The Duel and Other Stories
"I ought to tell you," he muttered, growing more and more confused,
and quavering inwardly; he hurriedly stuffed the envelope into his
pocket and went on: "Excuse me, I . . . I must leave you for ten
minutes."
And trying to appear as though he had not in the least meant to get
rid of her, but only to ask her permission to leave her for a short
time, he went into the next room and sat there for ten minutes. And
then he returned more embarrassed than ever: it struck him that she
might have interpreted his brief absence in some way of her own,
and he felt awkward.
The lessons began again. Yorotov felt no interest in them. Realising
that he would gain nothing from the lessons, he gave the French
girl liberty to do as she liked, asking her nothing and not
interrupting her. She translated away as she pleased ten pages
during a lesson, and he did not listen, breathed hard, and having
nothing better to do, gazed at her curly head, or her soft white
hands or her neck and sniffed the fragrance of her clothes. He
caught himself thinking very unsuitable thoughts, and felt ashamed,
or he was moved to tenderness, and then he felt vexed and wounded
that she was so cold and business-like with him, and treated him
as a pupil, never smiling and seeming afraid that he might accidentally
touch her. He kept wondering how to inspire her with confidence and
get to know her better, and to help her, to make her understand how
badly she taught, poor thing.
One day Mdlle. Enquête came to the lesson in a smart pink dress,
slightly _décolleté_, and surrounded by such a fragrance that she
seemed to be wrapped in a cloud, and, if one blew upon her, ready
to fly away into the air or melt away like smoke. She apologised
and said she could stay only half an hour for the lesson, as she
was going straight from the lesson to a dance.
He looked at her throat and the back of her bare neck, and thought
he understood why Frenchwomen had the reputation of frivolous
creatures easily seduced; he was carried away by this cloud of
fragrance, beauty, and bare flesh, while she, unconscious of his
thoughts and probably not in the least interested in them, rapidly
turned over the pages and translated at full steam:
"'He was walking the street and meeting a gentleman his friend and
saying, "Where are you striving to seeing your face so pale it makes
me sad."'"
The "Mémoires" had long been finished, and now Alice was translating
some other book. One day she came an hour too early for the lesson,
apologizing and saying that she wanted to leave at seven and go to
the Little Theatre. Seeing her out after the lesson, Vorotov dressed
and went to the theatre himself. He went, and fancied that he was
going simply for change and amusement, and that he was not thinking
about Alice at all. He could not admit that a serious man, preparing
for a learned career, lethargic in his habits, could fling up his
work and go to the theatre simply to meet there a girl he knew very
little, who was unintelligent and utterly unintellectual.
Yet for some reason his heart was beating during the intervals, and
without realizing what he was doing, he raced about the corridors
and foyer like a boy impatiently looking for some one, and he was
disappointed when the interval was over. And when he saw the familiar
pink dress and the handsome shoulders under the tulle, his heart
quivered as though with a foretaste of happiness; he smiled joyfully,
and for the first time in his life experienced the sensation of
jealousy.
Alice was walking with two unattractive-looking students and an
officer. She was laughing, talking loudly, and obviously flirting.
Vorotov had never seen her like that. She was evidently happy,
contented, warm, sincere. What for? Why? Perhaps because these men
were her friends and belonged to her own circle. And Vorotov felt
there was a terrible gulf between himself and that circle. He bowed
to his teacher, but she gave him a chilly nod and walked quickly
by; she evidently did not care for her friends to know that she had
pupils, and that she had to give lessons to earn money.
After the meeting at the theatre Vorotov realised that he was in
love. . . . During the subsequent lessons he feasted his eyes on
his elegant teacher, and without struggling with himself, gave full
rein to his imaginations, pure and impure. Mdlle. Enquête's face
did not cease to be cold; precisely at eight o'clock every evening
she said coldly, "Au revoir, monsieur," and he felt she cared nothing
about him, and never would care anything about him, and that his
position was hopeless.
Sometimes in the middle of a lesson he would begin dreaming, hoping,
making plans. He inwardly composed declarations of love, remembered
that Frenchwomen were frivolous and easily won, but it was enough
for him to glance at the face of his teacher for his ideas to be
extinguished as a candle is blown out when you bring it into the
wind on the verandah. Once, overcome, forgetting himself as though
in delirium, he could not restrain himself, and barred her way as
she was going from the study into the entry after the lesson, and,
gasping for breath and stammering, began to declare his love:
"You are dear to me! I . . . I love you! Allow me to speak."
And Alice turned pale--probably from dismay, reflecting that after
this declaration she could not come here again and get a rouble a
lesson. With a frightened look in her eyes she said in a loud
whisper:
"Ach, you mustn't! Don't speak, I entreat you! You mustn't!"
And Vorotov did not sleep all night afterwards; he was tortured by
shame; he blamed himself and thought intensely. It seemed to him
that he had insulted the girl by his declaration, that she would
not come to him again.
He resolved to find out her address from the address bureau in the
morning, and to write her a letter of apology. But Alice came without
a letter. For the first minute she felt uncomfortable, then she
opened a book and began briskly and rapidly translating as usual:
"'Oh, young gentleman, don't tear those flowers in my garden which
I want to be giving to my ill daughter. . . .'"
She still comes to this day. Four books have already been translated,
but Vorotov knows no French but the word "Mémoires," and when he
is asked about his literary researches, he waves his hand, and
without answering, turns the conversation to the weather.
THE PRINCESS
A CARRIAGE with four fine sleek horses drove in at the big so-called
Red Gate of the N--- Monastery. While it was still at a distance,
the priests and monks who were standing in a group round the part
of the hostel allotted to the gentry, recognised by the coachman
and horses that the lady in the carriage was Princess Vera Gavrilovna,
whom they knew very well.
An old man in livery jumped off the box and helped the princess to
get out of the carriage. She raised her dark veil and moved in a
leisurely way up to the priests to receive their blessing; then she
nodded pleasantly to the rest of the monks and went into the hostel.
"Well, have you missed your princess?" she said to the monk who
brought in her things. "It's a whole month since I've been to see
you. But here I am; behold your princess. And where is the Father
Superior? My goodness, I am burning with impatience! Wonderful,
wonderful old man! You must be proud of having such a Superior."
When the Father Superior came in, the princess uttered a shriek of
delight, crossed her arms over her bosom, and went up to receive
his blessing.
"No, no, let me kiss your hand," she said, snatching it and eagerly
kissing it three times. "How glad I am to see you at last, holy
Father! I'm sure you've forgotten your princess, but my thoughts
have been in your dear monastery every moment. How delightful it
is here! This living for God far from the busy, giddy world has a
special charm of its own, holy Father, which I feel with my whole
soul although I cannot express it!"
The princess's cheeks glowed and tears came into her eyes. She
talked incessantly, fervently, while the Father Superior, a grave,
plain, shy old man of seventy, remained mute or uttered abruptly,
like a soldier on duty, phrases such as:
"Certainly, Your Excellency. . . . Quite so. I understand."
"Has Your Excellency come for a long stay?" he inquired.
"I shall stay the night here, and to-morrow I'm going on to Klavdia
Nikolaevna's--it's a long time since I've seen her--and the day
after to-morrow I'll come back to you and stay three or four days.
I want to rest my soul here among you, holy Father. . . ."
The princess liked being at the monastery at N---. For the last two
years it had been a favourite resort of hers; she used to go there
almost every month in the summer and stay two or three days, even
sometimes a week. The shy novices, the stillness, the low ceilings,
the smell of cypress, the modest fare, the cheap curtains on the
windows--all this touched her, softened her, and disposed her to
contemplation and good thoughts. It was enough for her to be half
an hour in the hostel for her to feel that she, too, was timid and
modest, and that she, too, smelt of cypress-wood. The past retreated
into the background, lost its significance, and the princess began
to imagine that in spite of her twenty-nine years she was very much
like the old Father Superior, and that, like him, she was created
not for wealth, not for earthly grandeur and love, but for a peaceful
life secluded from the world, a life in twilight like the hostel.
It happens that a ray of light gleams in the dark cell of the
anchorite absorbed in prayer, or a bird alights on the window and
sings its song; the stern anchorite will smile in spite of himself,
and a gentle, sinless joy will pierce through the load of grief
over his sins, like water flowing from under a stone. The princess
fancied she brought from the outside world just such comfort as the
ray of light or the bird. Her gay, friendly smile, her gentle eyes,
her voice, her jests, her whole personality in fact, her little
graceful figure always dressed in simple black, must arouse in
simple, austere people a feeling of tenderness and joy. Every one,
looking at her, must think: "God has sent us an angel. . . ." And
feeling that no one could help thinking this, she smiled still more
cordially, and tried to look like a bird.
After drinking tea and resting, she went for a walk. The sun was
already setting. From the monastery garden came a moist fragrance
of freshly watered mignonette, and from the church floated the soft
singing of men's voices, which seemed very pleasant and mournful
in the distance. It was the evening service. In the dark windows
where the little lamps glowed gently, in the shadows, in the figure
of the old monk sitting at the church door with a collecting-box,
there was such unruffled peace that the princess felt moved to
tears.
Outside the gate, in the walk between the wall and the birch-trees
where there were benches, it was quite evening. The air grew rapidly
darker and darker. The princess went along the walk, sat on a seat,
and sank into thought.
She thought how good it would be to settle down for her whole life
in this monastery where life was as still and unruffled as a summer
evening; how good it would be to forget the ungrateful, dissipated
prince; to forget her immense estates, the creditors who worried
her every day, her misfortunes, her maid Dasha, who had looked at
her impertinently that morning. It would be nice to sit here on the
bench all her life and watch through the trunks of the birch-trees
the evening mist gathering in wreaths in the valley below; the rooks
flying home in a black cloud like a veil far, far away above the
forest; two novices, one astride a piebald horse, another on foot