by Maxim Gorky
“We must go around it.”
“Aren’t you going to jump over it? I thought it was already dried up.…” exclaimed Várenka, indignantly, stamping her foot.… “It is a long way round, and then, I shall tear my gown there.… Try to leap across it! It’s easy, see—o-one!”
She sprang, and flung herself forward; it seemed to him that her gown had been tom from her shoulders, and was fluttering through the air. But she stood on the other side of the puddle, and cried, with regret:
“Aï, how I have spattered myself! Ho, do you go round it…fie, how horrid!”
He looked at her, and smiled wanly, catching within him a dark thought which stimulated him, and feeling that his feet were sinking into the sticky dampness. On the other side of the mud, Várenka was shaking her gown, it emitted a soft rustle, and amid its fluttering, Ippolít Sergyéevitch caught sight of dainty, striped stockings on the well-formed little feet. For an instant, it seemed to him as though the mud which separated them from each other, held a sense of warning for him or for her. But he roughly tore himself away, calling this prick in the heart stupid childishness, and hastily stepped aside from the road, into the bushes which bordered it, where, nevertheless, he was obliged to walk through water concealed by the grass. With wet feet, and a resolve which was not yet clear to himself, he emerged beside her, and she, showing him her gown, with a grimace, said:
“Look at that—is that nice? Bah!”
He looked—large, black spots smote the eye, as they triumphantly decorated the white material.
“I love, and am accustomed to behold thee so sacredly pure, that even a spot of mud on thy gown would cast a black shadow on my soul …” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch slowly, and ceasing, he began to gaze into the astonished face of Várenka with a smile hovering over his lips. Her eyes rested questioningly on his face, but he felt as though his breast were filling up with burning froth, which was on the point of being converted into wondrous words, such as he had never yet uttered to anyone, for he had never known them until that moment.
“What was that you said?”—inquired Várenka firmly.
He shuddered, for her question sounded stem, and endeavoring to be calm, he began seriously to explain to her: “I was reciting verses…in Russian they sound like prose…but you hear that they are verses, do you not? They are Italian verses, I think…really, I do not remember.… However, perhaps it was prose, from some romance.… It just happened to come into my head.…”
“How did it go—say it again?” she asked him, suddenly becoming thoughtful.
“I love.…” he paused, and wiped his brow with his hand.—“Will you believe it? I have forgotten what I said! On my word of honor—I have forgotten!”
“Well…let us go on!—” and she moved forward with decision.
For several minutes Ippolít Sergyéevitch tried to understand and explain to himself this strange scene, which had placed between him and the young girl a barrier of mutual distrust—tried, and could get nothing out of himself, except a consciousness of awkwardness before Várenka. She walked by his side, in silence, and with bowed head, not looking at him.
“How am I to explain it all to her?” Ippolít Sergyéevitch reflected.
Her silence was crushing; it seemed as though she were thinking of him, and not thinking well of him. And unable to devise any explanation of his outburst, he suddenly remarked, with forced cheerfulness:
“Your suitors ought to know how you are spending your time!”
She glanced at him, as though, by his words, he had called her back from somewhere far away, but gradually, her face changed from seriousness to simplicity, and an expression of childlike sweetness.
“Yes! It would—offend them! But they shall know, oh! they shall know! And, perhaps they…will think ill of me!”
“Are you afraid of that?”
“I? Of them?—” she inquired, softly but angrily.
“Pardon me for the question.”
“Never mind.… You see, you do not know me…you do not know how repulsive they all are to me! Sometimes I feel like hurling them under my feet, and trampling on their faces…treading on their lips, so that they could not say anything. Ugh! How detestable they all are!”
Wrath and heartlessness sparkled so clearly in her eyes, that it made him uncomfortable to look at her, and he turned away, saying to her:
“How sad, that you are compelled to live among people whom you detest.… Can it be, that there is not one among them who would…strike you as well-bred.…”
“No! You know, there are frightfully few interesting people in the world.… Everybody is so stupid, so uninspired, so repulsive.…”
He smiled at her complaint, and said with a touch of irony, which was incomprehensible even to himself:
“It is early yet for you to talk in that way. But wait a little, and you will meet a man who will satisfy you…you will find him interesting in every way.…”
“Who is he?”—she asked quickly, and even halted.
“Your future husband.”
“But who is he?”
“How can I know that?—” Ippolít Sergyéevitch shrugged his shoulders, feeling displeased at the animation of her questions.
“But tell me!”—she sighed, and moved on.
They were walking through bushes, which barely reached their shoulders; the road ran through this underbrush, like a lost ribbon, all in capricious curves. Now, in front of them, the dense forest made its appearance. “And do you wish to marry?”—asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch. “Yes.… I don’t know! I’m not thinking about that.…” she replied simply. The glance of her beautiful eyes, fixed on the far distance, was as concentrated as though she were recalling something far away and dear to her.
“You ought to spend the winter in town,—there your beauty would attract to you universal attention, and you would soon find what you want.… For many would strongly desire to call you their wife,—” he said, slowly, in a low tone, as he thoughtfully scanned her figure.
