"Why do you think he won't finish the novel?" asked Leonti.
"He is only half a man," replied Mark with a scornful, bitter laugh.
Raisky walked in the direction of home. His victory over himself seemed
so assured that he was ashamed of his earlier weakness. He pictured to
himself how he would now appear to her in a new and surprising guise,
bold, deliberately scornful, with neither eyes nor desire for her beauty;
and he pictured her astonishment and sorrow.
In his impatience to see the effect of this new development in himself
he stole into her room and crossed the carpet without betraying his
presence. She sat with her elbows on the table, reading a letter,
written as he noticed on blue paper in irregular lines and sealed with
common blackish-brown sealing wax.
"Vera!" he said in a low voice. She shrank back with such obvious
terror that he too trembled, then quickly put the letter in her pocket.
They looked at one another without stirring.
"You are busy. Excuse my coming," he said, and took a step backward, as
if to leave her.
She made no answer, but, gradually recovering her self-possession, and
without removing her eyes from his face she advanced towards him with
her hand still in her pocket.
"It must be a very interesting letter and a great secret," he said with
a forced laugh, "since you conceal it so quickly."
With her eyes still upon him she sat down on the divan.
"Show me the letter," he laughed, betraying his agitation by a tremor of
the voice. "You will not show it?" he went on as she looked at him in
amazement and pressed her hand tighter in her pocket.
She shook her head.
"I don't need to read it. What possible interest could I have in another
person's letter? I only wanted a proof of your confidence, of your
friendly disposition towards me. You see my indifference. See, I am not
as I was," he said, telling himself at the same time that the letter
obsessed him.
She tried, to read in his face the indifference in which he was
insisting. His face indeed wore an aspect of indifference, but his voice
sounded as if he were pleading for alms.
"You will not show it," he said. "Then God be with you," and he turned
to the door.
"Wait," she said, putting her hand in her pocket and drawing out a
letter which she showed him.
He looked at both sides, and glanced at the signature, Pauline Kritzki.
"That is not the letter," he said, returning it.
"Do you see another?" she asked drily.
He replied that he had not, fearing that she might accuse him of spying,
and at her request began to read:
"Ma belle chamante divine Vera Vassilievna! I am enraptured and fall on
my knees before your dear, noble, handsome cousin; he has avenged me,
and I am triumphant and weep for joy. He was great. Tell him that he is
ever my knight, that I am his devoted slave. Ah, how I admire him, I
would say--the word is on the tip of my tongue--but I dare not. Yet why
should I not? Yes, I love him, I adore him. Everyone must adore him...."
Here Raisky attempted to return the letter, but Vera bade him continue,
as there was a request for him. He skipped a few lines and proceeded:--
"Implore your cousin (he adores you. Do not deny it, for I have seen his
passionate glances. What would I not give to be in your place).
"Implore your cousin, darling Vera Vassilievna, to paint my portrait. I
don't really care about the portrait, but to be with an artist to admire
him, to speak to him, to breathe the same air with him! _Ma pauvre
tete, je deviens folle. Je compte sur vous, ma belle et bonne amie, et
j'attends la reponse_."
"What answer shall I give her?" asked Vera, as Raisky laid the letter on
the table.
He was thinking of the other letter, wondering why she had hidden it,
and did not hear her question.
"May I write that you agree?"
"God forbid! on no account."
"How is it to be done then? She wants to breathe the same air as you."
"I should stifle in that atmosphere."
"But if I ask you to do it?" whispered Vera.
"You, what difference can it make to you?" he asked trembling.
"I should like to say something pleasant to her," she returned, but did
not add that she seized this means of detaching him from herself.
Paulina Karpovna would not lightly let him out of her hands.
"Should you accept it as a sign of friendship if I fulfilled your wish?
Well, then," as she nodded, "I make two conditions, one that you should
be present at the sittings. Otherwise I should be clearing out at the
first sitting. Do you agree?" Then, as she nodded unwillingly, "the
second is that you show me the other letter."
"Which letter?"
"The one you hid so quickly in your pocket."
"There isn't another."
"You would not have hidden this letter in terror; will you show the
other?"
"You are beginning again," she said reproachfully.
