_ 'I'm fond of them, very fond! ... First-rate fellows! ... Fine!'
he kept repeating, and felt ready to cry. But why he wanted to
cry, who were the first-rate fellows he was so fond of--was more
than he quite knew. Now and then he looked round at some house and
wondered why it was so curiously built; sometimes he began
wondering why the post-boy and Vanyusha, who were so different
from himself, sat so near, and together with him were being jerked
about and swayed by the tugs the side-horses gave at the frozen
traces, and again he repeated: 'First rate ... 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 was not
the wine alone that was having this effect on Olenin. He
remembered all the words of friendship heartily, bashfully,
spontaneously (as he believed) addressed to him on his departure.
He remembered the clasp of hands, glances, the moments of silence,
and the sound of a voice saying, 'Good-bye, Mitya!' when he was
already in the sledge. He remembered his own deliberate frankness.
And all this had a touching significance for him. Not only friends
and relatives, not only people who 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. 'Perhaps I shall not return
from the Caucasus,' he thought. And he felt that he loved his
friends and some one besides. He was sorry for himself. But it was
not love for his friends that so stirred and uplifted his heart
that he could not repress the meaningless words that seemed to
rise of themselves to his lips; nor was it love for a woman (he
had never yet been in love) that had brought on this mood. Love
for himself, love full 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 in it)--compelled him to weep and to
mutter incoherent words.
Olenin was a youth who had never completed his university course,
never served anywhere (having only a nominal post in some
government office or other), who had squandered half his fortune
and had reached the age of twenty-four without having done
anything or even chosen a career. He was 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.
Neither physical nor moral fetters of any kind existed for him; he
could do as he liked, lacking nothing and bound by nothing.
Neither relatives, nor fatherland, nor religion, nor wants,
existed for him. He believed in nothing and admitted nothing. But
although he believed in nothing he was not a morose or blase young
man, nor self-opinionated, but on the contrary continually let
himself be carried away. He had come to the conclusion that there
is no such thing as love, yet his heart always overflowed in the
presence of any young and attractive woman. He had long been aware
that honours and position were nonsense, yet involuntarily he felt
pleased when at a ball Prince Sergius came up and spoke to him
affably. But he yielded to his impulses only in so far as they did
not limit his freedom. As soon as he had yielded to any influence
and became conscious of its leading on to labour and struggle, he
instinctively hastened to free himself from the feeling or
activity into which he was being drawn and to regain his freedom.
In this way he experimented with society-life, the civil service,
farming, music--to which at one time he intended to devote his
life--and even with the love of women in which he did not believe.
He meditated on the use to which he should devote that power of
youth which is granted to man only once in a lifetime: that force
which gives a man the power of making 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 of woman, or to practical
activities? It is true that some people are devoid of this
impulse, and on entering life at once place their necks under the
first yoke that offers itself and honestly labour under it for the
rest of their lives. But Olenin was too strongly conscious of the
presence of that all-powerful God of Youth--of that capacity to be
entirely transformed into an aspiration or idea--the capacity to
wish and to do--to throw oneself headlong into a bottomless abyss
without knowing why or wherefore. He bore this consciousness
within himself, was proud of it and, without knowing it, was happy
in that consciousness. Up to that time he had loved only himself,
and could not help loving himself, for he expected nothing but
good of himself and had not yet had time to be disillusioned. On
leaving Moscow he was in that happy state of mind in which a young
man, conscious of past mistakes, suddenly says to himself, 'That
was not the real thing.' All that had gone before was accidental
and unimportant. Till then he had not really tried to live, but
now with his departure from Moscow a new life was beginning--a
life in which there would be no mistakes, no remorse, and
certainly nothing but happiness.
It is always the case on a long journey that till the first two or
three stages have been passed imagination continues to dwell on
the place left behind, but with the first morning on the road it
leaps to the end of the journey and there begins building castles
in the air. So it happened to Olenin.
After leaving the town behind, he gazed at the snowy fields and
felt glad to be alone in their midst. Wrapping himself in his fur
coat, he lay at the bottom of the sledge, became tranquil, and
fell into a doze. The parting with his friends had touched him
deeply, and memories of that last winter spent in Moscow and
images of the past, mingled with vague thoughts and regrets, rose
unbidden in his imagination.
He remembered the friend who had seen him off and his relations
with the girl they had talked about. The girl was rich. "How could
he love her knowing that she loved me?" thought he, and evil
suspicions crossed his 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 have never been in love? Every one tells
me that I never have. Can it be that I am a moral monstrosity?"
And he began to recall all his infatuations. He recalled his entry
into society, and a friend's sister with whom he spent several
evenings at a table with a lamp on it which lit up her slender
fingers busy with needlework, and the lower part of her pretty
delicate face. He recalled their conversations that dragged on
like the game in which one passes on a stick which one keeps
alight as long as possible, and the general awkwardness and
restraint and his continual feeling of rebellion at all that
conventionality. Some voice had always whispered: "That's not it,
that's not it," and so it had proved. Then he remembered a ball
and the mazurka he danced with the beautiful D----. "How much in
love I was that night and how happy! And how hurt and vexed I was
next morning when I woke and felt myself still free! 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 tell me, as she
told Dubrovin and the Marshal, that she loved the stars, was not
IT either." And now his farming and work in the country recurred
to his mind, and in those recollections also there was nothing to
dwell on with pleasure. "Will they talk long of my departure?"
came into his head; but who "they" were he did not quite know.
