(LIDIA IVANOVNA VESELITSKAYA) (continued 2)

"And even Botkin makes mistakes," says the homœopathic lady. "No, seriously, try homœopathy. Why, I myself am a living advertisement for homœopathy. Just think how many doctors I have consulted, how many remedies I have tried.... And only since I consulted Brazolle ..."

"Brazolle, oh yes, Brazolle! Why, I have met him in society. Il est très bien."

"Is he married? Who is he married to?"

The medical conversation becomes general.

"Brazolle? Yes, who did he marry? And Solovieff, what a wonderfully conscientious doctor he is. Of course, of course.... He has a hospital of his own.... And he is so busy, so very busy.... And Baron Vreffski.... You're joking f Not in the least.... An extraordinary case.... He cured a blind man, a real blind man, perfectly blind, whom I saw with my own eyes, ... with that water of his, or by electricity.... Enfin il réussit. Of course faith has a great deal to do with it.... Oh, I should think so!... For instance, Father John[5] ... Oh, ce n'est plus du tout la même chose.... Vous croyez? Mais, c'est un saint! Oh, he's only a sinful man like the rest of us, je ne crois pas à sa sainteté. C'est la mode, voilà tout.... Oh, don't say so.... If you only saw him, ... a little, thin man, ... and with such a look in his eyes, something so heavenly!... He took tea with us and ate some fruit.... He is very fond of grapes.... Of course you must have faith.... Oh yes, faith—that's all!... But who works wonders—is Batmaieff.... Qu'est ce que ce Batmaieff? est-ce que c'est encore un saint? Non, non, c'est un médecin.... I can give you his address if you like." ...

Under cover of the noise mamma tells Aunt Julia about Variashski's sending them to Jeleznovodsk, and tries to sound her about taking charge of baby and his nurse for the summer. Aunt Julia will take charge of them with pleasure for the whole summer if mamma will consent to take Vava with her to Jeleznovodsk. Merjeffsky has advised that she should be separated from her family for a time, and has ordered her to take iron waters this summer. And they will all breathe more freely when Vava is gone. She is getting unbearable. She sets every one in the house at loggerheads. Her brother has predicted that she will finish on the gallows, and advises her being sent for two or three years to France, or perhaps to Switzerland to some pension. Her father won't hear of it; he always takes Vava's part. Good heavens, if only some one would take charge of her!... One service in return for another. Vava for baby, baby for Vava. And so the matter is settled.

At dinner mamma informs Spiridon Ivanovitch of the results of their visit to Variashski and of their negotiations with Aunt Julia. At the mention of the Caucasus Spiridon Ivanovitch brightens up and gets quite good-humoured. In the Caucasus were passed the best years of his life, the best years of his military service. Even now he has many friends both in Tiflis and Piatigorsk—a wonderful land of which he has wonderful reminiscences. Shaslik, katchetinsk, narzan,[6] and riding-parties through the moonlight nights! If only Spiridon Ivanovitch were free, he himself would go with the ladies. Of course Mimotchka must go and make a cure there. The sun and the iron waters will certainly restore her to health. Perhaps in August he might be able to join them there himself. Oh yes, yes; she must go. Of course it would never do for her to go alone. Goodness knows what sort of society is to be found at the springs. But with mamma and Vava she might venture. About how much will the journey cost?

May in Petersburg. A cold wind raises clouds of dust in the streets, but the bright sun, the ladies' light gauze veils and parasols, and the noise of wheels, relieving the deep stillness of winter—all this already tells of spring, and what speaks more clearly of it than anything is the pure blue sky, across which all kinds of bright hopes and promises for the future flit alluringly. It seems to say that somewhere, far away from the granite quays and stone houses, from the dusty streets and squares with their meagre foliage, spring has already come, real spring, with her light breezes, with the nightingales' and larks' trills, with the scent of lilacs and cherry blossoms in the air—spring, that gladdens the heart of everyone who wishes to get away and can from the close, dusty town; and everyone who wishes to and can hastens to do so.

At the Nicholas railway station there is bustle and animation. Porters and carriers are rushing up and down the platform and jostling each other at the doors. From the refreshment rooms comes the noise of knives and forks, the clinking of glasses, the sound of conversation and exclamations, the scraping of feet, and all the busy fuss and noise of a crowd in movement.

On the platform, in front of the high, blue railway carriage, stands an elegant group seeing Mimotchka off. It is composed of the stout Spiridon Ivanovitch in his crimson-lined overcoat,[7] the tall and majestic Aunt Julia with a long eyeglass, through which she superciliously examines the surrounding public; the fat, rosy-faced Vova, Aunt Julia's favourite, her joy and pride; pretty Zina, in a huge, fashionable hat and short, fashionable jacket, and with two little white dogs, who look on God's world as haughtily and indifferently as their mistress; Mdme. Lambert, her governess: the three sisters Poltavsteff in thick veils; Aunt Mary with her son, and Aunt Sophy with her husband. Mimotchka is already seated in the carriage with her lapdog, which she could not make up her mind to leave behind her in Petersburg, and is smelling her sel de vinaigre. She is dreadfully tired, and besides that she is so sick of them all. The sooner she gets off the better. And there is Spiridon Ivanovitch, climbing up into the carriage again, and almost tumbling into the cushions, to inquire if she is quite comfortable.... Quite, quite; she has everything she wants!

Vava, a thin, black-eyed girl of sixteen, stands on the platform by her father, and, holding on to him with both hands, gives him her word of honour not to quarrel with her aunt, and in general to be good, and not like she is in Petersburg. And Vava, in her turn, makes him promise that he will write her long letters and often.

Mamma is fussily and anxiously whispering to Aunt Julia, giving her last instructions about baby, nurse, and the servants she has left behind. Then the expression of both their faces changes. Mamma's takes one of condolence and sympathy, Aunt Julia's of patient endurance; evidently they are talking of the cross she has to bear—of Vava.

"I know it's a great charge," says Aunt Julia, "but I will do all I can for you in return. And the principal thing is, that she must not on any account go out alone."

The two elder Poltavsteffs are smiling at Mdme. Lambert and playing with Zina's dogs; the youngest, coquettishly turning up her eyes, tells Vova that she does not believe either in friendship or love.

"And, in my opinion, it's all folly," says Aunt Mary. "What is the use of their going there? Why, they will all die of hunger. I know perfectly well what the Crimea and the Caucasus are. Starvation, ennui, and dirt. It's simply throwing away money. And why have they such confidence in Variashski? As if there were no doctors abroad!"

"Yes, indeed!" agrees Aunt Sophy. "We were told to go to Essentouki, too, but of course we shall go to Carlsbad instead. As if it were possible!"

The last bell sounds. Vava gives her father a parting hug, and, with a little scream, throws herself impetuously into the carriage, getting very much in the guard's way as she does so. Aunt Julia exchanges a suffering look with Zina. Mimotchka shows her pale face at the window and smiles at her friends. They all nod, bow, and smile at her in return. "Bon voyage! Bon voyage!"

Spiridon Ivanovitch gazes after her with a tender, loving look, and the train smoothly and quietly moves from its place and glides out from under the dark arches of the station. Mamma makes the sign of the cross,[8] Mimotchka yawns, and Vava goes out of the coupé.[9]

Now they are at the end of the platform, now past the hoardings and the market gardens. The barracks, with all their windows staring at the departing train, have disappeared, and the train flies out into the open and steams along at full speed.

Mamma makes a survey of the luggage. "Is everything here?... Is everything in its proper place? And where has Vava gone?" ...

"She must be in the passage," answers Mimotchka lazily, closing her eyes.

"I think that is her singing. Do you hear? What a mad thing she is!" But Mimotchka only yawns.

The fact of Vava's immediately running away from them rather troubles mamma. How is she to manage this queer girl? The best way is to influence her by kindness and affection. Vava's father had begged mamma to do so, and Merjeffsky, the doctor, had also mentioned it. Of course she has such a highly-strung, nervous nature. Mamma and Aunt Julia have quite different ideas on the subject of education. Mamma always thought Aunt Julia was too harsh with Vava "On ne prend pas les mouches avec du vinaigre, mais avec du miel." Mamma will prove that it is quite possible to get on, even with Vava. "Julie est une femme de beaucoup d'esprit, mais elle manque de cœur." But mamma—is just the contrary. To use her own expression, with her the heart comes first, and the head last. She will influence Vava by kindness.

Vava remains in the passage, at the open window, singing at the top of her voice "Heavenly Cloudlets."

It is both wild and absurd, but mamma, on reflection, decides to leave her to herself, and not to interfere. Let her stand there and sing if she likes. After all, she is ill. She must first be tamed, and then re-educated.

And mamma, cautiously looking through the crack in the door, sits down again, and once more begins to count over the things and feel if the little leather bag containing money that is sewn in her dress is quite safe.

Mimotchka has taken off her travelling hat, unbuttoned her jacket, and, lying back on the velvet cushions, plays with her dog, pulling its ears, stroking its head, and talking to it.

"Well, what is it, Monitchka, my beauty? Does Monitchka want her tea? Yes?... She shall have it; she shall have it directly. How can the little dog go to bed without her tea! Ask grandmamma when we shall have tea? Yes, yes, dear, tea.... Du thé.... Et du sucre, oui un peu de sucre."

At Luban, the first station, the dog is regaled with tea, sugar, and biscuits. The ladies also take tea, brought to them in the carriage by a tall, fine-looking young guard, upon whom the crimson coat lining and liberality of Spiridon Ivanovitch have made a due impression.

It gets dark. Mimotchka puts the pug to bed; mamma puts Mimotchka to bed. The guard lifts up the cushioned seat and makes up a bed for Vava, who is placed above mamma; he draws the shade over the lamp, and in the coupé darkness and silence reign, only interrupted by the snoring of the pug curled up in a ball on its quilted feather-bed.

And the train flies along, thumping and rattling, flies across ditches, bridges, and marshes, and, singing its monotonous wild song, rocks the tired passengers to sleep.

Mamma feels very comfortable. Having settled Mimotchka (who has been very quiet and uncomplaining to-day) for the night, mamma puts on her slippers, takes off her cap, ties a little shawl over her head, and stretches herself out with great enjoyment on the sofa. Well, now they're off, mamma very much hopes that the waters and change of air will act beneficially on her poor invalid. And then Variashski will be there, that is the main point. On that score mamma is quite at rest. She owns to herself that she will enjoy the journey, the holiday, and the rest for a time from all the bother of the servants, from the continual thought and worry about dinner, about the meat, about baby's food and his bath, about the price of sugar and candles, about the laundress and the kerosine for the lamps. Three months of entire rest from it all! As to baby, there is no reason to be anxious about him. He is in trustworthy hands, and will be most carefully looked after. Besides, Spiridon Ivanovitch will go to Peterhof to see him. And in the autumn Spiridon Ivanovitch himself is expecting a reward from the Emperor, which he is pretty sure to get. So that everything is very satisfactory on that side. And, in the meantime, they will travel, breathe the fresh air, and lay in stores of health and strength for the winter. Vava, now asleep over mamma's head, may certainly give some trouble, but well, never mind if she does. The great thing will be to influence her by kindness. Katia shall always go out with her; Aunt Julia has given Katia extra wages, and is paying her journey one way. In general, Aunt Julia is behaving very liberally about Vava's cure, her board, lodging, and any unforeseen expenses that may be incurred on her account. Mamma is taking such a lot of money with her that she really will hardly sleep at night for fear of thieves. And yet her sisters say that Julia is mean. No, she isn't mean. She is pedantic, and a little near about money perhaps, but not mean. For instance, she has allowed two hundred roubles for the doctor who is to attend Vava during the summer. Mamma thinks it a great deal too much. Surely Mimotchka won't have to pay Variashski as much? Oh no. They paid him very little in Petersburg? And a hundred roubles would be more than sufficient. Or perhaps they might have to give him a hundred and fifty. Mamma has so much confidence in him. And really he is such a nice, sympathetic man ... and un bel homme too. But still a hundred would be quite enough. A hundred?... a hundred and fifty ... or a hundred?...

And without having decided the question, mamma begins a gentle snore.

Mimotchka lies on the opposite sofa, gracefully resting her pretty head on her hand. She likes lying there, and thinks it a great deal nicer than in her own bed at home. There, when she had suffered so much from sleeplessness, she had been surrounded by such absolute stillness and silence from without, that she had felt all in a disturbance and tumult within. Everything in her had seemed to tremble, beat, knock, and shake. What exhaustion and what torments she had endured! But here, on the contrary, here all the noise and disturbance are from without, and that is what acts beneficially on her. She likes the whistling and ringing, the shaking and swaying of the sofa, the noise of the wheels, the jarring of the window-panes, and the rattling of the cinders in the ashpan. All these chaotic sounds soothe her and lull her to sleep. She enjoys lying there, and thinks about her new dresses. What hat shall she wear with her mousse gown? She is taking five hats with her, but none of them quite suits with the mousse gown; perhaps the blue flowers might be taken out of the black hat, and pale pink flowers and mousse ribbon put in instead. And Mimotchka thinks over the hat. But what is really perfect, indisputably perfect, is—her riding-habit. She has never had a bodice in her life that fits her like that. It's a dream! When the riding-habit had been brought home from Tedeschi's and Spiridon Ivanovitch had seen the bill, he had grumbled at the expense, and she had cried. How stupid she had been! What was there to cry about when the bodice fitted so divinely? But who would she ride with? Variashski would be there. She liked him very much. He was so tall and had such a good figure. He had said, "I will see that you are not dull." Perhaps they would be neighbours. They would become better acquainted. It doesn't matter about his being a doctor. He has his rank of general,[10] just the same as Spiridon Ivanovitch. They would get intimate and ride together. No doubt he rides Well. He ...

And Mimotchka, closing her eyes, clearly sees the figure of Doctor Variashski; by degrees the figure begins to look at her from the back of the velvet sofa, from the looking-glass door, from the shaking windows, covered with their blue blinds, and from the ceiling with its glimmering, shaded light. And either the influence of her doctor's image, or her confidence in him, but anyhow something makes Mimotchka fall asleep, fall asleep without chloral or valerian, and she sees in her dreams the figure of Doctor Variashski.

Vava is more wakeful than any of them. She has no desire to sleep. She would like even now to be standing at the open window, inhaling the night breezes and watching how thicket after thicket vanishes, how the lights gradually appear in the open, and how the stars are beginning to shine in the heavens. But she had given her word of honour to be obedient, and so her aunt had hardly hinted that it was time to go to sleep when Vava at once climbed up into her bed. Now she is sorry to be lying down here. She finds it stuffy and dull; besides which she has to lie very quiet so as not to wake mamma and Mimotchka. Vava is glad that she is going to the Caucasus, and chiefly glad to be going alone; for Vava considers that she is going alone. She knows that mamma and Katia will be so taken up with Mimotchka and her comforts that they will not have any time left for her. She will be free. And for her that is the chief thing: to be free and in the open air the whole day long. What happiness!

There she will walk about the mountains and the forests without any French or English governess at her side to poison her pleasure. It will be warm there, it will be a beautiful place: there will be mountains, verdure, and sunshine.... There will be fresh people, fresh acquaintances. Perhaps there she will at last see and get to know those great and good people whom she so longs and so looks forward to meeting with. People like Washington, Cromwell, William Tell, Joan of Arc, or the mother of the Gracchi.... It is impossible that such people should not exist. If they were to be found in history it proved that they really had existed, and so such people must still exist. Only she has not met them. But that was because it had so happened. And she will yet meet with them, because she so wishes, so longs to become acquainted with them, to live in their intimacy, to learn of them, to raise herself to their level.... She will never believe that the whole world is only inhabited by people like her family's acquaintances. Oh! those acquaintances! How can anyone live in such a senseless, stupid fashion! If they were not sometimes roused from their apathy by avarice, envy, and vanity they would probably go to sleep altogether, and never wake again. And the majority of those she knows lead this sort of life, such a mean, empty, aimless, senseless existence. This is how her mother, sister, and aunts live.... They laugh at her, they call her odd, queer, and fantastic because she longs for something different, for something nobler and worthier. She understands that she must seem unbearable to them, but she cannot consider herself to blame.... Her father—he is not like all the rest; he, the darling, is good. He is clever and kind, and how kind he is to her! If it were not for him she would most likely have run away long ago. Her father is a splendid man! But still he is afraid.... Yes, he is afraid of his wife and her sisters, and gives way to them. Why?... He almost seems to want to make himself appear like one of them, and when he does show the best side of his nature he does it in a joking sort of way, as if he were laughing at himself and excusing himself to them. Why? Who does he give way to, who is he afraid of? Why not make them do as he chooses and follow him? How different it would all be if people were only bold, firm, and strong!... But those whom she knows are all alike—

"They are ashamed to own their love, they thrust thought aside, And are ready to barter their free will ...

But still it is impossible that there should not be any genuine people in the world. Only she has not met with them. Perhaps there are hardly any in their circle. But still the world is wide, and somewhere there are simple, honest, labour-loving, healthy people; energetic, disinterested, large-minded men; tender, self-denying, patient women....

Of course Vava will get to know such people. They will teach her, and will explain away all her doubts. She has so many doubts! She had had an idea of writing to Count Leo Tolstoy, but she was ashamed to. And afterwards, when she heard that one of her friends had written to him, she didn't like it at all, and was very glad that she had not carried out her idea. As if every little beetle could venture to trouble such a sun I No, you must think out things for yourself, and make yourself worthy of the friendship of great and good people. And she will try to; yes, she will try....

She thinks that just there where she is going, where there are mountains and eagles, where nature itself is wonderful, there she will find these great and good people. There everything will be beautiful. There will be no affectations, no empty talk; her mother will not be there, with her cold inimical glance, nor her brother with his joking and mocking, nor her sister, that living fashion-plate.... But suddenly finding herself judging her relations, Vava, as usual, is horrified at her own wickedness and malice, and at once begins praying earnestly to God, that He would forgive her all her sins, both the sin of judging her relations and the terrible sin of not loving her mother; that He would somehow help her to bear everything and prepare her for life; that He would sustain her and not forsake her, and would give her strength and health both of soul and body. And with prayer on her lips and in her thoughts, thin, black-haired Vava goes to sleep on her perch above mamma, who is snoring regularly, and pale, ethereal Mimotchka.

On the third day the ladies arrived safely at Rostoff, where they had to change carriages. In spite of the comfort with which they had travelled, they were very tired. And both Vava and Mimotchka, seated at the table awaiting the breakfast they had ordered, looked so out of sorts and depressed that it was not difficult to recognise in them patients for Jeleznovodsk. Mimotchka was so tired that she had not even strength to raise her smelling-salts to her nose. And leaning against the wall, she gazed apathetically at the row of bottles with their gaudy tickets ranged in front of her. The pug lay by her side, and, its tongue hanging out of its mouth, breathed hard. Vava also no longer looked out for Washington or the mother of the Gracchi among the crowd. ... Her head ached, her temples throbbed, and she could hardly see out of her eyes, besides which, instead of Washington and the mother of the Gracchi, she saw close to her on one side a lady with a shaking head, whom she recognised from seeing in Dr. Merjeffsky's waiting-room, and on the other, a boy with St. Vitus's dance, who alternately put out his tongue and made strange contortions with his body.

In fact, the majority of the public were already talking of the proximity of the waters, this pool of Siloam towards which the sick and suffering flock from all parts of Russia.... Pale, hysterical ladies, paralytics, yellow-faced, gloomy-looking patients for Essentouki, invalids of every kind and description from Piatigorsk, all these moved or sat about in the dusty, grimy waiting-room, resting and eating while they waited for the train.

Now someone was brought in, carried on a stretcher. Mimotchka closed her eyes. Good heavens! is it possible that they will have to bear the sight of such horrors the whole summer? Better die at once than continue this dreadful journey.

But suddenly, amidst this ill-favoured, nondescript crowd, there came into the room, from the town entrance, an elegantly dressed man of about thirty-five, whose appearance attracted general attention. He was followed by an enormous black retriever and a porter carrying a handsome portmanteau and a railway rug strapped up and fastened with beautiful new straps. The young man came to the table at which Vava and Mimotchka were seated, carelessly paid the porter, carelessly ordered something to eat for himself and something for his dog of the insinuating waiter, sat down to the table, and, without dropping his eyeglass, rapidly glanced at Vava and Mimotchka, then took off his eyeglass and again, but this time more fixedly and attentively, looked at Mimotchka.

She had never expected to meet such a fine gentleman in that stuffy, dingy waiting-room, amongst all those deformities, and was sorry that she had not taken more pains to freshen and beautify herself. Vava began, openly and rather loudly, admiring the dog, while Mimotchka examined the dog's master's pale face, with its beautiful dark eyes, and all the details of his perfect toilet.

Mamma, who had been rushing about settling Katia, came back, panting from the heat and fatigue, and sat down by the side of them. Breakfast was brought to the ladies; Mimotchka unwillingly put up her veil: she thought she must be looking awful; but she was mistaken, and of this she was at once assured by a glance from the black eyes that rested so admiringly on her. Mimotchka felt more cheerful than she had for a long time, and from that moment her journey appeared to her in a perfectly different light. It was certainly rather a bore, but still it was something fresh, and a change from the monotonous, everyday Petersburg life.

Mamma began talking, and so he learned that her name Was Mimotchka, and that she was going to the Caucasus. And he? Where is he going? Perhaps also to the springs?... He is pale, and something in his look at the corners of his mouth tells of weariness, if not of suffering.... And he is thin, his cheeks are even rather sunken.... Poor fellow, he is ill too, he also suffers.... And he is so handsome, so handsome.... And what eyes! His breakfast was now also brought to him and he began eating, while Mimotchka, secretly continued her observations. Everything about him—his way of eating and sitting, and the way his hair was done, and his dress—showed a man belonging to good society.

Meanwhile Vava had already stroked the dog and was about to give him half her chicken, but mamma looked at her so imploringly, that she sent away the dog and assumed her most decorous and sedate expression. The Newfoundland, turning about round her, and offended at her sudden indifference, went up to the pug and tried to make acquaintance. But when Monitchka awoke and saw such a monster near her, she was horribly frightened, trembled all over her little body, and began to growl and bark furiously. The young man called off the Newfoundland, and the ladies found out that the dog's name was Rex. Then they all went on with their breakfast; but Mimotchka felt as if something had brought her nearer to the young man—very likely the fact of their sharing the same table, the same outspread tablecloth, on which stood a plate of bread and a decanter of water also for them both in common, or else because they were both so young, so handsome and elegant, and so different from all the countrified landowners and dishevelled, tumbled—looking provincials, with their cigarettes in their mouths, who surrounded them. They breakfasted, and their eyes often met and said something to each other. He had large, dark eyes; she had eyes like a Madonna.

Mimotchka got brighter and brighter. The fatigue and slight headache, the clinking of glasses, the scraping of feet, and the talk of the motley crowd, all this was something new, the beginning of something.... And the time till the departure of the train flew by imperceptibly.

The ladies took their places in the ladies' compartment, and he got into the next carriage, so that Mimotchka had only to look out at the window to see him also looking out of his window.

And now again the train flies on, flies through the green steppes with their many-coloured spring flowers. In the ladies' compartment, besides our ladies, there was a lady from Moscow, with whom mamma at once made acquaintance. The lady, although she came from Moscow, knew half Petersburg, and mamma and she soon found that they had many friends and even relations in common. The lady had been in the Caucasus and was able to give mamma a great deal of valuable information about hotels, lodgings, laundresses, &c. And mamma, in her turn, told her all about Mimotchka's illness, about her fainting fits and sleeplessness, while the Moscow lady, glancing at Mimotchka, who was now looking quite rosy and bright, and laughing and chattering like a child with Vava, did not know whether mamma was making fun of her or not.

At every station he got out and walked up and down in front of their carriage, looking at Mimotchka, who either gazed at the sky or the station. And how this shortened the journey! Now he had taken off his hat and wore a travelling cap, which suited him even better. Vava soon noticed his ways and said to Mimotchka—

"The Adonis seems to be airing himself for your benefit. What stupid shoes he wears!"

Mimotchka took his part, saying that the shoes were all right, and that she had seen some just like them worn by a French actor at his benefit; very likely they were the fashion....

When the evening drew near Vava went off to her favourite post at the open window to see the sunset.... And standing there, watching the rosy and lilac clouds changing their shape with every moment, and the wide, green steppe, Vava felt arise within her a feeling which often took possession of her, a flood of love towards God and man. She would have liked to enfold the whole world, the whole of mankind, in her embrace as brothers and give them light and warmth; she longed to do great deeds, to sacrifice herself, to accomplish some good work, not narrow, like that beaten track with the rails laid down, but wide, unlimited, boundless as the steppe, as the heavens, as the sea, as joy, even as love itself!... The pale young moon already detached itself against the darkening sky. The sun had disappeared. With its setting the steppe had changed and was now covered with floating shadows. The world of spirits, the world of dreams awoke. Vava watched the young moon and called to mind the books about spiritualism she had lately read. Is there any truth in it or not? How do souls live after they are separated from their bodies? Where are they? Why and how do they live? Do they see us? Do they pity us? Do our sufferings seem so small to them? Life and death.... How many mysteries, how many enigmas there are in nature! Is there anyone who knows everything, everything, or even a great deal, like Goethe's Faust did? And is it well to know so much, to understand everything, to see everything, to find the key to all mysteries, or is it better to be as she is and not know anything, but to feel a sense of happiness due only to her youth, to her heart overflowing with love, to the beauty of the steppe and the young moon?...

Mamma and the lady from Moscow went on talking incessantly. They could not quite recollect who Mdme. Verevkine's daughter by her first marriage, the one who had been previously engaged to Mestchersky, the brother-in-law of a mutual lady friend of theirs, had married.... Mimotchka did not remember either.... And Vava did not know.... Then mamma began enumerating to the lady all the things she was taking with her. Mamma was of the opinion that if you went abroad you need take very little with you, because abroad you could get everything everywhere. But in Russia, and especially in the provinces, it was impossible to get anything anywhere; so that you had to set out well provided. Mimotchka sat at the open window, looked at the young moon, and also indulged in dreams. Who could he be? Who is he? Whereto and wherefore is he travelling? She had noticed that he wore a wedding-ring.[11] Why does he look at her so? Has she taken his fancy?... How? By her beauty? But she has so gone off lately. Still she looks interesting to-day. She saw her reflection in the glass opposite and was astonished at herself. There is something in the expression of her eyes and about her complexion that beautifies her. Well, so much the better. Let him walk up and down if he likes, she will not prevent him. She does not respond to his glances, only perhaps very slightly and quite involuntarily. Anyhow there is no harm in it.... Where can he be going? And who is he? And Mimotchka gazed at the new moon, and the sparks flew past her like a golden rain, and the wind played with her fair curls. Mamma wanted to put up the window, but Mimotchka said it was too early yet and would be stuffy in the carriage.

It was quite dark, and Vava, mamma, and the lady from Moscow were already asleep when Mimotchka put her head out of the window for the last time. The station was like all the other stations. A little two-storied wooden house, with a bell attached to it, and with lit-up windows, from which, behind the pots of geraniums and balsams, the station-master's untidy wife in a pink cotton dress looked out. The flickering light of the lamp lit up the dark platform, on which the motionless figures of the peasants stood staring stupidly at the train; the gendarme also stood motionless; the guard went past the carriage. Some one greeted the station-master. Ah, there he is! He isn't asleep yet. He again passed close to the carriage in which Mimotchka was seated, and this time he came so near and looked into her eyes so expressively that Mimotchka got frightened and pulled up the window. And the train sped along further. Mimotchka lay down to sleep, but she was disturbed and felt dissatisfied with herself, with him, and with everybody. Why did he look at her in that manner? It was impertinent.... How could he dare to? what did he take her for? She admitted /that she herself was perhaps rather to blame; but why shouldn't she amuse herself a little on the journey? Of course in Petersburg she would never have allowed herself to do anything of the kind. How he looked at her, how he looked at her, to be sure! But anyhow he had beautiful eyes! She thought she had never seen such eyes. Well, now, enough of him—better forget all about him. Nobody will ever be the wiser, and he does not know who she is. To-morrow they will go off in different directions, and perhaps never see each other again.... It's time to go to sleep.

And Mimotchka turned the cushion and covered herself over with the wrapper. But the sofa was uncomfortable, and the carriage felt stuffy and smelt of smoke and coal. In vain she sniffed at her sel de vinaigre and counted out some drops of valerian—she only fell asleep when the carriage blinds began to whiten with the coming dawn.

And now at last the long journey is over. Vava is already gazing at the mountains, which the lady from Moscow names to her: Beshtau, Razvalka, and Jeleznaia.

The guard collects the tickets. The hand-baggage is strapped up. Mimotchka yawns; she has slept badly, and is not in good spirits. She feels as if she would like to die. The train stops at the station of the Mineral Waters, Which is buried in a garden full of white acacias.

Good heavens, what a lot of passengers are getting out here! Will there be carriages enough? And how sweet the white acacia smells! What a sky! What fresh, pure air! Mamma hastily bids good-bye to the lady from Moscow, who is going on further, and loads three porters with the hand-baggage. Vava tries to make herself useful, finds Katia, and looks after the things; Mimotchka envelops herself in a thick veil and goes into the ladies' room. She feels very out of sorts, and still thinks she would like to die. She is aching all over, and tears of weakness almost choke her. She is rather ashamed of yesterday's exchange of glances. Only think, a son age, dans sa position!... And besides, who knows who and what he is? She really had not seen him thoroughly well. It was all the darkness and her imagination. Perhaps he had been boasting in the carriage, although he has really nothing to boast about. And after all she does not care! And Mimotchka, without turning her head, crosses the room where the people are sitting and drinking tea; but even without looking she sees that he is differently dressed. And how pale he looks; he is really not nearly as handsome as she had thought yesterday.... Of course it was all owing to the darkness and her imagination.

A carriage is found and brought up, the things are put in it, and the ladies and Katia take their places inside.

"All right, drive on!"

The carriage rolls on through the green steppe and over the soft country road. In the heavens the larks are carolling. Other carriages overtake our ladies. Here is the lady with the shaking head and there is the boy with the St. Vitus's dance.... And here, passing all the others, another carriage flies along, in which he is seated, he "l'homme au chien," as Mimotchka calls him. He is wearing another hat, the third since yesterday, and at his feet, stretched out full length, lies the beautiful Newfoundland dog.

They follow him and then turn to the right. Why? Then they will not be together, they won't meet? Then their acquaintance has really come to an end? Where is he going? Mimotchka will not on any account inquire. Perhaps mamma will help her. Precisely so; mamma asks the driver:

"Where does that road lead to?"

"To Piatigorsk."

"Then we shall not pass by Piatigorsk?"

"And Jeleznovodsk—is it yet in sight?" asks Vava.

"There it is."

And the driver points with his whip to a little white hamlet nestling at the foot of the green mountain.

Presently the carriage enters a green grove of oaks and birch-trees. They all inhale the pure morning air delightedly. Vava throws back her head and looks for the larks in the sky....

Mamma sympathises with her; mamma also loves nature, loves forests and groves. Mimotchka doesn't understand it. She only likes trees round where the music plays, and then only when they stand in tubs and are kept in nice order, and no spiders, chrysalides, or other nasty things fall off them. At length, after passing the post-office, the carriage stops at the entrance of Mitroff's Hotel. Thank God, they have arrived!

"What a funny little place Jeleznovodsk is!" says Mimotchka. "Quite a country village!"

Three weeks have passed. Mimotchka had not felt dull. Mimotchka had improved in looks and was blooming. One day followed another in accordance with the regular, fixed régime. At seven o'clock Mimotchka and Vava got up, and at eight they were already at the morning music, where they drank the waters and walked up and down till breakfast-time. Afterwards a bath, then middle-day dinner, and again waters and more walking up and down, and again music and waters and walking up and down, and so on until the evening, when they went to bed tired out and slept like dead men.

Doctor Variashski, who had arrived at Jeleznovodsk a couple of days before them, met them very amiably; he recommended them apartments, he found them a man-cook, and he also recommended them a doctor for Vava, a specialist for nervous illnesses. He advised Mimotchka to ride on horseback, and offered to accompany her himself on her rides.

And all this was the more agreeable to mamma, because she believed in Variashski as firmly as she did in the Almighty!

And how conscientiously Mimotchka followed out her cure! Mamma watched it so strictly, that if at the spring they accidentally poured out a little more than half a tumbler of water for Mimotchka, she made them throw it all away and fill it up again.... As if it were possible to allow it! If you made a cure you must do it properly. The waters were not to be trifled with....

And this conscientious cure greatly benefited Mimotchka. She had a pretty colour in her cheeks and her eyes shone brighter and more joyfully.... She did not get tired so soon, and both slept and ate better.

From the second evening after their arrival our ladies showed themselves daily at the music, where they at once attracted attention by the elegance of their toilettes and general appearance. Mamma found the society dreadful. The ladies looked like bakers' or farmers' wives, and the men were even worse. There was hardly any one from Petersburg, and nobody at all whom they knew. At first mamma only exchanged salutes with Variashski and an old maiden lady from Petersburg, who was there for the third summer with her brother, who had lost the use of his legs. The old maid felt quite at home, and seemed to think herself superior to everyone, for she held herself very proudly. She knew all the doctors, their wives, their histories, and their gossip.... And although in mamma's eyes the doctors' wives were as bad as the bakers' and farmers' wives, still she examined them with some interest through her eyeglass while listening to Mdlle. Kossovitch's tales.

Vava sat stiffly and obediently by mamma's side, but still kept a lookout for Washington and William Tell, in case they should be passing among the crowd, and, not finding them, amused herself Watching the games of the children playing in the circle round them.

Mimotchka smiled up at Doctor Variashski while she looked out for him, l'homme au chien. But he was not there.

He only showed himself at the music two weeks after their arrival, when Mimotchka had already left off expecting him and had almost forgotten him. And he appeared in the society of the most dreadful ladies. Beside the bakers' wives and the doctors' wives and all the other provincials, there were also actresses at the springs. There was almost the entire company from the Kieff theatre. Among the actresses there was a certain Mdlle. Lenskaia, a very pretty light comedy actress, and with her her sister, who was not an actress, but who was also decidedly pretty. Both sisters were always showily dressed, and wore very light colours; they were always very lively and always surrounded by men. Every new arrival at Jeleznovodsk followed in their train for the first few days, but afterwards, when he had settled down and looked about, he generally found other acquaintances and hardly even bowed to the sisters; but still as there were fresh arrivals every day, they were never left without cavaliers. Well, it was with them that he appeared at the music. He was giving his arm to the eldest Lenskaia (not the actress), who was smiling more gaily than ever and showing her beautiful white teeth. They were followed by the younger Lenskaia and an actress named Morozoff, surrounded by a crowd of young men. In front of them all walked Rex. His master was again quite differently dressed, and wore a light suit and a hat with a white veil round it, but there was still the same cachet of elegance about him. Vava called the dog loudly by its name, which made him look round and recognise the ladies. But he only glanced at them rapidly and then immediately began whispering something to his companion. Then the whole party seated themselves in a semi-circle close by Mimotchka, to whom it was extremely unpleasant.

What sort of a man could he be to find pleasure in such society?... From the very first Mimotchka had thought Mdlle. Lenskaia's sister perfectly disgusting. She is pretty, certainly; but what a creature!... And what horrid-looking eyes she has—so watery and with ugly, dark circles round them. And her hands are not good. And how vulgarly she dresses! what a mixture of colours! And Rex lies at her feet, and she strokes his head with her ungloved hand, and laughs and beams with pleasure because he is evidently saying something flattering, amiable, and agreeable to her.

Mimotchka felt hurt. She was sitting there alone near mamma and Mdlle. Kossovitch, who went on talking. Vava had gone off with a new acquaintance to her gymnastics. Variashski was not at the music; nor were there any officers of her husband's division there. And she had to sit alone and look at the mountains she was so tired of and at that improper set of people.

That evening she returned home in very low spirits; she even felt ready to cry. No doubt she had over-walked herself that day, or else it was the "reaction."

By the morning, however, her vexation had passed. It even seemed to her ridiculous to have so taken to heart the indifference of a man who was a perfect stranger to her. She doesn't want anyone. Is she looking out for an admirer? Good gracious, if she only liked, ... why she could have the whole division at her feet, and not only officers either, but others besides. Isn't she pretty? At any rate she is as good-looking as those actresses in their many-coloured dresses.

And what does she care about them? what does it all matter to her? She has come here for her cure. She likes being here alone without Spiridon Ivanovitch and without baby. She feels as if she were a girl again, a free, young creature. She knows that her toilettes are the best here, and that she herself is prettier than anyone. She can read it in the glances of the men and women she meets.... And that is all she requires.

She continued to drink the water conscientiously, occupied herself with her toilettes and her appearance, and when she met him (he had now settled at Jeleznovodsk) she looked at him with no more interest than if he were a lamp-post. But, without paying the least attention to him, she always saw how he was dressed, who he was with, what humour he was in, and how he looked at her....

Vava, in the meantime, was in the seventh heaven. She went out alone. Mamma had not actually given her permission, but she winked at it. In the morning Vava went with Mimotchka to the music, but as soon as Doctor Variashski, or one of the officers of Spiridon Ivanovitch's division came up, Vava fled, and in a few minutes she was somewhere in the forest, in the thickly wooded paths or high up among the rocks, over which she clambered like a goat. She had her favourite corners for every hour of the day. She knew from where there was the best view of the sunset, where it was coolest at midday, and where it was warmest in the early morning.... Vava was not afraid of snakes, nor of the great tarantula spiders; she pushed her way through the heart of the forest, through the thick, high grass and nettles of the steppe, and came home with her shoes torn to pieces, her face and hands covered with scratches, burrs and grass sticking to her hair, and earwigs and caterpillars on her clothes and on her dress.... Katia, by mamma's order, had to dress her afresh and put her to rights, and Vava said laughingly that she only thoroughly enjoyed those walks which bore witness of her communion with nature. The mornings Vava generally spent up in the mountains. There, before you came to the top, was a little plateau, overgrown with wild hollyhocks and filbert bushes, where Vava lay among the grass or sat on a stone and gazed at Mount Beshtau, at the blue valleys, and at little Jeleznovodsk nestling under the mountains, with its clean white houses, and the gold cross shining on its church, and from where you could even hear the cocks crowing and the dogs barking.... And on the left, from the tufts of green trees, came the sounds of the orchestra playing the waltz "Bygone Days." There they were going round, those invalids that Vava knew so well, strolling about and meeting and greeting and looking at each other. Vava looked around her and thought that here also there was bustle and music. A chorus of crickets chirped the waltzes; the ants worked on busily and anxiously just like the doctors with their prey or without it.... And the lady-birds, beetles, caterpillars, butterflies and bees were the public. Vava thought it much nicer to be at this music than at the music below. Here she could lie on the grass and she was so happy, so happy! The sun warmed her chilly body, and in her soul there was such peace and joy as she had never known at home. Here she was with God I And she experienced a full sense of blessedness without anything to mar it. From afar she even loved her mother. When she thought of her she pictured her in the most sympathetic colours.... Active, judicious, careful, although severe.... And Vava dreamt of a time when they would understand each other better and become friends, and Vava would show that there really was some good in her ...? Her brother would marry and leave his family, her sister would also marry, although Zina always said that she Would only marry a man with a title.... Still somebody with a title might perhaps be found ... And Vava would remain at home alone with her father and mother.... Then most likely life would be easier for her and everything would come right. And meanwhile she is quite content to be here. She does not feel either lonely or unhappy. The sun's caresses warm her, the wood is full of sounds of life, the bees hum on "the white acacia, bending beneath the weight of its flowers.... The butterflies circle in the air.... And Vava is so happy, that she feels with all her soul that there is no creature on God's earth entirely forsaken, forgotten, and miserable.... And, lying on the grass, she looks at the heavens, while over her head a great eagle soars calmly up, as if carrying on his broad wings her dreams, her hopes, and her faith in her God.

Although mamma winked at these solitary walks of Vava's, in reality they very much troubled her. Even putting aside snakes and mad dogs, there was no knowing where she might lose herself or who she might meet.... In the mountains musicians roamed about and beggars as well.... So that mamma was partly glad when Vava made some friends and acquaintances for herself. And although these acquaintances were not such as she would have chosen for herself or Mimotchka, anyhow it Was better than Vava's being alone. First of all, at the gymnastics, Vava made acquaintance with some children, then with their nurses, governesses, and relations, and before three weeks had elapsed she was united in bonds of the tenderest friendship with a young girl who had just finished her studies as pupil in the institution,[12] with a youth, the brother of the young girl, with a governess, with a little Moscow doctor and his wife, and with a student, the tutor of the actress Morozoffs ten-year-old boy.

They formed a little circle of their own, walked together, made excursions in the mountains and environs, lent each other books, talked and argued.... Vava was in ecstasies over her new acquaintances. Of course they were not quite Washingtons, but still they were thoroughly nice, good people, and how different from her Petersburg acquaintances! They did not ridicule anyone, were not proud of anything, they were severe to themselves and indulgent to others, they did not talk scandal, but occupied themselves with their own affairs.... They not only thought as she did about everything, but they had ideas and views of their own besides, which were new to her and awoke a host of fresh thoughts in her. This overjoyed her. Now she heard and read about all kinds of things—and there was somebody for her to share her impressions with too.

They were delightful people, and ever so much better than she was.... She was particularly fond of the governess: she was so intelligent, so patient and just.... Vava was not worth her little finger.

Of her home and mother Vava never spoke to her new acquaintances. She would have thought it mean to complain or to try and interest them in her troubles. But, judging from their general opinions and other examples, she saw that from their point of view she was right in not liking the kind of life her family led and in wishing for something different. But for the present she must submit and wait, and afterwards she would be able to arrange her life as she wanted to.

And, thinking of how, some day in the future, she would arrange her life, Vava was particularly fascinated by one idea. She had found her mission, imagined a work after her own heart, found an object in life that was really worthy, interesting, and absorbing.

She could never live as Zina lived. If she had possessed some talent she would have lived for that, but she had no talents whatever, so this is what she would do. As soon as she was twenty-five, and everyone could see that she was going to be an old maid, then she would ask to be given her own money. And with this money she would open a home for children who had been forsaken by their parents. And she would take into her home all the poor, forsaken, lost, destitute children.... She would take care of them and she would have many, many children, first a hundred, then two hundred, and so on, more and more. And she herself would bathe and dry them, and dress them, and put them to bed, and teach them to walk and talk, read and think, love and forgive....

In her imagination Vava already saw her rooms, full of children's cots of dazzling whiteness, and in them the children, pretty, little, tender, helpless children.... They went to sleep, they awoke and smiled, and screamed, and cried, and called her "Mamma!" And she loved them all, every one of them.... Some were healthy, handsome, and lively, and she was justly proud of them; others, poor, weakly, and crippled, and she was tender and pitiful to them.... And she loved all of them, yes, all.... Then they grew up and their characters developed. They helped her to educate the little ones as they came in. They laboured and studied and developed.... And now they became the Gracchi and the William Tells that she had been looking for.... And they entered upon life's work while she, old and grey, followed after them ready to bless or console....

If only she could soon be twenty-five! She would reach that age some day. Mimotchka had already reached it. And meanwhile she must study and prepare herself, and above all, correct herself and attain a proper equilibrium of mind. With her character it would be difficult. But what of that? She would strive hard with herself. And then the work itself would give her strength. She would have helpers too. She would take into her home young girls, portionless, good young girls, and make them so happy that they would not feel their position irksome. Then she would take old women, like those that go into almshouses, old and poor. They could be the nurses. She did not want any Swedish gymnastics or English bonnes; everything would be on the simplest footing, without any pretensions or nonsense. And then, and then....

And her castles in the air so inspirited Vava that she got stronger every day, and wrote her mother the most affectionate and respectful letters, and was so attentive to her aunt that the good lady became really attached to her, and often said, "Décidément Julie est une personne de beaucoup d'esprit, mais elle manque de cœur."

At first Doctor Variashski had paid Mimotchka a great deal of attention. He walked with her, sat by her at the music, rode on horseback with her, and came to tea with them several times, but he soon got tired of it. Mamma wearied him with her perpetual chatter, besides which Mimotchka herself was so unamusing and difficult to get on with.

She, on her side, was quite disillusioned with the doctor, whom she had liked so much at first. Mimotchka was spoilt and pampered, and accustomed to everything being done for her happiness and pleasure, while the doctor was dreadfully selfish and only thought of himself. For instance, he rode on horseback with her, and trotted the whole time (because it was good for his health). And what a state she was in, poor thing! And once, too, when she had only just drank her koumiss, her habit bodice felt so tight, and she endured such dreadful torments that she even cried when she got home. And mamma, while rubbing her side and counting out fifteen drops of valerian for her to take, thought, "What pigs those men are" (mamma sometimes used rather vulgar expressions to herself). "They go galloping on for their own pleasure, and never remember that the poor thing isn't strong. And he a doctor, too!"

But what made mamma more indignant then anything with Doctor Variashski, was that she heard he was completely captivated by the charms of his neighbour and patient, Mdme. Tchereshneff. Mdme. Tchereshneff was a widow of thirty-four, who had come to the springs with her son, a boy of six, and his nurse. She occupied rooms next door to Variashski, and their balconies touched. She wore pretty toilettes, and in general was interesting and elegant-looking. All this mamma learnt from Mdlle. Kossovitch.

Soon she was able to assure herself with her own eyes of the truth of this information. Variashski walked with Mdme. Tchereshneff, he rode with her and went out shooting eagles with her (yes, she went out shooting—that showed what sort of woman she was!), he went to tea with her, played with her boy, in fact, they were hardly ever apart. This made our ladies very, very much cooler towards Variashski. Of course mamma did not in the least wish him to compromise her daughter in the way he was compromising Mdme. Tchereshneff. But then he would never dare to. Mimotchka and Mdme. Tchereshneff were two quite different people. Mimotchka might have admirers, but she must not be talked about. And then to allow a doctor to pay you attention too, a man to whom you would give ten roubles for a visit, and who you could dismiss like a hairdresser. Mamma was really surprised at Mdme. Tchereshneff!... If only Mimotchka had liked, of course, she could have found something better.... Yes, if only she had wished it, the whole division would have been at her feet.... And princes besides! But, a doctor.... A man whom you paid for his visits!... And mamma had thought him such a serious, respectable man!... Certainly he was no longer very young. And to spend whole days at Mdme. Tchereshneff's; à son âge! ... It was evidently true what Doctor Shavronski said about Variashski's going out in a fez and with a pipe in his mouth, followed by a train of eight ladies, who were all in love with him.... What things one does hear and see!... And Doctor Variashski's proceedings so cooled mamma's and Mimotchka's feelings towards him that it was positively decided to pay him a hundred roubles and not a hundred and fifty. Mamma had even ceased believing in him as if he were the Almighty.

Kislovodsk was preparing for the season. The prices in the hotels had already gone up in expectation of the invalids who were making cures in other places and had to come on here to finish off, and for a rest after the strictness of the régime.

"Kislovodsk," says Lermontoff, "is the scene of the dénouement of all the love stories begun at the foot of Beshtau, Mashouka, and Jeleznaia."

Here, in general, accounts are wound up, intrigues unravelled, and deceptions unmasked; doctors count over their fees, and the invalids prove their newly acquired health; in a word, here, in the Narzan-laden atmosphere, the grand finale of the watering season is played out.

Kislovodsk was preparing for the season. And meanwhile, in the other stations, all kinds of love affairs were beginning and developing, and would be wound up at Kislovodsk. Widows suffering from ennui, wives separated from their husbands, dissatisfied wives, giddy, volatile, sentimental old maids, and would-be brides—all these swarmed and crowded at the Jeleznovodsk springs, and, having drawn from them fresh health and courage, threw out lines and nets right and left. And fishes, both large and small, nibbled and were entangled in them.

And so the day came when Doctor Ivanoff's first three patients migrated from Jeleznovodsk to Kislovodsk, and Doctor Grazianski's seven patients moved over from Piatigorsk to Jeleznovodsk, where the season was at its full height. The invalids had got better, they had made acquaintance with each other, and were well amused as they let themselves be drawn into the usual idle, though frivolously busy, watering-place life. The evenings got darker, the stars brighter, and the storms more frequent.

Mimotchka was not dull. She had got even prettier, and was looking blooming. She hadn't any flirtation going on, oh no! Did her heart beat too calmly, or was all around her unworthy of passion? Neither one nor the other. Simply she was too well brought up for any deviation from the path of duty. And although all around her, under her very eyes, couples met, smiled, and flirted, although she was surrounded by an atmosphere of love-making, Mimotchka was perfectly cool and calm. What were all these bakers' and farmers' wives to her? What did she care about all these people that swarmed and crawled on the grass under the sun's rays like beetles and grasshoppers? They might live as they liked, she would live as she "ought." And, proud in the knowledge of her irreproachableness and inaccessibility, Mimotchka, young, fresh, and pretty, tripped lightly and gracefully through the green alleys, without paying the slightest attention either to the approving and admiring glances directed at her, or to the meetings with him, with

l'homme au chien (although he had grown ever so much handsomer!).

No, Mimotchka had not the least shade of a flirtation, and, together with mamma, made fun of their neighbour on the adjoining balcony, a young widow from Smolensk, who, although she was still wearing mourning, said to her acquaintances, "Yes, I am not against a flirtation, only I don't want to take the initiative." And when, soon after, a young officer of the line[13] took to visiting her, mamma called him "the officer with the initiative." And what a nuisance he was to them! He spat and coughed and smoked cigarette after cigarette, and the worst possible cigarettes too, while the widow, in a languishing voice, sang about

"The night, and love, and the moon."

Mamma used to listen to their conversations; the balconies were only divided by a canvas partition.

"Haven't you anything to read to me?" asked the widow; "it's so dull. Lend me some book, only not a love story, please.... Are there any such books?"

"Of course there are. Have you read any of Gleb Ouspensky's[14] books?"

"Gleb? No. Are they good?"

"Well, you must read them. I'll bring them to you."

"Bring them; yes, do bring them."

And they read Gleb Ouspensky together, afterwards they read Schopenhauer. And mamma, sitting with her work on her own balcony, laughed to herself, thinking, "Read on, read on; evidently, tout chemin mène à Rome."

When the officer was tired of reading he put the book down on the table and lit a cigarette.

"How true, how true it all is!" said the widow, gazing pensively towards Beshtau. "I look on life just as Schopenhauer does. There is nothing that can bear being analysed without being dispersed like smoke. Truly, life is not worth living."

"Yes, certainly life is a pretty considerable muddle. But still, for all that, why not try and live without analysing and reflecting about everything?"

"No, once you know that life is worthless, it's not worth while living."

"No, it's worth trying just for the sake of being convinced."

"But if you know beforehand it's not worth while?"

"But why isn't it worth while? Why, Schopenhauer himself went through it all before writing about it."

"But then, what sort of a life did he live? Well, yes, he found out that everything is falsehood, fancy, and vanity, that we deceive ourselves. And we all come to the same conclusion. Is it worth while wasting strength to come to a result already known, even though it be only known from books?"

"Well, you take a very high-flown view. I look on things much more simply."

"Why are we wasting the time in talking? Go oh reading, go on!" ...

Of course this was all very ridiculous, and Mimotchka would never have allowed herself to be as silly as the widow. Peuh! She felt so happy and bright, and yet without any love-making whatever. An officer of her husband's division rode with her and introduced his friends to her. They all admired and liked her. She could easily have got to know l'homme au chien. But she herself did not wish to. After all, what was the good of it? Mimotchka, like Vava, chiefly delighted in the feeling of her freedom, and in the absence of all restraint and guardianship. Here mamma did not bother her, and did not accompany her on her walks. She would have liked to have done so, but the burning Caucasian sun prevented her. Mamma could not stand heat. In the morning, after seeing the young people off, and, like Providence, arranging everything for their comfort, mamma, when they had gone, closed the shutters, pulled down the blinds, and, having made it dark and cool, lay down on her bed with a book. In thought she was, of course, with her poor, sick children, who were broiling in the sun. She felt quite comfortable about Mimotchka, but Vava gave her considerable uneasiness. Vava was like fire, so impulsive, so impressionable (those slim girls were always so passionnées,) and here, besides, there was something in the very air of the place, the burning sun.... And yet Vava was so bright, so nice, so much improved in her looks, and so contented with everything.... Supposing there was some secret reason for all this.

And mamma got frightened, very much frightened. And in the stillness of the night, more than once, the images of the student and the military cadet flew over her pillowed head like two demons come to trouble her sleep and disturb her rest. After much consideration and preparation mamma tried to caution Vava. Vava only answered her warnings with a look, but such a look that mamma's soul sunk into her shoes, and she inwardly determined never again to revert to the subject. In order to quiet her conscience, however, and relieve herself of all responsibility towards Julia, she called the maid Katia, and ordered her to look strictly after her young lady and let her know with whom she walked, where she went, and whether she was ever alone with anyone.

And Katia, after having ironed Mimotchka's petticoats and laid out everything that would be required for the evening, went out into the park, with the firm intention of looking after her young lady. But as her young lady was very much on the move, and running after her was very tiring, Katia wisely sat down on a bench under the shade of a spreading tree, which Vava must certainly pass on her way home to dinner, and sat there watching the people going by.

Opposite the bench, on a little eminence, stood some hawkers with glass cases, an Italian selling corals and mosaics, and some Armenians with Caucasian wares. Among them was a small Armenian with cunning little eyes, an enormous nose, and a high black cap. And standing by his glass case, in which were displayed Caucasian turquoises and oxidised silver things, belts, daggers, brooches, and pins, all bearing the inscription, "Kavkas, Kavkas, Kavkas," he looked at Katia so knowingly and so expressively, just as if he knew how she was deceiving her mistress.

Three days running Katia sat on the same bench, and the Armenian walked round his wares and shot killing glances at her, while his eyes seemed to grow still narrower and his nose still bigger. But Katia pretended not to notice anything, and drew figures on the gravel with her parasol. Then he spoke to her. She was passing him and looking across at Beshtau, when he said, "How hot it is! Why do you go out walking at this time? It's not pleasant walking now. The evening is the time for going out. It's not hot in the evening; it's nice then." Katia still pretended not to hear, and went up in the direction of the mountain, coquettishly swinging her parasol. Then he began to bow to her. Then Katia bowed in return, at first gravely, and afterwards with a smile. Finally, he tried to persuade her to buy something.

"Your prices are too high," said Katia; "they're not for my pocket."

"But you must know them first, and then say.... I'll not ask too high.... You look at the things and ask the prices."

So Katia began examining and choosing the things in his glass case. In a week's time she already knew all the things in his show-case by heart; she knew his name, how old he was, that he had a cousin in Petersburg in a Caucasian wine-shop, and that he himself would also come to Petersburg; she also heard all about Tiflis and Kislovodsk, heard that it was a great deal pleasanter in the park in the evening than in the daytime, and that it was so dark, so very dark! Katia learnt all this, but as yet she did not choose anything out of his glass case, but postponed doing so until she got to Kislovodsk.

Meanwhile Vava, who had aroused such black suspicions in mamma's mind, sat quietly at the gymnasium with her friend the governess, and, unable to contain herself any longer, unfolded to her her project of a home for destitute children. The governess sympathised with her idea, but did not quite believe in the possibility of its realisation, and, shaking her head, smiled incredulously.

"It's all very nice," she said, when Vava had finished, "but it will never come to anything. You will marry and bring up your own children, which will be a great deal better."

"In what way?"

"It will be more natural. It's impossible to love strange children like your own."

"But they won't be strange children, because they will be mine almost from the day of their birth."

"For all that, it's not the same. Of course I can't judge from my own experience; but every one says so, and I think it must be so myself. A strange child can never be the same as your own. I know it wouldn't be to me."

"But I could love a strange child like my own.... How not to love them? One pities them so, poor little forsaken, innocent things; and if you love out of pity, you love better and stronger."

"No—anyhow there is something unnatural about it. I should understand if you were unhappy, or had been disappointed in your own personal happiness, then it would be all very well; but why imagine all this when you have still the possibility of being happy?"

"Yes, but then I can only be happy in that way."

During this time Mimotchka was sitting by herself in the summer-house by the Bishop's Palace, reading La Grande Marnière. Her reading did not advance much. The book did not interest her, and she read over the same page several times. In the summer-house, besides her, were seated two priests and some nurses with children, and although their conversation was uninteresting, still it amused her; and Mimotchka did not care to move, because it was pleasanter and cooler here than anywhere else.

The priests got up and, as they went out, knocked up against l'homme au chien, who was just entering the summer-house with his dog. The young man walked up to the railings, and, resting his elbows on them, gazed into the distance. Mimotchka became absorbed in her reading. The nurses, after looking at the newcomer, resumed their conversation.

"Why are there so many priests here?"

"They've all got something or other the matter with them. Lenten fare is bad for their insides. That's why they all drink this mud water. It's a very good water, this muddy kind is. Our folks drink it." ...

"And ours, too, began by drinking it. But now they drink the Bariatinski spring. Only my lady was too lazy to go herself in the morning to the spring, and always sent me to fetch the muddy water for her; and so I had to go, although it's a good way off. Now they drink Bariatinski water."

"Then your lady is making a cure herself?"

"No—all our people are. The young lady, and the master, and the mistress."

"And are they really ill, or is it only from too good living?"

"No, it's not exactly from too good living, but it's just as the Lord sends it. The master isn't quite right in his head. Yes, at one time he really was shut up in a madhouse. He threw himself into the water and tried, so to say, to make away with himself. Well, now he's better. Kousmitch cured him. Now he is able to go about by himself. He takes the waters, too—and afterwards we shall go to the Crimea. Now there is not much the matter with him...."

"Out of his mind? Why, what a dreadful thing!"

"Yes, indeed; Heaven preserve us from it! It was awful what we had to put up with in the house! Kousmitch cured him, though."

"And your young lady—how about her?"

"Nothing much. She's a poor frightened thing, very thin, and has pimples on her face. She's a quiet enough young lady; there's no harm in her. We had a young man after her at one time—yes, a real one, a military man, too, in a uniform.... Only he got hold of part of the dowry in advance and went after someone else. And she fretted and fretted—she's all right now—Kousmitch did her good."

"And your lady herself?"

"The mistress was dreadfully bad. You can see for yourself how yellow she is. Well, this I winter she suffered from her liver, and the winter before last she was even worse. What a lot of doctors and nurses she had!—and she was ill the whole time, and couldn't walk because she had something the matter with her inside. Yes; what a lot of money we did spend! First one doctor comes and attends her, then we hear of another, a more expensive one, and then we try him. Well, he comes and prescribes for her, and then somebody tells us of another still more expensive one, and so we call him in. And we had prayers put up and icons brought in from the church. And it was all no good at all. And in the spring, when we were coming to the Caucasus, I said, says I, 'Mistress, little mother,[15] which way are we going? Aren't we going past Samara?' says I. 'We are going by steamer up the Volga, and shall pass. Samara,' says she. (And I come from Samara, from the district of Bousoulouk.) 'Well,' says I, 'little mother, you do as you like, but if you want to do the master good as well as yourself and get God to give you both your health again, you go and see Kousmitch (for in our part lives Kousmitch, who is worth all the doctors in the world; he comes of peasant stock, but princes and generals and lots of gentlefolk go to him to be cured, because he cures all those that the doctors can't cure). So you go to him, little mother,' says I. 'It's God Himself that's sending you to Samara.' 'Be quiet, nurse,' they say. 'You don't understand anything about it. What's all this about your Kousmitch? You do as you're told and go to the chemist's.' 'Very well,' says I; 'what do I care? I'll go.' And then, when we're sailing down the Volga and come to Samara, my lady comes up to me and says, 'Look here,' says she, 'nurse, don't tell anybody, but we're going to Kousmitch.' (You must know my people are merchants, and very rich ones, too; they have five houses in the Kalashnikoffskaia Pristan,[16] but they're shy of gentle-folks.) Says I, 'Well, what of it? Why should I tell anyone? I won't say anything about it. You go if you like to. Who should I tell? I won't say anything about it.' So they went to him, to the little father, Kousmitch. And he, the little father—he can see right into everybody, and he cured them both. First he looked at the master, took him by the hand, and felt his arm down from the shoulder. Doctors only take hold of your wrist and count by their watch, but he, the little father, feels over the whole arm down from the shoulder and finds out the illness without any watch at all. And he said to the master, 'You,' says he, 'have rheumatic swellings. Don't be afraid; you'll get well—drink!' And he gave him a bottle of stuff directly. Yes! And to the mistress he said, 'It's just your liver that's wrong. And there's something the matter inside as well,' says he; 'it's a bad business. You,' says he, 'take care, because, if you don't take care, you'll die. Yes! you must keep lying down,' says he—'yes, lie down often; then you'll get better; and here's this for you—drink!' And he gave her another bottle. Our young lady didn't want to show herself to him; she laughed and said, 'What does a peasant like him understand?' But he, the little father, said, 'What are you laughing at? You had a young man,' says he, 'but he ran off.' The little father knew all about it, you see. 'Don't be afraid; you'll find another. You've got money, haven't you?' says he. 'She has, little father,' said we; 'how shouldn't she have, with five houses on the Kalashnikoffskaia Pristan?' 'Well,' says he, 'it's all right. You'll be married and get quite well; and, meanwhile, here's this for you—drink!' And he gave her another bottle, and he told the children to drink too; and I says to him, says I, 'My back aches, little father.' And he gave me a bottle of stuff too. 'Drink,' says he, 'old woman.' Well, and so we all drink."

"And does it do you good?"

"It does us good. In the morning, when we get up, we drink some of his stuff before eating anything. We don't say anything about it to the doctor. And at first the mistress drank the muddy water, and now she drinks Bariatinski water. And all the stuff they bring us from the chemist's we throw away, because Kousmitch said it was all no good; and if the mistress feels worse, she gives up drinking the waters, and only takes what Kousmitch gave her. It's a decoction of peppermint." ...

"Peppermint is a good thing. But for my part I drink nothing but Michailovsky water here. That's what I like. It's such a fresh-tasted water."

"But is it good for healthy people to drink? I don't drink any of the waters. I am afraid. You might get some illness from drinking them."

"No, it's all right enough. They're not good enough for fat people to drink, but for thin, full-blooded ones, there's no harm to be got, only good."

"I'd drink them too if I wasn't afraid." ...

"What is there to be afraid of? Let's come and have some at once. Where have my little rascals got to? Vania, Vassia, come here! We're going to the gymnastics."

The nurses got up and went out of the summer-house, leading away their charges. Mimotchka and l'homme au chien were left alone together. Mimotchka turned over the leaves without raising her eyes from her book. He sat down so as to have a sideway view of her, and taking out a newspaper also began reading. They both felt each other's presence and proximity, and also felt that if they were to throw aside their reading and begin talking it would be pleasant and amusing; but they did not speak to each other. He did not dare; she did not wish to. Now and then Mimotchka raised her blue eyes and fixed them on the blue distance. He sat secretly admiring her, the way her hair was done, the tip of her little foot, and all her young, fresh, elegant person.... Mimotchka felt he was looking at her, and rather maliciously thought to herself, "Aha! so it's not only actresses that are pretty?" Then he put away his newspaper, took out his oxidised silver cigar-case, and asked her permission to smoke. Mimotchka signified her consent by an inclination of the head. Then she was suddenly seized with a panic. He would speak to her directly. What could she answer? And what would it lead to? Up till now it had all been so nice and interesting, and now it would all be spoilt. If he spoke to her like he would to a cocotte, she would be offended. She was a general's wife and a respectable woman. She didn't like being spoken to by people she didn't know. And Mimotchka shut up her book, got up, and walked out of the summer-house with her light, graceful walk. And he looked after her and whistled "Azra." Nothing more happened. But Mimotchka felt so light-hearted, so very light-hearted. And although she would very much have liked to go back to him, she went home without once looking round.

All three ladies met at dinner in the best of spirits. They dined amicably and gaily, laughing at the unappetising dishes (at the everlasting mutton they were so tired of), and praising and doing honour to mamma's successful cookery; for she had not only prepared cutlets and beefsteaks but had artfully managed even pastry, jelly, and compote besides.

Katia picked the caterpillars and insects off Vava; Mimotchka examined her face in the looking-glass, wiping off the specks of dust, while mamma informed them of the results of her observations of her neighbours. These surrounding love affairs revolted mamma, but still they excited and interested her. In spite of the heroines being only bakers' or farmers' wives, mamma almost twisted her neck in following out their progress.... Katia, while modestly serving the dinner, completed mamma's stories with information she had gathered from private sources of her own.

"Now, it's all clear to me," said mamma, catching her breath in her excitement, and speaking of a doctor's wife in their street. "Le mari sait tout ... c'est clair comme le jour.... What things one does see and hear!" ...

After dinner Mimotchka and Vava went off again, while mamma, without hurrying, dressed herself in Petersburg fashion, wiped the perspiration off her face, powdered it lightly, and having thus smartened herself up, went to the Kursaal, where she read the newspapers, after which she sat on the verandah with an old dignitary from Petersburg, who was suffering from a gastric and liver affection, and played picquet with him.

Towards the end of July, in the latter days of the month, when in our northern climes the mountain ash berries already begin to get red and fill with juice, while at Jeleznovodsk piles of apricots and peaches make their appearance on the swarthy fruit-sellers' trays, one beautiful morning two unknown ladies came up to Mimotchka and asked her, on behalf of the other residents in the town of Jeleznovodsk, to take part in a charitable fête, got up for the benefit of a home for poor children. Mimotchka gave her consent. She had often held stalls at charitable bazaars in Petersburg, and it was even one of her favourite distractions.

And on the appointed day Mimotchka, in a most exquisite peach-blossom coloured dress, stood behind a table, decorated with green garlands and flags, and sold tea. In a line with her Baroness Benkenstein in blue and Mdme. Tchereshneff in red, and two other ladies belonging to the "cream" of Jeleznovodsk society, one in white and the other in a crushed strawberry dress, sold pastry, fruit, and sweets.

At the other end of the square were tables at which the actresses, with the fat Mdlle. Borissow at their head, sold tickets for raffles.

Mamma and the officer from Spiridon Ivanovitch's division helped Mimotchka pour out and sell tea; Doctor Variashski helped Mdme. Tchereshneff, and l'homme au chien was the baroness's aide. Mimotchka saw that now she could not well avoid making acquaintance with him, but this time the prospect did not alarm her. The baroness and she had already spoken to each other at the baths, so that when they met here they at once bowed to each other.... Mimotchka liked the baroness. She was a little bit eccentric, but very nice. Besides which, elle était bien née et bien apparentée, which mamma thought a great deal of. The baroness had come to Jeleznovodsk with her husband, who had spent five days there and gone on further, leaving his wife to make a cure. And she drank the waters, gathering around her a circle of lively young people, in which l'homme au chien did not play the smallest rôle. At the fête mamma was a great deal more talkative and sociable than Mimotchka; he and the baroness made acquaintance, and followed it up by mutual invitations, and in the meanwhile he, l'homme au chien, was introduced to Mimotchka.

How pretty and graceful Mimi was that evening, how she smiled, counting over the money and giving change! Somehow it happened, quite by itself, that he became her helper, and the officer went over to the baroness. It Was so easy, so simple to talk to him, not like Variashski, who always seemed to be laughing at everything. By way of a beginning Mimotchka asked him, "Are you in the Caucasus for the first time?" She always said that to everyone. Oh no, it was already the fourth summer that he had come here, as if it were merely going out of town. Four years ago he had come here ill, sad, and weary, with a heavy burden on his soul, and here he had found calm and healing. ... Since then ... And their conversation flowed on easily and freely. Mimotchka was of a silent nature, and difficult to get on with, but he could talk for two, and both question and answer. And she only glistened, smiled, shook her head, and following his talk, raised her Madonna-like eyes to his with such a speaking look in them that he became still more animated and more eloquent. And meanwhile mamma, looking at him sideways through her eyeglass, found out all about him. Had the baroness known him before? Of course she had! She had known him a long time, he was a great friend of her husband's. He was a barrister from Kieff, and a rich man, that is to say, he was married to the daughter of a rich Kieff manufacturer and landowner. His wife was a charming person, but rather unsociable and serious. She went out very little because she was so occupied with her children, but they were received in the best society. Now his wife was with the children on their estates, but he came here every summer to take the waters. He was in every way a most correct person.... And mamma, hearing all this, and nodding her head, invited Valerian Nicolaevitch, l'homme an chien, to come and see them.

The bazaar was over. The receipts were splendid, and the ladies of the beau-monde had realised fifteen roubles more than the ladies of the demi-monde. Mdme. Tchereshneff was particularly proud of this. The baroness was tired, and said she felt half dead.... Mimotchka was in the highest spirits. How much better and stronger she had got!

She even went afterwards with mamma and Valerian Nicolaevitch to the dance in the evening at Tchichvadze's Hotel. Of course she didn't dance herself, but she sat and looked on at the others dancing. Valerian Nicolaevitch sat by her and indulged in a great many witticisms at the expense of the dancers. And by general desire Prince Djoumardjidze, Princess Ardjivanidze, and Prince Kakoushadze danced the Lesginka.[17] Outside on the balcony, a Caucasian lieutenant, who had drunk too much Kachetinsk, got very excited, drew out his dagger, and threatened to cut the hotel-keeper's throat because he had given him a tough fowl for dinner. All the rooms at Tchichvadze's were pervaded by an odour of burnt fat and the fumes of cooking. Doctor Babanine, in a Tcherkesk costume with a nagaiki[18] in his hand, circulated among his patients, making up a party for an evening ride to Mount Beshtau. The musicians in their high fur caps and beautiful white costumes piped the Lesginka with all their might, and to its irritating strains Princess Ardjivanidze fluttered about amidst the vapour of kitchen fumes.

Mamma got so excited that she decided on having a regular jollification. In accordance with her desire Valerian Nicolaevitch ordered Kachetinsk and champagne to be served to the ladies with shashlik and tchihirtma.[19] They sat down to supper.

"The Caucasus is before me," ... declaimed Valerian Nicolaevitch, pouring out Mimotchka a glass of Kachetinsk, and she caught up a little bit of burnt mutton on the end of her fork and said, smilingly:

"Mais c'est excellent, le shashlik!"

Valerian Nicolaevitch saw the ladies home. It was a beautiful evening. A full moon had risen in the heavens, flooding the white houses and slumbering gardens with her tender light.... On bidding good-bye mamma renewed her invitation to him to call on them.

Mimotchka still smiled a long while after she had got home. Mamma had an unpleasant remembrance of the shashlik she had eaten, and looked about for her little bottle of nux vomica. And Mimotchka began curling her fringe, and while she curled it, went on thinking of him, and recalling his face and his glances. How all the women, and his wife among them, must admire him! What kind of a wife has he?.... Why isn't she with him? Perhaps she is a horrid, ugly thing.... Or, she may be lovely.... What had he said to her? How beautifully, how intelligently, how easily he talks!... She doesn't know anyone who talks so well. And how perfectly at ease she feels with him! What a nice man he is! And how well everything has turned out. They had made acquaintance in such a proper sort of way.

She had not sought his acquaintance, she had not lost her womanly dignity.... Everything had happened by itself. It was a pity they had exchanged glances on the journey. It would have been better if it hadn't happened. But still these are only trifles, and he has evidently forgotten all about it.... Oh, he is so very correct! He would never forget what was due to himself and to her, and of course she would never allow him to.

How nice it was that they had made acquaintance! Perhaps they would form a true, pure friendship. He was just the sort of friend she wanted!... She likes him.... And then he is so intelligent. He is exactly what she requires.... She has no friend or companion suitable to her age, clever, interesting in conversation, and also perfectly honourable and correct.... And isn't he honourable and correct? A few more such people and she would have a sympathetic little circle of her own, in which it would be so pleasant and delightful to rest her soul from the bitterness and oppression that her ill-assorted marriage had left in her heart. Ill-assorted? Of course it was ill-assorted. And naturally such a circle would only consist of honourable and correct people. She does not require any wild gaiety. She does not want to be as giddy as Nettie. Heaven preserve her from becoming such a tapageuse! She would never tread a perilous path. She does not Want anything wrong. She only wishes to have friends, honourable, nice people, whom she could meet and converse with about the things that interest her. She has already found one such friend. He is married and she is married. They are neither of them free, so that nothing can interfere with their friendly intercourse. How nice it is that they have made acquaintance!

"What is he doing now?" thought Mimotchka, twisting up the twelfth and last curl-paper before her looking-glass. "Is he thinking of me? What does he think of me?" ...