"You need not trouble. I was only jesting. But for God's sake do not
look on me as a despot or a spy; it was mere curiosity. God be with you
and your secrets."
"I have no secrets," she returned drily as he rose to go.
"Do you know that I am soon leaving?" he asked suddenly.
"I heard so; is it true?"
"Why do you doubt?"
She dropped her eyes and said nothing.
"You will be glad for me to go?"
"Yes," she answered in a whisper.
"Why," he said sadly, and came nearer.
She thought for a moment, drew out another letter, glanced through it,
carefully scratching out a word or a line here and there, and handed it
to him.
"Read that letter," she said, again slipping her hand into her pocket.
He began to read the delicate handwriting: "I am sorry, dear Natasha,"
and then asked, "Who is Natasha?"
"The priest's wife, my school friend."
"Ah! the pope's wife. It is your own letter. That is interesting," and
he became absorbed in the reading.
"I am sorry, dear Natasha," the letter ran, "that I have not written to
you since my return. As usual I have been idle, but I had other reasons,
which you shall learn. The chief reason you already know (here some
words were scratched out), which agitates me very much. But of that we
will speak when we meet.
"The other reason is the arrival of our relative, Boris Pavlovich Raisky.
For my misfortune he scarcely ever leaves the house, so that for a
fortnight I did hardly anything except hide from him. What an abundance
of reason, of different kinds of knowledge, of brilliance, of talent he
brought with him, and with it all what unrest. He upsets the whole
household. He had hardly arrived before he was seized with the firm
conviction that not only the estate, but all that lived on it, were his
property. Taking his stand on a relationship, which hardly deserves the
name, and on the fact that he knew us when we were little, he treated us
as if we were children or schoolgirls. Although I have hidden myself
from him, I have only just succeeded in preventing him from seeing how I
sleep and dream, and what I hope and wait for.
"This pursuit has almost made me ill, and I have seen no one, written to
no one. I feel like a prisoner. It is as if he were playing with me,
perhaps quite against his own will. One day he is cold and indifferent,
the next his eyes are ablaze, and I fear him as I would a madman. The
worst of all seems to me to be that he does not know himself, so that no
reliance can be placed on his plans and promises; he decides on one
course, and the next day takes another. He himself says he is nervous,
susceptible and passionate, and he may be right. He is no play actor,
and does not disguise himself; he is, I think, too sensible and
well-bred, indeed, too honest, for that.
"He is by way of being an artist, draws, writes, improvises very nicely
on the piano, and dreams of art. Yet it seems to me that he does
substantially nothing, but is spending his life, as he says, in the
adoration of beauty; he is a lover by temperament, like (do you
remember?) Dashenka Sfemechkin, who fell in love with a Spanish prince,
whose portrait she had seen in a German calendar, and would admit no one,
not even the piano-tuner, Kish. But Boris Pavlovich is full of kindness
and honour, is upright, gay, original, but all these qualities are so
disconnected and uncertain in their expression that we don't know what
to make of them. Now he seeks my friendship, but I am afraid of him, am
afraid he may do anything, am afraid (here some lines were crossed out).
Ah, if only he would go away. It is terrible to think he may one day
(here again words were crossed out).
"And I need one thing--rest. The doctor says I am nervous, must spare
myself, and avoid all agitation. Thank God, he is also attached to
Grandmother, and I am left in peace. I do not want to step out of the
circle I have drawn for myself; and nobody else should cross the line.
In its sanctity lies my peace and my whole happiness.
"If Raisky oversteps this line, the only course that remains to me is to
fly from here. That is easy to say, but where? And then I have some
conscience about it, because he is so good, so kind to me and my sister,
and means to make a gift to us of this place, this Paradise, where I
have learned to live and not to vegetate. It lies on my conscience that
he should squander these undeserved tokens of affection, that he tries
to be brilliant for my sake, and to awaken in me some affection,
although I have denied him every hope. Ah, if he only knew how vain his
efforts are.
"Now I will tell you about _him_...."
The letter went no further, and Raisky looked at the lines as if he were
trying to read behind them. Vera had said practically nothing about
herself; she remained in the shadow, while the whole garish light fell
on him.
"There was another letter," he said sharply, "written on blue paper."
Vera had not left the room, but someone's hand was on the lock.
