"Leonti said," he began, "that you have been reading books out of my
library. Did you read them with him?"
"Sometimes he told me of the contents of certain books; others I read
with the priest, Natasha's husband."
"What books did you read with the priest?"
"For the moment I don't remember, but he read the writings of the
Fathers, for instance, and explained them to Natasha and me, to my great
advantage. We also read with him Voltaire and Spinoza. Why do you
laugh?" she asked, looking at Raisky.
"There seems a remarkable gap between the Fathers and Spinoza and
Voltaire. The Encyclopædists are also included in my library. Did you
read them?"
"Nikolai Ivanovich read some to us, and talked about others."
"Did you also occupy yourselves with Feuerbach, with the Socialists and
the Materialists?"
"Yes, Natasha's husband asked us to copy out passages, which he
indicated by pencil marks."
"What was his object in this?"
"I think he was preparing to publish a refutation."
"Where did you obtain the newer books that are not in my library?
Not the exile," he suggested as she gave no answer, "who lives
here under police supervision, the same man about whom you wrote
to me? But you are not listening."
"Yes, I am. Who gave me the books? Sometimes one person, sometimes
another here in the town."
"Volokov borrowed these books."
"Perhaps so, I had them from professors."
The thought flashed through Raisky's head that there might be other
professors of the same kind as Monsieur Charles. But he merely asked
what were the views of Nikolai Ivanovich on Spinoza and these other
writers.
"He says." replied Vera, "that these writings are the efforts of bold
minds to evade the truth; they have beaten out for themselves side paths
which must in the end unite with the main road. He says too, that all
these attempts serve the cause of truth, in that the truth shines out
with greater splendour in the end."
"But he does not tell you where truth lies?"
By way of answer she pointed to the little chapel now in sight.
"And you think he is right?"
"I don't think, I believe. And don't you also believe he is right."
He agreed, and she asked him why, that being so, he had asked her.
"I wanted," he said, "to know your opinion."
"But you have often seen me at prayer," said Vera.
"Yes, but I do not overhear your prayers. Do you pray for the
alleviation of the restless sorrow that afflicts your mind?"
They had reached the chapel, and Vera stood still for a moment. She did
not appear to have heard his question, and she answered only with a deep
sigh. It was growing dark as they retraced their steps, Vera's growing
slower and more uncertain as they approached the old house, where she
stood still and glanced in the direction of the precipice.
"To still the storm I must not go near the precipice, you say--I beg of
you to stand by me, for I am sick and helpless."
"Will not Grandmother know better how to help you, Vera? Confide in her,
a woman, who will perhaps understand your pain."
She shook her head. "I will tell you, Grandmother and you, but not now;
now I cannot. And yet I beg of you not to leave me, not to allow me out
of your sight. If a shot summons me, keep me away from the precipice,
and, if necessary, hold me back by force. Things are as bad as that with
me. That is all you can do for me. That is why I asked you not to go
away, because I felt that my strength is failing, because except you I
have no one to help me, for Grandmother would not understand. Forgive
me."
"You did right, Vera," he replied, deeply moved. "Depend on me. I am
willing to stay here for ever, if that will bring you peace."
"No, in a week's time the shots will cease."
She dried her eyes, and pressed his hand; then with slow, uneven steps,
supporting herself by the balustrade she passed up the steps and into
the house.
CHAPTER XXII
Two days had passed, and Raisky had had small opportunity of seeing
Vera alone, though she came to dinner and to tea, and spoke of ordinary
things. Raisky turned once more to his novel, or rather to the plan of
it. He visited Leonti, and did not neglect the Governor and other
friends. But in order to keep watch on Vera he wandered about the park
and the garden. Two days were now gone, he thought, since he sat on the
bench by the precipice, but there were still five days of danger.
Marfinka's birthday lay two days' ahead, and on that day Vera would
hardly leave the family circle. On the next Marfinka was to go with her
fiance and his mother to Kolchino, and Vera would not be likely to leave
Tatiana Markovna alone. By that time the week would be over and the
threatening clouds dispersed.
