The Devil Page 4

  Yevgeny did not wish to come out, but it was ridiculous to hide, and he too came out onto the porch smoking a cigarette, bowed to the men and lads, and talked with one of them. The women meanwhile shouted a dance-song with all their might, snapping their fingers, clapping their hands, and dancing.

  “They are calling for the master,” said a youngster coming up to Yevgeny’s wife, who had not noticed the call. Liza called Yevgeny to look at the dance and at one of the women dancers who particularly pleased her. This was Stepanida. She wore a yellow skirt, a velveteen sleeveless jacket and a silk kerchief, and was broad, energetic, ruddy, and merry. No doubt she danced well. He saw nothing.

  “Yes, yes,” he said, removing and replacing his pince-nez. “Yes, yes,” he repeated. “So it seems I cannot be rid of her,” he thought.

  He did not look at her, fearing her attraction, and just on that account what his passing glance caught of her seemed to him especially attractive. Besides this he saw by her sparkling look that she saw him and saw that he admired her. He stood there as long as propriety demanded, and seeing that Varvara Alexeevna had called her “my dear” senselessly and insincerely and was talking to her, he turned aside and went away.

  He went into the house in order not to see her, but on reaching the upper story he approached the window, without knowing how or why, and as long as the women remained at the porch he stood there and looked and looked at her, feasting his eyes on her.

  He ran, while there was no one to see him, and then went with quiet steps onto the veranda and from there, smoking a cigarette, he passed through the garden as if going for a stroll, and followed the direction she had taken. He had not gone two steps along the alley before he noticed behind the trees a velveteen sleeveless jacket, with a pink and yellow skirt and a red kerchief. She was going somewhere with another woman. “Where are they going?”

  And suddenly a terrible desire scorched him as though a hand were seizing his heart. As if by someone else’s wish he looked round and went towards her.

  “Yevgeny Ivanovich, Yevgeny Ivanovich! I have come to see your honour,” said a voice behind him, and Yevgeny, seeing old Samokhin who was digging a well for him, roused himself and turning quickly round went to meet Samokhin. While speaking with him he turned sideways and saw that she and the woman who was with her went down the slope, evidently to the well or making an excuse of the well, and having stopped there a little while ran back to the dance-circle.

  XIII

  After talking to Samokhin, Yevgeny returned to the house as depressed as if he had committed a crime. In the first place she had understood him, believed that he wanted to see her, and desired it herself. Secondly that other woman, Anna Prokhorova, evidently knew of it.

  Above all he felt that he was conquered, that he was not master of his own will but that there was another power moving him, that he had been saved only by good fortune, and that if not today then tomorrow or a day later, he would perish all the same.

  “Yes, perish,” he did not understand it otherwise: to be unfaithful to his young and loving wife with a peasant woman in the village, in the sight of everyone—what was it but to perish, perish utterly, so that it would be impossible to live? No, something must be done.

  “My God, my God! What am I to do? Can it be that I shall perish like this?” said he to himself. Is it not possible to do anything? Yet something must be done. Do not think about her,” he ordered himself. “Do not think!” and immediately he began thinking and seeing her before him, and seeing also the shade of the plane-tree.

  He remembered having read of a hermit who, to avoid the temptation he felt for a woman on whom he had to lay his hand to heal her, thrust his other hand into a brazier and burnt his fingers. He called that to mind. “Yes, I am ready to burn my fingers rather than to perish.” He looked round to make sure that there was no one in the room, lit a candle, and put a finger into the flame. “There, now think about her,” he said to himself ironically. It hurt him and he withdrew his smoke-stained finger, threw away the match, and laughed at himself. What nonsense! That was not what had to be done. But it was necessary to do something, to avoid seeing her—either to go away himself or to send her away. Yes—send her away. Offer her husband money to remove to town or to another village. People would hear of it and would talk about it. Well, what of that? At any rate it was better than this danger. “Yes, that must be done,” he said to himself, and at that very moment he was looking at her without moving his eyes. “Where is she going?” he suddenly asked himself. She, it seemed to him, had seen him at the window and now, having glanced at him and taken another woman by the hand, was going towards the garden swinging her arm briskly. Without knowing why or wherefore, merely in accord with what he had been thinking, he went to the office.

