The Maxim Gorky

by Maxim Gorky

  “I was prepared for this,—” she said, in a high, calm contralto, and her voice vibrated charmingly on the upper notes.—“After his second shock, he complained almost daily of pains in the heart, of its irregular beating, of insomnia…but, nevertheless, when they brought him home from the fields—I could scarcely stand on my feet.… They tell me that he got very excited out there, and shouted…? and on the day before he had been to visit Ólesoff—a landed proprietor, a retired colonel, a drunkard and a cynic, broken down with the gout. By the way, he has a daughter—there’s a treasure, I can tell you I—You must make her acquaintance.…”

  “If it cannot be avoided,” interposed Ippolít Sergyéevitch, glancing at his sister with a smile.

  “It cannot! She is often at our house…but now, of course, she will come here more frequently than ever,—” she replied to him, with a smile also.

  “Is she on the lookout for a husband? I’m not fitted for the part.”

  His sister looked him steadily in the face, which was oval, thin, with small, pointed, black beard, and a lofty, white brow.

  “Why are you not fitted for the part? Of course, I am speaking in general, without any idea in connection with Miss Ólesoff,—you will understand why when you see her…but, surely, you are thinking of marrying?”

  “Not just yet,—” he answered her briefly, raising from his glass his light-gray eyes with a cold gleam.

  “Yes,—” said Elizavéta Sergyéevna thoughtfully,—“at the age of thirty it is both late and early, for a man to take that step.…”

  It pleased him that she had ceased to speak of her husband’s death, but why had she summoned him to her so loudly and in so frightened a manner?

  “A man should marry at twenty or at forty,” she said pensively,—“in that way, there is less risk of deceiving oneself or of deceiving another person…but if you do make a mistake, then, in the first case, you pay for it with the freshness of your feelings, and in the second…at least by your outward position, which is almost always solid in the case of a man of forty.”

  It struck him that she was saying this more for herself than for him, and he did not interrupt her, but leaned back in his arm-chair and deeply inhaled the aromatic air.

  “As I was saying—he had been at Ólesoff’s on the day before, and, of course, he drank there. Well, and so.…” Elizavéta Sergyéevna shook her head sadly.—“Now…I am left alone…although, after the second year of my life with him, I felt myself inwardly quite alone. But now my position is so strange! I am twenty-eight years old, I have not lived, I have merely been attached to the service of my husband and children…the children are dead. And I…what am I now? What am I to do, and how am I to live? I would sell this estate, and go abroad, but his brother lays claim to the inheritance, and there may be a lawsuit. I will not give up what belongs to me, without legal grounds for so doing, and I see none in the claim of his brother. What do you think about it?…”

  “I am not a lawyer, you know,—” laughed Ippolít Sergyéevitch.—“But…tell me all about this, and we shall see. That brother—has he written to you?”

  “Yes…and quite roughly. He is a gambler, a ruined man, who has sunk very low…my husband did not like him, although they had much in common.”

  “We shall see!—” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, and rubbed his hands with satisfaction. He was delighted to know why his sister needed him, he did not like anything that was not clear and definite. His first care was the preservation of his inward equanimity, and if anything obscure perturbed that equanimity,—a troubled disquietude and irritation arose in his soul, which anxiously incited him to clear up the thing he did not understand as promptly as possible.

  “To speak frankly,”—explained Elizavéta softly, and without looking at her brother,—“this stupid claim has alarmed me. I am so worn out, Ippolít, I do so want to rest…and here, something is beginning again.”

  She sighed heavily, and taking his glass, she continued in a melancholy tone, which tickled her brother’s ears unpleasantly:

  “Eight years of life with such a man as my deceased husband give me the right, I think, to a rest. Any other woman in my place,—a woman with a less developed sense of duty and respectability—would long ago have broken that heavy chain, but I wore it, although I fainted under its weight. But the death of my children—ah, Ippolít, if you only knew what I endured when I lost them!”

  He looked into her face with an expression of sympathy, but her plaints did not touch his soul. He did not like her language, a bookish sort of language, which was not natural to a person who feels deeply, and her bright eyes flitted strangely from side to side, rarely coming to a pause on anything. Her gestures were soft, and cautious, and an inward chill breathed forth from her whole finely-formed figure.

  Some sort of a merry bird perched on the balustrade of the terrace, twittering, hopped along it, and flew away. The brother and sister followed it with their eyes, as they sat a few seconds in silence.

  “Does anyone come to see you? Do you read?”—asked the brother, as he lighted a cigarette, thinking how delightful it would be to sit in silence, on that magnificent quiet evening, in a comfortable easy-chair, there on the terrace, listening to the quiet rustling of the foliage and waiting for the night, which would come, and extinguish the sounds, and light up the stars.

  “Várenka comes, and once in a while, Mrs. Banártzeff…do you remember her? Liudmila Vasílievna… she, also, is not happy with her husband.. but she understands how to avoid taking offence. A great many men used to come to see my husband,—but not a single one of them was interesting! Decidedly, there is not a soul with whom to exchange a word…agriculture, hunting, county tittle-tattle, gossip—that is all they talk about.… However, there is one…a bachelor of law—Benkóvsky…young, and very highly educated. You remember the Benkóvskys? Wait! I think someone is coming.”

  “Who is coming…that Benkóvsky?”—inquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.

  For some reason, his query set his sister to laughing; as she laughed, she rose from her chair, and said in a voice that was new to him:

  “Várenka!”

  “Ah!”

  “Let us see what you will say about her.… Here she has made the conquest of everybody. But what a monster she is, from a spiritual point of view! How-ever—you shall see for yourself.”

  “I don’t care about it,” he declared indifferently, stretching himself out in his arm-chair.

  “I will be back directly,”—said Elizavéta Sergyéevna, as she went away.

  “But she will present herself without your help,” he said with concern.

  “Yes, I’ll be back directly!” his sister called to him from the room.

  He frowned, and remained in his chair, gazing into the park. The swift beat of a horse’s hoofs became audible, and the rumble of wheels on the ground.

  Before Ippolít Sergyéevitch’s eyes stood rows of aged, gnarled linden trees, maples, and oaks, enveloped in the evening twilight. Their angular branches were interwoven one with another, forming overhead a thick roof of fragrant verdure, and all of them, decrepit with time, with rifted bark and broken boughs, seemed to form a living and friendly family of beings, closely united in an aspiration upward, toward the light. But their bark was thickly covered with a yellow efflorescence of mould, at their roots young trees had sprung up luxuriantly, and from this cause, on the old trees there were many dead branches, which swung in the air like lifeless skeletons.

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch gazed at them, and felt an inclination to doze off there in his arm-chair, under the breath of the ancient park.

  Between the trunks and boughs gleamed crimson patches of the horizon, and against this vivid background, the trees seemed still more gloomy, and wasted away. Along the avenue, which ran from the terrace into the dusky distance, the thick shadows were slowly moving, and the stillness increased every minut
e, inspiring confused fancies. Ippolít Sergyéevitch’ imagination, yielding to the sorcery of the evening, depicted from the shadows the silhouette of a woman whom he knew, and his own by her side. They walked in silence down the avenue, into the distance, she pressed closely to him, and he felt the warmth of her body.

  “How do you do!”—rang out a thick chest voice.

  He sprang to his feet, and looked round, somewhat disconcerted.

  Before him stood a young girl, of medium stature, in a gray gown, over her head was thrown something white and airy, like a bridal veil,—that was all he noticed in that first moment.

  She offered him her hand, inquiring:

  “Ippolít Sergyéevitch, is it not? Miss Ólesoff.… I already knew that you were to arrive to-day, and came to see what you were like. I have never seen any learned men,—and I did not know what they might be like.”

  A strong, warm, little hand pressed his hand, and he, somewhat abashed by this unexpected attack, bowed to her in silence, was angry at himself for his confusion, and thought that, when he should look at her face, he would find there frank and coarse coquetry. But when he did look at it, he beheld large, dark eyes, which were smiling artlessly and caressingly, illuminating the handsome face. Ippolít Sergyéevitch remembered that he had seen just that sort of a face, proud with healthy beauty, in an old Italian picture. The same little mouth with splendid lips, the same brow, arched and lofty, and the huge eyes beneath it.

  “Permit me…I will order some lights…pray be seated.…” he requested her.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, I am quite at home here,” she said, seating herself in his chair.…

  He stood at the table facing her, and gazed at her, feeling that this was awkward, and that it behooved him to speak. But she, not in the least confused by his steady gaze, spoke herself. She asked him how he had come, whether he liked the country, whether he would remain there long; he answered her in monosyllables, and various fragmentary thoughts flashed through his mind. He was stunned, as it were, by a blow, and his brain, always clear, now grew turbid in the presence of feelings suddenly and chaotically aroused by force. His enchantment with her struggled with irritation at himself, and curiosity struggled with something that was akin to fear. But this young girl, blooming with health, sat opposite him, leaning against the back of her chair, closely enveloped in the material of her costume, which permitted a glimpse of the magnificent outlines of her shoulders, bosom and torso, and in a melodious voice full of masterful notes, uttered to him some trivialities, such as are usual when two unacquainted persons meet for the first time. Her dark chestnut hair curled charmingly, and her eyebrows and eyes were darker than her hair. On her dark neck, around her rosy, transparent ear, the skin quivered, announcing the swift circulation of the blood in her veins, a dimple made its appearance every time a smile disclosed her small, white teeth, and every fold of her garments breathed forth an exasperating seduction. There was something rapacious in the arch of her nose, and in her small teeth, which shone forth from between ripe lips, and her attitude, full of unstudied charm, reminded one of the grace of well-fed and petted kittens.

  It seemed to Ippolít Sergyéevitch that he had become two persons: one half of his being was absorbed in this sensual beauty, and was slavishly contemplating it, the second half was mechanically noting the existence of the first, and feeling that it had lost its power over it. He replied to the girl’s questions, and put some questions to her himself, not being in a condition to tear his eyes from her entrancing figure. He had already called her, to himself, a luxurious female, and had inwardly laughed at himself, but this did not annihilate his double existence. Thus it went on, until his sister made her appearance on the terrace, with the exclamation:

  “See what a clever creature! I was hunting for her yonder, and she is already.…”

  “I went round by the park.”

  “Have you made each other’s acquaintance?”

  “Oh, yes! I thought that Ippolít Sergyéevitch was bald, at least!”

  “Shall I pour you some tea?”

  “Please do.”

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch withdrew a little apart from them, and stood near the steps which led down into the park. He passed his hand over his face, and then drew his fingers across his eyes, as though he were wiping the dust from his face and eyes. He was ashamed of himself for having yielded to a burst of emotion, and this shame soon gave way to irritation against the young girl. To himself, he characterized the scene with her as a Kazák attack on a prospective husband, and he felt like announcing himself to her as a man who was utterly indifferent to her challenging beauty.

  “I’m going to stay over night with you, and spend all day to-morrow here.…” she said to his sister.

  “And how about Vasíly Stepánovitch?” asked his sister, in surprise.

  “Aunt Lutchítzky is visiting us, she will look after him.… You know, that papa is very fond of her.”

  “Excuse me…” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch drily,—“I am extremely fatigued, and will go and rest.…”

  He bowed and departed, and Várenka’s exclamation of approbation followed him:

  “You ought to have done so long ago!”

  In the tone of her exclamation he detected only good nature, but he set it down as an attempt to ingratiate herself, and as false.

  The room which had served his sister’s husband as a study had been prepared for him. In the middle of it stood a heavy, awkward writing-table, before which was an oaken arm-chair; along one of the walls, almost for its entire length, stretched a broad, ragged Turkish divan, on the other, a harmonium, and two book-cases. Several large, soft chairs, a small smoking table beside the divan, and a chess-table at the window, completed the furniture of the room. The ceiling was low and blackened with smoke. From the walls dark spots, which were pictures and engravings of some sort, in coarse, gilded frames, peered forth—everything was heavy, old, and emitted a disagreeable odor. On the table stood a large lamp with a blue shade, and the light from it fell upon the floor.

  Ippolít Sergyéevitch halted at the edge of this circle of light, and feeling a sensation of confused trepidation, glanced at the windows of the room. There were two of them, and outside, in the gloom of evening the dark silhouettes of the trees were outlined. He went to the windows, and opened both of them. Then the room was filled with the fragrance of the blossoming lindens, and with it floated in a burst of hearty laughter in a chest voice.

  On the divan a bed had been made up for him, and it occupied a little more than half of the divan. He glanced at it, and began to undo his necktie; but then, with an abrupt movement, he pushed an arm-chair to the window, and seated himself in it, with a scowl.

  This sensation of incomprehensible trepidation disquieted his mind, and irritated him. The feeling of dissatisfaction with himself rarely presented itself to him, but when it did, it never seized hold upon him powerfully, or for long—he managed to get rid of it promptly. He was convinced that a man should and can understand his emotions, and develop or suppress them; and when people talked to him about the mysterious complication of man’s psychical life, he grinned ironically, and called such opinions metaphysics. It was all the worse for him now to feel that he was entering the sphere of some incomprehensible emotions or other.

  He asked himself: Is it possible that the meeting with this healthy and handsome young girl—who must be extremely sensual and stupid,—was it possible that this meeting could have such a strange influence upon him? And after having carefully scrutinized the series of impressions of that day, he was compelled to answer himself in the affirmative. Yes, it was so because she had taken his mind unawares, because he was extremely fatigued with the journey, and had been in a dreamy mood which was quite unusual for him at the moment when she made her appearance before him.

  This reflection somewhat soothed him, and she immediately presented herself to his
eyes in her splendid, maidenly beauty. He contemplated her, closing his eyes and nervously inhaling the smoke of his cigarette, but as he contemplated her, he criticised.

  “In reality,”—he reflected,—“she is vulgar: there is too much blood and muscle in her healthy body, and there are too few nerves. Her ingenuous face is not intelligent, and the pride which beams in the frank gaze of her deep, dark eyes is the pride of a woman who is convinced of her beauty, and is spoiled by the admiration of men. My sister said that this Várenka makes a conquest of everybody.”—Of course, she was trying to make a conquest of him, also. But he had come hither to work, and not to frolic, and she would soon understand that.

  “But am not I thinking a great deal about her, for a first encounter?”—flashed through his mind.

  The disk of the moon, huge and blood-red in hue, was rising somewhere, far away behind the trees of the park: it gazed forth from the darkness like the eye of a monster, born of it. Faint sounds, coming from the direction of the village, were borne upon the air.… Now and then, in the grass beneath the window, a rustling resounded; it must be a tortoise or a hedgehog on the prowl. A nightingale was singing somewhere. And the moon mounted slowly in the sky, as though the fateful necessity of its movement was understood by it and wearied it. Flinging his cigarette, which had gone out, from the window, Ippolít Sergyéevitch rose, undressed, and extinguished the lamp. Then the darkness poured into the room from the garden, the trees moved up to the windows, as though desirous of looking in; on the floor lay two streaks of moonlight, still faint and turbid.

  The springs of the divan creaked shrilly under the body of Ippolít Sergyéevitch, and overcome by the pleasant coolness of the linen sheets, he stretched himself out, and lay still on his back. Soon he was dozing, and under his window he heard someone’s cautious footsteps and a thick whisper: