down on a chair facing him.

Pavel Afanasievitch was about to smile… but he glanced at Vassily, and subsided with his mouth open and his hands clasped.

‘Tell me, Pavel Afanasievitch,’ said Vassily suddenly, ‘are you meaning to dance at your wedding soon?’

‘I?… soon… of course… for my part… though as you and your sister … I, for my part, am ready to-morrow even.’

‘Very good, very good. You’re a very impatient person, Pavel Afanasievitch.’

‘How so?’

‘Let me tell you,’ pursued Vassily Ivanovitch, getting up, ‘I know all; you understand me, and I order you without delay to-morrow to marry Olga.’

‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ objected Rogatchov, not rising from his seat; ‘you order me. I sought Olga Ivanovna’s hand of myself and there’s no need to give me orders…. I confess, Vassily Ivanovitch, I don’t quite understand you.’

‘You don’t understand me?’

‘No, really, I don’t understand you.’

‘Do you give me your word to marry her to-morrow?’

‘Why, mercy on us, Vassily Ivanovitch… haven’t you yourself put off our wedding more than once? Except for you it would have taken place long ago. And now I have no idea of breaking it off. What is the meaning of your threats, your insistence?’

Pavel Afanasievitch wiped the sweat off his face.

‘Do you give me your word? Say yes or no!’ Vassily repeated emphatically.

‘Excuse me… I will… but…’

‘Very good. Remember then… She has confessed everything.’

‘Who has confessed?’

‘Olga Ivanovna.’

‘Why, what has she confessed?’

‘Why, what are you pretending to me for, Pavel Afanasievitch? I’m not a stranger to you.’

‘What am I pretending? I don’t understand you, I don’t, I positively don’t understand a word. What could Olga Ivanovna confess?’

‘What? You are really too much! You know what.’

‘May God slay me…’

‘No, I’ll slay you, if you don’t marry her… do you understand?’

‘What!…’ Pavel Afanasievitch jumped up and stood facing Vassily. ‘Olga Ivanovna… you tell me…’

‘You’re a clever fellow, you are, I must own’—Vassily with a smile patted him on the shoulder—’though you do look so innocent.’

‘Good God!… You’ll send me out of my mind…. What do you mean, explain, for God’s sake!’

Vassily bent down and whispered something in his ear.

Rogatchov cried out, ‘What!…!?’

Vassily stamped.

‘Olga Ivanovna? Olga?…’

‘Yes… your betrothed…’

‘My betrothed… Vassily Ivanovitch… she… she… Why, I never wish to see her again,’ cried Pavel Afanasievitch. ‘Good-bye to her for ever! What do you take me for? I’m being duped… I’m being duped… Olga Ivanovna, how wrong of you, have you no shame?…’ (Tears gushed from his eyes.) ‘Thanks, Vassily Ivanovitch, thanks very much… I never wish to see her again now! no! no! don’t speak of her…. Ah, merciful Heavens! to think I have lived to see this! Oh, very well, very well!’

‘That’s enough nonsense,’ Vassily Ivanovitch observed coldly. ‘Remember, you’ve given me your word: the wedding’s to-morrow.’

‘No, that it won’t be! Enough of that, Vassily Ivanovitch. I say again, what do you take me for? You do me too much honour. I’m humbly obliged. Excuse me.’

‘As you please!’ retorted Vassily. ‘Get your sword.’

‘Sword… what for?’

‘What for?… I’ll show you what for.’

Vassily drew out his fine, flexible French sword and bent it a little against the floor.

‘You want… to fight… me?’

‘Precisely so.’

‘But, Vassily Ivanovitch, put yourself in my place! How can I, only think, after what you have just told me…. I’m a man of honour, Vassily Ivanovitch, a nobleman.’

‘You’re a nobleman, you’re a man of honour, so you’ll be so good as to fight with me.’

‘Vassily Ivanovitch!’

‘You are frightened, I think, Mr. Rogatchov.’

‘I’m not in the least frightened, Vassily Ivanovitch. You thought you would frighten me, Vassily Ivanovitch. I’ll scare him, you thought, he’s a coward, and he’ll agree to anything directly… No, Vassily Ivanovitch, I am a nobleman as much as you are, though I’ve not had city breeding, and you won’t succeed in frightening me into anything, excuse me.’

‘Very good,’ retorted Vassily; ‘where is your sword then?’

‘Eroshka!’ shouted Pavel Afanasievitch. A servant came in.

‘Get me the sword—there—you know, in the loft… make haste….’

Eroshka went out. Pavel Afanasievitch suddenly became exceedingly pale, hurriedly took off his dressing-gown, put on a reddish coat with big paste buttons… twisted a cravat round his neck… Vassily looked at him, and twiddled the fingers of his right hand.

‘Well, are we to fight then, Pavel Afanasievitch?’

‘Let’s fight, if we must fight,’ replied Rogatchov, and hurriedly buttoned up his shirt.

‘Ay, Pavel Afanasievitch, you take my advice, marry her… what is it to you… And believe me, I’ll…’

‘No, Vassily Ivanovitch,’ Rogatchov interrupted him. ‘You’ll kill me or maim me, I know, but I’m not going to lose my honour; if I’m to die then I must die.’

Eroshka came in, and trembling, gave Rogatchov a wretched old sword in a torn leather scabbard. In those days all noblemen wore swords with powder, but in the steppes they only put on powder twice a year. Eroshka moved away to the door and burst out crying. Pavel Afanasievitch pushed him out of the room.

‘But, Vassily Ivanovitch,’ he observed with some embarrassment, ‘I can’t fight with you on the spot: allow me to put off our duel till to-morrow. My father is not at home, and it would be as well for me to put my affairs in order to—to be ready for anything.’

‘I see you’re beginning to feel frightened again, sir.’

‘No, no, Vassily Ivanovitch; but consider yourself…’

‘Listen!’ shouted Lutchinov, ‘you drive me out of patience…. Either give me your word to marry her at once, or fight…or I’ll thrash you with my cane like a coward,—do you understand?’

‘Come into the garden,’ Rogatchov answered through his teeth.

But all at once the door opened, and the old nurse, Efimovna, utterly distracted, broke into the room, fell on her knees before Rogatchov, and clasped his legs….

‘My little master!’ she wailed, ‘my nursling… what is it you are about? Will you be the death of us poor wretches, your honour? Sure, he’ll kill you, darling! Only you say the word, you say the word, and we’ll make an end of him, the insolent fellow…. Pavel Afanasievitch, my baby-boy, for the love of God!’

A number of pale, excited faces showed in the door…there was even the red beard of the village elder…

‘Let me go, Efimovna, let me go!’ muttered Rogatchov.

‘I won’t, my own, I won’t. What are you about, sir, what are you about? What’ll Afanasey Lukitch say? Why, he’ll drive us all out of the light of day…. Why are you fellows standing still? Take the uninvited guest in hand and show him out of the house, so that not a trace be left of him.’

‘Rogatchov!’ Vassily Ivanovitch shouted menacingly.

‘You are crazy, Efimovna, you are shaming me, come, come…’ said Pavel Afanasievitch. ‘Go away, go away, in God’s name, and you others, off with you, do you hear?…’

Vassily Ivanovitch moved swiftly to the open window, took out a small silver whistle, blew lightly… Bourcier answered from close by. Lutchinov turned at once to Pavel Afanasievitch.

‘What’s to be the end of this farce?’

‘Vassily Ivanovitch, I will come to you to-morrow. What can I do with this crazy old woman?…’

‘Oh, I see it’s no good wasting words on you,’ said Vassily, and he swiftly raised his cane…

Pavel Afanasievitch broke loose, pushed Efimovna away, snatched up the sword, and rushed through another door into the garden.

Vassily dashed after him. They ran into a wooden summerhouse, painted cunningly after the Chinese fashion, shut themselves in, and drew their swords. Rogatchov had once taken lessons in fencing, but now he was scarcely capable of drawing a sword properly. The blades crossed. Vassily was obviously playing with Rogatchov’s sword. Pavel Afanasievitch was breathless and pale, and gazed in consternation into Lutchinov’s face.

Meanwhile, screams were heard in the garden; a crowd of people were running to the summerhouse. Suddenly Rogatchov heard the heart-rending wail of old age…he recognised the voice of his father. Afanasey Lukitch, bare-headed, with dishevelled hair, was running in front of them all, frantically waving his hands….

With a violent and unexpected turn of the blade Vassily sent the sword flying out of Pavel Afanasievitch’s hand.

‘Marry her, my boy,’ he said to him: ‘give over this foolery!’

‘I won’t marry her,’ whispered Rogatchov, and he shut his eyes, and shook all over.

Afanasey Lukitch began banging at the door of the summerhouse.

‘You won’t?’ shouted Vassily.

Rogatchov shook his head.

‘Well, damn you, then!’

Poor Pavel Afanasievitch fell dead: Lutchinov’s sword stabbed him to the heart… The door gave way; old Rogatchov burst into the summerhouse, but Vassily had already jumped out of window…

Two hours later he went into Olga Ivanovna’s room… She rushed in terror to meet him… He bowed to her in silence; took out his sword and pierced Pavel Afanasievitch’s portrait in the place of the heart. Olga shrieked and fell unconscious on the floor… Vassily went in to Anna Pavlovna. He found her in the oratory. ‘Mother,’ said he, ‘we are avenged.’ The poor old woman shuddered and went on praying.

Within a week Vassily had returned to Petersburg, and two years later he came back stricken with paralysis—tongue-tied. He found neither Anna Pavlovna nor Olga living, and soon after died himself in the arms of Yuditch, who fed him like a child, and was the only one who could understand his incoherent stuttering.

1846.

ENOUGH

A FRAGMENT FROM THE NOTE-BOOK OF A DEAD ARTIST

I

II

III

‘Enough,’ I said to myself as I moved with lagging steps over the steep mountainside down to the quiet little brook. ‘Enough,’ I said again, as I drank in the resinous fragrance of the pinewood, strong and pungent in the freshness of falling evening. ‘Enough,’ I said once more, as I sat on the mossy mound above the little brook and gazed into its dark, lingering waters, over which the sturdy reeds thrust