loud- 
 ness .... but she did not show herself. I was 
 seized with sadness, almost with anguish ; my f or- 
 
 34
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 mer apprehensions vanished ; I could not reconcile 
 myself to the thought that my companion would 
 never return to me. 
 
 "Ellis! EUis! Do come! Wilt thou not 
 come? " — I shouted for the last time. 
 
 A crow which had been awakened by my voice 
 suddenly began to fidget about in the crest of a 
 neighbouring tree, and becoming entangled in 
 the branches, set to flapping its wings. . . . But 
 Ellis did not appear. 
 
 With drooping head I wended my way home- 
 ward. Ahead of me the willows on the dam stood 
 out in a black mass, and the light in the window 
 of my room twinkled among the apple-trees of 
 the garden, — twinkled and vanished, like the eye 
 of a man watching me, — when suddenly the faint 
 swish of swiftly-cloven air became audible be- 
 hind me, and something with one swoop embraced 
 and seized hold of me from below upward : that is 
 the way a buzzard seizes, " smashes " a quail. . . . 
 It was Ellis who had flown upon me. I felt her 
 cheek on my cheek, the girdle of her arms around 
 my body — and like a keen chill the whisper of her 
 mouth pierced my ear: " Here am I! " I was si- 
 multaneously alarmed and delighted. . . . We 
 floated ofl" not far above the ground. 
 
 " Thou didst not mean to come to-day? " — I 
 said. 
 
 " But thou didst languish for me! Thou lovest 
 me? Oh, thou art mine! " 
 
 35
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 Ellis's last words disconcerted me. ... I did 
 not know what to say. 
 
 " I was detained,"— she went on; — " they set a 
 guard over me." 
 
 " Who could detain thee? " 
 
 *' Whither dost thou wish to go? "—queried 
 Ellis, not replying to my question, as usual. 
 
 *' Carry me to Italy, to that lake — dost thou 
 remember? " 
 
 Ellis drew back a little and shook her head in 
 negation. Then for the first time did I perceive 
 that she had ceased to be transparent. And her 
 face seemed to have grown rosy; a crimson flush 
 spread over its cloudy whiteness. I looked into 
 her eyes .... and dread came upon me: in 
 those eyes something was moving — with the 
 slow, unceasing and vicious motion of a serpent 
 which has coiled itself and, congealed in that 
 position, is beginning to grow warm in the 
 sunshine. 
 
 " Ellis! "-I exclaimed:-" Who art thou? 
 Tell me, who art thou? " 
 
 Ellis merely shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 I was vexed. ... I wanted to punish her; — 
 and suddenly it occurred to me to order her to 
 carry me to Paris. " That 's where thou wilt have 
 occasion for jealousy," — I thought. — "Ellis!" 
 — I said aloud; — "thou art not afraid of large 
 cities, Paris, for example, art thou? " 
 
 " No.'* 
 
 36
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 ti 
 
 No? Not even of those places where it is 
 bright, as on the boulevards? " 
 
 " That is not the light of day." 
 
 " Very good; then carry me immediately to the 
 Boulevard des Italiens." 
 
 Ellis tlu-ew over my head the end of her long, 
 flowing sleeve. I was immediately enveloped in 
 a sort of white mist, with a soporific scent of 
 poppies. Everything disappeared instantane- 
 ously; all light, all sound — and almost conscious- 
 ness itself. The sensation of life alone remained 
 — and it was not unpleasant. Suddenly the mist 
 vanished; Ellis had removed her sleeve from my 
 head, and I beheld before me a huge mass of 
 buildings crowded together, brilliancy, move- 
 ment, din. ... I beheld Paris. 
 
 XIX 
 
 I HAD been in Paris before, and therefore imme- 
 diately recognised the spot to whicli Ellis had 
 shaped her coiu'se. It was the garden of the 
 Tuileries, with its aged chestnut-trees, iron 
 fences, fortress-moat, and beast-like Zouaves on 
 guard. Passing the palace, passing the Church 
 of St. Roch, on whose steps the first Napoleon 
 shed Frencli blood for the first time, we halted 
 high above tlie Boulevard des Italiens, where the 
 third Napoleon did the same thing, and with 
 equal success. Crowds of people — young and old 
 
 37
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 dandies, workmen, women in sumptuous attire — 
 were thronging the sidewalks; the gilded restau- 
 rants and cafes were blazing with lights, car- 
 riages of all sorts and aspects were driving up 
 and down the boulevard; everything was fairly 
 seething and glittering, in every direction, where- 
 ever the eye fell. . . . But, strange to say, I did 
 not feel like quitting my pure, dark, airy height ; 
 I did not wish to approach that human ant-hill. 
 It seemed as though a hot, oppressive, copper- 
 coloured exhalation rose up thence, not precisely 
 fragrant, nor yet precisely stinking ; a very great 
 deal of life had been collected there in one heap. 
 I wavered. . . . But now the voice of a street- 
 courtesan, sharp as the screech of iron rails, sud- 
 denly was wafted to my ear; like a naked blade 
 it thrust itself out upward, that voice; it stung 
 me like the fangs of a viper. I immediately pic- 
 tured to myself the stony, greedy, flat Parisian 
 face, with high cheek-bones, the eyes of a usurer, 
 rouge, powder, curled hair, and a bouquet of 
 bright-hued artificial flowers on the high-peaked 
 hat, the scraped nails in the shape of claws, the 
 monstrous crinoline. ... I pictured to myself 
 also a steppe-dweller like myself pursuing the 
 venal doll with detestable tripping gait. ... I 
 pictured to myself how, confused to the point of 
 rudeness, and lisping with his efforts, he en- 
 deavours to imitate in his manners the waiters at 
 Vefour's, squeals, keeps on the alert, wheedles — 
 
 38
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 and a feeling of loathing took possession of me. 
 . . . . "No,"— I thought,— "Ellis will have no 
 occasion to feel jealous here. ..." 
 
 In the meantime, I noticed that we were begin- 
 ning gradually to descend. . . . Paris rose to 
 meet us with all its din and reek. . . . 
 
 " Halt! "—I turned to Elhs.— " Dost thou not 
 find it stifling here, oppressive? " 
 
 " It was thou thyself who asked me to bring 
 thee hither." 
 
 " I was wrong, I recall my word. Carry me 
 away, Ellis, I entreat thee. Just as I thought: 
 yonder goes Prince KulmametofF, hobbling along 
 the boulevard ; and his friend Baraksin is waving 
 his hand at him and crying: ' Ivan Stepanitch, 
 allons souper, as quickly as possible, and engage 
 Rigolbosch itself ! ' Carry me away from these 
 Mabilles and Maisons Dores, away from fops, 
 both male and female, from the Jockey Club and 
 Figaro, from the closely-clipped soldiers' heads 
 and the polished barracks, from the sergents de 
 ville with their goatees and the glasses of turbid 
 absinthe, from the players of domino in the cafes 
 and the gamblers on 'Change, from the bits of red 
 ribbon in the buttonhole of the coat and the 
 buttonhole of the overcoat, from Monsieur de 
 Foi, the inventor of ' the speciality of wed- 
 dings,' and from the free consultations of Dr. 
 Charles Albert, from liberal lectures and govern- 
 mental pamphlets, from Parisian comedies and 
 
 39
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 Parisian operas and Parisian ignorance. . . . 
 Away ! Away ! Away ! " 
 
 "Look down," — Ellis answered me: — "thou 
 art no longer over Paris." 
 
 I lowered my eyes. ... It was a fact. A dark 
 plain, here and there intersected by whitish lines 
 of roads, was running swiftly past beneath us, 
 and only behind, on the horizon, like the glow 
 of a huge conflagration, the reflection of the in- 
 numerable lights of the world's capital throbbed 
 upward. 
 
 XX 
 
 Again a veil fell across my eyes. . . . Again I 
 lost consciousness. It dispersed at last. 
 
 What was that yonder, below? What park 
 was that with avenues of clipped lindens, isolated 
 spruce-trees in the form of parasols, with porti- 
 coes and temples in the Pompadour taste, and 
 statues of nymphs and satyrs of the Bernini 
 school, and rococo Tritons in the centre of curv- 
 ing ponds, rimmed by low balustrades of black- 
 ened marble? Is it not Versailles? No, it is not 
 Versailles. A small palace, also in rococo style, 
 peers forth from clumps of curly oak-trees. The 
 moon shines dimly, enveloped in a haze, and an 
 extremely delicate smoke seems to be spread over 
 the earth. The eye cannot distinguish what it is : 
 moonlight or fog. Yonder on one of the ponds 
 
 40
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 a swan is sleeping; its long back gleams white, 
 like the snow of the steppes gripped by the frost, 
 and yonder the glow-worms are burning like dia- 
 monds in the bluish shadow at the foot of the 
 statues. 
 
 " We are close to Mannheim," — said Ellis. — 
 ^' That is the Schwetzingen Park." 
 
 " So we are in Germany," — I thought, and be- 
 gan to listen. Everything was dumb; only 
 somewhere a slender stream of falling water was 
 plashing and babbling, isolated and invisible. It 
 seemed to be repeating the same words over and 
 over again: " Yes, yes, j^es," always " yes." And 
 suddenly it seemed to me as though in the very 
 middle of one of the avenues, between the walls 
 of shorn greenery, affectedly offering his arm 
 to a lady in powdered coiffure and a gay-coloured 
 farthingale, there stepped forth on his red heels 
 a cavalier in a golden coat and lace cuffs, with 
 a light, steel sword on his hip. . . . They were 
 strange, pale figures. ... I wanted to get a 
 look at them. . . . But everything had van- 
 ished, and only the water babbled on as before. 
 
 " Those are dreams roaming abroad," — whis- 
 pered Ellis. — " Yesterday a great deal might 
 have been seen — a great deal. To-day even 
 dreams slmn the eye of mortal man. On! On! " 
 
 We soared upward and flew further. So 
 smooth and even was our flight tliat we did not 
 seem to be moving, but eveiything, on the con- 
 
 41
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 trary, appeared to be coming toward us. Moun- 
 tains made their appearance, dark, undulating, 
 covered with forests ; they augmented and floated 
 toward us. . . . Now they are already flowing 
 past beneath us, with all their sinuosities, ravines, 
 narrow meadows, with the fiery points in the 
 slumbering villages along the swift rivers at the 
 bottom of the valleys ; and ahead of us again other 
 mountains loom up and float past. . . . We are 
 in the heart of the Schwarzwald. 
 
 Mountains, nothing but mountains .... and 
 forest, the splendid, old, mighty forest. The 
 night sky is clear; I can recognise every variety 
 of tree; especially magnificent are the firs with 
 their straight, white trunks. Here and there on 
 the borders of the forests chamois are to be seen ; 
 stately and alert they stand on their slender legs 
 and listen, with their heads finely turned, and 
 their large, trumpet-shaped ears pricked up. The 
 ruin of a tower sadly and blindly displays on a 
 peak of naked crag its half -demolished battle- 
 ments; above the ancient, forgotten stones a 
 golden star glows peacefully. From a small, al- 
 most black lake, the moaning croak of tiny frogs 
 rises up like a wail. I seem to hear other sounds, 
 long, languid, like the sounds of a golden harp. 
 .... Here it is, the land of legend ! That same deli- 
 cate shimmer of moonlight which had impressed 
 me at Schwetzingen is here disseminated every- 
 where, and the further the mountains stand apart 
 
 42
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 the thicker does that smoke become. I distinguish 
 five, six, ten, different tones of the different 
 layers of shadow on the slopes of the mountains, 
 and over the silent diversity pensively reigns the 
 moon. The air ripples on softly and lightly. I 
 feel at ease and in a mood of lofty composure and 
 melancholy as it were 
 
 " Ellis, thou must love this land! " 
 
 " I love nothing." 
 
 " How is that? And how about me? " 
 
 " Yes .... thee! "—she replies indifferently. 
 
 It strikes me that her arm clasps my waist more 
 closely than before. 
 
 "On! On!"— says Ellis, with a sort of cold 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 "On!"- 1 repeat. 
 
 XXI 
 
 A MIGHTY fluctuating, ringing cry suddenly re- 
 sounded overhead and was immediately repeated 
 a little way in advance. 
 
 " Those are belated cranes flying to your land, 
 to the north,"— said Ellis:— " wouldst thou like 
 to join them? " 
 
 " Yes, yes! raise me to them." 
 
 We soared upward and in the twinkling of an 
 eye found ourselves alongside of the flock which 
 had flown past. 
 
 The huge, handsome birds (there were thirty 
 
 43
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 of them in all) were flying in a wedge form ab- 
 ruptly and rarely flapping their inflated wings. 
 With head and legs intently ahead and breast 
 thrust sternly forward, they were forging on- 
 ward, and that so swiftly that the air whistled 
 around them. It was wonderful to see such hot, 
 strong hf e, such unflinching will, at such a height, 
 at such a distance from all living things. With- 
 out ceasing triumphantly to plough their way 
 through space the cranes exchanged calls, from 
 time to time, with their comrades in the van- 
 guard, with their leader ; and there was something 
 proud, dignified, something invincibly confident 
 in those loud cries, in the conversation under the 
 clouds. " We shall fly to our goal, never fear, 
 however difficult it may be," they seemed to be 
 saying, encouraging one another. 
 
 And at this point it occurred to me that 
 there are very few people in Russia — why do I 
 sa}" in Russia? — in the whole world— like those 
 birds. 
 
 " We are now flying to Russia," — said Ellis. 
 This was not the first time I had noticed that she 
 almost always knew what I was thinking about. — 
 " Dost thou wish to return? " 
 
 " Let us return .... or, no ! I liave been in 
 Paris; take me to Petersburg." 
 
 "Now?" 
 
 " This instant. . . . Only cover my head with 
 thy veil or I shall become dizzy." 
 
 44
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 Ellis raised her arm .... but before the mist 
 enveloped me I felt on my lips the touch of that 
 soft, dull sting. . . . 
 
 • XXII 
 
 *^ At-te-e-e-e-ention ! " — a prolonged cry re- 
 sounded in my ears. " At-te-e-e-e-ention ! " came 
 the response, as though in despair, from the dis- 
 tance. "At-te-e-e-e-ention!" died away some- 
 where at the end of the world. I started. A lofty 
 golden spire met my eye : I recognised the Peter- 
 Paul Fortress. 
 
 A pale, northern night! Yes, but was it night? 
 Was it not a pale, ailing day? I have never liked 
 the Petersburg nights; but this time I was even 
 terrified: Ellis's form disappeared entirely, 
 melted like the mist of morning in the July sun, 
 and I clearly descried her whole body as it hung 
 heavily and alone on a level with the Alexander 
 column. So this was Petersburg! Yes, it really 
 was. Those broad, empty, grey streets; those 
 greyish-white, yellowish-grey, greyish-lilac, stuc- 
 coed and peeling houses with their sunken win? 
 dows, brilliant sign-boards, iron pavilions over 
 their porches, and nasty little vegetable-shops; 
 those facades; those inscriptions, sentry-boxes, 
 watering-troughs; the golden cap of St. Isaac's 
 Cathedral; the useless, motley Exchange; the 
 granite walls of the fortress and the broken 
 
 45
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 wooden pavement ; those barks laden with hay and 
 firewood; that odour of dust, cabbage, bast-mat- 
 ting and stables; those petrified yard-porters in 
 sheepskin coats at the gates, those cab-drivers 
 curled up in death-like sleep on their rickety 
 carriages, — yes, it was she, our Northern Pal- 
 myra. Everything was visible round about; 
 everything was clear, painfully clear and distinct ; 
 everything was sleeping mournfully, strangely 
 heaped up and outlined in the dimly-transparent 
 air. The glow of sunset — a consumptive glow — 
 has not yet departed, and will not depart until 
 morning from the white, starless sky. It lies on 
 the silky surface of the Neva, and the river barely 
 murmurs and barely undulates as it hastens on' 
 ward its cold, blue waters. . . . 
 
 " Let us fly away,"— pleaded Ellis. 
 
 And, without awaiting my answer, she bore me 
 across the Neva, across the Palace Square, to the 
 Liteinaya. Footsteps and voices were audible be- 
 low : along the street a cluster of young men were 
 walking with drink-sodden faces and discussing 
 dancing-classes. " Sub-lieutenant StolpakofF the 
 seventh! " suddenly cried out in his sleep a soldier, 
 who was standing on guard at the pyramid of 
 rusty cannon-balls,^ and a httle further on, at the 
 open window of a tall house I caught sight of a 
 young girl in a crumpled silk gown without 
 sleeves, with a pearl net on her hair and a ciga- 
 
 * At the Artillery Barracks. — Translator. 
 
 46
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 rette in her mouth. She was devoutly perusing a 
 book: it was the work of one of the most recent 
 Juvenals. 
 
 " Let us fly on! "—I said to Ellis. 
 
 A minute more, and the little forests of decay- 
 ing spruce-trees and mossy swamps which sur- 
 round Petersburg were flitting past us. We 
 directed our course straight for the south ; sky and 
 earth gradually grew darker and darker. The 
 diseased night, the diseased day, the diseased city 
 — all were left behind. 
 
 XXIII 
 
 We flew more slowly than usual, and I was able to 
 watch how the broad expanse of my native land 
 unrolled before me like a series of interminable 
 panoramas. Forests, bushes, fields, ravines, riv- 
 ers — now and then villages and churches — and 
 then again fields, and forests, and bushes, and ra- 
 vines. ... I grew melancholy, — and melancholy in 
 an indifferent sort of way, somehow. And I 
 was not melancholy and bored because we were 
 flying over Russia in particular. No ! The land 
 itself, that flat surface which spread out beneath 
 me; the whole earthly globe with its inhabitants, 
 transitory, impotent, crushed by want, by sorrow, 
 by diseases, fettered to a clod of contemptible 
 earth; that rough, brittle crust, that excrescence 
 on the fiery grain of sand of our planet, on which 
 
 47
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 has broken out a mould dignified by us with the 
 appellation of the organic, vegetable kingdom; 
 those men-flies, a thousand times more insignifi- 
 cant than flies; their huts stuck together out of 
 mud, the tiny traces of their petty, monotonous 
 pother, their amusing struggles with the un- 
 changeable and the inevitable, — how loathsome 
 all this suddenly became to me ! My heart slowly 
 grew nauseated, and I did not wish to gaze any 
 longer at those insignificant pictures, at that stale 
 exhibition. . . Yes, I felt bored — worse than bored. 
 I did not even feel compassion for my fellow- 
 men : all emotions within me were drowned in one 
 which I hardly venture to name: in a feeling of 
 aversion; and that aversion was strongest of all 
 and most of all toward myself. 
 
 " Stop," — whispered Ellis: — " Stop, or I will 
 not carry thee. Thou art becoming heavy." 
 
 " Go home." — I replied in the same sort of a 
 tone with which I was accustomed to utter those 
 words to my coachman on emerging, at four 
 o'clock in the morning, from the houses of my 
 Moscow friends with whom I had been discussing 
 the future of Russia and the significance of the 
 commune ever since dinner. — " Go home," — I re- 
 peated, and closed my eyes. 
 
 48
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 XXIV 
 
 But I speedily opened them again. Ellis was 
 pressing against me in a strange sort of way ; she 
 was almost pushing me. I looked at her, and the 
 blood curdled in my veins. Any one who has 
 chanced to behold on the face of another a sudden 
 expression of profound terror the cause of which 
 he does not suspect, will understand me. Terror, 
 harassing terror, contorted, distorted the pale, 
 almost obliterated features of Ellis. I have never 
 beheld anything like it even on a living human 
 face. A lifeless, shadowy phantom, a shadow 
 and that swooning terror .... 
 
 " Ellis, what ails thee? " — I said at last. 
 
 " 'T is she .... 't is she " she replied with 
 
 an effort;-" 'tis she!" 
 
 "She? Who is she?" 
 
 " Do not name her, do not name her," — hur- 
 riedly stammered Ellis. — " We must flee, or there 
 will be an end to all — and forever. . . . Look: 
 yonder ! " 
 
 I turned my head in the direction which she in- 
 dicated to me with trembling hand, — and saw 
 something .... something really frightful. 
 
 This something was all the more frightful be- 
 cause it had no definite form. Something heavy, 
 gloomy, yellowish-black in hue, mottled like the 
 belly of a lizard,— not a storm-cloud, and not 
 
 49
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 smoke,— was moving over the earth with a slow, 
 serpentine motion. A measured, wide-reaching 
 undulation downward and upward, — an undu- 
 lation which reminded one of the ominous sweep 
 of the wings of a bird of prey, when it is in 
 search of its booty; at times an inexpressibly re- 
 volting swooping down to the earth, — that is the 
 way a spider swoops down to the captured fly. 
 .... Who art thou, what art thou, threatening 
 mass? Under its influence — I saw it, I felt it — 
 everything was annihilated, everything grew 
 dumb. ... A rotten, pestilential odour emanated 
 from it— and a chill that caused the heart to grow 
 sick, and made things grow dark before the eyes, 
 and the hair to stand on end. It was a power 
 which was advancing; — the power which cannot 
 be resisted, to which all are subject, which, with- 
 out sight, without form, without thought, sees 
 everything, knows everything, and like a bird of 
 prey chooses out its victims, like a serpent crushes 
 them and licks them with its chilly sting. . . . 
 
 " Ellis! Ellis! "—I shrieked like a madman.— 
 " That is Death! Death itself! " 
 
 The wailing sound which I had already heard, 
 burst from Ellis's mouth — this time it bore more 
 resemblance to a despairing, human scream — and 
 we dashed away. But our flight was strange and 
 frightfully uneven; Ellis kept turning somer- 
 saults in the air; she fell downward, she threw 
 herself from side to side, like a partridge which 
 
 50
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 is mortally wounded, or which is desirous of lur^ 
 ing the hound away from her brood. And yet, 
 long, wavy offshoots, separating themselves from 
 the inexpressibly-dreadful mass, rolled after us, 
 like outstretched arms, like claws. . . . The huge 
 form of a muffled figure on a pale horse rose up 
 for one moment, and soared up to the very sky. 
 .... Still more agitatedly, still more despair- 
 ingly did Ellis throw herself about. " She has 
 seen me! All is over! I am lost!" .... her 
 broken whisper became audible. " Oh, unhappy 
 one that I am! I might have enjoyed, I might 
 have acquired life .... but now .... Anni- 
 hilation, annihilation!" 
 
 This was too unbearable. ... I lost conscious- 
 ness. 
 
 XXV 
 
 When I came to myself I was lying prone upon 
 the grass, and felt a dull pain all through my 
 body, as though from a severe injury. Dawn 
 was breaking in the sky : I was able to distinguish 
 objects clearly. Not far away, along the edge 
 of a birch-coppice, ran a road fringed with wil- 
 lows; the surroundings seemed familiar to me. 
 I began to recall what had happened to me, — 
 and I shuddered all over, as soon as the last, mon- 
 strous vision recurred to my mind. . . . 
 
 51
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 " But of what was Ellis afraid? " I thought. 
 " Can it be possible that she also is subject to its 
 power? Can it be that she is not immortal? Can 
 it be that she is doomed to annihilation, to de- 
 struction? How is that possible? " 
 
 A soft moan resounded close at hand. I turned 
 my head. Two paces distant from me lay, out- 
 stretched and motionless, a young woman in a 
 white gown, with dishevelled hair and bared shoul- 
 ders. One arm was thrown up over her head, the 
 other fell upon her breast. Her eyes were closed, 
 and a light crimson foam had burst forth upon 
 the closely-compressed lips. Could that be Ellis? 
 But Ellis was a phantom, while I beheld before 
 me a living woman. I approached her, bent 
 over. . . . 
 
 "Ellis? Is it thou?" — I exclaimed. Sud- 
 denly, with a slow quiver, the broad eyelids were 
 lifted; dark, piercing eyes bored into me— and at 
 that same moment the lips also clung to me, 
 warm, moist, with a scent of blood .... the soft 
 arms wound themselves tightly round my neck, 
 the full, burning bosom was pressed convulsively 
 to mine. — " Farewell! Farewell forever!"— a 
 dying voice articulated distinctly,— and every- 
 thing vanished. 
 
 I rose to my feet staggering like one intox- 
 icated, and passing my hands several times across 
 my face, I gazed attentively about me. I was 
 close to the *** highway, a couple of versts from 
 
 52
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 my manor-house. The sun had already risen 
 when I reached home. 
 
 All the following nights I waited— and not 
 without terror, I admit — for the appearance of 
 my phantom; but it did not visit me again. I 
 even went one day, in the twilight, to the old oak- 
 tree; but nothing unusual occurred there either. 
 I did not grieve overmuch, however, at the ces- 
 sation of the strange friendship. I pondered 
 much and long over this incomprehensible, almost 
 inexplicable affair — and I became convinced that 
 not only is science unable to elucidate it, but that 
 even in the fairy-tales, the legends, there is no- 
 thing of the sort to be encountered. What was 
 Ellis, as a matter of fact? A vision, a wandering 
 soul, an evil spirit, a sylph, a vampire? Some- 
 times it seemed to me once more that Ellis was a 
 woman whom I had formerly known, and I made 
 strenuous efforts to recall where I had seen her. 
 . . . . There now, there,— it sometimes seemed 
 to me, — I shall recall it directly, in another mo- 
 ment. ... In vain ! again everything deliquesced 
 hke a dream. Yes, I pondered a great deal, and 
 as was to be expected, I arrived at no conclusion. 
 I could not make up my mind to ask the advice 
 or opinion of other people, for I was afraid of 
 gaining the reputation of a madman. At last 
 I have cast aside all my surmises: to tell the truth, 
 I am in no mood for them. On the one hand, the 
 
 53
 
 PHANTOMS 
 
 Emancipation has taken place, with its division 
 of arable land, and so forth, and so on; on the 
 other hand, my health has failed; my chest has 
 begun to pain me, I am subject to insomnia, and 
 have a cough. My whole body is withering away. 
 My face is yellow as that of a corpse. The doc- 
 tor declares that I have very little blood, and calls 
 my malady by a Greek name — " anaemia " — and 
 has ordered me to Gastein. But the Arbiter of 
 the Peace ^ fears that he " will not be able to deal 
 with " the peasants without me. . . . 
 
 So you see how matters stand ! 
 
 But what signify those keen, piercingly-clear 
 sounds, — the sounds of a harmonica, — which I 
 hear as soon as people begin to talk to me about 
 any one's death? They grow ever louder and more 
 piercing. . . . And why do I shudder in such 
 torturing anguish at the mere thought of anni- 
 hilation? 
 
 1 An official who was appointed after the Emancipation to arbi- 
 trate differences of opinion as to the division of the land between the 
 landed proprietors and the serfs. — Tkakslatoh. 
 
 54
 
 vAkoff pAsynkoff 
 
 (1855)
 
 yAkoff pAsynkoff 
 
 IT happened in Petersburg, in winter, on the 
 first day of the carnival-week. I had been in- 
 vited to dine by one of my boarding-school com- 
 rades, who had borne the reputation in his youth 
 of being a pretty girl, and had later on turned 
 out a man who was not in the least bashful. He 
 is dead now, like the majority of my comrades. 
 In addition to myself, Konstantin Alexandro- 
 vitch Asanoff , and a literary celebrity of the day 
 had promised to come to dinner. The literary 
 celebrity kept us waiting for him, and at last sent 
 word that he would not come, but in his stead a 
 small, fair-haired gentleman presented himself,— 
 one of those everlasting unbidden guests in which 
 Petersburg abounds. 
 
 The dinner lasted a long time ; the host did not 
 spare his wine, and our heads gradually got 
 heated. Everything that each one of us had con- 
 cealed in his soul — and who has not something 
 concealed in his soul? — came out. The host's 
 face suddenly lost its modest and reserved ex- 
 
 57
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 pression ; his eyes began to glitter insolently, and 
 an insipid grin distorted his hps; the fair-haired 
 gentleman began to laugh in a pitiful sort of way, 
 with a stupid whine; but Asanoff surprised me 
 most of all. That man had always been distin- 
 guished for a sense of decorum ; but on this occa- 
 sion he suddenly began to pass his hand across 
 his brow, to put on airs, and to brag of his power- 
 ful connections, incessantly making mention of 
 some uncle of his, a very influential man. ... I 
 decidedly failed to recognise him ; he was openly 
 jeering at us .... he almost expressed his con- 
 tempt for our society. Asanofl"s insolence en- 
 raged me. 
 
 " See here,"— I said to him:—" if we are so in- 
 significant in your eyes, march ofl* to your influ- 
 ential uncle. But perhaps he does not admit you 
 to his presence? " 
 
 Asanofl* made me no reply, and continued to 
 draw his hand across his brow. 
 
 " And what sort of folks are these! "—he said 
 again.—" Why, they never go in any decent so- 
 ciety, they are n't acquainted with a single well- 
 bred woman, while I,"— he exclaimed, drawing 
 from his side-pocket a wallet, and banging the 
 table with it,—" have here a whole bunch of letters 
 from a young girl whose like you will not find in 
 all the world! " 
 
 The host and the fair-haired gentleman paid no 
 heed to Asanofl"s last words; they were clutch- 
 ing each other by the button. • d both of them 
 
 58
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 were narrating some story; but I pricked up my 
 ears. 
 
 " Well, you are bragging in good sooth, Mr. 
 Nephew of an important personage!" — I said, 
 moving closer to Asanoff: — "you have n't any 
 letters, whatsoever." 
 
 " You think so? "—he retorted, glancing loftily 
 down upon me. — " What 's this, then? " — He 
 opened the wallet, and showed me about half a 
 score of letters addressed to him. ..." The 
 handwriting is familiar! " — I thought. . . . 
 
 I feel the flush of shame start out on my cheeks 
 .... my self-love suffers acutely. . . . What 
 possesses me to confess so ignoble a deed? .... 
 But there is no help for it. I knew when I began 
 my tale that I should be forced to blush to the 
 vefy ears. So, then, summoning up all my forces, 
 1 am bound to confess that .... 
 
 Here is the point: I took advantage of Asa- 
 nofF's tipsy condition, and when he carelessly 
 flung the letters on the table-cloth, which was 
 drenched with champagne (my own head was 
 buzzing pretty hard, too), I swiftly ran my eye 
 over one of the letters. . . . 
 
 My heart sank within me. . . . Alas ! I myself 
 was in love with the young girl who had been 
 writing to Asanoif , and now I could no longer 
 cherish any doubt that she loved him. The whole 
 letter, which was written in French, breathed 
 forth tenderness, devotion. . . . 
 
 " Mon cher ami Cons tan tin! "—that was the 
 
 59
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 way it began and it wound up with the words : 
 
 " be cautious, as of yore, and I will be yours or 
 no one's." 
 
 Stunned, as though by a clap of thunder, I sat 
 motionless for a few moments, but recovered my- 
 self at last, sprang to my feet, and rushed from 
 the room. . . . 
 
 A quarter of an hour later I was in my own 
 lodgings. 
 
 The Zlotnitzky family was one of the first with 
 which I had become acquainted after my removal 
 from Moscow to Petersburg. It consisted of fa- 
 ther, mother, two daughters, and a son. The 
 father, already a grey-haired but still fresh man, 
 formerly in the army, occupied a rather impor- 
 tant post, spent the morning at his service, slept 
 after dinner, and in the evening played cards at 
 the club. . . . He was rarely at home, he con- 
 versed little and reluctantly, gazed askance from 
 under his brows in a manner which was not pre- 
 cisely surly nor yet precisely indiiFerent, and 
 never read anything except books of travel and 
 geographies, and when he was ill he coloured pic- 
 tures, having locked himself in his study, or 
 teased the old grey parrot Popka. His wife, an 
 ailing and consumptive woman, with sunken black 
 eyes and a sharp nose, never quitted her couch for 
 days together, and was always embroidering cush- 
 ions on canvas; so far as I was able to observe, 
 
 60
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 she was afraid of her husband, exactly as though 
 she were culpable toward him in some way. The 
 eldest daughter, Varvara, a plump, rosy, chest- 
 nut-haired girl, eighteen years of age, was per- 
 petually sitting at the window and scrutinising 
 the passers-by. The son was being educated in a 
 government institution, made his appearance at 
 home only on Sunday, and was not fond of wast- 
 ing words for nothing either; even the younger 
 daughter, Sofya, the young girl with whom I 
 fell in love, was of a taciturn disposition. Si- 
 lence always reigned in the Zlotnitzkys' house; 
 only Popka's piercing screams broke it; but visi- 
 tors speedily became accustomed to it, and again 
 felt the burden and oppression of that eternal 
 silence weighing upon them. However, visitors 
 rarely looked in at the Zlotnitzkys': it was tire- 
 some there. The very furniture, the red wall- 
 paper, with yellowish patterns, in the drawing- 
 room; the multitude of chairs, with plaited seats, 
 in the dining-room; the faded worsted pillows, 
 with representations of young girls and dogs, on 
 the divans; the horned lamps and gloomy por- 
 traits, on the walls — all inspired an involuntary'- 
 melancholy, all emitted a cold, sour sort of atmos- 
 phere. On reaching Petersburg, I had regarded 
 it as my duty to call upon the Zlotnitzkys: they 
 were distantly related to my mother. AVith dif- 
 ficulty did I sit out the hour, and for a long time 
 I did not return; but gradually I took to going 
 
 61
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 more and more frequently. I was attracted by 
 Sofya, whom I had not hked at first, and with 
 whom I ultimately fell in love. 
 
 She was a girl of short stature, almost gaunt, 
 with a pale face, thick, black hair, and large, 
 brown eyes, which were always half -closed. Her 
 features, which were regular and sharp-set, espe- 
 cially her tightly-compressed lips, expressed 
 firmness and force of will. At home she was 
 called a girl with character. ..." She resembles 
 her eldest sister, Katerina," — said Madame Zlot- 
 nitzky one day, when she was sitting alone with 
 me (she never ventured to refer to that Katerina 
 in her husband's presence) . — " You do not know 
 her; she is in the Caucasus, married. At the age 
 of thirteen, — just imagine it! — she fell in love 
 with the man who is now her husband, and then 
 announced to us that she would marry no one 
 else. Do what we would, — nothing was of any 
 avail ! She waited until she was twenty-three, en- 
 raged her father, — and married her idol all the 
 same. It would be the easiest thing in the world 
 for a catastrophe to happen with Sonetchka also! 
 May the Lord preserve her from such stubborn- 
 ness ! But I 'm apprehensive for her ; she is only 
 sixteen, but already it is impossible to control 
 her. ..." 
 
 Mr. Zlotnitzky entered; his wife immediately 
 fell silent. 
 
 Strictly speaking, Sofya did not attract me by 
 
 62
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 her force of will— no; but, with all her dryness, 
 and lack of animation and imagination, she pos- 
 sessed the charm of straightforwardness, honour- 
 able sincerity, and spiritual purity. I respected 
 her as much as I loved her. ... It seemed to me 
 that she was well-inclined toward me ; it was pain- 
 ful to me to be undeceived as to her attachment, 
 to become convinced of her love for another. 
 
 The unexpected discovery which I had made 
 astounded me all the more, because Mr. Asanoff 
 visited the Zlotnitzkys' house infrequently, much 
 more rarely than I did, and showed no particular 
 preference for Sofya. He was a handsome, dark- 
 complexioned man, with expressive, although 
 rather heavy features, prominent, brilliant eyes, 
 a large, white brow, and plump, red httle lips be- 
 neath a delicate moustache. He bore himself very 
 modestly, but rigorously, talked and pronounced 
 judgment with self-confidence, and held his peace 
 with dignity. It was obvious that he thought a 
 great deal of himself. AsanofF laughed rarely, 
 and that through his teeth, and he never danced. 
 He was very badly built. He had once served 
 in the *** regiment, and had borne the reputa- 
 tion of an active officer. 
 
 " Strange ! "—I reflected, as I lay on my divan : 
 —"why have I not noticed anything of this?" 
 The words of Sofya's letter suddenly recurred to 
 my mind.— "Ah!"— I thought:— " that 's it! 
 What a crafty httle girl! And I had thought 
 
 63
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 her frank and sincere. . . . Well, just wait, and 
 I '11 show you !...." 
 
 But at this point, so far as I can recall the 
 circumstances, I fell to weeping bitterly, and 
 could not get to sleep until morning. 
 
 On the following day, at two o'clock, I set out for 
 the Zlotnitzkys'. The old man was not at home, 
 and his wife was not sitting in her accustomed 
 place; her head had begun to ache after she had 
 eaten pancakes,^ and she had gone to lie down in 
 her bedroom. Varvara was standing with her 
 shoulder leaning against the window, and staring 
 into the street ; Sofya was pacing to and fro in the 
 room, with her arms folded across her breast; 
 Popka^ was shrieking. 
 
 "Ah! good morning! "—said Varvara, lan- 
 guidly, as soon as I entered the room, and imme- 
 diately added, in an undertone: "yonder goes a 
 man with a tray on his head. . . ." (She had a 
 habit of making remarks about the passers-by, 
 occasionally, and as though to herself. ) 
 
 " Good morning,"— I replied. — " Good morn- 
 ing, Sofya Nikolaevna. And where is Tatyana 
 Vasilievna? " 
 
 1 Pancakes, served with melted butter and caviare (never with sweet 
 syrup), are the principal feature of the Russian " butter-week " or 
 carnival-tide, and are seldom or never eaten at any other time. — 
 Translator. 
 
 2 Equivalent to Polly, in the case of parrots.— Thanslatoh. 
 
 64
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " She has gone to lie down," — replied Sofya, 
 continuing to pace the room. 
 
 " We had pancakes," — remarked Varvara, 
 without turning round. — " Why did n't you 
 come? . . . Where is that clerk going? " 
 
 "I had no time."- (" Po-li-iice! " yelled the 
 parrot, harshly.) —" How your Popka does 
 screech to-day! " 
 
 " He always screeches like that," — said Sofya. 
 
 We all maintained silence for a while. 
 
 " He has turned in at the gate," — said Var- 
 vara, suddenly climbing on the window-sill and 
 opening the hinged pane. 
 
 " What art thou about? " — inquired Sofya. 
 
 " A beggar," — replied Varvara, bent down, 
 picked up a copper five-kopek piece, on which the 
 ashes of a fumigating pastile still rose in a mound, 
 flung the coin into the street, slammed to the pane, 
 and jumped heavily to the floor. . . . 
 
 " I passed the time very pleasantly last night," 
 —I began, as I seated myself in an arm-chair: — 
 " I dined with a friend ; Konstantin Alexandritch 
 was there. ..." (I looked at Sofya; she did not 
 even contract her brows.) —" And, I must con- 
 fess," — I went on, — " that we got rather con- 
 vivial; the four of us drank eight bottles." 
 
 " You don't say so! "—calmly ejaculated So- 
 fya, shaking her head. 
 
 " Yes," — I went on, slightly nettled by her in- 
 
 65
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 difference; — "and do you know what, Sofya 
 Nikolaevna, — 't is not without reason that the 
 proverb says that when the wine is in the truth 
 comes out." 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 " Konstantin Alexandritch made us laugh 
 greatly. Just picture to yourself: he suddenly 
 took to passing his hand across his forehead like 
 this, and saying : ' What a fine, dashing fellow I 
 am! I have an uncle who is a distinguished 
 man. . . .' " 
 
 " Ha, ha! " — rang out Varvara's short, abrupt 
 laugh. ..." Popka, popka, popka! " rattled 
 the parrot in response. 
 
 Sofya halted in front of me, and looked into 
 my face. 
 
 "And what did you say?" — she asked; — 
 " don't you remember? " 
 
 I blushed involuntarily. 
 
 " I don't remember! I must have been in a fine 
 state also. As a matter of fact,"— I added, with 
 significant pauses: — " it is a dangerous thing to 
 drink wine ; the first you know, you babble secrets, 
 and say that which no one ought to know. You 
 will repent afterward, but then it is too late." 
 
 " And did you babble secrets? "—inquired 
 Sofya. 
 
 " I 'm not talking about myself." 
 
 Sofya turned away, and again began to walk 
 up and down the room. I gazed at her, and raged 
 
 66
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 inwardly. " Just look at you," — I said to myself, 
 — " you 're a baby, a mere child, yet what control 
 you have over yourself ! You 're like a stone, sim- 
 ply. But just wait a bit. . . ." 
 
 " Sofya Nikolaevna . . . ."I said aloud. 
 
 Sofya stood still. 
 
 "What do you want?" 
 
 " Will not you play something on the piano? 
 By the way, I have something to tell you," — I 
 added, lowering my voice. 
 
 Sofya, without uttering a word, went into the 
 hall; I followed her. She stopped beside the 
 piano. 
 
 " What shall I play for you? " — she asked. 
 
 " What you please ... a nocturne by Chopin." 
 
 Sofya began the nocturne. She played rather 
 badly, but with feeling. Her sister played only 
 polkas and waltzes, and that rarely. She would 
 lounge up to the piano, with her lazy gait, seat 
 herself, drop the burnous from her shoulders to 
 her elbows (I never saw her without a burnous) , 
 start up a polka thunderously, fail to finish it, 
 begin another, then suddenly heave a sigh, rise 
 and return to the window. A strange being was 
 that Varvara. 
 
 I sat down beside Sofya. 
 
 " Sofya Nikolaevna," — I began, gazing in- 
 tently at her askance: — " I must impart to you a 
 bit of news which is very disagreeable to me." 
 
 "News? What is it?" 
 
 67
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " This. . . . Up to this time I have been mis- 
 taken in you, utterly mistaken." 
 
 " How so? "—she returned, continuing to play, 
 and fixing her eyes on her fingers. 
 
 " I have thought that you were frank; I have 
 thought that you did not know how to be crafty, 
 to be sly " 
 
 Sofya put her face close to her music. . . . 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
 "But the principal thing is," — I went on: — 
 " that I could not possibly imagine, that you, at 
 your age, were already capable of playing a. part 
 in so masterly a manner. . . ." 
 
 Sofya's hands trembled slightly on the keys. 
 
 " What are you saying? " — she said, still with- 
 out looking at me: — " I am playing a part? " 
 
 " Yes, you." (She laughed. . . . Fierce wrath 
 took possession of me.) . . . . " You feign to be 
 indifferent to a certain man and . . . and you 
 write letters to him," — I added in a whisper. 
 
 Sofya's cheeks blanched, but she did not turn 
 toward me; she played the nocturne to the end, 
 rose, and shut the lid of the piano. 
 
 " Where are you going? " — I asked, not with- 
 out confusion. — " You will not answer me? " 
 
 " What answer have I to make to you? I 
 don't know what you are talking about. . . . 
 And I don't know how to dissemble." 
 
 She began to put the music together. . . . 
 
 The blood flew to my head. 
 
 68
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " Yes, you do know what I am talking about," 
 —I said, rising also:— "and if you like, I will 
 immediately remind you of several expressions 
 in one of those letters:— 'be cautious as of 
 yore.' ..." 
 
 Sofya gave a slight start. 
 
 " I had not in the least expected this from you," 
 — she said at last. 
 
 " And I had not in the least expected,"— I 
 interposed,—" that you, Sofya Nikolaevna, 
 deigned to bestow your attention upon a man 
 who . . . ." 
 
 Sofya turned swiftly toward me; I involun- 
 tarily retreated a pace; her eyes, always half- 
 closed, were so widely opened that they ap- 
 peared huge, and sparkled angrily under her 
 brows. 
 
 "Ah! In that case,"— said she,— "you must 
 know that I love that man, and that your opinion 
 of him and of my love for him is a matter of 
 perfect indifference to me. And where did you 
 get the idea? .... What right have you to say 
 that? And if I have made up my mind to any- 
 thing . . . ." 
 
 She stopped short, and swiftly left the room. 
 
 I remained. I suddenly felt so awkward and 
 conscience-stricken, that I covered my face with 
 my hands. I comprehended all the impropriety, 
 all the baseness of my conduct, and panting with 
 shame and penitence, I stood like one branded 
 
 69
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 with disgrace. "My God!"— I thought:— 
 " what have I done? " 
 
 " Anton Nikititch,"— the maid's voice became 
 audible in the anteroom,—" please get a glass of 
 water as quickly as possible for Sofya Nikola- 
 evna." 
 
 " Why, what 's the matter? "—asked the butler. 
 
 " I think she 's weeping. . . ." 
 
 I gave a start, and went into the drawing-room 
 to get my hat. 
 
 " What were you talking about with S6- 
 netchka? "— Varvara asked me indifferently, and 
 after a brief pause, she added in an undertone: 
 — " there goes that notary's clerk again." 
 
 I began to take my leave. 
 
 " Where are you going? Wait, mamma will 
 come out of her room directly." 
 
 "No; I can't now,"— said I:— "it would be 
 better for me to return some other time." 
 
 At that moment, to my terror,— precisely that, 
 —to my terror, Sofya entered the drawing-room 
 with firm steps. Her face was paler than usual, 
 and her eyelids were slightly red. She did not 
 even glance at me. 
 
 " Look, Sofya,"— said Varvara:—" some clerk 
 or other keeps walking about our house." 
 
 " Some spy or other," .... remarked Sofya, 
 coldly and scornfully. 
 
 This was too much! I departed, and, really, 
 I do not remember how I got home. 
 
 70
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 I was very heavy at heart, more heavy and 
 bitter than I can describe. Two such cruel blows 
 in the space of four-and-twenty hours! I had 
 learned that Sofya loved another, and had for- 
 ever forfeited her respect. I felt myself so anni- 
 hilated and put to shame, that I could not even 
 be indignant with myself. As I lay on the divan, 
 with my face turned to the wall, I was surrender- 
 ing myself with a sort of burning enjoyment to 
 the first outbursts of despairing anguish, when 
 I suddenly heard footsteps in the room. I 
 raised my head and beheld one of my most in- 
 timate friends — YakofF PasynkofF. 
 
