Short Fiction, Fyodor Sologub [most popular novels of all time .txt] 📗

the house of a certain Moscow physician there is a magnificent picture gallery, which after the death of its owner will become the property of the town, though now it is little known and difficult to get at. In this gallery hangs a picture, strange in its conception but marvellously painted, not at all well known, though it is the work of a highly-gifted Russian artist. In the catalogue this picture is designated by the title, A Legend of the White Night.

The picture is of a young lady dressed in an exquisitely simple black gown, and wearing a broad-brimmed black hat with a white feather. She is seated on a bench in a garden just budding into Spring. Her face is very beautiful, but it holds an enigmatical expression. In the unreal and enchanting light of the white night which the artist has so marvellously represented it seems at times that the lady is smiling in joy, and at times the same smile seems to possess a haggard expression of terror and despair.

Her hands are not seen⁠—they are folded behind her back, and from the pose of her shoulders one feels that her arms are bound. Her feet are bare and very beautiful. They are encircled with gold bracelets and fastened together by a short gold chain. The contrast of the black dress and white naked feet is beautiful yet strange.

The picture was painted some years ago by the young artist Andrew Pavlovitch Kragaef, after a strange white night spent by him with the lady of the picture⁠—Irene Vladimirovna Omejina⁠—in her country villa outside Petersburg.

It was at the end of May. The day had been warm and enchantingly clear. In the morning, or rather about the time when the working-folk are going to their dinner, Kragaef was called up on the telephone. A well-known woman’s voice said:

“It’s I⁠—Madame Omejina. Are you disengaged tonight, Andrew Pavlovitch? I shall expect you here punctually at two o’clock.”

“Thank you, Irene Vladimirovna⁠—” began Kragaef.

But the lady interrupted him.

“That’s right. I shall expect you. Exactly at two.”

And she hung up the receiver. Her voice sounded unusually cold and unmoved⁠—the voice of someone preparing for some significant action. This and the brief conversation made Kragaef wonder not a little. He was accustomed to have long talks on the telephone, and with a lady the conversation often went on quite a while. Irene Vladimirovna had been no exception to this, and her brevity was something new and unexpected⁠—the young man’s curiosity was aroused.

He resolved to be most punctual and to get there at two o’clock precisely. He ordered a motor in good time to take him there⁠—he hadn’t one of his own.

Kragaef was fairly well acquainted with Madame Omejina, though not intimate with her. She was the widow of a rich landowner who had died some years before. She had her own estates, and the villa to which she had invited Kragaef that evening belonged to her.

There had been strange rumours about her married life. It had been said that her husband often beat her cruelly. And people often wondered that she, an independent woman, should endure this and not leave him. There were no children, and people thought it strange that they went on living together.

It was exactly two o’clock by Kragaef’s watch, and already quite light when the automobile slowed up at the entrance to the familiar villa. Kragaef had been there several times during the previous summer. On this occasion, however, he felt a curious perturbation.

“I wonder if there will be anyone else, or if I’m the only visitor,” thought he. “It would be more pleasant to be alone with her on such a beautiful night.”

No other carriage was to be seen at the gates. Everything was quiet in the dark garden, and there were no lights to be seen in the windows.

“Shall I wait?” asked the chauffeur.

“No, it’s not necessary,” said Kragaef, as he paid and dismissed him.

The side gate was open a little way. Kragaef went in and shut it after him. He glanced at the gate and saw the key in it, and impelled by some undefined presentiment, he turned the key in the lock.

He walked quietly up the gravel-path to the house. There was a cool air from the river; somewhere in the bushes the first birds of the morning twittered faintly and uncertainly.

Suddenly a familiar voice called out to him⁠—the voice he had heard on the telephone⁠—that strangely cold and indifferent voice.

“I’m here, Andrew Pavlovitch,” said Mme. Omejina.

Kragaef turned in the direction of the voice and saw his hostess seated on a bench near a flowerbed.

She sat there and looked up at him smiling. She was dressed exactly as he afterwards painted her in the picture; in the same black gown of an exquisitely simple cut, entirely without any ornament or trimming⁠—in the same black broad-brimmed hat with a white feather⁠—her hands were clasped behind her back and seemed to be fastened there⁠—there, calmly resting on the gravel-path were her bare white feet encircled by golden bracelets⁠—the thin gold chain which fastened them just glittering in the half-light.

She was smiling just that same uncertain smile which Kragaef afterwards showed in her portrait, and she said to him:

“Good evening, Andrew Pavlovitch. I felt sure somehow that you would not fail to come at the appointed time. Pardon me for not giving you my hand⁠—my arms are fastened behind me.”

Then, seeing his movement towards her, she laughed constrainedly and said:

“No, no, don’t be alarmed! You needn’t unfasten me. It’s all necessary⁠—it’s what he wishes. His night has come once more. Sit down here beside me.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Kragaef, sitting down beside her and speaking cautiously and in wonder.

“My husband,” answered she quietly. “Today is the anniversary of his death. He died just at this hour, and every year on this night and at this moment I give myself up to his power. Every year he chooses someone into whom he sends his spirit, and he comes to me and tortures