Полное собрание сочинений в 10 томах. Том 6. Художественная проза

Mesentzeff heard movements below the window and went to the back of his room. He was agitated and upset by what he had overheard. He felt he should do something to help the lovers. Was it possible that a cultivated man, a student of Psychoanalysis, a persistent reader of fiction, should be incapable of putting to rights this rustic tragedy? He laid down, following the Russian townsman’s habit of thinking better in that position.

Vania must be persuaded not to attach too much importance to the involuntary infidelity of his fiancee. Her soul was as pure as ever. Or Masha must be made to find in herself the strength to appear indifferent and by some woman’s wile bring her lover back to her. Or again Mitia must be stopped showing his white teeth like a bulldog in an old engraving; and forced to hide the three foot knife that stuck out from his pocket like the fantastic branch of a tree...

When Mesentzeff awoke, it was day. Someone knocked at the door. «Get up, Sir,» said the voice of his landlord.

«Masha has just been taken out of the water. She is all cold. Perhaps you can help us.»

Mesentzeff struggled hastily into his clothes and came out. On the turf near the house, surrounded by a group of compassionate peasants, Masha lay stretched. Her wet dress clung closely to her body. Her head lay upon her clasped hands and she looked more like a sleeping boy than a woman. Mesentzeff bent over her, meaning to apply the various means he had vaguely heard of for restoring the drowned to life. But he sprung back shocked. On one of Masha’s half-opened eyes, a lady bird was walking. It crawled very slowly, slipping like a tear of blood.

The tiny detail showed Mesentzeff there was nothing more to do. He unconsciously made the sing of the cross and as though waiting for the signal, the women began to weep.

«Does Vania know of this?» asked Mesentzeff of the stunned and horrified miller.

«No. We can’t find him anywhere.»

«And Mitia?»

«Who? What? Oh! Mitia — he has gone off too.»

Mesentzeff gave a half groan. He realized that all this had happened because of his sleeping so shamefully; because he had let the lads leave and neglected the girl in the hour of her mortal distress. With the usual weakness of man, always seeking to justify himself by accusing others, he felt a sudden hatred for Mitia. It was Mitia who had seduced Masha, had dragged Vania away on a more than doubtful path; and was even now dancing through the green pastures seeking further crimes to commit.

Mesentzeff was inspired with a strange desire for action. At least the red-lipped brigand could be overtaken and convicted of Masha’s death; convicted too in the presence of Vania who apparently was a friend of his. Only in this way Mesentzeff thought he could free himself from the stain of circumstantial if unintentional complicity.

Two roads led out of the village: one went to the far off town where Mitia had come from and the other to the immense wilderness of prairie and forest beyond which on clear days floated the blue summits of Ural, like pale clouds on the horizon. The latter was of course the way to go, Mitia being unlikely to return so soon to a place he had once left. He certainly did not give that impression.

Half an hour later with a small bundle under his arm containing a toothbrush, a hundred cigarettes and a volume of Nietzsche, Mesentzeff set off at the double quick pace which according to the drill-book is not tiring. However, after three hours of this he stopped and hailing a passing cart begged the driver to take him up. Three hours later he was set down at a crossroads and continued his journey on foot, inquiring of every rare passer-by whether he had not seen two young men, the first pink and charming looking, the other sunburnt and evil faced?

It was already dark and Mesentzeff thinking of finding a village to rest in, when in answer to his stereotyped inquiry, a man sitting on the side of the road exclaimed familiarly, «An evil faced man? Perhaps you mean me?» It was Mitia.

«Where is Vania?» asked Mesentzeff curtly, not deigning to greet his enemy.

«That’s no affair of yours,» sneered the other. «What do you want with him?»

«I am going to tell him that Masha is dead and that you are her murderer.» Mesentzeff’s voice was menacing and had its effect.

«Hush! Hush!» whispered Mitia rising hastily to his feet and approaching Mesentzeff. «Don’t shout so loud! So she committed suicide? Did she hang herself?»

«She threw herself in the river.»

«It’s the same thing. You mustn’t tell Vania on any account. I know him. He’ll go off to the monks. And stay there all his life, the conscientious donkey!»

«He would be perfectly right,» said Mesentzeff. «It is his fault almost as much as yours, if the poor girl is dead.»

«I’ll take his share of the sin. I’m not afraid of Hell!»

«But Vania must know about it,» insisted Mesentzeff angrily, «if only that he may tell you what he thinks of you.»