ARIADNE

ON the deck of a steamer sailing from Odessa to Sevastopol, a rather

good-looking gentleman, with a little round beard, came up to me

to smoke, and said:

"Notice those Germans sitting near the shelter? Whenever Germans

or Englishmen get together, they talk about the crops, the price

of wool, or their personal affairs. But for some reason or other

when we Russians get together we never discuss anything but women

and abstract subjects--but especially women."

This gentleman's face was familiar to me already. We had returned

from abroad the evening before in the same train, and at Volotchisk

when the luggage was being examined by the Customs, I saw him

standing with a lady, his travelling companion, before a perfect

mountain of trunks and baskets filled with ladies' clothes, and I

noticed how embarrassed and downcast he was when he had to pay duty

on some piece of silk frippery, and his companion protested and

threatened to make a complaint. Afterwards, on the way to Odessa,

I saw him carrying little pies and oranges to the ladies' compartment.

It was rather damp; the vessel swayed a little, and the ladies had

retired to their cabins.

The gentleman with the little round beard sat down beside me and

continued:

"Yes, when Russians come together they discuss nothing but abstract

subjects and women. We are so intellectual, so solemn, that we utter

nothing but truths and can discuss only questions of a lofty order.

The Russian actor does not know how to be funny; he acts with

profundity even in a farce. We're just the same: when we have got

to talk of trifles we treat them only from an exalted point of view.

It comes from a lack of boldness, sincerity, and simplicity. We

talk so often about women, I fancy, because we are dissatisfied.

We take too ideal a view of women, and make demands out of all

proportion with what reality can give us; we get something utterly

different from what we want, and the result is dissatisfaction,

shattered hopes, and inward suffering, and if any one is suffering,

he's bound to talk of it. It does not bore you to go on with this

conversation?

"No, not in the least."

"In that case, allow me to introduce myself," said my companion,

rising from his seat a little:

"Ivan Ilyitch Shamohin, a Moscow landowner of a sort. . . . You I

know very well."

He sat down and went on, looking at me with a genuine and friendly

expression:

"A mediocre philosopher, like Max Nordau, would explain these

incessant conversations about women as a form of erotic madness,

or would put it down to our having been slave-owners and so on; I

take quite a different view of it. I repeat, we are dissatisfied

because we are idealists. We want the creatures who bear us and our

children to be superior to us and to everything in the world. When

we are young we adore and poeticize those with whom we are in love:

love and happiness with us are synonyms. Among us in Russia marriage

without love is despised, sensuality is ridiculed and inspires

repulsion, and the greatest success is enjoyed by those tales and

novels in which women are beautiful, poetical, and exalted; and if

the Russian has been for years in ecstasies over Raphael's Madonna,

or is eager for the emancipation of women, I assure you there is

no affectation about it. But the trouble is that when we have been

married or been intimate with a woman for some two or three years,

we begin to feel deceived and disillusioned: we pair off with others,

and again--disappointment, again--repulsion, and in the long

run we become convinced that women are lying, trivial, fussy, unfair,

undeveloped, cruel--in fact, far from being superior, are

immeasurably inferior to us men. And in our dissatisfaction and

disappointment there is nothing left for us but to grumble and talk

about what we've been so cruelly deceived in."

While Shamohin was talking I noticed that the Russian language and

our Russian surroundings gave him great pleasure. This was probably

because he had been very homesick abroad. Though he praised the

Russians and ascribed to them a rare idealism, he did not disparage

foreigners, and that I put down to his credit. It could be seen,

too, that there was some uneasiness in his soul, that he wanted to

talk more of himself than of women, and that I was in for a long

story in the nature of a confession. And when we had asked for a

bottle of wine and had each of us drunk a glass, this was how he

did in fact begin:

"I remember in a novel of Weltmann's some one says, 'So that's the

story!' and some one else answers, 'No, that's not the story--

that's only the introduction to the story.' In the same way what

I've said so far is only the introduction; what I really want to

tell you is my own love story. Excuse me, I must ask you again; it

won't bore you to listen?"

I told him it would not, and he went on:

The scene of my story is laid in the Moscow province in one of its

northern districts. The scenery there, I must tell you, is exquisite.

Our homestead is on the high bank of a rapid stream, where the water

chatters noisily day and night: imagine a big old garden, neat

flower-beds, beehives, a kitchen-garden, and below it a river with

leafy willows, which, when there is a heavy dew on them, have a

lustreless look as though they had turned grey; and on the other

side a meadow, and beyond the meadow on the upland a terrible, dark

pine forest. In that forest delicious, reddish agarics grow in

endless profusion, and elks still live in its deepest recesses.

When I am nailed up in my coffin I believe I shall still dream of

those early mornings, you know, when the sun hurts your eyes: or

the wonderful spring evenings when the nightingales and the landrails

call in the garden and beyond the garden, and sounds of the harmonica

float across from the village, while they play the piano indoors

and the stream babbles . . . when there is such music, in fact,

that one wants at the same time to cry and to sing aloud.

We have not much arable land, but our pasture makes up for it, and

with the forest yields about two thousand roubles a year. I am the

only son of my father; we are both modest persons, and with my

father's pension that sum was amply sufficient for us.

The first three years after finishing at the university I spent in

the country, looking after the estate and constantly expecting to

be elected on some local assembly; but what was most important, I

was violently in love with an extraordinarily beautiful and fascinating

girl. She was the sister of our neighbour, Kotlovitch, a ruined

landowner who had on his estate pine-apples, marvellous peaches,

lightning conductors, a fountain in the courtyard, and at the same

time not a farthing in his pocket. He did nothing and knew how to

do nothing. He was as flabby as though he had been made of boiled

turnip; he used to doctor the peasants by homeopathy and was

interested in spiritualism. He was, however, a man of great delicacy

and mildness, and by no means a fool, but I have no fondness for

these gentlemen who converse with spirits and cure peasant women

by magnetism. In the first place, the ideas of people who are not

intellectually free are always in a muddle, and it's extremely

difficult to talk to them; and, secondly, they usually love no one,

and have nothing to do with women, and their mysticism has an

unpleasant effect on sensitive people. I did not care for his

appearance either. He was tall, stout, white-skinned, with a little

head, little shining eyes, and chubby white fingers. He did not

shake hands, but kneaded one's hands in his. And he was always

apologising. If he asked for anything it was "Excuse me"; if he

gave you anything it was "Excuse me" too.

