Mark strode fiercely away towards the hedge, like a wild beast baulked
of his prey. He had not lied when he said that he esteemed Vera, but it
was an esteem wrung from him against his will, the esteem of the soldier
for a brave enemy. He cursed the old-fashioned ideas which had enchained
her free and vivacious spirit. His suffering was the suffering of
despair; he was in the mood of a madman who would shatter a treasure of
which the possession was denied him, in order that no one else might
possess it. He was ready to spring, and could hardly restrain himself
from laying violent hands on Vera. By his own confession to her he would
have treated any other woman so, but not Vera. Then the conviction
gnawed at his heart that for the sake of the woman who was now escaping
him he was neglecting his "mission." His pride suffered unspeakably by
the confession of his own powerlessness. He admitted that the beautiful
statue filled with the breath of life had character; she acted in
accordance with her own proud will, not by the influence of outside
suggestion. His new conception of truth did not subdue her strong,
healthy temperament; it rather induced her to submit it to a minute
analysis and to stick closer to her own conception of the truth. And now
she was going, and as the traces of her footsteps would vanish, so all
that had passed between them would be lost. And with her went all the
charm and glory of life, never to return.
He stamped his feet with rage and swung himself on to the fence. He
would cast one glance in her direction to see if the haughty creature
was really going.
"One more glance," thought Vera. She turned, and shuddered to see Mark
sitting on the fence and gazing at her.
"Farewell, Mark," she cried, in a voice trembling with despair.
From his throat there issued a low, wild cry of triumph. In a moment he
was by her side, with victory and the conviction of her surrender in his
heart.
"Vera!"
"You have come back, for always? You have at last understood. What
happiness! God forgive...."
She did not complete her sentence, for she lay wrapt in his embrace, her
sobs quenched by his kisses. He raised her in his arms, and like a wild
animal carrying off his prey, ran with her back to the arbour.
God forgive her for having turned back.
CHAPTER XXIV
Raisky lay on the grass at the top of the cliff for a long time in
gloomy meditation, groaning over the penalty he must pay for his
generosity, suffering alike for himself and Vera. "Perhaps she is
laughing at my folly, down there with him. Who is there?" he cried aloud,
stung with rage. "I will have his name." He saw himself merely as a
shield to cover her passion. He sprang up wildly, and hurried down the
precipice, tearing his clothes in the bushes and listening in vain for a
suspicious rustling. He told himself that it was an evil thing to pry
into another's secret; it was robbery. He stood still a moment to wipe
the sweat from his brow, but his sufferings overcame his scruples. He
felt his way stealthily forward, cursing every broken branch that
cracked under his feet, and unconscious of the blows he received on his
face from the rebounding branches as he forced his way through. He threw
himself on the ground to regain his breath, then in order not to betray
his presence crept along, digging his nails into the ground as he went.
When he reached the suicide's grave he halted, uncertain which way to
follow, and at length made for the arbour, listening and searching the
ground as he went.
Meanwhile everything was going on as usual in Tatiana Markovna's
household. After supper the company sat yawning in the hall, Tiet
Nikonich alone being indefatigable in his attentions, shuffling his foot
when he made a polite remark, and looking at each lady as if he were
ready to sacrifice everything for her sake.
"Where is Monsieur Boris?" inquired Paulina Karpovna, addressing Tatiana
Markovna.
"Probably he is paying a visit in the town. He never says where he
spends his time, so that I never know where to send the carriage for
him."
Inquiries made of Yakob revealed the fact that he had been in the garden
up to a late hour. Vera was not in the house when she was summoned to
tea. She had left word that they were not to keep supper for her, and
that she would send across for some if she were hungry. No one but
Raisky had seen her go.
Tatiana Markovna sighed over their perversity, to be wandering about at
such hours, in such cold weather.
"I will go into the garden," said Paulina Karpovna. "Perhaps Monsieur
Boris is not far away. He will be delighted to see me. I noticed," she
continued confidentially, "that he had something to say to me. He could
not have known I was here."
Marfinka whispered to Vikentev that he did know, and had gone out on
that account.
"I will go, Marfa Vassilievna, and hide behind a bush, imitate Boris
Pavlovich's voice and make her a declaration," suggested Vikentev.
