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<h2> CHAPTER XXXIII </h2> A little later Tatiana Markovna and Raisky returned to the house. Raisky and Tushin were embarrassed in one another’s presence, and found it difficult to talk naturally about the simplest things. But at the dinner-table the real sympathy between them conquered the awkwardness of the situation. They looked one another straight in the eyes and read there a mutual confidence. After dinner Raisky went to his room, and Tushin excused himself on the ground of business. Vera’s thoughts followed him. It was nearly five o’clock when he was trying to find his direction in the thicket. Although he was no stranger there he seemed not to be able to find what he sought; he looked from side to side where the bushes grew more thickly, certain that he must be in the neighbourhood of the arbour. He stood still and looked impatiently at his watch. It was nearly five o’clock, and neither the arbour nor Mark were visible. Suddenly he heard a rustle in the distance, and among the young pines a figure appeared and disappeared alternately. Mark was approaching, and reached the place where Tushin was standing. They looked at one another a full minute when they met. “Where is the arbour?” said Mark at last. “I don’t exactly know in which direction....” “In which direction? We are standing on the spot where it was still standing yesterday morning.” The arbour had vanished to allow of the literal carrying out of Tatiana Markovna’s promise that Mark should not wait for Vera in the arbour. An hour after her conversation with Vera she had descended the precipice, accompanied by Savili and five peasants with axes, and within two hours the arbour had been carried away, the peasant women and children helping to remove beams and boards. Next day the site of the arbour was levelled, covered with turf, and planted with young fir trees. “If I had had the arbour removed before,” thought Tatiana Markovna regretfully, “the rascal would have noticed it, and would not have written her the letters.” The situation was clear enough to the “rascal” now. “That is the old lady’s handiwork,” he thought, when he saw the young fir trees. “Her Vera, like a well-bred young woman, has told her the whole story.” He nodded to Tushin, and was turning away, when he saw his rival’s eyes were fixed on him. “Are you out for a stroll?” said Mark. “Why do you look at me in that extraordinary fashion? I suppose you are visiting at Malinovka.” Tushin replied drily and politely that he was a visitor at the house, and had come down especially to see Mark. “To see me?” asked Mark quickly with a look of inquiry. Has he heard too? he wondered. He remembered that Tushin admired Vera and wondered whether the “Forest Othello” was meditating tragedy and murder on the green. “I have a commission for you,” said Tushin, handing him the letter. Without betraying any sense of discomfort, or any sign of pain or rage Mark read it rapidly. “Do you know the whole story?” he asked. “Allow me to leave that question unanswered, and instead to ask you whether you have any answer to give,” said Tushin. Mark shook his head. “I take it for granted, that, in accordance with her wish, you will leave her in peace in the future, that you will not remind her of your existence in any way, will not write to her, nor visit this place....” “What business is it of yours?” asked Mark. “Are you her declared lover, that you make these demands?” “One does not need to be her fiancé to execute a commission; it is sufficient to be a friend.” “And if I do write, or do come here, what then?” cried Mark angrily. “I cannot say how Vera Vassilievna would take it, but if she gives me another commission, I will undertake it,” said Tushin. “You are an obedient friend,” observed Mark maliciously. “Yes, I am her friend,” replied Tushin seriously. “I thought her wish would be law to you too. She is just beginning to recover from a serious illness.” “What is the matter with her?” said Mark, gently for him. As he received no answer he went on, “Excuse my outburst, but you see my agitation.” “Calmness is desirable for you too. Is there any answer to this letter?” “I do not need your assistance for that. I will write.” “She will not receive your letter. Her state of health necessitates quiet, which she cannot have if you force yourself on her. I tell you what was told me, and what I have seen for myself.” “Do you wish her well?” asked Mark. “I do.” “You see that she loves me. She has told you so.” “She has not said so to me; indeed she never spoke of love. She gave me the letter I handed you, and asked me to make it clear that she did not wish, and was not indeed in a condition to see you or to receive any letter from you.” “How ridiculous to make herself and other people suffer. If you are her friend you can relieve her of her misery, her illness, and her collapse of strength. The old lady has broken down the arbour, but she has not destroyed passion, and passion will break Vera. You say yourself she is ill.” “I did not say that passion was the cause of her illness.” “What can have made her ill?” asked Mark. “Your letters. You expect her in the arbour, and threaten to come to her yourself. That she cannot endure, and has asked me to tell you so.” “She says that, but in reality....” “She always speaks the truth.” “Why did she give you this commission?” Receiving no answer, Mark continued: “You have her confidence, and can therefore tell her how strange it is to refuse happiness. Advise her to put an end to the wretched situation, to renounce her Grandmother’s morality, and then I propose....” “If you understood Vera Vassilievna, you would know that hers is one of those natures that declines explanations and advice.” “You execute your errands most brilliantly and diplomatically,” said Mark angrily. Tushin looked at him without replying, and his calm silence enraged Mark. He saw in the disappearance of the arbour and the appearance