No More Learning

To look at him, you might say he
was a man of twenty-five, although he is scarcely twenty-one. He tosses
his head when he speaks, and keeps continually twirling his moustache
with his left hand, his right hand being occupied with the crutch on
which he leans. He speaks rapidly and affectedly; he is one of those
people who have a high-sounding phrase ready for every occasion in
life, who remain untouched by simple beauty, and who drape themselves
majestically in extraordinary sentiments, exalted passions and
exceptional sufferings. To produce an effect is their delight; they have
an almost insensate fondness for romantic provincial ladies. When
old age approaches they become either peaceful landed-gentry or
drunkards--sometimes both. Frequently they have many good qualities,
but they have not a grain of poetry in their composition. Grushnitski’s
passion was declamation. He would deluge you with words so soon as the
conversation went beyond the sphere of ordinary ideas. I have never been
able to dispute with him. He neither answers your questions nor listens
to you. So soon as you stop, he begins a lengthy tirade, which has
the appearance of being in some sort connected with what you have been
saying, but which is, in fact, only a continuation of his own harangue.

He is witty enough; his epigrams are frequently amusing, but never
malicious, nor to the point. He slays nobody with a single word; he has
no knowledge of men and of their foibles, because all his life he has
been interested in nobody but himself. His aim is to make himself the
hero of a novel. He has so often endeavoured to convince others that he
is a being created not for this world and doomed to certain mysterious
sufferings, that he has almost convinced himself that such he is in
reality. Hence the pride with which he wears his thick soldier’s cloak.
I have seen through him, and he dislikes me for that reason, although
to outward appearance we are on the friendliest of terms. Grushnitski
is looked upon as a man of distinguished courage. I have seen him in
action. He waves his sabre, shouts, and hurls himself forward with his
eyes shut. That is not what I should call Russian courage! . . .

I reciprocate Grushnitski’s dislike. I feel that some time or other we
shall come into collision upon a narrow road, and that one of us will
fare badly.

His arrival in the Caucasus is also the result of his romantic
fanaticism. I am convinced that on the eve of his departure from his
paternal village he said with an air of gloom to some pretty neighbour
that he was going away, not so much for the simple purpose of serving
in the army as of seeking death, because. . . and hereupon, I am sure,
he covered his eyes with his hand and continued thus, “No, you--or
thou--must not know! Your pure soul would shudder! And what would be the
good? What am I to you? Could you understand me? ”. . . and so on.

He has himself told me that the motive which induced him to enter the
K----regiment must remain an everlasting secret between him and Heaven.

However, in moments when he casts aside the tragic mantle, Grushnitski
is charming and entertaining enough. I am always interested to see him
with women--it is then that he puts forth his finest efforts, I think!

We met like a couple of old friends. I began to question him about
the personages of note and as to the sort of life which was led at the
waters.

“It is a rather prosaic life,” he said, with a sigh. “Those who drink
the waters in the morning are inert--like all invalids, and those who
drink the wines in the evening are unendurable--like all healthy people!
There are ladies who entertain, but there is no great amusement to be
obtained from them. They play whist, they dress badly and speak French
dreadfully! The only Moscow people here this year are Princess Ligovski
and her daughter--but I am not acquainted with them. My soldier’s cloak
is like a seal of renunciation. The sympathy which it arouses is as
painful as charity. ”

At that moment two ladies walked past us in the direction of the well;
one elderly, the other youthful and slender. I could not obtain a good
view of their faces on account of their hats, but they were dressed in
accordance with the strict rules of the best taste--nothing superfluous.
The second lady was wearing a high-necked dress of pearl-grey, and a
light silk kerchief was wound round her supple neck. Puce-coloured boots
clasped her slim little ankle so charmingly, that even those uninitiated
into the mysteries of beauty would infallibly have sighed, if only from
wonder. There was something maidenly in her easy, but aristocratic gait,
something eluding definition yet intelligible to the glance. As she
walked past us an indefinable perfume, like that which sometimes
breathes from the note of a charming woman, was wafted from her.

“Look! ” said Grushnitski, “there is Princess Ligovski with her daughter
Mary, as she calls her after the English manner. They have been here
only three days. ”

“You already know her name, though? ”

“Yes, I heard it by chance,” he answered, with a blush. “I confess I do
not desire to make their acquaintance. These haughty aristocrats look
upon us army men just as they would upon savages. What care they if
there is an intellect beneath a numbered forage-cap, and a heart beneath
a thick cloak? ”

“Poor cloak! ” I said, with a laugh. “But who is the gentleman who is
just going up to them and handing them a tumbler so officiously? ”

“Oh, that is Raevich, the Moscow dandy. He is a gambler; you can see
as much at once from that immense gold chain coiling across his
skyblue waistcoat. And what a thick cane he has! Just like Robinson
Crusoe’s--and so is his beard too, and his hair is done like a
peasant’s. ”

“You are embittered against the whole human race? ”

“And I have cause to be”. . .

“Oh, really? ”

At that moment the ladies left the well and came up to where we were.
Grushnitski succeeded in assuming a dramatic pose with the aid of his
crutch, and in a loud tone of voice answered me in French:

“Mon cher, je hais les hommes pour ne pas les mepriser, car autrement la
vie serait une farce trop degoutante. ”

The pretty Princess Mary turned round and favoured the orator with a
long and curious glance. Her expression was quite indefinite, but it was
not contemptuous, a fact on which I inwardly congratulated Grushnitski
from my heart.

“She is an extremely pretty girl,” I said. “She has such velvet
eyes--yes, velvet is the word. I should advise you to appropriate the
expression when speaking of her eyes. The lower and upper lashes are
so long that the sunbeams are not reflected in her pupils. I love those
eyes without a glitter, they are so soft that they appear to caress you.
However, her eyes seem to be her only good feature. . . Tell me, are her
teeth white? That is most important! It is a pity that she did not smile
at that high-sounding phrase of yours. ”

“You are speaking of a pretty woman just as you might of an English
horse,” said Grushnitski indignantly.

“Mon cher,” I answered, trying to mimic his tone, “je meprise les
femmes, pour ne pas les aimer, car autrement la vie serait un melodrame
trop ridicule. ”

I turned and left him. For half an hour or so I walked about the avenues
of the vines, the limestone cliffs and the bushes hanging between them.
The day grew hot, and I hurried homewards. Passing the sulphur spring,
I stopped at the covered gallery in order to regain my breath under its
shade, and by so doing I was afforded the opportunity of witnessing a
rather interesting scene. This is the position in which the dramatis
personae were disposed: Princess Ligovski and the Moscow dandy were
sitting on a bench in the covered gallery--apparently engaged in serious
conversation. Princess Mary, who had doubtless by this time finished her
last tumbler, was walking pensively to and fro by the well. Grushnitski
was standing by the well itself; there was nobody else on the square.

I went up closer and concealed myself behind a corner of the gallery.
At that moment Grushnitski let his tumbler fall on the sand and made
strenuous efforts to stoop in order to pick it up; but his injured foot
prevented him. Poor fellow! How he tried all kinds of artifices, as he
leaned on his crutch, and all in vain! His expressive countenance was,
in fact, a picture of suffering.

Princess Mary saw the whole scene better than I.

Lighter than a bird she sprang towards him, stooped, picked up the
tumbler, and handed it to him with a gesture full of ineffable charm.
Then she blushed furiously, glanced round at the gallery, and, having
assured herself that her mother apparently had not seen anything,
immediately regained her composure. By the time Grushnitski had opened
his mouth to thank her she was a long way off. A moment after, she came
out of the gallery with her mother and the dandy, but, in passing by
Grushnitski, she assumed a most decorous and serious air. She did not
even turn round, she did not even observe the passionate gaze which he
kept fixed upon her for a long time until she had descended the mountain
and was hidden behind the lime trees of the boulevard. . . Presently I
caught glimpses of her hat as she walked along the street. She hurried
through the gate of one of the best houses in Pyatigorsk; her mother
walked behind her and bowed adieu to Raevich at the gate.

