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First published in 1872, Russian Empire

“Vestnik Evropy” magazin

This book is in the public domain

Reprint by Publishing House №10

Publication date July 30, 2025

Translation from Russian

252 Pages, Font 12 pt, Bookman Old Style

Electronic edition, File size 933 KB

Cover design, Translate by Yulia Basharova

Copyright© Yulia Basharova 2025. All rights reserved

Table of Contents

I 7

II 13

III 17

1. IV. 21
2. V. 24

VI 28

VII 33

VIII 38

1. IX. 41
2. X. 43

XI 49

XII 52

XIII 54

XIV. 57

1. XV. 60

XVI 64

XVII 72

XVII 78

XIX. 84

1. XX. 89

XXI 92

XXII 98

XXIII 108

XXIV. 114

XXV. 122

XXVI 129

XXVII 134

XXVIII 140

XXIX. 147

XXX. 151

XXXI 159

XXXII 168

XXXIII 173

XXXIV. 178

XXXV. 184

XXXVI 192

XXXVII 200

XXXVIII 203

XXXIX. 210

XXXIX. 221

XLI 227

XLI 232

XLIII 241

XLIV. 246

I

Merry years,

Happy days  —

Like spring torrents

They have rushed by!

From an old romance.

…At around two o’clock in the morning, he returned to his study. He dismissed the servant who had lit the candles, and, throwing himself into an armchair by the fireplace, covered his face with both hands.

Never before had he felt such fatigue — both physical and mental. He had spent the whole evening with pleasant ladies, with educated gentlemen; some of the ladies were beautiful, almost all the gentlemen were distinguished by their intelligence and talents — he himself had conversed very successfully and even brilliantly… and yet, never before had that “taedium vitae” (weariness of life), which the Romans already spoke of, that “aversion to life” — with such an irresistible force taken possession of him, choked him. If he had been a little younger, he would have wept from anguish, boredom, irritation: a bitter, burning acridity, like the bitterness of wormwood, filled his whole soul. Something persistently hateful, repellently heavy surrounded him on all sides, like an autumn, dark night; and he didn’t know how to get rid of this darkness, this bitterness. There was no hope of sleep: he knew he wouldn’t fall asleep.

He began to reflect… slowly, languidly, and angrily.

He reflected on the vanity, futility, and vulgar falseness of all things human. All ages gradually passed before his mind’s eye (he himself had recently turned fifty-two) — and not one found mercy before him. Everywhere it was the same eternal pouring from empty to void, the same treading water, the same half-conscientious, half-conscious self-delusion — whatever keeps the child amused, as long as it doesn’t cry — and then suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, old age would descend — and with it that constantly growing, all-corroding and undermining fear of death… and plunge into the abyss! It’s still good if life plays out that way! Otherwise, perhaps, before the end, infirmities and sufferings will spread like rust over iron… The sea of life did not appear to him covered with stormy waves, as poets describe — no; he imagined this sea immaculately smooth, motionless, and transparent down to its darkest bottom; he himself sits in a small, shaky boat — and there, on this dark, silty bottom, like enormous fish, barely visible are hideous monsters: all worldly ailments, diseases, sorrows, madness, poverty, blindness… He looks — and behold, one of the monsters separates from the darkness, rises higher and higher, becomes ever more distinct, ever more repellently distinct… Another moment — and the boat supported by it will overturn! But then it seems to dim again, it moves away, sinks to the bottom — and lies there, barely stirring its fins… But the appointed day will come — and it will overturn the boat.

He shook his head, jumped up from the armchair, walked around the room once or twice, sat down at his writing desk, and, pulling out one drawer after another, began rummaging through his papers, among old, mostly women’s, letters. He didn’t know why he was doing this, he wasn’t looking for anything — he simply wanted to get rid of the thoughts tormenting him through some external occupation. Unfolding several letters at random (in one of them he found a dried flower tied with a faded ribbon), he only shrugged his shoulders and, glancing at the fireplace, tossed them aside, probably intending to burn all this unnecessary clutter. Hastily thrusting his hands into one drawer, then another, he suddenly opened his eyes wide and, slowly pulling out a small octagonal box of an old design, slowly lifted its lid. In the box, under a double layer of yellowed cotton paper, lay a small garnet cross.

For a few moments, he examined this cross with bewilderment — and then suddenly let out a faint cry… Neither regret nor joy was depicted on his features. A similar expression appears on a person’s face when they suddenly encounter another person whom they had lost sight of long ago, whom they once dearly loved, and who now unexpectedly appears before their eyes, still the same — and entirely changed by the years.

He stood up and, returning to the fireplace, sat down in the armchair again — and again covered his face with his hands… “Why today? Why precisely today?” he thought, and he remembered much from the long-past…

This is what he remembered…

But first, his full name must be stated. His name was Sanin, Dmitry Pavlovich.

This is what he remembered:

The year was 1840, summer. Sanin had just turned twenty-two, and he was in Frankfurt, on his way back from Italy to Russia. He was a man of modest means, but independent, almost without family. After the death of a distant relative, he came into several thousand rubles — and he decided to spend them abroad before entering service, before finally donning that official yoke (burden of government service) without which a secure existence became inconceivable to him. Sanin precisely carried out his intention and managed his affairs so skillfully that on the day of his arrival in Frankfurt, he had exactly enough money to reach Petersburg. In 1840, there were very few railways; gentlemen tourists traveled by diligence. Sanin took a seat in the “beywagen” (an extra, less comfortable section of the diligence); but the diligence wasn’t departing until eleven o’clock in the evening. There was plenty of time left. Fortunately, the weather was excellent — and Sanin, after dining at the then-famous “White Swan” hotel, went for a stroll around the city. He went to see Dannecker’s Ariadne, which he didn’t much care for, visited Goethe’s house, though he had only read “Werther” of his works — and that in a French translation; he walked along the banks of the Main, felt bored, as a respectable traveler should; finally, at six o’clock in the evening, tired, with dusty feet, he found himself in one of Frankfurt’s most insignificant streets. He could not forget this street for a long time afterward. On one of its few houses, he saw a sign: “Giovanni Roselli’s Italian Confectionery” announced itself to passersby. Sanin went inside to drink a glass of lemonade; but in the first room, where, behind a modest counter, on the shelves of a painted cabinet, reminiscent of an apothecary, stood several bottles with golden labels and as many glass jars with rusks, chocolate wafers, and lollipops — in this room, there wasn’t a soul; only a gray cat squinted and purred, kneading its paws, on a high wicker chair by the window, and, glowing brightly in the slanting ray of the evening sun, a large ball of red yarn lay on the floor next to an overturned carved wooden basket. A vague noise was heard in the adjoining room. Sanin stood for a moment and, letting the doorbell ring completely, raised his voice and said: “Is there no one here?” At the same instant, the door from the adjoining room opened — and Sanin was involuntarily astonished.

II

Into the confectionery, a girl of about nineteen, with dark curls scattered over her bare shoulders, and outstretched bare arms, rushed impulsively. Upon seeing Sanin, she immediately darted towards him, seized his hand, and pulled him along, saying in a breathless voice: “Quick, quick, this way, save him!” Not from unwillingness to obey, but simply from an excess of astonishment, Sanin did not immediately follow the girl and seemed rooted to the spot: he had never in his life seen such a beauty. She turned to him and with such despair in her voice, in her gaze, in the movement of her clenched hand convulsively raised to her pale cheek, she uttered: “Come on, come on!” — that he immediately rushed after her through the open door.

In the room he entered, following the girl, lay a boy of about fourteen, strikingly similar to the girl, obviously her brother, on an old-fashioned horsehair sofa. He was entirely white — white with yellowish tints, like wax or ancient marble. His eyes were closed, a shadow from his thick black hair fell like a blotch on his seemingly petrified forehead, on his motionless thin eyebrows; clenched teeth were visible from under his bluish lips. He seemed not to be breathing; one hand had dropped to the floor, the other he had thrown back behind his head. The boy was dressed and buttoned up; a tight tie constricted his neck.

The girl cried out and rushed to him.

“He’s dead, he’s dead!” she cried, “Just now he was sitting here, talking to me — and suddenly he fell and became motionless… My God! Can nothing be done? And Mama isn’t here! Pantaleone, Pantaleone, what about the doctor?” she added suddenly in Italian. “Did you go for the doctor?”

“Signora, I didn’t go, I sent Luisa,” a hoarse voice sounded from behind the door, and into the room, hobbling on crooked legs, came a small old man in a purple frock coat with black buttons, a high white tie, nankeen (a type of durable cotton fabric) short breeches, and blue woolen stockings. His tiny face completely disappeared under a whole mass of gray, iron-colored hair. Rising steeply upwards on all sides and falling back in dishevelled wisps, they gave the old man’s figure a resemblance to a crested hen — a resemblance all the more striking because beneath their dark gray mass, all that could be discerned was a pointed nose and round yellow eyes.

“Luisa will run faster, and I cannot run,” the old man continued in Italian, alternately lifting his flat, gout-afflicted feet, shod in high boots with bows, “but I brought water.”

With his dry, gnarled fingers, he clutched the long neck of the bottle.

“But Emil will die in the meantime!” exclaimed the girl and stretched out her hands to Sanin. “Oh, my lord, oh, mein Herr (my sir)! Can you not help?”

“One must bleed him — it’s a stroke,” remarked the old man, who bore the name Pantaleone.

Although Sanin had not the slightest idea about medicine, he did know one thing for certain: strokes do not happen to fourteen-year-old boys.

“It’s a faint, not a stroke,” he said, turning to Pantaleone. “Do you have brushes?”

The old man raised his tiny face.

“What?”

“Brushes, brushes,” Sanin repeated in German and French. “Brushes,” he added, mimicking cleaning his clothes.

The old man finally understood him.

“Ah, brushes! Spazzette (brushes)! How could there be no brushes!”

“Bring them here; we’ll take off his coat — and start rubbing him.”

“Good… Benone (very good)! And should we pour water on his head?”

“No… later; now go quickly for the brushes.”

Pantaleone put the bottle on the floor, ran out, and immediately returned with two brushes, one hairbrush and one clothes brush. A curly poodle accompanied him and, vigorously wagging its tail, curiously looked at the old man, the girl, and even Sanin — as if wanting to know what all this commotion meant?

Sanin quickly took off the coat of the boy lying down, unbuttoned his collar, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt — and, armed with a brush, began to rub his chest and arms with all his might. Pantaleone just as diligently rubbed the other — hairbrush — on his boots and trousers. The girl knelt by the sofa and, holding his head with both hands, without blinking an eyelid, stared intently at her brother’s face.

Sanin himself was rubbing — and at the same time glancing at her from the side. My God! What a beauty she was!

III

Her nose was somewhat large, but of a beautiful, aquiline (eagle-like) shape; her upper lip was lightly shaded by down; but the complexion, even and matte, exactly like ivory or milky amber, the wavy sheen of her hair, like Allori’s Judith in the Palazzo Pitti, – and especially her eyes, dark gray, with a black rim around the pupils, magnificent, triumphant eyes, – even now, when fear and sorrow clouded their brilliance… Sanin involuntarily recalled the wonderful land from which he was returning… Why, he hadn’t seen anything like it even in Italy! The girl breathed seldom and unevenly; it seemed she waited each time to see if her brother would begin to breathe.

Sanin continued to rub him; but he didn’t only look at the girl. Pantaleone’s original figure also drew his attention. The old man was quite weakened and out of breath; with each stroke of the brush, he bounced and squeakily groaned, and his enormous locks of hair, moistened with sweat, swung heavily from side to side, like the roots of a large plant, washed out by water.

“At least take off his boots,” Sanin was about to say to him…

The poodle, probably excited by the unusualness of everything happening, suddenly crouched on its front paws and began to bark.

“Tartaglia  —  canaglia!” (Tartaglia  —  scoundrel!) the old man hissed at him…

But at that moment, the girl’s face transformed. Her eyebrows lifted, her eyes became even larger and shone with joy.

Sanin looked around… Color appeared on the young man’s face; his eyelids fluttered… his nostrils twitched. He drew air through his still clenched teeth, sighed…

“Emil!” cried the girl. “Emilio mio!” (my Emil!)

Slowly, his large black eyes opened. They still looked dully, but they were already smiling – weakly; the same weak smile descended to his pale lips. Then he moved his limp hand – and with a sweep, placed it on his chest.

“Emilio!” the girl repeated and stood up. The expression on her face was so strong and vivid that it seemed either tears would burst from her eyes, or laughter would erupt.

“Emil! What is it? Emil!” was heard from behind the door – and into the room, with quick steps, entered a neatly dressed lady with silvery-gray hair and a dark complexion. An elderly man followed behind her; a maid’s head appeared over his shoulder.

The girl ran to meet them.

“He’s saved, Mama, he’s alive!” she exclaimed, convulsively embracing the lady who had entered.

“What is it?” the latter repeated. “I return… and suddenly I meet Mr. Doctor and Luisa…”

The girl began to tell what had happened, and the doctor approached the patient, who was more and more coming to himself and continued to smile: he seemed to be starting to be ashamed of the alarm he had caused.

“I see you rubbed him with brushes,” the doctor addressed Sanin and Pantaleone, “and you did excellently… A very good idea… and now we will see what other remedies…” He felt the young man’s pulse. “Hmm! Show me your tongue!”

The lady bent over him solicitously. He smiled even more openly, raised his eyes to her – and blushed…

It occurred to Sanin that he was becoming superfluous; he went out into the confectionery. But he hadn’t yet taken hold of the street door handle when the girl appeared before him again and stopped him.

“You’re leaving,” she began, looking kindly into his face, “I’m not holding you back, but you must definitely come to us this evening, we are so obliged to you – you may have saved my brother: we want to thank you – Mama wants to. You must tell us who you are, you must rejoice with us…”

“But I am leaving for Berlin today,” Sanin stammered.

“You’ll still have time,” the girl answered with vivacity. “Come to us in an hour for a cup of chocolate. Do you promise? And I need to go back to him! Will you come?”

What was Sanin to do?

“I’ll come,” he replied.

The beauty quickly squeezed his hand, flitted away – and he found himself on the street.

IV

When Sanin returned to Roselli’s confectionery about an hour and a half later, he was received like family. Emilio was sitting on the same sofa where he had been rubbed down; the doctor had prescribed medicine for him and recommended “great caution in testing sensations,” as the subject had a nervous temperament and a propensity for heart ailments. He had suffered fainting spells before; but never had an attack been so prolonged and severe. However, the doctor declared that all danger had passed. Emil was dressed, as befits a convalescent, in a spacious dressing gown; his mother had wrapped a blue woolen scarf around his neck; but he looked cheerful, almost festive; and indeed everything around had a festive air. In front of the sofa, on a round table covered with a clean tablecloth, stood a huge porcelain coffee pot filled with fragrant chocolate, surrounded by cups, carafes of syrup, biscuits and buns, even flowers; six slender wax candles burned in two antique silver candelabras; on one side of the sofa, a Voltaire armchair opened its soft embrace — and Sanin was seated precisely in this armchair. All the inhabitants of the confectionery whom he had met that day were present, not excluding the poodle Tartaglia and the cat; all seemed unspeakably happy; the poodle even sneezed with pleasure; only the cat continued to preen and squint. Sanin was made to explain his origin, where he was from, and his name; when he said he was Russian, both ladies were a little surprised and even gasped — and then, in one voice, declared that he spoke German excellently; but if it was more convenient for him to express himself in French, he could use that language too, as they both understood it well and spoke it. Sanin immediately took advantage of this offer. “Sanin! Sanin!” The ladies had not expected a Russian surname to be so easily pronounceable. His given name: “Dimitri” — also pleased them very much. The elder lady remarked that in her youth she had heard a beautiful opera: “Demetrio e Polibio,” but that “Dimitri” was much better than “Demetrio.” In this manner, Sanin conversed for about an hour. For their part, the ladies initiated him into all the details of their own lives. The mother, the lady with gray hair, did most of the talking. Sanin learned from her that her name was Leonora Roselli; that she had been widowed after her husband, Giovanni Battista Roselli, who had settled in Frankfurt twenty-five years ago as a confectioner; that Giovanni Battista was originally from Vicenza, and a very good, though a little quick-tempered and arrogant man, and a republican too! At these words, Signora Roselli pointed to his oil portrait, which hung above the sofa. It must be supposed that the painter — “also a republican!” as Signora Roselli sighed, not entirely succeeding in capturing the likeness, for in the portrait the late Giovanni Battista appeared as a gloomy and severe brigand — like Rinaldo Rinaldini! Signora Roselli herself was a native of “the ancient and beautiful city of Parma, where there is such a wonderful dome painted by the immortal Correggio!” But from her long stay in Germany, she had become almost entirely Germanized. Then she added, shaking her head sadly, that all she had left was this daughter and this son (she pointed to them alternately with her finger); that the daughter’s name was Gemma, and the son’s — Emilio; that both of them were very good and obedient children — especially Emilio… (“Am I not obedient?” the daughter interjected here; “Oh, you are a republican too!” replied the mother); that business, of course, was now worse than under her husband, who was a great master in the confectionery art… (“Un granduomo!” (a great man!) Pantaleone sternly chimed in); but that still, thank God, it was still possible to live!

V

Gemma listened to her mother — and sometimes laughed, sometimes sighed, sometimes stroked her shoulder, sometimes wagged a finger at her, sometimes looked at Sanin; finally, she stood up, embraced and kissed her mother on the neck — on the “sweet spot,” which made her laugh a lot and even squeal. Pantaleone was also introduced to Sanin. It turned out that he had once been an opera singer, for baritone parts, but had long since ceased his theatrical activities and was something between a family friend and a servant in the Roselli household. Despite a very long stay in Germany, he had learned German poorly and could only swear in it, mercilessly mangling even the curse words. “Ferroflucto spiccibubbio!” (a nonsensical, made-up insult intended to sound vaguely German and abusive) he would call almost every German. He spoke Italian perfectly, however, for he was a native of Sinigaglia, where one hears “lingua toscana in bocca romana!” (Tuscan language in a Roman mouth – an idiom meaning pure, good Italian). Emilio was clearly luxuriating and indulging in the pleasant sensations of a person who had just escaped danger or was recovering; and besides, it was clear that his family spoiled him. He shyly thanked Sanin, but otherwise, he mostly focused on the syrup and sweets. Sanin was compelled to drink two large cups of excellent chocolate and eat a remarkable quantity of biscuits: he would just swallow one, and Gemma would already hand him another — and it was impossible to refuse! He soon felt at home: time flew with incredible speed. He had to tell many stories — about Russia in general, about the Russian climate, about Russian society, about the Russian peasant, and especially about the Cossacks; about the war of 1812, about Peter the Great, about the Kremlin, and about Russian songs, and about bells. Both ladies had a very faint idea of our vast and distant homeland; Signora Roselli, or, as she was more often called, Frau Lenore, even astonished Sanin with the question: does the famous ice house built in the last century in Petersburg still exist, about which she had recently read such an interesting article in one of her late husband’s books: “Bellezze delle arti” (Beauties of the Arts)?  —  And in response to Sanin’s exclamation: “Do you really think that there is never summer in Russia?!” — Frau Lenore retorted that she had always imagined Russia as eternal snow, everyone wearing fur coats, and everyone being military — but with extraordinary hospitality and all the peasants very obedient! Sanin tried to give her and her daughter more accurate information. When the conversation turned to Russian music, he was immediately asked to sing some Russian aria and was pointed to a tiny piano in the room, with black keys instead of white and white instead of black. He obeyed without further ado and, accompanying himself with two fingers of his right hand and three (thumb, middle, and little finger) of his left, sang in a thin, nasal tenor first “Sarafan,” then “Down the Cobblestone Street.” The ladies praised his voice and the music, but were more delighted by the softness and sonority of the Russian language and demanded a translation of the text. Sanin fulfilled their wish, but since the words of “Sarafan” and especially “Down the Cobblestone Street” (on a paved street a young girl went for water — this is how he conveyed the meaning of the original) could not inspire his listeners with a high concept of Russian poetry, he first recited, then translated, then sang Pushkin’s: “I Remember a Wondrous Moment,” set to music by Glinka, whose minor stanzas he slightly mangled. Here the ladies were thrilled — Frau Lenore even discovered an astonishing similarity between Russian and Italian. “Mgnovenye” (a moment) – “o, vieni” (oh, come), “so mnoi” (with me) – “siam noi” (we are) and so on. Even the names: Pushkin (she pronounced it: Poossekin) and Glinka sounded somewhat familiar to her. Sanin, in turn, asked the ladies to sing something: they also did not make a fuss. Frau Lenore sat at the piano and, together with Gemma, sang several duettini (small duets) and stornelli (short, popular Italian songs). The mother once had a good contralto; the daughter’s voice was somewhat weak, but pleasant.

VI

But it was not Gemma’s voice that Sanin admired — it was she herself. He sat slightly behind and to the side, thinking to himself that no palm tree — not even in the verses of Benediktov, the fashionable poet of the time — could rival the graceful slenderness of her figure. And when, on sensitive notes, she raised her eyes upwards — it seemed to him that there was no sky that would not open before such a gaze. Even old Pantaleone, who, leaning his shoulder against the doorpost and burying his chin and mouth in his spacious cravat, listened gravely, with the air of a connoisseur — even he admired the beautiful girl’s face and marveled at it — and yet, it seemed, he should have been accustomed to it! Having finished their duettino (small duet) with their daughter, Frau Lenore remarked that Emilio had an excellent voice, true silver, but that he had now entered the age when the voice changes (he indeed spoke in a constantly breaking bass), and that for this reason he was forbidden to sing; but that Pantaleone could, in honor of the guest, show his old skills! Pantaleone immediately took on a displeased look, frowned, ruffled his hair, and declared that he had long since given all that up, although he could indeed hold his own in his youth — and generally belonged to that great era when true, classical singers existed — not like the squeakers of today! — and a real school of singing; that he, Pantaleone Cippatola from Varese, was once presented with a laurel wreath in Modena and even, on that occasion, several white doves were released in the theater; that, among other things, a certain Russian Prince Tarbussky — “il principe Tarbusski” — with whom he was on the friendliest terms, constantly invited him to Russia for supper, promised him mountains of gold, mountains!… but that he did not want to part with Italy, with the land of Dante — “il paese del Dante!” (the country of Dante!) — Then, of course, unfortunate circumstances occurred… he himself was careless… Here the old man interrupted himself, sighed deeply twice, looked down — and again began to speak of the classical era of singing, of the famous tenor Garcia, for whom he harbored reverent, boundless respect.

“Now there was a man!” he exclaimed. “Never did the great Garcia — ‘il gran Garcia’ (the great Garcia) — stoop to singing, like the little tenors of today — tenor acci (a derogatory term for tenors) — with falsetto: always from the chest, from the chest, voce di petto, si!” (chest voice, yes!) The old man firmly struck his own dried-up little fist on his jabot! “And what an actor! A volcano, signori miei (my sirs), a volcano, un Vesuvio (a Vesuvius)! I had the honor and happiness to sing with him in the opera of dell’illustrissimo maestro (the most illustrious master) Rossini — in ‘Otello’! Garcia was Otello — I was Iago — and when he uttered that phrase…”

Here Pantaleone took a stance and sang in a trembling and hoarse, but still pathetic voice:

Li…ra da ver…so da ver…so il fato

Io più no… no… no… non temerò!

(From adversity, from adversity of fate / I no longer… no… no… I will not fear!)

“The theater trembled, signori miei! but I did not lag behind; and I too followed him:

Li…ra da ver…so da ver…so il fato

Temer più non dovrò!

(From adversity, from adversity of fate / I will no longer have to fear!)

“And suddenly he — like lightning, like a tiger:

Morrò!.. ma vendicato… (I will die!.. but avenged…)

“Or here’s another, when he sang… when he sang that famous aria from ‘Matrimonio segreto’ (The Secret Marriage): Pria che spunti… (Before the dawn…) Here he, il gran Garcia (the great Garcia), after the words: I cavalli di galoppo (The galloping horses)  —  made on the words: Senza posa caccera (will chase without rest)  —  listen how amazing it is, com’è stupendo! (how wonderful it is!) Here he made…”  —  The old man began some extraordinary fioritura (florid vocal ornamentation) — and on the tenth note stumbled, coughed, and, waving his hand, turned away and muttered: “Why do you torment me?” Gemma immediately jumped up from her chair and, loudly clapping her hands, with shouts of: “Bravo!… bravo!” — ran up to the poor retired Iago and gently patted him on the shoulders with both hands. Only Emil laughed mercilessly. Cet âge est sans pitié (This age knows no pity) — La Fontaine had already said.

Sanin tried to comfort the elderly singer and spoke to him in Italian (he had picked up a little during his last trip) — he spoke of “paese del Dante, dove il sì suona” (the country of Dante, where ‘yes’ sounds – referring to Italy, where ‘sì’ is used for yes). This phrase, along with “Lasciate ogni speranza” (Abandon all hope – from Dante’s Inferno), constituted the young tourist’s entire poetic Italian baggage; but Pantaleone did not yield to his blandishments. Burying his chin deeper than ever into his cravat and sullenly bulging his eyes, he again resembled a bird, and an angry one at that — a raven, or a kite. Then Emil, blushing instantly and easily, as is common with spoiled children, turned to his sister and told her that if she wished to entertain their guest, she could not think of anything better than to read him one of Malz’s little comedies, which she read so well. Gemma laughed, slapped her brother’s hand, exclaimed that he “always comes up with something like that!” However, she immediately went to her room and, returning from there with a small book in her hand, sat down at the table before the lamp, looked around, raised a finger — “silence, as it were!” — a purely Italian gesture — and began to read.

VII

Malz was a Frankfurt writer of the 1830s who, in his short and lightly sketched comedies, written in the local dialect, portrayed — with amusing and lively, though not profound humor — local Frankfurt types. It turned out that Gemma read truly excellently — quite theatrically. She nuanced each character and maintained its essence perfectly, using her facial expressions, inherited by her along with her Italian blood; sparing neither her tender voice nor her beautiful face, she — when it was necessary to portray either an old woman who had lost her mind or a foolish burgomaster — made the most hilarious grimaces, narrowed her eyes, wrinkled her nose, lisping, squeaking… She herself did not laugh during the reading; but when her listeners (with the exception, admittedly, of Pantaleone: he immediately retired indignantly as soon as there was talk of quel ferroflucto Tedesco (that ferroflucto German) ), when her listeners interrupted her with bursts of hearty laughter — she, lowering the book to her lap, laughed loudly herself, throwing her head back, and her black curls bounced in soft rings on her neck and on her shaking shoulders. The laughter would cease — she would immediately pick up the book and, again giving her features the proper set, would seriously resume reading. Sanin could not admire her enough; he was particularly struck by the miracle of how such an ideally beautiful face could suddenly take on such a comical, sometimes almost trivial expression. Less satisfactorily did Gemma read the roles of young maidens — the so-called “jeunes premières” (leading young actresses); especially love scenes did not succeed for her; she herself felt this and therefore gave them a slight hint of mockery, as if she did not believe all these rapturous vows and elevated speeches, from which, incidentally, the author himself refrained — as far as possible.

Sanin did not notice how the evening flew by, and only remembered the impending journey when the clock struck ten. He jumped up from his chair as if stung.

“What’s wrong with you?” asked Frau Lenore.

“But I was supposed to leave for Berlin today — and I’ve already taken a seat in the diligence!”

“And when does the diligence leave?”

“At half past ten!”

“Well, then you won’t make it,” Gemma remarked, “stay… I’ll read some more.”

“Did you pay all the money or just a deposit?” Frau Lenore inquired.

“All of it!” Sanin exclaimed with a sad grimace.

Gemma looked at him, squinting her eyes — and laughed, while her mother chided her.

“The young man wasted his money for nothing, and you’re laughing!”

“It’s nothing,” Gemma replied, “it won’t ruin him, and we’ll try to comfort him. Would you like some lemonade?”

Sanin drank a glass of lemonade, Gemma again took up Malz — and everything went smoothly again.

The clock struck twelve. Sanin began to say goodbye.

“You must stay in Frankfurt for several days now,” Gemma told him, “what’s your hurry? It won’t be merrier in another city.” She paused. “Truly, it won’t,” she added and smiled. Sanin said nothing and thought that due to the emptiness of his purse, he would involuntarily have to remain in Frankfurt until he received a reply from a Berlin friend whom he intended to ask for money.

“Stay, stay,” Frau Lenore also said. “We’ll introduce you to Gemma’s fiancé, Mr. Karl Klüber. He couldn’t come today because he’s very busy at his shop… You’ve probably seen the largest shop for woolen and silk fabrics on the Zeil? Well, he’s the chief there. But he will be very happy to introduce himself to you.”

This news — God knows why — slightly dumbfounded Sanin. “Lucky fiancé!” flashed through his mind. He looked at Gemma — and it seemed to him that he caught a mocking expression in her eyes. He began to bow.

“Until tomorrow? Until tomorrow, isn’t it?” asked Frau Lenore.

“Until tomorrow!” Gemma said, not in a questioning but in an affirmative tone, as if it could not be otherwise.

“Until tomorrow!” Sanin echoed.

Emil, Pantaleone, and the poodle Tartaglia accompanied him to the corner of the street. Pantaleone couldn’t resist expressing his displeasure about Gemma’s reading.

