A Hero of Our Time - Mikhail IUr'evich Lermontov [41]
“Let’s get into the boat,” said my companion. I hesitated—I am not an enthusiast of sentimental outings on the sea—but it wasn’t the moment to back down. She hopped into the boat, with me after her, and I hadn’t quite come to my senses before I noticed we were drifting off.
“What does this mean?” I said angrily to her.
“It means,” she replied, sitting me down on the bench and winding her arms around my shoulders, “it means that I love you . . .”
Her cheek pressed to mine, I felt her burning breath on my face. Suddenly something fell loudly into the water. I grabbed at my belt, but the pistol was gone. Oh, what a terrible suspicion crept into my soul, while blood surged to my head. I look around—we are about fifty sazhens from the shore, and I can’t swim! I want to push her away from me, but like a cat, she had seized hold of my clothing and suddenly, with a strong shove, nearly threw me into the sea. The boat began to rock, but I got the better of it, and a desperate struggle began between us. Rage imparted me with strength, but I quickly noticed that I was inferior to my opponent in dexterity . . .
“What do you want?” I cried, firmly grabbing her little hands. Her fingers crunched, but she didn’t cry out: her snakelike nature could endure such torture.
“You saw,” she responded, “and you will inform!” And with supernatural exertion she toppled me to the side of the boat. We were both hanging over the edge of the boat from the waist. Her hair was touching the water. It was a decisive moment. I braced myself against the bottom of the boat with my knee and grabbed her braid with one hand and her throat with the other. She let go of my clothing, and I threw her into the waves in an instant.
It was already rather dark; her head flashed a couple of times in the sea foam; then, nothing more . . .
At the bottom of the boat I found half of an old oar, and somehow, after prolonged effort, got it moored to the jetty. Stealing along the shore toward my peasant house, I couldn’t help glancing over to the place where yesterday the blind boy had waited for the night mariner. The moon had already rolled across the sky, and it looked to me as if someone in white was sitting at the shoreline. I crept up, with excited curiosity, and lay flat on the grass on top of the precipice, sticking my head a little over the edge. I could well see everything that was happening below from the cliff, and I wasn’t much surprised, but was rather gladdened to recognize my rusalka there. She was squeezing sea foam from her long hair. Her wet slip outlined her lithe figure and raised breasts. Soon a boat appeared in the distance; it was approaching fast. A man wearing a Tatar hat stepped out of the boat as he had the day before, but his hair was cut like a Cossack’s, and a large knife stuck out from the leather of his belt.
“Yanko,” she said, “all is lost!”
Then their conversation continued but so quietly that I couldn’t hear a thing.
“And where is the blind boy?” said Yanko finally, raising his voice.
“I sent him for something,” was the answer.
The blind boy appeared after a few minutes, lugging a sack, which he put down in the boat.
“Listen, blind boy!” said Yanko. “You stay put here . . . you hear? Those are precious goods . . . Tell (I didn’t catch the name) that I’m not his servant anymore. The matter went badly; he won’t see any more of me. It’s too dangerous now. I am off to find work in another place, and he’ll never find a daredevil like me again. Yes, tell him that if he had paid better, then Yanko wouldn’t have left. There are paths open everywhere to me, wherever the wind blows and the sea stirs!”
After a certain silence, Yanko continued. “She’s coming with me. She can’t stay here. And tell the old woman that it’s time to die, she’s lived longer than she should