“It would be necessary that I should permit that!”
“How can you forbid men to desire it?”
“Ah, yes! Of course…let them desire it.…”
They walked a few steps in silence.
She, pensively gazing into the distance, still was intent on recalling something, but he, for some reason, was counting the spots of mud on the front of her gown. There were seven of them: three large ones, which resembled stars, two, like commas in shape, and one, like a daub from a brush. By their black color, and their arrangement on the material, they signified something to him. But what—he did not know.
“Have you been in love?”—her voice suddenly rang out, serious and searching.
“I?”—shuddered Ippolít Sergyéevitch.—“Yes…only, it was long ago, when I was a young fellow.…”
“So have I, long ago,” she informed him.
“Ah…who was he?—” inquired Polkánoff,70 not conscious of the awkwardness of the question, and tearing off a branch which came under his hand, he flung it far away from himself.
“He? He was a horse-thief.… Three years have passed since I saw him last, I was seventeen years old then.… They caught him one day, beat him, and brought him to our court-yard. He lay there, bound with ropes, and said nothing, but looked at me.… I was standing on the porch of the house. I remember, it was such a bright morning—it was early in the morning, and everyone at our house was still asleep.…”
She paused, buried in her memories.
“Under the cart there was a pool of blood—such a thick pool—and into it fell heavy drops from him.… His name was Sáshka Rémezoff. The peasants came into the court-yard, and as they looked at him, they growled like dogs. All of them had evil eyes, but he, that Sáshka, stared at them all quite calmly.… And I felt that he—although he was beaten and bound—considered himself bet
ter than all of them. He looked so…his eyes were large, and brown. I felt sorry for him, and afraid of him.… I went into the house, and poured him out a glass of vódka.… Then I went out and gave it to him. But his hands were bound, and he could not drink it…and he said to me, raising his head a little—and his head was all covered with blood: ‘Put it in my mouth, my lady,’ I held it to his lips, and he drank so slowly, so slowly, and said: ‘Thank you, my lady! God grant you happiness!’—Then, all at once, I whispered to him: ‘Run!’ But he answered aloud:—‘If I live, I certainly will run. You may trust me for that!’—And I was awfully pleased, that he had said it so loudly, that, everyone in the court-yard heard him. Then he said: ‘My lady! Order them to wash my face!, I told Dúnya, and she washed it…although his face remained blue and swollen from the blows…yes! They soon carried him away, and when the cart drove out of the courtyard, I looked at him, and he bowed to me, and smiled with his eyes…although he was very badly bruised.… How I wept for him! How I prayed to God that he might run away.…”
“Do you mean …” Ippolít Sergyéevitch ironically interrupted her,—“that perhaps you are waiting for him to make his escape and present himself before you, and then…you will marry him?”
She either did not hear or did not understand the irony, for she answered simply:
“Well, and why should he show himself here?”
“But if he did—would you marry him?”
“Marry a peasant? I don’t know …? no, I think not!”
Polkánoff waxed angry.
“You have ruined your brain with your romances, that’s what I have to say to you, Varvára Vasílievna.—“ he remarked severely.
At the sound of his harsh voice, she glanced at his face with amazement, and began, silently and attentively, to listen to his stem, almost castigating words. And he demonstrated to her, how that literature which she loved depraved mind and soul, always distorted reality, was foreign to ennobling ideas, was indifferent to the sad truth of life, to the desires and tortures of mankind. His voice rang out harshly in the silence of the forest which surrounded them, and frequently, in the wayside branches, a timorous rustling resounded—some one was hiding there. From the foliage fragrant twilight peered forth upon the road, now and then, athwart the forest, a prolonged sound was wafted, which resembled a stifled sigh, and the foliage quivered faintly, as in slumber.
“You must read and respect only those books which teach you to understand the meaning of life, to understand the aspirations of men, and the true motives of their actions. To understand people means,—to pardon them their defects. You must know how badly people live, and how well they might live, if they were only more sensible, and if they paid more respect to the rights of one another. For, of course, all men desire one thing—happiness, but they proceed toward it by different paths, and those paths are, sometimes, very ignominious, but that is only because they do not understand in what happiness consists. Hence, it is the duty of all practical and honest literature, to explain to men in what happiness consists, and how to attain to it. But those books which you read, do not occupy themselves with such problems.. they merely lie, and lie crudely. Here, they have inculcated in you…an uncivilized notion of heroism.. And what is the result? Now you will be seeking in life such people as those in the books.…”
“No, of course I shall not!…” said the young girl seriously.—“I know that there are no such men. But the books are nice precisely for the reason that they depict that which does not exist. The commonplace is everywhere…all life is commonplace.… There is a great deal said about suffering.… That certainly is false, but if it is false—why is it not a good thing to say a great deal about that of which there is so little! Here, you say, that in books one must seek?… exemplary feelings and thoughts…and that all men err, and do not understand themselves.… But, surely, the books are written by men, also! And how am I to know what I ought to believe, and what is best? And in those books, which you assail, there is a great deal that is noble.…”
“You have not understood me.…” he exclaimed, with vexation.