Next came a thought that made him wince and mutter incoherently.
It was the recollection of M. Cappele the tailor, and the six
hundred and seventy-eight rubles he still owed him, and he
recalled the words in which he had begged him to wait another
year, and the look of perplexity and resignation which had
appeared on the tailor's face. 'Oh, my God, my God!' he repeated,
wincing and trying to drive away the intolerable thought. 'All the
same and in spite of everything she loved me,' thought he of the
girl they had talked about at the farewell supper. 'Yes, had I
married her I should not now be owing anything, and as it is I am
in debt to Vasilyev.' Then he remembered the last night he had
played with Vasilyev at the club (just after leaving her), and he
recalled his humiliating requests for another game and the other's
cold refusal. 'A year's economizing and they will all be paid, and
the devil take them!'... But despite this assurance he again began
calculating his outstanding 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 a carousel at the gipsies arranged by some
fellows from Petersburg: Sashka B---, an aide-de-camp to the Tsar,
Prince D---, and that pompous old----. 'How is it those gentlemen
are so self-satisfied?' thought he, 'and by what right do they
form a clique to which they think others must be highly flattered
to be admitted? Can it be because they are on the Emperor's staff?
Why, it's awful what fools and scoundrels they consider other
people to be! But I showed them that I at any rate, on the
contrary, do not at all want their intimacy. All the same, I fancy
Andrew, the steward, would be amazed to know that I am on familiar
terms with a man like Sashka B---, a colonel and an aide-de-camp
to the Tsar! Yes, and no one drank more than I did that evening,
and I taught the gipsies a new song and everyone listened to it.
Though I have done many 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
himself helped 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 passport and the post-horse requisition and toll-
gate papers, and it all seemed to him so well arranged that he
grew quite cheerful and the long journey before him seemed an
extended pleasure-trip.
All that morning and noon he was deep in calculations of how many
versts he had travelled, how many remained to the next stage, how
many to the next town, to the place where he would dine, to the
place where he would drink tea, and to Stavropol, and what
fraction of the whole journey was already accomplished. He also
calculated how much money he had with him, how much would be left
over, how much would pay off all his debts, and what proportion of
his income he would spend each month. Towards evening, after tea,
he calculated that to Stavropol there still remained seven-
elevenths of the whole journey, that his debts would require seven
months' economy and one-eighth of his whole fortune; and then,
tranquillized, he wrapped himself up, lay down in the sledge, and
again dozed off. His imagination was now turned to the future: to
the Caucasus. All his dreams of the future were mingled with
pictures of Amalat-Beks, Circassian women, mountains, precipices,
terrible torrents, and perils. All these things were vague and
dim, but the love of fame and the danger of death furnished the
interest of that future. Now, with unprecedented courage and a
strength that amazed everyone, he slew and subdued an innumerable
host of hillsmen; now he was himself a hillsman and with them was
maintaining their independence against the Russians. As soon as he
pictured anything definite, familiar Moscow figures always
appeared on the scene. Sashka B---fights with the Russians or the
hillsmen against him. Even the tailor Cappele in some strange way
takes part in the conqueror's triumph. Amid all this he remembered
his former humiliations, weaknesses, and mistakes, and the
recollection was not disagreeable. It was clear that there among
the mountains, waterfalls, fair Circassians, and dangers, such
mistakes could not recur. Having once made full confession to
himself there was an end of it all. One other vision, the sweetest
of them all, mingled with 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
a Circassian slave, a fine figure with a long plait of hair and
deep submissive eyes. He pictured a lonely hut in the mountains,
and on the threshold she stands awaiting him when, tired and
covered with dust, blood, and fame, he returns to her. He is
conscious of her kisses, her shoulders, her sweet voice, and her
submissiveness. She is enchanting, but uneducated, wild, and
rough. In the long winter evenings he begins her education. She is
clever and gifted and quickly acquires all the knowledge
essential. Why not? She can quite easily learn foreign languages,
read the French masterpieces and understand them: Notre Dame de
Paris, for instance, is sure to please her. She can also speak
French. In a drawing-room she can show more innate dignity than a
lady of the highest society. She can sing, simply, powerfully, and
passionately.... 'Oh, what nonsense!' said he to himself. But here
they reached a post-station and he had to change into another
sledge and give some tips. But his fancy again began searching for
the 'nonsense' he had relinquished, and again fair Circassians,
glory, and his return to Russia with an appointment as aide-de-
camp and a lovely wife rose before his imagination. 'But there's
no such thing as love,' said he to himself. 'Fame is all rubbish.
But the six hundred and seventy-eight rubles? ... And the
conquered land that will bring me more wealth than I need for a
lifetime? It will not be right though to keep all that wealth 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
voice and the interrupted motion of the sledge break his healthy
youthful slumber. Scarcely conscious, he changes into another
sledge at the next stage and continues his journey.
Next morning everything goes on just the same: the same kind of
post-stations and tea-drinking, the same moving horses' cruppers,
the same short talks with Vanyusha, the same vague dreams and
drowsiness, and the same tired, healthy, youthful sleep at night. _