Elisaveta dressed herself up as a boy. She loved to do this and she did it quite often; so tedious is the monotony of our lives that even a change of dress furnishes a diversion!

Elisaveta put on a white sailor-jacket with a blue collar, and blue knee-breeches which revealed the beauty and grace of her sunburnt lower limbs; she put on a cap, took a fishing-rod and went to the river. Elisaveta looked like a rather tall stripling of fourteen in this dress.

It was quiet and bright on the river’s bank. Elisaveta sat down on a stone at the edge, lowered her feet into the water, and watched the float. A rowing-boat appeared. Elisaveta looked intently and saw that it contained Stchemilov. The latter called out:

“I say, my lad, if you belong here, can you tell me if....”

Then he paused because Elisaveta was laughing.

“Well, who would have thought it—comrade Elisaveta?”

“You didn’t recognize me, comrade?” asked Elisaveta with a merry laugh, as she approached the landing-place where Stchemilov was already fastening his boat.

“I must confess that I didn’t know you at once,” he replied, as he pressed her hand warmly. “I have come for you. To-night we are to hold our mass meeting.”

“Is it really to-night?” asked Elisaveta.

She grew cold from agitation and confusion as she recalled that she had promised to speak that evening.

“Yes, to-night,” said Stchemilov; “I hope you haven’t changed your mind. You will speak, eh?”

“I thought it was to be to-morrow,” she replied. “Just wait a moment. I’ll get a small bundle of clothes. I will change at your place.”

She quickly and gaily tripped up the bank. Stchemilov whistled as he sat waiting in the boat. Elisaveta soon reappeared, and deftly jumped into the boat.

It was necessary to row past the whole length of the town. No one on either bank recognized Elisaveta in her boy’s attire. Stchemilov’s house, a cabin in the middle of a vegetable garden, stood on a steep bank of the river, just along the edge of the town.

No one had yet arrived at the house. Elisaveta picked up a periodical which lay on the table and asked:

“Tell me, comrade, how do you like these verses?”

Stchemilov looked at the periodical, open at a page which contained Trirodov’s verses. He smiled and said:

“What shall I say? His revolutionary poems are not bad. Nowadays, however, everybody writes them. As for his other works, they are not written about us. Noblemen’s delights are not for us.”

“It’s a long time since I’ve been here,” said Elisaveta. “What a mess you’ve got here.”

“A house without a mistress,” answered Stchemilov, rather confused.

Elisaveta began to put things in order and to clean and to scrub. She moved about with agile grace. Stchemilov admired her graceful limbs; it was fascinating to watch the play of the muscles under the brown skin of her calves. He exclaimed in a clear, almost ecstatic voice:

“How graceful you are, Elisaveta! Like a statue! I never saw such arms and legs.”

“I feel embarrassed, comrade Aleksei. You praise me to my eyes as if I were a charming piece of property.”

Stchemilov suddenly flushed with embarrassment; his habitual self-assurance appeared to have left him unexpectedly. He breathed heavily and stammered out in confusion:

“Comrade Elisaveta, you are a fine person. Don’t be offended at my words. I love you. I know that for you social inequality is a silly thing; and you know that for me your money is of no account. Now if I am not repugnant to you....”

Elisaveta stood before him calm and yet sad, and as she dried her hands, grown red from the cold water, with a towel, she said quietly:

“Forgive me, comrade Aleksei—you are right about my views, but I love another.”

She herself did not know how these words came to be spoken. Love another! So unexpectedly the secret of her heart revealed itself in superficial words. But did he love her, that other one?

They were both flustered. Stchemilov strove heroically to control his agitation. As he looked with his confused eyes into her clear blue ones he said:

“Forgive me, Elisaveta, and forget what I have said. I didn’t guess right that time and did the wrong thing. I didn’t think that you’d love him. Don’t be angry at me and don’t despise me.”

“Enough, Aleksei,” said Elisaveta tenderly. “You know how I respect you. We are friends. Give me your hand.”

