Author: Ivan Turgenev
The Threshold
I see a huge building. In its front wall there is a narrow door, standing ajar;
behind the door spreads a gloomy mist. In front of the high threshold is a
girl, a Russian girl.
That opaque mist breathes a glacial chill and a slow, hollow voice comes
within icy draught from the depths of the building.
“ O thou, who art desirous of crossing this threshold, dost thou know what is
awaiting thee?”
“ I know,” answered the girl.
“Cold, hunger, hate, mockery, scorn, insult, prison, illness, death itself?”
“I know.”
Ostracism, unrelieved loneliness?”
“I know. I am ready. I can endure every suffering, every blow.”
“Not only from thy enemies, but from thy family and friends?”
“Yes…from them also.”
“ Good. Thou are prepared to sacrifice thyself?”
“Yes.”
“To sacrifice thyself anonymously? Thou wilt perish, and no-one will even
know whose memory to revere.”
“ I need neither gratitude nor compassion. I do not need a name.”
“Art thou prepared to commit a crime?”
The girl bowed her head:
“For that, too, I am ready.”
There was pause before the voice again took up its questioning.
“Dost thou know,” it resumed at last, “that thou mayst lose faith in what
thou now believest, that thou mayst come to think that thou hast been
mistaken and thrown away thy young life in vain?”
“That, too, I know. And nevertheless I wish to enter,”
“Enter!.”
The girl crossed the threshold, and a heavy curtain fell behind her.
“ Fool!” came the grating voice of someone behind her.
“ Saint!” was heard from somewhere the reply.