"Who is there?" asked Raisky with a start.
In the doorway appeared Vassilissa's anxious face.
"It's I," she said in a low voice. "It's a good thing you are here,
Boris Pavlovich; they are asking for you. Please make haste. There is
nobody in the hall. Yakob is at church. Egorka has been sent to the
Volga for some fish, and I am alone with Pashutka."
"Who is asking for me?"
"A gendarme from the Governor. The Governor asks you to go to see him,
at once, if possible, if not to-morrow morning. The business is
pressing."
"Very well. I will go."
"Please, as quickly as possible. Then _he_ has also come."
"Who?"
"The man they would like to horsewhip. He has made himself at home in
the hall, and is waiting for you. The Mistress and Marfa Vassilievna
have not yet returned from the town."
"Didn't you ask his name?"
"He gave his name, but I have forgotten. He is the man who stayed the
night with you when you were drinking. Please, Boris Pavlovich, be quick.
Pashutka and I have locked ourselves in."
"Why?"
"Because we were afraid. I climbed out of the window into the yard to
come and tell you. If only he does not nose anything out."
Raisky went with her, laughing. He sent a message by the gendarme that
he would be with the Governor in an hour. Then he sought out Mark and
led him into his room.
"Do you wish to spend the night with me?" he asked ironically.
"I am indeed a nightbird," answered Mark, who looked anxious. "I receive
too much attention in the daytime, and it puts less shame on your Aunt's
house. The magnificent old lady, to show Tychkov the door. But I have
come to you on important business," he said, looking serious.
"You have business! That is interesting."
"Yes, more serious than yours. To-day I was at the police-station, not
exactly paying a call. The police inspector had invited me, and I was
politely fetched with a pair of grey horses."
"What has happened?"
"A trifling thing. I had lent books to one or two people...."
"Perhaps mine, that you had taken from Leonti?"
"Those and others--here is the list," he said, handing him a slip of
paper.
"To whom did you give the books?"
"To many people, mostly young people. One fool, the son of an advocate,
did not understand some French phrases, and showed the book to his
mother, who handed it on to the father, and he in his turn to the
magistrate. The magistrate, having heard of the name of the author, made
a great commotion and informed the Governor. At first the lad would not
give me away, but when they applied the rod to him he gave my name, and
to-day they summoned me to court."
"And what line did you adopt?"
"What line?" said Mark laughing, as he looked at Raisky. "They asked me
whose books they were, and where I had got them, and I said from you;
some you had brought with you; others, Voltaire, for instance, I had
found in your library."
"I'm much obliged. Why did you put this honour on me?"
"Nobody will meddle with you, since you are in his Excellency's favour.
Then you are not living here under official compulsion. But I shall be
sent off to a third place of exile; this is already the second. At any
other time this would be a matter of indifference to me, but just now,
for the time being, at least, I should like to stay here."
"And what else?"
"Nothing. I only wanted to tell you what I have done, and to ask whether
you will take it on yourself or not."
"But what if I won't, and I don't intend to."
"Then instead of your name I will give Koslov's. He is growing mouldy
here. Let him go to prison. He can take up his Greeks again later."
"No, he will never take them up again if he is robbed of his position,
and of his bread and butter."
"There you are right, my conclusions were illogical. It would be better
for you to take it on yourself."
"What are you to me that I should do so?"
"On the former occasion I needed money, and you had what I lacked. This
is the same case. No one will touch you, while I should be sent off. I
am now logical enough."
"You ask a remarkable service. I am just going to the Governor, who has
sent for me. Good-bye."
"He has sent for you, then?"
"What am I to do? What should I say?"
"Say that you are the hero of the piece, and the Governor will quash the
whole matter, for he does not like sending special reports to St.
Petersburg. With me it is quite different. I am under police supervision,
and it is his duty to return a report every month as to my circumstances
and my mode of life. However," he added with apparent indifference, "do
as you like. And now come, for I have no more time either. Let us go as
far as the wood together, and I will climb down the precipice. I will
wait at the fisherman's on the island to see how the matter ends."
At the edge of the precipice Mark vanished into the bushes. Raisky drove
to the Governor's, and returned home about two o'clock in the morning.
