Short Fiction, Leo Tolstoy [general ebook reader .txt] 📗

not experience any sensual desire for her. On the contrary he regarded her with tender adoration as something unattainable.

He rose to his full height, standing before her with both hands on his sabre.

“I have only now realized what happiness a man can experience! And it is you, my darling, who have given me this happiness,” he said with a timid smile.

Endearments had not yet become usual between them, and feeling himself morally inferior he felt terrified at this stage to use them to such an angel.

“It is thanks to you that I have come to know myself. I have learnt that I am better than I thought.”

“I have known that for a long time. That was why I began to love you.”

Nightingales trilled nearby and the fresh leafage rustled, moved by a passing breeze.

He took her hand and kissed it, and tears came into his eyes.

She understood that he was thanking her for having said she loved him. He silently took a few steps up and down, and then approached her again and sat down.

“You know⁠ ⁠… I have to tell you⁠ ⁠… I was not disinterested when I began to make love to you. I wanted to get into society; but later⁠ ⁠… how unimportant that became in comparison with you⁠—when I got to know you. You are not angry with me for that?”

She did not reply but merely touched his hand. He understood that this meant: “No, I am not angry.”

“You said⁠ ⁠…” He hesitated. It seemed too bold to say. “You said that you began to love me. I believe it⁠—but there is something that troubles you and checks your feeling. What is it?”

“Yes⁠—now or never!” thought she. “He is bound to know of it anyway. But now he will not forsake me. Ah, if he should, it would be terrible!” And she threw a loving glance at his tall, noble, powerful figure. She loved him now more than she had loved the Tsar, and apart from the Imperial dignity would not have preferred the Emperor to him.

“Listen! I cannot deceive you. I have to tell you. You ask what it is? It is that I have loved before.”

She again laid her hand on his with an imploring gesture. He was silent.

“You want to know who it was? It was⁠—the Emperor.”

“We all love him. I can imagine you, a schoolgirl at the Institute⁠ ⁠…”

“No, it was later. I was infatuated, but it passed⁠ ⁠… I must tell you⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, what of it?”

“No, it was not simply⁠—” She covered her face with her hands.

“What? You gave yourself to him?”

She was silent.

“His mistress?”

She did not answer.

He sprang up and stood before her with trembling jaws, pale as death. He now remembered how the Emperor, meeting him on the Névsky, had amiably congratulated him.

“O God, what have I done! Stíva!”

“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! Oh, how it pains!”

He turned away and went to the house. There he met her mother.

“What is the matter, Prince? I⁠ ⁠…” She became silent on seeing his face. The blood had suddenly rushed to his head.

“You knew it, and used me to shield them! If you weren’t a woman⁠ ⁠… !” he cried, lifting his enormous fist, and turning aside he ran away.

Had his fiancée’s lover been a private person he would have killed him, but it was his beloved Tsar.

Next day he applied both for furlough and his discharge, and professing to be ill, so as to see no one, he went away to the country.

He spent the summer at his village arranging his affairs. When summer was over he did not return to Petersburg, but entered a monastery and there became a monk.

His mother wrote to try to dissuade him from this decisive step, but he replied that he felt God’s call which transcended all other considerations. Only his sister, who was as proud and ambitious as he, understood him.

She understood that he had become a monk in order to be above those who considered themselves his superiors. And she understood him correctly. By becoming a monk he showed contempt for all that seemed most important to others and had seemed so to him while he was in the service, and he now ascended a height from which he could look down on those he had formerly envied.⁠ ⁠… But it was not this alone, as his sister Varvára supposed, that influenced him. There was also in him something else⁠—a sincere religious feeling which Varvára did not know, which intertwined itself with the feeling of pride and the desire for preeminence, and guided him. His disillusionment with Mary, whom he had thought of angelic purity, and his sense of injury, were so strong that they brought him to despair, and the despair led him⁠—to what? To God, to his childhood’s faith which had never been destroyed in him.

II

Kasátsky entered the monastery on the feast of the Intercession of the Blessed Virgin.293 The Abbot of that monastery was a gentleman by birth, a learned writer and a starets, that is, he belonged to that succession of monks originating in Walachia who each choose a director and teacher whom they implicitly obey. This Superior had been a disciple of the starets Ambrose, who was a disciple of Makarius, who was a disciple of the starets Leonid, who was a disciple of Païssy Velichkóvsky.

To this Abbot Kasátsky submitted himself as to his chosen director. Here in the monastery, besides the feeling of ascendency over others that such a life gave him, he felt much as he had done in the world: he found satisfaction in attaining the greatest possible perfection outwardly as well as inwardly. As in the regiment he had been not merely an irreproachable officer but had even exceeded his duties and widened the borders of perfection, so also as a monk he tried to be perfect, and was always industrious, abstemious, submissive, and meek, as well as pure both in deed and in thought, and obedient. This last quality in particular made life far easier for