But at the same time inwardly, it seems, for some reason he was not dissatisfied with this, but grew cheerful and talked the whole time to Kostyakov.
His obliging imagination, as if on purpose, drew him a full-length portrait of Liza with luxurious shoulders, shapely waist, not to forget her little foot. A strange sensation began to throb in him, again a tremor ran through his body, but did not reach the soul–and died. He observed this sensation from the beginning to the very end.
“Animal!” he muttered to himself. “So that’s the kind of thought that goes round in your mind… Ah! Nude shoulders, bust, tiny foot… Exploit trust and inexperience… deceive… Well, good, deceive and then what? The same boredom and besides, pangs of conscience, perhaps, and why? No, no! I won’t let myself, won’t lead her on… Oh, I’ll stand firm! I feel in myself enough purity of soul, nobility of heart… I won’t surrender and won’t seduce her.”
Liza waited for him all day with a tremor of pleasure, but then her heart fell; she felt downcast without knowing why; she grew sad and almost wished Alexander wouldn’t come. When the appointed hour arrived and still no Alexander, her impatience turned into tormenting melancholy. With the last ray of the sun, every hope vanished; she began to cry bitterly.
The next day she revived again, was again cheerful in the morning, but toward evening she knew ever greater sorrow and was dying of both fear and hope. Again they didn’t come.
The third and fourth day, the same thing. But hope always drew her to the river bank. Hardly would a boat show in the distance or two human figures be glimpsed along the bank, but she’d start to tremble and feel faint from the burden of joyous expectation. But when she’d see it wasn’t they in the boat, or the figures weren’t they, she’d drop her head to her chest dispiritedly and despair would descend more strongly upon her soul… A minute later sly hope would again whisper to her the comforting supposition of some delay–and her heart would again start beating in expectation. But Alexander held back, as if intentionally.
Finally when she was sitting one day, half ill and hopeless, at her place under the tree, she suddenly heard a rustle, turned and shuddered in joyous fright: Alexander stood before her, his arms folded in a cross.
She stretched out her hands to him with joyous tears and for a long time couldn’t regain her composure. He took her by one hand and hungrily looked into her face, he too with emotion.
“You’ve grown thin!” he said quietly. “Are you suffering?”
She shuddered.
“How long it is since you’ve come!” she said.
“And you’ve waited for me?”
“I?” she answered excitedly. “Oh, if you knew!”
She finished her answer with a hard squeeze of his hand.
“But I’ve come to say goodbye to you!” he said and stopped, watching to see how she’d take it.
She looked at him with fright and disbelief.
“It’s not true,” she said.
“It’s true!” he answered.
“Listen!” she said, shyly looking around in all directions. “Don’t go away, for Heaven’s sake, don’t go away! I’ll tell you a secret… Here Papa will see us from the little windows; let’s go to our garden, to the summer house… it faces out toward the field, I’ll show you the way.”
They set out. Alexander did not take his eyes off her shoulders, shapely waist and felt a feverish tremor.
“Of what importance is it,” he thought, walking behind her, “that I go? Look, so I’ll only… take a look how it is there in their summer house… her father invited me; look, I could go straight there and openly… But I’m far from temptation, really far, and I’ll show that. Here I’ve come on purpose to say I’m leaving.… though, indeed, I’m not going anywhere! No, Devil! you won’t tempt me.” But here, it seems, it was as if Krylov’s little devil, who appeared from behind the stove to the hermit, had whispered to him, “But why did you come to say this, there was no need for that. You need only not have come and two weeks later you’d have been forgotten…”
Yet it seemed to Alexander he was acting nobly, coming for a heroic deed of self-sacrifice to fight temptation face to face. The first trophy of his victory over himself was a kiss he snatched from Liza; then he put his arm around her waist and told her he wasn’t going anywhere, that he invented this so as to test her, find out whether she had any feeling for him. Finally, he completed his victory by promising to come to the summer house the next day at the same hour. Walking home, he went over what he had done and first cold, then heat came over him. His heart stood still in horror, and he did not believe himself. Finally, he resolved not to appear on the morrow–and arrived earlier than the appointed time.
This was in August. It was already getting dark. Alexander promised to come at nine o’clock, but arrived at eight, alone, without a fishing rod. Like a thief he made his way to the summer house, now fearfully looking around, now running top-speed. But someone got there ahead of him. This person hurriedly, panting, ran into the summer house and sat on the couch in the dark corner.
Some one was watching for Alexander, it seemed. He quietly opened the door, went on tiptoe in great excitement up to the couch and quietly took by the hand–Liza’s father. Alexander shuddered, jumped back, wanted to run, but the old man seized him by the coat-tail and sat him down by force beside him on the couch.
“What does this mean, Sir, your coming here?” he asked.
“Why… for fish…” muttered Alexander, hardly moving his lips. His teeth were chattering. The old man was not at all terrible, but Alexander, like every thief caught in the act, trembled as if in a fever.
“For fish!” repeated the old man derisively. “Do you know what it means to fish in troubled waters? I’ve been watching you for a long time and now at last I know what you are. I’ve known my Liza from infancy. She’s good and trusting. But you–you’re a dangerous scoundrel…”
Alexander wanted to get up, but the old man held him there by the hand.
“Yes, Sir, don’t get angry. You pretended to be unhappy, slyly avoided Liza, so she’d fall for you, made sure she had, yes, and wanted to make use of the situation… Do you call this a noble action? What are we to call you?”
“I swear on my honor, I did not foresee the consequences…” said Alexander in a voice of deep conviction. “I didn’t want…”
The old man was silent for several minutes.
“Maybe that’s true!” he said. “Perhaps not for love, but by chance, for want of something to do, you’ve turned a poor little girl’s head, not knowing yourself what would come of it. If you succeeded–fine; if not–you’re none the worse for it. In Petersburg there are lots of such headhunters. Do you know what they do to such men about town?”
Alexander sat with downcast gaze. He lacked the spirit to justify himself.
“In the beginning I thought better of you, but I was mistaken, very much mistaken! Why, what a quiet one you pretended to be! Thank Heaven, I realized in time. She doesn’t need to see us together. You will go away and, of course, will never return. She will think you deceived her, and this will teach her a lesson. Only see to it that you never come here. Find another place to fish, and if you don’t… I’ll show you the door in a very unfriendly way… It’s your good luck that Liza can still look me straight in the eye. I’ve watched her the whole day… Otherwise you wouldn’t be leaving here this way… Goodbye for good!”
Alexander wanted to say something, but the old man opened the door and almost pushed him out.
In what state Alexander left–let the reader judge, if only he won’t scruple to put himself in Alexander’s place for a minute. Tears even gushed from our hero’s eyes, tears of shame, of rage at himself, of despair…
“Why am I alive?” he said in a loud voice. “Repulsive, murderous life! But I, I… No, though I lacked the firmness to withstand temptation… I do have enough spirit to put an end to this useless, shameless existence.”
With rapid steps he wal
ked to the stream. It was black. Over its waves some kind of long, fantastic, distorted shadows played. The bank where Alexander stood was low.
“It’s impossible to die here!” he said contemptuously and went out on a bridge a hundred paces from there. Alexander leaned his elbows on the railing in the middle of the bridge and began looking at the water. In his thoughts he said farewell to life, sent sighs in his mother’s direction, blessed his aunt, even forgave Nadenka. He melted as tears of emotion flowed over his cheeks… He covered his face with his hands… We’ll never know what he would have done when suddenly the bridge began to move under his feet. He looked around: Heavens! He was on the brink of the precipice; before him gaped the grave. Half the bridge had separated and was floating away… Ships were passing through; another minute–and goodbye forever. He gathered all his strength and made a desperate leap… to the far side. There he stopped, breathed deep and seized his heart.
“You did have a fright, Sir, didn’t you?” the watchman asked him.