After dinner Vera asked him to come over to her in the evening, as she
wished him to undertake a commission for her. When he arrived she
suggested a walk, and, as she chose the direction of the fields he
realised that she wished to go to the chapel, and took the field path
accordingly.
As she crossed the threshold, she looked up at the thoughtful face of
the Christ.
"You have sought more powerful aid than mine," said Raisky. "Moreover,
you will not now go there without me."
She nodded in assent. She seemed to be seeking strength, sympathy and
support from the glance of the Crucified, but His eyes kept their
expression of quiet thought and detachment.
When she turned her eyes from the picture she reiterated, "I will not
go." Raisky read on her face neither prayer nor desire; it wore an
expression of weariness, indifference and submission.
He suggested that they should return, and reminded her that she had a
commission for him.
"Will you take the bouquet-holder that I chose the other week for
Marfinka's birthday to the goldsmith?" she said, handing him her purse.
"I gave him some pearls to set in it, and her name should be engraved.
And could you be up as early as eight o'clock on her birthday?"
"Of course. If necessary, I can stay up all night!"
"I have already spoken to the gardener, who owns the big orangery. Would
you choose me a nice bouquet and send it to me. I have confidence in
your taste."
"Your confidence in me makes progress, Vera," he laughed. "You already
trust my taste and my honour."
"I would have seen to all this myself," she went on, "but I have not the
strength."
Next day Raisky took the bouquet holder, and discussed the arrangement
of the flowers with the gardener. He himself bought for Marfinka an
elegant watch and chain, with two hundred roubles which he borrowed from
Tiet Nikonich, for Tatiana Markovna would not have given him so much
money for the purpose, and would have betrayed the secret. In Tiet
Nikonich's room he found a dressing table decked with muslin and lace,
with a mirror encased in a china frame of flowers and Cupids, a
beautiful specimen of Sevres work.
"Where did you get this treasure?" cried Raisky, who could not take his
eyes from the thing. "What a lovely piece!"
"It is my gift for Marfa Vassilievna," said Tiet Nikonich with his kind
smile. "I am glad it pleases you, for you are a connoisseur. Your liking
for it assures me that the dear birthday child will appreciate it as a
wedding gift. She is a lovely girl, just like these roses. The Cupids
will smile when they see her charming face in the mirror. Please don't
tell Tatiana Markovna of my secret."
"This beautiful piece must have cost over two thousand roubles, and you
cannot possibly have bought it here."
"My Grandfather gave five thousand roubles for it, and it was part of my
Mother's house-furnishing and until now it stood in her bedroom, left
untouched in my birth-place. I had it brought here last month, and to
make sure it should not be broken, six men carried it in alternate
shifts for the whole hundred and fifty versts. I had a new muslin cover
made, but the lace is old; you will notice how yellow it is. Ladies like
these things, although they don't matter to us."
"What will Grandmother say?"
"There will be a storm. I do feel rather uneasy about it, but perhaps
she will forgive me. I may tell you, Boris Pavlovich, that I love both
the girls, as if they were my own daughters. I held them on my knee as
babies, and with Tatiana Markovna gave them their first lessons. I tell
you in confidence that I have also arranged a wedding present for Vera
Vassilievna which I hope she will like when the time comes." He showed
Raisky a magnificent antique silver dinner service of fine workmanship
for twelve persons. "I may confess to you, as you are her cousin, that
in agreement with Tatiana Markovna I have a splendid and a rich marriage
in view for her, for whom nothing can be too good. The finest
_partie_ in this neighbourhood," he said in a confidential tone,
"is Ivan Ivanovich Tushin, who is absolutely devoted to her, as he well
may be."
Raisky repressed a sigh and went home where he found Vikentev and his
mother, who had arrived for Marfinka's birthday, with Paulina Karpovna
and other guests from the town, who stayed until nearly seven o'clock.
Tatiana Markovna and Marfa Egorovna carried on an interminable
conversation about Marfinka's trousseau and house furnishing. The lovers
went into the garden, and from there to the village. Vikentev carrying a
parcel which he threw in the air and caught again as he walked. Marfinka
entered every house, said good-bye to the women, and caressed the
children. In two cases she washed the children's faces, she distributed
calico for shirts and dresses, and told two elder children to whom she
presented shoes that it was time they gave up paddling in the puddles.
"God reward you, our lovely mistress, Angel of God!" cried the women in
every yard as she bade them farewell for a fortnight.
CHAPTER XXIII
In the evening the house was aglow with light. Tatiana Markovna could
not do enough in honour of her guest and future connexion. She had a
great bed put up in the guest-chamber, that nearly reached to the
ceiling and resembled a catafalque. Marfinka and Vikentev gave full rein
to their gay humour, as they played and sang. Only Raisky's windows were
dark. He had gone out immediately after dinner and had not returned to
tea.
The moon illuminated the new house but left the old house in shadow.
There was bustle in the yard, in the kitchen, and in the servants' rooms,
where Marfa Egorovna's coachman and servants were being entertained.
From seven o'clock onwards Vera had sat idle in the dusk by the feeble
light of a candle, her head supported on her hand, leaning over the
table, while with her other hand she turned over the leaves of a book at
which she hardly glanced. She was protected from the cold autumn air
from the open window, by a big white woollen shawl thrown round her
shoulders. She stood up after a time, laid the book on the table, and
went to the window. She looked towards the sky, and then at the
gaily-lighted house opposite. She shivered, and was about to shut the
window when the report of a gun rolled up from the park through the
quiet dusk.
She shuddered, and seemed to have lost the use of her limbs, then sank
into a chair and bowed her head. When she rose and looked wildly round,
her face had changed. Sheer fright and distress looked from her eyes.
Again and again she passed her hand over her forehead, and sat down at
the table, only to jump up again. She tore the shawl from her shoulders
and threw it on the bed; then with nervous haste she opened and shut the
cupboard; she looked on the divan, on the chairs, for something she
apparently could not find, and then collapsed wearily on her chair.
On the back of the chair hung a wrap, a gift from Tiet Nikonich. She
seized it and threw it over her head, rushed to the wardrobe, hunted in
it with feverish haste, taking out first one coat, then another, until
she had nearly emptied the cupboard and dresses and cloaks lay in a heap
on the floor. At last she found something warm and dark, put out the
light, and went noiselessly down the steps into the open. She crossed
the yard, hidden in the shadows, and took her way along the dark avenue.
She did not walk, she flew; and when she crossed the open light patches
her shadow was hardly visible for a moment, as if the moon had not time
to catch the flying figure.
When she reached the end of the avenue, by the ditch which divided the
garden from the park, she stopped a moment to get her breath. Then she
crossed the park, hurried through the bushes, past her favourite bench,
and reached the precipice. She picked up her skirts for the descent,
when suddenly, as if he had risen out of the ground, Raisky stood
between her and her goal.
"Where are you going, Vera?"
There was no answer.
"Go back," he said, offering his hand, but she tried to push past him.
"Vera, where are you going?"
"It is for the last time." she said in a pleading, shamed whisper. "I
must say good-bye. Make way for me, Cousin! I will return in a moment.
Wait for me here, on this bench."
Without replying, he took her firmly by the hand, and she struggled in
vain to free herself.
"Let me go! You are hurting me!"
But he did not give way, and the struggle proceeded.
"You will not hold me by force," she cried, and with unnatural strength
freed herself, and sought to dash past him.
But he put his arm round her waist, took her to the bench, and sat down
beside her.
"How rough and rude!" she cried.
"I cannot hold you back by force, Vera. I may be saving you from ruin."
"Can I be ruined against my own will?"
"It is against your will; yet you go to your ruin."
"There is no question of ruin. We must see one another again in order to
separate."
"It is not necessary to see one another in order to separate."
"I must, and will. An hour or a day later, it is all the same. You may
call the servants, the whole town, a file of soldiers, but no power will
keep me back."
A second shot resounded.
She pulled herself up, but was pressed down on the bench with the weight
of Raisky's hands. She shook her head wildly in powerless rage.
"What reward do you hope from me for this virtuous deed?" she hissed.
He said nothing, but kept a watchful eye on her movements. After a time
she besought him gently: "Let me go, Cousin," but he refused.
"Cousin," she said, laying her hand gently on his shoulder. "Imagine
that you sat upon hot coals, and were dying every minute of terror, and
of wild impatience, that happiness rose before you, stretching out
enticing arms, only to vanish, that your whole being rose to meet it;
imagine that you saw before you a last hope, a last glimmer. That is how
it is with me at this moment. The moment will be lost, and with it
everything else."
"Think, Vera, if in the hot thirst of fever you ask for ice, it is
denied you. In your soberer moments yesterday you pointed out to me the
practical means of rescue, you said I was not to let you go, and I will
not."
She fell on her knees before him, and wrung her hands.
"I should curse you my whole life long for your violence. Give way.
Perhaps it is my destiny that calls me."
"I was a witness yesterday, Vera, of where you seek your fate. You
believe in a Providence, and there is no other destiny."
"Yes," she answered submissively. "I do believe. There before the sacred
picture I sought for a spark to lighten my path, but in vain. What shall
I do?" she said, rising.
"Do not go, Vera."
"Perhaps it is my destiny that sends me there, there where my presence
may be needed. Don't try any longer to keep me, for I have made up my
mind. My weakness is gone, and I have recovered control of myself and
feel I am strong. It is not my destiny alone, but the destiny of another
human being that is to be decided down there. Between me and him you are
digging an abyss, and the responsibility will rest upon you. I shall
never be consoled, and shall accuse you of having destroyed our
happiness. Do not hold me back. You can only do it out of egoism, out of
jealousy. You lied when you spoke to me of freedom."
"I hear the voice of passion, Vera, with all its sophistry and its
deviations. You are practising the arts of a Jesuit. Remember that you
yourself bade me, only yesterday, not to leave you. Will you curse me
for not yielding to you? On whom does the responsibility rest? Tell me
who the man is?"
"If I tell you will you promise not to keep me back?" she said quickly.
"I don't know. Perhaps."
"Give me your word not to keep me any longer, and I give the name."
Another shot rang out.
She sprang to one side, before he had time to take her by the hand.
"Go to Grandmother," he commanded, adding gently, "Tell her your
trouble."
"For Christ's sake let me go. I ask for alms like a beggar. I must be
free! I take him to whom I prayed yesterday to witness that I am going
for the last time. Do you hear? I will not break my oath. Wait here for
me. I will return immediately, will only say farewell to the 'Wolf,'
will hear a word from him, and perhaps he will yield!" She rushed
forward, fell to the ground in her haste, and tried in vain to rise. Tom
by an unutterable pity, Raisky took no heed of his own suffering, but
raised her in his arms and bore her down the precipice.
"The path is so steep here that you would fall again," he whispered.
Presently he set her down on the path, and she stooped to kiss his hand.
"You are generous, Cousin. Vera will not forget."
With that she hurried into the thicket, jubilant as a bird set free from
his cage.
Raisky heard the rustle of the bushes as she pushed them aside, and the
crackle of the dry twigs.
In the half-ruined arbour waited Mark, with gun and cap laid upon the
table. He walked up and down on the shaky floor, and whenever he trod on
one end of a board the other rose in the air, and then fell clattering
back again.
"The devil's music!" he murmured angrily, sat down on a bench near the
table, and pushed his hands through his thick hair. He smoked one
cigarette after another, the burning match lighting up his pale,
agitated face for a moment. After each shot he listened for a few
minutes, went out on the steps, and looked out into the bushes. When he
returned he walked up and down, raising the "devil's music" once more,
threw himself on the bench, and ran his hands through his hair. After
the third shot he listened long and earnestly. As he heard nothing he
was on the point of going away. To relieve his gloomy feelings he
murmured a curse between his teeth, took the gun and prepared to descend
the path. He hesitated a few moments longer, then walked off with
decision. Suddenly he met Vera.
She stood still, breathing with difficulty, and laid her hand on her
heart. As soon as he took her hand she was calm. Mark could not conceal
his joy, but his words of greeting did not betray it.
"You used to be punctual, Vera," he said, "and I used not to have to
waste three shots."
"A reproach instead of a welcome!" she said, drawing her hand away.
"It's only by way of beginning a conversation Happiness makes a fool of
me, like Raisky."
"If happiness gleamed before us, we should not be meeting in secret by
this precipice," she said, drawing a long breath.
"We should be sitting at your Grandmother's tea-table, and waiting till
someone arranged our betrothal. Why dream of these impossible things.
Your Grandmother would not give you to me."
"She would. She does what I wish. That is not the hindrance."
"You are starting on this endless polemic again, Vera. We are meeting
for the last time, as you determined we should. Let us make an end of
this torture."
"I took an oath never to come here again."
"Meanwhile, the time is precious. We are parting for ever, if stupidity
commands, if your Grandmother's antiquated convictions separate us. I
leave here a week from now. As you know the document assuring my freedom
has arrived. Let us be together, and not be separated again."
"Never?"
"Never!" he repeated angrily, with a gesture of impatience. "What lying
words those are, 'never' and 'always.' Of course 'never.' Does not a
year, perhaps two, three years, mean never? You want a never ending
tenderness. Does such a thing exist?"
"Enough, Mark! I have heard enough of this temporary affection. Ah! I am
very unhappy. The separation from you is not the only cloud over my soul.
For a year now I have been hiding myself from my Grandmother, which
oppresses me, and her still more. I hoped that in these days my trouble
would end; we should put our thoughts, our hopes, our intentions on a
clear footing. Then I would go to Grandmother and say: 'This is what I
have chosen for my whole life.' But it is not to be, and we are to
part?" she asked sadly.
"If I conceived myself to be an angel," said Mark, "I might say 'for our
whole lives,' and you would be justified. That gray-headed dreamer,
Raisky, also thinks that women are created for a higher purpose."
"They are created above all for the family. They are not angels, neither
are they, most certainly, mere animals. I am no wolf's mate, Mark, but a
woman."
"For the family, yes. But is that any hindrance for us. You want
draperies, for fine feeling, sympathies and the rest of the stuff are
nothing but draperies, like those famous leaves with which, it is said,
human beings covered themselves in Paradise."
"Yes, Mark, human beings!"
Mark smiled sarcastically, and shrugged his shoulders.
"They may be draperies," continued Vera, "but they also, according to
your own teaching, are given by nature. What, I ask, is it that attaches
you to me? You say you love me. You have altered, grown thinner. Is it
not, by your conception of love, a matter of indifference whether you
choose a companion in me, or from the poor quarter of our town, or from
a village on the Volga. What has induced you to come down here for a
whole year?"
"Examine your own fallacy, Vera," he said, looking at her gloomily.
"Love is not a concept merely, but a driving force, a necessity, and
therefore is mostly blind. But I am not blindly chained to you. Your
extraordinary beauty, your intellect and your free outlook hold me
longer in thrall than would be possible with any other woman."
"Very flattering!" she said in a low, pained voice.
"These ideas of yours, Vera, will bring us to disaster. But for them we
should for long have been united and happy."
"Happy for a time. And then a new driving force will appear on the scene,
the stage will be cleared, and so on."
"The responsibility is not ours. Nature has ordered it so, and rightly.
Can we alter Nature, in order to live on concepts?"
"These concepts are essential principles. You have said yourself that
Nature has her laws, and human beings their principles."
"That is where the germ of disintegration lies, in that men want to
formulate principles from the driving force of Nature, and thus to
hamper themselves hand and foot. Love is happiness, which Nature has
conferred on man. That is my view."
"The happiness of which you speak," said Vera, rising, "has as its
complement, duty. That is my view."
"How fantastic! Forget your duty, Vera, and acquiesce in the fact that
love is a driving force of Nature, often an uncontrollable one." Then
standing up to her embraced her, saying, "Is that not so, you most
obstinate, beautiful and wisest of women?"
"Yes, duty," she said haughtily, disengaging herself. "For the years of
happiness retribution will be exacted."
"How? In making soup, nursing one another, looking at one another and
pretending, in harping on principles, as we ourselves fade? If one half
falls ill and retrogresses, shall the other who is strong, who hears the
call of life, allow himself to be held back by duty?"
"Yes. In that case he must not listen to the calls that come to him; he
must, to use Grandmother's expression, avoid the voice as he would the
brandy bottle. That is how I understand happiness."
"Your case must be a bad one if it has to be bolstered up by quotations
from your Grandmother's wisdom. Tell me how firmly your principles are
rooted."
"I will go to her to-day direct from here."
"To tell her what?"
"To tell her what there is between us, all that she does not know," she
said, sitting down on the bench again.
"Why?"
"You don't understand, because you don't know what duty means. I have
been guilty before her for a long time."
"That is the morality which smothers life with mould and dulness. Vera,
Vera, you don't love, you do not know how!"
"You ought not to speak like that, unless you wish to drive me to
despair. Am I to think that there is deception in your past, that you
want to ruin me when you do not love me?"
"No, no, Vera," he said, rising hastily to his feet. "If I had wanted to
deceive you I could have done so long ago."
"What a desperate war you wage against yourself, Mark, and how you ruin
your own life!" she cried, wringing her hands.
"Let us cease to quarrel, Vera. Your Grandmother speaks through you, but
with another voice. That was all very well once, but now we are in the
flood of another life where neither authority nor preconceived ideas
will help us, where truth alone asserts her power."
"Where is truth?"
"In happiness, in the joy of love. And I love you. Why do you torture me.
Why do you fight against me and against yourself, and make two victims?"
"It is a strange reproach. Look at me. It is only a few days since we
saw one another, and have I not changed?"
"I see that you suffer, and that makes it the more senseless. Now, I too
ask what has induced you to come down here for all this time?"
"Because I had not earlier realised the horror of my position, you will
say," she said, with a look that was almost hostile. "We might have
asked one another this question, and made this reproach, long ago, and
might have ceased to meet here. Better late than never! To-day we must
answer the question, What is it that we wanted and expected from one
another?"
"Here is my irrefragable opinion--I want your love, and I give you mine.
In love I recognise solely the principle of reciprocation, as it obtains
in Nature. The law that I acknowledge is to follow unfettered our strong
impression, to exchange happiness for happiness. This answers your
question of why I came here. Is sacrifice necessary? Call it what you
will there is no sacrifice in my scheme of life. I will no longer wander
in this morass, and don't understand how I have wasted my strength so
long, certainly not for your sake, but essentially for my own. Here I
will stay so long as I am happy, so long as I love. If my love grows
cold, I shall tell you so, and go wherever Life leads me, without taking
any baggage of duties and privileges with me; those I leave here in the
depths below the precipice. You see, Vera, I don't deceive you, but
speak frankly. Naturally you possess the same rights as I. The mob above
there lies to itself and others, and calls these his principles. But in
secret and by cunning it acts in the same way, and only lays its ban on
the women. Between us there must be equality. Is that fair or not?"
"Sophistry!" she said, shaking her head. "You know my principles, Mark."
"To hang like stones round one another's necks."
"Love imposes duties, just as life demands them. If you had an old,
blind mother you would maintain and support her, would remain by her. An
honourable man holds it to be his duty and his pleasure too."
"You philosophise, Vera, but you do not love."
"You avoid my argument, Mark. I speak my opinion plainly, for I am a
woman, not an animal, or a machine."
