The Duel - Aleksandr Kuprin (best summer reads of all time TXT) 📗

what bliss⁠—I love you,” Romashov again interrupted her, intoxicated with love. “See, this night⁠—this silence, and no one here, save ourselves. Oh, my happiness, how I love you!”

But again she replied, “No, no,” and sank back into her former attitude on the grass. She breathed heavily. At last she said in a scarcely audible voice, and it was plain that every word cost her a great effort:

“Romochka, it’s a pity that you are so weak. I will not deny that I feel myself drawn to you, and that you are dear to me, in spite of your awkwardness, your simple inexperience of life, your childish and sentimental tenderness. I do not say I love you, but you are always in my thoughts, in my dreams, and your presence, your caresses set my senses, my thoughts, working. But why are you always so pitiable? Remember that pity is the sister of contempt. You see it is unfortunate I cannot look up to you. Oh, if you were a strong, purposeful man⁠—” She took off Romashov’s cap and put her fingers softly and caressingly through his soft hair. “If you could only win fame⁠—a high position⁠—”

“I promise to do so; I will do so,” exclaimed Romashov, in a strained voice. “Only be mine, come to me⁠ ⁠… all my life shall.⁠ ⁠…”

She interrupted him with a tender and sorrowful smile, of which there was an echo in her voice.

“I believe you, dear; I believe you mean what you say, and I also know you will never be able to keep your promise. Oh, if I could only cherish the slightest hope of that, I would abandon everything and follow you. Ah, Romochka, my handsome boy, I call to mind a certain legend which tells how God from the beginning created every human being whole, but afterwards broke it into two pieces and threw the bits broadcast into the world. And ever afterward the one half seeks in vain its fellow. Dear, we are both exactly two such unhappy creatures. With us there are so many sympathies, antipathies, thoughts, dreams, and wishes in common. We understand each other by means of only half a hint, half a word⁠—nay, even without words. And yet our ways must lie apart. Alas! this is now the second time in my life⁠—”

“Yes, I know it.”

“Has he told you this?” asked Shurochka eagerly.

“No; it was only by accident I got to know it.”

They were both silent. In the sky the first stars began to light up and display themselves to the eye as little, trembling, emerald, sparkling points. From the right you might hear a weak echo of voices, laughter and the strains of a song; but in all the rest of the wood, which was sunk in soft, caressing darkness, reigned a deep, mysterious silence. The great blazing pyre was not visible from this spot in the woods, but the crests from the nearest oaks now and then reflected the flaming red glow that, by its rapid changes from darkness to light, reminded one of distant and vivid sheet-lightning. Shurochka softly and silently caressed Romashov’s hair and face. When he succeeded in seizing her fingers between his lips, she herself pressed the palm of her hand against his mouth.

“I do not love my husband,” she said slowly and in an absent voice. “He is rough, indelicate, and devoid of any trace of fine feeling. Ah, I blush when I speak of it⁠—we women never forget how a man first takes forcible possession of us. Besides, he is so insanely jealous. Even today he worries me about that wretched Nasanski. He forces confessions from me, and makes the most insignificant events of those times the ground for the wildest conclusions. Ah⁠—shame, he has unblushingly dared to put the most disgusting questions to me. Good God! all that was only an innocent, childish romance, but the mere mention of Nasanski’s name makes him furious.”

Now and then, whilst she spoke, a nervous trembling was noticeable in her voice, and her hand, still continuing its caress, was thrilled, as it were, by a shudder.

“Are you cold?” asked Romashov.

“No, dear⁠—not at all,” she replied gently. “The night is so bewitchingly beautiful, you know.” Suddenly, with a burst of uncontrollable passion, she exclaimed, “Oh, my beloved, how sweet to be here with you.”

Romashov took her hand, softly caressed the delicate fingers, and said in a shy, diffident tone:

“Tell me, I beg you. You have just said yourself that you do not love your husband. Why, then, do you live together?”

She arose with a rapid movement, sat up, and began nervously to pass her hands over her forehead and cheeks, as if she had awakened from a dream.

“It’s late; let us go. Perhaps they are even now looking for us,” she answered in a calm and completely altered voice.

They got up from the grass, and both stood for a while silent, listening to each other’s breathings, eye to eye, but with lowered gaze.

“Goodbye,” she suddenly cried in a silvery voice. “Goodbye, my bliss⁠—my brief bliss.”

She twined her arms round his neck and pressed her moist, burning-hot lips to his mouth. With clenched teeth and a sigh of intense passion she pressed her body to his. To Romashov’s eyes the black trunks of the oaks seemed to reel and softly bend towards the ground, where the objects ran into each other and disappeared before his eyes. Time stood still.⁠ ⁠…

By a violent jerk she released herself from his arms, and said in a firm voice:

“Farewell⁠—enough. Let us go.”

Romashov without a sound sank down on the grass at her feet, embracing her knees, and pressing his lips against her dress in long, hot kisses.

“Sascha⁠—Saschenka,” he whispered, having now lost all self-command, “have pity on me.”

“Get up, Georgi Alexandrovich! Come⁠—they might take us unawares. Let us return to the others.”

They proceeded on their way in the direction from which they heard the sound of voices. Romashov’s temples throbbed, his knees gave way, and he stumbled like a drunken man.

“No, I