It was only then that the poor, passionate cadet noticed my presence.

“Did you see? ” he said, pressing my hand vigorously. “She is an angel,
simply an angel! ”

“Why? ” I inquired, with an air of the purest simplicity.

“Did you not see, then? ”

“No. I saw her picking up your tumbler. If there had been an attendant
there he would have done the same thing--and quicker too, in the hope
of receiving a tip. It is quite easy, however, to understand that she
pitied you; you made such a terrible grimace when you walked on the
wounded foot. ”

“And can it be that seeing her, as you did, at that moment when her soul
was shining in her eyes, you were not in the least affected? ”

“No. ”

I was lying, but I wanted to exasperate him. I have an innate passion
for contradiction--my whole life has been nothing but a series of
melancholy and vain contradictions of heart or reason. The presence of
an enthusiast chills me with a twelfth-night cold, and I believe
that constant association with a person of a flaccid and phlegmatic
temperament would have turned me into an impassioned visionary. I
confess, too, that an unpleasant but familiar sensation was coursing
lightly through my heart at that moment. It was--envy. I say “envy”
boldly, because I am accustomed to acknowledge everything to myself.
It would be hard to find a young man who, if his idle fancy had been
attracted by a pretty woman and he had suddenly found her openly
singling out before his eyes another man equally unknown to her--it
would be hard, I say, to find such a young man (living, of course, in
the great world and accustomed to indulge his self-love) who would not
have been unpleasantly taken aback in such a case.

In silence Grushnitski and I descended the mountain and walked along
the boulevard, past the windows of the house where our beauty had hidden
herself. She was sitting by the window. Grushnitski, plucking me by the
arm, cast upon her one of those gloomily tender glances which have so
little effect upon women. I directed my lorgnette at her, and observed
that she smiled at his glance and that my insolent lorgnette made
her downright angry. And how, indeed, should a Caucasian military man
presume to direct his eyeglass at a princess from Moscow? . . .




CHAPTER II. 13th May.

THIS morning the doctor came to see me. His name is Werner, but he is
a Russian. What is there surprising in that? I have known a man named
Ivanov, who was a German.

Werner is a remarkable man, and that for many reasons. Like almost all
medical men he is a sceptic and a materialist, but, at the same time, he
is a genuine poet--a poet always in deeds and often in words, although
he has never written two verses in his life. He has mastered all the
living chords of the human heart, just as one learns the veins of a
corpse, but he has never known how to avail himself of his knowledge. In
like manner, it sometimes happens that an excellent anatomist does not
know how to cure a fever. Werner usually made fun of his patients in
private; but once I saw him weeping over a dying soldier. . . He was poor,
and dreamed of millions, but he would not take a single step out of his
way for the sake of money. He once told me that he would rather do a
favour to an enemy than to a friend, because, in the latter case,
it would mean selling his beneficence, whilst hatred only increases
proportionately to the magnanimity of the adversary. He had a malicious
tongue; and more than one good, simple soul has acquired the reputation
of a vulgar fool through being labelled with one of his epigrams. His
rivals, envious medical men of the watering-place, spread the report
that he was in the habit of drawing caricatures of his patients. The
patients were incensed, and almost all of them discarded him. His
friends, that is to say all the genuinely well-bred people who were
serving in the Caucasus, vainly endeavoured to restore his fallen
credit.

His outward appearance was of the type which, at the first glance,
creates an unpleasant impression, but which you get to like in course of
time, when the eye learns to read in the irregular features the stamp of
a tried and lofty soul. Instances have been known of women falling madly
in love with men of that sort, and having no desire to exchange their
ugliness for the beauty of the freshest and rosiest of Endymions.
We must give women their due: they possess an instinct for spiritual
beauty, for which reason, possibly, men such as Werner love women so
passionately.

