The novels and stories of Ivan Turgenieff. Translated from the Russian by Isabel F. Hapgood, with an introd. by Henry James

IVAN TURGENIEFF

VOLUME XV

tt 8 SPRING FRESHETS
AND OTHER STORIES

A

^V. 15" ^

THE NOVELS AND STORIES OF

IVAN TURGENIEFF
tlvavi.

•$• SPRING FRESHETS
AND OTHER STORIE.-

TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
ISABEL F. HAPGOOD

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1904

'

Copyright, 1904, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

THE DEVINNE PRESS

CONTENTS

PAGE

SPRING FRESHETS 1

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK .... t . 239
THE WATCH . .291

SPRING FRESHETS

(1871)

PREFACE

" SPRING FRESHETS " was first published in the
European Messenger. In commenting upon it
one critic says that, in his later works, Turgenieff
lingered, with special intensity of interest, over
the weak-willed people (or, rather, men) who
have no moral backbone. Such an one is the hero
of the splendid novel, " Spring Freshets," one of
the most inspired and fairest creations of art.
Sanin has fallen in love with a pure and radiant
affection, with a pure maiden, Gemma; but the
seduction of perturbing, sensual passion is all-
powerful over him; and while condemning and
despising himself, he yields to that passion and
slays the happiness and the love which would have
been given to him in sincerity of soul.

This story leaves a painful impression on the
reader. In the artistic form of a story the same
idea is conveyed which poured forth lyrically in
" Phantoms " and in " It is Enough/' We behold
in the novel the poetic melancholy over the con-
tradiction between the laws of Nature and man's
aspirations toward the absolute, the eternal. This
thought concerning the strife between material
Nature and the spirit of mankind permeates a

PREFACE

whole series of lesser stories written during the
last fifteen or twenty years of the author's life.
In them the poet subjects to microscopic and
profoundly-artistic analysis the idea of the mar-
vellous. He scrutinises the supernatural in its rela-
tions both with the accidents and the self-decep-
tion of human conceit (in the story " Knock . . .
Knock . . . Knock," in this connection, he even
bears himself with the greatest scepticism and in-
credulity toward the supernatural) , as also with
covetous deception and crime (" The Story of
Lieutenant Ergiinoff"), and with magnetism
("A Strange Story," and "The Song of Love
Triumphant ") ; and, in conclusion, as the mani-
festation and action of a spirit (" The Dog," and
" Father Alexyei's Story ") .

With a vivid interest which grips the heart,
and with profound, though hidden and painful
sympathy, does Turgenieff depict man's ten-
dency toward the marvellous, his thirst for the
supernatural, the immortal.

One of the author's favourite themes was a
weak man bowing down before a strong wo-
man. This he used in " Rudin," " Smoke," " The
Region of Dead Calm," " The End of Tchertop-
khanoff," and in " Spring Freshets." Even such
a purely sensual and rapacious nature as Madame
Polozoff is, in the first place, strong, and, in the
second place, sympathetic in many respects, while
Gemma belongs with the purely ideal but strong

vi

PREFACE

characters represented by the heroines of " The
Region of Dead Calm," "A Nobleman's Nest,"
" Rudin," " On the Eve," Tanya (in " Smoke ") ,
and Katya (in " Fathers and Children ") .

Another point worth noting is that the theme
of " Spring Freshets " is almost identical in
substance with that of "A Correspondence."
Moreover, the great poet-analyst sets forth his
idea that there is love and love, — good love and
evil love,— which are of violently-contrasted na-
ture. In " Smoke " and " Spring Freshets " he
expounded this idea in its clearest and most vivid
form.

Concerning "The Watch" the Russian critics
have, practically, nothing to say.

I. F. H.

Vll

SPRING FRESHETS

The merry years,
The happy days, —
Like freshets in spring
They have dashed past !

From an ancient Ballad.

A 5 OUT two o'clock in the morning, he re-
turned to his study. He dismissed the ser-
vant, struck a match,— and, flinging himself into
an arm-chair near the fireplace, he covered his
face with both hands.

Never before had he felt such fatigue — both
physical and spiritual. He had spent the entire
evening with agreeable ladies, with cultured men :
some of the ladies were handsome, nearly all the
men were distinguished for wit and talents — he
himself had conversed with great success, and
even brilliantly . . . and, nevertheless, never be-
fore had that tcedium vitce of which the Ro-
mans talked, that " disgust with life," taken pos-
session of him with irresistible force, and had
stifled him. Had he been a little younger he
would have wept with melancholy, boredom, irri-
tation: a caustic and burning bitterness, like
the bitterness of wormwood, filled his soul to
overflowing. Something importunately-loath-
some, repulsively-oppressive, invested him on all

3

SPRING FRESHETS

sides, like a gloomy, autumnal night;— and he
did not know how to rid himself of that gloom,
of that bitterness. It was useless to rely upon
sleep to do it: he knew well that he could not
sleep.

He set to meditating . . . slowly, languidly,
and spitefully.

He meditated upon the vanity, the uselessness,
the stale falsity of everything human. All ages
of man gradually passed in review before his
mental vision— (he himself had passed his fifty-
second birthday not long before) —and not one
of them found any mercy at his hands. Every-
where there was the same eternal pouring of the
empty into the void, the same beating of the
empty air, the same half -conscientious, half -con-
scious self-deception,— anything with which to
soothe the child, so that it might not cry,— and
then, all of a sudden old age descends unexpect-
edly, like snow on the head,— and along with it,
that constantly-augmenting, all-devouring, and
gnawing fear of death .... and, flop into the
abyss! And it is a good thing if life does wind
up in that way!— Otherwise, probably, before the
end, feebleness, suffering will come like rust on
grain. . . . The sea of life did not appear to him,
as the poets describe it, covered with stormy
waves; no:— he depicted to himself that sea as
imperturbably-smooth, motionless and transpar-
ent to even its very dark bottom; he himself is
sitting in a small, cranky boat,— and down yon-

4

SPRING FRESHETS

der, on that dark, slimy bottom, horrible mon-
sters, in the likeness of huge fishes, are dimly visi-
ble: all the ills of life, sicknesses, woes, mad-
nesses, poverty, blindness. . . . He gazes: and
lo, one of the monsters detaches itself from the
gloom, rises higher and higher, grows more and
more distinct, more repulsively-distinct. . . .
Another minute — and the boat which is resting
upon it will be overturned ! But behold, it seems
to grow dim once more, it retreats, sinks to the
bottom— and there it lies, barely moving its gills.
. . . But the fatal day will come when it will
capsize the boat.

He shook his head, jumped up from his chair,
strode up and down the room a couple of times,
seated himself at the writing-table, and pulling
out one drawer after another, he began to rum-
mage among his old papers, among ancient let-
ters, chiefly from women. He himself did not
know why he was doing this ; he was not search-
ing for anything — he was simply desirous of rid-
ding himself, by some external activity, of the
thoughts which were oppressing him. Unfold-
ing, at haphazard, several letters (in one of them
he found some withered flowers, bound with a
faded ribbon), he merely shrugged his shoul-
ders, and casting a glance at the fireplace, flung
them aside, probably making ready to burn all
this useless rubbish. Hastily thrusting his hands,
now into one, now into another drawer, he sud-
denly opened his eyes to their fullest extent, and

5

SPRING FRESHETS

slowly drawing forth a small octagonal casket of
ancient design, he slowly raised its lid. In the
casket, beneath a double layer of cotton-wool, yel-
lowed with age, was a tiny garnet cross.

For several moments he surveyed this little
cross with bewilderment — and all at once he ut-
tered a cry. ... It was neither precisely pity
nor yet joy which his features expressed. A
man's face presents that sort of an expression
when he chances suddenly to encounter another
man, whom he has long lost from sight, whom he
has once tenderly loved, and who now unex-
pectedly starts up before his vision, still the same
-yet all altered by the years.

He rose to his feet, and returning to the fire-
place, seated himself once more in his arm-chair—
and once more held his face in his hands. . . .
"Why to-day? To-day in particular?" he
thought to himself — and he recalled many things
which had taken place long ago.

This is what he called to mind ....

But first we must tell his name, patronymic
and surname. He was called Sanin, Dmitry
Pavlovitch.

This is what he called to mind .

IT was the year 1840. Sanin was in his twenty-
third year, and was in Frankfurt, on his home-
ward road from Italy to Russia. He was a man

a

SPRING FRESHETS

of small but independent fortune, almost totally
devoid of family. He possessed a few thousand
rubles, which had come to him on the death of a
distant relative— and he decided to spend them
abroad, before entering government service, be-
fore definitively donning that official harness
without which an existence free from anxiety was
inconceivable for him. Sanin carried out his in-
tention to the letter, and managed matters so art-
fully that on the day of his arrival in Frankfurt
he had just money left to take him to Petersburg.
In 1840 there was only the smallest amount of
railways in existence; tourists travelled in stage-
coaches. Sanin engaged a place in the Bei-
wagen; but the diligence did not start until
eleven o'clock at night. He had a great deal of
time on his hands. Fortunately, the weather was
very fine — and Sanin, after dining in the then
renowned hostelry " The White Swan," set out to
roam about the town. He dropped in to have a
look at Dannecker's "Ariadne," which did not
please him much, visited the house of Goethe, of
whose writings, by the way, he had read only
" Werther " —and that in a French translation ; he
strolled along the banks of the Main, got bored, as
is proper for a well-ordered traveller; at last, at
six o'clock in the evening, he found himself
weary, with dusty feet, in one of the most insig-
nificant streets of Frankfurt. For a long time
thereafter he was unable to forget that street.

7

SPRING FRESHETS

On one of its not very numerous houses he espied
a sign: the " Italian Confectionery Shop of Gio-
vanni Roselli " announced itself to passers-by.

Sanin stepped in to drink a glass of lemonade;
but in the first room, where, behind a modest
counter, on the shelves of a painted cupboard,
suggestive of an apothecary's shop, stood several
bottles with gilt labels, and a corresponding num-
ber of glass jars filled with rusks, chocolate cakes,
and caramels — in this room there was not a living
soul; only a grey cat was blinking and purring,
as she opened and shut her paws on a tall wattled
chair near the window,— and, glowing vividly in
the slanting rays of the evening sun, a big ball of
scarlet wool lay on the floor, alongside an over-
turned basket of carved wood. A confused noise
was audible in the adjoining room. Sanin stood
still, and after allowing the little bell on the door
to ring itself out, he exclaimed, raising his voice:
"Is there any one here?" At that moment the
door of the adjoining room opened — and Sanin
was impelled to involuntary amazement.

II

INTO the confectioner's shop, with her dark curls
scattered over her shoulders, and bare arms ex-
tended before her, ran impetuously a young girl
of nineteen, and on catching sight of Sanin, in-
stantly rushed up to him, seized him by the hand,

8

SPRING FRESHETS

and drew him after her, saying in a panting
voice: "Quick, quick, this way, to the rescue!"
Sanin did not immediately follow the girl — not
because of reluctance to comply with her request,
but simply from excessive surprise— and re-
mained, as it were, stubbornly rooted to the spot :
in all his life he had never beheld such a beauty.
She turned toward him — and ejaculated, with
such despair in her voice, in her eyes, in the ges-
ture of her clenched fist: " Come, pray come! " —
that he immediately rushed after her through the
open door.

In the room, into which he ran behind the
young girl, upon an old-fashioned horsehair
couch, all white— white with yellowish reflections,
like wax or ancient marble, — lay a lad of fourteen,
who bore a striking resemblance to the young girl
and was, evidently, her brother. His eyes were
closed ; the shadow of his heavy black hair fell in
a patch upon his forehead, which seemed turned
to stone, upon his slender, motionless eyebrows;
his clenched teeth were visible between his blue
lips. He did not seem to be breathing;— one
arm lay on the floor, the other he had thrown
above his head. The boy was fully dressed, and
his clothing was buttoned up; a tight neckcloth
compressed his neck.

The young girl rushed to him with a shriek.
" He is dead, he is dead! " she screamed; " a mo-
ment ago he was sitting here, talking with me —

9

SPRING FRESHETS

and all of a sudden, he fell down and became mo-
tionless . . . O my God! can it be that there is
no help for it? And mamma is not here! Panta-
leone, Pantaleone, what about the doctor?" she
suddenly added in Italian: "Didst thou go for
a doctor?"

"I did not go, Signora, I sent Luisa," rang
out a husky voice beyond the door, — and limping
on his crooked legs, there entered the room a little
old man in a lilac dress-coat with black buttons,
a tall white neckcloth, short nankeen trousers, and
blue worsted stockings. His tiny face was quite
concealed beneath a perfect pile of iron-grey
hair. Standing up stiffly in all directions, and
falling back again in dishevelled locks, it im-
parted to the old man's figure a likeness to a
crested hen, — a likeness the more striking in that
beneath their dark-grey mass nothing was to be
distinguished save a sharp-pointed nose and
round, yellow eyes.

"Luisa runs faster, and I cannot run," went
on the little old man, in Italian, lifting his flat,
gouty feet, clad in tall slippers with ribbon bows,
alternately, — "but I have brought some water."

In his gaunt, calloused fingers he clutched the
long neck of a bottle.

"But meanwhile £mile will die!" cried the
girl, stretching out her hand toward Sanin.—
"Oh, sir, O mein H err!— Cannot you help us?"

"We must let blood — it is a stroke of apo-
10

SPRING FRESHETS

plexy,"— remarked the old man, who bore the
name of Pantaleone.

Although Sanin had not the faintest under-
standing of the medical art, he knew one thing
for a fixed fact: lads of fourteen do not have at-
tacks of apoplexy.

" It 'is a swoon, not an apoplectic fit,"— said he,
addressing Pantaleone.— " Have you a brush? "

The old man raised his tiny face a little.—
"What?"

"A brush, a brush,"— repeated Sanin, in Ger-
man and in French.

"A brush,"— he added, pretending in dumb-
show that he was cleaning his clothes.

At last the old man understood him.

" Ah, a brush ! Spazzettet Of course we have
a brush!"

" Bring it hither; we will take off his coat— and
rub him."

" Good .... Benone! And shall not we
pour water on his head? "

"No . . . afterward; go now, and fetch the
brush as quickly as possible."

Pantaleone set the bottle on the floor, ran out
of the room, and immediately returned with two
brushes, a hair-brush and a clothes-brush. A
curly poodle accompanied him, and wagging his
tail briskly, stared curiously at the little old man,
the young girl and even Sanin — as though desir-
ous of finding out what all this tumult meant.

11

SPRING FRESHETS

Sanin promptly removed the coat of the pros-
trate lad, unhooked his collar, stripped up his
shirt-sleeves— and arming himself with the brush,
began to rub his breast and arms with all his
might. Pantaleone rubbed the hair-brush over
his boots and trousers, with equal zeal. The girl
flung herself on her knees beside the couch, and
clutching her head with both hands, without
winking an eyelash, she riveted her gaze on her
brother's face. >

Sanin rubbed away,— and surveyed her with a
sidelong gaze as he did so. Good heavens! what
a beauty she was !

Ill

HER nose was rather large, but handsome, of the
aquiline type; her upper lip was just barely
shaded with down; on the other hand, her com-
plexion was smooth and dead-white, precisely like
ivory or milky amber; the shining masses of her
hair were like those of Allori's "Judith" in the
Palazzo Pitti,— and especially her eyes, dark
grey, with a black rim around the pupil, were
magnificent, conquering eyes,— even now when
fright and grief had dimmed their lustre. . . .
Sanin involuntarily called to mind the wondrous
land whence he had just returned . . . Yes,
even in Italy he had not met anything like her!
The young girl breathed infrequently and un-

12

SPRING FRESHETS

evenly; she seemed each time to be waiting to see
whether her brother would breathe.

Sanin continued to rub him ; but he did not look
at the young girl alone. Pantaleone's original
figure also attracted his attention. The old man
grew quite weak, and panted for breath; with
every stroke of the brush he gave a leap and
a grunt, while his huge mass of shaggy hair,
dampened with perspiration, rocked from side to
side like the roots of a vast plant undermined by
water.

"Do take off his boots, at least,"— Sanin felt
like saying to him. . . .

The poodle, probably excited by the unwonted-
ness of what was going on, suddenly sank down
on his forepaws and began to bark.

" Tartaglia, canaglia! "—hissed the old man at
him. . . .

But at that moment the young girl's face un-
derwent a transformation; her eyes grew larger,
and began to beam with joy. . . . Sanin glanced
round .... A flush mounted to the face of the
young man; his eyelids moved and his nostrils
quivered. He inhaled air through his still
clenched teeth, sighed ....

"Ilimile!" — cried the girl. . . . "Emilio
mio!"

Slowly the great black eyes opened. Their
glance was still dull, but they were already smil-
ing faintly; the same faint smile descended to

13

SPRING FRESHETS

the pale lips. Then he moved his pendent arm —
and with a flourish laid it on his breast.

"Emilio!"— repeated the young girl, and
half rose to her feet. The expression of her face
was so strong and brilliant that it seemed as
though her tears would spring forth or that she
would break into laughter.

"£mile! What is it? £mile!"— rang out a
voice outside the door — and with swift steps, a
neatly-attired woman, with silvery-grey hair and
a swarthy complexion, entered the room. An
elderly man followed her; the head of a maid-
servant peered from behind his shoulders.

The young girl ran to meet them.

"He is saved, mamma, he lives!"— she ex-
claimed, convulsively embracing the lady who
had entered.

"But what is the matter?" — repeated the lat-
ter. . . " I am on my way home, when suddenly
I meet the doctor and Luisa. . . . ' The girl
began to relate what had happened, while the
doctor stepped up to the sick boy, who was com-
ing more and more to himself — and still con-
tinued to smile : he seemed to be ashamed of the
alarm which he had caused.

* You have been rubbing him with brushes, I
see,"— said the doctor to Sanin and Pantaleone,
— " and it was well done. ... A very good idea
.... and now let us see what further reme-
dies. . . ."

14,

SPRING FRESHETS

He felt the young man's pulse.—" H'm! show
your tongue!"

The lady bent anxiously over him. He smiled
more frankly than before, turned his eyes on her
—and flushed scarlet. . .

It occurred to Sanin that his presence was be-
coming superfluous ; he went out into the confec-
tioner's shop. But before he could grasp the
handle of the street door, the young girl again ap-
peared before him, and stopped him.

"You are going away,"— she began, gazing
caressingly in his face ; " I will not detain you,
but you must come to us again this evening, with-
out fail; we are so greatly indebted to you, — you
may have saved my brother's life— we wish to
thank you — mamma wishes to thank you. You
must tell us who you are, you must rejoice with
us "

"But I am setting out for Berlin to-day,"—
stammered Sanin.

' You will have plenty of time,"— returned the
young girl vivaciously.— " Come to us an hour
hence, to drink a cup of chocolate. Do you
promise? But I must go back to him! Will you
come?"

What was there left for Sanin to do?

:c I will," he replied.

The beauty gave his hand a hasty pressure, and
fluttered forth— and he found himself in the
street.

15

SPRING FRESHETS

IV

WHEN Sanin, an hour and a half later, returned
to Roselli's confectionery shop, he was welcomed
there like a relative. Emilio was sitting on the
same couch on which they had rubbed him; the
doctor had prescribed some medicine for him, and
had recommended " great caution in the experi-
ence of emotion," — as being of a nervous tem-
perament, and with a tendency to heart-disease.
He had previously been subject to fainting fits;
but never had an attack been so prolonged and so
violent. The doctor had declared, however, that
all danger was over, fimile was dressed as befits
a convalescent, in a loose dressing-gown ; his mo-
ther had wound a blue woollen kerchief round his
neck; but he wore a cheerful, almost festive as-
pect; and everything round about him also wore a
festive aspect. In front of the couch, on a round
table covered with a clean cloth, and surrounded
by cups, caraff es with syrup, biscuits, and rolls,
even with flowers, — rose a huge, porcelain coffee-
pot filled with fragrant chocolate; six slender
wax tapers burned in two antique silver cande-
labra; on one side of the divan, a reclining chair
opened its soft embrace— and Sanin was placed
in this chair. All the inhabitants of the confec-
tioner's shop, with whom he had had occasion to
make acquaintance that day, were present, not

16

SPRING FRESHETS

excepting the poodle Tartaglia and the cat; all
seemed unspeakably happy; the poodle even
sneezed with pleasure; the cat alone, as before,
kept blinking and purring. They made Sanin
explain who he was, and whence he came, and
what was his name; when he said that he was
a Russian, both the ladies displayed some sur-
prise, and even uttered an exclamation, — and im-
mediately, in one voice, declared that he spoke
German capitally; but if he found it more con-
venient to express himself in French, he might
employ that language, as both of them under-
stood it well, and expressed themselves well in it.
Sanin immediately availed himself of this sug-
gestion. "Sanin! Sanin!"— The ladies had
never supposed that a Russian surname could be
so easily pronounced. His Christian name,
" Dmitry," also pleased them greatly. The elder
lady remarked that in her youth she had heard a
fine opera: " Demetrio e Polibio " — but that
" Dmitry " was much nicer than " Demetrio." In
this manner did Sanin chat for about an hour.
The ladies, on their side, initiated him into all the
details of their own life. The mother, the lady
with the grey hair, did most of the talking.
From her Sanin learned that her name was Leo-
nora Roselli ; that she was the widow of Giovanni
Battista Roselli, who had settled in Frankfurt
twenty-five years previously, as a confectioner;
that Giovanni Battista had been a native of

17

SPRING FRESHETS

Vicenza, and a very good, though rather peppery
and irritable man, and a republican into the bar-
gain! As she uttered these words, Signora Ro-
selli pointed to his portrait, painted in oils, which
hung over the couch. We must assume that the
artist — "also a republican," as Signora Roselli
remarked with a sigh— had not quite succeeded
in catching the likeness, — for in his portrait the
late Giovanni Battista was represented as a sort
of grim and gloomy brigand — in the style of Ri-
naldo Rinaldini! Signora Roselli herself was a
native of "the ancient and beautiful city of
Parma, where there is such a magnificent dome,
painted by the immortal Correggio!" But
through prolonged residence in Germany, she
had become almost a German. Then she added,
with a mournful shake of the head, that all she
had left was this daughter, and this son (she
pointed her finger at them in turn) ; — that her
daughter's name was Gemma, and her son's,
Emilio; that they were both very good and obe-
dient children — especially Emilio . . . . ("I'm
not obedient! " put in her daughter at this point;

-" Okh, thou art a republican also! " replied her
mother) ; — that business was not as good now, of
course, as in her husband's time, for he had been
a great master in the confectioner's art ....

(fe Un grand' uomo! "—interposed Pantaleone
with a morose aspect) ; but that, nevertheless,
they were able to make a living, thank God!

18

SPRING FRESHETS

GEMMA listened to her mother— now laughing,
now sighing, now stroking her on the shoulder,
again menacing her with her finger, now glancing
at Sanin; at last she rose, embraced her mother,
and kissed her on the neck, — on the throat just
under the chin, which made the latter laugh a
great deal and even squeal. Pantaleone was also
introduced to Sanin. It appeared that he had
formerly been an opera-singer, in barytone parts,
but had long since dropped his theatrical occupa-
tions, and had become something midway be-
tween a friend of the house and a servant in the
Roselli family. Notwithstanding his long resi-
dence in Germany, he had acquired the German
language only in an imperfect manner, and mer-
cilessly murdered even the words of abuse.
"Ferrofluchto spiccebubbio!" was what he called
nearly every German. But the Italian language
he spoke in perfection, being a native of Siniga-
glia, where is heard the ff lingua toscana in bocca
romana!" Emilio was obviously pampering
himself, and surrendering himself to the agree-
able sensations of a man who has just escaped
danger, or is convalescing; and, moreover, it was
perceptible, from all the indications, that the
members of the household spoiled him with pet-
ting. He thanked Sanin in a bashful way, but

19

SPRING FRESHETS

devoted himself chiefly to the syrup and the
candy. Sanin was compelled to drink two large
cups of superb chocolate, and to consume a re-
markable amount of biscuits; no sooner had he
swallowed one than Gemma offered him another
— and it was impossible to refuse! He speedily
felt himself quite at home : time sped on with in-
credible swiftness. He had to tell a great deal
about Russia in general, about Russian society;
about the Russian peasant— and especially about
the kazaks; about the War of 1812, about Peter
the Great, the Kremlin, Russian ballads and
bells. Both of the ladies had but a very feeble
conception of our vast and distant fatherland;
Signora Roselli, or, as she was more frequently
called, Frau Lenore, even amazed Sanin with the
question: whether the famous ice-palace built in
St. Petersburg during the last century, concern-
ing which she had recently read such a curious
article — in one of her deceased husband's books
— "Bellezze delle Arti" — was still in existence?
— and in response to Sanin's exclamation: "Can
it be possible that you think there is never any
summer in Russia!" Frau Lenore replied that
up to that time she had depicted Russia to herself
in the following manner: eternal snow, every one
going about in fur cloaks, and everybody in the
military service — but remarkable hospitality, and
all the peasants very obedient! Sanin endeav-
oured to impart to her and her daughter more ac-

20

SPRING FRESHETS

curate information. When the conversation
turned on Russian music, he was immediately
asked to sing some Russian air, and a tiny piano,
with black keys instead of white and white in-
stead of black, which stood in the room, was
pointed out to him. He complied without fur-
ther ado, and accompanying himself with two
fingers of his right hand, and three of his left
(the thumb, middle finger and little finger), he
sang, in a thin, nasal tenor, first " The Red Sa-
rafan," * and then "Along a Paved Street."
The ladies praised his voice and the music, but
went into raptures more particularly over the
softness and melody of the Russian language
and demanded a translation of the text. Sanin
complied with their request — but as the words
of "The Red Sarafan," and particularly those
of "Along a Paved Street " (sur une rue pavee
une jeune fille allait a I'eau — thus did he ren-
der the meaning of the original), could not in-
spire his hearers with a lofty idea of Russian
poetry, he first declaimed, then translated, then
sang Pushkin's " I Remember a Wondrous
Moment," set to music by Glinka, whose couplets
in minor tones he slightly distorted. The ladies
went into ecstasies, — Frau Lenore even discov-
ered a wonderful resemblance between the Rus-
sian language and the Italian. "Mnogvenie"

i The saraf &n is the frock, suspended from the shoulders, of
peasant maidens.— TRANSLATOR.

21

SPRING FRESHETS

— ffo vieni"—ffco mnai"—cfsiam noi"—aud so
forth. Even the names Pushkin (she pro-
nounced it Pussekin) and Glinka sounded fa-
miliar to her. Sanin, in his turn, requested the
ladies to sing something: and they, also, were
quite unaffected. Frau Lenore seated herself at
the piano, and in company with Gemma, she sang
several duettini and stornelli. The mother had
once had a fine contralto; the daughter's voice
was rather weak, but agreeable.

VI

IT was not Gemma's voice, however, but the girl
herself that Sanin admired. He sat somewhat
behind her and to one side, and thought to him-
self that no palm-tree — even in the verses of
BenediktofF, who was then the fashionable poet,
—was capable of vying with the slender ele-
gance of her figure. And when, at the sentimen-
tal notes, she rolled her eyes upward, it seemed to
him that there was no heaven which would not
open wide at such a glance. Even old Panta-
leone, who was leaning his shoulder against the
jamb of the door, with his chin and mouth buried
in his capacious neckcloth, listened sedately, with
the air of an expert, — even he admired the face
of the beautiful girl, and was amazed at it,— and
yet, apparently, he must have been used to it!
On finishing her duettino with her daughter,

22

SPRING FRESHETS

Frau Lenore remarked that Emilio had a capital
voice — genuine silver — but that he had now at-
tained the age when the voice undergoes a change
- (in fact, he spoke in a sort of basso voice
which was incessantly breaking) —and for that
reason, he was forbidden to sing; but that Pan-
taleone here might, in honor of the visitor, recall
his earlier days! Pantaleone immediately as-
sumed an aspect of displeasure, frowned, rum-
pled up his hair, and announced that he had long
since given up all that sort of thing, although he
really had been able, in his youth, to hold his own
—and, moreover, in general, he belonged to that
grand epoch when genuine, classical singers ex-
isted— not to be mentioned in the same breath
with the squallers of the present day! and a genu-
ine school of singing; that a laurel wreath had
once been presented to him, Pantaleone Cippa-
tola, in Modena, and several white doves had even
been set free in the theatre on that occasion ; that,
among others, a Russian Prince Tarbusky— ffil
Principe Tarbusski " — with whom he had been on
the most intimate terms, had incessantly invited
him, at supper, to Russia, had promised him
mountains of gold, mountains! . . . but that he
had not been willing to leave Italy, the land of
Dante— ffil paese del Dante!" —later on, of
course, unfortunate circumstances arose, he him-
self was incautious. . . . Here the old man in-
terrupted himself, heaved a couple of profound

23

SPRING FRESHETS

sighs, cast down his eyes — and again began to
talk about the classic era of singing, about the
famous tenor Garcia, for whom he cherished a
reverent, boundless respect. "There was a
man! " — he exclaimed. Never did the great Gar-
cia— "il gran Garcia!"— condescend to sing like
the wretched little tenors of the present day-
the tenor ecci — in falsetto: he always sang from
the chest, the chest, voce di petto, si! The old
man dealt himself a stiff blow on his neckcloth
with his tiny, lean hand. And what an actor ! A
volcano, signori mid, a volcano, un Vesuvio! " I
had the honour to sing with him in the opera fdellf
illustrissimo maestro Rossini'— in ' Otello! ' Gar-
cia was Otello— I was lago— and when he ut-
tered this phrase . . . . '

Here Pantaleone struck an attitude, and began
to sing in a hoarse and quavering, but still pa-
thetic voice:

" L'i. . . . ra daver. ... so daver. . . .

lo piu no. . . . no. . . . no. . . . non temerft !

The theatre quaked, signori miei! but I did
not stop; and I also sang after him:

L'i. . . . ra daver. ... so daver. . . . so il fato
Temer piu non dovr6 !

And all at once he— like lightning, like a tiger:
'Morro . ... ma vindicato . . . . '

24

SPRING FRESHETS

" Or here again, when he sang .... when he
sang that celebrated aria from ' II Matrimonio
Segreto': Priache spunti. . . . Then he, il gran
Garcia, after the words: I cavalli di galop po —
did this on the words: Senza posa camera— lis-
ten, how amazing it is, com'£ stupendo! Then he
did this. . . . ' The old man tried to execute
some remarkable sort of fioritura — but broke off
short on the tenth note, cleared his throat, and
with a wave of his hand, turned away, mutter-
ing:—"Why do you torture me?" Gemma
immediately sprang from her chair, and clapping
her hands loudly, with the cry: " Bravo! " ran to
poor, retired lago, and tapped him affectionately
on the shoulders with both hands. Emile alone
laughed mercilessly. ff Get age est sans pitie" —
La Fontaine has said.

Sanin tried to comfort the aged singer, and
began to talk with him in the Italian tongue —
(he had picked up a little of it during his late
journey) —began to talk about "II paese del
Dante, dove il si suona." This phrase, together
with ff Lasciate ogni speranza" constituted the
young tourist's entire poetical baggage in Ital-
ian; but Pantaleone did not yield to his blan-
dishments. Plunging his chin more deeply than
ever into his neckcloth, and protruding his
eyes morosely, he again resembled a bird, and
an enraged bird, at that,— a crow or a kite.
Then Emile, flushing slightly and momentarily,—

25

SPRING FRESHETS

as is generally the case with petted children,—
turned to his sister, and said to her that if she
wished to entertain the guest, she could devise no-
thing better than to read him one of Maltz's
little comedies, which she read so well. Gemma
laughed, slapped her brother's hand, and ex-
claimed that he "was always inventing some-
thing of that sort!" Nevertheless, she imme-
diately went to her own room, and returning
thence with a small book in her hand, seated her-
self at the table, near the lamp, cast a glance
about her, raised her finger — as much as to say:
"Silence!"— a purely Italian gesture— and be-
gan to read.

VII

MALTZ was a Frankfurt writer of the '30's, who,
in his brief and lightly sketched little comedies,
written in the local dialect, portrayed with amus-
ing and dashing, although not profound humour,
the local Frankfurt types. It appeared that
Gemma really did read capitally — quite like an
actress. She imparted a distinct hue to every per-
sonage, and preserved his character finely, putting
in play her power of mimicry, which she had in-
herited along with her Italian blood; sparing
neither her tender voice, nor her beautiful face,
when it became necessary to portray either an
old woman who had outlived her wits, or a stupid

26

SPRING FRESHETS

burgomaster, — she made the most mirth-provok-
ing grimaces, screwed up her eyes, wrinkled her
nose, lisped, squeaked shrilly. . . . She herself
did not laugh while she was reading; but when
her auditors (with the exception of Pantaleone,
truth to tell: he immediately withdrew in dud-
geon, as soon as it was a question of ffquello fer-
rofluchto Tedesco"),—when her auditors inter-
rupted her with bursts of hearty laughter, she
dropped the book on her knees, emitted a ringing
laugh herself, with her head thrown back— and
her black curls danced in soft tendrils on her
neck, and over her quivering shoulders. When
the laughter ceased, she immediately raised her
book, and again imparting to her features the
proper twist, seriously resumed her reading.
Sanin could not recover from his amazement at
her; what particularly struck him was this: by
what miracle could so ideally-beautiful a face
suddenly assume so comical, sometimes almost
trivial an expression? Gemma's rendering of the
roles of young girls— the so-called "jeunes pre-
mieres"— was less satisfactory; she was particu-
larly unsuccessful with the love scenes; she her-
self was conscious of this, and therefore imparted
to them a slight tinge of absurdity — as though
she did not believe in all those rapturous vows
and high-flown speeches, from which, moreover,
the author himself refrained, so far as that was
possible.

27

SPRING FRESHETS

Sanin did not observe how the evening was flit-
ting by— and only recalled his impending jour-
ney when the clock struck ten. He sprang from
his chair as though he had been scalded.

" What is the matter with you? "—asked Frau
Lenore.

" Why, I was to have set off to-day for Berlin
— and I have already secured my place in the dili-
gence!"

"And when does the diligence start?"

"At half -past ten!"

"Well, then you will not catch it,"— remarked
Gemma; "stay . . . and I will read some

more."

" Did you pay all the money down, or did you
merely make a deposit?" — inquired Frau Le-
nora.

"I paid all!" — cried Sanin, with a sorry
grimace.

Gemma looked at him, narrowed her eyes—
and laughed, but her mother reproved her.—
" The young man has spent his money for no-
thing,—and thou laughest!"

"Never mind!" — replied Gemma;— "it will
not ruin him, and we will try to console him.
Would you like some lemonade? "

Sanin drank a glass of lemonade, Gemma be-
gan again on Maltz — and again everything
flowed on as smoothly as though it had been oiled.

28

SPRING FRESHETS

The clock struck twelve. Sanin began to take
leave.

" Now you must remain for several days in
Frankfurt,"— Gemma said to him: " what 's your
hurry? Things will be no jollier in any other
town."— She paused. " Really, they will not,"—
she added, smiling. Sanin made no reply and
reflected that, in view of the emptiness of his
purse, he would be compelled, willy-nilly, to re-
main in Frankfurt, until an answer should arrive
from a friend in Berlin, to whom he contemplated
applying for money.

" Stay, do stay,"— Frau Lenore added her en-
treaties. "We will introduce you to Gemma's
betrothed, Herr Karl Kliiber. He could not
come to-day, because he is very busy in his shop
.... surely you must have noticed in the Zeil
the largest shop for cloths and silken materials?
Well, he is the chief man there. But he will be
very glad to be presented to you."

This piece of information chagrined Sanin
somewhat — God knows why. " That betrothed
is a lucky fellow ! " flashed through his mind. He
glanced at Gemma— and it seemed to him that
he descried a mocking expression in her eyes.
He began to take leave.

" Until to-morrow? It is until to-morrow, is it
not?" —asked Frau Lenore.

"Until to-morrow!" articulated Gemma, not
29

SPRING FRESHETS

in an interrogative but in an affirmative tone, as
though it could not be otherwise.

"Until to-morrow 1"— responded Sanin.

Emile, Pantaleone, and the poodle Tartaglia
escorted him to the corner of the street. Panta-
leone could not refrain from expressing his dis-
pleasure over Gemma's reading.

"She ought to be ashamed of herself! She
writhes and squeals — una caricatura! She ought
to personate Merope or Clytemnestra — some-
thing grand, tragic— but she mimics some mis-
erable German female! I can do that myself
. . . . 'Mertz, kertz, smertz' "— he added, in a
hoarse voice, thrusting forward his face, and
spreading out his fingers. Tartaglia began to
bark at him, and Emile burst into loud laughter.
The old man turned back abruptly.

Sanin returned to his hostelry, "The White
Swan " (he had left his things there, in the gen-
eral room) , in a decidedly confused state of mind.
All those German-French-Italian conversations
were fairly ringing in his ears.

"An affianced bride!"— he whispered, as he
lay in bed, in the modest chamber assigned to him.
" But what a beauty! But why did I stay? "

Nevertheless, on the following day, he des-
patched a letter to his friend in Berlin.

30

SPRING FRESHETS

VIII

BEFORE he had succeeded in getting dressed a
waiter announced to him the arrival of two gen-
tlemen. One of them turned out to be Emile;
the other, a stately well-grown young man, with
an extremely handsome face, was Herr Karl
Kliiber, the betrothed of the lovely Gemma.

We are at liberty to infer that, at that time,
there was not, in a single shop in the whole of
Frankfurt, so polite, decorous, dignified, and
amiable a head-clerk as Herr Kliiber showed
himself to be. The irreproachableness of his
toilet equalled the dignity of his demeanour, the
elegance — somewhat affected and constrained,
it is true, after the English fashion (he had
spent a couple of years in England) — but,
nevertheless, engaging elegance of his manners!
At the very first glance it became clear that
this handsome, rather stiff, excellently educated
and capitally washed young man was accus-
tomed to obey his superiors and to command his
inferiors, and that behind the counter of his
shop he was bound to evoke the respect even of
his patrons! As to his supernatural honesty
there could not exist the shadow of a doubt. A
glance at his stiffly-starched cuffs was all that
was required. And his voice proved to be just
what was to have been expected: thick and self-

31

SPRING FRESHETS

confidently-succulent, but not too loud, with
even a certain caressing quality in the timbre.
Such a voice is particularly well adapted for
issuing orders to subordinate clerks: " Show that
piece of crimson Lyons velvet!" — or, "Give
the lady a chair!"

Herr Kliiber began by introducing himself,
during which operation he bent his form in so
noble a manner, moved his feet so agreeably,
and clicked one heel against the other so cour-
teously, that one was bound to feel: " This man's
body-linen and spiritual qualities are of the first
order ! " The elaborate finish of his bare right
hand— (in his left, clad in a glove of undressed
kid, he held a hat polished like a mirror, at the
bottom of which lay the other glove) —the elab-
orate finish of that right hand, which he mod-
estly but firmly offered to Sanin, — exceeded all
belief: every nail was perfection in its way!
Then he announced, in the choicest of German,
that he had wished to express his respects and
his gratitude to Monsieur the Stranger, who had
rendered such an important service to his future
relative, the brother of his affianced bride ; where-
upon, he waved his left hand, which held his hat,
in the direction of Emile, who seemed to feel
ashamed, and, turning away to the window,
stuck his finger in his mouth. Herr Kliiber
added that he should consider himself happy
if he, on his part, were in a position to do any-

32

SPRING FRESHETS

thing agreeable for Monsieur the Stranger.
Sanin replied, not without some difficulty, also
in German, that he was delighted . . . that his
service had been of very slight importance ....
and begged his visitors to be seated. Herr
Kliiber thanked him — and, immediately draw-
ing aside the skirts of his frock-coat, dropped
into a chair— but dropped so lightly, and held
himself upon it in so precarious a manner, that
it was impossible not to think: " This man has
seated himself out of politeness— and will flutter
off again in another minute ! " And, as a matter
of fact, he did flutter off immediately, and shift-
ing bashfully from one foot to the other a
couple of . times, as though dancing, he an-
nounced that, unhappily, he could not remain
longer, for he was hastening to his shop — busi-
ness before everything! — but, as to-morrow was
Sunday, he had, with the consent of Frau Le-
nore and Fraulein Gemma, arranged a plea-
sure-party to Soden, to which he had the honour
of inviting Monsieur the Stranger — and he
cherished the hope that the latter would not re-
fuse to adorn it with his presence. Sanin did not
refuse to adorn it — and Herr Kliiber made his
obeisance a second time, and withdrew, pleas-
antly fluttering his trousers of the most tender
greyish-yellow hue, and squeaking the soles of
his very new boots in an equally agreeable
manner.

33

SPRING FRESHETS

IX

EMILE, who continued to stand with his face to
the window, even after Sanin's invitation to
" be seated " — wheeled round to the left, as soon
as his future relative was gone— and, grimac-
ing and blushing in childish fashion, asked Sa-
nin whether he might remain a little longer with
him. " I am much better to-day," — he added,—
" but the doctor has forbidden me to work."

"Pray, remain! You do not incommode me
in the least," — instantly exclaimed Sanin, who,
like all true Russians, was delighted to grasp at
the first pretext which presented itself to escape
being forced to do anything himself.

Emile thanked him— and, in the very briefest
space of time, had made himself entirely at
home both with him and with his quarters. He
scrutinised his things, and asked questions about
nearly every one of them: where he had bought
this, and what were its merits? He helped him
to shave, remarking incidentally that he made
a mistake in not allowing his moustache to grow ;
—he finally imparted to him a multitude of de-
tails concerning his mother, his sister, Pantale-
one, even the poodle Tartaglia, and about their
whole manner of life. Every trace of timidity
had vanished from Emile; he suddenly experi-
enced a remarkable attraction toward Sanin —

34

SPRING FRESHETS

and that not in the least because the latter had
saved his life the day before, but because he was
such a sympathetic man! He made no delay in
confiding all his secrets to Sanin. He insisted
with special fervour on the fact that his mamma
was positively set upon making a merchant of
him — while he knew for a certainty that he was
born to be an artist, a musician, a singer; that the
theatre was his true vocation; that even Pantale-
one encouraged him, but that Herr Kliiber up-
held his mamma, over whom he had great in-
fluence ; that the very idea of making a merchant
of him belonged to Herr Kliiber, according to
whose conceptions nothing in the world could
compare with the calling of the merchant! To
sell cloth and velvet, and swindle the public, to
get from it "Narren- oder Russen-Preise" (fools'
or Russians' prices) —that was his ideal!1

1 ' Well, never mind! now we must go to our
house! " —exclaimed he, as soon as Sanin had
completed his toilet, and had written his letter to
Berlin.

"It is early yet," — remarked Sanin.

" That makes no difference,"— said Emile,
coaxingly. "Come along! We will stop at
the post-office — and from there go on to our

*In days gone by— yes, and probably even now— there has been
no change in this respect: when, beginning with the month of May,
a multitude of Russians made their appearance in Frankfurt, the
prices rose in all the shops, and received the title of " Russen-"—
or, alas! — " Narren-Preise." — AUTHOR'S NOTE.

35

SPRING FRESHETS

house. Gemma will be so glad to see you!
You shall breakfast with us .... you can
say something to mamma about me, about my
career. . . ."

"Well, come on, then,"— said Sanin— and
they set out.

GEMMA really was delighted to see him, and
Frau Lenore greeted him in a very friendly wise.
It was plain that he had produced a good im-
pression on all of them the preceding evening.
Emile ran to see about breakfast, with a prelim-
inary whisper in Sanin's ear: "Don't forget!"

" I will not,"— replied Sanin.

Frau Lenore was not feeling quite well: she
was suffering from a sick headache — and, half
reclining in an arm-chair, she tried to avoid mov-
ing. Gemma wore a loose yellow morning-
gown, girt with a black leather belt; she, also,
appeared fatigued, and had grown a little pale;
dark circles shadowed her eyes, but their bril-
liancy was not diminished thereby, and her pal-
lor imparted a certain mystery and charm to the
classic severity of her features. Sanin was par-
ticularly impressed that day by the elegant
beauty of her hands. When she adjusted and
held up with them her dark, lustrous curls he
could not tear his eyes from her fingers, slender

36

SPRING FRESHETS

and long, and standing apart from one another,
as in Raffaele's " Fornarina."

It was very hot out of doors. After break-
fast Sanin started to go away, but he was told
that on such a day it was better not to move
from one spot — and he assented; he remained.
In the rear room, in which he sat with his host-
esses, coolness reigned; the windows opened
upon a tiny garden, overgrown with acacias. A
multitude of bees, wasps, and bumble-bees
hummed sturdily and greedily in their thick
branches, studded with golden flowers; through
the half -closed shutters and lowered shades that
unceasing sound penetrated into the room: it
spoke of the sultry heat disseminated in the
outer air — and the coolness of the closed and
comfortable dwelling became all the more sweet
by reason of it.

As on the preceding evening, Sanin talked
a great deal, but not about Russia, and not about
Russian life. Desirous of gratifying his young
friend, who was sent off to Herr Kliiber im-
mediately after breakfast, to practise book-
keeping, he turned the conversation upon the
comparative advantages and disadvantages of
art and commerce. He was not surprised that
Frau Lenore upheld the side of commerce — he
had expected that; but Gemma also shared her
opinion.

" If you are an artist,— and especially a

37

SPRING FRESHETS

singer," — she asserted, with an energetic down-
ward movement of her hand, — " you must, with-
out fail, be in the first place ! The second is good
for nothing; and who knows whether you can
attain to the first place?"— Pantaleone, who
was also taking part in the conversation — (in his
quality of ancient servitor and an old man, he
was even permitted to sit on a chair in the pres-
ence of his mistress; the Italians, in general, are
not strict as to etiquette) — Pantaleone, as a mat-
ter of course, stood up stoutly for art. Truth
to tell, his arguments were decidedly feeble. He
talked chiefly about the necessity, first of all, of
possessing un certo estro dfinspirazione — a cer-
tain impetuosity of inspiration. Frau Lenore
observed to him that he himself, of course, did
possess that "estro"— and yet .... "I had
enemies,"— remarked Pantaleone, morosely. —
"Well, but how dost thou know"— (the Ital-
ians, as every one knows, easily fall into address-
ing as " thou ") — " that Emile also will not have
enemies, even if that f estro' should be discov-
ered in him? " —"Well, then, make a shop-
keeper out of him,"— said Pantaleone, angrily.
— " But Giovan' Battista would not have acted
so, even if he was a confectioner himself! " —
" Giovan' Battista, my husband, was a sensible
man — and even if he was tempted in his
youth . . . ." But the old man would no
longer listen, and took himself off , after having

38

SPRING FRESHETS

once more said reproachfully: "Ah! Giovan'
Battista!" . . . Gemma exclaimed that if
Emile felt himself a patriot, and wished to con-
secrate all his forces to the emancipation of
Italy,— of course, for such a lofty and sacred
aim a safe future might be sacrificed— but not
for the theatre! At this point, Frau Lenore be-
gan excitedly to entreat her daughter not to lead
her brother astray, at least, — and to be content
with the fact that she herself was such a desper-
ate republican! After uttering these words,
Frau Lenore groaned, and began to complain of
her head, which "was ready to burst." (Frau
Lenore, out of respect for her guest, talked in
French to her daughter.)

Gemma immediately began to tend her,
breathed softly on her brow, first moistening it
with eau de cologne, softly kissed her cheeks,
laid her head on a cushion, forbade her to speak
—and kissed her again. Then, turning to Sanin,
she began to tell him, in a half -jesting, half-
moved tone, what a splendid mother she had,
and what a beauty she had been! ' Why do I
say, 'has been!' she is charming even now.
Look, look, what eyes she has ! "

Gemma immediately pulled from her pocket
a white handkerchief, covered her mother's face
with it— and slowly lowering the edge from
above downward, gradually revealed the fore-
head, the eyebrows, and the eyes of Frau Lenore.

39

SPRING FRESHETS

She paused, and requested her to open them.
Her mother obeyed; Gemma cried aloud with
rapture (Frau Lenore 's eyes really were very
handsome) —and swiftly slipping the handker-
chief past the lower, less regular portion of her
mother's face, she began to kiss her again. Frau
Lenore laughed, and turned slightly away, and
thrust her daughter from her with some little
force. The latter pretended to wrestle with her
mother, and nestled up to her — yet not cat- wise,
or in the French manner, but with that Italian
grace, in which the presence of strength is al-
ways to be felt.

At last Frau Lenore declared that she was
weary. . . . Then Gemma immediately advised
her to take a little nap, there, in her chair,— " and
the Russian gentleman and I . . f avec le mon-
sieur russe3 — will be so quiet, so quiet — like lit-
tle mice .... comme des petits souris" Frau
Lenore smiled at her in reply, closed her eyes,
and after drawing a few long breaths, fell into
a doze.

Gemma briskly dropped upon a bench beside
her and made no further movement, except that,
from time to time, she raised the finger of one
hand to her lips— with the other, she was support-
ing the cushion under her mother's head — and
hissed in a barely-audible manner, casting a side-
long glance at Sanin, when the latter permitted
himself the slightest movement. It ended in his

40

SPRING FRESHETS

becoming as still as death, and sitting immovably,
as though enchanted, and with all the powers of
his soul admiring the picture which was presented
to him by this half -dark room, where here and
there, like brilliant spots, glowed fresh, magnifi-
cent roses, placed in antique, green glasses— and
that slumbering woman, with modestly-folded
hands, and a kind, weary face, framed in the
snowy white of the pillow, and that young, alertly-
watchful and likewise kind, clever, pure, and un-
speakably-beautiful being, with those deep black
eyes, filled with shadow and yet beaming. . . .
What was it? A dream? A fairy-tale? And
how came he there?

XI

THE little bell tinkled over the outer door. A
young peasant lad, in a fur cap and a red waist-
coat, entered the confectionery shop from the
street. From early morning, not a single cus-
tomer had even peeped into it. ... "That 's the
way we do business! " -Frau Lenore had re-
marked to Sanin, with a sigh, during breakfast.
She continued to sleep ; Gemma was afraid to re-
move her hand from the pillow, and whispered to
Sanin: " Go, trade for me! " Sanin immediately
stole out on tiptoe to the shop. The lad wanted
a quarter of a pound of mint lozenges.—" How
much shall I charge him? "—Sanin asked Gemma

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in a whisper, through the door.—" Six kreutzers ! "
—she replied, in a corresponding whisper. Sa-
nin weighed out a quarter of a pound, hunted up
some paper, made a horn of it, wrapped up the
lozenges, spilled them, wrapped them up again,
spilled them again, and finally delivered them,
and received the money. . . . The boy stared at
him in amazement, twisting his cap about on his
belly, and in the adjoining room, Gemma stopped
up her mouth, and swooned with laughter. Be-
fore that customer could retire, another made his
appearance, then a third. ..." Evidently, I
bring luck!" thought Sanin. The second asked
for a glass of orgeat ; the third, for half a pound
of candy. Sanin waited on them, rattling the
spoons with zeal, setting out saucers, and boldly
dipping his fingers into drawers and jars. On
reckoning up, it appeared that he had asked too
little for the orgeat, and had charged two kreut-
zers too much for the candy. Gemma did not
cease to laugh quietly, and Sanin was conscious
of an unwonted, peculiarly happy frame of mind.
It seemed as though he could stand like that be-
hind a counter all his life, and deal out orgeat
and candy, while such a lovely being was watch-
ing him from behind the door with eyes full of
friendly ridicule; and the summer sun, forcing
its way through the dense foliage of the chestnut-
trees which grew in front of the windows, filled
the whole room with the greenish-golden rays of

42

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noonday, with noonday shadows, and the heart
grew tender with the sweet languor of idleness,
freedom from care, and youth— early youth!

The fourth customer ordered a cup of coffee;
he was obliged to have recourse to Pantaleone
(£mile had not yet returned from Herr Kliiber's
shop). Sanin seated himself again by Gemma's
side. Frau Lenore continued to sleep, to the
great satisfaction of her daughter. — " Mamma's
headache passes off while she sleeps," — she re-
marked. Sanin began to talk— in a whisper, as
before, of course — about his "trade"; inquired
very seriously as to the prices of the various " con-
fectionery" wares; Gemma, in an equally seri-
ous manner, told him the prices, and, in the mean-
time, both laughed inwardly and heartily, as
though conscious that they were playing a very
amusing comedy. All at once, in the street, a
hand-organ struck up the air : <f Durch die F elder.,
durch die Auen" . . . The plaintive sounds
wailed quavering and whistling on the motionless
air. Gemma shuddered. ..." He will waken
mamma! " Sanin instantly ran out into the street,
thrust several kreutzers into the hand of the or-
gan-grinder—and made him stop and go away.
When he returned, Gemma thanked him with a
slight nod of the head, and, pensively smiling,
began herself, in a barely-audible voice, to hum
Weber's beautiful melody, in which Max ex-
presses all the bewilderment of first love. Then

43

SPRING FRESHETS

she asked Sanin whether he was acquainted with
" Freischiitz," whether he liked Weber, and
added that, although she herself was an Italian,
she loved such music best of all. From Weber
the conversation glided to poetry and romanti-
cism, to Hoffmann, whom every one was reading
at that time. . .

And Frau Lenore slept on, and even snored
faintly, and the rays of sunlight, piercing
through the shutters in narrow strips, impercep-
tibly, but incessantly, moved about and travelled
over the floor, over the furniture, over Gemma's
gown, over the leaves and petals of the flowers.

XII

IT appeared that Gemma did not particularly
-favour Hoffmann, and even found him . . . tire-
some! The fantastically-obscure, northern ele-
ment of his tales was not very perceptible to her
bright, southern nature. :' They are all fairy
tales, written for children!" she asserted, not
without disdain. She also had a confused con-
sciousness of the absence of poetry in Hoffmann.
But there was one of his tales, whose title,
however, she had forgotten, which pleased her
greatly. Properly speaking, only the beginning
of the tale pleased her: she had not read the end,
or had forgotten it also. It was about a young
man, who, somewhere or other, in a confectioner's

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SPRING FRESHETS

shop, so far as she remembered, meets a young
girl of striking beauty, a Greek; she is accom-
panied by a mysterious and queer old man. The
young man falls in love with the girl at the first
glance; she gazes at him so pitifully, as though
entreating him to set her free. . . . He with-
draws for a moment — and on returning to the
confectioner's shop, he no longer finds either the
young girl or the old man ; he rushes to seek her,
is incessantly coming across perfectly fresh traces
of them, follows them — and by no means, no-
where, never can he overtake them. The beauty
vanishes from him forever and ever — and he is
powerless to forget her beseeching look, and is
tortured by the thought that, perchance, all the
happiness of his life has slipped out of his hands.

Hoffmann hardly ends his tale in just that
way; but so she had constructed it, and so it re-
mained in Gemma's memory.

" It seems to me,"— she said,—" that such
meetings and such partings occur in the world
more frequently than we think."

Sanin remained silent .... and, a little while
later, began to talk about .... Herr Kliiber.
It was the first time he had mentioned him : he had
not even alluded to him until that moment.

Gemma became silent, in her turn, and medi-
tated, lightly biting the nail of her forefinger, and
fixing her eyes on one side. Then she began to
laud her betrothed, referred to the pleasure-party

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SPRING FRESHETS

which he had arranged for the following day,
and, darting a swift glance at Sanin, she re-
lapsed into silence again.

Sanin did not know what subject of conversa-
tion to start.

Emile ran noisily in, and woke Frau Lenore.
. . . Sanin rejoiced at his arrival.

Frau Lenore rose from her chair. Pantaleone
presented himself, and announced that dinner
was ready. The household friend, the ex-singer
and servant, also discharged the functions of
cook.

XIII

SANIN remained even after dinner. They would
not let him go, still under the same pretext of
the frightful sultriness, — and when the sultriness
abated, they proposed to him to go into the gar-
den, and drink coffee under the shade of the
acacias. Sanin accepted. He felt greatly at his
ease. In the monotonously-quiet and smoothly-
flowing current of life great delights are hidden,
— and he surrendered himself to them with delec-
tation, demanding nothing in particular from the
present day, but also thinking nothing about the
morrow, recalling not yesterday. What was not
proximity to such a young girl as Gemma worth?
He would soon part from her, and, in all proba-
bility, forever; but while one and the same bark

46

SPRING FRESHETS

bears them along the calmed floods of life, as in
Uhland's romance— rejoice, enjoy thyself, O
traveller! And everything seemed pleasant and
charming to the happy voyager. Frau Lenore
proposed that he should contend with her and
Pantaleone at "tresette," taught him that far
from complicated Italian game of cards — won a
few kreutzers from him — and he was greatly
pleased. Pantaleone, at the request of Emile,
made the poodle Tartaglia to go through all his
tricks— and Tartaglia leaped over a stick,
" talked," that is to say, barked, sneezed, shut the
door with his nose, fetched the patched slipper
of his master,— and, to wind up, with an old shako
on his head, represented Marshal Bernadotte,
subjected to the harsh reproofs of the Emperor
Napoleon for his treachery. Pantaleone, of
course, represented Napoleon — and represented
him very faithfully. He folded his arms on his
chest, pulled a three-cornered hat down over his
eyes — and spoke roughly and sharply, in French;
but, O heavens, in what French! Tartaglia sat
up in front of his commander, all shrivelled up,
with his tail tucked between his legs, and wink-
ing and screwing up his eyes confusedly under
the visor of the shako, which was on awry. From
time to time, when Napoleon raised his voice, Ber-
nadotte rose on his hind legs. " Fuori, tradi-
tore!" shouted Napoleon, at last, forgetting, in
the excess of his indignation, that he ought to

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SPRING FRESHETS

preserve his French character to the end — and
Bernadotte dashed headlong under the divan,
but immediately sprang out again, with a joyful
bark, as though giving it to be understood that
the performance was at an end. All the specta-
tors laughed a great deal — and Sanin most of all.

Gemma had a peculiarly charming, incessant,
quiet laugh, interspersed with very amusing little
squeaks. . . . Sanin fairly went to pieces under
that laugh — he would have liked to kiss her, for
those squeaks!

Night came at last. One must not abuse kind-
ness ! After bidding them all good night several
times, after saying several times to all of them:
" Farewell until to-morrow 1" (he even exchanged
kisses with Emile) , Sanin wended his way home-
ward, and carried with him the image of the
young girl, now laughing, now pensive, now com-
posed, and even indifferent— but always fasci-
nating! Her eyes, now widely-opened and bright
and joyous as the day, again half -veiled by her
lashes, and deep, and dark as night, fairly stood
before his eyes, strangely and sweetly piercing
through all other images and scenes.

Of Herr Kliiber, of the cause which had
moved him to linger in Frankfurt— in a word,
of all that which had agitated him on the pre-
ceding day— he did not think even once.

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XIV

BUT we must say a few words about Sanin him-
self.

In the first place, he was very, very far from
being bad-looking. A stately, slender figure,
agreeable, rather formless features, small caress-
ing blue eyes, golden hair, a white-and-red com-
plexion— chief of all, that artlessly-merry, con-
fiding, frank expression, rather stupid at first
sight, by which, in times gone by, it was pos-
sible instantly to recognise the children of digni-
fied noble families, " father's " sons, nice young
lordlings, born and fattened in our spacious,
half -steppe regions; — a walk with a hitch, a
voice with a lisp, a smile like that of a child,
as soon as one glances at it. ... In conclusion,
freshness, health— and softness, softness, soft-
ness,— there you have Sanin complete. And in
the second place, he was not stupid, and had ac-
quired a few things. He remained fresh, not-
withstanding his trip abroad. The agitated
emotions, which tossed with storm the best part
of the youth of that day, were little known to
him.

Of late, in our literature, after the vain search
for " new men," people have begun to depict
youths who have made up their minds, cost what
it may, to remain fresh .... fresh as Flens-

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SPRING FRESHETS

burg oysters imported to St. Petersburg. . . .
Sanin did not resemble them. And, as long as
it has become a question of comparisons, he re-
minded one, rather, of a bushy young apple-tree,
recently planted in our black-earth orchards,—
or, better still, of a well-groomed, smooth, thick-
legged, tender three-year-old of former " gen-
tlemen's " stud-farms, whom they have just be-
gun to lead with a thong. . . . Those who came
in contact with Sanin later on, when life had
thoroughly broken him in, and the young, fleet-
ing plumpness had long since worked off of him,
beheld in him a totally different man.

ON the following day, Sanin was still in bed,
when Emile, in holiday attire, with a slender
cane in his hand, and heavily pomaded, burst
into his room, and announced that Herr Kliiber
would be there directly with a carriage, and that
the weather promised to be wonderfully fine,
that they already had everything in readiness,
but that mamma would not go, because her head
was aching again. He began to urge Sanin to
haste, assuring him that he had not a minute
to lose. . . . And, in fact, Herr Kliiber found
Sanin still busy with his toilet. He knocked at
the door, entered, bowed, inclined his body, ex-
pressed a readiness to wait as long as he liked
—and sat down, with his hat resting elegantly
against his knee. The good-looking clerk had

50

SPRING FRESHETS

dressed himself foppishly and scented himself
to excess; his every movement was accompanied
by an augmented billow of the most delicate per-
fume. He had arrived in a commodious, open
carriage, a so-called landau, drawn by two
powerful and well-grown, though not handsome
horses. A quarter of an hour later, Sanin, Klii-
ber, and Emile drove up triumphantly, in that
same carriage, to the door of the confectionery
shop. Signora Roselli positively refused to take
part in the excursion; Gemma wished to remain
with her mother; but the latter drove her out,
as the saying is.

" I want no one,"— she asserted. " I am go-
ing to sleep. I would send Pantaleone with
you," — she added, — "but there would be no one
left to tend the shop."

" May we take Tartaglia? "—asked Emile.

" Certainly you may."

Tartaglia immediately, with joyful efforts,
clambered up onto the box and seated himself,
licking his chops. Evidently, he was used to
it. Gemma donned a large straw hat with light-
brown ribbons; this hat was bent down in front,
shading nearly the whole of her face from the
sun. The line of shadow was drawn just above
her lips. They glowed virginally and tenderly,
like the petals of a hundred-leaved rose, and her
teeth gleamed out by stealth — also innocently,
as with children. Gemma installed herself on

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SPRING FRESHETS

the back seat, beside Sanin; Kliiber and Emile
seated themselves opposite. Frau Lenore's pale
face showed itself at the window, Gemma waved
her handkerchief at it— and the horses started.

XV

SODEN is a small town, half an hour's journey
from Frankfurt. It lies in a beautiful situation,
on the foot-hills of the Taunus range, and is
known to us, in Russia, for its waters, which are
supposed to be good for people with weak
chests. Frankfurters resort thither chiefly for
diversion, as Soden possesses a fine park and
various Wirthschaften, where beer and coffee
can be drunk under the shade of lofty lindens
and maples. The road from Frankfurt to
Soden runs along the right bank of the Main,
and is planted throughout with fruit-trees.
While the carriage was rolling gently along the
excellent highway, Sanin stealthily watched
Gemma's behaviour to her betrothed. He saw
them together for the first time. She bore her-
self with composure and simplicity— but was
somewhat more reserved and serious than usual.
He had the gaze of a condescending superior,
who was permitting himself and his subordinates
a modest and discreet pleasure. Sanin observed
no special attentions to Gemma, nothing of that
which the French call empressement, on his

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SPRING FRESHETS

part. It was evident that Herr Kliiber consid-
ered that the matter was settled, and, therefore,
there was no cause for bothering himself or get-
ting agitated. But his condescension did not
abandon him for a single moment! Even dur-
ing the long stroll before dinner, over the
wooded hills and valleys behind Soden, even
while enjoying the beauties of nature, he bore
himself toward it, that same nature, ever with
the same condescension, through which, from
time to time, his wonted sternness of a superior
broke forth. Thus, for example, he remarked
about one brook that it ran too straight through
the hollow, instead of making a few picturesque
turns; neither did he approve of the conduct of
one bird — a chaffinch, which did not introduce
enough variations into its song. Gemma was
not bored, and even, to all appearances, was
pleased; but Sanin did not recognise in her the
former Gemma: not that a shadow had come
over her— her beauty had never been more ra-
diant than now— but her soul had retreated into
itself, within her. Opening her parasol, and
leaving her gloves buttoned, she walked on
sedately, without haste,— as well-trained young
girls do— and said little. Emile also felt con-
strained, much more so Sanin. Among other
things, he was somewhat embarrassed by the
circumstance that the conversation was con-
ducted uninterruptedly in the German lan-

53

SPRING FRESHETS

guage. Tartaglia was the only one who was
not depressed! With wild barking, he dashed
after the thrushes which crossed his path, leaped
over gullies, stumps, water-holes; he hurled him-
self with a flourish into the water, and hastily
lapped it up, shook himself, whined— and again
bounded off like an arrow, with his red tongue
lolling out on his very shoulder. Herr Kliiber,
on his side, did everything which he regarded
as necessary for the amusement of the party.
He invited them to sit down beneath the shadow
of a spreading oak— and, pulling from his side-
pocket a small book, entitled fc Knallersleben—
oder du sollst und willst lachen!" (" Petards —
or thou must and wilt laugh ") , he began to read
them unconnected anecdotes, with which the
little book was filled. He read them a dozen;
but he aroused little mirth; Sanin alone, out of
politeness, showed his teeth in a grin, and Herr
Kliiber himself, after every anecdote, emitted
a curt, business-like— and, at the same time,
condescending— laugh. At twelve o'clock, the
entire party returned to Soden, to the best res-
taurant in the place.

The question of arranging for dinner arose.

Herr Kliiber proposed that the dinner should
take place in an arbour, shut in on all sides—
ffim Gartensalon." But at this point Gemma
suddenly rose in rebellion, and declared that she
would not dine otherwise than in the open air,

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SPRING FRESHETS

in the garden, at one of the little tables placed
in front of the restaurant ; that it bored her to be
all the time with the same set of people, and that
she wanted to see others. Groups of newly-ar-
rived visitors were already seated at several of
the tables.

While Herr Kliiber condescendingly submit-
ted to " the caprice of his betrothed," and went to
confer with the head-waiter, Gemma stood mo-
tionless, with eyes cast down and lips tightly
compressed. She was conscious that Sanin was
gazing fixedly and interrogatively, as it were,
at her — and this seemed to enrage her. At last,
Herr Kliiber returned, announced that dinner
would be ready in half an hour, and suggested
that they play at ninepins until that time; add-
ing that that was very good for the appetite,
he, he, he! He played ninepins in a masterly
manner. In throwing the ball he assumed won-
derfully dashing poses, made his muscles play in
a foppish way, foppishly flourished and shook
his leg. In his way, he was an athlete— and
capitally built. And his hands were so white
and handsome, and he rubbed them with such a
very rich, golden-patterned India silk hand-
kerchief!

The dinner-hour arrived — and the whole
party sat down at a small table.

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XVI

WHO does not know what a German dinner is
like? Watery soup, with knobby dumplings
and cinnamon, boiled beef, dry as cork, over-
grown with white fat, slimy potatoes, puffy
beets and chewed horseradish, eel that has turned
blue, capers and vinegar, a roast with preserves,
and the inevitable Mehlspeise,— something in
the nature of a pudding, with a sourish red
sauce; and on top of all, wine and beer — capital!
To just that sort of a dinner did the restaurant-
keeper of Soden treat his patrons. However,
the dinner itself passed off successfully. No
particular animation was visible, it is true; it
did not make its appearance even when Herr
Kliiber proposed a toast to " that which we
love! " (Was wir lieben!) Everything was very
decorous and proper. After dinner, coffee was
served,— weak, rusty-red regular German coffee.
Herr Kliiber, like a genuine cavalier, asked
Gemma's permission to light his cigar. . . . But
at this point something happened which was
unforeseen, and really disagreeable — and even
improper!

Several officers of the Mayence garrison had
placed themselves at one of the neighbouring
tables. From their glances and whisperings, it
was easy to divine that Gemma's beauty had

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made an impression on them; one of them, who
had probably been in Frankfurt before, kept
staring at her, as at a face well known to him.
It was obvious that he knew who she was. He
suddenly rose to his feet, and glass in hand,— the
officers had been drinking heavily, and the whole
table-cloth in front of them was covered with
bottles, — he stepped up to the table at which sat
Gemma. He was a very young, fair-haired
man, with sufficiently agreeable and even sym-
pathetic features; but the wine he had drunk
had distorted them; his cheeks were twitching,
his swollen eyes wandered and assumed an auda-
cious expression. At first his comrades tried
to hold him back, but afterward they let him go
his way, as though they were curious to see what
would come of it.

Reeling slightly on his legs, the officer halted
in front of Gemma, and in a violently shrill
voice, in which, against his will, conflict with
himself was expressed, he articulated: " I drink
to the health of the most beautiful coffee-house
girl in the whole world"— (he "drained" the
glass at one swallow) — " and, as my reward, I
take this flower, wrested from her divine little
fingers! " He picked up from the table a rose,
which lay in front of Gemma's plate. At first
she was amazed, frightened, and turned terribly
pale .... then her terror was replaced by in-
dignation. She suddenly flushed all over, to her

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very hair,— and her eyes, fixed straight on the of-
fender, both darkened and blazed up simultane-
ously—became filled with gloom and lighted up
with the fire of uncontrollable wrath. This gaze
must have abashed the officer; he muttered some-
thing unintelligible, bowed — and went back to
his friends. They greeted him with laughter,
and a faint clapping of hands.

Herr Kliiber suddenly rose from his chair,
and drawing himself up to his full height, and
putting on his hat, he said, with dignity, but
not too loudly: " This is unheard of! Unheard-
of insolence!" (ff Unerhort! Unerhorte Freeh-
heit!") and immediately calling the waiter to
him, in a stern voice, he demanded his bill in-
stantly .... and that was not all: he ordered
the carriage to be harnessed, adding that re-
spectable people could not come to the house,
as they were subjected to insults! At these
words, Gemma, who had continued to sit still in
her place, without moving,— her bosom heaved
sharply and high,— Gemma turned her eyes on
Herr Kliiber . . . and regarded him steadily,
and with the same gaze which she had used for
the officer. Emile was simply quivering with
fury.

"Rise, mein Fraulein"~said Herr Kliiber,
still with the same severity; "it is not proper
for you to remain here. We will post ourselves
yonder in the restaurant."

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SPRING FRESHETS

Gemma rose in silence. He offered her his
arm in a crook, she gave him hers — and he
wended his way to the restaurant with a majestic
stride, which, equally with his bearing, became
more majestic and arrogant in proportion as he
got further away from the spot where the dinner
had taken place. Poor Emile slunk after them.

But while Herr Kliiber was settling the bill
with the waiter, to whom, by way of punish-
ment, he gave not a single kreutzer of tip, Sanin,
with swift strides, approached the table at which
the officers sat, — and, addressing Gemma's in-
sulter (at the moment the latter was allowing
each of his comrades in turn to smell of her rose)
—he articulated distinctly, in French: — " What
you have just done, my dear sir, is unworthy of
an honourable man, unworthy of the uniform
you wear,— and I have come to tell you that
you are an ill-bred bully!" — The young man
sprang to his feet, but another officer, an older
man, restrained him by a motion of his hand,
made him sit down,— and, turning to Sanin,
asked him, also in French: — " Was he a relative,
a brother, or the betrothed of that young girl? "

" I am an entire stranger to her," — exclaimed
Sanin,—" I am a Russian,— but I cannot look
on, with indifference, at such a piece of inso-
lence. However, here is my card, with my ad-
dress; the officer can look me up."

As he uttered these words, Sanin flung on the
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SPRING FRESHETS

table his visiting-card, and, at the same time,
quickly seized Gemma's rose, which one of the
officers seated at the table had dropped on his
plate. The young man again tried to spring
from his chair, but again his comrade held him
back, saying: "Donhof, be quiet!" (ff Donhof,
sei still!") Then he rose himself,— and, touch-
ing the visor of his cap with his hand, he said
to Sanin, not without a trace of respect in his
manner and voice, that the next morning one of
the officers of the regiment would have the hon-
our to present himself to him at his lodgings.
Sanin replied by a curt nod — and hastily re-
joined his friends.

HERR KLUBER feigned not to notice in the least
either Sanin's absence, or his explanation with
the officers ; he urged to haste the coachman, who
was harnessing the horses, and flew into a violent
rage at his slowness. Neither did Gemma say
anything to Sanin, she did not even glance at
him; but her lowering brows, her lips, which
were pale and compressed, her very immobility
made it plain that her mind was not at ease.
Emile alone wanted to talk with Sanin, wanted
to question him. He had seen Sanin go up to
the officers, he had seen him give them something
white, — a scrap of paper, a note, a card. . . .
The poor lad's heart beat violently, he was ready
to fling himself on Sanin's neck, ready to weep,

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or to go on the instant with him to pulverise all
those disgusting officers! But he restrained
himself, and contented himself with watching
attentively every movement of his noble Rus-
sian friend.

At last the coachman got the horses put to;
the whole party took their seats in the carriage.
Emile climbed up after Tartaglia on the box;
he felt more at his ease there, and, moreover,
Kliiber, whom he could not look at with equa-
nimity, would not be before his eyes.

ALL the way home, Herr Kliiber harangued . . .
and harangued alone; no one, no one answered
him, and no one agreed with him. He laid par-
ticular stress on the fact that they had made a
mistake not to obey him when he had proposed
to dine in the enclosed arbour. Had that been
done, no unpleasantness would have arisen!
Then he pronounced several harsh, and even
liberal judgments, to the effect that the govern-
ment upheld the officers in an unpardonable
manner, did not look after their discipline, and
did not sufficiently respect the civilian element
of society — (Cf das burgerliche Element in der
Societal!")— and that thence, from that cause,
arose dissatisfaction, from which to revolution
was not a long stride, as to which a sad example
(here he sighed feelingly, but sternly) —a sad
example had been furnished by France! But he

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immediately added that, personally, he revered
the authorities, and never .... never! . . . .
would become a revolutionist — although he
could not refrain from expressing his ....
disapprobation at the sight of such profligacy!
Then he added a few more general remarks as to
morality and immorality, propriety and the
sense of dignity.

In the course of all these " harangues "
Gemma, who already, in the stroll which had
preceded the dinner, had seemed to be not en-
tirely pleased with Herr Kliiber— hence, she had
held herself somewhat aloof from Sanin, and
had seemed to be embarrassed by his presence—
Gemma began, plainly, to feel ashamed of her
betrothed! Toward the end of the drive she
positively suffered, and although, as before, she
did not converse with Sanin, yet she suddenly
cast an imploring glance at him. . . . He, on
his part, felt much more pity for her than in-
dignation at Herr Kliiber; he even secretly, half
unconsciously, rejoiced at all that had happened
in the course of the day, although he might ex-
pect a challenge to a duel the next morning.

This painful partie de plaisir came to an end
at last. As Sanin helped Gemma out of the
carriage in front of the confectionery shop, he
placed the rose, which he had recaptured, in
her hand, without saying a word. She flushed
all over, pressed his hand, and instantly con-

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cealed the rose. He did not wish to enter the
house, although the evening was only just be-
ginning. She herself did not invite him. More-
over, Pantaleone, who made his appearance on
the steps, announced that Frau Lenore was
sleeping. Emile bade Sanin a timid farewell;
he seemed to be afraid of him : he had astonished
him so much. Kluber drove Sanin to his lodg-
ings, and took leave of him conceitedly. The
regularly constituted German, despite all his
self-confidence, felt awkward. They all felt
awkward.

But, in Sanin's case, this feeling— the feeling
of awkwardness — was speedily dissipated. It
was supplanted by an ill-defined, but agreeable,
even exalted mood. He paced up and down his
chamber, would not allow himself to think of
anything, whistled— and was very well satisfied
with himself.

XVII

" I SHALL wait for the officer with an explanation
until ten o'clock in the morning,"— he reflected,
on the following morning, as he completed his
toilet, "and then he may hunt me up!" But
Germans are early risers. Before the clock strack
nine, a waiter announced to Sanin that Mr. Sec-
ond Lieutenant (der Herr Seconde Lieutenant)
von Richter desired to see him. Sanin briskly

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donned his coat, and said, " Show him in."
Contrary to Sanin's expectation, Herr Richter
proved to be a very young man, almost a boy.
He endeavoured to impart an expression of im-
portance to his beardless face,— but in this he
was utterly unsuccessful; he was not able to con-
ceal his agitation— and, as he seated himself on
a chair, he nearly fell, through having entangled
himself with his sword. Halting and stammer-
ing, he informed Sanin, in villainous French,
that he had come on behalf of his friend, Baron
von Donhof; that he was commissioned to de-
mand from Herr von Zanin an apology for the
insulting expressions employed by him on the
preceding day; and that, in case of a refusal on
the part of Herr von Zanin, Baron von Don-
hof desired satisfaction. Sanin replied that he
had no intention of apologising, and was ready
to give satisfaction. Then Herr von Richter,
still stammering, inquired with whom, and at
what hour, and in what place, he should hold the
requisite conference? Sanin answered that he
might come to him a couple of hours hence, and
that he, Sanin, would endeavour to hunt up a
second before that time. ("Whom the devil
shall I get for a second? " he said to himself the
while.) Herr von Richter rose, and began to
bow himself out .... but halted on the thresh-
old, as though he felt the pangs of conscience,—
and, turning to Sanin, he observed that his

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friend, Baron von Donhof, did not conceal
from himself .... a certain degree .... of
blame on his own side for what had taken place
on the previous day— and, therefore, would be
content with a light apology — " des eooghizes
lecheres" To this Sanin replied that he had
no intention of making any sort of apology
whatsoever, either heavy or light, as he did
not consider himself in the wrong.— "In
that case,"— returned Herr von Richter, blush-
ing still more furiously:— "you must ex-
change friendly shots— des goups de pisdolet a
Faimaple! "

" I utterly fail to comprehend that,"— re-
marked Sanin. " Do you mean that we are to
fire into the air? "

" Oh, not that, not so,"— lisped the sub-lieu-
tenant, definitively overwhelmed with confusion,
-"but I— I assume that, as the affair is be-
tween two gentlemen of breeding .... I will
discuss it with your second," . . he interrupted
himself, and withdrew.

Sanin dropped on a chair, as soon as the man
had left the room, and fixed his eyes on the floor.

;< What 's the meaning of this? How comes
it that life has suddenly taken such a turn? All
the past, all the future has suddenly retreated
into the background, vanished — and nothing re-
mains, save the fact that I am going to fight in
Frankfurt with some one about something." He

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SPRING FRESHETS

recalled a crazy aunt of his, who had been in the
habit of dancing and singing :

"Sub-lieutenant!
My darling !
My little love!
Dance a while with me, my dear ! " 1

And he burst out laughing and sang, like her:
" Sub-lieutenant! dance a while with me, my
dear!" — "But J must act, I must not lose
time!"— he exclaimed aloud— jumped up, and
beheld before him Pantaleone, with a note in his
hand.

" I knocked several times, but you did not an-
swer. I thought you were not at home," — said
the old man, and handed him the note.— " From
Signorina Gemma."

Sanin took the note,— as the saying goes, me-
chanically,— broke the seal, and read it. Gemma
wrote to him that she was very uneasy, because
of the affair which was known to him, and
wished to see him immediately.

"The signorina is uneasy,"— began Panta-
leone, who was, evidently, acquainted with the
contents of the note;— "she ordered me to see
what you were doing, and bring you to her."

Sanin cast a glance at the old Italian— and

1 Literally, " dear little cucumber " :-" dear little dove." In Rus-
sian the rhyme is characteristic: "Podporutchik! Moi ogurtchik!
Moi amurtchik ! Proplyashf co mnoi golubtchik ! ' ' — TRANSLATOR.

66

SPRING FRESHETS

became pensive. A sudden idea had flashed
through his brain. At the first moment, it
seemed to him strange to the verge of impos-
sibility. . . .

" Nevertheless .... why not? "—he asked
himself.

" Signor Pantaleone!"— he said aloud.

The old man started, thrust his chin into his
neckcloth, and riveted his eyes on Sanin.

' You know/' — pursued Sanin, — " what took
place yesterday? "

Pantaleone mowed with his lips, and nodded
his huge head.- "I do."

(Emile had told him all as soon as he re-
turned.)

"Ah, you know!— Well, then, see here. An
officer has just left me. That bully challenges
me to a duel. — I have accepted his challenge.—
But I have no second. Will you be my second? "

Pantaleone shuddered, and elevated his eye-
brows to such a degree that they disappeared
beneath his overhanging hair.

"Must you inevitably fight?"— he said at
last, in Italian. Up to that moment he had been
expressing himself in French.

" Inevitably. I cannot act otherwise — it
would mean disgracing myself forever."

" H'm.— If I do not consent to act as your
second — then you will hunt up some one else? "

"Yes .... without fail."

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SPRING FRESHETS

Pantaleone cast down his eyes. — "But permit
me to ask you, Signer de Zannini, will not your
duel cast a sort of unfavourable shadow upon the
reputation of a certain person? "

" I think not; but, at any rate, — there is no-
thing else to be done."

"H'm!"— Pantaleone retired altogether into
his neckcloth. — "Well, and that ferroftuchto
Kluberio— what about him?"— -he suddenly ex-
claimed, and threw up his face.

"About him? Nothing."

"Che!"1 — Pantaleone shrugged his shoulders
scornfully.—" In any case, I must thank you,"
—he said, at last, in an uncertain voice,—" for
having recognised me, in my present humble sta-
tion, for a well-bred man— un galant' uomo!—
By so doing, you have proved that you yourself
are a galant' uomo. But I must think over your
proposal."

' There is no time for that, my dear Signor
Ci . . . . Cippa

"—tola," prompted the old man.— "I ask one
hour in all for reflection. — The daughter of my
benefactors is implicated in the matter. . . .
And, therefore, I must — I am bound to reflect! !
. . . An hour — three quarters of an hour hence,
you shall know my decision."

"Good! I will wait."

1 An untranslatable Italian expression, corresponding to
"Well ! "-AUTHOR'S NOTE.

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SPRING FRESHETS

" And now . . . what answer am I to give to
Signorina Gemma?"

Sanin took a sheet of paper, wrote on it: " Be
not anxious, my dear friend; I will go to you
three hours hence, — and everything will be ex-
plained. I thank you heartily for your sym-
pathy,"—and handed the sheet of paper to Pan-
taleone.

The latter carefully placed it in his side-pocket
— and repeating once more: " An hour hence! "
he started toward the door; but turned back ab-
ruptly, ran up to Sanin, seized his hand, — and
pressing it to his shirt-frill, and raising his eyes
heavenward, exclaimed: "Noble youth! Great
heart! (Nobile giovanotto! Gran cuore!) —
permit a weak old man (a un vecchiotto!) to
shake your valorous right hand! (la vostra va-
lorosa destra!)" Then he sprang back a little
way, flourished both hands in the air, and with-
drew.

Sanin gazed after him . . . took up a news-
paper, and began to read. But in vain did his
eyes run over the lines: he understood nothing.

XVIII

AN hour later, the waiter again entered Sanin's
room, and handed him an old, soiled visiting-
card, on which stood the following words: " Pan-
taleone Cippatola of Varese, Singer to the Court

69

SPRING FRESHETS

(Cantante di Camera) of his Royal Highness the
Duke of Modena,"— and following the waiter,
Pantaleone presented himself in person. He
had re-dressed himself from head to foot. He
wore a rusty black dress-suit, and a white pique
waistcoat, over which, in curves, meandered a
pinchbeck chain; a heavy carnelian seal hung
low on the tight black trousers with flaps. In
his right hand he held a black hat of rabbit's
down; in the left, two thick chamois-leather
gloves; he had tied his neckcloth still more
broadly and higher up than usual— and in
the ruffle of his shirt he had stuck a pin with a
stone called a "cat's-eye" (ceil de chat). On
the forefinger of his right hand shone a ring,
representing two clasped hands with a flaming
heart between them. The old man's whole per-
son emitted an odour of clothing long packed
away, — an odour of camphor and musk; the
anxious pomposity of his carriage would have
struck the most indifferent spectator. Sanin
rose to greet him.

" I am your second,"— said Pantaleone, in
French — bowing with a forward inclination of
his whole body, and his toes pointed outward,
as dancers point them. " I have come for in-
structions. Do you wish to fight without quar-
ter?"

" But why should it be without quarter, my
dear Mr. Cippatola? Not for anything in the

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world will I retract my words of yesterday—
but I am not bloodthirsty! .... But, see here,
wait a bit, my adversary's second will be here di-
rectly. I will retire into the neighbouring room,
and you can come to an agreement with him.
Believe me, I shall never forget your service,
and I thank you with all my soul."

" Honour before everything! " — replied Pan-
taleone, and dropped into a chair, without wait-
ing for Sanin to invite him to be seated. " If
that ferroftuchto spiccebubbio" — he remarked,
exchanging the French tongue for Italian,— "if
that haberdasher Kluberio was unable to under-
stand his plain obligation, or was afraid,— so
much the worse for him! . . . He 's a farthing
soul — and basta! .... But as for the condi-
tions of the duel — I am your second, and your
interests are sacred for me! ! ... When I lived
in Padua, a regiment of white dragoons was sta-
tioned there— and I was very intimately ac-
quainted with many of the officers! ... I am
familiar with their whole code. Well, and I fre-
quently conversed with your Principe Tarbusski
on those questions. . . Is that second coming
soon? "

" I am expecting him every moment — and
yonder he comes,"— added Sanin, glancing into
the street.

Pantaleone rose, looked at his watch, adjusted
his top-knot, and hastily stuffed into his shoe a

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tape which was dangling from beneath his trou-
ser-leg. The young sub-lieutenant entered, as
flushed and embarrassed as ever.

Sanin introduced the seconds to each other:
"M-r Richter, sous-lieutenant!— M-r Zippatola,
artiste!" — The lieutenant was somewhat sur-
prised at the aspect of the old man. . . . Oh,
what would he have said, had any one whispered
to him, at that moment, that the " artist " intro-
duced to him also occupied himself with the art
of cookery! But Pantaleone assumed an air, as
though taking part in the arrangement of duels
were the most commonplace sort of event for
him: probably the memories of his theatrical
career helped him at that moment— and he
played the part of a second, precisely like a role.
Both he and the lieutenant remained silent for a
while.

"Well? Let us proceed to business!" -Pan-
taleone was the first to speak, as he toyed with
his carnelian seal.

" Let us proceed,"— replied the lieutenant,—
"but . . . the presence of one of the comba-
tants

" I will leave you at once, gentlemen,"— ex-
claimed Sanin, and, bowing, he went into the
bedroom, and shut the door after him.

He flung himself on the bed— and set to think-
ing about Gemma . . . but the conversation of
the seconds reached his ear through the closed

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SPRING FRESHETS

door. It was proceeding in the French lan-
guage; both were murdering it mercilessly, each
in his own way. Pantaleone again alluded to
the dragoons at Padua, to Principe Tarbusski,
—the lieutenant mentioned <f exghizes lecher es"
and " goups a Vaimaple" But the old man
would not hear to any eocghlzes! To the horror
of Sanin, he suddenly began to talk to his inter-
locutor about a certain young, innocent girl,
whose little finger was worth more than all the
officers in the world .... (" oune zeune dami-
gella innoucentctj qw'a sola dans soun peti doa
vale pin que toutt le zouffissie del mondo!")
and several times repeated with fervour: "It is
a shame! it is a shame! (E ouna onta, ouna
onta!) " The lieutenant did not reply to him at
first; but, after a while, a wrathful tremor be-
came audible in the young man's voice, and he
remarked that he had not come for the purpose
of listening to moral sentiments. . . .

"At your age it is always useful to listen to
righteous remarks!" — cried Pantaleone.

The altercation between the two seconds grew
stormy at several points; it lasted for more than
an hour, and wound up, at last, with the follow-
ing conditions: "Baron von Donhof and Mr.
da Sanin were to fight a duel, with pistols, on
the following day, at ten o'clock in the morn-
ing, in the small forest near Hanau, at a distance
of twenty paces; each was to have the right to

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fire two shots, on a signal given by the seconds.
The pistols to be without hair-trigger, and not
rifled." Herr von Richter withdrew, and Pan-
taleone triumphantly threw open the bedroom
door, and communicating the result of their
conference, again exclaimed: "Bravo Russe!
Bravo giovanotto! Thou wilt be the victor! "

A few minutes later, they both set out for the
Roselli confectionery shop. Sanin exacted from
Pantaleone a preliminary promise to preserve
the strictest secrecy regarding the duel. In re-
ply, the old man merely pointed his finger up-
ward, and narrowing his eyes, he whispered
twice in succession: "Segredezza! (Secrecy!)"
He had grown visibly younger, and even
stepped out more freely. All these unusual,
though agreeable events had vividly carried him
back to the epoch when he himself had accepted
and given challenges— on the stage, it is true.
Barytones, as all the world is aware, strut a great
deal in their roles.

XIX

EMILE ran out to meet Sanin — he had been
watching for his arrival for more than an hour
—and hastily whispered in his ear that his mo-
ther knew nothing about the unpleasantness of
the day before, and it was not proper even to
give her a hint of it, and that he would be sent

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again to the shop !!.... but that he would
not go, but would hide somewhere or other! —
Having imparted all this, in the course of a few
seconds, he suddenly fell upon Sanin's neck,
kissed him impulsively, and ran off down the
street. In the confectionery shop Gemma
greeted Sanin; she tried to say something — and
could not. Her lips quivered slightly, and her
eyes were narrowed and glanced off in all direc-
tions. He hastened to soothe her with the assur-
ance that the whole affair had ended ... in
mere nonsense.

" Has no one been to see you to-day? "—she
asked.

" One person has been to see me— we had an
explanation — and we ... we arrived at the
most satisfactory result."

Gemma went back again behind the counter.

" She did not believe me,"— he thought ....
but he went his way into the next room, and
there found Frau Lenore.

Her headache had passed off, but she was still
in a melancholy mood. She smiled cordially at
him, but, at the same time, she warned him
that he would find it tiresome with her that
day, as she was not in a condition to entertain
him.

* What ails you, Frau Lenore? Can it be
that you have been weeping? "

"Ssssssssh . . . ." she whispered, indicating
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SPRING FRESHETS

with a movement of her head the room where her
daughter was. "Don't say that .... aloud."
" But what have you been crying about? "
"Akh, Monsieur Sanin, I don't know myself
what it was about!"

" Has any one hurt your feelings? "
"Oh, no! ... I felt greatly bored all of a
sudden. I remembered Giovan' Battista ....
his youth. . . . Then that all went away again
speedily. I am getting old, my friend. I seem
to be just the same as ever myself .... but
old age — there it is ... there it is!" — Tears
made their appearance in Frau Lenore's eyes.—
" I see that you look at me in amazement. . . .
But you will grow old also, my friend, and you
will find out how bitter it is! "

Sanin set to work to comfort her, reminding her
of her children, with whom her own youth had
come to life again ; he even attempted to laugh at
her, asserting that she was fishing for compli-
ments .... but she, not in jest, requested him
"to stop," and then, for the first time, he was
able to convince himself that that sort of sadness,
the sadness of conscious old age, cannot in any
way be cheered or dissipated; one must wait for
it to disperse of itself. He proposed to her a
game of tresette — and he could not have hit upon
anything better. She immediately accepted—
and seemed to brighten up.

Sanin played with her until dinner, and after
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SPRING FRESHETS

dinner. Pantaleone also took an interest in the
game. Never had his crest of hair fallen so low
upon his brow, never had his chin sunk so deeply
into his neckcloth! His every movement exhaled
such concentrated dignity that the sight of him
involuntarily prompted the thought : What secret
is that man keeping with so much firmness?

B ut — segredezzal segredezza!

Throughout the whole course of that day, he
endeavoured, in every possible way, to show Sa-
nin the most profound respect; at table, passing
over the ladies, solemnly and with decision, he
offered the viands first to Sanin; during the game
at cards, he surrendered his draw to him, did not
venture to beat him; he declared, without any
rhyme or reason, that Russians are the most mag-
nanimous, brave, and resolute nation in the
world!

" Akh, thou old play-actor! "—thought Sanin
to himself.

And he was not so much surprised at Signora
Roselli's unexpected frame of mind, as at the
way in which her daughter treated him. It was
not that she shunned him .... on the contrary,
she kept constantly seating herself at a short dis-
tance from him, listening to his remarks, gazing
at him; but she positively declined to enter into
conversation with him, and just as soon as he ad-
dressed her, she rose quietly from her seat, and
quietly withdrew for a few moments. Then she

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made her appearance again, and again seated her-
self somewhere in a corner— and sat there motion-
less, as though meditating and bewildered — bewil-
dered, most of all. Frau Lenore herself noticed,
at last, the unwontedness of her behaviour, and
asked her a couple of times what was the matter
with her.

" Nothing,"— replied Gemma; " thou knowest
that I am like this at times."

" That is true,"— assented her mother.

Thus passed the whole of that long day, in a
way that was neither animated nor languid,— nei-
ther cheerful nor tiresome. Had Gemma borne
herself otherwise, Sanin might— who knows?—
have been unable to resist the temptation to strut
a little, or might have yielded to the feeling of
sadness in face of a parting which might prove
eternal. . . . But, as he never succeeded, even
once, in speaking to Gemma, he was obliged
to content himself with striking minor chords on
the piano for a quarter of an hour before even-
ing coffee was served.

fimile came home late, and with the object of
avoiding interrogations on the subject of Herr
Kliiber, he retired very soon. Sanin's turn to
withdraw arrived.

He began to take leave of Gemma. For some
reason, Lensky's parting from Olga, in " Onye-
gin,"1 recurred to his mind. He pressed her

1 Piishkin's poem " Evg6ny Ony6gin."— TRANSLATOR.

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SPRING FRESHETS

hand closely — and tried to look into her face —
but she turned away slightly and freed her
fingers.

XX

THE sky was studded with stars when he emerged
on the steps. And how many of those stars were
sown there, big, little, yellow, red, blue, white!
They were all fairly glowing and swarming, vy-
ing with one another in darting their rays. There
was no moon in the sky, but even without it every
object was distinctly visible in the half-light,
shadeless gloom. Sanin walked down the street,
to the very end. . . He did not wish to return
home at once ; he felt the need of roaming about
in the fresh air. He turned back — and before
he had got opposite the house in which the Roselli
confectionery shop was located, one of the win-
dows which gave on the street suddenly rattled
and opened — in its black square (there was no
light in the room) a woman's form appeared —
and he heard himself called by name.

"Monsieur Dimitri!"

He instantly flew to the window. . . .
Gemma!

She leaned her elbows on the sill, and bent
forward.

"Monsieur Dimitri," — she began, in a cau-
tious voice,—" all day long, to-day, I have

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wanted to give you a certain thing .... but
could not make up my mind; and seeing you un-
expectedly again, I thought, evidently, so it is
decreed by fate. . . ."

Gemma involuntarily paused on that word.
She could not go on; something remarkable oc-
curred at that moment.

Suddenly, in the midst of the deep silence,
athwart the perfectly cloudless sky swept such
a gust of wind, that the very earth seemed to
tremble under foot, the delicate starlight quivered
arid rippled, the very air rolled up into a ball.
The whirlwind, not cold; but warm, even sultry,
beat upon the trees, upon the roof of the house,
on its walls, on the street; it instantly tore the
hat from Sanin's head, ruffled and whirled about
Gemma's black curls. Sanin's head was on a
level with the window-sill; he involuntarily leaned
against it — and Gemma, with both hands,
clutched at his shoulder, and fell with her breast
against his head. The uproar, ringing and rat-
tling, lasted for about a minute. . . . Like a
flock of huge birds, the joyously swirling whirl-
wind dashed past. . . Profound silence reigned
once more.

Sanin raised himself, and beheld above him
such a wondrous, frightened, excited face, such
huge, magnificent eyes— he beheld such a beauty,
that his heart sank within him, he pressed his lips
to a slender lock of hair, which fell over his

80

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breast— and could say nothing except: "Oh,
Gemma!"

"What was that? Lightning? "—she asked,
rolling her eyes widely around, and not removing
her bare arms from his shoulders.

" Gemma! "—repeated Sanin.

She sighed, cast a glance behind her into the
room, — and with a swift movement drawing
from her bodice an already withered rose, she
tossed it to Sanin.

" I wanted to give you this flower. . . ."

He recognised the rose which he had captured
the day before. . . .

But the little window had already slammed to,
and behind the dark panes nothing was visible,
there was no gleam of white. . . .

Sanin reached home without a hat. . . . He
did not even notice that he had lost it.

XXI

HE fell asleep just before dawn. And it is not
surprising! Under the shock of that sudden
summer whirlwind, he had instantaneously felt —
not precisely that Gemma was a beauty, not pre-
cisely that he liked her — he had known that be-
fore .... but that he had all but fallen in love
with her! Love had descended upon him as in-
stantaneously as that whirlwind. And there was
that stupid duel! Melancholy forebodings began

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to torture him. Well, assuming that he were not
killed. . . What could come of his love for that
young girl, for the betrothed bride of another
man? Assuming, even, that that "other" was
not dangerous to him, that Gemma herself would
fall in love with him or had already fallen in love
with him. . . . What of that? What then?
Such a beauty! ....

He paced the room, seated himself at the table,
took a sheet of paper, scribbled a few lines on it
— and immediately crossed them out. . . . He
recalled to mind Gemma's wonderful figure, in
the dark window, beneath the rays of the stars,
all fluttering in the warm gale; he recalled her
marble arms, like the arms of Olympian god-
desses ; he felt their living burden upon his shoul-
ders. . . . Then he picked up the rose which had
been tossed to him — it seemed to him that its half-
withered petals exhaled another and still more
delicate perfume than the ordinary fragrance of
roses. . . .

"And suppose he were to be killed or
maimed? "

He did not lie down on his bed, but fell asleep,
fully dressed, on the couch. Some one tapped
him on the shoulder. . . .

He opened his eyes, and beheld Pantaleone.

" He sleeps like Alexander of Macedon on the
eve of the battle of Babylon! " —exclaimed the
old man.

SPRING FRESHETS

' Why, what o'clock is it? " — asked Sanin.

"A quarter to seven; it is a two hours' drive
to Hanau, and we should be the first on the
ground. Russians always forestall the enemy!
I have hired the best carriage in Frankfurt! "

Sanin began to wash himself.— "And where
are the pistols? "

" That ferrofluchto Tedesco will bring the pis-
tols. And he will bring a doctor also."

Pantaleone had, evidently, summoned up his
courage, as on the preceding day; but when he
seated himself in the carriage with Sanin, when
the coachman cracked his whip, and the horses
set out at a gallop,— a sudden change came over
the former singer and friend of the Padua dra-
goons. He grew confused, and even turned cow-
ard. Something seemed to fall to ruin within
him, like a badly constructed wall.

" But what is this we are doing, my God, San-
tissima Madonna! "—he exclaimed, in an unex-
pectedly squeaking voice, and clutched his hair.
" What am I about, old fool, madman, frenetico
that I am!"

Sanin was amazed, and burst out laughing;
and lightly embracing Pantaleone's waist, he re-
minded him of the French maxim: (( Le vin est
tire— II faut le boire"

" Yes, yes,"— replied the old man;— " you and
I are to drain that cup together,— and, neverthe-
less, I am a lunatic ! I 'ma lunatic! Everything

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SPRING FRESHETS

was so quiet, so nice .... and all of a sudden:
ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta! "

" Just like the tutti in an orchestra," — re-
marked Sanin, with a forced smile. " But you are
not to blame."

" I know that I am not ! I should think not !
Nevertheless, this is .... such an unbridled pro-
ceeding. Diavolo! Diavolo!" — repeated Pan-
taleone, shaking his crest of hair and heaving a
sigh.

But still the carriage rolled on and on.

It was a delightful morning. The streets of
Frankfurt, which were barely beginning to grow
animated, seemed so clean and comfortable; the
windows of the houses shone with glinting re-
flections, like tinsel; and as soon as the carriage
had emerged beyond the city barrier the loud
trills of the larks fairly showered down from on
high, from the sky which was not yet bright.
All at once, at a turn in the highway, from be-
hind a lofty poplar-tree a familiar form made
its appearance, advanced a few paces, and came
to a halt. Sanin scrutinised it. ... Great
heavens ! fimile !

"Does he know anything about this?"— he
asked Pantaleone.

" I have already told you that I am a lunatic,"

—roared the poor Italian, in despair, almost in

a yell. — " That unfortunate lad gave me no peace

all night— and at last, this morning, I revealed

everything to him! "

84

SPRING FRESHETS

" There 's segredezza for you! " thought Sanin.

The carriage came even with Emile. Sanin or-
dered the coachman to stop the horses, and called
the " unfortunate lad " to him. Emile ap-
proached with irresolute steps, pale— pale as on
the day of his fit. He could hardly keep his feet.

"What are you doing here?"— Sanin asked
him, sternly; — " why are you not at home? "

" Permit me .... permit me to go with you,"

—faltered Emile, in a trembling voice, as he

clasped his hands. His teeth chattered, as in a

fever. "I will not get in your way — only take

me!"

" If you feel the smallest iota of attachment
for me,"— said Sanin,— "you will instantly re-
turn home, or to Herr Kluber's shop, and you
will not say a single word to any one, and you will
await my return!"

" Your return,"— groaned Emile— and his
voice jangled and broke. " But if you . . . ."

" Emile! "—Sanin interrupted him— and in-
dicated the coachman with his eyes, — " come to
your senses! Emile, please go home! Listen to
me, my friend! You assert that you love me.
Well, then I entreat you."

He offered him his hand, fimile swayed for-
ward, gulped down a sob, pressed it to his lips —
and springing out of the road, ran back to Frank-
furt, across the fields.

" That 's a noble heart also,"— muttered Pan-
taleone; but Sanin glared grimly at him. . . .

85

SPRING FRESHETS

The old man cuddled up in a corner of the car-
riage. He recognised his fault; but, in addi-
tion to that, with every passing moment he grew
more and more amazed. Could it be that lie had
really constituted himself a second, and that Tie
had got horses, and made all the arrangements,
and had quitted his peaceful habitation at six
o'clock in the morning? Moreover, his legs had
begun to ache and throb.

Sanin considered it necessary to restore his
courage — and hit the nail on the head, found the
proper remark.

' What has become of your former spirit, re-
spected Signor Cippatola? Where is il antico
valor? "

Signor Cippatola straightened himself up,
and frowned.

"II antico valor?" — he proclaimed, in a bass
voice. ffNon e ancora spento— (It is not yet all
exhausted) — il antico valor! I"

He assumed an air of dignity, began to talk
about his career, about the opera, about the great
tenor Garcia — and arrived at Hanau a valiant
man. When you come to think of it, there is
nothing in the world more potent— and more
impotent— than words 1

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SPRING FRESHETS

XXII

THE little wood in which the conflict was to take
place was situated a quarter of a mile from
Hanau. Sanin and Pantaleone were the first to
arrive, as the latter had predicted; they ordered
the carriage to wait at the edge of the forest, and
plunged into the shadow of the tolerably thick
and dense trees. They were obliged to wait about
an hour.

But the waiting did not seem particularly op-
pressive to Sanin; he walked to and fro along the
path, lent an ear to the singing of the birds,
watched the dragon-flies flitting past, and, like
the majority of Russians under such circum-
stances, tried not to think. Once, only, did pen-
siveness descend upon him. He chanced upon
a young linden-tree, broken off, in all probabil-
ity, by the squall of the preceding day. It was
completely dead .... all the leaves on it were
dead. "What is this? An omen?" flashed
through his mind. But he immediately began
to whistle, jumped over that linden-tree, and
strode along the path. Pantaleone growled,
cursed the Germans, grunted, scratched now his
back, now his knees. He even yawned with
emotion, which imparted a very droll expression
to his tiny, puckered face. Sanin almost roared
with laughter as he looked at him.

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SPRING FRESHETS

At last the rumble of wheels on the smooth
road became audible.—" 'T is they! "—said Pan-
taleone, growing alert, and drew himself up,
not without a momentary, nervous shudder,
which, however, he hastened to mask with the ex-
clamation: "br-r-r-r!" and the remark that the
morning was decidedly chilly. An abundance
of dew flooded the grass and the foliage, but the
sultry heat had already made its way even into
the forest.

Both officers speedily made their appearance
beneath its arches; they were accompanied by a
short, plump man with a phlegmatic, almost
sleepy face — the military doctor. He carried in
one hand an earthen vessel of water — on the
chance of its being required; a bag, with sur-
gical instruments and bandages, dangled over
his left shoulder. It was evident that he had
grown used, to an extreme degree, to such excur-
sions ; they constituted one of his sources of rev-
enue; every duel brought him in eight ducats
— four from each of the belligerent parties.
Herr von Richter carried a case with pistols;
Herr von Donhof was twirling in his hand—
probably for the " chic " of it— a small riding-
whip.

" Pantaleone! "—whispered Sanin to the old
man, — " if .... if I am killed — anything may
happen— get a paper out of my side-pocket, with
the flower that is wrapped in it,— and give the

88

SPRING FRESHETS

paper to Signorina Gemma. Do you hear? Do
you promise? "

The old man cast a dejected glance at him —
and nodded his head affirmatively. . . . But
God knows whether he understood what Sanin
asked him.

The antagonists and seconds exchanged bows,
as is customary; the doctor, alone, did not move
so much as an eyebrow— and seated himself,
with a yawn, on the grass, as much as to say:
" I don't feel in the mood for displaying chival-
rous politeness." Herr von Richter proposed
to Signer " Tshibadola " that he should select
the place; Signor "Tshibadola" replied, wag-
ging his tongue feebly (the wall inside him
had crumbled down again), something to this
effect: "Do you act, my dear sir, and I will
watch. . . ."

And Herr von Richter began to act. He
searched out, there in the little wood, a very nice
little glade, all dotted with flowers ; he paced off
the distance, marked the two extreme limits with
hastily sharpened little sticks, took the pistols out
of the case, and squatting down on his heels, he
rammed in the bullets. In a word, he toiled and
laboured with all his might, incessantly mopping
his perspiring face with a white handkerchief.
Pantaleone, who accompanied him, more resem-
bled a frozen man. While all these preparations
were in progress, the two antagonists stood aloof,

89

SPRING FRESHETS

reminding one of two chastised school-boys who
are pouting at their tutors.

