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

the dew-wet grass, and the simple, rough, beloved earth. A refreshing breeze blew from the river in the night coolness, but now and then there came a sickly, pungent gust of the forest fire.

Elisaveta could not fall asleep. She rose from her bed. She stood by the window, and yielded her naked body to the transparent embraces of the nocturnal breeze. She thought of something, mused of something. And all her thoughts and musings joined in one dancing circle around Trirodov.

Should she wait? He was a weary, sad man, and he would not say the sweet words for fear of appearing ridiculous, and of receiving a cold answer.

“Why should I wait?” she thought. “Or don’t I dare decide my fate like a queen, to call him to me, and to demand his love? Why should I remain silent?”

And she decided:

“I will tell him myself⁠—I love you, I love you, come to me, love me.”

Elisaveta whispered the delicious words, entrusting her passionate reveries to the nocturnal silence. The dark eyes of the nocturnal guest who brought tempting reveries were aflame. The quiet splashing laughter of the water-nymph behind the reeds under the moon mingled with the quiet, delicious laughter of the nocturnal enchantress who had flaming eyes, burning lips, and a naked body formed from the coils of white flame. Her flaming body was like Elisaveta’s body, and the black lightnings of the invisible sorceress were like the blue lightnings of Elisaveta’s eyes. She tempted Elisaveta, and called to her:

“Go to him, go. Fall naked at his feet, kiss his feet, laugh for him, dance for him, tire yourself out for his sake, be a slave to him, be a thing in his hands⁠—cling to him, and kiss him, and look into his eyes, and yield yourself up to him. Go, go, hurry, run, he is approaching even now⁠—do you see him? It is he who has just come out of the wood⁠—do you see? It is his feet that show white in the grass. Fling the door wide open and run as you are to meet him.”

Elisaveta saw Trirodov coming. Her heart began to beat with such pain and such delight. She walked away from the window. She waited. She heard his footsteps on the sand under the window. Something flashed through the window and fell on the floor. The footsteps retreated.

Elisaveta picked up the letter, lit a candle, and read the beloved blue sheet of paper. The nocturnal enchantress whispered to her:

“He’s going away. Hurry. You will know how sweet are the first kisses of love. Go to him, run after him, don’t look for tiresome robes.”

Elisaveta impetuously flung the door open on the veranda, and ran down the broad steps into the garden. She ran after Trirodov and shouted:

“Giorgiy!”

It was like the outcry of passionate desire. Trirodov paused, saw her, impetuously white and clear in the moonlight. Elisaveta fell into his arms and kissed him and laughed, and kept on repeating without end:

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

And they kissed, and they laughed, and said something to one another. The red and white roses of her strong, graceful body were chaste and uncrumpled. The words they said to one another were chaste and sacred. The chaste moon looked down on them, and the stars also, as they spoke the words that bound them to one another. There were vows and rites not less durable than any other kind. There were smiles, kisses, tender words⁠—in these consist the eternal rite and the eternal mystery.

The sky began to lighten and a new dew fell on a new dawn, and when the sunrise had extended its rapturous flames the sun rose⁠—only then they parted.

Elisaveta returned to her room. But she could not sleep. She went into Elena’s room. Elena had only just awakened. Elisaveta lay down at her side under the bedcover, and told her about her great love, her great joy. Elena rejoiced and laughed and kissed her sister without end.

Then Elisaveta put on her morning dress, and went to her father⁠—to tell him about her joy, her happiness.

As for Trirodov, oppressed by morning fatigue, he walked home across the moist grass⁠—and his soul was filled with perplexity and dread.

Later in the day he drove to the Rameyevs. He brought as a gift to Elisaveta a photograph he had taken of his first wife⁠—upon her nude body was a bronze belt, its ends coming down to the knees being joined up in the front; upon her dark hair was a narrow round strip of gold. A slender, graceful body⁠—a melancholy smile⁠—intense dark eyes.

“Father knows,” said Elisaveta. “Father is glad. Let us go to him.”

When Elisaveta and Trirodov were once more alone, a dark thought came into Elisaveta’s mind. She became pensively sad, and asked:

“What of the sleeper in the grave?”

“He has awakened,” replied Trirodov. “He’s in my house. We’ve dug up his grave just in time to save his mother from having any qualms of conscience.”

“What do you mean?”

Trirodov explained:

“Early this morning the coroner had the grave dug up. They found the empty coffin. Luckily, I found out about this in time, before new stupid talk might arise, and gave them the necessary explanation.”

“What of the boy?” asked Elisaveta.

“He will remain with me. He does not wish to go to his mother, and he is not particularly necessary to her⁠—she will receive money for him.”

Trirodov said all this in a dry, cold voice.

The news that Elisaveta would become Trirodov’s wife acted differently on her relatives. Rameyev liked Trirodov, and was glad because of the closer connection; he was a little sorry for Piotr, but thought it was well that the matter had come to a decision, and Piotr would no longer torment himself by entertaining false hopes. Nevertheless Rameyev was disturbed for some unknown reason.

Elena loved Elisaveta and shared her joy. She loved Piotr, and was, therefore, even more glad; she pitied him⁠—and, therefore, loved him even more. She loved him so deeply, and entertained such hopes