The Cossacks (4 page)

The other two friends were continuing their farewell. “Good-bye, you are a splendid fellow,” the small, ugly man said.

Their eyes filled with tears. They went out onto the front steps.

“Oh, by the way,” Dmitri Andreyevich said, blushing as he turned to the tall man. “Take care of the check, will you? And then send me a note.”

“Don’t worry about it!” the tall man said, putting on his gloves. “Ah, how I envy you!” he added quite unexpectedly.

Dmitri Andreyevich climbed into the sleigh and wrapped himself in a heavy fur coat. “Well, why don’t you come along?” he said, his voice shaking. He even moved over and made room. But his friend quickly said, “Good-bye, Mitya! God grant that you …” He could not end his sentence, as his only wish was for Dmitri Andreyevich to leave as soon as possible.

They fell silent for a few moments. One of them said another farewell. Someone called out, “Off you go!” And Dmitri Andreyevich’s driver set off.

One of the friends shouted, “Elizar, I’m ready!” And the cabbies and the coachman stirred, clicked their tongues, and whipped their horses. The wheels of the frozen coach creaked loudly over the snow.

“Olenin is a good fellow,” one of the two friends said. “But what an idea to set out for the Caucasus, and as a cadet of all things! Not my notion of fun! Are you lunching at the club tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

The two friends drove off in different directions.

Olenin felt warm in his heavy fur, even hot, and he leaned back in the sleigh and unfastened his coat. The three shaggy post-horses trudged from one dark street to the next, past houses he had never seen before. He felt that only travelers leaving the city drove through
these streets. All around was darkness, silence, and dreariness, but his soul was filled with memories, love, regrets, and pleasant, smothering tears.

“I love them! I love them dearly! They are such wonderful fellows!” he kept repeating, on the verge of tears. But why? Who were these wonderful fellows? Whom did he love? He wasn’t quite sure. From time to time he looked at one of the houses and was astonished at how odd it was. There were moments when he was surprised that the sleigh driver and Vanyusha, who were so alien to him, were sitting so close, rattling and rocking with him as the outrunners tugged at the frozen traces. Again he said, “What fine fellows, I love them dearly!” He even burst out, “I’m overcome! How wonderful!” And he was taken aback at saying this, thinking, “I’m not drunk, am I?” Olenin had drunk a good two bottles of wine, but it was not only the wine that had affected him: He remembered the words of friendship that had seemed so sincere, words that had been uttered shyly, impulsively, before his departure. He remembered his hands being clasped, looks, moments of silence, the special tone in a voice saying, “Farewell, Mitya!” as he was sitting in the sleigh. He remembered how sincere he had been. All this had a touching significance for him. He felt that it was not only good friends and acquaintances who had rallied around him before his departure. Even men indifferent to him, who actually disliked him, or indeed were hostile to him, had somehow resolved to like him and to forgive him, as one is forgiven in the confessional or at the hour of one’s death.

“Perhaps I will never return from the Caucasus,” he thought and decided that he loved his friends, and the others too. He felt sorry for himself. But it was not his love for his friends that raised his soul to such heights that he could not restrain the foolish words that spontaneously burst from him; nor was it love for a woman which had reduced him to this state. (He had never been in love.) What made him cry and mutter disconnected words was love for himself—a young, burning love filled with hope, a love for all that was good
within his soul (and he felt at this moment that everything within his soul was good). Olenin had not studied anywhere, was not employed anywhere (except for some nominal appearances he put in at an office), had already squandered half his fortune, and though he was twenty-four had not yet chosen a career or done anything in life. He was what Moscow society calls “a young man.”

At eighteen, Olenin had been free as only the rich, parentless young of Russia’s eighteen forties could be. He had neither moral nor physical fetters. He could do anything he wanted. He had no family, no fatherland, no faith, and wanted for nothing. He believed in nothing and followed nothing. And yet he was far from being a dry, bored, or somber young man. Quite the contrary. He was fascinated by everything. He decided that love did not exist, but whenever he happened to be in the presence of an attractive young woman, he found himself rooted to the spot. He had always been of the opinion that honors and titles were nonsense, and yet had felt an involuntary pleasure when Prince Sergei walked up to him at a ball and spoke a few pleasant words. He gave himself up to all his passions, but only to the extent that they did not bind him. The instant he immersed himself in a certain activity and felt the imminence of a struggle, the tiresome struggle of everyday life, he instinctively hurried to tear himself away and reassert his freedom. This was how he had approached work, society, dabbling in agriculture, music (which for a while he had thought of devoting himself to), and even the love of women, in which he did not believe. He thought a great deal about where he should direct the power of youth that is granted a man only once in a lifetime. Not the power of mind, spirit, or education but the power to make of himself and of the whole world whatever he wants. Should he direct this power toward art, science, love, or toward some practical venture? There are people who lack this drive, who the moment they enter life slip their heads beneath the first yoke that comes their way and diligently toil beneath it to the end of their days. But Olenin was too aware of the presence of the all-powerful god of youth, the capacity to stake everything on a single aspiration, a single thought, the capacity to do what one sets out to do, the ability to dive headfirst into a bottomless abyss without knowing why or what for. He bore this awareness
within him, was proud of it and unconsciously pleased with it. Until now he had loved only himself and could not do otherwise, because he expected nothing but good. He had not yet had time to be disappointed in himself. Now that he was leaving Moscow he was in that happy, youthful state of mind in which a young man, thinking of the mistakes he has committed, suddenly sees things in a different light—sees that those past mistakes were incidental and unimportant, that back then he had not wanted to live a good life but that now, as he was leaving Moscow, a new life was beginning in which there would be no such mistakes and no need for remorse. A life in which there would be nothing but happiness.

As always happens between the first two or three post stages during a long journey, one’s imagination lingers at the place one has left, but then suddenly, as one wakes up on the first morning on the road, one’s imagination shifts to the journey’s end, where it builds castles in the air. This is how it was with Olenin, too.

Outside Moscow, he gazed at the snow-covered fields and was happy that he was alone in the vast expanse. He wrapped himself in his fur, lay down in the bottom of the sleigh, calmed down and, no longer agitated, began to doze. The farewells had shaken him, and he thought of the past winter he had spent in Moscow. Images interrupted by vague thoughts and reproaches began springing up in his mind despite himself. He remembered the friend who had seen him off, and his affection for the young woman they had spoken of. She was rich. “How could he love her, in spite of the fact that she loved me?” he wondered, and a nasty suspicion came into his mind. “There seems to be a lot of dishonesty in people. But why have I never loved?” he asked himself suddenly. “They keep telling me that I have never loved. Can it be that I am some sort of moral cripple?” And he began thinking about his past infatuations. He remembered the sister of one of his friends in the days when he first entered society. He had spent many evenings sitting with her at a table, a lamp lighting the lower part of her delicate face and her slim fingers at their embroidery. He remembered the long, faltering conversations, their awkwardness in each other’s presence, and the unease and persistent annoyance he felt in the face of this awkwardness. An inner voice kept saying: “This isn’t
quite right, this isn’t quite right.” And it wasn’t. Then he remembered a ball, and a mazurka he had danced with the beautiful D. “I was so much in love that night! How happy I was! And how ill and vexed I was the next morning when I woke up and realized I felt completely free! Where is love? Will it not come and bind me hand and foot?” he thought. “No! Love does not exist! The young lady next door, who told me that she loves the stars in the sky, which she also told Dubrovin and my bailiff, was also ‘not quite right.’” Olenin remembered his farming venture in the village, but in this memory too there was nothing he could dwell on with pleasure.

“I wonder how long they’ll be talking about my leaving?” he suddenly thought but was not clear about who “they” might be. The following thought, which made him knit his brow, was of his tailor, Monsieur Cappelle, and the 678 rubles that Olenin still owed him. He recalled the words with which he had asked the tailor to wait another year to be paid, and the expression of bewilderment and resignation on the tailor’s face. “O God, o God!” Olenin said, screwing up his eyes and trying to chase away the unbearable thought. “And yet, in spite of everything, she did love me!” he mumbled, thinking of the young woman he and his friend had mentioned during their farewell. “If I had married her I would have been able to pay off all my debts, and now I also owe so much money to Vasilyev.” He thought of how he had played cards with Vasilyev the night before at the club, to which he had gone directly after seeing her, and how he had then humiliated himself by begging to play on after his money had run out, and Vasilyev’s cold refusal. “A year of thrift and I will pay everything off, and then they can all go to Hell!” But despite this reassurance he again began to count up the debts he still owed, their terms, and when they were due.

“And I owe Morel quite a bit of money, too,” he remembered, thinking of the long night in which he had piled up that substantial debt. It had been a night of wild carousing (there had even been a gypsy orchestra), organized by a group of aristocrats from St. Petersburg: Sashka B., an aide-de-camp to the Czar, and Prince D.—another elderly gentleman of some importance. “Though one wonders why those gentlemen are so pleased with themselves,” Olenin thought. “And the
arrogance with which they have set up their little circle, which one is supposed to feel so flattered to join! Just because they’re high-ranking officers? It’s terrible how foolish and vulgar they think everyone else is. I showed them in no uncertain terms that I had little if any interest in being part of all that—though I am sure that my steward Andrei would be quite stunned to hear me address a gentleman like Sashka B., a real colonel and an aide-de-camp to the Czar, as ‘my dear fellow.’ That evening nobody drank more than I did. I taught the gypsies a new song, and everyone sat listening to it. Even if I’ve done a lot of foolish things in my life I am, after all, a very, very impressive young man,” Olenin thought.

Morning found Olenin at the third post stage. He drank tea, surprised Vanyusha by helping him reload the bundles and trunks, and then sat stiff-backed in the sleigh among his belongings, organized, punctilious, and extremely pleased at knowing where everything was. He knew where his money was and how much he had, where his passport and traveling papers were, and everything seemed to him set up so practically and so nicely organized that he became quite cheerful and saw the long journey ahead as nothing more than an extended jaunt.

Throughout the morning and well into the day he was immersed in calculations: how many versts
*
he had traveled, how many remained to the next post stage, how many to the first town, how many till lunch, till evening tea, till Stavropol, and what fraction of the whole journey he had already put behind him. He also calculated how much money he had: how much was left, how much was needed to pay off all his debts, and what part of his income he could live on every month. By evening, as he drank his tea, he had calculated that the road to Stavropol was seven-elevenths of the whole journey, that these debts amounted to one-eighth of his assets, and that with some economizing he could pay them off within seven months. He complacently wrapped himself in his coat, made himself comfortable in the sleigh, and dozed off.

His imagination now dwelt on the future in the Caucasus. All his dreams involved Ammalat-beks,
*
Circassian†
^†
maidens, mountains, raging torrents, and looming dangers. His visions were hazy and obscure, but beckoning glory and menacing death gave this future a veneer of excitement. With remarkable bravery and breathtaking strength, he saw himself slaughtering and subjugating hordes of wild Chechens, and then again he imagined himself a Chechen fighting the Russians for independence, shoulder to shoulder with his comrades. As his dreams grew more detailed, familiar faces from Moscow appeared: Sashka B. fighting against him alongside the Russians, or then again fighting him alongside the Chechens. Even the tailor, Monsieur Cappelle, somehow ended up celebrating with the victors. But now, when old humiliations and mistakes came to mind, the memory was pleasant. It was clear that in the Caucasus, surrounded by mountains, torrents, Circassian maidens, and danger, such mistakes would not be repeated. He had now confessed these errors to himself, and that was that.

But there was another dream, the sweetest of them all, that merged with the young man’s dreams of the future. It was about a woman. She stood there in the mountains, a Circassian slave girl, slender, with a long braid and deep, docile eyes. He imagined a solitary hut high in the mountains, with her waiting by the door as he came home tired and covered with dirt, blood, and glory. He imagined her kisses, her shoulders, her sweet voice, her docility. She was beautiful but uneducated, wild, and rough. During the long winter nights he would begin to educate her. She was clever and quick-witted and would soon learn all the essentials. And why not? She would also have a knack for languages, read French novels, and even understand them—she would surely love
Notre-Dame de Paris
. And she would be able to speak French. In a drawing room she would have more poise than a lady of the highest society. And she could sing—simply, with strength and passion.