Short Fiction, Vsevolod Garshin [howl and other poems .txt] 📗

From the Diary of Bezsonow.⁠—I am waiting to see what will happen. I was there the other day, and saw them together. All the strength of will I possess was insufficient to enable me to continue wearing my mask of indifference and politeness. I felt that had I stayed there another quarter of an hour I should have thrown it off and revealed my true self. It is impossible to recognize this woman. I have known her for three years, and have become accustomed to see her as she has been these three years. Now I see the change which has taken place in her, and I do not understand her, and do not know whether this change is genuine, or whether it is only a role being played by one accustomed to deceive herself and other contemptible beings.

I do not in the least understand their relations. I do not even know whether she has become his mistress. For some reason I do not think so, and if I am right she is more clever than I thought. What is her object? To become his wife?

I have read over these lines, and I see that all I have written is incorrect, except that she has altered. I myself three years ago saw something unusual in her, rarely met amongst women in her position. I myself almost took on the role of rescuer which Lopatin is now magnanimously playing. But I was more experienced then than she is now. I knew that nothing would come of it, and gave it up without even trying to do anything. Her character, besides the ordinary obstacles in this respect, possessed one peculiarity⁠—her fearful stubbornness and impudence. I saw that she would wash her hands of everything, and oppose my first attempt, and I did not make this attempt.

Has Lopatin made it? I do not know. I only see that it is impossible to recognize this woman. I know for certain that she has abandoned her former mode of life. She has gone to some little room into which she does not allow either Helfreich or her rescuer to enter. She sits for him, and, in addition, does sewing. She lives very poorly. She is like the drunkard who has signed the pledge. Will she keep it? Will this sentimental artist, who has not seen life and knows nothing of it, help her to keep it?

Yesterday I wrote mother a long letter. She is sure to do all, as I imagine she will⁠—women love to meddle in such affairs⁠—and will tell everything to Sophy Michailovna. Perhaps that will save him.

Save him! Why should I worry about his salvation? It is the first time in my life that I have concerned myself so deeply in other people’s affairs. Is it not all the same to me what Lopatin does with this woman, whether he drags her out of the mire or sinks into it with her, and, in fruitless attempts, undoes his own life and casts aside his talents?

I am not accustomed to indulge in reflections or to dig into my soul; for the first time in my life I have been looking deeply into it and analyzing my feelings in detail. I do not understand what is taking place within me now, and what is compelling me to rouse myself. I thought (and now think) that it was only a disinterested desire to avert a great calamity from a man whom I like.⁠ ⁠… But upon analyzing my thoughts I see it is not altogether that. Why, in working to save him, do I think more of her? Why is it her face, once brazen and impudent, but now downcast and tender, which rises before me every minute? Why does she and not he fill my soul with a strange feeling which I cannot define, but in which unkind feelings predominate? Perhaps it is true that it is not so much that I wish to do him good as to do her⁠ ⁠…

What? Harm? No, I do not wish to do her harm, and yet I would like to tear her from him, to deprive her of his protection, in which lies, perhaps, her sole hope.

… Oh, surely it is not that I would like to stand in Lopatin’s place!

I must see her today. This business won’t let me work or live in peace. My work is being neglected, and these last two weeks I have not done as much as formerly I used to do in two days. I must put an end to it somehow, come to an understanding, and explain all to myself⁠ ⁠… and afterwards what?

Give her up? Never! All my pride rebels at the mere thought. I found her. I could have saved her, and would not. Now I would.