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AT eight
o'clock on the evening of the twentieth of May all the six batteries of the
N---- Reserve Artillery Brigade halted for the night in the village of
Myestetchki on their way to camp. When the general commotion was at its height,
while some officers were busily occupied around the guns, while others,
gathered together in the square near the church enclosure, were listening to
the quartermasters, a man in civilian dress, riding a strange horse, came into
sight round the church. The little dun-coloured horse with a good neck and a
short tail came, moving not straight forward, but as it were sideways, with a
sort of dance step, as though it were being lashed about the legs. When he
reached the officers the man on the horse took off his hat and said:
"His Excellency
Lieutenant-General von Rabbek invites the gentlemen to drink tea with him this
minute. . . ."
The horse
turned, danced, and retired sideways; the messenger raised his hat once more,
and in an instant disappeared with his strange horse behind the church.
"What the
devil does it mean?" grumbled some of the officers, dispersing to their
quarters. "One is sleepy, and here this Von Rabbek with his tea! We know
what tea means."
The officers of
all the six batteries remembered vividly an incident of the previous year, when
during manoeuvres they, together with the officers of a Cossack regiment, were
in the same way invited to tea by a count who had an estate in the
neighbourhood and was a retired army officer: the hospitable and genial count
made much of them, fed them, and gave them drink, refused to let them go to
their quarters in the village and made them stay the night. All that, of
course, was very nice -- nothing better could be desired, but the worst of it
was, the old army officer was so carried away by the pleasure of the young
men's company that till sunrise he was telling the officers anecdotes of his
glorious past, taking them over the house, showing them expensive pictures, old
engravings, rare guns, reading them autograph letters from great people, while
the weary and exhausted officers looked and listened, longing for their beds
and yawning in their sleeves; when at last their host let them go, it was too
late for sleep.
Might not this
Von Rabbek be just such another? Whether he were or not, there was no help for
it. The officers changed their uniforms, brushed themselves, and went all
together in search of the gentleman's house. In the square by the church they
were told they could get to His Excellency's by the lower path -- going down behind
the church to the river, going along the bank to the garden, and there an
avenue would taken them to the house; or by the upper way -- straight from the
church by the road which, half a mile from the village, led right up to His
Excellency's granaries. The officers decided to go by the upper way.
"What Von
Rabbek is it?" they wondered on the way. "Surely not the one who was
in command of the N---- cavalry division at Plevna?"
"No, that
was not Von Rabbek, but simply Rabbe and no 'von.' "
"What
lovely weather!"
At the first of
the granaries the road divided in two: one branch went straight on and vanished
in the evening darkness, the other led to the owner's house on the right. The
officers turned to the right and began to speak more softly. . . . On both
sides of the road stretched stone granaries with red roofs, heavy and
sullen-looking, very much like barracks of a district town. Ahead of them
gleamed the windows of the manor-house.
"A good
omen, gentlemen," said one of the officers. "Our setter is the foremost
of all; no doubt he scents game ahead of us! . . ."
Lieutenant
Lobytko, who was walking in front, a tall and stalwart fellow, though entirely
without moustache (he was over five-and-twenty, yet for some reason there was
no sign of hair on his round, well-fed face), renowned in the brigade for his
peculiar faculty for divining the presence of women at a distance, turned round
and said:
"Yes,
there must be women here; I feel that by instinct."
On the
threshold the officers were met by Von Rabbek himself, a comely-looking man of
sixty in civilian dress. Shaking hands with his guests, he said that he was
very glad and happy to see them, but begged them earnestly for God's sake to
excuse him for not asking them to stay the night; two sisters with their children,
some brothers, and some neighbours, had come on a visit to him, so that he had
not one spare room left.
The General
shook hands with every one, made his apologies, and smiled, but it was evident
by his face that he was by no means so delighted as their last year's count,
and that he had invited the officers simply because, in his opinion, it was a
social obligation to do so. And the officers themselves, as they walked up the
softly carpeted stairs, as they listened to him, felt that they had been invited
to this house simply because it would have been awkward not to invite them; and
at the sight of the footmen, who hastened to light the lamps in the entrance
below and in the anteroom above, they began to feel as though they had brought
uneasiness and discomfort into the house with them. In a house in which two
sisters and their children, brothers, and neighbours were gathered together,
probably on account of some family festivity, or event, how could the presence
of nineteen unknown officers possibly be welcome?
At the entrance
to the drawing-room the officers were met by a tall, graceful old lady with
black eyebrows and a long face, very much like the Empress Eugénie. Smiling
graciously and majestically, she said she was glad and happy to see her guests,
and apologized that her husband and she were on this occasion unable to invite messieurs les officiers to stay the night. From her
beautiful majestic smile, which instantly vanished from her face every time she
turned away from her guests, it was evident that she had seen numbers of
officers in her day, that she was in no humour for them now, and if she invited
them to her house and apologized for not doing more, it was only because her
breeding and position in society required it of her.
When the
officers went into the big dining-room, there were about a dozen people, men
and ladies, young and old, sitting at tea at the end of a long table. A group
of men was dimly visible behind their chairs, wrapped in a haze of cigar smoke;
and in the midst of them stood a lanky young man with red whiskers, talking
loudly, with a lisp, in English. Through a door beyond the group could be seen
a light room with pale blue furniture.
"Gentlemen,
there are so many of you that it is impossible to introduce you all!" said
the General in a loud voice, trying to sound very cheerful. "Make each
other's acquaintance, gentlemen, without any ceremony!"
The officers --
some with very serious and even stern faces, others with forced smiles, and all
feeling extremely awkward -- somehow made their bows and sat down to tea.
The most ill at
ease of them all was Ryabovitch -- a little officer in spectacles, with sloping
shoulders, and whiskers like a lynx's. While some of his comrades assumed a
serious expression, while others wore forced smiles, his face, his lynx-like
whiskers, and spectacles seemed to say: "I am the shyest, most modest, and
most undistinguished officer in the whole brigade!" At first, on going
into the room and sitting down to the table, he could not fix his attention on
any one face or object. The faces, the dresses, the cut-glass decanters of
brandy, the steam from the glasses, the moulded cornices -- all blended in one
general impression that inspired in Ryabovitch alarm and a desire to hide his
head. Like a lecturer making his first appearance before the public, he saw
everything that was before his eyes, but apparently only had a dim
understanding of it (among physiologists this condition, when the subject sees
but does not understand, is called psychical blindness). After a little while,
growing accustomed to his surroundings, Ryabovitch saw clearly and began to
observe. As a shy man, unused to society, what struck him first was that in
which he had always been deficient -- namely, the extraordinary boldness of his
new acquaintances. Von Rabbek, his wife, two elderly ladies, a young lady in a
lilac dress, and the young man with the red whiskers, who was, it appeared, a
younger son of Von Rabbek, very cleverly, as though they had rehearsed it
beforehand, took seats between the officers, and at once got up a heated
discussion in which the visitors could not help taking part. The lilac young
lady hotly asserted that the artillery had a much better time than the cavalry
and the infantry, while Von Rabbek and the elderly ladies maintained the
opposite. A brisk interchange of talk followed. Ryabovitch watched the lilac
young lady who argued so hotly about what was unfamiliar and utterly
uninteresting to her, and watched artificial smiles come and go on her face.
Von Rabbek and
his family skilfully drew the officers into the discussion, and meanwhile kept
a sharp lookout over their glasses and mouths, to see whether all of them were
drinking, whether all had enough sugar, why some one was not eating cakes or
not drinking brandy. And the longer Ryabovitch watched and listened, the more
he was attracted by this insincere but splendidly disciplined family.
After tea the
officers went into the drawing-room. Lieutenant Lobytko's instinct had not
deceived him. There were a great number of girls and young married ladies. The
"setter" lieutenant was soon standing by a very young, fair girl in a
black dress, and, bending down to her jauntily, as though leaning on an unseen
sword, smiled and shrugged his shoulders coquettishly. He probably talked very
interesting nonsense, for the fair girl looked at his well-fed face
condescendingly and asked indifferently, "Really?" And from that
uninterested "Really?" the setter, had he been intelligent, might
have concluded that she would never call him to heel.
The piano
struck up; the melancholy strains of a valse floated out of the wide open
windows, and every one, for some reason, remembered that it was spring, a May
evening. Every one was conscious of the fragrance of roses, of lilac, and of
the young leaves of the poplar. Ryabovitch, in whom the brandy he had drunk
made itself felt, under the influence of the music stole a glance towards the
window, smiled, and began watching the movements of the women, and it seemed to
him that the smell of roses, of poplars, and lilac came not from the garden,
but from the ladies' faces and dresses.
Von Rabbek's
son invited a scraggy-looking young lady to dance, and waltzed round the room
twice with her. Lobytko, gliding over the parquet floor, flew up to the lilac
young lady and whirled her away. Dancing began. . . . Ryabovitch stood near the
door among those who were not dancing and looked on. He had never once danced
in his whole life, and he had never once in his life put his arm round the
waist of a respectable woman. He was highly delighted that a man should in the
sight of all take a girl he did not know round the waist and offer her his
shoulder to put her hand on, but he could not imagine himself in the position
of such a man. There were times when he envied the boldness and swagger of his
companions and was inwardly wretched; the consciousness that he was timid, that
he was round-shouldered and uninteresting, that he had a long waist and
lynx-like whiskers, had deeply mortified him, but with years he had grown used
to this feeling, and now, looking at his comrades dancing or loudly talking, he
no longer envied them, but only felt touched and mournful.
When the
quadrille began, young Von Rabbek came up to those who were not dancing and
invited two officers to have a game at billiards. The officers accepted and
went with him out of the drawing-room. Ryabovitch, having nothing to do and
wishing to take part in the general movement, slouched after them. From the big
drawing-room they went into the little drawing-room, then into a narrow
corridor with a glass roof, and thence into a room in which on their entrance
three sleepy-looking footmen jumped up quickly from the sofa. At last, after
passing through a long succession of rooms, young Von Rabbek and the officers
came into a small room where there was a billiard-table. They began to play.
Ryabovitch, who
had never played any game but cards, stood near the billiard-table and looked
indifferently at the players, while they in unbuttoned coats, with cues in
their hands, stepped about, made puns, and kept shouting out unintelligible
words.
The players
took no notice of him, and only now and then one of them, shoving him with his
elbow or accidentally touching him with the end of his cue, would turn round
and say "Pardon!" Before the first game was over he was weary of it,
and began to feel he was not wanted and in the way. . . . He felt disposed to
return to the drawing-room, and he went out.
On his way back
he met with a little adventure. When he had gone half-way he noticed he had
taken a wrong turning. He distinctly remembered that he ought to meet three
sleepy footmen on his way, but he had passed five or six rooms, and those
sleepy figures seemed to have vanished into the earth. Noticing his mistake, he
walked back a little way and turned to the right; he found himself in a little
dark room which he had not seen on his way to the billiard-room. After standing
there a little while, he resolutely opened the first door that met his eyes and
walked into an absolutely dark room. Straight in front could be seen the crack
in the doorway through which there was a gleam of vivid light; from the other
side of the door came the muffled sound of a melancholy mazurka. Here, too, as
in the drawing-room, the windows were wide open and there was a smell of
poplars, lilac and roses. . . .
Ryabovitch
stood still in hesitation. . . . At that moment, to his surprise, he heard
hurried footsteps and the rustling of a dress, a breathless feminine voice
whispered "At last!" And two soft, fragrant, unmistakably feminine
arms were clasped about his neck; a warm cheek was pressed to his cheek, and
simultaneously there was the sound of a kiss. But at once the bestower of the
kiss uttered a faint shriek and skipped back from him, as it seemed to
Ryabovitch, with aversion. He, too, almost shrieked and rushed towards the
gleam of light at the door. . . .
When he went
back into the drawing-room his heart was beating and his hands were trembling
so noticeably that he made haste to hide them behind his back. At first he was
tormented by shame and dread that the whole drawing-room knew that he had just
been kissed and embraced by a woman. He shrank into himself and looked uneasily
about him, but as he became convinced that people were dancing and talking as
calmly as ever, he gave himself up entirely to the new sensation which he had
never experienced before in his life. Something strange was happening to him. .
. . His neck, round which soft, fragrant arms had so lately been clasped,
seemed to him to be anointed with oil; on his left cheek near his moustache
where the unknown had kissed him there was a faint chilly tingling sensation as
from peppermint drops, and the more he rubbed the place the more distinct was
the chilly sensation; all over, from head to foot, he was full of a strange new
feeling which grew stronger and stronger. . . . He wanted to dance, to talk, to
run into the garden, to laugh aloud. . . . He quite forgot that he was
round-shouldered and uninteresting, that he had lynx-like whiskers and an
"undistinguished appearance" (that was how his appearance had been
described by some ladies whose conversation he had accidentally overheard).
When Von Rabbek's wife happened to pass by him, he gave her such a broad and
friendly smile that she stood still and looked at him inquiringly.
"I like
your house immensely!" he said, setting his spectacles straight.
The General's
wife smiled and said that the house had belonged to her father; then she asked
whether his parents were living, whether he had long been in the army, why he
was so thin, and so on. . . . After receiving answers to her questions, she
went on, and after his conversation with her his smiles were more friendly than
ever, and he thought he was surrounded by splendid people. . . .
At supper
Ryabovitch ate mechanically everything offered him, drank, and without
listening to anything, tried to understand what had just happened to him. . . .
The adventure was of a mysterious and romantic character, but it was not
difficult to explain it. No doubt some girl or young married lady had arranged
a tryst with some one in the dark room; had waited a long time, and being
nervous and excited had taken Ryabovitch for her hero; this was the more
probable as Ryabovitch had stood still hesitating in the dark room, so that he,
too, had seemed like a person expecting something. . . . This was how
Ryabovitch explained to himself the kiss he had received.
"And who
is she?" he wondered, looking round at the women's faces. "She must
be young, for elderly ladies don't give rendezvous. That she was a lady, one
could tell by the rustle of her dress, her perfume, her voice. . . ."
His eyes rested
on the lilac young lady, and he thought her very attractive; she had beautiful
shoulders and arms, a clever face, and a delightful voice. Ryabovitch, looking
at her, hoped that she and no one else was his unknown. . . . But she laughed
somehow artificially and wrinkled up her long nose, which seemed to him to make
her look old. Then he turned his eyes upon the fair girl in a black dress. She
was younger, simpler, and more genuine, had a charming brow, and drank very
daintily out of her wineglass. Ryabovitch now hoped that it was she. But soon
he began to think her face flat, and fixed his eyes upon the one next her.
"It's
difficult to guess," he thought, musing. "If one takes the shoulders
and arms of the lilac one only, adds the brow of the fair one and the eyes of
the one on the left of Lobytko, then . . ."
He made a
combination of these things in his mind and so formed the image of the girl who
had kissed him, the image that he wanted her to have, but could not find at the
table. . . .
After supper,
replete and exhilarated, the officers began to take leave and say thank you.
Von Rabbek and his wife began again apologizing that they could not ask them to
stay the night.
"Very,
very glad to have met you, gentlemen," said Von Rabbek, and this time
sincerely (probably because people are far more sincere and good-humoured at
speeding their parting guests than on meeting them). "Delighted. I hope
you will come on your way back! Don't stand on ceremony! Where are you going?
Do you want to go by the upper way? No, go across the garden; it's nearer here
by the lower way."
The officers
went out into the garden. After the bright light and the noise the garden
seemed very dark and quiet. They walked in silence all the way to the gate.
They were a little drunk, pleased, and in good spirits, but the darkness and
silence made them thoughtful for a minute. Probably the same idea occurred to
each one of them as to Ryabovitch: would there ever come a time for them when,
like Von Rabbek, they would have a large house, a family, a garden -- when
they, too, would be able to welcome people, even though insincerely, feed them,
make them drunk and contented?
Going out of
the garden gate, they all began talking at once and laughing loudly about
nothing. They were walking now along the little path that led down to the
river, and then ran along the water's edge, winding round the bushes on the
bank, the pools, and the willows that overhung the water. The bank and the path
were scarcely visible, and the other bank was entirely plunged in darkness.
Stars were reflected here and there on the dark water; they quivered and were
broken up on the surface -- and from that alone it could be seen that the river
was flowing rapidly. It was still. Drowsy curlews cried plaintively on the
further bank, and in one of the bushes on the nearest side a nightingale was
trilling loudly, taking no notice of the crowd of officers. The officers stood
round the bush, touched it, but the nightingale went on singing.
"What a
fellow!" they exclaimed approvingly. "We stand beside him and he
takes not a bit of notice! What a rascal!"
At the end of
the way the path went uphill, and, skirting the church enclosure, turned into
the road. Here the officers, tired with walking uphill, sat down and lighted
their cigarettes. On the other side of the river a murky red fire came into
sight, and having nothing better to do, they spent a long time in discussing
whether it was a camp fire or a light in a window, or something else. . . .
Ryabovitch, too, looked at the light, and he fancied that the light looked and
winked at him, as though it knew about the kiss.
On reaching his
quarters, Ryabovitch undressed as quickly as possible and got into bed. Lobytko
and Lieutenant Merzlyakov -- a peaceable, silent fellow, who was considered in
his own circle a highly educated officer, and was always, whenever it was
possible, reading the "Vyestnik Evropi," which
he carried about with him everywhere -- were quartered in the same hut with
Ryabovitch. Lobytko undressed, walked up and down the room for a long while
with the air of a man who has not been satisfied, and sent his orderly for
beer. Merzlyakov got into bed, put a candle by his pillow and plunged into
reading the "Vyestnik Evropi."
"Who was
she?" Ryabovitch wondered, looking at the smoky ceiling.
His neck still
felt as though he had been anointed with oil, and there was still the chilly
sensation near his mouth as though from peppermint drops. The shoulders and
arms of the young lady in lilac, the brow and the truthful eyes of the fair
girl in black, waists, dresses, and brooches, floated through his imagination.
He tried to fix his attention on these images, but they danced about, broke up
and flickered. When these images vanished altogether from the broad dark
background which every man sees when he closes his eyes, he began to hear hurried
footsteps, the rustle of skirts, the sound of a kiss and -- an intense
groundless joy took possession of him. . . . Abandoning himself to this joy, he
heard the orderly return and announce that there was no beer. Lobytko was
terribly indignant, and began pacing up and down again.
"Well,
isn't he an idiot?" he kept saying, stopping first before Ryabovitch and
then before Merzlyakov. "What a fool and a dummy a man must be not to get
hold of any beer! Eh? Isn't he a scoundrel?"
"Of course
you can't get beer here," said Merzlyakov, not removing his eyes from the
"Vyestnik Evropi."
"Oh! Is
that your opinion?" Lobytko persisted. "Lord have mercy upon us, if
you dropped me on the moon I'd find you beer and women directly! I'll go and
find some at once. . . . You may call me an impostor if I don't!"
He spent a long
time in dressing and pulling on his high boots, then finished smoking his
cigarette in silence and went out.
"Rabbek,
Grabbek, Labbek," he muttered, stopping in the outer room. "I don't
care to go alone, damn it all! Ryabovitch, wouldn't you like to go for a walk?
Eh?"
Receiving no
answer, he returned, slowly undressed and got into bed. Merzlyakov sighed, put
the "Vyestnik Evropi" away, and put out the light.
"H'm! . .
." muttered Lobytko, lighting a cigarette in the dark.
Ryabovitch
pulled the bed-clothes over his head, curled himself up in bed, and tried to
gather together the floating images in his mind and to combine them into one
whole. But nothing came of it. He soon fell asleep, and his last thought was
that some one had caressed him and made him happy -- that something
extraordinary, foolish, but joyful and delightful, had come into his life. The
thought did not leave him even in his sleep.
When he woke up
the sensations of oil on his neck and the chill of peppermint about his lips
had gone, but joy flooded his heart just as the day before. He looked
enthusiastically at the window-frames, gilded by the light of the rising sun,
and listened to the movement of the passers-by in the street. People were
talking loudly close to the window. Lebedetsky, the commander of Ryabovitch's
battery, who had only just overtaken the brigade, was talking to his sergeant
at the top of his voice, being always accustomed to shout.
"What
else?" shouted the commander.
"When they
were shoeing yesterday, your high nobility, they drove a nail into Pigeon's
hoof. The vet. put on clay and vinegar;
they are leading him apart now. And also, your honour, Artemyev got drunk
yesterday, and the lieutenant ordered him to be put in the limber of a spare
gun-carriage."
The sergeant
reported that Karpov had forgotten the new cords for the trumpets and the rings for the tents, and that their honours, the
officers, had spent the previous evening visiting General Von Rabbek. In the
middle of this conversation the red-bearded face of Lebedetsky appeared in the
window. He screwed up his short-sighted eyes, looking at the sleepy faces of
the officers, and said good-morning to them.
"Is
everything all right?" he asked.
"One of
the horses has a sore neck from the new collar," answered Lobytko,
yawning.
The commander
sighed, thought a moment, and said in a loud voice:
"I am
thinking of going to see Alexandra Yevgrafovna. I must call on her. Well,
good-bye. I shall catch you up in the evening."
A quarter of an
hour later the brigade set off on its way. When it was moving along the road by
the granaries, Ryabovitch looked at the house on the right. The blinds were
down in all the windows. Evidently the household was still asleep. The one who
had kissed Ryabovitch the day before was asleep, too. He tried to imagine her
asleep. The wide-open windows of the bedroom, the green branches peeping in,
the morning freshness, the scent of the poplars, lilac, and roses, the bed, a
chair, and on it the skirts that had rustled the day before, the little
slippers, the little watch on the table -- all this he pictured to himself
clearly and distinctly, but the features of the face, the sweet sleepy smile,
just what was characteristic and important, slipped through his imagination
like quicksilver through the fingers. When he had ridden on half a mile, he
looked back: the yellow church, the house, and the river, were all bathed in
light; the river with its bright green banks, with the blue sky reflected in it
and glints of silver in the sunshine here and there, was very beautiful.
Ryabovitch gazed for the last time at Myestetchki, and he felt as sad as though
he were parting with something very near and dear to him.
And before him
on the road lay nothing but long familiar, uninteresting pictures. . . . To
right and to left, fields of young rye and buckwheat with rooks hopping about
in them. If one looked ahead, one saw dust and the backs of men's heads; if one
looked back, one saw the same dust and faces. . . . Foremost of all marched
four men with sabres -- this was the vanguard. Next, behind, the crowd of
singers, and behind them the trumpeters on horseback. The vanguard and the
chorus of singers, like torch-bearers in a funeral procession, often forgot to
keep the regulation distance and pushed a long way ahead. . . . Ryabovitch was
with the first cannon of the fifth battery. He could see all the four batteries
moving in front of him. For any one not a military man this long tedious
procession of a moving brigade seems an intricate and unintelligible muddle;
one cannot understand why there are so many people round one cannon, and why it
is drawn by so many horses in such a strange network of harness, as though it
really were so terrible and heavy. To Ryabovitch it was all perfectly
comprehensible and therefore uninteresting. He had known for ever so long why
at the head of each battery there rode a stalwart bombardier, and why he was
called a bombardier; immediately behind this bombardier could be seen the
horsemen of the first and then of the middle units. Ryabovitch knew that the
horses on which they rode, those on the left, were called one name, while those
on the right were called another -- it was extremely uninteresting. Behind the
horsemen came two shaft-horses. On one of them sat a rider with the dust of
yesterday on his back and a clumsy and funny-looking piece of wood on his leg.
Ryabovitch knew the object of this piece of wood, and did not think it funny.
All the riders waved their whips mechanically and shouted from time to time.
The cannon itself was ugly. On the fore part lay sacks of oats covered with
canvas, and the cannon itself was hung all over with kettles, soldiers'
knapsacks, bags, and looked like some small harmless animal surrounded for some
unknown reason by men and horses. To the leeward of it marched six men, the
gunners, swinging their arms. After the cannon there came again more
bombardiers, riders, shaft-horses, and behind them another cannon, as ugly and
unimpressive as the first. After the second followed a third, a fourth; near
the fourth an officer, and so on. There were six batteries in all in the
brigade, and four cannons in each battery. The procession covered half a mile;
it ended in a string of wagons near which an extremely attractive creature --
the ass, Magar, brought by a battery commander from Turkey -- paced pensively
with his long-eared head drooping.
Ryabovitch
looked indifferently before and behind, at the backs of heads and at faces; at
any other time he would have been half asleep, but now he was entirely absorbed
in his new agreeable thoughts. At first when the brigade was setting off on the
march he tried to persuade himself that the incident of the kiss could only be
interesting as a mysterious little adventure, that it was in reality trivial,
and to think of it seriously, to say the least of it, was stupid; but now he
bade farewell to logic and gave himself up to dreams. . . . At one moment he
imagined himself in Von Rabbek's drawing-room beside a girl who was like the
young lady in lilac and the fair girl in black; then he would close his eyes
and see himself with another, entirely unknown girl, whose features were very
vague. In his imagination he talked, caressed her, leaned on her shoulder,
pictured war, separation, then meeting again, supper with his wife, children. .
. .
"Brakes
on!" the word of command rang out every time they went downhill.
He, too,
shouted "Brakes on!" and was afraid this shout would disturb his
reverie and bring him back to reality. . . .
As they passed
by some landowner's estate Ryabovitch looked over the fence into the garden. A
long avenue, straight as a ruler, strewn with yellow sand and bordered with
young birch-trees, met his eyes. . . . With the eagerness of a man given up to
dreaming, he pictured to himself little feminine feet tripping along yellow
sand, and quite unexpectedly had a clear vision in his imagination of the girl
who had kissed him and whom he had succeeded in picturing to himself the
evening before at supper. This image remained in his brain and did not desert
him again.
At midday there
was a shout in the rear near the string of wagons:
"Easy!
Eyes to the left! Officers!"
The general of
the brigade drove by in a carriage with a pair of white horses. He stopped near
the second battery, and shouted something which no one understood. Several
officers, among them Ryabovitch, galloped up to them.
"Well?"
asked the general, blinking his red eyes. "Are there any sick?"
Receiving an
answer, the general, a little skinny man, chewed, thought for a moment and
said, addressing one of the officers:
"One of
your drivers of the third cannon has taken off his leg-guard and hung it on the
fore part of the cannon, the rascal. Reprimand him."
He raised his
eyes to Ryabovitch and went on:
"It seems
to me your front strap is too long."
Making a few
other tedious remarks, the general looked at Lobytko and grinned.
"You look
very melancholy today, Lieutenant Lobytko," he said. "Are you pining
for Madame Lopuhov? Eh? Gentlemen, he is pining for Madame Lopuhov."
The lady in
question was a very stout and tall person who had long passed her fortieth
year. The general, who had a predilection for solid ladies, whatever their
ages, suspected a similar taste in his officers. The officers smiled
respectfully. The general, delighted at having said something very amusing and
biting, laughed loudly, touched his coachman's back, and saluted. The carriage
rolled on. . . .
"All I am
dreaming about now which seems to me so impossible and unearthly is really
quite an ordinary thing," thought Ryabovitch, looking at the clouds of
dust racing after the general's carriage. "It's all very ordinary, and
every one goes through it. . . . That general, for instance, has once been in
love; now he is married and has children. Captain Vahter, too, is married and
beloved, though the nape of his neck is very red and ugly and he has no waist.
. . . Salrnanov is coarse and very Tatar, but he has
had a love affair that has ended in marriage. . . . I am the same as every one
else, and I, too, shall have the same experience as every one else, sooner or
later. . . ."
And the thought
that he was an ordinary person, and that his life was ordinary, delighted him
and gave him courage. He pictured her and his happiness as he pleased, and put
no rein on his imagination.
When the
brigade reached their halting-place in the evening, and the officers were
resting in their tents, Ryabovitch, Merzlyakov, and Lobytko were sitting round
a box having supper. Merzlyakov ate without haste, and, as he munched deliberately,
read the "Vyestnik Evropi," which he held on his knees. Lobytko
talked incessantly and kept filling up his glass with beer, and Ryabovitch,
whose head was confused from dreaming all day long, drank and said nothing.
After three glasses he got a little drunk, felt weak, and had an irresistible
desire to impart his new sensations to his comrades.
"A strange
thing happened to me at those Von Rabbeks'," he began, trying to put an
indifferent and ironical tone into his voice. "You know I went into the
billiard-room. . . ."
He began
describing very minutely the incident of the kiss, and a moment later relapsed
into silence. . . . In the course of that moment he had told everything, and it
surprised him dreadfully to find how short a time it took him to tell it. He
had imagined that he could have been telling the story of the kiss till next
morning. Listening to him, Lobytko, who was a great liar and consequently
believed no one, looked at him sceptically and laughed. Merzlyakov twitched his
eyebrows and, without removing his eyes from the "Vyestnik Evropi,"
said:
"That's an
odd thing! How strange! . . . throws herself on a man's neck, without
addressing him by name. .. . She must be some sort of hysterical
neurotic."
"Yes, she
must," Ryabovitch agreed.
"A similar
thing once happened to me," said Lobytko, assuming a scared expression.
"I was going last year to Kovno. . . . I took a second-class ticket. The
train was crammed, and it was impossible to sleep. I gave the guard half a
rouble; he took my luggage and led me to another compartment. . . . I lay down
and covered myself with a rug. . . . It was dark, you understand. Suddenly I
felt some one touch me on the shoulder and breathe in my face. I made a
movement with my hand and felt somebody's elbow. . . . I opened my eyes and
only imagine -- a woman. Black eyes, lips red as a prime salmon, nostrils
breathing passionately -- a bosom like a buffer. . . ."
"Excuse
me," Merzlyakov interrupted calmly, "I understand about the bosom,
but how could you see the lips if it was dark?"
Lobytko began
trying to put himself right and laughing at Merzlyakov's unimaginativeness. It
made Ryabovitch wince. He walked away from the box, got into bed, and vowed
never to confide again.
Camp life
began. . . . The days flowed by, one very much like another. All those days
Ryabovitch felt, thought, and behaved as though he were in love. Every morning
when his orderly handed him water to wash with, and he sluiced his head with
cold water, he thought there was something warm and delightful in his life.
In the evenings
when his comrades began talking of love and women, he would listen, and draw up
closer; and he wore the expression of a soldier when he hears the description
of a battle in which he has taken part. And on the evenings when the officers,
out on the spree with the setter -- Lobytko -- at their head, made Don Juan
excursions to the "suburb," and Ryabovitch took part in such
excursions, he always was sad, felt profoundly guilty, and inwardly begged her forgiveness. . . . In hours
of leisure or on sleepless nights, when he felt moved to recall his childhood,
his father and mother -- everything near and dear, in fact, he invariably
thought of Myestetchki, the strange horse, Von Rabbek, his wife who was like
the Empress Eugénie, the dark room, the crack of light at the door. . . .
On the
thirty-first of August he went back from the camp, not with the whole brigade,
but with only two batteries of it. He was dreaming and excited all the way, as
though he were going back to his native place. He had an intense longing to see
again the strange horse, the church, the insincere family of the Von Rabbeks,
the dark room. The "inner voice," which so often deceives lovers,
whispered to him for some reason that he would be sure to see her . . . and he
was tortured by the questions, How he should meet her? What he would talk to
her about? Whether she had forgotten the kiss? If the worst came to the worst,
he thought, even if he did not meet her, it would be a pleasure to him merely
to go through the dark room and recall the past. . . .
Towards evening
there appeared on the horizon the familiar church and white granaries.
Ryabovitch's heart beat. . . . He did not hear the officer who was riding
beside him and saying something to him, he forgot everything, and looked
eagerly at the river shining in the distance, at the roof of the house, at the
dovecote round which the pigeons were circling in the light of the setting sun.
When they
reached the church and were listening to the billeting orders, he expected
every second that a man on horseback would come round the church enclosure and
invite the officers to tea, but . . . the billeting orders were read, the
officers were in haste to go on to the village, and the man on horseback did
not appear.
"Von Rabbek
will hear at once from the peasants that we have come and will send for
us," thought Ryabovitch, as he went into the hut, unable to understand why
a comrade was lighting a candle and why the orderlies were hurriedly setting
samovars. . . .
A painful uneasiness
took possession of him. He lay down, then got up and looked out of the window
to see whether the messenger were coming. But there was no sign of him.
He lay down
again, but half an hour later he got up, and, unable to restrain his
uneasiness, went into the street and strode towards the church. It was dark and
deserted in the square near the church. . . . Three soldiers were standing
silent in a row where the road began to go downhill. Seeing Ryabovitch, they
roused themselves and saluted. He returned the salute and began to go down the
familiar path.
On the further
side of the river the whole sky was flooded with crimson: the moon was rising;
two peasant women, talking loudly, were picking cabbage in the kitchen garden;
behind the kitchen garden there were some dark huts. . . . And everything on
the near side of the river was just as it had been in May: the path, the
bushes, the willows overhanging the water . . . but there was no sound of the
brave nightingale, and no scent of poplar and fresh grass.
Reaching the
garden, Ryabovitch looked in at the gate. The garden was dark and still. . . .
He could see nothing but the white stems of the nearest birch-trees and a
little bit of the avenue; all the rest melted together into a dark blur.
Ryabovitch looked and listened eagerly, but after waiting for a quarter of an
hour without hearing a sound or catching a glimpse of a light, he trudged back.
. . .
He went down to
the river. The General's bath-house and the bath-sheets on the rail of the
little bridge showed white before him. . . . He went on to the bridge, stood a
little, and, quite unnecessarily, touched the sheets. They felt rough and cold.
He looked down at the water. . . . The river ran rapidly and with a faintly
audible gurgle round the piles of the bath-house. The red moon was reflected
near the left bank; little ripples ran over the reflection, stretching it out,
breaking it into bits, and seemed trying to carry it away.
"How
stupid, how stupid!" thought Ryabovitch, looking at the running water.
"How unintelligent it all is!"
Now that he
expected nothing, the incident of the kiss, his impatience, his vague hopes and
disappointment, presented themselves in a clear light. It no longer seemed to
him strange that he had not seen the General's messenger, and that he would
never see the girl who had accidentally kissed him instead of some one else; on
the contrary, it would have been strange if he had seen her. . . .
The water was
running, he knew not where or why, just as it did in May. In May it had flowed
into the great river, from the great river into the sea; then it had risen in
vapour, turned into rain, and perhaps the very same water was running now
before Ryabovitch's eyes again. . . . What for? Why?
And the whole
world, the whole of life, seemed to Ryabovitch an unintelligible, aimless jest.
. . . And turning his eyes from the water and looking at the sky, he remembered
again how fate in the person of an unknown woman had by chance caressed him, he
remembered his summer dreams and fancies, and his life struck him as
extraordinarily meagre, poverty-stricken, and colourless. . . .
When he went
back to his hut he did not find one of his comrades. The orderly informed him
that they had all gone to "General von Rabbek's, who had sent a messenger
on horseback to invite them. . . ."
For an instant
there was a flash of joy in Ryabovitch's heart, but he quenched it at once, got
into bed, and in his wrath with his fate, as though to spite it, did not go to
the General's.
1887.
1887.
NOTES
Empress
Eugénie: consort of Napoleon III and Empress of France from 1853-1870
"Vyestnik
Evropi": Messenger of Europe
vet.: Chekhov
actually used the word "feldscher," doctor's assistant
rings for the
tents: tent-stakes
Tatar: a member
of the Turkic/Mongolian peoples who invaded Russia in the Middle Ages; hence,
not civilized
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Short Stories
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