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

had long ago accustomed himself to go to the river when agitated by sadness or joy or when he had to think about something very seriously. He was a shy and self-sufficient boy and loved to be alone with his thoughts and his dreams. The coolness of the water running fast about his legs comforted him and banished evil moods. As he stood here, with his naked legs in the water, he became gentle and calm.

Elena soon came there also. She stood silently on the bank and looked at the water. For some reason she felt sad and wanted to cry.

The water glided past her tranquilly, almost noiselessly. Its surface was smooth⁠—and thus it ran on.

Elisaveta looked at Stchemilov with mild displeasure.

“Why are you so sharp, Aleksei?” she asked.

“You don’t like it, comrade?” he asked in return.

“No, I don’t like it,” said Elisaveta in simple, unmistakable tones.

Stchemilov did not reply at once. He grew thoughtful, then said:

“The abyss that separates us from your cousin is too broad. And even between us and your father. It is hard to come together with them. Their chief concern, as you very well know, is to construct a pyramid out of people; ours to scatter this pyramid in an even stratum over the earth. That’s how it is, Elizaveta.”

Elisaveta showed her annoyance and corrected him:

“Elisaveta. How many times have I told you?”

Stchemilov smiled.

“A lordly caprice, comrade Elisaveta. Well, as you like, though it is a trifle hard to pronounce. Now we would say ‘Lizaveta.’ ”

Kiril complained of his failures, of the police, of the detectives, of the patriots. His complaints were pitiful and depressing. He had been arrested and had lost his job. It was easy to see that he had suffered. The gleam of hunger trembled in his eyes.

“The police treated me most horribly,” complained Kiril, “and then there’s my family.⁠ ⁠…”

After an awkward silence he continued:

“Not a single thing escapes them at our factory, you get humiliated at every step. They actually search you.”

Again he lapsed into silence. Again he complained:

“They force their way into your soul. You can’t hold private conversations.⁠ ⁠… They stop at nothing.”

He told of hunger, he told of a sick old woman. All this was very touching, but it had lost its freshness by constant repetition⁠—the pity of it had become, as it were, stamped out. Kiril, indeed, was a common type, whose state of mind made him valuable as material to be used up at an opportune moment in the interests of a political cause.

Stchemilov was saying:

“The Black Hundred are organizing. Zherbenev is very busy at this⁠—he’s one of your genuine Russians.”

“Kerbakh is with him⁠—another patriot for you,” observed Kiril.

“The most dangerous man in our town, this Zherbenev. Vermin of the most foul kind,” said Stchemilov contemptuously.

“I am going to kill him,” said Kiril hotly.

To this Elisaveta said:

“In order to kill a man you need to believe that one man is essentially better or worse than another, that he is distinct from the other not accidentally or socially, but in the mystic sense. That is to say, murder only confirms inequality.”

“By the way, Elisaveta,” remarked Stchemilov, “we have come to talk business with you.”

“Tell me what it is,” answered Elisaveta calmly.

“We are expecting some comrades from Rouban within the next few days. They are coming to talk things over,” said Stchemilov; “but of course you know all that.”

“Yes, I know,” said Elisaveta.

“We want to use the occasion,” went on Stchemilov, “to organize a mass meeting not far from here for our town factory folk. So here, at last, is your chance to appear as an orator.”

“How can I be of any use?” asked Elisaveta.

“You have the gift of expression, Elisaveta,” said Stchemilov. “You have a good voice, an easy flow of language, and you have a way of putting the case simply and clearly. It would be a sin for you not to speak.”

“We will bring down the Cadets6 a peg or two,” said Kiril in his bass voice.

“You’ll forgive Kiril, comrade Elisaveta,” said Stchemilov. “I don’t think he knows that your father is a Cadet. Besides, he’s a rather simple, frank fellow.”

Kiril grew red.

“I know so little,” said Elisaveta timidly. “What shall I talk about, and how?”

“You know enough,” said the other confidently; “more than myself and Kiril put together. You do things remarkably well. Everything you say is so clear and accurate.”

“What shall I talk about?”

“You can draw a picture of the general condition of working men,” answered Stchemilov, “and how capital is forging a hammer against itself and compelling labour to organize.”

Elisaveta grew red and silently inclined her head.

“Then it’s all settled, comrade?” asked Stchemilov.

Elisaveta burst into a laugh.

“Yes, settled,” she exclaimed cheerfully.

It was good to hear this gravely and simply pronounced word “comrade.”

VI

The sweet, quiet night came, and brought her enchantments. The weary din of day lost itself in oblivion. The clear, tranquil, anaemic moon encircled herself with her own radiance, basked in her own light. She looked at the earth and did not dissipate the mist⁠—it was as if she had taken to herself all the brightness and translucence of the sun’s last afterglow. A calm poured itself out upon the earth and upon the water, and embraced every tree, every bush, every blade of grass.

A soothing mood took possession of Elisaveta. It struck her as strange that they should have quarrelled and stood facing one another like enemies. Why shouldn’t she love him? Why not give herself up to him, submit to the will of another, make it her will? Why all this noisy discussion, these fine, yet remote words about a struggle, about ideals?

Everyone in the house, she thought, was tired⁠—was it with the heat? With wrangling? With a secret sorrow inducing sleep, soothingness? The sisters went to their rooms somewhat earlier than usual. Fatigue and a languorous sadness oppressed them. The sisters’ bedrooms were next to each other, one entering the other by a wide, always open door. They could hear one