The Created Legend, Fyodor Sologub [ebook reader with android os .txt] 📗

us suppose that he comes to Mr. Moneybags. ‘I have,’ he tells him, ‘a thing to tell you in confidence, a thing of great personal interest to you.’ Left alone with Mr. Moneybags he says to him: ‘Five hundred roubles, if you please!’ The other, it goes without saying, is up on his hind legs. ‘What for? What sort of demand is this?’ ‘I mean what I say,’ says the other chap. ‘Otherwise,’ he says, ‘I will put your eldest son in gaol. I can prove that your eldest son has had something to do with the murder of the gallant Chief of Police.’ ”

“They give?” asked Trirodov.

“Some give, some escort you out of the door,” replied Ostrov.

“A lovely crowd!” observed Trirodov contemptuously. “And what may you be planning now?”

With the same involuntary obedience Ostrov told Trirodov how their company was conspiring to steal a miracle-performing icon from a neighbouring monastery. The plan was to burn the icon and to sell the precious stones with which it was covered. It was a difficult affair, as the icon was under guard. But Ostrov’s friends were counting on taking advantage of one of the summer feasts, when the monks, escorting distinguished pilgrims, would have drunk freely. The thieves had still a month in which to make preparations for the theft; they meant to make use of this time by becoming friendly with the monks, and in this way familiarize themselves with all the conditions.

Trirodov, having listened without interrupting, said to Ostrov:

“Forget that you have told me all this. Goodbye.”

Ostrov gave a start. He appeared as if he had just awakened. Without comprehending the causes of his oppressive confusion he bade his host goodbye and left.

Trirodov decided that the bishop of the local diocese must be warned of the contemplated theft of the miracle-performing icon.

Bishop Pelagius lived in the monastery in which the icon of the Mother of God, so revered by the people, was preserved. The relics of an old sainted monk were preserved in the same monastery. Men came from all ends of Russia to worship these holy relics. That was why this monastery was considered wealthy.

Trirodov thought for a long time as to how he might best inform the bishop of the contemplated theft. The thought of writing an anonymous letter was repugnant to him. He decided that it was better to speak to the bishop in person, or to write him a letter with his real name. But then the question remained as to how to explain his own knowledge of the conspiracy. He himself might be suspected as an accomplice of the criminals. As it was, the local townsmen had none too friendly an eye for Trirodov.

He dreaded entangling himself in this dark affair. He already began to feel vexed with himself for his strange curiosity that impelled him to question Ostrov about his affairs. It would have been better perhaps if he were ignorant of the conspiracy. In any case, Trirodov saw clearly that it was impossible for him to maintain silence. He thought that the dark aspects of monastic life did not justify the evil deed planned by Ostrov’s companions. Besides, the consequences of this deed might well prove very dangerous.

Trirodov decided that there was nothing left for him to do but to pay a visit to the monastery. Once on the spot, he thought that some opportunity of informing the bishop would occur to him. But as this visit was very unpleasant to him, he delayed it a very long time.

XVIII

Trirodov at last realized that he was in love with Elisaveta. He knew too well the nature of this delicious and painful emotion. It had come again and once more filled the world with light. He had looked enigmatically upon this broad, eternally inaccessible world, full of past memories and past people. But his love of Elisaveta meant his love and acceptance of the world, the whole world.

This emotion aroused dismay in Trirodov. To the perplexities of the past, not yet thrown off his shoulders, and to those of the present begun with a strange, as yet unmeasured influence, were to be added the perplexities of the future, of a new and unexpected bond. And was not love in itself a means for realizing one’s dreams?

Trirodov made effort to crush this new love in himself, and to forget Elisaveta. He tried to keep away from the Rameyevs, not to come to their house⁠—but with each day his love only increased. His thoughts and musings of Elisaveta grew more and more persistent. They became interwoven with one another and grafted themselves on to his soul. More and more a pencil in his hand guided itself to outline on paper now her austere profile⁠—softened by the youthful joy of liberation⁠—now her simple costume, now a rapid sketch of her shoulders and neck, or the knot of her broad belt.

Again and again a strong hope awakened in him that he might strangle and crush the gentle blossom of his delicious love. Several days had already passed without his visiting the Rameyevs. He did not even come on those days on which they grew accustomed to expect him.

Elisaveta thought this a deliberate incivility, and it hurt her feelings. But whenever Piotr abused him she defended him. Her imagination began to evoke more and more frequently the features of his face: his deep, observing glance; his proud, ironic smile; his pale face, clean-shaven like an actor’s, and cold like a mask. How sweetly and how bitterly she was in love with him⁠—her sweet vision betrayed itself in the gleam in her eyes.

Rameyev had grown fond of Trirodov, and he missed his presence. He found it a pleasant diversion to chat with Trirodov, and even to wrangle with him sometimes. He made two calls at Trirodov’s house, and did not find him in. Rameyev wrote several invitations. He received courteous but evasive replies expressing regret at not being able to come.

One evening Rameyev growled at Piotr:

“He stopped coming