"Stay here, Nikolai Andreevich. Paulina Karpovna might be frightened and
faint. Then you would have to reckon with Grandmother."
"I am going into the garden for a moment to fetch the fugitive," said
Paulina Karpovna.
"God be with you, Paulina Karpovna," said Tatiana Markovna. "Don't put
your nose outside in the darkness, or at any rate take Egorka with you
to carry a lantern."
"No, I will go alone. It is not necessary for anyone to disturb us."
"You ought not," intervened Tiet Nikonich politely, "to go out after
eight o'clock on these damp nights. I would not have ventured to detain
you, but a physician from Dusseldorf on the Rhine, whose book I am now
reading and can lend you if you like, and who gives excellent advice,
says...."
Paulina Karpovna interrupted him by asking him if he would see her home,
and then went into the garden before he could resume his remarks. He
agreed to her request and shut the door after her.
Soon after Paulina Karpovna's exit there was a rustling and crackling on
the precipice, and Raisky wearing the aspect of a restless, wounded
animal, appeared out of the darkness. He sat for several minutes
motionless on Vera's favourite bench, covering his eyes with his hands.
Was it dream or reality, he asked himself. He must have been mistaken.
Such a thing could not be. He stood up, then sat down again to listen.
With his hands lying listlessly on his knees, he broke into laughter
over his doubts, his questionings, his secret. Again he had an access of
terrible laughter. Vera--and _he_. The cloak which he himself had
sent to the "exile" lay near the arbour. The rogue had been clever
enough to get two hundred and twenty roubles for the settlement of his
wager, and the earlier eighty in addition. Sekleteia Burdalakov!
Again he laughed with a laugh very near a groan. Suddenly he stopped,
and put his hand to his side, seized with a sudden consciousness of pain.
Vera was free, but he told himself she had dared to mock another fellow
human being who had been rash enough to love her; she had mocked her
friend. His soul cried for revenge.
He sprang up intent on revenge, but was checked by the question of how
to avenge himself. To bring Tatiana Markovna, with lanterns, and a crowd
of servants and to expose the scandal in a glare of light; to say to her,
"Here is the serpent you have carried for two and twenty years in your
bosom"--that would be a vulgar revenge of which he knew himself to be
incapable. Such a revenge would hit, not Vera, but his aunt, who was to
him like his mother. His head drooped for a moment; then he rose and
hurried like a madman down the precipice once more.
There in the depths passion was holding her festival, night drew her
curtain over the song of love, love ... with Mark. If she had
surrendered to another lover, to the tall, handsome Tushin, the owner of
land, lake, and forest, and the Olympian tamer of horses....
He could hardly breathe. Against his will there rose before him, from
the depths of the precipice, the vision of Vera's figure, glorified with
a seductive beauty that he had never yet seen in her, and though he was
devoured by agony he could not take his eyes from the vision. At her
feet, like a lion at rest, lay Mark, with triumph on his face. Her foot
rested on his head. Horror seized him, and drove him onward, to destroy
and mar the vision. He seemed to hear in the air the flattering words,
the songs and the sighs of passion; the vision became fainter,
mist-enshrouded, and finally vanished into air, but the rage for
revenge remained.
Everywhere was stillness and darkness, as he climbed the hill once more,
but when he reached Vera's bench he saw a human shadow.
"Who is there?" he cried.
"Monsieur Boris, it is I, Paulina."
"You, what are you doing here?"
"I came, because I knew, I knew that you have long had something to say
to me, but have hesitated. Du courage. There is no one to see or hear us.
_Esperez tout...._"
"What do you want? Speak out."
_"Que vous m'aimez._ I have known it for a long time. _Vous
m'avez fui, mais la passion vous a ramene ici...._"
He seized her roughly by the hand, and pushed her to the edge of the
precipice.
"Ah, _de grace. Mais pas si brusquement ... qu'est-ce que vous
faites ... mais laissez donc,_" she groaned.
Her anxiety was not altogether groundless, for she stood on the edge of
an abrupt fall of the ground, and he grasped her hand more determinedly.
"You want love," he cried to the terrified woman. "Listen, to-night is
love's night. Do you hear the sighs, the kisses, the breath of passion?"