"Your love is the fantastic, elaborate type described in novels. Is what
you ask of me honourable? Against my convictions I am to go into a
church, to submit to a ceremony which has no meaning for me. I don't
believe any of it and can't endure the parson. Should I be acting
logically or honourably?"
Vera hastily wrapped herself in her mantilla, and stood up to go.
"We met, Mark, to remove all the obstacles that stand in the way of our
happiness, but instead of that we are increasing them. You handle
roughly things that are sacred to me. Why did you call me here? I
thought you had surrendered, that we should take one another's hands for
ever. Every time I have taken the path down the cliff it has been in
this hope, and in the end I am disappointed. Do you know, Mark, where
true life lies?"
"Where?"
"In the heart of a loving woman. To be the friend of such a woman...."
Tears stifled her voice, but through her sobs she whispered: "I cannot,
Mark. Neither my intellect nor my strength are sufficient to dispute
with you. My weapon is weak, and has no value except that I have drawn
it from the armoury of a quiet life, not from books or hearsay. I had
thought to conquer you with other weapons. Do you remember how all this
began?" she said, sitting down once more. "At first I was sorry for you.
You were here alone, with no one to understand you, and everyone fled at
the sight of you. I was drawn to you by sympathy, and saw something
strange and undisciplined in you. You had no care for propriety, you
were incautious in speech, you played rashly with life, cared for no
human being, had no faith of your own, and sought to win disciples. From
curiosity I followed your steps, allowed you to meet me, took books from
you. I recognised in you intellect and strength, but strangely mixed and
directed away from life. Then, to my sorrow, I imagined that I could
teach you to value life, I wanted you to live so that you should be
higher and better than anyone else, I quarrelled with you over your
undisciplined way of living. You submitted to my influence, and I
submitted to yours, to your intellect, your audacity, and even adopted
part of your sophistry."
"But you soon," put in Mark, "retraced your steps, and were seized with
fear of your Grandmother. Why did you not leave me when you first became
aware of my sophistry? Sophistry!"
"It was too late, for I had already taken your fate too intimately to
heart. I believed with all possible ardour that you would for my sake
comprehend life, that you would cease to wander about to your own injury
and without advantage to anyone else, that you would accept a
substantial position of some kind...."
"Vice-governor, Councillor or something of the kind," he mocked.
"What's in the name? Yes, I thought that you would show yourself a man
of action in a wide sphere of influence."
"As a well-disposed subject and as jack of all trades, and what else?"
"My lifelong friend. I let my hopes of you take hold on me, and was
carried away by them, and what are my gains in the terrible conflict?
One only, that you flee from love, from happiness, from life, and from
your Vera." She drew closer to him and touched his shoulder. "Don't fly
from us, Mark. Look in my eyes, listen to my voice, which speaks with
the voice of truth. Let us go to-morrow up the hill into the garden, and
to-morrow there will be no happier pair than we are. You love me, Mark.
Mark, do you hear? Look at me."
She stooped, and looked into his eyes.
He got sharply to his feet, and shook his mass of hair.
Vera took up her black mantilla once more, but her hands refused to obey
her, and the mantilla fell on the floor. She took a step towards the
door, but sank down again on the bench. Where could she find strength to
hold him, when she had not even strength to leave the arbour, she
wondered. And even if she could hold him, what would be the consequences?
Not one life, but two separate lives, two prisons, divided by a grating.
"We are both brusque and strong, Vera; that is why we torture one
another, why we are separating."
"If I were strong, you would not leave Malinovka; you would ascend the
hill with me, not clandestinely, but boldly by my side. Come and share
life and happiness with me. It is impossible that you should not trust
me, impossible that you are insincere, for that would be a crime. What
shall I do? How shall I bring home to you the truth?"
"You would have to be stronger than I, but we are of equal strength.
That is why we dispute and are not of one mind. We must separate without
bringing our struggle to an issue, one must submit to the other. I could
take forcible possession of you as I could of any other woman. But what
in another woman is prudery, or petty fear, or stupidity, is in you
strength and womanly determination. The mist that divided us is
dispersed; we have made our position clear. Nature has endued you with a
powerful weapon, Vera. The antiquated ideas, morality, duty, principles,
and faiths that do not exist for me are firmly established with you. You
are not easily carried away, you put up a desperate fight and will only
confess yourself conquered under terms of equality with your opponent.
You are wrong, for it is a kind of theft. You ask to be conquered, and
to carry off all the spoils! I, Vera, cannot give everything, but I
respect you."
Vera gave him a glance in which there was a trace of pride, but her
heart beat with the pain of parting. His words were a model of what a
farewell should be.
"We have gone to the bottom of the matter," said Mark dully, "and I
leave the decision in your hands." He went to the other side of the
arbour, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. "I am not deceiving you even
now, in this decisive moment, when my head is giddy--I cannot. I do not
promise you an unending love, because I do not believe in such a thing.
I will not be your betrothed. But I love you more than anything else in
the world. If, after all I have told you, you come to my arms, it means
that you love me, that you are mine."
She looked across at him with wide open eyes, and felt that her whole
body was trembling. A doubt shot through her mind. Was he a Jesuit, or
was the man who brought her into this dangerous dilemma in reality of
unbending honour?
"Yours for ever?" she said in a low voice. If he said, "yes," it would,
she knew, be a bridge for the moment to help her over the abyss that
divided them, but that afterwards she would be plunged into the abyss.
She was afraid of him.
Mark was painfully agitated, but he answered in a subdued tone, "I do
not know. I only know what I am doing now, and do not see even into the
near future. Neither can you. Let us give love for love, and I remain
here, quieter than the waters of the pool, humbler than grass. I will do
what you will, and what do you ask more. Or," he added suddenly, coming
nearer, "we will leave this place altogether...."
In a lightning flash the wide world seemed to smile before her, as if
the gates of Paradise were open. She threw herself in Mark's arms and
laid her hand on his shoulder. If she went away into the far distance
with him, she thought, he could not tear himself from her, and once
alone with her he must realise that life was only life in her presence.
"Will you decide!" he asked seriously. She said nothing, but bowed her
head. "Or do you fear your Grandmother?"
The last words brought her to her senses, and she stepped back.
"If I do not decide," she whispered, "it is only because I fear her."
"The old lady would not let you go."
"She would let me go, and would give me her blessing, but she herself
would die of grief. That is what I fear. To go away together," she said
dreamily, "and what then?" She looked up at him searchingly.
"And then? How can I know, Vera?"
"You will suddenly be driven from me; you will go and leave me, as if I
were merely a log?"
"Why a log? We could separate as friends."
"Separation! Do the ideas of love and separation exist side by side in
your mind? They are extremes which should never meet. Separation must
only come with death. Farewell, Mark! You can never promise me the
happiness that I seek. All is at an end. Farewell!"
"Farewell, Vera!" he said in a voice quite unlike his own.
Both were pale, and avoided one another's eyes. In the white moonlight
that gleamed through the trees Vera sought her mantilla, and grasped the
gun instead. At last she found the mantilla, but could not put it on her
shoulders. Mark helped her mechanically, but left his own belongings
behind. They went silently up the path, with slow and hesitating steps,
as if each expected something from the other, both of them occupied with
the same mental effort to find a pretext for delay. They came at last to
the spot where Mark's way lay across a low fence, and hers by the
winding path through the bushes up to the park.
Vera stood still. She seemed to see the events of her whole life pass
before her in quick succession, but saw none filled with bitterness like
the present. Her eyes filled with tears. She felt a violent impulse to
look round once more, to see him once more, to measure with her eyes the
extent of her loss, and then to hurry on again. But however great her
sorrow for her wrecked happiness she dare not look round, for she knew
it would be equivalent to saying Yes to destiny. She took a few steps up the path. |
|
댓글 없음:
댓글 쓰기