“In that case we could rely on word of honor.”
“How so?”
“The woman can take her lover’s word of honor that he’ll shoot himself the next day.”
“And the next day he goes abroad, and she’s left a fool.”
“Yes, if he agrees to remain forever dishonored in the eyes of the woman he loves. And are the terms themselves really so harsh? Is life such a treasure that one is sorry to buy happiness at the cost of it? Judge for yourself: the first prankster to come along, whom I despise, says something about me that cannot harm me in any way, and I offer my head to his bullet—I have no right to deny this satisfaction to the first bully who comes along and decides to test my sang-froid. Am I going to play the coward when it comes to my own bliss? What is life, if it’s poisoned by dejection and empty desires! And what good is it, if its pleasures are exhausted?”
“Are you really capable of entering into such a contract?”
At that moment Volskaya, who had been sitting silently all the while with lowered eyes, quickly shot a glance at Alexei Ivanych.
“I’m not speaking about myself. But a man who is truly in love will of course not hesitate for a single moment…”
“What? Even for a woman who doesn’t love you? (And one who would agree to your terms surely doesn’t love you.) The thought alone of such brutality must destroy the wildest passion…”
“No, I would see in her acceptance only a fervid imagination. As for requited love…I don’t demand that of her: if I love, whose business is it?…”
“Stop it—God knows what you’re saying. So this is what you didn’t want to tell about—”
The young countess K., a chubby, homely thing, tried to give an important expression to her nose, which resembled an onion stuck onto a turnip, and said:
“Even nowadays there are women who value themselves more highly…”
Her husband, a Polish count, who had married her for her money (mistakenly, they say), lowered his eyes and drank off his cup of tea.
“What do you mean by that, Countess?” asked the young man, barely holding back a smile…
“I mean,” the countess K. replied, “that a woman who respects herself, who respects…” Here she became confused; Vershnev came to her aid.
“You think that a woman who respects herself does not desire the death of a sinner8—isn’t it so?”
The conversation changed course.
Alexei Ivanych sat down beside Volskaya, bent over as if studying her embroidery, and said to her in a half whisper: “What do you think of Cleopatra’s terms?”
Volskaya said nothing. Alexei Ivanych repeated his question.
“What can I tell you? Nowadays, too, some women value themselves highly. But nineteenth-century men are too coldblooded, too reasonable, to agree to such terms.”
“Do you think,” Alexei Ivanych said in a suddenly altered voice, “do you think that in our time, in Petersburg, here, a woman can be found who would have enough pride, enough inner strength, to lay down Cleopatra’s terms to her lover?…”
“I think so; I’m even certain.”
“You’re not deceiving me? Just think: that would be too cruel, more cruel than the terms themselves…”
Volskaya looked at him with fiery, piercing eyes and in a firm voice said: “No.”
Alexei Ivanych stood up and disappeared at once.
*1 “Who is being fooled here?”
*2 ‘She had so much lust that she often sold herself; so much beauty that many bought a night with her at the price of death.’
A Story from Roman Life
Caesar was traveling, Titus Petronius1 and I were following him at a distance. After sunset slaves put up a tent, placed couches; we lay down to feast and converse merrily; at dawn we set out again and fell sweetly asleep each on his own lectica, weary from the heat and the night’s pleasures.
We reached Cumae and were already thinking of going further, when a messenger came to us from Nero. He brought Petronius an order from Caesar to return to Rome and there await the deciding of his fate following a hateful denunciation.
We were horror-stricken. Petronius alone listened indifferently to his sentence, dismissed the messenger with a gift, and announced to us his intention to stay in Cumae. He sent his favorite slave to choose and rent a house for him and awaited his return in a cypress grove dedicated to the Eumenides.2
We surrounded him uneasily. Flavius Aurelius asked if he meant to stay long in Cumae and whether he was not afraid of irritating Nero by his disobedience.
“I not only do not mean to disobey him,” Petronius replied with a smile, “but I even intend to forestall his wishes. But you, my friends, I advise to return. On a clear day a traveler rests in the shade of an oak tree, but during a thunderstorm he prudently distances himself from it, fearing bolts of lightning.”
We all expressed a wish to stay with him, and Petronius affectionately thanked us. The servant came back and led us to the house he had chosen. It was on the edge of town. It was managed by an old freedman, in the absence of the owner, who had left Italy long ago. Under his supervision, several slaves kept the rooms and gardens clean. In the wide entryway we found statues of the nine muses; by the door stood two centaurs.
Petronius paused on the marble threshold and read the greeting inscribed on it: Welcome! A sad smile appeared on his face. The old steward led him to the library, where we examined several scrolls and then went on to the master’s bedroom. It was simply decorated. There were only two family statues in it. One portrayed a matron sitting in a chair, the other a girl playing with a ball. A small lamp stood on a night table by the bed. Here Petronius stayed to rest and dismissed us, inviting us to gather there in the evening.
I could not fall asleep; sorrow filled my soul. I saw in Petronius not only a generous benefactor, but also a friend, sincerely attached to me. I respected his vast mind; I loved his beautiful soul. From his conversation I drew a knowledge of the world and of men, which were known to me more from the speculations of the divine Plato than from my own experience. His judgments were usually quick and correct. Indifference toward everything saved him from partiality, and sincerity in regard to himself made him perspicacious. Life could not offer him anything new; he had tasted all pleasures; his senses slumbered, dulled by habit, but his mind kept an astonishing freshness. He liked the play of ideas, as he did the harmony of words. He listened eagerly to philosophical discussions and wrote verses no worse than Catullus.
I went out to the garden and for a long time walked along its winding paths, shaded by old trees. I sat down on a bench in the shadow of a spreading poplar, beside which stood the statue of a young satyr fashioning a reed pipe. Wishing to drive my sad thoughts away somehow, I took out a writing tablet and translated one of the odes of Anacreon, which I have kept in memory of that sad day:
Gray they’ve grown, thin they’ve grown,
My locks, the honor of my head,
The teeth have weakened in my gums,
The fire of my eyes grows dim.
Not many days are left to me
Of this sweet life to be seen off,
The Parcae keep a strict account,
Tartarus awaits my shade—
Dreadful the cold of the nether vault,
The way in is open to us all,
But there is no coming out of it…
All go down—and lie forgot.3
The sun was sinking towards the west; I went to Petronius. I found him in the library. He was pacing about; with him was his personal doctor, Septimius. Seeing me, Petronius stopped and recited facetiously: