A Hero of Our Time [49]
Moreover, a ring has made its appearance on his finger, a silver ring with black enamel of local workman- ship. It struck me as suspicious. . . I began to examine it, and what do you think I saw? The name Mary was engraved on the inside in small letters, and in a line with the name was the date on which she had picked up the famous tumbler. I kept my discovery a secret. I do not want to force confessions from him, I want him, of his own accord, to choose me as his confidant -- and then I will enjoy myself! . . .
. . . . .
To-day I rose late. I went to the well. I found nobody there. The day grew hot. White, shaggy cloudlets were flitting rapidly from the snow-clad mountains, giving promise of a thunder- storm; the summit of Mount Mashuk was smoking like a just extinguished torch; grey wisps of cloud were coiling and creeping like snakes around it, arrested in their rapid sweep and, as it were, hooked to its prickly brushwood. The atmosphere was charged with electricity. I plunged into the avenue of the vines leading to the grotto.
I felt low-spirited. I was thinking of the lady with the little mole on her cheek, of whom the doctor had spoken to me. . . "Why is she here?" I thought. "And is it she? And what reason have I for thinking it is? And why am I so certain of it? Is there not many a woman with a mole on her cheek?" Reflecting in such wise I came right up to the grotto. I looked in and I saw that a woman, wearing a straw hat and wrapped in a black shawl, was sitting on a stone seat in the cold shade of the arch. Her head was sunk upon her breast, and the hat covered her face. I was just about to turn back, in order not to disturb her meditations, when she glanced at me.
"Vera!" I exclaimed involuntarily.
She started and turned pale.
"I knew that you were here," she said.
I sat down beside her and took her hand. A long-forgotten tremor ran through my veins at the sound of that dear voice. She gazed into my face with her deep, calm eyes. Mistrust and something in the nature of reproach were ex- pressed in her glance.
"We have not seen each other for a long time," I said.
"A long time, and we have both changed in many ways."
"Consequently you love me no longer?" . . .
"I am married!" . . . she said.
"Again? A few years ago, however, that reason also existed, but, nevertheless" . . .
She plucked her hand away from mine and her cheeks flamed.
"Perhaps you love your second husband?" . . .
She made no answer and turned her head away.
"Or is he very jealous?"
She remained silent.
"What then? He is young, handsome and, I suppose, rich -- which is the chief thing -- and you are afraid?" . . .
I glanced at her and was alarmed. Profound despair was depicted upon her countenance; tears were glistening in her eyes.
"Tell me," she whispered at length, "do you find it very amusing to torture me? I ought to hate you. Since we have known each other, you have given me naught but suffering" . . .
Her voice shook; she leaned over to me, and let her head sink upon my breast.
"Perhaps," I reflected, "it is for that very reason that you have loved me; joys are forgotten, but sorrows never" . . .
I clasped her closely to my breast, and so we remained for a long time. At length our lips drew closer and became blent in a fervent, intoxicating kiss. Her hands were cold as ice; her head was burning.
And hereupon we embarked upon one of those conversations which, on paper, have no sense, which it is impossible to repeat, and impossible even to retain in memory. The meaning of the sounds replaces and completes the meaning of the words, as in Italian opera.
She is decidedly averse to my making the acquaintance of her husband, the lame old man of whom I had caught a glimpse on the boulevard. She married him for the sake of her son. He is rich, and suffers from attacks of rheumatism. I did not allow myself even a single scoff at his expense. She respects him as a father, and will deceive him as a husband. . .
. . . . .
To-day I rose late. I went to the well. I found nobody there. The day grew hot. White, shaggy cloudlets were flitting rapidly from the snow-clad mountains, giving promise of a thunder- storm; the summit of Mount Mashuk was smoking like a just extinguished torch; grey wisps of cloud were coiling and creeping like snakes around it, arrested in their rapid sweep and, as it were, hooked to its prickly brushwood. The atmosphere was charged with electricity. I plunged into the avenue of the vines leading to the grotto.
I felt low-spirited. I was thinking of the lady with the little mole on her cheek, of whom the doctor had spoken to me. . . "Why is she here?" I thought. "And is it she? And what reason have I for thinking it is? And why am I so certain of it? Is there not many a woman with a mole on her cheek?" Reflecting in such wise I came right up to the grotto. I looked in and I saw that a woman, wearing a straw hat and wrapped in a black shawl, was sitting on a stone seat in the cold shade of the arch. Her head was sunk upon her breast, and the hat covered her face. I was just about to turn back, in order not to disturb her meditations, when she glanced at me.
"Vera!" I exclaimed involuntarily.
She started and turned pale.
"I knew that you were here," she said.
I sat down beside her and took her hand. A long-forgotten tremor ran through my veins at the sound of that dear voice. She gazed into my face with her deep, calm eyes. Mistrust and something in the nature of reproach were ex- pressed in her glance.
"We have not seen each other for a long time," I said.
"A long time, and we have both changed in many ways."
"Consequently you love me no longer?" . . .
"I am married!" . . . she said.
"Again? A few years ago, however, that reason also existed, but, nevertheless" . . .
She plucked her hand away from mine and her cheeks flamed.
"Perhaps you love your second husband?" . . .
She made no answer and turned her head away.
"Or is he very jealous?"
She remained silent.
"What then? He is young, handsome and, I suppose, rich -- which is the chief thing -- and you are afraid?" . . .
I glanced at her and was alarmed. Profound despair was depicted upon her countenance; tears were glistening in her eyes.
"Tell me," she whispered at length, "do you find it very amusing to torture me? I ought to hate you. Since we have known each other, you have given me naught but suffering" . . .
Her voice shook; she leaned over to me, and let her head sink upon my breast.
"Perhaps," I reflected, "it is for that very reason that you have loved me; joys are forgotten, but sorrows never" . . .
I clasped her closely to my breast, and so we remained for a long time. At length our lips drew closer and became blent in a fervent, intoxicating kiss. Her hands were cold as ice; her head was burning.
And hereupon we embarked upon one of those conversations which, on paper, have no sense, which it is impossible to repeat, and impossible even to retain in memory. The meaning of the sounds replaces and completes the meaning of the words, as in Italian opera.
She is decidedly averse to my making the acquaintance of her husband, the lame old man of whom I had caught a glimpse on the boulevard. She married him for the sake of her son. He is rich, and suffers from attacks of rheumatism. I did not allow myself even a single scoff at his expense. She respects him as a father, and will deceive him as a husband. . .