  Vasily Nikolaevich in holiday costume and with oiled hair was sitting at tea with his wife and a guest who was wearing an oriental kerchief.

  “I want a word with you, Vasily Nikolaevich!”

  “Please say what you want to. We have finished tea.”

  “No. I’d rather you came out with me.”

  “Directly; only let me get my cap. Tanya, put out the samovar,” said Vasily Nikolaevich, stepping outside cheerfully. It seemed to Yevgeny that Vasily had been drinking, but what was to be done? It might be all the better—he would sympathize with him in his difficulties the more readily.

  “I have come again to speak about that same matter, Vasily Nikolaevich,” said Yevgeny, “about that woman.”

  “Well, what of her? I told them not to take her again on any account.”

  “No, I have been thinking in general, and this is what I wanted to take your advice about. Isn’t it possible to get them away, to send the whole family away?”

  “Where can they be sent?” said Vasily, disapprovingly and ironically as it seemed to Yevgeny.

  “Well, I thought of giving them money, or even some land in Koltovsky—so that she should not be here.”

  “But how can they be sent away? Where is he to go—torn up from his roots? And why should you do it? What harm can she do you?”

  “Ah, Vasily Nikolaevich, you must understand that it would be dreadful for my wife to hear of it.”

  “But who will tell her?”

  “How can I live with this dread? The whole thing is very painful for me.”

  “But really, why should you distress yourself? Whoever stirs up the past—out with his eye! Who is not a sinner before God and to blame before the Tsar, as the saying is?”

  “All the same it would be better to get rid of them. Can’t you speak to the husband?”

  “But it is no use speaking! Eh, Yevgeny Ivanovich, what is the matter with you? It is all past and forgotten. All sorts of things happen. Who is there that would now say anything bad of you? Everybody sees you.”

  “But all the same go and have a talk with him.”

  “All right, I will speak to him.”

  Though he knew that nothing would come of it, this talk somewhat calmed Yevgeny. Above all, it made him feel that through excitement he had been exaggerating the danger.

  Had he gone to meet her by appointment? It was impossible. He had simply gone to stroll in the garden and she had happened to run out at the same time.

  XIV

  After dinner that very Trinity Sunday Liza while walking from the garden to the meadow, where her husband wanted to show her the clover, took a false step and fell when crossing a little ditch. She fell gently, on her side; but she gave an exclamation, and her husband saw an expression in her face not only of fear but of pain. He was about to help her up, but she motioned him away with her hand.

  “No, wait a bit, Yevgeny,” she said, with a weak smile, and looked up guiltily as it seemed to him. “My foot only gave way under me.”

  “There, I always say,” remarked Varvara Alexeevna, “can anyone in her condition possibly jump over ditches?”

  “But it is all right, mamma. I shall get up directly.” With her husband’s he
lp she did get up, but she immediately turned pale, and looked frightened.

  “Yes, I am not well!” and she whispered something to her mother.

  “Oh, my God, what have you done! I said you ought not to go there,” cried Varvara Alexeevna. “Wait—I will call the servants. She must not walk. She must be carried!”

  “Don’t be afraid, Liza, I will carry you,” said Yevgeny, putting his left arm round her. “Hold me by the neck. Like that.” And stopping down he put his right arm under her knees and lifted her. He could never afterwards forget the suffering and yet beatific expression of her face.

  “I am too heavy for you, dear,” she said with a smile. “Mamma is running, tell her!” And she bent towards him and kissed him. She evidently wanted her mother to see how he was carrying her.

  Yevgeny shouted to Varvara Alexeevna not to hurry, and that he would carry Liza home. Varvara Alexeevna stopped and began to shout still louder.

  “You will drop her, you’ll be sure to drop her. You want to destroy her. You have no conscience!”

  “But I am carrying her excellently.”

  “I do not want to watch you killing my daughter, and I can’t.” And she ran round the bend in the alley.

  “Never mind, it will pass,” said Liza, smiling.

  “Yes, if only it does not have consequences like last time.”

  “No. I am not speaking of that. That is all right. I mean mamma. You are tired. Rest a bit.”

  But though he found it heavy, Yevgeny carried his burden proudly and gladly to the house and did not hand her over to the housemaid and the man-cook whom Varvara Alexeevna had found and sent to meet them. He carried her to the bedroom and put her on the bed.

  “Now go away,” she said, and drawing his hand to her she kissed it. “Annushka and I will manage all right.”

  Marya Pavlovna also ran in from her rooms in the wing. They undressed Liza and laid her on the bed. Yevgeny sat in the drawing room with a book in his hand, waiting. Varvara Alexeevna went past him with such a reproachfully gloomy air that he felt alarmed.

  “Well, how is it?” he asked.

  “How is it? What’s the good of asking? It is probably what you wanted when you made your wife jump over the ditch.”

  “Varvara Alexeevna!” he cried. “This is impossible. If you want to torment people and to poison their life”—he wanted to say— “then go elsewhere to do it,” but restrained himself. “How is it that it does not hurt you?”

  “It is too late now.” And shaking her cap in a triumphant manner she passed out by the door.

  The fall had really been a bad one; Liza’s foot had twisted awkwardly and there was danger of her having another miscarriage. Everyone knew that there was nothing to be done but that she must just lie quietly, yet all the same they decided to send for a doctor.

  “Dear Nikolay Semyonich,” wrote Yevgeny to the doctor, “you have always been so kind to us that I hope you will not refuse to come to my wife’s assistance. She …” and so on. Having written the letter he went to the stables to arrange about the horses and the carriage. Horses had to be got ready to bring the doctor and others to take him back. When an estate is not run on a large scale, such things cannot be quickly decided but have to be considered. Having arranged it all and dispatched the coachman, it was past nine before he got back to the house. His wife was lying down, and said that she felt perfectly well and had no pain. But Varvara Alexeevna was sitting with a lamp screened from Liza by some sheets of music and knitting a large red coverlet, with a mien that said that after what had happened peace was impossible, but that she at any rate would do her duty no matter what anyone else did.

  Yevgeny noticed this, but, to appear as if he had not done so, tried to assume a cheerful and tranquil air and told how he had chosen the horses and how capitally the mare, Kabushka, had galloped as left trace-horse in the troika.

  “Yes, of course, it is just the time to exercise the horses when help is needed. Probably the doctor will also be thrown into the ditch,” remarked Varvara Alexeevna, examining her knitting from under her pince-nez and moving it close up to the lamp.

  “But you know we had to send one way or another, and I made the best arrangement I could.”

  “Yes, I remember very well how your horses galloped with me under the arch of the gateway.” This was a longstanding fancy of hers, and Yevgeny now was injudicious enough to remark that that was not quite what had happened.

  “It is not for nothing that I have always said, and have often remarked to the prince, that it is hardest of all to live with people who are untruthful and insincere. I can endure anything except that.”

  “Well, if anyone has to suffer more than another, it is certainly I,” said Yevgeny. “But you …”

  “Yes, it is evident.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, I am only counting my stitches.”

  Yevgeny was standing at the time by the bed and Liza was looking at him, and one of her moist hands outside the coverlet caught his hand and pressed it. “Bear with her for my sake. You know she cannot prevent our loving one another,” was what her look said.

  “I won’t do so again. It’s nothing,” he whispered, and he kissed her damp, long hand and then her affectionate eyes, which closed while he kissed them.

  “Can it be the same thing over again?” he asked. “How are you feeling?”

  “I am afraid to say for fear of being mistaken, but I feel that he is alive and will live,” said she, glancing at her stomach.

  “Ah, it is dreadful, dreadful to think of.”

  Notwithstanding Liza’s insistence that he should go away, Yevgeny spent the night with her, hardly closing an eye and ready to attend on her.

  But she passed the night well, and had they not sent for the doctor she would perhaps have got up.

  By dinner-time the doctor arrived and of course said that though if the symptoms recurred there might be cause for apprehension, yet actually there were no positive symptoms, but as there were also no contrary indications one might suppose on the one hand that—and on the other hand that … And therefore she must lie still, and that “though I do not like prescribing, yet all the same she should take this mixture and should lie quiet.” Besides this, the doctor gave Varvara Alexeevna a lecture on woman’s anatomy, during which Varvara Alexeevna nodded her head significantly. Having received his fee, as usual into the backmost part of his palm, the doctor drove away and the patient was left to lie in bed for a week.

  XV

  Yevgeny spent most of his time by his wife’s bedside, talking to her, reading to her, and what was hardest of all, enduring without murmur Varvara Alexeevna’s attacks, and even contriving to turn these into jokes.

  But he could not stay at home all the time. In the first place his wife sent him away, saying that he would fall ill if he always remained with her; and secondly the farming was progressing in a way that demanded his presence at every step. He could not stay at home, but had to be in the fields, in the wood, in the garden, at the threshing-floor; and everywhere he was pursued not merely by the thought but by the vivid image of Stepanida, and he only occasionally forgot her. But that would not have mattered, he could perhaps have mastered his feeling; what was worst of all was that, whereas he had previously lived for months without seeing her, he now continually came across her. She evidently understood that he wished to renew relations with her and tried to come in his way. Nothing was said either by him or by her, and therefore neither he nor she went directly to a rendezvous, but only sought opportunities of meeting.

  The most possible place for them to meet was in the forest, where peasant-women went with sacks to collect grass for their cows. Yevgeny knew this and therefore went there every day. Every day he told himself that he would not go, and every day it ended by his making his way to the forest and, on hearing the sound of voices, standing behind the bushes with sinking heart looking to see if she was there.

  Why he wanted to know whether it was she who was th
ere, he did not know. If it had been she and she had been alone, he would not have gone to her—so he believed—he would have run away; but he wanted to see her.

  Once he met her. As he was entering the forest she came out of it with two other women, carrying a heavy sack full of grass on her back. A little earlier he would perhaps have met her in the forest. Now, with the other women there, she could not go back to him. But though he realized this impossibility, he stood for a long time behind a hazel bush, at the risk of attracting the other women’s attention. Of course she did not return, but he stayed there a long time and, great heavens, how delightful his imagination made her appear to him! And this not only once, but five or six times, and each time more intensely. Never had she seemed so attractive, and never had he been so completely in her power.

  He felt that he had lost control of himself and had become almost insane. His strictness with himself had not weakened a jog; on the contrary he saw all the abomination of his desire and even of his action, for his going to the wood was an action. He knew that he only need come near her anywhere in the dark, and if possible touch her, and he would yield to his feelings. He knew that it was only shame before people, before her, and no doubt before himself that restrained him. And he knew too that he had sought conditions in which that shame would not be apparent—darkness or proximity—in which it would be stifled by animal passion. And therefore he knew that he was a wretched criminal, and despised and hated himself with all his soul. He hated himself because he still had not surrendered: every day he prayed God to strengthen him, to save him from perishing; every day he determined that from today onward he would not take a step to see her, and would forget her. Every day he devised means of delivering himself from this enticement, and he made use of those means.

  But it was all in vain.

  One of the means was continual occupation; another was intense physical work and fasting; a third was imagining to himself the shame that would fall upon him when everybody knew of it—his wife, his mother-in-law, and the folk around. He did all this and it seemed to him that he was conquering, but midday came—the hour of their former meetings and the hour when he had met her carrying the grass—and he went to the forest. Thus five days of torment passed. He only saw her from a distance, and did not once encounter her.