A common story

" Why should you read Byron ? " he went on ; " it may be that your life is flowing as smoothly as this stream; you see how small, how tiny it is; it does not reflect the whole sky nor clouds on its surface; there are no rocks or steep places on its banks, it trickles playfully; scarcely does the slightest ripple stir its surface; it reflects only the green of its banks, patches of sky and tiny cloudlets. So no doubt your life might run its course, but you are bringing on yourself storms and agitations for no object; you want to look at life and man through a gloomy medium. Give it up, don't read it! look on everything with a smiling face, don't gaze into the distance, live day by day, don't dwell on the dark sides of life and men, or else "

" Else what ? "

" Nothing!" said Alexandr, as though recollecting himself.

" No, tell me; you have no doubt had an experience of some kind ? "

" Where is my rod ? Exquse me, it's time I took it."

He seemed disturbed at having spoken out so unguardedly.

" No, one word more," said Liza, " of course a poet must arouse one's interest. Byron was a great poet; why don't you want me to be interested in him? Am I so stupid, so frivolous that I can't understand ? "

She was wounded.

" Not that at all: take an interest in what is fitting for your womanly heart; seek what is in harmony with it, or perhaps there may be a fearful discordance between head and heart." At this point he shook his head to suggest that he himself was a victim of this discordance.

" One will show you," he said, " the flower and teach you to enjoy its beauty and its sweet perfume, but another will only present to you the poisonous sap in its calyx, then beauty and fragrance too will be all over for you ? He will make you grieve that the sap is there and you will forget that there is fragrance there too. There is a difference between these two kinds of men and between one's interest in them. Don't seek the poison, don't try to trace to its origin everything that happens to us and about us ; don't seek needless experience; it is not that that leads to happiness."

She paused. She was listening to him with dreamy attention.

"Speak, speak," she said with childlike submissiveness. 11 1 am ready to listen to you for whole days, to obey you in everything."

" Me ?" said Alexandr coldly, " excuse me, what right have I to dictate to your wishes ? I beg your pardon for having allowed myself to make a remark on them. Read what you like—Childe Harold is a very fine work. Byron is a great poet!"

" No, don't dissemble 1 don't speak so. Tell me, what am I to read ? "

With pedantic solemnity he began to propose to her several historical works and travels, but she said she had been bored by those already at school. Then he selected for her Walter Scott, Cowper, a few French and English authors and authoresses, and two or three Russian writers, trying as he did so to show incidentally his literary taste and judgment. There was no similar conversation between them after this one.

Alexandr still meant to make his escape.

"What are women to me?" he said; " I cannot love; I have done with them."

" All right, all right," KostyakofFobserved to this. "You will get married, you will see. I myself at one time only

wanted to amuse myself with the girls and women, but when the time had corneal was driven on and shoved somehow into matrimony."

And Alexandr did not make his escape. All his old dreams had begun to stir within him. His heart began to beat faster. Liza's shape, her ankle, her curls hovered before his eyes, and life began to grow a little brighter again. For three days now Kostyakoff had not called for him, but he had himself fetched Kostyakoff to go fishing. " Again ! again as of old!" said Alexandr, " but I am firm !" and meanwhile he was hurriedly making his way to the stream.

Every time Liza was awaiting the arrival of her friends with impatience. Every evening she prepared a cup of fragrant tea with rum for Kostyakoff—and perhaps it was partly to this device that Liza was indebted for their not missing a single evening. If they were late, Liza went with her father to meet them. If bad weather kept them at home, next day there was no end to the reproaches heaped on them and on the weather.

Alexandr deliberated and deliberated and decided— Heaven only knows—he did not know himself—with what object, to cut short his walks in time, and he did not go to fish for a whole week. Kostyakoff too did not go. At last they went.

While still a mile from the place where they used to fish, they met Liza with her old nurse. She uttered a cry when she saw them, then suddenly smiled and blushed. Adouev bowed stiffly, Kostyakoff began to chatter away.

" Here we are," he said, " you didn't expect us ? he! he! he ! I see you didn't expect us and no samovar ! It's ages, miss, ages since we've seen each other. Have the fish been biting ? I tried to come all the time, but I could not persuade Alexandr Fedoritch ; he kept sitting indoors—no, I should say lying indoors."

She looked reproachfully at Adouev.

" What does it mean ? " she asked.

"What?"

" You have not been for a whole week ? "

" Yes, I believe I haven't been for a whole week ? "

" Why ? "

" Oh, I didn't feel inclined."

" Not feel inclined !" she said, surprised.

" Yes, what of it ? "

She did not speak, but seemed to be thinking; " then is it possible you did not feel inclined to come here ? "

"I wanted to send papa into town to you," she said, " only I did not know where you live:"

" Into town ? to me ? what for ? "

" That's a nice question ! " she said in an offended tone. " What for ? To see whether anything had happened to you, whether you were well ? "

" But what is it to you ? "

" What is it to me ? Good Heavens!"

" Why good Heavens ? "

"Why! why you know, I have some books of yours.'' She grew confused. " Not been for a week! " she added.

" Am I absolutely bound to be here every day ? "

" Absolutely!"

" Why ? "

" Why, why !" She looked mournfully at him and repeated " why, why ! "

He looked at her. What was it? tears, agitation, and delight and reproaches ? She had grown pale and a little thinner, her eyes were brilliant

" So that's what it is ! already ! " thought Alexandr, " I had not expected it so soon !" Then he laughed aloud.

" Why do you ask ? Listen," she continued, the flash of some resolution in her eyes. She had apparently braced herself to say something important, but at that instant her father came up to him.

" To-morrow," she said, " to-morrow I must have some

words with you; to-day I cannot; my heart is too full

You will come to-morrow ? eh ? you are listening ? you will not forget us ? you will not forsake ? . . . .

She ran away without waiting for a reply.

Her father looked steadily at her, then at Alexandr, and shook his head. Alexandr stared after her without speaking. He felt something like compunction, and was vexed with himself for having inadvertently brought her into this position; the blood rushed not to his heart but to his head. ^

" She loves me," thought Alexandr, as he went home. " Good Heavens, what a bore ! how awkward it is ; now it's

impossible to come here again, and the fish bite splendidly at that place—it's amazing ! "

Yet inwardly it seemed he was not ill-content with this ; he grew lively and chatted away every instant with Kosty-akoff.

Imagination, ever busy, sketched him, as though with some design, a full-length portrait of Liza, with her splendid shoulders, her slim figure, not omitting even her ankle. A strange sensation was kindled in him, again a shiver ran through him, but did not touch his heart, and died away again. He analysed this sensation from its source to its end.

" Animal instinct! " he muttered to himself; "that such an idea could enter my head—ah, bare shoulders, bust, ankle .... take advantage of her confidence, her innocence .... deceive .... and even so deceive her .... what then ? The same weariness and stings of conscience besides very likely, and for what ? No, no ! I will not let myself

go, I will not bring her to that Oh! I am firm ! I

feel in me so much purity of heart, so much generosity

I wilLnot fall into the mire, and I will not drag her into

it^r;

Liza expected him the whole day in a tremor of happiness ; afterwards her heart failed her, she lost courage, and, not knowing why herself, grew sad, and almost ceased to desire Alexandra coming. When the hour fixed had come, and no Alexandr, her impatience changed to insufferable wretchedness. With the last rays of the setting sun every hope left her; she burst into tears.

The next day she revived again, again she was light-hearted in the morning, but towards evening her heart began to ache and grow heavy with dread and hope. Again they did not come.

The third and the fourth day it was the same. Still hope drew her to the banks; scarcely did a boat appear in the distance, or two human figures on the bank, without her beginning to tremble and grow powerless under the burden of happy expectation. But when she saw they were not in the boat, that the figures were not theirs, she let her head drop exhausted on her breast, and despair settled down on her heart.

In a minute treacherous hope again whispered to her a

soothing explanation of the delay .... and again her heart began to beat with expectation. But Alexandr still did not come, as though on purpose.

At last, when half ill with despair in her heart, she was sitting one day at her place under the tree, suddenly she heard a rustling; she turned round and trembled with the shock of delight; before her, with his arms folded, stood Alexandr.

She stretched out her hands to him with tears of happiness, and for a long time she could not regain her control of herself. He took her hand and eagerly, even with emotion, looked her in the face.

" You have grown thin !" he said gently, " you are suffering ?"

She shuddered.

" How long you have stayed away !" she exclaimed.

" And you expected me ? "

"I?" she replied quickly. "Oh, if you knew!" She ended her reply by a warm pressure of his hand.

" And I came to say good-bye to you !" he said and paused, watching to see how it would affect her.

She gazed with dismay and incredulity at him.

" It's not true," she said.

" Yes, it's true ! " he replied.

" Listen ! " she said suddenly, looking timidly round on all sides; " don't go away, for goodness' sake, don't go away ! I will tell you a secret. Papa sees us here from the window ; come to me in the garden, to the summerhouse—it looks out on to the meadow. I will show you."

They went together. Alexandr did not take his eyes off her shoulders and her slender figure, and felt as though shaking with fever.

" What consequence is it," he thought as he followed her, " if I go; of course I shall—only look, it's just like visiting their home, the summerhouse .... the father invited me; of course I could go openly and directly .... but I am far from temptation, by God, and I will prove it; indeed I came here on purpose to say I was going away, though I am not going anywhere! No, Satan, you shall not lead me into temptation!"

But at this point it seemed as though Kriloffs imp appeared from the hermit's store and whispered to him, "But

why did you come to say this ? there was no necessity for it; if you had not come, in a fortnight you would have been forgotten."

But Alexandr considered that he was doing nobly, coming to perform a great act of self-sacrifice, to strive with the tempter face to face. The first trophy of his victory over himself was a kiss snatched from Liza, then he flung his arms round her waist, said that he was not going away, that he had invented that to test her, to find out whether she cared for him. Finally, to complete his victory he promised next day to be at the summerhouse at the same time.

As he went home, he thought over his conduct and felt hot and cold by turns. He was overwhelmed with horror and could not believe it of himself; finally, he resolved not to go to-morrow .... and was there before the hour fixed.

It was in the month of August. It was already dark. Alexandr had promised to be there at nine, but he arrived at eight, alone, without his fishing tackle. He stole towards the summerhouse like a thief, sometimes looking round apprehensively, sometimes running at full speed. But someone had been before him, and the latter also in haste, ran breathless into the summerhouse and sat down on a sofa in a dark corner.

It seemed they had watched Alexandr. He softly opened the door in violent agitation and walked on tip-toe to the sofa and softly took the hand—of Liza's father. Alexandr shuddered, jumped up, tried to run away, but the old man kept hold of the lappet of his coat and forced him to sit down beside him on the sofa.

" And what did you come after here, my good friend ? " he said.

" I—came after fish," muttered Alexandr, hardly able to move his lips. His teeth were chattering. The old man was in no way formidable, but like every thief caught in the act, Alexandr shook as if he were in a fever.

" After fish !" repeated the old man derisively. " Do you know the meaning of the saying to ' catch fish in troubled waters'? I have been keeping watch on you for a long time, and now I have found you out at last; but I have known my Liza from her cradle; she is good a"nd trusting, but as for you, you're a dangerous scoundrel."

Alexandr tried to get up, but the old man kept him by the arm.

" Oh, my friend, don'tget angry. You made an affectation of unhappiness, and hypocritically avoided Liza, drew her on, made sure of her, and were meaning to take advantage of it. Is that honourable conduct? What am I to call you ? "

" I swear on my honour I did not foresee the consequences," said Alexandr, in a voice of the deepest sincerity; " I did not mean "

The old man did not speak for a few minutes.

"Well, it may be even so ! " he said ; " it may be that not in passion but simply in idleness you have led the poor girl astray, without even realising yourself what would come of it; if you succeeded, so much the better—if you didn't, no matter! There are many fellows like you in Petersburg. Do you know how such gentlemen are treated ?"

Alexandr sat with downcast eyes. He could not find courage to defend himself.

" At first I thought better of you, but I was mistaken, greatly mistaken ! You know what an innocent fellow you affected to be ! Thank God, I discovered it in time ! Listen ; there is no time to lose; the silly girl will come to the tryst directly. I watched you yesterday. There is no need for her to see us together; you go away, and, needless to say, never come here again. She will begin to think you have deceived her and it will be a lesson to her. Only take care we never see anything of you here; find some other place to fish, or else—111 pack you off without much ceremony. It's lucky for you that Liza can still look me in the face ; I have been keeping watch on her all day .... else you would not have got off so easily—Good-bye ! "

Alexandr wanted to say something, but the old man had opened the door and almost shoved him out.

Alexandr went out in a condition of mind which my reader may imagine, if only he is not ashamed to put himself in his place for a minute. My hero's eyes were even glistening with tears, tears of shame, of anger with himself, and of despair.

" What have I to live for ? " he said aloud, " a loathsome, sickening life! But I — I . . . . no! if I have not strength of will enough to resist temptation .... at any

v/;

220 A COMMON STORY

rate I have the courage to cut short this useless, shameful existence."

With swift steps he made his way to the river. It was black, and thin, fantastic, misshapen shadows seemed to be hovering over its waters. The bank where Alexandr stood was shallow.

" One cannot even die here !" he said scornfully, and went to the bridge which was some hundred paces away. Alexandr leaned his elbows on the handrail on the middle of the bridge and continued to gaze into the water. He mentally took leave of life, gave a sigh to his mother, and a blessing to his aunt, and even forgave Nadinka. Tears of self-pity flowed down his cheeks, He covered his face with his hands. There is no knowing what he would have done, when suddenly the bridge began to shake a little under his feet; he looked round; merciful Heavens ! he was on the verge of destruction; the grave seemed yawning before him; half the bridge had smashed off and was swimming away .... the planks were breaking up—another moment and all would have been over ! He rallied all his forces and took a despairing leap .... to the safe side. Then he stopped, drew a breath and pressed his hand to his heart.

" Well, you have had a fright, I guess, sir ?" a keeper asked him.

i( Why, my good man, I all but fell in the middle of the river !" replied Alexandr in a shaking voice.

" God save us! accidents easily happen ?" said the keeper yawning; "last year a young bargeman lost his life like that."

Alexandr went home, his hand still pressed to his heart. From time to time he looked round at the river, and at the broken drawbridge, and quickly turned round shuddering and quickened his pace.

Meanwhile Liza had put on her most fascinating attire, and without taking any one, either father or nurse with her, she sat every evening till late at night under the tree.

The dark evenings came; she still waited; but no sight nor sound of her friends.

The autumn had come. The yellow leaves fell off the trees and strewed the banks; the green was fading; the river began to assume a leaden hue; the sky was always

grey; there was a cold wind with drizzling rain. The river and its banks were deserted; there was no sound of songs or laughter or ringing voices on the banks; boats and canoes no longer glided to and fro. Not a single insect hummed in the grass, not a bird chirped in the trees ; only the cawing of rooks depressed the spirit; and the fish had ceased to bite.

But Liza still waited ; it was absolutely necessary for her to speak to Alexandr, to reveal her secret to him. She still sat on the seat under the tree, wrapped in her jacket. She had grown thin ; her eyes were somewhat sunken; her face was wrapped up in a handkerchief. It was thus her father found her one day.

" Let us go, you have sat here enough," he said, frowning and shivering with the cold; " look, your fingers are blue, you are frozen. Liza ! do you hear? we will go." " Where ? "

" Home; we will go back to town to-day." " What for ? " she asked bewildered. "What for? autumn is coming on; we are the only people left in the country."

" Oh, dear !" she said, " it will be nice here even in the winter; let us stop."