 I was ready to fly into a passion with any man 
 who entered my room that day, but never could I 
 be angry with PasynkofF; on the contrary, in 
 spite of the grief which was devouring me, I in- 
 wardly rejoiced at his coming, and nodded to him. 
 According to his wont, he strode up and down the 
 room a couple of times, grunting and stretching 
 his long limbs, stood silently for a little while, in 
 front of me, and silently seated himself in one 
 corner. 
 
 I had known PasynkofF a very long time, al- 
 most from childhood. He had been reared in 
 the same private boarding-school, kept by a Ger- 
 man named Winterkeller, in which I had spent 
 three years. Yakoff's father, a poor, retired 
 major, a very honourable man, but somewhat un- 
 hinged mentally, had brought him, an urchin of 
 
 n
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 seven years, to this German, paid a year's tuition 
 in advance, had gone avray from Moscow, and 
 vanished, without leaving a trace. From time 
 to time dark, strange rumours concerning him ar- 
 rived. Only after the lapse of seven years was it 
 learned with certainty that he had been drowned 
 in a freshet, as he was crossing the Irtysh. What 
 had taken him to Siberia, the Lord only knows. 
 YakofF had no other relatives. So he remained 
 on Winterkeller's hands. It is true that YakofF 
 had one distant relative, — an aunt, who was so 
 poor, that at first she was afraid to go to see her 
 nephew, lest they should cast him on her shoul- 
 ders. Her alarm proved to be unfounded; the 
 kind-hearted German kept YakofF with him, per- 
 mitted him to learn with the other pupils, fed 
 him (but they passed him over at dessert on week- 
 days), and made over clothing for him from the 
 camelot morning-gowns (chiefly snufF-coloured) 
 of his mother, a very aged, but still alert and 
 active Liflyand ^ woman. The result of all these 
 circumstances, and the result of YakofF's inferior 
 position in the boarding-school was, that his com- 
 rades treated him slightingly, looked down on 
 him, and called him sometimes " woman's wrap- 
 per," sometimes " the mob-cap's nephew " (his 
 aunt constantly wore a very queer cap, with a 
 tuft of yellow ribbons in the shape of an arti- 
 choke, sticking out at the top), sometimes "the 
 
 ^ Livonia.— Translator. 
 
 72
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 son of Yermak ^ (because his father had been 
 drowned in the Irtysh). But, in spite of these 
 nicknames, in spite of his absurd garments, in 
 spite of his extreme poverty, they all loved him 
 greatly, and it was impossible not to love him; a 
 kinder, more noble soul never existed on earth, 
 I think. He also studied extremely well. 
 
 When I saw him for the first time, he was six- 
 teen years of age, while I had just passed my 
 thirteenth birthday. I was an extremely conceited 
 and spoiled urchin, had been reared in a fairly 
 wealthy home, and therefore when I entered the 
 boarding-school I made haste to get intimate with 
 a certain little Prince, the object of Winterkeller's 
 special solicitude, and with two or three other 
 small aristocrats, while I put on pompous airs 
 with all the rest. I did not even deign to notice 
 Pasynkoff . That long, awkward young fellow, 
 in his hideous round- jacket and short trousers, 
 from beneath which peeped thick, knitted thread 
 stockings, seemed to me something in the nature 
 of a page-boy from the house-serfs' class, or the 
 son of a petty burgher. Pasynkoff was very po- 
 lite and gentle to everybody, although he fawned 
 on no one ; if they repulsed him, he did not hum- 
 ble himself, and did not sulk, but held himself 
 aloof, as though grieving and waiting. Thus did 
 he behave with me also. About two months 
 
 1 The conqueror of Siberia, in the reign of Ivan the Terrible. He was 
 drowned (1584) while trying to swim the Irtysh.— TRANaLATOR. 
 
 73
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 elapsed. One clear summer day, as I was pass- 
 ing from the courtyard into the garden, after a 
 noisy game of ball, I saw Pasynkoff sitting on a 
 bench, under a tall lilac-bush. He was reading 
 a book. I cast a glance, in passing, at the cover, 
 and read on the back the title: " Schiller's 
 Werke." I stopped short. 
 
 " Do you know German? "—I asked Pasyn- 
 koff. . . . 
 
 To this day I feel mortified, when I recall how 
 much scorn there was in the sound of my voice. 
 .... Pasynkoff gently raised his small but 
 expressive eyes to mine, and answered: 
 
 " Yes, I do; do you? " 
 
 " I should think sol "—I retorted, already af- 
 fronted; and was on the point of proceeding on 
 my way, but something kept me back. 
 
 " And what in particular are you reading from 
 Schiller?"— I inquired with as much haughti- 
 ness as before. 
 
 " I am now reading ' Resignation ' ; it is a very 
 beautiful poem. I '11 read it to you if you like— 
 shall I? Sit down here beside me, on the bench." 
 
 I hesitated a little, but sat down. Pasynkoff 
 began to read. He knew German much better 
 than I did; he was obliged to explain to me the 
 sense of several lines; but I was no longer 
 ashamed either of my ignorance, or of his superi- 
 ority to myself. From that day forth, from that 
 reading together in the garden, in the shade of the 
 
 74
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 lilac-bush, I loved Pasynkoff with all my soul ; I 
 got intimate with him, I submitted wholly to him. 
 I vividly recall his personal appearance at that 
 epoch. However, he changed very little after- 
 ward. He was tall, thin, long-bodied, and de- 
 cidedly clumsy. His narrow shoulders and 
 sunken chest gave him a sickly aspect, although 
 he had no reason to complain of his health. His 
 large head, arched on top, was inclined slightly 
 on one side, his soft, chestnut hair hung in thin 
 locks around his thin neck. His face was not 
 handsome, and might even appear ridiculous, 
 thanks to his long, thick and reddened nose, 
 which seemed to hang over his broad, straight 
 lips; but his open brow was very fine, and when 
 he smiled, his small, grey eyes beamed with such 
 gentle and affectionate good-nature, that every- 
 one felt warm and blithe at heart, from merely 
 looking at him. I recall his voice, also, soft and 
 even, with a peculiarly agreeable hoarseness. He 
 talked little, as a general thing, and with obvious 
 difficulty ; but when he grew animated his speech 
 flowed freely and,— strange to say!— his voice 
 grew even softer, his glance seemed to retreat 
 within and become extinguished, and his whole 
 face flushed faintly. In his mouth the words: 
 "good," "truth," "life," "science," "love," 
 never had a false ring, no matter how enthusi- 
 astically he uttered them. He entered into the 
 realm of the ideal without a strain, without an 
 
 75
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 eiFort; his chaste soul was ready at all times to 
 present itself before " the shrine of beauty "; it 
 waited only for the greeting, the touch of an- 
 other soul. . . . Pasynkoff was a romanticist, 
 one of the last romanticists whom I have chanced 
 to meet. The romanticists, as every one knows, 
 have died out now; at all events, there are none 
 among the young people of the present day. So 
 much the worse for the young people of the pres- 
 ent day ! 
 
 I spent about three years with Pasynkoff, soul 
 to soul, as the saying is. I was the confidant of 
 his first love. With what grateful attention and 
 sympathy did I listen to his avowal! The object 
 of his passion was Winterkeller's niece, a fair- 
 haired pretty little German, with a plump, almost 
 childish little face, and trustful, tender blue eyes. 
 She was very kind-hearted and sentimental, loved 
 Mattieson, Uhland, and Schiller, and recited their 
 verses very agreeably, in her timid, melodious 
 voice. PasynkofF's love was of the most platonic 
 sort; he saw his beloved only on Sunday (she 
 came to play at forfeits with the Winterkeller 
 children) and talked very little with her; on the 
 other hand, one day, when she said to him, " Mein 
 lieher, lieher Herr Jacob!" he could not get to 
 sleep all night from excess of happiness. It never 
 entered his head then, that she said '' mein lieher " 
 to all his comrades. I remember, too, his grief 
 and dejection, when the news suddenly spread 
 
 76
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 abroad, that Fraulein Frederika (that was her 
 name), was going to marry Herr Kniftus, the 
 owner of a rich meat-shop, and marry solely out 
 of obedience to her parents' wishes, but not for 
 love. That was a difficult time for Pasynkoff, 
 and he suffered especially on the day when the 
 newly-wedded pair made their first call. The 
 former Fraulein, now already Frau Frederika, 
 introduced him again by the name of " lieber Herr 
 Jacob" to her husband, everything about whom 
 was glistening : his eyes, and his black hair curled 
 into a crest, and his forehead, and his teeth, and 
 the buttons on his dress-suit, and the chain on 
 his waistcoat, and the very boots on his decidedly 
 large feet, whose toes were pointed outward. Pa- 
 synkoff shook hands with Herr Kniftus, and 
 wished him (and wished it sincerely — I am con- 
 vinced of that) full and long-continued happi- 
 ness. This took place in my presence. I remem- 
 ber with what surprise and sympathy I gazed at 
 Yakoff then. He seemed to me a hero ! . . . And 
 afterward, what sad conversations took place be- 
 tween us! — " Seek consolation in art," — I said to 
 him. — " Yes," — he answered me, — " and in 
 poetry."—" And in friendship,"— I added. — 
 " And in friendship,"— he repeated. Oh, happy 
 days! . . . 
 
 It was painful to me to part from Pasynkoff! 
 Just before my departure, he finally got his pa- 
 pers, and entered the university, after long wor- 
 
 77
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 rying and trouble, and a correspondence which 
 was often amusing He continued to exist at 
 Winterkeller's expense, but in place of the came- 
 lot round- jackets and trousers, he received the 
 customary clothing in return for lessons in vari- 
 ous subjects, which he gave to the younger pupils. 
 PasynkofF never changed his mode of conduct 
 to me to the very end of my stay in the boarding- 
 school, although the difference in our ages had 
 already begun to tell, and I, I remember, had 
 begun to be jealous of several of his new com- 
 rade-students. His influence on me was of the 
 most beneficial nature. Unfortunately, it was 
 not of long duration. I will cite one instance 
 only. In my childhood, I had a habit of lying. 
 .... In YakofF's presence my tongue never 
 turned to falsehood. But especially delightful to 
 me was it to stroll with him, or to pace by his 
 side to and fro in the room, and listen to him 
 recite verses in his quiet, concentrated voice, with- 
 out glancing at me. Really, it seemed to me then, 
 that he and I were gradually leaving the earth 
 behind us and soaring away into some radiant, 
 mysteriously-beautiful region. ... I remember 
 one night. He and I were sitting under the same 
 lilac-bush : we had grown fond of the spot. All 
 our comrades were already asleep; but we had 
 risen softly, dressed ourselves by the sense of feel- 
 ing, in the dark, and stealthily gone out " to 
 dream awhile." It was quite warm out of doors, 
 
 78
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 but a chilly little breeze blew in gusts now and 
 then, and made us nestle up closer to each other. 
 We talked, we talked a great deal, and with fer- 
 vour, so that we even interrupted each other, al- 
 though we were not wrangling. In the sky 
 shone myriads of stars. YakofF raised his eyes, 
 and, pressing my hand closely, softly exclaimed: 
 
 "Above us 
 
 Lies Heaven with its eternal stars. ,. . . 
 And above the stars is their Creator. „ . .■" 
 
 A devout tremor coursed through me ; I turned 
 cold all over, and sank down on his shoulder. . . . 
 My heart was filled to overflowing. . . . 
 
 Where are those raptures now? Alas! in the 
 place where youth is also. 
 
 I encountered Yakoff in Petersburg eight 
 years later on. I had just obtained a position 
 in the government service, and some one had got 
 him a petty post in some department or other. 
 Our meeting was of the most joyous character. 
 Never shall I forget that moment when, as I was 
 sitting at home one day, I suddenly heard his 
 voice in the anteroom. . . . How I started, with 
 what a violent beating of the heart did I spring to 
 my feet and throw myself on his neck, without 
 giving him time to take off his fur coat and un- 
 wind his scarf! How eagerly did I gaze at him 
 athwart bright, involuntary tears of delight ! He 
 had aged somewhat in the course of the last seven 
 
 79
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 years ; wrinkles, fine as the trace of a needle, had 
 furrowed his brow here and there, his cheeks had 
 grown slightly sunken, but his beard had hardly 
 increased at all in thickness, and his smile re- 
 mained the same as of yore, and his laugh, his 
 charming, inward laugh, which resembled a draw- 
 ing-in of the breath, was the same as ever. . . . 
 
 Great heavens ! what was there that we did not 
 talk over that day! .... How many favourite 
 poems we recited to each other! I began to urge 
 him to come and live with me, but he would not 
 consent; but, on the other hand, he promised to 
 come to see me every day, and he kept his promise. 
 
 And Pasynkoff had not changed in soul, either. 
 He presented himself before me the same roman- 
 ticist as I had formerly known him. In spite of 
 the way in which life's chill, the bitter chill of 
 experience, had gripped him, the tender flower, 
 which had blossomed early in the heart of my 
 friend had retained all its pristine beauty. No 
 sadness, no pensiveness even, were perceptible in 
 him: as of old, he was gentle, but ever blithe in 
 soul. 
 
 He lived in Petersburg as in a desert, taking 
 no heed for the future, and consorting with 
 hardly any one. I made him acquainted with the 
 Zlotnitzkys. He called on them with tolerable 
 frequency. Without being conceited, he was not 
 shy : but with them, as everywhere else, he talked 
 little, although he liked them. The heavy old 
 
 80
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 man, Tatyana Vasilievna's husband, even treated 
 him affectionately, and both the taciturn girls 
 speedily got used to him. 
 
 He would come bringing with him, in the back 
 pocket of his overcoat, some newly-published 
 work, and take a long time to make up his mind 
 to read it, but keep twisting his neck to one side, 
 like a bird, and peering to see whether it were 
 possible; and, at last, he would ensconce himself 
 in a corner (he was fond, in general, of sitting in 
 corners), pull out the book, and set to reading 
 aloud, now and then interrupting himself with 
 brief comments or exclamations. I noticed that 
 Varvara was more given to sitting down beside 
 him and listening than her sister was, although, 
 of course, she did not understand him clearly: 
 literature did not interest her. She would sit op- 
 posite Pasynkoff, with her chin propped on her 
 hands, and gaze, — not into his eyes, but into his 
 whole face,— and not give utterance to a single 
 word, but merely heave a sudden, noisy sigh. — In 
 the evening, we played at forfeits, especially on 
 Sundays and feast-days. We were then joined 
 by two young ladies, sisters, distant relatives of 
 the Zlotnitzkys,— small, plump girls, and fright- 
 ful gigglers; also by several cadets and yunkers, 
 very quiet, good-natured lads. Pasynkoff alwaj^s 
 seated himself beside Tatyana Vasilievna, and 
 helped her devise what the person who drew the 
 forfeit should do. 
 
 81
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Sofya was not fond of the caresses and kisses 
 with which forfeits are usually redeemed, while 
 Varvara was vexed when she was compelled to 
 hunt up anything or guess a riddle. The young 
 ladies giggled incessantly, — heaven knows what 
 about, — and I was sometimes seized with vexa- 
 tion when I looked at them, while PasynkofF 
 merely smiled and shook his head. Old Zlotnitzky 
 took no part in our games, and even glowered at 
 us in none too gracious wise from behind the door 
 of his study. Once only, quite unexpectedly, did 
 he come out to us, and suggest that the person 
 whose forfeit was drawn should waltz with him; 
 of course, we assented. Tatyana Vasilievna's 
 forfeit was drawn ; she flushed all over, grew con- 
 fused and shy as a fifteen-year-old girl, — but her 
 husband immediately bade Sofya to seat herself 
 at the piano, stepped up to his wife, and took a 
 couple of turns with her, in old-fashioned style, 
 in three-time. I remember how his sallow, dark 
 face, with unsmiling eyes, now appeared, now 
 disappeared, as he revolved slowly, and without 
 altering his stern expression. In waltzing he 
 took long steps, and skipped, while his wife 
 took quick little steps and pressed her face 
 to his breast, as though in terror. He led her to 
 her seat, made his bow to her, went off to his 
 own room, and locked himself in. Sofya was on 
 the point of rising. But Varvara begged her to 
 continue the waltz, stepped up to PasynkofF, and, 
 
 82
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 extending her hand, said with an awkward 
 grin: "Will you?" PasynkofF was astounded, but 
 sprang to his feet nevertheless, — he was always 
 distinguished for his refined courtesy, — took Var- 
 vara round the waist, but slipped at the very first 
 step, and hastily freeing himself from his lady, 
 rolled straight under the pedestal on which stood 
 the parrot's cage. . . . The cage fell, the parrot 
 was frightened, and began to shriek : " Po-li-iice ! " 
 A universal roar of laughter rang out. . . . 
 Zlotnitzky made his appearance on the thresh- 
 old of his study, gave a surly stare, and clapped 
 to the door. From that time forth, all that was 
 necessary was to allude to this incident in Var- 
 vara's presence, and she would forthwith begin 
 to laugh, with an expression on her face, as she 
 glanced at PasynkofF, which seemed to say that 
 nothing more clever than what he had done on 
 that occasion could possibly be devised. 
 
 PasynkofF was extremely fond of music. He 
 frequently asked Sofya to play something for 
 him, seated himself a little apart, and listened, 
 from time to time chiming in with his thin voice 
 on the tender notes. He was especially fond 
 of Schubert's " The Constellations." He de- 
 clared that when " The Constellations " was 
 played in his presence, it always seemed to him 
 as though, along with the sounds, some long, sky- 
 blue rays poured down from on high, straight 
 into his breast. To this day, at the sight of the 
 
 83
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 cloudless sky at night, with its softly-twinkling 
 stars, I always recall that melody of Schubert 
 and PasynkofF. ... A certain stroll in the sub- 
 urbs also recurs to my mind. The whole com- 
 pany of us had driven out in two double-seated, 
 hired carriages, to Pargolovo.* I remember that 
 we got the carriages in Vladimir street; they 
 were very old, light-blue in colour, mounted on 
 round springs, with broad boxes for the coach- 
 men, and tufts of hay inside; the dark-bay, 
 broken-winded horses drew us along at a ponder- 
 ous trot, each limping on a different foot. For 
 a long time we roamed through the pine groves 
 surrounding Pargolovo, drank milk from earthen 
 jugs, and ate strawberries and sugar. The wea- 
 ther was splendid. Varvara was not fond of 
 walking much: she soon wearied; but on this oc- 
 casion she did not lag behind us. She took off her 
 hat, her hair fell out of curl, her heavy features 
 grew animated, and her cheeks flushed crimson. 
 On encountering two peasant maidens in the for- 
 est, she suddenly seated herself on the ground, 
 called them to her, and did not caress them, but 
 made them sit down beside her. Sofya stared at 
 them from afar with a cold smile, and did not 
 approach them. She was walking with AsanoiF, 
 while Zlotnitzky remarked that Varvara was a 
 
 1 A Finnish village, situated a little more than ten miles north of 
 St. Petersburg. There are many summer villas, and numbers of the 
 former dwellings of the Finns have been converted into summer resi- 
 dences by literary and artistic people. —Trakslator. 
 
 84
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 regular setting hen. Varvara rose and walked 
 on. In the course of the stroll she approached 
 PasynkofF several times and said to him; " Ya- 
 koff Ivanitch, I have something to say to you," 
 — but what she wanted to say to him remained a 
 secret. 
 
 However, it is high time for me to return to my 
 story. 
 
 I WAS delighted at Pasynkoff 's arrival ; but I re- 
 called what I had done on the preceding day; I 
 felt inexpressibly conscience-stricken, and has- 
 tily turned my face to the wall again. After 
 waiting awhile, YakofF asked me if I were well. 
 
 " Yes," — I replied through my teeth: — " only, 
 my head aches." 
 
 Yakoff made no reply, and picked up a book. 
 More than an hour passed ; I was already on the 
 point of making a clean breast of the whole thing 
 to YakofF . . . when, suddenly, the bell in the 
 anteroom began to ring. 
 
 The door on the staircase opened. . . I listened. 
 .... AsanofF was asking my man whether I 
 was at home. 
 
 PasynkofF rose; he did not like AsanofF, and 
 whispering to me that he would go and lie down 
 on my bed, he betook himself to my sleeping- 
 room. 
 
 A minute later, Asanoff entered. 
 
 From his flushed face, from his curt and dry 
 
 85
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 bow alone, I divined that he had not come to me 
 for any ordinary call. " What 's in the wind? " 
 I thought. 
 
 " My dear sir,"— he began, swiftly seating 
 himself in an arm-chair,—" I have presented my- 
 self to you for the purpose of having you solve 
 for me a certain doubt." 
 
 " What is it, precisely? " 
 
 " This : I wish to know whether you are an 
 honourable man? " 
 
 I flared up. 
 
 " What does this mean? "—I asked. 
 
 " This is what it means," .... he returned, 
 pronouncing each word with clear-cut distinct- 
 ness: " Yesterday evening I showed you a wallet 
 containing the letters of a certain person to me. 
 .... To-day you have repeated to that person 
 with reproach, — observe, with reproach, — several 
 expressions from those letters, without having the 
 slightest right to do so. I wish to know how you 
 will explain this ? " 
 
 " And I wish to know, what right you have to 
 catechise me?" — I replied, trembling all over 
 with rage and inward shame. — " Why did you 
 brag of your uncle, of your correspondence? 
 What had I to do with that ? All your letters are 
 intact, are n't they? " 
 
 " The letters are intact ; but I was in such a con- 
 dition last night that you might easily have . . . ." 
 
 " In short, my dear sir,"- 1 interposed, inten- 
 
 86
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 tionally speaking as loudly as I could,—" I re- 
 quest you to leave me in peace, do you hear? I 
 don't want to know anything about it, and I shall 
 explain nothing to you. Go to that person for 
 explanations!" (I felt my head beginning to 
 reel. ) 
 
 AsanofF darted at me a glance to which he, 
 obviously, endeavoured to impart an expression 
 of sneering penetration, plucked at his moustache, 
 and rose without haste. 
 
 " I know now what I am bound to think,"— 
 said he:— "your face is the best proof against 
 you. But I must observe to you that well-bred 
 persons do not behave in this manner. . . . To 
 read a letter by stealth, and then to go to a well- 
 born young girl and worry her is . . . ." 
 
 " Go to the devil! " — I shouted, stamping my 
 foot: — " and send your second to me; I have no 
 intention of discussing the matter with you." 
 
 " I beg that you will not instruct me," — re- 
 torted AsanofF, coldly:— "and I was intending 
 to send my second to you." 
 
 He went away. I fell back on the divan, and 
 covered my eyes with my hands. Some one 
 touched me on the shoulder ; I removed my hands 
 — in front of me stood Pasynkoff. 
 
 "What is this? Is it true?" ... he asked 
 me.—" Hast thou read another person's letter? " 
 
 I had not the strength to answer him, but 
 nodded my head affirmatively. 
 
 87
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Pasynkoff walked to the window, and, stand- 
 ing with his back to me, said slowly: " Thou hast 
 read a letter from a young girl to AsanofF. Who 
 is the girl? " 
 
 " Sofya Zlotnitzky," — I replied, as a con- 
 demned man answers his judge. 
 
 For a long time Pasynkoff did not utter, a 
 word. 
 
 " Passion alone can excuse thee, to a certain 
 extent," — he began, at last. — "Art thou in love 
 with Miss 2^otnitzky? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Again Pasynkoif held his peace for a while. 
 
 " I thought so. And to-day thou didst go to 
 her and begin to upbraid her. . . ." 
 
 " Yes, yes, yes . ..." I said in desperation. — 
 " Now thou mayest despise me. . . ." 
 
 Pasynkoff paced up and down the room a cou- 
 ple of times. 
 
 " And does she love him? " — he asked. 
 
 " She does. . . ." 
 
 Pasynkoif dropped his eyes, and stared for a 
 long time immovably at the floor. 
 
 " Well, this must be put right," — he began, 
 raising his head: — "things cannot be left like 
 this." 
 
 And he picked up his hat. 
 
 " Whither art thou going? " 
 
 " To AsanofF." 
 
 I sprang from the divan. 
 
 88
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " But I will not permit thee. Good heavens! 
 how canst thou do so? ! What will he think? " 
 
 Pasynkoff cast a glance at me. 
 
 " And is it better, in thy opinion, to let his folly 
 proceed, to ruin thyself, and disgrace the girl? " 
 , ." But what wilt thou say to Asanoff ? " 
 
 " I shall try to bring him to his senses; I shall 
 say that thou dost beg his pardon. . . ." 
 
 " But I won't beg his pardon! " 
 
 " Thou wilt not? Art not thou guilty? " 
 
 I looked at Pasynkoff: the calm and stern 
 though sad expression of his face impressed me; 
 it was a new one to me. I made no reply, and sat 
 down on the divan. 
 
 Pasynkoff left the room. 
 
 With what torturing anguish did I wait his re- 
 turn ! With what cruel sluggishness did the time 
 pass! At last he returned — late. 
 
 " Well, how are things? " 
 
 "God be thanked!"— he replied.— " Every- 
 thing is made up." 
 
 " Hast thou been to AsanofF? " 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Well, how about him? He made wry faces, 
 I suppose," — I said with an effort. 
 
 " No, I will not say that. I expected more. 
 .... He .... is not the vulgar man I had 
 thought him." 
 
 " Well, and hast thou not been to see any one 
 except him? " — I asked, after waiting a little. 
 
 89
 
 i* 
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 I have been to see the Zlotnitzkys." 
 Ah!" .... (My heart began to beat vio- 
 lently. I did not dare to look PasynkofF in the 
 eye.) — " Well, and how about her? " 
 
 " Sofya Nikolaevna is a sensible girl, a kind- 
 hearted girl. . . . Yes, she is a good girl. At 
 first it was awkward for her, but afterward she 
 recovered her composure. However, our entire 
 conversation did not last more than five minutes." 
 
 " And didst thou .... tell her .... every- 
 thing .... about me?" 
 
 " I told her what was necessary." 
 
 " Henceforth, I shall not be able to go to see 
 them!" — I said dejectedly. . . . 
 
 "Why not? Yes, yes; thou mayest occasion- 
 ally. On the contrary, thou must call on them, 
 without fail, lest they should imagine some- 
 thing. . . ." 
 
 " Akh, Yakoff, thou wilt despise me now! " — I 
 exclaimed, hardly restraining my tears. 
 
 "I? Despise thee?" . . . (His affectionate 
 eyes warmed up with love.) — "Despise thee .... 
 stupid man! Was it easy for thee, pray? Didst 
 not thou suffer? " 
 
 He extended his hand to me; I rushed to him 
 and fell, sobbing, on his neck. 
 
 After the lapse of several days, in the course 
 of which I was able to observe that PasynkofF 
 was very much out of sorts, I finally made up my 
 
 90
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 mind to call on the Zlotnitzkys. It would be dif- 
 ficult to convey in words what I felt when I en- 
 tered their drawing-room. I remember that I 
 could barely distinguish faces, and that my voice 
 broke in my throat. And Sofya was no more at 
 ease than I was: she evidently forced herself to 
 converse with me, but her eyes avoided mine just 
 as my eyes avoided hers, and in her every move- 
 ment, in her whole being, there peered forth con- 
 straint, mingled with . . . why conceal the truth? 
 . . . with a secret repulsion. I endeavoured as 
 speedily as possible, to free both her and myself 
 from such painful sensations. This meeting was, 
 happily, the last .... before her marriage. A 
 sudden change in my fate took me to the other 
 end of Russia, and I bade farewell for a long 
 time to Petersburg, to the Zlotnitzky family, and, 
 what was more painful to me than all else, to 
 kind YakoiF Pasynkoff . 
 
 II 
 
 Seven years elapsed. I do not consider it neces- 
 sary to relate precisely what happened to me in 
 the course of all that time. I wore myself out 
 with travelling all over Russia; I went into the 
 wilds and the remote parts — and, thank God! the 
 wilds and the remote parts are not so dreadful 
 as some people think, and in the most hidden 
 nooks of the forest, dreaming in primeval dense- 
 
 91
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 ness, under fallen trees and thickets, grow fra- 
 grant flowers. 
 
 One da}^ in spring, as I was passing, on busi- 
 ness connected with the service, through the small 
 county town of one of the remote Governments 
 of eastern Russia, thi'ough the dim little win- 
 dow of my tarantas I caught sight of a man 
 on the square, in front of a shop,— a man whose 
 face seemed extremely familiar to me. I took 
 a second look at this man and, to my no small 
 dehght, recognised in him Ehsyei, PasjmkofF's 
 servant. 
 
 I immediately ordered my postilion to halt, 
 sprang out of the tarantas, and approached 
 Elisyei. 
 
 " Good morning, brother! "—I said, with diffi- 
 culty concealing my agitation:— " art thou here 
 with thy master? " 
 
 " Yes,"— he replied slowly, then suddenly cried 
 out:— " Akh, dear little father, is it you? And 
 I did n't recognise you! " 
 
 " Art thou here with YakofF Ivanitch? " 
 
 " I am, dear little father, I am. . . . And with 
 whom else should I be? " 
 
 *' Lead me to him as speedily as possible." 
 
 " Certainly, certainly ! This way, please, this 
 way. . . . We are stopping here in the inn." 
 
 And Elisyei conducted me across the square, 
 incessantly repeating: " Well, and how delighted 
 Yakoff Ivanitch will be!" 
 
 92
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 This Elisyei, of Kalmyk extraction, a man of 
 extremely hideous and even fierce aspect, but the 
 kindest of souls, and far from stupid, was pas- 
 sionately attached to PasynkofF, and had been 
 in his service for ten years. 
 
 " How is YakoiF Ivanitch's health? "—I asked 
 him. 
 
 EHsyei turned toward me his small, dark-yel- 
 low face. 
 
 " Akh, dear little father, 't is bad . . . bad, 
 dear little father! You will not recognise him. 
 ... I don't believe he has long to live in this 
 world. That 's the reason we settled down here, 
 for we were on our way to Odessa for the cure." ^ 
 
 " Whence come you? " 
 
 " From Siberia, dear little father." 
 
 "From Siberia?" 
 
 " Just so, sir. Yakoff Ivanitch has been in the 
 service there. And it was there he received his 
 wound, sir." 
 
 " Has he been in the military service? " 
 
 " Not at all, sir. He was in the civil service, 
 sir." 
 
 " What marvels are these? ! " I thought. In 
 the meantime, we had drawn near the inn, and 
 Elisyei ran on ahead to announce me. During 
 the first years of our separation, Pasynkoff and I 
 had written to each other pretty frequently, but 
 
 ^ The famous salt-water and mud baths in the vicinity 
 of Odessa.— Thaxslator. 
 
 93
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 I had received his last letter four years previous 
 
 to this, and from that time onward had known 
 
 nothing about him. 
 
 " Please come in, sir; please come in, sir! " — 
 
 Elisyei shouted to me from the staircase: — 
 
 " Yakoff Ivanitch is very anxious to see you, 
 sir. 
 
 I ran hastily up the rickety stairs, entered a 
 dark little room— and my heart sank within me. 
 .... On a narrow bed, under his uniform cloak, 
 pale as death, lay Pasynkoff , stretching out to me 
 his bare, emaciated hand. I rushed to him and 
 clasped him in a convulsive embrace. 
 
 "Yasha!"— I cried at last:-" What ails 
 thee? " 
 
 " Nothing,"— he replied in a weak voice.—" I 
 am not very well. How in the world do you come 
 to be here? '* 
 
 I sat down on a chair beside Pas5Tikoff's bed 
 and, without releasing his hands from mine, I 
 began to gaze into his face. I recognised the fea- 
 tures which were so dear to me: the expression 
 of his eyes and his smile had not changed, but 
 how sickness had altered him! 
 
 He noticed the impression which he produced 
 on me. 
 
 " I have not shaved for three days,"— he said: 
 — " well, and my hair is not brushed either, but 
 otherwise I .... I 'm all right." 
 
 " Tell me, please, Yasha,"— I began:—" what 
 
 94
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 is this Elisyei has been teUing me. . . . Thou art 
 wounded? " 
 
 " Ah! yes; that 's a whole history in itself,"— 
 he rephed.— " I '11 tell thee about that later on. 
 I really was wounded, and just fancy by what? 
 An arrow." 
 
 " An arrow? " 
 
 " Yes, an arrow; only not the mythological one, 
 not the dart of love, but a real arrow made from 
 some extremely supple wood, with an artful sharp 
 tip on the end. . . . Such an arrow produces a very 
 unpleasant sensation, especially when it lands in 
 the lungs." 
 
 " But how did it happen? Good gracious. . . ." 
 
 " This way. As thou knowest, there has always 
 been a great deal that was ridiculous about my 
 fate. Dost thou remember my comical correspon- 
 dence in connection with demanding my papers? 
 Well, and so I was wounded in an absurd way 
 also. And, as a matter of fact, what well-bred 
 man, in our enlightened century, permits himself 
 to deal wounds with an arrow? And not acci- 
 dentally — observe, not during some games or 
 other, but in conflict." 
 
 " Yes; but still thou dost not tell me. . . ." 
 
 *' Here now, wait a bit,"— he interrupted.— 
 " Thou knowest that shortly after thy departure 
 from Petersburg, I was transferred to Novgorod. 
 I spent quite a long time in Novgorod, and, I 
 must confess that I was bored, although I did 
 
 95
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 meet there a certain being. . . ." (He heaved a 
 sigh) . . . . " But there 's no time to go into 
 that now; but a couple of years ago a splendid 
 little post fell to my lot, a trifle distant, 't is true, 
 in the Government of Irkutsk, but what 's the 
 harm in that! Evidently, it was written in my 
 father's fate and in mine that we should visit Si- 
 beria. A glorious land is Siberia! Rich and 
 fertile, as any one will tell you. I hked it very 
 much there. The natives of foreign stock were 
 under my authority ; a peaceable folk ; but to my 
 misfortune a score of their men, no more, took 
 it into their heads to smuggle contraband goods. 
 I was sent to seize them. So far as seizing them 
 is concerned, I eiFected that, but one of them, 
 out of caprice, it must have been, tried to defend 
 himself, and treated me to that arrow. , . . I 
 came near dying, but recovered. And now here I 
 am on my way to make a final cure. . . The au- 
 thorities have given the money, — may God grant 
 them all health!" 
 
 Pasynkoff , completely exhausted, dropped his 
 head on the pillow, and ceased speaking. A faint 
 flush spread over his cheeks. He closed his eyes. 
 
 " He cannot talk much,"— said Elisyei, who 
 had not left the room, in an undertone. 
 
 " Here now," — he went on, opening his eyes: — 
 " I must have caught cold. The local district doc- 
 tor is attending me, — thou wilt see him; he ap- 
 pears to know his business. But I am glad it 
 
 96
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 has happened, because, otherwise, how could I 
 have met thee?" (And he clasped my hand. 
 His hand, which shortly before had been as cold 
 as ice, was now burning hot.) — " Tell me some- 
 thing about thj^self," — he began again, throwing 
 his cloak off his breast: — " for God knows when 
 we shall see each other again." 
 
 I hastened to comply with his wish, if only to 
 prevent his talking, and began my narration. At 
 first he listened to me with great attention, then 
 asked for a drink, then began to close his eyes 
 again and to throw his head about on the pillow. 
 I advised him to take a little nap, adding that I 
 would not proceed further until he should re- 
 cover, and would establish myself in the adjoin- 
 ing room. 
 
 " Things are very wretched here," .... Pa- 
 synkofF was beginning; but I stopped his mouth 
 and softl}^ left the room. Elisyei followed me 
 out. 
 
 " What 's the meaning of this, Elisyei? Why, 
 he is dying, is n't he? " — I asked the faithful ser- 
 vant. 
 
 Elisyei merely waved his hand in despair, and 
 turned away. 
 
 Having dismissed my postilion, and hastily es- 
 tablished myself in the adjoining room, I went 
 to see whether PasynkofF had fallen asleep. At 
 his door I collided with a tall, very fat and heavy 
 man. His puffy, pock-marked face expressed in- 
 
 97
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 dolence— and nothing else, his tiny eyes were all 
 but closed, and his lips glistened as though after 
 sleep. 
 
 " Allow me to inquire,"— I asked him, " whe- 
 ther you are not the doctor? " 
 
 The fat man looked at me, after having, with 
 an effort elevated his overhanging forehead with 
 his eyebrows. 
 
 " I am, sir," he said at last. 
 
 " Will not you do me the favour to come this 
 way to my room, doctor ? I think Yakoff Ivanitch 
 is asleep at present. I am his friend, and I should 
 like to have a talk with you about his malady, 
 which causes me great anxiety." 
 
 " Very good, sir,"— replied the doctor, with an 
 expression which seemed to say: "What in the 
 world possesses you to talk so much? I would 
 have gone any way," and followed me. 
 
 " Tell me, please,"— I began, as soon as he 
 had dropped down on a chair: " is my friend's 
 condition dangerous? What do you think? " 
 
 " Yes,"— calmly replied the fat man. 
 
 " And .... is it very critical? " 
 
 " Yes, it is." 
 
 " So that he may even .... die? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 I must confess that I gazed at my interlocutor 
 almost with hatred. 
 
 " Good gracious! "—I began: " then we must 
 resort to some measures, call a consultation, or 
 
 98
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 something. . . . Why, things cannot be left in 
 this condition. . . Good heavens!" 
 
 "A consultation? — That can be done. Why 
 not? We might call in Ivan Efremitch. . . ." 
 
 The doctor spoke with difficulty, and sighed 
 incessantly. His belly heaved visibly, when he 
 spoke, as though ejecting every word with an 
 effort. 
 
 " W^ho is Ivan Efremitch? " 
 
 " The town doctor." 
 
 " Would n't it be better to send to the capital 
 of the government — what think you? There cer- 
 tainly must be good physicians there." 
 
 "Why not? We might do that." 
 
 " And who is considered to be the best physician 
 there? " 
 
 " The best? There was a Dr. Kohlrabus there 
 .... only, I — I rather think he has been trans- 
 ferred somewhere else. However, I must confess 
 that there is no necessity for sending." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Even the governmental doctor cannot help 
 your friend." 
 
 " Is it possible that he is as bad as that? " 
 
 " Yes, exactly that; he 's done for." 
 
 " What, in particular, is his ailment? " 
 
 " He has received a wound. . . The lungs have 
 been injured, you know. . . Well, and then he 
 has caught cold, and fever has set in ... . well, 
 and so forth. . . And he has no reserve force. A 
 
 99
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 man can't recover without reserve force, as you 
 know yourself." 
 
 We both remained silent for a while. 
 
 " We might try homeopathy,"— said the fat 
 man, darting a sidelong glance at me. 
 
 " Homeopathy? Why, you are an allopath, 
 are you not? " 
 
 " Well, and what if I am an allopath! Do you 
 think I don't know about homeopathy? Just as 
 well as anybody. Our apothecary here gives 
 homeopathic treatment, and he has no learned 
 degree." 
 
 " Well! "—I said to myself: " things are in a 
 bad way! .... No, doctor," I said: "you had 
 better treat him by your usual method." 
 
 " As you like, sir." 
 
 The fat man rose, and heaved a sigh. 
 
 " Are you going to him? "—I inquired. 
 
 " Yes; I must take a look at him." 
 
 And he left the room. 
 
 I did not follow him. It was more than my 
 strength would bear to see him at the bedside of 
 my poor friend. I called my man and ordered 
 him to drive immediately to the capital of the 
 government, and inquire there for the best phy- 
 sician, and bring him, without fail. There came 
 a rapping in the corridor; I opened the door 
 quickly. 
 
 The doctor had already come out of Pasyn- 
 kofF's room. 
 
 100
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " Well, how is he? "—I asked in a whisper. 
 
 " All right; I have prescribed a potion." 
 
 " I have decided, doctor, to send to the govern- 
 ment town. I do not doubt j^our skill; but you 
 know yourself that two heads are better than 
 one." 
 
 "Very well, that 's laudable! "—returned the 
 fat man, and began to descend the stairs. Evi- 
 dently, I bored him. 
 
 I went to Pasynkoff . 
 
 " Hast thou seen the local iEsculapius? " — he 
 asked me. 
 
 " Yes,"-I replied. 
 
 " What I like about him," — remarked Pasyn- 
 koff, — " is his wonderful composure. A doctor 
 ought to be phlegmatic, ought n't he? That is 
 very encouraging for the patient." 
 
 As a matter of course, I did not attempt to 
 persuade him to the contrary. 
 
 Toward evening, contrary to my anticipations, 
 Pasynkoff felt more at ease. He requested Eli- 
 syei to prepare the samovar, announced that he 
 was going to treat me to tea, and would drink a 
 cup himself, and he was perceptibly more cheer- 
 ful. Nevertheless, I endeavoured to prevent his 
 talking; and perceiving that he was absolutely de- 
 termined not to be quiet, I asked him if he did 
 not wish me to read something aloud to him. 
 
 " As we used to do at Winterkeller's— dost 
 thou remember?" — he replied: " Certainly, with 
 
 101
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 pleasure. What shall we read? Look over my 
 books, yonder on the window-sill. ..." 
 
 I went to the window and took up the first book 
 which came to hand. . . . 
 
 " What is that? "—he asked. 
 
 " LermontofF." 
 
 " Ah, Lermontoff ! Very good indeed! Push- 
 kin is higher, of course. . . . Dost thou remem- 
 ber : ' Again the storm-clouds over me have gath- 
 ered in the gloom,' .... or: ' For the last time 
 thine image dear, I dare caress in mind.' Akh, 
 how wonderfully fine! wonderfully fine! But 
 LermontofF is good also. Come here, brother, 
 take and open the book at haphazard, and read! " 
 
 I opened the book and was disconcerted ; I had 
 hit upon " The Testament." I tried to turn over 
 the leaf, but Pasynkoff noticed my movement, 
 and said hastily: "No, no, no! Read where it 
 opened." 
 
 There was no help for it; I read " The Testa- 
 ment." 
 
 "A splendid thing!" — remarked Pasynkoff, 
 as soon as I had uttered the last line. — " A splen- 
 did thing! But it is strange," — he added, after 
 a brief pause, — " it is strange that thou shouldst 
 have hit upon ' The Testament,' of all things. . . . 
 Strange ! " 
 
 I began to read another poem, but Pasynkoff 
 did not listen to me, gazed to one side, and re- 
 peated " strange! " a couple of times more. 
 
 102
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 I dropped the book on my knees. 
 
 " ' They have a little neighbour,' " — he whis- 
 pered, and suddenly turning to me, he asked: 
 " Dost thou remember Sofya Zlotnitzky? " 
 
 I flushed scarlet. 
 
 ." How can I help remembering? ! " 
 
 " She married, did n't she? "... 
 
 " Yes; she married AsanofF, long ago. I wrote 
 thee about that." 
 
 " Exactly, exactly so, thou didst write. Did 
 her father forgive her in the end? " 
 
 " Yes ; but he would not receive AsanofF." 
 
 " The stubborn old man ! Well, and what dost 
 thou hear about it? Do they live happily? " 
 
 " I really do not know. ... I think they do. 
 They are living in the country, in the *** Gov- 
 ernment ; I have not seen them ; but I have driven 
 past." 
 
 " And have they children? " 
 
 " I believe so. . . By the way, PasynkofF? "—I 
 asked. 
 
 He glanced at me. 
 
 " Confess, — I remember that thou wouldst 
 not answer my question at the time; thou didst 
 tell her that I was in love with her, didst thou 
 not? " 
 
 " I told her everything, the whole truth. . . I 
 always spoke the truth to her. To have concealed 
 anything from her would have been a sin I " 
 
 PasynkofF ceased speaking. 
 
 103
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " Come, tell me,"— he began again: " didst thou 
 get over thy love for her promptly or not? " 
 
 "Not very promptly; but I did get over it. 
 What 's the use of sighing in vain? " 
 
 Pasynkoff turned his face toward me. 
 
 " But I, my dear fellow,"— he began, and his 
 lips quivered,—" am no match for thee ; I have n't 
 got over my love for her to this day." 
 
 "What!"— I exclaimed with inexpressible 
 amazement.—" Wert thou in love with her? " 
 
 " I was,"— said Pasynkoff, slowly, raising 
 both hands to his head.—" How I loved her God 
 alone knows. I never spoke of it to any one in 
 the world, and never meant to mention it to any 
 one .... but it has come out! ' I have but a 
 brief while to live in this world,' they say. . . . 
 So it does not matter! " 
 
 PasynkofF's unexpected confession astounded 
 me to such a degree that I was positively 
 unable to utter a word, and merely thought: 
 " Is it possible? how is it that I did not suspect 
 this?" 
 
 " Yes,"— he went on, as though talking to him- 
 self:—" I loved her. I did not cease to love her, 
 even when I learned that her heart belonged to 
 Asanoff. But it pained me to learn that! If she 
 had fallen in love with thee, I would, at all events, 
 have rejoiced on thy account; but Asanoff. . . . 
 How could he please her? It was his luck! And 
 she was not able to be unfaithful to her feeling, 
 
 104
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 to cease to love him. An honourable soul does 
 not change. ..." 
 
 I recalled Asanoff's visit after the fatal din- 
 ner, PasynkoiF's intervention, and involuntarily 
 clasped m}^ hands. 
 
 " Thou didst learn all that from me, poor fel- 
 low!" — I exclaimed: — "and thou didst take it 
 upon thyself to go to her, nevertheless! " 
 
 "Yes," — said Pasynkoff: — "that explanation 
 with her — I shall never forget it. It was then I 
 learned, it was then I understood the meaning 
 of the motto I had long before chosen for myself : 
 ' Resignation.' But she still remained my con- 
 stant dream, my ideal. . . . And pitiable is he 
 who lives without an ideal! " 
 
 I glanced at Pasynkoff; his eyes seemed to be 
 fixed on the distance, and blazed with a feverish 
 gleam. 
 
 "I loved her,"— he went on:— "I loved her, 
 her, quiet, honourable, inaccessible, incorruptible ; 
 when she went away, I became nearly crazed with 
 grief. ... I have never loved any one since. . . ." 
 