Stchemilov gave her hand a tight, comradely pressure, then bent down and kissed it. Elisaveta drew nearer to him and kissed his lips with a tranquil, innocent, delicious kiss, such as a sister gives a brother. Then she snatched up her bundle and ran into the passage, one of the doors of which led to a small storeroom where the literature was kept in a trunk under the floor.

She ran into Kiril on the way.

“Is Aleksei home, my lad?”

“Yes,” said Elisaveta; “enter, comrade Kiril.”

When Kiril heard the familiar voice and, lifting his eyes, saw plaits of hair wound around the lad’s head, he was astonished. He was very much embarrassed upon recognizing Elisaveta. She hid herself behind the door of the storeroom, while Kiril blundered for a long time in the dark hall, unable in his confusion to find the door.

Others began to come in: there was the school-instructor Bodeyev, instructor Voronok of the town school, and the imported orator, who came accompanied by Alkina.

Elisaveta was attired by now in a simple dark blue dress.

“It’s time to start,” said Stchemilov.

Once seated in the rowing-boat, the members of the party became silent and slightly nervous. Only the new-comer was perfectly calm—he was used to it. Near-sighted, he looked indifferently out of his spectacles, now one side, now the other, and told bits of news while smoking one cigarette after another. He was young, tall, and flat-chested. He had a lean face, long, smooth, chestnut-coloured hair, and a scant beard. His flat round cap, reddish in the sun, gave him the look of an artisan.

It had begun to grow dark by the time they disembarked at the appointed place. There was still a half-verst to go through the wood on foot. The evening twilight seemed oppressed under the eternal vaults of the wood; it hummed and rustled with barely audible noises and the sad whisperings of stealthy beings.

They gathered at last in a large glade in the midst of a tall, dense wood. The moon was already high in the sky, and the black shadows of the trees crept across half of the glade. The trees were intensely still and pensive, as if they wished to listen to the words of these people who had collected at their feet. But they really did not care to listen—they had their own life and were indifferent to all these people. And they suffered neither joy nor sadness at sheltering in their dark shade many young girls who were in love with the dream of liberation—among them Elisaveta, who was also in love with this dream, and who created for it a temple of young passion and embroidered into this dream’s design the image of a living man in a mysterious house. She was deliciously in love and painfully agitated by the sudden acknowledgment she made of her love in her poignantly sweet words, “I love another.”

In the dark shade of the trees were red glimmering cigarettes and pipes. The odour of tobacco mingled with the fresh, nocturnal coolness and gave it a sweet piquancy. Piquant also, in the nocturnal stillness, were the sounds of the young, eager voices. And these people had no concern with the mystery of the wood made audible in the silence. The people behaved as if they were at home. They sat about and walked and met each other and chatted. Sometimes, when the din of talk grew too loud, the leaders of the meeting uttered their warnings. Then the voices were lowered.

There were about three hundred people of all kinds—labouring men, young people from schools, young Jews, and very many girls. All the young Jews and Jewesses of the town had come. They were agitated more than the rest and their speech nearly always passed into a violent commotion. They awaited so much, they hoped so passionately! They were so painfully in love with the dream of liberation!

Some of the instructresses from Trirodov’s colony were also here, among them the sad Nadezhda and the ecstatic Maria. There were quite a number of schoolboys and schoolgirls present. These tried to act at ease, to show that it was not their first occasion of the sort. There were also many college students, both men and women. The young were burning with joyous unrest. But all who had gathered were intensely agitated. It was the sweet agitation of their dream of liberation; how tenderly and how passionately they were in love with it! And in more than one young heart virginal passion flowed together with the dream of liberation; young passionate love flamed with a great fire in the joy of liberation, making one of liberation and love, of revolt and sacrifice, of wine and blood—what delicious mystery in love thirsting and yielding! And more than one pair of eyes sparkled at the sight of a beloved image, and more than one pair of lips whispered:

“And he’s here!”

“And she’s here!”

In the shade, under the trees, where indiscreet glances could not penetrate, impatient lips met in a quick, timid kiss. And the first words were:

“I’m not late, comrade?”

“No, comrade Natalya, you are in time.”

