LEONIDAS ANDREYEFF.
LEONIDAS ANDREYEFF.
Leonidas Andreyeff was born in 1871 in the town of Orol, where he attended the public school. At school, on the whole, he did not learn easily; he was in the lowest class during the whole year, being the worst pupil. His behaviour was also very bad. Andreyeff narrates that the most pleasant hours he spent at school were those between the lessons, or when the professor ordered him to leave the class as a punishment. In the long empty corridors an awful silence reigned, and at the side were closed doors, and behind the doors were the halls full of pupils. Occasionally a ray of sunshine, a stray ray, pierced through some cleft and played along the dusty corridor; all was mysterious and strange. His father, who was a large land surveyor, died when Leonidas was still at the public school. From this time he suffered poverty both at school and at the University.
During his first University Term at St. Petersburg he often starved, but not so much out of real poverty as from lack of experience. Sometimes he went without food for two days. At that period he wrote his first narration about a hungry student. He was affected to tears while writing it, and when the editor returned him his MS. his colleagues laughed at the author.
He finished his education at the University of Moscow, where he became more successful. His companions commenced helping him; also “the Committee of Help” rendered him some assistance. But Andreyeff says that he recollects with more pleasure his career at St. Petersburg, because there he found more congenial company.
In January, 1894, he tried to take away his life, and consequently the Church obliged him to do penance. About this time heart disease began to develop in him. It proved to be less dangerous than painful. During that time he tried to write, and with still more pleasure did he engage in painting, of which art he had been fond from his childhood. He would contrive to paint portraits at three or five roubles a piece; afterwards, displaying more dexterity, he received ten or twelve roubles each (about twenty to twenty-five shillings).
In 1897 he won his diploma, and his name was inserted in the list of barristers’ assistants. From the very beginning he was pushed out of his right place and ordered to write the court reports to the newspaper Kurjer. He had no clients for lack of time. Scarcely had he led one civil lawsuit, without losing in all respects.
In 1898 he had written one novel, but acting on the advice of the secretary of the newspaper Kurjer, from that time he worked at many kinds of literature, relating just what occurred in court reports, writing feuilletons, novels, and so on. Maxim Gorky helped his fellow author very greatly with his advice.
AN ABYSS.
I.
The day was already drawing towards evening when a young man and a maiden still continued their walk, conversing without pause and without paying any attention either to time or road. In front of them, on a sloping hill, rose a small forest, and through the branches of its trees one descried a light sun-bright circle, inflamed like red coals burning, heating a trembling air and making it resemble fine gold, fiery dust.
The sun appeared to be so near and so bright that everything else apparently disappeared, and alone it remained bathing the road in a stream of colour. On a sudden a dazzling light began to approach them, they turned round, and at once all lay before them in perfect light and calm. At some distance, about a mile perhaps, the purple sunset fell upon the trunk of a high pine-tree; and it stood out, burning amidst the verdure, like a torch in a dark room. On the road every stone was now throwing a long black shadow, being covered with a purple veil and a golden, blood-tinged aureola. The girl’s hair shone, lighted up by the rays of the setting sun. One of her thin curls was lifted up and swung by the wind like a golden spider’s web.
Although now it had become dark all around, the course of their conversation was neither broken nor changed for one moment. The same free, cordial, and calm words flowed on with equal currents. Our hero and heroine were always discus sing the same topics, i. e., power, beauty, and immortal love. Both were still very young: the girl was not more than seventeen, the young man being four years her senior. Both wore school costumes, she was clad in a modest brown dress with black apron, and he in the beautiful uniform of the students of technology. Not only their speech, but everything about them was so young, beautiful and pure. Both were well shaped: of symmetrical stature, graceful, and awoke the idea of a zephyr; their carriage was lofty and classic; while their fresh voices sounded happy, though one caught a melancholy cadence in them, as if a stream were murmuring on a quiet spring night when as yet all the snow had not disappeared from dark fields.
