by Maxim Gorky
“What a hysterical creature he is!” exclaimed Ippolít Sergyéevitch to himself, as with an unpleasant shiver, he gazed at this little hall of nerves, which was quivering before him with melancholy excitement.—He tried to stem the stormy eloquence of his future brother-in-law, but did not succeed, for, possessed by the inspiration of his protest, the young man heard nothing and, apparently, saw nothing. He must have carried these complaints, which poured forth from his soul, about in him for a long time, and was glad that he could have his say to one of the men who, in his opinion, had ruined life.
Elizavéta Sergyéevna admired him, screwing up her light eyes, and in them burned a spark of sensual desire.
“In all that you have so powerfully and beautifully said,—” began Ippolít Sergyéevitch, in measured and amiable tones, taking advantage of the involuntary pause of the weary orator, and desirous of soothing him,—“in all this there indisputably does ring much true feeling, much searching reason.…”
“What can I say to him that is chilling and conciliatory?—” he said to himself, with renewed force, as he wove his web of compliments.
But his sister rescued him from his trying situation. She had already eaten her fill, and sat there, leaning against the back of her chair. Her dark hair was arranged in antique fashion, but this coiffure, in the form of a diadem, was very becoming to the masterful expression of her countenance. Her lips, quivering with laughter, displayed a strip of white teeth, as thin as the edge of a knife, and stopping her brother with a graceful gesture, she said:
“Permit me to say a word! I know an apothegm of a certain wise man, and it runs: ‘Those are not in the right who speak—there is the truth, neither are they in the right who reply to them—that is a lie, but only Sabbaoth and Satan are right, in whose existence I do not believe, but who must exist somewhere, for it is they who have organized life in such a dual form, and it is life which has created them. You do not understand? Yet I am speaking the same human language as you are. But I compress the entire wisdom of the ages into one phrase, in order that you may perceive the nothingness of your wisdom.”
When she had finished her speech, she asked the men, with an enchantingly brilliant smile:
“What do you think of that?”
Ippolít Sergyéevitch shrugged his shoulders in silence,—his sister’s words perturbed him, but he was delighted that she had curbed Benkóvsky.
But something strange happened with Benkóvsky. When Elizavéta Sergyéevna began to speak, his face flamed with ecstasy, and, paling at every word she uttered, it expressed something akin to terror at the moment, when she put her question. He tried to make her some reply, his lips trembled nervously, but no words proceeded from them. And she, magnificent in her composure, watched the play of his face, and it must have pleased her to behold the effect of her words on him, for satisfaction beamed from her eyes.
“To me, at least, it seems as though the entire sumtotal of huge folios of philosophy are contained in these words,” she said, after a pause.
“You are right, up to a certain point,—” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with a wry smile,—“but, at the same time.…”
“So, is it possible that a man is bound to quench the last sparks of the Promethean fire which still burn in his soul, ennobling his strivings?—” exclaimed Benkóvsky, gazing sadly at her.
“Why, if they yield anything positive…anything agreeable to you!—” she said, with a smile. “It seems to me that you are taking a very dangerous criterion for the definition of the positive,—” drily remarked her brother.
“Elizavéta Sergyéevna! You are a woman, tell me:—what echoes does the great intellectual movement of woman awaken in your soul?—” inquired Benkóvsky, warming up again.
“It is interesting.…”
“Only that?”
“But I think that it…how shall I express it to you?.. that it is the aspiration of the superfluous women. They have remained outside the bulwarks of life, because they are homely, or because they do not recognize the power of their beauty, do not know the taste of power over men.… They are superfluous, from a mass of causes!… But—ice-cream is a necessity!” In silence he took the little green dish out of her hands, and setting it in front of him, he began to stare intently at the cold, white mass, nervously rubbing his brow with his hand, which was trembling with suppressed emotion.
“There, you see that philosophy spoils not only the taste for life, but even the appetite,—” jested Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
But her brother looked at her and thought, that she was playing an unworthy game with that boy. In him the whole conversation had evoked a dawning sensation of boredom, and, although he pitied Benkóvsky, this pity did not comprise any warmth of heart, and therefore it was devoid of energy.
“Sic visum Veneri!”—he decided, as he rose from the table, and lighted a cigarette.
“Shall we play?” Elizavéta Sergyéevna asked Benkóvsky.
And when, in reply to her words, he bent his head submissively, they went from the terrace into the house, whence soon resounded the chords of the piano, and the sounds of a violin being tuned. Ippolít Sergyéevitch sat in a comfortable arm-chair near the railing of the terrace, protected from the sun by a lace-like curtain of wild grapevine, which had climbed from the ground to the roof on cords that had been strung for it, and heard everything which his sister and Benkóvsky said.
“Have you written anything lately?”—inquired Elizavéta Sergyéevna, as she struck the note for the violin.
“Yes, a little piece.”
“Recite it!”
“Really, I do not wish to.”
“Do you want me to entreat you?”
“Do I? No.… But I should like to recite the verses which are now composing themselves within me.…”
“Pray do!”
“Yes, I will recite them.… But they have only just presented themselves.. and you have called them into life.…”
“How agreeable it is to me to hear that!”
“I do not know.… Perhaps you are speaking with sincerity.… I do not know.…”
“Really, ought not I to go away?”—thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch. But he was too indolent to move, and he remained, consoling himself with the thought that they must be aware of his presence on the terrace.
“Of thy calm beauty
The cold gleam doth trouble me.…”66
rang out the low voice of Benkóvsky.
“Wilt thou laugh at my dreams?
Thou understandest me not, perchance?”
mournfully inquired the youth.
“I’m afraid it’s rather late in the day for you to ask about that,”—thought Ippolít Sergyéevitch, with a sceptical smile.
“In thine eyes there is no happiness,
In thy words,—cold laughter do I hear.
And strange to thee is the delirium mad I
Of my soul.…”
Benkóvsky paused, from emotion, or from lack of a rhyme.
“But it is so splendid!
In it is a whirlwind of songs, in it is my life!
All permeated is it with stormy passion
To solve the enigma of existence,
To find for all men the road to happiness.…”
“I must go!—” decided Ippolít Sergyéevitch, involuntarily brought to his feet by the young man’s hysterical moans, in which simultaneously resounded a touching “farewell!” to the peace of his soul, and a despairing “have mercy!” addressed to the woman.
“Thy slave,—to thee I’ve raised a throne
In the madness of my heart.…
And I await.…”
“Your ruin, for—sic visum Veneri!”—Ippolít Sergyéevitch completed the verse, as he walked down the avenue through the park.
He was astonished at his sister:—she did not seem hands
ome enough to arouse such love in the young man. She certainly must have effected it by the tactics of opposition. Then, one must acknowledge her steadfast bearing, for Benkóvsky was handsome.… Perhaps he, as her brother, and a well-bred man, ought to speak to her about the true character of her relations to this boy, glowing with red-hot passion? But to what could such a conversation lead, now? And he was not enough of an authority on matters of Cupid and Venus to meddle with this affair.… But, nevertheless, he must point out to Elizavéta the probable ruin of that gentleman, if he, with her aid, did not succeed in quenching pretty promptly the flame of his transports, and did not learn to feel more normally, and to argue in a more healthy manner.
“And what would happen, if that torch of passion were to flare up before Várenka’s heart?”
But, after putting this question to himself, Ippolít Sergyéevitch did not try to solve it, but began to wonder what the young girl was doing at that particular moment? Perhaps she was slapping her Nikon in the face, or rolling her sick father through the rooms in his arm-chair. And as he represented her to himself engaged in those occupations, he was offended, on her account. Yes, it was indispensably necessary to open the eyes of that girl, to actuality, to acquaint her with the intellectual tendencies of the day. What a pity that she lived so far away, and it was impossible to see her more frequently, so that, day by day, he might shake loose everything which barred off her mind from the action of logic!
The park was full of stillness, and of fragrant coolness, from the house floated the singing sounds of the violin, and the nervous notes of the piano. One after another phrases of sweet entreaty, of tender summons, of stormy ecstasy were showered over the park.
Music poured from heaven also—there the larks were singing. With rumpled plumage, and black as a piece of coal, a starling sat on a linden bough, and bristling up the feathers on his breast, he whistled significantly, staring sidewise at the meditative man, who was strolling slowly along the avenue, with his hands clasped behind his back, and staring far away into the distance, with smiling eyes.
At tea, Benkóvsky was more reserved, and not so much like a crazy man; Elizavéta Sergyéevna, also seemed to be warmed up by something.
On observing this, Ippolít Sergyéevitch felt himself guaranteed against the breaking out of any abstract discussions, and so felt less embarrassed.
“You tell me nothing about St. Petersburg, Ippolít,—” said Elizavéta Sergyéevna.
“What is there to say about it? It is a very large and lively city.… The weather is damp there, but.…”
“But the people are dry,”—interrupted Benkóvsky.
“Not all of them, by any means. There are many who have grown perfectly soft, and are covered with the mould of very ancient moods; people everywhere are tolerably varied!”
“Thank God that it is so!” exclaimed Benkóvsky.
“Yes, life would be intolerably tedious if it were not so!” assented Elizavéta Sergyéevna.—“But in what favor does the country stand with young people. Are they still speculating on a fall in stocks?”
“Yes, they are becoming somewhat disillusioned.”
“That is a characteristic phenomenon for the educated class of our days,—” said Benkóvsky, with a laugh.—“When the majority of that class were of the nobility, it had no existence. But now-a-days, when the son of every low-born extortioner, merchant or official, who has read two or three popular little books, also belongs to the educated class,—the country cannot arouse the interest of such an ‘intelligéntzia,’67 Do they know anything about it? Can it be for them anything except a good place in which to spend the summer? For them the country is a suburban villa…and altogether, they are villa-residents, by virtue of the essential quality of their souls. They make their appearance, live on, and disappear, leaving behind them in life divers papers, bits, scraps—the usual traces of their sojourn, which villa-residents leave behind them in country fields. Others will follow after them and annihilate this rubbish, and with it the memory of the ignominious, soulless and impotent educated people of these years of 1890.”
“And are those others repaired noblemen?” asked Ippolít Sergyéevitch.
“You have understood me, apparently…in a way that is far from flattering to you, if you will excuse me for saying so!” Benkóvsky flared up.
“I merely inquired who these coming people are to be?” replied Ippolít Sergyéevitch, shrugging his shoulders.
“They are—the young country! Its reformed generation, men who already possess the developed sentiment of human dignity, who thirst for knowledge, who are of an investigative turn of mind, ready to introduce themselves to notice.”
“I welcome them in advance,” said Ippolít Sergyéevitch indifferently.
“Yes, it must be confessed, that the country is beginning to produce a new impression on the world,—a conciliatory impression,” remarked Elizavéta Sergyéevna.—“I have here some very interesting children,—Iván and Grigóry Shákhoff, who have read almost half of my library, and Akim Sozýreff, a man ‘who understands everything,’ as he asserts. As a matter of fact, he has brilliant ideas! I put him to the test—I gave him a work on physics, and said to him—’ read this, and explain to me the laws of the lever and of equilibrium and one week later, he passed my examination with so much effect, that I was simply astounded! And moreover, in reply to my commendations, he said: ‘What of that? You understand this, consequently, no one forbids me to do the same-?—books are written for everybody!, What do you think of that? But you see…their idea of their dignity has been developed, so far, only to the point of insolence and churlishness. They apply these newly-born properties even to me, but I endure it, and do not complain to the county chief, because I understand what fiery flowers might blossom forth on that soil…very likely, some fine morning, one might wake up with nothing but the ashes of one’s manor left.”
Ippolít Sergyéevitch smiled. Benkóvsky glanced, sadly at the woman.
Touching superficially on themes, and not attacking one another’s vanity strongly, they conversed until ten o’clock, and then Elizavéta Sergyéevna and Benkóvsky went off again to play, and Ippolít Sergyéevitch bade them good night and retired to his own room, observing that his future brother-in-law made not the slightest effort to conceal the satisfaction he felt at getting rid of his betrothed’s brother.
… One discovers what he wishes to discover, and ennui makes its appearance, as though by way of reward for an investigative turn of mind. It was precisely this enervating sensation which Ippolít Sergyéevitch experienced, when he seated himself at the table in his chamber, with the intention of writing several letters to his acquaintances. He understood the motives of his sister’s peculiar relations toward Benkóvsky, he understood, also, his rôle in her game. All this was not nice, but, at the same time, it was all foreign to him, in a way, and his soul was not disturbed by the parody on the story of Pygmalion and Galatea which was being enacted in his presence, although, in his mind, he condemned his sister. Tapping the handle of his pen, in a melancholy way, against the table, he turned down the light, and when the room was plunged in obscurity, he began to look out of the window.
Dead silence reigned in the park, which was illuminated by the moon, and through the window-panes, the moon had a greenish hue.
Under the windows, a shadow flitted past, and vanished, leaving behind it a soft sound of rustling branches, quivering at the contact. Stepping to the window, Ippolít Sergyéevitch opened it, and looked out,—beyond the trees glimmered the white gown of Másha, the maid.
“What of that?”—he said to himself, with a smile,—“let the maid love, if the mistress is only playing at love.”
* * * *
Slowly the days vanished—drops of time in the boundless ocean of eternity—and they were all tediously monotonous. There were hardly any impressions, and it was difficult to work, because the sultry blaze
of the sun, the narcotic perfumes of the park, and the pensive, moonlight nights, all aroused meditative indolence in the soul. Ippolít Sergyéevitch calmly enjoyed this purely-vegetable existence, postponing from day to day his resolve to set to work seriously. Sometimes he felt bored, he reproached himself for his inactivity, his lack of will, but all this did not arouse in him the desire to work, and he explained to himself his indolence as the effort of his organism to amass energy. In the morning, on awaking from a deep, healthy slumber, he noted, as he stretched himself luxuriously, how springy his muscles were, how elastic was his skin, and how deeply and freely his lungs breathed.
The sad habit of philosophizing, which too frequently revealed itself in his sister, irritated him, at first, but he gradually became reconciled to this defect in Elizavéta Sergyéevna, and managed, so cleverly and inoffensively to demonstrate to her the inutility of philosophy, that she grew more reticent. Her inclination to argue about everything produced an unpleasant impression on him—he perceived that his sister was arguing, not from a natural impulse to explain to herself her relation to life, but merely from a provident desire to destroy and overthrow everything which might perturb the cold repose of her soul. She had worked out for herself a scheme of practice, but theories only interested her in so far as they were able to smooth over before him her hard, sceptical, and even ironical relations toward life and people. Although Ippolít Sergyéevitch comprehended all this, he did not feel within him the slightest desire to reproach and shame his sister; he condemned her in his own mind, but there was not in it that something which would have permitted him to express aloud his condemnation, for, as a matter of fact, his heart was no warmer than his sister’s.
Thus, almost every time, after a visit from Benkóvsky, Ippolít Sergyéevitch promised himself that he would speak to his sister about her relations toward that young man, but he did not keep his promise, imperceptibly to himself refraining from meddling with that affair. For, as yet, no one could tell which would be the suffering side, when sound sense should awaken in that highly inflamed young man. And this would happen—the young man was blazing too violently, and must, infallibly, burn out. And his sister was bearing it firmly in mind, that he was younger than she, so there was no cause for anxiety on her score. But if she got her punishment—what then? That was quite proper, if life is just.…