“Really? And you are angry with me for that?—” she asked, in a penitent tone.
“No! Of course, I am not angry…as if there could be any question of such a thing!”
“You are angry, I know it, I know it! For, you see, I always get provoked myself, when people do not agree with me! But why do you find it necessary that I should agree with you? And I think, also.… In general, why does everybody always quarrel and insist that others should agree with them? Then there would be nothing whatever to talk about.”
She laughed, and in the midst of her laugh, she concluded:
“It’s exactly as though everybody wanted to have only one word left out of all the words—‘yes!’ It’s awfully amusing!”
“You ask, why I find it necessary.…”
“No, I understand; you have got used to teaching, so you regard it as indispensable that no one should impede you with objections.”
“That’s not so at all!—” exclaimed Polkánoff bitterly.—“I wish to arouse in you the faculty of criticising everything that goes on around you, and in your own soul.”
“Why?”—she inquired, ingenuously looking him straight in the eye.
“Good heavens! What do you mean by ‘why’? In order that you may know how to scrutinize your emotions, your thoughts, your actions.. in order that you may bear yourself reasonably toward life, toward yourself.”
“Well, that must be…difficult. To scrutinize oneself, to criticise oneself.. what for? And how is it to be done? Am I to split myself in two, pray? I don’t understand at all! You make it out, that truth is known to you alone.… Let us assume that I know some truth, and that everybody else knows some.… But, it appears, everyone is mistaken! For you say, that truth is one for all men, don’t you?… But look—see what a beautiful glade!”
He gazed, and made no reply to her words. Within him raged a feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, for his reason had been insulted by this girl, who would not yield to his efforts to subdue her, to bring her thoughts to a halt even for a moment, and then turn her into the right road, directly opposed to the one along which she had been proceeding up to this time, without encountering any opposition. He had become accustomed to regard as stupid those people who did not agree with him; at best, he set them down as devoid of the capacity of development beyond that point, on which their mind already stood,—and toward such people, he always bore himself with disdain, mingled with compassion. But this young girl did not strike him as stupid, and did not arouse in him his customary sentiments toward his opponents. Why was this so, and what was she? And he answered himself: “Undoubtedly merely, because she was so stunningly handsome.… Her wild speeches might, really, not be regarded as a fault…simply because they were original, and originality, on the whole, is rarely met with, especially in women.”
As a man of lofty culture, he outwardly bore himself toward women as beings who were mentally his equals, but in the depths of his own soul, like all men, he thought of women sceptically and with irony. In the heart of man there is much space for faith, but very little for conviction.
They strolled slowly across the broad, almost perfectly circular glade. The road cut across it, in two dark lines of wheel-ruts, and disappeared again in the forest. In the centre of the glade, stood a small clump of graceful young birch-trees, casting lace-like shadows on the blades of the mown grass. Not far away from them, a half-ruined hut, constructed of branches, bowed toward the earth; inside it one could catch a glimpse of hay, and on it perched two daws. To Ippolít Sergyéevitch they appeared entirely unnecessary and absurd, in the midst of this tiny, lovely wilderness, surrounded on all sides by the dark walls of the mysteriously mute forest. But the daws cast sidelong glances at the people who were walking along the road, and in their attitude there was a certain fearlessness and confidence,—as th
ough, perched there upon the hut, they were guarding the entrance to it, and were conscious that they were thereby discharging their duty.
“Are not you fatigued?”—inquired Polkánoff, with a feeling akin to anger, as he stared at the daws, pompous and sullen in their immobility.
“I? Fatigued with walking? It is a downright insult to hear that! Moreover, it is not more than one verst further to the place where they are awaiting us…we shall enter the forest in a moment, and the road runs down hill.”
She told him how beautiful was the spot which was their goal, and he felt that a soft, agreeable indolence was taking possession of him, which prevented his paying due heed to her remarks.
“It is a pine forest there, and stands on a hillock, and is called Savyóloff’s Crest. The pine-trees are huge, and there are no branches on their boles, except that away up aloft, each one has a dark-green canopy. It is quiet in that forest, even painfully quiet, the ground is all carpeted with pine needles, and the forest seems to have been swept up neatly. When I ramble in it, I always think of God, for some reason or other…it must be awe-inspiring like that around His throne…and the angels do not sing praises to Him—that is not true! What need has He of praises? Does not He know of Himself how great He is?”
A brilliant thought flashed through Ippolít Sergyéevitch’s mind:
“What if I were to take advantage of dogma, to plough up the virgin soil of her soul?”
But he instantly, and proudly rejected this involuntary confession of his weakness before her. It would not be honorable to employ a force, in whose existence he did not believe.
“You…do not believe in God?”—she inquired, as though divining his thought.
“What makes you think that?”
“Why…none of the learned men do believe.…”
“None of them, indeed!” he laughed, not caring to talk to her on that subject. But she would not let him off.
“Isn’t it true that all are unbelievers? But how is it that they do not believe? Please to tell me about those who do not believe in Him at all.… I do not understand how that can be. Whence has all this made its appearance?”