They were going forward, when by chance they turned into a side-way which they did not know, and the two long continuing shades, which seemed ridiculous for their young heads, appeared to move forward apart, or to join, and thus form one narrow long shade of poplars. But they did not see their shadows; while speaking to her he could not tear away his eyes from her beautiful face, upon which the rosy sunset, it seemed, had left in going down a most delicate colour. She looked down the avenue, pushed away with her sunshade some small stones, then watched attentively till from under her dark dress peeped by turns one or other pointed toe of her small shoes. They stopped a moment, for the road led over a ditch with its bed full of dust, and went down the pathway. Tenaida lifted her head and, looking round with a doubtful glance, asked:
“Do you know where we are? I have never been here before.”
The young man carelessly looked at the locality.
“Yes, I know. There behind the hill lies the town. Give me your hand, then we shall arrive sooner!” He held towards her his hand, delicate, and white as a woman’s. Then Tenaida was overwhelmed with joy. She wished to jump across the ditch calling: “Run after me!” But, however, she restrained herself with dignity, and slightly bending her head, a little timidly drew back her still almost childish hand. A wish then seized him to squeeze this shaking hand with all his might, but he also conquered himself, and took it with a bow full of respect, modestly turning round while the young girl was uncovering her small foot.
Then they went on again, talking incessantly, but the touch of their hands, joined together in a shake was a pleasure which did not leave them. She continued to feel the dry plane of his palm and the grasp of his strong fingers, which, in spite of some confusion, gave her pleasure. He, however, felt the tender softness of the little hand, so entirely conceded to him, and there continued before his eyes the black silhouettes of her little foot, and the small slipper which tenderly and fondly enclosed it. There was something exciting and awaking disquietude as he observed her dress and dainty little foot, but with an exertion of will he finally restrained himself. Then he felt within his heart such a joy, such a happiness! His breast felt so free that he longed to sing with all his heart, to hold up his hands to the sky and to cry: “Run, I will run after you!”
From all these usual lover-like desires tears came into their eyes. The shades disappeared, and the dust on the road became gray and cool, but they did not notice that, for they were chirping like birds. Both had already read many beautiful books, and gazed at illuminated sketches of enamoured people, who had suffered and perished for the sake of sacred love; these memories now arose before their eyes, and up sprang many fragments of poetry which they had once read, in which love was attired in a gown of tuneful harmony and sweet longing.
“Do you not remember what poem it is from?” asked Niemoviceki, after having recited part of a poem.
“There, again, she is near me, she whom I love so, from whom I have hidden, without saying one word; the whole of my tenderness, all my longing, and all my love.”
“No, I do not know,” answered Tenaida, and repeated musingly: “All longing, and all tenderness, and my love.”
“Yes, my love”—involuntarily like an echo, said Niemoviecki.
And again reminiscences overflowed, and they recollected some girls, white like lilies, immaculate, putting on a black monastic gown, and then wandering in solitude about the park, which was be spread with autumnal leaves; they appeared happy in their misfortune. Also they recollected proud and energetic men, who, notwithstanding their capacity for endurance, were suffering because they were thirsting for love, and for a share in some sacred woman’s sympathy.
Now, although these distorted spectres were sad, yet, in spite of their grief, brighter and purer appeared love. Great as the world, light like the sun, and as exquisitely beautiful, it fixed itself before their eyes, for nothing can be more fascinating or powerful than love!
“Could you die for one whom you love?” asked Tenaida, looking at her childlike hand.
“Yes, I could,” decidedly answered Niemoviceki, looking at her openly and fondly. “And you?”
“So could I.” She mused for a while. “Well, there is such happiness in dying for a beloved man, that I wish for it very much indeed.”
Their eyes met; those light, quiet, eyes, sent something good to each other, and their mouths smiled. At last Tenadia stopped. “Wait one moment,” she said; “there’s a thread on your coat.” And energetically she lifted her hand to his arm, and cautiously, with two of her fingers drew off the thread.
“Here it is!” she said, and then becoming serious asked: “Why are you so pale, and thin? Perhaps you are over working yourself; you ought not to torment yourself. It is not necessary.”