Werner was small and lean and as weak as a baby. One of his legs was
shorter than the other, as was the case with Byron. In comparison with
his body, his head seemed enormous. His hair was cropped close, and
the unevennesses of his cranium, thus laid bare, would have struck a
phrenologist by reason of the strange intertexture of contradictory
propensities. His little, ever restless, black eyes seemed as if they
were endeavouring to fathom your thoughts. Taste and neatness were to be
observed in his dress. His small, lean, sinewy hands flaunted themselves
in bright-yellow gloves. His frock-coat, cravat and waistcoat were
invariably of black. The young men dubbed him Mephistopheles; he
pretended to be angry at the nickname, but in reality it flattered his
vanity. Werner and I soon understood each other and became friends,
because I, for my part, am illadapted for friendship. Of two friends,
one is always the slave of the other, although frequently neither
acknowledges the fact to himself. Now, the slave I could not be; and to
be the master would be a wearisome trouble, because, at the same time,
deception would be required. Besides, I have servants and money!

Our friendship originated in the following circumstances. I met Werner
at S----, in the midst of a numerous and noisy circle of young
people. Towards the end of the evening the conversation took a
philosophico-metaphysical turn. We discussed the subject of convictions,
and each of us had some different conviction to declare.

“So far as I am concerned,” said the doctor, “I am convinced of one
thing only”. . .

“And that is--? ” I asked, desirous of learning the opinion of a man who
had been silent till then.

“Of the fact,” he answered, “that sooner or later, one fine morning, I
shall die. ”

“I am better off than you,” I said. “In addition to that, I have a
further conviction, namely, that, one very nasty evening, I had the
misfortune to be born. ”

All the others considered that we were talking nonsense, but indeed not
one of them said anything more sensible. From that moment we singled
each other out amongst the crowd. We used frequently to meet and discuss
abstract subjects in a very serious manner, until each observed that the
other was throwing dust in his eyes. Then, looking significantly at each
other--as, according to Cicero, the Roman augurs used to do--we
would burst out laughing heartily and, having had our laugh, we would
separate, well content with our evening.

I was lying on a couch, my eyes fixed upon the ceiling and my hands
clasped behind my head, when Werner entered my room. He sat down in an
easy chair, placed his cane in a corner, yawned, and announced that it
was getting hot out of doors. I replied that the flies were bothering
me--and we both fell silent.

“Observe, my dear doctor,” I said, “that, but for fools, the world would
be a very dull place. Look!
Here are you and I, both sensible men!
We know beforehand that it is possible to dispute ad infinitum about
everything--and so we do not dispute. Each of us knows almost all the
other’s secret thoughts: to us a single word is a whole history; we see
the grain of every one of our feelings through a threefold husk. What
is sad, we laugh at; what is laughable, we grieve at; but, to tell the
truth, we are fairly indifferent, generally speaking, to everything
except ourselves. Consequently, there can be no interchange of feelings
and thoughts between us; each of us knows all he cares to know about
the other, and that knowledge is all he wants. One expedient remains--to
tell the news. So tell me some news. ”

Fatigued by this lengthy speech, I closed my eyes and yawned. The doctor
answered after thinking awhile:

“There is an idea, all the same, in that nonsense of yours. ”

“Two,” I replied.

“Tell me one, and I will tell you the other. ”

“Very well, begin! ” I said, continuing to examine the ceiling and
smiling inwardly.

“You are anxious for information about some of the new-comers here, and
I can guess who it is, because they, for their part, have already been
inquiring about you. ”

“Doctor! Decidedly it is impossible for us to hold a conversation! We
read into each other’s soul. ”

“Now the other idea? ”. . .