 And suddenly, turning round, he pressed his 
 face to his pillow, and fell to weeping softly. 
 
 I sprang to my feet, bent over him, and began 
 to comfort him. . . . 
 
 " Never mind,"— he said, raising his head, and 
 shaking back his hair:—" I did n't mean to do 
 it. I feel rather sad, rather sorry .... for my- 
 self, that is to say. . . . But it is of no conse- 
 
 105
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 quence. The poetry is to blame for it all. Read 
 me some other poems— something more cheerful." 
 I took up Lermontoff, and began hastily to 
 turn over the leaves; but, as though expressly, I 
 kept hitting upon poems which might again agi- 
 tate PasynkofF. At last I read him " The Gifts 
 of the Terek." 
 
 "Rhetorical crackling! "—remarked my poor 
 friend, in the tone of an instructor:—" but there 
 are good places! I tried my hand at poetry my- 
 self, my dear fellow, in thine absence, and began 
 a poem: ' The Beaker of Life,'— but it came to 
 nothing! my business, brother, is to sympathise, 
 not to create. . . . But I feel tired, somehow; I 
 believe I had better take a nap— what dost thou 
 think ? What a splendid thing sleep is, when you 
 come to think of it ! All oui* life is a dream, and 
 the best thing in it is sleep." 
 " And poetry? "—I asked. 
 " Poetry is a dream also, only a dream of para- 
 dise." 
 
 Pasynkoff closed his eyes. 
 I stood for a while beside his bed. I did not 
 think that he could get to sleep quickly; but his 
 breathing became more even and prolonged. I 
 stole out of the room on tiptoe, returned to my 
 own chv.„mber, and lay down on the divan. For 
 a long time I reflected on what Pasynkoff had 
 told me, recalled many things, marvelled, and, at 
 last, fell asleep myself. . . . 
 
 106
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Some one nudged me : before me stood Elisyei. 
 
 " Please come to my master,"— he said. 
 
 I rose at once. 
 
 " What is the matter with him? " 
 
 " He is dehrious." 
 
 " Dehrious? And he has not been so before? " 
 '"Yes; he was dehrious last night also; but 
 somehow it is dreadful to-night." 
 
 I entered Pasynkoff 's room. He was not ly- 
 ing on his bed, but sitting up, with his whole body 
 bent forward, softly throwing his hands apart, 
 smiling and talking— talking incessantly in a 
 weak, toneless voice, like the rustling of reeds. 
 His eyes were wandering. The melancholy light 
 of the night-taper, placed on the floor, and 
 screened by a book, lay in a motionless patch on 
 the ceihng; PasynkofF's face looked paler than 
 ever in the half gloom. 
 
 I went up to him, called him by name— he did 
 not reply. I began to listen to his mumblings: 
 he was raving about Siberia, about its forests. At 
 times there was sense in his ravings. 
 
 "What trees!"— he whispered: "they reach 
 to the very sky. Hov^ much hoar-frost there is on 
 them! Silver. . . . Snow-drifts And yon- 
 der are little tracks .... a hare has leaped 
 along, or a white ermine. . . . No, it is my fa- 
 ther who has run past with my papers. Yonder 
 he is! . . . Yonder he is! I must go; the moon 
 is shining. I must go and find my papers. . . . 
 
 107
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Ah, a flower, a scarlet flower — Sofya is there. . . . 
 There, little bells are ringing, oh, it is the frost 
 ringing. . . Akh, no ; it is the stupid bull-finches 
 hopping in the bushes, and whistling. . . . See 
 the red-breasted warblers! It is cold. . . . Ah! 
 there is Asanofl*. . . . Akh, j^es, he is a cannon, 
 you know — a brass cannon, and his gun-carriage 
 is green. That is why he pleases people. Was 
 that a shooting-star? No, it is an arrow flying. 
 .... Akh, how swiftlj^ and straight at my 
 heart! .... Who is that shooting? Thou, S6- 
 netchka?" y 
 
 He bent his head and began to whisper incoher- 
 ent words. I glanced at Elisyei; he was stand- 
 ing with his hands clasped behind his back, and 
 gazing compassionately at his master. 
 
 " Well, my dear fellow, hast thou become a 
 practical man?" — he suddenly inquired, fixing 
 on me a glance so clear, so full of intelligence, 
 that I gave an involuntary start, and was on the 
 point of answering, but he immediately went on : 
 — " But I, brother, have not become a practical 
 man, I have not done that which thou wilt do! 
 I was born a dreamer, a dreamer! Dreams, 
 dreams. . . . What is a dream? Sobakevitch's 
 peasant,— that 's what a dream is. Okh! . . . ." 
 
 Pasynkofl" raved until nearly daylight ; at last, 
 he quieted down a little, sank back on his pillow, 
 and fell into a doze. I returned to my own room. 
 
 108 i
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Exhausted bj^ the cruel night, I fell into a heavy 
 slumber. 
 
 Again Elisyei awakened me. 
 
 " Akh, dear little father! "—he said to me in a 
 trembling Aoice: — "I believe YakofF Ivanitch is 
 dying. . . ." 
 
 I ran to Pasynkoff . He was lying motionless. 
 By the light of the dawning day, he already 
 looked like a corpse. He recognised me. 
 
 "Farewell," — he whispered: — "remember me 
 to her, I am dying. ..." 
 
 " Yasha! "—I cried:—" don't say that! Thou 
 wilt live. ..." 
 
 " No; what 's the use? I am dying. . . . Here, 
 take this in memory of me . . ." (He pointed at 
 his breast.) .... 
 
 " What is this? "—he suddenly began to speak 
 again: — " Look! the sea .... all golden; on it 
 are blue islands, marble temples, palms, in- 
 cense. . . ." 
 
 He fell silent .... dropped his eyes. . . . 
 
 Half an hour later he was dead. Elisyei fell, 
 weeping, on his breast. I closed his eyes. 
 
 On his neck was a small silken amulet, attached 
 to a black cord. I took possession of it. 
 
 On the third day he was buried. . . . The no- 
 blest of hearts had vanished forever from the 
 world ! I myself flung the first handful of earth 
 on him. 
 
 109
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 III 
 
 Another year and a half passed. Business 
 forced me to go to Moscow. I established my- 
 self in one of the best hotels there. One day, as 
 I was passing along the corridor, I glanced at 
 the black-board whereon stood the names of trav- 
 ellers, and almost cried aloud in surprise: op- 
 posite No. 1 stood the name of Sofya Nikolaevna 
 Asanoff. I had accidentally heard much that 
 was evil about her husband of late ; I had learned 
 that he had become passionately addicted to li- 
 quor and cards; had ruined himself, and, alto- 
 gether, was conducting himself badly. People 
 spoke with respect of his wife. . . . Not with- 
 out agitation did I return to my own room. Pas- 
 sion which had cooled long, long ago, seemed to 
 begin to stir in my heart, and my heart began 
 to beat violently. I decided to go to Sofya 
 Nikolaevna. " What a long time has passed 
 since the day we parted," I thought: "she has 
 probably forgotten everything which took place 
 between us then." 
 
 I sent to her Elisyei, whom I had taken into 
 my service after PasynkofF's death, with my 
 visiting-card, and ordered I lim to inquire whether 
 she was at home, and whcher I could see her. 
 Elisyei speedily returned, and announced that 
 
 110
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Sofya Nikolaevna was at home, and would re- 
 ceive me. 
 
 I betook myself to Sofya Nikolaevna. When 
 I entered, she was standing in the middle of the 
 room, and taking leave of some tall, stout gentle- 
 man or other. "As you like,"— he was saying, 
 in a thick, sibilant voice:— "he is not a harm- 
 less man, he is a useless man; and every useless 
 man in well-regulated society is harmful, harm^ 
 ful!" 
 
 With these words, the tall gentleman left the 
 room. Sofya Nikolaevna turned to me. 
 
 " What a long time it is since we metl "—said 
 she.—" Sit down, I beg of you. . . ." 
 
 We sat down. I looked at her. . . . To be- 
 hold, after a long separation, features once dear; 
 to recognise them, yet not to recognise them, as 
 though through the former, still unforgotten face, 
 another face— like, yet strange— had emerged; 
 momentarily, almost involuntarily to note the 
 traces imposed by time, — all this is sad enough. 
 "And I, also, must have changed," one thinks 
 to himself. . . . 
 
 Sofya Nikolaevna had not aged greatly, how- 
 ever; but when I had seen her for the last time, 
 she had just entered her seventeenth year, and 
 nine years had elapsed since that day. Her fea- 
 tures had become more severe and regular than 
 ever. As of old, they expressed sincerity of feel- 
 ing and firmness; but in place of their former 
 
 HI
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 composure, a certain hidden pain and anxiety 
 was manifested in them. Her eyes had grown 
 deeper and darker. She had come to resemble 
 her mother. . . . 
 
 Sofya Nikolaevna was the first to start the con- 
 versation. 
 
 " We are both changed," — she began. — 
 " Where have you been all this time? " 
 
 " I have been wandering about here and 
 there," I replied. — "And have you been living in 
 the country all the while? " 
 
 " Chiefly in the country. And I am only pass- 
 ing through here now." 
 
 " How are your parents? " 
 
 " My mother is dead, but my father is still in 
 Petersburg; my brother is in the service; Va- 
 rya lives with him." 
 
 " And your husband? " 
 
 " My husband? "—she said in a somewhat hur- 
 ried voice:, — " He is now in southern Russia, at 
 the fairs. He was always fond of horses, as you 
 know, and he has set up a stud-farm of his own 
 ... so, for that purpose ... he is now buying 
 horses." 
 
 At that moment a little girl of eight entered 
 the room, with her hair dressed in Chinese fash- 
 ion, a very sharp and vivacious little face, and 
 large, dark-grey eyes. On catching sight of me, 
 she immediately thrust out her little foot, made 
 a swift curtsey, and went to Sofya Nikolaevna. 
 
 112
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " Let me introduce to you my little daughter," 
 — said Sofya Nikolaevna, touching the little girl 
 with her finger under her chubby chin: — "she 
 would not consent to remain at home, but en- 
 treated me to take her with me." 
 
 The little girl swept her quick eyes over me, 
 and frowned slightly. 
 
 " She 's my fine, courageous girl," — went on 
 Sofya Nikolaevna: — " she is not afraid of any- 
 thing. And she studies well; I must praise her 
 for that." 
 
 " Comment se nomme monsieur? " — inquired 
 the little girl, in a low voice, bending toward her 
 mother. 
 
 Sofya Nikolaevna mentioned my name. 
 Again the little girl glanced at me. 
 
 " What is your name? " — I asked her. 
 
 " My name is Lidiya," — replied the little girl, 
 looking me boldly in the eye. 
 
 " They spoil you, I suppose," — I remarked. 
 
 " Who spoils me? " 
 
 " Who? Why, everybody, I suppose, begin- 
 ning with your parents." (The little girl darted 
 a silent glance at her mother.) " Konstantin 
 Alexandrovitch, I imagine,"— I went on. . . . 
 
 " Yes, yes,"— interposed Sofya Nikolaevna, 
 while her little daughter did not remove her at- 
 tentive gaze from her; " my husband, of course 
 he is very fond of children. . . ." 
 
 A strange expression flashed over Lidiya's in- 
 
 113
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 telligent little face. Her lips pouted slightly; 
 she cast down her eyes. 
 
 " Tell me,"— hastily added Sofya Nikolaevna: 
 — *' you are here on business, I suppose? " 
 
 " Yes. . . . And you also? " 
 
 "Yes; I also. ... In my husband's absence, 
 you understand, I am forced to attend to busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Maman! " — began Lidiya. 
 
 " Quoij mon enfant? " 
 
 ^' Non—rien. . . . Je te dirai apres." 
 
 Sofya Nikolaevna laughed, and shrugged her 
 shoulders. 
 
 We both maintained silence for a space, while 
 Lidiya folded her arms pompously on her breast. 
 
 " Tell me, please," — began Sofya Nikolaevna 
 again:— "I remember that you had a friend 
 . . . . what in the world was his name? he had 
 such a kind face .... he was always reading 
 poetry; a very enthusiastic man. . . ." 
 
 " Was n't it PasynkofF? " 
 
 " Yes, yes ; PasynkofF .... where is he 
 now? " 
 
 " He is dead." 
 
 ** Dead? "—repeated Sofya Nikolaevna:— 
 " what a pity! ..." 
 
 " Have I seen him? "—asked the little girl in 
 a hasty whisper. 
 
 " No, Lidiya, thou hast not seen him. What 
 a pity! "—repeated Sofya Nikolaevna. 
 
 114
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 "You mourn for him . . . ." I began:— 
 " What would you do if you had known him as 
 I knew him? . . . But permit me to inquire: 
 why did you mention him in particular? " 
 
 " By accident ; I really don't know why. . . ." 
 (Sofya Nikolae^^la dropped her eyes.)— "Li- 
 diya,"— she added:—" go to thy nurse." 
 
 "Wilt thou call me when I may come?"— 
 asked the little girl. 
 
 " I will." 
 
 The little girl left the room. Sofya Niko- 
 laevna turned to me. 
 
 " Tell me, please, everything you know about 
 PasynkofF." 
 
 I began my narration. I sketched, in brief 
 words, the whole life of my friend; I tried, to 
 the best of my ability, to depict his soul; I de- 
 scribed his last meeting with me, his end. 
 
 " And so that was the sort of man he was! "— 
 I exclaimed, as I concluded my narration:-" he 
 is gone from us, unnoticed, almost unappreci- 
 ated ! And that would be no great harm. What 
 does popular appreciation amount to? But I 
 feel pained, affronted, that such a man, with 
 so loving and devoted a heart should have died, 
 without having even once experienced the bliss 
 of mutual love, without having awakened sym- 
 pathy in a single woman's heart worthy of him! 
 . . . What if the rest of us do not taste that 
 bliss? We are not worthy of it; but PasynkoiF! 
 
 115
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 . . . And, moreover, have not I in my day en- 
 countered a thousand men who were not to be 
 compared with him in any way, and who have 
 been beloved? Are we bound to assume that cer- 
 tain defects in a man,— self-confidence, for ex- 
 ample, or frivolousness, are indispensable in 
 order that a woman shall become attached to 
 him? Or is love afraid of perfection, of such 
 perfection as is possible here on earth, as of some- 
 thing alien and terrible to it? " 
 
 Sofya Nikolaevna listened to me to the end, 
 without taking" from me her stern and piercing 
 eyes, or unsealing her lips; only her brows 
 twitched from time to time. 
 
 " Why do you assume," — she said, after a 
 brief pause, — " that not a single woman loved 
 your friend? " 
 
 " Because I know it, I know it for a fact." 
 
 Sofya Nikolaevna was on the point of saying 
 something, but stopped short. She seemed to be 
 struggling with herself. 
 
 " You are mistaken," — she said at last: — " I 
 know a woman who loved your dead friend fer- 
 vently: she loves and remembers him to this day 
 .... and the news of his death will wound her 
 deeply." 
 
 " Who is the woman?— permit me to ask." 
 
 " My sister Varya." 
 
 " Varvara Nikolaevna!" — I exclaimed in 
 amazement. 
 
 116
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Yes." 
 
 "What? Varvara Nikolaevna? "— I re- 
 peated: — "that . . . ." 
 
 " I will complete your thought," — pursued 
 Sofya Nikolaevna : — " that cold, indifferent, in 
 your opinion, languid girl, loved your friend; 
 that is the reason she has not married, and will 
 not marry. Until to-day, I have been the only 
 one to know this. Varya would have died, rather 
 than betray her secret. In our family, we know 
 how to hold our peace and endure." 
 
 For a long time I gazed intently at Sofya Ni- 
 kolaevna, involuntarity meditating on the bitter 
 significance of her last words. 
 
 " You have astounded me," — I said at last. — 
 " But do )"ou know, Sofya Nikolaevna, if I were 
 not afraid of awakening in you unpleasant 
 memories, I also, in my turn, could astound 
 you. ..." 
 
 " I do not understand you,"— she returned 
 slowly, and in some confusion. 
 
 " You really do not understand me," — said I, 
 rising hastily: — "and therefore, permit me, in- 
 stead of a verbal explanation, to send you a cer- 
 tain article. . . ." 
 
 " But what is it? " — she asked. 
 
 "Be not disturbed, Sofya Nikolaevna; the 
 question does not concern me." 
 
 I bowed and returned to my room, got out the 
 
 amulet which I had taken from Pasynkoff , and 
 
 117
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 sent it to Sofya Nikolaevna, with the following 
 note: 
 
 " This amulet, my dead friend wore con- 
 stantly on his breast, and died with it there. In 
 it you will find a note of yours to him, of utterly 
 insignificant contents; you may read it. He 
 wore it because he loved you passionately, as he 
 confessed to me only the night before he died. 
 Now that he is dead, why should not you know 
 that his heart belonged to you? " 
 
 Elisyei soon returned, and brought me back 
 the amulet. 
 
 " How is this? "—I asked:—" Did she send no 
 message to me? " 
 
 " No, sir." 
 
 I said nothing foi a while. 
 
 " Did she read my note? " 
 
 " She must have read it, sir; her little girl car- 
 ried it to her." 
 
 " Unapproachable," — I thought, recaUing 
 PasynkofF's last words.— " Well, go,"— I said 
 aloud. 
 
 Elisyei smiled in a strange sort of way, and 
 did not leave the room. 
 
 " A certain young girl .... has come to see 
 you, sir,"— he began. 
 
 "What girl?" 
 
 Elisyei was silent for a space. 
 
 " Did n't my late master tell you anything, 
 sirf 
 
 118
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " No. . . . What dost thou mean? " 
 
 " When he was in Novgorod,"— went on Eli- 
 syei, touching the jamb of the door with his 
 hand, . ..." he made acquaintance with a 
 certain young girl, say, for example. So it is 
 that girl who wishes to see you, sir. I met her on 
 the street the other day. I said to her: ' Come; 
 if the master commands, I will admit thee.' " 
 
 " Ask her in, ask her in, of course. But .... 
 what sort of a girl is she ? " 
 
 " A lowly girl, sir ... . from the petty 
 burgher class .... a Russian." 
 
 " Did the late YakofF Ivanitch love her? " 
 
 " He loved her right enough, sir. Well, she 
 . . . . when she heard that my master was 
 dead, she was greatly afflicted. She 's a good 
 girl, right enough, sir." 
 
 " Ask her in, ask her in." 
 
 EHsyei went out, and immediately returned. 
 Behind him came a girl in a gaily-coloured cotton 
 gown, and with a dark kercliief on her head, 
 which half covered her face. On catching sight 
 of me, she was abashed, and turned away. 
 
 "What ails thee? "— Elisyei said to her:— 
 " Go along, have no fear." 
 
 I stepped up to her, and took her hand. 
 
 " What is your name? " — I asked her. 
 
 " Masha," — she said, in a soft voice, casting a 
 covert glance at me. 
 
 Judging from her appearanc,e, she was twenty- 
 
 119
 
 yAkoff pasynkoff 
 
 two or three years of age ; she had a round, rather 
 plain but agreeable face, soft cheeks, gentle 
 blue eyes, and small, very pretty, clean hands. 
 She was neatly dressed. 
 
 " Did you know YakofF Ivanitch? " — I went 
 on. 
 
 " Yes, sir," — she said, plucking at the ends of 
 her kerchief, and tears started out on her eye- 
 lashes. 
 
 I asked her to be seated. 
 
 She immediately sat down on the edge of a 
 chair, without ceremony, and without putting on 
 airs. Elisyei left the room. 
 
 " You made his acquaintance in Novgorod ? " 
 
 " Yes, in Novgorod, sir," — she replied, tuck- 
 ing both hands under her kerchief. " I only heard 
 of his death day before yesterday, from Elisyei 
 Timofeitch, sir. Yakoff Ivanitch, when he went 
 away to Siberia, promised to write, and he did 
 write twice; but after that he did not write any 
 more, sir. I would have followed him to Siberia, 
 but he did not want me to, sir." 
 
 " Have you relatives in Novgorod? " 
 
 " I have." 
 
 " Did you live with them? " 
 
 " I lived with my mother and my married sis- 
 ter; but afterward my mother got angry with 
 me; and it got crowded at my sister's: they had 
 a lot of children; so I moved away. I always 
 set my hopes on YakoiF Ivanitch, and wanted 
 
 120
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 nothing except to see him, for he was always 
 aiFectionate to me— ask Ehsyei Timofeitch if he 
 was n't." 
 
 Masha ceased speaking for a httle while. 
 
 " I have his letters with me," — she went on. — 
 " Here, look at them, sir." 
 
 She drew from her pocket several letters and 
 gave them to me:—" Read them, sir,"— she added. 
 
 I unfolded one letter, and recognised Pasyn- 
 koff 's handwriting. 
 
 "Dear Masha!" (He wrote a large, fine 
 hand) — " yesterday thou didst lean thy dear lit- 
 tle head against my head, and when I asked: 
 * why art thou doing this ? ' thou didst say to me : 
 ' I want to hsten to what you are thinking about.' 
 I will tell thee what I was thinking about : I was 
 thinking how nice it would be for Masha to learn 
 to read and write! Then she could have deci- 
 phered this letter. . . ." 
 
 Masha glanced at the letter. 
 
 " He wrote me that while he was still in Nov- 
 gorod,"— she said:— "when he was planning 
 to teach me to read and write. Look at the 
 others, sir. There is one from Siberia, sir. Here, 
 read this one, sir." 
 
 I read the letters. They were all very affec- 
 tionate, even tender. In one of them, precisely 
 in that first letter from Siberia, Pasynkoff called 
 Masha his best friend, and promised to send her 
 money to come to Siberia, and wound up with 
 
 121
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 the following words: "I kiss thy pretty little 
 hands; the young girls here have no such hands; 
 and their heads are no match for thine, neither 
 are their hearts. . . . Read the little books which 
 I gave thee, and remember me, and I shall not 
 forget thee. Thou alone, alone hast loved me; 
 and so I wish to belong to thee only. . . ." 
 
 " I see that he was very much attached to thee," 
 — I said, returning the letters to her. 
 
 " He loved me very much,"— returned Masha, 
 carefully stowing the letters away in her pocket, 
 and tears coursed slowly down her cheeks. — 
 " I always set my hopes on him ; if the Lord 
 had prolonged his life, he would not have aban- 
 doned me. May God grant him the kingdom 
 of heaven! . . . ." 
 
 She wiped her eyes with a corner of her ker- 
 chief. 
 
 " Where are you Hving now? " — I inquired. 
 
 " I am living in Moscow now; I came with a 
 lady; but now I am without a place. I went to 
 YakofF Ivanitch's aunt, but she is very poor her- 
 self. Yakoff Ivanitch often talked to me about 
 you, sir," — she added, rising and bowing: — 
 " he was always very fond of you, and remem- 
 bered you. I met Elisyei Timofeitch here the 
 day before yesterday, and I thought: would n't 
 you be wiUing to help me, as I have no place at 
 present. . . ." 
 
 122
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 " With great pleasure, Mary a .... allow 
 me to inquire your patronymic? " 
 
 " PetrofP,"— replied Masha, and dropped her 
 eyes. 
 
 " I will do everything in my power for you, 
 Marya Petrovna,"— I went on: — "I am only 
 sorry that I am only passing through the town, 
 and am very little acquainted in nice houses." 
 
 Masha sighed. 
 
 " I 'd hke to get some sort of a place, sir. ... I 
 don't know how to cut out, but when it comes to 
 sewing, I can sew anything .... well, and I 
 can take care of children." 
 
 "I must give her some money," I thought: 
 " but how am I to do it? " 
 
 " Hearken, Marya Petrovna,"— I began, not 
 without confusion: — "you must excuse me, 
 please, but you know from Pasynkoff 's words 
 on what friendly terms I was with him. . . . Will 
 you not permit me to offer to you .... for 
 present necessities .... a small sum? . . .'* 
 
 Masha darted a look at me. 
 
 " What, sir? "—she asked. 
 
 " Are you not in need of money? "—I said. 
 
 Masha blushed all over and bent her head. 
 
 " What should I do with money? " — she whis- 
 pered. " Better get me a place, sir. . . ." 
 
 " I will try to get you a place; but I cannot 
 answer for that with certainty; and really, it is 
 
 128
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 wrong for you to feel ashamed. . . . For I am 
 not a mere stranger to you. . . Accept this from 
 me, in memory of your friend. . . ." 
 
 I turned away, hastily took several bank-notes 
 from my pocket-book, and gave them to her. 
 
 Masha stood motionless, her head drooping 
 still lower. . . . 
 
 " Take it,"— I repeated. 
 
 She softly raised her eyes to mine, looked into 
 my face with a mournful gaze, softly liberated 
 her pale hand from under her kerchief, and 
 stretched it out to me. I laid the bank-notes 
 on her cold fingers. She silently hid her hand 
 again under her kerchief, and dropped her 
 eyes. 
 
 " And in future, Marya Petrovna," — I went 
 on, — " if you are in want of anything, please 
 appeal directly to me. — I will give you my ad- 
 dress." 
 
 "I thank you humbly, sir,"— she said; and 
 after a brief pause, she added: " Did n't he speak 
 to you about me, sir? " 
 
 " I met him the day before he died, Marya 
 Petrovna. However, I do not recollect. ... I 
 think he did speak of you." 
 
 Masha passed her hand over her hair, propped 
 her cheek lightly on it, meditated, and after say- 
 ing: " Farewell, sir," she left the room. 
 
 I sat down at the table, and began to think 
 bitter thoughts. This Masha, her relations to 
 
 124
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 Pasynkoff, his letters, the secret love of Sofya 
 Nikolaevna's sister for him. ..." Poor fellow! 
 Poor fellow!" — I whispered, sighing heavily. 
 I recalled the whole of Pasynkoff's life, his 
 childhood, his youth, Fraulein Frederika. . . . 
 " There now,"— I thought: " Fate did not give 
 thee much ! she did not gladden thee with a great 
 deal!" 
 
 On the following day, I called again on Sofya 
 Nikolaevna. I was made to wait in the ante- 
 room, and when I entered, Lidiya was already 
 sitting beside her mother. I understood that 
 Sofya Nikolaevna did not wish to renew the con- 
 versation of the preceding day. 
 
 We began to chat — really, I do not remember 
 about what, — rumours of the town, business 
 matters. . . . Lidiya frequently put in her little 
 word, and gazed slily at me. An amusing im- 
 portance had suddenly made its appearance on 
 her mobile little face. . . . The clever little girl 
 must have divined that her mother had placed her 
 by her side of deliberate purpose. 
 
 I rose, and began to take my leave. Sofya 
 Nikolaevna escorted me to the door. " I made 
 you no reply yesterday,"— she said, halting at 
 the threshold: — "and what reply was there to 
 make? Our life does not depend on ourselves; 
 but we all have one anchor, from which we need 
 never break away, unless we so wish it ourselves: 
 the sense of duty." 
 
 125 
 
 \
 
 YAKOFF PASYNKOFF 
 
 I silently bent my head in token of assent, and 
 bade farewell to the young Puritan. 
 
 All that evening I remained at home; but I 
 did not think of her; I kept thinking, thinking 
 incessantly of my dear, my never-to-be-forgotten 
 Pasynkoff — of that last of the romanticists ; and 
 feelings now sad, now tender, surged up sweetly 
 in my breast, and resounded on the strings of my 
 heart, which was not yet grown utterly old. . . . 
 Peace to thy ashes, thou unpractical man, thou 
 kind-hearted idealist! And may God grant to 
 all practical gentlemen, to whom thou were ever 
 an alien, and who, perchance, will still ridicule 
 thy shadow,— may God grant them to taste at 
 least the hundredth part of those pure delights, 
 wherewith, in spite of Fate and men, thy poor 
 and submissive life was adorned ! 
 
 126
 
 it 
 
 FAUST" 
 
 (1855)
 
 "FAUST" 
 
 A STORY IN NINE LETTERS 
 
 Entbehren sollst du, sollst entbehren. 
 
 "Faust." (Parti.) 
 
 FIRST LETTER 
 
 From Pavel Aleocdndrovitch B*** to Semyon 
 Nikoldevitch f***. 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, June 6, 1850. 
 
 I ARRIVED here three days ago, my dear 
 friend, and, in accordance with my promise, 
 I take up my pen to write to thee. A fine rain 
 has been drizzHng down ever since morning; it 
 is impossible to go out; and besides, I want to 
 have a chat with thee. Here I am again, in my 
 old nest, in which I have not been — dreadful to 
 say — for nine whole years. Really, when one 
 comes to think of it, I have become altogether 
 another man. Yes, actually, another man. Dost 
 thou remember in the drawing-room the small, 
 dark mirror of my great-grandmother, with 
 those queer scrolls at the corners? Thou wert 
 always meditating on what it had beheld a hun- 
 dred years ago. As soon as I arrived, I went 
 
 129
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 to it, and was involuntarily disconcerted. I sud- 
 denly perceived how I had aged and changed 
 of late. However, I am not the only one who has 
 grown old. My tiny house, which was in a state 
 of decrepitude long since, hardly holds itself up- 
 right now, and has sagged down, and sunk into 
 the ground. My good Vasilievna, the house- 
 keeper (thou hast not forgotten her, I am sure: 
 she used to regale thee with such splendid pre- 
 serves), has quite dried up and bent together. 
 At sight of me, she could not cry out, and she 
 did not fall to weeping, but merely grunted and 
 coughed, sat down exhausted on a chair, and 
 waved her hand in despair. Old Terenty is still 
 alert, holds himself erect as of old, and as he 
 walks turns out his feet clad in the same yellow 
 nankeen trousers, and shod with the same squeak- 
 ing goat's-leather shoes, with high instep and 
 knots of ribbon, which evoked your emotions 
 more than once. . . . But great heavens! — how 
 loose those trousers now hang on his thin legs! 
 how white his hair has grown ! And his face has 
 all shrivelled up to the size of your fist ; and when 
 he talked with me, when he began to make ar- 
 rangements and issue orders in the adjoining 
 room, I found him ridiculous, and yet I was 
 sorry for him. All his teeth are gone, and he 
 mumbles with a whistling and hissing sound. 
 
 On the other hand, the park has grown won- 
 derfully beautiful: the little modest bushes of 
 
 130
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 lilac, acacia, and honeysuckle (you and I set them 
 out, dost remember?) have grown up into mag- 
 nificent, dense thickets; the birches and maples, 
 have all spread upward and outward; the lin- 
 den allej^s in particular, have become very fine. 
 I love those alleys, I love their tender grey- 
 green hue, and the delicate fragrance of the air 
 beneath their arches; I love the mottled network 
 of circles of light on the dark earth — I have no 
 sand, as thou knowest. My favourite oak-sap- 
 ling has already become a young oak-tree. Yes- 
 terday, in the middle of the day, I sat for more 
 than an hour in its shade, on a bench. I felt 
 greatly at my ease. Round about the grass 
 gleamed so merrily green; over all lay a golden 
 light, strong and soft; it even penetrated into 
 the shade .... and how many birds I heard! 
 Thou hast not forgotten, I trust, that birds are 
 my passion! The turtle-doves cooed incessantly, 
 now and then an oriole whistled, a chaffinch exe- 
 cuted its charming song, thrushes waxed angry 
 and chattered, a cuckoo answered from afar; 
 suddenly, like a madman, a woodpecker uttered 
 a piercing scream. I listened, listened to all this 
 soft, commingled din, and did not want to move, 
 and in my heart was something which was not 
 indolence, nor yet emotion. 
 
 And the park is not the only thing that has 
 grown up; sturdy, robust lads, in whom I should 
 never have recognised the little urchins whom I 
 
 131
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 used to know, are constantly coming under my 
 eye. And thy favourite, Timosha, has now be- 
 come such a Timofyei as thou canst not picture 
 to thyself. Thou hadst fears for his health then, 
 and predicted consumption for him; but thou 
 shouldst take a look now at his huge, red hands, 
 and the way they stick out from the tight sleeves 
 of his nankeen coat, and what round, thick mus- 
 cles stand out all over him ! The nape of his neck 
 is like that of a bull, and his head is all covered 
 with round, blond curls,— a regular Farnese 
 Hercules! His face has undergone less change, 
 however, than the faces of the others have; it 
 has not even increased greatly in size, and his 
 cheery, " gaping " smile, as thou wert wont to 
 express it, has remained the same as of yore. I 
 have taken him for my valet; I discarded my 
 Petersburg valet in Moscow: he was altogether 
 too fond of putting me to shame, and making me 
 feel his superiority in the usages of the capital. 
 
 I have not found a single one of my dogs ; they 
 are all dead. Nefta alone outlived the rest — and 
 even she did not survive till my arrival, as Argos 
 waited for Ulysses; she was not fated to behold 
 her former master and comrade of the hunt with 
 her dimmed eyes. But Shavka is still sound, 
 and still barks hoarsely, and one ear is torn, as 
 usual, and there are burrs in his tail, as is jfitting. 
 
 I have established myself in thy former cham- 
 ber. The sun strikes on it, it is true, and there 
 
 132
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 are a great many flies in it; but, on the other 
 hand, it has less of the odour of an old house about 
 it than the other rooms. 'T is strange! that 
 musty, somewhat sour and withered odour acts 
 powerfully on my imagination. I will not say 
 that it is disagreeable to me — on the contrary; 
 but it evokes in me sadness, and, eventually, 
 dejection. Like thyself, I am very fond of the 
 pot-bellied chests of drawers with their brass 
 fastenings, the white arm-chairs with oval backs 
 and curved legs, the glass chandeliers covered 
 with fly-specks, with the huge egg of purple 
 tinsel in the middle, — in a word, all sorts of fur- 
 niture belonging to our grandfathers; but I can- 
 not look at all this constantly : a sort of perturbed 
 tedium (precisely that!) takes possession of me. 
 In the room where I have settled myself, the fur- 
 niture is of the most ordinary description, home- 
 made; but I have left in one corner a tall, narrow 
 cupboard with shelves, on which, athwart the 
 dust are barely visible divers old-fashioned, pot- 
 bellied vessels, of blue and green glass. And I 
 have given orders that there shall be hung on the 
 wall, — thou wilt recall it, — that portrait of a 
 woman, in the black frame, which thou wert wont 
 to call the portrait of Manon Lescaut. It has 
 grown a little darker in these nine years ; but the 
 eyes look forth as pensively, slily, and tenderly 
 as ever, and the lips smile in the same frivolous 
 and mournful way as of old, and the half- 
 
 133
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 stripped rose dangles as softly as ever from 
 the slender fingers. The window-shades in my 
 room amuse me greatly. Once upon a time they 
 used to be green, but have grown yellow in the 
 sunlight. Upon them, in black, are painted 
 scenes from d'Arlincourt's "Hermit." On one 
 shade, this hermit, with the biggest sort of a 
 beard, staringly-prominent eyes, and in sandals, 
 is dragging off to the mountains some dis- 
 hevelled young lady or other ; on the other shade, 
 a fierce combat is in progress between four 
 knights in skull-caps, and with puffs on their 
 shoulders; one is lying, en raccourci, slain— in 
 short, all the horrors are depicted, and all around 
 reigns such undisturbed tranquillity, and such 
 gentle reflections are cast on the ceiling from 
 the shades themselves. ... A sort of spiritual 
 quietude has descended upon me since I have 
 established myself here. I do not want to do 
 anything ; I do not want to see any one, to medi- 
 tate about anything. I am too indolent to specu- 
 late; but not too indolent to think; but thinking 
 is not indolence; they are two separate things, 
 as thou art well aware. 
 
 At first the memories of my childhood in- 
 vaded me. . . . Wheresoever I went, whatso- 
 ever I looked at, they surged up from every di- 
 rection, clear, clear to the most minute details, 
 and motionless, as it were, in their distinct defi- 
 
 niteness Then those memories were suc- 
 
 13 i
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 ceeded by others ; then . . . then I softly turned 
 away from the past, and there remained nothing 
 in my breast save a sort of dreamy burden. Just 
 imagine ! As I sat on the dam, under the willow, 
 I suddenly fell to weeping, quite unexpectedly; 
 and would have wept for a long time, in spite 
 of my advanced age, had I not been mortified 
 by a passing peasant-wife, who stared at me 
 with curiosity, then, without turning her head 
 toward me, made a straight, low obeisance, and 
 walked past. I should have liked greatly to re- 
 main in that frame of mind ( I shall not weep any 
 more, of course) until my departure hence, that 
 is to say, until the month of September; and I 
 shall be very much chagrined, if any one of the 
 neighbours should take it into his head to call on 
 me. However, apparently, there is nothing to 
 fear in that quarter; for I have no near neigh- 
 bours. Thou wilt understand me, I am convinced ; 
 thou knowest, from thine own experience, how 
 beneficial solitude often is. ... I need it now, 
 after all sorts of wanderings. 
 
 But I shall not be bored. I have brought with 
 me several books, and I have a very fair library 
 here. Yesterday I opened the cases, and rum- 
 maged for a long time among the musty books. 
 I found many curious things, which I had not 
 noticed before: " Candide," in a manuscript 
 translation of the '70s; newspapers and journals 
 of the same period; "The Triumphant Chame- 
 
 135
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 leon " (that is to say, Mirabeau) ; " Le Paysan 
 Perverti," and so forth. I came upon some chil- 
 dren's books, my own, and those of my father, 
 and m}^ grandmother, and, even — just fancy! — 
 of my great-grandmother. On one very, very 
 ancient French grammar, in a gay binding, was 
 written in large letters : " Ce livre appartient a 
 M-lle Eudoxie de Lavrine/' and the year was 
 added — 1741. I saw books which I had brought 
 from abroad some time or other; among others, 
 Goethe's " Faust." Perhaps thou art not aware 
 that there was a time when I knew " Faust " by 
 heart (the first part, of course), word for word; 
 I could not read it enough to satisfy myself. . . . 
 But, other times, other dreams, and in the course 
 of the last nine years I don't believe I have taken 
 Goethe in my hand a single time. With what 
 an inexpressible feeling did I behold the little 
 book, but too familiar to me (a bad edition of 
 1828). I carried it oiF with me, lay down on 
 my bed, and began to read. What an effect the 
 whole magnificent first scene had upon me! The 
 appearance of the Spirit of Earth, his wordsj 
 thou rememberest: " On the billows of life, in 
 the whirlwind of action," aroused within me the 
 trepidation and chill of rapture which I have not 
 experienced for many a day. I recalled every- 
 thing: Berlin, and my student days, and Frau- 
 lein Klara Schtik, and Zeidelmann, in the part 
 of Mephistopheles, and everything and every 
 
 136
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 one. . . . For a long time I could not get to 
 sleep; my youth came and stood before me, like 
 a ghost; like a fire, like a poison, it coursed 
 through my veins; my heart expanded and re- 
 fused to contract; something swept across its 
 strings, and desires began to seethe 
 
 Such were the reveries to which thy friend, 
 aged almost forty, surrendered himself as he sat 
 solitary, in his isolated little house ! What if some 
 one had seen me? Well, what if they had? I should 
 not have been in the least ashamed. To feel 
 ashamed is also a sign of youth ; but I have begun 
 to notice that I am growing old, and knowest thou 
 why ? This is the reason. I now try to magnify 
 to myself my cheerful sensations, and to belittle 
 the mournful ones, while in the days of youth 
 I proceeded on the diametrically opposite plan. 
 One goes about then hoarding his sorrow as 
 though it were a treasure, and is ashamed of a 
 cheerful impulse. . . . 
 
 And nevertheless, it seems to me that, notwith- 
 standing all my experience of life, there is still 
 something more in the world, friend Horatio, 
 that I have not experienced, and that that "some- 
 thing " is about the most important of all. 
 
 Ekh, how I have run on! Farewell! until an- 
 other time. What art thou doing in Petersburg? 
 By the way: Savely, my rustic cook, asks to be 
 remembered to thee. He also has grown old, 
 but not too much so, has waxed fat and some- 
 
 137
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 what pot-bellied. He makes just as well as of 
 old, chicken soup with boiled onions, curd-cakes 
 with fancy edges, and pigus/ the famous dish of 
 the steppes, which made thy tongue turn white, 
 gave thee indigestion, and stood like a stake 
 through thee for four-and-twenty hours. On the 
 other hand, he dries up the roasts, as of old, to 
 such a point, that you might bang them against 
 the plate — they are regular cardboard. But fare- 
 well! 
 
 Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 SECOND LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, June 12, 1850. 
 
 I HAVE a rather important bit of news to com- 
 municate to thee, my dear friend. — Listen! Yes- 
 terday, before dinner, I took a fancy for a stroll, 
 — only not in the park; I walked along the road 
 leading to town. It is very pleasant to walk on 
 a long, straight road, without any object, and 
 with long strides. One seems to be engaged in 
 business, hastening somewhere or other. — I look: 
 a calash is driving to meet me. " Is n't it coming 
 to my house? " I thought with secret alarm. . . . 
 But, no; in the calash sits a gentleman with a 
 moustache, a stranger to me. I recover my 
 
 ^ A sour soup, with cucumbers. —Translator. 
 
 138
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 equanimity. But suddenly this gentleman, on 
 coming alongside of me, orders his coachman to 
 stop the horses, courteously lifts his cap, and 
 with still geater courtesy asks me: "Am not I 
 so-and-so?" calling me by name. I, in turn, 
 come to a halt, and with the animation of a crim- 
 inal being conducted to his trial, reply: " I am 
 so-and-so," and stare the while, like a sheep, at 
 the gentleman with the moustache, thinking to 
 myself: " Why, I certainly have seen him some- 
 where or other! " 
 
 " You do not recognise me? " — he enunciates, 
 alighting in the meantime, from the calash. 
 " I do not in the least, sir." 
 " But I recognised you instantly." 
 One word follows another; it turns out that 
 he is Priimkoff, — dost thou remember? Our old 
 comrade in the university. " What important 
 bit of news is this?" thou art thinking at this 
 moment, my dear Semyon Nikolaitch. — " Priim- 
 koff, so far as I recollect, was a rather frivolous 
 fellow, although neither malicious nor stupid." 
 — All that is so, my dear friend; but listen to the 
 continuation of my tale. 
 
 " I was greatly delighted," says he, *' when 
 I heard that you had come to your village, 
 to our neighbourhood. But I was not the only 
 one who rejoiced." 
 
 "Allow me to inquire,"— I inquired:— " who 
 else was so amiable. ..." 
 
 139
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 " My wife." 
 
 "Your wife?" 
 
 " Yes, my wife ; she is an old acquaintance of 
 yours." 
 
 " Permit me to inquire your wife's name? " 
 
 " Her name is Vyera Nikolaevna; she was 
 born EltzofP " 
 
 "Vyera Nikolaevna! "—I exclaimed involun- 
 tarily. . . . 
 
 So this is that same important piece of news, 
 of which I spoke to thee at the beginning of my 
 letter. 
 
 But perhaps thou wilt not discern anything 
 important about it. ... I must narrate to thee 
 somewhat of my past .... of my long-past 
 life. 
 
 When we, thou and I, came out of the uni- 
 versity, I was twenty-two years of age. Thou 
 didst enter the government service; I, as thou 
 art aware, decided to betake myself to Berlin. 
 But there was nothing to do in Berlin before Oc- 
 tober. I wanted to spend the summer in Russia, 
 in the country, to have my fill of lounging for the 
 last time; and then to set to work in sober ear- 
 nest. As to how far this last project was exe- 
 cuted, I will not dilate at present. ..." But 
 where shall I spend the summer? " I asked my- 
 self. I did not wish to go to my own country- 
 place: my father had recently died, I had no 
 near relatives, I dreaded solitude, tedium. . . . 
 
 140
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 And therefore, I joyfully accepted the sugges- 
 tion of one of my relatives, my great-uncle, that 
 I should visit him on his estate, in the T*** Gov- 
 ernment. He was a wealthy man, kind-hearted 
 and simple, lived in fine style, and had a manor 
 worthy of a nobleman. I established myself in 
 his house. My uncle had a large family: two 
 sons and five daughters. In addition to these, 
 there dwelt in his house a throng of people. 
 Guests were incessantly arriving, — and, never- 
 theless, things were not cheerful. The days 
 flowed by noisily; there was no possibility of iso- 
 lating one's self. Everything was done in com- 
 pany; everybody tried to divert themselves in 
 some way, to devise something, and by the end 
 of the day everybody was frightfully tired. 
 This life had a commonplace savour. I had al- 
 ready begun to meditate departure, and was only 
 waiting until mj'- uncle's Name-day should ar- 
 rive; but on that very day — the Name-day — I 
 saw Vyera Nikolaevna filtzoff at the ball,— and 
 remained. 
 
 She was then sixteen. She lived with her 
 mother on a tiny estate, about five versts from 
 my uncle's. Her father— a remarkable man, they 
 say — had speedily attained to the rank of col- 
 onel, and would have risen still higher, but per- 
 ished while yet a young man, accidentally shot 
 in hunting by a comrade. Vyera Nikolaevna 
 was a child when he died. Her mother, also, 
 
 141
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 was a remarkable woman: she spoke several lan- 
 guages, she knew a great deal. She was seven 
 or eight years older than her husband, whom 
 she had married for love; he had secretly car- 
 ried her off from her father's house. She barely 
 survived his loss, and until her own death (ac- 
 cording to Priimkoff's statement, she died soon 
 after her daughter's marriage) she wore black 
 garments only. I vividly recall her face: ex- 
 pressive, dark, with thick hair sprinkled with 
 grey, large stern eyes which seemed extin- 
 guished, and a straight, delicate nose. Her fa- 
 ther — his surname was LadanofF — had lived for 
 fifteen years in Italy. Vyera Nikolaevna's mo- 
 ther had ben born the daughter of a plain peas- 
 ant-woman of Albano, who had been killed on 
 the day after the birth of her child, by a man of 
 Transtevere, her betrothed, from whom Lada- 
 noff had stolen her. . . . This story had made 
 a great noise in its day. On his return to Russia, 
 LadanofF not only did not step out of his house, 
 but even out of his study, busied himself with 
 chemistry, anatomy, the cabalistic art; tried to 
 lengthen the life of mankind, and imagined that 
 he could enter into relations with spirits, and 
 call up the dead. . . . The neighbours looked 
 on him as a wizard. He was extremely fond of 
 his daughter, taught her everything himself; but 
 did not forgive her for her elopement with El- 
 tzofF, would not admit her to his presence, either 
 
 142
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 her or her husband, foretold a sorrowful life for 
 both of them, and died alone. On being left 
 a widow, Madame Eltzoff consecrated her lei- 
 sure to the education of her daughter, and re- 
 ceived almost no one. When I made the ac- 
 quaintance of Vyera Nikolaevna,— just imagine 
 it I— she had never been in a large town in her 
 life, not even in her county town. 
 