" So that's your plan ! Enough, enough, let us go." c * Wait a little ! " she said in imploring tones, " fine days will come back even now."

" Listen !" replied her father, tapping her on the cheek and pointing to the spot where her friends used to fish; "they won't come back."

" They won't—come back!" she repeated in mournful, questioning tones, then she dropped her father's hand, and slowly with bent head walked home, from time to time turning to look back.

Adouev and Kostyakoff for a long time past had fished on the side furthest from that place.

CHAPTER XI

By degrees Alexandr succeeded in forgetting Liza and also the disagreeable scene with her father. He became calm again and even cheerful, and often laughed at KostyakofFs feeble jokes. He was amused by the man's point of view of life. They even made plans to go away somewhere further, to put up a hut on the river's bank where there were plenty of fish, and to pass the remainder of their days there. Alexandras soul again grew accustomed to grovelling in the mud of narrow ideas and material existence. But fate did not slumber, and he was not permitted to grovel there for ever.

In the autumn he received a note from his aunt with an urgent request that he would escort her to a concert since his uncle was not quite well. A musician was in Petersburg, of European celebrity.

" What ? a concert!" said Alexandr, greatly disturbed, " go to a concert, into the world, into the tinsel show of lies and hypocrisy—no, I will not go."

" It would cost five roubles too, I shouldn't wonder," remarked Kostyakoff who was present.

"The ticket costs fifteen roubles," said Alexandr, "but I would gladly give fifty not to go."

14 Fifteen!" cried Kostyakoff, clasping his hands, "what swindlers ! to come here to cheat and plunder us! Confound the lazy beggars ! Don't go, Alexandr Fedoritch, don't you be taken in ! If it were something or other worth having; if you could take it home, set it on the table or eat it; but only to listen and nothing to show for it; pay fifteen roubles ! One can get a pony for fifteen roubles!"

" Men will sometimes pay even more to spend an evening pleasantly," observed Alexandr.

" Spend an evening pleasantly! I'll tell you what! let's go to the baths, we shall spend an evening gloriously! Every time I feel bored I go there—and it's capital; you go at six o'clock and you leave at twelve and you warm your body and get scrubbed, and often you make some agreeable acquaintance; some priest, a merchant or an officer will come in; they will begin a conversation about trade, maybe, or the end of the world—and you won't come away! and all

for sixpence each ! They don't know where to spend the evening!"

But Alexandr did go. With a sigh he pulled out his evening suit of bygone years, which he had not put on for so long, and drew on a pair of white gloves.

"Gloves at five roubles brings it to twenty ! " Kostyakoff calculated up, as he was assisting at Adouev's toilet. "Twenty roubles wasted on one evening! Just for listening; as if that were something so wonderful! "

Adouev had got out of the way of dressing suitably. In the morning he went to the office in his comfortable official dress, in the evening he wore an old surtout or greatcoat. He felt ill at ease in his evening dress. Here it was too narrow, there too short; his neck felt too hot swathed in a silk handkerchief.

His aunt met him cordially, with a sense of gratitude to him for having determined for her sake to lay aside his misanthropy for once, but no word was spoken of his way of life and occupations. Having found a place in the hall for Lizaveta Alexandrovna, Adouev leaned against a column, under the shelter of a kindof broad-shouldered musical maniac and began to bd^Jorecfc He softly yawned behind his hand, but before he nacTtime to shut his mouth, an outburst of deafening applause announced the appearance of the musician. Alexandr did not even look at him.

They began to play the.prelude. In a few minutes the orchestra began to die away. Its last notes mingled indistinctly with another strain, at first sportive, playful, like a reminiscence of the sport of childhood; it seemed as though children's voices, ringing and merry, were heard in it; then it grew more glowing, more manly, and seemed to express the restlessness of youth, and its hardihood and overflow of life and energy. Then it flowed more slowly and softly, and seemed to be translating the outpourings of love, the language of the soul, and, sinking, fell slowly to the whisper of passion and died gradually away into silence

No one dared to stir. The mass of people sat in breathless stillness. At last a simultaneous "Ah ! " of admiration broke from all, and a whisper passed through the concert-hall. The crowd were just beginning to stir, but suddenly the music awoke again, and rushed along in a crescendo torrent, then broke into a thousand leaping cascades,

\

224 A COMMON STORY

thwarting and crushing one another in their course. They seemed to be thundering the reproaches of jealousy, and boiling with the frenzy of passion ; the ear had not time to catch them—and suddenly they broke off, as though the instrument had not strength, not voice left. Then a dim broken sound began to escape from under the violinist's bow, then sounds of weeping, of beseechings were heard, and all ceased in a long-drawn sigh of pain. The heart was torn by it; the music seemed to tell of love betrayed and hopeless pain. Every suffering, every pang of the human soul was heard in it.

Alexandr was trembling. He stood with downcast head and looked through his tears over his neighbour's shoulder. A lean German, bent over his instrument, was standing before the crowd which he swayed so completely. He had finished, and was wiping his brow and hands on his handkerchief. From the hall rose a roar and enthusiastic clapping. And suddenly the musician in his turn bowed before the crowd and began humbly to express his respect and gratitude.

" Even he bows before it," thought Alexandr, looking with awe at the many-headed monster, " even he who stands so high above it!"

The musician took his bow; and all were instantaneously silence. The crowd, which had begun to be restless, settled down again into a single motionless mass. A different strain was sounding, solemn, majestic; the listener straightened his back as he heard it, raised his head and drew himself up; it stirred pride in the heart and called up dreams of glory. The orchestra began indistinctly to chime in, like the echo of the crowd in the distance, of renown in the world

Alexandr stood pale and downcast. The music, as though of design, told him clearly of the past, of all his life, bitter and betrayed.

" Look at that fellow's face!" said some one, pointing towards Alexandr; " I can't think how he can make such an exhibition of himself; I have heard Paganini without stirring a muscle."

"' Alexandrcursed both his aunt's invitation and the musician, and above all destiny for not allowing him to forget

" What for ? with what object ? " he thought; " what does

it want from me ? why remind me of the weakness, the use-lessness of the past, which cannot be recalled ? "

After escorting his aunt to her door, he was just about to leave her, but she held his hand.

" Do you really mean you won't come in ?" she asked in reproachful tones.

"No, I won't/'

" Half an hour, Alexandr, do you understand ; no longer. If you refuse, I must think that you never had the least scrap of affection for me."

She made the request with such feeling, so persuasively, that Alexandr had not the heart to refuse, and with bent head he went in after her. Piotr Ivanitch was alone in his study.

"Have I deserved nothing but neglect from you, Alexandr?" asked Lizaveta Alexandrovna, making him sit down by the fire.

" You are mistaken; it is not neglect," he answered.

" What does that mean ? how am I to understand it ? how many times have I written to you and invited you to come to me; you never came; at last you even gave up answering my letters."

" It was not neglect"

"What then!"

u Oh !" said Alexandr sighing. " Good-bye, ma tante?

" Stop ! what have I done to you ? what's the matter with you, Alexandr ? Why are you like this ? why are you indifferent to everything, why do you go nowhere, and live in company not fit for you ? "

" I don't know, I like this way of living; to live so suits me."

" Suits you ? Do you find food for your mind and your heart in such a life, in such people ? "

Alexandr nodded.

" You are pretending, Alexandr; you are very unhappy about something, and you won't speak of it. In old days you found some one to confide your troubles to; you knew you could always find consolation or at least sympathy; have you no one now ? "

" No one!"

" You trust in no one ? "

"No one."

p

" Do you never think of your poor mother—her love for you—her fondness? Has it never struck you that here perhaps is one who loves you, if not as she does, at least as a sister or, still more, as a friend?"

"Good-bye, ma tante " he said.

" Good-bye, Alexandr, I will not detain you any more," replied his aunt. There were tears in her eyes.

Alexandr was just taking his hat, then he laid it down and looked at Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

" No, I cannot run away from you; I have not the strength to do it," he said ; " what are you doing to me ? "

" Be the old Alexandr again, if only for one minute. Tell me, confide in me all."

u Yes, I cannot keep it from you; I will tell you all that is in my heart," he said. " You ask why I hide myself away from the world, why I am indifferent to everything, why I don't visit even you ? . . . . what is the reason ? You must understand that for a long time past life has been hateful to me, and I have chosen for myself the kind of existence in which it is least perceptibly so. I want nothing, I seek nothing except peace, the slumber of the soul. I have thoroughly seen through all the emptiness and all the nothingness of life, and I despise it profoundly. The activity and bustle, the anxieties and sensations, I am sick of it all. I don't want to seek and try for anything: I have no aims, because what you go after, you attain—and then you see it was all a dream. All pleasures are less for me; I have grown indifferent to them. In the polite world, in society, I feel more intensely the evils of life, but alone at home, away from the herd, I vegetate; whatever chance befalls me in that slumber I observe neither mankind nor myself. I do nothing, and see nothing of my own or other's actions and am at ease, and all is indifferent to me—happiness I cannot have, but I am not a prey to unhappiness."

" It's awful, Alexandr," said his aunt; " such indifference to everything at your age." ^ ~~~ -

He made a gesture of despair.

" But there are tears in your eyes; you are still just the same; don't disguise it, don't check your feelings, give them vent."

"What for? I shall be none the better for it. I shall only suffer more acutely. This evening has lowered me in my own eyes. I saw clearly that I have no right to blame

any one for my misery. I have myself been the ruin of my life. I dreamed of glory, goodness knows why, and neglected _ my work; I made a failure of my humble occupation, and 1 now I cannot make up for the past; it's too late ! I avoided J the herd, I despised it; but that German, for all his grand deep soul and poetic nature, does not renounce the world or avoid the herd; he is proud of its applause. He understands that he is a scarcely perceptible link in the endless chain of humanity; he too knows all I do ; suffering is not strange to him. You heard how he put the whole of life into his music, its bliss and its pains, the delight and the torture of the soul. He understands it. How petty, how worthless in my own eyes I suddenly become to-day, I with my misery, my sufferings! . . . . He awakened in me the bitter consciousness that I am proud and feeble. Ah! why did you invite me ? Good-bye; let me go."

" Then am I to blame, Alexandr ? Could I awaken any bitter consciousness—I ? "

" Yes, that's what's so terrible! Your pure angel-face, ma tante, your gentle words and kind hand .... all agitates -and touches me. I long to weep, I long to live again, I yearn;—and what's the use ? "

"Why ask what's the use? Stay with us always, and if you consider me only partly worthy of your affection, perhaps you will find consolation in some other; I am not the only one .... you will be appreciated. You will marry .... will love . . . ." she said feebly.

" I marry! what an idea ? Can you imagine I would entrust my happiness to a woman, even if I felt any love for her, which also is impossible ? Or do you imagine I could undertake to make a woman happy ? No, I know we should be deceiving one another and both be deceiving ourselves. My uncle, Piotr Ivanitch, and experience have taught me."

" Piotr Ivanitch 1 ah, he has much to answer for!" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna with a sigh; " but you would have done well not to listen to him .... and you would have been happy in marriage."

" Yes, in the country, I daresay; but now .... No, ma tante, marriage is not for me. I cannot disguise it from myself now, when I cease to care for any one, and be happy; and I could not even Jielp seeing when my wife was disguising her feelings; * we should both have to play a

part, just as, for instance, you and my uncle play your parts."

" We ? " said Lizaveta Alexandrovna in bewilderment and dismay.

"Yes, you! Tell me, are you as happy as you once dreamed of being?"

"Not as I dreamed of being, but happy in a different way from my dreams, more rationally, possibly even more so —isn't it all the same ? " replied Lizaveta Alexandrovna in confusion : " and you too "

" More rationally ! Ah, ma (ante, you would never have said that: one see's my uncle's hand ! I know that's happiness according to his system : more rational, I daresay, but happier ? Why, everything is happiness with him, he has no unhappiness. Confound him ! No! my life is a failure ; I am worn out, weary of life."

Both were silent. Alexandr glanced towards his hat, his aunt was trying to find some way to detain him longer.

" But your talent! " she said, suddenly reviving.

" Oh, ma tantey you want to make fun of us ! You have forgotten the proverb,' Let sleeping dogs lie.' I have no talent, absolutely none. I have feeling, I had a fertile brain; I took my dreams for genius and wrote. Not long ago I came upon one of the old scribbles I used to perpetrate, and I reaci it though it was ridiculous even to me. My uncle was right in making me burn all there was. Ah, if I could but recall the past, I would make a very different use of it!"

"Don't be so utterly pessimistic !" she said; "every one of us has to bear some heavy cross."

"Who has got a cross?" asked Piotr Ivanitch, entering the room, "How do you do? May I congratulate you, t Alexandr! is it you ? "

i Piotr Ivanitch was bent and moved his legs with ^ ' difficulty.

" Yes, but not the kind of cross you imagine," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna; " I am speaking of the crosses Alexandr has to put up with."

" What has he to put up with now ? " asked Piotr Ivanitch, lowering himself with the greatest precaution into an armchair. " Ugh ! what pain! what a visitation it is!"

Lizaveta Alexandrovna helped him to sit down, laid a cushion behind his back, and put a foot-stool under his feet.

" What's wrong with you, uncle ? " asked Alexandr.

" You see it's a heavy cross I have to bear ! Ugh; my back! A cross, yes, it is a cross; I have brought it on myself though ! Ah, my God 1"

" You will sit so much ; you know the climate here," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna. "The doctor told you to take more exercise, but no; in the morning he is writing, in the evening playing cards."

" What, am I to go gaping about the streets wasting my time ? "

" That's why you are punished."

"There's no escaping this trouble here if you want to attend to your work. Who is there who doesn't suffer with his back ? It's almost a distinct mark of a business man ; ah, one can't straighten one's spine ! Well, what are you doing, Alexandr."

" Just the same as ever."

"Ah, well, then your back won't ache. It's really astonishing!"

" What are you astonished at; are not you yourself

partly to blame for his having become " said Lizaveta

Alexandrovna.

" I ? well, I like that! I taught him to do nothing ! "

" Certainly, uncle, there is nothing for you to be astonished at," said Alexandr. "You were partly to blame because you understood my nature from the first, and in spite of that you tried to build it up afresh ; as a man of experience you ought to have seen that it was impossible—you started a conflict in me between two opposing views of life and could not reconcile them ; what has come of it ? Everything in me has been reduced to a state of doubt, a kind of chaos!"

" Ugh ! my back ! " groaned Piotr Ivanitch. " Chaos !— why, I tried to create something out of chaos !"

"Yes, and what did you create? You showed me life in all its most hideous nakedness, and at an age when I ought only to have understood its bright side. And by way of guiding my heart in its attachments you taught me not to feel, but to examine, to analyse, to be on my guard with men. I analysed them—and ceased to love hem !" " How could I know ? You see you're such a headlong

fellow; I thought that that would teach you to make more allowance for them. I know them, but I don't hate them."

"What, then, do you love your fellow-men?" asked Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

" I get on with them."

" Get on with them! w she repeated monotonously.

" And he would get on with them," said Piotr Ivanitch, " but he had been already too much spoilt in the country by his aunt and yellow flowers; that's why he found it so difficult to grow out of it."

" Then I believed in myself," Alexandr began again ; " you showed me I was worse than others, and I fell to hating myself./Finally, with one blow, without warning or compassion, you tore away my fairest dream ; I thought I had a spark of poetic genius; you taught me the bitter lesson that I was not fit to devote myself to literature; you tore that fancy out of my heart at the cost of anguish and offered me instead a task which was repulsive to me. Had it not been for you, I should have been writing. ,,

" Yes, and have become known to the public as a writer without talent,* put in Piotr Ivanitch.

"What have I to do with the public? I should have taken trouble on my own account, I should have ascribed any failures to spite, envy, ill-will, and by degrees I should have grown used to the idea that it was useless to write, and should have taken to something else of myself. How can you be surprised that, when I had found out everything, I lost heart?"

" Well, what do you say?" asked Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

"I don't want to say anything; what answer is one to make to such absurdity ? Am I to blame that when you came here you imagined that everything here was yellow flowers, and love and friendship, that people did nothing but write poetry some of them while the others listened to it, or sometimes just for a change took to prose ? .... I tried to make you see that man in general, everywhere, but especially here, has to work, and to work hard too, even to the point of getting backache. Any other man in your place would be blessing his stars. You have not felt want nor sickness nor any real sorrow. What, haven't you loved, will you say? Haven't you had enough of it?

twice you have been in love. In time you will marry; a career is before you; only apply yourself; and with it a fortune. Do everything like every one else, and destiny J will not pass you over; you will have your share. It's I ridiculous to regard oneself as some one grand and excep-/ tional when one has not been created so! Come, what ' have you to complain of? "

"I don't blame you, uncle, quite the contrary. I can appreciate your intentions, and thank you from my heart for them. What can one do since they failed ? Don't blame me either. We did not understand each other, that's where our trouble arose! What suits and is pleasant to you, and to some others perhaps, is disagreeable to me."

" Pleasant to me and some others, perhaps." .... it's not at all as you say, my dear fellow ! do you suppose that I'm the only person who thinks and acts as I taught you to think and act ? Look round you; consider the mass of men, the herd as you call it, not as they live in the country— it takes a long while for anything to reach them—but the mass of civilised, thinking, acting men of to-day; what do they want, what are they striving after, what is their view ? and you will see it's precisely as I taught you. The demands I made of you did not originate with me."

" With whom then ? " asked Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

u With the age."

" And must one absolutely fall in with every idea of one's age ? " she demanded. " Are they all so right, all so true ? "

" All are right!" replied Piotr Ivanitch.

" What! is it true that one must go more by reason than by feeling? That one must not yield to the heart, but must restrain all demonstrations of emotion, and not give way to spontaneous impulses, not believe in them ? "

"Yes," said Piotr Ivanitch.

" That one must always act on a system, trust very little in people, reckon everything as uncertain, and live only for oneself?"

" Yes."

" And is it right that love is not the chief thing in life, that one must care more for one's work than for one's dearest ones, that one must not count on any one's devotion, but must believe that love will end in coldness, estrangement,

or habit ? that friendship is all a matter of habit ? Is all that true?"

" It was always true," said Piotr Ivanitch, " only in former days men would not believe it, but now it has become commonplace truism."

" And is it right that one should consider, and calculate and deliberate over everything and not let oneself forget, and dream and be lured on by a sham, even though one might be happy so ? "

" It's right because it's rational," said Piotr Ivanitch.

" And is it true that one ought to be guided by prudence even with those nearest your heart—with your wife, for example ? "

"I never have had such a pain in my back—ah?" said Piotr Ivanitch, shrinking in his chair.

" Oh, your back! It's a glorious age indeed !"

" Yes, a very glorious age, my dear; nothing is done like that by caprice; in everything there is prudence, reason, experience, gradual progress, and consequently success; everything is struggling towards improvement and progress."

" There may be truth in your words, uncle," said Alexandr, "but it's no comfort to me. I comprehend everything after your theory. I look at things with your eyes; I am a disciple of your school; but meantime life is a weariness to me—grievous, insupportable. Why is that ? "

"Oh, because you are not suited to the new order of things. For all the mistakes you charged me with just now," said Piotr Ivanitch, after an instant's thought, " I have one great justification; do you remember when you first arrived here, after five minutes' talk with you, I advised you to go back ? You would not listen to me. Why do you attack me now, then ? I told you beforehand that you were not fitted for the existing order of things, and you trusted to my guidance, asked for my advice, and talked in grand style of contemporary triumphs of science, of the struggles of humanity, of the practical bent of the age—well, there you are ! It wasn't possible for me to be looking after you like a nurse from morning till night; why should 1 ? I couldn't be your sponsor, or even put a handkerchief over your mouth at night to keep the flies off. I told you the fact because you ask for it; and what has come of it is nothing to do with me. You are not a baby, nor a fool, you can

reason for yourself. Then, instead of doing your work, you're first groaning over some girl's fickleness, then weeping over a separation from a friend, first wretched over the emptiness of your heart, then over its fulness; what sort of life is that ? Why, it's misery ! Look at the young men of to-day; they are young men worth having; they all seem boiling over with intelligent activity and energy. How skilfully and easily they steer their way through all the nonsense, which—in your old jargon—is called ' passionate emotion,' ' spiritual agonies,' and devil knows what!"

" How easily you talk!" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna; " have you no pity for Alexandr ? "

" No. If he had a pain in his back, I should pity him ; that not an idea, nor a dream, nor romantic, but a real sorrow .... Ugh !"

" Tell me, at least, uncle, what I had better do now ? How with your good sense do you solve that problem ? "

" What_y_ou should do ? why, go back.Jo the country." I / "To the country!" repeatecTXizaveta Alexandrovna; "are / you mad, Piotr ivanitch ? What can he do there ? " { "To the country ! " repeated Alexandr, and both looked

at Piotr Ivanitch.

"Yes, to the country; there you would be with your " mother and be a comfort to her. You are seeking a peaceful life now; there is everything to agitate you here; and what place could be more peaceful than there by the lake, with your aunt. Upon my word, I would go ! And who knows ? perhaps you may .... Ugh ! "

He clutched at his spine.

In a fortnight Alexandr had sent in his resignation and had come to fake leave of his uncle and aunt. Alexandr and his aunt were mournful and silent. Tears were shining in Lizaveta Alexandrovna's eyes. Piotr Ivanitch was the only one who talked.

" Neither career nor fortune ! " he said, shaking his head ; " was it worth while coming ? you are a disgrace to the name of Adouev !"

"That's enough, Piotr Ivanitch," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, " we are sick of hearing of a career."

" Well, my dear, to have done nothing in se^eji^yjears J "__ ..

" Good-bye, uncle," said Alexandr. " Tha*nk you for all, for all."

" No, for nothing. Good-bye, Alexandr ? Don't you want any money for the journey ? " I ^No, thank you, I have some."

( " What does it mean ! he never will take any; it really Virritates me at last. Well, good-bye, good-bye."

"Aren't you sorry to part with him?" murmured Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

" Hm !" muttered Piotr Ivanitch, " I have grown used to him. Remember, Alexandr, that you have an uncle and a friend—do you hear ? and if you need a post, or something to do, or vile dross, come straight to me ; you will always find them all."

" And if you want sympathy," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, " comfort in trouble, warm trusting affection "

" And sincere outpourings," added Piotr Ivanitch.

" Then remember," Lizaveta Alexandrovna went on, " that you have an aunt and a friend."

" Come, my dear, that he will not need in the country; they are all there : flowers, and love, and outpourings, and even an aunt."

Alexandr was much affected; he could not say a word. At parting from his uncle he was offering to embrace him, but not quite so confidently as seven years before. Piotr Ivanitch did not embrace him, but only took him by both hands and shook them more heartily than seven years ago. Lizaveta Alexandrovna was shedding tears.

" Ah! there's a burden off me, thank God !" said Piotr Ivanitch, when Alexandr had gone; " I feel as if my back felt easier!"

" What did he do to you ? " his wife articulated through her tears.

" Why, it was simply misery; worse than the factory hands. If they play the fool, you can give them the whip ; but what was one to do with him ? "

His aunt wept the whole day, and when Piotr Ivanitch asked for his dinner, he was told that nothing had been prepared, that the mistress had shut herself up in her room and given the cook no directions.

" And all Alexandr!" said Piotr Ivanitch; " what a worry he is!"

He walked up and down and then went off to dine at the English Club.

CHAPTER XII

It was a lovely morning. The lake the reader knows already in the village of Grahae was just stirred by a faint ripple. The eyes involuntarily winked in the dazzling brilliance of the sunshine which flashed in sparkles of diamond and emerald on the water. Weeping birch-trees bathed their branches in the lake, and in parts of its banks were growing rushes, among which were nestling great yellow flowers reposing on broad floating leaves. Light clouds sometimes passed before the sun; suddenly it seemed to have turned its back on Grahse; then the lake and the forest and the village—all were instantly in shadow; there was a patch of sunshine only in the distance. The cloud passed—the lake was sparkling again, and the cornfields seemed covered with gold.

Anna Pavlovna had been sitting since five o'clock in the balcony. What had brought her out: the sunrise, the fresh breeze, or the lark's song ? No, she never took her eyes off the road which passed through the forest. Agrafena came up to ask for the keys. Anna Pavlovna did not glance at her, and not taking her eyes from the road gave her the keys without even asking her what for. The cook appeared; without a glance at him either, she gave him a multitude of directions. Once more the table was to be spread with a banquet.

Anna Pavlovna was left again alone. Suddenly her eyes brightened; every energy of her soul and body were strained to look; something dark appeared upon the road. Some one was coming, but slowly, deliberately. Ah ! it was a waggon coming down from the mountain. Anna Parlovna frowned.

" Some evil spirit sent him ! " she said; " they might go round, all rush up here."

She sank back again disappointed into her easy-chair, and again with trembling expectation bent her gaze upon the forest, without noticing anything around her. But there was something to notice around her; the scene began to change significantly. The air, hot with the burning sun of midday, grew heavy and stifling. Then the sun was hidden. It grew dark. And the forest, and the distant

villages, and the grass all began to assume a uniform and threatening hue.

Anna Pavlovna revived and looked up. Good Heavens ! From the west was creeping, like a living monster, a shapeless blur of blackness, with a copper glow upon its edges, and as quickly swooping down upon the village and the forest, stretching like two huge wings on both sides. Everything in nature seemed in dismay. The cows hung their heads; the horses lashed their tails and snorted with distended nostrils, shaking their manes: the dust under their hoofs did not fly up, but was parted like sand under the wheels. The clouds grew heavy with storm. Soon there v- was the slow roll of thunder in the distance.

Everything was hushed, as though expecting something unprecedented. What had become of the birds that had been fluttering and singing so merrily in the sunshine ? Where were the insects who had been buzzing in the grass ? All were hidden and voiceless, and inanimate objects seemed to share the foreboding of evil. The trees ceased rustling, and, intertwining their twigs together, they drew themselves up; only sometimes they bowed their tops down as though warning one another in a whisper of approaching danger. The thunderclouds had overspread the horizon and formed a kind of impenetrable leaden vault overhead. In the village every one was trying to reach home in time. There was an instant of universal solemn silence. Then, like a forerunner from the forest, came a fresh breeze blowing cool in the wayfarer's face; it rustled in the leaves, slammed the door of a hut as it passed, and ruffling up the dust of the street sank away in the bushes. After it rushed a whirling blast slowly raising a cloud of dust on the road; then it burst into the village, tore some rotten boards from the fence, carried off a thatch roof, and fluttered the petticoats of a peasant woman who was fetching water, and drove the cocks and hens along the street ruffling their feathers.

The squall rushed by. Again a hush. Everything was uneasy and seeking shelter; only a silly sheep saw nothing coming; he went on indifferently chewing cud, standing in the middle of the street gazing in one direction and not comprehending the general agitation ; and a straw from the thatch whirling along the road was doing its utmost to keep up with the rushing wind.

Two or three great drops of rain fell, and suddenly came a flash of lightning. An old man got up from the boundary mound of earth and hurriedly called some little grandchildren into the hut; an old woman crossing herself hastily shut a window.

The peals of thunder overpowering every sound of humanity rolled in triumphant sovereignty in the heavens, A horse broke away from its cord in terror, and dashed into the meadow ; a peasant tried in vain to catch it. And the rain at first fell in scattered drops, then pelted faster and faster and lashed more and more violently on the roofs and windows. A small white hand was thrust out on to the balcony for some flowers, the subjects of the tenderest solicitude.

At the first outbreak of the storm Anna Pavlovna crossed herself and left the balcony.

" No, it's clearly useless now to expect him to-day," she said with a sigh," he will put up somewhere to avoid the storm, and perhaps for the night."

Suddenly there was a sound of wheels only not from the forest but from the other direction. Someone had come into the court. Madame Adouev's heart stood still.

" What is that ? " she thought, " could he have planned to arrive unexpectedly ? But no, there is no road that way."

She did not know what to think; but soon everything was explained. A minute later Anton Ivanitch came in. His hair was somewhat grizzled, he himself had grown stouter; his cheeks were fat from indolence and good-living. He wore the same surtout, the same loose pantaloons.

" I've been expecting and expecting you, Anton Ivanitch," began Anna Pavlovna. " I thought you were not coming. I had begun to despair of you."

" It's very wrong of you to think such a thing! with any one else, ma'am, I daresay! You can't iiecoy me to see every one, but with you it's another thing ! I was delayed not through my own fault; I have just driven here with only one horse."

" How was that ? " asked Anna Pavlovna absently, as she moved towards the window.

" Because, ma'am, at the christening at Pavl Savitch's my little piebald fell lame; some evil spirit induced the

coachman to lay an old door from the barn over the old ditch ; they're poor folk, you see! They hadn't any new planks! And on the door there was some hook or something sticking out; so the horse stumbled and fell over the side, and I was within an ace of having my neck broken—such a shock! So from that time he's gone lame. They are such stingy creatures, to be sure. You wouldn't believe, ma'am, what their house is like; it would be better to keep people in some almshouse. And yet every winter at Moscow they will waste their thousand roubles."

Anna Pavlovna listened absent-mindedly to him, and gave a slight shake of the head as he concluded.

"You know I have received a letter from Sashenka, Anton Ivanitch!" she interposed, "he writes he will be here about the 20th; so I am hardly knowing what I am doing for joy."

"I have heard of it, ma'am; Proshka told me, but I didn't understand what he was saying at first; I imagined he had arrived already; threw it me into a perspiration with joy!»

" God bless you, Anton Ivanitch, for loving us so."

" Could any one love you more ? Why, I have dandled Alexandr Fedoritch in my arms; he is just like one of my own kin."

. " Thank you, Anton Ivanitch; God reward you for it! /And the last two nights I hardly slept, and did not let the servants sleep either; the idea of his arriving, and all of us asleep—that would be a pretty thing ! Yesterday and the day before I walked as far as the forest, and I should have gone to-day, but the burden of old age is too much for me. I have been worn out by a sleepless night. Sit down, Anton Ivanitch. Why you've got quite wet; won't you like a little breakfast and something to drink ? Dinner '11 very likely be late; we shall be waiting for the arrival of our dear one."

" Well, then, just a snack! though I must own I have had some breakfast already."

" Where did you have time for that ? "

" I stopped half way at Maria Karpovna's. I was passing that way, you know, and stopped, more for the mare than for myself; I gave her a little breathing space. It's no joking matter to trot twelve miles in this heat! While I

was there I just had a morsel of breakfast. It's as well I didn't listen to them; I would not stop in spite of their trying to keep me; if I had, the storm would have detained me there all day."

" Well, and how is Maria Karpovna getting on ? "

" Very well, thank God; she sent her greetings to you."

