Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2

by Leo Tolstoy

  ‘Nothing does harm if one’s mind is at peace,’ said Varvára Alexéevna as if referring to something, though she knew that there was nothing her words could refer to.

  Liza returned with the cream and Eugène drank his coffee and listened morosely. He was accustomed to these conversations, but to-day he was particularly annoyed by its lack of sense. He wanted to think over what had happened to him but this chatter disturbed him. Having finished her coffee Varvára Alexéevna went away in a bad humour. Liza, Eugène, and Mary Pávlovna stayed behind, and their conversation was simple and pleasant. But Liza, being sensitive, at once noticed that something was tormenting Eugène, and she asked him whether anything unpleasant had happened. He was not prepared for this question and hesitated a little before replying that there had been nothing. This reply made Liza think all the more. That something was tormenting him, and greatly tormenting, was as evident to her as that a fly had fallen into the milk, yet he would not speak of it. What could it be?

  XI

  AFTER breakfast they all dispersed. Eugène as usual went to his study, but instead of beginning to read or write his letters, he sat smoking one cigarette after another and thinking. He was terribly surprised and disturbed by the unexpected recrudescence within him of the bad feeling from which he had thought himself free since his marriage. Since then he had not once experienced that feeling, either for her – the woman he had known – or for any other woman except his wife. He had often felt glad of this emancipation, and now suddenly a chance meeting, seemingly so unimportant, revealed to him the fact that he was not free. What now tormented him was not that he was yielding to that feeling and desired her – he did not dream of so doing – but that the feeling was awake within him and he had to be on his guard against it. He had no doubt but that he would suppress it.

  He had a letter to answer and a paper to write, and sat down at his writing-table and began to work. Having finished it and quite forgotten what had disturbed him, he went out to go to the stables. And again as ill-luck would have it, either by unfortunate chance or intentionally, as soon as he stepped from the porch a red skirt and red kerchief appeared from round the corner, and she went past him swinging her arms and swaying her body. She not only went past him, but on passing him ran, as if playfully, to overtake her fellow-servant.

  Again the bright midday, the nettles, the back of Daniel’s hut, and in the shade of the plane-trees her smiling face biting some leaves, rose in his imagination.

  ‘No, it is impossible to let matters continue so,’ he said to himself, and waiting till the women had passed out of sight he went to the office.

  It was just the dinner-hour and he hoped to find the steward still there, and so it happened. The steward was just waking up from his after-dinner nap, and stretching himself and yawning was standing in the office, looking at the herdsman who was telling him something.

  ‘Vasíli Nikoláich!’ said Eugène to the steward.

  ‘What is your pleasure?’

  ‘I want to speak to you.’

  ‘What is your pleasure?’

  ‘Just finish what you are saying.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to bring it in?’ said Vasíli Nikoláich to the herdsman.

  ‘It’s heavy, Vasíli Nikoláich.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Eugène.

  ‘Why, a cow has calved in the meadow. Well, all right, I’ll order them to harness a horse at once. Tell Nicholas Lysúkh to get out the dray cart.’

  The herdsman went out.

  ‘Do you know,’ began Eugène, flushing and conscious that he was doing so, ‘do you know, Vasíli Nikoláich, while I was a bachelor I went off the track a bit.… You may have heard …’

  Vasíli Nikoláich, evidently sorry for his master, said with smiling eyes: ‘Is it about Stepanída?’

  ‘Why, yes. Look here. Please, please do not engage her to help in the house. You understand, it is very awkward for me …’

  ‘Yes, it must have been Ványa the clerk who arranged it.’

  ‘Yes, please … and hadn’t the rest of the phosphates better be strewn?’ said Eugène, to hide his confusion.

  ‘Yes, I am just going to see to it.’

  So the matter ended, and Eugène calmed down, hoping that as he had lived for a year without seeing her, so things would go on now. ‘Besides, Vasíli Nikoláich will speak to Iván the clerk; Iván will speak to her, and she will understand that I don’t want it,’ said Eugène to himself, and he was glad that he had forced himself to speak to Vasíli Nikoláich, hard as it had been to do so.