 Vyera Nikolaevna did not resemble the ordi- 
 nary young Russian gentlewoman; a sort of 
 special stamp lay upon her. What instantly im- 
 pressed me in her was the wonderful repose of 
 all her movements and remarks. Apparently, 
 she did not worry about anything, did not get 
 excited, answered simply and sensibly, and lis- 
 tened attentively. The expression of her face 
 was sincere and upright, as that of a child, but 
 somewhat cold and monotonous, although not 
 pensive. She was rarely merry, and then not 
 like other people : the clarity of an innocent soul, 
 more delightful than merriment, glowed in all 
 her being. She was short of stature, very well 
 made, rather thin; she had regular and tender 
 features, a very handsome, smooth brow, golden- 
 chestnut hair, a straight nose, like her mother, 
 and quite full Hps ; her grey eyes, with a tinge of 
 black, looked out somewhat too directly from be- 
 neath her thick, upward-curling lashes. Her 
 hands were small, but not very pretty ; people who 
 possess talent do not have such hands .... and, 
 
 143
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 as a matter of fact, Vyera Nikolaevna had no 
 particular talents. Her voice was as ringing as 
 that of a seven-year-old girl. At my uncle's ball 
 I was introduced to her mother, and, a few days 
 later, I drove to see them for the first time. 
 
 Madame £ltzofF was a very strange woman, 
 with a great deal of character, persistent and 
 concentrated. She exerted a strong influence on 
 me: I both respected and feared her. With her 
 everything was done on a system; and she had 
 reared her daughter on a system, but did not re- 
 strain her of her liberty. Her daughter loved 
 her and believed in her blindly. It sufficed for 
 Madame ^ItzofF to give her a book, and to say: 
 " Here, don't read this page,"— and she would, 
 probably, skip the preceding page, but would 
 not even glance at the forbidden one. But 
 Madame EltzofF had also her idees fixes, her 
 hobbies. For example, she feared everything 
 which might act on the imagination, as she did 
 fire; and therefore her daughter, up to the age 
 of seventeen, had not read a single poem, while 
 in geography, history, and even natural history, 
 she frequently nonplussed me, a university grad- 
 uate, and not one who had stood low in his class 
 either, as thou wilt, perhaps, remember. I once 
 undertook to argue with Madame EltzofF about 
 her hobby, although it was difficult to draw her 
 into conversation: she was extremely taciturn. 
 She merely shook her head. 
 
 144
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 " You say," — she remarked at last, — " that it 
 is both useful and agreeable to read poetical pro- 
 ductions. ... I think that one should, as early 
 as possible, make a choice in life either of the use- 
 ful or of the agreeable, and so make up one's 
 mind once for all. I, also, once upon a time, 
 tried to combine the two things. ... It is im- 
 possible and leads to destruction or to insipidity." 
 
 Yes, a wonderful being was that woman, an 
 honourable, proud being, not devoid of fanati- 
 cism and superstition of a certain sort. " I fear 
 life," — she said to me one day. — And, in fact, 
 she did fear it, — she feared those secret forces 
 upon which life is erected, and which rarely but 
 suddenly make their way to the surface. Woe 
 to the person over whose head they break ! These 
 forces had made themselves felt by Madame 
 EltzofF in a terrible manner : remember the death 
 of her mother, her husband, her father. ... It 
 was enough to terrify any one. I never saw her 
 smile. She seemed to have locked herself up, 
 and flung the key into the water. She must have 
 gone through a great deal of sorrow in her day, 
 and she never shared it with any one whomso- 
 ever. She had trained herself not to give way 
 to her feelings to such a degree, that she was 
 even ashamed to display her passionate love for 
 her daughter; she never once kissed her in my 
 presence, never called her by a pet name, but 
 always " Vyera." I remember one remark of 
 
 145
 
 (( 
 
 FAUST 
 
 hers. I happened to say to her that all we peo- 
 ple of the present day were half -broken. . . . 
 " There 's no use in breaking one's self so,"— she 
 said: — " one must subdue one's self thoroughly, 
 — or not touch one's self. . . ." 
 
 Very few persons called at Madame El- 
 tzofF's; but I visited her frequently. I was se- 
 cretly conscious that she felt kindly toward me; 
 and I liked Vyera Nikolaevna very much. She 
 and I chatted and strolled together. . . . Her 
 mother did not interfere with us; the daughter 
 herself did not like to be apart from her mother, 
 and I, on my side, did not feel any need of soli- 
 tary conversations. . . . Vyera Nikolaevna had 
 a strange habit of thinking aloud; at night she 
 talked loudly and intelligibly in her sleep of what 
 had impressed her during the day. — One day, 
 after scanning me attentively, and, according 
 to her wont, softly propping her chin on her 
 hand, she said: " It strikes me that B*** is a 
 good man; but one cannot rely on him." Our 
 relations were of the most friendly and even 
 character; only one day it seemed to me that I 
 noticed far away, somewhere in the depths of 
 her bright eyes, a strange something, a sort of 
 softness and tenderness. . . . But perhaps I was 
 mistaken. 
 
 In the meanwhile, time passed on, and the day 
 came when I was obliged to make preparations 
 for departure. But still I tarried. As I recall 
 
 146
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 it, I persisted in thinking that I should not soon 
 see again that charming girl, to whom I had 
 grown so attached — and I should feel uncom- 
 fortable. . . . Berlin began to lose its power of 
 attraction. I did not dare to admit to myself 
 what had taken place in me, — and I did not un- 
 derstand what it was that had taken place in 
 me, — it was as though a mist were roving about 
 in my soul. At last, one morning, everything 
 suddenly became clear to me. " What 's the use 
 of seeking further? "—I thought. " Why 
 should I strive onward? For the truth will not 
 surrender itself into my hands, all the same. 
 Would it not be better to remain here ? Ought not 
 I to marry? " and, just imagine, this thought of 
 marriage did not alarm me in the least then. 
 On the contrary, I was delighted at it. More 
 than that; that very same day, I avowed my in- 
 tentions, only not to Vyera, but to Madame El- 
 tzoff herself. The old lady looked at me. 
 
 "No," — said she: — "my dear fellow, go to 
 Berlin, and break yourself a little more. You 
 are good; but you are not the sort of husband 
 whom Vyera needs." 
 
 I cast down my eyes, flushed scarlet, and — 
 what will probably amaze thee still more — I in- 
 wardly agreed with JNIadame filtzoif on the spot. 
 A week later I took my departure, and have 
 never seen either her or Vyera since that time. 
 
 I have described to thee my adventure in brief, 
 
 147
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 because I know that thou dost not Hke anything 
 " long-drawn-out." On arriving in Berhn, I 
 very promptly forgot Vyera Nikolaevna. . . . 
 But, I must confess, that the unexpected news 
 of her has agitated me. I have been impressed 
 by the thought that she is so near, that she is my 
 neighbour, that I shall see her in a few days. 
 The past has suddenly started up before me, as 
 though it had sprung out of the earth, and were 
 fairly swooping down on me. Priimkoif in- 
 formed me that he had called upon me with the 
 express purpose of renewing our ancient ac- 
 quaintance, and that he hoped to see me at his 
 house very shortly. He informed me that he 
 had served in the cavalry, had retired with the 
 rank of lieutenant, purchased an estate eight 
 versts distant from mine, and was intending to 
 occupy himself with farming; that he had had 
 three children, but two of them had died, and 
 only a five-year-old daughter was left. 
 
 "And does your wife remember me?" — I 
 asked. 
 
 " Yes, she does," — he replied with a slight hesi- 
 tation. — " Of course, she was then a child, so to 
 speak ; but her mother always praised you highly, 
 and you know how she prizes every word of the 
 deceased." 
 
 Madame £ltzofF's words, that I was not a 
 suitable husband for Vyera, recurred to my mem- 
 ory. . . . "So thou wert suitable,"— I thought, 
 
 148
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 darting a sidelong glance at PriimkofF. He 
 spent several hours at my house. He is a very 
 good, nice fellow, he talks very modestly, has 
 a very good-natured gaze ; one cannot help liking 
 him .... but his intellectual faculties have not 
 developed since the period of our acquaintance 
 with him. I shall go to see him without fail, 
 to-morrow, perhaps. I shall find it extremely 
 interesting to see how Vyera Nikolaevna has 
 turned out. 
 
 Thou art, probably, laughing at me now, thou 
 rascal, as thou sittest at thy director's table; but 
 nevertheless, I shall write to thee what impres- 
 sion she makes on me. Farewell ! Until the next 
 letter. Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 THIRD LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, June 16, 1850. 
 
 Well, my dear fellow, I have been at her house, 
 I have seen her. First of all, I must communicate 
 to thee a remarkable circumstance: believe me 
 or not, as thou wilt, but she has hardly changed 
 at all, either in face or in figure. When she came 
 out to greet me, I almost exclaimed aloud: a 
 young girl of seventeen, and that 's all there is 
 to be said! Only, her eyes are not like those of 
 
 149
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 a little girl; however, even in her youth she did 
 not have childish eyes, they were too bright. 
 But there is the same composure, the same seren- 
 ity, the same voice, not a single wrinkle on her 
 brow, just as though she had been lying some- 
 where in the snow all these years. And now 
 she is twenty-eight years old, and has had three 
 children. . . 'T is incomprehensible! Pray, do 
 not think that I am exaggerating out of preju- 
 dice; on the contrary, this immutability in her 
 does not please me. 
 
 A woman of eight-and-twenty, a wife and a 
 mother, ought not to look like a young girl; for 
 she has not lived in vain. She greeted me very 
 cordially ; but my arrival simply enraptured Pri- 
 imkoff; that good fellow looks as though he 
 would like to get attached to some one. Their 
 house is very comfortable and clean. Vyera Ni- 
 kolaevna was dressed like a young girl, also; all 
 in white, with a sky-blue sash, and a slender gold 
 chain on her neck. Her little daughter is very 
 charming, and does not resemble her in the 
 least; she reminds one of her grandmother. In 
 the drawing-room, over the divan, hangs a por- 
 trait of that strange woman, a striking likeness. 
 It caught my eye the moment I entered. She 
 seemed to be staring sternly and attentively at 
 me. We sat down, recalled old times, and grad- 
 ually got into conversation. I kept involuntarily 
 glancing at the gloomy portrait of Madame 
 
 150
 
 « 
 
 FAUST " 
 
 Eltzoff . Vyera Nikolaevna was sitting directly 
 under it; it is her favourite place. Fancy my 
 amazement! To this day, Vyera Nikolaevna has 
 not read a single romance, a single poem — in 
 short, as she expresses it, a single work of fiction ! 
 This incredible indifference to the loftiest joys 
 of the mind enraged me. In a sensible woman, 
 and one who, so far as I can judge, possesses deli- 
 cate feelings, this is simply unpardonable. 
 
 "Why," — I said: — "have you made it a rule 
 never to read such books? " 
 
 " I have never happened to do it," — she re- 
 plied. — " I have not had the time." 
 
 "Not had the time! I am astonished! You 
 might at least have inspired your wife with a wish 
 to do so," — I went on, addressing Priimkoff. 
 
 " It would have given me great pleasure . . . ." 
 PriimkoiF began, but Vyera Nikolaevna inter- 
 rupted him. 
 
 "Don't pretend; thou art no great lover of 
 poetry thyself." 
 
 " Of poetrj^"— he began,—" I really am not 
 very fond; but romances, for example. . . ." 
 
 " But what do you do, how do you occupy 
 yourselves evenings?" — I inquired. — "Do you 
 play cards? " 
 
 "Sometimes we do,"— she replied: — "but 
 is n't there plenty to occupy us ? We read, also ; 
 there are good books besides poetry." 
 
 " Why do you attack poetry so? " 
 
 151
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 " I don't attack it ; I have been accustomed 
 from my childhood not to read works of fiction; 
 my mother thought that was proper, and the 
 longer I live, the more convinced do I become 
 that everything which my mother did, everything 
 she said, was the truth, the sacred truth." 
 
 " Well, as you like ; but I cannot agree with 
 you. I am convinced that you do wrong in de- 
 priving yourself of the purest, the most lawful 
 enjoyment. Surely, you do not reject music, 
 painting; then why should you reject poetry? " 
 
 " I do not reject it. Up to the present time 
 I have not made acquaintance with it — that is 
 all." 
 
 "Then I shall take the matter in hand! 
 Surely, your mother did not forbid you to ac- 
 quaint yourself with the productions of elegant 
 literature during your entire life? " 
 
 " No; when I married, my mother removed all 
 restrictions from me; it has never entered my 
 head to read .... what was it you called it? 
 . . . well, in short, to read romances." 
 
 I listened with surprise to Vyera Nikolaevna. 
 I had not expected this. 
 
 She gazed at me with her tranquil look. That 
 is the way birds gaze, when they are not afraid. 
 
 "I will bring you a book!" — I exclaimed. 
 (The thought of " Faust," which I had recently 
 read, flashed through my mind. ) 
 
 Vyera Nikolaevna heaved a soft sigh. 
 
 152
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 " It .... it is not Georges Sand? "—she in- 
 quired, not without timidity. * 
 
 "Ah! so you have heard of her? Well, and 
 what if it were she, where 's the harm? . . . No; 
 I shall bring you another author. You have not 
 forgotten your German, I suppose? " 
 
 *' No, I have not forgotten it." 
 
 " She speaks it like a German," — interposed 
 PriimkofF. 
 
 " Well, that 's fine ! I shall bring you . . . 
 but there now, you shall see what a marvellous 
 thing I shall bring you." 
 
 " Well, very good, I shall see. And now let 
 us go into the garden, for Natasha will not be 
 able to sit quietty otherwise." 
 
 She put on a round straw hat, a child's hat, ex- 
 actly like the one which her daughter donned, 
 only a little larger, and we betook ourselves to the 
 garden. I walked by her side. In the fresh 
 air, in the shadow of the lofty lindens, her face 
 seemed to me more charming than ever, espe- 
 cially when she turned slightly and threw back 
 her head in order to look up at me from under 
 the brim of her hat. Had it not been for Pri- 
 imkofF, had it not been for the little girl who was 
 skipping on in front of us, I really might have 
 thought that I was not thirty-five years of age, 
 but three-and-twenty ; that I was only just mak- 
 ing ready to set out for Berlin; the more so, as 
 the garden in which we were greatly resembled 
 
 153
 
 (( 
 
 FAUST " 
 
 the garden on Madame ^filtzofF's estate. I could 
 not refrain from communicating my impres- 
 sions to Vyera Nikolaevna. 
 
 " Everybody tells me that I have changed very 
 little in outward appearance," — she replied: 
 — "moreover, I have remained the same in- 
 wardly also." 
 
 We approached a small Chinese house. 
 
 " There, we did not have such a little house at 
 Osinovko," — she said: — " but you must not mind 
 its being so rickety and faded; it is very nice 
 and cool inside." 
 
 We entered the little house. I glanced about 
 
 me. 
 
 Do you know what, Vyera Nikolaevna," — 
 I said: — " order a table and a few chairs to be 
 brought hither before I come. It really is ex- 
 traordinarily nice here. I will read aloud to you 
 here. . . . Goethe's ' Faust ' . . . . that is the 
 thing I mean to read to you." 
 
 " Yes; there are no flies here," — she remarked 
 ingenuously; — " but when shall you come? " 
 
 " Day after to-morrow." 
 
 " Very well,"— she said:—" I will give orders." 
 
 Natasha, who had entered the house in com- 
 pany with us, suddenly uttered a scream, and 
 sprang back, all pale. 
 
 " What is the matter? "—asked Vyera Niko- 
 laevna. 
 
 " Akh, mamma,"— said the little girl, pointing 
 
 154
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 at one corner,—" look, what a dreadful spi- 
 der! . . . ." 
 
 Vyera Nikolaevna glanced at the corner; a 
 huge, mottled spider was crawling quietly along 
 the wall. 
 
 " What is there to be afraid of ? "—she said:— 
 " it does not bite; see here." 
 
 And before I could stop her, she took the hid- 
 eous insect in her hand, let it run about on her 
 palm, and flung it aside. 
 
 "Well, you are a brave woman!"— I ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " Where is the bravery in that? That is not 
 one of the poisonous spiders." 
 
 " Evidently, as of old, you are strong in natu- 
 ral history. I would n't have taken it in my 
 hand." 
 
 " There 's no cause to be afraid of it,"— re- 
 peated Vyera Nikolaevna. 
 
 Natasha gazed silently at us and smiled. 
 
 " How much like your mother she is! " — I re- 
 marked. 
 
 " Yes,"— rephed Vyera Nikolaevna, with a 
 smile of satisfaction;—" that delights me greatly. 
 God grant that she may resemble her not in face 
 alone ! " 
 
 We were summoned to dinner, and after din- 
 ner I took my departure. A^. B. The dinner was 
 very good and savoury.— I make this remark in 
 parenthesis, for thy benefit, thou sponger! To- 
 
 155
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 morrow I shall carry " Faust " to them. I 'm 
 afraid that old Goethe and I shall suffer defeat. 
 I will describe everything to thee in detail. 
 
 Come now, what thinkest thou about all " these 
 events "? Probably, that she has made a power- 
 ful impression on me, that I am ready to fall 
 in love, and so forth? Nonsense, my dear fel- 
 low! It is high time for me to exercise modera- 
 tion. I have played the fool long enough; finis! 
 One cannot begin life over again at my age. 
 Moreover, even in former days, I never liked 
 women of that sort. . . . But what women I did 
 like! ! 
 
 I tremble — my heart is sore — 
 
 I ""m ashamed of my idols. 
 
 In any case, I am very glad of these neigh- 
 bours, I am glad of the possibility of meeting 
 a sensible, simple, limpid being; but what hap- 
 pens further thou shalt know in due time. 
 
 Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 FOURTH LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, June 20, 1850. 
 
 The reading took place yesterday, my dear 
 friend, and as to the precise manner of it, details 
 follow. First of all, I make haste to say, it was 
 
 156
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 an unexpected success .... that is, " success " 
 is not the word for it. . . . Come, Hsten. I ar- 
 rived for dinner. There were six of us at table: 
 she, PriimkofF, her httle daughter, the gover- 
 ness (an insignificant Httle white figure), I, and 
 some old German or other, in a short, light-brown 
 frock-coat, neat, well-shaven, experienced, with 
 the most peaceable and honest of faces, a tooth- 
 less smile, and an odour of chicory coif ee .... 
 all old Germans smell like that. He was intro- 
 duced to me ; he was a certain Schimmel, a teacher 
 of the German language in the family of Prince 
 X***, a neighbour of Priimkoff . It appears that 
 he is a favourite of Vyera Nikolaevna's, and she 
 had invited him to be present at the reading. We 
 dined late and did not leave the table for a long 
 time; then we went for a stroll. The weather 
 was magnificent. It had rained in the morning, 
 and the wind had been blowing ; but toward even- 
 ing everything had quieted down. She and I 
 emerged into an open glade. Directly above 
 this glade, a large, rosy cloud hung high and 
 light; grey streaks, like smoke, stretched across 
 it; on its extreme edge twinkled a tiny star, now 
 appearing, now disappearing, while a little fur- 
 ther off the white sickle of the moon was visible 
 against the faintly crimsoned azure. I pointed 
 out the cloud to Vyera Nikolaevna. 
 
 " Yes,"— she said:—" it is very beautiful; but 
 look yonder."— I looked. A huge, dark-blue 
 
 157
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 storm-cloud was ascending like smoke, and con- 
 cealing the setting sun ; in aspect, it presented the 
 likeness of a mountain spouting fire ; its crest was 
 spread athwart the sky in a broad sheaf; an om- 
 inous crimson glow surrounded it with a brilliant 
 border, and in one spot, at the very centre of it, 
 forced its way through the heavy mass, as though 
 tearing itself free from a red-hot crater. . . . 
 
 " There is going to be a thunder-storm,"— re- 
 marked PriimkofF. 
 
 But I am getting away from the main point. — 
 In my last letter I forgot to tell thee that on my 
 return home from the Priimkoffs', I repented 
 of having named " Faust " in particular; Schiller 
 would have been much more suitable for a first 
 reading, if it must be a German. I was particu- 
 larly alarmed by the first scene, before the ac- 
 quaintance with Gretchen; I was uneasy on the 
 score of Mephistopheles also. But I was under 
 the influence of " Faust," and could not have 
 read anything else with good will. It was al- 
 ready perfectly dark when we betook ourselves 
 to the little Chinese house; it had been put in 
 order the day before. Directly opposite the door, 
 in front of a small divan, stood a round table, 
 covered with a cloth; chairs and arm-chairs were 
 set round about; on the table burned a lamp. I 
 seated myself on the divan, and got my book. 
 Vyera Nikolaevna placed herself in an arm- 
 chair at some distance, not far from the door. 
 
 158
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 Beyond the door, in the darkness, a green branch 
 of acacia, illuminated by the lamp, displayed 
 itself, swaying gently; now and then a current 
 of night air diffused itself through the room. 
 Priimkoff sat down near me, at the table, the 
 German by his side. The governess had re- 
 mained in the house with Natasha. I made a lit- 
 tle introductory speech; I alluded to the ancient 
 legend of Dr. Faustus, to the significance of 
 Mephistopheles, to Goethe himself, and begged 
 that they would stop me if anything should 
 seem to them unintelligible. Then I cleared my 
 throat. . . . PriimkofF asked me whether I did 
 not need some sugar and water, and, so far as I 
 was able to observe, was greatly pleased with 
 himself for having put that question to me. I 
 declined. Profound silence reigned. I began 
 to read, without raising my eyes; I felt awk- 
 ward, my heart beat violently and my voice 
 trembled. The first exclamation of sympathy 
 burst from the German, and he alone, during the 
 course of the reading, broke the silence. . . . 
 "Wonderful! Sublime!"— he kept repeating, 
 now and then adding: " Here it is deep." Pri- 
 imkofF was bored, as I could plainly see; he un- 
 derstood German imperfectly, and confessed 
 that he was not fond of poetry! .... It was 
 his own fault.— At table, I had wanted to hint 
 that the reading could proceed without him, but 
 had been ashamed to do so. Vyera Nikolaevna 
 
 159
 
 FAUST 
 
 >> 
 
 did not stir; a couple of times I shot a stealthy 
 glance at her; her eyes were fixed straight and 
 attentively on me; her face seemed to me to be 
 pale. After Faust's first meeting with Gret- 
 chen, she separated herself from the back of her 
 chair, clasped her hands, and remained motion- 
 less in that attitude until the end. I felt con- 
 scious that Priimkoif found it disgusting, and 
 at first this chilled me; but gradually I forgot 
 all about him, \''^armed up, and read with fervour, 
 with enthusiasm. ... I was reading for Vyera 
 Nikolaevna alone; an inward voice told me that 
 " Faust " was taking effect on her. When I 
 had finished (I skipped the intermezzo; that bit, 
 by its style, belongs to the second part; and I 
 also omitted portions from the " Night on the 
 Brocken ") .... when I had finished, when 
 the last "Heinrich!" had rung out, — the Ger- 
 man ejaculated with emotion: "Heavens! how 
 beautiful! " Priimkoff sprang to his feet as 
 though delighted (poor fellow!), heaved a sigh, 
 and began to thank me for the pleasure I had 
 given them. . . . But I did not answer him; I 
 glanced at Vyera Nikolaevna. ... I wanted to 
 hear what she would say. She rose, walked to the 
 door with wavering steps, stood awhile on the 
 threshold, and then quietly went out into the 
 garden. I rushed after her. She had already 
 succeeded in getting several paces away; her 
 white gown was barely visible in the dense 
 shadow. 
 
 160
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 " Well? " I cried;-" did n't you like it? " 
 
 She halted. 
 
 " Can you let me have that book? " — her voice 
 rang out. 
 
 *' I will make you a present of it, Vyera Niko- 
 laevna, if you care to have it." 
 
 "Thank you!"— she rephed, and vanished. 
 
 PriimkofF and the German approached me. 
 
 "How wonderfully warm it is!" — remarked 
 PriimkofF;— " even sultry. But where has my 
 wife gone? " 
 
 " To the house, I believe," — I replied. 
 
 " I think it will soon be supper-time," — he re- 
 sponded. — " You read capitally, capitally," — he 
 added, after a brief pause. 
 
 " Vyera Nikolaevna seemed to be pleased with 
 * Faust,' " I remarked. 
 
 "Without doubt!" — exclaimed Priimkoff. 
 
 " Oh, of course! "—chimed in Schimmel. 
 
 We entered the house. 
 
 "Where is the mistress? "—Priimkoff asked 
 of a maid whom we encountered. 
 
 " She has been pleased to go to her bedroom." 
 
 PriimkofF directed his steps to the bedroom. 
 
 I went out on the terrace with Schimmel. The 
 old man raised his eyes to the sky. 
 
 " How many stars there are! " — he said slowly, 
 as he took a pinch of snufF;— " and all of them 
 are worlds," — he added, taking another pinch. 
 
 I did not consider it necessary to answer him, 
 and only gazed upward in silence. A secret per- 
 
 161
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 plexity was weighing on my soul. . . . The stars 
 seemed to me to be gazing seriously at us. Five 
 minutes later, Priimkoff made his appearance 
 and summoned us to the dining-room. Vyera 
 Nikolaevna soon came also. We sat down. 
 
 " Just look at Vyerotchka,"— said Priimkoff 
 to rre. 
 
 I glanced at her. 
 
 "Well? Don't you notice anything?" 
 
 I really did note a change in her face, but I 
 know not why I answered: 
 
 " No, nothing." 
 
 " Her eyes are red," — went on Priimkoff. 
 
 I held my peace. 
 
 " Just fancy, I went to her up-stairs, and 
 found her; she was crying. It is a long time 
 since that has happened with her. I can tell you 
 the last time she cried: it was when our Sasha 
 died. So that 's what you have done with your 
 ' Faust '! " he added with a smile. 
 
 " You must see now, Vyera Nikolaevna,"— I 
 began,—" that I was right when . . . ." 
 
 " I had not expected that,"— she interrupted 
 me; — "but God knows whether you are right. 
 Perhaps the reason my mother prohibited my 
 reading such books was because she knew . . . ." 
 
 Vyera Nikolaevna stopped short. 
 
 "Because she knew? "—I repeated.— " Tell 
 me. 
 
 " What is the use? I am ashamed of myself 
 
 162
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 as it is; what was I crying about? However, you 
 and I will discuss this further. There were many 
 things which I did not quite understand." 
 
 " Then why did n't you stop me? " 
 
 " I understood all the words, and their sense, 
 but . . . ." 
 
 She did not finish her phrase, and became pen- 
 sive. At that moment, the noise of the foliage, 
 suddenly stirred by the rising wind, swept 
 through the garden. Vyera Nikolaevna started, 
 and turned her face toward the open window. 
 
 " I told you that there would be a thunder- 
 storm! " — cried PriimkofF. — " But what makes 
 thee tremble so, Vyerotchka? " 
 
 She glanced at him in silence. The lightning, 
 flashing faintly far away, was reflected on her 
 impassive face. 
 
 " All thanks to ' Faust,' " — went on Priimkofl". 
 
 " After supper, we must go immediately to 
 bye-bye, .... must n't we, Herr Schimmel? " 
 
 " After moral pleasure physical repose is as 
 beneficial as it is useful,"— replied the good Ger- 
 man, drinking ofl* a glass of vodka. 
 
 We parted immediately after supper. As 
 I bade Vyera Nikolaevna good night, I shook 
 hands with her; her hand was cold. I reached 
 the chamber assigned to me, and stood for a long 
 time at the window before undressing and get- 
 ting into bed. 
 
 Priimkofl"s prediction was fulfilled; a thun- 
 
 163
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 der-storm gathered and broke. I listened to the 
 roar of the wind, the clatter and beating of the 
 rain, I saw how, at every flash of lightning, the 
 church, built close at hand, near the lake, now 
 suddenly was revealed in black against a white 
 ground, then as white against a black ground, 
 then again was swallowed up in the gloom. . . . 
 But my thoughts were far away. I was thinking 
 of Vyera Nikolaevna: I was thinking of what 
 she would say to me when she should have read 
 "Faust" herself; I was thinking of her tears; 
 I was recalling how she had listened. . . . 
 
 The thunder-storm had long since passed off, 
 — the stars were beaming, everything had fallen 
 silent round about. Some bird with which I was 
 not famihar was singing in various tones, re- 
 peating the same phrase several times in suc- 
 cession. Its resonant, solitary voice rang out 
 oddly amid the profound silence; and still I did 
 not go to bed. . . . 
 
 On the following morning I entered the draw- 
 ing-room earlier than all the rest, and halted in 
 front of Madame Eltzoff's portrait.— " What 
 didst thou make by it? "—I thought, with a se- 
 cret feeling of jeering triumph,—" for here, 
 seest thou, I have read to thy daughter a for- 
 bidden book!" All at once, it seemed to me 
 .... probably thou hast noticed that eyes 
 painted en face always seem to be riveted 
 straight on the spectator? . . . But on this oc- 
 
 164
 
 FAUST 
 
 >> 
 
 casion, it really did seem to me as though the old 
 lady had turned them on me reproachfully. 
 
 I turned away, walked to the window, and 
 beheld Vj^era Nikolaevna. With a parasol on 
 her shoulder, and a thin white kerchief on her 
 head, she was strolling in the garden. I imme- 
 diately went out and bade her good morning. . . . 
 
 " I have not slept all night," — she said to me; 
 — "I have a headache; I have come out into the 
 air to see if it will not pass off." 
 
 " Can it have been caused by last night's read- 
 ing? " — I asked. 
 
 "Of course it was; I am not used to that. 
 There are things in that book of yours which I 
 cannot get rid of; it seems to me that they are 
 fairly searing my brain," — she added, laying her 
 hand on her brow. 
 
 "Very good indeed," — said I: — "but this is 
 the bad thing about it : I 'm afraid this sleepless- 
 ness and headache have destroyed your wish to 
 read such things." 
 
 " Do you think so? " — she returned, breaking 
 off a spray of wild jasmine as she passed. — 
 " God knows! It seems to me that any one 
 who has entered upon that road cannot turn 
 back." 
 
 She suddenly flung aside the spray. 
 
 " Let us go and sit in that arbour," — she went 
 on, — " and until I speak to you of it myself, 
 please do not remind me .... of that book." 
 
 165
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 ( She seemed to be afraid to pronounce the name 
 of "Faust.") 
 
 We entered the arbour and seated ourselves. 
 
 " I will not talk to you about ' Faust,' " I be- 
 gan;—" but you must allow me to congratulate 
 you, and to tell you that I envy you." 
 
 " You envy me? " 
 
 " Yes ; as I know you now, with your soul, 
 how much enjoyment you have in store! There 
 are other great poets besides Goethe : Shakspeare, 
 Schiller .... yes, and our own Pushkin .... 
 and you must make acquaintance with them also." 
 
 She maintained silence, and drew figures on 
 the sand with her parasol. 
 
 Oh, my friend, Semyon Nikolaitch! if thou 
 couldst but have seen how charming she was at 
 that moment! Pale almost to transparency, 
 slightly bent forward, weary, inwardly dis- 
 traught, — and nevertheless serene as the sky! I 
 talked, talked a long time, then fell silent — and 
 sat there silently watching her. . . . 
 
 She did not raise her eyes, and continued now 
 to sketch with her parasol, now to erase what she 
 had drawn. Suddenly the sound of brisk, child- 
 ish footsteps resounded: Natasha ran into the 
 arbour. Vyera Nikolaevna straightened her- 
 self up, rose, and, to my amazement, embraced 
 her daughter with a sort of impulsive tenderness. 
 .... This was not her habit. Then PriimkofF 
 made his appearance. That grey-haired but 
 
 166
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 punctual, fine fellow Schimmel had gone away 
 before daybreak, in order not to miss his lesson. 
 We went to drink tea. 
 
 But I am tired; it is time to bring this letter 
 to an end. It must seem silly, confused to thee. 
 I feel confused myself. I am out of sorts. I 
 don't know what ails me. There is constantly 
 flitting before my vision a tiny room with bare 
 walls, a lamp, an open door, the scent and fresh- 
 ness of night, and there, near the door, an at- 
 tentive young face, thin, white garments. . . . 
 I understand now why I wanted to marry her; 
 evidently, I was not so stupid before my trip to 
 Berlin as I have hitherto thought. Yes, Semyon 
 Nikolaitch, your friend is in a strange frame 
 of mind. All this will pass off, I know . . . but 
 what if it should not pass off — well, what then? 
 I am satisfied with myself, nevertheless; in the 
 first place, I have spent a wonderful evening; 
 and in the second place, if I have awakened that 
 soul, who can blame me? Old Madame Eltzoff 
 is nailed to the wall and must hold her peace. 
 The old lady! .... I do not know all the 
 particulars of her life; but I do know that she 
 eloped from her father's house; evidently, she 
 was not born of an Italian mother for noth- 
 ing. She wanted to insure her daughter. We 
 shall see. 
 
 I fling aside my pen. Thou, jeering man, 
 please to think of me as thou wilt, but don't 
 
 167
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 make fun of me by letter. Thou and I are old 
 friends, and must spare each other. Farewell! 
 
 Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 FIFTH LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, July 26, 1850. 
 
 I HAVE not written to thee for a long time, my 
 dear Semyon Nikolaitch; not for more than a 
 month, I think. There has been plenty to write 
 about; but I have been too lazy. To tell the 
 truth, I have hardly thought of thee during the 
 whole of that time. But I may deduce from 
 thy last letter to me that thou art making as- 
 sumptions about me which are unjust; that is to 
 say, not quite just. Thou thinkest that I am car- 
 ried away by Vyera ( somehow, I find it awkward 
 to call her Vyera Nikolaevna) ; thou art mistaken. 
 Of course, I see her frequently; I like her ex- 
 tremely .... and who would not like her? I should 
 just like to see thee in my place. She 's a won- 
 derful creature ! Instantaneous penetration hand 
 in hand with the inexperience of a baby; clear, 
 sound sense and innate feeling for beauty, a con- 
 stant striving for the truth, for the lofty, and a 
 comprehension of everything, even of the vicious, 
 even of the ridiculous— and, over all this, like 
 
 168
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 the white wings of an angel, gentle feminine 
 charm. . . . But what 's the use of talking I We 
 have read a great deal, discussed a great deal, she 
 and I, in the course of this month. To read with 
 her is a delight such as I have not hitherto ex- 
 perienced. It is as though one were opening 
 fresh pages. She never goes into raptures over 
 anything; everything noisy is alien to her; she 
 quietly beams all over when anything pleases 
 her, and her face assumes such a noble, good 
 .... precisely that, good expression. From 
 her earliest childhood Vyera has never known 
 what it is to lie; she has become accustomed to 
 the truth, she is redolent of it, and therefore in 
 poetry the truth alone appears natural to her; 
 she immediately recognises it, without difficulty, 
 as a familiar face .... a great advantage and 
 happiness! It is impossible not to hold her 
 mother in kindly memory for that. How many 
 times have I thought, as I looked at Vyera: 
 " Yes, Goethe is right: — ' a good man in his ob- 
 scure aspirations always feels where the true 
 road lies.' " ^ One thing is vexatious ; her husband 
 is always hanging around. (Please don't in- 
 dulge in your stupid laugh, don't sully our 
 friendship by even so much as a thought. ) He is 
 as capable of understanding poetry as I am of 
 playing the flute, and he won't leave his wife; he 
 wants to be enlightened also. Sometimes she 
 
 1 " Faust," the Prologue to Part I. 
 
 169
 
 " FAUST *' 
 
 herself puts me out of patience: a queer sort of 
 mood will suddenly come over her; she will nei- 
 ther read nor converse; she works at her em- 
 broidery-frame, and fusses with Natasha, with 
 the housekeeper, suddenly runs off to the kitchen, 
 or simply sits with folded hands and staj-es out 
 of the window, or sets to playing " fool " * with 
 the nurse. ... I have observed that on such 
 occasions I must not worry her, but that it is best 
 to wait until she herself approaches me, and 
 starts a conversation, or takes up a book. She 
 has a great deal of independence, and I am very 
 glad of that. Dost thou remember how, in the 
 days of our youth, some young girl or other 
 would repeat to thee thy own words, to the best 
 of her ability, and thou wouldst go into raptures 
 over that echo and, probably, bow down before 
 it, until thou didst get an inkling of the real 
 state of the case? But this woman ... no; she 
 thinks for herself. She will accept nothing on 
 faith; one cannot frighten her by authority; she 
 will not dispute; but she will not give in. She 
 and I have argued over " Faust " more than 
 once; but — strange to say! — she never says any- 
 thing about Gretchen herself, but merely listens 
 to what I say of her. Mephistopheles alarms 
 her, not as the devil, but as " something which 
 may exist in every man. . . ." Those are her 
 very words. I undertook to explain to her that 
 
 1 A Russian card-game. — Thanslatoe. 
 
 170
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 we called that "something" reflex action; but 
 she did not understand the words " reflex action " 
 in the German sense ; she knows only the French 
 " reflexion'' and has become accustomed to con- 
 sider it useful. 
 
 Our relations are remarkable! From a cer- 
 tain point of view I may say that I have great 
 influence over her, and am educating her, as it 
 were; but without herself being aware of the 
 fact, she is transforming many things in me for 
 the better. For example, it is solely due to her 
 that I have recently discovered what an immense 
 amount of the conventional, the rhetorical there is 
 in the finest, the most famous poetical produc- 
 tions. That to which she remains cold becomes 
 at once suspicious in my eyes. Yes, I have grown 
 better, more serene. To be intimate with her, to 
 meet her, and remain the same man as before is 
 an impossibility. 
 
 " What is to be the upshot of all this? " thou 
 wilt ask. Why, really, nothing, I think. I am 
 passing my time very agreeably until September, 
 and then I shall go away. Life will seem dark 
 and tedious to me during the first months. . . . 
 But I shall get used to it. I know how danger- 
 ous is any sort of a tie between a man and a 
 young woman, how imperceptibly one feeling 
 is replaced by another. ... I would have man- 
 aged to wTcnch myself away, had I not known 
 that both of us are perfectly calm. Truth to 
 
 171
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 tell, one day something strange happened with 
 us. I know not how, and as a result of what — 
 I remember that we were reading " Onyegin " ^ 
 —and I kissed her hand. She recoiled slightly, 
 riveted a glance upon me (I have never be- 
 held such a glance in any one but her ; it contains 
 both pensiveness and attention, and a sort of 
 severity) .... suddenly blushed, rose, and left 
 the room. I did not succeed in being alone with 
 her again that day. She avoided me, and for four 
 mortal hours played with her husband, the 
 nurse, and the governess at " Trumps." The 
 next morning she suggested that we should go 
 into the garden. We walked the whole length 
 of it, clear to the lake. Suddenly she whispered 
 softly, without turning toward me: "Please 
 don't do that again!"— and immediately began 
 to narrate something to me. ... I was very 
 much abashed. 
 
 I must confess that her image never leaves my 
 mind, and I probably have begun to write this 
 letter to thee more with the object of securing 
 the possibility of thinking and talking about her, 
 than anything else. I hear the neighing and 
 tramphng of horses: it is my calash being 
 brought round. I am going to their house. 
 My coachman no longer asks me whither he 
 shall drive when I take my seat in the equi- 
 page,— he drives straight to the Priimkoffs'. 
 
 1 Pushkin's poem, " Evgeny Onydgin."— Translator. 
 
 172
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 Two versts distant from their village, at a sharp 
 turn of the road, their manor-house suddenly 
 peers forth from behind a birch-grove. . . . EfVery 
 time my heart leaps with joy as soon as the win- 
 dows of her house gleam forth. Schimmel (that 
 harmless old man comes to them occasionally; 
 they have seen the family of Prince X*** only 
 once, thank God!) .... Schimmel says, not 
 without cause, with the modest triumph peculiar 
 to him, as he points to the house where Vyera 
 dwells: "That is the abode of peace!" The 
 angel of peace has taken up its abode in that 
 
 house. ... 
 
 Cover me with thy pinions, 
 My heart's emotion allay, — 
 And blessed shall be that shadow 
 For my enchanted soul. . . . 
 
 But come, enough of this, — or God knows what 
 thou wilt think, — until the next time. . . . What 
 shall I write the next time? — Good-bye! — By the 
 way, she will never say " good-bye," but always: 
 " Well, good-bye."— I like that awfully. 
 
 Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 P. S. — I don't remember whether I have told 
 thee that she knows I proposed for her hand. 
 
 173
 
 (( 
 
 FAUST " 
 
 SIXTH LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, August 10, 1850. 
 Confess that thou art expecting either a despair- 
 ing or a rapturous letter from me. . . . Nothing 
 of the sort. My letter will be like all letters. 
 Nothing new has happened, and nothing can hap- 
 pen, I think. The other day we were rowing in 
 a boat on the lake. I will describe that jaunt 
 to thee. There were three of us: she, Schimmel 
 and I. I cannot understand what possesses her to 
 invite that old man so often. The X***s are put 
 out with him, they say, because he has begun to 
 neglect his lessons. But on this occasion he was 
 amusing. Priimkoff did not go with us: he had 
 a headache. The weather was magnificent, cheer- 
 ful ; there were huge white ragged-looking storm- 
 clouds all over the blue sky ; everywhere there was 
 a gleam, a rustling in the trees, a plashing and 
 rippling of the water on the shores ; on the waves 
 darting golden serpents of light, coolness and 
 sunshine!— At first I and the German rowed; 
 then we raised the sail and dashed headlong on- 
 ward. The bow of the boat fairly dived through 
 the waves, and the wake behind the stern hissed 
 and foamed. She sat at the helm and steered; 
 she had tied a kerchief over her head: a hat 
 
 J74
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 would have blown off ; her curls burst forth from 
 beneath it, and floated softly on the breeze. 
 She held the helm firmly with her sun-burned 
 little hand, and smiled at the splashes of water 
 which flew in her face from time to time. I curled 
 myself up in the bottom of the boat, not far from 
 her feet, the German pulled out his pipe, lighted 
 up his coarse tobacco, and— just fancy I— began 
 to sing in a fairly agreeable bass voice. First he 
 sang the old ballad : " Freuf euch des Lehens'* 
 then an aria from " The Magic Flute," then a 
 romance entitled "Love's Alphabet "—'^'^Z) as 
 A-B-C der Liehe." In this romance the whole 
 alphabet is recited, — with appropriate quaint 
 sayings, of course, — beginning with: "Ah, Bay, 
 Say, Day,— Wenn ich dich seh!" and ending 
 with"Oo,Fau,Vay,Eeks,—Mach einen Knicks!" 
 He sang all the couplets through with tender 
 expression; but thou shouldst have seen how 
 roguishly he screwed up his left eye at the word 
 " Knicks "I—Yyersi burst out laughing and 
 shook her finger at him. I remarked that it struck 
 me Herr Schirmnel had been no fool in his day. 
 " Oh, yes, I could stand up for myself! " he re- 
 plied pompously, knocking the ashes out of his 
 pipe into his palm ; and thrusting his fingers into 
 his tobacco-pouch, he gripped the mouthpiece of 
 his pipe swaggeringly, on one side, with his teeth. 
 " When I was a student,"— he added,—" o-ho- 
 ho I " He said no more. But what an " o-ho-ho I " 
 
 175
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 that was! — Vyera requested him to sing some 
 student song, and he sang to her : " Knasier, den 
 gelhen," but got out of tune on the last note. 
 
 In the meantime, the wind had increased, the 
 waves had begun to run rather high, the boat 
 careened over somewhat; swallows were darting 
 low around us. We put the sail over and began 
 to jibe. The wind suddenly veered about; we had 
 not succeeded in completing the manoeuvre, when 
 a wave dashed over the side, and the boat took in 
 a quantity of water. Here, also, the German 
 showed himself to be a fine fellow; he snatched 
 the sheet-rope from my hand, and jibed in proper 
 fashion, remarking, as he did so: " That 's the 
 way they do at Kuxhafen! "—"So macht mans 
 in Kuxhafen! " 
 
 Vyera was probably frightened, for she turned 
 pale; but, according to her wont, she did not 
 utter a word, but gathered up her gown and 
 placed her feet on the thwart of the boat. Sud- 
 denly there flashed across my mind Goethe's 
 poem (I have been thoroughly infected by him 
 for some time past) .... dost thou remember 
 it? " On the waves twinkle thousands of quiv- 
 ering stars " ; and I recited it aloud. When I 
 reached the line: " Mine eyes, why do ye droop?" 
 she raised her eyes a little (I was sitting lower 
 than she: her glance fell upon me from above) 
 and gazed for a long time into the far distance, 
 narrowing her eyes to protect them from the 
 
 176
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 M^nd. ... A light rain came up in an instant, 
 and pattered in bubbles on the water. I offered 
 her my overcoat; she threw it over her shoulders. 
 We landed on the shore, — not at the wharf, — 
 and went to the house on foot. I walked arm in 
 arm with her. All the time I felt like saying 
 something to her; but I held my peace. But I 
 remember asking her why, when she was at home, 
 she always sat under the portrait of Madame 
 EltzofF, just like a birdling under its mother's 
 wing. — " Your comparison is very accurate," — 
 she replied: — " I should never wish to emerge 
 from beneath her wing." — " Would n't you like 
 to emerge into freedom? " — I asked another ques- 
 tion. She made no repty. 
 
