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Precipice

<h2> CHAPTER XIII </h2> For three days the impression of this Sunday morning breakfast remained with Raisky. He had been surprised by this sudden transformation of Tatiana Markovna from grandmother and kindly hostess into a lioness, but he had been still more agitated by Vera’s kiss. He could have wept for emotion, and would like to have built new hopes on it, but it was a kiss that led no further, a flash of lightning immediately extinguished. Raisky kept his promise, and neither went to Vera’s room, nor followed her; he saw her only at meals and then rarely talked to her. He succeeded in hiding from her the fact that she still occupied his thoughts; he would like to have wiped out of her recollection his hasty revelation of himself to her. Then he began a portrait of Tatiana Markovna, and occupied himself seriously with the plan of his novel. With Vera as the central figure, and the scene his own estate and the bank of the Volga his fancy took shape and the secret of artistic creation became clear to him. It chanced once or twice that he found himself walking with Vera. Gaily and almost indifferently he poured out for her his store of thought and knowledge, even of anecdote, as he might do to any amiable, clever stranger, without second thoughts or any wish to reap an advantage. He led in fact a peaceful, pleasant life, demanding nothing and regretting nothing. He perceived with satisfaction that Vera no longer avoided him, that she confided in him and drew closer to him; she would herself come to his room to fetch books, and he made no effort to retain her. They often spent the afternoon with Tatiana Markovna. Vera apparently liked to hear him talk, and smiled at his jokes, though from time to time she would get up suddenly in the middle of a sentence when he was reading aloud or talking, and with some slight excuse, go out and not appear again for hours. He made no effort to follow her. He found recreation with friends in the town, driving occasionally with the Governor or taking part with Marfinka and Vera in some rural entertainment. The month which Mark had set as a limit for their wager, was nearly over, and Raisky felt himself free from passion. At least he thought so, and put down all his symptoms to the working of his imagination and to curiosity. On some days even Vera appeared to him in the same light as Marfinka. He saw in them two charming young girls, only late left school with all the ideas and adorations of the schoolgirl, with the schoolgirl’s dream-theory of life, which is only shattered by experience. He told himself that he was absolutely cold and indifferent, and in a position truthfully to call himself her friend. He would shortly leave the place, but before that he must visit “Barabbas,” take his last pair of trousers, and warn him against making a wager. He went to Leonti to ask where Mark was to be found and discovered them both at breakfast. “You might develop into a decent individual,” cried Mark to him, “if you were a little bolder.” “You mean if I had the boldness to shoot my neighbour or to storm an inn by night.” “How will you take an inn by storm? Besides, there is no need, since your aunt has her own guesthouse. Many thanks for having chased that old swine from your house, I am told in conjunction with Tatiana Markovna. Splendid!” “Where did you hear that?” “The whole town is talking of it. I wanted to come and show my respect to you, when I suddenly heard that you were on friendly terms with the Governor, had invited him to your house, and that you and your aunt had stood on your hind paws before him. That is abominable, when I thought you had only invited him to show him the door.” “That is what is called bourgeois courage, I believe.” “I don’t know what it is called, but I can best give you an example of the kind of courage. For some time the police inspector has been sniffing round our vegetable garden, so probably his Excellency has been kind enough to show an interest in me, and to enquire after my health and amusements. Well, I am training a couple of bull-dogs, and I hadn’t had them a week before the garden was clear of cats. I have them ready at dark, and if the Colonel or his suite arrive, I shall let my beasts loose. Of course it will happen by accident.” “I have come to say goodbye, for I am leaving here shortly.” “You are going away?” asked Mark in astonishment, then added in a low, serious voice, “I should like to have a word with you.” “Speak, by all means. Is it a question of money again?” “Money as far as I am concerned, but it is not of that I wish to speak to you. I will