V
Besides attempting the poem which I have already mentioned, I, like many other young men at my age, dreamt of writing a gigantic novel. All the persons in it were to be heroes and heroines of a type altogether exceptional, “new people,” extraordinary characters. Several of these heroes floated vaguely in my imagination, and among them was always an American. The Yankees are a very clever race, and have a wonderful Constitution; nevertheless, a thoroughgoing Yankee who estimates everything by a monetary standard, and even says of himself, “I am worth so many dollars,” most certainly would not do for one of the heroes of my novel. My American must be a Russian, aspiring to become an American.
At that time America attracted many people, and I knew of several cases of emigration. Of course, to become simply an American with dollars did not amount to much. But the mere fact of the venture—the fresh energy with which these young men flung themselves into an unknown land, intoxicated by its freedom and the novelty of its social relations—this in itself was enough to attract and impress me.
I had not yet fully examined the results of even one of these ventures, and therefore, had no idea how my hero would act when he was settled in his adopted country. So far, I pictured him as a tall man, with a little beard cut in American fashion, wearing gold-rimmed spectacles, and with a cold, restrained smile, beneath which I could vaguely discern something very grave and significant.
Now, you can easily understand the interest that a live Russian American woman, both young and pretty, kindled in me and my fellow-students.
She appeared on our horizon while she was spending the summer at a villa in the neighborhood. The first time I saw her was in the park; she was walking arm-in-arm with her father, an old retired general. He was gray, bent, and rather deaf, and wore a huge green shade to protect his eyes from the sun. It seemed to cost him a great effort to lift up his big, drooping head. Yet, none the less, when I happened to pass before the old man as he sat resting on a seat, he always raised his head and stared at me with his faded eyes, even looking after me in a way which made me feel uncomfortable. His lower jaw trembled as though he wanted to say something, and his eyes protruded as though he was making up his mind to stop me and reprove me sternly for being young, for being a student, for having “views,” and probably not respecting generals as much as I ought to do.
This half-shattered figure appeared in the park all the summer through, accompanied by an old footman of most forbidding aspect, and gained a certain notoriety among the students. Somebody nicknamed him “General Ferapontyev,” and the appellation stuck. Although, apparently, the name itself implied nothing insulting, it was always used with a certain suggestion of irony. It expressed the silent antagonism between the decrepit general and the heedless academic youth.
And now for some time there had appeared, walking arm-in-arm with General Ferapontyev, a pretty young woman. The very notoriety of the general, helped to whet our curiosity touching his fair companion. But apart from this circumstance, there was something in the young woman’s face and figure which attracted our attention, and marked her out from the motley crowd of summer visitors.