 I do not know why I have told thee about this 
 expedition, — perhaps because it has lingered in 
 my memory as one of the brightest events of 
 recent days, although, in reality, how can it be 
 called an event? I was so delighted and speech- 
 lessly happy, and tears — light, happy tears — 
 fairly gushed from my eyes. 
 
 Yes; just fancy! On the following day, as I 
 was strolling through the garden, past the arbour, 
 I suddenly heard an agreeable, ringing, feminine 
 voice singing, " Freut' euch des Lehens." . . . 
 I glanced into the arbour: — it was Vyera. 
 
 " Bravo! " — I exclaimed; — " I was not aware 
 that you had such a fine voice!" — She was 
 abashed, and stopped singing. Seriously, she has 
 
 177
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 an excellent, strong soprano voice. But I don't 
 believe she even suspected that she had a good 
 voice. How many untouched treasures are still 
 concealed in her I She does not know herself . But 
 such a woman is a rarity in our day, is she not ? 
 
 August 12. 
 \Ve had a ver\' strange conversation yesterday. 
 First we talked about visions. Just imagine ; she 
 beheves in them, and says that she has her rea- 
 sons for so doing. Priimkoff, who was sitting 
 with us, dropped his eyes and shook his head, as 
 though in confirmation of her words. I tried to 
 interrogate her; but speedily perceived that the 
 conversation was disagreeable to her. We be- 
 gan to talk about imagination, about the force 
 of imagination. I narrated how, in my youth, 
 being in the habit of dreaming a great deal about 
 happiness (the customary occupation of people 
 who have not had. or will not have luck in life), 
 I had, among other things, dreamed of what 
 bliss it would be to pass a few weeks in ^'enice 
 with the woman I loved. I thought of this so 
 often, especially at night, that I gradually formed 
 in my mind a complete picture, which I could 
 summon up before me at will: all I had to do 
 was to shut my eyes. This is what presented 
 itself to me: — Xight, the moon, white and tender 
 moonlight, fragrance .... the fragrance of the 
 orange-flower, thinkest thou? Xo, of vanilla, 
 
 178
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 the fragrance of the cactus, a broad watery 
 expanse, a flat island overgrown with olive- 
 trees; on the island, on the ver^^ shore, a small 
 marble house, with wide-open windows; music 
 is audible— whence, God knows; in the house 
 are trees with dark foliage, and the light of a 
 half -veiled lamp; a hea\y velvet mantle with 
 golden fringe has been thrown over one window- 
 sill, and one end of it is trailing in the water; 
 while, side by side, with their arms resting on the 
 mantle, sit he and she, gazing far away to the 
 spot where Venice is visible.— All this presented 
 itself to me as plainly as though I had beheld it 
 all with my own eyes. 
 
 She listened to my nonsense, and said that she 
 also often indulged in reverie, but that her dreams 
 were of a different nature: she either imagined 
 herself on the plains of Africa, with some trav- 
 eller or other, or hunting for the traces of 
 Franklin in the Arctic Ocean; she vividly pic- 
 tured to herself all the hardships which she must 
 undergo, all the difficulties with which she must 
 contend. . . . 
 
 " Thou hast read a quantity of travels," — re- 
 marked her husband. 
 
 " Perhaps so," — she rejoined. " But if one is 
 to dream, what possesses one to dream of the im- 
 possible? " 
 
 "But why not?" — I interposed. — " How is 
 the poor impossible to blame? " 
 
 179
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 " I did not express myself correctly," — said 
 she: — " I meant to say, what possesses a person 
 to dream of himself, of his own happiness? 
 There is no use in thinking about it; if it does 
 not come, — why pursue it? It is like health: when 
 one does not notice it, it means that one possesses 
 it." 
 
 These words amazed me. That woman has a 
 great soul, believe me. . . . From Venice the 
 conversation passed to Italy, to the Italians. 
 Priimkoff left the room, and Vyera and I were 
 left alone. 
 
 " There is Italian blood in your veins also," — 
 I remarked. 
 
 "Yes," — she responded: — " I will show you 
 the portrait of my grandmother, if you wish." 
 
 " Pray do." 
 
 She went into her boudoir and brought thence 
 a rather large gold locket. On opening this 
 locket, I beheld a splendidly-painted miniature 
 portrait of Madame Eltzoff 's father and his wife, 
 —that peasant from Albano. Vyera's grand- 
 father surprised me by his likeness to his daugh- 
 ter. Only his features, rimmed with a white 
 cloud of powder, appeared still more severe, still 
 more sharp and pointed, and in his little, yellow 
 eyes gleamed a sort of surly stubbornness. But 
 what a face the Italian girl had! sensual, open 
 like a full-blown rose, with big, prominent, humid 
 eyes, and conceitedly -smiling, rosy lips! The 
 
 180
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 thin, sensitive nostrils seemed to be quivering, and 
 inflating, as after recent kisses; from her dark- 
 skinned cheeks sultry heat and health seemed to 
 emanate, and the splendour of youth, and femi- 
 nine force. . . . That brow had never thought, 
 and God be thanked for that! She was depicted 
 in her Albanian costume; the artist (a master) 
 had placed a spray of vine-leaves in her hair, 
 which was black as pitch, with bright-grey reflec- 
 tions. Nothing could have been better suited to 
 the expression of her face than that bacchantic 
 decoration. And knowest thou, of whom that 
 face reminded me ? Of my Manon Lescaut in the 
 black frame. And, what is most astonishing of 
 all: as I gazed at that portrait, I recalled the 
 fact that something resembling that smile, that 
 glance, sometimes flits over Vyera's face, despite 
 the utter dissimilarity of the outlines. . . . 
 
 Yes, I repeat it : neither she herself nor any one 
 else in all the world knows what lies hidden within 
 her. . . . 
 
 By the way! Madame filtzoff, before her 
 daughter's marriage, related to her the story of 
 her whole life, the death of her mother, and so 
 forth, probably with the object of edification. 
 That which had a particular effect upon Vyera, 
 was what she heard about her grandfather, about 
 that mysterious Ladanofl". Is it not from him 
 that she inherits her faith in visions? Strange! 
 she herself is so pure and bright, yet she is afraid 
 
 181
 
 (( 
 
 FAUST 
 
 of everything gloomy, subterranean, and believes 
 in it. . . . 
 
 But enough. Why write all this? However, 
 since it is already written, I '11 just send it off 
 to thee. Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 SEVENTH LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, August 22. 
 
 I TAKE up my pen ten days after the date of 
 my last letter. . . . Oh, my friend, I can no 
 longer dissimulate. . . . How painful it is to me ! 
 How I love her! Thou canst imagine with what 
 a bitter shudder I write this fateful word. I am 
 no boy, not even a stripling; I am no longer at 
 the age when it is almost impossible to deceive 
 another person, while it costs no effort at all to 
 deceive one's self. I know everything, and I see 
 clearly. I know that I am close on forty years of 
 age, that she is the wife of another, that she loves 
 her husband; I know very well that I have no- 
 thing to expect from the unfortunate sentiment 
 which has taken possession of me, save secret tor- 
 ments and definitive waste of my vital forces, — I 
 know all this, I hope for nothing and I desire 
 nothing. But I am no more at my ease for all 
 that. 
 
 182
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 A month ago I began to notice that my at- 
 tachment for her was becoming stronger and 
 stronger. That partly disconcerted me, partly 
 delighted me. . . . But could I have expected 
 that all that would be repeated in me from which, 
 as in youth, there is no return? But what am I 
 saying! I never have loved thus, no, never! 
 Manon Lescaut, the Fretillons — those were my 
 idols. It is easy to shatter such idols; but now 
 .... and only now have I learned what it means 
 to love a woman. I am ashamed even to speak of 
 it; but so it is. I am ashamed. . . . Love is 
 egoism, nevertheless ; but at my age, egoism would 
 be unpardonable: one cannot live for himself at 
 seven-and-thirty ; one must live usefully, with the 
 object of fulfilling one's duty, doing one's busi- 
 ness. And I have tried to set to work. . . . And 
 lo, everything has been dissipated again, as by a 
 hurricane! Now I understand what I wrote to 
 thee in my first letter; I understand what trial I 
 lacked. How suddenly this blow has descended 
 upon my head! I stand and gaze irrationally 
 ahead: a black curtain hangs just in front of my 
 eyes; my soul aches and is affrighted! I can re- 
 strain myself, I am outwardly calm, not only in 
 the presence of others, but even when I am alone ; 
 really, I cannot go into a rage, like a boy! But 
 the worm has crawled into my heart, and is gnaw- 
 ing it day and night. How is this thing going to 
 end? Hitherto I have languished and been agi- 
 
 183
 
 (t 
 
 FAUST " 
 
 tated in her absence, while in her presence I have 
 instantly calmed down. . . . Now I am uneasy 
 in her presence — that is what alarms me. Oh, 
 my friend, how painful a thing it is to be ashamed 
 of one's tears, to conceal them! .... Only 
 youth is permitted to weep; tears become it 
 alone. . . . 
 
 I cannot read over this letter ; it has burst from 
 me like a groan. I can add nothing, narrate no- 
 thing. . . . Give me time: I shall come to my- 
 self. I shall regain control of my soul, I shall 
 talk with thee like a man, but now I should like 
 to lean my head on thy breast and .... 
 
 O Mephistopheles ! Even thou wilt not help 
 me ! I have intentionally lingered over, I have in- 
 tentionally irritated the ironical vein in myself ; I 
 have reminded myself how ridiculous and hypo- 
 critical these complaints, these effusions, will ap- 
 pear to me a year, half a year hence. . . . No, 
 Mephistopheles is powerless, and his teeth have 
 
 grown blunt. . . . Farewell. 
 
 Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 184
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 EIGHTH LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, September 8, 1850. 
 
 My dear friend, Semyon Nikolaitch : 
 
 Thou hast taken my last letter too much to 
 heart. Thou knowest how much inclined I have 
 always been to exaggerate my feelings; I do it 
 quite involuntarily: a feminine nature! That 
 will pass off, with years, it is true; but I must 
 admit, with a sigh, that up to the present time, 
 I have not corrected myself. And, therefore, re- 
 assure thyself. I will not deny the impression 
 which Vyera has made upon me; but, neverthe- 
 less, I will say: there was nothing remarkable in 
 all that. It is not in the least necessary that thou 
 shouldst come hither, as thou writest that thou 
 art intending to do. To gallop more than a 
 thousand miles, God knows for what— why, that 
 would be madness! But I am very grateful to 
 thee for this new proof of thy friendship, and, 
 believe me, I shall never forget it. Thy journey 
 hither is ill-judged also because I myself intend 
 soon to set off for Petersburg. Seated on thy 
 divan, I will relate to thee many things ; but now, 
 really, I do not feel like it: the first thing you 
 know, I shall get to chattering too much, and be- 
 come entangled again. I will write to thee again 
 
 185
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 before my departure. So then, farewell until we 
 meet shortly. May health be thine, and cheerful- 
 ness, and do not worry too much over the fate of 
 — thine sincerely, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 NINTH LETTER 
 
 From the same to the same 
 
 Village of M . . . . oe, March 10, 1853. 
 I ha^t: not answered thy letter for a long time; 
 I have been thinking of thee all these days. I 
 have felt that thou wert prompted not by idle 
 curiosity, but by genuine friendly sympathy ; but 
 still I have hesitated: whether I ought to fol- 
 low thy advice, whether I ought to comply with 
 thy wish. At last I have reached a decision; I 
 will tell thee all. Whether my confession will 
 relieve me, as thou assumest, I do not know; but 
 it seems to me that I should remain culpable even 
 if ... . alas ! still more culpable toward that un- 
 forgettable, charming spirit, if I did not confide 
 our sad secret to the only heart which I still 
 prize. Thou alone, possibly, on earth dost re- 
 member Vyera, and that thou shouldst judge of 
 her light-mindedly and falsely, i^ what I cannot 
 permit. Then know all ! Alas ! it can all be im- 
 parted in two words; that which existed between 
 us flashed for a moment, like the lightning, and, 
 
 186
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 like the lightning, carried death and destruction 
 with it. . . . 
 
 Since her death, since I settled down in this 
 remote nook, which I shall never leave again to 
 the end of my days, more than two years have 
 passed, and everything is as clear in my memory, 
 my wounds are still as fresh, my grief is as bitter 
 as ever. . . . 
 
 I will not complain. Complaints, by irritating, 
 alleviate sorrow, but not mine. I will begin my 
 narration. 
 
 Dost thou remember my last letter — that let- 
 ter in which I undertook to dissipate thy fears 
 and dissuade thee from leaving Petersburg? 
 Thou wert suspicious of its constrained ease, thou 
 hadst no faith that we should soon see each other : 
 thou wert right. On the eve of the day when I 
 wrote to thee, I had learned that I was beloved. 
 
 As I trace these words I discover how diffi- 
 cult it will be for me to pursue my narration to 
 the end. The importunate thought of her death 
 will torture me with redoubled force, these mem- 
 ories will sear me. . . . But I shall try to control 
 myself, and I will either discard my pen, or I 
 will not utter a superfluous word. 
 
 This is how I learned that Vyera loved me. 
 First of all, I must tell thee (and thou wilt be- 
 lieve me) , that up to that day I positively had not 
 had a suspicion. She had, it is true, begun to be 
 pensive at times, which had never been the case 
 
 187
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 with her previously; but I did not understand 
 why this happened to her. At last, one day, the 
 seventh of September,— a memorable day for me, 
 — this is what occurred. Thou knowest how I 
 loved her, how I was suffering. I wandered like 
 a ghost, I could find no place of rest. I tried 
 to remain at home, but could not endure it, and 
 went to her. I found her alone in her boudoir. 
 PriimkofF was not at home: he had gone off 
 hunting. When I entered Vyera's room, she 
 looked intently at me, and did not respond to my 
 greeting. She was sitting by the window ; on her 
 lap lay a book: it was my " Faust." Her face 
 expressed weariness. She requested me to read 
 aloud the scene between Faust and Gretchen, 
 where she asks him whether he believes in God. 
 I took the book and began to read. With her 
 head leaning against the back of her chair, 
 and her hands clasped on her breast, she contin- 
 ued to gaze at me in the same intent manner as 
 before. 
 
 I do not know why my heart suddenly began 
 to beat violently. 
 
 " What have you done to me? "—she said in a 
 lingering voice. 
 
 " What? " — I ejaculated in confusion. 
 
 " Yes; what have you done to me? " — she re- 
 peated. 
 
 "Do you mean to ask,"— I began:— "why 
 have I persuaded you to read such books? " 
 
 188
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 She rose in silence, and left the room. I stared 
 after her. 
 
 On the threshold she halted and turned toward 
 me. 
 
 "I love you,"— said she:— "that is what you 
 have done to me." 
 
 The blood flew to my head. . . . 
 
 " I love you, I am in love with you,"— repeated 
 Vyera. 
 
 She went away, and shut the door behind her. 
 I will not describe to thee what went on in me 
 then. I remember that I went out into the gar- 
 den, made my way into its thickets, and leaned 
 against a tree. How long I stood there I know 
 not. It was as though I had swooned ; the feeling 
 of bliss surged across my heart in a billow, from 
 time to time. . . . No, I will not talk about that. 
 PriimkofF's voice aroused me from my stupor; 
 they had sent to tell him that I had arrived. He 
 had returned from the chase, and had hunted "me 
 up. He was surprised at finding me in the gar- 
 den alone, without a hat, and he led me to the 
 house. " My wife is in the drawing-room," — 
 he said: — " let us go to her." Thou canst con- 
 jecture with what emotions I crossed the thresh- 
 old of the drawing-room. Vyera was sitting in 
 one corner, at her embroidery-frame. I darted 
 a covert glance at her, and for a long time there- 
 after, did not raise my eyes. To my amazement, 
 •she appeared to be calm; there was no tremor per- 
 
 189
 
 (( 
 
 FAUST " 
 
 ceptible in what she said, in the sound of her 
 voice. At last, I brought myself to look at her. 
 Our glances met. . . . She blushed almost im- 
 perceptibly, and bent over her canvas. I began 
 to watch her. She seemed perplexed, somehow; 
 a cheerless smile now and then flitted across her 
 lips. 
 
 Priimkoff left the room. She suddenly raised 
 her head and asked me in quite a loud tone : 
 
 " What dost thou intend to do now? " 
 
 I was disconcerted, and hastily, in a dull voice, 
 I replied that I intended to fulfil the duty of an 
 honourable man— to go away, " because,"— I 
 added, — " I love you, Vyera Nikolaevna, as you 
 have, probably, long since perceived." 
 
 " I must have a talk with you,"— said she:— 
 " come to-morrow evening, after tea, to our little 
 house . . . you know, where you read ' Faust.' " 
 
 She said this so distinctly that even now I can- 
 not understand how Priimkoff, who entered the 
 room at that moment, failed to hear anything. 
 Slowly, with painful slowness did that day pass. 
 Vyera gazed about her from time to time, with 
 an expression as though she were asking herself: 
 " Was not she dreaming? " And, at the same 
 time, decision was written on her countenance. 
 While I .... I could not recover my compo- 
 sure. Vyera loves me! These words gyrated 
 incessantly in my mind; but I did not understand 
 them,— I understood neither myself nor her. I 
 
 190
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 did not believe in such unexpected, such soul-dis- 
 turbing happiness; with an effort I recalled the 
 past, and I also looked and talked as in a 
 dream. . . . 
 
 After tea, when I had already begun to medi- 
 tate how I might slip unperceived out of the 
 house, she herself suddenly announced that she 
 wished to take a stroll, and proposed to me that 
 I should accompany her. I dared not begin the 
 conversation, I could barely draw my breath, I 
 v/aited for her first word, I waited for an ex- 
 planation ; but she maintained silence. In silence 
 we reached the little Chinese house, in silence we 
 entered it, and there — to this day I do not know, 
 I cannot comprehend how it came about — but we 
 suddenly found ourselves in each other's arms. 
 Some invisible force dashed me to her, and her to 
 me. By the dying light of day, her face, with 
 its curls tossed back, was illuminated for a mo- 
 ment by a smile of self-f orgetfulness and tender- 
 ness, and our lips melted together in a kiss. . . . 
 
 This kiss was the first and the last. 
 
 Vyera suddenly tore herself from my arms, 
 and, with an expression of horror in her widely- 
 opened eyes, staggered back. . . . 
 
 " Look round," — she said to me in a quivering 
 voice:— "do you see nothing?" 
 
 I wheeled swiftly round. 
 
 " No, nothing. But do you see any one? " 
 
 " I don't now, but I did." 
 
 791
 
 it 
 
 FAUST " 
 
 She was breathing deeply and slowly. 
 
 "Whom? What?" 
 
 " My mother,"— she said slowly, trembling all 
 over. 
 
 I also shivered, as though a chill had seized me. 
 I suddenly felt alarmed, like a criminal. And 
 was not I a criminal at that moment? 
 
 "Enough!"— I began.— "What ails you? 
 Tell me rather . . . ." 
 
 "No, for God's sake, no!"— she interrupted, 
 clutching her head.—" This is madness. ... I 
 shall go out of my mind. . . . This is not to be 
 trifled with— this is death. . . . Farewell. . . ." 
 
 I stretched out my arms toward her. 
 
 " Stay one moment, for God's sake,"— I cried 
 in an involuntary transport. I did not know 
 what to say, and could hardly stand on my feet. — 
 " For God's sake .... why, this is cruel. . . ." 
 
 She glanced at me. 
 
 " To-morrow, to-morrow evening,"— she said: 
 — " not to-day, I beg of you. . . . Go away to-day 
 .... Come to-morrow evening to the wicket- 
 gate in the garden, near the lake. I shall be there, 
 I will come. ... I swear to thee that I will 
 come,"— she added, with an effort, and her eyes 
 flashed. — " No matter who may seek to stop me, 
 I swear it! I will tell thee all, only let me go 
 to-day." 
 
 And before I could utter a word, she vanished. 
 
 192
 
 *' FAUST " 
 
 Shaken to the very foundations, I remained 
 rooted to the spot. My head was reehng. A feel- 
 ing of anguish crept through the mad joy which 
 filled my being. I glanced about me. The cham- 
 ber in which I was standing, with its low vault 
 and dark walls, seemed horrible to me. 
 
 I went out and betook myself with hasty steps 
 to the house. Vyera was waiting for me on the 
 terrace; she went into the house as soon as I ap- 
 proached, and immediately retired to her bed- 
 room. 
 
 I went away. 
 
 How I spent that night and the following day 
 until the evening, I cannot describe. I remem- 
 ber only that I lay prone, with my face hidden 
 in my hands, recalling her smile which had pre- 
 ceded the kiss, and whispering: " Here she is, at 
 
 IclSL* • • • 
 
 I recalled also Madame ifiltzofF's words, which 
 Vyera had repeated to me. She had said to her 
 one day: " Thou art like ice: until thou shalt melt, 
 thou art strong as a rock, but when thou meltest, 
 there will not remain a trace of thee." 
 
 And here is another thing which recurred to 
 my memory : Vyera and I had, somehow, got into 
 a discussion as to what are knowledge and talent. 
 
 " I know only one thing," — she said: — " how to 
 hold my peace until the last minute." 
 
 I had understood nothing at the time. 
 
 193
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 " But what is the meaning of her fright? "—I 
 asked myself. ..." Did she really see Madame 
 filtzoiF? Imagination! "—I thought, and again 
 surrendered myself to the emotions of anticipa- 
 tion. 
 
 That same day I wrote to thee — with what 
 thoughts I shudder to recall— that artful letter. 
 
 In the evening, before the sun had set, I was 
 standing at a distance of fifty paces from the 
 garden gate, in a tall, thick mass of vines, on the 
 shore of the lake. I had come from home on foot. 
 I confess it, to my shame : terror, the most pusil- 
 lanimous terror filled my breast, I kept trembling 
 incessantly .... but I felt no remorse. Con- 
 cealing myself among the branches, I stared fix- 
 edly at the gate. It did not open. The sun set, 
 darkness descended: the stars had already come 
 out, and the sky had grown black. No one ap- 
 peared. Fever seized upon me. Night came. 
 I could endure it no longer, and cautiously emerg- 
 ing from the vines, I crept up to the gate. Every- 
 thing was quiet in the garden. I called Vyera 
 in a whisper, I called a second time, a third. . . . 
 No voice responded. Another half hour, an hour 
 elapsed ; it had grown perfectly dark. Anticipa- 
 tion had exhausted me; I pulled the gate toward 
 me, opened it at one movement and directed my 
 way on tiptoe, like a thief, toward the house. I 
 halted in the shadow of the lindens. 
 
 Almost all the windows in the house were 
 
 194
 
 <( 
 
 FAUST " 
 
 lighted: people were moving to and fro in the 
 rooms. This astonished me : my watch, so far as 
 I could make out by the dim light of the stars, 
 indicated half -past eleven. Suddenly a rumbling 
 resounded on the other side of the house : an 
 equipage had driven into the courtyard. 
 
 " Evidently, there are visitors,"— I thought. 
 Abandoning all hope of seeing Vyera, I made my 
 way out of the garden, and strode homeward with 
 hasty steps. It was a dark September night, 
 warm but starless. A feeling not so much of vex- 
 ation as of grief, which was on the point of tak- 
 ing possession of me, was dissipated to a certain 
 degree, and I arrived at my own house somewhat 
 fatigued from mj^ brisk walk, but soothed by the 
 tranquillity of the night, happy and almost merry. 
 I entered my bedroom, dismissed Timofyei, threw 
 myself on the bed without undressing, and 
 plunged into reverie. 
 
 At first my musings were cheerful ; but I speed- 
 ily noticed a strange change in myself. I began 
 to feel a sort of mysterious, gnawing grief, a sort 
 of profound, inward uneasiness. I could not un- 
 derstand whence it proceeded; but I became 
 alarmed, and oppressed, as though an impending 
 misfortune were menacing me, as though some 
 one dear to me were suffering at that moment, 
 and were appealing to me for help. On the table 
 a wax taper was burning with a small, motionless 
 flame, the pendulum of the clock was ticking 
 
 195
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 heavily and regularly. I leaned my head on my 
 hand, and sat to staring into the empty, semi- 
 darkness of my solitary chamber. I thought of 
 Vyera, and my soul ached within me : everything 
 in which I had delighted appeared to me in its 
 proper light, as a calamity, as ruin from which 
 there was no escape. The feehng of anguish kept 
 augmenting within me; I could no longer lie 
 down ; again it suddenly seemed to me as though 
 some one were calling me with an appealing voice. 
 .... I raised my head and shuddered. I was not 
 mistaken: a wailing shriek swept from afar, and 
 clung, faintly quivering, to the window-panes. 
 I was terrified : I sprang from the bed, and threw 
 open the window. A plainly-audible groan burst 
 into the room, and seemed to hover over me. It 
 seemed as though some one's throat were being 
 cut at a distance, and the unhappy person were 
 entreating, in vain, for mercy. I did not stop, 
 at the time, to consider whether it might not be 
 an owl hooting in the grove, or whether some 
 other creature had emitted that groan, but as Ma- 
 zeppa answered Kotchubey, I replied with a 
 shriek to that sound of ill-omen. 
 
 " Vyera, Vyera! "—I cried:—" is it thou who 
 art calling me? "— Timofyei, sleepy and dumb- 
 founded, appeared before me. 
 
 I came to my senses, drank a glass of water, 
 and went into another room; but sleep did not 
 visit me. My heart beat painfully, although not 
 
 196
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 frequently. I could no longer give myself up to 
 dreams, to happiness. I no longer dared to be- 
 lieve in it. 
 
 On the following day, before dinner, I set off 
 to see Priimkoff. He greeted me with a care- 
 worn face. 
 
 "My wife is ill," — he began: — " she is in bed. 
 I have sent for the doctor." 
 
 " What is the matter with her? " 
 
 " I don't understand. Yesterday evening she 
 started to go into the garden, but suddenly came 
 back, beside herself, thoroughly frightened. Her 
 maid ran for me. I came, and asked my wife, 
 ' What ails thee? ' She made no reply, and in- 
 stantly took to her bed ; during the night, delirium 
 set in. God knows what she said in her delirium ; 
 she mentioned you. The maid told me an aston- 
 ishing thing: it seems that Vyerotchka saw her 
 dead mother in the garden ; her mother seemed to 
 be coming toward her with open arms." 
 
 Thou canst imagine my sensations at these 
 words ! 
 
 " Of course, it is nonsense," — pursued Priim- 
 koff: — " but I must confess that remarkable 
 things have happened to my wife in that line." 
 
 " And is Vyera Nikolaevna very ill, pray tell 
 mef 
 
 " Yes, very; she was very bad during the night; 
 now she is unconscious." 
 
 " But what did the doctor say? " 
 
 197
 
 FAUST 
 
 »» 
 
 " He said that the malady had not yet declared 
 itself. . . ." 
 
 March 12. 
 
 I CANNOT continue as I have begun, my dear 
 friend: it costs me too much effort and irritates 
 my wounds too greatly. The malady declared it- 
 self, to use the doctor's words, and Vyera died of 
 it. She did not survive a fortnight after that fatal 
 day of our momentary tryst. I saw her once more 
 before her end. I possess no more cruel memory. 
 I had already learned from the doctor that there 
 was no hope. Late at night, when every one in 
 the house was in bed, I crept to the door of her 
 chamber and looked at her. Vyera was lying in 
 bed, with closed eyes, emaciated, tiny, with the 
 glow of fever on her cheeks. I stared at her as 
 though I had been petrified. Suddenly she 
 opened her eyes, fixed them on me, took a closer 
 look, and stretching out her emaciated hand — 
 
 ' ' What does he want on that holy spot, 
 That man . . . that man yonder. . . . "" ^ 
 
 she articulated in a voice so terrible, that I fled 
 at full speed. She raved of " Faust " almost con- 
 tinuously during her illness, and of her mother, 
 whom she called now Martha, now Gretchen's 
 mother. 
 
 1 " Was will er an dem heiligen Ort, 
 Der da .... der dort. . . ." 
 
 " Faust," Part I, Last Scene. 
 
 198
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 Vyera died. I was at her funeral. Since that 
 day I have abandoned everything, and have set- 
 tled down here forever. 
 
 Reflect now on what I have told thee ; think of 
 her, of that being who perished so early. How 
 this came about, how that incomprehensible inter- 
 }josition of the dead in the aff'airs of the living 
 is to be explained, I know not, and I shall never 
 know ; but thou must agree with me that it is no 
 fit of capricious hypochondria, as thou expressest 
 it, which has made me withdraw from society. 
 All this time I have thought so much about that 
 unhappy woman (I came near saying, "young 
 girl "), about her origin, the mysterious play of 
 Fate which we, blind that we are, designate as 
 blind chance. Who knows how much seed is left 
 by each person who lives on the earth, which is 
 destined to spring up only after his death ? Who 
 can say to what mysterious end the fate of a man 
 is bound up with the fate of his children, his pos- 
 terity, and how his aspirations will be reflected in 
 them, his mistakes visited on them ? We must all 
 submit and bow our heads before the Unknow- 
 able. 
 
 Yes, Vyera perished, and I have remained 
 whole. I remember, .when I was still a child, there 
 was in our house a beautiful vase of transparent 
 alabaster. Not a fleck sullied its virgin whiteness. 
 One day, when I was left alone, I began to rock 
 the pedestal on which it stood .... The vase 
 
 199
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 suddenly fell to the floor, and was shattered to 
 atoms. I nearly swooned with fright, and stood 
 motionless before the fragments. My father en- 
 tered the room, saw me, and said: " Just see what 
 thou hast done ! We shall never have our beautiful 
 vase again; there is no way to mend it now." I 
 burst out sobbing. It seemed to me that I had 
 committed a crime. 
 
 I have become a man — and have heedlessly 
 shattered a vessel which was a thousand times 
 more precious. . . . 
 
 In vain do I tell myself that I could not have 
 anticipated this instantaneous catastrophe, that it 
 startled even me by its unexpectedness, that I had 
 no suspicion as to the sort of woman Vyera was. 
 She really did know how to hold her peace to the 
 last minute. I ought to have fled as soon as I felt 
 that I loved her,— loved a married woman; but I 
 remained, — and have shattered in fragments a 
 very beautiful creature, and with dumb despair 
 I now gaze upon the work of my hands. 
 
 Yes; Madame EltzofF jealously guarded her 
 daughter. She guarded her to the end, and at her 
 first unwary step, she bore her off* with her into 
 the tomb. 
 
 It is time for me to make an end. ... I have 
 not told thee the hundredth part of what I should : 
 but this has been quite enough for me. Let every- 
 thing which has flashed up in my soul sink once 
 more into its depths. ... In ending, I will tell 
 
 200
 
 " FAUST " 
 
 thee: I have brought one conviction out of the 
 experiences of the recent years; hfe is not even 
 enjoyment, .... life is a heavy toil. Renun- 
 ciation, constant renunciation, — that is its secret 
 meaning, its solution; not the fulfilment of cher- 
 ished ideas and dreams, no matter how lofty they 
 may be, — but the fulfilment of duty, — that is 
 what man must take heed to; not unless he im- 
 poses upon himself chains, the iron chains of duty, 
 can he attain to the end of his course without 
 falling; but in youth we think: " The freer the 
 better; the further one can go." It is permissible 
 for youth to think thus; but it is disgraceful to 
 console one's self with an illusion, when the stern 
 face of the truth has at last looked thee full in the 
 eye. 
 
 Farewell! Formerly I would have added: " Be 
 happy." Now I say to thee: Endeavour to live, 
 it is not as easy as it seems. Remember me, not in 
 hours of sadness, but in hours of thoughtfulness, 
 and preserve in thy soul the image of Vyera in 
 all its unsuUied purity. . . . Once more, fare- 
 well I Thine, 
 
 P. B. 
 
 201
 
 AN EXCURSION TO THE 
 FOREST BELT 
 
 (1857)
 
 AN EXCURSION TO THE 
 FOREST BELT^ 
 
 THE FIRST DAY 
 
 THE aspect of the huge pine woods which em- 
 brace the whole horizon, the aspect of the 
 " Forest Belt," reminds one of the aspect of the 
 sea. And the impressions evoked by both are the 
 same : the same primeval, untouched strength lies 
 in vast and regal expanse before the spectator. 
 From the bosom of the eternal forests, from the 
 deathless lap of the waters the selfsame voice 
 arises: " I care nothing for thee,"— Nature says 
 to man:—" I reign, but do thou bestir thyself as 
 to the means of escaping death." But the forest 
 is more monotonous and melancholy than the sea, 
 especially a pine forest, which is forever the same, 
 and almost noiseless. The sea menaces and ca- 
 resses, it has a shifting play of all hues, it speaks 
 with all voices ; it reflects the sky, which also ex- 
 hales eternity, but an eternity which does not seem 
 alien to us. . . . The unchanging, gloomy pine 
 forest maintains a surly silence, or roars dully,— 
 and at the sight of it the consciousness of our in« 
 
 1 A district in southwest Russia— Translator. 
 
 205
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 significance penetrates still more deeply and irre- 
 sistibly into the heart of man. 
 
 It is difficult for a man, the creature of a single 
 day, yesterday born and to-day doomed to death, 
 — it is difficult for him to endure the cold gaze of 
 the eternal Isis riveted impassibly upon him; not 
 his bold hopes and dreams alone quiet down and 
 become extinguished within him, encompassed by 
 the icy breath of the elements; no — his whole soul 
 chirps feebly and expires; and he feels that the 
 last of his fellows may vanish from the face of 
 the earth — and not a single needle on those 
 branches will quiver ; he feels his isolation, his im- 
 potence, his fortuitousness and with hurried, 
 secret terror he turns his attention to the petty 
 cares and toils of life; he is more at his ease in 
 that world, created by himself; there he is at home, 
 there he still dares to believe in his own impor- 
 tance, in his own power. 
 
 Such were the thoughts which occurred to me 
 several years ago, when, as I stood on the porch 
 of a tiny posting-station, erected on the bank of 
 the marshy little Reseta, I beheld the Forest Belt 
 for the first time. The blue masses of the ever- 
 green forest retreated in front of me in long, 
 serried ranks of terraces; here and there, small 
 birch groves glimmered only as green spots; the 
 entire field of vision was encompassed by the pine 
 forest; no church gleamed white, no fields shone 
 light in any direction — there was nothing but 
 
 206
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 trees, trees, nothing but jagged crests; and a thin, 
 dull mist, the eternal mist of the Forest Belt, hung 
 high above them. It was not indolence, that im- 
 passivity of hfe, no— it was absence of life, some- 
 thing dead, though majestic, which breathed 
 forth upon me from all points of the horizon. I 
 remember that huge, white clouds sailed past, 
 softly, and high in air, and the hot sunmier day 
 lay motionless and silent on the earth. The red- 
 dish water of the little stream slipped by without 
 a plash between the dense growth of reeds ; at its 
 bottom round hillocks of prickly moss were dimly 
 visible, and the banks now disappeared in the 
 swampy ooze, now shone forth with the sharp 
 whiteness of fine, friable sand. Past the posting- 
 station itself ran the well-beaten county highway. 
 On this highway, directly opposite the porch, 
 stood a peasant-cart, laden with boxes and chests. 
 Its owner, a gaunt petty burgher, with a hawk's- 
 bill nose and tiny, mouse-like eyes, round-shoul- 
 dered and lame, was harnessing to it his wretched 
 nag, which was lame, like himself; he was a gin- 
 gerbread pedlar, who was on his way to the Ka- 
 ratchyoff fair. Several persons suddenly made 
 their appearance on the threshold; others strag- 
 gled after them .... at last, a whole throng 
 poured forth; all of them had staves in their 
 hands, and wallets on their backs. From their 
 walk, which was weary and shambling, from their 
 sunburned faces, it was evident that they came 
 
 207
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 from afar : they were day-labourers, diggers, who 
 were returning from a trip to earn money by har- 
 vest labour. An old man of seventy, with per- 
 fectly white hair, seemed to be acting as their 
 leader; he turned round from time to time, and 
 spurred on the laggards with a tranquil voice. 
 " Come, come, come, my lads,"— he said,— 
 *' co-ome on." They all advanced in silence, in a 
 sort of impressive tranquillity. Only one, a man 
 of low stature, and with an angry aspect, in a 
 sheep-pelt coat open on the breast, and a sheep- 
 skin cap, pulled down over his very eyes, suddenly 
 asked the gingerbread pedlar, as he came on a 
 
 level with him : 
 
 " How much is gingerbread, fool? " 
 
 " That depends on the sort of gingerbread, 
 
 my dear man,"— replied the astounded dealer in 
 
 a shrill voice.—" I have some for a kopek— while 
 
 other sorts cost two kopeks. But hast thou two 
 
 kopeks in thy purse? " 
 
 " I guess it ferments in the belly,"— retorted 
 
 the man in the sheepskin coat, and strode away 
 
 from the cart. 
 
 "Hurry up, my lads, hurry up!"— the old 
 
 man's voice made itself heard :—" It is a long way 
 
 to our halting-place for the night." 
 
 " A rough lot,"— said the gingerbread pedlar, 
 
 darting a sidelong glance at me, as soon as the 
 
 whole throng had straggled past him; "is that 
 
 the food for them? " 
 
 208
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 And harnessing his nag with all speed, he drove 
 down to the river, on which a small ferry-boat of 
 planks was visible. A peasant in a white felt 
 " shlyk " (the tall, pointed cap usual in the Forest 
 Belt) , emerged from a low earth-hut to meet him, 
 and ferried him over to the opposite shore. The 
 cart crawled along the rutted and gullied road, 
 now and then emitting a squeak from one of the 
 wheels. 
 
 I fed my horses and crossed the stream also. 
 After crawling along for about two versts ^ 
 through a swampy meadow, I drove, at last, on 
 to a narrow dam at a clearing in the forest. My 
 tarantas jolted unevenly over the round logs; I 
 alighted and went on foot. The horses advanced 
 at an energetic pace, snorting and tossing their 
 heads to rid themselves of the gnats and small 
 flies. The Forest Belt had received us into its 
 bosom. At its border, nearest to the meadow, 
 grew birches, aspens, lindens, maples, and oaks; 
 then these began to occur more rarely, the thick 
 fir woods moved up in a dense wall ; further away 
 the bare trunks of a pine wood shone red, and 
 then again a mixed forest stretched out, over- 
 grown below with hazel-bushes, bird-cherry, 
 mountain-ash, and large, juicy grass. The sun's 
 rays briUiantly illuminated the crests of the trees, 
 and, sifting over the branches, only here and there 
 reached the ground in pale streaks and patches. 
 
 ^ A verst is two-thirds of a mile. —Translator. 
 
 209
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 Hardly any birds were to be heard — they are not 
 fond of the great forests; only the mournful, 
 thrice-repeated cry of a hoopoe, and the angry 
 scream of a nut-bird, or a jay rang out from time 
 to time ; a reticent, always solitary rook flew across 
 the clearing, the golden-blue of its beautiful fea- 
 thers gleaming brightly. Sometimes the trees 
 thinned out, stood further apart, there was more 
 light ahead, the tarantas came out on a clear, 
 sandy glade; sparse rye grew thereon in beds, 
 noiselessly waving its pale little ears ; on one side 
 a small, ancient chapel stood out darkly with its 
 sagging cross above a well; an invisible brook 
 babbled peaceably, with varying and resonant 
 sounds, as though it were flowing into an empty 
 bottle; and then, suddenly, the road was barred 
 by a recently-fallen birch-tree, and the forest 
 stood round about, so aged, so lofty, so dreamy, 
 that even the air seemed stifling. In places the 
 clearing was all inundated with water; on both 
 sides extended a forest morass, all green and dark, 
 all covered with reeds and a growth of young al- 
 der-bushes; ducks kept flying upward in pairs — 
 and strange it was to see these water-fowl flitting 
 swiftly between the pines. — " Ga, ga, ga, ga," a 
 prolonged cry suddenly arose; it was a shepherd 
 driving his flock through the smaller growth of 
 trees; a dark-brown cow with short, sharp horns 
 butted her way noisily through the bushes, with 
 her big, dark eyes riveted on the hound which was 
 
 210
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 running on in front of me ; a gentle breeze wafted 
 to me the delicate yet strong odour of burnt wood ; 
 a tiny wreath of white smoke crawled up and 
 down far away in circular streams against the 
 pale-blue forest air; evidently, some peasant fur- 
 nished charcoal to the glass-works or a factory. 
 The further we advanced the more dull and quiet 
 did it grow around us. It is always silent in a 
 pine forest, only far away, high overhead, a sort 
 of long murmur and suppressed roar passes 
 through the branches. . . . One drives on and on, 
 that everlasting murmur of the forest never 
 ceases, and his heart gradually begins to ache, and 
 he wants to get out as speedily as possible, into a 
 spacious place, into the light; he wants to inhale 
 with full lungs— and that fragrant dampness and 
 rotting oppress his breast. . . . 
 
 We drove for fifteen versts at a foot-pace, now 
 and then breaking into a trot. I wanted to reach 
 the village of Svyatoe, which lay in the very heart 
 of the forest, by daylight. Twice we encount- 
 ered peasants with long logs, or linden-bark, 
 which they had stripped from the trees, in their 
 carts. 
 
 " Is it far to Svyatoe? "—I inquired of one of 
 them. 
 
 " No, not far." 
 
 "How far?" 
 
 " Why, it must be about three versts." 
 
 An hour and a half passed. We were still 
 
 211
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 driving on and on. Now again a loaded cart 
 creaked. A peasant was walking beside it. 
 
 " How much further is it to Svyatoe, brother? " 
 
 " What? " 
 
 " How far it is to Svyatoe? " 
 
 " Eight versts." 
 
 The sun had already set when, at last, I 
 emerged from the forest and beheld before me a 
 small village. About twenty homesteads clung 
 closely around an ancient church, with a single, 
 green dome, and tiny windows, which gleamed 
 crimson in the evening glow. It was Svyatoe. 
 I drove into the enclosure.^ The herd on its home- 
 ward way overtook my tarantas, and ran past, 
 lowing, grunting, and bleating. The young girls 
 and care-worn housewives welcomed their beasts ; 
 tow-headed little urchins chased the unruly suck- 
 ing pigs with merry shouts; the dust whirled 
 along the streets, in light clouds, and turned crim- 
 son as it rose higher in the air. 
 
 I stopped at the house of the Elder, a crafty 
 and intelligent " forest-dweller," one of those 
 concerning whom it is said that they can see 
 what is going on two yards under the ground. 
 Early on the following day, I set oiF, in a light 
 cart, drawn by a pair of pot-bellied horses be- 
 longing to the peasants, with the Elder's son, and 
 another young peasant, named Egor, on a hunt 
 
 ^ Russian villages are enclosed with a hedge, a fence, 
 or wattled branches.— Translator. 
 
 212 i
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 for moor-cock and hazel-hens. The forest stood 
 in a dense-blue ring along the entire rim of the 
 sky — the cultivated fields around Svyatoe were 
 reckoned at two hundred desyatinas,^ no more; 
 but we were obliged to drive for seven versts 
 to reach the good places. The Elder's son was 
 named Kondrat. He was a chestnut-haired, red- 
 cheeked young lad, with a kindly and pacific ex- 
 pression of countenance, obliging and loquacious. 
 He drove the horses. Egor sat beside me. I 
 wish to say a couple of words concerning him. 
 
 He was considered the best hunter in the entire 
 county. He had traversed all the localities for 
 fifty versts round about, in their entire length 
 and breadth. He rarely fired at a bird, because 
 of scarcity of powder and shot ; but it was enough 
 for him that he had lured up a hazel-hen, and had 
 noted the crest of a wood-snipe. Egor bore the 
 reputation of being an upright man and a " close- 
 mouthed fellow." He was not fond of talking, 
 and never exaggerated the number of the game 
 he had found — a rare trait in a hunter. He was 
 of medium height, and gaunt; and had a pale, 
 elongated face and large, honest eyes. All his 
 features, especially his lips, were regular, and 
 were permanently impassive ; they breathed forth 
 imperturbable composure. He smiled slightly, 
 and inwardly, as it were, when he uttered his 
 words, and that quiet smile was very charming. 
 
 1 A desyatina is equal to 2.70 acres, — Translator. 
 
 213
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 He did not drink liquor, and worked industri- 
 ously, but had no luck: his wife was constantly 
 ailing, his children died one after the other; he 
 had been " reduced to poverty," and was abso- 
 lutely unable to get on his feet again. And it 
 must be said, that a passion for hunting is not 
 befitting a peasant, and he who " indulges him- 
 self with a gun " is a bad farmer. 
 
 Whether it arose from dwelling constantly in 
 the forest, face to face with the mournful and 
 rigorous nature of that unpopulated region, or 
 in consequence of a special turn and type of mind, 
 at any rate, a certain modest dignity, precisely 
 that, dignity and not thoughtfulness,— the dig- 
 nity of a stately deer,— was perceptible in all 
 Egor's movements. In the course of his career, 
 he had killed seven bears, after having laid in 
 wait for them in the fields of oats. It was only 
 on the fourth night that he made up his mind to 
 fire on the last : the bear persisted in not standing 
 sideways to him, and he had but one bullet. 
 Egor had killed him just before my arrival. 
 When Kondrat conducted me to him, I found 
 him in his little back yard : squatted on his heels in 
 front of the huge beast, he was cutting out the 
 fat with a short, dull knife. 
 
 "What a fine fellow thou hast laid lowl"— 
 I remarked. 
 
 Egor raised his head and gazed first at me, then 
 at the hound which had come with mCc 
 
 214
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 "If you have come to hunt, there are moor- 
 cock at Moshnoe— three broods of them, and five 
 of hazel-hens,"— he said, and turned again to his 
 task. 
 
