XI
However strange it may seem, all that had happened filled me with childish delight. This is just the right thing, I thought; love, real living love; not out of a book! Some day a similar storm will burst over me; and I, too, shall suffer and I, too, shall have something to fight against—and to conquer!
The evening grew colder—more beautiful.
The sky was bright; yet the trees in the park and on the island stood out in darkly defined clumps. Their reflections were lost in the depths of the water, yet deeper still the stars shone and twinkled; and a little white cloud floated like a dream in the purple gloom. Somebody’s boat moved over the smooth surface of the lake, now vanishing in the shadow of the shore, now creeping out into the open water and seeming to hang in an abyss of blue space. In the boat I could see two silhouettes. They were evidently enjoying this quiet evening, with the rising moon, with the trees in clusters dreaming above the lake, and the leaves falling from the boughs, fluttering silently through the air, then vanishing, and leaving behind faint circles on the water.
A man’s voice began to sing softly a song evidently intended to her alone; the singer not caring to scatter the tender sounds afar. (I do not remember now what the song was; and probably if I were to hear the same melody again it would not seem the same). It was the song of that particular evening in my life, an evening which never returned. It was full of sorrow and love and a kind of joy in that sorrow and love quivering somewhere deep down in the unseen.
I, too, was sad. I felt that I was in love with the fair American, though not with that American whom I had seen at the station and with the General, but with her who had walked in the avenue, arm-in-arm with me in the darkness, and who in my thoughts was so strangely blended with the girl on the Volga. At the same time I loved Urmánov, who had cursed her, and yet his curses made her still dearer to me. I was in love, too, with the girl on the Volga; and with the evening; and with the man who was singing on the lake; and with the woman for whom he sang.
When the moon rose quite high and lighted up the shore, I saw from the distance the fishing benches; and my ear caught the chirruping of the same bird which had asked questions while I was walking with the American.
I went home with a full heart. Titus, my room mate, was lying on his bed, dressed and asleep. In his hand were some papers—the poor fellow was expecting a reexamination—and the lamp was burning on the table. He had evidently been waiting for me; but I had no wish to waken him; for I knew he would begin to talk and scare away my fancies; and I did not want to lose a particle of them. I crossed the room softly, looked a moment at the face of my poor Titus, worn out with cramming, whom I loved now more than ever; and taking the lamp, went to my table. Opening the window and letting the rustle of the bushes and the dreamy howl of a dog somewhere at Vyselki mingle with the snoring of Titus, I sat down at the table, and, for some time gave myself up to contemplating the impressions of the evening as they disposed themselves harmoniously in my mind. Then I began to write.
I had a friend living in the little country town where I had been at school. He was too poor to come to the capital; and too practical to start off at random. He had therefore for over a year, been fagging at lessons to scrape together the money he needed. That night, in my agitation, I, for some inscrutable reason, thought of him; and although we hardly ever corresponded, wrote him a long epistle. Afterwards, I had the opportunity of reading this letter. In effect it was a hymn in praise of student-life; opening out future vistas of young love, and lofty aspirations. All this I illustrated with fact, and with the vivid sensations which filled my heart. The result was a picture in which everything came out beautifully; everything! even Urmánov’s suffering was tinged with happiness. It was very cruel to send this tempting picture to my poor anchorite friend. He told me afterwards that he wept with rage in his room in the dead-alive little town; and was so rude to the headmaster that he nearly lost his situation.
As I finished writing, a gust of wind blew in at the window and scattered the leaves of paper about the floor. By this time, it was nearly daybreak; the dawn was shimmering through the window. The dog had long since left off barking; but I fancied that the bird by the lake was still repeating its questions. That, of course, was only fancy.
Raising the lamp above my head, I cast its light on the haggard face of my poor Titus. The light and the chilly air woke him and he looked at me. … I laughed; and he laughed too, without knowing why.
“Is it late?” he asked, looking round.
“It is morning. What do you think, Titushka, is it worth while living in the world?”
“Quite worth while, Gavrik; only this confounded chemistry—” he added mournfully.
We both burst out laughing. Then we undressed, put out the light, and went to bed, still laughing. We left the window wide open, although the gust flew in and kept humming round our ears.