The Cossacks: A Tale of 1852 Read online

  Chapter II

  'I'm fond of them, very fond! ... First-rate fellows! ... Fine!' hekept repeating, and felt ready to cry. But why he wanted to cry, whowere the first-rate fellows he was so fond of--was more than he quiteknew. Now and then he looked round at some house and wondered why itwas so curiously built; sometimes he began wondering why the post-boyand Vanyusha, who were so different from himself, sat so near, andtogether with him were being jerked about and swayed by the tugs theside-horses gave at the frozen traces, and again he repeated: 'Firstrate ... very fond!' and once he even said: 'And how it seizes one ...excellent!' and wondered what made him say it. 'Dear me, am I drunk?'he asked himself. He had had a couple of bottles of wine, but it wasnot the wine alone that was having this effect on Olenin. He rememberedall the words of friendship heartily, bashfully, spontaneously (as hebelieved) addressed to him on his departure. He remembered the clasp ofhands, glances, the moments of silence, and the sound of a voicesaying, 'Good-bye, Mitya!' when he was already in the sledge. Heremembered his own deliberate frankness. And all this had a touchingsignificance for him. Not only friends and relatives, not only peoplewho had been indifferent to him, but even those who did not like him,seemed to have agreed to become fonder of him, or to forgive him,before his departure, as people do before confession or death. 'PerhapsI shall not return from the Caucasus,' he thought. And he felt that heloved his friends and some one besides. He was sorry for himself. Butit was not love for his friends that so stirred and uplifted his heartthat he could not repress the meaningless words that seemed to rise ofthemselves to his lips; nor was it love for a woman (he had never yetbeen in love) that had brought on this mood. Love for himself, lovefull of hope--warm young love for all that was good in his own soul(and at that moment it seemed to him that there was nothing but good init)--compelled him to weep and to mutter incoherent words.

  Olenin was a youth who had never completed his university course, neverserved anywhere (having only a nominal post in some government officeor other), who had squandered half his fortune and had reached the ageof twenty-four without having done anything or even chosen a career. Hewas what in Moscow society is termed un jeune homme.

  At the age of eighteen he was free--as only rich young Russians in the'forties who had lost their parents at an early age could be. Neitherphysical nor moral fetters of any kind existed for him; he could do ashe liked, lacking nothing and bound by nothing. Neither relatives, norfatherland, nor religion, nor wants, existed for him. He believed innothing and admitted nothing. But although he believed in nothing hewas not a morose or blase young man, nor self-opinionated, but on thecontrary continually let himself be carried away. He had come to theconclusion that there is no such thing as love, yet his heart alwaysoverflowed in the presence of any young and attractive woman. He hadlong been aware that honours and position were nonsense, yetinvoluntarily he felt pleased when at a ball Prince Sergius came up andspoke to him affably. But he yielded to his impulses only in so far asthey did not limit his freedom. As soon as he had yielded to anyinfluence and became conscious of its leading on to labour andstruggle, he instinctively hastened to free himself from the feeling oractivity into which he was being drawn and to regain his freedom. Inthis way he experimented with society-life, the civil service, farming,music--to which at one time he intended to devote his life--and evenwith the love of women in which he did not believe. He meditated on theuse to which he should devote that power of youth which is granted toman only once in a lifetime: that force which gives a man the power ofmaking himself, or even--as it seemed to him--of making the universe,into anything he wishes: should it be to art, to science, to love ofwoman, or to practical activities? It is true that some people aredevoid of this impulse, and on entering life at once place their necksunder the first yoke that offers itself and honestly labour under itfor the rest of their lives. But Olenin was too strongly conscious ofthe presence of that all-powerful God of Youth--of that capacity to beentirely transformed into an aspiration or idea--the capacity to wishand to do--to throw oneself headlong into a bottomless abyss withoutknowing why or wherefore. He bore this consciousness within himself,was proud of it and, without knowing it, was happy in thatconsciousness. Up to that time he had loved only himself, and could nothelp loving himself, for he expected nothing but good of himself andhad not yet had time to be disillusioned. On leaving Moscow he was inthat happy state of mind in which a young man, conscious of pastmistakes, suddenly says to himself, 'That was not the real thing.' Allthat had gone before was accidental and unimportant. Till then he hadnot really tried to live, but now with his departure from Moscow a newlife was beginning--a life in which there would be no mistakes, noremorse, and certainly nothing but happiness.

  It is always the case on a long journey that till the first two orthree stages have been passed imagination continues to dwell on theplace left behind, but with the first morning on the road it leaps tothe end of the journey and there begins building castles in the air. Soit happened to Olenin.

  After leaving the town behind, he gazed at the snowy fields and feltglad to be alone in their midst. Wrapping himself in his fur coat, helay at the bottom of the sledge, became tranquil, and fell into a doze.The parting with his friends had touched him deeply, and memories ofthat last winter spent in Moscow and images of the past, mingled withvague thoughts and regrets, rose unbidden in his imagination.

  He remembered the friend who had seen him off and his relations withthe girl they had talked about. The girl was rich. "How could he loveher knowing that she loved me?" thought he, and evil suspicions crossedhis mind. "There is much dishonesty in men when one comes to reflect."Then he was confronted by the question: "But really, how is it I havenever been in love? Every one tells me that I never have. Can it bethat I am a moral monstrosity?" And he began to recall all hisinfatuations. He recalled his entry into society, and a friend's sisterwith whom he spent several evenings at a table with a lamp on it whichlit up her slender fingers busy with needlework, and the lower part ofher pretty delicate face. He recalled their conversations that draggedon like the game in which one passes on a stick which one keeps alightas long as possible, and the general awkwardness and restraint and hiscontinual feeling of rebellion at all that conventionality. Some voicehad always whispered: "That's not it, that's not it," and so it hadproved. Then he remembered a ball and the mazurka he danced with thebeautiful D----. "How much in love I was that night and how happy! Andhow hurt and vexed I was next morning when I woke and felt myself stillfree! Why does not love come and bind me hand and foot?" thought he."No, there is no such thing as love! That neighbour who used to tellme, as she told Dubrovin and the Marshal, that she loved the stars, wasnot IT either." And now his farming and work in the country recurred tohis mind, and in those recollections also there was nothing to dwell onwith pleasure. "Will they talk long of my departure?" came into hishead; but who "they" were he did not quite know. Next came a thoughtthat made him wince and mutter incoherently. It was the recollection ofM. Cappele the tailor, and the six hundred and seventy-eight rubles hestill owed him, and he recalled the words in which he had begged him towait another year, and the look of perplexity and resignation which hadappeared on the tailor's face. 'Oh, my God, my God!' he repeated,wincing and trying to drive away the intolerable thought. 'All the sameand in spite of everything she loved me,' thought he of the girl theyhad talked about at the farewell supper. 'Yes, had I married her Ishould not now be owing anything, and as it is I am in debt toVasilyev.' Then he remembered the last night he had played withVasilyev at the club (just after leaving her), and he recalled hishumiliating requests for another game and the other's cold refusal. 'Ayear's economizing and they will all be paid, and the devil takethem!'... But despite this assurance he again began calculating hisoutstanding debts, their dates, and when he could hope to pay them off.'And I owe something to Morell as well as to Chevalier,' thought he,recalling the night when he had run up so large a debt. It was at acarousel at the gipsies arranged by some fellows from Pet
ersburg:Sashka B---, an aide-de-camp to the Tsar, Prince D---, and that pompousold----. 'How is it those gentlemen are so self-satisfied?' thought he,'and by what right do they form a clique to which they think othersmust be highly flattered to be admitted? Can it be because they are onthe Emperor's staff? Why, it's awful what fools and scoundrels theyconsider other people to be! But I showed them that I at any rate, onthe contrary, do not at all want their intimacy. All the same, I fancyAndrew, the steward, would be amazed to know that I am on familiarterms with a man like Sashka B---, a colonel and an aide-de-camp to theTsar! Yes, and no one drank more than I did that evening, and I taughtthe gipsies a new song and everyone listened to it. Though I have donemany foolish things, all the same I am a very good fellow,' thought he.

  Morning found him at the third post-stage. He drank tea, and himselfhelped Vanyusha to move his bundles and trunks and sat down among them,sensible, erect, and precise, knowing where all his belongings were,how much money he had and where it was, where he had put his passportand the post-horse requisition and toll-gate papers, and it all seemedto him so well arranged that he grew quite cheerful and the longjourney before him seemed an extended pleasure-trip.

  All that morning and noon he was deep in calculations of how manyversts he had travelled, how many remained to the next stage, how manyto the next town, to the place where he would dine, to the place wherehe would drink tea, and to Stavropol, and what fraction of the wholejourney was already accomplished. He also calculated how much money hehad with him, how much would be left over, how much would pay off allhis debts, and what proportion of his income he would spend each month.Towards evening, after tea, he calculated that to Stavropol there stillremained seven-elevenths of the whole journey, that his debts wouldrequire seven months' economy and one-eighth of his whole fortune; andthen, tranquillized, he wrapped himself up, lay down in the sledge, andagain dozed off. His imagination was now turned to the future: to theCaucasus. All his dreams of the future were mingled with pictures ofAmalat-Beks, Circassian women, mountains, precipices, terribletorrents, and perils. All these things were vague and dim, but the loveof fame and the danger of death furnished the interest of that future.Now, with unprecedented courage and a strength that amazed everyone, heslew and subdued an innumerable host of hillsmen; now he was himself ahillsman and with them was maintaining their independence against theRussians. As soon as he pictured anything definite, familiar Moscowfigures always appeared on the scene. Sashka B---fights with theRussians or the hillsmen against him. Even the tailor Cappele in somestrange way takes part in the conqueror's triumph. Amid all this heremembered his former humiliations, weaknesses, and mistakes, and therecollection was not disagreeable. It was clear that there among themountains, waterfalls, fair Circassians, and dangers, such mistakescould not recur. Having once made full confession to himself there wasan end of it all. One other vision, the sweetest of them all, mingledwith the young man's every thought of the future--the vision of a woman.

  And there, among the mountains, she appeared to his imagination as aCircassian slave, a fine figure with a long plait of hair and deepsubmissive eyes. He pictured a lonely hut in the mountains, and on thethreshold she stands awaiting him when, tired and covered with dust,blood, and fame, he returns to her. He is conscious of her kisses, hershoulders, her sweet voice, and her submissiveness. She is enchanting,but uneducated, wild, and rough. In the long winter evenings he beginsher education. She is clever and gifted and quickly acquires all theknowledge essential. Why not? She can quite easily learn foreignlanguages, read the French masterpieces and understand them: Notre Damede Paris, for instance, is sure to please her. She can also speakFrench. In a drawing-room she can show more innate dignity than a ladyof the highest society. She can sing, simply, powerfully, andpassionately.... 'Oh, what nonsense!' said he to himself. But here theyreached a post-station and he had to change into another sledge andgive some tips. But his fancy again began searching for the 'nonsense'he had relinquished, and again fair Circassians, glory, and his returnto Russia with an appointment as aide-de-camp and a lovely wife rosebefore his imagination. 'But there's no such thing as love,' said he tohimself. 'Fame is all rubbish. But the six hundred and seventy-eightrubles? ... And the conquered land that will bring me more wealth thanI need for a lifetime? It will not be right though to keep all thatwealth for myself. I shall have to distribute it. But to whom? Well,six hundred and seventy-eight rubles to Cappele and then we'll see.'... Quite vague visions now cloud his mind, and only Vanyusha's voiceand the interrupted motion of the sledge break his healthy youthfulslumber. Scarcely conscious, he changes into another sledge at the nextstage and continues his journey.

  Next morning everything goes on just the same: the same kind ofpost-stations and tea-drinking, the same moving horses' cruppers, thesame short talks with Vanyusha, the same vague dreams and drowsiness,and the same tired, healthy, youthful sleep at night.