The Greatest Russian Stories of Crime and Suspense (42 page)

“I am far, far away … and I laugh.

“I hear the sound of falling water … and I laugh.

“Love is all that remains. I see the narrow passage and hear the rolling wheels!”

Yesterday his temperature dropped and he regained consciousness.

“Where is the bullet?”

I was troubled and did not reply.

“I am not afraid of the truth. Can it be that you do not yet understand me?”

When I told him that it was impossible to remove it, he became silent and thoughtful.

“Very well. All is well; even that I still want to live.”

October 15th
.

He is a strange, enigmatic person. Usually taciturn, he never laughs, but often smiles a perfectly adorable smile. Occasionally he likes to talk; then he is all enthusiasm. More often he is calm, with the calmness of self-confidence and strength.

He works incessantly; too much, I think. He arises very early and goes to his laboratory. He often writes until late at night.

I cannot become accustomed to my present life after my past existence, which was filled with social obligations and so-called gayety and pleasure. We read a great deal, and sometimes it wearies me to do this, and to follow the trend of his thoughts.

I don’t know whether he loves me, because he has never spoken to me of it: I say never; yes, once. It was during his convalescence. The doctor had permitted him to sit up in a chair.

It was evening and the whole house seemed to sleep the sleep of the dead. We seemed entirely alone in the world. He began to talk:

“Fire attracts me as it did the pagans. While still a boy, ten years or twelve years old, I used to run away to the country in search of bonfires.

“I used to go to the shepherds, taking no notice of their dogs, and sit long and silently, gazing dreamily into their fires.

“Little by little I seemed to become incorporated with the names. Child that I was, home seemed to me something distant, foreign, ‘fiction’.”

The coals in the fire-place were a golden glow. Garine bent over, took a burning coal into his hand, held it for a moment, and then threw it back into the fireplace.

“What are you doing? Did you burn yourself?” I cried.

I took his hand. He did not withdraw it and smiled. Then, tenderly, as though talking to a little girl, he said:

“It was only a little joke, a little, innocent ruse. I wanted you to hold my hand.” Then he continued:

“As I have grown older I have lost the faculty of conforming objects and things to my will.

“I have ceased to be a primitive man. My mind has developed. It has reached the limits of intellectual development accorded to Europeans. But, on the other hand, my sensibilities have become dulled; I have lost one of the most essential characteristics of the human personality, intuition. Partly, at least, if not entirely.” He smiled, then continued: “In spite of this atrophy, I am infinitely more sensitive than most people. This may be attributed, I think, to my childhood. I used to spend whole days and nights alone in the forests talking to the birds and trees. They seemed to understand my language. There I had friends and enemies. The ugly old oak was my most bitter enemy. The gentle lime-tree rejoiced my wild, incomprehensible, childish soul by its charming, tender murmurs. I was a part of the forest. When I returned to the city I discovered that the humdrum of daily existence deprived me of this faculty.

“The commotion of the city; society; in short, contact with human beings distressed me.

“Later, when as a student I returned to the forest, I could hear only the grumbling noises of city life in the whisperings of the trees and the songs of the birds, which had formerly been so dear to me.

“The rhythm of daily life, the cadence of time obsessed me, because I had lost all primitive impulses, having given myself over, body and soul, to human motives. Do you understand me?”

I waited attentively for him to explain his meaning to me. He gave as an example, the life of a citizen of our day, especially in America.

“The struggle for daily existence destroys all the rhythm of life, especially for the humble.”

He spoke of the sick, who would be called by death to-morrow, perhaps even to-day. “They no longer belong to life, and yet they give themselves over to the joys of existence. Pitiful, wretched creatures swaying feebly to the sounds of the barbaric organ—life.”

The most insignificant of his stories struck me, I don’t know why, and made a powerful impression on me.

“I was consulted by one of my cousins, an engineer. ‘I am tired, exhausted,’ he told me. I examined him and was greatly distressed by my findings. He was completely gone. A radioscopic examination proved his case still more serious.

“His condition called for absolute rest. He should have ceased work immediately. I did not attempt to deceive him. We could have hoped to save him by patience and care.

“He was overwhelmed, not only because of his condition, but because of the necessity for immediate rest. He continually repeated: ‘I have an important business deal for to-morrow, which will bring me a large fortune.’ I became angry. To the devil with money! I again tried to convince him of the absolute necessity of entering a sanitarium. He promised me that he would go.

“At the end of three days he came back to me. He was a new man.

“‘My deal has succeeded. I have two or three more like this. In a week I will begin to take care of myself.’

“He stopped speaking suddenly, swayed, and fell. For two hours I remained in silence beside his dead body.

“The next day I left for the Brazilian forests of South America. The bonds of civilization pursued me even there. For three years I wandered among the most primitive, the most savage of the natives. For three years I searched for freedom. But, city life held me in its tentacles.

“I experienced a sense of intuition for the first time when I met you. Boresome trivialities were vanquished, and my sense of premonition had recovered its vitality.”

He was silent for a long time. Then he caressed my hand and murmured:

“This is what is ordinarily called love, a word which, man has profaned long ago. My sentiment is not love. No, it is not love in the sense that the word is vulgarly used.”

November 20th
.

He overwhelms me with his tenderness. I am troubled and afraid in spite of the fact that he is always faultlessly correct. Our attitude towards each other, and our love-making are of a peculiar nature. I cannot become accustomed to it. After the joys and sensuality of my first marriage, the austerity of our life and the gravity of our love, of this super-love, sometimes depress me. And yet, I am entirely his, his slave, and I adore him.

I am angry with myself for my statement: “His slave!”

December 5th
.

I am happy to-day, perhaps for the first time in my life. All of my past love is nothing as compared to that which I experienced yesterday. It was not passion, but a storm, a tempest, a something between life and death. I wept, I sobbed, I laughed.

How I pity those who have never experienced such ecstasy!

We had friends in to dinner, and he had drunk more than usual; he is ordinarily so temperate. The wine completely changed him—his correctness, his self-control, his cold, stern attitude, all this had disappeared, and he smiled and joked with excessive gayety.

After the departure of our guests he was maddened by an insatiable desire … as though he were trying to drain the cup of voluptuousness. He wept and he moaned as though his soul were wounded by the excess of his feelings, then yielded anew to his passions.

December 6th
.

Yesterday he was cold, and more reserved than ever. He retired to his room very early in the evening. We did not even do any reading.

December 15th
.

Life has become strangely monotonous. Sometimes I think he is one of those unfathomable beings whom it is impossible to understand. I often think of our one great experience. Will I ever know it again?

January 20th, 1911
.

It is cold and windy. Sometimes Dr. Levitsky, my husband’s assistant, comes and helps me, to a certain extent, to overcome my ennui. He is very gay and I think perhaps he is interested in me. We go riding occasionally. On Saturdays he dines with us and spends the evening. He is fond of music and sings rather well. He is very young and flushes delightfully if I happen to touch him.

February 5th
.

Yesterday, a return of his “madness” brought us very close unto death.

To death, do I say? No, to resurrection. Joy and passion brought complete satiety. It was like a descent, into fathomless depths. Time and space were as nothing, and one thing only remained—eternity.

Is it possible that only the chosen few experience this supreme joy? Is this love? Then why is he depressed, displeased, and angry with himself afterwards?

February 22nd
.

I notice that I am beginning to use my husband’s language. This irritates and gladdens me. “Rejoice, O Slave!”

February 26th
.

Levitsky has made a declaration of love. I was amused but also touched by it. He esteems and fears my husband greatly. “I implore you not to tell your husband of this,” said he after his avowal. “This must be our secret.” I stroked his silken hair—how soft it is!—and promised to say nothing.

That same evening, however, I could not keep from telling him all about it.

He did not seem surprised or angry.

“Very well,” said he, “Levitsky is a nice young man. Be kind to him.”

This is too much. He doesn’t love me at all.

February 27th
.

I have reread yesterday’s notes and I am ashamed of myself. My heart is filled to overflowing with love for my husband. Yet, I am bored at times. Or, rather, I have dark presentiments. It is then that Levitsky is such a help to me. With him, I can laugh; I can joke and gossip; I can scold him and tease him.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I am happy.

March 10th
.

Never, even in my innermost soul, not even in the moments of our most intimate tenderness, do I call him “George.” However, I speak of Levitsky as Leon all of the time, whether he is present or not. My husband finds this entirely natural.

March 22nd
.

Yesterday, Garine became very talkative while we were alone. “I cannot conceive of a future,” he told me in a calm, indifferent voice. Sometimes I have the impression that he is dissatisfied with himself, at others, that he is not of this world. Just like every one else who knows him, I am surprised at the formidable amount of work he does.

When he comes home joyful and happy, I know that one of his experiments has succeeded, or that he is satisfied with a diagnosis he has made.

Yesterday, he was very enthusiastic. I heard him say several times: “Is it possible that I have succeeded!” He is experimenting with a serum, but I don’t know what it is all about.

March 24th
.

I have just returned from a long ride on horseback with our young friend. What a glorious spring day it has been! The stupid boy made love to me again. I became angry and threatened to tell my husband. He became very pale but said nothing. When he left me he implored fearfully: “Do not, I beg of you, speak of this to the Doctor.”

April 6th
.

Leon and I go riding almost daily. He is really a delightful boy, and so devoted to George. He never tires of talking about him. He considers him a great scientist. His patients, too, adore my husband.

Yesterday we were out riding and stopped for a moment under a large pine tree to let the horses rest. Leon seized my hands and made violent love to me. I feel sorry for the poor boy. He has beautiful, dark blue eyes, half hidden by long black lashes. He is twenty-six years old, a year and two months older than myself. He is alone in the world. The poor dear!

April 15th
.

I have spent very few evenings with my husband lately. Sometimes Leon and I go to Riga to a concert or a dance. My husband often makes us go out and amuse ourselves. He is overwhelmed with work at the leper hospital, which has recently been enlarged. He has almost no leisure.

Several days ago he asked me whether Leon didn’t bore me. I felt guilty. Perhaps I
am
spending too much time with him.

April 28th
.

G. has been more reserved than ever for several days. He has had no “madness” for a long time. He is always infinitely kind and tender to me, however. I was slightly ill very recently. He left his work completely and did not leave my bedside during the whole week I was in bed. His dear eyes never left my face.

He never speaks of love, but his silence means more to me than the most eloquent language.

I am his; entirely and eternally his.

To leave him, or to cease to love him, would be absolutely impossible.

His slave! So be it! I have grown accustomed to the thought. Yes, a thousand times—his slave!

April 29th
.

He was thoughtful all morning, and his silence oppressed me. This evening, when he returned from the laboratory he was more attentive than I had ever before seen him. He kissed my hands in a most unusual manner. “Listen,” he said, “remember to-day well, because, to-day, the rhythm of life has demanded its tribute from me. Life has exacted its ransom. Is it possible that you cannot save me?”