“How could she! She makes faces, squeaks — una caricatura (a caricature)! She should portray Merope or Clytemnestra — something great, tragic, and instead, she mimics some nasty German woman! I could do that too… Merz, Kerz, Schmerz (German words, likely mispronounced or used nonsensically to mock the language, meaning: March, candle, pain),” he added in a hoarse voice, thrusting his face forward and spreading his fingers. Tartaglia barked at him, and Emil burst out laughing. The old man turned sharply back.

Sanin returned to the “White Swan” hotel (he had left his belongings in the common room there) in a rather confused state of mind. All these German-French-Italian conversations rang in his ears.

“A fiancée!” he whispered, already lying in bed in his modest assigned room. “And what a beauty! But why did I stay?”

However, the next day he sent a letter to his Berlin friend.

VIII

He hadn’t even finished dressing when the waiter announced the arrival of two gentlemen. One of them turned out to be Emil; the other, a distinguished and tall young man with a most respectable face, was Herr Karl Klüber, the fiancé of the beautiful Gemma.

It must be presumed that at that time, in all of Frankfurt, no shop could boast such a polite, proper, important, and obliging chief clerk as Mr. Klüber. The impeccability of his attire was on par with the dignity of his bearing, with the elegance — a little stiff and restrained, it is true, in the English style (he had spent two years in England) — but captivating elegance nonetheless of his manners! At first glance, it became obvious that this handsome, somewhat stern, excellently bred, and perfectly groomed young man was accustomed to obeying his superiors and commanding his subordinates, and that behind his shop counter, he must inevitably inspire respect even from the customers themselves! There could not be the slightest doubt as to his supernatural honesty: one only had to look at his stiffly starched collars! And his voice was exactly as one would expect: thick and confidently rich, but not too loud, with even a certain softness in its timbre. Such a voice was especially convenient for giving orders to subordinate clerks: “Show me, if you please, that piece of crimson Lyon velvet!” — or: “Bring a chair for this lady!”

Mr. Klüber began by introducing himself, bending his body so nobly, bringing his feet together so pleasantly, and touching heel to heel so courteously that everyone was bound to feel: “This man’s linen and his moral qualities are of the first order!” The perfection of his bare right hand (in his left, encased in a Swedish glove, he held a mirror-polished hat, at the bottom of which lay another glove) — the perfection of this right hand, which he modestly but firmly extended to Sanin, surpassed all belief: every nail was a perfection in its own right! Then he announced, in the most refined German, that he wished to convey his respect and gratitude to the foreign gentleman who had rendered such an important service to his future relative, his fiancée’s brother; at this, he gestured with his left hand, which held the hat, in the direction of Emil, who seemed to be embarrassed and, turning to the window, put a finger in his mouth. Mr. Klüber added that he would consider himself fortunate if he, in turn, were able to do anything agreeable for the foreign gentleman. Sanin replied, not without some difficulty, also in German, that he was very pleased… that his service was minor… and asked his guests to sit down. Herr Klüber thanked him — and, instantly spreading the tails of his frock coat, lowered himself into a chair — but he lowered himself so lightly and sat so precariously that it was impossible not to understand: “This man sat out of politeness — and will flit up again immediately!” And indeed, he immediately flitted up and, bashfully stepping twice, as if dancing, announced that, unfortunately, he could not stay longer, for he was in a hurry to his shop — business before all else! — but since tomorrow was Sunday, he, with the consent of Frau Lenore and Fräulein Gemma, had organized an enjoyable excursion to Soden, to which he had the honor of inviting the foreign gentleman, and hoped that he would not refuse to grace it with his presence. Sanin did not refuse to grace it — and Herr Klüber introduced himself a second time and departed, pleasantly flashing his trousers of the most delicate pea-green color and just as pleasantly creaking the soles of his brand-new boots.

IX

Emil, who had remained facing the window even after Sanin’s invitation to “sit down,” did an about-face as soon as his future relative left, and, shrinking boyishly and blushing, asked Sanin if he could stay with him a little longer. “I’m much better today,” he added, “but the doctor forbade me to work.”

“Stay! You don’t bother me at all,” Sanin exclaimed immediately, who, like any true Russian, was happy to seize any pretext not to be put in the position of having to do something himself.

Emil thanked him — and in a very short time, he became completely at ease with both him and his room; he examined Sanin’s belongings, asking about almost every one of them: where he bought it and what its value was. He helped him shave, noting that he shouldn’t bother growing a mustache; finally, he provided him with a multitude of details about his mother, his sister, Pantaleone, and even the poodle Tartaglia, about their entire way of life. All traces of shyness vanished in Emil; he suddenly felt an extraordinary attraction to Sanin — and not at all because Sanin had saved his life the day before, but because he was such a sympathetic person! He did not delay in confiding all his secrets to Sanin. He insisted with particular fervor that his mother was determined to make a merchant out of him — but he knew, he knew for certain, that he was born an artist, a musician, a singer; that the theater was his true calling; that even Pantaleone encouraged him, but that Mr. Klüber supported his mother, over whom he had great influence; that the very idea of making a shopkeeper out of him truly belonged to Mr. Klüber, in whose opinion nothing in the world could compare with the title of merchant! To sell cloth and velvet and cheat the public, to charge them “Narren-, oder Russen-Preise” (fool’s, or Russian, prices) — that was his ideal!

“Well, then! Now we must go to our place!” he exclaimed, as soon as Sanin had finished his toilette and written a letter to Berlin.

“It’s still early,” Sanin remarked.

“That means nothing,” Emil said, coaxing him. “Let’s go! We’ll stop by the post office, and then head to our place. Gemma will be so glad to see you! You’ll have breakfast with us… You can say something to Mama about me, about my career…”

“Well, let’s go,” Sanin said, and they set off.

X

Gemma was indeed happy to see him, and Frau Lenore greeted him very kindly: it was clear that he had made a good impression on both of them the day before. Emil ran off to arrange breakfast, having first whispered in Sanin’s ear: “Don’t forget!”

“I won’t forget,” Sanin replied.

Frau Lenore was not feeling entirely well: she was suffering from a migraine — and, half-reclining in her armchair, she tried not to move. Gemma wore a wide yellow blouse, cinched with a black leather belt; she, too, seemed tired and slightly pale; dark circles shaded her eyes, but their sparkle was not diminished by it, and her pallor lent something mysterious and sweet to the classically strict features of her face. Sanin was particularly struck that day by the graceful beauty of her hands; when she adjusted and supported her dark, lustrous curls with them — his gaze could not tear itself away from her fingers, flexible and long and separated from each other, like Raphael’s Fornarina.

It was very hot outside; after breakfast, Sanin wanted to leave, but he was told that on such a day it was best not to move from the spot — and he agreed; he stayed. In the back room, where he sat with his hostesses, coolness reigned; the windows opened onto a small garden overgrown with acacias. Many bees, wasps, and bumblebees buzzed harmoniously and eagerly in their thick branches, strewn with golden flowers; this incessant sound penetrated the room through the half-closed shutters and lowered blinds: it spoke of the heat diffused in the outside air — and the coolness of the closed and cozy dwelling became all the sweeter.

Sanin talked a lot, as he had yesterday, but not about Russia or Russian life. Wishing to please his young friend, who had been sent to Mr. Klüber immediately after breakfast — to practice bookkeeping — he brought up the comparative advantages and disadvantages of art and commerce. He was not surprised that Frau Lenore took the side of commerce — he had expected it; but Gemma also shared her opinion.

“If you are an artist, and especially a singer,” she asserted, energetically moving her hand from top to bottom, “you must absolutely be in the first place! Second is no good at all; and who knows if you can reach the first place?”

Pantaleone, who also participated in the conversation (he, as a longtime servant and old man, was even allowed to sit on a chair in the presence of the hosts; Italians are generally not strict about etiquette) — Pantaleone, of course, strongly supported art. To tell the truth, his arguments were rather weak: he mostly just kept talking about how one must first possess d’un certo estro d’ispirazione (a certain surge of inspiration)! Frau Lenore remarked to him that he, of course, possessed this “estro,” and yet…

“I had enemies,” Pantaleone darkly remarked.

“But why do you know (Italians, as is known, easily use informal ‘you’) that Emil will not have enemies, even if this ‘estro’ reveals itself in him?”

“Well, then make a merchant out of him,” Pantaleone said with annoyance, “but Giovanni Battista would not have done that, although he himself was a confectioner!”

“Giovanni Battista, my husband, was a sensible man — and if he got carried away in his youth…”

But the old man would hear nothing more — and retired, once again saying with reproach:

“Ah! Giovanni Battista!..”

Gemma exclaimed that if Emil felt himself a patriot and wished to dedicate all his strength to the liberation of Italy, then, of course, for such a high and sacred cause one could sacrifice a secure future — but not for the theater! Here Frau Lenore became agitated and began to implore her daughter not to confuse her brother, at least, and to be content with being such a desperate republican herself! Having uttered these words, Frau Lenore groaned and began to complain about her head, which was “ready to burst.” (Frau Lenore, out of respect for her guest, spoke to her daughter in French.)

Gemma immediately began to attend to her, gently blowing on her forehead, having first moistened it with cologne, gently kissing her cheeks, arranging her head on the pillows, forbidding her to speak — and kissing her again. Then, turning to Sanin, she began to tell him in a half-joking, half-touched tone what an excellent mother she had and what a beauty she had been! “What am I saying: ‘had been’! she is lovely even now. Look, look, what eyes she has!”

Gemma instantly took a white handkerchief from her pocket, covered her mother’s face with it, and, slowly lowering the hem from top to bottom, gradually uncovered Frau Lenore’s forehead, eyebrows, and eyes; she waited and asked her to open them. The latter obeyed, Gemma cried out in delight (Frau Lenore’s eyes were indeed very beautiful) — and, quickly sliding the handkerchief over the lower, less regular part of her mother’s face, she again rushed to kiss her. Frau Lenore laughed, and turned away slightly, and with feigned effort pushed her daughter away. The latter also pretended to struggle with her mother and caressed her — but not in a cat-like way, not in the French manner, but with that Italian grace in which the presence of strength is always felt.

Finally, Frau Lenore declared that she was tired… Then Gemma immediately advised her to get a little sleep, right there in the armchair, and we, with the Russian gentleman — “avec le monsieur russe” (with the Russian gentleman) — will be so quiet, so quiet… like little mice — “comme des petites souris” (like little mice). Frau Lenore smiled back at her, closed her eyes, and, after sighing a little, dozed off. Gemma quickly settled down on the bench beside her and no longer stirred, only occasionally bringing a finger of one hand to her lips — with the other she supported the pillow behind her mother’s head — and quietly shushed, glancing sidelong at Sanin when he allowed himself the slightest movement. It ended with him also seeming to freeze and sitting motionless, as if enchanted, admiring with all the strength of his soul the scene presented to him by both this dimly lit room, where here and there fresh, lush roses glowed like bright dots in green antique glasses, and this sleeping woman with modestly clasped hands and a kind, tired face framed by the snowy whiteness of the pillow, and this young, keenly alert and also kind, intelligent, pure, and unspeakably beautiful being with such black, deep, shadow-filled and yet luminous eyes… What was this? A dream? A fairy tale? And how was he here?

XI

A small bell tinkled above the outer door. A young peasant lad in a fur cap and a red waistcoat entered the confectionery from the street. Not a single customer had looked in since morning… “That’s how our trade is!” Frau Lenore had sighed to Sanin during breakfast. She continued to doze; Gemma was afraid to take her hand from the pillow and whispered to Sanin: “Go, you trade for me!” Sanin immediately tiptoed into the confectionery. The lad needed a quarter-pound of mint drops.

“How much for it?” Sanin whispered through the door to Gemma.

“Six kreuzers!” she replied in the same whisper.

Sanin weighed out a quarter-pound, found a piece of paper, made a cone out of it, wrapped the drops, spilled them, wrapped them again, spilled them again, finally handed them over, received the money… The lad stared at him in amazement, kneading his cap on his stomach, while in the next room, Gemma, stifling her mouth, was dying of laughter. No sooner had this customer left than another appeared, then a third… “Looks like I have a light touch!” Sanin thought. The second requested a glass of orgeat (a sweet almond-flavored syrup), the third — half a pound of sweets. Sanin satisfied them, eagerly clanking spoons, moving saucers, and deftly plunging his fingers into drawers and jars. When calculating, it turned out he had sold the orgeat too cheaply, but charged two extra kreuzers for the sweets. Gemma did not stop laughing quietly, and Sanin himself felt an extraordinary cheerfulness, a particularly happy mood. It seemed he would stand behind the counter forever, selling sweets and orgeat, while that sweet creature watched him from behind the door with friendly-mocking eyes, and the summer sun, breaking through the dense foliage of the chestnuts growing outside the windows, filled the whole room with the greenish gold of midday rays, midday shadows, and his heart reveled in the sweet languor of laziness, carefree youth — original youth!

The fourth visitor requested a cup of coffee: he had to turn to Pantaleone (Emil still hadn’t returned from Mr. Klüber’s shop). Sanin sat down next to Gemma again. Frau Lenore continued to doze, to her daughter’s great pleasure.

“Mama’s migraine passes when she sleeps,” she remarked.

Sanin spoke — of course, still in a whisper — about his “trading”; he inquired very seriously about the price of various “confectionery” goods; Gemma just as seriously told him these prices, and all the while both inwardly and heartily laughed, as if aware that they were playing a very amusing comedy. Suddenly, a hurdy-gurdy on the street began to play an aria from “Der Freischütz”: “Durch die Felder, durch die Auen…” (Through the fields, through the meadows…) The tearful sounds whined, trembling and whistling, in the still air. Gemma flinched… “He’ll wake Mama!” Sanin immediately darted out onto the street, thrust several kreuzers into the hurdy-gurdy player’s hand — and made him stop and leave. When he returned, Gemma thanked him with a slight nod of her head and, smiling thoughtfully, began to softly hum the beautiful Weber melody with which Max expresses all the perplexities of first love. Then she asked Sanin if he knew “Der Freischütz,” if he liked Weber, and added that although she herself was Italian, she loved such music most of all. From Weber, the conversation slid to poetry and romanticism, to Hoffmann, whom everyone still read back then…

And Frau Lenore continued to doze and even snored slightly, and the sun’s rays, breaking through the shutters in narrow strips, moved imperceptibly but constantly and traveled across the floor, across the furniture, across Gemma’s dress, across the leaves and petals of the flowers.

XII

It turned out that Gemma wasn’t too fond of Hoffmann and even found him… boring! The fantastically vague, northern element of his stories was largely inaccessible to her southern, bright nature. “It’s all fairy tales, it’s all written for children!” she asserted, not without disdain. The absence of poetry in Hoffmann was also vaguely felt by her. But there was one story of his, the title of which she had, however, forgotten, and which she liked very much; strictly speaking, she only liked the beginning of this story: she either hadn’t read the end, or had forgotten it too. It was about a young man who, somewhere, almost in a confectionery, meets a girl of striking beauty, a Greek woman; she is accompanied by a mysterious and strange, evil old man. The young man falls in love with the girl at first sight; she looks at him so piteously, as if begging him to free her… He leaves for a moment — and, returning to the confectionery, finds neither the girl nor the old man; he rushes to look for her, constantly stumbling upon their freshest traces, chases after them — and can in no way, nowhere, never reach them. The beauty disappears from him forever and ever — and he is unable to forget her imploring gaze, and he is tormented by the thought that, perhaps, all the happiness of his life has slipped from his hands…

Hoffmann hardly ends his story in this manner; but this is how it formed, how it remained in Gemma’s memory.

“It seems to me,” she said, “such encounters and such partings happen in the world more often than we think.”

Sanin remained silent… and a little later, he began to speak… about Mr. Klüber. He mentioned him for the first time; he had not once remembered him until that moment.

Gemma, in turn, remained silent and became thoughtful, gently biting the nail of her index finger and gazing to the side. Then she praised her fiancé, mentioned the excursion he had arranged for the next day, and, quickly glancing at Sanin, fell silent again.

Sanin didn’t know what to talk about.

Emil noisily ran in and woke Frau Lenore… Sanin was glad to see him.

Frau Lenore rose from the armchair. Pantaleone appeared and announced that dinner was ready. The family friend, ex-singer, and servant also performed the duties of a cook.

XIII

Sanin stayed even after dinner. They wouldn’t let him leave, using the same excuse of the terrible heat, and when the heat subsided, they suggested going to the garden for coffee in the shade of the acacia trees. Sanin agreed. He felt very good. In the monotonously quiet and smooth flow of life lie great charms — and he surrendered to them with pleasure, demanding nothing special from the present day, nor thinking about tomorrow, nor recalling yesterday. What was the value of just the proximity of a girl like Gemma! He would soon part with her, probably forever; but as long as the same skiff, as in Uhland’s romance, carried them along life’s subdued streams — rejoice, enjoy, traveler! And everything seemed pleasant and sweet to the happy traveler. Frau Lenore suggested they play tressette (a simple Italian card game) with her and Pantaleone — she taught him this uncomplicated Italian card game — beat him out of a few kreuzers — and he was very pleased; Pantaleone, at Emil’s request, made the poodle Tartaglia perform all his tricks — and Tartaglia jumped over a stick, “talked,” that is, barked, sneezed, locked the door with his nose, dragged out his master’s worn-out slipper, and finally, with an old shako on his head, impersonated Marshal Bernadotte, enduring harsh reproaches from Emperor Napoleon for treason. Napoleon was, of course, portrayed by Pantaleone — and very accurately: he crossed his arms over his chest, pulled his tricorn hat over his eyes, and spoke roughly and sharply, in French, but, good heavens! in what French! Tartaglia sat before his master, completely hunched over, with his tail tucked between his legs, blinking confusedly and squinting under the brim of the crookedly tilted shako; from time to time, when Napoleon raised his voice, Bernadotte would rise onto his hind legs. “Fuori, traditore!” (Out, traitor!) Napoleon finally shouted, forgetting in the excess of his irritation that he ought to have maintained his French character to the end — and Bernadotte scurried headlong under the sofa, but immediately darted out from there with a joyful bark, as if indicating that the performance was over. All the spectators laughed a lot — and Sanin most of all.

Gemma had a particularly sweet, continuous, quiet laugh with tiny, very amusing squeals… Sanin was so moved by this laughter — he would have kissed her for those squeals!

Night finally fell. One had to know when to leave! After saying goodbye several times to everyone, telling everyone “until tomorrow!” several times (he even embraced Emil), Sanin set off for home and carried with him the image of the young girl, sometimes laughing, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes calm and even indifferent — but constantly captivating! Her eyes, sometimes wide open and bright and joyful like day, sometimes half-veiled by lashes and deep and dark like night, remained before his eyes, strangely and sweetly permeating all other images and thoughts.

Of Mr. Klüber, of the reasons that compelled him to stay in Frankfurt — in short, of everything that had troubled him the day before — he did not think once.

XIV

However, a few words must be said about Sanin himself.

Firstly, he was very handsome. A stately, slender build, pleasant, slightly soft features, gentle bluish eyes, golden hair, fair and rosy skin — and most importantly: that ingenuously cheerful, trusting, open, at first a little naive expression, by which in former times one could immediately recognize the children of respectable noble families, “father’s sons,” good young masters, born and fattened in our free, semi-steppe regions; a slightly halting walk, a slightly lisping voice, a smile like a child’s, the moment you looked at him… finally, freshness, health — and softness, softness, softness — that’s Sanin for you. And secondly, he was not foolish and had picked up a few things. He remained fresh, despite his trip abroad: the anxious feelings that beset the better part of the youth of that time were little known to him.

Lately, in our literature, after a futile search for “new people,” young men have begun to be depicted who are determined to be fresh at all costs… fresh as Flensburg oysters imported to St. Petersburg… Sanin was not like them. If comparisons are to be made, he was more like a young, curly, recently grafted apple tree in our black-earth gardens — or, even better: a well-groomed, sleek, thick-legged, gentle three-year-old from former “master’s” horse farms, just beginning to be broken in on the lunge line… Those who encountered Sanin later, when life had considerably broken him and the youthful, affected plumpness had long since left him, saw a completely different man in him.

The next day, Sanin was still in bed when Emil, in festive clothes, with a walking stick in his hand and heavily pomaded, burst into his room and announced that Herr Klüber would arrive shortly with a carriage, that the weather promised to be amazing, that everything was already ready, but that Mama would not go because her head ached again. He began to hurry Sanin, assuring him that there was no minute to lose… And indeed: Mr. Klüber found Sanin still dressing. He knocked on the door, entered, bowed, bent his body, expressed his readiness to wait as long as necessary — and sat down, elegantly resting his hat on his knee. The respectable clerk was dressed up and heavily perfumed: every movement of his was accompanied by an increased waft of the finest fragrance. He arrived in a spacious open carriage, a so-called landau, pulled by two strong and tall, though not handsome, horses. A quarter of an hour later, Sanin, Klüber, and Emil solemnly pulled up to the confectionery’s porch in that very carriage. Madam Roselli flatly refused to participate in the outing; Gemma wanted to stay with her mother, but her mother, as they say, sent her away.

“I don’t need anyone,” she insisted, “I will sleep. I would even send Pantaleone with you, but there would be no one to mind the shop.”

“Can we take Tartaglia?” asked Emil.

“Of course, you can.”

Tartaglia immediately, with joyful effort, scrambled onto the driver’s seat and sat down, licking his chops: it was clearly a familiar routine for him. Gemma put on a large straw hat with brown ribbons; the hat dipped low in front, almost completely shielding her face from the sun. The line of shadow stopped just above her lips: they glowed virginally and tenderly, like the petals of a hundred-leaved rose, and her teeth gleamed furtively — also innocently, like a child’s. Gemma sat in the back seat, next to Sanin; Klüber and Emil sat opposite. The pale figure of Frau Lenore appeared at the window, Gemma waved her handkerchief at her — and the horses set off.

XV

Soden is a small town about half an hour’s distance from Frankfurt. It lies in a beautiful area, on the foothills of the Taunus mountains, and is known in Russia for its waters, supposedly beneficial for people with weak lungs. Frankfurt residents mostly go there for entertainment, as Soden boasts a beautiful park and various “Wirtschaften” (inns or taverns) where one can drink beer and coffee in the shade of tall linden and maple trees. The road from Frankfurt to Soden runs along the right bank of the Main River and is entirely lined with fruit trees. As the carriage quietly rolled along the excellent highway, Sanin secretly observed how Gemma interacted with her fiancé: it was his first time seeing them both together. She was calm and simple in her demeanor — but somewhat more reserved and serious than usual; he looked like a condescending mentor who had permitted himself and his subordinates a modest and polite pleasure. Sanin did not notice any particular attentiveness or what the French call “empressement” (eagerness/ardor) from him towards Gemma. It was clear that Mr. Klüber considered this matter settled, and therefore had no reason to fuss or worry. But condescension did not leave him for a single moment! Even during the long pre-dinner stroll through the wooded mountains and valleys beyond Soden; even while enjoying the beauties of nature, he related to it, to this very nature, with the same condescension, through which his usual managerial strictness occasionally broke through. For example, he remarked about one stream that it flowed too straight through the hollow, instead of making several picturesque bends; he also disapproved of the behavior of a certain bird — a chaffinch — which did not vary its trills sufficiently! Gemma was not bored and even seemed to be enjoying herself; but Sanin did not recognize the former Gemma in her: it wasn’t that a shadow had fallen upon her — never had her beauty been more radiant — but her soul had withdrawn into herself. With her parasol open and her gloves unfastened, she walked sedately, unhurriedly — as educated young ladies walk — and spoke little. Emil also felt constrained, and Sanin even more so. He, incidentally, was somewhat embarrassed by the fact that the conversation was constantly in German. Only Tartaglia was not downhearted! With furious barking, he chased after any blackbirds he encountered, leaped over ruts, stumps, snags, plunged headlong into the water and hastily lapped it up, shook himself off, yelped, and again darted like an arrow, his red tongue flung over his shoulder. Mr. Klüber, for his part, did everything he deemed necessary to entertain the company; he asked them to sit in the shade of a spreading oak — and, pulling out a small booklet from his side pocket, titled: “Knallerbsen, oder Du sollst und wirst lachen!” (Firecrackers, or You Shall and Will Laugh!), began to read amusing anecdotes with which this booklet was filled. He read about twelve of them; however, he elicited little merriment: only Sanin, out of politeness, bared his teeth, and he himself, Mr. Klüber, after each anecdote, produced a short, businesslike — and yet condescending — laugh. By twelve o’clock, the entire company returned to Soden, to the best tavern there.

Dinner was to be arranged.

Mr. Klüber suggested having this dinner in an enclosed gazebo — “im Gartensalon” (in the garden salon); but then Gemma suddenly rebelled and declared that she would not dine otherwise than outdoors, in the garden, at one of the small tables set up in front of the tavern; that she was tired of being with the same faces all the time and that she wanted to see others. Groups of newly arrived guests were already seated at some of the tables.

While Mr. Klüber, condescendingly submitting to “his fiancée’s whim,” went to consult with the headwaiter, Gemma stood motionless, her eyes cast down and her lips pressed together; she felt that Sanin was gazing at her persistently and as if questioningly — this, it seemed, angered her. Finally, Mr. Klüber returned, announced that dinner would be ready in half an hour, and suggested playing ninepins until then, adding that it was very good for the appetite, heh-heh-heh! He played ninepins masterfully; throwing the ball, he struck surprisingly dashing poses, gracefully flexing his muscles, gracefully swinging and shaking his leg. In his own way, he was an athlete — and excellently built! And his hands were so white and beautiful, and he wiped them with such a rich, golden-patterned, Indian foulard (a type of soft silk fabric)!

The moment for dinner arrived — and the whole company sat down at the table.

XVI

Who doesn’t know what a German dinner is like? Watery soup with lumpy dumplings and cinnamon, boiled beef, dry as cork, with clinging white fat, slimy potatoes, puffy beets, and chewed horseradish, bluish eel with capers and vinegar, roasted meat with jam, and the inevitable “Mehlspeise” (flour dish), something like a pudding, with a sour red sauce; but the wine and beer are excellent! It was precisely such a dinner that the Soden innkeeper served his guests. However, the dinner itself passed off successfully. No particular animation was observed, it’s true; it didn’t even appear when Mr. Klüber proposed a toast to “what we love!” (was wir lieben!). Everything was far too proper and decent. After dinner, coffee was served, thin, brownish, typically German coffee. Mr. Klüber, like a true gentleman, asked Gemma for permission to light a cigar… But then something unforeseen and certainly unpleasant — and even indecent — suddenly happened!

At one of the neighboring tables sat several officers from the Mainz garrison. From their glances and whispers, it was easy to guess that Gemma’s beauty had struck them; one of them, who had probably already been to Frankfurt, kept looking at her as if at a figure he knew well: he evidently knew who she was. He suddenly stood up, glass in hand — the gentlemen officers had been drinking heavily, and the entire tablecloth before them was covered with bottles — and approached the table where Gemma was sitting. He was a very young, blond man, with rather pleasant and even sympathetic features; but the wine he had drunk distorted them: his cheeks twitched, his inflamed eyes wandered and took on an insolent expression. His comrades initially tried to restrain him, but then let him go: come what may — what, after all, would come of it?

Slightly swaying on his feet, the officer stopped before Gemma and, in a forcibly loud voice, in which, despite himself, a struggle with himself was still evident, declared: “I drink to the health of the most beautiful coffee-girl in all of Frankfurt, in all the world (he drained his glass at once) — and in retribution, I take this flower, plucked by her divine fingers!” He took a rose from the table that lay before Gemma’s place setting. At first, she was astonished, frightened, and turned terribly pale… then her fright gave way to indignation; she suddenly flushed all over, to her very hair — and her eyes, directed straight at her aggressor, at once darkened and flared up, filled with gloom, ignited with the fire of uncontrollable anger. The officer must have been disconcerted by this look; he muttered something inarticulate, bowed, and returned to his comrades. They greeted him with laughter and light applause.

Mr. Klüber suddenly rose from his chair and, stretching to his full height and putting on his hat, with dignity, but not too loudly, pronounced: “This is unheard of! Unheard of insolence!” (Unerhört! Unerhörte Frechheit!) — and immediately, in a stern voice, summoned the waiter and demanded the bill at once… not only that: he ordered the carriage to be hitched, adding that decent people could not come there, as they were subjected to insults! At these words, Gemma, who continued to sit motionless in her place — her chest heaving sharply and high — Gemma turned her eyes to Mr. Klüber… and looked at him just as intently, with the exact same gaze, as she had at the officer. Emil simply trembled with rage.

“Stand up, my young lady,” Mr. Klüber said with the same sternness, “it is improper for you to remain here. We shall settle inside the inn!”

Gemma rose silently; he offered her his arm in a bend, she gave him hers — and he walked towards the inn with a majestic gait that, like his bearing, became ever more majestic and haughty the further he moved from the place where dinner had occurred. Poor Emil trudged after them.

But while Mr. Klüber settled the bill with the waiter, to whom, as a penalty, he did not give a single kreuzer for a tip, Sanin quickly approached the table where the officers were sitting — and, addressing Gemma’s aggressor (who at that moment was letting his comrades alternately sniff her rose) — said clearly, in French:

“What you have just done, sir, is unworthy of an honest man, unworthy of the uniform you wear — and I have come to tell you that you are an ill-mannered boor!”