  ‘Yes, it is better, much better, than that feeling of doubt, that feeling of shame.’ He shuddered at the mere remembrance of his sin in thought.

  XII

  THE moral effort he had made to overcome his shame and speak to Vasíli Nikoláich tranquillized Eugène. It seemed to him that the matter was all over now. Liza at once noticed that he was quite calm, and even happier than usual. ‘No doubt he was upset by our mothers pin-pricking one another. It really is disagreeable, especially for him who is so sensitive and noble, always to hear such unfriendly and ill-mannered insinuations,’ thought she.

  The next day was Trinity Sunday. It was a beautiful day, and the peasant-women, on their way into the woods to plait wreaths, came, according to custom, to the landowner’s home and began to sing and dance. Mary Pávlovna and Varvára Alexéevna came out onto the porch in smart clothes, carrying sunshades, and went up to the ring of singers. With them, in a jacket of Chinese silk, came out the uncle, a flabby libertine and drunkard, who was living that summer with Eugène.

  As usual there was a bright, many-coloured ring of young women and girls, the centre of everything, and around these from different sides like attendant planets that had detached themselves and were circling round, went girls hand in hand, rustling in their new print gowns; young lads giggling and running backwards and forwards after one another; full-grown lads in dark blue or black coats and caps and with red shirts, who unceasingly spat out sunflower-seed shells; and the domestic servants or other outsiders watching the dance-circle from aside. Both the old ladies went close up to the ring, and Liza accompanied them in a light blue dress, with light blue ribbons on her head, and with wide sleeves under which her long white arms and angular elbows were visible.

  Eugène did not wish to come out, but it was ridiculous to hide, and he too came out onto the porch smoking a cigarette, bowed to the men and lads, and talked with one of them. The women meanwhile shouted a dance-song with all their might, snapping their fingers, clapping their hands, and dancing.

  ‘They are calling for the master,’ said a youngster coming up to Eugène’s wife, who had not noticed the call. Liza called Eugène to look at the dance and at one of the women dancers who particularly pleased her. This was Stepanída. She wore a yellow skirt, a velveteen sleeveless jacket and a silk kerchief, and was broad, energetic, ruddy, and merry. No doubt she danced well. He saw nothing.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said, removing and replacing his pince-nez. ‘Yes, yes,’ he repeated. ‘So it seems I cannot be rid of her,’ he thought.

  He did not look at her, fearing her attraction, and just on that account what his passing glance caught of her seemed to him especially attractive. Besides this he saw by her sparkling look that she saw him and saw that he admired her. He stood there as long as propriety demanded, and seeing that Varvára Alexéevna had called her ‘my dear’ senselessly and insincerely and was talking to her, he turned aside and went away.

  He went into the house in order not to see her, but on reaching the upper storey he approached the window, without knowing how or why, and as long as the women remained at the porch he stood there and looked and looked at her, feasting his eyes on her.

  He ran, while there was no one to see him, and then went with quiet steps onto the veranda, and from there, smoking a cigarette, he passed through the garden as if going for a stroll, and followed the direction she had taken. He had not gone two steps along the alley before he
noticed behind the trees a velveteen sleeveless jacket, with a pink and yellow skirt and a red kerchief. She was going somewhere with another woman. ‘Where are they going?’

  And suddenly a terrible desire scorched him as though a hand were seizing his heart. As if by someone else’s wish he looked round and went towards her.

  ‘Eugène Ivánich, Eugène Ivánich! I have come to see your honour,’ said a voice behind him, and Eugène, seeing old Samókhin who was digging a well for him, roused himself and turning quickly round went to meet Samókhin. While speaking with him he turned sideways and saw that she and the woman who was with her went down the slope, evidently to the well or making an excuse of the well, and having stopped there a little while ran back to the dance-circle.

  XIII

  AFTER talking to Samókhin, Eugène returned to the house as depressed as if he had committed a crime. In the first place she had understood him, believed that he wanted to see her, and desired it herself. Secondly that other woman, Anna Prókhorova, evidently knew of it.

  Above all he felt that he was conquered, that he was not master of his own will but that there was another power moving him, that he had been saved only by good fortune, and that if not to-day then to-morrow or a day later, he would perish all the same.

  ‘Yes, perish,’ he did not understand it otherwise: to be unfaithful to his young and loving wife with a peasant-woman in the village, in the sight of everyone – what was it but to perish, perish utterly, so that it would be impossible to live? No, something must be done.

  ‘My God, my God! What am I to do? Can it be that I shall perish like this?’ said he to himself. ‘Is it not possible to do anything? Yet something must be done. Do not think about her’ – he ordered himself. ‘Do not think!’ and immediately he began thinking and seeing her before him, and seeing also the shade of the plane-tree.

  He remembered having read of a hermit who, to avoid the temptation he felt for a woman on whom he had to lay his hand to heal her, thrust his other hand into a brazier and burnt his fingers. He called that to mind. ‘Yes, I am ready to burn my fingers rather than to perish.’ He looked round to make sure that there was no one in the room, lit a candle, and put a finger into the flame. ‘There, now think about her,’ he said to himself ironically. It hurt him and he withdrew his smoke-stained finger, threw away the match, and laughed at himself. What nonsense! That was not what had to be done. But it was necessary to do something, to avoid seeing her – either to go away himself or to send her away. Yes – send her away. Offer her husband money to remove to town or to another village. People would hear of it and would talk about it. Well, what of that? At any rate it was better than this danger. ‘Yes, that must be done,’ he said to himself, and at that very moment he was looking at her without moving his eyes. ‘Where is she going?’ he suddenly asked himself. She, it seemed to him, had seen him at the window and now, having glanced at him and taken another woman by the hand, was going towards the garden swinging her arm briskly. Without knowing why or wherefore, merely in accord with what he had been thinking, he went to the office.

  Vasíli Nikoláich in holiday costume and with oiled hair was sitting at tea with his wife and a guest who was wearing an oriental kerchief.

  ‘I want a word with you, Vasíli Nikoláich!’

  ‘Please say what you want to. We have finished tea.’

  ‘No. I’d rather you came out with me.’

  ‘Directly; only let me get my cap. Tánya, put out the samovar,’ said Vasíli Nikoláich, stepping outside cheerfully.

  It seemed to Eugène that Vasíli had been drinking, but what was to be done? It might be all the better – he would sympathize with him in his difficulties the more readily.

  ‘I have come again to speak about that same matter, Vasíli Nikoláich,’ said Eugène – ‘about that woman.’

  ‘Well, what of her? I told them not to take her again on any account.’

  ‘No, I have been thinking in general, and this is what I wanted to take your advice about. Isn’t it possible to get them away, to send the whole family away?’

  ‘Where can they be sent?’ said Vasíli, disapprovingly and ironically as it seemed to Eugène.

  ‘Well, I thought of giving them money, or even some land in Koltóvski, – so that she should not be here.’

  ‘But how can they be sent away? Where is he to go – torn up from his roots? And why should you do it? What harm can she do you?’

  ‘Ah, Vasíli Nikoláich, you must understand that it would be dreadful for my wife to hear of it.’

  ‘But who will tell her?’

  ‘How can I live with this dread? The whole thing is very painful for me.’

  ‘But really, why should you distress yourself? Whoever stirs up the past – out with his eye! Who is not a sinner before God and to blame before the Tsar, as the saying is?’

  ‘All the same it would be better to get rid of them. Can’t you speak to the husband?’

  ‘But it is no use speaking! Eh, Eugène Ivánich, what is the matter with you? It is all past and forgotten. All sorts of things happen. Who is there that would now say anything bad of you? Everybody sees you.’

  ‘But all the same go and have a talk with him.’

  ‘All right, I will speak to him.’

  Though he knew that nothing would come of it, this talk somewhat calmed Eugène. Above all, it made him feel that through excitement he had been exaggerating the danger.

  Had he gone to meet her by appointment? It was impossible. He had simply gone to stroll in the garden and she had happened to run out at the same time.

  XIV

  AFTER dinner that very Trinity Sunday Liza while walking from the garden to the meadow, where her husband wanted to show her the clover, took a false step and fell when crossing a little ditch. She fell gently, on her side; but she gave an exclamation, and her husband saw an expression in her face not only of fear but of pain. He was about to help her up, but she motioned him away with her hand.