“Indeed, friend, I almost fell through the middle,” Alexander answered in a trembling voice.
“Heaven forbid! Would you call that close?” said the watchman, yawning. “Year before last one young gentleman did fall that way.”
Alexander set off for home, holding onto his heart with his hand. At times he looked back at the river and the separated bridge, stopped, then, trembling, turned away at once and quickened his pace.
Meanwhile Liza dressed coquettishly, and without either her father or her nurse sat out every evening under the tree till late at night.
The time of dark evenings began and she still waited, but neither hide nor hair of the friends was to be seen.
Autumn came. The yellow leaves falling from the trees covered the shore. The green faded, the river took on a leaden hue, the sky was always gray, a cold wind blew with a fine rain. The banks and the river grew empty. No merry songs or laughter or resonant voices were heard along the banks, and boats and canoes stopped scurrying back and forth. Not a single insect buzzed in the grass, not a bird chirped on the tree; only jackdaws and crows brought on a melancholy mood with their cries; and the fish ceased to bite.
But Liza still waited. She needed without fail to have a talk with Alexander: to disclose a secret to him. She still sat on the bench under the tree in her short warm jacket. She had grown thin; her eyes had become a bit hollow, her cheeks were tied in a handkerchief. Her father found her thus one day.
“Come, you’ve had enough of sitting here,” he said, frowning and shivering from the cold. “Look, your hands have turned blue, you’re freezing. Liza! Do you hear? Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“Home; we’re moving to the city today.”
“Why?” she asked, surprised.
“What do you mean why? It’s autumn outdoors; only we alone are left in the country.”
“Oh, goodness!” she said. “Even in winter it’ll be nice here; let’s stay.”
“Why, what an idea! Enough, enough, let’s go!”
“Wait!” she said in an imploring tone, “the beautiful days will still come back.”
“Listen!” answered her father, caressing her cheek and pointing to the place where the friends used to fish, “they won’t be back…”
“Won’t be back!..” she repeated questioningly, sadly, then gave her father her hand, and quietly with bowed head she went home, looking back at times.
And Aduyev and Kostyakov had long been fishing somewhere in the opposite direction from this place.
V
Gradually Alexander succeeded in forgetting both Liza and the unpleasant scene with her father. He became calm, even cheerful, even laughed heartily at Kostyakov’s shallow jokes. This man’s view of life made him laugh. They drew up plans for going somewhere further and building a hut on the river bank where there were lots of fish and living there the rest of their days. Alexander’s soul again began to sink in the sludge of limited ideas and material existence.
But fate did not sleep, and he didn’t manage to drown altogether in such sludge.
In the autumn he received a note from his aunt with an urgent request to take her to a concert because his uncle was not feeling altogether well. Some artist or other, a European star, had arrived.
“What, to a concert!” said Alexander, much disturbed. “Go to a concert, into that crowd again, into the very glitter of tinsel, lies, pretense. .. No, I won’t go.”
“Go on; look, it costs as much as five rubles,” remarked Kostyakov, who was with him.
“A ticket costs fifteen,” said Alexander, “but I’d gladly give fifty not to go.”
“Fifteen!” cried Kostyakov, clapping his hands. “What rascals! Curses! To come here to swindle us, do us out of our money! Damned cannibals. Don’t go, Alexander Fyodorych. Spit on it! Some kind of thing would be all right; you’d take it home, put it on the table, eat it. But only to listen to this, yes and pay fifteen rubles for it! You could buy a colt for fifteen rubles!”
“Sometimes people pay even more,” remarked Alexander, “for an evening’s pleasure.”
“An evening’s pleasure! Why, you know what–let’s go to the baths; we’ll spend the evening splendidly. Whenever I get bored, I go there–and it’s a great pleasure. You go around six and come out at twelve, and you get warm and rub your body, and sometimes you start a pleasant acquaintance. A cleric or a business man or an officer comes. They start talking about business perhaps or about the end of the world… You wouldn’t want to leave! And for altogether sixty kopecks each. Your friends don’t know where to spend the evening!”
But Alexander went with his aunt. With a sigh he got out last year’s tailcoat, which he had not worn for so long, and pulled on white gloves.
“White gloves at five rubles, makes twenty?” added up Kostyakov, who was present while Aduyev dressed. Twenty rubles, then, you’ve thrown out the window on a single evening. Listen, that’s astonishing!”
Alexander had lost the habit of dressing properly. He went to work in the morning in a comfortable old civil-service uniform; he spent the evening in an old frock coat or overcoat. He felt ill at ease in the tails. It was tight in one spot; in another there was something missing; his neck felt hot in the satin scarf.
His aunt greeted him cordially, grateful that he had decided for her sake to quit his seclusion, but no word passed about his way of life and occupation.
After finding a seat in the hall for Lizaveta Alexandrovna, Aduyev leaned against a column in the shadow of a broad-shouldered music lover and began to feel bored. He quietly yawned behind his hand but hadn’t managed to close his mouth when deafening applause greeted the artist. Alexander didn’t even look at him.
The introduction was played. After a few minutes the orchestra became quieter. The last sounds were joined by others, barely audible, playful at first, carefree, as if to awake memories of childhood games; noisy and merry voices were heard, which sounded like children. Next the sounds became more fluent and heroic; they seemed to express carefree youth, daring, excess of life and strength. Then they flowed more slowly, quieter, as if expressing a tender outpouring of love, a spiritual conversation, and, growing weaker, gradually died down to a passionate whisper and imperceptibly became silent…
No one dared move. The crowd of people froze in silence. Finally a single Oh! burst from everyone and was carried in a whisper around the hall. The crowd was about to move, but suddenly the sounds awoke again, streamed forth in a crescendo, then fragmented into a thousand cascades, and began to bounce, crowding and pushing each other. They thundered as if in jealous reproaches, they seethed with the rage of passion. The ear had not quite managed to catch them when suddenly they broke off, as if the instrument had no more strength or voice. Under the artist’s bow there broke forth a dull, jerky groan; then weeping, imploring sounds were heard, and everything ended with a sick, prolonged sigh. One’s heart broke: the sounds seemed to sing of betrayed love and hopeless anguish. They had sounded
all the sufferings and all the grief of the human soul.
Alexander trembled. He raised his head and looked through tears over his neighbor’s shoulder. A thin German, bending over his instrument, stood before the crowd and powerfully commanded it. He finished and dispassionately wiped his hands and forehead with a handkerchief. A roar resounded in the auditorium and there was thunderous applause. And suddenly this artist in his turn bowed before the crowd and began to make deep bows and give thanks.
“And he bows to the crowd,” thought Alexander, looking shyly at this thousand-headed hydra, “he, who stands so far above it!…”
The artist raised his bow–and everyone immediately fell silent. Hesitating, the crowd again coalesced in a single motionless body. Other sounds flowed, majestically and triumphantly. The sounds made the listener straighten up, raise his head, look upward. They aroused pride in his heart, gave birth to dreams of glory. The orchestra softly began to play the second part in the piece, which seemed like the distant murmur of the crowd, the voice of the people…
Alexander turned pale and bent his head. These sounds, as if intentionally, distinctly told the story of his past, his whole bitter and disappointed life.
“Look, what a face on that man!” somebody said, pointing to Alexander. “I don’t understand how anyone can show his feelings that way; I heard Paganini, and I didn’t even move an eyebrow. ”
Alexander cursed his aunt’s invitation and the artist and most of all the fate that did not let him forget himself.
“And why? What was her purpose?” he thought. “What did she accomplish with me? What’s the use of reminding me of my helplessness, the uselessness of a past which cannot be reversed?”
After taking his aunt home, he wanted to leave, but she held him back by the hand.
“Won’t you come in?” she asked reproachfully.
“No.”
“Why not?”
An Ordinary Story Page 31
