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

art and of worship; things which told of distant lands and of hoary antiquity; engravings of a strange and disturbing character; variegated stones, turquoise, pearls; ugly, amorphous, and grotesque idols; representations of the godchild⁠—there were many of these, but only one face profoundly stirred Elisaveta.⁠ ⁠…

Elena enjoyed the objects that resembled toys. There were many things there that one could play with, and thus indulge in a jumble of magic reflections of time and space.

The sisters had seen so much that it seemed as if an age had passed, but actually they had spent only two hours here. It is impossible to measure time. One hour is an age, another is an instant; but humanity makes no distinction, levels the hours down to an average.

“What, only two hours!” exclaimed Elena. “How long we’ve spent here. It’s time to go home for dinner.”

“Do you mind being a little late?” asked Trirodov.

“How can we?” said Elena.

Elisaveta explained:

“The hour of dinner is strictly kept in our house.”

“I’ll have a cart ready for you.”

The sisters thanked him. But they must start at once. They both suddenly felt sad and tired. They bade their host goodbye and left him. The boy in white went before them in the garden and showed them the way.

No sooner had they again entered the underground passage than they saw a soft couch, and a fatigue so poignant suddenly overcame them that they could not advance another step.

“Let’s sit down,” said Elena.

“Yes,” replied Elisaveta, “I too am tired. How strange! What a weariness!”

The sisters sat down. Elisaveta said quietly:

“The light that falls upon us here from an unknown source is not a living light, and it is terrifying⁠—but the stern face of the monster, burning yet not consuming itself, is even more terrifying.”

“The lovely sun,” said Elena.

“It will become extinguished,” said Elisaveta, “extinguished⁠—this unrighteous luminary, and in the depth of subterranean passages, freed from the scorching Dragon and from cold that kills, men will erect a new life full of wisdom.”

Elena whispered:

“When the earth grows cold, men will die.”

“The earth will not die,” answered Elisaveta no less quietly.

The sisters fell into a sleep. They did not sleep long, and when both awakened quite suddenly, everything that had just happened seemed like a dream. They made haste.

“We must hurry home,” said Elena in an anxious voice.

They ran quickly. The door of the underground passage was open. Just outside the door, in the road, stood a cart. Kirsha sat in it and held the reins. The sisters seated themselves. Elisaveta took the reins. Kirsha spoke a word now and then. They said little on the way, in odd, disjointed words.

Arrived at their destination, they got out of the cart. They were in a half-somnolent state. Kirsha was off before they realized that they had not thanked him. When they looked for him they could only see a cloud of dust and hear the clatter of hoofs and the rattle of wheels on the cobblestones.

IV

The sisters had barely time to change for dinner. They entered the dining-room somewhat weary and distraught. They were awaited there by their father Rameyev, the two Matovs⁠—the student Piotr Dmitrievitch and the schoolboy Misha, sons of Rameyev’s lately deceased cousin to whom Trirodov’s estate had previously belonged.

The sisters spoke little at the table, and they said nothing of their day’s adventure. Yet before this they used to be frank and loved to chat, to tell the things that had happened to them.

Piotr Matov, a tall, spare, pale youth with sparkling eyes, who looked like a man about to enter a prophetic school, seemed worried and irritated. His nervousness reflected itself, in embarrassed smiles and awkward movements, in Misha. The latter was a well-nourished, rosy-cheeked lad, with a quick, merry eye, but betraying his intense impressionableness. His smiling mouth trembled slightly around the corners, apparently without cause.

The old Rameyev, who was more robust than tall, and had the tranquil manners of a well-trained, well-balanced individual, did not betray his impatience at his daughters’ tardy appearance, but took his place at the partially extended table, which seemed small in the middle of the immense dining-room of dark, embellished oak. Miss Harrison, unembarrassed, began to ladle out the soup; she was a plump, calm, slightly grey-haired woman, the personification of a successful household.

Rameyev noticed that his daughters were tired. A vague alarm stirred within him. But he quickly extinguished this tiny spark of displeasure, smiled tenderly at his daughters, and said very quietly, as if cautiously hinting at something:

“You have walked a little too far, my dears.”

There was a short but awkward silence; then, in order to soften the hidden significance of his words and to ease his daughters’ embarrassment, he added:

“I see you don’t ride horseback as much as you used to.”

After this he turned to the eldest of the brothers:

“Well, Petya, have you brought any news from town?”

The sisters felt uneasy. They tried to take part in the conversation.

This was in those days when the red demon of murder was prowling in our native land, and his terrible deeds brought discord and hate into the bosom of peaceful families. The young people in this house, as elsewhere, often talked and wrangled about what had happened and what was yet to be. For all their wrangling, they could not reach any agreement. Friendship from childhood and good breeding mitigated to some extent this antagonism of ideas. But more than once their discussions ended in bitter words.

Piotr, in reply to Rameyev, began to tell about workingmen’s disturbances and projected strikes. Irritation was evident in his voice. He was one of those who was intensely troubled by problems of a religious-philosophical character. He thought that the mystical existence of human unities might be achieved only under the brilliant and alluring sway of Caesars and Popes. He imagined that he loved freedom⁠—Christian freedom⁠—yet all the turbulent movements of newly awakened life aroused only hate in his heart.

“There’s terrible news,” said Piotr; “a general strike is talked of. It