THE REGION OF DEAD CALM (1854) (continued 2)

So, then, the ball had already begun. They were dancing a quadrille of ten pairs. The cavaliers were the officers of a regiment stationed close by, and divers not very youthful squires, and two or three officials from the town. Everything was as it should be, everything was proceeding in due order. The Marshal of the Nobility was playing cards with a retired Actual Councillor of State,[26] and a wealthy gentleman, the owner of three thousand souls. The actual state councillor wore on his forefinger a ring with a diamond, talked very softly, kept the heels of his boots closely united, and did not move them from the position used by dancers of former days, and did not turn his head, which was half concealed by a capital velvet collar. The wealthy gentleman, on the contrary, was constantly laughing at something or other, elevating his eyebrows, and flashing the whites of his eyes. The poet Bodryakóff, a man of shy and clumsy aspect, was chatting in a corner with the learned historian Evsiukóff: each had clutched the other by the button. Beside them, one noble, with a remarkably long waist, was expounding certain audacious opinions to another noble who was timidly staring at his forehead. Along the wall sat the mammas in gay-hued caps; around the doors pressed the men of simple cut, young fellows with perturbed faces, and elderly fellows with peaceable ones; but one cannot describe everything. We repeat: everything was as it should be.

Nadézhda Alexyéevna had arrived even earlier than the Ipátoffs; Vladímir Sergyéitch saw her dancing with a young man of handsome appearance in a dandified dress-suit, with expressive eyes, thin black moustache, and gleaming teeth; a gold chain hung in a semicircle on his stomach. Nadézhda Alexyéevna wore a light-blue gown with white flowers; a small garland of the same flowers encircled her curly head; she was smiling, fluttering her fan, and gaily gazing about her; she felt that she was the queen of the ball. Vladímir Sergyéitch approached her, made his obeisance, and looking her pleasantly in the face, he asked her whether she remembered her promise of the day before.

“What promise?”

“Why, that you would dance the mazurka with me.”

“Yes, of course I will dance it with you.”

The young man who stood alongside Nadézhda Alexyéevna suddenly flushed crimson.

“You have probably forgotten, mademoiselle,”—he began,—“that you had already previously promised to-day’s mazurka to me.”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna became confused.

“Akh! good heavens, what am I to do?”—she said:—“excuse me, pray, M’sieu Steltchínsky, I am so absent-minded; I really am ashamed....”

M’sieu Steltchínsky made no reply, and merely dropped his eyes; Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a slight air of dignity.

“Be so good, M’sieu Steltchínsky,”—went on Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “you and I are old acquaintances, but M’sieu Astákhoff is a stranger among us; do not place me in an awkward position: permit me to dance with him.”

“As you please,”—returned the young man.—“But you must begin.”

“Thanks,”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna, and fluttered off to meet her vis-à-vis.

Steltchínsky followed her with his eyes, then looked at Vladímir Sergyéitch. Vladímir Sergyéitch, in his turn, looked at him, then stepped aside.

The quadrille soon came to an end. Vladímir Sergyéitch strolled about the hall a little, then he betook himself to the drawing-room and paused at one of the card-tables. Suddenly he felt some one touch his hand from behind; he turned round—before him stood Steltchínsky.

“I must have a couple of words with you in the next room, if you will permit,”—said the latter, in French, very courteously, and with an accent which was not Russian.

Vladímir Sergyéitch followed him.

Steltchínsky halted at a window.

“In the presence of ladies,”—he began, in the same language as before,—“I could not say anything else than what I did say; but I hope you do not think that I really intend to surrender to you my right to the mazurka with M-lle Véretyeff.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch was astounded.

“Why so?”—he asked.

“Because, sir,”—replied Steltchínsky, quietly, laying his hand on his breast and inflating his nostrils,—“I don’t intend to,—that’s all.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch also laid his hand on his breast, but did not inflate his nostrils.

“Permit me to remark to you, my dear sir,”—he began,—“that by this course you may drag M-lle Véretyeff into unpleasantness, and I assume....”

“That would be extremely unpleasant to me, but no one can prevent your declining, declaring that you are ill, or going away....”

“I shall not do it. For whom do you take me?”

“In that case, I shall be compelled to demand satisfaction from you.”

“In what sense do you mean ... satisfaction?”

“The sense is evident.”

“You will challenge me to a duel?”

“Precisely so, sir, if you do not renounce the mazurka.”

Steltchínsky endeavoured to utter these words as negligently as possible. Vladímir Sergyéitch’s heart set to beating violently. He looked his wholly unexpected antagonist in the face. “Phew, O Lord, what stupidity!” he thought.

“You are not jesting?”—he articulated aloud.

“I am not in the habit of jesting in general,”—replied Steltchínsky, pompously;—“and particularly with people whom I do not know. You will not renounce the mazurka?”—he added, after a brief pause.

“I will not,”—retorted Vladímir Sergyéitch, as though deliberating.

“Very good! We will fight to-morrow.”

“Very well.”

“To-morrow morning my second will call upon you.”

And with a courteous inclination, Steltchínsky withdrew, evidently well pleased with himself.

Vladímir Sergyéitch remained a few minutes longer by the window.

“Just look at that, now!”—he thought.—“This is the result of thy new acquaintances! What possessed me to come? Good! Splendid!”

But at last he recovered himself, and went out into the hall.

In the hall they were already dancing the polka. Before Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes Márya Pávlovna flitted past with Piótr Alexyéitch, whom he had not noticed up to that moment; she seemed pale, and even sad; then Nadézhda Alexyéevna darted past, all beaming and joyous, with some youthful, bow-legged, but fiery artillery officer; on the second round, she was dancing with Steltchínsky. Steltchínsky shook his hair violently when he danced.

“Well, my dear fellow,”—suddenly rang out Ipátoff’s voice behind Vladímir Sergyéitch’s back;—“you’re only looking on, but not dancing yourself? Come, confess that, in spite of the fact that we live in a dead-calm region, so to speak, we aren’t badly off, are we, hey?”

“Good! damn the dead-calm region!” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and mumbling something in reply to Ipátoff, he went off to another corner of the hall.

“I must hunt up a second,”—he pursued his meditations;—“but where the devil am I to find one? I can’t take Véretyeff; I know no others; the devil only knows what a stupid affair this is!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch, when he got angry, was fond of mentioning the devil.

At this moment, Vladímir Sergyéitch’s eyes fell upon The Folding Soul, Iván Ílitch, standing idly by the window.

“Wouldn’t he do?”—he thought, and shrugging his shoulders, he added almost aloud:—“I shall have to take him.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch stepped up to him.

“A very strange thing has just happened to me,”—began our hero with a forced smile:—“just imagine some young man or other, a stranger to me, has challenged me to a duel; it is utterly impossible for me to refuse; I am in indispensable need of a second: will not you act?”

Although Iván Ílitch was characterised, as we know, by imperturbable indifference, yet such an unexpected proposition startled even him. Thoroughly perplexed, he riveted his eyes on Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Yes,”—repeated Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“I should be greatly indebted to you. I am not acquainted with any one here. You alone....”

“I can’t,”—said Iván Ílitch, as though just waking up;—“I absolutely can’t.”

“Why not? You are afraid of unpleasantness; but all this will, I hope, remain a secret....”

As he spoke these words, Vladímir Sergyéitch felt himself blushing and growing confused.

“Excuse me, I can’t possibly,”—repeated Iván Ílitch, shaking his head and drawing back, in which operation he again overturned a chair.

For the first time in his life it was his lot to reply to a request by a refusal; but then, the request was such a queer one!

“At any rate,”—pursued Vladímir Sergyéitch, in an agitated voice, as he grasped his hand,—“do me the favour not to speak to any one concerning what I have said to you. I earnestly entreat this of you.”

“I can do that, I can do that,”—hastily replied Iván Ílitch;—“but the other thing I cannot do, say what you will; I positively am unable to do it.”

“Well, very good, very good,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch;—“but do not forget that I rely on your discretion.... I shall announce to-morrow to that gentleman,” he muttered to himself with vexation,—“that I could not find a second, so let him make what arrangements he sees fit, for I am a stranger here. And the devil prompted me to apply to that gentleman! But what else was there for me to do?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch was very, very unlike his usual self.

In the meantime, the ball went on. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have greatly liked to depart at once, but departure was not to be thought of until the end of the mazurka. How was he to give up to his delighted antagonist? Unhappily for Vladímir Sergyéitch, the dances were in charge of a free-and-easy young gentleman with long hair and a sunken chest, over which, in semblance of a miniature waterfall, meandered a black satin neckcloth, transfixed with a huge gold pin. This young gentleman had the reputation, throughout the entire government, of being a man who had assimilated, in their most delicate details, all the customs and rules of the highest society, although he had lived in Petersburg only six months altogether, and had not succeeded in penetrating any loftier heights than the houses of Collegiate Assessor Sandaráki and his brother-in-law, State Councillor Kostandaráki. He superintended the dances at all balls, gave the signal to the musicians by clapping his hands, and in the midst of the roar of the trumpets and the squeaking of the violins shouted: “En avant deux!” or “Grande chaîne!” or “A vous, mademoiselle!” and was incessantly flying, all pale and perspiring, through the hall, slipping headlong, and bowing and scraping. He never began the mazurka before midnight. “And that is a concession,”—he was wont to say;—“in Petersburg I would keep you in torment until two o’clock.”

This ball seemed very long to Vladímir Sergyéitch. He prowled about like a shadow from hall to drawing-room, now and again exchanging cold glances with his antagonist, who never missed a single dance, and undertook to invite Márya Pávlovna for a quadrille, but she was already engaged—and a couple of times he bandied words with the anxious host, who appeared to be harassed by the tedium which was written on the countenance of the new guest. At last, the music of the longed-for mazurka thundered out. Vladímir Sergyéitch hunted up his lady, brought two chairs, and seated himself with her, near the end of the circle, almost opposite Steltchínsky.

The young man who managed affairs was in the first pair, as might have been expected. With what a face he began the mazurka, how he dragged his lady after him, how he beat the floor with his foot, and twitched his head the while,—all this is almost beyond the power of human pen to describe.

“But it seems to me, M’sieu Astákhoff, that you are bored,”—began Nadézhda Alexyéevna, suddenly turning to Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“I? Not in the least. What makes you think so?”

“Why, because I do from the expression of your face.... You have never smiled a single time since you arrived. I had not expected that of you. It is not becoming to you positive gentlemen to be misanthropical and to frown à la Byron. Leave that to the authors.”

“I notice, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, that you frequently call me a positive man, as though mockingly. It must be that you regard me as the coldest and most sensible of beings, incapable of anything which.... But do you know, I will tell you something; a positive man is often very sad at heart, but he does not consider it necessary to display to others what is going on there inside of him; he prefers to hold his peace.”

“What do you mean by that?”—inquired Nadézhda Alexyéevna, surveying him with a glance.

“Nothing, ma’am,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with feigned indifference, assuming an air of mystery.

“Really?”

“Really, nothing.... You shall know some day, later on.”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna wanted to pursue her questions, but at that moment a young girl, the host’s daughter, led up to her Steltchínsky and another cavalier in blue spectacles.

“Life or death?”—she asked in French.

“Life,”—exclaimed Nadézhda Alexyéevna; “I don’t want death just yet.”

Steltchínsky bowed; she went off with him.[27]

The cavalier in the blue glasses, who was called Death, started off with the host’s daughter. Steltchínsky had invented the two designations.

“Tell me, please, who is that Mr. Steltchínsky?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch of Nadézhda Alexyéevna, as soon as the latter returned to her place.

“He is attached to the Governor’s service, and is a very agreeable man. He does not belong in these parts. He is somewhat of a coxcomb, but that runs in the blood of all of them. I hope you have not had any explanations with him on account of the mazurka?”

“None whatever, I assure you,”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, with a little hesitation.

“I’m such a forgetful creature! You can’t imagine!”

“I am bound to be delighted with your forgetfulness: it has afforded me the pleasure of dancing with you to-night.”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna gazed at him, with her eyes slightly narrowed.

“Really? You find it agreeable to dance with me?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch answered her with a compliment. Little by little he got to talking freely. Nadézhda Alexyéevna was always charming, and particularly so that evening; Vladímir Sergyéitch thought her enchanting. The thought of the duel on the morrow, while it fretted his nerves, imparted brilliancy and vivacity to his remarks; under its influence he permitted himself slight exaggerations in the expression of his feelings.... “I don’t care!” he thought. Something mysterious, involuntarily sad, something elegantly-hopeless peeped forth in all his words, in his suppressed sighs, in his glances which suddenly darkened. At last, he got to chattering to such a degree that he began to discuss love, women, his future, the manner in which he conceived of happiness, what he demanded of Fate.... He explained himself allegorically, by hints. On the eve of his possible death, Vladímir Sergyéitch flirted with Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

She listened to him attentively, laughed, shook her head, now disputed with him, again pretended to be incredulous.... The conversation, frequently interrupted by the approach of ladies and cavaliers, took a rather strange turn toward the end.... Vladímir Sergyéitch had already begun to interrogate Nadézhda Alexyéevna about herself, her character, her sympathies. At first she parried the questions with a jest, then, suddenly, and quite unexpectedly to Vladímir Sergyéitch, she asked him when he was going away.

“Whither?”—he said, in surprise.

“To your own home.”

“To Sásovo?”

“No, home, to your village, a hundred versts from here.”

Vladímir Sergyéitch cast down his eyes.

“I should like to go as promptly as possible,”—he said with a preoccupied look on his face.—“To-morrow, I think ... if I am alive. For I have business on hand. But why have you suddenly taken it into your head to ask me about that?”

“Because I have!”—retorted Nadézhda Alexyéevna.

“But what is the reason?”

“Because I have!”—she repeated.—“I am surprised at the curiosity of a man who is going away to-morrow, and to-day wants to find out about my character....”

“But, pardon me ...” began Vladímir Sergyéitch....

“Ah, here, by the way ... read this,”—Nadézhda Alexyéevna interrupted him with a laugh, as she handed him a motto-slip of paper from bonbons which she had just taken from a small table that stood near by, as she rose to meet Márya Pávlovna, who had stopped in front of her with another lady.

Márya Pávlovna was dancing with Piótr Alexyéitch. Her face was covered with a flush, and was flaming, but not cheerful.

Vladímir Sergyéitch glanced at the slip of paper; thereon, in wretched French letters, was printed:

“Qui me néglige me perd.”

He raised his eyes, and encountered Steltchínsky’s gaze bent upon him. Vladímir Sergyéitch smiled constrainedly, threw his elbow over the back of the chair, and crossed his legs—as much as to say: “I don’t care for thee!”

The fiery artillery officer brought Nadézhda Alexyéevna up to her chair with a dash, pirouetted gently in front of her, bowed, clicked his spurs, and departed. She sat down.

“Allow me to inquire,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch, with pauses between his words,—“in what sense I am to understand this billet?...”

“But what in the world does it say?”—said Nadézhda Alexyéevna.—“Ah, yes! ‘Qui me néglige me perd.’ Well! that’s an admirable rule of life, which may be of service at every step. In order to make a success of anything, no matter what, one must not neglect anything whatsoever.... One must endeavour to obtain everything; perhaps one will obtain something. But I am ridiculous. I ... I am talking to you, a practical man, about rules of life....”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna burst into a laugh, and Vladímir Sergyéitch strove, in vain, to the very end of the mazurka, to renew their previous conversation. Nadézhda Alexyéevna avoided it with the perversity of a capricious child. Vladímir Sergyéitch talked to her about his sentiments, and she either did not reply to him at all, or else she called his attention to the gowns of the ladies, to the ridiculous faces of some of the men, to the skill with which her brother danced, to the beauty of Márya Pávlovna; she began to talk about music, about the day before, about Egór Kapítonitch and his wife, Matryóna Márkovna ... and only at the very close of the mazurka, when Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning to make her his farewell bow, did she say, with an ironical smile on her lips and in her eyes:

“So you are positively going to-morrow?”

“Yes; and very far away, perhaps,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, significantly.

“I wish you a happy journey.”

And Nadézhda Alexyéevna swiftly approached her brother, merrily whispered something in his ear, then asked aloud:

“Grateful to me? Yes? art thou not? otherwise he would have asked her for the mazurka.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and said:

“Nevertheless, nothing will come of it....”

She led him off into the drawing-room.

“The flirt!”—thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, and taking his hat in his hand, he slipped unnoticed from the hall, hunted up his footman, to whom he had previously given orders to hold himself in readiness, and was already donning his overcoat, when suddenly, to his intense surprise, the lackey informed him that it was impossible to depart, as the coachman, in some unknown manner, had drunk to intoxication, and that it was utterly impossible to arouse him. After cursing the coachman in a remarkably brief but extremely powerful manner (this took place in the anteroom, outside witnesses were present), and informing his footman that if the coachman was not in proper condition by daylight to-morrow, then no one in the world would be capable of picturing to himself what the result would be, Vladímir Sergyéitch returned to the hall, and requested the major-domo to allot him a chamber, without waiting for supper, which was already prepared in the drawing-room. The master of the house suddenly popped up, as it were, out of the floor, at Vladímir Sergyéitch’s very elbow (Gavríla Stepánitch wore boots without heels, and therefore moved about without the slightest sound), and began to hold him back, assuring him that there would be caviar of the very best quality for supper; but Vladímir Sergyéitch excused himself on the plea of a headache. Half an hour later he was lying in a small bed, under a short coverlet, and trying to get to sleep.

But he could not get to sleep. Toss as he would from side to side, strive as he would to think of something else, the figure of Steltchínsky importunately towered up before him.... Now he is taking aim ... now he has fired.... “Astákhoff is killed,” says some one. Vladímir Sergyéitch could not be called a brave man, yet he was no coward; but even the thought of a duel, no matter with whom, had never once entered his head.... Fight! with his good sense, peaceable disposition, respect for the conventions, dreams of future prosperity, and an advantageous marriage! If it had not been a question of his own person, he would have laughed heartily, so stupid and ridiculous did this affair seem to him. Fight! with whom, and about what?!

“Phew! damn it! what nonsense!”—he exclaimed involuntarily aloud.—“Well, and what if he really does kill me?”—he continued his meditations;—“I must take measures, make arrangements.... Who will mourn for me?”

And in vexation he closed his eyes, which were staringly-wide open, drew the coverlet up around his neck ... but could not get to sleep, nevertheless....

Dawn was already breaking, and exhausted with the fever of insomnia, Vladímir Sergyéitch was beginning to fall into a doze, when suddenly he felt some weight or other on his feet. He opened his eyes.... On his bed sat Véretyeff.

Vladímir Sergyéitch was greatly amazed, especially when he noticed that Véretyeff had no coat on, that beneath his unbuttoned shirt his bare breast was visible, that his hair was tumbling over his forehead, and that his very face appeared changed. Vladímir Sergyéitch got half-way out of bed....

“Allow me to ask ...” he began, throwing his hands apart....

“I have come to you,”—said Véretyeff, in a hoarse voice;—“excuse me for coming in such a guise.... We have been drinking a bit yonder. I wanted to put you at ease. I said to myself: ‘Yonder lies a gentleman who, in all probability, cannot get to sleep.—Let’s help him.’—Understand; you are not going to fight to-morrow, and can go to sleep....”

Vladímir Sergyéitch was still more amazed than before.

“What was that you said?”—he muttered.

“Yes; that has all been adjusted,”—went on Véretyeff;—“that gentleman from the banks of the Visla ... Steltchínsky ... makes his apologies to you ... to-morrow you will receive a letter.... I repeat to you:—all is settled.... Snore away.”

So saying, Véretyeff rose, and directed his course, with unsteady steps, toward the door.

“But permit me, permit me,”—began Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“How could you have found out, and how can I believe....”

“Akh! you think that I ... you know ...” (and he reeled forward slightly).... “I tell you ... he will send a letter to you to-morrow.... You do not arouse any particular sympathy in me, but magnanimity is my weak side. But what’s the use of talking.... It’s all nonsense anyway.... But confess,”—he added, with a wink;—“you were pretty well scared, weren’t you, hey?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch flew into a rage.

“Permit me, in conclusion, my dear sir,”—said he....

“Well, good, good,”—Véretyeff interrupted him with a good-natured smile.—“Don’t fly into a passion. Evidently you are not aware that no ball ever takes place without that sort of thing. That’s the established rule. It never amounts to anything. Who feels like exposing his brow? Well, and why not bluster, hey? at newcomers, for instance? In vino veritas. However, neither you nor I know Latin. But I see by your face that you are sleepy. I wish you good night, Mr. Positive Man, well-intentioned mortal. Accept this wish from another mortal who isn’t worth a brass farthing himself. Addio, mio caro!”

And Véretyeff left the room.

“The devil knows what this means!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause, banging his fist into the pillow;—“no one ever heard the like!... this must be cleared up! I won’t tolerate this!”

Nevertheless, five minutes later he was already sleeping softly and profoundly.... Danger escaped fills the soul of man with sweetness, and softens it.

This is what had taken place before that unanticipated nocturnal interview between Véretyeff and Vladímir Sergyéitch.

In Gavríla Stepánitch’s house lived his grand-nephew, who occupied bachelor quarters in the lower story. When there were balls on hand, the young men dropped in at his rooms between the dances, to smoke a hasty pipe, and after supper they assembled there for a friendly drinking-bout. A good many of the guests had dropped in on him that night. Steltchínsky and Véretyeff were among the number; Iván Ílitch, The Folding Soul, also wandered in there in the wake of the others. They brewed a punch. Although Iván Ílitch had promised Astákhoff that he would not mention the impending duel to any one whomsoever, yet, when Véretyeff accidentally asked him what he had been talking about with that glum fellow (Véretyeff never alluded to Astákhoff otherwise), The Folding Soul could not contain himself, and repeated his entire conversation with Vladímir Sergyéitch, word for word.

Véretyeff burst out laughing, then lapsed into meditation.

“But with whom is he going to fight?”—he asked.

“That’s what I cannot say,”—returned Iván Ílitch.

“At all events, with whom has he been talking?”

“With different people.... With Egór Kapítonitch. It cannot be that he is going to fight with him?’

Véretyeff went away from Iván Ílitch.

So, then, they made a punch, and began to drink. Véretyeff was sitting in the most conspicuous place. Jolly and profligate, he held the pre-eminence in gatherings of young men. He threw off his waistcoat and neckcloth. He was asked to sing; he took a guitar and sang several songs. Heads began to wax rather hot; the young men began to propose toasts. Suddenly Steltchínsky, all red in the face, sprang upon the table, and elevating his glass high above his head, exclaimed loudly:

“To the health ... of I know whom,”—he hastily caught himself up, drank off his liquor, and smashed his glass on the floor, adding:—“May my foe be shivered into just such pieces to-morrow!”

Véretyeff, who had long had his eye on him, swiftly raised his head....

“Steltchínsky,”—said he,—“in the first place, get off the table; that’s indecorous, and you have very bad boots into the bargain; and, in the second place, come hither, I will tell thee something.”

He led him aside.

“Hearken, brother; I know that thou art going to fight to-morrow with that gentleman from Petersburg.”

Steltchínsky started.

“How ... who told thee?”

“I tell thee it is so. And I also know on whose account thou art going to fight.”

“Who is it? I am curious to know.”

“Akh, get out with thee, thou Talleyrand! My sister’s, of course. Come, come, don’t pretend to be surprised. It gives you a goose-like expression. I can’t imagine how this has come about, but it is a fact. That will do, my good fellow,”—pursued Véretyeff.—“What’s the use of shamming? I know, you see, that you have been paying court to her this long time.”

“But, nevertheless, that does not prove....”

“Stop, if you please. But hearken to what I am about to say to you. I won’t permit that duel under any circumstances whatsoever. Dost understand? All this folly will descend upon my sister. Excuse me: so long as I am alive ... that shall not be. As for thou and I, we shall perish—we’re on the road to it; but she must live a long time yet, and live happily. Yes, I swear,”—he added, with sudden heat,—“that I will betray all others, even those who might be ready to sacrifice everything for me, but I will not permit any one to touch a single hair of her head.”

Steltchínsky emitted a forced laugh.

“Thou art drunk, my dear fellow, and art raving ... that’s all.”

“And art not thou, I’d like to know? But whether I am drunk or not, is a matter of not the slightest consequence. But I’m talking business. Thou shalt not fight with that gentleman, I guarantee that. And what in the world possessed thee to have anything to do with him? Hast grown jealous, pray? Well, those speak the truth who say that men in love are stupid! Why she danced with him simply in order to prevent his inviting.... Well, but that’s not the point. But this duel shall not take place.”

“H’m! I should like to see how thou wilt prevent me?”

“Well, then, this way: if thou dost not instantly give me thy word to renounce this duel, I will fight with thee myself.”

“Really?”

“My dear fellow, entertain no doubt on that score. I will insult thee on the spot, my little friend, in the presence of every one, in the most fantastic manner, and then fight thee across a handkerchief, if thou wilt. But I think that will be disagreeable to thee, for many reasons, hey?”

Steltchínsky flared up, began to say that this was intimidation,[28] that he would not permit any one to meddle with his affairs, that he would not stick at anything ... and wound up by submitting, and renouncing all attempts on the life of Vladímir Sergyéitch. Véretyeff embraced him, and half an hour had not elapsed, before the two had already drunk Brüderschaft for the tenth time,—that is to say, they drank with arms interlocked.... The young man who had acted as floor-manager of the ball also drank Brüderschaft with them, and at first clung close to them, but finally fell asleep in the most innocent manner, and lay for a long time on his back in a condition of complete insensibility.... The expression of his tiny, pale face was both amusing and pitiful.... Good heavens! what would those fashionable ladies, his acquaintances, have said, if they had beheld him in that condition! But, luckily for him, he was not acquainted with a single fashionable lady.

Iván Ílitch also distinguished himself on that night. First he amazed the guests by suddenly striking up: “In the country a Baron once dwelt.”

“The hawfinch! The hawfinch has begun to sing!”—shouted all. “When has it ever happened that a hawfinch has sung by night?”

“As though I knew only one song,”—retorted Iván Ílitch, who was heated with liquor;—“I know some more, too.”

“Come, come, come, show us your art.”

Iván Ílitch maintained silence for a while, and suddenly struck up in a bass voice: “Krambambuli,[29] bequest of our fathers!” but so incoherently and strangely, that a general outburst of laughter immediately drowned his voice, and he fell silent. When all had dispersed, Véretyeff betook himself to Vladímir Sergyéitch, and the brief conversation already reported, ensued between them.

On the following day, Vladímir Sergyéitch drove off to his own Sásovo very early. He passed the whole morning in a state of excitement, came near mistaking a passing merchant for a second, and breathed freely only when his lackey brought him a letter from Steltchínsky. Vladímir Sergyéitch perused that letter several times,—it was very adroitly worded.... Steltchínsky began with the words: “La nuit porte conseil, Monsieur,”—made no excuses whatever, because, in his opinion, he had not insulted his antagonist in any way; but admitted that he had been somewhat irritated on the preceding evening, and wound up with the statement that he held himself entirely at the disposition of Mr. Astákhoff (“de M-r Astákhoff”), but no longer demanded satisfaction himself. After having composed and despatched a reply, which was filled, simultaneously with courtesy which bordered on playfulness, and a sense of dignity, in which, however, no trace of braggadocio was perceptible, Vladímir Sergyéitch sat down to dinner, rubbing his hands, ate with great satisfaction, and immediately afterward set off, without having even sent relays on in advance. The road along which he drove passed at a distance of four versts from Ipátoff’s manor.... Vladímir Sergyéitch looked at it.

“Farewell, region of dead calm!”—he said with a smile.

The images of Nadézhda Alexyéevna and Márya Pávlovna presented themselves for a moment to his imagination; he dismissed them with a wave of his hand, and sank into a doze.

VI

More than three months had passed. Autumn had long since set in; the yellow forests had grown bare, the tomtits had arrived, and—unfailing sign of the near approach of winter—the wind had begun to howl and wail. But there had been no heavy rains, as yet, and mud had not succeeded in spreading itself over the roads. Taking advantage of this circumstance, Vladímir Sergyéitch set out for the government capital, for the purpose of winding up several matters of business. He spent the morning in driving about, and in the evening went to the club. In the vast, gloomy hall of the club he encountered several acquaintances, and, among others, the old retired captain of cavalry Flitch, a busybody, wit, gambler, and gossip, well known to every one. Vladímir Sergyéitch entered into conversation with him.

“Ah, by the way!”—suddenly exclaimed the retired cavalry-captain; “an acquaintance of yours passed through here the other day, and left her compliments for you.”

“Who was she?”

“Madame Steltchínsky.”

“I don’t know any Madame Steltchínsky.”

“You knew her as a girl.... She was born Véretyeff.... Nadézhda Alexyéevna. Her husband served our Governor. You must have seen him also.... A lively man, with a moustache.... He’s hooked a splendid woman, with money to boot.”

“You don’t say so,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“So she has married him.... H’m! And where have they gone?”

“To Petersburg. She also bade me remind you of a certain bonbon motto.... What sort of a motto was it, allow me to inquire?”

And the old gossip thrust forward his sharp nose.

“I don’t remember, really; some jest or other,”—returned Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“But permit me to ask, where is her brother now?”

“Piótr? Well, he’s in a bad way.”

Mr. Flitch rolled up his small, foxy eyes, and heaved a sigh.

“Why, what’s the matter?”—asked Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“He has taken to dissipation! He’s a ruined man.”

“But where is he now?”

“It is absolutely unknown where he is. He went off somewhere or other after a gipsy girl; that’s the most certain thing of all. He’s not in this government, I’ll guarantee that.”

“And does old Ipátoff still live there?”

“Mikhaíl Nikoláitch? That eccentric old fellow? Yes, he still lives there.”

“And is everything in his household ... as it used to be?”

“Certainly, certainly. Here now, why don’t you marry his sister-in-law? She’s not a woman, you know, she’s simply a monument, really. Ha, ha! People have already been talking among us ... ‘why,’ say they....”

“You don’t say so, sir,”—articulated Vladímir Sergyéitch, narrowing his eyes.

At that moment, Flitch was invited to a cardgame, and the conversation terminated.

Vladímir Sergyéitch had intended to return home promptly; but suddenly he received by special messenger a report from the overseer, that six of the peasants’ homesteads had burned down in Sásovo, and he decided to go thither himself. The distance from the government capital to Sásovo was reckoned at sixty versts. Vladímir Sergyéitch arrived toward evening at the wing with which the reader is already acquainted, immediately gave orders that the overseer and clerk should be summoned, scolded them both in proper fashion, inspected the scene of the conflagration next morning, took the necessary measures, and after dinner, after some wavering, set off to visit Ipátoff. Vladímir Sergyéitch would have remained at home, had he not heard from Flitch of Nadézhda Alexyéevna’s departure; he did not wish to meet her; but he was not averse to taking another look at Márya Pávlovna.

Vladímir Sergyéitch, as on the occasion of his first visit, found Ipátoff busy at draughts with The Folding Soul. The old man was delighted to see him; yet it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though his face were troubled, and his speech did not flow freely and readily as of old.

Vladímir Sergyéitch exchanged a silent glance with Iván Ílitch. Both winced a little; but they speedily recovered their serenity.

“Are all your family well?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Yes, thank God, I thank you sincerely,”—replied Ipátoff.—“Only Márya Pávlovna isn’t quite ... you know, she stays in her room most of the time.”

“Has she caught cold?”

“No ... she just likes to. She will make her appearance at tea.”

“And Egór Kapítonitch? What is he doing?”

“Akh! Egór Kapítonitch is a dead man. His wife has died.”

“It cannot be!”

“She died in twenty-four hours, of cholera. You wouldn’t know him now, he has become simply unrecognisable. ‘Without Matryóna Márkovna,’ he says, ‘life is a burden to me. I shall die,’ he says, ‘and God be thanked,’ he says; ‘I don’t wish to live,’ says he. Yes, he’s done for, poor fellow.”

“Akh! good heavens, how unpleasant that is!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“Poor Egór Kapítonitch!”

All were silent for a time.

“I hear that your pretty neighbour has married,”—remarked Vladímir Sergyéitch, flushing faintly.

“Nadézhda Alexyéevna? Yes, she has.”

Ipátoff darted a sidelong glance at Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“Certainly ... certainly, she has married and gone away.”

“To Petersburg?”

“To St. Petersburg.”

“Márya Pávlovna must miss her, I think. I believe they were great friends.”

“Of course she misses her. That cannot be avoided. But as for friendship, I’ll just tell you, that the friendship of girls is even worse than the friendship of men. So long as they are face to face, it’s all right; but, otherwise, it vanishes.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, by Heaven, ’tis so! Take Nadézhda Alexyéevna, for example. She hasn’t written to us since she went away; but how she promised, even vowed that she would! In truth, she’s in no mood for that now.”

“And has she been gone long?”

“Yes; it must be fully six weeks. She hurried off on the very day after the wedding, foreign fashion.”

“I hear that her brother is no longer here, either?”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, after a brief pause.

“No; he is not. They are city folk, you see; as though they would live long in the country!”

“And does no one know where he has gone?”

“No.”

“He just went into a rage, and—slap-bang on the ear,” remarked Iván Ílitch.

“He just went into a rage, and—slap-bang on the ear,” repeated Ipátoff. “Well, and how about yourself, Vladímir Sergyéitch,—what nice things have you been doing?”—he added, wheeling round on his chair.

Vladímir Sergyéitch began to tell about himself; Ipátoff listened and listened to him, and at last exclaimed:

“But why doesn’t Márya Pávlovna come? Thou hadst better go for her, Iván Ílitch.”

Iván Ílitch left the room, and returning, reported that Márya Pávlovna would be there directly.

“What’s the matter? Has she got a headache?”—inquired Ipátoff, in an undertone.

“Yes,” replied Iván Ílitch.

The door opened, and Márya Pávlovna entered. Vladímir Sergyéitch rose, bowed, and could not utter a word, so great was his amazement: so changed was Márya Pávlovna since he had seen her the last time! The rosy bloom had vanished from her emaciated cheeks; a broad black ring encircled her eyes; her lips were bitterly compressed; her whole face, impassive and dark, seemed to have become petrified.

She raised her eyes, and there was no spark in them.

“How do you feel now?” Ipátoff asked her.

“I am well,”—she replied; and sat down at the table, on which the samovár was already bubbling.

Vladímir Sergyéitch was pretty thoroughly bored that evening. But no one was in good spirits. The conversation persisted in taking a cheerless turn.

“Just listen,”—said Ipátoff, among other things, as he lent an ear to the howling of the wind;—“what notes it emits! The summer is long since past; and here is autumn passing, too, and winter is at the door. Again we shall be buried in snow-drifts. I hope the snow will fall very soon. Otherwise, when you go out into the garden, melancholy descends upon you.... Just as though there were some sort of a ruin there. The branches of the trees clash together.... Yes, the fine days are over!”

“They are over,”—repeated Iván Ílitch.

Márya Pávlovna stared silently out of the window.

“God willing, they will return,”—remarked Ipátoff.

No one answered him.

“Do you remember how finely they sang songs here that time?”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch.

“I should think they did,”—replied the old man, with a sigh.

“But you might sing to us,”—went on Vladímir Sergyéitch, turning to Márya Pávlovna;—“you have such a fine voice.”

She did not answer him.

“And how is your mother?”—Vladímir Sergyéitch inquired of Ipátoff, not knowing what to talk about.

“Thank God! she gets on nicely, considering her ailments. She came over in her little carriage to-day. She’s a broken tree, I must tell you—creak, creak, and the first you know, some young, strong sapling falls over; but she goes on standing and standing. Ekh, ha, ha!”

Márya Pávlovna dropped her hands in her lap, and bowed her head.

“And, nevertheless, her existence is hard,”—began Ipátoff again;—“rightly is it said: ‘old age is no joy.’”

“And there’s no joy in being young,”—said Márya Pávlovna, as though to herself.

Vladímir Sergyéitch would have liked to return home that night, but it was so dark out of doors that he could not make up his mind to set out. He was assigned to the same chamber, up-stairs, in which, three months previously, he had passed a troubled night, thanks to Egór Kapítonitch....

“Does he snore now?”—thought Vladímir Sergyéitch, as he recalled his drilling of his servant, and the sudden appearance of Márya Pávlovna in the garden....

Vladímir Sergyéitch walked to the window, and laid his brow against the cold glass. His own face gazed dimly at him from out of doors, as though his eyes were riveted upon a black curtain, and it was only after a considerable time that he was able to make out against the starless sky the branches of the trees, writhing wildly in the gloom. They were harassed by a turbulent wind.

Suddenly it seemed to Vladímir Sergyéitch as though something white had flashed along the ground.... He gazed more intently, laughed, shrugged his shoulders, and exclaiming in an undertone: “That’s what imagination will do!” got into bed.

He fell asleep very soon; but he was not fated to pass a quiet night on this occasion either. He was awakened by a running to and fro, which arose in the house.... He raised his head from the pillow.... Agitated voices, exclamations, hurried footsteps were audible, doors were banging; now the sound of women weeping rang out, shouts were set up in the garden, other cries farther off responded.... The uproar in the house increased, and became more noisy with every moment.... “Fire!” flashed through Vladímir Sergyéitch’s mind. In alarm he sprang from his bed, and rushed to the window; but there was no redness in the sky; only, in the garden, points of flame were moving briskly along the paths,—caused by people running about with lanterns. Vladímir Sergyéitch went quickly to the door, opened it, and ran directly into Iván Ílitch. Pale, dishevelled, half-clothed, the latter was dashing onward, without himself knowing whither.

“What is it? What has happened?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch, excitedly, seizing him by the arm.

“She has disappeared; she has thrown herself into the water,”—replied Iván Ílitch, in a choking voice.

“Who has thrown herself into the water? Who has disappeared?”

“Márya Pávlovna! Who else could it be but Márya Pávlovna? She has perished, the darling! Help! Good heavens, let us run as fast as we can! Be quick, my dear people!”

And Iván Ílitch rushed down the stairs.

Vladímir Sergyéitch put on his shoes somehow, threw his cloak over his shoulders, and ran after him.

In the house he no longer encountered any one, all had hastened out into the garden; only the little girls, Ipátoff’s daughters, met him in the corridor, near the anteroom; deadly pale with terror, they stood there in their little white petticoats, with clasped hands and bare feet, beside a night-lamp set on the floor. Through the drawing-room, past an overturned table, flew Vladímir Sergyéitch to the terrace. Through the grove, in the direction of the dam, light and shadows were flashing....

“Go for boat-hooks! Go for boat-hooks as quickly as possible!”—Ipátoff’s voice could be heard shouting.

“A net, a net, a boat!”—shouted other voices.

Vladímir Sergyéitch ran in the direction of the shouts. He found Ipátoff on the shore of the pond; a lantern hung on a bough brilliantly illuminated the old man’s grey head. He was wringing his hands, and reeling like a drunken man; by his side, a woman lay writhing and sobbing on the grass; round about men were bustling. Iván Ílitch had already advanced into the water up to his knees, and was feeling the bottom with a pole; a coachman was undressing, trembling all over as he did so; two men were dragging a boat along the shore; a sharp trampling of hoofs was audible along the village street.... The wind swept past with a shriek, as though endeavouring to quench the lantern, while the pond plashed noisily, darkling in a menacing way....

“What do I hear?”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch, rushing up to Ipátoff.—“Is it possible?”

“The boat-hooks—fetch the boat-hooks!”—moaned the old man by way of reply to him....

“But good gracious, perhaps you are mistaken, Mikhaíl Nikoláitch....”

“No, mistaken indeed!”—said the woman who was lying on the grass, Márya Pávlovna’s maid, in a tearful voice. “Unlucky creature that I am, I heard her myself, the darling, throw herself into the water, and struggling in the water, and screaming: ‘Save me!’ and then, once more: ‘Save me!’”

“Why didn’t you prevent her, pray?”

“But how was I to prevent her, dear little father, my lord? Why, when I discovered it, she was no longer in her room, but my heart had a foreboding, you know; these last days she has been so sad all the time, and has said nothing; so I knew how it was, and rushed straight into the garden, just as though some one had made me do it; and suddenly I heard something go splash! into the water: ‘Save me!’ I heard the cry: ‘Save me!’... Okh, my darling, light of my eyes!”

“But perhaps it only seemed so to thee!”

“Seemed so, forsooth! But where is she? what has become of her?”

“So that is what looked white to me in the gloom,” thought Vladímir Sergyéitch....

In the meanwhile, men had run up with boat-hooks, dragged thither a net, and begun to spread it out on the grass, a great throng of people had assembled, a commotion had arisen, and a jostling ... the coachman seized one boat-hook, the village elder seized another, both sprang into the boat, put off, and set to searching the water with the hooks; the people on the shore lighted them. Strange and dreadful did their movements seem, and their shadows in the gloom, above the agitated pond, in the dim and uncertain light of the lanterns.

“He ... here, the hook has caught!”—suddenly cried the coachman.

All stood stock-still where they were.

The coachman pulled the hook toward him, and bent over.... Something horned and black slowly came to the surface....

“A tree-stump,”—said the coachman, pulling away the hook.

“But come back, come back!”—they shouted to him from the shore.—“Thou wilt accomplish nothing with the hooks; thou must use the net.”

“Yes, yes, the net!”—chimed in others.

“Stop,”—said the elder;—“I’ve got hold of something also ... something soft, apparently,”—he added, after a brief pause.

A white spot made its appearance alongside the boat....

“The young lady!”—suddenly shouted the elder.—“’Tis she!”

He was not mistaken.... The hook had caught Márya Pávlovna by the sleeve of her gown. The coachman immediately seized her, dragged her out of the water ... in a couple of powerful strokes the boat was at the shore.... Ipátoff, Iván Ílitch, Vladímir Sergyéitch, all rushed to Márya Pávlovna, raised her up, bore her home in their arms, immediately undressed her, and began to roll her, and warm her.... But all their efforts, their exertions, proved vain.... Márya Pávlovna did not come to herself.... Life had already left her.

Early on the following morning, Vladímir Sergyéitch left Ipátovka; before his departure, he went to bid farewell to the dead woman. She was lying on the table in the drawing-room in a white gown.... Her thick hair was not yet entirely dry, a sort of mournful surprise was expressed on her pale face, which had not had time to grow distorted; her parted lips seemed to be trying to speak, and ask something; ... her hands, convulsively clasped, as though with grief, were pressed tight to her breast.... But with whatever sorrowful thought the poor drowned girl had perished, death had laid upon her the seal of its eternal silence and peace ... and who understands what a dead face expresses during those few moments when, for the last time, it meets the glance of the living before it vanishes forever and is destroyed in the grave?

Vladímir Sergyéitch stood for a while in decorous meditation before the body of Márya Pávlovna, crossed himself thrice, and left the room, without having noticed Iván Ílitch who was weeping softly in one corner.... And he was not the only one who wept that day: all the servants in the house wept bitterly: Márya Pávlovna had left a good memory behind her.

The following is what old Ipátoff wrote, a week later, in reply to a letter which had come, at last, from Nadézhda Alexyéevna:

“One week ago, dear Madam, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, my unhappy sister-in-law, your acquaintance, Márya Pávlovna, wilfully ended her own life, by throwing herself by night into the pond, and we have already committed her body to the earth. She decided upon this sad and terrible deed, without having bidden me farewell, without leaving even a letter or so much as a note, to declare her last will.... But you know better than any one else, Nadézhda Alexyéevna, on whose soul this great and deadly sin must fall! May the Lord God judge your brother, for my sister-in-law could not cease to love him, nor survive the separation....”

Nadézhda Alexyéevna received this letter in Italy, whither she had gone with her husband, Count de Steltchínsky, as he was called in all the hotels. He did not visit hotels alone, however; he was frequently seen in gambling-houses, in the Kur-Saal at the baths.... At first he lost a great deal of money, then he ceased to lose, and his face assumed a peculiar expression, not precisely suspicious, nor yet precisely insolent, like that which a man has who unexpectedly gets involved in scandals.... He saw his wife rarely. But Nadézhda Alexyéevna did not languish in his absence. She developed a passion for painting and the fine arts. She associated chiefly with artists, and was fond of discussing the beautiful with young men. Ipátoff’s letter grieved her greatly, but did not prevent her going that same day to “the Dogs’ Cave,” to see how the poor animals suffocated when immersed in sulphur fumes.

She did not go alone. She was escorted by divers cavaliers. Among their number, a certain Mr. Popelin, an artist—a Frenchman, who had not finished his course—with a small beard, and dressed in a checked sack-coat, was the most agreeable. He sang the newest romances in a thin tenor voice, made very free-and-easy jokes, and although he was gaunt of form, yet he ate a very great deal.

VII

It was a sunny, cold January day; a multitude of people were strolling on the Névsky Prospékt. The clock on the tower of the city hall marked three o’clock. Along the broad stone slabs, strewn with yellow sand, was walking, among others, our acquaintance Vladímir Sergyéitch Astákhoff. He has grown very virile since we parted from him; his face is framed in whiskers, and he has grown plump all over, but he has not aged. He was moving after the crowd at a leisurely pace, and now and then casting a glance about him; he was expecting his wife; she had preferred to drive up in the carriage with her mother. Vladímir Sergyéitch married five years ago, precisely in the manner which he had always desired: his wife was wealthy, and with the best of connections. Courteously lifting his splendidly brushed hat when he met his numerous acquaintances, Vladímir Sergyéitch was still stepping out with the free stride of a man who is satisfied with his lot, when suddenly, just at the Passage,[30] he came near colliding with a gentleman in a Spanish cloak and foraging-cap, with a decidedly worn face, a dyed moustache, and large, swollen eyes. Vladímir Sergyéitch drew aside with dignity, but the gentleman in the foraging-cap glanced at him, and suddenly exclaimed:

“Ah! Mr. Astákhoff, how do you do?”

Vladímir Sergyéitch made no reply, and stopped short in surprise. He could not comprehend how a gentleman who could bring himself to walk on the Névsky in a foraging-cap could be acquainted with his name.

“You do not recognise me,”—pursued the gentleman in the cap:—“I saw you eight years ago, in the country, in the T*** Government, at the Ipátoffs’. My name is Véretyeff.”

“Akh! Good heavens! excuse me!”—exclaimed Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“But how you have changed since then!...”

“Yes, I have grown old,”—returned Piótr Alexyéitch, passing his hand, which was devoid of a glove, over his face.—“But you have not changed.”

Véretyeff had not so much aged as fallen away and sunk down. Small, delicate wrinkles covered his face; and when he spoke, his lips and cheeks twitched slightly. From all this it was perceptible that the man had been living hard.

“Where have you disappeared to all this time, that you have not been visible?”—Vladímir Sergyéitch asked him.

“I have been wandering about here and there. And you have been in Petersburg all the while?”

“Yes, most of the time.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes.”

And Vladímir Sergyéitch assumed a rather severe mien, as though with the object of saying to Véretyeff: “My good fellow, don’t take it into thy head to ask me to present thee to my wife.”

Véretyeff understood him, apparently. An indifferent sneer barely flitted across his lips.

“And how is your sister?”—inquired Vladímir Sergyéitch.—“Where is she?”

“I cannot tell you for certain. She must be in Moscow. I have not received any letters from her this long time!”

“Is her husband alive?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Ipátoff?”

“I don’t know; probably he is alive also; but he may be dead.”

“And that gentleman—what the deuce was his name?—Bodryakóff,—what of him?”

“The one you invited to be your second—you remember, when you were so scared? Why, the devil knows!”

Vladímir Sergyéitch maintained silence for a while, with dignity written on his face.

“I always recall with pleasure those evenings,”—he went on,—“when I had the opportunity” (he had nearly said, “the honour”) “of making the acquaintance of your sister and yourself. She was a very amiable person. And do you sing as agreeably as ever?”

“No; I have lost my voice.... But that was a good time!”

“I visited Ipátovka once afterward,”—added Vladímir Sergyéitch, elevating his eyebrows mournfully. “I think that was the name of that village—on the very day of a terrible event....”

“Yes, yes, that was frightful, frightful,”—Véretyeff hastily interrupted him.—“Yes, yes. And do you remember how you came near fighting with my present brother-in-law?”

“H’m! I remember!”—replied Vladímir Sergyéitch, slowly.—“However, I must confess to you that so much time has elapsed since then, that all that sometimes seems to me like a dream....”

“Like a dream,”—repeated Véretyeff, and his pale cheeks flushed;—“like a dream ... no, it was not a dream, for me at all events. It was the time of youth, of mirth and happiness, the time of unlimited hopes, and invincible powers; and if it was a dream, then it was a very beautiful dream. And now, you and I have grown old and stupid, we dye our moustaches, and saunter on the Névsky, and have become good for nothing; like broken-winded nags, we have become utterly vapid and worn out; it cannot be said that we are pompous and put on airs, nor that we spend our time in idleness; but I fear we drown our grief in drink,—that is more like a dream, and a hideous dream. Life has been lived, and lived in vain, clumsily, vulgarly—that’s what is bitter! That’s what one would like to shake off like a dream, that’s what one would like to recover one’s self from!... And then ... everywhere, there is one frightful memory, one ghost.... But farewell!”

Véretyeff walked hastily away; but on coming opposite the door of one of the principal confectioners on the Névsky, he halted, entered, and after drinking a glass of orange vodka at the buffet, he wended his way through the billiard-room, all dark and dim with tobacco-smoke, to the rear room. There he found several acquaintances, his former comrades—Pétya Lazúrin, Kóstya Kovróvsky, and Prince Serdiukóff, and two other gentlemen who were called simply Vasiúk, and Filát. All of them were men no longer young, though unmarried; some of them had lost their hair, others were growing grey; their faces were covered with wrinkles, their chins had grown double; in a word, these gentlemen had all long since passed their prime, as the saying is. Yet all of them continued to regard Véretyeff as a remarkable man, destined to astonish the universe; and he was wiser than they only because he was very well aware of his utter and radical uselessness. And even outside of his circle, there were people who thought concerning him, that if he had not ruined himself, the deuce only knows what he would have made of himself.... These people were mistaken. Nothing ever comes of Véretyeffs.

Piótr Alexyéitch’s friends welcomed him with the customary greetings. At first he dumbfounded them with his gloomy aspect and his splenetic speeches; but he speedily calmed down, cheered up, and affairs went on in their wonted rut.

But Vladímir Sergyéitch, as soon as Véretyeff left him, contracted his brows in a frown and straightened himself up. Piótr Alexyéitch’s unexpected sally had astounded, even offended him extremely.

“‘We have grown stupid, we drink liquor, we dye our moustaches’ ... parlez pour vous, mon cher,”—he said at last, almost aloud, and emitting a couple of snorts caused by an access of involuntary indignation, he was preparing to continue his stroll.

“Who was that talking with you?”—rang out a loud and self-confident voice behind him.

Vladímir Sergyéitch turned round and beheld one of his best friends, a certain Mr. Pompónsky. This Mr. Pompónsky, a man of lofty stature, and stout, occupied a decidedly important post, and never once, from his very earliest youth, had he doubted himself.

“Why, a sort of eccentric,”—said Vladímir Sergyéitch, linking his arm in Mr. Pompónsky’s.

“Good gracious, Vladímir Sergyéitch, is it permissible for a respectable man to chat on the street with an individual who wears a foraging-cap on his head? ’Tis indecent! I’m amazed! Where could you have made acquaintance with such a person?”

“In the country.”

“In the country.... One does not bow to one’s country neighbours in town.... ce n’est pas comme il faut. A gentleman should always bear himself like a gentleman if he wishes that....”

“Here is my wife,”—Vladímir Sergyéitch hastily interrupted him.—“Let us go to her.”

And the two gentlemen directed their steps to a low-hung, elegant carriage, from whose window there peered forth the pale, weary, and irritatingly-arrogant little face of a woman who was still young, but already faded.

Behind her another lady, also apparently in a bad humour,—her mother,—was visible. Vladímir Sergyéitch opened the door of the carriage, and offered his arm to his wife. Pompónsky gave his to the mother-in-law, and the two couples made their way along the Névsky Prospékt, accompanied by a short, black-haired footman in yellowish-grey gaiters, and with a big cockade on his hat.