"Let me go! Let me go! I shall fall."
"Away from here," he cried, loosening his grasp and drawing a deep
breath.
Like a madman he ran across the garden and the flower garden into the
yard, where Egorka was washing his hands and face at the spring.
"Bring my trunk," he cried. "I am going to St. Petersburg in the
morning." He ran water over his hands and washed his face and eyes
before he turned to go to his room.
He could not stay within the four walls of his chamber. He went out
again and again, unprotected against the cold, to look at Vera's window.
It was hardly possible to see ten paces ahead in the darkness. He went
to the acacia arbour to watch for Vera's return, and was furious because
he could not conceal himself there, now that the leaves had fallen. He
sat there in torture until morning dawned, not from passion, which had
been drowned in that night's experiences. What passion would stand such
a shock as this? But he had an unconquerable desire to look Vera in the
face, this new Vera, and with one glance of scorn to show her the shame,
the affront she had put on him, on their aunt, on the whole household,
on their society, on womanhood itself. He awaited her return in a fever
of impatience. Suddenly he sprang up with an evil look of triumph on his
face.
"Fate has given me the idea," he thought. He found the gates still
locked, but there was a lamp before the ikon in Savili's room, and he
ordered him to let him out and to leave the gates unlocked. He took from
his room the bouquet holder and hastened to the orangery to the gardener.
He had to wait a long time before it opened. The light grew stronger.
When he looked over at the trees in the orangery, an evil smile again
crossed his face. The gardener was arranging Marfinka's bouquet.
"I want another bouquet," said Raisky unsteadily.
"One like this?"
"No, only orange blossoms," he whispered, turning paler as he spoke.
"Right, Sir," said the gardener, recalling that one of Tatiana
Markovna's young ladies was betrothed.
"I am thirsty," said Raisky. "Give me a glass of water."
He drank the water greedily, and hurried the gardener on. When the
second bouquet was ready he paid lavishly.
He returned to the house cautiously, carrying the two bouquets. As he
did not know whether Vera had returned in his absence, he had Marina
called, and sent her to see if her mistress was at home or had already
gone out walking. On hearing she was out he ordered Marfinka's bouquet
to be put on Vera's table and the window to be opened. Then he dismissed
Marina, and returned to the acacia arbour. Passion and jealousy set
loose raged unchecked, and when pity raised her head she was quenched by
the torturing, overmastering feeling of outrage. He suppressed the low
voice of sympathy, and his better self was silent. He was shuddering,
conscious that poison flowed in his veins, the poison of lies and
deception.
"I must either shoot this dog Mark, or myself," he thought.
He held the bouquet of orange-blossoms in his two hands, like a sacred
thing, and drank in its beauty with a wild delight. Then he fixed his
eyes on the dark avenue, but she did not come.
Broad daylight came, a fine rain began to fall and made the paths sodden.
At last Vera appeared in the distance. His heart beat faster, and his
knees trembled so that he had to steady himself by the bench to keep
from falling.
She came slowly nearer, with her bowed head wrapped in a dark mantilla,
held in place over her breast by her pale hands, and walked into the
porch without seeing him. Raisky sprang from his place of observation,
and hid himself under her window.
She entered her room in a dream, without noticing that her clothes which
she had flung on the floor when she went out had been put back again,
and without observing the bouquet on the table or the opened window.
Mechanically she threw aside her mantilla, and changed her muddy shoes
for satin slippers; then she sank down on the divan, and closed her eyes.
After a brief minute she was awakened from her dream by the thud of
something falling on the floor. She opened her eyes and saw on the floor
a great sheaf of orange blossoms, which had plainly been thrown through
the window.
Pale as death, and without picking up the flowers, she hurried to the
window. She saw Raisky, as he went away, and stood transfixed. He looked
round, and their eyes met.
She was seized by pain so sharp that she could hardly breathe, and
stepped back. Then she saw the bouquet intended for Marfinka on the
table. She picked it up, half unconsciously, to press it to her face,
but it slipped from her hands, and she herself fell unconscious on the
floor.
