Hence arose the romanticism, in which she created a world of her own. Directly anything in the real world was done not in accordance with the canons of her world, her
M
heart rose in revolt and she was wretched. Her feminine organisation, weak enough without this strain, endured a shock, often a very violent one. Repeated emotions shook her nerves, and at last reduced them to a state of complete derangement. This is the reason of the pensiveness and melancholy without cause, the pessimistic view of life in so many women; this is why the order of human existence, marvellously and harmoniously framed and carried on according to immutable laws, seems to them a heavy bondage ; in a word, this is why they are frightened by reality. ! She had been educated on French novels, music, and theatre going. At eighteen she had first tasted the sweet-i ness of Russian poetry and her imagination was in quest ^ i now of an Onegin, now of some hero of a masterpiece of I the new school—pale, melancholy, disillusioned.
When she had been displayed to the world in the drawing-rooms, with a constantly melancholy gaze, an interesting pallor, an ethereal shape, and slender foot, she attracted the notice of Taphaev, a man with every qualification of a suitor; that is to say, of respectable rank, good circumstances, with a decoration on his breast—in fact, with a career and a fortune.
The pale, melancholy girl, through some strange inconsistency in his robust temperament, made a strong impression on him. He retreated from the cards at evening parties and fell into unwonted reverie gazing at the half-ethereal shape that flitted before him. When her languid glance fell, of course accidentally, upon him, tried fencer in drawing-room conversation as he was, he grew abashed before the timid girl, attempted to say something to her sometimes and could not. This annoyed him and he resolved to act with more decision through the medium of several aunts.
His inquiries concerning her dowry seemed fairly satisfactory. " Why, we are well matched!" he argued with himself. " I am only forty-five, she is eighteen; with our fortunes more than two can live comfortably. As to externals she is rather pretty, and I am what is called presentable. Yes, we are a suitable match."
And so, directly Julia had emerged from childhood, there met her at the very first step a most grievous actuality—an ordinary husband ! How far removed he was from those heroes created for her by her fancy and the poets !
She had passed five years in this weary dream, as she called marriage without love, and suddenly freedom and love had appeared. She smiled and stretched out her arms to fold it in feverish embraces, and abandoned herself to her passion as a rider at a fast gallop abandons himself to his horse. He is borne along by the powerful beast, heedless of distance. Breathless, with all things racing past, with the wind blowing fresh in the face, the heart is almost overmastered by the voluptuous sensation. The romantic moment of life had come at last for her; she began to love that bitter-sweet shudder of the soul, to seek emotion for its own sake, to devise both torture and bliss for herself. She had become a slave to her passion, as men become the slaves of opium, and eagerly drank the sweet poison.
One evening Julia was already agitated by expectation. She stood at the window, and her impatience grew greater every minute. She was pulling a China rose to pieces and throwing the petals on to the ground in her vexation, but her heart failed her; it was one of her moments of torture. She played a mental game of question and answer; would he come or would he not, all the power of her mind was bent on solving that hard problem. If it gave an affirmative answer, she smiled, when it did not, she grew pale.
When Alexandr arrived, she had sunk pale and exhausted into an armchair, so powerfully her nerves wrought upon her. When he came up to her .... impossible to describe the look with which she met him, the rapture which lighted up every feature in an instant, as though they had not met for a year; though they had seen each other the evening before. Without speaking, she pointed to the clock on the wall; but he had hardly opened his lips to explain, before she accepted his words without listening to them and forgave him and, forgetting all the agony of suspense, gave him her hand, and they sat long talking and silently gazing at one another. Had not the servant reminded them, they would infallibly have forgotten to have dinner.
What blissfulness! Alexandr had never dreamed of such full perfection of " sincere outpourings of the heart." In the summer they took walks alone together out of the town; if people were thronging together anywhere attracted by music, or fireworks, they hovered afar off among the trees, walking hand in hand. In the winter Alexandr arrived at
A COMMON STORY
dinner-time and afterwards they sat side by side by the fire till midnight. Sometimes they ordered a sledge to be brought round, and after flying through the dark streets they hastened back to continue their unfinished conversation by the samovar. Everything that presented itself, every passing stir of thought or feeling—all was felt and done in common.
Alexandr feared meeting with his uncle above all things. He sometimes went to see Lizaveta Alexandrovna, but she never succeeded in moving him to confidences. He was always uneasy lest his uncle should appear and should make him figure in some scene of comedy again and so he always cut his visits short.
/ Was he happy ? Of other men in the like case one may answer yes and no at once, but of him one can only say no. With him love began with suffering. At moments when he succeeded in forgetting the past, he believed in the possibility of happiness, in Julia and in her love. At another time he would grow troubled in the midst of the fire of the most sincere outpourings, and would listen with apprehension to her passionate enthusiastic rhapsodies. He fancied that she must certainly change to him, or some other blow from destiny would lay waste his glorious world of bliss. Even while he was enjoying the moment of happiness, he knew that it must be bought with suffering, and melancholy took hold of him again.
The winter passed however, summer came, and his love still continued. Julia had become still more fervently devoted to him. There was no change on her part nor any blow from destiny; what did happen was altogether different His face grew more serene. He had grown used to the idea of the possibility of a permanent attachment. " Though this love is not now so passionate," he thought one day, as he looked at Julia, " yet in compensation it is lasting, perhaps eternal! Yes, there is no doubt of it. Ah, at last I understand thee, Destiny! Thou wouldst atone to me for my past sufferings and lead me, after long wanderings, into a quiet harbour at last. So here is the haven of happiness—Julia !" he cried aloud.
She started. • "What is it?" she asked.
" Nothing ! only—~ w
"Nothing! tell me; you had some idea." Aiexandr was obstinate. She continued to press him.
" I thought that to make our happiness complete there is wanting "
" What?" she asked with anxiety.
"Oh, nothing! an idea occurred to me." Julia was troubled.
" Ah ! don't torture me, tell me directly !" she said.
Aiexandr spoke musingly in an undertone as though to himself. "To gain the right, not to leave her for an instant, not to go away home—to be everywhere and always with her. To be her rightful protector before the eyes of the world .... she to call me hers aloud, without blushing or turning pale .... and to be so all our lives, and to take pride in it for ever."