“What blue eyes you have, and in them are sitting brilliant small points, like diamonds,” he answered, observing her eyes.
“And yours are black. Oh no, brown, and so warm, and in them——”
Tenaida did not finish saying what was in them, but in confusion turned aside. Her face became purple, her eyes timid and bashful, while her lips smiled involuntarily. Then she went forward alone, but soon she stopped.
“Look, the sun has set!” she exclaimed, unpleasantly astonished.
“Yes, over there,” he said with unexpected sharp regret. The light had gone, the shades had died away, and all around had become pale, dumb, and lifeless.
There, in the spot where one moment before all was shining, the burning sun creeping away, there now were masses of dark clouds, which seemed often to cover large spaces of immeasurable blue distance. The clouds were continually rolling heavily, and slowly changing their shapes into monsters, and unwillingly moving forward, yielding to some terrible and invisible power.
Only one light, transparent, small cloud, feeble and frightened, having torn itself from the rest, was solitarily wandering in every direction.
II.
Tenaida became pale, her lips red, almost purple, the pupils of her eyes dilated perceptibly, darkening her eyes, and she began to whisper very softly:
“I am afraid of something. Here it is so quiet; have we not lost our way?”
Niemoviecke knitted his thick eyebrows, and attentively cast a glance at the locality.
Now the sun had set, and under the fresh breath of the coming night, the road seemed to him bare, and the atmosphere cold, and on every side were spread grey endless fields, with low standing grass, and as if trampled down. There were spaces full of deep ravines, hollow ways, and sand-pits. Here and there were ditches, some sloppy, others dry, some smaller ones, overgrown with grass, which was already turning yellow, within which was brooding the motionless silent night.
Niemoviecke stifled within him some awakening, heavy feeling of pain, and at the same time of fright, which had fallen upon him.
“No; up till now, we have not lost our way, I know the road. First we will take the field, afterwards will pass through the forest.
“Are you afraid?”
She smiled courageously, and answered:
“No, I am no longer afraid. However, we must make haste. It is tea time, and they are expecting me at home.”
They started up lively and energetic from this spot, but soon slackened their pace, and did not look around any longer; notwithstanding this they felt gloomy, anticipating the bare fields beyond.
All at once two women appeared; they were resting on the edge of a deep, miry ditch. One of them was sitting, with her feet crossed, and attentively looking down. She wore a kerchief round her head, which fell off, showing a quantity of plaited hair. She was hump-backed, and wore a dirty coloured bodice, and did not even look at any passer-by. The second woman was half lying down, near her companion, and leaning her head on her palm. Her face was of the large common kind, with the features of a man. Under her eyes and on the prominent bones of her cheeks were burning two deep coloured spots, as if they were the result of recent scratchings. The latter was more repellant than the former, and she looked at our lovers boldly, and straight in their faces. When they passed by her, she began to sing with a hoarse, masculine voice:
“Oh, for you only, my lover,
“I have been fragrant as a supernatural flower.”
“Baska, do you hear?”—she turned towards her companion, who was lost in musing, and without receiving any answer she laughed loudly and stupidly.
Niemoviceki had known such kind of women. However, Tenaida, who nearly touched them with her neat brown dress, experienced a something hateful and painful, and at the same time wicked, and this experience lived for a while in the dark recesses of her soul.
But after some minutes this impression wore off, like the shadow of a cloud running swiftly over green meadows. A couple now passed by them, a man wearing a hat and coat, but barefooted, and an ill-clad woman with him. Without accounting for it Tenaida looked back after the receding woman, and was a little astonished why she wore such a thin wet dress, for the lower part of it was covered with mud. There seemed to be something frightful, morbid, and terribly hopeless in the waving of the scant and dirty lower part of the dress of this lost woman.
