by Maxim Gorky
“… Má-arya…Are you there? Hey?” …
With a smile, he fell fast asleep.
And in the morning, when he awoke in the brilliant sunlight, which filled his room, he smiled again at the memory of the preceding evening, and of the young girl. He presented himself at tea carefully dressed, cold and serious, as was befitting a learned man; but when he saw that his sister was seated alone at the table, he involuntarily burst out:
“But where is.…”
His sister’s sly smile stopped him before he had finished his question, and he seated himself, in silence, at the table. Elizavéta Sergyéevna scrutinized his costume in detail, smiling all the while, and paying no heed to his involuntary scowl. Her significant smile enraged him.
“She rose long ago, and she and I have been to bathe, and she must be in the park now…and will soon make her appearance,—” explained Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
“How circumstantial you are,—” he said, with a laugh.—“Please give orders to have my things unloaded immediately after tea.”
“And have them taken out?”
“No, no, that’s not necessary, I’ll do that myself, otherwise everything will get mixed up.… There are books and candy for you.…”
“Thanks! That’s nice of you…and here comes Várenka!”
She made her appearance in the doorway, in a thin, white gown, which fell from her shoulders to her feet in rich folds. Her costume resembled a child’s blouse, and in it she looked like a child. Pausing for a second at the door, she asked:
“Have you been waiting for me?—” and approached the table as noiselessly as a cloud.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch bowed to her in silence, and as he shook her hand, her arm being bared to the elbow, he perceived a delicate odor of violets which emanated from her.
“How you have scented yourself!” exclaimed Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
“Is it any more than I always do? You are fond of perfumes, Ippolít Sergyéevitch? I am—awfully! When the violets are in bloom, I pluck them every morning after my bath, and rub them in my hands,—I learned that in the pro-gymnasium.… Do you like violets?”
He drank his tea, and did not glance at her, but he felt her eyes on his face.
“I really have never thought about it—whether I like them or not,—” he said drily, shrugging his shoulders, but as he involuntarily glanced at her, he smiled.
Shaded by the snow-white material of her gown, her face flamed with a magnificent flush, and her deep eyes beamed with clear joy. She breathed forth health, freshness, unconscious happiness. She was as good as a bright May morning in the north.
“You haven’t thought about it?”—she exclaimed.—“But how is that…seeing that you are a botanist.”
“But not a floriculturist,—” he explained briefly, and involuntarily reflecting that this might be rude, he turned his eyes away from her face.
“But are not botany and floriculture one and the same?—” she inquired, after a pause.
His sister laughed unrestrainedly. And he suddenly became conscious that this laugh made him writhe, for some reason, and he exclaimed pityingly to himself:
“Yes, she is stupid!”
But later on, as he explained to her the difference between botany and floriculture, he softened his verdict, and pronounced her merely ignorant. As she listened to his intelligent and serious remarks, she gazed at him with the eyes of an attentive pupil, and this pleased him. As he talked, he often turned his eyes from her face to his sister’s, and in her gaze, which was immovably fixed on Várenka’s face, he discerned eager envy. This interfered with the speech, as it called forth in him a sentiment allied to disdain for his sister.
“Ye-es,—” said the young girl slowly,—“so that’s how it is! And is botany an interesting science?”
“Hm! you see, one must look upon science from the point of view of its utility to men,—” he explained, with a sigh. Her lack of development, allied with her beauty, increased his compassion for her. But she, meditatively tapping the edge of her cup with her teaspoon, asked him:
“Of what utility can it be, that you know how burdock grows?
“The same which we deduce from studying the phenomena of life in any one man.”
“A man and a burdock.…” she smiled. “Does one man live like all the rest?”
He found it strange that this uninteresting conversation did not fatigue him.
“Do I eat and drink in the same way as the peasants?” she continued seriously, contracting her brows. “And do many people live as I do?”
“How do you live?”—he inquired, foreseeing that this question would change the course of the conversation. He wished to do so, because a malicious, sneering element had now been added to the envy in the gaze which his sister had fastened upon Várenka.
“How do I live?—” the girl suddenly flushed up.—“Well!—” And she even closed her eyes with satisfaction. “You know, I wake up in the morning, and if the day is bright, I immediately feel dreadfully gay! It is as though I had received a costly and beautiful gift, which I had long been wanting to possess.… I run and take my bath—we have a river with springs—the water is cold, and it fairly nips the body! There are very deep spots, and I plunge straight into them, head first, from the bank—splash! It fairly bums one, all over.. you fly into the water as from a precipice, and there is a ringing in your head.… You come to the surface, tear yourself out of the water, and the sun looks down at you and laughs! Then I go home through the forest, I gather flowers, I inhale the forest air until I am intoxicated; when I arrive, tea is ready! I drink tea, and before me stand flowers.. and the sun gazes at me.… Ah, if you only knew how I love the sun! Then the day advances, and housekeeping cares begin.. everyone loves me at home, they all understand and obey at once,—and everything whirls on like a wheel until the evening .. then the sun sets, the moon and the stars make their appearance…how beautiful and how new this always is! you understand! I cannot say it intelligibly.. why it is so good to live!… But perhaps you feel just the same yourself, do you? Surely, you understand why such a life is good and interesting?”
“Yes…of course!—” he assented, ready to wipe the venomous smile from his sister’s face with his hand.
He looked at Várenka, and did not restrain himself from admiring her, as she quivered with the desire to impart to him the strength of the exultation which filled her being, but this ecstasy of hers heightened his feeling of pity for her to the degree of a painfully-poignant sensation. He beheld before him a being permeated with the charm of vegetable life, full of rough poetry, overwhelmingly beautiful, but not ennobled by brains.
“And in the winter? Are you fond of winter? It is all white, healthy, stimulating, it challenges you to contend with it.…”
A sharp ring of the bell interrupted her speech. Elizavéta Sergyéevna had rung, and when a tall maid, with a round, kind face, and roguish eyes, flew into the room, she said to her, in a weary voice:
“Clear away the dishes, Másha!”
Then she began to walk up and down the room, in a preoccupied way, shuffling her feet.
All this somewhat sobered the enthusiastic young girl; she twitched her shoulders as though she were shaking something from them, and rather abashed she asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch:
“Have I bored you with my stupid tales?”
“Come, how can you say so?”—he protested.
“No, seriously,—I have made myself appear stupid to you?”—she persisted.
“But why?!”—exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch and was surprised that he had said it so warmly and sincerely.
“I am wild…that is to say, I am not cultivated …” she said apologetically.—“But I am very glad to talk with you…because you are a learned man, and so…unlike what I imagined you to be.”
“And what did you imagine me to be lik
e?”—he queried, with a smile.
“I thought you would always be talking about various wise things…why, and how, and this is not so, but this other way, and everybody is stupid, and I alone am wise.… Papa had a friend visiting him, he was a colonel too, like papa, and he was learned, like you…But he was a military learned man…what do you call it…of the General Staff…? and he was frightfully puffed up…in my opinion, he did not even know anything, but simply bragged.…”
“And you imagined that I was like that?”—enquired Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
She was disconcerted, blushed, and springing from her chair, she ran about the room in an absurd way, saying in confusion:
“Akh, how can you think so…now, could I.…”
“Well, see here, my dear children.…” remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna, scanning them with her eyes screwed up,—“I’m going off to attend to something about the housekeeping, and I leave you…to the will of God!”
And she vanished, with a laugh, rustling her skirts as she went. Ippolít Sergyéevitch looked after her reproachfully, and reflected, that he must have a talk with her about her way of behaving toward this really very charming, though undeveloped young girl.
“Do you know, I have an idea—would you like to go in the boat? We will drive to the forest, and then have a stroll there, and be back by dinner-time. Shall we? I’m awfully glad that the day is so bright, and that I’m not at home.… For papa has another attack of gout, and I should have been obliged to fuss about him. And papa is capricious when he is ill.”
Amazed at her frank egotism, he did not immediately reply to her in the affirmative, and when he did reply, he recalled the intention, which had arisen in him the evening before, and with which he had emerged from his chamber that morning. But, surely, she had afforded no ground, so far, for suspicion of a desire to conquer his heart? In her speeches, everything was perceptible except coquetry. And, in conclusion, why not spend one day with such…an undoubtedly original young girl?
“And do you know how to row? Never mind if you do it badly.… I will do it myself, I am strong. And the boat is so light. Shall we go?”
They went out upon the terrace, and descended into the park. By the side of his tall, thin figure, she appeared shorter and more plump. He offered her his arm, but she declined it.
“Why? It is nice when one is tired, but otherwise, it only hinders one in walking.”
He smiled as he looked at her through his eyeglasses, and walked on, adjusting his stride to her pace, which greatly pleased him. Her walk was light and graceful,—her white gown floated around her form, but not a single fold undulated. In one hand she held a parasol, with the other she gesticulated freely and gracefully, as she told him about the beauty of the suburbs of the village.
Her arm, hared to the elbow, was strong and brown, covered with a golden down, and as it moved through the air, it compelled Ippolít Sergyéevitch’s eyes to follow it attentively.… And again, in the dark depths of his soul, a confused, incomprehensible apprehension of something began to tremble. He tried to annihilate it, asking himself: What had prompted him to follow this young girl? And he answered himself:—curiosity, a calm and pure desire to contemplate her beauty.
“Yonder is the river! Go and take your seat in the boat, and I will get the oars at once.…”
And she disappeared among the trees before he could ask her to show him where he could find the oars.
In the still, cold water of the river, the trees were reflected upside down; he seated himself in the boat, and gazed at them. These spectral images were more splendid and beautiful than the living trees, which stood on the bank, shading the water with their curved and gnarled branches. Their reflection flattered them, thrusting into the background what was deformed, and creating in the water a clear and harmonious fantasy, on the foundation of the paltry reality, disfigured by time.
As he admired the transparent picture, surrounded by the silence and the gleam of the sun which was not yet hot, and drank in along with the air the songs of the larks full of the joy of existence, Ippolít Sergyéevitch felt springing into life within him a sensation of repose which was novel and agreeable to him, which caressed his brain, and lulled to sleep its constant and rebellious striving to understand and to explain. Quiet peace reigned around, not a leaf quivered on the trees, and in this peace the mute triumph of nature was unceasingly in progress, life, always smitten with death but invincible, was being soundlessly created, and death was working quietly, smiting all things, but never winning the victory. And the blue sky shone in triumphant beauty.
In the background of the picture in the water of the river, a white beauty, with a smile on her face, made her appearance. She stood there, with the oars in her hands, as though inviting him to go to her, mute, very lovely, and she seemed to have dropped down from the sky.
Ippolít Sergyéevitch knew that it was Várenka, emerging from the park, and that she was looking at him, but he did not wish to destroy the enchantment by a sound or a movement.
“Say, what a dreamer you are!—” her astonished exclamation rang out on the air.
Then, with regret, he turned away from the water, glanced at the girl, who was descending vivaciously and easily to the shore, down the steep path from the park.
And his regret vanished with this glance at her, for this girl was, in reality, enchantingly beautiful.
“I could not possibly have imagined that you were fond of dreaming! You have such a stem, serious face.. You will steer: is that right? We will row upstream.. it is more beautiful there…and, in general, it is more interesting to go against the current, because then you row, you get exercise, you feel yourself.…”
The boat, pushed out from the shore, rocked lazily on the sleepy water, but a powerful stroke of the oars immediately put it alongside of the bank, and rolling from side to side under a second stroke, it glided lightly forward.
“We will row under the hilly shore, because it is shady there..” said the young girl, as she cut the water with skilful strokes. “Only, the current is weak here…but on the Dnyépr,—Aunt Lutchítzky has an estate there—it’s a terror, I can tell you! It fairly tears the oars out of your hands…you haven’t seen the rapids of the Dnyépr?…”
“Only the threshold of the door,”63 Ippolít Sergyéevitch tried to pun.
“I have been through them,” she said, laughing.—“It was fine! One day, they came near smashing the boat, and in that case, we should infallibly have been drowned.…”
“Well, that would not have been fine at all,” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch seriously.
“What of that? I’m not in the least afraid of death…although I love to live. Perhaps it will be as interesting there as it is here on earth.…”
“And perhaps there is nothing at all there.…” he said, glancing at her with curiosity.
“Well, how can there help being!”—she exclaimed, with conviction. —“Of course there is!”
He decided not to interfere with her—let her go on philosophizing; at the proper moment he would stop her, and make her spread out before him the whole miserable little world of her imagination. She sat opposite him, with her small feet resting against a cross-bar, nailed to the bottom of the boat, and with every stroke of the oars, she bent her body backward. Then, beneath the thin material of her gown, her virgin bosom was outlined in relief, high, springy, quivering with the exercise.
“She does not wear corsets,—” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch to himself, dropping his eyes. But there they rested on her tiny feet. Pressed against the bottom of the boat, her legs were tensely stretched, and at such times their outlines were visible to the knees.
“Did she put on that idiotic dress on purpose?”—he said to himself in vexation, and turned away, to look at the high shore.
They had passed the park, and now they were floating under a steep cliff; from it swung curly pea-vi
nes, the long slender wreaths of pumpkin, with their velvety leaves, large yellow circles of the sunflower, standing on the edge of the abyss, looked down into the water. The other shore, low and smooth, stretched away into the distance, to the green walls of the forest, and was thickly covered with grass, succulent and brilliant in hue; pale blue and dark blue flowers, as pretty as the eyes of children, peered caressingly forth from it at the boat. And ahead of them stood the dark-green forest—and the river pierced its way into it, like a piece of cold steel.
“Aren’t you warm?” asked Várenka.
He glanced at her, and felt abashed:—upon her brow, beneath her crown of waving hair, glistened drops of perspiration, and her breast heaved high and rapidly.
“Pray forgive me!”—he exclaimed penitently.—“I forgot myself in looking about me…you are tired…give me the oars!”
“I will not give them to you! Do you think I am tired? That is an insult to me! We haven’t gone two versts yet.… No, keep your seat…we will land presently, and take a stroll.”
It was evident from her face, that it was useless to argue with her, and shrugging his shoulders with vexation, he made no reply, thinking to himself with displeasure: “It is plain that she considers me weak.”
“You see—this is the road to our house,—” she pointed it out to him on the shore, with a nod of her head.—“Here is the ford across the river, and from here to our house is fourteen versts. It is fine on our place, also, more beautiful than on your Polkánovka.”
“Do you live in the country during the winter?” he asked.
“Why not? You see, I have the entire charge of the housekeeping, papa never rises from his chair.… He is carried through the rooms.”
“But you must find it tiresome to live in that way?”
“Why? I have an awful lot to do…and only one assistant—Nikon, papa’s orderly. He is already an old man, and he drinks, besides, but he’s awfully strong, and knows his business. The peasants are afraid of him he beats them, and they also once beat him terribly…very terribly! He is remarkably honest, and he’s devoted to papa and me…he loves us like a dog! And I love him, too. Perhaps you have read a romance, where the hero is an officer, Count Grammont, and he had an orderly also, Sadi-Coco?”