The decisive moment arrived. . . .

Each took his pistol. . . .

But at this point Herr von Richter remarked
to Pantaleone, that, according to the rules of du-
elling, it was his place, as the elder of the seconds,
before pronouncing the fatal: "One! two! three!"
to address to the combatants a final counsel and
proposition that they become reconciled ; that, al-
though that proposition never had any result, and
was, in general, nothing but an empty formality,
still, by complying with that formality, Signer
Cippatola would remove from his own shoulders
a certain amount of responsibility; that, to tell
the truth, such an allocution constituted a direct
obligation of the so-called "impartial witness"
(unpartheiischer Zeuge) — but, as they had no
such witness, he, Herr von Richter, gladly re-
signed that privilege to his respected colleague.
Pantaleone, who had already managed to hide
himself behind a bush, so that he might not see
the offending officer at all, did not, at first, un-
derstand a word of Herr von Richter's speech,
— the more so, as it was uttered through the
nose; but he suddenly gave a start, stepped
briskly forward, and beating his breast convul-
sively with his hands, he roared out, with a hoarse
voice, in his mixed dialect : "A la la la . . . . Che
bestialitd! Deux zeun'ommes comme ca que si

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SPRING FRESHETS

battono — perche? Che diavolo? Andate a
casa! "

"I do not agree to a reconciliation,"— said
Sanin, hastily.

" Neither do I agree,"— repeated his adversary
after him.

"Well, then, shout: 'One, two, three!'" said
Herr von Richter, turning to the disconcerted
Pantaleone.

The latter immediately dived into the bush
again — and thence shouted out, all curled up, and
with his eyes tightly closed, and his head turned
away, but at the top of his lungs: ff Una ....
due . . . . e tre! "

Sanin shot first— and missed. His bullet rat-
tled against a tree. Baron Donhof fired imme-
diately after him— intentionally to one side, and
in the air.

A strained silence ensued. . . . No one stirred
from his place. Pantaleone uttered a faint ex-
clamation.

" Do you wish to continue? "—said Donhof.

"Why did you fire into the air?"— asked
Sanin.

"That is no business of yours."

" Are you going to fire into the air a second
time? " — asked Sanin again.

" Perhaps so; I don't know."

" Permit me, permit me, gentlemen . . . ."
began von Richter; — " the duellists have no right

91

SPRING FRESHETS

to talk to each other. That is entirely out of
order."

"I renounce my shot,"— said Sanin, flinging
his pistol on the ground.

" And I, also, have no intention of continuing
the duel," — exclaimed Donhof, also flinging
away his pistol. ' Yes, and more than that, I
am now ready to admit that I was not in the right
— day before yesterday."

He fidgeted about where he stood, and put out
his hand, in an undecided way.

Sanin swiftly approached him,— and shook it.
The two young men looked at each other smil-
ingly,—and the faces of both flushed crimson.

" Bravi! bravi!" — suddenly roared Pantaleone,
like a madman— and, clapping his hands, he
rushed head over heels out of the bush; and the
doctor, who had seated himself on one side, upon
a felled tree, immediately rose, poured the water
out of the jug— and walked off, lazily swaying
his hips, to the edge of the forest.

" Honour is satisfied— and the duel is at an
end!" — proclaimed Herr von Richter.

"Fuori!"— again shouted Pantaleone, from
force of ancient habit.

AFTER having exchanged salutes with the officers,
and taken his seat once more in the carriage,
Sanin, truth to tell, felt in all his being, if not
satisfaction, at least a certain lightness, as after

92

SPRING FRESHETS

an operation has been undergone; but another
feeling, akin to shame, was beginning to stir
within him. . . . The duel in which he had just
taken part appeared to him a falsehood, a pre-
viously agreed-upon, official, commonplace stu-
dent's jest. He recalled the phlegmatic doctor,
he recalled how he had smiled— that is to say, had
wrinkled up his nose — when he beheld him emerge
from the wood almost arm-in-arm with Baron
Donhof. And then, when Pantaleone had paid
over to that same doctor the four ducats which
were his due — ekh! something was wrong!

Yes, Sanin was somewhat conscience-stricken
and mortified .... although, on the other
hand, what else was there for him to do? He
could not have left unchastised the insolence of
the young officer, he could not have imitated Herr
Kliiber? He had stood up for Gemma, he had
defended her. . . . That was so; but, neverthe-
less, his soul ached, and he was conscience-
stricken, and even mortified.

On the other hand, Pantaleone — simply tri-
umphed! Pride had suddenly taken possession
of him. A victorious general, returning from
the field of battle won by him, could not have
gazed about him with greater self-satisfaction.
Sanin's behaviour during the duel had filled him
with rapture. He lauded him for a hero — and
would not listen to his exhortations and even en-
treaties. He compared him to a monument of

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SPRING FRESHETS

marble, or even of bronze— to the statue of the
Commander in "Don Giovanni!" As for him-
self, he admitted that he had felt some consterna-
tion;—"but I 'm an artist, you see," — he re-
marked,—" I have a nervous nature, but you are
a son of the snows and granite cliffs."

Sanin positively did not know how to put a
stopper on the artist, who had mounted his high
horse.

ALMOST at the identical point on the road where
they had found Simile a couple of hours before,
he again sprang out from behind a tree, and
with a joyful cry on his lips, waving his cap over
his head, and skipping and leaping, he rushed
straight at the carriage, came near falling under
the wheels, and without waiting for the horses to
come to a halt, clambered over the closed door
and fairly feasted his eyes on Sanin.

" You are alive, you are not wounded! " -he
kept repeating. " Forgive me, I did not obey
you, I did not return to Frankfurt. ... I could
not! I waited for you here. . . . Tell me how
it went off— you .... did you kill him?"

With difficulty Sanin quieted Emile, and made
him seat himself.

With much verbosity, with evident satisfac-
tion, Pantaleone communicated to him all the
details of the duel, and, of course, did not fail to
mention the monument of bronze, the statue of

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SPRING FRESHETS

the Commander ! He even rose from his seat, and
straddling his legs apart to preserve his equili-
brium, folding his arms on his chest, and casting
glances of scorn over his shoulder — he presented
a visible image, of Commander Sanin! ]£mile lis-
tened with reverence, now and then interrupting
the narration by an exclamation, or hastily rising
half-way, and as hastily kissing his heroic friend.

The carriage-wheels rattled on the pavements
of Frankfurt— and halted, at last, in front of the
hotel in which Sanin dwelt.

Escorted by his two fellow-travellers, he was
mounting the stairs to the second story, when,
suddenly, from a dark, narrow corridor, a woman
emerged with hasty steps; her face was covered
with a veil; she halted in front of Sanin, reeled
slightly, gave a palpitating sigh, and immediately
ran down-stairs to the street — and vanished, to
the great amazement of the waiter, who an-
nounced that "that lady had been awaiting the
return of Monsieur the Foreigner for more than
an hour past." Momentary as was her appear-
ance, Sanin succeeded in recognising her as
Gemma. He recognised her eyes, beneath the
thick silk veil, light brown in hue.

" Did Fraulein Gemma know . . ." he said
slowly, in a voice of displeasure, addressing him-
self in German to Emile and Pantaleone, who
were following on his heels.

l£mile flushed scarlet and grew confused.
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SPRING FRESHETS

"I was forced to tell her everything,"— he
stammered, — " she guessed it — and I could not
possibly. . . . But that is of no consequence now,
you see," — he caught himself up with vivacity,—
" everything turned out so well, and she has seen
you safe and uninjured! "

Sanin turned away.

" What a party of chatterers you are! " he said
with vexation, entering his own room, and seat-
ing himself on a chair.

" Don't be angry, please," — said Emile.

"Very well, I will not,"— (Sanin really was
not angry, — and, of course, it was hardly possible
for him to wish that Gemma should know no-
thing). "Very well . . . have done with your
embraces. Go away now, I 'm going to sleep.
I want to be alone. I 'm tired."

" A splendid idea! " — exclaimed Pantaleone.
" You need rest! You have fully earned it, noble
signore! Come along, Emilio! On tiptoe! On
tiptoe! Sssssssh!"

In saying that he wished to sleep, Sanin's sole
object was to rid himself of his companions; but
when he was left alone, he really did feel a con-
siderable degree of fatigue in all his limbs. He
had hardly closed an eye during the whole of the
previous night, and throwing himself on the bed,
he immediately sank into a deep sleep.

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SPRING FRESHETS

XXIII

HE slept for several hours in succession, without
waking. Then he began to dream that he was
again fighting the duel, that Herr Kliiber was
standing opposite him, in the capacity of his an-
tagonist, and that on a fir-tree sat a parrot — and
the parrot was Pantaleone, and it kept reiterat-
ing, as it waggled its bill: "One— one— one! one
—one — one — one ! "

" One .... one .... one! ! " he heard quite too
plainly. He opened his eyes, half raised his head.
.... Some one was tapping at his door.

" Come in! " shouted Sanin.

The waiter made his appearance, and an-
nounced that a lady was extremely anxious to see
him.

"Gemma!" — flashed through his head . . . .
but the lady turned out to be her mother— Frau
Lenore.

As soon as she entered, she sank on a chair and
began to weep.

8 What is the matter with you, my good, dear
Signora Roselli? "—began Sanin, seating him-
self by her side, and touching her hand with a
gentle caress. " What has happened? Calm
yourself, I entreat you."

"Akh, Herr Dimitri, I am very .... very
unhappy! "

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SPRING FRESHETS

" You are unhappy? "

" Akh, very! And could I have expected it?
All at once* like thunder in a clear sky. . . ."

She drew her breath with difficulty.

" But what is it? Explain yourself! Would
you like a glass of water? "

" No, I thank you. . ." Frau Lenore wiped
her eyes with her handkerchief, and fell to weep-
ing again, with fresh vigour. — " You see, I know
everything! Everything! "

" What do you mean by * everything ' ? "

"Everything that has taken place to-daj
And the cause .... is known to me also ! Yc
have behaved like a gentleman ; but what an u
fortunate combination of circumstances! 'T w
not for nothing that I did not like that trip
Soden. . . . Not for nothing! " (Frau Lenore h
said nothing of the sort on the day of the exci
sion, but now it seemed to her that she had f 01
seen " everything.") — " And I have come to yo!
as to a gentleman, as to a friend, although I sa^
you for the first time five days ago. . . . But
you know, I am a widow, alone. . . My daugh-
ter ... ."

Tears choked Frau Lenore's voice. Sanin did
not know what to think.—" Your daughter? "
he repeated after her.

"My daughter, Gemma,"— burst almost in a
groan from beneath Frau Lenore's tear-drenched
handkerchief,— "has announced to me to-day

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SPRING FRESHETS

that she will not marry Herr Kliiber, and that
I must dismiss him! "

Sanin even fell back a little. He had not ex-
pected this.

" I will not allude to the fact,"— pursued Frau
Lenore, — " that no such thing ever happened in
the world, as a betrothed girl's rejecting her be-
trothed husband; but, you see, that means our
ruin, Herr Dimitri!" — Frau Lenore rolled her
handkerchief carefully and tightly into a tiny,
tiny ball, as though she were trying to lock up
in it all her woe. — " We are no longer able to live
on the income from our shop, Herr Dimitri! and
Herr Kliiber is very rich, and will be still richer.
And why reject him? Because he did not stand
up for his betrothed? Let us grant that it
was not quite nice on his part; but, you see,
he is a civilian, he was not educated in a univer-
sity, and, as a staid merchant, he is bound to
despise the frivolous pranks of an unknown
officer. And what sort of an insult was it, Herr
Dimitri?"

" Pardon me, Frau Lenore, you appear to be
condemning me. ..."

" I am not condemning you in the least ! It is
quite another matter with you. You, like all
Russians, are a military man . . . ."

"Excuse me, I am not a . ..."

6 You are a foreigner, a passing traveller, I
am grateful to you,"— went on Frau Lenore,

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SPRING FRESHETS

without heeding Sanin. She sighed, threw out
her hands, spread the handkerchief out again,
and blew her nose. From the very way in which
her grief manifested itself, it could be seen that
she had not been born under a northern sky. —
" And how is Herr Kliiber to trade in his shop,
if he fights with his patrons? That is totally
incompatible! And now I must dismiss him!
But what are we to live on? In former days we
made althea paste, and nougat with pistachio
nuts — and customers came to us; but now every-
body makes althea paste! Just reflect: even
without this there will be talk in the town over
your duel . . . can it be concealed? And all of
a sudden the marriage is broken off! Why, that
is a scandal, a scandal! Gemma is a very fine
girl, she is very fond of me ; but she is a stubborn
republican, she defies the opinion of others. You
alone can persuade her! "

Sanin was more astonished than before.—" I,
Frau Lenore? "

" Yes, you alone. . . . You alone. That is
why I came to you. I could not think of any-
thing else! You are such a learned, such a nice
man! You stood up for her. She will believe
you! She must believe you— surely, you have
risked your life for her! You will prove to her—
but I can do no more!— You will prove to her
that she will ruin herself and all the rest of us.
You have saved my son— save my daughter also!

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SPRING FRESHETS

God himself has sent you hither. . . I am ready
to implore you on my knees! "

And Frau Lenore half rose from her chair, as
though preparing to throw herself at Sanin's
feet. . . . He restrained her.

"Frau Lenore! For God's sake! What are
you doing? "

" Do you promise? You would not have me
fall dead here, before your eyes? "

Sanin was distracted. For the first time in his
life it fell to his lot to deal with Italian blood
aflame.

" I will do anything you like! "—he cried. " I
will talk with Fraulein Gemma. ..."

Frau Lenore screamed with joy.

"Only, really, I don't know what the result
will be.

"Akh, do not refuse, do not refuse!"— said
Frau Lenore, in an imploring voice. " You have
already consented ! The result will, assuredly, be
excellent! At any rate, I can do no more. She
will not listen to me! "

" Has she announced to you, in such decisive
terms, her disinclination to marry Herr Kliiber? "
-inquired Sanin, after a brief silence.

" She cut as with a knife! She 's exactly like
her father, Giovan' Battista! The intractable
creature!"

" Intractable? She? . . ." repeated Sanin,
slowly.

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SPRING FBJESHETS

' Yes .... yes .... but she is an angel also.
She will listen to you. You will come, you will
come soon? Oh, my dear Russian friend!"
Frau Lenore rose impulsively from her chair, and
with equal impulsiveness embraced the head of
Sanin, who was sitting before her. — " Accept a
mother's blessing— and give me some water! "

Sanin brought Signora Roselli a glass of
water, gave her his word of honour that he would
go immediately, escorted her down the stairs to
the street — and, on returning to his room, he even
wrung his hands, and opened his eyes to their
fullest extent.

" Here,"— he thought,—" here, now, my life
has taken a turn! Yes, and such a turn that my
head reels with it." He did not even attempt to
look within himself, to understand what was
going on there: a hubbub — and that is all there
was to it! "What a day this has been!"— his
lips whispered involuntarily. * Intractable '
.... her mother says. . . . And I am to advise
her . . . ei! And what am I to advise?"

Sanin's head really reeled— and above all this
whirlwind of varied sensations, impressions, un-
expressed thoughts, floated constantly the image
of Gemma, that image which had graven itself
ineff aceably in his memory on that warm, electric-
ally-shaken night, in that dark window, beneath
the rays of the swarming stars!

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SPRING FRESHETS

XXIV

WITH irresolute steps Sanin approached the
house of Signora Roselli. His heart was beating
violently; he plainly felt it, and even heard it
thumping against his ribs. What was he to say
to Gemma, how was he to begin the conversation
with her? He entered the house not through the
confectionery shop, but by the rear door. In the
small entrance-room he encountered Frau Le-
nore. She was both delighted to see him, and
terrified.

" I have been waiting, waiting for you," — she
said, in a whisper, squeezing his hand with both
her hands alternately. " Go into the garden ; she
is there. And see here; I depend upon you! "

Sanin betook himself to the garden.

Gemma was sitting on a bench near the path,
and from a large basket filled with cherries was
sorting out the ripest upon a plate. The sun
hung low — it was already between six and seven
o'clock in the evening — and there was more of
crimson than of gold in the broad rays with
which it flooded Signora Roselli's little garden.
From time to time the leaves whispered together,
almost inaudibly, and as though at leisure, and
belated bees buzzed disconnectedly from flower to
the neighbouring flower, and somewhere a turtle-
dove was cooing, monotonously and unweariedly.

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Gemma wore the same round hat in which she
had driven to Soden. She cast a glance at Sanin
from beneath its upturned brim, and again bent
over her basket.

Sanin approached Gemma, involuntarily mak-
ing each step shorter and shorter, and .... and
. . . and found nothing else to say to her than
to ask why she was sorting the cherries.

Gemma made no haste in replying to him.

"These are over-ripe,"— she said, at last.—
" They will do for preserves, and the others for
filling tarts. You know, we sell those round
tarts, with sugar."

So saying, Gemma bent her head still lower,
and her right hand, with two cherries between
its fingers, remained suspended in the air, be-
tween the basket and the plate.

" May I sit down beside you? " — asked Sanin.

"Yes."— Gemma moved along a little on the
bench. Sanin seated himself by her side. " How
shall I begin? " he thought But Gemma extri-
cated him from his dilemma.

" You fought a duel to-day,"— she said, with
animation, turning her lovely, bashfully blushing
face full upon him, — and what profound grati-
tude beamed in her eyes! — "And you are so
calm? That signifies that danger does not exist
for you? "

"Good gracious! I did not subject myself
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SPRING FRESHETS

to any danger. Everything went off very suc-
cessfully and inoffensively."

Gemma passed her finger to right and left in
front of her eyes. . . . Another Italian gesture.

"No! no! do not say that! You cannot de-
ceive me! Pantaleone has told me all! "

4 The idea of his telling you ! Did he com-
pare me to the statue of the Commander? "

" His expressions may be ridiculous, but his
feeling is not ridiculous, and neither is that which
you have done to-day. And all for my sake . . .
for my sake. . . I shall never forget it."

" I assure you, Fraulein Gemma . . . ."

" I shall not forget it," — she said, pausing be-
tween the words, and once more she looked fix-
edly at him, and turned away.

He could now see her delicate, pure profile;
and it seemed to him that he had never beheld
anything like it — and had never experienced any-
thing like what he felt at that moment. His soul
burned within him.

"And my promise!"— flashed through his
thoughts.

"Fraulein Gemma . . . ." he began, after a
momentary hesitation.

" What? "

She did not turn toward him; she went on sort-
ing the cherries, cautiously seizing their stems
in the tips of her fingers, carefully lifting the

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leaves. . . . But how confidingly affectionate
did that one word, " what," sound!

" Has your mother told you nothing . . .
about

"About?"

"About me?"

Gemma suddenly threw the cherries which she
had picked up back into the basket.

"Has she been talking to you?"— she queried
in her turn.

" Yes."

"What has she said?"

" She told me that you . . . that you had sud-
denly decided to change .... your former in-
tentions."

Gemma's head was again bent low. It entirely
disappeared under the hat; nothing but her neck,
supple and soft as the stalk of a great flower,
was visible.

"What intentions?"

' Your intentions .... with regard to ....
the future organisation of your life."

"That is ... are you talking about . . . .
Herr Kliiber? "

" Yes."

" Did mamma tell you that I did not wish to
be Herr Kliiber's wife? "

" Yes."

Gemma moved along the bench. The basket
tipped, fell .... several cherries rolled along

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the path. One minute elapsed .... then an-
other. . . .

" Why did she tell you that? "—her voice made
itself heard. As before, Sanin beheld only
Gemma's neck. Her bosom was rising and fall-
ing more quickly than before.

" Why, your mother thought that, as you and
I had, so to speak, made friends in a short time,
and you had some degree of confidence in me, I
might be in a position to give you some useful
advice— and that you would heed me."

Gemma's hands slipped softly down upon her
knees. . . . She began to arrange the folds of
her gown.

" And what advice are you going to give me,
M. Dimitri?"— she asked, after a pause.

Sanin perceived that Gemma's fingers were
trembling on her knees. . . . She was arrang-
ing the folds of her gown merely for the purpose
of hiding that tremor. . . He laid his hand gen-
tly on those pallid, tremulous fingers.

" Gemma,"— he said,—" why do you not look
at me?"

She instantly tossed her hat back over her
shoulder— and riveted on him eyes as trusting
and grateful as ever. She waited to see what he
would say. . . . But the sight of her face con-
fused, and, as it were, blinded him. The warm
glow of the evening sun illumined her young
head — and the expression of that head was even

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brighter and more brilliant than that glow
itself.

" I am listening to you, M. Dimitri,"— she be-
gan, with a barely perceptible smile, and an al-
most imperceptible elevation of the eyebrows;
" but what advice are you going to give me? "

"What advice? "—repeated Sanin.—" Why,
you see, your mother thinks that to dismiss Herr
Kliiber simply because he did not display any
particular bravery the day before yesterday "

"Simply because?" said Gemma, bending
down, picking up the basket and placing it beside
her on the bench.

"That ... in general ... to dismiss him
would not be — wise, on your part; that it would
be a step all of whose consequences should be
well weighed; that, in conclusion, the condition
of your affairs imposes certain obligations upon
each member of your family. . . ."

" All that is mamma's idea," — interposed
Gemma ; " those are her words. I know that ; but
what is your opinion? "

" Mine? "—Sanin ceased. He felt that some-
thing was rising in his throat, and stopping his
breath.—" I also think,"— he began, with an
effort. . . .

Gemma drew herself up.— "Also? You— also?"

" Yes .... that is to say . . . ." Sanin could
not positively add another word.

" Very well,"— said Gemma. " If you, as a

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SPRING FRESHETS

friend, advise me to alter my decision . . . that
is, not to alter my former decision,— I will think
about it." — Without herself being aware of what
she was doing, she began to lay the cherries back
again from the plate into the basket. . . .
" Mamma hopes that I will obey you. . . . What
then? Perhaps I really shall obey you."

" But, pardon me, Fraulein Gemma, I should
first like to know what causes have prompted
you. . . ."

" I shall obey you," — repeated Gemma, — all
around her brow was quivering, her cheeks paled;
she bit her lower lip. — " You have done so much
for me that I am bound to do what you wish; I
am bound to comply with your wish. I will tell
mamma . . . that I will think it over. By the
way, yonder she is, coming this way."

In fact, Frau Lenore made her appearance on
the threshold of the door which led from the house
into the garden. She was torn asunder with im-
patience: she could not sit still in one place. Ac-
cording to her calculations, Sanin must have fin-
ished his explanation with Gemma long ago, al-
though his conversation with her had not lasted
a quarter of an hour.

" No, no, no, for God's sake, tell her nothing
for the present," — ejaculated Sanin, hastily, al-
most in terror.—" Wait. ... I will tell you, I
will write to you .... and until then, do not
decide on anything. . . . Wait! "

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He pressed Gemma's hand, sprang up from
the bench,— and to the great surprise of Frau
Lenore, darted swiftly past her, raising his hat as
he did so, muttered something unintelligible—
and disappeared.

She approached her daughter.

' Tell me, please, Gemma . . . ."

The latter suddenly rose and embraced her.
. . . . " Dear mamma, can you wait a little, just
a wee little bit .... until to-morrow? Can
you? So that there shall not be a word until
to-morrow? .... Akh! "

She burst into sudden, bright tears, unexpected
even by herself. This astonished Frau Lenore
all the more because the expression of Gemma's
face was far from sad, joyful rather.

"What ails thee?"— she asked. "Thou hast
never been in the habit of weeping — and all of
a sudden. . . ."

" Never mind, mamma, never mind! only wait.
We must both wait. Ask me nothing until to-
morrow—and let me sort the cherries, before the
sun sets."

" But thou wilt be wise?"

" Oh, I am very wise! " —Gemma nodded her
head significantly. She began to tie the cherries
up in little bunches, holding them high in front
of her blushing face. She did not wipe away her
tears; they dried of themselves.

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XXV

SANIN returned to his lodgings almost at a run.
He felt, he was conscious that only there, only
alone with himself, would it finally become clear
to him what ailed him, what had happened to
him. And, in fact, he had not succeeded in en-
tering his room, he had not succeeded in seating
himself in front of the writing-table, before he
exclaimed in a mournful, dull voice, as he leaned
his elbows on that same table, and pressed his
palms to his face: "I love her, I love her
madly!"— and he blushed all over inwardly, like
a coal from which a layer of dead ashes has sud-
denly been blown away. Another instant ....
and he was no longer able to understand how he
could have sat beside her .... her!— and chatted
with her, and not felt that he worshipped the very
hem of her garment, that he was ready, as young
men express it,—" to die at her feet." That last
meeting in the garden had settled everything.
Now, when he thought of her, she no longer pre-
sented herself to him with dishevelled curls, by
the light of the stars:— he beheld her seated on
the bench, he beheld her tossing back her hat with
one movement— and gazing at him so trustingly
.... and the tremor and thirst of love coursed
through all his veins. He recalled the rose,
which he had been carrying for the last three days

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in his pocket: he pulled it out, and pressed it to
his lips with such feverish force that he involun-
tarily frowned with pain. Now he no longer re-
flected on anything, considered anything, calcu-
lated or foresaw anything: he separated himself
from all the past, he leaped forward: from the
melancholy shore of his solitary, celibate life he
plunged headlong into that cheerful, seething,
mighty freshet — and his grief was small, and he
did not care to know whither it would carry him,
and whether it would not dash him to pieces
against the cliff! These were no longer the gen-
tle currents of the Uhland romance, which had so
lately lulled him. . . . This was a mighty, irre-
sistible billow! It flew, and galloped onward,—
and he flew with it. ...

He took a sheet of paper, and without erasures,
almost with one sweep of the pen, he wrote the
following:

" DEAR GEMMA ! You know what advice I had taken
upon myself to give you, you know what your mother
wishes, and what her request to me was, — but what you
do not know, and what I am bound to tell you now is
— that I love you, love you with all the passion of a
heart which loves for the first time ! This fire has flamed
within me suddenly, but with what force, I cannot find
words to describe ! ! When your mother came to me and
asked me — it was only smouldering within me — other-
wise, as an honourable man, I certainly would have re-
fused to execute her commission. . . . The very avowal

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which I am now making to you is the avowal of an
honest man. You must know with whom you have to do,
—no misunderstanding must exist between us. You see
that I cannot give you any advice. ... I love you,
love you, love you — and there is nothing else either in
my mind or in any heart ! !

"DM. SANIN."

Having folded and sealed this note, Sanin was
on the point of ringing for the waiter, and des-
patching him with it. . . "No! that is awk-
ward. . . . By Emile? But to betake myself
to the shop, and seek him out, from among the
other clerks, is awkward. Moreover, night is at
hand, and, probably, he has already left the shop."

But, as he meditated thus, Sanin put on his
hat, and went out into the street; he turned one
corner, then another— and, to his indescribable
joy, beheld Emile in front of him. With a bag
under his arm, and a bundle of papers in his hand,
the young enthusiast was hurrying homeward.

"Not without cause do they say that every
lover has his star," — thought Sanin, and called to
Emile.

The latter wheeled round, and immediately
rushed to him.

Sanin did not allow him to go into raptures,
handed him the note, explained to him to whom
and how to deliver it. ... Emile listened atten-
tively.

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" No one is to see it? " — he asked, imparting to
his face a significant and mysterious expression:
— as much as to say, "we understand the gist of
the matter!"

"Yes, my dear friend,"— said Sanin, and be-
came slightly embarrassed; but he tapped Emile
on the cheek, nevertheless . . . . " and if there
should be an answer . . . you will bring me the
answer, will you not? I shall remain at home."

"Don't you worry about that!" -whispered
Emile merrily, and ran off— and as he ran, he
nodded at him once more.

Sanin returned home— and, without lighting
his candles, threw himself on the divan, put his
hands behind his head, and surrendered himself
to those sensations of love which had just been
avowed, that cannot be described: he who has
experienced them knows their languor and sweet-
ness: it is useless to talk about them to him who
has not experienced them.

The door opened— Emile's head appeared.

"I have brought it," — he whispered:— "here
it is, the answer!"

He showed a folded paper, and raised it above
his head.

Sanin sprang from the divan, and snatched it
from Emile's hands. Passion had flamed up too
powerfully within him: he cared nothing now
for secrecy, not even for the preservation of pro-
priety—even before that young lad, her brother.

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SPRING FRESHETS

He would have felt scruples before him, he would
have liked to put constraint on himself — if he
could !

He went to the window— and, by the light of
a street lantern, which stood directly in front of
the house, he read the following lines:

" I beg you, I implore you, not to come to us all day
to-morrow, not to show yourself. This is necessary for
me, imperatively necessary, — and then all will be set-
tled. I know you will not refuse me, because ....

" GEMMA."

Sanin read this note through twice — oh, how
touchingly-charming and beautiful did her hand-
writing appear to him! — meditated a while, and,
turning to Emile, who, desirous of letting it be
understood what a discreet young man he was,
was standing with his face to the wall and drum-
ming on it with his finger-nails, called him loudly
by name.

Emile immediately ran to Sanin.— "What are
your orders?"

" Listen, my dear friend . . . .

" Monsieur Dimitri,"— Emile interrupted him,
in a reproachful voice:— "why don't you call me
'thou'?"

Sanin broke into a laugh.— "Well, all right.
Listen, my dear friend " - (Emile skipped with
satisfaction)— "listen: thou art to say yonder,
thou understandest where, that everything will

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SPRING FRESHETS

be punctually executed" - (Emile compressed
his lips, and nodded his head solemnly) - " and
thyself .... What art thou going to do to-
morrow? "

"I? What am I going to do? What would
you like to have me do? "

"If thou canst, come to me as early in the
morning as possible, — and we will roam about
the suburbs of Frankfurt until evening. . . .
Wilt thou?"

Again Emile gave a skip. — " Good gracious,
what in the world could be nicer! Stroll with
you — why, that is simply splendid! I'll come,
without fail!"

"And what if they will not give thee leave?"

"They will!"

"Hearken . . . Don't tell there that I have
invited thee for the whole day."

"Why should I tell? I'll simply walk off!
What harm is there in that!" Emile kissed Sa-
nin heartily, and ran away.

But Sanin paced his chamber for a long time
— and went to bed late. He gave himself up to
the same delicate and sweet sensations, to that
same joyful swooning in the presence of a new
life. Sanin was greatly pleased that he had hit
upon the idea of inviting Emile for the morrow ;
he resembled his sister in countenance. " He will
remind me of her," thought Sanin.

But what astonished him most of all was: how

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SPRING FRESHETS

he could have been different yesterday from
what he was to-day. It seemed to him that he
had loved Gemma "eternally" — and had loved
her precisely as he loved her to-day.

XXVI

ON the following day, at eight o'clock in the
morning, Emile, with Tartaglia in a leash, pre-
sented himself before Sanin. Had he sprung from
German parents, he could not have displayed
more punctuality. He had lied at home: he had
said that he was going to walk with Sanin until
breakfast, and then go to the shop. While Sanin
was dressing, Emile tried to talk to him, in a
rather irresolute way, it is true, about Gemma,
about the breaking of her betrothal with Herr
Kliiber; but Sanin maintained a grim silence in
response, and Emile, showing that he understood
why it was not proper to touch lightly on that
important point, no longer addressed him, — and
merely assumed, from time to time, a concen-
trated and even stern expression.

After drinking coffee, the two friends set out
—on foot, of course,— for Hausen, a small ham-
let situated a short distance from Frankfurt,
and surrounded by forests. The entire chain of
the Taunus Mountains is visible thence, as
though in the palm of one's hand. The weather
was magnificent: the sun shone and blazed, but

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did not burn; a fresh breeze rustled briskly
among the green leaves; over the ground, in
small patches, the shadows of the lofty, circular
clouds glided smoothly and swiftly. The young
men soon emerged from the town and stepped
off boldly and merrily along the smoothly-swept
road. They entered the forest — and rambled
there for quite a long time; they ate a very
hearty breakfast in the village inn; then they
climbed the hills, admired the views, rolled stones
down, and clapped their hands, when the stones
skipped amusingly and oddly, like rabbits, until
a man who was passing below, and was invisible
to them, berated them roundly, in a powerful, res-
onant voice ; then they lay down, stretching them-
selves out on the short, dry moss, of a yellowish-
violet hue: they drank beer in another hostelry,
they ran races, leaped for a wager, to see who
would jump furthest. They discovered an echo,
and talked with it, sang, shouted " a-oo," broke
twigs, decorated their hats with fronds of fern—
and even danced. Tartaglia participated in all
these occupations, to the best of his ability and
understanding: he could not throw stones, it is
true, but he rolled heels over head himself, and
howled an accompaniment when the young men
sang,— and even drank beer, although with evi-
dent disgust : a student, to whom he had once be-
longed, had taught him that trick. However, he
obeyed Emile badly— it was quite another matter

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with his master Pantaleone, — and when
ordered him to "talk," or "sneeze,"— he merely
wagged his tail, and thrust out his tongue like a
cylinder.

The young men also chatted together. At the
beginning of the stroll, Sanin, as being the older,
and therefore the most sensible, undertook to dis-
cuss, what is Fate, or the predestination of des-
tiny, and what is the vocation of man, and its sig-
nificance, but the conversation speedily took a less
serious turn. Emile began to question his friend
and patron about Russia, about the manner of
fighting duels there, and whether the women are
beautiful there, and whether one could learn the
Russian language in a short time, and how he
had felt when the officer had taken aim at him.
And Sanin, in his turn, interrogated Emile about
his father, his mother, their family affairs in gen-
eral, striving in every way not to mention Gem-
ma's name, — and thinking only of her. Prop-
erly speaking, he did not even think of her— but
of the morrow, of that mysterious to-morrow,
which was to bring him unknown, unprecedented
happiness! There seemed to be a curtain, a thin,
light curtain, hanging in front of his mental vis-
ion, swaying gently,— and behind that curtain he
felt ... he felt the presence of a young, im-
movable, divine face, with an affectionate smile
on its lips, and eyelashes downcast with sternness,
feigned sternness. And that face was not the

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face of Gemma — it was the face of bliss itself!
And lo, at last, his hour has come, the curtain has
rolled away, the mouth opens, the eyelashes are
raised— the divinity has seen him— and then there
is light, as of the sun, and joy, and rapture un-
ending! He thinks of that morrow— and again
his soul swoons within him for joy, in the yearn-
ing of incessantly-augmenting anticipation!

And nothing interferes with this anticipation,
this yearning. It accompanies his every move-
ment— and hinders not in the least. It does not
prevent his making a capital dinner in a third
hostelry with Emile. And only from time to
time, like a brief gleam of lightning, does the
thought flash up within him, — what if any one
in the world knew about it? This yearning
does not prevent his playing at leap-frog with
l^mile, after dinner. This game takes place on
a luxuriant green meadow .... and what is
Sanin's surprise, what is his amazement, when,
with his legs cleverly spread, and in the act of
flying like a bird over the squatting ^rnile, to the
loud barking of Tartaglia, — he suddenly sees be-
fore him, on the very edge of the green glade,—
two officers, in whom he immediately recognises
his antagonist of the day before, and his second,
Messrs, von Donhof and Richter! Each of them
sticks a monocle in his eye, and stares at him, and
grins. . , . Sanin lands on his feet, turns away,

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hastily dons his discarded coat, utters an abrupt
word to iCmile, the latter also puts on his jacket
—and both immediately decamp.

They returned late to Frankfurt.—" I shall be
scolded, "—said Emile to Sanin, as he bade him
farewell:— "well, I don't care! But I have had
such a splendid, splendid day!"

On reaching his quarters in the hotel, Sanin
found a note from Gemma. She appointed him
a tryst— on the following day, at seven o'clock in
the morning, in one of the public parks which
surround Frankfurt on all sides.

How his heart quivered! How glad he was
that he had obeyed her so implicitly! And, great
heavens, what .... what all did not that un-
precedented, unique, impossible and indubitable
morrow promise !

He riveted his eyes upon Gemma's letter. The
long, elegant tail of the letter G, the first letter
of her name, which stood at the end of the sheet,
—recalled to his mind her beautiful fingers, her
hand. . . . He thought that he had never
touched that hand with his lips. ..." Italian
women," — he thought, — " are bashful and strict,
contrary to their reputation. . . . And Gemma
is far more so! Empress .... goddess ....
pure, virgin marble. . . . But the time will come
— and 'tis not far off . . . . '

There was one happy mortal in Frankfurt that

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night . . . He slept ; but he could say of himself,
in the words of the poet :

" I sleep . . . but my sensitive heart sleeps not. ..."

And it beat as lightly as beat the wings of a
butterfly, perched upon a flower, and steeped in
the summer sunshine.

XXVII

AT five o'clock Sanin awoke, at six he was al-
ready dressed, at half -past six he was strolling
through the public park, in sight of the little
arbour which Gemma had mentioned in her note.

The morning was still, warm, grey. It some-
times seemed as though the rain were on the very
point of descending: but the outstretched hand
felt nothing, and it was only when one glanced
at the sleeve of his garment that little traces of
raindrops, like the tiniest pearls, could be de-
tected; but even these speedily ceased. As for
the wind — it was as though no such thing existed
on earth. Every sound, instead of flying, dif-
fused itself around: in the distance, the whitish
mist grew slightly more dense; the air was laden
with the fragrance of mignonette and the flowers
of the white acacia.

The shops were not yet open on the streets,
but pedestrians were already beginning to make

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their appearance; now and then a solitary car-
riage rumbled past .... no one was strolling
in the park. A gardener was scraping the path
with a spade, in a leisurely manner, and a de-
crepit old woman in a black cloth cloak was hob-
bling along an alley. Not for a single instant
could Sanin take that wretched being for Gem-
ma,— and yet, his heart gave a bound within him,
and he followed the retreating black spot atten-
tively with his eyes.

Seven! boomed out the clock on a tower.

Sanin came to a halt. — Was it possible that
she would not come? A cold shiver suddenly
coursed through all his limbs. That same shiver
was repeated a moment later, — but for another
reason. Sanin heard behind him light footsteps,
the faint rustle of a woman's gown. . . He
turned round : 't was she !

Gemma was walking behind him, along the
path. She wore a greyish mantilla and a small,
dark hat. She glanced at Sanin, turned her head
aside — and, as she came on a level with him,
walked swiftly past.

"Gemma!" he said, in a barely-audible voice.

She gave him a slight nod— and continued to
walk on. He followed her.

He was breathing brokenly. His legs obeyed
him badly.

Gemma passed the arbour, turned to the right,
passed a small, flattish basin, wherein sparrows

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were restlessly splashing — and, entering a clump
of lofty lilacs, sank down on a bench. The spot
was comfortable and sheltered. Sanin seated
himself by her side.

A minute passed— and neither he nor she
had uttered a word : she did not even look at him
—and he gazed not at her face, but at her clasped
hands, in which she held a small parasol. What
was there to say? What was there to say, that,
by its significance, could compare with their mere
presence here, together, alone, so early, so close
to each other?

6 You .... are not angry with me? " —articu-
lated Sanin at last.

It would have been difficult for Sanin to say
anything more stupid than these words .... he
realised that himself. . . . But, at all events, the
silence was broken.

"I? "-she replied. "What for? No."

" And you believe me? " — he went on.

"What you wrote?"

"Yes."

Gemma dropped her head, and said no-
thing. The parasol slipped from her hands.
She hastily picked it up, before it fell on the
path.

"Akh, believe me, believe what I wrote to
you,"— exclaimed Sanin; all his timidity had
suddenly vanished— he spoke with ardour:— "if
there is any truth on earth, sacred, indubitable

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truth,— then it is that I love you, love you pas-
sionately, Gemma!"

She cast a sidelong, momentary glance at him
—and again came near dropping her parasol.

" Believe me, believe me," — he reiterated. He
implored her, stretched out his hands to her— and
dared not touch her. "What did you wish to
have me do, to convince you? "

Again she darted a glance at him.

"Tell me, Monsieur Dimitri,"— she began:—
"day before yesterday, when you came to per-
suade me,— you, of course, did not yet know ....
did not feel

"I did feel,"-interpolated Sanin,— "but I
did not know. I fell in love with you the very
moment I beheld you,— but did not immediately
understand what you had become for me ! More-
over, I heard that you were a betrothed bride.
... As for your mother's commission— in the
first place, how could I refuse? and, in the second
place,— I think I transmitted my message to you
in such a way that you might have guessed. ..."

Heavy footsteps became audible, and a de-
cidedly corpulent gentleman, with a travelling-
bag slung across his shoulder, a foreigner, evi-
dently, stepped forth from behind the clump of
lilacs — and with the unceremoniousness of a
chance traveller, surveyed with his glance the
young pair who were sitting on the bench,
coughed loudly — and went his way.

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" Your mother,"— began Sanin, as soon as the
clumping of the heavy feet had died away,—
"told me that your refusal would produce a
scandal" (Gemma frowned slightly); "that I,
myself, had, in part, given rise to unfavourable
comments, and that, consequently .... conse-
quently . . . upon me — in a certain degree — de-
volved the obligation of telling you not to dismiss
your betrothed, Herr Kliiber. . . ."

"Monsieur Dimitri," said Gemma, passing
her hand over her hair, on the side turned to
Sanin:— "please do not call Herr Kliiber my
betrothed. I shall never be his bride. I have dis-
missed him."

" You have dismissed him? When? "

" Yesterday."

" In person?"

" Yes. At our house. He came to us."

" Gemma! That means that you love me? "

She turned toward him.

"Had it been otherwise .... would I have
come hither?" she whispered— and both her
hands fell upon the bench.

Sanin seized those hands, which lay helplessly,
with the palms upturned, in his own, — pressed
them to his eyes, to his lips. . . . Then the veil
which had appeared before him in his vision of
the day before was lifted! Here it was, happi-
ness, here wTas its radiant face!

He raised his head — and looked at Gemma —
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SPRING FRESHETS

straightly and boldly. She also looked at him—
somewhat downward, from above. The gaze of
her half -opened eyes glimmered dimly, bathed in
light, blissful tears. But her face was not smiling
.... no ! it laughed, also with a blissful though
noiseless laugh.

He tried to draw her to his breast, but she re-
sisted, and without ceasing to laugh with the same
noiseless laugh, she shook her head in negation.
" Wait," her happy eyes seemed to say.

"Oh, Gemma!"— cried Sanin: "could I have
dreamed that thou — " (his heart trembled within
him, when his lips uttered, for the first time, this
" thou ") — " that thou wouldst love me? "

"I did not expect it myself,"— said Gemma
softly.

" Could I imagine,"— pursued Sanin,—" could
I imagine, when approaching Frankfurt, where
I intended to remain only a few hours, that I
would find here the happiness of my whole life? "

"Of your whole life? Really?" — asked
Gemma.

"Of my whole life, forever and forever!" —
exclaimed Sanin with fresh impetuosity.

The gardener's shovel suddenly began to
scrape a couple of paces from the bench on which
they were sitting.

"Let us go home" — whispered Gemma. —
"Let us go together — wilt thou?"

If she had said to him, at that moment:

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"Fling thyself into the sea— wilt thou?"— he
would have flown headlong into the gulf, before
she had uttered the last word.

Together they left the park, and wended their
way homeward, not through the city streets, but
by way of the suburbs.

XXVIII

SANIN walked on, now by Gemma's side, now a
little behind her, never taking his eyes from her,
and never ceasing to smile. And she seemed to
be hurrying onward .... yet appeared also to
be pausing. To tell the truth, both of them— he
all pale, she all rosy with emotion, — moved for-
ward like persons befogged. That which they
had done together a few moments before— that
surrender of each soul to the other, — was so
mighty and so new and dread a thing ; everything
in their lives had so suddenly come to a standstill,
had undergone a change, that they could not re-
cover themselves, and were merely conscious of
the whirlwind which had caught them up in its
grasp, like that nocturnal whirlwind which had
almost hurled them into each other's embrace.
Sanin walked along— and felt that he was even
regarding Gemma in a different light : every mo-
ment he descried several peculiarities in her walk,
in her movements, — and, great heavens! how
inimitably dear and charming they were to him!

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And she was conscious that he was gazing at her
thus.

Sanin and she loved for the first time, all the
marvels of first love were accomplished in them.
First love is— a revolution: the monotonously-
regular course of life which has established itself
is broken and shattered in one instant, and youth
stands at the barricade, its flaunting standard
waves high in air,— and whatever may be in store
for it ahead — death or new life — it wafts to all
its rapturous greeting.

" What is this? Can it be our old man? " — said
Sanin, pointing at a muffled figure, which was
making its way hurriedly along on one side, as
though endeavouring to remain unperceived. In
the midst of his superabundance of bliss, he felt
impelled to talk to Gemma — not about love — that
was a settled, a sacred thing,— but about some-
thing or other different.

"Yes, that is Pantaleone,"— replied Gemma
merrily and happily. "He certainly must have
followed on my heels out of the house; all day
yesterday, he watched every step I took. . . . He
guesses the truth ! "

" He guesses the truth! "—repeated Sanin rap-
turously.—What could Gemma say over which
he would not go into raptures!

Then he begged her to narrate to him, in detail,
everything which had taken place on the preced-
ing day.

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SPRING FRESHETS

And she immediately began to relate, hurry-
ing, entangling herself, smiling, heaving little
sighs, and exchanging brief, brilliant glances
with Sanin. She told him how, after the con-
versation of two days previously, her mamma had
persistently endeavoured to get out of her,
Gemma, something definite : how she had rid her-
self of Frau Lenore, by promising to inform her
of her decision within twenty-four hours ; how she
had secured that much time — and how diffi-
cult it had been: how Herr Kliiber had made
his appearance quite unexpectedly, more con-
ceited and starched than ever: how he had ex-
pressed his displeasure at the boyishly-unpar-
donable, and for him, Kliiber, deeply-insulting
(that was his precise expression) sally of the
Russian stranger— "he meant thy duel"— and
how he had demanded that thou shouldst im-
mediately be forbidden the house. " Because,"-
he added— and here Gemma lightly imitated his
voice and manner, — "it casts a shadow on my
honour: as though I could not have protected my
betrothed, had I regarded that as either indis-
pensable or useful! All Frankfurt will learn
to-morrow that a stranger has fought with an
officer on account of my betrothed— who ever
heard of such a thing? It sullies my honour!"
"Mamma agreed with him — just imagine! — but
at this point I suddenly informed him that there
was no need for his worrying about his honour and

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SPRING FRESHETS

his person, there was no need for him to feel in-
sulted by gossip about his betrothed, because I
was no longer his betrothed, and would never be
his wife! I must confess that I would have
liked first to have a talk with you .... with
thee, before definitively dismissing him; but he
came . . . and I could not restrain myself.
Mamma even shrieked with fright, and I went
into the other room and brought him his ring—
thou didst not notice, I had already taken off that
ring two days ago— and gave it to him. He was
frightfully offended ; but as he is frightfully ego-
tistical and conceited, he did not say much and
took himself off. Of course, I had to endure a
great deal from mamma, and it pained me greatly
to see how grieved she was — and I thought that
I had been in a little too much of a hurry, but,
you see, I had thy note — and even without that,
I already knew . . . . '

" That I loved thee,"— put in Sanin.

"Yes .... that thou lovedst me."

Thus spoke Gemma, faltering and smiling,
and lowering her head, or relapsing altogether
into silence, every time that any one came toward
her, or passed her. And Sanin listened ecstati-
cally, enjoying the very sound of her voice, as, on
the day before, he had admired her handwriting.

"Mamma is extremely grieved," — began
Gemma again — and her words followed one an-
other very, very swiftly:— "she absolutely re-

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SPRING FRESHETS

fuses to take into consideration the fact that
Herr Kliiber might be repulsive to me, that I was
not marrying him for love— but in consequence
of her earnest entreaties. . . . She suspects you
.... thee ; that is to say, to speak in plain terms,
she is convinced that I have fallen in love with
thee,— and this is all the more painful to her, that
such a thing had never even entered her head day
before yesterday, and she even commissioned thee
to reason with me. . . . And a strange commis-
sion it was— wasn't it? Now she calls thee
you, a sly dog, a crafty man, says that you have
betrayed her trust, and predicts that you will de-
ceive me also . . . . '

" But, Gemma,"— exclaimed Sanin,— " didst
not thou tell her. . . ."

" I have told her nothing ! What right had I,
without having talked with you? "

Sanin clasped his hands.— " Gemma, I hope
that now, at least, thou wilt confess all to her,
thou wilt take me to her. ... I want to prove to
thy mother that I am not a deceiver! "

Sanin's breast fairly heaved with a flood of
magnanimous and fervent emotions.

Gemma stared at him with all her eyes. — " Do
you really want to go to mamma now, with me?
to mamma, who asserts that . . . that every-
thing is impossible between us, — and nothing will
ever come of it?" — There was one word which
Gemma could not make up her mind to utter. . .

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It burned her lips; but Sanin uttered it all the
more willingly.

" I know no higher felicity, Gemma, than to
marry thee, to be thy husband! "

He no longer recognised any bounds to his
love, to his magnanimity, nor to his firmness.

On hearing these words, Gemma, who had
halted for a moment, proceeded onward more
rapidly than ever. . . . She seemed to wish to
flee from that too-great and unexpected happi-
ness!

But all at once her limbs gave way beneath
her. From round the corner of a lane, a few
paces distant from her, in a new hat and new
short-coat, straight as an arrow, curled like a
poodle, Herr Kliiber made his appearance. He
caught sight of Gemma, caught sight of Sanin —
gave a sort of internal snort, and throwing back
his supple figure, he advanced foppishly to meet
them. Sanin writhed, but on glancing at Klii-
ber's face, to which its owner was endeavouring,
to the best of his ability, to impart an expression
of scornful surprise, and even compassion, — on
glancing at that ruddy, commonplace face, he
suddenly felt a flood of wrath— and strode for-
ward.

Gemma grasped his arm, and with calm deci-
sion giving him hers, gazed straight into the face
of her former betrothed. . . . The latter screwed
up his eyes, shrank together, turned to one side,

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SPRING FRESHETS

— and, muttering between his teeth: "The usual
ending of the song!"— ("Das alte Ende vom
Liede!")— retreated, with the same dandified,
slightly springy gait as usual.

" What was that he said, the rascal! " — inquired
Sanin, and tried to rush after Kliiber; but
Gemma held him back, and walked on with him,
still without withdrawing her arm, which was
thrust through his.

The Roselli confectionery shop appeared
ahead. Once more Gemma halted.

"Dimitri, Monsieur Dimitri,"— said she: "we
have not yet entered yonder house, we have not
yet seen mamma. ... If you still wish to re-
flect, if ... you are still free, Dimitri!"

In reply, Sanin pressed her arm very, very
firmly to his breast — and led her forward.

" Mamma,"— said Gemma, entering with Sa-
nin the room where sat Frau Lenore, — " I have
brought the real one ! "

XXIX

HAD Gemma announced that she had brought
the cholera, or even death itself with her, Frau
Lenore could not, we are free to assume, have re-
ceived the news with any greater despair. She
immediately seated herself in a corner, with her
face to the wall,— and burst into tears, almost
wailed, precisely as a Russian peasant-woman

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does over the coffin of her husband or her son. At
first, Gemma was so disconcerted that she did not
even approach her mother— and stood like a
statue, in the middle of the room ; and Sanin was
thrown into utter confusion,— almost to the point
of launching into tears himself! This inconsol-
able weeping lasted for a whole hour: a whole
hour! Pantaleone deemed it best to lock the
outer door of the shop, in order that no stranger
might enter— although the hour was early. The
old man was puzzled — and, at any rate, did not
approve of the haste with which Gemma and
Sanin had acted ; however, he could not make up
his mind to condemn them, and was ready to ac-
cord them his protection — in case of need; he had
greatly disliked Herr Kliiber! Emile regarded
himself as the intermediary between his friend
and his sister — and was almost proud that every-
thing had turned out so splendidly ! He was not
in the least able to understand why Frau Lenore
was grieving so violently, and in his heart he de-
cided on the spot that women, even the best of
them, suffer from a deficiency of intellectual ca-
pacity! Sanin fared worse than all the rest.
Frau Lenore raised a howl, and flourished her
arms violently, as soon as he came near her — and
in vain did he strive, as he stood at a distance, to
exclaim loudly, several times: "I ask your
daughter's hand!" Frau Lenore was especially
vexed at herself, because: "how could she have

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been so blind— and seen nothing!"— "If my
Giovan' Battista had been alive,"— she kept re-
peating through her tears, — " nothing of this sort
would have happened!"— "O Lord, what is
this?" — thought Sanin — "why, this is stupid, I
must say! " He did not dare to look at Gemma,
neither could she bring herself to raise her eyes
to his. She contented herself with patiently tend-
ing her mother, who at first repulsed her. . . .

