XXIII
They live gayly and cordially; they work and they rest; they enjoy life; and look forward to the future if not without thought, yet with a firm and substantial assurance that the further they go, the better it will be. Thus passed with them the time of the third year and last year; and thus the present year is passing, and the winter of the present year is almost passed; the snow has begun to melt, and Viéra Pavlovna inquired, “There will be one more frosty day yet, won’t there, so that we can have another winter picnic?”
And nobody could answer her; but one day passes after another, growing warmer and warmer, and every day the probability of a winter picnic grew less. But lo! at last, when hope was lost, a snowstorm came such as we have in midwinter, without warmth, but with a fine gentle frost: the sky became bright. “It will be a splendid evening—picnic! the picnic—hurry up; don’t stop for the rest—a little one without formality.”
Two sleighs dashed away that evening. One was filled with talk and jokes, but the other was really beyond control. As soon as they left town, they sang with all their voices, and this was what they sang:—
“From the gate the maiden went,
From the gate of maple bent,
Hurried from the new-made gate,
With its new-made checkered grate.
‘Angry is my bátiushka.
Has no mercy on his daughter;
Will not let me wander late,
With the young lad gayly wait;
Yet I do not heed my sire,
But will sport to heart’s content.’ ”
The idea of singing such a song! Is that all? Some of the time they go slow and drop a quarter of a verst behind, and then suddenly they catch up with the others, and race; they dash by with shouts and screams of laughter, and after they have passed them, they fling snowballs at the gay but not riotous sleigh. The more decorous sleighful, after two or three such insults, determined to defend themselves. They let the riotous sleigh get ahead of them, they collected handfuls of new-fallen snow as secretly as possible, so that the riotous sleigh might not discover them. When the riotous sleigh slowed up again and fell behind, the decorous sleigh was creeping along stealthily, and gave no sign that they had procured weapons; and when the riotous sleigh bore down upon them again with shouts and shrieks, the decorous sleigh offered most unexpectedly a brave defence. But what does this mean? The riotous sleigh turns out to the right, even across gutters; they don’t care for anything; they dash by a distance of a few rods. “Yes, she must have suspected something; she has taken the reins herself; she is standing up and driving,” says the decorous sleigh. “No, no, we’ll catch up with them and pay them back.” It is a desperate race. Will they overtake them or not? “We shall,” says the decorous sleigh with enthusiasm. “No,” it cries in despair; then, with new enthusiasm says, “Yes, we shall.”
“They are gaining on us,” says the riotous sleigh in despair. “They won’t catch up with us,” it says in enthusiasm. “Will they catch us or not?”
In the decorous sleigh were seated the Kirsánofs and Beaumonts; in the riotous sleigh were four young men and one lady, and it was she who was the ringleader in the riotous sleigh.
“Your health, mesdames and messieurs. We are very glad to see you again,” she says from the platform of the factory stairs.—“Gentlemen, help the ladies out of the sleighs,” she adds, addressing her companions.
Hurry up! hurry up into the parlors! The cold has reddened all their cheeks.
“How do you do, you dear old man?”
“He isn’t an old man at all, Katerina Vasílyevna. What made you tell me that he was old? He will be flirting with me next thing. Will you do it, you dear little old man?” asks the lady of the riotous sleigh.
“I will,” says Pólozof, delighted because she gently caressed his gray whiskers.
“Children, will you let him flirt with me?”
“Of course we will,” says one of the young men.
“No, no!” say the three others.
But why is the lady of the riotous sleigh dressed all in black? Is it mourning or caprice?
“O dear me, I am tired!” she said, throwing herself on the Turkish divan which occupied the whole length of the side of the parlor. “Children, more cushions! Not for me alone, but I think the other ladies are tired.”
“Yes; you have tired us all out!” says Katerina Vasílyevna.
“The race with you over the rough road broke me all up!” says Viéra Pavlovna.
“It was a good thing that there was only one more visit to the factory,” added Katerina Vasílyevna.
They both settled themselves on the divan among the cushions, in weariness.
“You weren’t sharp enough! you can’t have had much practice in racing. You ought to have stood up as I did; then the ups and downs amount to nothing.”
“Even we are rather tired.” says Beaumont to Kirsánof. They sat down by their wives. Kirsánof threw his arm around Viéra Pavlovna. Beaumont took Katerina Vasílyevna’s hand. It was an idyllic picture. It is pleasant to see happy unions. But a shadow crossed the face of the lady in mourning for one moment, so that none except one of her young companions noticed it. He went to the window and began to study the arabesques made by the frost on the glass.
“Mesdames, your stories are very interesting, but I can’t hear what you say; all I know is that they are very pathetic but that they end happily; I like that! But where is my dear little old man?”
“He is busy about the house; he is getting lunch ready; this always amuses him,” said Katerina Vasílyevna.
“Well, in that case, God be with him! Tell me your story, please, but briefly; I like to be told things in few words.”
“I shall relate very briefly.” says Viéra Pavlovna; “let me begin. When it is the others’ turn, let them tell theirs. But I will tell you beforehand that there are secrets at the end of my story.”
“Well, then we’ll drive out these gentlemen. Or perhaps it would be better to drive them out now!”
“No; now they can listen.”
Viéra Pavlovna began her story.
“Ha! ha! ha! This sweet Julie, I love her dearly!” and she throws herself down on her knees and she carries on and behaves herself terribly. “She is lovely!”
Bravo, Viéra Pavlovna! “I am going to jump out of the window! Bravo, gentlemen!” The lady in mourning clapped her hands. At this command the young people applauded deafeningly, with shouts of “hurrah!” and “bravo!”
“What’s got into you? What’s got into you?” said Katerina Vasílyevna, in affright two or three minutes later.
“No, it’s nothing much! it’ll pass. Give me a glass of water! Don’t bother yourself; Mosolof is bringing me some. Thank you, Mosolof!” She took the water brought her by her young companion who had been standing by the window. “Do you see how I have taught him? He knows everything beforehand. Now I feel all well again. Go ahead, please; I’m listening!”
“No, but I am tired,” she said, five minutes later, calmly getting up from the divan. “I must have a nap for an hour or so. You see I am going without any ceremony. Come, Mosolof, let us find the dear little old man; he will give me a place.”
“Excuse me, why shouldn’t I do it?” asked Katerina Vasílyevna.
“Is it worth while to trouble you?”
“Are you going to give us up entirely?” asked one of the young men, taking a tragical pose. “If we had foreseen it, we should have brought daggers with us. But now we have nothing to stab ourselves with.”
“When lunch is ready, we will take the forks for daggers!” shouted another, with the enthusiasm of unexpected salvation.
“Oh, no, I do not want the hope of our fatherland should be prematurely destroyed,” said the lady in mourning, in the same excess of enthusiasm. “Be consoled, my children!—Mosolof, put the small cushion on the table.”
Mosolof put the cushion on the table. The lady in mourning was standing by the table, in a graceful position, and slowly dropped her hand to the cushion.
The young folks kissed her hand.
Katerina Vasílyevna went to find a room for the weary guest.
“Poor girl!” said the three young men, who had been with her in the shop, with one accord, when she left the parlor.
“She is a brave woman!” said the three young men.
“I should say she was,” said Mosolof, with a sense of satisfaction.
“Have you known her long?”
“Three years.”
“Do you know her well?”
“Yes.—Don’t be disturbed,” he added, addressing those who were in the sleigh; “it’s only because she is tired.”
Viéra Pavlovna exchanged significant glances with her husband and Beaumont, and shook her head.
“It’s absurd to say she is tired,” said Kirsánof.
“I assure you she is tired, that’s all. She will fall asleep, and it will all pass,” repeated Mosolof, in a calm and indifferent tone.
In ten minutes Katerina Vasílyevna came back.
“How is she?” asked six voices. Mosolof did not ask.
“She went to bed and shut her eyes, and now she must be asleep.”
“I told you so,” said Mosolof; “it’s a mere trifle.”
“Still, I am sorry for her,” said Katerina Vasílyevna. “We will watch her by turns: you and I, Viérotchka, and Charlie and Sasha.”
“Don’t let this interfere with our fun,” said Mosolof. “We can dance, and shout, and sing; she sleeps very sound.”
If she sleeps, if it is a mere trifle, then what does it mean? The disturbing impression caused for quarter of an hour, by the lady in mourning, vanished and was forgotten—not absolutely, but almost. The party, even in her absence, little by little took the character of all the similar parties which had been held during the winter, and it became gay. Gay, but not without restraint. At least, the ladies half a dozen times exchanged looks of serious solemnity. Twice Viéra Pavlovna whispered stealthily, “Sasha, suppose something of this sort should happen to me?”
Kirsánof, the first time, could not find an answer. But the second time he succeeded. “No, Viéra, nothing of this sort could happen to you.”
“Cannot? Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
And Katerina Vasílyevna twice whispered to her husband stealthily, “Charlie, this could not happen to me, could it?”
The first time Beaumont only smiled, not gayly and not reassuringly; the second time he also succeeded in saying, “By all probability, it could not.”
And these were only occasional echoes, and then only at first. But for the most part the evening was spent gayly; in half an hour it was quite gay. They talked, played, sang. “She is sound asleep,” says Mosolof, and he takes the lead. And really, it was impossible to disturb her. The room where she was lying down was a long way from the parlor, separated by three rooms, a corridor, and a flight of stairs, and then another room. It was at the further side of the apartment.
And so the evening was a great success. The young folks, as usual, either joined the others, or were by themselves. Beaumont joined them a couple of times; a couple of times Viéra Pavlovna would draw him from them and their serious conversation.
They talked a great deal; but there was, after all, very little serious discussion.
All were sitting together.
“Well, what was the result? Was it good or bad?” asked one of the young men, who had taken the tragical attitude.
“She is rather worse than better,” said Viéra Pavlovna.
“What do you mean, Viérotchka?” asked Katerina Vasílyevna.
“At all events, it is unavoidable in life,” said Beaumont.
“It is an inevitable fate,” said Kirsánof, in affirmation.
“It is an excellently bad thing; consequently, it is excellent,” said the one who asked.
The other three young fellows nodded their heads, and said, “Bravo, Nikítin!”
The young folks were by themselves.
“I did not know him, Nikítin; but you knew him, didn’t you?” asked Mosolof.
“I was a little boy then, but I saw him.”
“But how does it seem to you now, as you look back? do they tell the truth? Would he accept her friendship?”
“No.”
“And haven’t you seen him since?”
“No. However, Beaumont was at that time in America.”
“Really! Karl Yakovlich, come here just a moment. Did you meet in America that Russian of whom we are speaking?”
“No.”
“It should be time for him to come back.”
“Yes.”
“What an idea came into my head,” said Nikítin; “he would make a nice match for her.”
“Gentlemen, some of you come and sing with me,” said Viéra Pavlovna.—“So two of you want to come? So much the better!”
Mosolof and Nikítin stayed behind.
“I can show you an interesting thing, Nikítin,” said Mosolof.—“What do you think—is she sleeping?”
“No.”
“Only don’t tell! You can tell her after you get better acquainted with her; but nobody else. She would not like it.”
The windows of the apartment were low.
“This window, you see, is near the fire.” Mosolof looked.
“That’s it; do you see?”
The lady in mourning had moved her chair to the table, and was sitting down: with her left elbow she leaned on the table, the palm of her hand supported her drooping head, hiding her cheek and part of her hair. Her right hand was resting on the table, and her fingers were drumming mechanically, as though she were playing some tune. The lady’s face had a fixed expression of melancholy, sorrowful but still more stern. Her eyebrows were lifting and drooping, lifting, drooping.
“Is it always so, Mosolof?”
“You see. However, let us come away, else we’ll catch cold. It’s already quarter-past ten.”
“What a heartless fellow you are!” said Nikítin, looking keenly into his comrade’s eyes as they passed by the lamp in the entry.
“You are getting sentimental, little brother. Is this your experience?”
Lunch was ready.
“What splendid vodka this is,” said Nikítin; “how strong it is! It takes away your breath.”
“Ekh! little winch! your eyes are already red,” said Mosolof. All began to make fun of Nikítin in the same way.
“It’s only because it choked me, but I can generally drink,” said he, in justification. They began to look at their watches. “It’s only eleven o’clock; we can count on half an hour more; we shall have time.”
In half an hour Katerina Vasílyevna went to wake the lady in mourning. She was met by her on the threshold, stretching herself after her nap.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Splendidly.”
“And how do you feel?”
“Magnificently. I told you it was a mere trifle; I got tired because I fooled too much. Now I shall be more staid.”
But, no, she could succeed in being staid. In five minutes she was already charming Pólozof, and ordering round the young men, and was drumming out a march, or something of the sort, with the handles of two forks on the table. Then she was in a hurry to leave; but the others, who had got into a gale from her renewed riot, did not want to go.
“Are the horses ready?” she asked, getting up from the lunch table.
“Not yet. We have just sent to have them put in.”
“You good-for-nothings! But if this is so, come, Viéra Pavlovna, sing us something; I have been told that you have a splendid voice.”
Viéra Pavlovna sang.
“I shall often ask you to sing,” said the lady in mourning.
“Now it’s your turn! now it’s your turn!” they all cried. But they had hardly time to urge her before she was seated at the piano.
“Well, all right, only I can’t sing; but that makes no difference. I don’t care for anything. Now, mesdames and messieurs, I am not going to sing for your sake, but for my children. Children, don’t you laugh at your ma!” At the same time she struck the chords which lead to the accompaniment. “Children, don’t you dare to laugh, for I shall sing with feeling.” And, trying to bring out the notes as squeaky as possible, she sang:—
“Moans the dark blue—”
The young people roared with laughter at such an unexpected method, and the rest of the company also laughed. And the songstress herself could not refrain from joining; but, suppressing her merriment, she continued, twice as squeaky as before:—
“Moans the dark blue little pigeon,
Moans all day and moans all night
For his sweetheart—”
But at this word her voice really trembled and choked. “It doesn’t go, and it’s just as well that it doesn’t go. But if this doesn’t go, something else will—something better? Listen, children, to your mother’s advice: Don’t fall in love, and know that you have no right to marry.”
Then she sang in a strong, full contralto:—
“In our towns, a host of beauties are;
In each twilight eye there shines a star.
Happy fate regards them all sincerely,
But—
“This but is stupid, children—
But the brave young fellow loves too dearly.
There’s no sense in that—its perfect nonsense—but you, why—
Do not wed her, gallant youth;
Hear my warning words.
“Still more nonsense, children, and maybe this is also nonsense. You can fall in love, you can wed, but it must be only through choice, and without deceiving yourselves, children. I am going to sing to you how I married. It is an old romance, but I am also old. I am sitting on the balcony of our castle, Dalton, for I am Scotch; I am beautiful and pale. Further down is the forest and the river Bringal. To the balcony slowly, stealthily, comes my lover; he is poor, and I am rich; I am the daughter of a baron and a lord, but I love him dearly, and I am singing to him—
How beauteous Bringal’s rugged shore.
Its forests green and tall!
My love and I, we love it more—
Because I know he hides there in the daytime, and every day he changes his retreat—
Than e’en my father’s hall.
However, the father’s hall is not so lovely in reality. And so I sing to him, ‘I am going with thee.’ What do you suppose he answers me?”
Woulds’t thou be willing, maiden, tell,
To lose their rank and race?
Because I was high born.
But ere thou yieldest, weigh it well,
What fate thou hast to face!
“ ‘Art thou a huntsman?’ I ask. ‘No.’ ‘A poacher?’ ‘You have almost guessed,’ said he;
When we, the sons of night, have met,
—because you know that all of us, children, mesdames and messieurs, are very wicked people—
We take a solemn vow.
What once we were we must forget,
Forget what we are now.
“He sings, ‘I guessed it long ago.’ I say, ‘Thou art a brigand.’ Well, it is true; he is a brigand. Yes, he is a brigand. Well, gentlemen, he says, ‘Don’t you see I am a poor match for you?
O maiden, I was born for strife,
In forests dark I wend.’
“Absolutely true; dark forests; so he says, ‘Don’t go with me.’
How terrible will be my life!
Because in the dark forests are wild beasts.
How pitiful my end!
“That is not true, children; it will not be pitiful. But then, he and I have thought, and he has thought, and still I answer as before:—
How beauteous Bringal’s rugged shore.
Its forests green and tall!
My love and I, we love it more
Than e’en my father’s hall.
“In reality, it was so. Consequently, I must not be sorry. I was told what to expect. Thus you can marry and love, children, without deceit, and know how to make your choice.
The moon climbs the sky
Serenely and brightly.
The soldier lad knightly
To the battle must hie.
His gun is loaded all with care;
And to him says the maiden fair,
My dearest, with courage
Go forth e’en to die.
“With such girls as that you can fall in love, and such you can marry.”
(“Forget what I told you, Sasha; listen to her,” whispers Viéra Pavlovna, and presses her husband’s hand, “Why didn’t I tell thee this? now I shall tell thee,” whispers Katerina Vasílyevna.)
“I allow you to love such, and I bless you, my children.
My dearest, with courage
Go forth e’en to die!
“I have had a perfectly lovely time with you; and where there is enjoyment, you must have something to drink.
Hey! my little alehouse maiden.
Pour me out the mead and wine!
“Mead is simply because you can’t lose a word out of the song. Is there any champagne left? is there? Capital! open the bottle.
Hey! my little alehouse maiden.
Pour me out the mead and wine!
So that gay and joyous feelings
May fill full this heart of mine.
“Who is the ‘alehouse maiden’? I am the ‘alehouse maiden.’
Black as night the maiden’s brows are,
Bright as steel her heel!”
She jumped up, rubbed her forehead with her hand and pounded with her heels.
“I have found it out already! Mesdames and messieurs, and you dear little old man, and you, children, help yourselves; your little heads should be gay and happy.”
“To the shinkárka’s health! to the shinkárka’s health!”
“Thank you; I drink to my health, and again she flew to the piano and sang:—
May sorrow vanish in dust!
And it will vanish.
And to our hearts reborn,
Come endless joy like morn!
And it will be so! This is sure.
Gloomy fear shall pass away
Like the shades when sun brings day;
Light and warmth and fragrance rare
Drive out darkness and despair.
Faint corruption’s odor grows;
Strong the fragrance of the rose.”