Although he had gone so late to bed, he rose early. The windows of
Vera's room were still darkened. She is still sleeping, he thought, and
he went into the garden, where he walked up and down for an hour,
waiting for the drawing back of the lilac curtain. He hoped Marina would
cross the yard, but she did not come. Then Tatiana Markovna's window was
opened, the pigeons and the sparrows began to gather on the spot were
they were wont to receive crumbs from Marfinka, doors opened and shut,
the grooms and the servants crossed the yard, but the lilac curtain
remained untouched. The gloomy Savili came out of his room and looked
silently round the yard. When Raisky called him he came towards him with
slow steps.
"Tell Marina to let me know when Vera Vassilievna is dressed."
"Marina is not here."
"Where is she?"
"She started at dawn to accompany the young lady over the Volga."
"What young lady, Vera Vassilievna?"
"Yes."
"How did they go, and with whom?"
"In the _brichka_, with the dun horse. They will return in the
evening," he added.
"Do you think they will return to-day?" asked Raisky with interest.
"Assuredly. Prokor with the horse, and Marina too. They will see the
young lady safely there, and return immediately."
Raisky looked at Savili without seeing him, and they stood opposite one
another for some time speechless.
"Have you any further orders?" Savili asked at length.
Raisky recovered himself, and inquired whether Savili was awaiting
Marina. Savili replied by a curse on his wife.
"Why do you beat her?" asked Raisky. "I have been intending for a long
time to advise you to leave her alone."
"I don't beat her any more."
"Since when?"
"For the last week, since she has stayed quietly at home."
"Go, I have no orders. But do not beat Marina. It will be better both
for you and her if you give her complete liberty."
Raisky passed on his way with bent head, glancing sadly at Vera's window.
Savili's eyes too were on the ground, and he had forgotten to put his
cap on again in his amazement at Raisky's last words.
"Passion once more!" thought Raisky. "Alas, for Savili, and for me!"
CHAPTER XIV
Since Vera's departure Raisky had experienced the meaning of unmitigated
solitude. He felt as if he were surrounded by a desert, now that he was
deprived of the sight of her, although nature around him was radiant and
smiling. Tatiana Markovna's anxious solicitude, Marfinka's charming rule,
her songs, her lively chatter with the gay and youthful Vikentev, the
arrival and departure of guests, the eccentricities of the freakish
Paulina Karpovna--none of these things existed for him. He only saw that
the lilac curtain was motionless, the blinds had been drawn down, and
that Vera's favourite bench remained empty.
He did not want to love Vera, and if he had wished it he ought still to
resist, for Vera had denied him every hope; indeed her beauty seemed to
have lost its power over him, and he was now drawn to her by a different
attraction.
"What is Vera's real nature?" he asked his aunt one day.
"You see for yourself. She recognises only her own understanding and her
own will. She was born in my arms, and has spent her whole life with me,
yet I do not know what is in her mind, what are her likes and dislikes.
I do not force her, or worry her, so that she can hardly think herself
unfortunate. You see for yourself that my girls live with me as free as
the birds of the air."
"You are right, Grandmother. It is not fear, or anxiety, or the power of
authority that binds you to them, but the tenderest of home ties. They
adore you, and so they ought to do, but it is the fruit of their
upbringing. Why should worn-out conceptions of duty be pressed upon them,
and why should they live like caged birds? Let them dip into the
reservoir of life itself. A bird imprisoned in a cage loses the capacity
for freedom, and, even if the door of his cage is opened, he will not
take flight."
"I have never tried to exercise restraint on Marfinka or Vera. Supposing
a respectable, rich man of old and blameless family were to ask for
Marfinka's hand, and she refused it, do you think I should persuade
her?"
"Well, Granny, I leave Marfinka to you, but do not attempt to do
anything with Vera. You must not restrain her in any way, must leave her
her freedom. One bird is born for the cage, another for freedom. Vera
will be able to direct her own life."
"Do I restrain or repress her? I am like the police inspector who only
sees that there is an outward semblance of order; I do not penetrate
below the surface unless my assistance is invited."
"Tell me, Grandmother, what sort of a woman is this priest's wife, and
what are the links that bind her to Vera?"
"Natalie Ivanovna and Vera made friends at a boarding school. She is a
good, modest woman."
"Is she sensible? Possibly a woman of weight and character?"
"Oh no! She is not stupid, is fairly educated, a great reader, and fond
of dress. The pope, who is much liked by the local landowner, is not
poor, and lives in comfort on his own land. He is a sensible man,
belongs to the younger generation, but he leads too worldly a life for
the priesthood, as is the custom in landed society. He reads French
books, and smokes, for instance; things that are unsuited to the
priestly garb. Every glance of Veroshka's, every mood of hers is sacred
to Natalie Ivanovna; whatever she may say is wise and good. This suits
Vera, who does not want a friend, but an obedient servant; that is why
she loves the pope's wife."
"And Vera loves you too?" asked Raisky, who wanted to know if Vera loved
anybody else except the pope's wife.
"Yes, she loves me," answered Tatiana Markovna with conviction, "but in
her own fashion. She never shows it, and never will, though she loves me
and would be ready to die for me."
"And you love Vera?"
"Ah, how I love her!" she sighed, and tears stood in her eyes. "She does
not know, but perhaps one day she may learn."
"Have you noticed how thoughtful she has been for some time. Is she not
in love?" he added in a half-whisper, but immediately regretted the
question, which it was too late to withdraw. His aunt started back as if
a stone had hit her.
"God forbid!" she cried, making the sign of the Cross. "This sorrow has
been spared us. Do not disturb my peace, but confess, as you would to
the priest, if you know anything."
Raisky was annoyed with himself, and made an effort, partially
successful, to pacify his aunt.
"I have not noticed anything more than you have. She would hardly be
likely to say anything to me that she kept secret from you."
"Yes, yes, it is true she will say nothing. The pope's wife knows
everything, but she would rather die than betray Vera's secrets. Her own
secrets she scatters for anyone to pick up, but not Vera's."
"With whom could she fall in love?" remarked Tatiana Markovna after a
silence. "There is no one here."
"No one?" interrupted Raisky quickly.
Tatiana Markovna shook her head, then went on after a while:--
"There might be the Forester. He is an excellent individual, and has
shown an inclination, I notice. He would be certainly an admirable match
for Vera, but...."
"Well?"
"She is so strange. Heaven knows how any one would dare, how any man
would woo her. He is splendid--well-established and rich. The wood alone
yields thousands."
"Is the Forester young, educated, a man that counts?"
Vassilissa entered and announced Paulina Karpovna.
"The evil one himself has brought her," grumbled Tatiana Markovna. "Show
her in, and be quick with breakfast."
CHAPTER XV
One evening a thunderstorm was brewing. The black clouds lay entrenched
beyond the Volga, and the air was as hot and moist as in a bath-house.
Here and there over the fields and roads rose pillars of dust.
In the house Tatiana Markovna sent her household hurrying to close the
stove pipes, the doors and the windows. She was not only afraid of a
thunderstorm herself, but she was not pleased if her fear was not shared
by everybody else--that would be freethinking. So at each flash of
lightning everyone must make the sign of the Cross, on pain of being
thought a blockhead. She chased Egorka from the ante-room into the
servants' room, because during the approach of the storm he would not
stop giggling with the maids.
The storm approached majestically, with the dull distant noise of the
thunder, with a storm of sand, when suddenly there was a flash of
lightning over the village and a sharp clap of thunder.
Disregarding the passionate warnings of his aunt, Raisky took his cap
and umbrella and hurried into the park, anxious to see the landscape
under the shadow of the storm, to find new ideas for his drawings, and
to observe his own emotions. He descended the cliff, and passed through
the undergrowth by a winding, hardly perceptible path. The rain fell by
bucketfuls, one flash of lightning followed another, the thunder rolled,
and the whole prospect was veiled in mist and cloud. He soon regretted
his intention. His soaked umbrella did not protect him from the rain,
which whipped his face and poured down on his clothes, and his feet sank
ankle-deep in the muddy ground. He was continually knocking against and
stumbling over unevennesses in the ground or tree stumps, treading in
holes and pools. He was obliged to stand still until a flash of
lightning lighted up a few yards of the path. He knew that not far away
lay a ruined arbour, dating from the time when the precipice formed part
of the garden. Not long before he had seen it in the thicket, but now it
was indiscoverable, however much he would have preferred to observe the
storm from its shelter. And since he did not wish to retrace the
horrible path by which he had come, he resolved to make his way to the
nearest carriage road, to climb over the twisted hedge and to reach the
village.
