Chapter II (2)

"I don't like to read about how the sun sets and rises ... and, in general, about nature. I have seen those sunrises more than a thousand times, I think.... I know all about the woods and the rivers, also; why should I read about them? But that sort of thing is in every book ... and, in my opinion, it's entirely superfluous.... Everybody understands the sunset after his own fashion.... And everybody has his own eyes for that purpose. But about the life of people--that's interesting. You read, and you say to yourself:--' and what would you do yourself, if you were placed on that line?' Although you know that the whole of it is false."

"What is false?"--asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"Why, the little books. They're invented. About the peasant, for example.... Are they the sort of folks they appear in books? Everybody writes about them compassionately, and makes them out to be such petty fools ... it isn't well! Folks read, and think and, as a matter of fact, they can't understand the peasant ... because in the books he's ... terribly stupid, and bad...."

Várenka must have found these remarks tiresome, for she began to sing, in a low tone, as she gazed at the shores with dimming eyes.

"See here--Ippolít Sergyéevitch, let's get out and go on foot through the forest. But here we are, sitting and baking in the sun--is that the way to take a pleasure trip? Grigóry and Másha can row on to Savyóloff dell, land there, and prepare tea for us, and meet us.... Grigóry, bring the boat to the shore. I'm awfully fond of eating and drinking in the forest, in the air, in the sunshine.... One, somehow, feels like a free vagabond...."

"There, you see," she said, with animation, as she sprang from the boat upon the sandy shore,--"you touch earth, and immediately there is something which ... raises the soul in revolt. Here I've got my boots full of sand ... and have wet one foot in the water.... That's unpleasant and pleasant, that means--it is good, because it makes one feel oneself.... Look, how swiftly the boat has moved on!"

The river lay at their feet, and disturbed by the boat, it plashed softly against the shore. The boat flew, like an arrow, in the direction of the forest, leaving behind it a long wake, which glittered like silver in the sunlight. They could see that Grigóry was laughing, as he looked at Másha, while she was threatening him with her fist.

"That's a pair of lovers,"--remarked Várenka, with a smile;--"Másha has already asked Elizavéta Sergyéevna's permission to marry Grigóry. But Elizavéta Sergyéevna will not allow it, for the present; she does not like married servants. But Grigóry's term of service ends in the autumn, and then he'll take Másha away from you ... They're both splendid people. Grigóry is begging me to sell him a small plot of ground to be paid for in instalments ... or to let him have it on a long lease ... he wants ten desyatinas. But I cannot, as long as papa is alive, and it's a pity ... I know that he would pay me all, and very punctually ... he's a good hand at everything ... a locksmith, and a blacksmith, and he's serving at your place as under-coachman.... Kokóvitch--the county chief, and my suitor--says this to me about him: 6 that's a dangerous beast, do you know--he doesn't respect his superiors!'"

"Who is that Kokóvitch? A Pole?"[4]--inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch, admiring her grimaces.

[4] Várenka has mimicked Kokóvitch's pronunciation, which leads to this question.--Translator.

"A Mordvinian, a Tchuvásh--I don't know! He has a frightfully long and thick tongue, there isn't room for it in his mouth, and it interferes with his speech.... Ugh! What mud!"

Their path was blocked by a puddle of water covered with green scum, and surrounded by a border of greasy mud. Ippolít Sergyéevitch inspected his feet, remarking:

"We must go around it."

"Aren't you going to jump over it? I thought it was already dried up...." exclaimed Várenka, indignantly, stamping her foot.... "It is a long way round, and then, I shall tear my gown there.... Try to leap across it! It's easy, see--o-one!"

She sprang, and flung herself forward; it seemed to him that her gown had been tom from her shoulders, and was fluttering through the air. But she stood on the other side of the puddle, and cried, with regret:

"Aï, how I have spattered myself! Ho, do you go round it ... fie, how horrid!"

He looked at her, and smiled wanly, catching within him a dark thought which stimulated him, and feeling that his feet were sinking into the sticky dampness. On the other side of the mud, Várenka was shaking her gown, it emitted a soft rustle, and amid its fluttering, Ippolít Sergyéevitch caught sight of dainty, striped stockings on the well-formed little feet. For an instant, it seemed to him as though the mud which separated them from each other, held a sense of warning for him or for her. But he roughly tore himself away, calling this prick in the heart stupid childishness, and hastily stepped aside from the road, into the bushes which bordered it, where, nevertheless, he was obliged to walk through water concealed by the grass. With wet feet, and a resolve which was not yet clear to himself, he emerged beside her, and she, showing him her gown, with a grimace, said:

"Look at that--is that nice? Bah!"

He looked--large, black spots smote the eye, as they triumphantly decorated the white material.

"I love, and am accustomed to behold thee so sacredly pure, that even a spot of mud on thy gown would cast a black shadow on my soul ..." said Ippolít Sergyéevitch slowly, and ceasing, he began to gaze into the astonished face of Várenka with a smile hovering over his lips. Her eyes rested questioningly on his face, but he felt as though his breast were filling up with burning froth, which was on the point of being converted into wondrous words, such as he had never yet uttered to anyone, for he had never known them until that moment.

"What was that you said?"--inquired Várenka firmly.

He shuddered, for her question sounded stem, and endeavoring to be calm, he began seriously to explain to her: "I was reciting verses ... in Russian they sound like prose ... but you hear that they are verses, do you not? They are Italian verses, I think ... really, I do not remember.... However, perhaps it was prose, from some romance.... It just happened to come into my head...."

"How did it go--say it again?" she asked him, suddenly becoming thoughtful.

"I love...." he paused, and wiped his brow with his hand.--"Will you believe it? I have forgotten what I said! On my word of honor--I have forgotten!"

"Well ... let us go on!--" and she moved forward with decision.

For several minutes Ippolít Sergyéevitch tried to understand and explain to himself this strange scene, which had placed between him and the young girl a barrier of mutual distrust--tried, and could get nothing out of himself, except a consciousness of awkwardness before Várenka. She walked by his side, in silence, and with bowed head, not looking at him.

"How am I to explain it all to her?" Ippolít Sergyéevitch reflected.

Her silence was crushing; it seemed as though she were thinking of him, and not thinking well of him. And unable to devise any explanation of his outburst, he suddenly remarked, with forced cheerfulness:

"Your suitors ought to know how you are spending your time!"

She glanced at him, as though, by his words, he had called her back from somewhere far away, but gradually, her face changed from seriousness to simplicity, and an expression of childlike sweetness.

"Yes! It would--offend them! But they shall know, oh! they shall know! And, perhaps they ... will think ill of me!"

"Are you afraid of that?"

"I? Of them?--" she inquired, softly but angrily.

"Pardon me for the question."

"Never mind.... You see, you do not know me ... you do not know how repulsive they all are to me! Sometimes I feel like hurling them under my feet, and trampling on their faces ... treading on their lips, so that they could not say anything. Ugh! How detestable they all are!"

Wrath and heartlessness sparkled so clearly in her eyes, that it made him uncomfortable to look at her, and he turned away, saying to her:

"How sad, that you are compelled to live among people whom you detest.... Can it be, that there is not one among them who would ... strike you as well-bred...."

"No! You know, there are frightfully few interesting people in the world.... Everybody is so stupid, so uninspired, so repulsive...."

He smiled at her complaint, and said with a touch of irony, which was incomprehensible even to himself:

"It is early yet for you to talk in that way. But wait a little, and you will meet a man who will satisfy you ... you will find him interesting in every way...."

"Who is he?"--she asked quickly, and even halted.

"Your future husband."

"But who is he?"

"How can I know that?--" Ippolít Sergyéevitch shrugged his shoulders, feeling displeased at the animation of her questions.

"But tell me!"--she sighed, and moved on.

They were walking through bushes, which barely reached their shoulders; the road ran through this underbrush, like a lost ribbon, all in capricious curves. Now, in front of them, the dense forest made its appearance. "And do you wish to marry?"--asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch. "Yes.... I don't know! I'm not thinking about that...." she replied simply. The glance of her beautiful eyes, fixed on the far distance, was as concentrated as though she were recalling something far away and dear to her.

"You ought to spend the winter in town,--there your beauty would attract to you universal attention, and you would soon find what you want.... For many would strongly desire to call you their wife,--" he said, slowly, in a low tone, as he thoughtfully scanned her figure.

"It would be necessary that I should permit that!"

"How can you forbid men to desire it?"

"Ah, yes! Of course ... let them desire it...."

They walked a few steps in silence.

She, pensively gazing into the distance, still was intent on recalling something, but he, for some reason, was counting the spots of mud on the front of her gown. There were seven of them: three large ones, which resembled stars, two, like commas in shape, and one, like a daub from a brush. By their black color, and their arrangement on the material, they signified something to him. But what--he did not know.

"Have you been in love?"--her voice suddenly rang out, serious and searching.

"I?"--shuddered Ippolít Sergyéevitch.--"Yes ... only, it was long ago, when I was a young fellow...."

"So have I, long ago," she informed him.

"Ah ... who was he?--" inquired Polkánoff,[5] not conscious of the awkwardness of the question, and tearing off a branch which came under his hand, he flung it far away from himself.

[5] It must be borne in mind that the surname is not used in Russian speech or novels nearly as often as the Christian name followed by the patronymic, which is more definite as to the precise individual, and the precise member of the family.--Translator.

"He? He was a horse-thief.... Three years have passed since I saw him last, I was seventeen years old then.... They caught him one day, beat him, and brought him to our court-yard. He lay there, bound with ropes, and said nothing, but looked at me.... I was standing on the porch of the house. I remember, it was such a bright morning--it was early in the morning, and everyone at our house was still asleep...."

She paused, buried in her memories.

"Under the cart there was a pool of blood--such a thick pool--and into it fell heavy drops from him.... His name was Sáshka Rémezoff. The peasants came into the court-yard, and as they looked at him, they growled like dogs. All of them had evil eyes, but he, that Sáshka, stared at them all quite calmly.... And I felt that he--although he was beaten and bound--considered himself better than all of them. He looked so ... his eyes were large, and brown. I felt sorry for him, and afraid of him.... I went into the house, and poured him out a glass of vódka.... Then I went out and gave it to him. But his hands were bound, and he could not drink it ... and he said to me, raising his head a little--and his head was all covered with blood: 'Put it in my mouth, my lady,' I held it to his lips, and he drank so slowly, so slowly, and said: 'Thank you, my lady! God grant you happiness!'--Then, all at once, I whispered to him: 'Run!' But he answered aloud:--'If I live, I certainly will run. You may trust me for that!'--And I was awfully pleased, that he had said it so loudly, that, everyone in the court-yard heard him. Then he said: 'My lady! Order them to wash my face!, I told Dúnya, and she washed it ... although his face remained blue and swollen from the blows ... yes! They soon carried him away, and when the cart drove out of the courtyard, I looked at him, and he bowed to me, and smiled with his eyes ... although he was very badly bruised.... How I wept for him! How I prayed to God that he might run away...."

"Do you mean ..." Ippolít Sergyéevitch ironically interrupted her,--"that perhaps you are waiting for him to make his escape and present himself before you, and then ... you will marry him?"

She either did not hear or did not understand the irony, for she answered simply:

"Well, and why should he show himself here?"

"But if he did--would you marry him?"

"Marry a peasant? I don't know ...? no, I think not!"

Polkánoff waxed angry.

"You have ruined your brain with your romances, that's what I have to say to you, Varvára Vasílievna.--" he remarked severely.

At the sound of his harsh voice, she glanced at his face with amazement, and began, silently and attentively, to listen to his stem, almost castigating words. And he demonstrated to her, how that literature which she loved depraved mind and soul, always distorted reality, was foreign to ennobling ideas, was indifferent to the sad truth of life, to the desires and tortures of mankind. His voice rang out harshly in the silence of the forest which surrounded them, and frequently, in the wayside branches, a timorous rustling resounded--some one was hiding there. From the foliage fragrant twilight peered forth upon the road, now and then, athwart the forest, a prolonged sound was wafted, which resembled a stifled sigh, and the foliage quivered faintly, as in slumber.

"You must read and respect only those books which teach you to understand the meaning of life, to understand the aspirations of men, and the true motives of their actions. To understand people means,--to pardon them their defects. You must know how badly people live, and how well they might live, if they were only more sensible, and if they paid more respect to the rights of one another. For, of course, all men desire one thing--happiness, but they proceed toward it by different paths, and those paths are, sometimes, very ignominious, but that is only because they do not understand in what happiness consists. Hence, it is the duty of all practical and honest literature, to explain to men in what happiness consists, and how to attain to it. But those books which you read, do not occupy themselves with such problems.. they merely lie, and lie crudely. Here, they have inculcated in you ... an uncivilized notion of heroism.. And what is the result? Now you will be seeking in life such people as those in the books...."

"No, of course I shall not!..." said the young girl seriously.--"I know that there are no such men. But the books are nice precisely for the reason that they depict that which does not exist. The commonplace is everywhere ... all life is commonplace.... There is a great deal said about suffering.... That certainly is false, but if it is false--why is it not a good thing to say a great deal about that of which there is so little! Here, you say, that in books one must seek?... exemplary feelings and thoughts,... and that all men err, and do not understand themselves.... But, surely, the books are written by men, also! And how am I to know what I ought to believe, and what is best? And in those books, which you assail, there is a great deal that is noble...."

"You have not understood me...." he exclaimed, with vexation.

"Really? And you are angry with me for that?--" she asked, in a penitent tone.

"No! Of course, I am not angry ... as if there could be any question of such a thing!"

"You are angry, I know it, I know it! For, you see, I always get provoked myself, when people do not agree with me! But why do you find it necessary that I should agree with you? And I think, also.... In general, why does everybody always quarrel and insist that others should agree with them? Then there would be nothing whatever to talk about."

She laughed, and in the midst of her laugh, she concluded:

"It's exactly as though everybody wanted to have only one word left out of all the words--'yes!' It's awfully amusing!"

"You ask, why I find it necessary...."

"No, I understand; you have got used to teaching, so you regard it as indispensable that no one should impede you with objections."

"That's not so at all!--" exclaimed Polkánoff bitterly.--"I wish to arouse in you the faculty of criticising everything that goes on around you, and in your own soul."

"Why?"--she inquired, ingenuously looking him straight in the eye.

"Good heavens! What do you mean by 'why'? In order that you may know how to scrutinize your emotions, your thoughts, your actions.. in order that you may bear yourself reasonably toward life, toward yourself."

"Well, that must be ... difficult. To scrutinize oneself, to criticise oneself.. what for? And how is it to be done? Am I to split myself in two, pray? I don't understand at all! You make it out, that truth is known to you alone.... Let us assume that I know some truth, and that everybody else knows some.... But, it appears, everyone is mistaken! For you say, that truth is one for all men, don't you?... But look--see what a beautiful glade!"

He gazed, and made no reply to her words. Within him raged a feeling of dissatisfaction with himself, for his reason had been insulted by this girl, who would not yield to his efforts to subdue her, to bring her thoughts to a halt even for a moment, and then turn her into the right road, directly opposed to the one along which she had been proceeding up to this time, without encountering any opposition. He had become accustomed to regard as stupid those people who did not agree with him; at best, he set them down as devoid of the capacity of development beyond that point, on which their mind already stood,--and toward such people, he always bore himself with disdain, mingled with compassion. But this young girl did not strike him as stupid, and did not arouse in him his customary sentiments toward his opponents. Why was this so, and what was she? And he answered himself: "Undoubtedly merely, because she was so stunningly handsome.... Her wild speeches might, really, not be regarded as a fault ... simply because they were original, and originality, on the whole, is rarely met with, especially in women."

As a man of lofty culture, he outwardly bore himself toward women as beings who were mentally his equals, but in the depths of his own soul, like all men, he thought of women sceptically and with irony. In the heart of man there is much space for faith, but very little for conviction.

They strolled slowly across the broad, almost perfectly circular glade. The road cut across it, in two dark lines of wheel-ruts, and disappeared again in the forest. In the centre of the glade, stood a small clump of graceful young birch-trees, casting lace-like shadows on the blades of the mown grass. Not far away from them, a half-ruined hut, constructed of branches, bowed toward the earth; inside it one could catch a glimpse of hay, and on it perched two daws. To Ippolít Sergyéevitch they appeared entirely unnecessary and absurd, in the midst of this tiny, lovely wilderness, surrounded on all sides by the dark walls of the mysteriously mute forest. But the daws cast sidelong glances at the people who were walking along the road, and in their attitude there was a certain fearlessness and confidence,--as though, perched there upon the hut, they were guarding the entrance to it, and were conscious that they were thereby discharging their duty.

"Are not you fatigued?"--inquired Polkánoff, with a feeling akin to anger, as he stared at the daws, pompous and sullen in their immobility.

"I? Fatigued with walking? It is a downright insult to hear that! Moreover, it is not more than one verst further to the place where they are awaiting us ... we shall enter the forest in a moment, and the road runs down hill."

She told him how beautiful was the spot which was their goal, and he felt that a soft, agreeable indolence was taking possession of him, which prevented his paying due heed to her remarks.

"It is a pine forest there, and stands on a hillock, and is called Savyóloff's Crest. The pine-trees are huge, and there are no branches on their boles, except that away up aloft, each one has a dark-green canopy. It is quiet in that forest, even painfully quiet, the ground is all carpeted with pine needles, and the forest seems to have been swept up neatly. When I ramble in it, I always think of God, for some reason or other ... it must be awe-inspiring like that around His throne ... and the angels do not sing praises to Him--that is not true! What need has He of praises? Does not He know of Himself how great He is?"

A brilliant thought flashed through Ippolít Sergyéevitch's mind:

"What if I were to take advantage of dogma, to plough up the virgin soil of her soul?"

But he instantly, and proudly rejected this involuntary confession of his weakness before her. It would not be honorable to employ a force, in whose existence he did not believe.

"You ... do not believe in God?"--she inquired, as though divining his thought.

"What makes you think that?"

"Why ... none of the learned men do believe...."

"None of them, indeed!" he laughed, not caring to talk to her on that subject. But she would not let him off.

"Isn't it true that all are unbelievers? But how is it that they do not believe? Please to tell me about those who do not believe in Him at all.... I do not understand how that can be. Whence has all this made its appearance?"

He paused, arousing his mind, which had fallen into a sweet doze beneath the sounds of her voice. Then he began to talk about the origin of the world, as he understood it:

"Mighty, unknown powers are eternally moving, coming into conflict, and their vast movement gives rise to the world which we see, in which the life of thought and of the grass-blade are subjected to the same, identical laws. This movement had no beginning, and will have no end...."

The young girl listened attentively to him, and frequently asked him to explain one point or another. He explained with pleasure, perceiving the tension of thought in her face. She was thinking, thinking! But when he had finished, she asked him ingenuously, after pausing for a minute:

"So it was not begun from the beginning! But in the beginning was God. How is that? There is simply no mention of Him there, and can that be what is meant by not believing in Him?"

He wanted to retort, but he understood, from the expression of her face, that that was useless at the moment. She was a believer--to that her eyes, which were blazing with mystical fire, bore witness. Softly, timidly, she told him something strange. He did not catch the beginning of her speech.

"When you look at people, and see how hateful everything about them is, and then remember God and the Last Judgment--your heart fairly contracts! Because, assuredly, He can demand an accounting at any time-to-day, to-morrow, an hour hence.... And, you know, it sometimes seems to me--that it will be soon! It will be by day ... and first the sun will be extinguished ... and then a new flame will flash up, and in it He will appear."

Ippolít Sergyéevitch listened to her ravings, and said to himself:

"She possesses everything except the one thing which she ought to have...."

Her remarks called forth pallor on her face, and there was terror in her eyes. In this low-spirited condition she walked on for a long time, so that the curiosity with which Ippolít Sergyéevitch had been listening to her, began to die out, and give place to weariness.

But her delirium suddenly vanished, when a loud laugh was wafted to their ears, as it rang out somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

"Do you hear that? It is Másha ... We have arrived!"

She hastened her pace, and shouted:

"Másha, á-oo!"

"Why does she shout?" thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch compassionately.

They emerged upon the bank of the river; it sloped down to the water, and on it cheerful clumps of birch-trees and aspens were capriciously scattered. And on the opposite shore, at the very water's edge, stood the lofty, silent pines, filling the air with their heavy, resinous fragrance. There everything was gloomy, motionless, monotonous, and permeated with stem dignity, but on this side--the graceful birch-trees rocked their supple branches to and fro, the silvery foliage of the aspens quivered; the wild snow-ball, and hazel bushes stood in luxuriant masses, reflected in the water; yonder the sand gleamed yellow, sprinkled with reddish pine-needles; here, under their feet, the second growth of grass, barely peeping forth from among the shorn stalks, showed green, and the scent of new-mown hay emanated from the haycocks which had been tossed up under the trees. The river, calm and cold, reflected like a mirror these two worlds, so unlike one to the other.

In the shade of a group of birches a gay-colored rug had been spread, on it stood the samovár, emitting clouds of steam and blue smoke, and beside it, squatting on her heels, Másha was busying herself, teapot in hand. Her face was red and happy, her hair was damp.

"Have you been in bathing?" Várenka asked her, "And where is Grigóry?"

"He has gone to take a bath also. He'll soon be back."

"Well, I don't want him. I want to eat, drink, and ... eat and drink! That I do! And how about you, Ippolít Sergyéevitch?"

"I shall not refuse, you know,--" he laughed.

"Be quick, Másha!"

"What do you command first? Chicken, the pasty...."

"Serve everything at once, and you may disappear! Perhaps someone is waiting for you?"

"Just nobody at all," smiled Másha softly, gazing at her with grateful eyes.

"Well, all right, go on pretending!"

*

"How simply she says all that," thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch, attacking the chicken.--"Can it be that she is acquainted with the sense and the details of such relations? Very likely, seeing that the country is so frank and coarse in that sphere."

But Várenka, with a laugh, jested away to the confusion of Másha, who stood before her with downcast eyes, and with a smile of happiness on her face.

"Wait, he'll take you in hand!"--she threatened.

"Of co-ourse! And I shall give myself to him!... I ... you know ... I put him...." and covering her face with her apron, she rocked to and fro, in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.--"On the way, I pushed him into the water!"

"Did you! That's a clever girl! And what did he do?"

"He swam after the boat.. and ... and he kept beseeching me, to ... let him ... into the boat ... but I ... flung him ... a rope, from the stern!"

The infectious laughter of the two women forced Ippolít Sergyéevitch to burst into laughter also. He laughed not because he imagined to himself Grigóry swimming after the boat, but because it did him good to laugh. A sensation of freedom from himself pervaded him, and, now and then, he seemed to be surprised at himself from somewhere in the distance, that he had never before been so simply joyous as at that moment. Then Másha vanished, and again they remained alone together.

Várenka half reclined on the rug, and drank tea, while Ippolít Sergyéevitch gazed at her, as through the mist of dreams. Around them reigned stillness, only the samovár hummed a pensive melody, and, from time to time, something rustled in the grass.

"What makes you so taciturn?" inquired Várenka, casting an anxious glance at him. "Perhaps you are bored?"

"No, I'm enjoying myself," he said slowly, "but I don't feel like talking."

"That's the way I feel, too," and the girl grew animated,--"when it is still, I don't like at all to chatter. For with words you cannot say much, because there are feelings for which there are no words at all. And when people say--'silence,' it is nonsense:--one cannot speak of silence without destroying it,... can one?"

She paused, gazed at the pine forest, and pointing at it with her hand, she said, with a quiet smile:

"See, the pines seem to be listening to something. There, among them, it is still, so still. Sometimes it seems to me that the best way to live is like that, in silence. But it is fine, too, in a thunderstorm ... akh, how fine! The sky is black, the lightning is vicious, it is dark, the wind roars.. at such times I feel like going out into the fields, and standing there, and singing--singing loudly, or running through the rain, against the wind. It's the same in winter. Do you know, I once got lost in a snow-storm and came near freezing to death."

"Tell me, how that happened," he requested her. He found it pleasant to listen to her,--it seemed as though she were talking in a language which was new to him, although comprehensible.

"I was driving from the town, late at night," she began, moving nearer to him, and fixing her softly-smiling eyes upon his face.--"The coachman was Yákoff, such a stem old peasant. And the snow-storm began, a snow-storm of terrible force, and blew straight in our faces. The wind came in gusts, and hurled a whole cloud of snow on us, so that the horses backed, and Yákoff reeled on the box. Everything around seethed as though in a kettle, and we were in a cold foam. We drove and drove, and then I saw Yákoff take his cap from his head and cross himself. 'What's the matter?'--'Pray, my lady, to the Lord and to Varvára the Great Martyr, she will help against sudden death.' He spoke simply, and without fear, so that I was not frightened: I asked--'Have we lost our way?'--'Yes,' said he.--'But perhaps we shall escape?'--'How are we to escape, in such a blizzard! Now, I'm going to let go of the reins, and perhaps the horses will find the way themselves; but do you call God to mind, all the same!' He is very devout, that Yákoff. The horses halted, and stood still, and the snow drifted over us. How cold it was! The snow cut our faces. Yákoff moved from the box, and sat beside me, so that both of us might be warmer, and we put the rug that was in the sledge over our heads. I sat there and thought: 'Well, I am lost! And I shall not eat the bonbons I have brought from the town....' But I was not afraid, because Yákoff kept talking all the while. I remember that he said: 'I'm sorry for you, my lady![6] 'Why should you perish?--' 'Why, you will be frozen also?--' 'I'm of no consequence, I've lived my life, but here are you ...' and he kept on about me. He is very fond of me, he even scolds sometimes, you know, growls at me, he's so cross-grained:--'akh, you impious creature, you mad-cap, you shameless weathercock!..."

[6] _Bárynya_, for a married woman of noble birth, _báryshmsya_, for an unmarried woman, are more nearly equivalent to "mistress" and "young mistress." But these are inconvenient, in many instances. In general, they are used precisely as "my lady" is used by English people of the lower class to those of superior rank.--Translator.

She assumed a surly mien, and spoke in a deep bass voice, drawling out her words. The memory of Yákoff had diverted her from her story, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch was obliged to ask her:

"And how did you find the road?"

"Why, the horses got chilled, and started ahead of their own accord, and they went on, and on until they reached a village thirteen versts away from ours. You know, our village is near here, about four versts distant. If you were to go along the shore, and then by the footpath, through the forest, to the right, you would come upon a hollow, and our home-farm would be in sight. But by the highway, it is ten versts from here."

Several saucy birds hovered around them, and perching upon the branches of the bushes, twittered valiantly, as though imparting to one another their impressions concerning these two persons, alone there in the heart of the forest. From afar laughter, talking and the splash of oars was wafted to them,--probably from Grigóry and Másha as they rowed on the river.

"Suppose we call them, and go in that direction, among the pines?"--suggested Várenka.

He assented, and placing her hand to her mouth like a trumpet, she began to shout:

"Row thi-is wa-ay!"

Her bosom strained with the cry, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch admired her in silence. He had to think of some-thing--of something very serious, he felt,--but he did not wish to think, and this faint appeal of his mind did not prevent his calmly and freely resigning himself to the more powerful command of his feelings.

The boat came in sight. Grigóry's face was sly and rather guilty; Másha's bore a fictitious expression of anger; but Várenka, as she took her seat in the boat, glanced at them, and laughed, and then they both began to laugh, confused and happy.

"Venus and her petted slaves," said Ippolít Sergyéevitch to himself.

In the pine forest it was solemn and still as in a temple, and the mighty, stately tree-trunks stood like columns, supporting a heavy vault of dark verdure. A warm, heavy odor of resin filled the air, and under their feet the dry pine-needles crackled softly. In front, behind, on every side, stood the reddish pines, and only here and there, at their roots, through a layer of needles, did a pallid green force its way. In the stillness and in silence the two people strolled slowly amid this dumb life, turning now to the right, now to the left, to avoid trees which barred their path.

"We shall not go astray?"--inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

"I go astray?" said Várenka in surprise.--"I can always, everywhere find the way I require ... all one has to do is to look at the sun."

He did not ask her how the sun pointed out the road to her, he did not, in the least, wish to speak, although he felt, at times, that he might say a very great deal to her. But these were internal impulses of desire, flashing up on the surface of his calm mood, and dying out again in a second, without agitating him. Várenka walked by his side, and on her face he beheld the reflection of quiet ecstasy.

"Is this nice?" she asked him, now and then, and a caressing smile caused her lips to quiver.

"Yes, very," he replied briefly, and again they fell silent, as they roamed through the forest. It seemed to him that he was a young man, devoutly in love, a stranger to sinful intentions, and to all inward conflict with himself. But every time that his eyes fell upon the spots of mud on her gown, a disquieting shadow fell upon his soul. And he did not understand how this happened, that suddenly, all in a moment, when such a shadow enveloped his consciousness, with a deep sigh, as though casting off a weight, he said to her:

"What a beauty you are!"

She looked at him in amazement.

"What ails you? You have held your peace, held your peace--and then, suddenly, you say that!"

Ippolít Sergyéevitch smiled faintly, disarmed by her composure.

"It is so beautiful here.. you know! The forest is beautiful ... and you are like a fairy in it ... or, you are a goddess, and the forest is your temple."

"No," she replied, with a smile, "it is not my forest, it belongs to the Crown, but our forest is yonder, down the river."

And she pointed with her hand somewhere to one side.

"Is she jesting, or ... does not she understand?--" said Ippolít Sergyéevitch to himself, and a persistent desire to talk to her about her beauty began to blaze up within him. But she was pensive, calm, and this restrained him during the entire time of their stroll.

They rambled on for a long time, but said little, for the soft, peaceful impressions of that day had breathed into their souls a sweet languor, in which all desires had sunk to rest, except the desire to meditate in silence upon something inexpressible in words.

On their return home, they learned that Elizavéta Sergyéevna had not yet arrived, and they began to drink tea, which Másha hastily prepared. Immediately after tea, Várenka rode off homeward, having exacted from him a promise to come to their manor with Elizavéta Sergyéevna. He saw her off, and as he reached the terrace, he surprised in himself a mournful sensation of having lost something which was indispensable to him. As he sat at the table, whereon still stood his glass of tea, which had grown cold, he sternly tried to bring himself up short, to suppress this whole play of emotions excited by the day, but pity for himself made its appearance, and he rejected all operations on himself.

"Why?" he said to himself--"can all this be serious? It is a frolic, nothing more. It will not hurt her, it cannot hurt her, even if I wished it. It somewhat interferes with my life ... but there is so much that is young and beautiful about it...."

Then, smiling condescendingly to himself, he recalled his firm resolve to develop her mind, and his unsuccessful efforts to do so.

"No, evidently, one must use different words with her. These unadulterated natures are more inclined to yield their directness to metaphysics ... defending themselves against logic by the armor of blind, primitive feeling.... She is a strange girl!"

His sister found him engrossed in thoughts about her. She made her appearance in noisy, animated mood,--such as he had not beheld her hitherto. After ordering Másha to boil the samovár, she seated herself opposite her brother, and began to tell him about the Benkóvskys. "Forth from all the cracks of their ancient house peer the cruel eyes of poverty, which is celebrating its victory over that family. In the house, to all appearances, there is not a kopék of money, nor any provisions; they sent to the village to get eggs for dinner. There was no meat at dinner, and so old Benkóvsky talked a great deal about vegetarianism, and about the possibility of the moral regeneration of people on that basis. The whole place reeks of decay, and they are all bad-tempered--from hunger, probably." She had gone to them with the proposition that they should sell her a small plot of land which cut into her estate.

"Why did you do that?" inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with interest.

"Well, you can hardly appreciate the calculations which I am carrying out. Imagine--it is on account of my future children,--" she said, laughing. "Well, and how have you passed the time?"

"Agreeably."

She said nothing, but eyed him askance.

"Excuse me for the question ... aren't you a little bit afraid of being captivated by Várenka?"

"What is there to fear?" he inquired, with an interest which was incomprehensible to himself.

"The possibility of being strongly carried away?"

"Well, I am hardly capable of that.." he replied sceptically, and he believed that he was speaking the truth.

"And if that is the case, it is very good indeed. A little--that is all well enough, but you are rather cold ... too serious.. for your years. And really.... I shall be glad if she stirs you up a little.... Perhaps you would like to see her more frequently?..."

"She made me promise to go to their house, and begged you to do so...." Ippolít Sergyéevitch informed her.

"When do you wish to go?"

"It makes no difference to me ... Whenever you find it convenient. You are in good spirits to-day...."

"Is that very noticeable?"--she laughed.--"What of it? I have passed the day pleasantly. On the whole ... I am afraid it will seem cynical to you ... but the truth is, that since the day of my husband's funeral, I feel that I am reviving to new life ... I am egotistical--of course! But it is the joyous egotism of a person who has been released from prison to freedom.... Condemn me ... but be just."

"How many accusations for such a short speech! You are glad and ... go on being glad...." laughed Ippolít Sergyéevitch amiably.

"And you are kind and charming to-day," said she.--"You see--a little happiness--and a person immediately becomes better, kinder. But some over-wise people think that sufferings purify us ... I should like to have life, by applying that theory to them, purify their minds from error...."

"But if you were to make Várenka suffer--what would become of her?" Ippolít Sergyéevitch asked himself.

They soon parted. She began to play, and he, going off to his own room, lay down on his couch and began to reflect,--what sort of an idea of him had that young girl formed? Did she consider him handsome? Or clever? What was there about him that could please her? Something attracted her to him--that was evident to him. But it was not likely that he possessed in her eyes any value as a clever, learned man; she so lightly brushed aside all his theories, views, exhortations. It was more probable that he pleased her simply as a man.

And on arriving at this conclusion, Ippolít Sergyéevitch flushed with proud joy. Closing his eyes, with a smile of satisfaction, he pictured to himself this girl as submissive to him, conquered by him, ready to do anything for him, timidly entreating him to take her, and teach her to think, to live, to love.