As for his sister, she was a character out of a different opera. I

must explain that I had not been acquainted with the Kotlovitches

in my childhood and early youth, for my father had been a professor

at N., and we had for many years lived away. When I did make their

acquaintance the girl was twenty-two, had left school long before,

and had spent two or three years in Moscow with a wealthy aunt who

brought her out into society. When I was introduced and first had

to talk to her, what struck me most of all was her rare and beautiful

name--Ariadne. It suited her so wonderfully! She was a brunette,

very thin, very slender, supple, elegant, and extremely graceful,

with refined and exceedingly noble features. Her eyes were shining,

too, but her brother's shone with a cold sweetness, mawkish as

sugar-candy, while hers had the glow of youth, proud and beautiful.

She conquered me on the first day of our acquaintance, and indeed

it was inevitable. My first impression was so overwhelming that to

this day I cannot get rid of my illusions; I am still tempted to

imagine that nature had some grand, marvellous design when she

created that girl.

Ariadne's voice, her walk, her hat, even her footprints on the sandy

bank where she used to angle for gudgeon, filled me with delight

and a passionate hunger for life. I judged of her spiritual being

from her lovely face and lovely figure, and every word, every smile

of Ariadne's bewitched me, conquered me and forced me to believe

in the loftiness of her soul. She was friendly, ready to talk, gay

and simple in her manners. She had a poetic belief in God, made

poetic reflections about death, and there was such a wealth of

varying shades in her spiritual organisation that even her faults

seemed in her to carry with them peculiar, charming qualities.

Suppose she wanted a new horse and had no money--what did that

matter? Something might be sold or pawned, or if the steward swore

that nothing could possibly be sold or pawned, the iron roofs might

be torn off the lodges and taken to the factory, or at the very

busiest time the farm-horses might be driven to the market and sold

there for next to nothing. These unbridled desires reduced the whole

household to despair at times, but she expressed them with such

refinement that everything was forgiven her; all things were permitted

her as to a goddess or to Cæsar's wife. My love was pathetic and

was soon noticed by every one--my father, the neighbours, and the

peasants--and they all sympathised with me. When I stood the

workmen vodka, they would bow and say: "May the Kotlovitch young

lady be your bride, please God!"

And Ariadne herself knew that I loved her. She would often ride

over on horseback or drive in the char-à-banc to see us, and would

spend whole days with me and my father. She made great friends with

the old man, and he even taught her to bicycle, which was his

favourite amusement.

I remember helping her to get on the bicycle one evening, and she

looked so lovely that I felt as though I were burning my hands when

I touched her. I shuddered with rapture, and when the two of them,

my old father and she, both looking so handsome and elegant, bicycled

side by side along the main road, a black horse ridden by the steward

dashed aside on meeting them, and it seemed to me that it dashed

aside because it too was overcome by her beauty. My love, my worship,

touched Ariadne and softened her; she had a passionate longing to

be captivated like me and to respond with the same love. It was so

poetical!

But she was incapable of really loving as I did, for she was cold

and already somewhat corrupted. There was a demon in her, whispering

to her day and night that she was enchanting, adorable; and, having

no definite idea for what object she was created, or for what purpose

life had been given her, she never pictured herself in the future

except as very wealthy and distinguished, she had visions of balls,

races, liveries, of sumptuous drawing-rooms, of a salon of her own,

and of a perfect swarm of counts, princes, ambassadors, celebrated

painters and artists, all of them adoring her and in ecstasies over

her beauty and her dresses. . . .

This thirst for personal success, and this continual concentration

of the mind in one direction, makes people cold, and Ariadne was

cold--to me, to nature, and to music. Meanwhile time was passing,

and still there were no ambassadors on the scene. Ariadne went on

living with her brother, the spiritualist: things went from bad to

worse, so that she had nothing to buy hats and dresses with, and

had to resort to all sorts of tricks and dodges to conceal her

poverty.

As luck would have it, a certain Prince Maktuev, a wealthy man but

an utterly insignificant person, had paid his addresses to her when

she was living at her aunt's in Moscow. She had refused him,

point-blank. But now she was fretted by the worm of repentance that

she had refused him; just as a peasant pouts with repulsion at a

mug of kvass with cockroaches in it but yet drinks it, so she frowned

disdainfully at the recollection of the prince, and yet she would

say to me: "Say what you like, there is something inexplicable,

fascinating, in a title. . . ."

She dreamed of a title, of a brilliant position, and at the same

time she did not want to let me go. However one may dream of

ambassadors one's heart is not a stone, and one has wistful feelings

for one's youth. Ariadne tried to fall in love, made a show of being

in love, and even swore that she loved me. But I am a highly strung

and sensitive man; when I am loved I feel it even at a distance,

without vows and assurances; at once I felt as it were a coldness

in the air, and when she talked to me of love, it seemed to me as

though I were listening to the singing of a metal nightingale.

Ariadne was herself aware that she was lacking in something. She

was vexed and more than once I saw her cry. Another time--can you

imagine it?--all of a sudden she embraced me and kissed me. It

happened in the evening on the river-bank, and I saw by her eyes

that she did not love me, but was embracing me from curiosity, to

test herself and to see what came of it. And I felt dreadful. I

took her hands and said to her in despair: "These caresses without

love cause me suffering!"

"What a queer fellow you are!" she said with annoyance, and walked

away.