 It was with this Egor and with Kondrat that I 
 set off on the following day on my hunting expe- 
 dition. We drove briskly across the glade which 
 surrounded Svyatoe, but on entering the forest, 
 dragged along again at a walk. 
 
 " Yonder sits a wood-pigeon," said Kondrat, 
 suddenly turning to me:—" 't would be a good 
 thing to knock it over." 
 
 Egor glanced in the direction whither Kondrat 
 was pointing, and said nothing. It was a distance 
 of over one hundred paces to the wood-pigeon, 
 and one cannot kill it at forty paces, such is the 
 firmness of its feathers. 
 
 The loquacious Kondrat made a few more re- 
 marks ; but not without effect did the forest still- 
 ness embrace him also: he fell silent. Only now 
 and then exchanging words, but keeping our eyes 
 fixed ahead, and Hstening to the panting and 
 snorting of the horses, we finally reached " Mo- 
 shnoe." ^ This appellation was applied to a 
 mighty pine forest, with a sprinkling of spruce- 
 trees here and there. We alighted. Kondrat 
 pushed the cart into the bushes, so that the mos- 
 quitoes might not bite the horses. Egor inspected 
 the trigger of his gun, and crossed himself: he 
 
 * An adjective meaning mighty. — ThanslatoS. 
 
 215
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 never began anything without the sign of the 
 cross. 
 
 The forest which we had entered was extremely 
 aged. I do not know whether the Tatars roved 
 therein/ but the Russian bandits and the Lithu- 
 anians of the Troublous Time ^ certainly might 
 have concealed themselves in its remote fastnesses. 
 At a respectful distance from one another rose 
 the mighty pines with huge, slightly-gnarled 
 trunks of a pale-yellow hue ; between them, drawn 
 up in military array, stood others, of lesser 
 growth. Greenish moss, all besprinkled with 
 dead pine-needles, covered the ground; the bog- 
 bilberry grew in dense bushes; the strong odour 
 of its berries, resembling the perfume of musk, 
 oppressed the breath. The sun could not pene- 
 trate through the lofty canopy of the pine- 
 branches; but it was stifling hot and not dark 
 in the forest, nevertheless; like huge drops of 
 sweat, the heavy, transparent pitch oozed out 
 and quietly trickled down the coarse bark of the 
 trees. The motionless air, devoid of shadow 
 and devoid of light, burned the face. All was 
 silent; even our footsteps were not audible. We 
 trod on the moss, as on a carpet ; Egor, in particu- 
 lar, moved noiselessly, as though he had been a 
 shadow; beneath his feet not even the dead 
 
 1 During the period of the "TaWr Yoke," in the thirteenth and 
 fourteenth centuries. —Translator. 
 
 2 In the beginning of the seventeenth century, which ended 'i the 
 election of the first Romanoff Tzar.— Translator. 
 
 216
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 branches crackled. He walked without haste, 
 now and then blowing his decoy-whistle ; a hazel- 
 hen soon answered, and before my very eyes dived 
 into a thick spruce-tree; but in vain did Egor 
 point it out to me: strain my vision as I would, 
 I could not possibly descry it; Egor was com- 
 pelled to fire at it. We also found two coveys 
 of moor-cocks; the cautious birds rose far away, 
 with a heavy, sharp clatter; but we succeeded in 
 shooting three young ones. 
 
 At one maiddn,^ Egor suddenly came to a halt 
 and called to me. " A bear has been trying to 
 get water," — he said, pointing at a broad, fresh 
 scratch in the very centre of the pit, lined with 
 fine moss. 
 
 " Is that a trace of his paws? " — I inquired. 
 
 "Yes; but the water had dried up. He has 
 left his traces on that pine-tree also; he climbed 
 it for honey. He has cut it with his claws as with 
 a knife." 
 
 We continued to make our way into the very 
 densest part of the forest. Egor only rarely cast 
 a glance upward, and walked on in front calmly 
 and confidently. I espied a tall, circular em- 
 bankment, surrounded by a trench half -filled with 
 earth. 
 
 " What is that,— a tar-pit also?"— I asked. 
 
 "No," — replied Egor: — "a fortress of brig- 
 ands used to stand here." 
 
 1 A place where tar is distilled is called a maiddn. 
 
 217
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 " Long ago? " 
 
 " Yes, long ago; beyond the memories of our 
 grandfathers. And a treasure is buried here, too. 
 But a strong malediction is placed upon it; an 
 oath sworn on human blood." 
 
 We proceeded about a couple of versts further. 
 I was thirsty. 
 
 " Sit down a bit,"— said Egor:— " I will go for 
 water; there is a spring hard by." 
 
 He departed; I remained alone. 
 
 I seated myself on the stump of a felled tree, 
 propped my elbow on my knees, and after a long 
 silence, slowly raised my head and gazed about 
 me. Oh, how quiet and grimly-melancholy was 
 everything around — no, not even melancholy, but 
 dumb, cold, and menacing at one and the same 
 time! My heart contracted within me. At that 
 moment, on that spot, I became conscious of the 
 breath of death, I felt it; its proximity was al- 
 most tangible. Not a single sound quivered, not 
 a momentary rustle arose in the motionless jaws 
 of the pine forest which surrounded me ! Again, 
 almost in terror, I dropped my head ; I seemed to 
 have been gazing into something at which a man 
 should not look. ... I covered my eyes with my 
 hand — and suddenly, as though in obedience to a 
 mysterious command, I began to recall my whole 
 life. . . . 
 
 Now my childhood flitted before me, — noisy 
 and quiet, irritable and good, with hurried joys 
 
 218
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 and swift griefs ; then my youth rose up, troubled, 
 strange, vain-glorious, with all its errors and en- 
 terprises, with disordered labour, and agitated in- 
 activity. . . . Then also recurred to my mind the 
 comrades of my aspirations .... then, like a flash 
 of Jightning by night, several bright memories 
 gleamed .... then the shadows began to grow 
 and move forward; it became darker and darker 
 around me; the monotonous years flew past more 
 dully and quietly — and sadness descended like a 
 stone upon my heart. I sat motionless gazing 
 with surprise and efl*ort, as though I beheld my 
 whole life before me, as though a scroll were being 
 unrolled before my eyes. " Oh, what have I 
 done? " my lips involuntarily uttered in a bitter 
 whisper. " Oh, life, life, how art thou gone 
 without a trace? How hast thou slipped out of 
 my tightly-clenched hands? Hast thou deceived 
 me, or have I failed to make use of thy gifts? 
 Is it possible? This trifle, this poor handful of 
 dusty ashes— is that all that is left of thee? This 
 cold, impassive, useless something — is it I, the I 
 of days gone by? What? My soul has thirsted 
 for such full happiness, it has rejected with scorn 
 everything petty, everything defective, it has 
 waited: in another moment happiness will gush 
 forth in a flood — and not a single drop has mois- 
 tened the longing lips? Oh, my golden chords, 
 ye, who quivered so sensitively, so sweetly once on 
 a time, — I hardly heard your song .... ye had 
 
 219
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 only just begun to sound, when ye broke. Or, 
 perchance, happiness, the direct happiness of my 
 whole life has gone by close to me, has passed 
 me, smiling with a radiant smile — and I have 
 failed to recognise its divine countenance? Or 
 has it really visited me and sat on my pillow, but 
 I have forgotten it, as though it had been a 
 dream? As though it had been a dream,"— I re- 
 peated dejectedly. Intangible images wandered 
 through my soul, evoking in me not precisely 
 pity, nor yet precisely perplexity. ..." And 
 you," — I thought, — " dear, familiar, vanished 
 faces, you who have encircled me in this dead 
 solitude, why are you so profoundly and sadly 
 silent? From what depths have ye risen? How 
 am I to understand your enigmatical glances? 
 Are ye bidding me farewell, or are ye welcoming 
 me? Oh, can it be that there is no hope, no re- 
 turn? Why have ye flowed from my eyes, ye 
 scanty, belated drops? Oh, heart, to what end, 
 wherefore, still feel pity? Strive to forget if 
 thou desirest repose; train thyself to the submis- 
 sion of the last parting, to the bitter words: 
 ' farewell ' and ' forever.' Do not look back, do 
 not remember, do not aspire thither where it is 
 bright, where youth smiles, where joy profound 
 flutters its azure pinions, where love, like the dew 
 in the crimson dawn, beams with tears of rapture ; 
 look not thither where bliss dwells and faith and 
 power — that is no place for usl " 
 
 220
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 " Here 's your water for you," — rang out 
 Egor's resonant voice behind me: — " drink, with 
 God's blessing! " 
 
 I gave an involuntary start: tliis living speech 
 administered a shock to me, joyously agitated 
 my who^e being. It was as though I had fallen 
 into an unexplored, gloomy depth, where every- 
 thing round about had grown still, and nothing 
 was audible save the quiet incessant moaning of 
 some eternal grief .... as though I were dying, 
 but could not oifer resistance; and suddenly a 
 friendly call had reached my ear, and some one's 
 mighty hand had brought me forth, with one up- 
 ward sweep, into God's daylight. I glanced 
 round, and, with unspeakable delight, perceived 
 the honest and composed face of my guide. He 
 was standing before me in a light and stately 
 pose, with his wonted smile, reaching out to me a 
 small, damp bottle, all filled with fresh water. . . . 
 I rose. 
 
 " Let us go on, guide me,"— I said with enthu- 
 siasm. 
 
 We set out and roved about for a long time, 
 until evening. As soon as the midday heat " held 
 up," it began to grow cold and dark in the forest 
 so swiftly that one no longer felt any inclination 
 to remain in it. " Begone, ye uneasy mortals," 
 it seemed to be whispering to us in surly wise 
 from behind every pine. We made our way out, 
 but did not soon find Kondrat. We shouted, 
 
 221
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 called him bj^ name, but he did not respond. 
 Suddenly, in the midst of the wonderful stillness 
 of the air, we heard his " whoa! whoa! " — ring out 
 in a ravine close at hand. . . . He had not heard 
 our shouts because of the wind which had sud- 
 denly sprung up, and as suddenly completely died 
 away. Only on trees which stood apart could the 
 traces of its gusts be seen: it had turned many 
 leaves wrong side out, and so they remained, im- 
 parting a motley appearance to the motionless 
 foliage. 
 
 We climbed into the cart and rolled off home- 
 ward. I sat swaying to and fro and quietly in- 
 hahng the damp, rather keen air, and all my 
 recent visions and regrets were engulfed in one 
 sensation of dreaminess and fatigue, in one desire 
 to return as promptly as possible under the roof 
 of a warm house; to drink tea with thick cream; 
 to burrow into the soft, porous hay and sleep, 
 sleep, sleep. . . . 
 
 THE SECOND DAY 
 
 On the following morning, we three again betook 
 ourselves to the Burnt District. Ten years pre- 
 viously, several thousand desyatinas had been 
 burned over in the Forest Belt, and up to the 
 present time it had not been covered with a new 
 growth of trees; here and there young firs and 
 pines are springing up, but with that exception, 
 
 222
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 there is nothing but moss and ashes rendered 
 worthless by long lying. On this Burnt District, 
 which is reckoned as lying twelve versts from 
 Svyatoe, grow all sorts of berries in great quan- 
 tities, an(^ woodcock, which are extremely fond 
 of strawberries and red bilberries, breed there. 
 
 We were driving along in silence, when sud- 
 denly Kondrat raised his head. 
 
 "Eh!"— he exclaimed:— " why, I do believe 
 't is Efrem standing yonder. Morning, Ale- 
 xandritch,"— he added, raising his voice, and Hft- 
 ing his cap. 
 
 A peasant of short stature, in a short, black 
 peasant-coat girt with a rope, stepped out from 
 under a tree and approached the cart. 
 
 " Did they release thee? " — inquired Kondrat. 
 
 " I should think they did ! " — returned the peas- 
 ant, displaying his teeth in a grin. — "It isn't 
 convenient to hold fellows like me." 
 
 " And is Piotr Philippitch all right? " 
 
 " PhilippofF is it? We know our business, he 's 
 aU right." 
 
 " You don't say so! Why, Alexandritch, I was 
 thinking; ' come, brother,' I was thinking, ' now 
 lie down on the frying-pan, goose! ' " 
 
 "About Piotr Philippoff is it? Not much! 
 We 've seen his like before. He tries to play 
 the wolf, but he has a dog's tail. — Art thou going 
 a-hunting, master? "—the little peasant suddenly 
 inquired, swiftly turning up to me his little, 
 
 223
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 puckered-iip eyes, and immediately dropping 
 them again. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And where, for example? " 
 
 '* To the Burnt District," — said Kondrat. 
 
 "You 're going to the Burnt District; look 
 out that j^ou don't drive into a conflagration." 
 
 " Why, what dost thou mean? " 
 
 " I have seen a lot of moor-cock," — went on the 
 little peasant, as though jeering and without re- 
 plying to Kondrat, — " but you won't hit on the 
 place; it is a good twenty versts off in a bee-line. 
 And there 's Egor — there 's no denying it! he 's 
 as much at home in the pine forest as in his own 
 yard, but even he won't make his way thither. 
 Morning, Egor, thou God's soul worth one ko- 
 pek," — he suddenly bellowed. 
 
 " Morning, Efrem," — returned Egor deliber- 
 ately. 
 
 I stared with curiosity at this Efrem. It was 
 a long time since I had seen so strange a face. 
 He had a long, sharp nose, big lips, and a scanty 
 beard. His blue eyes fairly darted about like 
 fireworks. He stood in a free-and-easy attitude, 
 with his arms set lightly akimbo, and did not doff 
 his cap. 
 
 " Art on a visit home, pray? " — Kondrat asked 
 him. 
 
 " Exh-sta ! on a visit ! 'T is not the weather 
 now for that, brother. I 've been on a spree. 
 
 224
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 I' ve been cutting a dash, brother, that 's what. 
 Thou mayest He on the stove until winter, and not 
 a single dog will sneeze. That superintendent 
 yonder in the town said to me : ' Leave us, Alexan- 
 dritch,' says he, ' go away out of the country ; 
 we '11 give thee a first-class passport .... but 
 I 'm sorry for thy Svyatoe folks; they can't pro- 
 duce another such thief as thou.' " 
 
 Kondrat broke out laughing. 
 
 " Thou art a jester, little uncle, a regular 
 jester,"— he said, giving the reins a shake. The 
 horses started on. 
 
 " Whoa! " — said Efrem. The horses came to 
 a standstill. Kondrat did not like this sally. 
 
 " Stop thy insolence, Alexandritch," — he re- 
 marked in an undertone. " Dost thou not see that 
 we are driving a gentleman? He '11 get angry, 
 the first thou knowest." 
 
 " Ekh, thou sea-drake! What is there for him 
 to get angry about? He 's a kind gentleman. 
 Just see now, he '11 give me some money for vodka. 
 Ekh, master, give the wayfarer the price of a 
 dram! I '11 dispose of it," — he caught himself up, 
 elevating his shoulder to his ear, and gnashing 
 his teeth. 
 
 I involuntarily smiled, gave him a ten-kopek 
 piece, and ordered Kondrat to drive on. 
 
 " Much obliged. Your Well-born,"— shouted 
 Efrem after us, in militaiy fashion.^ " And do 
 
 1 " Much satisfied " (in the plural), literally, — Teanslator. 
 
 225
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 thou, Kondrat, henceforth know from whom thou 
 shouldst take lessons; the timid man is done for, 
 the bold man succeeds. When thou returnest 
 drop in to see me, dost hear? I shall have liquor 
 on hand for three days ; we '11 polish off a couple 
 of bottles; my wife 's a shrew, the housekeeping 
 goes as on runners. . . . Hey, white-sided magpie, 
 carouse while thy tail is whole! " 
 
 And whistling shrilly, Efrem dived into the 
 bushes. 
 
 " What sort of a man is he? "—I inquired of 
 Kondrat, who, as he sat on the box, kept shaking 
 his head as though engaged in argument with 
 himself. 
 
 "That one, you mean?" — returned Kondrat, 
 dropping his eyes. — " That one, you mean? " he 
 repeated. 
 
 " Yes. Is he one of your villagers? " 
 
 " Yes ; he belongs in Svyatoe. He 's the sort of 
 a man .... Such another is n't to be found for 
 a hundred versts. Such a thief and rascal — and, 
 oh, my God! his eye fairly warps at other folks' 
 goods. You can't get away from him even by 
 burrowing in the earth ; and as for money, for ex- 
 ample, why, he '11 drag it out from underneath 
 your very backbone without your noticing it." 
 
 " What a daring fellow he is! " 
 
 "Daring? Yes; he is n't afraid of anybody. 
 Just you take a good look at him : from his phy- 
 nasomy he 's a knave; you can fairly detect that 
 
 226
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 from his nose." (Kondrat frequently drove with 
 gentlemen, and was in the habit of visiting the 
 county town; consequently, he was fond, on oc- 
 casion, of showing^oif . ) " And you can't do any- 
 thing to him. Many a time they 've haled him to 
 town and put him in prison, — and only loss came 
 of it. They will begin to bind him, and he '11 
 say: ' Come now, are n't you going to fetter that 
 leg? Fetter it also, and as strongly as you can, 
 and I '11 take a nap in the meantime ; but I '11 reach 
 home quicker than your guards.' You look: and 
 he really has got back, he 's there again, akh! oh, 
 thou my God! All of us hereabouts know the 
 forest; we 've been used to it from our infancy, 
 but we can't compete with him. Last summer, 
 he came by night in a bee-line from Altiikhin to 
 Syvatoe, which must be forty versts. And as for 
 stealing honey, he 's a master-hand at that; and 
 not a bee stings him. He has devastated all the 
 bee-farms." 
 
 " I suppose he shows no quarter to the wild 
 hives either? " 
 
 "Well, no; why accuse him without cause? 
 That sin has not been noticed in him. A wild 
 hive is a sacred thing with us. A bee-farm is 
 fenced in; there is a guard; if he purloins that, — 
 that 's according to luck ; but a wild bee is God's 
 affair, not guarded; only a bear touches it." 
 
 " That 's because he is a bear,"— remarked 
 Egor. 
 
 227
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 " Is he married? " 
 
 " Certainly. And he has a son. And his son 
 will turn out a thief also! He takes after his 
 father completely. And he 's teaching him now. 
 A little while ago he brought home a pot full of 
 old five-kopek pieces, — he had stolen it some- 
 where, of course ; he went and buried it in a glade 
 in the forest, but returned home himself and sent 
 his son to the glade. ' I won't give thee anything 
 to eat until thou findest the pot,' says he ; ' and I 
 won't let thee into the house.' — The son sat a 
 whole day in the forest, and spent the night in the 
 forest; but he found the pot. Yes, he 's clever, 
 that Efrem. So long as he 's at home, he 's an 
 amiable man, he treats everybody: drink, eat, as 
 much as thou wilt; and folks set up dancing at 
 his house, and all sorts of drollery; but if he 's 
 at the assembly, — we have such an assembly in 
 our village, — the best thing a man can do is not 
 to condemn him; he '11 come up from behind, 
 listen, say a word, as though he were chopping 
 something, and off he '11 go; and 't is a weighty 
 word. And if he goes off into the forest, well, 
 then look out for a catastrophe ! Expect ruin. But 
 I must say one thing, that he won't touch his own 
 fellow-villagers unless he 's in a tight place him- 
 self. If he meets a Svyatoe man,—' Turn out, 
 and get past me, brother,' — he '11 shout from afar: 
 — ' The forest spirit has come over me: I 'm in 
 murderous mood! ' — Calamity! " 
 
 228
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 " But why do you pay any heed to that? Can- 
 not the whole countryside get the better of one 
 man? " 
 
 " Why, apparGiitly they can't." 
 
 " Is he a wizard, pray? " 
 
 "Who knows? A while ago, he got into the 
 bee-farm of the neighbouring chanter, by night; 
 yet the chanter was on guard himself. Well, he 
 caught him, and gave him a good thrashing in 
 the darkness. When he got through, Efrem says 
 to him : ' And dost thou know whom thou hast 
 thrashed ? ' And when the chanter recognised 
 him by his voice, he was fairly dumfounded. 
 ' Well, brother,' says Efrem, ' thou shalt pay for 
 this.' The chanter fell at his feet: ' Take what 
 thou wilt,' says he. — ' No,' says the other, ' I '11 
 take from thee at my own time, and what I 
 choose.'— And what think you? From that very 
 day, the chanter began to wander about hke a 
 shadow, just as though he had been scalded. 
 
 * My heart is pining away within me,' says he : 
 
 * evidently, the brigand has fastened on me an 
 awfiTlly strong spell.'— And that 's what hap- 
 pened to him, to that chanter." 
 
 " That chanter must be stupid,"— I remarked. 
 
 " Stupid? And is that the way you judge? 
 Once an order was issued to capture that same 
 Efrem. We 've got such a sharp commissary 
 of police ! So ten men set out to capture Efrem. 
 They see him coming toward them. . . . One of 
 
 229
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 them begins to shout : ' There he is, hold him, bind 
 him ! ' But Ef rem goes into the forest, and cuts 
 himself a cudgel, about two fingers thick, and 
 leaps out again on the road, so hideous, so terrible, 
 and commands, like a general on parade : ' On 
 your knees!'— and down they all fall. — 'And 
 who was it,'— says he, — * that shouted, — " Hold 
 him, bind him? " Thou, Seryoga? ' And the lat- 
 ter just springs to his feet, and makes oiF. . . 
 But Efrem follows him and whacks him on the 
 heels with his cudgel. . . . He stroked him for 
 about a verst. And afterward he was always com- 
 plaining : ' Ekh, I 'm vexed,' says he, ' that I 
 did n't prevent his eating flesh for the last time 
 before the fast.' This happened just before the 
 fast of St. Philip. Well, and the commissary of 
 police was soon superseded, — and that was the 
 end of the whole matter." 
 
 " But why did they all submit to him? " 
 " Why! because they just did. . . ." 
 " He has scared all of you, and now he does 
 what he pleases with you." 
 
 " He has scared us. . . . But he '11 scare any 
 one you like. And he 's clever at inventions. 
 O thou, my God!— Once I stumbled upon him in 
 the forest, and such a healthy rain was coming 
 down that I was about to turn aside. . . . But 
 he looked at me, and beckoned me up so, with his 
 hand. ' Come hither, Kondrat,' says he, ' don't 
 be afraid. Learn from me how to live in the 
 
 230
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 forest, and what to do in a rain.' I approached 
 him, and he was sitting under a spruce-tree and 
 had lighted a small fire of damp branches; the 
 smoke had caught in the spruce, and prevented 
 the rain from, dripping down. I was astonished 
 at him. And then, here 's another thing he in- 
 vented, once on a time " (and Kondrat broke into 
 a laugh) , " and amused us. Our oats were being 
 threshed on the threshing-floor, but the men had 
 not finished; they had not managed to rake to- 
 gether the last pile. Well, and so they stationed 
 two sentries for the night; but the lads were not 
 of the brave sort. So, they were sitting and chat- 
 tering, when Efrem took and filled the sleeves of 
 his shirt with straw, and tied the ends, and put 
 the shirt on his head. So he crept up to the kiln 
 in that guise, and began to show himself a little 
 from round the corner, and thrust forth his horns. 
 One young fellow says to the other : ' Dost see ? ' 
 — ' I see,' says the other, and suddenly uttered an 
 exclamation .... only the cords of their bast- 
 slippers burst. But Efrem gathered the oats into 
 a sack and dragged it off to his house. He told 
 all about it himself afterward. How he did 
 shame them, shame those lads. . . . Truly!" 
 
 Again Kondrat burst out laughing. And 
 Egor smiled. " Only the cords of their bast-slip- 
 pers burst? " said he. 
 
 Again we all relapsed into silence. Suddenly 
 Kondrat gave a start of alarm and sat up straight. 
 
 231
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 "Hey, good heavens!"— he exclaimed;— 
 *' why, I do believe there 's a fire! " 
 
 " Where? Where? " — we asked. 
 
 " Yonder, look, straight ahead in the direction 
 we 're driving. ... A fire it is. That Efrem, 
 — Efrem predicted it. Can it be his doing, the 
 accursed soul? . . . ." 
 
 I glanced in the direction indicated by Kon- 
 drat. In fact, two or three versts in front of us, 
 behind a green band of low spruce-trees, a thick 
 pillar of blue smoke was slowly rising from the 
 earth, gradually curving and assuming the form 
 of a cap ; to the right and left of it others, smaller 
 and whiter, were \asible. 
 
 A peasant, all red in the face and perspiring, 
 clad in nothing but his shirt, with his hair di- 
 shevelled above his frightened face, was galloping 
 straight toward us, and with difficulty drew up his 
 hastily-bridled horse. 
 
 " Brothers,"— he asked in a panting voice, — 
 " have n't you seen any of the forest guards? " 
 
 " No; we have n't. What is it— is the forest 
 on fire? " 
 
 " Yes. The people must be assembled ; other- 
 wise, it will take the direction of Trosnoe. . . ." 
 
 The peasant jerked his elbows, as he kicked the 
 flanks of his horse with his heels. ... It galloped 
 off. 
 
 Kondrat also urged on his pair. We drove 
 straight at the smoke, which spread out more and 
 
 232
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 more widely; in places it suddenly turned black 
 and spurted up aloft. The nearer we came, the 
 less clear became its outlines; soon the air was 
 all dimmed, there was a strong odour of burning, 
 and the first pale-red tongues of flame flashed 
 out, moving strangely and terribly among the 
 trees. 
 
 "Well, God be thanked,"— said Kondrat:— 
 " it appears to be a ground fire." 
 
 "A what?" 
 
 " A ground fii-e ; the sort which runs along the 
 ground. 'T is difficult to get control of an un- 
 derground fire. What is one to do when the 
 earth is burning for a whole arshin ^ down ? There 
 is but one salvation: dig trenches— and is that 
 easy? But a ground fire is nothing. It will only 
 shave off the grass, and burn up the dead leaves. 
 The forest is all the better for it. But good heav- 
 ens, just see, how it has struck out! " 
 
 We drove almost to the very verge of the con- 
 flagration. I alighted and walked toward it. 
 This was neither difficult nor dangerous. The 
 fire was running through tlie sparse pine forest 
 against the wind; it was moving with an uneven 
 line, or, to speak more accurately, in a dense, ser- 
 rated wall of reflexed tongues. The smoke was 
 carried away by the wind. Kondrat had told 
 the truth; it really was a ground fire, which was 
 merely shaving off" the grass, and without flam- 
 
 1 Twenty-eight inches— the Russian yard-measure.— Teanslatoh. 
 
 233
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 ing up was proceeding onward, leaving behind it 
 a black and smoking, but not even smouldering, 
 track. Sometimes, it is true, in places where the 
 fire encountered a depression filled with a thicket 
 and dried branches, it suddenly reared itself aloft 
 with a certain peculiar, decidedly ominous roar, 
 in long, billowy tufts; but it speedily subsided, 
 and ran onward as before, lightly crackling and 
 hissing. I even noticed more than once, how an 
 oak-bush with dry, pendent leaves, though sur- 
 rounded by the flame remained untouched; it 
 merely got a little singed below. I must confess 
 that I could not understand why the dry leaves 
 did not catch fire. Kondrat explained to me that 
 this arose from the fact that it was a ground fire, 
 " that is to say, not an angry one." 
 
 " But it is a fire, nevertheless," I retorted. 
 — " 'T is a ground fire," — repeated Kondrat. 
 But although it was a ground fire, yet the con- 
 flagration produced its eff*ect: the hares were 
 scurrying back and forth in a disorderly sort of 
 way, quite unnecessarily returning to the vicinity 
 of the fire; birds got caught in the smoke, and 
 circled about ; the horses glanced about them, and 
 snorted; the very forest seemed to be booming, 
 — and man felt uncomfortable with the heat 
 which suddenly struck him in the face. ... 
 
 " What 's the use of looking at it? "—said 
 Egor suddenly behind my back.—" Let 's go on." 
 
 " But where are we to pass through? " 
 
 234
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 " Turn to the left, over the dry marsh,— we can 
 drive across." 
 
 We turned to the left and drove over, although 
 sometimes it was rather hard on the horses and 
 the cart. 
 
 All day long we dragged on through the 
 Burnt District. Just before evening (the sun- 
 set glow had not yet kindled in the sky, but the 
 shadows of the trees already lay motionless and 
 long; and in the grass that chill was perceptible 
 which precedes the dew) I lay down on the road 
 near the cart, — to which Kondrat was engaged, 
 without haste, in harnessing the horses which had 
 eaten their fill,— and recalled my cheerless visions 
 of the day before. Everything round about was 
 as still as on the preceding day ; but the soul-op- 
 pressing and crowding pine forest was not there ; 
 on the tall moss, the lilac steppe-grass, the soft 
 dust of the road, the slender boles and clean lit- 
 tle leaves of the young birches, lay the clear and 
 gentle light of the low-hanging, no longer sultry, 
 sun. Everything was resting, immersed in a 
 soothing coolness ; nothing had yet fallen asleep, 
 but everything was already preparing for the 
 healing slumber of the evening and the night. 
 Everything seemed to be saying to man: *' Rest, 
 our brother ; breathe lightly and do not grieve be- 
 fore sleep, which is near at hand." I raised my 
 head and beheld, at the very tip of a slender 
 branch, one of those large flies with an emerald 
 
 235
 
 AN EXCURSION 
 
 head, a long body, and four transparent wings, 
 which tlie French coquettishly designate as " de- 
 moiselles," and our guileless folk call " yokes." 
 For a long time, more than an hour, I did not 
 take my eyes off it. Baked through and through 
 by the sun, it did not stir, but only now and then 
 turned its head from side to side, and let its 
 raised wings palpitate .... that is all. As I 
 gazed at it, it suddenly seemed to me that I un- 
 derstood the life of nature, — understood its clear 
 and indubitable, though for many still mysteri- 
 ous meaning. The slow and quiet inspiration, 
 leisureliness and reserve of sensations and of 
 forces, the equilibrium of health in each separate 
 individual— that is its very basis, its irrevocable 
 law ; that is the thing on which it stands and is up- 
 held. Everything which deviates from this level 
 — either above or below, it makes no difference — 
 is cast forth by it as worthless. Many insects die 
 as soon as they know the equilibrium-destroying 
 joy of love; an ailing wild beast plunges into the 
 dense thickets, and expires there alone : it seems to 
 feel that it no longer has a right to behold the sun, 
 which is common to all, or to breathe the free air ; 
 it has not the right to live; but man, whose lot 
 is evil in the world, whether by his own fault or 
 through that of others, must at least know how to 
 hold his peace. 
 
 " Come, what art thou about, Egor? "—sud- 
 denly exclaimed Kondrat, who had already man- 
 
 236
 
 TO THE FOREST BELT 
 
 aged to mount the box of the cart, and was play- 
 ing with and disentanghng the reins. — "Come, 
 take thy seat. What hast thou fallen to musing 
 about? Still about the cow ? " 
 
 "About the cow? About what cow? " — I asked, 
 glancing at Egor. Calm and dignified as ever, 
 he really had fallen to musing, apparently, and 
 was gazing off somewhere into the distance, at the 
 fields which were already beginning to grow dark. 
 
 " Why, don't you know? "—retorted Kondrat: 
 — " his last cow died last night. He has no luck — 
 what 's to be done ? " 
 
 Egor took his seat in silence on the box, and we 
 drove off. " That man knows how to refrain 
 from complaining," I thought. 
 
 237
 
 ASYA 
 
 (1857)
 
 ASYA 
 
 I WAS five-and-twenty years of age at the 
 time [began N. N.]. — 'T is an aiFair of days 
 long past, as you see. I had just acquired my 
 freedom and had gone abroad; not in order to 
 " finish my education," as people expressed it 
 then, but simply because I wanted to see God's 
 world. I was healthy, young, cheerful; my 
 money was not exhausted ; cares had not yet suc- 
 ceeded in accumulating; I lived without looking 
 back, I did what I wished: in one word, I flour- 
 ished. It never entered my head that man is not 
 a plant, and that he cannot flourish long. Youth 
 eats gilded gingerbread cakes and thinks they are 
 its daily bread; but a time will come when one 
 will beg for bread. But there is no use in dis- 
 cussing that. 
 
 I was travelling utterly without an aim, without 
 a plan; I was halting everywhere where things 
 pleased me, and immediately proceeded onward, 
 as soon as I felt a desire to see new faces — pre- 
 cisely that, faces. People alone and exclusively; 
 
 241
 
 ASYA 
 
 interested me; I hated curious monuments, note- 
 worthy collections ; the mere sight of a local guide 
 aroused in me a sensation of melancholy and 
 wrath. I nearly went out of my mind in the 
 Griine Gewolbe in Dresden. Nature had a very 
 great eiFect on me, but I did not love its so- 
 called beauties, remarkable mountains, cliffs, and 
 waterfalls; I did not like to have it force itself 
 upon me, interfere with me. On the other hand, 
 faces,— living, human faces,— people's speech, 
 their movements, their laughter, were what I 
 could not dispense with. I had always felt pecu- 
 liarly gay and at my ease in a crowd ; I found it 
 cheerful to go where other people went, to shout 
 when others shouted; and, at the same time, I 
 liked to watch those others shout. It amused me 
 to watch people. . . . yes, and I did not even watch 
 them— I contemplated them with a sort of joyous 
 and insatiable curiosity. But I am digressing 
 again. 
 
 So then, twenty years ago, I was residing in the 
 small German town of Z., on the left bank of the 
 Rhine. I was seeking sohtude; I had just been 
 wounded in the heart by a young widow, with 
 whom I had become acquainted at the baths. She 
 was very pretty and clever; she coquetted with 
 every one — including sinful me; and at first she 
 even encouraged me, but afterward wounded me 
 cruelly, sacrificing me to a red-cheeked Bavarian 
 lieutenant. I am bound to say that the wound 
 in my heart was not very deep; but I regarded 
 
 242
 
 ASYA 
 
 it as my duty to surrender myself to grief and 
 soKtude for a certain time, — with what will not 
 youth divert itself !— and I settled in Z. 
 
 This little town pleased me by its site at the 
 foot of two lofty hills ; by its decrepit walls and 
 towers, its aged lindens, and the steep bridge over 
 the bright little river, which fell into the Rhine; 
 but chiefly by its good wine. Through its narrow 
 streets there strolled in the evening, immediately 
 after sunset (this was in July) , extremely pretty, 
 fair-haired German maidens, and on meeting a 
 stranger they articulated with a pleasant voice: 
 " Guten Abend! '^— and some of them did not de- 
 part even when the moon rose from behind the 
 steep roofs of the ancient houses, and the tiny 
 stones of the pavement were clearly outlined in 
 its motionless rays. I loved to wander then 
 through the town ; the moon seemed to be gazing 
 intently at it from the clear sky; and the town 
 felt that gaze, and stood sensitive and peaceful, 
 all bathed in its light,— that tranquil and, at the 
 same time, soul-agitating light. The cock on the 
 tall Gothic belfry glittered like pale gold; the 
 same gold was diffused in streams over the shin- 
 ing black expanse of the little river; slender 
 candles (the German is economical!) burned mod- 
 estly in the narrow windows under the slate-cov- 
 ered roofs; grape-vines mysteriously thrust their 
 curled moustaches from behind stone walls ; some- 
 thing flitted past in the shadow near the ancient 
 well on the triangular market-place ; suddenly the 
 
 243
 
 ASYA 
 
 somnolent whistle of the night watchman rang 
 out, a good-natured dog growled in an undertone, 
 the air fairly caressed one's face, and the lin- 
 dens emitted so sweet a perfume that one's chest 
 involuntarily inhaled deeper and deeper breaths, 
 and the word: " Gretchen " — not quite an excla- 
 mation nor yet quite a query — fairly forced itself 
 to one's lips. 
 
 The little town of Z. lies a couple of versts dis- 
 tant from the Rhine. I frequently walked to take 
 a look at the majestic stream and, as I mused, — 
 not without some effort, — on the sly widow, I 
 would sit for long hours on a stone bench, beneath 
 a huge, isolated ash-tree. A small statue of the 
 Madonna, with almost childish face and a red 
 heart on her breast, transfixed by swords, gazed 
 sadly forth from among its branches. On the 
 opposite shore was the small town of L., a little 
 larger than the one in which I had settled down. 
 One evening I was sitting on my favourite bench, 
 gazing now at the river, now at the sky, and again 
 at the vineyards. In front of me, tow-headed 
 urchins were clambering over the sides of a boat, 
 drawn up on the shore, and overturned with its 
 tarred bottom upward. Small vessels were run- 
 ning under slightly inflated sails; the greenish 
 waves were gliding past, faintly swelling and 
 gurgling. Suddenly the sounds of music were 
 wafted to my ear : I began to listen. A waltz was 
 being played in the town of L.; a bass-viol was 
 
 244
 
 ASYA 
 
 droning spasmodically; a violin was trilling in- 
 distinctly ; a flute was piping valorously. 
 
 " What 's that? "—I enquired of an old man in 
 a velveteen waistcoat, blue stockings and buckled 
 shoes, who approached me. 
 
 " That," — he replied, having preliminarily 
 shifted the mouthpiece of his pipe from one cor- 
 ner of his mouth to the other,—" is students who 
 have come from B., for a commers." 
 
 " I believe I '11 take a look at that commers," 
 —I thought. — " By the way, I have n't been in 
 L., as yet." I hunted up a wherryman and set 
 off for the other shore. 
 
 II 
 
 It is not every one, possibly, who knows what a 
 commers is. It is a peculiar sort of triumphal 
 banquet, at which the students of one land or fra- 
 ternity {Landsmannschaft) assemble. Almost 
 all the participants on a commers wear the cos- 
 tume, — established long ago, — of German stu- 
 dents: a round jacket, large boots, and tiny caps 
 with bands of familiar colours. The students 
 generally assemble for a dinner, presided over by 
 the Senior, that is to say, the Elder,— and feast 
 until morning, drink, sing the songs, " Landes- 
 vater," " Gaudeamus," smoke and curse the Phi- 
 listines ; sometimes they hire an orchestra. 
 
 Just this sort of a commers was in progress 
 
 245
 
 ASYA 
 
 in L., in front of a small inn under the sign- 
 board of the " Sun," in a garden which abutted 
 on the street. Over the inn itself, and the garden, 
 flags were fluttering ; the students were sitting at 
 tables under the clipped lindens ; a huge bull-dog 
 was lying under one of the tables; on one side, 
 in an arbour of ivy, the musicians were installed 
 and were playing industriously, constantly rein- 
 forcing their strength with beer. On the street, 
 in front of the low fence of the garden, a consid- 
 erable number of people were gathered : the good- 
 natured citizens of L. had not wished to let slip 
 the opportunity of staring at visitors from a dis- 
 tance. I also mingled in the crowd of spectators. 
 It cheered me to look at the faces of the students ; 
 their embraces, exclamations, the innocent co- 
 quetry of youth, the ardent glances, the cause- 
 less laughter — the best laughter in the world, — 
 all this joyous ebullition of young, fresh life, this 
 impulse in advance — no matter where, so long as 
 it was forward, — this good-natured liberty 
 touched and kindled me. Why not join them? 
 I asked myself. . . . 
 
 "Asya, art thou satisfied?" — suddenly said a 
 man's voice behind me, in Russian. 
 
 " Let us wait a little longer," — rephed another, 
 a feminine voice, in the same language. 
 
 I wheeled hastily round. . . My gaze fell upon 
 a handsome young man in a foraging-cap and a 
 roomy round- jacket. He was arm in arm with a 
 
 246
 
 ASYA 
 
 young girl of short stature, with a straw hat 
 which covered the whole upper part of her face. 
 
 "You are Russians? "—broke involuntarily 
 from my tongue. 
 
 The young man smiled and said : 
 
 " Yes; we are Russians." 
 
 " I did not in the least expect .... in such a 
 remote nook . . . ."I was beginning .... 
 
 " And we did not expect,"— he interrupted me; 
 — " what of that? so much the better. Allow me 
 to introduce myself. My name is Gagin, and this 
 is my " .... he hesitated for a moment,—" is 
 my sister. And may I ask your name? " 
 
 I mentioned my name, and we got into conver- 
 sation. I learned that Gagin, while travelling for 
 pleasure, like myself, had arrived in the town of 
 L. a week previously, and had stuck fast there. 
 Truth to tell, I was not fond of making acquain- 
 tance with Russians abroad. I recognised them 
 from afar by their walk, the cut of their garments, 
 and, chiefly, by the expression of their faces. Con- 
 ceited and scornful, often imperious, it was sud- 
 denly replaced by an expression of caution and 
 timidity. . . . The man would suddenly become 
 all alert, his eyes would roll about uneasily. . . . 
 " Good heavens! have n't I blundered? Are n't 
 people laughing at me? " that hurried glance 
 seemed to be saying. ... A moment passed,— 
 and again the majesty of the physiognomy was 
 restored, now and then giving way, in turn, to dull 
 
 247
 
 ASYA 
 
 perplexity. Yes, I avoided Russians, but I took 
 an instantaneous liking to Gagin. There are in 
 the world such happy faces, that every one likes 
 to look at them, as though they warmed or ca- 
 ressed you. Gagin had precisely such a face, 
 charming, caressing, with large, soft eyes, and 
 soft, curly hair. He spoke in such a way that, 
 without seeing his face, merely from the sound of 
 his voice, you felt that he was smiling. 
 
 The young girl whom he had called his sister, 
 seemed to me very pretty at the first glance. 
 There was something individual, peculiar in the 
 form of her dark-skinned, round face, with its 
 small, slender nose, almost childish little cheeks, 
 and bright, black eyes. She was gracefully built, 
 and apparently not yet fully developed. She did 
 not bear the slightest resemblance to her brother. 
 
 " Will you drop in and make us a call? "—said 
 Gagin to me.—" I think we have gazed our fill 
 at the Germans. Our fellows, it is true, would 
 have smashed the glasses and broken the chairs, 
 but these men are more discreet. Shall we go 
 home— what thinkest thou, Asya? " 
 
 The young girl nodded assent. 
 
 " We are hving out of town,"— went on Gagin, 
 " in a vineyard, in an isolated house, high up. We 
 have a splendid site, as you will see. The land- 
 lady has promised to prepare some sour milk for 
 us. But it will soon be dark now, and it will be 
 better for you to cross the Rhine by moonhght" 
 
 248
 
 ASYA 
 
 We set out. Through the small gates of the 
 town (an ancient wall of cobble-stones sur- 
 rounded it on all sides, and even the embrasures 
 had not yet entirely gone to ruin) we emerged 
 into the open country, and, proceeding for a hun- 
 dred paces along the stone rampart, halted before 
 a narrow wicket-gate. Gagin opened it and led 
 us up the hill by a steep path. Grape-vines grew 
 on both sides, on terraces; the sun had just set, 
 and a thin scarlet light lay on the vines, on the tall 
 stakes, on the dry earth thickly besprinkled with 
 large and small flag-stones, and on the white walls 
 of a small house, with black, sagging joists and 
 four bright little windows, which stood on the 
 very apex of the hill up which we were climbing. 
 
 "Here 's our dwelling! "—exclaimed Gagin, 
 as soon as we began to approach the house;— 
 " and yonder is the landlady bringing the milk. 
 Guten Abend, Madame! .... We '11 set to eat- 
 ing immediately; but first,"— he added,— " look 
 around you .... What do you think of the 
 viewf 
 
 The view really was magnificent. The Rhine 
 lay before us, between green banks; in one place 
 it was flaming with the crimson hues of the sun- 
 set. The little town, nestling close against the 
 shore, displayed all its houses and streets ; hills and 
 fields spread out widely in all directions. Down 
 below it had been good, but up aloft it was still 
 better : I was particularly sti^ck by the purity and 
 
 249
 
 ASYA 
 
 depth of tlie sky, the radiant transparency of the 
 air. Cool and light, it softly undulated and 
 surged in waves, as though it were more at its 
 ease on the heights. 
 
 " You have chosen capital quarters," — I said. 
 
 " It was Asya who found them,"— replied Ga- 
 gin.— " Come now, Asya,"— he went on:—" See 
 to things. Order everything to be served here. 
 We will sup in the open air. The music can be 
 heard better here. Have you noticed,"— he 
 added, turning to me,—" that some waltzes are 
 good for nothing when heard close to? — the 
 sounds are insipid, harsh — while at a distance, 
 they are splendid ! they fairly set all the romantic 
 chords in you to vibrating." 
 
 Asya (her name was really Anna, but Gagin 
 called her Asya, and therefore you must permit 
 me to do the same)— Asya withdrew into the 
 house, and speedily returned in company with the 
 landlady. They carried between them a large 
 tray with a pot of milk, spoons, sugar, berries, 
 and bread. We sat down and began our supper. 
 Asya removed her hat; her black hair, cut short 
 and brushed like that of a boy, fell in large rings 
 on her neck and ears. At first she was shy of me ; 
 but Gagin said to her: 
 
 "Asya, have done with thy shrinking! He 
 does n't bite ! " 
 
 She smiled and, a little while afterward, en- 
 tered into conversation with me of her own ac- 
 
 250
 
 ASYA 
 
 cord. I have never seen a more restless being. 
 She did not sit still for a single moment; she 
 kept rising, running into the house, and running 
 back to us again. She would begin to hum in a 
 low voice, frequently broke out laughing, and 
 that in a very strange manner:— it seemed as 
 though she were laughing not at what she heard, 
 but at various thoughts which came into her head. 
 Her large eyes had a bright, direct, bold gaze, 
 but sometimes her eyelids contracted slightly, and 
 then her glance suddenly became deep and tender. 
 We chatted for a couple of hours. Day had 
 long since vanished, and evening,— first all fiery, 
 then clear and scarlet, then pale and confused,— 
 had quietly melted and merged into night; and 
 still our conversation continued, peaceful and 
 gentle as the air which surrounded us. Gagin 
 ordered a bottle of Rhine wine to be brought ; we 
 quaffed it, without haste. The music, as before, 
 floated up to us; its sounds seemed sweeter and 
 more tender; the lights had kindled in the town 
 and on the river. Suddenly Asya lowered her 
 head, so that her curls fell into her eyes, became 
 silent, heaved a sigh, and then said to us that she 
 was sleepy, and went away to the house. But 
 I saw that, without lighting a candle, she stood 
 for a long time at the unopened window. At last 
 the moon rose and played on the Rhine; every- 
 thing grew bright, darkened, changed, even the 
 wine in our facetted glasses began to glitter with 
 
 251
 
 ASYA 
 
 a mysterious gleam. The wind subsided, as 
 though it had folded its wings, and died out; 
 perfumed, nocturnal warmth was exhaled from 
 the earth. 
 
