Short Fiction by Leo Tolstoy (book reader for pc TXT) 📕

had heard from friends and acquaintances of his courage in the war, and knew how bravely he had borne the loss of his property and freedom, and she had imagined him a hero always living an exalted and heroic life. In reality, with all his extraordinary physical strength and courage, he turned out to be as mild and gentle as a lamb, an artless fellow, making good-natured jokes; his sensuous lips, surrounded by a fair moustache and small beard, showed the same childlike smile that had attracted her at Rozánka, and he carried an ever-smoking pipe, specially unpleasant to her when she was pregnant.

Migoúrski, too, only now learnt to know Albína, and in her he first learnt to know women in general. From the women he had met before his marriage he could not have known women. And what he found in Albína as a type of women in general surprised him, and might have tended to disenchant him with them, had he not felt towards Albína, as Albína, a peculiarly tender and grateful feeling. Towards Albína as a woman he entertained a tender and rather ironical condescension; but towards Albína as Albína not only tender love, but rapture, and the sense of an irredeemable obligation for the sacrifice she had made, which had given him undeserved happiness.

The Migoúrskis were happy in their love. Directing all their power of love to one another, among strangers they felt like two people who, having lost their way in winter, are in danger of being frozen, and warm one another. The devotion of the old nurse, Ludwíka, good-naturedly grumbling, comical, always falling in love with every man she met, but slavishly and self-sacrificingly attached to her young mistress, contributed to the Migoúrskis’ happiness. They were also happy in their children. A year after their marriage, a boy was born; and eighteen months later, a girl. The boy was the very image of his mother: the same eyes, the same vivacity and grace. The girl was a healthy pretty little animal.

The Migoúrskis’ misfortune was their exile from home, and especially the unpleasant humiliation of their position. Albína, in particular, suffered from this degradation. He, her Josy, her hero⁠—that ideal man⁠—had to draw himself up erect before every officer he met, go through manual exercises, stand sentinel, and obey every order without demur.

Then, too, the letters they received from Poland were most depressing. Almost all their nearest friends and relations were either banished or had fled abroad after losing everything they possessed. For themselves, the Migoúrskis had no prospect of an improvement in their situation. All attempts to petition for pardon, or even for an amelioration of their lot, or for him to be made an officer, were vain. Nicholas I held reviews, parades and manoeuvres; went to masquerades and amused himself with the masks; rushed needlessly across Russia from Tchougoúef to Novorossíysk, to Petersburg and to Moscow, frightening people and using up horses; and when anyone was courageous enough to address him, begging for a mitigation of the fate of any exiled Decembrists,316 or of the Poles who were suffering for love of their native land (the very quality he himself extolled), he expanded his chest, fixed his leaden eyes on anything they happened to rest on, and said: “Too soon! Let them continue to serve⁠ ⁠…” as if he knew the right time, and when it would cease to be too soon. And all about him⁠—Generals and Chamberlains and their wives, who got their living from him⁠—went into raptures at the extraordinary penetration and wisdom of this great man.

On the whole, however, there was more joy than pain in the Migoúrskis’ lives.

They lived thus for five years. Suddenly they were overwhelmed by a terrible and unexpected sorrow. First, their little girl fell ill, and two days later their boy also. For three days he lay burning with fever, and on the fourth he died, without medical aid (no doctor was within reach). Two days later, the little girl died too.

If Albína did not drown herself in the Urál River, it was only because she could not think without terror of the state her husband would be in when he heard of her suicide. But it was hard for her to live. Formerly always active and busy, she now left all her duties to Ludwíka, and sat for hours listlessly and silently gazing at anything her eyes fell upon; or she would start up and run into her own little room, and there⁠—regardless of her husband’s or Ludwíka’s condolences⁠—would weep softly, only shaking her head and asking them to go away and leave her alone.

When summer came, she would go to her children’s grave and sit there, rending her heart with memories of what had been, and with thoughts of what might have been. She was specially tortured by the idea that the children might have remained alive had they lived in a town where they could have received medical aid. “Why? What for?” thought she. “Josy and I want nothing from anyone, except that he should be allowed to live the life he was born to, and which his grandfathers and great-grandfathers lived; and that I should be allowed to live with him and love him, and love my little ones, and bring them up. But they must needs come and torment him and banish him, and rob me of what is dearer to me than all the world. Why? What for?”

She put the question to men and to God, and could not imagine the possibility of any answer. And without an answer there was no life for her; and so her life came to a standstill. Their poor existence in exile, which she with her feminine taste and refinement had formerly known how to adorn, now became intolerable, not only to her but also to Migoúrski, who suffered on her account, and did not know how to help her.

VII

At this, the most unhappy time for