The Created Legend by Fyodor Sologub (ebook reader color screen TXT) 📕

love there is revelation, there is eternal truth. He who does not love, he who does not strive towards union with a beloved, he is dead.”

“I love the people, I love freedom,” said Elisaveta quietly. “My love is revolt.”

Piotr, ignoring her words, went on:

“You know that I love you. I have loved you a long time. My whole soul is absorbed as with light with my love for you. I am jealous⁠—and I’m not ashamed to tell you I am jealous of your favour to anyone; I am even jealous of this bloused workman, whose accomplice you would be if he had had the sufficient boldness and the brain to be a conspirator; I am jealous of the half-truths which have captivated you and screen your love of me.”

Again Elisaveta spoke quietly:

“You reproach me for what is dear to me, for my better part, you wish that I should become different. You do not love me, you are tempted by the beautiful Beast⁠—my young body with its smiles and its caresses.⁠ ⁠…”

And again ignoring what she said, Piotr asserted passionately:

“Elisaveta, dearest, love me! You surely do not love anyone else! Isn’t that so? You do not love anyone? You have had no time to fall in love, to fetter your soul to anyone else’s. You are as free as man’s first bride, you are as superb as his last wife. You have grown ripe for love⁠—for my love⁠—you too are thirsty for kisses and embraces, even as I. O Elisaveta, love me, love me!”

“How can I?” said Elisaveta.

“Elisaveta, if you’d only will it!” exclaimed Piotr. “One must wish to love. If you only understood how I love you, you would love me also. My love should fire in you a responsive love.”

“My friend, you do not love anything that is mine,” answered Elisaveta. “You do not love me. I don’t believe you⁠—forgive me⁠—I don’t understand your love.”

Piotr frowned gloomily and said gruffly:

“You have been fascinated by that false, empty word ‘freedom.’ You have never thought over its true meaning.”

“I’ve had little time to think over anything,” observed Elisaveta calmly, “but the feeling of freedom is the thing nearest to me. I cannot express it in words⁠—I only know that we are fettered on this earth by iron bonds of necessity and of circumstance, but the nature of my soul is freedom; its fire is consuming the chains of my material dependence. I know that we human beings will always be frail, poor, lonely; but a time will surely come when we shall pass through the purifying flame of a great conflagration; then a new earth and a new heaven shall open up to us; through union we shall attain our final freedom. I know I am saying all this badly, incoherently⁠—I cannot say clearly what I feel⁠—but let us, please, say no more.”

Elisaveta strode out of the summerhouse. Piotr slowly followed her. His face was sad and his eyes shone feverishly, but he could not utter a word⁠—inertia gripped his mind. Quite suddenly he roused himself, raised his head, smiled, overtook Elisaveta.

“You love me, Elisaveta,” he said with joyous assurance. “You love me, though you won’t admit it. You are not speaking the truth when you say that you don’t understand my love. You do know my love, you do believe in it⁠—tell me, is it possible to love so strongly and not be loved in return?”

Elisaveta stopped. Her eyes lit up with a strange joy.

“I tell you once more,” she said with calm resolution, “it is not me you love⁠—you love the First Bride. I am going where I must.”

Piotr stood there and looked after her⁠—helpless, pale, dejected. Between the bushes a sun-yellow dress fluttered against the now dull sky of a setting sun.

V

Piotr and Elisaveta descended towards the boat landing. Two rowing-boats seemed to rock on the water, though there was no breeze and the water was smooth like a mirror. A little farther, behind the bushes, the canvas roof of the bathhouse stood revealed. Elena, Misha, and Miss Harrison were already there. They were sitting on a bench halfway down the slope, where the path to the landing was broken. The view from here, showing the bend of the river, was very restful. The water was growing darker, heavier, gradually assuming a leadlike dullness.

Misha and Elena, flushed with running, could not suppress their smiles. The Englishwoman looked calmly at the river, and nothing shocked her in the evening landscape and in the peaceful water. But now two persons came who brought with them their poignant unrest, their uneasiness, their confusion⁠—and again an endless wrangle began.

They left this bench, from which one could look into such a great distance and see nothing but calm and peace everywhere. They descended below to the very bank. Even at this close range the water was still and smooth, and the agitated words of the restless people did not cause the broad sheet to stir. Misha picked up thin, flat stones and threw them underhand into the distance so that, touching the water, they skipped repeatedly on the surface. He did this habitually whenever the wrangling distressed him. His hands trembled, the little stones ricochetted badly sometimes; this annoyed him, but he tried to hide his annoyance and to look cheerful.

Elisaveta said:

“Misha, let’s see who can throw the better. Let’s try for pennies.”

They began to play. Misha was losing.

At the turn of the river, from the direction of the town, a rowing-boat appeared. Piotr looked searchingly into the distance, and said in a vexed voice:

“Mr. Stchemilov, our intelligent workman, the Social Democrat of the Russia Party, is again about to honour us.”

Elisaveta smiled. She asked with gentle reproof:

“Why do you dislike him so?”

“No, you tell me,” exclaimed Piotr, “why this party calls itself the Russia Party, and not the Russian Party? Why this high tone?”

Elisaveta answered with her usual calm:

“It is called the Russia and not the Russian Party because it includes not only the Russian, but also