 " 'T is time for me to go!"— I exclaimed:— 
 " otherwise I shall probably find no one to ferry 
 
 me over." 
 
 " It is time,"— repeated Gagin. 
 
 We descended along the path. The stones be- 
 hind us suddenly began to clatter; it was Asya 
 pursuing us. 
 
 "Art thou not asleep?"— her brother asked 
 her; but she, without answering him a word, ran 
 past us. The last dying fire-pots lighted by the 
 students in the garden of the inn illuminated 
 the under side of the foliage on the trees, which 
 imparted to it a festive and fantastic aspect. 
 We found Asya on the shore; she was chatting 
 with a wherryman. I sprang into the boat and 
 took leave of my new friends. Gagin promised 
 to make me a visit on the following day ; I shook 
 hands with him, and offered my hand to Asya; 
 but she merely gazed at me and shook her head. 
 The boat jfloated off and glided over the swift 
 river. The wherryman, a brisk old fellow, 
 dipped his oars with tense effort into the dark 
 water. 
 
 " You have entered the shaft of moonlight, you 
 have broken it up,"— Asya shouted to me. 
 
 252
 
 ASYA 
 
 I lowered my eyes ; around the boat the waves 
 rocked darkly. 
 
 " Good-bye! "—rang out her voice once 
 more. 
 
 " Until to-morrow,"— said Gagin, after her. 
 
 The boat made its landing. I got out and 
 glanced around me. No one was any longer 
 visible on the opposite shore. The shaft of moon- 
 light stretched in a golden bridge across the en- 
 tire width of the river. As though by way of 
 farewell, the sounds of an old Lanner waltz 
 hurtled over. Gagin was right: I felt that all 
 my heart-strings were vibrating in response to 
 those challenging strains. I wended my way 
 home through the darkening fields, slowly in- 
 haling the fragrant air, and reached my little 
 chamber all softened by the sweet languor of 
 random and limitless expectancy. I felt happy. 
 . . . But why was I happy? I desired no- 
 thing, I was thinking of nothing. ... I was 
 happy. 
 
 Almost laughing aloud with the exuberance 
 of pleasant and vivacious emotions, I dived head- 
 long into bed, and was on the point of closing 
 my eyes, when suddenly it occurred to me that 
 not once during the whole course of the evening 
 had I called to mind my cruel beauty. ..." But 
 what does it mean? " — I asked myself: — " Can it 
 be that I am in love?" But without furnish- 
 
 253
 
 ASYA 
 
 ing myself with an answer to this question, I 
 apparently fell asleep on the instant, like a baby 
 in its cradle. 
 
 Ill 
 
 On the following morning (I was already awake, 
 but had not yet risen), a knock resounded under 
 my window, and a voice, which I immediately rec- 
 ognised as the voice of Gagin, struck up : 
 
 *' Sleepest thou? With my guitar 
 I will awaken thee. . . . "" 
 
 I made haste to open the door for him. 
 
 " Good morning,"— said Gagin, as he entered: 
 — "I have disturbed you rather early, but just see 
 what a morning it is. See the freshness, the dew ; 
 and the larks are singing. ..." 
 
 With his gleaming, curly hair, his bared neck 
 and rosy cheeks, he himself was as fresh as the 
 morning. 
 
 I dressed myself; we went out into the little 
 garden, ordered coffee to be brought out to us, 
 and began to chat. Gagin communicated to me his 
 plans for the future : being in possession of a com- 
 fortable property, and dependent upon no one, 
 he was desirous of devoting himself to painting, 
 and only regretted that he had become sensible 
 rather late in the day, and had wasted a great deal 
 of time in vain. I also mentioned my intentions ; 
 
 254
 
 ASYA 
 
 yes, and by the way, I confided to him the secret of 
 my unhappy love. He listened to me with conde- 
 scension but, so far as I was able to perceive, 
 I did not arouse in him any strong sympathy for 
 my passion. After heaving a couple of sighs in 
 imitation of me, out of politeness, Gagin pro- 
 posed that we should go to his rooms and inspect 
 his sketches. I immediately consented. 
 
 We did not find Asya. According to the land- 
 lady's words, she had gone to " the ruin." A 
 couple of versts from the town of L. there ex- 
 isted the remains of a feudal castle. Gagin 
 opened all his portfolios for me. There was a 
 great deal of life and truth in his studies, some- 
 thing free and broad; but not a single one of 
 them was finished, and the drawing seemed to me 
 to be slovenly and inaccurate. I frankly ex- 
 pressed my opinion to him. 
 
 " Yes, yes," — he chimed in with a sigh, — *' you 
 are right; all this is very bad and immature, but 
 what help is there for it? I have not studied 
 as I should have done, and that cursed Slavonic 
 laxity is asserting itself. When one dreams of 
 work, he soars like an eagle; it seems as though 
 he could move the earth from its place ; but in the 
 execution he immediately grows slack and 
 weary." 
 
 I tried to encourage him, but he waved his hand 
 in despair, and collecting all his portfolios in his 
 arms, he flung them on the divan. 
 
 255
 
 ASYA 
 
 "If my patience holds out, I shall make some- 
 thing of myself,"— he muttered through his 
 teeth:— "if it does n't hold out, I shall remain 
 a hobbledehoy ^ of the gentry class. We had 
 better go and look up Asya." 
 
 We went. 
 
 IV 
 
 The road to the ruin wound down a narrow de- 
 clivity to a wooded valley ; at the bottom of it ran 
 a brook purling noisily among stones, as though 
 in haste to merge itself with the great river which 
 gleamed calmly beyond the dark border of 
 sharply-serrated mountain crests. Gagin called 
 my attention to several happily illuminated spots ; 
 in his words was audible, if not the painter, yet 
 certainly the artist. The ruin soon came in sight. 
 On the very apex of a bare cliff rose a four- 
 cornered tower, all black, still strong, but cleft, 
 as it were, with a long rent. Mossy walls joined 
 the tower ; here and there ivy was clinging ; small, 
 distorted trees hung from the grey battlements 
 and crumbling arches. A stony path led to the 
 gate, which was still intact. We were already 
 approaching it, when suddenly a woman's figure 
 flitted in front of us, ran swiftly over the heap 
 of fragments, and placed itself on a projection 
 of the wall directly over the chasm. 
 
 1 An allusion to Von Vizin's famous comedy, "The 
 Hobbledehoy. ' ' — Trakslatok. 
 
 256
 
 ASYA 
 
 "That certainly is Asya! "—exclaimed Ga- 
 gin : — " What a mad -woman I " 
 
 We entered the gate and found ourselves in a 
 small courtyard, half overgrown with wild ap- 
 ple-trees and nettles. On the projection sat 
 Asya, in effect. She turned her face toward us 
 and began to laugh, but did not stir from the 
 spot. Gagin shook his finger at her, while I 
 loudly reproached her for her imprudence. 
 
 " Stop,"— said Gagin to me:—" don't irritate 
 her ; you do not know her : she is quite capable of 
 climbing the tower. But here, you had better 
 wonder at the intelligence of the local inhabi- 
 tants." 
 
 I looked about me. In one corner, sheltering 
 herself in a tiny wooden shed, an old woman was 
 engaged in knitting a stocking, and darting side- 
 long glances at us through her spectacles. She 
 sold beer, gingerbread, and seltzer water to tour- 
 ists. We placed ourselves on a bench, and began 
 to drink tolerably cool beer out of heavy, pewter 
 mugs. Asya continued to sit motionless, with her 
 feet tucked up under her, and her head enveloped 
 in a musHn scarf; her graceful figure was dis- 
 tinctly and beautifully outlined against the clear 
 sky; but I surveyed her with an unpleasant sen- 
 sation. On the preceding evening I had noticed 
 something constrained, not quite natural, about 
 her. ..." She wants to astonish us," — I thought; 
 "to what end? What childish prank is this?" 
 
 257
 
 ASYA 
 
 As though divining my thoughts, she suddenly 
 flung a swift, piercing glance at me, broke out 
 laughing again, and with two skips leaped from 
 the wall, and running up to the old woman, 
 asked her for a glass of water. 
 
 " Dost thou think that I want to drink? "—she 
 said, addressing her brother. — "No; there are 
 flowers on the wall yonder, which positively must 
 be watered." 
 
 Gagin made her no reply; and she, glass in 
 hand, went scrambling over the ruins, now and 
 then halting, bending down and, with amusing 
 importance, sprinkling a few drops of water, 
 which glittered brightly in the sunlight. Her 
 movements were extremely charming, but, as be- 
 fore, I felt vexed with her, although I involun- 
 tarily admired her lightness and agility. At one 
 dangerous spot she intentionally shrieked aloud, 
 and then screamed with laughter. ... I was 
 more vexed than ever. 
 
 "Why, she climbs like a goat,"— muttered the 
 old woman, tearing herself for a moment from 
 her stocking. 
 
 At last Asya entirely emptied her glass, and, 
 swaying in frolicsome wise, she returned to us. 
 A strange smile slightly contracted her brows, 
 nostrils, and lips; half -audaciously, half -merrily 
 did the dark eyes narrow their lids. 
 
 "You consider my behaviour improper,"— her 
 
 258
 
 ASYA 
 
 face seemed to say: — " I don't care: I know that 
 you are admiring me." 
 
 " Clever, Asya, clever," — said Gagin, in an 
 undertone. 
 
 She seemed suddenly seized with shame, 
 dropped her long eyelashes, and seated herself 
 modestly beside us, like a culprit. Then, for the 
 first time, did I get a thoroughly good look at her 
 face, the most variable face which I had ever 
 beheld. A few moments later it had turned pale, 
 and assumed a concentrated, almost melancholy 
 expression ; her very features seemed to me larger, 
 more severe, more simple. She had completely 
 quieted down. We made the circuit of the ruin 
 (Asya followed behind us) and admired the 
 views. In the meantime the hour for dinner was 
 drawing near. On settling with the old woman, 
 Gagin asked for another tankard of beer, and 
 turning to me, exclaimed with a sly grimace: 
 
 " To the health of the lady of your heart! " 
 
 " And has he, — have you such a lady? " — Asya 
 suddenly inquired. 
 
 " Why, who has not? "—retorted Gagin. 
 
 Asya became pensive for a moment ; again her 
 face underwent a change; again there made its 
 appearance upon it a challenging, almost auda- 
 cious smile. 
 
 On the way home she laughed and frolicked 
 worse than ever. She broke off a long branch, 
 
 259
 
 ASYA 
 
 laid it on her shoulders like a gun, and bound 
 her scarf around her head. I remember that we 
 met a numerous family of fair-haired and af- 
 fected English people; all of them, as though at 
 the word of command, stared after Asya in frigid 
 amazement with their glassy eyes, while she, as 
 though to spite them, began to sing loudly. On 
 reaching home, she immediately went off to her 
 room, and only made her appearance at dinner, 
 arrayed in her best gown, with her hair carefully 
 arranged, her bodice tightly laced, and in gloves. 
 At table she bore herself in very decorous manner, 
 almost aifectedly, barely tasted the viands, and 
 drank water out of a wine-glass. She evidently 
 wished to play a new part before me — the part of 
 a decorous and well-bred young lady. Gagin did 
 not interfere with her ; it was obvious that he had 
 got used to backing her up in everything. He 
 merely cast a good-humoured glance at me from 
 time to time, and shrugged his shoulders slightlj^ 
 as much as to say: — " She is a child, be lenient." 
 The moment dinner was over, Asya rose, made 
 a curtsey and, donning her hat, asked Gagin 
 whether she might go to Frau Luise. 
 
 " Hast thou long been in the habit of asking 
 permission?" — he replied with his invariable, on 
 this occasion somewhat troubled, smile: — "Dost 
 thou find it tiresome with us? " 
 
 "No; but I promised Frau Luise yesterday 
 to go to her; and, besides, I thought you would 
 
 260
 
 ASYA 
 
 be better off alone together; Mr. N." (she pointed 
 at me) " will tell thee something more." 
 
 She departed. 
 
 " Frau Luise,"— began Gagin, endeavouring 
 to avoid my eye, — " is the widow of a former 
 burgomaster here, a kind-hearted but frivolous 
 woman. She has taken a great fancy to Asya. 
 Asya has a passion for getting acquainted with 
 people from a lower class. I have observed that 
 the cause of that is always vanity. I have spoiled 
 her pretty thoroughly, as you see,"— he added, 
 after a brief pause: — " and what would you have 
 me do? I don't know how to be stern with any 
 one, least of all with her. I am bound to be in- 
 dulgent to her." 
 
 I held my peace. Gagin changed the subject. 
 The better I knew him the more strongly was I 
 drawn to him. I soon understood him. He was 
 a regular Russian soul, upright, honourable, sim- 
 ple, but, unhappily, somewhat languid, without 
 tenacity or inward ardour. Youth did not bub- 
 ble up in him like a spring; it beamed with a 
 tranquil hght. He was very charming and clever, 
 but I could not imagine to myself what would 
 become of him as soon as he became a man. Be 
 an artist? .... One cannot be an artist without 
 bitter, incessant toil . . . . " and toil," I thought, 
 as I looked at his soft features, and listened to 
 his indolent speech,—" no! Thou wilt never toil, 
 thou wilt not be capable of concentrating thy- 
 
 261
 
 ASYA 
 
 self." But not to love him was an impossibility; 
 one's heart was fairly drawn to him. We spent 
 four hours together, now seated on the divan, 
 again pacing slowly to and fro in front of the 
 house; and in the course of those four hours we 
 definitively struck up a friendship. 
 
 The sun set, and it was time for me to go home- 
 'Asya had not yet returned. 
 
 *' What a wilful creature she is! "—said Gagin. 
 — *' I will accompany you, shall I? We '11 drop 
 in at Frau Luise's on the way, and I will inquire 
 if she is there. It is not much out of our road." 
 
 We descended to the town and, turning into a 
 narrow, crooked alley, halted in front of a house 
 two windows in breadth and four stories high. 
 The second story projected over the street more 
 than the first, the third and fourth projected more 
 than the second ; the whole house, with its ancient 
 carving, its two thick pillars below, its pointed 
 roof of tiles, and elongated spout, in the shape 
 of a beak on the garret, seemed like a huge, 
 crouching bird. 
 
 " Asya! " — shouted Gagin; — " Art thou 
 here?" 
 
 A tiny illuminated window in the third story 
 opened, and we beheld Asya's little, dark head. 
 The toothless and purblind face of an old Ger- 
 man woman peeped forth from behind her. 
 
 " I 'm here,"— said Asya, coquettishly prop- 
 ping her elbows on the window-sill. " I 'm com- 
 
 262
 
 ASYA 
 
 fortable here. There, take that,"— she added, 
 tossing a spray of geranium to Gagin. — " Im- 
 agine that I am the lady of thy heart." 
 
 Frau Luise laughed. 
 
 " N. is going away,"— returned Gagin:—" he 
 wants to bid thee farewell." 
 
 " Really? "—said Asya:— " In that case, give 
 him my spray, and I '11 return at once." 
 
 She clapped to the window and, apparently, 
 kissed Frau Luise. Gagin silently held out the 
 spray to me. I silently put it in my pocket, 
 walked to the ferry and crossed to the other side. 
 
 I remember that I was walking home think- 
 ing of nothing, but with a strange weight on my 
 heart, when suddenly a powerful, famihar scent, 
 but one which is rare in Germany, arrested my 
 attention. I came to a standstill, and beheld by 
 the side of the road a small bed of hemp. Its 
 fragrance of the steppes had instantaneously re- 
 minded me of my native land and aroused in my 
 soul a passionate longing for it. I wanted to 
 breathe the Russian air, to walk on Russian soil. 
 " What am I doing here, why am I dawdling in 
 foreign lands, among strangers?" I exclaimed; 
 the deadly burden, which I had felt at my heart, 
 was suddenly merged, in bitter, burning emotion. 
 I reached home in an entirely different mood 
 from that of the day before. I felt almost in- 
 censed, and for a long time could not recover 
 my composure. An irritation which I myself 
 
 263
 
 ASYA 
 
 found incomprehensible was rending me asunder. 
 At last I sat down, and calling to mind my crafty 
 widow (each one of my days wound up with 
 an official calhng to mind of that lady), I got 
 out one of her notes. But I did not even open 
 it; my thoughts immediately took another direc- 
 tion. I began to think .... to think of Asya. 
 It occurred to me that Gagin, in the course of our 
 conversation, had hinted to me at some difficulties, 
 some impediments to his return to Russia. . . . 
 " Is she really his sister? " I ejaculated aloud. 
 
 I undressed, got into bed, and tried to get to 
 sleep ; but an hour later I was again sitting on my 
 bed, and again thinking about that " capricious 
 little girl with the strained laugh." . . . . " She 
 is formed like the httle Galatea by Raphael, in 
 the Farnese gallery,"— I whispered:— " yes, and 
 she is not his sister. ..." 
 
 And the widow's note lay quite quietly on the 
 floor, gleaming whitely in the rays of the moon. 
 
 V 
 
 On the following morning I again went to L. 
 I assured myself that I wanted to meet Gagin; 
 but I was secretly longing to see what Asya would 
 do,— whether she would " play tricks," as on the 
 day before. I found them both in the parlour, 
 and, strange to say— perhaps because I had been 
 
 264.
 
 ASYA 
 
 thinking a great deal about Russia dui'ing the 
 night and morning — Asya seemed to me to be a 
 thorough Russian girl, and a low-class girl, al- 
 most a chambermaid, at that. She wore a poor 
 little old gown, had brushed her hair behind her 
 ears, and sat immovably at the window, em- 
 broidering at a frame, modestly, quietly, as 
 though she had never done anything else in all 
 her hfe. She said hardly anything, gazed calmly 
 at her work, and her features had assumed such 
 an insignificant, every-day expression, that I was 
 involuntarily reminded of our home-bred Katyas 
 and Mashas. To complete the likeness, she be- 
 gan to sing in an undertone: " Mother dear, be- 
 loved one." I glanced at her sallow, extinguished 
 little face, recalled my musings of the night be- 
 fore, and felt sorry for something. The weather 
 was magnificent. Gagin announced to us that 
 he was going that day to make a sketch from 
 nature; I asked him if he would allow me to ac- 
 company him, whether I should be in his way. 
 
 "On the contrary,"— he replied:— " you may 
 be able to give me some good advice." 
 
 He donned a round hat, a la Van Dyck, and a 
 blouse, took a portfolio under his arm, and set 
 out ; I ambled after him. Asya remained at home. 
 Gagin, as he was departing, asked her to see that 
 the soup was not too thin: Asya promised to 
 visit the kitchen. Gagin made his way to the 
 valley with which I was already acquainted, 
 
 265
 
 ASYA 
 
 seated himself on a stone, and began to sketch 
 an aged, hollow oak, with widely-spreading roots. 
 I threw myself down on the grass, and pulled 
 out a book; but I did not read two pages, and 
 he merely daubed his paper; we spent the time 
 chiefly in argument; and, so far as I can judge, 
 we argued with considerable cleverness and pene- 
 tration, as to the precise way in which one should 
 work, what should be avoided, what rules should 
 be observed, and precisely what is the significance 
 of art in our age. Gagin decided at last that he 
 " was not in the mood to-day," lay down beside 
 me, and then our youthful speeches began to flow 
 freely, — now fervid, now thoughtful, now rap- 
 turous, but almost always the obscure speeches 
 wherein the Russian man is so fond of pouring 
 himself out. After having talked to satiety, and 
 filled with a sense of contentment, we returned 
 home. I found Asya precisely the same as I had 
 left her ; try as I would to watch her, not a shade 
 of coquetry, not a sign of a deliberately-assumed 
 role did I detect in her; on this occasion, it was 
 impossible to accuse her of lack of naturalness. 
 
 " A-ha! "— said Gagin:— " She has imposed 
 fasting and penance upon herself! " 
 
 Toward evening she yawned several times un- 
 affectedly, and went oiF early to her own room. 
 I soon took leave of Gagin, and on my way home, 
 I no longer meditated about anything: that day 
 had passed in sober sensations. I remember, how- 
 
 266
 
 ASYA 
 
 ever, that as I got into bed I involuntarily said 
 aloud : 
 
 "What a chameleon that young girl is!" — 
 And after reflecting a while I added: — "And 
 all the same, she is not his sister." 
 
 VI 
 
 Two whole weeks passed. I visited the Gagins 
 every day. Asya seemed to shun me but no longer 
 indulged in a single one of the pranks which had 
 so astounded me during the first days of our 
 acquaintance. She appeared to be secretly em- 
 bittered or discomfited; she laughed less. I 
 watched her with curiosity. 
 
 She spoke French and German fairly well ; but 
 in everything it was apparent that she had been 
 in feminine hands since her infancy, and had re- 
 ceived a strange, an unusual bringing-up, which 
 had nothing in common with the breeding of Ga- 
 gin. Despite his hat a la Van Dyck, and his 
 blouse, he exhaled the soft, half -enervated atmo- 
 sphere of the Great Russian nobleman, but she did 
 not resemble a young lady of noble birth; in all 
 her movements there was something uneasy; she 
 was a wild tree which had only recently been 
 grafted; she was wine still in the process of fer- 
 mentation. By nature shy and timid, she was 
 vexed at her own bashfulness, and with irritation 
 
 267
 
 ASYA 
 
 she made desperate eiforts to be bold and at her 
 ease, in which she was not always successful. 
 Several times I began to talk to her about her 
 life in Russia, about her past; she answered my 
 queries reluctantly. I learned, however, that for 
 a long time before her departure abroad, she 
 had lived in the country. I once caught her alone, 
 over a book. With her head resting on both 
 hands and her fingers deeply buried in her hair, 
 she was devouring the lines with her eyes. 
 
 "Bravo!" — I said, stepping up to her: 
 —"How diligent you are!" 
 
 She raised her head with dignity and gazed 
 sternly at me. 
 
 " You think that I know how to do nothing but 
 laugh,"— she said, and started to leave the 
 room. . . 
 
 I glanced at the title of the book; it was some 
 French romance or other. 
 
 " But I cannot commend your choice,"— I re- 
 marked. 
 
 " 'T is reading all the same! "—she exclaimed; 
 and flinging the book on the table, she added:— 
 " I had better go and play the fool,"— and ran 
 off into the garden. 
 
 That same day, in the evening, I was reading 
 to Gagin " Herman and Dorothea." At first 
 Asya only darted past us, then suddenly she came 
 to a halt, lent an ear, quietly sat down beside 
 me, and listened to the reading to the end. On 
 
 268
 
 ASYA 
 
 the following day I again failed to recognise 
 her, until I guessed what had suddenly got into 
 her head: to be domestic and sedate, like Doro- 
 thea. In a word, she was to me a semi-enigmat- 
 ical being. Vain to the last degree, she attracted 
 me even when I was angry with her. Of one 
 thing only I became more and more convinced, 
 namely, that she was not Gagin's sister. He did 
 not treat her in brotherly fashion; he was too 
 affectionate, too lenient, and at the same time, 
 rather constrained. 
 
 A strange circumstance, apparently, confirmed 
 my suspicions. 
 
 One evening, as I was approaching the vine- 
 yard, where the Gagins lived, I found the gate 
 locked. Without thinking long about the mat- 
 ter, I made my way to a breach in the fence, 
 which I had previously noted, and leaped over it. 
 Not far from that spot, on one side of the path, 
 stood a small acacia arbour. I came on a level 
 with it, and was on the point of passing it ... . 
 when suddenly Asya's voice struck my ear, utter- 
 ing the following words with heat and through 
 tears : 
 
 " No; I won't love anybody except thee, no, no, 
 I will love only thee — and forever." 
 
 " Stop, Asya, calm thyself," — said Gagin: — 
 " thou knowest that I believe thee." 
 
 Their voices resounded in the arbour. I caught 
 a sight of both of them through the interlacing 
 
 269
 
 ASYA 
 
 branches which were not thick. They did not 
 notice me. 
 
 " Thee, thee alone,"— she repeated, throwing 
 herself on his neck, and beginning to kiss him 
 with convulsive sobs, and to press herself to his 
 breast. 
 
 " Enough, enough,"— he repeated, passing his 
 hand lightly over her hair. 
 
 For several moments I stood motionless. . . . 
 Suddenly I started. — " Shall I go to them? . . . 
 On no account!" — flashed through my mind. 
 With swift strides I returned to the fence, sprang 
 over it into the road, and set off homeward almost 
 on a run, I smiled, rubbed my hands, marvelled 
 at the accident which had suddenly confirmed my 
 surmises (not for one moment did I doubt their 
 correctness), and, yet I felt very bitter at heart. 
 " How well they understand how to dissimu- 
 late! " I thought. " But with what object? What 
 possesses them to mystify me? I had not ex- 
 pected that from him. . . . And what a senti- 
 mental explanation ! " 
 
 VII 
 
 I SLEPT badly, and rose early the next morning, 
 strapped my travelling wallet to my back, and, 
 having informed my landlady that she need not 
 expect me back for the night, I set off on foot for 
 the mountains, up the little river, on which Z. 
 
 270
 
 ASYA 
 
 lies. These mountains, a spur of the chain called 
 The Dog's Back (Hundsriick), are very curious 
 from a geological point of view; they are espe- 
 cially noteworthy for the regularity and purity 
 of the basaltic layers; but I was in no mood for 
 geological observations. I could not account to 
 myself for what was in progress within me; one 
 feeling was clear to me: a disinclination to meet 
 the Gagins. I assured myself that the sole cause 
 for my sudden dislike to them was anger at their 
 duplicity. Who had forced them to give them- 
 selves out for relatives? However, I tried not 
 to think of them ; I wandered, without haste, over 
 the mountains and valleys, I tarried in village 
 eating-houses, peaceably chatting with landlords 
 and patrons, or lay on a flat, sun-heated stone, 
 and watched the clouds sail past ; luckily the wea- 
 ther was wonderfully fine. In such occupations I 
 spent three days, and not without satisfaction, — 
 although my heart was heavy at times. The trend 
 of my thoughts was exactly in harmony with the 
 calm nature of that locality. 
 
 I surrendered myself to the quiet plan of ac- 
 cident, to chance impressions : succeeding one an- 
 other without haste, they flowed through my soul, 
 leaving in it at last one general impression, in 
 which was merged everything I had seen, felt, 
 and heard during those three days— everything: 
 the dehcate odour of resin in the forests, the cry 
 and pecking of the wood-peckers; the incessant 
 
 271
 
 ASYA 
 
 babbling of bright little brooks with spotted trout 
 on their sandy bottoms ; the not too bold outlines 
 of the hills ; the frowning cliffs ; clean little ham- 
 lets with time-honoured, ancient churches and 
 trees; storks in the meadow; cosey mills with 
 briskly-revolving wheels ; the cheerful faces of the 
 natives, their blue shirts and grey stockings; 
 creaking, sluggish wains drawn by fat horses, 
 and sometimes by cows ; young, long-haired way- 
 farers on the clean roads, planted with apple and 
 pear-trees. . . . 
 
 Even now it is a pleasure to me to recall my 
 impressions of that time. A greeting to thee, 
 modest nook of the German land, with thy in- 
 genuous satisfaction; with traces everywhere 
 about of industrious hands, of patient though 
 unhurried toil. ... A greeting and peace to 
 thee! 
 
 I reached home at the very end of the third 
 day. I have forgotten to say that, out of vexa- 
 tion toward the Gagins, I had made an effort to 
 resurrect within me the image of the hard-hearted 
 widow;— but my efforts remained fruitless. I 
 remember that when I began to meditate about 
 her, I beheld before me a little peasant girl, five 
 years of age, with a round little face, and in- 
 nocently protruding eyes. She looked at me in 
 such a childishly-simple way. ... I felt ashamed 
 of her pure gaze, I did not want to lie in her 
 presence, and instantly, finally, and forever I 
 
 272
 
 ASYA 
 
 made my farewell bow to the former object of 
 my affections. 
 
 At home I found a note from Gagin. He was 
 surprised at the suddenness of my decision, up- 
 braided me for not having taken him with me, 
 and begged me to come to them as soon as I re- 
 turned. I read this note with displeasure, but 
 on the following day I went to L. 
 
 VIII 
 
 Gagin welcomed me in friendly fashion, over- 
 whelmed me with affectionate reproaches; but 
 Asya, as though of deliberate purpose, no sooner 
 caught sight of me, than she burst out laughing 
 loudly without any cause and, according to her 
 wont, immediately ran away. Gagin was dis- 
 concerted, muttered after her that she was crazy, 
 and entreated me to pardon her. I confess that 
 I had become greatly incensed at Asya; even 
 without that I was not feeling like myself, and 
 here again were that unnatural laughter, those 
 strange grimaces. But I pretended that I had 
 not noticed anything, and communicated to Ga- 
 gin the details of my little trip. He narrated to 
 me what he had been doing in my absence. But 
 our speeches did not get on well; Asya entered 
 the room, and then ran out again; at last I an- 
 nounced that I had some work which must be 
 
 273
 
 ASYA 
 
 done in haste, and that it was time for me to re- 
 turn home. At first Gagin tried to detain me; 
 then, after looking intently at me, he offered 
 to accompany me. In the anteroom Asya sud- 
 denly came up to me and offered me her hand; 
 I clasped her fingers lightly and barely bowed to 
 her. Gagin and I got ourselves ferried across 
 the Rhine and, as we passed my favourite ash- 
 tree with the little statue of the Madonna, we sat 
 down on the bench to admire the view. There- 
 upon, a remarkable conversation ensued between 
 us. 
 
 At first we exchanged a few words, then fell 
 silent, as we gazed at the gleaming river. 
 
 " Tell me," — suddenly began Gagin, with his 
 habitual smile: — " what is your opinion of Asya? 
 She must seem rather queer to you, does n't she? " 
 
 " Yes," — I replied, not without some surprise. 
 I had not expected that he would speak of her. 
 
 " One must know her well in order to judge 
 her. She has a very kind heart, but a wretched 
 head. It is difficult to get along with her. How- 
 ever, it would be impossible for you to blame 
 her, if you knew her history. . . ." 
 
 "Her history,"— I interrupted. ... "Is n't 
 she your . . . ." 
 
 Gagin darted a glance at me. 
 
 " Can it be that you think she is not my sister? 
 .... Yes," — he continued, without paying any 
 heed to my confusion:—" she really is my sister; 
 
 274
 
 ASYA 
 
 she is my father's daughter. Hearken to me. I 
 feel confidence in you, and I will tell you all. 
 
 " My father was a very kind-hearted, clever, 
 cultured — and unhappy man. Fate treated him 
 no worse than she treats many others ; but he was 
 unable to withstand her first blow. He married 
 early, for love; his wife, my mother, died very 
 soon; she left me, a baby of six months. My 
 father carried me off to the country, and for 
 twelve whole years never went anywhere. He 
 busied himself with my education, and would 
 never have parted with me had not his brother, 
 my blood-uncle, come to the country. This uncle 
 resided permanently in Petersburg and occupied 
 a pretty high post. He persuaded my father to 
 surrender me into his hands, as my father would 
 not consent to leave the country on any terms 
 whatsoever. My uncle represented to him that 
 it was injurious for a boy of my age to live in 
 absolute isolation; that with such an eternally 
 melancholy and taciturn preceptor as my father, 
 I would infallibly fall behind the lads of my own 
 age, and my very disposition might be ruined into 
 the bargain. For a long time my father com- 
 bated his brother's admonitions, but yielded at 
 last. I wept at parting with my father; I loved 
 him, although I had never seen a smile on his 
 face .... but when I got to Petersburg I 
 speedily forgot our gloomy and cheerless nest. 
 J entered the yunkers' school, and from the 
 
 275
 
 ASYA 
 
 school graduated into a regiment of the Guards. 
 Every year I made a journey to the country for 
 several weeks, and with every passing year I 
 found my father more and more morose, en- 
 grossed in himself, and pensive to the point of 
 timidity. He went to church every day, and had 
 almost unlearned the art of speaking. 
 
 "During one of my visits (I was then over 
 twenty years of age), I beheld for the first time 
 in our house a thin, black-eyed Mttle girl, ten 
 years of age — Asya. My father said that she 
 was an orphan whom he had taken to rear — that 
 was precisely the way he expressed himself. I 
 paid no particular attention to her; she was shy, 
 alert, and taciturn as a little wild beast, and as 
 soon as I entered my father's favourite room, 
 the huge, gloomy chamber where my mother had 
 died, and where candles were lighted even in the 
 daytime, she immediately hid herself behind his 
 Voltaire chair, or behind a bookcase. It so hap- 
 pened, that during the three or four years which 
 followed, the duties of my service prevented my 
 going to the country. I received one brief letter 
 from my father each month; he rarely alluded 
 to Asya, and then only in passing. He was al- 
 ready over fifty, but he still seemed a young man. 
 
 "Picture to yourself my consternation: sud- 
 denly, without a suspicion on my part, I received 
 from the agent a letter in which he informed me 
 of my father's mortal illness, and entreated me to 
 
 276
 
 ASYA 
 
 come as speedily as possible if I wished to bid 
 him farewell. I rushed oif at headlong speed, 
 and found my father alive, but already at his last 
 gasp. He was extreme^ delighted to see me, 
 embraced me with his emaciated arms, gazed long 
 into my eyes with a look which was not precisely 
 scrutinising nor yet precisely one of entreaty; 
 and after having exacted from me a promise that 
 I would fulfil his last request, he ordered his old 
 valet to bring Asya. The old man led her in; 
 she could hardly stand on her feet, and was 
 trembling all over. 
 
 Here,'— said my father to me with an effort : 
 — ' I bequeath to thee my daughter — thy sister. 
 Thou wilt learn all from YakofF,'— he added, 
 pointing at the valet. 
 
 " Asya burst out sobbing and fell face down- 
 ward on the bed. . . . Half an hour later, my 
 father expired. 
 
 " This is what I learned: Asya was the daugh- 
 ter of my father and of my mother's former maid, 
 Tatyana. I vividly remember that Tatyana; I 
 remember her tall, graceful figure, her comely, 
 regular, intelligent face, with large, dark eyes. 
 She bore the reputation of being a haughty and 
 unapproachable girl. So far as I was able to 
 make out from Yakoff's respectful reticences, 
 my father had entered into relations with her 
 several years after my mother's death. Tatyana 
 was no longer living in the manor-house at that 
 
 277
 
 ASYA 
 
 time, but in the cottage of a married sister of hers, 
 the herd-woman. My father became strongly 
 attached to her, and after my departure from 
 the country he had even wished to marry her, but 
 she herself had not consented to become his wife, 
 in spite of his entreaties. 
 
 " ' The late Tatyana Vasilievna,' — concluded 
 Yakoff , as he stood by the door with his hands 
 behind him, — 'was sagacious in everything, and 
 did not wish to disgrace your papa. — " What sort 
 of a wife am I for him? " says she. " What sort 
 of a gentlewoman am I?"— That was the way 
 she deigned to speak,— and she said it in my 
 presence, sir.' — Tatyana was not even willing to 
 remove to our house, and continued to live with 
 her sister, along with Asya. In my childhood 
 I had seen Tatyana only on festival days, in 
 church; with her head bound up in a dark ker- 
 chief, and a yellow shawl on her shoulders, she 
 stood among the crowd near a window,— her 
 severe profile was distinctly defined against the 
 light glass, — and prayed with submission and 
 dignity, making lowly reverences in old-fash- 
 ioned style. When my uncle carried me off, 
 Asya was only two years old, and in her ninth 
 year she lost her mother. 
 
 "As soon as Tatyanadied,my father took Asya 
 to himself in the house. He had previously ex- 
 pressed a desire to have her with him, but Tatyana 
 had refused this also. Imagine to yourself what 
 
 278
 
 ASYA 
 
 must have been Asya's sensations when she was 
 taken to the master. To this day she is unable 
 to forget that moment, M^hen they garbed her for 
 the first time in a silken frock and kissed her 
 hand. Her mother, as long as she lived, had 
 reared her very strictly; with her father she en- 
 joyed complete freedom. He was her teacher; 
 she saw no one excepting him. He did not spoil 
 her — that is to say, he did not fondle her; but 
 he loved her passionately, and never denied her 
 anything; in his soul he regarded himself as cul- 
 pable toward her. Asya speedily grasped the 
 fact that she was the principal personage in the 
 house; she knew that the master was her father; 
 but she did not so speedily comprehend her false 
 position; vanity was strongly developed in her, 
 and distrust also; bad habits became rooted, sim- 
 plicity vanished. She wished (she herself once 
 confessed this to me) to make the whole world 
 forget her extraction; she was ashamed of her 
 mother and ashamed of her shame, and proud of 
 it. You see that she knew and does know a great 
 deal which one ought not to know at her age. 
 .... But is she to blame? Young forces had 
 begun to ferment in her, her blood was seething, 
 but there was not a single hand near by to guide 
 her. She was absolutely independent in every- 
 thing! And is that easy to endure? She wanted 
 to be not inferior to other young ladies of noble 
 birth ; she flung herself upon books. Could any- 
 
 279
 
 ASYA 
 
 thing judicious come of that? The life irregu- 
 larly begun took an irregular turn, but her heart 
 was not spoiled, her mind remained intact. 
 
 " And thus I, a young fellow of twenty, found 
 myself with a girl of thirteen on my hands ! Dur- 
 ing the first few days after my father's death, 
 she was seized with a fever at the very sound of 
 my voice, my caresses inspired her with aversion, 
 and it was only gradually, little by little, that she 
 grew accustomed to me. Truth to tell, later on, 
 when she became convinced that I really did 
 recognise her as my sister, and loved her as a 
 sister, she became passionately attached to me; 
 none of her emotions go by halves. 
 
 " I took her to Petersburg. Painful as it was 
 for me to part from her, I could not possibly live 
 with her ; I placed her in one of the best boarding- 
 schools. Asya understood the necessity for our 
 parting, but began by falling ill and nearly dy- 
 ing. Then she summoned her patience, and lived 
 through four years in the boarding-school; but, 
 contrary to my expectations, she remained almost 
 exactly the same as she had been before. The 
 principal of the boarding-school made frequent 
 complaints to me about her : ' And it is impossible 
 to punish her,'— she said to me:— 'and she does 
 not yield to kindness.' 
 
 "Asya was extremely quick of understanding, 
 and studied well, better than all the rest; but she 
 absolutely refused to conform to the general 
 
 280
 
 ASYA 
 
 standard, became stubborn, and looked wild. . . . 
 I could not blame her over-much ; in her position 
 she was bound either to cringe or stand aloof. 
 Out of all her companions she made friends with 
 one only— a homely, intimidated, poor girl. The 
 other young gentlewomen with whom she was 
 being reared, mostly from good famihes, did not 
 like her, and wounded and stung her to the best 
 of their ability. Asya did not yield to them by 
 so much as a hair's breadth. One day, during a 
 lesson in religion,^ the teacher began to speak of 
 vices. ' Flattery and cowardice are the worst 
 vices,' said Asya aloud. In a word, she continued 
 to pursue her own road; only her manners im- 
 proved;— although, apparently, she is not a suc- 
 cess in that respect either. 
 
 "At last she completed her seventeenth year; 
 it was impossible to leave her in the boarding- 
 school any longer. I found myself in a rather 
 difficult position. Suddenly a happy thought oc- 
 curred to me : to resign from the service and travel 
 abroad for a year or two, taking Asya with me. 
 No sooner thought than done; and here we are, 
 she and I, on the banks of the Rhine, where I am 
 trying to occupy myself with painting, while she 
 .... plays pranks and behaves queerly as of 
 old. But now, I hope, you will not judge her too 
 severely; and she— although she pretends that she 
 
 1 " The law of God " is the Russian phrase. It occupies 
 a prominent place in all schools. — Tkanslatoh. 
 
 281
 
 ASYA 
 
 does not care a jot — values every one's opinion, 
 yours in particular." 
 
 And again Gagin smiled with his tranquil smile. 
 I clasped his hand warmly. 
 
 " All this is so," — Gagin began again: — " but 
 I shall get into difficulties with her. She is regu- 
 lar powder. So far, no one has struck her fancy; 
 but woe is me if she should fall in love with any 
 one! I never know how to treat her. The other 
 day this is what she took into her head: she sud- 
 denly began to assert that I had grown colder 
 toward her than of old, that she loved me alone. 
 .... And thereupon, she fell to weeping so vio- 
 lently . . . ." 
 
 '* So that is what . ..." I began, and bit my 
 tongue. 
 
 " But tell me, pray," — I asked Gagin, " we are 
 speaking frankly to each other, — is it possible 
 that, up to this time, she has not taken a fancy 
 to any one? She must have seen young men in 
 Petersburg." 
 
 " She did not like them at all. No, Asya must 
 needs have a hero, a remarkable man — or a pic- 
 turesque shepherd in a mountain gorge. But I 
 have chattered too much with you, I have de- 
 tained you," — he added, rising. 
 
 "See here,"— I began:— "let 's go to your 
 house; I don't want to go home." 
 
 " And how about your work? " 
 
 I made no reply; Gagin laughed good-hu- 
 
 282
 
 ASYA 
 
 mouredly, and we returned to L. At the sight 
 of the f amiHar vineyard and the Httle white house 
 on the top of the hill, I experienced a certain 
 sweetness, — precisely that, sweetness — in my 
 heart: it was as though honey were silently flow- 
 ing through it. I felt at ease since Gagin's nar- 
 rative. 
 
 IX 
 
 AsYA met us on the very threshold of the house ; 
 I expected another laugh ; but she came out to us 
 all pale, silent, and with downcast eyes. 
 
 " Here he is again,"— said Gagin:— " and ob- 
 serve, he wanted to come back himself." 
 
 Asya darted an inquiring glance at me. I, 
 in my turn, offered her my hand, and this time 
 warmly grasped her cold little fingers. I felt 
 very sorry for her; I now understood much in 
 her which had previously thrown me off the track ; 
 — her inward uneasiness, her ignorance of how to 
 behave herself, her desire to show off, — all had 
 become clear to me. I had taken a look into that 
 soul; a secret burden oppressed her constantly, 
 her inexperienced vanity was tremulously per- 
 plexed and throbbing, but everything in her being 
 aspired toward truth. I understood why that 
 strange young girl attracted me; she attracted 
 me not alone by the half -savage charm diffused 
 over all her slender body : her soul pleased me. 
 
 283
 
 ASYA 
 
 Gagin began to rummage among his draw- 
 ings; I proposed to Asya that she should take a 
 stroll with me in the vineyard. She immediately 
 assented, with blithe and almost submissive 
 alacrity. We descended half-way down the 
 hill, and seated ourselves on a broad slab of 
 stone. 
 
 " And were n't you bored without us? "—be- 
 gan Asya. 
 
 " And were you bored without me? "—I in- 
 quired. 
 
 Asya darted a sidelong glance at me. 
 
 " Yes,"— she replied. — " Is it nice in the moun- 
 tains? " — she immediately continued: — " are they 
 high? Higher than the clouds? Tell me what 
 you saw. You told my brother, but I did not 
 hear anything." 
 
 " Why did you go away? " — I remarked. 
 
 " I went away .... because .... I won't go 
 away now,"— she added with confiding aiFection 
 in her voice:— "you were angry to-day." 
 
 "I?" 
 
 " Yes, you." 
 
 ^1 Why, pray? » 
 
 " I don't know ; but you were angry, and went 
 away angry. I was greatly vexed that you went 
 away in that manner, and I am so glad that you 
 have come back." 
 
 " And I am glad that I have come back," — 
 said I. 
 
 284
 
 ASYA 
 
 Asya shrugged her shoulders, as children often 
 do when they feel at ease. 
 
 " Oh, I know how to guess! " — she went on: 
 — "I used to be able to know, from papa's cough 
 alone in the next room, whether he was pleased 
 with me or not." 
 
 Up to that day Asya had never spoken to me of 
 her father. I was struck by this. " Did you love 
 your papa? " — I said, and suddenly, to my in- 
 tense vexation, I felt that I was blushing. 
 
 She made no reply, and blushed also. Both of 
 us remained silent for a while. Far away on the 
 Rhine a steamer was sailing and emitting smoke. 
 We began to gaze at it. 
 
 "But why don't you tell me about your jour- 
 ney? " — whispered Asya. 
 
 " Why did you burst out laughing to-day, as 
 soon as you caught sight of me? " — I asked. 
 
 " I don't know myself. Sometimes I feel like 
 crying, yet I laugh. You must not condemn me 
 .... for what I do. Akh, by the way, what is 
 that legend about the Lorelei? That is her rock 
 which we can see, is n't it? They say that she 
 drowned every one at first, but when she fell in 
 love she threw herself into the water. I like that 
 legend. Frau Luise tells me all sorts of legends. 
 Frau Luise has a black cat with yellow eyes. ..." 
 
 Asya raised her head and shook back her curls. 
 
 " Akh, I feel so comfortable,"— she said. 
 
 At that moment, abrupt, monotonous sounds 
 
 285
 
 ASYA 
 
 were wafted to our ears. Hundreds of voices 
 were repeating a prayerful chant simultaneously, 
 and with measured pauses; a throng of pilgrims 
 was winding along the road below, with crosses 
 and banners. . . . 
 