CHAPTER XXV
At ten o'clock the big bell in the village church began to sound for
Mass. Tatiana Markovna's household was full of stir and bustle. The
horses were being harnessed to the caleche and to an old fashioned
carriage. The coachmen, already drunk, donned their new dark blue
caftans, and their hair shone with grease. The women servants made a gay
picture in their many coloured cotton dresses, head and neck kerchiefs,
and the maids employed in the house diffused a scent of cloves within a
ten yards radius. The cooks had donned their white caps in the early
morning, and had been incessantly busy in the preparation of the
breakfast, dinner and supper to be served to the family and their guests,
the kitchen, and the servants the visitors brought with them.
Tatiana Markovna had begun to make her toilet at eight o'clock, as soon
as she had given her orders; she descended to the hall to greet her
guests with the reserved dignity of a great lady, and the gentle smile
of a happy mother and a hospitable hostess. She had set a small simple
cap on her grey hair; the light brown silk dress that Raisky had brought
from St. Petersburg suited her well, and round her neck she wore
beautiful old lace; the Turkish shawl lay on the arm-chair in her room.
Now she was preparing to drive to Mass, and walked slowly up and down
the hall with crossed hands, awaiting the assembly of the household. She
hardly noticed the bustle around her, as the servants went hither and
thither, sweeping the carpets, cleaning the lamps, dusting the mirrors,
and taking the covers from the furniture. She went first to one window
and then to the other, looking out meditatively on the road, the garden
and the courtyards.
Vikentev's mother was dressed in pearl grey with dark lace trimmings.
Vikentev himself had been in his dress coat and white gloves from eight
o'clock onwards.
Tatiana Markovna's pride and joy knew no bounds when Marfinka appeared,
radiating gaiety from her bright eyes. While she slept the walls of her
two rooms had been decorated with flowers and garlands. She was going to
put on her simple blouse when she woke, but instead there lay on the
chair by her bed a morning gown of lace and muslin with pink ribbons.
She had not had time to give vent to her admiration when she saw on two
other chairs two lovely dresses, one pink and one blue, for her to make
her choice for the gala day.
She jumped up, and threw on her new morning gown without waiting to put
on her stockings, and when she approached her mirror she found a new
surprise in the gifts that lay on her toilet table. She did not know
which to look at, or which to take up.
First she opened a lovely rosewood casket which contained a complete
dressing set, flasks, combs, brushes and endless trifles in glass and
silver, with a card bearing the name of her future Mama. Beside it lay
cases of different sizes. She threw a quick glance in the mirror,
smoothed back her abundant hair from her eyes, seized all the cases in a
heap, and sat down on the bed to look at them. She hesitated to open
them, and finally began with the smallest, which contained an emerald
ring, which she hastily put on her finger. A larger case held earrings
which she inserted in her ears and admired in the glass from the bed.
There were massive gold bracelets, set with rubies and diamonds, which
she also put on. Last of all she opened the largest case, and looked
astonished and dazzled at its splendid contents: a chain of strung
diamonds, twenty-one to match her years. The accompanying card said:
"With this gift I confide to you another, a costly one, my best of
friends--myself. Take care of him. Your lover, Vikentev."
She laughed, looked round, kissed the card, blushed, sprang from the bed
and laid the case in her cupboard, in the box where she kept her bonbons.
There was still another case on the table, containing Raisky's gift of a
watch, whose enamel cover bore her monogram, and its chain.
She looked at it with wide eyes, threw another glance at the other gifts
and the garlanded walls, then threw herself on a chair and wept hot
tears of joy. "Oh, God!" she sobbed happily. "Why does everyone love me
so. I do no good to anyone, and never shall."
And so, undressed, without shoes and stockings, but adorned with rings,
bracelets, diamond earrings, she tearfully sought her aunt, who caressed
and kissed her darling when she heard the cause of her tears.
"God loves you, Marfinka, because you love others, because all who see
you are infected by your happiness."
Marfinka dried her tears.
"Nikolai Andreevich loves me, but he is my fiance; so does his Mama, but
so does my cousin, Boris Pavlovich, and what am I to him?"
"The same as you are to everyone. No one can look at you and not be
happy; you are modest, pure and good, obedient to your Grandmother.
Spendthrift," she murmured in an aside, to hide her pleasure. "Such a
costly gift! You shall hear of this, Borushka!"