Another year or two might have passed, and in all probability I

should have married her, and so my story would have ended, but fate

was pleased to arrange our romance differently. It happened that a

new personage appeared on our horizon. Ariadne's brother had a visit

from an old university friend called Mihail Ivanitch Lubkov, a

charming man of whom coachmen and footmen used to say: "An entertaining

gentleman." He was a man of medium height, lean and bald, with a

face like a good-natured bourgeois, not interesting, but pale and

presentable, with a stiff, well-kept moustache, with a neck like

gooseskin, and a big Adam's apple. He used to wear pince-nez on a

wide black ribbon, lisped, and could not pronounce either _r_ or

_l_. He was always in good spirits, everything amused him.

He had made an exceedingly foolish marriage at twenty, and had

acquired two houses in Moscow as part of his wife's dowry. He began

doing them up and building a bath-house, and was completely ruined.

Now his wife and four children lodged in Oriental Buildings in great

poverty, and he had to support them--and this amused him. He was

thirty-six and his wife was by now forty-two, and that, too, amused

him. His mother, a conceited, sulky personage, with aristocratic

pretensions, despised his wife and lived apart with a perfect

menagerie of cats and dogs, and he had to allow her seventy-five

roubles a month also; he was, too, a man of taste, liked lunching

at the Slavyansky Bazaar and dining at the Hermitage; he needed a

great deal of money, but his uncle only allowed him two thousand

roubles a year, which was not enough, and for days together he would

run about Moscow with his tongue out, as the saying is, looking for

some one to borrow from--and this, too, amused him. He had come

to Kotlovitch to find in the lap of nature, as he said, a rest from

family life. At dinner, at supper, and on our walks, he talked about

his wife, about his mother, about his creditors, about the bailiffs,

and laughed at them; he laughed at himself and assured us that,

thanks to his talent for borrowing, he had made a great number of

agreeable acquaintances. He laughed without ceasing and we laughed

too. Moreover, in his company we spent our time differently. I was

more inclined to quiet, so to say idyllic pleasures; I liked fishing,

evening walks, gathering mushrooms; Lubkov preferred picnics,

fireworks, hunting. He used to get up picnics three times a week,

and Ariadne, with an earnest and inspired face, used to write a

list of oysters, champagne, sweets, and used to send me into Moscow

to get them, without inquiring, of course, whether I had money. And

at the picnics there were toasts and laughter, and again mirthful

descriptions of how old his wife was, what fat lap-dogs his mother

had, and what charming people his creditors were.

Lubkov was fond of nature, but he regarded it as something long

familiar and at the same time, in reality, infinitely beneath himself

and created for his pleasure. He would sometimes stand still before

some magnificent landscape and say: "It would be nice to have tea

here."

One day, seeing Ariadne walking in the distance with a parasol, he

nodded towards her and said:

"She's thin, and that's what I like; I don't like fat women."

This made me wince. I asked him not to speak like that about women

before me. He looked at me in surprise and said:

"What is there amiss in my liking thin women and not caring for fat

ones?"

I made no answer. Afterwards, being in very good spirits and a

trifle elevated, he said:

"I've noticed Ariadne Grigoryevna likes you. I can't understand why

you don't go in and win."

His words made me feel uncomfortable, and with some embarrassment

I told him how I looked at love and women.

"I don't know," he sighed; "to my thinking, a woman's a woman and

a man's a man. Ariadne Grigoryevna may be poetical and exalted, as

you say, but it doesn't follow that she must be superior to the

laws of nature. You see for yourself that she has reached the age

when she must have a husband or a lover. I respect women as much

as you do, but I don't think certain relations exclude poetry.

Poetry's one thing and love is another. It's just the same as it

is in farming. The beauty of nature is one thing and the income

from your forests or fields is quite another."

When Ariadne and I were fishing, Lubkov would lie on the sand close

by and make fun of me, or lecture me on the conduct of life.

"I wonder, my dear sir, how you can live without a love affair,"

he would say. "You are young, handsome, interesting--in fact,

you're a man not to be sniffed at, yet you live like a monk. Och!

I can't stand these fellows who are old at twenty-eight! I'm nearly

ten years older than you are, and yet which of us is the younger?

Ariadne Grigoryevna, which?"

"You, of course," Ariadne answered him.

And when he was bored with our silence and the attention with which

we stared at our floats he went home, and she said, looking at me

angrily:

"You're really not a man, but a mush, God forgive me! A man ought

to be able to be carried away by his feelings, he ought to be able

to be mad, to make mistakes, to suffer! A woman will forgive you

audacity and insolence, but she will never forgive your reasonableness!"

She was angry in earnest, and went on:

"To succeed, a man must be resolute and bold. Lubkov is not so

handsome as you are, but he is more interesting. He will always

succeed with women because he's not like you; he's a man. . . ."

And there was actually a note of exasperation in her voice.

One day at supper she began saying, not addressing me, that if she

were a man she would not stagnate in the country, but would travel,

would spend the winter somewhere aboard--in Italy, for instance.

Oh, Italy! At this point my father unconsciously poured oil on the

flames; he began telling us at length about Italy, how splendid it

was there, the exquisite scenery, the museums. Ariadne suddenly

conceived a burning desire to go to Italy. She positively brought

her fist down on the table and her eyes flashed as she said: "I

must go!"

After that came conversations every day about Italy: how splendid

it would be in Italy--ah, Italy!--oh, Italy! And when Ariadne

looked at me over her shoulder, from her cold and obstinate expression

I saw that in her dreams she had already conquered Italy with all

its salons, celebrated foreigners and tourists, and there was no

holding her back now. I advised her to wait a little, to put off

her tour for a year or two, but she frowned disdainfully and said:

"You're as prudent as an old woman!"

Lubkov was in favour of the tour. He said it could be done very

cheaply, and he, too, would go to Italy and have a rest there from

family life.

I behaved, I confess, as naïvely as a schoolboy.

Not from jealousy, but from a foreboding of something terrible and

extraordinary, I tried as far as possible not to leave them alone

together, and they made fun of me. For instance, when I went in

they would pretend they had just been kissing one another, and so

on. But lo and behold, one fine morning, her plump, white-skinned

brother, the spiritualist, made his appearance and expressed his

desire to speak to me alone.

He was a man without will; in spite of his education and his delicacy

he could never resist reading another person's letter, if it lay

before him on the table. And now he admitted that he had by chance

read a letter of Lubkov's to Ariadne.

