Novels, Tales, Journeys

“Yes, if he agrees to remain forever dishonored in the eyes of the woman he loves. And are the terms themselves really so harsh? Is life such a treasure that one is sorry to buy happiness at the cost of it? Judge for yourself: the first prankster to come along, whom I despise, says something about me that cannot harm me in any way, and I offer my head to his bullet—I have no right to deny this satisfaction to the first bully who comes along and decides to test my sang-froid. Am I going to play the coward when it comes to my own bliss? What is life, if it’s poisoned by dejection and empty desires! And what good is it, if its pleasures are exhausted?”

“Are you really capable of entering into such a contract?”

At that moment Volskaya, who had been sitting silently all the while with lowered eyes, quickly shot a glance at Alexei Ivanych.

“I’m not speaking about myself. But a man who is truly in love will of course not hesitate for a single moment…”

“What? Even for a woman who doesn’t love you? (And one who would agree to your terms surely doesn’t love you.) The thought alone of such brutality must destroy the wildest passion…”

“No, I would see in her acceptance only a fervid imagination. As for requited love…I don’t demand that of her: if I love, whose business is it?…”

“Stop it—God knows what you’re saying. So this is what you didn’t want to tell about—”

The young countess K., a chubby, homely thing, tried to give an important expression to her nose, which resembled an onion stuck onto a turnip, and said:

“Even nowadays there are women who value themselves more highly…”

Her husband, a Polish count, who had married her for her money (mistakenly, they say), lowered his eyes and drank off his cup of tea.

“What do you mean by that, Countess?” asked the young man, barely holding back a smile…

“I mean,” the countess K. replied, “that a woman who respects herself, who respects…” Here she became confused; Vershnev came to her aid.

“You think that a woman who respects herself does not desire the death of a sinner8—isn’t it so?”

The conversation changed course.

Alexei Ivanych sat down beside Volskaya, bent over as if studying her embroidery, and said to her in a half whisper: “What do you think of Cleopatra’s terms?”

Volskaya said nothing. Alexei Ivanych repeated his question.

“What can I tell you? Nowadays, too, some women value themselves highly. But nineteenth-century men are too coldblooded, too reasonable, to agree to such terms.”

“Do you think,” Alexei Ivanych said in a suddenly altered voice, “do you think that in our time, in Petersburg, here, a woman can be found who would have enough pride, enough inner strength, to lay down Cleopatra’s terms to her lover?…”

“I think so; I’m even certain.”

“You’re not deceiving me? Just think: that would be too cruel, more cruel than the terms themselves…”

Volskaya looked at him with fiery, piercing eyes and in a firm voice said: “No.”

Alexei Ivanych stood up and disappeared at once.

*1 “Who is being fooled here?”

*2 ‘She had so much lust that she often sold herself; so much beauty that many bought a night with her at the price of death.’

A Story from Roman Life

Caesar was traveling, Titus Petronius1 and I were following him at a distance. After sunset slaves put up a tent, placed couches; we lay down to feast and converse merrily; at dawn we set out again and fell sweetly asleep each on his own lectica, weary from the heat and the night’s pleasures.

We reached Cumae and were already thinking of going further, when a messenger came to us from Nero. He brought Petronius an order from Caesar to return to Rome and there await the deciding of his fate following a hateful denunciation.

We were horror-stricken. Petronius alone listened indifferently to his sentence, dismissed the messenger with a gift, and announced to us his intention to stay in Cumae. He sent his favorite slave to choose and rent a house for him and awaited his return in a cypress grove dedicated to the Eumenides.2

We surrounded him uneasily. Flavius Aurelius asked if he meant to stay long in Cumae and whether he was not afraid of irritating Nero by his disobedience.

“I not only do not mean to disobey him,” Petronius replied with a smile, “but I even intend to forestall his wishes. But you, my friends, I advise to return. On a clear day a traveler rests in the shade of an oak tree, but during a thunderstorm he prudently distances himself from it, fearing bolts of lightning.”

We all expressed a wish to stay with him, and Petronius affectionately thanked us. The servant came back and led us to the house he had chosen. It was on the edge of town. It was managed by an old freedman, in the absence of the owner, who had left Italy long ago. Under his supervision, several slaves kept the rooms and gardens clean. In the wide entryway we found statues of the nine muses; by the door stood two centaurs.