"Grandmother! As if Boris Pavlovich could have guessed it. I have wanted
a little enamelled watch like this for a long time."
"You haven't asked your Grandmother why she gives you nothing?"
Marfinka shut her mouth with a kiss.
"Grandmother," she said, "love me always, if you want to make me happy."
"With my love I will give you my enduring gift," she said, making the
sign of the cross over Marfinka. "So that you shall not forget my
blessing," she went on, feeling in her pocket--"You have given me two
dresses, Grandmother, but who decorated my room so magnificently?"
"Your fiance and Paulina Karpovna sent the things yesterday, and kept
them out of your sight. Vassilissa and Pashutka hung the garlands up at
daybreak. The dresses are part of your trousseau, and there are more to
follow." Then taking from its case a gold cross with four large diamonds
she hung it round the girl's neck, and gave her a plain, simple bracelet
with the inscription: "From Grandmother to her Grandchild," and with the
name and the date.
Marfinka kissed her aunt's hand, and nearly wept once more.
"All that Grandmother has, and she has many things, will be divided
between you and Veroshka. Now make haste."
"How lovely you are to-day, Grandmother. Cousin is right. Tiet Nikonich
will fall in love with you."
"Nonsense, chatterbox. Go to Veroshka, and tell her not to be late for
Mass. I would have gone myself, but am afraid of the steps."
"Directly, Grandmother," cried Marfinka, and hastened to change her
dress.
Vera lay unconscious for half an hour before she came to herself. The
cold wind that streamed through the open window fell on her face, and
she sat up to look around her. Then she rose, shut the window, walked
unsteadily to the bed, sank down on it, and drawing the cover over
herself, lay motionless.
Overpowered with weakness she fell into a deep sleep, with her hair
loose over the pillow. She slept heavily for about three hours until she
was awakened by the noise in the courtyard, the many voices, the
creaking of wheels and the sound of bells. She opened her eyes, looked
round, and listened.
There was a light knock at the door, but Vera did not stir. There was a
louder knock, but she remained motionless. At the third she got up,
glanced in the glass, and was terrified by the sight of her own face.
She pushed her hair into order, threw a shawl over her shoulders, picked
up Marfinka's bouquet from the floor, and laid it on the table. There
was another knock and she opened the door. Marfinka, gay and lovely,
gleaming like a rainbow in her pretty clothes, flew into the room. When
she saw her sister she stood still in amazement.
"What is the matter with you, Veroshka? Aren't you well?"
"Not quite. I offer you my congratulations."
The sisters kissed one another.
"How lovely you are, and how beautifully dressed!" said Vera, making a
faint attempt to smile. Her lips framed one, but her eyes were like the
eyes of a corpse that no one has remembered to close. But she felt she
must control herself, and hastened to present Marfinka with the bouquet.
"What a lovely bouquet! And what is this?" asked Marfinka as she felt a
hard substance, and discovered the holder set with her name and the
pearls. "You, too, Veroshka! How is it you all love me so? I love you
all, how I love you! But how and when you found out that I did, I cannot
think."
Vera was not capable of answering, but she caressed Marfinka's shoulder
affectionately.
"I must sit down," she said. "I have slept badly through the night."
"Grandmother calls you to Mass."
"I cannot, darling. Tell her I am unwell, and cannot leave the house
to-day."
"What! you are not coming?"
"I shall stay in bed. Perhaps I caught cold yesterday. Tell
Grandmother."
"We will come to you."
"You would only disturb me."
"Then we shall send everything over. Ah, Veroshka, people have sent me
so many presents, and flowers and bonbons. I must show them to you," and
she ran over a list of them.
"Yes, show me everything; perhaps I will come later," said Vera absently.
"Another bouquet?" asked Marfinka, pointing to the one that lay on the
floor. "For whom? How lovely!"
"For you too," said Vera, turning paler. She picked a ribbon hastily
from a drawer and fastened the bouquet with it. Then she kissed her
sister, and sank down on the divan.
"You are really ill. How pale you are! Shall I tell Grandmother, and let
her send for the doctor? How sad that it should be on my birthday. The
day is spoiled for me!"
"It will pass. Don't say a word to Grandmother. Don't frighten her.
Leave me now, for I must rest."
At last Marfinka went. Vera shut the door after her, and lay down on the
divan.
CHAPTER XXVI
When Raisky returned to his room at daybreak and looked in the mirror,
he hardly recognised himself. He felt chilly, and sent Marina for a
glass of wine which he drank before he threw himself on his bed.
Overcome by moral and physical exhaustion he slept as if he had thrown
himself into the arms of a friend and had confided his trouble to him.
Sleep did him the service of a friend, for it carried him far from Vera,
from Malinovka, from the precipice, from the fantastic vision of last
night. When the ringing of many bells awoke him he lay for several
minutes under the soothing influence of the physical rest, which built a
rampart between him and yesterday. There was no agony in his awakening
moments. But soon memory revived, and his face wore an expression more
terrible than in the worst moments of yesterday. A pain different from
yesterday's, a new devil had hurled itself upon him. He seized one piece
of clothing after another and dressed as hastily and nervously as Vera
had done as she prepared to go to the precipice.
He rang for Egorka, from whom he learnt that everybody except Vera, who
was not well, had driven to Mass. In wild agitation he dashed across to
the old house. There was no response when he knocked at Vera's door. He
opened it cautiously, and stole in like a man with murderous intent,
with horror imprinted on his features, and advanced on tiptoe, trembling,
deadly pale, with swaying steps as if he might fall at any minute.
Vera lay on the divan, with her face turned away, her hair falling down
almost to the floor, and her slipper-clad feet hardly covered by her
grey skirt. She tried to turn round when she heard the noise of the
opening door, but could not.
He approached, knelt at her feet, and pressed his lips to the slipper
she wore. Suddenly she turned, and stared at him in astonishment. "Is it
comedy or romance, Boris Pavlovich," she asked brusquely, turned in
annoyance, and hid her foot under the skirt which she straightened
quickly.
"No, Vera, tragedy," he whispered in a lifeless voice, and sat down on
the chair near the divan.
The tone of his voice moved her to turn and look keenly at him, and her
eyes opened wide with astonishment. She threw aside her shawl, and rose,
she had divined in Raisky's face the presence of the same deadly
suffering that she herself endured.
"What is your trouble? Are _you_ unhappy?" she said, laying her
hand on his shoulder. In the simple word and in the tone of her voice
there were revealed the generous qualities of a woman, sympathy,
selflessness, and love.
Keenly touched by the kindness and tenderness in her voice he looked at
her with the same rapturous gratitude which she had worn on her face
yesterday when in self-forgetfulness he had helped her down the
precipice. She returned generosity with generosity, just as yesterday
there had streamed from him a gleam of one of the highest qualities of
the human mind. He was all the more in despair over what he had done,
and wept hot tears. He hid his face in his hands like a man for whom all
is lost.
"What have I done? I have insulted you, woman and sister."
"Do not make us both suffer," she said in a gentle, friendly tone.
"Spare me; you see how I am."
He tried not to meet her eyes, and she again lay down on the divan.
"What a blow I dealt you," he whispered in horror. "You see my
punishment, Vera!"
"Your blow gave me a minute's pain, and then I understood that it was
not delivered with an indifferent hand, that you loved me. And it became
clear to me how you must have suffered ... yesterday."
"Don't justify my crime, Vera. A knife is a knife, and I aimed a knife
at you."
"You brought me to myself. I was as if I slept, and you, Grandmother,
Marfinka and the whole house I saw as if in a dream."
"What am I to do, Vera? Fly from here? In what a state of mind I should
leave! Let me endure my penance here, and be reconciled, as far as is
possible, with myself, with all that has happened here."
"Your imagination paints what was only a fault as a crime. Remember your
condition when you did it, your agitation!" She gave him her hand, and
continued, "I know now what one is capable of doing in the fever of
emotion."
She set herself to calm him in spite of her own weariness.
"You are good, Vera, and, womanlike, judge not with your brain, but with
your heart."
"You are too severe with yourself. Another would have thought himself
justified after all the jesting.... You remember those letters. With
whatever good intention of calming your agitation, of answering your
jest with jests, it was malicious mockery. You suffered more from those
letters than I did yesterday."
"Oh, dear, no! I have often laughed over them, especially when you asked
for a cloak, a rug, and money for the exile."
"What money? what cloak? what exile?" she exclaimed in astonishment. "I
don't understand."
"I myself had suspicions," he said, his face clearing a little. "I could
not believe that that was your idea." And in a few words he told her the
contents of the two letters.
Her lips turned white.
"Natasha and I wrote to you turn and turn about in the same handwriting,
amusing little letters in which we tried to imitate yours; that is all.
I didn't know anything about the other letters," she whispered, turning
her face to the wall.
Raisky strode up and down in thought, while Vera appeared to be resting,
exhausted by the conversation.
"Cousin," she said suddenly, "I ask your help in a very important matter,
and I know you will not refuse me." A glance at his face told her that
there was nothing she could not ask of him. "While I still have strength,
I want to tell you the whole history of this year."
"Why should you do that? I will not and I ought not to know."
"Do not disturb me, Boris. I can hardly breathe and time is precious. I
will tell you the whole story, and you must repeat it to our Grandmother.
I could not do it," she said. "My tongue would not say the words--I
would rather die."
He looked at her with an expression of blank terror. "But why should
Grandmother be told? Think of the consequences. Would it not be better
to keep her in ignorance?"
"No, the burden must be borne. It is possible that Grandmother and I
will both die of it, or we shall lose our senses, but I will not deceive
her. She ought to have known it long ago, but I hoped to be able to tell
her another story, and therefore was silent."
"To tell her everything, even of yesterday evening," he asked in a low
tone. "And the name also?"
She nodded almost imperceptibly in assent. Then she made him sit down on
the divan beside her, and in low, broken sentences told the story of her
relations with Mark. When she had finished she wrapped herself,
shivering with cold, in her shawl. He rose from his seat. Both were
silent, each of them in terror, she as she thought of her grandmother,
he as he thought of them both. Before him lay the prospect of having to
deal Tatiana Markovna one thrust after another, and that not in the heat
of passion, or in an access of blind revenge, but in the consciousness
of a most painful duty. It might be as she said an important service,
but it was certainly a terrible commission.
"When shall I tell her?" he asked.
"As soon as possible, for I shall suffer so long as I know she is in
ignorance, and now, give me the eau-de-Cologne from the dressing-table,
and leave me alone."
"It would not do to tell Grandmother to-day when the house is full of
guests, but to-morrow...." said Raisky.
"How shall I survive it? But till to-morrow, calm her by some means or
other, so that she has no suspicion and sends no one here."
She closed her eyes in a longing for impenetrable night, for rest
without an awakening; she would like to have been turned into a thing of
stone so that she could neither think nor feel.
When he left her he was weighed down with a greater weight of fear than
that which he had brought to the interview. Vera rose as soon as he left
her, closed the door, and lay down again. She had found consolation and
help in Raisky's friendship, his sympathy and devotion, as a drowning
man rises to the surface for a moment, but as soon as he was gone she
fell back deeper into the depths. She told herself in despair that life
was over. Before her there stretched the bare steppe; there was no
longer for her a family, nor anything on which a woman's life depends.
She would have to stand before her aunt, to look her in the eyes, and to
tell her how she had recompensed her love and care. Suddenly she heard
steps and her aunt's voice. Pale and motionless, as if she had lost the
use of hands and feet, she listened to the light tap at the door. I will
not get up, I cannot, she thought. But when the knock was repeated, she
sprang up with a strength which astonished herself, dried her eyes and
went smiling to meet her aunt.
When Tatiana Markovna had heard from Marfinka that Vera was ill, and
would remain in her room all day, she had come herself to inquire; she
glanced at Vera and sat down on the divan.
"The service has tired me so that I could hardly walk up the steps.
What's the matter with you, Vera?" she continued, looking keenly at her.
"I congratulate Marfinka on her birthday," said Vera, in the voice of a
little girl who has learnt her speech by heart. She kissed her
grandmother's hand and wondered how she had managed to bring the words
over her lips. "I got wet feet yesterday, and have a headache." She
tried to smile, but there was no smile on her lips.
"You must rub your feet with spirit," remarked Tatiana Markovna, who had
noticed the strained voice and the unnatural smile, and guessed a lack
of frankness. "Are you coming to be with us, Vera? Don't force yourself
to do so, and so make yourself worse," she continued, seeing that Vera
was incapable of answering.
Vera was all the more frightened by her aunt's consideration for her.
Her conscience stirred, and she felt that Tatiana Markovna must already
know all, and that her confession would come too late. She was on the
point of falling on her breast, and making her confession there and then,
but her strength failed her.
"Excuse me, Grandmother, from dinner; perhaps I will come over in the
afternoon."
"As you like. I will send your dinner across."
"Thank you, I am already quite hungry," said Vera quickly, without
knowing what she said.
Tatiana Markovna kissed her, and stroked her hair, remarking casually
that one of the maids should come and do her room, as she might have a
visitor.
Tatiana Markovna returned sadly to the house. She was, indeed, politely
attentive to her guests as she always was, but Raisky noticed
immediately that something was wrong with her after her visit to Vera.
She found it hard to restrain her emotion, hardly touched the food, did
not even look round when Petrushka smashed a pile of plates, and more
than once broke off in the middle of a sentence. In the afternoon as the
guests took coffee on the broad terrace in the mild September sunshine,
Tatiana Markovna moved among her guests as if she were hardly aware of
them. Raisky wore a gloomy air and had eyes for no one but his aunt.
"Something is wrong with Vera," she whispered to him. "She is in trouble.
Have you seen her?"
"No," he said. But his aunt looked at him as if she doubted what he said.
Paulina Karpovna had not come. She had sent word that she was ill, and
the messenger brought flowers and plants for Marfinka. In order to
explain the scene of the day before, and to find out whether she had
guessed anything, Raisky had paid a visit in the morning to Paulina
Karpovna. She received him with a pretence of being offended, but with
hardly disguised satisfaction. His excuse was that he had dined with
friends that night and had had a glass too much. He begged for
forgiveness which was accorded with a smile, all which did not prevent
Paulina Karpovna from recounting to all her acquaintance her love scene.
Tushin came to dinner, and brought Marfinka a lovely pony to ride. He
asked for Vera, and was plainly disturbed when he heard of the
indisposition which prevented her from coming to dinner. Tatiana
Markovna observed him, wondering why Vera's absence had such a
remarkable effect on him, though this had often been the case before
without exciting any surprise on her part. She could not keep out of her
head anxiety as to what change had come over Vera since yesterday
evening. She had had a little quarrel with Tiet Nikonich, and had
scolded him for having brought Marfinka the Sevres mirror. Afterwards
she was closeted with him for a quarter of an hour in her sitting-room,
and he emerged from the interview looking serious. He shifted his foot
less, and even when he was talking to ladies his serous inquiring glance
would wander to Raisky or Tushin.
Up till this time Tatiana Markovna had been so gay. Her one anxiety, and
at the moment the only one perhaps, had been the celebration of Vera's
nameday a fortnight ahead, she would have liked to have celebrated it
with the same magnificence as Marfinka's birthday, although Vera had
roundly declared that on that day she meant to go on a visit to Anna
Ivanovna Tushin, or to her friend Natasha. But how Tatiana Markovna had
changed since Mass. As she talked with her guests she was thinking only
of Vera, and gave absent-minded answers. The excuse of a cold had not
deceived her, and as she had touched Vera's brow on leaving her, she had
realised that a cold could be nothing but a pretext. She remembered that
Vera and Raisky had vanished in the afternoon and that neither had
appeared at supper. She was constantly watching Raisky, who sought to
avoid her glance, thereby only arousing her suspicions the more.
Then Vera herself unexpectedly appeared amongst the guests, wearing a
warm mantilla over her light dress and a wrap round her throat. Raisky
was so astonished that he looked at her as if she were an apparition. A
few hours ago she had been almost too exhausted to speak, and now here
she was in person. He wondered where women found their strength. Vera
went round speaking to the guests, looked at Marfinka's presents, and
ate, to quench her thirst, as she said, a slice of water melon. Tatiana
Markovna was to some extent relieved to see Vera, but it disturbed her
to notice that Raisky's face had changed. For the first time in her life
she cursed her guests; they were just sitting down to cards, then there
would be tea, and then supper, and Vikentev was not going until to-morrow morning. |
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