"Would you like to go away from here, Marfinka, into a strange house, perhaps in an altogether different district?"

"God forbid! How could such a thing happen. Who ever imagined such nonsense?"

"Granny," laughed Raisky.

Happily "Granny" had not heard the words. Marfinka was embarrassed, and looked out of the window.

"Here I have everything I want, the lovely flowers in the garden, the birds. Who would look after the birds? I will never go away from here, never!"

"But Granny wants to go and take you with her."

"Granny! Where? Why?" she asked her aunt in her caressing, coaxing way.

"Don't tease me," said Tatiana Markovna.

"Marfinka, you don't want to leave home?" asked Boris.

"Not for anything in the world. How could such a thing be?"

"What would Veroshka say about it?"

"She would never be separated from the old house."

"She loves the old house?"

"Yes. She is only happy when she is here. If she were taken away from it she would die. We both should."

"That matter is settled then, little sister. You two, Veroshka and you, will accept the gift from me, won't you?"

"I will if Veroshka agrees."

"Agreed, dear sister. You are not so proud as Granny," he said, as he kissed her forehead.

"What is agreed?" suddenly grumbled Tatiana Markovna. "You have accepted? Who told you you might accept? Grandmother will never permit you to live at a stranger's expense. Be so kind, Boris Pavlovich, as to take over books, accounts, inventories and sales. I am not your paid servant." She pushed papers and books towards him.

"Granny!"

"Granny! My name is Tatiana Markovna Berezhkov." She stood up, and opened the door into the servants' room. "Send Savili here."

A quarter of an hour later, a peasant of almost forty-five years of age opened the door with a casual greeting. He was strongly-built, big boned, and was robust, without being fat. His eyes with their overhanging brows and wide heavy lids, wasted no idle glances; he neither spoke an unnecessary word, nor made a superfluous gesture.

"The proprietor is here," said Tatiana Markovna, indicating Raisky. "You must now make your reports to him. He intends to administer the estate himself."

Savili looked askance at Raisky.

"At your orders," he said stiffly, slowly raising his eyes. "What orders are you pleased to give?" he asked, lowering his eyes again. Raisky thought for a moment before he replied:

"Do you know an official who could draw up a document for the transfer of the estate?"

"Gavril Ivanov Meshetshnikov draws up the papers we require," he said.

"Send for him."

As Savili bowed, and slowly retired, Raisky followed him with his eyes.

"An anxious rascal," was his comment.

"How should he be other than anxious," said his aunt, "when he is tied to a wife like Marina Antipovna? Do you remember Antip? Well, she is his daughter. But for his marriage he is a treasure. He does my important business, sells the corn, and collects the money. He is honest and practical, but fate deals her blows where she will, and every man must bear his own burden. But what idea have you in your head now? Are you beside yourself?"

"Something must be done. I am going away, and you will not administer the estate, so some arrangement must be made."

"And is that your reason for going? I thought you were now going to take over the management of your estate. You have done enough gadding about. Why not marry and settle here?"

She was visibly struggling with herself. It had never entered her head to give up the administration; she would not have known what to do with herself. Her idea had been to alarm Raisky, and he was taking her seriously.

"What is to be done?" she said. "I will see after the estate as long as I have the strength to do so. How else should you live, you strange creature?"

"I receive two thousand roubles from my other estate, and that is a sufficient income. I want to work, to draw, to write, to travel for a little; and for that purpose I might mortgage or sell the other estate."

"God bless you, Borushka, what next? Are you so near beggary? You talk of drawing, writing, alienating your land; next it will be giving lessons or school teaching. Instead of arriving with four horses and a travelling carriage you sneak in, without a servant, in a miserable kibitka, you, a Raisky. Look at the old house, at the portraits of your ancestors, and take shame to yourself. Shame, Borushka! How splendid it would have been if you had come epauletted like Sergei Ivanovich, and had married a wife with a dowry of three thousand souls."

Raisky burst out laughing.

"Why laugh? I am speaking seriously when I tell you what a joy it would have been for your Grandmother. Then you would have wanted the lace and the silver, and not be flinging it away."

"But as I am not marrying, I don't need these things. Therefore it is settled that Veroshka and Marfinka shall have them."

"Your decision is final?"

"It is final. And it is further settled that if you do not like this arrangement, everything passes into the hands of strangers. You have my word for it."

"Your word for it," cried his aunt. "You are a lost man. Where have you lived, and what have you done. Tell me, for Heaven's sake, what your purpose in life is, and what you really are?"

"What I am, Grandmother? The unhappiest of men!" He leaned his head back on the cushion as he spoke.

"Never say such a thing," she interrupted. "Fate hears and exacts the penalty, and you will one day be unhappy. Either be content or feign content."

She looked anxiously round, as if Fate were already standing at her shoulder.

Raisky rose from the divan.

"Let us be reconciled," he said. "Agree to keep this little corner of God's earth under your protection."

"It is an estate, not a 'corner.'"

"Resign yourself to my gift of this old stuff to the dear girls. A lonely man like me has no use for it, but they will be mistresses of a house. If you don't agree, I will present it to the school...."

"The school-children! Those rascals who steal our apples, shall not have it."

"Come to the point, Granny! You don't really want to leave this nest in your old age."

"We'll see, we'll see. Give them the lace on their wedding-day. I can do nothing with you; talk to Tiet Nikonich who is coming to dinner." And she wondered what would come of such strangeness.

Raisky took his cap to go out, and Marfinka went with him. She showed him the park, her own garden, the vegetable and flower gardens, and the arbours. When they came to the precipice she looked anxiously over the edge, and drew back with a shudder. Raisky looked down on the Volga, which was in flood, and had overflowed into the meadows. In the distance were ships which appeared to be motionless, and above hung heaped banks of cloud. Marfinka drew closer to Raisky, and looked down indifferently on the familiar picture.

"Come down!" he said suddenly, and seized her hand.

"No, I am afraid," she answered trembling, and drew back.

"I won't let you fall. Do you think I can't take care of you?"

"Not at all, but I am afraid. Veroshka has no fear, but goes down alone, even in the dusk. Although a murderer lies buried there, she is not afraid."

"Try, shut your eyes, and give me your hand. You will see how carefully I take you down."

Marfinka half closed her eyes, but she had hardly taken his hand and made one step, when she found herself standing on the edge of the precipice. Shuddering she withdrew her hand.

"I would not go down for anything in the world," she cried as she ran back. "Where are you going to!"

No answer reached her. She approached the edge and looked timidly over. She saw how the bushes were bent noisily aside, as Raisky sprang down, step by step. How horrible! she thought as she returned to the house.



CHAPTER VII

Raisky went nearly all round the town, and when he climbed the cliffs once more, he was on the extreme boundary of his estate. A steep path led down to the suburbs, and the town lay before him as in the palm of a hand. Stirred with the passion aroused by his memories of childhood, he looked at the rows of houses, cottages and huts. It was not a town, but, like other towns, a cemetery. Going from street to street, Raisky saw through the windows, how in one house the family sat at dinner, and in another the amovar had already been brought in. In the empty streets, every conversation could be heard a verst away; voices and footsteps re-echoed on the wooden pavement. It seemed to Raisky a picture of dreamy peace, the tranquillity of the grave. What a frame for a novel, if only he knew what to put in the novel. The houses fell into their places in the picture that filled his mind, he drew in the faces of the towns-people, grouped the servants with his aunt, the whole composition centring in Marfinka. The figures stood sharply outlined in his mind; they lived and breathed. If the image of passion should float over this motionless sleeping little world, the picture would glow with the enchanting colour of life. Where was he to find the passion, the colour?

"Passion!" he repeated to himself. If her burning fire could but be poured out upon him, and engulf the artist in her destroying waves.

As he moved forward he remembered that his stroll had an aim. He wondered how Leonid Koslov was, whether he had changed, or whether he had remained what he had been before, a child for all his learning. He too was a good subject for an artist. Raisky thought of Leonti's beautiful wife, whose acquaintance he had made during his student days in Moscow, when she was a young girl. She used to call Leonti her fiance, without any denial on his part, and five years after he had left the University he made the journey to Moscow, and married her. He loved his wife as a man loves air and warmth; absorbed in the life and art of the ancients, his lover's eyes saw in her the antique ideal of beauty. The lines of her neck and bosom charmed him, and her head recalled to him Roman heads seen on bas-reliefs and cameos.

Leonti did not recognise Raisky, when his friend suddenly entered his study.

"I have not the honour," he began.

But when Boris Pavlovich opened his lips he embraced him.

"Wife! Ulinka!" he cried into the garden. "Come quickly, and see who has come to see us."

She came hastily, and kissed Raisky.

"What a man you have grown, and how much more handsome you are!" she said, her eyes flashing.

Her eyes, her mien, her whole figure betrayed audacity. Just over thirty years old, she gave the impression of a splendidly developed specimen of blooming womanhood.

"Have you forgotten me?" she asked.

"How should he forget you?" broke in Leonti. "But Ulinka is right. You have altered, and are hardly recognisable with your beard. How delighted your Aunt must have been to see you."

"Ah! his Aunt!" remarked Juliana Andreevna in a tone of displeasure. "I don't like her."

"Why not?"

"She is despotic and censorious."

"Yes, she is a despot," answered Raisky. "That comes from intercourse with serfs. Old customs!"

"According to Tatiana Markovna," continued Juliana Andreevna, "everybody should stay on one spot, turn his head neither to right nor left, and never exchange a word with his neighbours. She is a past mistress in fault-finding; nevertheless she and Tiet Nikonich are inseparable, he spends his days and nights with her."

Raisky laughed and said, "She is a saint nevertheless, whatever you may find to say about her."

"A saint perhaps, but nothing is right for her. Her world is in her two nieces, and who knows how they will turn out? Marfinka plays with her canaries and her flowers, and the other sits in the corner like the family ghost, and not a word can be got from her. We shall see what will become of her."

"Veroshka? I haven't seen her yet. She is away on a visit on the other side of the Volga."

"And who knows what her business is there?"

"I love my Aunt as if she were my Mother," said Raisky emphatically. "She is wise, honourable, just! She has strength and individuality, and there is nothing commonplace about her."

"You will believe everything she says?" asked Juliana Andreevna, drawing him away to the window, while Leonti collected the scattered papers, laid them in cupboards and put the books on the shelves.

"Yes, everything," she said.

"Don't believe her. I know she will tell you all sorts of nonsense—about Monsieur Charles."

"Who is he?"

"A Frenchman, a teacher, and a colleague of my husband's. They sit there reading till all hours. How can I help it? Yet God knows what they make out of it in the town, as if I.... Don't believe it," she went on, as she saw Raisky was silent. "It is idle talk, there is nothing," she concluded, with a false smile intended to be allowing.

"What business is it of mine?" returned Raisky, turning away from her. "Shall we go into the garden?"

"Yes, we will have dinner outside," said Leonti. "Serve what there is, Ulinka. Come, Boris, now we can talk." Then as an idea struck him, he added, "What shall you have to say to me about the library?"

"About what library? You wrote to me about it, but I did not understand what you were talking about. I think you said some person called Mark, had been tearing the books."

"You cannot imagine, Boris, how vexed I was about it," he said as he took down some books with torn backs from the shelves.

Raisky pushed the books away. "What does it matter to me?" he said. "You are like my grandmother; she bothers me about accounts, you about books."

"But Boris, I don't know what accounts she bothered you about, but these books are your most precious possession. Look!" he said, pointing with pride to the rows of books which filled the study to the ceiling.

"Only on this shelf nearly everything is ruined by that accursed Mark! The other books are all right. See, I drew up a catalogue, which took a whole year to do," and he pointed self-consciously to a thick bound volume of manuscript. "I wrote it all with my own hand," he continued. "Sit down, Boris, and read out the names. I will get on the ladder, and show you the books; they are arranged according to their numbers."

"What an idea!"

"Or better wait till after dinner; we shall not be able to finish before."

"Listen, should you like to have a library like that?" asked Raisky.

"I!—a library like that?"

Sunshine blazed from Leonti's eyes, he smiled so broadly that even the hair on his brow stirred with the dislocation caused. "A library like that?" He shook his head. "You must be mad."

"Tell me, do you love me as you used to do?"

"Why do you ask? Of course."

"Then the books shall be yours for good and all, under one condition."

"I—take these books!"

Leonti looked now at the books, now at Raisky, then made a gesture of refusal, and sighed.

"Do not laugh at me, Boris! Don't tempt me."

"I am not joking."

Here Juliana Andreevna, who had heard the last words, chimed in with, "Take what is given you."

"She is always like that," sighed Leonti. "On feast days the tradesmen come with presents, and on the eve of the examinations the parents. I send them away, but my wife receives them at the side door. She looks like Lucretia, but she has a sweet tooth, a dainty one."

Raisky laughed, but Juliana Andreevna was annoyed.

"Go to your Lucretia," she said indifferently. "He compares me with everybody. One day I am Cleopatra, then Lavinia, then Cornelia. Better take the books when they are offered you. Boris Pavlovich will give them to me."

"Don't take it on yourself to ask him for gifts," commanded Leonti. "And what can we give him? Shall I hand you over to him, for instance?" he added as he embraced her.

"Splendid! Take me, Boris Pavlovich," she cried, throwing a sparkling glance at him.

"If you don't take the books, Leonti," said Raisky, "I will make them over to the Gymnasium. Give me the catalogue, and I'll send it to the Director to-morrow."

He put his hand out for the catalogue, of which Leonti kept a tight hold.

"The Gymnasium shall never get one of them," he cried. "You don't know the Director, who cares for books just about as much as I do for perfume and pomade. They will be destroyed, torn, and worse handled than by Mark."

"Then take them."

"To give away such treasures all in a minute. It would be comprehensible if you were selling them to responsible hands. I have never wanted so much to be rich. I would give five thousand. I cannot accept, I cannot. You are a spendthrift, or rather a blind, ignorant child—"

"Many thanks."

"I didn't mean that," cried Leonti in confusion. "You are an artist; you need pictures, statues, music; and books are nothing to you. Besides, you don't know what treasures you possess; after dinner I will show you."

"Well, in the afternoon, instead of drinking coffee, you will go over with the books to the Gymnasium for me."

"Wait, Boris, what was the condition on which you would give me the books. Will you take instalments from my salary for them? I would sell all I have, pledge myself and my wife."

"No, thank you," broke in Juliana Andreevna, "I can pledge or sell myself if I want to."

Leonti and Raisky looked at one another.

"She does not think before she speaks," said Leonti. "But tell me what the condition is."

"That you never mention these books to me again, even if Mark tears them to pieces."

"Do you mean I am not to let him have access to them?"

"He is not likely to ask you," put in Juliana Andreevna. "As if that monster cared for what you may say."

"How Ulinka loves me," said Leonti to Raisky. "Would that every woman loved her husband like that."

He embraced her. She dropped her eyes, and the smile died from her face.

"But for her you would not see a single button on my clothes," continued Leonti. "I eat and sleep comfortably, and our household goes on evenly and placidly. However small my means are she knows how to make them provide for everything." She raised her eyes, and looked at them, for the last statement was true. "It's a pity," continued Leonti, "that she does not care about books. She can chatter French fast enough, but if you give her a book, she does not understand half of it. She still writes Russian incorrectly. If she sees Greek characters, she says they would make a good pattern for cotton printing, and sets the book upside down. And she cannot even read a Latin title."

"That will do. Not another word about the books. Only on that condition, I don't send them to the Gymnasium. Now let us sit down to table, or I shall go to my Grandmother's, for I am famished."

"Do you intend to spend your whole life like this?" asked Raisky as he was sitting after dinner alone with Leonti in the study.

"Yes, what more do I need?"

"Have you no desires, does nothing call you away from this place, have you no longings for freedom and space, and don't you feel cramped in this narrow frame of hedge, church spire and house, under your very nose?"

"Have I so little to look at under my nose?" asked Leonti, pointing to the books. "I have books, pupils, and in addition a wife and peace of heart, isn't that enough?"

"Are books life? This old trash has a great deal to answer for. Men strive forwards, seek to improve themselves, to cleanse their conceptions, to drive away the mist, to meet the problems of society by justice, civilisation, orderly administration, while you instead of looking at life, study books."

"What is not to be found in books is not to be found in life either, or if there is anything it is of no importance," said Leonti firmly. "The whole programme of public and private life lies behind us; we can find an example for everything."

"You are still the same old student, Leonti, always worrying about what has been experienced in the past, and never thinking of what you yourself are."

"What I am! I am a teacher of the classics. I am as deeply concerned with the life of the past, as you with ideals and figures. You are an artist. Why should you wonder that certain figures are dear to me? Since when have artists ceased to draw water from the wells of the ancients?"

"Yes, an artist," said Raisky, with a sigh. He pointed to his head and breast. "Here are figures, notes, forms, enthusiasm, the creative passion, and as yet I have done almost nothing."

"What restrains you? You are now painting, you wrote me, a great picture, which you mean to exhibit."

"The devil take the great pictures. I shall hardly be able to devote my whole energy to painting now. One must put one's whole being into a great picture, and then to give effect to one hundredth part of what one has put in a representation of a fleeting, irrecoverable impression. Sometimes I paint portraits...."

"What art are you following now?"

"There is but one Art that can satisfy the artist of to-day, the art of words, of poetry, which is limitless in its possibilities."

"You write verses then?"

"Verses are children's food. In verse you celebrate a love affair, a festival, flowers, a nightingale."

"And satire. Remember the use made of it by the Romans."

With these words he would have gone to the bookshelf, but Raisky held him back. "You may," he said, "be able now and then to hit a diseased spot with satire. Satire is a rod, whose stroke stings but has no further consequences; but she does not show you figures brimming with life, she does not reveal the depths of life with its secret mainsprings of action, she holds no mirror before your eyes. It is only the novel that comprehends and mirrors the life of man."

"So you are writing a novel? On what subject?"

"I have not yet quite decided."

"Don't at all events describe this pettifogging, miserable existence which stares us in the face without the medium of art. Our contemporary literature squeezes every worm, every peasant-girl, and I don't know what else, into the novel. Choose a historical subject, worthy of your vivacious imagination and your clean-cut style. Do you remember how you used to write of old Russia? Now it is the fashion to choose material from the ant-heap, the talking shop of everyday life. This is to be the stuff of which literature is made. Bah! it is the merest journalism."

"There we are again on the old controversy. If you once mount that horse, there will be no calling you back. Let us leave this question for the moment, and go back to my question. Are you satisfied to spend your life here, as you are now doing, with no desires for anything further?"

Leonti looked at him in astonishment, with wide opened eyes.

"You do nothing for your generation," Raisky went on, "but creep backwards like a crab. Why are you for ever talking of the Greeks and Romans? Their work is done, and ours is to bring life into these cemeteries, to shake the slumbering ghosts out of their twilight dreams."

"And how is the task to be begun?"

"I mean to draw a picture of this existence, to reflect it as in a mirror. And you...."

"I too accomplish something. I have prepared several boys for the University," remarked Leonti with hesitation, for he was not sure whether this was meritorious or not. "You imagine that I go into my class, then home, and forget about everything. That is not the case. Young people gather round me, attach themselves to me, and I show them drawings of old buildings, utensils, make sketches and give explanations, as I once did for you. What I know myself I communicate to others, explain the ancient ideals of virtue, expound classical life, just as our own classics are explained. Is that no longer essential?"

"Certainly it has its advantage. But it has nothing to do with real life. One cannot live like that to-day. So much has disappeared, so many things have arisen that the Greeks and Romans never knew. But we need models from contemporary life, we must educate ourselves and others to be men. That is our task."

"No, I do not take that upon my shoulders; it is sufficient for one to take the models of ancient virtue from books. I myself live for and through myself. You see I live quietly and modestly, eat my vermicelli soup...."

"Life for and through yourself is not life at all, it is a passive condition, and man is a fighting animal."

"I have already told you that I do my duty and do not interfere in anybody else's business; and no one interferes with mine."

"Life's arm is long, and will not spare even you. And how will you meet her blows—unprepared."

"What has Life to do with a humble man like me? I shall pass unnoticed. I have books, although they are not mine," he said glancing hesitatingly at Raisky, "but you give me free use of them. My needs are small, I feel no boredom. I have a wife who loves me...."

Raisky looked away.

"And," he added in a whisper, "I love her."

It was plain that as his mind nourished itself on the books, so his heart had found a warm refuge; he himself did not even know what bound him to life and books, and did not guess that he might keep his books and lose his life, and that his life would be maimed if his "Roman head" was stolen from him.

Happy child, thought Raisky. In his learned sleep he does not notice the darkness that is hidden in that dear Roman head, nor how empty the woman's heart is. He is helpless as far as she is concerned, and will never convince her of the virtues of the ancient ideals.



CHAPTER VIII

The sun was setting when Raisky returned home, and was received at the door by Marfinka.

"Where did you get lost, Cousin?" she asked him. "Grandmother is very angry, and is grumbling...."

"I was with Leonti," returned Raisky indifferently.

"I thought so, and told Grandmother so, but she won't listen and will hardly speak even to Tiet Nikonich. He is with her now and Paulina Karpovna too. Go to Grandmother, and it will be all right. Are you afraid. Does your heart beat fast?"

Raisky had to laugh.

"She is very angry. We had prepared so many dishes."

"We will eat them up for supper."

"Will you? Grandmother, Grandmother," she cried happily, "Cousin has come and wants his supper."

His aunt sat severely there, and did not look up when Raisky entered. Tiet Nikonich embraced him. He received an elegant bow from Paulina Karpovna, an elaborately got-up person of forty-five in a low cut muslin gown, with a fine lace handkerchief and a fan, which she kept constantly in motion although there was no heat.

"What a man you have grown! I should hardly have known you," said Tiet Nikonich, beaming with kindness and pleasure.

"He has grown very, very handsome," said Paulina Karpovna Kritzki.

"You have not altered, Tiet Nikonich," remarked Raisky. "You have hardly aged at all, and are as gay, as fresh, as kind and amiable...."

"Thank God! there is nothing worse than rheumatism the matter with me, and my digestion is no longer quite as good as it was. That is age, age. But how glad I am that you, our guest, have arrived in such good spirits. Tatiana Markovna was anxious about you. You will be staying here for some time?"

"Of course you will spend the summer with us," said Paulina Karpovna. "Here is nature, and fine air, and so many people are interested in you."

He looked at her askance, and said nothing.

"Do you remember me?" she asked. Boris's aunt noticed with displeasure that Paulina Karpovna was ogling her nephew.

"No, I must confess I forgot."

"Yes, impressions are quickly forgotten in the capital," she said in a languishing tone. She looked him up and down and then added, "What an admirable travelling suit."

"That reminds me I am still in my travelling clothes. Egor must be sent for and must take my clothes and linen out of the trunk. For you, Granny, and for you, my dear sisters, I have brought some small things for remembrance."

Marfinka grew crimson with pleasure.

"Granny, where are you going to put me up?"

"The house belongs to you. Where you will," she returned coldly.

"Don't be angry, Granny," he laughed. "It won't happen twice."

"You may laugh, you may laugh, Boris Pavlovich. Here, in the presence of our guests, I tell you you have behaved badly. You have hardly put your nose inside the house, and straightway vanish. That is an insult to your Grandmother."

"Surely, Granny, we shall be together every day. I have been visiting an old friend, and we forgot ourselves in talking."

"Cousin Boris did not do it on purpose, Granny," said Marfinka. "Leonti Ivanovich is so good."

"Please be silent when you are not addressed. You are too young to contradict your Grandmother, who knows what she is saying."

Smilingly Marfinka drew back into her corner.

"No doubt Juliana Andreevna was able to entertain you better, and knows better than I how to entertain a Petersburger. What friccassee did she give you?" asked his aunt, not without a little real curiosity.

"Vermicelli soup, pastry with cabbage, then beef and potatoes."

Tatiana Markovna laughed ironically, "Vermicelli soup and beef!"

"And groats in the pan...."

"It's a long time since you tasted such delicacies."

"Excellent dishes," said Tiet Nikonich kindly, "but heavy for the digestion."

"To-morrow, Marfinka," said the old lady, "we will entertain our guest with a gosling, pickled pork, carrots, and perhaps with a goose."

"A goose, stuffed with groats, would be acceptable," put in Raisky.

"Indigestible!" protested Tiet Nikonich. "The best is a light soup, with pearl barley, a cutlet, pastries and jelly; that is the proper midday meal."

"But I should like groats."

"Do you like mushrooms too, Cousin?" asked Marfinka. "Because we have so many."

"Rather! Can't we have them for supper tonight?"

In spite of Tiet Nikonich's caution against this heavy food, Tatiana Markovna sent Marfinka to Peter and to the cook to order mushrooms for supper.

"If there is any champagne in the cellar, Granny, let us have a bottle up. Tiet Nikonich and I would like to drink your health. Isn't that so, Tiet Nikonich?"

"Yes, to celebrate your arrival, though mushrooms and champagne are indigestible."

"Tell the cook to bring champagne on ice, Marfinka," said the old lady.

"Ce que femme veut," said Tiet Nikonich amiably, with a slight bow.

"Supper is a special occasion, but one ought to dine at home too. You have vexed your Grandmother by going out on the very day of your return."

"Ah, Tatiana Markovna," sighed Paulina Karpovna, "our ways here are so bourgeois, but in the capital...."

The old lady's eyes blazed, as she pointed to the wall where hung the portraits of Raisky's and the young girls' parents, and exclaimed: "There was nothing bourgeois about those, Paulina Karpovna."

"Granny," said Raisky, "let us allow one another absolute freedom. I am now making up for my absence at midday, and shall be here all night. But I can't tell where I shall dine to-morrow, or where I shall sleep."

Paulina Karpovna could not refrain from applauding, but his aunt looked at him with amazement, and inquired if he were really a gipsy.

"Monsieur Raisky is a poet, and poets are as free as air," remarked Paulina Karpovna. Again she made play with her eyes, shifted the pointed toes of her shoes in an effort to arouse Raisky's attention. The more she twisted and turned, the more icy was his indifference, for her presence made an uncomfortable impression on him. Marfinka observed the by-play and smiled to herself.

"You have two houses, land, peasants, silver and glass, and talk of wandering about from one shelter to another like a beggar, like Markushka, the vagrant."

"Markushka again! I must certainly make his acquaintance."

"No, don't do that and add to your Grandmother's anxieties. If you see him, make your escape."

"But why?"

"He will lead you astray."

"That's of no consequence, Grandmother. It looks as if he were an interesting individual, doesn't it, Tiet Nikonich?"

"He is a riddle to everybody," Tiet Nikonich answered with a smile. "He must have gone astray very early in life, but he has apparently good brains and considerable knowledge, and might have been a useful member of society."

Paulina Karpovna turned her head away, and dismissed Mark with the criticism, "No manners."

"Brains! You bought his brains for three hundred roubles. Has he repaid them?" asked Tatiana Markovna.

"I did not remind him of his debt. But to me he is, for the matter of that, almost polite."

"That is to say he does not strike you, or shoot in your direction. Just imagine, Boris, that he nearly shot Niel Andreevich."

"His dogs tore my train," complained Paulina Karpovna.

"Did he never visit you unceremoniously at dinner again?" Tatiana Markovna asked Tiet Nikonich.

"No, you don't like me to receive him, so I refuse him admission. He once came to me at night," he went on, addressing Raisky. "He had been out hunting, and had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. I gave him food, and we passed the time very pleasantly."

"Pleasantly!" exclaimed Tatiana Markovna. "How can you say such things? If he came to me at that hour, I would settle him. No, Boris Pavlovich, live like other decent people. Stay with us, have dinner with us, go out with us, keep suspicious people at a distance, see how I administer your estate, and find fault if I do anything wrong."

"That is so monotonous, Grandmother. Let us rather live each one after his own ideas and inclinations."

"You are an exception," sighed his aunt.

"No, Grandmother, it is you who are an exceptional woman. Why should we bother about one another."

"To please your Grandmother."

"Why don't you want to please your Grandson? You are a despot, Grandmother."

"A despot! Boris Pavlovich, I have waited anxiously for you, I have hardly slept, have tried to have everything as you liked it."

"But you did all that because activity is a pleasure to you. All this care and trouble is a pleasant stimulant, keeps you busy. If Markushka came to you, you would receive him in the same fashion."

"You are right, Cousin," broke in Marfinka. "Grandmother is kindness itself, but she tries to disguise it."

"Don't give your opinion when it is not asked. She contradicts her Grandmother only when you are here, Boris Pavlovich; at other times she is modest enough. And now the ideas she suddenly takes into her head. I? entertain Markushka!"

"You did as you pleased," continued Raisky. "And then when it entered my head too to do as I pleased, I disturbed your arrangements and made a breach in your despotism. Isn't that so, Granny? And now kiss me, and we will give one another full liberty."

"What a strange boy? Do you hear, Tiet Nikonich, what nonsense he talks."

On that evening Tatiana Markovna and Raisky concluded, if not peace, at least a truce. She was assured that Boris loved and esteemed her; she was, in truth, easily convinced. After supper Raisky unpacked his trunk, and brought down his gifts; for his aunt, a few pounds of excellent tea, of which she was a connoisseur, a coffee machine of a new kind, with a coffee-pot, and a dark brown silk dress; bracelets with monograms for his cousins; and for Tiet Nikonich vest and hose of Samian leather, as his aunt had desired.

Tatiana Markovna, with tears in her eyes, sat down beside him, and putting her hand on his shoulder said, "And you remembered me?"

"Whom else should I remember? You are my nearest and dearest, Grandmother."

When Tiet Nikonich and Paulina Karpovna took leave, the lady said that she had left orders with no one to fetch her, and that she hoped someone would accompany her, looking towards Raisky as she spoke. Tiet Nikonich expressed himself ready to see her home.

"Egorka could have taken her," whispered Tatiana Markovna. "Why didn't she stay at home; she was not invited."

"Thank you, thank you," said Paulina Karpovna to Raisky as she passed him.

"What for?" asked Raisky in amazement.

"For the pleasant, witty conversation, although it was not directed to me. What pleasure it gave me!"

"A practical conversation about groats, a goose, and a quarrel with Grandmother."

"Ah, I understand," she continued, "but I caught two glances, which were intended for me, confess they were. I am filled with hope and expectation."

As she went out Raisky asked Marfinka what she was talking about.

"She's always like that," laughed Marfinka.

Tatiana Markovna followed Raisky to his room, smoothed the sheets of his bed once more, drew the curtains so that the sun should not awaken him in the morning, felt the feather bed to test its softness, and had a jug of water placed on the table beside him. She came back three times to see if he were asleep or wanted anything. Touched by so much kindly thought he recognised that his grandmother's activity was not only exerted to gratify herself.



CHAPTER IX

The days passed quietly by. Every morning the sun climbed up through the blue air, and lighted up the Volga and its banks. At midday the snowy clouds crept up, often piled one on another until the blue sky was hidden, and the cooling rain fell on woods and fields; then once more the clouds stole away before the approach of the warm, pleasant evening.

Life at Malinovka passed just as peacefully. The naivete of the surroundings had not yet lost its charm for Raisky. The sunshine insinuating itself everywhere, his aunt's kind face, Marfinka's friendliness, and the willing attention of the servants made up a pleasant, friendly environment. He even felt pleasure in the watchful guardianship that his aunt exercised over him; he smiled when she preached order to him, warned him of crime and temptation, reproached him for his gipsy tendencies and tried to lead him to a definite plan of life.

He liked Tiet Nikonich, and saw in his courtesy and his extreme good manners, his care for his health, and the universal esteem and affection in which he was held, a survival from the last century. When he felt very good tempered he found even Paulina Karpovna's eccentricities amusing. She had induced him to lunch with her one day, when she assured him that she was not indifferent to him, and that he himself was on the eve of returning her sentiments!

The even, monotonous life lulled him like a cradle song. He wrote idly at his novel, strengthened a situation here, grouped a scene there, or accentuated a character. He watched his aunt, Leonti and his wife, and Marfinka, or looked at the villages and fields lying in an enchanted sleep along the banks of the Volga. In this ocean of silence he caught notes which he could interpret in terms of music, and determined, in his abundant leisure, to pursue the subject.

One day, after a lonely walk along the shore, he climbed the cliff, and passed Koslov's house. Seeing that the windows were lighted, he was going up to the door, when suddenly he heard someone climb over the fence and jump down into the garden. Standing in the shadow of the fence, Raisky hesitated. He was afraid to sound the alarm until he knew whether it was a thief or an admirer of Juliana Andreevna's, some Monsieur Charles or other. However, he decided to pursue the intruder, and promptly climbed the fence and followed him. The man stopped before a window and hammered on the pane.

"That is no thief, possibly Mark," thought Raisky. He was right.

"Philosopher, open! Quick!" cried the intruder.

"Go round to the entrance," said Leonti's voice dully through the glass.

"To the entrance, to wake the dog! Open!"

"Wait!" said Leonti, and as he opened the window Mark swung himself into the room.

"Who is that behind you. Whom have you brought with you?" asked Leonti in terror.

"No one. Do you imagine there's a ghost. Ah! there is someone scrambling up."

"Boris, you? How did you happen to arrive together," he exclaimed as Raisky sprang into the room.

Mark cast a hasty glance on Boris and turned to Leonti. "Give me another pair of trousers. Have you any wine in the house?

"What's the matter, and where have you been?" asked Leonti suddenly, who had just noticed that Mark was covered up to the waist with wet and slime.

"Give me another pair of trousers quick," said Mark impatiently. "What is the good of chattering?"

"I have no wine, because we drank it all at dinner, when Monsieur Charles was our guest."

"Where do you keep your clothes?"

"My wife is asleep and I don't know; you must ask Avdotya."

"Fool! I will find them myself!"

He took a light, and went into the next room.

"You see what he is like," sighed Leonti, addressing Raisky.

After about ten minutes, Mark returned with the trousers and Leonti questioned him as to how he had got wet through.

"I was crossing the Volga in a fishing-boat. The ass of a fisherman fell asleep, and brought us right up into the reeds by the island, and we had to get out among the reeds to extricate the boat."

Without taking any heed of Raisky, he changed his trousers and sat down with his feet drawn up under him in the great armchair, so that his knees were on a level with his face, and he supported his bearded chin upon them.

Raisky observed him silently. Mark was twenty-seven, built as if his muscles were iron, and well proportioned; a thick mane of light brown hair framed his pale face with its high arched forehead, and fell in long locks on his neck. The full beard was paler in colour. His open, bold, irregular, rather thin face was illuminated every now and then by a smile—of which it was hard to read the meaning; one could not tell whether it spelt vexation, mockery or pleasure. His grey eyes could be bold and commanding, but for the most part wore a cold expression of contempt. Tied up in a knot as he was, he now sat motionless with staring eyes, stirring neither hand nor foot.

There was something restless and watchful in the motionless attitude, as in that of a dog apparently at rest, but ready to spring.

Suddenly his eyes gleamed, and he turned to Raisky. "You will have brought some good cigars from St. Petersburg," he began without ceremony. "Give me one."

Raisky offered his cigar case, and reminded Leonti that he had not introduced them.

"What need is there of introduction! You came in by the same way, and both know who the other is."

"Words of wisdom from the scholar!" ejaculated Mark.

"That same Mark of whom I wrote to you, don't you remember!" said Leonti.

"Wait, I will introduce myself," cried Mark, springing from the easy chair. He posed ceremoniously, and bowed.

"I have the honour to present myself, Mark Volokov, under police surveillance, involuntary citizen of this town."

He puffed away at his cigar, and again rolled himself up in a ball.

"What do you do with yourself here?" asked Raisky.

"I think, as you do."

"You love art, are perhaps an artist?"

"And are you an artist?"

"Painter and musician," broke in Leonti, "and now he is writing a novel. Take care, brother, he may put you in too."

Raisky signed to him to be silent.

"Yes, I am an artist," Mark went on, "but of a different kind. Your Aunt will have acquainted you with my works."

"She won't hear your name mentioned."

"There you have it. But it was only a matter of a hundred apples or so that I plucked from over the fence."

"The apples are mine; you may take as many as you like."

"Many thanks. But why should I need your permission? I am accustomed to do everything in this life without permission. Therefore I will take the apples without your permission, they taste better."

"I was curious to make your acquaintance. I hear so many tales about you."

"What do they say?"

"Little that is good."

"Probably they tell you I am a thief, a monster, the terror of the neighbourhood."

"That's about it."

"But if this reputation precedes me, why should you seek my acquaintance. I have torn your books, as no doubt our friend there has informed you."

"There he is to the point," cried Leonti. "I am glad he began the subject himself. He is a good sort at the bottom. If one is ill, he waits on one like a nurse, runs to the chemist, and takes any amount of trouble. But the rascal wanders round and gives no one any peace."

"Don't chatter so," interrupted Mark.

"For that matter," said Raisky, "everybody does not abuse you. Tiet Nikonich Vatutin, for instance, goes out of his way to speak well of you."

"Is it possible! The sugar marquis! I left him some souvenirs of my presence. More than once I have waked him in the night by opening his bedroom window. He is always fussing about his health, but in all the forty years since he came here no one remembers him to have been ill. I shall never return the money he lent me. What more provocation would he have? And yet he praises me."

"So that is your department of art," said Raisky gaily.

"What kind of an artist are you? It is your turn to tell me."

"I love and adore beauty. I love art, draw, and make music, and just now I am trying to write a great work, a novel."

"Yes, yes, I see. You are an artist of the kind we all are."

"All?"

"With us Russians everybody is an artist. They use the chisel, paint, strum, write poetry, as you and your like do. Others drive in the mornings to the courts or the government offices, others sit before their stalls playing draughts, and still others stick on their estates—Art is everywhere."

"Do you feel no desire to enter any of these categories."

"I have tried, but don't know how to. What brought you here?"

"I don't know myself. It is all the same to me where I go. I had a letter summoning me here from my Aunt, and I came."

Mark busied himself in his thoughts, and took no further interest in Raisky. Raisky on the other hand examined the extraordinary person before him attentively, studied the expression of his face, followed his movements, and tried to grasp the outline of a strong character. "Thank God," he said to himself, "that I am not the only idle, aimless person here. In this man there is something similar; he wanders about, reconciles himself to his fate, and does nothing. I at least draw and try to write my novel, while he does nothing. Is he the victim of secret discord like myself? Is he always struggling between two fires? Imagination striving upward to the ideal lures him on on the one hand—man, nature and life in all its manifestations; on the other he is attracted by a cold, destructive analysis which allows nothing to live, and will forget nothing, an analysis that leads to eternal discontent and blighting cold. Is that his secret?" He glanced at Mark, who was already drowsing.

"Good-bye, Leonti," he said, "it's time I was going home."

"What am I to do with him?"

"He can stay here all right."

"Think of the books. It's leaving the goat loose in the vegetable garden."

"I might wheel him in the armchair into that dark little room, and lock him in," thought Leonti, "but if he woke, he might pull the roof down."

Mark helped him out of his dilemma by jumping to his feet.

"I am going with you," he said to Raisky. "It is time for you to go to bed, philosopher," he said to Leonti. "Don't sit up at nights. You have already got a yellow patch in your face, and your eyes are hollow."

He put out the light, stuffed on his cap, and leapt out of the window. Raisky followed his example, and they went down the garden once more, climbed the fence, and came out in the street.

"Listen," said Mark. "I am hungry, and Leonti has nothing to give me. Can you help me to storm an inn?"

"As far as I am concerned. But the thing can be managed without the application of force."

"It is late, and the inns are shut. No one will open willingly, especially when it is known that I am in the case; consequently we must enter by storm. We will call 'Fire!' and then they will open at once, and we can get in."

"And be hurled out into the street again."

"There you are wrong. It is possible that I might be refused entrance, but once in, I remain."

"A siege, a row at night...."

"Ah, you are afraid of the police," laughed Mark. "You are thinking of what the Governor would decide on in such a serious case, what Niel Andreevich would say, how the company would take it. Now good-bye, I will go and storm my entrance alone."

"Wait, I have another, more delightful plan," said Raisky. "My Aunt cannot, you say, bear to hear your name; only the other day she declared she would in no circumstances give you hospitality."

"Well, what then?"

"Come home with me to supper, and stay the night with me."

"That's not a bad plan. Let us go."

They walked in silence, almost feeling their way through the darkness. When they came to the fence of the Malinovka estate, which bounded the vegetable garden, Raisky proposed to climb it.

"It would be better," said Mark, "to go by way of the orchard or from the precipice. Here we shall wake the house and must make a circuit in addition. I always go the other way."

"You—come—here—into the garden? What to do?"

"To get apples."

"You have my permission, so long as Tatiana Markovna does not catch you."

"I shan't be caught so easily. Look, someone has just leaped over the fence, like us. Hi! Stop! Don't try to hide. Who's there? Halt! Raisky, come and help me!"

He ran forward a few paces, and seized someone.

Raisky hurried to the point from which voices were audible, remarking, "What cat's eyes you have!" The man who was held fast by Mark's strong arms twisted round to free himself, and in the end fell to the ground and made for the fence.

"Catch him, hold fast! There is another sneaking round in the vegetable garden," cried Raisky.

Raisky saw dimly a figure about to spring down from the fence, and demanded who it was.

"Sir, let me go, do not ruin me!" whispered a woman's voice.

"Is it you, Marina, what are you doing here?

"Gently, Sir. Don't call me by name. Savili will hear, and will beat me."

"Off with you! No, stop. I have found you at the right moment. Can you bring some supper to my room?"

"Anything, Sir. Only, for God's sake, don't betray me."

"I won't betray you. Tell me what there is in the kitchen."

"The whole supper is there. As you did not come, no one ate anything. There is sturgeon in jelly, turkey, all on ice."

"Bring it, and what about wine?"

"There is a bottle in the sideboard, and the fruit liqueurs are in Marfa Vassilievna's room."

"Be careful not to wake her."

"She sleeps soundly. Let me go now, Sir, for my husband may hear us."

"Run, but take care you don't run into him."

"He dare not do anything if he does meet me now. I shall tell him that you have given me orders...."

Meanwhile, Mark had dragged his man from hiding. "Savili Ilivich," the unknown murmured, "don't strike me."

"I ought to know the voice," said Raisky.

"Ah! You are not Savili Ilivich, thank God. I Sir, I am the gardener from over there."

"What are you doing here?"

"I came on a real errand, Sir. Our clock has stopped, and I came here to wait for the church-clock to strike."

"Devil take you," cried Mark, and gave the man a push that sent him reeling.

The man sprang over the ditch, and vanished in the darkness.

Raisky, meantime, returned to the main entrance. He tried to open the door, not wishing to knock for fear of awaking his aunt. "Marina," he called in a low voice, "Marina, open!"

The bolt was pushed back. Raisky pushed open the door with his foot. Before him stood—he recognised the voice—Savili, who flung himself upon him and held him.

"Wait, my little dove, I will make my reckoning with you, not with Marina."

"Take your hands off, Savili, it is I."

"Who, not the Master?" exclaimed Savili, loosening his prisoner. "You were so good as to call Marina? But," after a pause, "have you not seen her."

"I had already asked her to leave some supper for me and to open the door," he said untruthfully, by way of protecting the unfaithful wife. "She had already heard that I am here. Now let my guest pass, shut the door, and go to bed."

"Yes, Sir," said Savili, and went slowly to his quarters, meeting Marina on the way.

"Why aren't you in bed, you demon?" she cried, dashing past him. "You sneak around at night, you might be twisting the manes of the horses like a goblin, and put me to shame before the gentry."

Marina sped past light-footed as a sylph, skilfully balancing dishes and plates in her hands, and vanished into the dark night. Savili's answer was a threatening gesture with his whip.

Mark was indeed hungry, and as Raisky showed no hesitation either, the sturgeon soon disappeared, and when Marina came to clear away there was not much to take.

"Now we should like something sweet," suggested Raisky.

"No sweets are left," Marina assured them, "but I could get some preserves, of which Vassilissa has the keys."

"Better still punch," said Mark. "Have you any rum?"

"Probably," she said, in answer to an inquiring glance from Raisky. "The cook was given a bottle this morning for a pudding. I will see."

Marina returned with a bottle of rum, a lemon and sugar, and then left the room. The bowl was soon in flames, which lighted up the darkened room with their pale blue light. Mark stirred it with the spoon, while the sugar held between two spoons dripped slowly into the bowl. From time to time he tasted it.

"How long have you been in our town?" asked Raisky after a short silence.

"About two years."

"You must assuredly be bored?"

"I try to amuse myself," he said, pouring out a glass for himself and emptying it. "Drink," he said, pushing a glass towards Raisky.

Raisky drank slowly, not from inclination, but out of politeness to his guest. "It must be essential for you to do something, and yet you appear to do nothing?"

"And what do you do?"

"I told you I am an artist."

"Show me proof of your art."

"At the moment I have nothing except a trifling thing, and even that is not complete."

He rose from the divan and uncovered Marfinka's portrait.

"H'm, it's like her, and good," declared Mark. He told himself that Raisky had talent. "And it would be excellent, but the head is too large in proportion and the shoulders a trifle broad."

"He has a straight eye," thought Raisky.

"I like best the lightly-observed background and accessories, from which the figure detaches itself light, gay, and transparent. You have found the secret of Marfinka's figure. The tone suits her hair and her complexion."

Raisky recognised that he had taste and comprehension, and wondered if he were really an artist in a disguise.

"Do you know Marfinka?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And Vera?"

"Vera too."

"Where have you met my cousins? You do not come to the house."

"At church."

"At church? But they say you never look inside a church."

"I don't exactly remember where I have seen them, in the village, in the field."

Raisky concluded his guest was a drunkard, as he drunk down glass after glass of punch. Mark guessed his thoughts.

"You think it extraordinary that I should drink. I do it out of sheer boredom, because I am idle and have no occupation. But don't be afraid that I shall set the house on fire or murder anybody. To-day I am drinking more than usual because I am tired and cold. But I am not a drunkard."

"It depends on ourselves whether we are idle or not."

"When you climbed over Leonti's fence, I thought you were a sensible individual, but now I see that you belong to the same kind of preaching person as Niel Andreevich...."

"Is it true that you fired on him?" asked Raisky curiously.

"What nonsense! I fired a shot among the pigeons to empty the barrel of my gun, as I was returning from hunting. He came up and shouted that I should stop, because it was sinful. If he had been content with protesting I should merely have called him a fool, and there it would have ended. But he began to stamp and to threaten, 'I will have you put in prison, you ruffian, and will have you locked up where not even the raven will bring you a bone.' I allowed him to run through the whole gamut of polite remarks, and listened calmly—and then I 'took aim at him.'"

"And he?"

"Ducked, lost his stick and goloshes, finally squatted on the ground and whimpered for forgiveness. I shot into the air. That's all."

"A pretty distraction," commented Raisky ironically.

"No distraction," said Mark seriously. "There was more in it, a badly-needed lesson for the old boy."

"And then what?"

"Nothing. He lied to the Governor, saying that I had aimed at him, but missed. If I had been a peaceful citizen of the town I should have been thrust into gaol without delay; but as I am an outlaw, the Governor inquired into the matter and advised Niel Andreevich to say nothing. So that no enquiry should be instituted from St. Petersburg; they fear that like fire."

"When I spoke of idleness," said Raisky, "I did not mean to read a moral. Yet when I see what your mind, your abilities and your education are...."

"What have you seen? That I can climb a hedge, shoot at a fool, eat and drink heavily?" he asked as he drained his glass.

Raisky watched him, and wondered uneasily how it would all end.

"We were speaking of the art you love so much," said Mark.

"I have been snatched from Art as if from my mother's breast," sighed Raisky, "but I shall return and shall reach my goal."

"No, you will not," laughed Mark.

"Why not, don't you believe in firm intentions?"

"How should I do otherwise, since they say the way to Hell is paved with them. No, you will do little more than you have accomplished already—that is very little. We, and many like us, simply rot and die. The only wonder is that you don't drink. That is how our artists, half men, usually end their careers."

Smiling he thrust a glass towards his host, but emptied it himself. Raisky concluded that he was cold, malicious and heartless. But the last remark had disturbed him. Was he really only half a man? Had he not a firm determination to reach the goal he had set before himself? He was only making fun of him.

"You see that I don't drink away my talents," he remarked.

"Yes, that is an improvement, a step forward. You haven't succumbed to society, to perfumes, gloves and dancing. Drinking is a different thing. It goes to one man's head, another is susceptible to passion. Tell me, do you easily take fire? Ah! I have touched the spot," he went on as Raisky coloured. "That belongs to the artistic temperament, to which nothing is foreign—Nihil humanum, etc. One loves wine, another women, a third cards. The artists have usurped all these things for themselves. Now kindly explain what I am."

"What you are. Why, an artist, without doubt, who on a first acquaintance will drink, storm public houses, shoot, borrow money—"

"And not repay it. Bravo! an admirable description. To justify your last remark and prove its truth beyond doubt, lend me a hundred roubles. I will never pay them back unless you and I should have exchanged our respective situations in life."

"You say that in jest?"

"Not at all. The market gardener, with whom I live, feeds me. He has no money, nor have I."

Raisky shrugged his shoulders, felt in his pockets, produced his pocket book and laid some notes on the table.

"You have counted wrong," said Mark. "There are only eighty here."

"I have no more money on me. My aunt keeps my money, and I will send you the balance to-morrow."

"Don't forget. This is enough for the moment and now I want to sleep."

"My bed is at your disposal, and I will sleep on the divan. You are my guest."

"I should be worse than a Tatar if I did that," murmured Mark, already half asleep. "Lie down on your bed. Anything will do for me."

In a few minutes he was sleeping the sleep of a tired, satisfied and drunken man worn out with cold and weariness. Raisky went to the window, raised the curtain, and looked out into the dark, starlit night. Now and then a flame hovered over the unemptied bowl, flared up and lighted up the room for a moment. There was a gentle tap on the door.

"Who is there?" he asked.

"I, Borushka. Open quickly. What are you doing there," said the anxious voice of Tatiana Markovna.

Raisky opened the door, and saw his aunt before him, like a white-clad ghost.

"What is going on here. I saw a light through the window, and thought you were asleep. What is burning in the bowl."

"Rum."

"Do you drink punch at night?" she whispered, looking first at him, then at the bowl in amazement.

"I am a sinner, Grandmother. Sometimes I drink."

"And who is lying there asleep?" she asked in new terror as she gazed on the sleeping Mark.

"Gently, Grandmother, don't wake him. It is Mark."

"Mark! Shall I send for the police! What have you to do with him? You have been drinking punch at night with Mark? What has come over you, Boris Pavlovich?"

"I found him at Leonti's, we were both hungry. So I brought him here and we had supper."

"Why didn't you call me. Who served you, and what did they bring you?"

"Marina did everything."

"A cold meal. Ah, Borushka, you shame me."

"We had plenty to eat."

"Plenty, without a single hot dish, without dessert. I will send up some preserves."

"No, no ... if you want anything, I can wake Mark and ask him."

"Good heavens! I am in my night-jacket," she whispered, and drew back to the door. "How he sleeps, all rolled up like a little dog. I am ashamed, Boris Pavlovich, as if we had no beds in the house. But put out the flames. No dessert!"

Raisky extinguished the blue flame and embraced the old lady. She made the sign of the Cross over him, looked round the room once more, and went out on tiptoe. Just as he was going to lie down again there was another tap on the door, he opened it immediately.

Marina entered, bearing a jar of preserves; then she brought a bed and two pillows. "The mistress sent them," she said.

Raisky laughed heartily, and was almost moved to tears.



CHAPTER X

Early in the morning a slight noise wakened Raisky, and he sat up to see Mark disappear through the window. He does not like the straight way, he thought, and stepped to the window. Mark was going through the park, and vanished under the thick trees on the top of the precipice. As he had no inclination to go to bed again, he put on a light overcoat and went down into the park too, thinking to bring Mark back, but he was already far below on the bank of the Volga. Raisky remained standing at the top of the precipice. The sun had not yet risen, but his rays were already gilding the hill tops, the dew covered fields were glistening in the distance, and the cool morning wind breathed freshness. The air grew rapidly warmer, giving promise of a hot day. Raisky walked on in the park, and the rain began to fall. The birds sang, as they darted in all directions seeking their morning meal, and the bees and the humble-bees hummed over the flowers. A feeling of discomfort came over Raisky. He had a long day before him, with the impressions of yesterday and the day before still strong upon him. He looked down on the unchanging prospect of smiling nature, the woods and the melancholy Volga, and felt the caress of the same cooling breeze. He went forward over the courtyard, taking no notice of the greetings of the servants or the friendly advances of the dogs.

He intended to go back to his room to turn the tenseness of his mood to account as an artistic motive in his novel; but as he hurried past the old house, he noticed that the door was half open, and went in. Since his arrival he had only been here for a moment with Marfinka, and had glanced into Vera's room. Now it occurred to him to make a closer inspection. Passing through his old bedroom and two or three other rooms, he came into the corner room, then with an expression of extreme astonishment in his face he stood still.

Leaning on the window-sill, so that her profile was turned towards him, stood a girl of two or three and twenty, looking with strained curiosity, as if she were following some one with her eyes, down to the bank of the Volga. He was startled by the white, almost pallid face under the dark hair, the velvet-black eyes with their long lashes. Her face, still looking anxiously into the distance, gradually assumed an indifferent expression. The girl glanced hastily over park and courtyard, then as she turned and caught sight of him, shrank back.

"Sister Vera!" he cried.

Her face cleared, and her eyes remained fixed on him with an expression of modest curiosity, as he approached to kiss her.

She drew back almost imperceptibly, turning her head a little so that his lips touched her cheek, not her mouth, and they sat down opposite the window.

Impatient to hear her voice he began: "How eagerly I have expected you, and you have stayed away so long."

"Marina told me yesterday that you were here."

Her voice, though not so clear as Marfinka's, was still fresh and youthful.

"Grandmother wanted to send you word of my arrival, but I begged her not to tell you. When did you return? No one told me you were here."

"Yesterday, after supper. Grandmother and my sister don't know I am here yet. No one saw me but Marina."

She threw some white garments that lay beside her into the next room, pushed aside a bundle and brought a table to the window. Then she sat down again, with a manner quite unconstrained, as if she were alone.

"I have prepared coffee," she said. "Will you drink it with me. It will be a long time before it is ready at the other house. Marfinka gets up late."

"I should like it very much," he replied, following her with his eyes. Like a true artist he abandoned himself to the new and unexpected impression.

"You must have forgotten me, Vera," he remarked after a pause, with an affectionate note in his voice.

"No," she said, as he poured out the coffee, "I remember everything. How was it possible to forget you when Grandmother was for ever talking about you?"

He would have liked to ask her question after question, but they crowded into his brain in so disconnected a fashion that he did not know where to begin.

"I have already been in your room. Forgive the intrusion," he said.

"There is nothing remarkable here," she said hastily, looking around as if something not intended for strange eyes might be lying about.

"Nothing remarkable, quite right. What book is that?"

He put out his hand for the book under her hand; she rapidly drew it away and put it behind her on the shelf.

"You hide it as you used to hide the currants in your mouth. But show it me."

"Do you read books that may not be seen?" he said, laughingly as she shook her head.

"Heavens! how lovely she is!" he thought. And he wondered how such beauty could have lost its way in such an outlandish place. He wanted to touch some answering chord in her heart, wanted her to reveal something of her feelings, but his efforts only produced a greater coldness.

"My library was in your hands?"

"Yes, but later Leonid Ivanovich took it over, and I was glad to be relieved of the charge."

"But he must have left you a few books?"

"Oh no! I read what I liked, and then surrendered the books."

"What did you like?"

She looked out of the window as she answered: "A great many. I have really forgotten."

"Do you care for music?"

She looked at him inquiringly before she said, "Does that mean that I play myself, or like to hear music?"

"Both."

"I don't play, but I like to hear music, but what music is there here?"

"But what are your particular tastes?" Again she looked at him inquiringly. "Do you like housekeeping, or needlework. Do you do embroidery?"

"No, Marfinka likes and understands all those things."

"But what do you like? A book only occupies you for a short time. You say that you don't do any needlework, but you must like something, flowers perhaps."

"Flowers, yes, in the garden, but not in the house where they have to be tended. I love this corner of God's earth, the Volga, the precipice, the forest and the garden—these are the things I love," she said, looking contentedly at the prospect from the window.

"What ties bind you to this little place?"

She gave no answer, but her eyes wandered lovingly over the trees and the rising ground, and finally rested on the dazzling mirror of water.

"It is a beautiful place," admitted Raisky, "but the view, the river bank, the hills, the forest—all these things would became tedious if they were not inhabited by living creatures which share our feelings and exchange ideas with us."

She was silent.

"Vera!" said Raisky after a pause.

"Ah!" she said, as if she had only just heard his remarks, "I don't live alone; Grandmother, Marfinka...."

"As if you shared your sympathies and thoughts with them. But perhaps you have a congenial spirit here?"

Vera nodded her head.

"Who is that happy individual?" he stammered, urged on by envy, terror and jealousy.

"The pope's wife with whom I have been stopping," said Vera as she rose and shook the crumbs from her apron. "You must have heard of her."

"The pope's wife!" he repeated.

"When she is here with me we both admire the Volga, we are never tired of talking about it. Will you have some more coffee? May I have it cleared away?"

"The pope's wife," he repeated thoughtfully, without hearing her question, and the smile on her lips passed unobserved.

"Will you have some more coffee?"

"No. Do you care for Grandmother and Marfinka?"

"Whom else should I hold dear?"

"Well—me," he retorted, jesting.

"You too," she said, looking gaily at him, "if you deserve it."

"How does one earn this good fortune?" he asked ironically.

"Love, they say, is blind, gives herself without any merit, is indeed blind," she rejoined.

"Yet sometimes love comes consciously, by way of confidence, esteem and friendship. I should like to begin with the last, and end with the first. So what must one do, dear sister, to attract your attention."

"Not to make such round eyes as you are doing now for instance, not to go into my room—without me, not to try to find out what my likes and dislikes are...."

"What pride! Tell me, Sister, forgive my bluntness: Do you pride yourself on this? I ask because Grandmother told me you were proud."

"Grandmother must have her finger in everything. I am not proud. In what connection did she say I was?"

"Because I have made a gift of these houses and gardens to you and Marfinka. She said that you would not accept the gift. Is that true? Marfinka has accepted on the condition that you do not refuse. Grandmother hesitated, and has not come to a final decision, but waits, it seems, to see what you will say. And how shall you decide. Will a sister take a gift from a brother?"

"Yes, I accept ... but no, I can buy the estate. Sell it to me.... I have money, and will pay you 50,000 roubles for it."

"I will not do it that way."

She looked thoughtfully out on the Volga, the precipice, and the park.

"Very well. I agree to anything you please, so long as we remain here."

"I will have the deed drawn up."

"Yes, thank you!" she said, stretching out both hands to him.

He pressed her hands, and kissed Vera on the cheek. She returned the pressure of his hands and kissed the air.

"You seem really to love the place and this old house."

"And you, do you mean to stay here long?"

"I don't know. It depends on circumstances—on you."

"On me?"

"Come over to the other house."

"I will follow you. I must first put things straight here. I have not yet unpacked."

The less Raisky appeared to notice Vera, the more friendly Vera was to him, although, in spite of her aunt's wishes she neither kissed him nor addressed him as "thou." But as soon as he looked at her overmuch or seemed to hang on her words, she became suspicious, careful and reserved. Her coming made a change in the quiet circle, putting everything in a different light. It might happen that she said nothing, and was hardly seen for a couple of days, yet Raisky was conscious every moment of her whereabouts and her doings. It was as if her voice penetrated to him through any wall, and as if her doings were reflected in any place where he was. In a few days he knew her habits, her tastes, her likings, all that love on her outer life. But the indwelling spirit, Vera herself, remained concealed in the shadows. In her conversation she betrayed no sign of her active imagination and she answered a jest with a gay smile, but Raisky rarely made her laugh outright. If he did her laughter broke off abruptly to give place to an indifferent silence. She had no regular employment. She read, but was never heard to speak of what she read; she did not play the piano, though she sometimes struck discords and listened to their effects.

Raisky noticed that their aunt was liberal with observation and warnings for Marfinka; but she said nothing to Vera, no doubt in the hope that the good seed sown would bear fruit.

Vera had moments when she was seized with a feverish desire for activity; and then she would help in the house, and in the most varying tasks with surprising skill. This thirst for occupation came on her especially when she read reproach in her aunt's eyes. If she complained that her guests were too much for her, Vera would not bring herself to assist immediately, but presently she would appear in the company with a bright face, her eyes gleaming with gaiety, and astonished her aunt by the grace and wit with which she entertained the visitors. This mood would last a whole evening, sometimes a whole day, before she again relapsed into shyness and reserve, so that no one could read her mind and heart.

That was all that Raisky could observe for the time, and it was all the others saw either. The less ground he had to go on however, the more active his imagination was in seeking to divine her secret.

She came over every day for a short time, exchanged greetings with her aunt and her sister, and returned to the other house, and no one knew how she passed her time there. Tatiana Markovna grumbled a little to herself, complained that her niece was moody, and shy, but did not insist.

For Raisky the whole place, the park, the estate with the two houses, the huts, the peasants, the whole life of the place had lost its gay colours. But for Vera he would long since have left it. It was in this melancholy mood that he lay smoking a cigar on the sofa in Tatiana Markovna's room. His aunt who was never happy unless she was doing something, was looking through some accounts brought her by Savili; before her lay on pieces of paper samples of hay and rye. Marfinka was working at a piece of lace. Vera, as usual, was not there.

Vassilissa announced visitors; the young master; from Kolchino.

"Nikolai Andreevich Vikentev, please enter."

Marfinka coloured, smoothed her hair, gave a tug to her fichu, and cast a glance in the mirror. Raisky shook his finger at her, making her colour more deeply.

"The person who stayed one night here," said Vassilissa to Raisky, "is also asking for you."

"Markushka?" asked Tatiana Markovna in a horrified tone.

"Yes," said Vassilissa.

Raisky hurried out.

"How glad he is, how he rushes to meet him. Don't forget to ask him for the money. Is he hungry? I will send food directly," cried his aunt after him.

There stepped, or rather sprang into the room a fresh-looking, well-built young man of middle height of about twenty-three years of age. He had chestnut hair, a rosy face, grey-blue keen eyes, and a smile which displayed a row of strong teeth. He laid on a chair with his hat a bunch of cornflowers and a packet carefully done up in a handkerchief.

"Good-day, Tatiana Markovna; Good-day, Marfa Vassilievna," he cried. He kissed the old lady's hand, and would have raised Marfinka's to his lips, but she pulled it away, though he found time to snatch a hasty kiss from it.

"You haven't been to see us for three weeks," said Tatiana Markovna, reproachfully.

"I could not come. The Governor would not let me off. Orders were given to settle up all the business in the office," said Vikentev, so hurriedly that he nearly swallowed some of the words.

"That is absurd; don't listen to him, Granny," interrupted Marfinka. "He hasn't any business, as he himself said."

"I swear I am up to my neck in work. We are now expecting a new chief clerk, and I swear by God we have to sit up into the night."

"It is not the custom to appeal to God over such trifles. It is a sin," said Tatiana Markovna severely.

"What do you mean? Is it a trifle when Marfa Vassilievna will not believe me, and I, by God—"

"Again?"

"Is it true, Tatiana Markovna, that you have a visitor? Has Boris Pavlovich arrived? Was it he I met in the corridor? I have come on purpose—"

"You see, Granny, he has come to see my cousin. Otherwise he would have stayed away longer, wouldn't he?"

"As soon as I could tear myself away, I came here. Yesterday I was at Kolchino for a minute, with Mama—"

"Is she well?"

"Thanks for the kind thought. She sends her kind regards and begs you not to forget her nameday."

"Many thanks. I only don't know whether I can come myself. I am old, and fear the crossing of the Volga."

"Without you, Granny, Vera and I will not go. We, too, are afraid of crossing the Volga."

"Be ashamed of yourself, Marfa Vassilievna. What are you afraid of? I will fetch you myself with our boat. Our rowers are singers."

"Under no circumstances will I cross with you. You never sit quiet in the boat for a minute. What have you got alive in that handkerchief? See, Granny, I am sure it's a snake."

"I have brought you a carp, Tatiana Markovna, which I have caught myself. And these are for you, Marfa Vassilievna. I picked the cornflowers here in the rye."

"You promised not to pick any without me. Now you have not put in an appearance for more than two weeks. The cornflowers are all withered, and what can I do with them?"

"Come with me, and we'll pick some fresh ones."

"Wait," called Tatiana Markovna. "You can never sit quiet, you have hardly had time to show your nose, the perspiration still stands on your forehead, and you are aching to be off. First you must have breakfast. And you, Marfinka, find out if that person, Markushka, will have anything. But don't go yourself, send Egorka."

Marfinka seized the carp's head with two fingers, but when he began to wave his tail hither and thither, she uttered a loud cry, hastily dropped him on the floor, and fled down the corridor.

Vikentev hurried after, and a few moments later Tatiana Markovna heard a gay waltz in progress and a vigorous stampede, as if someone were rolling down the steps. Soon the two of them tore across the courtyard to the garden, Marfinka leading, and from the garden came the sound of chattering, singing and laughter. Tatiana Markovna shook her head as she looked through the window. Cocks, hens and ducks fled in panic, the dogs dashed barking at Marfinka's heels, the servants put their heads out of the windows of their quarters, in the garden the tall plants swayed hither and hither, the flower beds were broken by the print of flying feet, two or three vases were overturned, and every bird sought refuge in the depths of the trees.

A quarter of an hour later, the two culprits sat with Tatiana Markovna as politely as if nothing had happened. They looked gaily about the room and at one another, as Vikentev wiped the perspiration from his face and Marfinka fanned her burning face with her handkerchief.

"You are a nice pair," remarked Tatiana Markovna.

"He is always like that," complained Marfinka, "he chased me. Tell him to sit quiet."

"It wasn't my fault, Tatiana Markovna. Marfa Vassilievna told me to go into the garden, and she herself ran on in front."

"He is a man. But it does not become you, who are a girl, to do these things."

"You see what I have to endure through you," said Marfinka.

"Never mind, Marfa Vassilievna. Granny is only scolding a little, as she is privileged to do."

"What do you say, Sir?" said Tatiana Markovna, catching his words. "Come here, and since your Mama is not here, I will box your ears for you."

"But, Tatiana Markovna, you threaten these things and never do them," he said, springing up to the old lady and bowing his head submissively.

"Do box his ears well, Granny, so that his ears will be red for a month."

"How did you come to be made of quicksilver?" said Tatiana Markovna, affectionately. "Your late father was serious, never talked at random, and even disaccustomed your mother from laughter!"

"Ah, Marfa Vassilievna," broke in Vikentev. "I have brought you some music and a new novel."

"Where are they?"

"I left them in the boat. That's the fault of the carp. I will go and fetch them now."

In a moment he was out of the door, and Marfinka would have followed if her aunt had not detained her.

"What I wanted to say to you is——" she began.

She hesitated a little, as if she could not make up her mind to speak. Marfinka came up to her, and the old lady smoothed her disordered hair.

"What then, Granny?"

"You are a good child, and obey every word of your grandmother's. You are not like Veroshka...."

"Don't find fault with Veroshka, Granny!"

"No, you always defend her. She does indeed respect me, but she retains her own opinion and does not believe me. Her view is that I am old, while you two girls are young, know everything, and read everything. If only she were right. But everything is not written in books," she added with a sigh.

"What do you want to say to me?" asked Marfinka curiously.

"That a grown girl must be a little more cautious. You are so wild, and run about like a child."

"I am not always running about. I work, sew embroider, pour out tea, attend to the household. Why do you scold me, Grandmother," she asked with tears in her eyes. "If you tell me I must not sing, I won't do it."

"God grant that you may always be as happy as a bird. Sing, play——"

"Then, why scold me?"

"I don't scold you; I only ask you to keep within bounds. You used to run about with Nikolai Andreevich—"

Marfinka reddened and retired to her corner.

"That is no harm," continued Tatiana Markovna. "There is nothing against Nikolai Andreevich, but he is just as wild as you are. You are my dearest child, and you will remember what is due to your dignity."

Marfinka blushed crimson.

"Don't blush, darling. I know that you will do nothing wrong, but for other people's sake you must be careful. Why do you look so angry. Come and let me kiss you."

"Nikolai Andreevich will be here in a moment, and I don't know how to face him."

Before Tatiana Markovna could answer Vikentev burst in, covered with dust and perspiration, carrying music and a book which he laid on the table by Marfinka.

"Give me your hand, Marfa Vassilievna," he cried, wiping his forehead. "How I did run, with the dogs after me!"

Marfinka hid her hand, bowed, and returned with dignity:

"Je vous remercie, monsieur Vikentev, vous etes bien amiable."

He stared first at Marfinka, then at her aunt, and asked whether she would try over a song with him.

"I will try it by myself, or in company with Grandmother."

"Let us go into the park, and I will read you the new novel," he then said, picking up the book.

"How could I do such a thing?" asked Marfinka, looking demurely at her aunt. "Do you think I am a child?"

"What is the meaning of this, Tatiana Markovna," stammered Vikentev in amazement. "Marfa Vassilievna is unendurable." He looked at both of them, walked into the middle of the room, assumed a sugary smile, bowed slightly, put his hat under his arm, and struggling in vain to drag his gloves on his moist hands began: "Mille pardons, mademoiselle, de vous avoir derangee. Sacrebleu, ca n'entre pas. Oh mille pardons, mademoiselle."

"Do stop, you foolish boy!"

Marfinka bit her lips, but could not help laughing.

"Just look at him, Granny! How can anybody keep serious when he mimics Monsieur Charles so nicely?"

"Stop, children," cried Tatiana Markovna, her frown relaxing into smiles. "Go, and God be with you. Do whatever you like."



CHAPTER XI

Raisky's patience had to suffer a hard trial in Vera's indifference. His courage failed him, and he fell into a dull, fruitless boredom. In this idle mood he drew village scenes in his sketch album—he had already sketched nearly every aspect of the Volga to be seen from the house or the cliff—and he made notes in his note books. He hoped by these occupations to free himself from his obsessing thoughts of Vera. He knew he would do better to begin a big piece of work, instead of these trifles. But he told himself that Russians did not understand hard work, or that real work demanded rude strength, the use of the hands, the shoulders and the back. He thought that in work of this kind a man lost consciousness of his humanity, and experienced no pleasures in his exertions; he shouldered his burden like a horse that seeks to ward off the whip with his tail. Rough manual labour left no place for boredom. Yet no one seeks distractions in work, but in pleasure. Work, not appearances, he repeated, oppressed by the overpowering dulness which drove him nearly mad, and created a frame of mind quite contrary to his gentle temperament. I have no work, I cannot create as do artists who are absorbed in their work, and are ready to die for it.

He took his cap and strolled into the outlying parts of the town, then into the town, where he observed every passer-by, stared into the houses, down the streets, and at last found himself standing before the Koslov's house. Being told that Koslov was at the school, he inquired for Juliana Andreevna. The woman who had opened the door to him, looked at him askance, blew her nose with her apron, wiped it with her finger, and vanished into the house for good. He knocked again, the dogs barked, and then appeared a little girl, holding her finger to her mouth, who stared at him and departed. He was about to knock again, but, instead, turned to go. As he passed through the little garden he heard voices, Parisian French, and a woman's voice; he heard laughter and even a kiss.

"Poor Leonti!" he whispered. "Or rather, blind Leonti!"

He stood uncertain whether to go or stay, then hastened his steps, and determined to have speech with Mark. He sought distraction of some kind to rid himself of his mood of depression, and to drive away the insistent thoughts of Vera. Passing the warped houses, he left the town and passed between two thick hedges beyond which stretched on both sides vegetable gardens.

"Where does the market gardener, Ephraim, live?" he asked, addressing a woman over the hedge who was working in the beds.

Silently, without pausing in her work, she motioned with her elbow to a hut standing isolated in the field. As he climbed over the fence, two dogs barked furiously at him. From the door of the hut came a healthy young woman with sunburnt face and bare arms, holding a baby.

She called off the dogs with curses, and asked Raisky whom he wished to see. He was looking curiously round, since he did not understand how anyone except the peasant and his wife could be living there. The hut, against which were propped spades, rakes and other tools, planks and pails, had neither yard nor fence; two windows looked out on the vegetable garden, two others on the field. In the shed were two horses, here was a pig surrounded by a litter of young, and a hen wandered around with her chickens. A little further off stood some cars and a big telega.

"Does Mark Volokov live here?" asked Raisky.

The woman pointed to the telega in silence.

"That's his room," she said, pointing to one of the windows. "He sleeps in the telega."

"At this time of day?"

"He only came home this morning, probably rather drunk."

Raisky approached the telega.

"What do you want of him?" asked the woman.

"To visit him."

"Let him sleep."

"Why?"

"I am frightened here alone with him, and my husband won't be here yet. I hope he'll sleep."

"Does he insult you?"

"No, it would be wicked to say such a thing. But he is so restless and peculiar that I am afraid of him."

She rocked the child in her arms, and Raisky looked curiously under the straw covering. Suddenly Mark's tangled hair and beard emerged and the woman vanished into the hut as he cried, "Fool, you don't know how to receive visitors."

"Good-day! What has brought you here?" cried Mark as he crawled out of the telega and stretched himself. "A visit, perhaps."

"I was taking a walk out of sheer boredom."

"Bored! with two beautiful girls at home. You, an artist, and you are taking a walk out of sheer boredom. Don't your affections prosper?" he winked. "They are lovely children, especially Vera?"

"How do you know my cousins, and in what way do they concern you?" asked Raisky drily.

"Don't be vexed. Come into my drawing-room."

"Tell me rather why you sleep in the telega. Are you playing at Diogenes?"

"Yes, because I must."

They entered the hut and went into a boarded compartment, where stood Mark's bed with a thin old mattress, a thin wadded bed-cover and a tiny pillow. Scattered on a shelf on the wall, and on the table lay books, two guns hung on the wall, linen and clothes were tumbled untidily on the only chair.

"This is my salon, sit down on the bed, and I will sit on the chair. Let us take off our coats, for it is infernally hot. No ceremony, as there are no ladies. That's right. Do you want anything? There is nothing but milk and eggs. If you don't want any, give me a cigar."