He could hardly drag his soaked boots free of the mud and weeds, and he
was dazzled by the lightning and nearly deafened by the noise. He
confessed that he might as well have admired the storm from the shelter
of the house. In the end he struck the fence, but when he tried to leap
over it he slipped and fell in the ditch. With difficulty he dragged
himself out and clambered over. There was little traffic on the steep
and dangerous ridge, used for the most part as a short cut by empty
one-horse carriages with their quiet beasts.
He closed his dripping umbrella, and put it under his arm. Dazzled by
the lightning, slipping every minute, he toiled painfully up the slope,
and when he reached the summit he heard close by the noise of wheels,
the neighing of horses and the cry of the coachman. He stood on one side
and pressed himself against the fence to allow the passage of the
carriage, since the road was very narrow. In a flash of lightning Raisky
saw before him a char-a-banc with several persons in it, drawn by two
well-kept, apparently magnificent horses. In the light of another flash
he was amazed to recognise Vera.
"Vera," he cried loudly.
The carriage stood still.
"Who is there? Is it you, cousin, in this weather?"
"And you?"
"I am hurrying home."
"So do I want to. I came down the precipice, and lost my way in the
bushes.
"Who is driving you? Is there room for me."
"Plenty of room," said a masculine voice. "Give me your hand to get up."
Raisky gave his hand, and was hauled up by a strong arm. Next to Vera
sat Marina, and the two, huddled together like wet chickens, were trying
to protect themselves from the drenching rain by the leather covering.
"Who is with you?" asked Raisky in a low voice. "Whose horses are these,
and who is driving?"
"Ivan Ivanovich."
"I don't know him."
"The Forester," whispered Vera, and he would have repeated her words if
she had not nudged him to keep silence. "Later," she said.
He remembered the talk with his aunt, her praises of the Forester, her
hints of his being a good match. This then was the hero of the romance,
the Forester. He tried to get a look at him, but only saw an ordinary
hat with a wide brim, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure wrapped in a
rain coat.
The Forester handled the reins skilfully as he drove up the steep hill,
cracked his whip, whistled, held the horses' heads with a firm hand when
they threatened to shy at a flash of lightning, and turned round to
those sheltered in the body of the vehicle.
"How do you feel, Vera Vassilievna," he inquired anxiously. "Are you
very cold and wet?"
"I am quite comfortable, Ivan Ivanovich; the rain does not catch me."
"You must take my raincoat. God forbid that you should take cold. I
should never forgive myself all my life for having driven you."
"You weary me with your friendly anxiety. Don't bother about anything
but your horses."
"As you please," replied Ivan Ivanovich with hasty obedience, turning to
his horses, and he cast only an occasional anxious glance towards Vera.
They drove past the village to the door of the new house. Ivan Ivanovich
jumped down and hammered on the door with his riding whip. Handing over
the care of his horses to Prokor, Tarasska and Egorka, who hurried up
for the purpose, he stood by the steps, took Vera in his arms, and
carried her carefully and respectfully, like a precious burden, through
the ranks of wide-eyed lackeys and maid-servants bearing lights, to the
divan in the hall.
Raisky followed, wet and dirty, without once removing his eyes from them.
The Forester went back into the ante-room, made himself as respectable
as he could, shook himself, pushed his fingers through his hair, and
demanded a brush.
Meanwhile Tatiana Markovna bade Vera welcome and reproached her for
venturing on such a journey; she must change her clothes throughout and
in a few moments the samovar would be brought in, and supper served.
"Quick, quick, Grandmother!" said Vera, rubbing herself affectionately
against her. "Let us have tea, soup, roast and wine. Ivan Ivanovich is
hungry." She knew how to quiet her aunt's anxiety.
"That's splendid. It shall be served in a minute. Where is Ivan
Ivanovich?"
"I am making myself a bit decent," cried a voice from the ante-room.
Egor, Yakob and Stepan hummed round the Forester as if he had been a
good horse. Then he entered the hall and respectfully kissed the hands
of Tatiana Markovna, and of Marfinka, who had only just decided to get
out of bed, where she had hidden herself for fear of the storm.
