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Precipice

<h2> CHAPTER XV </h2> One evening a thunderstorm was brewing. The black clouds lay entrenched beyond the Volga, and the air was as hot and moist as in a bath-house. Here and there over the fields and roads rose pillars of dust. In the house Tatiana Markovna sent her household hurrying to close the stove pipes, the doors and the windows. She was not only afraid of a thunderstorm herself, but she was not pleased if her fear was not shared by everybody else—that would be freethinking. So at each flash of lightning everyone must make the sign of the Cross, on pain of being thought a blockhead. She chased Egorka from the ante-room into the servants’ room, because during the approach of the storm he would not stop giggling with the maids. The storm approached majestically, with the dull distant noise of the thunder, with a storm of sand, when suddenly there was a flash of lightning over the village and a sharp clap of thunder. Disregarding the passionate warnings of his aunt, Raisky took his cap and umbrella and hurried into the park, anxious to see the landscape under the shadow of the storm, to find new ideas for his drawings, and to observe his own emotions. He descended the cliff, and passed through the undergrowth by a winding, hardly perceptible path. The rain fell by bucketfuls, one flash of lightning followed another, the thunder rolled, and the whole prospect was veiled in mist and cloud. He soon regretted his intention. His soaked umbrella did not protect him from the rain, which whipped his face and poured down on his clothes, and his feet sank ankle-deep in the muddy ground. He was continually knocking against and stumbling over unevennesses in the ground or tree stumps, treading in holes and pools. He was obliged to stand still until a flash of lightning lighted up a few yards of the path. He knew that not far away lay a ruined arbour, dating from the time when the precipice formed part of the garden. Not long before he had seen it in the thicket, but now it was indiscoverable, however much he would have preferred to observe the storm from its shelter. And since he did not wish to retrace the horrible path by which he had come, he resolved to make his way to the nearest carriage road, to climb over the twisted hedge and to reach the village. He could hardly drag his soaked boots free of the mud and weeds, and he was dazzled by the lightning and nearly deafened by the noise. He confessed that he might as well have admired the storm from the shelter of the house. In the end he struck the fence, but when he tried to leap over it he slipped and fell in the ditch. With difficulty he dragged himself out and clambered over. There was little traffic on the steep and dangerous ridge, used for the most part as a short cut by empty one-horse carriages with their quiet beasts. He closed his dripping umbrella, and put it under his arm. Dazzled by the lightning, slipping every minute, he toiled painfully up the slope, and when he reached the summit he heard close by the noise of wheels, the neighing of horses and the cry of the coachman. He stood on one side and pressed himself against the fence to allow the passage of the carriage, since the road was very narrow. In a flash of lightning Raisky saw before him a char-à-banc with several persons in it, drawn by two well-kept, apparently magnificent horses. In the light of another flash he was amazed to recognise Vera. “Vera,” he cried loudly. The carriage stood still. “Who is there? Is it you, cousin, in this weather?” “And you?” “I am hurrying home.” “So do I want to. I came down the precipice, and lost my way in the bushes. “Who is driving you? Is there room for me.” “Plenty of room,” said a masculine voice. “Give me your hand to get up.” Raisky gave his hand, and was hauled up by a strong arm. Next to Vera sat Marina, and the two, huddled together like wet chickens, were trying to protect themselves from the drenching rain by the leather covering. “Who is with you?” asked Raisky in a low voice. “Whose horses are these, and who is driving?” “Ivan Ivanovich.” “I don’t know him.” “The Forester,” whispered Vera, and he would have repeated her words if she had not nudged him to keep silence. “Later,” she said. He remembered the talk with his aunt, her praises of the Forester, her hints of his being a good match. This then was the hero of the romance, the Forester. He tried to get a look at him, but only saw an ordinary hat with a wide brim, and a tall, broad-shouldered figure wrapped in a rain coat. The Forester handled the reins skilfully as he drove up the steep hill, cracked his whip, whistled, held the horses’ heads with a firm hand when they threatened to shy at a flash of lightning, and turned round to those sheltered in the body of the vehicle. “How do you feel, Vera Vassilievna,” he inquired anxiously. “Are you very cold and wet?” “I am quite comfortable, Ivan Ivanovich; the rain does not catch me.” “You must take my raincoat. God forbid that you should take cold. I should never forgive myself all my life for having driven you.” “You weary me with your friendly anxiety. Don’t bother about anything but your horses.” “As you please,” replied Ivan Ivanovich with hasty obedience, turning to his horses, and he cast only an occasional anxious glance towards Vera. They drove past the village to the door of the new house. Ivan Ivanovich jumped down and hammered on the door with his riding whip. Handing over the care of his horses to Prokor, Tarasska and Egorka, who hurried up for the purpose, he stood by the steps, took Vera in his arms, and carried her carefully and