 " I 'd like to join them," — said Asya, as she 
 listened to the bursts of voices which were grad- 
 ually dying away. 
 
 " Are you so devout? " 
 
 ** I 'd like to go somewhere far away, to pray, 
 on a difficult exploit,"— she went on.—" Other- 
 wise, the days go by, life will pass, and what have 
 we done? " 
 
 "You are ambitious," — I remarked:— "you 
 do not wish to live in vain, you want to leave a 
 trail of glory behind you. . . ." 
 
 " And is that impossible? " 
 
 " Impossible," I came near repeating. . . . 
 But I glanced at her bright eyes and merely said : 
 
 " Try." 
 
 " Tell me,"— began Asya, after a brief silence, 
 in the course of which certain shadows had flitted 
 across her face, that had already paled again: 
 — " were you very fond of that lady? .... You 
 remember, my brother drank to her health on the 
 ruin on the second day of our acquaintance." 
 
 I burst out laughing. 
 
 " Your brother was jesting. I have not been 
 fond of any lady ; at all events, I am not fond of 
 any one now." 
 
 286
 
 ASYA 
 
 "And what pleases you in women?"— in- 
 quired Asya, throwing back her head with in- 
 nocent curiosity. 
 
 " What a strange question! " — I exclaimed. 
 
 Asya was slightly disconcerted. 
 
 " I ought not to have put such a question to 
 you, ought I? Pardon me; I have been accus- 
 tomed to blurt out everything which comes into 
 my head. That is why I am afraid to talk." 
 
 " Talk, for Heaven's sake; be not afraid! " — I 
 interposed: — " I am so glad that you have, at last, 
 ceased to be shy." 
 
 Asya dropped her eyes and began to laugh 
 softly and lightly ; I did not know she could laugh 
 in that way. 
 
 " Come, tell me," — she went on, smoothing the 
 folds of her gown, and laying them over her feet, 
 as though she did not intend to move for a long 
 time:—" tell me something, or recite something, 
 as when you recited to us from ' Onyegin,' you 
 remember " 
 
 She suddenly became pensive. . . . 
 
 " Where is now the cross and the shadow of the bough 
 Over my poor mother! " 
 
 she said in a low tone. 
 
 " That is not the way Pushkin has it,"— I re- 
 marked. 
 
 " I should like to be Tatyana," ^ she went on, 
 
 ^Tatyana is the famous heroine of Pushkin's poem, 
 "Evgdny Onyegin." — Translator. 
 
 287
 
 ASYA 
 
 in the same thoughtful manner.—" Recite,"— she 
 interjected with vivacity. 
 
 But I was in no mood for recitation. I gazed 
 at her, all bathed in the sunlight, all composed 
 and gentle. Everything was beaming joyously 
 around us— the sky, the earth, and the waters; 
 the very air seemed to be permeated with bril- 
 liancy. 
 
 " See, how beautiful it is," — I said, involun- 
 tarily lowering my voice. 
 
 " Yes, it is beautiful," — she replied with equal 
 softness, and without looking at me. — " If you 
 and I were only birds — how we would soar, would 
 fly away. . . . We would fairly drown in that 
 azure. . . . But we are not birds." 
 
 " Yet wings might sprout on us,"— I returned. 
 
 "How so?" 
 
 "If you live long enough, you will find out. 
 There are feelings which raise us above the earth. 
 Don't worry, you will have wings." 
 
 " And have you had any? " 
 
 " What shall I say to you? ... I don't think 
 I have flown up to the present moment." 
 
 Again Asya became pensive. I bent slightly 
 toward her. 
 
 " Do you know how to waltz? "—she suddenly 
 inquired. 
 
 " I do,"— I replied, somewhat surprised. 
 
 " Then let us go, let us go. ... I will ask my 
 brother to play a waltz for us. . . . We will im- 
 
 288
 
 ASYA 
 
 agine that we are flying, that wings have sprouted 
 
 on us." 
 
 She ran toward the house. I ran after her, and 
 a few moments later we were circHng round the 
 httle room to the sweet sounds of Lanner. Asya 
 waltzed beautifully, with enthusiasm. Some- 
 thing soft and feminine suddenly pierced through 
 her virginally-severe face. For a long time after- 
 ward my arm felt the contact of her dainty waist ; 
 for a long time I seemed to hear her accelerated 
 breathing near at hand; for a long time visions 
 of dark eyes almost closed, in a pale but animated 
 face, with curls sportively fluttering around it, 
 flitted before me. 
 
 X 
 
 That whole day passed off" in the best possible 
 manner. We made merry, like children. Asya 
 was very charming and simple. Gagin rejoiced 
 as he looked at her. It was late when I went 
 away. On reaching the middle of the Rhine, I 
 requested the boatman to let the skifl" float down 
 the current. The old man elevated his oars, and 
 the royal river bore us onward. As I gazed 
 about me, listening and recalling, I suddenly felt 
 a secret restlessness at my heart .... and raised 
 my eyes heavenward. But there was no rest in 
 the sky either; besprinkled with stars, it was all 
 
 289
 
 ASYA 
 
 astir, moving, quivering: I bent over the river, 
 .... but there also, in those cold depths, the 
 stars were undulating and throbbing; it seemed 
 to me that there was tremulous animation every- 
 where, and the tremulousness within me in- 
 creased. I leaned my elbows on the edge of the 
 boat. . . . The whisper of the wind in my ears, 
 the quiet purling of the water at the stern, and the 
 cool breath of the waves did not refresh me; a 
 nightingale began to warble on the shore and 
 infected me with the sweet poison of its notes.^ 
 Tears welled up in my eyes, but they were not the 
 tears of objectless rapture. What I felt was not 
 that troubled sensation which I had so recently 
 experienced of all-embracing desire, when the 
 soul widens out, reverberates ; when it seems to it 
 that it understands everything and loves every- 
 thing. No! the thirst for happiness had been 
 kindled in me. I did not, as yet, dare to call it 
 by name, — but happiness, happiness to satiety, — 
 that was what I wanted, that was what I was 
 pining for. . . . And still the boat was borne 
 onward, and the old boatman sat, and dozed, as 
 he bent over his oars. 
 
 XI 
 
 When I set out for the Gagins' on the following 
 day, I did not ask myself whether I was in love 
 with Asya, but I meditated a great deal about 
 
 290
 
 ASYA 
 
 her, her fate interested me, I rejoiced at our un- 
 expected intimacy. I felt that only since the day 
 before had I known her; up to that time she had 
 turned away from me. And now, when she had 
 blossomed out at last before me, with what an en- 
 chanting light was her image illuminated, how 
 new it was to me, what secret witcheries bashfully 
 pierced through it! . . . 
 
 I walked briskly along the familiar path, inces- 
 santly glancing at the little house which gleamed 
 white in the distance ; I not only did not think of 
 the future, I did not think even of the morrow; 
 I felt greatly at my ease. 
 
 Asya blushed when I entered the room; I no- 
 ticed that she had again arrayed herself gaily, but 
 the expression of her face did not consort with her 
 attire; it was sad. And I had arrived in such a 
 merry mood! It even seemed to me that, accord- 
 ing to her wont, she was preparing to flee, but 
 exerted an effort over herself, — and remained. 
 Gagin was in that peculiar condition of artistic 
 ardour and fury which, in the shape of an attack, 
 suddenly takes possession of dilettantes when they 
 imagine that they have been successful, as they 
 express it, in " seizing nature by the tail." He 
 was standing, all dishevelled and besmeared with 
 paints, in front of a canvas stretched on a frame, 
 and, sweeping the brush across it with a flourish, 
 he nodded his head almost fiercely at me, re- 
 treated, screwed up his eyes, and again flung him- 
 
 291
 
 ASYA 
 
 self at his picture. I did not interfere with him, 
 and sat down beside Asya. Her dark eyes slowly 
 turned to me. 
 
 " You are not the same to-day as you were yes- 
 terday," — I remarked, after futile efforts to 
 evoke a smile on her lips. 
 
 " No, I am not the same," — she returned in 
 a dull, deliberate voice: — "but that is nothing. 
 I did not sleep well; I thought all night long." 
 
 " What about? " 
 
 " Akh, I thought of many things. It is a habit 
 of mine since childhood; even at the time when 
 I used to live with mamma. ..." 
 
 She uttered that word with difficulty, and then 
 repeated : 
 
 " When I lived with mamma. ... I used to 
 think, why it was that no one can find out what 
 will become of us; and sometimes one has a pre- 
 sentiment of a catastrophe, — but it is impossible 
 to be happy ; and why it is that one must never tell 
 the whole truth? .... Then I thought that I 
 knew nothing, that I must study. I must be 
 educated all over again. I am very badly brought 
 up. I don't know how to play on the piano, I 
 don't know how to draw, I even sew badly. I 
 have no talents; people must find it very dull in 
 my company." 
 
 "You are unjust to yourself,"— I replied:— 
 " you have read a great deal, you are cultured, 
 and with your intelligence . . . ." 
 
 292
 
 ASYA 
 
 " Am I intelligent? "—she asked with such an 
 ingenuous thirst for information, that I involun- 
 tarily burst out laughing; but she did not even 
 smile. — " Brother, am I intelligent? "—she asked 
 Gagin. 
 
 He made her no reply, and went on with his 
 labours, incessantly changing his brushes, and ele- 
 vating his arm very high. 
 
 " I sometimes don't know myself what there is 
 in my head,"— pursued Asya, with the same inno- 
 cent mien.—" I am afraid of myself sometimes 
 God is my witness, I am. Akh, I would like. . . 
 Is it true that women ought not to read much ? ' 
 
 " Not much reading is necessary, but . . . .' 
 
 " Tell me what I ought to read. Tell me what 
 I ought to do. I will do everything you tell 
 me,"— she added, turning to me with innocent 
 trustfulness. 
 
 I did not at once hit upon anything to say to 
 her. 
 
 " You won't find it boresome with me, will 
 you?" 
 
 " Good gracious ! " .... I began. . . . 
 
 "Well, thanks!"— returned Asya;— "but I 
 was thinking that you would find it tiresome." 
 And her hot little hand gripped mine forcibly. 
 
 "N.!" — exclaimed Gagin at that moment: — 
 " Is n't this background too dark? " 
 
 I went to him. Asya rose and withdrew. 
 
 293
 
 ASYA 
 
 XII 
 
 She returned an hour later, halted in the door- 
 way, and beckoned to me with her hand. 
 
 " Listen,"— said she:—" if I were to die, would 
 you feel sorry for me? " 
 
 " What ideas you have to-day! " — I exclaimed. 
 
 " I have an idea that I shall die soon ; it some- 
 times seems to me that everything around me is 
 bidding me farewell. It is better to die than to 
 live thus. . . Akh! don't look at me like that; 
 truly, I am not pretending. Otherwise I shall 
 be afraid of you again." 
 
 " Were you afraid of me? " 
 
 " Really, I am not to blame, if I am such a 
 strange creature," — she replied. — " As you see, I 
 cannot laugh any more. ..." 
 
 She remained sad and preoccupied until the 
 evening. Something was taking place within her 
 which I did not understand. Her gaze frequently 
 rested on me; my heart contracted quietly be- 
 neath that enigmatical gaze. She seemed calm, 
 —but when I looked at her, I kept wanting to 
 say to her, that she must not agitate herself. 
 —I admired her, found a touching charm in 
 her pallid features, in her undecided, delib- 
 erate movements — but for some reason or 
 other, she took it into her head that I was out of 
 sorts. 
 
 294
 
 ASYA 
 
 " Listen," — she said to me not long before I 
 took leave: — " I am tortured by the thought that 
 I am considered giddy. . . . Henceforth you 
 must always believe what I shall say to you, 
 only you must be frank with me; and I will al- 
 ways speak the truth to you, I give you my word 
 of honour. ..." 
 
 This " word of honour " made me burst out 
 laughing again. 
 
 " Akh,— don't laugh,"— she said with vivacity: 
 — "or I will say to you to-day what you said to 
 me yesterday:— ' Why do you laugh?'"— And 
 after a brief pause, she added: — "Do you re- 
 member, you spoke of wings yesterday? . . . My 
 wings have sprouted,— but there is nowhere to 
 
 fly." 
 
 "Good gracious,"— said I:— "all roads are 
 open to you. ..." 
 
 Asya looked me straight and intently In the 
 eye. 
 
 " You have a bad opinion of me to-day,"— said 
 she, contracting her brows in a frown. 
 
 "I? A bad opinion? Of you! . . . . " 
 
 " Why is it that you are just as though you had 
 been dipped in the water? "— Gagin interrupted 
 me:— " I '11 play a waltz for you, as I did yester- 
 day ;- shall I? " 
 
 "No, no,"— replied Asya, clenching her fists: 
 — " not on any account to-day! " 
 
 " I am not forcing you; calm yourself. . . ." 
 
 295
 
 ASYA 
 
 " Not on any account,"— she repeated, turning 
 pale. 
 
 " Can it be that she loves me? " I thought, as I 
 approached the Rhine, which was flowing swiftly 
 past in dark waves. 
 
 XIII 
 
 " Can it be that she loves me? " I asked myself 
 the next day, as soon as I awoke. — I did not wish 
 to look within myself. I felt that her image, the 
 image " of the girl with the strained laugh," had 
 imprinted itself on my soul, and that I should 
 not soon rid myself of it. — I went to L. and re- 
 mained there the entire day, but caught only a 
 ghmpse of Asya. She was not well: she had a 
 headache. She came down-stairs for a moment, 
 with her brow bound up, pale, thin, with eyes 
 almost closed; she smiled faintly, said: — " it will 
 pass off, it is nothing, all will pass off, will it 
 not? " — and went away. I found things tire- 
 some, and, somehow, mournfully-empty; but I 
 would not go away for a long time, and returned 
 home late, without having seen her again. 
 
 The following morning passed by in a sort of 
 semi-doze of consciousness. I tried to set to work, 
 and could not; I tried to do things and not to 
 think .... and did not make a success of that 
 
 296
 
 ASYA 
 
 either. I wandered about the town; when I got 
 home, I started out again. 
 
 " Are you Mr. N. ? "— a childish voice suddenly 
 rang out behind me. I glanced round ; before me 
 stood a small urchin.—" This is for you from 
 Fraulein Annette,"— he added, handing me a 
 note. 
 
 I unfolded it — and recognised Asya's hasty, ir- 
 regular chirography.— " It is imperatively neces- 
 sary that I should see you," — she wrote me. — 
 " Come to-day, at four o'clock, to the stone chapel 
 on the road near the ruin. I have committed a 
 great indiscretion to-day. . . . Come, for God's 
 sake, and you shall know all. . . . Say ' yes ' to 
 the messenger." 
 
 " Will there be any answer? "—the boy asked 
 me. 
 
 " Say that I answer ' yes,' " I replied. The 
 boy ran off. 
 
 XIV 
 
 I CAME to my senses in my own room, sat down, 
 and became immersed in thought. My heart was 
 beating violently within me. I read over Asya's 
 note several times. I glanced at my watch: it 
 was not yet twelve o'clock. 
 
 The door opened— Gagin entered. 
 
 His face was gloomy. He grasped my hand 
 
 297
 
 ASYA 
 
 and shook it vigorously. He seemed greatly per- 
 turbed. 
 
 " What is the matter with you? "—I asked. 
 
 Gagin took a chair, and sat down opposite me. 
 
 "Three days ago,"— he began with a con- 
 strained smile, and hesitating as he spoke,—" I 
 astonished you by my tale ; to-day I shall astonish 
 you still more.— With any one else I should not, 
 probably, have made up my mind .... to speak 
 .... so plainly But you are an hon- 
 ourable man, you are my friend, are you not?— 
 Listen: my sister Asya is in love with you." 
 
 I trembled all over and half rose from my 
 
 " Your sister, you say . . . ." 
 
 " Yes, yes,"— Gagin interrupted me.—" I tell 
 you that she is crazy and will drive me out of my 
 senses. But, fortunately, she does not know how 
 to lie— and she trusts me.— Akh, what a soul that 
 little girl has! . . . but she will certainly ruin 
 herself." 
 
 " But you are mistaken,"— I began. 
 
 " No, I am not mistaken. Yesterday, you 
 know, she was lying down almost all day ; she ate 
 nothing, but she did not complain of anything. 
 .... She never complains.— I was not uneasy, 
 although toward evening a slight fever made its 
 appearance. At two o'clock this morning, our 
 landlady woke me : ' Go to your sister,' she said : 
 ' there 's something wrong with her.'— I ran to 
 
 298
 
 ASYA 
 
 Asya, and found her fully dressed, in a fever, in 
 tears ; her head was burning, her teeth were chat- 
 tering. 'What aileth thee?' I inquired:— 'Art 
 thou ill? '—She threw herself on my neck and be- 
 gan to implore me to take her away as promptly 
 as possible, if I wanted her to remain ahve. ... I 
 understood nothing, I tried to soothe her. . . . 
 Her sobs redoubled .... and suddenly, through 
 those sobs I heard. . . . Well, in a word, I heard 
 that she loved you.— I assure you that you and 
 I, sensible people, cannot even imagine to our- 
 selves how deeply she feels, and with what in- 
 credible violence feehngs manifest themselves in 
 her: the attack comes over her as suddenly and 
 as irresistibly as a thunder-storm.— You are a 
 very charming man,"— pursued Gagin,— " but 
 why she should have fallen in love with you, I do 
 not understand, I must confess. She says that 
 she became attached to you at first sight. That 
 is why she wept the other day, when she assured 
 me that she did not wish to love any one except 
 me.— She imagines that you despise her, that you 
 probably know who she is ; she asked me whether 
 I had not narrated her story to you,— and I, of 
 course, said that I had not; but her sensitiveness 
 is simply terrible. She wishes only one thing : to 
 go away, to go away instantly. — I sat with her un- 
 til morning; she made me promise that we should 
 be gone from here to-morrow— and only then did 
 she fall asleep.— I reflected, and reflected, and 
 
 299
 
 ASYA 
 
 made up my mind to have a talk with you. In my 
 opinion, Asya is right: the very best thing is for 
 us both to go away from here. And I would have 
 taken her away to-day, had not an idea occurred 
 to me which stopped me. Perhaps .... who 
 knows? — my sister pleases j^ou? If so, why 
 should I take her away?— And so I decided, cast- 
 ing aside all shame. . . . Moreover, I have no- 
 ticed something. ... I decided .... to learn 
 from you . . . ." Poor Gagin got entangled. — 
 "Pardon me, pray,"— he added:— "I am not 
 accustomed to such worries." 
 
 I grasped his hand. 
 
 " You wish to know,"— I enunciated in a firm 
 voice:—" whether I hke your sister?— Yes, I do 
 like her. . . ." 
 
 Gagin looked at me.—" But,"— he said, falter- 
 ing, — " surely you will not marry her? " 
 
 " How do you wish me to answer such a ques- 
 tion? Judge for yourself whether I can now. ..." 
 
 " I know, I know,"— Gagin interrupted me. — 
 " I have no right to demand an answer from you, 
 and my question is the height of indecorum. . . . 
 But what would you have me do? One cannot 
 play with fire. You do not know Asya; she is 
 capable of falling ill, of running away, of ap- 
 pointing a tryst with you. . . . Any other wo- 
 man would know how to conceal everything and 
 wait— but not she. This is the first time it has 
 happened to her— and therein lies the mischief I 
 
 800
 
 ASYA 
 
 If you could have seen how she sobbed to-day at 
 my feet, you would understand my apprehen- 
 sions." 
 
 I reflected. Gagin's words : " of appointing 
 a tryst with you," pricked me to the heart. It 
 seemed to me shameful not to reply to his hon- 
 ourable frankness with frankness. 
 
 " Yes," — I said at last: — " you are right. An 
 hour ago, I received from your sister a note. 
 Here it is." 
 
 Gagin took the note, ran his eyes hastily over it, 
 and dropped his hands on his knees. The ex- 
 pression of amazement on his face was very 
 amusing ; but I was in no mood for laughter. 
 
 " You are an honourable man, I repeat it," — 
 said he: — " but what is to be done now? What? 
 She herself wants to go away, and she writes to 
 you and accuses herself of indiscretion .... and 
 when did she get a chance to write this? What 
 does she want of you? " 
 
 I reassured him, and we began to discuss coolly, 
 so far as we were able, what we ought to do. 
 
 This is what we finally decided upon: with the 
 object of preventing a catastrophe, I was to go 
 to the tryst and have an honest explanation with 
 Asya; Gagin promised to sit quietly at home, 
 and not to appear to know about her note; and 
 we agreed to meet together again in the evening. 
 
 " I place firm reliance on you," — said Gagin, 
 gripping my hand: — " spare her, and me. And 
 
 301
 
 ASYA 
 
 we will go away to-morrow, all the same,"— he 
 added, rising:— "for you will not marry Asya, 
 assuredly." 
 
 " Give me until evening," — I returned. 
 
 " Certainly; but you will not marry her." 
 
 He went away, and I flung myself on the divan 
 and closed my eyes. My head was reeling; too 
 many impressions had descended upon it at once. 
 I was vexed at Gagin's frankness, I was vexed 
 at Asya; her love both dehghted and upset 
 me. I could not comprehend what had made 
 her tell her brother all; the inevitableness of a 
 prompt, almost instantaneous decision worried 
 me. ... 
 
 " Marry a little girl of seventeen, with her dis- 
 position, — how is that possible?"— I said, as I 
 rose. 
 
 XV 
 
 At the hour agreed upon I crossed the Rhine, 
 and the first person who met me on the opposite 
 shore was that same small urchin who had come 
 to me in the morning. Evidently he was waiting 
 for me. 
 
 " From Fraulein Annette," — he said in a whis- 
 per, and handed me another note. 
 
 Asya informed me that the place for our tryst 
 had been changed. At the end of an hour and a 
 half I was to go, not to the chapel, but to the 
 
 802
 
 ASYA 
 
 house of Frau Luise, knock at the lower door, and 
 ascend to the third story. 
 
 " ' Yes ' again? "—the boy asked me. 
 
 " Yes,"— I repeated, and strolled along the 
 bank of the Rhine. There was not time to return 
 home, and I did not wish to prowl about the 
 streets. Outside the town wall there was a tiny 
 garden, with a sign announcing skittles and 
 tables for lovers of beer. I went thither. Sev- 
 eral Germans, already advanced in years, were 
 playing skittles; the wooden balls rolled with a 
 clatter; now and then exclamations of approba- 
 tion resounded. A pretty serving-maid with 
 tear-stained eyes brought me a tankard of beer; 
 I glanced at her face. She swiftly turned aside 
 and went away. 
 
 " Yes, yes," — said a fat, red-cheeked burgher, 
 who was sitting near by: — " our Hanchen is much 
 afflicted to-day; — her betrothed has gone to be a 
 soldier." — I looked at her; she had crouched down 
 in a corner, and propped her cheek on her hand; 
 the tears were dripping one by one through her 
 fingers. Some one asked for beer; she brought 
 him a tankard and returned again to her place. 
 Her grief affected me; I began to think about 
 my impending tryst, but my thoughts were anx- 
 ious, cheerless thoughts. It was with no light 
 heart that I was going to that meeting, there was 
 no prospect of my surrendering myself to the 
 joys of mutual love; what awaited me was the 
 
 303
 
 ASYA 
 
 keeping of my word which had been pledged, the 
 fulfilling of a difficult obligation.—" She is not 
 to be jested with,"— those words of Gagin pierced 
 my soul like arrows. And three days ago, in that 
 boat borne away by the waves, had I not lan- 
 guished with the thirst for happiness? It had 
 become possible — and I was wavering, I was re- 
 pulsing it, I was bound to put it from me. . . . 
 Its suddenness had disconcerted me. Asya her- 
 self, with her fiery brain, with her past, her rear- 
 ing, — that attractive, but peculiar being, — I must 
 confess that she frightened me. For a long time 
 did these feelings contend within me. The ap- 
 pointed hour was approaching. " I cannot marry 
 her," — I decided at last: — "she shall not know 
 that I have fallen in love with her also." 
 
 I rose, — and laying a thaler in the hand of 
 poor Hanchen (she did not even thank me), I 
 wended my way to Frau Luise's house. The 
 evening shadows were already diifused through 
 the air, and the narrow strip of sky above the 
 dark street was crimson with the sunset glow. I 
 knocked feebly at the door; it immediately 
 opened. I stepped across the threshold and 
 found myself in total darkness. 
 
 " This way! " — an elderly voice made itself au- 
 dible. — " You are expected." 
 
 I advanced a couple of paces gropingly, and 
 some one's bony hand grasped my hand. 
 
 " Are you Frau Luise? "—I asked. 
 
 304
 
 ASYA 
 
 "I am,"— the same voice answered me: — "I 
 am, my very fine young man."— The old woman 
 led me up-stairs, by a winding staircase, and 
 halted on the landing of the third story. By the 
 faint light which fell through a tiny window I 
 descried the wrinkled face of the burgomaster's 
 widow. A mawkishly-crafty smile distended her 
 sunken lips, and puckered up her dim little eyes. 
 She pointed out to me a tiny door. With a con- 
 vulsive movement of the arm I opened it, and 
 slammed it behind me. 
 
 XVI 
 
 In the small room which I entered it was decid- 
 edly dark, and I did not at once perceive Asya. 
 Enveloped in a long shawl, she was sitting on 
 a chair near the window, with her head turned 
 away and almost concealed, like a frightened 
 bird. I felt unspeakably sorry for her. She 
 turned her head still further away. . . . 
 
 " Anna Nikolaevna,"— I said. 
 
 She suddenly straightened herself up fully, 
 and tried to look at me— and could not. I seized 
 her hand; it was cold, and lay like dead in my 
 palm. 
 
 " I wanted," .... began Asya, making an 
 effort to smile; but her pale lips did not obey her: 
 —"I wanted. . . . No, I cannot,"— she said, and 
 
 305
 
 ASYA 
 
 fell silent. In fact, her voice broke at every 
 word. 
 
 I sat dovi^n by her side. 
 
 " Anna Nikolaevna," I repeated, and I also 
 was unable to add anything further. 
 
 A silence ensued. I continued to hold her hand 
 and gaze at her. She, as before, shrank all to- 
 gether, breathed with difficulty, and quietly bit 
 her under lip, to keep from weeping, to restrain 
 the welling tears. ... I gazed at her : there was 
 something touchingly-helpless in her timid im- 
 passivity; it seemed as though she had barely 
 made her way to the chair with fatigue, and had 
 fairly collapsed upon it. My heart melted within 
 me. . . . 
 
 "Asya," — I said, in a barely audible voice. 
 
 She slowly raised her eyes to mine. . . . Oh, 
 glance of the woman who is in love, who shall 
 describe thee? They implored, those eyes, they 
 trusted, they interrogated, they surrendered 
 themselves. ... I could not resist their witchery. 
 A thin fire ran through me, like red-hot needles ; 
 I bent down and pressed my lips to her hand. . . . 
 
 A tremulous sound, resembling a broken sob, 
 resounded, and I felt on my hair the touch of a 
 weak hand, which was quivering like a leaf. I 
 raised my head and saw her face. How sud- 
 denly it had become transfigured! The expres- 
 sion of terror had vanished from it, her gaze had 
 retreated somewhere far away, and drew me 
 
 306
 
 ASYA 
 
 after it; her lips were slightly parted, her brow 
 had become as pallid as marble, and her curls were 
 floating backward, as though the wind had blown 
 them. I forgot everything, I drew her to me— 
 her hand obeyed submissively, her whole body 
 was drawn after the hand; her shawl slipped 
 from her shoulders, and her head sank softly on 
 my breast and lay there beneath my ardent 
 lips. . . . 
 
 " Yours,"— she whispered, in a barely audible 
 voice. 
 
 My arms were already stealing round her 
 waist. . . . But suddenly, the memory of Ga- 
 gin illuminated me like a flash of hghtning.— 
 " What are we doing? "—I cried, and drew back 
 with agitation. ..." Your brother .... he 
 knows all. He knows that I am with you." 
 
 Asya dropped into a chair. 
 
 " Yes,"— I went on, rising and walking away 
 to the other end of the room. — " Your brother 
 knows everything. ... I must tell him every- 
 thing. . . ." 
 
 "You must?"— she said indistinctly. She 
 evidently could not yet recover herself, and un- 
 derstood me imperfectly. 
 
 " Yes, yes,"— I repeated, with a certain ob- 
 duracy:—" and for that you alone are to blame. 
 —Why did you betray your secret? Who forced 
 you to tell your brother all ? He came to me to- 
 day himself and repeated to me your conversation 
 
 307
 
 ASYA 
 
 with him."— I tried not to look at Asya, and 
 paced the room in long strides. — " Now all is lost, 
 all, all." 
 
 Asya endeavoured to rise from her chair. 
 
 " Stay," — I exclaimed: — " stay, I beg of you. 
 You have to deal with an honest man, — yes, with 
 an honest man. — But, for God's sake, what agi- 
 tated you? Had you observed any change in me? 
 But I could not dissimulate before your brother 
 when he came to me to-day." 
 
 " I did not summon my brother,"— Asya's 
 frightened whisper made itself heard: — " he came 
 of his own accord." 
 
 " Just see what you have done," — I went on. — 
 " Now you want to go away. . . ." 
 
 " Yes; I must go away,"— said she, as softly 
 as before: — "and I asked you to come hither 
 merely for the purpose of bidding you fare- 
 well." 
 
 " And do you think," — I retorted, — " that it 
 will be easy for me to part from you? " 
 
 " But why did you tell my brother? " — re- 
 peated Asya, in perplexity. 
 
 " I tell you that I could not do otherwise. If 
 you had not betrayed yourself . . . ." 
 
 " I locked myself in my chamber," — she re- 
 turned ingenuously: — *' I did not know that my 
 landlady had another key. . . ." 
 
 This innocent excuse, on her lips, at such a mo- 
 ment, almost drove me frantic then .... and 
 
 308
 
 ASYA 
 
 even now I cannot recall it without emotion. 
 Poor, honest, sincere child! 
 
 " And now, all is at an end! "—I began again. 
 — " All. Now we must part."— I cast a stealthy 
 glance at Asya .... her face flushed swiftly. 
 She was both ashamed and alarmed, I felt it. I 
 myself was walking and talking as though in a 
 fever.—" You did not allow the feeling to de- 
 velop which was beginning to ripen; you your- 
 self have ruptured our bond, you did not trust 
 me, you doubted me. . . ." 
 
 While I was speaking, Asya bent forward 
 lower and lower, — and suddenly fell on her knees, 
 bowed her head on her hands, and burst out sob- 
 bing. I ran to her, I tried to raise her, but she 
 would not let me. I cannot endure woman's 
 tears; I immediately lose my self-control at the 
 sight of them. 
 
 " Anna Nikolaevna, Asya," — I kept repeat- 
 ing: — "pray, I implore you, for God's sake, 
 stop. . . ." Again I took her hand. 
 
 But, to my great surprise, she suddenly sprang 
 to her feet, — with the swiftness of lightning flew 
 to the door, and vanished. . . . 
 
 When, a few moments later, Frau Luise en- 
 tered the room, I was still standing in the middle 
 of it as though I had been struck by a thunder- 
 bolt. I did not understand how that meeting 
 could have ended so speedily, so stupidly — and 
 when I had not said the hundredth part of what 
 
 309
 
 ASYA 
 
 I had meant to say, of what I ought to have said, 
 —when I myself had not yet known how it 
 would turn out 
 
 " Has the Fraulein gone? " — Frau Luise asked 
 me, elevating her yellow eyebrows to her very 
 wig. 
 
 I stared at her Hke a fool— and left the room. 
 
 XVII 
 
 I MADE my way out of the town and set off 
 straight across the open country. Vexation, 
 fierce vexation gnawed me. I overwhelmed my- 
 self with reproaches. How could I have failed 
 to understand the cause which had made Asya 
 change the place of our tryst, how could I have 
 failed to appreciate what it had cost her to go to 
 that old woman, why had I not held her back? 
 Alone with her, in that dim, barely-lighted room, 
 I had found the strength, I had had the heart — 
 to repulse her, even to upbraid her. . . . And now 
 her image haunted me, I entreated its forgive- 
 ness ; the memory of that pale face, of those moist 
 and timid eyes, of the uncurled hair on the bowed 
 neck, the light touch of her head on my breast 
 burned me. " Yours " .... I heard her whis- 
 per. " I have acted according to my conscience," 
 I assured myself. . . . Untrue! Had I really 
 desired such a solution? Was I in a condition 
 
 310
 
 ASYA 
 
 to part from her? Could I do without her? 
 " Madman ! madman ! " I repeated viciously. . . . 
 In the meantime night had descended. With 
 huge strides I wended my way to the house where 
 Asya lived. 
 
 XVIII 
 
 Gi-GiN came out to meet me. 
 
 "Have you seen my sister?" — he shouted to 
 me from afar. 
 
 "Is n't she at home?"— I asked. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " She has not returned? " 
 
 " No. ... I am to blame,"— went on Gagin: 
 — "I could not hold out: contrary to our compact 
 I went to the chapel; she was not there: so she 
 did not come? " 
 
 " She was not at the chapel." 
 
 " And you have not seen her? " 
 
 I was obliged to admit that I had seen her. 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 " At Frau Luise's.— I parted from her an 
 hour ago," — I added. — " I was convinced that she 
 had returned home." 
 
 " Let us wait."— said Gagin. 
 
 We entered the house and sat down side by 
 side. We maintained silence. We both felt ex- 
 tremely embarrassed. We kept incessantly ex- 
 
 311
 
 ASYA 
 
 changing glances, gazing at the door, listening. 
 At last Gagin rose. 
 
 " This is outrageous! "—he exclaimed:—" My 
 heart will not keep still. She is torturing me, by 
 Heaven. . . . Let us go and seek her." 
 
 We went out. It was completely dark already 
 out of doors. 
 
 " What did you and she talk about? "—Gagin 
 asked me, pulling his hat down over his eyes. 
 
 " I only saw her for five minutes altogether," 
 — I replied: — *' I talked to her in the way we had 
 agreed upon." 
 
 "Do you know what? "—he returned:—" We 
 had better separate; we may hit upon her the 
 more promptly in that way. — In any case, come 
 hither an hour hence." 
 
 XIX 
 
 I DESCENDED briskly from the vineyard, and 
 rushed to the town. Swiftly did I make the 
 round of the streets, looking everywhere, even 
 into Frau Luise's windows ; returned to the Rhine 
 and ran alone the shore. . . . From time to time 
 I met feminine fomis, but Asya was nowhere to 
 be seen. Irritation was already beginning to tor- 
 ment me. A secret alarm tortured me, and it was 
 not alarm only that I felt. . . . No, I felt re- 
 pentance, the most burning compassion, love— 
 
 312
 
 ASYA 
 
 yes! the tenderest love. I wrung my hands, I 
 called on Asya athwart the gathering mists of 
 night, at first in a low tone, then ever more and 
 more loudly; I repeated a hundred times that 
 I loved her, that I swore never to part from her ; 
 I would have given everything in the world to 
 hold her cold hand once more, to hear once 
 more her gentle voice, to behold her once more be- 
 fore me. . . . She had been so near, she had come to 
 me with entire resolution, in full innocence of 
 heart and feelings, she had brought to me her 
 unsullied youth .... and I had not pressed 
 her to my breast, I had deprived myself of the 
 bliss of seeing how her lovely face would have 
 blossomed forth with the joy and tranquillity of 
 rapture. . . . That thought nearly drove me 
 mad. 
 
 " Where can she have gone, what has she done 
 with herself? " — I exclaimed in the grief of im- 
 potent despair. . . . Something white suddenly 
 gleamed on the very brink of the river. — I knew 
 that spot; there, over the grave of a man who 
 had been drowned seventy years before, stood a 
 stone cross, with an ancient inscription, half 
 buried in the ground.— My heart died within me. 
 . . . . I ran to the cross: the white figure dis- 
 appeared. I shouted: "Asyal" My wild voice 
 frightened me— but no one answered. . . . 
 
 I decided to go and inquire whether Gagin had 
 found her. 
 
 313
 
 ASYA 
 
 XX 
 
 Clambering alertly up the path of the vineyard, 
 I descried a light in Asya's room. . . . This re- 
 assured me somewhat. 
 
 I approached the house; the lower door was 
 locked. I knocked. An unlighted window in 
 the lower story was cautiously opened, and Ga- 
 gin's head made its appearance. 
 
 " Have you found her? "—I asked him. 
 
 *' She has returned," — he replied to me in a 
 whisper: — "she is in her room, and is undress- 
 ing. All is as it should be." 
 
 " God be thanked! " — I exclaimed with an in- 
 expressible outburst of joy: — " God be thanked! 
 everything is splendid now. But you know we 
 must confer together further." 
 
 " Some other time,"— he replied, softly draw- 
 ing the casement toward him:—" some other 
 time, but now good-bye." 
 
 "Until to-morrow," I said:— " to-morrow 
 everything will be settled." 
 
 " Good-bye,"— repeated Gagin. The window 
 closed. 
 
 I was on the point of knocking at the window. 
 I wanted to tell Gagin then and there that I asked 
 for his sister's hand. But such a wooing at such 
 a time. . . . "Yes, to-morrow," — I said to my- 
 self: — " to-morrow I shall be happy. . 
 
 314 
 
 >»
 
 ASYA 
 
 To-morrow I shall be happy! There is no to- 
 morrow for happiness; neither has it any yes- 
 terday, and it recks not of the future; it has the 
 present, and not even a day at that — but a 
 moment. 
 
 I do not remember how I got to Z. My feet 
 did not bear me thither, neither did a boat con- 
 vey me ; I was lifted aloft on some sort of broad, 
 mighty pinions. I passed the bush where a 
 nightingale was singing, I halted and listened for 
 a long time ; it seemed to me that it was chanting 
 my love and my bliss. 
 
 XXI 
 
 When, on the following morning, I began to 
 draw near to the familiar little house, I was struck 
 by one circumstance: all its windows stood wide 
 open, and the door also was open; some papers 
 or other were trailing about in front of the thresh- 
 old; the servant-maid with a broom made her 
 appearance beyond the door. 
 
 I went up to her. . . . 
 
 "They have gone away!"— she blurted out, 
 before I could manage to ask her whether the 
 Gagins were at home. 
 
 " Gone away? "... I repeated " What do 
 
 you mean by ' gone away? ' Whither? " 
 
 " They went away this morning, at six o'clock, 
 
 315
 
 ASYA 
 
 and did not say where. Wait, you are Mr. N., I 
 think?" 
 
 " I am Mr. N." 
 
 " The landlady has a letter for you."— The 
 maid went up-stairs and returned with the letter. 
 — " Here it is, if you please." 
 
 " But it cannot be. . . . What does it mean? " 
 —I was beginning. The maid stared dully at me 
 and began to sweep. 
 
 I unfolded the letter. It was from Gagin; 
 there was not a line from Asya. He began by beg- 
 ging me not to be angry with him for his sud- 
 den departure ; he was convinced that, on mature 
 consideration, I would approve of his decision. 
 He could discern no other issue from the situa- 
 tion, which might become difficult and dangerous. 
 — "Last night," — he wrote, — "while we were 
 both waiting in silence for Asya, I became defini- 
 tively convinced of the necessity of a separation. 
 There are prejudices which I respect; I under- 
 stand that you cannot marry Asya. She has told 
 me all ; for the sake of her peace of mind, I must 
 yield to her repeated, urgent entreaties." — At the 
 end of the letter he expressed his regret that our 
 acquaintance had come to so speedy an end, 
 wished me happiness, pressed my hand in friendly 
 wise, and implored me not to try to hunt them 
 up. 
 
 "What prejudices? "—I cried, as though he 
 could hear me: — "What nonsense! Who gave 
 
 316
 
 ASYA 
 
 him a right to steal her from me? " .... I 
 clutched my head. 
 
 The maid-servant began to call loudly for the 
 landlady; her fright made me recover my senses. 
 One thought kindled in me: — to find them, to find 
 them, at any cost. To accept this blow, to recon- 
 cile myself to this conclusion of the matter was 
 impossible. I learned from the landlady that 
 they had gone aboard a steamer at six o'clock, and 
 sailed down the Rhine. I betook myself to the 
 office ; there I was informed that they had bought 
 tickets for Cologne. I went home with the in- 
 tention of immediately packing up and following 
 them. I was obliged to pass Frau Luise's house. 
 .... Suddenly I heard some one calling me. I 
 raised my head, and beheld in the window of the 
 room where I had met Asya on the day before, 
 the burgomaster's widow. She was smiling with 
 her repulsive smile, and calling to me. I turned 
 away, and was about to pass on ; but she screamed 
 after me that she had something for me. These 
 words brought me to a standstill, and I entered 
 her house. How shall I express my feelings, 
 when I beheld that little room once more. . . . 
 
 " As a matter of fact," — began the old woman, 
 pointing out to me a tiny note: — " I ought to 
 have given you this only in case you came to me 
 of your own accord ; but you are such a very fine 
 young man. Take it." 
 
 I took the note. 
 
 317
 
 ASYA 
 
 On the tiny scrap of paper stood the following 
 words, hastily scrawled in pencil: 
 
 *' Farewell, we shall see each other no more. ""Tis not 
 out of pride that I am going away, — no; I cannot do 
 otherwise. Yesterday, when I wept before you, if you 
 had said to me but one word, only one word — I would 
 have remained. You did not say it. Evidently, it is 
 better so. . . . Farewell forever ! "* ' 
 
 One word. . . . Oh, madman that I am ! That 
 word. ... I had repeated it with tears in my 
 eyes the night before, I had scattered it on the 
 wind, I had reiterated it amid the empty fields 
 .... but I had not said it to her, I had not 
 told her that I loved her. . . . But I had not 
 been able to utter that word then. When I met 
 her in that fateful chamber there was within me, 
 as yet, no clear consciousness of my love; it had 
 not even awakened while I was sitting with her 
 brother in irrational and painful silence. ... It 
 had flamed up with irresistible force only some 
 moments later when, afl*righted by the possibility 
 of unhappiness, I had begun to seek her and 
 and call to her .... but then it was too late. 
 "But this is impossible!" I shall be told. I 
 know not whether it be possible,— I do know that 
 it is true. Asya would not have gone away had 
 there been even a shade of coquetry in her, and 
 if her position had not been a false one. She was 
 
 318
 
 ASYA 
 
 not able to endure what any other woman would 
 have borne; I had not understood that. My evil 
 genius had stopped the avowal on my lips dur- 
 ing my last meeting with Gagin in front of the 
 darkened window, and the last thread at which I 
 could still clutch had slipped out of my hands. 
 
 That same day I returned, with my trunk 
 packed, to L., and embarked for Cologne. I re- 
 member that the steamer had not yet left the 
 wharf, and I was mentally bidding farewell to 
 those streets, to all those places which I was des- 
 tined to behold no more, — when I caught sight 
 of Hanchen. She was sitting by the shore, but 
 not sad; a young and handsome man was stand- 
 ing by her side, laughing and narrating some- 
 thing to her ; while, on the other side of the Rhine, 
 my little Madonna was still gazing out as sadly 
 as ever from the dark greenery of the ash-tree. 
 
 XXII 
 
 In Cologne I came upon traces of the Gagins: 
 I learned that they had gone to London, and I set 
 out in pursuit of them ; but in London all my re- 
 searches proved vain. For a long time I would 
 not submit, for a long time I persisted ; but I was 
 finally compelled to renounce all hopes of over- 
 taking them. 
 
 And I never beheld them — I never beheld 
 Asya again. Obscure rumours reached me con- 
 
 319
 
 ASYA 
 
 cerning him, but she had vanished from me for- 
 ever. I do not even know whether she is ahve. 
 One day, several years afterward, I caught a 
 ghmpse, abroad, in a railway carriage, of a wo- 
 man whose face vividly reminded me of the never- 
 to-be-forgotten features .... but I was, in all 
 probability, deceived by an accidental resem- 
 blance. Asya has remained in my memory the 
 same little girl as I knew her at the best period of 
 my life, as I saw her for the last time, bowed 
 over the back of a low, wooden chair. 
 
 I am bound to confess, however, that I did not 
 grieve too long over her : I even thought that Fate 
 had ordained matters rightly in not uniting me to 
 Asya; I comforted myself with the thought that 
 I probably should not have been happy with such 
 a woman. I was young then and the future, 
 — that brief, swift future, — seemed to be limitless. 
 May not that which has been repeat itself, I 
 thought, and in still better, still more beautiful 
 form? ... I have known other women,— but 
 the feeling awakened in me by Asya, that glow- 
 ing, tender, profound emotion, has not been re- 
 peated. No ! No eyes have taken the place with 
 me of those eyes which once were fixed upon me 
 with love, and to no heart which has reclined on 
 my breast has my own heart responded with 
 such sweet and joyous swooning! Condemned 
 to the solitude of an old bachelor without family, 
 I am living out the wearisome years; but I pre- 
 
 320
 
 ASYA 
 
 serve like sacred treasures her tiny notes and the 
 withered spray of geranium, that same spray 
 which she once tossed to me from the window. 
 It still emits a faint fragrance, but the hand 
 which gave it to me, that hand which I was fated 
 to press but once to my lips, may have long been 
 mouldering in the grave. . . . And I myself 
 . . . . what has become of me? What is left 
 in me of those blissful and troubled days, of those 
 winged hopes and aspirations? Such a faint ex- 
 halation of an insignificant plant outlives all the 
 joys and woes of a man— outlives even the man 
 himself. 
 
 321
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
 AA 000 338 366 
 
 CENTRAL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 University of California, San Diego 
 
 DATE DUE 
 
 J UN 18 :>/; 
 
 
 APH 7 1077 
 
 
 ^ • IsJ// 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 a 39 
 
 UCSD Libr.
 
 '^.r.iam'-w: