Obryv. English Read online

  CHAPTER VII

  Raisky went nearly all round the town, and when he climbed the cliffsonce more, he was on the extreme boundary of his estate. A steep pathled down to the suburbs, and the town lay before him as in the palm of ahand. Stirred with the passion aroused by his memories of childhood, helooked at the rows of houses, cottages and huts. It was not a town, but,like other towns, a cemetery. Going from street to street, Raisky sawthrough the windows, how in one house the family sat at dinner, and inanother the amovar had already been brought in. In the empty streets,every conversation could be heard a _verst_ away; voices andfootsteps re-echoed on the wooden pavement. It seemed to Raisky apicture of dreamy peace, the tranquillity of the grave. What a frame fora novel, if only he knew what to put in the novel. The houses fell intotheir places in the picture that filled his mind, he drew in the facesof the towns-people, grouped the servants with his aunt, the wholecomposition centring in Marfinka. The figures stood sharply outlined inhis mind; they lived and breathed. If the image of passion should floatover this motionless sleeping little world, the picture would glow withthe enchanting colour of life. Where was he to find the passion, thecolour?

  "Passion!" he repeated to himself. If her burning fire could but bepoured out upon him, and engulf the artist in her destroying waves.

  As he moved forward he remembered that his stroll had an aim. Hewondered how Leonid Koslov was, whether he had changed, or whether hehad remained what he had been before, a child for all his learning. Hetoo was a good subject for an artist. Raisky thought of Leonti'sbeautiful wife, whose acquaintance he had made during his student daysin Moscow, when she was a young girl. She used to call Leonti her fiance,without any denial on his part, and five years after he had left theUniversity he made the journey to Moscow, and married her. He loved hiswife as a man loves air and warmth; absorbed in the life and art of theancients, his lover's eyes saw in her the antique ideal of beauty. Thelines of her neck and bosom charmed him, and her head recalled to himRoman heads seen on bas-reliefs and cameos.

  Leonti did not recognise Raisky, when his friend suddenly entered hisstudy.

  "I have not the honour," he began.

  But when Boris Pavlovich opened his lips he embraced him.

  "Wife! Ulinka!" he cried into the garden. "Come quickly, and see who hascome to see us."

  She came hastily, and kissed Raisky.

  "What a man you have grown, and how much more handsome you are!" shesaid, her eyes flashing.

  Her eyes, her mien, her whole figure betrayed audacity. Just over thirtyyears old, she gave the impression of a splendidly developed specimen ofblooming womanhood.

  "Have you forgotten me?" she asked.

  "How should he forget you?" broke in Leonti. "But Ulinka is right. Youhave altered, and are hardly recognisable with your beard. How delightedyour Aunt must have been to see you."

  "Ah! his Aunt!" remarked Juliana Andreevna in a tone of displeasure. "Idon't like her."

  "Why not?"

  "She is despotic and censorious."

  "Yes, she is a despot," answered Raisky. "That comes from intercoursewith serfs. Old customs!"

  "According to Tatiana Markovna," continued Juliana Andreevna, "everybodyshould stay on one spot, turn his head neither to right nor left, andnever exchange a word with his neighbours. She is a past mistress infault-finding; nevertheless she and Tiet Nikonich are inseparable, hespends his days and nights with her."

  Raisky laughed and said, "She is a saint nevertheless, whatever you mayfind to say about her."

  "A saint perhaps, but nothing is right for her. Her world is in her twonieces, and who knows how they will turn out? Marfinka plays with hercanaries and her flowers, and the other sits in the corner like thefamily ghost, and not a word can be got from her. We shall see what willbecome of her."

  "Veroshka? I haven't seen her yet. She is away on a visit on the otherside of the Volga."

  "And who knows what her business is there?"

  "I love my Aunt as if she were my Mother," said Raisky emphatically."She is wise, honourable, just! She has strength and individuality, andthere is nothing commonplace about her."

  "You will believe everything she says?" asked Juliana Andreevna, drawinghim away to the window, while Leonti collected the scattered papers,laid them in cupboards and put the books on the shelves.

  "Yes, everything," she said.

  "Don't believe her. I know she will tell you all sorts ofnonsense--about Monsieur Charles."

  "Who is he?"

  "A Frenchman, a teacher, and a colleague of my husband's. They sit therereading till all hours. How can I help it? Yet God knows what they makeout of it in the town, as if I.... Don't believe it," she went on, as shesaw Raisky was silent. "It is idle talk, there is nothing," sheconcluded, with a false smile intended to be allowing.

  "What business is it of mine?" returned Raisky, turning away from her."Shall we go into the garden?"

  "Yes, we will have dinner outside," said Leonti. "Serve what there is,Ulinka. Come, Boris, now we can talk." Then as an idea struck him, headded, "What shall you have to say to me about the library?"

  "About what library? You wrote to me about it, but I did not understandwhat you were talking about. I think you said some person called Mark,had been tearing the books."

  "You cannot imagine, Boris, how vexed I was about it," he said as hetook down some books with torn backs from the shelves.

  Raisky pushed the books away. "What does it matter to me?" he said. "Youare like my grandmother; she bothers me about accounts, you aboutbooks."

  "But Boris, I don't know what accounts she bothered you about, but thesebooks are your most precious possession. Look!" he said, pointing withpride to the rows of books which filled the study to the ceiling.

  "Only on this shelf nearly everything is ruined by that accursed Mark!The other books are all right. See, I drew up a catalogue, which tooka whole year to do," and he pointed self-consciously to a thick boundvolume of manuscript. "I wrote it all with my own hand," he continued."Sit down, Boris, and read out the names. I will get on the ladder, andshow you the books; they are arranged according to their numbers."

  "What an idea!"

  "Or better wait till after dinner; we shall not be able to finishbefore."

  "Listen, should you like to have a library like that?" asked Raisky.

  "I!--a library like that?"

  Sunshine blazed from Leonti's eyes, he smiled so broadly that even thehair on his brow stirred with the dislocation caused. "A library likethat?" He shook his head. "You must be mad."

  "Tell me, do you love me as you used to do?"

  "Why do you ask? Of course."

  "Then the books shall be yours for good and all, under one condition."

  "I--take these books!"

  Leonti looked now at the books, now at Raisky, then made a gesture ofrefusal, and sighed.

  "Do not laugh at me, Boris! Don't tempt me."

  "I am not joking."

  Here Juliana Andreevna, who had heard the last words, chimed in with,"Take what is given you."

  "She is always like that," sighed Leonti. "On feast days the tradesmencome with presents, and on the eve of the examinations the parents. Isend them away, but my wife receives them at the side door. She lookslike Lucretia, but she has a sweet tooth, a dainty one."

  Raisky laughed, but Juliana Andreevna was annoyed.

  "Go to your Lucretia," she said indifferently. "He compares me witheverybody. One day I am Cleopatra, then Lavinia, then Cornelia. Bettertake the books when they are offered you. Boris Pavlovich will give themto me."

  "Don't take it on yourself to ask him for gifts," commanded Leonti. "Andwhat can we give him? Shall I hand you over to him, for instance?" headded as he embraced her.

  "Splendid! Take me, Boris Pavlovich," she cried, throwing a sparklingglance at him.

  "If you don't take the books, Leonti," said Raisky, "I will make themover to the Gymnasium. Give me the catalogue, and I'll send it to theDirector to-morr
ow."

  He put his hand out for the catalogue, of which Leonti kept a tight hold.

  "The Gymnasium shall never get one of them," he cried. "You don't knowthe Director, who cares for books just about as much as I do for perfumeand pomade. They will be destroyed, torn, and worse handled than byMark."

  "Then take them."

  "To give away such treasures all in a minute. It would be comprehensibleif you were selling them to responsible hands. I have never wanted somuch to be rich. I would give five thousand. I cannot accept, I cannot.You are a spendthrift, or rather a blind, ignorant child--"

  "Many thanks."

  "I didn't mean that," cried Leonti in confusion. "You are an artist; youneed pictures, statues, music; and books are nothing to you. Besides,you don't know what treasures you possess; after dinner I will showyou."

  "Well, in the afternoon, instead of drinking coffee, you will go overwith the books to the Gymnasium for me."

  "Wait, Boris, what was the condition on which you would give me thebooks. Will you take instalments from my salary for them? I would sellall I have, pledge myself and my wife."

  "No, thank you," broke in Juliana Andreevna, "I can pledge or sellmyself if I want to."

  Leonti and Raisky looked at one another.

  "She does not think before she speaks," said Leonti. "But tell me whatthe condition is."

  "That you never mention these books to me again, even if Mark tears themto pieces."

  "Do you mean I am not to let him have access to them?"

  "He is not likely to ask you," put in Juliana Andreevna. "As if thatmonster cared for what you may say."

  "How Ulinka loves me," said Leonti to Raisky. "Would that every womanloved her husband like that."

  He embraced her. She dropped her eyes, and the smile died from her face.

  "But for her you would not see a single button on my clothes," continuedLeonti. "I eat and sleep comfortably, and our household goes on evenlyand placidly. However small my means are she knows how to make themprovide for everything." She raised her eyes, and looked at them, forthe last statement was true. "It's a pity," continued Leonti, "that shedoes not care about books. She can chatter French fast enough, but ifyou give her a book, she does not understand half of it. She stillwrites Russian incorrectly. If she sees Greek characters, she says theywould make a good pattern for cotton printing, and sets the book upsidedown. And she cannot even read a Latin title."

  "That will do. Not another word about the books. Only on that condition,I don't send them to the Gymnasium. Now let us sit down to table, or Ishall go to my Grandmother's, for I am famished."

  "Do you intend to spend your whole life like this?" asked Raisky as hewas sitting after dinner alone with Leonti in the study.

  "Yes, what more do I need?"

  "Have you no desires, does nothing call you away from this place, haveyou no longings for freedom and space, and don't you feel cramped inthis narrow frame of hedge, church spire and house, under your verynose?"

  "Have I so little to look at under my nose?" asked Leonti, pointing tothe books. "I have books, pupils, and in addition a wife and peace ofheart, isn't that enough?"

  "Are books life? This old trash has a great deal to answer for. Menstrive forwards, seek to improve themselves, to cleanse theirconceptions, to drive away the mist, to meet the problems of society byjustice, civilisation, orderly administration, while you instead oflooking at life, study books."

  "What is not to be found in books is not to be found in life either, orif there is anything it is of no importance," said Leonti firmly. "Thewhole programme of public and private life lies behind us; we can findan example for everything."

  "You are still the same old student, Leonti, always worrying about whathas been experienced in the past, and never thinking of what youyourself are."

  "What I am! I am a teacher of the classics. I am as deeply concernedwith the life of the past, as you with ideals and figures. You are anartist. Why should you wonder that certain figures are dear to me? Sincewhen have artists ceased to draw water from the wells of the ancients?"

  "Yes, an artist," said Raisky, with a sigh. He pointed to his head andbreast. "Here are figures, notes, forms, enthusiasm, the creativepassion, and as yet I have done almost nothing."

  "What restrains you? You are now painting, you wrote me, a great picture,which you mean to exhibit."

  "The devil take the great pictures. I shall hardly be able to devote mywhole energy to painting now. One must put one's whole being into agreat picture, and then to give effect to one hundredth part of what onehas put in a representation of a fleeting, irrecoverable impression.Sometimes I paint portraits...."

  "What art are you following now?"

  "There is but one Art that can satisfy the artist of to-day, the art ofwords, of poetry, which is limitless in its possibilities."

  "You write verses then?"

  "Verses are children's food. In verse you celebrate a love affair, afestival, flowers, a nightingale."

  "And satire. Remember the use made of it by the Romans."

  With these words he would have gone to the bookshelf, but Raisky heldhim back. "You may," he said, "be able now and then to hit a diseasedspot with satire. Satire is a rod, whose stroke stings but has nofurther consequences; but she does not show you figures brimming withlife, she does not reveal the depths of life with its secret mainspringsof action, she holds no mirror before your eyes. It is only the novelthat comprehends and mirrors the life of man."

  "So you are writing a novel? On what subject?"

  "I have not yet quite decided."

  "Don't at all events describe this pettifogging, miserable existencewhich stares us in the face without the medium of art. Our contemporaryliterature squeezes every worm, every peasant-girl, and I don't knowwhat else, into the novel. Choose a historical subject, worthy of yourvivacious imagination and your clean-cut style. Do you remember how youused to write of old Russia? Now it is the fashion to choose materialfrom the ant-heap, the talking shop of everyday life. This is to be thestuff of which literature is made. Bah! it is the merest journalism."

  "There we are again on the old controversy. If you once mount that horse,there will be no calling you back. Let us leave this question for themoment, and go back to my question. Are you satisfied to spend your lifehere, as you are now doing, with no desires for anything further?"

  Leonti looked at him in astonishment, with wide opened eyes.

  "You do nothing for your generation," Raisky went on, "but creepbackwards like a crab. Why are you for ever talking of the Greeks andRomans? Their work is done, and ours is to bring life into thesecemeteries, to shake the slumbering ghosts out of their twilightdreams."

  "And how is the task to be begun?"

  "I mean to draw a picture of this existence, to reflect it as in amirror. And you...."

  "I too accomplish something. I have prepared several boys for theUniversity," remarked Leonti with hesitation, for he was not surewhether this was meritorious or not. "You imagine that I go into myclass, then home, and forget about everything. That is not the case.Young people gather round me, attach themselves to me, and I show themdrawings of old buildings, utensils, make sketches and give explanations,as I once did for you. What I know myself I communicate to others,explain the ancient ideals of virtue, expound classical life, just asour own classics are explained. Is that no longer essential?"

  "Certainly it has its advantage. But it has nothing to do with real life.One cannot live like that to-day. So much has disappeared, so manythings have arisen that the Greeks and Romans never knew. But we needmodels from contemporary life, we must educate ourselves and others tobe men. That is our task."

  "No, I do not take that upon my shoulders; it is sufficient for one totake the models of ancient virtue from books. I myself live for andthrough myself. You see I live quietly and modestly, eat my vermicellisoup...."

  "Life for and through yourself is not life at all, it is a passivecondition, and man is a fighting anim
al."

  "I have already told you that I do my duty and do not interfere inanybody else's business; and no one interferes with mine."

  "Life's arm is long, and will not spare even you. And how will you meether blows--unprepared."

  "What has Life to do with a humble man like me? I shall pass unnoticed.I have books, although they are not mine," he said glancing hesitatinglyat Raisky, "but you give me free use of them. My needs are small, I feelno boredom. I have a wife who loves me...."

  Raisky looked away.

  "And," he added in a whisper, "I love her."

  It was plain that as his mind nourished itself on the books, so hisheart had found a warm refuge; he himself did not even know what boundhim to life and books, and did not guess that he might keep his booksand lose his life, and that his life would be maimed if his "Roman head"was stolen from him.

  Happy child, thought Raisky. In his learned sleep he does not notice thedarkness that is hidden in that dear Roman head, nor how empty thewoman's heart is. He is helpless as far as she is concerned, and willnever convince her of the virtues of the ancient ideals.