They went on, speaking loudly, and after them a black cloud moved unwillingly, throwing behind it a transparent shadow. By the side of a widely spread cloud, richly illuminated with copper coloured spots, and in which some glaring, winding stripes were hiding behind its dark mass, twilight fell imperceptibly and stealthily, making it difficult to realise that night was advancing. They began to speak now of those dreadful feelings and thoughts, which sometimes visit one during the night, when one cannot sleep, and when nothing disturbs the silence, neither rustling nor speech, and when this wild, dreadful nightmare called life presses down upon one.
“Can you imagine what infinity is like?” asked Tenaida, touching her forehead with her hand and rapidly twink ling her eyes.”
“No; infinity? No,” answered Niemoviecki, at the same time closing his eyes.
“But I see it sometimes. I saw it for the first time when I was still very young.
“It was like carts, one cart was standing alone, then a second, and a third—and so on, continually, carts, carts. Such a scene!” She shivered.”
“Why carts?” Niemoviecki smiled, yet the idea was also an unpleasant one to him.
“I don’t know. Carts, one two, and on—without end.”
The darkness fell gradually around, and already clouds were passing over their heads, which seemed to gaze into their bent and pale faces.
As the hours passed on, dark figures of dirty, miserable, and ragged women loomed in the distance, as if they had been cast upon the earth’s surface, nobody knew why. They appeared either singly, or two or three together, and their voices sounded quaint and mysterious in the dead silence.
“Who are these women? Why are there so many?” asked Tenaida in a low voice. Niemoviecki was afraid, for he did know very well who they were. The fact that they found themselves in such an abominable and dangerous locality caused him great mental alarm, but he answered calmly:
“I don’t quite know. But we will not speak about them. See, we shall soon get across the forest, and then comes the turnpike, and then the town. It is such a pity we started out so late.”
She felt inclined to laugh when he said, “so late,” because they had set out at four o’clock; then she looked at him and smiled, upon which he knitted his brow—then she essayed to comfort, and to calm him.
“Let us walk quicker; I long for some tea; besides the forest is quite near.”
“Let us go.”
They entered the forest, the tall trees entwining their top branches rendered the avenues very dark. Earlier in the day the spot though solitary would have been very pleasant.
“Give me your hand,” said Niemoviecki.
With some hesitation she did so; and her light touch served to qualify the darkness.
Their steady hands joined, and Tenaida even moved a little distance from her companion.
Again they were moved by a wish to speak about rare beauty, and mysterious love, and to speak of them in such a manner as not to disturb the prevailing silence, to speak indeed, but not with words, only by looks. At once they understood how necessary it was to cast glances at each other; but although they wished to do so, they did not dare.
“Oh, look; there are some more people coming!” she exclaimed cheerfully.
III.
In a meadow, where it was lighter, three men were seated in silence by an empty bottle, and they looked attentively at this approaching couple.
One of them, who was clean shaven, like an actor, whistled, burst out laughing, and chuckled.
The heart of the youth sank within him, fright seized him, but, as if being pushed from behind, he went straight up to the men close by a path wound. Those wretches were waiting their opportunity, their eyes grew dark, motionless, and terrible! Wishing to engage the sympathy of these gloomy, ragged fellows, on whose faces he could read a cruel menace, and in order to show how defenceless they were, perhaps to awake pity, Nienioviecki inquired in an anxious voice:
“Where shall we find the turnpike? Is this the right way to it?” he asked.
The fellows did not answer. The one who was clean-shaved whistled low and derisively; the others remained silent, looking at the young couple with heavy and ill-boding searching glances.
All three were drunk, wickedly inclined, and desirous of passionate pleasures and excitement. One, red-faced and fat, lifted himself on his elbows, and after balancing himself upon the ground like a bear on his paws, got up, sighing heavily. His companions stared at him, and again turned their gaze upon Zenaida.
“Ah! fear seizes me,” she cried.
“Fear seizes me,” she repeated.
Without hearing these words, Niemoviecki understood her meaning by the heavy pressure of her hand. And, trying to preserve an expression of calmness, while feeling the inevitability of the fatal moment, he moved on with a sure, firm pace. Then these scoundrels with their murderous, glittering eyes, remained behind.
“We must run away.” This thought passed through his mind, but at once he said to himself, “No, it is not wise to flee.”
“This young fellow is only carrion, his condition awakes my pity,” said one of the three, a bald man with a red beard. “The girl, however, is a fine specimen! Would everyone could have such a woman….”
And somewhat hoarsely they all began to laugh.
“Sir, wait a little, I wish to say something to you!” roared one of the three with a bass voice, when, at a glance from him, his companions rolled to their feet.
Niemoviecki, without looking behind, went farther on.
“You ought to stop if they ask you,” said the red-bearded man, “because you might get a good drubbing.”
“They are calling you!” shouted the big fellow, and in two strides he overtook the young couple. His massive hand fell on Niemoviecki’s neck and seized him.
As Niemoviecki turned to look back he saw close to his face large round, wicked eyes.
They were so near him, as if he looked at them through a magnifying glass and could distinctly distinguish thin, red veins on the white of the eyes and bleardness on the eyelashes.
Having unconsciously dropped the hands of the girl, Niemoviecki slipped his hand into his pocket and murmured in a low voice, “You want my money!… Take it!… with pleasure….”
The prominent eyes became more and more piercing. When Niemoviecki eluded their gaze the big fellow lagged behind, and from beneath struck him a blow on the chin with his fists. The student became dizzy, his teeth chattered, his cap slipped over his forehead and he fell back unconscious. Tenaida looked behind and then took flight with all the speed she could use.
Then the clean-shaved man cried with a drawling voice, “A——a——a!”
And with this he ran after her.
Niemoviecki staggered to his feet, but even before he could straighten himself he was struck down again.
The struggle was unequal: they were two and he only one, and, as well as being weak, he was not used to fighting; yet he struggled, fidgeted and scratched like an angry woman, wept and bit their hands. At length he became completely exhausted and his foes carried him away. He at first resisted them and in fear began to roar, but afterwards ceased to comprehend what was happening and hung senseless upon the hands which were lifting him.
The last objects he saw were a piece of a red beard, which almost came in his mouth, and then the darkness of the the forest… and finally the skirts of a running girl. She ran silently and as swiftly as if acting in the play of “The Cat and Mouse,” and in order to overtake her the clean-shaved man continued to run. Niemoviecki now experienced nothing but a blank; he fell heavily on the ground, losing his presence of mind.
The big red-bearded fellow having thrown Niemoviecki into the ditch waited with his companion for a while listening to what was going on down below.
As their faces were turned towards this spot they lost sight of Tenaida. All at once rose a loud, deafening shout of a woman, then as suddenly it was hushed and the big fellow cried out furiously—
“You wretch! You touch her only and you are a dead man!”
Thanks to the tall, rough, but more kindly inclined companion, the poor girl had escaped from any misfortune!
IV.
During this time the sand was coming into the mouth of Niemoviecki, and crackled between his teeth. But what he first perceived after recovering his senses was a strong and refreshing smell of earth. His head was heavy, as if filled with lead, he could not move it, and the whole of his body was sore, but especially his back. No bones were broken. Niemoviecki sat down, and for a long while looked upwards without either thinking or recollecting anything. High above him swung a berth with wide, black leaves, through which pierced the fading sun. Clouds were gliding through the sky, no rain fell, and therefore the air was dry and light, and above, in the middle of the sky, rose the moon with transparent rims. She was living just through her last nights and therefore was looking cold, sad, and solitary.
Small, narrow clouds swiftly floating were borne along by a strong wind, but they did not cover the light of the moon; they passed by it carefully. From this solitary moon escaped cautious glints of light which fell upon the small lofty clouds, and a gentle breeze sprang up which could scarcely be felt.
All these natural agencies inspired a mysterious sensation of night reigning over the earth.
When Niemoviceki came to himself and recollected all that had happened he could not believe it, for the whole event seemed too terrible and monstrous to be true; but then, as it was midnight, and he was looking up at the moon and the passing clouds, it was all so unusual, so unreal, that he began to think it was only an uncommon, terrible dream, very awful and abominable. Then, again, those women whom they met on the road, they were also a dream.
“That is impossible,” he maintained, and languidly moved his heavy head, “That is impossible….”
Putting out his hand he began to feel for his cap, but it was not there. And when this fact awoke in his mind everything became distinct to him, and then he understood what had happened that it was not a dream at all, but a cruel, stern fact.
Subsequently, almost dying of consternation, he began without delay to climb upwards, but sank back on the slippery ground. Again he tried to climb, seizing the flexible branches of the bushes.
Having crept forth he ran straight forward without thinking, and without choosing any particular direction, sheltering for some time among the trees. Suddenly, without any consideration, he ran to the opposite side, and again the branches swung across his face, until all seemed like a nightmare. For a moment he had a delusion that once something had happened to him of this kind… darkness and invisible branches sweeping his face; then he ran on, having closed his eyes awhile, and thinking. It is a dream! At last he stopped, and sat down in the sad and uncomfortable position of a man who does not care to move at all. Once more he thought of his cap and said:
“Am I myself? Then I ought to kill myself. I must kill myself, even if it is a dream.”
Suddenly he ran on again, but again recovered his senses, and then slackened his pace, trying to imagine the place where they had been assaulted. In the forest it was quite dark, but now and again as light rays of the moon pierced through and illuminated the white trunks of the trees, then the forest seemed to be full of motionless, silent people, nobody knew why. That also had happened to him once before in his life time, and was also like a dream.
“Zenaida Mikolaiefus!” he called her, pronouncing loudly her first name and softly the second, as if with this sound he was losing all hope that anyone would reply. And nobody answered.
After he had found out the path he went across the meadow. Now he entirely understood that all this had taken place, and he experienced great perplexity. At every turn he called out, but in vain!
“Zenaida Mikolaiefus! It is I! It is I!”
But the answer didn’t come. Then, turning himself to that side where the town stood, Niemoviecki gave a prolonged shout:
“H-e-l-p!”
Then he dashed forward again murmuring something to himself and searching in the bushes, when all at once, in front of his feet, something appeared to be lying on the ground: here indeed lay Tenaida.
“For God’s sake! What is that?” With dry eyes, but with a weeping man’s woeful voice, Niemoviecki moaned, and kneeling down, touched the girl. His hand felt her naked body; it was smooth and cold, but not lifeless, and with a shudder he let it go.
“My darling, my pretty little bird, it is I,” he began to whisper, groping in the darkness for her face. Then again he put out his hand in another direction and touched her naked body, and every time he did so a naked, smooth, stiff woman’s body answered to that touch and appeared to get warm under his grasp. He sometimes withdrew his hands sobbing, and then again placed them on the girl, and as now he was without a cap and ragged, so it seemed to him as unnatural that this naked body should be there beside him; he could not connect the idea of it with Tenaida.
And this was what had happened here!—What these men had done with this silent woman’s body. It now appeared to him in its whole disgusting ignominy, and with a strange sensation passing through all his limbs, he stretched himself so violently that his joints cracked, and he then fixed his absent look on her, and while his face became mournful, like that of a deeply reflecting man, his perplexity calmed down, although it still lay at the bottom of his soul.
“O God! what is that?” he exclaimed, but the sound of his voice was insincere!
He felt her heart. It was beating feebly, but evenly! When he bent over her face he could feel her weak breathing, and accordingly supposed that Tenaida was not in a deep swoon, but simply overwhelmed with sleep.
Then he softly addressed her:
“Tenaida. It is I.”
Then the thought crossed his mind that it would be good if she did not awake for a long time. Having breathed softly, he cast a quick timid look around, and carefully smoothed her cheeks with his hand, then proceeded to kiss her closed mouth, which commenced to open gently under his strong kiss. He was afraid lest she should wake, then he retired silently, leaving her body dumb and motionless and in its defenceless condition. The sight of it was piteous, and at the same time irritating and alluring. With the deepest tenderness and cautious prudence Niemoviecki endeavoured to put in order the torn pieces of her dress, and the conflicting impression, produced first by the cloth of her dress and then that excited by the exposure of her uncovered body, was for his mind sharp like a knife, incomprehensible as frenzy. Could he be both defender and assailant at the same time? He looked for help from the surrounding forest, but all was darkness. Neither forest nor atmosphere could offer him any help.
Not long since had been held on this spot the orgie of beasts! and he now being thus unexpectedly admitted into the innermost secrets of human life, there appeared to generate within him a contagious lewdness which reacted on the sensual part of his nature.
“Oh, that I should be here! that I should be a witness of this!” he repeated thoughtlessly, without entering into the scene of disorder around him. He was full of recollections of that time when he had once seen her short skirt and the black silhouette of her foot delicately enclosed in a little slipper!… And listening again to her breath, and never taking his gaze from her face, he stroked her body once more with his hand. Then he listened and drew his hand farther along her body.
“What is it?” he cried loudly, choked with despair and jumped aside with fear. In a moment Tenaida’s face appeared indistinctly before his eyes and then disappeared again.
Here was the girl with whom he had so recently walked, and he remembered how he had spoken about infinity, and he could not understand everything; he endeavoured to realize the meaning of all that had since transpired. But experience of that dreadful time was too sad, too monstrous, one could not receive it as truth.
“Tenaida Mikolaiefno!” he cried imploringly. “Why is all that? Tenaida!”
But her oppressed body remained silent while he thus vaguely spoke. Niemoviecki then fell on his knees before her imploring and threatening in reality to kill himself. He shook her, lifting, turning, pressing her to his heart, and even pressing her hard, but her overheated body made no resistance, but obediently yielded itself.
All this was so terrible, wild and incomprehensible, that Niemoviecki again started up suddenly and cried with a broken voice:
“Help! Help!” but that sounded as if false and acting a part.
Again he threw himself on that motionless body, kissing it, and crying over it, yet all the while feeling as if on the edge of some dreadfully dark alluring precipice! Now it was no longer himself Niemoviecki who had remained yonder somewhere behind, but this Niemoviecki here, who was holding, in a passionate, sensual embrace, that inactive body, and who was saying with the cunning smile of a madman:
“Will you answer? But perhaps you don’t want to? I love you, I love!”
With the same cunning smile he approached her, and with a searching gaze at her face; then he spoke in a whisper:
“I love you. You don’t wish to speak, but you are smiling. I see it. I love you, I love, I love!”
He pressed her soft unresisting body to his bosom. Its very inertness awoke in him a wild passion, he was wringing his hands, whispering low, and showing nothing of the man, except a capacity for lying.
“I love you. We will not tell anybody. Nobody will know it. I will marry you to-morrow if you like. I love you so much that I cannot resist the temptation to possess you as mine. I will kiss you till you answer me. Well, Tenaida? Then they became locked in an all-passionate embrace, and, and….”
The young, intoxicated lover began to kiss her again vehemently, actually feeling his teeth pressing on her cheeks, when, from pain and sheer exhaustion, he lost all presence of mind. It seemed to him that already the girl’s mouth quivered with a hitherto unknown pleasure!
In the next moment a flash of reason lit up his mind—then—he saw an awful precipice, and fell over it into the black abyss below! The unchanging, eternal name of that abyss has always been—still is—and ever will be—Remorse!
MARSEILLAISE.
He was a miserable creature, with the soul of a hare, and persistent patience of a ploughing ox. When malicious fate pushed him into our black rows we laughed at him, like madmen who make such silly mistakes. And he?—he, of course, cried…. I have never until now seen a man whose tears flowed so easily, from eyes, nose, and mouth. He was just like a sponge, full of water, and squeezed into men’s hands.
In our set I used to meet with weeping men, but their tears were like a fire from which even wild beasts run away. From such manly tears the face became aged, while the eyes beamed with youth, like an avalanche thrown out with force from the burning heart of the earth. Such tears stamped indelible traces while concealing a whole mass of shallow desires and small sorrows. But when this man wept only his nose reddened a little, and his handkerchief got wet. Surely afterwards he dried it on the clothes-line! or where could he procure so many handkerchiefs? During the whole of his banishment he was seeking out the chief; for all he knew, and for all he only could create in his imagination, he used to bow, to weep, to swear that he was innocent. He asked for mercy, considering his youth, promising not to open his mouth otherwise than for requests and praises.
But everyone laughed at him, just as we had done, and called him “a little unhappy pig.” Sometimes they shouted: “Come here, little pig!”
And he ran obediently at every call, thinking that perhaps he should receive news of his return home, but they were only joking. They knew, as we did, that he was innocent, but continued to tease him, wishing to frighten other little pigs, as if they were not timid enough!
He used to come along to us, driven by sheer animal hatred of loneliness, but we always looked severe, and hid our intentions. In vain did he seek a key to them. In his absence of mind he would call us dear friends and companions, but we used to nod our heads and reply:
“Look here! They will hear you!”
Then he glanced towards the door, this little pig. Could we not make him earnest?
We laughed as men not used to laughing. He moved and merrily sat down near, narrated some story, and cried, thinking of his books left on the table, then of his mother and brothers, about whom he now knew nothing, not even whether they still lived or were dead; past all grief and yearning.
At last we turned him out.
When starvation[1] began he was seized with fear, and a very comical fear. He liked to eat very much, this poor little pig, but he was terribly afraid of his dear friends, and still more, afraid of his chief. He wandered among us like one distraught! He wandered among us, wiping his brow stained by tears and perspiration. He asked me in an uncertain voice:
“Do you intend to starve yourself long?”
“Long!” I replied severely.
“Will you not eat anything secretly?”
“Well, our mammies will send us cakes,” I answered earnestly.
He looked at me with doubts, shook his head, and heaving a sigh, went off.
The next morning he declared to us, like a parrot, green out of fright.
“Dear companions! I will starve with you too.”
The general answer was:
“Starve by yourself!”
And he did starve himself. We did not wish to believe it. Just as you do not believe it, we supposed that he did eat something in secret. The inspectors thought the same. And when, at the end of his fast, he became ill with typhoid we only shrugged our shoulders and said: “Poor little pig!” But one of us who never laughed, remarked gloomily: “He is our companion. Let us go to him.”
He spoke during the fever, and in his delirium he expressed the sadness of the whole of his life. He spoke of his favourite books, and of his mother and brothers; asked for some cake, and confessed that he was innocent, and asked forgiveness. He called his fatherland, his dear fatherland. Oh! be cursed weak human hearts! He tore our souls with calling out: “Dear Russia!…”
We witnessed his death, and shortly before the end he recovered his senses and lay quietly, so thin, so weak. We, his companions, stood close beside him. And we all, for we were many, heard him saying: “When I am dying sing over me the ‘Marseillaise.’”
“What do you say!” we exclaimed, shaking with joy.
Again he repeated:
“When I am dying, sing over me the ‘Marseillaise.’”
And then we noticed that his eyes, for the first time, were dry; but we all, without exception, were weeping, and our burning tears were like the fire, from which wild beasts run away.
He died—and we sang over him the—“Marseillaise.” With our young strong voices we sang the great song of liberty, and the ocean accompanied in a severe key, and over the ridges of its waves carried to our dear Fatherland pale terror and bloody hope! And for ever this soul became to us a symbol.
He—this miserable creature with the hare’s body and the stupidity of the ploughing ox—with the elevated soul of man. “Upon our knees before this hero, friends and companions!” said one of us.
We sang….
The carbines looked upon us, their triggers clattered menacingly, and the sharp stings of bayonets aimed threateningly at our hearts; but louder and louder joyfully resounded the gloomy song! While, in the friendly arms of warriors, swung a black coffin. We were singing in that solemn moment the “Marseillaise!”
- ↑ In he prisons in Russia the political prisoners, in order to obtain some ease or privileges, refuse to eat, until they compel the authorities to give them what they ask for.