“Let us go over there, comrade Valentine.”

The names were pronounced tenderly. A man in a cap, black shirt,18 and high boots, walked up to Elisaveta. He had a small black beard and moustache, and his face, which was both familiar and unfamiliar, had something in it that stirred her. He exclaimed:

“Elisaveta, you don’t recognize me?”

She recognized him at once by his voice. A warmth suffused her. She laughed and said joyously:

“I knew you by your voice alone. Your beard and moustache make you wholly unrecognizable.”

“They are glued on,” explained Trirodov.

They conversed. He heard some one whisper behind his back:

“That is comrade Elisaveta. She’s considered the first beauty in our town.”

Trirodov was for some reason overjoyed at these words, partly because Elisaveta heard them and blushed so furiously that even the dim moonlight could not hide her blushes.

A few detectives had also managed to find their way here, and there was even one provocateur. These chattels alone knew that the police had information about the meeting and that the wood would shortly be encircled by the Cossacks.

Conversations were kept up among small groups for some time before the meeting opened. The agitators discussed matters with labouring men who were not in the party. The more interesting people were introduced to the invited speaker.

Stchemilov’s loud voice rang out:

“Comrades, attention. I propose comrade Abram as chairman.”

“Agreed, agreed,” came suppressed voices from every side.

Comrade Abram took his place on a high stump of a hewn-down tree. The speeches began. Elisaveta was nervous until it came her turn to speak. She was troubled with pain and fear because she knew that Trirodov would hear her.

Proud, brave watchwords and bold instructions were heard. The provocateur also made a speech. He urged them to an immediate armed revolt. Some one’s voice called out:

“Comrades—this man’s a provocateur!”

There was a commotion. The provocateur shouted something in his defence. He was promptly jostled out.

Then Stchemilov spoke; he was followed by the invited orator. Elisaveta’s agitation grew.

But when the chairman said, “Comrade Elisaveta, the word belongs to you,” she suddenly became calm and, having ascended the high stump that served as the platform, began to speak. Her deep, measured voice carried far. Some one seemed to echo it in the wood—it was like a fantastic, restless din. A being beloved by her and near to her sat there and listened; her beloved, near comrades also listened. Hundreds of attentive eyes followed her, and the dear friendly looks, converging like lances under a shield, held her very high in the pure atmosphere of happiness.

The sweet moments of joy passed by like a short dream. She ended her speech and came down among the audience, where she was received with flattering comments and strong pressures of the hand—sometimes, it must be confessed, a little over-strong.

“I say, comrade, you’ll break my hand. How strong you are!”

And his face would also break into a joyous smile.

The speeches ended. The songs began. The wood re-echoed with proud, brave words, with a song of freedom and revolt. Suddenly the song stopped short, a confused murmur ran through the crowd. Some one shouted:

“The Cossacks!”

Some one shouted:

“Run, comrades!”

Some one ran. Some one shouted:

“Be calm, comrades!”

The Cossacks had hid themselves in the wood a couple of versts from the meeting. Many of them had managed to take several drinks. As they sat around their bonfires they began to sing a gay, noisy, indecent song, but their officers enjoined silence.

A spy came running; he whispered something to the colonel. Soon a command was given. The Cossacks jumped quickly on their horses and rode away, leaving the half-consumed bonfire behind them. The dry faggots and the grass smouldered a long time. The forest caught fire.19

“What’s the matter?” asked Elisaveta.

Some one whispered quickly:

“Do you hear, it’s the Cossacks! I wonder which side they are coming from. It’s hard to tell which way to run.”

“They are coming from town,” said some one. “The only thing to do is to go towards Opalikha.”

The leaders began to give orders:

“Comrades, be calm. Scatter as quickly as possible. Don’t jostle. The road to Dubky is clear.”

A number of horses’ heads suddenly appeared from among the trees quiet close to Elisaveta, and their dumb but good eyes looked on incomprehensibly. The crowd of young people began to run, and carried Elisaveta along with them. She was seized by a feeling of stupor. She thought:

“What’s the use of running? They’ll overtake us and drive us wherever they will.”

But she had not enough strength to pause. They were all running, and she with them. Another detachment of Cossacks appeared in front of them. Cries and wails went up from the crowd, which began to scatter in all directions. The Cossacks came on, as it were, in a broad chain.

Many managed to break through, some with blood-stained faces and torn clothes. The others were driven forward from the rear and the sides and gradually became a compact mass. It was evident that the Cossacks were trying to get the crowd into the middle of the glade. Those who had broken through the ring at the very beginning had some hope of escape. There were about a hundred people in the ring. They were driven towards the town, and those who tried to escape were lashed with the nagaika.

A few shots resounded in the distance. The provocateur fired the first shot—into the air. This aroused the anger of the Cossacks, who began to shoot at those who ran.

Elisaveta and Alkina managed to escape the first ring together. But they could hear all around them the cries of the Cossacks. They paused and pressed close to an old oak, not knowing which way to turn. They were joined by Trirodov.

“Follow me,” he said to them; “I think I can find a less dangerous place.”

“What has become of our invited speaker?” asked Alkina.

“Don’t worry about that,” was the impatient reply; “he was the first to be attended to. He’s out of danger now. You’d better go on quickly.”

He walked confidently through the bushes and they followed him.

The sounds made by the patrols of Cossacks were heard on every side. Suddenly the runners were confronted by the figure of a Cossack who stepped out from the bushes. He aimed his nagaika at Elisaveta, but she, falling headlong, escaped the brunt of the blow. The Cossack bent down, caught Elisaveta by her plait of hair, and began to drag her after him. Elisaveta cried out from pain. Trirodov pulled out a revolver and shot him almost without taking aim. The Cossack cried out and let his victim go. All three then made their way through the bushes. A deep hollow cut their progress short.

“Well, we are almost out of danger here,” said Trirodov.

They lowered themselves, almost rolled down to the bottom of the hollow. Their faces and hands bore scratches and their clothes were torn. On one of the sloping sides of the hollow they found a deep recess made by the rains, and now obscured by the bushes; and here they hid themselves.

“Presently we’ll make for the river-bank,” said Trirodov. “We are quite close to it.”

Suddenly they heard the crackle of breaking twigs above them, followed by a revolver-shot and outcries. A running figure defined itself in the dark.

“Kiril!” called Elisaveta in a whisper, “come here.”

Kiril heard her, and threw himself through the bushes in the direction of the hiding-place. Elisaveta could now see, quite close to her, his fatigued, desperate eyes. There was a loud, near report of a revolver. Kiril reeled; there was the sound of breaking twigs as he fell heavily and rolled down the hollow.

Presently a running Cossack came down precipitately from above. He brushed so closely past them that a twig caught by his body struck Alkina’s shoulder. But Alkina did not stir; pale, slender, and calm, she stood tightly pressing her body against the almost perpendicular wall of their refuge. The Cossack bent over Kiril, examined him attentively, then muttered as he straightened himself:

“Well, there’s no breath left in him. You’re done for, my clever chap.”

Then he turned to climb back again. When the rustle of the parted bushes ceased Trirodov said:

“Now we must walk carefully along this hollow until we come to the river. There is a bend in the river here in the direction of the town—we are bound to get somewhere almost across from my place. Then we must find our way to the other side somehow or other.”

Slowly and cautiously they made their way through the thick growths of the hollow. They walked in the dark—Trirodov and the two with him, his chance one and his fated one, sent him by the two Moirae, Aisa and Ananke.20

The bushes became moist and a fresh breeze blew from the river. Then Alkina came close to Trirodov and whispered to him:

“If you are glad that she loves you, tell me, and I will share your gladness.”

Trirodov pressed her hand warmly.

The quiet, dim river lay before them. Beyond it the labours and dangers of life created by the dream of liberation awaited them.

Soon the mist would rise above the river under the cold and witching moon—soon the misty veil of fantasy would lighten the tedious and commonplace life, and behind the veil of mist there would rise in dim outlines another kind of life, creative and unattainable.