" I thank you kindly; and her daughter Sophia Vassi-lievna, and her husband; what news of them ? "

" No news, ma'am; the sixth baby will soon be on its way now. They expect it in a fortnight. They asked me to be with them about that time. But there's a poverty in their house it's painful to see. One would fancy they shouldn't think of any more children. But there—there's no end to it! "

" You don't say so !"

u Yes, indeed! in their rooms everything's topsy-turvy ; the windows are dropping out; the rain comes through the roof. And they haven't the means to repair things, and cheesecakes and mutton is what they put before you—that's all you'll get! And yet how pressing they are in asking one!"

" And she tried to catch my Sashenka, a draggle-tail like that!"

" Fancy her, ma'am, trying to net such an eagle! I can't contain my impatience to see him; what a handsome fellow, I declare! I've a notion of my own, Anna Pavlovna; how if he's got engaged, proposed to some princess or countess up there, and is coming now to ask your blessing and invite you to the wedding ? "

" How you talk, Anton Ivanitch! " said Anna Pavlovna, beside herself with delight.

" I warrant you!"

" Ah ! my dear friend, God bless you ! There! it had gone right out of my head; I meant to tell you and had forgotten it; I keep thinking and thinking what it was and had it on the tip of my tongue; so you see I was afraid it had gone altogether. But won't you have some breakfast first, or shall I tell you now ? "

" It's just the same to me, ma'am, even if you tell me during breakfast time; I won't miss a morsel of it—a word of it, I mean ? "

" Well, then," began Anna Pavlovna, when the breakfast

had been brought in and Anton Ivanitch had taken his seat

at the table, " I saw "

" But why don't you take a little yourself? " said Anton Ivanitch.

" Oh, do you suppose I can eat now ? I can't swallow a morsel; I haven't even drunk a cup of tea for ever so long. Well, I dreamt in my sleep that I was sitting like this, and facing me Agrafena was standing with the tray. And I thought I said to her, ' Why is your tray empty, pray,' said I, ' Agrafena ?' but she did not answer but kept looking at the door. ' My gracious !' I think to myself in my dream, ' why does she keep her eyes fixed on it ?' So I began to look. I look, and suddenly Sashenka comes in so mournful looking, and he came up to me and said, quite clearly as if it were not in a dream, * Good-bye, mamma,' said he ;' I am going that way,' and he pointed to the lake; ' and I shall not come back again,' he said. ' Where are you going, my dearie ?' I asked, but my heart seemed breaking. He did not answer, but looked so strangely and pitifully at me. 'But where have you come from, darling?' I thought I asked him again. And he heaved a deep sigh and pointed again to the lake. 'From the abyss,' he murmured, scarcely audibly, 'from the water-spirits.' I shivered all over and woke up. My pillow was all wet with tears; and I could not come to my waking senses; I sat up in bed, and wept streams of tears. Directly I was up, I had a lamp lighted before our Holy Mother of Kazan; may She, who mercifully intercedes for us, protect him from every trouble and sorrow. It's put me in such a state of perplexity; my Goodness, I can't make out what this ought to mean. Something must have happened to him, do you think ? Now a storm like this "

" That's a good thing, ma'am, weeping in one's sleep; it's a good omen !" said Anton, breaking an egg on to his plate. " He will be here to-morrow without fail."

" I was thinking whether we couldn't go after breakfast as far as the forest to meet him; we could drag ourselves up somehow, but see how muddy it has become all at once!"

" No, he will not be here to-day; I have had a forewarning !"

At that instant the sound of a troika bell in the distance

was borne upon the wind and suddenly sank away. Anna Pavlovna held her breath.

" Ah !" she said, relaxing her throat with a sigh, " and I fancied "

Suddenly it came again.

" My God ! is it not a troika ? " she said, and rushed on to the balcony.

"No," answered Anton Ivanitch, "it's the colt grazing near with a bell on its neck; I saw it on the road. I scared it just now, or it would have strayed into the rye. Why don't you have it hobbled ? "

Suddenly the bell tinkled as though it were just under the balcony and kept ringing louder and louder.

" Ah, my goodness ! so it is; here, here he comes. It is he, he !" cried Anna Pavlovna. " Oh, oh ! Run, Anton Ivanitch ! Where are the servants ? Where is Agrafena ? No one . . . . just as if he were arriving at a strange house ; my goodness !"

She was quite beside herself. And the bell was ringing now as if it were in the room.

Anton Ivanitch jumped up from the table. " It's he! it's he!" screamed Anton Ivanitch, " there is Yevsay on the box ! Where is the image, the bread and salt ? Give them me quick ! What am I to carry to him to the steps? How can I without bread and salt ? It's such a bad omen. What want of arrangement among you ! No one thought of it! But why are you standing still yourself, Anna Pavlovna ; why don't you go to meet him ? Make haste !"

" I cannot," she answered with difficulty, " my knees are too weak."

And with these words she sank into a chair. Anton Ivanitch snatched from the table a hunch of bread, laid it on a plate, laid a salt-sellar by it, and was rushing to the door.

" Nothing ready ! " he muttered angrily.

But he was met in the doorway by three men and two maid-servants rushing in.

" He is coming ! he is coming ! he is here !" they shrieked, pale and scared as though brigands had just arrived.

Immediately behind them appeared Alexandr himself. "Sashenka! my dearest one!" cried Anna Pavlovna, and suddenly she stopped and looked in bewilderment at Alexandr.

Q

" But where is Sashenka ? " she asked.

" Why, this is me, mamma," he said, kissing her hand.

" You ? "

She took a long look at him.

" You, really you, my darling ? " she said, folding him to her. Then suddenly again she looked at him.

"But what's the matter with you? Are you ill?" she asked uneasily, not letting him go out of her arms.

" I am quite well, mamma."

" Quite well! What has happened to you, my dearie ? Were you like this when I let you go ? "

She pressed him to her heart and began to weep bitterly. She kissed him on the brow, the eyes, the cheeks.

" Where are your curls ? how silky they were !" she said, through her tears. " Your eyes used to sparkle like two stars; your cheeks were pink and white; you were just like a clear bright-skinned apple. It seems as if some evil people have bewitched you through envy of your beauty and my happiness ! But what was your uncle thinking of? I put you into his hands, as a sensible man ! Couldn't he guard my treasure ? My dearest!"

The old lady was weeping and overwhelming Alexandr with caresses.

" So tears in a dream are not a good omen !" thought Anton Ivanitch.

" Why are you lamenting over him, ma'am, just as if he were dead ? " he whispered; " it's a pity ! It's a bad omen."

" How do you do, Alexandr Fedoritch ? " he said; " God has permitted me to see you again in this world."

Alexandr gave him his hand without speaking./Anton Ivanitch went out to see whether everything had been taken out of the trap, then began to summon the household to come and salute their master. But all were already crowding into the hall and passages. He arranged them all in order and gave each instructions how he was to make his salutations; which was to kiss the master's hand, which his shoulder, which only the hem of his coat, and what to say while doing so. One lad he rejected altogether, telling him, "you go first and wash your face and wipe your nose."

Yevsay, girt with a leather strap and all covered with dust, was exchanging greetings with the servants; they all surrounded him in a circle. He gave them presents from

Petersburg; to one a silver ring, to another a birchwood snuffbox. When he saw Agrafena he stood still as though turned to stone, and gazed at her mutely in stupid rapture. She gave him a doubtful side-long look, but suddenly, in spite of herself, she was transformed; she laughed with delight, then cried a little, but suddenly turned away while her face worked.

" Why don't you speak ? " she said; " what a dummy; he never even says how do you do !"

But he could not say a word. With the same stupid smile he went up to her. She hardly let him embrace her.

"An evil spirit has brought him/' she said angrily, looking at him stealthily from time to time; but immense delight was expressed in her eyes and her smile. " Pray, did the Petersburg girls .... turn your head and the master's? Just look, what whiskers he has grown!"

He pulled out of his pocket a small card-board box and gave it to her. In it were some bronze earrings. Then he took out of a bag a parcel, in which a large handkerchief was folded up.

She seized it, and quickly, without looking at them, stuffed both the presents in the cupboard.

" Show us your presents, Agrafena Ivanovna," said one of the servants.

" Eh, what are you looking at here ? What do you want to see ? Get along! Why are you huddling in here ? " she screamed at them.

" See, something more !" said Yevsay, giving her another ^-parcel. k) 1 " Show us, show us !" persisted several of them. Agrafena

>>

,v- I tore open the paper, and out of it scattered a few cards of a

(V I used but still almost new pack. " —

0 1" Well, he's hit on something! " said Agrafena ; " do you

Ssuppose I have nothing to do but play ? what next! I've

got a notion. I'll play with you!"

She put away the cards too. Within an hour Yevsay was again sitting in his old place between the table and the store.

" Good Lord! what peace !" he said, now crossing and then stretching his legs, " how different it is here ! But our existence there in Petersburg is simply slavery! Isn't there

a snack of anything, Agrafena Ivanovna? we have had nothing to eat since the last station."

" You've not got out of your old habits then ? There ! My word, how he falls upon it; it seems they didn't feed you at all there."

XAlexandr walked through all the rooms, then through the garden, stopping at every bush and every garden-seat His mother accompanied him. She sighed as she looked at his pale face, but she did not dare to weep; Anton Ivanitch had scared her out of that. She questioned her son about his way of living, but could not in any way arrive at the reason he had become thin and pale and what had become of his hair. She pressed him to eat and drink, but he, declining everything, said he was tired with the journey and wanM like to have some sleep.

Anna Pavlovna looked to see whether the bed was well made, scolded the girl rather roughly, forced her to make it again in her presence, and did not go away till Alexandr had lain down to sleep. She went away on tiptoe, and warned the household not to dare to speak and even breathe \ aloud, and to walk about without shoes. Then she gave orders that Yevsay should be sent to her. With him came also Agrafena. Yevsay bowed down to the ground and kissed her hand.

"What has happened to Sashenka?" she asked in a menacing voice; " why is he like this—pray!"

Yevsay made no answer.

" Why don't you answer ? " said Agrafena; " do you hear what the mistress asks you ? "

" Why has he grown so thin LI' said Anna Pavlovna; " what has hapfSSneil lb Ins' lia'u i 1 '

" I can't tell, madam !" said Yevsay; " that's the master's business."

"You can't tell! But what have you been thinking about?"

Yevsay did not know what to say, and still did not answer.

"You have found some one here you could trust, madam!" murmured Agrafena, looking with affection at Yevsay. " It's a pity you trusted such a fellow; is he to be trusted ? What were you doing there ? Tell the mistress! you'll catch it by and by!"

" Me not to be trusted, madam!" said^e ysayT) timidly, looking first at his mistress and then at< fc AgraTeffa\ " I was a true and faithful servant, if you will condescend to ask Arhipytch."

"What! Arhipytch?"

" The porter there."

"You see what nonsense he's talking!" observed Agrafena; " why do you listen to him, madam ? You should lock him up ... . then he'd soon be able to say!"

" I'm ready to die on the spot—if I didn't always say yes to doing for my master whatever was his respected will!" continued Yevsay; " I will take the holy image from the wall and "

" You are all good enough in words!" said Anna Pavlovna, " but when it comes to doing anything, then you're nowhere! It seems you took fine care of your master; you let him go till he—my poor darling—lost his health! You looked after him! Here I'll teach you "

She threatened him.

" Didn't I look after him, madam ? In seven years of the master's linen only one shirt has been lost, and except for me they would all have been worn out."

"And where was it lost?" asked Anna Pavlovna angrily.

"At the laundress's. I told Alexandr Fedoritch at the time to deduct for it from her, but he never said anything."

" Only think, the wretch," observed Anna Pavlovna, " to filch fine linen."

" In what way didn't I look after him !" continued Yevsay, " God grant every one to do his duty as I did. Sometimes the master would want to be later in bed, and I run to the baker."

" What kind of loaves did he eat ? "

" White bread, good."

" I know it was white; but was it milk-bread ? "

" What a post, to be sure !" said Agrafena, " he doesn't know how to utter a word sensibly; and now he's a Peters-burger !"

" No, not a bit!" said Yevsay. " Lenten bread."

" Lenten bread! Oh, what a wretch you are, robber, murderer!" said Anna Pavlovna, growing red with anger.

" You did not hesitate to buy Lenten bread for him ? You call that looking after him!"

" But the master gave no orders, madam!"

" Gave no orders! He, poor darling, does not care what you put before him, he will eat it just the same. And did it never occur to you ? Did you forget that here he always ate milk-bread ? Buy Lenten bread ! I suppose you took the money somewhere else ? I will show you ! Well, what more ? tell me."

" After he had drunk some tea," Yevsay went on, losing courage, " he would go to his duty, and I to my shoes; I clean them the whole morning, I always clean them over again, sometimes even three times; in the evening the master takes them off, I clean them again. How did I not look after him, madam; why, I never saw on any gentleman such boots. Piotr Ivanitch's were worse polished though he kept three men."

"Why is he like this?" said Anna Pavlovna somewhat appeased.

" It must be from writing, madam."

u Did he write much ? "

" Yes; every day."

" What did he write ? papers of some sort ? "

" Yes, it must have been papers."

" And you, why didn't you try to stop him ? "

" I did try to prevent him, madam; ' don't be sitting so,' says I, ' Alexandr Fedoritch; condescend to take a walk; the weather is fine, many gentlemen are out walking. What's the good of writing ? you tire yourself a lot; your mamma will be angry.'"

" And what did he say ? "

" Go away," he says ; " you're a fool!"

" And that's just what you are—a fool!" added Agra-fena.

On this Yevsay looked at her, then again continued to gaze at his mistress.

" Well, and didn't his uncle try to prevent him ? " asked Anna Pavlovna.

" How should he, madam 1 he would come, and if he found the master without work, he would fall upon him. 'Why,' he would say, 'are you doing nothing? Here,' he says, 'you're not in the country, you must work,' he says, ' and not

lie on the shelf! You are always dreaming,' he says! And he would even give him a scolding."

" How a scolding ? "

" The provinces ! " he would say, and he'd go on and go on .... he would scold as I would not have believed my ears."

" Oh the wretch !" said Anna Pavlovna with a gesture of disgust. " He ought to get children of his own to abuse ! Instead of trying to restrain him, he ... . Oh Lord my God, merciful Tzar!" she shrieked, " whom can one trust in these days when one's own kin are worse than savage brutes ? Even a beast cares for its whelps, but here an uncle has been the ruin of his own nephew! And you, great idiot, could not you have said a word to his uncle to beg him not to rate your master like that, and he would have left off directly. He should have rated at his wife, wretch that she is ! He had some one to abuse with ' work, work!' Serve him right if he killed himself with work! A brute, upon my word what a brute, God forgive me for saying so."

After this followed a pause.

"Is it long since Sashenka has bee n so thin? " she

inquired at last. •—»

"It's three years now," replied Yevsay, "since Alexandr | Fedoritch began to be sadly depressed and took little food; suddenly he began to grow thin and thinner, he wasted like a candle."

" Why was he depressed ? "

" God knows why, madam. Piotr Ivanitch was pleased to say something to him about this; I happened to hear it, but it was strange; I did not understand it."

" But what did he say ? "

Yevsay thought a minute, trying apparently to recollect something while his lips moved.

" He called him something or other, but I have forgotten."

Anna Pavlovna and Agrafena looked at him and awaked his reply with impatience.

" Well ? " said Anna Pavlovna.

Yevsay did not speak.

"Well, gaby, say something," added Agrafena, "the mistress is waiting."

})>'<"

" Dis .... I think .... disily — usioned," Yevsay brought out at last.

Anna Pavlovna looked in perplexity at Agrafena, Agrafena at Yevsay, and Yevsay at both of them, and all were silent.

"What? " asked Anna Pavlovna.

" Disill—disillusioned, that was exactly it, I remember !" replied Yevsay in a tone of decision.

" Is it some sort of misfortune ? Good Heavens, is it a disease ? " said Anna Pavlovna in anxiety.

" Ah, hasn't he been bewitched; does'nt it mean, madam ?" put in Agrafena hastily.

Anna Pavlovna grew pale and made a gesture of horror.

" A curse on your tongue ! " she said. " Did he go to church?"

Yevsay was somewhat taken aback.

" One could not say, madam, that he went very much," he answered hesitatingly; " one might almost say that he did not go ... . there the gentry go very little to church."

" Ah, that's why it is!" said Anna Pavlovna, crossing herself with a sigh. *' It seems my prayers alone were not sufficient in God's eyes. My dream was not a lying one; you have really been torn from the abyss, my darling !"

At this point Anton Ivanitch entered.

" Dinner is getting cold, Anna Pavlovna," he said; " isn't it time to wake Alexandr Fedoritch ? "

" No, no, God forbid!" she answered, " he gave orders not to be waked. ' You can dine alone,' he said ; ' I have no appetite; I had better sleep a little; sleep will restore me; perhaps I shall be ready for something in the evening.' So this is what you must do, Anton Ivanitch; now don't be vexed with an old woman like me; I will go and light a lamp and pray while Sashenka is asleep; I could not eat; and you dine alone."

" Very good, ma'am, very good, I will do so; you may reckon on me."

" And do me another favour," she continued ; " you are our friend, you love us so, call Yevsay to you and question him skilfully why it is Sashenka has grown so melancholy and thin and what has become of his hair ? You are a man ; it will be more fitting for you .... whether he has had some trouble there. You know there are such wicked creatures in the world .... find out everything."

" Very good, ma'am, very good: I will find out, I will

learn the whole secret. Send Yevsay to me, while I am at dinner .... I will do it all!"

" Good health to you, Yevsay! " he said, taking his seat at the table and sticking a napkin over his cravat " How do you do ? "

" Your servant, sir. What was my life like ? Why, a poor sort of living. See, you have been growing fat here."

Anton Ivanitch spat.

"No words of ill omen, my friend; is it far to misfortune ?" he observed, and began to eat some cabbage soup.

" Well, how did you get on there ? " he asked.

" Oh ! not over well."

" Tell me, were the provisions good ? what did you have to eat ? "

" Why, you get a jelly and a cold pie at the shop, and that's your dinner !"

" At the shop ? but hadn't you a kitchen of your own ? "

"They did not cook at home. Unmarried gentlemen there don't have cooking in the house."

" What are you saying!" said Anton Ivanitch, laying down his spoon.

" 'Tis so, on my word; they sent the master's dinner in too from the cookshop."

" What a gypsy's life ! oh ! he may well get thin ! Come, take a glass ! "

" I humbly thank you, sir! to your health !"

A silence followed. Anton Ivanitch was eating.

" What's the price of cucumbers there ? " he asked, laying a cucumber on his plate.

" Forty pence a dozen."

" As much as that ? "

" My goodness, yes; and, shameful to relate, sir, they sometimes bring salted cucumbers from Moscow."

" O Lord ! well! no wonder he's thin !"

"Where would you see such a cucumber in town?" continued Yevsay, pointing to a cucumber, " you'd not see such a one in your dreams. Such wretched little things— you would not look at them here, but there even gentlemen eat them. It's in few houses, sir, they bake their own bread."

Anton Ivanitch shook his head, but said nothing because his mouth was quite full.

" How do they manage ? " said he .munching.

" It's all at the grocer's; and what isn't at the grocer's is somewhere at the ham and beef shop, and what is not there is at the confectioner's; and if it's not at the confectioner's, you must go to the English shop: these French have everything."

A pause.

"Well, and how much is sucking-pig?" asked Anton Ivanitch, taking on his plate almost half of one.

" I don't know; we didn't buy any; rather expensive, two roubles, I should say."

" Oh, oh, oh! no wonder he's thin ! such prices ! "

" Why, look what kvas we have here, but there even the beer is thin ; and the kvas seems to set up a ferment in your stomach all day! The only thing good is the blacking—ah, there's blacking, you see again! such a scent it has; one could almost eat it!"

" What are you saying! *'

" Yes, 'pon my soul."

A pause.

" Well, so is that how it is ?" asked Anton Ivanitch munching.

" Yes, just so."

"You fared badly?"

"Yes, very badly. Alexandr Fedoritch eat the least possible; he got quite out of the way of eating; he wouldn't eat a pound of bread for dinner."

"No wonder he's thin," said Anton Ivanitch. "Allbecause it was dear, was it."

" Yes, it was dear, and besides, he hadn't the habit of eating his fill every day. The gentry eat as it were on the sly, once a day, or else when they have time, at five, sometimes at six; or they snatch a morsel of something and with that they've done. That's the last consideration with them; they do everything else first and leave eating to the last."

" What a way of living !" said Anton Ivanitch. " No wonder he's thin ! it's a marvel that you didn't die there ! And was it like this all the time ? "

"No; on holidays when the gentry meet together sometimes, upon my soul, how they do eat! They go to some German restaurant and they will dine for a hundred roubles I'm told. And they drink—God save us!— worse than a peasant! Sometimes there would be a party

at Piotr Ivanitch's; they would sit down to table at six o'clock, and get up at four in the morning."

Anton Ivanitch opened his eyes.

" What are you saying!" he said, " and they are eating all the while ?"

" They*are eating all the while !"

"I should like to see it; it's not our way! What do they eat ? "

" Oh, nothing worth seeing, sir ! You don't know what you are eating. God knows what the damned foreigners serve the victuals up with; I should not care to put them into my mouth. And their pepper is not like this ; they pour into the sauce something out of foreign bottles. Once Piotr Ivanitch's cook entertained me with the dishes from the master's table; I felt sick for three days after. I look, there's an olive in the dish, I thought it was an olive like they are here; I tasted it—look again; and there was a little fish; it was horrid, I spit it out, I took another .... and there it was the same; and in all alike .... ah, you damned foreigners."

" But did they put them there on purpose?"

" God knows. I asked them; the fellows laugh, and say, yes, they grew so. And what are their dishes ? To begin with, they serve soup, with dumplings as it should be and they're scarcely dumplings—as big as thimbles, you put six at once in your mouth, try to chew them,—and already they've gone, melted away. After the soup they serve something sweet at once, then beef, then ice-cream, and then some kind of vegetable, and then a roast, and you could not eat it!"

" So they didn't cook at home with you ? Well, no wonder he's thin !" said Anton Ivanitch, getting up from the table.

" I thank thee, my God," he began with a deep sigh, " for

Thy heavenly blessings What am I saying! my tongue

is wandering—earthly blessings, and do not let me lack Thy heavenly guidance." You can clear away; rhe master and mistress will not dine. For supper prepare another sucking-pig, or shouldn't it be a turkey ? Alexandr Fedoritch likes turkey: he will be hungry, I dare say. And now bring me some fresh hay in the attic, I will take a nap for the next hour; then wake me for tea. If Alexandr Fedoritch stirs, then wake me up.

When he rose from his nap he went to Anna Pavlovna.

"Well, what is it, Anton Ivanitch?" Bhe said.

" Nothing, ma'am, I humbly thank you for your bread and salt .... and I have had such a sweet sleep; the hay is so fresh, so fragrant."

" I hope it has done you good, Anton Ivanitch. Well, and what did Yevsay say ! You questioned him ? "

" I should think so, indeed! I have found it all out; I know all, it's nothing to trouble about. The whole thing comes from their food there having been, it seems, so poor."

" The food ? "

" Yes, consider yourself, cucumbers are forty pence the dozen, a sucking-pig is two roubles, and the cooking is all done at the confectioner's—and you can't eat your fill. No wonder he's thin! Don't be uneasy, ma'am, we'll set him on his legs here, we'll cure him. You tell them to prepare a good lot of birchwood infusion. I will give you the receipt; I had it from Prokoff Astafich; give it him morning and evening with mm or holy water, a little glass or two, before dinner. You might give it with holy water, have you some ? "

" Yes, yes; you brought me some already.'

"Ah, yes, so I did. Prepare rather more sustaining dishes for him. I have already ordered them to roast a sucking-pig or a turkey for supper."

" Thank you, Anton Ivanitch."

"Oh, it's nothing, ma'am. Shall not we order a little chicken, as well, with white sauce ? "

" I will order it."

"Why should you? Am I good for nothing? I will see to it. . . . let me."

" See to it, help me, my dear friend."

He went away, and she sank into thought. Her woman's instinct and her mother's heart told her that food was not the principal cause of Alexandr's melancholy. She set to work to question him indirectly by hints, but Alexandr did not understand these hints and said nothing. So passed away a fortnight, three weeks. Sucking-pigs, chickens, and turkeys came to Anton Ivanitch in abundance, but Alexandr was still melancholy and thin, and his hair had not grown thicker.

Then Anna Pavlovna decided to have a talk with him straight out

" Listen, my dear one, Sashenka," she said one day, " it's now a month since you've been here, and I have not yet seen you smile once; you move like a cloud, with downcast looks. Is there something you don't like in your native place ? It seems you were happier in a strange place ; are you longing for it, or what ? My heart is torn when I look at you. What has happened to you ? tell me, what is it you haven't got ? I will grudge you nothing. Has someone done you an injury ? I will revenge that too." -

" Don't be uneasy, mamma," said Alexandr, " this is nothing ! I have come to years of discretion, and so I am serious."

" But why are you thin ? and what has become of your hair ? "

" I can't tell you why .... one can't govern everything that has happened in seven years .... perhaps, indeed, my health is a little disordered."

" Do you feel pain anywhere ? "

" Yes, I have a pain here, and here." He pointed to his \J h ead an^ his h earts

Anna Pavlovna laid her hand on his forehead.

"There is no fever," she said. "Why should this be so ? Is there a throbbing in your head ? "

"No ... . only . . . ."

" Sashenka! let us go to Ivan Andreitch ! "

" Who is Ivan Andreitch ? "

"The new doctor; it's two years since he came here. Such a clever fellow, he's a wonder! He hardly prescribes any medicines; he makes himself some tiny little pills .... and they do good. Our Foma had a pain in the stomach ; he was groaning three days and nights; the doctor gave him three little pills, it cured him at once! You must physic yourself a little, darling! "

" No, mamma, he will do me no good; this will go on just the same."

" But why are you dull ? What is this trouble ? "

" Oh . . . ."

" What do you want ? "

" I don't know myself."

" What a strange thing, upon my word!" said Anna Pavlovna. " You say you like your food, you have every comfort and a good position .... what more is there ?

and yet you are dull, Sashenka !" she went on softly, after a pause; " isn't it time for you .... to marry ? "

" What are you thinking of! No, I shall not marry."

" But I have a girl in my mind—just like a doll, rosy and delicate, as fair as a lily. Her figure is so slender and neat; she has studied in the town at a boarding-school. She has seventy-five serfs and 25,000 in money, a splendid dowry; they were in business in Moscow, and an excellent connection. Eh ? Sashenka ? I have already broken the ice with her mother once over coffee, but I only dropped a word in joke."

" I shall not marry," repeated Alexandr.

" How, never ? "

" Never."

" Lord have mercy upon us ! How can that be ? All people are like other people, only you are like nobody else! And it would have been such a happiness for me! if God had vouchsafed to me to nurse my grandchildren ! I beg of you, marry her; you will grow to love her."

"I shall not grow to love, mamma; I have outgrown love."

" Outgrown love without being married ? Whom have you loved up there ? "

" A girL"

" Why didn't you marry her ? "

" She deceived me."

" How, deceived you ? Why, you weren't married to her yet?"

Alexandr did not answer.

" You must have nice girls up there, on my word; to love before marriage ! Deceived you indeed ! the wretch ! With happiness itself falling into her hands, she did not know how to value it, good-for-nothing creature ! If I could get a word with her, I would slap her face! What was your uncle thinking about ? Who did she find better ? I would have seen to her! Well, but is she the only one in the world ? you will be in love a second time."

" I have been in love a second time."

" With whom ? "

" A widow."

" Well, why didn't you marry her ? "

" Her, I myself deceived."

Anna Pavlovna looked at Alexandr and did not know what to say.

" Deceived!" she repeated. " I suppose she was some bold creature!" she added. It's really a den of thieves in St. Petersburg—loving before marriage without the sanction of the Church; deceiving That such things should

be done in the world! The end of the world must certainly be at hand ! Well, well, tell me, is there not anything you feel a want of? Perhaps the cooking is not to your taste ? I will write for a cook from the town."

" No, thank you, everything is all right."

" Perhapsyou are dull all alone; I willinvite the neighbours."

" No, no. Don't worry yourself, mamma ! I am peaceful and all right here ; it will pass. I have hardly looked about me yet."

This was all Anna Pavlovna could get out of him.

" No," she thought, " without God's aid we shall not be a step forwarder." She proposed to Alexandr that he should drive with her to Mass at the nearest church, but he slept too late twice, and she could not make up her mind to wake him. At last one evening she pressed him to come to Vespers. "If you like," said Alexandr, and they set off. His mother went into the church and took her stand near the choir, but Alexandr remained at the door.

The sun was already setting and threw slanting rays which played on the golden frames of the images, and lighted up the dark and coarse faces of the sacred figures and dimmed by its brilliance the weak and timid twinkling of the candles. The church was almost empty; the peasants were at work in the fields; only a few old women were huddled together in the corner by the entrance, their heads wrapped up in white kerchiefs. Some were sitting on the stone step of the entrances, their faces leaning on their hands, and now and then they gave vent to loud and grievous sighs, whether over their sins or their domestic cares, God only can tell. Others lay a long while on their faces bowed to the ground in prayer.

A fresh breeze rushed through the iron grating of the window and first lifted the cloth on the altar, then played with the grey hair of the priest or fluttered the leaves of the books and blew out the candles. The priest's and deacon's steps resounded loudly on the stone floor in the empty

church ; their voices echoed feebly under the arches of the roof. High up in the steeple were jackdaws cawing and sparrows chirruping as they fluttered from window to window, and the whir of their wings and the ringing of bells sometimes drowned the sounds of the service.

"So long as a man's vital force is abundant," thought Alexandr, "so long as desires and passions work,upon him, he is absorbed in sensation, he avoids the calm, grave, and solemn meditations to which religion leads .... when his strength is broken and squandered, his hopes shattered, weighed down by years, he hastens to seek consolation in religion, then "

Gradually, at the sight of the familiar objects, memories awakened in Alexandra heart. He passed in thought through his childhood and youth up to his departure for Petersburg; he remembered how, when he was a child, he used to repeat his prayers to his mother, how she used to tell him about the guardian angel which stands on guard over the heart of man, and is always waging war with the spirits of evil; how, pointing to the stars, she used to say that these were the eyes of God's angels, who look down upon the world and keep a reckoning of the good and bad actions of men, how the angels weep when the bad seem more than the good in their list, and how they are happy when the good outweigh the bad. Pointing to the blue of the distant horizon she would say that that was Sion. . . . Alexandr sighed, stirred by these memories.

The evening service was over. Alexandr returned home, still more depressed than when he started. Anna Pavlovna did not know what to do. One day he woke up earlier than usual and heard a noise near his pillow. He looked round; an old woman was standing over him muttering. She at once disappeared as soon as she saw that she was observed. Under his pillow Alexandr found a herb of some sort; round his neck was hanging an amulet.

" What does this mean ? " asked Alexandr of his mother; " who was the old woman in my room ? "

Anna Pavlovna was confused.

"It ... . was Nikitishna ?" she said.

" What! Nikitishna ? "

" She, you know, my dear .... you won't be angry ? "

" But what is it all about ? tell me."

"She, they say, can do a great deal If she only

whispers over water, and breathes on a person asleep, everything will go away."

"The year before last," put in Agrafena, "the widow Sidovicha was haunted at night by a fiery dragon through the chimney."

Anna Pavlovna made a gesture of horror.

" Nikitishna," continued Agrafena, " charmed away the dragon ; it left off haunting her."

"Well, and what became of Sidovicha?" inquired Alexandr.

'• She was brought to bed of .... oh, such a wretched black little brat! it died two days afterwards."

Alexandr laughed, perhaps for the first time since his return to the country.

"Where did you pick her up? " he asked.

" Anton Ivanitch brought her," replied Anna Pavlovna.

" You are ready to listen to that fool! "

" Ob, Sashenka, what are you saying ? aren't you ashamed ? Anton Ivanitch a fool! How can you. bring yourself to say such a thing? Anton Ivanitch—he is our friend, our benefactor !"

" Well, then, take the amulet, mamma, and give it to our friend and benefactor; let him hang it round his neck."

From that time he took to locking his door at night.

Two, three months passed away. Gradually the solitude, the peace, the home life, with all the material comforts that went with it, went some way to restoring Alexandr to health.

And here he was better, wiser than any one! Here he was the idol of all for some miles round. And here at every step his soul expanded with peaceful soothing emotions at the aspect of Nature. The prattle of the stream, the whisper of the leaves, the cool shade, at times the very silence of Nature—all begot meditation and kindled emotion. In the meadows, in the garden, at home he was haunted by memories of his childhood and youth. Anna Pavlovna, sitting sometimes near him, seemed to divine his thoughts. She helped him to renew in his memory the trifling details of life so precious to the heart, or told him of something he did not remember at all.

"You see those lime-trees," she said, pointing to the

R

garden ; " your father planted them. It was not long before you were born. I was sitting, as it happened, on the balcony and looking at him. He was working and working away, and then he would look at me, and the perspiration was streaming on him. ' Ah ! are you there ?' he said. * That's why I work with so much pleasure/ and he set to again. And that's the little field where you used to play with the children; so passionate you were; the least thing not to your liking and you'd scream at the top of your voice. One day Agashka, the one who's Kouzmiy's wife now—his hut is the third from the paddock—gave you a push somehow and your nose was cut and bleeding ; such a thrashing your father gave her, it was all I could do to beg her off."

Alexandr mentally filled out these memories with others. " On that seat, under the tree," he thought, " I used to sit with Sophia, and I was happy then. And there between the two lilac bushes, she gave me the first kiss." And all this was before his eyes. He smiled at these recollections, and used to sit for whole hours on the balcony basking in the sunshine and following it about, listening to the singing of the birds, the plash of the lake and the humming of unseen insects.

Sometimes he moved over to the window which looked out on to the court and the village street. There was a different picture, in the style of Teniers, full of bustling family life. Barbos lay stretched in his kennel out of the heat, his muzzle lying on his paws. Dozens of hens were greeting the morning with emulous clucking; the cocks were fighting. A herd was driven along the street to the meadow. Sometimes one cow left behind by the herd would low anxiously, standing in the middle of the street and looking round her in all directions. Peasants and women with hoes and scythes over their shoulders go by to their work. Now and then two or three words of their talk are snatched up by the wind and carried up to the window. Further off, a peasant's cart goes rumbling over the bridge and after it slowly crawls a waggon of hay. Unkempt, white-haired children are strolling about the fields lifting up their smocks. Looking at this picture, Alexandr began to understand the poetry of "grey skies, broken hedges, agate, earth-stained toil and the trepaka? His tight trim coat he exchanged for the wide smock of manual labour. And every

incident of this tranquil life, every impression of morning and evening, of meals and of repose, was pervaded by the ever-watchful love of his mother.

She could not be thankful enough when she saw that Alexandr was growing fatter, that the colour had come back to his cheeks, and that a peaceful light was shining in his eyes. " Only his curls do not grow again," she said, " and they were like silk/

Alexandr often took walks about the neighbourhood. One day he met a troop of peasant women and girls, roaming in the forest after mushrooms, so he joined them and spent the whole day with them. On his return home he praised one girl, Masha, for her quickness and smartness, and Masha was chosen in the household to " wait on the master."

He sometimes rode out to look at the field-work and learnt by experience what he had often translated and written about for the journal. " How many lies I told in it," he thought, shaking his head, and he began to go into the subject more deeply and thoroughly. ^ One day in bad weather he tried to occupy himself with work, sat down to write and was well pleased with the beginning of his attempt. Some book was needed for reference; he wrote for it to Petersburg, and it was sent him. He set to work in earnest. He wrote for more books to be sent. In vain did Anna Pavlovna try to persuade him not to write, " not to cramp his chest," he would not listen to her. She sent Anton Ivanitch to him. Alexandr would not listen to him either, and continued to write. When three or four months had passed, and he not only had not grown thin from writing, but had grown stouter, Anna Pavlovna's mind was set at rest.

So passed a year and a half. All would have been well, but at the end of that period Alexandr began to grow melancholy again. He had no desires of any kind, or at least such as he had were easy to content; they did not go beyond the limits of family life. Nothing agitated him; not a care nor a doubt, but he was depressed! By degrees the narrow round of home-life had grown repulsive to him ; his mother's blandishments bored him; and Anton Ivanitch he detested; his work too sickened him, and Nature could not charm him.

He used to sit silently at the window, and now gazed with indifference at his father's lime-trees, and listened with irritation to the plash of the lake. He began to reflect on the cause of this new uneasiness, and discovered that he was homesick—for Petersburg! Now that he was removed to a distance from the past, he began to regret it. His blood was still hot, his heart was still beating, body and soul

demanded activity A failure again 1 Alas ! he almost

wept over this discovery. He thought that this depression would pass, that he would grow used to the country, would be habituated to it, but no ; the longer he lived there, the more his heart sank and was adrift again on the tossing sea he now knew so well.

He grew reconciled to the past; it became dear to him. His bitterness, his gloomy views, his moroseness and misanthropy were softened in his mind to a love of solitude and meditation. The past presented itself in a glorified light, and even the traitor Nadinka was almost irradiated by it. " And what am I doing here ? " he asked himself in exasperation, " why should I wither away. Why should my gifts be wasted ? what prevents me from shining there by my efforts ? Now I have grown more sensible. In what way is my uncle better than I ? Cannot I find out a line for myself? Even though I have not succeeded so far, I attempted what I was not fit for—what then ? I have come to my senses now; it's high time I did. But my departure would break my mother's heart! And yet to go is inevitable ; I cannot be going to seed here ! Up there

so-and-so and so-and-so—all have made their way

\But my career and fortune? .... I alone have re-y jmained behind .... but why? what is the reason?" He cast about in anxiety and did not know how to speak to his mother of his plans of going away.

But his mother very soon saved him this trouble: she died. ~~ ~ '

^ This was what he finally wrote to his uncle and aunt in Petersburg. To his aunt:

" Before I left Petersburg, ma tante, with tears in your eyes you sent me on my way with some precious words which have remained printed on my memory. You said, ' If I should ever want warm affection, sincere sympathy, there would always remain a niche in your heart for me.'

The moment came when I understood all the value of these words. The claims which you so generously gave me on your heart mean for me a guarantee of peace, of tranquillity, consolation, and rest—perhaps of happiness for all my life. Three months ago my mother died; I will not add another word. You know from her letters what she was for me, what I have lost in her. I am now leaving here for ever. But where, a solitary pilgrim, should I take my way if not to the place where you are ? . . . . Tell me only one thing: shall I find in you what I left behind a year and a half ago ? Have you not cast me out of your memory ? Will you consent to the dreary duty of healing with your affection—which has already delivered me more than once from grief—a new and deep wound ? All my hopes I rest on you and on another powerful ally—activity.

" You wonder, do you not ? It seems strange to you to hear this from me—to read those lines written in a tranquil strain so unnatural to me ? Do not wonder, and don't be afraid of my return; you will see, not a raving enthusiast, nor a sentimentalist, nor a disillusioned cynic, nor a provincial, but simply a man such as there are many more in Petersburg, and such as I ought long ago to have become. Reassure my uncle especially on that score. When I look back on my past life, I feel uneasy and ashamed both of others and of myself. But it could not have been otherwise. Now only I have recognised my errors—at thirtyj_ The painful discipline I went through in Petersburg and meditation in the country have made my course fully clear to me. Here, removed to a respectful distance from my uncle's lessons and my own experience, I have pondered them in tranquillity more clear-sightedly, and I see what they ought to have led me to long ago; I see how miserably and irrationally I have turned away from the right aim. I am now calm ; I am not torn and harassed, but I do not plume myself on this. It may be that this calm is even yet tne result of egoism ; I feel, however, that soon my insight into life will grow clear enough for me to discover another source of peace—a purer one. At present I cannot still help regretting that I have now reached the boundary where, alas ! youth is over and the time has come for reflection, self-control, and the restraint of every emotion—the time of consciousness.

"Though perhaps my opinion of men and of life has changed, too, a little, much of my hopefulness has vanished, many of my desires have grown weaker; in a word, my illusions are dissipated; consequently, it will not be my lot to be mistaken and deceived in many things or many people, and this is very consolatory from one point of view. And I look forward to a brighter future; the most painful part is past; my passions I do not dread, for few of them are left; the most important are over, and I look back on them with thankfulness. I am ashamed to remember that I regarded myself as a victim : I cursed life, and my lot—I cursed it! What miserable childishness and ingratitude ! How long I was in seeing that sufferings purify the soul, that they make a man tolerable to himself and to others ;

they raise him I acknowledge now that not to have

one's shares of sorrows means not to have one's full share in life j there are many problems in them, the solution of which we shall see, perhaps, not here. I see in these distresses the hand of Providence, which seems to set man an endless task —to strive forward, to reach higher than the aim he proposes to himself through hourly conflict with deceitful hopes, with tormenting obstacles. Yes, I see how indispensable is this conflict, are these emotions to life; how life without them would not be life, but stagnation,

slumber The conflict over, and life is at an end ; the

man was busy, loved; was happy, suffered ; was distressed,

did his work; and thus he lived !

•^ " You see how I reason; I have come out of darkness,

' -and I see that all my life up till now has been a kind of

^ • laborious preparation for the true way, a difficult app rentice^

■ vShiptolife. Something tells me that the rest ofTneway

\^. f\ "^wiilBe^easier, calmer, plainer The dark places have

: ^ x grown light; hard knots have unloosed themselves; life begins to seem a blessing, not an evil. Soon I shall say again, how fair a thing is life ! But I shall say it, not as a N boy praising the pleasure of the moment, but with a full

knowledge of its true pleasures and pajis. Moreover, death itself is not terrible; it presents itself not as a fearful but as a glorious experience. And now there is in my soul a sense of unknown peace; childish annoyances, the sting of wounded vanity, puerile irritability, and comic anger with the world and men, like the anger of a puppy with an elephant—all is

over. I have grown friendly again with those with whom I was so long estranged—my fellow-creatures, who, I may remark in passing, are the same here as in Petersburg, only a little rougher, a little coarser, a little more ridiculous. But I do not lose patience with them even here, and there I shall be far from losing patience. Here is an example of my urbanity for you: a ridiculous creature, a certain Anton Ivanitch, drives over to me to stay with me, to share my sorrow, it seems. To-morrow he will go to a wedding at a neighbour's—to share their joy, and then to some one else —to share the duties of the monthly nurse. But neither sorrow nor joy will hinder him from eating four times a day at every house. I see that it is all the same to him whether some one is dead or born or married, yet it's not repugnant to me to look at him; it does not vex me. I put up with

him, I don't repulse him It's a good sign, isn't it, ma

tante? What will you say when you read this praise of myself? "

To his uncle:

" With what delight I learnt that your career had been completed by this dignity! You are actually a Councillor of State—you the director of a chancery office ! I am so bold as to remind you of the promise you gave me on my departure. * When you want office, employment, or money, turn to me,' you said. And now here I am in want of office and employment; money, of course, I want as well. The poor provincial ventures to beg for a place and work. What reception awaits my request? Is it such a reception as once befel a letter from Zayeshaloff begging you to busy yourself about his lawsuit? .... As to the 'creative genius' of which you had the cruelty to remind me in one of your letters, well .... isn't it too bad of you to bring up long-forgotten follies, when I myself blush for them ? . . . . Fie, uncle ! for shame, your Excellency ! Who has not been young and, on some points, foolish ? Who has not had some strange, so-called ' sacred' dream which was never destined to come to anything ? My neighbour here on the right fancied himself a hero, a giant, a warrior before the Lord. He wanted to astonish the world by his exploits, and it has all ended in his becoming an ensign on the retired list without ever having seen service; and he is peacefully

digging potatoes and sowing turnips. Another one on my left dreamed of reforming Russia and the whole world after his own fashion, and he, after copying deeds for some time in the Courts of Justice, has retired here, and so far has not even succeeded in reforming his old fence. I thought that I had been endowed with creative talent from on high, and I wanted to reveal to the world new unknown mysteries, not suspecting that there are now no mysteries, and I am not a prophet. We are all ridiculous; but tell me who, without a blush for himself, will venture to stigmatise as wholly bad these youthful, generous, ardent, though not altogether rational ideals ? Who has not in his time cherished fruitless desires, and pictured himself as the hero of a glorious achievement, a song of triumph, a renowned event? Whose imagination has not been transported to the heroic times of story ? Who has not wept, feeling himself great and exalted ? Jf such a man is to be found, let him throw a stone at me. I do not envy him. I blush for my youthful ideals, but I honour:them ; they are the guarantee of purity of heart, the sign of a generous spirit inclined to good.

"And was your own youth innocent of these errors? Remember, ransack your memory. I can see even here how you shake your head with your calm never embarrassed expression, and say, no.

" Let me convict_you, for instance, as to love; you deny it. Do not deny it; the proof is in my hands. Recollect that I have been able to follow the matter on the scene of action. The background of your love affair is before my eyes—the lake. Yellow flowers still grow by it; one of them, suitably preserved, I have the honour of. forwarding your Excellency enclosed in this by way of a sweet souvenir. But I have a more terrible weapon to parry your attacks upon love in general ^nd mine in special—a document! . . . . You frown ! and such a document! Are you pale ? I filched this precious antiquity from my auntie, from her no less antique bosom, and I shall bring it with me as a perpetual testimony against you and a vengeance for me. Tremble, uncle ! Not only so. I know in detail the whole story of your love; my auntie relates it to me every day over our morning tea, and over supper, with every fact of interest.

"And I am putting all these priceless materials into a

special memoir. I shall not fail to hand it to you in person together with my essays on points of agricultural economy on which I have been busy here for the last year. I for my part consider it a duty to assure my auntie of the constancy of 'your sentiments,' as she says, to her. When I am honoured by receiving a favourable reply to my request from your Excellency, I shall take the liberty of coming to you with propitiatory offerings of dried raspberries and honey, and bearing several letters which my neighbours promise to furnish me with, dealing with their several needs, but not one from Zayeshaloflf, who died before the conclusion of his lawsuit."

EPILOGUE

Foxu ^years after Alexandr's return toJPetersburg, this was the position of the^pnhcTpal personages 6rthis~story.

One morning Pic4rlyanit£h_was walking up and down in his study. It was"noTonger the robust, stout, upright Piotr Ivanitch of former days, who always wore a uniformly calm expression, and moved with his head haughtily erect and unfaltering gait. Whether from age or the force of circumstances, he seemed to have grown feebler. His movements were not so vigorous, his glance was not so firm and self-confident. There were many silver hairs to be seen in his whiskers and his moustache. It was obvious that he had celebrated the fiftiejthjmmversary of his life. He walked a little bent It was specially curious to observe on the face of this passionless and tranquil man—as we have known him hitherto—a more than anxious, a harassed expression, even though it was manifest in a way characteristic of Piotr Ivanitch.

He seemed as though he were in perplexity. He took two steps, and suddenly stood still in the middle of the room, or hurriedly paced twice or thrice from one end of it to the other. It seemed as though he were struck by some unusual idea.

In the chair by the table sat a stout man of medium height, with a decoration on his breast, his coat tightly buttoned up, and his legs crossed. He needed only the gold-headed cane, the classical stick by which the reader has been used to recognise at once the doctor in romances

A COMMON STORY

and novels. Very likely this staff was suitable to a doctor, when, having nothing to do, he could take his walks abroad with it, and sit for whole hours with patients, console them, and unite in his person the several characters of apothecary, practical philosopher, friend of the family, &c. All this is very well where men live in peace and comfort, and are seldom ill, and where a doctor isiaQre a luxury than a necessity, /^ut Piotrlvanitch's flo ctonwas a Petersburg physiciaa ' He^iJTRTl kuuw what walking meant, though he ""Used "to prescribe exercise to his patients. He was a member of some committee, secretary of some other society, a professor, and physician to several public institutions, and invariably took part in every consultation ; he had too, an immense practice. He did not even take his glove off his left hand, he would not even have taken off the right hand one if he had not had to feel the pulse; he never unbuttoned his coat and scarcely sat down. The doctor in impatience had already more than once shifted his right leg over his left, and then again his left over his right. It was long ago time for him to be gone, but still Piotr Ivanitch said nothing. At last:

"What is to be done, doctor?" asked Piotr Ivanitch, suddenly coming to a standstill before him.

"Go to Kissingen," replied the doctor: "it's the one remedy. Your symptoms will recur more frequently."

" Ah, you keep on talking of me!" interposed Piotr Ivanitch. " I am asking you about my wife. I am over fifty, but she is in the very bloom ot her age ; she ought to live: and if she begins to waste away from me "

" You talk of wasting away already!" observed the doctor. " I only informed you of the danger for the future ;

so far there is nothing I only meant to say that her

health, or not her health, that she is not exactly in a normal condition."

" Isn't it all the same ? You made your observation superficially, and forgot it; but I have kept watch on her constantly since then, and every day I discern in her new disquieting changes. And for three months now I have known no peace of mind. How it was I didn't see it before I don't understand.^ My "duties and my business rob me of time and health, and now, perhaps, of even my wife 1"

/

A COMMON STORY 267

Again be fell to pacing up and down the room.

"You questioned her to-day?" he asked, after a pause.

"Yes; but s he has noticed nothing wrong i n herself. I supposed at firsi there was a physiological explanation: s he has had no children , but it seems it's not so. Perhaps the cause "is purely psychological."

" So much the worse !" remarked Piotr Ivanitch. . " But perhaps it's nothing at all. Suspicious symptoms there are absolutely none. It's only .... you have been living too long in this malarious climate. Go to the South : you will be freshened up, gain some new impressions, and see how things are then. Spend the summer at Kissingen, go through a course of the waters, and the autumn in Italy, and the winter in Paris. I assure you that the catarrh, the irritability, will be all over."

Piotr Ivanitch scarcely listened to him.

" A psychological cause," he said to himself, and shook his head.

" That's to say, do you see why I say a psychological cause?" said the doctor. "Another man, not knowing you, might suspect some anxiety of some kind in it ... . or if not anxiety, some unsatisfied desire .... some time there is something wanting, some lack .... I wanted to lead you to the idea."

" Something wanted—desires ?" interposed Piotr Ivanitch. " All her desires are satisfied. I know her tastes, her habits. But some lack—how ! You see our house, you know how we live."

" A splendid house, a capital house," said the doctor; " a marvellous cook, and what cigars ! But why has that friend of yours that lives in London .... left off sending you sherry ? Why is it that this year we do not see "

" Doctor, have I not been considerate with her ? " began Piotr Ivanitch, with a heat not usual to him* " I weighed, I thought, every step I took No; somewhere there was failure. And at what a time—with all my successes, in such a career ! Ah!"

With a gesture of the hand he resumed his pacing.

" Why are yo u_so upset?^" said the doctor. "There is. distin ctly noth ing "alarming. I repeat to you what I said on the first occasion f "that Tier constitution is not touched;

there are no consumptive symptoms. Anae mia, some lo ss of gflggaFTO fs a l l. "' ~^ - " ~

trine, truly !" said Piotr Ivanitch.

" Her ill-health is negative, not positive," pursued the doctor. "Do you suppose she is an exception? Look at all who are not natives living here. What do they look like ? Go away, go away from here. But if it's impossible to go, rouse her. Don't let her sit so much. Humour her; take her about; plenty of exercise for mind and body: both alike are in an unnatural lethargy. Of course, in time it may affect the lungs, or "

" Good-bye, doctor* I will go to her," said Piotr Ivanitch, and with rapid steps he strode to his wife's room. He stood still in the doorway, gently moved the portibre^ and turned an anxious gaze upon his wife.

What did the doctor observe that was peculiar in her? Every one meeting her for the first time would have seen in her a woman like many others in Petersburg. Pale, it is true, her eyes lacked lustre, her blouse hung in straight folds over her narrow shoulders and flat chest, her movements were slow, almost inert But are rosy cheeks,

bright eyes, and lively gestures characteristics of our

beauties? And as for grace of figure Neither

Phidias nor Praxitiles could have found here a Venus for their chisel.

No, one must not look for classical beauty in the fair

women of the North ; they are not statues; they fall into no

•antique pose, such as the beauty of the Greek women has

been immortalised in; nor have they the form which would

take such poses ; they have not the faultlessly correct lines

of the body Sensuality does not flow from their

eyes in moist brilliance ; on their half-opened lips there is not the melting, frankly passionate smile, which burns on the lips of the women of the South. To our women is given* a different, higher beauty in compensation. No sculptor could catch the light of thought in the traits of their countenances, the conflict of will with passion, the play of unutterable fluctuations of the soul with innumerable subtle shades of caprice, apparent simplicity, anger and kindness, hidden delights and sufferings .... all these like flying sparks thrown off by the soul that is their centre

/"From whatever cause, no one seeing Lizaveta Alexan-| drovna for the first time would have noticed anything \wronff with her. Only one who had known her before, who remembered the freshness of her face, the brilliance of her glance, through which at times one could not see the colour of her eyes—they seemed to swim in rich tremulous waves of light—who remembered her splendid shoulders and shapely bosom, would have looked with pained surprise at her now, and would, if he were not indifferent to her, have been heavy at heart, as now Piotr Ivanitch was, with a sympathetic sorrow which he was afraid to admit to himself.

He went gently into the room and sat down near her.

" What are you doing ? " he asked.

" I am looking through my account-book," she answered. " Only think, Piotr Ivanitch; in the course of last month nearly a thousand and a half roubles gone on food; it's beyond everything!"

Without saying a word he took the book from her and laid it on the table.

" Listen to me," he began, " the doctor says that my complaint may get worse here; he advises us to go away to some watering-place abroad. What do you say to it ? "

"What do I say? The doctor's opinion in.such a matter is of more importance than mine, I imagine. We must go away, if he advises it."

" But you ? Would you wish to make such a journey ? "

" If you like."

" But perhaps you would rather stay here ? "

" Very well, I will stay."

" Which of the two ? " asked Piotr Ivanitch with some impatience.

" Make the arrangements for yourself and for me too, as you choose, ,, she replied with despondent indifference; " if you direct me I will go, if not I will stay here."

" You cannot stay here," said Piotr Ivanitch; " the doctor says that your health is suffering somewhat through the climate."

"What did he base that idea on?" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna; " I am well, I feel nothing amiss ."

" Continual traveiung," said .Fiotr xvamtcn, •■ will perhaps be too exhausting for you too; wouldn't you like to stay at Moscow with your aunt while I am abroad ? "

" Very well; I will go to Moscow then."

"Or shall we not go together to the Crimea for the summer?"

" Very well, to the Crimea then."

Piotr Ivanitch did not persist; he got up from the sofa, and began to pace about as he had done in his study, then he stood still near her.

" You don't care where you go ? " he said.

" No, it's all the same," she said.

u Why is it so ? "

" Say what you like, Piotr Ivanitch," she observed, " we must cut down our expenses; a thousand five hundred roubles on food alone !"

He took the book from her and threw it under the table.

"Why do you occupy yourself with it so much?" he inquired ; " do you regret the money ? "

" But what eke should I do ? Why, I am your wife ? You yourself taught me ... . and now you reproach me with occupying myself .... I am doing my duty!"

" Listen, Liza!" said Piotr Ivanitch, after a short silence ; " you are trying to transform your nature, to conquer yourself .... that's not right. I never required it of you; you will not make me believe that these wretched things (he pointed to the account-book) could really occupy your mind. Why do you want to force yourself? I give you complete freedom."

" Good Heavens! what do I want with freedom," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna," what am I to do with it ? Hitherto you have disposed of me and yourself so well, so wisely, that I have got out of the way of being independent; continue to do so for the future; and I shall have no need of freedom."

Both were silent

" It is a long while, Liza," Piotr Ivanitch began again, "since I have heard from you any request, any desire of any kind or fancy."

" Th^re \$ nothing I want," she said.

" Have you not any special .... secret wishes ?" he asked sympathetically, looking steadily at her.

She hesitated whether to speak or not

Piotr Ivanitch noticed it

" Tell me, for God's sake, tell me !" he went on, " your wishes shall be mine, I will obey them as a law."

" Very well, then," she answered; " if you could do this for me ... . give up our Fridays .... these entertainments wear me out."

Piotr Ivanitch grew gloomy.

"You live like a prisoner even now," he said, after a pause, " and when your friends cease to meet round you on Fridays, you will be completely in solitude. However, so be it ; you wish it .... it shall be done. What do you want to do ? "

" Hand me over your accounts, your books to keep, some business .... I will work at them . . . ." she said, and stretched under the table to pick up the account-book.

To Piotr Ivanitch this seemed like a piece of ill-acted simulation.

" Liza 1" he said reproachfully.

The book remained under the table.

"I am wondering whether you would not renew some acquaintances which we have quite dropped? I was meaning to give a ball with that idea, so that you should have some amusement "

" Oh, no, no!" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna in dismay, " for goodness' sake, no, it's not necessary .... How is it possible .... a ball!"

" What is there to alarm you in it ? At your age balls do not lose their attractions, you might still dance."

" No, Piotr Ivanitch, I entreat you, don't make plans!" she said earnestly; " to have to think about dress, to get oneself up, receive a crowd, go out .... Heaven forbid !"

"You seem to wish to spend all your days in a blouse ? "

"Yes, if you don't object, I would rather not change it. What is the object of dressing up ? it's a mere waste of money and useless trouble without any advantage."

"Do you know what?" said Piotr Ivanitch suddenly, " they say that Rubini is engaged to be here this winter; we shall have a round of Italian Opera; I will take a box for us ... . what do you say to it ? "

" She did not speak.

" Liza!"

" It would be useless," she said timidly," I think that, too, would be exhausting for me .... I get so tired."

Piotr Ivanitch bowed his head, walked to the hearth and leaning against it, gazed at her with—what shall we call it —distress, no not only distress, but with fear, anxiety and alarm.

" What is the reason, Liza, of this . . . ." he was beginning, but he did not finish the sentence; the word indifference he could not form on his tongue.

He gazed long in silence at her. In her lifeless, lustreless • eyes, in her face, devoid of all bright play of thought and feeling, in her languid attitude and slow movements, he read the cause of this indifference, about which he feared to inquire; he had guessed the answer already when the doctor had only given him a hint of the danger. He had come to his senses then and began to suspect that while he had fenced his wife in away from any deviation which might have threatened their matrimonial interests, he had not at the same time presented her with any compensations in himself, to make up for the possibly unsanctioned happiness which she might have met outside the pale of marriage—that her home world was nothing more than a prison, thanks to his method, inaccessible to temptation, and unpropitious to any legitimate demonstration of feeling, where she was met at every step by spiked railings and patrols.

The systematic and calculating nature of his behaviour to

her had, without his knowledge or intention, amounted to a

cold and narrow tyranny, and a tyranny over what? a

woman's heart. To make up for th is ^tyranny, hg_had

. - lavishedjaxj^r weateTTuxuiv, alTthe externals, "and as he

^i inttrffffift tfrf> ~mnHitinng of__hapj)iness—a fearful "rinsfafce;

v " ~p the more fearful, because it was committed . not from

ignorance, not from his want of understanding of the heart

-—he knew it—but from negligence, from egoism ! He had

forgotten that she had not a factory, that a capital dinner

and the best wines have almost no significance in the eyes

of a woman, and meanwhile he had set her to live this life.

Piotr Ivanitch had a good heart; and even if not from love for his wife, from a feeling of rectitude alone he would have given anything to correct the wrong he had done; but how to correct it ? He had passed more than one sleepless night since the time the doctor had warned him of the

dangers in regard to his wife's health, trying to find some way of reconciling her to her real position and restoring her drooping strength. And now, standing by the fireplace, he was still ruminating upon it. The idea came i nto hisjiead that perhaps the germs of serious disease were al readyTufltt ng in herT^aT^fe^as^^ingTcilTed Jjy her colourless and empty life.

Xold drops of perspiration stood on his brow. He was quite at a loss for remedies, feeling that the heart was more wanted than the head to devise them. But where was he to get the heart? Something told him that if he could have thrown himself at her feet, and have folded her in his arms with tenderness, and with the voice of passion have told her that he only lived for her, that the aim of all his labours, his cares, his career, his gains, was—she; that his systematic way of behaving with her had only been inspired by a consuming, persistent, jealous desire to bind her heart

to him He knew that such words would have the

effect of galvanism on a corpse, that she would all at once have blossomed into health and happiness.

But saying; and proving are two very different things. To prove this, it would be necessary really to feel passion. And, searching in his soul, Piotr Ivanitch could not find there the least trace of passion.. He felt only that his wife was indispensable •^ttr'him, but like the other indispensable things of life, she was indispensable from habit. Granted that he would be ready to feign feeling, to play the part of a lover, however ridiculous it would be at fifty to begin speaking the language of passion; but will you deceive a woman with passion when there is none? And afterwards, would he have the heroism and ability to sustain this character to the degree which would appease the cravings of the heart ? And would not outraged pride be really fatal to her when she found out that what a few years ago would have been a magic potion for her was offered her now as a medicine ? No, after his fashion he had exactly weighed and considered this late step, and he could not decide on it. He fancied that he would do perhaps the same thing, only differently, in the only way now possible. For three months an idea had been working within him which would have in former days seemed an absurdity to him, but now—it was a very different matter!

s

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^

274 ^ COMMON STORY

He kept it for a resource in extremity; the extremity had come, and he decided to carry out the plan.

" If this is no use," he thought, "then there is no help for it, come what must! "

Piotr Ivanitch walked with resolute steps up to his wife and took her hand.

" You know, Liza," he said, " what a part I play in official life; I am looked on as the most capable secretary in the ministry. This year I shall offer myself for the privy council, and I shall certainly receive a post Do not imagine that my career is ended there; I may go higher still .... and arrive at "

She looked at him puzzled, waiting to know what this was leading up to.

" I never doubted your abilities," she said. " I am quite convinced that you will not stop half way, but will reach the highest "

" No, I shall not; in a few days I shall send in my resignation."

" ResiguatiflJL? " she said in astonishment, starting up.

. "What for?"

14 1 have more to tell you; you know that I have made an arrangement with my partners, and the factory belongs to me alone. It brings me in forty thousand nett profit without any trouble. It goes like a machine wound up."

" I know; what of it ? " inquired Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

" I am giving it up."

" What are you talking about, Piotr Ivanitch ? What is the matter with you?" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna with increasing amazement, looking at him in dismay; <( what is this for? I don't comprehend, I can't understand."

" Can you really not understand ? "

-"No 1" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna in perplexity.

" Cannot you understand that, seeing how depressed you

are, how your health is suffering .... from the climate, I

\ don't think much of my career and my factory, if I cannot

\ take you away from here, and devote the remainder of my

1-days to you . . • . Liza! did you think me incapable of

sacrifice ? " he added, reproachfully.

" So it is for my sake!" said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, still bewildered, " no, Piotr Ivanitch 1" she added earnestly,

deeply moved, " for God's sake, no sacrifices for me! I will not accept it—do you hear ? I absolutely will not! For you to give up working, growing rich and distinguished —and for my sake ! God forbid! I cannot bear this sacrifice ! Forgive me; I was too petty for you, too worthless, too weak to understand and appreciate your lofty aims

and noble labours You should not have had such a

wife."

" Magnanimity still!" said Piotr Ivanitch, shrugging his shoulders. " My intentions are not to be altered, Liza !"

" Good God! what have I done ! I was thrown like a stone across your path, I am a hindrance to you. What a singular fate !" she added, almost in desperation. If I am not wanted, if I am not needed in life .... will not God have pity on me, will He not take me ? To be a hindrance to you "

" You are wrong in supposing this sacrifice is hard for me to make. I have had enough of this wooden existence ! I want some repose, some peace; and where am I to rest if not alone with you ? . . . . Let us go to Itali

" Piotr Ivanitch!" she said, allHU&l 111 lUSrs, " you are good and noble .... I know you are capable of a generous deception .... but perhaps the sacrifice is useless, perhaps already .... it is too late, and you are throwing up your pursuits "

" Have pity on me, Liza, and don't let me believe that," replied Piotr Ivanitch, " or, you will see lam not made of flint. I repeat to you, that I don't want to live with the head alone; I am not altogether frozen yet."

She looked at him earnestly, doubtingly.

" And is that .... true ? " she asked, after a pause, " you really want peace; you are not going away only on * my account ? "

" No ; on my own account as well."

" But if it's for my sake, I wouldn't for anything, no, not for anything."

" No, no! I am unwell, worn out I want to

rest."

She gave him her hand, he kissed it with warmth.

" So we are going tn Ttalv ? " he said.

" Very well; let us go," she answered in an expressionless voice.

Piotr Ivanitch felt a load taken off his heart. "Some good will come of it," he thought.

They sat still a long while, not knowing what to say to one another. There is no saying which would have broken the silence first if they had remained alone together longer. But rapid footsteps were heard from the adjoining apartment. Alexandr made his appearance.

How he had altered! How he had filled out, how bald he had become, how stout and rosy he had grown ! With what dignity he carried his corpulence, and the decoration on his breast! His eyes were bright with enjoyment. He kissed his aunt's hand with special feelings, and pressed his uncle's hand.

" Where have you come from ? " asked Piotr Ivanitch.

" Guess," replied Alexandr significantly.

" You seem in unusually good spirits to-day," said Piotr Ivanitch, looking at him inquiringly.

" I bet you a wager you won't guess !" said Alexandr.

"Ten or twelve years ago, I remember you once rushed in on me in the same way," observed Piotr Ivanitch, " and you broke something of mine too—then I guessed at once that you were in love, but now .... can it be so again ? No, it can't be; you have too much sense to "

He looked at his wife and suddenly stopped short.

" Don't you begin to guess ? " asked Alexandr.

His uncle looked at him and still deliberated.

" Not this time—are you going, to be married ? " he said hesitatingly.

" You have guessed! " cried Alexandr in triumph— " Congratulate me!"

" But really ? To whom ?" asked his uncle and aunt together.

" To thedaughterjof Alexa ndr Stepan itch."

" Really j*^well,~~sr7e~is~ a wealthy match," said Piotr Ivanitch. t{ And the father—well ? "

" I have just come from him. Why should her father not consent ? Quite the contrary; he listened to my proposal with tears in his eyes, embraced me and said that now he could die happy; that he knows to whom he is entrusting his daughter's happiness .... ' Only walk in,'he said, ' your uncle's footsteps !'"

" Did he say that ? You see even here your uncle has been of use to you!"

L \».

V

x <~ ^ COMMON STORY 277

1*^ v " But what did the daughter say ? " said Lizaveta Alexan-

^^ drovna.

I \ "Oh! she did, you know, as all girls do," replied

f < ^ Alexandr, "she said nothing, only blushed; and when I

-\ % > t took her hand, her fingers quite played a tune upon my

- hand, they trembled so." <. *~* " She said nothing," remarked Lizaveta Alexandrovna. "*■ " Is it possible that you did not take the trouble to ascertain her feelings before you made your offer? Was it a matter of indifference to you ? Why are you going to be n. *•'' married then ? " v r v, "Why! One can't be a butterfly for ever! I am sick \ : \" ^ of solitude; the time has come, ma tante, to settle, to ^ ^; found a family and set up a house of one's own, to fulfil

\i one's duties My fianck is pretty and rich. But

^ % " > my uncle here will tell the reasons for getting married; he ^ . ' used to tell me them so precisely."

Piotr Ivanitch, unobserved by his wife, made a sign to him

. ; with his hand not to quote him and to hold his tongue, but

Alexandr did not observe it.

-^ . - " But possibly she may not care for you," said Lizaveta

^ ^^'Alexandrovna "it may be that she loves some one else

■^ ^ . . what do you say to that ? "

Uncle, what would you say? You are better at

speaking than I But I will quote your own words,"

Q j\ Alexandr, not noticing that his uncle was twisting uneasily in his seat and coughing significantly to put a stop to his V5^ y speech; "if you marry for love, love will pass and you will come to live by habit; if you marry not for love, you will come too to the same result; you will get used to your wife. Love is love, and marriage is marriage; these two do not always go together, and it is better when they

do not go together Isn't that right, uncle ? you used

to instruct me in that way, you know." "~ ife glanced at Piotr Ivanitch and stopped suddenly, seeing that his uncle was looking at him with a face of fury. He looked open-mouthed in bewilderment at his aunt, then again at his uncle, and said no more. Lizaveta Alexandrovna shook her head mournfully.

"Well, so you are going to be married?" said Piotr Ivanitch: (t it's a suitable time now, to be sure ! But you were wanting to be married at three-and-twenty." " Youth, uncle, youth !"

>.»

\

" Yes, it was youth."

Alexandr grew grave and then smiled.

" What is it ? " inquired Piotr Ivanitch.

•'Oh, I was struck by an incongruity."

" What incongruity ? "

"When I was in love," replied Alexandr meditatively, " I was not able to marry."

" And now you are getting married, and you are not able to love," added his uncle, and both laughed.

"It follows from that, uncle, that you were»right in your theory that suitability is the principal "

Piotr Ivanitch again turned a face of intense fury upon him. Alexandr was silent, not knowing what to think.

" You are going to be married at fiveand-thirty ," said Piotr Ivanitch, " that is quite proper. "^But you remember what a delirium you fell into then, how you vociferated, unequal marriages revolted you, that the bride was dragged, like a victim decked in flowers and diamonds, and thrust into the embraces of an elderly creature, generally unattractive and bald. How about your own head ? "

"Youth, youth, uncle ! I did not understand the realities of things," said Alexandr, smoothing his hair with his hand.

" The realities of things," continued Piotr Ivanitch; " but do you remember how desperate you were over that— what was her name ?—Natasha—was it ? Furious jealousy, transports, heavenly bliss. What has become of all that?"

" Now, now, uncle, stop !" said Alexandr, getting red.

"Where is the titanic passion, tears?"

"Uncle!"

"What? You have done with sincere outpourings, you have done with * gathering yellow flowers.' You are tired of living alone."

" Oh, if that's it, uncle, I am not the only one who has been in love, raved, been jealous, wept. Wait a minute, I have a written document in my possession."

He pulled a pocket-book out of his pocket, and after

fumbling some time among the papers, he drew out an

, old, almost worn-out and yellow sheet of paper.

j "Here, ma fanfe" he said, "is the proof that my uncle

^was not always such a rational, ironical, and practical man.

He too knew something of sincere outpourings and gave

expression to them not on official paper and with special ink. For four years I have carried that scrap about with me and kept waiting for an opportunity to confront my uncle with it* I had all but forgotten it, but you yourself reminded me."

" What nonsense is this ? I don't understand it a bit," said Piotr Ivanitch, looking at the scrap of paper.

" Here, then, look at it."

Alexandr held the paper up before his uncle's eyes. Suddenly Piotr Ivanitch's face darkened.

" Give it up, give it up, Alexandr!" he cried hurriedly and tried to snatch it. But Alexandr quickly drew back his hand.

Lizaveta Alexandrovna looked at him with curiosity.

"No, uncle, I won't give it up," said Alexandr, "until you

• acknowledge here, before my aunt, that you too were in love

1 once, like me, and everybody .... or else this document

4 shall be put into her hands to your eternal reproach."

i " Brute! " cried Piotr Ivanitch, " what trick are you

\ playing on me ? "

" You don't want me to -".

" Come, come, I have been in love ; give it up."

" No, kindly say that you were raving, jealous ? "

"Well, I was jealous and raving," said Piotr Ivanitch, scowling.

" You shed tears ? "

" No, I didn't shed tears."

" It's not true 1 I was told so by my auntie; own up."

" I can't bring my Jongue to utter it, Alexandr. Perhaps I will try now "

" Ma tank) take the document."

" Show me, what is it ? " she inquired, holding out her hand.

" I shed tears, I did ! Give it up ! " cried Piotr Ivanitch in desperation.

"By the lake?"

" By the lake ? "

" And you gathered yellow flowers ? "

" I did. There you have everything. Give it up !"

" No, not everything; give me your word of honour, that you will consign my follies to eternal oblivion and give up taunting me with them."

tSo a common story

" I give you my word of honour."

Alexandr gave him the paper. Piotr Ivanitch snatched it, lighted a taper and burnt the scrap of paper in it.

" Tell me at least what it was about ? " inquired Lizaveta Alexandrovna.

" No, my dear, that I will not tell at the Last Judgment," replied Piotr Ivanitch; " but is it possible I wrote that ? can it be?"

" You did, uncle !" interposed Alexandr, " I can repeat, if you like, what was written in it; I know it by heart: " Angel, adored by me "

" Alexandr! we shall be enemies for life 1" cried Piotr Ivanitch angrily.

" They are ashamed, as though it were a crime, and of what! " said Lizaveta Alexandrovna; " of first, pure love."

She shrugged her shoulders and turned away from them.

" In that love there was so much that was stupid," said Piotr Ivanitch gently, insinuatingly. "Between us now there was no question of sincere outpourings, of flowers, and walks by moonlight .... but you love me, you know."

"Yes, I am thoroughly .... used to you," replied Lizaveta Alexandrovna vacantly.

Piotr Ivanitch began to stroke his whiskers despondently.

"Well, uncle," inquired Alexandr, in an undertone, " isn't that jvhat you want? "

Piotr Ivanitch made a sign to him to signify, "be silent."

" It's pardonable in Piotr Ivanitch to think and behave like this," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, " he has been the same so long, and no one, I imagine, has known him otherwise; but in you, Alexandr, I did not expect such a change."

She sighed.

" What do you sigh for, ma tante ? " he asked.

" For the Alexandr of old days," she replied

" Is it possible you could have wished me, ma tante, to remain what I was ten years ago ? " said Alexandr. " Uncle is right in calling it foolish sentimentality. ,,

The countenance of Piotr Ivanitch began to grow wrathful. Alexandr stopped.

" No, not what you were ten years ago," said Lizaveta Alexandrovna, " but four years ago; do you remember what a letter you wrote me from the country ? How splendid you were then 1"

"I fancy I was a sentimentalist then, too," said Alexandr.

" No, you were not sentimental. Then you had interpreted and understood life for yourself; then you were

splendid, noble, wise Why did you not remain so ? "

Why was it only in words, on paper, and not in fact ? This brightness peeped out like the sun from behind a cloud— for one instant."

" You meart to say, ma tante y that now I .... am not wise .... nor noble ? "

" God forbid, no! But now you are wise and noble .... in some other way, not in my way "

"What's to be done, ma fante" said Alexandr with a sonorous sigh, " it's the age. I progress with the times; one cannot stay behind. You see I follow my uncle, I quote his words."

" Alexandr !" said Piotr Ivanitch, savagely, " let us go to my study for a minute; I want to have a word with you."

They went into the study.

" What possessed you to appeal to me to-day ?" said Piotr Ivanitch. " Do you see w hat a state my wife is in.V.

" What is it ? " .a^JJBfc&lExandp ia alarm.

" HSven't ^pu jjQticed anything? Why, its come to my throwing up .my position, my business—everything and

g oing t oJtal£^witli hpr *"

^ What are you saying, uncle 1" cried Alexandr, in bewildeillie ni, " wliy7T hfeyearyou^re"T)ound to be in the privycouncil."

**Yes, But if the privy councillor's wife is dying I" . He walked despondently three times up and down the room.

" No," he said, " my career is over! My work is done ; Fate does not permit to advance further—so be it!" He made a gesture of abnegation.

" We had better talk about you,", he said; " you seem to be following in my footsteps."

" I couldn't do better, uncle," added Alexandr.

" Yes," Piotr continued. " At a little over thirty .... a

T

councillor, a good official salary, while by unofficial work you are making a large income. And now, in due course, you are to marry a wealthy .... Yes, the Adouevs are making their mark. You are following in my steps except for the back-ache."

" But I sometimes suffer with it already/' said Alexandr, rubbing his spine.

" It's all excellent, of course, except the spinal trouble," continued Piotr Ivanitch. " I did not think, I confess, that anything much could be made of you when you came up here. You were always occupying your brain with spiritual questions, flying off to the clouds. But that's all over now, and thank God for it 1 I would say to you: Continue to follow in my footsteps, except "

" Except in what, uncle ? "

" Oh, I should have liked to give you some advice in regard to your future wife."

" What is it ? That's curious."

" But no," said Piotr Ivanitch, after a short pause. " I am afraid of making things worse. Act as you feel yourself; perhaps you will guess. Let us rather talk of your marriage They say yourjlancie has a dowry of two hundred thousand —really!"

" Yes; her father gives her two hundred thousand, and she has a hundred left her from her mother."

" Then that's three hundred!" exclaimed Piotr Ivanitch, almost with awe.

" And moreover, he said to-day that he would give us his five hundred serfs, now to be at our full disposal, on condition of our allowing him seven thousand a year. He will live with us."

Piotr jumped up from his chair with an alacrity not like him.

" Stop, stop !" he said. " You are making me dizzy. What did you tell me ? Say it again. How much ? "

"Five hundred serfs and three hundred thousand in money," Alexandr repeated.

"You are not joking !"

"A likely joke, uncle!"

" And the property ... is not mortgaged ? " asked Piotr Ivanitch softly, not moving from his place.

"No."