come to you later. I cannot speak of that now,” he said looking significantly at Koslov’s wife to indicate that he could not explain himself in her presence. “No one will let you go?” whispered Juliana Andreevna. “I have not once spoken to you out of hearing of my husband.” “Have you brought the money with you,” asked Mark suddenly, “the three hundred roubles for the wager?” “Where is the pair of trousers?” asked Raisky ironically. “I am not joking; you must pay me my three hundred roubles.” “Why? I am not in love as you see.” “I see that you are head over ears in love.” “How do you see that.” “In your face.” “The month is past, and with it the wager at an end. As I don’t need the trousers I will make you a present of them to go with the coat.” “How can you go away?” complained Leonti. “And the books—” “What books?” “Your books. See for yourself by the catalogue that they are all right.” “I have made you a present of them.” “Be serious for a moment. Where shall I send them?” “Goodbye. I have no time to spare. Don’t come to me with the books, or I will burn them. And you, wise man, who can tell a lover by his face, farewell. I don’t know whether we shall meet again.” “Where is the money? It isn’t honest not to surrender it. I see the presence of love, which like measles has not yet come out, but soon will. Your face is already red. How tiresome that I fixed a limit, and so lose three hundred roubles by my own stupidity.” “Goodbye.” “You will not go,” said Mark with decision. “I shall have another opportunity of seeing you, Koslov. I am not starting until next week.” “You will not go,” repeated Mark. “What about your novel?” asked Leonti. “You intended to finish it here.” “I am already near the end of it, though there is still some arranging to be done, which I can do in St. Petersburg.” “You will not end your romance either, neither the paper one nor the real one.” said Mark. Raisky was about to answer, but thought better of it, and was quickly gone. “Why do you think he won’t finish the novel?” asked Leonti. “He is only half a man,” replied Mark with a scornful, bitter laugh. Raisky walked in the direction of home. His victory over himself seemed so assured that he was ashamed of his earlier weakness. He pictured to himself how he would now appear to her in a new and surprising guise, bold, deliberately scornful, with neither eyes nor desire for her beauty; and he pictured her astonishment and sorrow. In his impatience to see the effect of this new development in himself he stole into her room and crossed the carpet without betraying his presence. She sat with her elbows on the table, reading a letter, written as he noticed on blue paper in irregular lines and sealed with common blackish-brown sealing wax. “Vera!” he said in a low voice. She shrank back with such obvious terror that he too trembled, then quickly put the letter in her pocket. They looked at one another without stirring. “You are busy. Excuse my coming,” he said, and took a step backward, as if to leave her. She made no answer, but, gradually recovering her self-possession, and without removing her eyes from his face she advanced towards him with her hand still in her pocket. “It must be a very interesting letter and a great secret,” he said with a forced laugh, “since you conceal it so quickly.” With her eyes still upon him she sat down on the divan. “Show me the letter,” he laughed, betraying his agitation by a tremor of the voice. “You will not show it?” he went on as she looked at him in amazement and pressed her hand tighter in her pocket. She shook her head. “I don’t need to read it. What possible interest could I have in another person’s letter? I only wanted a proof of your confidence, of your friendly disposition towards me. You see my indifference. See, I am not as I was,” he said, telling himself at the same time that the letter obsessed him. She tried, to read in his face the indifference in which he was insisting. His face indeed wore an aspect of indifference, but his voice sounded as if he were pleading for alms. “You will not show it,” he said. “Then God be with you,” and he turned to the door. “Wait,” she said, putting her hand in her pocket and drawing out a letter which she showed him. He looked at both sides, and glanced at the signature, Pauline Kritzki. “That is not the letter,” he said, returning it. “Do you see another?” she asked drily. He replied that he had not, fearing that she might accuse him of spying, and at her request began to read: “Ma belle chamante divine Vera Vassilievna! I am enraptured and fall on my knees before your dear, noble, handsome cousin; he has avenged me, and I am triumphant and weep for joy. He was great. Tell him that he is ever my knight, that I am his devoted slave. Ah, how I admire him, I would say—the word is on the tip of my tongue—but I dare not. Yet why should I not? Yes, I love him, I adore him. Everyone must adore him....” Here Raisky attempted to return the letter, but Vera bade him continue, as there was a request for him. He skipped a few lines and proceeded:— “Implore your cousin (he adores you. Do not deny it, for I have seen his passionate glances. What would I not give to be in your place). “Implore your cousin, darling Vera Vassilievna, to paint my portrait. I don’t really care about the portrait, but to be with an artist to admire him, to speak to him, to breathe the same air with him! Ma pauvre tête, je deviens folle. Je compte sur vous, ma belle et bonne amie, et j’attends la réponse.” “What answer shall I give her?” asked Vera, as Raisky laid the letter on the table. He was thinking of the other letter, wondering why she had hidden it, and did not hear her question. “May I write that you agree?” “God forbid! on no account.” “How is it to be done then? She wants to breathe the same air as you.” “I should stifle in that atmosphere.” “But if I ask you to do it?” whispered Vera. “You, what difference can it make to you?” he asked trembling. “I should like to say something pleasant to her,” she returned, but did not add that she seized this means of detaching him from herself. Paulina Karpovna would not lightly let him out of her hands. “Should you accept it as a sign of friendship if I fulfilled your wish? Well, then,” as she nodded, “I make two conditions, one that you should be present at the sittings. Otherwise I should be clearing out at the first sitting. Do you agree?” Then, as she nodded unwillingly, “the second is that you show me the other letter.” “Which letter?” “The one you hid so quickly in your pocket.” “There isn’t another.” “You would not have hidden this letter in terror; will you show the other?” “You are beginning again,” she said reproachfully. “You need not trouble. I was only jesting. But for God’s sake do not look on me as a despôt or a spy; it was mere curiosity. God be with you and your secrets.” “I have no secrets,” she returned drily as he rose to go. “Do you know that I am soon leaving?” he asked suddenly. “I heard so; is it true?” “Why do you doubt?” She dropped her eyes and said nothing. “You will be glad for me to go?” “Yes,” she answered in a whisper. “Why,” he said sadly, and came nearer. She thought for a moment, drew out another letter, glanced through it, carefully scratching out a word or a line here and there, and handed it to him. “Read that letter,” she said, again slipping her hand into her pocket. He began to read the delicate handwriting: “I am sorry, dear Natasha,” and then asked, “Who is Natasha?” “The priest’s wife, my school friend.” “Ah! the pope’s wife. It is your own letter. That is interesting,” and he became absorbed in the reading. “I am sorry, dear Natasha,” the letter ran, “that I have not written to you since my return. As usual I have been idle, but I had other reasons, which you shall learn. The chief reason you already know (here some words were scratched out), which agitates me very much. But of that we will speak when we meet. “The other reason is the arrival of our relative, Boris Pavlovich Raisky. For my misfortune he scarcely ever leaves the house, so that for a fortnight I did hardly anything except hide from him. What an abundance of reason, of different kinds of knowledge, of brilliance, of talent he brought with him, and with it all what unrest. He upsets the whole household. He had hardly arrived before he was seized with the firm conviction that not only the estate, but all that lived on it, were his property. Taking his stand on a relationship, which hardly deserves the name, and on the fact that he knew us when we were little, he treated us as if we were children or schoolgirls. Although I have hidden myself from him, I have only just succeeded in preventing him from seeing how I sleep and dream, and what I hope and wait for. “This pursuit has almost made me ill, and I have seen no one, written to no one. I feel like a prisoner. It is as if he were playing with me, perhaps quite against his own will. One day he is cold and indifferent, the next his eyes are ablaze, and I fear him as I would a madman. The worst of all seems to me to be that he does not know himself, so that no reliance can be placed on his plans and promises; he decides on one course, and the next day takes another. He himself says he is nervous, susceptible and passionate, and he may be right. He is no play actor, and does not disguise himself; he is, I think, too sensible and well-bred, indeed, too honest, for that. “He is by way of being an artist, draws, writes, improvises very nicely on the piano, and dreams of art. Yet it seems to me that he does substantially nothing, but is spending his life, as he says, in the adoration of beauty; he is a lover by temperament, like (do you remember?) Dashenka Sfemechkin, who fell in love with a Spanish prince, whose portrait she had seen in a German calendar, and would admit no one, not even the piano-tuner, Kish. But Boris Pavlovich is full of kindness and honour, is upright, gay, original, but all these qualities are so disconnected and uncertain in their expression that we don’t know what to make of them. Now he seeks my friendship, but I am afraid of him, am afraid he may do anything, am afraid (here some lines were crossed out). Ah, if only he would go away. It is terrible to think he may one day (here again words were crossed out). “And I need one thing—rest. The doctor says I am nervous, must spare myself, and avoid all agitation. Thank God, he is also attached to Grandmother, and I am left in peace. I do not want to step out of the circle I have drawn for myself; and nobody else should cross the line. In its sanctity lies my peace and my whole happiness. “If Raisky oversteps this line, the only course that remains to me is to fly from here. That is easy to say, but where? And then I have some conscience about it, because he is so good, so kind to me and my sister, and means to make a gift to us of this place, this Paradise, where I have learned to live and not to vegetate. It lies on my conscience that he should squander these undeserved tokens of affection, that he tries to be brilliant for my sake, and to awaken in me some affection, although I have denied him every hope. Ah, if he only knew how vain his efforts are. “Now I will tell you about him....” The letter went no further, and Raisky looked at the lines as if he were trying to read behind them. Vera had said practically nothing about herself; she remained in the shadow, while the whole garish light fell on him. “There was another letter,” he said sharply, “written on blue paper.” Vera had not left the room, but someone’s hand was on the lock. “Who is there?” asked Raisky with a start. In the doorway appeared Vassilissa’s anxious face. “It’s I,” she said in a low voice. “It’s a good thing you are here, Boris Pavlovich; they are asking for you. Please make haste. There is nobody in the hall. Yakob is at church. Egorka has been sent to the Volga for some fish, and I am alone with Pashutka.” “Who is asking for me?” “A gendarme from the Governor. The Governor asks you to go to see him, at once, if possible, if not to-morrow morning. The business is pressing.” “Very well. I will go.” “Please, as quickly as possible. Then he has also come.” “Who?” “The man they would like to horsewhip. He has made himself at home in the hall, and is waiting for you. The Mistress and Marfa Vassilievna have not yet returned from the town.” “Didn’t you ask his name?” “He gave his name, but I have forgotten. He is the man who stayed the night with you when you were drinking. Please, Boris Pavlovich, be quick. Pashutka and I have locked ourselves in.” “Why?” “Because we were afraid. I climbed out of the window into the yard to come and tell you. If only he does not nose anything out.” Raisky went with her, laughing. He sent a message by the gendarme that he would be with the Governor in an hour. Then he sought out Mark and led him into his room. “Do you wish to spend the night with me?” he asked ironically. “I am indeed a nightbird,” answered Mark, who looked anxious. “I receive too much attention in the daytime, and it puts less shame on your Aunt’s house. The magnificent old lady, to show Tychkov the door. But I have come to you on important business,” he said, looking serious. “You have business! That is interesting.” “Yes, more serious than yours. To-day I was at the police-station, not exactly paying a call. The police inspector had invited me, and I was politely fetched with a pair of grey horses.” “What has happened?” “A trifling thing. I had lent books to one or two people....” “Perhaps mine, that you had taken from Leonti?” “Those and others—here is the list,” he said, handing him a slip of paper. “To whom did you give the books?” “To many people, mostly young people. One fool, the son of an advocate, did not understand some French phrases, and showed the book to his mother, who handed it on to the father, and he in his turn to the magistrate. The magistrate, having heard of the name of the author, made a great commotion and informed the Governor. At first the lad would not give me away, but when they applied the rod to him he gave my name, and to-day they summoned me to court.” “And what line did you adopt?” “What line?” said Mark laughing, as he looked at Raisky. “They asked me whose books they were, and where I had got them, and I said from you; some you had brought with you; others, Voltaire, for instance, I had found in your library.” “I’m much obliged. Why did you put this honour on me?” “Nobody will meddle with you, since you are in his Excellency’s favour. Then you are not living here under official compulsion. But I shall be sent off to a third place of exile; this is already the second. At any other time this would be a matter of indifference to me, but just now, for the time being, at least, I should like to stay here.” “And what else?” “Nothing. I only wanted to tell you what I have done, and to ask whether you will take it on yourself or not.” “But what if I won’t, and I don’t intend to.” “Then instead of your name I will give Koslov’s. He is growing mouldy here. Let him go to prison. He can take up his Greeks again later.” “No, he will never take them up again if he is robbed of his position, and of his bread and butter.” “There you are right, my conclusions were illogical. It would be better for you to take it on yourself.” “What are you to me that I should do so?” “On the former occasion I needed money, and you had what I lacked. This is the same case. No one will touch you, while I should be sent off. I am now logical enough.” “You ask a remarkable service. I am just going to the Governor, who has sent for me. Good-bye.” “He has sent for you, then?” “What am I to do? What should I say?” “Say that you are the hero of the piece, and the Governor will quash the whole matter, for he does not like sending special reports to St. Petersburg. With me it is quite different. I am under police supervision, and it is his duty to return a report every month as to my circumstances and my mode of life. However,” he added with apparent indifference, “do as you like. And now come, for I have no more time either. Let us go as far as the wood together, and I will climb down the precipice. I will wait at the fisherman’s on the island to see how the matter ends.” At the edge of the precipice Mark vanished into the bushes. Raisky drove to the Governor’s, and returned home about two o’clock in the morning. Although he had gone so late to bed, he rose early. The windows of Vera’s room were still darkened. She is still sleeping, he thought, and he went into the garden, where he walked up and down for an hour, waiting for the drawing back of the lilac curtain. He hoped Marina would cross the yard, but she did not come. Then Tatiana Markovna’s window was opened, the pigeons and the sparrows began to gather on the spot were they were wont to receive crumbs from Marfinka, doors opened and shut, the grooms and the servants crossed the yard, but the lilac curtain remained untouched. The gloomy Savili came out of his room and looked silently round the yard. When Raisky called him he came towards him with slow steps. “Tell Marina to let me know when Vera Vassilievna is dressed.” “Marina is not here.” “Where is she?” “She started at dawn to accompany the young lady over the Volga.” “What young lady, Vera Vassilievna?” “Yes.” “How did they go, and with whom?” “In the brichka, with the dun horse. They will return in the evening,” he added. “Do you think they will return to-day?” asked Raisky with interest. “Assuredly. Prokor with the horse, and Marina too. They will see the young lady safely there, and return immediately.” Raisky looked at Savili without seeing him, and they stood opposite one another for some time speechless. “Have you any further orders?” Savili asked at length. Raisky recovered himself, and inquired whether Savili was awaiting Marina. Savili replied by a curse on his wife. “Why do you beat her?” asked Raisky. “I have been intending for a long time to advise you to leave her alone.” “I don’t beat her any more.” “Since when?” “For the last week, since she has stayed quietly at home.” “Go, I have no orders. But do not beat Marina. It will be better both for you and her if you give her complete liberty.” Raisky passed on his way with bent head, glancing sadly at Vera’s window. Savili’s eyes too were on the ground, and he had forgotten to put his cap on again in his amazement at Raisky’s last words. “Passion once more!” thought Raisky. “Alas, for Savili, and for me!” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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