The young man jumped to his feet, but another, older officer stopped him with a motion of his hand, made him sit down, and, turning to Sanin, asked him, also in French:

“Is he a relative, brother, or fiancé of that young lady?”

“I am a complete stranger to her,” Sanin exclaimed, “I am Russian, but I cannot indifferently witness such insolence; however, here is my card and my address: the gentleman officer can find me.”

Having said these words, Sanin threw his visiting card on the table and at the same time deftly snatched Gemma’s rose, which one of the officers sitting at the table had dropped onto his plate. The young man again wanted to jump up from his chair, but his comrade again stopped him, saying: “Dönhof, quiet!” (Dönhof, sei still!). Then he himself rose — and, saluting, not without a certain shade of respect in his voice and manners, told Sanin that tomorrow morning an officer of their regiment would have the honor of calling on him at his lodging. Sanin replied with a short bow and hastily returned to his friends.

Mr. Klüber pretended that he had not noticed either Sanin’s absence or his explanation with the officers; he urged on the coachman who was harnessing the horses and was greatly angered by his slowness. Gemma also said nothing to Sanin, did not even look at him: from her furrowed brows, her pale and compressed lips, from her very immobility, it was clear that she was distressed. Only Emil clearly wished to speak with Sanin, wished to question him: he had seen Sanin approach the officers, seen him give them something white — a scrap of paper, a note, a card… The poor youth’s heart pounded, his cheeks burned, he was ready to throw his arms around Sanin’s neck, ready to cry, or to go immediately with him and smash all those disgusting officers to smithereens! However, he restrained himself and was content with closely observing every movement of his noble Russian friend!

The coachman finally harnessed the horses; the whole company got into the carriage. Emil, following Tartaglia, climbed onto the coach box; it was freer for him there, and Klüber, whom he could not bear to see, was not sticking out in front of him.

Throughout the journey, Herr Klüber harangued… and harangued alone; no one, no one contradicted him, nor did anyone agree with him. He particularly insisted on how foolish it was not to have listened to him when he suggested dining in the enclosed gazebo. No unpleasantness would have occurred! Then he expressed several sharp and even liberal judgments about how the government unpardonably indulges officers, fails to monitor their discipline, and does not sufficiently respect the civilian element of society (das bürgerliche Element in der Societät) — and how this in time gives rise to discontent, from which it is not far to revolution, of which France serves as a sad example (here he sighed sympathetically, but sternly) — a sad example! However, he immediately added that he personally revered authority and never… never!… would be a revolutionary — but could not help but express his… disapproval at the sight of such dissoluteness! Then he added a few more general remarks about morality and immorality, about propriety and the sense of dignity!

During all these “harangues,” Gemma, who even during the pre-dinner walk had not seemed entirely pleased with Mr. Klüber — which was why she kept somewhat distant from Sanin and seemed somewhat embarrassed by his presence — Gemma evidently began to be ashamed of her fiancé! By the end of the trip, she was positively suffering, and although she still did not speak to Sanin, she suddenly cast an imploring glance at him… For his part, he felt much more pity for her than indignation towards Mr. Klüber; he even secretly, semiconsciously rejoiced at everything that had happened during that day, although he could expect a challenge the next morning.

This tormenting partie de plaisir (pleasure outing) finally ended. As he helped Gemma out of the carriage in front of the confectionery, Sanin, without saying a word, placed the returned rose in her hand. She flushed all over, squeezed his hand, and instantly hid the rose. He did not want to enter the house, although the evening had just begun. She herself did not invite him. Moreover, Pantaleone, who appeared on the porch, announced that Frau Lenore was resting. Emilio shyly said goodbye to Sanin; he seemed to shy away from him: he was so amazed by him. Klüber drove Sanin to his lodging and bowed stiffly to him. The properly ordered German, for all his self-confidence, felt awkward. Indeed, everyone felt awkward.

However, in Sanin, this feeling — the feeling of awkwardness — soon dissipated. It was replaced by an undefined, but pleasant, even ecstatic mood. He paced the room, did not want to think about anything, whistled — and was very pleased with himself.

XVII

“I’ll wait for the gentleman officer for an explanation until 10 AM,” he mused the next morning while dressing, “and then let him find me!” But Germans rise early: it was not yet nine o’clock when the waiter announced to Sanin that a Mr. Second Lieutenant (der Herr Seconde Lieutenant) von Richter wished to see him. Sanin quickly donned his frock coat and ordered him to be “shown in.” Mr. Richter turned out, contrary to Sanin’s expectation, to be a very young man, almost a boy. He tried to give an air of importance to his beardless face, but he failed entirely: he couldn’t even conceal his embarrassment — and, sitting down in a chair, almost fell, catching on his saber. Stammering and stuttering, he announced to Sanin in poor French that he had come on a mission from his friend, Baron von Dönhof; that this mission consisted of demanding an apology from Mr. von Sanin for the insulting expressions he had used the day before; and that in case of refusal from Mr. von Sanin — Baron von Dönhof desired satisfaction. Sanin replied that he had no intention of apologizing, but was ready to give satisfaction. Then Mr. von Richter, still stammering, asked with whom, at what time, and in what place he would have to conduct the necessary negotiations. Sanin replied that he could come to him in about two hours and that until then he, Sanin, would try to find a second. (“Whom the devil will I take as a second?” he thought to himself in the meantime.) Mr. von Richter stood up and began to bow… but stopped at the threshold of the door, as if feeling a pang of conscience — and, turning to Sanin, murmured that his friend, Baron von Dönhof, did not conceal from himself… to some extent… his own fault in yesterday’s incident — and therefore would be satisfied with slight apologies — “des excuses légères” (slight excuses). To this, Sanin replied that he had no intention of offering any apologies, neither severe nor slight, as he did not consider himself at fault.

“In that case,” Mr. von Richter objected and blushed even more, “we will have to exchange friendly shots — des coups de pistolet à l’amiable!” (friendly pistol shots!).

“That I don’t understand at all,” Sanin remarked, “are we to shoot into the air, or what?”

“Oh, not that, not that way,” the utterly flustered second lieutenant stammered, “but I supposed that since the matter is between gentlemen… I will speak with your second,” he interrupted himself — and withdrew.

Sanin sank into a chair as soon as the other left and stared at the floor. “What is this?” he wondered. “How did life suddenly spin like this? All the past, all the future suddenly blurred, vanished — and only the fact that I’m in Frankfurt fighting someone for something remained.” He remembered his crazy aunt, who used to always dance and sing:

Second Lieutenant!

My little cucumber!

My little love!

Dance with me, my dove!

And he burst out laughing and sang, like her: “Second Lieutenant! Dance with me, my dove!”

“But I must act, not waste time,” he exclaimed loudly, jumped up, and saw Pantaleone before him with a note in his hand.

“I knocked several times, but you didn’t answer; I thought you weren’t home,” the old man murmured and handed him the note. “From Signorina Gemma.”

Sanin took the note — mechanically, as they say — opened it, and read it. Gemma wrote that she was very worried about the matter known to him and wished to see him immediately.

“The signorina is worried,” began Pantaleone, who obviously knew the content of the note, “she told me to see what you were doing and bring you to her.”

Sanin looked at the old Italian — and pondered. A sudden thought flashed in his head. At first, it seemed impossibly strange…

“However… why not?” he asked himself.

“Mr. Pantaleone!” he said loudly.

The old man started, buried his chin in his cravat, and stared at Sanin.

“You know,” Sanin continued, “what happened yesterday?”

Pantaleone chewed his lips and shook his enormous topknot.

“I know.”

(Emil had just returned and told him everything.)

“Ah, you know! Well, then listen. An officer just left here. That boor challenges me to a duel. I accepted his challenge. But I have no second. Do you want to be my second?”

Pantaleone flinched and raised his eyebrows so high that they disappeared under his overhanging hair.

“Must you fight?” he finally said in Italian; until that moment he had been speaking in French.

“Absolutely. To do otherwise would be to disgrace myself forever.”

“Hmm. If I don’t agree to be your second — will you look for another?”

“I will… absolutely.”

Pantaleone looked down.

“But allow me to ask you, Signor de-Zanini, will your duel not cast some unseemly shadow on the reputation of a certain person?”

“I don’t think so; but be that as it may — there’s nothing to be done!”

“Hmm.” Pantaleone was completely lost in his cravat. “Well, and that ferroflucto Klüberio, what about him?” he suddenly exclaimed and lifted his face upwards.

“He? Nothing.”

“Che!” (What!) Pantaleone contemptuously shrugged his shoulders. “I must, in any case, thank you,” he finally said in an unsteady voice, “that even in my present humiliation you were able to recognize a decent man in me — un galantuomo!” (a gentleman!) By acting in this way, you yourself have shown yourself to be a true galantuomo. But I must consider your proposal.

“Time is pressing, my dear Mr. Chi… Chippa…”

“Tola,” the old man prompted. “I ask for only one hour to reflect. The daughter of my benefactors is involved here… And therefore I must, I am obliged — to think!! In an hour… in three-quarters of an hour — you will know my decision.”

“Very well; I will wait.”

“And now… what answer shall I give to Signorina Gemma?”

Sanin took a sheet of paper, wrote on it: “Be at ease, my dear friend, in about three hours I will come to you — and all will be explained. I thank you heartily for your concern” — and handed this slip to Pantaleone.

The latter carefully placed it in his side pocket — and, repeating once more: “In an hour!” — started towards the door; but sharply turned back, ran up to Sanin, seized his hand — and, pressing it to his jabot, looking up to the sky, exclaimed: “Noble youth! Great heart! (Nobil giovanotto! Gran cuore!) — allow a weak old man (a un vecchiotto) to shake your brave right hand! (la vostra valorosa destra!).” Then he recoiled a little, waved both hands — and departed.

Sanin watched him go… picked up a newspaper and began to read. But his eyes ran over the lines in vain: he understood nothing.

XVII

“I’ll wait for the gentleman officer for an explanation until 10 AM,” he mused the next morning while dressing, “and then let him find me!” But Germans rise early: it was not yet nine o’clock when the waiter announced to Sanin that a Mr. Second Lieutenant (der Herr Seconde Lieutenant) von Richter wished to see him. Sanin quickly donned his frock coat and ordered him to be “shown in.” Mr. Richter turned out, contrary to Sanin’s expectation, to be a very young man, almost a boy. He tried to give an air of importance to his beardless face, but he failed entirely: he couldn’t even conceal his embarrassment — and, sitting down in a chair, almost fell, catching on his saber. Stammering and stuttering, he announced to Sanin in poor French that he had come on a mission from his friend, Baron von Dönhof; that this mission consisted of demanding an apology from Mr. von Sanin for the insulting expressions he had used the day before; and that in case of refusal from Mr. von Sanin — Baron von Dönhof desired satisfaction. Sanin replied that he had no intention of apologizing, but was ready to give satisfaction. Then Mr. von Richter, still stammering, asked with whom, at what time, and in what place he would have to conduct the necessary negotiations. Sanin replied that he could come to him in about two hours and that until then he, Sanin, would try to find a second. (“Whom the devil will I take as a second?” he thought to himself in the meantime.) Mr. von Richter stood up and began to bow… but stopped at the threshold of the door, as if feeling a pang of conscience — and, turning to Sanin, murmured that his friend, Baron von Dönhof, did not conceal from himself… to some extent… his own fault in yesterday’s incident — and therefore would be satisfied with slight apologies — “des excuses légères” (slight excuses). To this, Sanin replied that he had no intention of offering any apologies, neither severe nor slight, as he did not consider himself at fault.

“In that case,” Mr. von Richter objected and blushed even more, “we will have to exchange friendly shots — des coups de pistolet à l’amiable!” (friendly pistol shots!).

“That I don’t understand at all,” Sanin remarked, “are we to shoot into the air, or what?”

“Oh, not that, not that way,” the utterly flustered second lieutenant stammered, “but I supposed that since the matter is between gentlemen… I will speak with your second,” he interrupted himself — and withdrew.

Sanin sank into a chair as soon as the other left and stared at the floor. “What is this?” he wondered. “How did life suddenly spin like this? All the past, all the future suddenly blurred, vanished — and only the fact that I’m in Frankfurt fighting someone for something remained.” He remembered his crazy aunt, who used to always dance and sing:

Second Lieutenant!

My little cucumber!

My little love!

Dance with me, my dove!

And he burst out laughing and sang, like her: “Second Lieutenant! Dance with me, my dove!”

“But I must act, not waste time,” he exclaimed loudly, jumped up, and saw Pantaleone before him with a note in his hand.

“I knocked several times, but you didn’t answer; I thought you weren’t home,” the old man murmured and handed him the note. “From Signorina Gemma.”

Sanin took the note — mechanically, as they say — opened it, and read it. Gemma wrote that she was very worried about the matter known to him and wished to see him immediately.

“The signorina is worried,” began Pantaleone, who obviously knew the content of the note, “she told me to see what you were doing and bring you to her.”

Sanin looked at the old Italian — and pondered. A sudden thought flashed in his head. At first, it seemed impossibly strange…

“However… why not?” he asked himself.

“Mr. Pantaleone!” he said loudly.

The old man started, buried his chin in his cravat, and stared at Sanin.

“You know,” Sanin continued, “what happened yesterday?”

Pantaleone chewed his lips and shook his enormous topknot.

“I know.”

(Emil had just returned and told him everything.)

“Ah, you know! Well, then listen. An officer just left here. That boor challenges me to a duel. I accepted his challenge. But I have no second. Do you want to be my second?”

Pantaleone flinched and raised his eyebrows so high that they disappeared under his overhanging hair.

“Must you fight?” he finally said in Italian; until that moment he had been speaking in French.

“Absolutely. To do otherwise would be to disgrace myself forever.”

“Hmm. If I don’t agree to be your second — will you look for another?”

“I will… absolutely.”

Pantaleone looked down.

“But allow me to ask you, Signor de-Zanini, will your duel not cast some unseemly shadow on the reputation of a certain person?”

“I don’t think so; but be that as it may — there’s nothing to be done!”

“Hmm.” Pantaleone was completely lost in his cravat. “Well, and that ferroflucto Klüberio, what about him?” he suddenly exclaimed and lifted his face upwards.

“He? Nothing.”

“Che!” (What!) Pantaleone contemptuously shrugged his shoulders. “I must, in any case, thank you,” he finally said in an unsteady voice, “that even in my present humiliation you were able to recognize a decent man in me — un galantuomo!” (a gentleman!) By acting in this way, you yourself have shown yourself to be a true galantuomo. But I must consider your proposal.

“Time is pressing, my dear Mr. Chi… Chippa…”

“Tola,” the old man prompted. “I ask for only one hour to reflect. The daughter of my benefactors is involved here… And therefore I must, I am obliged — to think!! In an hour… in three-quarters of an hour — you will know my decision.”

“Very well; I will wait.”

“And now… what answer shall I give to Signorina Gemma?”

Sanin took a sheet of paper, wrote on it: “Be at ease, my dear friend, in about three hours I will come to you — and all will be explained. I thank you heartily for your concern” — and handed this slip to Pantaleone.

The latter carefully placed it in his side pocket — and, repeating once more: “In an hour!” — started towards the door; but sharply turned back, ran up to Sanin, seized his hand — and, pressing it to his jabot, looking up to the sky, exclaimed: “Noble youth! Great heart! (Nobil giovanotto! Gran cuore!) — allow a weak old man (a un vecchiotto) to shake your brave right hand! (la vostra valorosa destra!).” Then he recoiled a little, waved both hands — and departed.

Sanin watched him go… picked up a newspaper and began to read. But his eyes ran over the lines in vain: he understood nothing.

XIX

Emil ran out to meet Sanin — he had been waiting for his arrival for over an hour — and hurriedly whispered in his ear that their mother knew nothing of yesterday’s unpleasantness and that it shouldn’t even be hinted at, and that he was being sent to the shop again!!, but that he wouldn’t go there, but would hide somewhere! Having conveyed all this in a few seconds, he suddenly pressed himself against Sanin’s shoulder, impetuously kissed him, and rushed down the street. In the confectionery, Gemma met Sanin; she wanted to say something — and couldn’t. Her lips trembled slightly, and her eyes narrowed and darted around. He hastened to reassure her by asserting that the whole matter had ended… in absolute trifles.

“You had no visitors today?” she asked.

“I had one person — we had an explanation — and we… we came to a most satisfactory result.”

Gemma returned to the counter.

“She didn’t believe me!” he thought… however, he went into the next room and found Frau Lenore there.

Her migraine had passed, but she was in a melancholic mood. She smiled cordially at him, but at the same time warned him that he would be bored with her today, as she was unable to entertain him. He sat down next to her and noticed that her eyelids were red and swollen.

“What’s wrong, Frau Lenore? Have you been crying?”

“Shhh…” she whispered and gestured with her head towards the room where her daughter was. “Don’t say that… loudly.”

“But what were you crying about?”

“Oh, Monsieur Sanin, I don’t know myself what about!”

“Did no one upset you?”

“Oh no!… I suddenly felt very bored. I remembered Giovanni Battista… my youth… Then, how quickly it all passed. I’m getting old, my friend,” — and I simply cannot reconcile myself to it. I feel like I’m the same as before… but old age — here it is… here it is!” Tears appeared in Frau Lenore’s eyes. “You, I see, are looking at me and wondering… But you, too, will grow old, my friend, and you will know how bitter it is!”

Sanin began to comfort her, mentioning her children, in whom her own youth was resurrected, even trying to tease her by assuring her that she was fishing for compliments… But she, without joking, asked him to “stop,” and then for the first time he could see that such despondency, the despondency of recognized old age, could not be comforted or dispelled by anything; one had to wait until it passed of its own accord. He offered to play tressette with her — and he could not have thought of anything better. She immediately agreed and seemed to cheer up.

Sanin played with her until dinner and after dinner. Pantaleone also took part in the game. Never had his topknot fallen so low on his forehead, never had his chin disappeared so deeply into his cravat! Every movement of his breathed such concentrated importance that, looking at him, one involuntarily thought: what secret is this man guarding with such firmness?

But — segretezza! segretezza! (secrecy! secrecy!)

Throughout that day, he tried in every way to show the deepest respect to Sanin; at the table, solemnly and decisively, bypassing the ladies, he served dishes to him first; during the card game, he yielded the prikupka (a betting option in some card games) to him, did not dare to remize (defeat him in cards); he declared, out of the blue, that Russians were the most magnanimous, brave, and decisive people in the world!

“Oh, you old actor!” Sanin thought to himself.

And he was not so much surprised by the unexpected mood of Frau Roselli as by how her daughter behaved towards him. It wasn’t that she avoided him… on the contrary, she constantly sat a short distance from him, listened to his speeches, looked at him; but she decisively refused to engage in conversation with him, and as soon as he spoke to her — she quietly rose from her seat and quietly withdrew for a few moments. Then she would reappear, and again sit down somewhere in a corner — and sat motionless, as if pondering and bewildered… bewildered most of all. Frau Lenore herself finally noticed the unusualness of her behavior and asked twice what was wrong with her.

“Nothing,” Gemma replied, “you know, I sometimes get like this.”

“That’s true,” her mother agreed.

Thus passed this long day, neither lively nor sluggish — neither cheerful nor boring. Had Gemma acted differently — Sanin… who knows? he might not have coped with the temptation to show off a little or would have simply succumbed to a feeling of sadness before a possible, perhaps eternal, separation… But since he never even got to talk to Gemma, he had to be content with playing minor chords on the piano for a quarter of an hour before evening coffee.

Emil returned late and, to avoid questions about Mr. Klüber, retreated very quickly. It was Sanin’s turn to leave.

He began to say goodbye to Gemma. For some reason, the parting of Lensky and Olga in “Eugene Onegin” came to his mind. He tightly squeezed her hand and tried to look into her face — but she turned away slightly and freed her fingers.

XX

It was completely “starred” when he stepped onto the porch. And how many of them had appeared, these stars — large, small, yellow, red, blue, white! They glowed and swarmed, vying with each other in their play of rays. There was no moon in the sky, yet even without it, every object was clearly visible in the semi-lit, shadowless twilight. Sanin walked to the end of the street… He didn’t want to go straight home; he felt the need to wander in the fresh air. He turned back — and before he could even draw level with the house where Roselli’s confectionery was located, one of the street-facing windows suddenly rattled and opened — a female figure appeared in its black rectangle (there was no light in the room) — and he heard his name called: “Monsieur Dimitri!”

He immediately rushed to the window… Gemma!

She leaned her elbows on the windowsill and bent forward.

“Monsieur Dimitri,” she began in a cautious voice, “all day today I wanted to give you something… but I didn’t dare; and now, unexpectedly seeing you again, I thought that, evidently, it was destined to be…”

Gemma involuntarily stopped at that word. She couldn’t continue: something extraordinary happened at that very moment.

Suddenly, amidst the profound silence, under a completely cloudless sky, such a gust of wind swept through that the very earth seemed to tremble underfoot, the thin starlight quivered and streamed, the air itself spun in a whirlwind. The vortex, not cold but warm, almost scorching, struck the trees, the roof of the house, its walls, the street; it instantly snatched Sanin’s hat from his head, and whipped up and scattered Gemma’s black curls. Sanin’s head was level with the windowsill; he involuntarily pressed against it — and Gemma grasped his shoulders with both hands, leaning her chest against his head. The roar, clang, and rumble lasted about a minute… Like a flock of gigantic birds, the playful whirlwind rushed away… Deep silence returned.

Sanin straightened up and saw above him such a wondrous, frightened, excited face, such enormous, terrifying, magnificent eyes — he saw such a beauty, that his heart stood still; he pressed his lips to a thin lock of hair that had fallen onto his chest — and could only utter:

“Oh, Gemma!”

“What was that? Lightning?” she asked, wide-eyed, not removing her bare arms from his shoulders.

“Gemma!” Sanin repeated.

She shuddered, glanced back into the room — and with a swift movement, pulling an already withered rose from her bodice, she threw it to Sanin.

“I wanted to give you this flower…”

He recognized the rose he had fought for the day before…

But the window had already slammed shut, and nothing was visible or white behind the dark glass.

Sanin arrived home without his hat… He hadn’t even noticed that he had lost it.

XXI

He fell asleep towards morning. No wonder! Under the impact of that instantaneous summer whirlwind, he almost as instantaneously felt — not that Gemma was beautiful, not that he liked her — he had known that before… but that he had, perhaps, fallen in love with her! Instantly, like that whirlwind, love swept over him. And then this foolish duel! Sorrowful premonitions began to torment him. Well, suppose he wasn’t killed… What could come of his love for this girl, the fiancée of another? Suppose even that this “other” posed no threat to him, that Gemma herself would fall in love or had already fallen in love with him… What then? What then? Such a beauty…

He paced the room, sat down at the table, took a sheet of paper, scribbled a few lines on it — and immediately crossed them out… He recalled Gemma’s astonishing figure, in the dark window, under the starlight, all diffused by the warm whirlwind; he remembered her marble hands, like the hands of Olympian goddesses, felt their living weight on his shoulders… Then he picked up the rose she had thrown him — and it seemed to him that from its half-withered petals wafted a different, even subtler scent than the usual scent of roses…

“And what if he’s suddenly killed or maimed?”

He didn’t get into bed and fell asleep, dressed, on the sofa.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder…

He opened his eyes and saw Pantaleone.

“Sleeping like Alexander the Great on the eve of the Battle of Babylon!” the old man exclaimed.

“What time is it?” Sanin asked.

“Quarter to seven; two hours’ drive to Hanau, and we must be first on the spot. Russians always warn their enemies!” I’ve taken the best carriage in Frankfurt!

Sanin began to wash up.

“And where are the pistols?”

“The pistols will be brought by that ferroflucto tedesco (that German scoundrel). And he’ll bring the doctor too.”

Pantaleone was visibly cheerful, as he had been yesterday; but when he got into the carriage with Sanin, when the coachman cracked his whip and the horses set off at a gallop, a sudden change came over the former singer and friend of the Paduan dragoons. He became flustered, even terrified. Something seemed to collapse within him, like a poorly built wall.

“But what are we doing, my God, santissima Madonna!” (most holy Madonna!) he exclaimed in an unexpectedly squeaky voice and clutched his hair. “What am I doing, I old fool, madman, frenetico (frenetic)?”

Sanin was surprised and laughed and, lightly embracing Pantaleone by the waist, reminded him of the French proverb: “Le vin est tiré — il faut le boire” (The wine is drawn — it must be drunk), (in Russian: “Once you’ve grabbed the shaft, don’t say you’re not strong enough”).

“Yes, yes,” the old man replied, “we will drink this cup together, you and I — and yet I am mad! I am mad! Everything was so quiet, so good… and suddenly: ta-ta-ta, tra-ta-ta!”

“Like a tutti (all together, in music) in an orchestra,” Sanin remarked with a strained smile. “But you’re not to blame.”

“I know I’m not! Of course not! Still, it’s… such an unrestrained act. Diavolo! Diavolo!” (Devil! Devil!) Pantaleone repeated, shaking his topknot and sighing.

And the carriage rolled on and on.

The morning was lovely. The streets of Frankfurt, just beginning to stir, seemed so clean and cozy; the windows of the houses gleamed iridescently, like foil; and as soon as the carriage left the city gate — from above, from the blue, not yet bright sky, the melodious trills of larks poured down. Suddenly, at a bend in the highway, from behind a tall poplar, a familiar figure appeared, took a few steps, and stopped. Sanin peered closer… My God! Emil!

“Does he know anything?” he turned to Pantaleone.

“I tell you I’m mad,” the poor Italian cried out desperately, almost screaming, “that unfortunate boy didn’t let me rest all night — and this morning, finally, I told him everything!”

“So much for segretezza (secrecy)!” Sanin thought.

The carriage drew level with Emil; Sanin told the coachman to stop the horses and called the “unfortunate boy” to him. Emil approached with hesitant steps, pale, pale as on the day of his fit. He could barely stand.

“What are you doing here?” Sanin asked him sternly, “why aren’t you at home?”

“Allow me… allow me to come with you,” Emil stammered in a trembling voice and clasped his hands. His teeth chattered as if with fever. “I won’t bother you — just take me!”

“If you feel even a hair’s breadth of affection or respect for me,” Sanin said, “you will immediately return home or to Mr. Klüber’s shop, and tell no one a single word, and you will await my return!”

“Your return,” Emil moaned, and his voice rang out and broke off, “but if you…”

“Emil!” Sanin interrupted him and pointed his eyes at the coachman, “pull yourself together! Emil, please, go home! Listen to me, my friend! You assure me you love me. Well, I’m asking you!”

He extended his hand to him. Emil swayed forward, sobbed, pressed it to his lips — and, stepping off the road, ran back towards Frankfurt, across the field.

“Another noble heart,” Pantaleone murmured, but Sanin looked at him grimly… The old man buried himself in the corner of the carriage. He acknowledged his guilt; and besides, he was becoming more and more amazed with each passing moment: could it be that he had truly become a second, and he had obtained the horses, and arranged everything, and left his peaceful abode at six in the morning? Moreover, his legs began to ache and throb.

Sanin felt it necessary to encourage him — and hit the right chord, found the right word.

“Where is your former spirit, esteemed Signor Chippatola? Where is il antico valor (the ancient valor)?”

Signor Chippatola straightened up and frowned.

“Il antico valor?” he proclaimed in a bass voice. “Non è ancora spento (it is not yet all lost) — il antico valor!!”

He puffed himself up, began to talk about his career, about opera, about the great tenor Garcia — and arrived in Hanau a dashing fellow. When you think about it: there is nothing in the world stronger… and more powerless than words!

XXII

The copse where the skirmish was to take place was a quarter of a mile from Hanau. Sanin and Pantaleone arrived first, as he had predicted; they told the carriage to remain at the edge of the forest and plunged into the shade of the rather dense and frequent trees. They had to wait for about an hour.

The wait did not seem particularly tiresome to Sanin; he walked back and forth along the path, listened to the birds singing, watched the dragonflies flying by, and, like most Russians in similar situations, tried not to think. Only once did a thought occur to him: he stumbled upon a young linden tree, most likely broken by yesterday’s squall. It was positively dying… all its leaves were dying. “What is this? An omen?” flashed through his mind; but he immediately whistled, jumped over the linden tree, and strode down the path. Pantaleone — he grumbled, cursed the Germans, groaned, rubbed his back, then his knees. He even yawned from agitation, which gave a very amusing expression to his small, shriveled face. Sanin almost burst out laughing looking at him.

Finally, the rumbling of wheels on the soft road was heard. “They’re here!” Pantaleone murmured and became alert and straightened up, not without a momentary nervous tremor, which he, however, hastened to mask with an exclamation: Brrr! — and a remark that the morning was quite fresh. Abundant dew drenched the grasses and leaves, but the heat was already penetrating the forest itself.

Both officers soon appeared under its canopy; they were accompanied by a small, stout man with a phlegmatic, almost sleepy face — a military doctor. He carried an earthenware jug of water in one hand — just in case; a bag with surgical instruments and bandages dangled from his left shoulder. It was clear that he was thoroughly accustomed to such excursions; they constituted one of his sources of income: each duel brought him eight chervonets (gold coins) — four from each of the warring parties. Mr. von Richter carried a pistol case, Mr. von Dönhof twirled a small whip in his hand — probably for “show.”

“Pantaleone!” Sanin whispered to the old man, “if… if I am killed — anything can happen — take the paper from my side pocket — a flower is wrapped in it — and give that paper to Signorina Gemma. Do you hear? Do you promise?”

The old man looked at him dejectedly — and nodded affirmatively… But God knows if he understood what Sanin was asking of him.

The adversaries and seconds exchanged bows, as is customary; the doctor did not even bat an eyelid — and squatted down, yawning, on the grass: “I, for one, am not concerned with displays of chivalrous politeness.” Mr. von Richter invited Mr. “Tshibadola” to choose the spot; Mr. “Tshibadola” replied, thickly slurring his words (the “wall” in him had collapsed again), that: “You act, sir; I will observe.”…

And Mr. von Richter began to act. He immediately found a very pretty clearing in the forest, all speckled with flowers; he measured the paces, marked the two extreme points with hastily sharpened sticks, took the pistols out of the case and, squatting, loaded the bullets; in short, he toiled and bustled with all his might, constantly wiping his sweaty face with a white handkerchief. Pantaleone, who accompanied him, looked more like a man suffering from the cold. During all these preparations, both adversaries stood apart, resembling two punished schoolboys sulking at their tutors.

The decisive moment arrived…

Each took his pistol…

But then Mr. von Richter remarked to Pantaleone that he, as the senior second, should, according to the rules of a duel, before pronouncing the fatal: “One! two! three!”, address the adversaries with a final piece of advice and proposal: to reconcile; that although this proposal never has any consequences and is generally nothing more than an empty formality, by fulfilling this formality Mr. Chippatola absolves himself of some responsibility; that, it is true, such an allocution is the direct duty of the so-called “impartial witness” (unparteiischer Zeuge) — but since they had no such person, he, Mr. von Richter, gladly yielded this privilege to his esteemed colleague. Pantaleone, who had already managed to hide behind a bush so as not to see the offending officer at all, at first understood nothing of Mr. von Richter’s speech — especially as it was delivered nasally; but suddenly he started, quickly stepped forward and, convulsively beating his hands against his chest, cried out in a hoarse voice in his mixed dialect: “A-la-la-la… Che bestialità! Deux zeunommes comme ça que si battono — perchè? Che diavolo? Andate a casa!” (Oh-la-la-la… What foolishness! Two young men like that fighting — why? What the devil? Go home!)

“I do not agree to reconciliation,” Sanin said hastily.

“And I, too, do not agree,” his opponent repeated after him.

“Well then, call out: one, two, three!” von Richter turned to the dazed Pantaleone.

The latter immediately ducked back into the bush — and from there cried out, completely hunched over, eyes squeezed shut, and head turned away, but at the top of his voice:

“Una… due… e tre!” (One… two… and three!)

Sanin fired first — and missed. His bullet clanged against a tree. Baron Dönhof fired immediately after him — deliberately to the side, into the air.

A tense silence fell… No one moved from their spot. Pantaleone gave a weak groan.

“Do you wish to continue?” Dönhof said.

“Why did you fire into the air?” Sanin asked.

“That’s none of your business.”

“Will you fire into the air a second time?” Sanin asked again.

“Perhaps; I don’t know.”

“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me…” von Richter began, “duelists are not permitted to speak to each other. This is quite out of order.”

“I decline my shot,” Sanin said and dropped the pistol to the ground.

“And I, too, have no intention of continuing the duel,” Dönhof exclaimed and also dropped his pistol. “And besides, I am now ready to admit that I was in the wrong — the day before yesterday.”

He shuffled on the spot — and hesitantly extended his hand. Sanin quickly approached him — and shook it. Both young men looked at each other with a smile — and both their faces flushed.

“Bravi! bravi!” (Bravo! Bravo!) Pantaleone suddenly yelled like a madman and, clapping his hands, rushed out from behind the bush like a tumbler pigeon; and the doctor, who had sat down on a fallen tree nearby, immediately stood up, poured the water out of the jug, and walked, swaying lazily, towards the edge of the forest.

“Honor is satisfied — and the duel is over!” von Richter proclaimed.

“Fuori!” (Out!) Pantaleone barked once more, from old memory.

Having exchanged bows with the officers and getting into the carriage, Sanin, it’s true, felt throughout his being, if not pleasure, then a certain lightness, as after a successful operation; but another feeling stirred within him, a feeling akin to shame… The duel, in which he had just played his role, seemed to him a false, pre-arranged, routine officer’s or student’s trick. He remembered the phlegmatic doctor, remembered how he smiled — that is, wrinkled his nose — when he saw him emerging from the forest almost arm in arm with Baron Dönhof. And then, when Pantaleone paid the same doctor his due four chervonets… Ugh! Something felt wrong!

Yes; Sanin felt a little ashamed and embarrassed… although, on the other hand, what was he to do? Not leave the young officer’s insolence unpunished, not become like Mr. Klüber? He had stood up for Gemma, he had defended her… That was true; and yet, his soul felt scraped, and he was uneasy, and even ashamed.

But Pantaleone — he was simply triumphant! Pride had suddenly overcome him. A victorious general returning from a battle he had won would not have looked around with greater self-satisfaction. Sanin’s behavior during the duel filled him with enthusiasm. He called him a hero — and would not hear his admonitions or even requests. He compared him to a monument of marble or bronze — to the statue of the Commendatore in “Don Juan”! As for himself, he confessed that he had felt some confusion. “But I am an artist,” he remarked, “I have a nervous nature, and you are a son of snows and granite rocks.”

Sanin truly didn’t know how to calm the carried-away artist.

Almost at the very same spot on the road where, about two hours earlier, they had caught up with Emil — he again darted out from behind a tree and, with a joyful cry on his lips, waving his cap above his head and skipping, rushed directly to the carriage, barely avoiding being hit by a wheel, and, without waiting for the horses to stop, clambered through the closed doors — and clung to Sanin.

“You’re alive, you’re not wounded!” he repeated. “Forgive me, I didn’t listen to you, I didn’t go back to Frankfurt… I couldn’t! I waited for you here… Tell me how it was! Did you… kill him?”

Sanin with difficulty calmed and seated Emil.

Pantaleone, loquaciously and with visible pleasure, recounted all the details of the duel, and, of course, did not fail to mention again the bronze monument, the statue of the Commendatore! He even stood up from his seat and, spreading his legs for balance, crossing his arms on his chest and glancing scornfully over his shoulder, vividly impersonated the Commendatore-Sanin! Emil listened with reverence, occasionally interrupting the narrative with an exclamation or quickly rising and just as quickly kissing his heroic friend.

The carriage wheels clattered on the Frankfurt pavement — and finally stopped in front of the hotel where Sanin lived.

Accompanied by his two companions, he was ascending the stairs to the second floor — when suddenly a woman emerged from a dark corridor with quick steps: her face was covered by a veil; she stopped before Sanin, swayed slightly, sighed tremulously, immediately ran down to the street — and disappeared, to the great astonishment of the waiter, who announced that “this lady had been waiting for the gentleman foreigner’s return for over an hour.” As instantaneous as her appearance was, Sanin managed to recognize Gemma in her. He recognized her eyes under the thick silk of the brown veil.

“Was Fräulein Gemma aware…” he began in a displeased voice, in German, turning to Emil and Pantaleone, who were following him closely.

Emil blushed and became flustered.

“I was forced to tell her everything,” he stammered, “she guessed, and I simply couldn’t… But now it means nothing,” he added with animation, “everything ended so wonderfully, and she saw you healthy and unharmed!”

Sanin turned away.

“What gossips you both are, though!” he said with annoyance, entered his room, and sat down in a chair.

“Please don’t be angry,” Emil pleaded.

“All right, I won’t be angry. (Sanin truly wasn’t angry — and, after all, he could hardly have wished that Gemma had known nothing.) All right… enough hugging. Go now. I want to be alone. I’ll go to sleep. I’m tired.”

“Excellent idea!” Pantaleone exclaimed. “You need rest! You have fully earned it, noble Signor! Let’s go, Emilio! On tiptoes! On tiptoes! Shhh!”

Having said that he wanted to sleep, Sanin only wished to get rid of his companions; but, left alone, he truly felt a considerable fatigue in all his limbs: he had barely closed his eyes all the previous night and, throwing himself onto the bed, immediately fell into a deep sleep.

XXIII

For several hours he slept soundly. Then he began to dream that he was dueling again, that Mr. Klüber stood before him as his opponent, and on a Christmas tree sat a parrot, and this parrot was Pantaleone, and it kept repeating, clicking its beak: one-one-one! one-one-one!

“One… one… one!!” he heard far too clearly: he opened his eyes, raised his head… someone was knocking at his door.

“Come in!” Sanin shouted.

The waiter appeared and announced that a lady urgently needed to see him.

“Gemma!” flashed through his mind… but the lady turned out to be her mother — Frau Lenore.

As soon as she entered, she immediately sank into a chair and began to weep.

“What’s wrong, my good, dear Frau Roselli?” Sanin began, sitting next to her and gently, tenderly touching her hand. “What has happened? Please, calm down.”

“Oh, Herr Dimitri, I am very… very unhappy!”

“You are unhappy?”

“Oh, very! And could I have expected it? Suddenly, like thunder from a clear sky…”

She struggled to catch her breath.

“But what is it? Explain yourself! Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, thank you.” Frau Lenore wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and began to weep with renewed intensity. “Because I know everything! Everything!”

“What do you mean: everything?”

“Everything that happened today! And the reason… I also know! You acted like a noble man; but what an unfortunate turn of events! No wonder I didn’t like this trip to Soden… no wonder! (Frau Lenore had said no such thing on the day of the trip itself, but now it seemed to her that she had “foreseen everything” even then.) I came to you, as to a noble man, as to a friend, although I saw you for the first time five days ago… But I am a widow, alone… My daughter…”

Tears choked Frau Lenore’s voice. Sanin did not know what to think.

“Your daughter?” he repeated.

“My daughter, Gemma,” Frau Lenore burst out almost with a moan from beneath her tear-soaked handkerchief, “declared to me today that she does not want to marry Mr. Klüber and that I must refuse him!”

Sanin even recoiled slightly: he had not expected this.

“I am not even talking about the fact,” Frau Lenore continued, “that it is a disgrace, that it has never happened in the world for a fiancée to refuse her fiancé; but it is ruin for us, Herr Dimitri!” Frau Lenore carefully and tightly rolled her handkerchief into a tiny, tiny ball, as if she wanted to enclose all her sorrow within it. “We can no longer live on the income from our shop, Herr Dimitri! And Mr. Klüber is very rich and will be even richer. And why should she refuse him? Because he didn’t stand up for his fiancée? Let’s say that wasn’t entirely good on his part, but he is a civilian, not educated at a university, and, as a solid merchant, he had to disdain the frivolous prank of an unknown little officer. And what kind of insult is that, Herr Dimitri?”

“Excuse me, Frau Lenore, you sound as if you’re condemning me…”

“Not at all, I’m not condemning you at all! You are a completely different matter; you, like all Russians, are a military man…”

“Excuse me, I’m not at all…”

“You are a foreigner, a passerby, I am grateful to you,” Frau Lenore continued, not listening to Sanin. She was breathless, throwing her hands up, unfolding her handkerchief again and blowing her nose. From the very way her grief was expressed, one could see that she was not born under a northern sky.

“And how will Mr. Klüber conduct business in the shop if he’s going to fight with customers? That’s completely incongruous! And now I have to refuse him! But how will we live? Before, we were the only ones who made devichya kozha (a type of sweet pastry) and nougat with pistachios — and customers came to us, but now everyone makes devichya kozha!! Think about it: they’ll already be talking about your duel in town… can that be hidden? And suddenly the wedding is off! Why, it’s a scandal, a scandal! Gemma is a wonderful girl; she loves me very much, but she is a stubborn republican, she flaunts public opinion. You alone can persuade her!”

Sanin was even more astonished than before.

“Me, Frau Lenore?”

“Yes, you alone… You alone. That’s why I came to you: I couldn’t think of anything else! You are such a learned, such a good man! You stood up for her. She will believe you! She must believe you — you risked your life! You will prove to her, and I can do nothing more! You will prove to her that she will ruin herself and all of us. You saved my son — save my daughter too! God himself sent you here… I am ready to beg you on my knees…”

And Frau Lenore half-rose from her chair, as if about to fall at Sanin’s feet… He stopped her.

“Frau Lenore! For God’s sake! What are you doing?”

She clutched his hands convulsively.

“Do you promise?”

“Frau Lenore, consider, why should I…”

“Do you promise? You don’t want me to die right here, right now, before you?”

Sanin was at a loss. For the first time in his life, he had to deal with ignited Italian blood.

“I will do whatever you wish!” he exclaimed. “I will speak with Fräulein Gemma…”

Frau Lenore cried out with joy.

“Only, truly, I don’t know what the result might be…”

“Oh, don’t refuse, don’t refuse!” Frau Lenore said in an imploring voice, “you have already agreed! The result will surely be excellent. In any case, I can do nothing more! She will not listen to me!”

“Did she so resolutely declare her unwillingness to marry Mr. Klüber?” Sanin asked after a short silence.

“As if cut with a knife! She’s exactly like her father, like Giovanni Battista! Troublesome!”

“Troublesome? She?…” Sanin repeated slowly.

“Yes… yes… but she is also an angel. She will listen to you. Will you come, will you come soon? Oh, my dear Russian friend!” Frau Lenore impulsively rose from her chair and just as impulsively embraced the head of Sanin, who sat before her. “Receive a mother’s blessing — and give me some water!”

Sanin brought Frau Roselli a glass of water, gave her his word of honor that he would come immediately, escorted her down the stairs to the street — and, returning to his room, even clapped his hands and widened his eyes.

“This,” he thought, “this is now how life has spun! And it has spun so fast that my head is reeling.” He did not even try to look within himself, to understand what was happening there: confusion — and that’s it! “What a day!” his lips involuntarily whispered. “Troublesome… her mother says… And I’m supposed to advise her — her?! And what to advise?!”

Sanin’s head was indeed spinning — and above this whirlwind of diverse sensations, impressions, unsaid thoughts, the image of Gemma constantly floated, that image that had so indelibly etched itself into his memory on that warm, electrically charged night, in that dark window, under the rays of the swarming stars!

XXIV

With hesitant steps, Sanin approached Frau Roselli’s house. His heart beat strongly; he distinctly felt and even heard it pounding against his ribs. What would he say to Gemma, how would he speak to her? He entered the house not through the confectionery, but through the back porch. In the small antechamber, he met Frau Lenore. She was both glad to see him and frightened.

“I waited and waited for you,” she whispered, alternately squeezing his hand with both of hers. “Go into the garden; she’s there. See to it: I’m counting on you!”

Sanin went into the garden.

Gemma was sitting on a bench near the path, picking the ripest cherries from a large basket full of them onto a plate. The sun was low — it was already past six in the evening — and in the wide, slanting rays with which it bathed Frau Roselli’s small garden, there was more crimson than gold. Occasionally, barely audibly and seemingly unhurriedly, the leaves whispered, and belated bees buzzed abruptly, flitting from one flower to another, and somewhere a turtledove cooed — monotonously and tirelessly.

Gemma wore the same round hat she had worn to Soden. She glanced at Sanin from under its curved brim and then bent back over the basket.

Sanin approached Gemma, involuntarily shortening each step, and… and… He could find nothing else to say to her but to ask: why was she sorting cherries?

Gemma did not answer him immediately.

“These — the riper ones,” she finally murmured, “will go for jam, and those for pie filling. You know, we sell such round pies with sugar.”

Having said these words, Gemma bent her head even lower, and her right hand, with two cherries in her fingers, paused in the air between the basket and the plate.

“May I sit next to you?” Sanin asked.

“You may.” Gemma moved slightly on the bench. Sanin sat down beside her. “How to begin?” he wondered. But Gemma extricated him from his difficulty.

“You fought a duel today,” she said with animation and turned her beautiful, bashfully flushed face towards him — and how much profound gratitude shone in her eyes! — “And you are so calm? So, there was no danger for you?”

“My dear! I was in no danger at all. Everything went very smoothly and harmlessly.”

Gemma moved her finger right and left before her eyes… Another Italian gesture.

“No! No! Don’t say that! You won’t deceive me! Pantaleone told me everything!”

“You chose someone to believe! Did he compare me to the statue of the Commendatore?”

“His expressions may be ridiculous, but neither his feeling nor what you did today is ridiculous. And all this is because of me… for me… I will never forget it.”

“I assure you, Fräulein Gemma…”

“I will not forget it,” she repeated deliberately, looked at him intently once more, and turned away.

He could now see her delicate, pure profile, and it seemed to him that he had never seen anything like it, nor experienced anything like what he felt at that moment. His soul was aflame.

“And my promise!” flashed through his thoughts.

“Fräulein Gemma…” he began after a momentary hesitation.

“What?”

She did not turn to him, she continued to sort cherries, carefully taking them by their stems with the tips of her fingers, thoughtfully lifting the leaves… But with what trusting tenderness that single word “what!” sounded!

“Your mother didn’t tell you anything… about…”

“About?”

“About me?”

Gemma suddenly threw the cherries she had taken back into the basket.

“She spoke with you?” she asked in turn.

“Yes.”

“What did she tell you?”

“She told me that you… that you suddenly decided to change… your previous intentions.”

Gemma’s head bowed again. She completely disappeared under her hat; only her neck was visible, supple and delicate, like the stem of a large flower.

“What intentions?”

“Your intentions… regarding… the future arrangement of your life.”

“That is… Are you talking… about Mr. Klüber?”

“Yes.”

“Did Mother tell you that I do not wish to be Mr. Klüber’s wife?”

“Yes.”

Gemma moved on the bench. The basket tilted, fell… several cherries rolled onto the path. A minute passed… another…

“Why did she tell you that?” her voice was heard.

Sanin still saw only Gemma’s neck. Her chest rose and fell faster than before.

“Why? Your mother thought that since we quickly became, one might say, friends, and you placed some trust in me, I would be able to give you useful advice — and you would listen to me.”

Gemma’s hands quietly slid onto her knees… She began to smooth the folds of her dress.

“What advice will you give me, Monsieur Dimitri?” she asked a little later.

Sanin saw that Gemma’s fingers were trembling on her knees… She was only smoothing the folds of her dress to hide this trembling. He quietly placed his hand on those pale, trembling fingers.

“Gemma,” he murmured, “why don’t you look at me?”

She instantly flung her hat back over her shoulder — and fixed her eyes on him, still trusting and grateful. She waited for him to speak… But the sight of her face confused and, as it were, blinded him. The warm glow of the evening sun illuminated her young head — and the expression on that head was brighter and clearer than the glow itself.

“I will obey you, Monsieur Dimitri,” she began, smiling slightly and raising her eyebrows a little, “but what advice will you give me?”

“What advice?” Sanin repeated. “You see, your mother believes that to refuse Mr. Klüber simply because he did not show particular bravery the day before…”

“Simply because?” Gemma said, bent down, picked up the basket, and placed it next to her on the bench.

“That… in general… to refuse him, on your part — is unwise; that it is — such a step, all the consequences of which must be thoroughly weighed; that, finally, the very state of your affairs imposes certain obligations on every member of your family…”

“That’s all Mother’s opinion,” Gemma interrupted, “those are her words. I know that; but what is your opinion?”

“Mine?” Sanin paused. He felt something rise in his throat and catch his breath. “I also believe,” he began with an effort…

Gemma straightened up.

“Also? You — also?”

“Yes… that is…” Sanin could not, absolutely could not add a single word.

“Very well,” Gemma said. “If you, as a friend, advise me to change my decision… that is, not to change my previous decision — I will think about it.” She, not realizing what she was doing, began to transfer the cherries back from the plate to the basket… “Mother hopes that I will listen to you… Well? Perhaps I will indeed listen to you.”

“But allow me, Fräulein Gemma, I would first like to know what reasons prompted you…”

“I will obey you,” Gemma repeated, and her eyebrows kept drawing together, her cheeks paled; she bit her lower lip. “You have done so much for me that I too am obligated to do what you wish; obligated to fulfill your desire. I will tell Mother… I will think about it. Here she comes, by the way.”

Indeed: Frau Lenore appeared at the threshold of the door leading from the house to the garden. Impatience was consuming her: she couldn’t sit still. By her calculation, Sanin should have long since finished his explanation with Gemma, although his conversation with her had not lasted even a quarter of an hour.

“No, no, no, for God’s sake, don’t tell her anything yet,” Sanin said hurriedly, almost in fright. “Wait… I’ll tell you, I’ll write to you… and until then, don’t decide on anything… wait!”

He squeezed Gemma’s hand, jumped up from the bench — and, to Frau Lenore’s great astonishment, darted past her, lifting his hat, mumbled something inarticulate — and disappeared.

She approached her daughter.

“Tell me, please, Gemma…”

The latter suddenly stood up and embraced her.

“Dear Mama, can you wait a little, just a tiny bit… until tomorrow? Can you? And not a word until tomorrow?… Oh!…”

She burst into sudden, bright tears, unexpected even to herself. This surprised Frau Lenore all the more because the expression on Gemma’s face was far from sad, rather joyful.

“What’s wrong with you?” she asked. “You never cry — and suddenly…”

“Nothing, Mama, nothing! Just wait. We both need to wait. Don’t ask anything until tomorrow — and let’s sort cherries until the sun sets.”

“But will you be sensible?”

“Oh, I am very sensible!” Gemma significantly shook her head. She began to tie small bunches of cherries, holding them high before her reddening face. She did not wipe away her tears: they dried themselves.

XXV

Sanin almost ran back to his apartment. He felt, he knew, that only there, only alone with himself, would it finally become clear to him what was wrong with him, what was happening to him? And indeed: no sooner had he entered his room, no sooner had he sat down at the writing desk, than, leaning both elbows on the very desk and pressing both palms to his face, he sorrowfully and muffledly exclaimed: “I love her, I love her madly!” — and he flushed inwardly, like a coal from which a layer of dead ash had suddenly been blown away. A moment… and he was no longer able to understand how he could have sat beside her… beside her! — and talked with her, and not felt that he adored the very hem of her dress, that he was ready, as young people put it, “to die at her feet.” The last meeting in the garden settled everything. Now, when he thought of her — she no longer appeared to him with windswept curls, in the radiance of stars — he saw her sitting on the bench, saw her suddenly throwing off her hat and looking at him so trustingly… and a tremor and thirst for love ran through all his veins. He remembered the rose that he had been carrying in his pocket for three days now: he snatched it out and pressed it to his lips with such feverish force that he involuntarily winced from the pain. Now he reasoned about nothing, understood nothing, calculated nothing, and foresaw nothing; he broke away from all the past, he leaped forward: from the gloomy shore of his solitary, bachelor life he plunged into that joyful, seething, mighty current — and cared little for sorrow, and did not want to know where it would carry him, or if it would dash him against a rock! These were no longer the quiet streams of Uhland’s romance that had recently lulled him… These were strong, irresistible waves! They flew and galloped forward — and he flew with them.

He took a sheet of paper — and without a single blot, almost with one stroke of the pen, he wrote the following:

“Dear Gemma,

You know what advice I took upon myself to give you, you know what your mother desires and what she asked of me — but what you do not know and what I must tell you now — is that I love you, I love you with all the passion of a heart that has loved for the first time! This fire flared up in me suddenly, but with such force that I cannot find words!! When your mother came to me and asked me — it was only smoldering in me then — otherwise, as an honest man, I would certainly have refused to carry out her request… The very confession I am making to you now is the confession of an honest man. You must know whom you are dealing with — there should be no misunderstandings between us. You see that I cannot give you any advice… I love you, love you, love you — and I have nothing else — neither in my mind nor in my heart!!

Dm. Sanin.”

Having folded and sealed this note, Sanin was about to ring for the waiter and send it with him… No! That’s awkward… Through Emil? But going to the shop, looking for him there among the other shop assistants — that’s also awkward. Besides, it was already night — and he had probably already left the shop. Thinking thus, Sanin, however, put on his hat and went out into the street; he turned one corner, then another — and, to his unspeakable joy, saw Emil before him. With a bag under his arm, with a roll of paper in his hand, the young enthusiast was hurrying home.

“No wonder they say every lover has a star,” Sanin thought and called Emil.

He turned around and immediately rushed towards him.

Sanin didn’t let him get carried away, handed him the note, explained to him to whom and how to deliver it… Emil listened carefully.

“So that no one sees?” he asked, giving his face a significant and mysterious expression: we, you see, understand the whole point!

“Yes, my friend,” Sanin said and was a little embarrassed, but patted Emil on the cheek… “And if the answer is… You’ll bring me the answer, won’t you? I’ll be at home.”

“Don’t worry about that!” Emil whispered cheerfully, ran off, and nodded to him again as he ran.

Sanin returned home — and, without lighting a candle, threw himself onto the sofa, put his hands behind his head, and surrendered to those sensations of newly recognized love, which need no description: those who have experienced them know their languor and sweetness; those who have not — cannot be made to understand them.

The door opened — Emil’s head appeared.

“I brought it,” he whispered, “here it is, the answer!” He showed and held up a folded piece of paper above his head. Sanin jumped up from the sofa and snatched it from Emil’s hands. His passion had flared up too strongly: he had no time for secrecy now, no time for observing propriety — even before this boy, her brother. He would have been ashamed of him, he would have forced himself — if he could!

He went to the window — and by the light of the street lamp standing right in front of the house, he read the following lines:

“I ask you, I beg you — do not come to us, do not show yourself all day tomorrow. I need this, I absolutely need it — and then everything will be decided. I know you will not refuse me, because…

Gemma.”

Sanin read the note twice — oh, how touchingly sweet and beautiful her handwriting seemed to him! — thought for a moment and, turning to Emil, who, wishing to show what a modest young man he was, stood facing the wall and picked at it with his nail — called him loudly by name.

Emil immediately ran up to Sanin.

“What do you command?”

“Listen, my friend…”

“M-r Dimitri,” Emil interrupted him in a plaintive voice, “why don’t you say ‘thou’ to me?”

Sanin laughed.

“Well, all right. Listen, my friend (Emil hopped slightly with pleasure), — listen: there, you understand, there you will say that everything will be executed precisely (Emil pressed his lips together and nodded his head importantly), — and you yourself… What are you doing tomorrow?”

“Me? What am I doing? What do you want me to do?”

“If you can, come to me early in the morning — and we will walk around the surroundings of Frankfurt until evening… Would you like to?”

Emil hopped again.

“My dear, what could be better in the world? To walk with you — it’s simply a miracle! I will definitely come!”

“And if they don’t let you go?”

“They will!”

“Listen… Don’t tell them that I invited you for the whole day.”

“Why tell? I’ll just leave! What’s the big deal!”

Emil kissed Sanin firmly and ran off.

And Sanin walked around the room for a long time and went to bed late. He surrendered to the same eerie and sweet sensations, to the same joyful anticipation of a new life. Sanin was very pleased that he had thought of inviting Emil for tomorrow; he resembled his sister in face. “He’ll remind me of her,” Sanin thought.

But most of all he was amazed: how could he have been different yesterday than today? It seemed to him that he had “eternally” loved Gemma — and had loved her precisely as he loved her today.

XXVI

The next day, at eight in the morning, Emil, with Tartaglia on a leash, reported to Sanin. If he had come from German parents, he could not have shown greater punctuality. At home, he lied: he said he would walk with Sanin until breakfast, and then go to the shop. While Sanin was getting dressed, Emil started to talk to him, rather hesitantly, about Gemma, about her quarrel with Mr. Klüber; but Sanin sternly remained silent in response, and Emil, pretending to understand why he shouldn’t touch on this important point, did not return to it — and only occasionally assumed a focused and even stern expression.

After drinking coffee, the two friends set off — on foot, of course — to Hausen, a small village not far from Frankfurt and surrounded by forests. The entire Taunus mountain range is visible from there, as if in the palm of your hand. The weather was splendid; the sun shone and warmed, but did not scorch; a fresh wind rustled briskly in the green leaves; shadows of tall, round clouds glided smoothly and quickly across the ground in small patches. The young men soon left the city and strode briskly and cheerfully along the smoothly swept road. They entered the forest and wandered there for a long time; then they had a very hearty breakfast in a village inn; then they climbed mountains, admired the views, threw stones from above and clapped their hands, watching how these stones comically and strangely leaped, like rabbits, until an unseen man passing below them cursed them with a clear and strong voice; then they lay, sprawled out, on the short, dry, yellow-violet moss; then they drank beer in another inn, then they ran races, jumped for a wager: who could go further? They discovered an echo and conversed with it, sang, called out to each other, wrestled, broke branches, adorned their hats with fern sprigs, and even danced. Tartaglia, as much as he could and knew how, participated in all these activities: he didn’t throw stones, it’s true, but he himself tumbled after them, howled when the young men sang, and even drank beer, though with visible aversion: he had been taught this art by a student to whom he once belonged. However, he listened poorly to Emil — not like to his master Pantaleone, and when Emil ordered him to “speak” or “read,” he would only wag his tail and stick out his tongue like a tube.

The young men also conversed with each other. At the beginning of the walk, Sanin, being older and therefore more judicious, began a discussion about what fate, or predestination, is, and what the calling of man means and consists of; but the conversation soon took a less serious turn. Emil began to ask his friend and patron about Russia, about how duels were fought there, and if women were beautiful there, and how quickly one could learn Russian, and what he felt when the officer aimed at him? And Sanin, in turn, questioned Emil about his father, his mother, and their family affairs in general, trying in every way not to mention Gemma’s name — and thinking only of her. Strictly speaking, he did not even think of her — but of tomorrow, of that mysterious tomorrow that would bring him unknown, unprecedented happiness! It was as if a veil, a thin, light veil, hung, gently swaying, before his mind’s eye — and beyond that veil, he felt… felt the presence of a young, motionless, divine face with a gentle smile on its lips and strictly, feignedly-strictly lowered eyelashes. And this face was not Gemma’s face; it was the face of happiness itself! And now his hour had finally arrived, the veil lifted, the lips opened, the eyelashes rose — his deity saw him — and then there was light, as from the sun, and joy, and endless rapture!! He thought of this tomorrow: the day — and his soul again joyfully thrilled in the languid yearning of constantly renewed anticipation!

And nothing hindered this anticipation, this yearning. It accompanied his every movement and hindered nothing. It did not hinder him from having an excellent dinner in a third inn with Emil — and only occasionally, like a short lightning flash, did the thought occur to him that — what if someone in the world knew??!! This yearning did not hinder him from playing leapfrog with Emil after dinner. This game took place on a wide green meadow… and what was Sanin’s astonishment, what was his confusion, when, under Tartaglia’s fierce barking, cleverly spreading his legs and flying like a bird over the crouching Emil — he suddenly saw before him, at the very edge of the green meadow, two officers, in whom he immediately recognized his opponent of yesterday and his second, Messrs. von Dönhof and von Richter! Each of them had a monocle in his eye and looked at him and grinned… Sanin landed on his feet, turned away, hastily put on his discarded coat, said an abrupt word to Emil, who also put on his jacket — and both immediately withdrew.

They returned to Frankfurt late.

“They’ll scold me,” Emil said to Sanin, as they parted, “well, it doesn’t matter! But I had such a wonderful, wonderful day!”

Returning to his hotel, Sanin found a note from Gemma. She set a rendezvous for him — the next day, at seven in the morning, in one of the public gardens surrounding Frankfurt on all sides.

How his heart trembled! How glad he was that he had obeyed her so implicitly! And, my God, what did this unprecedented, unique, impossible — and certain tomorrow promise… what did it not promise!

He stared at Gemma’s note. The long, elegant tail of the letter G, the first letter of her name, at the end of the sheet, reminded him of her beautiful fingers, her hand… He thought that he had never once touched that hand with his lips…

“Italian women,” he thought, “despite popular belief about them, are modest and strict… And Gemma even more so! A queen… a goddess… virgin and pure marble…

But the time will come — and it is not far off…”

There was one happy man in Frankfurt that night… He was asleep; but he could say of himself in the words of the poet:

I sleep… but my sensitive heart does not sleep…

It beat as lightly as a butterfly’s wings, clinging to a flower and bathed in the summer sun.

XXVII

At five o’clock, Sanin woke up, by six he was dressed, and by half past six he was strolling in the public garden, in sight of a small gazebo that Gemma had mentioned in her note.

The morning was quiet, warm, and grey. Sometimes it seemed as if it was about to rain; but an outstretched hand felt nothing, and only by looking at a sleeve could one notice traces of tiny droplets, like the finest beads; but even those soon ceased. There was no wind — as if it had never existed in the world. Every sound did not fly, but spread around; in the distance, a whitish mist barely thickened, and the air smelled of mignonette and white acacia flowers.

In the streets, shops had not yet opened, but pedestrians had already appeared; occasionally, a solitary carriage clattered… There were no strollers in the garden. A gardener slowly scraped the path with a shovel, and a decrepit old woman in a black cloth cloak hobbled across the alley. Not for a single moment could Sanin mistake this wretched creature for Gemma — and yet, his heart fluttered, and he attentively watched the receding black spot.

Seven! The clock on the tower chimed.

Sanin stopped. Could she not come? A shiver of cold suddenly ran through his limbs. The same shiver repeated in him a moment later, but from a different cause. Sanin heard light footsteps behind him, a faint rustle of women’s clothing… He turned around: it was she!

Gemma was walking behind him on the path. She wore a greyish mantilla and a small dark hat. She glanced at Sanin, turned her head away — and, drawing level with him, quickly walked past.

“Gemma,” he said barely audibly. She nodded slightly to him — and continued walking forward. He followed her.

He was breathing intermittently. His legs obeyed him poorly.

Gemma passed the gazebo, turned right, passed a small flat pond where a sparrow was busily splashing, and, going behind a flowerbed of tall lilacs, sat down on a bench. The place was cozy and secluded. Sanin sat beside her.

A minute passed — and neither he nor she spoke a word; she did not even look at him — and he looked not at her face, but at her clasped hands, in which she held a small umbrella. What was there to say? What could be said that in its significance could equal their mere presence here, together, alone, so early, so close to each other?

“You… are not angry with me?” Sanin finally uttered.

It was difficult for Sanin to say anything sillier than these words… he himself realized it… But at least the silence was broken.

“I?” she replied. “For what? No.”

“And you believe me?” he continued.

“What you wrote?”

“Yes.”

Gemma lowered her head and said nothing. The umbrella slipped from her hands. She hastily caught it before it fell on the path.

“Oh, believe me, believe what I wrote to you,” Sanin exclaimed; all his timidity suddenly disappeared — he spoke with fervor. “If there is truth on earth, holy, undeniable truth — it is that I love you, I love you passionately, Gemma!”

She cast a sidelong, fleeting glance at him — and almost dropped the umbrella again.

“Believe me, believe me,” he kept repeating. He implored her, stretched out his hands to her and dared not touch her. “What do you want me to do… to convince you?”

She looked at him again.

“Tell me, Monsieur Dimitri,” she began, “the day before yesterday, when you came to persuade me — you, evidently, did not yet know… did not feel…”

“I felt,” Sanin interjected, “but I did not know. I fell in love with you from the very moment I saw you — but I did not immediately understand what you became to me! Besides, I heard that you were an engaged fiancée… As for your mother’s request — firstly, how could I refuse? and secondly — it seems to me, I conveyed this request to you in such a way that you could guess…”

Heavy footsteps were heard, and a rather stout gentleman, with a satchel over his shoulder, obviously a foreigner, emerged from behind the flowerbed — and, with the unceremoniousness of a traveling visitor, cast a glance at the couple sitting on the bench, coughed loudly, and walked on.

“Your mother,” Sanin began, as soon as the sound of heavy footsteps faded, “told me that your refusal would cause a scandal (Gemma frowned slightly); that I myself partly gave rise to unseemly gossip and that… consequently… it was — to some extent — my duty to persuade you not to refuse your fiancé, Mr. Klüber…”

“Monsieur Dimitri,” Gemma said and ran her hand through her hair on the side facing Sanin, “please do not call Mr. Klüber my fiancé. I will never be his wife. I refused him.”

“You refused him? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Him personally?”

“Him personally. At our house. He came to us.”

“Gemma! So, you love me?”

She turned to him.

“Otherwise… would I have come here?” she whispered, and both her hands fell onto the bench.

Sanin seized those helpless hands, lying palms up — and pressed them to his eyes, to his lips… This was when the veil that had appeared to him the day before lifted! This was happiness, this was its radiant face!

He raised his head and looked at Gemma — directly and boldly. She also looked at him — somewhat from above. The gaze of her half-closed eyes barely flickered, bathed in light, blissful tears. And her face was not smiling… no! It was laughing, also a blissful, though silent, laugh.

He wanted to draw her to his chest, but she recoiled and, without ceasing to laugh that same silent laugh, shook her head negatively. “Wait,” her happy eyes seemed to say.

“Oh, Gemma!” Sanin exclaimed, “could I have thought that you (his heart trembled like a string when his lips uttered “you” for the first time) — that you would love me!”

“I myself did not expect this,” Gemma said softly.

“Could I have thought,” Sanin continued, “could I have thought, approaching Frankfurt, where I intended to stay only a few hours, that I would find the happiness of my whole life here!”

“My whole life? Truly?” Gemma asked.

“My whole life, forever and ever!” Sanin exclaimed with renewed fervor.

The gardener’s shovel suddenly scraped two steps from the bench on which they were sitting.

“Let’s go home,” Gemma whispered, “let’s go together — do you want to?”

If she had said to him at that moment: “Throw yourself into the sea — do you want to?” — she would not have finished the last word before he would have plunged headlong into the abyss.

They left the garden together and headed towards the house, not through the city streets, but through the suburbs.

XXVIII

Sanin walked sometimes beside Gemma, sometimes slightly behind her, never taking his eyes off her and constantly smiling. And she seemed to be hurrying… as if stopping. To tell the truth, both of them, he all pale, she all rosy with excitement, moved forward as if in a daze. What they had done together a few moments ago — this surrender of one’s soul to another soul — was so powerful, and new, and eerie; everything in their lives had shifted and changed so suddenly that neither of them could come to their senses and only acknowledged the whirlwind that had seized them, similar to that night’s whirlwind that had almost thrown them into each other’s arms. Sanin walked and felt that he even looked at Gemma differently: he instantly noticed several peculiarities in her gait, in her movements — and, good heavens! how infinitely dear and sweet they were to him! And she felt that he was looking at her that way.

Sanin and she — loved for the first time; all the miracles of first love were being performed upon them. First love is the same as a revolution: the monotonous and orderly structure of an established life is broken and destroyed in an instant, youth stands on the barricade, its bright banner flies high, and whatever awaits it ahead — death or a new life — it sends its enthusiastic greetings to everything.

“What? Is that our old man?” Sanin said, pointing to a cloaked figure who was hurrying along the side, as if trying to remain unnoticed. In the midst of his overflowing bliss, he felt the need to talk with Gemma not about love — that was a settled, sacred matter — but about something else.

“Yes, it’s Pantaleone,” Gemma replied cheerfully and happily. “He must have left the house right behind me; he was already watching my every step all day yesterday… He guesses!”

“He guesses!” Sanin repeated with delight. What could Gemma say that would not fill him with delight?

Then he asked her to tell him in detail everything that had happened the day before.

And she immediately began to tell him, hurrying, getting confused, smiling, taking short breaths, and exchanging brief, bright glances with Sanin. She told him how, after the conversation of two days ago, Mama had kept trying to get something definite from her, Gemma; how she had gotten rid of Frau Lenore with a promise to communicate her decision within twenty-four hours; how she had begged for this delay — and how difficult it was; how Mr. Klüber had appeared quite unexpectedly, more prim and starched than ever; how he had expressed his indignation at the boyish-unforgivable and, for him, Klüber, deeply offensive (that was precisely how he expressed it) prank of the Russian stranger — he meant your duel — and how he had demanded that you be immediately turned away from the house. “Because,” he added, ” — and here Gemma slightly mimicked his voice and manner — “it casts a shadow on my honor; as if I wouldn’t be able to stand up for my fiancée if I found it necessary or useful! All Frankfurt will know tomorrow that a stranger fought with an officer for my fiancée — what does that look like? It sullies my honor!” Mama agreed with him — imagine! — but then I suddenly declared to him that he was bothering himself unnecessarily about his honor and his person, unnecessarily offended by talk of his fiancée — because I am no longer his fiancée, and will never be his wife! To confess, I wanted to talk to you first… to you, before finally refusing him; but he came… and I couldn’t restrain myself. Mama even screamed with fright, and I went into another room and brought him his ring — you didn’t notice, I had already taken this ring off two days ago — and gave it to him. He was terribly offended; but since he is terribly vain and conceited, he didn’t talk much — and left. Of course, I had to endure a lot from Mama, and it pained me greatly to see how upset she was — and I thought that I had been a little too hasty; but I had your note — and I already knew without it…”

“That I love you,” Sanin interjected.

“Yes… that you loved me.”

Thus spoke Gemma, getting confused and smiling, and lowering her voice each time or falling silent altogether when someone walked towards her or passed by. And Sanin listened ecstatically, enjoying the very sound of her voice, just as he had admired her handwriting the day before.

“Mama is extremely upset,” Gemma began again, and her words ran quickly, one after another, “she absolutely refuses to consider that Mr. Klüber could have become repulsive to me, that I married him not out of love, but because of her persistent requests… She suspects… you… you; that is, frankly speaking, she is certain that I have fallen in love with you — and this pains her all the more because only two days ago nothing of the kind had occurred to her, and she even entrusted you with persuading me… And it was a strange commission — wasn’t it? Now she calls you… you a cunning, sly person, says that you betrayed her trust, and predicts that you will deceive me…”

“But, Gemma,” Sanin exclaimed, “didn’t you tell her…”

“I said nothing! What right did I have, without speaking with you?”

Sanin threw up his hands.

“Gemma, I hope that now at least you will confess everything to her, you will bring me to her… I want to prove to your mother that I am not a deceiver!”

Sanin’s chest swelled with a rush of generous and fervent feelings!

Gemma looked at him with wide eyes.

“You really want to go to Mama with me now? To Mama, who insists that… that all this between us is impossible — and can never come true?”

There was one word that Gemma dared not utter… It burned her lips; but Sanin pronounced it all the more readily.

“To marry you, Gemma, to be your husband — I know no greater bliss!”

He knew no bounds to his love, to his generosity, to his resolve.

Hearing these words, Gemma, who had stopped for a moment, walked even faster… She seemed to want to flee from this too great and unexpected happiness!

But suddenly her legs gave way. From around the corner of the alley, a few steps from her, in a new hat and a new bekesha (a type of coat), straight as an arrow, curled like a poodle, Mr. Klüber appeared. He saw Gemma, he saw Sanin — and, letting out some internal snort and bending his flexible body backward, he walked elegantly towards them. Sanin was taken aback; but, looking at Klüber’s face, which its owner, as much as he was able, tried to give an expression of contemptuous astonishment and even sympathy — looking at this ruddy, vulgar face, he suddenly felt a surge of anger — and stepped forward.

Gemma seized his hand and, with calm determination, gave him hers, looking directly into the face of her former fiancé… He narrowed his eyes, cringed, swerved aside and, muttering through his teeth: “The usual end of the song!” (Das alte Ende vom Liede!) — departed with the same elegant, slightly bouncing gait.

“What did that scoundrel say?” Sanin asked and was about to rush after Klüber; but Gemma held him back and walked on with him, no longer taking his arm.

Roselli’s confectionery appeared ahead. Gemma stopped once more.

“Dimitri, Monsieur Dimitri,” she said, “we haven’t gone inside yet, we haven’t seen Mama yet… If you want to think about it some more, if… you are still free, Dimitri.”

In response, Sanin pressed her hand tightly, tightly to his chest and pulled her forward.

“Mama,” Gemma said, entering the room where Frau Lenore was sitting with Sanin, “I have brought the real one!”

XXIX

If Gemma had announced that she had brought cholera or even death itself with her, Frau Lenore, it must be presumed, could not have received the news with greater despair. She immediately sat down in a corner, facing the wall, and burst into tears, almost wailing, just like a Russian peasant woman over the coffin of her husband or son. At first, Gemma was so flustered that she didn’t even approach her mother — and stood, like a statue, in the middle of the room; and Sanin was completely lost — he might as well have burst into tears himself! This inconsolable weeping lasted for a whole hour, a whole hour! Pantaleone thought it best to lock the confectionery’s outer door, lest a stranger enter — fortunately, it was still early. The old man himself felt bewildered — and in any case, he didn’t approve of the haste with which Gemma and Sanin had acted, but, then again, he didn’t dare to condemn them and was ready to offer them protection — if needed: he disliked Klüber far too much! Emil considered himself a mediator between his friend and sister — and was almost proud of how splendidly it all turned out! He couldn’t understand why Frau Lenore was so upset, and in his heart, he immediately decided that women, even the best ones, suffered from a lack of quick wit! Sanin had it worst of all. Frau Lenore wailed and waved her hands away whenever he approached her — and in vain did he try, standing at a distance, to exclaim loudly several times: “I ask for your daughter’s hand!” Frau Lenore was especially annoyed with herself for “how could she have been so blind — and seen nothing!” “If my Giovanni Battista were alive,” she repeated through tears, “none of this would have happened!” “Lord, what is this?” Sanin thought, “this is simply foolish!” Neither he dared to look at Gemma, nor did she dare to raise her eyes to him. She limited herself to patiently attending to her mother, who at first also pushed her away…

Finally, little by little, the storm subsided. Frau Lenore stopped crying, allowed Gemma to lead her out of the corner where she had huddled, sit her in an armchair by the window, and give her water with orange blossom; she allowed Sanin — not to approach… oh no! — but at least to remain in the room (before, she had constantly demanded that he leave) and did not interrupt him when he spoke. Sanin immediately took advantage of the calm that had ensued — and displayed amazing eloquence: he would hardly have been able to express his intentions and feelings with such fervor and conviction to Gemma herself. These feelings were the most sincere, these intentions — the purest, like Almaviva’s in “The Barber of Seville.” He did not conceal from Frau Lenore, nor from himself, the disadvantageous side of these intentions; but these disadvantages were only apparent! True: he was a foreigner, they had just met him, they knew nothing definite about his personality or his means; but he was ready to provide all the necessary proof that he was a decent and not poor man; he would refer to the most undeniable testimonies of his compatriots! He hoped that Gemma would be happy with him and that he would be able to sweeten her separation from her relatives!.. The mention of separation — that single word “separation” — almost ruined everything… Frau Lenore trembled all over and became agitated… Sanin hastened to note that the separation would only be temporary — and that, finally, perhaps, there would be no separation at all!

Sanin’s eloquence was not in vain. Frau Lenore began to look at him, though still with sadness and reproach, but no longer with her former aversion and anger; then she allowed him to approach and even sit beside her (Gemma sat on the other side); then she began to reproach him — not only with glances, but with words, which already indicated some softening of her heart; she began to complain, and her complaints became quieter and softer; they alternated with questions addressed sometimes to her daughter, sometimes to Sanin; then she allowed him to take her hand and did not immediately withdraw it… then she cried again — but with completely different tears… then she smiled sadly and regretted Giovanni Battista’s absence, but in a different sense than before… Another moment passed — and both culprits, Sanin and Gemma, were already kneeling at her feet, and she alternately laid her hands on their heads; another moment passed — and they were already embracing and kissing her, and Emil, with a face radiant with delight, ran into the room and also rushed to the tightly knit group.

Pantaleone glanced into the room, smirked and frowned at the same time — and, going into the confectionery, unlocked the outer door.

XXX

The transition from despair to sadness, and from it to “quiet resignation,” occurred quite rapidly in Frau Lenore; but even this quiet resignation quickly transformed into a secret satisfaction, which, however, was carefully concealed and restrained for propriety’s sake. Sanin had pleased Frau Lenore from the first day they met; having grown accustomed to the thought of him becoming her son-in-law, she no longer found anything particularly unpleasant in it, although she considered it her duty to maintain a somewhat offended… rather, concerned expression on her face. Besides, everything that had happened in the last few days was so extraordinary… One thing after another! As a practical woman and a mother, Frau Lenore also considered it her duty to subject Sanin to various questions, and Sanin, who, setting off for his rendezvous with Gemma that morning, had not even dreamt of marrying her — true, he was thinking of nothing then, but only yielding to the impulse of his passion — Sanin with complete readiness and, one might say, with gusto, stepped into his role, the role of a fiancé, and answered all inquiries thoroughly, in detail, willingly. Having ascertained that he was a true, born nobleman, and even somewhat surprised that he was not a prince, Frau Lenore adopted a serious demeanor and — “warned him beforehand” that she would be completely unceremoniously frank with him, because her sacred duty as a mother compelled her to do so! — to which Sanin replied that he expected no less from her, and himself earnestly requested her not to spare him!

Then Frau Lenore remarked to him that Mr. Klüber (pronouncing this name, she sighed slightly, pressed her lips together, and stammered) — Mr. Klüber, Gemma’s former fiancé, already possessed an income of eight thousand gulden — and this sum would rapidly increase year by year — and his, Mr. Sanin’s, income, what was it?

“Eight thousand gulden,” Sanin repeated slowly. “That’s about fifteen thousand paper rubles in our money… My income is much less. I have a small estate in the Tula province… With good management, it could yield — and indeed, should certainly yield — five or six thousand… And if I enter service — I can easily get two thousand in salary.”

“In service in Russia?” Frau Lenore exclaimed. “So, I would have to part with Gemma!”

“One could enter the diplomatic service,” Sanin interjected, “I have some connections… Then the service takes place abroad. Or else, here’s another thing that could be done — and this is much better than anything: sell the estate and use the capital raised for some profitable enterprise, for example, to improve your confectionery.”

Sanin felt that he was saying something incongruous, but an inexplicable boldness had seized him! He would glance at Gemma, who, ever since the “practical” conversation began, kept getting up, walking around the room, sitting down again — he would glance at her — and there were no obstacles for him, and he was ready to arrange everything, right now, in the best possible way, just so she wouldn’t worry!

“Mr. Klüber also wanted to give me a small sum for the improvement of the confectionery,” Frau Lenore murmured, after a slight hesitation.

“Mother! For heaven’s sake! Mother!” Gemma exclaimed in Italian.

“These things must be discussed in advance, my daughter,” Frau Lenore replied to her in the same language.

She turned to Sanin again and began to question him about the laws in Russia regarding marriages and whether there were any obstacles to marrying Catholics, as in Prussia? (At that time, in the forties, all of Germany still remembered the quarrel between the Prussian government and the Archbishop of Cologne over mixed marriages.) When Frau Lenore heard that by marrying a Russian nobleman, her daughter would herself become a noblewoman, she showed some satisfaction.

“But you must first go to Russia?”

“Why?”

“And how else? To get permission from your sovereign?”

Sanin explained to her that it was not at all necessary… but that, perhaps, he might indeed have to go to Russia for a very short time before the wedding (he said these words — and his heart painfully contracted, Gemma, who was looking at him, understood that it contracted, and she blushed and became thoughtful) — and that he would try to use his stay in his homeland to sell the estate… in any case, he would bring the necessary money from there.

“I would also ask you to bring me some good Astrakhan lambskins from there for a mantilla,” Frau Lenore said. “They are, according to rumors, wonderfully good and wonderfully cheap there!”

“Absolutely, with the greatest pleasure I will bring them for you and Gemma!” Sanin exclaimed.

“And for me, a silver-embroidered morocco cap,” Emil interjected, poking his head out from the next room.

“All right, I’ll bring one for you too… and slippers for Pantaleone.”

“Well, what’s the point? What’s the point?” Frau Lenore remarked. “We are talking about serious things now. But here’s something else,” the practical lady added. “You say: sell the estate. But how will you do that? So, you will also sell the peasants?”

Sanin felt as if he had been pricked in the side. He remembered that, in talking with Frau Roselli and her daughter about serfdom, which, according to him, aroused deep indignation in him, he had repeatedly assured them that he would never, under any circumstances, sell his peasants, as he considered such a sale immoral.

“I will try to sell my estate to a person I know to be good,” he said not without hesitation, “or, perhaps, the peasants themselves will want to buy their freedom.”

“That’s best of all,” Frau Lenore agreed. “Otherwise, to sell living people…”

“Barbari! 1” growled Pantaleone, who, following Emil, had appeared at the door, shook his toupee, and disappeared.

“Nasty!” Sanin thought to himself — and secretly glanced at Gemma. She seemed not to have heard his last words. “Oh well!” he thought again.

In this manner, the practical conversation continued almost until dinner. Frau Lenore became completely subdued towards the end — and was already calling Sanin Dimitri, playfully shaking her finger at him, and promising to avenge his perfidy. She asked much and in detail about his relatives, because — “that is also very important”; she also demanded that he describe to her the marriage ceremony as it is performed according to the Russian Orthodox rite — and was already delighted in advance with Gemma in a white dress, with a golden crown on her head.

“After all, she is as beautiful as a queen,” she said with maternal pride, “and there are no such queens in the world!”

“There is no other Gemma in the world!” Sanin interjected.

“Yes; that’s why she is — Gemma!” (It is known that in Italian, Gemma means: precious stone.)

Gemma rushed to kiss her mother… It seemed that only now did she breathe freely — and the weight that had oppressed her soul fell away.

And Sanin suddenly felt so happy, such a childish cheerfulness filled his heart at the thought that those dreams he had recently indulged in in those very rooms had indeed come true; his whole being was so elated that he immediately went to the confectionery; he absolutely wanted, at all costs, to work behind the counter, as he had a few days ago… “I, you see, now have every right to do so! I am a man of the house now!”

And he indeed stood behind the counter and indeed did some business, that is, he sold a pound of sweets to two little girls who came in, instead of which he gave them a full two pounds, charging them only half the price.

At dinner, he officially, as the fiancé, sat next to Gemma. Frau Lenore continued her practical considerations. Emil kept laughing and pestering Sanin to take him to Russia. It was decided that Sanin would leave in two weeks. Only Pantaleone appeared somewhat gloomy, so much so that even Frau Lenore reproached him: “And he was even a second!” — Pantaleone looked sullenly.

Gemma remained silent almost the entire time, but her face had never been more beautiful or radiant. After dinner, she called Sanin aside for a moment in the garden and, stopping near the very bench where she had been sorting cherries two days ago, said to him:

“Dimitri, don’t be angry with me; but I want to remind you once more that you should not consider yourself bound…”

He didn’t let her finish…

Gemma turned her face away.

“And as for what Mama mentioned — remember? — about the difference in our faith, well!…”

She seized the garnet cross that hung around her neck on a thin cord, pulled hard, and broke the cord — and gave him the cross.

“If I am yours, then your faith is my faith!”

Sanin’s eyes were still moist when he returned to the house with Gemma.

By evening, everything had settled back into its usual routine. They even played tressette.

XXXI

Sanin woke up very early the next day. He was at the highest pitch of human well-being; but it was not this that kept him from sleeping; a vital, fateful question: how to sell his estate as quickly and as profitably as possible — disturbed his peace. Various plans crossed his mind, but nothing had yet become clear. He left the house to get some fresh air, to refresh himself. He wanted to appear before Gemma with a ready plan — nothing less.

What kind of figure, rather stout and thick-legged, though decently dressed, walks before him, swaying slightly and limping? Where had he seen that nape, covered with blond cowlicks, that head, as if placed directly on the shoulders, that soft, fat back, those plump, sagging arms? Could it be Polozov, his old boarding school comrade, whom he had lost sight of five years ago? Sanin overtook the figure walking in front of him, turned around… A wide yellowish face, small piggy eyes with white eyelashes and brows, a short, flat nose, large, as if glued-together lips, a round, hairless chin — and that expression of the whole face, sour, lazy, and distrustful — yes, exactly: it was he, it was Ippolit Polozov!

“Is my star acting up again?” flashed through Sanin’s mind.

“Polozov! Ippolit Sidorych! Is that you?”

The figure stopped, raised its tiny eyes, waited a little — and, finally ungluing its lips, said in a wheezy, reedy voice:

“Dmitry Sanin?”

“The very same!” Sanin exclaimed and shook one of Polozov’s hands; clad in tight, ash-grey kid gloves, they still hung lifelessly along his bulging thighs. “How long have you been here? Where did you come from? Where are you staying?”

“I arrived yesterday from Wiesbaden,” Polozov replied, unhurriedly, “for my wife’s shopping, and I’m returning to Wiesbaden today.”

“Ah, yes! You’re married — and, they say, to such a beauty!”

Polozov shifted his eyes to the side.

“Yes, they say.”

Sanin laughed.

“I see you’re still the same… phlegmatic person you were at the boarding school.”

“Why should I change?”

“And they say,” Sanin added with particular emphasis on the word “say,” “that your wife is very rich.”

“They say that too.”

“And you yourself, Ippolit Sidorych, don’t you know that?”

“I, brother, Dmitry… Pavlovich? Yes, Pavlovich! I don’t interfere in my wife’s affairs.”

“You don’t interfere? In any affairs?”

Polozov again shifted his eyes.

“In none, brother. She’s on her own… well, and I’m on my own.”

“Where are you going now?” Sanin asked.

“Nowhere; I’m standing on the street talking to you; but once we’re done, I’ll go back to my hotel and have breakfast.”

“Want me to join you?”

“You mean for breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Do me a favor, it’s much more fun to eat together. You’re not a chatterbox, are you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Good then.”

Polozov moved forward, Sanin walked beside him. And Sanin thought — Polozov’s lips were glued shut again, he snorted and waddled silently — Sanin thought: how did this blockhead manage to hook a beautiful and rich wife? He himself was neither rich, nor noble, nor clever; at the boarding school, he was known as a sluggish and dull boy, a sleepyhead and a glutton — and his nickname was “drooler.” Miracles!

“But if his wife is very rich — they say she’s the daughter of some tax farmer — then perhaps she’ll buy my estate? Even though he says he doesn’t get involved in his wife’s affairs, that can’t be true! Besides, I’ll set a reasonable, profitable price! Why not try? Perhaps it’s all my star at work… Decided! I’ll try!”

Polozov led Sanin to one of the best hotels in Frankfurt, where he, of course, occupied the best suite. Cardboard boxes, crates, bundles were piled on the tables and chairs… “All, brother, purchases for Marya Nikolaevna!” (that was Ippolit Sidorych’s wife’s name). Polozov sank into an armchair, moaned: “What heat!” — and untied his tie. Then he rang for the headwaiter and meticulously ordered a most abundant breakfast. “And the carriage must be ready at one o’clock! Do you hear, precisely at one!”

The headwaiter bowed obsequiously and slavishly disappeared.

Polozov unbuttoned his waistcoat. From the way he raised his eyebrows, huffed, and wrinkled his nose, one could see that speaking would be a great burden for him and that he awaited with some anxiety whether Sanin would make him turn his tongue, or if he himself would take the trouble to lead the conversation?

Sanin understood his friend’s mood and therefore did not burden him with questions; he limited himself to only the most necessary; he learned that he had served for two years (in the lancers! He must have looked good in that short uniform, eh?), had married three years ago — and had been abroad with his wife for two years now, “who is now being treated for something in Wiesbaden,” — and then they were going to Paris. For his part, Sanin also did not elaborate much on his past life or his plans; he went straight to the main point — that is, he spoke of his intention to sell his estate.

Polozov listened to him silently, only occasionally glancing at the door from which breakfast was to appear. Breakfast finally arrived. The headwaiter, accompanied by two other servants, brought several dishes under silver covers.

“Is the estate in the Tula province?” Polozov murmured, sitting down at the table and tucking a napkin into his shirt collar.

“In Tula.”

“Yefremov district… I know it.”

“You know my Alexeyevka?” Sanin asked, also sitting down at the table.

“I know it, of course.” Polozov shoved a piece of scrambled eggs with truffles into his mouth. “Marya Nikolaevna — my wife — has an estate nearby… Open this bottle, waiter! The land is decent — only your peasants cut down the forest. Why are you selling?”

“I need money, brother. I’d sell it cheap. You should buy it… Conveniently.”

Polozov swallowed a glass of wine, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and began to chew again — slowly and noisily.

“Well,” he finally said… “I don’t buy estates: I have no capital. Pass the butter. Unless my wife buys it. You talk to her. If you don’t ask too much — she doesn’t shy away from that… What donkeys these Germans are, though! They don’t know how to cook fish. What could be simpler, it seems? And they still talk about: Vaterland, they say, should be unified. Waiter, take this abomination away!”

“Does your wife really manage… the household herself?” Sanin asked.

“Herself. These cutlets — they’re good. I recommend them. I told you, Dmitry Pavlovich, that I don’t get involved in my wife’s affairs, and I repeat it to you now.”

Polozov continued to munch.

“Hmm… But how can I talk to her, Ippolit Sidorych?”

“Very simply, Dmitry Pavlovich. Go to Wiesbaden. It’s not far from here. Waiter, do you have any English mustard? No? Savages! Just don’t waste time. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow. Allow me to pour you a glass: it’s a bouquet wine — not sour.”

Polozov’s face brightened and flushed; it only brightened when he ate… or drank.

“Truly… I don’t know how to do that?” Sanin murmured.

“What’s suddenly gotten into you so urgently?”

“That’s just it, it’s urgent, brother.”

“And a large sum is needed?”

“Large. I… how shall I put it? I’ve decided… to marry.”

Polozov placed the glass he had brought to his lips back on the table.

“Marry!” he said in a hoarse voice, hoarse from astonishment, and folded his plump hands over his stomach. “So suddenly?”

“Yes… quickly.”

“The bride — in Russia, of course?”

“No, not in Russia.”

“Where then?”

“Here, in Frankfurt.”

“And who is she?”

“A German; that is, no — an Italian. A resident here.”

“With capital?”

“Without capital.”

“So, the love must be very strong?”

“How funny you are! Yes, strong.”

“And you need money for that?”

“Well, yes… yes, yes.”

Polozov swallowed the wine, rinsed his mouth, and washed his hands, carefully wiped them on a napkin, took out and lit a cigar. Sanin watched him silently.

“One way,” Polozov finally mumbled, leaning his head back and exhaling smoke in a thin stream. “Go to my wife. If she wants to, she’ll clear up all your troubles with her hands.”

“But how will I see her, your wife? You say you’re leaving the day after tomorrow?”

Polozov closed his eyes.

“You know what I’ll tell you,” he finally said, twisting the cigar with his lips and sighing. “Go home, get ready quickly, and come back here. I’m leaving at one, my carriage is spacious — I’ll take you with me. That’s the best way. And now I’ll sleep. Brother, after I eat, I must sleep. Nature demands it — and I don’t resist. And don’t disturb me.”

Sanin thought and thought — and suddenly raised his head: he had decided!

“Very well, agreed — and thank you. I’ll be here by half past twelve — and we’ll go to Wiesbaden together. I hope your wife won’t be angry…”

But Polozov was already snoring. He mumbled: Don’t disturb! — shuffled his feet and fell asleep like a baby. Sanin once again gazed at his bulky figure, his head, neck, his high-held, round, apple-like chin — and, leaving the hotel, headed with brisk steps towards Roselli’s confectionery. He had to forewarn Gemma.

XXXII

He found her in the confectionery room, together with her mother. Frau Lenore, bent over, was measuring the space between the windows with a small folding rule. Seeing Sanin, she straightened up and greeted him cheerfully, not without a little embarrassment, however.

“From your words yesterday,” she began, “thoughts keep swirling in my head about how we could improve our shop. Here, I believe, we should put two small display cases with mirrored shelves. You know, it’s in fashion now. And then also…”

“Excellent, excellent,” Sanin interrupted her, “we’ll have to consider all that… But come here, I have something to tell you.”

He took Frau Lenore and Gemma by the arms and led them into another room. Frau Lenore became alarmed and dropped the measuring tape from her hands. Gemma was alarmed too, but looked more closely at Sanin and calmed down. His face, though concerned, at the same time expressed lively cheerfulness and determination.

He asked both women to sit down, and he stood before them — and, waving his hands and ruffling his hair, told them everything: his meeting with Polozov, the planned trip to Wiesbaden, the possibility of selling his estate.

“Imagine my happiness,” he finally exclaimed, “the matter has taken such a turn that I may not even need to go to Russia! And we can have the wedding much sooner than I expected!”

“When are you leaving?” Gemma asked.

“Today — in an hour; my friend has hired a carriage — he’ll take me.”

“Will you write to us?”

“Immediately! As soon as I talk to this lady — I’ll write at once.”

“This lady, you say, is very rich?” asked the practical Frau Lenore.

“Extremely! Her father was a millionaire — and left everything to her.”

“Everything — to her alone? Well, that’s your good fortune. Just make sure you don’t sell your estate for too little! Be prudent and firm. Don’t get carried away! I understand your desire to become Gemma’s husband as soon as possible… but caution above all! Don’t forget: the more you sell the estate for, the more will be left for both of you — and your children.”

Gemma turned away, and Sanin waved his hands again.

“You can be sure of my caution, Frau Lenore! And I won’t even bargain. I’ll tell her the true price: if she gives it — good; if not — so be it!”

“Are you acquainted with her… with this lady?” Gemma asked.

“I’ve never seen her face.”

“And when will you return?”

“If our business comes to nothing — the day after tomorrow; if it goes well — I might have to stay an extra day or two. In any case — I won’t delay a minute. After all, I’m leaving my soul here! However, I’ve talked too long with you, and I need to run home before I leave… Give me your hand for good luck, Frau Lenore — that’s how it’s always done in Russia.”

“Right or left?”

“Left — closer to the heart. I’ll appear the day after tomorrow — with my shield or on my shield! Something tells me: I’ll return a victor. Farewell, my good, my dear ones…”

He embraced and kissed Frau Lenore, and asked Gemma to go with him to her room — for a moment, as he needed to tell her something very important. He simply wanted to say goodbye to her alone. Frau Lenore understood this — and was not curious to know what this important thing was…

Sanin had never been in Gemma’s room before. All the charm of love, all its fire, and rapture, and sweet terror — they flared up in him, they rushed into his soul, as soon as he crossed the sacred threshold… He cast a tender glance around, fell at the feet of the dear girl, and pressed his face to her waist…

“Are you mine?” she whispered, “will you return soon?”

“I am yours… I will return,” he repeated, breathless.

“I will wait for you, my dear!”

A few moments later, Sanin was already running down the street to his apartment. He didn’t even notice that Pantaleone, all dishevelled, had burst out of the confectionery door behind him — and was shouting something at him, and shaking, and as if threatening with a raised hand.

Exactly at a quarter to one, Sanin presented himself to Polozov. At the gates of his hotel, a carriage drawn by four horses was already waiting. Seeing Sanin, Polozov merely said: “Ah! Decided?” — and, putting on his hat, greatcoat, and galoshes, stuffing cotton wool into his ears, though it was summer, he came out onto the porch. The waiters, at his instruction, had arranged all his numerous purchases inside the carriage, padded his seat with silk cushions, small bags, bundles, placed a box of provisions at his feet, and tied a suitcase to the coachman’s box. Polozov paid generously — and, though from behind, but respectfully supported by the obliging doorman, he clambered, grunting, into the carriage, settled himself, carefully adjusted everything around him, chose and lit a cigar — and only then nodded his finger at Sanin: get in, he seemed to say! Sanin seated himself beside him. Polozov instructed the postilion through the doorman to drive properly — if he wished to receive a tip; the footboards clattered, the doors slammed shut, and the carriage rolled away.

XXXIII

From Frankfurt to Wiesbaden, it’s now less than an hour by train; at that time, an express post coach took about three hours. The horses were changed five times. Polozov was either dozing or simply swaying, holding a cigar in his teeth, and said very little; he didn’t once look out the window: he wasn’t interested in picturesque views and even declared that “nature is the death of him!” Sanin also remained silent and didn’t admire the views: he had other things on his mind. He was entirely engrossed in thoughts, memories. At the stations, Polozov paid accurately, noted the time by his watch, and rewarded the postilions — little or much, depending on their diligence. Halfway through, he took two oranges from the food box and, choosing the better one, offered the other to Sanin. Sanin looked intently at his companion — and suddenly burst out laughing.

“What are you laughing at?” the other asked, carefully peeling the orange with his short, white fingernails.

“What?” Sanin repeated. “Why, at our journey together.”

“And what about it?” Polozov asked, putting one of those longitudinal slices of orange flesh into his mouth.

“It’s very strange. Yesterday, frankly, I thought as little of you as of the Emperor of China, and today I’m traveling with you to sell my estate to your wife, about whom I also have not the slightest idea.”

“Anything can happen,” Polozov replied. “Just live longer — you’ll see everything. For example, can you imagine me riding up for an ordinary inspection? But I did; and Grand Duke Mikhail Pavlovich commanded: ‘Trot, trot this fat cornet! Increase the trot!'”

Sanin scratched behind his ear.

“Tell me, please, Ippolit Sidorych, what is your wife like? What’s her character? I need to know this.”

“It’s easy for him to command: ‘trot!'” Polozov interjected with sudden peevishness, “but for me… how was it for me? I thought: take your ranks and epaulets — to hell with them! Yes… you asked about my wife? What about my wife? A person, like everyone else. Don’t put your finger in her mouth — she doesn’t like that. The main thing is to talk a lot… so there’s something to laugh about. Tell her about your love, or something… but make it funnier, you know.”

“How funnier?”

“Just so. You told me you’re in love, you want to marry. Well, describe that.”

Sanin was offended.

“What do you find funny in that?”

Polozov only rolled his eyes. Orange juice ran down his chin.

“Was it your wife who sent you to Frankfurt for purchases?” Sanin asked after a while.

“The very one.”

“What kind of purchases?”

“You know: toys.”

“Toys? Do you have children?”

Polozov even edged away from Sanin.

“Nonsense! Why would I have children? Women’s caliphates… Outfits. For the toilet.”

“Do you really understand anything about that?”

“I do.”

“Then why did you tell me you don’t get involved in your wife’s affairs?”

“I don’t get involved in other things. But this… it’s nothing. Out of boredom — one can. And my wife trusts my taste. I’m also good at bargaining.”

Polozov began to speak abruptly; he was already tired.

“And is your wife very rich?”

“Rich she is. But mostly for herself.”

“However, it seems you can’t complain either?”

“That’s why I’m a husband. Why shouldn’t I benefit! And I am useful to her! She’s got it easy with me! I’m convenient!”

Polozov wiped his face with a silk handkerchief and snorted heavily: “Spare me, he seemed to say; don’t make me utter any more words. You see how difficult it is for me.”

Sanin left him alone — and again plunged into thought.

The hotel in Wiesbaden, in front of which the carriage stopped, already looked like a palace. Bells immediately rang within its depths, a bustle and commotion arose; dignified men in black tailcoats hopped at the main entrance; a doorman covered in gold flung open the carriage doors.

Like some triumphant figure, Polozov disembarked and began to ascend the carpeted and fragrant staircase. A man, also excellently dressed, but with a Russian face — his valet — flew up to him. Polozov remarked to him that in the future he would always take him along, for, the day before, in Frankfurt, he, Polozov, had been left without hot water for the night! The valet showed horror on his face — and, quickly bending down, took off his master’s galoshes.

“Is Marya Nikolaevna at home?” Polozov asked.

“Yes, sir. She is dressing. She is dining at Countess Lasunskaya’s.”

“Ah! At that one’s!… Stop! There are things in the carriage, take everything out yourself and bring it in. And you, Dmitry Pavlovich,” Polozov added, “get yourself a room and come back in three quarters of an hour. We’ll have dinner together.”

Polozov floated on, and Sanin asked for a simpler room — and, having put his toilet in order and rested a little, went to the enormous apartment occupied by His Serene Highness (Durchlaucht) Prince von Polozoff.

He found this “prince” enthroned in the most luxurious velvet armchair in the middle of a most magnificent drawing-room. Sanin’s phlegmatic friend had already taken a bath and put on the richest satin dressing gown; on his head, he wore a crimson fez. Sanin approached him and for some time observed him. Polozov sat motionless, like an idol; he did not even turn his face towards him, did not even twitch an eyebrow, did not utter a sound. The spectacle was truly majestic! After admiring him for about two minutes, Sanin was about to speak, to break this sacred silence — when suddenly the door from the next room opened and a young, beautiful lady appeared on the threshold in a white silk dress, with black lace, and diamonds on her arms and neck — Marya Nikolaevna Polozova herself. Her thick, light brown hair fell on both sides of her head — in braided but ungathered plaits.

XXXIV

“Ah, excuse me!” she said with a half-embarrassed, half-mocking smile, instantly grasping the end of one braid and fixing her large, bright grey eyes on Sanin. “I didn’t think you were here already.”

“Sanin, Dmitry Pavlovich, my friend since childhood,” Polozov mumbled, still not turning to him or rising, but pointing a finger at him.

“Yes… I know… You already told me. Very pleased to meet you. But I wanted to ask you, Ippolit Sidorych… My maid is quite muddled today…”

“To do your hair?”

“Yes, yes, please. Excuse me,” Marya Nikolaevna repeated with her usual smile, nodded to Sanin, and, quickly turning, disappeared through the door, leaving behind a fleeting but graceful impression of a lovely neck, amazing shoulders, and an amazing figure.

Polozov stood up and, lumbering heavily, went through the same door.

Sanin did not doubt for a second that his presence in “Prince Polozov’s” drawing-room was perfectly well known to the hostess herself; the whole show was about displaying her hair, which was indeed beautiful. Sanin even inwardly rejoiced at this antic of Madame Polozova: if, he thought, they wanted to impress me, to show off before me — perhaps, who knows? they might also be pliable about the price of the estate. His soul was so filled with Gemma that all other women held no significance for him: he barely noticed them; and this time he limited himself to thinking: “Yes, they told me the truth: this lady is something!”

But had he not been in such an exceptional state of mind, he would probably have expressed himself differently: Marya Nikolaevna Polozova, née Kolyshkina, was a truly remarkable person. And it wasn’t that she was an acknowledged beauty: traces of her plebeian origin were quite clearly visible in her. Her forehead was low, her nose somewhat fleshy and upturned; she could not boast of delicate skin or elegant hands and feet — but what did all that mean? Not before the “sanctuary of beauty,” to use Pushkin’s words, would anyone who met her stop, but before the charm of a powerful, whether Russian or Gypsy, flourishing female body… and he would not stop unwillingly!

But Gemma’s image protected Sanin, like that triple armor of which poets sing.

About ten minutes later, Marya Nikolaevna reappeared, accompanied by her husband. She approached Sanin… and her gait was such that some eccentrics in those, alas! already distant times — would lose their minds just from that gait. “When this woman walks towards you, it’s as if all the happiness of your life is coming to meet you,” one of them used to say. She approached Sanin — and, extending her hand to him, said in her gentle and as if restrained voice, in Russian: “You will wait for me, won’t you? I’ll be back soon.”

Sanin bowed respectfully, and Marya Nikolaevna was already disappearing behind the curtain of the exit door — and, as she disappeared, she again turned her head back over her shoulder, and again smiled, and again left behind the same graceful impression.

When she smiled — not one or two, but three dimples appeared on each cheek, and her eyes smiled more than her lips, more than her scarlet, long, luscious lips, with two tiny moles on their left side.

Polozov lumbered into the room and again settled into the armchair. He remained silent as before; but a strange smirk from time to time puffed out his colorless and already wrinkled cheeks.

He looked old for his age, although he was only three years older than Sanin.

The dinner with which he regaled his guest would, of course, have satisfied the most demanding gourmand, but to Sanin it seemed endless, unbearable! Polozov ate slowly, “with feeling, with sense, with pauses,” bending attentively over his plate, sniffing almost every piece; first he would rinse his mouth with wine, then he would swallow and smack his lips… And over the roast, he suddenly became talkative — but about what? About merinos, of which he intended to import a whole herd, and so meticulously, with such tenderness, using all diminutive names. After drinking a cup of coffee, hot as boiling water (he reminded the waiter several times, in a tearful-irritated voice, that the day before he had been served cold coffee, cold as ice!) and biting a Havana cigar with his yellow, crooked teeth, he, as was his custom, dozed off, to Sanin’s great joy, who began to pace back and forth, with noiseless steps, on the soft carpet, and dreamed of how he would live with Gemma and with what news he would return to her. However, Polozov woke up, by his own remark, earlier than usual — he had only slept for an hour and a half and, after drinking a glass of seltzer water with ice and swallowing about eight spoonfuls of jam, Russian jam, which the valet brought him in a dark green, real “Kiev” jar and without which, he said, he could not live — he stared at Sanin with swollen eyes and asked him if he wanted to play durachki (a card game) with him. Sanin readily agreed; he was afraid that Polozov would start talking about lambs, and ewes, and fat-tailed sheep again. Host and guest, both moved to the drawing-room, the waiter brought cards — and the game began, of course, not for money.

Marya Nikolaevna found them engaged in this innocent pastime when she returned from Countess Lasunskaya’s.

She laughed loudly as soon as she entered the room and saw the cards and the open card table. Sanin jumped up from his seat, but she exclaimed:

“Sit and play. I’ll just change and be right back,” and again disappeared, rustling her dress and pulling off her gloves as she went.

She did indeed return very soon. She had replaced her fancy dress with a wide purple silk blouse with open, hanging sleeves; a thick twisted cord cinched her waist. She sat down next to her husband and, waiting until he was left with the “fool’s” hand, said to him: “Well, dumpling, that’s enough! (at the word ‘dumpling’ Sanin looked at her in astonishment, and she smiled cheerfully, returning his gaze and showing all her dimples on her cheeks) — enough; I see you want to sleep; kiss my hand and go; and Mr. Sanin and I will chat alone.”

“I don’t want to sleep,” Polozov mumbled, rising heavily from the armchair, “but I will go and kiss your hand.” She offered him her palm, without ceasing to smile and look at Sanin.

Polozov also glanced at him and left without saying goodbye.

“Well, tell me, tell me,” Marya Nikolaevna said with animation, resting both bare elbows on the table at once and impatiently tapping the nails of one hand against the nails of the other. “Is it true, they say, that you are getting married?”

Having said these words, Marya Nikolaevna even tilted her head a little to the side, to look more intently and penetratingly into Sanin’s eyes.

XXXV

Madame Polozova’s free and easy manner would probably have disconcerted Sanin at first — though he was no novice and had already rubbed shoulders with people — if he had not, again, seen a good omen for his undertaking in this very ease and familiarity. “Let’s indulge the whims of this rich lady,” he decided to himself — and replied to her as casually as she had asked him:

“Yes, I’m getting married.”

“To whom? A foreigner?”

“Yes.”

“Did you meet her recently? In Frankfurt?”

“Exactly.”

“And who is she? May I know?”

“You may. She’s a confectioner’s daughter.”

Marya Nikolaevna’s eyes widened, and her eyebrows rose.

“Why, that’s delightful,” she said in a slow voice, “that’s a miracle! I thought young men like you no longer existed in the world. A confectioner’s daughter!”

“You seem surprised by this,” Sanin remarked, not without dignity, “but, firstly, I have none of those prejudices…”

“Firstly, it doesn’t surprise me at all,” Marya Nikolaevna interrupted, “I have no prejudices either. I myself am a peasant’s daughter. Eh? What, got you? What surprises and delights me is that here is a man who isn’t afraid to love. For you do love her, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Is she very beautiful?”

Sanin was slightly taken aback by this last question… However, there was no turning back now.

“You know, Marya Nikolaevna,” he began, “every man’s beloved’s face seems better than all others to him; but my fiancée is truly a beauty.”

“Really? What kind? Italian? Antique?”

“Yes; she has very regular features.”

“You don’t have her portrait with you?”

“No.” (At that time, photographs were not yet heard of. Daguerreotypes were only just beginning to spread.)

“What’s her name?”

“Her name is Gemma.”

“And yours — what is it?”

“Dmitry.”

“Patronymic?”

“Pavlovich.”

“You know what,” Marya Nikolaevna said in the same slow voice, “I like you very much, Dmitry Pavlovich. You must be a good person. Give me your hand. Let’s be friends.”

She clasped his hand firmly with her beautiful, white, strong fingers. Her hand was little smaller than his — but much warmer and smoother, and softer, and more alive.

“Only, you know what comes to my mind?”

“What?”

“You won’t get angry? No? She, you say, is your fiancée. But was it… was it absolutely necessary?”

Sanin frowned.

“I don’t understand you, Marya Nikolaevna.”

Marya Nikolaevna laughed softly and, shaking her head, threw back the hair that fell on her cheeks.

“Absolutely — he’s charming,” she said, whether thoughtfully or distractedly. “A knight! Go on believing people who claim that idealists are all extinct!”

Marya Nikolaevna spoke Russian the whole time in an amazingly pure, truly Moscow accent — of a common, not noble, sort.

“You were probably brought up at home, in an old-fashioned, God-fearing family?” she asked. “Which province are you from?”

“Tula.”

“Well, then we’re from the same trough. My father… You know who my father was, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.”

“He was born in Tula… A Tulyak. Well, good…” (Marya Nikolaevna now deliberately pronounced “good” in a distinctly common way — like this: kher-shó-o.) “Well, let’s get down to business now.”

“That is… how does one get down to business? What do you mean by that?”

Marya Nikolaevna narrowed her eyes.

“Why did you come here?” (When she narrowed her eyes, their expression became very gentle and slightly mocking; when she opened them wide — something unkind… something threatening appeared in their bright, almost cold gleam. Her eyebrows, thick, slightly overhanging, truly sable, gave her eyes a peculiar beauty.) “You want me to buy your estate? You need money for your marriage? Is that right?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And how much do you need?”

“For a start, I’d be satisfied with a few thousand francs. Your husband knows my estate. You can consult with him — and I’d ask for an inexpensive price.”

Marya Nikolaevna shook her head right and left.

“Firstly,” she began deliberately, tapping the cuff of Sanin’s frock coat with her fingertips, “I am not in the habit of consulting my husband, except regarding my wardrobe — he’s good at that; and secondly, why do you say you’ll set an inexpensive price? I don’t want to take advantage of the fact that you are now very much in love and ready for any sacrifices… I will accept no sacrifices from you. What? Instead of encouraging in you… well, how should I put it better?.. noble feelings, perhaps? I should fleece you? That’s not my habit. When it happens, I don’t spare people — just not in that manner.”

Sanin couldn’t quite understand whether she was mocking him or speaking seriously; he only thought to himself: “Oh, you’d better keep your wits about you with her!”

A servant entered with a Russian samovar, a tea set, cream, rusks, etc., on a large tray, arranged all this bounty on the table between Sanin and Madame Polozova — and withdrew.

She poured him a cup of tea.

“You’re not squeamish?” she asked, putting sugar into his cup with her fingers… though tongs lay right there.

“Good heavens!… From such a beautiful hand…”

He did not finish the phrase and nearly choked on a sip of tea, while she looked at him attentively and clearly.

“I mentioned the inexpensive price of my estate,” he continued, “because since you are now abroad, I cannot assume you have much free money, and finally, I myself feel that the sale… or purchase of an estate under such conditions is somewhat abnormal, and I must take that into consideration.”

Sanin was getting confused and stumbling, while Marya Nikolaevna quietly leaned back in her armchair, crossed her arms, and looked at him with the same attentive and clear gaze. He finally fell silent.

“Nothing, speak, speak,” she said, as if coming to his aid, “I am listening to you — it pleases me to listen to you; speak.”

Sanin began to describe his estate, how many desyatinas it had, where it was located, what its agricultural lands were like, and what profits could be derived from it… he even mentioned the picturesque location of the manor; and Marya Nikolaevna kept looking and looking at him — brighter and more intently, and her lips moved slightly, without a smile: she was biting them. He finally felt awkward; he fell silent a second time.

“Dmitry Pavlovich,” Marya Nikolaevna began — and became thoughtful… “Dmitry Pavlovich,” she repeated… “You know what: I’m sure that buying your estate is a very profitable venture for me, and we’ll agree on a price; but you must give me… two days — yes, two days’ time. You are able to be separated from your fiancée for two days, aren’t you? I won’t keep you longer than that, against your will — I give you my honest word. But if you need five, six thousand francs right now, I’m very happy to offer them to you as a loan — and we’ll settle up later.”

Sanin stood up.

“I must thank you, Marya Nikolaevna, for your cordial and kind willingness to assist a person almost entirely unknown to you… But if you absolutely insist, then I prefer to await your decision regarding my estate — I will stay here for two days.”

“Yes; I do insist, Dmitry Pavlovich. And will it be very difficult for you? Very? Tell me.”

“I love my fiancée, Marya Nikolaevna, and separation from her is not easy for me.”

“Ah, you are a golden man!” Marya Nikolaevna said with a sigh. “I promise not to torment you too much. Are you leaving?”

“It’s already late,” Sanin noted.

“And you need to rest from your journey — and from playing durachki with my husband. Tell me — are you a great friend of Ippolit Sidorych, my husband?”

“We were educated at the same boarding school.”

“And he was already like that then?”

“Like what?” Sanin asked.

Marya Nikolaevna suddenly burst out laughing, laughing until her whole face was red, brought her handkerchief to her lips, rose from the armchair, and, swaying as if tired, approached Sanin and extended her hand to him.

He bowed and headed for the door.

“Be sure to come early tomorrow — do you hear?” she called after him.

He glanced back as he left the room and saw that she had again settled into the armchair and thrown both arms behind her head. The wide sleeves of her blouse had slipped almost to her shoulders — and one could not help but acknowledge that the pose of these arms, that this entire figure, was enchantingly beautiful.

XXXVI

Far past midnight, a lamp burned in Sanin’s room. He sat at the table, writing to “his Gemma.” He told her everything; he described the Polozovs, husband and wife — though he dwelt more on his own feelings — and ended by arranging a meeting with her in three days!!! (with three exclamation marks). Early in the morning, he took the letter to the post office and went for a stroll in the Kurhaus garden, where music was already playing. There were still few people; he stood before the gazebo where the orchestra was located, listened to a medley from “Robert le Diable,” and, after drinking coffee, went to a secluded side alley, sat on a bench — and became lost in thought.

The handle of an umbrella tapped quickly — and quite firmly — on his shoulder. He started… Before him, in a light, grey-green barege dress, a white tulle hat, and Swedish gloves, fresh and rosy as a summer morning, but with the lingering languor of peaceful sleep in her movements and gaze, stood Marya Nikolaevna.

“Good morning,” she said. “I sent for you today, but you had already left. I’ve just had my second glass — you know, they make me drink water here, God knows why… am I not healthy enough? And now I have to walk for a whole hour. Would you like to be my companion? Then we’ll have coffee.”

“I’ve already had some,” Sanin said, standing up, “but I’d be very pleased to walk with you.”

“Well then, give me your hand… Don’t be afraid: your fiancée isn’t here — she won’t see you.”

Sanin forced a smile. He felt an unpleasant sensation whenever Marya Nikolaevna mentioned Gemma. However, he quickly and obediently bent down… Marya Nikolaevna’s hand slowly and softly rested on his arm, and slid along it, as if clinging to it.

“Let’s go — this way,” she told him, tossing her open umbrella over her shoulder. “I’m at home in this park: I’ll show you the nice spots. And you know what (she often used these two words): we won’t talk about this purchase now; we’ll talk about it properly after breakfast; but you must tell me about yourself now… so that I know with whom I am dealing. And later, if you like, I’ll tell you about myself. Agreed?”

“But, Marya Nikolaevna, what could be interesting for you…”

“Wait, wait. You misunderstood me. I don’t want to flirt with you.” Marya Nikolaevna shrugged. “He has a fiancée like an ancient statue, and I’m going to flirt with him?! But you have goods — and I’m a buyer. I want to know what your goods are like. Well, show me — what are they like? I want to know not only what I’m buying, but from whom I’m buying. That was my father’s rule. Well, begin… Well, if not from childhood — well, for example — how long have you been abroad? And where have you been until now? Just walk slower — we’re not in a hurry.”

“I arrived here from Italy, where I spent several months.”

“And you seem to have a special attraction to all things Italian? Strange that you didn’t find your object there. Do you like the arts? Paintings? Or more — music?”

“I love art… I love everything beautiful.”

“And music?”

“Music too.”

“But I don’t like it at all. I only like Russian songs — and then in the countryside, and then in spring — with dancing, you know… Red calico, beadwork, young grass on the common, a smell of smoke… wonderful! But we’re not talking about me. Go on, tell me.”

Marya Nikolaevna walked herself, but kept glancing at Sanin. She was tall — her face was almost level with his.

He began to tell his story — at first reluctantly, awkwardly, and then he became talkative, even garrulous. Marya Nikolaevna listened very intelligently; and besides, she herself seemed so frank that she involuntarily prompted frankness in others. She possessed that great gift of “everyday familiarity” — le terrible don de la familiarité, which Cardinal Retz mentions. Sanin spoke of his travels, of his life in Petersburg, of his youth… Had Marya Nikolaevna been a society lady, with refined manners — he would never have relaxed so much; but she called herself a good fellow, intolerant of any ceremonies; she specifically introduced herself to Sanin that way. And at the same time, this “good fellow” walked beside him with a cat-like gait, leaning slightly against him, and looked into his face; and she walked in the guise of a young female creature, from whom emanated that unsettling and tormenting, quiet and burning temptation, with which only — and then only certain and not pure, but with the proper admixture — Slavic natures are capable of vexing our kind — sinful, weak men!

Sanin’s walk with Marya Nikolaevna, Sanin’s conversation with Marya Nikolaevna, lasted over an hour. And they never stopped — they kept walking and walking along the endless alleys of the park, sometimes going uphill and admiring the view on the move, sometimes descending into the valley and sheltering in impenetrable shade — and always hand in hand. At times Sanin even felt annoyed: he had never walked so long with Gemma, his dear Gemma… and here this lady had taken possession of him — and that was that!

“Aren’t you tired?” he asked her more than once.

“I never get tired,” she replied.

Occasionally they met other strollers; almost all bowed to her — some respectfully, others even obsequiously. To one of them, a very handsome, fashionably dressed brunette, she shouted from afar, with the best Parisian accent: “Comte, vous savez, il ne faut pas venir me voir — ni aujourd’hui, ni demain.” 1 The man silently removed his hat and bowed low.

“Who is that?” Sanin asked, by the bad habit of “curiosity” common to all Russians.

“That? A little Frenchman — many of them hang around here… He’s also courting me. But it’s time for coffee. Let’s go home; you’re probably hungry. My blessed husband must have woken up by now.”

“Blessed husband! Woken up!!” Sanin repeated to himself… “And she speaks French so well… What an eccentric!”

Marya Nikolaevna was not mistaken. When she returned to the hotel with Sanin — the “blessed husband,” or “dumpling,” was already sitting, with his unchanging fez on his head, before the laid table.

“I’ve been waiting for you!” he exclaimed, making a sour face. “I was about to drink coffee without you.”

“It’s nothing, nothing,” Marya Nikolaevna cheerfully retorted. “Were you angry? That’s good for you: otherwise you’ll completely freeze up. I’ve brought a guest. Ring quickly! Let’s drink coffee, coffee — the best coffee — in Saxon cups, on a snow-white tablecloth!”

She threw off her hat and gloves — and clapped her hands.

Polozov looked at her from under his brow.

“Why are you so sprightly today, Marya Nikolaevna?” he murmured.

“None of your business, Ippolit Sidorych! Ring! Dmitry Pavlovich, sit down — and drink coffee for a second time! Oh, how delightful it is to give orders! There’s no other pleasure in the world!”

“When one is obeyed,” her husband grumbled again.

“Precisely, when one is obeyed! That’s why I’m so cheerful. Especially with you. Isn’t that right, dumpling? And here’s the coffee.”

On the huge tray with which the waiter appeared, there was also a theater playbill. Marya Nikolaevna immediately seized it.

“Drama!” she exclaimed with indignation, “German drama. No matter: better than German comedy. Have them get me a box — a bénouar — or no… better a Fremden-Loge 2,” she addressed the waiter. “Do you hear: absolutely a Fremden-Loge!”

“But if the Fremden-Loge is already taken by His Excellency, the City Director (seine Excellenz der Herr Stadt-Director),” the waiter dared to report.

“Give His Excellency ten thalers,” — “and I want that box! Do you hear!”

The waiter meekly and sadly bowed his head.

“Dmitry Pavlovich, will you go to the theater with me? German actors are terrible, but you’ll go… Yes? Yes! How kind of you! Dumpling, aren’t you going?”

“As you command,” Polozov mumbled into the cup he brought to his lips.

“You know what: stay. You always sleep at the theater — and you don’t understand German well. You’d better do this: write a reply to the manager — remember, about our mill… about the peasants’ grinding. Tell him that I don’t want it, I don’t want it, and I don’t want it! There’s an occupation for you for the whole evening.”

“Very well,” Polozov replied.

“Well, that’s wonderful. You’re a clever one. And now, gentlemen, since we’ve started talking about the manager, let’s discuss our main business. As soon as the waiter clears the table, you’ll tell us everything, Dmitry Pavlovich, about your estate — how, what, for what price you’re selling, how much advance payment you want — in short, everything! (“At last,” Sanin thought, “thank God!”) You’ve already told me something, you described your garden wonderfully, if I remember correctly, but the ‘dumpling’ wasn’t there… Let him listen — he’ll grumble something! I’m very pleased to think that I can help you get married, and I promised you that after breakfast I would attend to you; and I always keep my promises; isn’t that right, Ippolit Sidorych?”

Polozov rubbed his face with his palm.

“What’s true is true, you deceive no one.”

“Never! And I’ll never deceive anyone. Well, Dmitry Pavlovich, present your case, as we say in the Senate.”

XXXVII

Sanin began to “present his case,” meaning he once again, for the second time, described his estate, but this time without touching on the beauties of nature and occasionally referring to Polozov to confirm the “facts and figures” he cited. But Polozov only grunted and shook his head — whether in approval or disapproval, even the devil himself couldn’t have told. However, Marya Nikolaevna didn’t need his participation. She displayed such commercial and administrative acumen that it was simply astounding! She was perfectly familiar with every detail of estate management; she inquired about everything meticulously, delving into every aspect; every word she spoke hit the mark, putting the dot directly on the “i.” Sanin had not expected such an examination: he was unprepared. And this examination lasted for a full hour and a half. Sanin experienced all the sensations of a defendant sitting on a narrow bench before a strict and perceptive judge. “This is an interrogation!” he mournfully whispered to himself. Marya Nikolaevna kept smiling, as if joking, but this didn’t make it any easier for Sanin; and when, during the “interrogation,” it turned out that he didn’t quite understand the meaning of the words: “repartition” and “plowing” — he even broke out in a sweat.

“Well, good!” Marya Nikolaevna finally decided. “I now know your estate… no worse than you do. What price will you set per ‘soul’?” (At that time, as is known, estate prices were determined by the number of souls.)

“Well… I suppose… one can’t take less than five hundred rubles,” Sanin said with difficulty. (Oh, Pantaleone, Pantaleone, where are you? This is when you’d have to exclaim “Barbari!” again!)

Marya Nikolaevna raised her eyes to the sky, as if pondering.

“What then?” she finally said. “That price seems harmless to me. But I’ve reserved two days for myself — and you must wait until tomorrow. I believe we’ll come to an agreement, and then you’ll tell me how much advance payment you’ll need. And now basta così! 1” she added, noticing that Sanin wanted to object to something. “We’ve spent enough time on base metal… à demain les affaires! 2 You know what: I’m dismissing you now (she glanced at the enamel watch tucked into her belt)… until three o’clock… You need to rest. Go play roulette.”

“I never gamble,” Sanin remarked.

“Really? You are perfection. However, I don’t gamble either. It’s foolish to throw money to the wind — for sure. But go to the gambling hall, look at the faces. Some are quite amusing. There’s an old woman there, with a feroniere and a mustache — a wonder! There’s one of our princes there — he’s good too. A majestic figure, a nose like an eagle’s, and he’ll put down a thaler — and secretly cross himself under his waistcoat. Read magazines, stroll around — in short, do whatever you want… And at three o’clock I’ll be expecting you… de pied ferme. 3 We’ll have to have an early dinner. The theater with these funny Germans starts at half past six.” She extended her hand. “Sans rancune, n’est-ce pas? 4”

“Good heavens, Marya Nikolaevna, why would I be annoyed with you?”

“Because I tormented you. Wait, I haven’t tormented you yet,” she added, narrowing her eyes, and all her dimples appeared at once on her flushed cheeks. “Goodbye!”

Sanin bowed and left. Merry laughter followed him — and in the mirror, past which he passed at that moment, the following scene was reflected: Marya Nikolaevna had pulled her husband’s fez down over his eyes, and he was helplessly flailing his arms.

XXXVIII

Oh, how deeply and joyfully Sanin sighed as soon as he found himself in his room! Exactly: Marya Nikolaevna had told the truth — he needed to rest, to rest from all these new acquaintances, clashes, conversations, from this stupor that had invaded his head, his soul — from this unlooked-for, uninvited closeness with a woman so alien to him! And when was all this happening? Almost the very next day after he learned that Gemma loved him, after he had become her fiancé! Why, this was sacrilege! A thousand times he mentally begged forgiveness from his pure, innocent dove, although he could not actually accuse himself of anything; a thousand times he kissed the cross she had given him. Had he not hoped to quickly and successfully conclude the business for which he had come to Wiesbaden, he would have rushed headlong back — to dear Frankfurt, to that cherished, now kindred home, to her, to her beloved feet… But there was nothing to be done! He had to drain the cup to the dregs, he had to get dressed, go to dinner — and from there to the theater… If only she would dismiss him sooner tomorrow!

One more thing disturbed him, angered him: he thought of Gemma with love, with tenderness, with grateful rapture, of life with her, of the happiness that awaited him in the future — and yet this strange woman, this Madame Polozova, persistently hovered… no! not hovered — stuck… that’s exactly how Sanin expressed it, with particular malice — stuck before his eyes, — and he could not get rid of her image, could not help but hear her voice, could not help but remember her speeches, could not help but even feel that peculiar scent, subtle, fresh and penetrating, like the scent of yellow lilies, which emanated from her clothes. This lady was clearly fooling him, trying to get close to him in every way… Why? What did she want? Was it just a whim of a spoiled, rich, and perhaps immoral woman? And this husband?! What kind of creature was he? What were his relations with her? And why were these questions invading his, Sanin’s, mind, who properly had no business with either Mr. Polozov or his wife? Why could he not banish this persistent image even when his whole soul turned to another, bright and clear, as clear as day? How dared they — through those, almost divine features — shine through? And they not only shone through — they grinned insolently. Those grey, predatory eyes, those dimples on her cheeks, those serpent-like braids — could it be that all this had somehow clung to him, and he was powerless, unable to shake it off, to cast it away?

Nonsense! Nonsense! Tomorrow all this would disappear without a trace… But would she let him go tomorrow?

Yes… All these questions he asked himself, and it was getting close to three o’clock — and he put on his black tailcoat and, after a short walk in the park, went to the Polozovs’.

He found in their drawing-room a German embassy secretary, very tall, blonde, with a horse-like profile and a parting at the back (then it was still new) and… oh, wonder! who else? Von Dönhoff, the very officer with whom he had fought a few days ago! He had not expected to meet him precisely here — and involuntarily became confused, yet bowed to him.

“You’re acquainted?” asked Marya Nikolaevna, from whom Sanin’s embarrassment did not escape.

“Yes… I’ve already had the honor,” Dönhoff murmured, and, bending slightly towards Marya Nikolaevna, added in a low voice, with a smile: “The very one… Your countryman… a Russian…”

“Impossible!” she exclaimed, also in a low voice, wagged a finger at him, and immediately began to say goodbye — both to him and to the tall secretary, who, by all indications, was madly in love with her, for he even opened his mouth every time he looked at her. Dönhoff departed immediately, with amiable submission, like a friend of the house who understands at a word what is required of him; the secretary was about to balk, but Marya Nikolaevna escorted him out without any ceremony.

“Go to your reigning sovereign,” she told him (at that time, a certain Principessa di Monaco, remarkably resembling a bad lorette, lived in Wiesbaden), “why should you sit with a plebeian like me?”

“Pardon me, madam,” the unfortunate secretary assured her, “all the princesses in the world…”

But Marya Nikolaevna was merciless — and the secretary left with his parting.

Marya Nikolaevna was dressed very much to her “advantage” that day, as our grandmothers used to say. She wore a glazed pink silk dress with à la Fontanges sleeves, and a large diamond in each ear. Her eyes sparkled no worse than those diamonds: she seemed in high spirits and in her element.

She sat Sanin next to her and began to talk to him about Paris, where she intended to go in a few days, about how tired she was of Germans, that they were stupid when they tried to be clever, and inappropriately clever when they acted stupid; and then suddenly, as they say, point-blank — à brûle-pourpoint — she asked him if it was true that he had fought with that very officer who had just been sitting there, a few days ago, over a lady?

“How do you know that?” Sanin mumbled, astonished.

“Rumor fills the earth, Dmitry Pavlovich; but, anyway, I know you were right, a thousand times right — and you behaved like a knight. Tell me — was that lady your fiancée?”

Sanin frowned slightly…

“No, no, I won’t, I won’t,” Marya Nikolaevna said hastily. “You dislike it, forgive me, I won’t! Don’t be angry!” Polozov appeared from the next room with a newspaper sheet in his hands. “What is it? Is dinner ready?”

“Dinner is being served now, and look what I read in ‘Severnaya Pchela’ *(Northern Bee)… Prince Gromoboy has died.”

Marya Nikolaevna raised her head.

“Ah! May he rest in peace! Every year,” she turned to Sanin, “in February, for my birthday, he would decorate all the rooms with camellias. But that’s no reason to live in Petersburg in winter. What, he must have been over seventy?” she asked her husband.

“He was. His funeral is described in the newspaper. The whole court attended. And here are Prince Kovrizhkin’s verses on the occasion.”

“Well, that’s wonderful.”

“Want me to read them? The Prince calls him a man of counsel.”

“No, I don’t. What kind of man of counsel was he! He was simply Tatyana Yurievna’s husband. Let’s go to dinner. The living think of the living. Dmitry Pavlovich, your hand.”

Dinner was, like yesterday, astonishing and passed very lively. Marya Nikolaevna knew how to tell stories… a rare gift in a woman, especially a Russian one! She was uninhibited in her expressions; her compatriots, in particular, suffered from her. Sanin often had to burst out laughing at some of her lively and apt remarks. Most of all, Marya Nikolaevna detested hypocrisy, pretense, and lies… She found it almost everywhere. She seemed to flaunt and boast of the humble environment in which her life began; she told rather strange anecdotes about her relatives from her childhood; she called herself a peasant woman, no worse than Natalya Kirillovna Naryshkina. It became obvious to Sanin that she had experienced far more in her lifetime than many, many of her peers.

And Polozov ate thoughtfully, drank attentively, and only occasionally cast his whitish, seemingly blind, but in essence very keen eyes on his wife, then on Sanin.

“How clever you are, my dear!” Marya Nikolaevna exclaimed, turning to him, “how well you carried out all my errands in Frankfurt! I’d kiss your forehead, but you don’t care for that.”

“I don’t,” Polozov replied, and sliced an pineapple with a silver knife.

Marya Nikolaevna looked at him and tapped her fingers on the table.

“So, our bet is on?” she said meaningfully.

“It is.”

“Good. You’ll lose.”

Polozov jutted his chin forward.

“Well, this time, no matter how much you rely on yourself, Marya Nikolaevna, I think you’ll lose.”

“What’s the bet about? May I know?” Sanin asked.

“No… not now,” Marya Nikolaevna replied — and laughed.

Seven o’clock struck. The waiter announced that the carriage was ready. Polozov escorted his wife out and immediately shuffled back to his armchair.

“Remember! Don’t forget the letter to the manager!” Marya Nikolaevna called to him from the anteroom.

“I’ll write it, don’t worry. I am a precise man.”

XXXIX

In 1840, the theater in Wiesbaden was poor even in appearance, and its troupe, with its verbose and meager mediocrity, its diligent and vulgar routine, did not rise a jot above the level that can still be considered normal for all German theaters, and whose perfection was recently represented by the troupe in Karlsruhe, under the “famous” direction of Mr. Devrient. Behind the box, reserved for “Her Serene Highness Madame von Polozov” (God knows how the waiter managed to get it — he surely didn’t bribe the city director!) — behind this box was a small room furnished with settees; before entering it, Marya Nikolaevna asked Sanin to raise the screens separating the box from the theater.

“I don’t want to be seen,” she said, “otherwise they’ll start crowding in right away.”

She seated him beside her, with his back to the hall, so that the box appeared empty.

The orchestra played the overture from “The Marriage of Figaro”… The curtain rose: the play began.

It was one of those numerous homegrown productions in which well-read but talentless authors, in select but lifeless language, diligently but clumsily conveyed some “profound” or “burning” idea, presented a so-called tragic conflict and induced boredom… an Asian boredom, like Asian cholera. Marya Nikolaevna patiently listened to half an act, but when the first lover, learning of his beloved’s betrayal (he was dressed in a brown frock coat with “puffs” and a plush collar, a striped waistcoat with mother-of-pearl buttons, green trousers with stirrups of patent leather, and white suede gloves), when this lover, pressing both fists to his chest and extending his elbows forward at a sharp angle, began to howl like a dog — Marya Nikolaevna couldn’t take it anymore.

“The last French actor in the last provincial town plays more naturally and better than the first German celebrity,” she exclaimed indignantly and moved to the back room. “Come here,” she said to Sanin, tapping the sofa next to her. “Let’s chat.”

Sanin obeyed.

Marya Nikolaevna looked at him.

“I see you’re very pliable! Your wife will have an easy time with you. This clown,” she continued, pointing the tip of her fan at the howling actor (he was playing the role of a tutor), “reminded me of my youth: I too was in love with a teacher. That was my first… no, my second passion. The first time I fell in love with a servant at the Donskoy Monastery. I was twelve years old. I only saw him on Sundays. He wore a velvet cassock, perfumed himself with eau de lavande, made his way through the crowd with an censer, spoke French to ladies: ‘pardon, excusez-moi’ — and never raised his eyes, and his eyelashes were like this!” Marya Nikolaevna separated a whole half of her little finger with her thumb nail and showed it to Sanin. “My teacher’s name was — Monsieur Gaston! I must tell you that he was a terribly learned and very strict man, a Swiss — and with such an energetic face! Sideburns as black as pitch, a Greek profile — and lips cast as if from iron! I was afraid of him! In my whole life, I was only afraid of that one man. He was the governess of my brother, who later died… drowned. A gypsy woman also predicted a violent death for me, but that’s nonsense. I don’t believe it. Can you imagine Ippolit Sidorych with a dagger?!”

“One can die without a dagger,” Sanin remarked.

“All that’s nonsense! Are you superstitious? I’m not at all. What is to be, cannot be avoided. Monsieur Gaston lived in our house, above my head. Sometimes I would wake up at night and hear his footsteps — he went to bed very late — and my heart would stand still with reverence… or with another feeling. My father himself was barely literate, but he gave us a good upbringing. Do you know that I understand Latin?”

“You? Latin?”

“Yes — me. Monsieur Gaston taught me. I read the ‘Aeneid’ with him. A boring thing, but there are good parts. Do you remember when Dido and Aeneas in the forest…”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” Sanin said hastily. He himself had long forgotten all his Latin and had only a vague idea of the “Aeneid.”

Marya Nikolaevna looked at him, as was her habit, somewhat sideways and from below.

“Don’t think, however, that I’m very learned. Oh, dear me, no — I’m not learned, and I have no talents. I can barely write… truly; I can’t read aloud; neither play the piano, nor draw, nor sew — nothing! That’s what I’m like — all here!”

She spread her arms.

“I’m telling you all this,” she continued, “firstly, so as not to listen to these fools (she pointed to the stage, where at that moment, instead of the actor, an actress was whining, also with her elbows extended), and secondly, because I’m indebted to you: you told me about yourself yesterday.”

“You were pleased to ask me,” Sanin remarked.

Marya Nikolaevna suddenly turned to him.

“And aren’t you pleased to know what kind of woman I really am? However, I’m not surprised,” she added, leaning back against the sofa cushions again. “A man is about to get married, and by love, and after a duel… How can he think of anything else?”

Marya Nikolaevna became thoughtful and began to bite the handle of her fan with her large, but even and milky-white teeth.

And to Sanin it seemed that the haze from which he had been unable to free himself for two days was beginning to rise in his head again.

The conversation between him and Marya Nikolaevna took place in a low voice, almost a whisper — and this irritated him and excited him even more…

When would all this end?

Weak people never end things themselves — they always wait for the end.

On stage, someone sneezed; this sneeze had been introduced by the author into his play as a “comic moment” or “element”; there was, of course, no other comic element in it; and the audience was satisfied with this moment, they laughed. This laughter also irritated Sanin.

There were moments when he genuinely didn’t know: was he angry or happy, bored or amused? Oh, if only Gemma could see him!

“Indeed, it’s strange,” Marya Nikolaevna suddenly began. “A person tells you, and in such a calm voice: ‘I, you see, intend to marry’; but no one will calmly tell you: ‘I intend to throw myself into the water.’ And yet — what a difference? Strange, indeed.”

Annoyance took hold of Sanin.

“There’s a big difference, Marya Nikolaevna! For some, throwing oneself into the water is not at all frightening: they know how to swim; and besides… as for the strangeness of marriages… if it comes to that…”

He suddenly fell silent and bit his tongue.

Marya Nikolaevna slapped her fan against her palm.

“Finish what you’re saying, Dmitry Pavlovich, finish it — I know what you wanted to say. ‘If it comes to that, gracious lady, Marya Nikolaevna Polozova,’ — you wanted to say, — ‘nothing could be stranger than your marriage… after all, I know your husband well, since childhood!’ That’s what you wanted to say, you who know how to swim!”

“Allow me,” Sanin began…

“Isn’t it true? Isn’t it true?” Marya Nikolaevna insisted. “Well, look me in the face and tell me I spoke a lie!”

Sanin didn’t know where to look.

“Well, if you insist: it’s true, if you absolutely demand it,” he finally said.

Marya Nikolaevna shook her head.

“So… so. Well — and did you ask yourself, you who know how to swim, what could be the reason for such a strange… act on the part of a woman who is not poor… and not foolish… and not ugly? Perhaps it doesn’t interest you; but it doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you the reason not now, but as soon as the intermission ends. I’m worried someone might come in…”

Marya Nikolaevna had barely uttered this last word when the outer door indeed opened halfway — and into the box poked a red, oily-sweaty head, still young, but already toothless, with flat long hair, a sagging nose, huge ears like a bat’s, with gold spectacles on curious and dull little eyes, and a pince-nez over the spectacles. The head looked around, saw Marya Nikolaevna, grinned nastily, nodded… A sinewy neck stretched out behind it…

Marya Nikolaevna waved her handkerchief at it.

“I’m not home! Ich bin nicht zu Hause, Herr P…! Ich bin nicht zu Hause… Shoo, shoo!”

The head was astonished, laughed forcedly, said, as if sobbing, in imitation of Liszt, at whose feet it had once crawled: Sehr gut! sehr gut! 1  — and disappeared.

“What sort of person is that?” Sanin asked.

“That? A Wiesbaden critic. A ‘literary man’ or a lackey, 2 as you please. He’s hired by the local tax farmer and therefore obliged to praise everything and be enthusiastic about everything, but he’s full of nasty bile that he doesn’t even dare to release. I’m afraid: he’s a terrible gossip; he’ll run off right now to tell everyone I’m at the theater. Oh well.”

The orchestra played a waltz, the curtain rose again… The grimacing and whining on stage resumed.

“Well then,” Marya Nikolaevna began, sinking back onto the sofa, “since you’re caught and have to sit with me, instead of enjoying the proximity of your fiancée… don’t roll your eyes and don’t get angry — I understand you and have already promised you that I’ll let you go wherever you please, — and now listen to my confession. Do you want to know what I love most?”

“Freedom,” Sanin prompted.

Marya Nikolaevna placed her hand on his.

“Yes, Dmitry Pavlovich,” she said, and her voice sounded with something peculiar, some undeniable sincerity and importance, “freedom, most of all and above all. And don’t think I’m boasting — there’s nothing praiseworthy in it — it’s just so, and always has been and will be so for me, until my death. In my childhood, I must have seen and suffered too much from slavery. Well, and Monsieur Gaston, my teacher, opened my eyes. Now, perhaps, you understand why I married Ippolit Sidorych; with him, I am free, completely free, like the air, like the wind… And I knew this before the wedding, I knew that with him I would be a free Cossack!”

Marya Nikolaevna paused and threw her fan aside.

“I’ll tell you one more thing: I’m not averse to contemplating… it’s enjoyable, and that’s what our mind is given for; but I never contemplate the consequences of what I myself do, and when the time comes, I don’t spare myself — not one bit: it’s not worth it. I have a saying: ‘Cela ne tire pas à conséquence’3 — I don’t know how to say that in Russian. And indeed: what tire à conséquence? After all, I won’t be held accountable here, on this earth; and there (she raised a finger upwards) — well, there let them manage as they know. When I’m judged there, then I won’t be myself! Are you listening to me? Aren’t you bored?”

Sanin sat leaning forward. He raised his head.

“I’m not bored at all, Marya Nikolaevna, and I’m listening to you with curiosity. Only I… I confess… I ask myself, why are you telling me all this?”

Marya Nikolaevna shifted slightly on the sofa.

“You ask yourself… Are you so unperceptive? Or so modest?”

Sanin raised his head even higher.

“I’m telling you all this,” Marya Nikolaevna continued in a calm tone, which, however, did not entirely match the expression on her face, “because I like you very much; yes, don’t be surprised, I’m not joking; because after meeting you, it would be unpleasant for me to think that you would retain a bad memory of me… or even not a bad one, that’s all the same to me, but an inaccurate one. That’s why I lured you here, and remain alone with you, and speak with you so frankly… Yes, yes, frankly. I don’t lie. And note, Dmitry Pavlovich, I know that you are in love with another, that you are going to marry her… Give justice to my selflessness! And besides, here’s a chance for you to say in turn: ‘Cela ne tire pas à conséquence!'”

She laughed, but her laughter suddenly broke off — and she remained motionless, as if her own words had struck her, and in her eyes, usually so cheerful and bold, something resembling timidity, even sadness, flickered.

“A snake! Oh, she’s a snake!” Sanin thought meanwhile, “but what a beautiful snake!”

“Give me my lorgnette,” Marya Nikolaevna suddenly said. “I want to see: is this jeune première really so ugly? Really, one might think the government assigned her for a moral purpose, so that young men wouldn’t get too carried away.”

Sanin handed her the lorgnette, and she, taking it from him, quickly, but almost imperceptibly, clasped his hand with both of hers.

“Don’t be serious,” she whispered with a smile. “You know what: no chains can be put on me, but then again, I don’t put chains on anyone. I love freedom and don’t recognize obligations — not just for myself. And now, move aside a little and let’s listen to the play.”

Marya Nikolaevna brought the lorgnette to her eyes and focused on the stage — and Sanin began to look there as well, sitting beside her, in the semi-darkness of the box, and involuntarily inhaling the warmth and fragrance of her luxurious body and just as involuntarily turning over in his mind everything she had told him during the evening — especially during the last few minutes.

XXXIX

The play lasted for over an hour, but Marya Nikolaevna and Sanin soon stopped looking at the stage. Their conversation resumed, following the same path as before; only this time, Sanin was less silent. Inwardly, he was angry with himself and with Marya Nikolaevna; he tried to prove to her the baselessness of her “theory,” as if she cared about theories! He began to argue with her, which secretly delighted her: if he argues, it means he’s yielding or will yield. He had taken the bait, was giving in, had stopped being shy! She retorted, laughed, agreed, became thoughtful, attacked… and meanwhile, his face and her face drew closer, his eyes no longer turned away from hers… Those eyes seemed to wander, to circle over his features, and he smiled back at her — politely, but he smiled. It was already to her advantage that he delved into abstractions, reasoned about the honesty of mutual relations, about duty, about the sanctity of love and marriage… It’s a known fact: these abstractions are very, very suitable as a beginning… as a starting point… People who knew Marya Nikolaevna well asserted that when something tender and modest, something almost girlishly shy — though, one might wonder, where did it come from? — suddenly appeared in her strong and robust being — then… yes, then the matter took a dangerous turn.

It seemed to be taking that turn for Sanin as well… He would have felt contempt for himself if he had managed to concentrate for even a moment; but he couldn’t concentrate, nor could he despise himself.

And she wasted no time. And all this happened because he was very handsome! One is forced to say: “Who knows where you’ll find, where you’ll lose?”

The play ended. Marya Nikolaevna asked Sanin to put her shawl on her and did not stir until he enveloped her truly regal shoulders with the soft fabric. Then she took his arm, went into the corridor — and almost cried out: right at the door of the box, like a ghost, stood Dönhoff; and from behind his back peeped the scurrilous figure of the Wiesbaden critic. The “literary man’s” oily face positively beamed with malice.

“Would you perhaps wish, madam, for me to find your carriage?” the young officer addressed Marya Nikolaevna with the tremor of poorly contained fury in his voice.

“No, thank you,” she replied, “my footman will find it.” “Stay!” she added in a commanding whisper — and quickly departed, pulling Sanin along with her.

“Go to hell! Why are you pestering me?” Dönhoff suddenly roared at the literary man. He had to vent his heart on someone!

“Sehr gut! sehr gut!” the literary man muttered and slunk away.

Marya Nikolaevna’s footman, who was waiting for her in the hall, found her carriage in the blink of an eye — she quickly got in, Sanin jumped in after her. The doors slammed shut — and Marya Nikolaevna burst into laughter.

“What are you laughing at?” Sanin inquired.

“Oh, please excuse me… but it just occurred to me that if Dönhoff were to duel with you again… because of me… Wouldn’t that be a miracle?”

“Are you very intimately acquainted with him?” Sanin asked.

“With him? That boy? He’s my errand boy. Don’t worry!”

“But I’m not worried at all.”

Marya Nikolaevna sighed.

“Ah, I know you’re not worried. But listen — you know what: you’re so sweet, you mustn’t refuse me one last request. Don’t forget: in three days I’m leaving for Paris, and you’re returning to Frankfurt… When will we meet?”

“What is this request?”

“You can ride a horse, of course?”

“I can.”

“Well, this is it. Tomorrow morning I’ll take you with me — and we’ll ride together out of town. We’ll have excellent horses. Then we’ll return, finish the business — and amen! Don’t be surprised, don’t tell me it’s a whim, that I’m crazy — all that may be true — but just say: I agree!”

Marya Nikolaevna turned her face to him. It was dark in the carriage, but her eyes gleamed even in that darkness.

“Very well, I agree,” Sanin said with a sigh.

“Ah! You sighed!” Marya Nikolaevna mimicked him. “That’s what it means: once you’ve put your hand to the plow, don’t complain you’re not strong enough. But no, no… You are charming, you are good — and I will keep my promise. Here is my hand, ungloved, my right, business hand. Take it and trust its clasp. What kind of woman I am, I don’t know; but I am an honest person — and you can do business with me.”

Sanin, without quite realizing what he was doing, raised that hand to his lips. Marya Nikolaevna quietly withdrew it and suddenly fell silent — and remained silent until the carriage stopped.

She began to exit… What was that? Did Sanin imagine it, or did he truly feel a quick and burning touch on his cheek?

“Until tomorrow!” Marya Nikolaevna whispered to him on the staircase, fully illuminated by the four candles of the candelabra, grasped by the gold-trimmed doorman at her appearance. She kept her eyes downcast.  —  “Until tomorrow!”

Returning to his room, Sanin found a letter from Gemma on the table. He instantly… felt frightened — and immediately rejoiced, to quickly mask his fright from himself. It consisted of a few lines. She rejoiced at the successful “start of the business,” advised him to be patient, and added that everyone at home was well and looking forward to his return. Sanin found the letter rather dry — however, he picked up a pen, paper… and dropped everything. “What to write!? I’ll return myself tomorrow… it’s time, it’s time!”

He immediately got into bed and tried to fall asleep as quickly as possible. If he had stayed awake and conscious, he would surely have started thinking about Gemma — but for some reason… he was ashamed to think about her. His conscience stirred within him. But he reassured himself that tomorrow everything would be forever over and he would forever part with this flighty lady — and forget all this nonsense!…

Weak people, when talking to themselves, readily use energetic expressions.

Et puis… cela ne tire pas à conséquence!

XLI

What Sanin thought as he went to bed; but what he thought the next day, when Marya Nikolaevna impatiently tapped on his door with the coral handle of her riding whip, when he saw her on the threshold of his room — with the train of a dark blue riding habit over her arm, with a small man’s hat on her heavily braided curls, with her veil thrown back over her shoulder, with a defiant smile on her lips, in her eyes, on her whole face — what he thought then — history is silent about that.

“Well? Ready?” a cheerful voice rang out.

Sanin buttoned his frock coat and silently took his hat. Marya Nikolaevna cast a bright glance at him, nodded her head, and quickly ran down the stairs. And he ran after her.

The horses were already in the street before the porch. There were three of them: a golden-red thoroughbred mare with a dry, bony face, black bulging eyes, deer-like legs, a little lean, but beautiful and hot as fire — for Marya Nikolaevna; a powerful, broad, somewhat heavy black horse, without markings — for Sanin; the third horse was for the groom. Marya Nikolaevna skillfully jumped onto her mare… The mare stamped its feet and spun around, tossing its tail and tucking in its hindquarters, but Marya Nikolaevna (an excellent rider!) held it in place: she needed to say goodbye to Polozov, who, in his unchanging fez and open dressing gown, appeared on the balcony and waved a cambric handkerchief from there, not smiling at all, however, but rather frowning. Sanin also mounted his horse; Marya Nikolaevna saluted Mr. Polozov with her riding whip, then struck her horse on its arched and flat neck: it reared up, jumped forward, and began to move with a light, subdued step, trembling in every muscle, gathering itself on the bit, biting the air, and snorting impulsively. Sanin rode behind and looked at Marya Nikolaevna; her slender and flexible figure swayed confidently, skillfully, and gracefully, tightly and freely embraced by her corset. She turned her head back and beckoned him with her eyes alone. He drew abreast of her.

“Well, you see how good this is,” she said. “I’m telling you this finally, before we part: you are charming — and you won’t regret it.”

Having uttered these last words, she moved her head up and down several times, as if wishing to confirm them and make him feel their meaning.

She seemed so happy that Sanin was simply astonished; even that dignified expression appeared on her face that children have when they are very… very pleased.

They rode at a walk to the nearby outpost, and there they set off at a fast trot along the highway. The weather was glorious, truly summery; the wind streamed towards them and pleasantly rustled and whistled in their ears. They felt good: the sensation of young, healthy life, of free, swift forward movement enveloped them both; it grew with every moment.

Marya Nikolaevna reined in her horse and again proceeded at a walk; Sanin followed her example.

“Here,” she began with a deep, blissful sigh, “this alone is worth living for. You’ve managed to do what you wanted, what seemed impossible — well, then enjoy it, my soul, to the fullest!” She ran her hand across her throat. “And how good a person feels then! Now I… how kind I am! It seems I would embrace the whole world. That is, no, not the whole world!.. I wouldn’t embrace that one.” She pointed with her riding whip at a beggarly dressed old man making his way along the side. “But I am ready to make him happy. Here, take it,” she shouted loudly in German and threw a purse at his feet. The heavy pouch (at that time, purses were not yet in use) clattered on the road. The passerby was astonished, stopped, and Marya Nikolaevna burst out laughing and urged her horse into a gallop.

“Do you enjoy riding so much?” Sanin asked, catching up with her.

Marya Nikolaevna again reined in her horse instantly: she never stopped it any other way.

“I just wanted to get away from gratitude. Whoever thanks me spoils my pleasure. After all, I didn’t do it for him, but for myself. How dare he thank me? I didn’t quite hear what you asked me.”

“I asked… I wanted to know why you are so cheerful today?”

“You know what,” Marya Nikolaevna said: either she didn’t hear Sanin again, or she didn’t deem it necessary to answer his question. “I’m terribly tired of this groom who is hanging behind us and who must be only thinking about when, they say, will the masters go home? How to get rid of him?” She quickly took out a small notebook from her pocket. “Send him with a letter to the city? No… that won’t do. Ah! What’s that ahead? An inn?”

Sanin looked where she was pointing.

“Yes, it seems to be an inn.”

“Well, that’s splendid. I’ll tell him to stay at this inn — and drink beer until we return.”

“But what will he think?”

“What do we care! He won’t think; he’ll drink beer — and that’s all. Well, Sanin (she called him by his last name alone for the first time), — forward, at a trot!”

Upon reaching the inn, Marya Nikolaevna called the groom and told him what she required of him. The groom, a man of English origin and English temperament, silently brought his hand to the peak of his cap, dismounted, and took his horse by the bridle.

“Well, now we are free birds!” exclaimed Marya Nikolaevna. “Where shall we go — north, south, east, west? Look — I’m like a Hungarian king at his coronation (she pointed the tip of her whip to all four cardinal directions). All ours! No, you know what: look at those glorious mountains — and what a forest! Let’s go there, to the mountains, to the mountains!

In die Berge, wo die Freiheit thront!

She turned off the highway and galloped along a narrow, untrodden path that indeed seemed to lead towards the mountains. Sanin galloped after her.

XLI

The path soon turned into a trail and finally disappeared altogether, cut off by a ditch. Sanin advised turning back, but Marya Nikolaevna said: “No! I want to go to the mountains! Let’s go straight, like birds fly” — and made her horse leap over the ditch. Sanin leaped over too. Beyond the ditch began a meadow, at first dry, then damp, then completely boggy: water seeped everywhere, standing in puddles. Marya Nikolaevna deliberately urged her horse through these puddles, laughing and repeating: “Let’s be mischievous!”

“Do you know,” she asked Sanin, “what it means: to hunt by splashes?”

“I know,” Sanin replied.

“My uncle was a hound hunter,” she continued. “I used to ride with him — in spring. Wonderful! And now we are, you and I — hunting by splashes. But I see: you’re a Russian, and you want to marry an Italian. Well, that’s your sorrow. What’s this? Another ditch? Hop!”

The horse leaped — but Marya Nikolaevna’s hat fell from her head, and her curls cascaded over her shoulders. Sanin was about to dismount and pick up the hat, but she shouted at him: “Don’t touch it, I’ll get it myself,” bent low from the saddle, hooked the veil with the handle of her riding whip, and indeed: she retrieved the hat, put it on her head, but did not gather her hair, and again galloped off, even letting out a whoop. Sanin galloped beside her, right beside her, jumping over ditches, fences, streams, falling in and climbing out, rushing downhill, rushing uphill, and all the while looking at her face. What a face! It was as if entirely revealed: her eyes, greedy, bright, wild, were open wide; her lips, her nostrils were also open and breathing greedily; she looked straight ahead, directly before her, and it seemed that her soul wanted to possess everything she saw, the earth, the sky, the sun, and the very air, and she regretted only one thing: there were too few dangers — she would overcome them all! “Sanin!” she cried, “this is like Bürger’s ‘Lenore’! Only you’re not dead — are you? Not dead?.. I’m alive!” Her daring strength had erupted. This was no longer an amazon urging her horse into a gallop — this was a young female centaur galloping, half-beast and half-god, and the dignified and well-behaved countryside, trampled by her wild revelry, marvelled!

Marya Nikolaevna finally brought her foaming, splashed horse to a halt: it swayed beneath her, and Sanin’s powerful but heavy stallion was gasping for breath.

“Well? Is it to your liking?” Marya Nikolaevna asked in some wondrous whisper.

“To my liking!” Sanin replied enthusiastically. And the blood flared up in him.

“Wait, there’s more to come!” She extended her hand. Her glove was torn.

“I said I’d bring you to the forest, to the mountains… Here they are, the mountains!” Indeed: covered with tall forest, the mountains began about two hundred paces from where the daring riders had emerged. “Look: there’s a road. Let’s compose ourselves — and forward. At a walk, though. We need to let the horses breathe.”

They rode on. With one strong sweep of her hand, Marya Nikolaevna threw her hair back. Then she looked at her gloves — and took them off.

“My hands will smell of leather,” she said, “but that’s nothing to you, is it? Eh?..”

Marya Nikolaevna smiled, and Sanin smiled too. This frantic ride seemed to have finally brought them closer and made them friends.

“How old are you?” she asked suddenly.

“Twenty-two.”

“Impossible! I’m twenty-two too. Good years. Put them together, and old age is still far off. But it’s hot. Am I flushed?”

“Like a poppy!”

Marya Nikolaevna wiped her face with a handkerchief.

“Just to reach the forest, and it’ll be cool there. Such an old forest — just like an old friend. Do you have friends?”

Sanin thought for a moment.

“Yes… but few. No true ones.”

“And I have true ones — only not old. Here’s another friend — a horse. How carefully she carries you! Oh, it’s wonderful here! Am I really going to Paris the day after tomorrow?”

“Yes… really?” Sanin echoed.

“And you to Frankfurt?”

“I am definitely going to Frankfurt.”

“Well then — Godspeed! But today is ours… ours… ours!”

The horses reached the edge of the forest and entered it. The forest’s shadow covered them widely and softly, from all sides.

“Oh, it’s paradise here!” Marya Nikolaevna exclaimed. “Deeper, further into this shade, Sanin!”

The horses moved quietly “deeper into the shade,” swaying slightly and snorting softly. The path they were following suddenly turned aside and entered a rather narrow gorge. The scent of heather, fern, pine resin, damp, last year’s leaves was suffocating within it — dense and drowsy. From the crevices of large brown stones emanated a strong freshness. On both sides of the path rose rounded mounds covered with green moss.

“Stop!” Marya Nikolaevna exclaimed. “I want to sit down and rest on this velvet. Help me dismount.”

Sanin jumped off his horse and ran to her. She leaned on his shoulders, instantly sprang to the ground, and sat on one of the mossy mounds. He stood before her, holding the reins of both horses.

She raised her eyes to him…

“Sanin, can you forget?”

Sanin recalled yesterday’s event… in the carriage.

“Is that a question… or a reproach?”

“I have never reproached anyone for anything in my life. And do you believe in love spells?”

“What?”

“In love spells — you know, what they sing about in our songs. In popular Russian songs?”

“Ah! That’s what you’re talking about…” Sanin drawled.

“Yes, that. I believe… and you will believe.”

“Love spell… sorcery…” Sanin repeated. “Everything in the world is possible. I didn’t believe before, but now I do. I don’t recognize myself.”

Marya Nikolaevna thought — and looked around.

“And it seems to me that this place looks familiar. Look, Sanin, behind that wide oak — is there a wooden red cross? Or not?”

Sanin took a few steps to the side.

“There is.”

Marya Nikolaevna smirked.

“Ah, good! I know where we are. We’re not lost yet. What’s that knocking? A woodcutter?”

Sanin looked into the thicket.

“Yes… some man is chopping dry branches there.”

“I need to fix my hair,” Marya Nikolaevna said. “Otherwise he’ll see — and judge.” She took off her hat and began to braid her long tresses — silently and gravely. Sanin stood before her… Her slender limbs were clearly outlined beneath the dark folds of the fabric, with some adhering moss fibers.

One of the horses suddenly shook itself behind Sanin; he himself trembled involuntarily, from head to toe. Everything in him was confused — his nerves stretched like strings. No wonder he said he didn’t recognize himself… He was truly bewitched. His whole being was filled with one… one thought, one desire. Marya Nikolaevna cast a penetrating glance at him.

“Well, now everything is in order,” she said, putting on her hat. “Aren’t you sitting down? Right here! No, wait… don’t sit down. What’s that?”

A dull tremor rolled through the treetops, through the forest air.

“Is that thunder?”

“It sounds like thunder, indeed,” Sanin replied.

“Oh, it’s a celebration! Simply a celebration! This was all that was missing!” A dull rumble sounded a second time, rose — and fell with a peal. “Bravo! Bis! Remember, I told you about the ‘Aeneid’ yesterday? A thunderstorm caught them in the forest too. However, we must leave.” She quickly stood up. “Bring me my horse… Give me your hand. That’s it. I’m not heavy.”

She flew onto the saddle like a bird. Sanin also mounted his horse.

“Are you — going home?” he asked in an unsteady voice.

“Home??” she replied deliberately and gathered the reins. “Follow me,” she commanded almost rudely.

She rode onto the road and, passing the red cross, descended into a hollow, reached a crossroads, turned right, and went uphill again… She obviously knew where she was going — and this path led deeper and deeper into the forest. She said nothing, didn’t look back; she moved imperiously forward — and he obediently and submissively followed her, without a spark of will in his dying heart. A light rain began to sprinkle. She quickened her horse’s pace — and he kept up with her. Finally, through the dark green of the fir bushes, from under the overhang of a grey rock, a poor guardhouse, with a low door in a wattle wall, appeared to him… Marya Nikolaevna made her horse push through the bushes, jumped off it — and, suddenly finding herself at the entrance of the guardhouse, turned to Sanin and whispered: “Aeneas?”

Four hours later, Marya Nikolaevna and Sanin, accompanied by the groom dozing in his saddle, returned to Wiesbaden, to the hotel. Mr. Polozov met his wife, holding the letter to the manager in his hands. Looking at her more closely, however, he expressed some displeasure on his face — and even muttered:

“Did I lose the bet?”

Marya Nikolaevna merely shrugged.

And on the same day, two hours later, Sanin stood before her in his room, lost, ruined…

“Where are you going?” she asked him. “To Paris — or to Frankfurt?”

“I am going where you will be,” he replied with despair, “and I will be with you until you drive me away,” and he fell at the hands of his mistress. She freed them, placed them on his head, and grasped his hair with all ten fingers. She slowly stroked and twisted those submissive strands, straightening herself completely, triumph writhing on her lips — and her eyes, wide and luminous to the point of whiteness, expressed only a merciless dullness and the satiety of victory. A hawk, clutching its captured bird, has such eyes.

XLIII

This is what Dmitry Sanin remembered when, in the quiet of his study, sorting through his old papers, he found among them the garnet cross. The events we have recounted arose clearly and sequentially before his mind’s eye… But, upon reaching the moment when he turned to Madame Polozova with such humiliating entreaty, when he yielded himself to her feet, when his slavery began — he turned away from the images he had conjured, he no longer wished to remember. And it wasn’t that his memory failed him — oh no! He knew, he knew too well, what followed that moment, but shame suffocated him — even now, so many years later; he feared the feeling of insurmountable self-contempt which, he could not doubt, would surely overwhelm him and engulf, like a wave, all other sensations, as soon as he did not bid his memory be silent. But however much he turned away from the rising memories, he could not entirely suppress them. He recalled the wretched, tearful, false, pitiful letter he had sent to Gemma, a letter that remained unanswered… To appear before her, to return to her — after such deceit, such betrayal — no! no! he still had that much conscience and honesty left. Moreover, he had lost all self-trust, all self-respect: he no longer dared to vouch for anything. Sanin also recalled how he then — oh, the disgrace! — sent Polozov’s footman for his belongings in Frankfurt, how he was a coward, how he thought only of one thing: to leave for Paris, for Paris, as quickly as possible; how, at Marya Nikolaevna’s command, he ingratiated himself with and feigned amiability towards Ippolit Sidorych — and was courteous to Dönhoff, on whose finger he noticed the exact same iron ring that Marya Nikolaevna had given him!!! Then came memories even worse, even more shameful… A waiter hands him a business card — and on it is the name Pantaleone Cippatola, court singer to His Royal Highness the Duke of Modena! He hides from the old man, but cannot avoid meeting him in the corridor — and before him rises an irritated face under a bristling grey topknot; the old man’s eyes burn like coals — and menacing exclamations and curses are heard: Maledizione! (Damn!) even terrible words: Codardo! Infame traditore! (Coward! Infamous traitor!) Sanin squeezes his eyes shut, shakes his head, turns away again and again — and still sees himself sitting in a post-chaise on the narrow front seat… In the comfortable back seats sit Marya Nikolaevna and Ippolit Sidorych — a four-horse team gallops briskly across the Wiesbaden pavement — to Paris! to Paris! Ippolit Sidorych is eating a pear that he, Sanin, has peeled for him, and Marya Nikolaevna looks at him and smiles with that smile, already familiar to him, the enslaved man — the smile of an owner, a mistress…

But my God! Over there, at the street corner, not far from the city exit, isn’t that Pantaleone again — and who is with him? Could it be Emilio? Yes, it is he, that enthusiastic, devoted boy! How recently his young heart revered his hero, his ideal, and now his pale, handsome — so handsome that Marya Nikolaevna noticed him and leaned out of the carriage window — this noble face burns with anger and contempt; eyes, so similar to those eyes! — pierce Sanin, and lips tighten… and suddenly open for an insult…

And Pantaleone stretches out his hand and points at Sanin — to whom? — to Tartaglia standing nearby, and Tartaglia barks at Sanin — and the very bark of the honest dog sounds like an unbearable insult… Monstrous!

And then — life in Paris and all the humiliations, all the vile torments of a slave who is allowed neither to be jealous nor to complain and who is finally cast aside like worn-out clothing…

Then — the return to his homeland, a poisoned, devastated life, petty squabbling, petty worries, bitter and fruitless repentance and equally fruitless and bitter oblivion — a punishment not overt, but instantaneous and constant, like an insignificant but incurable pain, paying off a debt penny by penny that cannot even be counted…

The cup overflowed — enough!

How did the cross given to Sanin by Gemma survive, why did he not return it, how did it happen that until that day he had never come across it? For a long, long time he sat in thought and — already taught by experience, after so many years — was still unable to understand how he could have abandoned Gemma, so tenderly and passionately loved by him, for a woman whom he did not love at all?… The next day, he surprised all his friends and acquaintances: he announced to them that he was going abroad.

Perplexity spread throughout society. Sanin was leaving Petersburg, in the middle of winter, having just rented and furnished an excellent apartment, even subscribing to performances of the Italian opera, in which Madame Patti herself was participating — Madame Patti herself, herself, herself! Friends and acquaintances were perplexed; but people are generally not inclined to concern themselves with other people’s affairs for long, and when Sanin went abroad — only a French tailor came to see him off at the railway station, and even then in the hope of receiving an unpaid bill — “pour un saute-en-barque en velours noir, tout à fait chic” (for a jumper/short jacket in black velvet, quite chic).

XLIV

Sanin told his friends he was going abroad, but he did not say exactly where; readers will easily guess that he headed straight for Frankfurt. Thanks to the widespread railways, he was already there on the fourth day after leaving Petersburg. He had not visited it since 1840. The “White Swan” hotel stood in its former place and prospered, though it was no longer considered first-class; the Zeil, Frankfurt’s main street, had changed little, but not only was there no trace of Madame Roselli’s house — even the street where her confectionery was located had disappeared. Sanin wandered like a dazed man through places once so familiar, recognizing nothing: former buildings had vanished; new streets lined with huge, continuous houses, elegant villas, had replaced them; even the public garden, where his last explanation with Gemma took place, had grown and changed so much that Sanin wondered — was this really the same garden? What was he to do? How and where could he inquire? Thirty years had passed since then… No easy task! Whomever he asked, no one had even heard the name Roselli; the hotel owner advised him to inquire at the public library: there, he said, he would find all the old newspapers, but what benefit he would derive from this — the owner himself could not explain. Sanin, in despair, inquired about Mr. Klüber. This name was well known to the owner — but here too, there was misfortune. The elegant clerk, having risen to the rank of capitalist with much fanfare, had traded himself into bankruptcy and died in prison… This news, however, did not cause Sanin the slightest distress. He was beginning to find his journey somewhat ill-considered… But then one day, leafing through the Frankfurt address book, he stumbled upon the name von Dönhoff, a retired major (Major a. D. – Ausser Dienst, meaning “out of service” or “retired”). He immediately took a carriage and drove to him — although why this Dönhoff should necessarily be that Dönhoff, and why even that Dönhoff could provide him with any information about the Roselli family? It didn’t matter: a drowning man clutches at a straw.

Sanin found retired Major von Dönhoff at home — and immediately recognized his former opponent in the grey-haired gentleman who received him. The major also recognized him, and was even glad to see him: it reminded him of his youth and youthful escapades. Sanin heard from him that the Roselli family had long ago moved to America, to New York; that Gemma had married a merchant; that, however, he, Dönhoff, had an acquaintance, also a merchant, who probably knew her husband’s address, as he had many dealings with America. Sanin entreated Dönhoff to go to this acquaintance, and — oh, joy! — Dönhoff brought him the address of Gemma’s husband, Mr. Jeremiah Slocum — M-r J. Slocum, New York, Broadway, № 501.  —  This address, however, dated back to 1863.

“Let’s hope,” exclaimed Dönhoff, “that our former Frankfurt beauty is still alive and hasn’t left New York! By the way,” he added, lowering his voice, “and that Russian lady, you remember, who was visiting Wiesbaden then — Madame von Bo… von Bozolof — is she still alive?”

“No,” Sanin replied, “she died long ago.”

Dönhoff raised his eyes, but, noticing that Sanin had turned away and frowned, he added not a word — and departed.

That same day, Sanin sent a letter to Mrs. Gemma Slocum in New York. In this letter, he told her that he was writing to her from Frankfurt, where he had come solely to find traces of her; that he was very well aware of how little right he had to expect a reply from her; that he had done nothing to deserve her forgiveness — and hoped only that she, amidst the happy circumstances in which she found herself, had long forgotten his very existence. He added that he had decided to remind her of himself due to a coincidental circumstance that too vividly evoked images of the past in him; he told her about his life, solitary, without family, joyless; he implored her to understand the reasons that prompted him to contact her, not to let him carry to his grave the sorrowful awareness of his guilt — long suffered, but unforgiven — and to gladden him with at least the briefest news of how she was living in this new world to which she had withdrawn. “By writing me even one word,” Sanin concluded his letter, “you will do a good deed, worthy of your beautiful soul — and I will thank you until my last breath. I have stopped here, at the hotel White Swan (he underlined these words) and will wait — wait until spring — for your answer.”

He sent this letter and began to wait. For six whole weeks he lived in the hotel, hardly leaving his room and seeing absolutely no one. No one could write to him from Russia or anywhere else; and this pleased him; if a letter came addressed to him — he would already know that it was the one he was waiting for. He read from morning till evening — and not newspapers, but serious books, historical works. These long readings, this silence, this snail-like, hidden life — all this perfectly suited his state of mind: for this alone, thanks to Gemma! But, was she alive? Would she answer?

Finally, a letter arrived — with an American postage stamp — from New York, addressed to him. The handwriting on the envelope was English… He did not recognize it, and his heart sank. He did not immediately decide to break the seal. He glanced at the signature: Gemma! Tears immediately burst from his eyes: the mere fact that she signed with her first name, without a surname — served as a pledge of reconciliation, of forgiveness! He unfolded the thin sheet of blue postal paper — a photograph slipped out. He hastily picked it up — and was utterly stunned: Gemma, living Gemma, young, as he had known her thirty years ago! The same eyes, the same lips, the same overall face type! On the reverse side of the photograph was written: “My daughter, Marianna.” The whole letter was very affectionate and simple. Gemma thanked Sanin for not doubting to contact her, for trusting her; she did not hide from him that she had indeed experienced difficult moments after his flight, but immediately added that she still considered — and had always considered — her meeting with him a blessing, as this meeting had prevented her from becoming Mr. Klüber’s wife and thus, albeit indirectly, was the reason for her marriage to her current husband, with whom she had lived for twenty-eight years in complete happiness, comfort, and abundance: their house was known throughout New York. Gemma informed Sanin that she had five children — four sons and an eighteen-year-old daughter, a fiancée, whose photograph she was sending him, as she, by general opinion, greatly resembled her mother. Gemma reserved the sad news for the end of the letter. Frau Lenore had died in New York, where she had followed her daughter and son-in-law — however, she managed to rejoice in her children’s happiness and nurse her grandchildren; Pantaleone also intended to go to America, but died just before his departure from Frankfurt. “And Emilio, our dear, incomparable Emilio — perished a glorious death for the freedom of his homeland, in Sicily, where he went among those ‘Thousand’ led by the great Garibaldi; we all grieved deeply for the demise of our priceless brother, but, even shedding tears, we were proud of him — and will forever be proud of him and sacredly honor his memory! His noble, selfless soul was worthy of a martyr’s crown!” Then Gemma expressed her regret that Sanin’s life had apparently turned out so badly, wished him above all peace and spiritual tranquility, and said that she would be glad to see him — although she realized how unlikely such a meeting was…

We will not undertake to describe the feelings Sanin experienced while reading this letter. Such feelings have no satisfactory expression: they are deeper and stronger — and more indefinable than any word. Only music could convey them.

Sanin replied at once — and as a gift to the fiancée, he sent “to Marianna Slocum from an unknown friend” the garnet cross, set in a magnificent pearl necklace. This gift, though very valuable, did not ruin him: during the thirty years that had passed since his first stay in Frankfurt, he had managed to acquire a considerable fortune. In the first days of May, he returned to Petersburg — but hardly for long. It is rumored that he is selling all his estates and is going to America.