At last, little by little, the storm subsided.
Frau Lenore ceased to weep, permitted Gemma
to lead her out of the corner, in which she had en-
sconced herself, seat her in an arm-chair near the
window, and give her some water with orange-
flower essence to drink; she permitted Sanin—
not to approach ... oh, no!— but, at least, to
remain in the room — (she had previously de-
manded incessantly that he should withdraw) -
and did not interrupt him while he was talking.
Sanin immediately availed himself of the calm
which had set in,— and displayed amazing elo-
quence: he would hardly have been able to set
forth his intentions and his sentiments to Gemma
herself with as much ardour and persuasive-
ness. Those sentiments were of the most sin-
cere description, those intentions were of the pur-
est, as in the case of Almaviva in " The Barber
of Seville."— He did not conceal, either from
Frau Lenore or from himself, the disadvanta-
geous aspects of those intentions; but the disad-

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SPRING FRESHETS

vantages were only apparent! It is true that he
was a foreigner, that they had made his acquaint-
ance only a short time before, that they knew no-
thing definite about his personality, or about his
means ; but he was ready to present all the neces-
sary credentials to prove that he was a man of
good standing, and not a poor one; he would
send for the most indubitable testimonials of his
fellow-countrymen!— He hoped that Gemma
would be happy with him, and that he would be
able to sweeten her separation from her relatives !
. . . At the mention of separation— that one
word "separation" came near spoiling the
whole business. . . . Frau Lenore trembled all
over, and began to throw herself about. . . . Sa-
nin hastened to remark that the separation would
be only temporary — and that, after all, possibly —
there would be none at all!

Sanin's eloquence was not wasted. Frau Le-
nore began to glance at him, although still with
bitterness and reproach, yet no longer with her
former repulsion and wrath; then she permitted
him to approach, and even to sit down beside her
(Gemma was sitting on her other side) ; then she
began to upbraid him — not with looks alone, but
with words, which denoted a certain softening of
her heart: she began to complain, and her com-
plaints grew ever more quiet and gentle; they
alternated with questions, addressed sometimes
to her daughter, sometimes to Sanin; then she

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SPRING FRESHETS

allowed him to take her hand, and did not imme-
diately withdraw it ... then she fell to weeping
again — but with tears of an entirely different
sort. . . . Then she smiled sadly, and mourned
the absence of Giovan' Battista, but in another
sense than previously. . . . Another moment
elapsed— and the two culprits— Sanin and
Gemma — were already kneeling at her feet, and
she was laying her hands on their heads by turns ;
yet another moment elapsed— and they were em-
bracing and kissing her, and Emile, his face
beaming with rapture, ran into the room, and also
flung himself upon the closely-united group.

Pantaleone looked into the room, grinned and
frowned simultaneously, — and, wending his way
to the shop, opened the outer door.

XXX

THE transition from despair to sadness, and
from that to " quiet resignation," was accom-
plished with considerable rapidity in Frau Le-
nore; — but that quiet resignation, in its turn,
was promptly converted into secret satisfaction,
which, nevertheless, was in every way concealed
and repressed, for the sake of propriety. Frau
Lenore had liked Sanin from the very first day
of their acquaintance ; having accustomed herself
to the idea of his being her son-in-law, she found
nothing especially disagreeable in it, although

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she considered it her duty to preserve on her coun-
tenance a somewhat offended .... or, rather,
worried expression. Moreover, everything which
had happened during the last few days had been
so remarkable. . . . One thing after another!
As a practical woman, and a mother, Frau Le-
nore thought it her duty to subject Sanin to a
varied interrogatory: and Sanin, who, on setting
out in the morning for his tryst with Gemma, had
not had the remotest idea of marrying her, — in
truth, he had thought of nothing at the time, and
had merely surrendered himself to the prompt-
ings of his passion— Sanin, with entire readiness,
and even, one might say, with zeal, entered into
his role of a betrothed bridegroom, and to all the
questions replied circumstantially, in detail, will-
ingly. Having convinced herself that he was a
genuine, born noble, and even rather surprised
that he was not a prince, Frau Lenore assumed
a serious mien and "warned him beforehand
that she meant to be quite unceremoniously
frank with him, because she was compelled
thereto by her sacred obligations as a mother! " —
to which Sanin replied that he had expected no-
thing else from her, and himself earnestly im-
plored her not to spare him!

Then Frau Lenore remarked that Herr Klii-
ber (as she uttered that name, she sighed a little,
compressed her lips, and stammered) —Herr
Kliiber, Gemma's former betrothed, already was

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SPRING FRESHETS

in receipt of an income of eight thousand gul-
dens— and that, with every year, that sum would
increase— and what was his, Sanin's income?

"Eight thousand guldens,"— repeated Sanin,
in a drawl. ..." That makes, in our money,
about fifteen thousand rubles. . . . My income
is much less. I have a small estate in the govern-
ment of Tula. ... If the farming is well man-
aged, it may yield — and even ought, without fail,
to yield, five or six thousand. . . . Yes, and if I
enter the service— I may easily receive a salary
of two thousand rubles."

" The service, in Russia? " exclaimed Frau Le-
nore. "That means that I shall have to part
with Gemma!"

" I may get myself assigned to the diplomatic
corps!"— interposed Sanin; "I have several in-
fluential connections. . . . Then the service is
discharged abroad. If not, here is another thing
which can be done — and this is far the best of all:
sell my estate, and use the resulting capital in
some profitable undertaking— for instance, for the
development of your confectionery business."-
Sanin was, to tell the truth, conscious that he was
saying something rather absurd, but an incom-
prehensible audacity held possession of him ! He
would glance at Gemma, who, from the moment
the " practical " discussion began, had kept ris-
ing, walking about the room, seating herself
again,— he would glance at her— and then no ob-

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stack existed for him, and he was ready to ar-
range everything, instantly, in the best manner
possible— if only she were not disquieted!

" Herr Kliiber also wished to give me a small
sum for repairing the shop," said Frau Lenore,
after a brief hesitation.

"Mother! for God's sake, mother!"— cried
Gemma, in Italian.

"We must discuss these matters betimes, my
daughter,"— Frau Lenore answered her, in the
same language.

Again she turned to Sanin, and began to ques-
tion him as to what laws exist in Russia concern-
ing marriage, and whether there were any obsta-
cles to the union with Roman Catholics — as
there were in Prussia?— (At that time— in the
'40's, — all Germany still recalled the quarrel be-
tween the Prussian government and the Arch-
bishop of Cologne, on the point of mixed mar-
riages.)—But when Frau Lenore learned that,
by marrying a noble, her daughter herself would
become a gentlewoman— she manifested some
satisfaction.—" But, of course, you must first go
to Russia?"

"Why?"

"But why not? To receive permission from
your emperor?"

Sanin explained to her that that was not in
the least necessary .... but that, perhaps, he
really would have to go to Russia for a short time

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SPRING FRESHETS

before the wedding— (as he uttered these words,
his heart contracted within him, — Gemma, who
was looking at him, understood that it contracted
— and flushed crimson, and became thoughtful)
—and that he would try to take advantage of his
stay in his native land to sell his estate .... in
any case, he would bring thence the necessary
money.

"I should also like to ask you to bring me
some good Astrakhan lambskins, for a cloak,"
—said Frau Lenore. "I hear that they are
wonderfully fine there, and wonderfully
cheap!"

"I certainly will bring you some— with the
greatest pleasure!— and Gemma also!"— ex-
claimed Sanin.

"And me a morocco cap, embroidered in sil-
ver,"—interposed Emile, thrusting in his head
from the adjoining room.

"Very well,— I will . . . and some slippers
for Pantaleone."

" Come, why so? why? "—remarked Frau Le-
nore. " We are talking about serious things now.
But here is another point,"— added the practical
lady. "You say you will sell your estate. But
how will you do that? Does that mean that you
will sell the peasants also? "

Sanin felt as though he had been stabbed in the
ribs. He remembered that, in talking with Sig-
nora Roselli and her daughter about the serf-

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law, which, according to his assertions, roused in
him profound indignation, he had repeatedly as-
sured them that he would never sell his serfs on
any terms whatever, because he regarded such
sale as an immoral act.

" I shall endeavour to sell my estate to a man
whom I shall know under a favourable aspect," —
he articulated, not without hesitation— "or,
perhaps, the peasants themselves will like to
buy it."

" That is the best of all,"— assented Frau Le-
nore. " If not, to sell live people . . . ." te Bar-
bari!" growled Pantaleone, who, following
Emile's example, had made his appearance in the
doorway, shook his top-knot, and vanished.

"It's a bad business!" — thought Sanin to
himself— and shot a stealthy glance at Gemma.
She did not appear to have heard his last words.
" Well, never mind ! " he thought again.

In this wise did the practical conversation con-
tinue almost until dinner-time. Frau Lenore
grew entirely tame toward the last — and had al-
ready begun to call Sanin " Dmitry," shook her
finger affectionately at him, and promised to
avenge herself for his craftiness. She asked a
great many and minute questions about his native
land, because "that, also, is very important," —
demanded, also, that he should describe to her the
marriage ceremony, as the rite was celebrated in
the Russian Church, and went into raptures in

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advance over Gemma in a white gown, with a
golden crown on her head.1

" For my child is as beautiful as a queen," -
she said, with maternal pride; "and there are no
such kings in the world! "

"There is no other Gemma in the world!"
chimed in Sanin.

' Yes; that is why she is — Gemma! " (Every
one knows that, in the Italian language, Gemma
signifies "a precious stone — a jewel.")

Gemma flew to kiss her mother. ... It seemed
as though only now had she begun to breathe
freely— and the burden which oppressed her had
fallen from her soul.

And Sanin, all of a sudden, felt so happy, such
a childlike merriment filled his soul, because, lo, it
had come to pass, those dreams to which he had
surrendered himself, in those same rooms, had
come to pass; his whole being leaped for joy to
such a degree that he immediately betook himself
to the shop ; he was irrevocably bent upon serving
behind the counter, at whatever cost, as he had
done several days previously. . . . As much as
to say: " I have a full right to do it now! for I 'm
a domestic man now! "

And he really did stand behind the counter,
and really did trade, that is to say, he sold to two
little girls who entered a pound of candy, instead

i Golden (gilded) crowns are held over the heads of the bride
and groom during the marriage ceremony proper, which is called
" crowning." — TRANSLATOR.

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of which he dealt them out at least two pounds,
and took only half price from them. At dinner,
as a betrothed bridegroom, he officially occupied
a seat next to Gemma. Frau Lenore pursued
her practical calculations. Emile did nothing
but laugh, and tease Sanin to take him to Russia
with him. It was decided that Sanin should
set off at the end of a fortnight. Pantaleone
alone presented a rather surly aspect, so that
even Frau Lenore upbraided him.— "And yet
thou wert his second!"— Pantaleone looked
askance.

Gemma maintained silence nearly all the time,
but never had her face been brighter or more
beautiful. After dinner, she called Sanin apart
into the garden for a moment, and halting beside
the bench on which she had been sorting cherries
two days before, she said to him:— "Do not be
angry with me, Dimitri; but I wish to remind
thee, once more, that thou must not consider
thyself bound. ..."

He did not allow her to finish her sentence. . . .

Gemma turned aside her face.— "And as for
what mamma alluded to— thou rememberest?—
the difference of our religious creeds, so much for
that!" ....

She seized a small garnet cross, which hung on
her neck upon a slender cord, gave a violent
wrench, and broke the cord — and gave him the
cross.

145

SPRING FRESHETS

" If I am thine, then thy faith is my faith
also!"

Sanin's eyes were still wet when he and Gemma
returned to the house.

By the evening, everything had got into its
wonted routine. They even played tresette.

XXXI

SANIN woke very early on the following day.
He found himself on the very apex of human
felicity; but that had not prevented his sleeping;
the question, the vital, fatal question: how he
should sell his estate as speedily as possible, and
on the most profitable terms — disturbed his rest.
Different plans crossed in his head, but as yet
nothing had made itself clear. He left the house
to get some air, to freshen himself. He wished
to present himself to Gemma with a project al-
ready prepared — not otherwise.

What figure was that, decidedly heavy and
thick-legged, but neatly clad, walking in front of
him, swaying slightly from side to side and limp-
ing? Where had he seen that nape, overgrown
with tumbled masses of fair hair, that head, which
seemed to be set directly on the shoulders, that
soft, fat back, those plump, dangling arms?
Could it be— Polozoff, his old boarding-school
comrade, whom he had lost sight of for the last
five years? Sanin overtook the figure which was

146

SPRING FRESHETS

walking in front of him, and turned round. . . .
A broad, sallow face, tiny, pig-like blue eyes with
white lashes and brows, a round, beardless chin—
and that expression of the whole face, indolent
and distrustful— yes, in point of fact, it was he,
Ippolit Polozoff.

"Is my star acting again? "—flashed through
Sanin's thoughts.

"Polozoff! Ippolit Sidorovitch! Is it thou?"

The figure halted, lifted its tiny eyes, waited a
little, and unsealing its lips at last, said in a hoarse
falsetto :

"Dmitry Sanin?"

"The very same!"— cried Sanin, and shook
one of Polozoff 's hands; clad in tight glace
gloves, of an ash-grey hue, they hung, as before,
lifeless down his fat hips.—" Hast thou been here
long? Whence earnest thou? Where art thou
staying?"

"I came yesterday, from Wiesbaden,"— re-
plied Polozoff without haste,— " to make pur-
chases for my wife — and am returning to Wies-
baden to-day."

" Akh, yes! thou art married — and, so I hear,
to such a beauty! "

Polozoff turned his eyes away. — " Yes, so they
say."

Sanin burst out laughing.— "I see that thou
art still the same .... phlegmatic fellow as thou
wert at school."

147

SPRING FRESHETS

" Why should I change? "

"And they say,"— added Sanin, with special
emphasis on the word "say,"— "that thy wife is
very wealthy."

" They do say that also."

" And can it be that thou dost not know that
thyself, Ippo^Sidoritch?"

"I, brother Dmitry .... Pavlovitch?— yes,
Pavlovitch! don't meddle with my wife's af-
fairs."

" Thou dost not meddle? Not with any af-
fairs?"

Again Polozoff turned away his eyes. — "Not
with any, my dear fellow. She— goes her way
.... well, and I go mine."

"Whither art thou bound now?"— inquired
Sanin.

"Nowhere, just at present; I'm standing in
the street — and talking with thee; but when we
get through, I shall go to a hotel— and break-
fast."

" With me as company — wilt thou? "

" That is— thou art referring to breakfast? "

"Yes."

"Pray do, it will be much jollier to eat to-
gether. Thou art not a chatterer, I believe? "

"I don't think so."

"Well, all right then."

Polozoff moved on. Sdnin walked beside him.
And it occurred to Sanin— Polozoff's lips were

148

SPRING FRESHETS

sealed once more, he puffed and waddled on in
silence — it occurred to Sanin: how had that booby
managed to hook a rich and beautiful wife? He
himself was neither wealthy, nor distinguished,
nor clever: in school he had borne the reputation
of an indolent and stupid boy, and for his sleepi-
ness and gluttony had borne the nickname of
" the slobberer." Amazing!

" But if his wife is very rich — they say she is
the daughter of some contractor— would n't
she buy my estate? Although he says that he
does not meddle with any of his wife's affairs,
it is impossible to believe that! Moreover,

II will name a moderate, advantageous price!
Why not make the effort? Perhaps this is
still my star in the ascendant. . . . Done!
I '11 try!"
Polozoff conducted Sanin to one of the best
hotels in Frankfurt, in which, of course, he al-
ready occupied the best room. The tables and
chairs were loaded down with bandboxes, boxes,
bundles. . . . "All purchases for Marya Niko-
laevna, my dear fellow! " (Ippolit Sidorovitch's

I wife was named Marya Nikolaevna.) Polozoff
sank into an easy-chair, groaned : " Ekh, how hot
it is!" and untied his neckcloth. Then he rang
for the head-waiter, and carefully ordered an
extremely abundant breakfast. "And let the
carriage be ready in an hour! Do you hear, in
precisely an hour!"

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SPRING FRESHETS

The head-waiter bowed obsequiously— and
withdrew in slavish fashion.

Polozoff unbuttoned his waistcoat. From the
way in which he elevated his eyebrows, panted
and wrinkled his nose, it could be seen that talk-
ing would be a great burden to him, and that he
was waiting, with some trepidation, to see
whether Sanin would force him to wag his
tongue, or would take upon himself the trouble
of carrying on the conversation.

Sanin understood his friend's frame of mind,
and consequently did not burden him with ques-
tions; he confined himself to the most indispen-
sable; he learned that he had been in the service
for two years already — ("in the Uhlans! just so;
he must look well, I should think, in that bob-
tailed uniform! ") — had married three years pre-
viously,— and this was the second year he had
been abroad with his wife, " who was now taking
a cure for something or other in Wiesbaden "
and then would set out for Paris. Sanin, on his
side, enlarged as little on his past life as on his
plans; he went straight to the principal point—
that is, he began to talk about his intention to
sell his estate.

PolozofF listened to him in silence, only cast-
ing a glance, from time to time, at the door,
whence breakfast must make its appearance. At
last the breakfast did make its appearance.

150

SPRING FRESHETS

The head-waiter, accompanied by two other
servants, brought in several dishes under silver
covers.

" Is the estate in the Tula government? "—said
Polozoff, as he seated himself at the table, and
tucked a napkin into the collar of his shirt.

"Yes."

" In the Ef rem district. ... I know."

"Dost thou know my Alexyeevko?" asked
Sanin, as he also seated himself at the table.

* Yes, of course I do." — Polozoff stuffed a
morsel of omelet with truffles into his mouth.—
" Marya Nikolaevna — my wife — has an estate in
the neighbourhood .... uncork that bottle,
waiter! The soil is fairly good — only, the peas-
ants have felled thy forest. And why art thou
selling it?"

" I need the money, my dear fellow. I would
sell it cheap. Thou hadst better buy it ... by
the way."

Polozoff gulped down a glass of wine, wiped
his mouth with his napkin and again set to chew-
ing— slowly and noisily.

" H'm — yes," — he said at last. " I 'm not buy-
ing estates: I have no capital. Pass the butter.
Perhaps my wife will buy it. Do thou talk it
over with her. If thou dost not ask a great price
—she does not disdain that sort of thing. . . .
But what asses these Germans are! They don't

151

SPRING FRESHETS

know how to boil fish. What could be simpler,
apparently? And yet they say: ' The Vaterland
must be united 1 ' Waiter, take away this abomi-
nation!"

"Does thy wife really manage the property
herself?" inquired Sanin.

" Yes. Here, these cutlets are good. I recom-
mend them. I have already told thee, Dmitry
Pavlovitch, that I don't meddle with any of my
wife's affairs— and now I tell it to thee again."

Polozoff continued to munch.

" H'm. . . . But how can I talk it over with
her, Ippolit Sidoriteh?"

" Why, very simply, Dmitry Pavlovitch. Go
to Wiesbaden. It 's not far from here. Waiter,
haven't you any English mustard? No? Beasts!
Only, don't lose time. We are leaving the day
after to-morrow. Permit me, I will fill your
glass: the wine has a bouquet— 't is not sour
stuff."

Polozoff 's face had grown animated and crim-
son; it only grew animated when he ate ... or
drank.

" Really, I don't know how I can do that,"-
muttered Sanin.

"But why are you in such a hurry, all of a
sudden?"

" That 's it exactly, my dear fellow, I 'm in a
hurry."

" And is a large sum needed? "

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SPRING FRESHETS

"Yes. I ... how shall I teU thee! I am
planning .... to get married."

Polozoff set on the table his wine-glass, which
he was in the act of raising to his lips.

" To get married? "—he said, in a hoarse voice
—hoarse with surprise,— laying his fat hands on
his belly. — " In such haste? "

" Yes . . . very soon."

" The bride is in Russia, of course? "

" No, she is not in Russia."

"Where then?"

"Here, in Frankfurt."

"And who is she?"

" A German ; that is to say, no—an Italian. A
resident of this town."

"With money?"

"Without money."

" So love is very strong? "

"How absurd thou art! Yes, it is strong."

" And thou needest money for that? "

"Well, yes .... yes, yes."

Polozoff swallowed his wine, rinsed out his
mouth, washed his hands, wiped them carefully
on his napkin, pulled out and lighted a cigar.
Sanin stared at him in silence.

" There is one means,"— bellowed Polozoff at
last, throwing back his head, and emitting a slen-
der stream of smoke.—" Go to my wife. If she
takes a fancy, she will disperse all thy difficulty
offhand."

153

SPRING FRESHETS

"But how am I to see her, thy wife? Thou
sayest that thou art leaving the day after to-
morrow?"

Polozoff closed his eyes.

" See here, I '11 tell thee something,"— he said
at last, twisting his cigar about in his lips, and
heaving a sigh.— "Go home, dress thyself with
all speed — and come hither. In an hour I set out ;
my carriage is roomy— I'll take thee with me.
That 's the best way of all. But now I 'm going
to have a nap. I must always have a nap after
eating, my dear fellow. Nature demands it—
and I do not resist. And do not thou disturb

me."

Sanin pondered and pondered— and suddenly
raised his head ; he had come to a decision !

" Well, very good, I accept— and I thank thee.
At half -past twelve I will be here — and we will
set out together for Wiesbaden. I hope thy wife
will not be angry. . . . '

But PolozofF was already snoring. He stam-
mered: "Don't disturb me!" -waggled his legs,
and fell asleep like an infant.

Once more Sanin swept a glance over his
portly figure, his head, neck, his highly-elevated
chin as round as an apple— and, emerging from
the hotel ... he wended his way, with brisk
strides, to the Roselli confectionery shop. He
must forewarn Gemma.

154

SPRING FRESHETS

XXXII

HE found her in the shop, with her mother.
Frau Lenore was bending over, and with a small
folding foot-rule was measuring the space be-
tween the windows. On catching sight of Sanin,
she straightened up, and greeted him cheerily, yet
not without some confusion.

"Ever since your words of yesterday," — she
began,— "ideas have been coursing round in my
head as to how we can improve our shop. Here,
now, I think we might place two small cases with
glass shelves ; you know, that is the fashion now.
And then, too. . . . '

" Very good, very good . . . . " Sanin inter-
rupted her.— "We must think over all that.
. . . But come here, I have something to tell
you." He slipped his arms into Frau Lenore's
and Gemma's arms, and led them into the other
room. Frau Lenore was alarmed, and dropped
the foot-rule from her hand. Gemma was on
the point of being alarmed also, but took a closer
look at Sanin, and recovered her composure. His
face was anxious, it is true, but it expressed,
at the same time, animated courage and decision.

He begged the two women to sit down, and
stood in front of them— and gesticulating with
his hands, and ruffling up his hair, he told them

155

SPRING FRESHETS

everything: his meeting with Polozoff, his pro-
jected trip to Wiesbaden, the possibility of sell-
ing his estate. — "Imagine my happiness," — he
exclaimed at last: "matters have taken such a
turn that possibly I may not even be obliged to
go to Russia! And we may celebrate the wed-
ding much sooner than I expected!"

" When must you go? "—asked Gemma.
' This very day — an hour hence ; my friend has
hired a carriage— he will take me."

" You wiU write to us?"

"Immediately! as soon as I have had a talk
with that lady — I will write instantly."

"That lady is very rich, you say?"— asked
practical Frau Lenore.

"Extremely! her father was a millionaire—
and left her everything."

" Everything— to her alone? Well— that 's
lucky for you! Only, look out, don't cheapen
your estate! Be sensible and firm. Don't get
carried away! I understand your wish to be-
come Gemma's husband as promptly as possible
.... but caution, before all else ! Don't forget
that the more dearly you sell your estate, the more
will remain for you two— and for your children."

Gemma turned away, and Sanin began again
to flourish his hands. — " You may feel assured of
my caution, Frau Lenore! But I am not going
to bargain. I will tell her the real price: if she
will give it — good; if she will not— I don't care."

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SPRING FRESHETS

"Are you acquainted with her— with that
lady?" asked Gemma.

" I have never set eyes on her."

"And when shall you return?"

" If our business comes to nothing — the day
after to-morrow; but if all goes well, I may be
obliged to stay an extra day or two. In any case,
I shall not linger a single moment. For am
not I leaving my soul behind me here? However,
I have talked too long with you, and I must run
home before I start. . . . Give me your hand
for luck, Frau Lenore — we always do that in
Russia."

"The right or the left?"

" The left— it is nearer the heart. I will pre-
sent myself the day after to-morrow — with my
shield or on it! Something tells me I shall re-
turn a victor! Good-bye, my kind, my dear . . .
ones. . . ."

He embraced and kissed Frau Lenore, but
asked Gemma to come into her room with him
—for a moment — he must communicate to her
something very important. He simply wished to
take leave of her in private. Frau Lenore un-
derstood this— and did not seek to learn what
that very important thing was. . . .

Never before had Sanin been in Gemma's
chamber. All the enchantment of love, all its
fire, and rapture, and sweet dread — fairly flamed
up within him, and forced its way into his soul,

157

SPRING FRESHETS

as soon as he crossed that sacred threshold. . . .
He cast a glance of emotion round about him, fell
at the feet of the dear girl, and pressed his face
to her form ....

"Thou art mine?"— she whispered— "thou
wilt return soon? "

"I am thine. ... I will return,"— he re-
peated, sighing.

" I will wait for thee, my dear one! "

A few moments later, Sanin was running
along the street to his quarters. He did not even
notice that Pantaleone had sprung out of the
door of the confectionery shop after him, all
dishevelled— and shouted something at him, and
shook his hand, raised high aloft, and, seemingly,
menaced him with it.

PRECISELY at a quarter to one, Sanin presented
himself to Polozoff. The carriage was already
standing at the gate of his hotel, with four horses
harnessed to it. And catching sight of Sanin,
Polozoff merely said: "Ah! he has made up his
mind? " and donning his hat, cloak and overshoes,
and stuffing cotton in his ears although it was
summer, he came out on the steps. The waiters,
at his command, arranged all his numerous pur-
chases inside the carriage, encircled the place
where he was to sit with silken cushions, little
bags, parcels, placed at his feet a box of pro-
visions and tied his trunk to the coachman's seat.

158

SPRING FRESHETS

Polozoff paid his reckoning with a lavish hand,
—and although he was hoisted from behind, but
respectfully, by the officious door-porter, he clam-
bered, grunting, into the carriage, took his seat,
stirred up everything around him thoroughly, se-
lected and lighted a cigar — and only then did he
beckon to Sanin with his finger, as much as to
say: "Get in also, thou!" Sanin seated himself
by his side. Polozoff, through the door-porter,
ordered the postilion to drive properly, if he
wished to get drink-money; the carriage steps
rattled, the door slammed, the carriage rolled off.

XXXIII

FROM Frankfurt to Wiesbaden nowadays, by
the railway, is less than an hour's journey; at
that time, the extra-post managed to reach it in
three hours. The horses were changed five times.
Polozoff partly dozed, partly swayed about,
holding his cigar in his teeth, and talked very
little; he never once looked out of the window:
he took no interest in picturesque views, and even
announced that — "nature was death to him!"
Sanin also maintained silence, and also failed to
admire the views : he was not in a mood for that.
He surrendered himself wholly to meditations,
memories. At the posting-stations, Polozoff
paid accurately, took note of the time by his
watch, and rewarded the postilions— with little

159

SPRING FRESHETS

or much— according to their zeal. At the middle
of the journey, he took two oranges from the box
of eatables, and, having chosen the best, he of-
fered the other to Sanin. Sanin gazed intently
at his fellow-traveller, and suddenly burst out
laughing.

" What art thou laughing at? "—asked the lat-
ter, carefully peeling the skin from the orange
with his short, white nails.

"What am I laughing at? "—repeated Sanin.
— " Why, at our journey."

" What of it? " -queried Polozoff, in his turn,
dropping into his mouth, one after another, the
oblong portions into which the meat of an orange
divides.

" It 's very queer. Yesterday, I must confess,
I was thinking as little of thee as of the Emperor
of China, — and to-day I am driving with thee, to
sell my property to thy wife, of whom I have not
the slightest conception."

" All sorts of things happen,"— replied Polo-
zoff. " If thou only livest long enough, — thou
wilt see every sort of thing. For instance, canst
thou imagine me riding as an orderly-officer?
But I have; and the Grand Duke Mikhail Pav-
lovitch gave the command: 'At a trot, that fat
cornet is to ride at a trot! Hasten thy trot! ' '

Sanin scratched behind his ear.

"Tell me, please, Ippolit Sidoritch, what is
thy wife like? What sort of disposition has

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SPRING FRESHETS

she? For it is necessary that I should know, you

see."

" It was all well enough for him to command:
4 At a trot! ' "—interposed PolozofF, with sudden
vehemence,— "but me, how about me? And I
thought : ' Take your ranks and epaulets to your-
self, I don't want them!' Yes . . . thou wert
asking about my wife? What 's my wife like?
—A human being, like everybody else. Don't
stir her up — she doesn't like that. The chief
thing is — talk as much as possible .... let
there be something to laugh at. Tell about your
love, for instance . . . and as amusingly as pos-
sible, you know."

"What dost thou mean by 'as amusingly as
possible'?"

" Why, just that. For thou hast told me that
thou art in love, that thou wishest to marry.
Well, then, describe it."

Sanin took offence.— "What dost thou find
ridiculous in that? "

Polozoff merely rolled his eyes about. The
juice from the orange was trickling down his
chin.

" Was it thy wife who sent thee to Frankfurt
to make purchases?" — asked Sanin a little while
later.

" She herself."

" What were those purchases? "

" Toys, of course."

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SPRING FRESHETS

" Toys? hast thou children? "

PolozofF even drew away from Sanin.— "The
idea! Why should I have any children? Femi-
nine gewgaws. . . . Finery. In the department
of the toilet."

" Art thou really an expert in that line? "

"lam."

"But didst not thou tell me that thou didst
not meddle with any of thy wife's affairs? "

"I don't meddle with anything else. But
this . . . does n't count. Out of tedium — I
may do that. And moreover, my wife has
confidence in my taste. And I 'm keen at bar-
gaining."

PolozofF began to talk brokenly: he was al-
ready fatigued.

" And is thy wife very rich? "

" Yes, she 's rich. Only, chiefly for herself."

" But, apparently, thou hast no cause for com-
plaint?"

" That's why I'm her husband. The idea of
my not getting the good of it ! And I 'm a useful
man to her: she finds it an advantage to have
me ! I 'm— convenient ! "

PolozofF wiped his face with a silk handker-
chief, and panted heavily; as much as to say:
" Spare me; don't make me utter any more words.
Thou seest how difficult it is for me."

Sanin left him in peace— and again plunged
into meditation.

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SPRING FRESHETS

THE hotel in Wiesbaden before which the car-
riage drew up smacked of a regular palace. Lit-
tle bells immediately began to jingle in its depths,
a bustle and running to and fro arose; comely
men, in black dress-suits, ran to the chief en-
trance; a door-porter, shimmering with gold,
threw open the carriage-door with a flourish.

PolozofF alighted like some conqueror, and be-
gan to ascend the staircase, all spread with car-
pet, and perfumed. A man, also capitally-well-
dressed, but with a Russian face, flew to meet him
—his valet. PolozofT remarked to him that
henceforth he should always take him with him,
—for on the day before, in Frankfurt, he, Polo-
zoff, had been left for the night without warm
water! The valet depicted horror on his counte-
nance— and, bending alertly down, he removed
his master's overshoes.

" Is Marya Nikolaevna at home? " — asked P6-
lozoff.

' Yes, sir. She is dressing. She is going to
dine at Countess Lasiinsky's."

"Ah! with that .... Stay! There are things
yonder in the carriage ; take everything out thy-
self, and bring them in. And do thou, Dmitry
Pavlovitch,"— added PolozofF,— " engage a room
for thyself, and come to me in three quarters of
an hour. We will dine together."

Polozoff went his way, and Sanin asked for
the plainest room they had; and having ad-

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SPRING FRESHETS

justed his toilet, and rested a little, he betook
himself to the vast suite of rooms occupied by his
Transparency (Durchlaucht), Prince von Polo-
zoff.

He found that " prince " seated in a sumptuous
velvet arm-chair, in the middle of the most mag-
nificent sort of a salon. Sanin's phlegmatic friend
had already managed to take a bath, and array
himself in the richest of satin dressing-gowns ; on
his head he had set a crimson fez. Sanin ad-
vanced to him, and surveyed him for a while.
Polozoff was sitting motionless as an idol ; he did
not even turn his face to one side, he did not even
move an eyebrow, he did not emit a sound. The
spectacle was, in very truth, majestic! After
having admired him for a couple of minutes, Sa-
nin was on the point of speaking, of breaking
that sacred silence — when suddenly the door
from an adjoining room opened, and on the
threshold appeared a young, handsome lady, in a
white silk gown trimmed with black lace, with
diamonds on her arms and on her neck— Mary a
Nikolaevna Polozoff in person! Her thick,
ruddy-gold hair fell on both sides of her head—
in tresses which were plaited but not pinned up.

XXXIV

" AKH, pardon me!"— she said, with a half -con-
fused, half -mocking smile, instantly seizing the

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SPRING FRESHETS

end of one plait in her hand, and riveting her
large, brilliant grey eyes on Sanin. — " I did not
think you had come yet."

" Sanin, Dmitry Pavlovitch, the friend of my
childhood," said Polozoff, as before— not turning
toward him, and not rising, but pointing at him
with his finger.

'Yes, I know. . . . Thou hast already told
me. I am very glad to make your acquaintance.
But I wanted to ask thee, Ippolit Sidoritch. . . .
My maid is rather stupid to-day . . . . '

"To pin up thy hair?"

"Yes, yes, please. Excuse me,"— repeated
Marya Nikolaevna, with her former smile,
nodding her head at Sanin, and wheeling swiftly
round, disappeared through the door, leaving be-
hind her a fleeting but stately impression of a
charming neck, wonderful shoulders, a wonder-
ful figure.

Polozoff rose, and waddling cumbrously,
passed through the same door.

Sanin did not, for one moment, doubt that his
presence in " Prince Polozoff's " drawing-room
was known to its mistress; the whole trick lay
in displaying her hair, which really was fine.
Sanin even inwardly rejoiced at this prank on
Madame Polozoff's part: "If she wanted to as-
tound me," he said to himself, " to shine in my
presence — perhaps, who knows? she will be
yielding in the matter of the price of my estate."

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His soul was so filled with Gemma that all other
women possessed no significance whatever for
him : he hardly noticed them ; and on this occasion
he confined himself to thinking: " Yes, I was told
the truth : she is a lady of the first quality ! "

But had he not been in such an exceptional
spiritual condition, he would, in all probability,
have expressed himself differently: Marya Ni-
kolaevna Polozoff, born Kolyshkin, was a very
remarkable person. Not that she was an acknow-
ledged beauty: the traces of her plebeian origin
were even quite distinctly visible. Her brow
was low, her nose somewhat fleshy and turned up,
she could boast neither delicacy of complexion,
nor elegance of hands and feet — but what did all
that matter? Not before " a goddess of beauty,"
as Pushkin says, would any one pause who met
her, but before the powerful witchery of a bloom-
ing feminine body, not exactly Russian, nor yet
exactly Gipsy .... and he would not have
paused involuntarily!

But Gemma's image protected Sanin, like that
triple armour of which the poets sing.

Ten minutes later, Marya Nikolaevna made
her appearance again, accompanied by her
spouse. She went up to Sanin . . . and her
walk was such that some eccentric persons, in
those, alas! already distant days, would have
gone out of their minds at that walk alone.
:< That woman, when she comes toward thee,

166

SPRING FRESHETS

seems to be bringing the whole happiness of thy
life to meet thee,"— one of them was wont to say.
She walked up to Sanin, offered him her hand,
said in her caressing and, as it were, repressed
voice, in Russian: "You will wait for me, will
you not? I shall return soon."

Sanin bowed respectfully, and Marya Niko-
laevna disappeared behind the portiere of the en-
trance door — and, as she vanished, turned her
head back, over her shoulder, — and smiled again,
and again left behind her a harmonious impres-
sion, as before.

When she smiled — not one, not two, but three
dimples made their appearance on each cheek —
and her eyes smiled more than her lips, than her
long, rosy, luscious lips, with two tiny moles on
the left side.

Polozoff lumbered into the room,— and again
placed himself in the easy-chair. He preserved
silence, as before; but a strange grin distended,
from time to time, his colourless and already
wrinkled cheeks.

He looked like an old man, although he was
only three years older than Sanin.

The dinner to which he treated his guest
would, of course, have satisfied the most exact-
ing gastronomist, but to Sanin it appeared in-
terminable, intolerable! PolozofF ate slowly,
" with feeling, with understanding, with pauses,"
bending attentively over his plate, sniffing at al-

167

SPRING FRESHETS

most every morsel: first he would rinse out his
mouth with wine, and then swallow and smack
his lips. . . And after the roast, he suddenly be-
gan to talk— but about what? About merino
sheep, a whole flock of which he was intending to
import, and in such detail, using constantly di-
minutive nouns, with such tenderness! After
drinking a cup of boiling hot coffee,— (he had
several times reminded the waiter, in a tearfully-
irritated voice, that he had been served on the
previous evening with cold coffee — cold as ice!) -
and having bitten off the tip of a Havana cigar
with his yellow, crooked teeth — he relapsed into
a doze, after his custom, to the great joy of Sa-
nin, who began to walk back and forth, with in-
audible footsteps, on the soft carpet — and
dream about how he would live with Gemma,
and with what news he should return to her. P6-
lozoff, however, awoke earlier than usual, accord-
ing to his own statement, — he had slept only an
hour and a half,— and having drunk a glass of
iced seltzer water, and swallowed about eight
spoonfuls of preserves, Russian preserves, which
his valet brought to him in a dark-green, genuine
"Kieff "* glass jar, and without which, as he said,
he could not exist— he fixed his puffy eyes on
Sanin and asked him whether he would not like
to play at "fool" with him?2 Sanin gladly as-

irThe preserves made in Kfeff are famous.— TRANSLATOR.
3 A very simple card game,— TRANSLATOR.

168

SPRING FRESHETS

sented; he was afraid that Polozoff might begin
to talk about the rams again, and about ewe
lambs, and nice little fat sheep-tails. Host and
guest went into the drawing-room, the waiter
brought cards, — and the game began, not for
money, as a matter of course.

Marya Nikolaevna found them at this inno-
cent diversion, when she returned from Countess
Lasunsky's.

She laughed aloud, as soon as she entered the
room, and caught sight of the cards, and the out-
spread I3 ombre table. Sanin sprang up from his
seat, but she exclaimed: " Sit down, go on play-
ing.—I will change my gown, and return to you "
—and again vanished, rustling her dress, and
drawing off her gloves as she went.

She did, in fact, return very soon. She had
changed her festive array for a full, loose silk
gown, of lilac hue, with open, hanging sleeves ; a
thick, twisted cord encircled her waist. She
seated herself beside her husband,— and waiting
until he had been beaten, she said to him: " Come,
Puffy, that will do!"— (at the word "Puffy,"
Sanin cast a glance of surprise at her— and she
smiled back gaily, answering his glance with a
glance, and displaying all the dimples in her
cheeks)— "that will do; I see that thou art
sleepy; kiss my hand, and go to bed; Mr. Sanin
and I will chat together."

"I'm not sleepy,"— said Polozoff, rising lum-
169

SPRING FRESHETS

beringly from his chair,— " but as for going to bed
-I '11 go, and I '11 kiss thy hand." She offered
him her palm, without ceasing to smile and to
glance at Sanin.

Polozoif also glanced at him— and went off,
without saying good night.

"Come, tell me your story, tell me,"— said
Marya Nikolaevna with animation, placing both
bare elbows simultaneously on the table, and im-
patiently tapping the nails of one hand against
the nails of the other.—" Are you really going to
be married, as I am told? "

As she uttered these words, Marya Nikolaevna
even inclined her head a little on one side, in order
that she might look Sanin the more intently and
keenly in the eye.

XXXV

MADAME POLOZOFF'S free and easy behaviour
would, in all probability, have disconcerted Sanin
at first — although he was no novice, and had al-
ready rubbed up against people— if in that very
freedom and familiarity he had not discerned
another good omen for his enterprise. " I '11 hu-
mour the caprices of this wealthy lady," — he de-
cided in his own mind, — and answered her with
an unconstraint equal to that with which she had
put the question:— "Yes, I'm going to be mar-
ried."

170

SPRING FRESHETS

" To whom? To a foreigner? "

"Yes."

'You have not known her long? In Frank-
furt?"

" Exactly so."

" And who is she? May one inquire? "

" One may. She is the daughter of a confec-
tioner."

Marya Nikolaevna opened her eyes very
widely, and elevated her brows.

"Why, that is delightful,"— she said in a
drawling tone—" that's splendid! I had sup-
posed that there were no longer any such young
men as you in the world. The daughter of a con-
fectioner!"

"I see that that surprises you,"— remarked
Sanin, not without dignity; "but, in the first
place, I have none of those prejudices . . . . "

" In the first place, that does not surprise me
in the least,"— interrupted Marya Nikolaevna—
" I have no prejudices either. I myself am the
daughter of a peasant. Hey? What do you
think of that? I am surprised and delighted that
here is a man who is not afraid to love. For you
do love her, I suppose? "

"Yes."

" Is she very handsome? "

Sanin winced a little at this last question. . . .
However, there was no drawing back now.

"You know, Mdrya Nikolaevna,"— he began
171

SPRING FRESHETS

— " that to every man the face of his beloved ap-
pears superior to all others; but my bride is a
genuine beauty."

"Really? In what style? the Italian? the an-
tique?"

' Yes ; she has very regular features."

" Have you her portrait with you?"

"No!" (At that date, there was no idea of
such a thing as photographs. Daguerreotypes
had hardly begun to be generally known.)

"What is her name?"

" Her name is— Gemma."

"And what is yours?"

"Dmitry."

"And your patronymic?"

"Pavlovitch."

"Do you know,"— said Marya Nikolaevna,
still in the same drawling tone,—" I like you very
much, Dmitry Pavlovitch. You must be a fine
man. Come, give me your hand. Let us be
friends."

She pressed his hand warmly, with her
beautiful, white, strong fingers. Her hand
was somewhat smaller than his — but much
warmer and smoother, and softer and more
feminine.

" Only, do you know what has come into my
head?"

"What?"

"You will not be angry? No? She is your

172

SPRING FRESHETS

betrothed bride, you say. But is that .... is
that imperatively necessary?"

Sanin frowned.— "I do not understand you,
Marya Nikolaevna."

Mary a Nikolaevna broke into a soft laugh—
and shaking her head, she tossed back her hair,
which had fallen over her face.— "Positively -
he is charming," — she said, in a half -thoughtful,
half -absent-minded way.— "A knight! After
that, just believe, if you will, the people who
assert that all the idealists have died out!"

Marya Nikolaevna, all this while, had been
talking Russian in a wonderfully-pure, genuine
Moscow language — of a popular, not a noble
cast.

" You certainly must have been reared at home,
in an old-fashioned, God-fearing family? To
what government do you belong? "

"Tula."

"Well! then we are pigs of the same trough.
My father. ... Of course, you know who my
father was?"

"Yes, I know."

"He was born in Tula. . . He was a Tula
man. Well, very good." (Marya Nikolaevna
pronounced that "very good" in petty-burgher
fashion, with deliberate intent — thus: 'kher-
shoo.) l " Well, now let 's get to business."

xThe usual pronunciation would be khoroshti— with the first
two o's resembling a'*. — TRANSLATOR.

173

SPRING FRESHETS

" That is ... what do you mean by getting
to business? What are you pleased to designate
by that?"

Mary a Nikolaevna narrowed her eyes. —
" Why, what did you come hither for? " (When
she narrowed her eyes, their expression became
very caressing and somewhat mocking; but when
she opened them to their full extent, in their
brilliant, almost chilly gleam, there shone forth
something evil .... something menacing. Es-
pecial beauty was imparted to her eyes by her eye-
brows, which were thick, rather close together,
genuine sable brows.) " Do you wish me to buy
your estate ? You need money for your wedding ?
Is n't that the case?"

" Yes, I do need money."

" And do you require much? "

" For my first needs, I might content myself
with a few thousand francs. Your husband is
acquainted with my estate. You might consult
with him, — and I would ask a low price."

Marya Nikolaevna moved her head to the right
and to the left.-— " In— the-— first— place" she
began, pausing between her words, tapping the
flaps of Sanin's coat with her fingers—" I am not
accustomed to consult my husband, unless it be in
regard to my toilet— he's a fine hand at that;
and, in— the— second— place, why do you say
that you would set a low price on it? I do not
wish to take advantage of the fact that you are in

174

SPRING FRESHETS

love, and ready to make any sacrifice. ... I will
accept no sacrifices from you. How would this
do? Instead of encouraging . . . well, how can
I best express it? noble sentiments in you, I am
to strip you bare as a linden-tree, am I?1 That
is not my habit. When it so happens, I do not
spare people— only, it is not in that way."

Sanin could in no wise understand whether she
was laughing at him, or talking seriously, and
merely thought to himself: " Oh, yes, one must be
on the alert with thee! "

A servant entered with a Russian samovar, a
tea-service, cream, rusks, and so forth, and a
large tray, set out all these blessings on the table
between Sanin and Madame Polozoff,— and
withdrew.

She poured him out a cup of tea.— "You will
not disdain it?" — she asked, dropping the sugar
into the cup with her fingers, although the
sugar-tongs lay there at hand.

" Good gracious, no! ... From such a lovely
hand ..."

He did not finish the phrase, and almost choked
himself with a mouthful of tea, while she gazed
attentively and brightly at him.

" I mentioned a low price for my estate,"— he
went on, — "because, as you are now abroad, I

1 The linden is stripped of its bark to make plaited peasant-slip-
pers, bath-sponges, and mat-sacks—corresponding to burlaps— in
which everything from cherries to sheet-iron is wrapped. — TRANS-
LATOR.

175

SPRING FRESHETS

cannot assume that you have much ready cash,
and, in conclusion, I feel myself that the sale
... or purchase of an estate, under such condi-
tions—is something abnormal, and that I ought
to take that into consideration."

Sanin became confused, and lost his head, but
Marya Nikolaevna leaned back quietly against
the back of her chair, crossed her arms, and gazed
at him with the same intent and brilliant glance
as before. At last, he ceased speaking.

"Never mind; go on, go on talking,"— she
said, as though coming to his assistance : " I am
listening to you— I find it agreeable to listen to
you; speak on."

Sanin began to describe his estate, the number
of desyatinas l it contained, where it was situated,
and what profits could be derived from it ....
he even alluded to the picturesque location of the
manor-house; and Marya Nikolaevna gazed and
gazed at him, with ever-increasing brightness and
intentness, and her lips moved slightly, without
a smile: she was biting them. He felt awkward,
at last; he relapsed into silence for the second
time.

"Dmitry Pavlovitch," began Marya Nikola-
evna—and grew pensive. . . . "Dmitry Pav-
lovitch,"—she repeated.— " See here: I am con-
vinced that the purchase of your estate would be
a very profitable affair for me, and that we shall

*A desyatina is 2.70 acres.— TRANSLATOR.

176

SPRING FRESHETS

come to an agreement ; but you must give me two
days,— yes, two days' grace. You can bear sep-
aration from your betrothed for a couple of days,
I suppose? I will not detain you longer, against
your will — I give you my word of honour. But if
you now need five or six thousand francs, I am
ready to lend them to you, with great pleasure —
and we will settle the account later on."

Sanin rose. — " I must thank you, Marya Ni-
kolaevna, for your kind and amiable readiness to
be of service to a man who is almost a stranger
to you. . . . But if you imperatively insist, then
I prefer to await your decision as to my estate —
I will remain here two days."

"Yes; I do, Dmitry Pavlovitch. And will it
be very oppressive for you? Very? Tell me."

" I love my betrothed, Marya Nikolaevna— it
is not easy for me to be parted from her."

" Akh, you man of gold!"— ejaculated Marya
Nikolaevna with a sigh. "I promise not to
weary you too much. Are you going? "

" It is late,"— remarked Sanin.

"And you must rest after the journey— and
from the game at 'fool' with my husband.
Tell me— are you and Ippolit Sidoritch, my hus-
band, great friends? "

" We were brought up in the same boarding-
school."

"And was he like that then?"

"Like what?"— inquired Sanin.

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SPRING FRESHETS

Marya Nikolaevna suddenly burst out laugh-
ing, and laughed until her whole face was crim-
son, raised her handkerchief to her lips, rose from
her chair,— and swaying, as with fatigue, she
advanced to Sanin, and offered him her hand.

He bowed— and went toward the door.

"Be so good as to present yourself very early
to-morrow,— do you hear?"— she called after
him. He glanced back, as he quitted the room—
and perceived that she had dropped into her arm-
chair once more, and had thrown both arms be-
hind her head. The wide sleeves of her wrapper
fell back almost to her shoulders — and it was im-
possible not to acknowledge that the pose of
those arms, that whole figure, was enchantingly
beautiful.

XXXVI

THE lamp in Sanin's room burned long after
midnight. He sat at his table, writing to "his
Gemma." He told her everything; he described
to her the Polozoffs — husband and wife — but en-
larged chiefly on his own feelings,— and ended
by appointing a tryst three days hence ! ! ! (with
three exclamation points). Early in the morn-
ing, he took that letter to the post, and went for
a stroll in the garden of the Kurhaus, where the
music was already playing. There were few
people as yet ; he stood for a while in front of the

178

SPRING FRESHETS

arbour in which the orchestra was located, listened
to a potpourri from "Robert le Diable,"— and
after drinking coffee, he betook himself to a
lonely side-alley, sat down on a bench,— and fell
into thought.

The handle of a parasol tapped him briskly—
and rather vehemently— on the shoulder. He
started. ... In front of him, in a light-green
barege gown, a white tulle hat, and suede gloves,
fresh and rosy as a summer morning, but with the
softness of untroubled slumber not yet vanished
from her movements and her glance, stood Marya
Nikolaevna.

" Good morning," said she. " I sent for you
this morning, but you had already gone out. I
have only just drunk my second glass— they
make me drink the water here, you know— God
knows why . . . am not I well? And so I must
walk for a whole hour. Will you be my com-
panion? And then we will drink coffee."

" I have already drunk mine," — said Sanin,
rising; "but I shall be very glad to walk with
you."

" Well, then give me your arm. . . . Have no
fear; your betrothed is not here — she will not see
you."

Sanin smiled constrainedly. He experienced
an unpleasant sensation every time that Marya
Nikolaevna mentioned Gemma. Nevertheless,
he bowed hastily and obediently .... Marya

179

SPRING FRESHETS

Nikolaevna's arm sank slowly and softly on his
arm,— and slid along it, and, as it were, clung
to it.

" Let us go in this direction,"— she said to him,
throwing her open parasol over her shoulder.
" I am quite at home in this park: I will lead you
to the pretty spots. And do you know what (she
frequently used these words) — "you and I will
not talk about that purchase now; we will discuss
it thoroughly after breakfast; but now you must
tell me about yourself . . . that I may know
with whom I am dealing. And afterward, if you
like, I will tell you about myself. Do you
agree?"

"But, Marya Nikolaevna, what interest can
you take . . . . '

" Stop, stop. You did not understand me
rightly. I do not wish to flirt with you."-
Marya Nikolaevna shrugged her shoulders.—
" He has a bride like an antique statue, and I will
flirt with him! But you have wares— and I am a
merchant. And I want to know what wares you
have. Come, then, show what they are like! I
want to know, not only what I am buying, but
the person from whom I am buying. That was
my father's rule. Come, begin. . . Well, if not
with your childhood — here now — have you been
long abroad? And where have you been up to
the present time? Only, walk more slowly —
there is no need for us to hurry."

180

SPRING FRESHETS

" I came hither from Italy, where I spent sev-
eral months."

" And everything Italian has, evidently, a spe-
cial attraction for you? 'Tis strange that you
did not find the object of your affections there.
Are you fond of art? of pictures? or are you
more fond of music?"

" I am fond of art. . . . And I love all that is
beautiful."

"And music?"

" And music also."

"And I don't love it at all. Only Russian
songs please me— and that in the country, in
spring — with dancing, you know. . . . Red cot-
ton gowns, pearl fringes on the headdresses, the
young grass in the pastures, an odour of smoke
. . . splendid! But the question is not of me.
Speak, narrate."

Marya Nikolaevna rambled on, and kept
glancing at Sanin. She was tall — her face came
almost on a level with his face.

He began to narrate— at first reluctantly,
bunglingly — but afterward he talked a great
deal, even chattered. Marya Nikolaevna listened
in a very clever way ; and moreover, she appeared
to be so frank herself that she involuntarily
evoked frankness in others. She possessed that
great gift of "familiarity" — le terrible don
de la familiarite.—io which Cardinal Retz al-
ludes. Sanin talked about his travels, his so-

181

SPRING FRESHETS

journ in Petersburg, his youth. . . . Had Mary a
Nikolaevna been a fashionable lady, with refined
manners, he never would have let himself go like
that ; but she called herself " a good fellow, who
would not tolerate any ceremony"; those were
precisely the words in which she described herself
to Sanin. And, at the same time, the " good fel-
low" walked beside him with a catlike tread,
slightly leaning toward him, and gazing up into
his face; — and in the form of a young person of
the female sex, from whom emanated that intoxi-
cating and languorous, quiet and burning seduc-
tion, wherewith certain Slavonic natures— and
those not the pure ones, but with the proper ad-
mixture— are able to torment us weak, sinful
men!

Sanin's stroll with Miry a Nikolaevna, Sanin's
chat with Marya Nikolaevna, lasted more than
an hour. And never once did they halt; they
kept on walking, walking along the endless alleys
of the park, now ascending a hill, and admiring
the view, now descending into a valley, and hid-
ing themselves in impenetrable shadow — and all
the time arm in arm. At intervals, Sanin even
felt vexed with himself: never had he walked so
long with Gemma, his dear Gemma .... and
here, this lady had simply taken possession of
him — and that was all there was to sayl-
" Are n't you tired?"— he asked her once.— "I
am never tired,"— she replied. Once in a while,

182

SPRING FRESHETS

they met other ramblers; almost all of them
bowed to her, — some respectfully, others even
with servility. To one of them, a very handsome,
foppishly attired dark-haired man, she called
from a distance, in the very best Parisian accent :
ff Comte, vous savez, il ne faut pas venir me voir
—ni aujourd'hui, ni demain." The man doffed
his hat, in silence, and made her a profound
salute.

"Who is that?"— asked Sanin, in accordance
with the bad habit peculiar to all Russians, " ask-
ing curious questions."

"That? A Frenchman— there are a lot of
them roaming about here. . . . He . . . also
is an .admirer of mine. But it is time to drink
coffee. Let us go home; I think you must be
starved by this time. My hubby 1 must have got
his peepers opened by now."

"Hubby! peepers!" Sanin repeated to him-
self. ..." And she speaks French so capitally.
. . . What a queer person!"

MARYA NIKOLAEVNA was not mistaken. When
she and Sanin reached the hotel,— her "hubby"
or "Puffy" was already seated, with his inevi-
table fez on his head, at a table spread for
breakfast.

"I've been waiting for thee this long time!"

1 Untranslatable. Literally, " My orthodox
believer." — TRANSLATOR.

183

SPRING FRESHETS

he exclaimed, with a sour visage. " I was just
about to drink coffee without thee."

"Never mind, never mind," -responded
Mary a Nikolaevna gaily. — "Art thou angry?
That 's healthy for thee : otherwise, thou wouldst
congeal altogether. Here, I have brought a
guest. Ring at once! Let me drink coffee — the
very best coffee— in Saxony cups, on a snow-
white table-cloth !"

She threw off her hat, her gloves, and clapped
her hands. Polozoff darted a sidelong glance at
her.

" What made you gallop about so long to-day,
Marya Nikolaevna?"— he said, in an undertone.

" That 's no affair of yours, Ippolit Sidoritch !
Ring the bell! Sit down, Dmitry Pavlovitch—
and drink coffee for the second time ! Akh ! how
jolly it is to give orders! There is no other plea-
sure on earth!"

"When people obey,"— growled her husband
again.

" Precisely, when people obey! That 's why I
find it jolly. Especially with thee. Is n't that so,
Puffy? And here comes the coffee."

On the huge tray with which the waiter made
his appearance, lay also the theatrical programme.
Marya Nikolaevna seized it.

"A drama!" — she ejaculated with indigna-
tion:—"German drama. Never mind; that's
better than German comedy. Order a box to be

184

SPRING FRESHETS

engaged for me — a baignoire — or no ... the
Fremden-loge will be better,"— she said to the
waiter. " Do you hear: the Fremden-loge ^ with-
out fail!"

"But what if the Fremden-loge is already
taken by his Excellency the town-director —
(Seine Excellent der Herr Stadt-Director) ?"—
the waiter ventured to observe.

" Give his Excellency ten thalers— and let me
have the box ! Do you hear ! "

The waiter bowed his head submissively and
sadly.

" Dmitry Pavlovitch, will you go to the theatre
with me? the German actors are horrible,— but
you will go. . . . Yes? Yes! How amiable you
are! Thou wilt not go, wilt thou, Puffy? "

"As thou commandest," — said Polozoff into
his cup, which he was raising to his mouth.

"Dost know what: stay here. Thou always
fallest asleep in the theatre,— and thou under-
standest German badly. This is what thou hadst
better do: write a reply to the steward — thou re-
memberest, about our mill . . . about the peas-
ants' grinding. Tell him that I won't, I won't,
I won't! There's occupation for thee, for the
whole evening."

" I obey,"— remarked Polozoff.

"Well, very good indeed. Thou art a clever
dear. And now, gentlemen, seeing that we have
mentioned the steward, let us discuss our main

185

SPRING FRESHETS

business. As soon as the waiter has cleared the
table, you shall tell us everything about your es-
tate, Dmitry Pavlovitch — what, how, at what
price you will sell it, how much earnest-money
you want in advance, — in a word, everything!"
("At last!" thought Sanin,— " thank God!")-
' You have already communicated to me some
details ; you described your park splendidly, I re-
member— but Puffy was not present. . . . Let
him hear about it — he always finds some fault!
It is very pleasant to me to think that I can help
on your marriage — and I promised you that we
would occupy ourselves with you after breakfast ;
and I always keep my promises;— isn't that so,
Ippolit Sidoritch?"

Polozoff rubbed his face with the palm of his
hand.— "What is true is true; you deceive no

one."

"Never! and I never will deceive any one.
Come, Dmitry Pavlovitch, — state the case, as we
express ourselves in the senate."

XXXVII

SANIN set to work to " state the case,"— that is,
to describe his estate again, for the second time,
but on this occasion, without touching on the
beauties of nature — and from time to time ap-
pealing to Polozoff for confirmation of the
"facts and figures" quoted. But Polozoff

186

SPRING FRESHETS

merely grinned and shook his head— whether in
approbation or disapprobation, was a point which,
apparently, the devil himself could not have de-
termined. However, Marya Nikolaevna did not
need his sympathy. She displayed such commer-
cial and administrative capacities as could but
evoke amazement ! The most petty details of estate
management were excellently well known to her ;
she put accurate questions about everything, she
ventured into everything; her every word hit the
mark, placed the dot directly on the L Sanin had
not anticipated such an examination: he had not
prepared himself. And this examination lasted
for a whole hour and a half. Sanin experienced
all the sensations of a criminal on trial, seated on
the narrow bench before a stern, a keen judge.
" Why, this is an inquisition! " he whispered anx-
iously to himself. Mdrya Nikolaevna laughed
the whole time, as though she were jesting: but
Sdnin derived no relief from that; and when, in
the course of the " inquisition," it appeared that
he did not understand quite clearly the words
"repartition" and "tillage"— he fairly broke
into perspiration.

"Well, very good I "—said Marya Nikolaevna
decisively at last. " Now I know about your es-
tate. What price do you fix per soul?" (At
that time, as every one knows, the price of estates
was fixed according to the number of serfs.)

" Why . . , t I think ... I cannot take less
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SPRING FRESHETS

than five hundred rubles" — articulated Sanin
with difficulty. (Oh, Pantaleone, Pantaleone,
where art thou? Here's the point where thou
shouldst have cried out once more: "Barbaril")

Marya Nikolaevna rolled her eyes heavenward,
as though absorbed in thought.

" Certainly,"— she said at last. "That price
seems to me unobjectionable. But I stipulated
for two days' grace,— and you must wait until to-
morrow. I think we shall come to terms — and
then you shall say how much cash down you want.
But now, basta cosi!" — she interpolated, perceiv-
ing that Sanin was on the point of making some
reply.— "We have occupied ourselves enough
with the despicable metal ... a demain les af-
faires! Do you know what: I will let you go
now . . . . " (she glanced at an enamelled watch
which was thrust into her belt) .... "until
three o'clock ... I must give you time to rest.
Go, play at roulette."

" I never play at gambling games," — remarked
Sanin.

" Really? why, you are the pink of perfection!
But I do not play either. It is foolish to fling
one's money to the winds— on a certainty. But
go into the gaming-room, look at the physiogno-
mies. There are some very amusing ones. There
is one old woman there, with a gold chain on her
forehead, and moustaches— a marvel ! One of our
princes is there— he's nice also. A majestic fig-

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SPRING FRESHETS

lire, a nose like an eagle's beak, and he puts on a
thaler— and crosses himself on the sly under his
waistcoat. Read the newspapers, walk about, in
short, do whatever you like. . . . And at three
o'clock I shall expect you . . . . de pied ferme.
We must dine early. The theatre with these ri-
diculous Germans begins at half -past six."— She
offered him her hand.— "Sans rancune, n'est-ce
pas?"

"Good gracious, Marya Nikolaevna, why
should I be vexed with you? "

" Because I have been torturing you. Wait,
I'll do it in a different way"— she added, nar-
rowing her eyes, — and all her dimples came into
sight simultaneously in her flushed cheeks.—
" Until we meet again! "

Sanin bowed and left the room. A merry
laugh rang out behind him— and in a mirror,
which he was passing at the moment, the follow-
ing scene was reflected: Marya Nikolaevna was
pushing her husband's fez down over his eyes, and
he was resisting with both hands.

XXXVIII

OH, how deeply and joyously did Sanin draw
breath, as soon as he found himself in his own
chamber! In point of fact, Marya Nikolaevna
had spoken the truth, when she had said that he
ought to rest, — to rest from all those new ac-

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quaintances, encounters, conversations, from that
haze which had got into his head, his soul; from
that unexpected, unsought friendship with a wo-
man who was so foreign to him! And when was
all this taking place? Almost on the very day
after the one on which he had learned that Gemma
loved him, that he had become her betrothed hus-
band! Why, that was sacrilege! A thousand
times he mentally asked forgiveness of his pure,
unspotted dove — although, as a matter of fact, he
could not accuse himself of anything; a thou-
sand times he kissed the little cross which had
been given to him. Had he not had a hope of
bringing to a speedy and successful end the af-
fair for which he had come to Wiesbaden, — he
would have rushed headlong thence, back to dear
Frankfurt, to that precious house, now already a
home to him, to her, to her beloved feet. . . . But
there was nothing to be done! He must drain
the phial to the bottom, he must dress himself,
go to dinner— and thence to the theatre. ... If
she would only release him as promptly as pos-
sible on the morrow!

One other thing troubled him, enraged him:
he had thought with love, with emotion, with no-
ble rapture of Gemma, of life in her society, of
the happiness which was awaiting him in the fu-
ture—and yet this strange woman, this Madame
Polozoff, kept importunately hovering— bobbing
up .... precisely that, Sanin expressed him-

190

SPRING FRESHETS

self with peculiar viciousness — bobbing up in
front of his eyes — and he could not rid himself of
her image, he could not help hearing her voice and
recalling her speeches — he could not even help
being conscious of that peculiar perfume, deli-
cate, fresh, and penetrating, like the perfume of
yellow lilies, which emanated from her garments.
That lady was plainly making a fool of him, and
making advances to him in all sorts of ways. . . .
Why? what did she want? Could it be the mere
whim of a spoiled, rich, and almost immoral wo-
man? And that husband? What sort of a crea-
ture was he? What were his relations to her?
Why did those questions crawl into the head of
him, Sanin, who really cared nothing whatever
for Mr. Polozoff or his wife? Why could not
he banish that pertinacious image, even when he
turned, with all his soul, to another, as bright and
clear as God's day? How dared those features
shine through those others, which were almost
divine? And they not only did shine through —
they smiled audaciously. Those grey, rapacious
eyes, those dimples on the cheeks, those snaky
locks of hair — and could it be that all this had, as
it were, cloven fast to him, and was he unable to
shake off, to cast aside all this?

Nonsense! nonsense! to-morrow everything will
disappear and leave no trace. . . . But will she
release him to-morrow?

Yes, he put all these questions to himself —and
191

SPRING FRESHETS

time began to wear on toward three o'clock — and
he donned his black dress-coat, and after stroll-
ing for a while in the park, he went to the
Polozoffs'.

HE found in their drawing-room a secretary of
legation, a German, a long, long, blond, with a
horse-like profile, and his hair parted in the mid-
dle behind— (that was still in fashion at that
date) — and . . . oh, wondrous to relate! whom
else? von Donhof, that same officer with whom
he had fought a few days previously! He had
not in the least expected to meet him in that par-
ticular place — and he involuntarily grew embar-
rassed, but saluted him, nevertheless.

"Are you acquainted?" — asked Marya Niko-
laevna, whom Sanin's confusion did not escape.

" Yes ... I have already had the honour,"-
articulated von Donhof— and bending slightly
in the direction of Marya Nikolaevna, he added,
with a smile: " This is the very man. . . . Your
fellow-countryman .... the Russian . . . . '

"It cannot be!"— she exclaimed in an under-
tone, shaking her finger at him— and immedi-
ately began to dismiss both him and the long sec-
retary, who, by all the signs, was dead in love
with her — for he even opened his mouth every
time he looked at her. Donhof withdrew imme-
diately, with amiable submissiveness, like a friend
of the family, who understands at half a word

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SPRING FRESHETS

what is required of him ; the secretary tried to be
stubborn, but Marya Nikolaevna sent him away
without any ceremony whatever.

" Go to your reigning personage," she said to
him (there dwelt in Wiesbaden at that time a
certain Principessa di Monaco, who bore a won-
derful resemblance to a wretched woman of the
half -world) — "why should you sit with such a
plebeian as I am? "

" Upon my word, madame," — the unfortunate
secretary assured her,—" all the princesses in the
world. ..."

But Marya Nikolaevna was merciless— and
the secretary took himself and his hair-parting
off.

Marya Nikolaevna had arrayed herself very
much to her " advantage "—as our grandmothers
were wont to say — on that day. She wore a
gown of rose-coloured glace silk, with lace a la
Fontanges, and a huge diamond in each ear.
Her eyes were as brilliant as the diamonds: she
seemed to be in high spirits.

She made Sanin sit beside her, and began to
talk to him about Paris, whither she was prepar-
ing to go within a few days; about how the Ger-
mans bored her, that they were stupid when they
were wise, and inopportunely wise when they
were stupid; — and all at once, straight out — a
brule pour point— she asked him whether it were
true that he had fought a duel recently, for the

193

SPRING FRESHETS

sake of a lady, with that officer who had just been
sitting there?

"How do you know about that?"— muttered
the astounded Sanin.

"The earth is filled with the sound thereof,
Dmitry Pavlovitch; but I know that you were in
the right, a thousandfold in the right— and be-
haved like a true knight. Tell me — that lady—
was your betrothed? "

Sanin contracted his brows slightly. . .

" Come, I will not, I will not do it again,"-
said Marya Nikolaevna hastily. "It is disagree-
able to you ; forgive me, I won't do so again ! do
not be angry!" Polozoff made his appearance
from the adjoining room, with a sheet of news-
paper in his hands.

" What do you want? Is dinner ready? "

"Dinner will be served directly, and just see
what I have read in the Northern Bee ....
Prince Gromoboy is dead."

Marya Nikolaevna raised her head.

" Ah ! The kingdom of heaven be his ! Every
year," she said, turning to Sanin, " in February,
on my birthday, he used to decorate all my rooms
with camellias. But it is not worth while to live
in Petersburg during the winter for that. He
was over seventy, was n't he?"— she asked her
husband.

" Yes. His funeral is described in the paper.
The whole court was present. And here are
Prince Kovrizhkin's verses on the event."

194

SPRING FRESHETS

"Well, that's splendid."

" I '11 read them aloud, if you like? The prince
calls him a man of counsel."

"No, I wouldn't like. He a man of counsel
indeed! He was simply the husband of Tatyana
Yurievna. Let's eat our dinner. The living
man thinks of living things. Dmitry Pavlovitch,
your arm."

THE dinner, like that of the preceding evening,
was amazing, and passed off in very lively style.
Marya Nikolaevna had a talent for narration
.... a rare gift in a woman, and still more so
in a Russian woman ! She did not stand on cere-
mony as to her expressions, and her fellow-coun-
trymen, in particular, caught it heavily. More
than once Sanin was forced to laugh heartily at
some audacious and well-aimed remark. The
thing which Marya Nikolaevna could endure
least was hypocrisy, empty phrases and lying.
. . . She found this almost everywhere. She made
a display, as it were, and boasted of the lowly
sphere in which her life had begun : she imparted
decidedly strange anecdotes about her parents, in
their youthful days; she called herself as much
of a clodhopper as Natalya Kirilovna Narysh-
kin.1 It became evident to Sanin, that she had
gone through much more, in her day, than the
great majority of her countrywomen.

lfThe mother of Peter the Great, through whose alliance with
Tzar Alexei Mikhailovitch the Naryshkins (said to have descended
from a Crimean Tatar) first came into prominence.— TRANSLATOR.

195

SPRING FRESHETS

But Polozoff ate thoughtfully, drank atten-
tively, only occasionally darting a glance, now at
his wife, again at Sanin, with his whitish, ap-
parently blind, but, in reality, extremely keen-
sighted eyes.— "What a clever dear thou art!"
—exclaimed Marya Nikolaevna, turning toward
him: "how well thou hast executed all my com-
missions in Frankfurt! I'd like to give thee a
kiss on thy dear little brow — but thou dost not
care for that from me."

" No, I don't,"— replied Polozoff, as he cut up
an orange with a silver knife.

Marya Nikolaevna looked at him, and
drummed on the table with her fingers.

" So our wager holds good? "—she said signifi-
cantly.

"It does."

" All right. Thou wilt lose."

Polozoff thrust his chin forward.— "Well,
don't be too sure of thyself this time, Marya Ni-
kolaevna, for my opinion is that thou wilt be the
loser."

" What is the wager about? May I know? "
asked Sanin.

"No .... it is impossible at present,"— re-
plied Marya Nikolaevna, with a laugh.

The clock struck seven. The waiter an-
nounced that the carriage was at the door.
Polozoff escorted his wife to the door, and
immediately returned to his easy-chair.

196

SPRING FRESHETS

" See to it that thou dost not forget the letter
to the steward!"— Mary a Nikolaevna called to
him from the antechamber.

" 1 11 write it; don't worry. I 'm an accurate

man."

XXXIX

IN the year 1840 the theatre at Wiesbaden was
not only wretched as to exterior, but its troupe, in
their pomposity and miserable mediocrity, their
diligent and commonplace routine, did not rise
by so much as a hair's-breadth above the level
which, down to the present day, may be regarded
as normal for all German theatres, and of which
the troupe in Carlsruhe, under the " celebrated "
direction of Herr Devrient, has of late presented
the most perfect example. Behind the box en-
gaged for "her Transparency Madame von
Polozoff " (the Lord only knows how the waiter
had procured it — whether he had not, as an actual
fact, bribed the Stadt-Director!) —behind this
box was a little room with small divans set all
around the walls. Before entering it, Mary a Ni-
kolaevna asked Sanin to raise the little shades
which separated the box from the theatre.

" I do not wish to be seen," — said she, — " for in
that case, people will make their way hither im-
mediately." She also placed him beside her, with
his back to the auditorium, so that the box ap-
peared to be empty.

197

SPRING FRESHETS

The orchestra played the overture to the
" Nozze di Figaro." .... The curtain rose : the
play began.

It was one of the numerous home-made pro-
ductions, in which well-read but talentless au-
thors, in choice but deadly dull language, assidu-
ously but clumsily set forth some " profound " or
"palpitating" idea, presented a so-called tragic
conflict, and induced a tedium . . . fairly Asi-
atic, like the Asiatic cholera ! Marya Nikolaevna
listened patiently to half of one act, but when the
first lover, on learning of the treachery of his be-
loved (he was dressed in a cinnamon-brown frock-
coat, with "puffs" and a velveteen collar, a
striped waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons,
green trousers with boot-straps of patent-leather,
and white wash-leather gloves) ,— when that
lover, resting both clenched fists on his breast,
and protruding his elbows in front of him
in an acute angle, began to howl exactly like
a dog— Marya Nikolaevna could endure it no
longer.

"The worst French actor, in the worst little
provincial town, plays better and more naturally
than the leading German celebrity,"— she ex-
claimed indignantly, and changed her seat to the
rear room.— "Come here,"— she said to Sanin,
tapping the divan by her side.— "Let's have a
chat."

Sanin obeyed.

198

SPRING FRESHETS

Marya Nikolaevna darted a glance at him.-
" But you are soft as silk, I see! Your wife will
have an easy time with you. That buffoon," —
she continued, pointing the tip of her fan at the
howling actor (he was playing the part of a pri-
vate tutor) ,— " has reminded me of my youth; I,
also, was in love with the tutor. It was my first
.... no, my second passion. I fell in love for
the first time with a young fellow in training for
a monk, at the Donskoy Monastery.1 I was
twelve years old. I saw him only on Sundays.
He wore a velvet cassock, he scented himself with
lavender water, as he made his way through the
crowd with the censer he spoke to the ladies in
French: 'Pardon, excusez' — and never raised his
eyes, but he had eyelashes,— as long as that!"—
Marya Nikolaevna marked off with her thumb-
nail half of her middle finger, and showed it to
Sanin. — "My tutor's name was Monsieur Gas-
ton. I must tell you that he was a frightfully
learned and very strict man, a Swiss, and with
such an energetic face! He had side-whiskers as
black as pitch, and a Grecian profile — and his lips
looked as though they had been cast out of iron!
I was afraid of him! In all my life, I have never
been afraid of any man but that one ! He was the
governor of my brother, who died afterward
... he was drowned. And a Gipsy has foretold
a violent death for me also — but that is nonsense.

1 A famous monastery in the outskirts of Moscow. — TRANSLATOR.

199

SPRING FRESHETS

I don't believe it. Just imagine Ippolit Sidoritch
with a dagger ! "

" One may die otherwise than by a dagger,"-
remarked Sanin.

"That's all nonsense! Are you superstitious?
I 'm not — not in the least. But what is to be can-
not be avoided. Monsieur Gaston lived in our
house, over my head. When I used to wake up
in the night, I could hear his footsteps — he went
to bed very late — and my heart used to swoon
with emotion .... or with some other feeling.
My father could hardly read and write himself,
but he gave us a good education. Do you know,
I understand Latin?"

"You? Latin?"

'Yes — I. Monsieur Gaston taught me. I
read the .ZEneid through with him. It 's a tire-
some thing — but there are nice passages. Do you
remember, when Dido and ^Eneas in the for-
est. . . ."

"Yes, yes, I remember,"— said Sanin hastily.
He had long ago forgotten all his Latin, and had
but a faint conception of the Mneid.

Marya Nikolaevna looked at him, according
to her wont, somewhat askance, and from
below upward.— "But you must not think
that I am very learned. Akh! good heavens,
no— I 'm not learned, and I have no talents.
I hardly know how to write .... truly I
don't; I cannot read aloud; I can neither play

200

SPRING FRESHETS

the piano, nor draw, nor embroider — noth-
ing! That 's what I 'm like — this is all there is
tome!"

She threw her hands apart. — " I am telling you
all this,"— she went on,— "in the first place, to
avoid hearing those fools" (she pointed at the
stage, where, at that moment, instead of the actor,
an actress had taken up the howl, with her elbows,
also, thrust forward),—" and, in the second
place, because I am in your debt; you told me
about yourself yesterday."

* You were good enough to ask me," — re-
marked Sanin.

Marya Nikolaevna suddenly turned toward
him.— "And you do not care to know what sort
of a woman I am? But I am not surprised,"—
she added, leaning back once more against the
cushions of the divan.—" A man is making ready
to marry, and for love into the bargain, and after
a duel. . . . What time has he to think of any-
thing else?"

Marya Nikolaevna grew pensive, and began to
nibble at the handle of her fan, with her large but
even teeth, as white as milk.

And it seemed to Sanin that again there began
to rise up in his brain that haze, from which he
had not been able to rid himself — for the second
day now.

The conversation between him and Marya
Nikolaevna had been carried on in an undertone,

201

SPRING FRESHETS

almost in a whisper — and this excited and agi-
tated him all the more. . . .

When was all this going to end?

Weak people never put an end to things them-
selves— they always wait for the end.

Some one sneezed on the stage: — the sneeze
had been introduced into the play by the author,
as a "comic moment," or "element"; there was
no other comic element about it, as a matter of
course: and the spectators took advantage of that
moment and laughed.

That laugh also excited Sanin.

There were minutes when he positively did not
know whether he were angry or pleased, bored
or merry. Oh, if Gemma could have seen him !

"REALLY, it is strange," — said Marya Niko-
laevna suddenly. "A man announces to you,
and in such a composed voice: 'I'm going to
marry ' ; but no one tells you composedly :
' I 'm going to fling myself into the water.' And
yet— what is the difference? 'T is strange,
really."

Vexation seized upon Sanin.— "The differ-
ence is great, Marya Nikolaevna ! Some men are
not in the least afraid to throw themselves into
the water: they know how to swim, and, in addi-
tion to that ... so far as the strangeness of
marriages is concerned .... if it comes to
that

202

SPRING FRESHETS

He suddenly ceased speaking, and bit his
tongue.

Marya Nikolaevna smote the palm of her hand
with her fan.

"Finish your sentence, Dmitry Pavlovitch,
finish — I know what you meant to say. ' If it
comes to that, my dear madam, Marya Niko-
laevna Polozoff,' you meant to say, * nothing
more strange than your marriage can be im-
agined . . . for I know your husband well, from
childhood.' That is what you meant to say, —
you who know how to swim ! "

"Pray,"— Sanin began ....

" Is n't that the truth? Is n't that the truth? "
— articulated Marya Nikolaevna pertinaciously.
" Come, look me in the face, and tell me that I
have not spoken the truth ! "

Sanin did not know where to turn his eyes.—
— " Well, as you like: it is true, if you insist upon
it," he said at last.

Marya Nikolaevna nodded her head.— "Ex-
actly . . . exactly. Well — and have you asked
yourself, you who know how to swim, what can
be the cause of so strange a .... step, on the
part of a woman who is not poor ... or stupid
. . . or ugly? Perhaps that does not interest
you; but never mind. I will tell you the reason,
not now, but as soon as the entr'acte is over. I
am in a constant fret lest some one should
enter . . . . "

203

SPRING FRESHETS

Before Marya Nikolaevna had succeeded in
uttering this last word, the outer door really did
open half-way — and into the box there was thrust
a red, greasily-perspiring head, still young but
already toothless, with long, lank hair, a pendent
nose, huge ears, like those of a bat, with gold
spectacles on the curious, dull little eyes, and a
pair of eyeglasses on top of the spectacles. The
head looked around, espied Marya Nikolaevna,
grinned abominably, nodded. ... A sinewy
neck was outstretched after it. ...

Marya Nikolaevna shook her handkerchief at
it. — " I 'm not at home! Ich bin nicht zu House.,
Herr P. . . ! Ich bin nicht zu Hause ....
Kshshsh, kshshsh! "

The head was surprised, laughed in a con-
strained way, said, with a sort of sob, in imitation
of Liszt, at whose feet it had once fawned : " Sehr
gut! sehr gut!"— and vanished.

"What sort of a creature is that?" inquired
Sanin.

" That? A Wiesbaden critic. A ' litterateur,'
or valet de place, whichever you please to call it.
He is hired by the local contractor, and therefore
is bound to praise everything, to go into raptures
over everything; but he is thoroughly permeated
with nasty gall, which he does not dare even to
discharge. I'm afraid: he's a horrid gossip;
he'll run straight off and tell that I'm in the
theatre. Well, I don't care."

204

SPRING FRESHETS

The orchestra finished playing a waltz, the cur-
tain rose again. . . The contortions and whim-
pering began again on the stage.

"Well, sir,"— began Marya Nikolaevna, sink-
ing down on the divan once more—" as long as
I have got you fast, and you are compelled to sit
with me, instead of luxuriating in the proximity
of your betrothed . . . don't roll your eyes, and
don't get angry— I understand you, and have al-
ready promised you that I will dismiss you to
complete freedom — but listen now to my confes-
sion ! Would you like to know what I love most
of all?"

" Freedom," suggested Sanin.

Marya Nikolaevna laid her hand on his.

1 Yes, Dmitry Pavlovitch," — she said— and
her voice rang with a certain peculiar, indubita-
bly genuine solemnity— " freedom, more than
all, and before all else. And you are not to think
that I have boasted of this — there is noth-
ing laudable about it — only it is so, and
always has been and always will be so for me,
even to my death. I must have seen a great
deal of slavery in my childhood, and have
suffered much from it. Well, and Mon-
sieur Gaston, my teacher, opened my eyes
also. Now, perhaps, you will understand why
I married Ippolit Sidoritch: with him I am
free, perfectly free, as free as the air, as the

breeze And I knew that before the

205

SPRING FRESHETS

wedding, I knew that with him I should be a
free kazak!"

Marya Nikolaevna ceased speaking, and flung
aside her fan.

"I will tell you still another thing; I am not
averse to reflection .... it 's cheerful, and that 's
what our mind was given us for; but as to the
consequences of what I do myself, — I never re-
flect, and when anything happens, I don't pity
myself— not even so much— it isn't worth while!
I have a saying : f Cela ne tire pas a consequence '
—I don't know how to say that in Russian. And
it is correct: for what does € tire a consequence?'
—I shall not be called to account here— on this
earth; and there — (she pointed her finger up-
ward) — well, there — let them arrange matters as
they like. When I am judged there, it won't be
I! Are you listening to me? You are not
bored?"

Sanin was sitting bent forward. He raised his
head.— "I am not in the least bored, Marya Ni-
kolaevna, and I am listening to you with curi-
osity. Only I . . I must confess .... I am
asking myself, why you are saying all this to
me?"

Marya Nikolaevna moved along a little on the
divan.— "You are asking yourself. . . . Are you
so dull of apprehension? Or so modest? "

Sanin raised his head still higher.

" I am saying all this to you," — pursued Marya
206

SPRING FRESHETS

Nikolaevna, in a calm tone, which, however, did
not entirely conform to the expression of her
face,— " because I like you very much indeed;
yes, you need not be surprised, I am not jesting;
for it would be unpleasant for me if, after having
met you, you should cherish a disagreeable im-
pression of me ... or even one that was not dis-
agreeable— I don't mind that, — but an incorrect
one. That is why I have secluded myself here
with you, and am remaining alone with you, and
am talking so frankly to you. . . . Yes, yes,
frankly. I am not lying. And observe, Dmitry
Pavlovitch, I know that you are in love with an-
other woman, that you are making ready to
marry her. . . . But do justice to my disinter-
estedness! And here is your opportunity to say,
in your turn fCela ne tire pas a consequence!'

She laughed, but her laughter broke off
abruptly — and she remained motionless, as
though her own words had startled her, and in
her eyes, ordinarily so merry and audacious, there
was a flash of something akin to timidity,— akin
even to sadness.

"The serpent! akh, she is a serpent!" Sanin
was thinking meanwhile; " but what a beautiful
serpent!"

" Give me my lorgnette,"— said Marya Niko-
laevna, suddenly. " I want to see whether that
jeune premiere actually is so homely. Really,
one might suppose that she was appointed by the

207

SPRING FRESHETS

management with a moral aim in view, in order
that the young men might not be too much fas-
cinated."

Sanin handed her the lorgnette, and, as she
took it from him, she clasped his hand swiftly in
both her hands.

" Please don't be so serious,"— she whispered,
with a smile. — "Do you know what? no one can
impose any fetters on me; but then, I impose no
fetters.— I love freedom, and recognise no ob-
ligations— and that not for myself alone. But
now, stand aside, if you please, and let us listen
to the play."

Marya Nikolaevna turned her glasses on the
stage— and Sanin began to look in that direction
also, as he sat by her side, in the semi-darkness
of the box, and inhaled— involuntarily inhaled-
the warmth and fragrance of her luxurious body,
and as involuntarily turned over in his head
everything which she had said to him in the course
of the evening— especially in the course of the
last few minutes.

XL

THE play lasted for more than an hour longer,
but Marya Nikolaevna and Sanin speedily ceased
to look at the stage. They entered into conver-
sation again, and that conversation slipped into
the same path as before; only this time Sanin

208

SPRING FRESHETS

was less taciturn. Inwardly, he was raging at
himself and at Marya Nikolaevna. He endea-
voured to demonstrate to her the utter ground-
lessness of her " theory," as though she cared for
theories! He began to dispute with her, at which
she secretly rejoiced. If a man argues, it means
that he is yielding or will yield. He has swal-
lowed the bait, he is surrendering, he has ceased
to be wild ! She retorted, laughed, assented, med-
itated, attacked . . . and, in the meantime, his
face and her face drew nearer together, his eyes
were no longer averted from her eyes. . . . Those
eyes seemed to be straying, seemed to be circling
over his features, and he smiled at her in response
—politely, but he smiled. She had also won this
much ground, that he entered into abstractions,
argued about honour in mutual relations, about
duty, about the sanctity of love and marriage.
.... It is a familiar fact that these abstrac-
tions are very, very useful as a beginning ....
as a point of departure. . . .

People who knew Marya Nikolaevna well were
wont to assert that when a certain tender and
modest something — a something which was al-
most maidenly -bashful — suddenly passed over
her whole strong and vigorous being,— although
you might wonder whence it proceeded, . . yet
then . . . yes, then, affairs were taking a dan-
gerous turn.

They were, obviously, taking that turn for Sa-
209

SPRING FRESHETS

nin. . . . He would have felt scorn for himself,
had he succeeded, even for one moment, in con-
centrating himself; but he did not succeed, either
in concentrating or scorning himself.

And she lost no time. And it all came about
because he was very far from homely. One is, in-
voluntarily, compelled to say: "How are you
to know where you will find, where you will
lose? "

The play came to an end. Marya Nikolaevna
asked Sanin to throw her shawl around her, and
did not stir while he was wrapping the soft fab-
ric about her really regal shoulders. Then she
took his arm, emerged into the corridor — and
came near shrieking aloud. At the very door of
the box, like a spectre, stood Donhof ; and from
behind his back peeped the repulsive figure
of the Wiesbaden critic. The face of this " liter-
ary man" was fairly beaming with malicious
delight.

" Do you command me to find your carriage,
madame?" said the young officer, addressing
Marya Nikolaevna, with the quiver of badly-
concealed wrath in his voice.

"No, thank you,"— she replied. . . . "My
lackey will find it. Stay here!"— she added, in
an imperious whisper— and swiftly retreated,
dragging Sanin along.

"Go to the devil! Why are you bothering
me? " Donhof suddenly roared at the literary

210

SPRING FRESHETS

man. He was forced to vent his spleen on some
one.

" Sehr gut! sehr gut! " — mumbled the literary
man— and vanished.

Marya Nikolaevna's lackey, who was waiting
for her in the vestibule, found her carriage in an
instant; she hastily seated herself in it, Sanin
sprang in after her. The door slammed — and
Marya Nikolaevna broke into a ringing laugh.

" What are you laughing at? "—asked Sanin.

"Akh, excuse me, pray .... but an idea
came into my head. What if Donhof were to
fight another duel with you .... about me.
.... Would n't that be splendid? "

" And are you very intimately acquainted with
him? " — asked Sanin.

"With him? With that little boy? He 's just
one of my errand-boys. Don't worry about
him!"

" Why, I 'm not worrying at all."

Marya Nikolaevna sighed.— "Akh, I know
that you are not worrying. But, listen— do you
know what? you are so nice, you ought not to re-
fuse me one last request. Don't forget: two
days hence I set out for Paris, and you will re-
turn to Frankfurt. . . . When shall we meet
again! "

" What is your request? "

" You can ride on horseback, of course? "

" Yes."

211

SPRING FRESHETS

:'Well, then, see here. To-morrow morning
I will take you with me — and we will ride into
the suburbs together. We shall have capital
horses. Then we will return, and will settle our
business— and amen! Do not be surprised, do
not tell me that this is a caprice, that I am crazy
—all that may be true— but say merely: ' I con-
sent!"'

Marya Nikolaevna turned her face toward
him. It was dark in the carriage, but her eyes
gleamed even in that gloom.

" Certainly, I consent,"— said Sanin, with a
sigh.

"Akh! You sighed! "—Marya Nikolaevna
mocked him. ' That is what is meant by: You
have said A— don't refuse to say B. But, no,
no. ... You are charming, you are good— and
I will keep my promise. Here is my hand for
you, ungloved, the right, the business-like hand.
Take it — and trust its pressure. What sort of
a woman I am, I do not know, but I am an honest
man — and you can do business with me."

Sanin, without clearly accounting to himself
for what he did, raised the hand to his lips. Marya
Nikolaevna gently withdrew it— and suddenly
ceased speaking, and maintained silence until the
carriage came to a halt.

She began to alight. . . . "What 's that?"
Was it merely Sanin's fancy, or did he really feel
on his cheek a swift and burning touch?

212

SPRING FRESHETS

" Farewell until to-morrow! " -whispered
Mary a Nikolaevna to him on the stairs, all illu-
minated with the four lights of the candelabra,
which had been caught up, on her appearance, by
the gilded door-porter. She kept her eyes down-
cast.

" Until to-morrow! "

When he reached his room, Sanin found on his
table a letter from Gemma. He was frightened
. . . . for a moment — but immediately rejoiced,
in order the more speedily to mask his own fear
to himself. — It consisted of a few lines. — She was
delighted at the favourable " beginning of the
affair," advised him to be patient, and added
that every one in the house was well, and was re-
joicing in advance over his return. Sanin
thought this letter decidedly curt; but, neverthe-
less, he took pen and paper— and then flung all
aside. — " Why write? To-morrow I shall return
in person .... 't is time, high time ! "

He immediately went to bed, and tried to get
to sleep as promptly as possible. Had he re-
mained up, and awake, he certainly would have
begun to think of Gemma— but, for some rea-
son or other .... he was ashamed to think of
her. His conscience was stirring within him.
But he soothed himself with the reflection that
on the morrow everything would be over forever,
and he would part forever from that giddy fine
lady — and would forget all that nonsense! ....

213

SPRING FRESHETS

Weak people, when they talk to themselves,
are fond of using energetic expressions.

" Et puis .... cela ne tire pas a consequence!"

XLI

THIS is what Sanin was thinking, as he got into
bed. But what he thought on the following day,
when Marya Nikolaevna impatiently tapped on
his door with the coral handle of her riding-whip ;
when he beheld her on the threshold of his cham-
ber, with the train of her dark-green riding-
habit over her arm, a little masculine hat on
her curls plaited in heavy braids, her veil tossed
over her shoulder, and with a tempting smile on
her lips, in her eyes, on her whole face— as to
what he thought then history holds its peace.

" Well? Are you ready? "—her merry voice
resounded.

Sanin buttoned his coat, and silently took up
his hat. Marya Nikolaevna darted a brilliant
glance at him, nodded her head, and ran swiftly
down the staircase. And he ran after her.

The horses were already standing in the street,
in front of the steps. There were three of them.
A golden-bay, pure-blooded mare, with a thin,
grinning muzzle, black, prominent eyes, with the
legs of a deer, rather lean, but handsome and
mettlesome as fire, — for Marya Nikolaevna; a
powerful, broad, rather heavily -built horse, black,

214

SPRING FRESHETS

without marks,— for Sanin; the third horse was
destined for the groom. Marya Nikolaevna
leaped agilely on her mare. . . The latter
pranced and curveted, flirted out its tail, and
elevated its crupper, but Marya Nikolaevna (a
capital horsewoman!) held it in place. She
must say good-bye to Polozoff, who, in his inev-
itable fez and with dressing-gown flying open,
made his appearance on the balcony, and thence
waved a batiste handkerchief, without the trace of
a smile, however, but frowning rather. Sanin
mounted also on his horse. Marya Nikolaevna
saluted Mr. Polozoff with her whip, then lashed
the flat arched neck of her steed with it; the lat-
ter reared on its hind legs, darted forward, and
proceeded in a prancing, curveting gait, quiver-
ing in every nerve, champing at the bit, biting the
air, and snorting violently. Sanin rode behind,
and gazed at Marya Nikolaevna. Confidently,
dexterously, and gracefully swayed her lithe,
slender form, closely and easily confined by her
corset. She turned back her head, and sum-
moned him with her eyes. He rode up along-
side of her.

"Well, here you see how nice it is,"— said she.
" I am talking to you for the last time before our
parting! You are a dear! and you shall not re-
pent! "

Having uttered these last words, she moved
her head from above downward several times,

215

SPRING FRESHETS

as though desirous of confirming them, and mak-
ing him feel their significance.

She seemed happy to such a degree that Sanin
was simply amazed. A certain sedate expression
made its appearance on her face — the sort of
expression which children wear when they are
very .... very much pleased.

They rode at a foot-pace to the barrier, which
was not far distant, and there set out at a rapid
gallop along the highway. The weather was glo-
rious, real summer weather; the breeze blew in
their faces, and hummed and whistled agreeably
in their ears. They felt well; the consciousness
of young, healthy life, of free, rapid movement
ahead, took possession of both of them; it aug-
mented with every moment.

Marya Nikolaevna reined in her horse, and
rode at a walk ; Sanin followed her example.

" There,"— she began, with a deep, blissful
sigh; "there, life is worth living for this alone.
When one has succeeded in accomplishing what
he wishes, what seemed impossible — well, then,
soul, profit by it to the utmost! " She passed her
hand across her throat. — "And how amiable a
person feels then! Here am I now . . how ami-
able I am! It seems as though I could embrace
the whole world."— She pointed with her whip at
a poorly-clad old man, who was making his way
along on one side.—" I 'm even ready to make
him happy. Here, there, you, take this,"-— she
cried loudly, in German— flinging her purse

216

SPRING FRESHETS

at his feet. The ponderous bag (there was no
such thing as a pocket-book in those days) clat-
tered on the road. The passer-by was astonished,
and halted, but Marya Nikolaevna burst out
laughing, and set her horse to galloping.

" Does it make you so merry to ride on horse-
back? " asked Sanin, as he overtook her.

Again Marya Nikolaevna reined in her horse
until it rested on its hind quarters. She never
stopped it in any other way. — " I only wished
to escape gratitude. He who thanks me spoils
my happiness. I did n't do it for his sake, you
see, but for my own. And how could he dare to
thank me? I did not hear exactly what you
asked me? "

" I asked ... I wanted to know why you are
so merry to-day? "

" Do you know what," — said Marya Nikola-
evna: she either did not hear what Sanin said,
or else she did not consider it necessary to an-
swer his question.—" I 'm frightfully tired of
that groom, who is sticking up there behind us,
and who must be thinking only about when * the
masters ' will go home. How shall we get rid of
him? " -She hastily drew from her pocket a lit-
tle note-book. — " Shall I send him to town with
a letter? No .... that won't do. Ah, I have
it! What 's that ahead of us? A restaurant? "

Sanin looked in the direction she indicated. —
' Yes, it is a restaurant, apparently."

' Well, very good, indeed. I will order him to

217

SPRING FRESHETS

remain at that restaurant, and drink beer, until
we return."

" But what will he think? "

" What business is that of ours? But he will
not think; he will drink beer — that 's all. Come,
Sanin " (she addressed him by his surname for the
first time) — " advance— at a trot! "

On coming opposite the restaurant, Marya
Nikolaevna called up the groom, and informed
him of what she required of him. The groom,
a man of English extraction and English tem-
perament, silently lifted his hand to the visor of
his cap, sprang from his horse, and took it by the
bridle.

' Well, now we are free as birds! " — exclaimed
Marya Nikolaevna. — " Where shall we go?—
north, south, east, or west? See,— I do like the
King of Hungary at his coronation" (she
pointed with her whip at all four quarters of
the globe).— "All is ours! No, do you know
what: see, what glorious mountains there are yon-
der—and what a forest! Let us ride thither, to
the hills, to the hills!

In die Berge, wo die Freiheit thront ! "

She turned out of the highway, and galloped
along a narrow, unbeaten road, which appeared
to lead directly to the mountains. Sanin gal-
loped after her.

218

SPRING FRESHETS

XLII

THIS road soon became a path, and at last disap-
peared entirely, intercepted by a ditch. Sanin
advised return, but Marya Nikolaevna said:
"No! I want to go to the mountains! Let us
ride straight as the birds fly . . ."—and made her
horse leap the ditch. Sanin also leaped it. Be-
yond the ditch began a meadow, at first dry, then
wet, then, at last, a regular marsh ; the water was
seeping through everywhere, and stood in pools.
Marya Nikolaevna sent her horse deliberately
across the pools, laughed loudly, and kept reiter-
ating: "Let's frolic like school-children!"

"Do you know,"— she asked Sanin,— "the
meaning of the expression: ' puddle-hunting '?" 1

" I do," replied Sanin.

"My uncle was a huntsman,"— she went on.
" I used to ride with him in the spring. It was
splendid! Just like you and I now— ah, the pud-
dles 1 I see you are a Russian man, but you
want to marry an Italian. Well, that 's your
affliction. What's that? Another ditch? Hop!"

The horse leaped — but Marya Nikolaevna's
hat fell from her head, and her curls showered
down over her shoulders. Sanin was on the point
of slipping off his horse, and picking up the hat ;
but she shouted at him: " Don't touch it; I '11 get

1Tbc first spring thaw.— TRANSLATOR.

219

SPRING FRESHETS

it myself!" bent low in her saddle, hooked the
handle of her whip into the veil, and, in fact, did
get the hat, and put it on her head, but without
gathering up her hair, dashed headlong onward
once more, and even whooped. Sanin dashed
along by her side, leaped over gullies, fences,
brooks, tumbling in and scrambling out, racing
down hill, racing up hill, and gazing ever in her
face. What a face ! It seemed to be all open ; the
eyes were open, greedy, bright, wild; the lips,
the nostrils were open also, and breathed eagerly ;
she stared straight and intently in front of her,
and, apparently, that soul wanted to take pos-
session of everything she beheld, the earth, the
sky, the sun, and the very air itself, and grieved
over one thing only: there were too few dangers
—it would have overcome them all! "Sanin!"
—she cried, "this is in Burger's 'Lenore!'
Only, you are not dead— are you? You are
not dead? . . . I 'm alive!" Her power of dar-
ing had begun to come into action. She was no
longer a woman-rider, setting her horse at a gal-
lop—she was a young female centaur— half-
beast, half -goddess— who was galloping there—
and the sedate and well-trained country, trampled
upon by her stormy debauch, stood amazed.

Marya Nikolaevna at last drew up her foam-
ing, bespattered horse ; it was staggering beneath
her, and Sanin's powerful but heavy stallion was
out of breath.

220

SPRING FRESHETS

"Well? Is it pleasant?" asked Marya Niko-
laevna, in a wonderful sort of whisper.

" Yes! "—responded Sanin, enthusiastically.
And his blood blazed up within him.

" Wait, there 's more to come! " -She stretched
out her hand. The glove on it was rent.

" I told you that I would lead you to the forest,
to the mountains . . . there they are, the moun-
tains! "-In fact, the mountains, covered with
lofty forest, began a couple of hundred paces
from the spot to which the wild riders had flown.
— " Look, yonder is the road, too. Let us set
out— and forward! But at a walk. We must
give the horses a rest."

They rode on. With one powerful sweep of
the hand, Marya Nikolaevna tossed back her hair.
Then she looked at her gloves— and took them
off. " My hands will smell of the leather,"— she
said, " but you don't mind that, I hope? Do
you? " . . . . Marya Nikolaevna smiled, and
Sanin smiled also. That mad ride of theirs
seemed to have definitively brought them close
together, and made them friends.

"How old are you?" — she suddenly inquired.

" Twenty-two."

"Is it possible? I am also twenty-two. It
is a good age. Add our ages together, and even
then the sum will be far removed from old age.
But how hot it is ! Is my face red? "

" As a poppy."

221

SPRING FRESHETS

Marya Nikolaevna wiped her face with her
handkerchief. — " If we can but reach the forest,
it will be cool there. Such an old forest is just
like an old friend. Have you friends? "

Sanin reflected a little.—" Yes . . . only, not
many. No real ones."

"But I have some, real friends, only not old
ones. Here 's a friend, also — a horse. How
carefully it carries one! Akh, it is capital here!
Is it possible that I shall set out for Paris the day
after to-morrow? "

'Yes ... is it possible?" — chimed in Sanin.

" And are you going to Frankfurt? "

" It is imperatively necessary that I should go
to Frankfurt."

"Well, never mind .... good luck to you!
But to-day is ours .... ours .... ours!"

THE horses reached the border of the forest, and
entered it. The shadow of the forest enveloped
them broadly and softly on all sides.

" Oh, yes, this is paradise! "—exclaimed Marya
Nikolaevna. " Deeper, further into the shade,
Sanin!"

The horses moved on, " deeper into the shade,"
reeling slightly, and snorting. The path wherein
they trod suddenly made a turn to one side, and
plunged into a rather narrow gorge. The scent
of the young birch-trees, of ferns, of pine-resin,
of rank rotting foliage from the preceding year,

222

SPRING FRESHETS

seemed to be shut up within it— dense and
dreamy. From the crevices of the huge, dark-
brown rocks emanated a robust coolness. On
both sides of the path rose round mounds over-
grown with green moss.

" Stop! "—cried Marya Nikolaevna. " I want
to sit down and rest on this velvet. Help me to
dismount."

Sanin leaped from his horse, and ran to her.
She leaned on his shoulders, sprang instantly to
the ground, and seated herself on one of the
mossy mounds. He stood in front of her, hold-
ing the bridles of both horses in his hands.

She raised her eyes to his. ..." Sanin, can
you forget? "

Sanin recalled what had happened the night
before .... in the carriage:— " What is that—
a question .... or a reproach? "

" I have never reproached any one for any-
thing in my life. But do you believe in love-
charms?"

" What? "

" In love-charms — you know; what is referred
to in our songs. In the popular Russian bal-
lads."

" Ah! That 's what you are talking about . . ."
drawled Sanin.

" Yes, about that. I believe in that .... and
do you?"

" Love-charms .... witchcraft . . . ." repeated
223

SPRING FRESHETS

Sanin. " Everything is possible in this world. I
did not use to believe in it — now I do. I don't
recognise myself."

Marya Nikolaevna pondered, and glanced
about her.—" It strikes me that I know this spot.
Look behind that spreading oak, Sanin, and see
whether a red wooden cross stands there, or not."

Sanin stepped a few paces to one side.—" Yes,
it is there."

Marya Nikolaevna smiled.— "Ah, good! I
know where we are. We are not lost yet. What
is that tapping? A wood-cutter? "

Sanin peered into the thicket. — " Yes ....
Yonder is some man chopping dry branches."

" I must put my hair in order,"— said Marya
Nikolaevna. — " If I don't, and am seen, I shall
be censured." She took off her hat, and began
to plait her long tresses. Sanin stood in front
of her. . . . Her graceful limbs were clearly de-
fined under the dark folds of cloth, to which, here
and there, filaments of moss adhered.

One of the horses suddenly shook itself behind
Sanin; he himself involuntarily trembled from
head to foot. Everything in him was in utter
confusion — his nerves were tense as guitar-
strings. Truly had he said that he did not know
himself. . . . He really was bewitched. His
whole being was full of one .... one thought,
one desire. Marya Nikolaevna darted a piercing
glance at him. " Now, then, everything is as it

224

SPRING FRESHETS

should be,"— she said, putting on her hat.
" Won't you sit down? Yonder! No; wait ....
don't sit down. What 's that? "

Through the crests of the trees, through the
air of the forest, rolled a dull vibration.

" Can that be thunder? "

" Apparently, it is thunder,"— replied Sanin.

" Akh, yes, this is a feast-day! simply a feast-
day! That was the only thing that was lack-
ing!"—A dull roar resounded once again,
rose — and fell in a peal. — "Bravo! Bis! Do
you remember I was telling you last night about
the ^neid? The thunder caught them in the
forest also, you know. But we must go."— She
rose hastily to her feet. — "Lead up my horse.
. . . Hold out your hand. That 's it. I am
not heavy."

She soared into her saddle like a bird. Sanin
also mounted his horse.

" Are you going home? " — he asked, in an un-
steady voice.

"Yes— home!!" she replied, slowly, gath-
ering up her reins. — "Follow me," — she com-
manded, almost roughly.

She rode out upon the road, and passing the
red cross, descended into a hollow, reached the
cross-roads, turned to the right, and began again

to ascend She evidently knew whither the road

led — and the road led deeper, ever deeper, into
the fastnesses of the forest. She said nothing,

225

SPRING FRESHETS

and did not look behind her; she moved on impe-
riously in advance — and he followed her obedi-
ently and meekly, without a shadow of will in his
sinking heart. A fine rain began to drizzle down.
She hastened the gait of her horse, and he kept
up with her. At last, athwart the dark verdure
of the fir-shrubs, from beneath a projection of a
grey cliff, there peeped out at him a wretched
watchman's hut, with a low-browed door in the
wattled wall. . . . Marya Nikolaevna made her
horse force its way through the bushes, sprang
off— and, finding herself suddenly at the en-
trance of the hut, she turned to Sanin — and
whispered : " ^Eneas ! "

FOUR hours later, Marya Nikolaevna and Sanin,
accompanied by the groom, who was dozing in his
saddle, returned to Wiesbaden, to the hotel. Mr.
Polozoff met his wife, holding in his hands the
letter to the steward. But after having scruti-
nised her more attentively, he expressed on his
countenance a certain dissatisfaction — and even
muttered:— " Can it be that I have lost my
wager? "

Marya Nikolaevna merely shrugged her shoul-
ders.

AND on that same day, two hours later, Sanin
stood before her, in his own room, like a dis-
tracted, a ruined man. . . .

226

SPRING FRESHETS

' Whither art thou going? " — she asked him.
" To Paris, or to Frankfurt? "

" I am going where thou wilt be — and I shall
be with thee, until thou drivest me away," — he re-
plied, with despair, and fell to kissing the hands
of his sovereign. She released them, laid them on
his head— and grasped his hair with all ten fin-
gers. She slowly drew her fingers through and
twisted that unresisting hair, and drew herself up
to her full height: triumph curled serpent -like
about her lips, and her eyes, wide, and bright to
whiteness, expressed only the pitiless stolidity and
satiety of victory. The hawk which is clawing
a captured bird has such eyes.

XLIII

THAT was what Dmitry Sanin recalled, when,
in the silence of his study, as he rummaged
among his old papers, he found with them the
little garnet cross. The events which we have
narrated rose clearly and in their proper order
before his mental vision. . . . But on arriving
at the minute when he turned with such a humil-
iating entreaty to Madame PolozofF, when he
threw himself in self -surrender beneath her feet,
when his servitude began, — he turned away from
the images which he had evoked, he did not wish
to recall anything further. Not that his mem-
ory had played him false — oh, no! he knew,

227

SPRING FRESHETS

he knew but too well, what had followed that
minute, but shame stifled him; even now, so
many years afterward, he was frightened by
the feeling of invincible scorn for himself, which
would, inevitably,— of that he could have no
doubt — surge in upon him and drown, like a
flood, all other sensations, the moment he should
cease to bid his memory to hold its peace. But
turn away as he would from the rising memories,
he could not wholly stifle them. He remembered
the abominable, tearful, lying, pitiful letter
which he had despatched to Gemma, and which
had remained unanswered. . . . Present himself
before her, return to her, after such a deception,
after such treachery— no! no! he had enough con-
science and honour left in him for that. More-
over, he had lost all confidence in himself, all
respect for himself; he dared not vouch for any-
thing. Sanin also recalled how, later on, he— oh,
disgrace!— had sent Polozoff's lackey for his
things in Frankfurt, how cowardly he had been,
how he had thought only of one thing: to go
away to Paris as promptly as possible— to Paris;
how, at the bidding of Marya Nikolaevna, he had
fawned on and humoured Ippolit Sidoritch— and
had been amiable to Donhof, on whose finger he
noticed precisely the same sort of iron ring which
Marya Nikolaevna had given to him! ! ! Then
the memories became still worse, still more shame-
ful. ... A waiter hands him a visiting-card,

228

SPRING FRESHETS

and on it stands the name of Pantaleone Cippa-
tola, Court Singer to his Royal Highness the
Duke of Modena! He hides from the old man,
but cannot avoid encountering him in the corri-
dor— and there rises up before him the incensed
face, beneath the upward-curling grey crest; the
aged eyes flame like coals of fire— and menacing
exclamations and curses: fc Maledizione! " and
even terrible words become audible : " Codardo!
Infame traditore!" — Sanin screws up his eyes,
shakes his head, turns away again and again —
and nevertheless, he beholds himself sitting in
the travelling-carriage, on the narrow front seat.
.... On the back seats, the comfortable seats,
sit Mary a Nikolaevna and Ippolit Sfdoritch —
four horses are proceeding at a brisk trot over the
pavements of Wiesbaden — to Paris! to Paris!
Ippolit Sfdoritch is eating a pear, which he,
Sanin, has peeled, and Marya Nikolaevna is look-
ing at him — and laughing with that sneering
laugh which is already familiar to him, the en-
slaved man, — the sneering laugh of a sovereign
owner. . . .

But, oh, my God! yonder, at the corner of the
street, not far from the egress from the town, is
not that Pantaleone standing there again — and
who is it with him? Can it be Emilio? Yes, 't is
he, that enthusiastic, devoted lad! Not long ago
his youthful heart was worshipping before its
hero, its ideal — but now, his pale, handsome face

229

SPRING FRESHETS

—so handsome that Mary a Nikolaevna observed
it, and even thrust her head out of the carriage-
window— his noble face is blazing with wrath
and scorn; his eyes — how like those eyes! — are
eagerly riveted upon Sanin, and his lips are com-
pressed . . . and suddenly open, to emit insult ....

And Pantaleone stretches forth his hand, and
points out Sanin — to whom? to Tartaglia, who
is standing by, and Tartaglia barks at Sanin—
and the very bark of the honest dog rings out
like an intolerable affront. ... 'T is monstrous !

And then — that sojourn in Paris — and all the
humiliations, all the loathsome tortures of the
slave, who is not permitted to be jealous, or to
complain, and who is finally discarded, like a
worn-out garment. . . .

Then— the return to his native land, the poi-
soned, devastated life, the petty bustle, the petty
cares, repentance bitter and fruitless— and for-
getfulness. equally bitter and fruitless — a pun-
ishment not evident, but incessant and of every
moment, like an insignificant but incurable pain,
paying off, kopek by kopek, a debt which cannot
be calculated. . . .

The cup is filled to overflowing— enough!

How had the little cross, given to Sanin by
Gemma, escaped, why had not he sent it back,
how had it happened that, until that day, he had
never even once come across it? Long, long did

230

SPRING FRESHETS

he sit immersed in thought— and already taught
by experience, in the course of all those years,
he still was not able to comprehend how he could
have abandoned Gemma, whom he so tenderly
and passionately loved, for a woman whom he
did not love at all! ... On the following day,
he astonished all his friends and acquaintances:
he announced to them that he was going abroad.
The surprise extended to society. Sanin quit
Petersburg in the heart of winter, after having
just hired and furnished a capital apartment,
and even subscribed to the performances of the
Italian opera, in which Madame Patti herself —
Madame Patti herself, herself, herself!— was
taking part! His friends and acquaintances
were puzzled. But people, in general, do not oc-
cupy themselves for long with other people's af-
fairs, and when Sanin set out for foreign parts,
no one but his French tailor went to the railway
station to see him off— and that in the hope of re-
ceiving payment for his little account — " pour un
saute-en-barque en velours noir, tout a fait chic."

XLIV

SANIN had told his friends that he was going
abroad — but he had not told them precisely
where. The reader will easily divine that he jour-
neyed straight to Frankfurt. Thanks to the
universal diffusion of railways, he was in Frank-

231

SPRING FRESHETS

furt on the fourth day after his departure from
Petersburg. He had not visited it since the year
1840. The "White Swan" inn stood on its
former site, although it was no longer regarded
as first-class. The Zeil, the principal thorough-
fare of Frankfurt, had undergone little altera-
tion, but not only was there no trace of Signora
Roselli's house— the very street in which her con-
fectionery shop had stood had disappeared. Sa-
nin roamed like a half-witted person about the
localities which he had once known so well — and
recognised nothing; the former buildings had
vanished; they had been superseded by new
streets, lined with huge, close-set houses, with
elegant villas ; even the public park, where his last
explanation with Gemma had taken place, had
grown up and changed to such an extent that
Sanin asked himself —is it really the same park?
What was there for him to do? How and where
was he to make inquiries? Thirty years had
passed since then. . . It was no easy affair ! No
matter to whom he applied — no one had even
heard the name of Roselli. The landlord of the
inn counselled him to make inquiries at the public
library; there he would find all the old news-
papers, but what advantage he would derive
therefrom the landlord himself could not ex-
plain. Sanin, in despair, inquired about Herr
Kliiber. That name was well known to the land-
lord,— but here, also, he was unsuccessful. The

232

SPRING FRESHETS

elegant clerk, after having made considerable
noise in the world, and risen to the vocation of
a capitalist, had failed in business, become bank-
rupt, and died in jail. . . . This news did not,
however, cause Sanin the slightest pain. He had
already begun to regard his trip as rather fool-
ish .... but, lo, one day, as he was turning
over the Frankfurt directory, he came upon the
name of von Donhof, retired major (Major
a. D.). He immediately summoned a carriage,
and drove to him — although why should this von
Donhof, infallibly, be that von Donhof, and why
even should that von Donhof be able to impart
to him any news about the Roselli family?
Never mind ; a drowning man clutches at a straw.
Sanin found the retired Major von Donhof
at home — and in the grizzled gentleman who re-
ceived him, he immediately recognised his former
antagonist. And the latter recognised him, and
even rejoiced at his appearance. It reminded
him of his youth — and his youthful pranks. Sa-
nin heard from him that the Roselli family had,
long since, emigrated to America, to New York;
that Gemma had married a merchant; that he,
Donhof, moreover, had an acquaintance, who was
also a merchant, who probably knew the hus-
band's address, as he had large dealings with
America. Sanin asked Donhof to go to that ac-
quaintance— and — oh, joy! — Donhof brought
him the address of Gemma's husband, Mr. Jere-

233

SPRING FRESHETS

miah Slocum, No. 501 Broadway, New York.—
Only, the address was of the year 1863.

" Let us hope," — exclaimed Donhof, — " that
our former Frankfurt beauty is still alive, and
has not left New York! By the way," — he
added, lowering his voice, " and how about that
Russian lady who was then staying in Wiesbaden,
you remember— Madame von Bo .... von
Bolozoff— is she still alive?"

"No," — replied Sanin, — "she died long ago."
Donhof raised his eyes — but, perceiving that
Sanin had turned away, and was frowning, — he
did not add another word— and withdrew.

THAT very day Sanin despatched a letter to Mrs.
Gemma Slocum, in New York. In the letter, he
told her that he was writing from Frankfurt,
whither he had come, solely with the object of
looking her up; that he was fully conscious to
what a degree he was destitute of every right
to a reply from her; that he in no way deserved
her forgiveness — and only hoped that she, amid
the happy environment in which she found
herself, had long since forgotten his very exis-
tence. He added that he had decided to recall
himself to her memory, in consequence of an ac-
cidental occurrence, which had aroused too viv-
idly in him the images of the past; he told her
the story of his life, solitary, without family, joy-
less; he adjured her to understand the causes

234

SPRING FRESHETS

which had impelled him to address himself to her,
not to allow him to carry with him into the grave
the painful consciousness of his fault— long since
atoned for by suffering, but not forgiven — and to
make him glad if only with the briefest infor-
mation as to what her life was like in that New
World, whither she had removed. " By writing
me even a single word,"— thus did Sanin wind
up his letter, — " you will be doing a good deed,
worthy of your beautiful soul, — and I shall thank
you until my last breath. I am stopping here at
the White Swan inn" (he underlined these
words) " and shall wait,— wait until spring for
your reply."

He sent off this letter,— and settled down to
wait. Six whole weeks did he live in the inn,
hardly going outside of his room, and seeing
absolutely no one. No one could write to him
from Russia, or from anywhere else; and that
was to his taste ; if a letter were to come addressed
to him, he would know at once that it was it—
the one for which he was waiting. He read from
morning until night — and not newspapers, but
serious books, historical works. This prolonged
course of reading, this mute stillness, this snail-
like, hidden existence— were all exactly suited to
his spiritual mood; and for this alone, thanks to
Gemma! But was she alive? Would she answer?

At last a letter arrived — bearing an American
stamp— from New York, addressed to him. The

235

SPRING FRESHETS

handwriting of the address on the envelope was
English. . . . He did not recognise it, and his
heart contracted. He could not at once make
up his mind to break open the packet. He
glanced at the signature: " Gemma! " The tears
gushed from his eyes. The mere fact that she
had signed with her name, omitting her sur-
name, served him as a pledge of reconciliation,
of pardon ! He spread out the thin sheet of note-
paper— a photograph slipped from it. He has-
tily picked it up — and was fairly dumfounded:
Gemma, the living Gemma, as young as he had
known her thirty years ago! The selfsame eyes,
the selfsame lips, the same type of the whole
face! On the back of the photograph was writ-
ten: " My daughter Marianna." The whole let-
ter was very simple and affectionate. Gemma
thanked Sanin for not having hesitated to ad-
dress her, for having had faith in her. She did
not conceal from him, either, the fact that she
really had lived through painful moments after
his flight, but she immediately added that, never-
theless, she regarded — and always had regarded
—her meeting with him as a happiness — since that
meeting had prevented her becoming the wife
of Herr Kliiber — and so, although indirectly,
it had been the cause of her marriage to her pres-
ent husband, with whom she was now living for
the eight-and-twentieth year, in complete felicity,
in comfort and luxury. Their house was known

236

SPRING FRESHETS

to all New York. Gemma informed Sanin that
she had five children— four sons and one daugh-
ter, a girl of eighteen, engaged to be married,
whose photograph she sent him — as she, accord-
ing to universal opinion, greatly resembled her
mother. Gemma kept her sad news for the end
of her letter. Frau Lenore had died in New
York, whither she had followed her daughter and
son-in-law — but had been able to rejoice in their
happiness, and dandle her grandchildren on her
knee. Pantaleone had also prepared to go to
America, but had died just before he was to have
left Frankfurt. "And Emilio — our dear, incom-
parable Emilio — died a glorious death for the
freedom of his native land, in Sicily, whither he
went among that ' Thousand ' who were led by
the great Garibaldi; we all fervently lamented
the death of our inestimable brother; but even
as we wept, we were proud of him — and shall al-
ways be proud of him and hold his memory sa-
cred ! His lofty, unselfish soul was worthy of the
martyr's crown!" Then Gemma expressed her
regret that Sanin's life had — apparently — fallen
into such unpleasant places, wished him first of
all solace and spiritual tranquillity, and said that
she should be glad to see him again — although
she was aware that such a meeting was hardly
probable. . . .

We will not undertake to depict the sensations
experienced by Sanin, on perusing this letter.

237

SPRING FRESHETS

There is no satisfactory expression for such feel-
ings: they are deeper and more sacred — and more
indefinite— than any word. Music alone would
be competent to transmit them.

Sanin replied immediately — and sent as a gift
to the bride— "To Marianna Slocum, from an
unknown friend " — the garnet cross, mounted
on a magnificent pearl necklace. This gift, al-
though very valuable, did not ruin him. In the
course of the thirty years which had elapsed since
his first sojourn in Frankfurt, he had succeeded
in acquiring a considerable fortune. Early in
May he returned to Petersburg — but probably
not for long. It is rumoured that he is selling
off all his property— and making ready to go to
America.

238

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

A STUDY

(1870)

KNOCK . . . KNOCK , . . KNOCK . . .

A STUDY

WE all seated ourselves in a circle, and our
good friend Alexander Vasilievitch Rie-
del (he had a German surname, but he was a born
and bred Russian) began as follows:

I will relate to you, gentlemen, an incident
which happened to me in the thirties .... forty
years ago, as you see. I will be brief — and you
must not interrupt me.

I was living in Petersburg at the time, and had
only just come out of the university. My brother
was serving in the horse -guard artillery, with the
rank of ensign. His battery was stationed at
Krasnoe Selo,1 — it was in summer. My brother
was not quartered in Krasnoe Selo proper, but in
one of the adjacent hamlets. I was his guest
more than once, and had become well acquainted
with all his comrades. He was lodged in a fairly-
clean cottage together with another officer be-

1 Literally, " Red Village," situated sixteen miles from St. Peters-
burg. A summer resort, but chiefly known as the site of the great
summer camp and manoeuvring-ground. — TRANSLATOR.

241

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

longing to his battery. This officer's name was
Tyegleff, Ilya Stepanitch. I became particu-
larly intimate with him.

Marlinsky has become old-fashioned now; no
one reads him, and people even ridicule him; but
in the thirties he made more noise than any one
else, and Pushkin— according to the ideas of the
youth of that period— could not be compared
with him. He not only enjoyed the glory of be-
ing the leading Russian writer, he even effected
what is far more difficult, and more rarely en-
countered—he imprinted his stamp upon the gen-
eration contemporaneous with him. Heroes a
la Marlinsky were cropping up in every direc-
tion, and especially among army and artillery
officers; they conversed and corresponded in his
language; in society they maintained a gloomy,
reticent mien, with " a storm in the soul, and a
flame in the blood," like Lieutenant Byelozor of
' The Frigate Hope." Female hearts were
" devoured " by them. The epithet " fatal " was
then invented for them. This type, as every one
knows, persisted for a long time, until the date of
Petchorin.1 What all did not that type contain?
Byronism and romanticism; reminiscences of the
French Revolution and the Decembrists2— and

1 The hero of LerraontolTs famous novel "A Hero of Our Times."
— TRANSLATOR.

2 The conspirators who made trouble on the accession to the
throne of the Emperor Nicholas I, in December, 1825. The Grand
Duke Constantine should have succeeded his brother Alexander I;
but he renounced the succession in order to marry a Polish woman.

242

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

adoration of Napoleon. Faith in Fate, in one's
star, in the force of character, of pose, and of
phrase— and the anguish of futility; the dis-
quieting agitations of petty self-love — and actual
force and daring; noble aspirations, and bad
bringing-up, and ignorance ; aristocratic manners
—and a flaunting of toys. . . But enough of
philosophising! ... I have promised to narrate.

II

SUB-LIEUTENANT TYEGLEFF belonged precisely
to that category of " fatal " men, although he did
not possess the exterior attributed to those per-
sons: for example, he bore not the slightest re-
semblance to Lermontoff's " fatalist." He was
a man of medium height, of decidedly thick-set
build, with high cheek-bones, and fair-haired,
almost tow-headed; he had a round, fresh, red-
cheeked face, a snub-nose, a low forehead over-
grown with hair on the temples, and large, regu-
lar lips which were eternally motionless ; he never
laughed or even smiled. Only from time to time,
when he was fatigued and heaved a sigh, did his
square teeth, white as sugar, become visible. The
same artificial impassivity was spread over all
his features. Had it not been for that they would

No one knew of this renunciation except the Dowager Empress,
Alexander I, and Constantine. Revolutionists took advantage of
the muddle arising from Nicholas's ignorance of his rights, and so
forth. — TRANSLATOR.

243

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

have revealed themselves as good-natured. The
only thing about his whole face that was not per-
fectly ordinary was his eyes, which were not
large, and had greenish pupils and yellow eye-
lashes. The right eye was a trifle higher up
than the left, which imparted to his gaze a
certain diversity, strangeness, and drowsiness.
TyeglefFs physiognomy was not devoid, how-
ever, of a certain agreeability, and almost
always expressed satisfaction with a dash of
perplexity, just as though he were internally pur-
suing some cheerless thought which he could not
possibly catch. Notwithstanding all this, he did
not produce the impression of an arrogant per-
son: one would have taken him for a wounded
rather than a haughty man. He talked very lit-
tle, f alteringly, in a hoarse voice, and with un-
necessary repetitions of words. Contrary to the
majority of fatalists, he did not employ pecu-
liarly-whimsical expressions, and resorted to
them only in writing: he had a thoroughly child-
ish chirography.

The authorities regarded him as a " so-so " offi-
cer,—not over-capable and not sufficiently zeal-
ous. " He is punctual but not methodical," was
what was said of him by the general in command
of the brigade— who was of German extraction.1

i The point is, that he used mongrel Russian— foreign words
slightly Russified in form: *' punktualnost," and " accuratnost."-
TRANSLATOR.

244

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

And for the soldiers, also, Tyegleff was " so-so "
—neither fish nor meat. He lived modestly, in
accordance with his means. He had been left a
full orphan at the age of nine years: his father
and mother had been drowned in the spring, in
a freshet, as they were crossing the Oka on a
ferry-boat. He had received his education in a
private boarding-school, where he was consid-
ered one of the very stupidest and most peace-
able pupils. He had entered the horse-guard
artillery at his own importunate desire, and on
the recommendation of his great-uncle, an in-
fluential man, as yiinker, and had passed the ex-
aminations— though with difficulty — first for
ensign and then for sub-lieutenant. His rela-
tions with the other officers were strained. They
did not like him and visited him rarely, and he
went to hardly any one. The presence of stran-
gers embarrassed him; he immediately became
unnatural, awkward .... there was no comrade-
ship in him, and he called no one " thou," and was
called " thou " by no one. But he was respected;
and men respected him not for his character or
his brains and culture, but because they recog-
nised in him that special seal wherewith " fatal "
people are stamped. :< Tyegleff will have a ca-
reer; Tyegleff will distinguish himself " —not
one of his comrades expected that; — but " Tyeg-
leff will cut up some remarkable caper," or
' Tyegleff will take and suddenly turn out a

245

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

Napoleon " -was not regarded as improbable.
For there the " star " came into play, and he was
a man "with a predestination" —as there are
people " with a sigh " and " with a tear."

Ill

Two incidents which marked the very beginning
of his service as an officer aided greatly in firmly
establishing his reputation as a man of fate.
Namely: on the very first day after he was pro-
moted— about the middle of March — he was
walking along the quay in full uniform, in com-
pany with other officers who had just been re-
leased from examination. That year spring had
come early, the Neva had broken up; huge floes
of ice had already passed down, but the whole
river was dammed with fine, dense ice soaked with
water. The young men were chatting and laugh-
ing . . . when suddenly one of them stopped
short; he had descried on the slowly -moving sur-
face of the river, about twenty paces from the
shore, a tiny dog. Having clambered upon a
projecting block of ice, it was trembling all over
and whining. " Why, it will surely perish,"-
said the officer through his teeth. The dog was
being carried slowly past one of the descents con-
structed along the quay. Suddenly TyeglefF,
without saying a word, ran down that descent,
and leaping along over the thin ice, tumbling

246

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

and skipping, he reached the dog, seized it by its
neck, and, having regained the shore in safety,
flung it on the pavement. The danger to which
Tyegleff had exposed himself was so great, his
deed had been so unexpected, that his comrades
were fairly petrified with astonishment, and only
when he called a drozhky, in order to drive home,
did they begin to speak all together. His whole
uniform was wet. In reply to their exclamations,
Tyegleff remarked indifferently that a man
cannot avoid what is written in his fate — and
ordered the cabman to drive on.

" But take the dog with thee as a memento,"
—shouted one of the officers after him. But
Tyegleff merely waved his hand, and his com-
rades exchanged glances of dumb amazement.

The other incident occurred a few days later,
at a card-party given by the commander of the
battery. Tyegleff was sitting in a corner, and
was not taking part in the game. " Ekh, if only
my grandmother had told me in advance which
cards were destined to win, as in Pushkin's
' Queen of Spades ' ! "—exclaimed one of the en-
signs, who had dropped his third thousand. Tyeg-
leff silently stepped up to the table, took up the
pack of cards, cut, and saying: " The six of dia-
monds! "—turned up the pack. On the bottom
was the six of diamonds.—" The ace of clubs! "
—he proclaimed, and cut again. On the bottom
was the ace of clubs.—" The king of diamonds! "

247

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

— he spoke for the third time, in an energetic
whisper, through his set teeth. He had guessed
right for the third time .... and suddenly
flushed crimson all over. Probably he himself
had not expected it.

"A capital trick! Show us another,"— re-
marked the battery commander.

" I do not deal in tricks," replied Tyegleff,
drily, and went out into the adjoining room.
How it came about that he managed to guess the
card in advance, I will not undertake to explain,
but I saw it with my own eyes. After him many
of the players present tried to do the same thing,
and no one succeeded. A man could guess one
card, but two cards in succession— not by any
means; while Tyegleff had guessed three! This
affair still further confirmed his reputation as
a mysterious man of fate. The thought fre-
quently occurred to me afterward that if his trick
with cards had not proved successful, who knows
what turn his reputation would have taken, and
how would he have looked upon himself? But
that unexpected success definitively settled the
matter.

IV

NATURALLY, Tyegleff immediately clutched
hold of that reputation. It conferred upon him
special importance, special colouring. . . (e Cela

248

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

le posait"—as the French say,— and with his lim-
ited mind, insignificant attainments, and vast con-
ceit, such a reputation was exactly to his taste.
To acquire it was difficult, but it cost nothing to
maintain it: all he had to do was to hold his
tongue and look ferocious.

But it was not in consequence of this reputa-
tion that I became intimate with TyeglefF and, I
may say, conceived an affection for him. I
loved him, in the first place, because he was a well-
bred eccentric, and I saw in him a kindred soul;
and, in the second place, because he was a kind
man and, in reality, very simple-hearted. He in-
spired me with something in the nature of com-
passion; it seemed to me that, setting aside his
fancied fatalism, a tragic fate really was impend-
ing over him which he himself did not suspect.
As a matter of course, I did not mention that
feeling to him. Can there be anything more in-
sulting to a " man of destiny " than compassion?
And TyeglefF felt a liking for me: he was at his
ease with me, he conversed with me,— in my pres-
ence he used to make up his mind to abandon
that strange pedestal upon which he had acci-
dentally half fallen, half clambered. Although
torturingly, painfully conceited, it may be he ad-
mitted, in the bottom of his soul, that his conceit
was in no way justifiable, and that others were, in
all probability, looking down upon him .... while
I, a lad of nineteen, did not embarrass him. The

249

KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

fear of saying something stupid or inappropri-
ate did not contract his ever-watchful heart in
my presence. He even fell into loquacity at
times; and lucky it was for him that no one ex-
cept myself heard his speeches! His reputation
would not have lasted long. He not only knew
very little,— he hardly read anything, and con-
fined himself to picking up appropriate anec-
dotes and stories. He believed in forebodings,
predictions, signs, meetings ; in lucky and unlucky
days, in the persecution or benignity of fate, — in
the significance of life, in one word. He even
believed in certain "climacteric years" which some
one had mentioned in his presence, and the mean-
ing whereof he did not thoroughly understand.
Genuine men of destiny should not express such
beliefs : they must inspire other people with them.
. . . But I alone knew Tyegleff from that side.

ONE day— it was on St. Ilya's day, July 20,1
I remember — I went to visit my brother and did
not find him at home; he had been ordered off
somewhere for a whole week. I did not wish
to return to Petersburg. I trudged about the
neighbouring marshes with my gun, killed a brace

1 Or Elijah, on August 2, N. S. Generally on that day there are
terrific thunder-storms, which the Russian people say are caused by
the prophet ascending to heaven in his fiery chariot.— TRANSLATOR.

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of woodcock, and passed the evening with Tyeg-
leff under the shed of an empty wagon-house, in
which he had set up, as he expressed it, his sum-
mer residence. We chatted about various things,
but chiefly drank tea, smoked our pipes, and
talked now with the landlord, a Russified Finn,
now with a pedlar who was roaming around the
battery, a seller of "goo-o-od 'ranges and lem-
ons," a nice fellow and droll, who, in addition to
other talents, knew how to play on the guitar, and
told us about the unhappy love which he had
cherished in " babyhood " l for the daughter of a
policeman. On attaining maturity this Don
Juan in a shirt of cotton print had no longer ex-
perienced any unfortunate attachments.

In front of the gate of our wagon-shed a broad
ravine spread out, which gradually grew deeper
and deeper; a tiny rivulet sparkled in places in
the windings of the rift. Further away, on the
horizon, low forests were visible. Night ap-
proached and we were left alone. Along with
the night there descended upon the earth a thin,
damp vapour which, spreading more and more
widely, was eventually converted into a dense fog.
The moon rose in the sky; the whole fog became
permeated through and through, and gilded, as
it were, by its rays. Everything was transposed,
muffled up and entangled, as it were ; the distant

i The pedlar is, evidently, a Jew, and gets his words
mixed. — TRANSLATOR.

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appeared near, the near distant, the large ap-
peared small, the small large .... everything
became bright and indistinct. We seemed to
have been transported into a fairy realm, to the
realm of whitish-gold fog, of profound stillness,
of sensitive sleep. . . . And how mysteriously,
with what silvery sparks, did the stars pierce
through overhead! We both fell silent. The
fantastic aspect of that night took effect upon
us: it attuned us to the fantastic.

VI

TYEGLEFF was the first to speak, with his custom-
ary hitches, breaks, and repetitions, about fore-
bodings .... about visions. On just such a
night, according to his statement, one of his ac-
quaintances, a student who had just entered on
his duties as governor to two orphans, and had
been lodged with them in a separate pavilion, had
beheld a female figure bending over their beds,
and on the following day had recognised that fig-
ure in a portrait, hitherto unperceived by him,
which depicted the mother of those same orphans.
Then Tyegleff declared that his parents, for the
space of several days before their death, had
constantly thought they heard the sound of
water; that his grandfather had escaped death
in the battle of Borodino, through having seen a
white pebble on the ground and stooped to pick it

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up — and at that same moment a grape-shot had
flown past over his head and broken off his long
black plume. Tyegleff even promised to show
me that same pebble which had saved his grand-
father, and had been inserted by him in a locket.
Then he alluded to the vocation of every man,
and his own in particular, adding that he believed
in it up to that moment, and that if at any time
doubts should arise within him concerning it, he
would know how to rid himself of them and of
his life, for life would then have lost all signifi-
cance for him. "Perhaps you think"— said he,
casting a sidelong glance at me — "that I have
not sufficient courage for that? You do not know
me. ... I have an iron will."

" Well said,"— I thought to myself.

Tyegleff became thoughtful, heaved a deep
sigh, and dropping his pipe from his hand, he in-
formed me that that was an important day for
him.— "This is St. Ilya's day,— my name-day.
.... This .... this is always a painful time
for me."

I made no reply and merely stared at him as he
sat in front of me, bent double, round-shouldered,
clumsy, with sleepy and gloomy gaze riveted on
the ground.

" To-day" — he went on — "an old beggar-wo-
man " (Tyegleff never let a single beggar pass
him without bestowing alms) "told me that she
would pray for my soul. ... Is n't that strange? "

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:< What possesses a man to worry about himself
all the time? " -I thought to myself. But I am
bound to add that of late I had begun to notice
an unusual expression of anxiety and trepidation
on Tyegleff's face, and it was not the melan-
choly of a man of destiny; something was really
distressing and torturing him. On this occasion,
also, I was struck by the despondency which was
spread over his features. Could it be that those
doubts to which he had alluded were already be-
ginning to arise within him? Tyegleff's com-
rades had told me that not long before he had
handed to the authorities a project for certain
thorough reforms " connected with the gun-
carriages," and that that project had been
returned to him "with an inscription," that is
to say, with a reproof. Knowing his character,
I did not doubt that such scorn on the part
of the authorities had wounded him deeply.
But that which I discerned in Tyegleff was
more akin to sadness, had a more personal
tinge.

" But it is growing damp," — he suddenly said,
shrugging his shoulders. " Let us go into the
cottage— and it is time to go to bed."

He had a habit of twitching his shoulders and
turning his head from side to side, exactly as
though his neckcloth were too tight, clutching at
his throat the while. Tyegleif s character was
expressed— at least, so it seemed to me— in that

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anxious and nervous motion. Things were too
tight for him in the world also.

We returned to the cottage and lay down, each
of us on the wall-bench — he in the fair corner,1
I in the front corner, on hay, which we had spread
out.

VII

TYEGLEFF tossed about restlessly for a long time
on his bench, and I could not get to sleep. Whe-
ther it was that his stories had excited my nerves,
or that that night had irritated my blood, I do
not know; — only, I could not get to sleep. Every
desire for sleep even vanished at last, and I lay
with wide-open eyes and thought,— thought in-
tently, God knows about what: about the veriest
nonsense, as is always the case during an attack
of insomnia. As I tossed from side to side I threw
out my arms. . . . My finger came in contact
with one of the wall beams. A faint, but reso-
nant and prolonged sound rang out. ... I must
have hit upon a hollow place.

Again I tapped with my finger .... this
time intentionally. The sound was repeated. I
did it again. . . . Suddenly Tyegleff raised his
head.

"Riedel,"— he said,— "listen; some one is
knocking under the window."

1 The corner in which the holy pictures hang — the right-hand
further corner, facing the entrance door.— TRANSLATOR.

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I feigned to be asleep. I was suddenly seized
with the whim to make sport of my " fatal " com-
panion. It made no difference — I could not
sleep.

He dropped his head on his pillow. I waited
a little and again tapped three times in succes-
sion.

Again Tyegleff rose up and began to listen.

I knocked again. I was lying with my face
toward him, but he could not see my hand. . . .
I had thrown it backward, under the coverlet.

"Riedel!"— shouted Tyegleff.

I did not respond.

"Riedel! "-he repeated loudly.-" Riedel!"

"Hey? What is it?" I said, as though only
half awake.

" Don't you hear? Some one is knocking
under the window. Shall we ask him into the
cottage?"

" Some wayfarer "... I faltered.

" Then we must admit him, or find out what
sort of man he is!"

But I did not reply again, and again feigned
to be asleep.

Several minutes passed. . . . Again I began
my tricks. . . .

" Knock .... knock .... knock! . . ."

Through my half -closed eyelids, by the whit-
ish nocturnal light, I could observe his move-
ments well. He kept turning his face now to-

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ward the window, now toward the door. In fact,
it was difficult to distinguish whence the sound
proceeded: it seemed to fly around the room, as
though it were slipping along the walls. I had
accidentally hit upon the acoustic chord.

"Knock .... knock .... knock! . . ."

"Riedel!" shouted TyeglefF at last.— " Rie-
del! Riedel!"

" Why, what is it? "—I said, yawning.

"Is it possible that you hear nothing? Some
one is knocking."

' Well, God be with him — I want nothing to
do with him!"— I replied, and again pretended
that I had fallen asleep. I even snored. . . .

TyeglefF quieted down.

" Knock .... knock .... knock! . . ."

" Who 's there? "-shouted Tyegleff.-" Come
in!"

As a matter of course, no one answered.

" Knock .... knock .... knock! . . ."

Tyegleff sprang out of bed, opened the win-
dow, and thrusting out his head, inquired in a
fierce voice: " Who 's there? Who is knocking? "
Then he opened the door and repeated his ques-
tion. A horse neighed in the distance— and that
was all.

He returned to his bed. . . .

" Knock .... knock .... knock! . . ."

Tyegleff instantly turned over and sat up.

" Knock .... knock .... knock! . . ."

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Tyegleff promptly pulled on his boots, threw
his cloak over his shoulders, and unhooking his
sword from the wall, went out of the cottage. I
heard him make the circuit of it twice, asking all
the while: " Who 's there? Who goes there?
Who is knocking there? " Then he suddenly fell
silent, stood for a while on one spot in the street
not far from the corner where I was lying, and
without uttering another word returned to the
cottage and lay down without undressing.

" Knock .... knock .... knock! ..." I began
again. " Knock .... knock knock! . . ."

But Tyegleff did not stir, did not inquire:
"Who is knocking?" He merely propped his
head on his hand.

Perceiving that that was no longer effective,
after a little while I pretended to wake up, and,
after casting a glance at Tyegleff, I assumed a
surprised aspect.

"Have you been out anywhere?" — I asked.

" Yes," he answered indifferently.

"Did you continue to hear the knocking?"

" Yes."

" And you met no one? "

" No."

"And has the knocking stopped?"

" I don't know. It makes no difference to me

now."

" Now? Why precisely now? "
Tyegleff did not answer.
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KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

I felt rather conscience-stricken and vexed at
him. Nevertheless, I could not make up my
mind to avow my prank.

" See here," I began:—" I am convinced that
the whole thing is merely your imagination."

TyeglefF scowled.—" Ah? So you think! "

" You say that you heard a knock. . . ."

" I did not hear a knock, only," he interrupted
me.

' What else did you hear? "

Tyegleff swayed forward— and bit his lips.
4 They have called me ! " he articulated at last,
in a low tone, as he turned away his face.

"They have called you? Who has called
you?"

"A ... ."—Tyegleff continued to gaze to one
side— " a being concerning whom I only assumed
up to this moment that it l was dead. . . . But
now I know it for a certainty."

" I swear to you, Ilya Stepanitch," I ex-
claimed, " that that is all mere imagination! "

"Imagination?" he repeated. 'Would you
like to convince yourself in earnest? "

" I would."

" Well, then, let us go out into the street."

1 The first " a " is feminine. The " it " is to agree with TyeglefFs
non-committal "being," which is of the neuter gender.— -TRANS-
LATOR.

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VIII

I HASTILY dressed myself and with Tyegleff went
out of the cottage. Opposite it, on the other
side of the street, there were no houses, but a
long wattled fence stretched out, with breaches
here and there, behind which began a decidedly-
steep descent to the plain. The fog, as before,
enveloped all objects, and hardly anything
could be seen at a distance of twenty paces.
Tyegleff and I walked to the wattled fence and
halted.

" Here now," he said, dropping his head.
" Stand still, be silent— and listen! " Like him, I
bent my ear, and save the usual, extremely faint
but universal nocturnal hum— that breathing of
the night — I heard nothing. From time to time
exchanging a glance, we stood there motionless
for several minutes — and were already preparing
to move on ....

" Iliiisha! " I thought I heard a whisper from
the other side of the fence.

I glanced at Tyegleff, but he appeared not to
have heard anything, and held his head down-
cast as before.

" Iliiisha .... hey, Iliiisha . . . ." resounded
more plainly than before — so plainly that one
could understand that those words were uttered
by a woman.

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We both gave a start — and stared at each
other.

" What do you think of that? " Tyegleff asked
me, in a whisper. " You will not doubt now? "

" Stay," I said to him, with equal softness, —
"that proves nothing as yet. We must look
and see if there is not some one there — some
jester. . . ."

I leaped over the fence, and walked in the
direction whence, so far as I was able to judge,
the voice had proceeded.

Under my feet I felt the soft, porous earth;
long strips of vegetable-beds lost themselves in
the fog. I was in a vegetable-garden. But no-
thing stirred around me, or in front of me.
Everything seemed to be sunk in the numbness of
sleep. I advanced a few paces further.

" Who is there? " I shouted to match Tyegleff.

"Pr-r-r-r! " A startled quail darted out from
under my very feet, and flew away, as straight as
a bullet. I involuntarily recoiled. . . . What
nonsense! I glanced back. Tyegleff was visi-
ble on the selfsame spot where I had left him.
I approached him.

" It will be useless for you to call," he said.
" That voice has reached us .... me ... from
afar."

He passed his hand over his face, and with
quiet steps wended his way across the street
homeward. But I would not give in so quickly,

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and returned to the vegetable-garden. That
some one had actually called " Iliiisha " thrice I
could not cherish the slightest doubt; I was also
forced to admit to myself that there had been
something plaintive and mysterious in that call.
. . . . But, who knows? Perhaps all that only
seemed incomprehensible, but in reality could be
explained as simply as the knocking which had
agitated Tyegleff.

I walked along the wattled fence, pausing and
looking around me from time to time. Close to
the fence and not far from our cottage grew an
aged, bushy white willow; it stood out as a huge
black spot in the midst of the universal whiteness
of the fog, of that dim whiteness which blinds
and dulls the vision worse than darkness. Sud-
denly I thought something of considerable size,
something living, rolled over on the ground near
that willow.. With the exclamation: "Halt!
Who is there? " I dashed forward. Light foot-
steps like those of a hare became audible; past
me flitted a figure all bent double, whether of
man or woman I could not distinguish. ... I
tried to seize it, but did not succeed, stumbling
and falling and burning my face in the nettles.
Rising half-way and propping myself with my
elbow on the ground, I felt something hard under
my arm; it was a small carved brass comb on a
string, like those which our peasants wear in their
belts.

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Further researches on my part proved vain,
and comb in hand and with nettle-burned cheeks
I returned to the cottage.

IX

I FOUND Tyegleff sitting on the wall-bench. In
front of him on the table burned a candle, and he
was engaged in writing something in a small
album which he carried constantly with him. On
catching sight of me, he hastily thrust the tiny
album into his pocket and began to fill his pipe.

" Here, my dear fellow,"— I began,—" see
what a trophy I have brought back from my
campaign ! " I showed him the little comb and told
him what had happened to me under the willow.

" I must have scared a thief," I added. " Did
you hear that our neighbour had had a horse
stolen last night? "

Tyegleff smiled coldly and lighted his pipe. I
sat down by his side.

" And you are still convinced, as before, Ilya
Stepanitch," — I said, — " that the voice which we
heard had flown hither from those unknown re-
gions . . . ."

He stopped me with an imperious gesture of
his hand.

" Riedel," he began,—" I am in no mood for
jesting, and therefore I beg that you will not jest
either."

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Tyegleff really was in no mood for jesting.
His face had undergone a change. It seemed
paler, more expressive. His strange, "mis-
matched " eyes roved quietly. " I did not think,"
he began again,—" that I should ever commu-
nicate to another .... another man that which
you are about to hear, and which should have
died .... yes, died in my breast; but, evi-
dently, it is necessary— and I have no choice.
'T is fate! Listen."

And he communicated to me the whole story.

I have already told you, gentlemen, that he
was a bad narrator; but he impressed me that
night not alone by his ignorance of how to im-
part to me the events which had happened to him :
the very sound of his voice, his looks, the move-
ments which he made with his fingers and hands
— everything about him, in a word, seemed un-
natural, unnecessary,— spurious, in short. I was
still very young and inexperienced, and did not
know that the habit of expressing one's self in a
rhetorical way, falsity of intonation and man-
ners, may so corrode a man that he is no longer
able to rid himself of it. It is a curse, in its way.
I lately happened to meet a certain lady who nar-
rated to me with such bombastic language, with
such theatrical gestures, with such a melodra-
matic shaking of the head and rolling up of the
eyes, the impression produced on her by the death
of her son, her "immeasurable grief," her fears

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for her own reason, that I thought to myself:
"How that lady is lying and putting on airs!
She did not love her son at all!" But a week
later I learned that the poor woman actually had
gone out of her mind. Ever since then I have
been much more cautious in my judgments, and
have trusted much less to my own impressions.

X

THE story which TyeglefF narrated to me was,
briefly, as follows:— In Petersburg— in addition
to his uncle, the dignitary— dwelt an aunt of his,
not a woman of great position, but possessed of
property. As she was childless, she had adopted
a little girl, an orphan from the petty-burgher
class, had given her a suitable education, and
treated her like a daughter. The girl's name was
Masha. Tyegleff had been in the habit of seeing
her almost every day. It ended in their falling
in love with each other, and Masha gave herself
to him. This came to light. TyeglefTs aunt
flew into a frightful rage, turned the unhappy
girl, in disgrace, out of her house, and removed
her residence to Moscow, where she took a young
lady of the gentry as her nursling and heiress.
On returning to her former relations, poor and
drunken people, Masha endured a bitter fate.
Tyegleff had promised to marry her— and did not
keep his promise. On the occasion of his last

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meeting with her he was compelled to state his
intentions. Masha wanted to learn the truth—
and she got it.

" Well," she said, " if I am not to be thy wife,
then I know what remains for me to do." More
than a fortnight had elapsed after this last meet-
ing.

" Not for one minute have I deceived myself
as to the meaning of her last words," added Tyeg-
leff. " I am convinced that she has put an end
to her life, and .... and that that was Tier
voice, that she was calling me thither .... after
her. ... I recognised her voice. . . . Well,
'tis all the same in the end! "

" But why did not you marry her, Ilya Stepa-
nitch? " I asked. " Had you ceased to love her? "

" No; to this hour I love her passionately."

At this point, gentlemen, I stared with all my
might at Tyegleff. I called to mind another of
my acquaintances, a very intelligent man who,
being the possessor of an extremely ill-favoured,
stupid, and not wealthy wife, in reply to the ques-
tion I had put to him: "Why had he married?
Probably for love? " — had replied: " Not in the
least for love! But it just happened so! " But
here was Tyegleff passionately fond of a girl
and did not marry. Well then? And here
also had it "just happened so!"

" Why don't you marry? " I asked him the sec-
ond time.

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Tyegleff 's somnolently-strange eyes wandered
over the table.

"That .... cannot be told .... in a few
words," he began hesitatingly. "There were
reasons. . . . And besides, she .... is of the
burgher class. Well, and my uncle .... I had
to take him into consideration."

" Your uncle? " I cried. " But what the devil
do you care for your uncle, whom you only see on
New Year's Day, when you go to present your
congratulations? Are you reckoning on his
wealth? Why, he has about a dozen children of
his own ! "

I spoke with heat. . . . TyeglefF winced, and
blushed . . . blushed unevenly, in spots. . . .
" I beg that you will not read me a lecture," he
said dully. " However, I do not defend myself.
I have ruined her life, and now I must pay the
debt. . . ."

He dropped his head and fell silent. I also
found nothing to say.

XI

THUS we sat for a quarter of an hour. He stared
to one side and I stared at him— and noticed that
the hair above his brow had risen in a peculiar
sort of way and was curling in rings, which, ac-
cording to the remark of a military doctor,
through whose hands had passed many wounded,

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always serves as a sign of a strong, dry fever in
the brain. . . . Again it occurred to me that the
hand of Fate really did weigh upon this man, and
that not without cause had his comrades perceived
in him something fatal. And at the same time
I inwardly condemned him. " Of the burgher
class ! " I thought. " But do you call yourself an
aristocrat?"

" Perhaps you condemn me, Riedel," began
Tyegleff, suddenly, as though divining my
thoughts. " I am greatly distressed myself ....
greatly distressed. But what can I do? What
can I do? "

He leaned his chin on his palm and began to
gnaw the broad, flat nails of his short, red fingers,
which were as hard as iron.

" I am of the opinion, Ilya Stepanitch, that you
should first make sure whether your surmises are
correct. . . . Perhaps your lady-love is alive and
well." (" Shall I tell him the real cause of the
knocking? " flashed through my mind. . . . "No
—later on.")

" She has not written to me a single time since
we have been in camp," remarked Tyegleff.

" That proves nothing, Ilya Stepanitch."

Tyegleff waved his hand in despair.— " No!
She certainly is no longer on earth. She has
called me. . . ."

He suddenly turned his face toward the win-
dow.—" Some one is knocking again!"

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I involuntarily burst out laughing.—" You
must excuse me, Ilya Stepanitch ! This time it is
your nerves. Dawn is breaking, as you see. In
ten minutes the sun will rise; it is already after
three o'clock, and visions do not act in daylight."

Tyegleff darted at me a gloomy glance, and
muttering between his teeth, " Farewell, sir," he
threw himself down on the bench and turned his
back on me.

I also lay down,— and I remember that, before
I fell asleep, I meditated as to why Tyegleff had
kept hinting at his intention to take his own life.
;' What nonsense, what phrase-making! He has
voluntarily refrained from marrying. . . . He
has abandoned the girl .... and now, all of a
sudden, he wants to kill himself! There is no
human sense in that! He cannot keep from
showing off! "

Thus thinking, I fell into a very sound sleep,
and when I opened my eyes, the sun already stood
high in the heavens, and Tyegleff was not in the
cottage. . . .

According to his servant's statement, he had
gone away to the town.

XII

I SPENT a very wearisome, irksome day. Tyeg-
leff did not return either to dinner or to supper.
I did not expect my brother. Toward evening a

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thick fog, worse than that of the preceding day,
spread over everything. I lay down to sleep quite
early. A knock under the window awoke me.

My turn had come to start.

The knock was repeated — and with such insis-
tent clearness that it was impossible to doubt its
reality. I rose, opened the window, and perceived
Tyegleff. Wrapped in his military cloak, with
his forage-cap pulled down over his eyes, he was
standing motionless.

" Ilya Stepanitch! " I exclaimed,—" is it you?
We had given up expecting you. Come in. Is
the door locked? "

Tyegleff shook his head in negation.— " I do
not intend to enter," he said dully.— " I merely
wish to ask you to transmit this letter to the
commander of the battery to-morrow morning."

He held out to me a large envelope sealed with
five seals. I was amazed, but mechanically took
the envelope. Tyegleff immediately walked off
to the middle of the street.

" Wait, wait," I began. ..." Whither are
you going? Have you only just arrived? And
what is this letter? "

" Do you promise to deliver it at its address? "
said Tyegleff, retreating several paces further.
The fog began to shroud the outlines of his figure.
— " Do you promise? "

" I promise . . . but first . . . ."

Tyegleff retreated still further— and became
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a dark, oblong spot.— " Farewell! " rang out his
voice. " Farewell, Riedel, remember me kindly.
. . . And don't forget Semyon . . . ." And
even the spot disappeared.

This was too much! " O cursed phrase-
maker! " I thought. " Why must thou always
be striving for effect? " But I was alarmed,
nevertheless. Involuntary terror oppressed my
breast. I threw on my cloak and ran out into the
street.

XIII

YES; but in what direction was I to go? The fog
enveloped me on all sides. One could see through
it a little for five or six paces, but further than
that it was fairly piled up like a wall, porous and
white, like wadding. I turned to the right, along
the street of the hamlet which ended just there;
our cottage was the last one on the verge, and
beyond it began the empty plain, here and there
overgrown with bushes. Beyond the plain, a
quarter of a verst distant from the hamlet, there
was a birch coppice, and through it ran the same
small stream which lower down made a loop
around the village. All this I knew well, because
I had many times beheld it all by daylight; but
now I could see nothing, and could only guess,
from the greater density and whiteness of the
fog, where the land descended and the little river
flowed. In the sky, like a pale spot, hung the

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moon, but its light was not strong enough, as on
the preceding night, to conquer the smoky com-
pactness of the fog, which hung aloft like a broad,
faint canopy. I made my way out on the plain
and began to listen. . . . Not a sound anywhere
except the whistling of the woodcock.

" Tyegleff! " I shouted. " Ilya Stepanitch! !
Tyegleff!!"

My voice died away around me without a re-
sponse; it seemed as though the very fog would
not permit it to go further. " Tyegleff! " I re-
peated.

No one answered.

I advanced at haphazard. Twice I came in con-
tact with the wattled fence, once I almost tumbled
into a ditch, and I all but stumbled over a peas-
ant's horse which was lying on the ground. . . .
"Tyegleff! Tyegleff!" I shouted.

Suddenly behind me, very close at hand in-
deed, I heard a low voice:— " Well, here I am.
.... What do you want with me? "

I wheeled swiftly round.

In front of me, with pendent arms, and with
no cap on his head, stood Tyegleff. His face was
pale, but his eyes appeared animated and larger
than usual. . . . He was inhaling long, slow
breaths through his parted lips.

" God be thanked! " I cried, in an outburst of
joy, seizing him by both hands. . . . "God be
thanked! I was already despairing of finding

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you. And are n't you ashamed of giving me such
a fright? Good gracious, Ilya Stepanitch! "

* What do you want of me? " repeated Tyeg-
leff.

" I want ... I want, in the first place, that
you shall return home with me. And, in the
second place, I wish, I demand— I demand of
you, as of a friend, that you shall immediately
explain to me the meaning of your behaviour—
and this letter to the colonel. Has anything un-
expected happened to you in Petersburg? "

" In Petersburg I found precisely what I had
expected," replied Tyegleff, still not stirring
from the spot.

' That is .... you mean to say .... your
friend .... that Masha

" She took her own life,"— interposed Tyeg-
leff, hurriedly, and as though viciously. " She
was buried the day before yesterday. She did not
leave even a note for me. She poisoned herself."

Tyegleff hastily blurted out these dreadful
words, and still stood motionless, as though made
of stone.

I clasped my hands.—" Is it possible? What
a misfortune! Your presentiment came true.
. . . This is frightful!"

I fell silent in confusion. Tyegleff quietly,
and as though solemnly, folded his arms.

" But why do we stand here? " I began. " Let
us go home."

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" Let us go," said Tyegleff. " But how are
we to find the way in this fog? "

" There is a light burning in the windows of
your cottage; we will guide ourselves by that.
Come along."

" Do you walk ahead," replied Tyegleff. " I
will follow you."

We set out. For five minutes we walked — and
our guiding light did not show itself; at last it
beamed out a couple of paces ahead of us in two
red spots. TyeglefF walked behind me with mea-
sured tread. I was frightfully anxious to get
home as promptly as possible and learn from him
the particulars of his unhappy trip to Petersburg.
Stunned by what he had told me, in a fit of re-
pentance and partly of superstitious dread, I con-
fessed to him before we reached the cottage that
I had produced the mysterious knocking of the
night before . . . and what a tragic turn that
jest had taken!

Tyegleff confined himself to the remark that I
counted for nothing in the matter,— that myhand
had been guided by something else, — and that
that only proved how little I knew him. His voice,
strangely quiet and even, sounded directly in my
ear. — " But you will learn to know me," he added.
" I saw you smile yesterday when I alluded to
my strength of will. You will learn to know me
—and you will recall my words."

The first cottage in the village surged up in
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front of us out of the fog, like some dark mon-
ster .... and now the second started forth,
our cottage started forth — and my setter hound,
probably scenting me, began to bark.

I knocked at the window.— " Semyon! " -I
shouted to TyeglefF's servant: — "hey, there,
Semyon ! Open the gate to us as quickly as pos-
sible!"

The gate clanged and opened ; Semyon stepped
across the threshold.

" Pray, enter, Ilya Stepanitch," I said, glan-
cing round. . . .

But there was no longer any Ilya Stepanitch
behind me. TyegleiF had disappeared as though
the earth had swallowed him.

I entered the cottage like a man bereft of his
reason.

XIV

VEXATION at Tyegleff, at myself, superseded the
amazement which at first took possession of me.—
'Thy master is crazy!" I said, darting at Se-
myon— " downright crazy! He galloped off to
Petersburg, then he came back — and now he is
running about at random! I caught him, and
brought him to the very gate — and suddenly,
bang! he has taken to his heels again! The idea
of not staying at home on such a night ! A pretty
time he has chosen for a ramble! "

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"And why did I let go of his hand?" I re-
proached myself.

Semyon stared in silence at me, as though pre-
paring to say something, but, in accordance with
the habits of servants in those days, he merely
shifted from foot to foot a little.

" At what o'clock did he go off to the city? " I
inquired severely.

" At six o'clock in the morning."

"And how did he seem— troubled, sad? "

Semyon cast down his eyes.—" Our master— is
queer," he began. ' Who can understand him?—
When he was preparing to go to the city, he
ordered me to give him his new uniform; well,
and he curled himself, also."

" How curled himself? "

" Curled his hair. I fixed the tongs for him."

I must confess that I had not anticipated this.
— " Art thou acquainted with a young lady," I
asked Semyon,—" a friend of Ilya Stepanitch's,
named Masha? "

"Of course I know Mary a Anempodistovna !
She 's a nice young lady."

" Thy master was in love with that Marya ....
and so forth."

Semyon heaved a sigh. — " It 's on account of
that young lady that Ilya Stepanitch will go to
destruction. He loves her frightfully — and he
can't make up his mind to take her as his spouse
—and he 's sorry to abandon her, too. That

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comes from his lack of courage. He 's awfully
fond of her."

" And what is she like— pretty? " I inquired
curiously.

Semyon assumed a serious aspect.—" Gentle-
men like such as she."

" And is she to thy taste? "

" For us .... she is not suited— not at all."

"Why not?"

" She 's very thin in body."

" If she were to die," I began again,—" would
Ilya Stepanitch survive her, thinkest thou? "

Again Semyon heaved a sigh.—" I dare not say
that — that 's the master's affair. . . . Only, our
master— is queer! "

I took from the table the large and fairly thick
letter which TyeglefF had given to me, and turned
it about in my hands. . . . The address to " His
High-Born, Mr. Battery Commander, Colonel
and Cavalier," with name, patronymic and sur-
name indicated, was very distinctly and care-
fully written. In the upper corner of the en-
velope stood the word: " Important," twice un-
derlined.

"Hearken, Semyon," I began. "I 'm
afraid for thy master. He seems to have evil
thoughts in his head. We must find him without
fail."

" I obey, sir," replied Semyon.

" There is such a fog outdoors that one can

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distinguish nothing two arshins * off, it is true ;
but never mind, we must make the effort. We
will each take a lantern, and we will light a candle
in each window— in case of need."

" I obey, sir," repeated Semyon. He lighted
the lanterns and the candles and we set out.

XV

How he and I wandered about, how entangled we
became, it is impossible to convey to you! The
lanterns did not help us in the least ; they did not
in the slightest degree disperse that white, almost
luminous mist which surrounded us. Semyon
and I lost each other several times apiece, despite
the fact that we kept exchanging calls, shouting
" a-oo ! " and I kept crying out : " Tyegleff ! Ilya
Stepanitch ! " and he : " Mr. Tyegleff ! Your Weil-
Born! " — The fog threw us off the track to such
a degree that we roamed about as though in our
sleep ; both of us speedily grew hoarse : the damp-
ness penetrated to the very bottom of our lungs.
We met again, by some means, thanks to the
lights in the windows at the cottage. Our com-
bined explorations had led to nothing, — we had
merely hampered each other, — and therefore we
decided not to think any more of how to avoid
getting separated, but that each of us should go

iThe arshfn— the Russian yard-measure— is twenty-eight
inches in length.— TRANSLATOR.

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his own road. He went to the left, I to the right,
and I soon ceased to hear his voice. The fog
seemed to have made its way into my very brain,
and I wandered about like a dazed person, merely
shouting: " Tyegleff! Tyegleff! "

" Here! " suddenly rang out in response.

Heavens! How delighted I was! How I
rushed in the direction where I had heard the
voice! .... A human figure loomed up black
ahead of me. . . . I darted at it. . . . At last!

But instead of Tyegleff I beheld before me
another officer of the same battery named Telep-
neff."

" Was it you who answered me? " I asked him.

" And were you calling me? " he inquired, in
his turn.

" No; I was calling Tyegleff."

" Tyegleff? Why, I met him only a moment
ago. What an absurd night! It is utterly im-
possible to find one's way home."

"You saw Tyegleff? In which direction was
he going? "

"In that direction— I think." The officer
passed his hand through the air. — " But now it is
impossible to understand anything. For exam-
ple, do you know where the village is? The only
salvation is if a dog should begin to bark. An
abominable night, is n't it? Allow me to light
a cigar .... it will seem to illuminate the
road."

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The officer was a little tipsy, so far as I could
make out.

" Did not Tyegleff say anything to you? " I
asked.

" Certainly he did! ' How art thou, brother? '
says I to him. And he says to me: 'Fare-
well, brother! '— ' Farewell? Why farewell? '-
' Why,' says he, ' I 'm going to shoot m'self with
pistol 's very minute.' A queer fellow ! "

I gasped for breath.— "You say that he told
you ... ."

" A queer fellow! " repeated the officer, as he
strode away from me.

Before I could recover from the officer's an-
nouncement, my own name, several times repeated
in a violent shout, struck my ear. I recognised
Semyon's voice.

I responded. . . . He approached me.

XVI

" WELL, what is it? " I asked him. " Hast thou
found Ilya Stepanitch? "

" I have, sir."

"Where?"

" Yonder, not far from here."

" How didst thou .... find him? Is he
alive? "

"Certainly; I conversed with him." (My
heart was lightened.) "He is sitting under a

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small birch-tree, in his cloak .... and he 's all
right. I reported to him: ' Please come to your
quarters, Ilya Stepanitch," says I, 'Alexander
Vasilitch is very uneasy about you.' But he says
to me : ' What possesses him to be uneasy? I want
to be in the fresh air. My head aches. Go home/
says he. ' I '11 come after a while.' '

" And didst thou leave him? " I exclaimed,
wringing my hands.

"And why not, sir? He ordered me to go
away .... how could I stay? "

All my terrors returned to me at once.

" Lead me to him this very minute, dost hear?
This very minute! Ekh, Semyon, Semyon, I did
not expect this of thee ! Thou sayest that he is not
far from here? "

" Quite close, yonder where the grove begins—
that 's where he is sitting. About two fathoms—
not more — from the creek, from the shore. I
found him by going along the creek."

" Come, guide me, guide me! "

Semyon set out. " Here, this way, if you

please We have only to descend to the

stream, and then we shall immediately . . . ."

But instead of descending to the creek we got
into some sort of a ravine and found ourselves in
front of a small, empty shed. . . .

" Hey! Halt! " suddenly exclaimed Semyon.
" I must have gone too far to the right. . , . We
must turn more to the left here. . . ."

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We went further to the left, and got into such
a dense mass of steppe grass that we could hardly
extricate ourselves ... so far as I could recol-
lect, there was no such high grass anywhere in the
vicinity of our village. Then suddenly marshy
ground began to seep under our feet, and round,
mossy tussocks, which I had never seen, either,
began to make their appearance. . . . We re-
traced our steps— before us uprose a hillock, and
on the hillock stood a hovel, and in it some one
was snoring. Semyon and I shouted several times
into the hovel; something fumbled about in its
recesses, straw crackled, and a hoarse voice ejac-
ulated: "Po-o-li-i-ice!"

Again we retraced our steps .... fields,
fields, interminable fields. . . .

I was ready to weep. ... I recalled the words
of the fool in " King Lear ": " This cold night
will turn us all to fools and madmen! "

"Where shall we go?" I said, in despair, to
Semyon.

" Evidently, master, the forest fiend has cheated
us," replied the discomfited orderly. " There 's
some mischief abroad. . . . An evil power is at
work!"

I was on the point of scolding him, but at that
moment there reached my ear an isolated, not very
loud sound which instantly attracted my entire
attention. Something popped faintly, as though
some one had extracted a tight-fitting cork from

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the narrow neck of a bottle. The sound rang out
not far from the spot where I was standing.
Why that sound seemed to me peculiar and
strange I am unable to say, but I immediately
walked in the direction whence it had proceeded.

Semyon followed me. At the end of a few mo-
ments something tall and broad loomed up darkly
through the fog.

4 The grove! There it is, the grove!" ex-
claimed Semyon, joyfully; "and yonder . . . .
yonder my master is sitting under the birch-tree,
where I left him. 'T is he himself !"

I looked intently. In fact, on the ground, at
the foot of a birch, with his back toward us, awk-
wardly bent over, a man was sitting. I briskly
approached him and recognised Tyegleff's
cloak, — recognised his figure, his head bowed on
his breast.

" Tyegleff! " I shouted. . . . But he did not
reply.

'Tyegleff!" I repeated, laying my hand on
his shoulder.

Then he suddenly swayed forward, quickly
and obediently, as though he had been awaiting
my touch, and fell prone upon the grass. Se-
myon and I immediately lifted him and turned his
face upward. It was not pale, but inanimately
impassive ; the clenched teeth shone white, and the
eyes, also, motionless and open, preserved their
customary sleepy and " mismatched " glance. . . .

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" O Lord! " —said Semyon, suddenly, showing
me his hand crimsoned with blood. . . . This
blood was flowing from beneath TyeglefFs un-
fastened cloak, from the left side of his breast.

He had shot himself with a small, single-bar-
relled pistol which lay there by his side. The
faint sound which I had heard had been the sound
produced by the fatal shot.

XVII

TYEGLEFF'S suicide did not greatly surprise his
comrades. I have already told you that, accord-
ing to their view, he, as a " fatal " man, was bound
to indulge in some unusual performance, although
possibly they had not expected from him pre-
cisely this caper. In his letter to the commander
of the battery he requested the latter, in the first
place, to attend to having Sub-Lieutenant Ilya
Tyegleff stricken from the rolls as a suicide, stat-
ing, in this connection, that in his casket there
would be found more than enough ready money
to pay all debts which might be claimed ; and, in
the second place, to transmit to an important per-
sonage, who then was in command of all the corps
of the Guard, another, unsealed letter, which was
enclosed in the same envelope. We all read this
second letter, as a matter of course ; several of us
took copies of it. TyeglefF had obviously toiled
over the composition of that letter.

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"Just see, Your Royal Highness,"1 thus it
began, as I recall it, "how strict you are, how
sternly you punish for the slightest irregular-
ity in a uniform, for the most insignificant in-
fringement of regulations when a poor, trem-
bling officer presents himself before you; but
now I am presenting myself before the incor-
ruptible, upright Judge of us all, before the Su-
preme Being, before the Being who is of im-
measurably greater importance than even Your
Royal Highness, and I am presenting myself
quite simply, in my cloak, without even a stock
on my neck. . . ." Akh, what an oppressive
and unpleasant impression was made upon me by
this phrase, every word, every letter of which
was carefully set forth in the dead man's child-
ish chirography! Was it really worth while, I
asked myself —was it really worth while to de-
vise such nonsense at such a moment? But
Tyegleff had, evidently, taken a liking to this
phrase; for he had put in play all the heaping
up of epithets and amplifications, a la Mdrlin-
sky, which was then in fashion. Further on he
alluded to Fate, to persecution, to his mission,
which would remain unfulfilled; to the secret
which he was carrying with him into the grave;
to the people who had refused to understand

1 The title is intentionally abbreviated in the original, and the word
might mean either Majesty, or Royal Highness as printed. The
latter must be intended, and probably the Grand Duke Mikhail
Pavlovitch, a renowned martinet, in particular.— TRANSLATOR.

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him; he even quoted the verses of some poet or
other who had said of the crowd that it wears
life " like a dog's collar," and eats into vice " like
a burdock"— and all this not without ortho-
graphical errors. Truth to tell, this ante-mor-
tem letter of poor TyeglefF was decidedly in-
sipid, and I can imagine the scornful surprise
of the exalted personage to whom it was ad-
dressed; I can imagine in what a tone he must
have ejaculated: "A worthless officer! A good
riddance to bad rubbish! " Just before the end
of the letter a genuine cry burst from TyeglefF's
heart. " Akh, Your Royal Highness! " thus he
wound up his epistle, — " I am an orphan, I have
had no one to love me from my childhood, and
every one has fought shy of me .... and the
only heart which gave itself to me I myself have
destroyed!"

In the pocket of Tyegleff's cloak Semyon
found the tiny album from which his master
never parted. But almost all the leaves had been
torn out; only one remained intact, upon which
stood the following calculation:

Napoleon, born Aug. 15, Ilyd TyeglefF, born Jan. 7,

1769. 1811.

1769 1811

15 7

8 (Aug. is eighth 1( Jan. is first month

month in year.) in year.)

Total 1792 Total 1819

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KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK

1 1

7 8

9 1

2 9

Total 19! Total 19!

Napoleon died May 5, Ily<l Tye*gleff died July 21,

1825. 1834.

1825 1834

5 21

5 (May is fifth month 7 (July is seventh

in year.) month in year.)

Total 1835 Total 1862

1 1
8 8

2 6

— JL

Total "T?! Total 17!

Poor fellow! Was not that the reason that he
had entered the artillery?

They buried him, being a suicide, outside the
cemetery, and immediately forgot him.

XVIII

ON the day after TyeglefTs funeral (I was still
in the village, awaiting my brother) Semyon en-
tered the cottage and announced that Ilya wished
to see me.

" What Ilya? " I asked.
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KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

"Why, our pedlar."

I ordered him to be calletNjn. » V

He presented himself. He expressed some
slight regret concerning the sub-lieutenant, and
surprise that he should have taken such a thing
into his head. . . .

" Was he in debt to thee? " I asked.

" Not at all, sir. Whatever he bought from me
he paid for punctually on the spot. But it 's this,
sir. . . ." Here the pedlar grinned.— "You
have a small article of mine. ..."

" What article? "

" Why, that one, sir." He pointed with his
finger at the carved comb which was lying on the
toilet-table.—" 'T is an article of small value, sir,"
—went on the huckster, — "but seeing that I re-
ceived it as a present ..."

I suddenly raised my head. An idea struck me
like a flash of light.

"Is thy namellya?"

" Exactly so, sir."

" So it was thee whom I ... found the other
day .... under the willow? "

The pedlar winked and grinned still more
broadly.

" 'T was me, sir."

" And it was thee whom some one was calling? "

'T was me, sir," repeated the pedlar, with

playful modesty. "There's a lass yonder," he

went on, in a falsetto voice, "who, on account

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KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

of very great strictness on the part of her
parents . . . ."

" Good, good," I interrupted him, handing him
the comb and sending him away.

So that was the " Iliusha,"— I thought, and
plunged into philosophical reflections which, how-
ever, I will not repeat to you, for I have no in-
tention of preventing any one from believing in
Fate, predestination, and other fatalities.

On returning to Petersburg I made inquiries
about Masha. I even hunted up the doctor who
had attended her. To my amazement, I learned
from him that she did not die of poison but of
the cholera ! I communicated to him what I had
heard from Tyegleff.

" Ho! ho! " exclaimed the doctor. " Was that
Tyegleff an artillery officer of medium height
with round shoulders and a lisp? "

" Yes."

"Well, that 's it exactly. That gentleman
presented himself to me— I beheld him then for
the first time— and began to insist upon it that the
girl had poisoned herself. ' It was the cholera,'
said I. ' It was poison,' said he. ' But 'twas the
cholera,' said I. ' But 't was poison,' said he. I
saw that the man was rather daft, with a broad
nape which indicates stubbornness, and it would
not be a short job to get rid of him. ... It
makes no difference, I thought to myself; the
patient is dead anyway. ... * Well, then,' said I,

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KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . . KNOCK . . .

' she did poison herself, if that is more agreeable
to you.' He thanked me, he even shook hands
with me — and took himself off ."

I told the doctor how that same officer had shot
himself that very same day.

The doctor never so much as moved an eyebrow
— and merely remarked that there were various
sorts of eccentric folk in the world.

' There are," I repeated after him.

Yes, some one has truly said concerning sui-
cides that until they carry out their design no one
believes them; and if they do, no one regrets them.

290

THE WATCH

(1875)

THE WATCH

AN OLD MAN'S STORY

I WILL tell you my story about the watch. . . .
A curious story !

The affair took place at the very beginning
of the present century, in the year 1801. I had
just entered my sixteenth year. I lived in Rya-
zan, in a little wooden house not far from the
bank of the Oka, with my father, my aunt, and
my cousin. I do not remember my mother; she
died three years after her marriage. My father
had no children except me. His name was Por-
firy Petrovitch. He was a peaceable man, not
good-looking, and sickly; his business consisted
of prosecuting lawsuits— and of other things.
In former times men like him were called petti-
foggers, shysters, nettle-seed; he dignified him-
self with the title of lawyer. Our domestic af-
fairs were presided over by his sister, my aunt,
—an old maid of fifty; my father also was over
forty. She was a very pious woman — to speak

293

THE WATCH

the plain truth, a hypocrite, a tattler, and given
to poking her nose into everything ; and her heart
was not like my father's— it was not kind. We
did not live poorly, but on the verge of that.
My father had also a brother, Egor 1 by name ;
but he had been sent to Siberia for some alleged
"seditious acts and Jacobinical manner of
thought" — or other (precisely so did it stand in
the decree).

Egor's son, David, my cousin, was left on
my father's hands and lived with us. He was
only one year older than I; but I abased myself
before him and obeyed him as though he had
been a full-grown man. He was far from a
stupid lad, with strong character, broad-shoul-
dered, stockily built, with a square face all cov-
ered with freckles, red hair, grey eyes, small,
broad lips, a short nose, also short fingers— what
is called a strong man — and with a strength be-
yond his years. My aunt could not bear him;
and my father was even afraid of him ... or,
perhaps he felt himself culpable toward him. A
rumour was current that had not my father
blabbed, David's father would not have been ex-
iled to Siberia! We both studied in the gym-
nasium, in the same class, and both did pretty
well; I even a trifle better than David. ... I
had a keen memory; but boys— as every one
knows — do not prize that superiority and do not

irrhat is, George; pronounced Yeg6r,— TRANSLATOR.

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plume themselves on it, and David remained,
nevertheless, my leader.

II

MY name, as you know, is Alexyei. I was born
on the seventh of March, and my name-day
comes on the seventeenth. According to ancient
custom, they bestowed upon me the name of one
of those saints whose day falls upon the tenth day
after the child's birth. My godfather was a
certain Anastasy Anastasievitch PutchkofF; or,
properly speaking, Nastasyei, Nastasyeitch ; no
one ever called him anything else. He was a
frightfully-litigious man, a caviller and bribe-
taker— a bad man altogether; he had been ex-
pelled from the Governor's chancellery, and had
been indicted more than once ; he was necessary to
my father. . . . They " did business " in company.
He was plump and round in person ; but his face
was like that of a fox, with an awl-shaped nose;
his bright brown eyes were also like those of a
fox. And he kept those eyes of his in incessant
motion, to right and left, and kept his nose in mo-
tion also, as though he were sniffing the air. He
wore heelless shoes and powdered his hair every
day, which was then regarded as a great rarity in
country parts. He was wont to declare that he
could not get along without powder, as he was

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obliged to consort with generals and general-
esses.

So, then, my name-day arrives. Nastasyei
Nastasyeitch comes to our house and says:

" Up to this time, godson, I have never given
thee anything; but just see what I have brought
thee to-day!"

And thereupon he pulls out of his pocket a
bulbous silver watch, with a rose painted on the
face, and a brass chain! I was fairly dumb-
founded with rapture, — but my aunt, Pulkhe-
riya l Petrovna, began to scream at the top of her
voice:

" Kiss his hand, kiss his hand, dirty brat ! "

I began to kiss my godfather's hand, while my
aunt kept interpolating:

"Akh, dear little father, Nastasyei Nastasye-
itch, why do you spoil him so? How will he be
able to manage a watch? He '11 drop it, for a
certainty, and will smash it or break it!"

My father entered the room, looked at the
watch, thanked Nastasyeitch in a careless sort
of way, and asked him to come into his study.
And I heard my father saying, as though to
himself:

" If thou hast taken it into thy head, my good
fellow, to get out of it in this way . . . ."

But I could not stand still on one spot any

1 Turgenieff calls her part of the time Pelag6ya, part of the time
Pulkh6riy a.— TRANSLATOR.

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longer, so I put on my watch and rushed off
headlong to show my gift to David.

Ill

DAVID took the watch, opened it and scrutinised
it attentively. He had great gifts in the me-
chanical line ; he was fond of tinkering with iron,
brass, and all metals; he had provided himself
with various instruments, and to repair a screw,
or a key— or make an entirely new one, and so
forth, was nothing for him.

David turned the watch about in his hands, and
muttered through his teeth (he was, in general,
not talkative) :

"Old .... bad. . . . Where didst thou get
it? " he added.

I told him that my godfather had given it to
me.

David turned his small grey eyes on me:

"Nastasyei?"

"Yes; Nastasyei Nastasyeitch."

David laid the watch on the table and walked
off in silence.

" Dost not thou like it? " I asked.

"No; that 's not it. ... But if I were in thy
place, I would n't accept any gift from Nasta-
syei."

"Why not?"

" Because he is a worthless man ; and one should
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not lay himself under obligations to a worthless
man. I suppose thou didst kiss his hand? "

" Yes, aunty made me."

David laughed,— in a peculiar sort of way,
through his nose. It was a habit of his. He
never laughed aloud; he regarded laughter as a
sign of pusillanimity.

David's words, his noiseless smile, pained me
deeply. He must be blaming me inwardly, I
thought! I must also be a worthless creature in
his eyes! He would never have lowered himself
to that, he would not have accepted a gift from
Nastasyei! But what was left for me to do now?

It was impossible to give back the watch !

I made an effort to talk with David, to ask
his advice. He answered me that he never gave
advice to any one, and that I must act as I saw
fit.—" As I saw fit? " I remember that I did not
sleep all night afterward; I was tortured by
thought. I was sorry to part from the watch— so
I placed it beside my bed, on the night-stand;
it ticked so pleasingly and amusingly. . . But
to feel that David despised me .... (but it was
impossible to deceive myself on that score ! he did
despise me!) . . . seemed to me unbearable!
Toward morning my decision matured. ... I
cried a little, to tell the truth, but I went to sleep
after that, and as soon as I awoke I dressed my-
self in haste, and ran out into the street. I had
made up my mind to give my watch away to the
first beggar I met.

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IV

I HAD not succeeded in running very far from the
house when I hit upon that of which I was in
search. I came across a barefooted, tattered ur-
chin aged ten, who often lounged past our win-
dows. I immediately ran up to him, and without
giving either him or myself time to change our
minds, I offered him my watch.

The lad opened his eyes very wide, screened
his mouth with one hand, as though he were
afraid of scorching himself, and stretched out
the other.

" Take it, take it," I stammered,—" it is mine;
I make thee a present of it; thou mayest sell it
and buy thyself . . . Well, then, something
thou needest. . . . Good-bye!"

I thrust the watch into his hand, and started
for home at full tilt. After standing for a while
behind the door in our common bedroom and
getting my breath, I stepped up to David, who
had only just completed his toilet and was brush-
ing his hair. " Here, David," I began, in as calm
a voice as I could command, — " I have given
away Nastasyei's watch."

David glanced at me as he passed the brush
over his temples.

' Yes," I added, in the same business-like tone,
" I have given it away. There 's a very poor lit-
tle boy out there, a beggar; so I gave it to him."

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David laid down his brush on the wash-stand.

"For the money which he can get for it," I
went on, "he can purchase some useful article.
He will get something for it, anyhow."

I ceased speaking.

"Well, all right! 'T is a good thing!" said
David at last, and went off to the school-room.

I followed him.

"And what if thou art asked what thou hast
done with it? "—he said, turning to me.

" I will say that I have lost it," I replied care-
lessly.

We said nothing further to each other that day
about the watch; but, nevertheless, it struck me
that David not only approved of me, but even, to
a certain degree, was amazed at me. —Really!

Two days more passed. It so happened that no
one in the house bethought himself of the watch.
My father had a very great row with one of
his clients; he was in no mood to think of me
or of my watch. On the other hand, I thought
of it incessantly! Even the approbation . . . .
the presumptive approbation of David did not
afford me much consolation. He did not express
it in any particular manner; he never said but

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once— and that in passing— that he had not ex-
pected such daring from me. Positively, my sac-
rifice had been a disadvantage to me; it was not
counterbalanced by the satisfaction which my
vanity afforded.

But at this point, as though expressly, there
must needs turn up another gymnasium lad, an
acquaintance of ours, the son of the town phy-
sician, and begin to brag of a new watch— of
pinchbeck, not of silver — which his grandmother
had given him. . . . At last I could hold out no
longer, and slipping quietly out of the house, I
set forth to hunt up that beggar lad to whom
I had given my watch.

I soon found him ; he, together with other boys,
was playing at knuckle-bones on the church
porch. I called him to one side, and, panting and
entangling myself in my speech, I told him that
my family were angry with me for having given
away my watch, and that if he would consent to
restore it to me, I would gladly pay him money
for it. ... I had taken with me, in case of
emergency, an old-fashioned ruble of the time of
the Empress Elizabeth, which constituted my en-
tire cash capital. . . .

" Why, I have n't got it, that watch of yours,"

—replied the urchin, in an angry, snivelling

voice. " Daddy saw it and took it away from me ;

and he was going to thrash me to boot. ' Thou

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THE WATCH

must have stolen it somewhere,' said he. ' What
fool would give thee a watch? '

" And who is thy father? "

"My father? Trofimitch."

" But who is he? What is his business? "

" He 's a retired soldier — a srageant. And he
has n't any business. He cobbles old shoes, and
sews on soles. That 's all the business he has.
And he lives by it."

" Where is your lodging? Take me to him."

" I '11 take you. You just say to him, to my
daddy, that you gave me the watch. For he is
scolding me all the time. ' Thou 'rt a thief; yes,
a thief! ' And my mother does the same: * From
whom didst thou inherit this thieving? ' says she."

The boy and I wended our way to his lodging.
It was situated in a fowl-house, in the back yard
of a factory which had been burned down long,
long before and never rebuilt. We found both
Trofimitch and his wife at home. The retired
" srageant " was a tall old man, sinewy and erect,
with yellowish-grey side- whiskers, unshaven chin,
and a whole network of wrinkles on his cheeks
and forehead. His wife appeared to be older
than he ; her little red eyes blinked and puckered
mournfully in the midst of a bloated and sickly
face. Both of them were draped in some sort of
dark rags instead of garments.

I explained the affair to Trofimitch, and why
I had come. He listened to me in silence, never

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once winking, or removing from me his dull and
strained, regular soldier's glance.

" Mischievous tricks ! " he said at last, in a
hoarse, toothless voice.—" Do well-born gentle-
men behave like that? But if Petka really did
not steal the watch— I'll give it to him for
that!— w-w- whack! Take that for playing with
young gentlemen! But if he had stolen it I
would n't have treated him like that! w-whack!
w-whack ! w-whack ! with rods, in calergard *
style! Who cares? What 's that? Hey? Give
him the spontoons! So that 's the story? !
Faugh!"

This last exclamation Trofimitch uttered in a
falsetto voice. He was evidently perplexed.

" If you will return my watch to me," I ex-
plained to him .... I did not dare to address
him as " thou," notwithstanding the fact that he
was a common soldier .... "I will pay you
this ruble with pleasure. I don't suppose it is
worth any more than that."

" C-c-come ! "—growled Trofimitch, without
recovering from his perplexity, and devouring me
with his eyes, out of old habit, as though I had
been some superior officer or other. — "A fine
business— hey?— Well now, just think of it! . . .
Hold thy tongue, Ulyana!" he snarled at his
wife, who had begun to open her mouth. —
" Here 's the watch," he added, opening the table

1 Cavalier-guard. — TRANSLATOR.

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THE WATCH

drawer. — " If it really is yours, please to take it.
But what's the ruble for? Hey?"

"Take the ruble, Trofimitch, good-for-no-
thing! " roared his wife. — " The old man has out-
lived his mind! He has n't a penny to his name,
and here he is putting on pompous airs! 'T was
in vain they cut off thy queue, for thou art as
much of a woman as ever! — so thou art — and
knowest nothing. Accept the money, if thou hast
taken it into thy head to give back the watch ! "

"Hold thy tongue, Ulyana, thou good-for-
nothing ! " repeated Trofimitch.—" Who ever
heard of a woman's putting in her word? Hey?
The husband is the head; but she puts in her
word! Petka, don't stir or I'll kill thee! . . .
Here 's the watch!" Trofimitch reached out
the watch to me, but did not let it out of his fin-
gers.

He pondered, dropped his eyes, then riveted
upon me the same intently-dull gaze, and sud-
denly began to bawl at the top of his lungs:

"But where is it? Where 's that ruble?"

"Here it is, here," I hastily said, pulling the
money from my pocket.

But he did not take it, and kept staring at me.
I laid the ruble on the table. He suddenly swept
it into the drawer, flung my watch at me, and
wheeling round to the left and stamping his foot
violently, he hissed at his wife and son:

"Begone, riffraff !"

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Ulyana stammered something or other, but I
had already darted out into the courtyard, into
the street. Thrusting my watch to the very bot-
tom of my pocket, and gripping it tightly in my
hand, I dashed headlong homeward.

VI

I HAD again entered into possession of my watch,
but got no satisfaction whatever out of it. I could
not make up my mind to wear it; I must hide
it most of all from David, which I did. What
would he think of me and my lack of character?
I could not even lock that unlucky watch up in
a drawer. We had all our drawers in common.
I was forced to hide it, now on the top of the
wardrobe, now under the mattress, now behind
the stove. . . . And yet I did not succeed in de-
ceiving David!

One day, having the watch out from under the
floor of our room, I took it into my head to rub
up its silver back with an old chamois-skin glove.
David had gone off somewhere in the town ; I was
not in the least expecting that he would speedily
return . . . when suddenly in he walked!

I was so disconcerted that I almost dropped the
watch, and, all abashed, with face flushing to a
painful degree, I set to sliding it about over my
waistcoat, being utterly unable to hit my pocket.

305

THE WATCH

David looked at me, and smiled silently, ac-
cording to his wont.

"What ails thee?" he said at last.— "Dost
thou think I did not know that thou hadst the
watch again? I saw it the very first day thou
didst bring it back."

" I assure thee," I began, almost in tears ....

David shrugged his shoulders.

"The watch is thine; thou art free to do with
it what thou wilt."

Having uttered these cruel words, he left the
room.

Despair seized upon me. There was no doubt
about it this time; David really did despise me!

Matters could not be left in this condition.

"I '11 just show him!" I thought to myself,
setting my teeth; and immediately betaking my-
self with firm tread to the anteroom, I hunted up
our page-boy Yushka, and made him a present of
the watch!

Yushka tried to decline it, but I declared to
him that if he did not take that watch from me
I would smash it on the instant, I would trample
it under foot, I would fling it into the cesspool!
He reflected, giggled, and took the watch. And
I returned to our room, and seeing David, who
was engaged in reading a book, I told him what
I had done.

David did not remove his eyes from the page,
and again said, shrugging his shoulders and smil-

306

THE WATCH

ing to himself,— "The watch is thine, and thou
art free to dispose of it."

But it seemed to me that he despised me some-
what less.

I was fully convinced that I should never again
subject myself to a fresh reproach for lack of
character; for that watch, that hateful gift of
my hateful godfather, had suddenly become so
loathsome to me that I even was not able to com-
prehend how I had regretted it, how I could have
wheedled it out of that person named Trof imitch,
who, moreover, still had a right to think that he
had treated me with magnanimity.

Several days passed. ... I remember that on
one of them a great piece of news reached our
town; the Emperor Paul was dead, and his son
Alexander, concerning whose benignity and hu-
manity such good rumours were in circulation,
had ascended the throne. This news threw David
into a frightful state of agitation; the possibility
of seeing his father, of seeing him soon, immedi-
ately presented itself to him. My papa was also
delighted.

" All exiles will now be brought back from Si-
beria, and I suppose they will not forget brother
Egor either," he kept repeating, as he rubbed
his hands and cleared his throat, and, at the same
time, appeared to be struck with consternation.

David and I immediately ceased to work, and
did not go to the gymnasium; we did not even

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stroll about, but sat constantly somewhere in a
corner, reckoning up and discussing in how many
months, how many weeks, how many days " bro-
ther Egor" would be brought back, and where
we might write to him, and how we should go to
meet him, and in what manner we should begin
to live afterward. " Brother Egor " was an ar-
chitect; David and I decided that he must settle
in Moscow and there erect great school-houses for
poor people, while we would act as his assistants.
As a matter of course, we completely forgot the
watch; moreover, new anxieties had cropped up
for David .... of which more hereafter; but
the watch was destined to remind us of its exist-
ence.

VII

ONE morning just as we had finished breakfast,
I was sitting alone near the window and medi-
tating about my uncle's return — an April thaw
was steaming and glittering out of doors— when
suddenly Pulkheriya Petrovna ran into the room.
She was fussy and fidgety at all times, talked in
a squeaking voice, and was incessantly flourishing
her hands, but on this occasion she fairly pounced
upon me.

"Come along! come along to thy father this
very instant, young sir!" she cackled. "What
pranks are these thou hast been up to, thou

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shameless wretch?— You '11 catch it, both of you!
Nastasyei Nastasyeitch has brought all your
tricks to light. . . . Come along! Thy father
wants thee. . . . Go this very instant!"

Still comprehending nothing, I followed my
aunt; and as I crossed the threshold of the draw-
ing-room I beheld my father pacing back and
forth with huge strides, and rumpling up his crest
of hair, Yushka in tears by the door, and in the
corner, on a chair, my godfather, Nastasyei Nas-
tasyeitch, with an expression of peculiarly-malign
joy in his inflated nostrils and blazing, squinting
eyes.

As soon as I entered, my father flew at me.

"Didst thou give the watch to Yushka?
Tell me!"

I glanced at Yushka. ...

" Come, speak! " repeated my father, stamping
his foot.

" Yes," I replied, and immediately received a
swingeing box on the ear, which afforded great
satisfaction to my aunt. I heard her grunt, ex-
actly as though she had swallowed a mouthful
of boiling tea. — From me my father rushed to
Yushka.

"And thou, scoundrel, shouldst not have pre-
sumed to accept the watch as a gift," he said, pull-
ing the boy about by his hair;— "and thou hast
sold it into the bargain, thou rascal!"

Yushka, as I afterward learned, in simplic-
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THE WATCH

ity of heart, actually had carried my watch to
a neighbouring watchmaker. — The watchmaker
had hung it up in his window; Nastasyei Nas-
tasyeitch had espied it in passing, had purchased
it and brought it to our house.

But the chastisement of myself and Yushka
did not last long; my father got to panting, and
began to cough; and it was not in his nature,
either, to get angry.

"Dear brother, Porfiry Petrovitch," said my
aunt, as soon as she saw — not without some re-
gret, of course — that my father's wrath had died
down, as the saying is, — "pray, do not worry
yourself further; it is not worth soiling your
hands about. But this is what I would suggest:
with the consent of our respected Nastasyei Nas-
tasyeitch, and by reason of your little son's great
ingratitude, I will take possession of this watch;
and since he has shown by his act that he is un-
worthy to wear it, and does not even understand
its value, I will make a gift of it, in your name,
to a man who will be very appreciative of your
kindness."

"Who is he?" inquired my father.

"Why, Khrisanfa Liikitch," said my aunt,
with a little hesitation.

"Khrisashka? " 1 cross-questioned my father;
and with a wave of his hand he added :— 'T is all
one to me. Fling it into the stove if you like."

1 The scornful diminutive.— TRANSLATOR,

310

THE WATCH

He buttoned up his under waistcoat, which was
open on the breast, and left the room, writhing
with a cough.

" And do you consent, my dear man? " said my
aunt, addressing Nastasyei Nastasyeitch.

" With the greatest readiness," replied the lat-
ter. Throughout the whole duration of the
"chastisement" he had not stirred on his chair,
and merely sniffing softly, and softly rubbing
together the tips of his fingers, he had turned
his foxy eyes upon me, my father and Yiishka by
turns. We afforded him genuine satisfac-
tion! ....

My aunt's suggestion agitated me to the bot-
tom of my soul. I was not sorry for the watch;
but I heartily detested the man to whom she was
preparing to give it. — This Khrisanfa Liikitch,
whose surname was Trankvillitatin,1 a healthy,
robust, lank student in the ecclesiastical semi-
nary, had acquired a habit of coming to our house
—the devil only knows why! '" To teach the
children/' my aunt asserted; but he could not
teach us, for the simple reason that he himself
had learned nothing to teach, and was as stupid
as a horse. Altogether, he resembled a horse:
he clattered his feet exactly as though they were
hoofs; he did not laugh — he neighed, dis-

1 An absurd surname of this sort, or one manufactured from the
title of a religious festival or something similar, is an infallible sign
that the owner belongs to, or is descended from, the ecclesiastical
caste. — TRANSLATOR.

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THE WATCH

playing the whole of his jaws down to his very
gullet in the process; and he had a long face, a
nose with a hump, and large, flat cheek-bones;
he wore a shaggy frieze kaftan, and emitted an
odour of raw meat. My aunt fairly worshipped
him and called him a distinguished man, a cav-
alier, and even a grenadier. He had a habit of
rapping children on the forehead (he had rapped
me also, when I was younger) with the nails of
his long fingers, which were as hard as stone,
and as he tapped he would guffaw and express
surprise. "How thy head resounds!" he would
say. "That signifies that it is empty!" And
this lout was to possess my watch ! — " Not on any
account! " I decided in my own mind, when I had
run out of the drawing-room, and tucked my feet
up on my bed, while my cheek burned and glowed
from the blow it had received — and in my heart
also the anguish of insult, and a thirst for ven-
geance flared up. ... "Not on any account! I
won't allow that damned seminarist to rail at me.
.... He '11 put on the watch, and let the chain
hang over his belly, and begin to neigh with
pleasure. . . . Not on any account!"

Yet, what was I to do? How was I to pre-
vent it?

I decided to steal the watch from my aunt!

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THE WATCH

VIII

LUCKILY Trankvillitatin was absent from town
at the time. He could not come to our house
earlier than the following day; I must take ad-
vantage of the night. My aunt did not lock her-
self into her room, for all through our house
none of the keys worked in the locks; but where
would she put the watch, where would she hide
it? Until evening she carried it in her pocket,
and even pulled it out more than once and looked
at it; but at night — where would it be at night?
-Well, it was my business to find that out, I
thought, brandishing my clenched fists.

I was all 'glowing with audacity and fright
and joy at the approach of the longed-for crime;
I kept constantly nodding my head ; I contracted
my brows in a frown, I whispered: "Just wait
a bit ! " I menaced some one or other, I was ma-
lignant, I was dangerous .... and I avoided
David! — No one, not even he, must have the
slightest suspicion of that which I was preparing
to perpetrate. . . .

" I will act alone — and alone I will be respon-
sible!"

The day dragged slowly by .... then the even-
ing ... at last night came. I did nothing, I
even tried not to stir: one thought had riveted
itself in my head, like a nail. At dinner my

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THE WATCH

father, whose heart was, as I have said, benig-
nant, and who had grown somewhat ashamed
of his vehemence — one does not slap boys of six-
teen on the face — my father tried to pet me; but
I rejected his caresses, not out of rancour, but
simply because I was afraid of relenting: it was
necessary for me to preserve all the fervour of
vengeance, all the hardened temper of irrevo-
cable resolution!

I went to bed very early; but, as a matter of
course, I did not go to sleep, and did not even
close my eyes, but on the contrary opened them
staringly wide — although I had drawn the cov-
erlet over my head. I had not thought out be-
forehand how I should proceed ; I had no plan of
action; I was merely waiting until everything
should quiet down at last in the house. I took
but one precaution; I did not remove my stock-
ings. My aunt's room was in the second story.
It was necessary to pass through the dining-room
and the anteroom, ascend the stairs, traverse a
short, narrow corridor— and there ... on the
right, was the door! .... There was no need
to take a candle-end or a lantern : in the corner of
my aunt's room, in front of the glass case of holy
pictures, twinkled a shrine-lamp which was never
allowed to go out. I knew this. So I should be
able to see ! I continued to lie with staring eyes
and wide-open, parched mouth; my blood ham-
mered in my temples, my ears, my throat, my

314

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back, my whole body! I waited . . . but as
though some imp were making sport of me, time
passed on .... and on, but silence was not es-
tablished.

IX

NEVER, so it seemed to me, had David fallen
asleep so late. . . . David, the taciturn David,
even entered into conversation with me! Never
had people thumped, walked, and talked so long
in the house ! And what were they talking about ?
I thought. Had n't they talked their fill that
morning? External sounds did not cease for a
long time, either. Now a dog set up a shrill, per-
sistent barking ; now a drunken peasant began to
bluster somewhere or other, and would not stop;
now gates creaked ; now a miserable little peasant-
cart drove past on rickety wheels, drove and
drove, and could not seem to get past! But these
sounds did not irritate me; on the contrary, they
pleased me, for some reason or other! They
seemed to divert my attention. — But now, at last,
apparently, everything had quieted down. Only
the pendulum of our old clock ticked hoarsely
and pompously in the dining-room, and one could
hear the long, measured, and seemingly-difficult
breathing of sleeping persons.

I prepare to rise . . . but lo! again something
has hissed .... then suddenly there is a groan

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.... something soft has fallen— and a whisper
is wafted abroad, a whisper glides along the
walls. . . .

Or, is there nothing of all this, and is it only
my imagination teasing me?

Everything has grown dead still at last: the
very core and pitchiness and dead of the night has
come. — 7T is time! Shivering all over in an-
ticipation, I fling aside the coverlet, lower my
feet to the floor, stand up. . . . One step, a sec-
ond. . . I crawl stealthily on. The hollows of
my feet seem to belong to some one else : they are
heavy, they step weakly and uncertainly. Stay!
What sound is that? Is some one sawing some-
where, or scraping .... or sighing? I listen . . .
Chills course over my cheeks, cold, watery tears
well up in my eyes. . . . Never mind! . . . .
Again I crawl forward. It is dark; but I know
the way. Suddenly I collide with a chair. . . .
What a clatter, and how painful! The blow has
taken me straight on the shin. ... I become pet-
rified on the spot. ... Well, will they wake up?
Ah! I care nothing! Suddenly daring appears,
and even wrath. Forward! Forward! And
now I have traversed the dining-room; now I
have groped for and found the door, and have
opened it with one turn, with a flourish. . . .
How that cursed hinge squeaks .... damn it!
Now I am ascending the stairs. . . . One! two!
three ! A stair has creaked under my foot ; I dart

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a vicious glance at it— just as though I could see
it. And I have grasped the handle of the second
door. . . . This one did not even squeak! It
swung open lightly, as much as to say: "Pray,
enter!" . . . And now I am already in the little
corridor !

High up in the corridor, near the ceiling, is a
little window. The faint nocturnal light barely
sifts through the dark panes. And in that flick-
ering light I behold, stretched out on a felt upon
the floor, with both arms thrown over her head,
our little runaway girl; she is sleeping soundly,
breathing rapidly, and right at her very head
is the fateful door. I step over the felt, across
the girl. . . . Who opened that door for me. . . .
I know not; but now I am in my aunt's room;
there is the shrine-lamp in one corner, and the
bed in another, and my aunt in cap and night-
dress is on the bed, with her face turned toward
me. She is sleeping, and does not stir; even her
breath is not audible. The flame of the shrine-
lamp flickers softly, agitated by the current of
fresh air; and all over the room, and over my
aunt's face, which resembles yellow wax, the
shadows begin to waver. . . .

And there is the watch! Behind the bed, on
the wall it hangs, on a small embroidered cushion.
What luck, I think to myself! ... I must not
delay! But whose footsteps are those, soft and
swift, behind my back? Akh, no! that is the

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beating of my heart! ... I advance one foot.
. . . Heavens 1 Something round, fairly large,
hits me below the knee .... once! and yet
again ! I am ready to shriek aloud, I am ready to
fall to the floor with fright. ... A striped cat,
our household cat, is standing before me, with
arched back and tail in air. Now he springs upon
the bed — heavily — and softly turns himself about,
and sits down, without purring, like a judge; sits
there and glares at me with his golden pupils!
" Puss ! puss ! " I whisper, in barely audible tones.
I bend across my aunt, I already have the watch
in my grasp. . . . She suddenly sits up, opens
her eyelids wide. . . . O my Creator! What will
happen now? .... But her eyelids quiver and
close, and with a faint babble her head falls back
on the pillow.

Another minute and I am back in my own
room, in my bed, with my watch in my hands. . . .
More lightly than a tuft of down did I dash back!
I am a gallant fellow, I am a thief, I am a hero;
I am panting with joy, I feel burning hot, I feel
jolly — I want to wake up David on the spot and
tell him everything — and, incredible to relate! I
fall fast asleep, like one dead ! At last I open my
eyes. . . . The room is light; the sun has already
risen. Fortunately, no one is awake as yet. I
spring up like one scalded, arouse David, and
narrate all to him. He listens with a grin.

"See here,"— he says to me at last,— "let's
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bury that idiotic watch in the earth, so that no
trace of it may remain! "

I consider this a splendid idea. In a few min-
utes we are both dressed and run into the fruit-
garden which is situated behind our house, and
beneath an ancient apple-tree, in a deep hole
hastily excavated, with David's big knife, in the
porous spring soil, we conceal forever the hated
gift of my godfather, which after all has not
reached the hands of the repulsive Trankvilli-
tatin! We tread down the hole, fling rubbish
over it, and, proud and happy, we regain the
house without having been seen by any one, get
into our beds and sleep another hour or two —
and with what a light, blissful slumber!

You can picture to yourself what an uproar
arose the next morning as soon as my aunt woke
up and discovered the loss of the watch! Her
piercing shriek still rings in my ears. "Police!
Thieves! Thieves!" she shrilled, and roused the
whole household on foot. She went into a wild
rage, but David and I only smiled to ourselves,
and sweet was our smile to us.

"Every one must receive a sound thrashing,
every one!" —screamed my aunt. "My watch
has been stolen from under my head, from under
my pillow!"

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We were prepared for anything; we antici-
pated a catastrophe . . . but, contrary to our ex-
pectations, no catastrophe whatever crashed down
upon our heads. At first, it is true, my father
made a tremendous fuss — he even spoke of the
police; but probably the row of the day before
had thoroughly bored him, and he suddenly, to
the indescribable amazement of my aunt, pounced
not upon us, but upon her!

" I 'm sick of you,— more sick than of a bit-
ter radish,— Pulkheriy a Petrovna,"— he yelled,
" and of your watch! I won't hear another word
about it! You say that it did not disappear
through sorcery; but what do I care about that?
I don't care if it was sorcery! Has it been stolen
from you? Well, let it go! What will Nastasyei
Nastasyeitch say? The devil fly away with him
altogether, with that Nastasyeitch of yours! I
get nothing but offences and unpleasantnesses
out of him. Don't dare to bother me any more!
Do you hear?"

My father banged the door, and went off to
his study.

At first David and I did not understand the
hint contained in his last words; but later on we
learned that my father was extremely indignant
at my godfather at that very time, because the
latter had snatched away from him a good bit
of business. And so my aunt was left in the
lurch. She almost burst with wrath, but there

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was nothing to be done. She was compelled to
content herself with saying in a whisper as she
passed me, making a wry face in my direction:
4 Thief , thief, convict, rascal!"— My aunt's re-
proaches afforded me genuine delight. It was
also very pleasant, when skirting along the fence,
to glide a feignedly-indifferent eye at the spot
under the apple-tree where the watch reposed;
and if David were there also, to exchange with
him a significant grimace. . . .

My aunt took it into her head to hound Trank-
villitatin on me, but I had recourse to David's as-
sistance. He immediately announced to the stal-
wart seminarist that he would slit open his belly
with a knife if he did not let me alone. . . .
Trankvillitatin was scared. Although he was a
grenadier and a cavalier, according to my aunt's
expression, yet he was not distinguished for his
valour.

Thus five weeks passed. . . . But do you think
the story of the watch ended thus? No; it was
not ended; only, in order to continue my tale,
I must introduce a new personage; and in order
to introduce this new personage, I must go back
a little.

XI

MY father had long been friendly, even intimate,
with a certain retired official, Latkin, a lame, mis-
erable little man with strange and timid ways—

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one of those beings concerning whom the proverb
was fabricated that they have been slain by God
himself. Like my father and Nastasyei, he oc-
cupied himself with soliciting lawsuits and was
also a private " lawyer " and attorney ; but as he
possessed neither an imposing exterior nor the
gift of words, and had too little confidence in him-
self, he could not make up his mind to act inde-
pendently, and stuck close to my father. His
chirography was " a regular string of pearls," he
was thoroughly grounded in the statutes and had
acquired to perfection all the intricacies of style
required for legal documents and petitions. In
company with my father he managed certain af-
fairs, shared the profit and loss, and, apparently,
nothing could shake their friendship ; but, never-
theless, it crumbled to ruin in one day— and for-
ever. My father quarrelled for good and all with
his colleague. If Latkin had snatched away
from my father some profitable business after the
manner of Nastasyei, who replaced him later on,
my father would have been no more angry with
him than with Nastasyei,— probably he would
have been even less angry ; but Latkin, under the
influence of some inexplicable, incomprehensible
feeling — envy or greed — and perhaps also under
the momentary inspiration of honour,— "gave
away " my father, betrayed him to their common
client, a wealthy young merchant, by opening the
eyes of that heedless youth to certain ....

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certain tricks which were designed to yield my
father considerable profit. It was not the mone-
tary loss, great as that was — no! but the treach-
ery which hurt and enraged my father. He could
not forgive slyness !

" Just see, a saint has made his appearance I " —
he reiterated, all trembling with wrath, and with
teeth chattering as though in a fever. I was
present in the room and was a witness of this out-
rageous scene. — " Good! From this day forth —
amen! All is at an end between us. Yonder is
God and yonder is the threshold— begone ! I shall
not set my foot in thy house, and do not thou set
thy foot in mine ! Thou 'rt too awfully honest for
me — how can thou and I do business together!
But thou shalt have neither bottom nor cover! " *

In vain did Latkin beseech my father, and bow
to the earth before him; in vain did he strive to
explain that which filled his own soul with painful
surprise.

" But it was utterly without profit for myself,
Porfiry Petrovitch," he stammered: "I cut my
own throat, you know ! "

My father remained inflexible .... Latkin
never set foot in our house again. Fate itself,
apparently, conceived a desire to put into execu-
tion my father's last, cruel wish. Soon after the
rupture (it took place a couple of years before
the beginning of my story) Latkin's wife— who

1 Neither floor nor roof.— TRANSLATOR.

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had long been ill, it is true— died; his second
daughter, a child of three years, was stricken deaf
and dumb with terror in one day: a swarm of
bees settled down on her head; Latkin himself
suffered a stroke of apoplexy, and fell into ex-
treme and definitive poverty. How he got along,
on what he subsisted, it was difficult even to im-
agine. He dwelt in a half -ruined little hut, at a
short distance from our house. Raisa also lived
with him, and did her best with the housekeeping.
This Raisa is the new personage whom I must
introduce into my story.

XII

So long as her father and mine were friends, we
saw her constantly; she sometimes sat for whole
days together at our house and either sewed or
spun with her delicate, nimble and skilful hands.
She was a graceful, rather thin young girl, with
intelligent brown eyes in a white, rather long face.
She spoke little, but to the point, in a quiet, reso-
nant voice, hardly opening her mouth, and with-
out displaying her teeth; when she laughed—
which rarely happened, and did not last long—
they suddenly all revealed themselves, large, white
as almonds. I remember also her walk, which was
light and elastic, with a little skip at every step;
it always seemed to me as though she were de-
scending a flight of stairs, even when she was

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walking on level ground. She held herself up-
right, with arms pressed close to her breast. And
whatever she did, whatever she undertook, — whe-
ther she threaded a needle, or smoothed a petticoat
with an iron,— she did everything well, and . . .
you will not believe it ... in a touching sort of
way. Her Christian name was Raisa, but we
called her " Black-lip " : she had on her upper lip
a birth-mark,— a small, dark-blue spot, as though
she had been eating blackberries. But this did not
deface her: quite the contrary. She was just one
year older than David. I cherished for her a sen-
timent akin to reverence, but she had little to do
with me. On the other hand, between David and
her a great friendship sprang up— a strange, un-
childish, but good friendship. They seemed to
suit each other. They sometimes did not ex-
change a word for whole hours at a stretch, but
each felt that things were well with them — and
that because they were together. I have never
met any other girl like her, really. There was in
her something attentive and decisive, something
honourable and sad and charming. I never heard
her utter a clever word, but, on the other hand, I
never heard a commonplace from her, and more
intelligent eyes I have never seen. When the
rupture occurred between her family and mine I
began to see her rarely: my father forbade me, in
the strictest manner, to visit the Latkins— and she
no longer showed herself in our house. But I was

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in the habit of meeting her on the street, and in
church, and Black-lip still inspired me with the
same sentiments : respect and even a certain admi-
ration rather than compassion. She had borne her
reverses well. " She 's a girl of flint," the coarse
Trankvillitatin himself had said of her one day.
And really she was to be pitied: her face had as-
sumed a careworn, suffering expression, her eyes
had become hollow and sunken — an intolerable
burden was imposed upon her young shoulders.

David saw her much more frequently than I
did; he even went to their house. My father al-
lowed him to do as he pleased; he knew that
David would not obey him in any case. And
Raisa presented herself at the wattled fence of
our garden, from time to time, where it abutted
on the alley, and there met David; she did not
conduct a conversation with him, but merely com-
municated to him some fresh difficulty or new dis-
aster, and asked his advice.

The paralysis which had smitten Latkin was
of a very peculiar nature. His arms and legs had
grown weak, but he had not lost the use of them,
and his brain even worked regularly; but, on the
other hand, his tongue got entangled and instead
of one set of words he employed quite another set ;
one was forced to guess at what he meant to say.

..." Tchu-tchu-tchu," he stammered with an
effort (he began every sentence with "tchu-tchu-
tchu ") — " the scissors; give me the scissors . . . ."

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But by the scissors he meant to indicate bread. He
hated my father with all the strength that was left
to him; he attributed to his curse all his misfor-
tunes and called him sometimes a butcher, some-
times a jeweller. " Tchu-tchu, don't dare to go
to the jeweller's, Vasilievna!" He had rechris-
tened his daughter by this name, while his own
name was Martinyan.1 He grew more exacting
every day; his wants increased. . . . And how
were those wants to be supplied? Where was the
money to come from? Woe ages a person fast;
but it makes one shudder to hear certain words on
the lips of a girl of seventeen.

XIII

I REMEMBER that I happened to be present at her
conversation by the fence with David, on the very
day of her mother's death.

" Mamma died at dawn this morning," she said,
after first having glanced about her with her dark,
expressive eyes, and then fixed them on the
ground. :< The cook has undertaken to buy the
coffin as cheaply as possible; and we cannot rely
upon her ; she will probably spend the money for
liquor. It would be well for thee to come round
and take a look, David: she is afraid of thee."

1 Consequently, his daughter should have been called
Raisa Martinydnovna.— TRANSLATOR.

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" I '11 come," replied David; " I '11 see to it. ...
But how about thy father? "

" He is weeping; he says, ' You will be spoiling
me, too.' ' You will spoil ' must mean— you will
bury. Now he has fallen asleep." Raisa sud-
denly heaved a deep sigh.— " Akh, David, Davi-
dushko!"1 She passed her half -clenched fist
across her forehead and brows, and this gesture
was very bitter . . . and very sincere and beau-
tiful, as were all her gestures.

" But do have some pity on thyself," remarked
David.—" Thou hast not slept at all, I am sure.
. . . And what is the use of crying? It will not
remedy thy grief."

" I have no time to weep," replied Raisa.

"Rich folks can indulge themselves in that
way, in weeping," remarked David.

Raisa started to go, but turned back.

" They are bargaining with us for the yellow
shawl from mamma's wedding outfit. They offer
twelve rubles. I think that is very little."

"So it is,— very little."

" I would prefer not to sell it," went on Raisa,
after a brief pause, — " but we must have money
for the funeral, you know."

" You must. Only you must not spend money
at random. Those priests are — the mischief ! Here,
wait a bit, I'll come round. Art thou going?
— I '11 be there very soon. Good-bye, dear."

1 Or " dear little David."— TRANSLATOR.

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" Good-bye, dear brother, darling! "

" See here now, don't cry! "

"How should I cry? I must either cook the
dinner or cry. One of the two."

" What does she mean by cooking the dinner? "
I asked, turning to David, as soon as Raisa had
departed. "Do you mean to say that she pre-
pares the food herself?"

" Why, surely thou didst hear her say that the
cook has gone to bargain."

"Prepare the dinner," I thought, "and her
hands have always been so clean, and her gown so
neat. ... I should like to see how she would
manage in the kitchen. ... A remarkable girl!"

I remember another conversation at the fence.
On this occasion Raisa had brought with her her
little deaf and dumb sister. This sister was a
pretty child, with huge, surprised eyes, and a
whole mass of dull black hair on her little head.
(Raisa's hair also was black, and without lustre.)
Latkin had already been smitten with paralysis.

" I really do not know what I am to do," began
Raisa.— "The doctor has written a prescription,
and I must go to the apothecary's; and our
wretched little peasant" (Latkin still owned one
serf soul) "has brought fuel and a goose from
the village. But the yard-porter is taking it
away; * you are in debt to me/ he says."

" Is he taking away the goose? " asked David.

"No, not the goose. 'It's old,' he says; "tis
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good for nothing any more. That 's why the
peasant has brought it to you,' he says. But he is
taking the wood."

"But he has no right to do that!" exclaimed
David.

" He has no right, but he is taking it. ... I
went to the garret; we have a trunk standing
there— an old, a very old trunk. I began to rum-
mage in it. . . And what do you think I found?
Look!"

She drew from under her kerchief a fairly large
telescope, mounted in brass, and covered with
morocco which had turned yellow. David, in his
quality of a lover and connoisseur of all sorts of
instruments, immediately seized it.

" English," he said, applying it to one eye, then
to the other. — "A naval glass."

"And the lens is whole," pursued Raisa.— "I
showed it to papa ; he said, * Carry it to the
jeweller and pawn it!' What dost thou think
about it? Will they give me money for it?
For of what use to us is a telescope? Can we
use it as a looking-glass to see what beauties
we are? But we have no looking-glass, unfortu-
nately."

And as she uttered these words, Raisa suddenly
burst into a loud laugh. Her little sister could
not hear her, of course, but probably felt the quiv-
ering of her body (she was holding Raisa by the
hand), and lifting her large eyes, she contorted

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her little face in a frightened way, and burst into
tears.

" That 's the way she always is," remarked
Raisa; " she does not like to have people laugh."

"Come, I won't do it again, Liiibotchka, I
won't do it again," she added, promptly squatting
down on her heels beside the child and running
her fingers through her hair. The child ceased
crying. Raisa rose to her feet.

" So pray do thy best, Davidushko . . . with
the telescope, I mean. For 't is a pity about
the wood, — and the goose also, no matter how old
it is!"

"I can certainly get ten rubles for it," said

David, turning the glass about in all directions.

— " I '11 buy it from thee . . . why not? And in

the meantime, here are fifteen kopeks for the

apothecary. . . . Is that enough?"

" I will borrow it of thee," whispered Raisa, ac-
cepting the coin from him.

"Of course! With interest— wouldst like
that? Yes, and I have a pledge. A very valuable
article! . . . The English are first-class people."

" But they say that we are going to war with
them?"

"No," replied David, "we are thrashing the
French at present."

"Well— thou knowest best. So do thy best.
Farewell, gentlemen!"

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XIV

AND here is another conversation which also took
place at that same fence. Raisa appeared more
anxious than usual.

" A head of cabbage costs five kopeks, and the
head is such a wee, tiny bit of a thing," she said,
propping her chin on her hand. — " Just think
how dear ! And I have n't yet received the money
for my sewing."

" Is some one in debt to thee? " asked David.

" Why, it is still that same merchant's wife who
lives beyond the ramparts."

"The one who wears a green coat,1 the fat
one?"

" Yes, she 's the one."

"What a fat creature! She can't get her
breath for fat, and in church throws off a steam,
but does n't pay her debts ! "

"She will pay .... only when will it be?
And here is something else, Davidushko, some
fresh worries. My father has taken it into his
head to narrate his dreams to me — thou knowest
how tongue-tied he has become: he tries to say
one word and another comes out instead. When
it is a question of food, or of anything connected

1 The coat in question is of plebeian shape, in use among the peas-
ants. It has sleeves, short skirts, a round turn-down collar, and is
trimmed all round with a ribbon border. It is fitted to the figure
and hooked up.— TRANSLATOR.

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with daily life, we have already become used to
him, we can understand; but a dream is unintel-
ligible even with healthy people, while in his
case it is dreadful! 'I 'm greatly delighted,' he
says; * to-day I was walking about the whole
time on white birds ; and the Lord God gave me
a pouquet, and in the pouquet sat Andriusha with
a little knife.'— He calls our Liubotchka An-
driusha.— 'Now we are both going to get well,'
he says. ' All that is needed is to use the knife —
tchirk! Like that!' and he points to his throat.
—I don't understand him. I say: 'Very well,
dear, very well'; but he gets angry and tries
to explain the matter to me. He even took to
weeping."

" But thou shouldst have told him some tale or
other," I interposed: "thou shouldst have in-
vented some lie or other."

" I don't know how to lie," replied Raisa, fairly
flinging her hands apart in despair.

And it was a fact; she did not know how to lie.

" It is not necessary to lie," remarked David,
" and there is no need for wearing thyself to death
either. No one will say ' Thank you,' I 'm sure."

Raisa looked intently at him.

" I wanted to ask something of thee, Davi-
dushko; how should one write e shtop*?"

" What does f shtop ' mean? "

"Why, here, for example: 'I wish that thou
shouldst live.' "

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" Write :sh,t,o, b, er!"1

" No," I put in: " not sh, but tch! "

"Well, never mind, write tch! But the chief
point is that thou shouldst take care of thyself! "

"I should like to write correctly," remarked
Raisa, blushing faintly.

When she blushed she immediately became
wonderfully pretty.

" It may prove useful. . . . How papa used to
write in his day! ... It was wonderful! And
he taught me. Well, but now he deciphers the
letters badly."

" Only let me keep thee alive," repeated David,
lowering his voice and never taking his eyes from
Raisa. Raisa darted a swift glance at him and
blushed worse than before.— " Only do thou live.
.... And as for writing . . . write as best thou
canst. . . Oh, damn it, the witch is coming!"
(David called my aunt "the witch.") "And
what is bringing her hither? . . . Run away, my
darling!"

Raisa darted one more glance at David and
fled.

David spoke to me very rarely and reluctantly
about Raisa and her family, especially since he

1 Er is the name of the character denoting that the preceding con-
sonant has the hard, not the soft, pronunciation. All terminal con-
sonants, and many which are not terminal, have one or other of two
characters affixed, and it is necessary to specify which is required*
Tehtob (or, in full, tchtoby) means that, or in order that.— TRANSLATOR.

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had begun to look for his father's return. He
thought of nothing but him, and of how they
would live together afterward. He had a vivid
recollection of him, and was wont to describe him
to me with particular satisfaction.

" He is tall and strong: he can lift ten puds 1
with one hand. . . . When he shouts * Hey there,
young fellow!' — it can be heard throughout the
house. Pie's such a splendid, kind man . . . .
and a gallant fellow! He never quailed before
any one. We lived in capital style until we were
ruined! They say his hair has grown quite grey
now, but formerly it was as red as mine. He 's a
ve-ry stro-ong man ! "

David absolutely refused to admit that we
should remain in Ryazan.

" You may go away," I remarked, " but I shall

remain."

" Nonsense ! We will take thee with us."

" And how about my father? "

" Thou wilt abandon thy father. And if thou
dost not— thou wilt go to destruction."

" What dost thou mean by that? "

David did not answer me, and merely con-
tracted his white brows.

" So then, when we go away with my daddy,"
he began again, " he will find thee a good place,
and I shall marry. . . ."

1 A pud is 36 pounds English. —

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" Well, there 's no great haste about that," I re-
marked.

' Yes, there is. Why not? I shall marry soon."

"Thou?"

"Yes, I. Why?"

" Surely thou hast not thine eye on a bride al-
ready?" '

" Of course I have."

"Who is she?"

David laughed.

" What a stupid thou art! Raisa, of course."

" Raisa!" I repeated, with amazement.— "Art
thou jesting?"

" I don't know how to jest, my dear fellow, and
I don't like it either."

:< Why, she is a year older than thou."

" What of that? However, let us drop the sub-
ject."

" Permit me to ask one question," I said.—
" Does she know that thou art preparing to marry
her?"

"Probably."

" But hast not thou revealed anything to
her?"

"What is there to reveal? When the time
comes, I shall tell her. Come, enough of this ! "

David rose and left the room. When I was
alone I thought . . . and thought . . . and
finally came to the conclusion that David was be-
having like a sensible and practical man; and I

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THE WATCH

even felt flattered at being the friend of such a
practical man!

And Raisa, in her everlasting black woollen
gown, suddenly began to appear charming and
worthy of the most devoted love!

XV

DAVID'S father still did not arrive and did not
even send letters. Summer had long since come,
the month of June was drawing to a close. We
were worn out with anticipation.

In the meantime rumours began to circulate to
the effect that Latkin had suddenly grown much
worse, and the first any one knew, his family
would die of hunger, if the house did not tumble
down and crush them all under the roof. David
even changed countenance and became so vicious
and surly that one dared not speak to him. I did
not meet Raisa at all. Now and then she flitted
past at a distance, tripping briskly across the
street with her beautiful light gait, straight as an
arrow, with folded arms, a dark and intelligent
look under her long eyebrows, and a careworn ex-
pression on her pale, sweet face — that was all.

My aunt, with the assistance of her Trankvilli-
tatin, tormented me as of old, and as of old she
kept whispering reproachfully in my very ear:
" Thief, sir, thief! " But I paid no attention to
her; and my father continued to bustle, work

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THE WATCH

sedulously, run about and write, and would not
listen to anything.

One day, as I was walking past the familiar
apple-tree, I cast a sidelong glance at the well-
known spot, more as a matter of habit than any-
thing else, and suddenly it struck me that a cer-
tain change had taken place in the surface of the
ground which covered our hoard. ... A sort of
hump had made its appearance where there had
previously been a depression, and bits of the rub-
bish were lying in a different position! " What 's
the meaning of this? " I thought to myself. " Is
it possible that some one has penetrated our secret
and has dug up the watch? "

I must convince myself with my own eyes. I
felt the most complete indifference, of course,
toward the watch rusting there in the bowels
of the earth; but no other person could be per-
mitted to make use of it! Accordingly, on the
following day I rose before dawn once more, and
arming myself with a knife, I wended my way
to the garden, hunted up the marked spot
beneath the apple-tree, set to digging, and
after digging a hole about two feet deep, I was
forced to the conviction that the watch had dis-
appeared; that some one had got at it, taken it
out, stolen it!

But who could have . . . taken it out — except
David?

What other person knew where it was ?
838

THE WATCH

I filled up the hole, and returned to the house.
I felt myself deeply injured.

" Assuming," I thought, " that David had need
of the watch in order to save his future wife or
her father from starving to death. . . . Say
what you will, the watch was worth something.
. . . Still, why did not he come to me and
say: 'Brother! ' (in David's place I would have
infallibly said brother) , ' brother ! I am in need of
money ; thou hast none, I know, but permit me to
make use of that watch which we buried together
under the old apple-tree. It is doing no one any
good, and I shall be so grateful to thee, brother! '
With what joy I should have given my consent!
But to act secretly, in a treacherous manner, not
to trust his friend. . . . No! No passion, no
need could excuse that ! "

I repeat that I was deeply wounded. I began
to display coldness, to sulk. . . .

But David was not one of those who notice such
things and are worried thereby.

I began to drop hints. . . .

But David did not seem to understand my hints
in the least.

I said in his presence how low in my eyes was
the man who, having a friend and understanding
the full significance of that sacred sentiment,
friendship, did not possess, nevertheless, sufficient
magnanimity to avoid having recourse to cun-
ning; as though anything could be concealed!

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THE WATCH

As I uttered these last words I laughed scorn-
fully.

But David never turned a hair!

At last I asked him outright, whether he sup-
posed our watch had continued to go for a while
after it was buried in the earth, or had stopped
immediately.

He answered me — " The deuce knows! Well,
thou hast found a fine thing to meditate about!"

I did not know what to think. David, evi-
dently, had something on his heart .... only it
was not the theft of the watch. An unforeseen
incident demonstrated to me his innocence.

XVI

ONE day I was returning home through a cross-
alley which I generally avoided using, because
in it there was a detached house where my enemy
Trankvillitatin lodged ; but on this occasion Fate
led me thither. As I was passing under the
closed window of a drinking-establishment I
suddenly heard the voice of our servant Vasfly, a
free and easy young fellow, a great " dawdler
and idler" as my father expressed it,— but also a
great conqueror of feminine hearts, on which he
acted by means of witty remarks, dancing and
playing on the torban.1

" And what do you think they hit upon? " said

1 A sort of bagpipes.— TRANSLATOR.

340

THE WATCH

Vasily, whom I could not see, although I could
hear him very distinctly ; he was probably sitting
just there, close to the window, with a comrade,
over a cup of tea, and, as often happens with peo-
ple in a closed room, was talking loudly, without
a suspicion that any passer-by in the street could
hear every word: — " What do you think they hit
upon? They buried it in the earth! "

" Thou liest! "—growled another voice.

" They did, I tell thee. We have such ray-
markible young gentlemen at our house. That
David in particular . ... he 's a regular ^Bsop.
I get up just at break of day, and step to the win-
dow, so ... I look out — and what do I see? . . .
Our two nice little dears are walking in the gar-
den carrying that same watch, and they dug a
hole under the apple-tree— and in they put it, just
as though it had been a baby! And then they
smoothed over the earth, by heaven, those good-
for-nothings ! "

"Akh, the deuce take them!"— said Vasily's
companion.— "Too much good living, of course.
Well, and what then? Didst thou dig up the
watch?"

" Certainly I did. I have it now. Only I can't
display it at present. There was altogether too
much of a row over it. That David pulled it out
from under the spine of our old woman that very
night."

"O-Oh!"

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THE WATCH

"He did, I tell thee. Quite unpardonable.
And so I can't show it. But wait until some offi-
cers come : I '11 sell it to some one, or gamble it
away at cards."

I listened no longer, but rushed headlong home
and straight to David.

"Brother!" I began,— " brother! Forgive
me ! I have been guilty toward thee ! I have sus-
pected thee! I have accused thee! Thou seest
how excited I am! Forgive me! "

" What 's the matter with thee? " asked David.
-"Explain thyself."

" I suspected thee of having dug up our watch
from under the apple-tree! "

" That watch again ! Why, is n't it there ? "

" No, it is not ; I thought that thou hadst taken
it, in order to aid thy friends. And it was all that
Vasily!"

I told David all I had heard under the window
of the dram-shop.

But how shall I describe my amazement? I
had assumed, as a matter of course, that David
would be indignant ; but I could not possibly have
foreseen what would happen to him! Barely had
I finished my tale when he flew into an indescrib-
able rage! David, who had never borne himself
otherwise than with scorn toward this whole
" petty" caper with the watch, as he termed it,—
that same David who had more than once declared
that it was not worth an empty egg-shell, — sud-

342

THE WATCH

denly sprang from his seat, flushed crimson all
over, set his teeth and clenched his fists.

"Things cannot be left in this state!" he said
at last.— "How dares he appropriate other peo-
ple's property? Just wait, I'll teach him a les-
son ! I won't connive at thievery ! "

I must confess that to this day I do not under-
stand what could have so enraged David ; whether
it was that he was already irritated and Vasily's
behaviour merely poured oil on the fire, or whe-
ther my suspicions had wounded him, I cannot
say; but I had never seen him so excited. With
gaping mouth I stood before him, and simply
wondered how he could breathe so heavily and
forcibly.

"What dost thou intend to do?" I asked at
last.

" Thou shalt see— after dinner, when thy fa-
ther lies down for his nap. I '11 hunt up that wag !
I '11 have a little talk with him! "

" Well," I thought to myself, " I wouldn't like
to be in that * wag's ' place! What will come of
this, O Lord, my God?"

XVII

THIS is what came of it.

Just as soon after dinner as there reigned that
slumberous suffocating tranquillity which to this
day is spread like a hot bed of down over the Rus-

343

THE WATCH

sian house and the Russian people in the middle
of the day after savoury viands have been par-
taken of, David (I followed on his heels with a
sinking heart) —David wended his way to the
servants' hall and called Vasily out. At first the
latter was unwilling to come, but ended by obey-
ing and following him into the little garden.

David stood before him, almost touching his
breast. Vasily was a whole head taller than he.

:< Vasily TerentieiF!" began my comrade in a
firm voice, " six weeks ago thou didst dig up from
under this apple-tree the watch which we had con-
cealed there. Thou hadst no right to do that ; the
watch did not belong to thee. Give it here this
very minute!"

Vasily came near losing countenance, but im-
mediately recovered himself. "What watch?
What are you talking about? I don't know any-
thing about it ! I have n't any watch at all ! "

" I know what I am saying, and don't lie, thou.
Thou hast the watch. Hand it over! "

" I have n't got your watch."

:< Then why didst thou say in the public-
house ..." I began; but David stopped me.

" Vasily Terentieff,"— he articulated in a dull
and threatening voice,— "we are authentically
informed that thou hast the watch. I tell thee, as
a favour, to hand it over. — And if thou dost
not ... ."

Vasily grinned insolently.
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THE WATCH

"And what will you do to me then? Come,
sir!"

" What?— Both of us will fight with thee until
thou conquerest us or we conquer thee."

Vasily burst out laughing.

"Fight? — That's no business for young gen-
tlemen! Fight with a serf? "

David suddenly seized Vasily by the waistcoat.

" But we are n't going to fight thee with our
fists," he ejaculated, gnashing his teeth, — "under-
stand that! But I will give thee a knife and will
take one myself .... Well, and then we '11 see
who's who! Alexyei!"— he said to me imperi-
ously,—" run for my big knife; thou knowest
which— the one with the bone haft; it is lying
yonder on the table; and I have another in my
pocket."

Vasily suddenly came near falling in a swoon.
David still held him fast by the waistcoat.

"Mercy .... have mercy, David Egoritch !"
—he stammered; tears even started to his eyes.
"What are you doing? What are you doing?
Let me go!"

" I won't let thee go.— And I won't spare thee!
If thou eludest us to-day we will begin again to-
morrow.— Alyosha! where 's that knife? "

"David Egoritch!" roared Vasily, "do not
commit murder. . . . Who ever saw the like of
this? And the watch .... I really did ....
I was joking. I '11 fetch it to you this very min-

345

THE WATCH

ute. How can you go on like that? First you
threaten to rip up Khrisanf a Liikitch's belly, and
now you threaten me!— Let me go, David Ego-
ritch. . . . Please to receive your watch. Only
don't tell your papa."

David released Vasily's waistcoat. I looked
into his face; really, it was enough to scare a
bolder person than Vasily. It was so dismal . . .
and cold . . . and malignant. . . .

Vasily darted into the house and immediately
returned thence with the watch in his hand. — Si-
lently he handed it to David, and only as he was
on his way back to the house did he exclaim aloud
on the threshold: " Phew, here 's a pretty go! "

His face was still distorted beyond recognition.
David nodded his head and went off to our room.
Again I trudged after him.

" Suvoroff! A regular Suvoroff!" I thought
to myself.— At that time, in 1801, Suvoroff was
our leading popular hero.

XVIII

DAVID locked the door behind him, laid the watch
on the table, folded his arms and — oh, marvellous
to relate! — burst out laughing. — As I looked at
him I began to laugh also.

"What an astounding dodger!" he began.—
" We cannot possibly rid ourselves of this watch.

346

THE WATCH

It is bewitched, it really is. And what made me
go into a rage so all of a sudden? "

"Yes, what?" I repeated.— "Thou mightest
have left it with Vasily . . . ."

';Well, no," interrupted David.-" That's all
fiddlesticks! But what shall we do with it now? "

"Yes! What?"

We both riveted our eyes on the watch, and fell
to thinking. Adorned with a string of sky-blue
glass beads (the ill-starred Vasily in his headlong
haste had not had time to detach this string, which
belonged to him) , it was very quietly performing
its functions; it ticked somewhat unevenly, it is
true, and moved its brass minute-hand slowly.

" Shall we bury it again? Or fling it into the
stove? " I suggested at last. — " Or, see here, — why
not make a present of it to Latkin? "

" No," replied David.—" That won't do at all.
But here 's an idea : a commission has been insti-
tuted in the Governor's chancellery to receive sub-
scriptions for the benefit of the inhabitants of
Kasimoff who have been burned out of house and
home. They say that the town of Kasimoff has
been reduced to ashes, with all its churches. And
they say that everything is accepted; not alone
bread and money, but articles of every descrip-
tion.—Let 's give the watch to them! Hey? "

" We will! We will! " I interposed.-" That 's
a fine idea! But I assumed that as the family of
thy friends is in need . . . ."

347

THE WATCH

"No, no; give it to the commission!— The
Latkins will get along without it. — To the com-
mission with it!"

" Well, if it must.he the commission, it must.—
Only I suppose that we must write something to
the Governor to go with it."

David looked at me. " Dost think so? "

"Yes; of course it is not necessary to write
much. But so — only a few words."

"For example?"

"For example .... we might begin thus:
' Being ' ... or, better still, 'Actuated '...."

" ' Actuated ' is good. . . ."

" Then we must say : ' The which small mite of

ours '

;<Mite' .... is good also; well, take thy
pen, sit down, write, go ahead ! "

" I will first make a rough draft," I remarked.

"Well, do so; only write, write .... And
in the meantime I will polish it up with some
chalk."

I took a sheet of paper, and mended my pen;
but before I had had time to set at the top of the
page: "To His Excellency, Mr. Radiant Prince"
(our Governor at that time was Prince X.), I
stopped short, astounded by an unusual noise
which had suddenly arisen in our house. David
also noticed the noise and also stopped short, with
the watch held aloft in his left hand, and the rag
smeared with chalk in his right. We exchanged
glances. What was that piercing shriek? That

348

THE WATCH

was aunty squealing. . . . And what was this?
-It was the voice of my father, hoarse with rage.

"The watch! The watch!" roared some one,
probably Trankvillitatin.

Feet trampled, soles squeaked, the whole horde
was running . . . making straight for us. I was
swooning with terror; and David was as white as
clay, but with the look of an eagle.

:< That villain Vasily has betrayed us," he whis-
pered through his teeth. . . .

The door was flung wide open, and my father
in his dressing-gown, and without a necktie, and
my aunt in her dressing-sack, Trankvillitatin,
Vasily, Yushka, another small boy, and the cook
Agapit, all invaded the room.

" Scoundrels! " yelled my father, barely able to

draw his breath .... "at last we have caught

you ! " — And espying the watch in David's hands :

-" Hand it over ! "—roared my father.—" Hand

over that watch ! "

But David, without uttering a word, darted to
the open window, sprang through it into the yard,
and then made for the street!

Accustomed to imitate my model in all things,
I also jumped out, and rushed after David. . . .

" Catch them ! Hold them ! " thundered a wild
chorus of voices behind us.

But we were already fleeing headlong down the
street, with no caps on our heads, David in the
lead, I a few paces behind him, and after us came
the trampling and roar of pursuit.

349

THE WATCH
XIX

MANY years have elapsed since all these events ; I
have thought of them many a time — and to this
day I cannot understand the cause of that rage
with which my father was seized, after having so
recently forbidden the mere mention of that
watch of which he was so tired, just as I could not
understand then the wrath of David when he
learned of its theft by Vasily.— But I cannot help
thinking that some mysterious force was con-
tained within it. Vasily had not betrayed us, as
David supposed,— he was in no mood for that; he
was too thoroughly intimidated; but simply, one
of our maids had seen the watch in his hands and
had immediately reported the fact to my aunt.
And thus the spark had kindled a great fire.

So then, we dashed headlong down the street,
along its very centre. The passers-by who met
us came to a halt or stepped aside in perplexity.
I remember that one retired Second-Major, a
famous breeder of greyhounds, suddenly thrust
his head out of the window of his lodgings, and,
all red in the face, with his body hanging in the
balance, began to emit a wild view-halloo!

"Stop! Hold them!" continued to thunder
after us. — David ran onward, swinging the
watch round his head, and now and then giving a
skip ; I skipped also, and at the same places as he.

" Whither away? " I shout to David, perceiving
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THE WATCH

that he is turning from the street into an alley,
and making the turn with him.

"To the Oka!"— he shouts back.— "Into the
water, into the river, to the devil with it! "

" Halt! Halt! " roar the people behind us. ...
But we are already flying through the alley.
And now a chill breath wafts to meet us, and
the river is before us, and the steep, muddy
descent, and the wooden bridge with a train of
wagons extending across it, and the soldier with
his pike by the barrier — soldiers carried pikes in
those days .... David is already on the bridge,
he dashes past the soldier, who tries to prod him
in the leg with his pike,— and collides with a pass-
ing calf. — David instantly leaps upon the railing,

—he emits a joyful exclamation. . . . Some-
thing white, something blue has glittered, has
flashed through the air— it is the silver watch with
Vasily's chain flying into the water. . . . But at
this point something incredible occurs! David's
legs whirl upward in pursuit of the watch and he
himself, head down, hands in front of him, jacket-
tails fluttering in the air, describes a sharp curve

—frightened frogs leap thus on a hot day from
the lofty shore into the waters of a pond — and
instantly disappears beyond the railing of the
bridge .... and then — flop ! and a heavy splash
below. . . .

What my sensations were it is utterly beyond
my power to describe. I was a few paces distant

351

THE WATCH

from David when he sprang from the railing ....
but I do not even recollect whether I screamed ; I
do not think I was even frightened: I was struck
dumb and dizzy. My arms and legs lost their
power. Around me people were jostling and
running; some of them seemed familiar to me;
Trofimitch suddenly flitted past, the soldier with
the pike darted off somewhere to one side, the
horses of the wagon-train walked hurriedly past,
tossing on high their muzzles, which were bound
together. . . . Then there was a ringing in my
ears, and some one gave me a smart blow in the
nape of the neck and along the whole length of
my spine. ... I had fallen down in a swoon.

I remember that I rose to my feet afterward,
and, perceiving that no one was paying any heed
to me, I approached the railing, not on the
side from which David had jumped (it seemed to
me a dreadful thing to approach that one) — but
the other, and began to stare at the river, turbu-
lent, blue, and swollen; I remember that not far
from the bridge, on the shore, I noticed a boat
moored, and in the boat several men, and one of
them, all wet and glistening in the sun, bending
over the edge of the boat, was dragging something
from the water — something not very big, some
long, dark thing which at first I took for a trunk
or a basket; but on looking more intently I saw
that that thing was— David! Then I gave a great
start, began to shout at the top of my voice, and

352

THE WATCH

ran to the boat, pushing my way through the
crowd; and having reached it, I became daunted
and began to look about me. Among the people
who surrounded it I recognised Trankvillitatin,
our cook Agapit with a boot on his arm, Yushka
and Vasily. . . . The wet, glistening man had
pulled from under the boat by his armpits the
body of David, whose hands were raised on a level
with his face, as though he were desirous of hid-
ing it from the eyes of strangers, and had laid
him on his back upon the muddy shore. David
did not stir; he seemed to have stretched himself
out, drawn in his heels, and thrust out his belly.
His face was of a greenish hue, his eyes were
rolled up, and the water was dripping from his
hair. The wet man who had pulled him out, a
factory-hand, judging from his attire, began to
narrate, shivering with cold the while and inces-
santly pushing the hair back from his brow, how
he had done it. He narrated very decorously and
carefully.

" What do I see, gentlemen? This young fel-
low diving from the bridge. . . . Well! . . . .
I immediately run down-stream, for I know that
he has fallen straight into the current, which will
carry him under the bridge— well, and then ....
that would be the last of him! Hook: something
resembling a shaggy cap is floating, but it was
his head. Well, and so I immediately dashed
into the water in a lively manner. I clutched

353

THE WATCH

him. . . . Well, and there was no great art in
that!"

Two or three words of approbation made them-
selves audible among the crowd.

"We must warm thee up now. Come along,
let 's sip a cup of liquor," remarked some one.

But here some one suddenly made his way con-
vulsively to the front. ... It was Vasily.

" What are ye about, ye Orthodox? " —he cried
tearfully.— "We must roll him. This is our
young gentleman!"

"Roll him, roll him!" resounded through the
crowd, which was constantly increasing.

"Hang him up by his feet! That's the best
remedy!"

"Put him belly down over a barrel, and roll
him back and forth, until .... Take him up,
my lads ! "

"Don't you dare to touch him!" — interposed
the soldier with the pike.—" He must be taken to
the guard-house."

" Rabble ! "— Trofimitch's bass voice was
wafted from somewhere or other.

" Why, he is alive ! " I suddenly cry at the top
of my lungs, almost in affright. I had been on
the point of putting my face against his face. . . .
" So that is what drowned people are like," I was
thinking to myself, as my heart died within me
.... when suddenly I saw David's lips trem-
ble, and a little water flow from them. . . .

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THE WATCH

I was instantly thrust aside, dragged away; all
darted toward him.

" Roll him, roll him! " — voices began to be up-
lifted.

"No, no, stop!" shouted Vasily.— "Take him
home . . . home!"

" Take him home,"— chimed in Trankvillitatin
himself.

" We '11 hurry him thither in a jiffy— we shall
be able to see better there," went on Vasily. . . .
(I took a great liking to Vasily, beginning with
that day.) — "Brothers! Isn't there a bast-mat
handy? If not, lift him by his head and his
heels. . . ."

"Stay! Here's a bast-mat! Lay him on it!
Catch hold ! March ! Slowly : as though he were
riding in a coach of state ! "

And a few moments later David, borne on the
bast-mat, triumphantly made his entrance under
our roof.

XX

THEY undressed him and placed him on the bed.
Already in the street he had begun to show signs
of life, he had bellowed and waved his hands. . . .
In the room he recovered his senses completely.
But as soon as fears for his life were past, and
there was no necessity for fussing over him, wrath

355

THE WATCH

asserted its rights: all retreated from him as
though he had been a leper.

"May God punish him! May God punish
him!"— squealed my aunt so that she could be
heard all over the house.—" Send him off some-
where, Porfiry Petrovitch, or he will perpetrate
some other crime which cannot be endured!"

" I think this must be some sort of an asp, and
a mad one at that," — chimed in Trankvillitatin.

"What malice, what malice!" — shrilled my
aunt, coming to the very door of our room so as
to make sure that David heard her. " First he
stole the watch, and then he flung it into the water.
. . . As much as to say, * Nobody shall have it.' ...
So he did!"

Everybody, positively everybody, was angry!

" David," I asked him as soon as we were left
alone, " why didst thou do that? "

"There thou goest too,"— he retorted, still in
a very weak voice; his lips were blue, and he
seemed bloated all over.— "What have I done?"

" But why didst thou leap into the water? "

"Why did I leap?— I couldn't keep my bal-
ance on the railing, and that's all there is to it.
If I had known how to swim I would have leaped
deliberately. I shall certainly learn. But, on the
other hand, that watch is now done for! . . ."

At this point my father entered our room with
solemn tread.

" I shall flog thee, without fail, my dear f el-
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THE WATCH

low," he said, addressing me; "have no doubt as
to that, although thou art too old to lay across a
bench any longer." — Then he stepped up to the
bed on which David was lying.—" In Siberia,"—
he began in a pompous and impressive tone, — " in
Siberia, my good sir, in penal servitude, men live
and die underground who are less guilty, less
criminally guilty than thou! Art thou a suicide,
or simply a fool? — Tell me that one thing, pray! "

" I am not a suicide nor a thief," replied David,
" but the truth is the truth : good people get sent

to Siberia, better men than you and I

Who should know that if not you? "

My father uttered a low cry, retreated a pace,
stared intently at David, spat, and slowly cross-
ing himself, left the room.

"Dost thou not like it?" David called after
him, thrusting out his tongue. Then he tried to
rise, but could not.—" Evidently, I have injured
myself somehow," he said, groaning and wrin-
kling up his forehead.—" I remember that I was
dashed against a beam by the water. . . .

" Didst thou see Raisa? " he suddenly added.

"No, I did not see her. . . . Wait! Wait!
Wait! Now I remember: was n't it she who was
standing on the shore near the bridge?— Yes. . . .
A dark frock, a yellow kerchief on her head. . . .
It must have been she! "

"Well, and afterward .... didst thou see
her afterward?"

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"Afterward .... I don't know. I was in
no mood for observing.— Thou didst leap at that
moment. ..."

David started up in alarm.

"My dear friend Alyosha, go to her this mo-
ment, tell her that I am well, that there is nothing
the matter with me. I shall go to see them to-
morrow. Go quickly, brother, do me that fa-
vour!"

David stretched out both hands to me. . . .
His dry, red hair stuck up in funny whorls . . .
but the deeply-moved expression of his face
seemed all the more genuine for that. I took my
cap and left the house, endeavouring not to fall
under the eye of my father and not to remind him
of his promise.

XXI

" AND, in fact," I argued with myself on my way
to the Latkins', " how was it that I did not notice
Raisa? What has become of her? For she must
have seen . . . ."

And suddenly I remembered: at the very mo-
ment of David's fall a terrible, heart-rending cry
had rung in my ears. . . .

Was not that she ? But how was it that I had
not seen her afterward?

In front of the tiny house in which Latkin
dwelt stretched a strip of waste land overgrown

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with nettles and enclosed with a decrepit fence of
wattled boughs. Hardly had I made my way
across this fence (there was no gate or wicket any-
where), than the following spectacle presented
itself to my eyes.— On the lowest step of the porch
in front of the house Raisa was sitting with her
elbows on her knees and her chin propped on her
interlaced fingers; she was staring straight in
front of her ; by her side stood her deaf-and-dumb
sister tranquilly flourishing a small whip, and in
front of the porch, with his back toward me, clad
in a tattered and threadbare dressing-gown, with
under-drawers and felt boots on his legs, stood old
Latkin, dangling his arms and writhing, shifting
from foot to foot where he stood and indulging in
little leaps. At the sound of my footsteps he sud-
denly wheeled round, squatted down on his heels,
and immediately swooping down upon me, began
to say in an extremely rapid, tremulous voice,
interlarded with breaks: " Tchu-tchu-tchu ! " I
stood riveted to the spot. I had not seen him for a
long time, and, of course, I would not have recog-
nised him had I met him in any other place. That
red, wrinkled, toothless face, those round, dull
little eyes and dishevelled grey locks, those twitch-
ings, those leaps, that unintelligible, faltering
tongue .... what was it? What inhuman de-
spair was torturing that unlucky being? What
"dance of death" was this?

" Tchu, tchu," he stammered, without ceasing
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to grimace,— "there she is, Vasilievna; she has
just— tchu, tchu— gone .... hark! with a wash-
ing-trough along the roof" (he banged his head
with his hand) , " and is sitting there like a shovel;
and squinting, squinting like Andriiisha; cross-
eyed Vasilievna!" (He probably wanted to say
"dumb.") "Tchu! my cross-eyed Vasilievna!
There they are, both of them, now in the same fix.
. . . Admire, ye Orthodox! I have only those
two little boats! Hey?"

Latkin was evidently conscious that he was not
talking straight, and was making frantic efforts
to explain to me what was the matter. Raisa ap-
parently did not hear what her father was saying
at all, while her little sister continued to slash the
air with her whip.

"Good-bye, jeweller, good-bye, good-bye!"
drawled Latkin several times in succession, with
low obeisances, as though delighted that he had,
at last, caught hold of an intelligible word.

My head reeled.— "What is the meaning of
all this ? " I asked an old woman who was peeping
out of one of the windows in the house.

" Why, you see, dear little father," she replied
in a sing-song tone, " they say that some man or
other— and who he is, the Lord only knows— has
been drowned, and she saw it. Well, and she got
thoroughly scared, I suppose ; but she came home
all right. But she sat straight down on the porch,
and since that minute there she sits, like a statue;

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it makes no difference whether one speaks to her
or not. Evidently, she is doomed to dumbness
also. Axhti-kti!"

"Good-bye, good-bye," Latkin kept repeat-
ing, still with obeisances as before. I stepped
up to Raisa and halted directly in front of
her.

" Raisotchka," I shouted, "what's the matter
withthee?"

She made no reply; just as though she did not
see me. Her face had not paled or changed, but
somehow had become stony, and it wore an ex-
pression as though she were on the very verge of
falling asleep.

" But she Js cross-eyed, cross-eyed," stammered
Latkin in my ear.

I grasped Raisa's hand. — "David is alive," I
shouted more loudly than before : " alive and well.
David is alive, dost thou understand? They
pulled him out of the water, he is now at home and
has bid me say that he will come to see thee to-
morrow. . . . He is alive!"

Raisa turned her eyes on me with apparent diffi-
culty ; she winked the lids a couple of times, open-
ing them wider and wider, then bent her head on
one side, gradually flushed crimson all over, and
her lips parted. . . . She inhaled the air into her
lungs with a slow, full breath, wrinkled her brow
as though in pain, and with a terrible effort articu-
lating: "Yes .... Dav ... ali .... alive!"

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rose abruptly from the porch and set off at a
run. . . .

"Where art thou going?" I cried.

But, laughing faintly and reeling, she was al-
ready running across the waste land.

Of course I darted after her, while behind me
rose an energetic howl, decrepit and childish, from
Latkin and the deaf-and-dumb girl. . . . Raisa
was making straight for our house.

"Well, what a day this has been!" I thought,
as I strove not to lag behind the black gown which
was flitting on in front of me. ..." Come on! "

XXII

EVADING Vasily, my aunt, and even Trankvilli-
tatin, Raisa rushed into the room where David
lay, and flung herself straight upon his breast.—
"Okh .... okh, Davidushko!" her voice rang
out from under her dishevelled curls;— " okh! "

Energetically waving her hands, she embraced
David and bent her head down to him.

" Forgive me, my dear," his voice made itself
audible.

And both seemed fairly swooning with joy.

"But why didst thou go off home, Raisa?
Why didst not thou wait?" I said to her. . . .
Still she did not raise her head.—" Thou wouldst
have seen that they had saved him. . . ."

"Akh, I don't know! Akh, I don't know!
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Don't ask me ! I don't know, I don't remember
how I got home. All I do remember is that I saw
thee in the air .... something struck me ....
But what came after that I don't know."

" Struck you," repeated David, and all three of
us suddenly burst into a hearty laugh. We felt
very happy.

" But what may be the meaning of this, pray? "
rang out a threatening voice — the voice of my fa-
ther—behind us. He was standing on the thresh-
old of the door. " Are these follies coming to an
end or not? Where are we living? In the Rus-
sian empire or in the French republic? "

He stalked into the room.

" Go to France, any of you who want to revolt
and lead a licentious life! And as for thee, how
hast thou dared to come hither?" he addressed
himself to Raisa, who, having softly risen and
turned her face toward him, was obviously intimi-
dated, but continued to smile in a caressing and
blissful way.—" The daughter of my sworn en-
emy! How darest thou? And thou hast taken it
into thy head to embrace him also ! Begone this
instant! or I'll ... ."

" Uncle," said David, sitting up in bed, " do
not insult Raisa. She will go away .... only,
don't you insult her."

"And who appointed thee my preceptor? I
am not insulting her, I am not insulting her! I
am simply turning her out of the house. I shall

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call thee to account also. Thou hast squandered
the property of other people, thou hast attempted
thine own life, thou hast caused me losses."

" What losses? " interrupted David.

" What losses? Thou hast ruined thy clothing
—dost thou count that nothing? And I gave
money for liquor to the men who brought thee
hither! Thou hast frightened the whole family
out of their lives, and thou art insolent to boot!
And if this wench, forgetful of modesty and even
of honour . . ."

David sprang from his bed.— "Don't insult
her, I tell you!"

"Hold thy tongue!"

" Don't you dare . . ."

"Hold thy tongue!"

"Don't you dare to defame my promised
bride!" shouted David at the top of his voice,—
"my future wife!"

"Bride!" repeated my father, with eyes start-
ing from his head.— "Bride!— Wife! Ho, ho,
ho! . . ." ("Ha, ha, ha!" echoed my aunt out-
side the door.)— "And how old art thou, pray?
He has lived in this world a year minus one
month, the milk is n't dry on his lips yet, the hob-
bledehoy! And he is contemplating matrimony!
Why, I .... why, thou . . . ."

" Let me go, let me go," whispered Raisa, turn-
ing to depart. She had grown livid.

" I shall not ask any permission of you," David
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continued in a shout, propping himself on the
edge of the bed with his fists, " but of my own
father, who is bound to arrive any day now! I
take my orders from him, not from you; and as
for my age, Raisa and I are not in a hurry ....
we shall wait, say what you like. . . ."

"Hey there, David, come to thy senses!" in-
terrupted my father; "look at thyself: thou art
all in tatters. . . . Thou hast lost all sense of
decorum!"

David clutched at the breast of his shirt with his
hand.

" Whatever you may say ... ." he repeated.

" Come, clap thy hand over his mouth, Porfiry
Petrovitch, clap thy hand over his mouth,"
squealed my aunt outside the door.—" And as for
this street-walker, this good-for-nothing wench
.... this

But evidently something unusual cut my aunt's
eloquence short at that moment: her voice sud-
denly broke, and in place of it another, a hoarsely
decrepit and weak voice, made itself heard. . . .

"Brother," enunciated this feeble voice. . . .
"Brother! .... Christian soul!"

XXIII

WE all turned round Before us, in the

same costume in which I had recently beheld him,
gaunt, pitiful, wild, like a spectre, stood Latkin.

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" But God," he articulated in a childish sort of
way, elevating on high his trembling crooked
finger and scanning my father with a feeble gaze,
—"God has punished! And I have come for
Va . . . yes, yes, for Raisotchka. What is it,
tchu! What is it to me? I shall soon lie down in
the earth — and how the deuce does it go? A stick
.... another .... a joist .... that 's what I
need .... But do thou, brother, jeweller ....
Look out .... for I am also a man ! "

Raisa silently walked across the room and link-
ing her arm in his, buttoned his dressing-gown.

" Come along, Vasilievna," he said, " they 're
all saints here ; don't go to their house. And that
fellow, the one who is lying yonder in the casket,"
—he pointed at David,—" is a saint also. But we
are sinners, thou and I. Well, tchu .... par-
don a peppery old man, gentlemen! We stole
together!" he suddenly shouted:— "we stole to-
gether! we stole together!" he repeated with
manifest delight; his tongue had obeyed him
at last.

All of us who were in the room held our peace.

"And where is your .... holy picture?" he
asked, throwing back his head and rolling up his
eyes. " I must purify myself."

He began to pray toward one of the corners,
crossing himself with emotion several times in
succession, tapping his fingers now against one
shoulder, now against the other, and hurriedly re-

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peating: "Have mercy upon me, O Lo . . . .
me, O Lo . . . . me, O Lo! . . . ." My father,
who all this time had never taken his eyes from
Latkin nor uttered a single word, placed him-
self beside him and began to cross himself also.
Then he turned to him, made a very low obei-
sance to him so that he touched the floor with one
hand,1 and saying: "And do thou also forgive
me, Martinyan Gavrilitch," he kissed him on
the shoulder. Latkin in reply smacked his lips
in the air and blinked his eyes ; it is hardly prob-
able that he understood what he was doing.
Then my father addressed himself to all who
were present in the room, to David, Raisa, and
me:

" Do what you will, act as you see fit," he said
in a quiet, sorrowful voice — and withdrew.

My aunt tried to approach him, but he yelled
at her sharply and gruffly.

" Me, O Lo .... me, O Lo «... have mercy ! "
repeated Latkin. — " I am a man! "

" Good-bye, Davidushko," said Raisa, as she
also quitted the room, accompanied by the old
man.

" I shall go to your house to-morrow," David
called after them, and turning his face to the wall,
he whispered: "I am very tired; it wouldn't be

1 This takes the place of a full prostration on the knees with the
brow touching the floor for elderly or ailing persons. The kiss on
the shoulder is a sign of contrition or humility, that being the way
the peasants used to kiss their masters. — TRANSLATOR.

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a bad thing to get a little sleep now,"— and fell
silent.

For a long time I did not leave our room. I hid
myself. I could not forget what my father
had threatened to do to me. But my apprehen-
sions proved vain. He came across me— and did
not utter a word. He seemed to feel ill at ease
himself. However, night soon descended, and all
quieted down in the house.

XXIV

ON the following morning David rose as though
nothing had happened, and not long after, on
that same day, two important events occurred: in
the morning old Latkin died, and toward evening
uncle Egor, David's father, arrived in Ryazan.
Without having sent any preliminary letter, with-
out having forewarned any one, he descended
upon us like snow on the head.1 My father was
extremely disturbed and did not know wherewith
he should entertain, where he should seat the wel-
come guest, and bustled about like a culprit ; but
my uncle did not appear to be greatly touched by
his brother's anxious zeal; he kept repeating,
" What 's the use of that? "—and " I do not want
anything." He treated my aunt with even
greater coldness; however, she did not like him
much, anyway. In her eyes he was a godless man,

1 Suddenly, unexpectedly. — TRANSLATOR.

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a heretic, a Voltairian .... (he actually had
learned the French language in order to read
Voltaire in the original) .

I found uncle Egor such as David had de-
scribed him to me. He was a big, heavy, ponder-
ous man, with a broad, pock-marked face, dig-
nified and serious. He wore constantly a hat with
a plume, lace ruffles and frill, and a short-coat of
tobacco-brown hue, with a steel sword on his hip.
David was unspeakably delighted to see him— his
face even grew radiant and handsomer, and his
eyes became quite different — merry, quick, and
brilliant; but he strove his best to moderate his
joy and did not express it in words : he was afraid
of growing faint-hearted.

The very first night after uncle Egor's arrival
the two — father and son — locked themselves up
in the room assigned to the former and talked to-
gether for a long time in an undertone ; on the fol-
lowing morning I noticed that my uncle gazed at
his son in a peculiarly affectionate and trustful
manner: he seemed greatly pleased with him.
David took him to the requiem service 1 for Lat-
kin; I also went thither: my father did not hinder
me, but remained at home himself. Raisa sur-
prised me by her calmness; she had grown very

1 Not the funeral, or even a requiem liturgy, but a service composed
of wonderfully-beautiful prayers and hymns. Often it is held in the
house of the deceased twice a day during the three days which precede
burial (which is what is meant here, although in this case it was in
church), and at any time thereafter when the friends and relatives
request it. — TRANSLATOR.

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pale and thin, but she shed no tears, and spoke
and behaved very simply; and nevertheless,
strange to say, I discerned in her a certain maj-
esty: the unconscious majesty of grief which for-
gets itself. Uncle Egor made her acquaintance
then and there, on the church porch ; afterward it
was obvious from the way he treated her that
David had already spoken to him of her. He
took as great a liking to her as his son had done ;
I could read that in David's eyes when he looked
at them. I remember how they flashed when
his father said in his presence, in speaking of
her: " She 's a clever lass; she will make a good
housewife." At the Latkins' house I was told
that the old man had expired quietly, like a
candle which is burned out, and until he lost his
powers and his consciousness he kept stroking
his daughter's hair and repeating something
unintelligible but not sorrowful, and smiling all
the while.

My father went to the funeral, to the church
and the grave, and prayed very fervently; even
Trankvillitatin sang in the choir. At the grave
Raisa suddenly burst out sobbing and fell prone
upon the earth; but she speedily recovered herself.
Her little sister, the deaf-and-dumb girl, scruti-
nised every one with her large, bright, and some-
what frightened eyes; from time to time she
nestled up to Raisa, but there was no fright per-
ceptible in her. On the day after the funeral, uncle

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Egor, who, as was in every way apparent, had not
returned from Siberia with empty hands (he had
furnished the money for the funeral, and had lav-
ishly rewarded David's rescuer), but who had
told nothing about his manner of life there and
had communicated none of his plans for the fu-
ture,— uncle Egor suddenly announced to my
father that he did not intend to remain in Ryazan,
but was going to Moscow together with his son.
My father, for the sake of propriety, expressed
his regret, and even made an attempt— a very fee-
ble one, it is true — to alter my uncle's decision;
but in the depths of his soul he was greatly de-
lighted with it, I am sure.

The presence of a brother with whom he had
too little in common, who did not even deign
to reproach him, who did not even despise him,
but simply loathed him, oppressed him ....
and the parting with David did not constitute
any particular grief for him. This separation
annihilated me, of course; I felt completely or-
phaned at first, and lost all hold on life and all
desire to live.

So my uncle went away, taking with him not
only David, but, to the great amazement and even
indignation of our whole street, Raisa and her
little sister also On learning of this per-
formance of his, my aunt immediately called him
a Turk, and continued to call him so to the end
of her life.

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I was left alone, quite alone. . . . But it does
not matter about me. . . .

XXV

AND this is the end of my story about the watch.
What else can I tell you? Five years later, David
married his Black-lip, and in 1812, with the rank
of ensign in the artillery, died a death of glory on
the day of the battle at Borodino, while defending
the Shevardin redoubt.

Many things have happened since then, and I
have had many watches ; I have even attained to
the magnificence of procuring for myself a genu-
ine Breget with a second-hand, the days of the
month, and a repeating attachment. . . . But in
a secret drawer of my writing-table is preserved
an old silver watch with a rose on its face; I
bought it of a Jew pedlar, being struck with its
resemblance to the watch which had once been
presented to me by my godfather.— From time
to time, when I am alone and am not expecting
any one, I take it out of its box, and as I gaze at
it, I recall the days of my youth and the com-
rade of those days, which have vanished beyond
recall.

372

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