"It is not necessary, Marfinka," said her aunt, "to hide from the storm.
You should pray to God, and will not then be struck."
"I am not afraid of thunder and lightning, of which the peasants are
usually the victims, but it makes me nervous," replied Marfinka.
Raisky, with the water still dripping off him, stood in the window
watching the guest. Ivan Ivanovich Tushin was a tall, broad-shouldered
man of thirty-eight, with strongly-marked features, a dark, thick beard,
and large grey rather timid eyes, and hands disproportionately large,
with broad nails. He wore a grey coat and a high-buttoned vest, with a
broad turned-down home-spun collar. He was a fine man, but with marked
simplicity, not to put a fine point on it in his glance and his manners.
Raisky wondered jealously whether he was Vera's hero. Why not? Women
like these tall men with open faces and highly developed muscular
strength. But Vera--
"And you, Borushka," cried Tatiana Markovna suddenly, clapping her hands.
"Look at your clothes. Egorka and the rest of you! Where are you? There
is a pool on the floor round you, Borushka. You will be ill. Vera was
driving home, but there was no reason for you to go out into the storm.
Go and change your clothes, Borushka, and have some rum in your tea.
Ivan Ivanovich, you ought to go with him. Are you acquainted? My nephew
Boris Raisky--Ivan Ivanovich Tushin."
"We have already made acquaintance," said Tushin, with a bow. "We picked
up your nephew on the way. Many thanks, I need nothing, but you, Boris
Pavlovich, ought to change."
"You must forgive an old woman for telling you you are all half mad. No
animal leaves his hole in weather like this. Yakob, shut the shutters
closer. Fancy crossing the Volga in weather like this."
"My carriage is solid, and has a cover. Vera Vassilievna sat as dry as
if she were in a room."
"But in this terrible storm."
"Only old women are afraid of a storm."
"I'm much obliged."
"I beg your pardon," said Tushin in embarrassment. "It slipped from my
tongue. I meant ordinary women."
"God will forgive you," laughed Tatiana Markovna. "It won't indeed hurt
you, but Vera! Were you not afraid?"
"One does not think of fear with Ivan Ivanovich."
"If Ivan Ivanovich went bear-hunting, would you go with him?"
"Yes, Grandmother. Take me with you sometimes, Ivan Ivanovich."
"With pleasure, Vera Vassilievna, in winter. You have only to command."
"That is just like her, not to mind what her Grandmother thinks."
"I was joking, Grandmother."
"I know you would be equal to it. Had you no scruples about hindering
Ivan Ivanovich; this distance...."
"It is my fault. As soon as I heard from Natalie Ivanovna that Vera
Vassilievna wanted to come home, I asked for the pleasure," he said
looking at Vera with a mixed air of modesty and respect.
"A nice pleasure in this weather."
"It was lighter while we were driving, and Vera Vassilievna was not
afraid."
"Is Anna Ivanovna well?"
"Thank you. She sends her kindest regards, and has sent you some
preserves, also some peaches out of the orangery, and mushrooms. They
are in the char-a-banc."
"It is very good of her. We have no peaches. I have put aside for her
some of the tea that Borushka brought with him."
"Many thanks."
"How could you let your horses climb the hill in such weather? Were they
terrified by the storm?"
"My horses obey me like dogs. Should I have driven Vera Vassilievna if
there were any danger?"
"You are a good friend," interrupted Vera. "I have absolute trust both
in you, and in your horses."
At this moment Raisky returned, having changed his clothes. He had
noticed the glance which Vera gave Tushin, and had heard her last remark.
"Thank you, Vera Vassilievna," answered Tushin. "Don't forget what you
have just said. If you ever need anything, if...."
"If there is another such raging storm," said Tatiana Markovna.
"Any storm," added Tushin firmly.
"There are other storms in life," said Tatiana Markovna with a sigh.
"Whatever they are, if they break on you, Vera Vassilievna, seek refuge
in the forest over the Volga, where lives a bear who will serve you, as
the fairytale tells."
"I will remember," returned Vera laughing. "If a sorcerer wants to carry
me off, as in the fairy-tale, I will take refuge in the wood." |
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