The Pobratim Part 85

At gloaming I was again beside the newly-opened grave. The sun had set, the birds in the bushes were hushed; the breeze, that before seemed to be the mild breath of spring, began to blow in fitful, cold blasts.

The round disc of the moon now rose beyond the verge of the horizon, and its mild, amber light fell upon the marble monument of the Yarnova family, almost hidden under a ma.s.s of white roses, camellias and daffodils, made up in huge wreaths.

Mute and motionless, I sat for some time musing by the tomb; then at last, looking up at

"That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon,"

I said:

"Tell me, Moon, thou pale and grey Pilgrim of Heaven's homeless way,"

didst thou know young Countess Yarnova, so full of life a few days ago, and now lying there in the cold bosom of the earth? Tell me what bitter and unbearable grief broke that young heart; speak to me, and I shall listen to thy words as to the voice of my mother, when, in the evening, she whispered weird tales to me while putting me to sleep.

A loud moan seemed to arise from the tomb, and then I heard a voice as silvery sweet as the music of the spheres, lisp softly in my ear:--

Pa.s.sing by the Yarnova Castle three days ago, I peeped within its cas.e.m.e.nts, and, in a dimly-lighted hall, I saw Countess Yadviga, who had just returned from Paris. She wore a black velvet dress, and her head was m.u.f.fled in a lace mantilla; although her features twitched and she was sad and careworn, still she looked almost as young and even handsomer than her fair daughter.

Presently, as she sat in the dark room, the door was opened; a page stepped in, drew aside the gilt morocco portiere emblazoned with the Yarnova arms, and ushered in the handsome stranger, Aleksij Orsinski.

The Baron looked round the dimly-lighted room for a while. At last he perceived the figure of the Countess as she sat in the shadow of the huge fire-place; then he went up to her and bowed.

"Thank you, Countess Yarnova, for s.n.a.t.c.hing yourself away from beautiful Paris and coming in this dismal place."

The figure in the high-backed arm-chair bowed slightly, and without uttering a single word, motioned the stranger to a seat at a short distance. The Baron sat down.

"Thank you especially for at last giving your consent to my marriage with the beautiful Anya."

The Baron waited for a reply, but as none came, he went on:

"Although her guardian hinted that Anya was somewhat too young for me, still I know she loves me; and as for myself, I swear that henceforth the aim of my life will be that of making her happy."

The Baron, though sixteen years older than his childlike bride, was himself barely thirty; he was, moreover, a most handsome man--tall, stalwart, with dark flashing eyes, a long flowing moustache, a ma.s.s of black hair, and a remarkably youthful appearance. He waited again a little while for an answer, but the mother did not speak.

The large and lofty hall in which they were, with its carved stalls jutting out of the wainscot, looked far more like a church than a habitable room; the few fantastic oil lamps seemed like stars shining in the darkness, while the mellow light of the moon, pouring in from the mullioned windows, fell on the Baron's manly figure, and left the Countess in the dark.

As no answer came, the stranger, at a loss what to say, repeated his own words:

"Yes, all my days will be devoted to the happiness of our child."

"Our child?" said the Countess at last, with a slight tremor in her voice.

The Baron started like a man roused in the midst of a dream.

"Your daughter I mean, Countess."

Seized by a strange feeling of oppression, which he was unable to control, the Baron, in his endeavour to overcome it, began to relate to the mother how he had met Anya by chance, how he had fallen in love with her the very moment he had seen her, how from that day she had engrossed all his thoughts, for, from their first meeting, her image had haunted him day and night.

"In fact," added he, "it was the first time I had loved, the very first."

"The first?" echoed the voice in the dark.

The strong man trembled like an aspen leaf. Those two words coming from that dark, motionless figure, sitting at some distance, seemed to be a voice from the tomb, an echo from the past; that past which never buries its dead. To get over his increasing nervousness the Baron began to speak with greater volubility:

"In my early youth, or rather in my childhood I should say," added he, "I did love once----"

"Once?" repeated the voice.

The Baron started again and stopped. Was it Anya's mother who spoke, or was there an echo in that room? Still, he went on:

"Yes, once I loved, or, at least, thought myself in love."

"Thought?" added the voice.

That repet.i.tion was getting unbearable; anyhow, he tried not to heed it.

"Well, Countess, it was only a childish fancy, a boy's infatuation; at sixteen, I was spoony on a girl two years younger than myself, just about the age my Anya is now. Fate parted us; I grieved a while; but, since I saw your daughter, I understood that I had never loved before, no, never!"

"Never before--no, never!" uttered the woman in the dark.

The Baron almost started to his feet; that voice so silvery clear, so mournfully sweet, actually seemed to come from the far-off regions from where the dead do not return. After a short silence, only interrupted by two sighs, he went on:

"There were, of course, other loves between the first and the last --swift, evanescent shadows, leaving no traces behind them. And now that I have made a full confession of my sins, Countess, can I not see my Anya?"

"Your Anya?"

This was carrying a joke rather too far.

"Well, my fiancee?" said he, rather abruptly.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, not yet. You have spoken, and I have listened to you; it is my turn to speak. I, too, have something to say about Anya's father."

The Baron had always been considered as a brave man, but now either the darkness oppressed him, or the past arose in front of him threateningly, or else the strange and almost weird behaviour of his future mother-in-law awed him; but, somehow or other, he had never felt so uncomfortable before. Not only a disagreeable feeling of creepiness had come over him, but even a slight perspiration had gathered on his brow. He almost fancied that, instead of a woman, a ghost was sitting there in front of him echoing his words. Who was that ghost? Perhaps, he would not--probably, he dared not recognise it. He tried, however, to shake off his nervousness, and said, with forced lightness:

"I have had the honour of knowing Count Yarnova personally; he was somewhat eccentric, it is true; still, a more honourable man never----"

"He was simply mad," interrupted the Countess; "anyhow, it is not of Count Yarnova, but of Anya'a father of whom I wish to speak." Then, after a slight pause, as if nerving herself to the painful task, the woman in the dark added: "For you must know that not a drop of the Count's blood flows in my daughter's veins."

There was another awkward pause; Aleksij's heart began to beat much faster, the perspiration was gathering on his brow in much bigger drops.

"Count Yarnova was not your daughter's father, you say?" He would have liked to add: "Who was, then?" but he durst not.

"No, Aleksij Orsinski, he was not."

A feeling of sickness came over the Baron; he hardly knew whether he was awake, or asleep and dreaming. Who was that woman in the dark?

The Countess, after a while, resumed her story: "I was born in St.

Petersburg, of a wealthy and honourable, but not of a n.o.ble family.

I, too, was but a child when I fell in love, deeply in love, with a neighbour's son. Unlike yours, Baron, and I suppose all men's, a woman's first love is the only real one. I was then somewhat younger than my daughter now is, for I had barely reached my thirteenth year, and as for my lover, he was fifteen. We often met, unknown to our parents, in our garden; I saw no harm in it--I was too young, too guileless, not to trust him----"