“Here it is: I wanted to make you relate something, for the following
reasons: firstly, listening is less fatiguing than talking; secondly,
the listener cannot commit himself; thirdly, he can learn another’s
secret; fourthly, sensible people, such as you, prefer listeners to
speakers. Now to business; what did Princess Ligovski tell you about
me? ”

“You are quite sure that it was Princess Ligovski. . . and not Princess
Mary? ”. . .

“Quite sure. ”

“Why? ”

“Because Princess Mary inquired about Grushnitski. ”

“You are gifted with a fine imagination! Princess Mary said that she was
convinced that the young man in the soldier’s cloak had been reduced to
the ranks on account of a duel”. . .

“I hope you left her cherishing that pleasant delusion”. . .

“Of course”. . .

“A plot! ” I exclaimed in rapture. “We will make it our business to see
to the denouement of this little comedy. It is obvious that fate is
taking care that I shall not be bored! ”

“I have a presentiment,” said the doctor, “that poor Grushnitski will be
your victim. ”

“Proceed, doctor. ”

“Princess Ligovski said that your face was familiar to her. I observed
that she had probably met you in Petersburg--somewhere in society. . .
I told her your name. She knew it well. It appears that your history
created a great stir there. . . She began to tell us of your adventures,
most likely supplementing the gossip of society with observations of her
own. . . Her daughter listened with curiosity. In her imagination you
have become the hero of a novel in a new style. . . I did not contradict
Princess Ligovski, although I knew that she was talking nonsense. ”

“Worthy friend! ” I said, extending my hand to him.

The doctor pressed it feelingly and continued:

“If you like I will present you”. . .

“Good heavens! ” I said, clapping my hands. “Are heroes ever presented?
In no other way do they make the acquaintance of their beloved than by
saving her from certain death! ”. . .

“And you really wish to court Princess Mary? ”

“Not at all, far from it! . . . Doctor, I triumph at last! You do not
understand me! . . . It vexes me, however,” I continued after a moment’s
silence. “I never reveal my secrets myself, but I am exceedingly fond of
their being guessed, because in that way I can always disavow them upon
occasion. However, you must describe both mother and daughter to me.
What sort of people are they? ”

“In the first place, Princess Ligovski is a woman of forty-five,”
answered Werner. “She has a splendid digestion, but her blood is out of
order--there are red spots on her cheeks. She has spent the latter half
of her life in Moscow, and has grown stout from leading an inactive
life there. She loves spicy stories, and sometimes says improper things
herself when her daughter is out of the room. She has declared to me
that her daughter is as innocent as a dove. What does that matter to
me? . . . I was going to answer that she might be at her ease, because I
would never tell anyone. Princess Ligovski is taking the cure for her
rheumatism, and the daughter, for goodness knows what. I have ordered
each of them to drink two tumblers a day of sulphurous water, and to
bathe twice a week in the diluted bath. Princess Ligovski is
apparently unaccustomed to giving orders. She cherishes respect for
the intelligence and attainments of her daughter, who has read Byron in
English and knows algebra: in Moscow, evidently, the ladies have entered
upon the paths of erudition--and a good thing, too! The men here are
generally so unamiable, that, for a clever woman, it must be intolerable
to flirt with them. Princess Ligovski is very fond of young people;
Princess Mary looks on them with a certain contempt--a Moscow habit! In
Moscow they cherish only wits of not less than forty. ”

“You have been in Moscow, doctor? ”

“Yes, I had a practice there. ”

“Continue. ”

“But I think I have told everything. . . No, there is something else:
Princess Mary, it seems, loves to discuss emotions, passions, etcetera.
She was in Petersburg for one winter, and disliked it--especially the
society: no doubt she was coldly received. ”

“You have not seen anyone with them today? ”

“On the contrary, there was an aide-de-camp, a stiff guardsman, and a
lady--one of the latest arrivals, a relation of Princess Ligovski on the
husband’s side--very pretty, but apparently very ill. . . Have you not met
her at the well? She is of medium height, fair, with regular features;
she has the complexion of a consumptive, and there is a little black
mole on her right cheek. I was struck by the expressiveness of her
face. ”

“A mole! ” I muttered through my teeth. “Is it possible? ”

The doctor looked at me, and, laying his hand on my heart, said
triumphantly:

“You know her! ”

My heart was, in fact, beating more violently than usual.

“It is your turn, now, to triumph,” I said. “But I rely on you: you
will not betray me. I have not seen her yet, but I am convinced that I
recognise from your portrait a woman whom I loved in the old days. . . Do
not speak a word to her about me; if she asks any questions, give a bad
report of me. ”

“Be it so! ” said Werner, shrugging his shoulders.

When he had departed, my heart was compressed with terrible grief.
Has destiny brought us together again in the Caucasus, or has she come
hither on purpose, knowing that she would meet me? . . . And how shall we
meet? . . . And then, is it she? . . . My presentiments have never deceived
me. There is not a man in the world over whom the past has acquired such
a power as over me. Every recollection of bygone grief or joy strikes
my soul with morbid effect, and draws forth ever the same sounds. . . I am
stupidly constituted: I forget nothing--nothing!

After dinner, about six o’clock, I went on to the boulevard. It was
crowded. The two princesses were sitting on a bench, surrounded by young
men, who were vying with each other in paying them attention. I took
up my position on another bench at a little distance off, stopped two
Dragoon officers whom I knew, and proceeded to tell them something.
Evidently it was amusing, because they began to laugh loudly like a
couple of madmen. Some of those who were surrounding Princess Mary were
attracted to my side by curiosity, and gradually all of them left her
and joined my circle. I did not stop talking; my anecdotes were clever
to the point of absurdity, my jests at the expense of the queer people
passing by, malicious to the point of frenzy. I continued to entertain
the public till sunset. Princess Mary passed by me a few times,
arm-in-arm with her mother, and accompanied by a certain lame old man.
A few times her glance as it fell upon me expressed vexation, while
endeavouring to express indifference. . .

“What has he been telling you? ” she inquired of one of the young men,
who had gone back to her out of politeness. “No doubt a most interesting
story--his own exploits in battle? ”. . .

This was said rather loudly, and probably with the intention of stinging
me.

“Aha! ” I thought to myself. “You are downright angry, my dear Princess.
Wait awhile, there is more to follow. ”

Grushnitski kept following her like a beast of prey, and would not let
her out of his sight. I wager that to-morrow he will ask somebody to
present him to Princess Ligovski. She will be glad, because she is
bored.




CHAPTER III. 16th May.

IN the course of two days my affairs have gained ground tremendously.
Princess Mary positively hates me. Already I have had repeated to me two
or three epigrams on the subject of myself--rather caustic, but at the
same time very flattering. She finds it exceedingly strange that I, who
am accustomed to good society, and am so intimate with her Petersburg
cousins and aunts, do not try to make her acquaintance. Every day we
meet at the well and on the boulevard. I exert all my powers to entice
away her adorers, glittering aides-de-camp, pale-faced visitors from
Moscow, and others--and I almost always succeed. I have always hated
entertaining guests: now my house is full every day; they dine, sup,
gamble, and alas! my champagne triumphs over the might of Princess
Mary’s magnetic eyes!

I met her yesterday in Chelakhov’s shop. She was bargaining for a
marvellous Persian rug, and implored her mother not to be niggardly: the
rug would be such an ornament to her boudoir. . . I outbid her by forty
rubles, and bought it over her head. I was rewarded with a glance in
which the most delightful fury sparkled. About dinnertime, I ordered my
Circassian horse, covered with that very rug, purposely to be led past
her windows. Werner was with the princesses at the time, and told me
that the effect of the scene was most dramatic. Princess Mary wishes to
preach a crusade against me, and I have even noticed that, already,
two of the aides-de-camp salute me very coldly, when they are in her
presence--they dine with me every day, however.