  ‘No, wait a bit, Eugène,’ she said, with a weak smile, and looked up guiltily as it seemed to him. ‘My foot only gave way under me.’

  ‘There, I always say,’ remarked Varvára Alexéevna, ‘can anyone in her condition possibly jump over ditches?’

  ‘But it is all right, mamma. I shall get up directly.’ With her husband’s help she did get up, but she immediately turned pale, and looked frightened.

  ‘Yes, I am not well!’ and she whispered something to her mother.

  ‘Oh, my God, what have you done! I said you ought not to go there,’ cried Varvára Alexéevna. ‘Wait – I will call the servants. She must not walk. She must be carried!’

  ‘Don’t be afraid, Liza, I will carry you,’ said Eugène, putting his left arm round her. ‘Hold me by the neck. Like that.’ And stooping down he put his right arm under her knees and lifted her. He could never afterwards forget the suffering and yet beatific expression of her face.

  ‘I am too heavy for you, dear,’ she said with a smile. ‘Mamma is running, tell her!’ And she bent towards him and kissed him. She evidently wanted her mother to see how he was carrying her.

  Eugène shouted to Varvára Alexéevna not to hurry, and that he would carry Liza home. Varvára Alexéevna stopped and began to shout still louder.

  ‘You will drop her, you’ll be sure to drop her. You want to destroy her. You have no conscience!’

  ‘But I am carrying her excellently.’

  ‘I do not want to watch you killing my daughter, and I can’t.’ And she ran round the bend in the alley.

  ‘Never mind, it will pass,’ said Liza, smiling.

  ‘Yes. If only it does not have consequences like last time.’

  ‘No. I am not speaking of that. That is all right. I mean mamma. You are tired. Rest a bit.’

  But though he found it heavy, Eugène carried his burden proudly and gladly to the house and did not hand her over to the housemaid and the man-cook whom Varvára Alexéevna had found and sent to meet them.
He carried her to the bedroom and put her on the bed.

  ‘Now go away,’ she said, and drawing his hand to her she kissed it. ‘Ánnushka and I will manage all right.’

  Mary Pávlovna also ran in from her rooms in the wing. They undressed Liza and laid her on the bed. Eugène sat in the drawing-room with a book in his hand, waiting. Varvára Alexéevna went past him with such a reproachfully gloomy air that he felt alarmed.

  ‘Well, how is it?’ he asked.

  ‘How is it? What’s the good of asking? It is probably what you wanted when you made your wife jump over the ditch.’

  ‘Varvára Alexéevna!’ he cried. ‘This is impossible. If you want to torment people and to poison their life’ (he wanted to say, ‘then go elsewhere to do it,’ but restrained himself). ‘How is it that it does not hurt you?’

  ‘It is too late now.’ And shaking her cap in a triumphant manner she passed out by the door.

  The fall had really been a bad one; Liza’s foot had twisted awkwardly and there was danger of her having another miscarriage. Everyone knew that there was nothing to be done but that she must just lie quietly, yet all the same they decided to send for a doctor.

  ‘Dear Nikoláy Semënich,’ wrote Eugène to the doctor, ‘you have always been so kind to us that I hope you will not refuse to come to my wife’s assistance. She …’ and so on. Having written the letter he went to the stables to arrange about the horses and the carriage. Horses had to be got ready to bring the doctor and others to take him back. When an estate is not run on a large scale, such things cannot be quickly decided but have to be considered. Having arranged it all and dispatched the coachman, it was past nine before he got back to the house. His wife was lying down, and said that she felt perfectly well and had no pain. But Varvára Alexéevna was sitting with a lamp screened from Liza by some sheets of music and knitting a large red coverlet, with a mien that said that after what had happened peace was impossible, but that she at any rate would do her duty no matter what anyone else did.

  Eugène noticed this, but, to appear as if he had not done so, tried to assume a cheerful and tranquil air and told how he had chosen the horses and how capitally the mare, Kabúshka, had galloped as left trace-horse in the troyka.