This is what Gilbert wrote in his journal six weeks after his arrival at Geierfels:
A son who has towards his father the sentiments of a slave toward his master; a father who habitually shows towards his son a dislike bordering on hatred--such are the sad subjects for study that Ihave found here.At first I wished to persuade myself that M.
Leminof was simply a cold hard character, a skeptic by disposition, a blase grandee, who believed it a duty to himself to openly testify his scorn for all the humbug of sentiment.He is nothing of the kind.The Count's mind is diseased, his soul tormented, his heart eaten by a secret ulcer and he avenges its sufferings by making others suffer.Yes, the misanthrope seeks vengeance for some deadly affront which has been put upon him by man or by fate;his irony breathes anger and hatred; it conceals deep resentment which breaks out occasionally in his voice, in his look and in his unexpected and violent acts; for he is not always master of himself.At certain times the varnish of cold politeness and icy sportiveness with which he ordinarily conceals his passions, scales off suddenly and falls into dust, and his soul appears in its nakedness.During the first weeks of my residence here he controlled himself in my presence, now I have the honor of possessing his confidence, and he no longer deems it necessary to hide his face from me, nor does he try any longer to deceive me.
It is singular, I thought myself entirely master of my glances, but in spite of myself, they betrayed too much curiosity on one occasion.The other day while I was working with him in his study, he suddenly became dreamy and absent, his brow was like a thundercloud; he neither saw nor heard me.When he came out of his reverie his eyes met mine fixed upon his face, and he saw that Iwas observing him too attentively.
"Come now," said he brusquely, "you remember our stipulations; we are two egotists who have made a bargain with each other.Egotists are not curious; the only thing which interests them in the mind of a fellow-creature, is in the domain of utility."And then fearing that he had offended me, he continued in a softer tone:
"I am the least interesting soul in the world to know.My nerves are very sensitive, and let me say to you once for all, that this is the secret of all the disorders which you may observe in my poor machine.""No, Count Kostia, this is not your secret!" I was tempted to answer."It is not your nerves which torment you.I would wager that in despite of your cynicism and skepticism, you have once believed in something, or in some one who has broken faith with you," but I was careful not to let him suspect my conjectures.Ibelieve he would have devoured me.The anger of this man is terrible, and he does not always spare me the sight of it.
Yesterday especially, he was transported beyond himself, to such an extent that I blushed for him.Stephane had gone to ride with Ivan.The dinner-bell rang and they had not returned.The Count himself went to the entrance of the court to wait for them.His lips were pale, his voice harsh and grating, veiled by a hoarseness which always comes with his gusts of passion.When the delinquents appeared at the end of the path, he ran to them, and measured Stephane from head to foot with a glance so menacing that the child trembled in every limb; but his anger exploded itself entirely upon Ivan.The poor jailer had, however, good excuses to offer:
Stephane's horse had stumbled and cut his knee, and they had been obliged to slacken their pace.The Count appeared to hear nothing.
He signed to Ivan to dismount; which having done, he seized him by the collar, tore from him his whip and beat him like a dog.The unhappy serf allowed himself to be whipped without uttering a cry, without making a movement.The idea of flight or self-defense never occurred to him.Riveted to the spot, his eyes closed, he was the living image of slavery resigned to the last outrages.
Indeed I believe that during this punishment I suffered more than he.My throat was parched, my blood boiled in my veins.My first impulse was to throw myself upon the Count, but I restrained myself; such a violent interference would but have aggravated the fate of Ivan.I clasped my hands and with a stifled voice cried:
"Mercy! mercy!" The Count did not hear me.Then I threw myself between the executioner and his victim.Stupefied, with arm raised and immovable, the Count stared at me with flaming eyes; little by little he became calm, and his face resumed its ordinary expression.
"Let it pass for this time," said he at last, in a hollow voice;"but in future meddle no more in my affairs!"Then dropping the whip to the ground, he strode away.Ivan raised his eyes to me full of tears, his glance expressed at once tenderness, gratitude, and admiration.He seized my hands and covered them with kisses, after which he passed his handkerchief over his face, streaming with perspiration, foam, and blood, and taking the two horses by the bridles, quietly led them to the stable.I found the Count at the table; he had recovered his good humor; he discharged several arrows of playful sarcasm at my "heresies" in matters of history.It was not without effort that Ianswered him, for at this moment he inspired me with an aversion that I could hardly conceal.But I felt bound to recognize the victory which he had gained over himself in abridging Ivan's punishment.After dinner he sent for the serf, who appeared with his forehead and hands furrowed with bloody scars.His lips bore their habitual smile, which was always a mystery to me.His master ordered him to take off his vest, turn down his shirt, and kneel before him; then drawing from his pocket a vial full of some ointment whose virtues he lauded highly, he dressed the wounds of the moujik with his own hands.This operation finished, he said to him:
