The Faraway Bride

took her queenship so much for granted that she did not know of it. It was only the word “alone” that had such a cruel, insulting sound⁠—synonymous with undefended. Her wordless diffused egoism demanded defense against all that was implied by the word “alone.” A queen has a right to be defended. Yet, of course, Tatiana defended herself⁠—she would have resented that intrusion, actual defense. Perhaps she needed fairy counselors and was only offered lovers. Perhaps she needed the comfort of God and was only offered the love of men. At any rate, the word “alone” made her cry. Live and die alone. It was uttered like a threat and therefore it made her cry⁠—just as the words be crowned a queen, uttered portentously, might make a queen-beginner cry. Words, heard by the ear, bring tears from the eyes. But hearts are left firm on their thrones, deep down, beyond the reach of threats and tears. Alone⁠—how ugly a word! Alone⁠—how fierce a threat! Alone⁠—how sore and smarting must Piotr’s poor vanity be, to utter such a threat. She felt an unbearable compassion for him. She imagined she could hear his baffled vanity⁠—rejected⁠—driven home⁠—going round and round in his breast, crying⁠—why⁠—why⁠—why? Other girls, he said, knew his value better. That was his poor darling vanity that spoke; he was besieged inside himself⁠—firing off the failing ammunition of his vanity from behind that pink serious face, those blinking blue eyes, that hard healthy nose, that deeply-breathing chest. Of course there was value in that bewildered body of his⁠—of course other girls knew that value. Why not? She knew it herself. Yet suddenly, as she reviewed his deserts, the very thought of his touching her outraged her. She felt sick. She stopped crying.

“It’s no use, dear Petya,” she said in a quavering voice. “I’m not proud of this fear in me. I don’t pretend it. I am what I am.”

But, very deep down in her heart, she was proud of this birthmark of remoteness. It was not a fear⁠—it was not a fleeing away, but a repelling. Somehow she knew without knowing it, that to be alone was to be judged by a strange calm standard⁠—to be judged, in fact, by herself only⁠—the ideal of pride. Loneliness was in itself a sort of license to live strangely⁠—to live according to an outlaw’s law.

There was a long silence during which Tatiana, her tears drying on her cheeks, watched the caterpillar under the jam-pot. She thought it was arguing to itself: “Now I must keep my head and think clearly. I got in here, so there must be a way out. That stands to reason.” A perfectly good argument. But there was no way out.

Piotr, who had turned his face away, looked at her and saw where her attention was. Grunting with irritation, he knocked the jam-pot over, and the caterpillar, congratulating itself on this justification of its logic, rippled away.

“Come over to the tree, Tanya, and listen to what I have to say,” said Piotr, hoping there would be no insect life or other distracting livestock there. But not hoping very firmly, for anything, he knew, could hold Tatiana’s attention⁠—anything, except a lover.

She was very docile. She walked by his side, back toward the tree. But, halfway, she stopped and said: “But Petya, is it any good talking? You know what happened⁠—that day. It isn’t words that can alter things like that.”

Piotr remembered. The memory stabbed deeply and quickly through his tender body. He could feel still the generous heat of his accepted love⁠—accepted, for she was docile, and had not refused her lips. Why should she refuse? They were betrothed. His memory still rang with her wild scream; his hands tingled still to recall the stiffening of her body as she had fainted. Thunderstruck, almost unbearably hurt, he had looked up⁠—round⁠—down⁠—as he released her. Had she seen a tiger⁠—heard a shot? No, nothing had happened except the natural gesture of a quite ordinary young man’s quite ordinary love.⁠ ⁠… Words to alter this? He ground his teeth to think that such difficult unsimple things as words should be needed. For he knew no fresh words; he hoped for no inspiration of eloquence. All he had to say was, “But why⁠—why⁠—why?” His only argument was being what he was⁠—a healthy decent young man in love with a beautiful healthy girl, whose parents sanctioned their betrothal. What was wrong with that? What was there left for words to explain in that? When he said, “Well then, I shall go away,” he pictured himself obscurely in two halves; one half walking inexorably away over hill and dale, completely carefree, the other half gloating over the sight of the bereaved Tatiana’s remorse, as she lay, cured of her folly, crying, Come back, come back. Petya my darling.⁠ ⁠…

“Well then, Tanya, I shall go away. You will not see me again.”

Tatiana smiled at once. “Will you really, Piotr Gavrilovitch? Will you really be happy again? I shall think of you happy again, finding a new thing every minute⁠—waving your stick⁠—walking happily along.⁠ ⁠…”

“Happy? I am happy now,” said Piotr, sullenly. “It isn’t a woman that could make me unhappy.”

She looked apologetic again. “Oi, Petya⁠—I hurt you.⁠ ⁠… I wish I had never been born.”

“You didn’t hurt me. How could you hurt me? Certainly we would have been married; there was nothing to prevent it except some whim of yours, Tanya. But why should I care? I am the freer for your whim. This place is too small for a man like me. Perhaps I shall join the Chinese army as an officer. Danger doesn’t frighten me. Almost certainly I shall never come back. There will be nobody ever again to bring you mushrooms.”

“How frightful for him,” thought Tatiana, “that he can’t hurt me, though he is hurt by me. I wish I could seem hurt.”

“Of course I shall be very sorry,” she mumbled, awkwardly.

“Sorry! Sorry to miss the mushrooms,” said Piotr, wildly. “You and your mushrooms!” The very mention of mushrooms