"From that letter I learned that she is very shortly going abroad.

My dear fellow, I am very much upset! Explain it to me for goodness'

sake. I can make nothing of it!"

As he said this he breathed hard, breathing straight in my face and

smelling of boiled beef.

"Excuse me for revealing the secret of this letter to you, but you

are Ariadne's friend, she respects you. Perhaps you know something

of it. She wants to go away, but with whom? Mr. Lubkov is proposing

to go with her. Excuse me, but this is very strange of Mr. Lubkov;

he is a married man, he has children, and yet he is making a

declaration of love; he is writing to Ariadne 'darling.' Excuse me,

but it is so strange!"

I turned cold all over; my hands and feet went numb and I felt an

ache in my chest, as if a three-cornered stone had been driven into

it. Kotlovitch sank helplessly into an easy-chair, and his hands

fell limply at his sides.

"What can I do?" I inquired.

"Persuade her. . . . Impress her mind. . . . Just consider, what

is Lubkov to her? Is he a match for her? Oh, good God! How awful

it is, how awful it is!" he went on, clutching his head. "She has

had such splendid offers--Prince Maktuev and . . . and others.

The prince adores her, and only last Wednesday week his late

grandfather, Ilarion, declared positively that Ariadne would be his

wife--positively! His grandfather Ilarion is dead, but he is a

wonderfully intelligent person; we call up his spirit every day."

After this conversation I lay awake all night and thought of shooting

myself. In the morning I wrote five letters and tore them all up.

Then I sobbed in the barn. Then I took a sum of money from my father

and set off for the Caucasus without saying good-bye.

Of course, a woman's a woman and a man's a man, but can all that

be as simple in our day as it was before the Flood, and can it be

that I, a cultivated man endowed with a complex spiritual organisation,

ought to explain the intense attraction I feel towards a woman

simply by the fact that her bodily formation is different from mine?

Oh, how awful that would be! I want to believe that in his struggle

with nature the genius of man has struggled with physical love too,

as with an enemy, and that, if he has not conquered it, he has at

least succeeded in tangling it in a net-work of illusions of

brotherhood and love; and for me, at any rate, it is no longer a

simple instinct of my animal nature as with a dog or a toad, but

is real love, and every embrace is spiritualised by a pure impulse

of the heart and respect for the woman. In reality, a disgust for

the animal instinct has been trained for ages in hundreds of

generations; it is inherited by me in my blood and forms part of

my nature, and if I poetize love, is not that as natural and

inevitable in our day as my ears' not being able to move and my not

being covered with fur? I fancy that's how the majority of civilised

people look at it, so that the absence of the moral, poetical element

in love is treated in these days as a phenomenon, as a sign of

atavism; they say it is a symptom of degeneracy, of many forms of

insanity. It is true that, in poetizing love, we assume in those

we love qualities that are lacking in them, and that is a source

of continual mistakes and continual miseries for us. But to my

thinking it is better, even so; that is, it is better to suffer

than to find complacency on the basis of woman being woman and man

being man.

In Tiflis I received a letter from my father. He wrote that Ariadne

Grigoryevna had on such a day gone abroad, intending to spend the

whole winter away. A month later I returned home. It was by now

autumn. Every week Ariadne sent my father extremely interesting

letters on scented paper, written in an excellent literary style.

It is my opinion that every woman can be a writer. Ariadne described

in great detail how it had not been easy for her to make it up with

her aunt and induce the latter to give her a thousand roubles for

the journey, and what a long time she had spent in Moscow trying

to find an old lady, a distant relation, in order to persuade her

to go with her. Such a profusion of detail suggested fiction, and

I realised, of course, that she had no chaperon with her.

Soon afterwards I, too, had a letter from her, also scented and

literary. She wrote that she had missed me, missed my beautiful,

intelligent, loving eyes. She reproached me affectionately for

wasting my youth, for stagnating in the country when I might, like

her, be living in paradise under the palms, breathing the fragrance

of the orange-trees. And she signed herself "Your forsaken Ariadne."

Two days later came another letter in the same style, signed "Your

forgotten Ariadne." My mind was confused. I loved her passionately,

I dreamed of her every night, and then this "your forsaken," "your

forgotten"--what did it mean? What was it for? And then the

dreariness of the country, the long evenings, the disquieting

thoughts of Lubkov. . . . The uncertainty tortured me, and poisoned

my days and nights; it became unendurable. I could not bear it and

went abroad.

Ariadne summoned me to Abbazzia. I arrived there on a bright warm

day after rain; the rain-drops were still hanging on the trees and

glistening on the huge, barrack-like dépendance where Ariadne and

Lubkov were living.

They were not at home. I went into the park; wandered about the

avenues, then sat down. An Austrian General, with his hands behind

him, walked past me, with red stripes on his trousers such as our

generals wear. A baby was wheeled by in a perambulator and the

wheels squeaked on the damp sand. A decrepit old man with jaundice

passed, then a crowd of Englishwomen, a Catholic priest, then the

Austrian General again. A military band, only just arrived from

Fiume, with glittering brass instruments, sauntered by to the

bandstand--they began playing.

Have you ever been at Abbazzia? It's a filthy little Slav town with

only one street, which stinks, and in which one can't walk after

rain without goloshes. I had read so much and always with such

intense feeling about this earthly paradise that when afterwards,

holding up my trousers, I cautiously crossed the narrow street, and

in my ennui bought some hard pears from an old peasant woman who,

recognising me as a Russian, said: "Tcheeteery" for "tchetyry"

(four)--"davadtsat" for "dvadtsat" (twenty), and when I wondered

in perplexity where to go and what to do here, and when I inevitably

met Russians as disappointed as I was, I began to feel vexed and

ashamed. There is a calm bay there full of steamers and boats with

coloured sails. From there I could see Fiume and the distant islands

covered with lilac mist, and it would have been picturesque if the

view over the bay had not been hemmed in by the hotels and their

dépendances--buildings in an absurd, trivial style of architecture,

with which the whole of that green shore has been covered by greedy

money grubbers, so that for the most part you see nothing in this

little paradise but windows, terraces, and little squares with

tables and waiters' black coats. There is a park such as you find

now in every watering-place abroad. And the dark, motionless, silent

foliage of the palms, and the bright yellow sand in the avenue, and

the bright green seats, and the glitter of the braying military

horns--all this sickened me in ten minutes! And yet one is obliged

for some reason to spend ten days, ten weeks, there!

Having been dragged reluctantly from one of these watering-places

to another, I have been more and more struck by the inconvenient

and niggardly life led by the wealthy and well-fed, the dulness and

feebleness of their imagination, the lack of boldness in their

tastes and desires. And how much happier are those tourists, old

and young, who, not having the money to stay in hotels, live where

they can, admire the view of the sea from the tops of the mountains,

lying on the green grass, walk instead of riding, see the forests

and villages at close quarters, observe the customs of the country,

listen to its songs, fall in love with its women. . . .

While I was sitting in the park, it began to get dark, and in the

twilight my Ariadne appeared, elegant and dressed like a princess;

after her walked Lubkov, wearing a new loose-fitting suit, bought

probably in Vienna.

"Why are you cross with me?" he was saying. "What have I done to

you?"

Seeing me, she uttered a cry of joy, and probably, if we had not

been in the park, would have thrown herself on my neck. She pressed

my hands warmly and laughed; and I laughed too and almost cried

with emotion. Questions followed, of the village, of my father,

whether I had seen her brother, and so on. She insisted on my looking

her straight in the face, and asked if I remembered the gudgeon,

our little quarrels, the picnics. . . .

"How nice it all was really!" she sighed. "But we're not having a

slow time here either. We have a great many acquaintances, my dear,

my best of friends! To-morrow I will introduce you to a Russian

family here, but please buy yourself another hat." She scrutinised

me and frowned. "Abbazzia is not the country," she said; "here one

must be _comme il faut_."

Then we went to the restaurant. Ariadne was laughing and mischievous

all the time; she kept calling me "dear," "good," "clever," and

seemed as though she could not believe her eyes that I was with

her. We sat on till eleven o'clock, and parted very well satisfied

both with the supper and with each other.

Next day Ariadne presented me to the Russian family as: "The son

of a distinguished professor whose estate is next to ours."

She talked to this family about nothing but estates and crops, and

kept appealing to me. She wanted to appear to be a very wealthy

landowner, and did, in fact, succeed in doing so. Her manner was

superb like that of a real aristocrat, which indeed she was by

birth.

"But what a person my aunt is!" she said suddenly, looking at me

with a smile. "We had a slight tiff, and she has bolted off to

Meran. What do you say to that?"

Afterwards when we were walking in the park I asked her:

"What aunt were you talking of just now? What aunt is that?"

"That was a saving lie," laughed Ariadne. "They must not know I'm

without a chaperon."

After a moment's silence she came closer to me and said:

"My dear, my dear, do be friends with Lubkov. He is so unhappy! His

wife and mother are simply awful."

She used the formal mode of address in speaking to Lubkov, and when

she was going up to bed she said good-night to him exactly as she

did to me, and their rooms were on different floors. All this made

me hope that it was all nonsense, and that there was no sort of

love affair between them, and I felt at ease when I met him. And

when one day he asked me for the loan of three hundred roubles, I

gave it to him with the greatest pleasure.

Every day we spent in enjoying ourselves and in nothing but enjoying

ourselves; we strolled in the park, we ate, we drank. Every day

there were conversations with the Russian family. By degrees I got

used to the fact that if I went into the park I should be sure to

meet the old man with jaundice, the Catholic priest, and the Austrian

General, who always carried a pack of little cards, and wherever

it was possible sat down and played patience, nervously twitching

his shoulders. And the band played the same thing over and over

again.

At home in the country I used to feel ashamed to meet the peasants

when I was fishing or on a picnic party on a working day; here too

I was ashamed at the sight of the footmen, the coachmen, and the

workmen who met us. It always seemed to me they were looking at me

and thinking: "Why are you doing nothing?" And I was conscious of

this feeling of shame every day from morning to night. It was a

strange, unpleasant, monotonous time; it was only varied by Lubkov's

borrowing from me now a hundred, now fifty guldens, and being

suddenly revived by the money as a morphia-maniac is by morphia,

beginning to laugh loudly at his wife, at himself, at his creditors.

At last it began to be rainy and cold. We went to Italy, and I

telegraphed to my father begging him for mercy's sake to send me

eight hundred roubles to Rome. We stayed in Venice, in Bologna, in

Florence, and in every town invariably put up at an expensive hotel,

where we were charged separately for lights, and for service, and

for heating, and for bread at lunch, and for the right of having

dinner by ourselves. We ate enormously. In the morning they gave

us _café complet_; at one o'clock lunch: meat, fish, some sort of

omelette, cheese, fruits, and wine. At six o'clock dinner of eight

courses with long intervals, during which we drank beer and wine.

At nine o'clock tea. At midnight Ariadne would declare she was

hungry, and ask for ham and boiled eggs. We would eat to keep her

company.

In the intervals between meals we used to rush about the museums

and exhibitions in continual anxiety for fear we should be late for

dinner or lunch. I was bored at the sight of the pictures; I longed

to be at home to rest; I was exhausted, looked about for a chair

and hypocritically repeated after other people: "How exquisite,

what atmosphere!" Like overfed boa constrictors, we noticed only

the most glaring objects. The shop windows hypnotised us; we went

into ecstasies over imitation brooches and bought a mass of useless

trumpery.

The same thing happened in Rome, where it rained and there was a

cold wind. After a heavy lunch we went to look at St. Peter's, and

thanks to our replete condition and perhaps the bad weather, it

made no sort of impression on us, and detecting in each other an

indifference to art, we almost quarrelled.

The money came from my father. I went to get it, I remember, in the

morning. Lubkov went with me.

"The present cannot be full and happy when one has a past," said

he. "I have heavy burdens left on me by the past. However, if only

I get the money, it's no great matter, but if not, I'm in a fix.

Would you believe it, I have only eight francs left, yet I must

send my wife a hundred and my mother another. And we must live here

too. Ariadne's like a child; she won't enter into the position, and

flings away money like a duchess. Why did she buy a watch yesterday?

And, tell me, what object is there in our going on playing at being

good children? Why, our hiding our relations from the servants and

our friends costs us from ten to fifteen francs a day, as I have

to have a separate room. What's the object of it?"

I felt as though a sharp stone had been turned round in my chest.

There was no uncertainty now; it was all clear to me. I turned cold

all over, and at once made a resolution to give up seeing them, to

run away from them, to go home at once. . . .

"To get on terms with a woman is easy enough," Lubkov went on. "You

have only to undress her; but afterwards what a bore it is, what a

silly business!"

When I counted over the money I received he said:

"If you don't lend me a thousand francs, I am faced with complete

ruin. Your money is the only resource left to me."

I gave him the money, and he at once revived and began laughing

about his uncle, a queer fish, who could never keep his address

secret from his wife. When I reached the hotel I packed and paid

my bill. I had still to say good-bye to Ariadne.

I knocked at the door.

"Entrez!"

In her room was the usual morning disorder: tea-things on the table,

an unfinished roll, an eggshell; a strong overpowering reek of

scent. The bed had not been made, and it was evident that two had

slept in it.

Ariadne herself had only just got out of bed and was now with her

hair down in a flannel dressing-jacket.

I said good-morning to her, and then sat in silence for a minute

while she tried to put her hair tidy, and then I asked her, trembling

all over:

"Why . . . why . . . did you send for me here?"

Evidently she guessed what I was thinking; she took me by the hand

and said:

"I want you to be here, you are so pure."

I felt ashamed of my emotion, of my trembling. And I was afraid I

might begin sobbing, too! I went out without saying another word,

and within an hour I was sitting in the train. All the journey, for

some reason, I imagined Ariadne with child, and she seemed disgusting

to me, and all the women I saw in the trains and at the stations

looked to me, for some reason, as if they too were with child, and

they too seemed disgusting and pitiable. I was in the position of

a greedy, passionate miser who should suddenly discover that all

his gold coins were false. The pure, gracious images which my

imagination, warmed by love, had cherished for so long, my plans,

my hopes, my memories, my ideas of love and of woman--all now

were jeering and putting out their tongues at me. "Ariadne," I kept

asking with horror, "that young, intellectual, extraordinarily

beautiful girl, the daughter of a senator, carrying on an intrigue

with such an ordinary, uninteresting vulgarian? But why should she

not love Lubkov?" I answered myself. "In what is he inferior to me?

Oh, let her love any one she likes, but why lie to me? But why is

she bound to be open with me?" And so I went on over and over again

till I was stupefied.

It was cold in the train; I was travelling first class, but even

so there were three on a side, there were no double windows, the

outer door opened straight into the compartment, and I felt as

though I were in the stocks, cramped, abandoned, pitiful, and my

legs were fearfully numb, and at the same time I kept recalling how

fascinating she had been that morning in her dressing-jacket and

with her hair down, and I was suddenly overcome by such acute

jealousy that I leapt up in anguish, so that my neighbours stared

at me in wonder and positive alarm.

At home I found deep snow and twenty degrees of frost. I'm fond of

the winter; I'm fond of it because at that time, even in the hardest

frosts, it's particularly snug at home. It's pleasant to put on

one's fur jacket and felt overboots on a clear frosty day, to do

something in the garden or in the yard, or to read in a well warmed

room, to sit in my father's study before the open fire, to wash in

my country bath-house. . . . Only if there is no mother in the

house, no sister and no children, it is somehow dreary on winter

evenings, and they seem extraordinarily long and quiet. And the

warmer and snugger it is, the more acutely is this lack felt. In

the winter when I came back from abroad, the evenings were endlessly

long, I was intensely depressed, so depressed that I could not even

read; in the daytime I was coming and going, clearing away the snow

in the garden or feeding the chickens and the calves, but in the

evening it was all up with me.

I had never cared for visitors before, but now I was glad of them,

for I knew there was sure to be talk of Ariadne. Kotlovitch, the

spiritualist, used often to come to talk about his sister, and

sometimes he brought with him his friend Prince Maktuev, who was

as much in love with Ariadne as I was. To sit in Ariadne's room,

to finger the keys of her piano, to look at her music was a necessity

for the prince--he could not live without it; and the spirit of

his grandfather Ilarion was still predicting that sooner or later

she would be his wife. The prince usually stayed a long time with

us, from lunch to midnight, saying nothing all the time; in silence

he would drink two or three bottles of beer, and from time to time,

to show that he too was taking part in the conversation, he would

laugh an abrupt, melancholy, foolish laugh. Before going home he

would always take me aside and ask me in an undertone: "When did

you see Ariadne Grigoryevna last? Was she quite well? I suppose

she's not tired of being out there?"

Spring came on. There was the harrowing to do and then the sowing

of spring corn and clover. I was sad, but there was the feeling of

spring. One longed to accept the inevitable. Working in the fields

and listening to the larks, I asked myself: "Couldn't I have done

with this question of personal happiness once and for all? Couldn't

I lay aside my fancy and marry a simple peasant girl?"

Suddenly when we were at our very busiest, I got a letter with the

Italian stamp, and the clover and the beehives and the calves and

the peasant girl all floated away like smoke. This time Ariadne

wrote that she was profoundly, infinitely unhappy. She reproached

me for not holding out a helping hand to her, for looking down upon

her from the heights of my virtue and deserting her at the moment

of danger. All this was written in a large, nervous handwriting

with blots and smudges, and it was evident that she wrote in haste

and distress. In conclusion she besought me to come and save her.

Again my anchor was hauled up and I was carried away. Ariadne was

in Rome. I arrived late in the evening, and when she saw me, she

sobbed and threw herself on my neck. She had not changed at all

that winter, and was just as young and charming. We had supper

together and afterwards drove about Rome until dawn, and all the

time she kept telling me about her doings. I asked where Lubkov

was.

"Don't remind me of that creature!" she cried. "He is loathsome and

disgusting to me!"

"But I thought you loved him," I said.

"Never," she said. "At first he struck me as original and aroused

my pity, that was all. He is insolent and takes a woman by storm.

And that's attractive. But we won't talk about him. That is a

melancholy page in my life. He has gone to Russia to get money.

Serve him right! I told him not to dare to come back."

She was living then, not at an hotel, but in a private lodging of

two rooms which she had decorated in her own taste, frigidly and

luxuriously.

After Lubkov had gone away she had borrowed from her acquaintances

about five thousand francs, and my arrival certainly was the one

salvation for her.

I had reckoned on taking her back to the country, but I did not

succeed in that. She was homesick for her native place, but her

recollections of the poverty she had been through there, of privations,

of the rusty roof on her brother's house, roused a shudder of

disgust, and when I suggested going home to her, she squeezed my

hands convulsively and said:

"No, no, I shall die of boredom there!"

Then my love entered upon its final phase.

"Be the darling that you used to be; love me a little," said Ariadne,

bending over to me. "You're sulky and prudent, you're afraid to

yield to impulse, and keep thinking of consequences, and that's

dull. Come, I beg you, I beseech you, be nice to me! . . . My pure

one, my holy one, my dear one, I love you so!"

I became her lover. For a month anyway I was like a madman, conscious

of nothing but rapture. To hold in one's arms a young and lovely

body, with bliss to feel her warmth every time one waked up from

sleep, and to remember that she was there--she, my Ariadne!--

oh, it was not easy to get used to that! But yet I did get used to

it, and by degrees became capable of reflecting on my new position.

First of all, I realised, as before, that Ariadne did not love me.

But she wanted to be really in love, she was afraid of solitude,

and, above all, I was healthy, young, vigorous; she was sensual,

like all cold people, as a rule--and we both made a show of being

united by a passionate, mutual love. Afterwards I realised something

else, too.

We stayed in Rome, in Naples, in Florence; we went to Paris, but

there we thought it cold and went back to Italy. We introduced

ourselves everywhere as husband and wife, wealthy landowners. People

readily made our acquaintance and Ariadne had great social success

everywhere. As she took lessons in painting, she was called an

artist, and only imagine, that quite suited her, though she had not

the slightest trace of talent.

She would sleep every day till two or three o'clock; she had her

coffee and lunch in bed. At dinner she would eat soup, lobster,

fish, meat, asparagus, game, and after she had gone to bed I used

to bring up something, for instance roast beef, and she would eat

it with a melancholy, careworn expression, and if she waked in the

night she would eat apples and oranges.

The chief, so to say fundamental, characteristic of the woman was

an amazing duplicity. She was continually deceitful every minute,

apparently apart from any necessity, as it were by instinct, by an

impulse such as makes the sparrow chirrup and the cockroach waggle

its antennæ. She was deceitful with me, with the footman, with the

porter, with the tradesmen in the shops, with her acquaintances;

not one conversation, not one meeting, took place without affectation

and pretence. A man had only to come into our room--whoever it

might be, a waiter, or a baron--for her eyes, her expression, her

voice to change, even the contour of her figure was transformed.

At the very first glance at her then, you would have said there

were no more wealthy and fashionable people in Italy than we. She

never met an artist or a musician without telling him all sorts of

lies about his remarkable talent.

"You have such a talent!" she would say, in honeyed cadences, "I'm

really afraid of you. I think you must see right through people."

And all this simply in order to please, to be successful, to be

fascinating! She waked up every morning with the one thought of

"pleasing"! It was the aim and object of her life. If I had told

her that in such a house, in such a street, there lived a man who

was not attracted by her, it would have caused her real suffering.

She wanted every day to enchant, to captivate, to drive men crazy.

The fact that I was in her power and reduced to a complete nonentity

before her charms gave her the same sort of satisfaction that

visitors used to feel in tournaments. My subjection was not enough,

and at nights, stretched out like a tigress, uncovered--she was

always too hot--she would read the letters sent her by Lubkov;

he besought her to return to Russia, vowing if she did not he would

rob or murder some one to get the money to come to her. She hated

him, but his passionate, slavish letters excited her. She had an

extraordinary opinion of her own charms; she imagined that if

somewhere, in some great assembly, men could have seen how beautifully

she was made and the colour of her skin, she would have vanquished

all Italy, the whole world. Her talk of her figure, of her skin,

offended me, and observing this, she would, when she was angry, to

vex me, say all sorts of vulgar things, taunting me. One day when

we were at the summer villa of a lady of our acquaintance, and she

lost her temper, she even went so far as to say: "If you don't leave

off boring me with your sermons, I'll undress this minute and lie

naked here on these flowers."

Often looking at her asleep, or eating, or trying to assume a naïve

expression, I wondered why that extraordinary beauty, grace, and

intelligence had been given her by God. Could it simply be for

lolling in bed, eating and lying, lying endlessly? And was she

intelligent really? She was afraid of three candles in a row, of

the number thirteen, was terrified of spells and bad dreams. She

argued about free love and freedom in general like a bigoted old

woman, declared that Boleslav Markevitch was a better writer than

Turgenev. But she was diabolically cunning and sharp, and knew how

to seem a highly educated, advanced person in company.

Even at a good-humoured moment, she could always insult a servant

or kill an insect without a pang; she liked bull-fights, liked to

read about murders, and was angry when prisoners were acquitted.

For the life Ariadne and I were leading, we had to have a great

deal of money. My poor father sent me his pension, all the little

sums he received, borrowed for me wherever he could, and when one

day he answered me: "Non habeo," I sent him a desperate telegram

in which I besought him to mortgage the estate. A little later I

begged him to get money somehow on a second mortgage. He did this

too without a murmur and sent me every farthing. Ariadne despised

the practical side of life; all this was no concern of hers, and

when flinging away thousands of francs to satisfy her mad desires

I groaned like an old tree, she would be singing "Addio bella Napoli"

with a light heart.

Little by little I grew cold to her and began to be ashamed of our

tie. I am not fond of pregnancy and confinements, but now I sometimes

dreamed of a child who would have been at least a formal justification

of our life. That I might not be completely disgusted with myself,

I began reading and visiting museums and galleries, gave up drinking

and took to eating very little. If one keeps oneself well in hand

from morning to night, one's heart seems lighter. I began to bore

Ariadne too. The people with whom she won her triumphs were, by the

way, all of the middling sort; as before, there were no ambassadors,

there was no salon, the money did not run to it, and this mortified

her and made her sob, and she announced to me at last that perhaps

she would not be against our returning to Russia.

And here we are on our way. For the last few months she has been

zealously corresponding with her brother; she evidently has some

secret projects, but what they are--God knows! I am sick of trying

to fathom her underhand schemes! But we're going, not to the country,

but to Yalta and afterwards to the Caucasus. She can only exist now

at watering-places, and if you knew how I hate all these watering-places,

how suffocated and ashamed I am in them. If I could be in the country

now! If I could only be working now, earning my bread by the sweat

of my brow, atoning for my follies. I am conscious of a superabundance

of energy and I believe that if I were to put that energy to work

I could redeem my estate in five years. But now, as you see, there

is a complication. Here we're not abroad, but in mother Russia; we

shall have to think of lawful wedlock. Of course, all attraction

is over; there is no trace left of my old love, but, however that

may be, I am bound in honour to marry her.

----

Shamohin, excited by his story, went below with me and we continued

talking about women. It was late. It appeared that he and I were

in the same cabin.

"So far it is only in the village that woman has not fallen behind

man," said Shamohin. "There she thinks and feels just as man does,

and struggles with nature in the name of culture as zealously as

he. In the towns the woman of the bourgeois or intellectual class

has long since fallen behind, and is returning to her primitive

condition. She is half a human beast already, and, thanks to her,

a great deal of what had been won by human genius has been lost

again; the woman gradually disappears and in her place is the

primitive female. This dropping-back on the part of the educated

woman is a real danger to culture; in her retrogressive movement

she tries to drag man after her and prevents him from moving forward.

That is incontestable."

I asked: "Why generalise? Why judge of all women from Ariadne alone?

The very struggle of women for education and sexual equality, which

I look upon as a struggle for justice, precludes any hypothesis of

a retrograde movement."

But Shamohin scarcely listened to me and he smiled distrustfully.

He was a passionate, convinced misogynist, and it was impossible

to alter his convictions.

"Oh, nonsense!" he interrupted. "When once a woman sees in me, not

a man, not an equal, but a male, and her one anxiety all her life

is to attract me--that is, to take possession of me--how can

one talk of their rights? Oh, don't you believe them; they are very,

very cunning! We men make a great stir about their emancipation,

but they don't care about their emancipation at all, they only

pretend to care about it; they are horribly cunning things, horribly

cunning!"

I began to feel sleepy and weary of discussion. I turned over with

my face to the wall.

"Yes," I heard as I fell asleep--"yes, and it's our education

that's at fault, sir. In our towns, the whole education and bringing

up of women in its essence tends to develop her into the human beast

--that is, to make her attractive to the male and able to vanquish

him. Yes, indeed"--Shamohiri sighed--"little girls ought to be

taught and brought up with boys, so that they might be always

together. A woman ought to be trained so that she may be able, like

a man, to recognise when she's wrong, or she always thinks she's

in the right. Instil into a little girl from her cradle that a man

is not first of all a cavalier or a possible lover, but her neighbour,

her equal in everything. Train her to think logically, to generalise,

and do not assure her that her brain weighs less than a man's and

that therefore she can be indifferent to the sciences, to the arts,

to the tasks of culture in general. The apprentice to the shoemaker

or the house painter has a brain of smaller size than the grown-up

man too, yet he works, suffers, takes his part in the general

struggle for existence. We must give up our attitude to the

physiological aspect, too--to pregnancy and childbirth, seeing

that in the first place women don't have babies every month; secondly,

not all women have babies; and, thirdly, a normal countrywoman works

in the fields up to the day of her confinement and it does her no

harm. Then there ought to be absolute equality in everyday life.

If a man gives a lady his chair or picks up the handkerchief she

has dropped, let her repay him in the same way. I have no objection

if a girl of good family helps me to put on my coat or hands me a

glass of water--"

I heard no more, for I fell asleep.

Next morning when we were approaching Sevastopol, it was damp,

unpleasant weather; the ship rocked. Shamohin sat on deck with me,

brooding and silent. When the bell rang for tea, men with their

coat-collars turned up and ladies with pale, sleepy faces began

going below; a young and very beautiful lady, the one who had been

so angry with the Customs officers at Volotchisk, stopped before

Shamohin and said with the expression of a naughty, fretful child:

"Jean, your birdie's been sea-sick."

Afterwards when I was at Yalta I saw the same beautiful lady dashing

about on horseback with a couple of officers hardly able to keep

up with her. And one morning I saw her in an overall and a Phrygian

cap, sketching on the sea-front with a great crowd admiring her a

little way off. I too was introduced to her. She pressed my hand

with great warmth, and looking at me ecstatically, thanked me in

honeyed cadences for the pleasure I had given her by my writings.

"Don't you believe her," Shamohin whispered to me, "she has never

read a word of them."

When I was walking on the sea-front in the early evening Shamohin

met me with his arms full of big parcels of fruits and dainties.

"Prince Maktuev is here!" he said joyfully. "He came yesterday with

her brother, the spiritualist! Now I understand what she was writing

to him about! Oh, Lord!" he went on, gazing up to heaven, and

pressing his parcels to his bosom. "If she hits it off with the

prince, it means freedom, then I can go back to the country with

my father!"

And he ran on.

"I begin to believe in spirits," he called to me, looking back.

"The spirit of grandfather Ilarion seems to have prophesied the

truth! Oh, if only it is so!"

----

The day after this meeting I left Yalta and how Shamohin's story

ended I don't know.