on the scene of Tushin as a mediator, the certain end of his hopes. Vera’s hesitation was over, and she was now firmly determined on separation. He was enraged by his consciousness that Vera’s illness was really not the result of her infatuation for him, which she would not have confessed to her aunt, much less to Tushin. Mark knew her obstinacy, which resisted even the flame of passion, and on that very account he had, almost in despair, resigned himself to submit to a formal betrothal, and had communicated his decision to her, had consented to remain in the town indefinitely, that is, so long as the tie between them held. Convinced of the truth of his conception of love, he foresaw that in the course of time passion would grow cool and disappear, that they would not for ever be held by it, and then.... Then, he was convinced, Vera would herself recognise the situation, and acquiesce in the consequences. And now his offer had become superfluous; no one was prepared to accept it, and he was simply to be dismissed. “I do not know what to do,” he said proudly. “I cannot find any answer to your diplomatic mission. Naturally, I shall not again visit the arbour, as it has ceased to exist.” “And you will write no more letters either,” added Tushin, “as they would not in any case reach her. Neither will you come to the house, where you would not be admitted.” “Are you her guardian?” “That would depend on Vera Vassilievna’s wishes. There is a mistress of the house who commands her servants. I take it that you accept the facts.” “The devil knows,” cried Mark, “how ridiculous all this is. Mankind have forged chains for themselves, and make martyrs of themselves.” Although he still justified himself in making no reply, he felt that his position was untenable. “I am leaving the place shortly,” he said, “in about a week’s time. Can I not see Vera—Vassilievna for a minute?” “That cannot be arranged, because she is ill.” “Is any pressure being put upon her?” “She requires only one medicine—not to be reminded of you.” “I do not place entire confidence in you, because you do not appear to me to be an indifferent party.” Tushin did not answer in the same tone. He understood Mark’s feeling of bitter disillusion, and made another attempt at conciliation. “If you do not trust me,” he said, “you hold the evidence in your hand.” “A dismissal. Yes, but that proves nothing. Passion is a sea, where storm reigns to-day, and tomorrow dead calm. Perhaps she already repents having sent this.” “I think not. She takes counsel with herself before acting. It is plain from your last words that you don’t understand Vera Vassilievna. You will, of course, act in accordance with her wishes. I will not insist any more on an answer.” “There is no answer to give. I am going away.” “That is an answer.” “It is not she who needs an answer, but you, the romantic Raisky, and the old lady.” “Why not include the whole town! But I will take on myself to assure Vera Vassilievna that your answer will be literally carried out. Farewell.” “Farewell ... Sir Knight.” Tushin frowned slightly, touched his cap, and was gone. Mark’s face was very pale. He recognised bitterly that he was beaten, that his romance ended here at the foot of the precipice, which he must leave without once turning round, with no pity, no word of farewell to speed him; he was bidden to go as if he were a contemptible enemy. Why had all this come about? He was not conscious of any fault. Why should he part from her like this. She could not pretend that he had been the cause of what old-fashioned people would call her “fall.” He had gone so far as to belie his own convictions, to neglect his mission, and was even prepared to contemplate marriage. Yet he received a laconic note instead of a friendly letter, a go-between instead of herself. It was as if he had been struck with a knife, and a cold shiver ran through his body. It was not the old lady who had invented these measures, for Vera did not allow others to dictate to her. It must have been she herself. What had he done, and why should she act with such severity? He went slowly away. When he reached the fence he swung himself on to the top and sat there, asking himself again where his fault lay. He remembered that at their last meeting he had fairly warned her. He had said in effect: “Remember that I have warned you. If you stretch out your hand to me you are mine, and the responsibility for the consequences rests with you; I am innocent.” That was surely logical, he thought. Suddenly he sprang down on to the road, and went without looking back. He remembered how at this very spot he had prepared to leave her. But he heard her nervous, despairing cry of farewell, and had then looked round and rushed to her. As he answered these questions his blood hammered in his veins. He strode up the hill. The knife had done its work; it bored deeper and deeper. Memory pitilessly revived a series of fleeting pictures. The inner voice told him that he had not acted honourably, and spared her when her strength had failed. She used to call you a “Wolf” in jest, but the name will be no jest in her memory, for you joined to the fierceness of a wolf a fox’s cunning and the malice of a yapping dog; there was nothing human about you. She took with her from the depths of the precipice nothing but a bitter memory and a lifelong sorrow. How could she be so blind as to be led astray, to let herself be dazzled, to forget herself? You may triumph, for she will never forget you. He understood now the laconic note, her illness and the appearance of Tushin instead of herself at the foot of the precipice. Leonti told Raisky that Mark had informed him that he was going to spend some time with his old aunt in the government of Novgorod; he intended to enter the army once more as an ensign, in the hope of being sent to the Caucasus. <hr /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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