respectfully, like a precious burden, through the ranks of wide-eyed lackeys and maid-servants bearing lights, to the divan in the hall. Raisky followed, wet and dirty, without once removing his eyes from them. The Forester went back into the ante-room, made himself as respectable as he could, shook himself, pushed his fingers through his hair, and demanded a brush. Meanwhile Tatiana Markovna bade Vera welcome and reproached her for venturing on such a journey; she must change her clothes throughout and in a few moments the samovar would be brought in, and supper served. “Quick, quick, Grandmother!” said Vera, rubbing herself affectionately against her. “Let us have tea, soup, roast and wine. Ivan Ivanovich is hungry.” She knew how to quiet her aunt’s anxiety. “That’s splendid. It shall be served in a minute. Where is Ivan Ivanovich?” “I am making myself a bit decent,” cried a voice from the ante-room. Egor, Yakob and Stepan hummed round the Forester as if he had been a good horse. Then he entered the hall and respectfully kissed the hands of Tatiana Markovna, and of Marfinka, who had only just decided to get out of bed, where she had hidden herself for fear of the storm. “It is not necessary, Marfinka,” said her aunt, “to hide from the storm. You should pray to God, and will not then be struck.” “I am not afraid of thunder and lightning, of which the peasants are usually the victims, but it makes me nervous,” replied Marfinka. Raisky, with the water still dripping off him, stood in the window watching the guest. Ivan Ivanovich Tushin was a tall, broad-shouldered man of thirty-eight, with strongly-marked features, a dark, thick beard, and large grey rather timid eyes, and hands disproportionately large, with broad nails. He wore a grey coat and a high-buttoned vest, with a broad turned-down home-spun collar. He was a fine man, but with marked simplicity, not to put a fine point on it in his glance and his manners. Raisky wondered jealously whether he was Vera’s hero. Why not? Women like these tall men with open faces and highly developed muscular strength. But Vera— “And you, Borushka,” cried Tatiana Markovna suddenly, clapping her hands. “Look at your clothes. Egorka and the rest of you! Where are you? There is a pool on the floor round you, Borushka. You will be ill. Vera was driving home, but there was no reason for you to go out into the storm. Go and change your clothes, Borushka, and have some rum in your tea. Ivan Ivanovich, you ought to go with him. Are you acquainted? My nephew Boris Raisky—Ivan Ivanovich Tushin.” “We have already made acquaintance,” said Tushin, with a bow. “We picked up your nephew on the way. Many thanks, I need nothing, but you, Boris Pavlovich, ought to change.” “You must forgive an old woman for telling you you are all half mad. No animal leaves his hole in weather like this. Yakob, shut the shutters closer. Fancy crossing the Volga in weather like this.” “My carriage is solid, and has a cover. Vera Vassilievna sat as dry as if she were in a room.” “But in this terrible storm.” “Only old women are afraid of a storm.” “I’m much obliged.” “I beg your pardon,” said Tushin in embarrassment. “It slipped from my tongue. I meant ordinary women.” “God will forgive you,” laughed Tatiana Markovna. “It won’t indeed hurt you, but Vera! Were you not afraid?” “One does not think of fear with Ivan Ivanovich.” “If Ivan Ivanovich went bear-hunting, would you go with him?” “Yes, Grandmother. Take me with you sometimes, Ivan Ivanovich.” “With pleasure, Vera Vassilievna, in winter. You have only to command.” “That is just like her, not to mind what her Grandmother thinks.” “I was joking, Grandmother.” “I know you would be equal to it. Had you no scruples about hindering Ivan Ivanovich; this distance....” “It is my fault. As soon as I heard from Natalie Ivanovna that Vera Vassilievna wanted to come home, I asked for the pleasure,” he said looking at Vera with a mixed air of modesty and respect. “A nice pleasure in this weather.” “It was lighter while we were driving, and Vera Vassilievna was not afraid.” “Is Anna Ivanovna well?” “Thank you. She sends her kindest regards, and has sent you some preserves, also some peaches out of the orangery, and mushrooms. They are in the char-à-banc.” “It is very good of her. We have no peaches. I have put aside for her some of the tea that Borushka brought with him.” “Many thanks.” “How could you let your horses climb the hill in such weather? Were they terrified by the storm?” “My horses obey me like dogs. Should I have driven Vera Vassilievna if there were any danger?” “You are a good friend,” interrupted Vera. “I have absolute trust both in you, and in your horses.” At this moment Raisky returned, having changed his clothes. He had noticed the glance which Vera gave Tushin, and had heard her last remark. “Thank you, Vera Vassilievna,” answered Tushin. “Don’t forget what you have just said. If you ever need anything, if....” “If there is another such raging storm,” said Tatiana Markovna. “Any storm,” added Tushin firmly. “There are other storms in life,” said Tatiana Markovna with a sigh. “Whatever they are, if they break on you, Vera Vassilievna, seek refuge in the forest over the Volga, where lives a bear who will serve you, as the fairytale tells.” “I will remember,” returned Vera laughing. “If a sorcerer wants to carry me off, as in the fairy-tale, I will take refuge in the wood.” Raisky saw Tushin’s glance of devotion and modest reserve, he heard his words, so quietly and modestly spoken, and thought the letter written on the blue paper could be from no one else. He looked at Vera to see if she were moved or would relapse into a stony silence, but she showed no sign. Vera appeared to him in a new light. In her manner and her words to Tushin he saw simplicity, trust, gentleness and affection such as she showed to no one else, not even to her aunt or to Marfinka. “She is on her guard with her Grandmother,” he thought, “and takes no heed of Marfinka. But when she looks at Tushin, speaks to him, or gives her hand it is plain to see that they are friends.” The Forester, who had business to do in the town, stayed for three days with Tatiana Markovna, and for three days Raisky sought for the key to this new character and to his place in Vera’s heart. They called Ivan Ivanovich the “Forester,” because he lived on his estate in the midst of the forest. He loved the forest, growing new timber on the one hand and on the other allowing it to be cut down and loaded up on the Volga for sale. The several thousand dessiatins of surrounding forest were exceedingly well managed, and nothing was lacking; there was even a steam saw. He attended to everything himself, and in his spare time hunted and fished and amused himself with his bachelor neighbours. From time to time he sought a change of scene, and then arranged with his friends to drive in a three-horse carriage, drawn by fresh horses, forty versts away to the seat of a landed proprietor, where for three days the fun was fast enough. Then they returned, put up with Tushin, or waked the sleepy town. In these festivals all class distinctions were lost. After this dissipation he would again remain lost to the world for three months in his forest home, see after the wood cutting, and go hunting with two servants, and occasionally have to lie up with a wounded arm. The life suited him. He read works on agriculture and forestry, took counsel with his German assistant, an experienced forester, who was nevertheless not allowed to be the master. All orders must come from Tushin himself, and were carried out by the help of two foremen and a gang of hired labourers. In his spare time he liked to read French novels, the only distraction that he permitted himself. There was nothing extraordinary in a retired life like this in the wide district in which he lived. Raisky learnt that Tushin saw Vera at the pope’s house, that he went there expressly when he heard that Vera was a visitor. Vera herself told him so. She and Natalie Ivanovna, too, visited Tushin’s property, known as “Smoke,” because far away from the hills could be seen the smoke rising from the chimneys of the house in the depth of the forest. Tushin lived with his spinster sister, Anna Ivanovna, to whom Tatiana Markovna was much attached. Tatiana Markovna was delighted when she came to town. There was no one with whom she liked more to drink coffee, no one to whom she gave her confidence in the same degree; they shared the same liking for household management, the same deep-rooted self-esteem and the same respect for family tradition. Of Tushin himself there was little more to say than was revealed on a first occasion; his character lay bare to the daylight, with no secret, no romantic side. He possessed more than plain good sense, for his understanding did not derive from the brain alone, but from the heart and will. Men of his type, especially when they care nothing for the superfluous things of life, but keep their eyes fixed undeviatingly on the necessary, do not make themselves noticed in the crowd and rarely reach the front of the world’s stage. Raisky noticed in the Forester’s behaviour towards Vera a constant adoration expressed by his glance and his voice, and sometimes by his timidity; on her side an equally constant confidence, frankness and affection, nothing more. He did not surprise in her a single sign or gesture, a single word or glance that might have betrayed her. Tushin showed pure esteem and a consistent readiness to serve her as her bear, and no more. Surely he was not the man who wrote the letter on the blue paper. After the Forester had taken his leave, the household fell back into its regular routine. Vera seemed untroubled and in possession of a quiet happiness, and showed herself kind and affectionate to her aunt and Marfinka. Yet there were days when unrest suddenly came upon her, when she went hastily to her room in the old house, or descended the precipice into the park, and displayed a gloomy resentment if Raisky or Marfinka ventured to disturb her solitude. After a short interval she resumed an even, sympathetic temper, helped in the household, looked over her aunt’s accounts, and even paid visits to the ladies in the town. She discussed literary questions with Raisky, who realised from the opinions she expressed that her reading was wide and enticed her into thorough-going discussions. They read together, though not regularly. Sometimes a wild intoxication flared up in her, but it was a disconcerting merriment. One evening, when she suddenly left the room, Tatiana Markovna and Raisky exchanged a long questioning glance. “What do you think of Vera?” she began. “She seems to have recovered from her malady of the soul.” “I think it is more serious than before.” “What is the matter with you, Borushka? You can see how gay and friendly she has become.” “Is she like the Vera you have known. I fear that this is not gladness, but rather agitation, even intoxication.” “You are right. She is changed.” “Don’t you notice that she is ecstatic?” “Ecstatic?” repeated Tatiana Markovna anxiously. “Why do you say that, especially just at night? I shan’t sleep. The ecstasy of a young girl spells disaster.” <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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